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nereidprinc3ss · 4 months ago

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trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago.

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out.

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy.

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere.

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death.

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death.

Just… not yours.

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial.

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job.

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns.

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to.

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well.

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital.

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.”

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat.

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words.

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle.

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that.

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good.

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now.

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago.

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa.

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps.

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was.

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking.

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before.

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now.

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed.

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one.

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing.

The door closes as quietly as it opens.

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse.

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get.

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough.

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth.

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall.

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain.

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly.

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in.

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night.

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise.

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention.

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern.

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place.

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking.

“Hm?”

He hesitates.

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog.

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it.

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone.

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel.

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand.

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight.

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass.

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass.

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead.

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did.

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things.

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore.

And yet.

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful.

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever.

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour.

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now.

You doubt they ever could.

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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escelia · 9 months ago

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Congrats! Its A Boy!

Here's the second chapter of New Sibling Just Dropped! The inspiration train is still on track, and I've been having a lot of fun writing this. So far, my goal has been to post one chapter after I've written the one after it. I hope my motivation sticks around long enough for me to get all my thoughts typed out! Enjoy!

@flamingpudding here is your best friend mandated update tag! Love ya~

“For interrogation,” his children had said as they diligently separated their hostage and Robin from being near each other. His youngest was absolutely seething, and rightfully so. He’d been cloned several times by his mother, each one of them out for Damian’s head. His children had been right about this one though, he was different in a very strange way. He hadn’t put up much of a fight at all, and in fact had been quite obedient thus far. He seemed very confused and lost in thought. It was suspicious. He couldn’t let his guard down.

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

Bruce had been suspicious when Nightwing and Red Robin dragged a blindfolded child on board. He’d been blindfolded and maneuvered into a seat, but hadn’t struggled at all.

When they entered the cave they immediately restrained the child in their little interrogation room. It wasn’t ideal that he was there at all, but they’d get way faster results from the DNA they’d swiped from him on their way there on the Batcomputer than anywhere else. And if he was a clone of Damian, they didn’t want anyone seeing his face. He had Tim get to work running the sample while he grabbed the folder with everything he knew about the League’s clones so far. He could have taken a tablet in with all the digital files, but it was never quite as intimidating as slamming a folder around.

When Bruce entered he zeroed in on the kid’s body language. He was tense and restless, but not in any way that indicated he was likely to attempt an attack. His gaze wandered and frequently settled back on Bruce. He certainly didn’t act like a trained assassin. He started by asking a few questions like his age and name. When he answered his age it wasn’t with any certainty, and he’d either picked a new name for himself or was really good at lying. It was also possible, of course, that he’d been a failed clone experiment. It would explain why the League was so willing to throw him into the fight and then lose track of him afterward.

“Why are you different from the other clones?” he asked bluntly, watching the child’s reaction. He didn’t falter at all when he responded that he wasn’t a clone. Bruce slammed the folder shut and watched the boy startle and tense like he would have to defend himself before leaving the room. The results should be in by now.

“Red Robin, what have we got on the DNA results?”

Tim stared at the screen with wide eyes as he typed something in. He looked to Bruce then back to the screen.

“Uh, I’m going to run the test again just to be sure, but you should sit down B.”

Bruce ignored him. He needed answers now, and while the Batcomputer worked fast, he didn’t want to wait for the test to run again. He had a family to protect. He peered at the screen over Tim’s shoulder and had to grab his shoulder to steady himself. He could see now why Tim insisted on running the test again.

“B? You okay?”

The others started to gather around him to see what was going on. Cass had brought up a hand to cover her mouth in a show of shock. Dick gripped Bruce’s shoulder in comfort and to steady himself. Tim was still gaping, looking back and forth between the screen and his family. Steph bit back a laugh, though whether it was from shock or just because of how absurd it was, no one could tell. And Damian, for the first time, looked genuinely stunned speechless by the words on the screen.

Familial Match Found

Damian Wayne- 99.7%

Relationship: Twin

Bruce Wayne- 48.3%

Relationship: Father

Run again? Y/N

“Damian, you have a twin?” Tim asked incredulously, turning his stare to the youngest.

“I… mother only ever implied– she never said it directly and didn’t bring it up often…”

“Damian, you knew you had a twin?” Bruce asked, his voice shaking with the unmistakable quiver of pain.

“No! I only had the vague impression that there had been another child. It always sounded as though they died. Mother never even mentioned a name!” the boy seethed.

“Run it again,” Bruce demanded.

Tim didn’t need to be asked twice. He was going to run it again anyway. It was just too scary to imagine. Another Damian running around terrorizing the public? One was more than enough! And not to mention the pain that had to put Bruce in; knowing that Talia had hid not one, but two children from him and those kids didn’t even know each other. Would Damian get even more stabby now that he thought he had competition for Robin? Would he get violent over not being the only blood son anymore? Tim didn’t know how they would manage if the two started fighting.

Bruce swept back into the room where Danny was waiting. His chest was tight, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, so he whipped his cowl off to take deep breaths and look over Danny properly, like a person instead of a threat. If he hadn’t been reeling, he was sure he never would have revealed his face, there was still so much they didn’t know about him.

He really did look so much like Damian that you could mistake him for a clone. Except, now that he was really looking, Danny was a bit paler than Damian. His complexion was a little closer to his own than that of Damian and Talia. Their face structures were the same, as well as their build and stature. But where Damian’s eyes were green like Talia’s, Danny’s were a bright, baby blue, like his. How had he missed that? They didn’t even have the same eye color! How could they have mistaken him for a clone? Had Tim noticed? Was that why they brought him back with them?

“Hey, are you okay?” Danny asked him. He looked genuinely concerned over someone who had essentially kidnapped him. He obviously hadn’t been raised the same way Damian had. If he and his brother hadn’t grown up together, then where had Danny been this whole time? And why did he suddenly show up in the League of Assassins’ base?

“I have so many questions,” Bruce found himself saying out loud.

“Dude, same,” Danny replied, “like why did you think I was a clone? Did you get those DNA results you were talking about? What did they say?” And why had he taken his mask off? If they were heroes like he suspected, then the man definitely knew the number one rule of ‘don’t reveal your identity to strangers.’

“My apologies– Danny, right?” Danny nodded. The man finally moved his feet to take the seat across from the kid again. The door cracked open again and the kid Danny recognized as Robin shuffled in to stand next to Batman. His fists were clenched and his posture stiff, but he was much better at concealing his emotions than the older man was. He stayed silent for now, just hovering beside the unmasked man.

“Do you know who we are, Danny?” he was asked calmly.

“I heard someone call you Batman, and,” Danny pointed at the one next to him, “you’re Robin, right?”

“Stop playing dumb!” Robin snapped at him, clicking his tongue in displeasure.

“Whoa! There’s no playing involved, I’m just dumb. From the moment I woke up to right now, I haven’t had a single clue what’s going on!” Robin looked at him suspiciously like he didn’t believe him.

“What happened when you ‘woke up,’ please explain.”

“I opened my eyes for the first time in this dimension and suddenly some guy was shoving a knife into my hand and throwing me at the tall one in blue. Nightwing, I think his name was? I literally woke up just standing there and then almost got my head bashed in!”

“Your results suggest that you’re not a clone, but there are holes in your story. Do you not have any memory of what you were doing before you encountered Nightwing?” Batman asked seriously. He seemed to finally be under control of his emotions, and if he hadn’t taken his cowl off, he might have been a bit more intimidating. Robin, on the other hand, looked to be getting more frustrated, like he was expecting Danny to say something else and was angry when he didn’t hear what he had anticipated. Danny clicked his tongue in annoyance, noticing that it sounded almost exactly like when Robin had done it, and glared suspiciously at them. They were trying to get at something but refused to say it.

“What did those test results say?”

Damian finally ripped his mask off his face to scowl at Danny properly. Their faces were practically identical to each other. Danny finally understood at least one thing, and that was why their little clan thought he was a clone.

“Oh, wow, okay,” the halfa muttered under his breath.

“Those test results seem to imply that we are identical twins! Mother made it sound like you were dead. Where was she hiding you all this time? What is your goal in coming here?” Seeing a sneer like that on a face that looked just like his own was a weird experience for Danny. The other boy looked poised for a fight and the halfa was glad that, if he was attacked again, at least he would see it coming this time.

“Cool, cool, cool. Always wanted a stabby sibling.” Dani had been a stabby sibling when he’d met her and she’d ended up being pretty cool. Of course, she’d moved on to do her own thing eventually and he never really saw her after that. She was her own person, it made sense that she didn’t stay glued to him.

Robin snapped and snarled at him, pulling out a knife from somewhere on his person (seriously, that was pretty impressive for a human) and throwing himself across the table. Danny was able to phase out of his restraints and float to the side of the chair since he’d seen the lunge coming. He’d planned on telling them about that anyway, but he was seriously starting to get tired of not being able to explain himself.

“If you guys would just chill for a moment,” he froze Robin’s feet to the floor and Batman’s cape to the chair he was on, “I’d be more than happy to explain myself! I really don’t want to fight anyone if I don’t have to. Please?”

“Guys, he made an ice pun and it was beautiful,” Nightwing whispered in awe. It seemed the door had been swung open and the others that he’d heard milling around before had come in to either stop or join the fight that had been brewing.

Robin looked as though he had no intention of letting it go that easily, but Bruce, whether it was because he was curious or because he couldn’t stop thinking of the floating child as his son, hummed and nodded his head to hear him out. The rest of his brigade followed suit.

“Finally!” he was still in his human form, so it felt a bit weird to tuck his legs up underneath him, crisscrossing in midair. All kinds of thoughts raced through everyone's heads from Lazarus Pit demons to genetically modified test tube baby.

“My name is Danny and I’m something called a halfa. I am NOT a clone, I do NOT have nefarious plans, and I DO NOT know why or where I woke up when you guys nabbed me. Yes, I was sent here from another dimension. No, I don’t know why my DNA results came back as being Robin’s twin.”

“Do you know why you were sent here?” Bruce asked while he processed the information the child had given them freely. He would never in a million years admit it out loud, but he felt bad for the way this had gone down. Danny clearly didn’t seem hostile and had no interest in fighting any of them or refusing to answer their questions. He’d just gotten so worked up over all the clones that had been sent to kill Damian that when they stormed the League of Assassins to deal with them and they found what they thought was a clone acting strangely, his immediate instinct had been to be suspicious and protective.

Danny thought for a moment about how to answer the question. He’d already decided to hold off telling them about the whole Ghost King thing, and he wasn’t really sure how to go about explaining the Lazarus Pit thing without bringing that up. But that wasn’t the only reason why he was there. His cheeks burned at the thought of explaining it out loud, but he’d made his mind up.

“I… do know. But promise not to laugh, okay?” They nodded their heads seriously at him.

“It’s to… it’s so I can try being a kid again.” Danny frowned when Robin scoffed at him. “In the dimension I’m originally from, I had a sister and we pretty much raised ourselves. And when I turned fourteen, I was in a lab accident that biologically changed me and I spent a few years after that dealing with the fallout of an interdimensional portal as my city’s only hero. It was hard. And I was tired from doing everything by myself. By the time everything finally settled down, my sister had already left for college, my parents forgot I was there, and my best friends were graduating high school without me.”

He took a deep breath to keep himself from crying in front of these people he barely knew. He didn’t like crying in general, but at least with Clockwork he knew the ghost understood why he was crying and wouldn’t judge him for it. Nightwing looked to be tearing up on his behalf, though.

“I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish anything I wanted to do in that world. I hadn’t had the time to go to school or develop other skills outside of my hero work. So my mentor from the Infinite Realms offered to drop me into another dimension with the opportunity to try childhood again. And you can tell I’m still a child because I didn’t ask him any questions,” he rolled his eyes, “like what family he was placing me with, where I would wake up, or how old I was going to be.” Danny began laughing at himself, filling the silence while waiting for someone to say something to him.

“So this mentor of yours just dropped you into this world with no one to take care of you? Then why does your DNA flag as this gremlin's twin?” Red Robin asked incredulously.

“Like I said, I don’t know. However, I think I have a theory, but…” he grimaced as he glanced over at the maskless Robin. Knowing Clockwork for so long now gave him an advantage when it came to stuff like this. He had a few theories actually. It was possible that Robin really did have a twin and something happened to him that had allowed Danny to take his place when he was sent here. It was also possible, though way more unlikely in his opinion, that the role of being his twin was created upon his arrival, and the world had retroactively rearranged itself to fit him into it. Something about being an Ancient, Clockwork had said, but Danny was still young for an Ancient so he didn't think it was likely.

“Did you maybe already have a twin? I could be an alternate version of a twin you already had, which would mean…” he trailed off, letting the implication that they were supposed to be the family that took him in hang in the air.

Robin tried to jerk his legs out of the ice, probably not wanting to accept another sibling, let alone one that was supposed to be his twin! But Danny started to speak again.

“But if that doesn’t work for you or you don’t want me around, I can just figure something else out like I always do!”

“Absolutely not!” Batman countered. “You’re twelve and we don’t know anything about your powerset, you are not wandering off on your own!”

“Are you sure? I could just go, like, haunt a park or something,” he asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the door. But it seemed like everyone other than Batman and Robin were vibrating with excitement as they started to shed their masks. And holy crap they all looked alike, their whole group really was a family unit! Nightwing was grinning wide and Red Robin was fiddling with something on his phone. Danny couldn’t have known, but Tim was already drafting up paperwork to make him a legal person in Gotham. There were two whose names he hadn’t caught yet next to them. One of them, a blonde, was holding up her phone to take his picture. He hoped her photo turned out okay with him in it. (Steph was uploading his photo into their group chat with the caption, ‘New brother just dropped,’ for everyone that wasn’t there that night.) The one next to her had dark hair and was quietly chanting, “new brother.”

“You may not originally be from this dimension, but biologically, you’re my son here. I’m not going to make you live at the park.” He moved to get up but was stopped by Danny’s ice. He bashfully muttered an apology before dispersing the ice on both him and Robin.

“You said you were a hero before, so I'm sure I don't have to remind you not to tell anyone our civilian identities, right?”

“Absolutely! My lips are sealed, don’t worry!” Danny confirmed saluting the man before he finally let his feet touch the ground again. He didn't actually know anyone's names yet either, so there was that too. Everyone started to file out of the tiny room; it had felt so cramped in there with all those people blocking the door. A dignified, older gentleman was waiting outside for them with an expectant eyebrow lifted at them. If he thought it was weird that Danny was there, or that he looked almost exactly like one of the others, he was really good at hiding it.

“I’m sure proper introductions can be made after everyone is out of costume and upstairs for the night? I’ve even taken the liberty of preparing cookies and hot chocolate.”

It was like watching a flock of birds scatter with how fast everyone started moving. Some of them even tripped over each other trying to be the first one up for what Danny could only imagine were god tier cookies and hot chocolate, going by their reactions.

“You may call me Alfred,” the man gently greeted him. “What would you like me to call you?”

“You can just call me Danny.”

“Very well, Master Danny. Allow me to fetch you a change of clothes. I’m sure Master Damian has something suitable for you to wear for now.” Alfred motioned for him to follow. Danny assumed that Damian could only be Robin, since he was the only one the same size as him as far as he could tell. He absently wondered if he should prepare himself to eventually get stabbed by his new and unwilling twin brother.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #fanfiction #batfam #damian wayne #dcxdp #update #danny and damian are twins #bruce is so emotionally incompetent he can't even panic properly #bruce is planning his text to Talia as we speak #alfred is the only one even remotely composed #and he's only there for like 5 minutes #my cat screamed at me the entire time i formated this post #he says hi

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hivemuthur · 25 days ago

Text

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 9.

viktorxfemale!reader explict! (we got there)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 7,2K!

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: spoiler: In the timeline of my writing, this is the first sex scene I've ever written on my own. So, what can I say? This is an imperfect story about imperfect people, but I can assure you it has an eventual happy ending.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

The absolute chaos of Christmas looming spread across the campus like an infectious frenzy. The corridors were decked with the most absurd ornaments the students could scavenge—Santa Claus figurines strung up and dangling upside down from the ceiling of the canteen, Christmas trees adorned with laboratory glassware and angel hair, and a mockery of carols blaring on repeat from the school radio. It was a bizarre fusion of science and art, a perfect encapsulation of the university’s peculiar spirit.

Every student seemed to be racing against time, scrambling to finish their projects and papers before the holidays, determined to return prepared for the looming finals. The labs and library remained open around the clock for anyone desperate enough to study or practise at odd hours.

You and Sue spent every spare moment in the lab classroom, tinkering with projects that needed to be submitted by the semester’s end. Meanwhile, Jayce and Viktor made themselves available to assist and guide anyone who might need their expertise, and the group crossed paths periodically, exchanging polite gestures and jokes to keep up the holiday spirit. Viktor had made a few attempts to talk to you after his mortifying text message, but you did your best to ignore him.

Which made your current situation, to say the least, far from ideal. Sue was rushing you to jot down all the points before she had to dash off and tend to a project for another class. The two of you huffed at each other, frustration starting to take its toll, until you sighed and said, “Sue, how about I finish this, and you go do your thing? I really don’t mind.” You offered your friend a reassuring smile.

Sue hesitated, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sick of me or something?”

“I’m never sick of you,” you said, placing your hand on Sue’s knee and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “I just think this needs a bit more work, and I can see you’re in a hurry. Honestly, I really don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Okay, I admit my mind is elsewhere. Fine,” Sue sighed in mock defeat. “I’ll do something for you in return, I promise.” She started packing up her things and leaned over to place a hand on your shoulder.

“Just get me a cookie or something,” you replied with a tired smile, gently brushing Sue’s hand away. You figured you’d probably finish the work faster on your own, and you were running out of time anyway. The lab was already emptying, darkness had fallen outside, your eyes burned from staring at the chemicals for so long, and you’d had more than enough for one day.

After Sue left, you resumed your work, determined to finish everything in one evening. The promise of rest and the satisfaction of completion fuelled you. You were so focused on jotting down your thoughts that you didn’t notice when Viktor sat beside you and leaned over your notes.

“Do you... need help?” His voice was unsure, as if he were asking about something else as well.

You hesitated. Help would certainly be welcome, but Viktor’s presence would also make it harder for you to focus. The final equation seemed to balance out the odds. You looked at him—he looked tired yet sharp. He wore the same green jumper he’d had on that night, with a crisp white shirt collar peeking out from underneath it. His scent was fresh and comforting, and his eyes, full of quiet anticipation, were fixed on you as you calculated your decision. You sighed. Yes, you needed help.

“Alright. Shoot me.”

For a split second, Viktor’s face lit up before he leaned in closer. “You’re pretty far along,” he said, his expression thoughtful, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You can dictate, and I’ll translate it into Heimerdinger’s language?”

“That would honestly be perfect,” you admitted, letting out a huff of relief as you turned your attention back to the chaotic scrawl of notes Sue had left behind. Terrible handwriting.

The two of you worked together in near silence, the hum of the lab equipment and the faint scratching of Viktor’s pen the only sounds between you. You found yourself occasionally distracted by the way Viktor’s long fingers moved as he pointed to your results, his low voice guiding you through adjustments. You tried to stay focused, but every now and then, you’d catch yourself glancing at him, his concentration a tether pulling your attention away from your notes.

Viktor, for his part, couldn’t help but steal glances at you. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the sterile air of the lab, and it made something in his chest feel warm, almost achingly so. He bit his lip nervously whenever he realised he’d been staring too long, forcing his attention back to writing.

It took the two of you longer than either of you had expected, but when you finally wrapped up, the lab was completely empty. You stretched your arms over your head, letting out a soft groan of relief.

“That’s it, then,” you said, your voice tired but satisfied. “Thank you, Viktor. Honestly, I’d still be drowning in that mess if you hadn’t—”

“It’s nothing,” he cut you off gently, placing the pen down and leaning back slightly. He watched as you began gathering your things, clearly ready to leave. But before you could stand, he cleared his throat, his voice softer now. “Hey.”

You paused, looking at him.

“Did you…” He hesitated, the words suddenly harder to push out. He fidgeted with the edge of his notebook. “Did you get my text message?”

Of course, you did. You’d seen his stupid, childish message. The ‘I like you,’ had screamed at you from your phone screen for two weeks now, and you’d both loved it and hated it. Who writes ‘I like you’ like a five-year-old? And not only that, who needs to down an entire bottle of whisky to muster the courage to write ‘I like you’?

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. You hadn’t expected this. You shifted awkwardly in your chair, avoiding his gaze. “I did,” you said finally, your voice measured, careful.

Viktor’s expression remained unreadable, but his hands tightened around the notebook in front of him. “And?”

You let out a breath, your lips pressing into a thin line. “And… if I’m to rely on you saying or doing something from the heart only when you get yourself blind drunk, that wouldn’t be the best choice for your health, Viktor,” your voice was quiet, your eyes fixed on the workbench in front of you. “And I don’t want to be bad for your health.” You offered him a faint smile and looked down again. “If it was from the heart, in the first place.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. “It was.” It was. And it shamed him deeply that, indeed, he’d needed liquid courage to admit it. Only now did it strike him how awful it must have made you feel. “But I have a… rabbit heart.”

“Am I so terrifying?” you felt mockery twisting itself inside you with anger. Why were you so angry, though? You also had a rabbit heart. You often caught yourself knowing exactly what Viktor was going to say because you used the same words in your history of backing out. Was this the universe having a go at you?

“Yes, you scare the living shit out of me,” he huffed out a shaky laugh, lowering his voice. It was probably the biggest truth he’d told you in all this time.

“Well, this can’t be good for your health either, then, no?” Deflect, deflect, deflect, hide yourself behind that joke. Very well done, you.

“I—” Viktor paused, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Look, I lied. I’m not good with any setup—casual or not. I—” He stopped himself, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before looking away again. He was torn, visibly at war with his own feelings.

You didn’t want to hear him stumble over words again. “Viktor, I get it. It’s fine. We can still be friends?” You tried to search your mind for what you’d want to hear all those times when you told someone politely the relationship wasn’t working for you.

You thought this was it—an offer of friendship. Most people got hurt or annoyed with you, and it made you feel guilty. So, you tried to say something that wouldn’t make him feel guilty. As soon as you said it, you realised that what you actually wanted was for someone not to let you retreat—but it was too late for that.

Viktor took in a shaky breath, his gaze returning to yours, but he still looked uncertain. “I can’t do that,” he said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. “I can’t be just your friend.” His hands clenched into fists on the table. “I... I’ve tried to be fine with it, but I’m not. I can’t pretend.”

“But I don’t know how to be anything else,” he added after a beat, his mind flicking back to all the times he’d snuck out of someone’s bedroom or when he found himself alone in the morning, in his own cold, sweaty bed. After some time, it became a habit, a quiet indulgence that carried no consequences, and it aligned very well with his main goal: to make his life more than it was meant to be. No distractions, only his goal. Some distractions, but not too many. Only friendships, and here as well, only the stimulating ones. To keep his brain fed, so his soul could starve.

“I have worked… so hard,” he brushed his hand through his hair. “To get where I am. I was meant to fail, and I haven’t failed once. I haven’t failed a single time, aside from some tiny, insignificant stumbles that eventually lead me to answers anyway. So many times I haven’t failed that I don’t think I know how to,” his voice was quiet, as if admitting something shameful. He said it as though any slip-up could cost him everything he’s worked for.

“I… understand,” you said slowly, piecing together the crumbs of information. Viktor didn’t come from a place of love, like you did. He didn’t come from a place of opportunity. He probably had to claw his way through pompous academics who didn’t take him seriously. You understood that part. But what was your part in turning it all to dust—that eluded you. So you didn’t understand, not entirely.

“Do you?” he looked at you longingly, expectantly, and it made your heart ache. What was it that you were supposed to give him now? A promise you would never hurt him? That you would never distract him or drag his mind away from what’s important?

“Viktor, this shouldn’t be so hard, I’m not some mythical creature,” you said, trying to inject a touch of humour into your voice, but it came out thin, brittle.

Viktor’s gaze softened, but the intensity in his eyes remained. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady. “No, you’re not,” he murmured, as if trying to reconcile something inside himself. “But you’re not like anyone else either.”

Your chest tightened at the words, but you quickly pushed it aside, unwilling to let yourself feel vulnerable. You folded your arms across your chest, as if protecting yourself from something you couldn’t name. “I don’t want to be a puzzle for you to solve, Viktor. I don’t want to be some challenge you feel like you need to conquer. That’s not what I’m here for.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he processed your words. He wanted to argue, to convince you that it wasn’t about conquest, that it was about something deeper, but he could tell it wasn’t the right time. Not yet. “I don’t… I don’t think of you like that,” he said, his voice almost too soft, as if afraid to break the fragile moment between you. “I think of you as someone I want to understand, someone who...” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence, the words feeling too heavy in the air.

You shifted in your seat, your eyes narrowing slightly as you considered his words. There was a vulnerability in his voice, a quiet sincerity that you weren’t used to hearing. You almost wanted to reach out, to ease the tension that hung between you, but you held yourself back.

There was a long, aching pause between you before Viktor cleared his throat and leaned back, trying to break the silence. “So,” he said, the words coming out in a lighter tone, “how many do-overs do you think we can have?”

You rolled your eyes at him, a small, rueful smile tugging at your lips. “I find myself hoping that each one is the last one,” you replied dryly, though your heart wasn’t fully in the jest. “Thank you for all the help.”

Viktor smiled, a faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “Oh, no worries. I’ll see you at the Christmas party?” he asked, his voice a little uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure how you’d respond.

You nodded, your expression softening just slightly. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” you said, your tone neutral, but not dismissive. “Take care, Viktor.”

With that, you parted ways, the lingering tension still hanging between you, neither fully satisfied with the conversation, but both with the understanding that you were somehow still connected—however uncertain that connection was.

You found an unbearable thought gnawing at you—that in this state, the only ‘do-over’ you could count on was friendship, and Viktor couldn’t afford that. Inevitably, it would end with nothing.

***

It wasn’t exactly a party, but the pub was completely packed with people—students, assistants, and random individuals who wandered around campus, their roles in it a complete mystery. Everything was bathed in the warm glow of Christmas decorations, making the space feel even more cramped.

You sat at a small round table with Sue, some familiar faces scattered around, including Jayce and Viktor, who had joined after their TA duties. Sue was mid-sentence when you leaned back in your chair, your eyes wandering. You weren’t in the mood for all the noise tonight. The words blurred around you as you half-listened, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of your glass—a quiet distraction. Viktor was talking to Jayce, his sharp voice cutting through the noise every now and then. His dry wit was always on full display, the kind that kept people around him in that odd mix of awe and wariness.

“You okay?” Sue’s voice brought you back. You blinked, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, just... tired, I guess,” you said, forcing a polite smile as you took a sip of your drink.

The room was hazy with cigarette smoke, the heat becoming unbearable. The whole scene was so unbearably sweet and cozy that it made you flinch. Your eyes kept glancing over to Viktor, who would immediately look away as soon as your gazes met. You kept thinking about what another do-over could look like and felt yourself growing more and more frustrated with the space between you, even though you were sitting so close to each other. You could feel Sue's eyes on you but couldn’t quite explain why you felt this way.

Sue raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, if you need to bail early, I totally get it.”

You hesitated, then gave a half shrug. “I think I’ll head out. Just... not feeling it, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Sue replied, offering a quick nod. “See you later?”

“Yeah.” You stood, grabbing your coat from the back of your chair. As you made your way through the maze of tables, you could hear Viktor's voice in the background—just enough to make you pause. You could feel his gaze on you, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the exit.

Viktor watched as you stood and walked away, a wave of frustration rising within him, forming itself into a long sigh. He had tried, hadn’t he? He had said things—things he never said to anyone—but now you were leaving, retreating like always. His jaw tightened, and he felt his fingers curl into fists on the table. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not after everything. He should’ve known better, but still, your departure stung.

He couldn’t place why, but it felt like you were slipping away just as he was beginning to reach out. You were both so fucking terrible at talking, at letting yourselves feel anything real. Why did it have to be so difficult?

The cold air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, and for a moment, it felt like a relief. The street was quiet, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath your boots. You slid your headphones on and started walking toward the dorms, matching your steps to the rhythm of the song.

You awaited rest and home and being far away from here with utter impatience. Just one more evening of this. Just one more evening of thinking and biting at your own lips, glancing at your phone, and then it would only be your parents, and Hale, and the quiet evenings at Sheffield, for a week.

Against reason, Viktor followed you, his footsteps soft but steady as he stepped out of the pub moments later. His eyes caught sight of your retreating figure, and a small, amused smile played at the corner of his lips. He’d almost not been surprised—almost expected it.

He called out your name, his voice lost to the wind and muffled by the sounds of the night. But you didn’t hear him. Quickening his pace, his breath misted in the cold air. He called again, louder this time, but still, you didn’t turn.

A small part of him considered letting you go, letting you stew in your thoughts, just leaving it for after the break. But the rest of him felt pulled, like a dog on a leash in front of a vet’s door.

You were nearing the entrance to the dorms when you finally paused, taking a deep breath, and tugging your headphones off with a slight wince. The moment you heard your name, you froze, your heart skipping in your chest.

“Hey you!” Viktor’s voice was closer now, cutting through the night. When you turned, you saw him standing at the edge of the walkway, just outside the dorm. His breath came in visible puffs, his chest heaving as if he’d run after you.

“You walk... so fucking fast,” he said, still catching his breath. “I never figured you for the type to run off so bluntly. But I suppose that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” Yes, just laugh it out. Viktor took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Are you fucking drunk again?” you blinked, your mind racing. You had to admit to yourself that Viktor drunkenly following you from the bar was a coin toss you wouldn’t have bet on. Especially after your last talk. Funny.

“Are you not?” he countered, his words smoother than you expected.

“No. Go back to your pub, Viktor.” Your voice was flat now, each word carefully measured. You exhaled sharply, your shoulders sinking as if the weight of the evening had finally caught up with you. You were so tired of this.

Viktor tilted his head, his smile barely visible in the shadows as he took a step closer. “Eh, make me,” he said softly, though it wasn’t a challenge—not really.

Another step.

“I am so not in the mood for you now,” you muttered, your hands dropping limply by your sides as you turned away, dragging yourself down the corridor toward the elevators. Your voice lacked its usual bite, tinged instead with exhaustion.

“Alright, alright, I’m not drunk, just had one pint. Oh, come on,” Viktor mock-pleaded, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as he quickened his pace to catch up with you. “You won’t see me the entire holiday break.”

“And I will savour every single day of this glorious relief from your constant nagging, poking, your sweet side and your dick side, and having fun at my expense,” you snapped, jabbing the elevator button with increasing impatience, your words punctuated by each press.

You were expecting another joke, but Viktor’s hands gripped your waist firmly, twisting you around. Your breath caught as he pulled you flush against him, the heat of his body sharp against the cold you’d carried in from outside.

“Shut up,” he breathed, his voice raw and ragged as his lips found yours. The kiss was unsteady, heated, and messy, tasting faintly of sweet beer and a frustration that mirrored your own. He panted into your mouth, his lips parting just enough to nip at yours.

“Just… shut up, for once,” he murmured, crowding you against the elevator door. It slid open behind you with a soft chime, and you stumbled inside, Viktor’s cane clattering to the floor as he steadied you against the wall. He pulled your turtleneck down to lick your neck greedily over the bite mark he had left there. His hands quickly found their way under your sweater, and he gasped, bemused by your lack of underwear. “No bra?” Again. A low chuckle rumbled against your skin. “Is that your idea of a Christmas present?”

“Fuck off,” you scoffed, your voice still sharp with lingering anger. Your hands pressed against his chest in an attempt to push him away, but the lack of real force and your hands still gripping his coat tightly betrayed you.

“Are you sure?” Viktor smirked, his grip firm as he tilted your chin up, pressing a lingering, deceptively sweet kiss to your lips. “This is your floor,” he said, his voice agonizingly calm as he stepped back, gesturing toward the elevator doors sliding open.

“Or…” His tone shifted, almost teasing, as he pressed the button to close the doors and send them up to his floor instead. “You could come with me. For real, this time.”

You pulled him wordlessly toward you, offering no resistance—nothing more, nothing less. Words had failed you, but your actions were clear. It was enough. Viktor wanted to say, That’s what I thought, the words teasing the edge of his tongue, but he held them back. Instead, he captured your lips again, kissing frantically. He explored your mouth, swallowing the small sounds you made, the elevator a blur as it carried you upward.

By the time you reached his room, Viktor managed to open the door without breaking the kiss, his cane hanging hooked over his arm. You stumbled inside together, the heat between you growing unbearable, and he pressed you firmly against the door, his hands bracing your hips as his lips moved over yours with unrelenting zeal. You pulled him closer, your breath catching as you managed to rasp, “Bed?”

Viktor chuckled softly against your lips; his tone laced with teasing. “Impatient, are we?” But there was no mistaking the heat in his gaze, the way his hands tightened on your hips as he broke the kiss just long enough to guide you further into the room.

“Fuck you,” you muttered, your voice raw as your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him with you.

“Yes. Please, fuck me,” Viktor murmured, sweeping you into another fervent kiss as you stumbled toward the bed. “I’m so tired of you not fucking me.”

You scoffed into his mouth. And who is to blame for that? You sunk into the mattress, pulling Viktor with you by his belt, the cane poking your leg.

“Why are you wearing so many clothes?” he whined, his voice laced with frustration as his clumsy hands fumbled with your coat. His hasty movements betrayed him, and in the rush, his knee accidentally pressed against your arm.

“Ow!” you winced, your sharp tone softening as you glanced at his face. The irritation melted away when you saw the unabashed eagerness in his expression, the way his brow furrowed in determination despite his lack of grace. “Is this going to be painful?” you asked, your lips quirking in a faint, teasing smile, though your voice still held a trace of genuine concern.

Viktor froze, blinking down at you like a scolded child. “Only if you want it to be,” he muttered, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back to regroup. His fingers moved more carefully now, peeling the coat off from underneath you with exaggerated precision. “Better?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Viktor granted you a low chuckle, his lips quirking in that familiar, lopsided smirk. “Ridiculous, perhaps, but effective,” he murmured as he continued with his careful work, peeling away the layers of your clothing like unwrapping a particularly stubborn present.

His own clothes, however, didn’t receive the same treatment. He shed them with reckless abandon, tossing each piece into an ever-growing messy pile near the bed, his leg brace a crown on top of it. His cane clattered softly to the floor as he leaned back for balance, the faintest flush spreading across his cheeks.

Once you were both were bare, he ran his palms gently along your sides and pressed his face to your hip, your belly, your neck, inhaling your skin. “God, you are so infuriating,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your body.

He glued himself to you, his hands roaming wherever they could reach, as if this were the moment he’d been waiting to happen for the longest time. And it was, of course. The decision to toss everything aside and just jump in might have been reckless, but he had no capacity to decide otherwise.

“Infuriating?” you laughed, feigning offense. “Is that the way you treat all of your conquests? Make them follow you around by the nose for months, until your resolve finally breaks after one pint?”

“No, only you,” he replied smoothly, his lips brushing against your collarbone. He added with a sly smirk, “It’s my love language with you.”

“Love?” you repeated, voice laced with teasing incredulity, but the hesitation in your tone betrayed how the word caught you off guard.

“Shut up,” Viktor muttered, his hand gliding up your side as he kissed you, silencing your laughter before you could push further. “Attraction,” he murmured against your neck, his lips pressing a lingering kiss there. “Want,” he added, his teeth grazing your breast, earning a sharp gasp from your mouth. “Admiration,” he said, coming back up to meet your eyes and give you a slow, steady kiss. He took your fingers into his mouth and watched your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting.

His voice dipped lower, teasing, and dangerous. “Anyway, is that not what we have been doing?” His hands explored the meat of your ass with a firm grip, his touch both intoxicating and commanding as he pressed himself flush against your core. He shifted against you with a kind of intimacy that had your breath hitching.

“Have you not been loving me all this time?” His words, soft and taunting, carried a heat that matched the tension thrumming between you. His hand moved down between your thighs to scoop your wetness and lick it off his fingers, as he made sure you were watching. “Ah, it seems,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, “you’ve been loving me back all along.”

You trembled under him, your breath catching as your hands gripped his shoulders. A quiet plea escaped your lips, barely audible but filled with vulnerability. “Don’t be mean, Viktor.”

For a moment, he stilled, his expression softening as he pulled back to look at you. His golden eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, held a flicker of something warmer, deeper. “Mean?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “No. Not with you.”

The teasing edge in his voice melted away as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, slow and deliberate, as though trying to convey what words couldn’t. He was so bad at talking if you thought he was being mean. His hands cradled your face, and his next words came as a low promise against your skin. “I could never be mean to you.”

You huffed softly, a half-laugh escaping you as memories of all the times he’d actually been mean flitted through your mind. “Liar,” you muttered against his lips, though there was no venom in your tone. Instead, you kissed him back longingly, your fingers threading into his hair as your thighs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer.

Viktor exhaled a shaky breath, his control fraying under your touch. “Perhaps,” he admitted with a faint, self-deprecating smile, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. “But you give as good as you get, don’t you?” he said playfully, reaching over to pull a condom out of his bedside drawer and put it on swiftly. Then, he grabbed a spare pillow to prop his leg. His belly was tied into a knot, teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure, as he placed one hand between where your bodies were going to meet to align himself at the entrance.

He studied your face, as if to check if there was any resistance left. But you only looked at him with wide eyes, your hands fisting the bed sheet. He swept through his body in a final calculation of what could go wrong—he wasn’t drunk, that was a good start. His leg, eh, not perfect, but he should be able to pull this off. Did he want to love you or tease you? He had forgotten which one it was. A shuddery breath escaped him when your bodies finally connected—he entered you slowly, holding back to lay on top of you.

The first thrust was so deliberate, so slow, so overwhelming that you both moaned into each other's mouths. Your brows tied themselves together, your palms stiff in hesitation over his shoulders, as the feeling of relief surged through you. A relief of finally not being empty.

The only movement Viktor allowed himself was the roll of his hips as he sunk inside you, beat after beat. His arms caged you in, one of his hands gripping your shoulder, the other cradling the base of your skull, as he kept your faces close so he could study you, watch you. He stared at you obscenely, taking in your expressions, disbelief wrenching breath out of his lungs. You really wanted him. You were holding him in a vacuous trap, making it hard to pull out and push back in.

And this wasn’t new. People wanted him, he knew that. They wanted him for this—for a fun fuck—and when they continued to want him afterward, it felt like a fluke. So he shut it down. And it made him feel powerful. No, it made him feel weak. It made his weakness powerful. It gave him the power to disappear from it, from himself, to not be present.

The fact that he was present now, attentive, was rather new for him. Not entirely—he’d had a glimpse of what it could be that night when you were high together, but he hadn’t dared breach the boundary of clothing then. This, though, was entirely different. He watched you so carefully, studying every reaction to his touch. He pushed where you gasped and retreated where you winced. Your kisses were as hungry as his, and it made him feel so full. The fuck was more than fun. It made him feel powerful in a way that didn’t make him feel weak.

He tightened his grip, his forehead resting on yours as he buried himself deep inside, thrust after thrust. His mouth open against you, breathing in every gasp, every whimper you were willing to give him. His pace was even, unwavering, as he murmured against your lips, “You’ve been giving me so much grief.”

He locked eyes with you, a hint of vulnerability in his gaze as he added, “But it really feels like you’ve been loving me back. Haven’t you?” His voice was soft, as though waiting for you to answer not just with words, but with the quiet truth in your eyes.

You slid your fingers into his hair, pulling him in for another desperate kiss, and Viktor caught a faint, barely audible ‘yes,’ offered to drown deep in his throat, traveling straight to his heart, as if you were offering him a secret you hadn’t meant to give away. The sound stirred something deep within him, and as you arched against him, your breath catching, he deepened the kiss and quickened his pace. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck, murmuring quiet praises, each word filled with reverence as you moved together toward completion.

He slid one hand to the nape of your neck, another snaked itself between your bodies, his fingers parting you as he whispered softly, “Oh, my girl.” Your eyes fluttered shut, arms wrapping around his shoulders and you muffled your own moan against his mouth, lips and noses brushing against each other. He rubbed lazy circles on your clit, a smile blooming on his face when he felt your back arching beneath him, hips pressing upward to meet his, your cunt clenching around his cock in a tight, needy hug.

He felt your thighs squeezing his hips, your walls fluttering, pulling him deeper inside you, with you. You dug your nails into his shoulders, lips parted pressed against his, foreheads pressed together mingling droplets of sweat into one.

You felt a sudden urge to say, “Thank you,” distorted by a loud moan as you came on his cock, on his fingers, your body tensing up and bending to the sound of his name falling from her lips. It took a long time, and you thought it would never stop, your climax blinding, contorting your body around him with a force to bend and crush.

Viktor’s mind got invaded by a thought of how great it felt to make a girl such as yourself lose control over her own muscles. How it had made him grow taller and bigger, his heart swollen with your grace, his lips bruised from your teeth. Slowly, he worked you through each spasm, and when you were ready, he retreated his hand to wrap both arms around you and buried his face in your neck. His breathing jagged, teeth sinking into your shoulder to not say too much at the sudden tightness around his cock.

His rhythm began to stutter, movements growing urgent by the minute as he buried himself within you up to the hilt. His breath was uneven, his muscles flexing and twisting. He felt your core hugging his cock so tight, he couldn’t hold back his own panting, as if he were a teenager all over again. He moved his face to brush against yours, whispered your name again, voice trembling, and he came with one thick, everlasting pang, whimpering weakly into your mouth.

His body melted into yours with a long, contented sigh, his arms wrapped tightly around you, stomachs and chests pressed, rising and falling together. You stayed like that in silence for a few moments, not moving, just touching, just breathing, just being.

Finally, Viktor rolled you both to the side, his leg hooked over your hip, fingers threading through your hair, and gave you an almost solemn look.

“What is this face?” you asked softly, cupping his cheek and brushing your thumb across his lip.

He sucked on it slowly, not breaking eye contact. “I never thought you would be so…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and just as you braced yourself for another joke, he finished, “wonderful.”

You managed only to whisper a quiet “Viktor—,” your grip tightening around him as the weight of this little praise crushed you. As his eyes crushed you, his warmth crushed you, as you crushed yourself with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.

Viktor pulled back just a few inches, his gaze searching yours. “Are you going away for Christmas tomorrow?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tentative. Normal.

You nodded slowly, your fingers still tangled in his hair as you answered, “Yeah.”

“Will you stay?” Please, stay. Please don’t have me wake up alone tomorrow. A weakness crept back in.

You nodded against his neck. A quiet breath escaped Viktor’s lips as he leaned in to kiss your forehead, pulling you back against him. He sighed softly, the sound almost like a weight lifting. He didn’t speak for a few moments, just holding you as if afraid you might disappear if he let go.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice quieter now. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain my absence to Sue though.”

Viktor’s lips curled into a playful smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice teasing. “I’ll just tell her you got really into the holiday spirit and had to spend the night with your favourite TA.”

You chuckled softly, the tension between you easing just a little. “I’m sure she’ll believe that,” you replied, though the words felt lighter now, softer.

Viktor’s expression shifted to one of mock seriousness as he pulled you a little closer. “But tomorrow, when the morning comes,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, “I’ll have to call it in. You caught me drunk, used me for your advantage,” he paused, his eyes glinting with mischief, “and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”

You let out a small laugh, your face flushing slightly at the absurdity of the situation. “Selling me out already, I see how this will go,” you said, teasing him back. “I’m sure you won’t mind telling them how you practically begged me to stay the night and cuddle you.”

Viktor smiled, but his eyes softened. “I won’t,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple again, holding you in the quiet aftermath. The moment felt almost unreal—so intimate, so fragile—and yet, there you were. He wouldn’t dare break it by asking for more. And even though Viktor’s chest was still swollen with fear, his mind drifted to sleep in your arms.

Your own mind, however, was restless. As the high of your connection faded, you woke up early, your thoughts gnawing at you. Viktor was fast asleep, his expression so peaceful that you couldn’t believe he had a bad bone in his body. Yet, you had been stabbed so many times. It wasn’t real, was it? It couldn’t be over, just like that. What if he was right, and you weren’t meant to share the awkwardness of the morning? What if he tried to shrug it off once he woke up? Would you survive if he did?

No. You wouldn’t.

Cursing yourself, you slid out of bed, put your clothes back on, and gave Viktor, who was sleeping soundly, one last glance that tore through your soul. And left.

***

The morning light crept through the gaps in the blinds, painting pale stripes across the sheets. Viktor stirred, his body heavy and warm, though there was an odd hollowness in the bed. He reached out instinctively, the fog of sleep not yet cleared, his fingers brushing against nothing but the cold fabric of the mattress. His eyes blinked open.

The room was silent.

He sat up slowly, scanning the space, the sense of emptiness clawing at him as the realisation began to take shape. You were gone.

The sheets beside him were rumpled, but the space was cold, long abandoned. For a moment, he stared at the spot you’d occupied, trying to convince himself you might still be here. Perhaps you were in the bathroom, or in his tiny kitchen searching for tea—but no sound of movement met his ears.

A chill crept through his chest, spreading outwards, a tight knot forming in his stomach. You left.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements clumsy, hurried, his leg straining without the brace. There had to be something—a note, a message, anything that might explain. The bedside table was empty. The dresser? Nothing. Viktor opened a drawer, then another, rifling through with increasing desperation, though he knew even as he searched how ridiculous it was. You wouldn’t leave a note in a drawer.

His gaze snapped to his phone. He lunged for it, unlocking the screen with trembling fingers. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts.

He stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the empty screen. His chest tightened, his breaths coming faster, each one shallower than the last. Of course.

What had he been thinking? That after all his fumbling, after all his glaring flaws, you would stay? That someone like you, bright and untamed, would want someone like him—a man who could barely navigate his own feelings without tripping over them?

Right. His fingers clenched around the phone, the pressure digging into his palm. How stupid. How painfully, pathetically stupid. How weak.

He sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. The weight of the silence pressed down on him. Every echo in the room seemed to mock him. The bed felt too big now, the walls closing in too fast. His mind replayed your smile, your laugh, the warmth in your eyes last night, and it made his chest ache. How could you think you’d earned something like this?

And yet, beneath the sinking despair, anger simmered. At himself. At you. At the cruel absurdity of it all. You’d kissed him, held him, and for a brief moment, he’d thought you were standing on equal ground. But the truth was stark now, laid bare in her absence: you’d left. Or maybe that was an equal ground, after all. Now, you were truly even.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his spiralling thoughts. He didn’t answer immediately, hoping whoever it was would go away, but the knock came again, louder this time.

“Viktor?” Jayce’s familiar voice called from the other side. “You ready? We’ve got to leave in half an hour, mate.”

Viktor swallowed hard; his throat dry. His hands slowly dropped from his face as he stared at the door. Jayce’s voice was too cheerful, too ordinary, too far removed from the storm brewing inside him. He wanted to shout at him, to tell him to go away, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I’ll be ready,” he croaked after a pause, his voice hoarse and thin.

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, then the sound of Jayce’s footsteps retreating down the hall. Viktor exhaled shakily, his gaze drifting back to the rumpled sheets beside him. Forcing himself to move, he stood and began to gather his things. Each motion felt mechanical, hollow. The knot in his chest didn’t loosen, but he pushed it down, swallowing it whole. It was almost Christmas. He had to pretend. At least for a little while longer.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #the game of teaching body

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soaringthroughthegalaxy · 1 year ago

Note

Hi. Can you write something spicy with Wrecker x f! reader with the prompt 62. “Is that my shirt?” Maybe reader needs new clothes during a mission and she forgets her spares on Kamino, leading her to wear Wrecker's. She takes advantage of the situation to tease him a little, but we know Wrecker is a little innocent, until Crosshair opens his eyes.. "If you don't fu** her, I will." 😂

Hi,

Thank you so much for this request, I absolutely loved writing it!

What's Mine is Yours

While working on a mission on Corellia, a clothing mishap leads to much more than you anticipated.

Pairing: Wrecker x F!reader

Word count: 4.2k

Rating: 18+ MINORS DNI!

Warnings: accidental clothes sharing, reader described as busty, lewd comment as motivation (one guess who it comes from…), confession of feelings, idiots in love, first kiss, oral (f!receiving), face sitting, fingering, semi-clothed sex, unprotected PiV, squint for size and strength kink.

“Where the hell is it?” You huff, hands scrambling through your backpack as you pull out your belongings, scattering them across the dresser in the dingy hotel room.

You and the boys had been sent to Bela Vistal, a small mountain city on Corellia. The Jedi had caught wind of a shady auction, with whispers of a Holocron up for grabs. It was your job as a squad to scope the place out, gather as much intel as possible, and strike and extract the Holocron if the opportunity presented itself.

By now, you’re used to working with limited information. As a civilian handler, it was your job to fill in the blanks and help the boys with anything they needed to successfully complete their missions – something you’d spent over a year doing remarkably well at. Today that had included wandering around the city with Tech, pretending to be together – out of them all, his appearance was less likely to arouse suspicion. You’d conversed politely with market vendors and cantina owners, asking subtle questions to discover more about the auction.

Ultimately, it had been a fruitless endeavour, and the pair of you had returned to the hotel as the sun had been setting, food in hand. You’d excused yourself after eating, slipping back into your room via the door connecting the two rooms you’d rented for a quick shower.

And now here you were, furiously rifling through your belongings for a clean shirt. You’d packed one; you swore you had. Fingers finding soft fabric, you let out a small noise of triumph, prying the material from your backpack. Towel falling to the floor, you shimmed on a clean pair of panties and some sleep shorts before dragging on the top. Only once it was over your head did you realise something was off. Either you’d suddenly lost a lot of weight or…

Scrambling for the neckline, you twist and turn until you can see the tag and the large ‘W’ sewn into it. “Dank farrik.” You mutter, teeth sinking into your lower lip at the realisation that you’d somehow packed Wrecker’s shirt instead of your own.

Taking a deep breath, you looked at yourself in the mirror on the back of the fresher door. The oversized garment hit mid-thigh, the sleeves extending far beyond your hands. The only saving grace was that your boobs took up enough room that it gave the shirt a little bit of shape. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

The thought of going out into the field wearing Wrecker’s clothing was hilarious, but your laughter soon subsided as you really looked at yourself. Oversized it might be, but it almost…suited you. And though it was clean, you lifted the collar to your nose and inhaled, picking up on a sweet scent that seemed to linger on all of Wrecker’s belongings.

You’d found great comfort in that scent over the last few months, drawn towards Wrecker and his infectious grin. Lips tugging into a smile, a tender warmth spread through you as you thought about the countless times Wrecker had been there to lighten the mood with his quips and laughter and how his protective nature made you feel secure amid the uncertainties of life.

The realisation of what your feelings meant hit you like a wave, and as you stood there, a myriad of emotions swirled within you. The laughter that had filled the room moments ago was replaced by a soft, introspective silence. As you continued to gaze at yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t help but acknowledge the depth of your connection with Wrecker. It went beyond the professional companionship forged across dangerous missions. It was something more personal, something that had quietly grown amidst the chaos of your work.

“Oh, kriff…” You whisper, staring at your own wide-eyed reflection. The sound of a knock on the connecting door interrupts your thoughts. Startled, you turn towards it, momentarily forgetting about the shirt you were wearing. Smoothing down the fabric, you move across to open the door, revealing Hunter.

“Thought you might’ve drowned.” He quips as the door opens; your showers never usually take so long. Gaze dropping down, Hunter takes in the sight of you, chuckling. “Well, looks like you’re drowning, alright.”

“I must’ve grabbed the wrong shirt in our hurry to leave Kamino.” You admit sheepishly, feeling warmth in your cheeks as Hunter steps aside, revealing you to his brothers.

To his credit, Tech offers you a reassuring smile while Crosshair snorts in amusement. But it’s Wrecker’s reaction that catches you off guard the most.

Wrecker’s eyes widen as his gaze rakes down your body. “I-Is that my shirt?” He asks, swallowing thickly. Heat creeps across his cheeks as he admires you, the curves of your body making it look entirely different than it did on him. He can feel the heavy thud of his heart, and for a moment, the room is filled with an almost tangible tension. Wrecker stands frozen, his eyes locked onto you.

“Yeah, I, uh, must’ve grabbed it by mistake.” You stammer, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his intense gaze.

Wrecker blinks, tearing his eyes away from you to glance at Hunter, Tech, and Crosshair. Hunter raises an eyebrow, clearly finding the situation entertaining but not commenting further. Tech adjusts his goggles, a knowing glint in his eyes, while Crosshair smirks, thoroughly amused. Clearing his throat, Wrecker manages to break the silence. “Well, it looks... good on ya.”

The sincerity in his voice surprises you, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. You give a nervous laugh, trying to diffuse the awkwardness. “Thanks, Wreck. I’ll wash it and get it back to you.”

“Nah, keep it.” He says quickly, almost too quickly. “Looks better on you anyway.”

The room falls into another awkward silence as Wrecker scratches the back of his head, unsure how to navigate the sudden shift in the atmosphere. It’s rare to see the big, boisterous man at a loss for words.

Hunter, always the pragmatist, breaks the tension. “Alright, enough of the fashion show. We’ve got a mission to focus on.”

The seriousness of the mission looms over the room, momentarily overshadowing the awkwardness. You gather around the table, holomaps of the city and your datapads spread out as you discuss the action plan.

As the discussion progresses, Wrecker finds his eyes straying to you often, trying to commit the vision of you in his clothes to memory, the way it drapes over your frame and the subtle scent of your shampoo that he knows will linger on the garment now too.

The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks – the feelings he’s been trying to suppress, the concern that goes beyond the missions, the warmth he feels when you’re around – it’s all there, staring him in the face.

Wrecker clears his throat again, attempting to focus on the plan you’re all hashing out, not the crazy beating of his heart. He chimes in enthusiastically, but his mind keeps drifting back to you. As the planning continues, Wrecker catches the knowing look Tech throws him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to concentrate. He wonders if you feel the same, if the newfound awareness is mutual.

Finally, the planning ends, and with your usual round of goodnights, you’re back in your room, the connecting door firmly shut. Only once you’re gone does Wrecker feel like he can breathe again.

“Real subtle there, big guy,” Hunter comments, giving Wrecker’s shoulder a pat as he passes him.

“What?” Wrecker questions, playing dumb. He’s not quite ready to admit his feelings to his brothers; he’s just starting to come to terms with the recent revelation.

None of them are fooled. Tech reaches up, adjusting his goggles. “You were admiring her quite intently.” He points out.

“I would, too, if she were wearing my shirt.” Crosshair chimes in, leaning back on the small couch in the room, propping his feet up on the table as he feels Wrecker’s eyes narrow in his direction. “But hey, if you won’t kriff her, I will.” He comments, unafraid to poke the bear.

In sync, Hunter and Tech facepalm.

A flash of anger courses through Wrecker. “You wouldn’t.” He growls, hating the very idea.

“Wouldn’t I?” Crosshair goads. “She’s a pretty little thing. Bet she’d looked even prettier underne-“

“Hey!” Wrecker’s sharp shout cuts him off. “You don’t talk about her like that. She deserves better, and I won’t let ya disrespect her. Not when she’s the best thing to happen to us in a long while and always lookin’ out for us.”

Amusement curls at Crosshair’s lips. Truth told, forcing those words out had been horrible – he respected you too much – but it had given him the ammunition he needed to make his point. “Hm, sounds like you might have some feelings there, Wrecker.”

Realising he’s been caught in one of his younger brother’s traps, Wrecker groans in frustration, shooting Crosshair a glare that bounces straight off him. With a sigh, Wrecker’s shoulders sag, and he glances over his shoulder towards the connecting door to your room.

Worry curls through him. He did have feelings for you, that much he’d realised, but he wasn’t sure how you felt. The thought of making things awkward or disrupting the dynamics of the squad by introducing personal feelings weighed heavily on Wrecker’s mind.

Hunter picks up on his brother’s internal struggle. “Wrecker, if you’ve got something to say to her, just say it. We’re all adults here. We’ve faced worse than admitting feelings.”

Wrecker sighs. “I just don’t wanna mess things up, y’know? What if she don’t feel the same way, and it makes things weird?”

Tech chips in with his usual logical perspective. “Statistically speaking, relationships formed within a close-knit team can enhance cooperation and overall performance. Emotional bonds can be beneficial.”

Wrecker shoots Tech an incredulous look. “You suggestin’ I tell her I like her ’cause it’s statistically beneficial?”

Tech pushes his goggles back up his nose. “I am merely presenting a logical argument in favour of expressing one’s emotions.”

A noise of frustration slides from Crosshair’s lips, and he pushes himself off the couch. Grabbing Wrecker by the arm, he drags him over to the connecting door, banging his fist against it a few times. “She was eyeing you up, too. Don’t overthink. That’s Tech’s job.” He insists, returning to the couch, shaking his head while muttering about Wrecker’s lack of game.

Hearing you say the door was unlocked, Wrecker takes a deep breath before pushing it open, sliding into your room, letting it click shut behind him.

With Wrecker gone, Hunter, Tech, and Crosshair exchange glances before arranging themselves on the couch to play Sabacc. “You swapped her shirt out of her pack,” Hunter comments as Tech deals the deck, his eyes darting over to Crosshair.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Crosshair doesn’t bother answering; instead, he picks up his cards. Hunter couldn’t prove anything.

Looking up from the dresser, where you’d been trying to organise your belongings back into your backpack, you smile at the sight of Wrecker standing with his back pressed to the door. “Hey, Wreck. Everything okay?” You ask, abandoning your repacking to give the gentle giant your full attention.

Wrecker’s heart pounds in his chest as he steps further into your room, the weight of the revelation he’d shared with his brothers settling in his chest. He grapples with the best way to express his feelings to you, scratching the back of his neck out of nervous habit.

“Uh, yeah, everything’s fine.” He mumbles, avoiding direct eye contact for a moment. “I, um, just wanted to talk to ya about somethin’.”

You tilt your head curiously, a small smile playing on your lips. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Wrecker took another deep breath, his gaze finally meeting yours. “Well, it’s about... us. I mean, you and me. I’ve been feelin’ things, and I just gotta say it. I really like you. I like ya a lot.”

The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable, and your heartbeat quickens in response. Surprise paints your face, delight seeping into your veins that your feelings were returned – that he’d come here to share them with you.

“Wreck.” You begin, your voice soft. “I’ve... I’ve been feeling the same way. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Relief washes over Wrecker’s features, and a wide, genuine smile spreads across his face. “Really?” he asks as if confirming that he wasn’t dreaming.

You nod, your own smile mirroring his. “Really.”

Wrecker chuckles nervously. “Well, guess Crosshair wasn’t entirely wrong about us eyein’ each other up.”

Your jaw drops a little. You’d thought you were being subtle, but you should’ve known the man with super-human vision would catch you out.

Wrecker takes a step closer, gently cupping your face in his large hands, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. “I’m not great with words, but I really do care about ya.” He confesses.

“I care about you too, Wreck. And you don’t need to be great with words.” You reply, your eyes locked with his. “Actions speak louder.”

“Then let me show ya.” Wrecker murmurs, head dipping down to kiss your lips tenderly. Large hands move to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. One of your hands finds home at the nape of his neck, keeping his lips against yours as the other settles on his upper arm.

You taste like heaven, like everything Wrecker has ever wanted and dreamed about. His grip on you tightens ever so slightly, but he’s cautious, not wanting to accidentally hurt you. The kiss breaks a moment later, eyes locked on one another as you pull apart, chests heaving. Desire swirls in your gaze, and Wrecker wants to worship you. But he’s conflicted – is this too soon? Do you want this too?

Palms smoothing across Wrecker’s body, you take his hands in your own, walking backwards the few steps to the bed. Sinking to sit on the edge of it, you guide Wrecker down with you, a thrill zinging through you as he wraps an arm around your middle and hauls you further up the bed before settling above you. With one hand supporting most of his weight, you marvel at how warm and broad he is, your body hidden under his as he presses against you, lips finding yours again for a searing kiss.

You’re so small beneath him, so delicate and so pretty, with your hair fanned across the sheets, your beautiful eyes looking up at him with such adoration. Wrecker can’t resist kissing you again, savouring your shared feelings. Tentatively, his hand roams to your thighs, large palm smoothing across soft skin, creeping up, ruching his shirt as his fingers skim under the edge of your sleep shorts.

The gentle touch makes your breath stutter, a low noise sliding from your lips, muffled by the kiss.

Wrecker pulls back, watching as your eyes flutter open. “Too much, babe?” He asks quietly, unsure whether the noise is good and not wanting to push too much.

Shaking your head, you lean up to pepper kisses across his jawline. “More. Please.” You ask, heat building in your belly.

Thrilled, Wrecker breaks out into a grin, shivering as your hands pry his shirt up and off his body. Your fingers fan over his bare chest, tracing every muscle and scar. His pants are next to be discarded, your sleep shorts joining them on the floor before your lips meet again in a needy kiss. Your panties go, followed by his boxers, but as you go to remove his shirt, Wrecker’s fingers still the action.

“Leave it on, babe.” He admits, a flush on his cheeks. There was something so intrinsically hot about you wearing his clothes.

A noise of delight leaves you, followed quickly by one of surprise as Wrecker rolls you both, placing himself beneath you. Straddling him, it’s impossible to ignore the press of his thick, hard cock. It feels enormous, and you’re almost afraid to look down.

Thankfully, you’re spared as Wrecker grabs your ass, huge hands dwarfing it as he hauls you up his body.

Wrecker groans, hands squeezing as he draws you further up. “Want you to sit on my face, babe. Lemme eat that pretty pussy before I kriff ya.”

Heat strikes through you, pussy clenching around nothing at Wrecker’s request. “I-I don’t wanna suffocate you.” You worry as you’re lifted over his face, knees on either side of his head. Warmth blossoms across your cheeks as he stares right at your cunt.

“Ya won’t. And even if you do, what a way to go.” Wrecker growls, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he gazes up at your pussy. Gently, he encourages you down, groaning in satisfaction as you rest lightly against his face – nose and mouth brushing against your slick folds. “That ain’t sittin’.” He grumbles as he notices you trying to hold up some of your weight. Using a little more of his strength, he pulls you down until you’re firmly against his face, his nose pressed to your clit as his tongue laves over your entrance.

“Oh, hells…” You cry out, holding onto the headboard with one hand while the other lands on Wrecker’s head. That first lick of his tongue had felt incredible.

Wrecker feasts, your pussy his new favourite meal. The taste of you fills his mouth, and he moans, dragging his nose across your clit, tongue sloppy as he laves at you before pointing it and pressing it into your hole. He takes a breath whenever he can, drawing the flat of his tongue up through your folds to flick across your clit, lips latching around the sensitive bud so he can suck on it, brushing his tongue over it at the same time.

White hot pleasure is all you can feel, hips rocking as you ride his face, chasing your high. Your hand strokes across his head, fingers gliding over scarred skin. “Kriff, Wreck. Yes. Just like that.” You encourage, pleasure building quickly.

The stretch catches you off guard, two of his thick fingers pressing into you, crooking, as his mouth focuses on your clit. Head thrown back, his name falls from your lips as you come, thighs shaking and pussy spasming around his fingers as the pleasure rolls through your body.

Working you through the high, Wrecker gently pries his mouth off your clit, fingers slowly scissoring as he stretches you out a little more now that you’re more relaxed. He knows he’s big, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you.

Your hips roll slowly, grinding lazily against his face once again as he continues working you open, another thick finger joining the two already buried inside you. Biting down on your lower lip to muffle your moan, the trembles from your orgasm subside.

Fingers slip from you, hands finding your hips. Lifted, you’re moved back down Wrecker’s body until he can kiss you, mouth and chin covered in your juices. You gasp at the taste, at the way his tongue presses into your mouth, and you lazily make out.

Slowly you draw apart; Wrecker’s fingers that weren’t buried in your pussy move to push your hair out of your face tenderly.

The throb between your thighs intensifies, and you lift your hips, shifting until you can grind down against Wrecker’s cock. The rumble in his chest does funny things to your inside, and you smile. “I wanna ride your cock, too.” You state sweetly, enjoying the delight that flares in Wrecker’s eyes.

Scooting back just a little so you rest on his thighs, you drag your gaze from his face to finally take in his cock. It’s much thicker than any you’ve seen before – in person and on the holonet – and longer than average.

He curves a little to the right, the tip flushed a deep red, a bead of pre-cum in the slit. Taking him in hand, his groan reverberates through the room, and you can’t help but dip down to lap at him, the tang on your tongue dragging a sound from you that Wrecker echoes.

Your fingers don’t touch around him, and for a moment, you worry you won’t be able to take him. Shuffling forward a tiny bit until you’re back in your previous position, you line him up with your entrance, pressing just the tip in, and slowly start to sink down, letting gravity do the work.

Wrecker’s pretty sure he’s shaking – from anticipation or barely-there control, he’s not sure. All he does know is that his hands are wrapped around your hips to help guide you but not force you down, and inch by agonising inch, his dick is slowly being enveloped in the heat of your pussy.

The stretch burns a little, even after an orgasm and three fingers working you open. Taking your time, you let out deep breaths as you sink down until you’re finally flush, feeling fuller than ever.

“Stars above, Wreck.” You pant, holding his gaze as you adjust to the feeling. His jaw is clenched, soft brown eyes looking at you with such profound adoration, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. His hands on your hips slide upward, under the edge of his shirt, until he’s grasping at your waist.

Steadily, you give a small roll of your hips, rising ever so slightly before sinking back down. The action pulls a moan from you, Wrecker’s head tilting back against the bed, his groan mingling with your needy sounds. Finding a rhythm, you lean back a little, hands resting on his muscular thighs as warmth builds in your belly with every rise and fall. The burn of the stretch dissolves into pleasure.

Chin tilting down, Wrecker watches as you ride him, how your lips part with every little whimper and sigh, and your tits bounce beneath his shirt. The sight goes straight to his cock, hand sliding up from your waist until he can palm your breasts under the garment, fingers pressed against soft flesh. You’re a handful, even for him, and he grunts, thumb and forefinger tweaking your pebbled nipples.

The whine you let out is delicious, and his gaze roves down your body, settling on where the two of you are connected, watching how he slides in and out of your pussy. The sight, the sounds, and the feeling of you around him push him closer and closer to the edge. Fingers smoothing back down your body, they press against your clit, firm circles rubbed against the sensitive nub.

“Kriff. Kriff. Kriff.” You curse, eyes screwed shut as the warmth grows towards an inferno. Pitching forward, you change the angle, hands resting against his broad chest, providing better leverage as your pace quickens. Your thighs start to ache, but you’ll be damned if you let that stop you.

“That’s it, babe. Hells, your pussy feels so kriffin’ good.” Wrecker pants, his words helping push you over the edge. Your body goes taut above him, pleasure contorting your face as you clamp down around him, coming on his cock with a cry of his name. He keeps his fingers moving, working you through the high until the tremors in your body stop and your hazy eyes open to meet his.

You share a soft smile, and Wrecker surges up, lips meeting yours for a passionate kiss as he grasps back at your hips. Holding you in place, his hips snap quickly as he fucks up into you, chasing his high now you’ve been satisfied.

Tongues meeting, the kiss is frantic and messy, noises muffled by each other’s lips. You pull back just enough to gaze down at him. “Come in me. Please.” Your needy whine reverberates around the room.

You were perfect. So perfect. Your pleading words, the grip of your tight pussy around him… Wrecker’s thrusts falter, and with two more sharp snaps of his hips, he pushes himself deep inside you, growling out your name as he’s swept into pleasure, filling you.

The room falls silent except for your harsh breaths, gazes locked before you steal another kiss. Slower and softer, the lust dissolves into something sweeter. Strong arms wrap around you, and you’re rolled onto your side, pulled flush against Wrecker’s body as he pries his lips from yours. He smiles, and you can’t help but match it, a giggle bubbling up and out. The sound of Wrecker’s chuckle melds with yours, happiness simmering between you.

“You okay?” Wrecker asks, one hand smoothing across your cheek, cupping your face.

You lean into his touch with a small nod, eyes fluttering shut. Wrecker’s hand is warm against your face as he caresses you, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your cheek. The aftermath of shared intimacy leaves you feeling content and connected.

Overjoyed, Wrecker presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, hand sliding down your body to wrap back around you as he holds you close. Now he has you, he’s never going to let you go.

In the cocoon of his embrace, you slowly drift into a serene slumber, knowing you’ve found a sanctuary that feels like home in his arms.

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 6 months ago

Text

Infernal Shadows 05.

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, Alastor and the reader fight, but its more just Alastor trying to show he’s super cool. Madame fights a demon, mentions of fear, violence, no swearing. Wanted to introduce the relationship between Madame and Alastor already, next chapters gonna be romantic so get ready YALL. Shits happening and I’m excitedddddd. Anyway enjoy!!! As for the taglist, I think i can tag more people now, so comment to be tagged i guess!!!

Tags: @dollops-of-delusion @nebsisdead @speedybeta @rosedasy @chesstras @pishybowl @iaaeav @forgotten-blues @22carolina08 @roboticsuccubus83 @doflamingadonquixote @froggyferrets @frompeach @absurd-ash @ikkyboy @urdariingdoll @delectableworm @immahuman @justaproudslytherpuff @local-mr-frog @angeli-fucking-cat @coldsweetsenthusiast @jadekomaeda @coffeethoughtsandanxiety @lunalixya @lemonrolls @asimplikeallyall @sockgoblin @nxrdamp @l0ca1ax010t1 @inutheangel @writing-fanfics @ghostdoodlen @elaemae @fantasy-angelo @patchesofdreams @sunnyslug @arrozyfrijoles23 @kimmikreates @lqmons @mangobango69 @lily-ann-b @venusasf

Masterlist // Navigation // Part four // PART SIX

word count: 2684

The poison hit like a freight train. Madame had barely finished the last drop of her drink when the burning began. It started in her stomach, a sharp, searing pain that spread like wildfire, igniting every nerve in her body. She gasped, her breath caught in her throat as she clutched the edge of the table, the world spinning around her in a dizzying blur. Her vision darkened at the edges, the shadows closing in as her heart pounded furiously, fighting against the inevitable.

But there was no escaping it. The poison coursed through her veins, ruthless and unyielding, and as it did, she felt something break inside her-something vital, something that held her together. And then, just as quickly as it had started, everything went black.

The darkness was absolute. For a moment, there was nothing—no pain, no fear, no thoughts. Just an endless, suffocating void. But then, the darkness began to crack, splintering apart as a new sensation took hold-a searing, unbearable heat that made her body convulse, her mind scream. She wasn't dead. She couldn't be. But if she wasn't dead, then where was she?

The world around her came into sharp, horrifying focus. She was standing on a jagged, rocky surface, the ground beneath her shifting and groaning as though it were alive. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and ash, the oppressive heat pressing down on her like a vice. Her head swam with disorientation, a sickening mix of confusion and dread swirling in her gut.

This wasn't the world she had known. This wasn't the afterlife she had imagined, where the souls of the righteous were rewarded, and the wicked were punished.

This was something else entirely, something far more terrifying. As she tried to make sense of it all, a low, guttural growl cut through the air, sending a shiver down her spine.

She turned toward the sound, her heart lurching in her chest as she saw it—a figure emerging from the shadows, a grotesque, twisted form that barely resembled a man. His skin was stretched tight over his bones, his eyes sunken and hollow, filled with a wild, desperate hunger. He moved with a jerky, animalistic gait, his fingers curling into claws as he zeroed in on her with a predatory snarl.

Madame's blood ran cold. This was no ordinary man-this was a demon, a creature of pure malice and rage. And he was coming for her. Panic surged through her, her instincts screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something, anything to get away. But her body refused to move, paralyzed by fear and disbelief.

The demon lunged at her with a feral roar, his claws slashing through the air toward her throat. But in that instant, something snapped inside Madame, something primal and fierce. She wasn't going to die like this-not here, not now, not at the hands of this creature. A surge of adrenaline shot through her, and she lashed out, grabbing hold of his wrist and twisting it with all her strength.

The demon howled in pain, his grip faltering for a split second, and that was all she needed. With a ferocity she hadn't known she possessed, she drove her knee into his gut, sending him stumbling backward. Her heart raced, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought to keep her fear at bay. She had to survive.

She had to fight.

The demon recovered quickly, snarling as he charged at her again, his eyes blazing with fury. But Madame was ready this time. She ducked under his outstretched claws, using his momentum against him as she drove her elbow into his back, sending him crashing to the ground. She didn't hesitate. She couldn't afford to. Grabbing a jagged shard of rock from the ground, she plunged it into his chest with all her might.

The demon let out a blood-curdling scream, thrashing wildly as he tried to pull the rock from his chest. But Madame held on, pushing it deeper, twisting it until the demon's movements slowed, then stopped altogether. She watched breathless, as the light faded from his eyes, his body going limp beneath her.

For a long moment, she just stood there, her chest heaving, her hands trembling as she stared down at the demon she had just killed. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions-fear, anger, shock, and something else, something darker, more primal. She had killed him. She had taken a life, and she felt... nothing. No remorse, no guilt. Only a cold, detached satisfaction.

But that satisfaction was short-lived, quickly replaced by a wave of nausea and dizziness that nearly brought her to her knees. She stumbled back, her heart racing as the reality of her situation hit her like a freight train. She was in Hell.

She had died, and this was where she had ended up-alone, in a place where survival was a constant, brutal fight.

The fear that had been simmering beneath the surface finally broke free, flooding her senses as she realized just how hopeless her situation was. She had been powerful once, respected and feared, but here, she was nothing. Just another soul, lost in a sea of suffering and torment. The thought made her stomach churn, her chest tightening with panic.

But even as the fear threatened to consume her, another emotion began to take hold-a burning, all-consuming rage. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

She had been in control, she had been powerful, and she had been taken from her life in the most cowardly way possible. Poisoned, betrayed, and now, condemned to an eternity in this hellish place.

But she wouldn't let it end here. She wouldn't let this be her fate. She had clawed her way to the top once before, and she would do it again. No matter how many demons she had to kill, no matter how much blood she had to spill, she would rise. The Pride Ring-she had heard whispers of it, a place where the most powerful souls ruled, where the strong thrived and the weak were crushed.

That's where she would go. That's where she would claim her power, rebuild her empire, and make this damned place bow to her will.

Madame's hands stopped trembling as she tightened them into fists, her resolve hardening like steel. This was Hell, and it was her new battlefield. She would conquer it, just as she had conquered the world above. The fear and confusion were still there, lurking in the corners of her mind, but they were drowned out by the sheer force of her will. She had been a queen in life, and she would be a queen in death.

She took a deep breath, the air burning in her lungs as she forced herself to move forward. Every step was a battle, every breath a reminder of the pain and loss she had endured, but she kept going. The Pride Ring was waiting for her, and she would stop at nothing to claim it. Hell had taken everything from her, but it had also given her something new—a purpose, a drive, a fire that would burn through anything that stood in her way.

This was her new life. Her new empire. And Madame would stop at nothing to make it hers.

The air in the Pride Ring was thick with tension, the kind that crackled like static before a storm. Madame sat in her grand, darkened chamber, the silence punctuated only by the soft ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. Her fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of her throne, a subtle rhythm that betrayed nothing of her thoughts. Her power had been hard-won, her reign over the Pride Ring absolute. Yet, she knew something was coming. She could feel it in the very marrow of her bones.

And then, as if summoned by her very thoughts, the door to her chamber creaked open. The sound was slow, deliberate, the hinges groaning under the weight of anticipation. Madame didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, her gaze remaining fixed on the shadows that danced across the walls. She knew who it was before he even stepped into the light.

“Why, what a marvelous abode you have”

Madame’s eyes remained fixed ahead, her expression unyielding. Without turning to acknowledge the figure behind her, she spoke, her voice as cold and cutting as steel.

“What do you want from me, Radio Demon?” she asked, the title dripping with disdain, her senses keenly attuned to the faint static that crackled in his voice. “And if you value your life, you’ll choose your next words very carefully.”

Her tone carried a promise of violence, a reminder that she was not one to be underestimated, even by someone as audacious as him.

Alastor’s grin widened, a sharp, unsettling smile that gleamed in the dim light. The static in his voice crackled with amusement as he replied, “My dear, worrying about my life is hardly necessary.”

Without warning, a dark, twisted tentacle materialized from the shadows around him, lashing out with lightning speed toward Madame. The attack was swift and calculated, meant to catch her off guard. But she was faster.

In an instant, Madame moved, her form dissolving into the darkness like smoke. The tentacle struck nothing but empty air, the force of the blow shattering a nearby pillar instead. Silence fell, thick and oppressive, as Alastor found himself alone in the vast, echoing foyer.

He paused, his smile never faltering, as he listened to the stillness around him. The only sound was the faint hum of static, barely audible in the oppressive quiet.

“Well, well,” Alastor mused to the empty room, his voice laced with playful intrigue. “It seems this little game is going to be more entertaining than I anticipated.”

From the shadows of the room, Madame emerged, her form slipping seamlessly out of the wall as if she were part of the darkness itself. A shroud of inky black surrounded her, tendrils of shadow swirling around her figure like a living entity. Her eyes were cold, calculating, as she began to circle Alastor, each step measured, her presence a stark contrast to his frenetic energy.

Alastor turned to face her, his ever-present grin still in place, though his eyes narrowed with growing interest. He watched her movements, the way she seemed to glide effortlessly, a predator assessing its prey. The tension between them grew, thick as the shadows that clung to her like a second skin.

Without warning, he lunged at her again, his staff crackling with power as he aimed to strike. But Madame was ready. She sidestepped his attack with a fluid grace, moving faster than he anticipated. As his momentum carried him forward, she summoned a tendril of shadow from the darkness around her, and with a swift, precise motion, she lashed out, striking his staff with a force that reverberated through the air.

The impact sent a sharp, resonant crack echoing through the foyer. Alastor staggered back, momentarily caught off guard by the power behind her strike. His grin faltered for a fraction of a second, the amusement in his eyes flickering into something more dangerous.

Madame’s gaze remained steady, her expression unyielding. The shadows around her pulsed with energy, responding to her command as she stood her ground, ready for whatever move he might make next. This wasn’t just a game for her—it was a test of strength, of will, and she had no intention of losing.

Madame watched as Alastor’s aura shifted, the green glow casting an eerie light across the room. The static in the air seemed to thicken, but she remained unmoved, her expression as cold and composed as ever. She took a single step forward, her presence dominating the space between them.

“I do believe it is time for you to go,” she said, her voice calm, unyielding, and absolute. The words carried the weight of a command, leaving no room for argument.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his grin twisting into something more feral. He looked ready to charge at her, the air around him crackling with energy as he prepared to unleash whatever power he had left. But before he could make his move, Madame was already ahead of him.

With a mere flick of her wrist, she summoned a swirling vortex of shadows. The portal appeared beneath Alastor’s feet, its dark tendrils curling up around him, pulling him down with an inescapable force. Alastor’s eyes widened slightly, the surprise flashing across his face as the ground seemed to give way beneath him.

When Alastor reappeared, he found himself standing in the very center of the Pride Ring, far from Madame’s home. The portal had deposited him there without ceremony, the cold, indifferent void spitting him out into the heart of Hell’s most powerful domain.

Alastor stood still for a moment, processing what had just occurred. His grin slowly returned, but this time it was tinged with a new kind of respect. Madame was no ordinary overlord—she was something far more dangerous, and he knew it. The encounter had not gone as planned, but it had been... enlightening.

As he began to walk away, the static in his voice returned to its usual rhythm, the green hue in his aura fading back to red. The game had only just begun, and Alastor was nothing if not persistent. But for now, he would retreat, plotting his next move. She was an interesting one indeed.

As the portal closed behind Alastor, Madame remained in the silent aftermath of their encounter, her gaze fixed on the spot where he had vanished. The shadows around her seemed to pulse with a life of their own, reflecting the thoughts swirling through her mind.

She stood there, still and composed, as she replayed the fight in her mind. The way Alastor had moved, the audacity of his attack, and the peculiar static that accompanied his presence—all of it was as unsettling as it was intriguing. Madame had heard the whispers, the tales of the so-called Radio Demon who had made a name for himself by toppling other overlords. She had known of his reputation, of his chaotic, unpredictable nature.

Yet, she had underestimated him. Or rather, she had underestimated his nerve. The audacity it took to challenge her, to step into her domain with such confidence, was almost impressive. Most would have been deterred by her reputation alone, but Alastor had come directly at her, undaunted by the prospect of failure.

She walked slowly around the room, her movements deliberate, her mind turning over the implications of their encounter. His power, while not yet fully understood, was undeniably formidable. The brief lapse in his static-filled track, the shift in his aura—these were signs of a deeper strength, one that might have been masked by his playful demeanor.

Her lips curled into a faint, thoughtful smile. Alastor had been brash, but there was something almost refreshing about his audacity. It was a reminder that in Hell, even the most established of powers could be challenged by those who were willing to take risks. And though he had been sent away, he would likely return, more determined than ever.

Madame’s eyes gleamed with a cold resolve as she contemplated her next moves. She would need to be ready. She had no doubt that Alastor would be back, and she would need to be prepared for whatever schemes he might bring. For now, though, she allowed herself a moment to appreciate the thrill of the confrontation, the way it had stirred her into action, proving once again that even in Hell, the game was always evolving.

With a final glance at the space where Alastor had stood, Madame turned away, her thoughts already shifting to her plans for consolidating her power further. The Radio Demon had been a formidable opponent, but she was not one to be intimidated. Instead, she would use this encounter as fuel, driving her to fortify her position and ensure that her reign over the Pride Ring remained unchallenged.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin demon #alastor #hazbin hotel #isuckatwritingsobenice #yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #alastor vs vox #yandere vox x reader #alastor and vox #vox hazbin hotel #helluva boss vox #hazbin vox #vox x reader #isuckatwritingsobenice infernal shadows

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 1 month ago

Note

Hey, sorry if you already answered this question before, but I would like to enjoy some Welsh media, like songs, tv-shows/movies or books. Do you have any recommendations? Also, happy holidays and a happy new year!

Hello! I hope your holidays were happy.

I'm assuming you're asking for Welsh-language media specifically, so that's what I'll offer; if you want anything from the rest of Wales, give me a shout.

Music - so, my personal Welsh-language playlist on Spotify is here, which may contain things to interest you as a sort of jumping-off point to explore an artist more. I'll also put my Welsh music tag on this post, though, so you can check that and see what recommendations others have made on my posts in the past. You'll find people recommending Adwaith and Gwenno and people like that, see, neither of whom I particularly like and so don't have on my list, but are pretty popular. The true cultural tour-de-force for young Welsh speakers is Sebona Fi, by Yws Gwynedd - if you listen to no other, listen to that one.

TV and Film - tricky because availability is difficult. I gave some recent recs here; others to consider are Ar y Ffin (the big current drama on S4C), 35 Diwrnod (sort of a thriller - each series focuses on a murder, which you see in the opening minutes, and then rewinds to 35 days before it happened. You then watch the events play out. Kind of murder mystery, but no detectives), and...

Actually, maybe check out Hansh across its various platforms? It specialises in little short pieces (a few minutes each) that could be comedy skits, documentary shorts about a social issue, cultural round ups of the various gigs happening this week in Wales, etc. Very diverse. Their target audience is, basically, Millennials And A Bit Under. They also do longer form variety things on S4C, but the shorter stuff is on FB, YouTube, etc.

Oh, and my husband has a kids variety show coming out in the next few months! I don't know what I'm allowed to say yet, but I'll definitely blog about it closer to the time.

Books - Obviously I don't know your tastes in books, but my recs:

Absolutely anything by Mihangel Morgan. He's the gold standard if you're learning, because his language is lovely and accessible; but also if you're a fluent speaker, because he writes mundane sci-fi and slightly absurd horror and things like that, all with an undercurrent of social commentary, and his stuff is absolutely fantastic. Dan Gadarn Goncrit is my husband's favourite book of all time in any language; meanwhile, I was given Saith Pechod Marwol at A Level and fucking loved it. I believe he's had one book translated into English, too - Melog. I've not read it in either, but I've heard great things.

Y Llyfrgell, by Fflur Dafydd (the author is also on my music playlist). Here's the blurb:

On a cold February morning, in the year 2020, Dan, a porter at the National Library of Wales, is committing his daily offence against the regime. Greeting him at the door is Eben, a biographer, itching to be admitted. But, they are both unaware that Ana and Nan, two librarians intent on revenge, are on the brink of changing the history of the National Library of Wales forever. This novel transforms the peaceful atmosphere of the National Library into a theatrical set full of possibilities - where bullets cut through the silence, the Reading Room is a cell, and the Library itself is an anti-hero of our literature...

Spectacular book, won the Gwobr Goffa Daniel Owen at the Eisteddfod in 2009.

I hope anything in there is useful!

#asks #wales!#closed for cleaning on mondays #welsh musics

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carlos-in-glasses · 12 days ago

Text

Favorite Lone Star Fandom Memories

Thank you @thisbuildinghasfeelings for coming up with this lovely idea! And thank you for the tags @firstprince-history-huh @heartstringsduet @tellmegoodbye @nisbanisba

@carlossreaders @she-walked-away @reyesstrand @rmd-writes

@welcometololaland @nancys-braids @everlastingday @strandnreyes

I have had the best time being part of this fandom so far. Whatever I expected when I first rocked up in September 2022, it wasn't this. What a time we have had. We've been through so much. We've laughed, we've cried, we've swooned, we all became experts on baseball, TV ratings, various laws, and probably know a map of Austin better than we know a map of our own hometowns. I hope with everything I have that this place continues to thrive with love for Tarlos and 911 Lone Star. I hope that I've made some friends for life. I hope that this time during the show's run will be remembered fondly. We got unlucky with this cancellation, but oh my goodness, in other ways we have been so lucky.

First, please enjoy Elaine Paige singing Memory from Cats the Musical. A song for how I'm feeling right now. I promise it's not a Rickroll and I sincerely apologise if you got caught up with me accidentally Rickrolling Lem the other week.

Now! Some memories!:

The time @thisbuildinghasfeelings wanted to know what hospital Carlos would have been taken to after Bridges shot him. I was CRYING LAUGHING because she went to the Texas sub-reddit and was all “Hypothetically, if someone were to get shot in the desert…” and left this message, which quickly got deleted by the mods who probably thought she’d just shot someone:

The time I met @heartstringsduet irl in London last year and wore the below t-shirt, which I got at the 2023 Paris Convention with @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut by my side 😭. And just being able to talk to them in person about life and the show and hug them!!!! And speaking of the 2023 Paris Convention – I got to to look right into the ultimate cow-eyes and tell this guy that he played my favourite character of all time:

The time I got my ass handed to me by @lemonlyman-dotcom because I used the word vest instead of tank top in a WIP.

The fics I wrote that came out of conversations with others/prompts – they wouldn’t exist without some of you. It makes the writing life feel a lot less solitary and also a lot more about the world's most fun mystery box. Thank you so much

Leaving the most batshit comments on poor @rmd-writes and @welcometololaland fic (Un)Professional Services You two really were troopers in the face of that.

Reading fic so good I've spent the next day at work daydreaming about it and looking forward to the next chapters of chaptered fics – and then getting to tell people how much I enjoyed their work! It’s amazing. YOU ARE ALL SO TALENTED.

Posting Sensitivity, my first fic, and refreshing the page to see that I had 8 kudos. I was blown away. And the comments and responses to other fics that have made all the difference during many tough weeks. Thank you, thank you.

The reactions to when I introduced my poor boyfriend to my Tarlos blanket and then when I put it over my legs lmao:

@goodways post about Carlos’ slutty buttonless shirt look in 1x02 – I can’t find the post, but it was gold! And just so many other Shannon posts omg. The blank sign made for Carlos. Iconic.

When @strandnreyes posted this about TK’s absurd camera roll in 4x04.

Of course when Rafael Silva told me that Tarlos switch and @reasonandfaithinharmony made a gif set out of it!

The Tarlos wedding. I brought a mini bottle of Prosecco for the occasion.

The time I thought @ladytessa74 invented Frog and Toad for chapter 3 of The Lovely April. Also...chapter 3 of The Lovely April genuinely helped me cope with the show's cancellation. So that was a biggie.

The art that has been made for my fics by @heartstringsduet @whatsintheboxmh @thisbuildinghasfeelings and @bonheur-cafe. Absolutely extraordinary. I can’t believe it. Thank you forever. Once again, you’re so talented.

Finding the show. Finding you.

Open tag and tags below!:

@paperstorm @goodways @lightningboltreader @alrightbuckaroo

@cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @herefortarlos @bonheur-cafe

@lemonlyman-dotcom @ladytessa74 @liminalmemories21

@freneticfloetry @chicgeekgirl89 @sugdenlovesdingle

@reasonandfaithinharmony @carlos-tk @pimento-playing-hopscotch @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@fangirl-paba @actual-sleeping-beauty @kiwichaeng @literateowl

@emsprovisions @ironheartwriter @sapphic--kiwi @butchreyes

@captain-gillian @laelipoo @nancys-braids @goldenskykaysani

@hereghostslive @anactualcaseofthetruth @henrygrass

@theghostofashton @the-126-family @rangersoup

@annoyingcloudearthquake @butch-buckley - if you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

#Favorite Fandom Memories #911 Lone Star #Tarlos #cig tagged

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blackenedsnow · 4 months ago

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Can I rq dating hcs for the main 4 postal dudes? :3 I love your writing sm

dating the dudes; headcanons

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Postal (1) Dude x Reader, Postal (2) Dude x Reader, Postal (3) Dude x Reader, Postal (4) Dude x Reader

NOTE: Thank you for the kind words! I'm glad you're enjoying the writing! Also I was way too lazy to find gifs for all of them so take that as you will.

P1 DUDE

P1 isn't much of a talker.

Dating him means getting used to a lot of silence.

He expresses himself more through actions than words.

If he’s making the effort to spend time with you, that’s his way of saying he cares.

Beneath his stoic exterior, he has a strong protective streak.

While he might not show affection in traditional ways, you’ll notice he keeps a close eye on you, making sure you’re safe.

He’s quick to step in if anyone bothers you.

Expect a lot of quiet, reflective moments.

He enjoys sitting with you in comfortable silence, maybe after a long day, just staring off into space.

He finds peace in your presence without needing to fill the air with conversation.

He’s not the flowers-and-chocolates type, but he’ll give you practical gifts that suit your needs.

A new pair of boots? A jacket because he noticed you were cold?

Those are his version of romantic gestures.

Despite his tendencies, when it comes to you, he’s so, so, very loyal.

He won’t tolerate anyone threatening your relationship, and he’s not afraid to use drastic measures to defend what’s his.

P2 DUDE

Dating P2 means being prepared for constant sarcasm and dark humor.

He loves throwing around snarky comments, and he appreciates it if you can keep up with his banter.

If you can laugh at his fucked up jokes, he’s all in.

Don’t expect fancy dinners or traditional dates.

You’ll probably end up tagging along on bizarre errand or getting into crazy situations.

A “normal” day might include running from a mob or dealing with angry neighbors.

P2 isn’t one to show affection in public, but behind closed doors, he’s surprisingly affectionate.

He’ll pull you in for lazy cuddles after a long day, and his sarcastic remarks soften when it’s just the two of you.

He shows love by doing things for you, even if they’re unconventional.

He also loves helping you deal with “problems” — and he has creative solutions.

He’s fiercely loyal and doesn’t take kindly to anyone messing with you.

But at the same time, he’s the type to poke fun at you just to get a rise.

His teasing is his way of showing affection, so if he’s pushing your buttons, it’s a good sign.

P3 DUDE

P3, well, kind of a disaster.

His life’s a series of missteps and questionable decisions, and dating him means you’re along for the ride.

You’ll need patience to deal with his stupid dumb dumb lifestyle, but there’s something endearing about his efforts.

He wants to be a good partner but tends to stumble over the execution.

Expect a lot of strange, poorly thought-out plans, like taking you to bizarre locations for dates or making weird, last-minute gifts.

One minute he’s trying to impress you with some ridiculous stunt, and the next, he’s getting frustrated over something small.

He’ll show affection, but it might be in odd or clumsy ways.

Expect spontaneous (sometimes ill-timed) hugs or absolutely insane attempts at romantic gestures.

But there’s an earnestness to him that makes it all kind of sweet.

Deep down, he knows he’s kind of a mess, and he genuinely wants to improve for you.

He may not always succeed, but you’ll see him trying, and that counts for a lot.

P4 DUDE

P4 doesn’t take life too seriously.

Dating him is low-pressure, but you’ll need to be ready for constant, offhanded remarks.

He’s not one for planning, so dates are spontaneous and often strange.

One minute you’re grabbing a bite to eat, the next, you’re knee-deep in some ridiculous situation.

He’s the kind of guy who’s happy to take you wherever the day leads, even if it’s absurd.

While he comes off as a guy who doesn’t care about much, he actually pays attention to the little things.

He notices if you’re feeling down or if something’s bothering you, and he’ll do what he can to cheer you up.

He’s pretty relaxed most of the time, but if someone crosses a line with you, that’s when the carefree attitude disappears.

He’s quick to step in and won’t hesitate to defend you.

His protectiveness comes out strong when it’s needed.

Like the other Dudes, his version of romance isn’t exactly traditional.

He’s more likely to show his feelings by sharing a smoke or a drink with you, casually that he loves you so much during a quiet moment, rather than through any grand declarations of love.

#postal #postal dude #postal 1997 #postal 2 #postal 3 #postal 4 #postal dude x reader #x reader #ask #request #fanfic #headcanons

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steddieunderdogfics · 5 months ago

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This week’s writer spotlight feature is: steddieas_shegoes! @steddieas-shegoes has 382 fics in the Stranger Things fandom on AO3 and 355 of them are in the Steddie tag!

@starryeyedjanai recommends the following works by @steddieas-shegoes:

call me sunshine, send me to space

we'd shake the frame of your car

this place is such great motivation for anyone trying to move the fuck away from hibernation

driver roll up the partition please

"Mickala is a PILLAR in this fandom. She's doing microfics, she's doing multiple month-long challenges at the same time, she's writing a big bang that I am frothing at the mouth over reading soon. She's doing it ALL!!!! She's written an absurd amount of words in such a short amount of time and I am just in awe of her 💕💕💕" -- @starryeyedjanai

Below the cut, @steddieas-shegoes answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

Because my love for Steve Harrington could no longer be contained, and neither could Eddie’s. Because have you seen those two? Look at them. Keep looking at them. They’re so!

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

This list is longer than any of us have the time to read, but I will say that enemies to lovers or exes to lovers has been hitting the spot hard lately. I’m also a sucker for a good modern au, like texting the wrong number or rockstar Eddie and otherwise famous Steve.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

At the heart of everything I write, they’re stupid in love. Whether they know it or not, whether they say it or not, they are. I think my favorite tag to use is idiots to lovers or idiots in love because it’s true. They’re just dumb for each other and it’s so fun to write from every angle.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

Okay my absolute all time favorite fic of any fandom I have ever read anything in is Tuesday's Gone With the Wind - Chapter 1 - thisapplepielife - Stranger Things (TV 2016) [Archive of Our Own]. It changed me from the inside out. I think about this fic every single day, sometimes multiple times a day. But I do also have to say my very, very close second would be start by pulling him out of the fire by pricklywhicket. There is no better Wayne fic, there could never be a better Wayne fic. If you love Wayne, and you love Eddie, and you love Steve, and you love Steddie, this is the fic to read.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I tend to avoid writing heavy angst of any kind, mostly because I tend to also avoid reading it unless it has a happy ending. But I have two things currently in my notes app that are very angsty, one of them would possibly have a more open/slightly unhappy ending, and I might be brave and do it. It’s the one area that I know I haven’t delved into.

What is your writing process like?

There’s a process? You guys are following a process? Oh shit, I didn’t know. But seriously, the process looks a lot like: *has idea *types what should be headcanon of said idea *headcanon becomes 2500 words of actual story *posts I really just go with the flow. I don’t edit 90% of the time, I don’t have a beta reader (except for my bang fic), I rarely even go in with a full-fledged plan. Whatever happens, happens.

Do you have any writing quirks?

If I write Steve with a migraine in something, it usually means I was suffering from a migraine at the time. I almost always give him similar symptoms to mine, though I usually dramatize them a little for the hurt/comfort of it all. They say write what you know and boy do I know migraines.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

I have only written a handful of chaptered fics, and I tried to follow as much of a schedule as I could, but I don’t. I get too excited and I end up just posting as soon as something is finished.

Which fic are you most proud of?

This is a hard one. I am proud that I ever even posted the first thing I did. This was the first fandom I ever published anything in, and I was pretty nervous about sharing something I wrote in a rush on my notes app. But I think I’m most proud of call me sunshine, send me to space. It challenged me to take this one on, and while I know I probably wouldn’t write it the same if I were to write it now, I know that it will always be there as proof of how far you can come if you keep doing the thing.

How did you get the idea for call me sunshine, send me to space?

Uh…personal experience? I was getting a small tattoo and had my usual reaction and then went home and said to myself “Steve would end up in a situation about this” and then I wrote the situation. Which is actually how so much of my works start.

When writing call me sunshine, send me to space, what was something you didn’t expect?

The amount of love it’s gotten! It was still kind of my early days of posting on AO3 and I had only just started really interacting on tumblr, so it shocked me how quickly people started commenting and asking to be on the tag list. That fic is what “put me on the map” I guess, and is definitely responsible for all of the friendships I’ve made in the last year.

What inspired this place is such great motivation for anyone trying to move the fuck away from hibernation?

A silly little headcanon I posted that got way out of hand in my thoughts and then on paper. We tend to lean more towards the single dad Steve thing, especially myself, but then I completely ran with the single dad Eddie thing, and a whole fic came out of it.

What was your favorite part to write from this place is such great motivation for anyone trying to move the fuck away from hibernation?

This fic was my worst enemy for months. I was so busy in real life that I felt like I wasn’t able to give it the attention it deserved. I had a few favorite parts, but I think the first time Mia calls Steve ‘Mama’ is up there for sure. It kinda sets the tone for the whole fic that Steve is meant to be in their lives and this baby knows it before the rest of them.

How do/did you feel writing we'd shake the frame of your car?

Honestly, I was just trying to stick to as much of the prompts as possible. Since it was a gift for Sandy, I wanted to make sure it was the best gift I could give!

What was the most difficult part of writing driver roll up the partition please?

Keeping it on the shorter side! If it were up to me, ficlets like that would be 20k minimum, but because it was for an event and I tend to take on more than I can actually handle, it had to stay short.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

I have a lot of lines that I really love that I am always in awe that I managed to write. But I think I am most excited about the scene in my upcoming bang fic, the scene that came to me before anything else for this fic and inspired the whole thing.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

My bang fic bear hugs starts posting on September 27th. If you like hockey, single dad steve, and friends to lovers, this is THE fic for you. I also co-mod for steddie microfic, which is a monthly exact word count challenge with a new prompt and word count every month; I run Steddie Song Fics, a monthly writing challenge that changes every month with new songs, word count limits, genres, and more; I run Steddie Holiday Drabbles, which is a daily drabble event that takes place in December, with multiple pop-up events throughout the year; and if this posts in time, I am running Steddie Smutty September, an 18+ only event that will have weekly writing and art prompts for the month of September.

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thank you to whoever nominated me, and thank you to everyone who supports me and other authors by liking, commenting, reblogging, and recommending fics!

Thank you to our author, @steddieas-shegoes, and our nominator, @starryeyedjanai! See more of steddieas_shegoes's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

#writer's spotlight #writer's wednesday #steddie #steddie fic recs #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #steddie writers #ao3 writer

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riddlers-roulette · 3 months ago

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luv ur arcane post!!! totally agree. like it’s so frustrating?? i was going thru the caitvi tag the other day and i saw a post where someone was responding to an ask that said smth like “i noticed cait always resorts to sexual behavior when vi is emotional” and the askee was like “omg yeah ive noticed that too vi’s body is constantly a tool” except op went on for a bit basically. literally was just two clowns going back and forth. op was a vi x oc shipper too so explains the cait bashing lol

I’m glad you liked my post anon!

Also wanna preface this by saying (more as a general thing than a message to you anon!) that while I appreciate the asks, I in no way want drama brought to my blog! So please, if you all have a gripe with a blog in particular or something specific, I am asking you not to bring it here. A general fandom or character related misconception or gripe is fine however! Thank you :)

Now onto the actual ask—while I’m not an x reader or x oc fan myself, and never have been, it being something I never myself understood, I do know that oc shipping is something a lot of people do, and I’m not going bash it. Fanfiction takes all types after all.

I am going to point out though the absurdity of the “Caitlyn always uses sexual behavior whenever Vi is emotional” statement is absolutely absurd. First of all, the sesbian lex act, which happened at a time Vi was distressed and emotional, was initiated by Vi. It was initiated by Vi after Caitlyn proved her deep care for Vi, admitting that she had moved all the guards so that Vi could have an easier time breaking her sister—the person who kidnapped Cait, killed her mother and countless innocents, amongst other things—out of prison. Caitlyn, who once, in the throes of grief, asked Vi to put on an enforcers badge and help her track down her sister, was now admitting to giving Vi everything she needed to help said sister escape.

This concession coming at a time when Vi was doubting herself and fully expecting Caitlyn to be feeling betrayed instead of accepting. Vi moved in for the kiss first. Vi initiated the sesbian lex. And Caitlyn doesn’t let Vi go into it blind. She pulls away and explains that she was with someone while Vi was away—something that wasn’t cheating I might add, as they had ended things in Act I. And, “was with someone” implies either a) her thing with Maddie is over, or b) her thing with Maddie was a FWB type thing, something non-exclusive.

Look at the end of the day, if you want to write an x oc fic, that’s absolutely fine! You don’t need to create a new narrative and pass it as canon to do that though. It’s not required to bash a character just to justify shipping your fave with one of of your own?

#answered #anon ask #caitlyn kiramman #caitvi #arcane league of legends #arcane spoilers #arcane season 2 #arcane season 2 spoilers #vi arcane #vi #vi league of legends #maddie nolen

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dbacklot99 · 2 months ago

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2024 fic roundup game

Can I just create an ask game? said @cheeseplants

Yes!! Thanks to @cheeseplants and anyone else you tagged me.

What fandoms do you write in? Good Omens! Only Good Omens, Forever Good Omens.

How many words have you published in 2024? Ok, including some chapters for an upcoming [redcated] collab, I'm estimating 150k that I actually wrote. Which....isn't much in this incredibly talented fandom BUT was a lot for me.

What is your greatest achievement this year? Getting out there and collaborating!! I talked to artists (y'all are magical and terrifying), I joined the [redacted] project and wrote amazing angst with @gaiaseyes451, @sixbynine-da, @kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon, @groovynightstrawberry, and MxThirteen, PLUS more artists, @apocalyptic-scenes & babyrubysoho.

And then kept on writing with a lot of those folks to create some amazing crack - and Lucicrow?

My point is, once you start collaborating, you have no idea where it will take you!

What are your top three fics you’ve written this year? Mirrors (E, WIP but almost finished): Angsty reverse omens AU, but there's a happy ending I PROMISE. With amazing art from @daneecastle and @c0smicdisaster.

Cracked Pepper (E): Utterly absurd birthday crack for @kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon. I'm still tickled that I somehow wrote this.

Have We Been Here Before? (E): A one-shot love letter to the fandom (also podfic from the amazing @nosferatini )

What was your biggest pit of despair moment? Hmmm, I got kind of lost in my subplots in the middle of After Heaven. But it worked out and I actually love the ending.

I regularly despair that I will never have enough time to write - or to write as well as I want.

What have you learned? I've gotten some sense of the things I'm ok at. And learning to work on adding descriptions and feelings, not just plot.

Still need to improve my gif game!

What fic did you want to do but never made it off the ground? I have three historical scenes hopping around, but not fully formed yet...

Did you beta any fics? Any favs you want to shout out? Yes!! I can't name all of them - and some aren't published yet (looking at you, @on1occasionfork). But some to throw love at:

Saint of Lost Things (E) by @gaiaseyes451. This would have gone on my year's best list, but I'm sneaking it in here. Post S2 angst and redemption is absolute marvel of story telling!

What Have I Lost (M) Another post2S fic, from MarieCuriosity that I can't wait to see how it comes together!

The Show Must Go On (M) A great 1941 follow-up by @vieux-yeux

Lady of Rheged (E): A West Essex historical AU by @mageofthepeople

Seasons of Nightingales (M): A massive, sweet post2S fic from @nosferatini that is almost done!!!

but i still want more (E): An intense but heartachingly lovely postS2 fic from @cordsycords

Confeitor (M): pure poetry from @adverbian

What three fics have you read this year that you love? Lol, 3!!!

Tethered (E): WIP by MarieCuriosity based on a Gleafer prompt

Someone is Calling Him Shorewards (E): by @harlotofupdog. Gah, if you haven't read it yet, what are you waiting for?

Trial & Error (M) by @fellshish. I love everything postS2 and this one was so original!

Anything ginger_cat wrote

Angel-Centered Therapy (G) I thought this was the perfect counterpoint to its big brother (sister?), Demonology.

Rosae series (E) by UKCalico. Sure, it's incredibly hot, but then hits you with these deep insights into the characters and their lives.

If I loved you less, We Could have Coffee (M): The Chapell Roan fic you didn't know you needed; excited to see what happens next! By @spectrallydistracted

Teach me, both the art from @gahellhimself-blog and the fics from Jeans. A really amazing collaboration!

What ideas are percolating for next year? Going to start off with a couple sequels, and then we'll see where the plot bunnies take us.

Who do you want to thank? @goodomensafterdark for endless support and entertainment. Wibly for maps!! @ireallyneedmoretea & @moderndayklutz for being beta rockstars on [redacted]!

Are you somewhere in this post? Should you be? Go on and play the game!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens after dark #ask game

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loony-binz · 4 months ago

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In that case, I absolutely adore Vilidia, thank you in advance if you could write any headcanons for those two

oooh baby you got a big storm coming

VilIdia General HCs!!! 💜💙

Idia tags posts with his fav ships “me n him” and squeals like a teenage girl every time

The reason Idia’s skin is so clear is because of Vil, let’s all be honest with ourselves.

Vil will periodically DRAG Idia’s ass out so that they can have a day where Idia just gets top tier skin care.

Idia steals Vil’s makeup and one time Vil caught him. Bro was stuck in Pomefiore for HOURS

Vil comes over so often Ortho let’s him in without question

(Ortho pulled a parent trap on the two)

At one point Idia got a lil insecure bc “omg he’s so cool I must be an embarrassment” when irl Vil just doesn’t want the press ANYWHERE NEAR his relationships.

Not only does Idia hate being in the public eye but he doesn’t need strangers being all up in his business.

Make no mistake though if Vil feels envious, bitches will be walking away humiliated.

“Me and the bad bitch I pulled by being autistic”

Roger and Jessica Rabbit vibes all the way. Idia DOES in fact make Vil laugh, especially when Idia gets all excited about something he’s talking about

Epel is more than pissed that he’s single and Vil isn’t.

Does Rook stalk their dates? Absolutely.

Behind every VilIdia date night is a war between Ortho and Rook

Speaking of date nights, MOVIES!!1!1!

Vil will put on some stereotypical romance to ~set the mood~ and Idia will play some shit like the Sled Over Heels official movie

Speaking of movies, Idia secretly binged every movie Vil was ever featured in.

Their relationship is a secret, not because anyone is embarrassed but bc Idia gets flustered and Vil doesn’t give a shit (It’s his business and no one asked)

The SHOCK from everyone was palpable. Lilia knew somehow. He always does.

He knows because Idia gushes about his “awesome boyfriend” over VC

Just thinking about Vil is enough to get Idia’s hair turning bright pink

I WoN’T SAY I’M IN LOVeeeEEeEE~

No fr it took an absurd amount of time for them to get together and for Idia to take the fucking hint

It all works out in the end and now Vil can’t watch anime without thinking of Idia.

Sorry if these were a lil short!!!! Thanks for the request!!!! :D

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #disney twisted wonderland #vilidia #vil x idia #idia shroud #vil schoenheit

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skeren · 7 months ago

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Hi! I'm the mod for @svsss-fanon-exposed and saw your tags on my timeline post-- do you have a write-up of your own interpretation of the svsss timeline? I'd be really interested in seeing it if so bc I love to also look at how other people interpret these ideas!

Okay, so, I had to reread to get my bearings about what I saw that made me go 'no, that seems wrong' and it's a few specific points, I think. I want to say from the start that it all seems very well thought out and well supported and if you were working from a logical basis that makes sense for a setting like this, generally speaking, or even for one of MXTX's other works, you would be golden.

The problem is that you're being respectful, thoughtful, and giving all the background of the world the basis of logic and benefit of the doubt.

That doesn't work for SVSSS. At least, not quite to the extent that you're showing it to.

Okay, first thing's first. The one that I have no evidence for. This one is based more on feelings and the fact that even after he's running around running half the demon realm Binghe still calls Ning Yingying Shijie. By that point, he'd basically usurped the Head Disciple position off Ming Fan in the past, has been running his own sect part time, and generally been above and beyond successful for a given value of the word. He's certainly stopped being respectful to most people from Cang Qiong. I take this as proof that Ning Yingying must be older than Binghe, and not just someone who was a martial sibling who was there longer. She's Shijie because she was there longer, is older, and thus that's just the title she gets, full stop. I might be wrong, that's always an option, but that's how I see it, and I've always placed her at one or two years older, with Ming Fan at closer to three. Similarly, it makes her insistence on getting a new Shidi much more reasonable if she's been waiting for a while to get one, and didn't end up there shortly before Binghe, but years earlier with Shen Qingqiu being immensely picky and denying her new playmates.

Circling back to the respectfulness thing though. I absolutely and whole heartedly believe that the absolute vitriol that Shen Qingqiu receives from the sect and we see through Shang Qinghua's eyes is because he had no time to prove himself. He showed up, and was nearly immediately dumped with the head disciple position, probably because he has a brain in his head, and didn't even have to go through the choosing trials to get there. How dare he. We see after Shen Yuan takes over his life that given even a little justification that the people in this world will accept practically anything, so that means that Shen Jiu must have had absolutely no chance to prove himself to the sect, to prove he was worthwhile and didn't get the position through some kind of underhanded means or even bribery. This also fits the narrative beats of how Airplane initially wrote his backstory and the way it's presented that somehow, events always conspire to show Shen Jiu in the absolute worst light no matter what he does.

By this thought process, it puts him solidly at a year younger than Shang Qinghua, or at the very least, the same age with a few months between.

Following the logic of that, me and my bestie, who helped me get all these sorted out, thus have the whole situation with Tianlang-jun happen a scarce few years after he shows up, no more than three, and that they all ascend to being Peak Lords within the same year that the last head disciple (Probably Shang Qinghua) is chosen, which happened in a very short time after that fight.

So as you can see a lot of the same beats are followed, but I think you might be dropping the ball on the actual timeline of Shen Qingqiu being booted up to the head disciple position, because this is, in fact, an absurd exaggerated world that plays up all tropes and nepotism is nothing if not the most powerful trope and it would look like that from the outside if nobody knew the real circumstances of the Shen Jiu's arrival.

As for a thing I agree with but feel the need to expand on! I am aware that your timeline cuts off around when SVSSS starts, but I should point out that we know, near for certain, that SVSSS starts when Binghe is 14, and no more than perhaps four or five months away from his 15th birthday. The reason for this is that in one of the extras he says he is fifteen and this is almost immediately after he's moved into the bamboo house by Shen Yuan following his three months of cultivation, which we know happens as soon as he manages to unlock the OOC feature. I can't imagine that Shen Yuan took more than a month to get this unlocked, so there you go.

Forgive me that it's not a properly written out timeline such as yours, and instead picking at a few specific points, as I know how difficult these can be to maintain and have made them myself for other fandoms. I simply have not sat down and done so here. Thank you for reading this far, and I hope that this proves useful to you!

#svsss

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the-golden-comet · 7 months ago

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Writerly Questionnaire

The very lovely @sableglass , @the-letterbox-archives , @nczaversnick , @drchenquill , @thecomfywriter , @thatuselesshuman , @glasshouses-and-stones , and @theink-stainedfolk , tagged me in this one. (I absolutely relate to your love of escapist romances to read alongside the beach 💖✨)

I’ll answer the best I can. Bear in mind I’m a little bit of a chaos gremlin :)

About Me

When did you first start writing?

About 12 years old. I always took a liking to Disney animated classics, which have inspired me to write and draw similar to the style.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

Actually, the two are very similar. What I love to write is what I love to read. I’ve taken more of a fancy to writing romances now as opposed to a decade ago, though :)

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

Not that I’m aware of. Everyone has taken a little bit of inspiration from different sources, whether knowingly or unknowingly, so there are probably some authors or writers that I share similarities with. I know for a FACT that a lot of my stories draw heavy inspiration from Disney, which has influenced my art and storytelling styles ✨

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

Ahhh, yes. Couch, coffee table, writing laptop, coffee. Soft throw draped across my lap as I get perpetually cold. Thankfully, it’s nice and quiet in this writing space and it allows me to let me do string-of-thought writing for hours. The only thing is sometimes I lose track of time this way, so I have to set an alarm for breaks and meals.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Watching movies, listening in on my friends’ DnD campaigns, or reading stories from friends and mutuals :)

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Not really. I keep my personal life and writing life pretty separate. After all, a great thing about writing fantasy is that it doesn’t HAVE to tie in to the real world, or personal life. It can be whatever I want it to be ✨

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

Recurring themes? You bet. I either write a high fantasy BL Romance, or low fantasy slice-of life RomCom. My favorite writing tropes are Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Found Families, Romantic Comedy, Magic in the Mundane, Slice of Life, Call to Action/Prophecy, and Absurdism.

Do they surprise me? Absolutely. I can have a beautiful plot all planned out, and then my characters say, “okay I see the route, but what if we take a sliiiiight detour? :)” and then soon enough I’m on a totally unique and unexplored path in my writing….and that’s exciting. An adventure all on its own ✨

My Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

I fear if I don’t say Peter here, he’s gonna kill me. In my current WIP, my favorite character is Ali because he’s a lovable goofball genie that wants the best for Noah. Overall currently (side eying) Peter because he’s a chaotic-neutral, anti-establishment, insane pirate captain that makes my life entertaining 😂

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

Ali. Hands down. Dude gets along with just about everyone.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

Any of the villains I wrote, but going off of main OCs? Gosh that’s tough….probably Tyr because he’s really angry all the time (for good reason, but too much of that is toxic)

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

Oh boy. That’s a big one. Let’s see….

Character building kinda happens simultaneously to Plot Planning; it’s a bit hard to describe, as there’s no “right order” to my world building. But usually it’s: “Okay, who is my protagonist? Who is the antagonist? What do they look like? Is the protag a hero, or villain? Is the antag a hero, or villain? What is their ‘general moral alignment?’ What are their characteristics? What are their strengths? What are their flaws? What are their goals and aspirations? Etc.” I do this for each major character. Then, secondary and supporting characters, who get a little less polish but still enough to be human (or relatable) in nature, start getting fleshed out.

Once I get the Core Plots and characters made and planned out, I start piecing the events in chronological order in the story. This becomes my “roadmap” that helps drive the narrative. Then….well, the rest just kinda falls into place. Once I have a “Plan of Events,” all that’s left is writing the story around the plan. And, as I’m writing, new ideas may come, and I get to explore that a little further during the writing phase.

tl;dr: I do the “Tree Approach.” Characters are the foundational trunk. Branches are the Core Plots. Twigs are the Conflicts. Leaves are the little details of each conflict (i.e. how characters react, where the conflict is set, what this means for each character’s aspirations, etc.)

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Yep :)

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.)

Like this:

My Writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Personal enjoyment, mainly. And how far I can stretch and challenge my creative mind ✨

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

Any story reactions and positive engagement is always appreciated. Just don’t be a dick and you’re good 👍

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

I loathe this question. As long as people enjoy my stories, that’s what matters. I’m just one silly little guy writing stories for my own enjoyment. The fact that other people can enjoy my wild ideas as well is a blessing in of itself.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Comedy and Dialogue. And comedic timing.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

Same as above. Also have been told that I have wildly entertaining and outlandishly creative ideas portrayed in “insane, chaotic, and ballsy ways.” Coolio 🤙

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

I’m proud of it. I’ve successfully written stories that I wanted to read, and reading back through my stories is really entertaining and motivating :)

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

I’ve already been writing stories on my own for well over a decade, nearly two. It was my husband and friends who finally pushed me to go public, and I’m very glad I did :)

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

I write solely for my entertainment, and my personal opinion is that’s the best way to do it, honestly. If I write stories that I want to read, I enjoy them, I spend more effort on them because I WANT to, not to please anyone other than myself. I don’t inhibit myself or censor myself, allowing me creative freedom to write wherever my heart takes me….which has led to some WILDLY entertaining plots. Even if writing is a career to some, if you find yourself enjoying what you write, you’re gonna motivate yourself beyond your wildest imaginations ✨

Man, that was a lot! Thank you @davycoquette for starting the chain, and thank you again Sable for tagging me!

I will gently and no pressure tag the following people as well as my tag list: @nczaversnick , @lavender-gloom , @cowboybrunch , @noblebs , @words-after-midnight , @saturnine-saturneight , @marlowethelibrarian , @aintgonnatakethis , @coffeexafterxmidnight , @astramachina , @justabigoldnerd , @pippinoftheshire , +open tag! 💛✨

✨👇Tag list for writing tidbits below. DM me if you’d like to be added 👇✨

Tag List for writing tidbits (lmk if you want + or -)

@talesofsorrowandofruin , @alinacapellabooks , @gioiaalbanoart , @deanwax , @dyrewrites , @honeybewrites , @paeliae-occasionally , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @katenewmanwrites , @billybatsonmylove , @madi-konrad , @houseplantblank , @far-cry-from-finality , @froggy-pposto , @fractured-shield , @avaseofpeonies , @topazadine , @thecoolerlucky , @theaistired , @willtheweaver , @rivenantiqnerd @somethingclevermahogony , @noxxytocin , @leahnardo-da-veggie , @addicted2coke-theothercoke , @illarian-rambling , @mysticstarlightduck , @ominous-feychild

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