#meet -> delegate work -> work -> present

[theriverbeyond]

as a fellow grad student i just have to say that every time i see the words "thesis partner" in your posts i take 1 million points of psychic damage. this semester i almost dropped a whole seminar to avoid a single group project. you are so strong

anon I wish I were you because I wish I could just drop a seminar to avoid this group project. unfortunately I cannot and am in my own personal hell. I believe my program sets it up like this because the professors hate grading ❤️

[ooooo-mcyt]

It's such a shame the Secret Soulmates thing is so often portrayed as Grian being selfish or vindictive for no reason because I think the actual events leading up to Grian's decision to seek out BigB are way more interesting than just "Grian's a selfish cheater". So like, because it's not covered much, I'm just going to detail the entire narrative from Grian's pov leading up to his decision to go to BigB.

For the first part of the first episode, Grian actually really seems to be romanticizing the idea of soulmates. Multiple times, he describes his search for his soulmate as "looking for love" and he hits everyone he meets with almost excited anticipation.

The moment Grian and BigB first look at each other is surprisingly romantic? I mean, it feels like what you'd expect from someone meeting their soulmate, from someone who just knows.

BigB and Scott finish testing if they're soulmates, and BigB is mid sentence when he turns around and look at Grian, and BigB just stops mid sentence and goes "Oh", which Grian echos (also when bigb looks at grian, grian holds his shield up for a good few seconds which just gives me the image of him hiding behind it and peering over the top which is uncharacteristically shy for grian but also really cute). "Are you ready?", BigB asks, and he waits for Grian to give him the go ahead before hitting him.

And..nothing. They aren't soulmates. BigB sounds disappointed. Grian sounds almost distraught, "I was so sure- I've never had such a broken heart in my life."

Shortly after Grian's soulmate takes significant damage. Everyone present rushes to give him food, though Grian would later credit BigB specifically with the very warm sentiment of having "saved" him.

And Grian's first meeting with Scar is..different.

Grian already doesn't seem to want to be Scar's soulmate, doesn't want to be teamed again, for one reason or another. And Scar..doesn't make it easier. Grian tries to talk to him, as the realization sets in, tries to say it, that they're soulmates. Grian does say it. But Scar isn't listening. Scar actively talks over Grian to brush Grian off, walking away while Grian is trying to grapple with the fact that they're soulmates.

Scar doesn't notice. Grian said it, mind you, in plain English- "Scar I think we're soulmates"- and Scar heard him, Scar responded to him, Scar just wasn't listening. Scar doesn't look for his soulmate, and he doesn't figure it out either for the rest of the episode. Grian tries to tell him twice more, and twice more Scar isn't listening. The first time, Grian calls after Scar twice as he's running off, "Scar I need to tell you something", but Scar doesn't turn around. The final time, Grian literally forces Scar to look at him and drops dripstone on their heads. Scar somehow still doesn't see him. Grian demands Scar look at him, actually look, this time, and finally, with great effort, he manages to get the point across.

One of Scar's first questions is "do we have to live together?", and Grian responds that it would be nice to, a sentiment Scar doesn't immediately echo. Grian pulls Scar along, back to the base Grian got working on by himself earlier.

At the start of the next episode, they have a disagreement. Scar brings home some pandas without consulting Grian, and Grian reacts very negatively, making a no pandas in the house rule and prompting Scar to help him with work instead. Grian specifically delegates the job of getting oak wood to Scar while Grian continues working on..everything else..himself. And after a bit of procrastinating from Scar, he does go to do his "chores" as Scar describes them.

Except that Scar doesn't actually.

Well, I mean, he does do the "chore" Grian gave him, but while he's out, he takes a break to think of a way to punish Grian, coming up with the idea of using powdered snow to hurt Grian as a punishment for Grian not letting the animals in the house and making Scar do a "chore". Grian doesn't technically know Scar did this on purpose, but with tick damage being a very distinctive type of damage that you usually would have to do on purpose to take as much as Scar did, I wouldn't be surprised if Grian figured it out.

It's at this point, that Grian decides to go to BigB. And it doesn't feel like he's just doing it for shallow reasons or to be mean, it fully checks out.

Because Grian's not happy with Scar at this point!

Partially because Scar himself doesn't seem interested in Grian at all, wouldn't listen to Grian to the point of talking over and brushing him off when Grian tried to tell him, and didn't want to live together after finding out. For Grian, who genuinely did seem to have a rather romantic view of soulmates at the start of the first episode, it probably kinda sucked to have his soulmate look past him like that. I can't fault Scar for not being particularly interested, but just because Scar didn't do anything technically wrong doesn't mean Grian's not allowed to be unhappy.

And then there's the other problem. The one I see surprisingly few fans talk about in regards to Scar and Grian. "Why does everyone else get a real partner except me?", Grian asked shortly before deciding to go to BigB. It's a sentiment we get from Grian multiple times. He says being Scar's partner is like babysitting, like having a toddler, Scar doesn't feel like a partner, he feels like a source of emotional labor who has no interest in lessening the burden for Grian. And. Yeah. Grian has good reason to feel like Scar makes him do all the labor in their relationship. I mean, Grian needed to get very pushy to even get Scar to agree to help build their shared base, Grian had to do the job of managing Scar on what specific task to do, Grian gave Scar a very small job comparative to the work Grian was doing around the house, and Scar still complained and found a way to punish Grian (the powdered snow) for "making" him do "chores" and not wanting animals in the house.

Which isn't to say Scar is bad or malicious or something, I love Scar, hell, I love Desert Duo, I think they work very well together in a lot of cases, but I think there is very much a labor imbalance- both in actual work and in emotional labor- here and it's understandably upsetting for Grian.

And in comparison, BigB looks..wonderful, to Grian?

BigB wanted him, for starters. They both felt it, the previous day. Scar kept looking through Grian, but BigB's eyes met Grian's and they both felt something. BigB seems considerate too. Grian feels like he has to pull teeth to get Scar to help him with the house (and then gets punished for it), meanwhile BigB is the one who "saved" Grian the previous day, jumping to give him food, not to mention the considerate gesture of BigB checking in to make sure Grian is ready before hitting him for the soulmate check. And, well, Grian clearly likes BigB.

Grian wasn't just going to someone else to be mean to Scar, and he didn't go for BigB just because he wanted someone, Grian was- validly!- unhappy with Scar (who didn't seem to want to be together much either) and actively liked BigB and thought he'd be a good partner.

Also, Grian very notably announces that he's defying destiny and asserts that he has a choice in who to be with, which adds a thematic layer of personal agency to the whole thing too. You get the impression Grian was mostly with Scar because he felt like he had to be, because the universe tied them together. But here Grian considers, for the first time, the thought that maybe it's okay to be with someone he wants, and who makes him happy, instead of resigning himself to be with the one he's 'supposed' to be with just because he's 'supposed' to.

(this idea of agency in who you love is relevant to double life as a whole, as i've made many posts about, but also is relevant to desert duo specifically. as much as i think they really cared about each other in third life, grian was also with scar because he was supposed to be for most of the season. being with scar had always, up to that point, been something grian was obligated to do, something grian didn't feel he had much choice in. so grian finally asserting here to the audience that he has a choice feels very relevant thematically.)

[ramp-it-up]

Charm

Summary: Congressman James Buchanan Barnes has a secret. And it's so sweet.

Word count: 3.1 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: Yeah, I'm probably gonna be back on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Those Norman Jean Roy photos, the movie coming out. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! Love you heauxes!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Soft, Beefy Bucky, feral Bucky, sex almost on sight, talk of testing and precautions, but raw p in v, oral (m/f receiving) sloppy toppy, woman on top, praise kink, Dom-ish AND sort of Subby Bucky, Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Doll, also Sweetheart.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes raked his hand through his hair for the third time. It was overlong, curling at the nape of his neck, caught somewhere between rebellion and control.

Just like his life.

His tie was long gone, jacket tossed over a chair, but the tension still clung to him like sweat. His fingers twitched with the restraint of a man used to control, but tonight that control was slipping.

Because of you.

He was going to meet you. Spend time with you.

You, his softest vulnerability. His secret sanctuary. You had no idea what you did to him. Or maybe you did. And that was the problem.

Underneath the pressed shirt and tailored slacks, beneath the titles and speeches and the weight of his legacy, James Buchanan Barnes was unraveling. You touched something in him, something sweet and unguarded.

You looked at him like he wasn’t just a polished man with power, but someone worth seeing. You saw past all of it, the headlines, the pressure, the myth of the man, to the boy who once just wanted to be good.

Of course you did. As a teacher, you saw the good in all of your students. And from the moment he’d met you, bright-eyed and brilliant, part of the National Teaching Conference delegation touring the Capitol, he’d been a goner.

So he pursued you. But you’d made him wait. And you’d made him want. And Bucky had never wanted anything the way he wanted you.

When he thought of you, he forgot all about The Honorable James Buchanan Barnes. 

He just wanted to be your Bucky.

—-

Six Weeks earlier:

You’d expected a polite handshake and a few photo ops when you went on the tour, but Congressman Barnes from your borough of Brooklyn was charming, attentive, and deeply present in a way that threw you off balance. His gaze lingered just a second too long when he looked at you, and your heartbeat stuttered every time his hand brushed yours.

You weren’t sure what it meant, you just knew it meant something.

The first night ended with a drink in the hotel bar, where he asked thoughtful questions about education and leaned in like your answers were gravity. When he walked you to your room, he didn’t ask to come in, just touched your wrist and said, “I’ll see you again, Charm.”

“Charm?” you questioned him as he walked away.

Bucky turned around and started to walk backwards as he replied.

“Yeah. It’s my name for you in my head,” and he grinned before he got in the elevator, looking so much younger than 110 years old.

Weeks later, you were still texting late into the night. Breathless calls. Heated messages. A video chat that ended with both of you flushed and desperate.

It was intoxicating stuff.

----

Now:

You were finally back in D.C. for the National Teaching Conference. Because you were on the planning committee, you’d been running around in a blazer and sneakers all week, putting out fires, herding speakers, and keeping the entire operation from collapsing.

But Friday night was yours.

The conference ended, the final panel was a wrap, and you still had the swanky suite for two more nights. It had a skyline view, a rain-slicked windowpane, and, within the hour, one James Buchanan Barnes.

You’d barely stepped out of the shower, steam curling in the air, when you heard the knock.

He was thirty minutes early.

You froze for half a second, heart racing, then wrapped the towel tighter and padded to the door.

Bucky stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone from the spring storm, dark hair dripping, a gray coat clinging to broad shoulders. Water tracked down his jaw and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

And those beautiful blue eyes were locked on you.

“Hey, Charm,” he rasped.

You swallowed hard. “Congressman.”

That smirk flickered at the corners of his mouth.

“Gonna let me in?”

You stepped aside. The door shut behind him, shutting the world out. Bucky looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in years, not weeks.

“I missed you,” you said softly, voice a breath.

He was on you in a heartbeat. One hand cupped your chin, the other, vibranium, gleaming in the soft hotel light, slid around your waist, pulling you flush to him. You melted, your fingers slipping beneath the lapels of his coat, feeling the heat of him under damp clothes.

You didn’t find the sharp muscle of the old soldier, but the solid strength of a man who lived his life with purpose. His softness did not take the edge off your desire for him.

In fact, it probably made it worse. He wasn’t a weapon. He was a man.

Your man. 

You were going to claim him tonight.

“Been sittin’ through policy meetings imagining you riding me in the chair behind my desk,” he muttered into your skin, pressing a kiss below your jaw.

You gasped, shivering despite the heat between you.

You grew a little dizzy as Bucky dropped his overnight bag to the floor so that your hands could slip under his shirt, and drag your fingers over his soft, but still-defined abs.

“Then maybe we should make that image real.”

His eyes were dark now, pupils already blown. One arm snaked up your back and tangled in the hair at your nape, pulling your head back as he kissed you hard, like he meant to claim you. His vibranium hand gripped your waist like it was built for that exact purpose.

“Tonight, I don’t want polite. Don’t want careful.”

You’d planned for this. Took your precautions. Got tested. You both knew what tonight meant.

Bucky walked you backwards toward the bed, slow and steady, never breaking eye contact. 

“I want to watch you take what you want from me.”

Your lips curved into a smile.

“I want a lot from you, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered.

“Take your shirt off,” you said softly, watching the way his jaw flexed and the way his eyes flicked to your mouth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a crooked smile.

God. Could you be in love?

He stripped off his shirt in one fluid motion. Muscles rippled, dog tags glinting against his skin. He didn’t pose. He just stood there, waiting. Watching you. A man made of flesh and metal and decades of ghosts, and right now, he was all yours.

You moved toward him, fingertips grazing his stomach, and watched the way he twitched beneath your touch.

“You know you can be in control tonight,” you murmured, eyes locked on his as he let you turn him around so that he was at the foot of the bed. 

Bucky’s breath hitched. 

“I haven’t been in control since the day I met you, Charm.”

You pushed him gently until he sat without resistance, and you stood between his legs, slowly letting the towel drop and pool at your feet. Bucky’s hungry gaze roamed over your body, from your lips, to your neck, to your breasts, focusing on the rigid peaks there as he licked his lips, down your stomach to the apex of your thighs, and lingering there longer.

Finally, his eyes swept down your legs to your feet on the floor, between his shiny Italian loafers.

“You sure you want this?” he asked, voice hoarse as he brought his eyes back up to yours. 

“I’ve never been more sure,” you said. “But let’s not rush this, Sergeant.”

His head dropped for a moment like he needed a second just to breathe. That word, Sergeant, hit somewhere deep. Then he looked up and drew you toward him with his metal hand and kissed the inside of your thigh, destroying you.

“Tell me what you want.”

The gravel in his voice did things to you as you carded your fingernails through his thick, wet, dark hair.

You said, “Need your mouth, Bucky,” and he almost came undone right then.

“Such a Good Girl for telling me what you need, Charm.”

His lips were at the edge of your mound, the warmth of his breath fanning out over your clit. You moaned and laid your hands on his solid shoulders, and although they each felt very different under your palms, the disparate sensations only served to make you hotter. 

Bucky made eye contact with you and then took a long swipe of his tongue over your wet slit, from top to bottom. A tremble coursed through your body, and you exhaled his name. Bucky stared lovingly at your cunt, from the fat, puffy lips of your labia, to the shine of your juices at your slit.

He licked your essence from his lips and raised his eyes to yours again. He was so fucking handsome. And you were so gone for this man.

Just when you thought that, Bucky stuck his nose in your pussy and inhaled deeply, making you jump in surprise and rapture. He took a quick lick and hummed deeply, sending more vibrations through your cunt.

His metal hand lifted your leg, draped it over his shoulder. His tongue worked in steady, devastating rhythm. Lips suckling, tongue plunging, nose pressed to your clit as he made a low, satisfied sound that vibrated straight through you.

You gasped.

He groaned.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice muffled against your heat. “So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

And then he ruined you.

He looked up to wink at you playfully before parting your outer lips with his thumbs. He dove in and you saw stars.

Bucky Barnes sucked, licked, and grazed on you, plunging deeply into you with his tongue, fingers, and his whole damn face.

You were lost in the moment, in the pleasure, and the sensations. It was so good. No one had ever made you feel this wanted or needed. You felt the telltale spark ignite your clit and started to squirm as his vibranium hand held you in place as he devoured you like a starving man.

He felt you clench around his fingers, one inside you, one teasing that tight little rim, and you shattered. Bucky held you through it, whispering your name like a religious chant.

Because he worshipped you.

You lay in his arms, spent and limp as Bucky nuzzled at your neck, his dick standing at attention, long, thick, and leaking against you. Somehow, some when, he’d gotten undressed.

And those beautiful blue eyes held you hostage again.

“What do you need now?”

You looked down and reached for him.

“Need to taste you, Sarge.”

His cock was huge, hard, and hot against your skin, begging for relief.

Bucky groaned and his eyes shined as you rose only to sink down on your knees. He sat up on the edge of the bed to witness you gazing up at him. He took himself in hand and started stroking the length of his hardness, swiping precum from the slit at the head in passing.

It was so damn sexy. You licked your lips as your eyes were glued to the beautiful, erotic sight of Bucky Barnes stroking off for you. 

He smirked as he watched you hungry for him, impatient to taste him, to take him in, to please him. Your hands cupped and kneaded the full flesh of your breasts, and Bucky licked his lips as you pulled on your nipples. 

His flesh fingers squeezed more tightly around his shaft, while his metal hand gave a quick twist to his balls as your heavily hooded eyes drifted from his cock to his face as you moved closer. 

You wrapped your lips around him and he cursed, one hand in your hair, the other still at his balls, twisting with just enough pressure.

You worshipped him the way he had you. Took him deep, sloppy and unafraid, letting your desire drip down your chin and soak your chest.

He was losing control.

Sexy rambles tumbled from his lips as you took him deep in your throat.

“Fuck. I’m home. All this time… I thought I thought I knew. Didn’t know shit.” 

You moaned as you pulled back slightly to gently lick and suck at the head of his cock, swiping your tongue over his hard length. Then you got sloppy with it, slurping at him and taking his long, thick cock as deep as you could.

Bucky let out an inhuman sound as you gently scraped your teeth along his hard flesh, and then sucked and tongued at his balls.

“Please, baby, fuck…”

He had to pull you off before he lost it. He lifted you, breath ragged, and laid you on the bed like you were breakable but you weren’t. You were so strong. And Powerful.

He draped your legs around his waist as he lined the thick bulb of his cock with your entrance. 

As he looked into your eyes, Bucky trembled as you crossed your ankles around his back. You both watched, enraptured, as he pushed inside you, and every inch felt like a lifetime. You pulled him in like a siren, hips rising to meet him, your walls fluttering around him.

You whispered his name, Bucky, and it broke him in the most beautiful way.

He fucked you long, deep, and hard. He played with your body and spanked your full flesh. You came over and over, barely descending from one climax then he was at you again, rolling your clit between his fingers, sucking your tits into his mouth. His cock was relentless, hard as steel, and dripping with your cream. 

But he hadn’t let go and given you what you truly wanted. 

“Want to ride you Bucky…”

He rolled you over so that you were on top, truly in control, despite your trembling thighs.

“Do you know what you need now, Charm?”

“Oh, I know,” you murmured, rolling your hips as he gasped. “Need to show you that this is mine now.”

You grasped him and positioned him at your entrance. Then, you took him inside you again. His grip on your hips tightened and he nodded, biting his lip as he looked down to where you were joined.

“Yours. Always was.”

You rode him slowly; you wanted him to remember this. The way your body felt wrapped around him. The way you looked on top of him. 

The air between you was thick, charged, and the room hummed with the rhythm of your bodies. Each time you sank down onto him, every inch felt like heaven.

Bucky’s breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath you, but his hands didn’t let go of your hips. They were firm, guiding, like he was fighting to hold on to control.

The sight of you was almost too much to bear: you, beautiful and powerful, taking what you needed from him with a relentless grace. His lips parted, and every sound he made was a mixture of frustration and hunger.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he growled, but his voice wavered.

You could tell he was losing his composure, even though his hands kept a firm grip, holding you steady for the next perfect movement.

The tension was building again, just like before. His fingers dug into your skin, almost painfully, but you didn’t care. You were so close to unraveling him completely; it was an art, this dance you had with him, and you were the one in control now.

His gaze flicked between your face and your greedy cunt sucking him in, his chest tightening at the sight of your expression, and at how perfectly you fit together.

“Look at you,” you whispered, leaning in to nip at his earlobe, your voice sultry. 

“You look like you’re losing yourself. Can’t hold on, can you?”

Bucky’s hands tightened at your waist, his grip becoming a little rougher. You could feel his body shifting, like he was trying to fight the pull, trying to keep himself from breaking.

“You’re killing me, Doll,” he muttered, eyes closing for a split second before snapping open to look at you again.

His expression was a mess of desire, vulnerability, and something that told you he didn’t want this to end. 

“I can’t hold back much longer.”

You grinned, a glint of mischief in your eyes.

You didn’t let up, not even for a second. Instead, you leaned back, giving him a full view of your body. His jaw tightened as he watched, his fingers trembling slightly as you began to move faster, the heat building between you both, the room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, the rhythm of your bodies synchronizing.

“You’re not the one who gets to decide when it’s over, Sargeant,” you teased, breathless but determined.

“I’m the one calling the shots here.”

And with that, you gave him everything, taking the lead in a way that pushed him past his limits, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through both of you. The intensity in his eyes grew, a mix of awe and surrender, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. 

But he also couldn’t stop himself.

You felt it all, the way his grip tightened, the way his body tensed with each thrust of yours, the way he was so close to losing himself. And as you watched him, a small, knowing smile tugged at your lips.

This wasn’t just about sex anymore. This was a power exchange, a moment that was yours, and his, too. You could feel your connection grow stronger.

“Tell me, Bucky,” you whispered, voice a little raspier now, “are you going to beg for it, or are you going to let me take what’s mine?”

He groaned, the sound like a mix of frustration and raw need. You topping him was making the base of his spine hum with pleasure.

“Please, Charm.” he murmured, breath shaking. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

And that was all you needed. You took control fully, fucking him with a rhythm that made his whole body shudder. You could feel the end coming closer, and you didn’t slow down. Not now. Not when you were this close.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice broken as you watched him come apart. 

You clenched around him and commanded, “Cum.”

And he did, with a broken groan of your name and a full-body shudder, his face a portrait of surrender as he spilled into you, pulsing and shaking beneath you.

When he finally came to a stop, his chest heaving, his hands still on your hips, holding you steady, you leaned in and kissed him softly, a contrast to the raw energy between you moments before.

“You were perfect,” you whispered against his lips.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he breathed in deeply, the intensity still lingering. 

“God… you’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

You smiled, resting your head on his chest as he held you.

“You’re welcome.”

And you felt him become completely, unconditionally yours.

Your Bucky.

Read Claim

[wonderjanga]

au where billy and mary were friends w a teen patrick wayne before everything went down in the 40's and they both think that bruce is patrick and that hes shy cuz hes a hero now

I think Billy, Mary, and Patrick’s dynamic would’ve basically been two little kids and the older kid who hang out. Patrick would also have no problem treating them like his little siblings and would casually give them money in exchange for them helping him with experiments. He’d rather just give them the money but they won’t just accept it for free so he’d resigned to making them do little tasks instead.

Patrick: “Alright, I need three fairy wings, dried unicorn blood, sixteen siren scales, and dryad bark! Go! Go! Go!”

Mary and Billy: *salute before running off*

You might be wondering what he needs any of that for. You’ll know later.

Anyways, as for how Patrick found out about Billy and Mary being Captain Marvel and Mary Marvel…

Patrick: *talking to someone in Fawcett and trying to get siren scales because his usual suppliers (Billy and Mary) said they were busy with something at the moment (meeting with magical delegates)*

Seller: “Boy, you do realize how difficult it is to get siren scales, right? As far as I know, none of the shops in Fawcett sell it. Who is your dealer?”

Patrick: “My friends?”

Seller: “Your friends?! You know kids your age going after sirens so you can get scales?! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?!”

Patrick: “It’s dangerous?! I had no idea??? They never come back hurt or complaining??”

Seller: “They’re coming back unscathed?? Who are your friends???!?”

Yeah… so that’s how Patrick found out about Captain and Mary Marvel being his two little suppliers/siblings. It took much poking and prodding and bribing, but eventually the two spilled. After that, they were just forced to take the money from Patrick anyways. He wasn’t gonna send them on those trips anymore. No siree. Doesn’t matter that they have superpowers.

Anyways, time moves on and unfortunately, Patrick was eventually old enough to be drafted into the war. He said bye to the kiddos went and came back, kept in contact with the kiddos up until the sixties when the time bubble appeared. By that time, Patrick was at least 30 and the twins had strangely not aged at all, not that he minded because Fawcett was weird like that. Thomas was a toddler at the time of it appearing. The time bubble caused Thomas to have a rather unfortunate early childhood as his father was always locked up in his study researching and wondering what the hell happened to the town, to the people, and to his friends. Fawcett was just gone. Practically overnight. Eventually though, he gave up and started focusing on his family again. He died thinking everyone in that little down had been erased.

Fast forward 50 something odd years and BAM the bubble pops! Billy and Mary are now in the present. They got to meet all of the new heroes, including Batman.

Marvel: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Batman Si- Patrick?”

Batman: “Pardon?”

Mary: “Holy shoot, Patrick really is you!”

Batman: “My name is not Patrick-”

Marvel: “You’re so…” *looks him up and down* “Youthful! Did you finally make that elixir thingy?”

Batman: “What?”

Marvel: “You know? The elixir you always talk about. It was an elixir, right?”

Mary: “Wasn’t it called the elixir of life?”

Batman: “No…? I haven’t worked on an elixir at any point in time.”

Marvel: “Yeah, you have. We saw you! You’d always read that little book and do a little experiments!”

Mary: “And then the experiment would fail, and then you’d come to us covered in ash because nine times out of ten it exploded. Then, you’d slap twenty dollars in our hand and ask for us to find more ingredients so you could do more experiments.”

Batman: “I’ve never done that in my life. I assure you I’ve never met you before this moment.”

Now you know what all those mystical ingredients were for. Patrick Wayne was casually doing Alchemy. Everyone in Fawcett is at least somewhat magical after all. He didn’t even know he was doing it too. He’d still worked on normal human gadgets though, which still allowed him to contribute to Wayne Enterprises.

Bruce later went to his study (once Patrick’s study) as he remembered one of the books on his shelves was related to Alchemy. When he eventually found it and pulled it from the shelf, a photo slipped out. It was a photo of a younger version of his Grandpa and two kids which he both had in headlocks. When Bruce flipped the photo over, scrawled on the back was a date. After getting sidetracked and deciding to dig up some information on his Grandfather, Bruce came to the startling realization that this was when Patrick left for the war. This was a commemoration photo. Interesting. It was also interesting that the other two people- children in the photo looked suspiciously like the Captain and his daughter. Was this Mary and another brother, one that didn’t dabble in heroics? It made sense now why the Captain and Mary talked to him like they knew him. They both must’ve thought he was his grandfather. Oh well, Bruce isn’t gonna spoil the surprise. He can find out more information on them if he lets them think he’s his grandfather.

Marvel: “The war really toughened you up, huh? Did you inhale chlorine gas and somehow survive?”

Mary: “No silly.” *elbows him* “He didn’t sound like this when he came back from the war so something else must’ve messed up his throat.”

Batman: “My throat isn’t messed up in any way, shape, or form.”

Mary: “It isn’t? So you talk like that on purpose…?”

Batman: *doesn’t want to give away he isn’t Patrick* “…Yes.”

Mary and Marvel: *share a look before pointing and laughing at him*

Any nearby Justice League member was visibly surprised that Batman didn’t glare at them. Bruce himself was surprised he didn’t as well.

Robin!Dick: *standing beside Bruce as Bruce works at a computer*

Marvel: “Oh Tommy! Wait, Pat, this is Tommy right?”

Mary: “Of course it’s not Tommy. He wouldn’t feed the elixir to him while he was a kid. But then again, you can be a little stupid…”

Robin!Dick: “Did you just call him stupid?” *sounds like he wants to laugh* “Also no I’m not Tommy.”

Marvel: “Then are you a grandson…?”

Robin!Dick: “N-”

Batman: “Yes, he is. This is Bruce.”

Robin!Dick: *extremely confused* “What?”

Marvel: “Oh cool!”

[thebroccolination]

GMMTV ISN’T CONTRACTUALLY FORCING THEIR ACTORS INTO THE CLOSET

Recently, I saw a fan from the U.S. claiming on TikTok that GMMTV contractually forces their queer actors to keep their sexual identities a secret. Why else would there be so few openly queer actors???

So, first of all, it’s not like the few openly queer actors in GMMTV had to break some corporate closet door to escape, and then GMMTV went, “Aw, shucks. Well, I guess y’all win. We’ll keep paying you, you little rainbowy scamps.” There are only a few of them because being openly queer in Thailand’s media industry is still fucking hard.

Fluke Natouch of Until We Meet Again (and OhmFluke 1.0) fame left his agency years ago to work freelance so he could navigate his career on his own terms. When openly gay director New of Studio Wabi Sabi approached him to offer the role of Pharm, Fluke very actually asked New if he was sure he wanted an openly gay actor in his series. This was a conversation that two openly gay men had! No sexualities whatsoever were hidden in the having of this conversation! Or in the public recounting of it later!

Fluke asked New this because there are still roadblocks for openly queer actors, and as a freelancer, he knew this. Some sponsors are hesitant to have a queer face on their commercials, and some of the industry’s upper management are old bigoted guys holding the purse strings. Why do you think so many of these guys have to appear straight-presenting?

Interfans contribute to the glorification of heteronormativity, too. How many times have I seen interfans lusting over the KinnPorsche actors as “real men” or excusing Joss’s myriad issues over the years because he’s “so hot”?

How many femme actors are given roles with complexity? How many are shunted into comedic roles or tragic figures? How many interfans point at Pharm and complain that He Cries Too Much? You’ve all seen it. “P’DEEEEEAN.”

Regardless of what interfans claim to want, the series that tend to do best nowadays feature straight-presenting actors. Bad Buddy, 2gether, My School President, KinnPorsche, etc.

Ironically, the series that lean hard on queer themes tend not to do as well.

So you can see why most choose to keep at least a veneer of heterosexuality or else keep the glass closet door closed.

New cast Fluke and Cooheart in Until We Meet Again because Studio Wabi Sabi was both agency and production company owned by New, and New could do whatever he wanted. SWS was very much a safe haven for queer actors of all levels of openness.

And regardless of my complaints about New’s directing and perpetual insistence that he do all the editing and sound design himself (stop, man, I’m begging you, learn how to delegate), he has been working for years to create a welcoming space for queer actors in an industry that is still extremely cautious, and I’ll always respect him for that.

As much as people love to hate a corporate body, GMMTV’s myriad flaws are more based in the categories of “terrible organization” and “poor management” and “haphazardly throwing a thousand medicore, half-baked projects at a wall until one of them sticks by chance and then celebrating that surprise hit into the ground”—not “forcing their actors into the closet.”

As far as I’m aware, the only khuujin (“imaginary couple”) in the industry who’s Openly Dating is PorscheArm, and they were already out and together before the fame, so they’re more Public Figures Advocating for Social Progress than they are BL actors. I’d say ZeeNuNew are borderline, because while they seem increasingly more cavalier with their subtlety, even they’ve been excruciatingly careful in their labeling over the past few years. (“Are you a couple?” “You could call us that.”)

And there’s a reason for the caution. Things are changing for the better, but progress is slow.

In an early, post-SOTUS interview from 2016, infant actors KristSingto were point-blank asked by TV hosts if they’re “normal” with a heavy insinuation that they’d be mocked and laughed at unless they asserted their heterosexuality in front of a live audience. Not exactly a warm and kind environment to say, “Actually…” As the first in the line of fire, KristSingto were constantly bombarded with invasive questions and suspicion and homophobia, and it’s only been nine years since SOTUS aired.

Now, you’ve got the evolution of hosts making lewd innuendos at khuujin and trying to “trick” them into Coming Out for content. Yet, all the khuujin seem to know how to play the game Juuuust Right to avoid saying anything concrete and damning, leaving just enough crumbs for fans to pick up on and enjoy.

Because look how the few openly queer actors are treated. Bruce Sirikorn Kananurak’s best-known role is framed villain Aey in Lovely Writer, and Gun Korawit Boonsri is regularly cast as Sassy Gay Side Character. Cooheart gets variety in his roles, but he’s with Studio Wabi Sabi under New, an openly gay CEO who famously allows his actors a ton of freedom in their image. And it says a lot to me that Cooheart didn’t make the move over to GMMTV along with his colleagues last year.

So, y’know, of course I’m not saying GMMTV is paradise. While he was with SWS, Boun said he wanted to get tattoos but New advised him against it because it might have limited potential roles. So New didn’t forbid it, he just cautioned Boun against doing it. Meanwhile, he implied recently that he’d like to dye his hair blond again, but GMMTV has to approve things like that. Hence, you’ll hear about some GMMTV actors who just get a tattoo done or cut their hair without telling anyone and then they show up for work with an insouciant shrug; the beg forgiveness>>>ask permission move.

So GMMTV does have some stupid public image rules, and they have also discouraged certain actors from interacting with each other in case it drives their profit margins down (see: The Chronicles of Management Driving KristGun Apart—I’m making a post about it, don’t worry). And I’m sure the Grammy Powers That Be go ://// if a GMMTV actor says, “Hey, I’m thinking of telling the world I’m bisexual tomorrow,” and go, “Maybe don’t though.” It’s just not something they’re Contractually Obligated to hide; it’s more common sense.

Like I said, GMMTV’s real crimes in my eyes are things like 1) repeatedly trying to push men like Foei and Joss who’ve proven themselves to be toxic nightmares to women and queer people over and over throughout the years, 2) overworking their most popular actors to physical and mental exhaustion, 3) barely promoting their GL productions despite their obvious popularity, 4) shoving their Not Singers onstage with zero vocal training, 5) prioritizing trends over quality, 6) having Zero Plan of what to do Most of the Time, 7) hiring on more and more actors without hiring enough managers to support them, and more.

There’s no “you gotta be Heterosexual-Presenting or else” clause in their contracts. They’re just actors in a conservative Asian country where marriage equality has only recently been recognized, and that’s not even close to having social equality. Plenty of western actors don’t want the extra baggage of being Openly Queer (see the Kit Connor debacle), let alone in a country controlled by military and monarchy.

Thailand isn’t a queer paradise.

Hell, look at Japan: they invented BL and GL and their government isn’t even close to recognizing marriage equality. To the majority of Japanese people, BL and GL are embarrassing subgenres that “Normal People” (ie: what heterosexuals are called in Japan—yes I’m serious) would never publicly admit to enjoying. I know this because I was a Queer Foreigner in Japan for eleven years and my whole existence was weird.

As far as I’ve heard from friends who work with GMMTV, it’s a far more progressive company than many interfans give it credit for. Many of the staff are openly queer, a ton of their directors are openly queer, and their actors who are queer are either open with the understanding that there are limitations to that choice or closeted to protect their job opportunities. Once you’re Openly Queer, you’re pushed into a very different and much smaller box, and they all know it.

So y’know. GMMTV actors aren’t All Straight, and the ones who are queer aren’t Closeted by Force. GMMTV is just a company of people with a wide tapestry of nuance, just like you’d expect from any large organization of artistic and business folk producing queer media for a general audience.

In 2025, let’s please abandon the myth that GMMTV is an evil kpop company. <3

It’s a sloppy, poorly run nightmare factory. :D

EDIT: Also, director X confirmed on Twitter last year that GMMTV has no anti-dating policy.

[reidmotif]

"Technically" Not A Student

Summary: Reader is Alex Blake’s TA, and after a guest lecture, Spencer seems to take a liking to her .

Prompt:You’re Alex Blake’s TA when a Dr. Reid comes to guest lecture. Things get heated quickly when you're alone.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: Reader POV, guestlecturer!Spencer , age gap (roughly 10 years), car sex, heavy making out, unprotected sex, slight female masturbation, Spencer is smart and that's HOT, heavy sexual tension

Word Count: 5.1k

Being asked to be Alex Blake’s TA was the opportunity of a lifetime, and when it was presented to me as a first-year graduate student at Georgetown, I took it eagerly and never looked back. 

She had personally approached me after I’d finished a semester in her forensic linguistics class as a freshman, and commended me on my dedication to the material and my general work ethic, and then inquired if I’d ever consider filling out an application as her teaching assistant starting the next semester. 

I immediately agreed. It was a no-brainer. Blake was a seasoned professional in the career field I wished to enter, not to mention she’d been one of the best professors I’d had whilst taking classes at Georgetown. Knowing I’d be working so closely with her absolutely thrilled me. It provided opportunities I'd have never gotten otherwise.

For example, getting to sit in on the class the famed Spencer Reid would be lecturing on. 

She usually kept me quite busy, having me develop assignments and quizzes for her class when she had other responsibilities to attend to. I’d heard horror stories from other TA’s in which their supervisors would delegate ninety-nine percent of the work to their juniors, having them essentially teach the class for minimal recognition or pay. Blake wasn’t like that, and I was thankful. This time around though, she had very different instructions for me.

“You don’t need to prepare any material this time around.” Blake explained to me, and I nodded, listening diligently. “I’d just like you to sit in, and possibly take notes, as you see fit.” She added, and I flashed a polite smile, nodding. 

“No problem whatsoever. I’ll sit in the back so as to not bother any students as I do.” I replied, offering her as much convenience as I could within my actions.  

Secretly, I did want to catch more than a glimpse from the back of the room. I wanted to experience the esteemed colleague Blake had often spoken of with incredible fondness. I was aware he was slightly older than I was, and a bit socially inept from the way she described him in his stories, but I was also aware the man was a goddamn genius. She’d describe in precision the way Reid would pick up on patterns and leads faster than anyone else on the team, and his immense knowledge in multiple fields beyond criminal profiling. When she’d told me he had three pHDs, I had to hold back a gasp. I hadn’t even started my own doctorate, but the idea only exhausted me- and he had three?! Color me impressed. 

Blake, being as brilliant as she did, could sense the hidden enthusiasm in my eyes in meeting this man. 

“Honestly, I’d rather you sit in the front. If you’re taking notes for any student unable to attend, it’s more imperative that you know the contents of the lecture, rather than anyone else.” She said, smiling kindly. 

“That’s absolutely alright with me.” I say, even quicker than before, nodding, thoughtfully. In reality, the only thing I was thinking about was how close I’d be near the man. I had no idea what he looked like, what he sounded like, but something about him made my stomach flutter. 

“I’m sure Dr. Reid would be interested in meeting you, as well. He takes special interest in anyone pursuing our line of work.” Blake added. She didn’t mean for it to happen, but the words made my cheeks light up with a hint of embarrassment.

I don’t know why, but he intimidated the hell out of me. The idea of him taking interest in a conversation with me made my heart beat slightly faster, and I nodded. I tried to convince myself that my nerves came from a purely professional standpoint, but regardless of my intentions, I was absolutely exhilarated by our imminent meeting.

While I knew there'd be initial awkwardness when I'd meet him, given my idolization of the man, I didn’t account for how terrible it’d actually be when I realized how fucking attractive he was. It was almost unfair. I was already tripping over the words I planned on saying in my head, and now he looked like that?

It was cruel.

The soft, doe eyes paired with sharp cheekbones. The slope of his nose, and the mess of brown curls atop his head. Every word out of his mouth was made even prettier by the soft curve and pinkness of his lips, and I found myself wanting to lunge over the table and kiss the hell out of him.

Needless to say, not the right thoughts to have about your professor’s (older) coworker. 

 While I was initially going to introduce myself to Dr. Reid before his lecture, hopefully establishing myself as a serious individual regarding my studies and eventual career, I shied away, opting for Blake to introduce me instead, nodding politely when he made eye contact with me, exchanging a quiet “hello” and taking my seat in the front.

That was it. And probably how it should be, considering I genuinely couldn’t think straight around him. Students began filtering in, and I took my spot at the front of the room, crossing my legs and beginning to outline his lecture as he began to speak. 

He was a brilliant lecturer, and it was honestly criminal he didn’t do this for a living. He gesticulated wildly throughout the whole of it, but every word of his was punctuated with a genuine passion that even some of the best professors on campus lacked. I did my best to diligently keep up with every point he brought up, but with how fast he spoke, it was difficult. Still, an effort was made. 

If that wasn’t enough to deal with, I swear the man kept making eye contact with me for the duration of his lecture. At first I believed I was imagining it, that his eyes kept drifting to mine by coincidence, but by the third time, I’d realized that everytime my eyes left his figure to scribble something, I’d look up to see his dark eyes boring into my soul, almost as if he was trying to solve me with a glance. It was intense and made my stomach turn in a way which wasn’t entirely unpleasurable, but I forced myself to remain professional.

 Blake did not need to see me absolutely lusting after her coworker, even if he was utterly fit. 

Anyway, he was probably only making eye contact considering I was in the front, and probably in an optimal spot for his eyes to focus on whilst addressing the whole of the class. Still, the way his gaze was trained on mine, reaching the deepest parts of my soul didn’t help the growing heat between my legs. 

I forced myself to focus on the board, my notes, anything but those godforsaken eyes for the rest of the lecture. Anytime we made eye contact afterwards, I’d quickly look down, like I’d been caught doing something terrible. 

Was anyone else seeing this? Was I insane and made delusional by my unexpected attraction to this man? Was he seriously making me wet just by looking at me? 

Yes. 

Sooner than anyone wanted, the lecture period had completed and Dr. Reid was finishing up. The students were absolutely enamored, especially the girls, as expected. Of course it wouldn’t be just me who’d noticed that in addition to being accomplished in his intelligence, he was also ridiculously easy on the eyes.

Blake stood in the corner, watching her students vacate the space, while some held back to talk to Dr. Reid as he packed his things. He seemed a bit shy at all the attention, but didn’t hesitate in explaining concepts to seemingly eager students, giving them all a soft, shy smile. 

God help me, he was adorable. How was I falling for a man I’d never even spoken a word to? 

I’d never left the classroom before Blake did, so as she stayed, I did as well, until the three of us were the only ones left in the room.  Blake smiled, walking up to Dr. Reid with her hands in her pocket. 

“You worked up quite the fanbase, Reid.” Blake said, a little playful.

Reid replied somewhat bashfully. “You have a great bunch of students.” He flashed a small smile at her as they spoke, still packing up his things. 

 The dynamic between my superior and the man was obviously sweet. They almost looked familial, which made sense. Blake had commented here and there that she managed to spend more time with the BAU with her actual family. I’m sure the latter was the same for Spencer. He probably had a doting girlfriend at home, ready to welcome him in her arms and I mentally kicked myself again for being so attracted to him.

He was nearly ten years older, for god’s sake! Enough! I screamed at myself. 

 I was brought out quite suddenly from my thoughts when Blake spoke in my direction. “This is (Y/N), my teaching assistant.” Reid came in my direction as I got up and approached him, offering a hand to me. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. Blake told me who you were, but we weren’t properly introduced.” 

I gave a firm shake to his hand, which I noticed was calloused and smooth at the same time. God, even his hands were pretty. He had long, slender fingers with short-kept nails. They were veiny, and looked strong. I couldn’t help but imagine what they’d feel like inside of me, buried in the heat of my core as I begged him for more.. more.. 

I forced the thought out of my head, only nodding again at the handsome man. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Reid.” I say, forcing myself to be professional.

Stop thinking about fucking him! 

“Spencer works just fine.” He says, imparting a kind smile that nearly made my knees weak. Did he have any idea the embarrassing effect he was having on me? 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake looking at the two of us with a bit of a strange expression on her face. I let go of his hand and took a step back. Oh god. Could she tell? If she could, she said nothing. She gave us both a kind smile, before grabbing her own things.

“(Y/N)?” She called out, starting to walk to the door. “Mind locking up for me tonight?” She said, already throwing her keys to me. 

“That’s fine by me.” I say, grabbing her keys mid-air. I was used to this. Blake often wanted to leave a bit quicker than I did, and I was more than happy to assist in any way possible. What I didn’t realize, was that this left me and Spencer in the room alone, something I wanted to avoid, considering how fucking awkward this man was rendering me with so much as a glance at me.

I heard Blake leave, and as she quietly closed the door behind her, I leaned against a desk, keeping my eyes down as Spencer continued to pack his own things. I tried to not let my gaze drift to him, as I waited for him to finish up. 

I let my thoughts wander to the lecture, and couldn’t shake the feeling he’d evoked in me when he looked at me like that. This was honestly ridiculous. The man had barely spoken ten words to me, and here I was, absolutely mooning over him. It was a new low for me, but in my defense being a graduate student meant I didn’t have much time to get my .. needs fulfilled.

“That’s why” I convinced myself. I just hadn’t gotten laid in a really long time. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“So, you’re a criminology student?” Spencer says, suddenly, breaking me out of my trance. 

I looked up, nodding. I responded on pure habit and instinct. ‘Yes, I’m in the process of getting my Masters in Criminology.” I said, nearly robotic. 

“That must be interesting.” Spencer replied, flashing me a sweet smile that caused an entirely new slew of butterflies to erupt in my stomach. “I never studied criminology specifically, but the classes I took interested me.” 

“Blake told me you had three pHDs.” I acknowledged, trying to return his smile, but in all honesty, I probably looked like an idiot. I was nervous as hell, and hoped he couldn’t tell. It wasn’t my fault. He was awe-causing. A sight to behold, if you will, in intelligence and appearance. 

He laughed good naturedly, “Yeah. Three.” He must’ve noticed the stars in my eyes, because he continues. “As well as a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology and Sociology. And I’m working on another in Philosophy.” He finishes with a smug, boyish type of smile. 

What was previously stars in my eyes, was now full blown shock all over my face. “Wow, Spencer.” I said, a little dumb-struck. “That’s.. a lot.” I add, a little stupidly, giving him a little laugh. 

He sweetly scratched his neck, revealing his self-consciousness. “Yeah? You think?” He says, a small smirk in his voice, and I laughed again. “You think I should stop after Philosophy?” 

“Totally. Save some knowledge for us.” I teased. It was comfortable. He was surprisingly easy to get used to. He was affable, despite how daunting his knowledge was. 

“Hey, you try graduating before you’re a teenager.” He defends himself, playfully. “Not much to do, really.” 

I laugh. “I don’t know.” I say, throwing my hands up a little. “Play ball? Run around?” I joke, and he makes a face at that, scrunching up his nose. 

“Not my thing.” He replies, smoothly, and I laugh. 

“Alright, fine. Keep your degrees doctor man.” And he laughs at my joke. Like, a real laugh. I didn’t even find my own rhetoric particularly humorous, but knowing that I’d gotten him to react like that made my cheeks glow. 

He finished packing the last of his things and slung his satchel bag over himself, starting to walk over to the door. I made sure to gather all my things, and walked to the door with him. He held it open for me, and I nodded my head in thanks, and he let it shut behind us. I turned around to lock it, using Blake’s keys and placing them in my bag securely, before looking at him. 

“Well, Spencer. It was nice meeting you, thank you for the lecture it was-” I start, but he interrupts me. 

“Can I walk you to your car?” He interjected, looking a little shy as he did. I smiled a little confusedly, wondering why he’d want to do so, but I gave him my answer, nonetheless. 

“I don’t have a car. I usually take the bus back to my apartment.” I explained, smiling softly. 

“The bus?” He says,  quirking his mouth to the side. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?” He replies, a hint of concern in his voice. 

I gave a little sigh, “I mean, it’s fine.” I say, trying to laugh a little. “I’ve done it before.” I add, attempting to ease the worry out of his voice. “It’s not that late.” I say, but he simply shakes his head. 

“No way.” He says, still adamant on this. “I.. I can drive you home, if you’d like?” He says, his words going slightly on the higher pitch as he rolled out his proposal, and I gave a small grin at that. 

“Really? If it’s a hassle I can seriously just take the bus. I wouldn’t want you to keep anyone waiting at home or-” 

He interjects again. “No hassle. I promise. I want to.” He pauses, before adding, “No one at home. You’re probably going to be the last person I see today.” He seems to blush at his final admission, and my eyes widen in interest. No girlfriend? Score. 

“Alright, Spencer.” I say, smiling again. “Lead the way.” 

He led me to his car, an old-fashioned Volvo and I couldn’t help myself from gawking at it.

“God, you have a cool car too? Is there anything about you that isn’t interesting?” I say, aware I was probably stroking his ego a bit, but honestly I wanted to. The man was just so damn intriguing, and every new bit of information I learned about him only made me want to unravel the whole of him. To truly know him, in and out. 

He laughed, using his keys to manually unlock the door. “Oh, trust me. I’m plenty boring. The car is probably my only saving grace.” He joked, and I laughed again as I got into the car. 

“Oh, I highly doubt that, but if you say so.” I say, sweetly, and adding a light tone of flirtatiousness in my tone. He seems to blush at this again, and I begin to think about the events of day. The stares in class, the perpetual rosy tint on his cheeks that had been there since we began our conversation, the way he joked and laughed at my (admittedly, unfunny) jokes. 

Oh god. Did he like me? 

Only one way to find out. 

As Spencer got in the car and began driving onto the main road, I looked at him, trying to put on my best, innocent smile. “So, you said you’re not going home to anyone?” I say, a softness to my tone, but an undeniable hunger in it as well. 

“Uh.” He responds, that damned blush coming on, strong. “Yes.” He replies, nodding as he keeps his eyes on the road. 

“So, you don’t have a girlfriend?” I ask, a bit forwardly. 

Now he’s really blushing, stuttering a bit. “Oh, no. No girlfriend. Not much time, given the BAU and our schedule.” He said, almost clinically, and I nodded. 

“I mean, Blake has a husband.” I point out, a little smugly. 

“I guess.” He says, sighing a bit. “But, you know.” He says. He vaguely gestures to himself, and I look at him a little confused, tilting my head at him.

“Spencer, I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” I say, with a little giggle. “But trust me, you’re absolutely gorgeous.” I continue, before I can stop myself.

He looks at me, giving me a soft smirk, and a raise of his eyebrows. He didn’t look uncomfortable, and honestly looked just as thrilled as I did, and I knew that this night had a good chance of going the way I wanted it too. 

“Ah, you’re sweet.” Spencer replies, “But no. I just mean, I’m.. me. You know?” He says, trying to explain his (non-existent) shortcomings, but I just shake my head. 

“You don’t give yourself much credit, you know?” I attempt to say with that amorous tone from before, but it was more overcome with genuine respect and admiration. “You’re smart, funny and nice to be around, I mean.” I pause. “Did you not see the absolute crowd of girls around you after the lecture? Trust me, Spencer. I bet you’re more than easy to be with, even easier to like.” The words rush out of me, and I watch him tentatively for his reaction to my words. 

Instead of the sweet side smile he’d been offering me all night, he finally looked at me. The car had come to a stop at a red light, and his face was dangerously sexy as it was illuminated by the colored glow around us. 

“And what do you think?” Spencer says, in a low tone, making direct eye contact with me. 

I feel my stomach turn at the sudden directness in his words, his gaze nearly devouring me whole. I felt my mouth go dry and I swallow, trying to keep my tone steady. 

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice having a slight shake to it. 

“I mean, what do you think about me? Do you.. like me?” He says, licking his lips slightly, and the action causes the previous heat between my legs to come by in full force. 

“Oh, I mean.” I say, my previous confidence dissipating in an instant. “Well, yes, Dr. Reid. Everyone liked you today.” I say, trying to give more of a conservative answer now.

The man had a way of making me feel totally comfortable around him, and then flipping the switches, rendering me dumb and stuttering. Like I was now. 

“Oh, so I’m Doctor Reid now.” He says, clicking his tongue and saying the words with an air of lighthearted teasing, but I only bit my lip, hurriedly trying to explain myself. 

“I mean, it's your title.” I say, quickly, trying to justify myself. “I mean, you said it yourself- three pHDs. It’d be pretty shitty to just discard the years taken to achieve that. Um. Well. You’re a genius so probably not as long, but still! Calling you doctor is a sign of respect for your accomplishments and-”

“You're cute.” He interrupts, and I look back at him to see his eyes back on the road, a cocky smile plastered on his face.

The light around us turned green, and he started the car. I picked at my nails slightly, trying not to display any more signs of nervousness around him. I wanted to do something with him, at least, and that couldn't happen if I was a bumbling mess.

We drove in relative silence for the next few minutes, as I tried to gather my thoughts and possibly continue what we’d been building up to these past few hours, but a quick glance at the windows and the road we were on caused me to furrow my brows.

“Oh, this isn’t the way to my apartment.” I remark absentmindedly, looking at the window beside me, then in front. “I live near the train station, off east?” I offer, expecting him to fully make a turn back towards the direction I’d prompted him towards, but he didn’t even flinch, continuing on the more secluded road we’d entered.

“I know.” He said, glancing at me once more, actually applying more pressure to the gas pedal, causing us to go faster down the terrain. 

Okay, fuck. He was an FBI agent, so I didn’t have to worry about him murdering me, right? Wait, no, that’s stupid. He could probably get away with it. No! He’s Blake’s friend. Her coworker. For the goddamn FBI. He wouldn’t murder me. What the fuck was going on? 

I watched as Spencer pulled off to the side of the road, darkness surrounding us entirely. There weren't any other cars around, and it was silent in the car before I bit my lip, and started to speak.

“Did I.. offend you?” I ask, cautiously. No reply. I try again. “Why did we stop?” I add, trying to test the waters with him to see what he was thinking at that moment. 

“I thought I could wait before we got to your place, but I need to know now.” He replied, a sudden urgency in his voice. He turned towards me, watching me with a dark, intense gaze, similar to the one he'd given me in class that day. “Do you want me? Am I reading this wrong with you? Because if I am, we can completely forget it and I can drop you home but (Y/N)..” He paused. He made direct eye contact with me and once again I found myself wanting to swim in those dark eyes of his. “I want you.” He said, his voice low and raspy. 

I didn't give it much thought as I gave into my urges and surged towards his lips the best I could in the car. He responded immediately, bringing me closer with his hands and placing them on either side of my face, moving his lips against mine in a perfected rhythm. I used my fingers to quickly undo my belt, before climbing over the console to sit in his lap, getting closer without our lips disconnected once. He understood my actions and intentions immediately, pulling the seat back so I could rest more comfortably in his lap as we continued to kiss. 

I knotted my hands in his hair, giving an experimental tug which elicited a low moan from his mouth. I grinned against his lips and his hands moved from my face to his hips, bringing my clothed core to rest right against his growing bulge, which I immediately moved against. He let out a sharp breath as I did and broke the kiss. 

“Oh god. I’m sorry.” He said, breathlessly, hands on my hips. “I don’t know what came over me and-” 

He looked almost frantic, and incredibly guilty, so I quickly leaned in for a peck, stopping him mid sentence. I brought my hands to his shoulders to rub them soothingly, and he seemed to relax in my touch. 

“Spencer, calm down.” I say, nearly purring. “I want this.” I continue, rubbing patterns into his arms now. “Please.” 

“You’re Blake’s student.” He murmurs, using one of his hands to run through already messy brown curls. “What am I doing?” He says, almost to himself, looking ready to stop our tryst. 

I realize he was attempting to backtrack from this, and before he could continue his train of thought, I quickly leaned in from my position on his lap to start kissing his neck, trailing wet hot kisses down the column before whispering. “I’m not her student.” 

He pulls away to look at me, biting his lip. “What?” 

“I was her student last semester. I’m her teaching assistant now.” I smirk a little, licking my lips. “Technically not a student of hers.” 

He seemed to take in my words for a moment, and then something in him shifted, and he lunged at me again, kissing me with even more ferocity. He absolutely devoured me, his hands everywhere at this point. Caressing my sides, in my hair, on the small of my back. He brought me closer to him in any way he could, pressing our bodies against each other in a frenzied manner that caused the wetness between my legs to increase tenfold. 

“Wanted you.. as soon as I saw you.” He murmurs against my lips as we caught our breath in between kisses. “Knew it was wrong but..” 

I nodded. I understood. I was the same. 

“Fuck.” I moaned, as I felt the bulge resting below me get even harder. “Spencer, please. Don’t make me wait.” 

“Impatient.” He remarked, smirking, now beginning his own line of kisses down my neck, making me moan in pleasure. 

“Please.” I breathed out, my words being reduced to a squeak as he bit my neck gently, and my eyes fluttered shut. I was melting right in his damn hands, just like he wanted. 

His hands started to work at the buttons on my jeans, and I sighed in relief, lifting up my hips to allow them to be tugged off, leaving me in my underwear. His slender fingers traced the seam, leaving me shuddering with pleasure for the man in front of me. I tried once more, breathlessly murmuring at him.

“Please. Please.” 

“Use your words, baby.” He whispered, a devilish smirk on his face. I was too far-gone to care about what I looked like. I needed him so badly. 

“I need you to fuck me, now.” I say, clearer. “I need it, Spencer.” 

Something about me using his name, nearly moaning for the man when he’d barely touched me stirred something in him, and he started to undo his own slacks, freeing his cock from the confines of his briefs. I watched in fascination as it sprung out, and took in a sharp breath of air. I licked my lips before making eye contact with him, begging for us to get on with it at this point. He nodded, understanding my desperation and I smiled dumbly, beginning to lift my hips. He guided his cock to my heat and placed his free hand on the small of my back, slowly guiding me down his member.

I moaned softly as I felt him enter me, providing me with the most delicious stretch. I threw my head back in pleasure as he brought both his hands to my hips urging me down. 

“That’s it. God, fuck. You feel so good.” He moaned, which only made me want to take more of him. I lowered myself down a bit faster, and he released a heavy groan as his hips met mine. I whimpered slightly, his length filling me up perfectly. A thin sheen of sweat had gathered on my brow and I leaned my forehead, adjusting to his size. 

“You good?” He breathed out, using his hand to brush a piece of hair that had stuck itself on my brow, and I nodded. 

“Yeah, just.” I took a deep breath, before licking my lips, looking up before nodding.

I slowly lifted myself off, letting the head of his arousal nestle in me before I slammed back down, eliciting moans from both of us. He began to match my movements in tandem, thrusting up into me wildly. I held onto his shoulders, burying myself in his neck as we went faster. I could feel his tip hitting my cervix every time, causing me to cry out with pleasure every single time. 

I felt my orgasm rapidly approach, and Spencer seemed to sense this as well, considering the involuntary clenches I was giving around his cock. He let his hand slip down to where our bodies met and rubbed tight, fast circles around my clit, encouraging my release. 

“Come on, pretty girl. Come all over my cock. You can do it.” He breathed out, watching my every move with a hunger I'd never experienced before.  

It took a few more thrusts from him, combined with the insistent fingers at my bundle of nerves before my thighs began shaking, and I let out a chorus of moans, most of them sounding like strangled versions of his name as I coated his cock in my wetness, spurring him on to go faster inside me, bucking into me like a man possessed. 

He continued to jut into me wildly, until I felt him finish inside me, coating my walls with his release. He breathed shakily, holding me close to him as I slumped over his shoulder, my chest heaving up and down as I came down from the intensity of the previous moment. 

He affectionately removed me from his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, the tenderness and gentleness in his actions contrary to what we had just done. I pulled back with a dazed smile, taking in how pretty he looked. 

“If it’s alright, I’d love to take you out for coffee sometime.” He said, still a bit breathless, and a shy smile appeared on his face.

I giggled. He was literally still inside me, and was asking me out on a date with a boyish nervousness that made him even harder to resist. 

“For you Dr Reid? Anything.” 

ahh! writing this was a beast, and i imagined it to be longer but i got what i wanted in less words haha. i hope you guys liked this. any reblogs, comments, likes are so so appreciated i know it sounds totally stupid, but your guys' support means a lot lot lot!! thank you!!! <3

[mysterystarz]

sukuna didn’t do love.

it wasn’t in his nature to seek it out. his solitude gave him everything he ever wanted — stability, and an undeniable sense of strength.

when he didn’t want solitude, he had his pick of anyone he wanted at the the university to join him bedside. everyone from yorozu to even the nerdiest people on campus wanted a chance to feel his silk sheets on their skin. they wanted a chance to feel his famous hands and the way they’d make them feel things they’d never felt before.

which is precisely why your lack of interest in him when you were assigned to a group project was shocking.

“you heard me?” his voice came out annoyed as he looked at you, sweetly typing notes into your laptop. “you handle a majority of this presentation. i’ll deliver it and get us a perfect score. you’re only needed for the busy work.”

you only hummed amusedly, shifting your gaze back to where he sat. you offered him none of the admiration he got from everyone else.

he was ryomen sukuna. he was a god in the sheets, an academic wizard. he was the epitomy of success at university.

so then why did you not care for him at all?

“i’ve delegated tasks based on what i’ve discerned you’re good at. you handle this half and i’ll handle the other. we’ll meet 3 days before presentation to rehearse.”

you rose from your seat, tossing him a casual smirk. “i will be the one getting us a perfect grade on this project. later sukuna.”

sukuna was shocked—so shocked that he barely registered the dreamy looks from the others in class. the way they pined for his partnership (in a group hopefully — he didn’t do love).

something about you has him wondering if your lips would look nicer swollen from kisses rather than smirking triumphantly at him.

[daycourtofficial]

Capture the Mate

Summary: Azriel has to leave on a mission for a few days, but he asks Cassian to help look after his pregnant mate while he’s gone. Someone ambushes you and Cassian, taking you as prisoner.

Author’s note: this was requested by this lovely anon!!

“You look massive today.”

You snort at Cassian as you walked in, your giant belly making sitting down a bit difficult.

“And you look extra stupid today,” you retort, “guess we’re both glowing.”

Cassian laughs, going back to his cereal. You were in the last few months of your pregnancy and you were ready to meet your baby. You loved being pregnant, you loved how hot sex with your mate was because of it, you loved cradling your bump and the way your mates hands always find your bump.

But you didn’t love Cassian’s comments comparing you to a whale, the back pain, the inability to get comfortable, and your mate’s overprotectiveness being dialed up by a factor of a thousand.

Azriel was going on fewer missions these days due to your pregnancy, opting to delegate most of them to his most trusted spies. There are occasionally some missions he has to do himself, not happy about leaving you, practically throwing temper tantrums in the lead up to being gone. When he comes home it’s as if he’s been off at war for decades, checking every inch of you, asking you about every detail of your time in his absence (even down to what you ate exactly - he thinks you don’t eat enough vegetables in his absence).

This is the fifth mission during your pregnancy he’s gone on, and each time he can’t bear to leave you without someone who can protect you. Whenever Azriel has to go, he ensures one of his brothers or Feyre will be present with you at all times. Whenever he’s gone, you just stay in your old room at the House of Wind or at Feyre and Rhys’s new house.

At first it sounded a bit like needing a babysitter, but now it’s more like just staying at someone’s house for a sleepover. Feyre and Nesta always tried to help you have fun, spending the days you’re with them doing the things you love. Cassian loves you being there because he likes to have eating competitions with you, and Rhys likes it because he spoils you rotten.

Before Azriel left, he spent probably an hour saying goodbye to you and the babe. He’d kiss you, then move down to talk to the babe. “Stay in there until I return,” he’ll whisper. “Be nice to your mom while I’m gone, okay? Let her sleep, I won’t be here to rub her back when you kick her in the kidneys.”

This time he actually tears up a bit at leaving the two of you. He looks at you, grabbing your face in his hands, “I shouldn’t be too long, sweetheart. Be safe, I love you.”

-

“Any plans for the day, Cass?”

“Mmm not really, I already had training, so my day is free to be spent with you, my favorite sister.”

You smile. “You say that to both me and Feyre,” you reply, rolling your eyes fondly.

Cassian lifts his spoon to finish off the last of his cereal. “It changes day by day - today you’re the favorite.”

-

You had asked Cassian if you two could go back to your home with Azriel, you had some chores to do and you also wanted to work on setting up the nursery.

Looking around the nursery you take in what needs to be done. A month out from the baby’s arrival and your mate still hasn’t set up the crib. But if you set it up without him he’d give you a big lecture about how he was going to do it and how you could get yourself hurt doing it, so you’ll just leave it be.

You have a dresser set up and a wardrobe that practically rivals your own, so you decide to spend the day folding and putting away baby clothes.

Cassian graciously offered to clean the dishes that were in the sink, along with sweeping and mopping your downstairs floors.

After telling him he didn’t have to do that, he responded, “well I don’t want dirty floors for Cassian Jr. here when he starts crawling, and I don’t want you mopping because if you slip you might hurt Cassian Jr.” He finished his statement by reaching out to rub your belly.

You rolled your eyes at him, as he smiles at your belly. “Cassian, aren’t Jr’s supposed to be named after their father or mother? Last I checked, this wasn’t your baby.”

He strokes his thumb over your bump, hoping to feel a kick from within, “we could convince Az it’s mine. I think it’d be hilarious.”

You snort, “he’d kill you in a heartbeat.”

Cassian sighs, “I suppose. Maybe the next one can be Cassian Jr.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he tries to look at you suggestively.

You fling your arms, bringing on of your hands to your forehead dramatically, “Oh Cassian your powers of seduction are too strong, I’m irresistibly drawn to you! I must flee, to keep myself from pouncing on you.”

Laughter from the both of you echoing through the house as you attempt to scuttle away but it becomes more of a waddle as you climb the stairs to your nursery.

-

An hour or two had passed and you made a remarkable dent in the amount of clothing your baby had. The vast amount of clothes are mostly Rhys’s fault, no one alive loves buying clothes more than that male, but your mate was also quite fond of picking up clothes on the rare occasions he left your side.

He loved watching how happy you got, realizing just how much he was thinking of you and the babe while gone.

You decide to go check on Cassian, not having heard much of anything from downstairs since you’ve been in the nursery. You waddle down the stairs, holding the railing for support. You get to the last step, and you see Cassian in your living room, face down, wings splayed out, blood gushing from his head onto your rug.

You yell for him as you run to him, sitting next to him, checking for a pulse. He’s still alive, but he has a considerable amount of blood.

You press on his head wound, trying to cradle his head in your lap to apply pressure to the wound. He’s starting to wake a little, you can feel his hands squeezing on your thighs.

A hand wraps around your neck from behind, and a cool metal graces the skin of your neck.

“Here’s the pretty little thing we were looking for.”

-

When Cassian came to, his head was pounding. He sat up on the floor of your living room, trying to assess the situation. He was mopping the floor of your kitchen when something struck the back of his head.

He never got a good look at the assailant, the blow leaving him stuck on the floor. He was, however, able to crawl into your living room in an effort to reach you.

You.

You had cradled his head, you had come down here.

Cassian bolts up, causing him to go a little dizzy from the blood loss. He gets up, darting up your stairs.

“Sunshine? Are you here?”

He ran into the nursery, checking all the spots you could be hiding in there - the wardrobe, the closet, amongst the bags and boxes littering the floor.

His panic was starting to rise. “Sunshine, are you here? It’s me, Cassian.” The desperation was leaking through his voice, “please be here, it’s okay to come out.”

He combed through your shared bedroom with Azriel, checked every bathroom, Azriel’s study, your spare room, your library, the kitchen.

He combed through his memories, knowing Azriel kept hidden nooks everywhere. When the two of you moved in together, he remembered Azriel made several small pockets in this house so you could hide if anything were to happen.

You came to training, but you were no warrior. You couldn’t hurt anyone, and Azriel knew you’d have a hard time attacking anyone. He knew that Azriel drilled into you if anything were to happen to hide immediately.

The library.

It’s Cassian’s last hope. Of course Azriel had stuck a hidden panic room in the library. Cassian bound into the room, trying to remember what book it was that opened the secret entrance.

Combing the spines, he’s trying to remember. It was green, something that stands out a little, but not too much. Something someone who knew Azriel would know that this is off.

A book of Prythian maps. Azriel, Rhys, and Cassian had all of Prythian memorized, there was no need for it.

He slides the book from its spot, watching the case move, exposing the empty tiny room.

-

Cassian wasted no time jumping off your balcony, flying like a bat of hell to Rhys and Feyre’s house, screaming mentally, hoping Rhys would pick up on it.

He lands on their balcony, bursting into Rhys’s study, interrupting the intimate moment between them. Feyre was perched on his lap, feeding him grapes, Cassian’s entrance causing her to drop the bowl, the ceramic shattering on the ground, a dozen or so grapes spilling across the floor.

“Cassian!” Feyre yells in shock. She didn’t even know anyone else could burst into Rhys’s office.

Rhys stands up, immediately knowing something was wrong. “Where is she, Cass?”

Cassian points to his head, allowing Rhys to see everything. Your rug he stared at after the blow to his head, hearing your distress, him going in and out, feeling your hands press against his wound, him waking up alone, his frantic search of your house.

Feyre gasps, having also seen all of it.

“Bring Azriel home now.”

-

Your captors had thrown a bag over your head, not allowing you to see anything as they took you away from your home, away from Cassian bleeding on your rug.

They left Cassian, probably as a message that they could take him down if they wanted, but that he wasn’t who they wanted.

Your only hope is that Cassian wakes up soon enough and alerts Rhys and Feyre about what happened, and they could get into contact with your mate.

You were filled with a mix of emotions, between fear, concern, and anger. Afraid for your life, what your captors will do to you, concern for your unborn baby, and anger for Azriel.

Azriel closes off the bond between you two during missions, a decision you both agreed to. However, the second he is available, he opens it, letting you know how he is. Your biggest hope now is just sending him how you’re feeling, hoping he’ll feel that you’re alive whenever he reopens the connection.

They had picked you up and flown you somewhere, so they’re most likely Illyrian.

They land, not nearly as gracefully as your mate or his brothers, emitting a soft ‘oof’ from your lips.

They carry you for at least ten minutes, through what you assume is decently packed area.

Are you in one of the camps?

You knew relations between Rhys and the Illyrians were bad, but would they really kidnap the spymaster’s mate?

Your thoughts are interrupted when you realize they’ve brought you into a building and have set you down in a chair, shackling you to it.

You haven’t spoken a word, barely eliciting a sound, just like your mate would do. You’re not sure if it’s what you should do, but the thought of what he would do holds you together.

You have to be strong, for yourself, for Azriel, for the baby.

They pull the bag off your head, your pupils dilating due to the sudden change in light. Four Illyrian warriors stood before you, 11 siphons glowing throughout the room.

“Hello, beautiful.”

The one who had been carrying you and taken you from your home approached you, caressing your face. You kept a stoic, neutral expression, not letting anything slip.

Just like Azriel would.

Your only response is the eye contact you refuse to break with him.

“That piece of shit struck gold when the cauldron bonded you to him,” practically spitting out the last word.

“Your little shadowsinger won’t stop snooping around our camps, won’t stop telling his precious little high lord everything he sees. They’ve been meddling in the way we deal with our women, the way we govern ourselves. We thought it was time to uh explain to them why they should just stay in their precious little city and leave us alone.”

-

The second the words left Cassian’s lips, Rhys was trying to reach Azriel telepathically. Within seconds of Cassian’s words, darkness was clouding the room, creating an impenetrable black, the only light shining being several blue siphons glowing with rage.

Cassian recounted the whole thing to the darkness, knowing his brother was somewhere in there. Once he got to the part of the story where you were gone, the room exploded even further, making Azriel’s siphons impossible to see now.

A few shadows whiz by Cassian, he’s assuming to double check you aren’t in their home. The rage Azriel feels is coming off in waves, when he remembers the bond is still closed.

He closes his eyes, sending a silent prayer to the mother. Please, please, please.

The bond opens, your warmth filling his chest. He can feel the initial fear you felt at being taken, but he can also feel your constant reassurance that you and the baby are okay.

Azriel feels his eyes prickle with tears as he chokes out, “they’re alive.” His brothers reach out to hug him or soothe him, but he steps back, his male instincts kicking in.

“I can feel it,” he says, holding a hand up, “the protectiveness is ramping up. I want to kill any male in sight.”

Rhys and Cassian start protesting, telling Azriel they want to come with him, but he stops them again.

“Give me a five minute head start. Then I’ll give you my location.”

-

Your silence was an interesting strategy, one your captors did not like one bit, their irritation with you growing by the minute.

“Maybe we should rough her up then drop her back on their door step. Pretty loud and clear message, don’t you think?” He circles around your chair, sizing you up like prey.

“We could show her how women are supposed to be treated by us,” one in the corner shouts.

The one circling you spits at your feet before he says, “those half-breed bastards have gone soft, they forget what it means to be Illyrian.”

In a flash he steps forward, his hand slapping you across the face.

-

Azriel used the bond to find you. He kept tugging, the bond offering him a direction to go. He kept winnowing into the direction of the tug, when he began realizing where the bond was likely taking him. He growled with anger, unable to believe they could be so stupid as to take his mate.

He disappeared into his shadows, sending a few to find out exactly where you were. Once they returned, sans the two that wanted to stay with you, they whisked him away to the room you were being kept in.

The big one who had struck you earlier was mid-strike when the shadowsinger materialized out of the shadows in front of you, his hand catching the brute’s wrist.

“Lay another hand on my mate and your hands will become trophies I hang on the wall.”

You can feel his shadows enveloping you in a soothing wave, checking you head to toe for injuries, but only finding the stinging cheek and the pain from the shackles.

The twirl through your hair, eventually skating over your swollen belly, where they settle and stay.

Your mate’s shadows were very attentive of the baby in your belly, as if your unborn babe were calling to them, too. They reacted to everything the babe did, every kick, every movement, as if telling your babe, “we are here, little master.”

The anger radiating off of Azriel was palpable, but his demeanor was terrifying. A feralness to him you’ve never seen before.

“Whose idea was this?”

Nobody in the room speaks, the assailants just gaping at your mate.

“Speak.”

One of them points to the leader, the one whose wrist was still in Azriel’s hand.

Azriel looks into the male’s eyes, piercing through his soul, as he flicks his arm, breaking the male’s arm.

He screams, shocked at the swiftness of the break. Azriel takes the moment of surprise to pull the first assailant’s head into his knee, bashing his head into his kneecap, throwing him on the ground.

He looks to the next closest one, tilting his head, deciding how he wants to play this. He decides to leave truth-teller sheathed at his side, opting instead to use his bare hands.

“I wanted to savor this, however I don’t want to keep my mate waiting,” he states, coming up to the next closest one and swiftly wrapping his hands around his head, twisting until a sickening crack echoes through the room.

One of them lunges for Azriel, fists raised to fight him. Azriel moves to the side, causing the running assailant to run into the wall behind the shadowsinger. Azriel grabs him by the back of his neck, pulling his arm back, and with all of his force, pushing his head into the wall. Over. And over. And over. His blood splattering the wall, an actual crack in the wall forming from where his head kept hitting it.

He releases his hold, allowing his body to fall to the floor. Azriel turns and looks at the last one, the one that had pointed to whose idea this was, as some of his shadows finally break free from you. “Now,” he says, as they begin pooling at the last captor’s feet, “I’ll deal with you later.”

The shadows at his feet begin pulling the male into the pool of darkness, assumingly to be questioned further about their failed plans.

Azriel undoes the shackles keeping you in place, hoisting you into his arms, the belly making it a bit more difficult.

The second he reopened the bond to find you, he began sending you a constant stream of love down it, trying to convey to you that he was on his way to you.

Being gathered in his arms, the bond was humming a sweet melody, a soft duet that can only be heard when you’re together.

He pulls back, grabbing your face in his hands. “I have never felt fear quite like I did when Rhys made me come back. I knew something was wrong, I was hoping that the babe had just come early.”

He puts his left hand on your belly, the babe inside kicking the exact spot his hand is in. Your mate laughs.

You look at him, seeing the fear and adrenaline in his eyes as he continues, “but when I got back and Cassian said they left him behind and took you, I thought ‘okay, if they’re gone, I have nothing left to live for.’”

“But then, I opened the bond, and I felt you, and I-“ he chokes up a bit, continuing, “I almost started crying. You were alive, and you were okay.”

He pulls your head in, kissing the top of your head several times.

“You’re both okay.”

You reached up, stroking his cheek, “we’re okay.”

He smiles, and you laugh, “I guess this means you’re never leaving my side again, huh?”

He laughs, a tear falling down his face as he does so. “Oh no, sweetheart. You thought I was overbearing before, just wait. You won’t remember what personal space was soon enough.”

You laugh, “at least tell me you aren’t upset with Cassian. He’s a sweet guard dog.”

He smiles at you, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. “They ambushed him, I could never be upset with him over that. Now come on, let’s go see my brother before he gives himself a heart attack with worry over you.”

“He is quite fond of me, isn’t he?” You ask, his arm going around you, preparing to embark through the shadows to go back home.

“He told me he prayed every night that we would be mates,” he says, the shadows beginning to engulf the two of you.

“Why?” You ask, wrapping your arms around him.

Azriel looks into your eyes as he says, “he told me he never thought anyone was good enough for me until he met you.”

[lo1k-diamonds]

Be as it must 💜 Part 4

You and I are meant to be.

PAIRING: Alpha!Jungkook x Omega(f)reader

SUMMARY: You're set on leaving, but things never go like you'd wish them to.

WORD COUNT:  2.6k

GENRE: ABO, strangers to lovers, fated lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: tension and angst

A.N. A huge thank you to @moonleeai for the beta read💜 This one is emotional, and if the last one was stressful, well...

Masterlist | Masterpost | AO3 | Wattpad | < Previous Chapter | Next Chapter >

It was unusual that you were caught by surprise, but you would never be caught without a plan.

As such, even though yesterday you had been left bitter with shame, idiocy, and betrayal, the next morning, you were back on your feet.

You had allowed yourself to process the events during a shower in the early hours of the morning. Naturally, people didn’t flaunt their relationships, so there was no way you could have guessed. Jungk— CEO Jeon should have informed you himself, if not because of the way you interacted with each other, then at least the moment your skins touched while alcohol was in both your systems. It was not your fault for not knowing, but it was his for not honoring a prior commitment. The way he turned to you instead of diffusing Sunhwa’s screams did raise questions, but it was not up to you to wonder what it all meant. He said they had a contract, that was it. You refused to believe he wasn’t completely aware of being in the wrong, the same way you refused to continue whatever that was. You wanted to leave anyway.

So, instead of leaving with Mr Seung that day, you grabbed your luggage and walked out the front door with the sun finally starting to clear the night sky. A taxi was waiting for you to take you to the office, where you started a very early day with a game plan — you needed to wrap things up.

If CEO Jeon was correct, you’d have a reply from the American company today, and no other deal would need to be handled in person in Seoul. It did facilitate things, but it meant nothing else needed to be a priority. You organized your tasks and timings — with extra time and effort, you could be leaving on a flight to Busan tonight.

You were certain of your success during the morning, at least until CEO Jeon tried to attend one of your meetings. Dealing with his presence was harder than you thought — not just because he reminded you of how stupid you had been the night before, but because he tried talking to you.

But on that end, some things helped. Sunhwa was like a hound, constantly on him, even during the meetings you were present, making sure to drag him away by politely — and loudly — reminding him he had other places to be. To make your timetable work, you had delegated a few tasks, including going to CEO Jeon to iron down details and clarify any lingering doubts. You used a totally different office, having asked a colleague from a different department to use his instead. This meant no lunchtime, no opportunities to bump into CEO Jeon, and absolutely no distractions.

The stars seemed to align shortly after your midday sandwich — the American representative had a positive response, with only a few things left to handle. Details, which made you ecstatic. A few hours of work were all that stood between you and freedom.

The only catch was that the people you had delegated to couldn’t bring the final agreement to the CEO. You contemplated just sending an email, but knew that would be distasteful. There were also notes and considerations that were better off discussed verbally without a digital trail, and if it wasn’t for the previous night’s debacle, that wouldn’t have been an issue.

Your stubborn nature didn’t allow you to let something that embarrassed you affect you professionally, so you gritted your teeth through a workaround. You printed the fifty some pages of the agreement and commented on everything that required his attention, highlighting and adding sticky notes with considerations to each relevant paragraph and page. It was exhausting, but you felt like it was the right compromise.

Hours later, you had your flight booked, the agreement fully annotated, and your luggage as you neared CEO Jeon’s office. You braced yourself for what would surely be an unpleasant experience, but as you knocked, no one answered.

You dared to enter after checking your wristwatch; you couldn’t be late. His spacious office was empty, nothing but silence present inside those walls. There was a large desk at the center in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and that was where you decided to go after putting the luggage to the side for a moment. 

Every step disturbed you even more; his heady scent made your senses surge and your gut twist. You gripped the folder in your hand firmly; you didn’t want to enjoy his scent or any thought of him. You just needed to push through this to leave.

The door suddenly barging open startled you, but as quickly as it opened, it closed, leaving you nailed to the floor. Jungkook stood there with wide eyes, looking at you in a mix of bafflement and intention. Then, you dared to blink, and he stormed across the room to get to you.

“Thank fuck,” he let out as he neared you. “I need to talk to you; I thought you were avoiding me—”

“I’m just here to drop this off,” you interrupted sternly, waving the file in your hand. “Congratulations, you were right — we have a positive answer and a verbal commitment. All that’s left is for you to go over a few details and give me your instructions, and we can have this contract signed by the end of the month.”

His wide eyes only revealed disbelief until he snapped out of it, “What are you— I don’t care about that!”

You extended the file between you, “Please take it and revise it accordingly.”

He glanced at the offending folder and looked at you again, knitted eyebrows spelling confusion and hurt. “I can’t handle that right now!”

Still, you insisted, “Whatever happens in private, stays in private. Work ethic dictates—”

He snatched the file from your hand and dropped it on his desk, “Fine! Fine, I’ll handle it. Won’t you please talk to me now?”

You ignored the way he looked at you and spun to grab the file again, extending it in the same way, “Please don’t overlook months of work of dozens of professionals—”

“I don’t!” He couldn’t hold it any longer; he grabbed your shoulders. “I won’t! But please listen to me: she means nothing to me.”

It sounded crude to you, almost cruel, so you remained impassive, “She surely means something. You’re just confused.”

His fingers pressed through your coat, “I’m not confused!”

“You are. You have a commitment—”

“A piece of paper! A deal I don’t care about made before I met you, before I knew about you!”

You straightened your back, “My designation shouldn’t—”

“Fuck your designation!” You would have trembled if he wasn’t holding you. He raised a hand to your cheek, “You’re not an omega to me; you’re my mate. Can’t you feel it? The way our hearts align?” His eyes were wide, searching in yours, and you could barely breathe. “The way our souls sing whenever our eyes meet? You have to feel it too, please don’t deny it.”

You only realized your lips had parted in shock when you clenched your jaw, “It doesn’t matter. You have a commitment.”

“The only commitment I have is to spend the rest of my life with you,” his voice shook as he cupped your other cheek. “I’ve started the process to annul it, and I’m certain it will be approved because no one can come in between us. Fate…” he whispered, fluttering his eyelashes over watering eyes. “You and I are meant to be.”

Your heart was shaking with your emotions chaotically running rampant through you, but you were headstrong. You couldn’t think properly with his nose almost grazing yours, so you put a palm over his chest and pushed.

He let go of you, unable to hide the way it hurt him, but you weren’t looking. You couldn’t face him. You disliked running away, but you were overwhelmed and unsure that you could trust him. That you could trust your own heart.

“Let’s at least talk tonight,” he tried with a sobered tone. 

You raised your eyes to him, and your heart wept — he was trying. He was coming to you, talking, explaining, giving worth to the fact that you gave priority to work, but it didn’t change anything. Because you couldn’t trust him.

“I can’t,” you breathed.

“Why not?” His tone was grazing on a whimper, “For work? I swear—”

“No, I’m leaving,” you breathed it out before it got stuck. Your eyes landed on the luggage you left near the entrance, and he looked over his shoulder to follow your gaze. “I booked a flight, I’m leaving in a couple of hours.”

He shook his head violently, and in a second, his strong hands were around your head, aiming to keep you still so that his lips could crash to yours. 

It was sudden and brave, and you said, “Don’t.”

He instantly groaned. His control might have flown out the window, but there was no way he would go against your wishes. No matter how much he believed that kissing you could make you see that he spoke the truth, could make you feel what he was talking about, he still couldn’t do more than ghost your lips, your taste less than an inch away. You, his soulmate, his fate, so close, yet so far.

“We both want this,” he reasoned in a desperate attempt to get to you. 

You held the power; you were judge, jury, and executioner.

When you remained silent, just looking at him with a line between your eyebrows, he had to insist. “Let me show you,” he whispered, ghosting your lips, the tension stretching so thinly he could swear it was about to snap. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel.”

The desperation put a nearly sick glint in his eyes, and it touched you in ways you couldn’t explain. All you could do was nuzzle him and stay silent, fighting your heart with your logic with all your might.

You couldn’t open your mouth, or you’d do something you’d regret at the expense of your weakness, knowing you’d hate yourself for it. There was still the chance that it was all just to deceive you, to collect an omega like in the stories your mother used to tell you. The ones where evil alphas took pleasure in hoarding omegas and taking them from their mates and families.

Yet, it was true that you had never felt anything like it; a desire so strong burning through your veins, you could combust. If it wasn’t enough, his scent was addictive; his desire smelled exotic and spicy, awakening places you preferred to stay in slumber right now. You knew that if you let him, the want would consume you. You wouldn’t stop until he was inside you, keeping his promise and fulfilling your lust, your need to have his touch, his kiss, his everything as part of you.

And that was precisely why you couldn’t do it.

“I can make you mine,” he rasped, something akin to agony glistening in his eyes. “I can give you everything you ever wanted.”

The corners of your mouth twitched; could he read your mind? How else would he know that everything you wanted was him?

“Just let me show you.”

You finally took a deep breath, “No, I’m leaving.”

“No,” his expression morphed into anguish. 

“You have to let me go.”

“No no no no, I can’t, don’t ask me to, please. Please, just listen to what I have to say. Go with Mr Seung and let’s talk. Really talk, I’ll tell you everything. Everything, my whole heart, please.”

Your eyes observed every detail of his expression — his knitted eyebrows, glistening eyes, and pressed lips. You didn’t like to see him suffer; it was almost a compulsion just to acquiesce so he could feel well again.

“If you still want to leave after that, you can,” his voice gained a sturdiness, as did his expression, and it allowed you to breathe. “I promise, you’ll take my private jet and go immediately, and I’ll never— I won't—” Whatever he was trying to say didn’t seem to come out, so he shook his head. “So please say you will talk to me.”

Your mouth opened, but a loud knock on the door stole your words. You almost smiled as Sunhwa’s voice cut the silence, introducing someone important to see CEO Jeon right before coming to a stop.

You knew that she and whoever accompanied her were just standing by the entrance, witnessing something very odd: CEO Jeon standing stiffly next to his desk with his hands raised in front of him, unbeknownst to them, holding your head in them. You looked into his eyes, your eyebrow twitching, but his head only moved an inch to the side.

His eyes still begged, “Please.”

But your hand came to his arm to pull it, and he let go. You stepped back and said something polite as you dropped the file on his desk, then bowed deeply, bowing to the newcomers as well, before grabbing your luggage and going on your way. 

Jungkook wouldn’t have been able to function if he hadn’t received a message from Mr Seung about ten minutes after you left saying that he had you and was going to take you home, at your request. It filled his heart with such hope that he could barely contain the tears in his eyes. Still, he needed to during that meeting and the ones that inevitably followed. He counted the minutes, the seconds. If you left, he was certain that Mr Seung would inform him, but you wouldn’t. Because you agreed to talk, and that was all Jungkook needed.

He refused to take any more tasks, reports, requests, or last-minute meetings, and left the office exceptionally early before sunset. He entered his car and grabbed his phone; Mr Seung was not driving Jungkook this time, but he wanted to call and hear about you. He wasn’t ready to face you, but—

“Sir!” Mr Seung’s distraught voice instantly stiffened Jungkook’s neck. “I came to a few minutes ago, finally I have my phone so I can warn you!”

Jungkook’s grip on the phone tightened as he heard what had happened, and by the end he didn’t know if he was livid or enraged; he might have been possessed.

Things like getting hijacked at a red light didn’t just happen in the middle of Seoul in broad daylight to a car of the Family. Much less with Mr Seung in the hospital, having passed out from a drug, while you were taken. Fucking taken.

His first instinct was to call Sunhwa, “What the fuck did you do?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I swear that if you lay a finger on her—”

“On who? What are you talking about? What happened? I was with you the whole day. What could I have done?”

His stomach fell; she was right. He hung up the phone and groaned into his hands. He didn’t know who else could have tried to harm you. Even though you were a precious, rare omega, no one would go as far as to take you like that.

No one that he knew would, and in fact—

He pressed the speed dial on his phone, and as soon as the other side picked up, his heartache spilled out, “Hyung.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Sorry if this sounds like I'm trying to stir up trouble, but does Malleus do any of his dorm duties? I've been re-reading vignette and with the exception of choosing a theme for his dorm on Halloween it seems Lilia does everything. Lilia goes to the meeting, talks with the students, fills out the forms needed for the headmaster, and more. It seems like he's just a figure head there for appearance while everyone else does the work.

Cross-referencing my own compilation post on the dorm leader responsibilities and powers, Malleus has or can be assumed to have fulfilled some of his duties as dorm leader, although the ones he does tend to are relatively minor. For example:

Dorm leaders choose their vice dorm leaders. I assume that Malleus chose Lilia, as it's someone close to him and a person he deeply trusts.

Malleus is stated to have selected Diasomnia's Halloween costume (longs).

He approves Lilia's request to use the Diasomnia lounge for his farewell party in book 7.

Malleus chastises and corrects his own students (namely Sebek) for stepping out of line, although the intent is often to retain his own good standing as a royal rather than to maintain the reputation of his students or his dormitory.

The big tasks such as attending dorm leader meetings, taking part in ceremonies, and showing freshmen around their new dorm post-orientation are mostly headed by Lilia. To be fair, it's Malleus's right as dorm leader to delegate his responsibilities to his second-in-command as he sees fit, and it's sort of necessary to get any information passed along to Diasomnia at all since the actual dorm leader is hard to approach and/or misses meetings due to his time perception being different than that of the average human. However, this doesn't change the fact that a lot of his responsibilities are taken up by Lilia. Lilia does appear to pass along meeting notes and such to Malleus, but it's not the same as like... Malleus actually being physically present at these meetings himself.

This kind of ties back to the surprise I expressed when I realized just how passive Malleus is in leading others or expressing policy ideas. He and the people he generally surrounds himself with already assume he will be a great leader, but then the narrative does not actually grant Malleus any major opportunities to show us that there's a solid basis for them to believe this. Again, I do believe that part of Malleus not fulfilling most of his dorm leader duties is because he genuinely does struggle with the flow of time and being invited to events! He also does make an effort to try and tend to these duties (like when he attempts to bring his fellow dorm leaders to him rather than bringing himself to them in his Dorm Uniform vignettes), so it's not as though he's intentionally shirking his work. Passing along his responsibilities to Lilia isn't done out of laziness, it's done as a necessity so he can still have some window in which to glimpse his peers and understand what has to be done. Unfortunately, this doesn't exactly paint him out to be a competent leader when you put this lore next to the fact that he hasn't truly demonstrated his leadership capabilities to us in several other scenarios.

[novaursa]

Maybe a story with reader being the bastard son of the mad king aerys? Idk what fem characters you write for got, any of them would work :)) (maybe lyanna or elia) like aerys betroths them out of spite or as punishment(?)

Love ur work btw <3

The Bastard Prince

- Summary: Your father bethrodes you to Lyanna Stark out of spite, and sends you North.

- Pairing: male!reader/Lyanna Stark

- Rating: Mild 13+

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

The towering doors of the throne room loom before you, their weighty presence nearly suffocating under the shadow of the Iron Throne. Two kingsguard flank you, their white cloaks brushing against the stone floor as they lead you forward. It’s rare for the king to summon you so formally, and your gut churns with unease as you step inside.

The hall is filled with lords and courtiers, their eyes turning to you with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. They know who you are—Aerys’s bastard son, Y/N Waters, a living reminder of the king’s indiscretions. You can feel the judgment in their stares, each gaze piercing through the thin armor of indifference you wear.

King Aerys sits high on the Iron Throne, his fingers drumming against the jagged steel as you approach. His eyes, sharp and blazing with a manic energy, settle on you. There’s a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you sense something dreadful lurking behind it.

“Ah, here he is,” Aerys declares, his voice booming through the chamber. “My own flesh and blood, though born on the wrong side of the sheets.” Laughter echoes from the gathered lords and ladies, a sycophantic chorus that grates against your ears.

You bow stiffly, keeping your expression as neutral as possible. “Your Grace.”

The king rises, a rustle of fabric and metal, his gaze now shifting toward the northern delegation standing at the base of the throne. Lord Rickard Stark stands at the forefront, his face a stoic mask, but his eyes watchful. Beside him, his son Brandon, tall and proud, and then there’s her.

Lyanna Stark.

The girl is a storm wrapped in furs, her eyes dark and defiant as they meet yours. Her hair, a wild cascade of brown, frames a face flushed with either anger or unease—you can’t tell. She’s beautiful, even more so than the songs suggest, but there’s a fire in her that promises no easy submission.

Aerys gestures toward you with a grand sweep of his hand, his grin widening as he looks back at the Starks. “Lord Rickard, it is with great pleasure that I present to you my son. A gift, you might say, to seal our new alliance.”

You glance at Lord Stark, his jaw tight but giving nothing away. He inclines his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment or resignation—you’re not sure which. Brandon’s fists are clenched at his sides, his face thunderous, but he remains silent.

“And as promised,” Aerys continues, his voice dripping with mock benevolence, “your daughter, the lovely Lyanna, will be wed to Y/N. A union that will bind the North and the Crown in unbreakable bonds.”

The words crash over you like a wave, leaving you momentarily stunned. He’s promised her to you? An alliance, yes, but you can see it in the king’s eyes—this is a convenient way to rid himself of you, to send you far from King’s Landing. The North is the furthest he can exile you while still keeping you under his thumb.

Lyanna’s face is a mask of outrage, her lips parting as if to speak, but her father’s hand on her arm stops her. There’s a beat of silence, heavy and tense, and then Lord Stark nods once more, his voice steady but strained. “The honor is ours, Your Grace.”

You force yourself to breathe, your heart hammering in your chest. This is what you are to him, a piece to be moved, a pawn in his dangerous games. And now, it seems, Lyanna Stark is caught in that same trap.

“Of course, I couldn’t deprive the North of such a strong, loyal companion,” Aerys says, his gaze flicking back to you. “I’ve heard tales of your valor, Y/N. You’ll do well up there, won’t you?”

There’s a twisted delight in his words, a promise of torment to come. You know better than to challenge him here, in front of all these eyes, so you simply bow your head. “I will serve as best I can, Your Grace.”

Aerys laughs, a high, grating sound that echoes through the hall. “See that you do. Now, join your new family. You’ll have plenty of time to become acquainted before you depart.”

He waves his hand dismissively, and you’re left standing there, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. With measured steps, you move toward the Starks. Brandon’s eyes blaze with fury, and Lord Rickard’s face is as impenetrable as ever. But it’s Lyanna who holds your attention, her stare unwavering, challenging.

“Lady Lyanna,” you murmur, bowing slightly. It’s all you can manage, unsure of what else to say in the face of such hostility.

She doesn’t lower her gaze, doesn’t flinch. “Ser,” she replies, her voice steady but cold. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

The bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, and it cuts deeper than you expect. “I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly, though the words feel inadequate, hollow.

Her eyes flash with something unreadable, and she lifts her chin. “Neither did I.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Lord Stark speaks, his voice low and firm. “We will discuss this in private. There’s no need to make a spectacle here.”

He guides Lyanna away, Brandon following with a dark look cast your way. You watch them go, feeling the weight of the king’s laughter still ringing in your ears.

As the doors close behind them, you’re left standing in the center of the hall, alone and exposed. Aerys’s gaze is still on you, his smile lingering like a poison in the air. He’s won today, sending you far from his court, from the city that’s never felt like home.

The cold wind bites at your skin as you ride north, the chill creeping through the thick layers of your cloak and settling deep in your bones. The southern sun seems like a distant memory now, replaced by the overcast skies and vast, snow-covered landscape of the North. The journey is a long one, and the company keeps mostly to themselves. The Starks are quiet, speaking in low voices among themselves, the anomasity between them and you palpable.

You steal a glance to your side where Lyanna rides, her expression as fierce and guarded as the first time you met her in the throne room. She’s wrapped in heavy furs, her hair whipping behind her in the icy breeze, and though she doesn’t look at you, you can feel her presence like a beacon in the cold, vast emptiness.

For days, your conversations are limited to polite greetings and the occasional exchange of necessities—a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie you’ve known among your companions in King’s Landing. But the North is not the South, and these people are not your friends.

One evening, camp is set near the banks of a frozen river. The northern men build fires and huddle close for warmth, the cold seeping in as night falls. You sit alone, apart from the Starks, staring into the flames, the crackling wood a welcome distraction from the silence that has settled over the camp.

A rustling sound draws your attention, and you look up to see Lyanna approaching. She hesitates for a moment, then lowers herself onto a log across from you, her eyes steady and searching. There’s something different about her tonight—less guarded, though still wary.

“You look like you could use something stronger than water,” she says, her voice soft but carrying the hint of an edge.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at the flask in her hand. “I’d welcome it, my lady.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips, and she tosses the flask to you. The burn of the Northern spirit as it goes down is harsh but welcome, and you hand it back with a nod of gratitude.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, watching you carefully. “One might think you’re not looking forward to your new home.”

“I’m not sure what to look forward to,” you admit, meeting her gaze. “Winterfell is a world away from everything I’ve known.”

She studies you for a moment, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “Why did you agree to this? The marriage, I mean.”

You look at her, surprised by the question. “Did I have a choice?”

She huffs, a sound halfway between amusement and frustration. “There’s always a choice. Even if it’s a poor one.”

You think about her words, the weight they carry. “And what choice did I have? Refuse and be cast aside by my father, or agree and be sent away to a place where I’ll never belong. Neither seems particularly appealing.”

Her eyes soften slightly, her gaze turning inward. “I know what it’s like, to feel like you don’t belong.” She pauses, her fingers tightening around the flask. “I’m not like my brothers. I don’t want to be just some man’s wife, to sit and sew and bear children while the world passes me by.”

The honesty in her voice surprises you, and you find yourself leaning forward, wanting to understand her better. “What do you want, then?”

“I want freedom,” she says fiercely, her eyes meeting yours with a burning intensity. “I want to ride and fight and live my life as I choose, not as some king or lord decides for me.”

You feel a pang of guilt then, knowing you’re a part of the cage she’s railing against. “I’m sorry, Lyanna,” you say quietly. “I never wanted to be the one to take that away from you.”

She’s silent for a long moment, then lets out a breath. “I know it’s not your fault, not entirely. You’re as much a tool in this as I am.” She takes a sip from the flask, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. Or that I’ll make this easy for you.”

You can’t help but smile at that, a genuine one that catches you by surprise. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

She studies you, and for the first time, you feel like she’s truly seeing you, not just the bastard son of a mad king forced into her life. “You’re different than I expected,” she says finally.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Maybe.” She tilts her head, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “You don’t seem as... desperate to prove yourself as the other knights and lords I’ve met.”

You shrug, the weight of her words settling over you. “What’s there to prove? I am who I am. No amount of posturing or pretending will change that.”

She nods, as if she understands that better than most. “It’s rare to find someone who thinks like that, especially in court.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence then, the fire crackling between you. The cold seems less biting now, the company warmer than you could have hoped. You talk late into the night, sharing stories—hers of the North, the wild, untamed lands and the fierce people who call it home, and yours of King’s Landing, the treacherous courts and the fleeting moments of beauty hidden within its walls.

You learn that she loves to ride, that she dreams of seeing the world beyond Winterfell’s walls. She tells you about her brothers—Brandon’s wild temper, Ned’s quiet strength, Benjen’s mischievous spirit. And you tell her about your life as a bastard in the Red Keep, the half-smiles and whispered slights, the shadow you’ve always lived under as the king’s unwanted son.

When the fire finally burns low, and the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, you feel something shift between you. An understanding, perhaps, or at least the beginning of one. You’re still strangers, bound together by forces beyond your control, but you’re no longer enemies. Not entirely.

As you rise to return to your tent, she stands too, holding your gaze for a long moment. “Goodnight, Y/N,” she says softly, her voice carrying the promise of something more.

“Goodnight, Lyanna.”

The next day, and the days that follow, she rides beside you more often. You talk, sometimes for hours, other times sharing only a few words. The others notice, Brandon especially, his eyes narrowing whenever he sees you together. But Lyanna seems unconcerned, her defiance burning as bright as ever.

You know you’re still an outsider, a southerner in a land that will never truly accept you. But for now, that doesn’t seem to matter as much. You have this, whatever it is, with her. And for the first time since the king’s decree, you feel a flicker of hope.

Maybe this marriage doesn’t have to be a cage for either of you. Maybe, just maybe, it can be something more.

[txttletale]

how do ml's reconcile with lenin going for a bigbrainhaver hierarchy which just so happened to place him at the tippy top? most of the things he's quoted for writing make a kind of sense in that longwinded academic philosopher way, but, like, russia went from having a revolution against monarchy to having a monarchy, essentially, and what folks do tends to align with their desires, yeah? wouldn't that make everything he said, idk, suspicious?

we reconcile with this because none of this is even remotely true. lenin did not 'happen to be placed at the tippy top' but was in fact elected by the soviets, who worked in a very simple electoral system by which workers and peasants would elect representatives to their local soviet, who as well as administering local services would also elect members to higher bodies. the quote unquote bigbrainhaver hierarchy system in question was as follows:

The sovereign body is in every case the Congress of Soviets. Each county sends its delegates. These are elected indirectly by the town and county Soviets which vote in proportion to population, following the ratio observed throughout, by which the voters in the town have five times the voting strength of the inhabitants of the villages, an advantage which may, as we saw, be in reality three to one. The Congress meets, as a rule, once a year, for about ten days. It is not, in the real sense of the word, the legislative body. It debates policy broadly, and passes resolutions which lay down the general principles to be followed in legislation. The atmosphere of its sittings is that of a great public demonstration. The Union Congress, for example, which has some fifteen hundred members, meets in the Moscow Opera House. The stage is occupied by the leaders and the heads of the administration, and speeches are apt to be big oratorical efforts. The real legislative body is the so-called Central Executive Committee (known as the C. I. K. and pronounced "tseek") . It meets more frequently than the Congress to which it is responsible-in the case of the Union, at least three times in the year-passes the Budget, receives the reports of the Commissars (ministers), and discusses international policy. It, in its turn, elects two standing bodies: (1) The Presidium of twenty-one members, which has the right to legislate in the intervals between the sittings of the superior assemblies, and also transacts some administrative work. (2) The Council of Peoples' Commissars. These correspond roughly to the Ministers or Secretaries of State in democratic countries and are the chiefs of the administration. Meeting as a Council, they have larger powers than any Cabinet, for they may pass emergency legislation and issue decrees which have all the force of legislation. Save in cases of urgency, however, their decrees and drafts of legislation must be ratified by the Executive Committee (C.I.K.). In another respect they differ from the European conception of a Minister. Each Commissar is in reality the chairman of a small board of colleagues, who are his advisers. These advisory boards, or collegia, meet very frequently (it may even be daily) to discuss current business, and any member of a board has the right to appeal to the whole Council of Commissars against a decision of the Commissar.

—H.N. Brailsford, How The Soviets Work (1927)

you might notice that the congresses of soviets were not directly elected -- this is because they were elected by local soviets, who were directly elected, in a process that many people have given first hand accounts of:

I have, while working in the Soviet Union, participated in an election. I, too, had a right to vote, as I was a working member of the community, and nationality and citizenship are no bar to electoral rights. The procedure was extremely simple. A general meeting of all the workers in our organisation was called by the trade union committee, candidates were discussed, and a vote was taken by show of hands. Anybody present had the right to propose a candidate, and the one who was elected was not personally a member of the Party. In considering the claims of the candidates their past activities were discussed, they themselves had to answer questions as to their qualifications, anybody could express an opinion, for or against them, and the basis of all the discussion was: What justification had the candidates to represent their comrades on the local Soviet. As far as the elections in the villages were concerned, these took place at open village meetings, all peasants of voting age, other than those who employed labour, having the right to vote and to stand for election. As in the towns, any organisation or individual could put forward candidates, anyone could ask the candidate questions, and anybody could support or oppose the candidature. It is usual for the Communist Party to put forward a candidate, trade unions and other organisations can also do so, and there is nothing to prevent the Party’s candidate from not being elected, if he has not sufficient prestige among the voters. In the towns the “ electoral district ” has hitherto consisted of a factory, or a group of small factories sufficient to form a constituency. But there was one section of the town population which has always had to vote geographically, since they did not work together in one organisation. This was the housewives. As a result, the housewives met separately in each district, had their own constituencies, and elected their own representatives to the Soviet. Here, too, vital interest has always been shown in the personality of every candidate. Why should this woman be elected ? What right had she to represent her fellow housewives on the local Soviet ? In the district next to my own at the last election the housewife who was elected was well known as an organiser of a communal dining-room in the district. This was the kind of person that the housewives wanted to represent them on the Soviet. Another candidate, a Communist, proposed by the local organisation of the Party, was turned down in her favour.

[...]

The election of delegates to the local Soviet is not the only function of voters in the Soviet Union. It is not a question here of various parties presenting candidates to the electorate, each with his own policy to offer. The Soviet electorate has to select a personality from its midst to represent it, and instruct this person in the policy which is to be followed when elected. At a Soviet election meeting, therefore, as much or more time may be spent on discussion of the instructions to the delegate as is spent on discussing the personality of the candidates. At the last election to the Soviets, in which I personally participated, we must have spent three or four times as much time on the working out of instructions as we did on the selection of our candidate. About three weeks before the election was to take place the trade union secretary in every department of our organisation was told by the committee that it was time to start to prepare our instructions to the delegate. Every worker was asked to make suggestions concerning policy which he felt should be brought to the notice of the new personnel of the Moscow Soviet. As a result, about forty proposals concerning the general government of Moscow were handed in from a group of about twenty people. We then held a meeting in our department at which we discussed the proposals, and adopted some and rejected others. We then handed our list of pro¬ posals to a commission, appointed by the trade union committee, and representing all the workers in our organisation. This Commission co-ordinated the pro¬ posals received, placed them in order according to the various departments of the Soviet, and this co-ordinated list was read at the election meeting itself, again discussed, and adopted in its final form.

—Pat Sloan, Soviet Democracy (1937)

Between the elections of 1931 and 1934, no less than 18 per cent of the city deputies and 37 per cent of village deputies were recalled, of whom only a relatively small number — 4 per cent of the total — were charged with serious abuse of power. The chief reasons for recall were inactivity — 37 per cent — and inefficiency — 21 per cent. If these figures indicate certain lacks in the quality of elected officials, they show considerable activity of the people in improving government. The electorate of the Peasants' Gazette, for example, consisted of some 1,500 employees, entitled to elect one deputy to the Moscow city soviet and two to the ward soviet. For more than a month before the election every department of the newspaper held meetings discussing both candidates and instructions. Forty-three suggested candidates and some 1,400 proposals for the work of the incoming government resulted from these meetings, which also elected committees to boil down and classify the instructions. These committees issued a special four-page newspaper for the 1,500 voters; it contained brief biographies of the forty-three candidates, an analysis of their capacities by the Communist Party organization of the Peasants' Gazette, and the "nakaz," or list of "people's instructions," classified by subject and the branch of government which they concerned. At the final election meeting of the Peasants* Gazette there was literally more than 100 per cent attendance, since some of the staff who for reasons of absence or illness had not been listed as prospective voters returned from sanatoria or from distant assignments to vote. The instructions issued by the electorate in this manner — 1,400 from the Peasants' Gazette and tens of thousands from Moscow citizens — became the first business of the incoming government.

—Anna Louise Strong, The New Soviet Constitution (1937)

does this mean that the soviet project was some utopian perfect system? no. there were flaws in the system like any other. it disenfranchised the rural peasantry (although not, i would like to add, to any extent greater or even equivalent to the extent to which the US electoral system disenfranchises the urban working class) -- the various tiers of indirect selection created a divide between the average worker and the highest tier of the executive -- and various elements of this fledgling system would calcify and bureaucratise over time in ways that obstructed worker's democracy. but saying that it was 'a monarchy' is founded in absolutely nothing except the most hysterical anticommunist propaganda and tedious orwellian liberal truisms.

even brailsford, in an account overall critical of the soviet system, had to admit:

Speaking broadly, the various organs of the system, from the Council of Commissars of the Union down to the sub-committees of a town Soviet, are handling the same problems. Whether one sits in the Kremlin at a meeting of the most august body of the whole Union, the "C.I.K.," or round a table in Vladimir with the working men who constitute its County Executive Committee, one hears exactly the same problems discussed. How, be-fore June arrives, shall we manage to reduce prices by ten percent? What growth can we show in the number of our spindles, or factories, and in the number of workers employed? When and how shall we make our final assault on the last relics of illiteracy? Or when shall we have room in our schools, even in the remotest village, for every child? Was it by good luck or good guidance that the number of typhus cases has dropped in a year by half? And, finally, how can we hasten the raising of clover seed, so that the peasants who, at last, thanks to our propaganda, are clamoring for it, may not be disappointed?

—H.N. Brailsford, How The Soviets Work (1927)

genuinely, i think you should take a moment and think about where you learned about the soviet union. have you read any serious historical work on the topic, even from non-communist or anti-communist sources? because even imperialist propagandists have to make a pretence at engaging with actual facts on the ground, something which you haven't done at all -- and yet you speak with astounding confidence. i recommend you read some serious books instead of animal farm and reflect on why you believe the things you believe and how you know the things you think you know.

[flowersforchoso]

Bi-han Marriage Headcanons

he takes his role as your husband seriously. perhaps a little too seriously

since he is a traditional man and a bit sexist, expect a very traditional marriage with you relegated to the domestic sphere

he goes straight home after completing his duties as grandmaster. there's no lingering. no extra hours. no night out with anyone. his routine is simple: work, then home & vice-versa.

strictly refers to you as wife while pet names are more of your thing

going out on dates is a rare occurrence (you'd have to bring it up) and when you do, he takes you to a restaurant or festival.

he is not too keen on pda; even holding hands is an issue that makes one wonder how you got together, but he insists you stay close beside him.

in short, he's very much reserved when you're both out in public because he doesn't want to give the impression that he's softened.

but he takes good care of you. being a man of actions afterall.

and since he's your provider & protector, its only right that he excels at it by meeting your material and physical needs

massages are a thing. he does it to help you relax since you always do that whenever he's stressed. starts with your feet, a little tease here and there then it turns into body worship, and ends with you on your back

also bathing together is a must when he's not too busy. its bonding time and wants to spend it refreshed

when you become pregnant, his care intensifies

he takes care of everything around the house, from cooking to cleaning (he's not above doing chores), not allowing you lift a finger

at first, he didn't know how to cook outside of making soup, but he likes to challenge himself. so he gets recipes from madame bo and follows through on them

surprisingly, the meals turn out great

he's much more present at home since he delegated his tasks to be able to spend more time with you

and after you give birth, this doesn't change.

he was with you all through. giving words of encouragement during that agonizing time

the baby is here and he never lets go. whether its a girl or boy, the gender matters not. he cares for the little one so much that he only ever hands them over to you when its time to feed.

if you're having issues with your self-esteem or health like postpartum depression, he will be by your side tending to you. bathe and feed you; if you found it difficult to do basic care. he's worried but would not allow his face betray such emotion.

aids you back to health. you would have to convince him you are well enough to care for yourself, but he would keep monitoring you just to be sure, before leaving to attend to other things.

he is very caring towards you and ensures you're always comfortable.

your marriage is relatively peaceful but that doesn't mean its devoid of conflict

and since bi han is quite stubborn, that would be the source of any rift between the both of you—his obstinacy

it happens every time you express your dissatisfaction with his prioritisation of the lin kuei. they took precedence over his family, making him unavailable and unattending to your emotional needs, which he takes offence to. because they were accusations, and no matter how soft and placating your delivery was, he didn't appreciate it, even if it was true

he makes a big deal out of being told not to take on dangerous missions when he returns injured, which leads to full blown arguments because he considers it infantilizing. he doesn't want to be babied; he commands hundreds. what kind of leader would he be if he didn't take charge of his fleet?

bi han would leave the house for days on end and when he gets back, he's still passive aggressive towards you.

because of this, you give him space but it only worsens his attitude—he doesn't want you to impose distance on him.

he is the classic example of not wanting to be paid back in the same coin. his attitude towards you might be nasty, but don't you dare retaliate

and he doesn't apologize either. it can be frustrating putting up with him.

you'd need to be patient, understanding and respectful of his role as grandmaster because thats a position he's trained all his life for. its a touchy subject. don't try to make him choose between the lin kuei or you

you'd have to extend the olive branch first by apologizing because the tension would be too much to bear

it'll take a while for normalcy to return with bi han coming to you (he's very prideful so don't rush anything)

he'll get you things of sentimental value like a trinket, or a necklace or a bracelet—this is his way of saying sorry

make up sex would be much more passionate because he needs to connect with you again. fighting puts a strain on the relationship no matter how little and makes his insecurities rear its head, one of which is the fear that you might leave him someday and go be with someone else. he doesn't want that, he wants to retrace his steps and do right by you.

it's at this point that he verbally professes his love for you to assuage whatever negative feelings you might harbor and since he rarely ever say the words, they are much more valued

overall, being married to him would be very fulfilling. nothing too crazy or difficult to navigate

[crowttore]

Settling in - Dottore x reader

Notes: First meeting between Dottore and his new assistant from Fontaine. Reupload from my old blog. Feed this to AI or similar and I'm giving you Salmonella enteritidis. Tags: Dottore x reader, start of a slow slow burn, reader is not a good person. Minors DNI

It was rare that foreigners voluntarily joined the Fatui. Save for a background check conducted by people from The House, not much was done to discourage such an act. They had room for those who would serve their cause, and turning any prospective asset away was a mistake they would never make.

However… It was quite rare for someone to have such concise demands, and even less hesitation in presenting them.

Dottore glanced to the side, crimson eyes readily observing the figure moving along the shadows of his laboratory. It was frustrating, having to wear the mask in his sanctuary. Perhaps with time-

He was getting ahead of himself.

You'd wasted no time making yourself useful, clearly driven by something none of the recruiters had managed to discern. Introductions had been brief and you'd barely spoken a word since then.

He let out a small sigh, focus shifting back to the metal casing in his hand. Several elemental crystals were scattered atop the table. If only you'd stop clinging to the edges, he had enough concerns without shadows in his periphery.

At first it had been pleasant, his days mostly the same as before your arrival. After a fortnight it had begun nagging at his mind. You'd told him your name, previous occupation, and a vague reason for wanting to join. Nothing he hadn't already been informed of before you'd even stepped foot in his wing.

'Sensible' was the only word that came to mind, your presence anonymous enough that it didn't grate at his tightly strung nerves.

Shattering glass brought him out of his speculations, instinct dictating he examine his own workbench. With nothing remiss he turns to your corner, eyes briefly narrowing in frustration when he sees you wiping something up.

You hadn't even acknowledged the space he'd made one of the segments set up for you. Instead you'd crawled into a corner like a scared beast, doing work with your hands tied.

Hands clasped behind his back, Dottore approached where you were still working to clean whatever accident had happened. This was going to work. Your expected value far exceeded the trouble of giving a little encouragement.

"You can't work here"

"Because of a single mistake?"

He could easily peer over your shoulder, seeing you grip the wet rag a little tighter. There were remnants of various plants, vials of colorless reagents, and distillation equipment. The labels on the vials were a new addition, something he'd been meaning to delegate for a while.

"Lord Harbinger, with all due respect, expecting me to never mess up is ridiculous," you sounded tense, but not half as scared as previous personnel.

"The corner, mademoiselle. Is this how they do it at the Institute, cramped and inefficient?"

That made you pause, dropping the cloth and discarding your gloves with practiced ease, bare skin never touching the outside of the material.

"Finish what can't be moved as it is, we'll move you to the proper place afterwards," his voice carried finality, acquired through endless years of pulling strings.

A huff left your lips, but there was no complaining and you dutifully began corking vials. Not putting the gloves back on was bad practice, a fact you would've been aware of with the amount of training you'd allegedly undergone at Fontaine's Research Institute. Dottore crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyes focused on the way your delicate hands trembled.

Were you afraid? Properly afraid?

"Do you mind, Lord Harbinger?"

"Doctor," it stood to reason that he made it clear what title he preferred as early as possible, "and do be careful. I'd prefer if you lasted longer than the last"

His heels clicked against the stone floor, turning his body to look around while he waited. You'd taken over multiple tasks from various segments already, all of them routine work, freeing up time for the big projects. If this kept up he might actually-

"The table by the shelves?"

You had turned to him, the smile on your lips at odds with your eyes. Without answering he took the wooden crate holding the glassware and reagents, leaving you to gather messy papers and ragged notes. So that was a similarity, unfortunate that he couldn't have you organize his writing then.

"You've had a fortnight to settle in. That should have been more than plenty for you to grasp how things work here. And while you have done an admirable job," he dropped the crate onto the unoccupied workbench near his own, "you are expected to act for the benefit of the Fatui, not based on personal preference."

He could see the gears turning in your mind, your eyes fixed on the papers in your hands. Even while clenching them tightly, he could still see her fingers twitching.

"And work on steadying yourself. Your hands will be required in the future," Dottore ran a hand through his hair, watching in silence while you set the equipment up.

With a pleased hum, he noticed that you was spacing everything better this time around. Hopefully there would be no more preventable mishaps, and he would more easily be able to keep an eye on what occupied you.

Freedom to create and learn what you will. As long as expenditures were within reason, and orders from him prioritized of course. That would always be the desired way his personal laboratory operated.

"You're currently working on what? You began the day you arrived, highly unusual behavior compared to your predecessors. It must be important."

He saw the way you ran a finger tenderly along the glass, the way your shoulders rose a little with his inquiry.

"Death," your voice sounded hollow, something hauntingly familiar in how you said it, "It should be finished today. I'll compile everything for your perusal before the end of the week, Doctor."

Dottore felt his eyes widen a little behind the mask, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. It was a bold statement, her tone indicating it had been born of pure spite. In that case, he'd put it to excellent use.

Series Masterlist

[artsy-hobbitses]

Heyo! Gotta say I love your Au sm!!

Could we perhaps get some head cannons abt Windblade and Starscream as parents?? Theirs beans are so ughhhh I wanna squish them so bad 😔😔

Hehe ofc!!

Admittedly they do not have a standard ‘parent’ dynamic — Starscream/Stefan was terrified of the idea of being a dad and specifically chose Skybreak/Suzume because she was insistent that she didn’t want a dad, she just wanted to stop being returned to the orphanage for not conforming to what people expected of a little girl, and that was why he picked her initially!

Though he does grow into the role as her mentor/ ‘dad’ as time passes, and by the time they adopt Galestorm/Gabriele, he’s completely in (gremlin) dad mode.

Windblade is very much Boss Mom and Starscream is Italian Way of the Househusband.

On a normal day, Windblade usually helps them get ready for school while Starscream makes breakfast. Windblade sends them off, and Starscream picks them up (and sometimes takes them to have lunch with mum if she’s free in the afternoon). Starscream makes dinner for them and Windblade helps with prep/washing up. Both tag team to get these beans to bed.

Saturdays are family days, and on Sundays, Windblade and Starscream usually let Bumblebee or Chromia babysit while they go on date nights.

Starscream is the one who’s pedantic about the children’s meals like he’s serving at a Michelin star restaurant with a nutritionist on the payroll, though he can be cajoled into fast food as a treat for special occasions or after sports day. Windblade’s turn to cook dinner usually entails the greasiest comfort food gyoza, hamburg steak and karage (don’t ask her how much msg goes into them).

Due to Windblade’s schedule, Starscream is usually the more ‘physically present’ parent, and the one who usually makes it to all the PTA meetings, bake sales and recitals. Starscream Facetimes or records all of them for Windblade so she can be a part of it on her work break or catch up when she’s home!

Windblade still makes it to big events and their annual classroom reviews though! At which point she’ll hear extensively about all the shenanigans Starscream and Skybreak have been up to while she’s busy being First Delegate (not Galestorm, Galestorm is mommy’s sweet baby boy).

Though only because Galestorm is smart about utilising his cuteness! Skybreak often corrals him to ‘distract’ mother while she’s plotting stuff around the house.

Skybreak respects Windblade as the baddest of baddies and knows she can’t get away with a lot of nonsense with Madame First Delegate. Which is why she hangs around ‘dad’ more often. He’s her level of gremlin and… easier for her to push around.

Windblade caught Starscream framing up Skybreak’s detention slips for picking fights with bullies in his office, and moved them to the living room instead so they can both fistbump to them.

Windblade gets Skybreak her first sword and gets her into martial arts. Starscream gets Skybreak journals and glittery stickers for her plans for revenge against those who wronged her and school domination. Mother has given you the weapon to carry out your deeds, but you still have to stay organized when plotting against your enemies and sorting out your allies!

Skybreak is Starscream’s Underboss for their Girl Scout Cookies team, which Starscream runs like a mini mafia. The Girl Scouts in their division love this and look forward to their little mafia meetings with The Godfather theme playing in the background while they dig into freshly-made cannolis and discuss their weekly reports on the ‘hold-outs’ in their neighborhood as well as sales figures with Starscream at the head of the table.

Skybreak has Oppositional Defiant Disorder which she’s working through, and she really doesn’t do well with being told “No” or “Because I said so”. Windblade and Starscream’s tactic to manage their ambitious little Type A Azula is usually through praise and to “Sure, but…” her, focusing on the consequences ie. “Sure you could stay up till 12 on a school day, but if you wake up late, you’re going to miss P.E and your chance to crush your enemy for the fifth time in a row in dodgeball… or worse, you could be too tired, and they might win. You have to be prepared to face the enemy and support your allies, and adequate rest is important isn’t it?” or “Sure you don’t have to do your homework, but won’t it set back your plans for class domination if you get a C in geography? And geography is really important for your future plans to become president, isn’t it?”. And let her deal with the fallout within reason. She’s EXTREMELY independent which is a double-edged sword for them, one they’re learning to handle with care.

Galestorm is more of a diplomat politician like his mum, and is usually the one who tries to talk himself out of a situation as opposed to his scheming sister. Which means Windblade and Starscream often have to block out their schedule to sit down for his ‘family senate meetings’ that come with drinks, PowerPoint presentations and printed handouts with graphs and charts to debate for things like a bigger allowance for his chores or why he should be allowed to go to a concert with his friends with no chaperone.

Galestorm loves affection and is quite clingy with Windblade and Starscream since he was raised by them from the time he was two. Skybreak is not… for most part. Like Starscream, she doesn’t have a solid track record with ‘good touch’ even at seven, so it takes a while for her to be alright with a hug. It’s something Windblade and Starscream have to ask her about ie. if she’s okay with a hug, if she wants to be held for a bit (she’s been known to shove or hit people who do so without prior consent or warning, usually out of shock/instinct). When she actually holds hands with her parents while outdoors is actually a huge milestone, and she’s come to accept hugs and being held now, though one still has to ask (she hates her space being invaded with no warning). She doesn’t hug Galestorm, but she does give him pats and hold his hand to lead him around when it’s just the two of them and she’s got to be Responsible Older Sister.

[honeydippedfiction]

Eternal Bonds: A Love Across Time {OP81}

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Summary: Every soul carries a unique mark—a tether invisible to the eye yet undeniable to the heart. Some call it destiny, others call it a cruel game played by time. For Y/N and Oscar, their connection defied the natural order, binding them across centuries. Each life they lived told a tale of love and loss, as if the universe itself conspired to keep them apart—until the present day, when their stories converged to finally bring closure to their enduring bond.

WC: 4.7k

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

---The Desert Sands of Ancient Egypt 

The sun blazed over Thebes, casting a golden hue over the Nile’s waters. Y/N, a skilled healer in service to Queen Nefertari, was known across the land for her unparalleled knowledge of herbs and remedies. Her beauty was equally renowned: her dark, coiled hair was adorned with gold beads that shimmered in the sunlight, and her rich, deep skin seemed to reflect the Nile’s brilliance. Her sharp mind and unwavering confidence made her a trusted confidant of the queen. 

One fateful day, Y/N was summoned to the palace to tend to a group of foreign warriors who had arrived as part of a diplomatic delegation. Among them was Oscar, a strikingly handsome emissary with piercing hazel eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of faraway lands. As Y/N wrapped a bandage around his wounded arm, she felt an inexplicable pull, as though she had known him before. 

Their conversations began with formal pleasantries, but soon evolved into deep exchanges about their homelands, their dreams, and the stars above. Oscar spoke of his people’s customs and the distant mountains he longed to show her. Y/N, in turn, shared tales of her childhood by the Nile, her ambitions to bring healing to those in need, and her admiration for the queen’s wisdom. 

The more they spoke, the more their connection deepened. But their love was fraught with obstacles. Y/N’s position as the queen’s healer demanded loyalty and discretion, while Oscar’s role as an emissary placed him under constant scrutiny. Still, they found ways to steal moments together, meeting in the cool shadows of the temple or under the cover of night by the riverbank. 

One evening, under a canopy of stars, Oscar took Y/N’s hand. “If fate were kinder, I would stay here with you forever,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. 

Y/N’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And if the gods would grant me one wish, it would be to follow you to the ends of the earth.” 

Their clandestine meetings did not go unnoticed for long. A jealous courtier, seeking to curry favor with the queen, reported their forbidden bond. Summoned before Queen Nefertari, Y/N was confronted with a terrible choice: renounce her love for Oscar or face banishment from the palace. 

Before Y/N could answer, guards seized Oscar, accusing him of attempting to undermine the queen’s court. Despite Y/N’s pleas, the queen was resolute. “His presence here threatens the delicate balance of diplomacy. He must face the consequences.” 

Oscar was sentenced to death. On the night of his execution, Y/N fought her way to the prison, her cries echoing through the stone corridors. She reached him moments before the guards led him away. 

“I will find you again,” she whispered, clutching his hand through the iron bars. 

“In every lifetime,” Oscar replied, his voice steady despite the doom that awaited him. 

Y/N’s screams pierced the air as the blade fell, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces. Alone in the silent aftermath, she vowed to the gods that their love would not end here. Somewhere, sometime, they would be together again. 

--- The Gardens of Renaissance Florence 

Centuries passed before Y/N’s eyes fluttered open to the golden light of Florence, Italy. It was the age of the Renaissance, a time of rebirth, when art, science, and humanism flourished in gilded splendor. Y/N, now a gifted apprentice in a renowned atelier, found her days filled with the scent of linseed oil and the vibrant colors of crushed pigments. Her fingers danced across canvases, bringing life to the faces of Florence’s elite, including the illustrious Medici family, patrons of the arts and wielders of great power. 

Her skin, kissed by the Tuscan sun, was a rarity in these parts, an enigma that both inspired and unsettled. Though whispers followed her, her talent proved undeniable. Her frescoes adorned chapel walls, and her portraits captured souls in ways others could not. 

One fateful evening, Y/N attended a gala hosted at the Medici Palazzo, a shimmering bastion of wealth and influence. Draped in a gown of deep emerald, she moved through the gilded halls, her presence a quiet defiance to those who doubted her place. There, beneath the glimmer of Venetian chandeliers, she encountered a man whose presence struck her like a bolt of lightning. 

Oscar, now a charismatic inventor, stood surrounded by curious onlookers, his hands gesturing animatedly as he described his latest mechanical contraption. His features, softened by time but sharpened by experience, were strikingly familiar. When their eyes met, it was as though the air had been sucked from the room. Neither could explain the overwhelming pull between them, the ghost of a memory just out of reach. 

Their connection deepened quickly. Both driven by an insatiable hunger for creation, they spent hours in the Medici gardens, sketching designs for Oscar’s flying machines or perfecting Y/N’s portraits. Their late-night conversations, carried by the scent of orange blossoms and the rustle of cypress trees, drifted toward whispered secrets and dreams of a world where they might truly belong. 

Yet Florence, with all its beauty, held a darkness. The rigid social hierarchies were unforgiving, and Y/N, as a Black woman in this world, bore the brunt of its cruelty. The Medici patriarch, Lorenzo il Magnifico himself, grew suspicious of her influence over Oscar, whose inventions were beginning to garner both praise and envy. “Your liaison threatens our house,” Lorenzo warned one evening, his voice as cold as the marble statues that adorned the palazzo. “She is a distraction—a danger to everything we have built.” 

The lovers tried to navigate the rising tensions, but their bond, as fiery as it was forbidden, became impossible to hide. When whispers turned to outright scandal, the Medici family’s ire boiled over. An ultimatum was delivered: Y/N must leave Florence, or Oscar would face dire consequences. 

The decision was made. On a moonlit night, with shadows cloaking their movements, Y/N and Oscar prepared to flee to Venice, a city where they believed they might find refuge among its labyrinthine canals and the anonymity of the Serenissima. Their modest carriage, laden with only the essentials, creaked as it made its way out of the city, the sound blending with the soft trill of nocturnal birds. 

But Florence’s grip proved relentless. Just beyond the city’s gates, as their carriage descended into a wooded ravine, the clatter of hoofbeats shattered the stillness. A group of masked men, sent by the Medici, emerged from the shadows, swords drawn. The ambush was swift and brutal. 

Oscar leaped to defend Y/N, using his cane as a makeshift weapon, but they were outnumbered. Y/N, with the same fierce determination that fueled her art, grabbed a dagger concealed in her belongings and fought alongside him. Amid the chaos, one of the attackers lunged toward Oscar, his blade aimed for his chest. 

“NO!” Y/N’s scream tore through the night as she thrust herself between them, the steel sinking into her flesh. Time seemed to freeze as she fell into Oscar’s arms, her blood staining his hands as red as the poppies that bloomed in the fields they had once dreamed of escaping to. 

“Y/N, stay with me,” Oscar pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please, stay.” 

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her eyes searching his. “Oscar,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. “Do not let this end us. Promise me you will create a world where love like ours is no longer a crime.” 

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched her, the warmth of her life slipping away. The attackers, seeing their task complete, melted back into the shadows, leaving Oscar alone with his grief. 

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, Oscar buried his face in Y/N’s hair, his soul fractured. Her words echoed in his mind—a plea for a future he vowed to realize. 

In the days that followed, whispers of Y/N’s death spread through Florence. To those who had known her only as an artist, her loss was merely a passing tragedy. But to Oscar, it was the loss of a part of himself, a wound that no time or invention could ever mend. Her memory became his muse, her sacrifice the fuel for his creations, each one imbued with the hope that love could transcend even the cruelest barriers. 

And though the Medici gardens bloomed with the beauty of the Renaissance, for Oscar, they would forever bear the shadow of the night he lost her—the woman who had been the light of his life. 

-- The Battlefields of World War I 

The year was 1917, and Europe was engulfed in the Great War. The Western Front stretched like a festering wound across the continent, a no-man’s land of mud, barbed wire, and death. The air carried the acrid stench of gunpowder and the low, ceaseless rumble of artillery fire. Against this grim backdrop, Y/N worked as a nurse with the Voluntary Aid Detachment, tending to the unending tide of broken men sent back from the front lines. 

Her hands, though steady and skilled, were perpetually stained with blood. Day and night, she moved between cots in the crowded field hospital, her soft voice a balm to the suffering and her touch a small mercy in a world gone mad. She was a woman of extraordinary resilience, her presence in the midst of chaos a testament to the enduring human spirit. Yet the horrors she witnessed weighed heavily on her, seeping into her dreams and stealing moments of quiet. 

One cold, rain-soaked afternoon, as Y/N wrapped a fresh bandage around a soldier’s mangled arm, the doors of the hospital swung open. A stretcher was hurriedly carried in, the figure upon it groaning softly. The soldier was young, his face pale beneath the dirt and streaks of dried blood. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, and shrapnel wounds marred his chest. The tag pinned to his uniform read: Lieutenant Oscar Piastri, Australian Flying Corps. 

Y/N felt an unexplainable jolt as her eyes met his for the first time. Though his features were unfamiliar, something about him stirred a memory buried deep within her soul. She shook off the sensation and focused on her task, instructing the orderlies to prepare a clean cot for the new patient. 

Oscar was delirious with pain as she worked to clean his wounds, but even through the haze, he managed a faint smile. “An angel, come to save me,” he murmured, his accent thick with the drawl of the Australian outback. 

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle softly, despite the grim circumstances. “Hardly an angel, Lieutenant,” she replied, her voice firm yet kind. “Just a nurse doing her duty.” 

Over the weeks that followed, as Oscar’s injuries slowly healed, he became a fixture in the ward. Unlike many of the soldiers, whose spirits were crushed by the horrors they had endured, Oscar exuded a disarming optimism. He joked with the other patients, shared stories of his childhood in Australia, and helped boost the morale of the weary nurses. 

For Y/N, his presence became a source of unexpected solace. Though she maintained a professional demeanor, she found herself lingering at his bedside after her rounds were complete, drawn in by his charm and wit. They spoke of everything—his dreams of flying after the war, her aspirations to study medicine, and the lives they had left behind. Each conversation felt like a reprieve from the darkness of the world around them. 

One evening, as the sound of distant shelling reverberated through the camp, Oscar confided in her. “It’s strange,” he said, staring at the ceiling of the canvas tent. “I’ve seen death more times than I can count. But meeting you feels like a second chance at life.” 

Y/N, taken aback by his candor, looked away, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. “This war takes so much from us,” she whispered. “I suppose it’s only natural to cling to whatever light we can find.” 

Their bond deepened with each passing day. In stolen moments, when the ward was quiet, they walked together outside the hospital, breathing in the crisp air and finding comfort in each other’s presence. They laughed, shared dreams, and even dared to imagine a future beyond the war. 

But the war was relentless, and its shadow loomed over them. As Oscar regained his strength, he was cleared to return to active duty. The news came as a blow to Y/N, though she tried to hide her despair. “You’re needed here,” she said softly one evening as they sat on a low wall overlooking the makeshift hospital. 

Oscar placed a hand over hers, his gaze steady. “And you’re needed here too,” he replied. “But we have to do what’s right, Y/N. I have to go back up there. For my mates. For all of us.” 

Their goodbye was bittersweet. Y/N gave him a small pendant, a simple token she had carried with her for years. “For luck,” she said, her voice trembling. “Promise me you’ll come back.” 

“I promise,” he said, pressing the pendant to his lips before tucking it into his jacket. “No matter what happens, I’ll find you again.” 

For weeks, life at the hospital continued as usual, though Y/N’s heart ached with worry. Letters from Oscar arrived sporadically, each one a lifeline in the midst of the unrelenting chaos. He described the thrill of flying, the camaraderie among his squadron, and his longing to see her again. 

Then, one fateful day, the news came. A bombing raid had gone disastrously wrong. Oscar’s squadron had been ambushed by enemy fighters, and his plane had been shot down behind enemy lines. The official report listed him as missing, presumed dead. 

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. She staggered, her knees buckling as she clutched the telegram. Her mind refused to accept the reality, clinging to the hope that perhaps, somehow, he had survived. But days turned into weeks, and no further news arrived. 

Y/N threw herself into her work with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. She tended to the wounded with unwavering dedication, but her laughter was gone, replaced by a quiet grief that weighed heavily on her shoulders. At night, when the ward fell silent, she sat alone beneath the stars, clutching the small pendant she had given Oscar, now returned to her among his personal effects. 

“Once again, fate has stolen you from me,” she murmured to the void, her tears falling freely. “But I will find you, Oscar. In this life or the next, I will find you.” 

The war raged on, but for Y/N, the battle had become deeply personal. The love she had found amidst the carnage had been snatched away, leaving her with only memories and the unshakable conviction that their souls were destined to reunite. 

-- 1980's Mafia Battles 

The neon lights of the city flickered against the thick fog of cigarette smoke that hung in the dimly lit streets. New York, in the 1980s, was a landscape painted in shadows and chaos, where power was bought and sold on every corner. Beneath the glittering skyline, the streets thrummed with danger, alive with the silent wars of the Five Families—the Gambinos, Genovese, Luccheses, Bonanno, and Colombos. It was a world of whispered betrayals, blood-stained deals, and shifting alliances. The city wasn’t merely a backdrop; it was a battlefield, where power was currency and loyalty was fleeting. 

The city pulsed with a heartbeat that echoed in the alleyways and the boardrooms, where the mafia families of the city ruled with a quiet, deadly force. Oscar Piastri had learned early in life that love was a commodity that could be bartered for power—or destroyed when it was inconvenient. 

Oscar Piastri was born into this crucible, a scion of the Gambino family and nephew to the infamous John Gotti, the "Dapper Don." Gotti’s rise to power had reshaped the family, bringing both prosperity and chaos. As his protégé, Oscar was groomed for greatness, expected to embody the ruthless cunning that defined their legacy. From a young age, Oscar had learned the rules of survival: be ruthless, be calculating, and above all, trust no one. Yet, for all his uncle’s lessons, nothing could prepare him for the storm that would upend his carefully ordered life. 

She was that storm: Y/N, a woman of elegance and enigma, a deadly agent of the Genovese family. Her name carried weight in whispers, a shadow within shadows. The Genovese were known for their subtlety, their long games of manipulation, and Y/N was no exception. Her dark eyes held secrets, her presence commanded respect, and her beauty was a weapon as sharp as any blade. The tensions between their families simmered just below the surface, but it was her arrival that would ignite an inferno. 

The Silver Dagger was a sanctuary of sin. A nightclub where the walls had ears, but the patrons didn’t care. Under the glow of neon lights, it was a place where alliances were forged and broken, where power whispered promises under the cover of music and laughter. That night, Oscar stood at the bar, his drink in hand, his mind elsewhere. Until he saw her. 

Y/N was magnetic, her presence drawing every eye in the room, but it was Oscar’s gaze that lingered. Her confidence was unshakable, her every step deliberate. She moved through the crowd as if she owned it, and perhaps she did. When their eyes met, the air seemed to crackle, the world narrowing to just the two of them. 

He knew who she was. He’d heard the stories, the warnings. Yet, he couldn’t look away. And when she approached him, it was as though fate had taken control. 

“Oscar Piastri,” she said, her voice a blend of silk and steel. “The Golden Boy of the Gambino family. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

He raised his glass, his smirk masking the storm inside. “And you must be Y/N. The Genovese family’s finest. Should I be flattered, or concerned?” 

Her lips curved into a dangerous smile. “A little of both, perhaps.” 

Their words were a dance, a sparring match veiled in civility. Each knew the stakes; each felt the pull. The world around them blurred, the music and chatter fading into the background. This was no ordinary meeting. It was the beginning of something neither could escape. 

For weeks, they met in secret. Abandoned warehouses, dimly lit corners of neutral territories, stolen moments in a world that would destroy them if it knew. Their connection was electric, a forbidden bond that defied logic and loyalty. Yet, as their love grew, so did the danger. 

It was a betrayal from within that shattered their fragile world. A mole in the Gambino ranks leaked their secret to the Genovese family, and Vincent “Chin” Gigante seized the opportunity. For the Genovese, it was a chance to assert dominance; for John Gotti and Carlo Piastri, it was an unforgivable insult. The stage was set for a reckoning. 

Oscar and Y/N’s final meeting was under a blood-red sky, the city bracing for the storm to come. They knew what awaited them, yet they clung to hope, however fleeting. 

“This isn’t the end,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “Promise me, Oscar. Promise you’ll find me.” 

His hand tightened around hers, his heart breaking. “I promise. In every lifetime, I’ll find you.” 

The ambush came swiftly, a symphony of violence orchestrated with ruthless precision. Y/N was lured to a meeting with promises of a truce, but it was a lie—a trap designed to send a message. The Genovese hit squad surrounded her in a desolate warehouse, their guns raised, their faces cold and unforgiving. She fought like a lioness, her skill and determination unmatched, taking down three of her attackers before a shot struck her shoulder, then her leg. She fell to her knees, her breath ragged, yet her eyes burned with defiance. 

When Oscar arrived, the scene was chaos. Bodies littered the floor, blood pooling beneath them. And then he saw her. Y/N lay against a shattered crate, her once-bright eyes dimming, her breaths shallow. He rushed to her side, his hands trembling as he cradled her broken form. 

“Oscar...” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. Her blood-stained hand reached for his face, her touch feather-light. “Don’t... don’t let them win.” 

Tears streamed down his face as he held her close. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make this right, I swear.” 

A faint smile touched her lips, bittersweet and fleeting. “Find me. No matter how long it takes.” 

Her hand fell away, her body going still. Oscar’s anguished cry echoed through the empty warehouse, a sound of heartbreak and fury that could silence even the most hardened soul. 

In the days that followed, Oscar became a ghost of himself. His love had been ripped away, his world shattered. John Gotti’s fury was unrelenting; vengeance became the family’s rallying cry. But for Oscar, the fire of revenge was tempered by a deeper promise. The vow he made burned within him, a beacon in the void. Their love had defied the odds, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that it wasn’t the end. 

“I will find you,” he swore, staring into the city’s endless horizon. “No matter how many lifetimes it takes.” 

And so, Oscar Piastri began his journey, a man burdened by fate, driven by love, and haunted by the ghost of Y/N. The world may have torn them apart, but he would defy it again and again, until they found their way back to each other. 

-- Present Day 

Y/N stood on the balcony of her sleek apartment in London, the city skyline sprawling before her. The shimmering lights of the city danced on the surface of the Thames, casting a soft glow that mirrored her contemplative mood. As an accomplished sports journalist, Y/N had spent years chasing stories that brought the adrenaline of the racetrack to life for millions of readers. Her life was a whirlwind of high-stakes interviews, international travel, and deadline pressures. Yet tonight, the quiet hum of the city brought an unexpected stillness. She swirled a glass of wine in her hand, her mind drifting to the unshakable feeling that something was missing, though she couldn’t quite define what it was. 

Meanwhile, across the city, Oscar Piastri was stepping out of McLaren’s state-of-the-art headquarters, the faint scent of rubber and motor oil lingering in the cool night air. His rookie season with McLaren alongside Lando Norris had been a rollercoaster of triumphs and challenges, and every day was a testament to the grueling yet exhilarating nature of Formula 1. He loved the sport—the speed, the precision, the electrifying rush of crossing the finish line. But even amid the chaos of his dream career, a quiet void gnawed at him, as though something vital was just out of reach. 

Their paths crossed on a crisp autumn evening at a charity gala hosted by McLaren. Y/N had been invited to cover the event, her editor insisting on a feature that would capture the human side of the racing world. She arrived dressed in an elegant black gown, her professional demeanor cloaking the nervous excitement she always felt before mingling with the elite. The room buzzed with energy, the air heavy with the mingling scents of champagne and expensive cologne. 

Oscar had reluctantly agreed to attend, his team’s PR insisting it was good for his image. He stood near the bar, nursing a sparkling water, his sharp tuxedo doing little to mask the restless energy that came from being off the track. He scanned the crowd absently until his gaze landed on Y/N. Something about her—the confident way she moved, the glimmer of determination in her eyes—drew his attention. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was the inexplicable pull, as though he’d known her forever. 

“Excuse me, are you Y/N Y/L/N?” he asked, his Australian accent warm and unmistakable as he approached her. She turned, startled by the familiarity in his tone, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, the world seemed to still. 

“Yes, I am. And you’re… Oscar Piastri?” she replied, her voice steady despite the sudden flutter in her chest. 

He offered a charming grin. “Guilty as charged. I’ve read some of your work. You’re quite good at what you do.” 

“Thank you,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve been following your season. You’re quite the rising star.” 

“I’ve had a lot of help,” he admitted with a modest shrug. “But enough about me. What’s it like covering the madness of motorsport?” 

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, like two old friends catching up after years apart. They talked about the pressures of their careers, the sacrifices, and the shared love for the thrill of racing. By the end of the night, they had exchanged numbers, the connection between them undeniable. 

What began as polite texts turned into late-night phone calls. Y/N found herself looking forward to their conversations, drawn to the sincerity beneath Oscar’s confident exterior. Oscar, in turn, was captivated by Y/N’s sharp wit and unshakable determination. They began meeting up during race weekends, the line between professional and personal blurring with each passing day. 

But with their growing closeness came something else—strange and vivid dreams. Y/N began waking in the middle of the night, her heart racing from visions of sun-drenched deserts, the scent of ancient temples filling her senses. Oscar, too, found himself haunted by fleeting images of Florence’s cobblestone streets and the metallic tang of war. At first, they didn’t speak about it, each afraid of sounding ridiculous. But the memories became impossible to ignore. 

One evening, as they sat together on the balcony of Y/N’s apartment, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the Thames, Y/N finally broke the silence. 

“Oscar, have you ever had dreams that feel… too real to be dreams?” she asked hesitantly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. 

His hand found hers, his touch grounding her. “I have. They’re about us, aren’t they?” 

She turned to him, tears pooling in her eyes. “Yes. It’s like we’ve lived a thousand lives together. And I’m just now remembering.” 

As they spoke, fragments of their shared past began to surface. They remembered the deserts of Egypt, where they were torn apart by war. They spoke of the gardens of Florence, where stolen moments of bliss had ended in heartbreak. They relived the trenches, the despair of separation, and the hope that somehow, they’d find each other again. Each memory collided with the present, overwhelming yet bringing clarity. 

Through tears and laughter, they pieced together their history, their voices trembling with emotion. “This time,” Oscar vowed, his voice thick with resolve, “I’m not letting anything come between us.” 

Y/N leaned into him, her heart swelling with a love that spanned millennia. “We’ve been through so much. Maybe now, finally, we can have our forever.” 

As the last rays of sunlight faded, Y/N turned to Oscar, her voice barely above a whisper. “But what if we lose it again?” 

Oscar’s eyes searched hers, filled with a bittersweet ache. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Even if we do, we’ll find each other again. We always do.” 

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared past. Slowly, he leaned in, and their lips met in a kiss that felt both like a beginning and an ending—a tender, desperate promise to fight for the love that had been tested time and time again. It was a kiss filled with the sorrow of their losses, the hope of their reunion, and the unshakable truth that their souls were forever intertwined. 

When they finally pulled apart, the night seemed quieter, the city lights softer. Y/N rested her forehead against his, her tears mingling with a bittersweet smile. “Maybe this time, we can finally get it right.” 

Oscar nodded, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “We will. One lifetime at a time.” 

As the moon rose high above the Thames, the universe seemed to exhale, watching as these two souls, bound by an unbreakable bond, stood on the precipice of a love that had transcended lifetimes. And for the first time in countless reincarnations, they chose to face the uncertain future together, their hearts full of hope and the bittersweet knowledge of what they had endured to get here. 

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