#Carrying a Lantern in Daylight

[aceinthetrap]

LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE 《慕胥辞》 wrapped up filming and released new character stills

[mxtxfanatic]

Hello ....Do you mind if I ask your top 5 (or top 10) favorite moments from any media that you love (can be books, anime/manga, tv series, movies, games, etc)? Thanks if you want to answer. Sorry if I ask too much....

I'll do books I've read this year! In no particular order:

Duan Xu's wedding day from Carrying a Lantern in Daylight

The night Lu Qingjiu got sick in Fantasy Farm

Anytime Guan Suyi writes an essay in Who Cares

When Kong Hou descends back to the mortal realm to help her kingdom in Ascending, Do Not Disturb

When Hua Liuli and Jiamin Junzhu get kidnapped in The Times Spent in Pretense

The assassination attempt on He Heng in To Be a Virtuous Wife

When Gu becomes a mf god??? in Born to Be Rebellious

Shen Miao during the school exams in Rebirth of the Malicious Empress of Military Lineage

Transmigrator Yu Rubing's character introduction in She Is the Protagonist

Lin Qiushi's first mission in Kaleidoscope of Death (yes, the whole arc lol)

[limecello]

Belated TBR Challenge Review: 白日提灯 (Carrying a Lantern in Daylight) by 黎青燃 (Li Qing Ran)

So ALBTALBS was down for a few weeks which I didn’t even know it was down until I tried writing the July TBR Challenge review. 🫠 I tried contacting my host and everything and I guess there was some massive DDoS attack … and the site finally came back a few days ago. As my body and the universe hates me … I didn’t get to writing this review till now – cuz also procrastination is something I do…

[aceinthetrap]

Really disappointed it's not these two! 😭

Dilraba and Chen Fei Yu... (though I like Dilraba and her shows up until YAMG)

Oh well, better luck next time.

YSX is also not in FSM: Wang Quan. It's Cheng Yi and Li Yi Tong. Currently airing My Boss (adapted from What Comes Around, Goes Around) was supposed to be YSX and Jing Bo Ran, now it's CXX and Zhang Ruo Nan.

Please let this be true!

[theskywithin]

What Your 12th House Whispers to You at Night

When the night feels heavy, return here. Your 12th house always has something to say, softly, between dreams.

Aries 12th House You have been the wild horse racing daylight, hooves striking sparks from the earth. But even the boldest steeds rest beneath the moon. Tonight, let the grass grow soft beneath you. There is no finish line here, only fields that stretch beyond fear, where you can breathe without running.

Taurus 12th House Like a garden in early spring, you cling to the soil, afraid of late frost. But trust the quiet bloom, the patient unfurling. Not every season comes to steal, some arrive only to kiss your roots and remind you: growth happens even when you close your eyes.

Gemini 12th House Your mind is a flock of birds that never quite lands at dusk. Let them settle on twilight branches tonight. Let the sky hold them for you, so you can rest beneath their wings and dream not of answers, but of peace.

Cancer 12th House You are a seashell listening to distant tides, carrying the ocean in your chest. Tonight, let the waves cradle you. They do not come to crash, but to remind you that home has always been the rhythm beneath your ribs.

Leo 12th House You are the hearth that burns bright for others, but tonight, let your fire be a lantern hung inside your own chest. Let it flicker softly for no one but yourself. Even the sun sets to rest, trusting that it will rise once more.

Virgo 12th House You are the weaver of invisible threads, mending what no one else sees. But tonight, lay down your needle and let the tapestry remain unfinished. The night sky never stitches its stars into patterns, yet we still call it beautiful.

Libra 12th House You have been the river bending for every stone, shaping yourself to soften the edges of others. But tonight, flow straight and true. Let the water carry your own reflection, undistorted and free, as it was always meant to be.

Scorpio 12th House You are the cave that holds forgotten treasures, hidden beneath echoes of storms. Tonight, light a lantern in your depths. Let its glow reveal not monsters, but marvels, the jewels you thought were shadows all along.

Sagittarius 12th House You are the arrow that dreams of flight, always aimed at distant skies. But tonight, rest in the bow’s quiet curve. The horizon will wait for you, and dreams that matter will not vanish in the pause.

Capricorn 12th House You have been the mountain, stone-faced against the weather, bearing silent witness to the weight of years. But tonight, let the clouds wrap around you like a shawl. Even mountains deserve to be kissed by mist, softened by time, cradled by the sky.

Aquarius 12th House You are the constellation dreaming of new shapes, threading stars into patterns unseen. Tonight, unfasten your maps. Let the cosmos rearrange itself without your guiding hand. Even in chaos, beauty is born.

Pisces 12th House You are the tide that forgets its own shore, drifting into the dreams of others. Tonight, let the moon pull you homeward. Let your waters gather in quiet bays, and remember: you are not just the ocean seeking land, you are the depth it surrenders to.

[ghoulphile]

wish you'd make me cry | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.3k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, dom!cooper, frottage, sitting missionary, dirty talk, degradation kink, pet names, teasing, dacryphilia, bareback, drug/chem use (jet), shotgunning, high sex ➥ summary | "You’re such a needy fucking brat." :3c ➥ notes | drabble (that's no longer a drabble lol) request for @tearueful, thank you bby!! this one really got away from me... i had to stop myself from writing lol. un-beta'd atm. masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Setting up camp for the night in an abandoned warehouse, you and Cooper wait out a radstorm that blows in off the horizon. Because while he loves sitting outside with a smoke, soaking in the rads until he’s buzzing with frenetic energy, you don’t feel like hunting down RadAway tomorrow.

It’s quiet apart from the distant sound of super mutants and ferals roaming the city, the sporadic roar of thunder, and rain tinging off the sheet metal roof. There’s still hours left until daylight, and it doesn’t seem like the volatile weather will break soon.

Unfortunately, you’ve read all the Grognak comics you could get your grubby hands on three times over, and there’s not much else to pass the time besides scuff your boot along the concrete floor, and pluck at a stray thread hanging off your tattered sleeping bag.

Meanwhile, Cooper lounges on his side, unbothered. His hand - bare for once - props up his head, the unscarred skin of a commandeered digit stark against angry rad burns and ropey scars. Between the knuckles of his other hand, he rolls a vial of chem over and over in a mesmerizing flick of deft fingers.

A lantern sputters between you as the old battery struggles to keep it lit. Its jaundiced glow banishes the thick darkness; a fuzzy halo of light that elongates shadows and deepens the cuts of his face.

You kiss your teeth, and say, “Hey, you got any more Jet?”

Lazy eyes slide towards you. A hairless brow quirks. “And if I did,” he asks, the vial pausing between his fingers, “why you wanna know?”

“Dunno, I’m bored… wanna get high?”

“Well, shit,” he whistles, bares his teeth. A low, crackling laugh rumbles from his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you ask sooner.”

You shrug and crack a knuckle.

To be honest, the idea hadn’t occurred to you at first. Now that it has, anticipation curls low in your belly. Not only has it been a long, long time since you last got high (the sensation a hazy, half-remembered dream of fuzzy warmth and whirling thoughts), you know Cooper always carries a top-notch stash.

The little chem fiend, you think fondly.

“So,” you prompt. “Wanna get high together or what?”

“Sure as shit, darlin’. Let’s party.”

He settles against the pockmarked wall beside you with a soft grunt, the grit of concrete digging into his back. Thigh to thigh, his body is a rad warm line of heat. A bloom of suffocating heat in the otherwise biting chill of a wasteland night. Gunpowder and smoke tickle your nose when he leans over to rifle through his bag, leather creaking.

Muted, mellow; everything fades into a silent companionship as you pass the red inhaler between you. With every puff, whorls of smoke curl from your mouths until a murky gray cloud hovers in the air; defining the edges of your crafted universe.

The acrid vapor of chem burns its way through your lungs and into your bloodstream. A bitter taste coats your fattened tongue, lips tingling as your palm smothers little coughs. A flood of static rushes down your nerve endings, sends your head spinning.

As your vision blurs, the tension leeches from rounded shoulders with a bone weary sigh. And with every slow clicking blink, colors spark to life in a distorted kaleidoscope. Head lolling to the side, you watch through heavy eyes as Cooper rattles the inhaler and takes a shallow hit.

When he exhales, little tendrils of smoke caress the plains of his cheek. Dance along the hollow nasal ridge. “Almost out.” He grunts, your fingers brushing when he passes the cartridge back. “Go on, now. Finish it.”

The kind gesture (for him) touches you.

Then a faraway thought flutters.

Snags - settles into a nebulous desire.

And before you can second guess yourself, a rumble of thunder shakes the building. Wipes away the last of your common sense, and reservations. After all, why not? He was nice enough to share. You can too.

To his credit, Cooper doesn’t startle when you slink into his lap - not that you expect him to, even without being chem-addled. He tracks your movements from beneath a heavy brow bone, the dark Nuka Cola of his eyes glittering like shattered glass in the wane light.

“Heh, this that kinda party then, darlin’?” he asks once you settle, your thighs draped over his hips and your ass flush with his crotch. “‘Cuz you’ll be wanting ta extricate yourself if it ain’t.”

—Before I do it for you.

Humming, you dip forward until your breasts brush over the wide expanse of his chest. Interest flickers to life behind your navel; cinders cracking and popping along your spine. While you’d never considered Cooper a sexual availability beforehand (what with his never-ending search for family), the laden weight of his gaze as it pauses on your chin before dropping lower sings through your blood.

Kickstarts your heart into a galloping stutter that thuds against your ribcage as longing hooks behind your navel, tugs sudden and sharp. The world spins.

Maybe, you think, peering at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. Maybe…

“Pervert,” you murmur, biting down on a small smile.

The knife-sharp smirk falls from his lips faster than a comedown from Psycho when your fingertips ghost over the curve of his jaw, turning his head towards you. Like this, you share breath, the scant space between you thrumming with energy.

So close you can see flecks of gold in the amber whiskey of his eyes.

Your forehead brushes over his; the rough drag of gnarled skin sending a shiver through your limbs. “Let’s share the last hit. S’only fair.”

Pausing, he considers you for several long moments.

His gaze bounces from yours to the playful curve of your mouth and back. A small eternity passes like this. And then - when you’re about to crawl away to lick your wounded pride - the most imperceptible of nods grants his assent.

There’s a hiss of aerosol, a lung burning inhale, and then you’re exhaling into the open gash of his mouth.

Wisps of smoke dance off your tongue onto his, the bow of your lips glancing off the swell of his top lip as you squirm closer. You feed him chem in a slow, steady stream until all the air has left you.

He groans - a wounded, low-throated sound.

Your eyes flutter open to find him already staring, his iris a thin ring around the Blackhole of his wide blown pupils. Hooded, hungry: a caged predator. You lick your lips, and in doing so, flick your tongue over his.

Your stomach swoops, “I --”

“You’re such a needy fuckin’ brat, y’know that, sweetheart?”

Whether it was an apology or some other retort stuck to the back of your teeth like hard candy, you’ll never know because in the next moment a rough hand knocks the Jet out of your hand. The inhaler cracks against the concrete with a plastic smack before skidding off into the darkness.

A burning palm curls around your wrist, calloused fingers digging into your fluttering pulse point. “Hey — hngg!”

He yanks you close, and you taste the violence in his kiss.

Harsh lips map out the softness of yours as teeth pinch and roll until your mouth is a swollen mess of tender flesh and smeared spit. Keeping up with the frenzied scrape of his tongue and the deep pulls of his kisses is like trying to weather a hurricane or fight off a Yao Guai with a single bullet.

“W-Wait,” you gasp, fingers twined through the lapels of his duster. “I don’t --”

“Shut up,” Cooper growls, worrying the swell of your bottom lip until a bead of blood bubbles to the surface. He sucks it away with a stifled moan, his hips kicking up against the plush of your ass.

“Shut the fuck up right now. You know what you was doing - trying ta act innocent when you’ve been gaggin’ for it.”

Flustered, you pull back, “No, that’s not true!”

It’s hard to keep your balance with chem pumping through your veins, and you sway to the side. The only thing keeping you upright is the bruising grip Cooper has on your wrist. “I haven’t been — you’re wr-rong.”

He spits out a mean spirited chuckle. “If that’s what you need ta tell yourself, sweetheart.” A critical eye drags down the pathetic sight you make, crumbled as you are in his lap. “But I know the truth. I felt you looking - pantin’ after me like a bitch in heat.”

“...”

Panic grips you by the throat, your pulse thundering against the thumb he strokes along the curve of your shoulder. You should’ve known better.

Of course, he’d notice.

He was The Ghoul after all - best bounty hunter from this coast to the next. It was his job to perceive everything around him, sus out friend from foe.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

What else can you say?

He brought you along (for whatever reason, fuck if you know why), and you’ve caused nothing but trouble every step of the way. It’s a wasteland miracle he hasn’t kicked your ass and left you bleeding in the dirt by now.

I have to fix this. Whatever it takes.

“I ain’t wanting you sorry.”

Gulping, you will away the sting of tears, and say, “Please, don’t kick me out.”

“Y’know, sometimes I think it’s a miracle you survived this long at all.”

“You don’t have to be so rude about it…” 

“Listen good and well, sugar,” he says with a roll of his eyes, that tender hand brushing over your neck turning into a collar as he drags you close. His lips whisper over yours with every word. “I didn’t go through all of this bullshit just ta get rid of you. Now--”

Hips rut up into you, dragging the firm line of his growing erection along the soft globes of your ass. “Stop teasin’ and make yourself useful,” he says. “Or you will be sorry.”

Everything after that flicks in and out of focus like a zoetrope: the burning clasp of hands, the slick glide of hungry mouths, the frantic rock of your hips as you both chase after dry friction with a desperation that borders on madness.

Your hands don’t know where to settle, fluttering from the nape of his neck to the breadth of his shoulders to the rippling muscle of his stomach as he rocks into you. Bites at any exposed skin that he can until his teeth leave marks you’ll carry for days.

All the while the hard edges of his body crash into your softness like waves against an eroding shore. Liquid fire blazes in your belly like a raging wildfire, scorching you from the inside out until you’re dumb and dripping.

The chem snaking through your body enhances the littlest of sensations until you feel like one giant exposed nerve. Slick drenched and sweaty, you moan weakly and rest your forehead against his cheek.

“Please,” you slur, thighs trembling where they squeeze at his live-wire hips. “S’not enough - need more. Wanna cum. Please, please, please. Make me cum.”

Cooper bites out a curse, his fingers biting into the fat of your ass. “Yeah, s’that right, sweetheart - d’you think you deserve it for bein’ such a lil brat?”

“Yes, yes, please, I’ll do anything. Just - hhahh, fuck!”

The fabric of your panties clings to your folds, and your pants chafe.

Your clit throbs with every thud of your heartbeat, every firm grind of his cock and low husk of his voice. Want him seated so deep inside you choke - your poor pussy struggling to take his cock as he rides you so hard you cry.

“Anything?” he asks with a breathless chuckle.

The devilish gleam of his eyes rattles your bones, shivers of electric anticipation fizzing through your veins like Quantum.

“Well, shit. Don’t come cryin’ ta me when you regret it. Now, take off those fucking pants and ride my cock like a good girl.”

And when he bullies his way inside, those thick ridges dragging along gummy walls, you almost swallow your tongue. He’s so big - the biggest you’ve ever had.

Every inch is a struggle, a victory. He’s not patient, he’s not kind. You don’t want it any other way, spread so wide your pussy flutters pathetically, trying to push him out.

Then the fat head grazes past the rough patch of your g-spot, sliding home to kiss your cervix. Your knees lock around his ribs, your head tossing back as a high-pitched whine punches its way out of your throat.

“A-Ah! I can’t — oh shit — you’re so,” you babble. “Too much!”

An ache spears deep, roots behind your navel.

“Heh, you asked for it, sweetheart. Look at me.” A scarred thumb wicks away a tear as you peel your eyes open with a sniffle. “That’s it. Shit, you look s’pretty when you cry.”

He licks his skin clean, uses his wet thumb to reach between you and roll the pad over your abused clit. You jump, sliding up on his shaft only for gravity to drag you back down with a solid smack of skin, your limbs jello soft.

The motion slams him deeper and slick drips from you in a sticky gush to soak his balls. You cry out, reedy thin.

Cooper grunts, warns, “You keep doing that and we’re not stoppin’ til you’re dripping cum.”

Though the thick haze of chem and syrupy sweet pleasure, you cobble together a grin and lick your way into his mouth. Tangle your tongues and suck as your hips arch into his. “Please, ruin me,” you breathe.

A possessive greed glints at you from the depths of his hangman eyes.

“Don’t go sayin’ I didn’t warn you, sweetheart,” he promises.

[wandasaura]

BURNING BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN

summary — the annual maximoff memorial day barbecue has finally come, but so has a softer side of your dominants

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, mentions of dom/sub dynamics, this is 90% fluff, shower sex, quickie, fingering, oral, nipple stimulation, hickies, its relatively tame in comparison to what lives in this au, domestic fluff, mentions of pietro being dead as fuck, men/minors dni

authors note — remember when i said i was taking a little break? yeah i lied and im not sorry about it!

you are in love universe

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff

The warmth and promise of sunshine had quickly taken hold of Westview, days of long darkness and snow storms came to be just a memory, thawed out by butterflies and the occasional white dove that pecked at the birdfeeder on the back porch of the Maximoff residence. You couldn’t understand how the sky was so much brighter in warmer weather, but as you sat beside Natasha on the cusp of solid Earth, you thought it looked bluer than usual. The crashing waves before you licked at your feet and dampened the shorts you wore when the tide dared to try and swallow you whole, but like changing seasons, it never stayed quick. 

Sunrise had barely hit its peak and already the traces of pink and orange were just another mental memory for the big scrapbook of moments you never wanted to forget. The sand was coarse beneath the fingers that hours earlier had been dug into soft blankets, but refreshing and welcomed despite how small granules crept beneath your nails when you picked it up the wrong way. Natasha hummed an old lullaby beneath her breath, eyes closed and face tilted toward the sun like a lonely flower that had managed to grow in an abandoned field. You knew much about the woman's past, but not enough to understand her connection to the star that brought you light each new day. Now wasn’t the time to ask, but you knew that eventually you’d come to know the reason for her methods of relief in hard times. 

The first weekend of break had come on quick, and the barbeque that Wanda and Natasha had frantically tried to tidy the house for before your attitude interrupted them was merely hours away. Despite the plans and the people coming over, time had been taken out of the day to devote just to you. In this moment, sitting on the edge of solid ground beneath rays of sun that attempted to burn you, you couldn’t even explain how truly loved you felt. 

The beach was empty, void of the presence of others and quiet for your enjoyment, save for the seagulls who squawked over scraps and the waves that crashed against man made piers and naturally jagged rocks. Your toes were coated in sand, your fingers in the same state, but you didn’t care to think about the messy things at that moment, you only wanted to focus on the good. The good was Natasha’s arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close like a stray wave might succeed in carrying you out to sea. The good was Wanda’s perfume that lingered around the collar of your stolen shirt like the scent was woven into the cotton. The good was being here, being free and alive. The good was knowing Natasha. The good was having Wanda. The good was knowing love and having love.  

You laid your head down on the woman’s shoulder, noting how her hair seemed to glow beneath the sunlight. In this moment, it wasn’t auburn with scuffs of brown thrown in at the roots, it was orange like fire made by those long before lights and lanterns existed. She was ethereal, sat out beneath the early daylight, bearing her freckles for the sky to adore. You’d attempted to count them earlier, your gaze stuck on her naked face with blemishes and beauty marks sporadically thrown into the mix, but somewhere after thirty they all blended together and you settled for simply looking at them, admiring how you were somehow allowed to see them. 

You were happier in spring, happiest in summer, but recently, you have found those seasons in people. Wanda was like the early days of May, where weather was warm but also cold, and sunlight was soft but somehow harsh. Natasha was like summer, late July if you thought about a specific moment. Like the air she was sweet, but like the people she was calm, and like the night she was chaos wrapped up in laughter and loved company. They weren’t perfect, you would never call them such, but they were as close to it as people could get. 

A soft smile graced your features, and though you squinted to lessen the sting of sunlight, Natasha thought you looked stunning. When her eyes reopened and her head tilted downward to look at you, there was only affection smeared across her face. Her eyes that were so meticulously different shades of green had a spark within them that could only speak of the happiness she felt. How words had existed for so long and still there wasn’t one to describe the intense feelings that rushed through the both of you, you didn’t know, but you were content enough to rest against her with the knowledge that even if you couldn’t say it, you were both feeling it. 

“We’ve gotta head back soon.” Your beautiful moment was ripped into tiny pieces of paper that got caught in the breeze before they made it into the recycling can, and the smile that had turned your lips upward quickly worked in the opposite direction. You shook your head, digging your heels into the sand like the simple action might change her mind and make her forget about the barbeque that was starting at noon. “Not now. I need a couple more minutes of this.” 

You giggled softly when she nuzzled into your head, her wild curls tickling your nose because she hadn’t bothered to straighten them yesterday. You reached up, taking one of her curls between your fingers and pulling it taught, letting go to watch it bounce back into place and laid against her forehead with frizzy edges. You sighed in content, running your fingers through her wild hair that couldn’t be tamed in this state. “I like your natural hair.” 

Natasha crinkled her nose at your genuine admission. She puckered her lips and let them rest against your finger that was still in front of her face as you softly brushed strands of hair away from her eyes. “My natural hair is blonde.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” You rolled your eyes fondly, snuggling even further into her side despite how hot you felt beneath the sun. No matter the weather you wanted to be pressed up into her, and it was clear that she wanted the same, her arm around your waist squeezed you tight, almost daring you to try and pull away prematurely. “When you met Wanda did she have red hair?” 

“No, the red is pretty new. It was brown, a little bit longer than she keeps it now. She was really leaning into the whole emo phase. We could never go out together if she didn’t have red lipstick and eyeliner, she always said it completed her look.” Natasha smiled fondly at the memories that came to mind when she thought about the beginning stages of their relationship, and you felt your own heart warm in your chest as you thought about the young couple they had been. You wondered what kind of odds had been stacked against them, but you didn’t question it, happy to just live in this happy moment. 

You let your hand fall back into the sand, rubbing circles that slowly became hearts into the malleable surface. The beach would always be one of your favorite places, but sitting beside Natasha made it better, sweeter. “How long have you been together now?” 

“Fourteen years.” Natasha laughed, her own hand reaching out to collect handfuls of sand that she let run between her fingers until only a few granules were left in her palm, and then you watched her repeat the process over again. “Sometimes it feels like it was only a couple of weeks ago, and other times it feels like I’ve never lived without her.” 

“I never hated her.” You admitted, though you had the slightest inkling that Natasha already knew that. She just had a way of knowing things before you did. There was no possible way anyone could hate Wanda Maximoff, and if you somehow stumbled upon the only person in the world who did, you didn’t doubt they’d meet a quick and painful demise. 

“I know, moya kroshka.” Natasha laughs softly, so softly the sounds of the waves almost drown her out completely, but you still heard her. You’d always hear her. “It’s coming up on a full year since we started this whole thing, have any ideas about what you want to do?” 

You shrugged your shoulders, reaching for Natasha’s hand when she lost interest in the sand. She’d taken her rings off last night and with the early wake-up call hadn’t put them back on. The slightest tan kissed her features around where they usually sat, and gently you brushed the pads of your fingers against the pale skin. “I just want to spend it with you both.” 

“We can definitely make that happen.” Natasha hummed softly, laying a gentle kiss on the top of your head where sunlight had kissed your hair. Your roots were warm, hot against her lips, but Natasha didn’t flinch away. You knew this moment was coming to an end, but you could appreciate it for the few seconds longer that it lasted. “Wanda probably has breakfast ready, milaya. We’ve gotta start heading back now.” 

“Can we come back?” You questioned softly, not wanting to speak too loud as if it could ruin the quiet atmosphere around you. As you stood, dusting sand off the back of your legs, you winced at the ache in your back when you finally found your feet and steadied yourself on them. Natasha did the same, a quiet groan slipping past her lips when she reached down to collect your abandoned sets of flip flops. With one hand occupied, she reached the other out to you.  

“We’ll find a day.” She promised with a nod of affirmation. Your hand fits easily in the palm of hers, your fingers curl around her scarred knuckles while hers lay flat against your unbroken ones. Together you’re a perfect balance. Delicate definitely, but not entirely harmless. 

Westview sits on the edge of New Jersey, the air tinged with the permanent lingrance of salt and sand. The farther you walk, the less prominent it becomes, but if you know what you’re looking for, the scent of the shore still remains. Houses closest to the water are painted soft colors that linger in the summer sunrises, vacation homes that are only occupied for a handful of months throughout the year, but the deeper you walk the more mundane it becomes. The town is a muted palette of browns and beiges, fences of white and cars of greyscale. It’s perfectly coherent, acceptably mature, but the Maximoff residence remains the outlier. In the blandness of tans and creams, the two-story house is a soft green color with vibrant red shutters. The cars are normal, though elaborate. Unlike the Hondas and Toyotas that occupy driveways and road space, Natasha’s sleek Corvette Stingray sits beside Wanda’s Audi R8 in the driveway, the only flex of their wealth that’s apparent. You like it though, like how they’re so different from everyone else. 

You make sure to kick the sand still clinging to your heels off before you step into the house, and immediately you’re met with the aroma of sweet sugar and maple. Natasha hums at the change of scent, leaving behind the traces of salt that had tickled her nose the entire walk back to the house in favor of discovering what Wanda had prepared for breakfast. She drags her hand across your back as she passes you, seeking out the presence of her wife. 

You're slower to follow, taking your time to meticulously stack your flip flops with the rest of the shoes in the entryway. They don’t match the aesthetic of Valentino loafers and Prada heels, but you smile at the sight anyways. Your favorite pair of white converse sit beside the shoes Wanda wears into the office every work day, and your balled up pink socks are tucked into Natasha’s running shoes for some reason, but the little traces of your place here makes you feel at home. You’re not so different from the shore that lingers through Westview in the winter, but unlike the water that’s abandoned when snow falls, they’ll never forget about you when the seasons inevitably change. 

“Where did you leave the stray?” You just barely catch the end of whatever conversation has led to that question when you finally appear in the kitchen. The sunlight is golden now, no longer soft with pink and orange, but it falls over Wanda like the perfect blanket anyways. She’s wrapped up in Natasha’s arms, pinned to the stovetop where bacon rests in a hot pan. The only indication that this moment is less than perfect is the hot grease that pops and splatters every other second when Wanda neglects it for too long. 

“You know, you should really be nice to me before I start biting your ankles like a real stray.” You hum, your voice carrying through the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, though it’s not a response derived from annoyance like it would have been only weeks ago. Rather, your words are layered with fond exasperation that Wanda finds herself laughing at. 

Natasha kisses the lawyer's shoulder, squeezes her waist tightly, whispers something in Russian that’s not entirely audible from how far away you stand, before she pulls away entirely and walks toward the refrigerator. You pout when she pulls out the near empty pitcher of orange juice, setting it down on the island to be poured into glasses when breakfast is ready. It seems you could’ve spent a few more minutes beneath the sun, but you don’t complain. This is just as nice, just different. 

“That’s my job.” You sulk, letting your naked feet slap against the hardwood floors as you approach with sadness written across your expression. “Wanda, your wife took my job.” 

Natasha only narrows her eyes at you, the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips that she doesn’t even attempt to school. “It was my job first.” 

“Well it’s my job now!” You stuck your tongue out at her, sulking your way over to Wanda who lets you wrap your body around hers like a baby koala. With your front pressed up against hers, you have to crane your head backward to catch a glimpse of her face, but you're pleased to know she’s already looking down at you. You pout your lips up at her, grinning in victory when she kisses your frown away with a sigh of faux exasperation. “Can I have a new job?” 

Wanda laughs at your question, her fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts to sit on the skin of your ass that’s still marked from days prior. You sighed in relief at the contact, leaning heavily into her chest when she rubs away the lingering ache that truthfully doesn’t bother you much anymore. It doesn’t last long, there’s still much to be done before noon rolls around, but you soak up every ounce of domesticity this morning has offered. “Sit on the counter and look pretty for me while I finish up with the bacon.” 

“Aye aye, Captain.” You giggle after saluting her, wiggling out of her arms and sliding your way up onto the countertop that’s practically become your designated spot since she stopped reprimanding you about sitting up here. Natasha crosses the little space between the edge of the island to where you’re perched watching Wanda cook, and you hum in pleasure when she leans forward to connect your lips. 

Your hands wrap around her shoulders and fingers tangle into the baby hairs at the nape of her neck. You smile into the kiss, beyond content with the little bubble that’s existed around you since being roused from sleep at five in the morning. A shriek of surprised laughter fills the kitchen when Natasha pulls away from your lips and buries her face in the crock of your neck, a raspberry tickling the sensitive skin as she blows against it. You squirm away from the sensation, but your arms still keep her locked in place. 

“Hi, Natty.” You giggle, tugging gently at the loose curls that your fingers are twisted between. She smiles at your happiness, pecking your lips a handful of times before she pulls away and whispers back the same greeting. “You smell like the beach.” You point out, giggling at Natasha’s extravagant eye roll. 

“You both smell like the beach and will be taking a shower after breakfast.” Wanda chimed into the conversation, tapping your thigh in warning as she opened the cabinet just beside your head. It had become routine at this point for her to simply work around you, so the clattering of plates beside your ear didn’t bother you much. 

When she turned around to grab the serving plate of belgian waffles on the island, your hand shot out to slap her ass, all thoughts of controlling your limbs forgotten. But really, who could blame you when she was wearing the shortest cotton shorts that had ever been sold in stores? Natasha had to bury her face in your neck to muffle her laughter, and you could feel her wide grin against your skin as you smirked innocently back at Wanda who set a firm glare in your direction. 

“Behave yourself.” She warned half-heartedly, absolutely no bite to her warning as you’d all just accepted the natural occurrence of the day, your roles as dominant and submissive forgotten about. You liked this exchange, not because you felt any less their equal when they bossed you around and set expectations upon your shoulders, but because it was the faintest glimpse at what life could be if they weren’t married and you were really their girlfriend. “Don’t even think about it, Natalia.” Wanda warned, already knowing Natasha was about to do the same thing you had been bold enough to accomplish. 

The redhead merely smirked and shrugged her shoulders, feigning innocence as she pulled away from your embrace and brought the drink glasses and pitcher into the dining room. You hopped off the counter the same as you always do, mimicking Natasha’s shrug when Wanda winced at the action. You grabbed the platter of bacon from her hands and followed after the lawyer who had already exited, eager to see where the day ended up, surrounded by the Maximoff’s closest friends and family members. 

-

The shower water was hot enough to create a thick fog on the glass doors and surrounding mirrors in the en-suite master bathroom, but still it felt cold as you joined Natasha beneath the heavy and unrelenting spray. You shivered despite the heat, reaching for the handle and turning it up even hotter, ignoring the Russian’s protests that her skin was actively melting off her bones. You liked hot showers, but you hated hot baths, and somehow you had yet to find a happy medium that worked for the both of you. Typically you’d compromise and switch off between who melted and who froze, and although it was admittedly your turn to freeze, today was not a day where you were willing to sacrifice feeling in your appendages.  

You silenced her whines with a desperate kiss, not even attempting to hide your need for her as you backed her up against the cold tile walls and pinned her hands to her sides. Your tongue was unrelenting as it licked and sucked at hers, tasting the minty toothpaste that she had rinsed from her mouth only minutes before you’d sought out her presence. When your teeth bit down on her tongue, just hard enough to send a shock of excitement down to her core, Natasha decided that being pliant in your hold wasn’t working for her. 

You shrieked in surprise when your position switched easily, the hands that had been firmly holding her wrists against the wall now pinned at your sides in the same way. You arched away from the cold tiles, effectively smashing your chests and eager nipples together as you attempted to run away from the cold wall.

“Fuck!” You shivered, your lips ghosting over hers. “You have a fucking Stingray and you still haven’t discovered heated walls?! What’s the point of having money if you don’t use it for good things!” Your words were quickly replaced by breathy moans as Natasha attached her mouth to your chest and greedily sucked a mark into your untouched skin; a mark that wouldn’t be easily hidden, especially not with the swimsuit you had been intending on wearing for the party. “Fuck, Nat–” You pushed her head away, hoping you’d acted quick enough for the damage to be only minimal. The smirk on her lips told you that you hadn’t succeeded, and you slapped at her shoulder in exasperation. “Your sister is literally going to be here in two hours, can you contain your vampire impulses until she leaves?!” 

“My sister has fucked her girlfriend in my guest bedroom. A hickey should be the least of her worries.” Natasha threw back at you, attacking her mouth to your nipple with purpose. You had ten minutes to sort yourselves out before Wanda came stomping up the stairs and pulling you out of the shower, orgasms or not. You did not want to spend the entire afternoon and evening hot and bothered because you got pussy blocked by a scary Sokovian. 

Natasha’s teeth pulled at your nipple, allowing the skin to sting for only a second before she soothed the pain with quick flicks of her tongue. Your other nipple was not privy to the same treatment, but her stumbling fingers attempted to make up for the neglect as she rolled and pinched at the pebbled bud. You shoved her head away from your chest, forcing her down onto her knees and in the direction of where you needed her most. It occurred to you briefly that you should wash her hair as she ate you out, kill two birds with one stone or whatever the saying was, but you quickly backtracked on that idea when her tongue sought out your clit with no lack of drive. Your knees wobbled, your breath got caught in your throat, and desperately your fingers tangled into her hair and pulled her closer. Your hips grinded against her face as she licked and sucked at your nerve with a passion, and you're certain that had the droplets of liquid fire not been falling over her face in a manner that was less than pretty, her chin would’ve glistened with your arousal. 

You arched into her touch as your orgasm approached, and Natasha had used the new position of your body as the perfect moment to bury two fingers knuckles deep in your cunt. You gasped in pleasure at the brief sting that came from her actions, crying out her name in pure bliss as she worked you over the edge so quickly you deserved an award for fastest achieved orgasm. 

She pulled away with dilated pupils, her own lust not forgotten about. You sank to your knees before her, pushing at her shoulders until she complied with your silent request and was laid out on the shower floor. Unlike you, she didn’t attempt to wiggle away from the flush of cold against her back, and unlike her, you didn’t waste time toying with her nipples. You dove straight into her cunt, lifting one of her legs until it was high enough to drop onto your shoulder. She tasted like she always did, but something about this situation made her more addictive. The spray of the water fell onto her belly, harsh droplets of water tinting the skin pink from not only the temperature but the pressure. One of these days, you’re going to get around to finding out the true pleasure of the detachable shower head, but today was not that day. You didn’t tease, much more intent at working her up and pushing her over before Wanda came to interrupt. Her clit throbbed beneath your tongue as you licked at her, and her walls clenched around your fingers as she pleaded for more. 

“Faster.” She moaned, her head thrown back against the white shower floors. The messy sprawl of her red hair was perfectly angelic, but you had no time to dwell on the sight of her as the minutes ticked down to none. Your fingers set into her at a punishing pace, curling into the sweet spot she loved so much until it was just a symphony of your name that rolled off her tongue in breathy whines and moans. You eased her off of the cliff with a practiced ease, giggling softly when she pushed your head away and subsequently caused water to spray in all directions as it bounced off her wrist. “N-Never letting you talk me into a shower quickie again. I think there’s an entire lake in my ears.” She panted, splaying a hand across her belly until she had managed to catch her breath. 

“I mean, technically I didn’t talk you into anything. I mouthed you into this.” You giggled, helping her stand and replacing your rough touch with something tender and sweet. You reached for Wanda’s shampoo, not caring that Natasha had her own right beside it. Wanda’s smelled sweeter, and if you were going to be the one to wash the woman’s hair, it would be you who picked the scene she bore for the rest of the day. 

You rubbed at her scalp, lathered until it bubbled, and eased your fingers through the knotted locks when it was time to wash it out. Wanda’s conditioner sat in her hair when the process was repeated on your head, and you sighed in relief when Natasha scratched her nails against the nape of your neck before trailing her hands down to your shoulders. Her thumbs worked on the soft muscles between your shoulder blades, and you melted into the firm attention. 

“How long can we stay in here before she breaks down the door?” You questioned, your eyes fluttering closed as you let yourself relax completely. Even if you hadn’t said it, you were beyond nervous to be meeting their family and friends. Some of the people attending their barbeque were big names in the security world, namely Kate Bishop, and you intended on making the best first impression if you were to ever have a career in the same field. 

“Three minutes.” Natasha chuckled gently, guiding you under the stream of water so she could rinse the soap from your hair. She conditioned you right after, twisting the strands of your hair between her fingers as she worked out the knots and kinks toward the ends. You rinsed her hair when she was done, dragged a loofa across her skin afterward, and then were rewarded with the same loving treatment. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Everyone coming knows how much you mean to us. They’re all excited to meet you.” Natasha kissed your shoulder before she turned the water off and squeegeed the door clean of droplets and steam, stepping out into the cold first before she offered you a towel. 

“I know.” You sighed, drying your body as you tried to force your feelings into words. “I just want to make a good impression. These are your friends. It’s your sister. They matter to you and Wanda.” 

“And you matter to me and Wanda just as much. If you’re worried about Yelena, there’s no reason to be. She’s going to act like she hates you because she thinks it's her duty as my little sister to vet whoever I choose to spend my time with, but by the end of the night she’s going to have you trapped by the firepit showing you pictures of her dog. When she met Wanda for the first time, she insulted her in Russian because she thought she wouldn’t understand.” Natasha snorted at the memory, and you couldn’t help but grin bashfully at the admission. “You’re going to get along fine, and honestly that worries me. I can barely handle you by yourself.” 

“Hey!” You slapped at her side, but couldn’t help the wide smile that threatened to split your lips in half as you stared up at her. “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.” 

“I don’t doubt that, утенок.” Natasha leaned forward to kiss your lips, and you returned the gesture though a crinkle of confusion settled across your brows. 

You asked once she pulled away, wrapping the towel tightly around your torso so that you could make a break for the guest bedroom where your outfit for the day remained. “What does that one mean?” 

“Duckling.” She laughed, and you groaned knowing that it was going to stick around, at least for a little while. You’d been quite privy to Wanda in recent days, call it making up for lost time if you really had to explain your reasonings, and both the Russian and Sokovian had chalked up your clinginess as acts of a duckling blindly following its mother. If Wanda was anywhere in the house, you were right behind her. Yesterday you had genuinely pouted at the bathroom door when she forbade you from coming in with her when she needed to pee, and unluckily enough for you, Natasha had come into the bedroom at just the right time to watch the scene unfold. “Go get dressed. Yelena said she’s arriving at twelve which really means she’ll be here in twenty minutes.”  

You nodded quickly, bolting out of the master bathroom and into your claimed bedroom without a moment of hesitance, not wanting Yelena to arrive before you were dressed. The door wasn’t even fully closed before you were dropping your towel and scrambling to find your bathing suit bottoms in the pile of messy clothes stacked on the dresser. 

-

Droplets of chlorinated water lingered on touches of skin that had yet to be dried by the slowly slipping Spring sun; still a ripple of motion in the pool that hadn’t yet gone completely still with the fresh absence of bodies in the water. The crack of wood submitting to controlled flames accompanied the music of laughter and conversation that happened around you. The evening was long ahead of you, eternal more hours of company promised, but you didn’t feel any obligation to join in on jokes and memories as you fell into Wanda’s lap and snuggled in close, seeking her warmth and comfort as a chill set overtop of you. You’d been drinking all afternoon, being handed hard seltzers and beers whenever anyone noticed your hands were empty. You’d finished a handful of Wanda and Natasha’s chosen drinks, taking it upon yourself to try at least one of every flavor they had laying around the backyard. The flush on your cheeks was near permanent at this point, and though the heat in your ears would be gone by morning and replaced with a headache only Advil and sleep could soothe, the kiss on your cheeks would last days before it settled into darkened skin. 

As promised, Yelena had kept you pinned to the edge of the pool when the sun was still at its highest peak in the sky, showing you pictures and videos of the two dogs she took great pride in caring for. Kate had watched for a while, draped across her girlfriend's shoulder as the three of you laughed at a particular video of Fanny and Lucky dressed up in bowties zooming around their daylight drenched kitchen, but she had excused herself to the bathroom before the end was in sight. Maria Hill had been your savior, though you were content with Yelena’s easy presence not to mind your trapped position much while it had lasted. The early hours of the afternoon had been filled with conversation and the act of acquainting, but the later hours had told a different story; a wild one. It was the story of how you had come to find this state of mind, far past the point of being tipsy and well on your way to true drunkness. 

You hummed when Wanda laid her palm flat over your belly, keeping you close and safe in her lap. The soft pad of her thumb tickled your belly button as she adjusted slowly, sinking further down into the lounge chair she sprawled across. The sloppy smile on your face was the truest indication of your contentment, and Wanda, though she wondered who had been the one to feed you so much alcohol without her realizing, returned the grin. 

Natasha and Yelena were noticeably missing from the circle, but the silhouettes of their wild hair and toned shoulders were figures or darkness in the kitchen that promised a quick return. Natasha, though only an inch or so taller than her sister, wore her curls in a messy bun that slipped lower and lower down her head as the hours carried on. She was easiest to spot from a distance, the shadow of her presence known perfectly to you. Wanda didn’t pay you much attention other than the firm hand on your belly, but you were content to just be with her as she laughed and caught up with the blonde woman sat beside her; Carol Danvers. 

“They put up a new plaque for Pietro today.” Carol laughed at the inkling of information she had forgotten to share earlier in the afternoon, and Wanda craned her head in hopeful willingness that Carol would share more. “He would’ve loved it. He’s the only bastard on the squad that was dumb enough to have a catch phrase.” 

As if that mentioned catch phrase had been sitting on the lips of every person gathered around the fire, it fell from soft tongues without a moment of hesitation. Messy, not at all in tune, but seemingly perfect to Wanda who smiled when horrible Sokovian accents caught up to her ears and the words her brother had made his slogan lived on when even he didn’t, “You didn’t see that coming.” 

Memorial day has never held much significance to you. It had been just another holiday that sat on the start of summer, sometimes warm enough for gatherings like these, and sometimes not. Until you realized that the American flag folded in militant perfection in the master bedroom was a symbol of remembrance, you hadn’t thought it held much significance to the CEO’s either. Even though you hadn’t known Pietro, his life ending years before your path had crossed with the Maximoff’s, you smiled. His name had lingered in conversations throughout the day, and you didn’t question how loved he still was after years of absence. 

Wanda’s lips were heavy on the crown of your head when she leaned down to kiss you. You leaned into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed for the briefest second before they opened and found Natasha admiring the sight of you. Two beers retrieved from the cooler near the pool sat in her hands, one cracked open and extended in your direction. 

“She doesn’t need anymore.” Wanda rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop you from grabbing the long necked bottle Natasha offered and adjusting yourself in her lap so that you could sip on it easily, having already spilled one drink down the front of you. With your back against her chest, and your legs situated between hers, you had to crane your neck to catch even the slightest glimpse of her face, but her arms around your torso were the physical assurance of her presence. She rubbed at the skin of your belly that had grown pink and warm beneath the sun, not yet tan, but it would come soon. The hickey on your chest had long since been forgotten, though Yelena had posed many questions of its origin before Kate slapped her shoulder and changed the topic. You’d been accepted without question, and you found that while some of their friends were painfully intimidating, Maria and Carol, they were truly sweethearts who had the same tendencies of protection as your dominants. 

When your beer had grown warm, and your cheeks had grown flusher, having been in no hurry to finish it off and replenish it like Yelena was doing, you passed the near empty bottle off to Natasha who had taken it not without an exasperated roll of her eyes and a mumbled sentence along the lines of being nothing but your servant. You had giggled, shrugged your shoulders, and curled further into Wanda who didn’t seem to even flinch at your elbow digging into her ribs. 

Despite your determination to remain awake, sleep won over you just as quickly as drunkenness had. Wanda merely rubbed your back in encouragement, being the single factor that had forced you into soft unconsciousness when conversations still buzzed around you. With your eyes closed and your breathing even, no chance of being woken even by the harshest storm, conversation had naturally flowed away from Pietro and onto you, but both Wanda and Natasha welcomed the new topic if it meant having the welcomed opportunity to boast about just how truly sweet you are. 

“I see you played the long game, Maximoff.” Maria winked at the Sokovian, her icy blue eyes admiring your innocent form as you attempted to wiggle closer to the auburn haired women who held you tightly. If you could find a way to burrow yourself beneath her skin, she knew that you would’ve done so already. 

“Patience rewards those who have it.” Wanda merely smirked in response, running her pruney fingers from hours of holding sweating cans and bottles through your chlorine stiff hair. “She just needed a little encouragement.” 

“She wasn’t the only one.” Natasha rolled her eyes, sipping slowly on her beer that despite the warmth, still brought a piece of home over her longing heart. Russians may drink vodka, but Melina Vostokoff had always preferred a beer. 

Wanda shrugged, knowing that despite her persistently cold demeanor, she had never truly doubted how her heart yearned for you. “It’s not my fault you brought home a brat.” 

“If I remember correctly, you said the same thing when you met Natasha.” Carol smirked over the lip of her can, her eyes burning holes into the side of Natasha’s face, though the Russian pointedly ignored her stare. 

“Watch it, Danvers.” She warned, but surrendered to the teasing she had missed in recent months. Life was busy, but they’d always find a reason to come back together.

[multific]

In the Shelter of Shadows

Isaac x Reader

Summary: With thee, I would forsake all else, for thou art my very heart and the flame that giveth me life. Let us away, where nought may shackle us, and weave a love as untamed and infinite as the heavens above.

Isaac moved silently through the dark forest, his lantern shielded to keep its glow from being noticed.

He had to be careful.

Each step brought him closer to the small jailhouse, where you were held, and accused of witchcraft.

The nonsense of it burned in his chest, he knew you better than anyone, and the accusations were as baseless as they were cruel.

You were no witch.

When he reached the building, he worked quickly, his tools making soft clicks as he picked the lock on the door.

The hinges groaned as it opened, and he froze, holding his breath until he was certain no one had heard.

Inside, the air was thick and cold, the faint sound of rustling urging him to the back of the room.

He was quick to find you. You were held like an animal. He hated that.

“(Y/N),” he whispered, crouching near the bars of your cell.

At the sound of his voice, you lifted your head from your knees.

In the dim light, he could see the lines of tears on your face. Yet, he found kindness in your eyes when you realised that it was him.

“Isaac,” you said, your voice shaky and quiet.

“I had to come,” he said softly. “I couldn’t leave you here alone.”

You crawled closer to the bars, your hands gripping the cold metal.

“I swear, I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not—” You stopped, your voice breaking, it was all too much.

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “I know you’re no witch. You’re kind, selfless, everything they’ve forgotten how to see. This madness has to stop.”

You reached through the bars, and he took your hand in his, his grip firm and warm. It comforted you a little.

Despite all that was going on, Isaac seemed the only one who was able to ground you.

“They say I will hang by morning,” you whispered. “I’m so scared, Isaac.”

“I won’t let that happen,” he said firmly. “I’ll get you out of here before it’s too late. We’ll leave this place and start over somewhere safe.”

You stared at him, hope mixing with doubt.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ll make it happen,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “Trust me. Be ready.”

Before he slipped away, he pressed a kiss to your hand, a quiet vow that he wouldn’t let you down.

All you had to do was trust and wait for him.

The next morning, just before daylight, Isaac waited for the perfect moment.

The people were distracted, their attention drawn by another commotion. He moved swiftly, unlocking your cell with practised ease. When he stepped inside, the sight of you made him stop in his tracks.

Your face was bruised, and your wrists bore the raw marks of ropes. Cuts and bruises lined your arms, the cruel evidence of what you’d endured.

“(Y/N),” he breathed, he had to control himself or else he would murder everyone who dared to touch you. “What have they done to you?”

You tried to stand, wincing as pain shot through your legs.

“It’s nothing,” you said, though the effort to appear strong was not fooling him.

“It’s not nothing,” he said, moving quickly to help you. He needed to take a deep breath to calm himself. “We’re leaving.”

He helped you out of the cell, his arm steady around your waist.

The two of you moved through the forest, the sounds of the town fading behind you.

Isaac had a carriage with a horse prepared. He managed to collect some food and items you will need.

The journey was cruel, but Isaac never stopped.

When you couldn’t walk, he carried you, whispering quiet reassurances to keep you calm.

Days later, you reached a secluded clearing deep in the woods, far from the judgment and cruelty of others.

Far from the false accusations.

Isaac built a small home for the two of you, a safe haven where you could begin to heal and move on.

Slowly, the marks of your imprisonment faded, replaced by the warmth of a new start.

Only the memories stayed.

"Thank you for saving me." you told him one evening while you washed the dishes. You smiled at him and he smiled back at you.

"I would do it all over again."

Months passed, and under the stars, you and Isaac exchanged vows. There were no witnesses but the trees, no altar but the earth beneath your feet and the trees above your heads.

"I promise I will be a good wife. I have been a good friend but I will be an even better partner."

"I promise I will keep you safe, I will continue to build our life together and be a good husband to you."

That night, as you lay in bed together, his arms wrapped protectively around you, you broke the comfortable silence.

“Do you ever think about that night?” you asked softly.

“Every day,” he admitted, his voice low. “It reminds me of what we’ve overcome, and what we’ve built together since. I’ll never stop being grateful that I got you out in time.”

You turned to face him, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

“I don’t regret any of it,” you said. “If it meant ending up here with you, in your arms, I’d survive it all again.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned in to kiss you, a tender, lingering kiss. You thought it would be impossible but he pulled you closer.

“We’ve left the darkness behind, the accusations and the madness,” he whispered, pulling you closer. “And now we have a lifetime together.”

As you drifted into sleep in his arms, it all felt so right.

You have never felt this free, safe, and filled with love.

A/N: The above photo is not mine, it just inspired me to write. I hope you enjoyed it.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @brevlada24

@mel-vaz @akamitrani @ange-olras @nicholaschavezslut69

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[yandereonepieceimagines]

You know you recent shanks ask got me thinking yandere shanks reaction and followed action of reader initially going up to them for help because they were being stalked by a creep and reader pleaded with them to act as their partner to hopefully deter the creep

--------------

I like the idea! I specifically chose to make the reader a civilian here because it fits the situation better. If she were the explorer I originally imagined, she would have just handled the creep herself.

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“Red-Haired” Shanks

As the evening falls, you stand at the edge of a harbor town, where the day’s business gives way to loud laughter and drunken boasts. Lanterns flicker along the docks and their shadows spill over the cobblestones, chasing away the last of the daylight. The air is thick with voices. Sailors swap stories, merchants tally coins and children dart between legs. All of it swirl together like a restless tide. Normally, this place would have its charm. The life, the noise and the heady promise of adventure and everyday life. But tonight, every detail seems sharpened to a painful point, and you’re barely breathing. Each call from the fishmongers, every creak of cart wheels, every sharp tang of salt and food in the air just twists inside you, lost to the cold dread tightening in your gut.

You’re being followed. You’re very, very sure of it. He’s been dogging your steps since you have left the market, keeping himself just far enough away to avoid suspicion, but always hovering near you to not lose sight of you. And it works. His hungry, cold eyes never leave you. His mouth is stretched thin, too wide, as if he’s savoring some private joke, edged by calculation. Every time you glance back, he’s there, shadowing your movements. When you quicken your pace, you hear the echo of his boots speeding up too. It’s like some grim dance that only the two of you can hear, and nobody else in the crowd seems to notice. Or if they do, they simply look away. That’s the thing about crowds. You can feel more alone among a hundred people than you ever would in an empty street.

You keep scanning for a way out, a crack in the wall of bodies, a moment to slip away unseen. But the crowd presses tighter, pushing you forward and hem you in. There’s no clear escape and no friendly face. You hope, desperately, that someone- anyone, might see your distress. Might care enough to intervene. But the faces around you are strangers, their eyes sliding past as if you’re completely invisible.

And that is the moment you see him.

He’s there, present at the far edge of the square, leaning against an old wooden railing, a figure apart from the noise and chaos. The setting sun catches on his hair. A shock of red, brighter than fresh blood, vivid even as the light fades. It draws your gaze, almost against your will. He’s at ease.  Almost even bored, like the square is his living room and the crowd is just a passing storm. Something about him stands out. Not just the color of his hair is setting him apart from the rest, but also the air of quiet control. He seems completely untouched by the bustle around him. People curve around him without thinking. Moving aside as if guided by some unspoken rule. No one crosses his shadow, and nobody meets his eye. At the same time, he belongs but he also doesn’t.

You cannot explain it, but your feet carry you toward him, hope mingling with fear and with nerves buzzing like an angry hive trapped in your chest. You stumble to a halt, breathless and unsure. “Excuse me,” you manage, your voice a shaky hum nearly lost in the din. “Please… Can you help me?”

He straightens, all lazy confidence gone in a blink. His eyes are as sharp as broken glass. But the moment he really looks at you, he senses something is clearly wrong. Like the fear is written plainly across your face. He takes it in instantly, missing nothing, and you see the set of his shoulders shift as understanding flickers in his eyes. Something in them softens. “Trouble?” he asks quietly, as if the two of you are already conspirators who are already sharing a secret.

You nod and swallow panic, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “There’s a man following me. Ever since the market. I… Look, could you pretend to be my partner? Just for this moment? Just until he leaves?”

He doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, he just studies you, the weight of his gaze as heavy as a stone. He’s not looking at your clothes or your stance. He’s searching your eyes, reading the fear there, the desperation. Then, finally, he gives a crooked, almost playful smile. “Of course,” he finally says. “Let’s make it look good then, shall we?”

Before you can think twice, his sole arm lifts and settles easily across your shoulders. It’s a gesture that feels both startling and comforting. A shield against the noise and the crowd, warm and steady, as if you’ve always fit there beneath his casual hold. He doesn’t draw attention or make it obvious. He just leans in, relaxed, and you find yourself tucked close to his side, the two of you quietly at ease amid a sea of strangers. The weight of his arm is grounding you. You catch his scent too; salt, musk, a hint of alcohol and the faintest trace of smoke, similar to bonfires left smoldering on a distant beach. You somehow feel safe in that moment.

You dare a glance over your shoulder. The stalker’s face changes in a heartbeat. He stops dead in his tracks, every ounce of confidence and bluster draining away as recognition crashes over him. The man’s glare falters and soon replaced by something hollow and frightened. And then, without another word, he turns and slips back into the crowd, vanishing like bad weather chased off by a stronger wind.

Relief comes in a dizzying rush, so sharp your knees threaten to buckle. You hold onto Shanks’s arm, keeping yourself upright as your breath comes back to you in fits and starts. “Thank you,” you manage, voice shaky and raw.

He doesn’t let go right away. His arm remains draped around your shoulders, a gentle weight. As he looks at you; thoughtful and quiet, a hint of a warm smile pulls at his mouth. There’s a strength in the lines of his face, but also a rare kind of softness. Maybe even a loneliness, tucked into the corners of his eyes. You cannot know this, but for Shanks, this is the first time in years where he’s felt something old and human stirring inside of his chest. A reminder that he’s more than just a legend. An Emperor. He was supposed to be passing through tonight, untouchable, just a shadow in the crowd. A rare moment of stolen quiet. But now, with you leaning into his side, he finds himself wanting to hear your laughter. To see you smile. To keep you close, if only for a little while longer.

At last, he lets his arm slip from your shoulders, almost reluctantly, his hand brushing your sleeve as he pulls away. He glances at you, lowering his voice so that only you can hear it from above the steady noise. “You know,” he says, his tone easy, almost teasing, “this little act might not be over yet. If he’s still watching, then we should probably keep playing along. So what do you say? Grab a drink with me? Nearest bar’s just around the corner. For appearances’ sake, of course.”

His offer hangs between you, light and gentle, but somehow more than a joke. You hesitate. This isn’t your world, either. You’re not a fighter, not a hero, just someone passing through with a knack for landing in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re used to quieter places, smaller dangers, different kinds of comfort. But his words make sense. Better safe than sorry. You nod, giving him a nervous smile at which you hope it doesn’t look as shaky as you feel.

“All right,” you say, your voice softer now, almost lost to the hum of the town. “Just until it’s safe.”

You still have no idea who you’ve just agreed to walk beside. You’re from some nameless island in the New World. A place the entire world never thinks about and located far away from Emperors and legends alike. To you, he’s just a stranger with a kind smile and a steady hand. A sudden, unintended miracle in an ordinary night.

But as Shanks turns and leads you away, his fingers find yours, threading gently through them with a quiet surety. It’s enough to keep up the illusion. Enough to make you feel the truth of it. For him, something rare and dangerous sparks up further to life. A flicker of hope, a promise of trouble, both of you swept up in the atmosphere of a harbor town at dusk, the sound of the sea never far away.

[dietpitt]

💚🎃Green Is Definitely Your Color🎃💚

Stan Pines x AFAB!Reader Explicit | 2.8k words Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader, Reader wears a dress, Halloween Costumes, Trick-or-Treating, Sexual Roleplay, Cunnilingus, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, Stan is a Leg Man, Body Worship, Marking Kink, Reader Plays Bride of Frankenstein

In which body paint and Stan's mouth save the day (but ruin a perfectly good costume).

{Read on AO3}

Author's Note: Originally posted 2020 on AO3, but I wanted to give it a proper tumblr post. I'm very proud of this one except I didn't know how to end it and it shows lol

Thankfully, there are only a few things you and your boyfriend don’t see eye-to-eye on. Stan takes his coffee black (old habit from the days of shoddy motels and a life on the run), while your own brew of choice is iced (lasts longer and doesn’t get cold since it already is). He thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to scare a baby every now and then, and proceed to laugh in their pudgy little tear-streaked face. You? You told him he’d be the one bawling if you ever caught him pulling that in your periphery again.

Tonight, though? Tonight is the perfect example of just how good you two are together. Because tonight, you weren’t scaring babies. Tonight, on Halloween, you were scaring kids. And that was worlds apart from wreaking havoc in the grocery store, which happened the majority of the remaining 363 days of the year.

Sure, Stan always goes all-out for his beloved Summerween, but October 31st is when his freak flag really flies. It makes sense--  Fall brings less tourists than usual, and shorter daylight hours means fewer parents letting their kids come out to the woods to trick or treat, making every opportunity for a scare count.

With the Mystery Shack trading its typical kitsch for spooky ephemera-- fully decked out in giant spiderwebs, ghoulish figures, and angry jack-o-lanterns-- it’ll truly be a dramatic sight to behold.

But, for all the elaborate planning, special effects to make the eyes pop out of his skull and the bolts on his neck to spark and smoke, Stan still manages to miss a few spots needing body paint. 

“Alright, alright, I think y’got it,” Franken-Stan fake-grumbles up at you from his seat in front of the full-length mirror.

“Will you relax? You’re gonna sweat, and I’ll have to do your makeup all over again,” you scold, though your painted lips curl into a fond grin despite yourself.

Though the kids will start coming any minute, you’re set on completing the finishing touches, if for no other reason than to keep Stan from further grumbling later.

… And most certainly not because you also love the opportunity to dote, holding him close in ways he’d otherwise be too shy about. Not at all.

“Are you going to wear your glasses?” You ask, getting his ears nice and green with the sponge brush.

He gives it some thought. “As much as it hurts the spook factor, I can’t really scare anybody if I fall on my face.”

Another, final once-over at your work and you’re satisfied, stepping back and raising your arms in the air triumphantly to steal yourself for your best mad-scientist cackle. “My creation! It’s aliiiive!” 

Stan laughs, quickly standing and caging you with his arms against the wall. “Damn right. Alive as ever.”

You shoo both him and the remark away, looking over your white “dress” (old sheet) to check for any green that may have made its way onto your costume. “I thought you were in a hurry, hmm? There’s no time for a touch-up. Now, be a good ‘husband’ and carry the train.”

Stan’s eyes roll as he lifts the gown, following your lead downstairs. “Yes, honey.”

Trying very carefully not to trip, Stan helps you down the stairs. “I still think it’s dumb that The Bride of Frankenstein doesn’t get a name, though. Sure, she’s in it for all of three minutes, but she gets the movie named after her and doesn’t even get a line?”

“Nah, she just screams,” Stan laughs, dropping your dress as you meet the front door. “Like it hurts to exist.” He swings the door open and the both of you speak in unison.

“She gets it.”

You share a small laughing fit at that, making your way outside into the crisp autumn air, giddy to begin the festivities. A few to last-minute adjustments and tech checks, and The Shack will be ready.

“Seriously though-- why can’t she be, like, Victoria or something?”

Over by the skeleton crawling out from under the porch, Stan snorts. “Victoria? Why?”

You shrug. “Why not?”

“Touche.”

It’s finally the tail-end of the second hour, and you’re in position behind the semi-trapdoor mechanism on the porch, hidden behind a dark and stormy castle standee. You’re high on the energy so far, after making some kids scream-squeal in delight. Although, you did manage to terrify a toddler on accident without even trying-- the poor thing burst into tears at the mere sight of you walking out normally from the porch.

Maybe it was the semi-realistic stitches on your flesh? Who knows. All that’s clear is you felt awful, but Stan was very clearly amused-- and jealous, you’d wager.

But now that it’s past bedtime for most little ones, it’s time to up the ante with some added special effects-- and the fast-approaching gaggle of baby teens seem to be the first that’ll enjoy them.

Always on top of it, Stan lets out a Frankenstein-like groan, marching further from the end of the porch, arms raised in cheesy classic style. The kids stop in their tracks as he clears his throat roughly to give the spiel he’s practiced all night, an extra ~spooky~ lilt to his otherwise mostly-normal voice:

“Foolish humans! You daaaare demand gifts, when your hubris created me from cursed flesh, and your hatred ensured my demise?!” He’s truly in his element as his neck bolts flicker for emphasis, making most of the middle schoolers jump and gasp.

The one at the front of the pack though, doesn’t budge, instead holding their pumpkin bucket out with an overall look of disinterest. “Yeah, duh. Trick-or-treat, old man. Hand over the candy.”

“Rude little shit,” you frown, not even needing to see Stan’s face to know he’s going to enjoy this particular scare very much.

“Hold it, kid, ” Stan sneers, continuing his introduction, “if you want anything good to eat, you’ll need to ask the most blood-curdling-- ”

You flip the switch for the fog machine, and bellows of grey creep in around the Shack--

“--The most SPINE-TINGLING, repulsive monster of us all--!”

You quickly step on the nearby button, and lightning flashes across the house as thunder sounds--

“ --MY WIFE! ”

At his signal, your spring forward, eyes crazed as a horrendous banshee screech leaves your throat and white tendrils wave in the wind.

The rude kid screams-- and while Stan bursts out laughing and you smile evilly, you miss them reflexively reach into their bucket, pull something out, and chuck it right at you before scampering away.

With a dull thud, the projectile lands on your head with a muffled thud, sending you off balance and toppling off the platform in a second. You hear Stan’s barks at the hoodlum, but soon he’s up the porch at your side, just as surprised as you are.

“The hell-- you alright, babe?”

Stan helps you up as you glance around for the offending object that’s left your head and the arm that broke your fall aching. “I-- what the fuck was that?!”

A large, off-white sphere rolls along a groove in the deck, moved by your shifted weight. It hits the edge of your shoe, and you pick it up to find it’s…

A popcorn ball.

A really fucking heavy, rock-hard popcorn ball.

With a splotch of white from your forehead smeared across it.

Stan’s bursts out laughing, though he doesn’t let his supposedly helpful grip on your waist go. “Who the hell gave that thing out?? They must’ve been saving it for last century-- ”

It’s funny. Like, really funny. Comedy freaking gold.

But your head hurts and you fell, and shit, your wig’s messed up…

Your own laughter breaks suddenly, and before you even know it you’re tearing up.

Franken-Stan blanches the soon as it hits him. “H-hey, sweetheart, I’m sorry-- are you alright?”

The comforting hands on your shoulder, the concern in his voice breaks the dam, tears spilling out despite your mind knowing better, and wanting to continue laughing it off like you should-- like you want to.

“I’m fine Stan, I’m fine, I-- I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying, I really don’t,” you laugh, dabbing at your eyes with a bandage-covered hand. “That was too perfect.”

“Don’t apologize, that kid’s an asshole.”

“An asshole with a hell of a pitch,” You laugh, finally meeting Stan’s eye. 

“Wanna go inside? It’s gettin’ late anyway,”

“No! No, are you kidding? We just got started with the lightning! I’m fine, I promise--”

He raise an eyebrow skeptically.

“Really, I am. I’m the most horrifying creature of them all, right?”

“Hah! Sure are, sweet thing, sure are.”

“Then let’s get back to scaring. I’ll be ready to duck this time.” You laugh, elbowing Stan before getting back into place, and Stan follows.

11:27pm

There hasn’t been a kid in nearly 30 minutes, and with another hour under your belt, the pair of you are content to turn in for the night for some movies and the Halloween goodie bags left behind by scared trick-or-treaters.

Flopping down on the bed, your tired body practically sings. “Goddd, that kid really got me good.” The hands on your face muffle your words, but Stan gets the idea.

Taking pity on you, he pulls up the nearby chair and starts unlacing one of your boots for you. “Happens in the line of duty sometimes. Shoulda seen what one fairy princess threw at me one year-- actually, I don’t even wanna know what it was.” He jokes(?), tossing the shoe aside and beginning on the other.

“Knocked me down at the top of my game…” you mutter, twiddling with the end of a splayed-out strip of your garment.

“Hey,” Stan drops the other boot to the floor with a thud, quickly peeling off the striped sock that lay underneath. “Don’t forget, you scared the absolute shit out of that brat.”

You let out a hum, then chuckle. “Triggered his fight and flight.”

"Exactly,” he replies definitely, sling-shotting the second sock in the air. It lands on your chest, but you quickly toss it over to nowhere in particular.

“I don’t know if I can even get back up. Just let me die here,” you groan, only half-joking as the strenuous activities of the day catch up to you. “I’ll be a corpse for next Halloween.”

“Well, yer already halfway there in that getup,” Stan shrugs off the jacket of his costume and lets it fall on the chair. A glance across your form reminds him of the “bolts” attached to his neck, which he peels off with a wince. “And I’m not far behind ya.”

“I’ll be lucky if I look this good when I’m dead,” you laugh, adjusting to get more comfortable and fully prepared to just pass out, wig and all.

Stan’s eye catches on the bare skin of your leg that’s revealed when you shift, the stark white of your gown falling to the side as it bends at the knee and the other still hangs off the bed uselessly. He hums, appreciative of the sensual view of you before him: limbs draped out, black eye makeup smudged...

Your eyes fly open at the feeling of Stan’s large hand on your knee, and you’re met with a familiar mischievous grin on Stan’s still-green face. “Mmm, you’re already bewitching, babe.” 

That look always manages to send a pang through your gut. “Oh, stop it…”

This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined the night ending, but don’t mind all that much if it’s headed where you think it’s headed.

“‘M serious,” Stan chuckles. “Yer right about The Bride too… never appreciated enough,” His thumb rubs a circle on the soft flesh on the inside of your knee, and you can’t help but sigh at the nice pressure. 

Your stomach nearly flips when he slides to his own knees, grip moving down your calf and lifting your leg to place a playful kiss to your ankle. His name falls from your lips in a whine, equal parts warning and pleading, for exactly what you can’t decide. You’re answered nonetheless by another peck just above the previous, then another with the slightest bit of teeth that makes you gasp and prop up onto your elbows.

The sight is absolutely ridiculous -- Frankenstein’s monster himself between your legs, smiling dumbly as he nips at the neglected one before he pushes excessive fabric up and off to reveal more of your form. “Stan, we-- oh my god--”

It’s when he pulls you forward on the bed that you see it: the splotches of deep green coloring the trail Stan is continuing up your thigh with a knowing look.

You laugh at first, starting to push him away so you can properly remove your dress, but he tuts, gripping your hips instead and curling an arm around your thigh, slinging it over his shoulder with an in-character groan: "You go nowhere.

You’re torn between teasing him about the fact that he’s really roleplaying as fucking Frankenstein right now, and the shudder that rolls through you as Stan noses your center through the cotton, saying: “Mine .”

“Oh,” is all you manage to say when his mouth meets between your thighs, teasing your folds through the fabric with a brazen tongue. You let yourself go then, leaning into the anticipation as after a moment Stan tugs the garment down and off, though it catches on your foot and is left dangling there uselessly.

“You’ll be screamin’ for me, don’t you worry,” he says, breath ghosting over your core before fully tucking in.

There’s no energy left in you to scream, but the needy whimpers and moans that escape as he ushers you up towards pleasure are melodic, a siren song that urges Stan to keep delving into your cunt, to hold your thighs open with a possessive grip.

“F-fuck,” you cry, reaching down and threading your fingers through his mop of black-sprayed hair between your legs. He groans mid-lap at your clit, and you gasp as his hands join in on the ministrations, caressing and petting from your hips to your stomach.

It’s when he starts sucking that you start to really writhe, tugging roughly at his locks to push him deeper. He slurps your arousal right up, the sound mortifying yet helping thrust you closer to the fast-approaching peak.

“C’mon, honey,” Stan says, thumb maintaining a rhythm on your clit. “Come for me, darling.”

The foreign pet name does it, sending a rolling orgasm that hits you in waves, crying out Stan’s name and other sweet nothings before going limp.

After a moment he sits back, more than proud as he wipes his mouth and watches you twitch and moan through the lingering pulses.

“Wow-- what was that all about?” You manage to pant out, made curious again as Stan stands suddenly, walking over to the mirror on the far-side of the room.

“Check it out,” he says, bringing the mirror to the edge of the bed and leaning against it with a self-satisfied grin.

Sitting up, your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and glowing-- with a prominent mess of green smeared along your skin, practically outlining each and every touch that made you come undone. A few complete hand prints are even visible, on the backs of your knees, on your hip-- even a comically clear outline against the stark white of your covered chest.

Your face burns hot as you can’t help but laugh in disbelief, both at what you see and the unexpected thrill of it; it’s delightful, and silly, and sexy, and overall just an image you think won’t leave your head for a while.

Stan chuckles at your reaction, pleased. “S’a good look on ya-- damn near electrifyin’ , some might say.”

“Come here,” you ask, arms out to beckon him forward. He does, and you don’t miss the prominent bulge in his trousers as he walks over.

Pulling him down by his shirt, you lock him into an appreciative kiss, raking your nails across his scalp and practically pulling him on top of you to continue the makeout, bed size be damned.

Needing air, you finally break away, glancing back at the mirror to see green now decorating your mouth and cheeks. “You’d missed a spot,” you inform Stan, pointing to the new addition to your face.

He hums, ducking down to nip at your neck and clavicle, painting them just the same. “Could think of a few more spots needin’ a touch-up,” he growls, rolling his hips.

Snaking your hand into the band of his pants, Stan lets out another groan at your touch and when you say lightly into his ear:

“Looks like you could use some white with that green, hmm?”

Happy Spooky Season!! 🎃💚🎃

[Masterlist]

dividers by @strangergraphics and @firefly-graphics

[aceinthetrap]

LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE 《慕胥辞》 bts photos

[fourth-wing-stories]

Drawn to You

ship request rules || Masterlist

@baekbyun I ship you with Bodhi!

It's late evening, and you’re sitting by the parapet of the Riders Quadrant, the vast sky overhead fading from a soft purple to deep blue as the last hints of daylight slip away. You’ve brought your sketchbook with you, taking advantage of the peaceful view to capture the mountains and the stretch of the parapet in the fading light. A lantern beside you casts a warm glow over your hands as you carefully sketch the landscape.

You hear the soft sound of footsteps behind you, and without looking up, you know who it is. Bodhi has a way of finding you when you least expect it, and tonight is no different. He walks over quietly, settling down beside you with that familiar air of curiosity.

“You always manage to find the best spots,” he says, his voice quiet and relaxed as he watches you sketch. “What are you working on this time?”

You glance at him briefly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Just the view,” you reply, lifting the edge of your sketchbook so he can see the delicate lines of mountains, parapets, and sky coming to life on the page.

Bodhi raises an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. “You’re seriously talented. I didn’t know you were such an artist.”

You shrug, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. “It’s just something to do when I need to clear my head.”

He tilts his head, studying you more than the drawing now. “It suits you,” he says, his voice softer. “You’ve always got this calm about you, like you’re thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

His words make you chuckle, though there’s a blush creeping up your neck. “I just like having something to focus on, I guess.”

There’s a comfortable silence as the two of you sit side by side, the night growing darker around you, and the stars slowly starting to appear overhead. Bodhi’s eyes drift back to the view, then to you again.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he says, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. “You know, with everything going on. But being here with you... it makes it easier to forget all that, just for a while.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words, and something shifts in the air between you. The closeness, the stillness of the moment—it’s peaceful, yet charged with something deeper.

“Maybe that’s why I come out here too,” you admit, feeling the connection between you two grow. “Just to forget, even if it’s just for a little while.”

He smiles softly, his expression more serious now. “I get it. But you—you’re different. You make it easy to be around you.”

You blush again, and this time, you don’t bother trying to hide it. There’s something comforting in his presence, and you feel a warmth spread through your chest as he reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I like this,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of what he doesn’t say. “Being with you like this.”

You look up at him, your heart racing a little faster as his eyes search yours. The world seems to slow, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, sitting together on the parapet under the starry sky.

“I like it too,” you whisper, feeling the truth of your words settle between you.

And in that quiet, beneath the stars and the vast night sky, you realize just how much this moment with him means.

[secretwhumplair]

Beneath the temple

909 words | Under the eyes of the sun (start!)

Content | Captivity, stress position (kind of), sensory deprivation, religious themes, implied beating & non-con

Notes | My hand slipped. Meet an unfortunate little nobleman and his new divine, uh. Caretaker?!

I nicked the word "Ledan" from this excellent linguistics post bread clip Vetinari lives in my heart

At first, Tileno had cursed and screamed for help. Then, when he had realized it was true no one could hear him down here, he had started crying and begging the priest for mercy.

By now, if he managed anything, he was praying.

He was praying to Zaava, uncertain if any other gods could even hear him, here in the sacred ground of the sun temple — except of course the gods below, this being a crypt, and he wanted no dealings with them.

Maybe he would, eventually, pray to them to take him.

Sometimes, he felt like he couldn’t breathe, wrapped in the pitch-darkness of the crypt. With nothing else to focus on, the aches of his body became all-encompassing, accompanied only by his ragged breath and yet-flowing blood in his ears.

The cold on his naked body eased the burn of the ties around his wrists and ankles, the weight of his own body over the unforgiving stone coffin that had long since become painful, the bruises that bloomed all over his back and legs where the priest had struck him, over and over — or worse, when Tileno’s form so sinfully tempted him. Sometimes, he could imagine being wholly numb.

Time had become an incomprehsible thing. The priest arrived or didn’t arrive like a creature from another world, one Tileno was now banished from, the world of the living and virtuous.

He knew his eyes were losing their purpose when he saw a flicker of light in the darkness that simply couldn’t have been there, like daylight breaking through the solid earthen walls, cutting sharply into his eyes after so long in the dark before it disappeared.

He heard the familiar sound of the door above being unlocked, and the more plausible light of the little lantern the priest would carry with him on his visits licked the edges of his vision. The steps were only too familiar. Tileno had once regretted counting them, but now he knew them so well he could tell how close the priest was without a single coherent thought.

It was almost better than the nothingness that enveloped him when he was alone.

»I hope you accept justice today, child,« the priest’s cold voice said.

And that was when the light flooded the crypt.

Tileno couldn’t really know, after the dark. But his whole aching body, the warmth on his skin, told him this was daylight; the light of the sun.

He yelped with the pain of it, pressing his eyes closed as hard as he could.

Only belatedly did he register the scream of terror that had emanated from where the priest must stand; a soft thump followed, as if a pair of knees dressed in thick robes had hit the ground.

»My Ledan,« the priest whimpered. »My-«

»Silence.«

The voice echoed through the crypt with the same force as the light.

»Is this just? Answer me.«

»It — I-«

A sharp hiss, as if from a wild animal, and the priest screamed again.

»No, no,« the priest sobbed.

»You vowed to me service in furthering justice in the world.«

To me? Tileno’s breath caught. It made sense. It all made perfect sense, and he felt a terror grip him like nothing before. He had prayed to Them for help, for forgiveness, but would They-?

»You vowed to me as a sacrifice your celibacy, as well.«

Tileno’s heart stuttered. Zaava was still not talking to him — he knew now he would recognize with certainty if They were — but it was his fault, as well. He had seduced the priest.

»And you lied.«

»Mercy, my Ledan,« the priest whispered.

»Mercy is not justice.« The deity’s voice was a growl that drew goosebumps all over Tileno’s skin, even in Their warm light.

The priest made a strangled noise before he fell silent again, and Tileno only heard a whisper hissing in his direction, interrupted by occasional sobs. Then, »Leave.«

Hasty steps retreated up the stairs, and now it was Tileno who sobbed with fear. The light was still here; he was alone with the deity, and he didn’t know what They would do to him.

He blinked his eyes open, desperate for at least a hint. He had grown a little better accustomed to the light over the minutes that had passed, but it was still too bright, and the fact that he could see their soft-pawed feet on the ground before him with such clarity only underlined the sense that what he was really looking at was merely a mask, a trick of the mind, wrapping something far more incomprehensible.

A warm hand grabbed him by the chin and raised him. His restraints were gone, but his body still ached with the movement, joints breaking free from the positions they had been locked in, damaged skin stretching and shifting.

He found no words when he finally looked into Their golden eyes. They looked like the images found in their temples: the lioness’ face, the twelve-pronged antlers, the sun — the very sun — between them.

Zaava’s eyes seemed to look into his very soul.

»A great injustice has happened to you at the hands of one sworn to me. I will take care of you. Sleep now.«

And before Tileno could even process Their words, before he could feel more than a tentative sting of relief, before he could think and wonder and fear at what they meant, his soul had already obeyed the divine command.

[r-memberme]

masquerade | k.m

⎯⎯“In a world built on secrets and shadows, we find ourselves dancing in the light of our hidden truths.”

warnings: flufff

The night was a tapestry of dark velvet and scattered starlight, woven with threads of mystery and whispered promises. It was the kind of night when even the most guarded souls feel a pull toward the unknown—a pull that Klaus Mikaelson felt with every beat of his ancient heart. That night, an invitation arrived, sealed with wax and bearing a single, ornate mask. It promised entry to a masquerade held deep within the crumbling walls of an abandoned castle, hidden in the wild hills of an old European countryside.

You and Klaus found yourselves drawn together by fate’s playful hand. You had both long harbored secrets and desires too fragile to confess in the daylight; tonight, under the cloak of anonymity and enchantment, you were free to be as whimsical and raw as your hearts allowed.

The carriage ride was a surreal prelude to the night’s unfolding. The countryside blurred past in a riot of inky black fields and silvered tree lines, while the carriage’s wheels sang a slow, rhythmic lullaby. Klaus sat beside you, his presence both comforting and dangerous, his eyes glinting with mischief as he murmured, “It seems the night itself has conspired to steal us away, my dear.” You only smiled, feeling your heart swell at his familiar cadence—a voice that, even after centuries of solitude, still resonated with both menace and tenderness.

When you arrived at the castle, its silhouette loomed against the moonlit sky like a forgotten dream. Ivy crept along its crumbling walls, and stained glass windows—long shattered—hinted at the grandeur that had once filled its halls. Lanterns swung from iron hooks, casting dancing shadows upon the cobblestones. The sound of distant laughter and the faint strains of a melancholic waltz beckoned you inside, and the heavy door creaked open as if welcoming you to a realm where time and memory merged.

Inside, the atmosphere was both eerie and intoxicating. Guests, their faces hidden behind intricately designed masks, floated through the grand hall like ghosts at a ball, their movements languid and otherworldly. The air was perfumed with a blend of ancient incense and something sweet and familiar—perhaps the trace of old memories or the promise of undiscovered passions.

Klaus, ever the master of his own fate, led you through the crowd with a quiet confidence that belied the tumult of emotions beneath. “I trust you can see the irony,” he said, his voice low as he guided you into the center of the ballroom. “In a world built on secrets and shadows, we find ourselves dancing in the light of our hidden truths.” His eyes, usually so guarded, shone with a mixture of defiance and longing as he caught your gaze.

You laughed softly, a sound that mingled with the haunting melody of the waltz. “You always have a way with words, Klaus. It’s as if you’ve penned sonnets in your head for every moment.”

He smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Perhaps I have, though I’d wager they pale in comparison to the verses I imagine when I see you.”

In that moment, as you moved together on the marble floor, the world around you melted into a blur of swirling gowns, whispered promises, and the soft glow of candlelight. The waltz carried you both away, a hypnotic rhythm that transcended the present, echoing with the memories of what once was and the hopes for what might be. Every step you took was a conversation—silent yet profound—with every glance and every touch laden with unspoken meaning.

At one point, while the waltz carried you in a gentle spiral, Klaus leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me,” he murmured, “do you ever wonder if these masks we wear are more than mere disguises? That they’re the very trappings of the souls we hide from the world?”

You smiled, eyes twinkling beneath your mask. “I think they’re the windows we use to share a glimpse of who we truly are, even when we’d rather remain hidden.”

He chuckled softly. “Then tonight, let us cast aside our pretenses and be as we are—raw, unfiltered, and perhaps a bit reckless.”

You squeezed his hand, the contact igniting a warmth that defied the chill of the ancient stone around you. “Let’s be reckless then,” you whispered. “Let’s be daring enough to believe that even in the dark, we can find a light that guides us home.”

For hours, the masquerade unfolded in a swirl of poetry and mischief. Klaus and you wandered from one forgotten corridor to another, sharing quiet conversations in hidden alcoves and laughter that echoed off the crumbling walls. At one point, you found yourselves alone in a small chamber where the only light came from a solitary, flickering candle. The room was filled with the scent of old parchment and a hint of lavender, and in that secluded space, Klaus turned to you with a rare seriousness.

“I have lived a thousand lifetimes in solitude,” he began, his voice a low murmur that seemed to reverberate with centuries of longing and regret. “But tonight, for a fleeting moment, I can feel that perhaps my heart has not been entirely forsaken. You have stirred something in me that I thought was lost forever—a fire that burns in the silence between us.”

You listened, eyes shining with unshed tears and defiant hope. “And what if that fire consumes you?” you asked softly. “What if it leaves nothing but ashes in its wake?”

Klaus reached out, brushing a fingertip against your cheek, his touch tender and sure. “Then I would gladly walk through that inferno, for even the flames would pale in comparison to the thought of living without you.”

His words hung between you, heavy and potent—a vow made not in words alone but in every shared glance, every unspoken promise. In that moment, as the candle sputtered and cast dancing shadows upon the stone, you both understood that your souls were entwined in ways that transcended the fleeting hours of mortal joy.

And then, as the first light of dawn began to chase away the remnants of night, the masquerade faded into memory. The masks were removed, the laughter dissolved into silence, but the bond forged in that enchanted evening remained, a testament to a love that was as wild and boundless as the stars above.

In that ancient castle, amidst ruins and dreams, you and Klaus stepped forward into the uncertain light of a new day, carrying the echo of that night within you—a promise that even in darkness, love would guide you home.

Taglist: @heretic-gf @myworldrightnow @deactiveblogx @witch-of-letters

[heaven-s-black-box]

Four Acts of Love- Xiao x fem!Reader

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Recovery date: February 18th, 2025

Description: Hello could I request a tsundere Xiao with a sweet and innocent female reader who has insomnia

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. I tried to write a poem using Chueh-chu form (aaba/cada), it kind of sucks but hey.

Word count: 746

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The sound is faint. It’s carried by the wind and melded with rustling flora, the trees outside her window and the grass and brush scattered around the area. Walls of stone trap it, adding a slight echo and directing it into their open window. A window framed by billowing curtains, they’re a bit thicker than Y/n’s old ones. A bit better at insulating during the cold months, but still thin enough to let in daylight even when drawn.

The curtains are a pale teal with golden embroidery about a foot above the bottom. A golden wing great peng leads golden swirls patterned with qingxin flowers. They were a gift when her old ones became worn with holes, something she had lamented once while picking the depicted flowers.

They grow in her garden, but she never has enough.

“Plant more, it’s dangerous for you to come out here alone.”

“But I’m not alone.”

A glaze lily sits in a thin vase on her window sill. It stood out among the white of the qingxin, a blue bulb among the sea of white petals. They only bloom at night. She’d crouched down, careful not to trample the surrounding flowers, and gently caressed the closed petals.

“I should come back tonight.”

“Don’t, it’s going to rain.”

The melody from outside is only enhanced by the breeze and the brush. The soft whistle of a flute carries in from the cliffs nearby. Y/n leans back in her chair.

The gifted curtains brush her shoulder, the flower seems to glow in the moonlight, and through the translucent fabric that shields her from the outside world she can see a blurry silhouette.

She stares at the silhouette, picturing the serene look on his face as he plays. Does he find it calming? Is that why he plays? She’d never asked, maybe because she was so sure he’d never answer.

Xiao was a man of few words, and yet…

The curtains part and the silhouette is replaced by a distant figure, one leg pulled to his chest and the other dangling off the cliff. His flute held to his lips as he played, Y/n couldn’t make out his face from this distance.

The glaze lily swayed in the breeze, its blue and white petals reflecting the moonlight. It had yet to die, a grand feat in her opinion, it hadn’t even begun to wilt.

The music keeps her company. Xiao, keeps her company.

In the dim lantern light she scratches away at paper, penning a poem. It keeps her busy, lulls her to sleep with the music, keeps her mind from the annoyances of tomorrow.

Tomorrow her head would hurt. Tomorrow she would struggle to get up, to pull herself from her bed on what little slip she found. Tomorrow…

“Why are you still awake?”

Y/n looked back to the window sill, the moonlight blocked by a crouched figure. The curtains flutter did not reach as far. She smiled, tired.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Lay down.”

Without contest, she made her way to her bed. She lay on her side, watching the shadow on her window. His legs entered her room, his foot barely brushing the ground, the other braced on the wall beside it as he raised the flute to his lips again. The window pulled the curtain against him, Y/n laughed.

She slipped from the bed, stopping in front of him.

Slowly, as if asking for permission, she pulled the curtain back and tied it against an anchor in the wall. Xiao stared at her, their eyes met as her hands slid from the soft fabric. A white ribbon held the curtain out of his face as Y/n made her way back to bed.

She pulled her pillow into her chest, resting her head on the edge to watch him. He raised the flute back up, and a peaceful look fell across his face.

The sound was no longer faint. It was no longer carried by the wind, it overpowered the rustling leaves by her window and drowned out the grass and brush. Walls of wood trapped it, and it funneled out of her open window into the night.

Moonlit night– a song of old Curtains blue– patterned in gold Heavy head– I cannot sleep Flower bloom– in stone cold It does not die under your eye And so I ask you to be bold Meet my eyes the next time Do not leave things untold

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

I am vv interested in ur Uncle Hal wip 👀

ough this is one I've been working on in bits and pieces for probably over a year now, as a prequel to a much larger project involving Kyle as part of Young Justice (the animated show). not gonna get into it now otherwise we'll be here forever lol

But as for Uncle Hal, the premise is simple: It's a 5+1 fic of Green Lantern being the cool uncle of the Justice League. More specifically, to their sidekicks (just don't let them hear you say that) Robin, Kid Flash, Wonder Girl, Speedy, and Aqualad. Basically taking his comic book relationships with Wally and Roy and extrapolating it to Dick, Donna, and Kaldur (sorry Garth fans) as well

tbh I keep getting stuck on the Donna chapter bc she wasn't a part of the team in the show and I don't really know what she was like as Wonder Girl. At this point maybe I should just replace her with M'gann... Oh well, here's an excerpt from the Wally chapter:

“Whoa!” Wally yelled, just barely managing to duck under a whirling boomerang before it took his head off. His accelerated vision caught sight of several strands of orange hair floating through the air, sliced through by the bladed projectile. “Dude, you’re already throwing metal boomerangs, sharpening them is just overkill!”

In response, Captain Boomerang merely laughed and threw another one, only for it to bounce off of an emerald stop sign that had suddenly appeared out of thin air. He barely had time to look up with a confused expression before a glowing green replica of his signature weapon (though not as sharp, thankfully) thwacked solidly against his temple, knocking him out cold. 

“What goes around comes around, Ozzy.” Green Lantern chuckled at his own joke as he descended from the afternoon sky, his ring shining brightly like a star even in the daylight.

“Ha ha, very punny.” Wally rolled his eyes. He’d been awestruck the first time he’d met the senior hero, but subsequent visits and lame jokes had firmly washed him of that notion. “You’re worse than Robin, y’know that?”

“Nice to see you too, Kid.” Green Lantern floated down to land next to Wally. “And puns are a sign of intelligence. Takes real brains to appreciate them.”

“More like dad brains. Must’ve come in with those gray streaks, eh old man?”

“I fully maintain that these are what I get from having to bail you young brats out of trouble all the time.” Green Lantern wagged a finger at Wally. “Your uncle probably has it worse under that red dome of his. Speaking of which, where is Flash? It’s not like him to let you fight one of his Rogues alone, even if it is just Boomerang.”

Wally kicked at the ground nervously, looking away from Green Lantern’s masked gaze. He wondered for a fraction of a second if he was fast enough to outrun the older hero, but quickly decided that was a bad idea. “Um… he said it was probably fine. I’m thirteen now, and it is just Captain Boomerang.”

“Uh huh.” Green Lantern picks up the discarded boomerang and bends the sharpened steel like it’s rubber, twisting it into a metal knot around Captain Boomerang’s wrists. When he speaks, his tone isn’t quite as lighthearted as before, carrying just a hint of the icy tone that makes criminals from Earth to Oa quake in their boots.  “And Flash actually said that?”

“Well… notinsomanywordsno.” Wally’s words blurred together from nervousness at the reminder that Green Lantern wasn’t just his uncle’s goofball bachelor friend Hal, but a founding member of the Justice League, some of whom disapproved of allowing kids to be heroes even with adult supervision.

Green Lantern stared Wally down for a few long seconds, then burst out laughing. “Relax, Kid Flash. You’re not in any trouble with me.”