#another frozen except dare i say it…

[hemmingsleclerc]

Did I mention? ┃james potter

james potter x slytherin!reader

james declared himself to yn during a quidditch game in the most ridiculus way possible

𖥔 ﾟ˖ ⊹ › ‹ ᵎ 𖧧. ⊹ ˖ ♡.˚˳១୨୧ ༘✰ ༘ ˚ ˚ ༘ ‧₊˚𖧧  ִֶָ 𖥔 ﾟ˖ ⊹ › ‹ ᵎ 𖧧. ⊹ ˖ ♡.˚˳១୨ִֶָ 𖥔 ﾟ˖ ⊹ › ‹

The Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Slytherin had been one of the most intense that Hogwarts had seen in years. The stands were full of energy as students from the houses cheered on their teams. Gryffindor's victory was a close one, as James caught the Snitch minutes before Slytherin's Seeker.

As the crowd erupted in cheers, James landed gracefully on the field, his heart pounding not only from the excitement of the game, but from the plan he had meticulously crafted over the previous two weeks. He spotted Y/n Nott, a Slytherin with whom he had shared a number of heated, yet interesting, exchanges over the years. She was fiercely intelligent, strikingly beautiful, and always seemed to be out of his league, which only motivated him further.

Determined and confident, James motioned to Sirius who immediately took the microphone Professor McGonagall had been using to announce the match and handed it to him. James took a deep breath, his Gryffindor courage motivating him as he spoke into the microphone.

"Attention, everyone!" James's voice boomed, drawing the attention of the entire crowd. "I have something important to say."

The stadium fell silent, all eyes on him. James' heart raced even faster when he saw Y/n in the Slytherin stands, studying his actions with curiosity. Nearby, Lily Evans, his friend and lifelong crush (or so they said), stared at him with a mix of surprise and confusion.

''A few years ago, I met a girl who I've completely fallen in love with'' - James began to say - ''I've admired her for a long time. Her intelligence, her strong personality… everything about her captivates me. I've been head over heels for her for as long as I can remember.".''

Lily's heart skipped a beat. Her friends nudged her, whispering excitedly, "He's talking about you, Lily!"

Lily felt her cheeks burn. She was ready to scream at him, she was already forming the words in her mind. How dare he make such a public spectacle? But before she could utter a sound, James continued.

"And I can't think of a better way to express how I feel than right here, right now."

Suddenly, the marauders sprang into action. Sirius, with a mischievous grin, waved a huge sign that read, "Say Yes!" Peter, struggling but determined, held up another sign next to Sirius that read, "You won't regret it!" and Remus carried another with the words, "You won't be disappointed!"

The entire Gryffindor section erupted into laughter and applause, adding to the festive chaos. Y/n couldn't help but laugh and shook her head in disbelief at the spectacle not knowing it was for her.

James took a deep breath and turned directly to Y/n. "So.....Y/n Nott, would you please do me the honor of going to the Yule Ball with me?"

The stadium fell into stunned silence. The shock was clear as everyone took in the unexpected twist. Lily froze, her mouth slightly agape in disbelief. She had been sure he was talking about her. Y/n was also taken aback, her cheeks turning bright red.

“Are you serious, Potter?” she shouted. “Is this a prank?”

"Dead serious Nott!" James responded with a huge smile on his face. "What do you say?"

Y/n hesitated for a moment, the entire stadium hanging on her response. Finally, she smiled and nodded. "Alright, Potter. You've got yourself a date."

The crowd roared in approval, students from all houses unable to contain their excitement at the unexpected turn of events except for the snakes. James felt as if he was floating on air as he handed the microphone back to a bewildered McGonagall and walked over to Y/n excitedly.

Meanwhile, Lily stood frozen in place, her heart clenching as she watched the scene unfold. She had always known that James had feelings for her, but seeing him so openly and passionately declare his affection for someone else was a bitter pill to swallow. Jealousy and regret gnawed at her as she forced a smile, clapping along with the rest of the students.

"I can't believe it," she muttered under her breath "I thought he was going to ask me out……again."

Sirius, who had been standing nearby, overheard her. With a teasing grin, he leaned in and said, "Girl, he's not going to ask you out anymore, sorry."

While Remus gave him a disapproving look while he elbowed Sirius in the ribs for speaking to Lily like that.

Lily turned to him, her eyes wide with a mix of indignation and shock. "Excuse me?"

Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. "You really thought he was going to ask you? Come on, Lily. Open your eyes. He's been over you since ages ago."

Lily opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She stood there, speechless, as the reality of the situation sank in. All this time, she had been so certain of James's affections, and now, seeing him with Y/n, she realized just how wrong she had been.

When James reached Y/n, who was still shaking her head in disbelief, he smiled warmly at her. "You're something special, Potter," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I aim to impress," he replied, not taking his gaze from her while he gave her the golden snitch.

[animasola86]

👻 A KNIFE TO REMEMBER

ghostface x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 3.8k

As you try to find your way through the mysterious house, someone finds you first...

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Masks/costumes! Knife kink/knife play! Fingering! Anonymous sex! Creampies! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 2 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is OPTION 1/PART 2 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to reach for the door closest to you.

Just when you reach for the door knob, you feel someone coming up from behind, and before you know it, a pair of hands blocks your vision. You gasp in shock, but a low voice vibrates in your ear as you're being pulled against a firm body.

“Shh, no need to panic,” the male voice drones, making you stiffen in his hold. It sounds a little muffled. “I won't hurt you. Unless you're into it...”

You reach up and grab onto his wrists, squirming against him. “Let me go,” you plead, but he only shushes you.

“Ah, come on, little Red. You're here for an adventure, aren't you?”

His hand moves to your mouth now, and you blink into the dimly lit hallway. He holds your face tightly, making it impossible to turn your head and look at whoever has you in his grasp, but you can still see that he's wearing a black costume, something like a robe. No gloves, though, just big veiny hands. Strong, and very adventurous.

With one still on your mouth, muffling the noises of protest, his other hand roams along your body, rubs up and down your side, gropes at your breast, grips your throat and gives it a light squeeze, before moving back down, teasing under the hem of your skirt. You must be in shock, because you can't find the courage or willpower to fight whatever is happening. This guy is clearly taking advantage of your confusion, and without another word, he pushes you forward, opens another door and guides you into the dark room beyond it.

You stumble, and when he finally lets you go, you fall onto something soft. A bed. Scrambling on your hands and knees, you're not quick enough as he grabs you again, pushing you flat on your stomach. A garbled scream escapes you, coaxing a low chuckle out of him. He has his hand on your nape, a tight grip, and you whine and struggle, but he's strong, and when you suddenly feel something cold press against your neck, you freeze on the spot.

“Tsk, tsk,” he makes. “Be a good little victim now, okay? I really don't want to make my shiny new toy dirty too soon. Can you feel it? The cold blade?”

You don't even dare to breathe at this point, because, yes, you can feel it, see the large knife in your mind's eye as it teases against your delicate skin. He eases the pressure slightly when he curls one arm around your middle, pulling you back and flush against him. You'd expect his breath on your ear with how close his voice is, but you can't feel anything – except something hard like plastic pressing against your cheek. He's wearing a mask.

“So, let's have a bit of fun first, yeah?” he whispers and leans around you, and even in the dark room, with only the moonlight falling through the window, you can see the long white face with its wide open mouth and droopy eye holes glaring at you. Ghostface. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head menacingly, a low chuckle in his muffled voice. “Or would you have preferred a different sicko with a knife? We do have quite the selection tonight.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. The sight of that face, frozen in plastic, gives you the chills, but you can't deny the little flutter in your stomach. May it be your sensitive guts or something else entirely, but whatever the case, you are rendered immobile by this strange encounter.

“So, how would you like this? Shall I chase you through the house first?” he continues in a mocking tone.

You blink, trying to calm your thundering heart. “Just... let me go?” you gasp out when he raises his knife again, poking the sharp tip against the side of your neck. “Please!” you cry out with a whimper, tilting your body away.

“Aw, baby, don't worry, I won't kill you,” he says quietly, pressing his other hand against your stomach. “I just want to have some fun! And I'm sure you do too. I saw you come in, all alone, lost and lonely. Won't you like some company? Isn't that why you came here on your own? To meet people? Let loose?”

His words have the desired effect as you find yourself agreeing with him. Maybe not like this, but then again, this is a Halloween party, spookier things have happened than having some fun with a masked stranger (who teases you with a very real knife...). You can't deny that your body is already accepting whatever may happen next. The man behind you seems to sense its willingness too as his hand suddenly slips down your stomach and under your skirt and curls right between your legs, eager fingers pressing against your underwear.

“Ah, yes, see? You're so ready for this,” he hisses into your ear, and you look away in shame. “So wet. Maybe you have a knife kink?” he asks, simultaneously pressing the blade against your throat and his fingers between your wet folds, making you gasp and stiffen. As you fight the urge to squirm, he keeps rubbing along the drenched fabric of your panties, pressing hard and deep, teasing your entrance. “Would you like to have something bigger in that cute little cunt, hm, baby? I promise I brought more than just this pretty knife...”

To underline his words, he presses his groin against your back, and you can feel just how happy he is to see you. Your heart beats faster. It's a strange sensation. This feels wrong, being cornered by a stranger (with a knife no less), forced to have some fun, but then again, maybe you needed the push into the right direction. You only live once, as cheesy as it sounds, and you have to admit you've (more or less shamefully) masturbated to the occasional rape fantasy story before.

Sure it's something else to actually experience this, but your body seems to disagree. It's a thrill, an actual adventure, and the fact that you could have fought more and tried to run away but never actually did speaks volumes. Maybe you want this? And he does seem to ask you for your consent in his own twisted way, even if he has a knife pressed to your neck and his fingers between your thighs – he could have just taken you with how much bigger and stronger he is, but in the good old villain fashion he had to hear his own voice for a bit instead.

“Well?” he whispers, rubbing his plastic mask against your cheek. You can hear his labored breaths through it now, he seems just as excited as the wetness dripping against his fingertips makes you appear.

“Mhm,” you croak out, unable to find your voice or any words to make this whole situation make sense in your protesting mind. You can't believe you just agreed to this, whatever this is, but before you can ponder it any longer, he suddenly pushes you forward and you land on the bed again. Too shocked to move, you let him manhandle you onto your back, and before you know it, he's crawled over you, pushing your skirt up and your legs wide apart, holding them open with his knees.

His hands roam up your body, and you realize he's dropped the knife somewhere, as his long fingers knead your breasts through the fabric of your blouse. You lie beneath him like a stranded beetle on its back, hands palm-up next to your head, unable to even twitch, and all you can do is watch the large shadow above you, with only the white mask glowing in the dark. It's eerily intimidating, but at the same time you feel the telltale tension in your stomach, alerting you just how aroused you are.

“What a good girl you are,” he says, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of your blouse. “So submissive. Are you just as breedable, hm?”

His words make you shiver. You inhale sharply when his rough hands make contact with your soft breasts as they slip right beneath your bra, pushing it up, and you can't help pressing your chest against his touch, wanting more. He's strangely gentle in how he touches you, despite his costume, despite the power he clearly has over you. And it only adds to your arousal, making you squirm beneath him.

“Little Red's excited, huh?” he mocks as he gropes your tender tits until you feel your hard nipples pressing into his palms. “Don't worry, I'll fill you up in no time. But maybe... hmm...” he makes, slowly leaning back on his knees. His fingers grip the sides of your blouse, pulling it open and exposing you completely, before trailing over your stomach until he reaches to the side and grabs the knife again. “Maybe I want you to beg for it...”

You let out a surprised whimper when you feel the cold edge of the knife press between your breasts, teasing at the soft mounds. He's looming over you, his head (and the mask) tilted ominously to the side, the grotesque face staring down at you. You swallow hard, barely daring to move with the blade so close to your skin.

“Come on, baby, beg me to fuck you... or beg me not to kill you?”

Suddenly his hand is on your throat, and you gasp voicelessly as he closes his fingers around it, while pressing the knife firmer against your chest, the blade scratching along your skin with every rapid breath you take, no matter how hard you try not to move.

“Please,” you whimper, a series of shivers crashing down your spine. “Don't... hurt me...”

“Hmm, can't promise that, lovely,” he replies with a sigh. “I'm sure you'll like a bit of rough sex as well, won't you? And what's pleasure without a little pain, hm? Try again!”

The knife pokes a little deeper, and you're sure it broke your skin now, but he keeps holding your neck, that unnerving mask staring down at you. “Please, don't kill me,” you whisper, playing along, somehow not as frightened as you should be. “I'm too young to die!”

His laugh is low and menacing. “And too pretty as well, right? Yeah, you are,” he says with another chuckle, leaning closer until your entire vision is filled with that white face and its black eye holes. “Well, then, whatever else could we do? You know I like to kill people, slash them up real good... if only there was something I could do to you instead...”

“F-fuck me,” you croak out, surprised by your own words.

He leans back abruptly, a triumphant “Ah!” falling from behind the mask. “Good girl, Red. I can do that!”

Your head is spinning as you have a moment to contemplate what you just said, but only until you feel his hands lifting your hips before his fingers pull your panties down. He's shifted to kneel beside you, and you realize he's placed his knife right on your fluttering stomach. Your hands claw at the edges of the pillow as you ground yourself, still not even thinking about fighting back or even escaping. Why would you? You've never felt this exhilarated. Sex with a stranger. Your mother would be so disappointed, but it's all the more incentive to go through with it.

You watch his dark figure, noticing that he's rid himself of the long black robe, and you can see muscled arms and a tight black shirt, and you wished you could see it all in more detail, but it's too dark, so you just have to imagine the rest of his build. Not that it matters much, you're already aroused enough as it is (though the mental image of a big strong guy with bulging muscles pinning you to the bed certainly helps with it).

When his fingers are back between your legs, you gasp in surprise, blinking your eyes into focus as he rips you from your thoughts. His fingertips move expertly, slipping between your labia, teasing at your hooded clit, poking at your hole. All you can do is squirm slightly, moaning softly the more he touches you. He watches you, or so you think, his head tilted comically to the side, that white face leering at you ominously.

Suddenly he moves, hands on your thighs as he pushes your legs wide open, before he grabs the knife and teases the pointy tip down your stomach, over the fabric of your bunched up skirt, until you feel the cold metal against your inner thigh. You let out a croaked whimper, forcing yourself not to move too much. While he teases you with the blade, he puts his hand over your mound, pumping his palm against your wet folds until a lewd squelching sound rings in your ears that makes you blush deeply.

“Nice and wet for me, aren't you?” he mocks quietly, repeating the motions a few times before he pulls his hand back and probes two fingers against your core instead. You brace yourself for the intrusion, but you still cry out softly when he pushes inside you. Big hands with thick fingers, and two of his feel like four of yours, as he stretches your entrance and presses hard against your protesting muscles. You groan in response, thrashing your head back.

He keeps fingering you, his digits slipping in and out in a lazy rhythm that he mirrors with his knife as it scratches up and down your inner thigh, and every time he presses the blade harder against your skin, you feel your walls clenching around his fingers.

“You like that, huh?” he whispers menacingly. “Knife kink confirmed.”

You bite your lip hard to suppress more telltale noises of pleasure, but he only keeps going, teasing you, playing with you, pushing hard and fast into you, and when he curls his fingers just right, you inhale sharply, that tension in your stomach building relentlessly, almost painfully, but it's only when you suddenly feel the cold metal of the blade right against your throbbing clit that you come with a loud howl, hips bucking up, no longer caring about getting cut, as you ride the waves of bliss as if nothing else matters.

“Beautiful,” you hear his distant voice as you slowly come down from your high, bright lights dancing behind your eyelids, and you feel him still massaging your squishy walls as they contract around him. “Can't wait to feel that around my cock...”

You hear a soft clinking sound when he seems to fumble with his belt, the knife back on your belly, heavy and cold even through the fabric. His hands are on your waist then, pulling you down a little until he drapes your legs over his thighs, guiding your crotches together. You barely register any of it, your mind reeling from your orgasm, but also anticipating the feel of his dick inside you. You can't see it in the dark, but with how he is built, you can only imagine it must be equally impressive.

You don't have to think about it for long as you feel its tip pressing between your wet folds when he rubs it against you to gather your slick. Breathing harder, you open your eyes, trying to watch him. The moonlight is enough to show you a big strong body kneeling between your legs, and only the glowing mask makes it all a little eerie, but when he finally enters you, you don't care about appearances anymore. He feels glorious.

Big, oh so big, filling you out more than you would have expected as he presses deeper, nudge by nudge, little rolls of his hips until he bottoms out inside you. His hands dig into your waist, holding you against him, and you feel bruises forming, but you don't mind, you need this. His first thrust makes the knife on your stomach bounce, and you gasp loudly. The second is equally harsh as he withdraws slowly to slam back in with force.

When he finally settles into a slow but steady rhythm, you're mewling softly, overwhelmed by how he feels inside you, how your walls cling to his shaft, sucking him in and dragging along it with every push and pull, rubbing so deliciously you feel a scorching tension building up inside you, burning brighter with every snap, every deep plunge, filling you up more and more.

His hands leave your waist to grab your throat, turning your soft moans into voiceless gasps, as he slowly picks up the pace and really rams into you, using his hold on your neck as leverage to angle his pelvis against you, allowing him to hit all the good spots with ease and fervor. You cry out soundlessly, your eyes rolling back, the last thing you see that ominous white mask above you, before you come hard around him, clamping down on his pistoning cock, your wetness gushing past him as you convulse beneath him.

You feel lightheaded, blinded by bliss, barely able to breathe, but you couldn't care less. He fucks you through your literally mind-blowing orgasm, pushing you higher and higher, until you feel it building up all over again. He lets go of your throat, allowing you to cry out hoarsely as you come a second time (or so you think, not that you could think at all, much less count the highs he's forcing upon you).

He pushes you down into the bed, one hand on your shoulder, holding you steady, while his other hand grabs the knife off your stomach, and you only realize that when you feel the cold blade against your cheek, gathering your sweat on its tip. Or maybe your tears, you can't be sure, your body feels like it belongs to somebody else at the moment, and you're just here to enjoy the ride.

“Open wide,” he tells you, his voice muffled and strained, and you comply, parting your lips before you feel the blunt edge of the blade pressing against them. “Tongue out.” You follow through, still too dizzy to question anything.

He presses the knife flat against your tongue, holding it there while he keeps pounding his cock into your fluttering cunt. You can hear his labored breaths from behind the mask, his movements becoming jerkier as you just lie there, staring up at him, goosebumps rippling over your skin as your legs twitch against his sides.

The white face is looming over you, unmoving, unnerving, while the man behind it gives his all to chase his own orgasm as he thrusts into you feverishly. Your own sounds are muffled with how he holds your mouth open, and you have to really force yourself not to move your tongue against the blade. He leans down more, putting more of his weight on you, pinning you down, his hips snapping against yours in a wild rhythm, until he finally stills, a loud groan echoing in your ears as he falls forward, mask pressed to the pillow beside your head, the hand holding the knife to your tongue shaking slightly.

That last thrust made you whine as he pushed as deep as he could possibly go, bullying your cervix, and before you can even wonder if he's used a condom or not, which you doubt, but again, your mind is swimming in bliss, unable to worry about anything at all, you feel him throbbing inside you, his balls drawing up against your folds as he empties himself in your depths, filling you with spurt after spurt of hot cum. You clench around him, trying to milk him, and the motion only makes you moan into the blade pressed against your tongue as another wave of pleasure crashes over you at the sensation.

He eventually leans back up, propped on his elbow, that mask so close to your face it's all you can see. Slowly he lifts the knife, the cold pressure gone, and all that remains is a numb feeling and a whole lot of spit. You close your mouth and swallow hard, but freeze when he suddenly reaches out and wipes his fingers over your wet lips, a gentle gesture you haven't expected. He traces your mouth with his thumb, and for a moment you're tempted to pull that stupid mask off and kiss him, deeply, properly, but that's not part of your play, unfortunately.

He stares at you a moment longer before he sits up again, his chest rising and falling almost as heavily as yours. His hands trail down your body, giving your breasts a few more squeezes before he grips your hips and pushes you off him, his mask tilting down as he watches his cock slipping free from your cunt, followed by a large warm dollop of his cum spilling from between your puffy lips. He exhales loudly as he slowly gets off the bed and puts his spent cock away.

“Well, wasn't that fun,” he then says, his low voice a little strained. “Thanks for the ride, Little Red. I'll make sure to recommend you to the others...”

His words should have irritated you, but you're still too fucked-out to care. All you reply with is a soft sigh as you sink back into the bed, finally relaxing into the cushions. You watch him out of hooded eyes as he puts his robe back on, hiding those strong arms, then leans closer once more to pick up his large knife.

And then he's at the door, opening it, letting the light from the hallway spill into the room and over your soiled body. He raises his knife, waving at you almost menacingly, then slips out of the room, closing the door behind him, vanishing like a shadow in the night, leaving you alone in the dark.

You groan and thrash your head back. What a ride indeed. Not how you have planned this party to start, but what's done is done. When you eventually scramble off the bed, bra pushed back over your breasts, your shaking fingers trying to button your blouse, you realize you can't find your panties anywhere. He must have taken them. Fuck. If he wouldn't have pumped you full of his cum, you wouldn't even mind, but as you stand, you can feel it dripping down your leg, warm and sticky.

Sighing deeply, you squeeze your thighs together. Just another reason to finally find that bathroom, you think as you slip out of the room and back onto the hallway full of doors.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

YOUR NEXT OPTIONS ARE:

check the door opposite you

go to the end of the hallway

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

One bed

Azriel x reader

Word count: 3000+

Summary: Due to unforeseen circumstances, you end up in the same room as Azriel

Warnings: none

I'd love to say I have solved the Frozen thingy, but I haven't yet. I've started writing part 3 and that's where I stopped because of the madness around. I was so close to making a solid plan for it. Unfortunately, the work happened, then Christmas at work baking f***ing chicken farm. Then husband got fever🙄and he couldn't live without getting someone else sick as well, so now son has high fever too and I'm the last one somehow surviving here. At least I have whole week of holidays next week. I hoped to relax and write more, but we'll see. Wish me luck🥴

Anyway here's something small and not so angsty that just popped up suddenly. Hope you enjoy it.

And for everyone who celebrate, have a peaceful holiday 💕

"I thought I've reserved enough rooms," Rhysand sighed. The last hour he was talking with the owner of the inn we were staying at, trying all possible tactics to persuade him to find us one more room. Impossible task from the very beginning as the inn was full.

We were on non-official official mission. At first, there were only six of us supposed to go as Amren declined, intending to stay with Mor in Velaris, protecting it. However, the two of them had yet another quarrel recently, which led to Amren suddenly appearing with a packed bag in hand a few seconds before intended departure. Nobody, not even Rhys, had balls to tell her no. And that's why we ended up in this situation. Rhys had everything perfectly planned, as usual, but he couldn't have known this would happen. And now we were one room short, but again - nobody dared to tell aloud whose fault it was. Amren was like hungry bulldog, ready to tear to shreds anyone and anything at the best of her days. Now, she was pissed off.

Feyre and Nesta took their keys, Feyre giving me an apologetic look. From the start, they were supposed to share rooms with their mates. This was also kind of vacation for us, so it was only logical they wanted to be with their partners.

That left Rhys with last two keys in hand. Amren snatched one and without looking at anyone or even a small mumbled sorry, she left. We exchanged look and whole group finally relaxed.

"Sorry," Feyre murmured as she headed to her room with sorrowful expression.

Before she left, Nesta gazed at me with silent question and I nodded. I would be fine, for sure. Cassian winked at me as he followed her. They both knew about the feelings I had for Azriel for quite some time, each supporting me in their own way. At this point, probably everyone around knew, except for the mentioned Shadowsinger and I didn't plan to be the one to break the news. I knew my limits and he was off them.

Rhys turned to me and Azriel with sorrowful expression, brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, Az, but you know.. Ladies first," he offered me the last key. Spymaster didn't even as much as blink, no protests at all. He looked as his usual self, unbothered by the problem at the hand.

"Thankies," I smiled, took the key and looped hand to Azriel's arm. "Come."

They both opened mouth in surprise, none of them expecting this from me. Rhys recovered as first.

"Enjoy yourself," he smirked and I rolled my eyes.

"Ha ha ha, how funny," I stuck out tongue at him. He chuckled and hurried after his mate, leaving the two of us alone. I raised brow at Shadowsinger who was still too shocked to speak. He didn't even notice Rhys' teasing.

"What? Did you think I would let you sleep on roof or what?"

"B-b-but," he stammered, his cheeks dusted with pink.

"No buts. Come!" I had to pull reluctant Azriel down the hallway.

"I can try another inn-"

"Nonsense! You would miss all the fun. Plus, I really don't mind. We are friends after all. I have nothing to be afraid of, right?"

I came to a sudden stop, realizing something.

"Wait! You mind staying with me in the same room?"

Before, it didn't occur to me that he could be against. I thought we were getting along pretty well, given the fact that we tended to seek out each other's company, sitting together and talking. The two of us even often hung out in the city, venturing cafes and bakeries. I thought he liked to spend time with me, but it could be only my mistaken impression. I knew I couldn't hope for more than friendship and I was fine with that as long as I could be close to him. He could feel differently though.

"No!" he hurried with an answer, eyes wide. "No, nothing like that. It's just.."

"What is it?"

"It's just.. you are female and I'm male."

I was so relieved to hear that, that I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. "That means that you will pounce on me like an animal as soon as door close?"

He flushed fiercely, averting his eyes. "You know I will do no such a thing. It just means that you might be uncomfortable because of that."

"I'm fine. Believe me," I said softly and took his hand. "So come on, silly."

He chuckled and this time, he willingly followed me.

The room, we got, was quite a nice one for an old inn, but it was rather smaller one. Most of the space was occupied by bed big enough to accommodate Illyrian wings. It was one of the reasons Rhysand chose this place, thinking about the comfort of his brothers. We were supposed to spend here whole week, maybe longer, so it was necessary.

Except of bed, there was only small table with two old chairs, hearth and connected bathroom.

After we settled down, the air had somehow thickened, both of us suddenly embarrassed. And so I did what I could to lighten the atmosphere a bit, but every try for a conversation died out soon after it started. At last, I gave up.

"It was long day," I stretched out, all my joints making a satisfying cracking sound and Azriel grimaced. He didn't like when I did it. "I'm tired. Do you want to use the bathroom as first?"

"No, go ahead," he offered and started to line up on table all the daggers he had on him. I paused and watched him, amazed. How could he hide so many? I thought he had only two, max three. He noticed me and smiled shyly.

"I'll clean them while you take shower. Don't worry, I'll put them away afterwards."

"I don't mind them at all," I mumbled, ashamed I got caught. "I'm just stunned you managed to sneak in the whole arsenal. Seeing it now, I would bet that not only do you have one for each of us but also even one spare."

At that he finally laughed, the rich sound warming my heart. I already missed that sound. Corners of my mouth curled into satisfied smile and I quickly gathered all necessary things and went to the bathroom.

When I came out, the daggers were gone from the table. Azriel was seated on the same chair he occupied since we came, pyjama in hands. He was staring into space, looking somehow troubled. Shadows gathered around his ear and he looked up at me, faking smile. Without a word, he stood up and hurried to the bathroom.

While I was waiting, I shoved my used underwear to the bottom of my bag and climbed to the bed, snuggling up in a warm blanket. It was quite cold here, old window hardly blocking the cold wind from outside.

Azriel took quite long to finish. By the time bathroom door creaked open, I was almost asleep. He rustled around for a while and adding big log to the fire, he turned off lights. I waited. The room went completely silent.

I opened eyes. "Are you kidding me," I sat up, sighing. "Az, I thought, we already talked it out." I glared into a dark corner by the hearth.

"Don't worry about me and sleep," he replied from his place on the old chair.

"You can't sleep on that old crap. It will most likely give in soon." The only answer was silence.

"C'mon, Az. It won't do you any good if you're sleep-deprived. To none of us in fact. What if something happens and you won't be able to fight because you are too tired and sore?"

Again silence.

"Do you want me to help you to the bed? I warn you, I'm going to drag you here not by arm but by ear this time."

He chuckled. His wings rustled and mattress dipped under his weight. "Fine then. Have it your way."

I tucked him in like a small child, mindful of his wings and settled down, heart pounding in my throat.

"That wasn't necessary."

"Believe me it was. And don't try to fake it. I'm light sleeper. I will know if you get up in the middle of the night."

"Fine, fine." He sounded amused. He was lying on his back, wings folded and tugged close to his body.

"Relax. The bed is enough big for both of us. Even if you touch me. I'm not made of sugar, I won't melt into puddle," I assured him as I curled up on my side of bed with back to him, taking as little space as possible so he had enough comfort. He made a sound at the back of his throat.

I thought I wouldn't be able to sleep at all with him being so close. But as bed warmed up with his presence and his calming scent wrapped around me as another blanket, I fell asleep in no time.

* * *

Azriel didn't even blink an eye. He was just lying there, stretched on his back, gazing at ceiling. He wasn't used to falling asleep next to someone. After she reassured him, he relaxed a bit but only his body. He was too nervous and excited at the same time. He was scared to even breath, not wanting to wake her up. How could she sleep so soundly? Didn't she feel the same? Didn't his presence stir her nerves?

Shadows curled on pillow near his ear, whispering. They described him in detail how she drifted off with sweet smile on her lips. Smile that she was still wearing. He wished he could see it with his own eyes.

He dared to turn his head to the side to watch her back, her shoulder slightly rising with every breath. Even at place like this in the middle of nowhere, she kept smelling like field of spring flowers, delicate and sweet. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the moment.

He felt so lucky right now and thanked the Mother for sending Amren at last minute, giving him this opportunity. For years, he was trying to get closer to Y/N. No matter how many times, he was ready to tell her about his feelings, he always gave up in the end, not daring to even suggest it. She was everything he wasn't, beautiful, kind and perfect. She deserved better.

He watched her entire night, mesmerized. It was strange. She was always so energetic during the day, yet at night she didn't move at all. It made him wonder whether it was because of him or it was normal.

It was after the sunrise when he finally calmed down and dozed off for hour or two.

* * *

Three days later, a knock sounded on our door. We were just finishing off the lasts of our breakfast. We looked up in time to see Rhysand's head peeking in. He held hand over his eyes with sassy smirk on his lips.

"Can I come in? I wouldn't like to see something inappropriate."

I rolled my eyes while Azriel bid him in, unaffected by his teasing. Honestly, everyone was making fun of us for no reason. After the first night, Nesta pulled me aside to ask me how it went and how I felt. I had nothing to tell her. At least nothing interesting anyway. I slept like a baby and not only the first night, but every night after.

Every evening, Azriel dutifully took his side of bed and I curled up on mine. No touching, only a pleasant small chat between friends. It was noticeable that he didn't sleep much the first night, however after that, he didn't seem to have such troubles. I was glad for that.

"I came to inform you that finally one more room is available. If you want, one of you can take it," he grinned and waited for our reply with one brow raised.

Out of the corner of eye, I looked at Azriel who was already eyeing me with unreadable expression. It seemed he wouldn't speak and it was up to me to decide.

"Well.. I don't mind to share room with Az at all. But if you'd like to have your privacy.." I turned to him.

His eyes widened slightly and his lips moved without making a sound.

"I don't mind, too," he managed.

"So," Rhys dragged the word. "You want to stay together? Really?"

We nodded as one man, not willing to give him what he hoped for. He was visibly disappointed.

"Fine then," he sighed, "as you want. I'll inform the owner."

* * *

A week later we were so used to this situation and each other's presence that we returned to our usual selves, rambling about anything, laughing, even touching lightly.

Our mission was over and this was our last night of sharing room. Azriel was spread on bed next to me, his wing gently touching my back. I was slowly falling asleep while we did small talk. Somewhere between dream and reality I got idea. Crazy as it was, my sleepy brain didn't find anything strange or wrong with it and my body acted on its own.

With closed eyes I rolled to his side, wrapped arm around his waist and rested my head on his chest. Azriel made a surprised sound and stiffened, but he didn't try to push me away. His smell filled my nose, his warmth seeping into me. Frantic but steady melody of his heart lulled me deeper into sleep. Last thing I felt before I completely drifted off, was his body relaxing under me and his arm holding me close.

* * *

Azriel was so surprised, he couldn't think straight. What was happening? He touched Y/N lightly, yet she didn't mind. She was almost asleep, relaxed and seemingly comfortable with him as her pillow. He felt her smiling into his chest and that gave him courage to wrap his hands around her. She hummed with satisfaction and dozed off completely.

Azriel gazed at her, unsure what to think or feel. Naturally, it made him happy, a dream-come-true kind of situation, but was it really okay? Was it really happening? It seemed to him just like a figment of his imagination, fed by amazing week spent by her side, so close to her.

He pinched himself, really painfully, leaving a bruise on his forearm. It was real. He swallowed hard. Slowly small smile spread on his face. He could get used to this.

When the initial surprise and embarrassment had passed, he found himself enjoying this. His heart was pounding fast, as he touched her hair and pushed them aside to see her face. He couldn't help it and traced a single finger down her face and jaw, mapping her full lips, lovely nose and soft arches of her brows.

He chuckled lightly. Y/N didn't even stir. So much to a light-sleeper.

As he watched her, his fantasy took over, offering him all kinds of imaginary situations that could lead to them ending up in this position; from innocent snuggling together for the night to them being naked, covered in sweat and spent after good sex. His heart squeezed in pain. He loved it and wanted it all. He didn't even realize that he was tugging her closer and closer, holding her so firmly there was no space left between them.

Despite everything, the scenario of innocent snuggling immediately became his favourite one. It held a certain kind of peace and warmth, something he longed for the most. He kept replaying it again and again until he fell asleep, too. The fantasy followed him even to his dreams where it became so real that it was unbearable.

* * *

I woke up unusually early at dawn. Still drowsy I looked around, not comprehending where I was. I was warm and comfy, so ready to close my eyes again, until I notice rising and falling steady flesh under me. That completely woke me up.

I looked up, finding Azriel still fast asleep. He was smiling sweetly, yet the tears rolled down his cheeks, soft whimpers leaving his lips. My chest tightened at the sight. It hurt me to see him like this. I reached up and gently wiped the tears off.

He slowly opened eyes and looked at me, still smiling.

"Good morning," I whispered.

"'Morning, Y/N," he replied, his deep voice raspy in the most sexy way. His thumb started to move up and down my waist in soothing motion.

"Bad dreams?"

"Sometimes dreams can be so beautiful that they make one cry," he murmured. He sounded so sad that I felt like crying too. Instead, I placed both of my hands on his chest and rested my chin on top of them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I searched his eyes.

He shook his head and wiped off the rest of his tears. "I just wish I could go back and keep having the same dream for the rest of my life," he sighed, his eyes never leaving my face.

I propped up on my elbow and caressed his cheek. "You know that dreams don't have to stay dreams. They can became reality if you want them to."

His eyes widened and he swallowed hard. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something. Determination filled his eyes and he lifted up his head, stopping an inch from my face, waiting.

It was so sudden that I held my breath, but I didn't pull away. Watching me closely, Azriel leaned even closer and his lips lightly grazed over mine. I moaned, my body acting on its own. My eyes closed and I firmly pressed my lips to his. All the years of my suppressed feelings poured into this one kiss, not believing that there would be any more. He groaned and opened up, slowly moving, testing the waters. His fingers dug into flesh of my waist, holding me impossibly close.

It ended as suddenly as it started. He reluctantly broke the kiss and rested his forehead against mine, heaving.

"I want it to become real."

[formulafanfics13]

can u please write something for ollie and yn being teamates and childhood rivals . they 'hate' each other but when someone insults her he almost puts them in the hospital . she saw it obviously. later they smeet at the hotel , tension is suffocating and they finally give in and have sex

Break Point - OB87 🔥

Masterlist

Summary You and Ollie Bearman have been rivals since you were twelve — fast, feral, fiercely competitive. Now you're teammates at Haas, the youngest pairing on the grid, and the paddock eats up your tension like candy. But when a sleazy comment is thrown your way after FP2 in Austria, Ollie loses it. He nearly knocks the guy out without thinking, then storms off like it meant nothing. Except it did. Later that night, when you follow him into his hotel room, the truth unravels. Ollie admits he thinks about you constantly. What follows is years of anger, tension, and desire combusting into the kind of sex that leaves bruises, shakes walls, and rewrites everything you thought you knew about hate. You don’t talk about it — not really — but it’s too late. You’re already his. And he’s already yours.

Warnings hate-to-love dynamic, intense rivals-to-lovers tension, explicit sexual content, oral (f receiving), choking (light and consensual), aggressive language, praise kink, rough sex, possessiveness, enemies with history, unresolved emotional tension, hotel setting, jealousy, implied dom/sub dynamic, first time between characters with shared past, no protection, mild violence (Ollie throws someone), emotionally charged confrontation leading to sex.

You’ve hated Ollie Bearman since you were twelve. Not the real kind of hate, not the kind that burns. No. Yours is sharper. Colder. Competitive. The kind of hate that stares too long. That knows how fast he is in the wet. That remembers what he said to you in Italy three years ago and still holds onto it like a grudge in your chest.

You're teammates now. Haas' prodigy pairing. Two of the youngest on the grid. Two rising stars with more podium predictions than social skills. And the paddock fucking loves it, the tension, the attitude, the passive-aggressive post-race interviews.

They don’t know the half of it. The day it breaks, it’s hot. Austria. Friday. FP2 just wrapped. You’re walking back to the hospitality tent with your helmet in your hand and sweat down your spine when it happens.

Some mechanic from another team, you don’t even register who, makes a comment just loud enough to be heard. Something about your pace. Your body. Your mouth.

It’s disgusting. Blatant. And you laugh it off because you always do.

But Ollie hears it. And he doesn’t.

He turns so fast you don’t even have time to react. Doesn’t say a word. Just grabs the guy by the collar and slams him back against the side of the garage so hard tools rattle.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Ollie-” you start, wide-eyed, frozen.

“Say it again,” he snarls. “Say it again, I fucking dare you.”

His fist is already cocked. Jaw tight. Breath ragged. And the guy, pale now, voice cracking, doesn’t say a word.

Ollie shoves him once more for good measure, then steps back, storming past you without a glance.

You stand there stunned. Because that wasn’t performance. That wasn’t rivalry. That was something else.

It hits you an hour later in the elevator.

You’re both staying at the same hotel. Of course you are. Of course you get in at the same time.

He’s leaning against the mirrored wall, hoodie thrown on, knuckles still red. You step in. Silence.

You press your floor. So does he. Same one. “Thanks for the whole… murder attempt thing,” you say lightly.

He huffs. “Didn’t do it for you.”

You turn your head. “Bullshit.”

His jaw tightens. You’re watching him in the reflection now. He’s not looking at you.

But his hands are clenched. His breath’s off. And the second the elevator doors open, you both move. His room’s to the right. Yours to the left. But you turn the same way. No words.

He unlocks the door. Leaves it open. And you follow.

The room is dark. Quiet. He throws his hoodie to the floor and doesn’t look at you. Just stands there. Back to you.

You close the door. “Ollie.”

Still nothing. You step closer. Until you’re right behind him. “Why’d you do it?” you ask. Soft.

He turns. And that’s when you see it.

The look. Raw. Unspoken. Feral.

“I don’t want anyone talking about you like that,” he says. “Ever.”

You blink. “Why?”

He stares at you. His throat bobs. Then. Quietly, brokenly, “Because I think about you like that every fucking day.”

The kiss is violent. No build-up. No warning. Just teeth and heat and years of tension combusting in the space of a breath.

He pins you to the wall like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Kisses you like he’s trying to win. Like every race, every podium, every lap time has led to this.

Your clothes vanish in pieces, shirt yanked up, jeans shoved down. He pushes your panties aside like he can’t be bothered to wait. “Say you hate me,” he growls.

“I do,” you gasp.

“Liar,” he snaps, dragging his fingers through your folds. “You’re soaked.”

You moan, nails digging into his arms.

He lifts you with zero effort, carries you to the bed, drops you onto the mattress, and spreads you open with his hands on your thighs like he’s claiming you.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “God, I’ve wanted to wreck you for years.”

He dives between your legs with no hesitation. Licks you like it’s his last meal. No finesse, just hunger.

Your hands fly to his hair. “Fuck, Ollie-”

“That’s it,” he pants, fingers replacing his tongue. “Come for me. Come like you’ve hated me your whole fucking life.”

You scream. Legs shaking. Hips twitching. Back arching. He doesn’t stop. Slides up. Lines himself up. Pushes inside in one hard, desperate thrust.

“Fuck.”

You both freeze for half a second, panting, stunned. Then he fucks you. Hard. Deep. Fast. The room echoes with every slap of skin, every curse, every ragged, furious moan.

“You’ve always wanted this,” he grits. “Don’t fucking lie.”

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails down his back.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Tell me.”

“I wanted you,” you gasp. “I always wanted you.”

He kisses you like he’s drowning.

You come again with his hand on your throat and his name in your mouth. He follows seconds later, groaning into your neck, body trembling.

And still, neither of you speak.

It’s quiet after. He doesn’t move. Just lies there, still inside you, head on your chest. You run a hand through his hair. “You gonna hit someone every time they talk about me?”

“Only if they’re not me.”

You laugh.

He lifts his head. Looks at you. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

You nod. “Completely.”

And then he kisses you again.

[aviator-at-heart]

Dinner shenanigans w/ the daggers

some hcs/ a fanfic of what would happen at a dinner at the Mitchell-Kazansky household

Everyone would be coming at the same time (except Rooster who came early to help get the house ready) probably piled in Jake’s jeep. They would be fighting over who would ring the doorbell/knock when the door was literally open-

Hollywood and Wolfman are also invited because they were in town. They’re happily together (Hollywolf duh). All the daggers are asking Wood and Wolf to give stories of young Iceman and Maverick. They tell the story of the ‘86 locker chomp (when Iceman did some air biting in the locker rooms to Mav- we all know what he wanted to do), along with the story of the gayest volleyball game ever known to the US Navy.

They eat dinner (another little hc - Ice was a rich kid who did cooking classes so he made burgers for all of them). They eat happily except for Ice and Mav who are embarrassed from the stories Hollywood and Wolfman said. They think of some funny stories of them two.“After the Layton mission, Wood and Wolf were found making out on the carrier”, Maverick says during a moment of silence. For a moment everyone registers what Mav says except Wood and Wolf who know exactly what Mav was talking about. “I beg your pardon?”, Hangman says first. Then Rooster understands and chokes on his water. Wolfman was furious with Maverick now.“Mav, we trusted you!”.

After everyone eats they go into the living room. Mindless chatter. More stories. “Let’s play a game of truth or dare”, Coyote says. Collective agreements. They play a few rounds. Secrets are revealed, friends betrayed, and bets are made (mostly by Phoenix). Some things that weren’t supposed to be revealed are revealed (ex. Hangman has a beloved pop playlist, Rooster is afraid of Roosters, Bob and Phoenix are dating but it was a secret, Fanboy plays video games as a hobby with a person he met online but it turns out that person was Coyote).

Slowly people get bored of the truth or dare game and just chill, occasionally talking. Wolfman and Hangman bond through their Texan heritage, both talking about their cowboy hat collections. Then they all watch a movie (they all secretly love Disney movies and it isn’t revealed until Bob asks if they can watch a Disney movie, I’m saying he asked for Planes but everyone already watched Planes so they decide on Frozen). They watch the movie and still have energy for the second one so they watch it. After the movie, everyone’s sleeping (except Wood and Wolf because they left when the first movie finished). Hangman had fell asleep on Rooster, his head in Roosters lap. Rooster was sleeping on Hangman, his head on Hangman’s back. Bob and Phoenix are sleeping in a lounge chair together, hands interlocked. Maverick was sleeping on top of Iceman. Everyone else was sprawled on the floor.

Phoenix and Bob wake up first in the morning. They see popcorn buckets scattered around. But then they see Rooster and Hangman. They both giggle as they take photos of them. Iceman wakes up next, forgetting that Maverick was on top of him so Mav fell off him and onto the floor. That set a chain reaction of people waking up. Everyone was looking at Hangman and Rooster as they slept peacefully. Then Rooster woke up and noticed his awkward sleeping position with Hangman. He tried to pry himself from Hangman’s grip but couldn’t. He instead woke Hangman up.

Everyone took this as a perfect opportunity. “Rooster and Hangman sitting in a tree…”

[misscherry-26]

The time where you knitted John a sweater... and he hated it.

Pairing: John Price x reader (husband x wife relationship)

Warnings: None

Author's Note: Yes, I saw the most beautiful and cute pair of shark slippers but they weren't on my size... And yes, I started knitting and it was a rough start (I didn't make a sweater, just a scarf that I never finished to be honest) but I thought it could be a good idea to put those details in a story. So here it is. Comments are welcome! I love to talk about my stories, tell me your thoughts on them!

I'm thinking on making another part, maybe the time she made the cherry keychain, and adding a scene with John telling her the truth about the sweater, hahaha. Let me know in the comments if you would be interested on reading a part 2!

~No edited, mistakes to be corrected later.

You've been practicing for a week. You've been doing and re-doing the knots every time you messed up. So far it was going well... Which is why—as you hold it in front of you, now finished— can't understand what happened.

Smiling proudly at it, you hug it, giggling and happy that you made it. Your first big piece. A sweater.

But not just a sweater, this is the sweater.

John steps on the living room, cup of tea in one hand, towel in the other drying his hair after his daily workout session in the backyard—which, by the way, you love to see. He's dressed in a casual navy blue t-shirt and grey joggers. Kind of funny, since you are wearing something similar, with the personal touch of a shark-themed slippers you found in on of those Korean stores in the city.

"watcha got there?" He asks casually as he leans on the archway that separates the living room from the dining room.

You immediately cover the piece behind your body, turning around, an innocent, yet proudly, smile covering you. "Close your eyes!"

His lips curve slightly, as if he wants to laugh, (he can't quite remember at what exactly, your emotion at what you hide, or at your cute cozy outfit) but the gesture vanishes almost instantly as he stands tall and closes his eyes.

You take his tea and place it on the coffee table as you guide him to sit on the couch, he gets comfortable, opening his legs wider, arms stretched out on the curve of the couch.

Standing between his legs, you take out the sweater you had behind, stretch it out and present it.

"open those pretty eyes."

John follows her command, and his expression is... Unreadable— The same one he had when you show him the very first piece you made. A cherry keychain, which he thought you bought it to a kid but then realizing he made a big mistake saying that so he decided to love it, even though it looked like as if his keys had two giant red balls hanging on there. (Note: John grew an unexpected loyalty to it. To this day he still has it on his keys).

He eyes the piece up and down, down and up, left to right, right to left, and he doesn't have a clue as to what he should say right now. But he definitely wants to laugh at it. Thing is... Horrible. Oh god, it's so horrible he hopes it gets lost or worse, it burns on an accident so he doesn't have to wear it— If his able to put it on. The neck looks ten times bigger than any normal size. The left right looks okay, except for the sleeve that it's short. But the right side? Thing looks like it's melting. Sleeve long enough that could fit a leg instead of an arm. What kind of person can make a sweater look like it's melting? My wife, apparently, he thinks. Facial expressions frozen, not daring to move the smallest muscle possible.

Oh and on top of that? Sweater is red. The most brightest tone of red.

He hates it. He doesn't like it.

"it's beautiful... Wow sweetheart."

You throw it at him, plopping down by his side, smile wide.

"Really? I know you wanted to get that one we saw at the store but I couldn't help it and try to make it myself. I know it's red and you aren't a fan of it but please please give it a chance, it will look good on you." You grab at his arm, practically begging at him.

John hesitates for a second before grabbing the... Thing. Taking a closer look at it.

Yeah, no. This definitely can't be saved. He wishes he could just toss it on the bin and laugh at it, or tell you the truth, but he knows he can't do it. It will break your heart. You poured time and love in this, thinking of him all the time.

He is fucked.

"yeah sure, later I will —"

"What do you mean? Silly, try it now." You playfully punch his bicep.

His Adam's apple seems to slash his throat when he gulps. He takes a look at the sweater, then at you, then at the sweater...

"I—."

A day later...

"Oi captain, looking good in the picture." Soap teases him, mouth full of food since it was lunch break.

John stops chewing on the delicious chicken parmesan you made him for lunch, raising an eyebrow at the comment. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Soap shakes his head, laughing at his innocence. Ghost sits down with his food next to him, peeking at it, he is wearing the mask, but even that can't find the fact that he is suppressing a laugh at the photo he is seeing.

"Give me that," he wants to snatch the phone but it's an impossible task, because Soap gets up just in time, moving his arm away. once he makes sure that his captain won't attempt to snatch it again, he shows him the photo. One he knows pretty well, because it's the one you took yesterday. Wearing that damn sweater.

"How did you get that?"

"Well, your wife texted me, asking me for some advice about it, and since I'm pretty good at knitting ... Red suits you captain, aye." He teases John.

In that moment, John couldn't decide what he should do first: Kill Johnny, ask him how you have his number, or burn that damn sweater.

[likeumeanit9497]

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ | ᴄ.ꜱ. |

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ

series masterlist here

summary: Eleanor moves through the world like a shadow searching for light, and Chris burns too brightly, as if trying to outshine a buried grief. When they collide on a night filled with a mutual self-loathing, something quiet but insistent begins to grow between them — a pull that they never dare speak of, yet orbit in harmony nonetheless. Their bond deepens quickly, shaped by vulnerability, near-misses, and the ache of things left unsaid. As their lives pull and blur at the edges, they learn that what they are for one another in the moment may matter more than how it ends. 

warnings (throughout the series): smut; angst; addiction; family trauma; depression; heavy drinking; mentions of death; mentions of abuse; 18+

Chris moved quietly through the dark of the room, careful not to wake her. Eleanor hadn’t stirred. Her face was still tucked into the pillow, her brow finally smooth, her breathing deep and steady — a sleep hard-earned.

He stood for a moment beside the bed, his eyes on her still frame, before gathering the sodden pile of her clothes he had left on the bathroom counter. They were still damp, clinging to themselves with the cold weight of the ocean and everything that had followed it. Her sweater. Her jeans. Her underwear. He gathered them into his arms and slipped from the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

The hallway breathed cool around him, quiet save for the groan of the house settling into night. The stairs creaked with familiar protest. From the kitchen came the low, mechanical hum of the dishwasher, accompanied by the flickering white light overhead — that same stutter that had gone ignored for years. Matt and Nick were sitting at the table, mid-conversation, food laid out in front of them. Matt’s head snapped up first, and Chris saw it land — the wet clothes in his arms, the unmistakable guilt in his eyes.

Matt’s voice was flat, a low crack of disbelief, “You cannot be serious, Chris.”

Chris stood frozen in the doorway, chest rising slowly, deliberately. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fire back. Of course Matt would say that. Of course he would be protective, wary. He had watched Chris unravel over the past two weeks, watched the way Eleanor had been both the wound and the salve. Watched him lie through his teeth about what she meant to him, then break and practically confess when she pulled the plug on their could-be.

Chris let out a slow breath. The words came slowly, with no effort to soften their weight. “Grant hurt her.”

There was no dramatic pause. No rising music. Just three words, landing like a thunderclap in the brothers’ kitchen. Matt straightened. Nick froze mid-bite, the burger still halfway to his lips. And he looked younger in that moment — like the boy who used to read to Chris in bunk beds they had outgrown too fast.

“What do you mean?” Nick asked, brows furrowing, “Like—emotionally, or…?”

Chris shook his head once, gaze dropping to the pile of fabric in his arms to conceal his stinging eyes. There was a strand of her hair still caught in the weave of the sweater. It made his throat tighten. “No.”

He didn’t have it in him to say more. He couldn’t repeat what he saw. Couldn’t describe the look in her eyes when she asked him silently to help. Couldn’t bring himself to name the bruises or tell them what she had whispered in the car. The rage had settled into a slow, simmering grief. It dulled everything except the impulse to protect her.

Matt stood up, pushing his chair back and resting his arms over the table, “What the fuck— Chris, are you saying—”

“She’s gonna be staying here,” Chris cut in, his voice low but final, “For a while. I don’t want him to know where she is.”

That was all he could offer. For he was still inside it, still holding the weight in his arms, the shape of her collapse mapped into his muscles. And for a second, no one spoke. The dishwasher whirred and clicked and steamed behind them, the only indication that time was still passing.

And then, slowly, Matt sat back down, eyes never leaving his brother’s face. There was something taut in the eye contact. Worry, yes, but also comprehension. Not just of the situation, but of Chris’s place inside it — the helplessness, the guilt, the terrible need to do something when there is nothing to do but be there.

Nick leaned forward, softer, “Is she okay now?”

Chris swallowed, jaw tightening, “Not really.”

That was the truth. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“She sleeping?” Matt asked. Chris nodded

Another silence stretched between them. There was no longer any hostility or anger, though it was still thick with the shared feeling of helplessness that Chris had spent a majority of the day experiencing alone.

Finally, Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay.”

Nick glanced between them, then pushed his food away. “It’s good that she’s here. If she’s here, she’s safe.”

Chris blinked once. Gratitude flickered in his chest, raw and wordless.

Matt stood again, gestured to the clothes in Chris’s hand. “I’ll throw her stuff in the wash.”

He nodded, fighting the lump in his throat as Matt gently grabbed the pile of laundry from his hands. He sat at the table in a fugue. The chair felt unfamiliar, its edges too sharp, the air in the room too dry. Behind him, the washing machine rumbled to life, and as it did he thought about her — alone in his bed, finally warm, finally safe — and considered what it meant to make space for someone who had only ever been bracing for impact.

—

The door gave a soft creak as Chris nudged it open with his elbow, the hallway light slicing briefly through the dark before he shut it behind him, sealing them once more inside the dimness. The room exhaled around him, cloaked in the soft hum of the fan and the steady, untroubled rhythm of her breathing.

She was right where he had left her, curled in a loose ball on his side of the bed, her knees drawn halfway up, one hand resting limply near her face, fingers twitching now and then in sleep’s loose choreography. Her hair, still faintly damp, had splayed across the pillow in gentle spirals, catching the faint spill of moonlight that filtered through the half-drawn curtains. She seemed impossibly still, not lifeless, but preserved — an image untouched by the day’s earlier rupture.

He held his breath for a moment, and just stood there. Staring at her like a man who had just stepped into a chapel, into a hush that demanded appreciation. His fingers moved on autopilot — peeling off his shirt, stepping quietly out of his sweats. The cotton of his boxers whispered as he pulled back the comforter and climbed slowly in beside her, careful not to shift the bed too much, not to rouse her from the little peace she had found.

But even before the mattress settled, she moved. Like instinct. Like the pull of gravity. Her body rolled into his, curling along the length of him with aching familiarity. Her forehead found the edge of his collarbone, her legs tucked around one of his. She fit like a question he had never dared to ask and a truth he had never stopped knowing.

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders unraveling as he wrapped a steady arm around her waist, drawing her impossibly closer. His other hand rose to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading into the still-damp hair at her nape. He didn’t need anything more than this. She was here. She was safe. That was the total sum of his need.

She was in his arms, and for the first time since the beach, his nervous system stopped thrashing. The horror of the bruise. The sound of her voice in the car, so small it made something cave in his chest. The sick knowledge that she had come to him not just because she wanted to, but because she didn’t know where else to go. All of it fell to a murmur now, soothed by the steady weight of her body against his.

But she wasn’t asleep anymore, he could feel it. Her breath had changed. A little shallower. A little more aware. Still, he said nothing. He simply held her. Let the dark do its work — blanketing them in that thick, velvety silence that seems to belong only to the late-night hours they spent together. His fingers traced soft, unconscious lines down the length of her spine, memorizing her again. In care. In ache.

He thought about how wrong he had been — about all the moments he had told himself that she didn’t need him, that she was better without him, happier with Grant. That she had outgrown the version of him who could make her feel safe. He thought about how close he had come to letting her slip away because he had convinced himself he wasn’t enough.

But here she was. Here, in his bed. Not just out of convenience or comfort or nostalgia. But because she trusted him to protect her when she couldn’t do it alone. His throat tightened at the thought, and that trust undid him. Not loudly. Quietly, right in the centre of his chest, like a string snapping in the dark.

He brought his lips to her head and pressed a long, gentle kiss against it. As though the kiss was a seal on his silent promise of protection.

Then — so quiet he might have missed it, had he not been listening with his entire body — her voice broke the silence.

“I love you.”

He froze. The words hung in the dark, trembling at the edges. He could feel them settle into his chest like something permanent. Something that would never be undone. Her voice had been soft, but steady. And he knew it wasn’t romantic, not in the conventional sense. It was bruised and tear-soaked and raw. But maybe this was what real love sounded like — shaken loose when someone’s whole world had cracked open.

He closed his eyes. Pulled her tighter. And because anything else would have been a betrayal of a moment, he let the truth of his own rise unguarded to the surface. His lips, still pressed to her hair, moved with the soft finality of prayer:

“And I love you, El.”

—

“Let me go in first,” Chris said as he stepped closer to the front door of her apartment. His voice was steady, but low — measured and quietly tense, as though the very shape of his mouth could determine the outcome of the morning. “I want to make sure he’s not here.”

Eleanor nodded from a few feet down the hall without really looking at him. Her fingers were clutched to the straps of her bag, fingers taut and pale. She hadn’t spoken much that morning, but he didn’t expect her to.

The key was warm from where she had pressed it into his hand. He used it slowly, as though the lock itself might betray something. The apartment held its breath, still heavy with early-morning light, the kind that slipped in through half-closed blinds and cast soft grey shadows along the walls. The faint hum of the fridge offered the only movement, a quiet rhythm in a room too still. He stilled with it, listening. Waiting for proof of presence. And after a moment, he exhaled, relief flooding his chest. Empty. No Grant.

But then Claire emerged from her room — fast, sudden, like she had been thrown forward by some invisible force. “Oh,” She said, “Chris. You’re—hi.”

Her hair was unbrushed. Eyes wide. Mouth parted slightly as though she had just swallowed a confession. One of her hands was pressed against the doorframe as if to steady herself in time. Chris stilled. There was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read. Panic? Guilt? Both?

Eleanor stepped in quietly behind him, her voice tentative but direct, “Did Grant come by yesterday?”

Claire’s face flickered. Just for a second. A split second. But it was enough for him to notice.

“No,” She said quickly, “No, he didn’t.”

Chris watched her. Something felt wrong. The way her eyes refused to land. The high-pitched quality of her voice, like it was standing on tiptoe. Claire was a lot of things, he had learned, but she wasn’t usually a bad liar. Which made this worse — whatever she was lying about had her rattled.

Still, Chris said nothing. He didn’t want to. Being in the same room with her, standing in the apartment where he had once kissed her, once laid her down — something about it now made his skin itch. His body wanted out. Away from her searching eyes. Away from the dissonance humming just beneath the surface of her words. “Come on,” He murmured to Eleanor, “Let’s go pack your stuff.”

They slipped down the hall and into Eleanor’s room. The scent of her things, her books, her shampoo, her life — it all wrapped around him at once, familiar and jarring. The last time he had been in here had been the day she had shattered his spirit, had torn him to pieces with only a few words. But even more than that, he felt discomfort at the thought of what had happened in here just two nights before. Pain, anger, violence. That was what caused the chill to crawl down his spine.

She hovered just inside the doorway, like she didn’t know where to start. Chris didn’t wait. He pulled her empty suitcase from under the bed and began tugging open drawers, piling in whatever he could find — sweaters, shirts, pyjamas, bras, all folded quickly and without comment. He didn’t want her to have to think. Not yet. Not now. Not while she was still shaking in the aftermath.

Eleanor moved slowly. She disappeared into the living room and returned with her laptop, charger, a couple notebooks, and her thesis binder. Her fingers paused now and then, hovering over random objects in her room: photos, half-crumpled receipts, a dried flower pressed between the pages of a well-loved book. None of it important. All if it hers.

Outside the room, Claire paced. Chris could hear her steps creaking across the hardwood, back and forth, over and over like a song on repeat. She was talking. To them, to herself, he couldn’t really tell.

“God, I just…I can’t believe him. Grant. What a fucking asshole. I mean—what the hell was he thinking? I always knew there was something off about him.”

Eleanor flinched at his name being spoken like it was a crack in the air. Chris’s jaw tensed.

“And now I’m like— what do I even do if he comes back here?” Claire continued, “Like — oh my god — what if he shows up and I’m alone? What if he tries to get in?”

Her voice was wrong. Too loud, too theatrical — as if she were rehearsing a cheap play. Chris rolled up a pair of Eleanor’s socks and stuffed them into a corner of the suitcase, his movements growing less careful. He wanted out of there. Wanted to get her out of there. Claire’s voice didn’t stop.

“I mean, obviously I’d call someone. I’d lock the door. I just…I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he would actually—”

“I don’t think she’s talking to us anymore,” Eleanor murmured, almost to herself. He glanced at her. She looked so tired. Her eyes had shadows under them that even a long night of sleep hadn’t cured. Yet she seemed to be trying to keep a lightness in her voice, a patience for her roommate’s strange rant that seemed less concerned for Eleanor’s safety than her own.

He felt strange. Claire wasn’t panicking. She was narrating. Acting. And he couldn’t quite tell why.

When it seemed like they’d packed enough — though really, who could say what enough meant when you didn’t know how long you were leaving for — Eleanor stopped moving. She looked up at him. Uncertain. Small. Beautiful.

“You’re sure this is okay?” She asked, tentative, “Me staying with you, I mean.”

Chris reached for her without hesitation. He pulled her close, wrapped her up in his arms like the answer was obvious. “I’m positive,” He said into her hair. And he was. He didn’t care what it looked like. Didn’t care what it disrupted. She could stay with him forever if she needed.

When they stepped back into the living room, Claire was waiting down the hall by the door, keys jangling in her hand, as if she wanted to prove that she was important. Useful. A part of things. She threw her arms around Eleanor without warning, squeezing her tight.

“I’m so sorry, El,” She breathed dramatically, “I’m just— I’m so glad you’re okay. You’re okay, right?”

Eleanor nodded, stiff in her friend’s arms, “Yeah.”

Chris watched the way Claire clung to her. Watched the redness in her cheeks, the exaggerated worry furrowed into her brow. But most of all, he watched her eyes — and saw something twitching beneath all that concern. Guilt. He didn’t know why, at least not yet. But it was there, living in her like a secret that hadn’t found the right crack to spill through.

He didn’t press. He didn’t ask. He just offered her a brief farewell, wrapped a steady arm around Eleanor, and led her out the door.

͏𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ❤�� ͏

tags: @slvtf0rchr1s @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @switchstvrns @ellssturn @idefinitelyhateu @courta13 @b-eharrlichkeit

notes: hmmmm.....

[justageekk]

❛❛ color caramelo ❜❜ — marc bernal x fem!reader

summary: Marc gets jealous when a boy tries to flirt with you.

warnings: jealousy, small discussion.

word count: 1,015

inspiration: “color caramelo” by beny jr

❛❛ Si alguno a ella le tira

Puede que en su mismo barrio yo me plante ❜❜

NOTE : My native language is not English, I'm sorry if I write something wrong.

The music inside the house thumped softly as you walked into the party with Marc. He lightly took your arm and leaned closer to discreetly whisper in your ear.

“Are you okay, cariño?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he waited for your response.

“Yes, although I’m surprised you agreed to come here.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone. I made an exception for you,” he said with a smile, giving you a quick glance.

The two of you separated as the party began to liven up. You weren’t too far apart, but you both knew you needed to keep your relationship hidden for both your sakes—mostly because of Marc’s rising fame. People lately had been invasive, and neither of you wanted to risk your relationship being destroyed by rumors or other complications.

You were in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink while Marc chatted with Guillermo, though his eyes stayed fixed on your every move.

Taking a sip of your beer, you suddenly heard a familiar voice behind you.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Alex, a friend of one of your friends, said, flashing a confident smile and running a hand through his messy blond hair.

You chuckled politely before responding, “I didn’t want to stay cooped up on a Saturday.”

He let out a soft laugh, leaning closer to you and starting to play with your hair, curling it around his finger before letting it go. His gaze lingered on your face, occasionally dropping to your body as though he wanted to devour you right then and there.

“I’m glad you’re here. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, beautiful?”

You clenched your jaw, smiling awkwardly as you nodded, gripping your glass tightly before taking another sip.

At first, Marc didn’t pay much attention, thinking you were just having a normal conversation. He couldn’t act like a jealous maniac, after all. But his demeanor shifted completely when Alex leaned in far too close to your face.

The brunet rose from the couch in a fury, striding over to where you were and shoving Alex by the shoulder to get to you.

“Is he bothering you?” Marc asked, pointing at the blond with his thumb over his shoulder.

Alex smirked, as if the situation was a joke to him. “Relax, we were just talking, man.”

“Shut up. Who asked you?” Marc snapped, turning abruptly and shoving Alex again.

“Take it easy, bro. It’s not that serious. What’s your problem?” Alex let out a nervous laugh, stepping back.

“My problem is idiots like you trying to hit on what’s mine with other intentions. Got it?”

Your eyes widened as you stood frozen, unsure of what to do in this situation.

“Alright, man, I didn’t know she was taken.”

“Well, now you do,” Marc said firmly, giving Alex one last glare before turning toward you. His expression softened instantly as he stepped closer, reaching out his hand to you. His fingers brushed against yours with a tenderness that starkly contrasted with his earlier anger.

“Let’s go,” he murmured quietly.

Without saying a word, you took his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch as he began leading you out of the party. His body remained tense, his posture firm, as though he was still ready to confront anyone who dared get in his way.

As you moved through the crowd, you felt the weight of people’s stares. Some whispered to one another, probably surprised by the scene they had just witnessed, but Marc didn’t pay them any mind. His only focus was getting you out of there.

When you finally stepped into the cool night air, Marc let out a long sigh, as if releasing all the tension he’d been holding in. He still held your hand, but this time, he stopped and turned to face you, his eyes scanning you carefully.

“Was all of that really necessary?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

“Are you seriously asking me that? Did you not see how he was looking at you? Or the way he was talking to you?”

“Marc, it was nothing. You know I didn’t pay him any attention.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to stand there while someone tries to make a move on you.”

He shook his head, exhaling heavily as his hands gripped yours tightly.

“I’m not going to just stand by while someone flirts with you,” he said firmly.

You looked at him silently for a moment. Before you could respond, Marc took a step closer, closing the distance between the two of you.

“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?” he murmured, his voice barely audible as he leaned in, his dark eyes locked on yours. Without waiting for an answer, he closed the gap, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips.

The kiss made your heart race instantly, and your hands, almost instinctively, moved to rest against his chest. Marc’s hand slid up to cup your cheek, his fingers brushing your skin gently, while his other hand moved to your waist. With a determined motion, he pulled you closer, pressing your body against his as if he wanted to ensure there was no space left between you.

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

[NEXT PART: SHADOWS]

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[wutheringskies]

Wei Wuxian: The Untamed Hero

Wei Wuxian had to be killed even if:

1. He carried his sword

2. He didn't use gui dao

3. He didn't create Yin HuFu

4. The Wen remnants were not in the plot

Then, why? The reason is here, voiced by Jin Zixun of all people:

Wei WuXian, you are too bold! Did the LanlingJin Sect invite you today? And you dare run wild here. Do you really think that you’re invincible, that nobody has the courage to confront you? Do you want to overturn the Heavens?”

Wei WuXian smiled, “You’re comparing yourself to the Heavens? Excuse my language, but your face is a little too thick, isn’t it?”

So, you see, this untamed heart can only meet with tragedy as the world is unrighteous, as those who are in power think their actions cannot be contested (and they often aren't!), and that their words are like the law. How many times have we seen, a convicted powerful person escape the justice system? Far too many. And how many times innocents or victims were framed for crimes? Also too many. People like Wei Wuxian aren't condemned by fate, but rather, being born into a world where the "heavens" are those who are powerful and corrupted, he very well might be destined to live tragically, along with others of his type.

Returning to the matter of this particular scene: on one hand, the Jins throw private banquets, gilded with gold. The major scandals are: Jin Zixun is forcing the Lans to drink alcohol! You see, Lan Xichen can't outrightly refuse, so he is trying to be polite about his rejection. Jin Guangyao is trying to reason and excuse, and distract. The crowd spurs Jin Zixun on, wanting to see the Lans drink for once and fall to their level.

Everyone is in their own fine little world, doing their niceities in their golden halls drinking expensive wine, admiring pretty women, gasping at scandalous behavior, asking for favour, gossiping etc.

And then Wei Wuxian walks in. Uninvited. He simply drinks the wine himself, before demanding these people to spare him their time for real wordly issues, such as deaths, debts, cruelty, the parts that society wishes to hide. A few scenes later, we are shown with much description, just how terrible Qiongqi Path is. That's the Jin's backyard. You see their achievements that are drawn on those big walls? We see the reality of the people making them.

Now, let us come to another incident. Think of the soup incident. I fully expect before Wei Wuxian came into the scene, people were simply gossiping, uninterested in finding out what was going on, why Lady Jiang is crying. Then, Wei Wuxian comes and realizes Jiang Yanli who never really cries... was crying, and firstly decides to beat the shit out of Jin Zixuan. Secondly, he understands the whole truth, beats Jin Zixuan up for humiliating his Shijie, and also makes the other girl face responsibility.

Although his shijie had an easy temper, except for how they cuddled and cried together the day the three of them reunited after Lotus Pier was destroyed, she hadn’t really shed many tears in front of others, much less cry so loudly, so pitifully in front of so many people. Wei WuXian was filled with panic. As he tried to ask her, Jiang YanLi was crying so badly that she couldn’t even speak properly. Then, when he saw Jin ZiXuan standing on the side, astonished, he fumed with anger, wondering to himself why it was the dog of a person again. With a kick, he pounced on Jin ZiXuan. The fight between the two would have alerted the Heavens. All of the cultivators around the base came to break up their fight. Amid the ruckus, he finally understood what was the cause of all this, and became even more angered. He spread his tough talk, saying that one day he’d definitely make Jin ZiXuan die in his hands, he told people to drag out the cultivator woman.

A round of questions later, the truth emerged, and Jin ZiXuan’s entire body was frozen. No matter how much Wei WuXian continued to curse at him, he returned neither words nor fists, his face dark. If not that Jiang YanLi held up her hand a while later, while Jiang Cheng and Jin GuangShan came to pull Wei WuXian away, it was likely that even now Jin ZiXuan wouldn’t be able to attend the hunt of Phoenix Mountain.

See.

The point is, perhaps, people feel Wei Wuxian's actions are unnecessary. But imagine if he wasn't there! The consequences as I predict them will have been:

1. Jiang Cheng who doesn't want to upset a prominent clan would've grumbled and cursed underneath his breath, but eventually just moved away from the ruckus and taken his sister away.

2. Perhaps the truth would never have been found out, unless Jin Zixuan later searched by himself.

3. Thus, Jiang Yanli's reputation would be stained for the years to come.

It's because Wei Wuxian dared that the truth was revealed. I took this small incidents simply to highlight this, without the addition of more factors. In the book, often, it might seem like people are trying to stop him from creating trouble. You might often wish, ugh, this is going to be so bad... The point is Wei Wuxian knows! He's not stupid, he knows of the consequences of his actions.

But he isn't the one creating trouble. It was already created by the likes of those very people who try to stop him from investigating deeper. The trouble in question is that immoral and unrighteous words and actions and decisions have already been made. Society tries to hide them. If you can't see it, it's not there. Yet, even if it is not visible, a crime has its traces and it will bleed into their world sooner or later.

Wei Wuxian forces people to snap out of their comfort zones. He doesn't care for the barriers they set around themselves. Here are some examples to explain what I mean by these barriers:

Who dares hit Jin Zixuan, who's the only heir of LanlingJin, even when he deserves it? Protected by his status, his birth, his clan who dares? Wei Wuxian does.

Who dares to annoy Lan Wangji, the second jade of Lan, who from birth is considered otherwordly, strict, immovable, rigid, untouchable and protected by his extreme cold aura? Wei Wuxian dares.

Who dares to enter cultivation society without even wielding sword, without even cultivating a core? Wei Wuxian!

Since time unknown, treasures have belonged to the powerful sects: The Lan Clan and their library, their many secret techniques. The Jin clan and their treasures, their gold. The Nie Sabres. The Zidian. Yet, a son of a servant somehow ends up possessing the most powerful treasure all by his own! Everyone goes to this popular refinery, some famed blacksmith, or that popular sect to get specially created spiritual weapons, yet Chenqing, one of the most powerful weapons, was forged alone by Wei Wuxian during his 3 months in the Burial Mound!

Since years, the cultivation world has taken to heart rules of Lans, words of the powerful sects, and their leaders! Then, once again, this orphan child comes and bends the world and changes the cultivation society forever! Yiling Laozu said that... Yiling Laozu created... Yiling Laozu's manuscripts...

His words literally become the law.

Think of how 13 years after Wei Wuxian's death when "all was peaceful" despite us knowing very well, just how much shit happened after his death - slaughter of minor clans, deaths of two prominent sect leaders, xue yang etc (because, you know, most of it was purely accidental, kept hush-hush, or the victims were people who weren't important), he comes back to life and in a matter of a couple of months, upends the cultivation society again.

The "problem" is that this guy simply doesn't conform. The problem is that he is better. The problem is that he is not unnecessarily humble about it, despite his origins. He doesn't seem to treat himself as an outlier, but an equal. (That's why I hate insecure Wei Wuxian, like this guy is righteous enough he won't even treat himself badly.) The problem is that all those barriers - social classes, power, the locked doors - they won't keep him away.

Even if he was only the Jiang Da-shixiong with a bright golden core, he will still not be a conformist. To those who aren't used to having their decisions questioned, he is their worst enemy. To whose who are used to talking in circles, spreading rumors, he is asking them. What source do you have? What is the factual evidence behind what you are saying? Why are you saying this now?

Think of how he cross questioned a petty seller selling Yiling Laozu portraits in Qinghe, and how he questioned the gathered cultivation sects in Lotus Pier during Sisi and Bicao's intervention with the same sort of attitude. Surely, there was a major class difference, power difference between the two. Yet, they don't matter to him. What matters is the truth.

So, no matter what, when the people who are in power, start having too much dirty laundry and corpses in their backyards, he will definitely know. For this guy, knowing isn't enough - he will get to the crux of the issue. The problem is, he even has the skill for it. He has the ability. One also can't distract him with offers, promises, gifts, riches, status, women. He doesn't care for any of that. He perhaps might even hate one's victims. Yet he will stand up for them.

Of course, those who are in power, all smile at each other. They understand things sometimes have to be done. People sometimes have to be silenced. "We know better."

Then, Wei Wuxian comes in and says, actually you don't. He comes in with factual accounts, evidences, forces you to face your misdeeds. Says you're all a bunch of hypocritical people. No, perhaps what is worse is that he will make you realize that's what you are! Because he's got to be good at talking, too! He's not going to act on anger or be stunned in fear.

So, now you have someone who's not only digging into your evil deeds, someone who's capable, who's not easy to persuade, but also someone with high emotional intelligence who can play the same role as you do, of being a noble, accepted gentlemen with immaculate manners, of very high literacy and outdo you. Because this guy knows very well how society works, he can comprehend social cues perhaps better than you can. He can use your own polite words and nature against you.

It's precisely because of this he must be killed. Perhaps, in every world, Wei Wuxian will end up being the victim. It's only that in MDZS, these were the particular circumstances, and those were the particular excuses.

My personal take is: sometimes it is good to be a centrist, and hold everyone's better intentions in mind. most of the times it might not be, as there are many conflicting systems in place that allow for true victims who are stuck. most often, the victims are always the ones who DON'T have a voice, who are brushed over as numbers of corpses, rather than people with stories. most often, kindness is shown in little action that are trampled upon by those who hold true power. most often the people who are good, who are heroes die young, or are hated and ridiculed, for speaking up for the victims. it's not right, and never will be.

if someone like wei wuxian or his presence in the book makes you uncomfortable it might be because you hold the "niceities" and the pleasantries to be of more importance than the issues at hand. just because something is too troublesome doesn't mean it is wrong. if everytime he enters the scene you're scared of what he's going to do next, you should know it's not him who is the problem but the prople who aren't doing anything who are. don't be scared of "trouble-makers." he's not erratic or spontaneous. he has considered society's standards and deemed it useless. why is that that the koi tower scene, where he is in his "yiling laozu, loss of control, threatening" moment is followed immediately by him being extremely kind to Wen qing ? it's not that he's losing control. it's that Jin Zixun wouldn't have acted and told him where the people were without him using intimidation tactics. Wei Wuxian is the one forced into bad corners by the powerful people, where he has to show his edges. Don't end up twisted the narratives. if you bite someone for a while, expect to be hit.

[bopbobpbobpbobpbobpbobpb]

Sleepover gone wrong on noesss

Writing underneath

It had all started so well. Simple plan. Simple. Plan.

Step one: become unpossesed

Step two: sleepover

Step three: pie

Step four: wait for mom to go to sleep then get out the ouja board and play fun sleepover games!!!!! Thats how it works!!!! Kris would know!! They've had plenty of sleepovers with Azzy, Noelle and

Step five: have fun and go sleep. (Kris would NOT be sharing everyone else has to sleep somewhere else)

That was the plan!!

It had started of so well. Kris had entered the room and Susie and Berdly, well did what They always did. Argue. It was friendly though!! They always do that it was normal. Noelle suggested truth or dare (a classic) and it was going well!! Bonding!! With friends!!! Kris had missed this. They had missed having so many people in their life, shouting amd screaming, having fun until they were too loud and Toriel had come into their room and remind them to be a little quieter. They had missed laughing and being "sneaky", talking about the most random things and playing little games. They had missed the noise and the warmth of the ones close to you just simply being there. Kris had finally resolved everything with Noelle Berdly and Susie. Until they just made that shit go crashing down.

One thing had led to another. Berdly truthed susie to tell something. Susie got defensive. Things got heated. They both lashed out. Noelle tried to diffuse the situation. Berdly said something. Noelle got pissed. Berdly said something. It struck a nerve. Kris saw red.

The whole room had stared at Kris in shock. Kris's eyes widened. No. No. They didn't mean that they didn't mean tha- Berdly rushed out. Eyes suspiciously shiny. There were only three of them left. Kris, Noelle and Susie. All of them could only stare dumbly at eachother. Shit SHIT. Kris CAN'T go back to before they CAN'T they CAN'T. Panic rose. Kris had just made up with Berdly and they immediately ruined it. Kris went after Berdly, determined to make things right again.

Except ...

Kris stood at the doorway, frozen. How do they do this? Their breathing got funny. WWAD What would Asriel do? He was good at this sort of thing wasn't he? But.. Asriel wasn't there. Only an idiot human and a crying bird on the footsteps. Kris thought about what to say. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it .you're my friend. I love you. Kris flushed no they could NOT say that don't be an idiot. No they had to say what they were sorry about right? Like uh: Im sorry i-

"are you just gonna stand there"

Kris flinched. Berdly sighed and continued looking away form Kris.

"I'm sorry" Kris could only say.

Berdly ignored them. Kris sat down on the steps next to Berdly.

"I didn't mean it" Kris looked down, avoiding eye contact.

"It's not true"

There was a silence.

"But what if it is" Berdly's voice cracked. Kris looked up in shock.

"What if I am" Berdly burried his face in his wings

" I AM a forgettable little bluebird and when I die no one will care because I have done nothing in life and I'm not exceptional at all and I was so mean and I -"

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"Berdly I was being a dumb shit who got mad and took things too far you ARE NOT foegettable you ARE exceptional and if you died I would be really sad and track down your murderer and kill them and you're my friend and i love yo-" shit shit shit shit.

Berdly faced Kris.

"What"

"What"

"What did you just say"

"If you died I would be sad and kill your murderer"

"No after that"

"You're my friend??"

"No the one after that"

"That was it"

"KRIS STOP GASLIGHTING ME"

"I'm not??"

Berdly laughed. Kris could not help but grin a little at the sight. Suddenly they stiffened the birb hugged them tightly.

"I love you too kris"

Suddenly there were two idiots crying that night.

[itwoodbeprefect]

today i tried to put a frozen pizza in the oven. it took me twenty minutes because i got waylaid by the box, which had instructions on it in eight different languages, in combination with my brain, which goes ooooooooooh at this under the right wrong circumstances. all of the "preparation" headers were in all caps (TILBEREDNING, PRÉPARATION, BEREIDINGSWIJZE) except the german one (Zubereitung), presumably because they wanted to prove they were correctly capitalizing their nouns? it's adorable. also: none of these eight languages is english, but the box does have phrases like "no flavor enhancers" and "stone baked" on it in english only, which says something, even if it's something every non-english speaker is already intimately aware of. my german is theoretically near native which makes it very goofy that i would absolutely not have known that the germans say "nativ" instead of some variety of "virgin" when describing olive oil. should we take this as a sign that not only does german olive oil not fuck (same as all the other olive oils), but the germans don't even consider they might want to? or does this mean german olive oil is unusually sexually experienced? as so often, the belgians win another "who has their flag printed on this product the most" competition. no one else in this part of the world can keep up with their french-dutch chaos swag, and they didn't even bother putting the belgian flag with the german and austrian ones in this case. as a contrast to the germans: the first two words of the spanish description of what's in this box are "pizza horneada", so, you know. the spanish aceite de oliva may be virgen extra, but the pizza is horny! my sincerest apologies to any spanish speakers. i know that's not what it means, you deserve better. (what happens if you put german olive oil in spanish pizza? do we even dare contemplate the outcomes?) anyway. karma acts swiftly, because do you want to guess what happened to me after all this? after studying this box in absolutely unprecedented detail? yeah. i had to fish it out of the trash to check what temperature to set my oven to.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Nico,” Will said, softly.

Nico hummed.

“Nico,” he said again. His voice was no more urgent, but instead almost breathy, half a sigh. The weight of Will’s head in his lap grew heavier. He set down the block of wood he was carving, sliding both hands into golden hair, instead.

“Yes?”

Will’s eyes were half-lidded, lethargic, blinking slowly. He met Nico’s fingers when one hand slid down his neck, his shoulders, to grasp it, squeezing gently.

“Kiss me,” he requested, voice soft as strawberry blossoms.

A light, late-June breeze blew through the valley, rustling the leaves of the tree they say under and carrying Will’s voice away. Nico heard him, anyway, watched the curve of his lips and the shape of his teeth as he murmured the words, eyes dusk-blue and dark and meeting his, head-on.

Hands shaking, Nico rested them gently on the sides of Will’s face, palms on his cheeks, thumbs stroking the soft line of his jaw.

Slowly, he bent down, pausing a hair’s breadth away from warm, freckled skin, breath tickling the light, delicate hairs of his eyebrows and making his eyes flutter shut. After two breaths, three, four, shaking in his lungs, he pressed his lips, dry and lingering, to the bridge of his nose, the skin between his eyebrows.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” Will breathed, chest rising slowly as the winter sun. “Again.”

Hardly lifting his mouth enough to make space between them, he followed the contours of Will’s nose, leaning to the left and hovering over the apple of his left cheek, sun-kissed and heated. He pressed his lips there, too, giving him no time to speak before moving to his other cheek and kissing there, just as softly.

This time, his voice was heavier, breathing more laboured.

“Like that?”

The cooing of the mourning doves and distant camper laughter should have drowned out the sound of Will’s breath, but Nico heard it anyway, the sharpness of it, the quickness of it.

“Yes,” he whispered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Another. Please.”

Nico’s hands were trembling openly, now, and the slightest of shudders wracked his frame — Will’s voice was deep and wrecked, like river rocks. He had never heard it like this, and he had to press his hands closer to Will’s skin — if that was at all possible — to reserve himself.

He moved slowly over the swell of Will’s jaw, brushing his own thumb in the process. He hovered over Will’s mouth, feeling more than hearing his breath hitch, and pressed a long, lingering kiss to the dip just below his bottom lip.

“Like that?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” came Will’s shaky response. One of his hands came to rest on top of Nico’s, overheated palms burning a brand over his knuckles. “One more.”

As slowly as he dared, Nico dragged his mouth along the crest and swell of his lip, lingering at the corner of his mouth and kissing the peak of it, open mouthed, near frozen —

“Please,” Will begged, “Nico, please —”

— and when he finally pressed their lips together, nose brushing his chin, he could have keened in relief; he was bowled over by the intensity of it, by the way Will surged up and tilted his face and gasped into his mouth, as if this was the first time they’d kissed instead of four hundredth. Nico moved the hand not trapped under Will’s for rest on his chest, palm to his heart, feeling it gallop and speed faster with every second they spent pressed close together. Nico was convinced he could taste Will’s devotion on the roof of his mouth, suck the blinding light of him from his molars. He breathed heavily, hardly focused on it, hardly focused on anything except the smell of him and taste of him, the scratch of his nails in his scalp.

“Don’t stop,” Will pleaded between breaths, and Nico thought the Earth Mother could rise again and I would not move.

He said, “Would never,” and pressed closer, and committed every one of Will’s gasps to memory.

[purplepeach333]

The Prey

Pairing: Feyd x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: you are the adopted daughter of house Atriedes, stranded on Arrakis with your mother and brother. Paul starts seeing visions of war and chaos whilst you are trying to aid your brother in finding a way out of the bloodshed you get word of the arrival of the Emperor and house Harkooen. Paul goes to your mother for help. She claims there is only one way that war will be avoided which is for you to accept the long waited betrothal offer so that they can keep peace.

~Part 1~

I dart into the cramped cave my mother occupies, feeling frantic and almost sick

“How could you! Even just knowing that you were considering giving me away to those monsters is absolutely unbelievable!” I breathe out, anger coating my features as I pace around the small space a few times.

Jessica sits there in her usual place within the shadows almost unaware of my presence, meditating for the hundredth time that day. I stop pacing and turn to her looking for a sign that she is paying any kind of attention. Away from the blazing desert sun the air feeling cool as It fills my lungs, not a sound but my unsteady breath

“Mother please, you can’t just ignore me and expect me to accept it” I cry out angrily, searching for any kind of response.

After a horribly long couple minutes of silence Jessica opens her eyes glancing up at me with a vacant expression

“It has been decided, I have already sent word to the Baron.” She replies her voice empty and emotionless matching the bland expression on her face

“What!.” I stand there, my body frozen dread rushing through me. “Y-you can’t do that.” I try to protest my voice coming out in a desperate whisper. “They wouldn’t agree to it. Not now”

Feeling my world collapse around me, anything I could have ever wanted or wished for gone, impossible, absolutely unattainable I’ll be a prisoner.

“They will come to fetch you tomorrow, then all shall be well for Paul to continue on his path” she finishes turning away from me

Hearing her words I feel something within me snap “Paul! Is that seriously all you care about!” I shout in frustration. Seeing her so uninterested in what I have to say I step towards her. I'd been training day and night my whole life to perfect my control over the voice, without hesitation I look down at my mother and use her own training against her “look at me.” I command

The energy in the room changes almost immediately as Jessica stands from her spot glaring at me “how dare you.” She demands her voice echoing on the thick stone walls around us as bits of sand and rock fall from above.

“You have no say in the matter it has already been decided.” she continues stepping towards me “with the Harkoonens satisfied and out of the way Paul will be able to do what he must and with you wed to the Na-baron we will have a hand to control them.” Without another word she strides past me out into the light.

I stand there stunned. Even if Paul achieves his goal how will I gain control over the Harkooens they’d kill me if they ever saw me as a threat.

—

Stepping out into the harsh, burning heat from the cool, comforting shade, I realise that this is actually happening in just a few short hours. I will be forced to leave my family and the beautifully harsh desert to go willingly with the Harkooens. I’ve only ever read about them and their way of life and what I’ve read isn’t very comforting, but being merely a pawn in a large,unfair game of chess I have little to no say against the kings and knights ranking well above me no matter how much I plead and beg.

“y/n do you have nothing better to wear?” Jessica comments from behind me devoured by her layers of elegant fabrics

“No mother, this is all I have.” I pat down my fremen borrowed clothes “I doubt it matters-“

“Of course it matters, you must make a exceptional first impression” she corrects me immediately “you wouldn’t want to disappoint your betrothed”

I peer out into the never ending sea of sand, wishing it would swallow me whole and put me out of my misery.

[capnsupernova]

The Death of Batman

Four years. Four years since the streets of Gotham have seen Batman. Four years since the Justice League has seen Batman. Four years since the Robins have seen Batman.

And now he stands, in full gear, mask and cape and all, in front of a podium in broad daylight with a microphone in his face, surrounded by cameras. The audience is still. No one dares make a sound. No one dares ask why, after all this time, he is here now. No one dares to say it, but he’s different than they imagined he’d be. He is tall, yes, and his shoulders broad and sturdy enough to carry the whole weight of the world, but they see his weariness etched in the lines of his mouth, the only part of his face they have ever been able to see. For the first time, they see, not some cryptid of the night meting out justice, but a man. Just a man in a suit. No one dares say it, but he looks tired.

For a long time, he is silent.

When he does speak, his voice is softer than they expect—tinged with the first hints of age.

“I have watched this city for so long.”

The people of Gotham hold their breath.

“For so long, I have been your knight, your judge, your hero…. No, not your hero. It’s been a long time since I’ve been anyone’s hero.” He sighs and all the burdens of darkness and justice escape with his breath. “I am so tired.”

His enemies wait in the shadows. Everyone knows they’re there, waiting for an opportunity. Never has Batman announced his presence so publicly. Never has he handed himself so neatly to them, and with so many potential hostages and casualties around his stage. But they find themselves frozen. This is not the voice they know, not the gruff growl that haunts their nightmares. He is tired. They hear that, and this is familiar in a different way. They have all, villain and civilian alike, felt this exhaustion themselves. And so, they wait to see what he will say next.

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know if I’ve ever done the right thing. My children are hurting. I have hurt my children.” His voice catches. He takes a moment, looks up at the sky, blue and cloudless and bright. “I just want them to come home.”

He pauses, head tilted upwards before looking back at the people of Gotham, people he saved, people he fought and locked away—all of them, in one way or another, people that he has tried to help. People he has tried to protect.

“The Batman,” he says, “is retiring.”

Somewhere, a pin drops, and the echoes reverberate around the world. No one notices, but in the crowd, among reporters, a tall, barrel-chested man with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses smiles. It’s a small smile, a twitch of the lips. He meets Batman’s eyes over the tops of the heads of Gotham’s citizens. He nods, barely perceptible, and the man behind the black mask stands just a little taller.

“That is all. Thank you.”

And just like that, Batman is gone. No one stops him as he walks off the stage. No one stops him as their Dark Knight, their strange and mysterious vigilante, disappears into the shadows and out of their lives forever.

--

The first to return is Jason. He knocks on the door with all the casual confidence of Gotham’s premier crime boss, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes so green they may as well be glowing.

When Bruce opens the door, he looks the old man up and down. “I’m assuming my old room is still available?” His smile is half-cocked and arrogant as ever, but there’s uncertainty furrowed in the space between his brows. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t see it at all.

Bruce sees it. And of all the things Jason excepts—the door slammed in his face, all the security systems of Wayne manor targeting his chest and head, a lecture at the very least—what he doesn’t expect are the tears that well up in Bruce’s eyes. He doesn’t expect to be wrapped tightly in his strong arms, arms that feel so much smaller than he remembers.

“Oh my boy,” Bruce whispers into his chest. “Oh my sweet, strong boy. I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re home.”

And it’s too much. The man behind the red hood, the man who beat Tim within an inch of his life, the man who shot Damien in the back in an effort to kill his own pain, crumples. In his father’s arms he is reduced to that 15-year-old boy who died and came back to life. The 15-year-old boy who, after all this time, only ever wanted to come home.

--

The rest showed up one by one that very same day. Dick showed up first with Tim and Damien in tow, surprised—not that Jason was there—but that he had beat him home. Then Barbara, Duke, Stephanie. It wasn’t long before the house was full of every single Robin and Batgirl who ever passed through these halls. Draped over chairs and couches (or, in Dicks case, swinging from the chandelier in the foyer while Tim and Damien did their best to use him—unsuccessfully—as target practice).

Not much changed in Gotham, after that. The villains didn’t retire with Batman, just as they didn’t disappear with Batman four years ago. But neither were they given free reign of the city, for Batman had ensured so, so long ago that there would always be someone to protect his home and his people. Gotham would always have their symbols of hope, their bats of blue and red and green and purple and yellow. New symbols that filled the night with a rainbow of colors.

And when their work was done, they returned to the manor, where their father would dress their wounds, mend their capes, and make them heaping piles of pancakes and eggs (“Yes, Dami, you have to finish the eggs. I won’t have some villain getting the better of you because you don’t have enough protein in your system”) with bowls of fruit and fresh squeezed orange juice. Bruce was, at the very least, a better cook than Alfred had been.

Things weren’t perfect. There were wounds that couldn’t be healed with a simple hug and a few tears. Wounds that would take years of therapy and hard talks and patience to fully close over. Bruce never told them where he’d been for those four years, and they never asked. This was the beginning of something entirely new for all of them.

But for the first time since anyone could remember, the sun shined bright and warm over the city of Gotham.

--

Writer’s Note:

This is an idea I have debated with close friends—the retirement of Batman. The main issue boils down to this: what becomes of Gotham without their symbol of hope? And to me, the answer is simple. Nothing. Because Batman is no longer their only symbol of hope. He hasn’t been for a long time, since he first took in Dick Grayson, that colorful bird of a boy. I think, in all honesty, that this is the true purpose of the Robins. Maybe Bruce himself didn’t realize it at the time, but he always hoped for something brighter for Gotham than Batman. Bruce has always been a reflection of Gotham. “The hero they deserve.” In a way, by taking in each sidekick, he adds another possibility, not just for the people of Gotham, but for himself too. A brighter future. Isn’t this what we all hope for our children?

[enchantedpassions]

In the vivid green grass of the training grounds, where the sparring sessions were as common as the rustling leaves of the forest that surrounded jujutsu high, Y/N found herself sitting beside Satoru Gojo. With his reputation as the most powerful sorcerer, his charm was only heightened by the blindfold he wore, an enigmatic barrier to his six-eyes. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything, and the air was filled with an anticipatory energy that seemed to hum between them.

Y/N and Gojo awaited the arrival of their students, Yuji, Fushiguro, and Nobara, who would soon join them for another day of training. But for a brief moment, the world felt quiet, as if it were holding its breath. As Y/N turned to say something, she noticed the subtle curve of Gojo's smile and his confident demeanor, and before she knew it, he was leaning closer.

His lips found hers with unerring precision, igniting a kiss that was unexpectedly deep and intensely hot. Gojo moved with surety, his kiss a tantalizing mix of warmth and daring. It felt like a melding of sensations—spicy, electric, and utterly enthralling. Gojo's passion and control left Y/N breathless, her mind momentarily wiped clean of everything except the heat of the moment. And his tongue, oh his tongue was fighting with hers, swiping her lip.

When he finally pulled away, the world seemed to flicker back into existence. Y/N blinked in astonishment, her heart racing as she tried to process what had just happened.

That’s when she noticed the trio of students standing frozen nearby, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Yuji’s jaw had practically hit the ground, Fushiguro’s usually stoic expression betrayed by a raised eyebrow, and Nobara looked as if she might burst into laughter or teasingly applaud any second.

"Wow, sensei, talk about hands-on learning!" Yuji finally managed to quip, breaking the silence with his characteristic humor.

Gojo chuckled, his gaze concealed yet seemingly taking everything in before settling back on Y/N. "Consider it a lesson in going with the flow," he said smoothly, as though kissing in front of his students was part of the day's unpredictable curriculum.

Y/N, cheeks flushed, could only shake her head with an amused grin. "Well, you certainly never fail to surprise, Gojo."

As laughter and light teasing filled the training grounds once more, Y/N felt the warmth of the moment linger, like the last rays of sunshine. She realized that with Gojo, surprises were the norm, and every day held the promise of something as bright and unexpected as the kiss they had just shared. The students gathered closer, the atmosphere charged with a sense of camaraderie and the unspoken understanding that sometimes, even amid training and responsibilities, life would throw in a little spark of passion and surprise.

(That video is rough, it took me hours and is the first one i ever made!, so no hate please)