#and then how he just. disarms and kills them all

[novicedraws]

your biggest fan here

So evil Lao and Raiden didn’t know each other [closely] before becoming enemies, huh? ig it felt like they had a history because when they are not fighting Raiden seems… chill/tolerant to Lao? XD like “are you fr breaking into my room through a window? kinda rude but sure ig” lmao

How did he ended up in this situation then? 👀 did he just fell for the Bad Boy charm, or was there something more? they love to hold each other in arms while wounded, do they have a common enemy who brought them closer??

🍀

omg, its you again! hola hahahahaha Yea that's my bad lol I tend to draw "story beats" out of order so I can see why the confusion. So if you don't mind, imma kinda look like this

First Meeting - The start of it all, atp the Shaolin have been winning and gaining back territories and recourses from the Red Dragon. Kung Lao is called in to "fix" the problem. Raiden only knows by word of mouth about Kung Lao (vise versa Kung Lao with Raiden). Kung Lao is more amused about this new "champion" as he doesn't see him as a threat (until he gets his ass beat in that first encounter lol) obviously the two still don't like each other.

The Girls are Fighting - probably the least amount of drawings out of the arcs. honestly that one drawing is even leaning more towards "changing Point". essentially, This is the messy part of the story. both the champions don't like each other what so ever. its also the longest part of the "story" (months time in the story) Mavado/ rest of the Red Dragon starts picking up about this new threat. In turn they put more pressure on Kung Lao, it makes him so fucking mad. Its as if he's not a threat anymore. (he still very much so). Raiden on the other hand also gets pressure from his piers, the champion should have already fixed most of the issues already. ((side note - yea they should go after Liu Kang but *plot twist* Liu Kang is actually weakened. Its why he wont just rewrite the universe, something went terribly wrong, plus he's not a "public" figure)) both sides allies think they are getting "obsessed" with the other.

Changing Point - Raiden by default is a nice person, even in this rough situation. So seeing how this war just brings so much pain and suffering he goes for a different tactic. Diplomacy with Kung Lao- just enough to try and reason with him. It doesn't exactly work and in that moment of vulnerability Kung lao takes his chance to disarm Raiden. Raiden can keep up with Kung Lao but he panicked with his amulet stolen, so he did the most crazy thing (aka kiss him). If you asked, Raiden has no idea why he would even go for that tactic he just panicked lol. But he didn't hate it, no matter how much he tells himself otherwise.

Feelings? - Mavado gets wind of the new annoying champion, and sees how Kung Lao is annoyed with him...or is he? Mavado knows Kung Lao's mannerisms, hes 90% sure its not hatred. And knowing that, he feels...annoyed, mad, upset even? but instead of actually thinking about it, he acts petty and tries to hurt them both (alt. to fighting). He hurts Raiden at the party- Raiden doesn't know why he's upset seeing that. And Kung Lao doesn't know why he cares for Raiden's feelings. - Kung Lao knows how to sneak around (he had to for survival) so he often goes to see the enemy front (its often how he's able to defeat the enemy) but this one night is different. He see's Raiden very close to another individual (smoke). He doesn't care who or what that person is, he does not like them being that close to Raiden. (this is bit of a toxic trait- not enough to thinking of killing that individual- but immense jealousy)

Earth Realms Champion Injured - Raiden is one man, and while he's very strong and powerful, he's still a humble farm boy. He tries to please everyone and over works himself to the point of almost passing out in battle. The pressure and stress has got to him at this point. Despite telling everyone he's fine. He almost dies in battle but Kung Lao comes in just in time to save him. He sees the state Raiden in and is pissed. (just to note they are not fighting each other here, this is a separate issue trying to take over- aka Shang Tsung's army) Long story short (i wanna draw something later lol) Raiden is out of commission for a bit.

Something Changed - Raiden got better! but something strange keep happening during his recovery. Little gifts and such keep popping up in his room, he tries asking the others, but they deny leaving anything. He knows who it is, but he doesn't want to believe it really because why would he care about him? they are enemies, sure there's something, and he's scared. He shouldn't have these feelings, but he does. Is Kung Lao playing with his feelings? Is he just messing with him before killing him once and for all? He doesn't know. - Until one night, he stayed up enough to catch Kung Lao enter his room looking...normal. Soft. A little exhausted by the bags under his eyes. Its the first time in a while the two have gotten to see and talk to each other after all the shit they gone through. Just the two of them alone for once. They both know things were never going to stay the same again, and they don't hate that. That night they embraced each other as though they were meant to be together.

Omg Change Pt. 2 - Still working on it LMAOOOOOO--- the two now know what the other is feeling. orrrrr they're trying lol. Kung Lao is raised to keep emotions in otherwise its a weakness and can be used against you. Raiden learns people pleasing is how he is able to help his village. Its how he got injured in the first place. so they are both trying to work on it lol - will they have a happy ending? idk but thats for later hahaha.

Theres still gaps in the story, but honestly that comes in when I actually draw them in lol

So just some small spark notes I couldnt fit up above- - Raiden becomes more tolerate of Kung Lao around Changing Point. His feelings also start to slowly build up. Same with Kung Lao. - While he's not exactly against sex, Raiden definitely had a more tame upbringing. He's raised as a farm boy, and trained as a monk. Kung Lao existence alone is making the poor boy spiral LOL. Poor man is having a crises as to why he's feeling these things, he shouldn't! but he does! (also kind of makes him insecure but Kung Lao reassures him to never think like that) - The parts from changing point to omg change pt. 2 is actually short in terms of time compared to the girls are fighting.

OMGGGGGGG that was a lot, I hope I answered at least one question LOL

[wildsaltair]

enjoy some more photos I scrounged off the sketchiest places of the Internet for my beloved

[fanaticalthings]

I really like the idea of the bat kids designating Dick and Jason's apartments as sibling gathering spots but for opposite reasons.

Sibling needs some comfort? Some eldest daughter advice? A shoulder to cry on or just a lil getaway spot from the chaos of Gotham? Dick's apartment is perfect.

But if a batkid wants to complain, maybe wants to talk shit about Bruce, or maybe even wants to discuss a lil felony in a judgement free zone? Jason's place it is.

And I like to imagine that while Dick readily keeps his doors open and reminds anyone that they can drop by anytime, it's the opposite for Jason.

Dude's got his place riddled with traps and locked up to the high heavens. He makes it obvious he doesn't want visitors, and vaguely insinuates that there are bombs rigged somewhere in his apartment so there's a always a 50/50 chance you might get blown up if he's feeling particularly bitchy one day.

But does that stop his siblings? Absolutely not. Unlike Dick (who assigns himself as the guiding older brother), Jason has been forcefully labelled as the older sibling you go to if you need to complain and stir up havoc. The hundreds of traps in his place mean nothing. And it's worse because Jason is never prepared for when someone drops in.

-----

[Jason, 3 hours into his sleep, blearily waking up to a weight on his chest at 4am]:

[Damian, perched atop him, eyes dead-centre locked onto Jason without blinking]: Hello, Todd-stop screaming it is unbecoming-I just came to tell you that father won't allow me to adopt another stray I found on patrol.

Jason, half-asleep and like 70% sure he's hallucinating: Wha-

Damian: I need you to blow up his car.

Jason:

-----

[Jason, arriving home after a 6 hour patrol, exhausted out of his mind, turning on the lights]:

[Stephanie, previously baking brownies in the pitch black darkness before Jason arrived]: Oh hey! Just thought I'd drop by, y'know, for fun.

Jason: Bruce yelled at you again.

Stephanie: Bruce yelled at me again.

And yes, while most of the time, it ends up as wholesome sibling bonding, sometimes the other batkids just feel like inconveniencing Jason just whenever, because what are siblings for?

[Jason waking up and seeing all of his traps and security systems disarmed and very deliberately broken in a way where he'll have to replace all of them instead of being able to reactivate them]:

[Jason, immediately dialing his phone angrily]: Tim, I swear to GOD-

-----

[Jason giving himself a rest-day and cooking some meals]:

[Dick somersaulting in through the open window unannounced (he missed his brother)]: Whatcha up to, littlewing? :>

Jason: GET OUT-

-----

[Jason casually reading a book, feeling a sudden chill up his spine]:

[Cassandra standing in the corner without so much as an exhale, watching Jason intensely. Who knows how long she's been there]:

Jason: Are you here to kill me

Cass:

Jason: Just make it quick.

[backtothefanfiction]

Hiii!! I was wondering if you can write a joaquin torres x reader enemies to lovers? Thank uu

Under Your Skin | Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary: an afternoon of training takes a turn for the infuriating when you are partnered with Joaquin… but maybe he’s not as bad as you think

Warnings: fighting, angst, nakedness (no smut), kissing

Word Count: don’t know, a couple thousand, I wrote this in app

A/N: this turned into something. Hope people enjoy.

“Kahn you’re with Bishop. Chavez, Williams. Y/L/N, Torres!”

“Uh no! Not happening!” you called out indignantly, refusing to even look at the man Sam had partnered you with for these drills.

“Why? What the problem Y/N worried I’ll beat you?” Joaquin jibed.

“No,” you turned your head to look at him disdainfully as the others left the three of you and began to spar with one another. “I’m worried I’ll kill you?” you gritted.

“Don’t worry,” he grinned playfully, “I won’t let you.” You rolled your eyes as his words worked to irritate you more.

Joaquin was always so peppy and he ALWAYS had something to say and you were so over it.

“Oh I’m gonna try,” you said stepping forward, your fingers curled up into fists ready to lunge just as Sam stepped between you two.

“Alright. ENOUGH!” he stressed and you reluctantly backed down. “Now you’re supposed to be a team. So act like one. You think me and Bucky used to get along?” he asked the two of you, but neither of you would look at him or each other, let alone answer. “NO!” he stressed again. “But did we try to work together because we were on the same team?” There was another painful pause as he waited for either of you to answer. “Yes!” he said, finally answering the question himself. “Now whether you like it or not, you’re teammates, so you better start finding a way to work together. Or else it could be everybody else’s ass that’s on the line,” he affirmed, before he walked away, encouraging you both to work this out between you like adults.

Joaquin folded his arms and swayed back and forth as he watched Sam leave you to it. “Soooo, are we doing this or?”

You let out a deep sigh as you rolled your eyes yet again at your situation, slowly resigning yourself to it, before you stepped forward, reaching for his arm. You seized the opportunity, using his brief moment of unpreparedness to flip him over your shoulder and onto his back.

He let out a grunt as he went down onto the mat with a loud thud, a quick look of confusion washing over his face as he reoriented himself. “Okay, if that’s how it’s gonna be.” he grunted before reaching out for your arm, his ankles tucking behind yours to pull you down to the floor with him before he rolled himself over you to pin you in place.

You sneered as you adjusted your other arm to reach for his wrist, forcing it out the way to alleviate the pressure on your chest and give you enough wiggle room to fight back. You brought your legs up crossing them over his chest, his arms tucked in tight to disarm him and rolled you both so you were back on top and sitting on his chest.

“Ready to submit pretty boy.” you asked him as you used your whole body weight to push him back down into the training mat.

“Nope,” he grunted, “but it’s nice to know you think I’m pretty.” he said, flashing you his signature pearly white grin.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t need to.” he grunted again before he bucked his whole body and you had to do a forward roll over his head so you didn’t smash your face into the floor as the two of you became disconnected.

You both quickly got back to your feet, your chests heaving with the exertion of the tussle. As you took him in, all golden muscles and shiny teeth, you really wanted to smack the smug look off of his face.

“Come on then, Firecracker, that all you got,” he taunted.

“Don’t call me that!” you gritted at him through your teeth before you charged at him. You took a run and jump in order to get some leverage, climbing up his body before swinging your whole weight around the back of his neck and down, forcing him into a roll again, his back slamming down onto the mat as he was laid out. You quickly rolled off of him, reaching for his arm before manipulating him onto his front and pulling his arm up behind him as you pinned his chest to the ground.

“Uhhhgg, seriously,” he grunted into the mat, “what did I do to make you hate me so much.” You didn’t have an answer for him.

Technically Joaquin had never really done anything it was just his energy that tended to rub you up the wrong way. If you were a black cat, he was a golden retriever. He was high energy and happy and in everybody else’s business. You would rather stay in your own energy and keep to yourself and absolutely left alone. He found a way to make a joke out of everything. It never felt like he took anything serious and you always felt like the butt of his jokes. The easy prey. Little nicknames or backwards references to the others about your moody demeanour. And that was all before you added his suck up mentality with Wilson. ‘Mr all oooh I’m the new Falcon. I’m best buds with Captain America.’ Barf.

“No? Not got answer for that?” he grumbled into the mat as you pushed his face further into it, willing him to actually stay quiet for once. But it was no use. “Fine.” he mumbled before he once again rolled his body to buck you off. You both rolled, once- twice- until he had you well and truly pinned to the floor. He was sat so high up on your chest you could neither move your arms or legs. You were completely at his mercy.

“See here’s the thing,” he continued while he had you trapped. His captive audience. “I don’t think you hate me at all. I think, you secretly like me and I’m so far away from everything you expect to like, so you do everything you can to put me down or push me away. It’s easier to pretend you hate me, than to admit to everyone else that I’m under your skin,” he taunted as your wriggled beneath him, trying desperately to get free, but failing miserably.

“You wish. No wonder they made you the Falcon with that bird brain of yours.” you taunted back.

“Go on, keep being mean to me. See what happens.”

“Uhhhgg get off me,” you groaned, his weight pushing into your chest. There were rules about not using your abilities in combat training to make it fair on the opponents who didn’t have abilities, but you were almost at the end of your tether and you weren’t above burning his arrogant ass.

You knew he could feel your skin beginning to heat up beneath his thighs as a warning, but still he didn’t relent.

“Oh come on now. Just admit it. I’m under your skin.” he retorted.

You groaned and struggled again to be free as his thighs began to squeeze the tops of your arms harder.

“Admit it!”

“FINE!” you finally shouted at him. “YOU’RE UNDER MY SKIN! Are you happy now! Now get the fuck off me!”

As you both got up off the floor, you finally noticed all eyes had been on your little scrap. It was the final straw. You felt like something under a fucking microscope. “You know what,” you huffed brushing yourself off. “Fuck this.” you muttered before walk out the training room, wanting to go on a run around the grounds on your own to clear your head.

Who the fuck did he think he was anyway? You had been working with the Avengers longer than all of them. You were friends with Captain America long before Sam took up the mantle. You trained with Natasha. They had never even met her.

Your lungs began to burn as you headed towards the trees, your legs and arms pumping harder, your focus determined as you followed the trail you always ran. The leaves and twigs crunched under your feet with every thundering step you took, but the further you went, the better you felt. You had always worked better alone. There was no one else to second guess you or undermine your decisions or get in your way. No one to talk your ears off and distract you from your mission. No one you felt you had to keep an eye on. You only needed to worry about yourself getting in and out.

You did three laps of the campus before you finally called it a day, figuring it would have been long enough for everyone to have finished their sessions and cleared out so you could hit the showers in peace.

As you made your way through the training gym and back to the locker room, all seemed quiet and you breathed a sigh of relief. Left all alone you wasted no time in stripping off. You grabbed yourself a fresh towel and headed towards the showers in the back. Completely empty, just how you liked it. No chatting. No team bonding. Just you and the calming sounds of the running water.

You always ran hot due to your powers and having a nice cool shower was the best way to regulate you and refresh. You knew that fire that ran through your veins often escalated things for you. Knew it made you a little more hot headed than most. Sure you knew you had made a bit of a scene back there, but that’s just who you were and Joaquin knew that. Which is why he found it so easy to push your buttons.

“Just admit it, you’re just jealous of me.” his voice came out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of you. You quickly pulled part of the shower curtain back to see him stood just outside your cubicle with his back to the wall.

“What the? Where the fuck did you come from?” You spat at him, then a realisation popped into your head. “Were you spying on me? Just waiting for me to walk in here so you could see me naked?!”

“Shit! No- that’s-“ he began to mumble, his eyes growing wide as he realised how this suddenly all looked. “I didn’t mean- but yes I did- but.”

You raised your eyebrows at him incredulously. “Oh my god! You have got to be kidding me.”

“I just. I wanted us to talk. To work this out.” he said.

“So you thought you’d wait until I was naked in the shower to do it!”

“I’m sorry, I just. Sam is right,” he tried to defend himself. “We are on the same team and we need to be able to work together.”

“Oh my god! You’re such a kiss ass Joaquin!”

“Yeah! And you’re a stubborn fucking princess who doesn’t know when to quit the bullshit!” he snapped.

You took a step back. You were stunned silent by his uncharacteristic outburst.

“I’m not taking it back.” he said doubling down.

“I didn’t ask you to.” you snapped back.

There was a pause before he said, “Well what do we do now.”

You thought a moment. This was all getting so out of hand again. Gods, you just wanted to have a moment and cool off, instead you felt hotter than ever. You were so infuriated by him. What made him think this was a clever idea?

“Strip off.” You finally said an idea of your own coming to mind.

“What?” he asked stunned.

“You heard me Torres, strip off. You’ve seen me naked, only fair I get a glance back.”

He paused as he thought a moment, trying to work out if you were serious or trying to psych him out and scare him off. And to be fair, you weren’t sure if you were either. You’d seen him in his gym wear. Felt his muscles when he was fighting. You had a fairly good idea what he was packing under his clothes- but did you really want to pull on this string and have the full package burnt into the recesses of your mind.

“Fine.” he eventually relented, his fingers immediately reaching for the hem of his shirt before either of you could back down. He figured, worst comes to worst, hopefully this would be a good trust/bonding exercise. “But-“ he continued as he began to reach for the waistband of his shorts, “I do this, you have to pull the curtain back so I can look properly too. Deal?” he said, reaching out for one of your hands still clutching desperately to the wet shower curtain.

You paused to rethink this through as you stared at his outstretched hand. It was clear from the look in his eyes he was deadly serious and up for this exchange and you could feel that stubbornness prickling at the back of your neck. You knew you would never be able to live with yourself if you let him psych you out and get the upper hand now. Before you knew it, you were reaching out to shake his hand.

“Alright then,” he relented. His right hand moved back to join his left around his waistband and he dropped his shorts just as you let go of the shower curtain.

Oh shit, you thought to yourself as you finally took him in in all his naked glory. He was gorgeous. Toned all the way from the tops of his shoulders, all the way down to the backs of his calves. As your eyes trailed back up his body and met his, you saw the same look of trepidation reflected back at you. What had you both done? You didn’t know what to do now. You were so in over your head with this guy. But one thing was for sure, you couldn’t deny anymore he was well and truly under your skin in more ways than you’d have originally liked to admit.

He tentatively took a step forward, kicking his feet out of his sliders and discarded shorts. “Woah, what are you doing?” You defensively asked, immediately taking a step further back into the shower.

“Sorry-“ he said quickly coming to a stop. “I just thought. The way you were looking at me. I just-“

“You just what?” you said hesitantly, but although you were still on your guard, your body relaxed to match his cool and calm demeanour.

“I just thought that you wanted… never mind,” he said taking a step back. But as he began to step away from you again, you found yourself stepping forward to chase him. Stop him.

“No,” you said softly, needing to hear what he had to say. “Tell me.”

“I just thought,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair, “I thought for second you finally wanted me back.”

“What?!” you said stunned. Wanted him back?

“Everything I said earlier…” he said, struggling to meet your eyes and you self consciously began to move your arms of your body to try and cover your modesty a little more while you had this, now, seemingly more serious conversation. He sighed, “Look I was projecting my feelings onto you and I’m sorry, okay? Truth is, you’re the one under my skin. I look for you when I enter every room. I live to see those rare moments when you actually smile. I fucking love it when you toss me around like I’m fucking nothing. Do you know how impressive that is?” he confessed with a half toothy smile.

“I’m the one who’s fucking jealous. You’ve worked with so many of the greats, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton- Rogers, even. I just, I wanted you to at least think I was on your level. I’m sorry if that came off in the wrong way. I never meant to make you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you quickly corrected him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think you’ve got way too much energy and pep for a guy who’s been in the service and seen way too much shit. I think you crack way too many jokes at inappropriate times. And your fangirling…” you let your words trail off as you pulled a face to let him know how awkward you found that at times, but you quickly softened your features again. “But I don’t hate you Joaquin.” You reaffirmed.

“But you don’t like me like that.” he quickly surmised and your bristled. It was subconscious and caught you off guard, your body naturally reacting to the statement before your mind had even processed what it would mean. You had never even allowed yourself to ask the question before. He may have been projecting when he said what he had said before, but you realised he had also been right. And then it hit you. All this time you had been having a crush on him, you just hadn’t realised that that was what you were feeling.

He hesitated as he watched you silently process those thoughts. His eyes watching every move of your face and body with precision. Slowly he stepped forward again to test the waters and this time you didn’t step back.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t want me to do this.” he said, but you didn’t tell him to stop.

His hand lifted to reach out to softly cup your cheek. Your eyes searched his, trying to work out if this was really happening. You took a single steadying step back into the shower but you still didn’t tell him to stop and before you knew it, you were both stood under the cooling spray, but neither one of you pulled away.

“Joaquin,” you quietly breathed into his ever nearing lips.

“I know,” is all he said, before his mouth was finally on yours.

It was everything you never knew you needed. His fingers moving from your cheek to behind your head to pull you in closer to him and your hands reached out and instantly melted against his chest. His kiss was both gentle and hungry. Sweet but desperate and everything you had ever wanted. You sighed into him as he deepened the kiss and before you knew it, neither one of you knew why you had been fighting in the first place anymore.

You broke the kiss to take a deep steadying breath and meet his gaze before you could allow yourself to get too lost in it.

“Was that okay?” he quickly asked for reassurance.

“Yes,” you softly replied as you nodded your head.

“Can I do it again?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied once more and as he connected his lips to yours once again, you realised Joaquin Torres was definitely, most well and truly, under your skin.

[methoughtsphantom]

Jason “my family doesn’t know im alive” Todd and Danny “my family doesn’t know I’m dead” Fenton going alongside each of their plans my beloved. like Danny will absolutely go head-to-head with all of Gotham to support his new best friend on all his crime lord endeavors while he drags Jason to also attend collage with him. They are roommates and there never seems to a mention of family from either side. It’s an unspoken understanding they have. They met because Crime alley as a ghost lair thrummed with so much loneliness, it was at first the perfect place for Danny to hide his ecto signature in. But then he saw the dumbass whose lair it was lean his motorcycle just a tad too much when making a sharp turn to an alley, he sweeped the floor through a lifted chain link that passed his body but not his helmet. Yep that’s right the red thing got stuck. Danny who at the moment happened to be watching through his window snorted. Much to his horror because if not a ghost that dude could’ve gotten his head flung off.

Still, the scene was ridiculous.

On a whim he irrationally sees the police closing in on the guy and panicked at the thought of the guy using intangibility to free himself so Danny phased them both through his apartment wall and left the guy sprawled in his couch. Jason didn’t freak out but that’s normal when one’s got a concussion, one the guy immediately denied having as Danny laid out the medical supplies. The idiot proceeded to almost flatten four steps to the door with his stubbornness. He also said “I’m asexual” in the most deadpan voice as Danny dropped him back in the couch.

Danny sighed. Clearly though, he’d done so too early in the night because the guy kept trying to go, kept trying to knock Danny out, kept trying to slash him with knifes Danny didn’t know he had stashed. He’d only disarmed the guy from his guns. The visible ones apparently, cause at one point the guy did take out a gun and shoot until the ammo ran out and then teetered the thing like it was an art prop and hit his moon lamp.

Danny "yeah you aren’t officially my friend until you’ve tried to kill me" fenton my guys.

Anyways both keep having the same argument over if Danny technically kidnapped Jason or not. Danny holds the fact that the police at least didn’t see the guy make the ridicule. Jason argued that happened cause he was sporting a concussion. Danny argued he got that after.

Jason at first thinks the guy's a meta, but no. Danny introduces himself, sheepily now that he recognizes this is who the lair he invaded is from. He bandages him and tries to cook for him. If Danny didn’t have ice powers he most certainly would’ve burned the apartment. Jason then proceeds to kick him out of his own kitchen and make them both enchiladas. It’s the most normal both had in a while with another person and the air seems oddly settled. From then on, Jason constantly invited himself over, under the pretense that this was his territory and therefore he could drop in unannounced. Danny who has actual powers says he only allows this because Jason cooks very well.

Danny stays away from the crime fighting business unless his buddy is in deep shit he can’t get himself out. Also it’s Danny’s turn to cover for his vigilante friend which Sam and Tucker give him so much shit for. (but also advice)

And they were roommates. (omg) Danny effectively derails Jason’s big comeback plans by casually dropping ghost lore every two days. Like,

Jason, talking about how he doesn’t want Bats snooping on his territory:

Danny: Just don’t let them in

Jason: ??

Danny: yeah!! Hasn’t Batman died and got revived??? You can totally kick out death touched people you don’t want entering on your lair.

Jason: …I can?

Danny: Yep dude, your lair’s supposed to feel safe.

Jason: wait does that mean I can kick you out?

Danny: First this is my apartment. Second, im dead, not dead touched. Third, it’s too late to get rid of me. bitch.

Anyways Jason is super excited. You mean to tell him he can actually deny people over to his territory haunt?? (Yes it’s only to people who have died and came back but still!! The sample size is exactly the type of people he doesn’t want to see—!)

Joker my beloathed can’t step foot in Crime Alley.

(Jason’d feel a lot safer if the clown was dead but the possibility of his murderer turning into a ghost and their little loophole not applying on the clown is too scary to contemplate.)

Anyways, Jason loves experimenting with the power. It can go from simply making people shudder and not want to enter crime Alley to straight up not letting them enter like there’s an invisible wall blocking the way.

Jason because he’s hurt that Bruce never even patrols Crime Alley and also because he’s petty put B under the category of “invisible wall” blacklist. His reasoning is that the man doesn’t even attempt to enter Crime Alley. To him it’s surely just a place shadowed in tragedy. (anyways that’s it’s the place he met Jason)

Ironically, Jason totally forgets that Batman does venture into Crime Alley one day in the whole year. The day he met Jason.

Okay. He didn’t forget at first. The first year Jason remembers cause it was only a few months till then but then the next— Jason forgets that today’s the anniversary of the day’s Bruce’s parents died. He forgets to allow B in when he feels a slight tug and dismiss the feeling that prompts Bruce to investigate because he literally can’t enter Crime Alley. He starts the trialsTM, he scouts on the very edge and sees people the whole day enter and get out and cross with no problem but Bruce can’t.

It’s literally just Bruce.

Time to call Constantine, i guess.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

If your taking requests can you please do Yandere Tengen uzui and his wives with a reader who died and was born as Tengens wives. ( a bit like recantation mawhnas)

Reincarnated Wife to be | Yandere Uzui Tengen + Wives

Being reborn into the world of shinobi is hard

Your higher intelligence is helpful for somethings but it still doesn’t compare to strength training before you can properly walk

Not to mention its the Taishō era 

Everything is different 

No plumbing 

No typical school

And on top of all that demons are alive and well

In your new lifetime demons don’t physically appear until your early teens

“That man…”

“Yeah a demon. Those overpowered slugs got to our target before us.”

It’s brutal 

That the clan you come from was just so nonchalant of an epidemic on humanity

That was arguably much more brutal then sending a shuriken before an unsuspecting person’s eyes

You only realize they intend to give you away when you hear whispers of the arranged marriage

“He’s the only one who’s survived…”

“Ah he must have the best genes…”

“....or the only one who actually can learn from those graves on their property.”

“What are they at….six?”

The final nail in the coffin is when your prepped to meet with your fellow wives

“Make sure you take note of their weaknesses. It’ll make all the difference when it comes to his favorites.”

Your hesitant

By now you recognize the venue, your sister wives, his surname

But despite how cool it is you don’t want to marry the future sound hashira

You know how it goes 

And your not sure if you’d survive with your addition to the other wives

So you run

Using your built up skill and knowledge to get as far as you can from your family if you could call it that

Your plan is to hide in someplace until you can gather enough wisteria to give yourself a private sanctuary

In the meantime you try to find the mineral of nichirin

Enough for you to craft a decent weapon that bodes well when demons occassionaly attack you

For years you’re sure your scott-free 

Able to slowly widdle at the demon’s population in your little sanctuary 

That is until you stop at the sound of jingling chains from the roof

“I heard there were talks about a mysterious ninja outside of demon corp! To think it’d be just who I was looking for!” 

You barely escape a young but powerful demon slayer who you can’t seem to decipher

Is he trying to kill you? 

To catch you?

Why does he keep following?

You hold up pretty well for a while unil you narrowly dodge a star thrown in your direction

“We really liked you (Y/n). Why’d you choose to run away?”

If it wasn’t worse already all three of them seem to arrive from the shadows to continue their assault

You try to reason with them 

“Can’t you understand?! I didn’t want to be forced to marry some guy I didn’t know!”

“But you knew us! Doesn’t that make it better?!”

“No it really doesn’t!”

It’s getting overwhelming 

So unless you’ve mastered some kind of style of your own

They’ll overpower you

“Yack!” 

Your strength is preying on their care for one another 

Sending an unusual violent kick toward Hinatsuru 

You take advantage of them running to help her

Easily disarming a distracted Tengen, you run off 

But you aren’t home free 

For whatever reason your ex-fiancees are just so hung up about you 

And between Uzui’s new occupation he’s aiming for your capture

“You’re just as flashy as I’d hoped! When I do win, there’s sure to be fireworks.”

[bi-writes]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

[xyfanficarchive]

honeymoon phase (kinda 18+)

Mouthwashing - Jimmy x Reader

Summary - some more thoughts on this headcanon post i made recently, after you and jim just get together. completely unedited and typed directly into the tumblr post editor.

Content warnings: post sex cuddles, uhhh soft Jimmy?, misogyny, intense idealization of you, descriptions of attempted suicide, descriptions of self harm scars

This isn’t something he’s used to. Warm bed, thick covers, pillows aplenty, your soft skin against his as you lay side by side.

He’s fucked enough girls, alright. He knows the look by heart, the moment he’s spotted, some bitch with the air that she’s been beat or touched by Daddy when she was little. There’s something about Jimmy that reads obvious to them, like they can see his poverty, his violent and impulsive tendencies, his complete fucking disdain for humanity, his history of addiction, his criminal record, all in the features of his face. The shape of his eyes and the dark bags below them, the profile of his nose, the way his hair hangs on his forehead, the curve of his lips, his unshaven face, his posture; it must spell out “broken” or “criminal,” and it’s his loathsome look in specific that makes them wet. That has them throwing themselves at him to spread their hybristophiliac legs before him. Choke me, slap me, pull my hair, fuck me hard while I say no. Then, there were the others who weren’t even worth mentioning. But he didn’t give a shit; pussy is pussy is pussy when it all comes down to it, and no matter how he gets it, it’s way better than his fucking hand, that’s for sure. One and done on his unwashed sheets, and sent off again.

He could no longer say that all pussy was the same with the certainty it was true, not since he met you. He could hardly even say he had fucked you, it felt too crass for what had just transpired. With the way you undressed each other, all tender caresses, shining eyes, open hearted vulnerability, you on your back sighing his name with every stroke, and your hands were in his hair, not pulling, but combing your fingers through in a way that made him shiver; no, he was more inclined to say he had made love to you, in all its nauseatingly saccharine connotations.

Jimmy had tried to kill himself when he was 15. ‘Yeah,’ he would scoff, ‘see how that worked out. Just as well as any other fucking thing I’ve done.’ But he still remembers the burn, hanging from that rope he had tied incorrectly, a deep fucking burn in his lungs and limbs and brain as his body flailed autonomously, his traitorous body trying to live even as he wanted to die. Every single cell in every organ, every tissue, every fiber was ablaze, shrieking in hungry panicked desperation for oxygen. Then as his vision was closing in black around him, the rope snapped, he collapsed on the floor gasping himself back to life.

Only the body felt the relief of taking those breaths. His mind was still burning, just as it had been since he was little, just as it had continued to burn for all the rest of his unfortunate existence after. Misery was his natural condition. Hunger was all he had known. Until he met you.

You, oh strange one, who didn’t turn away from his slimy nature in disgust, nor fling yourself at him because taking dirty felon cock was how you got your rocks off. He was as awful to you as everyone else. And you sure didn’t take it lying down, but neither did you leave him behind in the dust, like the rest of humanity. (Well, except for Curly.) You came back. Trying. Always trying, not always liking him, but never hating him. It confused the shit out of him more than anything. You had, for the most part, completely disarmed him.

And then you told him that he didn’t have to fight and claw so hard to prove himself. That he was valuable, that he was worthy just for existing.

It was like the rope hanging his psyche by the neck had finally snapped, and he was gasping cool sweet relief into his lungs, flooding through his limbs, relieving the desperate ache that had plagued him for all his conscious memory.

He knew then that you were made for him. You were different, you were nothing like the other fucking bitches - no, no, you weren’t a bitch at all. You, in your infinite shining compassion, understood him. You liked him. The worthless cunts would cringe, eyes all slick shiny and firm set on him with fear, edging away like they’d be contaminated by breathing the same air as him, but you would approach him with kindness and familiarity. You smiled and laughed with him. You listened to him talk about his struggles, his past, his fears, with an open heart. You were an angel sent down from heaven to save him, and he scrambled to claim you as his like a man scrambled against being buried alive, like a man with a ball and chain on his ankle scrambled against being thrown into the sea, like a man falsely condemned to the gallows scrambled against being dragged up the platform.

You were perfect. Infallible. Strong, that you could even stomach to be near him. You were golden, crystalline and glittering. You were so luminous, you graced him with your light, shining upon him, illuminating to his eyes that the gaping hole in his being was shaped just like you. You were his destiny. He would suffocate to death without you, and in that, he would rather die with you than without you.

But to his surprise, you had willingly walked to fill him. You came into his life with a smile and a kiss. You let him into your bed, where he lay now. The light of the setting sun casting a rose-coloured glaze about the room. All pillows and blankets and warmth and softness he hadn’t known in years, hadn’t known ever, with your supple skin pressed, melting into his. Your hand interlaced with his own. Held upright, that you both could gaze up at the beautiful perfection that was your connection.

Your other fingertip came up to stroke down from his wrist to his elbow, and he felt the warmth sour just a bit. Oh yeah, you hadn’t seen them before. If there was one thing Jimmy fucking despised about his body more than anything else, it was his arms, bearing all the marks, every bitter reminder of his disgusting and dramatic weakness. He’d long since grown out of that shit. He had more mature ways to hurt himself now. But your gentle fingertip tracked over every dip and elevation that marred his skin, every pearly white scar, thick and thin and every thing in-between, lined up horizontal (and sometimes vertical and diagonal) where long sleeves could hide them. He felt your profound, somber consideration flowing out from the pad of your index finger, heard it in the way your breath changed, and it filled him with discomfort, with a deep sense of wrongness. This tendency was one of his worst shortcomings before he dropped it, and certainly was not deserving of any pity.

He didn’t know what to say. He swallowed thickly. “Yeah, I used to cut myself. Then I figured out that that’s pussy shit, so I quit,” he said flatly, bluntly. He wanted you to drop it, to ignore it, to act like they didn’t exist and never had existed, ‘cause they only made him more pathetic.

Your slow tracing faltered. He heard you inhale, a sound loaded with meaning. You moved your head so that you were leaned up against his shoulder. “…I don’t think it’s pussy shit,” your voice finally came, soft and sad, and it worked up some awful cringe in his gut. He didn’t respond, tensing up against you.

After another couple beats of silence, you spoke again, so terribly, horribly delicate: “You must’ve been in a lot of pain. I’m really sorry, Jimmy.”

He felt a deep throb of anguish in his chest. It confused him, and it lingered painfully. But self-compassion is a feeling, a process entirely inaccessible to him. He’s not going to ruin this moment by trying. He’s perfectly content to leave all the compassion up to you, for whom it comes easy as breathing. He simply dropped his arm, hand still interlocked with yours, pulling it out of view, pulling you down with him.

He shifted, pushing himself up just enough that he could look at you, your perfect face, eyes shining with a mix of compassion and pity and love. He leaned down, eyes fluttering closed, to kiss you on the lips; he’s still quite unpracticed at this, and all its tender passion, he’s a little too hard with it, a little too sloppy, but still completely heartfelt all the same. And he hoped it was enough to make you drop the issue.

[virginiathegray]

Lucanis X Flirtatious Purple Rook is so delicious and it "solves" all the "problems" (in quotes bc personally i love his romance regardless) people have with it. In this essay I will--

*spoilers for Veilguard below the cut*

Walk with me:

Lucanis seeing Rook flirting with the team, always joking and playing around, rarely serious. Lucanis not knowing how to respond when those flirtations are directed his way, so he brushes them off or outright ignores them (while internally blushing bc he's flustered)

Rook, regardless of whether they were genuine in their interest before, seeing that Lucanis is the only one who doesn't seem disarmed by their flirting and redoubling their efforts

Lucanis lowkey getting frustrated because he's got real feelings for Rook but he can't fathom that the interest is returned beyond these superficial winks and nudges

(Not to mention I firmly believe Lucanis is constantly assuming his feelings for Rook are just Spite's obsession with Rook trickling into his own perception of reality but that's a post for another time)

Lucanis finally calling Rook's "bluff" after Spite takes him over the second time, making a move on them while fully expecting them to back down and laugh it off

"This isn't a good idea." Am I talking to you or to myself? "You like to walk a little too close to the edge." You might be playing a game here, but I'm not. "At least I know I'm doing it." I know what I'm risking with these feelings, but do you?

But Rook DOESN'T back down. They're not bluffing. So he freaks out, pulls back, runs off.

Now Lucanis is the one reckoning with the idea that, uh, maybe Rook wasn't joking?? His relatively sparse romantic content in Act 2 fits, because in many ways he's having to figure out how Rook actually feels and how his feelings do or don't change as a result of that (not to mention all the family drama he's going through simultaneously)

Story continues, Lucanis realizing that Rook actually cares about him, reflected in the flirtation options being more tender and less flippant/suggestive. Rook being there for him in his darkest moments, pulling him from the prison in his own mind, etc

Fade prison happens. Lucanis agonizing for WEEKS thinking he's lost this person who brightened his life, feeling like he failed them. Then they get them out, and in the purple option there, Rook jokes again. They're trying to hold it together, but there's this little glance down, their smile falls just a bit, the mask of this unserious jokester dropping for a moment. And this time, Lucanis clocks it immediately.

"Impossible," he calls them, because despite everything, they're still trying to make him feel better, to pretend they aren't scared, that they aren't as devastated as they are. But they understand each other now, and Lucanis kisses them as this silent confirmation that he sees them, that Rook is loved, safe, here.

From that point on, Lucanis is so protective it hurts. He knows Rook is capable and strong, but he sees right past this unserious mask they wear now and knows how scared they are. He's going to war for them, and when he says he'll kill every god if it means they'll be safe, he means it.

[wizardpink]

@iamanoccasionaldoodler

Okay so,

There seems to be this negative reaction to the finale from a lot of Devil's Minion fans and I don't understand it for a lot of reasons, but one of them is ... I don't get why people are upset that, when read at it's worst, Armand and Daniel are seemingly not on good terms after Daniel is turned. I keep seeing this belief that Armand "abandoned" him, which I think is fully pulled from y'alls collective ass, and a disappointment that Daniel would call Armand a "fucking asshole."

But the thing about Armand/Daniel everyone seems to be forgetting is that even in the source material, they first had to tear each other down to their bare bones before they could see each other well enough to love one another -- REALLY love one another. Because Armand is a russian nesting doll of lies, masks, and emotional walls, and with Daniel, idek if I can explain it properly, but I think its some combination of Armand needing to break him a bit to get him on his level of broken freakitude, and also Armand not being able to relate to the 20th Century Human period and needing to drill down into Daniel's core, straight down into the monkey brain that every homo sapien has shared for eons, before he can find something he understands.

If we were to ever get a proper Devil's Minion storyline on this show (and we will), they've laid the perfect groundwork by having Daniel EVISCERATE Armand right to his face, slicing his Gorgon's knot of lies and schemes in half and leaving it lay on that table. And Armand's face! HIS FACE! He can't believe it! Seventy-seven years with Louis who never could unravel all the strings, or simply didn't care to even bother. And THIS guy who seemingly hates him found Armand fascinating enough to try. AND succeed!

And why wouldn't he? Daniel may not have remembered until they were nearing the end of the interview, but Armand SHOWED Daniel what was beneath the mask years ago, the very first time they met. The jealous, insecure, desperate creature that was hiding under there, that IS Armand to Daniel.

I'm getting off track here, but what I'm trying to say is that as much as Armand turning Daniel in the books is SUCH a flawless scene, ultimately, if you believe in the infinite and eternal nature of their love story, it doesn't matter whether Armand turned Daniel before they fell for each other, afterward, during a break-up or at the climax of their most romantic streak. Like Lestat said, "We'll be together ten thousand nights, a hundred thousand. What we're doing is hard."

So maybe Armand turned Daniel shortly after Daniel stripped him bare in front of Louis, and Louis was so disgusted by what he saw, he threw him into a stone wall. Daniel could have run, too. For some reason, he didnt. Armand could have killed him in an instant, sitting at that table or after Louis left. He didn't. Armand made a conscious decision to tie himself to this man who just exposed him for ETERNITY. Because as horrific an experience as it was, as devastating and life-altering, he was seen.

"It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me, how efficiently succinct and impenetrable his argument was. All my conceptions, even my guilt and my wish to die, seemed utterly unimportant, and I completely forgot myself and the barbaric scene that surrounded me. For the first time in my life, I was seen."

Louis said those words about Lestat as he described being made a vampire, when he kissed Lestat on the altar.

That feeling, of someone cutting to the core of you and telling you exactly what you are as no one else has ever been able to understand, made Louis accept the Dark Gift from Lestat.

And it made Armand give that Gift to Daniel.

[hello-eden]

False information

based on this post

Damien is confused about his entire situation.

Mother had spoken of enemies in the den of his father's home but he can see now that she was completely talking out of her ass. he came in here with the intent to kill only for mother do not tell him that killing wasn't aloud and that the enemy is in the home were siblings. he has completely wrecked his first impression and now all of his new siblings are convinced he's a murder child. 

Damien has no idea if Mother set him up on purpose or she just doesn't understand. probably a mixture of both knowing mother. If he had known that father was a safe space away from the Assassins lurking at every corner he would have snuck Mara into Gotham. it would have been quite easy. Mara had manifested intangibility with invisibility not far behind while Damien manifested more Elemental abilities. 

Damien is trying to stop the bad impression but attempting to disarm and interrogate your future predecessor does not have good side effects. he didn't even try to kill Tim, he was just scouting to see how well-trained his supposed enemies were. of course no one listens to the murder child in their vicinity even though he's a trained killer and he wouldn't even have known he was there if he wanted him dead.

Damien has been trying to contact Mara for an entire week. He has finally gotten his hands back on his Ecto com after everything was confiscated by his father the first day here. It took months for everyone to finally agree he's on good behavior and then it took time to rebuild all the pieces after he dismantled the com so no one would realize what it was. it was better than them accidentally pressing the SOS and having Mara go Eldritch Horror on their ass. For all she doesn't have access to a complete set of halfa powers her psychological warfare skills have always been the best of the best.

[luveline]

hello lovely angel!! humbly requesting zombie!steve au, perhaps more of jealous steve? i love their dynamic so much💗 maybe someone is flirting with reader, and enter protective steve:)

thanks for requesting! fem, 2k

You tend to think of it in two weird halves. You love Steve, and you never would’ve known that without the end of the world, so things are okay. Sometimes you wonder if he ever could’ve loved you if he hadn’t been so close to you for so long, but he loves you in this insane capacity of softness that says otherwise. Like, soulmate style. 

It didn’t begin that way. Steve your reluctant guide, and you his unlikely saviour. You’d stopped him from dying at the very start of it all and he couldn’t leave you behind. And Steve, he’d been mean to you. He didn’t want to take care of you initially, but you’d grown to get along. You’d argue black and blue and he’d still rub your back at night. 

There are so many moments you’ve shared that make what you have all the more special. A hundred different memories from before you’d ever kissed. You think about it now, watching him across the firepit as he shows a young girl, Cassandra, how to braid her hair. 

The one that’s sticking today is when Steve got really bad food poisoning for the first time. When you’d known you were in love with him for a while, and when he’d stopped pretending he didn’t know. He’d been sick everywhere, on both your shoes, and you’d rubbed his back through everything.  

It was nice to take care of him. Nicer that night when you’d shared a bed and he’d hugged you half to death. 

He has no idea how much he means to you, or how much those moments with him kept you going when you were all alone. You’re lucky now to have found community, but those stolen hours in bed with him hugging him and getting to be his support, you wouldn’t have made it here without them. 

“Hey.” 

You look up as a man sits down. A boy, a man —what do you call twenty somethings? You don’t feel like a woman most of the time, but you are. 

“Hi,” you say. 

“I’m Jamison.” 

“You’re Eddie’s friend, right?” 

“Who, Munson?” Jamison makes a kidding face, a disgusted scrunch of his eyebrows that falls away to more friendly fondness. “Yeah, we go back. You’re Eddie’s friend too, right? I saw you guys taking out some laundry a few days ago.” 

Jamison is handsome. He has tan skin, short hair, and a crooked nose. His smile is disarming. If you hadn’t fallen in love with the handsomest guy around, you might feel nervous under his gaze. 

Time spent ugly under Steve’s reverent handling makes you confident. You genuinely feel prettier knowing Steve loves you, and it makes it easier to be yourself with strangers. 

“Eddie’s awesome,” you say easily. “I thought he was gonna kill me when we first met, but he’s too nice.” 

“Nice, really?” 

Jamison is casual, as people go. You wonder what his motivations are for talking to you at first, but as conversation stretches, littered with the cracking pops of the fireplace and brief pauses of surprisingly comfortable silence, you realise he’s just talking. Maybe he’s lonely. You know how that feels. 

He tells you that he and Eddie had been in a rock band together before the apocalypse. You’d known to some extent that Eddie was in a band, but Jamison tells you all the details you’d been missing. They were called Corroded Coffin, four members, Eddie played guitar and Jamison thought he was pretty fucking good at it, actually. 

“I don’t think we would’ve been, like, Metallica. But we could’ve been good. We were gonna make a record.” 

You smoke sympathetically. “I bet you could’ve been.” 

“What were you doing? Before all this?” 

“I honestly barely remember,” you say quietly. Your life before Steve is a blur, and it’s painful, too. “Things are harder now, I know that. I wish every day that we could go back to how things were, you know, I miss TV and grocery stores and my family.” You lick your lips. “I wish things were different, but somehow, I think I like my life now. I have stuff to do. Is that crazy?” 

“It’s not crazy. Everything fucking sucks,” —you both laugh— “but that’s not crazy. I’m lucky, I still have my dad, and my friends. There’s purpose in being here.” 

You nod emphatically, just once. “Exactly.” 

You have purpose, now. You get to be a friend, a girlfriend, a confidente. You take care of people. 

It all comes back to Steve, at the end of the day. Would you change the world if it meant never having met him? 

Nope. 

You glance across the fire for him, but he’s not there. 

You put your arm behind your back and bend, looking for him. 

“Looking for someone?” Jamison asks. 

You deflate with relief when you spot him standing near the gaggle of tents about fifty feet away. He’s looking at you from over Robin’s shoulder. You wave, and he waves back with a big smile. 

Something seems a little wrong. 

“Steve,” you explain. 

“He’s your boyfriend, yeah? Eddie told me you’ve been together since the start.” 

You don’t bother correcting him. He might not mean together as how you’re thinking it. “Yeah, that’s him. Have you met him?” 

“Kind of. We all thought he was a huge dick, back then.” 

“He sort of was,” you say. “I mean, we all had our own stuff going on. I get that I’m biased, but he’s my favourite person I’ve ever met. He’s so kind, I don’t think I could describe it to you or anyone just how much he cares about people. I wouldn’t be here without him, and… I don’t know, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but if you ever wanted to meet him again, he’s amazing. He’s a great friend. He’s so fucking funny, he makes me laugh every day.” 

“He’s sort of giving me the stink eye,” Jamison says. 

You wave your hand weakly. “He has raging jealousy issues.” 

“Shit, am I getting you in trouble?” 

“No, never!” you say, tempted to laugh. “He doesn’t get mad at me for stuff like that. He’s normal, I promise. Just sensitive.”

You tell Jamison that it was nice talking to him because it really was, but you’ve been missing Steve for hours already and you need to get back to him before you go totally bonkers. 

He’s sitting on the floor in the tent. The weather has been beautiful lately, you could sleep under the stars if you weren’t scared of being zombie charcuterie. Steve has stripped down to just his jeans and socks, no t-shirt or shoes to be seen. He has his sketchbook splayed open on his thigh, but he abandons it the moment you kneel down. 

“Hey,” you say. 

Steve folds his book closed, pencil between its pages. “Hi. Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” 

You shuffle in to take his hand. Clumsy touches, his fingers warm and a tad clammy between yours. “You told me yesterday that I have a smile like an angel. I know you were kidding, but I still felt it.” 

“I wasn’t kidding,” he says, wrinkling his nose with a smile. “You think every compliment is a joke.” 

“Don’t make me laugh so much, then.” 

He squeezes your fingers gently. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself to Jamison. Just, I knew him already from school. And he did not like me.” 

“That’s okay. He seemed nice, I think you’d get along if you met now.” You kick your shoes off and crawl as close to him as you can get. He looks up at you, but you look down at his lap. “What are you drawing?” 

“I was just trying to touch up that landscape I did of the river,” he says, a sheepishness to him as he opens his sketchbook. 

You read it with affection, trace lines and hatchings in awe. “Steve, I really wish you had time and space to do this stuff properly. Not that you aren’t doing it properly, just, I know you could make something just as beautiful as this with paint.” You slide to be sitting properly, putting you both at the same height, so you can meet his eyes as you continue. “Did you know what you wanted to do, when you were finishing school? Did you ever think about art?” 

“I thought about it.” His lips quirk. “Mostly about how my dad would’ve kicked me out if I said something that stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid.” 

“I know.” 

That would’ve been a nice life. You and Steve living together, with a basement for his paintings, or a garage turned studio. You’d read books together every night like you do now, and you’d scrub paint smudges off of his cheek. 

You love him so much it must give you an aura. 

“I’ve got nothing to worry about, huh?” he asks softly. 

You drift in, tipping your head back for a kiss you don’t take. “I don’t know, Steve, Jamison used to be in a rock band.” 

He scoffs in disgust. You think it might be a mixture of anger at Jamison and himself. “Who wants to date a rockstar?” 

“I might’ve.” 

You’re teasing, of course, smiling as your kiss draws nearer, and nearer. 

“Well, I can be a rockstar,” he says quietly, warmth of his breath on your lips. “Just give me a chance to get there.” 

You brush the tip of your nose against his and hold your breath. “That’s okay,” you say, letting it rush out of you in a huff, your excitement to be kissed too much to bear, “I like my guys all mixed up. Preferably good at track, and swimming, but with a soft side. Kind of guy who fills a sketchbook up with my face.” 

Steve lists to the side. Your lips are so close, you can feel the phantom of them against yours as he moves in. “It’s not just your face… it’s your hands, your arms… your everything–”

He cuts his own explanation off with a soft kiss. That softness swiftly hardens, turns rough, ten long seconds of sweetness before his hands coming up behind your head and he’s pressing inward, deepening the kiss, and giving you little room to breathe. 

You have no intention of dating any rockstars, but his jealous streak has nothing but upsides for you. Steve knows that his jealousy over the innocuous is his own problem, his own insecurity that he’s working on, and while you sympathise with him (after all, haven’t you yourself worried he’d find someone else he liked more?), you have to confess to enjoying the edge to his kissing. 

You make a pleased, humoured sound as he breathes you in like you’re a drug he’s been waiting for. He gets sloppier, and you can’t help pulling away to laugh. 

“What?” he asks, thumbing at your cheek in a soft juxtaposition. “Sorry, am I being a dick?” 

“No, it’s fine. Kiss me how you want to.” 

Steve kisses your cheek softly. “He knows you have a boyfriend, right?” 

“He knows.” 

Steve hums like he’s smiling and nudges your nose with his, until you part your lips, and he wades in for another dose. 

[iamnmbr3]

Time to discuss drarry moment number 923074037286 in HBP. I think it's really notable how in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death Harry not only canonically doesn't feel angry at Draco at all despite feeling murderous rage towards Snape, but actually goes out of his way to recount events in a way that shifts blame away from Draco as much as possible.

First, Tonks asks how Dumbledore died and we get this bit:

"Snape killed him," said Harry. "I was there, I saw it. We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower because that's where the Mark was . . . Dumbledore was ill, he was weak, but I think he realized it was a trap when we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He immobilized me, I couldn't do anything, I was under the Invisibility Cloak -- and then Malfoy came through the door and disarmed him--" Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron groaned. Luna's mouth trembled. "-- more Death Eaters arrived -- and then Snape -- and Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra."

Harry says there was a trap but doesn't mention anything about it having been a trap planned and set by Draco.

He uses passive, distancing language that doesn't even make it clear whose footsteps they heard on the stairs or under what circumstances Draco disarmed Dumbledore.

He doesn't mention anything about Draco having been assigned to kill Dumbledore, and almost makes it sound like he could've just happened on them and disarmed Dumbledore as a reflex or even in self defense.

And then he doesn't say that Draco held Dumbledore there at bay for a while, instead leaving it ambiguous as to whether the other Death Eaters arrived right away on Draco's heels.

And that's it. That's all he says. He puts all the focus and blame on Snape. Only several pages later when McGonagall asks how the Death Eaters got in does Harry even explain about the Vanishing Cabinets. Specifically the text says:

[H]e explained, briefly, about the pair of Vanishing Cabinets and the magical pathway they formed.

Again we see the same passive, distancing language that we saw when Harry mentioned "footsteps" on the stairs but didn't clearly say whose. It says he explained about the cabinets rather than something like "he explained about Malfoy's treachery and his plan to use the pair of Vanishing Cabinets to let Death Eaters into the school."

Harry directs the focus away from Draco and Draco's intent and involvement. I'm not sure this is even on a conscious level. His words are mimicking what his mind and his emotions are doing.

When someone asks what Snape shouted to the other Death Eaters as he ran past we get this:

"He shouted, 'It's over,'" said Harry. "He'd done what he'd meant to do."

Harry says he'd done what he - Snape - meant to do. Not what Draco had meant to do. Or what they'd planned together. So once again we see that Harry avoids blaming Draco or even revealing his full role in what happened.

And then, most interestingly, not till later when he's alone with McGonagall does he reveal that Rosmerta is being controlled. And the way he recounts it is REALLY striking.

"There's one thing you should know before the Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta's under the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the Death Eaters, that's how the necklace and the poisoned mead--"

Again the use of passive language. He says that she is under the Imperius Curse rather than that Draco put her under the Imperius curse. In fact, he avoids directly blaming Draco at all. Harry merely says that she has been put under the Imperius curse by someone and that she was forced to pass on the necklace and the poisoned mead, leaving it ambiguous who cursed her and on whose orders she did those things, thus shielding Draco from blame.

He only brings up Draco to say that Rosmerta had been helping him and the Death Eaters rather than that it was Draco specifically who was controlling her. Given that the use of an Unforgivable Curse carries a life sentence in Azkaban this phrasing is certainly interesting. And it means that if Rosmerta did not see who originally cursed her, she might not be able to say who forced her to help Draco or possibly even whose idea it was to send the necklace and the mead into the school. That would make Harry the only witness who could prove Draco's guilt, and seemingly he doesn't want to do that.

Also. Draco IS a Death Eater. Harry's known it since the beginning of the year. And yet he says "Malfoy and the Death Eaters," because without even realizing it, he mentally puts Draco in a different category.

And then the next time Harry thinks of Malfoy is when he's looking towards where Draco usually sits and thinking about how Crabbe and Goyle look "lonely" without him even though given the tensions between them that we see in books 6 and 7 it's almost certain that they don't miss him at all. It seems much more likely that Harry is actually projecting his own feelings. In this context we get this bit of internal narration:

His animosity was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten the fear in Malfoy's voice on that tower top, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters arrived.

I mean just what? All? ALL of his animosity? Draco is the one who let Death Eaters into the castle. He disarmed Dumbledore, thus (seemingly) enabling Snape to kill him. He also got Bill permanently maimed (though he didn't intend for that to happen).

If Harry simply felt nothing for Draco but dislike I don't think these circumstances would put him in the best mindset to start empathizing with him. Harry has a temper. You'd think he'd disregard all the extenuating circumstances and blame Draco for Dumbledore's death too.

I mean this is some of his narration about Snape, for example:

"So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the Death Eaters' side?" asked Harry, who wanted every detail of Snape's duplicity and infamy, feverishly collecting more reasons to hate him, to swear vengeance.

But no. That's not how he feels about Draco at all. In fact after thinking about how his animosity is all for Snape and dwelling with pity and concern on how afraid Draco looked and how he had lowered his wand, Harry actually starts wondering where Draco is and worrying about him and about what Voldemort is "making" him do now.

Because despite their rivalry, there's more between Harry and Draco than simple dislike. Harry understands him deeply. And he's immediately ready to sympathize with him and to protect him.

For all that they are stranded on opposite sides of a brewing war, they also have things in common. Harry is drawn to Draco and he cares about him. He knows Draco isn't a murderer and he can't bring himself to even pretend to hate him anymore. He just wants him to be safe.

[starlightandsouls]

Yours To Have, Yours to Break

Summary: What if instead of Nesta, Cassian found out about Azriel and his secret lover. What will happen when the hearty general, in his anger of being left out, causes his brother's happiness to fall apart? How will he atone for his mistake?

A/N: Of course I had to make my comeback with the angstiest angst to ever angst. And that too by turning my fluffiest fic into pure pain. I guess you can say that this this is a spin off of Yours to Keep and Cherish. Also... I know I dropped off the face of the earth but life happens guys. I'm sorta back and here's a fic to make up for it.

Disclaimer: If you're an Elain fan, I would recommend you not read this. I would hate to ruin your day. I do not hate Elain. This is just an idea I got from all the soap dramas I've been seeing recently. Don't kill me please.

Also this shit and not edited. But I was so desperate to post something that I honestly don't care. Hope y'all like it. And yes there will be a part 2

Cassian POV:

As the General of the Night Court’s armies, Cassian had many duties: training soldiers, commandeering battalions at the borders, coming up with war strategies, buying romance novels for his mate and her friends. He wasn’t sure when the last one made its way on his list of responsibilities, or who put it there, but there it was. And who was Cassian to deny his mate?

So that’s how the Lord of Bloodshed found himself standing aimlessly in the middle of the Rainbow, scratching his head, with a list in his hand. Nesta had sent him off to find the newest edition of a Sellyn Drake novel but he hadn’t the slightest idea where to find it. His mate had instructed him to visit a particular bookshop named “The Quill”, being sure that they would have the newest book. Unfortunately, because luck had named him its nemesis at birth, the bookshop was closed for the day. He had asked around and apparently the owner had just left an hour prior to his arrival. Of course, they had.

That is why he had been wandering around the Rainbow, walking into one bookshop after the other, but somehow not one of them had the book Nes wanted. What are the odds of that? How is it possible that only one bookshop in the entire city had this specific book? And why did it have to be closed today? Cassian knew returning empty handed would not only incur the wrath of his beloved mate, but also her Valkyrie sisters. And given the fact that he himself had been teaching them some new disarming techniques, he had no desire to become their training dummy.

While he did not intend on stopping his hunt, he was quite parched. As the summer season approached, afternoons in Velaris became increasingly sweltering. A chilled glass of wine would do just the trick to cool him down, and also relax his nerves. Just as he was deciding on which bar to stop at, he remembered a conversation he had had with Mor the other day. She had told him about a café she had discovered that served the best margaritas during lunch time. Honestly, she hadn’t stopped raving about it for almost a week. What the hell. He was already out in town, might as well try a new place. If it turned out to be good, he could bring Nesta to placate her in case he couldn’t find her book.

Mind made up, he took off to the air, the subtle breeze as he did so, instantly making him feel better. Gliding through the clouds, the twists and turns with wind, were always a guaranteed way of cooling down.

Said café was perched on a hill overlooking the Sidra. He took in the view and the lush gardens outside the café as he landed, and started to walk in. The interior was just as beautiful as the exterior; the décor a blend of elegance and coziness. Oh yeah, he was definitely bringing Nesta here for a date.

He had just given his order to a waitress who looked way too giddy writing it down. Thank the Mother Nesta wasn’t here. Or someone might as well have lost a hand.

Although this is one of the reasons why he didn’t like coming to restaurants and bars alone. Not having company meant he didn’t have anyone to share his stories and jokes with. So, as he waited for his order to arrive, he sat back and took in the people around him; a habit that looked casual enough but was one instilled in him during his years training in the Illyrian camps.

He had been admiring the view from the balcony in the corner when his order arrived. Smiling a thank you, he took a sip from his margarita and damn was it good as Mor had said. He made a silent note to himself to thank her for the recommendation. He was in the middle of another deliciously cold sip, when something caught his eye in the corner of the room, causing him to choke.

What. The. Fuck.

Cassian was sure he looked like a blubbering fish with how his jaw dropped open and his eyes bulged out their sockets. He had to be dreaming or hallucinating from the heat. Yes, that must have been it, the heat had surely gotten to his head. For Cassian could think of no other explanation for the sight in front of him.

His brother, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court, torture extraordinaire, was sitting hand in hand with a beautiful young woman, smiling like a love-sick fool and… eating macarons? Since when did Azriel like deserts? Or the more pressing question: who the hell was he sitting with? Cassian knew his brother liked to keep his lovers secret, but deep down his gut told him this was no mere fling, or one-night stand. For starters, Azriel was smiling like a puppy drunk on love, while bringing the lady’s hand up to his lips to kiss. Cauldron. Just as Cassian had somewhat stopped gawking like a fish out of water, he saw the lady lean over and whisper something across the table, causing Azriel to throw his head back and let out a hearty laugh.

Although he couldn’t explain why, but at that moment Cassian felt a sharp hurt go through him. He could not remember the last time Azriel had laughed like that with them. Damn it, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had seen Azriel smile nearly as much as was doing now at any family function.

Before he could even begin to process what had unfolded before him, he saw Azriel pay the bill for their food and the couple walked out hand in hand. Immediately Cassian was on his feet, ready to follow them. If someone had asked him why he did what he did at a later moment, he would not have been able to explain himself. At that moment, Cassian was driven only by curiosity and a minor note of hurt too-why had his brother hid this from them?

Rushing out after paying the bill, Cassian saw the happy couple walk down the cobblestone path, once again arm in arm, with the woman leaning against Azriel. Another thing that shocked Cassian: how the hell had Azriel not noticed him by now? Those pesky little shadows normally informed his brother of every detail of his surroundings; Azriel’s own heightened senses and observational skills were what made him the Spymaster of this court. So, for him to not notice Cassian so obviously trailing behind them at a distance, was a testament to how captivated his brother was by the woman on his arm.

At one-point Cassian thought that his brother would winnow with his partner and he would lose them, but the couple continued their stroll without a care in the world. He continued to trail behind them while also maintaining somewhat of a distance. Azriel may not be as hyper vigilant as always, but he wasn’t blind by any means- and Cassian was no small man either.

“Breakfast was delightful, darling. We should plan another afternoon here, what do you think?” he heard the woman comment.

“Of course, but I am oh so very tired. I think I need a few days alone at home with my nightingale to recharge,” Azriel replied with a smirk.

Cassian balked on the inside: okay Mr. I Don’t Need To Resort To Poetry.

“We could always have breakfast here again on Saturday. It is our two-year anniversary, and I intend on spending the day however my nightingale wishes. I think the café can be a brilliant start to our day,” Azriel offered, laughing as the woman swatted his arm at the previous comment.

Reaching the end of the path, Azriel grabbed the woman in his arms and winnowed away, leaving behind a thoroughly perplexed Cassian.

……………………………………………………………………………........

Cassian was convinced he must have stood there for another half an hour before coming to his senses. He then took off to the House of Wind, ready to face his mate and the Valkyries’ collective wrath. And his assumption had been right; the three women had blown up when they saw him return empty handed and had proceeded to go on twenty-minute-long rant. For the life of him, Cassian could not have repeated a single word they had said. Because he had not listened to a single word, at least not while paying attention. As their rage had quelled, Cassian had simple gotten up and walked to his room, ignoring the questioning looks from his mate.

While Nesta was still in the library with the girls, Cassian had retreated to bed. And that is where he was now: sitting in bed, staring at a wall, completely at a loss for words. He could not even begin to process what he had seen, let alone understand what he was feeling. For some reason he could not get over how openly Azriel had laughed with that woman, how alight his eyes had seemed. It was as if the Shadowsinger was glowing with happiness, as paradoxical as that sounds.

And it’s not like Cassian wasn’t happy for his brother-quite the contrary. He was just hurt that Azriel had chosen to hide something like this from him for two years. Two years. The words clanged around his head like the sharp tolling of a bell. Azriel had this from them for two goddamn years. And he had a sinking feeling that if he had not discovered the two of them today, he would not have found out for quite some more time.

But why? Keeping casual flings a secret was no big deal. They all had had ventures they didn’t tell anyone, he was sure of it. But if the couple were celebrating their two-year anniversary, then it must be serious. Cassian could tell his brother was committed just by how he had been looking at the woman. And if Azriel truly was serious about this woman, why would he hide it from them? His family?

That is the part that pierced his heart. Up until this day, Cassian had thought the two of them to be rather close. Sure, Rhys and Az clashed from time to time because of their own attitudes, but he liked to think that Azriel and him had always been close. Azriel was his best friend for Cauldron sake. Whenever he had had issues with Nesta at the beginning of their relationship-and he had plenty- Azriel had been his confidante, the one he went to for advice. His brother had been there for him at the highs and lows of his journey with Nesta.

So why hadn’t he let Cassian do that for him? Why had his brother chosen secrecy when he could have confided in Cassian? It’s not like he wouldn’t have supported them. He knew his brother was secretive and shy, but it was one thing to hide things about his work and another to choose to hide such a major part of his life from his brothers.

They were brothers, they were supposed to support each other, to stand by one another, not keep secrets and tell lies. All of a sudden Cassian saw the past two years in a different light. He recalled all the times Azriel had shown up to breakfast with an unusually cheery mood, all the times he had been rushing to leave family dinner, all the times he had skipped their get togethers with the strangest excuses. How long had this been going on? And for how long had they been so painfully oblivious?

Did Azriel not trust them? No, that can’t be it. Did Azriel think he could not open up to them? Each explanation he came up with seemed less plausible than the last. As he continued to spiral, Cassian began to question whether the two were as close as he thought them to be.

Why. Why. Why.

“You know if you stare at the wall any longer, you’re going to burn a hole into it.”

Nesta. He hadn’t even noticed when she had come into the room, and judging by her amused look, Cassian assumed she had been there for some time. Pushing off the wall she had been leaning against, Nesta walked over and sat by him on their bed.

“I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes, where’s your mind at?” Nesta asked while pushing some stray strands of hair behind his ear.

Shit. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t just tell Nesta something he himself wasn’t supposed to know. If he hadn’t walked into that café by chance, Cassian would have been none the wiser about this whole situation. For whatever reason Azriel was keeping his relationship secret, he didn’t think it his place to reveal it.

“It’s nothing, Nes. Just thinking about Wind Haven. I’m supposed to head up there next week and I already know Devlon’s going to be a pain in the ass,” Cassian tried to divert.

“Since when have you started getting so worked up over Devlon? He’s going to whine and throw a fit, but ultimately he is going to have to do what you say. You’re worried about something else. What is it?” his ingenious mate inquired. How her intuition was so good he’d never know, honestly sometimes he thought of handing over the mantle of General to her, with how good she was.

“C’mon. You know you can tell me whatever is bothering you,” Nesta pushed while grabbing his hand in her own and damn did he melt at that.

“Alright. If I tell you, you cannot tell anyone else.”

Nesta sat up straighter at that, ears perked with curiosity, eyes wide open and eager.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Nesta answered while nodding.

“I’m serious about this Nes. You can’t tell anyone, not even Emerie or Gwyn. No one,” Cassian reiterated, trying to get his mate to understand how serious it was.

“Alright, alright. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Cassian sighed before revealing what was very much not his secret to reveal,

“Azriel has a girlfriend.”

“Wait-what?”

“Az has a girlfriend,” Cassian repeated.

“No, I heard you the first time. But…how…when??? Why hasn’t he told anyone?”

“I have no idea, Nes,” Cassian replied while falling back against the headboard. He once again took to staring at the wall; confusion and hurt running rampant through him again, echoing the same question again and again.

Why had Azriel kept this a secret from them? From him?

“When did he tell you?” his mate inquired.

“He didn’t,” Cassian chuckled, “I stopped at that new café by the Sidra to get some drinks to cool down while I was out for your books. I saw them together there.”

A beat of silence passed between them before Nesta barged on with her questions,

“You seem…upset about all this?”

“I am. Not at the fact that he has a girlfriend, Cauldron no. It’s about time the idiot found someone. It’s just…why didn’t he tell us? Why keep it a secret?”

“Maybe…it’s new? You know Az. Maybe he just wants some time to figure things out himself before he tells you all,” Nesta reasoned.

Cassian let out a bitter laugh before spitting out,

“It is very much not new. The two were planning their two year anniversary at the same restaurant this weekend. Two goddamn years, Nes. He’s been lying to us for that long.”

He wrenched his hand from hers at that. Cassian knew he was being unfair and unreasonable, but he was angry. Maybe he had no right to be but one does not think clearly when in the clutches of fury.

As his previous confusion and hurt settled, they left behind only anger in their wake. That is what he felt right now. Anger. At Azriel, for lying to them all this time, for hiding something so significant. Did he not consider them brothers?

Before he could succumb to the ravages of anger, his darling mate was there to pull him back, as she always did.

“I can feel all that you know. Don’t let your anger override what you know to be true. This relationship of Azriel…it has nothing to do with us. We’re not entitled to anything regarding it just because we’re his family.”

“Oh so what I’m just supposed to ignore the fact that he’s been lying to us about his whereabouts and plans for the past two years, when he could have just told us?”

“No I am asking you to trust Azriel. You know your brother, Cass, probably more than anyone else. You know that he has a reason for everything he does and you know that he would never do anything to hurt his family intentionally. If nothing else, trust in that.”

Cassian sighed a defeated sigh. His mate was right, as she always was. For whatever reason Azriel had decided to keep this relationship a secret, Cassian would have to trust in it. And when the time came, he hoped his brother would feel comfortable revealing the truth himself.

……………………………………..................................................

Little did Cassian know, that despite the fact that he had made Nesta swear not to tell Azriel’s secret, he had unintentionally revealed it to a third. For outside their bedroom clutching books she had meant to return, stood Elain. Elain, who had almost torn the books with how hard she was clutching them. Elain, who’s hands quivered with rage.

This is why Azriel had been ignoring her. All these months she had been trying to get his attention and he had always slipped away. Because of this?? Some common girlfriend?

No matter. Elain would get him back. How could he ignore her for some commoner? Who deserved his love more than her?

As she walked away, already planning her schemes, a wicked thought went through her mind, a precaution in case she couldn’t convince Azriel:

If I can’t have him, no one can.

...............................................................................................

Azriel POV:

The past few days had been the happiest he had ever been. Although Azriel wasn’t quite sure how fair that judgement was. Each hour he spent with his nightingale, he deemed his happiest. And it has been two years of such blissful happiness. Two years together at each other’s side that they were celebrating today.

He had already arrived at the same café they had breakfast a few days ago and was now anxiously awaiting his beloved girlfriend. Honestly, he would have preferred that the two arrive together, not wanting to spend a minute away from his nightingale. But alas, not everything had to be as he wished. As soon as she had woken up, his nightingale had slipped out from his arms (something he had still not forgiven) and had rushed to her book shop. According to her, she had some urgent delivery that she just had to be there for. Therefore she had promised him that she would meet him directly at the café.

That left him, sitting in their favorite spot in the café, with his head swiveling to the door every time it opened, hoping his nightingale had arrived. It wasn’t like she was late, it’s just that he too early, wanting what he hoped would be a great start to a celebration filled day.

“Oh, Azriel!”

He heard his name be called, but his heart instantly dropped, that voice did not belong to his nightingale. Turning around he saw…

“Elain? What are you doing here?”

“What a coincidence, Az! I was just out for some errands and thought I would get myself a drink. I’m absolutely parched! Thank the Cauldron for this lovely café!” Elain replied in an unusually high pitched voice.

“Yes, how lovely…” he trailed off, gaze flicking to the door. He knew his girlfriend would be arriving soon and he would much rather Elain not be here for that… for a plethora of reasons.

“Well, what are the chances of meeting you here Az? And look, you’re alone too! Why don’t we have lunch together, it feels like we haven’t caught up in forever.”

“Actually I’m meeting some…”

He never got to finish his sentence. If someone asked him later what happened, Azriel wasn’t sure he would be able to explain it. One second Elain was smiling at him, trying to grab his hand, the next her gaze turned cold, flicking to something behind him. The next thing he knew, within a matter of seconds, Elain had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and smashed her lips to his.

What. The. Fuck.

Azriel didn’t even process what had happened, didn’t even realize that she was kissing him. Elain. Was. Kissing. Him.

The last thought jolted him out of his state of shock and he pushed her away. Not caring for who saw or heard, he yelled,

“What the fuck Elain? You can’t just grab people like that! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh c’mon Az. It was barely a peck. I had barely begun to enjoy it,” Elain replied with a callous smirk.

All of a sudden he did not recognize her; he didn’t recognize the cruelty in her eyes, the indifference in her expression. Where was the kind hearted woman he considered a friend? And who was standing in front of him in her place? When he didn’t say anything, still riddled with shock, Elain continued,

“Well no matter. It may have been short but it achieved it’s purpose,” Elain replied slyly. She inched closer and grazed her hand up his arm and whispered, “if you want to continue, I would gladly indulge you, Azriel.”

He didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her, why she was doing this, in a crowded café no less. But Azriel was way too uncomfortable to try to find out. He wrenched his arm away from her and was about to give her a piece of his mind when he saw it again: Elain’s gaze flickering to something behind him with a wicked smirk on her face. One of victory.

Hoping against hope it wasn’t what he feared it was, Azriel turned around. And it was like time itself had stopped. For there, at the entrance of the café, with tears streaming down her face, stood his girlfriend, his nightingale. A millennia could pass and Azriel would not forget the raw pain, the betrayal shining in her eyes amidst the tears.

No. No. No. No. No. This is not happening. This cannot be happening.

He took one step toward her, to explain, to make her understand he had no fault in what she had seen. But before he could, his nightingale turned around and left the café.

Not knowing what to do, Azriel followed after her to see her almost running away from him.

“Love! Please! Listen to me, its not what it looks like,” Azriel begged, anguish lacing every word.

“Oh please Azriel. Do you know how typical you sound right now?” He did, Cauldron he did. But she had to understand…

“Darling I would never hurt you like that. I don’t even know why she was there… or how… but you have to understand… she kissed me! I pulled away… I would never do that to you,” Azriel let out. He knew his fragmented thoughts probably didn’t make much sense. But panic and fear were making it difficult to come up with something cohesive.

“Really, Azriel? You don’t know what she was doing there?! For Cauldron sake, Azriel! I know you called her there. You know, if you wanted to break up with me, you should have done it yourself like a man. You didn’t have to use her for it!” his nightingale spat at him.

What? Break up with her? Break up with the one blessing the Mother had bestowed upon him? What the hell was she talking about?

“Love… I don’t…”

“You don’t what? Huh? Have any need for me anymore? Well you don’t have to worry about me getting in the way, please go enjoy your life with your darling Elain?” His girlfriend yelled, throwing out Elain’s name like it was poison.

Vaguely he sensed Elain coming up behind them. How did she catch up with them? His love spat out a wry laugh, before saying,

“Look, she’s here to get you Azriel. Go be with your love.”

Before he could refute it, Elain jumped in,

“Its okay, Azriel. I told her everything. She’s not in the way anymore. We can be together now!”

“Elain, have you lost your mind? What the hell are you doing? Why are you doing this? You-”

“Cut the act Azriel. Go. Enjoy your life.”

And with that his nightingale walked away for good, taking the shattered pieces of his heart and soul with her.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

Azriel stood in that spot like a blubbering fish for Cauldron knows how long. He was smarter than this. He was quicker than this. He knew that. But for some reason his mind felt addled, like it was submerged in some murky fog. He couldn’t think straight for some reason.

What the fuck had just happened? Did it truly happen? No, it had to be a nightmare. It had to be. He didn’t just lose the love of his life. He didn’t. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Azriel had almost convinced himself of his own delusion, when Elain’s rustling snapped him out of his daze. The woman had the gall to walk away after everything she just did. Not so fast. He grabbed her by the arm and yelled in her face, propriety and etiquette long forgotten,

“WHAT THE FUCK ELAIN? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO?”

She wrenched her arm back and held her head up high when responding, as if she just had just committed some honorable deed,

“I did what I had to. You were never there Azriel. I always tried to talk to you… but you were never there. And to find out that it’s because of her! Some commoner! I couldn’t bear it. But she’s not here anymore, Azriel, we can be together!”

“What?! Are you hearing yourself Elain? I don't love you! Not like that, I never have-”

“BUT I LOVE YOU! WHY ISN’TTHAT ENOUGH!” Elain screamed back.

“You’re out of your mind. You… how did you even find out?”

“Cassian told me,” Elain replied calmly, her demeanor immediately changing. There was something seriously wrong with her.

But her words were what caused his world to stop spinning.

“What?”

“Cassian told me. He saw the two of you together the other day and told me that I would find you here today as well.”

His mind was reeling. Cassian knew too? How? He had been so careful with everything? How had it slipped past him so easily?

Elain patted his shoulder one last time before saying,

“We’re meant to be together, Azriel. I love you so much that I’ll ignore this commoner you were sullying yourself with. She might have left you. But I’m always here for you with open arms.”

And then Elain left, simply and quietly. As if she had not sentenced Azriel to a life without the one happiness he had salvaged for himself in this cruel world.

..........................................................................................

Cassian POV:

Cassian had been sharpening his blades in the training arena, waiting for the Valkyries to arrive, when he felt the wards shift. Someone had winnowed in. Before he could question who it was, he saw Azriel standing at the entrance.

Despite Nesta’s words, his immediate reaction at seeing his brother was one of annoyance. He doubted Azriel was here to confess so the continuing secrecy bothered him even now.

Any rant or anger that Cassian was planning on letting out, disappeared as he neared his brother. Azriel had tears streaming freely down his face, shoulders shaking from the sobs.

“How could you?”

Was all his brother let out. Cassian was at a complete loss for words. His brave stoic brother was falling apart before him and Cassian knew neither cause nor cure. His lion hearted brother who had bared five centuries of pain and trials and had never let out even a wince. And now… It seemed like something was tearing Azriel apart into shreds.

“Az, what’s wrong? I-

“How could you?” Azriel repeated, his sobs getting more and more violent. And each falling tear fell like acid on Cassian’s heart. All previous annoyance was replaced by an overwhelming urge to soothe and comfort.

“How could you? What did I ever do to you?” Azriel cried out again.

“Az… brother… I have no idea…”

“Oh don’t act stupid. Don’t act like you don’t know about my girlfriend!”

Oh. That is what this was about? Azriel knew that he knew? But why was he so upset about it? Cassian didn’t think him finding out warranted such a reaction-

“You knew and you send Elain there to ruin everything!”

What? Elain? What did she have anything to do with this?

“You ruined everything! My nightingale… she’s gone… she won’t even talk to me… She won’t look at me… And it’s all your fault!” Azriel let out in between hiccups of tears.

Cassian knew he had to intervene before Azriel spiraled into a full panic attack.

“Brother, calm down. Alright, yes I saw the two of you at the café, but I only told Nesta, I swear on it. I have no idea what you’re talking about, or what Elain has to do with anything.”

Azriel moved further away from him. The utter betrayal shining in his eyes made Cassian want to bury himself in the darkest corner of the world. He did not know what his fault was but he was ready to spend eternity atoning for it if it meant Azriel would no longer be in the pain he was so clearly in.

“DO NOT LIE TO ME!” Azriel roared, leaving Cassian stunned, “ You did this! You couldn’t bear it, could you? You couldn’t stand the fact that I was happy so you sent Elain to ruin everything. You always do this, you always have to take everything away from me!”

Before Cassian could ask for an explanation or beg for forgiveness for a crime he did not know, Azriel had winnowed away.

Alone, his mind was working on overdrive. What did Elain have to do with anything? Cassian was no fool. He had long been aware of the youngest Archeron sister’s affections for his brother. But he also knew his brother had never reciprocated those affections, had always seen Elain as nothing more than a friend.

How did she know about Azriel’s relationship? Nesta could not have told her. Despite how close the two sisters were, his mate had sworn to him and he knew Nesta enough to know that she did not go back on an oath. Had Elain somehow overheard them? And if she had, what could she possibly have done to cause Azriel so much pain?

So many questions were whirring through his head, not one of them had a coherent answer. But amidst the chaos, a singular thought rang the loudest, and it was one that pierced Cassian’s heart:

What have I done?

[bckwardsfrwards]

Can you write more Dr. Phosphorus 🙏 the amount of fics he has is criminal, I think I've read all of them available-

Can do Anon, there's a reason I finally picked up the metaphorical pen and started writin again. Not enough content for the Skeleton Doctor.

GN Reader, no specifications but they are a meta human.

No TW, not beta read, I try to use as little (y/n) as I can, crossposted to my ao3 account!!

Word count: 1k

Sing your song Jailbird

(Doctor Phosphorus x Reader)

Getting yourself thrown into Belle Reve was never in your plans. You hadn't intended for things to go down the way they did but that's all it took. One little slip up left you tossing and turning in a cold dank cell.

You couldn't sleep, but that was most nights. Although you had no actual proof it was nighttime. You hadn't seen the outside world since before your incarceration. The guards had kept you in solitary for the first few days, giving some of the more… Animalistic inmates time to grow accustomed to your scent. Kind of like introducing two cats through a closed door so that they don't try to kill each other. Not that you were too worried about actually getting hurt.

You weren't really introduced to your fellow inmates so much as you were shoved into the open common area. Some douchebag guard yelling your last name as a means of identification before slamming the metal doors shut. You grumbled, more annoyed than anything before dusting yourself off and taking in your surroundings.

There weren't really that many other prisoners. Those that caught your attention being a giant shark man that was pointing and laughing at you. An enormous robot sipping from a can of gasoline. And a green skeleton? Rather a skeleton with a green fiery body.

Most of them turned their attention away from you shortly after glancing your way. But the Skeletal man tilted his head at you seemingly curious before going back to his game of solitaire.

You felt like a kid at a new school during recess. No idea who anyone is or how to talk to them. The decision was made for you as the robot drinking diesel made his way over to you. Each step shaking the floor a little.

"Hello new inmate, you seem to be a little disoriented. Could this be, G. I. Robot wonders, because you are secretly Nazi scum?" The robots arm transforms into a giant canon as he speaks, his red eyes glowing a little brighter.

"Woah! Absolutely not what the fuck?" You ask with a mixture of disbelief and disgust, your hands raised in surrender.

"Relax G.I. I don't think this is really Nazi material do you?" The skeletal man asks looking you up and down skeptically.

"Perhaps you are right, Doctor Friend." The robot apparently called G.I. says. Disarming himself and going back to sipping on his oil.

"Why don't you go check on Nina, I'm sure she'd appreciate the company." The irradiated man says, gently patting the metal giant on the back.

"That is a wonderful idea! I will go and check on Friend Nina and her Bride." The robot says cheerfully. You swear you can see a smile on his face as he walks away.

"Sorry about that, he's uh. Not too keen on Nazis."

"I couldn't tell." You say with an unamused roll of your eyes. "I'd rather there be a Nazi killing robot than a killer Nazi robot though." You murmur with a Huff of laughter.

"Yeah, you got that right." He says with a dry chuckle. "I'm Doctor Phosphorus." The strange man says after a beat of silence, turning his head to face you.

"(Y/n)" You say, reaching your hand out to shake his before glancing at his radioactive flesh. You withdraw slightly unsure if you can or should shake his hand.

"(Y/n… Well it's a pleasure to meet you but I wouldn't recommend shaking my hand unless you want to get radiation sickness." He says with a sigh.

You furrow your brow and before you can stop yourself you shake his hand anyway. Surprised at the heat radiating off of his palm. It's warm like when you hold your hand over a pot of boiling water just to feel the steam. You can hear a subtle buzz, a stream of quiet bubbling coming from his body.

He withdraws his hand first looking at it as if he had been burned, before looking back at you.

"Are you stupid or something?"

"Little bit." You say with a wide grin.

"You can't tell but I'm scowling at you with disapproval." The doctor says with a slight shake of his head.

"Well you're a doctor right? You can just fix me up if I get sick."

"I don't know if you can tell but I haven't exactly been a practicing physician recently." He says as he crosses his arms, looking you over again with a tilt of his head.

"How long has it been?" You ask, your brow raised in question.

The doctor sighs, "15 years give or take?"

"Goddamn. Guess I'm never getting out of here huh?" You ask with a dry chuckle.

"You ask a lotta questions (Y/n)."

"Who's Nina?" You question, despite the Doctors complaint.

He chuckles slightly before answering, "She's another inmate here, got hurt on a mission a little while ago. She's in the Med bay with Bride. Which is where you'll end up if you hang around me long enough." He says somewhat dejected.

You laugh lightly not taking his words too seriously. "Who's Bride?"

"Your leader on the field if you ever get picked for a mission." He says as he walks back over to his game of solitaire.

You follow after him with a skip in your step. You were already warming up to this guy even if he wasn't 100% sure about you. He takes a seat and glances obviously at the chair beside him, silently asking if you're going to take it.

You sit down and fold your hands in your lap, twiddling your thumbs. You expect him to keep playing his game of solitaire but you're surprised as he shuffles the cards carefully. You wonder how he isn't burning them.

"You know how to play go fish?" He asks as he starts dealing the cards between the two of you. Not bothering to wait for a response.

"Yeah, it's been a while though." You say, glancing from his hands to his face and back.

"That's just fine with me Jailbird." He says as he picks up his cards, rearranging his decks order.

You smile at him with a little mirth in your eyes. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

I'll write a part 2 if anyone really likes this! cheesey little ending but i figure its better to leave it open ended :) It's just the basic reader is an inmate in Belle Reve au. Although I am including Nina surviving and being nursed back to health while Bride watches over her.

[miidnighters]

Ah yes - the hard part, now, of actually telling the story, now that she's offered it.

"It's not a happy event," She warns, aiming for another smile (though it doesn't meet her eyes), and moving her other hand like she might reach for him (might feel settled by the contact) but aborting the motion. Still, there's no hesitation as she seems to gather herself to tell him.

"It was a few months shy of my eighteenth birthday. My mother and I were on the trail of a wolf that had gone feral - only it turned out to be a shape-changer, that we were woefully underprepared for. He caught me across the ribs, and while I was down - because she was worried about me - he caught my mother." There's a slight pause, here - a light hitch, but Hartley swallows it down to press on. "I managed to take him down, by the skin of my teeth,-" pouring blood the while, muscles and tendons in her side screaming. "but there was no saving her. My father was never quite the same. And I was not afforded the privilege of going to the doctor associated with the order since I'd let my mother die." A mocking tone, there - time has truly taught her what a cruel man she'd been raised by. "So the scar remains. Uglier, now, twisted by time."

(is that bravery? Is that accomplishment?)

This story is punctuated with a shrug, as if she can make out that she hasn't just laid her softest underbelly out between them, as if she's not petrified of what he'll think of all the parts of herself she's just revealed.

And then, of course, the truths she must struggle through are not over.

"Gale, darling, are you really asking what are we, like we're a pair of lovesick teenagers?" Deflection, maybe, just for a moment, because she needs to build that steel back up, didn't she? Still, the question has been asked and Hartley won't leave him languishing without response.

Another swipe of thumb over his chest - almost casual enough to play at being an idle movement. "I hold you in very high regard as well." Exactly what shape that takes yet, she's not sure. "I would even go so far as to say you're dear to me. I would have you as a constant in my life, for as long as you're willing to stay, which is not something I - well." She breaks off, another not-quite-all-there smile. "A friend, first and foremost."

Being but a moment of mindless ecstasy? Evidently, they are far too similar.

And it's funny, isn't it, as Gale looks to her now in the gentling light. None would truly believe it, not with his penchant for oxfords and her __ for life, but as a scholar and a wizard of considerable repute, it is never one's cover that one must judge. She bears smiles and praises. She boasts honey and silk. And it's easier to hide when one can dazzle with one's looks, but how many such fissures does her skin wear now? Thousands. About his chest, the memory of that glass prickles all too real.

Still, her scars speak of bravery. Her accomplishments. Her grit. (Gale can hardly say the same, a man whose great love he can never quite tame.)

With his throat warm with whiskey, his leather chair groans. (And he couldn't. He unlike Hartley is all a fool.)

"Of course," he broaches, "but be it dog bite or not, you've yet to offer me the truth. Those men were eager, certainly, to offer you their lead and to all but guide them. Unfortunately, I've taken a meaningful habit of walking myself, and I can't say I'm willing to be led down segues." No. "I haven't the heart for distractions." But rather truth and vulnerability. 

Her touch prickles at his skin, a thousand flurrying asks surging sharp in the dark. She's a labyrinthed creature, a maze and puzzle to the bright of her eyes. Gale can never be sure that he'll understand get her, but there: she is offering a moment to dare but a step. He takes it. Trying for calm, he manages some semblance of steady. "So, while I am relieved to hear that — truly, I am — that leaves the matter as to what I am to you unaddressed entirely. To be perfectly honest, it's not exactly a mystery I find myself enjoying. It leaves a wizard's imagination to fill in the blanks as it were, and he's likely to fill them in with his own...generous perceptions."

"It's a dangerous option to offer me. You must know that I regard you highly." And if he views him as a plaything? Heavens. No, he has suffered that enough.