#these two that heard her declarations and accusations

[everyryuujisuguro]

[bluehoodiewoozi]

Paper Rings

Lee Seokmin (DK) x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: food mention.

[Kindergarten Teachers AU] Fearing that their two favourite teachers might break up, the kids decide to take your romance into their own tiny hands.

Big thank you to my beloved @haoboutyou for giving me the idea and helping me defeat writer's block (even if just for a day)! idk what I'd do without you, girl

“You know what? Fine! Have it your way!”

The car door was slammed closed with far too much force. A dog froze in the middle of passing by, eyeing you two with caution before continuing on his morning walk with his elderly owner mumbling words of concern under her breath.

“Well, have a good day.” Seokmin sighed and held the gate open for you, ever the gentleman even when he was annoyed and upset. “Please don’t skip lunch today.”

Eyes narrowed into slits, you turned on your heel to glare at him. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

The sound he let out was something of a groan mixed into a wail of despair. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”

You rolled your eyes and strolled past him with purpose. There was not a single glance spared his way until you were both well inside the building, surrounded by curious little children who looked like they had heard your argument just fine. One of them looked positively ready to start crying at the sight of you.

Sitting at your desk, you sighed. “What is it, kids?”

“Are you and Mister Minnie breaking up?” a wavering little voice dared to ask. Various noises of protest filled the room before you could even take a breath to prepare to answer the question. 

Sparing a quick look at your boyfriend, who was organising the toy shelves and deep in a conversation with one of the more shy kids, you shook your head. “No, we’re not.”

The children let out a collective breath of relief. Some high-fived and cheered in joy. A bitter part of you thought they might just be more invested in your relationship than your boyfriend was. You tried to wave the thought away as fast as it came.

“Because they’re already broken up!” a little boy suddenly declared, standing up and pointing fingers as if he’d been personally betrayed. He was all accusations and none of the ability to listen. You suspected he’d make a great – or at least popular – politician one day. 

“We are not,” you argued with all the patience only a kindergarten teacher could possibly muster. “We’re just… having a bad day.”

To your surprise and joy, no more questions were asked. Only curious glances remained. Still you thought it was the end of it. Another crisis averted, another day saved.

Behind your back, the kids exchanged looks of mischief and worry – they had a plan brewing.

Little Misoo toiled away at her desk, hands covered in charcoal smudges and ink. She had tried a big girl pen for the first time, having wanted to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, but quickly realised it was harder to wield than it looked, and so she had resorted back to her trusty coloured pencils to write the invitations. She had just ten more to go.

“I don’t understand why we’re doing this,” Jaemin finally voiced his concerns between clumsily peeling and sticking heart-shaped stickers on every piece of paper. “Everybody already knows. Why do they need invitations?”

Misoo gave him a scathing look. “You can’t have a wedding without invitations! Everybody knows that!”

Jaemin pouted. “Then should we make invitations for Mister Minnie and Miss (Y/n) as well?”

“No.” She looked at him like he’d just suggested unicorns and dragons could be best friends (they obviously couldn’t because all unicorns are vegans and dragons famously hate vegans). “They’re the bride and the groom! They don’t need invitations!”

“But do they even know they’re getting married?” 

“They will.” Misoo suspected she had the most patience any woman had ever possessed. She glanced towards the ceiling as if to challenge god for putting her in this situation and then gave Jaemin another glare. “Stop asking stupid questions and get back to work.”

A mysterious chocolate bar had found its way onto your desk. Even more mysteriously it was your favourite brand and flavour. Your boyfriend sat in a circle with the kids, reading their pre-nap fairytale, and snuck glances at you as if he was expecting something. 

You fought back a smile and grabbed a sticky note. 

When he returned to his seat after getting the kids to sleep, he found the pink piece of paper stuck on his laptop. On it, a little heart and two words: ‘You’re forgiven.’ He almost screamed of joy before remembering that he had to be quiet. He wore a dumb lovestruck smile for the rest of the hour.

Mingyu knew something was wrong the moment the kids stepped into the art room. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it but he just knew. And if the wide-eyed look Minghao gave him was anything to go by, he felt it too. 

It was only about 10 minutes in that he realised the problem: the kids were moving like they had a purpose. This was rare. This never happened on free art Fridays – usually the kids would spend the first twenty minutes trying to come up with an idea to execute. Today it took them less than twenty seconds.

Cautiously, he approached tiny Sohyun and Yunho – the first sharpening pencils at a furious pace and the other sorting through the unsharpened ones under her command. It was abundantly clear that Sohyun was working the boy like it was the military. One had to admire her leadership abilities, even if they were a little rough and loud around the edges. 

“So what’s today’s project?” he asked, trying his best not to wince when the pencil’s tip snapped in the sharpener.

Sohyun sighed in frustration before skillfully removing the graphite from between the blades and restarting the sharpening process. “Pencil confetti.”

Mingyu blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Pencil. Confetti.” She repeated it slowly as if fearing he was dumb and wouldn’t get it otherwise. 

He tried not to take offense. “For…?”

“For the wedding,” she explained like it was obvious before gasping and turning to Misoo. “You need to give him an invitation!”

The other girl facepalmed theatrically before rushing over to him with a surprisingly neatly folded paper card. Before he could ask her about it, she was rushing to the other side of the classroom to hand an identical one to Minghao. 

‘INVITAISION’ it read in big bold multicolour letters, a large pink heart-shaped sticker sitting right under the word. 

Mingyu opened the card and his jaw just about dropped (granted, it took him about two minutes to decipher the writing and make sense of it; he couldn’t complain because he hadn’t expected any kindergarten kids to know how to write anything at all). 

“Seokmin and (Y/n) are getting married?!” He made eye contact with Minghao who gave him an equally shocked look. 

“We’re throwing them a marriage!” Hyesoo declared happily and held out a little string tied into a circle. “I’m making rings!”

Mingyu fought a smile. “So, pencil confetti and string rings?”

“We wanted to make flower rings but it’s too early to go outside yet,” Jaemin informed him with a pout. 

“And flower confetti,” Sohyun sighed and continued working the pencil sharpener like it was her day job and she was getting paid per shaving.

“... Want me to get you guys some real flowers?” Mingyu asked after a moment of thought. It wasn’t every day that the kids planned a wedding, after all. 

The kids’ faces lit up with joy like little Christmas trees. If he hadn’t wanted to do this, he would’ve felt compelled now. 

“And we could make them paper rings,” Minghao suggested with a little smile. “They would last longer than flowers.”

The kids screamed in excitement.

You leaned closer to your boyfriend, eyeing the kids suspiciously as you did so. “They’re being weird.”

Too busy to even look up —Seokmin was neck-deep in his emails—, he hummed. “Weird how?”

“Like … quiet weird.”

His attention was fully on you now. “Oh, that’s no good.”

“Look at them!” you whispered and nodded towards where the kids were supposed to be playing on the carpet. 

Instead of messing around with little trucks and dolls and teddy bears, they were braiding ribbons into each others’ hair and handing out cards and whispering secrets. You felt like you’d entered an alternate dimension. 

Seokmin raised a single brow and nodded. “Okay, this is scary.”

“Should we—” you hesitated, “—do something?”

He shrugged. “But what if we do something and they get noisy and crazy again?”

“Good point.”

The big hour was growing nearer. The kids were buzzing with excitement, ready to see their plan in action. In half an hour, it would be time to go outside to play games and throw the biggest party of their lives. 

“Okay, do we have everything?” Minsoo asked, standing in the middle of the circle on the carpet. She glanced towards the teachers’ desks – the married-couple-to-be were still unaware of their plans and working on something on their computer. She was happy with the sight, for now, and turned back to her co-conspirators. “Invitations?”

“All given out,” Jaemin replied.

“Confetti?”

“Pencil or rose petal?” Sohyun wondered. She received no answer. “Well, I have both.”

“Perfect,” Minsoo approved and continued checking her mental wedding list. “Rings?”

Bomin – universally recognised as the resident expert in paper crafts – held two rings out on his palm. The other kids made noises of approval. 

“Music?” 

Eunji nodded and hummed in confirmation. She was the only kid in the group to have a phone, even if it did only let her call her mom, listen to about fifteen songs and play Candy Crush. By all accounts, she was the coolest kid in town.

“Priest?” 

Silence. The kids turned to look at Yunho who let out a whine and slumped backwards until he was lying on the ground. “Why do I have to be the priest?”

“Because it’s a boring people job,” Sohyun told him with utter seriousness and all he could do was sigh in defeat.

Mina held up her hand and asked, “Shouldn’t we get Miss (Y/n) a wedding dress?”

“No, because she’s already pretty,” was the general consensus. 

Minsoo looked at her friends, her companions, her co-conspirators, her little minions. She nodded in approval. “People, we have a wedding to do.”

“Kids, don’t wander too far off,” you reminded them gently as they rushed outside in a single file. Somehow it felt like they were even more enthusiastic about playing outside than usual. 

Odd, you thought and pushed the thought out of your head. It had, after all, been an overall strange day. Then again, the weather was lovely and you suspected you would’ve been similarly excited if you were in their shoes. 

Still, it was weird that they were all heading in the same direction as if led by an invisible tour guide.

Seokmin nudged your side. “You’re right. They are being weird today.”

“Right?” Your brows furrowed. “What is up with them?”

“You know, I think they might have heard our fight this morning.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Honey, they asked me if we were breaking up as soon as I got to the room. I am sure they heard us.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re so weird,” he concluded with a click of his tongue before turning to you. “I’m glad you forgave me though. I’m sorry for being so dumb.”

A sigh forced its way out of your body. “You’re not dumb. You’re just … less hesitant than me.” Your fingers brushed against yours. “You know I want a future with you, I just— It hasn’t been all that long.”

“It’s been two years and eight months,” he supplied with a quiet chuckle but there was no malice behind those words. He leaned forward to kiss your cheek. “But who’s counting? Not me.”

“Right,” you deadpanned and jabbed him in the ribs with all the force of a bumblebee crashing into a human body. Your fingers wrapped around his and gave them a squeeze. “Just give me some time, okay? Soon, but not yet.”

“Soon, but not yet,” he parroted with a smile that said he was more than willing to wait.

The padding of feet pulled you out of the moment. In front of you stood Jaemin, hands politely behind his back, cheeks flushed red from the spring chill. He cleared his throat. 

“You need to come with me,” he declared and didn’t bother to wait for an answer before heading right back where he came from.

You shared a look with your boyfriend. “Did he mean the both of us?”

“I think so,” he said and shrugged before following after the boy. You sighed and did the same. 

The world came to a standstill for just a moment when you reached the old tree in the middle of the yard. It seemed that all of the kids had gathered exactly there, forming two neat groups with a little path between them leading to Yunho wearing glasses that were certainly not his own and a top hat. Mingyu and Minghao stood on either side of him with wide mischievous grins, in on a scheme that had clearly been created under your nose without you ever suspecting a thing. 

“What is this?” you asked no one in particular. 

“Your wedding!” Minsoo declared as Jaemin all but dragged your boyfriend to the other end of the makeshift path. 

Seokmin wore a puzzled smile as Mingyu started dusting his jacket and fixing his hair like a fuzzy mother. “Our what?”

“Wedding,” the kids repeated in unison like it was the most obvious thing. When you still stared at them with nothing but confusion in your eyes, they let out a collection of little sighs. 

Sohyun called out, “You’re getting married!”

“We are?” 

“Yes!” 

“Why?” Seokmin wondered while dodging Mingyu’s attempts to straighten his collar. “How come?”

“Because you had a fight and then Miss (Y/n) said you two were having a bad day,” Minsoo explained to you like you two were the five-year-old ones and they were the much more experienced adults. “And my mom always says she was the happiest on her wedding day, so now you are getting married so your day can be happy too.”

No one could argue with logic. You admitted defeat and let the girls adjust your clothes and put a little flower into your hair.

When they were done, like the woman on a mission that she was, Minsoo handed you a single red rose – a real one, you noted in astonishment – and held out her hand for you to take. Hesitantly, you did as expected. 

The moment your fingers touched hers, you almost burst out laughing when you heard the beginning notes of ‘Love Is an Open Door’. 

With a proud grin on her face, she led you down the aisle towards the old tree – towards your boyfriend. You really did start laughing when the kids began throwing flower petals onto your path. 

“You guys put a lot of thought into this, huh?” you asked.

She only smiled and led you to the make-shift altar made of an old tree log. You stood next to Seokmin who offered you a matching amused smile and took your hand from hers, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“We’re getting married,” he whispered as if he couldn’t believe it.

Frankly, you couldn’t either. Especially when just this morning you had been arguing over this very thing. Funny how the universe works, you thought and stepped closer to his side. “We’re getting married.”

“Ladies and gentlemans,” Yunho began in a faux-official tone as soon as the song ended, holding a notebook up like he could read, “we are here to marry Miss (Y/n) and Mister Minnie. Does anybody object?”

Silence filled the yard. You glanced back to find the kids giving each other glares as if to dare the other to make even a squeak. One could rest assured violence would erupt if the smallest sound was heard. 

Yunho seemed to breathe out in relief before continuing, “Do you, Mister Minnie, take Miss (Y/n) as your wife?”

“I do,” Seokmin told him, not even bothering to fight his giggles. 

“Stop laughing! This is a serious matter!” Sohyun scolded him from the first row. 

Seokmin schooled his expression and cleared his throat, standing up straighter as if he was a mere soldier that had just received an order from his commanding officer. With all the seriousness he could muster, he repeated, “I do.”

“Good,” Yunho approved and turned to you. “Do you, Miss (Y/n), take Mister Minnie as your husband?”

You nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Perfect! Then I announce you–”

“The vows! Don’t forget the vows!” Bomin called out from the crowd.

Jaemin gasped. “And the rings!”

Yunho seemed a little overwhelmed by the demands of the many but quickly gathered himself. “Right. Mister Minnie, do you have any vows?”

Seokmin’s lips twitched. “Sure.”

“You do?” you gasped and turned to him. “Well, come on then.”

“Do you not have vows for me then?” He pressed his free hand to his chest, feigning a wound. 

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t realise I would be getting married today, so…”

“Then you’d better think quick because these kids are ruthless,” Mingyu leaned over to tell you.

Seokmin chuckled and cleared his throat once more. He took your other hand in his as well. “My (Y/n), my beloved, my moon, my stars, my sunshine–”

“This was a mistake,” you heard one of the kids mumble in the crowd, clearly disgusted by the amount of honorifics your boyfriend had decided to bestow upon you. Maybe she wasn’t the romantic type. 

“–I love you and I adore you. I didn’t expect to marry you today but, well, here we are, getting married, today, right here. They say that if you find the one you love, you feel like you can live forever. I am glad you’ve chosen me to spend your forever with.”

The kids cooed and awwed and squealed in delight. You would’ve joined them if you didn’t feel so suspiciously close to crying. 

“It’s your turn,” Yunho whispered to you after a moment of silence. 

You blinked back to reality and squeezed Seokmin’s hands. “Alright, well, I didn’t have anything prepared but… I can’t imagine a life without you in it, Seokmin. I can’t imagine waking up to anything other than your attempts at coffee. I can’t imagine coming to work to the sound of anything other than your singing. You mean everything to me. This wedding came as a surprise but I am so glad it did because it means I can marry the man of my dreams.”

The children erupted into cheers as Minghao held out two rings for you to take. Seokmin slipped one around your ring finger with gentle, nervous grace. You did the same for him and smiled wide when he leaned forward to kiss your lips. 

Boys fought grimaces of disgust while girls giggled and squealed in delight. ‘Love Is an Open Door’ commenced playing once again as Yunho ushered you back down the aisle to be showered in flower confetti.

“Not at all what I thought they were planning,” Seokmin leaned towards you to whisper. “I did not expect this.”

“Is it weird that I’m not mad about it?” you asked and rested your head against his shoulder. “I know I said I wasn’t ready for marriage this morning but–”

“As far as I care, this marriage is all that counts,” he told you with a giddy smile and pressed another kiss to your lips. He held his left hand out for you to see, wriggling his fingers to show off his new paper jewellery. “I have a ring to prove it now.”

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Howdy, Sailor

CCF Spring Break Prompt: "I don't do shorts." | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | CW: None | Tags: AU, Eddie Needs Shorts, Eddie Doesn't Wear Shorts, But The Salesclerk Is Awfully Handsome, Meet Cute

Eddie hates shopping. He'd rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. Root canal? Sure.

"Just try these on!" Gareth says, lobbing a lump of fabric at him, hitting him square in the chest, and they are the wildest printed swim trunks he's ever seen.

"I don't do shorts," Eddie says, letting them fall to the ground, "especially not ones that loud."

He didn't realize a salesclerk was right there, until he reaches down to pick up the dropped merchandise off Eddie's boots, automatically folding them perfectly.

"Maybe you should," he says, and Eddie isn't following.

"Maybe I should what?" 

"Wear shorts," he says, and grins at Eddie. 

Eddie sort of feels like he's being made fun of, or maybe flirted with, he can't tell which. And it puts him off-kilter.

"Sorry, it was rude I dropped them," Eddie says. Because that much he does know. He was being rude.

"I have to clean up the dressing rooms, a pair on the floor out here is nothing," he says, and Eddie looks at his name tag. Steve.

"Dingus, I need help!" a girl calls out from behind the register, and Eddie watches as Steve smiles at him once more, before heading up her way.

"If you're done flirting," Gareth says, holding up a black pair of trunks that are longer than nearly everything else, a question in his eyes.

"Fine," Eddie says, snagging them from his hand.

He'll buy anything to get this over with. He wasn't on board for this outing, anyway. And he definitely hadn't signed up for shorts.

But he carries them to the register, where Steve picks them up, and looks them over.

"I don't think you're an extra large," Steve says, looking at the tag.

The girl looks him up and down, "He's not. Not unless you want to end up like the Coppertone Girl," Robin, her name tag reads, quips towards Eddie.

Goddamn it, Gareth.

"I thought these were my size?" Eddie accuses Gareth, and Gareth just shrugs. 

"C'mon, I'll help you find the right size," Steve says, and Eddie follows him, even if that feels embarrassing. 

"Are you planning a vacation?" Steve asks, making small talk.

"I'm kinda on one now? My friends want to go to the dive-in. At the beach," Eddie says. "They're showing Jaws. I'm going against my will."

"You don't like Jaws? That sounds fun," Steve asks.

"Like, no. It's fine. I'm just not a beach guy."

"What beach is doing dive-ins? I haven't heard about that," Steve questions.

"Oh, it's not here," Eddie says, "it's at Washington Park Beach. We're just here on spring break."

"You came to the beach and didn't bring trunks?"

"Don't judge me," Eddie teases, and Steve grins. 

Eddie looks back at the abysmal options, as Steve pulls another pair from the rack. The same black ones, "Medium or large?"

Eddie doesn't know, and shrugs. Doesn't really care. He'll never wear them again.

"Well, let's have you try them on."

Eddie wishes he'd just picked one, he doesn't want to try on clothes, but he still follows Steve.

In the dressing room, he sheds his boots and jeans, and pulls up the medium pair. They fit in the waist fine, but they're obscene in the crotch, and he laughs.

"Let me see," Steve says from the other side of the curtain. 

Eddie pulls it open, and Steve laughs, muttering, "Oh my, you're gonna need some bigger shorts."

It makes Eddie laugh, and before he pulls the curtain back closed, Steve slides two fingers into his waistband. Fingers touching his skin. Eddie stutters, stilling. He realizes he's seeing how they fit, but Eddie's sure his cheeks have reddened because of it.

"Yeah, the large should fit you better," he declares, and he's right. Looser everywhere, and that's absolutely preferred. 

He slides open the curtain, and Steve looks him up and down, then nods his approval. He doesn't take the measurement again, but Eddie wouldn't have been opposed to it, if he had. Eddie doesn't even know why his opinion means anything to him. This guy is a stranger, but he seems like the authority, even if Eddie knows he's likely just a minimum wage dude, pretending to know about the clothes.

"Much better," Steve says, and Eddie pulls the curtain closed again.

Jeff, Goodie and Gareth are all in the water, floating on tubes as the movie plays on the big screen, casting shadows all over the place in the dark.

Eddie's sitting on the edge of the rented boat, feet in the water.

He feels someone, or something, saddle right up next to him, rocking the boat, and he hopes to fucking hell it's not a shark. Are there sharks in Lake Michigan? He thinks not. So, he turns to mouth off, and finds Steve grinning at him. 

"Permission to come aboard?"

Eddie grins, and offers him a hand, pulling him up next to him. That's when he sees the bright, very short pair of trunks that he's sure came from the store he works in.

"Howdy, sailor," Steve says.

"Hi," Eddie says, suddenly shy, and pulls his hair over his mouth. Steve's here. Steve.

"The shorts look good. I kind of thought I'd turn up and you'd be in your jeans," Steve teases. 

"I thought about it, definitely," Eddie says, and he can't believe Steve came here. Like, he sounded interested, but Eddie figured that was just his job. Make the customer seem like whatever they're buying clothes for is the most interesting thing in the universe.

"I'm glad you didn't," Steve says, and taps him on the thigh. "Hope you don't mind that we came."

Eddie looks around, and sees Robin a few feet away, floating near a pretty blonde girl. 

"Not at all. Hope you're not scared of sharks."

Steve smiles, a grin that looks like he knows far more than Eddie knows, and he nudges Eddie's thigh with his own leg, "I don't know. A little biting has never scared me."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on Spring Break prompts, or to offer up your own!

Notes: Header image is from Dawson's Creek. That's where the dive-in Jaws showing idea came from.

[avocad1s]

Trial By Combat

Requested By: No one. Original Work.

CW: Mentions of dying, Impostor SAGAU

Summary: After being declared an imposter, you decide to duel to defend your honor rather than stand trial.

Note: Fontaine is amazing. I’m loving every bit of it rn especially Neuvillette, Navia, and Chlorinde.

If you haven’t finished the Fontaine Archon quest, please exit stage left.

Part Two Part Three

-

You never even made it to the Court Of Fontaine before you were confronted by Focalors, the Hydro Archon, of being an imposter of the Creator of Teyvat. In her own eccentric way, she throws accusations at you. ‘To take the face of the Creator is not only a crime in Fontaine but in all of Teyvat!’

You deny her claims but she only laughs, ‘you’re acting ignorant, as if you do not know who the Creator is. Do you have any evidence to prove your innocence?’

You look down, there was no evidence you had that would prove to her and everyone else that this was the face you were born with, or that you never heard of this Creator before.

“The trial of the Century” is what the Steambird called it.

The Opera House was as full as ever, many people wanting to see the verdict the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale would give or wanting to see the one who dared to imitate Their Grace.

Maybe it was out of spite or your own foolishness, but you never allowed the trial to fully begin. Turning to Neuvillette, you declare that you want to duel rather than stand trial.

Despite the protests of Focalors, who wanted to prosecute you, the wish is granted.

The weight of the sword felt unbearable in your clammy hands as you stared at your opponent. Champion Duelist Clorinde stares back nonchalantly, her face not giving any clues on how she felt in this moment. However you heard rumors that she personally requested to duel you.

You readjusted your grip on the hilt as you fix your stance.

Was this truly the correct course of action? To fight and prove your innocence when you know that there’s no way you can win?

No it didn’t matter, you can’t back out now.

The crowd watches eagerly waiting for the duel to begin, how could the people of Fontaine do this? You were a real person and they acted as if you were a character on stage and the play was about to reach it’s final act. The excited looks on their face made your blood boil. If you somehow manage to make it out of this, you would make them pay.

You take one final glance at Furina before the duel commences.

Clorinde wastes no time to strike, using her electro vision, she effortlessly knocks your sword out of your hand and drags her blade down your torso.

Whether her fatal blow was an act of mercy or a warning for anyone else who dared to take the Creators face, the duel was over as soon as it started.

But…

No this couldn’t be right…

Clorinde looks down at her weapon, the golden ichor that dripped onto the floor caused her eyes to widen as she looks at your limp body by her feet.

She immediately drops her weapon as she kneel not caring as the blood began to stain her clothing. Her hands press against your chest to slow the bleeding as she calls out to the crowd.

“We need a doctor!”

A medical team rushes down to your side making haste to attend to your wounds, your vision begins to blur as the mortified looks of Fontaine citizens watch in despair hoping that your life could be saved.

Furina, who sat at the top like always, quickly backs away before anyone could question her. How could she face her people when she was the one who laid these accusations at your feet? How could she face you?

She prays, hoping that an act of mercy could be given to her and her people, how could she call herself an Archon now?

The original publication by the Steambird was quickly scrapped and replaced with “The Creator of Teyvat Falsely Accused of being an Imposter.”

And it didn’t take long for the devastating news to reach the other nations too.

Sorry I had to write a little something for SAGAU Fontaine but now I will return to the requests everyone sent 🏃🏽‍♀️

© avocad1s 2023

[v6quewrlds]

part 2 to the joe angst where reader overheard joe's friends

part two to this.

“Babe, what's wrong?” he asked, rushing over to you. “Why're you crying? Did something happen in the bathroom?”

You looked up at Joe, your eyes bloodshot red and puffy from the tears you had shed during the ride. You took a shaky breath, trying to calm your racing heart. But as you looked into his baby blues, you couldn't hold back the sobs that were now threatening to overtake you.

You took a seat on the bed, your body trembling. “Why didn't you defend me?” you managed to ask between tears.

Joe's brows furrowed, utterly confused. “What are you talking about?”

Your voice trembled as you recounted the conversation you had overheard, the words stumbling out of your mouth in a rush. “Joe, they basically called me a party girl, said I'm not right for you, that you need to settle down with someone stable...” The accusation hung in the air, thick with hurt and betrayal.

Joe sat down beside you, his own expression a mix of bewilderment and concern. “Sweetheart, you gotta breathe, you're workin' yourself up. That's not what they meant. It was just...” He sighed, searching for the right words.

“Joe, I'm not an idiot. I know what I heard,” you said, your voice breaking as you wiped at your face. The room was quiet, the air charged with tension. “It just hurts, you know? To think that your friends don't think I'm good enough for you.”

Joe's eyes widened, and his hand found yours.

You continued with a sniffle. “And it hurts to think you wouldn't stick up for me when I'm not there. I know they're important to you, but...” Your voice trailed off as you tried to keep the dam of tears from breaking again.

Joe's face softened, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “Babe, they weren't talking about you. They were talking about the new girl that does my PR, Sophia. Remember her? She's been dropping the ball a little bit, and they were worried she's gonna blow up something important when I’m not breathing down her neck during the season. Nothing to do with us, I swear.”

You searched his eyes, looking for a hint of deceit, but all you found was genuine bewilderment and affection. Sophia was flippant, you knew that, had recognized it within the first few minutes of meeting her. Joe had complained about that flippancy on several occasions during the handful of months you had been dating.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight of your misunderstanding. ���I overheard you guys saying I wasn't right for you, and I just...”

Joe's hand tightened around yours. “They were talking about someone else. I'm sorry you had to hear that, especially out of context. But I promise you, I see a future with you. A future that's a lot more than just fun."

Your shoulders relaxed, the tightness in your chest slowly dissipating. You took a deep, shaky breath, feeling the truth in Joe's words. “I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions,” you murmured, wiping away the last of your tears.

Joe leaned in, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “Don't be. It's natural to get upset when you think someone's talking smack about you. But you gotta have faith in us. I'm not going anywhere. I love you too much.”

The confession hung in the air, a declaration that seemed to melt the last of your doubt away. Your eyes searched Joe's, looking for any hint of uncertainty, but all you found was the steady, loving gaze that had captured your heart from the moment you met. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his embrace as he pulled you closer. Your heart swelled with relief and you whispered, “I'm sorry, Joe. I should've pulled you aside before dipping like that. I just felt embarrassed.”

He kissed your forehead gently. “It's okay. I get it. But you know you can always talk to me.”

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. You took a moment to gather yourself before speaking again. “I guess I just didn’t want to cause any drama tonight. I know how important these guys are to you, and I wanted to make a good impression.”

Joe wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. “If it makes you feel better, they really liked you. They're lowkey embarrassed that they approved of you so fast.” He laughed softly, trying to lighten the mood. “Shawn said you're the first girl I've brought around that didn't immediately kill the vibe. That's high praise from him.”

You managed a small smile, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease. You leaned into Joe's embrace, breathing in his familiar scent, and allowing it to comfort you. You realized that in the midst of your fear and doubt, you had been ready to throw away something that truly meant something to you.

“Give me their numbers, I'll apologize in the morning,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest.

“No, you don't have to do that,” Joe protested, but you had already pulled away, reaching for your phone.

“Yes, I do. I owe them that much after making things awkward. Maybe it'll help clear the air before we all have to see each other again.” You took a deep breath. “Plus, I want to hear the end of that prom story.”

Joe chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fuck that. The parts you heard were bad enough, you don't need to know the rest of it. I have an image to uphold.”

[please-destroy]

Legacy

Natasha Romanoff x Reader + Family

Word Count: 1.7k

You can definitely read this on its own. Or it can follow on from the last few stories I've posted.

.

You heard the front door slam and winced automatically. Every day seemed to hold another fight between your daughter and your wife.

When Natasha had told you she was picking your daughter up from school, you’d bitten your tongue. You heard the raised voices in the hallway and sighed slowly.

You braced yourself as you rose to join. This didn’t feel like much of a family these days. You felt like more of a peacekeeper than a parent or a partner.

You paused behind the closed door when you heard your daughter yell.

You tried to click pieces into place before you joined them. Something about her hair and her choice.

You heard the low murmur of Natasha’s voice. She always went quiet in fights with your daughter. Some legacy of her past that still made her wary of the impact of raising her voice, of losing her temper entirely.

You couldn’t hear her words but her anger was unmistakable. You opened the door hurriedly. Two pairs of eyes landed on you at once.

Your daughter rushed to get the first word in, as if you were the judge and jury of this argument.

‘I already bought the stuff.’ She told you determinedly. Her fingers gripped her backpack fiercely.

You caught Natasha’s desperate look at you and sighed quietly. Whatever was going on, you knew Natasha was silently asking for your support for a reason.

You tilted your head at your daughter and waited for more information. You hated playing this balancing act.

‘I’m going to dye my hair blue’. Your daughter continued. Her brown eyes flashed suddenly with something that was entirely Natasha.

‘No you’re not.’ Natasha interrupted suddenly from beside you. Her arms moved to cross in front of her. Sometimes, the two of them reminded you more of sisters than mother and child.

There was a pause. You saw the look on your daughter’s face and realised she was trying to prepare herself for her next words. You cringed in anticipation.

‘I know you had blue hair.’ Your daughter accused Natasha abruptly.

The air left the room as you both froze. Your eyes scanned Natasha’s immediately. You hadn’t known that, but you could tell immediately that it was true. Natasha blinked back her obvious shock. You resisted putting an arm around her shoulders. You didn’t want to take sides, but you felt the ache of Natasha’s past like an old wound.

‘I saw the pictures.’ Your daughter added, her arms moving to cross themselves, just like Natasha’s.

An acutely vulnerable and threatened look crossed Natasha’s features. Her eyes were unseeing as more emotions rolled through her. You tensed nervously. She looked murderous. A line had been crossed.

‘Those pictures are private.’ Natasha said in a low voice. A shiver ran down your spine at the sound. ‘You had no right - ’.

‘I’m your kid.’ Your daughter interrupted, her voice rising higher with hysteria. She blinked away her tears angrily.

‘Where are those pictures now?’ Natasha’s voice stayed a growl. You found yourself stepping forward. It was too late to keep the peace, but you felt the situation slipping closer to words that couldn’t be unsaid.

Your hand brushed your daughter’s shoulder.

‘Hey.’ You called calmly and your daughter’s eyes flickered warily up to you. ‘We can talk about dyeing your hair later. Get your mom’s pictures.’

‘No.’

Your jaw clenched in frustration, you took a deep breath. You felt the oncoming explosion, you didn’t know if you could stop it.

You felt Natasha seethe obviously. You loved her well enough to sense how hard she was working to stay cool. You didn’t know the context of the pictures, you were certain of their importance to her. 

‘Give them back to me.’ Natasha said one more time, and you knew it was the last warning.

‘I get to have some pieces of you.’ Your daughter declared suddenly. Her voice was wavering obviously, the angry tears still stained her cheeks.

‘You don’t get to have that piece.’ Natasha shook her head fervently. ‘Give me back my fucking photos.’

‘Fuck you.’ Your daughter retaliated, and the words fell out her mouth like she’d been waiting to say it.

Something hardened in Natasha as the words landed, you watched her try and ignore it.

‘Pictures.’ You iterated again, firmly. Your voice stayed level. You knew the unbearable tension couldn’t release from Natasha until she had them back.

You didn’t realise there was more your daughter might say. Her fingers fumbled with the front zipper on her backpack, she rummaged inside and produced a single strip of photos. Your eyes clung to the produced glossy strip of paper as she threw it in the air and floated to the ground.

There were two girls in the pictures and your heart twisted in further understanding. You noted the bright blue hair that caught the eye easily. 

Natasha snatched the photos so fast, they hadn’t even reached the ground. You should have anticipated her next move. Your daughter certainly didn’t. Natasha plucked out the box of hair dye from inside her open backpack in one smooth motion. 

The outrage in your daughter’s face would have been comical if it didn’t make you so nervous.

‘Fuck you.’ She said again and this time the words came out in a desperately controlled voice. She’d pitched it lower and you wondered if she knew she was imitating her mother.

‘You never wanted me.’ She accused Natasha now, voice cracking. Tears started streaming down her face again as the deeper hurt was exposed.

‘We both know I’m not even yours. Now, you won’t even fucking let me look like you.’

Natasha sagged immediately with the weight of your daughter’s words. You saw the horror and shock weave through her furrowed brows. Her mouth fell open.

Your daughter didn’t see any of it.

She crumpled down to the ground in a motion that ached with familiarity. For a moment, you remembered those first moments of her learning to walk. The strongest part of that memory was Natasha’s smile when your daughter had chosen to stumble clumsily over to her.

You didn’t need to look at Natasha to know she’d felt the words like a sucker punch. You crouched down next to your daughter. 

‘You are and have always been the best thing in both of our lives.’ You told her quietly. Your daughter didn’t stop crying. Her arms circled her knees. 

Natasha moved closer, hesitancy laced her movements and you could feel the nerves emanating from her. This was everything she’d ever been scared of. You felt her anticipating more rejection from the person who could hurt her most. Your hand moved to brush the back of her nearest leg soothingly. 

‘Your mom loves you completely.’ You said simply and your daughter’s chin tilted reluctantly towards you. She shook her head disbelievingly. You saw the deep insecurity and wished desperately to remove it.

‘I always thought I might have children.’ You continued carefully, trying to decide what you could share as you spoke. ‘But, for your Mom, that wasn’t even a dream she was allowed to have.’

Your daughter’s face twisted as she tried to process the words. Her eyes flickered uncertainly up at Natasha. You followed her gaze and caught Natasha’s ashy expression. She was still caught, waiting for more rejection.

‘Do you understand?’ You pressed softly, and your free hand reached out to your daughter’s knee. ‘You are better than she could have ever dreamed.’ 

You felt Natasha kneel down beside you too, she took the hand you’d had on her leg and held it in hers. Your fingers interlaced automatically and, when she squeezed it, you felt the cool of her wedding ring against your warm palm.

‘Not to mention, you are already so alike. It’s ridiculous.’ You added, letting your tone get lighter. Somehow, just having them sit closer to each other, reassured you.

Natasha outstretched her free hand, with the previous photos purposefully on display to your daughter.

‘You see that other girl?’ She murmured. Her eyes caught yours intermittently, seeking reassurances You squeezed her hand and gave her a careful smile. 

Your daughter nodded, silent with the expectation that this was important.

‘She’s my family.’ Natasha stumbled. ‘Or the closest I ever had to it.’ She corrected embarrassedly. She took a shaky breath before continuing. 

‘And, that’s why you’re named Yelena. After her.’ 

Yelena stared back at Natasha, surprise and curiosity entirely replacing her earlier hurt.

‘Where is she now?’ She asked immediately, her voice hoarse from crying.

‘I don’t know. But I love her. You remind me of her every day.’ Natasha answered simply.

I know I’m not your Mom, not biologically.’ Natasha’s eyes met yours and you saw a longing in them that you never wanted to see again.

‘But I want to be.’ She admitted softly.

Your daughter’s hand reached out for her mother’s. Things settled inside your heart, a heaviness lifted from the air.

‘Maybe.’ Yelena started, face filling with a small smile. ‘Maybe I could dye my hair red instead.’

Natasha regarded her with a new softness, the corner of her mouth twitched upwards too. They understood each other so much better than they thought. 

You rolled your eyes as you got back to your feet, pulling the pair of them up along with you.

‘Just what I need. Double the trouble.’ You teased, barely able to keep a straight face as Natasha swatted at your arm halfheartedly.

Yelena grinned up at you. Her hand slipped out of yours as she moved to wrap her arms around Natasha’s waist. Her head buried against Natasha’s front. Your daughter was growing up, but she was still so young. 

The tentative tenderness in Natasha’s answering hug was more precious than you could ever explain. Her hand slipped out of yours too as she moved to rub light circles on Yelena’s back.

‘I’m really sorry.’ Yelena mumbled.

‘I know.’ Natasha soothed and she pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair. 

Yelena moved back a little and you watched her head tilt up as she regarded Natasha. Natasha smiled familiarly back.

‘Whatever colour you want. I’ll help you dye it.’ Natasha promised her quietly. ‘But, you’re already my daughter. You always have been.'

‘I’m yours.’ Yelena affirmed as her rested back against her mother. Natasha’s lips brushed her hair as she held her tight against her.

The world had finally righted itself and you found yourself sighing in relief.

[teleit]

Rhaenyra would never kill her own kin? Say it with your hand on the Bible and watch the Lord punish you for perjury

Team black stans is being almost hysterical, trying to convince us that Saint Rhaenyra would never dare to kill Alicent's children, that Otto and Alicent are the second and third coming of Satan, and they are must be blame for everything, from the birth of the Night King to the end of the Daenerys arc, and if it weren't for these two, Westeros would have already installed electricity, invented penicillin and learned to wash their asses more than once a month.

As proof, you are given quotes from a book that these fans have hardly read in its entirety, their own opinion, which, of course, is an indisputable fact and, sometimes, even "well, she would have killed some greens so what, why make such a fuss about it."

These people don't know how to work with a narrative, and it shows. Stories like Dance of the Dragons require you to dive into the personalities of both teams so you can understand the tragedy of the situation - a civil war between family members that will nearly destroy House Targaryen and Westeros.

Now imagine that you, Alyssa/Baelon Targaryen, are Alicent's fifth child. And this is a fanfic (show), not a book, so we're going to base this on the events of the adaptation.

Your father doesn't care about you, and you don't understand why. Did you do something wrong? Why does your father love your half-sister and her children, but not you and your siblings? Why doesn't he protect you from your nephews' bullying?

You don't get a dragon egg because they are few and far between, and Rhaenyra has another child who needs one more. You get the egg that comes later, or you ride a full-grown dragon.

Your half-sister Rhaenyra HATES you. She shows no shame in showing her disdain, barely tolerates your existence, and never punishes her children for bullying you. She won't talk to you, won't play with you, and even seems to hate your name.

You hear rumors that your nephews are bastards. You know that having bastards is wrong and against the Faith, and you don't understand why Rhaenyra is never punished for her bad deeds. You saw Aemond being scolded for standing up to our nephews, why is no one scolding Rhaenyra?

At Laena's funeral, your brother Aemond becomes a Vhagar rider, and Luke cuts out his eye for it. When the argument happens, you are afraid, scared, and crying, because father is angry at Aemond, and instead of comforting and protecting him, he demands something from him. Rhaenyra demands that Aemond be tortured, and no one protects your brother from her. Your father yells at Aegon because Aemond said that Aegon is the one who lied about your nephews being legitimate Velaryons. You don't understand how words can be as bad as your brother's injury. No one ever scolded or punished Rhaenyra for anything, so what if her children were called a bad word? Your father declares that there will be no punishment for your brother's injury, as if a lost eye is like a scratched knee and nothing bad happened. Your mother is angry at Rhaenyra and tries to hurt Luke, and suddenly she is the bad one and it's all her fault, and everyone has forgotten that Rhaenyra wanted to torture Aegon, who was hurt, as if it doesn't matter.

You are scared to get your dragon. What if Rhaena decides that this dragon was meant to be hers and you are a thief too, just like she accused Aemond? Will they cut out your eye too?

Laenor dies, and you hear that Rhaenyra has married Daemon, ignoring the mourning period. You remember this man - he laughed at Laena's funeral and frightened your mother with his presence. You have heard terrible things about him, and you are afraid to be near him - but thank the gods he does not come to the Red Keep, so you sleep peacefully. You are afraid to think about how exactly Laenor died, and whether Rhaenyra and Daemon were involved.

When your half-sister finally appears at the Red Keep, her first act is to claim Driftmark for her bastard son. When Vaemond Velaryon, your distant relative, calls her a whore and her children bastards, Daemon cuts off his head, and none of the Blacks look sad, even though he was a close relative to Rhaenys, Baela, and Rhaenyra's three eldest sons (presumably).

And that's just part of the shit that goes on in your life. If it were possible, you'd demand a refund.

If someone told you that Rhaenyra wouldn't kill you for the sake of her peaceful reign, would you believe them?

PS. not a native speaker and it shows, so what?

[randomcreator-09]

Small Heath's Songbird: Christmas Eve Special (Thomas ShelbyxOCY/N)

(GIF ain't mine > I forgor ack pls dm me if it's yours)

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH THIS SCENE MADE ME WANNA EXPLODE XD

Part One - Part Two

>>>MINORS DNI<<<

✨Pure fluff, Lil Angst, No Grace, Smut >:D [pnv (wrap it before you tap it), slight choking, bottom!dom Tommy, switch!dom reader, overstimulation(m&f)] Happy Ending ^^ (cuz I've had enough bad endings irl TvT)✨

���Hoe Hoe Hoe all of us HAHAHAHAHAHHA XD. I hope ya'll getting laid this Christmas Eve cuz, I aint X"D. Anyways you do not need to read part one... this can be just a one-shot itself, but fair warning you might not understand who our OCY/N is so... yeah... go read part one XD Tried to make it as short as possible since it's just a special but seemingly failed :"D but ey... Merry Christmas ^^!!!🐧

Own character description but it's Y/N POV

3.2k words

REBLOG TO SPREAD ADDICTION and kudos are appreciated too thank you ^^

Enjoy reading ^^

Part One - Part Two

-----

It has been more than a week since your last encounter with the owner of Arrow House, Thomas. Your first kiss with him last December 15th was something that kept you giddy to work as soon as the morning sun rose and before Miss Florence could knock at your door to wake you up, your room was already empty.

You went with your usual routine of sweeping off dust on paintings and sculptures, careful not to break or tear anything. This wasn't the first house you became a personal maid for someone, you've basically worked as a royal made once before getting kicked out by the head maid for "Eloping" with her man (which you didn't. The man was just accusing you because you said no to all his advances, which ended up with you on the whore house with 'Missus'). Humming as you cleaned and twirled, Miss Florence saw you and turned away with a smile.

-----

However, as fast as you were giddy that day, it was also punched right out you when you were called to attend to one of Thomas's whores.

"Ah! Y/N?" She slutterly (is that even a word??? XD) mentioned your name as she walked around you with the same dark coat Thomas had placed upon your shoulders to keep you warm yesterday.

"Yes." you muttered between gritted teeth, trying not to yank the coat away from her filthy body.

"Mmm... Mr. Shelby kept mentioning that name in our session." She said with great despise. That information had your body in tingles. 'My name? in sex? in a normal convo? with another woman?' this came up to mind as the whore walked away after wafting her hair and up the stairs to Thomas's room, possibly to regain his favours to her.

Questions bursts out your mind to the thought that was left behind. "...Mr. Shelby kept mentioning that name..." but why?

-----

After that day, you have never seen Thomas again in Arrow House. Miss Florence said he was on a business trip somewhere and would not be back till Christmas. That gave you time to think and to reflect on the kiss. AND to that whores last comment on their 'sessions'. Weird enough you thought that maybe she just heard it wrong, if not wrong then... why?

That had your mind busy for the rest of the week. Although with all the chores in hand, it made you forget Thomas easily. Suddenly remembering that the audition to the Garrison bar was going to be held on Christmas Eve. You had asked Miss Florence to be excused for that day, which she allowed.

-----

"Y/N!" a familiar voice called out to you through the swirling snow. You turned and saw ‘Missus,’ bundled in her thick, patched-up coat, her breath visible in the cold air as she waved enthusiastically.

“Missus,” you greeted her with a smile, tugging your own coat tighter around you as the wind picked up. Despite the chill in the air, her warmth was contagious.

“Still don’t know why you’re wastin’ that voice of yours on dusty houses. Tonight’s your chance, love. Show ‘em what you’re made of!” she declared, stepping closer. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the cold or the drink she’d likely had before venturing out, you couldn’t tell.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you teased lightly, though you were secretly glad to have her there.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now, let’s get inside before we freeze to death.”

The two of you entered the Garrison, the warmth and chaos of the pub hitting you like a wave. The air was thick with smoke and laughter, and the smell of ale lingered heavily. At the center of it all was a rather tone-deaf singer, standing on the makeshift stage, belting out a rowdy tune. Her pitch was so off that even the drunkest men in the room winced occasionally.

The pub owner, Harry, stood near the bar, shaking his head. “Alright, that’s enough! Off you go!” he barked, waving her down.

The woman staggered off, her cheeks burning as the crowd erupted in laughter and went back to their conversations. Harry rubbed his temple, muttering to himself as he reached for another pint.

Missus nudged you forward with her elbow. “Go on, love.”

You hesitated, your nerves getting the better of you, but Missus had no patience for second-guessing. She marched you straight to Harry. “Oy, Harry!”

The man turned, clearly unimpressed. “What now?”

“She’s here for the audition,” Missus announced proudly, gesturing to you like you were already a star.

Harry raised a skeptical brow, his eyes raking over you lazily. “You sing, do ya?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice firmer than you felt inside.

“Sure, why not,” he said with a shrug. “You lot are all bloody awful anyway. The men are drunk enough, so go ahead—ruin my ears like the rest of ‘em.” He waved a dismissive hand toward the stage.

Before you could argue or even steady your nerves, Missus grabbed your arm and practically dragged you toward the stage. “That’s my girl!” she shouted, her voice echoing over the clamor of the pub. She plopped herself down at a table near the front, pint in hand, cheering you on with the enthusiasm of ten people.

You stood on the small stage, feeling the weight of every eye in the room—except for the ones you wanted most. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Thomas and his brothers seated in the far-right corner, engrossed in their own conversation. Thomas was leaning back in his chair, cigarette in hand, his expression unreadable. His brothers were equally disinterested, laughing at some joke you couldn’t hear over the din.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to the piano and sat, your hands trembling slightly as you placed it on the notes. The room began to quiet down, curious about the new face on stage.

>>>>MOOSIC<<<<

As the first notes of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” left the piano chords, the pub seemed to hold its breath. As you started to sing though that's when everyone was in awe. The soft, ethereal melody floated through the room, starkly different from the raucous atmosphere moments ago.

"It came upon the midnight clear,

that glorious song of old,

from angels bending near the earth

to touch their harps of gold:

"Peace on the earth, good will to men,

from heaven's all-gracious King."

The world in solemn stillness lay,

to hear the angels sing."

You glanced around as you sang. Some of the patrons were swaying gently, their mugs forgotten for a moment. Harry stood behind the bar, his usual gruffness replaced with a look of mild surprise. Missus was, of course, beaming at you, her pint raised high in salute.

And then your gaze landed on Thomas. He was no longer leaning back in his chair, his cigarette halfway to his lips, forgotten. His sharp blue eyes were fixed on you, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the pub had melted away.

His brothers seemed to notice his sudden silence, exchanging glances before following his gaze to the stage. But Thomas didn’t move. He simply watched, his expression a mix of curiosity and something deeper—something that sent a thrill through you as you hit the chorus:

"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,

from Heaven’s all-gracious King..."

Your voice grew stronger, more confident, as the room continued to listen in hushed awe.

"Still through the cloven skies they come

with peaceful wings unfurled,

and still their heavenly music floats

o'er all the weary world;"

Your voice rang clear and steady now, weaving through the smoky air like a hymn in a sacred hall. The clamor of the pub had ceased entirely, save for the occasional clink of a glass or the creak of a chair as someone shifted to get a better view.

"Above its sad and lowly plains,

they bend on hovering wing,

and ever o'er its Babel sounds

the blessed angels sing."

Your eyes swept across the room as the words spilled effortlessly from your lips, each note carrying a haunting beauty. The drunkards, their mugs poised mid-air, watched you with wide eyes. Missus raised her pint higher, tears glinting in her eyes as she mouthed along with the words, clearly as proud as any mother watching her child’s first recital.

But it was Thomas’s gaze that kept pulling you back. He was leaning forward now, his elbows on the table, his piercing blue eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your heart falter mid-note. His brothers were as amused as Thomas was, their quiet singing along going unnoticed by him as he remained transfixed.

The pub faded into a blur around you, and for a moment, it was just you and him. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, not quite a smile, but something softer, something rare. It made you feel both seen and exposed, like he was peeling back every layer of your soul with just a look.

You closed your eyes, letting the final verses of the carol guide you.

"For lo! the days are hastening on,

by prophet bards foretold,

when with the ever-circling years

comes round the age of gold;

when peace shall over all the earth

its ancient splendors fling,

and the whole world give back the song

which now the angels sing."

The last note hung in the air, delicate and trembling, before dissolving into the stillness.

The room erupted in applause, shattering the quiet spell you’d cast. Missus was on her feet, cheering loud enough to make up for anyone who wasn’t clapping. Harry nodded approvingly from the bar, a rare grin on his face.

And then there was Thomas. He didn’t clap, didn’t cheer, but his eyes said enough. There was something unspoken there, something electric that left you breathless as you stepped off the stage.

Missus grabbed you the moment your feet touched the floor, pulling you into a bear hug. “That’s my girl!” she hollered, spinning you around.

-----

As the noise swelled back into the room and the drunken revelry resumed, you glanced toward the far-right corner one last time. Thomas was no longer were he was, you looked around to see his brothers were eyeing you. John was grinning from ear to ear as he tipped his hat to you, you gestured with a soft smile. Arthur, visibly high from whatever he took, winked at you, making your soft smile widen a bit at the gesture as you shook your head continuing your drink with missus.

"Got a voice young lady, you ain't no whore like missus here ain't you?" Harry asked as he passed you your glass of water (you don't drink, taking care of your voice).

"No sir," you said in a hushed tone as missus and Harry glared knives at each other, clearly having a mental fight.

"Alright! you got the gig, every Saturday at noon. Don't be late." he huffed as he tended to other customers on the pub.

You beamed as you silently squealed with Missus. You now had enough jobs to be able to earn and go for an adventure; now it's just time to earn until-

Your reverie was cut short when a sudden familiar voice lingered behind you.

“Looking for me, darling?” His voice carried that familiar gruffness, the edges softened by something you couldn’t quite place.

You turned, startled but delighted. “Thomas,” you breathed, standing instinctively. His sharp blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, the entire pub seemed to dissolve around you.

“You’ve got a voice, Y/N,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost reverent. “Had the whole pub hanging on your every note. Even Arthur stopped his nonsense to listen.”

A faint blush crept up your neck at his words. “Thank you,” you murmured, your gaze falling briefly to the floor.

“I mean it,” he pressed. “Didn’t know you had that in you. If I’d known, I’d have dragged you to sing long ago.”

You smiled shyly but then felt the weight of a lingering question pull you back. Gathering your courage, you glanced up at him. “Thomas... about something the other day…”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You inhaled deeply, your words tumbling out before your nerves could catch you. “That woman. Back at the Arrow House. She said you... mentioned my name. During her... visit.”

For the first time, you saw Thomas falter. His jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat, glancing away. “Ah, bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair.

“Well?” you prompted, your heart pounding.

He sighed, cursing himself softly before meeting your gaze again. “I did,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “She said somethin’ about loyalty or... some nonsense, and your name just... slipped out.”

“Slipped out?” you repeated, your brows arching.

“Can’t help what’s on my mind, love,” he said with a sheepish grin. “After our kiss in the kitchen that night I couldn't stop thinking about you, I couldn't possibly have you on your knees all of a sudden," he paused as he huffed another batch of his cigar. "You-your were a lady when I first saw you. Not a personal maid, so I fell for your soul and well voice now too and it’s going to be bloody distracting now that I have these in mind.”

He paused yet again, seemingly trying to recall all his thoughts, which were now visibly in jumbles. "I like to get to know you," he said as he stubbed his cigar dead on the ashtray. "It seemed like I've known you for years when we had just met that very day, and I won't be able to stop thinking about you now."

Your cheeks burned at his confession, and you averted your eyes, a small, flustered laugh escaping your lips. “Well, I... I suppose I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either,” you confessed, your voice barely audible over the noise of the pub.

His grin widened, the rare softness in his expression making your heart stutter. “Then we’ve both been fools, haven’t we?” he murmured, stepping closer. “Let me make it right. Take you out. Like a real lady.”

Before you could answer, Missus yanked you back by the arm, her eyes narrowed. “Not so fast, lover boy,” she said, pointing a finger at Thomas. “I’m takin’ her home, since you two might start shagging when she goes back to Arrow House today.”

“Missus!" shocked by her boldness but not surprised as she was already dragging you toward the door.

“Tomorrow, then!” Thomas called after you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

-----(Present Day, December 25th)

The warmth of the fireplace cast a golden glow over the living room as your daughter sat cross-legged on the floor by the Christmas tree, her curious eyes fixed on you. “But Mommy! Missus says she did no such thing!” she exclaimed, giggling.

You shot a playful glare at Missus, who was sitting comfortably in the armchair by the fire, sipping her tea. “Oh, did she now?” you teased, shaking your head.

Missus laughed, her graying hair framing her face. “Don’t listen to her, love. I was just keeping your mother out of trouble.”

The room filled with laughter until a familiar voice interrupted. “Baby, Daddy needs Mommy for a while, yeah? Why don't you go and play with Missus for a while.” Thomas said, stepping into the room.

Your daughter lit up and nodded. “Okay, Daddy!” she chirped, running over to Missus with her toys in hand.

Thomas extended a hand to you, his expression as unreadable as ever but his eyes warm. As soon as you were in the hallway, he leaned closer. “What were you tellin’ her?”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Just the story of how we met. You know, the softer version.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Softer version, eh? Did you leave out the bit where I killed Luca Changretta for your hand?”

A laugh bubbled from your lips as you shook your head. “No, it’s a bit too brutal for a five-year-old, my dear Tommy.”

He smirked, his hands sliding over yours. “In time, then,” he murmured, his voice laced with affection. “But for now…”

Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you effortlessly toward the stairs.

“Thomas!” you squealed, laughing loudly as you clung to him.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he whispered, his grin widening as he carried you up, your laughter echoing through the house.

-----(Thomas's POV)

Thomas scooped you into his arms, holding you close as though you were the most precious thing in his world. He started up the stairs, his steps steady yet unhurried.

“You don’t have to carry me, you know,” you said, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

He looked down at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “Oh, I do. You’re my princess tonight—and every night.”

Your cheeks flushed as you playfully swatted his shoulder. “You’re so cheesy, Thomas.”

“Only for you,” he replied, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead.

As he entered the room, he nudged the door shut with his foot and gently placed you on the bed. The golden glow of the fairy lights illuminated your face, making you look ethereal. He slowly placed you down onto your shared bed and paused, taking you in as if committing the moment to memory.

“You’re staring,” you teased, your lips curling into a soft smile.

“Can you blame me?” he replied, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re breathtaking.”

Your smile faltered, replaced by a look of vulnerability. “You make me feel that way,” you murmured.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. “That’s because it’s true,” he said softly, his forehead resting against yours.

He began to trail kisses along your cheeks and down your neck, his movements slow and deliberate. “Tell me if I ever do too much,” he whispered against your skin, his breath warm and comforting.

“You could never do too much,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with emotion. “I trust you.”

His lips curved into a smile against your neck. “I’ll make sure you never regret that,” he said, his tone serious yet filled with love.

As your connection deepened, you let out a soft laugh. “You’re so gentle, Thomas. It’s like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

“I’m not afraid,” he replied, his voice a mix of playfulness and sincerity. “I just want you to know how much I adore you��every part of you.”

As he said those words, his lips were now down to yours. Tickling your lower abdomen with soft kisses and slowly licking your clit from top to the bottom, making you hiss in pleasure.

He couldn't get over the taste of you, finer than the whisky he drinks and the cigar he smokes. He can forget Ophium, when you are one addicting woman.

"Fuck... I love you Y/N" He mutters as he laps his wet tongue through your slit and holds your hips as you were twitching heavy. His thumb on your clit drawing circles slowly and at rhythm to his tongue.

When he hears you scream his name like a prayer his pants suddenly felt tight and he couldn't let it wait any longer, he had to make you cum on his mouth now or never.

"Cum for me baby. Please... Oh God Please let me taste you" as he enters his tongue in you and his nose nuzzled on your clit and fingers twisting your nipples, fast.

"Th-Thomas! I-I'm Ah!" and release you did. However that didn't stop him and he kept his ministering to you until you could feel that satisfying release on the depths of your stomach.

"Thomas! I... I might make a mess..." You plead him as you trashed on his grasp without avail for his biceps were locked on your hips and legs. "Then make a mess. I'd love to see you make a mess for me, love"

And you squirted on his mouth. As he slowly pulls himself away and smirks looking at your majestic image, "Fuck, love you look gorgeous".

He was about to come back down and devour you once more but you won't let that happen this Christmas day. So, when you took control, he couldn’t help but smile up at you as your fingers traced the sharp angles of his face. “You know, I don’t think I say this enough,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What’s that?” he asked, his hands resting on your hips as he gazed up at you, completely captivated.

“I love you,” you said simply, your words carrying the weight of your feelings.

His eyes softened, and a slow smile spread across his lips. “You don’t have to say it all the time. I feel it every moment I’m with you.”

When you finally lay side by side, your breaths still mingling, Thomas turned to you, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re my everything, you know that?” he said softly.

You smiled, your eyes glistening. “You’re mine, too,” you replied.

He chuckled, his voice warm and low. “Merry Christmas, love.”

“Merry Christmas, Thomas,” you whispered back, as you kissed him softly on his lips.

Thomas groaned, a low sound of pleasure, as you shifted your position, straddling him. Inserting his cock to yours, His hands instinctively found your waist, holding you steady as you began to move. His breath hitched, and he looked up at you with an expression that was equal parts awe and adoration.

“You’re going to be the end of me,” he murmured, his voice strained yet teasing, as his hands tightened slightly on your hips, guiding your rhythm.

You leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “I think you like it this way.”

A chuckle escaped him, though it quickly dissolved into another groan as you continued. His head fell back against the pillow, exposing his neck as he surrendered entirely to you. Your fingers slid to his jaw, tilting his face back toward you.

“Look at me,” you said softly, your voice firm but full of affection.

His eyes fluttered open, locking onto yours as your hand moved to his throat. You applied the slightest pressure, watching as his breath hitched and his gaze darkened.

“Is this okay?” you asked, pausing briefly to ensure he was comfortable.

Thomas’s hands slid up your sides, his grip reassuring. “Perfect,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion.

You continued, your movements slow and deliberate, savoring the moment as much as he was. His hands roamed your body, occasionally tightening as he got closer to the edge.

“I’m not going to last,” he murmured, his voice strained.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his lips as you whispered, “Then don’t hold back, baby.”

Moments later, the tension in his body gave way, and he groaned your name, his voice heavy with release. You followed shortly after, your body trembling as you reached your peak.

Breathless, you collapsed onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you protectively. Neither of you spoke for a while, the only sound in the room being your steady breaths mingling together.

Thomas finally broke the silence, his voice soft and full of contentment. “Merry Christmas, love.”

You smiled against his chest, your fingers drawing lazy patterns on his skin. “Merry Christmas, Thomas.”

----

🐧Hopefully I ended that well :"D aha... mhen :"D I just wanted it to be cute and all since its christmas aha~ so merry christmas everyone ^^ have a happy holiday ^^🐧

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Part One - Part Two

[starfata]

Arsinoe's woven child 3

Part 2

Arsinoe woke from her very pleasant rest to find herself nose to nose with a fox.

Suddenly wide awake, she threw herself from her pillow to watch as the fox bolted from her room as if it's tail was on fire, and the albatross on her windowsill took off.

Apparently her sister wanted to talk to her. Urgently.

So much for her nap. Shaking her head, she went to prepare herself for the day. Yes, she could simply reshape herself, but the motions of the routine were comforting on a day like this.

They saw each other so often that Percy never Needed to talk to her unless there was going to be a disaster or scandal or both. The last time was when she'd agreed to bear Ascelpius, knowing exactly what would happen.

What could have happened?

Perseleia burst into the room like a hurricane, clothed in what she considered her mortal court finery, her peplos a blue no mortal craftsman of Hellae could match, her golden olive leaf necklace matched with a golden cuff emblazoned with her own sacred flowers and a silver bracelet that bore charms of both their own and their parents sacred animals.

"You, Arsinoe Logikó, have some explaining to do!" Perseleia declared.

Arsinoe could only blink. A few seconds passed as her mind double checked her ears had heard correctly, yet her sister was still in front of her, pointing a finger at her like a portrait of an accuser.

Had she been wearing pearls, Arsinoe would have clutched at them just to fit the scene.

As it was, no one but the two of them would see it and Perseleia did not seem in the mood for the joke.

"What are you talking about?" She said, finally.

Perseleia rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air before settling them crossed before her, in the manner of a woman who had spent far too much time with the God of theatre.

"You know, when you asked me to 'take care of it,'" Perseleia used air quotes, and Arsinoe found herself straightening. It was rare to see her sister forget herself after all these centuries, as casual as she seemed to others. "I quite reasonably assumed you just wanted me to tidy up a bit, put your supplies away."

That was what she had wanted, yes. What in the name of the Moirae had Perseleia found?

Arsinoe kept quiet, and Perseleia did not disappoint her.

"Do you have any idea how I felt to see your loom? I understand not calling for the West Wind, he's still frightened of me. I can even understand you getting so caught in your work you forgot to have anything else ready, I have known you for basically my entire life." Perseleia gestured dramatically, tossing dark hair so wild she might as well have not bothered with the band of net to keep it back. "But sister, an albatross is not a stork. And I may be Goddess of Demigods, but that doesn't mean I have baby supplies on hand!"

Arsinoe could feel all the puzzle pieces fall into place.

Perseleia had forgotten her indignation and was muttering about keeping a stockpile of baby supplies like she had of blankets, children's toys and survival tools like weaponry, considering the logistics of her storerooms versus how often she'd need to provide a crib as opposed to making do with an empty drawer like Sally Jackson had done, and Arsinoe would usually speak up and help...

"Baby?"

Perseleia paused at the squeak.

"I delivered her to Odysseus and Penelope myself. They're still between Agarista, Agathodora and Ameinodora for her name, but it's only been a few hours. They're absolutely besotted, if you couldn't tell by the names."

She turned to face her fair haired sister. "I believes she may be one of the few Demigods our Queen of Olympus does not hate on sight, she seems to me both a demigod with your blessing and a child of Odysseus and Penelope.

"Baby?"

Realisation dawned in Perseleia's eyes. "Oh. You didn't realise? I found her in a blanket in front of your loom. I assumed you'd woven a child..."

Numbness swept over Arsinoe like their father's tides, and she swayed where she sat.

Perseleia leapt to grab her.

"If you faint here and now, I'll be the one to explain things to Mother." She threatened.

"Baby?"

"Oh for the love of.... Yes. Baby."

---

Next chapter

From Behind the name

Ameinodora- better gift

Alypia- Not sad

Agathylla- good

Agathodora- good gift

Agarista- "very, much" and "best"

[shiorihyugawrites]

Red Regrets

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

Chapter Four

The wind whistled through the dense canopy of tall pines, sending a hush over the secluded clearing where Levi’s squad had set up camp. The wooden cabin stood in the center of a small meadow, its weathered logs blending into the surrounding forest. From a distance, no one would guess that inside, the Scouts were harboring two of the most wanted individuals in all the Walls: Eren Jaeger, the Titan shifter, and Historia Reiss, the girl with mysterious ties to the church.

For the past week, Levi and his squad had been living on edge. Hange was busy with Eren’s experiments, pushing him to transform, but the results were inconsistent and yielded little in the way of groundbreaking discoveries. Meanwhile, Historia paced uneasily by the cabin windows, dreading the moment the government might finally catch up to them. Jean, Connie, and Sasha kept watch on the perimeter, switching out in shifts. Mikasa and Armin aided Hange and Eren when they could, but they also struggled to keep up morale. Tensions ran high, and no one dared to speculate too loudly about what would happen if Commander Erwin was arrested. Or worse, if the monarchy declared the entire Scout Regiment outlawed.

For his part, Levi sat at a battered wooden table in the cabin’s single main room, surrounded by the hush of late afternoon. His elbows rested on the tabletop, fingers steepled in front of his chin. He’d barely slept all week. On paper, he was entirely focused on the mission—he was the squad’s leader, entrusted with Eren’s life, with Historia’s safety. Yet something else gnawed at him every waking moment. Penelope. Preston. Their faces kept forcing their way into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he pictured Penelope’s furious glare, the sting of her accusations in his ears. He recalled the heartbreak in her voice when she reminded him how he had left her. And, looming alongside that guilt, the memory of the redheaded brat who looked so much like him. Preston was his son—Levi had no doubt now. But the knowledge only deepened the ache he felt, because Penelope had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

He wondered if she was all right, if Preston was going to class now or still skipping and getting into fights. But how could he check on them without going against her wishes? A simmering frustration built in him: he was Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, but he felt powerless to mend the damage he had caused.

His train of thought was interrupted when the cabin door creaked open. Jean and Connie shuffled in, carrying small sacks of freshly gathered herbs. Sasha followed behind, a disappointed expression on her face.

“Still no game,” Sasha muttered, tossing her quiver of arrows onto a nearby chair. “I swear, it’s like the wildlife heard we were coming and decided to run for the hills.”

Jean set the herbs down, stretching the kinks out of his back. “Well, it’s better than nothing. Hange can probably use these to help with Eren’s post-transformation headaches.”

Levi regarded them with his usual unreadable expression. “Don’t slack,” he said tersely. “If we can’t hunt, we’ll need to ration what’s left. And be mindful of any tracks. We can’t risk the Military Police finding us.”

Jean and Connie nodded, heading to the far side of the room where they began sorting the herbs. Sasha, momentarily hesitant, picked up her quiver and murmured something about checking her arrows. Then she vanished into the next room.

Silence settled again, broken only by the murmur of hushed voices from Eren and Hange outside as they conducted yet another test of his Titan powers. In the distance, the faint sound of Armin directing Historia on some chore drifted through the open window.

Levi leaned back in his chair, pressing his palms flat against the table. His body practically vibrated with pent-up anxiety. He knew he needed to keep calm, but his thoughts kept straying. He scolded himself for the lapse—this was no time for personal distractions. Yet whenever he tried to refocus on Eren’s plight or Historia’s secret heritage, an image of Penelope inevitably rose in his mind.

He sensed movement in the main room again: Connie and Jean had paused their work and were standing close together, whispering. Their eyes flickered surreptitiously toward Levi. He caught sight of the way Jean’s mouth twisted in a half-smile of curiosity, and Connie’s eyebrows rose as though he were describing something outlandish. Levi’s expression darkened, suspecting they were gossiping about something. Or more specifically, about him.

He allowed them another few moments to continue, feigning disinterest. But eventually, he stood and walked up behind them, silent as a cat. Jean was in mid-sentence. “You remember that kid at HQ? Fiery red hair—”

“Looked kinda like the Captain,” Connie interjected in a hushed tone. “You think—”

They both froze the instant they realized Levi was right behind them. Jean’s face went pale, and Connie hastily cleared his throat. “Uh, Captain… we were just—”

Levi stared down, arms crossed, voice flat. “Just what?”

Jean, swallowing hard, glanced at Connie. “We were just, uh, wondering about that redheaded kid who turned HQ upside down last week. We heard rumors he was looking for you. Then he just… vanished.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed. He had no intention of explaining the truth to them—not yet, anyway. “That is none of your business,” he said calmly, though a cold edge sharpened his words. “He’s not a threat. That’s all you need to know.”

Connie took a half-step back, raising his hands. “Of course, Captain,” he said quickly. “We were just curious. The rest of the squad’s been speculating.”

Levi’s jaw tightened. “Tch. Focus on your duties. Curiosity can get you killed.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door, pushing it open to step outside into the crisp forest air. He didn’t bother glancing back to see Jean and Connie exchange uneasy looks. The truth was, he felt guilty for snapping at them. But the swirl of private turmoil in his mind made him impatient with anything that reminded him of Preston.

The late afternoon sun angled through the clearing, casting long shadows across the grass. A short distance away, Eren was sitting against a tree stump, sweat beading his brow, while Hange scribbled furiously into a notebook. Mikasa hovered nearby, arms folded protectively.

Levi scanned the horizon. If the Military Police or any government dogs came lurking, this vantage point gave him a clear line of sight. There was no immediate sign of danger, though that did little to soothe him. He wanted to do a perimeter check to keep himself busy, but he also felt the urge to walk deeper into the woods alone, if only to gather his thoughts away from everyone else’s prying eyes.

As he stood there, torn between duty and his own tangled emotions, Hange caught sight of him. “Oi, Levi!” she called, waving her free hand enthusiastically. “Come check this out!”

Levi sighed and walked over. Eren glanced up at him, panting slightly from his earlier transformation attempt. Steam still rose faintly from a few superficial cuts on his arm. Hange, ever the fervent scientist, pointed to the notebook. “Eren’s Titan form is responding oddly. He’s having trouble maintaining structure around the wrists and forearms. It’s almost like the Titan’s body is rejecting something.”

Levi’s mind reeled, trying to refocus on the problem at hand. “Could it be fatigue? Or maybe an incomplete command from Eren’s side?”

Eren shrugged, wincing as Mikasa dabbed at a lingering burn on his skin. “I’ve tried different mental images, but it keeps failing. That, plus the fact we have to stay hidden here, means I can’t push too hard or risk drawing attention with a full transformation.”

Hange hummed thoughtfully, scribbling again. “I might need to dissect this further, but that’s a risk in itself. We can’t transform too often, or the MPs might see the steam from miles away.”

Mikasa watched Levi’s face. “Captain,” she said softly, “are you alright? You’ve seemed… tense lately.”

Levi didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze on Eren’s injuries. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Worry about Eren.”

Mikasa fell silent, recognizing that pressing him was futile. Hange, completely immersed in her notes, missed the subtle exchange altogether. She launched into a monologue about Titan physiology, spouting theories that Levi had heard countless times. Ordinarily, he tried to follow the threads of her logic, but today, his thoughts were miles away—back in Wall Sina, with Penelope. He recalled the heartbreak in her eyes, the same gaze that once looked upon him with unwavering devotion.

Eren cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “We’ll keep testing, Captain,” he said, trying to mask the strain in his voice. “Just tell us if you see anything suspicious out there. I’ll do my best to remain inconspicuous.”

Levi nodded. “Don’t push yourself too hard. We don’t need you passing out.”

Hange clapped the notebook shut. “Alright, I think that’s enough for now. Let’s give Eren a break and continue tomorrow morning. I still have to sort through these notes.”

The small group dispersed. Mikasa helped Eren to his feet and guided him back toward the cabin. Hange lingered a moment, adjusting her glasses and peering at Levi with curiosity. “I noticed you’re a bit quiet, even for you,” she ventured. “You doing okay? I know you have a lot going on right now…”

“I’m fine,” Levi answered immediately, the edge in his voice discouraging further inquiry. He turned away, scanning the tree line. “I’m going to do a perimeter check.”

“Understood,” Hange said, though he felt her eyes on him a moment longer. Then she trudged off in the same direction as Eren and Mikasa, flipping through her notes.

Levi walked the perimeter alone, footsteps rustling fallen pine needles. The forest smelled of resin and damp earth, a sharp contrast to the polished floors of the clinic he’d visited last week. His mind kept drifting, conjuring Penelope’s image with painful clarity. In a single moment, she’d reminded him of everything they’d shared and lost. A longing he’d tried to bury came roaring back, a fierce need to protect her and their son, balanced against the sobering truth that she wanted nothing more to do with him.

He paused at a small stream, watching the water ripple over smooth stones. His reflection stared back at him, eyes shadowed with fatigue. Did he truly have the right to force his way back into Penelope’s life, after all he’d done? Did he even have the capacity to be a father, when the only paternal figure he’d known was Kenny—a serial killer who vanished from his life as quickly as he’d appeared?

Levi’s jaw tightened. He recalled the helplessness he’d felt as a child in the Underground, and how Penelope became one of the only bright spots in his grim world. The taste of that memory was bittersweet: she was once everything to him, and now she was a seething reminder of what he’d ruined. The ache in his chest grew sharper. He could respect her wish for distance, but that didn’t dull the longing inside him. And then there was Preston—his son—who deserved the truth, even if that truth was messy and fraught with pain.

A muffled shout from the direction of the cabin snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned instinctively, hand moving toward his blades, until he recognized Jean’s distinct voice. No sign of real danger. Probably another argument over chores or some small mishap. He let out a quiet breath, reminding himself that the safety of Eren and the squad demanded his primary focus. Dwelling on regrets wouldn’t help them survive.

And yet, he knew he couldn’t let the matter rest forever. Once the looming threat of the government had been handled—one way or another—he would go back. He had to, no matter how many times Penelope tried to kick him out. The only question was whether she’d ever be willing to give him a second chance, or at least let him be part of Preston’s life. Part of him doubted it. But hope, frail as a candle flame, refused to die in the depths of his chest.

Levi turned away from the stream, continuing his patrol. The forest seemed endless, silent except for the occasional rustle of wildlife. He walked deeper, scanning the surroundings with a soldier’s vigilance. Yet in the back of his mind, thoughts of Penelope lingered like a haunting refrain, and he knew that no matter what lay ahead for the Scout Regiment, a different sort of battle awaited him when it came to the woman he’d once protected—and the family he’d left behind.

…

The forest was eerily quiet that night, save for the occasional rustle of leaves whispering in the breeze and the distant chirp of insects. The air was crisp and cold, the kind that sank into your bones and made you want to wrap yourself in every blanket you could find. But Levi was unfazed. He stood on the porch of the cabin, leaning against one of the worn wooden beams with his arms folded tightly across his chest, keeping his sharp eyes fixed on the dark treeline beyond. His blade was strapped to his hip out of habit, and his breath came out in soft, slow puffs as he scanned the area for any sign of movement. The moon hung low above them, half-hidden behind the shifting clouds.

This was always his time—the middle of the night when everyone else slept and the weight of leadership pressed down the hardest. It gave him space to think, though lately, his thoughts were the last thing he wanted to be left alone with.

Penelope. Preston. Their faces had been burned into his mind since the moment he left her clinic. He couldn’t stop replaying her words, the slap she nearly delivered, the bitterness in her eyes. And Preston… the way the brat looked at him, equal parts hopeful and confused, as if waiting for Levi to step up and claim something he wasn't sure he had the right to claim.

Levi was so lost in thought he almost didn’t hear the soft creak of the cabin door opening behind him.

“Oi,” Hange’s familiar voice called quietly. “Mind some company?”

Levi barely turned his head. “Tch. Do what you want.”

She stepped out into the night, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her glasses glinted faintly in the moonlight as she joined him by the railing, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the wooden beam, peering out at the trees like she might see whatever it was Levi had been staring at for the past hour.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she said after a moment, her tone casual but not unkind. “And, yeah, yeah, I know—you’re always quiet. But this is… different.”

Levi didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the dark horizon. “We’ve got a lot on our plates.”

“We do,” Hange agreed, nodding. “But you’re not thinking about Eren. Or Historia. Or the government breathing down our necks. Don’t bother denying it.”

He gave her a sideways glance but didn’t argue. There was no point. Hange wasn’t a fool.

She shifted, casting him a small, knowing smile. “How’s Dr. Iverson?”

Levi’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he contemplated brushing it off. But what was the use? Hange already knew. She and Erwin were the only ones who did. “She told me to stay away,” he muttered, voice low. “And she meant it.”

Hange hummed softly, rocking on her heels. “Can’t blame her. You did kinda abandon her, huh?”

Levi shot her a glare, but Hange just shrugged, unbothered. “What? I’m not wrong. You really know how to make a mess of things.”

Levi sighed, running a hand down his face. “Yeah. I know.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, the night pressing in around them. Somewhere inside the cabin, a floorboard creaked, probably Jean turning over in his sleep. Levi closed his eyes briefly, wishing for just a moment of peace from his own mind. But Hange wasn’t done yet.

“I gotta admit,” she said, grinning now as she nudged him with her elbow, “I didn’t think you had it in you back then. You? Of all people? Falling for someone like her?”

Levi raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on,” Hange laughed softly. “She’s… well, you know. Gorgeous. Brilliant. Fiery as hell. You, meanwhile, have the personality of a brick wall and the charm of a feral cat.”

Levi scoffed under his breath. “Tch. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” she continued, clearly enjoying herself now. “Back in your youth, I bet you thought you were pretty smooth, huh? How’d you manage to pull someone like Dr. Iverson? I mean, seriously. You’ve been scowling since the day I met you.”

Levi shook his head, looking back out at the trees. “I didn’t ‘pull her’. She chose me.”

That earned a thoughtful pause from Hange. She looked at him with something almost like respect. “Huh. Guess that makes sense. She seems like the type who goes after what she wants.”

“She did,” Levi said quietly. “I was just some punk kid in the Underground. She could’ve looked right past me. But she didn’t.”

Hange tilted her head. “You loved her.”

Still do, Levi thought but didn’t say. Instead, he gave the smallest nod. “Yeah.”

Hange leaned back against the railing, watching him with an uncharacteristically soft gaze. “You ever think about trying to eventually fix things with her? I mean, now that you know about Preston…”

Levi closed his eyes briefly. “Every damn day.”

She gave a short laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence again, the kind that only old friends could share without it feeling heavy. Levi appreciated that Hange didn’t press him too hard. She knew when to back off, even if she had a tendency to push his buttons.

“I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me,” Levi admitted after a long pause. “And maybe she shouldn’t. But... I can’t just pretend like it never happened. Like Preston isn’t mine.”

“Good,” Hange said, adjusting her glasses. “Because whether she forgives you or not, that kid deserves to know his father. And I think you’re better at this kind of thing than you give yourself credit for.”

Levi shot her a skeptical look.

“Well,” she amended with a grin, “not much better. But better.”

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Tch. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime, Captain.” She patted his arm before turning back toward the door. “Get some rest when you can, alright? Even brooding needs sleep.”

Levi grunted in acknowledgment but didn’t move from his spot. Hange slipped back inside, leaving him alone with the night, the cold air, and the ache in his chest that hadn’t eased since the moment he laid eyes on Penelope again.

He glanced up at the stars overhead, wondering if she was looking at the same sky, wondering if Preston had gone to bed already, if she’d finally managed to stop being angry long enough to just... breathe.

Levi knew he couldn’t stay away forever. Sooner or later, he was going back. Whether Penelope liked it or not, they had unfinished business.

And this time, he wasn’t running from it.

…

A few days later, Penelope settled into her chair, exhaling a quiet sigh as she watched the last of her young medical students leave the clinic. Their eager voices still rang in her ears, that mixture of excitement and anxiety she remembered so vividly from her own days as an up-and-coming medical prodigy. She ran a hand over her desk, smoothing out the scattered lecture notes. Despite the lingering chaos on her work surface, the clinic felt oddly calm. It was nearing the end of the day, and she was looking forward to a peaceful evening at home with Preston.

She had sent her nurse off early, wanting to give the woman a little free time before the sun fully set. Besides, Penelope anticipated little to no foot traffic at this hour. In theory, the only person who should be stepping inside was Preston. He often finished school a bit later than other kids his age because he was involved in additional studies and extracurricular activities. Lately, though, she’d noticed he wasn’t as keen on those extra commitments—no doubt distracted by everything that had happened involving Captain Levi.

Levi Ackerman. The name sent a flood of conflicting emotions through her chest. She rested her elbows on the desk and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? She hated him, or at least she told herself she did. But under that anger lived a different kind of pain—one that still stung every time she recalled his touch, his fierce protectiveness, his rare, warm smiles that had once been reserved for her alone. She told herself it was better to stay away, that letting him back in would only risk more heartbreak. Preston deserved stability, not a father who might vanish into the chaos of Titan battles, leaving them both broken.

She inhaled, deciding to set those thoughts aside. Preston had been on better behavior lately, attending school without skipping and coming home at a reasonable hour. Perhaps, she mused, they could head out to dinner or just spend the night cooking a meal together. She wanted to reward him, maybe buy him that pastry he always ogled through the bakery window. Something normal, something happy to wash away the tension that had settled between them in the aftermath of Levi’s sudden return.

The chime of the front door broke her reverie. She smiled to herself and stood, stretching her stiff back. “Preston?” she called, her voice echoing in the clinic’s small lobby. “You’re early for once. Did you—”

Silence. No answer. That was odd. Preston usually replied with some sarcastic retort or at least a grumble. Penelope took a few steps forward, edging out of her office and into the front corridor. Perhaps he was teasing her, playing a trick. She allowed the barest hint of a smile to tug at her lips. “Preston, don’t ignore me,” she said, scanning the hallway. “I’m not in the mood for hide-and-seek.”

Still nothing. The quiet was unsettling. Her smile faded, replaced by an uneasy knot in her stomach. She cleared her throat and rounded the corner into the waiting area. “Preston?” she tried again, voice tightening. “If you’re trying to scare me, cut it out.”

Then she saw him.

Her heart lurched in her chest as her gaze landed on Preston. He stood near the entrance, gagged with a cloth that wrapped around the lower half of his face. His eyes were wide and terrified. His hands, bound behind his back, struggled against the rope that cut into his wrists. The sight nearly knocked the breath out of her.

“Mom!” he mumbled through the cloth, his voice muffled but desperate.

Behind Preston stood a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. His face was shadowed by the brim, but what little she could see of his features was etched with a smug confidence. Around him, three other figures in black uniforms lingered, each armed with strange, compact gear that Penelope had never seen before. It looked like the Omni-Directional Mobility Gear that many soldiers used, but modified in some lethal, specialized way.

Penelope’s gaze snapped back to Preston, who was trembling, his shoulders stiff. Fury and fear slammed through her in equal measure. Without hesitation, she took a step forward. “Let him go,” she demanded, voice low and sharp. “Now.”

The tall man tilted his head, revealing more of his angular jaw and the lines around his cold eyes. “Evening,” he drawled, voice tinged with amusement. “You must be Dr. Iverson. Heard a bit about you.” He tightened his grip on Preston’s collar, making the boy flinch. “We’ll be taking you and your brat for a little ride.”

Penelope’s fists clenched. She fought to keep her composure, though her rage surged dangerously. “I don’t know who you are,” she ground out, “but you need to leave before I notify the Military Police. If you—”

The man barked out a laugh, loud and mocking. “Oh, sweetheart, we are the Military Police.” One of his associates, a woman with short blonde hair, snickered at Penelope’s reaction. “Name’s Kenny,” the tall man added. “Kenny Ackerman, to be precise. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Penelope’s stomach twisted at the last name. Ackerman? Like Levi? She struggled to remain calm, refusing to show fear. “If you work for the Military Police, there’s no reason to hold us hostage,” she said carefully, casting a worried glance at her son. “Whatever you want, you can’t just break in here—”

Kenny waved a hand dismissively. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I can do whatever I want.” He then nodded to the blonde woman at his side. “Caven, be a dear and bring our good doctor along.”

Caven stepped forward, and Penelope’s instincts kicked into overdrive. In a flash, Penelope reached into the pocket of her coat, finding the small scalpel she always kept on her person. The moment Caven stretched out her hand, Penelope slashed at her, slicing through the fabric of the woman’s uniform and into the flesh of her arm. Caven hissed in pain and jerked back, blood staining the black fabric.

“You little—” Caven began, but Penelope was already moving, aiming the scalpel at Kenny himself. She might not have been a soldier, but growing up in the Underground, plus her medical knowledge, gave her enough nerve to fight back.

Kenny smirked, stepping aside with practiced ease. Before Penelope could adjust her angle, another squad member lunged in from behind, pressing a cloth against her mouth. The chemical odor assaulted her senses immediately, sickly sweet and overpowering. She tried to struggle, tried to twist away, but her body weakened as the substance invaded her lungs.

Her scalpel clattered to the floor, and her vision blurred. She heard Preston shout something muffled through the gag, but she could barely make sense of it. Kenny’s figure swam into her line of sight. As her knees buckled, he caught her with an almost mocking gentleness.

“Feisty one, ain’t she,” Kenny remarked, eyeing her with amusement. He reached up and fingered a lock of her rose-red hair. “Such a pretty color.” In one swift motion, he drew a knife and sawed through a portion of her hair, pocketing the severed strands. “Might need this later.”

Penelope tried to speak, to curse at him, but the drug’s potency overwhelmed her. Darkness crowded her vision, and she sank into unconsciousness, her last coherent thought a desperate concern for Preston’s safety.

Preston watched in horror as his mother slumped in Kenny’s arms. Tears gathered in his eyes, though he refused to let them fall. Fear and anger churned in his chest. He struggled uselessly against the ropes binding his wrists, wanting nothing more than to lash out at the tall man who held his mother captive.

“Don’t hurt her,” he tried to say, voice muffled by the gag.

Kenny’s gaze slid over to the boy, an unsettling grin forming on his lips. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said, though there was no warmth in his tone. “As long as she cooperates, she’ll be fine. We just need to get the attention of a certain Captain Levi.”

Preston’s heart stuttered. Levi. This had something to do with him? He glared back, though with the gag in place, he could only manage muffled noises of protest. Two members of the squad grabbed him by the arms, dragging him toward the door while Kenny carried the unconscious Penelope.

Outside, a dark carriage waited. The horse snorted, stomping a hoof as the group approached. The driver, a wiry man with a patchy beard, opened the carriage doors. Kenny climbed in first, settling Penelope onto the seat with a casual air, as if she were some package he’d picked up. Caven, nursing her wounded arm, slipped in beside him, grimacing at the blood on her uniform.

Preston was forced in next, shoved onto the bench opposite his mother, still gagged and bound. The last two members of the squad followed, their menacing presence crowding the cramped interior. One of them slammed the doors shut.

“Move,” Kenny barked to the driver, and the carriage lurched forward.

Preston winced at the rough motion, staring helplessly at his mother, who remained unconscious, her head lolling against the seat. The severed lock of her rose-red hair in Kenny’s coat pocket was a vivid reminder of how vulnerable they were. Despair washed over Preston, followed by a burst of fierce determination. If Levi truly cared about them at all, maybe he’d come. If not… he didn’t want to think about what might happen.

Kenny leaned back, resting a hand on his hat. “Showtime,” he murmured, an almost gleeful edge to his voice. “Let’s see if that little runt got any heart left in that cold chest of his.”

Preston swallowed hard, closing his eyes. His mother’s limp form was the only reason he didn’t thrash about. He knew any sudden movement might provoke these people into hurting her more. Silent tears threatened to spill as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, carrying them away to an unknown fate. All he could do was pray that someone would come for them—someone with the strength and resolve to shatter this terrible nightmare.

…

A few hours later…

Levi crouched low on the slanted rooftop, the evening sky painted in deep purples and reds behind him. Nifa knelt at his side, warily scanning the deserted streets below. The air felt tense—he and Nifa had come here to regroup, to decide their next move now that the government was after Eren and Historia. His mind was swirling with a thousand concerns: the fact that they were severely outnumbered, that they didn’t know who to trust, and, uncomfortably, the memory of Penelope and Preston. It had been days since he’d heard anything about them, and the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to subside.

“Captain Levi,” Nifa murmured, glancing at him with apprehension. “Are you sure we should be out in the open like this? The Military Police—”

She never finished.

A thunderous crack sliced through the hush. Levi’s soldier instincts kicked in too late—Nifa’s eyes widened, and she collapsed forward onto the roof tiles. Blood spattered across the bricks, and Levi’s heart pounded. He lunged toward her, but she was gone before he could utter a word. The shot had taken her clean through the head.

He twisted, scanning frantically for the shooter. A second shot ricocheted off a chimney near his shoulder, forcing him to roll away. Crouching behind a stone outcropping, he craned his neck and spotted a familiar silhouette perched on a higher rooftop across the narrow street. Wide-brimmed hat, long coat, bristling with weapons. Levi’s blood ran cold.

“KENNY!” he growled as he threw his blade, the name thick with a mixture of rage and an old bitterness. Of course it had to be him. His old mentor, or tormentor, depending on how you looked at it. A man who taught him the darkness of the underground, the brutality of survival.

He had no time to mourn Nifa. Another bullet whizzed past, forcing him to dart to the roof’s edge. He heard Kenny’s laughter echo off the stone walls—sharp, mocking, and chilling. Leviheard the cracking of rooftiles as he launched himself into the air, using his ODM gear to pivot around a rising spire. With one final glance at the fallen bodies of his squadmate, Levi sped off, desperate to find cover.

Below, the city streets erupted in chaos. Civilians scattered at the sound of gunfire echoing between tall buildings. Levi angled toward a main boulevard just in time to see a horse-drawn carriage tearing away, the top shredded by grappling hooks. Inside that carriage, Eren and Historia were visible for only an instant before tranquilizer darts took them down. Levi recognized their expressions—shock, confusion, and then sudden unconsciousness. His jaw clenched as he realized the carriage driver was also killed. Another shot from above forced Levi to yank on his ODM triggers, soaring sideways to avoid being gunned down.

He caught a glimpse of more black-clad individuals—Kenny’s Anti-Personnel Control Squad—swooping in with specially modified gear of their own. The carriage careened around a corner, Eren and Historia slumped inside. Levi lunged after it, hooking onto a tall clock tower, but then two more members of Kenny’s squad intercepted him midair. Their guns boomed, and Levi contorted his body to avoid the deadly barrage. Smoke filled the alleyway from the constant firing of rifles. Levi’s mind raced: Eren and Historia were being taken away, and he was running out of time.

A bullet tore through the edge of his head, narrowly missing flesh. Levi hissed in frustration, forced to retreat. He veered sharply onto a side street, zipping between narrow gaps. The enemy was persistent, grappling after him, the staccato bursts of gunfire trailing him. He spotted a small, unassuming sign for a bar up ahead. Without a second thought, he fired his ODM gear and dove inside the establishment’s door, landing in a crouch on the counter.

Startled cries erupted from the patrons and the bartender. Levi lifted a hand, signaling them to keep quiet before diving behind the bar. Outside, the clamoring footsteps of Kenny’s squad approached. He drew a long breath, trying to compose himself amid the adrenaline surging through his veins. Then came the creak of the door. Kenny busted in, his boots clacking against the worn floorboards. The patrons froze, and even the bartender looked paralyzed by fear.

Kenny’s voice, rich with twisted amusement, filled the bar. “Levi, my boy, come out now. Don’t make me ruin this fine establishment.”

Levi didn’t move, but he peered through a gap in the bar’s wooden paneling. He could see Kenny from the knees down, the tall boots, the edge of that signature coat.

“Got your attention with that little greeting on the rooftops,” Kenny went on. “But I’ve got something else to show you.” There was a pause, and Levi heard a rustling of fabric. “Maybe you’ll recognize this.”

Levi peeked farther, and his heart clamped in his chest. In Kenny’s hand was a small lock of rose-red hair, the ends haphazardly cut. Levi knew that color immediately. Penelope. The sight struck him like a fist to the gut.

“See, I caught you sneaking around that little clinic a while back,” Kenny drawled. “Never pegged you for the type to get attached to a woman. Especially a taller one, heh. Must be awkward for a short runt like you.” He cackled at his own barb. “But it’s real, isn’t it? You got a taste for that fancy doctor. Real pretty lady, from what I’ve seen, and quite the fighter. She knifed one of my people, if you can believe that.”

Levi’s chest tightened, fury coiling in his gut. So Kenny was behind the disappearance. He swore under his breath. “You bastard,” he muttered, voice barely audible as he tried to steel himself.

Kenny continued, savoring every word. “Y’know, I taught you better than to form attachments. You do, and you end up in situations like this.” He held up the lock of hair again. “Her and that brat of hers… well, they won’t last long if you don’t make things real easy for me. Hand over Eren Jaeger. Hand over that brat Historia Reiss. And you and the rest of your Scout buddies can turn yourselves in. Otherwise, I’ll be shipping Dr. Iverson and her son out in little pieces.”

Levi’s blood roared in his ears. He had expected blackmail from the government, from the Military Police. But never had he anticipated that Kenny would find Penelope—and Preston too—and use them as leverage. A wave of guilt washed over him. This was exactly what he’d tried to prevent all those years ago, and now it was coming to pass in the worst possible way.

Kenny let out a long sigh. “Levi, if you’re listening, I know you got a heart in there somewhere. Doesn’t matter how much you pretend otherwise. You can come out and talk like a civilized man. Or… we can do this the hard way.”

There was a moment of silence. The bar’s patrons cowered in corners, too terrified to move. The bartender had ducked behind the counter as well, trembling. Levi carefully exchanged a glance with him, nodding at an old shotgun near the man’s knee. The bartender’s eyes flicked to it, then he pushed it toward Levi with shaking hands.

Kenny’s footsteps thudded, drawing closer to Levi’s hiding spot. “Alright then,” he said slowly, “looks like you need a little coaxing.”

Levi flung the shotgun upside down, firing from beneath the counter. Kenny had been expecting an attack, but not quite from that angle. The gun’s muzzle flashed, smoke billowing up. Kenny quickly grabbed a chair to dodge but the force of the bullet blasted into the chair, sending him reeling backward. He was slammed outside, toppling on the ground and spattering the concrete with his blood. 

One of his squad members lunged forward to return fire, but Levi tossed a chair outside.  The man’s eyes went wide as he was suddenly impaled by a grappling hook and blood darkened his shirt as Levi then used his body as a human shield from the other squad members’ bullets.

Bullets peppered the night, striking the window frame and sending shards of broken glass onto the street. Levi hit the ground in a crouch, adrenaline singing in his veins. The city was in uproar, with gunfire and shouts coming from multiple directions.

He swiftly replaced his ODM blades. The cables hissed, taut and ready. Launching a hook at a nearby building, he flew upward, scanning the dark sky. Off in the distance, he spotted movement—a wagon, perhaps, and glimpses of Anti-Personnel squad silhouettes. Eren and Historia were in that direction. But Penelope and Preston? They could be anywhere, either stashed away in some cell or en route to who knew where. The thought of them alone in Kenny’s clutches threatened to unsettle his focus, but he forced himself to stay sharp.

Landing lightly on a rooftop, Levi spotted two more Anti-Personnel members flanking a side street. They raised their guns, but Levi zig-zagged in midair, letting off a well-timed thrust from his gear that sent him hurtling between them. Before they could reload, he crossed his blades through both of their chests, blood arcing across the moonlit sky. Their bodies tumbled onto the deserted pavement below.

Gasping for breath, Levi paused only for a moment, listening for the roar of more gunfire. His Special Operation Squad was somewhere close by, responding to the commotion. He heard a distant shout—Armin’s voice, raw with alarm. Then the thunder of more shots. In the next few seconds, Levi glimpsed Jean and Armin grappling onto a wagon, presumably the same one carrying Eren and Historia. Armin fired a shot, and Levi flinched, hoping it wasn’t wasted. Yet more Anti-Personnel soldiers emerged, forcing Levi’s squad to retreat under heavy fire.

Levi surged forward, hooking onto the wagon’s frame in a desperate attempt to help, but the hail of bullets and the sudden arrival of additional enemies forced him to swerve off course. Seeing the situation was untenable, Levi signaled for his squad to break away. There were too many of Kenny’s soldiers. He and Sasha grabbed Armin and Jean and scrambled off the wagon, each of them white-faced, while Mikasa covered their escape with ODM maneuvers and swift blade strikes. Unable to seize Eren and Historia, they had no choice but to concede the battle… for the moment.

Landing in a secluded courtyard, Levi regrouped with Mikasa, Armin, Jean, and Sasha, all of them breathing hard. Gunshots still resonated in the distance. They exchanged grim looks—Eren and Historia were gone, and Levi’s mind spun with the knowledge that Penelope and Preston had also been taken, used as bargaining chips in a twisted game orchestrated by Kenny.

Armin spoke first, voice trembling, “Captain, what do we do? They took Eren and Historia. That wagon—”

Jean swallowed, finishing the thought, “It’s already out of sight.”

Levi’s expression remained cold, but inside, he was anything but calm. “We regroup,” he ordered, scanning the dark rooftops. “We find out where they’re taking Eren and Historia.” His jaw clenched. “And we deal with Kenny… no matter what it takes.”

Sasha noticed the flicker in his eyes. “Captain Levi, are you… are you okay?” she ventured. She had never seen quite that kind of rage in him before.

His chest heaved, adrenaline still surging through his veins. That lock of Penelope’s red hair flashed in his mind’s eye, mocking him. She was in danger because of him. Preston, too. The idea of them hurt or dead under Kenny’s watch made him sick. He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, forcing himself to steady.

No. He wouldn’t let that happen. He’d figure out a way, no matter how impossible it seemed. Eren and Historia were crucial to the Scouts, yes, but Penelope and Preston meant more to him than he’d ever admitted. Even if Penelope’s hatred burned strong, he couldn’t let her and their son die at the hands of that sadistic man.

But Levi said nothing of Penelope or Preston. The weight of that personal crisis bore down on him, threatening to shatter his composure. He would not reveal his vulnerability, not here, not now. He simply tightened his grip on the hilts of his blades. “I’m fine,” he lied flatly. “Let’s move.”

Without another word, he led them into the labyrinth of streets, determined to track down any lead on the whereabouts of Eren, Historia, and the family he had unwittingly placed in mortal peril. He could hear Kenny’s mocking voice echoing in his ears, see that lock of red hair, and it nearly drove him mad. But he swallowed the rage, forcing himself into the mindset of a soldier.

For now, they had a mission: rescue Eren and Historia from government forces. But in the back of Levi’s mind, a second mission burned just as brightly, perhaps even more so: saving Penelope and Preston from the cruel grip of the man who once taught him how to kill, and how to survive. One thing was certain—he would not rest until he set things right, even if it meant carving through every last adversary who stood in his way.

~

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[mariacallous]

Pedro Escobar Blanco, one of two hundred and thirty-eight Venezuelans deported by the Trump Administration to a maximum-security prison in El Salvador on March 15th, never met the lawyer who is representing him in U.S. immigration court. They haven’t spoken by phone or texted or communicated through an intermediary. He almost certainly isn’t aware that he’s being represented at all. Yet, a month after he entered Salvadoran custody, an immigration judge in Southern California held a hearing on his asylum case. Escobar Blanco wasn’t in attendance—no one has seen or heard from him since he was sent to El Salvador—and the judge, citing his absence, ordered him removed from the country.

Judges regularly issue deportation orders in absentia for people who are on what’s called the non-detained docket. These individuals have already been released from detention on the condition that they later appear in immigration court. However, if a person is in the custody of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, as Escobar Blanco had been since October, 2024, he cannot possibly show up for a court date unless the government lets him. The judge’s logic—penalizing him for not being there—made little sense. It also meant that he would be barred from entering the U.S. for the next ten years. “I objected,” Andreana Sarkis, Escobar Blanco’s lawyer, said in a subsequent declaration. “His ‘failure to appear’ was through no fault of his own, but rather through ICE’s failure to produce him.”

The government had deported Escobar Blanco on the basis of a proclamation that Donald Trump had signed in secret, on March 14th. Escobar Blanco was accused of belonging to the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua. Under the Alien Enemies Act of 1798, the government claimed that, in effect, it didn’t need to present the actual evidence against him. Sarkis could only surmise that the allegations were related to his tattoos, which included a nautical star on each shoulder, and the names of his parents and his two children, who are ten and thirteen.

The majority of the Venezuelans sent to El Salvador had pending cases in U.S. immigration courts. In the weeks since their disappearance, lawyers across the country have mobilized to represent as many of them as possible. The work mainly consisted of showing up to hearings in their place and explaining to judges where their clients are. To date, the Trump Administration has refused to share the names of the men it has sent to El Salvador. The current list, which is the result of reporting by CBS news and whose accuracy the government still won’t confirm, is incomplete.

“Ghosts” is how one attorney involved in the advocacy effort described her clients. By such standards, Escobar Blanco is considered lucky: a lawyer was at least available to appear on his behalf in immigration court (many of the men lack even that), and the judge issued an order that can theoretically be challenged (other outcomes can be harder to contest). Sarkis, who in six years of practicing law has never before represented a client with whom she couldn’t speak, took on Escobar Blanco’s case two days before the hearing. When Escobar Blanco entered the country, in July, 2024, he did so exactly as the U.S. government had instructed, scheduling an appointment with border authorities. In his case, this led him to wait in Mexico for ten months before he was finally interviewed, screened, and eventually allowed in. He seems to have been apprehended in a worksite raid near San Diego last October; it isn’t fully clear why he wouldn’t have had work papers at the time. “What’s so shocking to me is that I’m seeing no criminal history, no affiliation with any criminal organization,” Sarkis said. “He did everything he was supposed to.”

At the center of the initiative to organize legal representation for the Venezuelans is Michelle Brané, an attorney and longtime immigrants’-rights advocate who helped lead the effort to locate the families separated at the border during the first Trump Administration. When Joe Biden entered the White House and promised to reunite them, Brané joined the Department of Homeland Security, as the executive director of the Family Reunification Task Force. Now she works at Together and Free, a nonprofit that describes its mission as providing “emergency and ongoing support to asylum seeking families impacted by federal immigration policies.”

In February, before the Alien Enemies Act went into effect, Brané and her colleagues were trying to identify a group of nearly two hundred Venezuelans whom the Trump Administration had sent to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. The White House had described the men, without evidence, as criminals and threats to public security, and held many of them in the same units once reserved for alleged Al Qaeda terrorists. Brané, who’d begun hearing from the detainees’ family members, connected them to litigators at the American Civil Liberties Union, which filed a lawsuit.

The A.C.L.U. sued the Trump Administration again on March 15th, hours after the President invoked the Alien Enemies Act. A federal judge promptly ordered the government to halt the first deportation flights and to turn around any aircraft that had already left Texas, where the detainees were being held. The Administration ignored the order, and three planes full of men landed in San Salvador in the hours that followed. Early the next morning, Nayib Bukele, the President of El Salvador, posted videos of them being marched into a notoriously brutal Salvadoran prison called the Terrorism Confinement Center. “The calls came in immediately,” Brané told me. “The first few cases were primarily people who saw a video and said, ‘My brother or my son was in there.’ Then we started to hear from people who hadn’t seen their family member in a video, but the pattern fit.”

Escobar Blanco’s wife, children, and sister fell into the latter camp: none of them had spotted him in any of the footage. His sister Mariela, who lives in Venezuela, told me that she and Escobar Blanco had spoken nearly every day since he left for the U.S. The only time they lost touch had been when he was travelling through the Darién Gap, a treacherous stretch of jungle between Colombia and Panama. One night in early March she received a call from him. “I don’t understand anything, Mari,” he said. He’d just been transferred from California to Texas, and he told her that the government was planning to deport him and a group of other men to Venezuela because “they were related to the Tren de Aragua gang.” He and his sister are from the state of La Guaira, on the northern coast of Venezuela. “We didn’t have the remotest idea of who these people really were,” she told me, of the gang. A few days later, she stopped hearing from her brother altogether.

On the night of March 14th, a friend that Escobar Blanco had made while in custody called her with an update. The detainees were about to board a plane at the airport—bound for Venezuela, they were told—when ICE officers led them back to the detention center because of bad weather. “He’s still in line because they have to re-register us to bring us back inside,” the friend told her. “There are a lot of us, so it’ll probably take a while. But they told us that any moment, between Sunday and Monday, we’ll be in Venezuela.” Mariela told me, “They didn’t arrive, and the rumors began about the flights to El Salvador. I said to myself, ‘Wow, my brother has to be there because where else is he? Why isn’t he in touch with us?’ ”

Brané and her team began compiling lists based on the calls they received. This was almost exactly how her work had begun during the family-separation crisis in 2018. Then, as now, the government didn’t have a credible or comprehensive account of who it had swept up while executing its plans. In 2018, the cause was a mix of incompetence, negligence, and a general lack of political will; this time, it appears to be more calculated. “All of this is about power,” Brané said. “It’s about showing they don’t have to play the game.”

Brané and the other advocates at her organization began building out detailed profiles of about fifty names on their list. They obtained copies of the men’s Venezuelan I.D.s, spoke to their family members, conducted background checks in Venezuela, coördinated with gang experts and investigative journalists, and searched an Interpol database. They also conducted research in Chile, Colombia, and Peru, where some of the men had lived or travelled before reaching the U.S.

The men were initially detained for a range of different reasons. Some were picked up during traffic stops; others had been apprehended as “collaterals” when ICE had been looking for someone else. The overwhelming majority of the men that Brané and her team looked into had no criminal records. In many instances, the advocates and researchers turned up minor or ambiguous infractions. Two men had once been accused of robbery in a Venezuelan news article, but were apparently never charged. One teen-ager had a marijuana charge in Chile. There were a few exceptions: two men had records of domestic violence, and someone else had been arrested in an alleged hit-and-run incident. One case involved a man in New York who had been charged with the possession of a firearm, but the charge was dropped. “He was held at Rikers Island and handed over to ICE, thanks to the new position of the New York Mayor,” Brané said.

The advocates kept spreadsheets with basic information about each individual and the date and time of any upcoming court hearing. The idea was to try to keep cases open for as long as possible, then to get them formally paused. But at the hearings, the lawyers were frequently stunned by how government attorneys described the whereabouts of the men in question.

On March 19th, Monique Sherman, a managing attorney at the Rocky Mountain Immigrant Advocacy Network, attended a proceeding at an ICE detention center in Aurora, Colorado, for a man named Jefferson Laya Freites, whose case was eventually dismissed. “The judge called his name and he didn’t walk forward, because he wasn’t there,” she told me. Sherman told the judge that Laya Freites’s wife had recognized him in a video from the Salvadoran prison. But when the judge asked the D.H.S. attorney to respond, according to a report in USA Today, she said only that Laya Freites had been released to “local authorities.” Sherman told me, “D.H.S. said three times that he was in local-law-enforcement custody. I said I was in touch with the man’s wife. She’s desperate to be in touch with him. If he’s in law-enforcement custody, can the government tell us where he is? The D.H.S. attorney said that, for privacy reasons, she couldn’t.”

Margaret Cargioli, of the Immigrant Defenders Law Center, was representing Miguel Rojas-Mendoza, who had Temporary Protected Status when he was deported to El Salvador. His mother told me that she had called him after Trump won the election last year, and begged him to be careful. He was living in Louisiana at the time. “Don’t worry, mama,” he replied. “I’ll be fine. I have T.P.S.” Local police records from January and February indicate that he had been arrested for driving with an expired license plate and without a proper license. When Cargioli got Rojas-Mendoza’s file, the day before a virtual hearing, on April 8th, she hadn’t yet seen photos of him. After the judge appeared, another box popped up on her computer screen showing a room at the Winn Correctional Center, in Louisiana, where Rojas-Mendoza had been held before his transfer to Texas, the previous month. “I see a man, a little distant from the screen, sitting at a table,” Cargioli said. “Next to him was a detention officer. He was holding a piece of paper.” For a fleeting moment, Cargioli thought the advocates might have made a mistake; her new client appeared to be in the U.S. Then the detention officer said, “Oh, no. This is the wrong person.” The screen in Louisiana clicked off. During the hearing, Cargioli asked the D.H.S. lawyer where Rojas-Mendoza was. “I don’t have any information,” the lawyer replied.

It is possible that, in the days after the first three planes of deportees left for El Salvador, some government lawyers didn’t know where the men in their cases were. ICE has a detainee locator that shows only where someone is being held in the U.S.; once that person is deported he no longer appears in the system. After news organizations such as CBS started publishing lists of names, however, the government appeared to take a more deliberate stance. By the end of March, Sherman told me, D.H.S. lawyers were using a “canned” phrase about the men “not being here” and asking to hold cases “in abeyance.” They rarely elaborated or departed from the script.

In the last several weeks, government lawyers may have developed a new strategy—to persuade judges to dismiss cases. “It’s sneaky and it’s wicked,” Ann García, a staff attorney at the National Immigration Project, told me. “The D.H.S. attorney is saying either ‘We no longer want to pursue this case for deportation and we’re exercising our prosecutorial discretion to withdraw the charges here’ or ‘We request dismissal of the case because the immigrant is no longer in the United States,’ which is ridiculous because ICE disappeared the person.” In the case of a removal order, like the one Escobar Blanco received, there is a legal path within the immigration system to file a motion to reopen the case. Dismissals essentially remove cases from the immigration courts. You can technically appeal a dismissal, but, as García said, “it’s unlikely the current immigration appellate body would review that decision fairly.” Without a removal order, she went on, “a federal court of appeals is unlikely to have jurisdiction.”

On April 7th, the Supreme Court delivered a mild rebuke to the President. Those who were charged as “alien enemies,” the Justices found, still had to be notified before they were deported. But the Justices didn’t specify what such a notice was supposed to include, or how men in custody, with limited access to lawyers, could actually respond. A few weeks later, after a federal judge in the southern district of Texas issued a temporary restraining order against the government, preventing it from deporting more Venezuelans under the Alien Enemies Act, the Administration moved one group of detainees to a facility in the northern district of Texas. ICE then distributed notices to them in English, hours before trying to take them to an airport. The notices provided no information about what the prisoners could do to see or to dispute the evidence against them.

At this point, the Supreme Court intervened to halt the deportations. By then, some three hundred people had already been sent to El Salvador, including seventeen more men deported on March 30th, ten others deported in mid-April, and a Salvadoran father of three named Kilmar Abrego Garcia, who had been deported, on March 15th, by mistake. His case prompted a separate lawsuit that also reached the Supreme Court; in a nine-to-zero decision, the Justices ordered the Administration to “facilitate” his return to the U.S.

In the past few weeks, Brané and her colleagues have been learning about new, previously unreported instances of people sent to El Salvador. Late last month, the Times published a story about Ricardo Prada Vásquez, a thirty-two-year-old food-delivery worker living in Michigan who was sent to El Salvador on March 15th. He hadn’t appeared on the CBS list, flight manifests, or government accounts of recent transfers made from immigration custody. Neither had Neiyerver Adrian Leon Rengel, a Venezuelan living in Texas, whose disappearance was confirmed by reporting in the Miami Herald. As Brané put it, “Who knows how many more there are?”

Like Brané, Ann García has spent the last seven years trying to find all the families who were separated at the border during the first Trump Administration. “I still can’t tell you how many families were separated,” she told me. “One of the scary parts of the current situation is that the government won’t tell us anything.” At a Cabinet meeting on Wednesday, a journalist asked Marco Rubio, the Secretary of State, if he had spoken to the Salvadoran government about returning Abrego Garcia to the U.S. “I would never tell you that,” he answered. “And you know who else I’d never tell? A judge.”

The Supreme Court never addressed what the men sent to El Salvador in March can do now. The A.C.L.U. has recently filed another brief in federal court, in Washington, D.C., to persuade a judge to order their return. In the court filing, the A.C.L.U. cites the Supreme Court’s instruction from the Abrego García case. “Family members of those in [El Salvador] maintain that they have no connection at all to TdA,” the lawyers wrote, referring to Tren de Aragua. “These errors are particularly devastating because many class members came to the United States precisely because of arbitrary arrests and detentions by their government, and have strong claims for relief under our immigration laws.”

Mariela, the sister of Pedro Escobar Blanco, told me that, long before her brother’s sudden deportation to El Salvador, he was in a state of shock. When he was first apprehended, last year, he couldn’t understand why the ICE officers who arrived at his worksite acted as if they were staging a Special Forces operation. “I thought it was a prank,” he told her at the time. “They arrived like they were looking for some criminal who was highly dangerous. They shouted at us to get on the ground, not to move. It almost seemed like a candid camera would pop out.” One day, about four months later, while he was still in ICE custody, he told his sister, “I’m just going to tell them to deport me because I can’t be a prisoner any longer. I’m not doing anything for my children or for you. I’m not even doing anything for myself. I’d prefer just to be sent back.”

[ireadwithmyears]

even if it’s handcuffed, I’m leaving here with you.

Pairing: Commander Fox/fem Reader

Word count: 4.7K

Tags/warnings, smut (18+: (miners DNI) dumb decisions, they turn out alright, slight exhibitionism (they fuck in the back of 79’s and Fox enjoys the idea of being overheard), oral (F receiving), fingering, light bondage, spanking, but like only one, unprotected P in V sex, dom/sub elements, biting/marking (it’s Fox, what do you expect)

Summary: Fox hasn’t been giving you the attention you’ve been craving. The way in which you go about fixing that is highly questionable, but ultimately, a resounding success.

Note: yes, this was 100% inspired by a specific lyric in I’mgonnagetyoubac by Taylor Swift, referred to in the title. I heard it, went Fox bby c’mere I need to do something with this, and this is the end result, which I hope is enjoyable. Also, do these characters have communication issues that they probably should acknowledge and talk through? Probably. Are we not going to acknowledge any of that here for the sake of✨minimal plot✨ yes.

“This, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, is one of the stupidest ideas you’ve ever had.”

To be fair, your best friend is saying this all while she downs a shot, barely containing her smirk behind the glass. She’s already given her rather enthusiastic consent to this idea that she has just declared is stupid

Because that’s what best friends do. 

Look, you have to agree, the idea sounds completely outlandish and lacks any sound logic whatsoever, not to mention, there’s no guarantee that it’ll even work. But, lounging around a table at a bar on Coruscant’s Clubbing scene, and with your ride or die best friend perched across from you to egg on your delusions, it starts to sound not as crazy as it had initially sounded when you had first spoke the words aloud.

In theory, the idea is straightforward and simple enough. 

Start a fight at the clone bar while Fox is on duty so that you can actually get him alone for more than two minutes.

You’re aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that these are rather drastic measures for you to take just to get your boyfriend to notice you. But, with your rationalizing, alcohol emboldening you, and your friends immediate agreement to help without hesitation, this idea starts to seem not only reasonable, but solid.

Listen, if you were able to be a normal, sensible couple, and you could just do something like, you know, talk to Fox, you would.

The problem is, though, that Fox has been making that very difficult.

Being the marshal commander of the Coruscant guard carries a lot of weight and responsibilities, you get that. You really, really do. But, when he rarely makes it home most nights because he’s fallen asleep at his desk from overworking himself, and you can count the amount of times he’s touched you over the past two weeks on one hand, you’re starting to go a little bit insane.

Okay, so, you’re horny and so desperate for his attention that you’re willing to do something completely unreasonable, not to mention a little bit illegal, to get it. So what.

*

The plan, for all of its complete lack of sense and sound judgment, goes a little too perfectly.

The guard often sends some of their own out on patrols during 79’s busiest nights to keep order and ensure that there are no inter-battalion style brawls. 

You have Fox’s schedule memorized. So, you wait until you know he’s set to make his rounds, pick a table that is clearly within his eyeline, and then, minutes after he shows up, give your friend the subtle signal.

It starts with raised voices, shouted accusations and glaring until you know you’ve peaked his interest. Even through the tint of his visor, you can practically feel his eyes on you from across the room. 

Once you’re sure his eyes are securely glued on you, you allow high school drama and improv skills to take over, letting the fight escalate into something physical.

It’s hard, knowing that your friend is about to take the brunt of this for you, and your equal parts appreciative, and a little bit terrified, that she’s letting you launch yourself at her. But, you think to console yourself, you had practised this. How to make it look convincing, just good enough that it draws the attention of the cori’s, while also inflicting minimal damage because due to the fact that you don’t want your friend to get in heat for this too, making yourself the clear instigator, she’s only dodging, refusing to hit back.

When the thud of boots and the crackle of voices through helmet speakers come, barking gruff orders to break it up, you’re more than a little relieved. 

Even with his bucket still on, it’s easy for you to identify that it’s him. Him who pulls you off of her, none too gently. Him, whose rough, gloved fingers enclose around your wrists, smoothly pinning them behind your back before you can even blink and fuck, why was that so hot? Him, who, for a brief moment, you feel the cold and unforgiving plastoid of his chest plate digging as he presses flush against you, voice a low, displeased rumble as he addresses you, voice too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“You know, princess,” he mutters darkly, giving your wrists a squeeze. “If you wanted tonight to end with me locking binders around those pretty wrists of yours, there was no need to go to all of this trouble.”

He knew. 

Somehow, he’s figured out exactly what you were doing within seconds and for some reason, this only intensifies the thrill that runs through your body and causes your thighs to clench.

You’re not given time to ruminate on this, though, barely catch the subtle wink that your friend gives you before another member of the guard blocks your view of her as he kneels down to check on her. Fox, reflexes lightning fast, spins you around and immediately begins to usher you towards the back of the establishment, giving the other guard member on duty, you think it might be Thorn, a curt nod to acknowledge that he can handle this on his own.

Your led away to the sounds of low whistles, and many identical sets of brown eyes peering at you interestedly as Fox’s brothers stare at you when you pass by their tables.

Your face, at this point, has the decency to flush with oncoming embarrassment as they watch Fox leading you away.

No time for regrets now, you think to yourself as Fox reaches around you, still keeping your wrists firmly in one hand as he unlocks the door to an out-of-the-way office, frequently used to detain clones who start fights in the bar.

For better or for worse , you have captured his full, undivided attention for the night. 

now, you think, it’s only a matter of what he’s going to do about it.

*

“You know,” he muses, arms expertly caging you in and crowding you against the office wall, “if you’re going to fake a fight to get my attention, you could at least have picked an accomplice who I haven’t already met, and who I am perfectly aware you are on good terms with.”

“How would you know?” You ask, still slightly breathless as his amber eyes catch yours in the dim light, levelling you with a look. “A lot could change in the two weeks that I’ve barely seen you.” 

“Is that what this is about?” He asks, voice low and somehow too smooth and even, tilting his head to the side. “That explains why she made the effort to do this.” 

He doesn’t back down, doesn’t even look away in any semblance of guilt, which is infuriating. You’re about to tell him so when you’re cut off abruptly, words dissolving into nothing but a short gasp as his head lowers, lips, followed by the sharp bite of his teeth along the much too exposed skin of one of your breasts.

You blink, looking down at yourself, startled. It appears that whilst your friend was engaged in skirmishing with you, she had managed to tactfully pull open a few buttons from your shirt, splitting it just so that one of your breasts is tantalizingly exposed, nipple barely covered by the remaining fabric.

It’s fabric that is quickly shoved to the side as Fox, eyes never leaving yours as he does, takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue rolling over the bud, encouraging it to harden between warm lips.

“It’s almost like this was... planned,” he muses, accentuating his words with a sharp pinch as he tweaks your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, smirking at the way you jolt with surprise. His breath ghosts along the column of your throat as he moves to whisper in your ear. “Wasn’t it, cyar’ika.”

You’re prevented from answering when his teeth nip at your earlobe, causing any words you had in your mind to fall away, giving way to a shiver as you arch into him. A thrill runs through your body, and a pleasant hum has replaced the void where your thoughts used to be. If you had the sense to be embarrassed about how easy it was for him to get you like this, you would be. But right now, pushed up against the wall with him looming over you, it takes all you have to reach for him, fingers trying to find perch’s between his armour plating.

“Fox,” you let out a whine, tilting your head up to look at him pleadingly as you press yourself against him.

“Uh uh,” he chides, quickly extricating your hands. “These stay here,” he orders, swiftly pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. “If you know what’s good for you,” he continues darkly.

“A and what if I don’t?” You try to challenge, but your voice comes out in more of a squeak, wobbling slightly, as his fingers trail down your sides, just teasing at the skin beneath your shirt.

He chuckles, the sound a husky, dangerous rumble in his throat. Abruptly, he drops to his knees in front of you, pulling both your skirt and panties down with him in one harsh tug. They pool around your feet on the floor.

“Oh, meshla,” he coos at you, voice dripping with mock sincerity as one gloved fingertip, tantalizingly featherlight, sweeps through your already wet folds, only grazing over your clit enough to make your hips stutter in surprise before he pulls away. 

“Trust me, by the time I’m done with you, you will.”

Your ability to form a quick witted retort to that is greatly impeded, and ultimately foiled, probably intentionally, by Fox lifting one of your legs, manoeuvring it so it drapes over the curve of one of those broad, imposing shoulders of his. 

Before you’re given time to react to this sudden shift of balance, he’s leaning forward, his impatience evident in the way he roughly holds your thighs apart as he does. Your clit is suckled into his mouth with an almost unadulterated greed as it’s pulled between his lips, tongue barely fluttering over it before your hips jolt, and the sound that manages to escape you, half in surprise, half a needy whine before you manage to check yourself, remembering where, exactly, he’s doing this to you, sounds just about as uncontrolled as his actions are.

He pulls back, only to give you a deceptively teasing smirk as he tugs off his gloves. “What’s the matter, cyar?” He almost purrs, a now gloveless finger slowly teasing at your entrance, eyes fixated on how you clench around nothing. “Got nothing to say now?” 

He evidently finds his ability to have you this riled up with only a few touches amusing, because he’s again leaning forward before you can respond. A series of gentle kitten licks targeted at your clit, as his finger slowly presses into your heat has you forgetting about that fact quickly, the only sound escaping your lips being that of a strangled gasp-moan.

With the way his lips quirk and he lets out a small hum of satisfaction, the vibrations of which run through your body like a shockwave that leaves you breathless, it’s evident that this is exactly the way he wants you, squirming and desperate.

“Fox, I, we can’t do this here ohh.”

You lose track of the point you were trying to make with the smallest movement of his finger, almost gentle as it curls inside you, just brushing over your G spot, causing you to start stammering.

“Mm, why’s that, princess?” He asks, pulling out his finger only so that he can insistently begin to open you up with a second. “I don’t really think you’re in the position to be making demands like that, hm?”

Teeth nipping at that sensitive spot high on your inner thigh silences your retort. “So pretty,” he breathes, almost to himself as his tongue lazily soothes over the mark he’s made, before he’s back on your clit, lips, tongue, and fingers that curl and press and thrust all working to bring you up and straight to the edge.

And take you to the edge, he does. Within minutes that feel like seconds, he has you arching your back, pushing your hips to meet the delicious, constant thrust of his fingers and the targeted, precise teasing of his tongue and lips against your already sensitive clit, breathless begging and pleading because you’re just, you need, you’re almost.

There’s an audible clap as you desperately press your hand against your mouth, trying to silence the high-pitched, feverish whimper that’s fighting to escape your lips because there, right there, rightfuckingthereyoujust...

Then he’s pulling away, releasing your clit with an obscene sounding wet pop as he rises to his feet, calm and totally unfazed in the face of your obvious frustrated desperation, hips still vainly moving in an attempt to find something that’s no longer there. He looks down at you, watching with evident amusement in his eyes as you lose the high that he’s given you, languidly taking the time to idly suck on his fingers, still slick with your arousal as he waits.

He’s patient, simply staring down at your quivering form as he holds you within his scrutiny, deliberately drawing out the silence until the tension has grown thick, and it starts to make you feel disquieted, nervous, almost like you’ve done something you shouldn’t have and you’re now waiting for him to pronounce your punishment.

Only then, only once he sees the realization dawn on your face and your eyes widen slightly does he reach out, lightly tracing one finger over the back of your hand.

Your hand that he told you to stay above your head on the wall. 

Your hand that is, right now, still pressed firmly against your half open mouth. 

“I thought I told you,” he muses casually, fingers delicately wrapping around your wrist and pulling it away from your lips, “to keep these where I put them.”

You swallow, but look up at him with a falsely innocent expression because fuck it, you’re already out of the frying pan, might as well just jump headfirst into the fire.

“Well, technically you told me to do that only if I knew what was good for me, so... guess I don’t,” you say with a shrug, flashing him a smirk.

“Hm,” he huffs, pondering as he continues to hold your wrist, giving it a squeeze in warning. “So it appears you don’t.”

Within seconds, he’s smoothly spun you around, and pulled both of your wrists behind your back, with a speed that’s so succinct that you don’t even comprehend what’s happening until the heavy, cold weight of the binders settles against your skin, locking your wrists in place with a smooth, resounding click.

Oh.

A hand on your back gently nudges you forward and without question, you begin to walk, only pausing when he’s directed you to stand in front of a desk, the height of which reaches just above your waist. He urges you down, hand pressing in between your shoulder blades until you’re bent over, skin flush against the cool wood. 

You jump when his voice appears, low and inches away from your ear as he leans over you, hands delicately scheming down your sides as he speaks.

“Oh, meshla, you misunderstand me,” he purrs, and he can’t resist gently nipping at your earlobe just to hear the small noise of surprise that escapes you and feel the way your body shivers beneath him. 

You hear him settle behind you, armoured knees hitting the ground with a dull thump as his hands, warm and rough, ease your thighs apart, holding them wide.

Fingers lazily circle you’re already swollen clit as he continues. “You can cum, pretty girl. In fact, I want you to cum, and I want everyone outside to be able to hear all those pretty sounds you make when you do it.”

Outside, a muffled round of drunken cheering from several of his vode seems to punctuate his demand, causing your heart to quicken, and before you’re given time to really think about it, he’s opening you further, diving back in with his lips and tongue as his hands continue to hold your thighs apart.

For a moment, it’s just hot, heavy breaths, warm air tickling and brushing against your incredibly sensitive clit, the barest sensation and the heat enough to pull a breathless “mmm” from your lips, hips desperately pushing back against his waiting mouth. 

You both know that you’re not going to last long, so Fox takes time to relish each moment he spends in between your thighs, every movement of his tongue and lips deliberate and controlled. The firm muscle of the flat of his tongue pressing against you is neither frantic nor fast, but it urges and demands with an almost maddening precision.  The slightest role of his tongue over the bud as his lips pull you into his mouth nearly does you in, turning small, gasping whimpers into “oh please I fuck I please,” without any regard to the level of your voice.

Fox hums a response, and after that, you’re done, tipped over the edge by just the slightest nudge as if you had been clinging to it by your fingertips, and were now free falling.

You only come back to yourself when you feel fingernails raking up your trembling thighs, and Fox’s low, husky voice as he stares up at you.

“Mm, good,” he murmurs, running a finger through your sensitive folds just to watch you tremor.

He rises to his feet, and you’re not sure what you’re expecting him to do, if anything. Your mind is so addled by your orgasm that it comes completely unanticipated. 

A quick, stinging swat lands against your ass, calloused fingers caressing over the skin as soon as it begins to heat beneath the palm of his hand. It makes you let out of rather undignified, surprised squeak, hands instinctively trying to move to cover yourself, but of course, they’re not going anywhere. The unforgiving metal of the binders cooley nipping at your skin as you strain being a good enough reminder of that. 

“But I think you can do better.”

There’s the familiar sound of his codpiece being unclipped, a small clang as it hits the floor and is kicked away without consequence. Fox lets out a low groan, the only evidence to suggest that he’s nearly as affected as you are as he pulls himself free of his blacks, taking his hard length into his hand.

Your head drops to the desk, which is met with an immediate tsk of disapproval, Fox threading his fingers through your hair as he tugs it back up, pulling just enough to ensure that the tingle is painful, a reprimand as sharp as his words.

“Keep your head up, princess,” he orders sternly. “I want everyone to hear the sounds you make when I fuck you.”

He glides his cock through your wet folds, pausing to tease a few circles around your clit with the head as he continues. “And I want everyone to know how good I make you cum.”

The head of his cock lightly slaps against your clit, punctuating his words and causing the already overly sensitive nerves to spark and tingle. The whine that leaves your parted lips is a needy, pitiful thing.

You hear his low, throaty chuckle as he backs off, nudging the glistening head of his cock between your parted lips, smoothly lining himself up at your entrance. With one drawn out, controlled roll of his hips, he’s sinking into you, hands coming to grasp your hips as your tight, warm heat clenches around him.

Once he’s fully seated himself, feeling your walls fluttering around him, he moves, adjusting his angle in several quick, sharp snaps of his hips as he gages your response. When he finds the angle that has you crying out the loudest, and he’s satisfied that his cock insistently nudges against your G spot with every thrust, he begins to move in earnest.

Fox sets an even, measured pace, pulling back only to thrust back in with more power and intensity behind the insistent movement of his hips, cock pressing against all of those spots that need to be touched, caressed, and stretched for him.

Only when it starts to build inside you, because really, after you’ve already came from the talents of his skilled tongue, it really doesn’t take much to bring you back up, only once you start moaning and writhing beneath him does the rhythm change, not stopping, but slowing considerably as his fingers grasp at your hips, pulling you against him and keeping you still despite your squirming and protests. 

You can feel his armour plates digging against your skin as he moves, the cold, unforgiving plastoid in combination with the hot slick of skin on skin as he firmly presses your hips against him is dizzying, and sends your head spinning with each gentle pulse of his throbbing cock.

He holds you there, keeping your ass pressed flush against his pelvis, only allowing small, controlled ruts of his hips that brush his cock against your walls, his form radiating patience and authority as he looms over you, watching as you mercilessly struggle for him to give you more than what he’s allowing.

Your hips try to push back, to do anything, but without being able to brace your hands, you’re not getting anywhere fast at all, and your struggle to gain any kind of leverage ends with you throwing your head back, letting out a high-pitched, frustrated whine as you look back at your tormentor, who watches with an almost impassive expression, eyes dark.

He sweeps your hair over your shoulder, littering a trail of hot kisses and sharp bites along the exposed column of your throat as he moves to your ear. 

“Got something to say, meshla?” He coos condescendingly, nuzzling his nose against your neck and letting out a warm breath that sends goosebumps down your spine.

Under the full weight of his attention, he manages to scatter the few strings of coherent words that your brain was trying to piece together into something useful. All you can do is moan helplessly, feebly pushing back against him in an attempt to get him to move in vain.

“Hm,” he muses, and you feel the brief scraping of teeth as he runs them along your shoulder. “Guess not. Maybe I’ll just stay here, until you can figure out how to use your pretty mouth to tell me what you want.”

You know what he wants, and it only takes one small, barely there nudge of his hips for it to come spilling out of you, with minimal protest or fight. 

“Please, sir, please,” you beg, both cheeks and eyes burning at how unsteady your voice sounds. “Please fuck me.”

“Ah,” he pretends to come to the understanding and that bastard, you don’t have to look at him to know that there’s a devilish smirk on his face as one of his hands leaves your hips, dipping to run along your inner thigh. 

“Understood,” he says, voice as short and crisp as if he’s just barking an order to one of his troopers. 

With that, he withdraws, unsheathing himself so slowly that every inch of him drags along your walls as he pulls out. Then, without warning, grasping your hip tightly, he slams back into you, pushing against your tightness and pulling you back onto him at the same time. His pace is now brisk, unyielding, and unwaveringly steady as he impales you on his cock, letting out low, breathy sounds, pausing to listen to the mules and moans that leave you in response.

As soon as he starts hitting someplace deep, quick and primal and constant, your back is arching, your ability to form any coherent words seemingly depleted. 

Or at least, that’s what you think, until his hand, that had up until this point been squeezing and massaging the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, moves in between your legs, fingers expertly catching on your clit, circling, pressing, and the occasional tap against the overly sensitive bud that has you gasping and jolting in place.

“Fox,” you whimper desperately, hips wriggling even though there’s nowhere to go. “Please.”

Whether you’re saying please to beg him to stop because you can’t, it’s too much, or you’re saying please because you want, you need him to never stop, to keep going because the attention he’s lavishing on your clit combined with the delicious way he’s filling and stretching you on his cock feels so wonderfully good is unclear.

The decision is quickly taken out of your hands when Fox, evidently seeing how close you are, abruptly adjusts his angle, redirecting his focus yet again to your G spot, hips rolling against you as he targets it with small, precise and shallow thrusts.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, hand releasing your hip to rake his fingernails down your spine. “Cum,” he orders, giving your clit another tap before he continues his tantalizing circles. “Cum for me.”

You throw your head back, spine contorting as you arch, only vaguely aware of the desk digging into your ribs as you cum, eyes squeezing shut and walls clamping down on him as some sound that you don’t even begin to hear nor control is ripped from your throat.

Only then does his pace falter and does he pull you back onto him to bury himself to the hilt within you, cold armour plating firmly pressing against your ass and your thighs, as he lets  out a long, low rumble as he stills within you, spilling his release within your warm, convulsing heat. 

You’re aware of your head falling against the desk, finally too exhausted to keep it up as your body trembles with aftershocks. You’re aware of his hand, soothing as it strokes through your hair. You’re aware of him slowly easing himself out, you think you might make a small sound at the loss, judging by his low chuckle, but you’re not sure.

You only really begin to engage with the world again when you feel the rush of liquid leaving your core, causing you to let out a small gasp. 

“Shh, little one, s’okay,” Fox murmurs, gathering the mix of his and your release that glistens on your folds with his fingers, slowly pushing it back inside, causing you to whimper. 

He guides your legs back into your panties and skirt with tender hands, pulling you to your feet and reaching around you to button up your top.

It’s only when he’s about to steer you out of the room that you realize. 

“Fox?” You say with a frown, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Aren’t you gonna, you know, undo the binders?”

He looks at you, hands occupied with snapping his codpiece back into place. 

“No,” he responds shortly. “You still instigated a fight. I at least have to play off the charade that I’m taking you back to HQ.”

He sets his helmet back on his head, and even though you can no longer see his face, you know that there’s amusement in his eyes, because even though this was your plan, he still has the last laugh. 

“This is still a punishment, and considering I’m letting you off the hook in terms of having to pay a fine, it’s a rather generous alternative, don’t you think, Meshla?” He reminds you lowly, voice clear even through his helmet modulator. “Get moving,” he orders, nudging you forward impatiently.

your mouth drops open as the noise from outside slowly filters into your ears.

He’s about to make you walk through the bar.

Your wrist still in binders as he escorts you out.

Past many of his vode.

With his cum still leaking out of you and the fresh bite marks that he scattered across your neck and shoulders like ornaments.

They’ll take one look at you, and even if they hadn’t managed to hear some of what was going on, which, judging by the dryness in your throat, would be a complete miracle of the force, they’ll know exactly what you did with the Marshall commander whom they all serve under and fuck, the burning twinge of humiliation should not effortlessly combine with some sort of excitement, but it does.

Your cheeks flush, and it takes all of your willpower to start shuffling your feet forward. 

Well played, Commander. Well played indeed. 

[hunters-vigil]

The Archon's Baby - Chapter 9 - Rising Tensions - Enter Capitano

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

request from ao3: Make one where they have a child but the female character doesn't tell Mavuika that she is expecting a child and distances herself from Mavuika please 🙏🙏

warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, traveller uses they/them pronouns, arguing, mentions of death, poor descriptions of fighting.

Fic under the cut, don't repost my stuff on other platforms, i have ao3. Reader is not the traveller. Reader's adoptive sisters are Chasca and Chuychu.

Eventually, the team who were sent out to fight in the Night Warden Wars returned. All but one. Kachina, who had fallen in battle, would need to revived by the Rite of Ressurection. Everyone else seemed calm, but you couldn't help but frown. Kachina was a child, who had gone to war and died. She would be resurrected and celebrated, which you were glad for, but still, you worried about how traumatic the situation may have been for her.

"Oh hey, it's been a while! How are you doing?" Paimon's voice caught Mualani's attention, along with the Traveller's and Kinich's, as the floating silver creature spotted you already seated waiting for the Rite of Ressurection, and celebration of the Night Warden Wars victory to begin.

"Trying my best. Heard you guys were at the People of the Springs when the attack happened, I'm glad everyone made it out okay, including Atea. I heard she was injured." You smiled softly, cradling the waterskin that Chuychu was insisting you keep drinking water from throughout the ceremony.

"Speaking of Atea, I have something I need to give you from her when everything is over." Mualani interjected, looking over you carefully for any clues, but she couldn't figure out what Atea knew. She also didn't spot how Mavuika was watching you all from her throne. A part of the pyro archon wishing you could be sat with her... but it would be safer for you down there, with Chuychu nearby, and the toilets too...

"Warriors of Natlan - heed the call of life. We are the inheritors of memory and legend. Those who grew alongside sun and wind. Those who forged our own destiny and future. That is Natlan's fire, the lifeblood of our nation." Ntotila declared, as Mavuika headed towards the sacred flame to retrieve Kachina. Her hair setting alight as she disappeared into the flames, making your stomach churn.

Closing your eyes, you held your hand over your heart as everyone began to sing the Ode of Ressurection.

The song eventually ended, but Mavuika returned alone?

"I could not find Kachina within the Night Kingdom, or locate her Ancient Name." Mavuika announced, much to everyone's confusion, including her own. People began to shout, accusations were made, while you rubbed at your temples, a headache brewing.

"I can't listen to these jealous idiots. And they're supposed to be adults." You grumbled, standing up to walk away.

"Are you okay?" The Traveller looked worried, spotting how Mavuika's eyes lingered on the group as Mualani argued with the two idiots trying to suggest Kachina was not a hero.

"Think about it everyone. Who do you think is really at fault here? A girl who never should've even gone to war... Or the great pyro archon? Why would the rules of our nation suddenly stop working?" Tepexpan's accusation had you freezing in place, anger washing over you. Blasphemy...

"Maybe you should all shut up and realise it's probably the abyss interfering? Accusing Kachina and Mavuika will get you nowhere. Jumping to those blasphemous conclusions will get no nowhere. Get your heads of of your asses and use your brains for once." Your voice was louder than you expected, storming away before anyone could retort to your sharp words. Or you calling Mavuika anything but 'archon'.

Mavuika watched you storm away, her eyes flickering to behind her as the Sacred Flame seemed to react to your anger, growing a little bit bigger and a little brighter until you were out of sight.

Luckily, Mualani continued to stand up for Kachina, your words to fall into the background, brushed over.

"That's enough. There is no doubt about today's victory, or Kachina's part in it. She is a hero worthy of our admiration and celebration. However, the failure of today's ceremony is undeniable. Kachina has not been rekindled, and I offer you all my deepest apologies as I continue to investigate this matter..."

Mavuika's voice tapered off as you returned to her chambers, curling up with the blankets over your head. Your head hurt, and now you had probably just embarrased your girlfriend and your sisters with your outburst.

You missed Mavuika putting Tepexpan and Tamuin in their place, but the sound of multiple pairs of footsteps entering the Speaker's Chambers caught your attention, causing you to hide further under the blankets.

You recognised all of the voices. Mavuika. Paimon. The Traveller. Mualani. Kinich. Iansan. Chasca...

Luckily, you couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. Meaning you couldn't hear Chasca agree to go in person to the Night Kingdom with the others to retrieve Kachina.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Atea was wounded in the fight against the abyss. She wanted us to give this to you... it 'embodies fond memories and my strength of will' that's what she asked us to tell you, she said you'd understand what that means," Mualani held out Atea's talisman, "and she has something for your sister, Chasca, but I don' t know where she went-"

Chasca huffed at that, looking directly at Mavuika, who was luckily distracted by the talisman.

"I didn't think this day would come so soon. The flames of her life force, I can feel them flowing through the talisman. If things were different, the two of us could have enjoyed the hot springs together while she gave this to me in person. We're supposed to be 'hot spring buddies' after all..." Mavuika held back her emotion, especially with the warning glare on Chasca's face, "but don't worry. This talisman means a great deal to me. I'll take good care of it, and once this is all over, I'll pay Atea a visit. I can also sort out Atea's other wish..." Mavuika's eyes briefly glanced over at the door that led to her personal chambers, knowing that was where you were.

"Of course. Because the only person who knows her better than her sisters is her archon." Chasca folded her arms, pretending to be happy about what had just been said. Luckily the conversation ended after that, with only Iansan and Kinich remaining by the archon's side.

///

Mavuika ushered Iansan and Kinich out, asking them to wait for her near the Sacred Flame, while she headed into her chambers, with Atea's gift for you in her hands.

"My love?" her hand gently rested on your shoulder, your entire body hidden under the blanket, but she knew you were awake.

"I'm sorry."

"There is nothing for you to apologise for. The general public cannot know the truth, but them questioning the integrity of our heroes... I understand your outburst. I wish I could remain here instead of my duty, but unfortunately I cannot. Mualani brought something for you, from Atea... her request was that you should open it in private." Mavuika explained, watching as you removed the blanket from your face to look at her.

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, Mavuika headed to leave, watching as you took the package into your lap with a confused look on your face.

"I love you." Mavuika called out as her hand lingered on the doorknob, observing how your eyes were glassy but the smile on your face reached them.

"I love you too."

///

You were reading the letter Atea addressed to you when you heard a large explosion coming from the stadium. Leaving the package on the bed, you forwent shoes, hurrying out and past civillians who looked at you in confusion in your beeline towards the arena.

Mavuika was fighting the First Fatui Harbinger. The Captain.

"You shouldn't be here." Kinich immediately kept you behind him and Iansan, the backlashing winds from the pyro and cryo attacks whipping around the stadium.

"What does he want? Besides the gnosis? Wait, is she using your claymore?" You looked at Kinich, grimacing as said claymore was destroyed in the battle. Yeah Mavuika was getting an earful from Xilonen for that...

"Watch out!" Kinich grumbled as the three of you were pushed backwards by the wind of another explosion. Luckily, before the three of you could get blown about any further, a fog suddenly appearing to steal the injured harbinger away. Mavuika stood alone in the areantil Kinich and Iansan arrived by her side, the two keeping you behind them.

"Send word. The Captain and his followers must be apprehended." Mavuika ordered to the Flower-Feather Clan member, Yagbeu. He looked from his archon, to you, then ran to fulfill his task. The patrols of your tribe may be a line of defense for the abyss, but now it would be patrolling against the Fatui too.

"Are you alright, archon?" Iansan asked hurriedly, as Mavuika chuckled.

"He was a formidable opponent - exactly what I would expect of the First of the Fatui Harbingers." Her face soon shifted to worry as she spotted the dust in your hair, "are you unharmed? Let me get you a medic-"

"I've got her." Chuychu interjected, stealing you away before Kinich and Iansan could ask questions about Mavuika fawning over you.

"What are you doing-"

"I should be asking you that! I need to go chase after our older sister, so I'm leaving you with Mayahuel. You're still in the danger zone of the first trimester!"

"Pregnancy itself is a danger zone." You hissed back at your elder sister, who left you in the hands of Mayahuel. The doctor from the Mastesr of the Night-Wind took you away with a comforting smile, and a nod to Chuychu.

"My dear... where are your shoes?" Mayahuel raised a nonjudgemental eyebrow as you flustered, realising they were under the archon's bed. You couldn't exactly tell the doctor that.

/// Meanwhile...

"Oh, you have a younger sister?" Paimon turned to Chasca with intrigue, "wait, Mualani, you said something about a sister-"

"I have two younger sisters. I'll introduce you to them sometime." Chasca thought back to you at the stadium, and Chuychu, who she had a sneaking suspicion was also at the Scions of the Canopy, "let's get back to business. Wayna, how do we use the stone?"

///

You were fine, but the declaration to rest made you want to scream internally. You'd spent so much time hiding (living) in Mavuika's chambers, and now you needed to do it even more. Chuychu could only keep your parents at bay for so long, and with how often Chasca avoided going home... you had definitely broken a record. How had they not come to the stadium and dragged you back by now? They didn't even know about your pregnancy... oh you felt like a horrible daughter...

Walking into the Speaker's Chambers, you froze as you realised Mavuika was there, with Iansan.

"Um... hello." Your voice waivered, looking between the two Ancient Name bearers nervously.

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 3]

Chapter 88

The Unseen Threat

The Avengers gathered in the lab, the weight of their latest crisis pressing down on them. Ultron had vanished into the internet, leaving destruction, uncertainty, and access to nuclear codes. The team debated responsibility as tensions flared. Thor’s anger erupted, lifting Tony effortlessly in frustration, reflecting the fear creeping in. Ultron wasn’t just an accident—they had made him.

As Steve stood firm, insisting they’d fight together no matter the cost, Maria Hill revealed disturbing reports: erased data, victims with forgotten memories, and a clue leading them to Ulysses Klaue, a black-market dealer with ties to vibranium. The trail led them to Wakanda, where a battle awaited.

In the shadows of the salvage yard, Y/N barely heard the murmurs of her teammates. The second they entered, she felt it—the presence of Wanda. The connection was undeniable, the pull of the Mind Stone still strong. Wanda was close. Y/N had no doubt she was aware of her too.

Ultron’s fury exploded as he tore Klaue’s arm off. Before things could spiral further, the Avengers stormed in—Iron Man, Thor, and Captain America ready for a fight.

Tony’s voice was calm but tense. "Junior."

Ultron barely glanced at him. "If I have to break your heart to win, I will."

Chaos erupted. Ultron’s drones dropped from above, weapons firing. Pietro darted around, too fast to catch, while Wanda’s red energy crackled dangerously at her fingertips. 

Y/N tried to intercept but between keeping tabs on Pietro, Y/N found herself under Wanda's spell as she appeared as if from nowhere, then suddenly she wasn't in the yard anymore.

The skies darkened, and thundered cracks—not from Thor, but from a different storm. Loki stands atop the throne, eyes burning emerald, a twisted crown of gold coiled like serpents around his brow. His voice is low and cold, echoing through the halls as he declares himself King Eternal. The people of Asgard kneel, not in loyalty, but in fear. His laughter grows wild—madness etched into every syllable.

Y/N tries to run, to scream, to reach him—but the scene rips away like torn fabric.

Now it’s snowing.

She’s back by the train tracks, metal screaming against metal, the memory too cruel. Bucky is falling again, again—and this time he doesn't just fall. He turns midair, eyes hollow, accusing. “You let me go.”

Before she can cry out, he vanishes into the white, and the wind turns to whispers.

She spins around—now she's surrounded. The Avengers form a circle, faces unreadable, wary. Natasha’s hand is near her weapon. Tony’s repulsors are glowing. Steve doesn’t look at her—he looks through her. Fear coils in their eyes.

“What are you?”

Panic rises in her chest, thick and suffocating. The world starts to shake. She begs them to stop looking at her like that. She begs them to listen. They don’t. She screams.

And then—white light.

When it clears, the world is silent.

She's standing in the wreckage of her own power.

The corpses of her friends lie strewn around her like fallen stars—Natasha, eyes open in death. Tony, armor shattered, chest dark. Thor’s hammer lies still. Clint’s bow snapped in two.

She stumbles through them, heart pounding, blood on her hands. Her breath comes in gasps.

And then she sees them.

Loki and Bucky—side by side, watching her, expressionless, lifeless. Silent judges of a crime she never meant to commit.

She collapses to her knees before them.

A hand grips her ankle—tight, desperate.

She turns.

Steve. Still alive, barely. His face pale, lips bloodied. But his voice—his voice is not his own.

It is Odin's, ancient and booming.

“The Green Witch… who gained too many colours.”

Y/N fought against it, muscles trembling, mind clawing its way out of the nightmare like a drowning woman reaching for air. “It’s not real! It’s not real!” she screamed, voice hoarse with desperation.

And then, like a dam cracking under pressure, her power surged outward—chaotic, brilliant, untamed. The illusion shattered around her like glass hit with a hammer. Wanda reeled back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she staggered.

She hadn’t expected Y/N to break free so quickly—not from her magic.

Y/N’s eyes glowed with the raw, pulsing force of her abilities. She didn’t hesitate. She reached—dug—straight into Wanda’s mind.

Wanda flinched, but the contact had been made.

A whisper slipped through, almost like a lullaby.

“I want the big one.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Hulk.

Wanda vanished into the shadows before Y/N could react, scurrying off like a fox who’d just teased a lion.

Panting, shaken but clear, Y/N turned to the others. “I know what her game is,” she called. “We have to move now!”

But that’s when she saw them.

They weren’t moving.

The team stood still—too still. Eyes glazed, caught in the same psychic web she had just torn through.

She watched Thor stagger, his expression shifting in terror. Natasha froze, lost in a vision of her past. Steve gripped his shield, but his eyes were vacant, caught in a dance hall that no longer existed.

Y/N’s heart dropped.

They were already inside it.

And this time, she wasn’t sure she could pull them out. She noticed Clint, unfazed moving towards her, scanning for the ultra fast twin he was trying to contain.

"Clint, we have to move. Now!" Y/N shouted, urgency rising in her voice.

Clint, focused on the battle, glanced at her but didn’t reply. Wanda was in control, and their team was crumbling.

Panic surged through her, and she turned to Clint, her mind racing. "We need to get to the Quinjet. Now!"

But before they could react, a roar shook the Quinjet. Hulk had awakened, and he was already headed for the city.

Y/N’s heart pounded. They had to stop him, but it was already too late.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Was suicide really seen as noble during the French Revolution? Was there any recorded tension regarding this cultural shift with more religious or less revolutionary people/groups? Thanks!

In the book La liberté ou la mort: mourir en député 1792-1795 (2015) can be found a list of all the deputies of the National Convention that died unnatural deaths between 1792 and 1799. Of the 96 names included on it, 16 were those of suicide victims, and to these must also me added a number of botched suicide attempts as well. 

Only a single one of these suicides appears to have been driven by something outside of politics, that of the deputy Charlier, who shot himself in his apartment on February 23 1797, two years after the closing of the Convention. The rest of the suicides are all very clearly politically motivated, more specifically, deputies killing themselves just as the machinery of revolutionary justice was about to catch up to them. There’s those who killed themselves while on the run and unsheltered from the hostile authorities — the girondin Rebecqui who on May 1 1794 drowned himself in Old Port of Marseille, Pétion and Buzot who on June 24 1794 shot themselves after getting forced to leave the garret where they for the last few months had been hiding out, Maure who shot himself while in hiding on 3 June 1795 after having been implicated in the revolt of 1 Prairial, Brunel, who on May 27 shot himself after failing to quell a riot in Toulon, and Tellier, who similarily shot himself on September 17 1795 due to a revolt directed against him in the commune of Chartres. Barbaroux too attempted to shoot himself on June 18 1794 but only managed to blow his jaw off. He was instead captured and guillotined. There’s those that put an end to their days once cornered by said authorities — Lidon, who on November 2 1793 shot himself after having been discovered at his hiding place by two gendarmes (he did however first fire three shots at said gendarmes, one of whom got hit in the cheek) and Le Bas who shot himself in the night between July 27 and 28 1794 as National guardsmen stormed the Hôtel de Ville where he and his allies were hiding out (according to his wife’s memoirs, already a few days before this he had told her that he would kill them both right then and there wasn’t it for the fact they had an infant son). In an interrogation held two o’clock in the morning on July 28 1794, Augustin Robespierre too revealed that the reason he a few hours earlier had thrown himself off the cordon of the Hôtel de Ville was ”to escape from the hands of the conspirators, because, having been put under a decree of accusation, he believed his death inevitable,” and there’s of course an eternal debate on whether or not his older brother too had attemped to commit suicide at Hôtel de Ville that night or if he was shot by a guard (to a lesser extent, this debate also exists regarding Couthon). There’s those who committed suicide in prison to avoid an unfriendly tribunal — Baille who hanged himself while held captive in the hostile Toulon on September 2 1793, Condorcet who took poison and was found dead in his cell in Bourg-la-Reine on 29 March 1794 (though here there exists some debate on whether it really was suicide or if he ”just” died from exhaustion) and Rühl, who stabbed himself while in house arrest on May 29 1795. On March 17 1794, Chabot tried to take his life in his cell in the Luxembourg prison by overdosing on medicine (he reported that he shouted ”vive la république” after drinking the liquor) but survived and got guillotined. Finally, there’s those who held themselves alive for the whole trial but killed themselves as soon as they heard the pronounciation of the death sentence —  the girondin Valazé who stabbed himself to death on October 30 1793 and the so called ”martyrs of prairial” Duquesnoy, Romme, Goujon, Bourbotte (in a declaration written shortly before his death he wrote: ”Virtuous Cato, no longer will it be your example alone that teaches free men how to escape the scaffold of tyranny”), Duroy and Soubrany who did the same thing on June 17 1795 (only the first three did however succeed with their suicide, the rest were executed the very same day).

To these 24 men must also be added other revolutionaries that weren’t Convention deputies, such as Jacques Roux who on February 10 1794 stabbed himself in prison, former girondin ministers Étienne Clavière who did the same thing on December 8 1793 (learning of his death, his wife killed herself as well) and Jean Marie Roland who on November 10 1793 ran a sword through his heart while in hiding, after having been informed of his wife’s execution, Gracchus Babeuf and Augustin Darthé who attempted to stab themselves on May 27 1797 after having been condemned in the so called ”conspiracy of equals,” but survived and were executed the next day, as well as two jacobins from Lyon — Hidins who killed himself in prison before the city got ”liberated,” and Gaillard who did the same thing shortly after the liberation, after having spent several weeks in jail.

With all that said, I think you could say taking your life was considered ”noble” in a way, if it allowed you to die with greater dignity than letting the imposition of revolutionary judgement take it instead did. It was at least certainly a step up compared to before 1789, when suicide (through the Criminal Ordinance of 1670) was considered a crime which could lead to confiscation of property, opprobium cast on the victim’s family and even subjection of the courpse to various outrages, like dragging it through the street. To nuance this a bit, it is however worth recalling that this was only in theory, and that in practise, most of these penalties had ceased to be carried out already in the decades before the revolution, a period during which suicide, in the Enlightenent’s spirit of questioning everything, had also started getting discussed more and more. The word ”suicide” itself entered the French dictionary in 1734. Most of the enlightenment philosophes reflected on suicide and the ethics behind it. There’s also the widely spread The Sorrows of Young Werther that was first released in 1774. Furthermore, most revolutionaries were also steeped in the culture of Antiquity, where suicide was seen as an admirable response to political defeat, perhaps most notably those of Brutus and Cato the younger, big heroes of the revolutionaries. Over the course of the revolution, we find several patriotic artists depicting famous suicides of Antiquity — such as Socrates (whose death is considered by some to have been a sort of suicide) (1791) by David, The Death of Cato of Utica (1795) by Guillaume Guillon-Lethière, and The death of Caius Gracchus (1798) by François Topino-Lebrun. According to historian Dominique Godineau, the 18th century saw ”the inscription [of suicide] in the social landscape, at least in large cities: it has become “public,” people talk about it, it is less hidden than at the beginning of the century,” and she therefore argues that the decision to decriminalize it in the reformed penal code (it didn’t state outright that suicide was now OK, but it no longer listed it as a crime) of 1791 wasn’t particulary controversial.

Furthermore, that committing suicide was more noble than facing execution was still far from an obvious, universal truth during the revolution. In his memoirs, Brissot does for example recall that, right after the insurrection of May 31, when he and other ”girondins” discussed what to do was an act of accusation to be issued against them, Buzot argued that ”the death on the scaffold was more courageous, more worthy for a patriot, and especially more useful for the cause of liberty” than committing suicide to avoid it. The feared news of their act of accusation did however arrive before the girondins had reached a definitive conclusion on what to do, leading to some fleeing (among them Buzot, who of course ironically ended up being one of the revolutionaries that ultimately chose suicide over the scaffold) and some calmly awaiting their fate. In her memoirs, Madame Roland did her too consider going to the scaffold with her head held high to be an act of virtue — ”Should I wait for when it pleases my executioners to choose the moment of my death and to augment their triumph by the insolent clamours of the mob to which I would be exposed? Certainly!” In his very last speech to the Convention, convinced that his enemies were rounding up on him, Robespierre exclaimed he would ”drink the hemlock,” a reference to the execution of Socrates. The girondin Vergniaud is also said to have carried poison on him but chosen to have go out with his friends on the scaffold, although I’ve not yet discovered what the source for this is. It can also be noted that the number of Convention deputies who let revolutionary justice have its course with them was still considerably higher than those who attempted to put an end to their days before the sentence could be carried out.

According to Patterns and prosecution of suicide in eighteenth-century Paris (1989) by Jeffrey Merrick, there was indeed tension regarding the rising amount of suicides in the decades leading up to the revolution. Merrick cites first and foremost the printer and bookseller Siméon Prosper Hardy, who in his journal Mes loisirs ou journal des evenements tels qu'ils parviennent a ma connaissance (1764-1789),  documented a total of 259 cases of Parisian suicides. Hardy saw these deaths as an unwelcome import from the English, who for their part were led to kill themselves due to ”the dismal climate, unwholesome diet, and excessive liberty.” He also blamed the suicides on "the decline of religion and morals," caused by the philosophes, who in their ”bad books” popularized English ways of thinking and undermined traditional values. He was not alone in drawing a connection between the suicides and the new ideas. According to Merrick, the clergy in general ”denounced the philosophes for legitimizing this unforgiveable crime against God and society, which they now associated with systematic unbelief more than the traditional diabolical temptation.” In practice, many parish priests did however still quietly bury the bodies of persons who killed themselves. The future revolutionary Louis Sébastien Mercier did on the other hand blame the government and its penchant for inflated prices and burdensome taxes for the alleged epidemic of suicides in his Tableau de Paris (1782-1783).

In La liberté ou la mort: mourir en député, 1792-1795 it is also established that there weren’t that many participants of the king that killed themselves once the wind started blowing in the wrong direction, but that is not to say they didn’t exist. As example is cited the case of a man who in April 1793 shot himself on Place de la Révolution, before having written ”I die for you and your family” on a gravure representing the head of Louis XVI. There’s also the case of Michel Peletier’s murderer Philippe Nicolas Marie de Pâris, royalist and former king’s guard, who, similar to Lidon, blew his brains out when the authorities had him cornered a week after the murder.

Sources:

Patterns and prosecution of suicide in eighteenth-century Paris (1989) by Jeffrey Merrick 

Pratiques du suicide à Paris pendant la Révolution française by Dominique Godineau

La liberté ou la mort: mourir en député, 1792-1795 (2015) by Michel Biard, chapter 5, ”Mourir en Romain,” le choix de suicide.

Choosing Terror (2014) by Marisa Linton, page 276-279, section titled ”Choosing how to die.”

[anothersebastianblog]

Golden Globes ‘25 - win, hard launch, speech: some thoughts

So many things to say. Let’s start from the main event:

He finally won his first major award in Hollywood after winning his first important award last year. Awards are not just about acting, they are also about status, power and how good you are at promoting yourself. This is mainly why, ‘till they interviewed him before the ceremony (that gave me the feeling he was going to win lmao), i thought they had the insane idea to give it to Hugh Grant (or Glen Powell). Why losing the occasion to award someone iconic as Hugh? Thanks god they didn’t.

Sebastian’s performance was ABOVE the other 5. I hope the self proclaimed fans that think he is not good enough to be part of those 6 and that A24 bought his award, one day will understand that. Or, if they don’t, will leave the fandom and take their negativity and bullshits with them. Sebastian absolutely deserves his two awards for ADM, and we don’t like seeing your comments about how the movie is “boring”, “not well made”, “with too much screen time dedicated to Adam”. Shame on you.

He took this occasion to formally announce his relationship with Annabelle. It’s just a formality really, because wbk, literally lol. Nice to see it tho. Also because they looked amazing. Now, we know how he is: private, shy and work-focused. Exactly because of that, if you have been following him for a while, what happened yesterday should not have surprised you too much. Being an “old” fan or at least having seen/heard interviews/comments/etc made by him in the past should have made you realise two things mainly: 1) he changed (and matured) a lot after (i would personally assume) the death of his father + turning 40 + having more career opportunities, i have been saying this for at least 2 yrs!; 2) he knows he is there receiving that award thanks not only to himself but also to the people of his circle/family. He literally told us how important Annabelle has been during the time he filmed TA, especially: he admitted being selfish and sacrificing the time he could have spent with his loved ones to study and practice for that role. Not every partner would have tolerated that. She did. And she supported both movies since day one. We call it support, someone call it baiting. He evidently agrees with us.

So, don’t act too surprised (a bit it’s okay lol) if he brings one of the most important person of his life and the only person he loves (in *that* sense) with him, pose with her and publicly declare his love in front of everyone in his speech. A great one btw.

She deserves to be recognised but i am sure she doesn’t pretend to be.

Now some new year wishes, that as every new year wishes are too pretentious and too out of reach: i wish some people would stop pretending to be his fans, i wish they would leave the fandom and find help or at least a new hobby, i wish the accuse of not being enough, to have sold his soul to evil CAA, to be forced to act in a certain way would stop immediately, i wish ANY negative comments about Annabelle would stop immediately, especially the ones about her age, her body and her reproductive system 👍🏼

I wish many other days a joyful as last night was.

Cheers 🥂