#call it fortuitous

[skrunklyprisonprincess]

Bartok!

Finally got around to watching the movie (more like over a week ago, it took me a bit of time working on this, I'm slow). Loved it, who doesn't love Satanists with themed workout tapes :)

I love that they gave him eyeliner too omg

Spent the entire movie wondering why notice me senpai in the opening gave me a sense of deja vu, and come credits... my questions were answered.

Some closeups too so phone users (peasants) can see all the detail/texture :)

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

.

[truecorvid]

why is coming up with names so difficult

[orcelito]

Sometimes I get the urge to be like "Well, they can't live forever" when it comes to shitty situations with shitty people. But then I remember that A: shitty person dying might not be the result that someone wants, and B: it actually can take quite a while for people to die, in many cases

Idk I'm just so used to death being right around the corner that I'm like "Well maybe he'll die soon and that'll fix it" but he probably won't die that soon and it also might not fix it. Or be wanted.

Idk it's such a specific mentality that I have now. People can die with such short notice that you Never Know! The solution to all your problems may be short at hand. You never know.

[pedripics]

Marca is Madrid-based. Those guys say shit about Barça that 50% of the time is nowhere near the truth. You can imagine why... 💀

guess who were the first ones to defend kroos... tells you all you need to know that they would rather back an rma player than a player from their own national team

[fatehbaz]

due to recent events at local and national scales, i am now obligated to use the WOMEN breeding Bolsheviks room

figure 1:

WOMEN

breeding

Bolsheviks

[quantumcartography]

I hate seeing a celebrity and being like "I know your face" but then being utterly unable to identify anything they've been in

[seraphdreams]

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEGUMI!" | MEGUMI FUSHIGURO.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃— synopsis. it would be so very cruel of you to not show your appreciation for your best friend, especially on his birthday.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃— cw. smut, college au, reader calls him “megs”, mention of “angelcunt”, unprotected love-making, bimbo!reader / best friend!megumi, a bit of asphyxiation, megumi with a crush! fingering, and praise. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃— word count. 1.7k, a quick read !!

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! hellooo !! it’s a real one’s birthday, this is the least i could do to celebrate. i’m trying to get back into the groove of writing again so stay tuned n ready 4 fics in the future !! sweet college au best friend megumi is always on my mind, something about a stoic but secretly in love trope .. (he’s no better than his father, sigh) .. as always, if you enjoyed this, please reblog / comment. i’ll bake u you’re favorite sweets if u do !! thank u ♡

megumi has always been there for you. through ups and downs, taxing breakups, even the times you’d get exceedingly inebriated and ramble endlessly about your ever-growing appreciation for him — there was no denying the cordiality he’d shown throughout the many years of your friendship. sure, he could be quite cold, maybe even grumpy; but that was just the joy of megumi fushiguro.

and for that, it’d only be right to repay him.

for all of the times he would show up uninvited to your dorm with the notes of the lecture you’d fortuitously missed, blaming the absence on the absurdly quiet lull of your alarm clock, or when he’d let you have the last bite of his food, because only god knows megumi was never above tolerating you. it’d be the work of a terrible friend to let it all go unnoticed, especially on a special day like today.

“happy birthday, megs!” there you stood,

bubbly and bright as ever, in the doorway of his bedroom, clad in nothing but a tiny pink pajama set with a top reigning transparency, it barely left the skin beneath to the imagination.

he had invited you, along with yuuji and nobara, over to his dorm the previous night to keep him company after class — which led to a kugisaki-induced movie marathon, and eventually phased out into the four of you passed out on the fushiguro’s couch, hues of light omitting from the colorful rays of the forgotten television screen and onto your slumbering faces.

with megumi holding the title of competency within the friend group, it came as no shock when he’d woken up the others to send them on their merry way. all except you, of course. the light throw-over blanket clinging to your body neatly as you slept, soft snores resonating within your being aided in megumi’s decision to give you a few extra minutes to rest.

he could never interfere with your comfort.

after your unanticipated birthday wishes, it took a moment for megumi to come to, blinking away his awareness for your scantily clothed body and opting for a more stoic expression.

“thanks,” he replied, tone low and clouded with an air of vague appreciation.

“wanna know what i got you for your birthday?” your query was that of a sing-song manner as you swayed in place. megumi was used to being around absolute rays of sunshine, but you? you were different. it was as if you were the sun itself; warm and inviting yet shone luminous enough to blind onlookers. you were tooth-rottingly sweet, and as bubbly as you were naive.

matters weren’t made any better forgoing the fact that megumi had true feelings for you. it was a running gag within your friend group, jokes that itadori and nobara would make concerning the contrast between megumi’s unwelcoming behavior when it came to them, and impassive patience had times fell upon you.

in fact, obliviousness was your specialty in being ignorant to the feelings of the fushiguro. it wasn’t your fault, you truly didn’t know.

megumi responds curtly, although with a hint of sarcasm, “a break?”

you pout as you rest your head against the lacquered doorframe, reigning defeated already despite the conversation barely racking up a minute’s time. “no, silly.” the words come out as a giggle. “i got you me!”

a hint of confusion glosses over his features before it morphs into that of a neutral expression. shirtless from his shower just minutes prior, and puzzled from what your mind had conjured up this time, he questions again. “you? you got me you?”

you shake your head affirmatively as he starts up once more. “and what do i do with you?”

clear as day, your exchange took a rather suggestive turn, one that neither of you were intending. “well, you can do a lot of things with me,” now stepping into the room to close the distance between your bodies, your response is thick with an air of lust that megumi noticed seemed to come naturally for you. his heart picks up in pace from the sight of your pretty face, and even prettier eyes looking vacantly into his, as if you weren’t aware of the trap you set up for yourself.

he brushed off the slight arousal brewing up within him, chose to play it off as mirth like he usually did when it came to you. “i guess so.”

you held onto his arm, a more distinct, yet adorable look of seriousness on your features. truly, you were a little doll. “i’m for real, megs. it’s your birthday, i’ll let you do anything you want.”

yeah. you’re really going to regret this one.

the word “anything” came with free reign. and even though megumi thought of himself as anyone but a pervert, he certainly was bound to start acting like one.

“anything?” his question came out as if he was treading lightly while he moved to dig through his drawer, perhaps looking for a shirt.

you stepped back to allow him the space of rummaging, while nodding your head and confirming his suspicions. “anything.”

“let’s fuck, then.”

his tone was nonchalant, easy on your ears as his speaking voice regularly sounded, and you would have missed his request had he not straightened up to search your countenance for an answer — deadpan, as if he hadn’t said a thing.

in that moment, all of what you hadn’t noticed, no. all of what you chose to deny had finally been put into perspective.

megumi fushiguro was fucking hot.

“i mean, if that’s what you want then i don’t mind.” your response was succinct, gentle on your tongue and provided him the response he’d been aiming for.

this might be his best birthday yet.

he strode closer to you in light steps before his large, glacial hand found its place on your cheek and silken lips met yours, pulling you into a salacious kiss filled with hunger and want. the press of his tongue begging to be allotted within the slot of your lips was accepted with your own muscle dancing against his. it was dizzying, and dissimilar. for all your years of knowing megumi, you would’ve never thought up the occuring situation.

lithe fingers danced up the skin of your thighs where you part them on instinct, allowing his digits to work on their own to slip past the barrier of elastic fabric and into your little lace panties, softly drumming along the puffy nub of your clit.

“megumi,” you rasp against his lips, swirling your hips over his hand to build up the sweet friction surging from your core. the saccharine croon of his name tasted sugary like vanilla rolling off of your tongue and onto his. he was in pure bliss; ready to take everything you gave to him.

his body responded to your need, fingertips at your clit circling tightly, an action that pulled a string of mewls from you before you gasped at the intrusion of his long fingers dipping into your core. they curled upwards against your gummy walls just until they increased in pace while his thumb pivoted at your sensitive nub, and fuck! where’d he learn how to do that?

he pulled away only slightly to read your expression, the tent in his pants growing taller, tip leaking carelessly at the onsight of your face, screwed taut in pleasure — plump, glossy lips that were slick with spit and moans slipping past without prevail.

underneath him, your legs felt feeble, as if they’d fall beneath you from the surgence of pleasure. “m-megumi, wait, ‘m gonna!-“ you held onto his shoulders for leverage, your warnings of orgasm falling on deaf, distracted ears, until finally, you were a gushing mess in his palm, coating his digits in your essence.

“fuck. you’re so pretty when you cum,” in that moment, he gave you no chance to react when he gently positioned you over his dresser, pulling down your little shorts until they pooled around your knees.

“y’made me so hard, y/n. can you feel it?” he grinded himself over the plush of your ass, teasing before pulling his sweats down just enough so that his hard, throbbing and leaking, length could be free. it bobbed ever so under its weight while one hand began to pump from base to shaft to soothe the excruciating ache. once he felt satisfied in his ministrations, he lined his cock along your awaiting slit.

“a condom, megs.” your reminder came in the form of a soft lull. after all, you two were just free-spirited college students, unable to pay the consequences of spontaneous actions. “don’t have any.” with that, he sunk his cock inside to the hilt, a low groan rippling from his throat at just how tight your pussy clamped around him. it felt like fucking heaven. he could die in your cunt and be at peace.

while you adjusted to the stretch, he began to move; slow, deep strokes as if he were savoring this moment forever. who knows when he’ll be able to have the luxury to sink inside your perfect angelcunt again? you bit your lip to stave off impending moans which ultimately failed when his arms snaked around your body — one hand underneath the cloth of your shirt and pinching at your perked nipples while the other finds its place right back at your clit.

“sh-shit!” you cry out, eyes rolling and mind hazy from the pleasure. his rhythm increased gradually until he built up a vigorous pace. “i’ve been needing y-you so bad.” megumi groans along the shell of your ear. how he got so lucky as to have his dream girl engulfed around his cock, he doesn’t know. all he’s aware of was the tightening of his abdomen, signaling his own impending orgasm.

white hot pleasure replace all feeling in your body, counting down its time until the familiar numbness washed over you in euphoria. a pitchy moan sounded from your lips and an even whorish whimper when the warmth from spurts of his cum coated your insides.

after what felt like a minute of the two of you recollecting your breaths, megumi finally pulled out, shuddering at the added stimulation at his oversensitive cock.

he leaned your head back to meet his lust-filled gaze; calmness of his deep navy orbs now deepened with sin. megumi pressed gentle kisses all over your face while his hands took purchase at your now, exposed, neck and squeezed tight enough to keep you lightheaded.

“you’re the best birthday present.”

[earthsparked]

It just slips out as you climb out of Optimus’ enormous hands, cupped supportively around you. Thanks, dad!

Across the room, Ratchet drops a wrench with a ping and clatter onto the concrete. Jazz bursts into cackles and hoots of laughter. Bumblebee bzzts and hides his face behind his mask, also laughing but trying not to let you see.

You freeze, cringing like you’ve never cringed before. You did NOT just call this military-robo-Pope older than your entire species, “DAD.” You did NOT just call this mech, who is effectively your boss as a cultural ambassador to an entire alien species, “DAD.”

Except you did, and your face is flaming red as you slowly turn to him, apologies springing to your tongue as you imagine with a sinking heart the thrashing you’re going to get from your human handlers when they find out you’ve insulted the leader of the Autobots. Oh god, the Decepticons are going to take over your planet because your parents divorced when you were young and then your father died and it’s been so, so long since you had anyone in your life who made you feel like Optimus does, safe and cared for and wanted. You had started to take it for granted, how gentle he was with you, how it healed something deep inside you every time he picked you up in servos you’d seen rip into Decepticons as if their armor was tinfoil.

You didn’t even feel a flicker of worry anymore in the moments Optimus, a being the size of a living building who could crush you by accident, moved around you with thunderous, titanic footsteps. And when he moved you with the confidence of a father absent-mindedly tugging their toddler out of the way of danger.

You’d gotten too used to it, had come to crave it. And now you went and ruined everything and - no, you have to fix this RIGHT NOW.

I, I’m so sorry, it’s a human thing, sometimes we get words wrong, I apologize sir. You can’t look him in the optic. Maybe he’ll take your lowered eyes and dipped chin as the act of apology, submission, desperation it is. Your heart is pounding and even in the cold air of the base, nervous sweat is breaking out on your skin.

-He’s silent. Why hasn’t he said anything?!

You hold your breath as Optimus’ huge shadow falls over you, and his servo moves closer. One finger bigger than your entire body brushes under your chin, tipping your head up so you have to look at him. Dreading what you’ll see, you capitulate.

And he’s -

The look on his face is not like anything you’ve ever seen. No, wait. You’ve seen it once. When Bumblebee was badly injured, and Optimus stayed by his side around the clock until he was out of danger, talking to him in deep, soft warbles and trills of a language you didn’t understand.

Why is he looking at you like that?

You are welcome, ambassador, is all he says, but you don’t miss the way he lets his servo stroke gently - fondly - brushing your hair out of your eyes, before turning and walking away. Leaving you on the scaffolding that leads to your office, as his footsteps reverberate through you.

He speaks to the others, briskly interrupting their joking, wrangling them like a herd of cats as he changes the subject to the patrol assignments. You look after him, a series of complicated feelings bubbling up in your chest, none of which let you get a word out. Eventually, you turn and make for the shelter of your office, to hide yourself in emails and reports.

Unaware as you go, due to the increasing distance between you - of the tendrils of energy reluctantly wisping away from you where Optimus’ powerful EM field had wrapped itself around you, as intuitively and automatically as it had wrapped around his sparklings so many millennia ago.

You couldn’t pick up on what he was thinking - not yet, anyway, you were sharp and intuitive and empathetic. But he had to wonder, how shocked would you have been to know, as he went about his duties, part of his processor was taken up with thoughts of how fortuitous it was that both your species had found something they needed, in this alliance of mechanical and organic life?

How long had it been since he’d held something small and soft and so alive, so precious? Was it ever since he had doomed his people to a slow extinction?

Such thoughts were kept strictly to himself; these organics are sentient, deserving of respect, and you are an adult by your own people’s reckoning, even if his spark aches with a painful warmth now to know you feel this connection, too. Even if you seem even less willing to acknowledge it than he is - and he will follow your lead. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

The others aren’t fooled; that laughter had been directed at him, though he doubts you realize that. They know him too well, see his solicitous treatment of you for what it is, what it really means in their society.

Ratchet huffs and comms him on a private line.

Just tell them. You’re not going to chase our allies away because you’re going broody. And it’s not good for your systems, fighting those subroutines every klik. I doubt it’s good for them, either.

Optimus pings him a thank you and a message not as sardonic as he could have made it. Your wisdom is appreciated, old friend.

Ratchet gives him a Look with his EM field, but Optimus keeps the talk to business. Not fooled for a minute. Knowing he’s not the only one keeping a sensor or three trained on the little being in their nook, just across the way.

[honeyedmiller]

Sweet Thing | Joel Miller

pairing: jackson!joel x sunshine!f!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni

warnings: jackson!joel, smut (unprotected piv), sweet pet names, sex in a semi-public spot, sort of getting caught, no specified ages mentioned. no use of y/n.

word count: 863

synopsis: the most unlikely pair in jackson just can’t get enough of each other.

divider by @saradika-graphics

“J-Joel,” You whimper, gripping onto his impossibly huge biceps. The fabric of his flannel felt scratchy underneath your desperate touch, and the scrape of the wiry hair on his jaw set your skin on fire.

His teeth nipped at your ear as the heavy drag of his cock came to a nearly unbearable halt; the deep timbre of his voice, even when it’d dwindled down to a mere whisper, sent shivers down your spine.

“Gotta be quiet, sweet thing. Can’t have anyone catchin’ us now, can we?” You bite your lip as he starts to move his hips again, slowly thrusting into you once more.

The squelching sound was so obscene that if your moans and whines didn’t give you away, your arousal would.

It was ironic that you two had found solace in each other. Jackson’s token ray of sunshine and the ever brooding Joel Miller: the most unlikely match there was. It was never meant to happen, but it just… did.

Being around Joel was easy. The man had such a soft spot for you. You’d been nothing but kind and gentle with him when everyone else was afraid. You carried a sparkle in your eye every time you laid your eyes on him, and that’s when he knew. He knew he had to have you.

If the residents of Jackson found out the both of you had been sneaking around the past few months, they’d all lose their minds. There’s no way they’d be able to puzzle together the pieces of your so-called ‘relationship’ with him, but you suspected at least Ellie had a hunch. The girl was smart and had been onto you two for as long as this had gone on.

You couldn’t help yourself, though. Being with a man that only reserved his soft side for you and his fortuitous daughter had you falling faster than you could keep up with, and at first, it truly terrified you.

You succumbed to his pure charm and good looks, though, which is how you ended up here—fucking in a broom closet in the Tipsy Bison because you chose to wear the pretty dress you found on patrol one day that Joel loved oh so much.

The slow drag of his heavy cock had you muffedly crying out his name, the feeling of it too much and not enough all at once. The man was all-consuming, invading every single sense that you had. It was intoxicating and purely addictive, and you don’t think you’ll ever get enough of him.

“Fuck, baby. Pussy was fuck’n made for me. Y’feel so goddamn good.” Joel’s words are slightly slurred behind his clenched teeth, trying to control his own sounds of pure bliss.

“Joel—” You cry again as he picks up his pace, and he has to cover your mouth with his hand because you cannot control yourself. He made you feel good in a way that nobody else ever has.

“I know baby, I know. Hush up now n’ take what I’m givin’ ya like the good girl I know y’are.” He coos, kissing your temple as he begins to thrust into you skillfully, tilting his body up so his cock hits your g-spot every single time.

Your eyebrows threaded together as your legs started to shake, your impending orgasm licking a flame up your spine as it threatened to spill over. Just like a match to a matchbox, Joel kept dragging and dragging and dragging until you lit aflame. The devastatingly delicious euphoria that ran through your body was truly unmatched as you convulsed around him, cries now muffled by his lips on yours.

His thrusts became sporadic, pulling out of you before grabbing a rag from a shelf to come onto. Not his finest moment, but he didn’t want to ruin that pretty dress of yours or leave any evidence of your intimate endeavors.

Joel cages you in between his arms as his hands rest on either side of your head against the wall behind you. He buries his face in your neck, catching his breath as he leaves tiny pecks along your pulse point. You mindlessly wrap your fingers around the back of his neck, gently dragging your fingertips against his hot skin while he took some time to recollect himself.

You giggle softly into his ear, kissing his neck once.

“That was fun.” You say, and Joel’s face moves to be in front of yours again. A rare smile curls onto his lips as he rests his forehead against yours, rubbing his nose against your own.

“My sweet girl.” He whispers with a chuckle laced into his words, kissing you once more before tucking his cock back into his jeans. He bends down to pull your panties back up and pulls your dress down past your hips, straightening you out so you don’t look completely fucked out.

Joel turns the knob to the closet, opening the door slowly.

“We gotta stop doing that in public places though, or else we’ll get caught.” You huff.

“Too late.” Tommy’s voice snaps both of your heads in his direction, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as Joel’s burns bright red.

Shit.

tags: @party-hearses ; @ilovepedro ; @bastardmandennis ; @tinygarbage ; @nostalxgic ; @cool-iguana ; @amanitacowboy

[moonsaver]

Morning Sunlight

What are mornings like with the mysterious Head of the Oak Family? Not many know. But you, his lover, has the pleasure of knowing how to answer that question in many ways. One memory of dozens comes to mind.

A/n; just a drabble I wrote about mornings with sunday because i wanted some slightly domestic fluff. Its very small.

Cw/tw: implied to be bad at cooking (reader) body pain (reader), mentions of chest but no mentions of boobs (you're welcome), sunday being clingy, overall fluffy. Just 2 mentions of peeing.

Mornings with sunday are fortuitous

And by that, you mean, you get to see the elusive, prestigious head of the Oak family sleeping.

And you get to spoon him.

Isnt this lovely?

Your nose is tucked into his blue hair, a few strands stick up and tickle your face. You shift, to which Sunday responds by burying his face deeper into your chest, adjusting the hold of his arms around you.

You blink your eyes open, slightly blurry still from last night's sleep. You reach up one of your hands to gently pet the top of his hair.

You've recently taken to calling him "star" as a joke. You just called him "Sun" initially as a form of endearment and shortened his name, then simply resorted to calling him star. Although, you suppose he's more like the moon. You should ask him when he's woken up.

You shift again in bed, before stilling,

Ouch.

Something just pulled in your back.

"[Name]?" Sunday's muffled, soft voice curiously speaks,

Oops.

"Did I wake you?"

You whisper back to him, one of your hands immediately going down to sift through his feathers, soothing his fluttering wings as he stirs awake. He lifts his head slightly. Golden, half-lidded eyes look up at you.

"Not at all. Did you sleep wrong?"

One of his hands moves up your back, going over to your side and resting there, his thumb massaging the outline of your shoulder blade.

"I might have. Probably pulled a muscle?"

Sunday's head gently dives down, taking shelter back into the haven of your chest. He stays still for a moment before his body pushes, and his hand stretches out to reach the drawer behind you. You look over to see shaking, outstretched fingers barely make it to the handle, and stifle your laugh. It escapes as a snort.

Sunday stills for a moment. Then sighs, before pushing further and managing to open the drawer. You see his hands teeter around and feels the various items before landing on a pain relief tube.

He pushes the drawer close, and returns to his original place, the force of his body retreating from you.

You close your eyes, burying your nose into the top of his head again. He smells nice, you note.

You hear the faint click of a cap, and it's not soon before Sunday's deft finger crawls under your shirt and over the skin of your back. It presses the gel on the outline of your shoulder blade, and firmly presses into the cavity beside it, massaging it well. Once he's done massaging it for a few minutes, his finger retreats, and his hand returns to its place on your back. His thumb caresses the outline of your shoulder blade again.

“Planning to wake up anytime soon, handsome?”

“A few more minutes, dear.”

He shifts again, his face moving from the home of your chest to the curve of your neck, and he presses soft kisses on your skin. Everything about him is warm. You scrunch your nose as the feathers of his wings slightly tickle your nose.

“Star.”

“Mmh?”

His hummed response reverberates slightly in your neck,

“I need to use the washroom.”

“My condolences.”

“Sun.”

“Truly unfortunate.”

You sigh. Sunday softly chuckles, the noise muffled.

“5 more minutes.”

“I won't have to go if you keep me here that long.”

“3.”

“Cutting it close.”

“That's fine.”

“Sunday.”

It's his turn to sigh, except, he doesn't. He stays quiet for a few minutes. When he doesn't shift or respond, you get nervous,

“Sunday?”

…

You try again,

“You're so quiet.”

“I've heard acting dead can deter brown bears from attacking.”

The imagery is too bold in your mind as he says so.

“Now, now.”

You tap the top of his head, trying to get him to budge.

“Were you implying something with that?”

“No. But, do you think I'd survive, if I acted dead?”

“Perhaps.”

You push against Sunday, again.

“Sunday, it's been 5 minutes”

“2, to be precise.”

“I'm gonna pee in 2 more.”

“Tragic.”

“Sunday.”

He stays quiet again. Then shifts with a sigh, moving off of you and onto the other edge of the bed. Is he pouting?

–

Your morning is now well under way. The sizzling in the kitchen is loud in your ears as you handle the pan over the stove.

A pair of white wings cover your eyes. Slightly damp at the edges, you note. His face presses up next to yours, the skin cooler in comparison. Sandalwood fills your nose and the kitchen.

“Done, hm?”

You chuckle, as his wings retract.

“I'll manage the rest, dove.”, his voice is clearer than before. You admit, to a degree, you miss the sleepiness in his voice.

He cups your face, both of his thumbs coming up to soothingly run along the edge of your eyes,

“My eyes are really crusty.”

“I'm trying to help.”

“Not gross?”

“Not at all. I don't mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What about my cooking?”

Sunday gently pecks the corner of your mouth.

“Go wash your face, angel.”

You laugh a bit. The sound echoes in the quiet of your kitchen. The air is fresh and still from the morning, sunlight pours in from the open windows. And Sunday treasures the isolated sound, repeating in his mind.

–

[quandledlngle69]

TRAGEDY IN THE THORNS.

⋆˙⟡ synopsis; rin is in love with you. he can't stand the fact your betrothed to his brother. he attempts to fight sae, and upon losing, he falls into despair. he snaps, and does something he can't take back. ⋆˙⟡ genre / theme / warning; murder-suicide, arranged marriage, stabbing, saes in love with you but your hearts set on rin, royalty, fate, gods, religion (?) death, blood, pain, kinda yandere rin if you squint. ⋆˙⟡ pairing; prince!rin x princess!femreader. ⋆˙⟡ w.c; 1k.

itoshi rin loved you.

it was clear to anyone who had eyes—that itoshi rin was shamelessly, devotedly, in love with you. 

he had been since you grew up together, the princess and daughter of his fathers best friend. sae was always on babysitting duties when the two of you were around, as time was spent causing more mischief than not. he followed sae's footsteps, becoming a worthy knight while watching you take a different path, your own route.

you were prim and proper, a shining sunflower that lit up any room—even your lady-in-waiting would mannerly tease you. she would say when rin looked your way, his blinks honey-slow, that that was when his love for you sparkled the most.

yet she would not dare unveil to you the same pair of sharp teals on you. older, much colder. They glanced at your figure across the grand hall, assuming no one was paying attention. itoshi sae knew your heart belonged to his younger brother, and to that—he didn't take too kindly to the matter. sae was fortuitous enough to be blessed by the gods. he was the first born son, the first heir to the throne, and he was handed everything a mere peasant would only be able to dream of. 

yet he didn't have you. he was selfish, he craved to snag your soft laughter, gentle hands and warm smile for himself. You were the opposite of him in every way, and unknowingly managed to thaw his numbed heart. it was selfish, he was aware rin was at his most merriest when in your company.

maybe that's why, when you were finally told you were betrothed to sae on the king's orders; he couldn't stop the bitter surge in his throat witnessing the look of despair on your face. when your eyes immediately darted to find rins, his jaw throbbed from how hard he was clenching them. But he had you. It was written in royalty, the whole kingdom knew you were his. 

rin had only gotten worse from the news. he lashed out, his face scowled with pure contempt every time his older brother stepped into the room. he snarled like a dog when sae got too close to you, when his fingers would brush your hair over your shoulder, as if his touch was routine. Rin knew sae was silently staking his claim on you, and this one-sided competition only festered with time.

this ugly, rotting feeling, it consumed him so much that it was enough to turn his sword on his own blood.

midnight stretched sharp and unbroken across the palace's gardens. the only sound being the owls howling and the heavy, ragged breaths coming from rin.

And now, he was on his knees, his sword discarded, lingering a few feet away, taunting him.

sae stood above him, chest rising and falling evenly. “This tantrum… is beneath even you,” he sighed, his voice calm like wine just beginning to sour. 

he wanted to yell, to scream, to tell sae he was a bastard for taking the only person he could truly open his heart to. the sharp realisation that you weren't his to marry, to kiss, to love–it made misery kindle in his chest. rin could only hang his head low, the frustrated tears building on his lash line threatening to spill.

a familiar voice calling behind them made them both turn.

you.

you stood there in your long nightdress, barefoot on the cool concrete, as if summoned by tragedy. your eyes locked onto rin, a sorrowful glance through wet, spiky lashes. you were calling for him, your voice like a soft lullaby. something in him finally snapped, fractured, like a mirror.

he shoved the man he called his brother, catching sae off-guard. he advanced quickly towards your opened arms.

your trembling lips parted, the thoughts of begging him to just listen, hanging on the tip of your tongue. you wanted to embrace him. tell him that everything was alright even if it wasn't. The scent of nutmeg and rosemary invaded your senses as he loomed over you. your fingers barely brushed his back, before hearing the almost inaudible sound of his voice in your ear. it was a low murmur, almost blankly apologetic.

"forgive me."

the sharp sound of steel filled your ears.

you heard sae scream—not just your name, but rins, too. 

white-hot pain arose through the back of your torso. he drove the sword deep and hard, until the tip sprouted from his own back like a silver thorn, glinting in the moonlight. the momentum pinned you together like butterflies on a cork, his arms catching you as you staggered, pressing you to his chest. your eyes met as you sagged into him, hazy sea blues boring into you. you shuddered. or was it your vision that was ever so hazy?

As if on que, an incarnadine puddle spilled beneath the both of you, hot and dark.

you coughed, a slog of warm, vermillion liquid trickling down your chin. your fingers found his tunic and twisted, weakly, desperately. His ribs screamed in protest with every breath, a moment of silence passed, before he slumped forward, his cheek pressing against yours. your bodies toppled backward into the nearby rose bush—a crimson spectacle spreading like a tainted fountain, in a final, cruel, applause.

once pristine white noble robes were tarnished with grime and sticky blood. his fingers twitched around the sword's hilt, where it connected with your back.

a gruesome tableau.

his half-lidded eyes studied your face as it drained of colour, as your breaths slowed to mere hiccups. The world seemed to spin around him in a dizzying blur, his vision clouded by the stars of pain that danced across his field of vision with every passing moment. yet his stained gloves still brushed the stray hairs away from your clammy face. with eyes so hollow at the rapid loss of life, they still managed to hold adoration towards you.

His lips were stained crimson, teeth red as rubies. they barely moved as he wordlessly thanked the gods. you wouldn’t leave him, not like this. not even death could do you part. his lashes fluttered, looking forward, but at nothing in particular. 

He thinks he hears sae’s ear-splitting scream, but he can’t be sure.  

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[o0sleepingdead0o]

Prepared for Anything Pt. 2

Part 3, MasterPost

Gotham was a terrible place to live.

It was great.

People weren’t overly friendly or familiar with people they didn’t know, meaning they paid Danny no mind. No one mentioned he had fangs. No one commented on his slightly pointed ears. And no one questioned his strange ability to ward off muggers and would be criminals without even having to speak to them. His ghost aura came in handy sometimes.

It also mean that rent was dirt cheap. Especially in Crime Alley where Danny had taken up residence. It was made even cheaper by the fact that Danny didn't need heating with his ghostly physiology. It cut a lot down on bills. Not that it really mattered much. As Ghost King, he had an abundance of funds that he wasn’t sure he could dry it up within fifty lifetimes, let alone his one. However immortal it was.

The downside was the old wiring. Leaving him here. Eating Mac and cheese out of the pot he’d been cooking up as he watched the fire flicker and smoke plume out the windows.

Now, Danny hadn’t been planning to flee his apartment, it’s not like he woulda been in any danger, but his neighbour, some guy named Jason, had gone door to door, ensuring everyone was following the fire drills that children learned in elementary school which were ultimately incredibly flawed. Who really believed that an entire school of children would stay calm and collected during an actual fire?

Jason was nowhere to be seen now, though. Danny wondered if he was okay, but that guy currently helping a family out onto a fire escape, Red Bird. . .Red Helmet or something, would probably make sure he was. He was apparently a crime lord, but a good one?. . . .

. . .

Gotham was weird.

Just as the red guy and the family reached the ground, a scream for help called from the second top floor. They sounded young. Danny looked up to see a little girl at a window and flames raging too close for her to go anywhere.

Well. . . that was concerning. Who had left such a young kid unattended? 

Red Dude was dashing out to the front of the building to get his bearings, looking for a way up. He wouldn’t be able to reach the girl using the fire escape. Danny took another bite of his Mac and Cheese, watching as the man’s grapple gun jammed.

Danny heaved a deep sigh. 

He supposed he would have to get involved.

Leaving the crowd of tenants that had huddled on the sidewalk, Danny trudged back across the street and into an alley. He went far enough that no one would see him and opened a portal. With one hand, he reached in, found purchase on his quarry, and turned away to drag the ladder out and behind him.

Danny found Trigger-Happy-Dude starting to scale the building. Danny interrupted him before he got too far.

He belatedly wondered where the fire-fighters and cops were.

“Oh, hey, look what I randomly found in that alley.”

Red Dude paused to look at him. Looked at the ladder trailing behind Danny.

“It’s a ladder.” Danny raised it slightly from his lazy hold, noting how much he felt like he was giving an infomercial right now. “Pretty long, huh? Long enough to reach that floor, I bet.” Danny added helpfully with an encouraging nod. “How fortuitous.”

The Red Dude was quick to drop down and take it from him, but stared at Danny the whole time as if was abnormally weird.

Which was rude. Danny was just abnormal, thank you very much.

“Uhh. . .good work.” Red Dude said, setting up the ladder with Danny’s help. The vigilante tested it for stability. 

Danny scoffed. As if he would purposefully tamper with it.

Which wasn’t too far-fetched in this city.

Red Dude deemed it acceptable. “Hold it steady for me, would ya?”

Danny nodded.

The man climbed up and Danny held both sides, pouting down at his pot of Mac and Cheese he’d had to set aside for the moment.

Ah, the sacrifices he makes.

Across the street, there were a multitude of cheers as Red Dude reached the little girl and settled her on his front like a backwards piggy-back hold.

Danny stepped aside when Red reached the bottom to pick his pot back up.

Sirens cut into the roar of flames above their heads and the loud call of the tenants that had lasted rather short, a few half-hearted cheers dying on the wind.

It was the middle of the night. Everyone was tired.

The mother of the little girl ran up to take her child and flagged down the first paramedic to arrive on the scene.

Danny returned his gaze to Red Dude who equally eyed him. Or at least, Danny assumed. His head was facing him.

“You’re that guy who punched out Joker.”

Danny paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He slowly brought it the rest of the way. “How’d you know about that?”

“Cameras.” Hood tapped his helmet with a finger. “I saw RR and Robin’s video feed.”

Danny hummed, nodding along as he chewed. He wasn’t terribly concerned. Danny was just a random guy that happened to punch another random guy. It probably happened all the time in a place like Gotham. There was no need for further investigation into who Danny was. The vigilantes had probably forgotten all about him until this instant.

Red Dude looked at his pot. “That’s what you’re eating?” He said, somehow conveying judgement through the modulator.

“Yep.” Danny took another bite. After a moment of contemplation, he left the fork in his mouth to produce another from his hoodie pocket. He held it out to Red Dude. “Mac and Cheese?”

The dude leaned back slightly and his crossed arms gave the impression he was offended. “You just carry forks around in your pockets?”

Danny shrugged. “Ah, ya know, never leave home without a back-up fork.”

Red Dude considered him for another moment and Danny thought he’d decline. But then, he shrugged, his stance relaxing somewhat. “Sure.” He accepted the fork.

[nnon0]

JJH fic recs #3

previous fic recs : 1. 2.

note: hey yall ik it’s been a while ive been busy with life and truth be told, it’s been getting pretty hard to find good fics to recommend cuz i feel like ive read them all 😭😭😭 anyway jaehyun’s SOLO REVIVED ME SO IM BACK 😜 but this post is going to be an active post meaning ill keep adding fics so there will be more everytime. happy reading!

(🫀) - personal faves

(🫀) TRY AGAIN @kaleidohscopic

WC:32.4k

exes to lovers, coworkers! au

if you could have it your way, you'd never have to see, hear, or even think about jeong jaehyun ever again. a fortuitous blind date, and that same dimpled smile after all those years, is somehow enough to make you reconsider. maybe he was always meant to be by your side.

summer of seven years @lebrookestore

WC:30k

summer!au writer!jaehyun

Coming back home was hard for both you and Jaehyun, but when you realize both of you are back in the same place again, feelings from three years ago rise to the surface, and you start to realize that the things you thought you knew when you were younger never quite played out.

(🫀)His love, Her force @anashins

WC:28k

Undercover detective!jaehyun x ballerina!reader , fake marriage au, slow burn

Fleeing from a ruthless stalker, you are forced to participate in a witness protection program at the other side of the world, pretending to be the wife of a taciturn undercover detective from now on. Despite all differences, you slowly start to settle with your new life as a married couple - until your newfound happiness is stripped away from you all over again.

TOO YOUNG TO MARRY @anashins

WC:24k

Lawyer!jaehyun x divorcee reader

Jaehyun has a ruthless, cruel and not so legal way of getting his clients everything they want out of their divorce. After all, to do the job right, a lawyer like him is not supposed to believe something like 'love' exists in the first place. That is until he meets his next client who also has a not so legal way of creeping right into his heart and make him question all his morals

(🫀) BAD HABITS @jaedore

WC:21k

Boxer!jaehyun

You were never really good at saying ‘no’ to people, always a people pleaser, listening to your teachers, parents, to authority. Jung Jaehyun is a professional boxer attempting to make it to the top with the help of your father, who used to be a well known boxer. Being in a friends with benefits relationship with Jaehyun would be the last thing you’d find yourself in-you’re always focused on finishing college, studying hard, and sticking to yourself. With you pushing your feelings down for him and him focused on other things, you’re already in too deep to pull out of this complication. When will it be too much? When is your breaking point?

(🫀) cynosure - a focal point of admiration @drquinzelharleen

WC:20.4k

surgeon!jaehyun , enemies-to-lovers

When the young hot shot doctor, Jung Jaehyun, has been solicited to your hospital. He is to become the new Chief of Surgery. Your excitement and curiosity are soon to be washed away by his cocky disposition.

no guidance @yutaholic

WC:20k

knocked up, smut, pregnancy au

You insist on keeping things casual with Jaehyun, even though he wants something more serious, but then you miss a period and in an instant, your lives are turned completely upside down.

happy now? @hwaflms

wc: 19.9k

ex!jaehyun, fake dating au

your family has been pressuring you for months to bring your boyfriend, jaehyun, over for dinner, and you think it’s really sweet that they like him so much. the only problem is that your “boyfriend” jaehyun, hates you.

The Cat Burgler’s Heist @vnti-vnxiety-recs

WC:19.6k

ceo!jaehyun x cat burgler!reader

When you attempt to rob a wealthy businessman, things don't go as planned. Instead of calling the police, he offers you a job. Now, you're left uncertain about whether you can truly start anew or if your past will come back to haunt you.

(🫀) ordinary people @ppangjae

WC: 18.3k

friends-to-lovers, fake dating!au, ceo!jaehyun

Jaehyun’s parents are coming home for Christmas and he may have made the biggest mistake of telling them he has a ‘girlfriend’. Insert you, his best friend, who so happens to be the only girl he knows and trusts. You, on the other hand, would have never expected Jaehyun to show up at your door at two in the morning with nothing but a proposition; to be his fake girlfriend. And man, are you in big trouble.

(🫀)ethereal @celestialmark

WC: 16.7k

fluff, life lessons

(note: shed a tear reading this it was so beautiful i highly highly recommend)

Jaehyun was indeed way more than his good looks. Jaehyun was gentle, honest and sincere, you felt it all in the way he smiled, the way he talked and in the way he kissed you. He was the living definition of ethereal, and his beauty shone the most on the inside

(🫀)SUN&MOON @ppangjae

WC:14.6k

enemies-to-lovers, fake dating

Asking Jeong Jaehyun to accompany you to your family’s 1-week Christmas vacation as your boyfriend has its consequences. One can surely get through 1 week of pretending to be in love with an enemy, right?

(🫀) chasing stars, losing you @prodbymaui

WC: 14k

exes to lovers, ceo!jaehyun x model!reader

When your relationship got announced, it made noises louder that anyone could've imagined. Of course it will, a pair containing a supermodel and a CEO of one of the most successful enterprise that made a name in both the fashion and business industry. But soon enough, everyone witnessed how the perfect relationship they had been envying crumbled down into tiny pieces until there's nothing left to pick up.

(🫀) if we were a movie @sehunniepotwrites

WC:14k

childhood friends to lovers!au , college au , theatre/drama au

For someone who was always the understudy and never the lead, scoring this role was huge for you. All you had to do was pretend to be in love with your best friend. No big deal, right? Wrong. It was the biggest deal because, for the past four years, you had been hiding your feelings for Jung Jaehyun.

If this were a movie, he would be your perfect match and the story would end happily with the credits rolling to a perfectly timed soundtrack. Too bad this wasn’t a movie— this was real life and life came with complications.

model cowboy @smileysuh

WC:13.2k

actor!jaehyun x singer!reader, enemies to lovers, fake dating

You maintain eye contact until the moment your lips meet, and then, you do your best to just relax, to forget about the cameras pointed at you. You allow yourself to melt into the kiss, following Jaehyun's motions, following the gentle notes that soon become more heated. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip, and on instinct, you open your mouth for him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to pull him closer.  You try to convince yourself that you’re leaning into this for the sake of the scene, that you’re just being good actors together, but there’s something underneath it all. There’s a desperation. You can almost taste it below the spearmint on his tongue. 

oops, baby (i love you) @prodbymaui

WC:12.5k+

modern royalty au, arranged marriage

you had been living your life as a rebellious and controversial crown princess, now you must face the consequence of purifying your tainted image; marrying the gentle and infamous crown prince of South Korea.

deadly kiss @slightlymore

WC: 12k+

chief architect jaehyun x chief engineer fem reader

office au, enemies? to lovers, dom x dom and trying to force each other to sub, romance, smut, fluff

(🫀) FEELINGS @ppangjae

WC:11.6k

f2l!au, fake dating! au

After many failed first dates, Jaehyun decides to take matters into his own hands and teach you how they work and what you should do to guarantee yourself a second date. But of course, this is just a plan that’s set up for failure.

in your court @boymeetsweevil

WC:10.8k

basketball player!jaehyun , bff!haechan

Two idiots in love, oc is scary when mad, hyuck is crafty always, jae is a bit intense but he’s just trying his best, gratuitous descriptions of dimples, a kiss!!! sfw!

coparenting @eleganzadellarosa

wc: 10.3k

angst, fluff smut

babydaddy!Jaehyun x fem!reader

(🫀)SEVEN LETTERS @ppangjae

WC: 10.1k+

soulmate!au , childhood friends-to-lovers , slight fake dating

On a camping trip, you find a message in a bottle that’s been washed up the shore, only to find out that it’s a message from you in the future. Your message tells you three things:

1. You must make Jeong Jaehyun fall in love with you because,

2. He’s your soulmate and

3. Because of your future self’s mistake, he ended up falling in love with someone else.

the wedding @jae-canikeepyou

WC:9.5k

rivals!jaehyun fluff-crackish

jeong jaehyun’s your long-time friend, and as far as one could remember, every single and little thing you both do ends to a competition; it turned into a permanent kind of relationship you have for over a decade now. no one expects that it would ever change, not until a childhood friend of yours from high school decides to make you two as his singers for his upcoming wedding.

one more time @moondustis

WC:9.4k

smut, friends to lovers

Maybe this right here is a story about growing up and finding yourself, or about finding love and being vulnerable. But it definitely is a story about friendship, skating, pancakes and Jung Jaehyun learning how to deal with his feelings.

(🫀) rose bud @hazyhae

WC:9.2k

stoner!fuckboy!jaehyun , smut

friday nights are party nights, and it's here that your feet always seem to lead you to your favorite stoner. you know the sweet words that leave jaehyun's mouth don't belong just to you, but something about him leaves you wanting more.

baby @moonctzeny

wc:9.1k

college au, fake dating!au

When Yuta breaks your heart for the millionth time, you meet Jaehyun, freshly broken up and looking for revenge. You decide to start fake dating to get back on your exes, but your plan takes an unexpected turn. You fall in love.”

when fratboy falls @gyeomsweetgyeom

WC: 8.9k

fratboy!jaehyun x tutor!reader

Jaehyun is a fratboy with a notorious reputation for being a playboy, you have never heard of him. surely, he can use tutoring as an excuse to get close to you, right?

hello again, my sunshine @alluringjae

WC:8.5k

high school reunion!au, business lawyer!jaehyun, fashion designer!reader, high school best friends to strangers to lovers!au

there’s no more running away when you’re thriving in the fashion industry, yet it’s exactly what you want to do when you encounter your first love after a decade in your high school reunion.

(🫀) The lies of apollo @jaevie

WC:8k

Spy!jaehyun x spy!reader , forbidden love , smut , enemies to lovers

As powerful corporations seek to sun privatization, two spies find themselves falling in love and discovering the wonders of physical affection.

Head over Broomsticks @sehunniepotwrites

WC: 3.5k

Hogwarts!au Sports!au Quidditch!au Gryffindor!jaehyun

When your friends are tired of watching you and your crush go around in circles, they take matters into their own hands. Putting their Advanced Potions skills to the test, Donghyuck and Chenle conjure up a powerful truth serum and slip it in your drink right before a Quidditch game, which leads to a few inappropriate comments about No. 77, Jeong Jaehyun, of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team. This would’ve been fine if you were just a regular spectator but you are much more than that--you’re the Announcer and everyone is subjected to hear your unfiltered thoughts. Just great.

SERIES

(🫀) when icarus falls @baobaojng

college athlete!au , crush!au

(note: this series genuinely brought me to tears btw I HIGHLY RECOMMEND )

some tragic story of you sharing one class with your long time college crush jaehyun who never notices you until he accidentally reads your work and he gets curious— oh, and he uses lame excuses to get to talk to you.

[avocado-writing]

omg… could we get an astarion x reader where the reader is gale’s apprentice? she’s extremely studious and focused on her learning of magic (as gale teaches her to be) and because gale took her on as a young girl she’s never had her first kiss (much less her first time) bc she’s been so focused on her academics… mwahahahahah 😈

notes: reader’s gender isn’t mentioned, but Astarion does call you “little”! (Edit; part 2)

rating: M

words: 1.8k

pairing: astarion x reader

Taglist: bg3 Taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 (let me know if you want to be added!)

“We hope to see you soon!” calls the cashier from behind the desk, waving amicably as you leave with your arms laden with scrolls and books. You manage a smile over your shoulder, no hand free to return the kind gesture.

“I’m sure you will!” you reply. This is true. Gale has probably spent a small fortune at Sorcerous Sundries, and - with the amount of time he’s been spending with Tav recently - supply runs have fallen to you. Not that you particularly mind. It’s nice to get into the city and get away from your mentor and the de facto leader of your group making heart eyes at each other from across the camp. It’s wonderful that he’s found someone (gods know that he deserves it after all that Mystra business) but he doesn’t have to be so bloody nauseating about it.

You wait for a cart to pass, readjust your hold on the pile, and head across the road. You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t hear your name being called for a second and barrel on ahead - it’s only when you become aware of footsteps approaching that you turn.

Astarion isn’t jogging to catch you, exactly. He’s far too precious for that. But he has increased his speed to close the gap, that little smile on his face which you know can only spell trouble.

“Well, fancy running into you, my dear. Isn’t chance a fine thing?” he purrs. You raise an eyebrow.

“What, you fortuitously meeting me at the only store I ever seem to go to?”

He doesn't reply to that, instead putting a hand on his hip and cocking his head.

“It can be dangerous for a little thing like you to walk around a big city alone. Never know who might take advantage.”

He flashes his fangs with his smile, and you swear your cheeks don’t start to burn.

“I know the route back to camp perfectly well…”

“Oh, so you won’t mind if I join you then? Let me help with those books, they seem to be rather precariously perched.”

You take a moment to look him over. He’s got muscle, of course, you’ve seen him with his shirt off at camp, but you’re certain it’s all for show – you are definitely stronger than he is. Being Gale’s glorified pack mule means you have to be. But, suppressing a smile, you press half of your haul into the elf’s waiting arms and chuckle when he stumbles under the unexpected weight.

“You could suggest to your mentor that he gets into a little more light reading,” he mutters, and that makes you laugh properly. He seems pleased with himself for that. Well, more pleased with himself than he usually is, anyway - so you find yourself walking through the city streets with his company. 

And it’s… nice. You’ve never been sure what to make of Astarion. He’s a bit too cunning for your usual taste in companion, but there can be no doubt that he’s competent. He travels the city streets with a familiar ease, and when he goes to turn down an alleyway mid-conversation, you almost follow him without thinking.

Almost.

“The thing is I’m sure he eats them, but – what are you doing back there? Keep up, I won’t wait for you,” he says, waiting for you. You shuffle awkwardly, and he reads your face without you having to say a word.

“Come now, I’m not going to bite you. Not unless you want me to,” there’s that damned grin again. You harrumph, knowing full well that’s exactly why you hesitated, but not wanting to show weakness in front of him. Nothing that he can use against you. You scuttle along until you make up the distance, and fall back in step.

Soon it’s just the two of you. The city noise dies down and the sound of your boots echoes in tandem with his. He has you completely alone. He could do whatever he wanted with you. You know he wouldn’t, of course, but… you’d be lying if you said the idea didn’t thrill you, just a tiny bit.

Astarion lets out a laugh.

“Your blood’s started pumping faster. Tell me, little mage, is something making your heart pound?”

Oh, right. Vampire. The bastard is uncannily attuned to these things.

“No!” you say, quickly, but there’s not much fire behind it, no real sincerity. His lip quirks. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, you know. It’s alright to feel desire. Gale doesn’t seem to take very good care of you, after all…”

That makes you stick your tongue out and gag. You totally ignore the first part of that sentence and spit:

“Eurgh, Gale? Absolutely not! He’s like my brother. We’ve known each other since… well, for as long as I can remember, honestly,” you say. And it’s true. You love him, of course, but not like that. Maybe you’re a bit jealous of Tav but only because they’re taking up so much of his time. You’re desperate to have another magic lesson. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s taught you anything, and you’ve been somewhat demoted to his personal assistant rather than his student. You can’t be too upset, though. He does have that tadpole in his head, so things are probably a lot more pressing to him than teaching you how to properly refine your Fireball spell. 

Astarion sees how introspective you’ve become. You have a habit of chewing on your lip when you’re lost in thought, and he’s become quite partial to it. It’s… sweet. Secretly he’s become quite partial to you. You’re endearing, bullheadedly stubborn, but sincere and enthusiastic. A bright spark in a dark world and he is drawn to you, whether he wants to be or not. 

He’s harbouring something for you, and doesn’t quite want to admit what that might be. So he teases. 

“You really do take up all of your time with studying, don’t you?”

You shrug as much as you can beneath your armful of books. 

“Wouldn’t you, if you had the best tutor around? Wouldn’t you want to learn every single thing you possibly could?”

“All that time squirrelled away over a spell book. I wonder if you’ve ever even been kissed.”

You stop dead. Ah, he thinks. Got you. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you snap, but you know your voice wobbles a little. A bit of a sore spot if you’re honest. Seeing Gale and Tav has made you realise that, actually, maybe there is something you long for. Something more. 

“Ahh, so you haven’t. There’s no shame in that, little mage.”

Your cheeks are burning. You can’t look him in the eye. Thank the gods the two of you are alone, you wouldn’t want anyone to see you so flabbergasted. 

“I’m… you’re…” you struggle to find words to adequately express how you feel. Furious. Embarrassed? A whole tide of things all at once, rooting you to the ground. 

He walks closer. If he was living, you’d be able to feel the heat coming off of him. He puts his pile of books on the top of a part-built wall, then takes yours to do the same. You don’t resist. 

“Would you like to be kissed?”

You manage to drag your eyes up from the ground to meet his gaze, searching it for any hint of insincerity. He is teasing you, a bit, but… his eyes are surprisingly soft. 

He means it. 

And before you can think it over, you nod. 

His lips are soft. Far softer than you expected for a vampire. His kiss gently presses your mouth open, allowing for a lithe and curious swipe of his tongue. You eagerly accept it, voice catching in your throat a little in a half-rendered moan. 

He tastes like mint. It’s fresh. It’s sweet. 

You want more. 

Carefully you put a hand on either one of his biceps, a gentle test of the muscle there. It might be only for show, but it’s firm enough for you to enjoy how it feels in your grip. You sense him smile against your mouth and deepen the kiss, running his fingers up the length of your arm until he can cup your face; grip the back of your head.

When he walks you back to press up against the alleyway wall, you trust him; and when he hooks your collar down with a single long finger, exposing your neck, that half-moan comes back with full force. 

“That’s it,” he sighs, feather-light, “let me hear you, you sweet thing.”

His mouth leaves yours in order to kiss a long line down your jugular. His teeth ghost the skin there, but he never threatens to bite. 

Not unless you want me to. 

You find yourself trusting him absolutely. His tongue flicks against your pulse and you thrust your hips forward inadvertently. It’s an impulse. An instinct. But it has an impact, and you hear Astarion catch his breath just a bit. 

“Where have you been hiding all this?” he asks, gravel filling his voice as you thread your fingers into his hair. 

“Maybe you never gave me a reason to show it to you.”

He seems to like that answer, so when he slips his leg between yours, presses his thigh up to your sex… gods, you start to rock against him without a second thought. 

It’s good. It feels good. Good in a way only your own hands have ever made you feel, late at night, beneath your bedroll with fucking Astarion, Astarion, Astarion running through your head. 

“Look at you. All desperate for me. What do you want me to do, little mage? Where do you want me to touch?”

You take his hand and guide it down your body, yes gods yes to the apex of your legs, and —

Greetings! Hope I’m not catching you at a bad moment, but need those books at camp ASAP. Do let me know when you’ll be back!

Gale’s Sending is like a cold bucket of ice through your body, and you freeze under Astarion’s ministrations. The moment is utterly shattered. A hand on his chest moves him away and he acquiesces, confused but not pushing back. 

“Hello Gale,” you sigh out loud, letting the elf know the reason for the interruption. “Will be back as soon as possible. Not too far from the camp now. Sorry for the delay. Got a little… held up.”

And then you’re just standing there. In an alley. With Astarion. And you feel very silly all of a sudden, very small. Once again your eyes drop to the floor and you start grabbing the books, quickly, anything to distract you from how humiliated you feel. You’re not sure if it’s because you let yourself give into him so easily or if it’s because you didn’t want him to stop — and you’re a bit terrified at how far you’d have let him go. 

“I’ll see you at camp,” you manage to stutter out, before practically running away. 

Astarion watches you go. Your departure stings. 

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [13]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 6.4k words cw: violence. mentions of sexual assault. 18+ mdni

your husband's comrades have questions for you.

The rumble of the convoy along your driveway is familiar. Never fails to turn you frigid. 

You have been here many times before. Waiting in the cage of your master suite, nose powdered and collarbones perfumed - listening in stiff silence as those vehicles rolled towards your door. Perhaps your husband, returning home from his business trips, expectant and eager for your soft company. Or perhaps his comrades, ready to leer at and accost you for your presence alone. You’d have to quietly gird yourself in the brief safety of your bedroom before you could face them. Deep breaths and self-encouragement. Just smile, you'd remind yourself, just be pretty and smile. 

Now, though, you don’t have the luxury of solitude, within which you could comfort yourself. You might have spurned the reticent Lieutenant’s presence in any situation but your own - yet he is now, fortuitously, your only shield. An impassive barrier between you and the swarm of sadists that encroach on you. 

Still you remain perched on the daybed, fingernails in your knees, head perked at the vibrations of the incoming trucks. You watch with your tongue in your teeth as Riley assesses the handgun in his palm, deftly popping out the magazine, flipping and inspecting, switching and reloading. Shoves it back in the black shoulder holster under his arm as he catches your eye.  

You find slight relief in his change of attire; now dressed as your protector as much as he purports to act like one. Wearing the thick black-and-navy fleece of your hired guards, the patch of their company emblem brandished on his chest. 

“You can’t talk,” you whisper, quiet out of an anxious habit. He tilts his head downward to hear you. “Remember, you can’t talk to them. You’ll give it away.”

“I won’t,” he replies bluntly, a grumble. “That means you’re going to have to do a lot of talking, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod cautiously. “I’m - I’m scared he won’t believe me.” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” When , he says. When you get to it. You hope it’s not a Freudian slip, a revelation of your inevitable discovery. 

"You're not going to be able to outgun them," you breathe, acknowledging that his only weapon is his nondescript handgun. 

He seems to find some amusement in that - releasing a huff of air as he turns to look out the open bedroom door. "Don't worry about that." 

You suppose he did, in fact, outgun the hundred-odd mercenaries that littered your estate - but in the dark and under stealth, he had surprise on his side. Judging by the sounds of the convoy, the many opening and closing vehicle doors, Sergei had a substantial retinue of soldiers in his company. You struggle to imagine Riley could overpower the quantity of armed men that you can hear piling in through your front door. His confidence may simply be fueled by a plan to escape and abandon you when things go awry. 

You hear their boots, too many boots, stomping with haste from every direction, from below and behind, near and far. The roar of an angered man echoes through the intestines of your mansion, carried up the stairs and down the hall; "Mia! Где ты?" Where are you?

With a deep breath, you glance at Riley for any indication of encouragement. He gives you merely a stiff nod. 

"Upstairs,” you call back weakly. 

Rapid in their climb, you listen to the marching as it reverberates down the hall - before you can swallow the fear in your throat three armoured men file into the master suite, long rifles raised and ready, they scan across the room in urgent inspection. 

In immediate pursuit follows the only man familiar to you - Sergei. In a doubtlessly designer puffer vest worn over his white button down, he bears a grimace of irate panic, creasing in his clean-shaven cheeks. 

"Пиздец." Fucking hell.

Glare landing on Victor's mutilated corpse, he coldly ignores you, steaming towards the body where it lies by the bed atop a puddle of dark blood. He rubs his jaw in apparent worry, head bowed to inspect the corpse, his other hand resting on his hip.  

Riley keeps a steady eye on the four adversaries as they sweep the room, his venomous glare squinting and tracking in careful suspicion. As though considering your vulnerability where you sit, he edges closer to you, moving on his back foot. There’s some kind of shelter in his shadow. Well-trained watchdog. 

One of Sergei's armed companions moves to stand beside him, swearing under his breath as he lowers his rifle to look at the cadaver. He murmurs to his superior; "Может быть нам позвонить Владимиру?" Should we call Vladimir?

Sergei rigidly shakes his head. "Еще нет." Not yet. 

Rubbing the back of his reddening neck with a tense hand, he finally turns to face you - glowers at you with a frightening intensity, you feel yourself shrivel under the heat of it. Your heart surges as he approaches. Flutters in your ribs. You feel sick, it churns in your stomach and rises in your throat. 

“Какого хуя, Mia?” What the fuck, Mia? 

He storms in your direction, accusatory finger outstretched, and you fight the instinct to flee. "What happened?"

Switching to heavily accented English for you, it becomes intimidatingly evident how eagerly he wants every detail without risk of it being lost in translation. He thinks you can barely speak his language, after all. That you don't have the linguistic capacity to describe what happened in a way that is helpful to him. 

"Mia!" He bellows after a beat of silence, his eyes you once remembered as tired and listless now violently wide and bulging. You wince, vision beginning to blur with the tears that immediately swell at his aggression. "Tell me exactly what happened." 

With a quiet sob, you wipe your cheek with a shaky palm. "I - I was just in the, in the bathroom, and Victor was in bed... it was late, maybe after midnight. And I heard a crash, like, b-breaking glass. And, then, this kind of, shuffling, or, banging - and so I - I called for Victor, to see if he was okay, and-"

A stifled cry cuts off your trailing explanation, spilling tears fall to your knees as you attempt to regain your composure. 

"And, what?" Sergei urges, not a drop of sympathy in his tone. 

"There were gunshots as I came out of the bathroom - and I screamed - there were these, these two men, and they had guns. Victor was-” you sob, “he was already dead. I think he was - I couldn’t see close, but they had already shot him. Then the - the m-motherfucker shot him again while h-he was looking at me, like he just did it so that I’d see, so I could watch. I wanted to run b-but… I just froze, I couldn’t move, I just looked at them and cried - and he-”

“Who were they? Mia, what did they look like? What were they wearing?” 

“I don’t know,” you wailed, “they wore masks, their clothes were all black. But it was dark, and they didn’t talk much, but-” 

"What language were they speaking?" Sergei offers you no room to breathe, looming closer to you; you see him shoot a glance at your silent guard. 

"Russian," you answer obediently, wetly, "I think. It sounded Russian but - but I didn't understand them. It c-could've been - Ukrainian, or, Kastovian, or-"

He turns to address one of his gun-wielding comrades, interrupting you. "Они могли бы быть от Анастас, если были бы украинцами. Виктор разговаривал с Артемом?" They could be from Anastas if they were Ukrainian. Did Victor talk to Artem? 

They mutter in tense conversation for a hideous minute, tossing names between each other that you hadn't heard before, mentioning some phone call, or a meeting, or some supposed altercation between strangers. 

It means nothing to you, but you can feel the keen attention that Riley pays to every word they utter. You wonder if he knows every single name, bears the burden of intel on each of their atrocities. It's all so relevant, so crucial to him - whispers that until now you had blissfully ignored, to whom you had barely given a passing interest. A small, spiteful part of you finds satisfaction in how blatantly the two Russians spill their precarious information in the company of the very man responsible for their panic. 

"How many were there," Sergei suddenly barks, addressing you once again, and two of the soldiers in his company march abruptly out of the room. You hear distant yelling, supposing he has sent the rest of his men to search the entire property. "Are any of them still here?"

You shake your head. "I don't - I don't think so. It was quiet when I, when I woke up. I didn't look around, though, I - I haven't left this room. I don’t know how many there were."

Turning his attention to your watchdog, his sceptical anger shifts briefly from you. “Where were you for this, huh? Дрочил вместо того чтобы делать свою чертову работу?” Busy jacking off instead of doing your fucking job?

Riley only huffs, standing near a head taller than the irate man beneath him. You hiccup, nervous, panicking for a hurried second as you attempt to think of a way to defend him from the interrogation. To prevent his need to speak.

“He can’t talk,” you mutter, sniffling, and in the seconds of subsequent silence you scramble to pull together any sensible justification. “Victor said he - he got his tongue cut out in Syria.” 

You had only passing knowledge of the Syrian war, from overhearing vague war stories spouted by other veteran mercenaries. You hope he won’t pry. How would you know anything about it, after all? 

“Ah. Настоящий герой.” A real hero, he grumbles facetiously. There’s a sudden crackle of quiet static, and Sergei is quick to tug a small radio from his vest pocket - a welcome interruption of his questioning, he turns to look out of the towering windows as he holds the radio closer to his face. 

“Внутри чисто. На данный момент двадцать восемь тел. Эти парни были чертовыми животными.” Inside all clear. Twenty-eight dead so far. These guys were fucking animals. 

Twenty-eight. More than the amount of sentries you had been aware were on duty. Did that include the cleaners? The chef? The groundskeeper? 

You feel sick. You can taste the acid. It makes you dizzy, suddenly, and you have to blink heavier to keep yourself from buckling over. 

Sergei converses droningly with the man over the line, their mutual reports fading into distant humming as your detachment only grows. Sweat beads on your forehead though your body shivers cold. 

His armed companion approaches you, then, after meticulously assessing the remainder of the room. With his rifle hung cavalierly from its sling over his shoulder, he plucks off his gloves, head bowed as he analyses you closely. You merely frown doubtfully at him, his proximity carries an accusatory air that makes your jaw tighten. 

“Похоже, они не торопились.” Looks like they took their time. 

Your inspector addresses Sergei casually, gaze fixed on your features but not meeting your eye. Seems to be remarking on the welts that riddle you. But, occupied, Sergei offers him no response. So he turns his questions to you. 

"What did they do?" He asks you crudely, accent thick.

You feel yourself defensively shrinking. "What?" 

He absently tucks his gloves into a pocket, with a slight tug in his top lip that conveys to you some sense of disgust. "Did they fuck you?"

"Excuse me?" You spit, scowling, the question alone worsens your churning nausea. 

He wears an expression of stiff impatience, and clarifies further; "Did they rape you." 

"How dare you," you immediately chide, straightening your back. "Who do you think you are?" 

You can only scoff, feign shock and disgust - you cling desperately to your station as it crumbles in your grip. You are Victor Zakhaev's wife, aren't you? How can a mere hired gun feel so emboldened to address you in such a foul, unbecoming way? 

A malignant sadness swells within your ribs. Victor would have flayed him living for asking such a question, for displaying such blatant disrespect. Only he had the right to talk to you like that. Now he is no more than a pile of lead and white meat. 

"So, they did," he remarks, a stoic cynicism in his tone. 

Anger is quick to engulf you, from a lingering ember to a swallowing flame. How sick must they all be, fantasising about how other men might have hurt you? In being so certain that any man in that position would do such a thing? Why would it matter, even if they had? Why would that be the first thing he thinks of?

The first interaction with these pricks after your husband was no longer there to dignify or protect you, and they had already assumed that you had been made unfaithful. A seething reminder that you are a cunt, a hole to be filled, and that is all that you are. 

"No, they didn't," you bark defensively, pushing yourself to stand, you glare up at him under his nose. "They didn't touch me." 

"Pft," he scoffs. "Look at you. They did more than touch you." 

"What is wrong with you?" Shedding any inclination to maintain your damsel demeanour, you resort to shouting. “How can you even suggest that?"

"If the killers were here for revenge, they would have fucked his bitch." 

Rationality failing you, you immediately swing an open hand into cheek, hurling it with as much speed and ferocity as your arm could muster - it collides with the side of his face in a clap of thunder, and he immediately recoils with an aggravated groan.

"Fucking degenerate asshole," you snarl amidst the assault, relishing in the white-hot sting that prickles in your palm after the impact. 

"Сука Ёбаная!" Fucking bitch!

Quick to retaliate, he lunges forward and clutches your throat with a vengeful hand; cheek red, eyes bulging. His sudden grip forces out a weak cough, you stumble slightly on your feet in the collision. Your heart flips with an all too familiar terror, a violent current of panic that surges from your core and renders you frigid. Routine instructs you to turn to wet clay. Absorb the blow, dampen its fury. 

But before a single word of de-escalation can be uttered, his hand is in an instant torn from your neck. Riley emerges from your periphery, then, wrenching your attacker's arm by the wrist, before viciously shoving him with enough force that he topples backward and lands on the carpet with a loud thud. In a heartbeat your hunter has his boot on his chest, handgun drawn, he aims it directly over the bewildered face of your interrogator. 

Finally breaking his attention from radio, Sergei marches over towards the commotion, braced to admonish both of the subordinates that fight over nothing. 

"Эй, эй! В чем, черт возьми, проблема?" Hey, hey! what's the fucking problem?

"Я ни хера не чё не делал, ей надо на свой собаку намордник надеть." I didn't do shit, she needs to put a muzzle on her dog. 

You spot a twitch in the Lieutenant's knuckle, a near-imperceptible movement - and for a second your body stiffens in readiness for the explosion. He would do it, you're certain, more than willingly add another dead Russian to his list. You almost expect him to pull the trigger. What you didn't expect, though, was how committed he'd be to his artificial role. Already threatening the life of an aggressor for putting a hand on you like he was born for it. 

But to shoot him would put to ruin the entirety of his meticulously laid plan. Would light an inextinguishable fire that would burn you both. So you don the role of his employer, placing a gentle but stern hand on his side to disarm him. 

"That's enough," you order, voice shaky, "this isn't the time." 

He turns his masked head only slightly, his blond eyelashes blinking as he glares at you out of the corner of his eye. But, with a grunt, he follows your instruction and relents. Stands upright, removes his imprisoning boot from the man's torso, and tucks his weapon into the holster under his arm. 

"Черт сумасшедший." Fucking lunatic, the man mutters, as he pushes himself to stand and attempts to brush the boot mark off his jacket. 

With a roll of his eyes and a flick of his hand, Sergei dismisses the remaining footmen and they march from the room in silence. He walks intently towards you, then, and puts a hand on your arm. Riley, hawk-eyed, watches closely - lingers in your periphery with his arms crossed. 

"We can get this cleaned up," Sergei explains under breath, calm yet stern. Switched back to the level-headedness you remember him for. "But there might be trouble, you understand." 

Hopeful his meaning was lost in translation, you frown worriedly. "What trouble - what do you mean?" 

"You, alone, without Victor," he grumbles. "You know… too much. So you have two options. You stay or die." 

Your lip begins to quiver. "I don't want to die." 

"No," he agrees. "I don't want that either." 

"What do I have to do?" You plead, "to stay?" 

"Don't disappear, mh? It will be easy to find you." Appearing to second guess his aggression, he relents with a sigh and looks at the ground. "You can stay with us, for now. Maria can put you in the guest room."  

Maria. His new wife. Didn’t take him long to find one. 

You whimper, and wipe your wet nose with the back of your hand. "I don't want to be in Russia," you sob. "Not while - they're still out there. They’ll - they might come back for me." 

He falls quiet in apparent thought for a moment. Considering your options, perhaps, or simply deciding whether or not to kill you and get the dirty work over and done with. In the brief silence you wait in anticipation, hoping he might come up with some more pleasant alternative. 

But the path of conversation you have navigated down has perfectly enabled your next suggestion. A chance to fulfil your part in the plan.

"I can - I could go to the summer house," you suggest softly, with a sniff. “Victor’s - the house in Kastovia." 

There's a glimmer of familiarity in his eye, his lips curl into a stern line. "Outside Verdansk?" 

You nod cautiously. 

"Mm," he considers, briefly turning to glance out of the open door - as though expecting to see Victor there, hoping for approval. Then he blinks at the floor. “Okay. Go there. Stay there.” 

You let out a breath of relief despite dire effort to restrain it. With a shaky whisper, you try not to thank him. “Okay.” 

He concludes the discussion with a stiff nod, looking over your shoulder. “What do you want to do with him?” 

You twist around to spot your husband, the man, body, to which he refers. “I-”

“Bury him?” He suggests dryly, and you shake your head, perhaps too eagerly. 

“No,” you mutter, “no - he wanted to be cremated.” 

A lie. He purses his lips in thought, but is quick to concede. “Okay,” he replies. “We’ll take care of it.” 

“Thank you,” you whimper, then swallow. 

“I’ll ask to ready the jet,” he declares coldly. “Go now. Get dressed.” 

You appear on the verge of keeling over as your Russian friend leaves the room. Ghost watches stiff-lipped as your knees tremble, close to buckling.

Some part of him is relieved that the Ultranationalist scum swarming the mansion have seemingly no interest in what you might have to say or contribute. Beyond a short stint of questioning from Sergei, it appears they have judged you incapable of assisting. 

Your perceived ineptitude and unimportance appears to have been helpful - a mere wife poses no threat of calculated treachery. Though, truthfully, he had expected a confrontation far graver than what he witnessed. Anticipated that a right-hand man the likes of Sergei Vasiliev would assume the worst of the last person to see his leader alive - that he would not have been above hurting you based on the guess alone.  

Instead, Ghost found himself unsettled, repulsed, by his hired drone’s willingness to put his hands on you. Surprised that he, some servile subordinate, felt emboldened to attack you; to interrogate you for sick gratification, some nauseating effort to understand whether your husband’s assassins might have raped you as he would have liked to. Ghost considers, at least, that he must have been attempting to discern whether the attack was a vendetta committed by someone of their ilk - other warlords and profiteers, mafia, perhaps - or an assassination, as it was, by the likes of himself.

Still, clearly, he has overestimated the ranking of a high-up’s wife. He had assumed those that served your husband would have kissed the ground you walked on. No, it seems that you are so much an accessory that even those supposedly beneath you are willing to assault you with no fear of consequence. 

Means he’ll have to up his game. Stand his ground. There’ll be more work for him than he expected. More curs to fend off. 

He watches as you place a shaky hand on the wall beside you, your shoulders rising as you inhale a weak breath. He takes a step towards you, and your head drops from your neck - in a panicked haste, you turn and dash towards the ensuite. 

“Oi-” He barks, charging after you on instinct. Remembers what happened the last time he let you venture into your bathroom unsupervised. 

He hears a wretch as he barges in after you, and finds you already collapsed over the toilet. 

“Jesus,” he grumbles, halting his pursuit. He stops in the doorframe and watches as your body lurches, listens to the splash of your vomit landing in the water. 

He rubs his brow with a rigid thumb. Supposes he can’t blame you. All caught up to you, has it? 

You heave again, cough violently - whatever you’re throwing up seems to run dry, nothing more lands in the toilet bowl but the wet and pained noises of your gagging continues. Seems your stomach is empty. He remembers he hasn’t fed you yet. 

“Y’alright?” He asks with a terse grunt, more concerned with getting you on that plane than how you are feeling. The sooner he gets you away from the sniffing mutts the better. 

You let out a wet groan, resting your cheek on the toilet seat. “I’m just - not feeling well.” 

His jaw clenches. “We need to move.” 

“I know,” you hiccup, “just give me a second.” 

“We don’t have a second.” 

“Please.” You surprise him with the earnestness in your whisper. “Please, just give me a second.” 

He can taste the guilt again. But there isn’t enough time for him to indulge you. He is confident in his ability to escape if shit hits the fan, to gun down the Russians that might get in his way as he makes his exit. But he can’t guarantee that he’d be able to get you out with him. He’ll leave you with the animals if he has to. He doesn’t want to have to. 

He spots a glass cup on the vanity, perched by one of the marble sinks. Rolls his eyes at himself as he goes to it, flicking the golden faucet to run cold and filling it a centimetre from the brim. He holds it by the rim as he approaches you, you flinch as you lift your head and realise his proximity. 

Your eyes flit to the glass in his hand, then to him. Wide with a genuine gratitude that makes his breath hitch. 

He wonders why he enjoys surprising you. He feels better existing in uncertainty, keeping his motives shrouded and hidden from you. He doesn’t like being knowable, especially by you. He can’t be too charitable, he reminds himself, as he can’t have you grow to expect that from him.

Still, he finds himself enjoying the way you look at him when he does you favours. Enjoys it in the same shameful way he enjoys a sip of liquor or a hit of nicotine.

You hesitantly take it from him. “Thank you.” 

He only releases a tense sigh, you take the glass to your lips and skull down the water in three deep gulps. You burp, then grimace, then immediately drop your head and the entire contents of the cup he had just offered you spills from your mouth and into the toilet.

“Fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” 

With a groan, you manage to shrug your shoulders. 

“What,” he pesters, frustration blooming. “Are you sick?” 

You chuff, as though you’d have said ‘obviously’ if you could. 

The thought crosses his mind, then, like a splinter - that your insect of a husband might have impregnated you. The image churns in his stomach like a sickness. Not only the image of the cretin fucking you, fucking you well enough to sow his seed - but the thought that you could have been carrying when Ghost abducted you, and restrained you, and tormented you, and waterboarded you. When Graves tortured you, bludgeoned you with closed fists like a rabid wife-beater. 

He can’t justify why the mere thought of a lump of cells in your belly makes him ill with both shame and fury. It disgusts him and enrages him. 

He can barely bring himself to even suggest it. With a grimace, he grits out; “Pregnant?” 

You turn your head, then, glowering at him from the corner of your tear-glossy eyes. “No.” 

Repulsion oozes from you as if resenting that you even had to consider it. He does his best to hide the relief that floods him at the confidence in your answer. 

“Positive?” He persists, reluctant to reveal his need for assurances. 

“Why do you fucking care? What difference would it make?” You seethe, “would you let me go if I was? Would it make you feel like a bad man?”

His nostrils flare. He’s grateful you can’t see his expression. “No.” 

“Thought not,” you grunt, then release a pent breath, tilting your head back into the toilet bowl. 

“Get it out,” he orders jadedly, after a stiff silence. Suddenly hungry for a cigarette to slow his pestering heart rate. “And hurry up.” 

Ghost shuts the door to your ensuite as he leaves. Decides you’re not in the state or position to do anything as stupid as your last escape attempt. So he sits himself on your daybed, rests his elbows on his knees, and aimlessly toys with his glock in his palm. Sixteen rounds in the clip, one chambered. He counts them again to keep his mind busy. Sixteen and one. 

His head perks up at the sound of heavy footsteps, and his eyes meet Vasiliev marching through the bedroom door like he owns the mansion he has intruded. 

His grip tightens around the handle of his pistol. He could shoot the fucker in the head, now, and strike another name of the list. Another objective completed. How many years had he been hunting this smug cunt? It would be so deliciously easy to get it over with. 

He bites on nothing and leans back in his seat. Leaves the gun in his lap. 

“Где она?” Where is she?

He asks it with an arrogance that makes Ghost seethe. He flicks his head towards the bathroom door. 

Vasiliev rolls his eyes, must have already forgotten that Ghost can’t talk. He reaches for the door handle, and in that second Ghost is standing. The Russian looks at him with disdain. 

“Что? Не хочешь, чтобы я заходил?” What, don’t want me going in?

Ghost has to hold his tongue between his teeth to prevent himself from erupting. All he can do is shake his head once, and resentfully tuck his handgun into the holster under his arm. Vasiliev only seems to find that amusing, he wears a smirk. 

The snivelling fuck. Looks proud of himself. Perhaps he’s more glad of your husband’s murder than he is letting you believe. He must only stand to gain. 

“Успокойся. Ты себя вёл так когда Виктор был рядом? Ему бы это не понравилось.” Settle down. Did you behave like this when Victor was around? He wouldn’t have liked that. 

He turns to let himself into your ensuite, and before Ghost moves to forcefully prevent him, the door opens fortuitously and you stand in its frame. Your eyes are red and hollow, skin glistening with a sheen of sticky sweat. You look horrifically ill. 

“Sorry,” you utter, meeting Ghost’s eye with a beleaguered concern, before looking bashfully at your supposed ally. “I’ll - I’ll get dressed now.”

Vasiliev nods and steps out of your way. “Mh. Your jet’s ready. We’ll drive you to the strip.” 

“Okay,” you nod. “I’ll be quick.”

You walk shakily past the two of them, jittery and unstable, before disappearing into a walk-in wardrobe. 

There is something wrong with you. Seriously wrong. Ghost can acknowledge his part in the sharp decline of your wellbeing, that you might be so rife with stress and devastation that it is manifesting physically in some sort of psychosomatic breakdown. 

But he recognises the vacancy in your stare, the twitching of your fingers, the sweat on the back of your neck. 

Ghost turns his flaming attention back to the warlord. Stands in the narrower neck of the suite with his arms crossed, a happily advantageous position. Vasiliev would have to shoulder past him to get to you. He’d fit, physically. But he isn’t brave enough, is he?

Instead, he stays put. Eyes Ghost like he’s solving a crossword. 

“Ты ведь преданный, не так ли?” You’re a loyal one, aren’t you?

Ghost runs his tongue over his teeth, but remains silent. 

“У неё закончатся деньги, ты знаешь. Она будет нищей через неделю. А потом что? Ты её бросишь как щенка.” She’ll run out of money, you know. In a week she’ll be destitute. Then what? You’ll toss her like a puppy. 

He tries not to snort at that, but even through his mask Vasiliev seems to detect his sentiment. Seems he underestimated the Russian’s perception. 

“Ты на что-то другое надеешься? Думаешь, ей нужен будет слуг без языка?” Hoping for something else, then? You think she’ll want a servant without a tongue? 

Money has rotted the pig’s brain, Ghost thinks to himself. Turned it into curdled milk. So far gone as to assume that pay and pussy are the only things that anyone could care about. Ghost’s glock feels heavy in its holster. 

Vasiliev only laughs at his own joke. 

“Ну, как только парни до нее доберутся, приходи ко мне за настоящей работой, а?” Well, once the boys get their hands on her, come to me for a real job, eh?

Even he confesses the obvious fate that befalls you. There’s something revolting about how cavalierly he admits it. Once they get to you. He offers you shelter but knows it will be temporary. Why even pretend to be decent if he has no interest in protecting you? In ensuring you might have a future beyond your cunt of a husband? 

Ghost is suddenly embarrassed of his fury. Feels the veins bulging in his temples, he blinks once and decides to turn his back to him. To find and nudge you. If he spends another minute in the proximity of Vasiliev and his maggots he won’t be able to muzzle himself.

“Ох ты, подхалим. Иди корми грудью и не тяни резину.” Oh, you sycophant. Go suckle then, and don’t drag it out.

He snorts at himself, and judging by the sound of his boots on the carpet, he leaves the room. For a moment Ghost looks forward to the respite of your summer house , so you call it, somewhere devoid of the vermin that have infested your palace. But he remembers his own plan as swiftly as he had forgotten it. Not long until he’ll be surrounded by the rat kings, forced to submit to them while surveying their every move. He’s made his bed. 

You’ve put on a structured black dress, firm at the waist and long-sleeved. The silhouette of a stepford wife with none of the cloying charm. The skirt meets your calves, which are wrapped in sheer nylon, and as he steps into the entrance of the closet you push your foot into a pointed and heeled boot. 

“Special occasion?” Ghost sneers, unwittingly letting the contempt that had been bubbling in his gullet slide through his teeth. 

You scoff as you pull the zip of your boot upward, a balancing hand clutching onto the shelf above you. “I’m a widow,” you murmur. “I need to look the part.” 

“Who gives a fuck what you look like? I’m not waiting around for you to powder your bloody nose.” 

You swivel sharply, then, a rigid expression in your tired and flustered face. “They do,” you spit, “they give a fuck what I look like. I can’t have them treating me like some common whore with her leash cut. I’m above them. I have to be above them, or - or I’ll be underneath them.” 

He half-heartedly rolls his eyes. “You reckon you’re above your mate Sergei, do you?” 

“Not him,” you relent, “his mercenaries.” 

He grits his teeth at that. Guesses you’re right to be concerned about your image, to them. But if Vasiliev and his equals deem you a disposable cocksleeve regardless of your supposed status, why would their lessers believe any differently?

Seems your image is the only thing you have left. Sullied already, by the sounds of how they speak of you. 

“Put a coat on,” he orders brutishly, “we need to move.”

Ghost follows you closely, obediently, as you walk across the snow-powdered tarmac of your driveway, the pin-point heels of your leather boots clacking loudly with each step. You, in turn, follow Sergei and his retinue, to an awaiting SUV - glimmering and black, likely bulletproof and with doors as thick as a tank’s. 

He had snickered to himself when you put on your mink coat, ankle length and so plush you look like the animal yourself. You’ve even donned a fur ushanka. He’d have assumed you were a Russian oligarch if he spotted you from a mile away. 

Under the coat, and out of sight of the Ultranationlists that circled you like vultures, you stacked on as many necklaces and bracelets and rings as would fit on your extremities without looking like a pilferer. Literally dripping with diamonds, he had thought bitterly to himself, revolted at the prospect of so much wealth wrapped around the knuckle of a single finger. It was clear your intention, though. You’d lose access to your husband’s finances soon enough, either by the hand of your benefactors or with the wipe of your ties to them once, if, you’re shipped off to the U.K. Maybe you hope to pawn all those diamonds once you get there. 

One of Vasiliev’s footmen opens the back door of the SUV for you, seems they’re more polite in the company of so many others. You step inside like it’s habit, and the same man is quick to swing the door shut after you. 

But you stop it with a swift hand, it lands against your palm with a thud. The doorman gives it some slack, and you poke out your head. 

“Нет. Он едет со мной.” No. He comes.

He smiles behind his mask. Can’t help it. 

“Охраны много, госпожа.” There’s plenty of security, ma’am. 

“Are you deaf?” You hiss, and with a grunt he submits. 

Ghost gives a facetious nod in thanks and brushes past, you shuffle over to the far seat to accommodate him. The door swings heavy and shuts with a clunk. Your perfume has already filled the interior like nerve gas. Vanilla and musk. He tries not to get drunk on it. 

He hears you unwind the window on your side, and watches as Vasiliev leans in through the opening. 

“No bags?” He asks bluntly, plucking a smoking cigarette from his teeth. Ghost’s mouth waters. Fights the urge to reach over and snatch it from him. 

“I have clothes there,” you answer quietly. 

Vasiliev simply takes an unsympathetic drag. “I’ll bring the - his ashes to you, when we come.” 

You nod weakly, then sniff, sucking in a solemn breath. “When will you?” 

“Tomorrow,” he declares confidently. “We can have the service then.” 

With a tuck of your hair behind your ear, you look at your knees. “Can you - can we have it the day after tomorrow? I just need - I would like some time, before everyone… before I have to see everyone.” 

He grunts impatiently, looking to the side as if checking for approval. “We have things to discuss, you understand,” he says bluntly, facing you. “We do not have time to wait.” 

Ghost remains dead silent, hoping Vasiliev will divulge more detail without prompt.

“I don’t understand,” you resist, he can hear the lump in your throat. Did you put it there on purpose? “Why do you need to discuss things at a funeral? It’s a funeral, Sergei.” 

“Victor was an important man, Mia,” he grits, frustrated to explain the obvious. “A lot will change with him gone. We can’t wait for you to feel better.” 

You whimper, wipe your nose. Even still Ghost is in awe of your ability to act. To lie on your feet. “Okay. Just - give me the day. Come in the evening, so I can get the, the house ready.”

“Fine,” he says. “В шесть вечера.” Six p.m.

He reels out of the window, then, and with a firm hand raps the side of the vehicle twice. With a rev of the engine, the car pulls off and you defeatedly close your passenger window. 

Once out of the line of sight of your ally and his soldiers, you keel forward. Burrow your face into your knees and claw at the back of your head, knotting your fingers into your damp hair. He can’t stand to look at you like that. Watching your turmoil manifest in demonstrative suffering. 

The silent driver sits in the car seat in front of him, thus giving him an excuse not to speak or acknowledge you. There’s nothing he could say to you, anyway, nothing that could make you feel any better. And why would he bother? Your emotions are as inconsequential to him as they are to your husband’s comrades, aren’t they. A nuisance and an impediment. 

He simply looks out of his window, into the darkness of the dense woods that your driveway carves through. Listens as you quietly cry into the fur of your coat.

He hopes you can pull it together. Not sure what he’ll do if you can’t.