#if you only bled glitter

[mariasont]

House Rules - A.H

summary: bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: reader wearing some skimpy pjs, pre-relationship pining, hotch trying to act like he's not madly in love with reader

wc: 3.3k

Hotch wasn't sure why he'd expected your house to be normal. He chalked up his misjudgment on the haze of old injuries, the kind of logic that gets muddled when you've bled out on too many occasions. Because standing on your porch, staring at the pale pink door with a glittering  Home Sweet Home sign dangling from the handle, he realized how spectacularly wrong he'd been.

It suited you, he realized. He could almost picture you hanging it there, humming to yourself and adjusting it three times before deciding it was just right.

It wasn't a social call. At least, that's what Hotch told himself repeatedly, as though the words might drown out the irrational knot of worry in his stomach. You hadn't answered your phone all day, and that was strange for you.

It was your day off, yes, but normally you were over-communicative to a fault, texting emojis when a simple yes would have sufficed, or leaving voicemail messages that somehow turned into tangents about your neighbor's cat, your favorite polish color, or the iced coffee you'd spilled that morning.

But today there was Nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

His rational mind told him you were fine. Phones die, phones get left behind, people turn them off to take a break. But when it came to you, the rational part of him always seemed to lose ground to the side of him he didn't care to admit existed — the side that careful just a little bit more than he should have.

He knocked.

After a second, he heard the unmistakable sound of your voice yelling a muffled coming!

The door opened, and there you stood, wearing something that could only be called pajamas by the loosest of definitions, shorts that left far too much skin exposed and a matching top that hugged your chest like it was afraid to let go. Your hair was loose and slightly messy, framing your face, and your bare feet peeked out from under the door.

"Oh!" You froze and looked at him like he had fallen from the sky. "Hotch! What are you doing here?"

Hotch cleared his throat and he tried, tried, to keep his eyes glued to your face. It was harder than it should have been — his brain wasn't helping, already memorizing every detail of your appearance that he knew he shouldn't have noticed.

"Do you always answer the door like this?"

"Like what?"

"Dressed like..." He hesitated, jaw clenching as he searched his vocabulary for a word that wouldn't sound entirely inappropriate. "Dressing like that. Without knowing who is on the other side."

"Hotch," you said, smiling slightly. "I could tell it wasn't a stranger."

"How?" he asked flatly, raising a brow. "Because if you tell me it was a feeling, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."

"So what are you doing here?"

You ignored him, smiling innocently as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He almost started to lecture you — about answering doors, about caution, about everything — but the words died before they reached his tongue. You were fine. Perfectly fine. Not injured, not in danger, not lying in a hospital bed or worse. Just standing there, unharmed, while he tried to shake off the residual tension of imaging all of the worst-case scenarios he'd been wrestling with the past hour.

"You weren't answering your phone." His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn't correct it.

You stared at him before letting out an incredulous laugh. "Okay, but like... that's usually not cause for a wellness check."

"It's unusual for you."

His own voice sounded defensive in his ears, and he winced inwardly.

"Aw, were you worried about me, bossman?"

His response didn't come as quickly as it usually did, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something.

"I needed to confirm something about the case report."

"Sure, you did." You tilted your head, smile widening as you let the words linger. "Well, since you're already here, might as well come in. I'd hate for you to leave empty-handed."

Hotch hesitated. The professional part of him, the one that lived and breathed protocol, told him to stay outside, finish his excuse, and leave. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying yes to an invitation like this. He'd done it for Morgan, for Emily, even Spencer without a second thought. But this wasn't them. This was you. But then you gave him that look — raised eyebrows, half a grin, daring him to prove you wrong — and against better judgment, he stepped inside.

The inside of your house was... well, it was you.

It wasn't messy, but it wasn't neat either. It was softer than he expected. Fluffy throw blankets over the couch with heart shaped pillows. On the coffee table, a collection of framed photos — pictures of you with friends, family, and even what looked to be an embarrassing prom photo.

"So?" You moved across the room, draping yourself onto the arm of the couch like a cat in the sun, one leg swinging lazily. "What's the big emergency, Hotchner?"

"I told you," he replied, squinting his eyes at you as if that would somehow change your attitude. It wouldn't. He knew from experience. "The case report. You stapled the wrong attachment to it. I need to know where the correct file is."

"Uh-huh," you said, squinting your own eyes back as if to mock him. "And this couldn't just wait until the morning? You sure you didn't just miss me?"

His brow furrowed. "Why would I —"

You were on your feet in an instant, wagging a finger at him like he'd crossed a sacred line.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hotchner!"

He blinked, staring at you like you'd just started reciting Shakespeare for no reason.

"You'll hurt my feelings," you said matter-of-factly. "And then I'll have no choice to pout. You'll feel guilty, you always do. And to make it up to me, you'll bring coffee tomorrow. So honestly, let's just skip all that and pretend you never wanted to finish that sentence."

He exhaled through his nose. "I was going to say, why would I miss you when I see you nearly every day?"

"Good." The smile was back on your face in a way that, annoyingly, made him feel better. "Because it's my day off, and you're forbidden from being mean to me on my day off."

"Are you implying I'm mean to you on your regular days?"

You tapped your chin as if seriously considering it. "Not mean, exactly... maybe a little grumpy sometimes."

Hotch huffed. "I'm grumpy with you?"

"Sometimes," you said with a shrug. "But it's okay. I like all your sides, even the grumpy one."

"I'm not grumpy with you," he replied, shaking his head. "If anything, I'm nicer to you than I should be."

"You big softie."

Hotch felt his lips twitch, and he hated how much effort it took to keep from smiling. He was not a soft person. He wasn't the type to let people get under his skin, and yet here you were managing to do it with a single sentence.

Worse, he didn't exactly dislike it. In fact, it felt... oddly welcome.

It was different from how you were at work, though, in fairness, you weren't exactly buttoned-up in the office, either.

"Did you make those?" He glanced briefly at the tray of cookies in the kitchen.

Your face lit up and you practically bounded over to the counter, grabbing the tray and holding it up like a trophy.

"Yep! Chocolate chip. Want one?"

Hotch hesitated for a second, then followed you into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the space despite himself. He didn't mean to do it, it wasn't intentional, but the part of him trained to notice every detail, every inconsistency, was already at work. Old habits die hard, or something like that.

The kitchen suited you. Soft pastel hues and floral details everywhere. Pink pots and pans hung along the wall, a lace-trimmed over mitt dangling from a hook shaped like a star. Fresh flowers, peonies or roses, he wasn't sure, sat in a vase on the counter.

He shook his head, trying to shut off that instinct to analyze. But it was almost automatic, his mind piecing things together, like the organization of the baking tools and the open cookbook, pages slightly smudged.

"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab one?"

He looked at you, then at the cookies, and finally took one with a small nod of thanks. "You bake often?"

He didn't really need to ask, you felt far too comfortable in this space for the answer to be anything but yes.

"Oh, all the time," you said, turning to put the tray back down. "It's, like, my stress reliever. Plus, it makes the house smell amazing. Not that I'm, like, stressed or anything, just saying. It's a hobby. A cute hobby."

He bit into the cookie, ignoring the sweetness for a second as he glanced around again. The pink gingham tablecloth on the island, the mugs arranged by color.

"Anything else you need? Or can I get back to my cookies and reality TV?"

He glanced toward the TV, where some kind of dramatic argument was unfolding on screen, and then back to you. "You should charge your phone."

"Yes, Daddy," you said, before going stiff. "No! I didn’t mean, like, not that Daddy. Just… regular Dad."

His body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to react, shoving the thought out of his mind before it could take hold.

"Right," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Charge your phone."

Hotch stepped toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle when your voice stopped him.

"No, Hotch's don't leave!"  you said, your voice dipping into a whine that should've been annoying. "I'm bored!"

Key word, should.

He turned back, brows lifted. "Bored?"

"Yes, bored," you said, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I've already watched two hours of reality TV, ate like, five cookies, and had an entire conversation with myself while I folded laundry. And now you're here, and I haven't had company in forever, and you're just gonna leave me all alone?"

“Forever,” he repeated dryly. “So the 24 hours since I saw you at work?”

"That doesn't count. Work doesn't count as, like, real social interaction. It's work."

He gave you a look, one of those deadpan, unreadable stares that was meant to shut down further argument. That obviously didn't work.

"You're really going to leave me all alone? In my time of need? I thought you cared about me, Hotch."

"You're not in your time of need."

"Emotionally, I am," you said, crossing your arms and leaning back like you’d just made the world’s most convincing argument. "Please, Aaron? Just hang out with me for a little bit. One show. It'll make my whole day."

The way you said his name, Aaron, hit him in a way that felt decidedly too intimate, too casual, too... something. He clenched his jaw briefly, trying to shake off the sensation as he shot you another look.

"Since when do you call me that?"

"Since now," you replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It suits you."

His brows furrowed. "It's my name."

"Exactly," you said, leaning forward. "We're not at work. You came into my house. It's all casual here. You're Aaron now. Just go with it."

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

"It does now," you said, patting the couch beside you. "So, Aaron, are you gonna sit down? Just ten minutes."

With a reluctant sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch, his posture still stiff.

"Wow," you said, scooting so close that your thigh pressed against his. "I didn't think that was actually going to work."

You leaned across the coffee table to grab a blanket, shorts riding up with the motion. Hotch's eyes darted away immediately, landing on the far corner of the room as though it held something deeply fascinating.

His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, nails pressing into his palm. His knuckles whitened slightly as he tried to force his thoughts back into neutral territory, focusing on his breathing instead of the shape of your ass.

By the time you turned back, oblivious, and tossed the blanket over both of you, he'd managed to school his face into its usual unreadable expression, though he couldn't quite fix the pressure building in his chest.

"So," you began, holding up the remote, "what's it gonna be? Reality TV? A baking show? Or, oh, those ones where they renovate houses, but everything goes horribly wrong."

"You pick." He shifted, trying to put even an inch more space between you, but you didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with tucking the blanket around you both.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you get hooked. I'm just saying, this stuff is addictive."

He leaned back shaking his, but his focus never really landed on the TV. Instead, it stayed on you, laughing at the wrong moments, gasping dramatically at plot twists, and making snarky commentary under your breath.

"You know," you said suddenly, glancing over at him with a sly smile, "you're kind of cute when you're pretending to relax."

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, though the lack of bite in his tone made it sound almost too fond.

"Nope," you said cheerfully, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Consider it part of the package.”

Hotch didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the screen, or at least, that's what he told himself. But as the minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty, he realized he wasn't in any hurry to leave.

You fell asleep thirty minutes later.

Hotch wasn't surprised. Between the pile of blankets, you'd wrapped yourself in and the way you'd curled up on the couch like it was your safe haven, it was a miracle you'd lasted that long. He'd noticed your eyelids drooping about five minutes earlier, your commentary fading into soft hums of acknowledgment as you sank deeper into the cushions.

The room was quiet now except for the sound of the TV. He shifted in his seat, glancing over at you. You were entirely still, your breathing slow. Your hair had fallen across your face, and the blanket had slipped off your shoulder, leaving your tank top askew.

It was weird, seeing you like this. You, who were always moving and talking and saying things he never really knew how to respond to. Now you looked so soft, completely oblivious to how much space you were taking up in his head. 

He told himself to leave. Just slip out, lock the door, and let you sleep. That would’ve been the smart thing. The right thing. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of you waking up, groggy and alone, wondering where he’d gone. Or maybe it was the realization that you were still his responsibility, even outside of work.

He leaned forward reluctantly, one hand brushing the blanket back over your shoulder. He told himself it was just a gentlemanly gesture, the kind anyone would do, but the second his fingers grazed you, he froze.

You murmured something under your breath, unintelligible really, your head shifting as you face turned toward him. He snatched his hand back like he'd touched something scalding. 

"Come on," he muttered under his breath. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you easily.

Your head fell against his shoulder the second he straightened. He swallowed. Your bedroom. Where was it? He glanced down the hall. Left or right? The door slightly ajar felt like the most obvious choice, and sure enough, when he nudged it open with his foot, he found himself standing right where he anticipated.

Pinks, florals, lace-trimmed, well, everything. The bed was covered in more pillows than he could count in every possible shade of pastel. It smelled like you, roses and vanilla, with something sweeter lingering underneath, like sugar from a bakery.

But then his eyes snagged on the rack of nightgowns against the far wall, like it wasn't about to cause an existential crisis. 

Lace. Sheer. Satin.

He shouldn't be looking at them. He knew he shouldn't be looking at them, and yet... he couldn't stop. The imagine of you wearing one slipped into his mind before he could stop it. That was a problem—he could see you in them, and now he had to wrestle with that mental image while pretending to be a gentleman.

He bit down on the inside of his check, hard enough to sting, and forced himself to look back at the bed. This wasn’t the time, or the place, for thoughts like that. Hell, there wasn’t ever a time for them. 

He eased you onto the mattress, his hands far softer than he thought himself capable of. He straightened, watching as you instinctively curled into the covers, your hair fanning across the pillow like some picture-perfect cliché.

Then you stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. 

"Hotch?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

You blinked slowly, gaze still hazy. "You're still here?"

"I didn't want to leave you on the couch. You looked too uncomfortable."

Your lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as you sank back into the pillows. "That's... sweet. I didn't think you did stuff like that."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

Your smile widened lazily, your half-lidded eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mysterious and chivalrous. You’re gonna ruin my whole perception of you.”

"Sleep," he said firmly, though there was no real heat behind the command.

Your gaze shifted past him, landing on the rack against the wall.

"Did you see those?" you asked. He hesitated, too long for it to go unnoticed, and your grin turned sly. "You did see them, didn't you?"

"They're hard to miss," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral.

"Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?" you teased, leaning your head against the pillow. “So? Thoughts?”

"I think," he said evenly, "you ask too many questions when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You laughed softly, the sound trailing off like a dream. “You’re dodging, Aaron. I didn’t know you could dodge.”

He sighed, stepping back as though the distance might save him. "You're good at this."

"Good at what?"

"Pushing buttons," he replied. “You’re a natural.”

"And yet, you're still here."

He didn't have the words for that. Because you were right, and he didn't know what to do about that.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body slackening into the bed, and he thought you were asleep.

Then you spoke again, quieter this time, as if testing the words before committing to them. “Why’d you really come here?”

He stilled. "I told you. You weren't answering your phone. The case report."

The explanation felt flimsy, even to him, and he hated how obvious it sounded.

"That's not it," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "You could've just waited until tomorrow. You didn't have to check on me. But you did."

Hotch didn’t move, his breath catching as he studied you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, gave no indication whether you knew what kind of mess you were making of him in that moment.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, the faintest hint of a smile brushing your lips. "I think I like it when you worry about me. Feels nice."

You didn’t say anything else, your breathing softening as sleep took over again.

Hotch stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Your words replayed like a deadly loop in his head.

He finally tore his gaze away, stepping back and slipping out of the room with careful movements. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, but even then, the sound felt too loud.

For a second, he lingered in the hallway, staring at door like it might offer him some form of an answer. He'd drawn a line with you a thousand times in his head, a boundary he vowed not to cross. And yet, like you said, he was still here, standing in your home.

He shook his head and turned toward the front door. He wouldn't cross the line, but gods help him, staying on the right side of it felt harder every time.

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[starry-bi-sky]

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

you're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Всё в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“А ты кто бляд?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось свой маленький пистолетик, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

[manicmanuscription]

Exhibit

PolySJM Week: Day Five

Prompt: Memories and History

Pairings: Feysand / Reader

Summary: You're the last one left in the inner circle, taking a weekly visit to the museum.

Word Count: 2225

Tags: Extreme angst, no like, a lot of angst, hurt and barely any comfort, author hurt her own feelings. Inner circle is all dead. briefly smutty memories but explicit, 18++

PolySJM Week 2025 Masterlist | Acotar Masterlist

My shoes clicked softly against the hardwood floors, yet each step echoed throughout my entire being, the sound deafening in the quiet halls and a sense of dread bled into my heart with every movement.

Being here was suffocating and I tried to remind myself to breathe, to force air into my lungs. Yet I tortured myself with this feeling every Friday, at one p.m. With tentative steps I reached the next room, the open floor plan allowing everything to be displayed properly and I halted in front of one of the clear cases. 

My heart constricted at seeing the matching set of jewelry. A custom set commissioned by Rhysand for Feyre and I. Small glittering black diamonds fashioned into the shapes of small stars and tiny pearls all strung up elaborately to cascade down the earlobe. 

The earrings sat next to their complimentary tiara's, the highest point also forming into a star. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment at the sight. It had been a mating gift, one of many after the elaborate ceremony he planned. The earrings had been one of my favorite pieces in my vanity and had seen the sun so often my mate had regularly taken it in for cleaning and upkeep services.

Though when they stopped pumping air into their lungs and their heart gave out from the extent of their injuries the sight of it quickly made me want to tear my skin off. 

Lifeless eyes and bloodsoaked satin flashed before my vision and I gripped my walking cane so hard I swore you could hear tiny wood pieces splintering.

A few hundred years later andI could still hear Nesta’s anguished cries and Mor’s horrified whimpers as we rushed to save them. 

Too late. Too late. Too late. 

I could still feel Cassian’s grip on my arms as he forcefully pulled me away from the sight of the gruesome scene, everyone yelling over one another as it all dissolved to chaos. The only thing that existed in that moment was them, the sight of their limp bodies into my mind forever, that agonizing pain in my chest as the bond shattered with their last breath. 

Madja wouldn’t even tell me what had truly happened to them. I found out, of course. It took me weeks but eventually I found out. That knowledge nearly sent me spiraling over the closest cliff, and the memory had that ragged bond in my chest stirring painfully. 

I forced myself away from the display case and ventured further into the Inner Circle’s exhibit. Blinking the horrid memories away as I passed a few of the other cases, letters between The Spymaster and Highlord, various weapons, sculptures, depictions of great battles my family fought in and other heroic deeds, even some shattered siphons from when my friends were youthful and untrained, a replica of the mirror the General used to capture the death god Lanthys, then a replica of the sword used to slain him. -the real thing had been given to their daughter-  great paintings depicting the Battle of Hybern and the Three Sister’s once human in all their glory. Each piece a living reminder of the legends that were my family until eventually I paused in front of my greatest torment. 

Feyre’s last unfinished piece was sitting in a storage unit a few blocks away, sometimes I’d sit there wondering what it was meant to be, my sneaky little mate having kept it a secret until she meant to reveal it on our anniversary, it tortured me for years after their deaths knowing she’d never finished it and never would, yet this canvas in front of me…

Feyre and I were sitting on lavish chairs facing forward as Rhysand stood behind us with an arm on each of our shoulders, a coy smile playing on his lips. Even though I was starting to forget a lot of things with my age, I remember that day like it was yesterday. 

“Stop trying to make me laugh!” I scolded Rhys mentally. His laughter echoed down the bond and I whirled around in my seat to face him, still keeping my hand firmly intertwined with Feyre’s. A reprimand on my tongue even as I struggled to control my giddy smile. 

The painter gently reminded me to sit still and Rhysand smirked. “Yes darling sit still we’re trying to get our portrait taken after all.” I rolled my eyes, sending a harsh wave of annoyance down the bond. “You’re the one distracting me!” I protested even as I faced the painter once more. 

“I. am. not.” Rhysand objected, his smooth voice falling on my ears, the sound of it a balm to my soul even though he was getting on my last nerve. Three seconds passed before another image of the three of us flashed in front of my eyes, my lovely wife was all wrapped up in pretty silk tied to our bed while I had the pleasure of tasting her, my tongue circling her clit as my husband kissed up her thighs before reaching her breasts. Her soft moans filled the room and- the image dissolved with a brush of Feyre’s magic and she glared at both of us and huffed slightly. “That is enough!” She snapped angrily, a faint blush crept up her cheeks and she adjusted herself on her chair. 

“The both of you are behaving like children! We wouldn’t even be in this position if you” She sent me a pointed glare.  “hadn’t insisted on a live portrait.” 

The artist gave us a confused glance at our conversation flowing in and out of mental or verbal speaking but returned to their canvas quickly not wanting to somehow upset the powerful leaders of the Night Court. 

“I thought it would be fun!” I whispered back and Rhysand chuckled softly leaning down to give Feyre and I a quick peck on the cheek. “She truly had no idea how boring these things are. I'm just trying to liven it up a little.” 

“Well quit it. Because you’re distracting me, our mate, the artist and making this whole ordeal last longer than it needs to.” 

Rhysand winced as her harsh words dug into his mental walls and I threw a look over my shoulder sticking my tongue out at him before returning my gaze forward. Feyre gave my hand a warning squeeze accompanied with her signature glare and I muttered an apology. 

Another few agonizing minutes passed before another image flashed before my eyes. I was slowly removing the silk dress from my body, stepping out from the expensive fabric in nothing but lingerie, Feyre trailed her hands up my spine from behind me a dark look in her eyes watching as Rhys leaned down to hungrily claim my lips with his own. Soft manicured nails tugged at my hair harshly eliciting a soft moan from my lips and she turned my head to the side to give our mate more access and Rhys trailed those kisses down to the side of my neck– 

“That is it!” I hissed. Standing up from my chair and storming out of the room as I fought to get my arousal under control. 

Rhysand just leaned down to Feyre’s ear. “I told you I could get her to break.” She just rubbed a tattooed hand over her temples, a small -annoyed- smirk playing on her lips as she stood as well. 

The memory faded and I brushed the tears away with an aged hand. Feyre ultimately finished the painting by taking the reference photo from the memory of the artist we hired, and reimbursed the poor girl for wasting her time. 

A wave of anger rose within me, I would never not be mad at them for leaving me to raise our child alone with that stupid fucking pact. Sure I had our family’s help but they had their own children and spouses to attend to as well and eventually old age or injury picked them all off until it was just me. The shattered bond in my chest ached at the thought refusing the anger and sadness that suffocated me so strongly a wave of pain almost had me doubling over in the exhibit.

I knew I was starting to go, forgetting things and losing time. I had to start walking with a cane and my hair turned fully white ages ago. Even my hearing was almost nonexistent. Not a lot of fae got to be this age but I was stubborn, refusing to go until I was sure my son, nieces and nephews, and court were ok. 

Sometimes I could feel my mates, brushing their hand with mine as I hobbled down the streets of Velaris, whispering things to me in the wind that I could not decipher. Sometimes I could feel one of my friends, urging me to relax or even teasing me from realms apart.

 It was getting more frequent and I knew my loves would be coming to collect me from this realm soon. 

When they did I would never, ever stop yelling at them for what they did to me. They broke their promises leaving me with a temperamental and newly made High Lord who was just a little too young to rule and a grieving court. I sat down on one of the museum’s benches as a cluster of people entered the exhibit, the clock striking one fifteen. 

My favorite part of the day. 

The tour guide spoke softly as the fae walked around the room, awe lining their faces. No one recognized me from the paintings and they were all too young to realize anyways, I hadn’t ventured to any political or public events in years, not ever since I broke my hip on some stairs in the Hewn City and my son all but banned me. Just as protective as his father. 

The guide spoke about my family with quiet reverence, telling stories about countless battles and wars won, treaty’s built. She talked about victory over Koschei and the Illyrians unrest. She talked about the political wins of my mates, she talked of the Lady of Death and her Valkyries. 

She then spoke of me, telling the love story of my mates and I, put together from long dead witness statements, letters, and even stories spilled from the old Inner Circle. 

The guests moved about the room excitedly, pointing at old artifacts and statues. It was always strange to hear my life and my family’s lives from another person, one who wasn’t there but had studied us. My nieces and nephew’s loved to hear the stories I told when they were young, but sometimes…it was nice to hear about it from someone else, I was the only one left who truly remembered what happened after all and even those were slowly going. 

It helped me remember. Remember Cassian’s booming laugh long faded, Azriels quiet reassurance, chess games between Nesta and Amren, Elain’s garden long untouched by her own loving hands. 

The perspective shift was amusing to me and war and peace raged in my heart at the memories the tour guide returned to me with her intricately weaved tales. I missed my family, missed the way our home came alive with their presence. 

Every fiber in my body ached and a stray tear slipped as the guide eventually moved onto my mate's demise and the betrayal of our ‘allies’

There wasn’t time, even if we spent eons together it would have never been enough. 

Eventually the crowd cleared as she concluded this part of her tour and moved to another exhibit. Leaving only one person in the room with me. Nyx strode across the room in just a few steps sitting on the bench beside me. “I nearly had a heart attack when Simone told me she lost you. Again.” 

“Why must you torture yourself like this Mother?” He asked, placing a comforting hand on my wobbled knee as he took a pained glance at the room. I didn’t respond, just took a chance to study his face doing my best to commit it to my weathered mind.. He was getting old, stress lines making him seem even older and being a High Lord and a new father certainly didn’t help.

Gods he looked so much like them. With his soft freckles and violet eyes. He most certainly had Feyre’s nose. 

I smiled, another ghostly wisp of a warm touch running along my spine and I knew it would be soon. I could feel that knowledge all the way down to my weary and ancient bones. Just as I knew Nyx would be fine, him and his cousin’s had been ruling for quite some time and I’d never been prouder of them and I would finally get the chance to confront my mates for I had hundreds of years of grievances to settle with them. But I would also get to hold them close once more, press kisses to their shoulders and tell them stories of the male our son had become. 

I would be able to cherish them once more, to hold them close once again, to hear their voices and see their smiles. 

I would be able to see my family once again and that peace would settle my soul for eternity. 

[sylusonychinus]

Maybe Forever?

Summary: In the neon-lit underbelly of The N109 Zone, a lost love resurfaces, forcing two souls bound by danger and betrayal to decide if their reunion is worth the risk. Pairings: Sylus x reader

The neon signs of N109 flickered a sickly purple and green, casting jagged shadows over rain-slicked streets. The air was thick with static, humming with the low thrum of illegal tech and the ever-present undercurrent of violence. You pulled your coat tighter, but the cold had long since seeped into your bones. There was no escaping it. No escaping him.

Sylus.

You hadn’t met him in some quaint cafe. Your paths had crossed in a far grittier setting: a high-stakes card game in a back-alley den where fortunes and lives were lost in equal measure. He had played with the kind of precision that only came from years of practice—or survival. His dark eyes had glittered with something almost amused as he bled the table dry. You should have walked away then. Should have ignored the way your pulse thrummed when his gaze locked onto yours, when he smirked like he already knew how this would end.

But you hadn’t. And it had been beautiful, in the way that falling from a great height was beautiful.

The N109 Zone was a wasteland of broken things, but with him, you had found something that almost felt whole. Stolen nights in hidden safe houses, whispered confessions over cheap synth-ale, his laughter in the darkness—a rare sound, like an eclipse, brief and consuming. He never promised forever. You never asked. Because deep down, you both knew what he was. What this was.

Then, one night, he was gone. No explanation. No goodbye. Just an empty room where he had been, a lingering trace of his cologne on your sheets. You told yourself you saw it coming. That you were a fool to think it could end any other way. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

You learned to walk its streets alone, learned to ignore the ghosts that haunted every corner. And still, he lingered. In the flicker of neon. In the hushed conversations of those who feared him. In the ache beneath your ribs that never fully faded.

Then, months later, on a night like any other, you found yourself back at the den where it all began, playing a game you no longer cared to win.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The voice sent ice through your veins.

You turned. He was there, just a breath away, shadowed and worn, his sharp edges somehow sharper. His gaze was unreadable, but you could see the hesitation in the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the unspoken weight of what he had done, of what he had left behind.

You swallowed hard. “Guess I had a debt to settle.”

His lips twitched at the familiar words, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t want to leave,” he said, voice rough, almost hesitant. “It wasn’t safe. Not for you.”

Your breath hitched. Of course, it had been about you. About what you meant to him, about how easy it would have been for his enemies to rip you apart just to watch him bleed.

“And now?”

His jaw tightened. “Now, things are different.”

He spoke of the war he’d waged, the blood he’d spilled to climb higher, to take control, to make sure that no one could ever use you against him again. It should have terrified you. Maybe it did. But more than that, it made something inside you crack wide open.

He wasn’t offering you promises. Wasn’t offering you something soft or easy. He was offering you the truth—ugly, violent, and real. He was offering you himself.

You exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, you reached for his hand, felt the warmth of his skin against yours, the callouses that hadn’t faded. And for the first time in months, you felt steady.

His grip tightened. A silent vow.

Outside, the lights from a lampost pulsed against the dark, but for once, they didn’t seem so harsh. The city hadn’t changed. The danger hadn’t faded. But you weren’t walking through it alone anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

@/cafekitsune for dividers

[xtra7s]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 ★ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏

pairing: Renee Rapp x reader

Synopsis: Renee Rapp finds herself being forced to co-write with her popstar enemy, Y/N YL/N.

content: none

word count: 2500+

masterlist

Sunlight, pale and watery, peeked through Renee's eyelids, coaxing them open. She groaned, squinting at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, momentarily lost before memory slammed back, a tidal wave of yesterday's chaos. The sold-out show, the encore that bled into the early hours, the post-show whirlwind of sweaty hugs and hoarse thank yous.

She sat up, wincing at the way her muscles protested, stretched languidly like a sun-drenched cat. Her apartment, usually alive with the echoes of guitar strings and her own humming, was blessedly quiet. She savored the stillness, reveling in the luxury of an unscheduled morning.

Coffee first, always coffee. Slipping into a faded black tee and ripped sweatpants, Renee padded into the kitchen, the familiar ritual grounding her. The hiss of the espresso machine, the frothy gurgle of milk, all a symphony of caffeine-fueled peace. She curled up on the window seat, mug cradled in her hands, watching the city wake up beneath a veil of mist.

The day unfurled with the lazy elegance of a catnap. She strummed aimlessly on her guitar, chords bleeding into each other like watercolor paints. A melody hummed beneath her breath, hesitant at first, then soaring with newfound confidence. Words followed, tumbling out like spilled secrets, raw and vulnerable. This one, she knew, wouldn't be for the stage. This one was for her, etched in the quiet of her living room, sunlight painting gold across her notebook pages.

Mid-verse, the phone buzzed, pulling her back from the daydream landscape. It was Adam, her manager, his voice a staccato counterpoint to the slow tempo of her morning. "Hey, sleepyhead. Get that caffeine flowing, you've got a meeting in an hour."

Renee blinked the edges of her daydream blurring. "A meeting? With who?"

"Surprise," Adam purred, a mischievous glint in his voice. "Just be at the office by noon, looking fierce. Trust me, this is good."

The call ended, leaving behind a delicious cocktail of curiosity and apprehension. Adam rarely sprung surprises, preferring the well-worn path of meticulous planning. A quick peek at her calendar confirmed the blankness of the day, a testament to his clandestine maneuver. Renee, intrigued, finished her coffee with newfound urgency.

A quick shower scrubbed away the remnants of sleep and yesterday's glitter. Jeans replaced sweatpants, and a vintage band tee swapped for a sleek silk cropped tank. She threw on a leather jacket, its worn patina contrasting the delicate silver chain around her neck. A flick of mascara, a touch of rouge, and voila, Renee was ready for whatever mystery Max had cooked up.

The subway ride was a whirlwind of crumpled newspapers and hurried goodbyes. The city buzzed outside the windows, a symphony of car horns and sirens that somehow managed to be lullaby familiar. Renee tapped her foot against the worn floor, an impatient rhythm against the steady rumble of the train.

Adam's office, on the top floor of a sleek glass tower, felt as controlled as its occupant. He sat behind a minimalist desk, a tablet gleaming like a black mirror in his hands. "Well, look who graced us with her presence," he drawled, a sharkish grin lighting up his face.

"Alright, spill it," Renee demanded, settling into the plush leather chair opposite him. She took off her jacket and rested it on the chair, "Who's the mystery meeting with?"

Adam smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Ready for the real kicker, Blondie?" He reached for his tablet, tapping the screen with a flourish. "Your writing partner for these demos? None other than the one and only..."

The name that flashed on the screen froze Renee's blood. Y/N YL/N. The girl who seemed to embody everything Renee wasn't – polished, perfect, and seemingly born with a platinum record tucked behind each earlobe.

Their paths had crossed a few times – an awkward introduction at an awards show, a tense exchange at a music industry party – and each encounter had felt like navigating a minefield. Y/N’s icy smile and razor-sharp wit felt like a personal affront, a constant reminder of everything Renee felt insecure about.

The news hit her like a rogue wave. Collaborating with Y/N? Writing songs together? It was like asking a firefly to tango with a scorpion. The very idea sent shivers down her spine, a delicious blend of dread and fascination.

"You're joking, right?" Renee's voice was a tight whisper, her fingers twisting in her lap.

Adam chuckled, but there was a glint of steel in his eyes. "Nope. Word on the street is that Y/N's been looking for a songwriting partner with some... grit. Apparently, her last collaborator couldn't handle the 'diva act.'" He raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge him.

Renee squared her shoulders, a spark of defiance lighting in her eyes. "Challenge accepted," she declared, her voice steadier than she felt. "Let's see who the real diva is when we're both spitting shit in a recording booth."

The Hollywood dream suddenly felt a lot less glamorous and a lot more like stepping into a coliseum, armed only with a guitar and a stubborn sense of self. Writing songs with Y/N was going to be hell, but maybe, just maybe, it would also be the spark that ignited something extraordinary, both on the record and within herself. 

As Adam slid a glass of champagne into her hand, the city lights outside the window seemed to wink, beckoning her towards a future both terrifying and thrilling. The Renee Rapp show was just getting started, and her first act was facing her demons, head-on and harmony-filled.

"Alright, Renee," he said, pushing himself up from his chair. "Y/N's on her way to the studio right now. Time to go meet your new best friend."

Renee swallowed hard, the champagne suddenly turning to vinegar in her stomach. "Right," she croaked, forcing a smile. "Studio. Collaboration. Teamwork."

Adam raised an eyebrow, his sharkish grin widening. "More like controlled chaos, but hey, that's where the magic happens, right?" He winked, then tossed her black leather jacket to her. "Go get 'em, tiger. Show her what Renee Rapp's made of."

The city stretched out before her, a concrete jungle pulsating with possibility and peril. Grabbing a taxi, Renee sped towards the studio, her thoughts churning like a washing machine on a spin cycle. Would Y/N be the ice queen she always appeared to be, or was there something more beneath the polished surface? Could they possibly navigate the choppy waters of songwriting together, or would their egos collide in a spectacular, public shipwreck?

The studio, nestled in the heart of Hollywood, hummed with creative energy. The air crackled with the sound of guitars being tuned, drumsticks tapping impatiently, and voices warming up scales. Renee took a deep breath, stepping into the dimly lit control room where Angela waited, her music producer, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"She's in booth two," she said, pointing towards a soundproofed glass box.

Renee nodded, her heart pounding a primal rhythm against her ribs. She pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the booth like a gladiator entering the arena. There, bathed in the soft glow of studio lights, sat Y/N YL/N.

For a moment, the world held its breath. The two rivals were locked in a silent standoff, their past encounters casting long shadows across the room. Then, a slow smile spread across Y/N's face, a smirk that was equal parts of challenge and intrigue.

"Renee Rapp," she drawled, her voice like honeyed poison. "Fancy seeing you here."

Renee met her gaze, her own smile steely and determined. "Yeah yeah, Y/N," she replied. "Let's get to work."

And so, the unlikely collaboration began. Two voices, so different yet somehow destined to intertwine, filled the studio with the raw energy of unspoken feelings and unbridled talent. The air crackled with tension, with unspoken words hanging heavy between them. Yet, as their fingers danced across guitars and their voices blended in unexpected harmonies, a spark ignited.

It was a dance on the edge of a volcano, fueled by equal parts animosity and grudging respect. They challenged each other and pushed each other to their limits, their voices soaring and crashing like waves against the rocks. 

Frustration hung heavy in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. Hours had bled by, filled with discarded melodies and half-written verses, with the tantalizing promise of a song just out of reach. Renee strummed her guitar listlessly, the chords echoing the emptiness in her mind.

Y/N sat across from her, perched on a stool, her usually immaculate hair mussed, dark circles smudging the corners of her eyes. The polished veneer of her persona had peeled away, revealing the vulnerability beneath. For the first time, Renee saw her not as a rival, but as another artist struggling with the same demons.

A sudden change in Renee's strumming caught Y/N's attention. Her head snapped up, eyes locking with Renee's, who seemed unaware of the shift. Her fingers danced across the strings, weaving a melody that was both raw and captivating. Renee's lips moved silently, forming words that hung in the air like wisps of smoke.

"You say that I'm your favorite," she hummed, her voice low and husky, "With your hand between my thighs."

Y/N's breath hitched, a shiver dancing down her spine. The lyrics, raw and unapologetic, cut through the tension like a knife. This wasn't the sugary pop Y/N was known for; this was something darker, something more real.

Renee's eyes fluttered open, meeting Y/N's gaze with a newfound intensity. The air crackled with electricity, a mix of anticipation and trepidation.

"Tell me if you were gonna," Renee continued, her voice gaining strength, "That I would be the one you tried."

Y/N watched, hypnotized, as Renee mumbled a few more lyrics before shaking her head. The raw lyrics, sung with smoky confidence, peeled back layer after layer of the facade Renee typically projected. Y/N noticed things she'd never observed before - the flecks of gold in Renee's blue eyes that sparked with each line, the way her nose crinkled adorably when she concentrated, and the subtle curve of her jaw that spoke of hidden strength.

 The song, a shared confession, had cracked open Y/N's carefully constructed shell, revealing a tangle of emotions she'd kept buried for years. Her gaze traced the line of Renee's neck, the pulse fluttering beneath the delicate skin, and a shiver ran down Y/N's spine.

The air crackled with a charged silence. Y/N's walls, once brick and mortar, were now mere cobblestones, tumbling into disarray. She met Renee's eyes, her own unguarded and vulnerable, a stark contrast to the icy color they usually held.

"That..." Y/N's voice was a mere whisper, "That was something else, Renee."

Renee, sensing the shift, offered a tentative smile. "It was," she agreed, her voice husky.

There, in the dimly lit studio, their rivalry seemed to melt away, replaced by a fragile understanding, a whispered promise of shared vulnerability. They stepped out into the dawn, the first rays of sunlight painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. It was a new beginning, a blank canvas upon which they could paint a masterpiece of collaboration.

But as they left the studio and the magic of the music faded, Y/N's walls began to rebuild, brick by metaphorical brick. The vulnerability 

evaporated, replaced by the familiar mask of cold detachment. Her back straightened, her gaze sharpened, and a familiar smirk played on her lips.

"Alright, Renee," she drawled, her voice tinged with her usual icy edge. "Hit me up tomorrow, I'll come over and we can continue writing."

Renee blinked, startled by the sharp shift. She nodded as the warmth of their shared moment had dissolved, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste. But something had changed. Renee saw a flicker of the woman beneath the ice queen, a glimpse of the vulnerability Y/N had so briefly unveiled.

The game had changed, indeed. Renee knew the road ahead would be paved with challenges, with Y/N's barbed wit and ruthless ambition a constant obstacle. But she also knew that, hidden beneath the layers of frost, there was a fire in Y/N that could be kindled. The melody they had forged together, raw and honest, was proof. And that, in itself, was a victory.

The rivalry was far from over, but now, it danced with a hint of something else, something unspoken and intriguing. Renee met Y/N's gaze, a new challenge glinting in her own eyes. 

Renee stumbled out of the studio, eyelids drooping and nerves buzzing. Sleep, usually a welcome sanctuary, seemed elusive tonight. The image of Y/N's walls rebuilding, brick by icy brick, replayed in her mind, a discordant note against the echo of their raw collaboration.

She drifted into her apartment, the silence pressing against her like a suffocating wave. The ukulele leaned against the wall, untouched, yearning for the warmth of her fingers. Instead, she gravitated towards her trusty guitar, its familiar weight grounding her in the chaos of her emotions.

Her fingers danced across the strings, returning to the notes she played in the studio, a way to translate the tangled mess in her head. The chords came hesitantly at first, a tentative whisper, then gathering momentum like a gathering storm. Her voice, raw and unfiltered, filled the quiet room, weaving a tapestry of unspoken desires and lingering questions.

"In the PM, all the pretty girls," she crooned, "They have a couple drinks, all the pretty girls."

The lyric hung in the air, heavy with both longing and self-awareness. Was it her own reflection she saw in those words, the girl in the mirror seeking solace in the fleeting comfort of company? Or was it Y/N, a glimpse beneath the polished surface, a yearning for something just beyond her reach?

"So now, they wanna kiss all the pretty girls," Renee continued, her voice gaining strength, "They got to have a taste of a pretty girl."

The melody soared, achingly beautiful, and laced with a bittersweet truth. The game they played, the unspoken tension between them, was it just a desperate grasp for connection in a world of curated personas? Or was there something more, something simmering beneath the veneer of rivalry?

She strummed the final chord, letting the silence settle like a soft snowfall. The lyrics etched onto the page in messy scrawl, seemed to hold the answer to a question she hadn't even dared to ask. Tonight, the lines between artist and subject had blurred, Renee revealing not just melodies but a sliver of her own soul.

With a heavy sigh, she slipped into bed, the image of Y/N's eyes, both guarded and curious, dancing behind her eyelids. Sleep, at last, brought its welcome embrace, but within its depths, another song was stirring, waiting to be born. In the morning, with the city streets shimmering beneath the sunrise, Renee knew the game had just begun. 

The melodies they created, confessions hidden in plain sight, would be their currency, their battle cries, their whispered promises. Whether it led to harmony or heartbreak, one thing was certain: the world they were about to create, together, would be unlike anything anyone had ever heard.

[pardonmymannerssir]

(This wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it.)

Rook enters the dinning room -or what he likes to consider the mess hall- and recognizes all the faces present but one.

Strife steps forward immediately and the stranger follows. He’s tall, a few inches taller than Rook, and has short, curling blonde hair that’s graying at the temples. Theres a scar on his lip that somehow makes him look dashing instead of grizzly, and he’s wearing a breast plate emblazoned with a familiar symbol.

“Rook,” Strife says, “meet Commander Cullen Rutherford, of the Inquisition.”

The Commander extends his hand as if he’s not a legend made suddenly flesh. Rook has read stories about this man. Some of them rather salacious. His smile is crooked. “Just Cullen, please. Since the Inquisition disbanded the only thing I’ve been in command of is a few litters of Mabari puppies from time to time.”

Rook takes his hand firmly, because he’s a professional, damnit. “Right. Cullen. Pleasure to meet you, I assume you’re here to help?”

“Eve- the Inquisitor sent me ahead, I’ve a dozen men with me, the remnants of the Inquisition that we could spare from the South. It’s not much but they are some of our best.”

Rook nods sharply, catching Neve’s eye from across the room and trying to ignore the way his heart skips. The memories from the night before try very hard to distract him. All warm brown skin and breathy sighs. Her expression is unreadable but her eyes glitter.

They just need to get through this alive, he tells himself. Just this last bit. All they have to do is kill two gods. Easy.

“Every little bit helps,” he says finally, though an army would have been nice. “We’re grateful to have you. Now, let’s figure out how we’re going to get to Ghilan'nain.”

—-

Rook, for one, is deeply pleased to see the Inquisitor and Morrigan burst through the door. Especially considering the alternative had previously been either Venatori or Darkspawn.

Commander Cullen is… less so. The large man barrels forward with a grim fury in his eyes as Rook sags with relief against the nearest wall. The Commander has a small cut on his brow that has bled down the side of his face and he is splattered in blight, blood and general grime like the rest of them. The man is certainly formidable with sword and shield, and he may not have brought an army but he’d probably saved Rook’s life a dozen times on their way through the barrier.

The Inquisitor looks pristine in contrast, her nondescript robes are spotless and her coppery hair is carefully braided away from her face. She’s pretty and stately as always, but pale and sharp like a small dagger. She looks to her Commander with steely resolve and the air of a woman who’s been here before.

“I thought we agreed you would remain behind,” Cullen bites out.

Magister Dorian slips past them with an affectionate roll of his eyes for Rook’s benefit. Clearly this is a display he’s seen before.

The Inquisitor smirks but the steel in her eyes remains. “What, and let you have all the fun.”

“Evelyn-“

“Not Inquisitor?”

“You shouldn’t be here. We agreed.”

She sighs, shoulders sagging a little. “Cullen… I have to try.”

“You have tried,” Cullen insists. “For Makers sake, Inquisitor he cut your hand off and left you unconscious and alone.”

Huh. Rook adds dismemberment to his long list of reasons why Solas is an ass.

“Well yes, but he did it to save my life.”

Cullen shakes his head. “So he claimed but in case it’s escaped your notice he’s rather known for lying.”

“It is pretty hard to deny that the Mark had been killing me, love.” She looks at him and there’s a pleading in her eyes. “This time it’s different, we’ve got Mythal and-“

Cullen reaches out and takes her arm and the moment becomes instantly more intimate and Rook can read the anguish in the other man’s face. He should look away but finds he can’t. Transfixed by the devotion nakedly on display.

“Evelyn, please, it’s too dangerous. We aren’t as young as we once were and I can’t bear the thought of you endangering yourself again. Not after what he did to Varric.”

The mention of Varric burns, a fresh and gapping wound.

The Inquisitor reaches up to cup the Commander’s cheek and she mutters a spell softly under her breath, healing his wound. She pulls a handkerchief from her robes and mops gently at the blood left behind. The sharpness in her dulls and her fingers linger at his jaw. “Typical of you to berate me for risking my life while you’re covered in blood. Besides, you’re the old one. I’m a full six years younger than you and in the prime of my life.”

Cullen grabs her hand and traps it against his face. He closes his eyes for a moment with the air of a man praying for patience. “Ten years hasn’t made you take matters more seriously,” he says dryly.

The Inquisitor chuckles. “And here I thought you fell in love with me for my fantastic sense of humor and great a-“

Cullen shuts her up with a kiss. Firm. Desperate. Lingering. Rook finally manages to look away to find Neve watching him. This time her expression is very easy to read. He peels himself away from the wall and sheathes his sword. A kiss sounds rather nice, he decides.

—-

Solas disappears and the veil snaps closed with a sound like a clap of thunder. Silence descends as the enormity of what just happened hovers just beyond Rook’s comprehension.

It’s over. It’s really over.

Next to him, the Inquisitor sinks to her knees, fingers pressed to her lips. There are tears in her eyes. Rook follows suit, though his own decent is much less.. graceful. Neve helps him down and he uses his sword for a bit of support as the aftershocks of adrenaline and pure relief course through him. His entire body beneath his armor feels like one giant bruise, but he throws an arm around Neve’s shoulders and plants a sound kiss to her temple that makes her blush before she sinks into him. It strikes him that he has time. So much time now. To touch, to kiss, to talk. To laugh.

“It’s over,” the Inquisitor whispers. “He’s gone.”

Commander Cullen is rushing across the terrace, worry etched on his face. The rest of Rook’s team is fast on his heels. The Inquisitor must recognize the clattering sound of Cullen’s approach because she forces herself unsteadily to her feet. She turns just in time for her Commander to gather her into his arms.

“Thank the Maker,” he says with the reverence of a true believer and he takes the Inquisitor’s face in his hands, looking her over for injury.

The Inquisitor laughs. It’s a bright sound, like the chiming of a bell, and shoves his hands away to throw her arms around his neck.

Cullen stumbles back a step and then swings her around once, twice, his smile blinding. They kiss, tenderly. When the Inquisitor pulls away, however, she looks toward the space where Solas had once stood and there is sadness and regret in her eyes.

“He went willingly… alone… possibly forever.”

Cullen’s mouth forms a hard line. “He has much to atone for.”

“Yes… I know. I only wish-I don’t know, that we’d had more time to talk. He was my friend once…”

Cullen only squeezes her gently before setting her on her feet. The Inquisitor turns to Rook, an air of formality settling about her like a cloak. It makes him sit a bit straighter. In her simple robes with wisps of hair fluttering in the breeze, she manages to look regal.

“Thank you, Rook, for helping me finish this.”

He manages a nod, not at all sure how to react. “Hard to imagine where we go from here,” he says, then looks at Neve whose heart is shinning in her eyes. “Well, I suppose you two have given me a few ideas.”

[rewrittenwrongs]

Heyyyy @mirensiart, remember months ago when I asked if writing fics based on your pain sharing AU was allowed?

I know the merfolk transformation doesn’t hurt Legend in your comic, but Legend angst is my jam. And apparently Time angst. Parts of this have been sitting untouched since last year, and recently I finally got around to finishing it and polishing everything up (not that polished tho). Consider it a late birthday gift?

If you have an Ao3 account, you can read it here. If not, click Keep reading :)

The day was actually going quite well, which should’ve been the first clue.

Legend was wary, sure, but only of the water. They were in Wild’s Hyrule, walking alongside a lake to some town Legend had forgotten the name of. He made sure to stay far away from the water. He’d prefer if that secret didn’t come out at all, let alone when they still had that pain-sharing curse the stupid wizzrobe cast on them.

Even when they reached a half-ruined dock, and Wind convinced some of the others to join him in the water, Legend was only a little concerned. Not for Wind’s safety, he could swim just fine and Wild said this river was safe. He was mostly concerned that someone might shove him in as a joke.

He knew it was an unfound fear. He’s made it clear that he didn’t want to get in water. That opened him up for jokes about being unable to swim, but nobody went as far as to see if that was true. They respected every other boundary he set, why would they ignore this one?

The wariness and concern started to grow when they were attacked.

It was at least a dozen lizalfos, mostly Wild’s, and a few of Wild’s moblins. They would’ve gotten in a sneak attack, if Hyrule hadn’t noticed them from where he was showing off his magic boots. Everyone sprung into action immediately.

Time and Warriors leapt to their feet in unison, blades meeting those of the charging moblins. Wild, sitting on a rock on the far bank, jumped to his feet and summoned a bow from his Sheikah Slate. Hyrule, standing beside him on the water, ran back to the others and tugged Wind onto land. The Four Sword and the Ordon Blade swiped at lizalfos, their wielders bedraggled and wet, and the Master Sword followed suit as a lizalfos tried to shove Sky back into the water.

Legend had just enough time to notice all that before joining the battle, ducking under a whip-like tongue before swiping his ice rod at it, encasing it in glittering white ice. His blade then met a green lizalfos’ metal boomerang, and the two of them went toe to toe for a moment. Wild had told them about the strength scaling based on pelt colour his monsters had, but Legend couldn’t remember what green scales meant on a lizalfos. He just hoped its blood wasn’t black.

Unfortunately, when Legend managed to chop off its tongue, it bled black. He swiped at its side while it screeched in pain, then slashed at the slowly defrosting lizard monster behind it, managing to shatter its leg. Revealing red veins and muscles, hm.

Shortly after, a small, stinging pain made itself known below his knee. The cut was small and didn’t belong to him anyway, so he ignored it and kept fighting, practically dancing between two lizalfos trying to slash at him. He always hated it when the monsters had weapons.

These lizalfos were annoyingly fast, too, something made clear by the sudden throbbing pain of an impact against his shoulder. Legend himself was fine, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Four on his back with a lizalfos over him. Thankfully, a few of Wild’s arrows were enough to get him back up, and the pain didn’t make anyone stumble.

That pain didn’t, but unfortunately, the next phantom injury sent Legend’s way interrupted his footing. A sharp pain right on someone’s ankle, maybe from a lizalfos’ tongue. Legend’s ankle, despite being perfectly fine, gave out for a second, forcing him to drop to the ground to dodge a swipe. He’s back on his feet in an instant, thankfully, freezing two lizalfos in place and then shattering one of them.

A third swiped at him from behind, this one with black and red scales, and when Legend’s sword met its blade it pushed back with much more strength than he expected. He took a few steps back, swiping at the monster’s muzzle. His boots clicked against the edge of the wooden dock.

The lizalfos was back on him immediately, tri-boomerang glinting with as much malice as its eyes. They danced around each other for a moment, before an arrow hit it in the shoulder, revealing blood as black as coal.

With a hiss, it leapt back, and made the clicking-gargling noise in its throat that signalled an attack.

Legend had just enough time to raise his ice rod, only to realise how bad of an idea that was as the lizalfos’ tongue ripped it from his hold.

Okay, time to get serious. Legend activated a power bracelet as the monster darted back up to him, and met its blade with equal strength, then shoved it back and swiped. The lizalfos dodged the swipe then darted in close again, and Legend’s next attack took out a tooth.

Growling in rage, the monster put all its strength into its next few swings, all fast and dangerous enough that Legend had to repeatedly step back out of range.

Another arrow embedded itself in the lizalfos’ side, before Wild’s voice called out, “I’m out of normal arrows!” Legend knew, from the distinction, that the battlefield was too chaotic to risk any elemental arrows.

That was fine. Legend wasn’t that concerned, still. Anything with black blood made a difficult fight, but he had no handicapping pain or injuries.

The lizalfos jumped back again, lowering to all fours. Legend prepared himself for the oncoming rush attack, only to be blindsided by what actually happened.

It did launch itself at him, but not before dropping its weapon. As it tackled him it grabbed his wrist, forcing his sword to a relatively harmless angle. The force of the impact threw him back, and before he knew it he could no longer feel the dock beneath his feet.

The river slammed into him with a rush of cold and a burst of bubbles. The transformation was far less lenient.

—

Time wasn’t that concerned when Legend was thrown into the lake.

He knew Wild’s lizalfos were terrible to fight in their own element, but Legend could hold his own. One hit with his ice rod and that lizard would be toast. The fight was winding down, too, they’d be able to help in a minute.

Then he remembered Legend’s aversion to water.

And then the pain started.

It slammed into him with no warning, with so much force and intensity it rivalled Twilight’s wolf transformation. All at once, he felt the pain of every bone in his legs breaking, every muscle tearing, every inch of skin ripped and ligament shred. It rushed up his spine like a tidal wave, consuming his hips, enveloping his lungs, ripping open his throat. It spared no mercy for his face, burning his ears and seemingly taking a cheese grater to his cheeks, while his eyes felt as though they’d been scooped out with a rusty fork. Even his hands ached like they were being taken apart.

The agony consumed so much of his attention, so many of his senses, that his reaction was very delayed when a lizalfos landed on top of him.

Its jaws slammed shut around his shoulder, teeth scraping against his armour. Time blinked at it dazedly, dots swimming through his vision. He was lying down? He had collapsed.

The lizalfos scraped its claws against his chestplate, and Time remembered he could move, and, in fact, should. His gauntleted hand, burning with pain, tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he managed to slam it through the monster’s side. The thing screeched then went still, heavy body slowly sliding off him, jaws going lax.

The pain in his lungs and throat was throbbing, pulsing as if with the rise and fall of breath. Time’s own breath didn’t match the tempo, as his lungs were apparently convinced breathing at all would worsen it. The pain through his eyes and skull did not lessen nor worsen when he closed his eyes, and the agony in his fingers spared no reaction when he flexed them. The worst of the feeling was still centred around his legs, from tailbone to toes and from skin to marrow, the suffering so overwhelmingly strong it was hard to think past.

It was lessening now, though. Rapidly, even. A few more moments of catching his breath, and it had dulled enough for Time to drag himself up. An ache remained through his legs and throat, and a burning sensation of someone’s wound over his thigh, as well as the usual sting of small cuts and bruises that weren’t his own, and a few that were. Time’s eyes scanned the battlefield as he slowly stood, finding the others similarly incapacitated, with the exception of Twilight, who desperately fought against four lizalfos over an unconscious Wind and an unsteady Hyrule.

Warriors was still on his back, just barely managing to skewer an attacking lizalfos. Sky had the Master Sword jammed into the jaws of one on top of him, and Time felt the way its claws were scraping against Sky’s chainmail. Four was stumbling to his feet with his eyes on Twilight.

Time found his head turning away from the battle, feeling like he was forgetting something. Wild was across the river, slowly dragging himself further upshore. The water—

The water was churning, a trio of shapes flickering beneath it. The black of a lizalfos, a smaller red shape, and a long something that flashed orange, silver, blue, and black. A light blue cap floated serenely beside the decrepit dock.

That’s what Time was forgetting.

Dropping his sword to the ground, Time rushed to the water’s edge, fumbling with his bag. He drew out his bow and quiver and nocked an arrow, firing first away from the water, to a lizalfos fighting Twilight. Warriors and Four joined the fight soon after, and shooting became too risky for someone with Time’s archery skill. He instead shot the one that had Sky pinned. It got him enough of an opening to shove it back and jump to his feet, slamming the Master Sword through its spine.

Time turned back to the water, unsure if he had time to swap his armour for his Zora tunic. He noticed Legend’s ice rod, abandoned by the foot of the dock. The water continued to churn and shapes continued to writhe beneath it. Time aimed in the direction of the disturbance, holding still until he could get a clear shot.

Abruptly, he felt claws scrape against his side, raking over his ribcage, followed shortly by the stinging impact of a lizalfos tongue. He glanced at himself despite knowing the pain wasn’t his. With a look over his shoulder it became clear the first injury must belong to Legend. Sky had joined the lizalfos fight, which Twilight had stepped away from to search through his bag. Wind had woken up with Hyrule’s help.

Another few tense moments passed. Red began to subtly stain the water. Time felt a lizalfos jaw clamp over someone’s shoulder and tug, hard, and at the same time a large tail fin splashed through the water’s surface. Dark blue and turquoise, with black edges and flashes of orange; it disappeared back under with a splash just as Time adjusted his aim. His arrow soared through the air and then the water, straight towards the giant tail connected to the fin—

Pain slammed into Time and everyone else full force. A piercing, sharp pain, a deep puncture, in the back of someone’s calf.

The blood in the water thickened, swirling around the lizalfos, Legend, and whatever other river monster must be underneath.

Nobody said it out loud, perhaps in fear of the emotional pain it might cause, but they’re all thinking the same thing.

Did that arrow hit Legend?

The possibility was already sending a wave of pressure through Time’s chest, dread and apprehension clawing at his lungs, no doubt spreading to the others.

He stayed perfectly still, fighting to breathe, while the others sprang into action. Warriors and Sky and Four quickly finished off the last of the lizalfos, while Hyrule and Wind hurried to the water’s edge. Twilight came next, running across the dock while pulling something over his head, before he dived smoothly into the water.

Time’s hand twitched. He didn’t dare draw an arrow, but didn’t put his bow down either.

Green joined the flashes of colour beneath the water. The rest of the Chain gathered by the river’s edge. They watched as the shapes moved. The colourful fin splashed through the water again, but no one fired at it. Wild, on the other side of the water, summoned some clothes with his Slate and dived in. More pain joined the collection of injuries the Chain was feeling: the rake of claws across someone’s feet, a rough impact spraining someone’s rib, the stinging impact of, probably, the lizalfos’ tongue. Slowly, the strain on someone’s lungs caused by holding their breath became present.

At last, after what felt like years, the churning of the water ceased. Wild’s head broke the surface, a dark blue cap on the back of his head Time recognised from his own Zora armour. Wild panted desperately, eyes wide as he caught his breath. The feeling of breathlessness eased.

After another few moments, Twilight’s head popped up, wearing another Zora-made headpiece that covered his nose and mouth. He was staring into the water next to him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry.

“Wild? Twi?” Sky asked. “Where’s Legend?”

“Uh—” Wild joined Twilight in staring at the water, seeming distinctly lost. The blue-turquoise-orange-silver shape still sat close to the riverbed, unmoving beside the red one. Twilight said nothing, staring at the water expectantly.

Finally, the shapes shifted and another head poked up from the water’s surface, only peeking out enough for his eyes to be visible. This head had light blonde hair with a streak of pink. Clearly it was Legend, but…

Iridescent orange and green scales shimmered over his cheekbones. His purple irises were larger and his pupils were slit like a cat’s. His ears had been replaced by fins; tall and transparent, colour drifting between blue and turquoise.

“What the fuck,” Wind whispered. No one bothered reprimanding him.

Legend’s gaze landed on Time’s bow. His pupils narrowed, his brows pinched, and although his expression was half hidden beneath the water Time could make out his anxiety plain as day. He could feel it, too.

Time’s heart fell through his chest and settled somewhere at his boots.

Legend was afraid of him.

[valeisaslut]

“Don’t stand there crying and pretending you know what it feels like,” she spat. “Your whole career was glitter and perfection and people praising you for just breathing.”

“Oh,” your voice cracked, the disbelief cutting sharper than her words. “So that’s what you think of me? That it was all roses and red carpets? That I’ve never bled for any of this?”

She sneered. “Compared to me? No, you haven’t.”

“Jesus, Ellie,” you breathed, tears now spilling harder. “You don’t know shit about what I’ve been through! You never asked! You just assumed it was easier for me—”

“Because you didn’t end up like this!” she shouted, pointing to herself like she was a living caution sign. “You didn’t need coke or pills or alcohol to keep up. You’re not the one everyone expects to be fucked up!” ....Why do i get the feeling that these lines come from a place of… not exactly spite but like, lowkey jealousy? Idk. I would love to read your take about why you wrote these dialogues. Also i absolutely LOVE COLLIDE is the only thing i can think ab lately!!! You are my FAV writer ab.

first of all THANK YOU, that means so much to me you have no idea 💕😭 hearing that collide is living rent-free in your mind is literally the highest compliment, truly!!!

now about those lines... you're 100% right for picking up on the jealousy. ellie’s love for reader is immense (like, core-shaking, rip-her-own-heart-out-and-hand-it-over levels of love) but that doesn’t mean she’s free from resentment. especially in the middle of a breakdown like that. especially when she’s at her lowest and feels like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her back.

it’s not hate, it’s not real spite, but it is COMPARISON. ellie’s the leader of a band, she’s the one jesse and dina count on to keep it all together. she’s the one who’s had critics breathing down her neck since day one, calling her a nepobaby, questioning her talent, assuming she wouldn’t be anyone without joel. she's always had to prove herself and never quite fit the mold the industry wanted her to fit.

reader, in her eyes, is someone just as talented (insanely so) but she gets to exist in glitter. she gets the covers, the praise, the crazy fans who cry over how sweet and perfect she is. she fits in.

ellie’s not blind to how hard reader works. she knows she’s wrong, she only said it to push her away. in that moment, she was spiraling. and jealousy is ugly, it comes out sharp-edged and misplaced. it’s easier to lash out than to admit she’s scared and hurting.

so yes. that bitterness? it’s real. not because she doesn’t love her—but because she does. secause when she looks at reader, she sees everything she wants to be: not scared to give and receive love. and she hates herself for not being able to receive it the same way. it’s messy. it’s human. and it’s only going to make their healing —and ellie’s eventual accountability— THAT much more powerful.

thank you again for reading and loving these characters the way you do. truly😭😩💕💕💕💕

[cloudss-space]

You were special

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... angst & slight hurt/comfort ... 12k word count

author note: thank you all for 50 follows !! i appreciate all of your guys love and support. i appreciate you all who read my works and i can't wait to write even more for you guys <3

trigger/content warning: gore / blood, skin picking, suicide, self harm, anxiety/panic attacks

Growing up, you felt the weight of eyes on you from every corner of the room. It wasn't the warm gaze of approval or the gentle encouragement of someone who wanted you to thrive. These eyes were sharp, like knives, dissecting you piece by piece, carving out the parts that didn't fit their expectations. You were a canvas they demanded to be perfect, but their tools weren't brushes—they were scalpels, precise and ruthless. Every glance was a silent demand, every word an unspoken expectation. You had to be something, you had to create something, you had to prove that you were more than just skin and bone. Your worth was measured in accomplishments, in trophies, in how brightly you could shine under their unyielding scrutiny. But even the brightest stars burn out, don't they?

You learned early that being still was dangerous. Stillness meant inadequacy, a failure to meet the standards etched into you like scars. They pushed you into classes: piano, ballet, painting, debate—anything to ensure you were never idle. Each lesson felt like a blade against your skin, shaping you into something they could display. Your fingers bled against the piano keys, your toes blistered and cracked in ballet shoes, and your voice turned hoarse from endless rehearsals. But you never stopped, never faltered, because stopping meant disappointing them. Disappointing them was unforgivable. Your successes were their triumphs, and your failures? They were unforgivable and unforgettable.

You remember how their words cut deeper than any knife. "Not good enough," they'd say, their voices dripping with disappointment. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, even as the taste of copper filled your mouth from biting your tongue too hard. Your skin felt too tight, your body too fragile under the weight of their expectations. There were days when you looked in the mirror and saw something unrecognisable staring back. The reflection was cracked, fractured by their demands and your inability to meet them. But you'd still smile, because showing weakness was another sin you couldn't afford to commit.

The world outside was no better. Strangers saw only the polished version of you, the mask you wore so diligently. They marveled at your talent, praised your dedication, and envied your supposed perfection. But they didn't see the blood beneath your fingernails or the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. They didn't see the sleepless nights spent practising until your body screamed for rest. They only saw the results, the shiny, glittering facade you presented. And isn't that all that matters? They believed the lie, even if it was killing you.

You started to resent the things you once loved. The piano keys felt like ice beneath your fingertips, their melody now a dirge. The ballet studio smelled of sweat and despair; the mirrors reflected your exhaustion rather than grace. Even your own voice betrayed you, cracking under the weight of forced enthusiasm. But you kept going because stopping wasn't an option. You wouldn't let them. You didn't want to stop, you didn't think you deserved to. You were grateful for their attention and investment in you.

The pressure was intense, squeezing your chest with every passing day. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage. You know you will never be able to let it all go, to collapse under the weight of their expectations. Would they even notice if you shattered? Or would they sweep up the pieces and demand you put yourself back together? You didn't know the answer, and you were too afraid to find out. So you kept moving, kept performing, even as your soul screamed for release.

There were moments when you felt like you were drowning, gasping for air in a sea of demands. The water was dark and cold, and every time you surfaced, another wave crashed over you, dragging you back under. You reached for lifelines that weren't there, your hands clawing at the emptiness, nails breaking and bleeding. But you never screamed. Admitting defeat was not an option. You let the waves take you, let them pull you deeper, until the only thing you could feel was the crushing pressure of their expectations.

And yet, despite everything, you kept going. You did it not because you wanted to, but because you had to. The fear of their disapproval was greater than the pain of their demands. You became a machine, operating on autopilot, your emotions buried so deep you almost forgot they existed. But sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the world was asleep, you'd feel the cracks in your armour. Tears would come unbidden, hot and angry, carving trails down your cheeks like rivers of molten glass. You wiped them away quickly, ashamed of your weakness, and promised yourself you'd try harder the next day.

But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Their eyes never stopped following you, unblinking and unforgiving, always expecting more. You could win every competition, master every skill, and still, they'd find something to critique. They weren't interested in your talent; they wanted perfection. And perfection is a moving target, always just out of reach. But you kept chasing it, even as it tore you apart, because what else was there? What were you, if not their perfect little masterpiece?

Now, as you stand on the edge of adulthood, you wonder what it was all for. The trophies gather dust, the skills they forced upon you now feel like chains rather than gifts. You look at your reflection and see the scars of their expectations etched into your skin, visible only to you. But beneath the cracks, beneath the layers of performance and pretence, you see something else: a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. And for the first time, you dare to believe that you can rewrite your story.

The flicker of defiance you saw in the mirror is extinguished by the weight of expectations pressing down on you. The walls close in, their pristine white surfaces streaked with the red of your efforts, the rawness of your exhaustion. Every movement is a reminder of how much you've given. The hollow ache in your chest grows louder, echoing like a drumbeat in a cavern, but you drown it out with the rhythmic grind of repetition. Practice. Perfect. Repeat. The cycle sharpens like broken glass, slicing into your resolve, but you won't stop. Stopping would mean failure, and failure is unthinkable.

You feel the toll of always being "on" and always having to perform. Your joints crack and protest, your muscles tremble under the strain of endless hours. Your hands, once steady and graceful, now shake uncontrollably, fingertips raw and split from the relentless grind. You notice the blood smearing the piano keys, dark crimson seeping into the grooves, but you keep playing. The melody is disjointed, discordant, but no one's listening closely enough to care. Your audience only sees the performance, not the cost, and that's what matters. You keep telling yourself it's worth it, even as your vision blurs and your pulse thrums erratically in your ears.

The whispers of doubt grow louder, turning into screams in the quiet moments you can no longer avoid. They claw at the edges of your mind, their voices overlapping, accusing, demanding. Not enough. Never enough. The words feel like needles beneath your skin, burrowing deeper until they reach your core. Sleep offers no reprieve. It is fractured and restless, punctuated by dreams of endless auditions and faceless judges with mouths like voids. You wake up gasping, choking on the reality that it's not just a dream. The nightmare is real, and there's no escape.

Your body betrays you in more obvious ways. You catch glimpses of your reflection, pale and gaunt, eyes sunken into shadowed hollows. Your bruises don't heal; they bloom like dark flowers, reminders of your inadequacies. Your nails are chipped and bloody, and when you wash your hands, the water runs pink, swirling down the drain like a mockery of the effort you've poured out. You try to hide the signs, but you can't hide the exhaustion etched into every part of you. Even the air feels heavy, pressing down on your chest until every breath is a battle.

People notice, but their concern is superficial and short-lived. They say, "You're pushing yourself too hard," their words laced with a tepid sympathy. But their empathy is superficial. They don't understand the true depth of your exhaustion. They still expect the same performance, the same perfection, even as your body and mind crumble. Their smiles are masks, hiding the insatiable hunger for what you can give, for the show you've built your life around. You're foolishly loyal to their expectations, nodding and smiling, while all the while you know it's not fine. Pretending you're fine.

Your mind fractures under the strain. Thoughts splinter and loop, chaotic fragments you can't piece together. The world tilts, a dizzying whirl of colours and sounds that blur at the edges. You shake uncontrollably, gripping the edge of a countertop with knuckles white from force. Your heart pounds erratically, as if it wants to escape your ribcage. Panic surges, a wave that crashes over you, dragging you under. You gasp for air, clawing at your chest as if you can force the anxiety out. But it doesn't leave—it festers, a parasitic force feeding on your every weakness.

The pain is constant, a constant, nagging thrum. Your muscles ache, your joints burn, and your head pounds relentlessly, the pressure building like a storm. You feel as though your skin can barely contain you, as if you're moments away from tearing yourself apart. You catch yourself scratching at your arms absentmindedly, nails digging into flesh until you break the surface. The sting provides momentary respite, but it is fleeting. The blood that pools in the shallow crescent marks is a constant reminder of your lack of control.

You start to resent everyone around you—not just for their demands, but for their ignorance. They don't see the destruction inside you, don't care to look past the surface. They clap and cheer, oblivious to the rot spreading through you, the slow decay of your spirit. You know they will notice, you know what you'd have to lose before they'd finally see you. The thought is dark, a shadow curling around your mind, whispering temptations you're too afraid to name. But you push it away, because giving in would mean they've won. You will not let them win, even if it kills you.

By the time you realise how far you've fallen, it's too late to crawl back. The person you were—the child who dreamed of love and warmth—is a distant memory, a ghost haunting the halls of your mind. You don't know who you are anymore. You're not enough. You are a hollow shell, a performer with no audience, a masterpiece no one truly wants to admire. The storm inside you rages on, unrelenting, tearing through the ruins of what once made you whole. But you press on, driven by hope. But deep down, you know the truth: the eyes on you will never let you rest.

The storm inside intensifies, devouring every shred of hope you attempt to salvage. It is relentless, a gnawing ache that burrows into your chest and festers like an open wound. Those expectations are chains now, dragging you down with every step, their weight pulling you closer to the ground. You know that if you let go, you'll fall. But you don't dare consider it, not even for a second. Will they pull you back to your feet, or will they step over your broken body, whispering, "I knew they couldn't handle it"?

Your days blur together. You move through routines on autopilot, hands trembling as you perfect the same motions over and over again. The blood on the piano keys is darker now, nearly black, crusted into the grooves like dried ink. Your fingertips are numb, calloused and raw, but you play anyway. Each note is a scream, echoing in the room. You wonder if anyone hears your desperation, but no one says a word. When you finish, the silence is cold, more intense than the applause you used to fear.

The cracks in your mind grow wider, splitting into jagged chasms you can't navigate. Voices echo in those dark spaces, some familiar, others foreign, all of them cruel. They whisper your failures back to you, their words crawling under your skin like insects. You catch yourself whispering back, arguing with the ghosts that have taken residence in your head. It doesn't help. Their accusations grow louder, overlapping, turning into a cacophony of shame and guilt. You press your hands to your ears, nails biting into your scalp, but there's no silencing them. They're part of you now, ingrained like the scars you hide.

Sleep becomes a distant memory, your nights spent staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that aren't there. The darkness feels alive, suffocating, pressing against you until you can't breathe. You see shapes moving in the shadows, their forms indistinct but menacing. You know they're figments of your imagination, born from exhaustion and fear, but that doesn't make them any less terrifying. Your heart races, your chest tightens, and you are overwhelmed by panic. By the time the sun rises, you're too spent to face the day, but you force yourself out of bed anyway. There's no room for weakness, not in their eyes.

The physical toll worsens. Your body feels alien, as though it belongs to someone else, someone who has been battered and broken beyond recognition. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, your face drained of all emotion, your skin pallid and your hands shaking with fear. You barely recognise yourself. The bruises that once bloomed like flowers are now dark, sunken craters, permanent marks of your failure to keep up. The cuts on your arms sting as they reopen, your nails unconsciously scratching at them in moments of stress. You hide them, but they're always there, a constant reminder of your failure.

The world outside feels distant and unreachable. It's as though you're watching it through a pane of shattered glass. People pass you by, their faces blurred, their voices muffled. You are unable to connect with them, and you do not care about their shallow conversations and trivial concerns. The isolation is a double-edged sword: you crave connection, yet the thought of anyone truly seeing you fills you with dread. What would they think if they knew the truth? If they saw the cracks, the blood, the ruin beneath the surface? You shudder at the thought, clutching your secrets closer, even as they poison you from within.

The whispers in your mind grow more potent with every passing day. They don't just accuse you of failure anymore – they urge you toward something worse. Give up, they say. End it. You are already broken. Why persist? Their voices are persuasive, almost soothing in their promise of release. You push them away, reminding yourself of the reasons you've held on this long. Those reasons feel so small now, so fragile. The weight of the whispers presses against your chest and for the first time, you consider listening to them.

One night, the storm inside you mirrors the one outside. The thunder shakes the walls, lightning streaking through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating your hollow reflection in the glass. You sit by the window, knees pulled to your chest, nails digging into your arms as the voices scream louder than the storm. You want to reach out, to scream for help, but your voice feels trapped in your throat. You try to text someone—anyone—but your fingers tremble too much to type. The words you want to say are too heavy, too sharp, cutting you from the inside out. The phone falls from your hand with a dull thud.

The storm continues, unrelenting, as you sit there, paralyzed by the weight of it all. The lightning flashes, illuminating the tears streaming down your face. Their warmth is a cruel contrast to the cold consuming you. Your mind spirals, the voices weaving a tapestry of despair that feels inescapable. You close your eyes, but the darkness offers no solace; only more shadows. Yet, a tiny part of you clings to hope, faint and flickering like a dying candle. This tiny flame of hope is all that keeps you breathing, keeps you connected to this world even as the storm rages on.

The storm inside you swells, consuming everything in its path. It is heavy, oppressive, and curls through your veins like smoke, dark and suffocating. It presses against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a serpent, squeezing until your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps. Your heart races, a frantic, uneven rhythm that drowns out every other sound. The world blurs at the edges, the lines between reality and the chaos in your head growing indistinct. You feel as though you are crumbling from the inside out, the fragile framework of your mind buckling under a weight it was never meant to bear.

Time loses meaning in this state. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into an eternity of unrelenting torment. The voices in your mind grow sharper, their words cutting you to the bone. You are not enough. You will never be enough. Why are you even trying? Every phrase is a dagger, a deepening wound that you thought was healed. You want to fight back, to scream at the ghosts haunting your thoughts, but the words catch in your throat, choking you. It's as if your very being is unravelling, thread by thread, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

The emptiness is the worst part. It's a hollow ache that echoes through every part of you, a void that no amount of effort or achievement can fill. You feel like a brittle, fragile shell, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable, each step forward requiring every ounce of strength you have left. You feel the weight of your body, the pull of gravity dragging you down, and for a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to just let it take you. To stop resisting. To let go. But you cannot hold onto this thought for long.

The constant fear vibrates beneath your skin, never letting you forget its presence. It's not just fear of failure or disappointment; it's fear of yourself, of the spiralling darkness that threatens to consume you. The storm outside mirrors the one within, the thunder rumbling like a beast in the distance, the flashes of lightning stark and violent. You feel the universe is mocking you, its chaos reflecting your own in a cruel, unrelenting dance. Each clap of thunder strikes your fragile armour, each bolt of lightning exposing your vulnerability.

Your hands shake as you try to steady yourself, clutching at your clothes, the chair, anything you can grab hold of. The texture beneath your fingers feels unreal, disconnected, as though your senses are betraying you. The air in the room is thick with the static charge of the storm, and you feel it prickling against your skin like needles. Your breaths come faster and faster, shallow and panicked, as though the world is spinning around you in dizzying circles. You close your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids is alive, shifting and writhing, offering no solace.

You feel isolated, alone, and your mind is consumed by a relentless sense of despair. You are alone, unreachable, as though you're screaming into a void that swallows every sound. You long for someone to pull you from this abyss, to anchor you, to tell you that you'll be okay. Yet the very idea of reaching out feels impossible. What would you say? How can you even begin to explain the chaos in your mind, the storm raging inside you? Words feel inadequate, clumsy, incapable of capturing the depth of your despair. You stay silent, drowning in your own thoughts.

The physical pain merges seamlessly with the emotional, becoming indistinguishable. Your body aches in ways that feel unnatural, every muscle tight and trembling, every joint stiff and unyielding. Your skin feels too tight, too fragile, as though it could split open at any moment. The scars you hide burn with a phantom heat, their presence a constant reminder of battles you thought you'd won. They are proof that you are fighting a war you can't win. The thought feels heavy in your chest, dragging you deeper into the dark.

There is clarity in the midst of this chaos; the pain is sharp and almost tangible. The world narrows to a single point: your suffering. Every sound, every sensation, every thought is amplified, reverberating through you like the toll of a bell. The storm outside rages on, its fury a cruel echo of your own, and you feel as though it's trying to drown you. Each crack of thunder, each flash of lightning, is a judgment, a condemnation of your inability to keep it together.

Yet, even in the depths of this despair, a part of you refuses to let go completely. It's small, faint, barely more than a whisper, but it's there. It reminds you of the moments when the storm quieted, when the weight lifted, if only for a little while. It reminds you that you've survived this before and that you can survive it again. It's not a promise, but it's enough to keep you holding on. For now, at least. In the midst of chaos, that thread of hope is a lifeline; fragile but unbreakable.

The thread of hope you cling to is thin. It will snap under the weight of your despair. It quivers with the same unsteady rhythm as your breaths, a fragile tether keeping you from slipping completely into the void. The storm rages on, louder and more ferocious, its booming thunder reverberating through your bones. Each strike is a reminder that the world outside is chaotic and unforgiving. You are at war with yourself, torn between the storm and the calm.

Your skin is electric, hypersensitive to every tiny sensation. The hum of the air conditioner sounds like a roar; the texture of your clothes scratches against your skin, rough and unbearable. You press your hands against your ears, but it's useless. The noise is inside you: a relentless cacophony of thunder and whispers, and the grinding weight of your own thoughts. You press harder, fingernails digging into your scalp, desperate to silence it all. The sharp sting is momentarily grounding, but it's fleeting. The storm inside continues. It never stops.

The room warps around you, its edges bending and twisting in ways that make your stomach churn. The walls feel close, suffocating, and yet impossibly distant. You reach out to steady yourself, but your hands tremble too much to find purchase. The floor ripples beneath you, like water disturbed by the storm. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the illusion, but the disorientation only worsens. You are trapped in a dream where nothing makes sense, but the pain is too sharp, too real, to be anything but reality.

Your heart races. It pounds against your ribs. It's trying to break free. The rhythm is frantic and erratic, each beat hammering into your chest with brutal force. Your throat tightens and your breath catches as panic takes hold. You try to breathe deeply, to calm yourself, but you can't. It feels like the storm has stolen even that from you. The more you fight it, the worse it gets. You gasp for air, tears streaming down your face as you claw at your throat in a desperate attempt to breathe.

Time stretches, each second dragging on for what feels like an eternity. Outside, the storm rages without pause, its thunder rolling incessantly, its lightning cutting through the darkness with blinding precision. Each flash illuminates the room in harsh, stark light, casting jagged shadows that seem to reach for you. You feel a primal fear in your chest, an all-consuming urge to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. You want to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. The storm is everywhere, inside and out, a force you can't outrun or hide from. You curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight, as though you can shield yourself from the onslaught.

Your mind spirals deeper, the whispers in your head growing louder, their accusations sharper. This is your fault, they hiss. You're weak. You will never be free of this. The words sting like acid, eating away at your strength. You try to push them away, to drown them out with your own voice, but your throat is raw, your words faltering and broken. The whispers laugh cruelly, mocking your desperation. They know your weaknesses, every flaw and failure, and they weaponise them with ruthless precision.

The lightning outside is intense. It feels like it's tearing through you, its brightness exposing every raw, vulnerable part of you. Each flash is a spotlight, a searing judgment that leaves you trembling and exposed. You cannot hide from it, nor escape the way it lays you bare. The thunder rumbles, shaking the foundations of the house, and you feel like it could collapse under its force. You almost wish it would. Then the storm would finally end. You'll find peace, buried in the rubble, but it won't be long.

But closing your eyes only amplifies the chaos inside you. The darkness behind your lids is alive, a swirling mass of shadows and shapes you can't decipher. You feel like you're falling, spiralling deeper into a void that has no bottom. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can anchor yourself, but there's nothing solid to hold onto. You feel weightless yet heavy, suspended in the storm's relentless grip.

And then, in the midst of the chaos, there's a flicker—a faint, wavering pulse of light. It is not the storm's lightning, but something quieter, gentler. It's almost imperceptible, a whisper against the roar, but you feel it. It's small and fragile, easily drowned out by the thunder, but it's there. You can't say for sure if it's real or just an illusion, but you hold on to it. It's the only thing that feels even remotely like hope, and in this moment, hope is all you have.

The tipping point comes quietly, sneaking up on you like a shadow at your back. It's not a single moment, but a series of cracks, each one deeper than the last, until you finally shatter. You wake up one morning unable to move, your body leaden, every joint screaming as though it's been filled with shards of glass. Your chest feels hollow and impossibly heavy, as though something vital has been scooped out and replaced with a stone. You try to rise, but the room tilts violently, the world spinning in chaotic circles that send bile rushing up your throat. You collapse back onto the bed, trembling. Your breaths are shallow and uneven. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can claw your way out of this suffocating panic. There is no escape: only the steady, crushing weight that presses down on you, dragging you deeper into yourself.

The days blur together after that, indistinct and shapeless, each one bleeding into the next. You can barely eat; food tastes like ash in your mouth, and your stomach twists violently at the thought of it. Sleep eludes you; your nights are spent staring at the ceiling as shadows twist and writhe, whispering to you in voices you can't block out. The darkness behind your eyes feels alive, pulsing with the rhythm of your frenzied heartbeat. Your skin feels wrong – too tight, too thin – every nerve ending exposed and raw. Even the slightest touch feels like fire, like needles piercing your skin, and you flinch away from anyone who comes too close. The storm inside you has grown into a hurricane, a relentless force that tears through every part of you, leaving only destruction in its wake.

The self-destruction is ritualistic, an instinctive response to the chaos. You catch yourself scratching at your arms until the skin breaks, until crimson blossoms under your nails, stark against your pale, trembling flesh. The sight of it is horrifying, yet strangely soothing, as though the pain grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the void. But it never lasts. The relief is fleeting, replaced almost instantly by shame, by the weight of what you've done. You hide the marks beneath long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat, the fabric sticking to your skin and rubbing against the wounds. It's a small price to pay for keeping your secret and maintaining the fragile facade that everything is fine. But you know the truth: you're falling apart, and there's no way to stop it.

The hospital visits begin after you faint for the first time, your body giving in to the relentless strain. You wake up on the floor, the cold tile pressed against your cheek, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. Your lip is split, a deep red line that throbs with each beat of your heart. Someone finds you there, their voice distant and muffled, as though you're hearing it through water. You don't remember much after that—flashes of fluorescent lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the beeping of machines. When you finally come to, you're in a hospital bed, the harsh whiteness of the room making your head throb. Your arms are bandaged and your body aches in ways you don't understand. A nurse explains what happened, her voice gentle but laced with concern, and you feel the weight of her words settle over you like a shroud.

The doctors ask questions you can't answer. Their words blur together into a monotonous drone. They demand details on how long you've been suffering, the onset of symptoms, and the triggering factors. You try to explain, but the words stick in your throat, choking you. How can you put into words the chaos in your mind, the storm that never ceases? They run tests, their hands cold and clinical as they poke and prod, their faces carefully neutral. But you can see the pity in their eyes, the way they look at you like you're broken. It makes your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat as you clench your fists beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. You want to scream, to tell them you're fine, but you know they wouldn't believe you. You don't even believe it yourself.

The therapy sessions are the hardest, each one peeling back layers you've spent years trying to bury. The therapist's questions cut deeper than any blade, their words prying into the darkest corners of your mind. You hate it. You hate how they make you feel exposed and vulnerable. You hate the way they strip away every defence you've built. You lash out, your voice rising in anger and frustration, but it only makes you feel worse. The therapist's calm demeanor is infuriating and disarming. They tell you it's okay to feel this way, that healing takes time, but the words feel hollow, meaningless. Time is a luxury you don't think you have, not with the storm raging as fiercely as ever.

The medication they give you may dull the edges of your pain, but it does not make it go away. You will feel numb and detached, as though watching your life from a distance. The storm is still there, quieter now but still very much still threatening, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. You are in a liminal space between pain and nothingness. It's not the relief you hoped for, but it's better than the suffocating weight that threatened to crush you. But you know you've lost something in the process. The medication has stolen a part of you you'll never get back.

The hospital becomes a second home, its sterile walls and fluorescent lights constantly reminding you of your fragility. You hate it there; you hate how time seems to stand still, each day bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of monotony. The other patients are quiet, their faces pale and haunted, their eyes reflecting the same emptiness you feel. You deliberately avoid meeting their gazes, because you are afraid of what you might see in them, and what they might see in you. The nurses are kind but distant, their smiles professional and practised. You can tell they care, but their concern feels impersonal, like they're trying to keep you at arm's length. This only deepens your sense of isolation.

The days outside the hospital are devoid of purpose. Your life is reduced to a series of appointments and routines designed to keep you afloat. You go through the motions, your body on autopilot while your mind remains distant, detached. The scars on your arms fade, but new ones emerge, invisible to the naked eye but no less painful. You wear long sleeves out of habit now, the fabric a barrier between you and the world. People ask how you're doing, their voices cautious and hesitant, and you force a smile, tell them you're fine. The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's easier than the truth.

Even now, as you sit in the quiet of your room, the storm lingers, a distant rumble that never fully fades. You know it's only a matter of time before it returns, stronger and more destructive than before. But for now, you cling to the fragile peace you've found. You trace the faint scars on your arms, reminders of where you've been, of how far you've come. The journey is far from over, but for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to hope. It's small and fragile, but it'll keep you going.

When you first met Ronin, you immediately felt an unshakeable sense of familiarity, as if you had known him in some distant corner of your life. He strode into the room with an unmistakable confidence, his eyes scanning the space with a sharpness that made you feel seen in a way no one else had. His smile was wry, lips tugging upward in a way that was both cocky and knowing, as though he understood the unspoken depths of the world, the secrets buried in the shadows. You felt an instant connection, as though his presence anchored you. There was a quiet strength in him, a ruggedness that spoke to scars you couldn't see. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel alone. The pain that had been strangling you eased in his presence, his brokenness mirroring your own in a way that wasn't about winning or losing, but understanding.

As time passed, you noticed the cracks in his armour. His humour was sharp, biting, and there was an edge to his words, a layer of bitterness that he'd wrapped around himself like a protective shield. You realised quickly that Ronin had been through things – things that had torn into him, carved out pieces of his soul. He kept these hidden beneath layers of deflection. He was not like the others who wore their pain like a mask, unable or unwilling to show anything more. There was something about the way he carried it, as though he had learned to live with it, to make it a part of him instead of allowing it to consume him. This instilled a sense of safety. He wasn't perfect. He was deeply flawed, just like you, and that was comforting.

But as you spent more time with him, something else started to creep in: a gnawing feeling that began to fester in your chest. It was subtle at first, an undercurrent that tugged at the back of your mind. It wasn't his fault. You felt small in his presence, as if the things you had once prided yourself on—the talents you had worked so hard to cultivate—were starting to wither. Your mind wandered to the past, to the years spent building something, only to watch it slip away as Ronin's effortless charisma and confidence seemed to eclipse your efforts. He didn't even need to try, and yet he was good at everything: making people laugh, being the life of the room, or picking up skills with the ease of someone who had been born with them. Despite your own efforts, you felt like you were always running to catch up.

The feeling gnawed at you, hollowing out the space inside you where your pride used to live. It felt like your efforts had been in vain, as though everything you had worked for was being overshadowed by his natural ease and ability to succeed without struggle. You tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away. Every time he succeeded, every time someone praised him, it was a reminder of how much you were lacking, how far behind you seemed in comparison. The stark contrast between your hard-earned skills and his innate abilities made you question everything. Was all your time spent honing your talent just an illusion? Did it mean nothing in the end?

The self-doubt began to seep into everything, making your accomplishments feel meaningless. It wasn't just his success that triggered this—no, it was the ease with which he embraced his own flaws, the way he wore them like battle scars rather than something to be ashamed of. You, on the other hand, were still trying to patch up the gaping wounds inside you, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. You couldn't help but feel that, despite all the work you had done, you would never measure up to someone like him. The pressure to be something, to live up to expectations you had set for yourself, felt suffocating, like an iron vise tightening around your chest. The more you tried to escape it, the worse it got, until it felt like you were choking on the weight of it all.

The room felt like it was closing in on you, the walls pressing in as that familiar suffocating panic rose again. You caught yourself staring at Ronin in moments of silence, watching him move through life effortlessly, never stumbling, always confident, always so much more than you. The comparison became unbearable, your chest heavy with the weight of your inadequacy. You had to push those thoughts aside and tell yourself that you were enough. But it was hard to believe when the person you loved seemed so effortlessly perfect in ways you could never be. The jarring dissonance between your self-image and reality was like a song out of tune, every note grating against your soul.

The ache in your chest deepened and you retreated into yourself, withdrawing into the darkness that had once felt like home. Ronin noticed, of course – he always did – but his responses were different. His words were sharp again, tinged with the same cocky bravado that had first drawn you to him, but there was something underneath them, a vulnerability that he wasn't ready to show. He didn't ask what was wrong, not directly, but he would brush against you when you least expected it, a gentle reminder that he was still there. It made you feel torn, torn between wanting to pull away and needing to stay close. You didn't want to admit that you were slipping into the same dark hole that had threatened to swallow you before, but you could feel it – a familiar, suffocating sensation, creeping at the edges of your mind, just waiting to pull you under.

There were nights when the darkness felt unbearable, when the weight of it threatened to consume you entirely. Ronin was always there, sitting by your side, making sassy remarks that revealed an unspoken understanding. But even his presence, which once felt like a balm, started to feel distant, like something that was too far out of reach for you to hold onto. You wanted to push him away, to shut down, but the silence between you both grew louder. Every word, every gesture, reminded you of the gap between who you were and who you wished you could be. The talent you had once cultivated with such devotion felt irrelevant, like it didn't matter anymore. Ronin had a way of making everything feel effortless, and it made you wonder if your hard work and struggle had been pointless.

Ronin was a constant presence, and while his presence seemed to magnify your insecurities, he also offered something else: a quiet kind of solace. His cocky smile, his sassy remarks, his way of being both broken and whole at once, reminded you that you weren't alone in your mess. You had never realised you needed this: not perfection, not skill, but someone who could see the pieces of you that were still broken and love you anyway. It may not have erased the storm within, but it certainly made it more manageable. Perhaps that was all you needed: someone who understood what it felt like to fall apart and could help you put the pieces back together, one by one.

As the days blurred into one another, the discomfort of your self-doubt lingered, like a lingering bruise: tender to the touch yet always there, always raw. Ronin was a constant presence, never forcing you to confront the swirling chaos inside your mind, but offering quiet support in his own sassy, cocky way. His laughter was a challenge, daring the world to oppose him, daring you to find joy in the midst of your darkness. But each time he flashed that grin, that unrelenting confidence, it was a sharp reminder of your own fragility. You appreciated him, no doubt about it, but the more he thrived in his untouchable confidence, the more you felt like you were crumbling beneath the weight of your own expectations.

You could see him moving through the world, unfazed, unaffected by the storms you fought within yourself. This was in stark contrast to your own ongoing battle, which felt never-ending. No matter how hard you tried to claw your way out, you simply couldn't break free. Your hard-earned triumphs felt small in the light of his effortless ability to navigate life. You couldn't help but wonder: had you missed something? Was there something more you could've done, something you could've been? As Ronin's life burst into vivid colours, yours became just another shadow in his radiance. Every moment of achievement that should have filled you with pride felt like an echo of something lost. You had cultivated talent, but it was slipping through your fingers and dissolving in the void that had taken hold of your heart.

Even when you were alone, you could feel his presence—like an electric pulse beneath your skin, reminding you of the unspoken distance between you two. You tried to silence the voices in your head, the ones that said you weren't enough, that you'd never be enough. They echoed louder when he was around, when his laughter vibrated in the air and his confidence bled into every space he entered. You hated it. You hated that he made you feel like you were drowning in the sea of your own insecurities, every wave of his presence pulling you under further. You couldn't keep up with him. His ease and effortless charm left you feeling like you were gasping for air in a world that was constantly moving faster than you could manage.

You felt isolated and lonely, as if you were drowning in your own insecurities. You withdrew, retreating into your own world, afraid of what might happen if you showed him just how much you were hurting. You wanted to tell him, to scream at him that everything felt like it was falling apart, that you felt like you were losing the very essence of yourself. But you never found the right words. They lingered in your throat, held back by the fear that if you let them slip, if you revealed just how broken you felt, he would leave, just like everyone else. It wasn't his fault, but every day you spent with him felt like a silent contest, a competition you could never win, no matter how hard you tried.

There were days when the storm inside you would quiet, just long enough for you to catch your breath. You laughed with him, got lost in the banter, and for a brief moment, you felt whole. But then, without warning, the doubt would creep back in, twisting its fingers around your heart, tightening until you couldn't breathe. It was in the way he talked about the future, how he spoke of his dreams and ambitions with such certainty. It was in the way he would glide through the world, effortlessly charming and full of life. And you would wonder—where did that leave you? You, the person who had spent so much time moulding and shaping yourself, only to watch it all fade into the background of his brilliance. It felt like you were constantly scrambling to catch up, but you were always two steps behind, chasing something that was just out of reach.

Ronin could sense the distance between you. His sharp eyes noticed the way you pulled away and the way your smiles faltered. He would always call you out on it, teasing you with that cocky smirk, trying to coax the real you out of hiding. "What's wrong?" he'd say, voice dripping with a challenge. "Afraid I'm gonna outshine you?" His words were always followed by that glint in his eyes, the kind that dared you to answer, dared you to admit that you felt small in the shadow of his light. You never answered him. How could you? How could you say that you were afraid of losing yourself in the midst of his brilliance? The fear settled deeper in your chest, a weight that seemed impossible to shake.

There were nights when the battle inside you raged hardest, when you found yourself staring at the ceiling, your thoughts a cacophony of self-loathing and doubt. Ronin would call you, his voice warm and comforting, and for a moment, you'd feel the sharpness of your isolation fade. But even then, you knew he was out of reach. You knew the gap between you two was widening. His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of something more. You couldn't quite grasp what it was, but it made you feel like you were standing in his shadow, forever. You didn't want to admit it to him, or anyone else, but you were terrified of losing him. It wasn't because of what he might do, but because you didn't know how to be yourself in the space he occupied.

The longer you stayed in this space, the more fractured you felt. It wasn't just the obvious difference in your talents and lives; it was everything, every little piece of yourself that you'd spent so long trying to put together. In his presence, they fell apart, crumbling like sand beneath your fingers. You had to stop pretending you were whole and fine. Ronin embodied everything you weren't, and it terrified you. You loved him, but it felt like you were drowning in the space between you, caught in the wake of someone who had everything you lacked. Every time you tried to reach out, to bridge the gap, it only made the distance feel that much greater.

Ronin remained. He would never stop being himself, never stop teasing you, never stop pushing you to confront the parts of yourself you didn't want to face. In a twisted way, he was helping you. But deep down, you knew this wasn't the help you needed. You wanted to be enough for him, to stand beside him without feeling like you were less. But the more you tried, the more you realised that the gap wasn't between you and him – it was between who you thought you should be and who you truly were. You weren't sure how to fix it.

Ronin was initially perplexed. He had always been confident and charismatic, never breaking under pressure. He was certain you'd overcome your struggles and find a way to handle the inner chaos. But then he noticed the cracks appearing: flinches to the smallest comments, smiles that no longer reached your eyes. It was as if you were disappearing right in front of him, your laughter hollow and your movements stiff and distant. For the first time, Ronin felt frustrated, not with you, but with the world and the circumstances that had brought you to this point. He didn't know how to fix it, didn't know how to reach you when you had built walls so high that even he couldn't climb them.

The tension between you both became suffocating. Ronin could see it, but every time he tried to approach you, to offer a hand, the distance between you seemed to grow. You didn't outright reject him, but you stopped letting him in. He sensed a coldness in your touch, a look of apology in your eyes, a sign that you were no longer the person he had fallen for. His resentment grew, not toward you, but toward the reality that you weren't the person you used to be, that the vibrant spirit he had fallen for was slipping away. He hated seeing you struggle, but he didn't know how to help. He had never been used to feeling helpless, and yet here he was, watching the person he loved unravel.

One night, it all boiled over. You were sitting together, the silence between you so thick it was suffocating. Ronin had always been the one to fill the silence with his cocky comments and playful teasing, but tonight he just watched you. His eyes were different; softer, as if he could see right through the facade you had put up. You stared at the floor, refused to look up, and it was like a mirror of his own struggle. Then he realised that your silence wasn't about him, it was about you—it was about the battle you fought inside every day, the war that had taken its toll on your soul. It broke something inside him, a crack that spread, deep and jagged.

Without warning, Ronin moved closer, his body warmth radiating against yours. You could feel his presence, the way he hovered near you, almost hesitant, as if unsure how to breach the wall you had built between you. His hand reached for yours, and for a moment, you tensed, the coldness of the world rushing back in. But then, something in his grip steadied you. It wasn't firm or commanding, but there was a tenderness in his grip that caught you off guard. Ronin didn't say anything at first—he didn't have to. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and vulnerable, the cocky bravado replaced with something deeper, something real. The silence hung thick and heavy, and then Ronin's voice broke through, thick with emotion.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said. His words felt like a slap in the face, not because they were harsh, but because they revealed a truth you had been denying for so long. You had convinced yourself that you were stronger alone, that relying on someone else would only lead to disappointment. But Ronin didn't see you as weak. He saw you as a person, as someone worth fighting for, someone who didn't have to hide their pain to be loved. His words hit you like a wave, crashing over your defences, and for the first time in a long while, you felt something shift. His eyes never left yours, not even when you tried to look away, not even when your breath hitched in your throat.

"I'm not going anywhere," he declared, his voice soft but firm. "You can push me away if you want, but I'm staying." His tone was direct and unyielding, devoid of any teasing or smugness. It was as if he had finally seen the real you, the broken parts of you that you tried so hard to hide, and he didn't turn away. His fingers gently brushed against your skin, the touch so light, yet he was reaching inside of you, pulling out the pieces you thought you had buried too deep to ever see the light again. The vulnerability in him was a mirror of your own, and it terrified you, but it also gave you something you hadn't realised you were missing – a reason to stay, a reason to fight.

Ronin wasn't perfect. He wasn't the answer to everything. But in that moment, he was exactly what you needed. His cocky smirk had become a quieter, more genuine expression. His eyes, usually full of fire and challenge, now held only concern and a deep-seated desire to see you heal. He wasn't trying to fix you or save you. He was offering you something far more valuable: his presence, his belief in you. You didn't know how to accept it, but you felt the warmth of his hand against yours, the solidness of his touch anchoring you, grounding you in the moment.

Your insecurities didn't just disappear, but they were acknowledged. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. He didn't have all the answers, but he was there. He listened. He comforted. He reminded you that it was okay to be broken, to be flawed. His touch was a constant in a chaotic and uncertain world. He didn't try to fix you, but his presence alone was enough to start the slow, painful process of mending what had been shattered.

It wasn't easy. There were moments when the fear returned, when you felt like you were slipping again, when the urge to hide behind your walls was stronger than ever. But Ronin was always there – quiet, patient, his arms a refuge from the storm inside you. You never had to ask for it. His presence was a silent promise, his actions louder than any words. His cocky remarks were still there, but they had softened, edged with something kinder, something less about proving a point and more about showing you that it was okay to let go of the need to be perfect. He didn't need you to be anything but yourself, broken and whole all at once.

As time passed, the walls between you began to crumble, little by little. You began to believe that you didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. Ronin had shown you that there is strength in vulnerability, that there is power in letting someone in, even when it feels terrifying. Though the scars were still there and the pain lingered, you felt something shift inside you. Ronin's quiet dedication to being there for you—without judgment, without trying to change you—made you start to believe that you might one day feel whole again. Maybe not perfect, but enough. And for now, that was all you needed.

The more Ronin stayed, the more you couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that everything you had worked for, everything you had fought to perfect, was slipping away. You couldn't silence it. It was relentless. It echoed in your mind with each passing day, a constant reminder that you weren't the person you once were. The burning need to be the best, to always have something to show, something to prove, had morphed into a weight, a pressure that threatened to crush you. The moment Ronin's easy laughter or his wild ambition brushed against your ear, the feeling in your chest grew heavier. You tried to ignore it, but the weight of it all pressed down harder, louder, like a hand on your throat, squeezing just enough to make every breath shallow and painful.

You had tried to escape the suffocating reality of your diminishing sense of self through distractions, through Ronin's presence, through fleeting moments of joy. But every time you let yourself feel just a little lighter, the darkness returned. It came in waves, relentless in its assault on your mind, feeding off your insecurity, your fear that you were no longer enough. You couldn't remember the last time you felt proud of what you had achieved. What you once deemed talent now felt like a hollow echo, a shell of its former self. Every skill, every accomplishment you had poured yourself into felt distant, like a faded photograph you could barely recognize. The more you tried to grasp it, the more it slipped from your reach.

Ronin noticed the change in you, though he never said anything directly. He didn't need to. He saw how you zoned out during conversations and how your shoulders sagged in defeat when you thought no one was watching. The way you spoke of your past achievements now sounded like a confession, like you were ashamed of them, as if you had no right to feel proud. It was clear to Ronin that this was bothering him. He wasn't subtle, not usually, but he didn't have to be. His eyes darkened with concern, his lips pressed into a thin line whenever you started to spiral, whenever the despair threatened to spill over. His concern was evident, but there was also a clear frustration at not knowing how to help someone who wouldn't let themselves be helped.

One night, as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring out the window at the relentless rain, you felt that crushing sense of inadequacy settle in again, and this time, it felt like you were suffocating. Ronin had gone quiet after a playful remark had been met with your empty response. You had withdrawn so far into yourself that even his sharp words didn't have the usual effect. He noticed the shift, saw the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes seemed to turn inward, like you were battling something he couldn't see. The silence between you stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. "Talk to me," he said, not with his usual swagger, but with genuine concern. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

You hesitated. You wanted to tell him, wanted to scream it all out, but you couldn't. The words were lost somewhere in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, unwilling to speak. You didn't want to admit it, not even to him. The emptiness inside you was too much to ignore. It had been building for so long, too long, and now it felt like you were hollowing out from the inside. "I don't know how to keep up anymore," you muttered, barely above a whisper. "It's like everything I've worked for is slipping away, and I can't stop it."

Ronin's expression softened, his usual bravado faltering as he moved closer. His fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to ground you in the moment. "You don't have to be the best all the time," he said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was trying to convince both you and himself. "You're enough as you are. But you can't keep hiding from it. You don't have to run from it." His words were like a balm for your wounds, yet even as he spoke, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was wrong. You weren't enough. Not for him. Not for anyone.

As the words hung in the air, the weight of the past few months and your own disillusionment pressed down on you like a boulder. You couldn't remember the last time you had felt proud of what you had done. Your achievements felt like hollow ghosts, like fragments of a self you didn't even recognise anymore. Moments of success felt like distant memories, blurred by self-doubt. In Ronin's presence, the emptiness became deafeningly obvious, the silence in your chest a constant reminder that you couldn't keep up, that time was running out. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the frustration and helplessness there – the same helplessness you had been feeling.

You had kept your composure for so long, convinced yourself that the work you had done was enough, that the talent you had once honed so fiercely was still there. But the truth was that it wasn't. It was fading. You couldn't figure out how to stop it. Ronin's constant presence and unwavering belief in his own talents only made it harder. You couldn't compete with that, couldn't even keep up with your own life. In that moment, as his fingers grazed your skin, trying to comfort you in a way that felt too soft for your jagged reality, you felt yourself crack. The walls you had built around your brokenness crumbled, and a flood of despair and guilt surged through you: all the fears you had kept hidden for far too long.

"I'm not enough," you declared, the words tumbling out before you could halt them. "I can't do this anymore." Tears welled up in your eyes and you couldn't stop the silent sobs shaking your body. Ronin's hands were on you then, not in the way he had been before—playful, teasing—but gentle, holding you as if he knew that you were breaking, that you were slipping further away from yourself with every passing second. You felt him wrap his arms around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body a sharp contrast to the chill that had taken root in your soul.

His lips pressed softly against your forehead. The gesture was so tender it made your chest ache. "You are enough," he whispered, and this time, his voice was different. It wasn't just an empty promise – it was an anchor, trying to pull you from the depths of your own despair. But even as his words rang in your ears, you couldn't quiet the voice inside that told you he was wrong, that you were never going to be enough. You wanted to believe him, but the pressure of losing yourself was too much to bear.

Ronin spoke, but you could barely hear him over the storm of emotions raging within you. You couldn't hear him. Not clearly. Not with the storm inside you so loud, so chaotic, drowning out everything else. The noise in your head, the constant screams of failure and inadequacy, overpowered anything he said. His attempts to pull you back, to remind you that you were more than this, more than the emptiness inside you, only pushed you further away. His voice became a distant echo, a reminder of something you had long since stopped believing. The more he tried, the more it felt like he was speaking to a stranger, like he couldn't reach the parts of you that were still intact.

You retreated into silence, creating a cocoon where the world outside didn't matter. The numbness became your refuge, your escape from the never-ending turmoil. You stopped engaging, stopped pretending, stopped trying to meet the expectations that had once driven you. Everything felt heavier, like the weight of the world pressing down on you, but you couldn't care. You felt the blood drain from your body, leaving you cold and hollow. The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last, as you drifted further into the void of your own mind.

You didn't want to see anyone. You couldn't face the world with the pieces of yourself you had discarded. The talent you clung to, the identity you built around it, was nothing more than a cruel joke. It was all a lie, a hollow construct you had worn like armour, hoping it would protect you from the inevitability of failure. But now that the armor was gone, all that was left was the raw, unprotected skin of who you were. It was as if the very essence of you had been peeled away, leaving only the jagged scars of past attempts to hide the truth. You couldn't bear to look at those scars or face the pain they represented.

You pushed Ronin away, not with words, but with the coldness of your silence. It was easier to turn inward, to shut yourself off from everything and everyone. His presence was a constant reminder of what you had lost, a painful reminder that you had failed to live up to the expectations that had once been your everything. You couldn't stand looking at him without feeling like you were drowning, like you were suffocating under the weight of your own inability to be what you thought you should be. His love and attempts to pull you back only deepened the sense of guilt, as if you were betraying him by being broken. The more he tried to hold you and comfort you, the more you wanted to pull away and disappear.

The darkness within you took on a physical form, consuming you from the inside out. The once comforting embrace of isolation became your prison, your cage. You felt trapped in your own skin, consumed by failure. Your limbs felt heavy, as if the blood in your veins was turning to stone, weighing you down and making every movement a chore. The world outside felt like it was moving at a pace you couldn't keep up with, and you didn't want to. It was easier to disappear into the shadows, to fade away into nothingness, than to confront the wreckage of who you used to be.

You couldn't stand to look in the mirror. Every time you looked, the reflection was a stranger, someone who had no place in this world, no reason to exist. You couldn't recognise yourself, couldn't see the person who had once fought so fiercely to be noticed, to be valued. All that was left was a shell, a broken vessel, empty and hollow. The eyes staring back at you were cold and lifeless, having seen too much, felt too much, and having nothing left to give. The rawness of your pain was reflected in the shattered glass, in the emptiness that you had become.

The numbness grew, becoming a suffocating fog that clung to you, making it harder to breathe, harder to feel. It was easier to sink into it, to let it consume you, than to fight against it. The idea of facing the world, of having to explain what was happening inside your head, felt impossible. You didn't have the words. You didn't have the strength. Every conversation felt like an assault on your fragile psyche, every interaction a reminder that you were failing at the most basic human connections. It was easier to retreat into silence, to close off every part of yourself that could be touched by someone else.

Your body felt alien. The sensations that used to ground you, the warmth of someone's hand, the softness of a hug, now felt like too much. Your skin burned with the discomfort of being alive, the rawness of the emotions you couldn't escape. Your heart pounded erratically in your chest, not a sign of life, but a countdown, a reminder that you were reaching the end, running out of time. You were desperate to escape it all. You didn't want to feel anymore. You didn't want to be alive in a world that was too big, too bright, too loud for you to survive.

Ronin's presence, once a balm to your wounds, now felt suffocating. His attempts to reach you and pull you back from the abyss only deepened the sense of alienation. He was incapable of understanding. No one could. You had to have lived with this emptiness, this constant struggle to hold on to something that had never been real. You weren't even sure if you wanted to be saved anymore. You had accepted that you were beyond help and that the pieces of you that had once been whole were irreparably shattered. In the quiet moments, when everything else falls away, you can almost hear the final snap of the last thread that connects you to the world.

The remnants of your former self, the version of you who once held on to talent and ambition with white-knuckled desperation, began to fade into the background. Your former aspirations now dance like shadows, haunting you from the periphery, reminding you of something that was never truly yours. It was not just a loss of talent; it was a loss of identity, of the very foundation that had held you together for so long. In the silence that followed, as Ronin's presence faded into the distance, you felt nothing but the weight of your own emptiness. The world outside was loud, chaotic and unyielding, but in your mind, all that remained was silence.

The silence deepened, engulfing you completely. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was a heavy, oppressive stillness, a vacuum where sound, thought and feeling no longer dared to enter. You could feel the air thickening around you, pushing against your chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Ronin's presence, once a source of warmth and comfort, now felt like a shadow that lingered just out of reach, a reminder of a life you no longer had the strength to hold onto.

Then, the walls you had built around yourself tightened, closing in, locking you away from everything you had once known. You were no longer aware of the world outside, the frantic beating of your heart, the sounds of rain against the window. All of it fades, leaving you in silence. No words. No tears. No Ronin. There was nothing but the relentless gnawing of emptiness.

Deep down, you knew this was it, the final unravelling, the moment when you let go. The once fierce battle you fought, the desperate struggle to hold onto something, anything, had slipped away with the darkness that had consumed you. You realised you had given up. You had let the silence win.

Don't make any more attempts to reach out. You are not okay. You must not continue to struggle to find a reason to breathe, to feel, to exist. The weight was too much, the hollow spaces inside too deep. You simply let yourself fall. You let the quiet take you, like a tidal wave, drowning out the last of your thoughts, the last of your humanity.

And in that final, suffocating breath, you disappeared.

[harrystylesfan2686]

Crush On Them

Pairing: Nessian x Reader

Summary: When your small crush ends you up with you in their bed. MDNI

Warnings: Little smut with plot. A little fluff.

A/N: There isn't enough Nessian on this app😤 also first time writing smut please forgive any mistakes and tell me your thoughts😁

Masterlist

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You had always liked Cassian, from the moment the two of you met. Your crush was so obvious to everyone around you, it was like watching a lost puppy follow it's master. Everywhere Cassian went you were there, no matter where or what time. You would somehow always find yourself seeking Cassian's attention. You love having his eyes on you all the time, and you thought he did too.

But then Nesta came along.

She walked around with so much anger and hate towards everyone, you worried she would get in serious trouble because of her snappy mouth. Little did you know, she managed to pull off Cassian.

You were jealous as hell at the starting few months. But when they accepted their mating bond, the one you couldn't ever guess they had, all that jealousy and anger had dissolved in a pool of sadness.

You distant yourself after that.

Gave them the privacy they should have. After all who would want anyone lingering around them when their newly found mate was standing with them. It was very hard considering you lived in house of wind. The mating frenzy was disastrous. And the noises, gods, you would scratch out you ears if you could.

There were so many moments where you wondered if you wanted to be them, or be with them. Like the one morning while training, you and Azriel sparred while the newly mated took each other. In the small one minute you took to drink water, you nearly chocked to death, catching a glimpse of Cassian and Nesta.

The smooth and sweaty skin of Cassian not wearing any shirt, shining glitters thanks to the early morning rays, looked so good. Nesta, too, the fighting leathers hugged her body in all the right places. The slight smirk on both of their faces as they attacked and defenced each others moves with persistence. That was the first time you looked at Nesta, not with envy but admiration.

There were a lot of times where you thought maybe they want you too. Like the time you were shit drunk, coming back from Rita's.

You didn't realize how much you drank until you couldn't see straight. Cassian and Mor being the only ones there were to bring you back home but Mor having disappeared with someone, Cassian was left with the responsibility of taking you home.

"Where is Nesta, Cass?" The pout on your face seemed permanent for the night as he flyed to your house.

"Nesta's out with Gwen and Emerie for the night, remember?" His smile at your state seemed permanent too.

"Right! She told me about that!" You giggle to yourself. You were still babbling nonsense as he lands on the roof, walking to your bedroom with you still in his arms, not trusting yourself to walk without face planting on the floor.

"Alright, sweetheart. You should go to sleep now." He layes you down on the bed and gently removes you shoes and jewelry. Tucking you in, stilling smiling at you as you hum in comfort.

You don't remember much from the night but clearing remember his lips kissing you to sleep, lingering near your mouth as slumber pulls you in completly.

Or like the time you accidentally cut your finger while attempting to make dinner.

You hissed in pain, throwing down the knife to look at your first finger. You were so distracted by the smell from Nesta that reeked sex while walking into kitchen for a glass of water. She was at your side in a second, taking your hand with gentleness and aspecting the small cut that now bled red. Her lips thinned and eyes furrow just a little as she looked at you with a hint of worry.

She didn't say anything but take you finger in her mouth. Your breath hitched as her tounge swept over the injury, licking away the blood, all while keeping her eyes on yours. She pulled away when the cut healed, her lips curling at the sight of your flushed face, eyes on her lips and breathing heavily.

She pulled back and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you red faced and with a shocking realization of your crush on the female.

These along with all the other confusing interaction that happened with the couple left you speechless, having no idea what to take of them. Your small crush somehow growed into full on love feelings. You have no idea when it happened but you had realized it one day while readying (more like trying to read) a book that you loved them.

It killed you knowing they didn't share the feelings and having to see them together, loving each other, having to hear them together, everyday. It's not like you can go to all day missions like Azriel to get away. No. You had to say hear and endure it all without doing anything that raised questions.

Little did you knew, they knew about it all long before you knew yourself.

On their side, Cassian and Nesta were doing everything they could to talk to you, look at you, have your attention all to themselves. They loved playing with you and making you blush over the slightest of touches. They were working with each other from the start, trying to get to you confess your feelings to any one of them.

They loved watching you try to not look at them, try to control your blushing expressions, control your arousal around them. They found it funny whenever you stutter while talking when they eye your figure, found it annoying when someone else grabs your attention from them even for mere seconds.

Why do you think they are so loud at night? To have you listen to them. To only have them on your mind at nights, thinking of all the ways they would please and pleasure you.

They loved this game so damn much.

Which is why when you walk in on them in the exposing position, they smirk at you instead of scolding you away as you thought they would, they let you watch.

Watch how their naked bodies blend together. How Nesta's back to Cassian's chest plush against one another. On they're knees with his one arm holding her upright while the other rubbing her sweet botton and hers in his hair, clucking on for dear life as he slams himself into her again and again and again.

The sight waters your mouth.

Gods, you knew they had good bodies but your imagination does not do justice to the real thing. You knew he had a big cock but not could never guess the actual girth, and her body, the lipstick speared mouth, the peachy nipples begging to be sucked on, and her thighs...

You squeeze you thighs together as you look where they join, feeling yourself get so wet. The smell of sex heavy in the air and your hands form fists to keep from moving.

"Like watching us sweetheart?" Cassian's voice heard above the sweet little moans of Nesta. You nod once, not seeming to know what words are.

"Yeah? Wanna watch her cum for us?" You can hear the smirk in his voice. You nod again and he says,"Come here then, help me make her cum."

You swallow and move without thinking, kneeling in front of them on the bed, facing Nesta. Not knowing what to do, you look at him. "Come on, Y/N. Don't get shy on us now." His hips not stopping their blissful torture. You look into her eyes and lean forward, resting your hands on her waist and taking the pink bud of her breast into your mouth and suck.

Her moans coming out louder now, as Cassian grunts, enjoying the view of his girls. You take the other nipple between your fingers and pinch, and she cries out. Cassian letting go of her clit to hold her tighter for harder thrusts. Your other hand replacing his on her nub, moving in fast circles and you whisper, "Cum for us, Nesta."

She screams as her orgasm hits her, rocking her to her very core, harder then any she's had before. Cassian and you don't stop your movements, prolonging her pleasure. You only slow down when she whimpers, silently begging you to stop from overestimating her and Cassian pulls out of her heat.

Only deep heavy breaths sound in the room for a few seconds and she comes down from her high. You feel hard chest behind you at the same time Nesta grips your jaw, forcing your eyes on hers. Cassian's hands slid into your top, up to your breasts and Nesta orders.

"Now, your turn, sweetheart."

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[passengerprincessblog]

“Lewis, Next Door” ~ pt 2 Lewis Hamilton x reader

Warning: age gap (lowkey?), alcohol.

Summary: Y/N’s night out spirals into chaos, leading to a desperate late-night call to Lewis that she barely remembers making. But when he shows up to help-, slightly annoyed, and undeniably magnetic—she finds herself teetering between embarrassment and intrigue.

The bass thumps in my chest, so loud I feel it in my bones as we sway and stumble together under the neon lights. MK Club in Monaco is packed, bodies pressed together in a wave of glitter, laughter, and the haze of way too many drinks. Winter break has finally started, and my friends—Janelle, Isabella, and Séraphine—and I have decided that tonight is all about celebrating our freedom. Maybe we’re overdoing it, but who cares? We’re young, we’re back from school, and we deserve this.

I lean into the music, my head spinning in the best way. “We’re out of money,” I realize, looking down at my half-empty drink, frowning. Not a cent of parental allowance had dropped in any of our accounts yet. My own savings were being bled dry by all this fun, and, seriously, what’s the point of being a rich kid in Monaco if I can’t order bottles of Ace of Spades?

Séraphine slings an arm around me, her face flushed and eyes glassy as she shouts, “We should just try to flirt with some guys! Get ourselves a table!”

Janelle shakes her head, looking a little worse for wear, her lids drooping as she slurs, “No… Alain will kill me if he finds out I pulled something like that again…”

As they debate, an idea pops into my head, striking like a flash of drunken genius. I grin, barely able to focus, but sure of one thing: I have Lewis’s number. Lewis, my neighbor and friend of my dad, but also ridiculously rich, famous, and possibly my ticket to a few more rounds. So what if it’s 2 a.m., right?

“I’ve got it, guys. I know someone,” I announce proudly, though the words come out like a tangled mess.

Séraphine squints at me, laughing. “You’re drunk, Y/N. You don’t know anyone.”

“Oh, yeah?” I pull out my phone, holding it up triumphantly as I squint at the screen, fingers fumbling over the contacts. “There it is.” I hit the call button, holding the phone to my ear, my friends watching me with barely-contained curiosity.

The call rings a few times, and just as I’m about to give up, a low, groggy voice answers.

“Hello?”

The confidence I had fizzles, but I swallow my nerves. “Lewis?” I slur, hearing my voice in that weirdly bold way only a couple of drinks can make possible.

There’s a pause. “Y/N?” He sounds confused, and I hear him shift like he’s sitting up.

“Yeah. Are you out?” I ask, the music blaring through the phone. I feel the eyes of my friends glued to me as they wait, wondering who I’m talking to.

“What? Where are you?” he asks, voice sharper now, more alert.

“I’m at MK,” I say loudly over the noise, feeling smug.

There’s another pause, and then he says, almost to himself, “MK? You’re not even old enough to be there… And, wait… are you drunk? It’s 2 a.m.—”

I cut him off, a playful edge to my tone. “I was just calling to see if you wanted to come and get us more drinks,” I say, though the words tumble out in a barely coherent mix of slurs and giggles.

There’s a long, exasperated silence on the other end.

“Hello?” I ask, annoyed he’s taking so long to answer.

His sigh is audible over the phone. “Do you… need me to pick you up?” he asks, his voice lined with something that sounds like he’s already resigning himself to it.

“No! I don’t,” I reply with confusion. “You’re so boring,” I add before hanging up. My friends laugh, and we go back to dancing, somehow managing to snag a few more drinks from guys around us.

It’s 3:00 a.m. by the time I manage to stumble my way back to my parents’ penthouse, swaying down the hallway in my heels. My purse feels like a black hole as I dig through it, searching for my keys. They have to be in here somewhere, right?

But after minutes of searching, I realize they’re not. “Shit,” I mutter, slumping against the wall, the reality sinking in. I don’t want to wake up my parents like this—tipsy, disheveled, and very obviously not sober.

I slide down to the floor, feeling my frustration tip dangerously toward tears. I’m too drunk for this. I stare at my phone, desperate for some kind of solution, and in my daze, I remember… Lewis. Again, I don’t recall that I just called him an hour ago, and with no other option, I hit his number.

After a few rings, his tired voice picks up. “Yes?” he says, clearly woken up again.

“Lewis?” My voice breaks a little, the earlier playfulness gone.

He sounds a little more awake, sensing something’s off. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“I… I can’t get into my house.” My voice trembles with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“Wait… are you outside right now?” he asks, the tone of his voice shifting instantly, more alert.

“Yeah… I don’t have a key,” I mumble.

He sighs deeply, and I hear him rustling, like he’s getting up. “Okay… give me a minute.” He hangs up, and I wait in the dimly lit hallway, feeling stupid but relieved.

A few minutes later, the door down the hall opens, and there he is, looking tired, standing there in nothing but sweatpants. Even through my drunken haze, I can’t help but notice how he looks, the way his gaze meets mine across the hall, his face softening when he sees me.

“Come here,” he says, his voice a low, quiet command. The authority in his voice stirs something in me as I pull myself up, stumbling toward him, heels clicking with each unsteady step. His eyes drop to what I’m wearing—a short dress, tight enough to get the attention of every guy at MK tonight—and he looks away, maybe to save me from feeling self-conscious. Or maybe to save himself.

“Come in,” he murmurs, stepping back and letting me walk inside. His place feels dim, warm, quiet—a stark contrast to the loud, chaotic energy I’d just left. The moment I step in, I sway, and his hand catches my arm, steadying me.

“How much did you drink?” he asks, his voice edged with concern as he leads me toward the living room. “Why did you drink so much?”

I flop onto his couch, letting out a lazy laugh as I lean back. “I don’t know,” I reply, slurring, barely caring how much of a mess I must look to him right now.

He disappears for a second, returning with a glass of water, holding it out to me. “Drink that. You need it.”

I take a sip, and he watches, standing over me, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “Look… I don’t have a key to your parents’ place, so you’re kind of stuck for now. Do you have a friend nearby?”

I shake my head, setting the glass aside and sinking further back into the couch. “No… I don’t know.” My voice is soft, almost defeated.

He sighs, glancing at the clock. “It’s 3:17 in the morning…” he mutters, and I let out a giggle, finding it all absurdly funny.

He shakes his head, but there’s a small, reluctant smile on his face. “You’re a mess,” he says, voice teasing.

I sit up, pouting. “No…” I argue, slurring as I try to mimic his mock-scolding tone.

“Yes…” he says, meeting my gaze, and for a moment, his eyes linger on me, trailing down to my dress. His hand reaches up, almost instinctively, to brush a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch surprisingly gentle. I look at him, something bubbling up in me—a boldness from the alcohol, or maybe just the thrill of being near him like this. I reach out, letting my hand rest on his thigh, feeling the solid warmth of him.

He looks at my hand, then at me, his gaze suddenly intense. He reaches down, covering my hand with his, his grip firm as he lifts it off his leg. “No… no, Y/N. You need to sleep this off,” he murmurs, voice low but soft.

“Hm? No… I’m fine,” I insist, leaning closer, letting my eyes half-close as I give him what I hope is a sultry look.

He lets out a breath, amused but resolute. “Yeah… that’s definitely the alcohol talking.” He stands up, guiding me gently to follow him. “Come on. I’ve got a spare bedroom. You can sleep there, okay?”

I frown, feeling my hazy hopes sink, but I’m too tired and too out of it to argue. I stumble along behind him, my heels clicking down the hallway as he opens the door to a guest room. I step inside, feeling the plush carpet beneath my feet, a cozy contrast to the cold, hard floors of MK.

“Just get some sleep, alright?” he says, rubbing his eyes, clearly exhausted.

“Wait,” I call, almost whining, as he turns to leave. “Can you…” I pause, heart pounding, barely believing my own boldness as I turn around, showing him the back of my dress. “I can’t sleep in this…”

He sighs, and I can tell he’s fighting an internal battle. “Y/N…” he starts, his tone edged with caution, like he’s about to refuse. But then he relents, stepping forward. His hands come to rest on my hips, strong and steady, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric. I feel my breath catch as he pulls me closer, his fingers brushing against the small of my back.

For a moment, his hands linger, almost as if he’s hesitating, feeling the weight of the moment as much as I am. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raises one hand to the top of my zipper. His fingertips graze the bare skin at the base of my neck, and I can’t suppress the shiver that runs down my spine.

He inches the zipper down slowly, each pull of the zipper loud in the quiet of the room, his touch leaving a tingling trail down my back. I can feel the soft brush of his knuckles against my skin as the dress loosens, exposing more of my back, inch by inch. His breathing is steady, but there’s a tension there—a restraint that feels almost tangible.

The zipper finally reaches the base of my spine, and his fingers linger there, as if reluctant to break the contact. My skin feels electric, every nerve heightened, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, his breath warm against the back of my neck. It’s like he wants to say something, to break the charged silence between us, but he holds back.

He clears his throat softly, his voice a quiet murmur in my ear, almost a command. “There. Now… get some sleep.” His words are gentle but firm, like he’s trying to steady both himself and me. And then, just as slowly as he approached, he pulls away, letting his hands fall from my back, the absence of his touch leaving my skin cool and craving the warmth of his hands.

As he steps back, he meets my eyes briefly, a flicker of something unreadable passing between us. For a second, I think he might close the space between us again, say something, or do something that will change everything. But he only gives me a small, careful nod, a final reminder of his restraint, and turns toward the door.

“Now… sleep,” he says once more, his voice soft but unwavering. With one last look, he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

———————————————-

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Хохо

Princess

[merakilii]

Bound by the Tide / Pirate AU

Part one : Down She Goes other parts

pairing: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader

words: 4.7k

tags: Sword fighting. blood and gore AFAB reader. pirate captain Mactavish and reader. the British Navy, including CPT Price and LT Riley. rivals to lovers.

summary:  In the ruthless waters of the 18th-century British Isles, two pirate captains have played a dangerous game of cat and mouse for years. Captain John "Soap" Mactavish, the devil-may-care scourge of the seas, and you, a fiery, cunning rival who lost everything when the British Navy reduced your ship to splinters. But when Mactavish pulled you from the wreckage, saving a life you would've gladly let sink, the currents of your hatred shifted into uncharted waters.

The sea gives no quarter and trust is a currency too rare to spend.

The sea has always been your home, ever since you could stand tall enough to see over the gunwale. You've grown up with salt in your veins and the sound of crashing waves a melody in your ears. The rolling deck beneath your boots feels more like solid ground than any shore ever could. You built your name through blood and daring, carved it into the stories told in darkened taverns and over roaring campfires. The British Isles tremble when your flag appears on the horizon. You are no mere pirate; you are a storm.

But storms are not unchallenged. For every legend, there is another, waiting like a shadow. And for you, that shadow has always been Captain John "Soap" MacTavish.

He was a nightmare born of the brine, a devil with a wry grin that could charm a saint and a broadsword that could shatter a soul. A man who seemed as much a part of the sea as the waves themselves. You hated him. Despised him. But hating him was like hating the tide, inevitable, unyielding, and necessary for the world to feel right. Every time you crossed paths, it was as if the universe itself had decided the two of you were destined to clash. And clash you did.

You remember the humiliations, sharp as fresh cuts. The time you carefully plucked the map to the Isle of Wraiths from his camp under the cover of night, only for him to intercept you three days later on the high seas. He had stood on the deck of The Highland Flame, waving the stolen map like a trophy as his cannons shredded your sails. The day he threw you into the brig of that cursed ship was another wound that never quite healed. Shackled, humiliated, and yet, even then, he had found a way to needle at your pride.

"Run along now, hen," he had said, his voice dripping with mockery as he tossed you your weapons and let you walk free. "I'll be catchin' ye again soon enough."

But it wasn't all his victories. You'd left your mark on him too. The duel in Shelley still lingers in your memory, the clash of steel echoing against the humid night. Your blade had sliced through his sleeve and drawn blood, a shallow cut, but enough to wipe the smirk off his face, if only for a moment.

"Aye, ye're quick, but no' quick enough," he had grunted as he disarmed you, his grin returning even as his blood dripped onto the cobblestones.

The dance between you had gone on for years. Stealing treasure, reclaiming it, ambushing each other's ships. He had set fire to your sails once, and you had left him stranded on a barren island with nothing but a keg of rum and his wits. You should have hated him with every fibre of your being. And you did. But a part of you relished the battles, the chases, the constant push and pull. The sea would have been dull without him.

But then came the night the Navy ambushed you.

It was a clear evening, the stars glittering like shards of ice in the black sky. You were aboard The Black Siren, your trusted ship, the very heart of your power. Your crewmen and women who had bled for you, who had killed and stolen and triumphed at your side, were laughing and singing shanties as you plotted your next move.

The first cannonball hit like thunder. The deck trembled beneath your boots, and the night was torn asunder by shouts and screams. You ran to the helm, barking orders as the Navy's ships closed in, their white sails ghostly in the moonlight.

The fight was brutal. Your cannons roared in defiance, but their numbers were overwhelming. The air filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood. You fought like a demon, cutting down boarding parties, rallying your crew, refusing to go down without a fight. But it wasn't enough.

The mainmast fell with a groan like a dying beast, and fire began to consume the ship. You remember the heat, the blinding light of the flames, and the bitter taste of failure. Your crew were falling around you. Some were cut down by musket fire, others drowned as they leapt overboard.

You were cornered on the burning deck, your sword slipping in your bloodied hand, when you heard it, a voice cutting through the chaos.

"I'll no' have ye dyin' just yet!"

You turned, and there he was. Captain Mactavish, the devil himself, standing amidst the smoke and fire like a spectre. His face was streaked with soot, his broadsword flashing as he cut down a Navy officer who dared stand in his way.

You remember the heat of his grip as he grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the edge of the ship. You fought him, of course, kicking, cursing, clawing, but he was relentless.

"Enough, woman!" he barked, hauling you over the side and into the cold embrace of the sea.

The shock of the water stole the air from your lungs. You remember the struggle to stay afloat, the taste of salt and smoke. But through it all, you felt his iron grip on your arm, his voice anchoring you to consciousness.

"I've got ye. Ye're no' slippin' away from me that easy."

He pulled you onto a waiting rowboat, his men helping to drag you aboard. You lay there, shivering, half-dead, as The Black Siren sank beneath the waves. And Mactavish? He stood above you, grinning as if he hadn't just saved your life.

"Ye're welcome," he said, his Scottish brogue thick and maddening. "A bonnie lass like you should no' be wastin' herself at the bottom of the sea."

Your hate burned brighter than the fires that had consumed your ship. You couldn't think about that for too long though, not when your eyelids drooped and your body went limp

Then, the first thing you notice is the sound of creaking wood. It's steady, rhythmic, almost soothing, if not for the sharp ache in your wrists and the taste of dried salt on your lips. You blink against the dim light filtering through a high porthole, and reality slams into you like a cannonball.

You're on a ship. Not your ship.

Your arms are bound behind you, rough ropes biting into your skin, and your legs are tied at the ankles. The cabin you're in is small, utilitarian. A desk is bolted to the floor, cluttered with maps, compasses, and, of course, a bottle of rum. You know exactly whose ship you're on.

"Awake, are ye?"

His voice is like gravel dipped in honey, and it makes your stomach twist. You glare toward the captain looking entirely too smug for a man who should have been gutted years ago.

"Untie me," you hiss, your voice hoarse but filled with venom.

Soap leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his broadsword hanging lazily at his side. His grin is infuriatingly wide, and that damn lilt of his makes every word feel like a mockery.

"Untie ye?" he repeats, feigning innocence. "Now why would I do that? Ye'd be at my throat quicker than a shark at a blood trail."

"You saved me just to tie me up? You're as daft as you are insufferable."

He chuckles, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. "Ach, it's no' just for fun. Though I'll admit, ye do look bonnie all tied up like that." His grin deepens as your glare sharpens.

"If you think I'm going to thank you—"

"Oh, I ken better than that," he cuts in smoothly. "But ye do owe me, lass. That's the thing about savin' someone's life, aye? It comes wi' strings."

You lurch forward despite the bindings, teeth bared. "I owe you nothing! You saved me for your own bloody fun, and now you think you can—"

He crouches in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint scar running along his chin, a mark you'd given him, long ago. The warmth of his presence is maddening, his scent a mix of salt, leather, and the faintest hint of smoke.

"Aye, I saved ye," he says softly, his voice suddenly serious. "Ye were sinkin' wi' the Siren. Fire and sea were closin' in, and yer crew... well." His gaze flickers, just for a moment, to something like sympathy. It's gone just as fast. "I could've let ye go. Left ye to yer fate. But I didn't."

You swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. The memory of the fire, the screams, the icy embrace of the sea, it all rushes back, and for a moment, you can't speak.

"So now, we've got a bargain to make."

You narrow your eyes, your voice cold. "A bargain."

"Aye." He stands, towering over you, his hands resting on his belt. "Ye've been chasin' that treasure as long as I have. We both ken it's out there, waitin'. Ye want it, and I want it. But ye've got somethin' I need."

"And what's that?" you hiss.

"Yer wit. Yer cunning. And yer stubborn arse." He laughs. "Ye've always been a step ahead o' me. I'll admit it. Ye're sharp. But this treasure? It's no' somethin' I can chase alone. And now, well..." He gestures to your bound form. "Ye're in no position to argue."

Your jaw clenches, heat rising to your face. "So that's it? You think I'll just agree to this madness?"

Soap's expression softens, just a fraction, and he leans down again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Ye've lost everythin', lass. Yer ship. Yer crew. And aye, I know what that feels like. It's a pain that doesn't go away. But gold? Gold can start ye over. Gold can give ye a chance to rebuild. I'm offerin' ye that chance."

His words hang in the air, heavy and tempting. You don't trust him. You can't trust him. And yet...

You tilt your head, a scowl twisting your lips. "You're awfully bold for a man who knows I'd slit his throat the moment these ropes are off."

"Oh, I ken that well enough," he says with a smirk. "But I also ken ye're smart. Smart enough to see that this bargain o' mine? It's the only way forward for ye now."

You stare at him, heart pounding with fury and frustration. You do need that treasure. But the idea of working with him, of owing him, makes your skin crawl.

Finally, you sigh, the sound laced with resentment. "Fine. But don't think for a second this means I trust you."

Soap grins, standing tall and offering a mock bow. "I wouldn't dream of it. Now, let's get ye untied. Wouldn't want ye thinkin' I enjoy keepin' ye like this...much."

You grit your teeth as he moves to cut the ropes, his touch annoyingly gentle. The moment you're free, you push past him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you rise to your feet.

"This doesn't make us allies," you snarl, glaring at him.

"I'd expect nothin' less."

You've been on countless ships, from the grandest galleons to the most ramshackle sloops, but none of them feel as foreign as this one. The Highland Flame. Every inch of it reeks of him, of Captain Mactavish. It's in the creak of the timbers, the whip of the sails, the bellowing laughter of the crew. No matter where you turn, you can't escape the man or his presence, and it grates on you like a blade scraping bone.

The first day aboard is hell.

You wake to the sound of hammers and boots on deck. The ship rocks beneath you, not violently, but enough to remind you that you are no longer captain of your own fate. The hammock they've thrown you into is small and scratchy, shoved into the corner of a cramped cabin below deck. It's a far cry from your own cabin on The Black Siren, a space that had been yours, filled with maps you'd marked, treasures you'd claimed, and a bed large enough to sprawl in after a hard day's plundering.

Here, you're an unwelcome guest, and the crew makes no effort to hide it.

You rise with a groan, your muscles aching from the battle, the fire, and the hard knot of rope that had bound you. As you make your way to the deck, you can feel their eyes on you, whispers following in your wake like shadows. You've earned your reputation, and it precedes you even here. They know you're dangerous. They know you're proud. And now, they know you're vulnerable.

"There she is," Mactavish calls out, loud enough for the entire crew to hear. He's leaning against the mainmast, arms crossed, his smirk already firmly in place. "Thought ye'd sleep the day away. Ye've missed breakfast, but I'll no' hold it against ye."

You glare at him, but you don't take the bait. Not this early in the morning. "I wasn't aware I was a guest of honour," you mutter, brushing past him.

"Oh, aye," he replies, falling into step beside you. "Ye're the talk o' the ship, ye ken? A legend among pirates, slinkin' about on my deck. I've half a mind to charge the lads admission."

You stop short, turning to face him with a sharpness that makes his grin widen. "Don't mistake this for charity, Mactavish. You didn't save me, you made an investment. And when it doesn't pay off, don't come crying to me."

He tilts his head, his icy eyes studying you. "Oh, I've no doubt ye'll pay me back. One way or another."

His words hang between you, but you break eye contact first, brushing past him with a huff.

The days crawl by, and the ship feels smaller with every passing hour. You find yourself stuck in a strange limbo, neither prisoner nor crew. The Highland Flame is a well-run vessel, you'll give it that. The crew is disciplined, the sails trimmed to perfection, the cannons cleaned and ready for action. It's a ship built for war, and that much you can respect. But you're not here by choice, and the bitterness of that fact taints everything.

You keep to yourself as much as possible, though it's a task easier said than done. Soap seems to delight in cornering you at every opportunity.

On the second day, you're inspecting the ship's charts in the navigation room, what you'd give to find even a scrap of useful information about the treasure you're after, when he saunters in, arms full of supplies.

"Ye've taken a fancy to my maps, have ye?" he says, setting the supplies down with a thud.

"Just making sure you don't steer us into a reef," you reply without looking up.

He chuckles, stepping closer until his presence looms over your shoulder. "Ye think little of me, lass. But don't worry. This ship's seen more action than ye have, and she's still in one piece."

You turn to face him, your jaw tight. "Unlike my ship, you mean."

His grin falters, just for a moment. "The Siren was a fine vessel," he says, his tone softer than you expected. "No man o' mine would wish her end on anyone."

You hate the flicker of sympathy in his voice, hate the way it reminds you of all you've lost. "Save your pity, Mactavish. I'll rebuild. With or without you."

Eventually, you've started to find a grudging routine here, though every part of your being resists it. The ship, for all its strength and order, is not your ship. The sway of its decks feels foreign beneath your boots, the smell of the wood and canvas unfamiliar. You hate how wrong it feels, how each creak of the timbers reminds you of what you've lost.

The crew still keeps their distance. Some throw you wary glances, their eyes filled with suspicion, others with outright hostility. A few whisper when they think you can't hear, hushed conversations that stop abruptly whenever you enter a room. You've heard enough snatches to know the gist. They don't trust you. And why would they? You're not one of them. You're an outsider, a rival. A pirate captain without a ship.

But you don't care about their trust. You've always stood alone, even among your own crew. What you can't stand is the stifling inactivity. So, you keep your hands busy, forcing yourself to haul rope, scrub decks, patch sails, tasks you haven't needed to do yourself in years. You don't do it out of obligation to Mactavish or his men, but because the alternative, being idle, means letting your mind wander to places you'd rather not go.

It's better this way. The blisters on your hands, the ache in your arms, they're distractions, and right now, distractions are your lifeline.

And then there's Mactavish.

Of course, there's Mactavish.

It's as if the man has made it his personal mission to invade every moment of your damn day. He's always there, always watching, always with that damn smirk plastered across his face.

The first time he finds you repairing a torn sail, you're halfway up the mast, needle in hand, cursing under your breath at the stubborn tear in the canvas. "Ye're holdin' it wrong," comes his voice, startling you so badly you nearly drop the needle.

You glare down at him. He's standing on the deck below, one hand resting lazily on his sword hilt, the other shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks up at you. "I wasn't aware you were an expert seamstress," you snap.

"In another life, I'd be sittin' in a wee shop somewhere, stitchin' bonnets fer fine ladies. But since I'm here, I reckon I could show ye a thing or two."

"Go bother someone else," you mutter, but his laughter follows you as you turn back to your work, your jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

Then there's the time you're scrubbing the deck. It's late afternoon, and the sun beats down relentlessly, making the task even more miserable. You're focused on the stubborn grime beneath your brush when his shadow falls across you.

"You missed a spot," he says, his tone infuriatingly casual.

You look up, sweat dripping down your face. He's leaning against the rail, arms crossed. "Don't you have a ship to captain?"

"I do," he says, nodding solemnly. "But watchin' ye work is far more entertainin'. I think the crew might even start takin' bets on how long it takes ye to snap."

You throw the brush down with a growl, rising to your feet. "If you don't leave me alone, I'll give them a show they'll never forget."

"I've no doubt, lass," he says with a wink before sauntering off, leaving you seething.

Even in the galley, he finds you. You've just sat down with a bowl of stew, simple, hearty fare that tastes like ash in your mouth, when he slides onto the bench across from you. The table suddenly feels too small, his presence overwhelming.

"You've got no one else to annoy?" you ask without looking up.

He chuckles, stealing a piece of bread from the tray in front of you. "I'd wager there's no one on this ship more fun to annoy than ye."

"I could stab you," you mutter.

"And ye'd be within yer rights," he replies cheerfully, biting into the bread. "But where's the sport in that?"

You're ready to throw yourself overboard just to escape him. But for all his teasing, for all the ways he needles at your pride and stirs your temper, there are moments, maddening, fleeting moments, when you catch glimpses of something else beneath the surface. Something quieter. Something that doesn't fit the insufferable version of Captain John Mactavish you've come to loathe.

You tell yourself not to notice, not to let it linger. But it's there, slipping through the cracks of your carefully built walls, and it's impossible to ignore.

Like when he laughs with his crew, his voice booming across the deck like thunder rolling over the waves. It's a rich, unrestrained sound that cuts through the monotony of the day, drawing attention without effort. There's a warmth to it that spreads like fire, lighting up the faces of the men around him. You watch from the shadows as they laugh with him, their shoulders loosening, their postures relaxing as if his presence alone lifts the waves of the sea from them.

It's not forced or commanding, it's effortless, magnetic. He doesn't demand loyalty; he earns it with every word, every gesture. You see the way his men look at him, not with the wary respect born of fear, but with genuine trust, even admiration. It's not the same kind you had with your crew. The thought stings like a fresh wound, raw and aching, and you hate yourself for feeling it.

You hate that you can't look away.

One afternoon, you're lingering near the mast when you spot him in the middle of the deck, surrounded by laughter. A wiry young sailor with a scar slicing across her cheek fumbles with a length of rope, trying and failing to coil it properly. The others jeer, their teasing sharp, the kind that can quickly turn cruel if left unchecked.

Before it does, Soap steps in. "Ach, leave the lassie be," he says, his grin softening into something more genuine. He kneels, taking the rope from the girl's hands and demonstrating the proper technique. "Here, like this. Ye've got to keep it tight, see? Let it slip through yer fingers, an' it'll tangle ye worse than a lovesick lad."

The girl grins nervously, her cheeks flushing as Soap hands the rope back to him. The others laugh, but now the sound is good-natured, their ribbing tempered by their captain's intervention. The girl tries again, her movements more confident this time, and when she succeeds, Soap claps her on the back. "There ye go. Knew ye had it in ye."

It's a small thing, that most would overlook. But you don't. You see the way the girl stands a little taller, the way the others ease off their teasing. It's nothing like the man who spends his days poking and prodding at you, and it lingers in your mind longer than you'd like.

And then there are the nights.

The quiet hours, when the crew has retired to their quarters and the ship sways beneath a sky full of stars, are the most dangerous. Not because of the sea or the weather, but because of him.

It's always the same. You climb to the deck for a moment of solitude, hoping to breathe in the salt air and quiet your restless thoughts, only to find him there. Standing at the helm, his silhouette outlined by moonlight. Always alone, always silent.

You tell yourself to turn away, to leave him to his thoughts. But you don't.

There's something about the way he stands, shoulders squared but not tense, hands resting lightly on the wheel, that draws your gaze against your will. It's a stillness that doesn't fit the brash, arrogant captain who seems to delight in needling at your temper.

One night, you catch yourself staring too long. The pale light of the moon softens his features, stripping away the sharp edges of his grin. His eyes, blue as the deepest parts of the sea, are fixed on the horizon, his expression distant, as if he's searching for something just beyond the edge of the world.

He doesn't see you lurking in the shadows, and you wonder what thoughts run through his mind. Is he plotting his next scheme? Thinking of the treasure you both chase? Or is he remembering something, or someone, lost?

The curiosity gnaws at you, maddening and relentless. You don't want to wonder about him, don't want to see anything beyond the insufferable man who's taken everything from you and had the gall to save your life in the same breath.

But you do.

And it's not just the curiosity. It's the way the light catches his face, the way his hair falls just so. There's a pull to him, something magnetic that makes your pulse quicken against your will. You clench your fists, angry at him, at yourself, at the damned sea for trapping you here.

Once, during the day, you catch him perched high on the mast, repairing a tear in the rigging himself.

It's not his job, he has a dozen men who could do it for him, all capable hands with no shortage of skill, but there he is anyway. Perched like a crow on the crossbeam, the sunlight catching the dark strands of his hair and the sharp curve of his jaw. His movements are precise, practised, his hands deft as they loop the rope and secure the knot. It's clear he's done this a hundred times before, maybe more.

You're watching before you realize it, your steps slowing as your eyes track his movements. You hate how the sight holds you, how your gaze lingers on the roll of his shoulders as he shifts to test the knot, his grip firm and steady.

"Ye've got a habit of lurkin'."

His voice startles you, cutting clean through your thoughts. It's rich with that brogue, the tone laced with amusement as if he's caught you red-handed.

You cross your arms, tilting your chin up and refusing to let him see that he's rattled you. "You've got a habit of doing everyone else's work," you counter, your voice sharper than you mean it to be.

He chuckles, low and warm, as he finishes tying off the knot. "A captain who cannae do the work himself has no right askin' it of his crew," he says simply.

He slides down the rigging with ease, his boots hitting the deck with a solid thud. Straightening, he brushes his hands off on his breeches.

The simplicity of his statement throws you. It's not a boast, not a barb, just a quiet truth he carries with him, and it lands heavier than you'd like.

You narrow your eyes. "You don't strike me as the selfless type," you mutter, a jab born of irritation and something else, something you're not ready to name.

The grin that spreads across his face is slow, like he's savouring the words before speaking them. He steps closer, and the space between you feels suddenly too small.

"I'm no' selfless," he says, his voice dipping lower, rougher. "But even a devil's got his principles."

The way he says it makes your breath catch, just for a second. His words aren't just a defence, they're an invitation, a challenge. His grin lingers, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as if he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

You scoff, stepping back to put distance between you, but your retreat feels too quick. You can't stand the way your pulse quickens when he looks at you like that, like he's stripping you bare with nothing more than a glance.

"Principles," you say, forcing your voice to remain steady. "That's rich coming from the man who stole half my cargo last winter."

His laughter rumbles out of him. "Well, I never said my principles were the noble sort."

He shifts, leaning casually against the mast, but there's nothing casual about the way his gaze flickers over you. It's not lecherous, no, it's dangerous. He's studying you, testing you.

"You've got a sharp tongue," he says after a moment. "Sharper than yer blade, I'd wager."

You glare at him, loathing the way his words settle low in your stomach, hot and unwelcome. "And you've got a bigger mouth than sense."

His grin widens, his teeth flashing like a predator catching the scent of prey. "Ye like it."

The words hang in the air, bold and brash, and your fists clench at your sides. You don't answer, can't answer, because the heat rising in your cheeks betrays you.

Instead, you turn on your heel, your boots striking the deck harder than necessary as you stalk away. You hear his laugh behind you, warm and victorious, and it burns.

But later, long after the moment has passed and you're alone in the quiet of your corner below deck, his words come back to you.

"A captain who cannae do the work himself has no right askin' it of his crew."

You tell yourself it's nothing. Just another quip, another ploy to needle at you. But it stays with you, threading itself into the fabric of your thoughts.

And it's not just the words. It's the way he'd looked at you. And for a moment, just a moment, you wonder what he saw.

You shake the thought away, refusing to let it take root. He's a bastard, a thief, and the source of everything that's gone wrong in your life.

[aspen78]

Chapter 2: How it all Byrnes

<<prev chp>>

**editing the timeline a bit so that Mark met Cecil earlier than in the show

--

The headlines hadn’t broken yet. The world was still playing pretend.

The GDA made sure of it. Letting them be dumb. Letting them carry on with their brunches and business meetings. Blissfully ignorant.

Letting them believe that their global security wasn’t completely decimated. 

But the grainy footage looping on her screen didn’t give a shit about the GDA’s plan to keep the world in the dark. 

It flickered, bled static.

Then landed.

Still frame: blood.

Blood and guts and the unmistakable cape of Darkwing. Wrapped around his mangled body.

(Y/n) Byrnes stared at it, unblinking. One hand cradled a chipped mug of now-cold tea, the other curled into a fist around the edge of the table.

She couldn’t have the luxury of pretending.

The Guardians of the Globe were gone. 

Darkwing was gone. 

Keon Byrnes was gone.

It had to be fake.

Like another troll on the internet, manufacturing whatever story about the Byrnes to get their fifteen minutes of journalistic fame.

It felt impossible. The way that you believe your dad is indestructible when you both knew that was far from the truth. But, Keon, he always seemed to be one leap ahead. He was human; he was surrounded by superhumans. He had to be.

But it wasn’t impossible. It wasn’t fake.

She was looking right at the truth.

The world would call it a tragedy.

The kind that gets memorial murals, ribbon-cutting fundraisers, and limited-edition merch.

But (Y/n)? She felt something colder.

Not grief. Not yet.

Something more like clarity.

A blade’s edge kind of clarity.

Because when the gods fall, monsters don’t just crawl out of hiding.

They put on suits. They smile for the cameras. They start rearranging the pieces.

And whoever did this hadn’t finished.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then tapped in a string of characters only her system would recognize. A new screen unfolded. Encrypted reports. Flagged GDA field data. Buried keywords.

REDACTED: Unidentified Secondary Signature Detected REDACTED: Strength Class Omega REDACTED: Potential Guardian Involvement Suppressed

She narrowed her eyes.

“…Class Omega?”

Only one person matched that level of force.

And it sure as hell wasn’t the bogeyman GDA was pretending they didn’t have a file on.

Not unless they were willing to admit the only Class Omega existing on Earth had a mustache and a son.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You always said if something ever took out the Guardians, it’d be an inside job,” she murmured, low and sharp. “Guess you were right. Congrats, old man. You’re dead and right.”

Her fingers drifted above the interface, biting her lip as she hesitated. Her eyes flickered to another screen, specifically to that signature blue blinking dot. 

Invincible’s GDA tag. Mark Grayson’s.

The boy she had dragged onto her kitchen island one month ago. The boy who told her she glittered. 

The boy whom she hoped had forgotten about her.

His tag blinked steadily on the map—flying on a path directly from the Pentagon to downtown Chicago. Still flying too fast, too low, like someone still new to all this.

Erratic flight pattern. No backup. No comms chatter.

“No orders either,” she muttered under her breath.

He was off-mission. Or maybe on one of his own.

Back then, he was still learning how to play the part. Play hero with Cecil in his ear and his dad on his back.

Now?

He was alone.

And the worst part?

She didn’t know if he knew yet. About the Guardians. 

About what his dad had done.

Her hand hesitated over the comms trigger.

But she didn’t open a line.

Not yet.

Not until she was sure.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes still locked on the satellite screen, the glow bathing her hardened features in pale static light. 

A soft ping brought her other hand up to slide back toward her keyboard, pulling up the newly flagged metadata from the encrypted file her system just stumbled upon.

She jerked up in her seat when the pixels of the screen popped out fourteen words.

Unidentified Secondary Signature Detected.

Class Omega.

Suppressed Report. Eyes Only. Clearance 9.

Her seemingly permanent squinted eyes widened at the file data now on her radar. Clearance nine, huh? That was well above her level. Hell, it was well above anyone’s level if they weren’t Cecil, a corpse, or a ghost.

She tapped out another string of code, the system hesitating for a fraction too long before opening a redacted personnel log.

No names. No visuals. Just one line buried in the clearance trail:

Contingency Protocol 001-A Activated. Subject: Grayson (M).

Her stomach churned.

Not Nolan. Not Omni-Man.

Mark.

They were already covering him, too.

If she thought she was tense before, this was a whole new level. Every single atom of her living body was being squeezed. She reached up and rubbed the bridge of her nose until her vision blurred with something that wasn’t tiredness.

(Y/n) didn’t know what was worse: that Mark might be connected to this, or that the GDA already thought he was.

If she told him now--before she had anything concrete--what would it do? Blow his entire world apart? Push him closer to the agency, or worse, closer to him?

The old man used to tell her: Don’t drop a match if you don’t know where the gas is.

And this?

This wasn’t a match. It was a goddamn detonator.

Her mind was still racing—already mapping out every step ahead, every possibility, every risk.

Don’t act without evidence. Don’t act without a plan. Don’t act at all, not until--

Ping.

Another alert blinked into life. This one louder. Immediate. Center screen.

“..Shit.”

--

His ears were ringing.

Which, at this point, felt like the least concerning thing happening--especially after getting hit square in the chest by something that definitely was not developed on this planet.

Mark groaned as he pulled himself up from the asphalt, debris crunching beneath his feet. He shook it off, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and his suit, his breaths rapidly increasing the panic of how real this was set in. 

Okay. Okay. You're fine. Totally fine.

“Oh, shit,” he shakily whispered to himself. “Get it together.”

The city roared around him--people screaming, car alarms blaring, explosions lighting up the skyline in too-bright flashes that cast monstrous shadows across buildings. Something mechanical screeched across the sky. Another ship dropped out of the portal with all the grace of a sledgehammer.

Mark's eyes locked on the nearest chaos: a Flaxan grunt targeting an injured old woman crawling to somewhere, anywhere but there.

No time.

“No!” he screamed out, seeing the creature aim to take out the woman… permanently. 

He launched forward without thinking, snatching the first piece of debris his hands touched--a chunk of concrete with rebar--and hurled it with a growl of effort. The Flaxan’s head snapped sideways with the impact, and it crashed into the pavement meters away. The woman flinched, frozen in place.

Mark landed hard beside her, knees catching the concrete as he reached out a hand.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he asked, voice rougher than he expected. 

The woman stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

He forced down a gulp. “Are you hurt?”

The woman's lips parted but no words came out. Her whole body shook. She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak. She just looked at him like she was trying to just hold on.

From behind them, Mark vaguely heard a commanding shout before the barrage of lasers densified.

Not knowing what to do, the Viltrumite tried to shield her from the onslaught and surged into the air to find any corner of haven. His eyes wildly swept for a way out but it seemed like any direction he looked in, there was some sort of aggressive obstacle forcing him to look elsewhere. He was running out of ‘wheres.’

A bright flame of pain spread from an isolated point on his back into a full plane of hurt. 

“Ugh!” Invincible cried out, crashing into a pre-existing crater and bouncing around like a pinball until motion stopped.

And then, he felt it. More sticky wetness soaking into his suit and his face.

“Oh, shit! Oh, my god…” 

His ears were ringing again. His breaths quickened but he could barely breath. 

The old lady he was trying to save was in worse shape than he found her. All her limbs, maimed. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t reacting.

Swears and curses flooded his mind. He’s fucking it up. 

The center of chaos was the last place to realize that. That he was way in over his head.

The cacophony of destruction surrounded him: screams, explosions, the whir of alien machinery. He staggered to his feet, the injured woman was weighing more than just in his arms.

So much so, another--more powerful--laser almost did more than push him into a crater. 

Mark’s head whirled around a second too late, helpless to react, only to watch the red fill more and more of his vision.

Only, a soft flash of green and yellow brought him his knight.

Only, the red beam didn’t reach its target, it bounced. 

He blinked. Disoriented. Untouched.

The laser that should’ve struck his wholly unprotected head instead bounced off a sort of force field of green and yellow fractals flickering around the crater, reflecting in a sharp arc that exploded the structure of a nearby building.

Just like the hero’s reaction, a pink energy field formed in front of the green and yellow a little too late. 

“Still a dramatic little meteor,” a robotic, cold voice echoed out within the bubble of fractals. Weirdly, the coldness couldn’t cut through the playful edge. 

The voice hit him like a second wave of confusion.

Mark snapped his neck, blood still buzzing in his ears. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts as he stared at the stranger crouched in front of him.

The hooded, dark figure turned slightly, letting his eyes meet an expressionless bird mask, but didn’t slow their hands. Whoever they were, they worked fast--fluid, practiced motions pressing gauze onto the woman’s wounds, injecting something fluorescent into her arm that immediately slowed the bleeding. Their hands were covered in sleek black gloves lined with faint green tech seams. They didn’t shake. They didn’t hesitate.

Him, on the other hand, could barely get his mouth to move.

“Who--?”

“Not now, Invincible,” the voice cut him off, clipped but not cruel.

They didn’t look at him. Not really. Just moved like they didn’t need to--like they already knew where he was, what he’d ask, what they’d say next.

The masked stranger crouched lower, tapping a small cube into a tech-powered stretcher and flicking a similarly-aestheticized screen open with the other. Their fingers danced across the air, plugging in strings of code and pulling up panels of camera footage.

They stood smoothly, carefully guiding the hovering stretcher to Mark. Their metal mask glinted in the soft green lighting despite their hooded cape doing its best to shield it from the light. Strapped on their person was a whole arsenal of weapons and tech, including an impressive longsword. They looked like a knight; it was fitting.

The green-and-yellow shield still shimmered at the edges of the crater, flickering now from exertion but still holding.

“You need to regroup,” they muttered, handing off the woman to him. “A team is here now. Drop off the bleeding civilian, don’t try and take on another ship solo. You’re not there yet.”

It should’ve pissed him off. It almost did.

But it didn’t feel like an insult.

It felt… like the truth. Brutal, but not malicious. Like someone giving a battlefield report without the sugarcoating.

Still, Mark’s jaw clenched. “You don’t get to just show up and act like you know me.”

Finally, the masked figure turned to face him.

And, much like a bird, they tilted their head, observing. 

“Go,” they said again, harder now. There was no room for argument now.

The masked figure stared back for a beat, their unreadable gaze shielded behind pitch-black lenses.

Then came the faintest tilt of their helmeted head.

“I’ll cover your exit,” they said again, voice sharp as flint. “But you’re burning seconds we don’t have.”

That snapped him out of it.

“Just fly up. I tweaked the shield to let your DNA through.”  

Mark adjusted his grip on the stretcher and took off into the smoke-filled sky--fast, but not too fast, careful now. Conscious of the fragile, broken body in his care.

He looked back once safe in the clouds, past the aliens, past the lasers, and past the smoke. He saw the forcefield drop, and the personification of a shadow leapt into action with a grace that fit into their whole bird-motif. They unanchored their longsword from its sheath, and they became a blur, wiping out Flaxan after Flaxan and flinging small explosives at the missed ones. He watched as they seamlessly worked into the fight that Teen Team was putting up--whenever they showed up, he had no idea.

Mark tore his eyes away from the mayhem, flying in silence with his new goal in mind. But he couldn’t stop his mind from letting at least one of his brain cells relive what they had said.

“Still a dramatic little meteor.”

--

<<next chp>>

it's not spoiling if its kinda already really obvious that you are part of the hero scene too :'D

**peep the sketch below 👀

[chrisrashizushi]

Deliver Us From Temptation (But Not Tonight)

Pairing (s): Michael Jackson (1989!Virgin Jehovah’s Witness Version) x 304!Reader/ OC

Words: I don’t know twin 😭

Warning (s): NOT EDITED! Power Imbalance (slightly), Mentions of sex work, Smut, Virgin!Michael, Breeding Kink, Praise Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior (later chapters), Toxic Love (later chapters), Obsession (later chapters), Overstimulation, Crying During Sex (Michael), Emotional Manipulation (light, loving kind), Religious Guilt, Domestic Delusions, Fluff & Filth, Dickmatized Reader, Unhinged Post-Virgin Michael, Cringe Male Fantasy Realized, Baby Fever.

Summary: What starts as a regular night on the stroll turns into a once-in-a-lifetime encounter with Michael Jackson himself—but not the polished icon you’d expect. Not, this is 31-year-old Jehovah’s Witness virgin, cruising the streets in a black Rolls Royce on a one-man mission to lose his innocence after one too many conversations with Eddie Murphy.

You?

A 304 just trying to get your money and dip.

🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷

The moon hung low over Los Angeles like a guilty secret. It bled silver across the cracked pavement, washing the city in a kind of quiet shame, as if the sky itself knew what was about to happen and couldn’t bring itself to stop it.

Chrissie’s boots hit the sidewalk like a war drum.

Nine inches of pink patent leather stomped a rhythm into the night, the heels clicking in sharp, sensual staccato with every step she took. She moved with a softness that begged for attention—hips swaying like a metronome tuned to a melody only she could hear. A cropped snow-white fur jacket clung to her arms, hanging open just enough to tease the glittering bra underneath—pink, rhinestoned, and holding her breasts like they were born to be worshipped.

Her thong peeked out from a low-slung miniskirt the color of bubblegum and sin. It wasn’t an outfit; it was a sermon in seduction. And her lip gloss shimmered with the kind of cherry shine that made men forget their morals.

She didn’t walk. She glided. Like a fantasy written in cursive.

Chrissie wasn’t thinking about much—just her room at the motel, the ache in her ankles, and how she needed to find a better hustle before the year flipped over. She was halfway through chewing a piece of grape gum when she felt it.

A gaze. Thick. Heavy. Slow.

She stopped.

Somewhere beside her, an engine purred.

The car crept like a panther. Black, glossy, with windows so tinted they reflected her back at herself. A Rolls Royce. Old money. Silent money. The kind of car that could belong to a drug lord, a politician, or somebody famous enough to be dangerous.

The passenger window hissed down like a whispered secret.

And there he was.

Hidden in the shadows, hoodie drawn low, curls spilling down his forehead like ink. But even under the poor motel lighting, his face glowed. Ethereal. Familiar in a way that made her throat close.

“Um… excuse me, miss,” he said, voice trembling like a hymn whispered in a confessional booth. “Do you… need a ride?”

Her lips parted. And then curved into a smirk slow and lethal.

“That depends, baby. You lookin’ to get saved or get lucky?”

He flinched. Visibly. As if her words had slapped his spirit.

Chrissie leaned closer. Her hand pressed against the glass, long almond nails glinting like daggers. The scent of vanilla body spray, cherry gloss, and heat curled inside the car like smoke.

The man coughed into his fist.

“I… I can take you somewhere safe. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” she said, voice sugared. “I know a place. Room 209. Pink door. You can park in the back, sugar.”

🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤

Michael

He should have kept driving.

He should have clutched his steering wheel tighter, turned the jazz up louder, prayed harder. But the moment he saw her—that girl, walking like lust had a zip code—Michael’s grip on righteousness began to slip.

She looked like something he’d once seen in a dream and spent the rest of his life pretending he hadn’t. A Bratz doll with goddess thighs. Eyes like melted brown sugar. A waist that curved like temptation in physical form.

He’d been fasting. Praying. He was trying to stay pure.

But Eddie said it.

“Mike, you need to get laid. All that pressure? You’re gonna snap one day.”

Michael didn’t mean to turn down that street. Didn’t mean to roll down his window.

But he did.

And now she was in his car, legs crossed like a temptation he couldn’t unsee, licking her thumb and smoothing out her baby hairs like it was a damn ritual. He could barely breathe.

“New to this?” she asked, voice dipped in flirt.

“Y-yeah,” he mumbled. “First time, actually.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” she said, grinning like the devil’s favorite daughter.

❤️😘🤣💕

The Motel

She led him up the stairs like she was guiding him to slaughter. Her perfume lingered in the air like an afterthought he couldn’t stop inhaling. His hoodie clung to him, soaked with sweat, socks sticking in his loafers. He didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew he had to follow her.

Room 209 creaked open.

The light flickered. The sheets were ugly. The air was stale. But Chrissie’s presence made it feel like a palace.

She tossed her purse on the bed, turned around, and slid the jacket off her shoulders like she was born for slow-motion. Her bra sparkled in the lamplight. Her piercings caught the glow like jewelry crafted by God Himself.

And then she looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Her brows pinched.

Her eyes widened.

And suddenly, her mouth dropped open in cartoon disbelief.

“WAIT A MINUTE—”

She took a step closer.

“OH MY GOD—NO, NO, THIS CAN’T BE—”

Michael froze.

“YOU’RE MICHAEL FUCKING JACKSON!!!”

He winced like the truth was a gunshot.

“I-I didn’t mean to—it’s not what it looks like—please don’t scream—”

“You’re THEE Michael Jackson. Thriller. Smooth Criminal. You invented the moonwalk and now you walkin’ up into my room?!”

Her voice pitched into a laugh—half shocked, half delighted. She plopped down on the bed and crossed her legs.

She looked him up and down like a client, a mystery, and a check she was about to cash.

“So…” she said, tongue flicking over her front teeth. “How much we talkin’? ’Cause tonight? You about to get the deluxe experience.”

Michael stared at her.

At her eyes.

At her smile.

At her body.

At the edge of sin.

And all he could say was:

“I… I think I love you.”

❤️😘💕 😩

The air in the room was thick now.

Heavy with something that clung to the walls, something almost physical. Lust? Fear? Divine punishment? Maybe all three. The cheap motel A/C buzzed somewhere behind them, but neither of them moved.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting to be judged.

Back straight, hands in his lap, fingers laced tight like he was in prayer. His hoodie was off now, revealing a clingy white undershirt that stretched over his narrow shoulders. He was breathing shallow, like the oxygen in the room didn’t belong to him.

Chrissie lay across the bed behind him, one arm draped lazily over her stomach, the other twirling a strand of hair as she watched him squirm.

“Soooo… is this what we’re doing?” she asked, voice sweet but mocking, like a cherry-laced tease. “We just gon’ sit here all night? You wanna play Uno or somethin’?”

Michael flinched, blinking fast, like he was trying to wake up from a dream he wasn’t ready to leave.

“N-no! I mean… I didn’t know how to—how it usually starts. I, um. I’ve never…” he trailed off, swallowing hard.

Chrissie smirked.

She already knew.

It was written all over him.

The nervous ticks. The too-careful eye contact. The way he kept adjusting his pants like his dick was trying to leap into destiny without him.

She pushed herself up onto her knees and slid behind him, straddling her thighs on either side of his body without even touching. Yet.

“You’re tense, baby,” she cooed, lowering her voice to a honey-thick whisper.

Her hands came to rest on his shoulders. Gently. She kneaded his tight muscles through the thin cotton shirt, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make him gasp.

Michael jolted.

“Oh—um—th-that feels… good.”

“Mmm, I know it does. You’re all stiff. Poor thing… haven’t even been touched like this, huh?”

She leaned in closer, lips grazing the shell of his ear, warm breath curling against his skin. Her nose brushed his curls, and she inhaled deeply.

“You smell like lavender and stress.”

He whimpered. Whimpered. Like a kicked puppy in a pew.

Chrissie kissed the curve of his neck—once, then again, softer, slower, lips lingering—and Michael’s knees actually buckled. He reached for the sheets to steady himself. But that only made things worse.

Because now he could feel her body behind him. Warm. Pressed close. Her thighs against his back. Her breath against his skin.

“I—I shouldn’t—” he began, voice paper-thin.

“Then leave,” she challenged, voice flat and sharp.

Silence.

He stood up like he might actually do it.

Chrissie just watched.

And then—

She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him backwards.

He gasped as he fell, landing flat on his back against the pillows, curls fanning out like a halo, eyes wide and helpless. She climbed on top of him with feline grace, not rushed, not reckless—just in control. Like a lioness lowering her weight onto fresh prey.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” she murmured, hands sliding down his trembling body.

She reached for the waistband of his black pants, slow and teasing, her nails dragging against his skin.

Michael trembled beneath her. His fists clenched the sheets, and he turned his head like he couldn’t bear to watch.

But she could.

And baby—what she saw had her jaw dropping.

This man’s dick was insane.

Thick. Heavy. A subtle hook to the left, pointing like it had a destination in mind. Already leaking. Like it was desperate. Like it had never been inside anything before, and it knew what it was missing.

She stared at it like it owed her rent money.

“…Oh,” she said finally. “So you really never had no pussy before.”

Michael’s face flushed red, ears burning.

“I haven’t… um. N-no. Never. I was waiting… I am waiting. For marriage, I mean. But…” He gulped. “I think if we get married after this it’s okay, right?”

Chrissie blinked.

Then snorted. Loud.

“Boy, what?”

Michael sat up slightly, big brown eyes hopeful, breath hitching like a skipped record.

“If you’re my wife, then it’s not a sin. I think. I mean—I don’t know, I could talk to my pastor but I feel like—”

“Oh my god,” she groaned, dropping her head onto his chest. “This ain’t the first time a client caught feelings, but you? You really different.”

“I—I’m not like the others,” he whispered, one hand trembling as he brushed her arm. “I love you.”

Chrissie just sighed, eyes rolling to the ceiling like:

“Lord, why do you give the biggest dick to the dumbest men?”

Chrissie straddled him loosely now, eyes heavy, body still, watching him with a kind of measured patience that only came from experience. She had already lubed him up—carefully, tenderly, with slow circular motions that made Michael’s stomach clench and his toes curl inside his socks. She could feel how he pulsed under her touch. How he trembled when her fingers brushed the tip. She had even shown him where to go—guided his cock with her soft hand, fingers slick and glistening, parting her folds with her other hand like she was opening a temple.

“Right here, baby,” she whispered, voice breathy. “That’s the spot. You feel that? That’s all you.”

Michael nodded, jaw tight, lashes fluttering. He gripped her thighs like he was praying for strength.

He was sweating now. Tears prickled in his eyes and he hadn’t even entered her yet.

“Chrissie…” His voice cracked. “I-I’m scared.”

“You’ll be fine,” she cooed, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “Just go slow, baby. You ain’t gotta go too deep…”

She didn’t mean it.

She should have meant it.

But she didn’t know what she was dealing with.

Michael adjusted his hips, the head of his dick pressing right against her entrance. Chrissie tensed. It was warm. Hot. Bulging. Her breath hitched and her eyes darted up to his face—but he was already looking down at her like a boy seeing color for the first time.

He pushed forward. Just the head.

Chrissie’s entire body jolted.

“AH—hold on—hold on baby—OH MY GOD—” she groaned, her voice pitchy, raw. “Th-that’s just the head?!”

Her nails dug into his arms. Her legs kicked once, instinctively trying to shut closed, but Michael caught them—held them down, firm and wide, muscles flexed like he’d been possessed by something holy and carnal at the same time.

“Don’t close ‘em,” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I wanna see you take it.”

Chrissie whimpered.

Her toes curled. Her back arched.

Eyes twitching closed. Lips trembling.

That shit BURNED. It stretched. It split. It filled. And yet… he still hadn’t moved.

Michael hovered above her, panting, tears in his lashes, his jaw clenched tight as he froze, refusing to thrust any further.

“You okay?” he asked, voice breaking. “D-does it hurt?”

“YES,” she hissed, trying to breathe through it. “But don’t stop. Just—don’t move yet.”

He didn’t. He stayed right there. Just the head inside. Throbbing. Huge. His whole body trembling like a candle in wind.

“Oh, Jehovah…” he sobbed, voice warbling. “It feels so—so good. Is that a sin too? Feeling good like this? It feels warm and—and wet and… oh, God forgive me—”

Chrissie blinked up at him through tears of her own, half-laughing, half-groaning.

“Baby… if that’s just the tip… I don’t know if I’m makin’ it through the rest.”

Michael looked down at her like she was the second coming. His eyes were glassy, mouth parted, flushed cheeks glowing under the motel lamplight. And then something shifted in him.

His hips twitched. The faintest forward thrust.

“You sure?” he whispered.

She blinked up at him. “Do it.”

Then he moved.

Not rough—but deep. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was pouring years of starvation into her all at once. Like his body remembered something his mind had no words for. Like he was being guided by some ancient instinct to claim.

Chrissie screamed.

Her thighs shook, and her voice went raw.

“FUCK—MICHAEL, YOU’RE—TOO MUCH!”

But he didn’t stop.

He grunted—low, deep, from the gut—“I don’t care.”

Her legs trembled as he buried himself inch by inch, watching her crumble beneath him. His cock throbbed inside her like it had never known peace before. His tears rolled down freely now, but his body kept going. Sliding deeper. Holding her down.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry I love you—I’m sorry I love you so much—I know this is wrong—but you feel so… so right—”

Chrissie could barely breathe. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think.

All she knew was that he was huge. Hot. Pulsing. And deep.

And that somewhere between his head and his soul, Michael Jackson had just lost his virginity… and his whole damn mind. Michael’s grip on her thighs was unrelenting. Fingers digging deep, spreading her wide open like he was searching for meaning between her legs. His breath came in fast little gasps, sweat slicking his curls to his temples. And he was trembling—shaking, really—like her pussy had unlocked some forgotten code in his spine and his whole body was trying to reboot.

“S-slow, Michael—slow!” Chrissie groaned, arching beneath him. “You too big to be doing all that—just give me a sec to breathe—”

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t even about control anymore.

It was instinct.

Michael’s body had taken over, and he was thrusting in short, messy, needy strokes—deeper and deeper like his soul was trying to crawl inside her and stay there. His hips jerked forward again, and he let out the softest little cry—“O-ohhh, Chrissie…”

His voice was high and breathless, a little whimper mixed with prayer.

She tried to push at his chest, tried to say something like “Wait, baby, you not gon’ last if you keep—” but it was too late.

Michael’s entire body seized.

His eyes rolled up. Lips parted. He slammed his hips forward one last time and froze, buried to the base inside her. Chrissie’s jaw dropped open, legs twitching as her pussy stretched around him like it was trying to learn him by heart.

And then—

“Hnnnng—!”

He let out the weakest, softest, most heavenly busted-nut whimper ever released on God’s green Earth and CAME. HARD.

Hot, thick ropes of cum spilled inside her, deep, fast, messy.

His hips jerked again—once, twice—like his body didn’t know whether to flee or burrow. He moaned into her neck, tears rolling down his cheeks as his cock throbbed with every pulse.

“Oh… oh God… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—I couldn’t stop—Chrissie I love you—ohhh it feels too good…”

She blinked up at the ceiling, stunned.

“You just… came in me?”

Michael didn’t even hear her. He was trembling, forehead pressed to her shoulder, breathing like he just ran through Armageddon barefoot.

“I’m yours now,” he mumbled, already sounding sleepy.

“Michael—baby—this ain’t how this supposed to go. You weren’t even in for two minutes!”

But he wasn’t listening.

Because this man had just given up his virginity, broken his vows, nutted deep in a baddie’s tight little coochie and fallen in love all in one stroke.

He nuzzled against her chest like a newborn, breathing in her perfume like it was oxygen.

“You smell like heaven. I wanna wake up here. We should get a dog. We should get married tomorrow.”

Chrissie just stared at the ceiling, lips parted.

“Ain’t no way,” she whispered. “You already asleep?”

And he was.

Michael Jackson, King of Pop, just nutted in a motel room, confessed his love, and passed out like a baby, dick still twitching inside her.

🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤🩷🖤

To be continued…

[chilling-seavey]

The Name of the Game (vb77)

↳ Timeless: F1 Grid Masterlist

↳ Summary: The vibes of the 70s thrive in the behind the scenes parties in the Formula 1 world. Even elite sportsmen like Valtteri cannot turn down good fashion and good drugs.

↳ Title Song: The Name of the Game by ABBA (1977)

↳ Word Count: 1.1k

↳ Warnings: Smoking, drinking, hard drugs (cocaine), hints towards pornography and sex. It's the 70s, what did you expect?

May 1977

Lights strobed through the crowded club in shards of gold and red, illuminating and shadowing faces and figures through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that hung in the air. Everything was a blur behind the haze, only made worse by the effects of alcohol that buzzed through the veins of the high society that took up the VIP section of the Monte Carlo club. The space was cramped and filled to the brim with the elite stuffed in there like sardines; women in glittering dresses and men in flared pants and collared shirts unbuttoned too low to show off gold chains around their necks. 

Sweat, alcohol, and expensive perfume filled the musty air and the ice in Valtteri’s crystal glass shuddered with the bass of the upbeat disco music as he lounged back on the leather sofa in the corner, observing. He had never been much of the type to mind himself in the middle of the dance floor; the high-end lounge in the corners of clubs were much more his style. Besides, there was plenty of fun to have right there. 

Surrounded by fellow drivers and their Vogue-cover or centerfold prospects for the night, Valtteri tried to follow along with drunken conversation through the plumes of smoke that tumbled from everyone’s lips. James Hunt was in the corner, laughing too loudly, his arm slung around a girl with legs longer than the Monza straight, and when she reached up to pull him in for a kiss, her underarm hair was shown off to the unperturbed room. Through the crowd, someone shouted over the music in Italian—probably one of the team bosses, already drunk off champagne and the thrill of money that reeked off everyone in that room. 

It was a room full of the elite; packed full of Formula 1 drivers and their doubly wealthy bosses, models and pornstars, and anyone in between. Anyone with status or with enough of a pretty penny to bribe the bouncer to let them past the velvet ropes and into the hazy paradise beyond. The biggest parties always happened after the infamous Monaco Grand Prix at the same club that had been frequented by Formula 1 stars for as long as it had been running; a space away from the circuit and the press and the fans.

Someone spilled Dom Pérignon across his lap as they plot themselves beside him, tearing Valtteri from his distraction but he only laughed faintly in response, flicking the liquid off his wrist and the cuff of his patterned button up. The pretty girl who had draped herself beside him on the leather couch looked oddly familiar as if he had seen her on some magazine cover littering his hotel room lounges here or there, however long ago, as he jetted around the world. Time blurred together when every night bled into the next.

Her manicured hand rested on his shoulder, running her finger along the open collar of his silk shirt. Beneath the unbuttoned front, his gold chain rested against his faint dusting of chest hair, reflecting the amber glow of the club lights. The beautiful woman linked her finger around it. 

“Valtteri,” she purred against his ear, lips brushing the shell of it, “I’ve been looking for you tonight.”

The familiar clink of a silver tray against glass pulled Valtteri’s attention away from the woman. He didn’t have to bother with a reply, and she didn’t seem to mind—maybe indifference was part of his charm. Instead, he took a sip of his drink before leaning forward, setting the glass down with practiced ease beside the tray. It had made its way through the small circle cramped in the club’s corner lounge, passed from hand to hand, promising a high almost as strong as the one that came with being behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car.

It was almost blinding, the way the polished silver tray glinted the lights from the club, luring Valtteri’s intoxicated gaze to the lines of white powder that were nearly arranged in the centre of it. One of the other drivers in their circle passed him someone’s credit card and a rolled up bill of far too high of a monetary value for its purpose. 

Valtteri could feel the woman’s hand still on his shoulder as he leaned towards the table and got himself situated, making sure his designated line was crisp and thin with the credit card before he discarded it to the side of the tray. He bent down and tucked the rolled bill in one nostril while keeping his other closed with a knuckle and, then, he snorted it up in a single smooth practiced motion. 

The cocaine burned intensely, electric. The world snapped into a sharper focus for a split second before it blurred again into the haze of reality, a paradox he had long since stopped questioning. 

Valtteri passed the rolled bill to the next person and then slumped back onto the couch with a sniffle and a rub of his nose, his glass resting on his thigh and the condensation soaking through the fabric of his flares. The woman’s hand snaked into his open shirt, rubbing over his chest as she leaned in to kiss at his neck in torturously slow kisses made sticky from her lip gloss. Valtteri raised his glass to his lips and took a lengthy sip of the sharp alcohol. 

Adjacent to the couch, the large mirrored wall displayed his expression in the reflection, stained in flickers of gold and red from the strobe lights and the glittering of disco balls that dotted the ceiling. His moustache held a tinge of white across the bottom and he raised his hand up to smooth thumb and forefinger along it to brush it away. Not that anyone around him would pay any mind, regardless. In the reflection, he could watch the woman beside him kissing at his neck with her hands all over him in her own intoxication. She almost looked like a dream in the blinding lights of the club, but then, everything did after a line of Monaco’s best cocaine and a vodka tonic to chase it.

“Come on back to my pad, will ya?” she pitched against his jaw, her nose brushing along his sideburns. “I’ll really show ya a stellar time.”

Valtteri wasn’t a stranger to the entrancing women that often graced these parties and clubs—he had his fair share of passionate encounters that never crossed his mind again by the next morning. As he stared into her dilated eyes, his tongue darted out to taste the ghost of cocaine on his upper lip. She smiled like she understood, because of course she did. Everyone in that room understood. She moved in to lick the rest off herself and he didn’t stop her.

Outside the confines of the elitist club, Monte Carlo was a city of excellence and prosperity and history, but the real society—the one that mattered—was there, in the heavy air thick with perfume and sweat and smoke, in the promises made between strangers who would forget each other’s names by morning.

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