#I really just don’t think anyone would make it

[enigmaris]

If Lois Lane had a nickle for every time she had to help an overpowered boy from the midwest with the power of journalism, she'd have two nickles. Which isn't a lot but its weird that its happened twice.

Danny watched as Lois pulled out her phone and pulled up a recording app.

“What are you doing?”

“You came to a journalist and are surprised to get an interview?” She asked him, her tone clearly joking. “What you’ve given me here is great kid, but newspaper clippings and copies of federal laws don’t get the public’s attention. I need a story, Phantom’s the story.”

“I’m not Phantom.”

Lois looked at him, less than impressed. Slowly, she turned the screen of her computer until it was visible to both of them. There, in full clarity, was a front-page story from his hometown newspaper. ‘Danny Phantom saves Bus Full of Children!’ and there was a picture of him in his ghost form, his face crystal clear on her screen.

"Phantom’s a ghost. I’m just a dumb kid.” Danny tried again.

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose with her right hand and muttered to herself.

“Why do all you midwestern boys have the same schtick?”

“I’m sorry?” Danny said, unsure if he should be apologizing or not.

“Changing your last name from Fenton to Phantom does not a secret identity make kid. It might work for most civilians, but anyone familiar with the hero game will clock you from a mile away.”

“I’m not Phantom.”

“Sure, kid. But I’m sure you have a way for me to interview him, right? Because I want to talk to him before I do anything else about your town.”

Danny hugged himself and looked down at his knees.

“Is it really that bad?”

“Not the worst I’ve seen. Wonder Woman’s is paper thin. I'm pretty sure most people in DC know who she is outside of the cape and just don’t say anything because she scares them.”

Danny snorted involuntarily at that, looking back up at the woman.

“What’s going on in your town, Phantom? Why come to a journalist and not the Justice League?”

“The Anti-Ecto Acts got passed like a year ago. They state that only being that produces or contains ectoplasm above a certain amount is considered non-sapient and is to be turned over to the government for disposal.” Danny said. “I put the whole thing in there for you to read, but it's long. Amity Park has a lot of ectoplasm in it. It's seeped into the air and water. Normal human people have it in them now. At first, those agents were just firing at me whenever I finished a ghost fight. I could deal with that. Their aim is terrible anyway. But then they figured out that humans can become contaminated with ectoplasm. They decided that meant the entire town was under their jurisdiction. They've decided that means that no one in town counts as human anymore, that we don’t have rights, that they’re doing us a favor by not just exterminating the entire town like the law says.”

Danny leaned forward, putting his hands on the desk in front of Lois Lane. He looked right into her bright eyes and spoke seriously.

“When it was just ghosts under attack, I didn’t think anyone would care. I’ve tried calling the Justice League for help, but they’ve brushed me off. People need to know what’s happening. Anyone can become ecto-contaminated. You just have to be in the right place at the wrong time. It’s not right what’s happening to Amity, Miss Lane. I came to you because if anyone could get the world to listen, to believe, then it's got to be you.”

And Lois Lane smiled. It was a proud, eager smile. The kind of smile Danny had seen on Sam right after she convinced the school to serve a vegan lunch. He barely held back from shivering.

“Well then, Mr. Phantom.” Lois said, before tapping onto the recording app on her phone and starting a recording. “Let’s begin.”

[mulloey]

distracted

bad students must face the consequences of their behaviour. it doesn’t matter who your boyfriend is.

words: 2.9k

part of my february festival event

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warnings: dom!professors matz x sub!student reader, teacher-student relationship (hongjoong x you), power dynamics, threesome, punishment, spanking with ruler, very light anal play, face fucking, double penetration (mouth & pussy), under-negotiated kink, unprotected sex, sir kink, degradation, light dumbification etc

i am not responsible for the content you consume.

“What is this?”

He waves the sheet in front of your face indignantly and you recognise it instantly as the test you’d taken last week; the red D scrawled in the top corner gives you away and you huff. “How did you even—”

“Seonghwa,” he says, cutting you off. You’d roll your eyes if you thought you’d get away with it right now.

You knew it was a bad idea, really, dating Hongjoong; he may not have been your professor, but he is a professor, so you should’ve figured he’d be in cahoots with your teachers. It’s not like discretion was a massive concern, anyway; your relationship is an open secret among the staff. It’s technically not allowed, but you’re a grad student, an independent adult and your parents donate enough money to the school that neither of you would be in too much trouble if anyone did find out anyway. So you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that, when you turned in a piss-poor exam, Seonghwa had run off tattling to your boyfriend. Dickhead.

“I was just having a bad day,” you say. “I studied, really. I don't know what happened.”

Neither of you believe that, but you push your lips into a pout and do your best to look contrite—to play the sweet, innocent girl your boyfriend loves to ruin.

“Joong…” You try to sound scared but you both know you’re not; there’s nothing he could do to you that you wouldn’t enjoy, after all. You’re just as sick as each other.

Hongjoong chuckles, clicking his tongue. He looks thoughtful for a moment, like he’s pretending to be conflicted over whether to punish you or not, but he’s not very good at hiding his excitement. The regretful sigh he lets out when he makes his decision is laughably disingenuous. “Bad girl,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I can’t let you get away with this, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to respond but he doesn’t give you time; he shoves you down harshly, bending you over his desk so your ass is sticking up in the air. It’s a familiar position that you’ve found yourself in time and time again since you met him and you body prepares itself automatically; expecting him to spank you, you stick your ass up higher and wait with bated breath for the first blow. It doesn’t come. You crane your head around, confused. “Joong, what—” Oh.

You don’t need to finish the question; standing behind you, next to Hongjoong, is the very man who’d got you in this predicament in the first place— your medieval history professor, Park Seonghwa himself. He tilts his head, smiling sweetly. “Good afternoon.”

Your jaw drops. You hadn’t expected this—when did he even come in, anyway? “Joong—”

“You think we didn’t notice how you look at him?” Your boyfriend asks coolly. It’s only because of the cock in his hand, hard and already leaking, that you’re not worried he’s mad at you; no, he loves this. You should’ve known.

“Is that why you failed?” Seonghwa asks. “Too busy dreaming about me bending you over your desk? You have a boyfriend; an esteemed colleague of mine, in fact.” His tone is chiding and you feel yourself flush.

Hongjoong snorts almost petulantly. “As if she cares about that.”

“No?” Seonghwa asks. “What does she care about, then?”

“Pull her panties down and find out.”

Your cunt throbs painfully at the surety of the demand and the dark look in Seonghwa’s eyes as he obliges without hesitation. He doesn’t ask permission before he touches you—he already has it from the one who matters, after all—but when he pushes your skirt up your back, his hands still momentarily; you smile into the wood as you realise what they’re both looking at—the white, lacy panties sitting snugly across your pert cheeks.

“Well, isn’t that a sight.” Seonghwa’s voice is hoarse and affected as he rubs a hand across the delicate material. You feel yourself tense under his touch, the unfamiliar feeling of his skin on yours, and he gently pinches the soft flesh. “Relax,” he mumbles. “Be good, yeah? I won’t hurt you, I’ll be gentle.”

A sweet sounding lie; you can tell from the heaviness of his hand as it comes to rest on your ass that he has no such intentions. He fingers softly at the lace of your panties, sighing ruefully. “These really are beautiful,” he muses. “I hate to have to take them down like this, but bad students have to learn, don’t they?”

“They certainly do.” You crane your neck to follow your boyfriend’s voice and find him leaning against the wall behind Seonghwa, staring you down with familiarly cold eyes. He cocks an eyebrow when you finally catch his gaze. “Got something to say, precious?”

“No, sir,” you whisper.

“Turn around, then,” he smiles. “I’m just here to watch.”

You turn back, though more so he doesn’t see you roll your eyes than out of a desire to obey him. Seonghwa has carefully shimmied your panties down to the middle of your thighs and the cold air of the office bites at your sensitive pussy.

“Spread your legs,” he says. “Show me how wet you are.“

Blushing furiously, you part your legs, spreading them as far as you can without snapping the panties bunched around your thighs. Seonghwa hums, running a long finger through your wet folds. The touch is unexpected but Hongjoong’s trained you well enough that you manage to stay still despite your surprise. You whine a little when he pulls away and you hear both men chuckle.

“Professor Kim,” Seonghwa says. His voice has a new quality; delicate and flirtatious as he addresses your boyfriend. “Come and taste how wet she is.”

You hear Hongjoong approach the elder and try to move around to see it, but Seonghwa’s firm hand on your neck holds you still. “I don’t think so, bad girl,” he tuts. “Only good little girls get to watch. Keep still.”

“Good call,” Hongjoong purrs. “She’s always loved seeing me with other people. Little pervert would probably start humping the table if she saw me doing this.”

You hear the wet, lewd sounds of Hongjoong sucking at Seonghwa’s finger, lapping up your juices with a noise of pleasure. “Delicious little slut,” he chuckles. “Let’s get her properly disciplined so we can play with her how she wants.”

Somehow you hear the wide grin in Seonghwa’s voice as Hongjoong backs away. “I quite agree.”

His hands rests on your ass again, squeezing it softly. “This is what’s gonna happen, little one. You got a 48 on my exam, didn’t you?”

You’re almost embarrassed to hear the number and you know Hongjoong is too. “Yes,” you whisper.

“Yes, Professor will do,” he says. “You’re not my friend, sweetheart. You’re just a wayward student being put back on the right path.”

Shame courses through you but it would be a lie to say it’s anything but thrilling. “Yes, professor,” you whisper.

He taps your ass appreciatively. “Good girl. So, you got a 48 on my exam. What was the pass mark?”

“60, Professor,” you mumble.

“Now that’s not very hard to achieve, is it Professor Kim?”

“It’s not. The pass marks in my class are higher, in fact.”

You want to roll your eyes at their smug, jovial tones but you’re too aroused now to do anything but anticipate.

“A pathetic score, really.” Seonghwa’s voice is closer than ever and you feel his presence just inches away. “Especially for such a bright young woman. I think you need to learn to separate your head—” he gathers a piece of your hair, gently folding it behind your ear “—and your pussy, hm?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good.“ Something long and thin taps at your bare skin and you recognise it instantly—the wooden ruler Hongjoong keeps in his desk drawer for when he’s feeling particularly on-the-nose about the taboo nature of your relationship.

“I’m going to hit you with this twelve times,” Seonghwa purrs. “For each of the marks you easily could have gotten if you hadn’t been too busy imagining my cock in your mouth. Yeah?”

You nod, feeling yourself pulse. “Yes, Professor.”

“Repeat after me, alright?” The first hit is quick and sharp, spread over your ass and it makes you gasp. Seonghwa chuckles and rubs the reddening flesh before he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to whisper in your ear. “One,” he says. “I’m sorry for being such a slut, Professor.”

You repeat it quietly and he tuts. “Louder than that, love. I’m sure your boyfriend wants to know you’re learning your lesson.”

You oblige, repeating it louder and he makes a noise of satisfaction before the ruler comes down again, this time at the tops of your thighs. “Two,” he says. “I’m sorry for thinking with my pussy instead of my head.”

“Two, I’m… I’m sorry for thinking with my pussy instead of my head.”

The next hit lands in the same spot. “Three. I’m sorry for dripping over Professor Kim’s desk just from being spanked.”

You blush in embarrassment; you’d half hoped he wouldn’t notice, but that was a tall order anyway. When it comes to Hongjoong and anything to do with him, you’ve never been subtle.

The next hits follow the same pattern, spread across your ass and thighs with each one making you gasp louder than the last.

“Four. I’m sorry for making Professor Park waste his time disciplining me.”

“Five. I’m sorry for daydreaming about choking on another man’s cock.”

“Six. I’m sorry for being arrogant enough to think I’d get away with such an embarrassing performance.”

The last one hits you right on your dripping pussy, making you scream and he grabs your hair, spinning you around to face him and your boyfriend; your eyes hone in on Hongjoong’s cock, pulsing in his hands before Seonghwa forces your attention back to him. “Twelve,” he growls. “I’m sorry for being such a cockwhore that I’m making Professor Park break his rule about sleeping with students.”

You can’t help but grin as you repeat his words, feeling proud. Of course, you knew from the moment you turned around and saw him standing there what was going to happen, but it’s nice to hear it from him. He smiles, grasping your neck gently. “Did you like that?” He asks. “Getting spanked by your professor while your boyfriend jerks off to it?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I liked it.”

“Well, now that you’ve learnt your lesson,” he says, “I think it’s time you got fucked, no?”

You nod and turn to your boyfriend; he tilts his head, nodding towards his hard cock. “You know what to do,” he says.

“Yes, sir.” You sink to your knees, staring up at Seonghwa and sending him a teasing smile before crawling towards Hongjoong. You open your mouth, letting him push his dick inside; after all this time together, he doesn’t need to ease you into it anymore and can go straight to fucking your mouth and you take it diligently, opening your throat the way he’s trained you to. You hear Seonghwa whistle, admiring.

“She sucks cock like a fucking pro,” he laughs; the arousal in his voice is thick and unmistakable. “You’ve trained her well, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong laughs too, patting your head. “I had an excellent student,” he grins. You smile around him at the praise and he curses. “You’re too good at this, babe, Jesus. Gonna cum before I even fuck you.”

He thrusts into your mouth a few more times before pulling out abruptly, shoving you off of him and in an instant Seonghwa’s hands are in your hair as he pulls you to your feet and shoves you back over the desk. You collide painfully with the wood but you barely notice; you’re used to being manhandled by now, and it only makes you more excited.

Large hands you recognise as Seonghwa’s grab your ass cheeks, pulling them apart slowly; the air hits your exposed holes and makes you jump in surprise but you quickly regain your composure. As you still yourself again you feel Hongjoong’s finger running gently across your asshole, almost like he’s inspecting it, before it slides down to toy with your pussy.

“Hm…” Seonghwa’s voice is teasing. “What’s your favourite hole of hers, Professor Kim?”

“What a question,” Hongjoong chuckles and you hear the smile in his voice. His finger prods gently at your rim, making you tense unconsciously and he tuts, lightly slapping the tight little hole. It’s a subtle, painless chastisement but it makes you whine all the same. “Now, now, kitty cat,” he chuckles. “I didn’t train you to squirm, did I?”

“No, sir,” you mumble.

“Good,” he says. “To answer your question, Hwa, I’d have to say her pussy. I love her ass, of course, but nothing compares to the way that little cunt clings to my dick like it’s just begging for a baby.”

“Well that does sound nice.” Seonghwa’s hands leave your ass, returning to your pussy to spread you open. “It looks snug,” he says. “What do you think, little one? Want your professor to breed you?”

It takes you a moment for your brain to catch up with the rest of you and you frown in confusion. “I- you mean you, Professor Park?” You ask. It comes out as more of a strangled cry; your head is a mess of arousal and you barely even register what he’s saying to you, let alone comprehend it fully.

He laughs, patting your soft skin gently. “Yes, perhaps I should be more clear. It must be confusing to be bending over in front of two of your teachers.”

Your face burns at the obvious mockery; the degrading, sneering tone of his voice but you say nothing. Seonghwa hums. “So?” He asks sweetly. “You want me in your cunt, baby girl?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Professor.”

“There’s those manners,” he praises.

He keeps a firm grip on your hips as he slides in from behind; the feeling of his skin against your still burning ass is uncomfortable, but the way his cock is stretching you as he buries himself inside you is the only thing your brain can process right now.

He’s just as big as Hongjoong, maybe a little bigger, but his thrusts are more fluid and controlled; where Hongjoong fucks you like an animal hungry for more, Seonghwa fucks you with precision; with intention. His hands on your hips are firm yet gentle and the way he finds you in your deepest places has your head spinning with euphoria. “Jesus,” he curses. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth to respond, barely getting a whine out before you feel hands in your hair, yanking at it to pull you forward. Hongjoong comes into view on the other side of the desk, his dick somehow still hard as he feeds it into your mouth. “There you go,” he coos. “Keep it hard, baby.”

You nod as best as you can and the friction against his dick makes your boyfriend groan. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so fucking good with cock you could make me cum on accident.”

The feeling of two dicks inside you makes it hard to focus on either one; let alone to begin to process the filthy words they spit down at you. Intesd you close your eyes, letting the tears fall as Hongjoong starts to fuck your throat again; you’re limp against the desk now, held up solely by the wood and by the two men using you to satisfy themselves. “Oh shit,” Hongjoong says, seeing your dazed expression. “Baby’s gone dumb already.” He strokes your hair gently, a small comfort between punishing thrusts. “You okay, little dove?”

You groan in response, unable to do much else; it makes them laugh and Seonghwa pats your ass affectionately. “You’re doing so well,” he says. “I’m almost there, sweetheart. Gonna fill you up real nice, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you gasp.

The feeling of Seonghwa’s thrusts growing faster and harder and more desperate is overwhelming; coupled with the sensation of Hongjoong’s cock hitting the back of your throat again and again, it’s almost unbearable. Your fingers claw against the wood, surely leaving marks but you don’t care; you feel unlike you ever have before, stuffed full and used by two of the most attractive men you’ve ever even imagined.

You’re in so deep that you don’t even realise it’s over until the emptiness of your mouth and cunt becomes obvious; you feel cum leaking from your hole, a wet substance dripping down the desk and only when you look closer do you figure out what it is—squirt. You squirted. You squirted all over your boyfriend’s desk with another man’s cock in your pussy and you’ve never been more fucked out and satisfied than you are now.

When you stand up fully your legs, numbed and weakened by their abuse, start to give out but Hongjoong is there in an instant; he catches you in his arms, lowering himself to the ground so he can cradle you in his lap. You’re faintly aware of Seonghwa’s voice and strong hands stroking your hair before he’s gone, and it’s just you and Hongjoong.

“Good girl,” he mutters. “You took that so well.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he smiles. “I only hope your performance in Professor Park’s class improves soon. Otherwise he’ll have to tutor you if you want to keep your spot in his class.”

Your heart jumps. “What?”

“Uni rules,” he shrugs, appearing nonchalant but the knowing smile on his face tells all. “If you fail two exams in a row, that’s what happens.”

You don’t know why he seems so surprised when you turn up in his office a month later with a D-minus and an already leaking pussy. He always knew you were insatiable.

Lucky for you, so are they.

—

comments/reblogs appreciated! i’m not sure im super happy with the ending but we move. let me know your thoughts! love🖤🖤🖤

ateez taglist: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi @tangerineastronaut @fancypeacepersona @aloevendetta (unable to tag: @lemonkait00 @mylovelymito)

february festival taglist: @hohongsan @nopension

[callipraxia]

I’ll admit it - thinking of ‘but what will people think of me?’ has stopped me short of writing things before, in everything from writing actual content to writing part of a review on a friend’s story. “What will [Friend] think, seeing that I know that? Even if I explain the actually relatively innocuous reason why I know it, would they even believe me? This is an issue of how something is portrayed in media that I feel pretty strongly about, but in context, it might be better to just…drop it.”

I…tried actually including a detailed example of my next point here, drawing from Anon’s Robert Jordan remark, but it ended up breaking the thousand-word limit before I even got past the introductory explanations, so I guess I’ll write a separate essay about why I don’t really agree with the “dudebro is secretly obsessed with lesbians and BDSM” line of thinking, maybe link it back here later if I remember. In the meantime, the point was - if I start thinking “dang, I think Author X has an Issue with Y,” it’s usually a lot less because of what the author leaves in than what the author leaves out. As an author, one deliberately chooses to explore certain topics, including dark ones that reflect the issues that preoccupy us (isn’t Anne Rice’s work supposed to be kinda messed up? I mean, I’ve never read a word she wrote that I can recall, but aren’t they all, y’know, horror novels?). As distasteful as we might find it, incest and pedophilia and sexual assault and suicide and all those other words you can’t use on YouTube are real things that happen every day. There’s a plethora of reasons why any given author might want to explore such issues in writing, and at least half of ‘em have nothing to do with sex. I’ve never heard anyone imply that Dostoyevsky must have been really, really turned on by the thought of attacking pawnbrokers with axes, much less that he ever committed a murder in real life just for the heck of it. From what I’ve read - though to be fair, my reading on the subject is not extensive - Nabokov probably wasn’t really a pedophile, and Mario Puzo probably had nothing to do with real-life organized crime. I have heard a few people suggest Stephen King must be a perverted serial killer in real life to write what he writes, but those people were idiots. And so forth. Point is, an author examining evil through a certain point of view really should not lead to the assumption that the author has done or wants to do any of those bad things. That’s why we say that authors use their imaginations when they’re working.

Plus, well…nine times out of ten, nobody’s going to make you read a book. If you really can’t read a book without getting uncomfortable because you can’t stop thinking that X or Y means that the author might have wanted his wife to put him on a leash and spank him, you can almost always just…put down the book and go read something else. You can also do this if you’re uncomfortable with Anne Rice apparently having conflicting feelings about God - that isn’t a potential theme that bothers me, but I know people who would be upset for days about reading something that even hinted at someone Having Questions about the divine. Heck, I have a few books I 99% enjoy and I just skim over or entirely skip parts that involve actions I find uncomfortable - my one hard rule is that I won’t willingly even skim anything where bad things happen to pets, but even then, I don’t assume that everybody who ever earned a Newbury Medal is a bad person who likes thinking about such things. I just don’t read their books. Unless you are compelled to do otherwise for a class* or the like, just do thou likewise.

*I was, very reluctantly, compelled to read two books in my undergraduate Adolescent Literature class where bad things happened to dogs; it was the first and last time in my life that I’ve ever tried to get out of reading something, but the professor didn’t believe what I could bring myself to explain about just how negative of a reaction I knew I would have if I read any books with dying dogs in them. Now I still have one of those scenes lodged in my carousel of intrusive thoughts that drive my anxiety level up and make it really difficult not to engage in compulsive behaviors whenever they rudely shove their way up to the front of my brain, but I don’t think badly of Sherman Alexie because of it.

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[enzosbabyangel]

ᥫ᭡ Day 2 . . . party sex with Theo

cw: 18+!, mdni, porn with very very minimal plot, public-ish sex, i honestly didn’t know what to do for this, mean!Theo, protected sex, degradation, suddenly obsessive/possessive Theo afterwards, Theo lowk getting an obsession on reader, light dark!Theo and content? If toxic and obsessive behaviour bothers you DON’T READ !! I don’t know how this of changed to a super mini story with the premise of party sex but uh yeah.

You scratched at the back of the man who had you held up and pinned to the dirty stall door of the club you were at.

How you got here was simple. You and your friends came to the club for valentines figuring none of you had dates. Spotted a cute guy who seemed to be here with his own friends. The man looked like he’d be such a softdom ‘n gentle fuck, but one of your friends didn’t agree, thought he’d be controlling and demanding. So what better thing then make a bet? you get a fuck and possibly money.

So you flirted the best way you could. Writing ‘Be my valentine’ on a condom and giving it to him with fuck me eyes. And now that you’re here it’s easy to say neither you nor your friend will be getting that cash.

You let out a choked moan as Theo’s hand made way up to your neck and roughly banged your head on the stall door. His thrusts fast and seemingly effortless as they managed to reach that special spot in you without fail each thrust.

“Is this what you do? give any half decent guy you see a condom and fuck me eyes then let them take you in the bathroom like some cock desperate slut?” He degraded. The occasional grunts from his own pleasure just making his words even hotter. It was confusing, he seemed so disgusted in you with one sentence but then the complete opposite the next. “But i doubt it, pussy to good ‘n tight for someone who whores around. Already addicted to your pretty ass pussy.”

He was being so mean and rough. Not even controlling, it was like you were a doll to him. He didn’t care about what you did, like it had no effect on him. Even when your legs around his waist kicked at his back from overstimulation or simply being too much. Or your nails scratching at the fabric of his sweater ‘n pulling some of the threads loose. Your hips banged into the door with each one of thrusts, hard enough to leave bruises.

Theo’s thumb made its way up to your mouth, pushing past the barrier of your lips. “Like this? Practically being used like a doll.”

You could only desperately nod. Your senses completely overwhelmed in such a delicious way.

Your simple and desperate obedience got Theo completely coming undone. Groans leaving his lips while his thrusts grew sloppy. He forced his thumb deeper into your mouth, pressing it against the back of your tongue as a rather sadistic grin formed on his unfairly handsome face.

“God.. you’re fucking mine now alright? Already so obsessed with you..” He’d say through pants before hiding his face into your neck. Sucking hickeys onto the soft skin where anyone would be able to see it before biting roughly into your neck to stifle his groans ‘n moans as he came, his hips stilling in you. Thank lord for a condom.

Your poor little fucked out brain didn’t really process his words, thinking they were said out of nothing but lust so you just babbled agreements. But after all was all said and done and he practically forced you to introduce him to your friends and immediately started acting like you two were officially together, not even allowing you to go home by yourself.

At first you found it hot, most likely due to the alcohol in both yours and his system. But when it continued even after that night it got worrisome, his behaviour getting more and more possessive, even more so after you confronted him about it. And got you hated how your panties got absolutely soaked at the clear red flags.

“No no. I don’t think you get it. I practically own you now, you agreed to that remember? Trust me, no guy would care about you like i do.”

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . written by enzosbabyangel, 2025 on tumblr! © do not repost on any third party website or repost as yours. Doing so will result in me blocking you and reporting.

tags: @mattheoriddles-sluttt @weirdogirl888 @jennieonline @bella-713 @txzii @couch-potato69 @chalametlover444

[timbitshockey]

i’ve been thinking a lot about that article that interviewed these rich white 19-20 year old kids who voted for trump and how so many of them said they did it because they were tired of being told what they couldn’t say and wanted to be able to make offensive jokes again. the world we live in is so individualistic and devalues empathy to such an insane degree.

so it’s like, do i think every player who went to the white house is a trump supporter who voted for him? no, probably not. but the league is, by a vast majority, full of rich white men who likely grew up in rich white communities in a sport that devalues empathy and places so much weight on tradition. so they don’t care. going to meet the president is part of the experience of winning the stanley cup and they want the full traditional experience and they don’t care about the current political climate or what being photographed smiling and thanking trump for his time is going to look or feel like to the people who are actually effected the most by what he’s done and what he’s threatening to do. they don’t care. they want to do the fun thing they earned for playing hockey good. it’s just depressing.

and like to be clear this isn’t a way of removing agency from these guys. lots of people grew up in environments like them and managed to break free of those ingrained messages and care about other people. most of these guys just don’t want to. they don’t want to think about politics beyond whether they’ll get fired for saying slurs and if they have to wear rainbow jerseys one night a year. is every player who didn’t use pride tape after travis dermott did homophobic? no. they just don’t care enough.

which is i guess sort of the problem with sports fandom, and something we have to sit with whenever these situations happen. these are real people. they’re not characters on a show who have plot lines and character arcs. and people are often disappointing.

i don’t know if i’m going anywhere with this. i guess maybe i’d like to remind us all to be kind to each other. to be empathetic. we’ve all got our different lines in the sand for what makes players persona non gratas to us and trying to use that as a gotcha for fandom beef can only really come back to bite us. what am i gonna say to a matthew tkachuck fan when sidney crosby did the same thing when the pens won in 2017? id like to think the players i support would be different but realistically they probably wouldn’t. florida fans and tkachuk fans are in the spot they’re in because their team won the cup, not because the team and players are uniquely more evil or more trump-supporting than anyone else. i don’t want to gotcha anyone. we’re all out here trying to have fun in our sandboxes in a world where empathy is a weakness and people who really matter to us disappoint and hurt us, sometimes just by not caring at all.

anyway. i try not to get into real life stuff too much on here and this will likely be the last i say on the subject. love you guys & i hope the world is kinder to us all soon

[leclerc-hs]

save a bull! part 2 - cl16

pairing: bull rider!charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a city girl meets a cowboy OR charles finds himself infatuated with the visiting city girl warnings: language, NOT PROOFREAD, smut under the cut!, bad writing? word count: ~3k author's note: SURPRISE SHAWTYYYYY! hiiiiiiii I missed you all SOO much. I'm sorry if this isn't good I'm really really rusty on my writing since it's been a few months but I'm trying to get back into it. if you hate this I'm SORRY lol but I love u all and I hope you like it anyways. xoxo let me know what you want to see next.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The tension is palpable, a charged current zipping through the air as his touch seems to melt every bit of composure you had left. His grip on your back is firm, but not forceful—just enough to make you aware that he’s in control of this moment.

He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t back down, his eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to argue, daring you to say something that will break the silence. But all you can think about is how his breath feels on your skin, how his fingers leave a trail of heat where they touch.

Your brain momentarily froze. In no fucking world, would I let you wear anyone’s but mine. 

You could feel the flush of your cheeks start to burn not only from the alcohol consumed but his confession. The heat of his fingers seeping through the thin material of your dress was just the icing on the cake.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning forward so the edges of his lips graze your ear. “You want a hat, you take mine.” 

He pulls his head back a few inches, his eyes dipping to your lips for a brief second that doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“You’re insane.”

“You keep calling me crazy,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, “but you’re the one standing right here, aren’t you?”

“Delusional.” Your pulse races, lips parting slightly, as if you might say something else, but all that comes out is a shallow breath.

His fingers sprawl across your lower back, pulling you towards him even closer if possible.

“So you’re telling me that if I slipped my hand up your little dress right now, you wouldn’t be soaked?”

You don’t know what to say. He’s got you right where he wants you. 

“Maybe I like crazy,” you finally murmur, your voice betraying the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his breath mixing with yours. “I thought you might.”

-

The days since that night have been a blur. His words echo in your mind, louder than anything else, like a broken record. You’ve tried to push it down, tried to bury it with distractions, anything that would stop you from thinking about the way his fingers lingered on your skin, the way his eyes burned into yours. But the more you push, the more it pulls.

And now, here you are, waiting for him again.

“I can’t believe we have to go back to the city in a few days already.” Abigail groans— the two of you sprawled in the grass, just staring out at the open fields.

You looked down at the grass, your fingers ripping some of it to play with. “I can’t believe I’m sad to leave.”

You both fall into fits of laughter. “Yeah, but that’s just cause of a certain cowboy.”

You shake your head, looking at Abigail with the biggest smile. “I’ve never felt so at peace like this before. The quiet is nice.”

You fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments, letting the harsh sun beat on your skin. 

“So when is he coming to get you?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound of a pick-up truck turning on the gravel of the driveway has you shutting it. 

Abigail moves to stand up, her hands reaching down towards you to pull you up from the grass, then turns to Charles, who is slipping out the driver side door with a smile pulled on his mouth. 

“Don’t keep her out too late or she’ll be grounded.” Abigail jokes, which earns her a small smack to her arm from you.

He dips his head, tilting his hat towards the both of you, “Don’t worry, she’s in good hands.” His voice is low, laced with something you can’t quite place—something that makes it feel like he is the one making the promises, not you.

Abigail gives a final wink to you before heading back into the house, leaving you both alone.

You watch her walk away, trying to pretend you didn’t feel that little jolt in your chest. But as soon as she’s out of an earshot, Charles turns his attention back to you, his gaze more intense than before.

“So, you ready for a ride?” He asks, the corner of his mouth curling into something dangerously close to a smirk.

You hesitate, “And if I said no?”

He chuckles, and its like the sound rolls right through you, making your heartbeat pick up. “Not if you want to earn that cowboy hat,” he says, the teasing glint in his eyes.

-

The soreness settles in deep, a quiet ache in your muscles you didn’t even know you had. Horseback riding hadn’t seemed like such a workout when Charles first suggested it—hell, you thought it would be a relaxing, leisurely ride through the fields. 

But now, after hours spent clinging to the saddle, your body is sending you sharp reminders of how much work it actually takes to stay upright and in control. Your thighs are tight, your lower back sore, and every small movement feels like effort.

As you stretch out your arms, trying to relieve some sort of tension, you can’t help but smirk. You’d never expected a day with Charles to feel like this— like you’d been put through the paces, not just by the horse, but by him too.

It’s the subtle shifts in his movements, the way he guides the horse with just a slight tug of the reins, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon, and the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for the reins that keeps your attention. 

“You alright there?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a hint of something more when he looks you over, taking in the way you’re moving a little more carefully than earlier.

You roll your shoulders. “I feel like I just ran a marathon on a horse.”

He laughs, his eyes lighting up. “That’s the price of learning how to ride. But you did good, yeah?”

The way he says it, like its a compliment, makes you stand a little taller despite the soreness. “I didn’t expect it to be so…intense,” you admit, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers just a second too long on your lips.

“Nothing about this place is every just easy,” he says with a shrug. “But, I guess that’s what makes it worth it.”

The weight of his hand at your back sends a warm shiver up your spine, a subtle pressure thats both grounding and electric. You try not to focus too much on the way his touch seems to anchor you, or the way your pulse quickens with every step toward the open field.

The picnic is simple—just a blanket, a few baskets, and a clear view of the sun slowly starting its descent, casting a warm, golden glow over the land. It’s the kind of peaceful scene that feels too much like a dream. And yet, it’s real.

As you both settle onto the blanket, Charles moves with an easy confidence, reaching for the baskets without breaking the quiet tension that lingers in the air. 

“You hungry?” His voice is casual.

You nod, still not quite sure how to handle the way your body feels with him so close. There’s something about his presence that makes it hard to think straight, hard to remember you’re supposed to be relaxing.

“I think I could eat,” you reply, your voice softer than usual. Your eyes flick up to meet his, and you catch the subtle way his lips curl into a half-smile, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking without needing to hear it.

He uncorks a bottle of wine, and pours a glass for the both of you.

The quiet stretches again, comfortable yet heavy, as you both settle in.

Charles leans back, resting on his elbows, his eyes never leaving you as you take a sip of wine. “You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and thoughtful, “I didn’t think I’d be sharing a moment with you like this today.”

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass as you glance over at him. “What do you mean by that?”

His smirk softens into something almost like a grin, “You didn’t think you’d be here, either, did you?”

You want to brush it off, act like its just another evening out here, but something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. You hesitate for a moment before finally responding. “Guess not. Guess I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

The air shifts around you as he watches, his gaze intense and focused, like he’s weighing his next move. “Well, I hope you’re not regretting it.”

You place the barely touched glass of wine in your hand, onto the grass, and then turn to Charles. Your heart races, and for a split second, you’re sure he’s talking about more than just the picnic.

Your gaze drifts down to the hat resting beside him, the brim casting a shadow over the worn denim of his jeans. It sits there, between you two, almost purposefully. The thought hits you unexpectedly—the way its placed, almost like a bridge, an offering, a challenge.

There’s something oddly magnetic about it, the way it ties him to the land, to this place, to who he is. The fact that it’s so close, just inches away, and yet you feel like you have to earn it somehow.

You glance back up to find him watching you, his eyes lingering on yours with that quiet intensity, like he's aware of your thoughts without you needing to voice them. There’s no teasing, no playful smirk this time—just that still, steady gaze. And for a moment, it feels like everything is poised on the edge of something important.

His fingers twitch, like he's fighting the urge to reach out, to pull the hat closer or to pull you closer.

"You thinking about it?" he asks, his voice quieter now, almost too casual, like he’s pretending he doesn’t know exactly what you’re thinking.

You blink, and your heartbeat picks up a fraction of a beat. "What do you mean?"

"The hat," he says, almost like it's obvious, though there’s a small glimmer in his eyes that tells you he knows what it’s really about. “You ever worn one before?”

You shake your head slowly, the question hanging in the air, the tension between you both thickening with the simple exchange.

His hand moves just slightly, like he’s about to offer it to you, but he pauses, letting the silence stretch for a moment too long.

"You know," he says, his voice low, as if the words are meant only for you, "it doesn’t look right on just anyone."

The weight of that statement settles over you like a slow burn, and your thoughts race, caught between wanting to prove him wrong and knowing, deep down, that this—whatever this is—has already shifted something inside you.

Fuck it.

You know he’s watching the way your fingers dance along the brim, your thumb tracing the edges as if you’re deciding whether to make the commitment or leave it in its place between you two.

Your fingers continue to toy with the edges of the brim, before you grasp it in between the pads of your fingers, picking it up thoughtfully as you weigh the symbolism of it. It feels heavier than it should in your hands. 

“Don’t tease me.” His gaze never leaves you, steady and unblinking, as though he’s waiting for you to put the hat back onto the blanket again.

You could easily put it on, feel it settle on your head, feel his presence there with you. Finally, you look up at him.

“You said it doesn’t look right on just anyone,” you murmur, your voice low, like the words are meant for you and him only. “But what if it fits?”

The air seems to thicken, the question more loaded than it should be.

He shifts his hips just slightly, still leaned on the back of his elbows as he stares at you. “You’re not just anyone.”

It’s a statement more than an answer. And it leaves your stomach in knots as you raise the hat to your head, pausing before it touches the hairs of your head.

“Trying to figure out if this is going to be some cruel joke.” He groans. “Don’t do it, unless you mean it.” His voice is rough.

You place it on your head, looking at him with a wicked smirk and glint in your eyes. “What was it you said about me liking crazy?”

-

He gives you no more than two seconds, before he’s sitting up from his arms and quite literally yanking you onto his lap. Your legs straddle him, and you want nothing more than to rub yourself against him. 

His eyes trace every feature of your face and then land back on your eyes. The look on his face so serious, you wonder if he’s alright.

“Just kiss me alr-“

Your words are cut off almost instantly as the palm of his hand swallows the back of your neck and pulls your lips down to his. You can feel the vibrations of his groan into the kiss, and you feel like you might combust right then and there.

Your hips rut against his lap involuntary as his tongue slips into your mouth like he owns it. There’s no more teasing. His own mouth takes over yours in deep, intoxicating kisses, that have you arching for more.

His hands glide down the swell of your back, before landing on your hips and guiding them to work against his groin.

The tantalizing touches create a surge of heat forming in your stomach, before you pull away from him, his eyes glazed with a sort of hunger it seems only you can fill for him. You lift your hips from his for a second, giving him time to unbutton your jeans and yank them off of your body, while he finds the time to unbutton his and pull them down halfway.

“I don’t think I can wait.” You seem to say, your voice laced with desire at the sight of his hardened cock before you.

“So don’t.” He huffs, before pulling you down on him, his mouth overpowering yours instantly. You start to lower yourself, more than ready to quench this thirst you’ve had for days. 

He hisses through his teeth when the head of his cock slides between your thighs. His fingers lock on your hip, stopping you from getting any lower. “I need to know you’re 100 percent about this.”

“I’m half nude in the middle of a field for you, what do you think?”

“I’m serious.” He grits, he sounds almost pained as he feels just how soaked you are against the head of his cock. “You do this, and you’re mine.”

Your eyes meet his in this moment and you feel your heart pounding against your chest. “Does that make you mine too?”

“I’ve been yours since you stepped foot in this town.” He says, like he didn’t even have to think about a response. Like it was in his nature.

“Good.”

You drop your hips down further, effectively slamming him right into you. You both cry out at the pressure, the stretch, and the depth he’s hitting you with at this angle. It’s all perfect. 

“Oh my fuck.” He tenses. "You look fucking unreal in my hat."

You grind against him, like you cant get enough, as he fucks up into you as merciless as possible. Its as if neither of you can get close enough. His arms envelop you as he pulls you back, letting him fall to his back as thrusts into you powerfully.

“Charles,” you whisper. “I need..”

You don’t even know what you need. All you know is that you need more of him.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, so rough in your ear, you could come just from hearing it. “Fucking gripping me like you’re gonna come.”

His voice is hoarse as he slips a hand down your back, gripping your ass in his hands and pushing you to meet his thrusts even harder. 

It doesn’t take the long. You both shatter completely, groaning and moaning against the blanket.

“Oh fuck.” His arms are tense as he snaps his hips into you, dropping his head back against the blanket as you careen forward with a cry. You both can hear the squelch of the both of you, and it somehow makes it even hotter as he keeps going.

You sag against his chest and it rises and falls deeply as you both come down from the high.

“My god sweetheart.” He chuckles, his fingers sweeping your hair behind your ear as you lift your head to look at him. His cock still inside of you.

“Yeah, you’re mine alright.” He says it like he’s talking to himself. He probably is.

You smile, dropping your face back into his chest.

Yeah, you are. But how could you keep him when you're leaving in just a few days?

[fictionzet]

Ok there are quite a few but I promise they are worth reading:

🖤“Belief isn’t simply a thing for fair times and bright days, I think. What is belief—what is faith—if you don’t continue in it after failure?” (Sazed, The Final Empire)

💙I’d assumed an eventual rematch would be a way to take back my dignity. Turns out, nobody can take that from you. You’ve got to throw it away. (Frugal Wizard's Handbook)

💛Elantris:

💛“You talk about hunger and pain as if they are forces that can’t be resisted. Anything is acceptable, as long as the hunger made you do it—remove our comforts, and we become animals.” (Chapter 4)

💛Pain lost its power when other things became more important. Kahar didn’t need a potion or an Aon to save him—he just needed something to do. (Chapter 16)

💛The problem with being clever,  Sarene thought with a sigh,  is that everyone assumes you’re always planning something. (Chapter 32)

💚Some of my favorites ever, from Tress of the Emerald Sea:

💚There was somebody who cared. Naturally, it would be up to that person to do something. Tress couldn’t impose on anyone else. She was going to have to go rescue Charlie herself. (Chapter 5)

💚It might seem that the person who can feel for others is doomed in life. Isn’t one person’s pain enough? Why must a person like Tress feel for two, or more? Yet I’ve found that the people who are the happiest are the ones who learn best how to feel . It takes practice, you know. Effort. And those who (late in life) have been feeling for two, three, or a thousand different people…well, turns out they’ve had a leg up on everyone else all along. Empathy is an emotional loss leader. It pays for itself eventually. (Chapter 13)

💚Tress settled down, thinking about people and how the holes in them could be filled by such simple things, like time, or a few words at the right moment. Or, apparently, a cannonball. What, other than a person, could you build up merely by caring? (Chapter 39)

💚“Those stories always leave something out,” Tress said. “It’s really not a problem that someone needs to be saved. Everyone needs help. It’s hard to be the person who makes trouble, but the thing is, everyone makes trouble. How would we help anyone if nobody ever needed help?” (...) “The part the stories leave out,” Tress said as ... “is everything that comes before. You see, I’ve discovered that it’s all right to need help. So long as you’ve lived your life as the kind of person who deserves to be rescued.”

🩷Humans are incredibly malleable. Despite my breadth of experience, I’ve never stopped being surprised at how durable human beings can be. They can survive in almost any environment. They can recover from debilitating loss. They can be crushed physically, mentally, emotionally—and still ask you how your day is going. (Yumi and the Nightmare Painter)

I have quotes I love from The Stormlight Archive too, I can also share those if you'd like.

Folk, of the cosmere fandom, I have a question. Give me your favorite quotes that are NOT mainstream. I don't want to hear, "Honor is dead, but I will see what I can do", ideals, "the next step", "you will be warm again" etc. I need your niche lines from different books that stuck in your memory but don't get brought up enough in your opinion. Some of mine are:

You know, princess, the worst part about being a mercenary is living up to the stereotype (it's so good in context)

I was a demigod for millennia. Now … I stand in wet clothing, shivering. (Leshwi, WaT)

Never let something trivial like a sense of humor get in the way of a good joke (Yumi and the Nightmare Painter)

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 6

Summary: More battles and more bargains come into play as things go from bad to worse.

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Character Death (Unnamed); Mentions of Slavery/Assault/Incest (the twins are back)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

-------

I’ve aged a decade in the time it takes to get inside the Imperial Palace. The blistering heat makes sweat bead down the back of my dress, every inch of heavy fabric feeling like it’s plastered to my skin. Everything feels too heavy on my body. I need to get home and into the tub, maybe with enough soap and water I will be able to purge the oppressive weight that clings to my skin.

Though I have my doubts. It’s not just the heat or the dirt, it’s this whole place. Everything I have known and loved about the city feels like it has been stripped down to nothing but the oozing, wretched thing that has been hidden beneath golden arches and layers of stark white marble. It reeks of a decay that has nothing to the crucified bodies hanging outside our doors.

Senators and Commanders mingle, wives dripping in expensive jewels hanging from their arms, laughing and talking about how magnificent this celebration for Amarantha is. I’d be shaking with the rage I feel clawing up my insides were it not for the way Rhysand still held me in his mental grip.

“Steady,” he warns for what feels like the fiftieth time today. I don’t know how he’s managed to stay so calm, especially when his men have been taken through the back streets of the city. There is a prison on the outskirts of the capitol, on the eastern wall, hopefully there will be less cruelty on the streets now that they’re away from the parade, but it is still a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It cannot be easy to be forced to stay here, with the enemy at every turn, while your men labor in a dungeon, yet he and Cassian, stand with their heads high behind me.

One of the guards untethered them from the back of my horse, but holding their chain in my hands is just as bad as leading them on horseback. Cassian gives me a wide berth, far enough away that if I take two steps ahead I’ll drag him by the throat. Azriel, however, hovers near my left shoulder, head down like he’s trying to hide, even as I watch his shadows slither down the back of his legs and scatter across the floor in search of something. One still remains coiled around my ear, hidden by my hair.

“Be careful around the twins,” I warn as my cousin catches my eye and makes her way towards us. She’d been too far behind us in the procession for me to see her reaction to the horrors, but, judging by the grin on her usually stoic face, I’d say she enjoyed it. 

Rhysand shifts so he’s standing behind my right shoulder, so I’m framed on either side by a towering Illyrian. Their presence is soothing, especially when Brannagh’s grin could peel paint. She obviously wants trouble. I’d be a fool to think the bloodshed outside was enough. She’ll need something to sink her fangs into before the night is over to be satisfied with the day. 

“There you are, cousin!” We have the same slate colored eyes and that is where the family resemblance stops. Everything about her is rigid and uniform and for so long being near her had made me feel like a lamb being watched by a lion. Yet, with the males at my back, I don’t feel so small anymore.

“I’m surprised you made it,” she says, eyes raking over Rhysand, then Azriel, then Cassian, sizing each of them up to see which would be an easier meal.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to punch in her teeth. 

“First the Games, now this,” Dagdan says as he abandons an attempt to woo one of the Senators with his bullshit war stories, and joins us. “Maybe we are related after all.”

Rhysand withdraws his mental presence from my head and I draw my mental shields back up to make sure I keep the twins out. 

Brannagh walks a slow circle around us, tongue running over her lower lip. “I really didn’t think you were capable of this.” Her bony fingers reach out to flick the chain looped around their throats. “It’s a little… what’s the word you always throw at us? Barbaric for you?”

“All it took was Mommy Dearest to lose her head for you to grow a spine, huh?” Dagdan sneers.

Azriel’s shadow hisses angrily in my ear as his head jerks up off his chest. The glare he throws over my shoulder could melt a glacier, the heat in it seering across my skin. 

“This one’s pretty,” Brannagh coos at him, her fingers reaching out to brush across his cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” I bite out through my teeth. 

“Careful, we bite,” Cassian snarls.

This only makes Brannagh grin further and my first instinct is to draw all three of them behind my back, as if they were small children in need of protection and not three fully grown warriors. As if I had not seen them kill a Giant and a handful of Wargs in the Arena just yesterday. 

“Were they fun?” Brannagh teases, making another circle so she can draw her nails over Rhysand’s nearly bare chest.

Red tints my vision. 

“They look like they’d be a good fuck.”

I clench my hands into fists to keep my power from erupting and taking out everything in the room. Rhysand can’t save me from this one, not without them sensing his mental presence. And if we are to play this game, I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I might not be the most skilled fighter in this room, but I have plenty of other weapons in my arsenal. 

“How would you know? The only thing you’ve ever fucked is Dagdan.”

She flinches like I’d punched her right in the stomach. It was all rumors of course, but the whispers were there. The twins still insisted on sharing a room; still went everywhere together. They were toxically co-dependant and on more than one occasion they’d mentioned old practices of keeping bloodlines pure. I knew it was a sore spot, I didn’t care very much if it was true. As long as the blow landed; as long as I had something strong enough to cut her, so the bond screaming in my ears didn’t prompt me to cut off the hand still lingering too close to my mate’s skin. They were not hers to touch. 

Cassian chokes out a cough, trying to keep back a laugh as Brannagh’s face twists. 

Dagdan’s teeth flash in a snarl.

I merely grin as I give the chain in my hands a very subtle tug. “I think we’re done catching up, cousin. Do enjoy the rest of the celebration.” I do my best to leave them in the dirt as we head deeper into the palace. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make me pay for the remark later, but for now, I’ll count it as a victory. 

The exchange took place in the open foyer, the roof held up by pillars and the outside world only separated by billowing sheer curtains. I mount the steps that lead us into a secondary foyer, where bubbling fountains and a pool of multicolored fish take up much of the space. Standing guard atop the fountains are twin statues of our gods of war and victory; the golden bowls at their feet overflowing with coins left by worshipers as they come and go from the Palace. We need more than a little luck and victory on our side and I leave a handful of coins on Victory’s altar. I will go to the Temple later and beg the Mother for forgiveness for how blind I have been, and seek a Priestess to make an offering for her blessing in what is quickly becoming an act of outright treason.

I feel Rhysand’s violet gaze on me as I make the offering. 

“The twins really are… like that?” Cassian asks as we round the fountain. It has to be morbid curiosity that prompts the conversation, but the fact that he’s speaking to me at all makes my heart race in my chest. I’ll take whatever scraps he’ll throw my way, if it only means he doesn’t hate me as much as he did yesterday.

“I’d be more surprised if they weren’t than if they were,” I say, unable to suppress a shutter when thinking about it. “They’ve always been… together… and weird about it.”

“Sure, and we’re the animals.”

I can see the back of Amarantha’s blood red head as the inner circle makes its way towards the atrium for food and whatever entertainment could be dragged into this den of vipers for the afternoon. Servants carrying goblets of wine drift through the clusters of visiting dignitaries and soldiers. There’s more than a couple armored gladiators, acting as guards for their sponsors, in attendance. I try to keep track of who belongs to who as we go, in order to give us an edge for the next match. Senators Beron and Tamlin, former lords from Prythians courts, now given new titles within the Empire for merging their kingdoms, both have sponsors shadowing them. The males have to be half Giant, with arms and thighs thick as tree trunks. Their armor has to be custom made to be able to fit them. I don’t know the names of either males, only that they’ve been employed long enough for their conditions in the Arena are they don’t fight Amarantha’s Attor. Too much money has been put into them to let them get torn to ribbons by that beast. 

I slide my way through the throngs of people to get closer. To play this game, there is no doubt that they will have to go back into the Arena a couple times. I need to start finding ways to give them an edge. I can start by seeing up close just how much taller they are then Cassian. If they have to go hand-to-hand in the future, I want to see how they compare next to each other so I can plan to get around it. 

The gladiators have at least two feet on Cassian, which makes me basically an ant in comparison. I already have to tilt my head up to look my mates’ in the eye, these males make me have to keep distance between us to be able to see anything other than they’re stomachs. 

Cassian is fairly nimble, from what I’ve seen so far, as long as the wound on his leg is healed by the next match, he can use that to his advantage. But the thought of having to watch him fight males this size makes my stomach twist. I’m going to need to do more than size up the competition. 

Beron is accompanied, as always, by several of his sons, but it is always Eris by his side. The well dressed male turns a grin in my direction when he catches sight of me. “Highness,” the bow is graceful, fox-like in a way that reminds me of Lucien, wherever he is in the crowd to avoid his Father. It’s not like him to leave Tamlin alone in these situations, they’re usually joined at the hip.

“It does me good to see you outside,” Eris continues, as he reaches out to take my hand and press a chaste kiss on the back of my knuckles.

Azriel’s shadow hisses in agitation in my ear as something hot flickers down the bond.

“It’s been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence.” I’ve known the Vanserra’s for a long time, Eris is not quite the flirt Lucien is, but he has no shortage of sway over females, males too for that matter. It had always surprised me that Father hadn’t tried to arrange a union between us. Eris was known, from time to time, to share the same savage brutality the Emperor valued in his court; it should have pleased him to have Eris for a son in law. 

“Are you finally feeling better?”

“It took longer than I expected to recover,” I say honestly. Better to not oversell anything; all lies have a little truth woven in. “But getting some air has been good.”

His russet gaze jumps to the males behind me, and the grin I’ve known for decades turns serpentine. “And profitable, I’d imagine?”

“For the Empire, of course, all earnings will go to aid the far reaches.”

“So I heard,” he nods, still studying them. “You always did have a bleeding heart, Highness. It is good to see it benefit you.”

The compliment feels underhanded, but so do most things around here. 

“When will we get to see them in action again?”

Talking about them like they’re not standing here makes me want to start smashing things, but I reign in my temper. “I was just about to ask you the same about your Father’s gladiators.”

He glances back at the male and shrugs. “Felix is always ready, but we’ve gotten no summons.”

Interesting. The Gamesmaker should already have a match-up in place, even if the Arena will be closed for repairs for a few days still. 

“How unfortunate, it’d be quite the fight for Cassian.”

I feel Cassian shift a little closer, the scent of sandalwood and snow-capped mountains invading my senses. It is an effort not to step back and lean into him, he’s never dared be this close before. 

“It would be quick,” he states.

Eris huffs a laugh. “For your neck to be broken, brute? Yes, we’d be in agreement.”

There’s a snap as Cassian’s wings ruffle and whip closed again, his agitation so clear I can taste it. The frayed edges of our bond simmer, but I can’t tell if the rage is his or my own. We are alike in that aspect.

“Who was summoned, then?” We can’t linger too long here, especially not for information I do not yet need. Rhysand still needs to get a better look around and we’re starting to linger on the stairs, people clustering behind us.

“Not Tamlin’s man either,” Eris says with a shrug. “I’m as in the dark as you.”

“You?” I force a teasing smirk to my features. “I thought you knew everything around here, Eris?”

His russet gaze darkens as his perfect teeth dart out to bite his lower lip. It’s a move I’ve seen thousands of people swoon over. “I’ll happily find out for you, Highness.”

Azriel’s shadow snarls in a language I can’t make out, but it is Rhysand’s side of the bond that ripples with promised violence. Is that jealousy I feel? I try to shove the thought aside; hoping that they feel this thing between us is too much to ask for. I will only hurt myself if I start to hope that I am more than a means to an end.

“Please do. I’d be indebted to you.” That’s all it takes for the Autumn male to bow and disappear into the crowd.

Senator Thessian and his large entourage of guards pushes past us on the stairs, the armored guard slamming into Rhysand from behind hard enough that he stumbles forward, hands reaching out to catch himself on my hips before he can take both of us to the floor. My whole body freezes under the contact, the warm press of his body against mine enough to make all rational thought fly out of my skull.

He leans in, like he might offer an apology, breath ghosting over my neck as his lips brush the shell of my ear. My whole body shivers in anticipation. “Clever, little vixen.”

The low baritone of his voice makes heat rush between my legs, something hot coiling in the pit of my stomach. Now the citrus and jasmine scent of him invades all my senses and I really, truly have no thoughts left in my head. 

My knees wobble as he gives my hip a squeeze, even as the bond roars at the loss of contact as he steps back. Maybe it’s just been awhile since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but that small amount of contact feels like an electric current beneath my skin. It is an effort to keep moving up the stairs and not turn and do something foolish, like press my lips to his and slide my fingers into his hair. 

The atrium is a wide, open room with tables piled with food lining the far walls. On the left are floor to ceiling windows, thrown open to let in the warm summer breeze, a few Praetorians standing at attention amidst the billowing curtains.. There are low couches along the walls, some of which are already taken. If not by anyone with a gladiator, I don’t linger on who sits where. 

A servant with a tray of wine passes and I snag one to try and calm the sizzling beneath my skin. I didn’t realize one of today’s many battles would be trying not to throw myself at my mates. 

There is a raised dais against the far wall, the couches and lounge chairs far more plush and ornate than the rest. Father has found his seat, a slightly less gaudy throne than usual, and reclines as a servant fans him with a palm frond. Amarantha has taken her usual seat on his right, reclining against one of her pleasure slaves. The male wears little but a strip of crimson fabric between his legs, every inch of bare skin lean and smooth. There’s another perched on the armrest of her chair, holding a goblet of wine for whenever she needs it; a third sitting at her feet, running idle fingers up the side of her calf. All that attention, and yet her dark gaze still tracks the males behind me with enough hunger I debate how much trouble I’d be in if I threw my own wine glass at her head.

She is not the only one who pays such close attention to the Illyrians. A couple dignitaries’ wives and high ranking soldiers gawk blatantly at how much skin they have on display. More than one head turns to get a better look at Rhysand’s ass in this get-up.  He neither cowers or preens under the attention; it’s like he doesn’t even register it. I can’t help but wonder if that was the point: Everybody is so busy ogling him, they’re not really paying attention to what he’s doing. It’s a good mask, it shields his intentions and lets him observe without it being obvious, but the way they look at him, like he’s a piece of meat makes me wish I had claws to scratch out their eyes. 

I take another sip of wine, trying not to look too desperate for the emptiness it’ll bring as I head in the direction of the dais. 

“You’ve surprised me,” Father says as we approach. It’s the first real acknowledgement he’s shown me all day.

The shadow curled around my ear burrows a little deeper under my hair to avoid detection, the soft ether brushing against a sensitive spot on my temple that has me gripping the wine glass a little tighter to keep from reacting.

“As I said, I am trying to do better, Father.”

His gaze flicks to the chain in my hand, down the length of it like he’s inspecting the strength of each wrung before finally arriving on the occupants tethered to it. He grins in triumph as he takes in their attire. Maybe they were right to ignore what I’d brought out. It certainly looks like I’ve intended to humiliate them by dressing them in the same attire many of the Senator’s slaves are sporting. 

“Tell me how you managed to bring the three of them to heel when Amarantha couldn’t?” 

Amarantha bristles in her seat, her perfect teeth flashing in her pale face.

Another small victory. 

“Tell him you instructed the healer to give us a sleeping drought in our wine.” The twins haven’t reappeared and his sudden return in my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “And faebane in the water this morning.”

I repeat his instructions as I move to take the seat that is mine on his left and force myself not to think about how it’s a couch instead of a chair like his because it used to be shared with my Mother. 

“You’re hoping to acquire mirthroot in the city to keep us docile until the next match.”

I repeat that too, making a mental note to ensure that I follow through with it. He will monitor my every move in the city, if I don’t follow through, he’ll know it and then we’re dead. An issue that seems far less pressing when Rhysand’s hand brushes over my wrist. Watching him in the Arena did nothing to show just how agile he is, not when he expertly maneuvers my hand towards his chest, the chain blocking his part in this. The next thing I know, I’m moving to sit and he’s falling into the couch behind me so it looks like I pushed him down into the seat so I could recline against his chest. The motion takes him seconds, it looks like he rehearsed it down to the exact placement of the chain to hide the fact that he’d been the one moving me and not the other way around. 

Azriel seats himself on the armrest wordlessly; Cassian grunting as he sits on the floor with his back against the couch. I get the distinct impression he is only keeping his shoulder against my knee because being any farther away would mean his wings were in reach of Father’s hands. 

It takes me a minute to find my bearings again as my brain short circuits over how close they all are. Rhysand’s heartbeat is steady against my back, his skin warm even through the fabric of my dress. He lets his head lean back against the back of the couch, feigning exhaustion or maybe repulsion from being “forced” to be this close to me. I’m close enough that I could run my hand up Azriel’s thigh if I wanted, and damn me do I want to. Or close enough to Cassian that my fingers itch to brush through the thick strands of his hair. It is a cruel trick of fate that my mates are close enough for me to touch and I can’t.

At the mention of the mirthroot, one of Amarantha’s males leans around the Emperor to offer a rolled cigarette, even dried the hint of mirthroot is obvious. The male’s eyes are glassy, shining under the effects of it himself, the grin on his features lazy and unbothered. Far too soft a male to be shackled to Amarantha. 

I tap Cassian on the shoulder to prompt him to take it. A mistake because he flinches like I hit him and I think I might have undone any effort I’d made to get him to at least tolerate my presence. He snatches the offered cigarette, and the liter that follows and passes it back to me with a huff.

The Emperor watches the exchange with more interest than he’s ever shown me in my life. “What would you have done, Amarantha?” He asks.

“The same,” she says through her teeth. 

I take a deep breath through my nose to keep from making a disgusted face at her. “Ember said that’s what she used to do for Amarantha’s slaves before she came to my keep, so I simply took a page out of her book.” 

I pass the cigarette and liter to Azriel, and pray the sight of the flames doesn’t cause the same reaction it had when he’d been branded. He grits his teeth, but there is no angered flash down the bond or hiss from the shadow to indicate it’s anything other than a show as he lights it and takes a long drag. 

“I’m glad to see that in your seclusion you’ve finally grown half a brain,” Father says. “I was beginning to worry that your Mother’s poisoned tongue had gotten to you.”

I flinch despite myself and all three of the males tense around me. Cassian’s jaw ticks, the flutter of movement brushing across my knee. For the first time all day, his hazel gaze flicks to me, and  maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear I see a flash of pity there.

“No, it didn’t,” I whisper, unable to put any feeling into the words. I haven’t been back here since the execution. I’d found every reason to avoid it. Being back feels like peeling a scab off the wound and letting it bleed all over the floor.

Azriel takes another drag and I wish more than anything to take a hit of it myself and numb this feeling in my chest. What I would give for the empty numbness that had filled me in the early months of my grief. There are so many tangled emotions here, between the loss and my mates and the horrors of what we just witnessed outside. I cannot pick just one to focus on; can’t find some outlet to expel the building pressure. It all tangles and lodges itself in my throat like it's trying to drown me.

Rhysand’s fingers brush over my arm as he draws his hand up to take the cigarette from Azriel. To an onlooker it looks accidental, maybe it is, maybe I’m just reading into it, but even that faint brush drags me back to the surface for a bit of air again. At least I am not alone in the water anymore. Mother had always been emotionless, nothing got to her. I was always the one that felt too much. At least now the emotions can be shared.

“Your actions yesterday inspired me,” the Emperor says after a beat. 

Apprehension licks its way up my spine.

“I haven’t taken a champion of my own in a long time. It’s become dull, betting on someone else’s man.”

Shit!

Azriel’s shadow dares to peek out around my bangs, observing the crowd as they begin to settle in their seats with plates of food, as if on some silent command. Brannagh and Dagdan join us on my left, on the seat closest to the dais, the stare they level at me hot enough to melt glass. So much for Rhysand being in my head the rest of the evening. 

With a wave, the Emperor motions over a creature I have no name for. It walks on two legs like a man, but is covered head to toe in thick, brown, fur. Horns curl from the top of its head; a beak with a hooked tip jutting from its face. Its hands end in talons like that of a bird, but there are five on each hand instead of three. Its tunic has been folded down around its waist, leaving its chest bare, revealing a spider web of scars gouged through the heavy layer of fur. A thin, whip-like tail ending in a spiked tip flicks back and forth behind it as it walks, each step sending a shutter through the Palace. 

My skin pricks with goosebumps. Some strange sort of alchemy made this thing.

“I was hoping to test it in the Arena, but with the repairs in order, I thought a smaller show would do just as well.”

My stomach hurdles into my throat.

“Why don’t we pick one of your champions to break it in, daughter?” The Emperor suggests as if this is a thought that just came to him and not something he’s been planning from the beginning. 

I take another sip of wine as I turn to look at him, trying to steady the rapid pounding of my heart. I can’t let one of them fight this thing! Its maw opens and snaps shut with a clack as it stands before us, growing impatient.

“I’d personally like to see Cassian’s thick skull get crushed like a watermelon,” Amarantha chimes in from her seat.

I’m really going to throw up right here in front of all these people.

“A splendid idea from our woman of the hour, don’t you think?” He grins like he’s caught me, like he knows I’ve been playing games and have walked right into his trap.

“Nothing can be as bad as listening to you speak, Amarantha,” Cassian snarls as he gets on his feet, effectively making the decision for me.

He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, wings ruffling behind him, but before he can step into the center of the room, he turns to face me, much to my surprise. Hands scarred from swordplay reach out to give the chain around his neck a little tug. “Mind letting me off the leash, Princess?”

One of the Praetorian steps forward to unchain him but I stand and snag the key from his hand instead. I’ve seen enough males get stabbed or injected with something right before a fight to give the opponent an upper hand to know I can’t trust anyone near him. And, maybe, just maybe, the act of giving him a little relief from the chain might make him not hate me so much.

My hands shake as I reach up to his neck to unclasp the chain. I know better than to take the whole collar off while there are so many people watching even if I wish I could. His breath is warm on my face as he watches me, waiting for his moment of freedom. The urge to stretch up on my toes and kiss him for luck is overwhelming; maybe in another life we could have. 

I step back with the chain in my hand and return to my seat before I can follow my impulses. 

Cassian turns to face his opponent and even though I saw him perform yesterday, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that I have just sent him to his death. The creature sizes him up like it's calculating the best spot to take a bite out of him and its beady eyes settle on the bandage tied around his bare thigh.

Rhysand leans forward, resting his chin on my shoulder to watch, arm loosely looped over my waist. It looks casual. No one bats an eye at the gesture, but I am pretty sure he’s done it so he can keep me from jumping off the couch.

Azriel leans forward, bracing himself with his knees on his elbows, hazel gaze tracking the steps of Cassian’s opponent as he also calculates its weak spots. 

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we?” The Emperor asks, leaning over to be heard over the rush of excitement the audience gives to the challengers.

I tear my gaze away from where I’m trying to memorize every line in Cassian’s wings, every curve of tattoo over his back and shoulders, just in case. “How so?”

“Cassian wins and I’ll let you pick their next opponent in the arena,” he suggests. 

I like the offer; it gives them a better chance at surviving. 

“Cassian loses, and you give Rhysand to Amarantha.”

The world flips and spins and the roaring in my ears has me clutching my hands in my skirts to keep a surge of power from destroying the room. My power singes the fabric, only the smoke from the mirthroot hides the smell. 

There is no way in Hel I am making that kind of bet!

Rhysand stiffens behind me, heartbeat skipping for half a moment before he pretends to be unbothered by the comment and takes another drag of the mirthroot. 

I’d rather throw myself on a blade than chance that. Cassian is an exceptional fighter, but I cannot take that risk. I am already risking his life by letting him fight like this, how can I risk both of them?

My chest aches. There are too many opportunities to lose them. Too many things that can go wrong. 

“And let our people think I am weak and incapable of following through on the deal we made yesterday?” I challenge. My voice trembles as I fight to hold his gaze steady. 

Azriel’s shadow hisses what sounds like a warning in my ear.

“You know if we split them up now it makes me look as if I can’t handle them.”

“Attached, are we?”

“No, but I am tired of looking weak,” I hiss. “If Amarantha wants them, she can challenge me for them herself.”

Rhysand stiffens behind me. The twins are too close for him to slip into my mind again, but I can practically feel him shouting at me down the bond.

She huffs a laugh around the other side of him, “As if you’d stand a chance in that!”

I ignore her as I hold my ground with my Father, “You have always thought so little of me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So if you really want to make this interesting, then fine. If Cassian wins, I pick when and who all their matches are with. And if he loses, well, you’ve already chosen a husband for me I’m sure, so you can speed up the process and I’ll provide them the heir you so desperately want by the end of the year.”

The bond shakes so hard in my chest it feels like Azriel’s screaming in my ear. Rhysand has gone still as death behind me and I didn’t think I said it that loud, but Cassian’s head whips in our direction, eyes wide.

Father throws his head back and laughs at that. “This new found confidence is amusing. I will allow you to pick the next two fights, but not all.”

Better than nothing.

“Deal.”

I think I can hear Azriel’s teeth grinding together beside me, so I force myself not to look at him. The bond thrums like he’s in physical pain and I hate that I have caused it, but I will not barter with their lives.

“To first blood!” The Emperor calls to the room.

“To the death!” Brannagh chants instead. 

When this whole Empire goes up in flames, I’m pushing her in first.

The crowd begins to murmur to themselves, debating. “I’ll put some money on it if they fight to the death,” Tamlin tosses out. 

“As will I!” Shouts a commander whose name I’d never learned.

The motion goes around the room in a full circle, by the time the Emperor concedes, I’ve drank my full glass and abandoned it on the couch. Didn’t we just do this?

The Praetorians provide blades for the two males, but the Emperor’s creature can’t hold the blade with its claw tipped hands and tosses it to the ground with a screech. Its barbed tip tail draws back behind it as it drops into a defensive stance. 

I forget how to breathe as Cassian drops into his own.

Time slows in a familiar sensation of undiluted horror as the creature moves first, striking forward with its tail like a spear. Cassian pivots back a step, rearranging his feet as he blocks with the sword.

The crowd cheers excitedly and I distantly recognize coins changing hands as they take bets, but cannot tear my eyes away enough to watch who is participating in it. Cassian remains on the defensive as the creature rears its tail back and attacks from the other side of its body this time, testing the Illyrian’s reaction time. When the strike is blocked a second time, it switches tactics and goes for a punch, talons extended towards Cassian’s face.

While the creature is taller, it is not as agile, and Cassian side steps out of the way of the blow, using the momentum to lunge into the next step and strike the tip of his sword across his opponent’s stomach. Its ear shattering screech shakes the room as the blade makes contact, drawing black blood. If it wasn’t for Brannagh, the challenge would be over, Cassian would have won. It would have been easy for once.

Enraged, the creature strikes with its talons again, missing a second time, but catching Cassian in the jaw on the backswing. The whole room can hear Cassian’s teeth clack together as he stumbles backwards.

It takes everything in me not to squeeze my eyes shut, not to wince and react to every blow. I have to keep telling myself that this is part of the game and I cannot give them away, but by the Mother it is harder and harder with every passing second!

Rhysand remains with his chin propped up on my shoulder, the bulk of his weight keeping me in my seat. I so desperately want to reach out and take his hand, give myself something to ground in, but I can’t. I have to accept that this might be all we’re ever allowed to touch, especially after today.

The creature strikes again with its tail, once, twice, a third, each like a punch. The third blow shatters Cassian’s sword into pieces and my heart plummets into my stomach as he dodges a fourth assault. He’s not so fast on the fifth and that barbed tip punches right through his bandaged thigh! Blood splatters as the tips hurdles through muscle and sinew until it pushes through the back of his leg.

One of the dignitaries' wives reaches for a bucket and wretches as Cassian’s roar of pain rattles my teeth. 

Azriel flinches, looking like he might just jump into the fight and stop it, but then catches himself. 

The bond screams and bashes against my insides as my powers flare again, singing more of my skirts as I hold them in a death grip that only worsens as the creature yanks the barb back out of Cassian’s leg, bringing him to the floor. Blood pours from the wound from both ends, cascading down his calf to make a puddle on the stark white tile.

There’s enough of my skirts to hide the motion, Rhysand buries his hand beneath them to hold onto my hip tight enough to bruise. I don’t know if that’s to keep me in place or himself. 

The creature snarls out a noise that sounds like triumph as it pulls its hand back, aiming to use its claws to sever Cassian’s head.

Not again! Not again! Not again!

I have to stop this! I have to do something!

At the last second, Cassian throws himself out of the way, knees tucked to his chest as he rolls out of reach, right to where the creature’s discarded sword lies. He snags the blade with a grunt, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his thigh as he pushes himself back onto his feet. His face twists in pain at the slightest movement, but he manages to stay upright. 

Rhysand breathes a little easier behind me, but his grip on my hip hasn’t let up.

The Emperor frowns beside us, displeased with the outcome thus far no doubt. He really expected this to be easy. 

The creature strikes again, sticking to what it has found successful, and it becomes a mistake. Cassian twists at the last second, blade raised so when the strike comes, he doesn’t need to block it. At this angle, not only does it miss him, he has a height advantage and he brings the sword down as hard as he can, cleaving the tail in half. The barbed tip hits the floor twitching as the creature reels backward and wails.

Holy shit! I’ve seen a lot of warriors in my life, but I don’t think I’d ever describe them as beautiful until now. Each move is calculated, backed with training and muscle. His tattoos seem to come to life with his body as his muscles shift and strike. 

He doesn’t let up as his opponent stumbles back either, he uses the distraction to his advantage and plunges the sword into the creature’s shoulder. He might have been aiming for the heart, but the wound in his leg gives him too great a limp to lunge far on. The blade catches in bone, the resounding crunch deafening in the domed ceiling, and when he reels back to pull it out, he twists it just enough to make his opponent’s arm absolutely useless.

With two of its preferred methods of fighting gone, the creature bends at the waist and charges with a roar, hoping to use its horns like a battering ram into Cassian’s chest.

An otherwise horrifying sight, if Cassian didn’t laugh and step dramatically out of the way so the creature rams right into the wall. “Is that really all you’ve got?” He taunts as a rain of dust falls on his head. 

The creature screeches as it yanks itself free from the wall and shakes its head, clearing the debris from its beady eyes. 

Cassian spins the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip, and I think it might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

He can’t crouch with his leg, but he doesn’t need to. The creature tries to ram him again and he dodges and brings his hilt down on its neck, knocking it to the floor. He wastes no time in rearing back with the blade and bringing it down, easily cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders. 

Amarantha throws up her hands in a huff at the sight.

I finally take what feels like my first breath in an hour as Cassian tosses the blade on the floor. He did it! He won!

Azriel removes his elbows from his knees and reclines back against the armrest, clearly satisfied with the outcome. 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Praises the steward as he goes about helping anyone who placed bets collect their proper earnings. 

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to the nearest guard, “Find him a healer, now.” Before he bleeds out on the floor or Father decides he has another champion he wants to test. 

The Emperor takes a long drink from his goblet, eyes narrowed on the severed head the staff has to now clean off the floor. Around him, his dignitaries drink and argue over why they bet the way they did. It is business as usual, completely unbothered by the blood around them. 

When he finally turns to me, I have to brace myself against the anger simmering in his eyes. This is usually the part where I put my chin to my chest and try to make myself as small as possible. Usually. But not today. 

“It seems I’ve underestimated their talent for bloodshed.”

Cassian hobbles back over to us and I make a show of telling Azriel to help him before he gets blood everywhere, so no one thinks I just let them wander off on their own. 

“The Games will continue at the start of next week,” the Emperor continues.

That gives us days. I try not to look at the gaping hole in Cassian’s thigh. Thank the Mother it looks like it missed bone, but how is he supposed to participate with that? There’s no way it heals in time, even if I have Ember work twelve hours a day on him.

“I expect you to have their opponent picked out by the Senate meeting in the morning. You still have that end of your bargain to uphold.”

This victory will not be without repercussions, but it is still a victory nonetheless, and we have to take what we can get.

--

Managing to procure the mirthroot I need to trick my Father into thinking I’m following through with the regime I’d given him, as well as finding horses for the Illyrians to ride back on takes longer than usual, given the massive partying happening in the streets. We have to take the backroads home to avoid being pelted with more rocks, or outright mobbed. Compared to the rest of the day, the journey is uneventful, spent mostly with the others ensuring Cassian doesn’t pass out on the horse. 

The sun is already changing colors by the time we return to the River House, but I know if I try to prepare for bed now I’ll never sleep. Instead, I leave Anise with instructions to look into potentially safe opponents in the Arena, so when I see Eris again tomorrow I can compare their notes, and then set out for the Temple built on the edge of the property. 

I doubt there are enough blood offerings and animal sacrifices to cleanse the sins of this Empire, but I offer as many as I can in apology for my part in it. I don’t know how I’ve been so blind to all of it. I can’t stop seeing it now, it should have always been so obvious to me.

The Priestesses do not ask why I linger for over an hour, praying long past the time it takes for my offerings to burn atop the altar. I’d hoped that, if I said them hard enough, the weight of the day would slip off my shoulders. I’d thought, with enough sacrifices, the guilt would ease, but I can still feel my mates’ agitation and pain clearly through the bond. 

I return to the House as weary as before. Tomorrow will be a whole new set of problems. I cannot put it off by lingering in the Temple. 

The walk doesn’t clear my head, or loosen the tension, and I climb into the tub with that same heaviness still clinging to my skin. I heat the water as hot as I can, hoping it might cleanse me in a way my sacrifices couldn’t.

Exhaustion creeps its way in as I scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin is pink. Every time I close my eyes I can see the crucified bodies, gasping for air as they slowly suffocate under the weight of their own body pinned to the wood. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight; I can only imagine how it would feel to know each of those males before this. The bond still swirls beneath my skin, heavy with agitation the hot water can’t touch. 

I wish there was a way to take that from them, but how can I do that without calling attention to the mating bond? 

I give myself a few extra minutes in the blissful heat before dragging myself out and tossing a silk robe over my waterlogged skin. My brush is on the vanity where Anise left it this morning and I have just started to brush the knots out of my hair when I hear the bedroom door open. My hand stills halfway through my hair; it is unlike Anise to not announce herself when it’s this late. 

The door clicks shut again, the eerie silence that follows enough to make my heart drop into my stomach. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see beyond the candlelight that fills the bathing chamber and my hand goes instinctively into the vanity drawer, where my Mother had always kept an extra knife. The blade is cool in my fingers, the handle smooth and undamaged from never being used. The benefit of having constant guards is you usually never see the threats against you, though there are always exceptions.

There’s no footsteps on the carpet, but I can practically feel movement next to my bed. 

I’m a sitting duck here among all the candlelight, but if I step into the darkness beyond I’ll be totally blind. Better to wait for something to make itself known. 

I suppose there’s enough guards around, I can always start screaming for help if it comes down to it.

A heartbeat passes before something dark and snakelike comes slithering across the floor. The ether loops itself around my ankle and crawls up my thigh like a purring cat before the shadow takes its perch behind my ear.

I set the knife on the vanity with a sigh of relief as Azriel steps into the light. “You scared the shit out of me!”

His shadow caresses the back of my ear in apology, far more expressive now than it was earlier. “Sorry.”

He side steps out of the doorway, but not in my direction, which is odd until Rhysand steps out of the shadows behind him.

“How did you two get in here?”

“Found the lever on the door to your secret tunnel,” Azriel says as his eyes trace up my bare legs, brazenly taking in all the damp skin I have on display.

Heat flushes up my cheeks and I have to look away from him. The candlelight and the hour of the evening makes this feel more intimate than it should, given the way Rhysand looks like he might burst out of his skin. I certainly shouldn’t be entertaining the idea that Azriel would look at me as anything other than a means to an end. Hope is too dangerous a thing to have right now. Just because we agreed to do this, doesn’t mean they’re anxious to accept me as anything other than help. Besides, I need to remind myself that it will be even more dangerous for us than it already is if we were to acknowledge the bond.

 “We were careful, no one saw us,” Azriel assures.

I should be relieved that they’re being safe about it, but the frown on Rhysand’s face makes me rethink it.

“What the hell were you thinking back there?!” He snarls.

Normally, that kind of outburst from a male would make me jump back in surprise, but at this point I’m too exhausted to move, let alone figure out what the hell he’s referring to. “I’ve had a lot of thoughts today, Rhysand, you will have to be more specific.”

The chain rattles around his neck as he steps further into the room, like it's fighting to hold back his powers. “Your bet with Hybern!”

Ah, right. That. “What of it?” Is he really still upset about that? Cassian won, nothing was lost.

Azriel winces and the shadow at my ear hisses in warning. 

“What of it?” He repeats, his voice rising to an octave just shy of shrill, like he can’t believe he heard me right. “You can’t just offer yourself up like that!”

“And what was my alternative?”

“He gave you an alternative!” He seethes. “All you had to do was say yes!”

I fold my arms over my chest in irritation, but I don’t miss the way both their eyes dip to my chest at the motion. “Oh so it’s ok for you to put your body on the line, but I can’t do the same with my own? Seems a little hypocritical, if you ask me.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?”

He’s inched his way into my space step by step, until I’m very aware of the jasmine and citrus scent of him. Sometime after he returned home he’d changed into the clothes I’d had laid out for him, the swirl of ink along his chest just barely poking out around the dark collar. Even hidden, the urge to reach out with my hands and trace the swirls with my fingers remains. 

“Because,” he says through his teeth. “It’s not a deal I can live with.”

“You don’t have to live with it because Cassian won anyway,” I retort, tearing my gaze away to look at Azriel. Rhysand is too close to me like this. I can barely think past the urge to touch him, let alone hold the argument like I need to. “Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Azriel folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “He’s not. You shouldn’t have made that deal.”

I throw my hands up and push past Rhysand, trying to give myself room to breathe. “You two are impossible!”

They follow like I’m still holding onto their leashes, footsteps somehow impossibly silent despite their size.  

“You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me you’d rather I offered you up to Amarantha?”

“If it meant you were safe,” Rhysand snarls. “Yes.”

I find myself gritting my teeth, a snarl working its way up my throat. “Well that’s not a deal I could live with, Rhysand.” 

Their legs are a hell of a lot longer than mine, Rhysand manages to snag my arm and turn me back around to face him before I make it more than three steps into the darkness of my chambers. 

His face looks strained, eyes rimmed red. He has to be exhausted. The bond feels fragile, strained from all the emotions that have been blared down it today. “I need you to find a way to deal with it,” he says, voice verging on pleading. 

I hate myself, but I can’t help but wonder what the hand holding onto my bicep would feel like travelling down the rest of my body. 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, whatever you have to do, I… We need you to find a way to live with it.”

Azriel comes to stand on the other side of him, so they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “If Cass had lost and you had to…” even in the dim light coming from the bathroom I can see the heaviness in his eyes. 

I glance back and forth between them. “You’ve all suffered enough, I can handle myself. I knew what I was doing.”

Rhysand shakes his head, “I can bear a lot of things, but not that.”

Hope is a cruel bastard, and I’ve never learned to master it. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

He lifts the hand not holding onto my arm, fingers just barely brushing over my damp cheek and my heartbeat is suddenly very loud in my own ears. His mouth opens like he might say something, and then he clamps it shut again, debating with himself over the words.

While he can’t seem to find the words, Azriel’s scarred hand reaches out to gently grab my chin and tilt my face in his direction. “It matters,” he huffs, voice low and rich and the reverberations of it send shivers down my spine. “Because you’re our mate.”

------

Author's Note: Hehe was gonna wait for the reveal at the end but couldn't bring myself to do it. Let me know what you thought about it! And as always, if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know :)

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

//

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime,

//

@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissfromnovalie

//

@marrass , @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @tenshis-cake,

//

@of-outerspace, @erencvlt, @corvusmorte, @lindsayjoy444,

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Something, something can I have a prompt list that’s smth like this:

“Can I kiss you?”

“Im Sorry, wHAT!?” /pos

That might be a bit too vague so erm… a prompt list for like awkward fluffy confessions 🙏🙏

(I low-key don’t know how to ask stuff sorry chat)

Just fyi for everyone, since you said that you are not sure how to ask stuff. There is a guide on how to ask in my bio and one thing that just makes me a bit more happy when answering an ask is a short Hi! at the beginning. Doesn't need more, just makes me happy, since I'm spending quite some time on these asks. But like I said, just cause you said you're unsure about how to ask.

Here are your confessions:

Awkward Fluffy Confessions

"So... really long story short... I like you. Maybe?"

"I like you. If that's ok with you, of course."

"You like me? No, it's not weird! I do it too. Liking me. No, I mean liking you!"

"If I would tell you that I love you, would that scare you away or could we talk about it?"

"This is absolutely not how I wanted to tell you."

"I'm sorry to make this so awkward, I just never felt like this about anyone else before."

"Wait, this is coming out all wrong. I just like you. A lot. That is all I wanted to say."

"It's not anyone else, it is you. The one I... that I like. I like you."

"Not to make this awkward, but there is something I can't keep to myself any longer."

"Liking you has been very easy, I realized."

"Do you think, maybe, that you could feel the same about me?"

"Please, tell me if I should just shut up and maybe even leave, but I have to get this off my chest."

More: Love Confessions

I hope you like them!

- Jana

[i-dared-myself]

Sick Day

Stray Kids x reader

Requested by anonymous: can u do a ninth member one where she’s feeling sick but is forced to go on stage but is like coughing and not giving it her all or something like that? I don’t know just I love your writing and I would really love if u could do that :)

You throw your legs over the side of your bed and pad over to the door. You push it open and sniffle as you go down the stairs, throat aching.

“You look pale,” Changbin remarks once you throw yourself onto the couch with a groan.

“Don’t feel good,” you mumble back. You toss an arm over your face. “I feel so gross.”

“Who’s ready for this?” Jisung screams as he rushes into the living room. You cover your face and bite back a whine at the headache he causes. “Big performance today!” 

Changbin hushes him, motioning to you. “She’s sick.”

Jisung freezes, eyes widening. “That’s not good. We’re supposed to have that-“

You cut him off. “I know! You think I wanted to be sick?”

He throws his hands up and slowly backs out of the room. “I’ll go find some medicine.”

Changbin presses his hand to your forehead. “You feel warm.”

Felix walks by, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Does she feel warm to you?” Changbin asks.

“Is this a trick?” Felix suspiciously questions. He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re… smoking hot. Sexy.”

“No!” Changbin snaps. “Does she have a fever?”

Felix’s mouth forms an ‘O’ as he approaches. He puts the back of his hand to your forehead before nodding. “Yeah, kinda.”

Hyunjin scoffs, leaning on the doorframe. “You just have cold hands. Let me see.” Hyunjin checks, before recoiling. “That’s a fever! Someone put a mask on her!”

“Has anyone used an actual thermometer yet?” Seungmin demands, hovering in the doorway. “Idiots.”

“Do we even have one?” Changbin asks. “Is it in the cabinet or…?”

Seungmin holds it up. “I heard you all shouting and grabbed it.”

Hyunjin winces. “Is it… an ass one?”

You duck behind Changbin. “It better not be!”

“It’s not! It goes under the tongue!” Seungmin rolls his eyes. “Come here.”

You reluctantly walk over, opening your mouth. He sticks it under your tongue, eyebrows pulling together when it beeps and flashes red.

“Fever,” Seungmin confirms.

Jisung sprints inside, juggling bottles of medicine. “What are your symptoms? We need to find the one that matches exactly with it.”

Felix peers at the bottles before taking one and inspecting the label. “This one is just vodka.”

Minho shuffles in, rubbing at his eyes. He yawns before noticing everyone. “Whats going on?”

“She’s sick,” Changbin announces. “Don’t tell Chan.”

You perk up. “Why not?”

“He’ll worry the whole time,” Hyunjin chimes in. “If you take some medicine you’ll be fine. Okay, maybe not fine, but he’ll worry himself sick if he hears.”

“And we don’t need two sick members,” you agree. “Okay, no one tell him.”

Minho clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Nonsense,” Jisung says as he pours some medicine for you. “Now take these drugs.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Felix pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s so- Just don’t do that.”

Jeongin wanders into the living room. “Who’s making breakfast? We leave in an hour and I’m hungry. I could eat a horse. Or Hyunjin would work. Pretty much the same thing.”

Hyunjin smacks the back of Jeongin’s head. “Careful. I haven’t had my coffee yet and am not in a good mood.”

Chan tugs at the strings of his hoodie. “What’s going on?”

You force a smile and push away the pounding headache. “Nothing.” You turn around and take the cup of medicine from Jisung, downing it like a shot. 

Chan scratches the back of his neck. “Okay then… Is everyone ready for today?”

You nod confidently, although it’s definitely not how you feel inside. “Yes. Very.”

Chan smiles softly. “Good. You’ll be great.”

Your stomach tumbles at his words. You really don’t need another reminder. This is your first time taking such a main spot. You’ll be in the front for the majority, being main vocalist.

And you’re sick.

Chan rolls up his sleeves. “I guess I’ll cook breakfast, then. You all be ready to go when it’s time.”

Felix grins, freckles scrunching up. “Sir yes sir.”

Chan points a finger at him. “You. You’ll be my kitchen helper for that.”

Felix sighs and his shoulders slump, but he obediently trails after Chan into the kitchen. “Sir yes sir.”

“Stay strong,” Jeongin whispers to you. He clenches a fist. “Fight the patriarchy!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Jeongin… No…”

Changbin grins, seemingly intent on making you suffer. “Down with the patriarchy!”

Seungmin pumps his fists, eyes glinting with mischief. “Up with the matriarchy!”

Jisung eagerly joins in. “Mommies rise up!”

Everyone stared at him.

Minho breaks the silence. “What?”

Jisung laughs nervously. “I was just… doing what everyone else was.”

“You really weren’t.” Hyunjin shakes his head.

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

You grip your microphone tightly. You’re fairly certain that the medicine has worn off by now. You keep flashing between too hot, and too cold. Your head is pounding and your throat burns.

You adjust your belt before stepping out onto stage. The rest of your group follows shortly behind, waving enthusiastically to the crowd.

You take your place at the front, listening to the introductions. When they come to an end and the music begins, you raise your microphone to your lips.

And your voice rasps.

You quickly push it aside, continuing with the song. Your voice thankfully clears, but your head is growing light.

Chan shoots you a worried look a you stumble over a step. You ignore him and push through the movements.

Felix and Hyunjin rush past you, using dramatic hand gestures. Hyunjin had designed that part of the dance and was very proud of it and you’re so tired and-

You twirl in the wrong direction and Jeongin barely manages to slide around you. He plays it off with an extra movement that’s honestly impressive.

You hold off a cough long enough for Jisung’s lines to come up. You dart behind Changbin to cough, grimacing when it tastes like mucus.

Seungmin’s upper lip curls and he offers you a sympathetic look.

The rest of the group parts so you can make your way to the front. You sashay as the choreography expects, only to crumple as soon as you reach the front.

Minho falls to his knees next to you and loops his arms under yours. He drags you off the stage as the others continue with what little remains. You distantly hear Seungmin take over for you, too busy blinking to really pay attention.

Minho props you up, stroking your face gently. “Come on. Deep breaths and I’ll get you some water.”

You take a sip from your bottle when it’s offered to you. “I don’t feel good. I wanna go home.”

Minho hums and presses the heel of his hand to your forehead. “I think you have a fever.”

Chan springs backstage, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

You cough into your elbow. “I’m fine. Just sick.” Your voice is nasally and you can’t possibly imagine how bad you just sounded on stage.

Chan’s expression shifts. “You’re sick? Why didn’t you tell me? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“Told you,” Minho whispers as he glides away.

“It was their idea!” Your voice is gesture to the others. “They made me! I’m just sick and you should take pity on me!”

Chan crosses his arms. “That’s no excuse. You need to tell me these things so stuff like this doesn’t happen again. Got it?”

You nod. “I got it. Totally understand.”

Chan sighs and holds out his arms. “Come here.”

You bound towards him and bury yourself in his arms. He squeezes you once before releasing you.

“Now let’s go home.” Chan takes your hand in his and guides you out the doors. “The public and press are being dealt with now. You have nothing to worry about.”

You can barely keep your eyes open by the time you reach the company van. You fall asleep on Changbin, and he carries you inside the dorms.

“Wake up,” Chan softly says. “You need medicine.”

“Drugs,” Seungmin pipes up to make you laugh. “She needs drugs.”

“Mm,” Jisung wiggles his eyebrows, “I love drugs.”

Felix spins around and marches off. “I’ll go get some juice boxes.”

Jisung cheers and runs after him. You sit up to take the medicine you’re given. It’s disgusting and you gag.

Hyunjin jumps away. “Don’t vomit on me!”

You shoot him a dirty look. “Thanks, Hyunjin.”

Jeongin pats the top of your head. “You’ll be okay. Just don’t think about how no one thinks they’re going to die because of a cold, then bam they’re dead.”

“Let’s not talk like that.” Chan swoops in to place a hand on the small of your back. “Go up to bed and get some rest. When you come down we’ll have your juice boxes and maybe even some takeout.”

You cough into the crook of your arm. “I don’t wanna sleep by myself.”

“Ew.” Hyunjin curls away from you. “Don’t infect the rest of us! You’re a walking biohazard!”

“Here.” Changbin hands you a Dwaekki. “Just throw it in the wash when you’re done covering it in disease.”

Minho clears his throat. “Or we could just burn it.”

“Did someone say bonfire?” Jisung pokes his head into the room, a crazed look in his eyes.

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret

[solxamber]

Ace (LMAO I just saw that you had a million request for him, but he’s just so loyal and loverboy coded. If you need to mix it up, Ruggie or Silver would work too!), Romantic, and Always by I fight Dragons

(“I can't promise you there won't be pain

I can't promise to remain the same

But when you're scared

I'll be there, tonight and always”)

I'm not complaining I love Ace

"Tonight, you look like a dream" || Ace Trappola

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Always by I Fight Dragons

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 430

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Established relationship, fluff

Ace still doesn’t know how he pulled this off.

You—someone so bright, so effortlessly you—chose him.

It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. He’s loud-mouthed, a pain in the ass, too stubborn for his own good. You could’ve had anyone—someone sweeter, someone smoother, someone with fewer rough edges. But somehow, somehow, you ended up with him.

And every time he sees you, it still knocks the breath out of his lungs. Every time you look at him like he’s something special, like he’s someone worth looking at, he has to fight the urge to just grab you and never let go.

Because to him, you are special. You’re every warm, golden memory. You’re the spark that turns his days from ordinary to electric. You make life something more—something worth waking up for, something worth fighting for.

He doesn’t always know how to say it. He hides behind cocky grins and teasing words, because if he ever really said how much he loved you, he might just break apart. But when he reaches for you, when his fingers brush yours and he holds on just a little too long—he hopes you understand.

He hopes you know that he’s here. That he’ll always be here.

He’s not the kind of guy to make big, poetic promises. He can’t promise that life will always be easy. That there won’t be days when he messes up, when he annoys you to the point of madness, when things don’t go the way either of you planned. But he can promise one thing:

He will always, always be by your side.

Through every fight, every laughter-filled night, every sleepy morning when he’s too lazy to get out of bed and just wants to pull you close and stay there forever—he’s yours.

Maybe one day, you’ll travel the world together, running through new cities, chasing the sun, living off adventure and love. Maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll stay right here, right where you are. And that’s okay, because even if you never move an inch, as long as you’re next to him, Ace knows he’ll still be the happiest guy alive.

He watches you now, the way your lips curl into a smile, the way your fingers brush against his, and he thinks—this is it. This is the thing people spend their whole lives looking for.

And as he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, as he whispers a soft, “You’re stuck with me, y’know,” before kissing you like he never wants to stop—he knows one thing for sure.

Tonight and always, it’s you.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[yawchi]

"just fucking listen to me and do it already."

there has never been a time in itoshi rin's life that he has ever allowed anyone to speak to him this way.

"yes, beloved."

until now.

leaning back against the headboard, you cross your arms over your chest and let out a light huff of satisfaction. of triumph. he has half a mind to jerk you out of the bed by your ankles.

yet, he doesn't. no, instead he tugs his shirt off over his head, shrugs past broad shoulders. slinks past chiseled forearms. he discards it in the laundry bin (something he's discovered is hard for you to do) and picks up the object of your demands.

a baby pink sweater, with dark pink hearts stitched throughout.

he picks it up and pretends he doesn't hear your faint chuckle at his demise; rubs the fabric between the pads of his fingers. scrunches his nose up in the way you chastise him for.

that's too mean, rin! you say. how are you ever gonna make any friends with a face like that?

he doesn't care. he doesn't want to. why would he need friends when he has you? are you not enough? do you not fulfill all of his needs? he believes so, at the very least.

one arm slips through surprisingly soft cashmere, then the other. then he's poking his head through the middle whole and there's a whole lot of pink passing in his line of sight.

seriously, when the fuck did he start letting people boss him around like that?

when did he start to find it so easy to give in? when did you sneak in? why haven't you left?

"oh. my god," you're whispering, then shrieking, "oh my god!"

"okay," he chokes out, finally, tugging at the collar before the sweater’s even laid properly over his torso. “that’s enough.”

“don’t you dare,” you snap, and he listens.

and what the fuck.

you shimmy your way to the foot of the bed, right in front of rin. pushing yourself onto your knees, you reach forward to swat his hands away and smooth out the wrinkles. there’s something in your eye—a glimmer, maybe. it’s pretty. rin frowns to hide his blush.

“oh, yeah. this is—“

“ridiculous,” rin cuts you off with a fixed glare. “i look ridiculous.”

“ridiculously adorable,” you counter, scoff at him with a wave of your hand. “this is it. i want you to wear this one to dinner.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“yes,” and you’re leaning in, smoothing one hand over his clavicle and circling the other around the back of his neck. nose brushing nose, warm breath to warm cheeks. “for me? i’ll be so good.”

you kiss him—more of a peck, really—but it’s enough to have him feigning, giving in.

“fine,” he huffs, jerks his head away from you and grabs his keys off the top of the dresser. “one hour.”

“deal!” you chirp, slipping out of bed to slip into your shoes and itoshi rin is seriously dumb founded.

he isn’t sure when he started letting people boss him around—when he started letting you—but, he must admit that a little piece of him thinks it might be worth it.

especially when you’re going to be so very good for him later.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

Weird black neglected!reader and the things the hate about the batboys do that disgust reader

So basically, there was a post ask what the bafamily does that disgust readers, or what disgusts readers—that's something like that. I can't find the ask because I answered it by accident when I wasn't finished, so whoever asked, you know who you are.

What disgusts readers the most about Bruce is his playboy persona; it irks readers to their core. Readers have always held Bruce to high expectations because their mom only spoke well of him. But all that changes when they attend a gala and see Bruce flirting with a girl decades younger than him. It makes their blood boil. Readers know the next girl is just the woman of the month, maybe day. When they were younger, a lot of the ladies would try to be nice to readers just to get on Bruce's good side. And Bruce tries to tell the reader it's just a fling and it means nothing, so no one will think he's the bad guy, but you don't care (he could be loyal, and loyal to your mother). Making the bat really guilty.

Dick, with his fake smiles and womanizing ways, makes it hard for the reader to support someone who hides their feelings or opinions when reporters or paparazzi approach him. He feels compelled to smile even while seething inside. Not only that, the reader dislikes when Dick attempts to fix everyone else's problems just to elevate himself and suppress his feelings; his womanizing tendencies are even more off-putting. The reader once looked up to Dick as a younger sibling would to an older brother, but his constant flirting with anyone within a five-mile radius has turned that admiration into disdain. This makes your poor older brother feel horrible and like a bad remodel.

Jason's nonchalance or indifference to things is perplexing, especially since you know deep down he is passionate about something he cares about. Yet, he'll never express this, at least not with you. He acts as if nothing is wrong when there is indeed something wrong. Deep down, a little Robin is screaming out and asking for help, but he'll never let it out. This type of denial disgusts the reader. Being your true self is the best self you can be; being passionate and headstrong is the best feeling in the world. Yet, he refuses to embrace it; he would rather stay constant than move forward. Jason really wants to make connections; he desperately wants to be a part of something. He wants to confide in the reader, but it might be a little too late for that.

Tim, a hypocrite and a smart-ass, reader is okay with being corrected; it just shows that they needs to learn. However, nitpicking every little thing he does really irks them. Telling the reader that something is wrong is not actual criticism; it’s just a way to put someone down. Boy, he is such a hypocrite! Timothy will literally tell you that monsters are bad, yet he goes and downs six Red Bulls before a patrol. Sure, he needs the energy, but he could eat a protein bar like a regular person. Not to mention, he is always telling you that something is really unhealthy, only for him to eat little to nothing at all. You always snap at him, and he’ll try to tell you he’s looking out for you like a brother should, but you don’t care. He really just wants you to be better than him, and be more responsible but the reader doesn't care for that.

Damian, pretentious and with a God complex, is literally an Arabian prince, so what did you expect from that little twerp? He thinks he’s better when he’s not that special. He’ll show off to readers every day and in every way. You pick up new hobbies, and it's his hobby now, and he’ll be better at it than you, probably discouraging you in the process and making you give up. If you're good, he'll try to be twice as good. Some younger siblings want to be like their big brother or sister or whatever, and it’s cute, but this isn’t cute; this is just stupid, and you hate it because Alfred always makes you hang out with the hellspawn. He’ll show off to your friends or brag about being Robin or how he used to live before the manor, and you want to hit the living daylights out of him. But even if you're taller, the kid was trained to kill at birth, so there’s no way. But all of this is because he really wants your attention and praise. You��re the only person in the house who doesn’t praise him or give him the time of day. He’s your younger brother; he shouldn’t be ignored like this. He’s royalty! Why are you rolling your eyes while he’s telling you about all the places he's been? You should be clapping and smiling—don’t ignore him!

[moonstruckme]

Hey Mae <3 if you’re open to it, would you write Spencer reassuring shy reader or reader who is still in grad school and is feeling insecure about her intelligence compared to him/the rest of the team. anyway I love how you write Spencer tytyty <3

Thanks for requesting gorgeous <3

cw: vague discussion of homicide crime scene, reader is a bit intellectually insecure, written with a fem reader in mind

Spencer Reid x intern!reader ♡ 754 words

You’re talking to yourself. You do this, sometimes, Spencer doesn’t think you even really mean to. It’ll just be a word here or there, a murmured maybe as you ponder a case or shit when you fill out a form wrong and have to get another. You’d done it in front of Derek once, and even he’d had the good sense not to tease you about it; you’re too green, still, too nervous for good-natured joking. 

The police station is mostly empty, the rest of the team having called it a night except for you and Spencer. In the past twenty minutes, as you’ve swivel in your chair and peered at the board with hawk-like intensity, it’s been no, but if…, and unless? Spencer tries not to let it distract him, but it is cute, the way you seem to be talking yourself in and out of theories, using yourself as your own sounding board. He’s never met an intern—a student, nonetheless—less eager to get to their FBI-bankrolled hotel room. 

It’s when you shake your head at yourself, seemingly dismissing an idea, and mutter stupid, that’s when Spencer steps in. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

You jolt and turn your head like you’d forgotten he was there. “Huh?” 

“You seem like you have an idea.” 

“Oh, I was…it wasn’t anything.” You have one foot on the ground, the other pulled up onto your chair with you, and you’re using it to swivel your seat back and forth restlessly. It’s almost funny; Spencer doesn’t understand how anyone could ever be nervous around him, but you are. You are around the whole team. You’re quiet most of the time, looking at them all with wide eyes and palpable awe while they analyze and ideate. It’s sweet, but also baffling, considering you’re fiercely intelligent yourself. 

Spencer smiles at you. Your lips curve in kind, like they’re not entirely sure why but are relieved to do it. 

“I’d still like to hear it,” he says. 

You visibly shrink, leg pulling closer to you in your seat. “I was just, um, starting to think that maybe the way he laid out the second victim could be a sign of remorse, but then I realized it couldn’t be, because of—”

“The dump site,” Spencer finishes with you. 

You nod, looking abashed. “Right. So, obviously not.” 

“That’s not obvious,” Spencer says. He looks at the board, tapping his thumb on his jaw. “We haven’t been looking at the way the second victim was positioned, there could be something to that.” 

You blink. “Really?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I—well, sorry. I just didn’t think there was anything to say. I didn’t want to sound dumb.” 

You cringe like you hadn’t meant to say it. Spencer feels his brows twitch together, though it’s not like the explicit admission surprises him when you’ve effectively been saying it in a thousand implicit ways since he met you. He has the strange urge to reach over and put a hand on your shoulder. It's not like him, so he doesn’t. 

“We all have theories that don’t pan out,” he says, “all the time. We just bounce them off the team anyway in case it leads to another idea.” 

Your smile is almost rueful. “You don’t.” 

Spencer actually laughs. “I do. It’s possible you just haven’t been around long enough to notice.” 

Your head tilts sideways as though contemplating this. It makes your body list slightly in the chair, your leg resting against the cushioned arm. You look more at ease than you did a minute before, softer, the furrow of concentration easing from between your brows. Spencer’s chest feels light and airy without reason.

“It’s not dumb, to have an idea that doesn’t turn into anything,” he tells you gently. “No one in our team would think that.” 

“I know,” you say, sheepish now. “You guys just know so much, I don’t know how to contribute.”

“It comes with experience,” Spencer assures you. “You’ll pick it up quickly, I can tell. You already are.” 

You smile again. It’s more relaxed than before, a bashful pride shining in your eyes. Spencer props his cheek on his fist, mirroring it thoughtlessly. You look tired, though no less pretty for it, the beckoning of sleep gentle in your features. If Spencer was less selfish he’d probably tell you to go back to the hotel, but normally he’s the only one who never manages to use his room during these trips. He finds he really enjoys the company.

[ladsheadcanoncorner]

Yessss feed me the headcanonssssss

Can we get overprotective? Maybe like what they would do if your asshole ex shows up or something like that?

absolutely (gender neutral ex so you can picture as you see fit)! as a girly with a bad ex, i would've loved to have the boys there to defend me. hope anyone out there dealing with this can find some comfort here too <3

rating: sfw cw: bad ex, threats of violence ✉︎♡: ask box open, tumblr users + anons

Xavier:

Man is jealous of himself, so you can only imagine how he is when he finally meets your infamous ex at a work mixer

Xavier shakes hands and greets everyone except your ex, who he won’t even look at

He is grabby with you for the rest of the night. Hand in yours, on your back, on your shoulder. He won’t let you out of his sight for even a second

You: “Xav, it’s okay. We broke up a long time ago and -”

Your ex makes the mistake of jumping into the conversation right then. “Could only get someone who’s already trapped with you at work all day, huh?”

Xavier looks calm, but you can see rage flashing in his eyes

He takes a step toward your ex and quietly and calmly says, “Anyone who lost such a prize must be an idiot, and I don’t fight unfair matches.”

Before your ex can say anything else, Xavier is already leading you out of the party, hand on the back of your neck so that everyone, including your ex, can see that you’re his

“Let’s go home so I can show you just how lucky I am to have you.”

Zayne:

You’re at a cafe before work, one of the rare times you and Zayne have matching shifts

While waiting for your coffee to be called, you hear the barista say a familiar name

You and Zayne both whip your heads to look at the pickup counter, and your heart sinks when you see your ex

Zayne knows some details about your ex since you grew up together, but it is enough that he instantly turns on his protective side

The barista calls your name and Zayne’s next, and Zayne squeezes your hand before getting up to get the drinks

Right as your ex is reaching for the drink, Zayne slides in front and picks up the drinks you ordered with ease, cutting your ex off

The coldest delivery of, “It’s polite to say sorry, but I’m really not.”

Your ex starts to get upset but Zayne has already turned his back with your drink

He calls over his shoulder, “The life of a surgeon is busy. If you wanted to go first you should’ve gotten a better job.”

Zayne hands you your coffee with an easy smile and a kiss, making sure your ex is watching the entire exchange

Rafayel:

You and Raf are touring a museum to see the spot where his newest painting will be installed later that month

When you hear a familiar voice at the end of the hall, you freeze

Rafayel: “What’s wrong, cutie?” You: “That voice sounded just like my ex. You know that ex.”

Rafayel merely nods, and then drapes an arm over your shoulder as you keep walking forward, pulling you as close to his body as he can

Rounding the corner, your ex spots you and sneers, “Surprised to see you finally got back out there.”

Rafayel turns to you and says, “Aw cutie, I didn’t know you used to do charity work.”

You don’t know whose jaw drops to the floor faster, you or your ex

Raf looks at your ex and then continues nonchalantly, “I’m putting up a new art piece this month. You should really check out the red paint, I think it’ll match your vibe.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek and then the two of you leave the museum, Raf never letting you out from under his arm

You: “You’re not really going to use that paint in the museum, right?” Raf, coldly: “No, but I might make a custom piece if that asshole ever thinks of talking to you again.”

Sylus:

When Sylus gets back to the base one night, he can’t find you in any of your usual spots

Rationally he knows that Mephisto would have told him if you were in any sort of danger, but emotionally Sylus can feel his heart rate starting to speed up

He finally finds you on the terrace, having a rather heated conversation on the phone

He knows you’re completely capable of fighting your own battles, but as soon as he hears that name - the one you told him about, who hurt you - all bets are off

Casually strides over to you and plucks the phone out of your hand with a, “Let me handle this, sweetie.”

His hand is tracing protective circles on your back when he says, “How did you get this number?” Your ex on the other line instantly gets defensive.

“I’m going to stop you right there. Nobody talks to me like that and gets away unscathed, but nobody talks to her like that and lives. If you value that pathetic little life of yours, I’d leave town for a while.”

He hangs up the phone and then blocks the number before handing it back to you

Sylus: “I don’t think your ex will be bothering you anytime soon.” You: “Yeah because you threatened them?” Sylus: “It was more of a promise, kitten.”

He spends the rest of the night being extra romantic. Stealing long kisses whenever you walk by, taking you to his vinyl room to slow dance, and making sure you know just how much you are worth loving 

Caleb:

You’ve been acting weird all night, even though Caleb took you to your favorite restaurant

Caleb: “You’ve barely touched your food. Are you feeling alright?” You: “Yeah everything is fine. I’m just tired.”

As if you could ever actually lie to Caleb, but he doesn’t press the issue further

On the way out of the restaurant, you pass by a table close to the door, where you’re greeted with a, “Is that Y/N?”

As soon as Caleb sees your ex, he is like a different person. He’s squaring his shoulders, his hand is protectively gripping yours, and his eyes are absolutely determined

Of course he knows all about your ex, being on the receiving end of all of the nights you spent crying over this horrible person, but meeting face to face is a different story

Caleb puts on a fake smile and then bends down by the table so as not to cause a scene

“If you even so much as look at her again, I promise it will be the last thing you do. Understand?”

When Caleb stands up, your ex sees just how much he towers over them, and they shrink back in their seat

He then makes a dramatic display of kissing you right in front of them before you leave the restaurant

“Want to go get ice cream to make up for all of that, or should we skip right to the dessert at home?”

[thebramblewood]

Who knew window shopping could lead to so many revelations?

Previous / Next

All credit to @moonwoodhollow for Exerzierplatz, where you can find the bookstore, and @its-opheliasgarden for Umbra Boulevard, where you can find the antique shop, both of which are only one small part of these incredible builds!

Caleb: You’ve grown awfully comfortable with her.

Helena: First of all, you have no room to judge. [mockingly] Oh, she’s my sister and I loathe her! But I’m too much of a coward to move out.

Caleb: I’ve certainly never uttered those-

Helena: Secondly, being angry is exhausting. Holding an eternal grudge requires too much energy. And she can be fun — in her own way.

Caleb: You mean the way that’s fun until it isn’t? Not long ago, she had you on the verge of murder. Your memory can’t be that short.

Helena: We have our differences. But she respects my limits now.

Caleb: She’s being careful, but I know her too well to believe it’s for anyone’s benefit but her own. She’s only biding her time until you let your guard down.

Helena: God, you’re cynical.

Caleb: I’m realistic. For a long time, I held out hope she would turn back into the Lilith I knew. But there’s a point of no return, and she’s far past it. I just think you should tread carefully.

-

Helena: Why do you really stay? Is she holding something over you? Are you a masochist?

Caleb: I’ve told you. It’s complicated.

Helena: Have you ever even tried to leave?

Caleb: Helena-

Helena: Who’s Morgyn?

Caleb: [uncomfortably abrupt silent]

Helena: I heard that name in your head just now, not for the first time. I didn’t want to pry, but it must be someone who means a lot to you.

Caleb: Meant.

Helena: Did you have a falling out or-

Caleb: [flatly] They’re dead.

Helena: Oh. I’m sorry. [softly] Caleb, were you in love with them?

Caleb: Something like that.

Helena: What happened? Don’t tell me Lilith-

Caleb: [insistently] It had nothing to do with her. They were a spellcaster, a very powerful one. They wielded influence. They had detractors. One of those detractors killed them.

Helena: Oh my god. That’s awful. Could you tell me what they were like sometime — when you’re ready?

Caleb: [faintly] I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Helena: Caleb, look! I haven’t used one of these since I was a kid. Do you think they’ve got film for it?

-

Caleb: Come on. Don’t waste it on a picture that won’t even turn out.

Helena: What’s the deal with that anyway? I saw something about silver online, but-

Caleb: Anything you read on the Internet is conjecture and myth.

Helena: Is it because we don’t have souls?

Caleb: [bemused] What does that even mean? Do you feel as though you’ve lost yours?

Helena: Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess I feel the same… mostly.

Caleb: Countess Flores has a theory that we innately shroud our physical selves in images, just as we veil human minds, that we could appear if we willed it. But that remains pure hypothesis as far as I know.

Helena: I think I’ve attempted enough desperate selfies to safely debunk that one. You know, I wonder… [trails off distractedly]

Caleb: Helena?

Helena: Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I used to want to capture every moment, but now the pictures make it impossible to forget.

Caleb: We both know it’s not the pictures that keep the memories alive.