#if there is not a hell then i would create one for every single person responsible.

[pellucid-constellations]

Trial and Error (7)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the request: "Azriel with single mom reader? I feel like being a single mom in ACOTAR would be tricky as hell… reader comes from autumn court and flees to night court because she got pregnant out of marriage? 😯 the shame"

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Angst

a/n: Hi it's been a while for this series! Next chapter goes crazy I'll tell you that much. Love you thanks for reading <3

Read part one | part two | part three | part four | part five (part five bonus) | part six

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Life no longer felt as if you were on the run. 

You were, obviously, but an ease had blanketed the cage you had placed yourself in, fostering a warmth that almost tricked you into forgetting. The biting heat from Autumn, always so readily at the forefront of your mind, took a backseat to the calm routine of your life. You forgot, sometimes, that you and Melanie were living on borrowed time. On borrowed luck.

Azriel made that easy.

Things had progressed between the two of you, so slowly that the movement was imperceptible. But you felt the change in short bursts, at the most inconsequential of times. 

He would come over at night and hold you as you slept, but only after the unseasonable warmth had vanished and your single-paned windows became evident. Those nights were accompanied by an overload of blankets being heaped onto your daughter’s bed, but still, there was often a knock that shortly followed Azriel’s arrival. There was enough room for three on the bed, anyways.

Azriel was not shy about touching you, but he was also adamant about not crossing any lines. You weren’t sure who had created those lines, but they kept his hands in your hair and at your waist and clasped to yours when you took Melanie out for walks. His lips stayed, again, at your hairline and on your cheeks and in the divots of your knuckles when he said goodbye. 

You thought, perhaps, he was waiting for you to fully kiss him before he allowed himself the liberty, but there never seemed to be a right time. And you were still often confused. 

In the time you spent with Azriel, you opened up more about your past. You told him of the perilous journey to Velaris and the difficulty of finding a job with your lack of skills. He inquired about your position back in Autumn Court, how you could have survived with no job, but there was no reason to have a job when you were a court lady, and you told him that. 

“My skills mostly lie in propriety. I know how to work a room—” you had explained. “—but that is hardly useful when you come to a new court as a common person.” 

“So, you were not common in Autumn?” he had asked. 

Your chest had started to hurt at that, so you only shook your head and stared down at his fingers intertwined with yours. 

Azriel hadn’t asked for more. He kissed the side of your head and told you about growing up in Illyria. He told you about Rhysand, Cassian, and Mor. He spoke of the Archeron sisters and their abrupt arrival in the court. He would brush your hair back and tell you about the nights he thought about his mate and how you had decimated every one of his expectations. 

“Because I came with so much baggage?” you had teased. 

Azriel had only smiled softly, the fire crackling in your hearth lighting up Melanie’s face as she slept against Azriel’s thigh. “Because you have offered so much more than I had imagined.” 

Each time he looked at you took your breath away. You had thought he looked at you with admiration before, but after he had become sure you wouldn't bolt at the first sign of his feelings, the pure adoration in his gaze was almost difficult to meet. He looked at Melanie in a similar way—softer, more fond than adoring, but you could pick out each difference and they made you feel lightheaded. 

You were going to kiss him today. 

You were going to drop Melanie off at the neighbor's next door for a sleepover with the other kids, and you were going to invite him to stay. And then you would tell him who Melanie’s father was. 

Maybe you wouldn’t tell him everything yet, but you had amped yourself up to tell him that much, and you wanted to kiss him desperately. 

Standing outside of Melanie’s school, you leaned against the pillar you claimed as your own and stared up at Azriel as he told you about the best places to get weapons in town. You were half listening, half simply admiring because you had no use for information on weapons sales, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind your lack of interest. He usually didn’t come with you to get Melanie, but he was tasked with picking up Nyx, which meant it was safe for the two of you to be here together. 

Well, according to Azriel, it was always safe. But this felt safe for you. 

“There is an elderly woman on the far side of the Sidra who offers the best prices but she’s rather prickly.” 

“Are you usually concerned about prices?” you posed, a knowing judgment in your eye that was mostly in jest. 

“Well, I would not enjoy being ripped off,” he countered with a laugh. He was only a short step away from you, craning his neck down slightly as you spoke of nothing important. 

“Oh no, we couldn’t have that,” you mocked, mouth twisting into a smile. “Something to finally put a dent in that bank account of yours? Couldn’t be.” 

Azriel scoffed, his eyes bright. “I’ve told you, countless times, that I would like to use some of that money to get you a new place. But you always refuse.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not using you for your money, Azriel.” 

“I know,” he softly replied. He brought a hand up to tilt your chin. “I’ll still get you to agree eventually.” 

“I think you underestimate my resolve.” 

“Oh, I know I do. Give me time to get more acquainted with it.” 

You breathed out a laugh, opening your mouth to respond, to quip, to remain in this peaceful bubble Azriel seemed to have carefully curated when a confused shout of Azriel’s name sent terror washing through you. 

“Azriel?” the voice called again. You kept wide eyes locked on the Shadowsinger before you, the cause of your fear emanating from behind your back. “I thought I was getting Nyx today. I could have sworn—” 

Azriel quickly removed his fingers from your chin and straightened his stance, but it was too late. The man behind you let out a low, playful whistle, and you could hear his footsteps drag casually as he walked, but you had never been more tense in your life. 

“Cassian,” Azriel cleared his throat, looking over you to the man you knew to be the High Lord’s war general. You kept your gaze locked on the veins weaving intricate patterns in Azriel’s wings. “I was getting Nyx today.” 

“But I thought you had plans tonight.” 

“I do. I was going to get him and drop him off at Feyre’s studio. She’s teaching a class.” 

A pause. 

“Is your friend shy?”  

Azriel’s wing inched forward, but it didn’t enclose you. That would make this obvious. He wouldn’t want to make a scene. 

Azriel looked down at you and you could tell he was trying to convey so much with just that gaze. But above all, you knew this was unavoidable. Cassian would see you; he would only become more suspicious if you remained in this state, frozen and defiant. So you found the reassurance you needed in Azriel’s expression and you plastered a strained smile on your face. And you turned around. 

“Hi,” you greeted. Cassian was exactly as Azriel had explained, sly grin and all. “Not shy, just taken off guard a little.”

Now behind you, Azriel spoke your name introducing you and acting as if you had no idea who Cassian was. The General couldn’t seem to wipe the smirk from his face, eyes flitting back and forth between you and Azriel. “It’s nice to meet you,” Cassian nodded. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m guessing you’re the one taking up all of Az’s time recently? We’d love it if you came to us every once in a while. Maybe the guy would actually be present during our get-togethers if you were there.” 

You let out a nervous laugh, hands joining at your waist as you began picking at your fingers. In response, Cassian’s expression faltered. He uncrossed his arms. 

“She’s very busy,” Azriel answered for you. “She runs an apothecary.” 

Cassian’s brows shot up. “Oh? Maybe I could come by sometime to—”  

The school bell rang, punctuating the height of your anxiety. An overwhelming urge to cry heated your face and made your waterline sting, but you bit hard into your cheek instead, face twisting into another semblance of the worst smile imaginable. 

A few more minutes. 

The teacher was always late. 

“Is there a remedy or something you’d need from an apothecary?” you asked, the words sounding strange as you lost your breath behind fear. 

Cassian’s brows came together, an action so brief you almost missed it before he lowered his tone substantially. “I would mostly just like to see your craft. Having your own station is incredibly impressive.” 

He sounded soft now, unsure. You smiled again, but that didn’t seem to help. You had a small inkling that had you known who Azriel was the first time you’d met him in this exact location, the situation would have gone similarly. 

A warm hand met your back causing the air to vacate your lungs. 

Azriel was here. Azriel was here and although this was close to your worst nightmare, he understood and he wasn’t going to let anything happen to you or Melanie. 

Melanie. 

Cassian would see Melanie. 

Fears actualized and then amplified as your daughter’s soft tone formed the syllables of Azriel’s name. Her shout was happy and followed closely by Nyx’s, and it would have been clear to anyone observing the scene that your daughter was very familiar with the Shadowsinger. And that Nyx was very familiar with that relationship as well. 

Azriel, not wanting to confuse the five-year-olds now tugging at his pants, gave your shoulder a slight squeeze before kneeling to gather them in his arms. They giggled as he rose, rattling on about the events of the day, and you used the noise as an excuse to finally turn around and avoid Cassian’s baffled expression. 

“Mommy!” Melanie called, beckoning you forward until her small arm was wrapped around the back of your neck. “Maybe Nyx could come to my sleepover tonight. He’s my best friend, did you know that?” 

You fought past the quiver in your throat to put on a smile. “I did know that, Mel. But Nyx doesn’t know your friends at home and his parents might not be okay with him staying with strangers.” 

Melanie narrowed her eyes and gasped in revelation. She turned to Nyx, slapping Azriel in the face with her braid in the process. “You’ll have to meet my friends during the daytime then. So your parents can see them!” 

“That sounds like a good idea!” Nyx cheered. “I’ll ask my mommy later. Then maybe we can all be friends.” 

“I think that sounds like a good idea too,” Cassian sounded off from behind you. “Lots of new people to meet, it seems.” 

You winced, the expression hidden by your daughter's tight clasp on your neck. Azriel readjusted the children in his arms before clearing his throat. He caught your eye briefly, just a short glance, before staring up at his brother. 

“Can we do this later?” he asked, the question not sounding like a question. 

“Do what later? I’m not doing anything?” Cassian defended. “I was just meeting your new friend. That’s all.” 

“Ms. Y/n isn’t a new friend, Uncle Cassian,” Nyx almost boasted. “She’s just new to you.” 

“That right? Why didn’t you mention her sooner then, Nyx?” 

Nyx brought his finger up to his chin and shared a private laugh with Melanie, the sight making your anxiety lessen. Until Cassian spoke again. 

“Well, now I’m feeling left out. This isn’t fair.” He stepped forward enough to capture Melanie’s limited attention. “I’m Cassian. I’m like Azriel over here, but a whole lot better.” 

Azriel scoffed, but Melanie only smiled, finally releasing you from her grip to take the hand Cassian had outstretched towards her. “My name’s Melanie. And I’ll believe you only if you take me up flying 'cause Mr. Azriel never lets me.” 

“Ah-ah,” Azriel tsked. “Melanie, you know why I won’t take you.” 

Melanie groaned and knocked her head back. “Mommy doesn’t need to know everything we do. Sometimes she’s busy, Mr. Azriel.” 

“You guys all seem pretty close,” Cassian observed, turning his gaze over to you. “I think I’d really like to get you over to a family dinner sometime. See what’s been keeping Azriel so occupied.” 

“Melanie can come to our house?” Nyx screeched into Azriel’s ear. 

“Oh, um,” you stuttered, your skin prickling with uncomfortable heat. You stared up at Azriel, widening your eyes just a fraction to show your panic, but he was looking at Melanie as she screamed into his other ear. “I-I really don’t know about that. Azriel only really—what I mean to say is that Melanie only really knows Azriel from school events. She really likes his wings. I don’t think—” 

“Cassian, later,” Azriel emphasized once again. 

This had always been a terrible idea. 

What was Azriel going to tell Cassian during this undetermined period of time? 

And family dinner? With the High Lord and Lady? 

You felt like you would be sick, any and all comfort being ripped out from under you. 

And Cassian—Cassian looked so confused you weren’t sure his brow could twist any further. He lifted his hands in gentle surrender, opening and closing his mouth several times as if to speak but then thinking better of it. 

You should leave. You should leave right now. 

You coaxed Melanie out of Azriel’s arms, much to her protest, and calmed the calamity that was your breath as you nodded to Cassian. “Very nice to meet you,” you rushed. 

“Mommy, but I—” 

“No, honey. I’m sorry but we have to go home,” you cut Melanie off. 

Your feet took you further and further away from the disaster in front of the school, none of the fear and panic being left at the gates. You took it all with you, heavy on your shoulders as your daughter told you, multiple times, that she could walk beside you and she promised she’d hold your hand. 

But you were back in survival mode, as Azriel called it, and none of your daughter’s pleas were registering. 

Because now, a member of the court knew who you were. And he knew about Melanie.

[endless-ineffabilities]

be young, be dope, be proud

dynasty heir Aemond x heiress reader

a/n: randomly and carelessly drafted after a night out, so don't even ask me what this is. title obvi from Lana. also, I feel like the setting here is an acquired taste. so, enjoy? 💁🏼‍♀️🤍

themes/warnings: spoiled rich assholes, New York/modern references, language, clichés galore, Targs are like the Kennedys if that whole family was pure evil and Rep, SMUT, angst between brats who clearly want each other, also—you're kind of a hypocrite

main masterlist

The estate reeks with old money: marble columns, ancestral portraits, and a long dining table loaded with crystal and silver. Chandeliers try to warm the place, but it's all cold opulence. Outside, the gardens are cut and tamed to show that even nature has a price.

Your father always brings the family along to stately dinners up there in Westchester, with the usual crowd in attendance—the Targaryens, the Velaryons, the Lannisters—the whole lot.

Between them, they could probably purchase every building in Manhattan without creating a single dent in the bank.

Hell, maybe they already have. Generational wealth truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

You've tried to distance yourself from it. From people whose words drip poisoned honey and condescension. Being waited on like new order royalty.

But who are you to talk, when your father's lineage traces back to the fucking Mayflower? You and them are one and the same—filthy rich and borderline insane.

It is nearly impossible to maintain a steady sense of self, to have ample room for personal growth, when everything, every single thing, is handed to you on a silver platter. There is no tension there, no struggle, no need to exert any effort.

Failed your courses? Your father donates a building to the university. Aemond gets several DUIs? His great-uncle is a Supreme Court Justice. Aegon nearly burns his friend's house down while throwing a bacchanal-themed party? Let's just say that friend is grounded. For a week. Oh, the horror. Their family had many other estates, in many other places anyway.

When there are no real repercussions to your actions, you will feel like you can do just about whatever you want.

Burn the world down, for all you care. You can just buy a new, better one.

Granted, not everyone in your circle is an entitled egotist. There's Helaena, who strangely enough, does not possess a single self-important bone in her body, unlike her aforementioned brothers. Jace, who spends most of his time getting involved in political activism, for the side that his magnate grandfather Viserys steadfastly opposes.

You'd always sit beside either of them in these dinners, for the sake of your sanity. Unfortunately, Aemond and Aegon are never far. Especially Aemond—who occassionally stares you down as he sits across the table. Aegon, seated to his left, whistles at you. "Hey. Hey so... are you still slumming it with the art crowd?"

"I'm sorry?" You narrow your eyes at him. He didn't even say hello or mind if I cut in? as Jace was telling you about attending the DNC rally.

Aemond watches you again, so closely it raises goosebumps along your arms. He's been stealing glances at you ever since you arrived with your family. And you've been openly shooting glares at him when you sense it. Him and that steely one-eyed gaze of his always gets under your skin.

Aegon sneers, and you think how it's so in character of him. "You still live in Brooklyn? Cosplaying as a normie?"

"Fuck off, Aegon."

You've been living in Brooklyn for the past year, trying to finish up your Masters from Barnard. You would never hear the end of how this is the most redundant and useless thing, especially from people like Aegon. It does seem contrived, daddy's little heiress playing at being a scholar at Columbia, but at least you are doing something.

Besides, you have no desire to take over your family's empire. If anything, you want to branch out, maybe take on Jace's proposal on starting a charity foundation together.

"Aegon! Do you know how messed up that sounds?" Jace comes to your rescue, but you know it'll be for nought. Aegon's brain is too warped, too silver-spoonfed, to recognise his folly. You used to feel sympathy for the guy—this life is all he's ever known, and it isn't as if the adults around him ever set a good example, so can you blame him?

Used to. Now, he just annoys you. You grew up the same, but you are not like him, aren't you? So did Hel and Jace. So did Aemond. And Aemond, while still an asshole, is at least someone you can tolerate. He's vicious when it comes to his ambition, but he's genuinely smart.

He's cold and aloof, but he is also capable of tenderness.

You would never readily admit to anyone how you know this about him.

And he's staring you down, once again. You immediately know it's him when you feel someone nudge your shin under the table.

You eye him warily. What do you want?

He raises his eyebrows. Nothing. Just missed you.

At least that's what you're picking up from him. Why wouldn't he miss you? You're probably the best thing in his life right now. He should be so grateful you're still giving him the time of day, especially after everything he's done.

Aemond nods ever so subtly, the gesture meant for only you. You already know what he's getting at, but you don't feel like caving just yet.

It's another long moment of tuning in and out of your conversation with Jace, but Aemond's unspoken question lingers. When you deign to look at him again, he tilts his head to the side. Let's go.

He knows to leave first, and he stands and excuses himself from the table. Barely anyone gives him any mind, the adults debating passionately at the farther end.

You wait one whole minute, your heels tapping impatiently under the table. Then you follow suit.

"I need some air. Might have a smoke or something," you mumble to Jace. He wouldn't want to tag along, the scrunch of his face revealing how much he loathes the habit.

"Just the one," he tuts, raising a finger.

You roll your eyes fondly. "Okay, dad."

Aemond has just lit a cigarette when he hears you come in. The door to the private library lets out a tiny creak then shuts without a sound. He faces the window, his back to you. But he knows it's you. He can almost hear the derision in your exhale. A hint of your unmistakeable Guerlain scent is present in the room.

When you draw closer, he sees the ghost of your reflection on the glass, a mirage perched atop his shoulder. He thinks of the age-old visual of having an angel and a devil on either side. You would be the angel, and the devil... would probably be his own self.

The side he fights to keep buried. He knows you see it, and hate it, but you want him anyway. You let him have you anyway. And these stolen moments with you are the only times when he is truly free.

Without a word, he offers a cigarette to you, his hand moving with a smooth, practiced form that makes it feel like he's not just offering you a smoke but issuing a silent challenge. He lifts his lighter, an intricate, expensive thing engraved with his family crest, flicking it open with a soft metallic click, then holding the flame steady as you lean in.

He can't help but admire how beautiful you are as the glow illuminates your face.

"Do you ever get bored?" you sneer, folding your arms as you lean against a shelf. "Sitting there all night with that smug, 'yes, I agree with all of this' look while your family drones on about the 'sanctity of tradition.' Like a good little heir."

Aemond raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his cigarette as he takes a drag. You sure have a habit of getting right down to business. "Funny," he replies smoothly. "For someone who 'hates' tradition, you play the part of Daddy's obedient little princess pretty well. I saw you batting your eyes at every gray-haired councilman at that table."

"Oh, please." You roll your eyes, heat flaring in your cheeks, though whether from anger or the way his gaze always seems to pin you in place, despite your best efforts, you can't say. "I'm not doing it because I like it. I don't sit there pretending I'm better than the rest of the world."

"You don't?" He cocks his head, his lips quirking into a wry, infuriating smirk. "Could've fooled me, princess. All I ever hear from you in these dinners are 'Oh, absolutely' and 'Oh, that's so interesting'—like you'd just die if they didn't think you cared."

"Wow, okay, says the guy who spent twenty minutes nodding along while they debated the tax breaks for HNWIs. Planning to cut yourself some more slack there, hotshot?" You take a quick, sharp puff, the smoke billowing out of your lips as you continue your tirade. "You're a damn statue, Aemond. Most of the time, you don't even say a word, and yet somehow you sit there looking like everyone should be grateful you graced them with your presence."

He takes a step closer, and his voice drops. This is something only you can do—you get to him, you hit him where it matters. Or, you're the only one he allows the privilege of doing so. "And you hate it, don't you? You hate that I don't care what they think. That I'm not actually here to impress anyone."

Your laugh comes out bitter. "Please. You don't care because you're so convinced they already think you're perfect. You don't have to impress anyone because you're Aemond Targaryen, right? The perfect heir to a glowing legacy."

"Better that than playing the poor, tortured rebel." He's so close you can count the facets of the sapphire in his socket, a dangerous gleam flashing behind them—another outlandish, excessive thing only a billionaire's son would think to do. "At least I'm not pretending I want to burn it all down while running around in the same circles as everyone else. Tell me, do you actually care about the policies Jacaerys painstakingly explains to you? Or is it all just for show?"

"You don't know me, Aemond."

"Oh, but I do. In fact, I think I'm the only one who knows the real you."

You clench your jaw, craning your neck up to look at him. How ironic that he literally has to look down on you too. "Unlike you, I actually feel something about all this. You sit there like you're above it all, and it's pathetic."

"Pathetic?" He lets out a low, humorless laugh. "You want to talk about pathetic? The only thing pathetic is you standing there acting like a revolutionary when you're just like the rest of us."

"At least I want to get out. At least I want to make a goddamn difference and—"

"Then do it," he says, his tone mocking, as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your face. "Get out. Run off, make your big escape. Show everyone how different and special you are, princess."

"Oh, right," you shoot back, trying to regain some of your moxie after his unexpected retort. "And leave you to taint my image after then?"

He scoffs, the gesture dismissive, almost cruel. "You wouldn't be here if you actually had the guts to go through with it."

Aemond may be a pretentious asshole, but he's right, and you know it. "You know what, Aemond? What if... I tell you that I like it. The power, the status, all of it. Is that what you want to hear?"

He smirks. "You'd be adrift without it. You'd be lost without all this to complain about." His gaze drops to your mouth, as if he could already guess exactly how a rendezvous like this is going to end.

How it always ends.

You feel your breath hitch, your pulse racing even as you grit your teeth against the draw of him.

"Don't look at me like that," you snap, trying to keep the upper hand. You should leave. You know this, know you should storm out and leave him here with that damn arrogant smirk on his face.

Call it a truce, and do it all over again next time.

"What's wrong? Afraid you'll do something you'll regret?"

The challenge in his tone has you seething, heat blazing up your neck. "You're insufferable, you know that?” You try to sound as furious as you feel, but your voice wavers, and the corner of his mouth tilts in a dark, smug smile.

"Then leave, princess." His eyes flash, daring you, mocking you, yet he doesn't move back. "Go on. Show me that strength you keep talking about."

The words are meant to push you away, to test how much you can take, but they do something else instead. They push you over the edge, sending you surging forward before you even know what you're doing, fisting the front of his pristine shirt and yanking him down to you.

Your mouth meets his, all anger and fire, biting at his lips as he smirks against you, welcoming the aggression. His hands find your waist, pawing at your gown, pushing you back until you stumble against the bookshelf.

You try to hold onto the anger, to use it to keep yourself in control, but the way he kisses you—rough, possessive, familiar, with a hunger that seems to match yours—makes it impossible. His hands slip to your hips, fingers digging into you with a desire that you both pretend doesn't exist anywhere but here, in the dark corners of your little meeting places.

"Stop," you gasp for breath, pulling away for just a second, trying to steady yourself, but he follows, his mouth trailing down your jaw to your neck, biting down just enough to make you groan.

His fingers slip beneath the slit of your dress, finding bare skin. "Then tell me you don't want this."

Your head tilts back involuntarily, the blissed hitches in your breath becoming frequent. You should tell him to stop, but the words never come, not with his fingers tracing up your thigh, the pressure of his lean body against yours, the electric shiver that races through you as his mouth tongue dances with your own.

You give in, letting your anger melt into something messier, something that's been building between you both for so long you don't know how to unravel it. Your hands move to his white-blonde hair, pulling him closer. His hand slips higher, while the other is braced against the bookshelf behind you.

There's nothing careful about it—gone are the dynasty heirs who are unfailingly curated and perfect and genteel in the public eye. It's all frantic, hands grabbing, mouths clashing, neither of you willing to let the other take control but both of you giving in to the heat. He yanks your dress up, lifting you and positioning himself between your legs, his breathing rough as he makes quick work of his belt. Then he lets his trousers and underwear drop halfway down his thighs, and his cock springs free, pressing on the draped material of your gown, which you hurriedly bunch to the side.

It's like a sick power play when he takes two fingers and plunges them past your soaked entrance, right to his knuckles. All without breaking eye contact.

But neither has the upper hand. You and Aemond are one and the same.

"Seems like you're ready for me, princess."

"Mhmm, aghh—" He hooks his fingers inside you, hitting that damned spot. "Just fuck me already."

And when he does, his cock practically propping you up against the bookshelf, it's fast, chaotic, your movements nothing short of needy and desperate, as if you're both trying to prove something to the other. You don't care about the priceless first-edition books that rattle precariously behind you, nor about the way his fingers dig into your flesh that guarantee bruises that will show tomorrow. Right now, you're past caring, past pretending that you actually ever cared about anyone but yourself.

And maybe... Aemond.

His groans come out unrestrained against your neck, his tongue flicking over the droplets of sweat, as if he can't bear you being any less than perfect.

Only he can taint you, only he can see you broken in and fucked out like this, your lipstick smeared to the side of your mouth. That same shade of rouge littering his cheek, his jaw, the collar of his shirt.

No words are exchanged, as if they've been used up in your twisted version of foreplay from earlier.

All he offers is, "Fuck, baby, I'm close," as his hips continue in its assault, his hands buried in the softness of your arse, keeping you in place.

"So am I," you counter.

He falls apart inside you, his cock sputtering while lodged deep in your clenched walls. The near-animalistic growl he lets out brings you to your climax, your forehead falling against his as your entire body is rendered limp in his arms.

When you finally pull away, flushed, your heart still racing, he looks at you with that same arrogant smirk, and you can't help but feel the distaste rising back up.

"Still think I don't know you?" he murmurs, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

You glare at him, pulling your dress back down, refusing to let him have the last word even as his expression uncharacteristically softens as he gazes at you, making you want to pull him close and kiss him again. Gentler, this time.

"This can't happen again," you force out your usual lie.

"That's what you said last time, princess."

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[supercutszns]

bitter to the taste; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc + pairing: 5.5k, luke castellan x f!reader

synopsis: a sharp blade, a black eye, and (more than) two kisses.

warnings: this is even sluttier than the last one, language, sword fighting, sharp objects, blood/injuries, reader is still a horrible person and so is luke but he's also a loooser, making out, allusions/mentions of sex but no super explicit descriptions, kind of fluffy at the end

notes: i’m starting to hate this bc i think i’ve been staring at it too long sorry if this is not as good as pt.1 but i have plans for this series ok. also READER AND LUKE ARE NOT GOOD PEOPLE!!! THEIR RELATIONSHIP WILL NOT ALWAYS BE GOOD!!! THEY SUCK!! they are also not real but keep that in mind :) synopsis inspired by crush by ethel cain; designated song for this fic is unpunishable by ethel cain (i’ve got a whole chronological playlist for these freaks like it’s serious)

You’ve always had a taste for violence. And an equally powerful penchant for sloth. 

You prefer to watch the carnage, not participate. It satisfies something inside you that you know, if it wasn’t for your laziness, could cause something irrevocable. Who the hell has time for that?. You’d rather lie back and watch instead.

This flaw of yours is the only reason you haven’t stirred more trouble, you think. It’s the reason you never attend camp games or sparring lessons. Sometimes, when you do, a dark muscle flexes inside your heart to curl out of its slumber, forming a hunger you don’t have otherwise. The second it starts to pry you have to rear yourself back and tuck the monster in. Banish the need for something more.

You don’t want to feed it. You don’t know what happens if you do. So you let other people do the feeding for you.

Luke cuts through two dummy heads in one swoop. It’s fucking gorgeous. The moon reflects off his sword, a silver sheen casting his face when he’s in the right spot. His brows are set, eyes so dark they blend with the night. Every motion is ruthless. Satisfying. 

You don’t know how many times you’ve watched him like this. He called you out for it last night, but you’re sure he doesn’t know the half of it. The shadows are a sacred cloak to you, and you wait inside them until you want your presence known. 

Meet me tomorrow. 

It runs through your head like a broken record. You can still feel his breath on your lips and your neck is still tender—had to wear a sweater in the blazing heat to hide the marks. Since you were created you’ve accepted a universal truth about yourself: you don’t harbour affection for anyone or anything. There’s not a single thing you’ve felt drawn to or protective over but yourself. It’s solitary, yes, and lonely, yes, but that’s the way you’re supposed to be. 

But you think about last night. You think about the moments between the kisses and the rush. When he teased you against your ear. When his hand brushed a certain spot on your back and something much lighter fluttered inside of you. When you crawled into sleep and thought about him, those were the moments that struck you the strangest. 

His gaze pans over the treeline every once in a while, the anger diluted. Then it comes back twice as hard as he shreds another dummy to pieces. 

He’s waiting for you. Oh, this is rich! A better person would probably turn around and go spoon their offerings into the bonfire the second they understand what they’re doing is incredibly destructive. But who are we kidding? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. 

So you take a step forward, slip out of the comfort of the dark, and the next time he looks to the treeline he knows you’re there. He can’t see you, but he knows. 

You wait. His strikes are less tenuous, much smoother. It almost makes you laugh. Some fucking showman he is. 

Eventually, he buries his blade in the dirt and wipes his brow. “Are you gonna come talk to me or are you gonna stare at me all night like an owl?”

You relish in the feeling of shedding the darkness, coming into the light of the moon. “Hi,” you say flatly, but there’s a tiny smile on his face when he sees you that almost puts you off. 

“Hello, rotten.” He tries to lean on the hilt of his sword but it isn’t quite tall enough so he stumbles. It’s so pathetic it almost makes you laugh. 

“Don’t call me that,” you grimace.

“Okay, back to heathen?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Well, you don’t seem too happy when people call you by your name so pick your poison here.” 

You don’t say anything, your mouth set in a scowl. “All right, both it is,” Luke shrugs.

He’s different from last night. Less impatient. You hope it’s not because he thinks he has you now—he’s got another thing coming. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna come,” he says with a crooked grin, neither bashful nor ashamed. 

You’ve made your way closer to him, the soft grass turning to dusty earth. “Don’t know why I did,” you mutter crassly. 

Having abandoned his sword, Luke chuckles wryly. “Yes, you do.”

That bitterness he hides from everyone else pierces through. He tilts your face up like he did yesterday, the press of his fingers beneath your chin almost burning you. You know he’s peering at the marks on your neck. 

“If you made me come here just to hook up with me you’re delusional,” you glare. 

“What, like that’s not why you’re here?” He pushes your face up a little higher, grinning a little when you add resistance. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I can be patient.”

This guy is full of fucking shit.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you snipe. The only point of contact you have is his hand on your chin, but you’re a hair’s breadth away from having everything else. The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you.

He keeps your face still. He’s studying you, and you’re suddenly curious about what he sees. You remember all those looks you’d share at the dinner tables that made this happen in the first place. What did he see then? 

“You wanna fight?”

It takes you a second to react. “What?”

“You want to fight. Pick up a sword, let’s go.” He smiles as he finally lets you go, waltzing away from you to unbury his sword from the dirt. His touch permeates through your skin and you hate it. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t fight.”

“Sure you can,” he replies, grabbing another sword from the training rack. “You need to burn off a little steam.”

You laugh sharply. “And you think me waving a sword around is gonna do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” he grins. “It’s the method that lets us keep the most clothes on.” 

You glare at him. His smirk is a mile wide. The way your stomach is simmering almost makes you sick; it’s like gorging yourself on candy except this time the candy has a sword and maybe wants to fuck you. 

You just watch as he hands you his sword, and the moonlight glinting off the metal has you believing it’s not the kind used for training. “I’ll use the dull one,” he assures. “C’mon, heathen. I know you’ve used a sword before, they force us to.”

“I usually skip those classes.”

He laughs. You can’t tell if it’s at you or with you. “Of course you do.”

You don’t like following orders, but oh, what the hell. Luke knows something about you, just like you know something about him. You’re only a little curious about it. 

“Straighten your back,” is the first thing he says once you’ve taken your stance across from him. The blunt of his sword reaches out to tap your hip. 

You begrudgingly do as you’re told. He watches you mirthfully, and the press of his sword against you starts to feel like a substitute for his hand. All the closeness you’re hungry for, dampened by cold steel. It still makes you buzz. 

He gives you the barebones—the right grip, how to maneuver, the proper balance. But long gone is his easy disposition. The motor inside him that powered all those dummy beheadings and disembowelments is running again, except this time it’s for you. He wants a fight. This is his battlefield. All right, you’ll bite.

You start to spar with the skill of an overgrown toddler. The sword feels like an unnatural ligament hanging off your body. Luke is precise, convicting, far more enthusiastic than you. “You can do better than that,” he prods after your swords clash lazily for the billionth time. “Stop going easy.”

“You’re going easy,” you shoot back. 

“Yeah, but I’d really rather not. Come on.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation. You think about that dark thing you keep harboured. A muscle aching to be used. 

“Come on,” he says again, and he almost sounds pissed. “All of a sudden you’re playing nice? What are you afraid of?”

Something flares inside you. “Nothing!”

“Then pick up the sword and fight me.”

You huff and roll your eyes, but your next swing is far more inspired. Luke blocks it easily, but you don’t care. “There we go,” he nods. “Again.”

This is more than you bargained for when you decided to come see him. All you want is to make out with this hot, awful person and have him tell you hot, awful things about yourself you probably already know. Why do you have to fight to get it? 

He keeps provoking you no matter how hard you try. Your temper picks up the more you swing, discordant clangs bruising the air, but it’s still not enough. Luke doesn’t let up. Of course the one time you try to be nice, you’re not allowed to. On second thought, why are you reigning yourself in for Luke? The only other person in camp with a real, consuming viciousness? If anything you should hit him twice as hard, since he’s so sure he can take it. 

“No wonder you’re so angry all the time,” Luke heaves out, and it gives you a swell of satisfaction. “You don’t have a proper outlet. Maybe you’d be nicer if you didn’t sit around and complain all day.”

“Shut up,” you gnash your teeth. 

“Just saying, maybe you should do something about it.”

You’re getting lost in the rhythm of the swords, the adrenaline, the sweat passing the scar on his cheek. Every swing you think less and less, and that dark muscle flexes more and more. It feels like home to you. Like a good meal. Your bones ache and the world has darkened, but that rotten pit inside you cracks open in full bloom. 

Luke keeps egging you on but you can’t hear him. Not like he still needs to. You think you’re smiling, or huffing furiously, or both. The sharpness of the sword intrigues you. A million terrible things reflect off its blade and you imagine them, all at once, until you are out of your body and the black hole inside you has properly wedged itself open. 

Luke jabs at you and you bring your sword down with a vengeance. But it’s a little too low. You only notice when he drops his weapon to the side and staggers back.

The fog of violence falters. It fades almost completely when he hisses long and hard, eyes screwed shut, and you see the tear in his shirt. In his skin. 

“Shit,” you say. “Fuck.”

You don’t sound sorry, you don’t think you are sorry, especially when he laughs. It’s a wheezy one through his teeth as you come up to him, but a laugh nonetheless. “Knew you were going easy,” he remarks through a wince. 

You ignore him, looking down at the injury. A  gash across his abdomen. It’s bleeding a little, but not enough for it to drip. You did that. Just looking at the blood, you feel the bitter taste of it in your mouth, the reward a temporary hunger for carnage brought you. This is why you don’t play camp games. 

“I’ve got thick skin. I’m fine,” Luke says casually. “I’ve got a medical kit under that tree over there in case I beat myself up too bad.” He’s no longer scrunched in pain, and you’ve got a feeling he’s telling the truth. So you go fetch the kit where he said it was. You need to wrap that slash. Not because you’re sorry for him, but because looking at it makes you angry. 

You kneel and pop the lid of the small tin kit, covered in dirt. It’s mostly gauze and bandages. Rubbing alcohol too. “Just give me the gauze, that’s all I need,” Luke gestures. 

“Shut the fuck up, I’m doing it myself.” You’ve already torn off some gauze, sitting all the way up on your knees. 

“Most people just say sorry.”

“You pushed me,” you spit back, surprisingly forceful. Luke’s smile drops. You take a deep breath, adjusting yourself to get eye level with the injury. “I told you I don’t fight.”

You’re not sure what makes Luke give in, but he doesn’t say a word as you lift the hem of his torn shirt and he holds it up. There’s no proud remark about your eyes lingering on his stomach, or the hesitation in your hands. You stare at the wound. It really is shallow. Your thumb presses at the skin around it and he winces. “My bad,” you mutter. 

As you sterilize the cut and wrap the gauze around his torso, you try not to let your fingertips cling to the warmth on his skin. You try not to notice the other scars littered there, most faded to the point they should be impossible to pick up even in the sun. It’s obvious he’s staring at you. Your neck is crawling with warmth. But you don’t engage, you just wrap the gauze a few times and do your best not to notice the rise and fall beneath his muscles as he breathes. Then you fasten things neatly and put everything away so you can get up. Any second. Come on. 

“Good?” You ask instead, exhaling. 

“Good,” he affirms. He slides a hand under your forearm and gets you up. It stays there once you’re standing. The night stills. 

“I’m guessing you’re adding ‘attempted killer’ to your list of horrible qualities,” you go on to break the silence.

He holds your gaze unyieldingly. “I’d consider that a pro, actually.” 

You are entirely fed up with this drawn out evening, but you can’t bring yourself to speed anything up any more than stepping closer so your chests brush. “I will give you one, though,” he continues, craning down to your ear. You smell his skin and it sends you back to the position you were in yesterday. 

He finally kisses your jaw, just once, then your neck. You shiver. “You’re too tense.” Another kiss behind your ear. It’s not enough. “Do you even know how to have fun?”

“I don’t want to have fun,” you reply bitterly. I just want to make out with you, asshat.

Luke’s breath frosts over your face when he chuckles, but before he can get any further away you catch his mouth with yours. Almost instinctively his arm winds around you to pull you in closer, your hand looping through his curls. It's a relief, knowing last night wasn't some freak accident. This does feel good, actually, and it can happen. Everything you felt yesterday is only more urgent now, hungrier, and you're pretty sure the way you kiss him gives that away.

He indulges you, squeezing the base of your hips as his other hand thumbs across the marks on your neck. This is so fucking embarassing—you think you whine when he bites down on your bottom lip. You’ve never needed something this bad, you’ve never needed anything. But you press yourself as close to him as you can manage and his hand runs lower, slips against your inner thighs, and it’s difficult to worry about anything else. 

Until he pulls away. Like a dick. 

He doesn’t go far, his forehead pressed to yours, but you feel like pulling out all his hair. It’s a muddling mix of frustration and longing you’re starting to associate with him. “Dude,” you groan, an inner coil only starting to unwind begrudgingly compressing. 

“Let’s go for a swim,” he says. The enthusiasm is almost alarming. Almost makes him look younger.

You’re homicidal. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, heathen. Let’s go for a swim, come on.”

He’s rubbing circles on your thigh, which only makes you want to strangle him. “But I—I don’t have my bathing suit,” you string out. 

The smile gets more boyish. “Wow, whatever shall we do?”

It’s another challenge. Another dare. And he knows what you want, fucking jerk. You’re going to kill him. 

“Fine,” you grunt, and the second the words leave your lips you’re pulled to the lake. 

It’s a warm, sticky evening, only made worse with the sweat and the half-assed kissing, so the water doesn’t seem all that bad. Unfortunately, you don’t like giving into demands. So you stare ghoulishly at your fingernails as Luke tosses off his ripped shirt and his shorts so he can plunge into the lake. “Aren’t you going to at least come in?” He asks, but you don’t look at him. 

“I don’t like swimming,” you lie. 

“At least your feet. It’s nice, I swear!”

A splash, like smoke moving through wind chimes. You look up and Luke has completely submerged, popping his head up closer to the mouth of the dock. “Please,” he says with such conviction your resolve turns to butter. Gods, what is happening to you? You still need that lobotomy! 

You sigh, roll your eyes, turn your back to him. “Fuck this,” you mutter under your breath. You undress to your undergarments and you’re not sure if you want Luke to be watching or not. The moon touches your bare skin and a chill trickles through you. 

You take a seat at the edge of the dock, knees tucked to your chest. Luke swims over for you right away. His hair is dripping against his skin, and you hate how beautiful it looks. The waterline is high tonight, almost ridiculously so, so he props his elbows up on the dock with no problem. “Come in,” he urges. 

“No.”

“Just your legs?”

“No.”

“Gods, I’ll make it worth it, just throw your damn legs in!” 

Your eyebrows shoot up. His face is stubbornly pink. Oh, so now he wants something. You take your time uncurling yourself and Luke wades away from the dock so you can put your feet in. The water goes up to your calves, and you shiver. “So fucking difficult,” he mutters, and your pulse flickers. 

“Sorry, what was that?” You let yourself grin for the first time all night. 

“Nothing,” he hums. This time when he comes to the dock, he wraps his hands around your calves. You’re pretty sure he can stand here because he stops treading. The warmth of the water seems to spread further, long past the threshold of your knees. 

He rests his chin just above your knee, water pooling on your skin. “Stop dripping on me,” you complain. 

“Sorry.” He fake pouts when he kisses the damp spot. You see, ever so faintly, a diabolic shift in his expression. He nudges your leg with the point of his nose, then kisses it, then starts to move it aside. “Feel bad about teasing you all night,” he murmurs, still with an edge. He presses more kisses on your legs. “I really did want to see you.”

The irony that he’s still teasing is not lost on you. You’re not loving how desperately warm you’re starting to feel. “Why’s that?” You lean back on your palms. 

“You’re a very interesting person,” he quips innocently. His hands are cupping the backs of your calves. He’s pulled you a lot closer to the water, and somehow you’ve just noticed. Another blistering kiss on the inside of your thigh. 

“You’re fucking evil,” you scathe. 

He looks up at you from between your legs. “You have literally done nothing but berate and injure me this whole evening.”

“Yeah, and right after I patch you up you jump in the water for shits. You’re playing infection roulette, Castellan.”

“See? You’re so mean.” He sighs, and in a move that almost surprises you to death, he hoists both your legs over his shoulders and they dangle into the river behind him. “And here I am anyway, making it up to you.”

You are suddenly illuminated on the purpose of this situation. Why Luke is between your legs. Your heart jolts. “Luke, you can’t be serious.” 

“Mmhm.” He leans forward to kiss right under your navel. 

You hate how much you want him to do it again, how your body burns, but you avert your eyes. “Someone’s gonna—someone’s gonna hear us.”

He snorts, “No they won’t. Either this or you come in the water with me. Or both. We’ll see.”

A huge smile cracks across your face before you push it back down. You’re going to spend a lot of time coming back to this moment, this night, wondering why. “What is wrong with you.”

It comes out like a compliment when it leaves you. You want to vanish. Luke chuckles, and something foreign to the both of you buzzes through the air. 

“Are you going to be nice?” He asks against your skin. 

“Are you going to be quick?”

His mouth finds your hip bones and yeah, why the hell would you say no to this? He nods, “Swear.” 

That’s all you need. You let your eyes slide shut and your head tilts towards the sky. Luke takes your permission and runs with it, pries you open with his mouth until the stars soak through the black of your eyelids. 

You discover pretty quickly neither of you are good at keeping promises. 

The next time you need Luke’s med kit, he’s already awake. 

It’s been happening more and more often. You lurking around camp past moonrise and finding Luke outside his cabin, going for a walk or a stretch or a … something with you. 

“Do you ever sleep?” You ask him sometimes between flurries of kisses with your back against a tree. 

“Could ask you the same thing, heathen,” he squeezes your hips and nips at your neck, but never answers the question. And neither do you, so you’re both okay with it. You’d hate to give up this feeling, but he doesn’t need to know that.

This is the first time in your punitive life you have felt alive. Like a person, with bones and flesh and soul, a real presence. Not a ghost of smoke and shadow. You are real. 

Fooling around makes you feel like an actual teenager. You’re young, you remember when Luke joins you in the dark. You’re having fun. His hands under your shirt and his mouth on your collarbone, the way he bites down and winces when you do something a little too well, when you string out his name and he rewards you for it. You’re both greedy, insatiable people, so there’s a push and pull only the two of you would ever be able to handle. And nobody has to know. Despite all the bruises, the sleepless nights, the swollen lips, all you and Luke share in the daylight are noxious looks, and that's only if he can find you. A perfect crime. Camp Half-Blood’s angel and the vice that lives in the shadows. But in the dark, it’s hard to tell which is which. 

“Luke,” you whisper. “Luke.”

“I’m up,” he grumbles, peering up at you. “You shouldn’t sneak into my cabin.” He was already sitting up in his bed when you slipped in, and he didn’t notice you were there till you were right in front of him.

“Worried someone will catch me? You should know better.” 

He follows you outside so you don’t wake the other campers. There’s a thrill knowing just one interaction between the two of you could ruin both your reputations forever. 

“What is it, heathen?” He asks as the door closes behind him. It’s so dark and your back is turned to him, but his voice is drenched in smugness. “You don’t usually want to put up with me more than once a night.”

“Don’t have a choice,” you mutter, staring out at the camp. You go to chew on your bottom lip, but you wince immediately. “Where’s your kit thingy? The one we used after I impaled you.” 

“You mean after you lightly grazed me?” 

“Just tell me where it is, Luke.”

Your sharpness could cut through any sleepy daze he possibly has. He’s silent behind you for a second. “Why?” He asks.

“Because I need it.”

His hand curls around your shoulder and before you can think to submerge yourself in darkness, he turns you around. When he sees you, his face breaks from something proud to something … you’re not sure you like. “Oh, heathen,” he murmurs. “What happened to you?”

You guess it’s a semi-appropriate reaction, although you expected at least a grimace. To put it lightly, your face looks gnarly as fuck. There’s a bruise on your cheekbone and your lip is split. But what really draws attention is the half-formed, garish black eye swelling up your right side. 

“Just the usual. Pissed someone off.” It hurts the skin on your lip that’s caked with blood. 

He rests his thumb on your unbruised cheek, but somehow it still stings. You know he can’t see much of you in the dark but he tries. The prolonged eye contact without the imminent promise of a kiss feels foreign. “You need to go to the Apollo cabin,” he concludes, brows pushed together. 

A laugh slips past your broken lips. “No fucking shot. They would not help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because one of their shit-eaters did this!”

The words take a moment to register. You see them filtering through Luke’s brain. He blinks absurdly. “An Apollo guy beat you up?”

“Not beat up. Just … tussled.”

“How much tussling earns you a black eye, exactly? From Apollo kids.”

“Gods, just tell me where your kit is so you can go back to fucking sleep.”

His fingertips inch around the back of your neck, thumb still against your face. “Already wasn’t sleeping. I might as well help you,” he shrugs. “I move the kit every once in a while so some other campers don’t ravage it.”

“I don’t need help.”

Luke opens his mouth, then sighs deeply. He takes a firm hold of your arm and starts to tug you along. “Hey, what—” you swat at his arm. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs. “Come on.”

It’s strange. Luke’s never done you a favour before. At least not one like this. You’re disgruntled enough that you had to go ask him in the first place and now he’s dragging you around? “This isn’t such a big deal, Luke,” you badger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, whatever. Wait right here.” He lets go of you and only then you realize you’re in front of the Apollo cabin. You grimace, and Luke must have noticed because he says, “Don’t worry, I’m just gonna go inside and grab some things. No one’s gonna jump you.”

You scowl at him, and he just laughs. A part of you hopes he hits his head on the way in. You hide anyway. 

It’s a few minutes of waiting in the oppressive summer heat, until Luke emerges from the cabin with his hands full. He looks around, hesitantly calling, “Heathen?” Then again. You move out of your hiding spot and he jogs over to greet you. 

“Nice haul,” you comment. There’s an ice pack, cotton pads, a few miscellaneous items. “How’d you get them?”

He smiles widely. “Everyone loves me, heathen. It’s not hard.”

“…So you stole them.”

“Yes, but only because I’m too tired to talk to people and I’m protesting for your sake,” he rattles off. “Now hold this ice pack before it gives me frostbite.”

The two of you make your way down to the docks again. It’s morphed into your usual meeting place, since the waves lapping at the shore mask when Luke gets a little too noisy just to piss you off. (At least that’s what he tells you.)

He’s stashed his little tin in a different tree this time. After he retrieves it he sets everything out like a chef preparing to make a meal out of gauze and rubbing alcohol. 

Your head has been throbbing for the past few hours. You’re not proud that you antagonized the wrong Apollo kid and got a shiner for it. You’re less proud that you came to Luke for help. Just like everyone else does.

“Come,” he gestures, tugging at the waistband of your pants. You scoot closer to him and swallow the weight of your pulse when he touches you. 

Luke slowly presses the ice pack to your black eye, letting you hold it. “What did you do to earn this, anyway?” He asks, head tilted to the side. 

You’re hissing because of the ice, half-consciously shifting into him. “The usual. Spat at him. Made fun of his daddy a little too much. Tripped him so he landed face-first in his offerings.”

“You did not,” Luke laments as he dots alcohol onto a cotton pad. 

“You’re allowed to say you’re proud of me, Saint Castellan. I won’t tell. You can be mean.” Your voice drips with irony, and you hope it bothers him. The flex in his jaw gives it away. 

“You’re always gonna be meaner,” is all he says back. “This is gonna hurt.”

It’s all the warning he gives before he presses the pad against your lip. The sting envelops you immediately, and your good eye squeezes shut. “Shit, ow!” 

“Stop moving your mouth.”

“Fuck,” you swear anyway. Your lip burns so hard you can feel it in your teeth. 

Luke holds your jaw with his other hand so you can’t shy away. “I’ll kiss it better,” he teases. “Almost done.”

You roll your eyes, but Luke takes the pad off a few moments later. “Serious question. How are you so awful to people all the time?”

A groan tears through your throat with such force your head tilts back. “Not you too! I don’t need a fucking reason, there is no reason. Why doesn’t anyone get that?” 

“I’m not asking why. I’m asking how.”

He’s oddly serious, the caress of his thumb on your cheek far slower. You hate it when people want a reason why you’re like this, just to help them sleep at night. But from the bags lining Luke’s eyes, sleep doesn’t seem to be on his radar. 

“I just don’t care,” you admit, shrugging. “I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about what they can do to me. I don’t care about anything.”

“…What about the Gods?”

It makes you cock your head. “Huh?”

“You wouldn’t care about them, either?”

You think, but only about which words to use. “No,” you decide, “They don’t scare me. They’re nothing. What are they gonna do to me?”

Luke snorts, almost nervously. “Uh, punish you for saying that, for one.”

You turn back to him, ice pack leaving your eye as you gesture. “How? By killing me? Pecking out my eyeballs? Burning me alive? I’m telling you, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. It’s all just nothing to me. I’m fucking unpunishable, I’d like to see them try.” 

Huffing, you look back up at the firmament of stars. Luke says nothing. 

The grass rustles as he shifts, and his mouth ghosts over the bruise on your eye. “Unpunishable,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out. Then he places an uncharacteristically gentle kiss just beneath your eye. And another just above. “We’ll see about that.”

You get that feeling again, the unbearable lightness in a place it shouldn’t be. Mixed with the poison lodged in your heart. 

Luke kisses you, still so delicate that you wonder if he’s been body-snatched. If anything, your bleeding lip feels soothed against his. His hands cradle your face with no ferocity at all. It seems wrong. 

“How do you feel?” He asks after pulling away, dark eyes nebulous and wide. The night usually sharpens his features. Now, they’ve been hushed.

“Um, better,” you reply. 

He hums, laying a slow trail of kisses on your jaw. “Did you at least get the other guy?” He asks between kisses. “Like, did you hurt him?”

“Not really,” you divulge, wondering if you should feel shame. 

“Why?” He’s made his way to your neck now, nudging your jaw up so he can kiss behind your ear. 

“I’m not a fighter.” And, without warning, for a reason you will never, ever be able to explain, your tongue adds, “I’m a killer.”

Your own brows furrow. Luke pauses for a moment, but knocks his nose against your neck. “Guess one of us has to be.”

There’s no more fooling around. No snappy insults, no feverish kisses, no hunger to be satiated. Luke just checks you over a few more times, hides his med kit, and you both get up to sleep. But his hand wraps around your wrist, far less firm than when he dragged you here. “Stay in my bunk, heathen,” he offers. “Leave in the morning.”

You think you’re making a mistake when you agree, but it doesn’t feel like one. 

The next day, after you’ve left Luke’s bunk, rumours float around camp that Luke Castellan accidentally butted some Apollo kid in the face with his sword during training. Caused a bloody, broken nose. Luke was very sorry, apologized profusely. 

But you know, by the way he takes you behind the stables that night, that he didn’t mean a single damn word.

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz

rotten taglist: @thaliagracesgf

leave a pm/comment/ask if you'd like to be added to a taglist :)

[sp0o0kylights]

Eyes wide, body frigid in terror, Eddie felt the sheer horror of the current situation sank in. 

He was at Gen Con. 

In their hotel.

With zero vacant rooms and one minor, Henderson created, screw up.

The room only had one bed in it. 

“It’s fine, we can share.” Steve said, brushing past.

Like this was not the life ending, earth shattering, soul rendering issue that it was.

“I can sleep on the floor.” Eddie croaked trying to remember how a normal person acted instead of someone whose stomach had just fallen out of their ass. 

“Nah, I did this all the time with the basketball team.” Steve said as Eddie actively regretted every single decision that had led to this point in his life.

“Hell this is even a king sized bed. We have plenty of space!” 

Steve did a goofy little spin jump, landing butt first on the bed and bouncing on it with glee. 

“Space, sure.” Eddie echoed. 

Hands shaking, eyes determinedly focused on anything but the ex-jock, Eddie found himself chanting a mantra over and over in his head.

One that would valiantly get him through the next weekend, God and D20's willing.

'I'm fine, this is fine, everything's fine...'

“I don’t have cooties, if that's what you're worried about.”” Steve waggled his eyebrows. "Here,  I’ll even let you have one of my pillows.”  

Said pillow was flung through the air, to smack Eddie dead in the face. 

'Fuck it." Eddie thought wildly. "I am NOT fine!'

And after Eddie got his hands on him, Dustin Henderson wouldn't be either.

xXx

“I am going to kill you.” Eddie snarled, the very second he could get Dustin alone.

“No you won’t, you love me too much.” Henderson dismissed, a smug little smirk in place. 

The absolute brat. 

“I do not, and if I did, I would take it back after this.” Eddie glanced around once again, beyond paranoid about discussing this in the open parking lot of a shitty hotel, but knowing he needed to get this under control, now. 

“What were you thinking!?” 

“That I read a really interesting zine about this exact scenario, mostly.” Dustin shrugged. “Worked out great for them, I thought I’d try it for you!” 

Eddie groaned, head flying back as he fisted both hands in his hair.

(if only to prevent himself from wrapping both hands around Dustin’s stupid throat.) 

“What did I tell you? This isn’t something you fuck with man!” 

“I know, but as I told you, Steve is perfect!” Dustin protested, and didn’t even have the decency to flinch when Eddie lost control and grabbed him by the collar. 

“Perfect!?” He sputtered, actually sputtered, shaking the fist that held Dustin's shirt captive. “Perfect!?” 

“Trust me on this--you have a crush on him, he desperately needs someone in his life--seriously, Eddie, it’s sad how he acts when he’s not dating--and you guys get along great now! What’s the problem!?”

“He’s straight!” Eddie shrieked, startling several onlookers. 

“Laced!” He added immediately after, in panicked afterthought. “He’s so straight laced we could never get him to agree to that plan!” 

Dustin leveled an unimpressed look at him. 

“Dude, really?”

“We are still in Indiana, Henderson.” Eddie said, then got close enough that he felt comfortable hissing the next part through clenched teeth.

“They don’t exactly care for the queers here, even at a place like this.” 

“Are you sure? Because the Con’s welcome packet has a few different panels that--”

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face, letting go of his idiot, freshman friend's shirt to grab at his hair again. 

“Henderson, for once,” He pleaded, and maybe it was the sheer desperation in his tone or how upset he looked but either way Dustin seemed to finally realize how serious he was.

“just once, I need you to listen to me. You cannot let Steve know I’m gay. This is something that has to stay between us, especially now I’m sharing a bed with him.” 

Which Dustin knew, because Dustin was the one who’d called and changed the room. 

“But Steve’s--”

“Most likely bisexual, I heard you the first several times you said it, but you can’t just--assume that about someone!” Eddie was well and good on a rant now, two seconds away from pacing about. “Even if you’ve been to a salon with them!” 

He pointed firmly at Dustin’s stupid face (and the kid's equally stupid mouth) before he could once again insist Steve was into men purely based on how anal he was about his hair.

“Steve might be cool with--other people,” Eddie was unsure of who knew what about Robin, and was not about to hand Dustin another secret given how he was acting about this one, “but that does not mean he will be cool with me--or you, pimping him out, to me!” 

“I’m not pimping him out!” Offended, Dustin patted at his shirt where Eddie had previously been holding it. “Look I’m sorry, but--”

Eddie groaned, loud and dramatic. 

“But,” Dustin doubled down, “You trusted me with the whole, you know.” He waved his hands in some sort of vague, unreadable gesture. “Can’t you trust me about this?”

“I didn’t trust you with that, you barged into my room and then dug around my closet insisting your character notes got mixed in with mine when I was hi-sleeping!--and then read something personal!” 

The snort he got in return let him know Dustin was well aware he’d been high as hell, but that was neither here nor there, given what had happened after. 

When Dustin, rifling through Eddie’s closet, came across one of Eddie’s private notebooks. 

The ones that contained equally private stories, penned by Eddie's hand.

One of which might have had characters--who did not sound like Steve, thank you,-- and definitely not paired with a character based on Eddie himself. 

(“So Sir Sylvan Harrachtáin and Edwin Morningson are random names you pulled out of your ass, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Sir Sylvan with his great hair and--what’s this? A horse named…Beamer?”

“Henderson so help me--” ) 

It may have led to the two of them growing closer instead of Eddie getting chased out of town with pitchforks, but that hadn’t stopped the sheer panic it had caused when he realized just what it was Dustin was reading. 

“Potato, tomato.” The little shit dismissed, and Eddie felt the urge to strangle him return in full force. “Look I get it--I promised I wouldn’t tell and I keep my promises. But since there aren’t any other rooms in our inn…”

Eddie looked at the sky, because if he saw the little dipshit wiggle his eyebrows in relation to himself and Steve Harrington, his new friend, who baked cookies with Jeff and once helped Grant jump his car, Eddie was going to lose his mind.

Loudly, and with much fanfare. 

“You owe me. Big time.” He declared to the clouds. 

He pretended not to hear the sigh that got him, either. 

“If you so say. Now can we go to the convention?" A whine crept into Henderson's voice. "Steve’s going to think we’re fighting.”

"Fine.” Eddie finally lowered his head to glare Dustin dead in the eyes.

“But to make my ire clear, Henderson? That magic sword your dwarf just acquired is gone. Disappeared. Vanished like a puff of smoke."

He made a ‘proof’ noise, hands spreading out as he did it. 

Dustin’s jaw dropped.

“What!? Eddie--” 

“Nope.

“Edd-iieeeee--”

“I’m not listening.” He plunged both fingers in his ears, walking determinedly towards one of the other three hotel rooms Hellfire had crammed themselves in. 

Wished desperately that he could manage to swap beds with Jeff, or Grant, or someone without making Steve feel like shit--which it would, because Eddie knew things like that about Steve now.

Behind him Dustin rampaged, which at least, made Eddie a little happier.

xXx

“We can switch rooms.” 

“What?” Eddie asked, startled out of his present thoughts (and the giant pile of D&D related papers spread in a circle around him.)

He turned to look up at Steve, who was hovering awkwardly behind him.

“You’ve been weird ever since you realized we’re sharing a bed. If it’s making you that uncomfortable we can just switch.” He shrugged, like saying that didn’t hurt him, even as the kicked puppy look holding court on his face very much screamed ‘emotional damage.’

"I have not!” Eddie twisted himself around immediately. "I am perfectly fine, thank you!"

Steve frowned down at him. 

“Eddie, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with you since we got here." Steve deadpanned. "I’d blame that on the whole, you know, nerd herd gathering, but it’s pretty clear that’s not it. I watched you literally turn around and walk the other way when you spotted me earlier." 

Shit.

"It's kinda obvious you're avoiding me." 

Shit, shit, shit!

“I'm not, promise!" Eddie lied. "I’m just--distracted. There’s just so much happening and it’s--a lot.”

He said it like the con was overwhelming, and not chaos he was positively thriving in. 

Steve searched his face.

“Alright," He said doubtfully, "but I mean it. Say the word and we can switch. I'm sure Jeff'll let me share a blanket or something."

Which was the last thing anybody needed, on grounds that Jeff would try and fix things.

(Jeff, bless him, had never been good at fixing things.)

Drumming up every acting skill he possessed, Eddie flashed two thumbs up in response, painting a fat grin on his face.

“We're all good Stevie. Besides, I’m going to be up late at so many panels, you won’t even notice me coming back. You're practically gonna have the room to yourself!"

Because that was exactly what he was planning on doing, the second he realized the convention itself could provide a nice, neat little way out in the form of two different late night panels.

Who needed sleep anyway? Not him!

"Okay." Steve said, somewhat mollified.

Crisis averted, Eddie dove back into his plans, distracting himself as best he could while trying to ignore that Steve had dropped onto the bed.

(One of those plans might have involved revenge on Henderson, and that one he gave special attention to.)

xXx

There were no late nigh panels.

“Not until tomorrow, my friend!” The jovial guy dressed in what Eddie was pretty sure was supposed to be a wizard costume told him. “We had a few but the folks running them got stuck in traffic, so we had to cancel."

He beamed, like he hadn’t just disintegrated Eddie's one and only escape plan.

"Besides, if you go to sleep now you can catch some of the early morning panels!”

As if he hadn't planned on rolling into them anyway, lack of sleep be damned.

“Can we go back now?” Gareth grumped to his right, the only person who’d agreed to stay out all night with him (and who was not a 14 year old who’d been overruled by Harrington.) 

"We could go find a room party?" Eddie hedged instead, as they made their retreat.

"Dude."

"Fine," He muttered, defeated. "We can go back."

To Steve. 

And the single bed. 

In his head, he plotted out Henderson's death.

Maybe he'd use fire.

Or sticks, or even a fricken--toy horse, or something...

xXx

He'd done it.

Changed into the oversized shirt he called sleep clothes, and crawled into bed like a completely normal, totally straight human being.

Had even done a remarkable job of laying perfectly still. Exactly how a normal, not panicking person slept!

'I'm fine, this is fine, everything's fine...'

Steve was laying next to him.

He had to of course, that's how a bed worked, and yet somehow, Eddie couldn't get past it.

Or the fact that the dick wasn't wearing a shirt to bed.

His thoughts chased each other in nervous little circles, anxiety gnawing on his gut like a favored bone as Eddie did his best not to move one single inch.

Pity that the thing about attending a large convention, was the sheer amount of walking, talking, and expending general energy one had to do.

Entirely against his will, Eddie fell asleep. 

He had been planning on laying awake in frigid terror all night, to prevent any possible way Steve might clock him, but his body had other plans.

Some of which involved sleeping like Eddie normally slept--arms hugging a pillow, head buried in it's soft, comfortable, kinda ticklish surface.

He rubbed his nose further into it as the tickling sensation increased, pulling him away from the sleep he hadn't realized he'd fallen into.

Grumbling, Eddie went to adjust his stupid pillow when he had the weirdest realization that it too, was moving.

Pillows, his sleep addled brain informed him, did not move.

Steve would, though.

"Fuck!" He screeched, flying up into a sitting position as he registered that he'd gone full octopus--cuddling Steve with all four limbs.

Steve flew awake, his own body flying up into a sitting position.

His mouth started moving a mile a minute, and it took Eddie a second to parse that Steve was still partially asleep as he let out a string of absolute nonsense about code reds and being upside down.

"Whoa!" Eddie said when the guy nearly fell out of bed. "Shit Steve, it's just me!"

"Eddie?" Steve asked, halfway out of bed. "Are we--is everything okay?"

"Yeah I--yeah." He grimaced, grabbing a strand of his hair and pulling it protectively over his face. "I think I woke you up."

"S'okay." Steve ran a hand through his hair, before slowly sinking back into the bed, alarm fading. "Are you okay? Nightmare?"

Eddie blew out a breath.

"Probably. It's fine, don't worry about it."

Steve eyed him doubtfully.

"If you're sure..."

Eddie gave him a wobbly smile back, patting the space on the bed next to him as he made himself lay back down. "Promise. I'm--I'm sorry, I guess maybe I should have slept elsewhere..."

That did it.

"You're good. Startled me is all." Steve let out a sort of forced chuckle before laying back down. "I overreacted."

Eddie hummed, not trusting himself to say anything as the two of them settled back down.

It did not escape him that unlike most people who'd been rudely woken up in the middle of the night, Steve didn't try to keep any distance between them.

No, he had to scoot closer, like he needed to know his friend was near. 

Eddie squeezed his eyes closed and prayed for death.

"I get nightmares too, sometimes." Steve admitted in the following quiet and oh, God, no, Eddie could not do an emotional late night talk right now.

"They definitely suck." He said flatly, before rolling over to face the opposing wall. "Night Stevie."

Steve snorted, but it sounded amused instead of hurt.

Eddie sighed quietly in relief as he too, turned away to face the wall.

He could do this. He just had to make sure he didn't screw up and fall asleep again, and everything would be...

Perfectly...

...fine.

xXx

"--ddie, you're on my arm man."

"Wha?"

"My arm." That was Steve, Eddie's brain dutifully identified as it crawled it's way to consciousness. Steve who was his friend now, and was also talking very close to his ear. 

"Also my leg. And torso."

"You have a nice torso." Eddie mumbled thoughtlessly. 

Why was Steve here? They were doing something that should have been stressing him out, was stressing him out, but it was hard to think when he was this tired.

"Thanks," Amusement threaded it's way through Steve's voice, "but I'm going numb here. You have a hell of a grip."

Eddie frowned, the words sludging through the fog, until finally, the dots connected.

Eyes opening wide, he carefully took stock of the position he once again found himself in--wrapped around Steve like the guy was the only life raft left.

Oh my God.

"Shit sorry--" Steve oof'ed as Eddie smacked an elbow into his ribs as he let the poor man go, madly scrambling to get as far away as possible.

He tried to apologize for that, but was too busy fighting the bedsheets to get anything out. 

"Eds." Steve laughed, grabbing him as Eddie tangled them both up. "Calm down."

"I'm calm!" He protested, far too loudly, limbs flying every which way as he tried in vein to get the fuck away.

Stupid sheets-!

"Eddie." Two heavy hands came down on his shoulders, Steve having managed to get himself into a sitting position. "It's alright."

"It's not Steve." Eddie spat, and then panicked harder because fuck, that is not what he should have said.

"Hey, easy." Steve was talking quieter now, hands squeezing gently, like Eddie was some kind of spooked wild animal and fuck, he was really losing it here.

"I mean it. We're at the convention, remember? We're sharing a hotel room and you have a bunch of dorks and dumbass things to do in like, two hours."

Eddie violently shrugged him off.

"I know that!"

Steve, somehow, did not take offense to the very aggressive tone that had been snarled in. 

"Then you know you can breath for a moment. Seriously, you look like you're gonna pass out."

Which was probably true, given the rapid, rabbiting beat of his heart.

"Is this what you were worried about?" Steve added, as Eddie finally freed himself from the damn sheets. "That you have nightmares?"

“It's not nightmares.” Eddie spat instantly, chest heaving.

His head hurt, his eyes hurt, and he was exhausted to the point where he wanted to cry about it.

God did being gay suck.

“Then--what? That you cuddle in your sleep?” Steve was teasing, Eddie knew Steve was teasing but that was too on the nose. “Dude trust me, Tommy was an octopus growing up. I don’t care.”

“No it’s not, that, exactly--”

"So what is it then, exactly?"

Too. Fucking. Close.

"Drop it Steve--"

Emotions rose like a tidal wave, all encompassing. Overwhelming. 

"I would if you weren't clearly upset about something--" 

He lost control. 

“I’m gay!” Eddie yelled.

Then he clapped a hand over his mouth, like he hadn’t just panicked himself out of the closet. 

It died. 

The crazy, huge emotions. The way he'd been fighting himself, tooth and nail, the panicked thoughts that were zooming around his brain.

“I didn’t say that.” He said, eyes wide.

Steve blinked.

“I mean, you kinda did.”

Eddie shook his head.

“Nope. No. I said, I said--”

“That you’re gay.” Steve finished, then frowned when Eddie flinched. “Dude it’s okay--”

“Is it, Steve!?” He interrupted, hand finally falling from his mouth. “Is it? Because if you ask half the people at this convention--who are my kind of people and understand I’m not shilling souls to satan--if it's okay!? They'd say no!"

Tears pressed against his eyes, a reaction he hated that he had.

"They'd say no, and then they'd try to kick my ass for sleeping in the same bed as them!" 

A tear escaped and he swiped angrily at it. 

“I’m okay with it.” Steve said quietly, which had the effect of making Eddie shut up. “And those people suck.” 

The laugh that escaped Eddie's mouth was brittle.

Bitter.

He turned his head away from Steve, angry that he’d gone and admitted the very thing he knew better than ever speaking aloud. 

“Yeah well, I didn't think you would be, given how you used to accuse anyone and everyone of being a queer loser right along with the rest of the basketball team.”

Which wasn't fair, exactly--Eddie knew Steve had changed. Had seen it in the way he and Robin talked quietly about Will, when they thought no one could overhear.

(A habit Eddie would break them of, if he and Steve made it out of here as friends, still.) 

He wasn't Will though, and Will wasn't the one presently sharing a bed with Steve.

“That’s because we were all making out with each other at away games.” It was said so fucking quick Eddie briefly thought he hallucinated it.

Lucky for him, Steve wasn't done. 

“Robin thinks that whole thing was some kind of group denial. Like if we made enough of a thing out of it we could all pretend we didn’t have our hands down each others pants all the time. I am not exactly on speaking terms with that group anymore.”

He shrugged like that his fall from grace hadn’t been the center of the rumor mill for most of his senior year, and came with a lot of shit talking at his expense.

“But I can still prove it to you, if you’d like.” 

Shock--and six million thoughts-- hit Eddie like a mack truck. 

‘You’re lying/No way/that makes so much fucking sense/how did that even start/was it every game/whose pants exactly did you have your hands down and how do you feel about my pants--’ 

“How?” Eddie got out, sounding only slightly strangled. 

“Well--you’re here. I’m here."

And then Steve gave him a smile Eddie had only ever seen aimed at women, a slow lazy curl of the mouth that implied a hell of a lot.

"I'm fine with making the math work."

Maybe he was dreaming this.

(Eddie pinched himself and found that somehow, he was not.)

“I realize I don’t look like it, but I don't the whole casual kissing thing." Eddie blurted out. "Hasn't exactly gone well for me."

He regretted it the second it left his mouth. 

That was sharing too much of himself. The vulnerable gooey part who'd kissed a few girls (and even, once, a guy) and found he couldn't for the life of him make such things casual.

Plus Steve was kind of a good friend now, and Eddie had a crush so big that doing this and then never doing it again would kill him, and--

(and, and, and…) 

“It can mean something if you’d like.”

What.

“What?” 

Eddie stared at him.

Steve stared back. 

“Steve Harrington." He said flatly. "Are you trying to get in my pants?”

‘I will rip them off right here and now if you are,’ He thought wildly, like he hadn’t just tried to die on some “it has to be meaningful” hill. 

(Sue him, he was a horny teenager who'd just learned sex might be on the table, he could change his mind.

It totally wouldn’t tear his heart apart after either!

Nope, not his, made of steel Eddie’s heart was--) 

Steve raised his hands in the “don’t shoot” pose, looking all too pleased with himself. 

“Hey, you can’t fault a guy for trying. But,” and here he dropped the flirty little grin, which Eddie was only now realizing he was utilizing, “I meant it. I'm not opposed to trying this out, with you."

Trying? What the hell did that mean!?

Steve hadn't stopped talking.

"I won’t take it anywhere if you don’t want to though, don't worry.

Then he tilted his head and added; “I can also leave if that made you uncomfortable. Robin keeps telling me I can’t flirt with men like I flirt with women and--” 

“No.” Eddie’s mouth betrayed him yet again, terrified Steve might talk himself into leaving. “No--you offered!”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“I did.”

“To have--” God Eddie couldn’t even say the words, “with me?” 

Somehow that last part came out as a question, and Eddie planned immediately to throw himself out of a window.

The grin was coming back. “Yes. With you.” 

“And it would…mean something?”

That was pushing it, Eddie knew that was pushing it, but it was like he couldn't stop himself.

This whole thing was now a runaway train and he'd ride it to it's inevitable wreck.

“For me it would.” Steve said, raising himself up on his knees. 

He inched forward, planting his hands down on the bed, face awfully close to Eddie’s own. 

“I don't like doing things anymore without it meaning something. To be honest, I don’t think I ever did. Besides, Robin's right."

"About?" Eddie asked, goin cross-eyed as Steve leaned ever so much closer.

"That when I say I admire you, or I miss you, or that I want to see you, I'm not exactly meaning it in a friend way."

Oh.

"Oh." Eddie said dumbly.

Steve closed the distance, mouth first. 

They were kissing.

Stars exploded in the sky. Fireworks went off outside, birds sang, people cheered--

(Eddie bit Steve’s lip, twice, in some sort of overexcited maneuver before he was gently guided into Steve’s lap, the ex-jock twisting to lay back down and bringing Eddie with him. 

It was smoothly done, a slow maneuver, and Eddie had to go and ruin that too by ripping his mouth off Steve’s to press sloppy kisses all down his neck. 

Thankfully Steve did not shove him off for that, or the hickie he definitely left on that stupid, tan neck, instead arranging them once again until things, finally, started to be less frantic. 

It was the best night of Eddie's life.)

xXx 

“So what does mean something involve, in this little situation we have here?” Eddie said some odd amount of time later, cuddled happily against a now naked Harrington. 

“I’m not supposed to say boyfriends.” Steve mumbled into Eddie’s shoulder. “Scares people off."

Apparently he was the type to need naps immediately after having the naked kind of fun. 

“Who the fuck told you that?” Eddie reached down, lacing their hands together tightly.

Steve kissed his shoulder. 

“We haven’t even gone on a proper date yet.” He said, rather than responding directly.

“We can’t, Steve, or did you forget where we live?”

Another kiss, this one turning into a grin when it made Eddie shudder. 

“Oh we absolutely can. I’ll prove it to you. Next Friday?” 

It took him a moment--a stupidly long moment, for someone who prided himself as a wordsmith--but Eddie got it. 

A smile exploded over his face. 

“Next Friday." He said. "It’s a date.” 

(A very long time later, Henderson would find out about all this and gloat about this so hard he’d fall off the steps of Eddie’s trailer. 

Eddie would only let him live on grounds that Steve was also there at the time, and was worried about Dustin’s ankle.

This did not stop Eddie from standing above the little shit, announcing karma would one day get him soon, and if not, than Max Mayfield, who absolutely could be bribed into committing murder.)

This was the bonus for Door Prize/Sugar, Spice (and Everything Dicey) which can be read in it's entirely here: LINK

[lolbree]

returning to my roots for just one second ha. [Click "keep reading" for some design notes and lore! I gave my own interpretations of their personalities/character below. :D]

So I've been really into writing recently. For those who follow my main you would've seen me post lore dumps on my ocs! So honestly I thought it'd be fun to come up with some fanloid concepts. Itz funsiez.

Fanloids are what they sound like; a fan's interpretation of a pre-existing Vocaloid. These guys can be fucking anything. A fan's imagination has no limits. Two of the most notable versions of a fan's Miku are the "dark mikus"; Zatsune and Hagane Miku. Zatsune's the "evil" villainous version of Miku, while Hagane's kinda just a chill metalhead version. The two are like sisters and bond over their Fanloid origin, but they're completely different in personality.

Zatsune takes pride in being a Miku Fanloid. Miku is undoubtedly the most popular Vocaloid in existence, so she wears being an interpretation of the world's most famous singing robot like a badge. She's pretty full of herself, sort of envious of the popularity Miku really gets, so much so that she'll impersonate Miku (in the worst way possible) so the other Vocaloids are like "man Miku's kinda being a dick today". She's sort of the villain that acts as a complete pushover and foils their own plans every single time.

Hagane's the more laid back one. She honestly was just created to be a somewhat pessimistic metalhead version of Miku. She has no vendettas towards Miku like Zatsune does. She kinda finds Zatsune's jealousy silly considering she's not the only Fanloid of Miku out there (girl that ego is HUGE on Zatsune). Zatsune sometimes tries dragging her into the antics of bullying Miku, Rin, and Len, but is always met with Hagane not giving a shit and kinda telling her to chill out. Her persona onstage is more aggressive and eccentric, but backstage, she mostly she keeps to herself. She just likes the guitar.....and LED lights.

You might be wondering what Miku herself thinks of these two? You know what they say. Identity theft is the biggest form of flattery! ...Jk no she doesn't mind the Fanloid Mikus, but I mean how would you react seeing two dark versions of yourself at first. Naturally the other main Vocaloids were like "wtf" when they saw two other Mikus show up.

Okay now for the design notes!:

Zatsune was modeled to have more sharper edges compared to Miku's roundness. Hagane was designed to be more lanky given her more "doomer" personality.

Both Zatsune and Hagane edited their own voices so it's "rougher" since originally, as prototypes, they just had the same voice as Miku herself. ...And they didn't like that.

Zatsune's also pretty picky about singing. If it's a Disney-villain esque musical number, hell yeah! Horror music? Hell yeah! Sappy music about friendship? Hell no!

Being robots, they can paint themselves without worry. Hence the black lipstick on both of them.

Hagane's hair's a little messier due to her being a hardcore metal robot. Rocking it out on stage has gotta mess that up a little bit.

Hagane uses glitter spray in her hair. Listen even the goth-loving metalhead can like glitter.

[fireheartpages]

other plans | b.d.

bodhi durran x reader chapter one. series masterlist summary: everyone has their demons, you just chose to run from yours. straight to basgiath war college. and definitely not towards the grinning tall, dark, and handsome marked rider that seemed too kind to be in a hardened place like the rider's quadrant. word count: 2.1k ish notes: second person pov but i give the reader a nickname (that i stole from dirty dancing) and a last name bc i'm not using y/n and i want this to be readable. she/her pronouns used for reader. this has been stuck in my head and i thought i was gonna combust if i didn't get it on page. and it's all together hovering somewhere around 7k words so im gonna split it up and post it all within the next few days and then have the whole thing available on ao3! i haven't written fanfiction in at least a good six months, and i've never written for fourth wing, so bare with me a little--i tried my best. i have a chronic attachment to side characters with little to no page time. half of this was written while wine tipsy and all of it was proofread while wine drunk, so we die like men

Bodhi has never seen someone walk across the parapet so easily.

He's never seen someone make a dance out of it. As if it were a show, a production. Your feet are so confident, so sure with every step, every placement that you would make it to the next. It's pouring rain and windy as all hell, and yet you make the parapet look like a children's balance beam.

You land right in front of him, and by the time your eyes meet his, he's already decided that he needs to know everything he possibly can about you. The instant your focus lands on him, he's obsessed.

Garrick has other plans.

"Name?"

"Baby," you say, and Bodhi blinks. "Marho."

Garrick is downright gawking at you. "Baby?"

Something that sounds much more like a name and not what an infant is called slips out on a laugh, and Bodhi can't help but trace the lean lines of your neck. Holy shit. If he thought you were pretty before, it was dwarfed to the sound of your laugh. The sun had to fight for space when you smiled.

"Sorry. Childhood nickname, I forget I have another one sometimes."

"Did your parents nickname you after a hooker?" Garrick asks, jotting your name--the true one--on the roll.

"Did yours raise you to be a dick?" you ask, not missing a beat, and the boy's gaze snaps up to you. If Bodhi had been looking anywhere else, his would have too, but he hadn't taken his eyes off of you since the moment you stepped foot onto the parapet. He felt his brow shoot up, lips parting on a huff.

He bursts out laughing.

You don't move. Don't take your eyes from Garrick, from staring him down, until he tips his head in inclination and gives something that sounds like an apology. It's Bodhi's turn to be the subject of your scrutiny now, and as your eyes trace his shape, shifting with the weight of your gaze and his laugh, he senses more than sees the moment you note his rebellion relic. Your face doesn't shift, but it's as if a proverbial file is created and tucked away into the archive of your mind.

You didn't say anything else as you walk away from the two boys, but Bodhi tracks you as you go. Tracks your movements, as you weave through the crowd with a practiced grace, how your hair moves as you take the stairs down and out of his sight.

He's almost sorry to see you go. But he's determined to see you again.

Bodhi snatches the roll sheet from Garrick as parapet comes to an end, scanning to make sure he has the name correct. He marches up to Xaden, and only pausing for a moment to consider how stupid this is--he literally doesn't know a single thing about you--before throwing your name into the space between them.

"I want her in my section."

"Don't you have better things to do than flirt with children?" Xaden asks impassively.

"She's not a literal baby."

"I'm aware of that," he responds, sounding exasperated. "You're an Executive Officer, Bodhi. Do what you want."

Except Dain Aetos has other plans.

You made friends. You stand with the Sorrengail girl and another he didn't recognize, tucking loose strands of hair back into her coronet braid. What type of person fixed the hair of someone they'd just met? You, apparently.

You're in Second Wing. With Aetos and Sorrengial and the other girl. This is fine. Something about you didn't scream "secret rebel" the way wanted it too.

And then Xaden transfers your squad to Fourth Wing. He had sent Bodhi a glance as he put the squad in Flame section--not Tail--and Bodhi could see there was some sort of ulterior motive behind the decision. It did also mean you weren't under his direct chain of command. He couldn't tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing

Fraternization is frowned upon, not forbidden, after all.

Not that you would be fraternizing. After all.

But, challenging you would be a terrible idea. Terribly adverse, fatally cataclysmic, and ill-fated.

And all of those words mean the same thing.

He would stay clear, watch you from afar, and maybe, maybe work up the courage to talk to you outside of parapet. Possibly.

His confidence needed some serious shaping. Since when was he afraid to talk to someone? A pretty someone, to say the least. He was a gods damned dragon rider. He wasn't afraid to talk to you. He was just... hesitant.

Yeah. That. And he did not need a challenge to break the ice.

Emetterio has other ideas.

He calls your name, then Bodhi's, and Bodhi is pretty sure his heart stops in his chest.

You don't look frazzled or scared, just curious as you study him from head to toe. He guards himself as if you were an intruder in his mind, an Inntinnsic slipping in to spill all his secrets. Except you're an unbounded first year that hasn't even developed a signet, and instead that's just you. He's building up walls just to look at you. You and those bright, keen eyes.

Emetterio calls it, and you're off. Except neither of you move. You pace around, and it's a stand off. You cock your head, and Bodhi tries every trick in the book: the fakes out, glances quickly off to the side, purposefully stumbles--and you're unfazed. Completely and utterly unfazed.

He can't make the first move. He can't hit you--

Suddenly, his feet are out from under him, and he's staring at the ceiling, and you lunge, reaching to pin him to the floor. He reaches out and catches the elbow you throw, but before he can even make contact, you twist, sliding underneath him, and suddenly you're behind him.

You're fast. Really fucking fast. And suddenly, Bodhi has his work cut out for him.

You kick out again, going to the back of his knees, and he recognizes the move, thrusting his body forward to keep control and twisting before he lands, kipping up so you're eye-level again.

Your first catches his nose, and blood goes flying. He makes the mistake of bringing his hands up to cup his nose and it leaves his core exposed. You take the opportunity to land a knee in his gut, probably bruising a few ribs in there, and he doubles over, the wind having been knocked from him. Holy shit, he needs to get at least one hit in. This was getting embarrassing.

He swings blindly, and you dodge--but you don't grab his fist. And you had the perfect opportunity to. You were fast, and your reflexes were quick, but you didn't know how to end this. The realization crashes into him as you swing again. A lot of force, but no follow-though, giving him the perfect opportunity to deflect, pushing your fist and forcing the follow-through until you were swinging behind him with his hand around your wrist and then he was bringing you to him, one of his arms gripping one of yours across your neck, and the other twisting your other behind your back. Like this, your body was flush against his.

You struggle, kicking out, but it was all too easy for him to get your feet out from under you. You weren't small by any means, but Bodhi was bigger, and had a year of training over you. Your feet kicked out, and all he had to do was lean back to incapacitate you. You gave a frustrated grunt that so heavily affected him that he almost dropped you to make sure you were okay before he realized where he was and what he was doing.

"Finish her without making a fool of yourself, please," Cuir chimes in, probably sensing his hesitation and near-miss, and Bodhi sends an eye roll he hopes he can feel, since he doesn't have the brain space to say anything back, with your body pressed against his and the current task at hand.

He twists and take you both to the ground, pinning both your hands above your head, and taking a leg beneath his foot, balancing on a knee. You let out a sharp huff, and he's mesmerized by the way your nose scrunches up in determination. Your free leg goes to knee him, and he takes the hit, leaning into it before transferring your hands so they're both pinned between one of his, sliding one hand down your hip and to your thigh, holding it to the gourd before you can knee him again. He has a free knee to hold him up, but not without giving leverage to one of your legs. So he's pressed against you, hip to hip, face to face.

"Yield," he says, begs, because he can't hold this for long, and because if you figure out just how much you affect him, you'd win this thing in a matter of heartbeats.

"No," you grind out, thrashing. He's spread thin: his wingspan practically encompassing your body, giving you leverage to wear against him. He worries for a moment, a flash of the bruise he could leave on your thigh going through his mind, and two thoughts overtake him at once.

One, that he doesn't want to hurt you. And that while it may be inevitable with where you two stood, he wanted to try and eliminate the possibility as best he could.

Two, that he would leave bruises all up and down your thighs if he ever got the chance to get between them.

And the combination of the two of those thoughts loosened his grip on you, giving you the opportunity to roll away.

"I did not choose someone this negligent," Cuir snaps, and Bodhi panicks, and now you're pinned underneath him again, his front pressed to your backside, and it's a true plea when he breathes, "Yield."

"No!" You squirm, and fuck stop doing that--

"Get yourself together!" Cuir snaps, and Bodhi sucks in a sharp breath.

"That's enough," Emetterio says, pinning you with a look Bodhi would pick dragon fire over. "Know when to quit, Cadet Marho."

"No!" you yelp. "If this were a real fight, no one is calling the shots--"

"If this was a real fight, you'd be dead. I called it. Get off the mat," Emetterio snaps, and Bodhi scrambles off of you.

He offered you a hand that you send a pointed look at, and he can tell you're considering telling him where to shove it, but you take it anyway, and he walks you off the mat with a hand on your shoulder.

"Good match," Bodhi says, genuinely trying.

You open your mouth to respond, looking like you yourself could spit fire for a second, and Bodhi pities the dragon you end up bonded to for a moment.

"You're fast," he continues, before you can. "Quick reflexes, and you're strong."

"I had you," you throw at him, fiery and determined, and your gaze slips to his rebellion relic.

Oh. So, that's what this is about.

Bodhi shakes his head, and the grin that had been blooming falters. "I can help," he says. "If you're struggling with sparring, I can help."

You suck in a breath.

"Or Imogen. Or Xaden. Or--" he stops, because, fuck, obviously you don't want to be near Marked ones--

"Thank you," you say, and the ghost of the smile he saw after the parapet makes a reappearance. "Thank you."

And with that, you turn and leave, heading back to your squad. Rhiannon is shaking her head at you, and Violet mumbles something that makes you laugh. Bodhi would bottle that sound if he could. What the hell was a countering signet for? His signet should be used for bottling the sound of your laugh--

"Do not finish that thought," Cuir chides. "Get a grip."

Bodhi grins, his hair falling over his temple as Garrick comes up and slaps him on the back, congratulations on a challenge well fought. He watches you take a swig from the water canteen, traces the lines of your jaw down to your shoulder until you hand it back, then traces the length of your wrist as you hand it--

"Pathetic." Cuir. "You haven't spoken."

"We kind of did," Bodhi says mentally. "I offered. I... tried."

"If you like her, try harder," he chides, and Bodhi sighs.

He doesn't like you, he barely knows you.

"Sure."

[konoha-forbidden-scrolls]

New Naruto blog? Fresh meat! What if someone signed a summoning contract but instead of something cool like snakes or crows, they got really aggressive geese. Horrible little geese. How would characters react to you just having an entire GANG of geese following you around? 🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿

Welcome! This request is completely unhinged and I had far too much fun while writing it. Love it. I've gone with a mixed bag of characters.🌸

Characters: Kakashi Hatake, Naruto Uzumaki, Sasuke Uchiha, Shikamaru Nara, Sakura Haruno, Tsunade Senju

Contents: horrible little geese

It's a beautiful day in Konoha and you are a horrible little goose summons...

Kakashi Hatake

Kakashi will be the first to tell you that a summoning contract is one of the most useful tools a shinobi can have. Most of the greatest shinobi have one, and he's no exception.

He's lost count of the amount of sticky situations where his ninken have managed to give him the edge. Just ask Pakkun—he loves to talk about all the times his exploits have saved the day.

So when Kakashi hears you proudly declare that you too have a summoning contract, he's curious to see it. He's of the opinion that a person's summoning animal is a reflection of their personality. Almost like a ninja zodiac.

So imagine his surprise (and dismay) when you bite your thumb and are suddenly surrounded by two dozen honking, hissing, milling geese.

"...geese!?"

"Yup."

"Are you serious?" he asks, sounding rather strained. It's rare to see Kakashi off balance, but a flock of pissy geese will do it.

"What, you don't think my geese can match up to your ninken, Hatake?"

Kakashi scoops up several of his large ninken (and Pakkun), holding them like oversized stuffed animals. "Keep those evil things away from my dogs."

Naruto Uzumaki

Considering that Naruto summons toads, he doesn't exactly have the coolest summoning contract either, but he wonders why you're so cagey about yours. Sure, it's normal for shinobi to keep quiet about their techniques in order to have the upper hand, but you're allies, right?

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! Show me, show me! I promise I won't laugh!"

He has absolutely no intention of keeping that promise if your summons is like, dung beetles or something.

Even Naruto isn't prepared for what waddles out of the puff of smoke created by your Summoning Jutsu.

He lets out a startled guffaw, blue eyes threatening to pop out of his head, then doubles over in a fit of raucous laughter.

"What the hell!? Geese—ow! Agh! Get them off!"

His laughter soon dies when the geese start to bite him, enraged by his hideous orange-and-black jumpsuit and his mockery.

Rage, geese, rage!

Sasuke Uchiha

Sasuke didn't ask what summons you have, because he doesn't really care. He himself has both snake and hawks summons, which are arguably pretty cool.

Still, on the off chance you do end up using a Summoning Jutsu around him, he's mildly surprised to hear a low hiss issue from the cloud of smoke before it dissipates. Are you a snake summoner too?

Wait. Was that a...honk?

The smoke clears to unveil a small army of angry little geese—orange beaks, beady little eyes, plump, feathery white bodies, slapping feet. Just honest-to-the-gods geese, like you've raided a farmyard. His eyebrow twitches.

"I'm beginning to reconsider our acquaintance."

"Don't you mean friendship."

"Definitely not now. Not after this. Is this some kind of joke?"

"Don't underestimate my murder geese, Uchiha. Geese, arm yourselves!"

Suddenly every single goose has a kunai clutched in their beak, their beady little eyes glowing red with a deep, murderous rage.

"Attack!"

Sasuke is forced to swifty re-evaluate his assessment of how effective an army of geese can be.

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru has a sixth sense for anything that's troublesome, and that sense activates the moment you smile and lift your thumb toward your mouth, ready to bite down and activate your Summoning Jutsu. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he knows shit is about to hit the fan.

His unease is justified the second he sees your waddling horde of honking demons. Without hesitation, he activates his Kagemane no Jutsu and traps your entire flock before they can attack him, a look of resignation on his face.

"I should have known you'd go for something eccentric. You know you're going to get a stupid nickname like the 'Goose-nin', right?"

He holds the geese trapped until you dismiss them, releasing his hand seal in order to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Despite himself, he is a little curious.

"Are they effective in battle?"

"Yeah, I'll show you. We can attack Sasuke again."

"Troublesome, but I might enjoy watching that..."

Sakura Haruno

Sakura is kind of appalled. All the options you had for a summoning contract, and you went for a gaggle of vicious geese?

Not that she has a leg to stand on, since she is a summoner of slugs. Slug summoner. Slime queen.

She keeps a safe distance from them, almost as if she can feel the rage and the fury boiling up in them, the murderous intent rolling off of the feathery little bastards.

Wise move, Sakura, wise move.

"So you can't summon a single one? It's always a flock?" she asks, looking disturbed.

"Yeah, unless I summon the Mother Goose, but I can't do that without causing extensive property damage. So I stick to my Murder Gaggle."

"Murder Gaggle!? Wait, are those kunai in their beaks?!"

Tsunade Senju

Naturally, when the Hokage hears some concerning rumours about your summoning contract, she has you brought to her office to confirm whether or not those rumours are true.

"So." Tsunade's golden eyes scrutinise you over her steepled fingers, her tone serious, commanding. "Tell me about these...geese."

"Oh, sure, let me show you."

"No! Don't summon them in here—!"

Too late. The Hokage's office is suddenly swarmed with dozens of confused, angry geese, squabbling and honking threateningly at anything that moves.

Tonton runs, squealing, to throw herself into the safety of Tsunade's arms.

"So the rumours are true," Tsunade says, feeling as though she needs a stiff drink. "I'll have to take into consideration how this 'Murder Gaggle', as you insist on calling them, can be used for the benefit of the village."

She pauses, tapping her chin.

"Would it be too harsh to unleash them during the Chuunin Exams?"

[biancadoes1]

Times like this, I choose to hang on to the facts we have at hand. Right now it is that both Nic and Luke still has exactly 1 post hidden in their Instagram.

Could be the S4 Polin selfie or selfie with Lord Ginger Baba Featherington or it could be the post that confirms Lukola without a shadow of a doubt. Fact is, it's a joint post between Nic and Luke that has been there for months! Both of them are there on each other's grids. Their tags contain Lukola shipper's posts too.

If Luke really was in a relationship with A, I would say the past year has been extremely disrespectful for her and it goes against everything that Nic's image is all about. It also goes against the doting boyfriend image of Luke that we have seen during his past relationships. It goes against what everyone says about Luke being the nicest and kindest person because how can one keep quiet with all the hate that is directed at his supposed "girlfriend"? He isn't dating A. His team had plenty of opportunities to confirm it and if it was true, it would have been less messier and even kinder to A to confirm it instead of saying he is "publicly single".

It's PR. They are only fooling themselves.

Interestingly I noticed that A's displayed post count is 44, but she only has 41 posts on her grid. I think those 3 'hidden' posts are her last posts that she can associate herself with Luke or in an ideal world, those 3 posts are model Collab posts of her's yet to be announced. I am going to start praying that it's bybarely related posts because I cannot handle another implied association with Luke when everyone knows it's all PR.

I am so exhausted from seeing this PR drama play out and I have been through Tomdaya fandom for years! It was never this messy from a PR side. I would rather go through the whole Zendaya and Tom dating other people than whatever this is. Atleast they were genuinely dating other people at one point. And then they broke it off with those people and didn't create a whole salsa with adjacents to fool the fandom. Tomdaya lore is deeeep, but it was never this obviously fake.

Sure, we has Zendaya call him a friend and whatnot. We already had it from Nic's side. It's a common thing when celebrities don't want to confirm their relationship. Fine. But everything else? Come on!

I know legal obligations are in place, but isn't the whole purpose of the legal obligations to ensure that it doesn't get messy like this? PR relationships are usually mutually beneficial which isn't the case here. If the obligations from Luke's side isn't fulfilled, then it might take years to have A satisfied. Lukola was headed towards a launch and then things all of a sudden changed. That indicates a renegotiation so why couldn't Luke's team negotiate better terms then? Better yet, why aren't they doing it now especially when the fandom is outright calling them out? People know it's BS. The only thing they are achieving is having Luke's reputation sacrificed. I think Luke's team in particular dropped the ball in this. Maybe everyone underestimated how things could get out of hand. I think Nic's team and Luke's team do not agree 100% on how to proceed. They need to be on the same page for this to work.

If the latest post was A going rogue, squat her like fly already. Use that as a leverage and just get out of the whole glaringly obvious situation. Hell, just pay her off or have faith in the fandom that they will not believe whatever accusations A comes up with following a Lukola launch.

Any divide between Luke and Nic's fan stems from the papgate. If they rip off the band-aid and launch their relationship, the fandom will protect them. Solo Nic fans and Solo Luke fans will defend them because majority of the fandom dislikes A. It might be messy initially, but it's already messy. Every time they misdirect, it is already messy. They are losing followers and their reputations are taking one hit after the other.

Most of bad that they think might happen most probably has already happened!

I am all for women not being identified simply as someone's girlfriend, but there is also power in being in a relationship. Their is power in finding love and having a stable, happy relationship. We do live in a misogynistic world, but there is power in a man stepping back and proudly cheering on his partner without being salty and insecure about it. Luke already does it. Nic is Luke's biggest supporter. She has protected him as much as she can without associating herself with him. A lot of the hate directed at Luke is because of his PR relationship. Nic and Luke can be power couples of the industry. They already are actually. Sure, most of it is in Polin context, but they are already stronger together than apart. Power couples are goals.

The world is already cynical enough. Luke and Nic doesn't have much to lose by launching their relationship, but they have a lot to lose by continuing this PR narrative.

Sorry for the rant. I just hate it when we are being treated as idiots by the whole PR shenanigans and it has gone long enough already.

We love a good rant around here anon ❤️

[pullupinarari]

Who I am away from the lights [LH]

author’s note: this season was hell, but this is just a little something about the end of an era. I keep crying like a bitch so don't mind me, just wanted to write a little something about today.

‼️ disclaimer: this is a work of FANFICTION, I don't mean, by any way, to try and describe Lewis how he might or might not be in real life. 90% of what you are about to read is a product of my imagination. This isn't an essay, I'm not stating facts, I am just writing what comes to my mind without the intention of causing any harm. All the descriptions that you're about to read were just made up by me!

• masterlist

wc: 4646 - english is not my first language! feedback is always appreciated

Lately, Lewis’ mind has been working as an album made of memories. Every single movement makes his brain search for a reminder of every thing that he has lived for the past years of his career. 

Feeling more thoughtful now than ever, he finds the need to be alone for a minute, away from all the noise, from all the eyes. 

Lewis knows he isn’t the same person today that he was when he first got to F1. As the years pass by, the man finds himself continuously growing, in a never ending learning experience through life. 

Nowadays, the man often finds himself remembering the bold Lewis from 2007, who got his chance in Formula 1 to prove his worth. The adrenaline rushing through his veins would fuel his brain during every race, almost in a reckless way, making him show everyone how hungry he was for that opportunity. 

Walking around his trophy room, each award triggering a memory - and when his eyes land on his first World Drivers’ Championship trophy, a soft smile plays in his features. Winning his first championship in his second season in F1 really must mean something, no?

Looking back on 2013, the 28 year-old who moved from McLaren to Mercedes only had one purpose: to follow his heart, to be part of something that had the ability to grow and become special.

He knew he had it in him to make a change, to help create something bigger, something historical. And no words can describe the feeling of pride, joy, and even melancholy spreading through his chest when he looks at everything he conquered at Mercedes. Six world championships for his personal account, eight constructor’s championships for the team - alongside an uncountable number of pole positions, podiums, and victories. The move that everyone considered to be crazy, a take so risky into the unknown, became something historical. 

Apart from all the trophies, the numerous champagne celebrations, the glory, there’s something bigger that was built over time: the sense of being surrounded by a newfound family. 

Eleven years ago, Lewis felt like he had found his place, the team he would retire with. And, until recently, it would have never even crossed his mind that he would be getting ready to say goodbye to Mercedes - bidding them farewell, only to meet them on track, while wearing a different color, driving a different car. 

The truth is, as years went by, Lewis grew up and developed who he is while inside this sport. Today, he is not as bold as the 22 year-old Lewis was - he makes sure to make more thoughtful decisions, to try and manage his own feelings in a much wiser way - even if, sometimes, that feels impossible to him.

He needs to remind himself that his decisions don’t just influence his own life anymore. Now, he has you - to be accurate, you have been a part of his life for eight years now. And a love as strong as yours couldn’t fit just inside your hearts, creating the most important piece of your lives: your three year-old daughter Grace, who is now the reason for every single one of Lewis’ decisions. 

Lewis is absolutely devoted to his family, finding his safe haven in your arms, in Grace’s laughs. 22 year-old Lewis would find it hard to deal with all the problems and anger that would burst into his veins after a bad day. The 39 year-old Lewis feels eager to get home after a bad day, so he can smell his daughter’s hair, watching the way she smiles while he hugs her tight - only to end up cuddled in bed with his wife, the one who makes life seem so much easier when he is next to you, surrounded by a comfortable silence, just allowing himself to melt at your caring touch. 

The driver finds in his family the protective bubble to wrap himself in when things get tough. It has always been like this: you are the shoulder he cries on, you are the one who makes him laugh, caring for each other like your lives depend on it. 

To tell the truth, the last few seasons have been rough: on the team, on Lewis, and on your family. 

Ever since that fateful end of the 2021 season in Abu Dhabi, it feels like things just started crumbling down, piece by piece. The next few seasons seemed like nothing was working out, none of the solutions were making sense. 

But still, Lewis - the devoted man, the devoted driver, was dedicated to work alongside the team, firmly believing that Mercedes would be able to overcome the surfacing problems. 

There’s only so much one can take, though. Weekend after weekend, first a terrible qualification, then a bad race, Lewis would have to pretend like everything was fine, forcing himself to lie to journalists, doing his part until the front door of your house closes. 

It’s only in the safety of your arms that your husband lets his cover down, allowing the biggest of sighs to leave his body, letting all of his anger, guilt, doubts out of his frame, watching them hover in the air, almost creating a cloud on the ceiling of your bedroom, that seemed to chase him everywhere he went. 

Every weekend it’s the exact same: Lewis tries his best to put his feelings to the side, focusing on pretending that everything is okay, playing his part in this theater act that he is a part of now, feeling like a puppet in the other's hands. 

Apparently, he is very good at seeming that way, since everyone appears to buy every one of his words. However, the man can’t stop feeling like everything he does is a lie. 

Who is he, when he is away from the lights? He is a caring husband, a dedicated father, and he wishes he could have more time for you and Grace - and no other weight leans as heavily on his shoulders as the guilt of constantly being away from his family, losing so many important moments of his baby growing up.

Lewis keeps fighting a silent battle with himself: whether he should keep racing or retire - dedicating himself more to his family and his other projects, or whether he should take the offer he has on the table or stick with Mercedes. 

He knows your opinion about it - it’s his decision, and whatever he thinks is best for him, you will always be by his side to support him. You can’t deny that you would love for Lewis to finally slow down, to spend more time at home, just so you could stop holding your heart in your hands every time you watch him hopping into a race car. 

But you know he won’t do it just yet. He still has it in himself, and you see it every time you look into his eyes: the fire that keeps glistening inside of him, that passion that drives him to keep going, the wish to fight for an eighth title. You are just patiently waiting for him to understand that, deep down in himself. 

Even if he has been acting like he is fine, he allows his real feelings to show when his head is hidden in the crook of your neck, the vulnerability pouring from his form while you hold him close, hearing the small whimpers leaving his body as he sniffles quietly. His mind has become a whirlwind of thoughts, questions, doubts, insecurities, not knowing what to do anymore - his real state contrasting so heavily with the unbreakable persona that talks to the cameras. 

Tired of feeling like he keeps falling even further behind, your husband uses the silence to do some introspection. Sitting down in his home office, he rubs his hands together soothingly, as his eyes travel across some of his prizes, pictures, memories of his career so far.  

The realization of everything that has been happening from the past few seasons kills him: seeing the team that he helped put on top, not making it; seeing the struggles, the miscommunication, the never-ending problems that don’t stop piling up.

As much as he tries, Lewis feels like it’s not enough: he can’t take the weight of everything that happens on his shoulders, it’s not fair. He shouldn’t be the one trying to come up with answers about all the problems surrounding an entire team when he is just a piece of the puzzle. 

He shouldn’t feel like he is on the edge of a knife every time something goes wrong - as he should definitely not be the only one giving his chest to the bullets, getting little to no support from his own team, nowadays. This is the reason why he believes that, the longer he stays, the further his salvation slips away.

Over the years, he has met the conception of a family in Mercedes. And it hurts to find himself analyzing the possibilities of going to different teams. But sometimes, we need to let go of what’s holding us back, give a step back to be able to move forwards. 

Lewis understands that, there’s moments in life when we have to be selfish and put ourselves first, before anyone else. And that’s what he keeps in mind while making his decision: he can’t continue putting a team first that hasn’t been able to give back to him, lately. 

On the other hand, the man knows that he won’t be driving for much longer. He is nearly 40 now, and still holds an uncountable list of dreams yet to fulfill, outside of F1. He wants to be a more present father, he wants to have more babies with you, he wants to develop more projects with the ideas that keep swirling around his brain at night. 

Your husband wants nothing more than to continue opening the way to people that hold a story similar to his own, he wants to make a difference. But, inside the sport, he still has one childhood dream to complete: driving in Ferrari red. 

Spending most of his time trying to make a decision, deep down, Lewis knows what he has to do. Even if everyone doubts his move, even if everyone wants to give their opinion: this is his decision and no one else's.

After putting Grace to bed, you and Lewis meet amongst your bed sheets, your limbs intertwining as you have the night time just for yourselves. Lying your head on his chest, his fingers play with your hair as he kisses your forehead softly. 

You usually use this moment to talk about your daughter, about your days, and even about the future. But tonight, you can see it in your husband’s eyes, in his body language, that he has something to say. His muscles feel tense, his breathing is deep, his replies to you sound shallow, like his mind is somewhere else. 

- What’s wrong, Lew? Come on, spit it out. - you encourage him, dedicating your entire attention to what he has to say. 

Taking a deep breath, he finally speaks up.

- I have made my decision, love. - he quietly says, his hand still caressing your scalp. 

Nodding your head, you signal for him to continue his train of thought. 

- I’ve decided to go red. It’s a dream that I’ve always had, and now I have a chance to go for it. I know you want me to stop, but I need to write this page in my book, love. I know I still got it, and I know this opportunity didn’t reach my hands in vain. - his eyes examine your features, searching for a reaction from you. 

Lewis was anxious to tell you, afraid that you might be hurt by his decision - putting the sport in front of everything else, once again. But instead, he is met with a loving smile on your lips. 

- I knew it, baby. I knew from the beginning that you were going to choose Ferrari. I know it was a tough decision to make, but honestly, I think it’s the best one for you now. You deserve another chance, my love, and I’m glad you finally realize that inside of yourself. It was only a matter of time. - your lips connect with his in a kiss of security, protectiveness, shushing away all his fears. - And even if things don’t go as planned, you know you will never be alone. You have your two biggest supporters right here. Plus, I look better in red anyways. - Lewis giggles at your words, hugging you closer as your hand caresses his features. 

There’s a feeling of comfort in your heart, knowing that your husband has made the decision that he finds best for his future, but it’s also a weird sensation. Looking back, ever since you started dating Lewis, he was already at Mercedes - so, in a way, Mercedes has been your family for the past eight years as well. 

They were there when you and Lewis got married, they were there when Grace was born - they’re still there when you take her to some of the races, playing with your toddler, showing her around, teaching her everything about the racing world. So, even if you act like it’s not, it will be hard for you to let go of every moment you have shared with the group as well.

Saying goodbye to a team that has been his family for over a decade will definitely not be easy, but tonight, under the light of your bedside lamp that gently illuminates your bodies, Lewis knows that he will be alright. 

And as the season comes to an end, reality starts hitting him: it is really coming to an end, and he will really have to say goodbye to the team that he considers his family, to the garage that he considers his home. In just a few months, everything will be completely different. 

The last few weeks have been emotional for Lewis - he doesn’t regret the choice he made, but there’s a bitter feeling in saying goodbye to Mercedes, after conquering so much together. 

So, when the driver sits next to his daughter, he takes a look at what she is drawing. 

- Daddy, look! That’s me, mummy, you and Roscoe! - the toddler says, her tiny fingers fidgeting with the pencils in front of her as she points to every member of your family. 

Lewis takes a moment to inspect the drawing, noticing how the little girl even tried to draw him wearing his racing suit, the purple and yellow over his head signaling that he had his helmet on.

- That’s so beautiful, princess! You are such a talented artist. - a genuine smile plays on Lewis’ lips, his arm easily wrapping around the girl’s small figure, hugging her as he leaves a kiss on her cheek. 

Grace giggles at the compliment, giving her daddy a kiss back, before a frown appears on her face.

- I was trying to draw your car, but I can’t, daddy. Can you help me? - the three year-old shyly asks, earning another kiss from her daddy as he scoots closer to the table, grabbing a pencil as well.  - Do you want to draw daddy’s racing car? - he confirms, getting a nod from his baby. 

Handing her the pencil, his hand holds her little one, helping her trace the lines of something similar to a racing car. These are the moments that he cherishes, that he yearns to have more and more of as he senses time ticking by. 

He looks at Grace, and he notices how fast she is growing, developing her personality and interests in front of him, and he just prays that he won’t miss much of her life while he is away. He hopes that, somehow, she can wait for him to grow, so Lewis can be the father that he always dreamed of being, being faithfully by his girl’s side.

- Are you excited to go to daddy’s last race before Christmas? Yeah? - he asks, smiling as his princess excitedly nods her head. She hasn’t been to many races yet, but she seems to love the paddock, the garage, and everything surrounding the races. - Is this the one when we are saying goodbye, daddy? - the girl absently asks, leaning her head on her dad’s chest, her big eyes looking up at him. 

After a second of silence, Lewis replies. 

- Yes. Yes it is, love. - he kisses his daughter’s forehead, reality hitting him. This is it. - Can we still be friends with everybody? I like them, daddy - the kid innocently says, making Lewis’ heart feel tight in his chest. - Of course, my love. We will always be friends. - with another kiss to her hair, the driver feels how the toddler’s words sink in his chest.

And after a brief moment, an idea pops in his mind. 

- How about we write a message to Mercedes on your drawing, baby? Do you think that would be a good idea? - he suggests. - Would they see my drawing, daddy? - the girl curiously asks, and Lewis nods at her words. He will personally make sure that everyone will get to see it. 

Grace chooses a pink pencil, and while Lewis holds her hand again, they carefully write each letter together: ‘Thank you, Mercedes’.

In that moment, Lewis realizes that this won’t take a toll only on him. It will also affect his family, his close ones that were used to meeting him at the same garage for the past eleven years.  

When the final weekend of the season arrives, it takes a lot of emotional strength for everyone to stay in the right frame of mind, to deal with the suffocating emotions that hover in the air. 

Lewis makes sure to be as present as he possibly can, wanting to enjoy each moment, each person to the fullest, experiencing every detail of this team for the last time.

He wants to do everything he can to enjoy his time. That’s why he takes every single person from his team on a hot lap, sharing one final moment with each face that he grew so familiar with for the past years. 

After the entire group had their portion of hot laps, your husband stops the car next to you and Grace, signaling for you two to enter. Sitting your daughter safely in your lap, locking the seat belt around her body, you and Lewis share a smile - one of love and companionship: in the end, you are his team, the one he keeps running to in the good and the bad. And you know what this weekend means to him and to you as a family.

- Are you driving, daddy? - Grace nudges his arm with the tip of her finger, making Lewis’ eyes focus on his mini-version. - You want to go for a lap, love? - he giggles as the girl chants ‘YES!!!’, nodding and clapping at her dad’s offer. 

Starting the car, Lewis starts driving around the track with the utmost caution, barely pressing the throttle of the vehicle, just so his daughter could have a look at the views her daddy has when driving around the track, while the sun is slowly hiding in the horizon.

The little girl doesn’t look impressed at all, and Lewis continues to study her facial expressions. 

- Aren’t you enjoying the drive, baby? - he asks. - The car seems to move a lot faster on the telly - she explains, looking almost disappointed by how slow the car is actually moving.

You and your husband laugh in unison at her complaint. 

- It’s camera magic that makes us look faster, baby. - he gently explains with a wide smile, amused by his daughter’s reactions. - How dangerous was it if daddy was driving around super fast? We can’t do that, love. - he tries to reason with her now, while the girl has no idea of speed. 

The toddler just wraps her small arms in front of her chest, patiently waiting for the ride to come to an end, as her big, curious eyes still look around the track, memorizing every detail. 

Holding Grace safely in his arms, he brings you into the garage after the hot laps, gathering his team to show everyone his new helmet for the last race with Mercedes. Uncovering it, the helmet shows his daughter’s drawing of little Grace, Roscoe and you cheering on Lewis - who’s ready to race with his car beside him. Under the drawing, the words ‘Thank You, Mercedes’ that Lewis had helped his little one writing, stand. Holding it in his hands, he proudly shows it to the group, a joyful smile splattered on the driver’s face. 

The toddler’s eyes wide immediately, her mouth agape as she covers it with her small hand - surprised to see the figures that she drew, on her dad’s helmet. In fact, he wasn’t kidding when he said he would make sure that everyone would get to see it.

- That’s my drawing! I did that! - the girl points out, repeating the words more than once, so everybody can know that she is, indeed, the artist of that masterpiece.  - You were the one drawing this amazing helmet, Gracie? - Bono asks, nudging the kid while smiling. - Yes! - the girl nods. - My daddy isn’t a good artist. Daddy helped me draw the car, but I don’t think it looks like the real one - the entire group laughs at her words, while Lewis puts a hand over his heart, pretending to be hurt by his child’s words, playfully. 

Amongst the laughs and smiles, some warm tears appear on the corners of your eyes. There’s a mix of different emotions diving inside of your chest: it’s sad to leave the group who knows you so well behind, but it’s also exciting to know that your family will enter a new, important phase soon. 

And there’s a feeling of familiarity here, at this moment: it’s your family, thanking the group that took you in, that supported your husband and nestled him so many times before - the family that you found in F1. 

After another disappointing qualification, Lewis was still trying to keep his spirit high, just wanting to enjoy his last time with the car. You spent the entire weekend feeling emotional, always on the verge of tears as things started to feel more and more real. It’s sunday, now. This is it, this is the moment when one of the most historical partnerships in Formula 1 would come to an end.

Your husband reaches for you and Grace, the traditional ‘good luck’ kiss shared between you two as Lewis hugs his princess, who also wishes him a good race. Seeing your other half climbing, for the last time, into a Mercedes car, is enough for the burning sensation in your eyes to come back - your mind reminding you of all the races, all the stress, the victories, the chants, all the stories and memories that you have in this team’s garage. 

Even if the last few seasons haven’t been good for your husband, both of you decided to leave with a feeling of gratitude, knowing that a part of yourselves will always belong in this group, after sharing such a huge chapter of your lives with all these people. 

Picking on the skin on your lips, on your nails, trying to find ways to relieve the usual stress that creeps through your body while you watch Lewis racing, you feel like every sensation is heightened by how fast your heart beats in your chest today.

Lewis is starting from p16, and your hands shake slightly as you try to hold Grace close to you, almost unable to contain the anxiety running through you now - analyzing the chaotic start, your heart sinking for some of your dear friends that didn’t get to finish their last race before leaving F1 - and, looking at the leaderboard on the side of the screen in front of you, a warm smile spreads across your features when you see Lewis’ performance. From p16 to p4 with a passion and talent that he, undoubtedly, still has in himself. 

From the donuts, to the crowd chanting his name, the team radios, to the way he stays inside the car a minute longer to try and calm down his cries - to say that you are a mess now, would be an understatement. 

Immediately running to hug you, the man hides his face in between you and your daughter’s figures, merging himself in the most healing, safe hug that he has ever known. 

Lewis feels the love - emanating from his body, receiving it back from everyone around him, the fans, the team, and he knows that everything that he conquered with Mercedes was real, it was the result of a true, mutual partnership. 

But Lewis can’t keep setting fire to his soul to warm up the team, so the group won’t burn alone. He gave his soul, sweat, blood and tears to Mercedes - and he doesn’t regret it, because he also got a lot back from them. However, the only person Lewis would burn his entire self for, is his daughter.

Savouring every moment, your husband makes sure to speak to every single person in the crew, having a proper farewell from the ones who helped him the most when he was on track for so many years. Pictures, hugs, some tears, this is a moment that will forever be engraved in his mind.

- We dreamed alone, but together we believed. - your husband confesses, breathing as he tries to wrap his own brain around what this moment means.

It’s the end of an era, a door that closes but that, in reality, will always have a crack open - due to everything that ties Lewis and Mercedes together, a duo that will never be forgotten. 

It’s with pride in his heart and a light spirit that he leaves the silver arrows family now, knowing for sure that he leaves a significant part of his legacy connected to the team - whether it’s titles, or changes within the sport that he managed to draw attention to. 

Thanking Mercedes “for all the courage, determination, the passion - for seeing him and supporting him”, Lewis is, more than ever, ready to hold your hand as he takes another challenging step into the future, into a new era of his career: Hamilton in red.

Now, it’s time to stop pretending. It’s time to embrace a new phase that will test him even further, to delve into a new team, surrounding yourselves with different people, with a glimpse of hope for what the future holds for you and your family. 

It will definitely feel strange to hear his next team radios without having Bono guiding him, without hearing the iconic “Lewis, it’s hammertime”, it will definitely feel weird to see him in the same context, but with a whole new crew beside him. But that’s what you’re here for. 

Because, just like your husband said: 

- What started out as a leap of faith, turned into a journey into the history books. 

And that will never, ever be forgotten. 

Kissing Grace on the cheek, holding her close to his heart as his fingers intertwined with yours, Lewis is ready to move forward with the most important piece of his entire life: his family. 

With the legacy he keeps building, he thinks about the 2007 Lewis when he first got to Formula 1, the 2013 driver who tried his luck at Mercedes and succeeded. He couldn’t be prouder of himself, and it’s a feeling that you two share. 

For 2025, the future is bright, brighter than he thinks, as a new team is ready to welcome him with open arms, ready to continue writing his name in history, while a new baby Hamilton will be born in this upcoming, Ferrari era - he just doesn’t know about it yet. 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Just Too Important - A No Love Lost Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Author's Note: They're back! They're obsessed with each other! Ben once again is proving that he's the grumpiest old man to ever grumpy old man! Enjoy!

Title from Snooze by SZA

Word Count: 5.7k

Summary/Warnings: You and Ben head to Costco. Takes place about two months post-series.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth-rotting fluff, Ben being old, pre-established relationship, mentions of smut

There were only five things Ben had ever really fucking loved. Loved with his whole goddamn existence, so much he could probably kill himself with it if he tried.

He’d loved his mom. Loved her in a simple, pure way that he’d probably taken for fucking granted. She had been secure. The only person Ben had known wasn’t going to hate him for being a fuck up or problem. She’d pleaded with his father when Ben had been sent away. Kept in contact with him when she wasn’t supposed to. Still thought of him as just Ben, even when he’d given her every reason not to. Ben had loved his mom because she was his mom. He’d grieved her in drinks and silence when she died, and known that—compared to what he’d been before—she would’ve been proud of him now. Living a life that wasn’t violence and glamour. A life that was just stupid fucking ease and perfection, with a beautiful wife and smart son, in a comfort he’d never imagined he’d get to have.

He loved the movie Legally Blonde. His wife was never allowed to fucking know that.

He loved Ryan. The kid was a fucking genius, and Ben wasn’t sure how the hell Homelander had a single hand in creating him. He was kind and smart and determined, and a purely good fucking person. He’d been born from a long line of deeply fucked men, but he read books and cried when the dog died in a movie. He fucking loved school, and liked people, and tried so hard to be normal that Ben was sometimes worried he’d hurt himself. Ryan never needed to fucking apologize for having powers. He never needed to feel guilt for the shit Homelander had done, and never needed to repent like Ben had. He was just a fucking kid. A kid who sometimes woke up crying because he’d had a nightmare about his father—because they all did—and who’d apologize for waking Ben after. Ben really wished the people he loved would stop fucking apologizing to him.

He loved dancing. His wife already knew that one, but Ben was pretty damn sure she didn’t know just how much he loved it. It was reliable. Simple. Something his mother had made him learn, and something that he could use to make his wife fall into his arms and giggle against his chest. A way to use his body that wasn’t for destruction, an excuse to touch Her until she gave him a perfect, happy smile, and he somehow loved her more.

Because that was the thing Ben loved above every other goddamn thing in the universe. Loved more than the universe. The universe was fucking pathetic compared to how much Ben loved Her. Every single fucking thing about Her. How She smile and laughed and moved through the world. How goddamn kind and clever and perfect She was. All Her big fucking words and Her smart fucking mouth and Her sharp, beautiful features. How She was a fucking brat and a problem, and Ben would never want her any other way, because he was the luckiest fucking pussy in the world for this menace of a woman to love him back half as much as he loved Her. Lucky that She trusted him, looked at him like he was some sort of fucked up savior, and always touched him like she could never do anything better with her hands.

She was perfect. She was a fucking goddess, and every time Ben reminded Her of that she’d flush that pretty color and bury her face in his arm. Right where she goddamn belonged.

You can’t just say that, Ben-

I can say whatever the fuck I want, Sunshine. He’d press a kiss to the top of Her head, squeezing his hold on Her body. I fucking love you, and you’re a goddamn miracle. These pussies should be grateful to be in your goddamn presence.

I think you’re a little bias. She’d mumble between their heads, but Ben would hear the stumble of Her heart, feel her lean further into his body, and he’d smirk.

I don’t fucking care. He’d tangle a hand in Her hair, tugging it back so she was looking at him with wide, blown out eyes.  You’re fucking perfect. 

She’d smile at him, and Ben’s ribs would bloom and glow with how fucking beautiful She was. How She was all fucking his, to care for and tend to and love. For the rest of goddamn time, Ben got to fucking have Her.

You’re such a dramatic cunt, Benjamin.

He’d chuckle. You fucking love it.

And that would be the end of it. Wherever they were, Ben would find a place to fuck Her in peace, she’d cum all over him—filling the room with a million colors and dancing lights, bursting into flame and screaming his name—and Ben would make sure that she understood. Really fucking got that Ben had never been good at loving things, but loving Her was the easiest thing in the goddamn world. That he’d love Her until the world was fucking razed and scorched and She wasn’t there to love anymore.

Even then Ben would probably just fucking follow Her. That might be the only thing that one day got him. If She figured out a way to die, she wasn’t going to do it without Ben at Her side. She was alive inside of him—infinite and holy, fucking stronger and brighter than the goddamn sun—and Ben never wanted to know a life without Her again. 

She’d hate the idea of Ben going just because She went. She’d shove his chest and snap that he’d need to keep living without her, because she loved him too much to want him to die. And Ben would roll his eyes, grumble an agreement, and keep fucking knowing that if they went out, they were going out together.

Everything was so fucking beautiful when Ben had Her to share it with. Without Her he’d just be an old fucking asshole, chasing Her in shadows and songs, sitting at Her grave until he worked out how to turn the stone back into the only person in the world that really fucking mattered.

It was a damn good thing they were both immortal.

The world would not fucking like it if Ben had to keep living without Her.

He’d do anything for Her. He’d burn countless worlds to ash, then rebuild them just for Her to have. He’d refuse to destroy things, because She was good and would never want anyone to be in pain in Her name. If She demanded it, he would keep living, but he’d drive himself mad trying to bring Her back.

He’d learn to raise the dead. To find wherever the fuck She’d gone and pull her back to his side, where he’d keep Her safe and happy and smiling.

Christ, he’d do anything just to make Her smile.

He’d even let Her drag him here, to this massive square building that seemed to be some weird sort of grocery store. 

But Ben didn’t remember grocery stores selling TVs, or mattresses, or toys. Grocery stores didn’t sell watches. Or fucking pills and makeup, just a few aisles apart. 

Where the fuck are we. He muttered between their heads, and She looked back to him with an amused grin.

You drove us here, Ben.

Because I value my goddamn life, Sunshine.

Shut up-

No. He leaned down, kissing the space between Her eyes with a grin. Tell me where we are, brat, or I’ll fuck the answer out of you.

She wrinkled Her nose at him, even as Ben heard Her heart flutter slightly. No obviously public sex, you horny old cunt-

I never said we’d fuck in public, darling. This place is fucking huge, I’d find somewhere private, and then make you all dumb and pretty on my cock. Ben winked at Her, and Christ, she was beautiful. Wide, glossy eyes and a parted mouth, already putty in Ben’s hands just from his fucking words.

We’re at Costco. She said, a little breathless between their minds. It’s a superstore. 

Ben frowned. That didn’t make any damn sense, and he’d have a lot of time to fuck Her later. He needed to understand what in Christ she was talking about. 

What the fuck is a superstore. Did they figure out how to shoot up buildings with V and nobody fucking told me-

She laughed, wrapping Her arms around his neck with a shake of her head. No, Ben, it’s a physically large store that sells, like, everything.

Everything.

Pretty much, yeah. She shrugged. That’s why we’re here.

Ben nodded slowly. For the house.

Exactly. She smiled, Her voice soft and teasing between their minds. Good work, Pretty Boy.

Shut the fuck up, brat. Ben pulled Her half up his chest, kissing her until he got a breathy moan, and leaned back with a smirk. What do we need.

I, um… She blinked at him, her eyes a little glazed as Ben just grinned at Her. Fucking Christ, She was perfect.

Need some help there, Sunshine?

Fuck you-

Ben laughed, squeezing his hand on Her waist. No obviously public sex, darling-

Shut up. She muttered, and Ben’s grin only grew, because She tangled her hand in his and leaned further into his body at the exact same time. I made a list.

A list-

For what we need. And, She shot him a stern look, rising slightly on Her toes to hold his gaze. We’re sticking to it. No buying things we don’t need, just because you see them. 

Ben frowned. Why the fuck would I get shit we don’t need-

Because you’re a child, my love.

I am not a fucking child-

Yeah, you are. She gave him a soft, teasing grin, and Ben really didn’t know how to actually be annoyed with Her. Not when She was so goddamn beautiful, and looking at him with such adoration, and felt easy and happy around his skull. You’re a massive fucking man baby, Benjamin, and you’re going to see something shiny and try to buy it.

Fucking- I’m not a goddamn pussy with no self-

She pulled him into a slow, deep kiss, half climbing up his chest and molding into his arms fucking perfectly, and he groaned. She’d given him a blowjob before they left the house—Ryan was off at school for the day, and She was a horny fucking problem—and Ben could still taste himself in Her mouth. Mixed with coffee and chocolate, and Her. Always just fucking Her, smiling against his lips and safe in his arms. He could feel the cool metal of Her wedding ring when she tangled her fingers in his hair.

They had to finish this shopping shit right now, so Ben could carry Her to the car and fuck her stupid in the back seat.

You’re my man baby, Pretty Boy. She said between their minds, and leaning back to give him a wide, perfect smile. I love you.

I love you too, Ben grunted, leaning down to kiss to Her brow. You fucking brat.

She hummed, Her smile wide and unrestrained on her beautiful face. Ready?

Ben nodded, grabbing Her hand and pressing one last kiss to Her knuckles. There was Her ring. Both of her rings. Physical fucking proof to anyone who looked that She loved Ben. Wanted him. Fucking adored him. 

If She needed Ben for shopping, he’d walk with Her and do whatever she told him to. She’d know what she was doing. She always knew what She was doing, because she was a goddamn force of nature, and if Ben had a say in it, he’d make sure everyone did what she told them all the fucking time.

They didn’t—because most people were stupid fucking dumbcucks that Ben wasn’t allowed to just fucking kill—but they should. All of this post-Homelander shit would be so much easier if everyone would just fucking listen to Her. 

And Ben knew how hard She was working on it. How She was calm and collected when she testified before congress and recounted all the shit that fucking pussy had done to Her, but always fell apart after, sobbing and shaking in Ben’s arms. She’d crawl over his body and bury Her face in his chest, he’d feel fucking sick, and wish he could bring Homelander back to life just to fucking kill him again. Everyone demanded too goddamn much of Her, and she always gave it because she was too fucking good, and if all She asked for was Ben to go shopping with Her, he’d do it a billion fucking times.

Anything to make Her tap her fingers because she was picking out wall colors and not because she had to explain how She’d killed Sage. Anything to make Her flush because Ben was kissing her neck in the lamp aisle and not because a bunch of old fucking pussies wanted unnecessary details about Her alleged relationship with Soldier Boy.

It wasn’t fucking alleged. They were goddamn married. They had a son and owned a house together.

A house they needed to put things in. And decorate. And make theirs. So if that was what this trip was about, Ben could fucking do it. For Her.

It started simple. They needed more furniture, they found it. 

“We already have most of what we need,” She muttered, pulling Ben through the store. “It’s mostly decorations now. If you see something you like-“

“I’ll like whatever the fuck you like.”

She let out a long sigh. “That not helpful-“

Ben grunted Her name, spinning Her around in his arms and dropping his brow to Her’s. 

“Ben-“

“Listen to me.” He held Her gaze, drawing firm circles in her hips. “I could give a fuck what our house looks like, as long as you like it, and there’s no goddamn blue.”

“But it’s your house too-“

“I don’t fucking care.” He grunted. “I’ve told you, Sunshine, we could be living in a fucking dumpster, and I’d be good.”

She scanned over Ben’s face, and sighed. “Can you promise you’ll at least try to find one thing you want?”

“Deal.” Ben kissed Her, dipping her slightly in his arms and keeping Her tucked to his side when they pulled apart.

For Her, he’d try to find one thing. It couldn’t be that fucking hard. This place was huge. 

At first, there was nothing. She had opinions on the colors and style of their house, and Ben mostly just watched Her be perfect and smart and happy, grumbling low agreements and kissing Her until she smiled whenever he got the chance. That was what he cared about. Not whatever the fuck rustic or sleek meant. Not about what shade of green their bedroom should be, or if they should have the bird or sunset painting, or if a glass vase was better than a ceramic one. 

“Just lie and pretend you have an answer-“

“No. I don’t fucking lie to you-“

“It’s a vase, Ben. I’m not going to freak out and burn the building down because you lie about liking a vase-“

“I don’t give a fuck about the vase.” He snapped. “My job is to buy you the damn flowers-“

“Well,” She raised Her brows, giving him a pointed look. “Where can I put the flowers, if I don’t have a vase?”

Ben scowled. “Smartass.”

“You love it.” She gave him a sweet smile, and he really fucking did. “Choose a vase, Pretty Boy.”

Ben rolled his eyes, glaring between the options, and decided they were both fucking stupid. “No.”

“Benjamin-“

“Get that one.” He pointed to a third, smaller one. It was the same color as Her eyes, and had little golden patterns. He didn’t hate it. “It’ll fit on the dresser.”

She paused, tapping Her fingers on Ben’s arm, and nodded slowly. “Okay.” She gave him a wider, purely fucking adoring smile, and Ben felt his whole body grow radiant. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.” He grumbled, kissing the side of Her head, and a dam broke inside of him. 

Suddenly, Ben had a lot of fucking opinions. A red carpet would look fucking stupid in the living room, and Ben didn’t want a weird, twisting lamp on his bed stand. They’d get the shower curtain with little octopuses—octopi, Benjamin—because they made Her smile, but Ben would give MM a fucking blowjob before he used as towel with ducks on it.

“But they’re cute-“

“No.” Ben snapped, grabbing a stack on plain, monotone towels, and dumping them into the cart. “They’re fucking towels, Sunshine, they only need to dry us off.”

“I know, but look at them!” She held the ducks up, giving Ben a pretty pout that was designed to fucking kill him. “Please? Just one?”

Ben scowled. She knew what the fuck She was doing. Looking so fucking beautiful and leaning into his body and making Her sharp eyes soft just for him. He couldn’t say no to Her. He’d never really want to, anyway. Not when he grabbed the towel, tossed it in the cart, and Her smile had the same effect as fucking heroine.

“One.” He grunted. “Because I fucking love you, brat, you get one.”

She kept smiling at him, holding his face between Her hands and kissing him right on the nose. “Thank you, my love-“

Ben rolled his eyes, and dragged Her into a longer, firmer kiss. Until She was a sighing and humming and melting into him, before grabbing Her hand and tugging her to the next isle.

They got shampoo—Ben tried to pick his own out, She looked like she was going stab him or set him on fire, and he decided to let Her handle that shit—a bunch of picture frames, and a lot of useless decorative shit that they didn’t need. Small potted plants that would have to be kept out of the bedroom, a fuck ton of books that She’d probably already read, and some nice, dark green plates. 

Ben took over for groceries—that might be the only place in the world where She didn’t know what the fuck she was doing—and he kept it simple. Pancakes. Ice cream. Bagels. Strawberry cream cheese. Coffee. Chocolate. Something called Lunchables that Ryan seemed to like. Apple sauce, because on worse days that was all Ben could get Her to eat, and he’d be damned if he let Homelander keep haunting them like that. Whiskey. Burger patties-

“You know there’s only three of us, right?” She was hanging off of Ben’s arm, giving him an amused look as he tossed a second bag of apples into their slightly overflowing cart. “And we can come back if we host dinner with the team.”

Ben frowned. “You told me Butcher was hosting-“

“He is. I’m saying that’s why we don’t need so many-“

“We need to be fucking prepared.” Ben muttered. “Shit happens, Sunshine, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let us go hungry-“

Ben.

He grunted Her name, glancing down to see open, obvious amusements painted over Her pretty features. 

Are you fucking Cold War prepping.

Shut up.

She snorted. Holy shit, you are-

I said shut the fuck up. We need to be goddamn careful, and it’s my job to make sure you and Ryan are safe-

That’s not your job, Ben. She sighed, giving him a soft smile that lit up his whole fucking body. But, if it was, you already do an amazing job, without being an old, paranoid dinosaur. And remember, She squeezed his hand, raising Her brows slightly. Ryan’s literally invulnerable, and I fuck an atomic bomb every day. We’d be fine.

Ben scowled, but put the third bag of apples back. We fuck at least three times a day.

I know. I’m there.

You fucking start most of it-

You’re just proving my point, Pretty Boy.

Shut up.

From there, She made him go look at fucking pants and shirts. Only so She could send Neuman orders for their specialized, supe-proof clothing, but still needing Ben’s actual fucking opinions. He didn’t fucking care about clothing, and he trusted Her with his fucking life, so she ended up making most of the choices as Ben grunted in approval. 

They were almost done. And this had been fun—he’d never tell Her that, but he was also pretty damn sure she knew—but Ben wanted to go the hell home. To drop all this shit in the doorway, carry Her upstairs, and fuck Her until she screamed his name so loud all the glasses in the house fucking broke. 

All that was left was getting something called a Roomba.

“What fuck is that thing.” Ben muttered, frowning at the metal disc in Her hands. It just looked like fucking junk.

“It’s a robot.”

“A fucking what.”

“Robot. Robot vacuum. It’ll clean the floor-“

“That circle is going to clean the floor-“

“Yep.” She glanced at the label on the shelf. “Do you think we need max power? I don’t really know what average power would do- Ben-“

He’d grabbed the robot—fucking robot—from Her, and was examining it. He didn’t know what the hell he was looking for, only that he wasn’t finding it.

“Ben-“

“This thing is not a fucking robot.” He muttered. “Robots aren’t real.”

“They very much are real, old man.”

“There’s not a chance in fucking hell this thing can clean a floor-“

“Well, it does.” She took the circle back, placing it into the cart and giving Ben a teasing look of disbelief. “Are Roomba’s really going to be the thing that gets you about the 21st century?”

He scowled. “They’re not fucking real, Sunshine-“

“Benjamin, my love.” She moved to stand right before him, holding his gaze to Her’s with amusement dancing all over Her perfect face. She was so fucking beautiful. “You can throw nuclear energy with your brain, pick up trucks with one hand, and I’ve seen you jump off a building without flinching. We’re fuck-buddy-brain-connected. When I orgasm, I make both of us hallucinate. This,” She pointed to the so-called robot. “Cannot be the thing that gets you.”

Shut up, brat. Ben rolled his eyes, kissing the back of Her hand before glaring around the rest of isle. Are all of these things fucking robots.

No, these are just normal vacuums.

Does this place have other robots.

Yeah, probably.

Ben’s eyes narrowed. Where.

———————

You’ve made a grave error.

You don’t think you’re ever going to leave this Costco. 

After the Roomba, you’d shown Ben robotic litter boxes, and drones, and a smart speaker. You’re pretty sure that’s where you’d went wrong. 

“This thing can hear me?”

You’d nodded, watching him with a small smile you were having a hard time fighting. To any passerby, Ben would’ve looked furious, but you know him. Know that right now, his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes meant that he was shocked and confused. 

It helped that you could feel it, pricking on his skin and cloudy around his head. It was kind of adorable. 

“It can hear all of us.”

He’d scowled. “Why the fuck is it listening-“

“So you can tell it what to do. Here, look- Alexa? Play Steely Dan.”

“Playing- Steely Dan.”

Low music started to fill the space, and you’d had to bite your cheek to stop the snort at Ben’s expression. He’d looked like he’d been shot. It had been adorable. 

And now, two fucking hours later, you didn’t think you’d ever get sick of that expression on his face. He was like a five-year-old loose in a candy shop, walking from aisle to aisle and asking you grumbling questions about various technologies and appliances. If you’re being honest, the only time you’ve seen him look close to this was whenever he’d fuck you. It was a similar expression of pure, raw joy and wonder, but devoid of all the darkened, animalistic need. 

“What the fuck are these?”

“Security cameras.” 

Ben frowns. “They look like fucking doorbells.”

“They’re both.” You say, resting your head against his chest, and he nods slowly.

“We should get one.”

“Ben-“

“For fucking safety, Sunshine, it would be damn insane not to have cameras when all those fucking pussy Homelander supporters are still out there-“

“I agree, my love.” You smile at him, forcing yourself not the climb into his arms as his concrete concern and resolve wrap around you. “That’s why I asked Hughie to install some already.”

Ben pauses, something hot and sore flaring on his skin. “Why the fuck did you ask Hughie.”

“He’s a tech nerd, and Annie said he’d know the best ones to get.” You kissing the underside of Ben’s jaw, humming against his skin. Next time, I’ll ask you, Benjamin. It’ll be so fucking funny to watch you try to install them.

Ben scowls, adoration flaring in his chest as the soreness eases, and you manage to walk him away from the doorbells. 

Most of the afternoon has mostly become walking Ben away from things. For some stuff, it’s easy. Noise canceling headphones wouldn’t work on him. You don’t need a slightly larger TV, because your current one is perfectly fine. You don’t have the space for a hot tub.

“What about these.” He points to the third golf set, and you sigh.

“Ben, you hate golf. You’ve told me it’s a weak fucking pussy sport.”

“And it fucking is, but these things can be damn good weapons-“

“We are not buying weapons.”

“What if someone fucking breaks into the house with a gun-“

“You and Ryan are bullet proof, and I can’t be killed-“

“What if it’s a fucking supe-“

“Then you can blast them with your special sauce, and they won’t be a supe.” You wrap your arms around him, raising your brows. “We’ll be fine, Ben. No golf clubs.”

He scowls, and moves on. 

From the golf clubs. And the iPad, and other security cameras, and air hockey table.

But other things are harder. 

Because you make a second mistake. You agree with him that you should buy a generator, because it’s practical. But what Ben learns is that you can say yes to things. And now you have an ice cream maker, an air fryer, a truly unreasonable amount of batteries, and lawn sprinklers.

And a vibrator, because Ben had grabbed it, shoved it into the cart, and raised his brows in a silent challenge.

You’d sighed. Ben, I don’t need-

I’m going to have to travel, Sunshine-

I know, but I think I can keep it together until you get back to fuck me yourself.

Or. Ben had winked at you, and you felt his hunger spread in your gut. We could do that Zoom shit, you could imagine that thing is me. He’d lowered down, starting to leave wet, sloppy kisses up your neck. And I could tell you exactly how I’d want to fuck you. How I’d play with that perfect fucking pussy until you were begging for me, then I’d stuff that smart fucking mouth with my cock and start to finger fuck you, make your squirt on my hand while you choke on my dick-

You’d buried your face in his chest, muffling your whimper in his shirt. Jesus fucking Christ, Ben-

You like that, darling? Like thinking about how I fill you up, how fucking good I pound into that pussy, how I make you cum on my cock and hands and face-

You’d agreed to buy the vibrator, but mostly because if he had kept talking, you might have climaxed just from Ben’s voice.

You should’ve left Costco an hour ago.

But Ben still doesn’t seem to be done yet.

“How the fuck are they doing that.” He mutters, poking remote and watching the LEDs shift from green to pink to yellow for the fifth time. 

“Semiconductors.” You say, trying not to look like such a dopey, lovesick idiot as you smile at him. “We do have to go home soon. Ryan’s almost done with school.” 

Ben grunts, grabbing one of the LED light strings and holding it up for you to see. 

You take it from him, kiss his cheek—your lips barely brushing his beard before he’s moving you to his mouth, and you almost fall over—and place the box in the cart.

The total amount of money you’ve spent today is disgusting, but the grin on Ben’s face makes it worth it. All of this is so fucking worth it, because you’re happy in such an average, normal way. You’re happy because Ben’s happy—glowing and furious in your whole body—and he’s everything. He grabs you a chocolate bar in the checkout isle without you asking, and insists unloading everything into the trunk himself.

“Go wait in the car, Sunshine-“

You shake your head, trying—and failing—not to gawk at him. So goddamn handsome the broad daylight, muscles flexing as the moves bag after bag, all yours to climb like a tree when you get home-

You won’t have to get until your get home.

Ben chuckles as you stare at him, and the moment the last bag is in the car he grabs you by your wrist, tugging your back into his chest and slamming his lips down to yours. It a rough, heavy kiss that probably isn’t appropriate for a parking lot, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. Ben’s love is strong and focused and everything in the world that matters. He’s swaying you back and forth in his arms, grinning as he nips at your lower lip and tugs a little at your hair, and you don’t think you’re ever going to get enough of him. Of how forceful and bloody and devout his love is, just in broad daylight when you’ve done nothing but smile at him. 

When he pulls away, neither of you bother to fully separate. Ben grins at you, and you smile at him, and when he brushes a little hair away from your face you do the only thing you can think of, and kiss him again. Softer this time, moving your hands to hold his face, allowing yourself to feel so purely safe and warm in the best place in the world. In Ben.

Because you know this will never fade. The love for him in your body that only grows more and more powerful with every passing moment. That you’ll always feel Ben’s love for you, no matter if you’re resting in heaven—caged between Ben’s body and a bed, sleeping or fucking or just smiling at him—breaking down in a hell you’ve visited countless times in life and will visit more in sleep, or standing somewhere domestic and mundane. 

You have a life now where you get to be domestic and mundane. Where you get to make out with your husband in a public place, until someone rolls down their window and wolf-whistles, and you have to restrain Ben from picking up their car and throwing it across the lot. Where you get to drive home with Ben’s hand on your thigh and your head resting on his shoulder, and you get to act like that’s all your life has ever been.

It’s all it will have to be now. 

For the rest of your life—which will likely be simply the rest of time—all you’ll have to do is be domestic. You don’t think you can be mundane, not when Ben grumbles something and you can feel his love spark and flare in his chest, or when you park the car and Ben carries all fifteen of your heavy bags inside at once without even a grunt. You can’t be mundane when, the moment he puts the bags down, you jump on him, he fucks you against the kitchen counter, and you burst into a flame that sets off the smoke alarm and drenches you both in the sprinklers. 

But you can be domestic. You can dry off and cook dinner with Ben—like a normal husband and wife probably do—and let him wrap his body around you and kiss that spot on your neck until you give up on focusing and ride him on the floor. 

You can eat with Ben and Ryan, try not to laugh as Ben works out how the ice cream maker works, and curl in Ben’s arms on your couch. Watching TV and sitting easily in the dark.

Ben can tilt your head back for a deep, slow kiss, smirking against your lips when you moan, and mutter your name like a prayer.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, rubbing firm circles on your thigh, and you let out a long, slow breath as you flush.

“I think you abuse that word, Benjamin,” you mumble, and he shrugs.

“I don’t give a fuck. You are.” He frowns, turning you to face him in his lap. “I fucking love you, Sunshine, you’re my whole fucking world-“

I know. You smile, leaning down for another, softer kiss that makes Ben groan in your mouth and the whole world start to get a little hazy. I love you, too.

He grunts, but doesn’t bother to do his usual pushing about how you still don’t get how much he loves to you. You do get it. You can feel it, and it’s the most powerful thing in the world. Sometimes you worry Ben doesn’t understand how much you love him. How you can’t even begin to picture a world where you’d never clawed your way through blood and grime to find him. How you can feel his love and resolve and care all the time, and your own love is so eternal and vast you could probably power a universe with it. 

But you’ll have all of time to fight with him about who loves who more. 

Right now, everything can just be Ben and you on a couch, eating ice cream, and knowing that this—You and him, burning together—is forever.

End Note: Had to make the smart speaker an Alexa. We are in an Amazon based universe. I don’t think they sell Alexas at Costco, but we’ve established that Costco sells whatever I want it to sell. So, Alexas.

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@lovelywebber

[sparta369]

I bought slay the princess but haven’t started it ‘cause it kinda intimidates me, can you convince me to play it?

Ok now I know you just asked me to convince you to play it but hear me out

Don't play it yet

There's a huge, Free Content expansion coming out on the 24th of this month, in just 8 days called The Pristine Cut, which is going to expand the game by about 35%. The Devs themselves have said to wait for the expansion release if you haven't played it already lol

That being said, I'd never pass up an opportunity to gush about one of my favorite games ever created

I realized far too late that I'd accidentally written far more than either of us probably wanted. So I'll try to sparknotes it, and leave the full thing below the cut.

The less you know going in, the better. However, it is still a horror game. You can find a list of content warnings here. It's just a list, so it doesn't really reveal very much.

A single playthrough lasts about 3-4 hours on average, though I can guarantee you'll want to do more than one. The game is positively dense with choices. It's impossible to see everything in one playthrough, and one would be hard-pressed to have the exact same playthrough twice.

Words cannot really capture how much I love this game. It's story masterfully crafted with a vast ocean of choices for the player to make, all of which make a true and profound impact on the narrative. If you enjoyed Disco Elysium or The Stanley Parable, You'll like Slay the Princess. The game was lovingly hand-drawn, pencil on paper, and the music was beautifully composed. The voice acting, featuring the talents of Nichole Goodnight and Jonathan Sims, are also, in my opinion, phenomenal.

I truly cannot express the emotional impact this game has left me with. It's a game I'll carry with me for the rest of my life.

Whether you intend to stop here or read on, I'll leave you with this one screenshot. It's only text, and it's literally the second thing you see upon booting up the game, so don't worry about spoilers lmao

"Whatever horrors you may find in these dark spaces, have heart and see them through."

"There are no premature endings. There are no wrong decisions."

"There are only fresh perspectives and new beginnings."

"This is a love story."

Oh boy you clicked the "keep reading" button :o) I wrote this over the course of most of my day today before I realized exactly how long it was. Besides a small change to the end, I'm going to leave most of it un-touched, just for the sake of preserving whatever the hell was going on in my head at the time :o)

Slay the Princess is one of those games where, the less you know going in, the better, So I'll do my best to convince you without revealing anything.

Still, though, It is a horror game. If you would like to look through it just in case, you can find a list of content warnings on their website here. It gives a list of many things you may encounter, but there is a 0% chance that you will encounter all, or likely even half, of the things described in there. In addition, they present these things in a way that reveals as little as possible. Still, I would personally recommend against reading through them, but there's no shame or judgement if you go dig through it. You know yourself better than anybody, if you think ya need it that's fine.

There's also some flickering image effects & a parallax effect that has caused motion sickness for some players, but both of these can be disabled in the settings.

With all that out of the way...

Words truly cannot explain how much I love this game.

It is an absolute masterwork of interactive narrative storytelling. No other game I've played or heard of in my life gives as much weight to every single choice you make, every little thing you do. There are so many choices and possibilities, and not once does the game ever make you feel like you've chosen "wrong." It's impossible to see everything in one playthrough, and you would be hard-pressed to get the exact same playthrough twice. Quite literally, every time I've watched somebody else play the game, they happened upon something I'd never seen before, despite me having 100% of the achievements.

One playthrough usually takes around 3-4 hours, but you will almost certainly want to do more than one.

There are also a number of places where you can safely and logically pause and come back later, should you need to.

The narrative itself is expertly woven. The storytelling is phenomenal, interweaving paralyzing fear with heart-aching beauty, while also carrying a healthy amount of comedy at carefully chosen places. The themes carry through beautifully. I've cried actual tears on more than one occasion, and it's not easy to get that out of me. Slay The Princess is a story that will be a part of my heart for as long as I live.

If you've played and enjoyed Disco Elysium, you'll enjoy Slay The Princess.

If you've played and enjoyed The Stanley parable, you'll enjoy Slay The Princess.

I know that I often struggle with games that require a lot of reading, and that includes a lot of visual novel type games.

Thankfully, the game is, for the most part, fully voice-acted :) The very few bits that aren't voiced are that way for narrative reasons hee hoo

The voice acting itself is, in my opinion, phenomenal. Both actors put their heart and souls into their roles, and their care shows in their performances. The Princess is voiced by Nichole Goodnight & the Narrator is voiced by Jonathan Sims (Who you may recognize from The Magnus Archives, if you were ever into that).

The art of the game is beautiful. It is all lovingly hand-drawn, pencil on paper. Thousands of images, and even a few animations, all coming together to form a wonderfully unique visual style that lends itself well to the game itself.

The soundtrack of this game, composed by Brandon Boone & with vocal performances by Amelia Jones, is absolutely breathtaking. It does a phenomenal job setting and supporting the tone of the game, whether it be tension, fear, hope, joy, or anything between and beyond. I can't put it's beauty into words.

Brandon Boone actually just recently won the "Game Music Award" at the World Soundtrack Awards for his work on Slay The Princess, and I deeply believe that it was 100% deserved.

This is... probably far more than you ever asked for. But I mean it when I say that Slay the Princess is one of my favorite games of all time. I mean it when I say that Slay The Princess is a story that will be a part of my heart for as long as I live. I'll take any opportunity to make more people play it, in hopes that it might impact them even a fraction as much as it has impacted me. I've bought a total of 11 copies of this game (1 for myself, 9 which were distributed to friends, and one that's coming with the Collector's Edition)

As my final word, I'll once again remind you:

"Whatever horrors you may find in these dark spaces, have heart and see them through."

"There are no premature endings. There are no wrong decisions."

"There are only fresh perspectives and new beginnings."

"This is a love story."

[strawberriesandhotmen]

Forbidden

a/n: Greetings, babygirls. I’ve been really into angst recently so I needed to indulge myself a little; I’m a sucker for this man in any and all scenarios, but fuck me if angst isn’t a topper on my list. 

pairing: rival!Punisher!Frank x fem!vigilante!reader

CW +18 smut: swearing, angst, hickeys (mention), fingering, begging, reader is a heartless little shit (but also horny so we love her)

word count: 3.5k

Forbidden.

You knew it was, you both did. And yet, somehow, neither of you seemed to give a damn.

It was only supposed to be one time; a one night stand, if you will, but you both knew that was bullshit the moment the agreement had been made.

Things had started off pretty casual; a quickie here, a blowjob there, nothing serious. Just fucking. You had intended to keep things that way; distant, far-removed (emotionally, that is). However, as most people are well aware, intentions often do not come to fruition. This situation would be no different.

You had first come into contact with the infamous Punisher on a mission of your own, attempting to extract some intel from the Russians that had recently made themselves known in the realm of ‘black market activity.’ Unfortunately for you both, Frank had had the same idea. You held your own, no doubt, feeling proud of yourself to even cut his lip in the slightest. But most people can’t take one punch from the Punisher, let alone five. Let’s just say, your jaw was very sore the next day.

You crossed paths one or two more times, each encounter holding more of the same, until a certain mission where the two of you were forced to work together. You couldn’t help that every time he cocked his gun your eyes snapped straight to his forearms. You couldn’t help the shiver that ran straight down your spine every time he uttered a word in that raspy voice of his. And, hell, who could be expected to help themselves with Frank Castle lying on top of them, shielding them from the barrage of bullets flying from the opposition? It was unbidden madness, but you found yourself welcoming it.

You could tell he felt the same, stealing side-long glances at you whenever you walked beside him, unnecessarily shielding you from incoming punches even though he could clearly see you handling it, his hand accidentally brushing against your hip at any available opportunity.

During that same mission, you began to realize the way your heart rate would pick up with each word that left his lips, and you started to understand what it is you were feeling. Well, you were feeling many things, truthfully; annoyance, exhilaration, hunger, but most of all…

Lust.

And that is how you ended up in your bed with Frank Castle. After all, you always got what you wanted, and it helped that he wanted it too. It didn’t end after the first time, with you ignoring the guilt you felt for compromising your morals in such a way. The reward, in your mind, far out won the risk. 

You couldn’t help but notice that nagging feeling, however, that you should put a stop to it, to all of it. It was dangerous, it was stupid, it was reckless. And yet, you found yourself once again falling asleep next to your antithesis, your paradox.

Frank woke up before you this time, a rare occurrence since he wasn’t really a morning person. The sunlight peeking through the blinds agitated his subconscious enough to awaken him, causing him to tiredly roll towards you. His eyelids slowly parted, his sleepy gaze landing on your angelic form.

Covered by only the thin white sheet, the silhouette of your body on full display to Frank, your hair creating a perfect halo around your head. You looked so peaceful, he thought, quite the contrast to your usual snarky attitude. 

Frank's gaze wandered down your body, taking in every single curve you had. His eyes continued to wander downward, pausing when his gaze landed on your hair. For some reason unbeknownst to him, seeing it spread out like that was extremely satisfying to him. Hell, even when it wasn’t spread out all over, it still looked good to him. His hand slowly reached out, gently grabbing a strand of your hair as he carded his fingers through. It was soft, full, and that was even after previous activities that had left you quite messy a few hours ago.

He moved a little closer to get a better look at your sleeping face. You looked really beautiful, he thought, when you weren't yelling at him or arguing about something. A small, uncharacteristic smile appeared on his lips before it slowly faded. They were supposed to be enemies…but why did you have to look so damn good?

You stirred softly in your sleep; not enough to wake, just to subtly turn your body towards him with a subconscious hum. Watching you turn towards him made something in his chest clench, but he pushed it away. He was supposed to be at war with you, not in your bed.

Despite his better judgement, he allowed his callused hand to continue running through your hair, slowly moving down to gently rest on your jawline as he quietly admired you. When he started to really feel like a creep, he decided it was time to wake you. He braced himself for you to lash out from exhausted frustration, gingerly shaking your shoulder. You must have already been on the precipice of consciousness, your eyes almost immediately fluttering open as your gazes connected. Looking down at you as your eyes opened, Frank couldn’t help but notice the way you looked at him. It was probably nothing, but he felt a tinge in his chest all the same. God, you had ruined him.

“Mornin’, princess.” he teased. You fought the urge to roll your eyes at the nickname, not appreciating it. You allowed your gaze to momentarily flit across his features, taking in the bruises and scars gleaned from his most recent mission.

“Morning.” You mumbled quietly, covering your mouth as a yawn overtook you. He chuckled softly at your tired response, watching as you yawned. You looked so cute and adorable like this, he thought, but he quickly shut himself down. Why was he getting so damn attached?

“You look a mess.” He teased again, his hand moving from your jaw to gently brush some of your locks away from your face.

“Well, I wasn’t the one who made the mess.” I shot back suggestively, sending him a look before averting my eyes to the ceiling. His face darkened slightly as a hint of a smirk appeared on his face, the memories of last night returning.

“And who was it begging for more, hm?” You rolled my eyes at his pompous reply, not dignifying his comment with a response. He chuckled, his hand trailing down and gently grabbing your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t even try it, princess. We both know you enjoyed it just as much as I did.” You uninterestedly mhm’d in response, continuing to shield yourself from experiencing any actual emotions. Letting go of your chin, he smirked again before leaning down to your neck, his lips gently brushing over a spot he’d left a mark on the night before.

“If I remember correctly, you seemed to enjoy it even more when I did this…” He paused for a moment before gently pressing his lips to the exposed skin of your neck, his hands running down your body before settling on your hips. He knew he shouldn’t be doing something like this, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be within ten feet of you, but the moment he was touching you again, all rational thoughts faded from his mind. He felt himself getting lost in you, just like he had hours ago. A small, yet all-too-influential part of him selfishly wanted more.

As your brain finally caught up to what was happening, your breath hitched at the intimacy before you pulled away, sitting up against the headboard with the sheet clutched protectively over your bare chest. He watched as you sat up, his mind still hazy with desire. He pushed it away, though, realizing that you were clearly not in the mood for anything. He rather presumptively assumed to himself that you were just tired from last night, that he must be just that good. Without a word, he sat up, his back leaning against the headboard to match you. It was silent for a few moments before he spoke again.

“You alright?” He knew you weren’t, but he knew he should ask all the same. You merely nodded in silence, not so convincingly. He studied you for a moment, noticing the way you held the sheet up, almost trying to hide yourself. Normally, he’d comment on it out of concern, but a rare voice of reason advised him to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he looked down at his lap, rubbing the back of his neck. The awkward silence nearly consumed the room before he spoke up again.

“Listen… about last night-“

“Don’t.” You rudely interrupted. You didn’t mean to be so harsh, but you had also assumed he was smart enough not to bring up the situation. You had agreed not to, after all. He paused for a moment, a bit surprised by the immediate cut-off.

“What, I’m not allowed to speak about it?” You sighed, looking straight ahead.

“It’s just better if we don’t. It was a mistake; we can recognize it like adults and move on.” Now that felt like a knife to his fucking heart. A mistake?

“...A mistake?” Frank felt a foreign sensation in his chest when you referred to it so dismissively. It wasn’t supposed to be a mistake; hell, it wasn’t supposed to be anything…so why did last night still feel so good to him?

“What, you don’t agree?” You finally looked over at him, your tone inconsiderate and rough. He was quiet for a moment before speaking again, seeming to consider his response.

“I think…” he paused, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say. “I think I enjoyed it way too much to call it a mistake.” You had to scoff at that, if for no other reason than to maintain your nonchalant facade.

“It's called sex, Frank, it's meant to be pleasurable.” You stated matter-of-factly, swallowing your desire to cover your naked body as you disappeared into your closet. He leaned forward, a part of him wanting to get up and stop you from walking away. At the same time, his eyes didn’t leave your body, taking in the view for a moment before you shut the door. He swallowed the lump in his throat before leaning back against the headboard, his eyes trained on the closet door as he spoke again.

“It’s not just that, and you know it.” You sighed heavily, having tried to avoid this very conversation for so long.

“Oh, do I?” Your tone was incredulous, haughty. You were desperately trying to push him away, not all that subconsciously. He was beginning to feel agitated. Why were you trying so hard to deny it? He thought you were past that point after last night, and now it was like you were trying to run away from him all over again.

“Yes, you do. and you’re trying to deny it because you don’t want to admit how much you enjoyed it.” He snapped back. His voice had wavered slightly at the end, almost not wanting to argue with you this time.

“The sex was great, Frank, but that’s all it was.” You thought you had him there, not picking up on the ‘just sex’ he had muttered bitterly under his breath. That sentence made him feel like he got punched in the chest. He knew he wasn’t supposed to feel like this, and yet the thought of it being just sex and nothing else made him feel… strange. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or sadness or disappointment or… all three. He didn’t respond for a few moments, his hands grasping the sheets tightly as he clenched his jaw.

“You’re full of shit, you know that?” He cursed himself, knowing he could’ve come up with something better if you weren’t such a damn mind-fuck. You chuckled darkly at that, finally emerging from the closet in panties and an oversized t-shirt that had been lying on the floor.

“Got me good there, Frank.” You patronized, not waiting for a response before walking into the kitchen. You didn’t have to tell Frank you were making breakfast; You always did, no matter if you argued or not. It was strangely domestic, but you chose to ignore the implications each time, and each time you kicked yourself for it. Frank grumbled under his breath at your attitude, making gibberish comments about your unnecessary stubbornness. He was one to fucking talk. 

After a moment or two of wallowing in his disdain of you, he decided to take a shower and clean himself off. He didn’t think himself very persuasive when smelling like fish. After drying himself off, he didn’t even bother putting on a shirt, only pulling on boxers and a pair of sweatpants he had left here a week or two ago. When he stepped out of the bathroom, the smell of bacon immediately found its way into his nose, improving his mood in the slightest. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all. 

He stepped out of the bedroom to find you at the stove, lightly swaying your hips from side to side while humming a tune he didn’t recognize. He thought you looked like a fucking goddess, messy hair and all. There was no way in which he preferred to see you more than right now, in just a t-shirt looking uncharacteristically domestic. He was fucking enthralled by you. Tearing himself from the doorframe, he padded up behind you and snaked his arms around your waist, his chin finding your shoulder. Your muscles tensed at the unexpected contact, but you forced yourself to relax as you heaved out a sigh.

“It’s almost done, you can sit.” You said without turning to look at him. He bit back a smirk, the smell of bacon and your obstinance filling him with a new determination. He was going to have you, and you were going to enjoy it.

“That’s alright, I’ll wait.” He declined, his breath fanning over your neck. You silently cursed your body for even registering the sensation, closing your eyes just long enough to regain complete control over yourself. Flipping a slice of bacon with tongs, you inhaled as you recognized one of Frank’s hands was beginning to move downward. The thought entered your mind to refuse him, but you were so painfully conflicted that you couldn’t bear to make the hard decision. You allowed his calloused and bruised hand to snake under your tattered shirt, smoothing down the skin of your stomach before pausing at the waistband of your panties. He wanted you, but not enough to forego consent. You turned off the burner, moving the bacon pan to the back and allowing your hands to grip the edge of the counter, silently giving him permission.

You heard him let out a sigh of, what was it, relief? And with that, his fingers edged under the lace, stretching dangerously close to your subtly pulsing clit. Damn him and his coercive tactics. He turned you on more than you cared to admit (at all times), but you had moved past being embarrassed about his affect on you, and he had moved past making childish comments about it. That is, he had moved past making childish comments about it. Emphasis is important.

“I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already so wet, princess.” You rolled your eyes, not appreciating his pridefulness (not that it wasn’t completely valid).

“Bullshit, you haven’t even touched my-” You cut yourself off with an involuntary gasped as Frank’s middle finger slipped in between your folds, your body immediately betraying your previous protest. Shit.

“Fuckin’ soaked.” He huffed, sounding almost shocked at the truth behind those words. Yeah, it was shameful. You were much too turned on to even consider uttering a word, apprehensive as to whether or not your body would force a moan out of you instead.

“Not much to say now, huh?” He chided as he brushed against your clit, causing your grip on the counter to tighten in both annoyance and arousal. “What’s wrong, princess?” His lips grazed over the shell of your ear, nipping lightly before that husky voice spoke again. “Cat got your tongue?” He was a fucking menace. He was pissing you off to no end, and yet all you wanted him to do at this very moment was fuck the actual life out of you.

“Shut up, F-Frank.” Pitiful. Anyone could see through that stuttered facade. At this point, you had accepted the fact that he knew how much your body wanted this, even if your mind was screaming fifty different ways to kick him out and never be in this situation again.

“Oh, so she speaks.” What a little shit. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was only doing it to give you a taste of your own, heartless medicine. He must’ve gotten bored, slipping his finger through your folds, because he was now teasing at your dripping entrance, clearly planning to invite himself in.

“She’s so ready for me, princess. Feel that?” He whispered huskily in your ear, not waiting for a response before shoving his finger inside you up to the knuckle. Your mouth dropped open and your breath caught in your throat as he immediately found that spongy heaven inside of you, your grip on the counter so tight you thought you might break it. Frank let out a groan of satisfaction, soon beginning to pump his finger in and out of you at a torturous pace. You could see what he was doing now. He wanted you to beg.

But you wouldn’t. No fucking way.

Frank pressed his chest against your back, his bulge poking into your thinly covered ass from behind. He knew what he was doing, increasing his pace just enough to make you want more…a lot more. It was growing difficult for you to swallow back moans, to hide the gasps that caught in the back of your throat with each pump of his long finger. And just when you had felt like you had reigned in your breathing once again, he shoved a second finger into your tight, dripping hole.

Okay, so maybe you would beg.

“Fuck, Frank.” You gasp out, your hands starting to cramp as you continue to hold onto the counter. You can practically hear the smirk that spreads across his lips at your exclamation, but you were far from bothered by it at that moment.

“What’s that, darling? Something you need?” You squeezed your eyes shut at his cocky taunt, involuntarily clenching around his fingers as they ravaged you.

“F-Frank-” The plea caught on your tongue like a stale taste, foreign on your lips. You didn’t want to beg, you were sure you didn’t, except the thought of doing so sparked a fire so deep inside you that you weren’t so sure at all.

“You can do it, sweetheart, let go.” The way his breath fanned over your ear sent tingles down your spine; you wanted to let go. With a deep breath and a whimper escaping your lips, you did.

“Frank, please.” You had expected a patronizing reply, more taunting even than before. However, the response you got boiled down to a deep groan rumbling from his chest, his lips latching onto your neck as if he were holding on for dear life. His pace increased to an inhuman speed, punching your g-spot with each thrust with expert ability. His palm smacked against your puffy clit, your thoughts clouded by pleasure alone, that impending high just within reach. Your moans echoed across the walls, coupled with Frank’s groans of satisfaction. When you finally came, you didn’t think you’d ever felt so good in your life. Maybe it was the suspense, maybe it was how taboo it all was…or maybe Frank was just that good. But you didn’t care, after this you knew all you wanted was him. You had denied yourself for so long, and you didn’t want to anymore. He was yours.

After you came down from your high, Frank gingerly turned you around and pulled you into his chest, breathing heavily himself. He allowed his lips to ghost over the skin of your neck, placing light kisses here and there.

“So beautiful, baby.” The words were tender, meant. You had never heard such sincerity from him, and you felt as though you wanted to hear it again and again.

“Frank?” You whispered, tilting your head upward to meet his gaze. He looked down at you, bringing your foreheads together.

“Yeah?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you sighed.

“What is this?” You felt terribly stupid for even asking that question; it was childish, cliche, but in this situation, all too necessary. An unexpected smirk spread across his face, and he placed a chaste kiss on your lips before rasping out his reply.

“Forbidden.”

[evieelyzabethh]

Can I request modern au viktor dating headcanons (perhaps streamer au where viktor is dating streamer reader) 👉👈

streamerau!Viktor whose girlfriend starts out as a relatively small creator. Your streams don't get a lot of reach, but it's never bothered you much anyway. You did it more for the passion of gaming rather than making serious money off it. Your set up had been customized and built prior to the idea of even getting a twitch account, you already had countless hours logged into your Minecraft and Sims 4 worlds, as well as having a pretty lengthy collection of games all on your own

streamerau!Viktor who is the reason you even start. One day, he jokingly teased that with how many hours and how much money you had put into your hobby, you might as well try and make some money off it. He's very aware of what it takes to go viral, a pretty face, and you have the prettiest one he's ever seen. He is also quite confident in your skills to go viral. You have the personality, you have the skills, you have the knowledge. He's not even a gamer himself and he still enjoys watching you play and hearing all the interesting fun facts and history that you know about.

streamerau!Viktor who is such a visual opposite to his girlfriend. Part of the differences are played up for the camera, the comically pink and purple set up, the light-up headphones, even the type of content you create, spending less time in COD lobbies and more on cheap cozy games on Steam. He hardly ever steps into your recording office, fearing his tall, lanky, and dark demeanor may come off as some creepy ghost in the corner of your pastel-led room.

This isn't to say you only play those games, but that is simply what gets the views and is the least hostile space. When you do venture out of the typical cozy game aesthetic, it typically adventure puzzle games, like Tomb Raider or Uncharted, or maybe a story-based horror game like Mouthwashing or Until Dawn. In the very early days of your streaming adventure, you and Viktor would play vintage games from your collection, like Mario Kart or Mortal Kombat on your N64 or Sonic on your Sega Genesis. Once you start getting traction, he asks for them to be deleted. He's doesn't want his face all over the internet nor his reactions.

streamerau!Viktor who is quite aggressive when he plays games. He is the first to get loud, the first to blame the controller, the first to claim his screen was lagging and that's why he lost. He is a bit of a sore loser. He also just isn't a fan of games that don't require some sort of skill or technique. He hates luck-based games, or games that depend heavily on rng. Y'all played the first FNAF game ONCE and he lost it because Chica hung around the door so he couldn't open it to alleviate his battery usage and was incredibly pissed when he lost because of that.

streamerau!Viktor who is more into more card games (my personal headcanon is that he is a great Spades partner) but still tunes into every single one of your streams. He thinks it's funny to leave very obvious 'pro-tips' like "don't mine at night with nothing but a wood sword" or "maybe try killing the creepers" or "next time, you should do a back flip off the ledge". Though he doesn't play with you, he does get alluded to in passing, typically by Grim rather than his actual name. The nickname came from one of your Sims streams where you laughed about how much your boyfriend looked like the Grim Reaper and then everyone started calling him that until it eventually got shortened to just Grim. At some point, someone dug through the archives to try and find him. The old streams were long gone at this point, but Viktor had somehow snuck into the corner of a few videos.

Speaking of which, Shadow Man Viktor definitely became a meme on the internet after he was spotted, specifically to that one Berleezy audio (IT IS HOT AS HELL IN THIS FUNKY ASS, HOT ASS ROOM IM IN...IS THAT THE GRIM REAPER???). He doesn't find out about it until you tell him. Viktor is thoroughly not a social media guy; he often gets confused when you make internet references on the stream and asks about what they mean later. That or he quietly texts you "I'm employed, what does that mean?" He never moved over to shorter form content when Vine and TikTok got really popular, and he definitely brags about having a longer attention span because of it. He would be more annoyed with the whole ordeal if his face wasn't obscured, but you can't tell who he is by the low-quality stills. This being said, your followers anxiously await the heavily teased boyfriend reveal.

[roseykat]

TITLE: Calling him ‘daddy’

SYNOPSIS: An OT8 blurb of what happens when you call each of the members ‘daddy’.

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won't be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with these posts so please do not engage with my work and page whatsoever.

TAGS: mentions of sex, orgasms, choking, using the name ‘daddy’, spitting, public sex, degradation, use of names such as ‘slut’, swearing, dirty talk, edging, bondage.

MASTERLIST

A/N: Last blurb upload before I post my Hyunjin one shot for Shutterfly Butterfly. Thank you so much for reading. ily xox (Rose)

-

BANG CHAN

Call him daddy. Just do it, because he will fuck you into next month. He already exudes that ‘daddy’ energy anyway and boy does he live up to it. He’s not always a mean top or dom. In most instances, he’s polite, subtle and unassuming. What he says in bed, goes. You know when to get on your knees and take all of him in your mouth until it’s full with his cum.

You know when to use your words wisely in bed, no matter how frustrated you get with him when he edges you for the fifth time. It’s that type of daddy energy - the ‘say something once and you bow’ type. But, be obedient, and he will reward you for being good. Be disobedient and you won’t see his dick for the next two weeks.

-

MINHO

It’s literally a ‘fuck around and find out’ if you want to call him daddy. If so, he’s dragging you to the nearest surface and fucking you on it. That name to him, drives him nuts - in the best way though. He can be one of those mean daddies who won’t give you what you want, but only on special occasions and only if you truly deserve it.

The times where you don’t deserve it are usually the times where you call him daddy in public just to rile him up. If public indecency wasn’t a crime, Minho would be fucking you in front of everyone who walks past on the street. Or ripping your clothes off with his teeth on the table in the middle of a restaurant. He’d want people to know who your daddy is, and he’s sure one person would at least enjoy the show.

-

CHANGBIN

The name ‘daddy’ flew over his head once, but it’s okay, he was just trying to understand it. The second time he hears you call him it was just as a joke, even then he laughed. But when you’re whining it out for him in bed, that man gets it and he’s done for. When Changbin is about to make you cum, and you’re repetitively calling him daddy, he’ll be fucking you harder into the mattress.

There’s an aspect of the word ‘daddy’ that makes him feel more dominant than usual. It’s like you’re relying on him for something - usually sexual favours, which he loves to uphold. But there’s also the soft requests like hugs, kisses, sometimes but not always, material thing. He’ll do them only for you and loves seeing the satisfaction on your face when he fulfills them.

-

HYUNJIN

Folds when you call him daddy. If he’s pounding into you at such a rough pace, you won’t even be able to get the word out past your lips. The same goes for when he’s choking you. So if your mouth isn’t stuffed with a ball gag or his cock and you’re able to call him daddy, Hyunjin will nearly combust. He needs to hear ‘how good daddy feels’, and ‘how much daddy is making me cum’.

It fuels the hell out of his ego but doesn’t get too cocky about it. He’ll adhere to that title by rewarding you if you’ve been good or punish you if you’ve been misbehaving. Usually his punishments are intense and cruel. Hyunjin has no trouble fixing a collar around your throat, binding your body until you can’t move, edging you until you cry, but would never let you orgasm.

-

JISUNG

The beauty of Jisung is that he’s the ultimate switch who cannot sit in the middle of the top/bottom and dom/sub spectrum. He’s a top or dom one day then flies straight over to the other side as a sub or bottom the next. In saying that when he’s not acting like a whiny, little sub, calling Jisung ‘daddy’ will expand the dominant side of his personality. Hearing that name in his ear will make him fuck you harder, make you cum harder, make you moan louder, all of the above.

He’ll say things like ‘what a gem taking all of daddy’s cock.’ Or, ‘you love it when daddy fucks you like this huh? Look at that, creaming around me like a good little slut.’ It’s insane how much he enjoys that slice of power. He just gets so into the moment that he could easily slip into a top or dom high depending on the situation. Regardless, that is his name to you whenever he’s not being a sub or bottom and he won’t settle for anything less.

-

FELIX

Felix has the personality of an angel - someone who literally cannot do wrong in the eyes of a religious goer. But in bed, he’s the son of Satan himself. The day the word ‘daddy’ accidentally slipped out of your mouth, was the day his innocence was stripped back. He fucks you differently now. It’s harsher, hand around your throat, degrading, wanting to spit in your mouth type of fucking.

He’s become so accustomed to hearing you call him daddy in bed that sometimes it’s weird if you don’t. That being said, if you call him that name outside of the bedroom too, it easily gets him horny enough to fuck you. Be it in a dressing room, the back of his car, or in a club. He could never get enough of hearing that word from you.

-

SEUNGMIN

Isn’t entirely fazed when you call him daddy. He knows he could most definitely be one, but isn’t conceited about it either. It’s the cool, calm, and collected aura around him which is a little bit unpredictable that could make him a ‘daddy’. But that’s what most ‘daddies’ emulate anyway. He needs to be able to make sure you can’t predict what he brings to the bedroom.

That way, he’ll have you screaming out ‘daddy, please’, ‘daddy fuck me’, ‘daddy you’re gonna make me cum’, whenever his cock is buried inside of you. In contrast to that, Seungmin is a master of aftercare. Since he’s harsh, he needs to make up for it afterwards by fully attending to whatever it is that you need. It’s also an unspoken aspect under the umbrella term ‘daddy.’ Either way, he lives up to it well.

-

JEONGIN

At first, Jeongin didn’t understand what the hype was when he heard about people calling their significant others ‘daddy’. It wasn’t until it slipped out of your mouth once in bed which got him hard enough again to fuck you twice. Since then, he’s never looked back. He asked, only if you were comfortable with it, for you to keep calling him that. He could melt into the mattress at the sound of your strained voice, hearing that name when he’s eating you out or taking you from behind.

So on the surface, he’s a seemingly innocent looking person but you know that underneath there is a man who’s been blessed by the gods with the ability to fuck. It’s the same person who likes to hear the word ‘daddy’ fall from your lips the same way that his cum does whenever he uses your mouth.

[prael]

Kinktember 2024 - A Retrospective

What. A. Month. I want to start with my gratitude to every single person who read, commented, liked, reblogged, sent asks, discussed, and otherwise interacted in any other possible way with this whole shebang.

To close it all out, I want to give some of my thoughts and peel back the curtain a little on Kinktember.

Some Facts

168,396 words. One hundred and sixty-eight thousand, three hundred and ninety-six words. Averaging at 5,155 words per fic. Wow.

52 unique idols made an appearance and four were featured on more than one occasion; Wonyoung, Karina, Chaewon and Sakura are the four idols who hold that prestige.

Writing time on these pieces varied heavily, while I attempted to constrict myself to writing each fic in a single day, some of them got far beyond initially planned, with the most amount of time being spent on day 18, the IU fic. That one took roughly a total of 20 hours including editing. The quickest was as short as a 2-hour turnaround on days 14 and 15 (Chaewon and Youngeun).

Special Thanks

I’d like to take a moment before giving my personal thoughts to make a special token of gratitude to certain people. While there has been so much support from so many people and I would love to shout everyone out, I’m limiting myself to just a few.

Firstly, to @maemisnippets for the message on 14/07/2024 that was simply “Stand and carry” in reference to Youngeun. That single simple message became the catalyst for this entire Kinktember.

Secondly, to @midnightdancingsol for taking the time to help me make the initial plan for all the days of Kinktember and making many great suggestions that spawned a lot of these fics. Also thank you to everyone else for your suggestions and ideas.

Finally, to @capslocked for a great many things, from discussing details as small as how to format my posts to everything else you did.

Your Questions

Did you set yourself a time to do each one like a challenge to finish each to make it manageable? I gave myself 1 day per fic, whatever time I could spare during that day would be all I had to complete it, I think for around 27 of them, I managed to stick to this schedule. Some of them did spill over into a second day, such as the longer ones like IU.

How the hell did you find the motivation/inspiration to complete the whole thing? Honestly, I found it incredibly fun. I think I often get stuck in bigger projects and my brain gets all foggy, but with all of these fic being quick and snappy, I never got that feeling. Things kept being fresh and exciting and I was pretty much always looking forward to jumping into the next fic.

How did you approach choosing your kinks? / How did you come up with more of the exotic kinks? First I started with the obvious ones, the ones that instantly came to mind, and just threw them into a list. There are some niche ones that I always wanted to write too, but never had a reason to, such as electrophilia and vicarphilia. So even the more ‘exotic’ choices, I was acutely aware of. Then to round it out I did a little research online and pulled together a list of ‘potential’ kinks, which allowed me to fill out the missing slots.

Did you find varying each entry to be easy or difficult? What went into your thought process when it came to setting up each of the entries and the kink involved? Collecting a list of varied kinks was rather easy, at least initially, once I cut that down to the ones I would like to write, I ended up with a few spaces, and those final few became really difficult. But that’s why it’s great to have a community to lean on and ask for ideas. The thought process wasn’t really anything special beyond that. I just created a list and then picked out what I wanted to write, and then decided on idols to feature in each one. This leads nicely onto the image below, I scraped this initial list from a DM with another writer. As you can see, the initial list I put together on day one contained a large number of the ideas that made it into the final cut. This also serves as an answer to the questions on what ideas I decided to drop.

How did you match the featured idol(s) to the kink you have planned? Was it based on their idol personality? Or was it just random? I approached it in a similar way to how I would with most other fics, where if I think an idol’s personality lends itself to the fic, then I will do just that. Of course, it’s impossible to be really accurate and I had to take some creative liberties where needed. Although, on some occasions, I did just throw an idol in there and write her without thinking about her actual personality too much. This usually happens with idols I know less about.

I'm curious how you went about writing some of the more nicher kinks like electrophilia? The simple answer would be to say that I approached it the same way as I did every other fic. None of the kinks required me to do any further research as they’re all kinks that I’m familiar with and am interested in. So in the end I just wrote what felt right.

Was there an idol that you started liking after finishing writing her? For the sake of my own enjoyment/motivation, I only chose to write idols I already liked. Though I would say that writing the Shuhua fic made me a lot more attracted to her than normal. I could also possibly put IU here too, since she’s not really on the forefront of my mind, but became much more so after writing her.

Was there an idol in particular that you 'wanted' to write, but ultimately switched it to a different idol instead? REI. How did I not write REI?! She was in the original draft list where I was going to do some form of bondage piece, but ultimately all the ideas I had for it were absorbed into other fics.

This feels like a good point to share this initial list I completed with Sol while planning. A lot of this remained true to plan, but you may spot some changes.

Now that it's done are you glad you did it or did you end up regretting your decision at some point? Overall, I’m happy and proud and think it was 100% worth it. I relished the challenge and it took me out of my comfort zone. Right now, the only regrets I have are the fics where I know I could have done more/better but I know that I have to accept that I did the best I could in the time constraints. There were times along the way when I had my regrets and wondered if I should even have bothered, particularly when a fic wasn’t well received, but I know now I had just to accept that.

Do you feel more familiar with your style/voice as a writer, if so: what have you discovered? Did you learn anything from this writing-wise? Discovered some new writing styles and possibly improved some? I think the most important thing I took away from this is how important it is to just get words down on the page. I have spent time previously stuck in my own head and grinding to a halt in a fic when trying to make things work. Kinktember simply wouldn’t allow that, so I had to adapt. I learned to be ruthless by deleting the things that didn’t work and pushing on without trying to be overly perfect. I don’t think I developed my ‘voice’ or style too much because I believe it did have to take a backseat at times in order to maintain pace. However, I did get the opportunity to try new things, such as FxF and writing for a gender-neutral reader and also varying the pacing within the fics. Fics such as the Kkura one where I cut together four short, connected scenes really suited the concept and were very fresh to write.

Which fic do you think the idol and the kink are a 'perfect' match? Maybe in terms of reader reception or how quickly you got into the flow state when writing it? Well, I wasn’t sure at the time, but I was told that Karina and dressing up as a maid worked really well. I also think there were a few really obvious combinations that I leaned on, such as spanking Chaewon and having Ryujin and Yeji scissor, or having Minju be a doll. Those are ones that just instantly clicked for me and I thought to myself it was a perfect match. I would say I entered the biggest flow state when writing the Moka x Yunah, I found it incredibly hot, so much so that I finished the fic and then when going to edit, I wrote the second scene. Idk I’m just really down bad for Moka rn. Also, I hear that I really nailed the Yunjin/Kkura/Chaewon dynamic, so probably that one too.

Is there a fic that you would have written regardless but just so happened to be included in kinktember, if that makes sense? I never really know what I’m going to write next until I’m writing it, and I never know if it will be posted until I post it. This makes it hard for me to really guarantee that anything in Kinktember would one day come to fruition. The closest to it would be part 2 of the Minji fic, How Sweet To Be Alone. I always wanted to follow up on it, so being able to add it as a kinktember fic became a bit of a perfect storm. There are other fics too that I always wanted to write, and maybe I would have one day, but kinktember made it a reality.

Would you do kinktember(or any other variant) again? Would you recommend writers to try it at least once? I would say I’m more likely to do it again than I am not, but I can’t guarantee it. As for recommending it to other writers… the honest answer is no. I feel that it goes against so many of a writer's natural instincts. It takes over your life. It consumes your time. You’re forced to work unnaturally hard and you’re forced to reduce your standards. I don’t think it’s healthy for anyone to push to do something like this.

Finally, throughout the month I had so many nice asks that I couldn't respond to, but I read them all and appreciated them all so much.

[judespoets]

THE PROPHECY

summary: Surely moving to a whole other country to get away from your ex would give you a chance to restart, right? But that’s apparently not what was planned for you.

You came to Madrid to start off completely new, new job, new friends and no seeing familiar faces- until you do, but that’s not Jude is it? Surely that’s not the Jude Bellingham you knew oh so well as a kid, or is it him?

What happens when you see your childhood best friend after so many years again? Does he remember you and is the connection as strong as it was back then? What does the prophecy say for you?

chapter one | new

The air in Madrid was warm, the rays of sun shining through the little amount of clouds in the sky making the tiny amount of freckles on your face visible. But the comfort you usually felt during the summer when the sun was warm and the birds were chirping, wasn’t there. Instead you felt a weird sense of emptiness, a feeling of not belonging made its way through your body as you wandered through the streets of your new home.

Home. You said that word so often, every time you came to the house you lived in to be exact but have you ever felt like you were at home? Definitely not in last few months of your relationship and that was what made the situation you were in even weirder.

You were never single and an adult at the same time. All you have ever known was being in a relationship and you thought it would be like that for the rest of your life. But being alone, in a new city, without knowing anyone so suddenly was very new and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t scare you.

But you didn’t have any other choice. You couldn’t go anywhere in London without seeing his face. Everywhere you went, you’ve been there with him. As long as your relationship was, it was almost impossible to find a spot you haven’t been together. So you took the first opportunity you were given, which was accepting the promotion that was partly the reason of your breakup. Away from his face, away from your family, your friends, and away from the pain you felt every day after he said he didn’t want to try and you saw him with another woman. Honestly, everything was falling apart long before telling him you had to try long distance. But sitting there, looking into the eyes you once knew so well, was all the confirmation you needed in that moment.

So running away sounded like a good plan but right now you weren’t so sure if it really was. If you could ever make this place feel like home, if you could ever find something that felt like home.

Now standing in the empty living room which was filled with unopened, brown boxes made you feel exhausted, desperate even. How on earth would you do this? How on earth did you ever believe you even could? You were never this impulsive before and it scared you. It scared you to get to know the person you were, because as long as you’ve known, you never had to. He knew you, but did you?

A sharp ,loud ring pulled you out of your thoughts. Your phone which you were absentmindedly clutching in your hand was ringing.

“Hello?” You answered, you didn’t even look at who was calling you, too wrapped up in your own little bubble.

“Y/N!” A loud, high pitched but familiar voice rang through the created silence of your new living room. “Girl, when I said “do something unexpected” I didn’t mean just run away to a whole other country.” The girl, who was known as Ellie, also as your best friend, stated from the other line of the phone.

“Oh. Well yeah.” You answered, not having planned about telling her about your big move.

“What do you mean “well yeah”? You’re in Spain, Y/N! How long do you plan on staying anyway?” She asked, sounding sure of you using this as a trip, a trip to just get away. But she didn’t know it was so much more than that.

“Uhm, you know. It’s a one-way ticket so.” You said, silently hoping that you didn’t have to speak the truth out loud. Especially not to Ellie.

“A fucking one-way ticket? Y/N, what the hell is going on?” She spoke, softly but also demanding, not sure about how to react to the news.

“Well I told you about the promotion.” You said, still not getting to the actual point.

“Yeah, a promotion as a physiotherapist for a football team- no way! You’re not serious.” She said, interrupting herself, slowly catching up on what you were trying to tell her.

“Yeah. I’m gonna stay here for a while, see how it works out, you know?” You asked, unsure about her reaction.

“So you moved to Spain? Where exactly?” She asked, sadness clinging to her words.

“Madrid.” You answered shortly.

“Okay. What about Toby?” Boom. Toby. The reason you even ran away, the reason this was all even happening.

“Uhm, we- he- uhm, well you know, we broke up.” You stammered. It was the first time you actually said the words out loud, and it hit you harder every time you thought of that.

“You what?!” She almost screamed, completely shocked about the news. “Why? When? And why haven’t you told me, babe?”

“Uhm, two weeks ago.” You said, the emotions slowly creeping up to your eyes.

“Oh babe, what was the reason?” You heard her ask carefully, scared to touch the sentimental topic.

“Uhm, it was a few things. The promotion, he didn’t want to try long-distance and, and he uhm- he cheated.” You breathed out, choking on the last word, the tears prickling in your eyes.

Your position changed too. You were sitting down, down on the cold floor in the center of the empty room. It was almost a beautiful scene if the topic between you two wasn’t so depressing.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, y/n. I don’t know what to say, i wish i could hug you.” She stated, a weird silence ringing through the line.

“It’s okay.” You sighed, not knowing what to say either.

“Look, if you want to talk about it, you know i’m here, right? I will always be, even if you’re this far away.” Ellie told you reassuringly. She had this talent of making you feel heard and not alone even if she wasn’t in the same room as you.

“I appreciate you so much, El. I gotta go tho, gotta unpack all of my stuff, I’m starting tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay. Please call me, okay?” She asked, the fear of losing you because of this distance pretty evident in her way of talking.

And just after you assured her you would call the second you could and hanging up the phone, everything came crashing down. Every emotion you were desperately trying to hold in the last two weeks. The pain of being cheated on, the fear of moving away completely alone and the hiraeth to Toby. You were curled up on the floor, the tears no intention of stopping and the sun outside slowly setting, marking the end of the day that you so desperately wanted to end.

A gasp escaped your lips, as you quickly sat up, feeling the outcome of sleeping on the floor in your bones.

Your heart was racing, the sun was out, but one glance at the clock on your phone and you could calm down. It was 6 in the morning so you decided against another session of sleep and for slowly getting ready.

So you got up from your uncomfortable position on the floor and started rummaging through the boxes that were still unpacked, in need of your beloved coffee machine and a mug.

So there you sat, on the floor in an empty apartment in the middle of Madrid, coffee machine plugged into the nearest power outlet you could find, hair still messy from your rather uncomfortable night of sleep and bags under your eyes like you didn’t close them for a week.

This whole thing was wearing you out and you were just hoping it was all worth it.

Two hours later and you were sitting in your car on the way to the location of your new job. You felt weird, looked put together tho, that was all that counted.

It was funny, because you yourself didn’t even know what you were walking into in just a few minutes because the only thing you knew about this new job is that it was for a football club, you didn’t know which one neither how professional it was, you would continue your work as a physiotherapist, that was what you knew. That at least was what your boss told you just a few weeks ago when he said you would be promoted within the company. And when he told you it’s in Spain you immediately agreed, no further questions, so here you are, car parked at the exact location that was given you.

Turning off the car and stepping out, you finally looked up and greeting you was nothing other than the big, silver, shining badge of Real Madrid right at the entrance of the facility.

The disbelief was probably more than evident in your face after you checked the location three times, in fear that you typed it in wrong, but this was it. So as scared as you were, you opened the doors, walking up to the register where a nice woman greeted you and told you your ways.

And just as you were walking down the corridor towards the head coaches office, you bumped into someone, making the stack of papers in your arms fall right down to the floor.

“Y/N?”

——

thank you so much for reading this! please let me know what you think!