#but then they claim to be writing angsT ANGST ANGST ANGST!!!!! and it's????

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (49/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Climbing up the mountain can be very freeing.

Warnings: angst (self-doubt, insecurities, mentions of abuse in a relationship, Charles is very insecure about himself), the end is a bit fluffy, but don't expect too much

Word Count: 4.1k

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A/N: I feel like this describes Charles well. I cried when writing this chapter. I hope you like it. feedback is appreciated.

It is the first time in years that Charles has no desire to climb the mountain on those stupid skis. 

His feet hurt, he is cold even though the jacket he is wearing is suitable for even colder temperatures, and his hands are so stiff from the frigid air that they painfully curl around his ski poles. 

The snow blinds him because of the bright sun, his bones feel heavy, somehow his mouth is so dry that he would like to rinse it with water every five meters.

But maybe that's just because he'd rather be at home in Monaco. Because that's where you are. And there is no place he would rather be right now. 

Closing the door behind him and leaving you alone in the apartment was incredibly difficult. He would have loved to put you in his bag and take you with him, but you would only have distracted him from training. 

And if he wants to be world champion one day, he can't afford to make any mistakes. 

It's been two days since he's seen you and heard your voice. In the morning, when he wakes up and gets ready for the day, you are still fast asleep, and during his training, Andrea has his phone so that Charles can collect his thoughts and stay focused. Only in the evening, when Charles is in bed, he manages to text you a few messages before falling asleep, cell phone in hand, completely exhausted. 

He misses you every second. 

Before he met you, he would never have imagined that he could miss someone he had only known for a few days so much. He had missed Annika from time to time, after all, he had definitely loved her at some point, but he had never longed for her or anyone else the way he did for you now. 

As soon as he has a moment to himself, whether it's in the shower or on the toilet or when Andrea isn't bothering him with calories or carbohydrates or protein for a moment, he misses you so much that he can almost feel the physical distance between you. 

But most of all, he misses you in the morning when he wakes up. When he is in that one second when he is neither sleeping nor fully awake. Snuggled up warm in the blanket and against the pillow, where in the evening he imagines it would be your body that he is snuggling up to. And in the morning, for a brief moment, it feels as if you are actually lying next to him, which is why the second he realizes that you are miles away from him hurts the most. 

“Are you okay?” Andrea asks, who has slowed down a little to run up the hill next to Charles. ”You're suspiciously quiet.”

Charles, who hasn't realized that he has slowed down at all, looks at his trainer in confusion. “Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?”

Andrea shrugs. ”Usually you're chattering away at me during training. That usually helps you to distract yourself from how exhausting it is.”

He has a point there. Charles pushes himself forward on his skis. “I don't know. This time I don't feel like you're torturing me up this mountain. It's still the same route we usually take, isn't it?” He looks around as if he can recognize the surroundings. 

Andrea raises his eyebrows and also picks up the pace. ‘We're in a completely different area, Charles.’ He points to another mountain with his gloved hand.

If his friend hadn't told him, the man from Monaco would never have noticed, so absorbed is he in his thoughts about you. The mountain Andrea is pointing to seems more familiar to him than the one in front of them. And a lot smaller. If they had taken the familiar route, they would have been at the summit long ago. 

“You asshole,” Charles curses and wipes his face. ‘Why did you choose a different mountain? And especially one that's higher?”

Andrea can't help but grin. ’You came in second in the championship this year. I'm hoping that if we increase your training, you'll come in first next season and...”

“And what?” Charles interrupts his trainer. "The whole thing is useless if my strategists and the whole team mess up so much during the race. I can train as much as I want. It won't work." He gets so caught up in it that he doesn't notice how quickly he pushes himself up the mountain on his skis. 

“Charles –”

“No, Andrea. This whole thing cost me the title. Wrong tires? Last-minute changes in the pit? What the hell?” he gets worked up. He knows that his anger is unfairly directed at the wrong person, after all Andrea is only there for Charles's well-being and not for what happens on the track, but it just comes spilling out. And he can't stop it. 

His ski poles dig deep into the white snow, which Charles barely notices. He only sees the summit in front of him and hears Andrea breathing loudly next to him as he continues to complain. 

“It's not right that I come in second because of such little things! If I had caused accidents, then at least it would have been my fault and I could have dealt with it more easily,” he says, annoyed. ”But what kind of stupid plans were these, anyway? Even a toddler could come up with a better strategy!”

Andrea, who knows full well that Charles needs to vent his anger, walks quietly beside him and lets the storm pass over him. It's not often that Charles gets this angry. And normally he blames himself, but he certainly doesn't take such serious mistakes on his head. 

Charles knows that making mistakes is an inevitable part of competition, and sometimes, they're the difference between standing at the top of the podium and finishing second. Being the runner-up in a championship can feel bittersweet – so close to victory, yet just short of it. 

Being second in the championship feels like a mix of pride and frustration. On one hand, Charles has achieved something incredible – outperforming almost everyone, proving his skill and showing that he deserves to sit in the red car with the horse on it. But on the other hand, there's that lingering thought inside of his head – he was so close. The tiniest mistakes, the small miscalculations in his strategies, or someone else having a slightly better day made the difference in the end. 

There's this ache inside of him, knowing he was almost the champion. The podium felt different when he looked up at Max Verstappen holding the trophy he desperately craved. Charles felt a lot of things in that moment – disappointment, regret and even anger – at himself, the situation, the team and at the margin that kept him from winning. 

“I could have won the title. Max will definitely win the next season too, as strong as Red Bull is. How will I ever live up to my reputation then?” He clenches his jaw. ”I feel like I'm stuck with what I'm doing now. And I'm doing my best, Andrea. I really am. But it's apparently not enough. Do you know how incredibly frustrating that is?”

Being second carries a unique weight – a strange middle ground between triumph and heartbreak. And hell, Charles heart broke with every race that put more distance between his and Max's points. He feels like a failure, like he failed his team, his family and friends. He failed his fans, that support him through every decision he makes on and off track, that defend him whenever he makes a mistake during races. 

And it haunts him. What if he had pushed just a little harder, made one less mistake, reacted a second faster? What if he made a different decision that would've outweighed the mistakes his team made? What if he became world champion in the famous red car he worked so hard to get into? The famous red car that his dad loved so much?

Disappointing his dad was the worst part of it all. It was a different kind of pain, heavy and crushing. It's not just about failing at something – Charles feels like he simply isn't good enough. Like he let someone down who believed in him. He could have been champion this year – he was so close to standing on top of the podium. What if he never gets this close to winning? What if he never holds the big trophy in his hands, dedicating it to his dad, who always wanted to see him drive in the Ferrari?

Charles' anger has been building up for so long that he doesn't know where to put it. If only he had concentrated more on the season and hadn't been so distracted by his personal problems - 

“And Annika. What a waste of time the whole thing was. I should never have gotten involved with her. I should have ended the relationship when I realized that she wasn't the one. When I realized that I couldn't give her the attention that a healthy relationship requires.”

Charles would never admit it, but Annika’s betrayal in their relationship cut deeper than expected. It’s not just about broken promises – it’s about broken trust, the foundation of any meaningful connection. It shook everything Charles believed to be true about Annika – or love in general. 

The worst part wasn’t the act itself or that he caught them right in the act, but the realization that someone he trusted with his heart made the choice to hurt him. After the break-up he questioned everything – was any of it real? Was Annika lying to him the whole time? Even after everything, the wounds linger. 

Some betrayals are survivable with time and effort, but others leave scars that never fully heal. They change people – it changed Charles. It hardened his heart, made love feel dangerous to him and made him create walls where there once was openness. 

He guarded himself like a survival instinct. At first, it was solely for protection – he told himself that if he didn’t let anyone in, nobody could hurt him. The walls became his shield, keeping out disappointment, rejection, and the risk of being vulnerable again. 

But over the course of the weeks, Charles noticed the walls he put up brick by brick didn’t just keep the pain out – they kept everything out. Love. Connection. The chance to feel something real. Hell, he didn’t even tell his Maman that he was back home in Monaco. He pushed his family away, his friends, acting cold and distant – not because he didn’t want love, but because he’s so scared of what happened when he let someone else in. 

It took Charles some time to figure out the truth, that the walls didn’t keep him safe and sound – they kept him stuck. They stopped him from healing, from growing, from experiencing the things that make life meaningful. But he was so scared of breaking them down when it took him so long to put them up, that he didn’t know what to do when he met you. 

It was terrifying, letting you in slowly and hesitantly. He’s spent so long guarding himself, convincing himself that no one except his close ones can be trusted, that it almost felt unnatural to let you in. At first, he resisted, kept his distance. But the fact that you didn’t even know who he was felt so good, made him feel safe to share his story with you and then – you stayed. You didn’t push too hard, but you didn’t walk away either. 

Surely, this friendship has had it’s ups and downs, but this is what happenes when two people, who protected themselves so much that they become too careful, too hesitant to let someone in fully. 

And instead of forcing your way through, you waited. You were there. You proved in small, consistent ways, that you’re not like the woman who made him built those walls in the first place. 

And then, without realizing it, he stopped expecting the worst. He let you see his wounds, his fears, his past, and instead of running, you stayed. You stayed with him through awkward dinner conversations about his ex, you stayed with him when he didn’t correct his family about your relationship status, you stayed when he overstepped the boundaries of your friendship. Your gentle touch, your honest conversations while burning Annika’s things. 

You stayed when he revealed to you who he really is. You see him – the real him – and don’t flinch at what you see. Little by little, cracks form in his defenses. He finds himself wanting to trust again, to love again, even though it scares him to death. 

When you look at him, it feels like sunlight creeping through the cracks in the fortress he thought were unbreakable. It was unsettling at first after being in the dark for some time. But you didn’t break down his walls in a dramatic, earth-shattering way. 

It was quiet. Subtle. It sneaked up to him in moments he didn’t even realize – they way you looked at him when he played your song on the piano in the bookshop, when you let him hold you while you cried like his arms were the safest place in the world, when you showed him that you want him for who he is. 

But even though you broke down most of his walls, he still can’t admit that you’re all he needs. 

He can’t let you in fully after what Annika did to him, he can’t let you touch him like he wants you to. He can’t let himself feel so much for you because what if those feelings he has for you – the feelings he swore he’d never harbour for anyone again – are not enough for you?

What if he gives you his all and you decide that it’s not enough? That he is not enough? He can’t tell you why he doesn’t want you to touch him, because what if you’ll see him differently? What if the things he wants, he needs, are different from what you want? 

He feels like he isn’t good enough. The scars Annika left on him made him question his worth, his value, his ability to be loved. There are moments where he feels too far gone, too damaged, not strong enough to break free from the fear of losing you that he’d rather keep you at arms length hurting himself than push you away and out of his life. 

He can’t let you touch him after Annika, because sex with her felt wrong, like he was broken because he wanted different things than her. Because he craved intimacy like his life depended on it, the safety that comes with it, but it always felt like he needed to deliver, even if he didn’t want to. It felt like a chore, no gentle touches or loving words, only demanding hands and lips and thighs and he swore to himself he’ll never let it happen again. 

If you don’t touch him at all, there’s no chance you could hurt him like that.

He’d rather give you all he’s able to give instead of letting you return anything.

“I could have waited for…”

“Charles.” Andreas‘ voice is gentle and soothing, in contrast to Charles’. When the man from Monaco looks at his friend, he smiles at him. ”We're here.”

The wind howls at the summit, biting and cold, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel it. He can’t feel anything except the weight that presses down on his chest. He stands there on top oft he world – and all the space in the world couldn’t quiet the chaos inside him. 

Andrea chose this route to help Charles clear his head, the mountain was supposed to be his escape, his victory. He climbed every inch of it, each slide of his skis pushing him further from the mess he feels inside. The view from the top is actually breathtaking: endless stretches of jagged peaks, skies that feel closer than ever. He should feel something – pride, accomplishment, freedom. But instead, there’s only the overwhelming silence that gnawed at him. 

For a moment, everything is still. He pulls his beanie and glasses from his head, closing his eyes and trying to ground himself in the beauty around him, but the images, the memories, everything – it all comes flooding back. The things he can’t outrun. The words that had been sad. The choices that had left him fractured and alone. 

A sob caught in his throat, sharp and unexpected and he falls to his knees in the white snow at his feet. The tries to fight it, but the tears come anyway – slow at first, then faster and harder. They burn against the cold wind, mixing with the salt of the sweat on his skin – and he can’t stop them. 

They stand for everything he hasn’t been able to say, everything he has be scared to face. He thought he could bury it, hide it behind the walls he built, behind the distance from it all. 

His hand tremble on his thighs, his chest tightening with every broken breath. His vision blurred, the edges oft he mountain fading into the background. It doesn’t matter that he’s at the top – he feels smaller than ever. The tears slip down his cheeks like a rush of a river too long dammed. 

„I’m not enough“, he whispered almost unaudibly. A confession only the mountains and his friend could hear. „I’m never going to be enough.“

The world stretched out before him, magnificent and indifferent, and in that moment, he realized that being on top oft he mountain didn’t mean escaping it all. He had climbed all this way, but he couldn’t outrun himself. The hurt, the mistakes, the weight of everything he’d buried deep inside. 

He doesnt flinch when he feels Andrea’s hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing and reassuring him that whatever he feels right now is okay. That the tears that fall down onto the snow have their right to exist after being bottled up for so long. 

The sobs faded, leaving him gasping for air in the stillness of the summit. He wiped his face, trying to wipe away the brokennes, but it lingered in his chest. His hands still trembling from the release, from the rawness that had bubbled to the surface. For a long moment, he just sits there, the wind biting at him, the emptiness inside him as a vast as the world stretched out before him. 

And then it hit him, like a sudden punch that knocked the breath from his lungs. 

You. 

Your laugh. Your smile. The way you always seem to know what he’s thinking, the way you care in the quietest ways – how you’ve been there for him, even when he pushed you away. How, despite everything, you stayed. 

He tried so hard to tell himself that he’s better off alone, that he doesn’t need anyone else to fill the empty spaces inside him. He thought he could bury his feelings, run from the truth. He has told himself that love was something to fear, something that could trap him, break him, leave him just as broken as he’d been before.

But now, sitting on top of the world, it all makes sense. 

He loves you. He always has. He can feel it in every part of him, the truth that has been there all along, buried under layers of fear and pride. It’s not something he can outrun, not anymore. He can’t ignore the way his heart always beats faster when you’re near, the way everything seems to fall into place when you smile at him, the way your presence has been the one thing that feels like home. 

The moment of realization hits him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. It’s undeniable. 

He loves you.

Not in the casual, passing way he once tried to convice himself was enough for his relationship with Annika, but in a deeper, truer sense. It’s always been you – only you. Right from the start when the both of you stood in the small apartment. 

But the weight o fit, the sheer force of that truth, felt like it could crush him, especially when he realizes how long he’s been running from it. 

His heart races, pounding hard in his chest, but it isn’t the kind of excitement he thought would come with such a revelation. Instead, it is quiet terror. The terror of feeling too much. Of feeling anything at all. 

His breath comes in shallow gasps as the cold mountain air cuts through him. It isn’t the altitude or the wind that chills him – it’s the fear of being too vulnerable again. Of letting anyone close enough to hurt him. The thought of telling you, of exposing his raw, vulnerable part of himself, feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no way to climb back down. 

He stares out over the vast horizon, the world stretching out endlessly beneath him, and for a moment, he considers it. The possibility of going back, of telling you everything he has just realized. But the thought of your eyes on him, the weight of the words, the vulnerability—it‘s too much. Too raw. Too dangerous.

So, he stays silent. He stays with the truth, buried deep inside of him. The love he feels for you is now his secret, locked away like a fragile thing, too delicate to share. He can‘t find the courage to let it out—not now, not after everything that had happened.

But there is something about knowing, about feeling it — just knowing that he can love again — that makes the world feel a little less heavy. It isn’t perfect, and it doesn‘t fix everything, but it is enough. For the first time in a long time, he doesn‘t feel so broken. He isn’t empty. He is filled with something — something soft, something he thought was gone forever.

Maybe he isn’t ready to tell you. Maybe he will never be ready. But the knowledge that love still exists in him — that it can still find him, even after everything — is enough to hold onto for now. It isn’t a victory, not in the way he wants, but it is a beginning. And in that, there is a quiet peace. A peace that, despite all the fear and hesitation, he coul still feel, still hope.

And that, for the moment, is enough.

[eclipixels]

Our past?

Sylus x Reader

Content: After discovering your past life with Sylus and his promise to restore your memories, you find yourself eager to hear the stories of your past from him.

Warnings: : slight angst if you squint your eyes

[2,118 words]

A/N: Sylus’s myth has been weighing on my mind, it’s absolutely heartbreaking. Forbidden love?? Like?? Ugh. I had to write something to make it hurt less :’).

      After discovering the truth about your past life, a storm of emotions had raged within you. Anger, betrayal, disbelief. How could Sylus have kept something so monumental from you? How could he have known and simply chosen not to tell you? The argument that followed had been fierce, but in the end, he relented, promising to restore your lost memories tomorrow morning. Now, the fire had dimmed, replaced by a quiet restlessness you couldn't shake.

      “Won’t you at least come to bed, darling?” Sylus murmured, his voice softer than usual, his sharp eyes now wide and pleading. You exhaled, exasperated yet unable to deny him. With a tired sigh, you crawled over, settling on top of him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath you.

      "Sylus?"

      "Hm?"

      "Tell me about our past," you whispered. He had promised to return your memories tomorrow, but waiting felt unbearable. The unknown loomed too heavily over you, making it impossible to sleep.

      He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Impatient, aren’t you? Can’t even wait until tomorrow?"

      "You’re one to talk about being greedy," you huffed, shifting slightly against him.

      “I know,” he admitted, the grin that spread across his lips filled with something more than amusement, something nostalgic, as if the weight of the past he had once tried to forget was now something he wanted to remember.

      He studied you for a moment before continuing, “Did you know you were a princess, princess?” His smirk widened at his own joke, reveling in the play on words.

      You rolled your eyes, but your curiosity overpowered your exasperation. "A princess?"

      "Ivory City," he said, watching for recognition in your gaze. "They accused you of being a sorcerror because you took pity and sympathy on my kind, so they cast you out."

      "How primitive," you muttered, unimpressed by the cruelty of a kingdom you barely remembered.

      "Indeed," he agreed, his tone laced with a quiet sort of amusement. "They feared what they couldn't understand."

      A brief silence stretched between you before he added, “You also gave me my name, but I already told you that.”

      You sighed, tilting your head slightly. "You still haven’t taught me how to pronounce your actual name." It was something you had discovered earlier, before the argument, before the flood of fragmented memories revealed pieces of his dragon life with you in Philos.

      Sylus hummed, clearly unbothered by the notion. “It’s irrelevant,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy circles against your back. “I like your version of my name better. Your claim on me.” His grin returned, sharper now, something possessive glinting behind his eyes. A name you gave him that he’s used ever since. Your lips parted slightly, heart skipping a beat at the weight of his words. You had claimed him once before, long ago, in another life. And now, in this one, you were beginning to do it all over again.

      Sylus smirked, his voice dropping into something teasing. “Did you also know that once, back when we still held nothing but disdain for each other, I wrapped my hand around your throat, and you—” He let out a short laugh, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You moaned.”

      You jolted upright, eyes wide. “I did what?!” you shrieked, horrified.

      His laughter only deepened, rich and unbothered. “It was certainly… unique,” he mused, tilting his head as if replaying the memory in his mind. “I’ve threatened plenty of people before, but never had anyone react quite like that.”

      Heat flared across your face as you groaned, burying yourself against his chest in embarrassment. “I hate you.”

      “No, you don’t,” he chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss against the top of your head.

      A moment of silence passed, the air between you settling into something softer, something steeped in nostalgia. “Most nights,” Sylus murmured, “we spent our time together under the moonlight.”

      You closed your eyes, letting his voice guide you through the fragments of a past you desperately wished to reclaim. “I can’t wait to get my memories back,” you hummed. “I can’t wait to fall in love with you all over again.”

      His fingers curled gently around your waist, holding you close. “There were times,” he continued, voice quieter now, “when you would see my true form, and I expected you to be afraid. I thought you’d run, that you’d look at me like I was a monster.” He paused, as if caught in the memory. “But you didn’t. Instead, you traced your much smaller hand over my scales and horns. You—” He swallowed. “You still loved me.”

      “How couldn’t I?” you whispered, pressing closer.

      Sylus exhaled, the tension in his body unraveling. “Back then, I didn’t know what love was,” he admitted. “You introduced me to that.”

      You lifted your head slightly, gazing up at him. “Really?”

      His lips curled into something almost reverent, something achingly fond. “Really.

      “That’s beautiful,” you murmured, voice soft with drowsiness.

      Sylus smiled faintly, fingers tracing idle patterns against your waist and thighs. “My favorite memory might be when I took you to that flower field,” he mused, pausing expectantly for your response.

      But you said nothing. He frowned slightly, tilting his head to glance down at you.

“Kitten, are you asleep?” he asked after a long stretch of silence, broken only by the soft sound of your breathing. A quiet snore escaped you. You weren’t asleep, but he didn’t have to know that.

      His chest rose and fell with a slow inhale before he continued anyway, his voice dipping into something raw.

      “The reason why…” he started, then hesitated. For once, the words didn’t come so easily. “The reason why I withheld these memories and this information from you was because I knew it would break you.”

      A heavy silence settled between you, thick and suffocating.

      “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier that we have half of our souls in each other.” His fingers curled slightly against your skin. That much, you had already discovered. The truth that the two of you were irreversibly connected, bound by something ancient and inescapable.

      His next words came quieter, almost as if he didn’t want to admit them out loud. “But I just… I couldn’t let you know that we were destined for death.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. “It was greedy of me. I wanted you all to myself, even if it meant keeping the truth from you. But the curse of a dragon’s beloved is to die. And you—” His voice wavered, the weight of his confession nearly unbearable. “You were destined to kill me, as my archenemy.”

      His breath hitched, and he let his eyes fall shut. “I didn’t want you to know that,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I realized… it’s not just my story. It’s yours too. And you deserve to know.”

      The words hung in the air between you, fragile and aching. His throat worked as he tried to steady himself, but his voice still cracked, betraying the turmoil he had tried so hard to suppress. Still, you didn’t move, didn’t respond. But your fingers twitched ever so slightly against his chest.

      You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the warm tears spilled onto Sylus’s chest. They fell silently, one after another, pooling against his skin like echoes of a grief you weren’t prepared to feel.

      “Sweetheart?” Sylus called out, his voice laced with concern. His arms tightened slightly around you. “Are you alright?”

      “It hurts,” you whispered, your voice small, fragile. “Why was our story so sad?”

      He exhaled, his fingers threading gently through your hair. “I don’t know, my love,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”

      A shuddering breath left you as you stared at the space between you, the past pressing in on your chest like an unbearable weight. “Did I hurt you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

      Sylus stilled for a moment before letting out a small, knowing sigh. He tilted your chin up, thumb brushing away the tears clinging to your lashes. “Sweetie, that’s all in the past for a reason,” he murmured. “None of that destiny, archnemesis, dragons-destroying-cities, royalty-and-war bullshit matters here.” He smirked slightly, attempting to lighten the mood. “Well, maybe the part about our souls being tied for eternity, but I’m not complaining about that part.”

      You sniffled, staring up at him with a wobbly frown.

      “Oh, and wanderers,” he added, scowling. “That part I do complain about.”

      You huffed a small laugh despite yourself, but your expression quickly turned serious again. “You didn’t answer my question, though,” you said, eyes searching his. “Did I hurt you?”

      Sylus hesitated. “Well…”

      “Stop it. Just tell me.”

      A sigh, followed by a lopsided, almost sheepish grin. “Maybe you stabbed me.”

      Your mouth fell open. “Maybe?”

      “But it wasn’t entirely on purpose,” he continued hastily. “Not out of your own volition. In fact, you didn’t want to kill me at all. That’s why you chose to tie our souls together instead.” He pulled your leg up to wrap around him tighter. “You chose to save me instead of killing me. Our souls became bound, incapable of betraying each other.”

      “Incapable of betraying each other?” you echoed, brows furrowing before your expression morphed into something accusatory. “Oh, really? Then what about that time you ate my sandwich I was saving for later?”

      Sylus blinked. “Uh—”

      “Actually, no. You didn’t even eat it yourself,” you fumed. “You gave it to Mephisto. A mechanical bird. I don’t even know if he can digest organic material!”

      “So feisty,” Sylus murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “Lifetimes of love, and yet, you’re still a brat.”

      “Hey!” You gasped, feigning offense, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

      He only chuckled, shaking his head. Then, his expression turned mischievous as he pointed a finger at you accusingly. “But, you do realize—I can never die unless you’re the one who kills me.”

      You smirked, crossing your arms. “Oh, I was so smart for doing that.”

      Sylus let out a full-bodied laugh, the sound warm and rich with something inexplicably fond.

      “What?” You tilted your head, watching the way his grin widened.

      “Isn’t it crazy?” he said, voice quieter now, as if he was still wrapping his mind around it himself. “Lifetimes of love… You’ve always been my girl.”

      Something about the way he said it made your chest ache in the most bittersweet way. This love of yours, it felt like it was something you’re not allowed to have. You swallowed hard, voice softening. “I still can’t believe you’re a dragon.”

      “What?” He snorted. “You thought the horns were just for decoration?”

      You groaned sleepily. “In my defense, you don’t always make them visible.”

      Sylus smirked. “Would you like me to keep them out more often, then? Just for you?”

      “Sylus.” You whimpered, burying your face against him.

      His amusement faded as concern flickered across his features. “You’re still upset?”

      “I don’t want to kill you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

      Sylus exhaled, his fingers tracing slow, soothing lines against your back. “Love,” he murmured, “like I said, you won’t. This is our timeline.”

      “But I want you in every timeline,” you confessed, curling closer, as if holding onto him tighter could somehow tether your souls together even more. “Every life.”

      Sylus stilled. His fingers stopped their tracing. His breath hitched just slightly. Then, with a heavy sigh, he picked up your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. His lips were warm, his touch reverent.

      “I…” He hesitated.

      Sylus never made promises lightly. He didn’t want to promise you something he couldn’t keep. But then, he thought about it. About how he had already overturned fate before. How he and you both had defied instinct, rewritten the path carved for each other. Yet, it wasn’t enough. He didn’t just want your soul. You didn’t just want his eye. You were both greedy, greedy creatures. You wanted to consume each other, bones and all. In love. In deep, all-consuming love.

      And maybe he could make that happen.

      He would need a powerful enough sorcerer. Someone who still wielded magic strong enough to rewrite the very laws of existence. He could find one. He would find one. He would make sure it was just you and him, forever. Not killing each other. Not dying. That would make you immortal, too.

      He could have you forever.

      Now, wasn’t that greedy?

      “I promise,” he finally whispered, sealing his vow with another kiss against your palm, not noticing the soft glow that wrapped itself around you both as you involuntarily resonated.

[benz12313]

Delirium Part 3/3 - Ridoc x Reader 🌶️

{Images are not my own}

Summary: You and Ridoc have been dancing around each other for months, just on the cusp of becoming something more. All it takes is a rough week and a bit of liquor to have you become putty in his hands, and he's been dying for the chance to carry you to his bed. [Takes place during Iron Flame]

Warnings: morning after/aftercare, some angst, fluff, happy ending, Ridoc being a sweetheart, nothing particularly explicit, swearing

Part 1/3 - Part 2/3

Authors Note: This final part made my heart ache writing it, but honestly? I absolutely love how it came out. Thanks for showing this mini-series some love! Now that it's over let me know if you'd like to be added to either of my other taglists. I've got two; All Ridoc Fics and my ongoing fic, Surface Tension's. Either message me or comment! Thank you again, it's nice to have my writing shown some love! :)

Word Count: 2,606

Ridoc’s POV

My body ached, and I nearly groaned and stretched, until I felt the weight resting on my arm. Memories from last night crashed through me, blurry and confused due to the alcohol, but when I opened my eyes to confirm them I froze. Y/N was here. She was really fucking here. Looking divine and sleeping like the dead, makeup smeared over her face and my pillows, and head resting peacefully on my arm while she was huddled in the sheets. Good thing too, because there were scattered piles of fucking snow around the room, letting me know just how thoroughly I’d lost my control last night. 

You know… Aotrom’s voice rang through my head, teasing and I fought back a groan at whatever smart-ass statement he was about to make.

“Not now Aotrom.” I snapped and he chuffed, but for once quieted as he felt my quickly rising panic.  

Not because I regretted anything. Fuck no, I would never regret a single thing about what happened last night. But I knew she would. She was the one who’d run away every time things got too real. She was the one who’d be eye-fucking me one minute and then reminding me, painfully, the next minute that we were just friends. Friends who had now crossed that line and…fuck, just how many marks did I leave on the poor girl? 

My eyes washed over her after lifting the sheets gently, and guilt consumed me. Bruises on her hips and ass in the shape of fingertips, bite marks on the top of her perfect fucking breasts and along her neck, hickies covering her from her neck down to her thighs. And gods, her collarbone was deep fucking purple where I remember making my claim on her last night. A moment of particularly eager loss of control where all I could fucking cling to was the thought of making her mine.  

Well fuck. 

I let out a breathy sigh, and gently pulled my arm from beneath her. She didn’t even stir. My heart ached. Sure, I liked fooling around as much as the next rider. Being always on the cusp of death made one eager to enjoy what life they did have, but this was different.

She was different.

I would gladly give it all up for her, to be able to call her mine. To hold her, love her, absolutely fucking worship her like the goddamn princess she is. One more glance over and I decided. If she was gonna run from me anyway, I would at least make sure she was taken care of first.

It was gonna take a little field trip first though. Let’s just hope he was awake. 

Y/N's POV

My muscles ached, my head pounded, everything outside the blankets was freezing, I felt oddly empty, and unconsciousness pulled at me to stay under in it’s tight embrace. Warmth ran along my hips, trying to coax me awake, but I grumbled into the pillows and snuggled deeper, the scent of the unfamiliar bedding soothing me. 

I don’t care who’s bed I was in. They could fucking wait for me to be ready to wake up. 

I don’t know how long I had fallen back into unconsciousness, probably seconds, but when I awoke, warmth and wetness was running along my aching core and I halfheartedly swatted it away. 

“Ngh.” I whined, barely there. 

“Princess, gotta let me clean you up okay?” A soothing voice muttered, carefully being quiet. Voice barely above a husky whisper, mindful of my hangover.

I knew that voice. Shit..I fucking know that voice, much too well. My eyes flew open, luckily the room was dark so I could see without adjusting, but I found him immediately. Ridoc. 

Shit.

Shit.

SHIT. 

He grinned sheepishly up at me, where he was sitting on the end of the bed, wet rag in hand, and cleaning up between my thighs. The events from last night crashed through me, overwhelming me.

How did I actually let this happen? Even with the alcohol?

Fantasies are one thing, fantasies are safe. Fantasies don’t throw wrenches into friendships and throw the easy dynamic of our squad to the fucking wind. Tears pricked my vision, emotion overwhelming me and Ridoc cursed. 

“Shit, Y/N, are you hurt?” I met his panicked gaze and my heart ached. I was full on sobbing now, everything too much. I couldn’t even tell him that no, my body ached (deliciously) but I wasn’t hurt. I’d just ruined fucking everything. No big deal right? I shook my head as that’s all I could manage.

“Hey? Hey? Okay.” He threw the rag to the side before scooping me up and pulling me onto his lap. “I’ve got you. Just let it out. I’m here.” He cradled me tightly, my face buried in his bare chest as I sobbed. His hand threaded through my hair, holding me secure and his other arm wrapped around my back, cradling me gently. I flashed back to how he’d held me last night, just like this, like something breakable as he’d pounded into me. I sobbed harder. 

“I…ruined….everything!” I wailed and he stiffened, but then continued running his fingers along my scalp. 

“No. Princess, shh. Nothing is ruined.” He whispered, voice gentle, and so sure of himself that I had to pull back and examine his face. He was carefully neutral, and so serious that it threw me off, making me stop sobbing immediately. Not a hint of a smirk or playfulness. Nothing. 

I’d only seen him this serious one other time. When we learned that Violet had been lying to us and keeping secrets. He’d been so hurt that she hadn’t trusted us. He ranted for days about it when it was just us. 

“Yes it is-“ I tried and he shook his head, eyes narrowing on me. 

“It’s only ruined if we let it be.” He assured, gulping as I realized he was lightly trembling. Was he…nervous? Scared? He wiped the tears off my face and sighed, like he was trying to get the weight of the world off his chest. “You can walk right out that door now and pretend that nothing happened if that’s what you want. I can handle our friends. No one will say a fucking word if that’s what you need. Just…please…don’t think you’ve ruined anything.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Open. Close. Open. Close. What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? Did I want to leave? 

‘…if that’s what you want?’

What the fuck did that mean? My head swam, aching, and not in a good way. 

“What…what do you want?” I asked, voice small. It was a question I’d been wanting to ask for weeks. Months if I was going to really be honest with myself. 

He froze beneath me, as still as the little animal figurines he’d make for me when he was bored. The ones made of permafrost that I’d kept safely tucked away in the back of my wardrobe, the coldest part of my room. I looked up to his face again and he was biting his lip, terror in his gaze. I realized it then.

He hadn’t expected me to ask. That much was obvious. My heart broke as I realized he’d really expected me to run. To throw what happened last night away, chalk it up to a lapse in judgement, and try to forget about it. He hadn’t predicted I’d ask him what he wanted, that I’d care enough to ask. 

But I couldn’t just throw last night away without at least asking him. Sure, it was easily the greatest sex of my life…but it was more than that too. The tender seconds, thrown in amongst intense pleasure? The way it was so mind altering, not because of what he was doing, but because it was him. The way he’d reduced me to absolute, fucking, delirium where all I could comprehend was Ridoc? No. It didn’t matter if my instinct was to run, to forget everything, to laugh it off and ignore our friends teasing until they eventually forgot about it too. 

I knew with aching clarity that I would never be able to. 

I had to stop running from him. 

I had to put myself at his mercy if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with the constant question of what could have been. 

He was quiet, until he shook his head lightly, making my heart stop and fear clutched my throat, choking me. “I can’t…”

“I can’t tell you what I want.” His words were whispers as his thumb ran along my jaw, eyes anywhere but meeting my own. His eyes finally found the courage to meet mine and they went soft. “Don’t look at me like that.” He laughed, short and hollow, the sound suspiciously resembling my previous sobs. 

“I can’t tell you because then I’ll never be able to let you go. To let you walk away and protect your heart how you need to. I can’t tell you because then last night was real, not alcohol induced horniness. Not a mistake. Not two friends dancing over the line of being something more.” Frustration creeped into his voice and I clung tighter to him as he fucking glared at me now. “I can’t tell you because I know with fucking certainty that you’re gonna decide to throw me away like everyone else does. And if I let myself be vulnerable for a fucking second it will destroy me Y/N. You will destroy me. So no, I won’t tell you what I want. I’ll wait for you to tell me what it is you want and do whatever I need to with whatever you give me.” 

My heart raced at the painful truth in his words. The following words left my mouth with aching certainty before I could even think them. 

“I want you Ridoc Gamlyn.” He froze, the anger that had crept up gone, and his mouth fell open in shock. I continued, “I can’t pretend. I’m sorry but I can’t. I just…I’m sorry for crying…for scaring you…I just, I woke up and I remembered and I thought that you’d hate me for what we’d done. Or that I’d let feelings get involved and I’d have to watch you just…I don’t know…move to the next pretty face…and I’d have to bitterly watch and pretend to be happy for you…and it would just ruin everything with the squad…and fuck this is all hurting my head too much Ridoc.” Fresh tears streamed down my cheeks and Ridoc sighed. 

A small smile creeped on his face as he wiped away my tears again. “I knew you liked me.” Then his grin was teasing, and my heart lurched.

My Ridoc was back, sitting underneath me, quickly beginning to grin like a fool. Eyes drinking me in so warmly that I had to hide my face in his chest to cover the heat creeping up my cheeks. I squealed in surprise when he suddenly lifted me, and erupted in giggles when he gently plopped me back down on his pillows. 

“Ridocccc.” I groaned, shooting him heatless daggers as he went back to where he’d been between my legs when I’d first woken up. He laughed and picked up a small tub of what looked like some sort of tincture. In fact he had a few different unlabeled containers piled to the side on his bed as well as a fresh set of sweatpants that I recognized as my own. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you Princess. After care is important, I know it’s a little…delayed…but I’m still a gentlemen.” He flashed me a grin, before gently tossing a water canister next to me, within reach. “And I feel a little bad, I was a little…eager…to finally get my hands on you.” 

“I remember.” I giggled and he laughed, gesturing with a nod and an absent hand wave to look at myself. I did, my eyes widening before warmth crept between my thighs. Remembering just how good it had felt when he’d made the dozens of marks that now covered my body. My thighs clenched at the memory and he laughed, lighthearted, despite the satisfied smirk on his face. 

“You should see your neck, if you think that's bad.” He chuckled, before opening the little tub in his hands. “Drink your water. Bodhi leant me this bruise cream-“

“Bodhi? Why does Bodhi have bruise cream laying about?” I asked incredulously and his ears turned light pink. 

“Dude’s into some kinky shit…anyway-“

“Why do you know that?!” I asked and Ridoc sighed, looking anywhere but my face as he began rubbing the cream on my skin, and I couldn’t help but relax at the soothing warmth. 

“Just drink your water woman. Goddamn…too early for so many questions.” I hummed in response to his embarrassed mutters, but my throat was scratchy and water sounded amazing. 

So I sipped the water, as Ridoc gently massaged the tincture into my skin. I relished in his touch and then he was slipping a fresh pair of panties and the pants onto my hips. Then he moved upwards, straddling my waist as he applied more tincture.

We didn’t speak, didn’t really need to, as I watched him with affection in my gaze. He’d gently kiss over some marks, soothing almost as well as the tincture would. When he was finished he slipped one of his own shirts over my shoulders, the fabric soft, and practically drowning me in its size. It smelled so much like him though that I couldn’t complain. 

And then he was cleaning off my makeup after grabbing another container, that I finally recognized as my cleanser. He didn’t stop there though, applying my moisturizer and spf as well, nearly bringing tears to my eyes as my chest filled with emotion. He handed me a muffin without a word; blueberry and dusted with sugar on top, my favorite, before sitting me up and beginning to gently comb through my hair. He pulled it into a haphazard ponytail before slipping out from behind me as I munched on the muffin, thankful that the churning that had begun in my stomach lessened. He then moved around me, grabbed my boots, and sank to his knees in front of me, making my heart race. 

“We going somewhere?” I asked softly and he nodded, a pout covering his lips. 

“As much as I’d like to keep you locked in here all day, doing everything that I’m now allowed to do to you…” His gaze heated for a moment before he gave me a single peck on the lips, sighing sadly, “Our friends haven’t seen us since last night, its nearly lunch hour, and you need something more than a muffin to get your energy back.” 

I whined, wanting his lips back and he chuckled, giving in and giving me one more chaste kiss before working on my boots. Slipping socks on, then tugging the boots on and deftly tying the laces. Then he was off me completely, and pulling his own shirt on, much to my dismay. 

“If we have to.” I pouted as I stood, immediately falling back down again. The ache between my thighs catching me off guard and causing Ridoc to laugh. “What did you do to me?!”

“Don’t worry Y/N,” He teased, pulling me up into his arms. “I’ve got you."

@xadenswhore @littlemissmelodie @jobroho @the-lake-is-calling - I hope I got everyone, if I missed you I'm sorry!

[miukidoll]

─── 𝑷𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑵𝑰𝑪 𝒁𝑶𝑵𝑬 ୨୧ 𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢 ◟(西村 力)

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: You and Riki have been inseparable since childhood, the effortlessly cool duo at the center of your popular friend group. Flirty jokes, late-night talks, and stolen glances—it’s always been just how you are. But when a new semester brings unexpected changes, the lines between friendship and something more start to blur. Suddenly, the teasing feels different, the touches linger longer, and the thought of Riki with someone else stings more than it should. Were you always just best friends, or were you both too blind to see what was there all along?

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Nishimura Riki (西村 力) x Y/n

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: smau + written, friends to lovers, highschool au, rich kid au, fluff + angst, slow-burn romance (sorry not sorry), forced proximity, she fell first but he falls harder(?)

𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓: ot7 enhypen, giselle from aespa, wonyoung and rei from ive, nishimura konon, txt members, other characters with face claims, etc.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: kys jokes, random timestamps, flirty jokes, all enha members + cast are the around the same age, kys/kms jokes, drama, crack, spelling errors (on purpose), insults, they're both idiots inl ove

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑: face claim is used for photos purposely !

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: here <- recommended when reading !

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: ON GOING

𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: shout out to my girl @amoressb for letting me crash out in her dms while writing this LMAOO, jokes aside i hope you enjoy! pleek have mercy on this poor soul, this is my first time making a fic on blr 😭🙏🏻

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: OPEN

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒:

the bratz , the losers , other.

001: new year new me?

002:

003:

004:

005:

006:

007:

008:

more to be added..

PERM TAGLIST (can be requested to be taken off!) — @amoressb @juyeoz @liwinly

PZ TAGLIST: OPEN ! (0/200) —

[eoieopda]

in limine (teaser) | wjh

in limine (latin): at the threshold, in the beginning

synopsis: you think that by remaining single this year, you’ve found a loophole in your string of shitty valentine’s days. the universe thinks you should lose your paralegal on the eve of a major trial and see if you wouldn’t rather have all of those untimely breakups and missed dates instead. pairing: wen junhui x reader au: law firm, coworkers to something genre: fluff, minor angst, smut word count: 1.2k (teaser), est. 11-15k (fic) content/warnings: attorney!reader, attorney!junhui, pov switches, civil litigation (derogatory), forced proximity, discussions of shitty relationships, i haven’t practiced in this field of law in years, recreational drinking, explicit sexual content. reader notes: afab, no pronouns used, no descriptions of hair/complexion/body/ethnicity/nationality/etc., canonically queer. a/n 1: this fic will be posted by 2/17/25 as part of the lonely hearts club café collab, hosted by @camandemstudios! please check out the rest of this masterlist, as well as their previous collabs! 💕 a/n 2: it took me *checks watch* over two (2) years for me (an attorney) to write a fic about attorneys — and it’s not even the area of law i practice. asdfghj. everything here is based on u.s. law, even though the setting is nondescript. family law attorneys: i’m sorry.

As soon as he crosses the threshold into that sole, lit room, Junhui stops. The massive table that normally occupies the center of it has been shoved up against the interior wall, along with all its chairs. In its place, evidence boxes form a haphazard little fairy circle on the rug. You sit cross-legged in the middle, nose all but buried in a case file, wearing leggings and a crewneck instead of the suit you likely came here in.

“You look comfortable,” he muses.

It becomes abundantly clear very quickly that you, too, thought you were here alone. You jolt at the sound of his voice. All the papers you were holding drop and scatter, both across your lap and the floor you’re monopolizing.

Junhui’s hands fly up. “Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The look on your face is far from startled, though. Even from a few meters away, he can see how tightly your jaw is clenched. If he listens closely, he’d likely hear your teeth grinding one another into dust. 

He can also sense how stiff your posture is, now that you feel his eyes on you. His gaze shifts to the piles of paper near your knotted limbs; and he tells himself that he’s averting his eyes out of respect, not the tiny tremble of intimidation he feels working its way down his spine.

At this point, Junhui knows you by reputation only. He’s rarely at any of the courthouses you frequent, and his specific line of work keeps him out of the office, more often than not. Whenever he is here, you’re not — too busy with that massive caseload of yours to catch much of a breather.

The two of you may be passing ships in the night, but you have a lot of people in common. He can’t say that he’s made much of an impression on them so far. You, on the other hand, are both widely known and discussed. 

So far, anyone that’s ever mentioned you to him speaks about you as if they’re describing a force of nature. It’s the kind of awe people usually save for something fearsome yet worthy of respect, like a tsunami — with the sole exception being that sanctimonious cunt, Tom Santi, who most recently described you as a nightmare bitch from hell.

Of course, Junhui has no firsthand knowledge to back any of these claims up, but he figures it can’t be that far out of character for you to be here now, working too hard. For all he knows, it could also be on-brand for you to snap his neck for distracting you.

“Do you…?”

One of your eyebrows arches quizzically. His question dies on his tongue, halfway finished, because he doesn’t know where it was headed in the first place. Just the same, he can’t tell if that expression on your face is due to stress, annoyance at being interrupted, or some secret, third thing.

…Want me to leave?

Junhui points awkwardly to the espresso machine in the corner, which you’ve unintentionally barricaded behind the conference room table. Like a fucking buffoon, all he says is: “Espresso?”

Your face scrunches a tiny bit. For the second time, he finds himself completely unable to read you. Is it disgust? Suspicion?

No, he realizes, it’s neither. He sees the tiniest flicker of it when the corner of your lips twitch: amusement. While the smile doesn’t overtake your mouth, there’s a glimmer of it in your eyes. It’s reason enough for Junhui to breathe for the first time since he walked in.

“Yes, I do espresso.” You nod with your lips bitten between your teeth, like you’re seconds away from laughing. 

Too eagerly, Junhui nods, too. “Right. Got it. Order up.”

Order up?

Running away isn’t an option; and he can’t dig a hole to hide in without a shovel. All he has left to do is shuffle over towards the corner and slink through the obstacle course you’ve built. With what he feels is impressive agility, he makes it all the way to the machine before pausing suddenly. 

Under his breath, he curses, “Fuck.”

The jig is up now. Junhui has no idea which buttons to press or where the espresso beans are. Unfortunately for both of you, the only way for him to find out is to interrupt you further. 

Whoever handles his eulogy better leave out how little time it took him to provoke you into killing him.

Bracing himself for impact, he squeezes his eyes shut and smiles sheepishly. “Do you happen to know how to… use this?”

There’s a groan from the center of the room. Junhui cracks one eye open and searches for the fist coming his way. Instead, he finds you on your feet, twisting at the waist and stretching.

While twisting, you lock eyes — well, eye — with him, then you freeze with your torso still rotated in his direction. Your hinged arms stay where they are, held up at your sides.

“I’ve been sitting here like a goblin for too long,” you explain, tone self-conscious. “If you just heard every joint in my body pop…. no, you didn’t.”

Before Junhui can think of a quip in response — he’s capable of coherent speech, he swears — you step over the shoes you’ve discarded and make your way over to him, patterned socks clashing with the neutral carpet below. He steps back on instinct, although there isn’t really anywhere left for him to go. 

You either don’t notice how close you get to him, or you don’t care. Entirely unfazed, you set to work, grinding and tamping like it’s all second nature to you.

Junhui knows he should use this time to observe your processes carefully, but he doesn’t. That’s not to say the learning opportunity is entirely squandered, though. 

And he’s a quick study.

In less than a minute, he learns more about you than he has in the last three months. His first discovery is that you’re wearing a watch on your dominant wrist, which is weird as hell — until he spots the small tattoo hiding beneath it. He catches the very faint notes of patchouli at the base of your perfume, too, underneath the cassis and freesia.

It’s nice, he thinks, even better than the overwhelming scent of coffee that swoops in to drown it out.

“This goes here —”

The silver piece in your hand twists into place with a click, drawing his attention back to where it should’ve been all along. 

Fuck. 

Have you been talking this entire time?

“— and then you press the start button to release the hot water.”

You glance up at him then to confirm that he understood you. Junhui blinks, buffering while he tries to play this out.

“You’re good at this,” he improvises, although he admittedly has no idea if this is true. 

“No compliments until you survive drinking it.” You offer him a wry smile to go with the drink you’ve made him. “I’ve quite literally never touched this thing before in my life.”

With your vaguely expectant eyes on him, he takes a small sip, then he murmurs with his lips still hidden behind the glass, “I don’t think I believe that.”

“Why?” You smirk and tilt your head to the side. “Because it’s just that good?”

No, in fact, it’s terrible, but you don’t need to know that.

Junhui nods his head towards the center of the room. His reply is simple, and despite not being the full truth, it’s not a lie: “I’d expect more practice from someone who seems to live here.”

[sukunasun]

Do you ever plan to write a fic with a grumpy reader? Maybe with Getou or any chara of your choice?

screaming from the top of a building: grumpy readers are so relatable and deserve more nuance than being labelled as ice queens and stone-cold bitches! there is much more to unfold beyond the harsh exterior. how cantankerous and irritable you are but nonetheless meant to be understood and loved.

quietly, you lay there stowing away as a recluse. you love your books and your crochet hooks. working away and making the most of me-time. people don't draw near. instead, they try prodding with sticks and hurtling stones for a reaction hoping it's a smile or a nice conversation between two, but there is no gambling and taking chances. no risking it 'depending on your mood' because the weather report calls for sunny skies and yet, the storming grey cloud above your head stays looming. permanently brewing.

you claim it's just your face, your attitude, and overall unapproachable aura that inhibits you from making contacts and connections. an RBF that can't be cracked. "she's so intimidating," is a grating sound. you have long since given up on explaining yourself or waiting for the chance to when the backstory and lore is too revealing. not exactly dinner party talk. you wish it could be as easy as saying "im hurt and heartbroken beyond repair. mothering fear and angst without needing comfort." it feels nice, well-deserved even to wallow in dread.

there's bound to be disappointment from unmet expectations thus, you've stopped having them altogether. it feels better than accepting affection with open arms. so wrong, so weird to be wanted, to be chosen. where's the catch? when will the other shoe drop? the cycle of starting over becomes tiring, tedious—a mechanical performance. a complex creature who requires better coping mechanisms and a man who won't stab you in the back. friends who'd stop poking holes in the reasons when you say no, yet again, to meeting someone new in this state: when bricks are laid and piled high up in uniformed rows surrounding, it warrants avoiding all forms of showing and receiving love after the years spent shaping the architecture of your defences.

then there's geto. with his charm and wit and the way he pries the person from underneath facades and fabricated masks. your fragile, rocking foundations built on sand he topples down with a mere smile, hardened fortitudes he crushes to dust, weaving within hairline cracks and exploring the caverns of your heart like no one has before. all without much effort, or rather, he doesn't need to exert himself when you fall so willingly.

"why don't we do something else tonight, dinner and a movie?" he questions when you call again. right after work when the stress is at an all-time high and he's...well, you don't know what he does, but he makes himself available for you. he'll admit it's made him feel special being the only person let in, when everyone else has to scavenge for scraps, he's a privileged selected one. seen the glimpses of the warmth you possess when laid bare and sated.

such a skill he has to wring out the truth. still, you go on with the "i like being alone," answer. a mantra, a repetitive hymn to soothe the sting and sharp clawing against the chest til it no longer feels so. numb and sore aches it leaves behind. 'you'll regret it when you realize i'm too much for you,' stays clogged in your throat. he'd only admonish you for such thoughts. 'that's not true' he'd say, but you know better than to believe that.

"i get it," geto replies, feigning casualness when he's not a stranger to isolation and avoidant habits. sometimes he wished he wasn't exposed to a mirror of his own makeup. a paragon of performative indifference and detachment. "i'll leave when you want me to," he reassures you, but was that a wavering you hear in his voice? you don't dare assume because he makes things easy. not the kind to complicate, nor commit. say the word and he'd give you all the solitude you need. dodging the serious questions and serious labels. friend, boyfriend, guy-im-sleeping-with. he doesn't care for them because you don't.

maybe he's just referring to the task at hand, used to forgoing aftercare and post-orgasm cuddles for a late-night drive home. excluding that one time you allowed him a night on your couch. he won't stay if your hand comes up to his sweaty chest, pushing him away before he's had the chance to pull out and slide the worn condom off. it keeps him at a distance and he takes it as a sign that this is as far as intimacy goes—no kissing on the lips, no secrets and sweet nothings, your moans don't escape and neither do his plethora of dirty speeches, stifled and gritting in a tight-lipped prison—there is no room for it at all.

the last thing you need is to dispose whatever is left of an already flimsy resolve. becoming vulnerable and exposed to his rejection or the knee-jerk reaction when he touches you—when the strap of your dress falls at an angle, he instinctively chases after the smooth slope of shoulder with his lips, pressing soft kisses there and everywhere else simmering with anxiety, humming pleased and contented to taste the nerves slipping away, sinking his teeth in and feeling the flesh give to his possession—a longing that courses through and wrenches around your heart tight. you're so selfish to follow after his hands, to feel them feel you. they should be upon another but he grabs and gropes greedily like he can't wait any longer.

"or you could let me stay," he offers.

"the couch makes your back hurt," you reply.

"your bed is big enough for two," he counterclaims. doing what he does best. it's not the first time he's tried to hint at more, waiting for the opportune moment when you're putty in his hands, relenting to him.

"we can't," you gasp when he slips two fingers past your dripping folds. the smirk he wears hidden in the crook of your neck. "why–" you claw at his forearm tucked between your thighs, clenching around his limb for leverage while he makes you squirm and jolt with every nudge against your gspot. "–why me?" why an unpleasant, unfriendly, unwanted woman like you, haven't you suffered enough? why does he choose to torment you with his favour while seeking for yours. you remind yourself there's no place, no space for him here. you like the way things are no matter how painfully lonely it gets, you like the cool touch of your sheets and the emptiness your fingers trail over in the mornings. it's what you know, what you settled for. since when do two people meet and see each other for themselves, choosing to stay for long after the thinly veiled ugliness is stripped away. how do you tell him you're starting to grow accustomed. almost adoring. you've flown too close to the sun before, how do you deal with the fallout when you're inevitably lurched into the suffocating and slow descent towards earth?

in the last few seconds cresting upon your climax, suguru feels it building around the edges of your jittering limbs. head lolling back as you choke, fighting back your moans. your hips thrust in time, chasing after his fingers. he settles them as deep as he can, pumping fast and pressing down against your clit til it hurts, til the hard pressure causes your juices to drip down his fingers, squelching and making a mess.

fuck it, he knows it's the only time you'll have him this close so his arms brace you, supported by his strong chest, crushed by his biceps, suguru coaxes you, "i don't care how far you push me, or how much you pretend, i want you and i know you want me too—"

you shake your head, resisting, stop it, stop uncovering me. he talks of your lust as if some incontrovertible proof, you won't give in. with indefatigable, unwavering effort you set the record straight. "i don't like you like that," lying right as you're about to explode from pleasure, not the kind that feels like a firework, shooting silent and bursting forth, but you seize every muscle in his hold. choking on your breaths and feeling it tighten and coil in your stomach, in your toes, compact and revving, it releases like an engine. rolling and roiling so unyieldingly it makes your ears ring, suffocating you til your vision goes black, and a scream forces it way past your lips.

neither high-pitched nor guttural, it reverberates so soothingly, "im sorry!" you cry. for being this way, for using and tossing him aside, for wanting more. you sob with your head thrown back while suguru hums right against your ear. sounding pleased and pleasured with your admission.

slowing his fingers in time with your panting breaths, he questions "do you really think i wouldn't like you?" it's not the right time to do this but he can hardly bear it, he longs for truth, "do you not believe me?"

looking upon his face through half-lidded eyes, you see that interrogative spark in his expression, his arms never letting go. a tense anticipation takes shape. the air is thick with the scent of damp skin and something else—his shampoo, his cologne, you chase after it for more, pressed into his chest, it only takes one whiff to get a fill, the same way you cling to the corners of pillowcases and duvet covers for that little bit.

what has changed? he makes you act a fool, forlorn and fumbling around in the most fatuous ways. i want you he said so clearly. and it warms your being like never before. there is an urge to make excuses, accuse him for being in lust, he only said it in the heat of the moment, ensnared by a need for possession.

but there is no point in looking back.

"i believe you," you say, noses bumping and slotting close when your lips betray your better judgement, or rather, your unfavourable one. "i'll try." is the best you can offer.

[deans-baby-momma]

**Summary**: When Jensen admits to going home with someone else, will his and Y/N's marriage survive?

**Warnings**: Angst, heartbreak, smut, language

Chapter 8

“What are you talking about?” Jensen cautiously asks his friend and castmate.

“This whole thing is a setup,” Misha tells the couple almost excitedly. “Athena has told everyone this fantastic story of her time with you but you see her friend is a fanfiction writer and what happened is exactly the way the friend’s story goes. Look’” he hands them the pages.

Jensen skims through the pages, handing each one to Y/N as he finishes. It appears that Misha is correct. Everything from meeting in a bar to going home with the reader and having some crazy, acrobatic sex ending in a pregnancy is in there in print. 

However, that is where the similarities end -well except for the sex- that didn't even happen. The story continues that Jensen agrees to be a father to the illegitimate child and the couple end up together. 

Jensen is seething as he finishes the last page and hands it off. He turns toward the room where the others are he has the desire to go in there and shout at Athena, her friend, and anyone else who gets in his way, he won’t but he’d like to. He is stopped by the sound of Y/N's voice as he takes a step toward the doorway.

“What are you going to do?” she asks her lip near to quivering.

“I'm asking for a recess or whatever the fuck will pause this whole shitshow!” Jensen answers with a flail of his arms. 

Jensen disappears into the room before returning a few moments later with Thomas Bell trailing behind him. He introduces the attorney to Misha and together they explain what the older man discovered. 

Y/N stood there listening while staring at the papers in her hands.When requested, she handed them to the lawyer and unconsciously held her breath while he looked them over.

“I'm going to get these copied and then present them for evidence. Mr. Collins,” he turns to Misha. “Are you willing to stick around and go on record stating how you came across this?”

“Absolutely!” Misha says with an enthusiastic nod.

As soon as the attorney walks away, Jensen and Y/N both attack Misha in hugs.

“Thank you man,” Jensen says as he pulls back. “With what Y/N just told me and your finding that, I might just get out of this.”

“Wait. What do you know?” Misha turns to her.

“A few weeks ago, I overheard this girl telling her friends about that night. But at that time, she said he bent her over the couch and fucked her hard and fast. But now she's claiming it was more intimate and in her bed, which is in the story, so….” Y/N  trails off as Mr. Bell returns to stand with the group.

“This is admissible as evidence of deception and misrepresentation so why don't we go present it to the defendant’s counsel, and see how they react?”

Inside the deposition room, Athena and her attorney are huddled together, speaking in whispers, although they are quiet Athena’s posture seems to be confident.

Jensen and Y/N take their previous seats as Misha takes one next to Y/N; Mr. Bell approaches the stenographer and announces that he has new evidence to address.

He hands one stack of papers to the lady and then heads to his seat next to Jensen. 

“It has been brought to our attention-” he announces as he hands another stack of papers to Mr. Howell. “-that Miss Haligan might be confusing fantasy with reality.”

“What is this?” Mr. Howell questions he skims through the first few pages.

“It's called fanfiction sir,” Misha pipes up. “Our fans write-”

“I know what fanfiction is, Mr. Collins!” the man sighs, “I was asking my client.”

Athena's whole demeanor changes. She slumps back in her chair and refuses to meet anyone's eye. 

“Also, the author of this particular piece goes by the Tumblr handle Deansgirl4ever-” Mr. Bell explains. “-and upon some investigation by my client's friend, this handle belongs to   Krissi Nelson.” He pulls his copy of the picture of the two friends and lays it flat on the table before looking over at Athena's friend. “Which happens to be you, correct?”

The two girls glance at each other and then Krissi nods slightly.

“You’ll need to speak up, we need verbal confirmation please, “ Jensen's attorney says.

“Yes, that's me,” Krissi answers.

“Thank you, Miss Nelson-” Mr. Bell nods at her and then turns his attention to Athena and her counsel. “Would you like to explain this?”

Athena starts crying and reaches for the kleenex box on the table. 

Y/N watches the girl's reaction and feels no pity whatsoever for her. This young girl almost broke up her marriage. 

“I-I'm sorry. I lied. Yes, I met Jensen at the bar and tricked him into coming home with me.”

“And what happened once you two arrived at your house?”

“I threw myself at him,” Athena answered truthfully.

“Why?” Mr. Bell inquires.

“Isn't it obvious?”

“We need you to verbalize your intent with Mr. Ackles,” Mr. Bell explains. “For the reporter.”

“I wanted to have sex with him so I could claim he was the father of my baby,” Athena admits.

“For the record, please confirm: are you pregnant?”

“Yea,” Athena whispers and then clears her throat. “Yes, I am 13 weeks pregnant.”

“Wait,” Jensen speaks up. “That night we met was only 7 weeks ago.”

Mr. Bell turns and looks at Jensen, silently admonishing and asking him to be quiet.

“So you were already pregnant?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“And where is the actual father?”

“I don't know. Don't know who he is,” Athena answers with a shrug of her shoulders. 

Y/N stands up quickly, knocking her chair back and to the ground and before anyone could do anything, lunges over the table and slaps the young girl.

“You fucking whore!” .

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Preview of next chapter: “God, I'm glad that's over,” Jensen sighs as he lays his head against the headrest and closes his eyes.

“Me too but I still think I could've taken her,” Y/N says, causing Jensen to open his eyes to look at his wife. There is a slight smile on her lips.

“C'mere Ronda Rousey,” he chuckles, pulling her face to his and kissing her soundly. “Gotta admit that was kinda hot!”

She smiles up at him, and then he starts the vehicle and heads home.

TAGS: @spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam @ironreviewangel @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @purpleeclipseeggsland @kmc1989 @leigh70 @nancymcl @muhahaha303 @justwhisperingfantasies @jackles010378 @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deanna45 @ozwriterchick @mandee7 @spnaquakindgdom @impala67rollingthroughtown @generalmoonpolice @1313diana @roseblue373 @palerogue1 @deansimpalababy @queen-cs

[2af-afterdark]

A Place to Rest Your Weary Head

Fandom: What in Hell is Bad? Content: Amon x Bael, Nipple Play, Inverted Nipples (Bael), Mild Angst, Light Smut A/N: Stole the divider from @flys-domain You ever start writing something thinking that it’s going to be filthy smut, but then it turns into angst and hurts you for daring to think you could make something sexy? Yeah… Summary: Amon plays with Bael’s nipples. Word Count: 843

Four establishments were asking for assistance to keep their doors open, two were looking for mediation after one accused the other of theft, and seven had sent large bills on behalf of Beelzebub. Bael could feel a headache taking root in his brain. That damned Beelzebub was causing more issues than he could deal with.

And he couldn’t concentrate on any of it because of Amon.

“If you're going to sleep, go somewhere else.” His voice said in tune to the scratching of his pen as he signed that he would not be providing aid to the first establishment; nightclubs were commonplace in Abyssos, after all. One closing down wouldn't be noticed.

Amon only grumbled as he laid his head against Bael's back. “You're sitting on me, your fake majesty. I can't move.”

His arms wrapped around Bael like he was a large plushie, lying restlessly against and kneading his chest while half unconscious.

“I had no choice. You refused to move out of my seat-”

“It's Lord Beelzebub's seat,” Amon corrected, still in a daze.

“You refused to move out of the seat and I had work to do.”

Amon's hands traced over the thin material of Bael's uniform, nails digging and tearing until tiny holes began to form against Bael's chest.

“You're more comfortable than a blanket,” Amon claimed as he fingered at the holes he had made to rip them open even more.

Bael seemed unperturbed by Amon's antics. He was too lost in trying to figure out how he would balance the kingdom's budget after Beelzebub's latest spending spree.

Amon merely tugged at the loose ends of the holes he'd formed in Bael's uniform until they met, creating one large tear that exposed the expanse of his chest. He couldn't see what he had managed to reveal, but he knew Bael's chest well enough to explore it without sight and while mostly asleep.

Beneath the pads of his fingers, Amon could feel Bael's naturally puffy and swollen chest, which hid what he was seeking. Collapsed inward, he began to poke at the spot where Bael's inverted nipples should be. He pinched and rolled Bael's chest in his hands, feeling where his nipples were hidden away.

Despite his efforts to ignore Amon's half-dazed antics, Bael began to subtly shake in his lap, revealing how affected he was.

Amon doubled his efforts, now more awake than he had been when he started. His fingers gently worked their way into the small cavity where they hid, eventually rubbing against the little nubs that were still surrounded by fat and flesh. His fingers pushed against them, made them swell with longing, desire, and blood; made them harden.

Amon hooked his fingers against them, and finally forced them to come out into the open.

“Your nipples came out, your not-royal not-highness,” Amon said matter-of-factly as his fingers prodded at Bael's freshly exposed nipples.

“Leave them alone,” Bael said.

“But,” Amon began, “you're the one humping me.”

Just as he claimed, Bael had been subconsciously rubbing himself against Amon's thigh since Amon began to play with his chest.

“Stop anyway. You're distracting me and I have more to do after this.”

He didn't stop. Instead, Amon flicked at his nipples, tormenting the sensitive buds that so rarely saw fresh air.

Bael inhaled sharply as he doubled over against the desk, trying and failing to pull away from Amon's fingers which were now clamped onto him and massaging away the sting that he had just inflicted.

“I told you to stop,” Bael gasped between heavy breaths.

Amon didn't respond, only continuing what he had already been doing.

Bael squirmed in his seat, unable to stay focused on his administrative duties with Amon tormenting him. As he moved, his body rubbed against Amon's. Not only did it feel like his nipples were being tortured, but he could feel a tingling in his groin as well.

And Bael could feel that the same thing was happening to Amon beneath him.

“Look at me,” Amon said, nary a hint of exhaustion still left in his voice.

Bael didn't turn his gaze. He only continued to spasm in Amon's lap.

Amon released his hold on one of Bael's nipples only long enough to grab his face and force him to look into his eyes.

“I want to see you, your fake majesty,” Amon said as if it was the most natural statement.

Bael's eyes had gone cross – so easily overwhelmed by pleasure after so long – but they still held a hint of rationality in them.

He shook his head. “I can't. Please stop.”

Amon looked at him with an impassioned face, but the corners of his mouth were turned slightly downward. 

Then, he slid his arms downward to wrap around Bael's waist and leaned his head against his back.

“Tired. Hungry. Don't make me move.” A groggy tone returned to Amon's voice as he closed his eyes.

Bael said nothing at the warm pressure of Amon against his backside as he returned to doing the king's job in Beelzebub's place.

[dragongirlie56]

05- Solace in Lullabies

My submission for Zelinktines! (and a one shot i’ve been wanting to write for a while now lol)

I chose prompt 2: Singing!

I wanted to only do 500 word drabble…. but I went to 2,000 words. I’m not mad about it.

@zelinktines

Thanks for hosting this! It’s such a cute idea!!

Ship: Zelink BOTW

Angst and fluff balance!

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Moonlight lit the back of Link's tunic. The faint light cast his weak shadow across the stone. He stood at the edge of the spring with his gaze toward the arch entrance. The legendary sword resting in his grip, the tip of his blade grazing the ancient grounds. His cerulean eyes scanned for any ounce of danger that threatened to push past him.

Flurries of snow descended from above, landing in his dirty blonde locks and his sleeves. He couldn’t deny that it was peaceful up on Mount Lanayru, however, peace was far from the young hero’s mind. He could never ease his mind when Zelda was troubled, especially when they visited the springs.

Zelda was immersed waist-deep in the freezing cold water; her once recited prayers shifted into anguished pleas. The bitter heartache laced in her voice was more than enough for him to tell she was reaching her limit.

It tore his heart in every direction.

“Curse you.” His ears twitched slightly at the sound of water splashing and his heart stopped. She didn’t fall in did she? Right as he turned to check she spoke again, easing his initial panic. ”Every single day I pray and every single day you show no signs in return! I’ve been doing this all my life. I had no childhood just so I could pray to you for some stupid powers that don’t seem to work! Do you really wish for Hyrule to crumble at the hands of that monster? Do you want me to fail so terribly that you’d risk the world? Your people? My friends who are risking their lives? My-“ She choked on a sob. “Are you even there?”

Link closed his eyes, a sorrowful sigh escaping him. The goddess was testing his patience. Was she just like the rest of the skeptics parading around Hyrule who doubted the young princess, including the king himself? His fists tensed around the hilt of his sword… some goddess she was and some father the king claimed to be.

A spike of anger stabbed his gut. Screw Hylia, screw Ganon, screw the faithless, and screw the king. If it wouldn’t result in exile, Link would give the King of Hyrule a piece of his mind.

“What is wrong with me?”

The words pierced him like a lynel spear, tearing him from his thoughts and making his eyes widen. Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with you! He wanted to scream out but his throat went dry. Dry with his oath to the royal guard and his appointed position… he was only her protector. But doesn’t being her protector also permit him to support her and protect her emotionally? The thought made him furrow his brows.

“Tell me! Am I really that worthless? Am I not worthy enough to wield Hylia’s great power?”

Her last cry cut the tether holding him down in place. He couldn’t stand by. Not anymore. The blonde set his sword down and descended the stone staircase.

Ice water surrounded him and he sucked in a sharp breath as he waded through the spring. How did she do this all the time?

“Link.” His pointed ears caught her whisper as she turned around. Her wide, green eyes locked onto his soft, blue ones as they reached for each other at the same time. Her legs gave out as she stepped toward him but Link was quick to wrap an arm under her knees and pull her against him.

Her lips were as blue as the fading sky and her face was paler than the color of snow.

I knew I should have pulled her out sooner. Link gritted his teeth as he internally kicked himself. If she developed hypothermia he’d never forgive himself.

A sob racked its way up her throat and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Link, I-I’m sorry.” She wiped away a stream of tears with her palm. “I feel nothing-”

The knight shook his head, tightening his arms around her shivering form.

She worked so hard, he saw that. Every minute, every day, every hour. She was so dedicated to helping her people, that was what mattered. His chest ached… he wished he could tell her he disagreed with her father’s harsh remarks on her and her training. He wanted to tell her that she was more than a princess to him.

That he loved her.

The thought sent his heart in a frantic spiral. He had broken the biggest rule of all. He had taken a hammer and shattered it with little regret—if any at all.

‘Don’t have any personal relations with the princess, it’s strictly professional. For your only duty is to protect her. It is treason otherwise.’ His captain’s words echoed through his ears. In other words, he warned not to fall for the princess.

But Link didn’t just fall, he stumbled into the inevitable chasm and hit the ground rolling. Which… how could he not? There had to be some exception to that rule because lust wasn’t his driving force, no, he was undoubtedly and truly in love with her.

His father would be ashamed of him—-well the knight side of his father anyway. His captain would absolutely be ashamed of him. Though, Link couldn’t find it in him to care.

He’d tell her, but first he had to make sure she didn’t freeze to death.

Link set her down by the tent he had assembled prior to Zelda’s training. He rummaged through his bag before he handed her a set of her warm winter clothes, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

She sniffled and nodded once. A few wet strands of gold falling into her defeated eyes. He fought the urge to brush it behind her pointed ears.

While she changed, Link picked up his pile of wood to create a makeshift fire. He pulled out a piece of flint from his bag and struck a stray rock against it, creating a spark that fueled the flames.

He tossed a few more sticks in the fire.

”Where should I…?” Link turned toward Zelda’s voice, his eyes softening upon meeting her own. She was standing with her ceremonial dress in her hands; Water droplets dripped from its ruffled edges.

He took the dress from her grasp and gestured toward the orange flames.

”The fire…” he murmured.

”Oh yes, of course. Thank you.”

Link nodded as he laid the dress on the stone—out of reach from the falling snow. He reached into his bag once more, grabbing a spare set of his clothes. He found a secluded area and peeled his tunic off his torso.

The freezing air pierced his skin, making him wince. He seriously didn’t understand how Zelda had done this the last four nights. He would have a word with the king, this wasn’t safe at all.

If he had a daughter, he’d never treat her the way Rhoam treated Zelda and he certainly wouldn’t force her train relentlessly in the frozen mountain with no support or praise. No, if he had kids they would be supported to no end.

Link fastened his spare pair of boots and in little to no time he returned to the camp.

His blue eyes flicked to Zelda who sat on one of the stones near the fire. Color had returned to her face and her lips were back to its pink tint. Her eyes were locked on the dancing flames and her brows were scrunched together.

Oh how badly he desired to see an ounce of her smile. He missed it. Terribly. But with the calamity looming near and the weight of their burdens nearly crushing them, the rarity of the emerald eyed blonde cracking a smile had multiplied tenfold.

Link swallowed and cleared his throat before speaking. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth… voicing his thoughts still wasn’t his strong suit but he’d do it for her.

“Princess. There’s nothing wrong with you,” he finally spoke, wrapping a wool blanket around her shoulders. His forearms rested on his knees as he stared at her.

A heavy sigh escaped her. “Link.” She shook her head, averting his gaze. She let out a sniffle before continuing. “I fear I won’t be able to help you when… when the time comes and you’ll- you’ll die because I didn’t train hard enough. All the great princesses before me were able to unlock it! I’m the only one who-“ She grimaced. “Who hasn’t.” More sniffles. “So there has to be only one explanation. There must be something wrong with…”

His thumb brushed her tears away. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he repeated, allowing his hand to linger for a few more seconds.

New tears shimmered in her viridescent gaze. ”You really believe that?”

He nodded, though he noticed her gaze drop and the subtle frown on her lips. She was still unsure or she wasn’t satisfied with his answer.

Link moved to sit next to her. His arm brushed against hers, making his heart flutter. He cleared his throat as he leaned back against the wall.

“Yes, Zelda, I really believe it…. I believe in you. And even if your powers don’t come, we’ll be okay. We’ll find another way.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

Their eyes met and she raised her eyebrows as her lips twitched into a smile. The blonde knight returned it; her smiles were extremely contagious… to him at least.

“Thank you Link.”

He gave her a nod before shifting his gaze to the flickering flames. They sat in a peaceful silence until Zelda rested her head on his shoulder. Link’s muscles tensed as her hair brushed against his cheek.

“Sorry- I hope this is okay.”

Link nodded—-the only response he could give at the moment. He really, really hoped she couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

After a few moments she shifted and she shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around her.

“Are you uncomfortable?” He found himself asking.

“What?” She pulled away to look at him. “No- I’m fine. It’s just cold.” She shivered again and Link hesitantly opened his arms as he averted her emerald gaze.

Seconds seemed like minutes. Blood rushed to Link’s ears.

Why did I do that? I’m crossing a line-

Zelda wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest, sending every blood cell to his head.

Oh what am I doing?

He battled his thoughts, insisting he was only protecting her from the harsh cold. Because that's all it had to be. Nothing more nothing less.

“I’m thinking about too many things… I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” she murmured.

“You need your strength.”

She let out an airy chuckle. “I guess…. When do you sleep though? I never see you sleep.” Link shook his head. Always the curious one.

“Please try,” he responded to which Zelda sighed.

“Fine.”

Sleep wasn’t something Link had often, even when he was younger. He remembered his mother would check on him and his sister, Aryll, to make sure they were asleep. She always found him wide awake, looking out the window into the starry night sky.

She’d ask him ‘what’s wrong’ and he’d say ‘I can’t sleep’. She’d then sit on his neatly kept bed and say, ‘You get this from your father.’

Link always found that funny, he never believed it because his old man always snored at this time of night and slept until the birds stopped chirping. No way he could’ve had trouble sleeping at Link’s age.

His mom would pat his bed, tuck him in, and she’d start to sing. There were no words to the song, only the melody. As a child, this never failed to ease him into a peaceful slumber. So maybe…

Link closed his eyes and started to hum. His voice was soft as he sang the lullaby, the one that shared Zelda’s name. It was actually his favorite.

His hum carried in the slight breeze. He wished there was a way to stop time so they could stay in this moment forever without a worry in the world.

Zelda’s breaths slowed and her grip on his waist eventually loosened as the sweet melody came to an end.

Link opened his eyes and let his gaze drop to the sleeping princess.

He’d protect her with his dying breath, that was a promise.

The knight leaned down to lightly kiss the top of her blonde hair as if to seal the vow.

///////////////////////////////////////////////

Zelink masterlist

[fanaticsnail]

Despiértame mi Corazon

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,454

(Image Source: Actor: Alex Pettyfer + @fanaticsnail's dodgy photo editing skills)

Synopsis: You have been on the run from Donquixote Doflamingo, sheltering and caring for a young, sick child. Your emotions catch up with you as you process the change your life has led you to. You’ve left it all: family, career, friends - all to support Rosinante in his quest to cure the boy. Upon seeing you in this state, your Corazon will do anything to see you smile again. 

Themes: mutual pining, sickness, love, Rosi is a daddy, Rosi is a sweetheart, idiots in love, friends to lovers, Trafalgar Law is a child, baby Law is an edge-lord, angst, crying, hurt/comfort, dancing, Rosi is a dork, sad ending (I’m sorry), Dance reference link here.

Notes: This is a gift for @writingmysanity. You get two Cora fics, because we both need it. The other, more happy one, is coming soon, sweety!! 

Tag List: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @gingernut1314 @cinnbar-bun @vespidphoenix @i-am-vita @sexc-snail I don't know if you guys like Corazon, but I hope this convinces you to love him.

Song Suggestion: “Wake Me Up” - Postmodern JukeBox

The air carrying the tide towards your feet felt as thick and heavy as the encumbering weight on your heart. Frozen remnants of falling snow stuck to your cheeks, your eyelashes collecting a small amount of dust to coat your follicles in the crisp breeze. Aside from the peace found in momentary stasis, your mind was racing and your soul screaming for release. 

Trafalgar D Water-Law was dying. The boy you took under your wing, the child you cared for, the adolescent who held your heart in his hands was dying. He was not going to make it without consuming the Op-Op Fruit, a cruel reality that had finally caught up with you. 

You were so close. So unbelievably close to getting his cure - his fate balancing on the edge of a knife in the steely grasp of Donquixote Doflamingo. A cure like this was not something that would be gifted freely, both you and Rosinante knew this for a fact. There was no amount of convincing, scheming, bribing, groveling, or begging you could do to gather this cure for the sickly child you both loved. It needed to be claimed by force, and claimed now. 

Finding solace in the small moment you carved aside, you allowed yourself the luxury of hot tears rolling down your cheeks: consumed by the grief in the dire situation you found yourself within. You were simply unable to carry the weight of these harsh and raw emotions any longer. What began as a small sniff through your nose quickly and quietly escalated into soft sobs. As the sorrow was released, you felt the weight grow heavier in your heart and expand to encumber your chest.

Drawing up your knees and cradling them against you, you turned your head away from the shack as your shoulders shook with each whimpered sob. You desperately hoped to any deity that was listening that you were far enough away from your home for the night to hold your sobs in silence, not alerting or disturbing your two companions as they lay in slumber. 

Stalking slowly towards you, aided in silence by his devil-fruit abilities, Donquixote Rosinante was approaching you in your sorrow. His hand stuttered forward, wanting desperately to place it down on your shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze in consoling your release of your emotions. 

He, himself, knew this feeling, and he knew this feeling well. Giving into his feelings a few weeks earlier, while drinking a vast amount of sake straight from the bottle. He felt helpless in the overwhelming devastation that currently held the three of you hostage. Desperate to provide you comfort, although not desiring to give you a touch you were not expecting, he halted his movement from descending upon your shoulders.

Retracting his extended hand away from you, he stumbled backwards towards the shack to check in on the sleeping Trafalgar Law. Clambering up the steps, he looked over the peaceful form of the boy nestled up in his blankets to keep warm in the cool night. Noticing the fluttering rise and fall in his chest, the subtle wheeze extending and catching in his throat, he felt the return of helplessness overcome his body. 

Turning away from the child, his fingers absentmindedly brushed against the surface of the steely frame of his radio, flicking on the valve to wake its static call. He began turning the knobs, seeking out a whisper of a song to drown out his circulating devastation and distract himself with. 

The rustling static did nothing to wake Law from his rest, but did alert you of the fact Rosinante was awake and skulking around. Hastily drying your tears with the inner sleeve on your wrist, you ensured you were the very picture of positivity should the leader of your expedition join you in the cool air outside the shack. 

Your relationship with the younger Donquixote brother was complicated. 

Pledging your undying loyalty under pain or death to Doflamingo in your youth, your proximity to the younger brother had you develop the swell of infatuation with him. Through the years, your heart always had a soft simmer threatening to rapidly boil towards the surface. He was quiet, he was calm, his skills as a fighter were a privilege to behold in battle, and it was an honor to fight beside him. 

Under the orders of the older Donquixote brother, you had done  terrible things that required atonement to cleanse your hands of it. As you were both introduced to the young child who wished for death to claim him, you both became as hardened as the other to force the will to live upon him in repentance for your transgressions. 

Watching Rosinante take the lead in Law’s care, your infatuation rose once again: a rise which prompted you to cast aside your loyalty to Doflamingo and aid ‘Corazon’ in the task of betraying him. You were in exile, hiding while searching for a cure for the boy that you only now learnt were in the clutches of the very hands you were attempting to flee from.

You loved him. You loved watching the lanky man fawning over the sickly boy. It had your heart soar and fly ever higher. The way he loved with his whole heart had a ripple effect, prompting you to open your own heart to love both of them even more. When Rosinante displayed his heart, it was worn on his sleeve and given unconditionally. And when you saw this love for others, it made you long to be a recipient of such devotion. 

The rise in static volume prompted you to turn around, glancing at the looming figure exiting the door of the shack, a radio within his hands. He placed it on the wooden frame lining the porch and gestured for you to come over to him with a subtle sway of his hands. You offered him a soft, melancholy smile and rose to your feet from the cool sand beneath you. 

No words were spoken as you approached him, keeping your head bowed from him as the static crackled and roared to life. A familiar tune from your youth rose in the speakers, your smile broadening as the lyrics shepherded you into a gentle sway. 

Rosinante’s outstretched hand flitted fluidly down to you, a small bob in his head indicating for you to place your hand within his own. You returned this gesture with your eyes closed and shaking your head in disbelief at his invitation. He smiled, reaching forward his other hand down and claiming your unoccupied hand and began swaying you to the beat. 

“What are you doing, Rosinante?” you slowly hummed your question up at him, brow twitching up in intrigue. His warm smile pulled you in, alongside the slow shimmied-shake of his arms with your own. 

“We’re dancing,” he confessed with a rumbled chuckle, his toes accidentally colliding with your own: both flinching at the contact. He shook his head, adding to his answer, “I stand corrected: we’re trying.” 

Although the mood was filled with sorrow, the sway of Rosinante’s awkward movements had your smile rising up your cheeks and eyes drying of their prior downpour. A small swell in your heart at his attempt to make you smile had your cheeks begin to pull upwards by the smallest smile you could muster. 

Everything about the way he danced with you was stiff, awkward and rigid: a memory rising in both your minds of earlier in your youth springing forward.

“You remember when we first danced together?” Rosinante asked you, his painted lips attempting to hold back a toothy grin. You giggled at him, ushering his body to spin in your arms and gently twirled his body. The dark feathers tickled your skin, a sneeze rising in your nose in response to the subtle brush from the inky follicles.

“I remember it being about as ah-... ah-... ahh-...!” you sneezed, shaking your shoulders as you turned away from him to save him from the spray. He chuckled as you recovered from your sneeze, continuing, “-As awkward as this one. You didn’t have your feather coat then, either.” 

“Oh, right!” Rosinante laughed, twirling his body away from yours and removing his feathered overcoat from its place on his shoulders, casting it over the wooden frame beside the speaker. “Alright now, where were we?” His pink shirt dipped in his chest, the subtle rise of his lungs and exposure of soft skin tempted a warm flush to rise in your cheeks. You shook your head to rid yourself of such thoughts about your friend, recovering enough to plaster a small smile on your face. 

Swaying your hips and tapping your toes against the ground, you skillfully twirled your body to rejoin your hands within his. He gleefully laughed at your gesture, his own hips swaying to the beat and rocking his shoulders as the rhythm picked up. His knees were unpracticed and unskilled in this artform, but his enthusiasm overtook his inability to dance. 

Twirling his body away from you, he clapped his hands and began stomping his feet lightly on the floorboards. He tapped twice more before kneeling himself down on one knee, his other leg arched into a deep lunge in front of him. He placed his right hand on his hip, rising his left above his head and brandished it with a playful flourish. 

“Oh, we’re doing this one, are we?” your tone picked up, your brow arching on your forehead as you leant forward to claim his left hand within your right, “You remember how I tripped over your lanky legs when I did this last time,” you smiled, circling his body and hopping yourself over his calf lying flat behind him.

“I do,” he chuckled in return, following your movement with the lull of his head. His smile rose further as you playfully watched him from the corner of your eye. “You remember how we recovered, though? What we did to balance out the dance?” 

“Yes, Corazon,” you half-laughed, half-sighed, as you recalled how the evening progressed, “We drowned ourselves in several bottles of sake and laughed at our own idiocy.” Rosinante shook his head, rising to his feet after releasing your hand from within his. 

“No, mi amor,” he whispered, placing his hands on your hips and swaying you from behind, “I meant this.” He turned you within his arms, raking his hands over your hips, hands circling over your waist and holding you firmly against his torso. You hooked your arms over his shoulders behind your head, shepherding him to embrace you further while swaying to the rhythm. 

Rosinante pressed his cheek against your own, your eyes instinctively fluttering closed as you felt the rise in his grin on your skin. His breath tickled the nape of your neck, you breathing along to his rhythmic pattern with each passing moment. 

You felt all of your worries cast themselves aside each moment he held you in his arms, all anguish and melancholy passing from your body and reigned within his embrace. The pressure of his own sorrows fled from him and onto you, the sharing of the emotional labor departed each of you in this moment to simmer and smother between you.

“Why were we dancing again?” you whispered to him, your lips almost making contact with the shell of his ear. You felt him shudder against your touch, instinctively pressing your back further against his chest and nuzzling into your neck. 

Spinning in his arms, his hands tugging at your shifting shirt as you turned to face him, his eyes widened as he sought out his answer to you. Humming thoughtfully, he finally located his answer in his memory.

“I think it was Doffy’s birthday, or celebrating a raid on some unfortunate-,” Rosinante began, halted by you pulling away and glancing into his eyes. 

“-I mean now, mi corazon,” you floated your eyes between his, looking for rhyme or reason within his steely orbs, “Why are we dancing now?” He stuttered in his sway, freezing like a fainting goat being startled by a loud sound. 

“Y-You called me-...” his breath caught in his throat, lips parting as he floated his gaze between your own eyes, briefly caught in gazing longingly against your lips. “You called me ‘mi corazon’, mi amor.” He held you in silence, his heart swelling and adrenaline urging his body against his will to surge forward. 

The air was tense, the deafening silence being broken only by the smooth rise in melody from the radio beside you. His eyes softened more, wordlessly asking you a question with his lips quivering and eyes frantically darting between your own.

A small nod from him, answered by a nod of your own was all the answer he needed to join his lips with yours, softly molding himself to your lips and breathing in your air. 

The world came crashing down around you, the realms of unanswered questions from your youth were retorted by the soft lips of Donquixote Rosinante’s pressed against your own. You squeaked against his lips, eyes wide and watching as, his were closed with his brows furrowing in deepest concentration. He hissed in a breath through his nose, turning his head by the angle of his chin to deepen the embrace. 

Raking his hands up from your hips, he claimed fistfuls of your shirt in his needy grasp. He whimpered against your lips, prompting you to reciprocate his passionate kiss. You felt his heart, his spirit and his worries pass from his body into yours further. This intimate and wordless confession had your heart racing at the impossibilities that brought you here. 

Slowly pulling your hands from his shoulders, you slid them down his neck and grasped the embroidered pink collar of his shirt and pushed him back towards the railing. As his beck hit the hard, wooden pillar, he gasped into your mouth and desperately clawed at you to hold you firmer. Angling his head away, he pressed lengthy kiss after kiss against your lips, cheeks and chin: a trail marked by his pink lip-paint. 

“I want you,” he whispered against your lips, hovering them above your own before pressing his own against yours twice more, “I want us. I want all of us-.” He peppered your cheeks with lengthy kisses, the smear of his lip paint rubbing against your skin and tinting your flesh. “-The three of us. I want to be our own family: go where we want to go, wherever our hearts take us. I want to forge a life with you and that kid.”

“What are you saying-?” you whimpered for him, your hands claiming his cheeks within them and ushering his face away from yours. He groaned, leaning forward and claiming your lips beneath his own before fully allowing you to push him away.

“I want to adopt Law,” he continued, his hand rising to your hair and caressing your scalp, “You already mother him, fawn over him and treat him like your own.” Your hand flew to his hair as he pressed a long kiss against your neck, “I want to do this, and I want to do this with you, mi amor. I want to marry you, to be yours and you to be mine.” 

“I want us to be happy, mi amor,” he concluded, a melancholy smile finding his cheeks as he dipped his brow down to seek out your eyes, “I will have you smile again: a smile mirrored between the three of us.” He pressed a gentle kiss against your brow, adding a muffled, “Three against the world.”

The shock of it all happening at once held you in momentary silence. Feeling the pull to confess your own adoration and wants for the future onto him, your lips formed words before you could withhold them in your throat. 

“When this nightmare is all over,” you gasped, tugging at his blond locks to subtly weave him away from your neck to look in your eyes. “When we wake up from the darkness,” you slowly caressed his cheek, your thumb finding his bottom lip and attempting to press the paint within the boundaries of his lip line, “I want all of that with you, mi corazon.” 

At your confession, Donquixote Rosinante’s heart soared for you and his tears began to prick at the corners of his eyes. He truly didn’t know those words were needed to grace his ears and soothe his mind, but so thankful you formed them. 

He loved you from the moment he met you all those years ago. The urge to protect you from the evil his brother ushered into the world was so strong, he nearly broke the mask he made while infiltrating the crew. Seeing you hold your own against them, your skill in combat ushering a swift death to those who opposed you with mercy had him swooning at your kindness amongst the brutality. 

“Te amo, mi corazon,” you whispered, your lips again hovering over his own, “I always have, and I should’ve acted on it sooner. I just got caught up with the mission, with loving our child. You are doing such a good job with him, I want you to know that.” You soothed over his blond hair, brushing your nose against his while confessing your admiration further, “I love you, and I love Law so, so much-.” 

Surging forwards, the contact he made with your lips was wet: the stale aftertaste of his last cigarette was eclipsed by the salty tears falling over his lips. He didn’t know when his tears started to fall, nor did you grasp when your own intertwined with his against your lips. You laughed against his lips, feeling the lingering tingle of affection spark and ignite in your chest. He swooned for you, raking desperately at your body to hold you as close as he could without breaking through the material of your clothes. 

You broke away from his lips, gazing into his eyes with nothing but pure adoration and love. His own unspoken confession lingered in the air, the atmosphere tense and swollen with the lust-stricken adrenaline. The spark of the adoration tinting your eyes surged his confession forward, his words clumsily jumbled over his lips. 

“Mi tesoro, mi amor, mi familia,” he whimpered for you, his voice stuttering and stumbling over his words as he stooped down to you, “Te amo-... I-I love you. I love everything about you, and I should’ve told you sooner. I wanted to tell you from the day I first met you. I swooned for you when you danced with me all those years ago. My heart beats for you, and propels me to complete this task all the sooner to start this adventure with you and Law.” 

He pressed his forehead against your own, the feeling of hot tears rolling down his cheeks at the confession had you both sobbing and laughing at yourselves. Sniffling and collecting your own tears on your wrist, and he with his, you both glanced up at each other and allowed your smiles to rise. 

“We will get this done, Donquixote Rosinante,” you hardened your resolve, nodding through every word, “And when it’s all over, we will be una familia- a family, mi corazon. The three of us. Together.” You held each other close on the deck of the small shack: swaying between kisses as the darkness plaguing your journey was eclipsed by the light rising between you. 

Hanging on your every word, a small sob hitched at the crack in the door, Trafalgar Law’s hand clasping over his lips to mask his presence. Law had never witnessed so much love pouring from one person to another. The fact that you both held such love for him too had him openly sobbing at the interaction. 

He wanted this too. 

He wanted to be a family with both of you: two absolute idiots that loved both him and each other unconditionally. Two complete idiots who were hardened fighters, pirates, and war criminals. His idiots.

He wanted this so desperately. 

He wants his imperfect, perfect family. 

But some things were not meant to be. 

Law would call on this memory often. Each time that melody played over his personal radio, his heart would both consequently swell and shatter as tears threatened to pour down his face. He wanted to wake up, for it to all be some horrific nightmare and still be searching with you and Cora-san for a cure for his illness. Your love was real, and he was thankful to play his part in it.

However small a time it was, it was his. His perfect, imperfect family.

[fantasticalleigh]

🫣it feels so DAUNTING to write and post fic for a new fandom!! i haven't felt this way in such a long time, it's exhiliarating, but I'm pleased to finally present chapter one of my punkintyre fic, between your teeth. please pay attention to the tags/warnings/author's notes and thank you for giving it a chance ��💖💖

[thatcoyperson]

// SESSION 9 SECRET LIFE SPOILERS [the ending] AND I MEAN MAJOR ONES

-

I got this idea from what Martyn said during his lore stream the other day and it cured me of my writers block, so I wrote this in a few hours after hearing it

[CW for blood, mentions of death, and I feel like the fact that my friend was saying "it all hurts" for like 30 minutes after reading this counts for something]

• -------- • -------- • -------- •

It’s over Scar. She's dead.

Standing in the ravine, Scar stared blankly at the stone ahead of him as those ghostly words echoed in his mind.

It was over.

He’d won.

Despite everything, he’d won.

A breathy laugh escaped him. It didn't feel like a win. Nothing about this did. It felt hollow and empty, meaningless.

A win was supposed to be a grand show to the world that you can make it to the end, a final showing that it can be done despite everything. One last stand against the world. That's what a win was meant to be.

But this wasn't any of that, not when Scar was stuck frozen in place, the faint rhythmic sound of liquid dripping off the rocks somewhere behind him being the only thing he could hear once the blood rushing to his ears subsided. How was any of this meant to feel like a win, like the grand finale to something that had been the last few months of his life when it was the furthest thing from grand? When he felt the furthest thing from victorious? How was he even meant to feel victorious or grand in a situation like this? He'd spent the whole season alone just trying to make friends, only for him to win by shooting the closest person he has to one of those.

Alone…

He never liked being alone.

How did he win while he was alone?

How did the guy with no friends win?

He laughed to himself, bow still held in one hand, and using the other to push his hair back. A pained smile was painted across his face as he laughed, asking himself how? How did he win? How did he make it this far all alone? How did he manage to tell himself that just one more day, one more day and it would be worth it enough times to where he won? It didn't make sense. Not to him at least.

No matter how long he stood there wondering to himself, there was still one thing that was left to be done. Hit the button.

He had succeeded his task after all, right? Scar had won, despite how meaningless this victory truly was.

All he had to do was hit the button and it would all be over. It would finally end. He could go back to Hermitcraft, his home, his friends. He finally wouldn't be alone anymore.

It didn't quite feel like his own movements when he started to climb out of the ravine, disconnected from everything going on. He desperately ignored the hazy sight of a red shawl to the side of his vision, feeling sick if he put any thought into what he knew was laying under it.

He didn't feel nearly as sick passing by a similar black shawl on the ground up on the surface, orange hair catching his eye for a split second as he slowly made his way across the blood stained grass and battle worn landscape of the world. And, shortly after, he reached the statue that stood in the centre of it all.

The Secret Keeper.

The being that doomed him from the very start. Quietly, he wondered to himself, was it proud? Proud that it's favourite player to mess with - proud that the one it moulded into the unwilling villain - had won? Was it proud of everything it had done, all the pain and suffering it caused? Or did it even think at all. Maybe it was just a simple stone statue, designed to have no will or intention, to have the sole purpose of handing out tasks at random, and Scar was just losing it from being alone for so long. He’d likely never get an answer.

It didn't matter though. Not when he was about to leave, not when he was about to finally be free from this hell he was stuck in, not when he was going to finally be able to see his friends again.

Letting out a shaky breath, Scar reached down and pressed the button.

…

A faint click echoed around the area, and then nothing. Nothing happened. It was just silence. No gust of wind to whisk him away back home, no welcoming voices of the hermits congratulating him on his win as they fade into view. No anything. Just silence. Painfully loud silence. Nothing changed. He was still there. Alone.

“Uhm… haha real- real funny there guys,” Scar chuckled awkwardly, his voice filled with unease. Why was he still here? That should’ve worked. Staring up at the Secret Keeper, he waited for a moment to see if it would react at all.

Nothing.

With a level of anxiety he hadn’t felt before, the button was pressed again, and again nothing happened. The world continued to stand still around him.

The feeling of unease began to grow in Scar’s gut, mixing with fear and making him feel sick all over again. “Aha, ok now thats-” The button was pressed again. Nothing. “-that’s enough this isn’t-” Again. Nothing. “-this isn’t funny anymore- oh god no please.”

Scar’s chest tightened the more he pressed on the button, becoming more and more desperate every press. “No no please just- please just take me home please I can’t do this anymore please.”

Tears began to swell in his eyes, panic truly setting in as he pleaded for an escape. Why wasn’t it working- why wasn’t it doing anything?! Was it broken now that the game was over? Was that why he was stuck- why he couldn’t get this stupid button to work?!

Falling to his knees beside the button, his head hit against the corner of the pedestal it was on. Pain slashed across his forehead at the impact, and he could feel the sickeningly familiar warmth of blood begin to well from the cut.

“PLEASE GOD JUST LET ME GO HOME!” he screamed, hitting the button again and again, his hand becoming sore and bruised the more time went on. The more he begged and pleaded and cried for whatever stupid entity was in control of this game to just let him go.

All he wanted was to go home, to see Jellie, to see his friends, to not be alone anymore. He’d been alone for too long, wasn’t that enough?

Loud cries and desperate pleas slowly turned into quiet sobs, and he brought his hand away from the button, resting them both on the edge of the pedestal beside his head.

“Please…” he sobbed, blood running down into his eyes and mixing with his tears. “Please just let me go.” a moment passed for him to catch his breath. Then, quietly: “I can’t do this anymore, please…”

His pleas went unheard. He was alone.

Alone…

He never liked being alone.

[yujeong]

potential smut prompt: (as sexual or nonsexual as you like) vegaspete eating food off of each other. it's on brand, c'mon ;)

Hello anon! Again, apologies for the delay in answering this ask, as well as answering the two you sent me backwards, but I was a bit stuck on this one: the idea you gave me is one of my favourites actually, but it was difficult to... express in writing form (the mental images it caused me were very vivid for some reason though lmao). I hope you enjoy this very weird concept and snippet ❤️ I'm sorry if it isn't exactly what you meant when you sent it to me. CW: handjob, unadvised use of ice cream -------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was something that should be giving Vegas joy. Instead, it only brought him irritation. "Why do you always eat Macau's leftovers?" The sun was almost hidden, casting hues of orange and red on their exposed bodies. The temperature was high but a gentle wind was blowing, a pleasant change to the previous days spent at Pete's hometown. Pete licked the ice cream twice before replying. "Why not? I like this flavor." "You're not his fucking dog!" Vegas had clearly been sitting on the wooden dock for too long; that must be the reason he was acting like a child right now. Pete grew rigid before he relaxed again next to him, continuing to eat his treat seemingly without care, letting it melt all over his fingers. "You made a mess of yourself," Vegas said then, grabbing Pete's wrist to bring the cone closer to his mouth. He licked Pete's index finger clean in a hurry, before the drop of vanilla could go lower, and that was when he realized the change. He felt Pete suck in a shallow breath before he heard it. He lifted his gaze to see Pete's eyes focused on him, his lips parted, his pupils dilated. He was too easy to read sometimes. Vegas couldn't help but smirk as he continued; he moved on to Pete's middle finger, then his ring finger, then his pinky, slowly, interchanging between using his lips and his tongue, savoring the taste of sugar and Pete's skin, staring at Pete's expression crumbling under his desire the whole time. The desire for more. Vegas would never deny him. With his right hand being free, he swiftly grabbed Pete's dick under his swimsuit, bathing in the delight of finding him half-hard already. "Vegas..." "The sun is almost down. We won't be seen." It wasn't a certainty and both of them knew it, but Vegas didn't really care. All that was important right now was giving Pete what he craved. He could have jerked Pete off dry just fine - they'd done that before plenty of times - but something about that ice cream melting all over Pete was tantalizing. It made Vegas want it to cover more than just Pete's hand. "Let's use some of that," he told Pete who blinked in confusion, whose mouth opened even more when he figured out what Vegas was doing with his palm, before he shoved it under his swimsuit again. Pete came quickly after a couple of strokes, panting and smiling and laughing at Vegas who was starting to feel a little gross with the mess he'd made. "It's your fault for being a clumsy eater," Vegas said, unable to drop his own smile. He was feeling good. His body hadn't betrayed him yet; the beach was right there for them to clean themselves up later if they wanted to. For now, he was content kissing Pete breathless as he dropped the rest of the ice cream and became very eager to return the favor.

[jacks347]

A story about a very religious boy who goes to confession every week to pray for God to take his gay thoughts away and the priest's son practicing to take over for his father who slowly falls in love with him until one day when he comes to confession in tears because someone caught him with another boy and he's being burned as a witch, accused by the town and his scared lover that he'd put a spell on him and was practicing witchcraft

The priest finally pulls back the curtain to confess his feelings and help him escape but he's already gone, dragged to the pyre and it's only as the torches are lit that he finally learns the name and face of the boy who stole his heart

"Caleb. Caleb Thomas. The blacksmith's son. That's who he was. The boy who came to confession every week, who begged for the Lord to forgive him, to take away the part of him that was so wrong and broken. The boy I'd come to love. The boy I watched now as my father lit the wood beneath his feet, condemning him to fires far worse than the ones that would sear his mortal skin.

Did he know? Did he know how he'd broken every rule I'd ever been taught with his laugh? How he'd torn down all the walls I'd put up as he told his story? How he'd taught me what love really was? That love was never just the transaction my parents made it seem, it was so much more beautiful than that. Love lived and grew and was so strong it made your head spin and I had it. I'd felt it. But I never got to live it. I was too scared, too stuck in the ways of the past like the generations before me. And now I'd never feel it again. I'm so sorry Caleb. I couldn't save you, I can't even save myself. If loving you is so wrong, then take my heart with you. Let it die in the fire that engulfs you, for that will be the only way I can live in the way I'm supposed to. May God have mercy on your soul."

"David Williams, you have no idea what you've done to me. I see you out there, your eyes just as beautiful as the first time we met. Do you see me now? Do you realize all I've done to try and fill the hole in my heart that was only ever meant for you? Don't cry, my love, I'm not worth your tears. Don't blame yourself for my mistakes. Don't fall in the eyes of the Lord you hold so dear because of me. I was never worth your time, your attention, your heart. I could never be worth it.

I tried, I tried so hard to forget you. To replace you, to rebuke you. But your eyes, your smile, your laugh, they haunt my dreams and remind me of these thoughts and how broken I am. My heart shouldn't miss a beat whenever we make eye contact during mass, I shouldn't ache for your touch whenever our hands would brush together during communion, I shouldn't want you the way I've never wanted a woman. But I do. God strike me down where I stand, I do. And it's because of that I can't have you. I won't taint you the way I've been, I won't give the devil your heart the way he's taken mine. I can only hope God will forgive my grave sin of loving you."

(I wish I could say I was sorry but y'all know I'm not)

(hums "Love was the law, religion was taught")

[eustassslut]

Can you give us more Heat(/Wire) hcs please 😭😭 I love your blog sm <<33

you ask and you shall receive

Heat gets flustered easily and everything makes him blush

He likes to be the big spoon

He's a massive Marina stan

Loves spicey food and anything with herbs in it

Wire was his bisexual awakening

He saw Wire whilst their gangs were fighting and blushed when Wire tried to punch him

Heat's family used to run a traveling circus before they settled down on the island he grew up on

He's always surprising the crew by pulling out some random circus related skill that no one expects him to have

His father was a sword swallower and breath fire, which is who Heat learned from

Also has no gag reflex anymore

His mother was a trapeze artist and taught Heat everything she knew

Has a younger sister

His favourite alcoholic drink is Drambuie

His favourite non-alcoholic drink is hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream

Heat's parents love Wire and regularly send him gift packages

His closest friends on the crew include Noe, Haikei, Killer, Bubblegum and Hop

Heat and Wire used to sneak away from their gangs (who were technically at war with each other) to make out when they were teenagers

Literally everybody knew but they all pretended not to know

Often lies awake at night stressing about embarrassing and awkward things he's said

Used to make Wire flower crowns in their teens since they would sneak off to fields

Loves when his hair is played with or when he gets kissed

His favourite memories are almost all of his dates with Wire when they used to sneak around on their island, especially the memory where he taught Wire how to tightrope walk

Cries at everything in movies (sad scenes, happy scenes, romantic scenes)

Laughs at scary movies that involves clowns

Was probably a former clown for his circus, but no one has actually been able to find out

Wire does know since he accidentally saw pictures of Heat in clown makeup trying to fight another clown from a rival circus, but he's sworn to secrecy about it

His favourite movie would probably be the Sharknado or Monty Python movies

Briefly carried around a step ladder so he could kiss Wire without straining his neck

[thespringsbloomboutique]

"Family Dinner Night."

Original Character(s): Santiago Springs, Lupita Springs, Ivonne Springs, Gustavo Springs

Summary: Gustavo finally comes home for dinner with a little surprise on his neck. 

Rating: Mature; cheating, drunk dad, child abuse

Word count: 600

Type: canon/dabble/in-between

October 21, 1965.

“Come help me stir the soup, pug,” her honey voice hummed, watching as her son—all grown up—came over to take her place. He’d gotten so big over the last few months. 2, 3 inches, maybe? She wasn't sure exactly, but he was taller than her now.  Ivonne rubbed the nape of his neck before walking off to attend to the carrots, chopping them into even pieces. It was family dinner night and it was Ivonne and Santiago’s turn to make it. So, naturally, they went with the dish they always did: chicken tortilla soup. Not only is it her favorite dish to eat, but it’s also his favorite dish to make. 

“Mama, will Dad be joining us tonight?” ah yes, the question that always gets asked. Will the drunk finally decide to show up tonight? The question nearly made Ivonne cut her finger. 

“I don’t know, baby,” she sighed, scooping up the carrots in her hands and dropping them into the pot, pressing a kiss to Santiago’s hair in the process. He side-eyed her and wiped his cheek off with his shoulder, earning a slap on the arm from his mother. They laughed. 

But speak of the devil and he shall appear.

The front door creaked open and in came a stumbling Gustavo, his shirt half-unbuttoned and his hair all touseled. Decorating his neck and face were lipstick marks, his lips tainted red. Ivonne would’ve dropped the knife if she wasn’t clutching to it like a lifeline. 

“Dad?” Lupita said from the dinner table, where she had been patiently waiting.  

“Hey, baby girl. Daddy’s home,” he said with a lazy chuckle, hanging his hat on the coathanger. “How’s my wife doing?” he outstretched his arms towards Ivonne, who promptly stepped back.

“Where were you this time?” 

“Out with some buddies, you know how it is…” he slurred.

“Buddies don’t wear lipstick,” she said in a tone that made Santiago shudder. A flash of anger arose in Gustavo’s eyes. 

“What did you just say to me?”

“I just want to know where you were,” her voice was much softer now. Almost apologetic. As if she were the one to apologize. “Did you have fun?” 

“Did I have fun?” he spat, taking a few dangerous steps toward her. “Yes, I had fun. Now cook me some damn dinner.”

“I am.”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” a hand rose, but Santiago grabbed it.

“Leave her alone, Dad,” this wasn’t his first time having to deal with his drunken shit. When—if—he came home, it was the same thing over and over again. But something was different this time. The tension in the air was thick and Gustavo’s face was turning redder than the lipstick on his neck. 

“Don’t you dare touch me, boy,” he ripped his hand from his son's grip, only to bring it back around and backhand Santiago. He stumbled back against the counter with a yelp, clutching his cheek. Lupita stood suddenly, her chair screeching against the fine checkered floor. 

“What the fuck?!” she quickly rushed over to her brother, who was staring daggers at the man in front of him. 

“Lu, I’m fine,” he carefully pushed her away. 

“Finally standing up for yourself, son?” Gustavo cackled. 

“I’m not your son,” Santiago swung his fist into his jaw. If Gustavo wanted to play rough, he’d play the game. 

“You’re gonna regret that,” he snarled, launching himself at the boy, grabbing and swinging. Ivonne yelped and grabbed her daughter, pulling them away. She knew she couldn’t do anything about their fight but call the police. 

Ivonne prayed they’d come fast enough.