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gilverrwrites · 4 months ago

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A kiss for the caged bird

Tim Drake/Reader, 5K

AN: Please don't think too hard into any of the science-y crap I wrote, I was pulling it all out of my butt. Anyway, this was supposed to be a quick 500-1000 thing to clear up my writer’s block and here we are. Bon appetit my loves, I hope you enjoy ♥︎ Warnings: Dub-con (purely by the nature of sex pollen) | voyeurism | swearing | dirty talk | mean-ish Tim | minor slut-shaming ♥︎

His normally tender blue eyes are completely saturated with a dense shade of green. From the whites, to his pupils, they almost seem to be glowing. They've also been watching you like a hawk with a heated intensity that puts your hairs on edge from behind the glass of his cell since you’d entered the cave.

“It's just a shame the one person who could probably crack this in no time is the one person who can't help us right now.” Dick laments as he adjusts his bootstraps. “But I have complete faith that Oracle has got this.”

“Me too.” You agree as you stare at the projected screen, all of Barbara’s research thus far. Most of it made little sense to you but it all seemed technical enough, like she was on the right track.

“Right, so she's gonna keep working on that, Spoiler and Orphan are following the Narrows lead while Red Hood and I check out the Reservoir.” The words breeze through your head, you know you should be paying more attention but you're only half listening. Tim has taken his shirt off and is leaning against the cell door. His toned body gleaning under a layer of perspiration, as his venomous green eyes stay locked onto your frame, in all of its dragged-out-of-bed-at-2 AM-after-a-looonnnnngggggg-day-patrol glory. Seemingly noticing your distraction, Nightwing steps into your line of sight as he continues to relay the plan. “You just have to make sure he doesn't hurt himself or do anything stupid until we figure this out.”

“I know, I got it.” Dick doesn’t seem convinced, frowning as his eyes dart between you and Tim. Ignoring his doubts, you settle into the chair at the centre of the console, clicking away until you pull up the live feed from inside Tims's 6x8 prison. You can understand Dicks caution, the undeniable chemistry you and Tim shared had been evident to everyone for a long time, impeached only by your mutual reluctance to date on the job. If Bruce were here, he’d never allow for this, but Dick is doing the best he can with the resources available. Regardless, all doubts aside, you won’t allow your feelings to cause problems, not when lives hang in the balance. “Just go.”

“You’re sure?” He tries to place a reassuring arm on your shoulder but you both jump at the sudden sound of Tim’s fist needlessly hitting the wall. He’d need superstrength to break out of that thing, you're not concerned. Maybe a little more roused by the lack of restraint than you’d like to admit, but no less confident in your ability to babysit than you had been moments ago.

“Certain.” You wave off Dick when he turns back to you, lips still pursed. “Go. Who knows what that crap is doing to him, the sooner you find Ivy, the better.”

He knows it, probably better than you do.

“Buzz if you need anything.” At once you're relieved by his departure, and concerned for his safety, for everyone’s safety.

“Be safe.” You bid, watching as he straddles the Wingcycle.

“Be safe.” He echoes and without another word he's gone, leaving you alone to care for your caged Red Robin.

For a long time, you stare at the empty space Dick left behind, all too aware of Tim and the way his hot-blooded stare makes your skin burn but eventually you have to face him. Can’t monitor him without looking at him after all.

In an attempt to ease the mood, you offer him a smile. Apparently, it does nothing to reassure him or ease his tensions. He simply continues to glower at you. When that doesn’t work you play up your preceding frown, playfully pouting the way you would when you’re teasing his mid-mission stresses, but that fails too. Finally, you curve your left hand in a half heart shape, a common greeting between the two of you from rooftop to rooftop and for a moment you think it might work. He pulls the hand he has pressed to the glass back for a moment, but all he does is clench his fingers back and forth a few times before letting it fall to his side.

At a loss you spin around to the computer, tapping your fingertips on the desk as you consider Barbara’s research once more. The chances of becoming a forensic palynologist within a few hours with nothing but google and whatever research Bruce has backed up in the archives is slim, but it saves twiddling your thumbs, so you start by looking up any chemicals identified by the forensic scanner that you’re not familiar with.

It’s hard to sit still, knowing your every move is being scrutinised but by far the worst part is the silence. Tim and you are muted to each other unless you’re pressing the comms link located on the keypad by the cell door. The only sounds you can make out are the far away screeches of real-life bats located further into the cavern, and the drip, drip, dripping of the wet walls. It’s downright eerie when you’re practically alone, so when Oracle buzzes in about an hour later you jump to answer it, eager to hear another human, and anxious to find out if she has any updates.

“How’s he holding up?” She asks, and you’re glad she can’t see your worried expression. Tim hasn’t moved since Dick left. Except for when you’d crossed the bullpen to look for a fresh pen after the one you’d been using ran out of ink. You exclude that last part from your update, however.

“Okay, just tell him to hang tight, I'm getting closer.” You can tell she’s trying to sound more hopeful than she actually is, and your suspicions are confirmed when she begins to ramble about her findings. She often uses the team as a sounding board when she’s trying to wrap her head around something. “The pollen he inhaled is decreasing his plasma levels and increasing his testosterone.”

“If he’d touched the plant like she’d wanted him too it would re-level those hormones, presumably she was relying on him needing that to keep him under her control.”

“Right.” You’ll pat yourself on the back for impressing her at a more appropriate time. “And if that were it, we could just pump a bunch of oxytocins into him and voilà! But something else is messing with his nociceptors. Not to mention this stuff is packed with things I’ve never even heard of. Have you heard of horny goat weed?”

“Yeah, epi-me-di-um.” You sound the word out from your notes. “Only since tonight.”

“Where do people get these names from?” Babs groans, you can hear her tapping away at her keyboard. “I’m close though, I know it.”

“I believe in you.” She ‘awhs’ at your encouragement.

“Until I’ve got this, there is one thing he can try.” She trails off at the end. Her hesitation strikes you as odd. Surely whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. “If he’s really suffering… ejaculating might help ease any pain if only temporarily. Masturbatory only, obviously, this stuff can and will spread like hot gossip at one of Bruce’s galas.”

“Ah, okay.” You understand her aversion now, looking over at Tim as you consider how you’re going to tell him that. “I will pass the information along.”

The line goes quiet, Babs clearly sensing your discomfort, but however you’re feeling, Tim is likely feeling one thousand times worse.

Habitually, you tell each other good luck and be safe before hanging up, promising to get back to each other ASAP should anything change.

As you pass by the glass of his cubicle to reach the control panel on the other side Tim follows, falling into stride with you like a mirror image. When you stop, he stops, pressing his forearm to the glass and leaning his weight against it as he awaits your next move. Tilting closer when your fingers graze the comms button. Up close you can see that actually his irises are still blue, they’re just almost non-existent, drowned out by his green sclera’s and the sheer size of his impossibly blown-out pupils.

Bzzt. The mic crackles as you activate it.

“Hi.” You test the waters, but when he doesn’t respond you press on. “Are you in pain?”

He silently gazes at you for so long that you start to think he’s never going to answer you. Dumbly, you tap your finger on the plane to try and coax him out of his head, instantly feeling bad as you remember all those signs in zoos ‘PLEASE DON’T TAP THE GLASS, IT MAY CAUSE STRESS OR HARM TO THE ANIMALS’.

Tim must feel the same, like a caged beast, because the seething in his response startles you.

“No.” He taunts mockingly, mouth still twisted into a tight snarl. “I feel fantastic.”

At least his sharp humour is unaffected.

“Oracle said… that…” You can’t help allowing your eyes to trail down his body, shamelessly locking onto the subject matter, due to the distance and the darkness of his tights you’d hadn’t noticed until now that he’s rock hard, the length of his erection straining against the close-fitting fabric. Your face burns at the realisation, at your obliviousness. Of course he was, that’s what aphrodisiacs do. But mostly you're ashamed of how much you enjoy looking at it.

“Wh-” Tim's voice makes you jump. Embarrassed, you inadvertently take your hand off the switch. An uninfected Tim would have rolled his eyes at that, would have laughed at you good-naturedly, but this Tim just tilts his head like he’s cracking his neck, eye still on you. It’s like he physically can’t look at anything else, can’t stop drinking in every inch and crevice of you, cuts and moles and all. When you push down the button again, he repeats himself impatiently. Bzzt. “What did Oracle say?”

You take a deep breath, staring at the wall behind his head to help you concentrate, determined to get the words out no matter how awkward you feel saying it. “She said that masturbating, specifically ejaculating, won’t fix things, but it should… alleviate some of your discomfort, for a while.”

It’s his turn to drum his fingers on the glass, jaw growing tight as he seems to mull on what you’ve just told him. You chance a glance back down to his crotch just long enough to see him palm his hard-on through his pants. You’re unable to keep from imagining what he looks like down there or how he might go about pleasuring himself. Feeling bad for having such depraved thoughts about him while he’s suffering and vulnerable, you remind yourself not to gawk at him.

“No, I’m not doing that.” He states sternly.

“It might help.” Your objection comes purely from a place of concern.

“What would help me is if you’d fuck off.” His response is like a slap in the face, hitting you out of nowhere. You’re only trying to help, had your wondering eyes really prompted this level of ire?

“Wh- “

“It’s bad enough that I can’t control my body and that I’m stuck in here unable to do anything worth doing, but I have to watch you fucking slutting around in those f-.” Shocked by his sudden outburst, you instinctively pull your hand back. You know he’s just trying to let off his frustrations, but it still stings a little. Feeling bad for silencing his partly warranted rant, you tune back in, unable to keep yourself from flinching and jumpily flailing your hands around every time he gets under your skin. Bzzt. “Should be making an antidote or tracking down Ivy but instead all I can think about is bending you over that-”

Bzzt. “-out there trying to help me and I wanted to punch him for touching you like some macho i-” For the first time since you’d started supervising him, Tim finally looks away from you. Throwing his head back and tugging on his own hair as he tries to compose himself. It doesn’t work. You hadn’t thought it possible but when he finally comes back to you, his face is flooded with even more ferocity, like he wants to eat you alive. Bzzt.“-elp me, if you want to help me then fuck me yourself or get out of my sight!”

There's no way you’ll let him get away with talking to you like this, but now is not the time. Swallowing your pride and clenching your fists, you leave him be, hurrying back to the desk, cursing him under your breath as you pull your feet up into the chair and turn your back to him in order to try and make yourself as small as possible. You hate to admit it, but if it weren’t for the risk of infection, his parting words might have worked. Fuck. The thought of opening that door and letting him bend you over whatever he’d had in mind makes your blood rush.

To distract from the thought of Tim’s cock being buried tight in your walls, or how hot he’d look, panting and red faced beneath you as you fucked yourself on his length, you return to your research, glancing at the live feed to Tim’s cell every few minutes purely to confirm that he’s still alive.

You consider changing into something more conservative, this might be the one and only time you could consider slut-shaming somewhat okay, but to do that he'll be forced to look at you, so ultimately you elect not to.

Filthy thoughts continue to plague your imagination as you try to work, and the knowledge that Tim is thinking them too, only makes it worse. You’re so tired and tense and horny that after a while it becomes difficult to focus. You’re pressing your palms into your eyes when you hear a ping; A message from Spoiler to say that The Narrows was a bust, they’re moving on to another location. Another ping from Red Hood reporting a similar issue with their own intel. One more from Oracle to say that she’s pinpointed 90% of the formula and should be able to start reverse engineering soon.

You chime in to state that Tim is holding up. The computer pings once more, a private message from Oracle asking if it helped. You’re part way through typing that he refused when you glance at the video feed, Tim still has his back to the camera, his body pointed toward you the same way he had been all night. You freeze as you notice his bare ass.

His hose are around his knees, back bent in a hunched position, one arm jerking rapidly to and throw as he presumably strokes his cock. Without thinking you turn to face him, and he brazenly stares back at you. Once your suspicions are confirmed, you rapidly swing back.

He’s working on it. You amend. Unsure what to do from there you needlessly stare at the jagged ceiling, restlessly pulling at your fingers as you try to calm and distract yourself from the fact that Tim is currently playing with himself, and using whatever 2-inches of your skin he can see to fuel his fire. Brain and libido at odds, you force yourself not to look at the spectacle he’s putting on.

He’ll be mortified when he’s cured, don’t make it worse, you think. Yet ultimately you crack, too intrigued not to sneak another peek and once you give in to the temptation it becomes impossible to stop.

You could watch him like that all day. Watch the fierce look of concentration on his face, the bulge in his cheek where he’s biting his tongue. Watch the pink crown of his cock, and the way his balls tighten with each brutal thrust of his fist. Watch the way every lean muscle in his body tenses and twitches as waves of pleasure roll though his body. The way his green veins grow more pronounced as he chases his climax? Wait. That can’t be good.

Had they been green this whole time and you just hadn’t noticed? You've only seen one thing like this before. Venom. Could that be the missing 10%?

As though you hadn’t just been ogling him, you cover your eyes as you approach. This time he doesn’t follow you, legs firmly planted on the ground, but when you glimpse through the cracks in your fingers his head is turned to watch you still and you hastily snap your digits closed again before you speak to him.

Bzzt. “Tim, your veins are turning green.”

At the sound of your voice his knees buckle, your hand falls away to watch as his weakened muscles cause him to fall forward. His weight rests precariously against the glass as he hangs between standing and kneeling.

“Tim. Y- “

“I know.” The aggressiveness in which he snaps at you makes your skin run cold, but he follows it with the most pained, puppy dog eyes that you immediately forgive him. As if you have ever been able to hold anything against him for a substantial period of time.

“It hurts.” His teeth are gritted as he explains. “Hurts when I stop.”

You’ve no idea what to say. You wonder if there’s a painkiller on earth that could help him right now but he speaks again before you can suggest it.

“Help me.” He sounds so solemn, despite the fact that he hasn’t once stopped stroking his dick, closely staring at every curve of your body.

“We’re trying.” Your words barely seem to register with him. “It won’t be much longer.”

“No. Help me.” The repeated instruction does nothing to clarify what else he could mean until he continues. “Your voice sounds so sexy, fuck. Talk to me.”

Oh. “And say what?”

“God, fuck. Do I have to spell it out for you? Anything!” He barks, simultaneously carnal and irritable. Each word out of his mouth is more breathless and desperate than the last. “Fucking anything. Tell me you want me, that you want me to fuck you. Come on, please do this for me.”

“Okay, okay.” You can do this. “I do want you. I want to fuck- I want you to fuck me so bad, Tim.”

Despite it being true, you feel lame, clumsily parroting him, but Tims full bodied reaction spurs you on. He takes the final plunge, dropping onto his knees, leaning back on his haunches and practically presenting his engorged shaft to you. From here you can see how his skin is tinted several shades of pink and red. His blush seems to stem from his chest, running along his neck and shoulders, highlighting his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. You’ve never seen a prettier sight. It’s so enchanting, it almost diverts from his unnerving blood vessels.

“You’re so beautiful.” You purr, finding more confidence with every quiet huff and moan that spills from his lips. “I wish I could do this for you. I want to make you feel so good, I’d let you fuck me anywhere.”

He nods rapidly at you, encouraging you to continue while bucking his hips forward.

“I know your cock would fit just right in my mouth and feel so good, would make me gag until you came down my throat.” You open your mouth and stick your tongue out to show him, feeling silly until he replies.

“Fuck. Yeah. You’d look good sucking on my cock.”

“Yeah!” You agree, just the sight of him is enough to make your heartbeat race. But the thought of taking him in your mouth, slobbering all over his cock and watching him enjoy every second of it makes you rub your thighs together. You want so badly to get yourself off too but the little voice of conscience in the back of your brain is telling you not to, that it would be taking advantage. “Or you could bend me over, rip off my clothes and fuck me. I’d love to feel you pounding into my tight pussy.”

“Oh, pleasepleaseplease.” The words are slurred as he sinks his teeth hard into his tongue.

“You don’t have to beg, Timmy.” He hangs on your every word as you vocalise the thoughts and fantasies you’ve only ever indulge in when you’re alone at night. “You can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want, you can fill me up over and over. We’ll make sure everyone knows who my pussy belongs to. Would you like that?”

“Yes.” The confirmation is instant, no-nonsense. Followed by him closing his eyes and slamming his spare hand against the window to steady himself.

“Mine…” When he opens his eyes again, they unsurprisingly immediately lock onto you once more, zeroing in on your throbbing centre as he tells you. “Let me see it.”

“What?” The saliva in your mouth turns dry in an instant. Despite Tim baring all to you the thought of getting your whole pussy out in the Batcave scares you. In a strangely invigorating way.

“Need to cum and I fucking can’t.” Tim explains weakly, punching the wall again, this time with less vigour. “Show me your cunt.”

The c-word sounds so strange on Tims lips, so filthy. He’s frantic. You’re no closer to understanding how to cure him, and apparently your presence has only made things worse but maybe this is how you help him.

Hurriedly, you scurry over to the Batcomputer, Tim asserting his discontent by hammering his open palm on the wall repeatedly until you return moments later with the desk chair.

You waste little time shimmying out of your sleep shorts before you lose your bravado. Falling back into the chair, you adjust the height until your now exposed pussy is level with Tims eyeline. His demeanour changes in an instant, lips morphing into the first semblance of a smile he’d given you all night as he shifts closer.

Emboldened by his enthusiasm you spread your legs wide, resting your feet on the glass and using your fingers to spread apart your folds for him to get a real look. You’re not sure how he’ll feel about the shameful amount of moisture you’ve produced later, but for now his mouth very visibly waters. You don’t think he’s blinked since you sat down.

Uncurbed, you brush your finger over your sensitive clit, toes curling in response. You’d love to say you did it to put on a show for Tim, to help him find relief but in actuality it’s entirely self-serving. Unable to resist touching yourself at the sight of him on his knees for you, mercilessly fisting his cock in frenzied, rhymeless strokes. Regardless of your motivation, Tim seems to appreciate it.

Strands of his dark hair fall into his face as he leans forward, partly hiding his glassy eyes and reddened cheeks, but he quickly whips them back once more ensuring he maintains an uninhibited view of your fingers as they rapidly paw at your sex. Angling yourself so that Tim can see every minute detail, every roll of your hips as you lower your hand and sink two fingers into yourself. All the while you keep massaging your sensitive bud, Tim’s name a prayer on your lips as you watch him, watching you, fevered and hungry.

It comes as a surprise when your orgasm hits first, walls convulsing and spasming as you objectify yourself for Tim, acting like his personal pornstar. It’s a shame he can’t hear the wetness of your hole or the strangled, lewd gasps and moans that escape your throat as your body trembles from the intensity of your climax.

The slick of your release leaks from your sex, trickling between your legs, down the chair, and onto the metal floor. Like a man starved, Tim slams his face into the glass, finally closing his eyes and lapping at the pane with a flattened tongue.

Whatever vision he’s conjuring works, his lids twitch, eyes darting open to watch your panting frame. He looks sacrilegious, full body blushed and sweating. His face softens, mouth slack and drooling as rope after rope of cum spills from his reddened tip and hits the pane.

You’re only able to enjoy the sight of him coming apart for a moment before you notice that the viscous fluid is unsettlingly coloured. Not milky white as it should be, but a strange, luminous green colour.

Tim slumps downward once he’s spent, and you watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest while he comes down from his high. Your heart aching as you wonder whether his pain has been even slightly alleviated. The fact that the swelling of his veins seems to have subsided bodes well. Eventually he comes too, enough to also notice the puddle of green excrement between his legs and it’s your turn to all but lunch yourself at him. You shout falls on deaf ears until your kick’s echoes into his cell. His hand freezes and he watches, still hunched as you stumble to the control panel on unsteady legs.

“Don’t touch it.” Tim nods sheepishly in agreement. It probably won’t hurt him, having come from inside him, but better safe than sorry. “I’m gonna grab you some gloves and slides to take samples with.”

Before he can concur, you’re gone, inelegantly hiking your bottoms back on as you go. You feel bad, jumping straight back into business without so much of a ‘how was that for you?’ but these are strange circumstances, and whatever freaky substance he just shot out of his balls might be the missing puzzle piece in treating him.

Eventually, once you’d collected everything you’ll need and updated the Team, you do ask, holding the mic down with your elbow as you pull on a pair of rubber gloves, waiting to take the samples from him. “How do you feel?”

“Hot, and sore.” He tells you. He’s pulled his trousers back up, but you can still see the outline of his half-hard penis. “It’s still in me, I can feel it, but it doesn’t hurt as much. I can think. Which is something.”

“I’m glad it helped. Hopefully we’ll get you back to normal before it gets bad again.” He offers you a smile then. A genuine, none-hedonic one that makes you feel fuzzy. You’ve missed that smile.

“Yeah, hopefully.” He places the slides, tools, and used gloves in the containment slot and closes his side of the two-way mechanism. You offer him a half heart which he returns before you start sorting and bagging everything.

You’re about to turn your back when he taps gently on the glass, gesturing for you to open the comms line again and you oblige with your elbow once more.

“Listen, I’m really sorry for being an ass earlier. You didn’t deserve what I said to you.”

You can tell he’s stressing about it from the gloomy look in his blue-green eyes and the way he tugs at his waistband. Normally he fidgets with his gloves or his collar, but needs must an’ all. You’d give anything to be able to hug him right now.

“Don’t worry, I know you didn’t really mean it.” Admittedly it had shaken you, for all of five minutes, but you’ve never been able to stay mad at Tim, even at his worst, and you’ve seen him do far worse. “You weren’t really mad at me, right? Just the situation?”

“Yeah. Mostly myself but that doesn’t make it okay.” He’s still fiddling, still looking at you mournfully. It means a lot that it bothers him so much, but you need that to stop. You need him to be normal for like half an hour so you can get some work done without worrying. And you need to get the work done so you can make up for your own misdeeds.

“No really, it’s fine I don’t care.” You stress, hoping if you chide him a little it will absolve him of his guilt. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try not to.” He promises. You can tell by the way he works his jaw back and forth that he’s working up to say something else, something that has his ears and cheeks turning pink. That or the absolved symptoms are coming back already. “And thank you. For the other stuff.”

“Oh good, I was worried you might regret that part.” You hadn’t realised how badly you needed to hear him say that until it happened. It’d kill you and whatever situationship you have going on if he’d considered your actions exploitative.

“No! Not at all. I mean, I always kind of hoped that one day we might end up…” He vaguely gestures into the air which doesn’t help his point, but you understand what he’s getting at and nod, urging him to continue. “You know? But I never would have imagined it happening like this.”

“I know what you mean. I always figured something might…” You’re floundering. This is not the time or place for this conversation, you’re completely unprepared and as badly as this conversation needs to be had, you really don’t have time. “I mean, I wouldn’t wish what’s happening on anyone, but if it had to happen, I’m glad it was you. Because you’re the only person I would have done that for.”

You can’t imagine having done that for Dick, or Barbara, or God forbid Bruce. Just thinking about it makes your stomach churn.

“Good.” He seems more relieved now than he had when he’d cum. “I’d hate it if you’d done that with anyone else.”

If this were a movie or an action-romance novel, this is the part where you’d kiss, you think. But it’s not, and every second the two of you spend stammering about your feelings and making go-go eyes at each other is a second that could be spent on finding an antidote.

“We’ll talk, later.” You promise.

“I’d like that.” Tim replies before you pull away from the keypad. In a moment of whimsy, you blow your hot breath against the glass until it’s steamed up before pressing your puckered lips on it. No sound escapes the barrier between you, but you can see Tim laughing, his cheeks still palpably pink. He returns the gesture just moments before the Batcomputer begins to buzz.

Hi friend! I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad you exist. ♥︎

#gilverrwrites #dc #reader insert #tim drake #tim drake/reader #tim drake x reader #red robin/reader #red robin x reader #red robin #nsft #as always i wrote this with AK Tim in mind but I added the long hair cause I know ya'll are thinking of pretty boy tim #i love em both but AK Tim is my true love #f reader

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cloudcountry · 6 months ago

Note

[inhales]

fem deliquint deuce beating people up with a cool jacket

FEM DEUCE BEING ROUGH N TUMBLE AND GETTIN INTO TROUBLE

fem duece who can't fucking walk in heels but tries her danrdest becuase "honor role students need to be spiffy"

fem deuce who has so many chick and egg themed things (ace makes fun of her stuffed chick)

FEM DEUCE WHO LOVES FLAMINGO BABIES-

fem deuce who squeaks and blushes when you carry her princess style

fem deuce who isn't good at fashion but tries to dress up for your dates

fem deuce who tries to make you bento like her mom did and fails... so you cook together

SUMMARY: some moments you share with fem!deuce

COMMENTS: shes so lesbian to me...i love her.

Her jacket swings behind her like a pair of angel wings as she throws punch after punch, kneeing the guy who bothered you square in the chest. She falls back into a fighting stance as he crumples to the ground, her fists clenched and a splatter of blood across her wrists. She turns to you, short dark blue hair blocking your view of her eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks, tucking those strands behind her ear, and you can’t help the way your heart lurches when the blood gets in her hair.

It’s not the first time she’s protected you when some guys from another school were just a bit too persistent. You know she’ll lament this fight later and talk about how she’s not a proper honors student, but you’ll be there to convince her otherwise.

She grips your hands like a lifeline, ankles jittering concerningly as she stumbles into her dorm room, kicking the offending shoes off into the opposite wall as soon as the door closes behind her. You purse your lips as she flops on her bed, rubbing her sore feet with her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth. She’s bitten them black and blue again it seems, and you frown.

“You know, Deuce...” you wait until she looks up at you, eyes wide and curious, “You could always start with smaller heels. There’s no reason to wear these monstrosities when they hurt you so much. You could even wear flats!”

Deuce opens and closes her mouth a few times before growing pink, her lips forming a thin line. She didn’t think about it that way, did she?

She regularly wears these little chick hair clips to pull her bangs away from her eyes when she studies. Deuce will forever have the nasty habit of running her hands through her hair and messing up the placement anyway, so you’re not surprised when you find a forgotten pin on your floor or nightstand. Her phone grip is a light blue egg, its shell speckled with darker blue spots. You told her it was cute and she bought you one of your own to get with your new phone, along with a chick phone charm.

She also has a soft spot for baby birds, especially the flamingos in Heartslabyul. Deuce will forever coo about how small and fuzzy and cute they are, petting them softly with the most gentle hands you’ve ever seen.

She swears she isn’t good at fashion but she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen when she steps out of her dorm room, a pair of high waisted black pants and a white lacy top on, the outfit simple but suiting her so well. She rocks back and forth on her heels, the motion awkward in her sneakers (freshly cleaned, you notice with a smile) as she mumbles that it’s her first date, so she tried really hard. You take her hand and pull her closer, swooping her up into your arms as you spin her around. Deuce yelps and clings to your neck, face flushing bright red even when you put her back down. She tries not to notice how lovingly you’re looking at her, or how your expression only gets sappier when she shows you the picnic basket she has in her hands, murmuring something about a homemade lunch she made with Trey to make sure you had the best.

You tell her you’d eat anything she makes you, no matter what.

-> deuce's darlings . . . @vivigoesinsane @deucespadez @identity-theft-101 @dove-da-birb

#auburn's fics <3 #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #deuce spade #deuce spade x reader #twst x reader #disney twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #deuce spade fluff #fem twst #fem twisted wonderland #genderbent twst #genderbent twisted wonderland

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azen13 · 6 months ago

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Looking at the items the Starlight Pawnshop has to offer... I'd like to purchase the < Avian Necklace >, please. Because a pretty little songbird deserves only the prettiest chain with which to tie it down.

Paradise Lost, Paradise Found

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Avian Necklace: A silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of a bird mid-flight, imbued with a strange energy strong enough to shackle its wearer in paradise forever.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Description: After the Charmony Festival, Sunday returns to Penacony with the Stellaron Hunters, desperate to be reunited with his lover.

CW: Yandere Themes, Brainwashing, Mind Control, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Intense Distress, Manipulation

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It is a Monday night in Penacony, and all is well in the world.

Sure, your hotel room is cramped. The mattress is lumpy. The view is horrible. But it is real, and that is all that matters to you. After an eternity of dreams so sweet you felt like you were drowning in joy, you would rather be stuck in this dingy hotel room than some luxury VIP suite anyways. It’s comforting in all its imperfections.

That is, until you hear someone knock on your door.

The sound is rhythmic, three short, quick, evenly spaced knocks. It’s all you truly need to know who stands outside your door. Your heart already knows, beating so fast you feel like you could go into cardiac arrest.

But then you hear his voice. Smooth and rich like espresso, laced with a subtle sweetness. “Darling,” Sunday whispers quietly, “please, open the door.” It is both a request and a command, though it isn’t infused with Sunday’s usual pacifying power.

He liked doing this when you realized Ena’s dream was all an illusion; he would give you a chance to submit and acquiesce to his love and care, but when you inevitably refused, he had no qualms about worming his way into your mind. Once inside, he’d gently smash any shred of resistance you had, before pulling you into his arms and crooning his hymns, praising your holiness.

Isn’t this dream so blissful? he would ask you quietly, his hands ghosting over your skin, soft as feathers. I can give you anything you want. In Ena’s dream, it was true. Sunday could give you anything you wanted, even your freedom. But you knew it was an artificial imitation of independence; no matter where you traveled in the pseudo-universe, he was always there, always watching you. That was good enough for him: knowing you were safe, his hands cupped around your world like the way one would hold a bird.

The sound of Sunday’s voice breaks you out of your momentary reverie. “My dove, please, I don’t want our reunion to be bitter, but it seems like you aren’t giving me a choice.” You can feel the resonant harmonies in Sunday’s words grow louder, gripping your mind gently, giving you one more chance to open the door through your own free will.

You look around your room for any way out. On the opposite wall is a single window. You’re on the first floor. All you have to do is break through it and find someone. Frantically, you rush over, scrounging around for something to break the glass. You hear a loud sigh. “I wish you could just understand, my love,” Sunday laments.

The lock clicks.

Instantly, you are pounding and clawing on the glass like a rabid animal. In brief moments of clarity through your haze of desperation, you can feel your shoulder ache from ramming into the glass. Your throat feels raw. Someone is screaming. It’s you.

Sunday’s hands are just as excruciatingly tender as you remember, gliding over your arms and clasping your wrists in a tender but firm embrace. ��Shh, it’s okay, my dear,” he whispers quietly. Beneath the insanity that clouds his own eyes, you can glimpse genuine concern in his gilded gaze. “Calm down, shh, yes, relax,” he coos.

All of the sudden, the world goes soft and blurry; every color in your hotel room, the pallid, washed-out grays and pale, muted blues seem to turn into a psychedelic kaleidoscope, luring you deeper and deeper into a state of tranquility.

With slow, delicate motions, Sunday lets go of one of your wrists, a placid smile gracing his face for a mere moment. Making sure that you won’t hurt yourself anymore than you already have, he reaches into one of his coat pockets, pulling out a small necklace imbued with the power of the Order.

“After the Charmony Festival, I was in such a deep state of despair. I thought I had lost everything. My dreams. My power. My home. My sister. My love.” His grasp on your wrist tightens, though you’re so lost in his spell that you can’t even feel the pain. “But now…now I have you again, my dearest,” he whispers hoarsely. Sunday can hardly believe you are real, with how constant misfortune has haunted his life. Time and time again, he has lost everything. Everyone. All his dreams and aspirations have shattered to pieces like stars crashing down to the earth from the heavens. But not you.

“Perhaps my plan was ill-timed,” Sunday muses as he loops the chain of the necklace around your neck. “But for right now, if I can’t give everyone paradise, then at least I can give it to you. And that will be more than enough,” he whispers, taking your appearance in, drinking it in like a man without water for forty days.

The effects of his tuning are fading, but the power of the necklace is taking root in your mind, warping and twisting it until you understand. Truly magnificent. He can see the clarity and consciousness in your eyes, but he can also see behind it, the compulsion to listen.

“Now, we must go,” Sunday says, his hands moving to clutch both of yours, pulling you up from where you’re sitting on the floor. “The rest of the Stellaron Hunters are likely getting anxious and ready to leave.” Still, he can’t help but steal one more moment alone. He presses a quick, light kiss to your lips, looking at your splendor one last time.

His sweet, foolish, caged bird.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagine #yandere oneshot #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail x you #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere sunday #yandere sunday x reader #the starlight pawnshop #thank you for requesting!

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dreamlandbarnes · 5 days ago

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f1 fic recs

a compilation of all the fics i've been reading in the f1 rpf tag on ao3! please leave comments and kudos for the authors, and check the tags before reading. sorted by pairing, and summary and word count are provided. none of these fics are mine.

if your fic is on here and you want it removed, please let me know!

charles leclerc / max verstappen

bloodsport by 140445 | 37,711 words | M

“I don’t care about then, you are here now,” Charles says. “You are on my side now.” Max is on his side. It’ll feel like that, too, at some point. Surely. Or: Max and Charles as teammates for the 24 hours of Le Mans.

such murderous and vengeful desire by foggystars | 20,676 words | E

Where Carlos’ girlfriend has her fingers crossed, keeps covering her eyes as if she can’t bear to watch, Max is focused, mouth set in a hard line. He’s leaning in, balancing on the edge of his seat. To anybody else he looks intent, focused on the screen. To Charles, he looks like a bird, poised to take wing. Like he’s about to fly right through the screen and take the steering wheel from Charles’ clumsy hands, get in there and drive the car himself. When Max Verstappen suffers a career ending injury, he pours all his effort into turning his old rival, Charles Leclerc, into a worthy champion. Five years and two world championships later, they finally decide to talk about it.

like in love with me by linearity | 7,800 words | T

Austria 2019, a two-person house party, Abu Dhabi 2021, a silly lover’s quarrel, and a stove-side morning proposal.

Anonym by additiv | 13,971 words | E

The truth is, Max finds Charles unbelievably annoying. He’s chaotic and unpredictable. He’s staring at Max across the room one moment, and in the next, seems to have forgotten he exists. He swaps clothes with people at random, whipping off his faded Gucci t-shirt in the middle of the dance floor, to trade it for some girl’s crop top, laughing and crowding close to block the view of her body while they make the exchange. When he disappears to the bathroom, Max never knows whether he’ll reappear with glitter on his eyelids, or white powder on his nose. He flirts with every person in the room, and probably sleeps with them too. He ignores Max completely, then goes home with him. He’s always gone when Max wakes up; nothing left behind, nothing missing. He refuses to stay the night, but refuses to let Max get over him. And, he refuses to let Max know anything about him.

when you cut me open by triangularity (linearity) | 44,900 words | E

Well, Charles concedes, miserably. He did die last night. A few days staying with his vampire ex-boyfriend probably isn’t the worst thing he’ll have gone through in January.

a life in your shape by weiwuxian (BreathOfDream) | 29,431 words | E

“Oh god, not you,” Charles groans, crossing his arms on his chest. The Batman visibly rolls his eyes (blue, of course, because all men that messed with Charles’ life had that in common apparently) at his reaction, but another look at Charles makes him step closer. “Yes, always a pleasure. Are you ok?” or: 5 times both Max and the Batman makes Charles' life a lot more complicated than needed + 1 time he doesn't

Frecheit by additiv | 208,723 words | E

The first time that Max heard the name Charles Leclerc was in 2022, just after winning his first WDC. Maybe it only stuck because he heard it twice in one night; first as Leclerc was announced as the 2022 F3 champion. Second, as Helmut lamented not signing him to the Red Bull driver development program. Now, Max is ready to put the newly-promoted Ferrari driver in his place. The problem is, Leclerc seems to think his place is on the top step of the podium. And he is not playing by the rules. An age-difference fic, where they never got to work out their differences as kids. 3-time WDC Max's experience of being personally victimised by baby-Charles.

in dream by 140445 | 81,025 words | E

Charles tried to figure out the dream on his own. In the morning he sat down with a cup of coffee, trying to make sense of what he had seen—he even googled it. Surely, Charles couldn't be the first or only person to dream about someone he shouldn't. But there were no search results for my professional rival is suddenly also my soulmate or soulmate dream of someone i'm not supposed to want???. (In a world where soulmates identified each other by sharing a dream, Charles dreamt of the last person he expected.)

heart of the wind by pipitass | 13,830 words | M

There’s a slip of paper taped next to one of the doorbells — third floor, second door. It should, in theory, be the one directly across from his own. Max V. “Yes?” “Uh— hi.” He clears his throat. “It’s your neighbor. From across the street. Your, your clothes…” He doesn’t really know what to say after that. Hi, I got into a street fight with your bedsheets yesterday. Welcome to the neighborhood.

charles_leclerc ✔️ posted: 😘 by ninetqs | 11,500 words | M

Charles posts a photo with a mystery man and casually breaks the Internet in the process.

cameras in the traffic lights by c_e_1 | 9,958 words | M

Pop Crave @PopCrave • Aug 13 2023 Popstar Charles Leclerc has put his instagram on private after fans spotted Formula 1 driver Max Verstappen in the background of his vacation photos 303 comments | 1.6K retweets | 10K likes

(don't read) the last page by mintchocolatechip97 | 7,475 words | E

Max feels a light tap on his arm, and turns to see the beautiful door-opener, chestnut brown curls fluffed up on his head like he’s been running his hands through his hair. “I have been on a set a time or two,” the man says, trying and failing to wink, “but this is my first time in a writers room, so you are not the only rookie here.” He clearly speaks English fluently, but has a smidge of a European accent, which Max thinks might be French. “I’m sorry,” Max says, a little annoyed that this stranger is speaking to him as if they know each other, “I didn’t catch your name?” Several emotions flit over the man’s face, in such quick succession that Max can’t quite catch them all. In the end, he looks mortified. “Oh, I am so sorry,” he says, “This is going to sound terrible, like I am the worst kind of person, but I thought you would know who I was.” Dr. Max Verstappen gets hired as the expert medical consultant for a new Netflix show. Charles Leclerc, former teen heartthrob, stars.

all i know of love is hunger by 140445 | 28,509 words | E

Anger flares in Charles’ chest. Not the kind that he feels in the car, when he’s on Max’s tail, when they are braking late and later. The one that’s been looming over his head ever since Max announced his retirement. The one he hasn’t been able to tame until now, until he can give it a name. Betrayal.

hollywood and highland by japrufrocks | 26,730 words | E

Max had left New York a week before Charles had, seven days exactly. Max had gone to Hollywood; Charles had gone to a hospital. Now they're starring in the same film. Hollywood gives its darlings everything. It takes everything too.

straight lines (that unwind you) by 140445 | 16,330 words | E

“Do you know him?” Arthur asks. “No,” Charles decides. Because he does not. He knows Max is a mathematics major, and that he plays chess. And that he hits the gym. And what he looks like when he comes. Details.

all to play for by linearity | 49,300 words | E

Charles Leclerc is not at Red Bull to win races. He is here to win championships.

my thoughts will echo your name by witchee_writer | 38,826 words | M

“Do you think you’ll ever want to do Le Mans one day?” asked Max, glancing sideways at the man sitting next to him. Charles’ eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face. “I think I want to win Le Mans one day.”

heart on your sleeve by nyoomfruits | 4,812 words | T

The thing about having a racing helmet that constantly displays your emotions for the whole world to see, is that you kind of get used to it after a while. These days Charles almost forgets it’s even a thing. Almost. But then he goes and falls in love.

ghost of you by nyoomfruits | 3,436 words | T

“All right, are you now finally ready to explain why four time world driver champion Charles Leclerc is currently in my living room?” Max says, as Charles towels off his hair. Charles pauses, lets the towel fall into his lap, stares at Max with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, did you say four time?”

The HR Situation by thearchercore | 3,027 words | Gen

Jacob found out many things during his first month in the new HR role - Mary and Connor from Aero Engineering were dating. Thomas and Nick from Comms got recently divorced and it's a sensitive subject. Eddie from Legal had to go to an Anger Management class but hasn't had any issues since his return. Oh, and also - Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were fucking weird about each other. or: Charles and Max go to Mercedes and the HR Department is in shambles.

Sawtooth by nottonyharrison | 40,305 words | E

In another universe, Max rejected karting at the age of fifteen, no longer prepared to be a proxy for his father’s dream. He moved back to Belgium to live with his mum and sister, excelled at school, and eventually went on to complete a Masters of Mechanical Engineering. Now 27, after four years working for Alfa Romeo and Sauber, first as a junior performance engineer and then on the pit wall for Zhou Guanyu, he’s put forward for a job with Ferrari when Carlos Sainz is left without a race engineer thanks to the increasingly hectic F1 schedule. The problem is, Max has a crush on Carlos’ teammate. A huge, obvious, embarrassing crush that leaves him stumbling for words, face burning every time he’s within six feet of the guy. What makes it even worse is that sometimes he’s sure that Charles is looking right back.

leminiscate by weiwuxian (BreathofDream) | 27,799 words | E

Charles tries to imagine Max, on the opposite side of the kitchen. Eating bread too, like he did that first morning of the After—gross and charming. Tries to think about the way he would hold him, maybe. Of the softness of his lips, glossed by butter; and how he would laugh and push him away. His phone dings and he blinks himself awake once again.

achilles comes down by sincerelylancelot | 21,068 words | M

The World Championship trophy rests in his trembling hands, his name etched in fine gold. It isn't until he's staring down at it—his name nestled close to Max’s—that he realises his dreams have always been carved out of someone else’s pain. Jules. Max. And now, maybe even himself.

charles leclerc / carlos sainz jr

a bad recompense for your love by steviethenarwhal | 65,162 words | M

“I do not want to date you,” Charles says. Carlos’s eyes slide warily over to him. He tries to explain. “I do not date men. It would be… not smart.” “I don’t want to date you either,” Carlos says. “I do not date racecar drivers.”

translation theory by linearity | 9,500 words | E

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy, their Il Predestinato. He likes it up the ass and likes getting fucked by rockstars who have more tattoos than thoughts in their brains. What a fucking joke.

semiotic study by linearity | 8,600 words | E

Carlos knows. He knows what this is and what this is not. This is not romance, this is not love, but Charles makes it so easy to slip into that illusion. Charles makes it so hard, and Carlos cannot be without.

last night by venerat | 24,259 words | E

Rule #1: When you go to America, don't lose your virginity to your best friend's roommate. Charles fails Rule #1.

Good Boy by chiliconcarlos | 8,445 words | E

Really, it’s all Alex’s fault. ~~ Or: the one where Charles and Carlos want to settle the question of who's better in bed.

at the dinner table with god and my father by Cloudcollector | 4,599 words | M

There is a table in his house that knows more about him than his father. Or, Carlos and his father. And the family dinner table through the years.

win or lose (it's how you play the game) by chiliconcarlos | 18,321 words | E

It all starts because of a stupid bet. Or: Carlos suggests a hickey bet for their '23 season, and it goes about how you'd expect.

darling by magnificentbirb | words | T

The pet names begin as a joke.

carlos sainz jr / oscar piastri

take it or leave it by venerat | 6,771 words | E

r/relationships: My (22M) coworker (29M) keeps irritating me at work

he just turned in like i didn't exist by linearity | 36,500 words | E

Oscar doesn’t have a problem with his soulmate. It’s his soulmate who has the fucking problem.

Happy Death Race by powerfulowl (playmyace) | 28,390k words | E

Carlos gazes up at the fake blue sky. Dopey grin, contrapposto pose, head as empty as the cottony clouds above. “Look, look. Look, Piastri. It is always daylight.” Oscar imagines pushing him into the piss water canal. "Yeah, cool. Stop dying!" (Oscar is in a time loop and Carlos won't stop dying.)

when both our cars collide by buildyourfences | 8,483 words | M

It’s race day, which means his phone shouldn’t be ringing. And yet, it is. “Carlos, why are you not at the track yet? We are waiting for you.” “But–” “I sent you the updated schedule last night, please get here as soon as possible.” The call ends. He blinks down at the phone in his hand. Friday, March 1. Well, that’s not right. Carlos is trapped in a time loop. He can't stop crashing with Oscar.

at a constant speed by wisteriagoesvroom (bobaheadshark) | 11,676 words | E

“Are you close?” Oscar asks. “What does it look like?” “I wasn’t expecting it to be, uh, so…” What? Oscar wants to add. Hot? Desperate? Pathetic? All of the above? --- Or, carcar get themselves into a situationship, and it just keeps situating.

left a calling card so they would know that it was me by xxxdeerlordxxx | 6,139 words | E

Carlos continues to sit there, in the cockpit with his back to the wall, pieces of the torn advertisements raining down on him. He can see a big screen from where he’s at, the replays they show over and over, of Carlos spinning out, of Oscar driving away from the incident like nothing happened. Because of course no one believes him. But Carlos knows that Oscar’s to blame. Just not in the way people might think.

hatred cradles you by foggystars | 6,829 words | E

“You see?” Carlos asks, hanging up the phone. “He does not pick up.” Oscar shrugs, unsure why Carlos seems to think this is his problem. Just because Oscar’s his teammate doesn’t mean he knows where Lando is at all times, like some sort of twink-seeking missile. Then Carlos says, “I wait for him in here,” and nods to himself. He’s walking into Oscar’s hotel room before he can stop him, and all Oscar can do is blink stupidly at the empty stretch of hallway where Carlos once stood.

in midnight’s jaws by Springsteen | 30,806 words | E

Werewolves are fiction, the stuff of books and movies just like witches and zombies. Men do not turn into wolves, or fly on broomsticks, or raise the dead. There must be a logical explanation for the restlessness in Carlos's blood, for the waves of pain so sudden and intense it feels as though his bones are trying to break free of his body. Surely there is a perfectly good reason for Carlos to have woken in the dirt the morning after a full moon, with no idea where he is or how he got there. And surely there was a reason he turned to Oscar Piastri, of all people, for help.

pulling teeth by arboretics | 9,030 words | Not Rated

Oscar is very private, very in control. Carlos pretends he is both of those things, too. But after a late night collision in Baku 2024, things spiral between them into something straddling a game and an uncomfortable intimacy. A year on, Oscar and Lando are battling for the championship, Carlos is fighting for low points finishes, and Oscar loses his grip on the whole situation.

the better half of a good time by antimonyandthyme | 4,413 words | E

“Most guys, they look at the date.” He manages to make it sound both admiring and chiding. Oscar is very quickly losing control of this conversation. “Do you make a habit of just giving your license out? To every stranger you meet?” “Only those I really like.”

reckless attention by crescenteluce | 4,290 words | E

It’s probably on Oscar to be the bigger person here, to tell Carlos if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. But that’s the thing about Carlos – he doesn’t exactly inspire Oscar to be the best version of himself.

george russell / max verstappen

winning mentality by linearity | 18,500 words | E

It’s not, like, a thing. It’s only happened twice, if you don’t count the time during the pre-season when Max shoved a thigh against George’s crotch, and George, touched-deprived and broken-hearted, let out a sharp gasp and came instantly. Max, looking shocked and frightened, stormed away.

cut your teeth by 140445 | 9,224 words | E

And that is the thing that brought George here. Eat or be eaten. It’ll happen either way. Maybe here, he will like the taste.

full throttle by calenmirel | 3,397 words | E

Later, Max will turn to him, meeting his gaze head on, and ask if George truly hadn’t seen him in his mirrors at turn eight, like George had claimed. He'll rub his hands on his racesuit as he says it, like he'll be rid of the phantom feeling of George's hair from between his fingers if he wipes them hard enough. George will look back at him, licking the taste of Max from the back of his teeth like he can savour it, and will reply, “of course I didn’t,” lying through his smile.

alexander albon / george russell

a feeling all brand new by ginnydear | 16,481 words | M

Alex is halfway through his sandwich when he starts to feel talkative, so he takes a sip of his tea and waits for Logan to finish chewing before he says what’s running through his mind at full speed. “I think I’m homophobic.”

nothing but teeth by crescenteluce | 25,057 words | E

“Oh, come on.” Alex says, poking George in the thigh again with his foot. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done a little-” Alex makes a complicated hand-wavy gesture that has the contents of his glass nearly sloshing over the sides. “At your fancy boy schools, a little stiff upper-lipped make-out amongst the chaps? In between rounds of cricket and fox hunting?”

carlos sainz jr / max verstappen

ease the madness by magnificentbirb | 12,231 words | M

Max signed away his soul on his sixteenth birthday.

pierre gasly / charles leclerc

a long time (maybe forever) by strongestavenger | 10,021 words | T

AITA: homophobic but only to my roommate/best friend? First of all, I swear I have never been a discriminatory person – I have lots of gay friends and my little brother is bisexual. I know that sounds stupid as hell but it’s my only defense right now. My problem is that I (Marc, 26M, straight) have a roommate (Jacques, 28M, gay), who has also been my best friend since we were kids, and I think I’ve started to feel homophobic towards him? (or: Charles needs some outside help to figure things out.)

miscellaneous / general / multi

One thousand laps of jeddah by in_in_in_in_in_in_in | 68,585 words | Gen

George feels sick for the whole ride to the track. He has no idea how he got from breakfast to the car, let alone how he shook off Alex. He knows that he said ‘for god’s sake, Alex, I’m not on drugs’ about a hundred times, even though he’s not at all sure that it’s the truth. What else could have happened to him? Did he dream the race last night?

eat them alive by linearity | 57,000 words | E

Oscar lost Lando a championship and left McLaren. There was still a year in between.

the condominium community committee by jusst_you_wait | 36,452 words | T

the condominium community - 2:36pm Oscar and Logan have been added to the chat George Hello, welcome to a group chat we have for the Formula apartment building! There are only 18 (20 now) of us so we like to keep in contact about the building maintenance and other neighbourly orders of business. I’m George, and I liaise with the building manager on behalf of all of us when there is a building specific issue rather than an apartment issue. Welcome to the building! Lando do u copy and paste that from ur notes every time Alex I bet he has it memorised ~ or, the ridiculous chat fic where the f1 grid all live in the same apartment building

temperature get to you by minieggs11 | 9,339 words | E

It’s Logan’s last ride of the night, it’s clearly two drunk tourists going back to their hotel. As long as they give him a five star rating, he doesn’t care what happens.

sugar and spice by pipitass | 10,785 words | E

“Do you know already? Who you’ll pick?” Oscar frowns. Eyes still closed, scrunched now. Sharp brows downturned, meeting in the middle of his face. “When you win.” The frown deepens for a second. Then his face releases, and he shrugs. Shuffles as he goes to lay down, kicking his shoes off before he brings them up so his toes are poking at Max’s thigh, settling in. “Someone nice.”

triple header by 140445 | 7,890 words | E

Because Oscar isn’t here with Charles. And he’s not here with Max. He doesn’t get it, this thing between Max and Charles. They look like they’re here together, share glances that make Oscar feel like an intruder—but Max brought Oscar back to the booth to sit with them. For Charles to flirt with him. As if it’s some kind of game, where Max brings back prey for Charles to take.

somebody else by piastrism | 31,252 words | E

Oscar misses the color lilac — the color of the twilight sky behind Charles as they drank wine on Sedici, and the long-faded color left behind on his hips by Max’s fingertips.

we'll take the shadows (since the limelight isn't ours) by magnificentbirb | 2,177 words | T

Lando hears the screech of tires on asphalt behind him, the distant crunch of carbon fiber colliding with a wall. He glimpses only the aftermath of the carnage—the dust and smoke, the flashing lights, the unmistakable gleam of bright red—and then he’s clear. And that’s when the seconds slow down.

possessed by light by Anonymous | 6,885 words | Gen

It is a lesson you learn alone. Or that you are supposed to learn alone. At some point you will look at yourself in the mirror and see not just flesh and blood. You will see the capabilities beyond that. You will see your body as a ladder to forever ascend, to always want more. You will see just what you’re made of—and you will realise it has to be used. You will learn not to waste it. Charles did not learn that on his own.

#f1 rpf #fic rec #f1 fic rec #lestappen #charlos #carcar #gax #1633 #charles leclerc x max verstappen #charles leclerc x carlos sainz #carlos sainz x oscar piastri #george russell x max verstappen #5581 #3363 #i do not know how to tag everything uhhhh #thank u fic writers for my life #need to go through my own list bc i'm behind on leaving comments and bookmarks

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telewarp · 2 months ago

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shout out to the top comment on this video of blue bird lamentation in particular. this guy gets it

#zero escape #sigma klim #there arent any transparents of delta or k unmasked so i just winged it #luna zero escape #delta zero escape #phi zero escape #kyle klim

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coyote-with-a-keyboard · 8 months ago

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flashback (1/?)

a/n: not any of my old drafts or ideas, but hey! A post is a post.

warnings: breath play, rough sex, kinda public? In a unlocked but empty meeting room- Minors DNI

Normal day, normal meetings, normal plans and a normal god damn week, that was your plans. You had had enough extra weight to carry for once, so dragging yourself to your last meeting felt like the last step on the stairs to heaven. That was until you opened the door.

Fuck. you hadn’t seen graves in an long time, but those sharp blue eyes were burned in your brain too much to forget- you two grew up together, thick as thieves and close as can be. Teetering on the edge of being more until he got bored and left- it’s not like the town you two grew up in would have been very pleased to find the only two kids of “promise” hooking up anyhow. But that little sharp stab of being left stills felt like a thorn at your side.

It was quite clear he recognized you too. How he got a bit shakier, a bit softer, a bit… guilty looking. More guilty then he looked on that film of him lying at the court, at least. The meeting droned on like ringing in your ears- not hearing a single word and just letting your mind reel. You wanted him, you wanted him to pay too- but two birds can always be hit with one stone cant they?

The meeting filed out eventually, people leaving with their desktops and slides until it was just him and you, the urge to shove him overwhelming until… snap. Pushing him up against the wall and kissing him hard; teeth, bites, blood and a want that had sat so long it had gone sour. Not that graves was complaining when he felt you cage around him, or how suddenly tight everything felt on him. The only thing grounding him was your hand snaking around his throat and the burning feeling of needing to catch his breath.

He couldn’t hear the growl of your voice in his ear over his own heart, but he could tell you were cursing him out- he deserved it, he lamented about it, so he might as well get punished like this. He only put his attention on you. Your smell, your cologne, your feeling. How rough the wall against his back was, how the hand wrapped around his throat was making him uncomfortable in the only way he ever wanted.

All he could do is sit and bask in the warmth as he felt you tug down his belt and pants, as well as his boxers, letting it pool at his legs when you spit on the two fingers of your free hands to at least give him a bit of prep, sure you had hated him and let that hate boil and rot for years- but it turns out he was still the boy you loved when it really got down to that nitty-gritty.

He whined and whimpered softly as your fingers grazed over his walls, his hole fluttering around the feeling. His brain was starting to fell all fuzzy eyed and with fast shallow breaths to follow with the feeling of your grip on him loosen a bit to line your member up with him after making sure he could at least take you safely and tugging down your overused suit pants.

His pretty hole felt like a damn vice around you, his body shaking a bit with every rough and out of rhythm thrust you gave him. It didn’t matter to him. He just wanted you. And he wanted you bad.

He tried to jerk himself off to the pace of your thrusts, having to guess and constantly jolting when he felt you slam or buck into him or bite his shoulder, felt like he could feel it in his throat. He eventually came with a loud whine before panting to catch his breath, his hair starting to stick to his forehead as you painted his insides white and left him to clean himself up without another glance.

That’s exactly what you needed today- suddenly the world felt an awful lot better. But to graves he felt a little nagging jealousy that he couldn’t get you permanently, not for real, not for love- not now at least. This was a start, he supposed. He wanted to see you smile again- god he missed that smile more then he missed anything in the world.

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remembrancer-of-heresy · 3 months ago

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(Not) Salvation

AU Reverse Therapy

Next Part: New Home

Summary: One of the agriworlds is attacked by heretics and the young girl finds salvation in the arriving Space Marines. Not suspecting that it was they who brought death to her planet.

Pairing: Chaos!Lamenter/fem!OC/Chaos!Flesh Tearer

Characters: Malina (fem!OC), Luka The Angel (OC Chaos Lamenter), Virgil (OC Chaos Flesh Tearer)

Warnings: yandere, violence, cannibalism

Word count: 2244

Author's note: In this part I wanted to focus more on the space marines and the atmosphere of horror. Hope you were interested in my OCs. In future there will be more interactions between this trio but here only meeting.

Song: Inkubus Sukkubus - Wild Hunt

It was scary. Screams were heard everywhere. The air smelled of blood and burnt flesh. From afar came cries and pleas for help, the hooting laughter of heretics. Someone was less fortunate than her. No one had found her yet.

And it is unlikely that they will.

“God-Emperor, do not abandon me, guide me to the light, I will not fear the darkness for I believe” - she repeated the prayer dryly, like a memorized text from school.

Because it was a lie. Of course she were afraid of the darkness. Afraid of death. And even more so of torture. The endless pain that the enemies of the Imperium promised to bring with them. Yes, the clergy would say that she was a heretic. But in the last hour, she did not want to lie, at least to herrself.

Soon her agri-world will drown in the blood of its inhabitants. And if the Imperium returns the planet to its bosom, resumes the delivery of food, then other people will do it. Your fate is to become meat in the hands and mouths of heretics.

She felt new tears running down her cheeks. They haven't found her yet, but soon, soon they will find her small and weak body. Soon they will tear her apart, eat the meat, throw away the bones, and put the skin on thier armor like a cloak. She already saw how the heretics did this to an elderly couple.

Sudden steps pulled her ark thoughts and returned to an equally dark present. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. These were too heavy steps for a human. Too metallic a sound. The smell of imminent death hit her nose and she held back from screaming in horror at the imminent meeting with the most terrible shame of the Imperium.

A Chaos Space Marine.

And at that moment, when the legionary appeared before her in full height, when she almost bit her lip until it bled, just to keep from screaming... only then did she notice the armor. Golden as the sun, with a distinctive sign in the form of a bloody heart. The Lamenter.

She burst into tears like a little girl.

“The G-God-Emperor h-heard m-my prayers.” - her world was under siege, she had already managed to lose loved ones, she had the right to tears, but she still tried to wipe them away. - “I-I am too weak to walk. Please save the others.”

The Space Marine did not say a word, listening to her sobs. He came closer until he knelt down on one knee next to her. Only then did she notice that his armor was covered in blood, and in some places there were signs drawn that were unfamiliar to her. If she had any doubts, they were dispelled as soon as the Astartes removed his helmet.

He was quite handsome. Pale-faced, with a snub nose, a scattering of freckles and bright cheeks. His wheat-colored hair barely reached his shoulders. His face was clear and bright, with only one scar crossing his left eyebrow. But what stood out most about the young man were his eyes. Blue as the sky of her planet until the heretics attacked it and it turned red.

“You really are an angel.” - she switch to a reverent whisper. For the first time, a happy, albeit tired, smile appears on her face. Her eyes are still shining from recently shed tears before she plunge into the saving darkness. She could no longer remain conscious after what she experienced. She were too tired.

For a second before she finally lose consciousness, it seems to her that the Astartes' ears are red. Like an ordinary young man who heard a compliment from a pretty girl.

Hah, what a heresy.

***

The mortal soldier of the Corpse on the Throne writhed helplessly in Virgil's arms, unable to resist him. In truth, Virgil would not have minded playing with his victim, but the thirst for blood was stronger. But it doesn't matter. The planet they had landed on promised rich loot.

Quite a long time had passed when he joined the Red Corsairs. And when he realized this delightful feeling. The ability to not pretend. The ability to kill as he pleased, torment as he wanted. Maybe the Black Thirst was a curse, but such an opinion was imposed on him. The veteran never thought so.

"Virgil!" - a completely joyful cry rang out across the battlefield.

But having a roommate like this one is a curse. And to his great dissatisfaction, quite scary and uncontrollable. Although a narrow-minded mortal would probably think that a flesh tearer covered in someone else's skin is more dangerous than a lamenter with an angelic face.

But to be fair, he thought so too.

The veteran sighed and threw the soldier's body away from himself. And judging by the convulsions, he was still alive despite the loss of blood. On another day Virgil would have liked to watch mortal’s suffer longer, but the plundering had only just begun, and man had to deal with the young pup before he did anything wrong.

“Vergil, look who I found. She mistook me for a loyalist.” - the young man, unusually softly holding the limp body of a mortal girl, looked at her face with almost love in his eyes. - “I saved her.”

Vergil rolled his eyes, scratching his poor bald head. Why, why, did he get Luka?

“Of course she thought so. Not only did you not change your armor, but she also apparently passed out before you spoke.” - the lamenter, to Vergil’s irritation, ignored the fair remark. - “Why did you even bring her here?”

“What do you mean, why? I saved her, now I have to marry her.” - the blond answered as if nothing had happened. Seeing how his pale partner’s eye began to twitch involuntarily, he raised his voice in displeasure. - “Don’t look at me like that! She will behave well.”

“Like the previous girls, huh?”

“First of all, I liked them, but I wasn’t going to marry them. Secondly, we met when they already knew which side I was on.” - Luka again gazed tenderly at the sleeping girl, burying his nose in her cheek. - “And she said that I looked like an angel.”

A little more and Virgil would throw up, he was sure of it. Of course, he was a sadist. He liked to torture and torment. He liked to hear screams. And yet, when it came to intimacy, it was unnecessary. The cultists screaming in strange ecstasy irritated. Some went completely wild, so after a couple of blows, he had to fucks their still warm corpses.

And the captured slaves... well. They cried. Of course, it was beautiful, but their constant attempts to escape and crawl away also irritated the man. Why couldn’t they just lie quietly and wait for him to finish his business? Why are they all so disrespectful?

It's annoying. Everything annoys him.

But the girl's calm, sleeping appearance was apparently one of the few exceptions. Virgil would even say that he liked the way her eyelashes twitched slightly, and her lips parted just a little. Serenity itself. Innocence itself.

Even as a loyalist, Virgil didn't care much about mortals. But still, even in such a callous person as he, there was a hidden desire to protect the innocent. Now he likes to torture them more (everyone, to be precise). But after his desire was returned, the need to possess lovely ladies settled in him. Alas, but he no longer serves the Emperor, and the girl expects exactly this from them. Luka, an idiot, does not understand this and dragged her to her death.

Although-

"Let's tell her that we are fighting for the Corpse on the Throne."

"What?"

“You just said that she took you for a loyalist. So why try to convince her otherwise?” - the veteran smiled with all his sharp teeth, enjoying his genius. - “She has had it tough enough as it is. Let’s lock her in the quarters. She will see and listen only to us.”

The boy stared at him blankly for a while until the whole plan dawned on him. Luka opened his mouth joyfully, causing the blood of the dead to slowly flow inside. Virgil involuntarily stuck out his black mutated tongue at the sight. Hmm, he would have to keep that abomination in his mouth if he didn't want to scare the girl ahead of time.

"Oh, that's a great idea. She'll be so thrilled to have ended up with the good sons of Sanguinius. But, Virgil, what if she finds out that we're fighting against the Imperium?" - Luka hugged the girl tighter, burying his nose in her hair. - "What should we do in that case? Will she cry? Hate us? What if she wants to run away??"

"By that time, she'll be used to us and her new home. She'll come to terms with it, you'll see." - the veteran growled with displeasure and slapped the blond on the back of the head. - "And stop squeezing her like that! You'll break all her bones."

"B-but she's so pretty!"

He was right. She really is pretty. By the Ruinous Powers, Virgil hated the False Emperor and the Imperium. But he had to admit that some of its citizens were better looking than the cultists.

"Don't. Squeeze. Control. Yourself. Or better yet, drag her on board before she wakes up."

The blond immediately went thin. The veteran involuntarily cringed as he saw tears gathering in his blue eyes. You wouldn't know from Luka that he was wreaking heretic.

"But we've only just begun the massacre! I've never even come across any children!"

You wouldn't say he was a pervert either.

"Then it would be in your best interest to quickly take her to the flagship and return to us. I don't know how you'll do that. But since you've picked up the girl, have the respect to take care of her."

“Fine! But then I’ll choose her name.” - the blond possessively hugged the limp body and headed towards the ship. Virgil only sighed heavily, raising his red eyes to the sky. How hard it was sometimes with the young man.

But on the other hand, he was still useful. The idea of playing the role of the Emperor’s loyal servants was hilarious in itself. And an unhappy and lonely lady in distress was an extremely pleasant bonus after the massacre. Surely, such a good girl was followed by crowds of vile fanatics of the Corpse on the Throne. But never mind, now her saviors will take care of her.

“We are the Emperor’s Angels after all.” - Virgil muttered under his breath, pleased, turning his attention to the soldier who dared to shoot at him. It seemed he would finally change his cloak.

What a great hunt they made on this world.

#au: reverse therapy #yandere space marine #space marine x reader #space marine x oc #warhammer x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #the bloody trio #oc: Vergil #oc: Luka the Angel #tw: yandere #tw: cannibalism #tw: violence

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roseofcards90 · 7 months ago

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NOOOOOOOO FUCK IM CRYING NOW

youtube

#BLUE BIRD LAMENTATION IM GONNA JUMP OUT A WINDOW #I just realized how fucked up it was in ztd for them to play this WHILE PHI WAS IN THE FUCKING INCINERATOR #audio #my posts

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cassiebones · 7 days ago

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Happy birthday to @imyouraziraphale and here is your bday ficlet

Agatha hated her mother. It had taken her quite a while to admit that to herself, let alone aloud to the only person who may have had an equal hatred for Evanora Harkness: Rio Vidal.

Agatha had spent her entire life trying to earn her mother's love, watching the other children in her coven receive their mothers' love so freely and openly. Agatha was envious of them from the beginning, glaring at them as a small child, watching as they held their mothers' hands and received hugs and kisses that Agatha never got from Evanora.

Instead, she received whacks on her behind. She received sharp-tongued insults and admonishments for...well, she often didn't know what she had done wrong, but she always replied with the same four words: "I can be good!" Her mother scoffed at those words, but Agatha still tried. She wanted to be good so badly. For her mother.

Whom she loved.

But then her mother had tried to have her executed and Agatha had to confront the fact that, while she had loved her mother, her mother had not loved her.

It still took a decade to really come to terms with it. It took another decade before Agatha realized that she did not love her mother at all. She loathed her. She was happy that she was dead, rather than relief, which had been her first reaction despite her guilt at the killing.

Rio was right there with her, hating her mother. She had watched Agatha's execution, staying silent with the knowledge of what was about to happen. It hadn't been Agatha's time; Rio knew that. She grinned when all eight of the witches blasted Agatha with their magic, silencing her begging for mercy. She knew what was about to happen and she thrilled at the power this young witch had. She was practically salivating.

The blue rays turned to purple and Agatha's eyes widened in shock as she involuntarily drained the other witches of their magic, of the lives. Her eyes widened further as the euphoria of siphoning hit her, the relief that came with it. She released her hands from their bindings and faced her mother head on, though she was once again begging for mercy. Mercy that a mother should not be begged for.

"Please!" Agatha had said. "I can be good!"

"No," Evanora said, sighing as if the information disappointed her, "you cannot." She blasted Agatha again, apparently learning absolutely nothing from what had just happened before her very eyes, and had her powers almost instantly drained by her daughter.

Imbecile.

Rio continued to watch Agatha as the young woman stumbled away from the stake, walking toward her mother's body, her chin angled up (though she couldn't truly hide the tears in her eyes) as she leaned down, snatching her mother's locket. Then she flew off like some kind of beautiful bird, leaving Rio gazing after her in awe.

"Who are you?" Rio jumped then glared at the spirit of Evanora Harkness, who was glaring at her with her hands on her hips.

"I am Death," Rio growled at her. "I have come to take you to-"

"You aren't taking me anywhere," Evanora huffed. "I cannot leave this earth until that evil girl has been sent straight to hell, where she belongs!"

"She's not the one who has a spot reserved in hell," Rio huffed, leaning closer. Evanora's eyes practically filled with fire as she refused to move from her spot above her own body.

Rio just rolled her eyes, turning to the other spirits floating around, trying to ignore their wails as they lamented not only the loss of their own lives, but the fear and devastation their children must soon feel once they learned of their deaths.

At least there were some good mothers in this coven, Rio thought bitterly as she collected their souls, ignoring their pleas for more time and protection for their young children. She led them to the other side, ignoring Evanora, who stayed back as she preferred to stay a ghost (Rio hated ghosts, the stubborn bastards), and quickly returned to the land of the living, seeking out the powerful young witch.

She found her sitting beneath a tree by the river, looking out at the water as she played with the locket she'd taken off her own mother's body. As Rio watched her from behind a neighboring tree, she looked down at the locket, glaring at it for a moment, then made as if to toss it into the water....then she didn't. Instead, she placed it into her pocket, then pulled her knees up to her chest, then buried her face into her skirts and sobbed.

Rio felt something in that moment, in her chest. It felt...uncomfortable, beating out a rhythm against her ribcage. She placed her skeletal hand against her chest and closed her eyes, listening. She had heard this sound before. It sounded like...a heartbeat.

That was impossible, though. Death had no heart. Where could that be coming from, though? What could it be if not a heart? Like humans had.

She looked back up at the girl, who rested her chin on her folded arms, her blue eyes deep as the ocean as she stared out at the river, tears still falling down soft, beautiful cheeks. She was so beautiful...

"Show yourself," her voice said, suddenly. "I can hear you breathing. You might as well come out of hiding."

"I do not breathe," Rio huffed. Well, okay, that was a breath. But that was atypical for her. She schooled her features, putting on the visage of a girl approximately this one's age, and stepped out of the shadows.

The girl's eyes widened at the sight of her, her cheeks turning pink. Rio felt the rhythm of her new heart pick up in response. The girl stood as Rio approached her. Up close, she was even more gorgeous than Rio had first thought. She was the most beautiful human that Rio had ever seen (and she'd been around since the very first humans died, so that was truly saying something).

Her hair was long and dark brown, a contrast to the bright blue eyes. Her skin was almost as pale as the moonlight, but her cheeks were still pink, showing her the proof of the heart that pumped in her chest, the blood that ran through her veins. She was still pulsing with the power of eight witches, plus her own. She seemed to glow with it.

Rio swallowed thickly at the sight of her. She'd never had to swallow before. She was not human, not bound by human rules and impulses, but being this close to this woman...she felt distinctly human.

"Who are you?" she asked once Rio was just a few feet away. Rio paused in her steps when she saw the other girl's hands glow purple with her magic.

"I've had many names," Rio said, "over the years. Many have been unkind, but some have been...respectful." She shrugged. "You, however," she smiled at Agatha, softly, "may call me Rio."

"Rio." Oh, Rio's chosen name sounded absolutely musical on her tongue. Her lips wrapped around it perfectly.

"And what is yours?" Rio asked, tilting her head to the side, offering her another grin.

"Agatha," she said, but she offered no surname.

"Agatha," Rio echoed. "Beautiful."

The flush on Agatha's cheeks deepened and spread to the tips of her ears, sending a thrill through Rio. She loved being the one to elicit this reaction from such a beautiful human. She wanted to do it again. And again. And again and again and again.

Until the very end of time.

"Why are you here?" Agatha asked, her voice trying for firm but ending up a little shaky. "What has brought you to my covens' land?"

The coven had set up cabins around the lake just outside Salem. They were close enough that they could go to the markets for food and other materials they might need, but far enough that they could perform spells without alerting the townspeople. These were dangerous times for witches, after all.

"Death," Rio said, simply. Agatha's face blanched, all color leaving her at once. "Not yours, obviously," Rio said. "But there are about eight other corpses in a circle about..." She turned in the direction of the stake, which she could not see through the thicket of trees, "a mile that way. Good job, by the-"

When she turned back, Agatha was running away, her hands sparking purple at her sides, refusing to carry her in flight. Rio rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, appearing in Agatha's path. Agatha did not react quickly enough to stop and ended up nearly knocking Rio over instead. Rio was sturdy, though, and was able to stay upright. She grasped Agatha's arms, holding onto her as she attempted to run away again.

"Please stop," Rio sighed. "I am not going to hurt you."

"Lies! You will tell the townspeople! I will be tried as a witch!"

"Are you not one?" Rio snorted. "You could have fooled me."

"What do you want from me?" Agatha hissed, still struggling.

"I want to teach you," Rio said, remembering Agatha's pleas from before. Agatha stopped struggling and Rio smiled. "I want to help you. I want you to take more power."

"Take more...why?" Agatha asked, furrowing her brow. "Why would I take the power of others? I've killed them!"

"I saw," Rio said, giving her an almost unhinged grin, it was so excited. "I liked it. It makes my job that much easier."

"Your...job?" Agatha looked Rio up and down, not quite understanding. Rio sighed, closing her eyes as she shifted her features. She didn't open her eyes again. She didn't want to see Agatha's reaction.

Humans had always been put off by Rio's skull-like features. They had screamed and ran and pleaded for her not to hurt them. Agatha had run even from Rio's most attractive visage, so how would she react to--

She felt the fingers brush against her jaw and her eyes opened immediately, staring into wide blue ones. Agatha's gaze was soft as it traced over every ridge and line of Rio's skull, her thumbs brushing over the ridge of her cheekbones. Rio felt hot under her touch, grateful that her skull could not blush lest she be found out.

"Magnificent," Agatha breathed. Rio leaned into her touch, feeling her heartbeat quicken again. Her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled deeply. Rio's hold on Agatha loosened, but the other woman did not move away. Instead, she stepped closer, her fingers now running over the place where Rio's lips would have been. "So beautiful," she breathed, her eyes going wide and cheeks going pink as if she hadn't meant to say those words aloud.

"You, too," Rio replied, softly, lifting one skeletal hand to cup Agatha's cheek. The other woman gasped slightly, but she too leaned into the touch.

It was that moment that made Rio certain that she would do anything to protect Agatha Harkness, at all costs.

And she did.

For decades, she held Agatha through her night terrors, rocking with her in her lap, pressing kisses to her cheeks and her forehead and her nose and anywhere she could reach as she assured Agatha that she was not evil and that her mother could not get to her. She taught Agatha everything she could about magic, collecting spells for her to place in her own journal, watching in awe as Agatha mastered each one. She watched from a safe distance as Agatha lured powerful witches to her with promises she never intended to keep, collecting their bodies with a smile and a kiss to her love's lips as she ferried their souls.

She proposed to Agatha next to the lake where they first met, pledging her very existence to Agatha, all her love and devotion pouring from her heart. Agatha accepted this proposal by knocking Rio to the ground, placing kisses all over her face, then her neck, then lower.

They married there later that week, neither able to wait much longer to entwine their souls.

Rio vowed to protect Agatha from anything and everything that might do her true harm. She sealed that vow with a kiss that took Agatha's breath away as well as her own.

Over three hundred years later, that still had not changed.

"Leave her," Evanora's ghost said, an evil smile spreading across her lips, "with me."

Agatha's eyes immediately widened with fear as she looked down at her mother. Rio's body flushed with rage, her hand gripping her knife more tightly.

"No!" she growled. "No way!"

She felt Agatha's gaze snap toward her.

"A minute ago, you were ready to slit her throat!" Jennifer Kale (annoying ass bitch that she was) exclaimed.

It's called foreplay, Jennifer!

"Yeah, well," Rio said, still glaring at Evanora, "her mother can't have her!" Over Rio's dead body.

And Rio was Death, so...

Agatha started to descend the steps, eyes locked on Rio, shock and awe in her tear-filled gaze. Rio's eyes softened on hers for a moment before returning her glare full-force to Evanora, who floated toward her. Rio adjusted her stance, unafraid.

This bitch...

She didn't know how to get rid of ghosts. If she did, the world would be rid of each and every phantom that had ever existed. But she'd be damned if she let this particular spooky bitch near her wife.

Not a chance in hell.

So she surged toward Evanora, brandishing her knife. Weapons were typically useless against those with incorporeal forms, but Rio was Death and this blade in her hand, however changed it was by the Maximoff abomination, was still forged for Death, so it must be able to do something, right?

Evanora must have thought so because she moved back, away from Rio as she pointed said knife straight at her, marching forward, ready to slit her throat now (in a very not foreplay way, for the record).

"You are making a mistake!" Evanora cried out, her voice not quite as strong as before. "She will kill you all!"

"Leave!" Rio boomed, using her Death voice. "Go back to hell where you came from, bitch!"

"You--" Evanora tried.

"Leave!" Rio raised the knife above her head and Evanora faded away in a matter of seconds. Her body heaved with her heavy breaths, her glared still fixed on the spot where Evanora had been.

"Rio," a voice gasped next to her. Rio turned, eyes wide, as Agatha surged into her, hugging her again like she had the night before. Rio wrapped her tightly in her arms, squeezing her tight. She felt a few sobs from Agatha's body, but they were so light so as to not be noticed by anybody else. She pressed a kiss to Agatha's temple as she pulled back, cupping her love's cheeks, swiping away the tears on Agatha's skin with her thumb. "You...why did you...?"

"I told you that I'd always protect you, didn't I?" Rio replied, her lips curving up in a tiny smile. "It was part of our vows."

"Your vows!?" Alice exclaimed.

"You two are married?" Lilia asked.

"Of course Agatha would be married to the creepy bitch," Jen huffed.

"Guys, time is running out!" Teen said, pointing at his watch.

"Go say goodbye then," Rio huffed, motioning to the Ouija Board as she continued to hold her wife in her arms. Agatha melted against her body, pressing her face into Rio's shoulder. Rio sheathed her knife and ran her fingers through the tangle of Agatha's curls. Wow, she really liked this hairstyle on her. She wanted to see more of it, for sure.

The rest of the group used the Ouija Board to spell out goodbye, but Agatha and Rio stayed holding one another. Rio pressed a kiss to Agatha's cheek. Agatha pulled back and kissed her lips, running her hands through Rio's hair like she'd done for decades. Rio held her wrists, as she had always done.

"Gross," she heard Jen Kale huff behind her. "Quit making out; the trial is over. We can leave."

Rio didn't stop kissing her wife. But she did take one of her hands off of Agatha's wrist to flip Jen the bird.

Agatha kissed her harder for that.

#Agathario #Agatha All Along #It needed backstory okay?#Agatha Harkness #Rio Vidal #Evanora Bitch Harkness #<- should be the new tag js #birthday prompt #happy birthday!!

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months ago

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Seeking the Sky

I want to go higher and higher. I won’t be contained any longer.

This is part 18 of 20. Her will and the curse’s clash.

***CONTENT WARNING: drowning (implied/mentioned), self-harm (stabbing hand with pen nib).***

The Tale of the Cursed Raven: Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5 I Part 6 I Part 7 I Part 8 I Part 9 I Part 10 I Part 11 I Part 12 I Part 13 I Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17

Once.

The first word is always the most difficult to lay down. It determines the shape the sentence will take, leading into the rest of the story. For fairy tales, there’s a comfortable default.

Once, once, once.

Because it was like that before, but no longer. It's change, it's challenge. It's a rose in the winter, a promise in the midst of despair, a light in the dark.

Only with Once Upon a Time is there a Happily Ever After.

So that's what she begins with.

Raven writes with the ink that doesn't yet have a name. In the bottle and on her quill nib, it appears as a deep blue--but scrawled on a blank canvas of paper, it's a brighter, jauntier hue. The color of an endless sky laced with sunshine.

I've decided, she thinks. This story is mine and mine alone. Even if I'm told it's going to end in doom... I still want to imagine an alternative. A happier conclusion.

I’ll end this tale on my own terms. If I cannot be free, then I can at least dream of it until the very end. This is... my act of defiance. Proof of my existence.

Her nib firmly presses to the page.

It starts as it always does.

Once upon a time, there was a common Raven.

She lived all her life in the forest where she was born, doing all the things that a common raven would. And for a while, she was content.

As time went on, the Raven became aware of a world beyond her own. Those beings called humans would wander into the forest, and from her perch up above she watched with great interest. Their feathers changed constantly and they spoke in strange tongues. With each passing day, her curiosity swelled until she could stand it no longer.

The Raven decided to leave home and explore the world afforded to humans. On wings as black as the night, she found herself sailing out to a place blanketed by tumultuous waves. She had never seen such a vast expanse of water before, and so foolishly descended to observe it close up.

That was when the sea swallowed her up.

The Raven came close to death in that icy grip, for a bird's wings can only flounder when weighed down by water. But... by a miracle of miracles, she was rescued by a prince. The face and name she did not know--but upon waking up safe on a golden beach, she felt in her chest that she was more meant for this world than ever before.

The infatuated Raven returned to that beach, hoping to meet her prince once more.

He never reappeared before her.

She was crestfallen. "Of course," thought the Raven. "How silly of me to think that a mere raven could catch the eye of a prince... that she could be a part of his world."

So the Raven went home to the forest to nurse her broken heart.

On some particularly lonely days, she would nest by a pond and gaze at her mournful reflection in it. A creature with feathers as dark as the night, heralding bad omens--who could ever learn to love such a thing? The Raven shed a tear into the pond.

It was then that a withered man in a tattered cloak appeared. His ominous visage startled the Raven, but his voice was a whisper.

“What troubles you?” he asked of the bird.

“It is the prince,” the Raven lamented. “He will never look my way, for I am just a raven.”

“It is possible,” said the stranger, “for a raven to win the eye of a prince.”

There, he offered a bargain. In exchange for becoming his writing apprentice, he would grant the Raven the form of a girl so that she might pursue her prince.

She accepted his hand and picked up the pen.

And for a while, she had a place where she belonged. The Raven learned of both writing the humans from her new mentor, the Storyteller. He was a stern man, a perfectionist in his craft—but he was her family, her home. All she had ever known.

She was not yet allowed out on her lonesome, but would always hand over her drafts accompanied with questions like, “When can I?”

“Soon,” he would say cryptically. “Soon.”

She believed him.

Then one morning, the Storyteller was gone—passed away in the night.

He had packed a suitcase before his spirit had slipped from his mortal form. It came with a letter addressed to her, a letter full of frightful confessions.

The Raven was to inherit both his legacy as a storyteller... and the curse he had been shouldering. Eternal life she would have, but never would she be able to find the human connection she sought out--for should she utter "I love you", she would vanish into a speck of light.

The naive little Raven was overcome with great despair. The things she had longed for had been torn away. The hope she had for her future, extinguished like a candle's flame. The happy nest she had found, gone.

Her trust, betrayed.

When at last she had no sobs left to give, she picked up the shattered pieces of her heart and set out, seeking a new home.

The Raven arrived at Night Raven College, a place described in the Storyteller's letter. There, she was intent on stowing away and focusing on her new art. She is a storyteller now, she reasons, and storytellers never meant to step into their stories, to mingle with their characters.

In the highest room of the tallest tower… The Writing Raven roosts to this day.

She stops on the dot punctuating the sentence. There’s finality in a period, that which marks the end of a thought.

This isn’t the full story. Not even close. Raven dips her quill in an inkwell, watching as sky blue creeps up the nib. It’s only the start.

Her hand resumes its dance.

At Night Raven College, she met many new faces. Kind people, cruel people… People who showed her things her stories never could. The Raven had many happy moments and many sad moments too.

There is an uncle who is bumbling and vain but means well. He grants her a home and acts as her guardian. He is strange but warm.

There are older students who are reliable and tough. Visions of what she could be when she grows up.

There are students who are as immature as she is. Chicks freshly hatched from their eggs, still unsure of themselves and what they should do.

Then there is the boy that broke her heart. He had a gentle smile and demeanor, even seemed familiar somehow. It was all lies—yet the Raven still found herself drawn to him.

She was told that those feelings were doomed, not meant to be. That she was destined to dissipate as light.

The curse, claiming her.

The ending, tragic.

Again, Raven loads her quill. Her hand has grown heavy, shaking.

But she still d—

She has frozen.

What?

Raven tries again, straining with her writing implement. She knows the motion, the rounded flick of the lowercase a. D-a-r-e, easy. She has never had an issue writing before.

But she still dared to dream.

It is like hitting an invisible brick wall. She can push all she likes, but her hand will not budge from its place.

The shaking gets worse, turning into tremors.

Her hand rockets off, but not by her own will. There is no feeling in her nerves as the sentence completes itself.

--id not dream!

"Th-That's not what I wanted to write!" Raven squeaks. She stares at her hand, thinking it possessed. It doesn’t feel like a part of her anymore

On a piece of scrap paper, she tests a few strokes, a couple letters. Nothing seizes—not until she returns to the story on a new line.

But she sti—

The tail of her l trails off. She crosses out the sentence, but the next attempt stops at the s of she. More words prematurely cut off.

Raven’s eyes blow wide open.

What is this? Why can’t I…

The feeling floods back into her hand, but it's entirely wrong. It's like a pile of cinderblocks has been dropped upon it, crushing her muscles and bones. Her blood screams. A searing pain shoots from her fingers and to her wrist.

She clutches it with her other hand, hissing through her teeth.

“Yours is a fate meant to end in tragedy,” a laugh booms in her head. “You cannot hope to escape it.”

Raven hunches over her desk, coughing up a raspy breath.

Realization.

The story. It’s snapping back into place, trying to correct itself. It doesn’t want to change its course.

Her brow scrunches. Part of it is the barking pain, part of it is the wheels spinning in her head.

But that is, in of itself, proof. Proof that it is possible to change things. Isn’t it…? If the story is attempting to ‘fix’ things, then it was ‘broken’ by something to begin with.

I did this.

Me…!

She takes her other hand and lets it pick up her quill. Raven involuntarily grips her wrist, the original hand silently demanding the implement back.

“No…!”

Her chair clatters to the floor. Raven throws itself across the room. She collides with a bookcase, knocking several volumes off. Ink-spattered papers and dust fly into the air.

She jerks the other direction, ramming into a wall. Hurt spikes up her back, her shoulders. The phantom hand pulls her this way, that way, like a careless child dangling a doll.

Her small, battered frame falls to the floor—a toy, discarded.

The Raven vanished in a blink of light, never to find happiness, a voice she recognizes as her own snarls. It is dark, distorted. Alone, forgotten, insignificant.

You know it to be the truth. You know that is where this path leads.

W r i t e i t.

Tears spurt from her eyes, running like broken faucets.

She clenches her jaw, refuses to let a scream escape. Her insides claw and twist in agony.

The room is a foggy haze, rectangles and muddy colors. The floor, cold and hard as she lies there, writhing. A streak of black in the corner of her eye—her quill.

Raven reaches for it, managing to graze it with the tips of her fingers. When she clenches it, it is with her whole fist, her grip so tight it may as well be on a spider’s thread in hell.

“I will complete this story. I will write my own happy ending,” she grunts through her fresh splitting headache, “if it’s the last thing I do…!”

Raven wrests herself up on trembling legs, using the ledge of her desk for support. Collapsing into her seat is a relief, even if every part of her throbs.

One hand lays out to keep her canvas steady. She has her quill, brings it downward—

—skewing clear off the page, leaving only a murky blue trail where it had touched the page.

The hand clutching the quill crunches the shaft, snapping it. The hand raises, hovering over the marred paper. She wills it, wants it to strike white.

Then the quill plunges.

Down, down, down.

Into the back of her own hand.

There's a terrible crunch. Flesh tearing, bone cracking, as the nib punches through her glove and skin like it's nothing. Something thick and black oozes out.

She feels faint.

Is it blood or ink or blot? She cannot tell.

The pain magnifies, cresting at the puncture wound. Her mind threatens to split in half at its seams.

The things on her desk are jostled. Pens and papers scatter, her glass inkwell tipping over. A beautiful blue paints a sorrowful sea on the page.

Her backstabbing hand goes to retrieve the ruined quill, and her heart stops. Once it is pulled, she knows whatever flows inside of her will gush out uncontrollably. By the time her uncle will find her in the morning, it will already be far too late.

No.

She pushes against the force, attempts to reel her hand back. The immense effort causes sweat to dribble from her brow.

Stop…!!

It fights her, advancing. The pain is nothing compared to the sirens wailing in her head.

Her tears heat. She glares at the spilled ink, the few words that peek through the blue fog.

This can’t be where it ends. It can’t. The story isn’t done…!

Faces, scenes.

They dart by at a rapid pace. Life flashing before her eyes.

Happy times, sad times. All precious moments, priceless and glittering treasures.

Wobbling, unsure steps into the Mirror Chamber, donning her ceremonial robes. The sting of betrayal, chocolates crushed at her feet. Lessons in the library, one-on-one, testing new sounds out on her tongue. The slick of something awful rising in her throat and spilling over her fingers. The thrilling energy of a live concert. The stiffness after an argument. The sweetness of a schoolgirl crush.

The little things she loves about each dorm and the campus. Ghostly staff, fire pixies, the grand buildings rich with stories history. The flowers of Heartslabyul and Pomefiore, the vastly different sceneries of Savanaclaw and Scarabia. The mystique of Diasomnia, the cold unfamiliar composition of Ignihyde… The romantic sea of Octavinelle, stretching out beyond a glass wall.

The hand extended, beckoning.

Hope courses through her. The sun itself is in her veins, a warm blossom in her center.

It dullens the pain like some miracle inoculation. Her vision clears.

She knows.

I want to see that endless blue sky that's full of endless possibilities. I want to see it here, at our Night Raven College. I want to see it with everyone, to walk beside them.

I want…!!

Summoning the last vestiges of her strength, Raven releases a guttural shriek. There is both bird and human in her raw voice, naked animals flailing for survival. Blood pumping, spirit soaring.

And she rakes her ink-stained hand across a blank page.

So Quoth the Raven.

Jade slips out of Octavinelle in the dead of night. It’s not too terribly difficult—he moves swiftly, making nary a sound that might rouse Floyd from his slumber. Stepping over discarded bags of chips (half-finished) and clothes, he easily lets himself escape.

In his pocket is the letter. He fears that if he puts it down, lets it out of his sight, it could disappear in a fine mist. A dream—a figment of his imagination. As he briskly heads for the mirror, a hand goes to the letter, stroking it, to ensure it is still where it should be.

That it is still real.

I have something important to tell you. Too important to scrawl on paper. It must be said face-to-face.

The mirror ripples as he passes through its face. When he comes out the other side, the chamber is frigid, bleak.

In the dark, his eyes glow.

The apple tree in the courtyard is in bloom. It’s so very beautiful this time of year. I wish I could stare at them forever and ever. In the language of flowers, apple blossoms can mean many things. Love, peace, rebirth, good luck... a long life too.

He walks, thinking he should keep cool.

Let’s meet there, in the shade of the apple tree and under the cover of stars.

His pace picks up. He is restless.

Tomorrow, right before the stroke of midnight.

He breaks out into a sprint. He doesn’t know why.

I will give you my answer then.

Something feels wrong.

Best regards,

The letter, still with him. It has never left.

Raven Crowley

He makes it to the meeting location. Stops to catch his breath, to seek out a familiar bird-like shape in the shadows.

And Jade waits.

But one comes for him under that desolate apple tree.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Raven Crowley #Jade Leech #Tale of the Cursed Raven #tw // drowning #tw // self harm

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