#if you only bled glitter

[starry-bi-sky]

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

He has an older brother

He was dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he scowls even deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danyal kills each one.

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

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

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

"Danya!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...So be it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What if one of us faked our death?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

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

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the last time you loved him. 

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

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

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

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

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

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

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

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

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

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

Instead, quiet. 

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

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

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

“Милый?” Sweetie?

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

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

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

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

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

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

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

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

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

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

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

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

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

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

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

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

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

The bedroom is dark. 

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

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

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

Not your husband. 

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

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

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

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

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

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

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

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

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

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

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

English. 

Explains the accent. 

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

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

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

[xtra7s]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 ★ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏

pairing: Renee Rapp x reader

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

content: none

word count: 2500+

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[hanlimz]

[midnight thoughts: jungwon + the sublime]

synopsis: after an arduous battle, jungwon isn't sure if he's going to make it, but he has to say something before he goes. pairing: yang jungwon x gn!reader genre/warnings: spiderwon!au, angst with happy ending / mentions of blood, discussions of death, overall angsty themes but no one actually dies!, lots of confessions of love, and weird inclusion of "the sublime" bc we talked abt it in my eng class, also NOT proofread :,) wc: ~2.4k (haha OOPS) a/n: heyyyy how yall doin :))))) this has been sitting in my drafts forEVER ... and i finished it at 1am b4 my first day of school so be warned for inconsistencies / i liked the first half of this drabble but the second half is not my fave ,, so sorry that i couldn't do you justice spiderwon

yang jungwon never believed in the concept of the sublime. that uncanny mixture of overwhelming fear and unsettling fascination never managed to make an impression on him. especially in his line of work, jungwon is firm in his notion of death: when the time comes, a vast blackness will consume him; the void will leech away his life, and he will cease to exist. there will be no theatrics, no white light, no booming voice or angel song—only a comforting emptiness welcoming him into the dark.

now, however, jungwon lies alone in a familiar back alley; the tips of his fingers are numb from the amount of blood he's lost, and he can hardly lift his head up from the brick wall it's resting on. the palms of his hands are stained a deep crimson as he attempts to stop the river of red spilling from his thigh. jungwon admires the eerily beautiful way in which the body lets go; glinting in the dim street lights, his wounds glitter like rubies in a summer sunset. at this point, succumbing to his injuries seems inevitable, and jungwon thinks there may be some truth to be found in sublimity.

but, he's not ready to die. not yet—not with so many things left undone, so many things left unsaid.

with the little strength he has left, jungwon reaches for his backpack hidden in the nook behind the dumpster. he pulls out his phone and dials a number number he knows by heart; his cold fingers fumble over the screen, and he curses his current lack of dexterity. eventually, though, the machine begins to ring. the sound grates on his ears as he waits with bated breath for you to pick up.

"hello?" you croak, your question laden with sleep, "who is it?"

a breathy chuckle escapes jungwon's lips. he had forgotten how late it was, how you mentioned earlier that you had a calulus exam tomorrow, and just how gorgeous you sounded when you were tired. "sorry, [y/n] ... didn't mean to wake you," jungwon sighs, "just wanted to hear your voice."

"won, seriously?" you scoff, "this couldn't have waited 'til tomorrow? i mean, it's—it's two in the morning ... i was literally just dreaming about acing that calc test."

a dopey grin fastens itself to jungwon's lips as he wills his eyes to stay open. if he falls asleep, he knows there's a possibility that he won't get back up; so, he indulges for a bit, listening to your fatigued grumbling and smiling like an idiot. "honestly, m'not sure if tomorrow's in my cards, [y/n]," he admits, trying to hide how labored his breaths are becoming, "'nd i jus' wanted to hear you one last time."

"yang jungwon, what the hell are you—" jungwon knows exactly when you realize he's in trouble. he knows exactly when you realize he's not messing with you. the abrupt pause, the hitch in your breath, the way you inhale through your teeth—it's almost too obvious. "oh fuck," you continue, "oh shit ... won, where are you? are you hurt? what can i do to help?"

jungwon coughs out a laugh, "'m in the alley off jackson ave, 'nd i think i've bled on every piece of old furniture back here, if that says anything."

your breathing is frantic. jungwon listens to the sound of rustling clothes and the occasional thud of your foot as it hits your bed frame. you're cursing and mumbling and unravelling at the seams, searching for whatever you can that might help you help jungwon. out loud, you go through a list: gauze, neosporin, saline.

"am i missing anything?" you ask, not expecting a response.

"bandages?" jungwon replies.

"bandages!" you exclaim, "i almost forgot the fucking bandages?" there's more noise on the other side of the phone, and jungwon doesn't let himself relax until he hears your window crack open. metal clangs as you rush down the fire escape; he wills the beating of his heart to match the tempo of your feet against the steps. jungwon wills himself to stay alive. and, it's almost as though you can read his mind through the phone. "don't you dare fall asleep, yang jungwon. talk to me about something—anything—just don't fall asleep."

he racks his brain for a topic of conversation; the nerves building in his stomach as he anticipates next week's orgo exam, the cat he rescued from a tree in queensbridge park earlier today, the new thai restaurant that opened up near his apartment building. options race through his mind, but all of jungwon's thoughts lead back to you.

"i love you," jungwon says, abrupt yet resolute.

"oh god." you suck in an incredulous gasp, "you're delirious. this is—"

"i'm not delirious," he interrupts, voice hauntingly clear. "i know what i'm saying. and, i'm saying that i love you, [y/n] [l/n]."

for a moment, the line crackles with a thick, viscous silence that seeps through the grainy static; it's heavy, almost too real, and jungwon listens to the sound of your shoes slamming against the pavement until you speak again. "okay," you sigh, something unreadable swimming behind your words, "keep talking to me, jungwon."

jungwon takes in a deep breath before speaking again. his whole body is cold now, and if it weren't for the weakness spreading throughout his veins, he's positive his teeth would be chattering. inhaling the concoction of gasoline fumes, freshly dumped trash, and frigid, autumn air, jungwon feels the chill of the reaper creeping up the length of his spine. its spindly fingers beckon him into that same darkness he was once so sure of, once so okay with. but, jungwon can't let himself give in to its temptation. after all, he has someone waiting for him.

"you give me this feeling," jungwon declares in an inexplicable moment of lucidity, "'nd i dunno how to explain it. it's—it's like ... i look at you, and you pull me in. an invisible string, maybe? fate? true love? i'm—i have no idea what to call it. you always make me want to know more, even though i've known you forever. since we were kids, [y/n]—i've felt like this for years. and, i'm sorry. i'm sorry for not telling you earlier, for not telling you when i told you about the whole spiderman thing.

"i'm such an idiot for making you worry. someone who loves you shouldn't do that to you, i shouldn't do that to you. and, god [y/n]—i love you so much. you're this force of nature, you know? drawing me in, even though it's dangerous. and, even though i'm terrified of what the consequences might be, i love you so much that i'm afraid to die without saying it at least once.

"i'm—i'm so sorry for being so stupid, because—" jungwon whispers with a shaky voice, teetering on the edge of consciousness, "i love you, [y/n]. i love you."

jungwon's hearing is fading in and out, and his vision is growing blurry; but, the sounds of your footsteps accompanied by the incessant drone of his phone keeps him from slipping into that overwhelming darkness. you take in a sharp breath, and his head lolls in your direction. jungwon's lips are molded into a mindless, faraway smile; his eyes are misted over, foggy with both pain and fatigue. he's not all there, but he still manages to be cheerful. it astounds you.

rushing over to begin applying all the first aid supplies you managed to stuff into your backpack. wound-wash, gauze, bandage, wound-wash, gauze, bandage, wound-wash gauze bandage, wound-washgauzebandage. the sheer amount of blood that has been leeched from his body makes you dizzy; your head is spinning as you try to calculate just how many pints would be equal to what you've just sopped up. glancing up at your best friend (crush? lover?) you see that his eyes have drooped shut. his skin is pallid, his lips are pale, his neck is craned at an awkward angle as it rests on his shoulder. and, your heart stops because you didn't get to say it back.

"no. no, no, no ... won—jungwon, wake up!" a storm brews in your stomach. it starts as a mellow rain pattering against the lining of your intestines, then becomes a raging tempest as it bubbles up and out of your throat. "please, please, please! i got here in time, i swear—i never cared about the stupid, fucking calc test! i cared about you, i care about you! and, i'm here now, so you can't leave. you can't leave me."

an inhuman shriek claws through your lips, ricocheting against the brick walls that seem to be caving in around you; the weight of the world crashes into your frail shoulders, threatening to crush you. as you inch even closer to jungwon's shrouded figure, your pants are soaked through with a crude mixture of blood and rainwater. you reach out for him and cup his cheek with a trembling hand, and part of you swears his skin is still warm to the touch.

but, hope has no place here.

instead, you cradle his head and heave his body to rest against yours. he is astonishingly heavy; you can feel his muscles ripple beneath the tips of your fingers, but you're already convinced. your best friend is dead. slowly, the cement will absorb his heat, and he will grow cold. as the morning draws nigh, you will be forced to put his mask back on and leave him for someone else to find. then, the news articles will pour in, and the city will have stolen not only his life, but his death as well. tears are wetting his scalp as you bury your nose into his sweat-caked hair. you're gripping at his suit so hard you think the threads might snap, and the throbbing in your head is nothing compared to the agony in your heart.

the wailing doesn't stop until, in your peripherals, you see his finger twitch. sucking a staggering breath through his nose, jungwon cracks open a tired eye to gaze up at you. "i would—" he coughs out with a wince, "i would never leave you."

in your stupor, his voice doesn't register first. his mouth moves, but no sound escapes him; then, the words play over again in your mind while his lips remain closed. seconds melt into minutes, and you float away from your body. a numbness overtakes you as you stare at the scene before you from about five feet away; your fingers are still clutching at the suit fibers, the pajamas you chose earlier tonight are now saturated with blood, and jungwon is breathing. jungwon is breathing. jungwon is breathing.

snapping back into yourself, you place a weak hand on his chest. steadily, certainly—it rises and falls; the beating of his heart, though shallow and slow, thrums beneath your palm. shifting your stare to his face, you are greeted once again by a familiar, wry smile. jungwon is alive. despite all odds, the boy you love is alive; and, try as you might, you can't really help yourself.

"[y/n]?" he croaks, quirking the eyebrow above his less swollen eye, "can you hear—"

"i love you, too."

the utterance dangles precariously in the frigid midnight air. jungwon's lack of response causes your stomach to churn until he relexes further into your frame, huffing out a pained laugh. he lets himself rest for a moment, relishing in the warmth he manages to leech from your skin. "it wasn't ... wasn't supp—supposed to happen like this, you know?" jungwon protests, voice catching on his fatigue and discomfort. "i ... had everything planned—planned out."

"won, you don't—"

baring his teeth, he lifts a hand to hold the one you kept on his chest and barrels through your objection. "i was gonna take you to the met ... gonna take you for a pic—a picnic in central park." jungwon sputters, pressing his forehead against your upper arm, "then, we would swing ... back to your apartment. 'nd, i was gonna tell—tell you. tell you about how i feel."

still supporting his neck with your arm, you move to take his face in your palm once more. jungwon's gaze is sharper than it was just minutes ago—more focused, more alert. the emotions swirling in those deep pools of raw umber are more multitudinous than the stars they reflect. gratitude, torment, joy, defeat, love. bridging the gap that had separated the two of you for so long, you stop just shy of his lips. a dynamic heat emanates from them; jungwon is practically vibrating under your touch, living and breathing.

"are you okay?" you ask, "is this okay?"

jungwon answers by pushing himself up—closing the distance, sharing your breath, connecting your souls. salt and iron dance on his tongue as your tears mingle with his blood. it's a hypnotizing concoction—one that threatens to send him reeling, one that threatens to have him spinning out with no hope of return. fireworks explode behind his eyelids, a myriad of bright reds and vibrant oranges blinds him, and jungwon uses what is left of his strength to grip your wrist; he grounds himself and allows his lungs to burn as he breathes you in.

after a while, however, your parting is instinctual as the lack of oxygen forces you apart—two bodies trying to preserve themselves long enough to meet again. with a labored sigh, jungwon slumps backwards and tucks his chin to catch your gaze. in that moment, he finds himself frozen; his essence is suspended motionless, positively bewitched by you. in the silence, where all he can sense is you, jungwon embraces the ever-present warmth that has flourished within him. it floods his being with a terrifyingly powerful adoration for you. it is nothing like he has ever felt before, and though he is brave enough to confess, this extent of his love for you—it scares him.

however, as your skin glows in the light of the moon and your eyes pool with the desire for a future with him, jungwon digs his feet in and roots your love deep within his heart. he refuses to let this fear grow in its place; instead, he vows to nurture it, to care for it, to protect it. as he lies in your arms, jungwon rejects the sublime once more and chooses for himself.

"i love you, [y/n]," he whispers into your palm.

the world seems to go quiet as it listens for your response.

"i love you, too, jungwon."

[harrystylesfan2686]

Crush On Them

Pairing: Nessian x Reader

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

Warnings: Little smut with plot. A little fluff.

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

Masterlist

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

But then Nesta came along.

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

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

You distant yourself after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They loved this game so damn much.

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

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

The sight waters your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, your turn, sweetheart."

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

[sufferu]

Okay, so. This is actually a rather big spoiler for No Refunds, so imma need all of you to hush up about this one when it comes to the current main fic ;)

Anyway — here’s the first draft of a very essential upcoming scene, for all those who wish to see it.

No Refunds Ficlet: March Away From Omelas

____

The five Royal Selection Camps met inside City Hall. Crusch Karsten, flanked by Ferris Argyle and Wilhelm van Astrea. Felt, attended by Rachins, Gaston, Camberley, and the Sword Saint himself. Anastasia Hoshin, with her personal knight and the Captain and Vice Captains of the Iron Fang. Priscilla Barielle, who had elected to witness the ensuing spectacle alone. And of course — Lady Emilia herself, with Beatrice, Otto, Garfiel, and the Oni twins all standing by her side. With a singular exception, nobody else was allowed within the building: they were alone.

That singular exception stood in the middle of the room, of whom a decision now had to be made.

“…I didn’t do anything wrong,” Natsuki Subaru said uncertainly. Why were they all looking at him like that? He wanted to take a step back, but managed to resist the urge just barely. “Priestella is saved now, isn’t it? And— we’ve taken care of five Archbishops of Sin.”

He was objectively correct, about both of those things. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the Battle of Priestella had ended with zero casualties thanks to his contributions. There had been structural damage to the buildings of the city, sure, and there had been injuries here and there — bruises, gashes, broken bones — but nothing that had been lethal, and likely nothing that was going to be permanent. And of the five Sin Archbishops that had attempted to siege the city — one was dead, and the other four had been successfully captured, awaiting transport to the capital of Lugunica. Nothing like this had ever been accomplished in recorded history. In every sense of the word, Subaru had pulled off a miracle.

But in order to do it, he had—

“How many times?” Julius croaked. Subaru glanced his way, and froze at the look of devastation on his face. “Subaru — how many times was it?”

“I—” Subaru broke off. There was a long, long silence as everyone waited for him to answer. “…Does it matter?” he finally retorted. “I think the results speak for themselves, don’t they? Everyone’s safe, and everyone’s happy! Isn’t that the only thing that really matters, in the end?”

Otto made an indecipherable noise. Nobody looked at him.

“You didn’t answer us,” Wilhelm growled. The raw anger in his voice made Subaru stiffen. “How many times was it?”

When Subaru didn’t answer, everyone knew it was because he didn’t know.

“What a boorish question,” Priscilla scoffed. She was the only one there who looked relaxed, fanning her face gently as she peered at the lot of them from the side of the room. “Subaru saw that there was danger and rose to the challenge. If he bled for it in the meanwhile, what does it matter?”

“‘What does it matter?’” Felt repeated, her quiet voice already glittering with the warning sparks of her growing rage. “Big Bro just — killed himself, again and again, for OUR sakes, and — and ‘What does it matter?’”

“For Subaru, the ultimate sacrifice is a thing that he can make as many times as he wishes, as a means to an end,” Priscilla answered. “He can accomplish great things with his ability. He HAS accomplished great things, even. If I were his liege, I would be rewarding him for his accomplishments, not stifling his potential.”

“‘Stifling his potential’?” Felt repeated, disbelief coloring her voice red. “You’d call him — him DYING, again and again — you’d call it POTENTIAL?”

“Has he not allowed you to witness a miracle, peasant?” Priscilla returned. “Through his efforts, he has brought about a solution that would otherwise never have come to fruition. This is a thing to celebrate, is it not?”

“It is absolutely not!” Mimi cried out. “Mimi didn’t want this! Mimi didn’t want to survive because — because someone did THIS for her sake!”

Felt took a deep breath, clearly trying to maintain her composure. “…Subaru,” she said, directing her words towards the focus of the conversation. “Do you really think that winning the fight today was worth — this?”

Subaru stared back at her like she had grown a second head. “Of COURSE it was,” he scoffed, as if it were the obvious answer. “I’m just one person, and — not even a particularly valuable one at that.” From the corner of the room, Otto stared at him with growing despair. He didn’t even notice. “Sure, it — it sucked a lot, but I did it, and now everyone’s fine! So of course it was worth it.”

Felt swallowed, trying her hardest not to scream. She folded her hands in front of her — a practiced motion, one Reinhard had instilled into her through hours and hours of those stupid etiquette lessons. “And…” she faltered. “And you would do it again, if you felt that it was necessary.”

Subaru visibly flinched at the suggestion, but quickly moved to answer her. “O-Of course I would!” he insisted, his eyes darting around. Nearby, Crusch and Reinhard both stared at something that nobody else could see. “I—I AM still a knight, you know. It’s a knight’s JOB to put others before themselves. And…” He swallowed. “I know I’m not good at it, but if I try hard enough — well. My…circumstances…I mean — I’m in the perfect position to put others before me, right?”

“Because you never have to stop doing it,” Julius realized. “Because even if you die — you don’t have to stop.”

Subaru didn’t realize the surge of devastated nausea that such a realization had inspired in the gut of the Finest of Knights. “Exactly!” he crowed. “That’s exactly right! You see?”

Someone made a horrible strangled sound. Nobody knew who it was, and everyone was too focused on the matter at hand to find out, anyway.

“And if we’re not okay with it?” Felt pressed, trying to ignore the hole that was widening in her gut. “If we don’t want any part of — of an exchange like that?”

“…That’s ridiculous,” Subaru scoffed. “Why would anyone not — want to live? That’s stupid.”

“Why indeed,” Ricardo muttered.

“Maybe it’s not that — that someone doesn’t want to live,” Crusch said, her voice tense. “Maybe it’s that someone doesn’t want their life to be saved through…” She shook her head. “Maybe they consider — other things, to be more important.”

“Like what?” Subaru retorted.

“Honor, maybe,” Crusch said. “Ethics. Dignity. Integrity. Any of the things of which a loss would turn a person into a dog. …You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Valuing the alleviation of momentary suffering over a perfect ending is the way of dogs,” Priscilla replied, her eyes glinting. “If momentary suffering is necessary for a perfect ending, then to undergo it for the sake of fulfilling his duty — that is the sign of a wonderful knight.”

“There are limits,” Felt forced out through gritted teeth. “To what level of ‘momentary suffering’ is acceptable. Not that I’d expect YOU to understand that.”

“Lady Felt—”

“Don’t!” Felt snapped. Reinhard stopped. “Just— don’t. Not now.”

“I’d say it’s a perfectly acceptable level of suffering!” Subaru retorted, raising his voice. “I’m the only one who has to go through it, so I’m the one who gets to decide what’s acceptable, right? That’s how it works!”

“No the FUCK it’s not!” Rachins bellowed, taking a step forward. Reinhard quickly grabbed his wrist, preventing him from marching over to punch Subaru in the face. Rachins didn’t even glance back at him, fixated solely on the object of his rage. “You don’t get it make a choice like THAT when you— when you’re planning something THAT HORRIBLE!” he spat. “Who the fuck would be alright with this?! Just one ultimate sacrifice is hard enough to stomach, but — you can’t even tell us how many times it was! How am I supposed to go forward when I know you— YOU—”

“You might have DIED if I didn’t do anything!” Subaru protested. “If it was you or me— even if I had to choose all of you hundreds of times over, then—”

“How was it your place to make that decision for us?!” Anastasia burst out, uncharacteristically emotional. She hadn’t looked this way even back at the inn. “I didn’t want this!” she cried. “I didn’t consent to this! I never wanted to be complicit in something this awful, and here YOU went and made the choice to — to repeatedly sacrifice yourself for all of us regardless! I didn’t WANT you to do this for me!”

“We weren’t able to do anything,” Ferris managed, white as a sheet. He was gripping his head. “We weren’t able to stop nyew at all. And nyew didn’t stop nyerself, either: the first thing nyew decided to do when the Witch Cult attacked was…” Ferris fixed his gaze on Subaru, glassy with panic and devastation. “So long as nyer a knight, and protecting the country is nyer job— we won’t be able to stop nyew at— at all—”

“Oh like that’s any different than what Reinhard is doing,” Subaru retorted. “What, so him being unstoppable in his role as a Sword Saint is fine, but me using my own ability to act as a knight is crossing a line? How is THAT fair?”

Reinhard flinched violently, taking a step backwards.

“How DARE you make a comparison like that?!” Felt spat, finally snapping and raising her voice to a roar. “HOW DARE YOU?! You wanna know what the difference is, Subaru?! Reinhard being the Sword Saint doesn’t mean we’re all dooming him to fucking KILL HIMSELF for our sakes!”

“I can’t believe you would even SUGGEST such a thing,” Julius snarled, uncharacteristically vicious. “The role of the Sword Saint is a heavy one, yes, but it isn’t in any way the same thing as someone sentencing himself to execution after execution for the rest of —” Could Subaru die a natural death? He didn’t even want to THINK about the concept of an eternity trapped in a fate like this. “— of his natural life! You absolute— how could you even consider—?!”

Reinhard was not allowed to wish for his role as the Sword Saint to be taken away from him. Wishing for for such a thing was as good as poisoning his mind against the kingdom itself. In any case, nobody could ever strip him of his title even if they wanted to: nobody was more suited to the role of the Sword of the Kingdom than Reinhard van Astrea.

But now, he realized with a bolt of absolute clarity— now he was on the outside, looking in. Subaru wasn’t wrong about his curse positioning him in a manner that made him uniquely suited for the role of a knight. But if they allowed him to take that position up once again—

Reinhard thought of himself, and how he was never going to escape his title. He thought of Subaru, who was inches away from thrusting himself into the same position. He thought of an old story about his grandmother and grandfather, and how — just once — a Sword Saint had been set free.

“Subaru—” He tried to say, stepping forward, but Wilhelm held out his arm before anyone else could see what he was doing. Reinhard glanced his way, and saw ice blue eyes glimmering with the conviction of tempered steel.

—Reinhard understood. He stepped back to where he had been a second before.

…He likely wouldn’t have been allowed to be the one to do so anyway. Reinhard van Astrea could not act against the good of the kingdom, no matter who got hurt in the process.

Julius was still speaking. “How do you not understand?!” he shouted, his eyes blazing. “You seem to be thinking of this as— as some sort of— you just don’t get it, do you?! Do you have any idea how—” Horrified. Disgusted. Devastated. Mortified. “—how ANGRY we are with you right now?”

“I mean, I’d probably do it anyway!” Subaru pointed out, folding his arms stubbornly. “Whether I have the title or not, I’m always gonna want to help the people around me, right? You can’t stop me from doing THAT.”

The temperature of the room dropped significantly. Subaru’s eyes widened, his arms springing up to wrap around his chest at the sudden chill. A couple of pairs of eyes flickered to Emilia, who sat motionless in her seat.

“…For nyer own sake,” Ferris hissed, one of those in the room that was utterly unaffected by this cold air. He looked very much like he wanted to murder Subaru on the spot. “I am going to assume that was nyer misguided attempt at cracking a JOKE. But on the off-chance that nyew were being serious, I can assure nyew: we have ways of keeping people alive against their will if nyeed be.” He grinned, his face so sour it looked like it might curdle milk. “Nyew’ve seen me deal with suicidal Witch Cult prisonyers, Subaru-kyun. Do nyew think I’m above treating nyew the way I treated them?”

Subaru took a step back.

“Ignoring the absolutely disgusting moral implications of what you just suggested you planned on doing to yourself for the rest of your life,” Julius said coldly, eyes fixed on Subaru’s face. “You do realize that you just threatened ALL OF US, by saying that you would use time travel to bend reality to your heart’s content regardless of how we feel about it — do you not?” Subaru flinched. “I assumed you were better than that.” Julius rolled his shoulder. “But Ferris is right: if you are NOT better than that, then we can find a way to make sure we don’t have to worry about you deciding to reverse time behind everyone’s backs.”

“The lot of you are being ridiculous,” Priscilla scoffed. “Your wonderful knight saved an entire city almost single-handedly, and you wish to remove him from his post? Sacrifice is a part of life. If you can’t stomach the sacrifice necessary to feed the fire of life, then you are unfit to stand in the light of mine gaze.”

“There’s a fucking limit to the kind of sacrifices a reasonable person should accept!” Felt shot back. “Not like you’d understand a thing about being reasonable, you— you MONSTER. How can you talk about someone ripping himself apart so flippantly?!”

“If ripping oneself apart is what a person wishes to do, then I shall not stand in their way.” She smiled. “Just as there is beauty in war, there is beauty in sacrifice — or in this case, the dance of eternal sacrifice, in service of the greater good.” The Sun Princess frowned down at Felt, who was staring at her with a look of horrified disbelief. “It is not Subaru’s fault if a peasant like you cannot handle how he chooses to live and die,” she said coldly. “If he has made his choice, then he has made it so.”

“That’s vile…” Felt choked out. “Even for you, that is VILE.”

“Personal autonomy has limits,” Crusch said coldly. “If a man’s personal autonomy involves harming others, then he must be stopped. Likewise, if it involves him ripping himself apart, then we have a moral duty to stand in his way. — Especially if he has the gall to declare that it is for OUR sakes.”

“As a knight of Lugunica, I understand the nobility of sacrifice,” Julius said. He did not flinch as Priscilla turned to watch him, nor did he look her in the eye. “But as a knight, I understand the weight of it, as well. Giving up one’s life for a cause is one of the heaviest sacrifices one can make — and it is exactly because of that, that I cannot stand for someone who plans to make that sacrifice so many times in repetition.” He turned to face Subaru, alone in the center of the room, and took a deep breath. “In saving Priestella from the Witch Cult, Natsuki Subaru has fulfilled his duty as a knight once and for all,” Julius declared. “He has made the ultimate sacrifice, and he has done so — many, many times over. Allowing him to continue to do so for the sake of this country would damage the worth of the entire nation, and I refuse to stand for it. That’s all I have to say.”

“I stand by my knight,” Anastasia announced, stepping forward. “We are not animals, and I refuse to live as an animal by depending on someone to harm themselves for me in perpetuity — and I refuse to allow my country to do such a thing, either. And I am no longer willing to wait two years for a decision to be made: Natsuki Subaru will be removed from his role today, or the Anastasia Camp will consider him and all of his allies its enemy.”

“The Iron Fang stands with its employer,” Ricardo added, his voice like steel. “But even without its relationship with the Anastasia Camp, I would never stand for something this disgusting, nor would any organization that I lead. And—” He shook his head, looking very much like he wanted to strangle someone. “And I’d HOPE that if — those who I care about — were thrown into a situation — like THIS — that the people they meet would have the basic decency to refuse the same.”

“Mimi hates this,” the eldest of the Pearlbaton triplets forced out, uncharacteristically enraged. She was scratching at the top of her head, yanking at her orange hair. “Mimi hates everything about this. How dare— how DARE you—”

“We want nothing to do with an arrangement like this,” Hetaro confirmed. “I don’t want to be saved by someone doing — this. It’s sick. I’d rather just die.”

“I don’t want to die,” Tivey muttered. “But if I were to live a life dependent on something like — THIS, I’d be no better than vermin. And I don’t want anyone forcing me into that role, either. We stand with our Lady.”

“The three of us might be vermin,” Rachins growled. “But even WE are above depending on an eternal living corpse for our lives and livelihoods. You can fuck right off with that, Subaru.”

“I wouldn’t call us vermin—” Camberley objected.

“All the more reason, then,” Gaston said firmly. “None of us are gonna accept something this — gross. Ever.”

“I agree with those idiots,” Felt snarled, stepping forward defiantly. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about ‘the greater good’: this is vile, and I would be utter scum if I rolled over and let things continue like this. Thank you for your service, Big Bro: now fuck ALL THE WAY off with this Unsung Hero bullshit.”

“My role as the Sword Saint is a duty granted to me by Od Laguna,” Reinhard managed, both outraged and devastated beyond words by the comparison. “It is a burden that I would not wish upon anyone, but the sole grace of my role is that I have been granted it specifically because my capabilities allow me to fulfill it without — undue sacrifice. For you to try and take something like it upon yourself through the use of a curse this vile…” He shook his head. “I will stand with whatever Lady Felt decides,” the Sword Saint said. “As she is against — everything about this — so am I.”

“Disgusting,” Ferris hissed, bristling. There were tears in his eyes. He shook his head, muttering the same word over and over again. “Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting — Nyatsuki Subaru, I hate nyew so, so much—!”

“To keep Natsuki Subaru as a knight after this would be considered the height of indecency,” Crusch declared. “That is where I stand, as do my Camp and my Estate. Lady Emilia, I must insist that you remove him from his position NOW, or I will render our alliance null and void. That is my ultimatum.”

“This— This really feels like an overreaction!” Subaru stammered, backing away from the sea of anger and devastation. “Didn’t everything work out alright, in the end? Wasn’t it worth it? One life in exchange for all of Priestella—”

“It wasn’t just one life, Subaru,” Ricardo spat. “It was one person, over and over again, who decided all on his own that we were the kinds of ANIMALS that would be absolutely fine resting our lives on — on a fucking monstrosity like that!“

“We didn’t even get a CHOICE in the matter,” Ferris cried. “Nyone of us did. “Nyew just went ahead and decided for nyerself that we’d all prefer this — this utter BULLSHIT.“

“Do you not get what an embarrassment this is?” Julius snapped. “For someone to have stepped in and decided on their own that they’re going to take all the suffering of — of the Royal Selection Camps, of the White Scales of Priestella, of EVERYONE who might have otherwise decided to fight back on their own accord — for them to have stolen that choice away and forced everyone else to accept not just one singular sacrifice, but a string of sacrifices so long that you haven’t even been able to tell us how many deaths make it up! It’s a humiliation of the highest order, because you just forced ALL OF US to be complacent in one of the most monstrous, inhuman scenarios I can imagine.“

“Fuck nyew,” Ferris breathed, looking like he was on the verge of passing out. “Fuck nyew, Subaru. Fuck nyew, fuck nyew, fuck nyew—”

“I really don’t think—!”

“How would you have felt,” Felt interrupted. “If Big Sis had done all of this on your behalf?” Subaru froze. She grinned at him, all teeth and no joy behind her smile. “You’d fucking hate it, right?” she asked cheerfully. “You’d scream, and you’d probably cry. You might even throw up, you’d feel so awful. And if she turned to you and said ‘But I gave you a miracle, aren’t you proud of me?’ I’ll bet you’d want to scream at her for it, too.” She leaned forward. “How DARE you do that to us.” Felt hissed. “How fucking dare you.”

“And to think!” Anastasia laughed. It was a venomous, bitter sound that made Subaru want to recoil. “To think, I actually was starting to believe the others’ insistence that you could be trusted to man your post responsibly!” She stared at him, eyes hard. “I was right about this whole situation from the start. Keeping you as a knight was a ridiculous notion, because — THIS — was always going to be the outcome, one way or another.”

Subaru was speechless. Slowly, with jerky movements, he twisted around to the one camp that had yet to make its final assertion.

“G-Guys…?” he managed.

“Cap—” Garfiel hesitated, and then shook his head. Subaru visibly wilted. “Natsuki Subaru can’t be a knight anymore,” he declared. “This is horrible. I didn’t want this. I never wanted anything like this. If I let him do this for — for MY sake, how could I ever look myself in the mirror again? …And I don’t think he’s ever gonna stop unless we force him away from the edge.”

“This is the absolute worst thing you could have done to me, Subaru,” Ram snapped. “I don’t know how you don’t understand that. I don’t WANT to persist via your acts of self-harm: I’m perfectly happy to live to the best of my ability and accept my death when my time has come to an end. A life of dignity is one that I desire most of all. —And here you are, planning to force me to rely on your trail of self-destruction for the rest of my natural life? That’s a vulgarity beyond words.”

“I really thought you had learned,” Otto muttered. His face was buried in his hands. “I really, really thought you had learned, Subaru.”

Despair slowly dawned across the face of the self-proclaimed knight.

“The old me might have allowed for this,” Rem admitted. Her voice was quiet and broken. “I am not that woman anymore. I won’t let you do this to yourself.”

“Betty doesn’t want her contractor to become a living corpse, I suppose,” Beatrice said quietly. “Betty wants you to be happy, but that also means that she doesn’t want you to destroy yourself. You can hate me for this if you want, Subaru. But I can’t let you — I can’t let you do this.”

Subaru stared at all of them, his upper lip wobbling, and then his eyes flitted to the last person in the room, the one who had not said a single thing since they had entered the building.

Emilia could not bring herself to voice the words, but her silence spoke a thousand in its stead. Subaru made a horrible croaking noise, wide-eyed and devastated.

Wilhelm had to force himself to speak, but when he did, his voice came out loud and clear and true.

“Natsuki Subaru.”

Subaru could no longer be a knight. For him to continue being a knight would be for him to continue to sacrifice himself for the sakes of those around him, over and over again, without regard for whether they wanted him to do so or not. For him to remain a knight would be for the kingdom to approve this cycle of endless self-destruction, so that it could profit off of his pain until the day it finally sucked him dry. —And this could no longer be a decision that waited a year, a month, a day, but rather a move that had to be made as quickly and decisively as possible.

Lady Emilia had already realized what Wilhelm was about to do. Her eyes were glassy and dull, but she bowed her head in assent when he briefly caught her gaze. Do what you must.

For his own good, Subaru could no longer be a knight. However, Emilia firing him after just a year of service would leave a black mark on his record that could last until the end of his life. And with him having saved the Watergate City nearly single-handedly, for him to willingly abandon his duty now would paint him as a fickle, untrustworthy coward for the rest of his life. Titles brought with them expectations and responsibilities, and great deeds even more so. Subaru had somehow entangled him in a web of both that threatened to trap him as the nation’s self-replenishing sacrifice for — in a worst-case scenario, perhaps for the rest of eternity.

“W-Wilhelm?” Subaru whimpered, his voice high-pitched and uncertain.

But there was a way to retire him that would not impact his reputation, or hamper him from pursuing any other future career path he may choose, or even leave him with the majority of the blame. It was the same way that, many years ago, a young man on a mission had set free the woman who would become his wife.

Subaru would hate him for this until the old man’s dying day, and perhaps even beyond that. But Wilhelm loved him, and that meant he valued the quality of the boy’s life more than he ever could his personal reputation in his eyes.

Priscilla realized what the Sword Demon was about to do moments before he opened his mouth again. She sighed, snapping her ruby red fan shut. The sound echoed through the room like a thunderclap.

“Natsuki Subaru,” Wilhelm Van Astrea declared. “Due to finding you unworthy to serve our nation as a knight of the Kingdom, I challenge you to a duel.”

*

Wilhelm had challenged Subaru to a duel over his position as a knight of the Kingdom. Subaru’s liege, Lady Emilia, had consented to such terms. If Subaru were to win, he would be allowed to remain where he was. If Wilhelm were to win, then Subaru would be forced to retire from his post — and in the eyes of the public, all the blame for his removal would rest squarely on Wilhelm’s shoulders.

Subaru, Wilhelm, and everyone witnessing the event knew what the outcome was going to be.

“What are you doing?!” an old lady cried from the stands. “What are you DOING?! He saved us — he saved all of our lives! Stop, STOP—!!”

“Natsuki Subaru-dono is a hero!” shouted a young man, hands clenching the rails. “Why are you doing this?! What did he do wrong?! He didn’t do ANYTHING, just LET HIM—!!”

“Wilhelm—” Subaru tried to plead, one last time.

Wilhelm met his gaze with one fierce enough to burn. “This is for your own good.”

Subaru swallowed, and raised his whip.

It only took three hits. The first smacked the handle of Subaru’s weapon with the flat of the blade, knocking it out of his hands and into the air, where it spiraled in an arc. The second whacked Subaru on the top of his head, stunning him hard enough to make him lose his balance. The third took advantage of this wrong-footedness by slamming into his chest, knocking him down on his back. Then the weight of the man’s knee settled against his chest, pinning him to the ground, with the edge of the blade grazing against his throat. And that was that.

“The winner,” Ferris announced, his voice muffled in Subaru’s ears. “Is Wilhelm van Astrea.”

It had not even lasted a full ten seconds. Those who watched would later describe it as Wilhelm scruffing him, much like one would a misbehaving puppy. Even the way he had pinned him to the ground had been careful, less like an actual fight and more like a sparring session between parent and child.

It was a duel far gentler and kinder than his previous with Julius. But the results were far graver in his eyes, for he had been successfully stripped of his title as a knight and reduced to simply being Natsuki Subaru.

[passengerprincessblog]

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

Warning: age gap (lowkey?), alcohol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah… I don’t have a key,” I mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————-

As always, thank you for reading and appreciating my works.

I hope my writings help you unwind and escape your life in a way that is exciting to you.

Please like and follow for more!

Хохо

Princess

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Cooties - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi and Jinx reminisce about a lazy summer day...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

"Lose me? Or lose Powder?"

The question was posed lightly. But Vi sensed its weight. A spray of white sparks showered from the crane, the only light on the horizon. Vi's eyes burned, the way they did after a hard fight.

And the only way out was to fight harder.

"I miss her," she said, and the admission burnt a hole through her chest. "I miss the girl you were. The girl I could cheer up with a stupid joke, or a game, or just by braiding her hair. I miss knowing I could keep you safe just by tucking you into the crook of my arm."

Jinx stayed silent, her little finger twined with Vi's. Her warmth bled into Vi's skin. But it was a ghostly warmth, and Vi, suddenly afraid, longed to seize her sister's hand in both her own.

To hold on with everything she had.

"I remember the last time we came here," Vi went on. "You, me, Mylo, Claggor and Ekko. It was late afternoon. The sunlight was starting to bend in that wobbly way it does when you're running out of day. But the water was still warm, and I could see the sparkles on the surface. You and the boys were in the water, and I was watching from the ledge. I'd just had the crap kicked out of me in a street-brawl. There were bruises all over, and the chems in the water felt like salt rubbed in the cuts. But seeing you—laughing and splashing around—I just... I wanted to soak it in. Almost like I knew it'd be the last time."

Vi's eyes misted. She squeezed Jinx's pinky as tight as she dared.

"After, I must've dozed off. When I came to, the sky was all red. There was a little moon peeking behind the clouds. Mylo and Claggor were still swimming, and every stroke looked like a flame. I couldn't see you or Ekko. For a moment, I panicked, thinking maybe you'd drowned. Then I looked up, and there you both were, sitting right on this walkway. Both your heads were real close, and you were whispering to each other. There was something in Ekko's hands. All round and glittery. He was passing it to you. And then he—"

Jinx didn't move. But Vi swore something, a subdermal shiver, ran through her.

"He kissed me."

"He did." The mist in Vi's eyes blurred the cityscape—a rainbow caught in a raindrop. "A minute later, Mylo and Claggor started hooting. I realized they'd put him up to it. You burst into tears, and Ekko got all flustered, and I jumped to my feet. Mylo was closest to the ledge, so I grabbed him by the scruff, and dunked his ass under. Then I did the same to Claggor. By the time I was through, the two of 'em were coughing up a puddle. You'd run off, and Ekko was chasing after, babbling about how sorry he was, and that Mylo and Claggor'd told him if he didn't do it, you'd get a real kiss from a real boy, and wouldn't that be the saddest thing in the world?"

This time, a shiver did go through Jinx: a twinge that could've been a ghost-bite of laughter. Or tears.

"It was already the saddest thing in the world," she said. "He was showin' me a gyroscope he'd made outta a doorknob. But instead of a ball bearing, there was a glass marble inside. It was all sparkly, like a star, and had these different colors swirling around. I was trying to get a better look. Then Mr. Hot Lips went and planted a wet load of cooties on me. All while Mylo and Claggor howled like hyenas in the back. I was so angry. And, and confused. I nearly shoved him off the ledge."

"But you didn't." Vi's voice was husky. No tears, but close. "You ran straight to me."

"Straight to my Safe-Spot."

Vi squeezed Jinx's pinkie again, an impulse of tenderness. Together, they looked out at the dark water of the reservoir, a swipe of charcoal against glittering amber and gold.

"By then, Ekko was so scared, I thought he'd wet himself," Vi recalled. "That's the only reason I didn't smack him senseless. Instead, I gave him the what-for. He didn't say one word. Just stood there, sweating bullets, waiting for his doom. He was only ten, but I swear, he looked five. So did you, the way you were clinging to me. Like a pair of drowned kittens. But after I'd wound down, the first thing Ekko did was go up to you, super-serious, and tell you he was real sorry. He swore he'd never do it again. And when you looked at him, all doubtful, he held out the gyroscope, and said, 'D'you want it? I made it for you.'"

Jinx's eyes had gone half-lidded. Her profile, touched by the secondhand radiance, held a pensive prettiness. "I remember. I took the gift. And when he tried to give me a hug, I slugged him in the arm."

"He deserved it."

"Totally."

Vi could see the crooked little smile at the corner of Jinx's mouth. Her own, at a matching angle, ached with the bone-deep familiarity of it.

"The whole way back, I gave Mylo and Claggor the stink-eye. They were terrified I'd tell Vander what they'd done. So they hauled our gear without a peep.  I followed, with my arm around your shoulder. Ekko brought up the rear, all quiet and gloomy. By the time we got to the Drop, I'd worked myself into a good head of steam. I was ready to kick those two jackasses out of our room for the night. Before I could open my mouth, Vander hurried out and told us to get our asses indoors. There were Enforcers in the Lanes, and there'd be a shootout." Her smile faded. "We spent the night barricaded in the basement, with gunfire raging outside. Ekko stayed over too. You'd both made up by then. I remember, you were huddled together, the gyroscope spinning between you two, its colors flickering over the walls. You didn't care about the bullets. You were—happy. As happy as two kids with a brand-new toy. After, Ekko fell asleep in the hammock. You curled up against me, still holding the gyroscope. As you drifted off, all I could think was: I'll protect her. Always. I'll be her Safe-Spot, no matter what."

Jinx’s dipped lashes struck shadowy crowns against her cheeks. Her lower-lip quivered, then stilled. "No matter what, huh?"

"I just mean... I miss it. The certainty." Vi swallowed. "I miss that I didn't have to fight the whole damn world just to be your big sister. Because the truth is... you don't need me. Not anymore. The past's gone, and it's not coming back. There's only one direction. Forward. Some mornings, right when I wake up, I can almost buy it. Like we've got a second shot, and we can make it work."

"But?"

The query was posed without rancor. But its implications sunk like a stone in Vi's heart.

"But..." Salt clogged Vi's throat, and it hurt like hell. "But the next minute, I open my eyes. And the past's right there, and I can’t forget. I can never forget. Because you're not in the crook of my arm anymore. You're moving at light-speed, and I'm trying to keep up, and I can't. Not with the deadweight on my back. So much of who I am, built on who I used to be. The girl who kept her word, and kept you safe, and made Vander proud. And every day, I fall short, because the only way to move on is to let the deadweight go." The salt was pooling behind her lids, too; a wash of light and dark. "I can't do it. I can't let you go. Because if I do... I let go of myself."

[qvrcll]

spider boy, king of thieves.

ART CREDITS > @/J7VUA on twitter

re2r ! spider-man ! leon kennedy x gn reader

summary: in danger, you’re left with clouded eyes and brandished limbs littered with bruises. that is, until, a certain person coloured in red comes to the rescue, cuing your awe and possibly an inkling of a certain feeling.

warning: mentions of kidnapping, bruises, heights

a/n: i’ve been having the thought of rookie ! re2r leon x spider-man in my mind for soo long and this fanart basically catalysed this blurb. i’m thinking of writing a part 2 or perhaps another post, but idk! lmk lovelies :)

When you’d first opened your eyes, a stinging sort of pain had clouded your judgement of the situation. Your arms were caked with gruelling blood and dirt, your eyelids heavy with a pending urge to lay down and exhaust yourself into a deep sleep.

But the sky had gone gray, glittering with a crackling noise that shook the ground; only then did you realise you were outdoors. Cold, clothes possibly ripped to some degree. And the feeling of aversion had done its business pressing into you.

“S-Shit…” you cursed, jumbled in the mess that was, for once, not of your making. Much energy had been spent trying to free yourself of your tight reigns, ropes that bound your wrists till they bled nothing but hurt. Your eyes burned with weak tears, distorting the plain of captivity.

You’d been kidnapped — and worse, there was no end point in sight.

Fuck, you think.

This is it, you think.

This is how I die, you think.

And when you feel the cold press of rain hit your head, pounding to no impending relief at all, warm arms scoop you into a strong, selfishly mellow grasp so thin you might break.

“I got you,” A masculine voice speaks. It’s so seemingly far away, but when you reopen your eyes, you’re met with two large whites for eyes and a tepid, red suit.

And then it computes… spider-man?

“I—“ You start, unresolved with your conflict, but remaining confused with your thoughts.

Is this reality? Were you being saved by the spider-man?

“You okay?” he whispers through the mask, webbing through nervous buildings, arms clinching around you like gold.

He glances down once more, and the mystery makes him alluring, kind to the mind but grievous to your curiosity. You want to peel the mask, when he places you down on your balcony, safe from harm’s way. You want to know who is hiding within that mellow suit, donned with bravery and boyish charm so new it hurts.

“Wait—“ you stop him by the wrist. He glances back, surprised. His face twitches when you come close - “I won’t force you to reveal yourself,” you whisper, reassuring, before sweetly placing a kiss on his cheek.

“That’s for saving me,” his hand feels the area you’d just kiss like it had changed his life and you giggle. He stifles a chuckle and takes your hand softly, fleshing it with a kiss so soft it burnt.

As he retreats, with words of stay safe and take care’s, you’re left clutching the railing for dear life as he departs with a final swing.

What you don’t catch is that he’s landed on the balcony three floors underneath you, wrenching the mask from his head to free his head of blonde hairs — and he, with his flushed cheeks and eyes of cobalt, seems to comparable to the newest recruit in the Raccoon City Police Department, Leon Kennedy.

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[tohot4u]

Promise

lies/truth prompt

Curled together under the moonlight,tucked neatly between comforting arms. Tails tangled into two-toned ribbons. 

Watching as the world faded into pitch black darkness. Darkness the sun so craved to understand. To hold gently hand in hand.   

 Such a delightful dream filled with wonder. However,the sun could never touch the moon. The moon, too busy to ponder the sun's affections. Hiding from brilliant light that brought such joy to the creatures upon his mountain. 

All but one 

And Wukong couldn’t help but swell with pride and satisfaction. 

If the sun could never touch the moon-

Then it was nothing but a lie! 

It had to be!  

The moon was a vital craving he so longed for. So aloof and fleeting-pleasant and calming. Shy and lovely with an air of intimidation-he was smitten. 

There was nothing his darling could ever say or do that could deny their so destined connection. 

And here he laid ,clasped between his greedy claws,the fruit of his passion.  Of weary-long-nights he chased. With every rotations of the earth,with every passing day-

There was nothing quite like the feeling of when the moon was finally his.  

 Plush flesh so easily abused by the hunger of his love. Innocent and pure,the most intoxicating of expressions always beautifully painted on his moon's face. Pure bliss as the escapades bled into dawn. 

And like a delicate ghost-his moon was alway gone as the sun finally rose from the sea. Opening the bleeding chasm of his heart when his side was found bare. The faint imprint of a farewell kiss across his collarbone his only source of comfort.  

But tonight will be special. 

Tonight would be perfect 

The moon was full,pouring liquid white. Framing them under the stars.

They both stared,eyes locked onto the remnants of their soul.  

Macaque couldn’t help but gaze in admiration. At those burning golden eyes,so swelled with love. The thumb caressing his face and pulling him close. Body sagging,relaxing under the tender touch of the star he pulled from the sky. 

His sun 

Wukong smiled, a soft-snarky little grin directed towards Macaque.  His eyes sparkling,casting a subtle glittering glow around them.

“Stay-won’t you?

“You know I’d don’t-“ 

He hushed him,pressing a quick peck on his lips. Macaque sputtered,red in the face,his ears twitching. Watching as his companion pulled him closer,a pout on his face.  

“Please-I'm cold when you go!” 

He glared,” Like you don’t run freakishly hot already!” 

Wukong looks at him for a moment. Opening his mouth and closing it,before settling for a different sentence.“Oh-fine-I don’t get cold-but still!”   

Suddenly serious he gazes down,his sun dimming into a waning flicker. 

“I-I get lonely” he whispers, squeezing Macaque tighter in his arms. 

Macaque breathed in,rubbing Wukongs fingers as he pondered his response. 

“Will you stay with me?” 

Wukong perks up,a smile stretching across his face. Excited perky squeals shaking his entire body. 

“I will”

“Will you love me?”” 

“I will”

“Forever?”  

“Of course! What kind of question is that!”

“Promise.” 

Wukongs gaze softens,rubbing his thumb across Macaque's face once more.   

“I promise” 

He is a liar

[cyberwhumper]

His nose is bleeding.

That’s the first sign of burnout, Victory had warned him. Magic lives in the blood. And when it gets to be too much, it will leave by any means necessary. He had rested his jeweled fingertips over Rex’s heart, then, warm scales glittering like stars. So if your nose ever starts bleeding, you stop and you wait for me, yeah? You wait for me.

But he can’t wait for his dragon right now. Their enemies are too close, too numerous, and the comforting thrum of his and Victory’s tangled pact-brand is all but imperceptible under the thunder of horse-hooves, the cacophony of clashing steel, and the riot of his own racing pulse.

He automatically swipes his gauntleted hand across his lips, succeeding only in smearing the rotten blood across his face. It smells foul, like rust and mildew, and tastes even worse. He grimaces, but the battle is far from won. He keeps casting.

His blue-white lightning arcs through the blade of his massive zweihänder, allowing it to slice through armor and gristle and bone as easily as butter. Men crumple in front of him, bodies writhing with static even once the life’s bled out of them. The power is, admittedly, intoxicating. It’s easy to force himself to keep going, to draw on Victory’s massive pool of power, like drinking deep from a mug of ale without stopping to breathe, even as it begins to turn his stomach.

The mind-numbing clamor of combat is interrupted, suddenly, by a spike of pain in his thigh, in the gap between cuisse and tasset. It takes Rex a moment to understand what he’s seeing, as addled as he is by magic and exhaustion, but once he does, he curses. An arrow, annoyingly well-crafted, with a glossy shaft thick as his finger and—judging by the bone-scraping agony that quickly makes his knee buckle—barbs along the steel head. He feels a distant flare of panic from Victory across their pact. He doesn’t know where his dragon is; he can’t be too far, and he’s alive, clearly, because Rex still is, but he’s not here, and the attackers have opened fire. And Rex’s nose is bleeding.

He plants his blade in the clay and hauls himself upright, lightning burning fractal paths into the ground from the point of impact as arrows continue to rain around him. But then a second bolt buries itself above his clavicle, under the lip of his gorget, and another punches straight through his cuirass, nicking a rib, and Rex falters. The flow of his cast chokes down to a trickle, then stops, but the sick-smelling blood dripping from his nose intensifies. He goes to wipe it again, automatic, but the motion makes arrowheads grate against bone, and his whole body shudders. He growls, half pain, half wolfish rage, but the blood doesn’t stop spilling over his lips, brackish, soaking his cape and making his grip slacken.

You wait for me, Victory’s voice says in his memory.

He wants to. His body is crying out for his dragon, for power, for the healing salve of his scales and the comfort of proximity, if he could just stop the bleeding, hold on a little longer, wait.

Shame. Rex has never been very good at waiting.

[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]

[OC INDEX]

COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN!

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[techtainia-makes-things]

More MTMTE Megatron x reader nonsense

In which Megatron is pining for the reader, and the reader is just glad that he isn’t sulking

This was the best day of your career.

You had joined the crew of the Lost Light with a brisk farewell to everything you’d ever known. You had stayed with them through the fighting, the deaths and the occasional visit to a planet. Or charisma parasites. Or the occasional series of time travel shenanigans. Anyways, none of those victories tasted as sweet on your tongue as this one. Nothing could beat the swell in your heart as you sighed in blissful relief.

Megatron wasn’t sulking.

He hadn’t hauled himself up in his habsuite, waiting for you to knock with a report and light conversation. He didn't pinch the bridge of his nose as Rodimus cartwheeled onto the bridge. He didn’t even make one sharp remark towards one of his fellow Autobots, if he could actually even be properly called one at this point. You were starting to truly believe that maybe one day, he could.

He was teaching. 

You didn’t even know that the Lost Light had a lecture hall, but to see it filled with Autobots as you sat on a table in the back of the room was something else. It plastered a smile onto your face as Riptide asked if he had passed. Megatron had said no, but that he would explain why…

This was great.

Between statements, Megatron would glance in your direction and at your gigantuine smile. His back would somehow get straighter, and occasionally, he would give you a small smile back. Something glittered behind his ruby optics. You assumed that it was joy. This was good.

This was progress.

The class had ended as soon as it had begun, or it at least felt like it. You pulled your sleeve back from over your watch. Three hours had passed. Looking at everyone leaving, you could tell. Skids was getting rather twitchy. In the scramble to get out the door, Megatron strode over into long, unsure steps towards you.

“Y/N?”

You hum in response, the grin still splitting your face. “That was a great lecture…You make a good teacher.”

You could have sworn that you heard his cooling fans on their lowest setting, but that had to be your imagination. He paused, as if he was searching for the right words to say. “...Yes. Thank you…I hope that you are not too worn out for a few poems?”

“I never could be.” Not after he finally started step two of an attempted redemption: Actually getting up and doing some good. You had waited far too long for this for you to shut him down now. You could hardly even believe he had started writing again. A few love poems nonetheless. You wondered who they could be for, but you never asked. With the progress he was making, he would come to you eventually.

Megatron smiled, only slightly, as his optics crinkled up at the corners as much as they could with his metal face. For an ex-warlord, he had a nice smile. The way that the light of his optics bled onto his cheeks almost made it look like they were flushed with energon. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You had never looked at him like that before.

With eyes full of something that Megatron could only hope was adoration. Your smile shone brighter than the stars outside any window on the ship. He watched you from across the room, optics flicking between you and the group of autobots making their way through the door.

It was wonderful.

Just like that, he had another list of topics for his newer works of poetry. No wonder he wrote so much about you. Had showing them to you softened your heart to make you see him in a new light?

Then you mentioned his teaching.

Oh. Of course you were doing this. You had always watched any sort of kindness or intellectuality with the same kind of tender expression. Still, Megatron couldn’t help but relish in the unfiltered joy that flooded his spark when it was in his direction; made his spark flare and push against his spark chamber as if to reach out for you. 

He paused.

How could he ever have thought that he deserved this kind of happiness? Your smile was his light in an ocean of darkness. Hope in a sea of hopelessness. It’s a shame that he met you when he did. 

You would have loved him in his youth: A miner and a poet with a dream.

Megatron decided that he was more like that version of him now than the one he had left behind with his Decepticon badge. He snuffed out the voice in the back of his processor that said otherwise in hopes that it wouldn’t rear its ugly head ever again. If you would allow him to have you, he would. He just had to earn the right for the chance. 

And he had just gotten started.

[jolalibrary]

The day Frankie both loves and loathes the kitchen counter

frankie morales x f!reader | resurrected chances

summary: fall is a season that looks good on you.

warnings: none. autumn vibes. fluff, established relationship. dad!frankie (so mentions of a child - luca). an: i wrote this to make myself smile. wordcount: 2.5k

It changes in the blink of an eye.

One moment, the nights seem long and then they’re swallowed. The sunlight barely able to kiss the world for long, before it sinks back down to the horizon.

Then, there’s the changing leaves. How they fall from the branches without regret—all in a flurry of shades he finds you admiring each morning when you’re holding your morning coffee.

It does something to you, fall. It casts a spell—transforms—sprinkles shaved pumpkin and glitters over you as the wind whispers the incantation. It swoops through and blows away the other cobwebs left by the other seasons, until you’re embodied by autumn.

The change doesn’t just happen to you, but the rest of the home too.

He witnesses how, one day the counters and table are clear, and the next, they are decorated in fall ornaments, and ghouls and pumpkins replace the usual mugs you both drink from. How the fireplace in the living room has decorative ghosts all over it, purple and orange fairy lights, with homemade bunting hanging that features little orange and yellow Luca-sized hands from a craft morning he’d “rudely interrupted”.

Frankie had known what he was getting in for when you’d told him autumn was your favourite time of year—but, he still couldn’t quite believe what the season looked like on you.

How good you looked. How happy. How joy radiated from you and bled out into every corner.

You transition with a click of your fingers from a summer wardrobe to oversized fluffy jumpers (his, always his—specifically ones bought for him, but only ever worn by him once before they are ‘mysteriously’ stolen), black leggings and the fluffiest socks (that when unrolled, come up close to your knee).

And, if you’re able to—which is most of the time—Frankie finds you’ve perfectly matched the shade of jumper to the scrunchie in your hair. Sometimes, with embellishments, such as changing leaves on them or ghosts, but his favourite happens to be the pumpkins.

Before you, he’d never thought that would be a thought he’d even have. Frankie hadn’t ever even thought of himself as someone who loved a season, but just like his son, he’d been bewitched.

Your affection for flickering candles, big blankets and wrapped-up walks rubbed off on him and Luca—secretly both becoming as obsessed with mornings spent doing autumnal crafts as you. Frankie even stupidly got excited about the prospect of another pumpkin patch visit.

But, with that all said, if someone asked him what his favourite part of the season was, it was how your two’s home changed. The way warmth rolled from you—cementing the knowledge that he’d made the right choice. Because with you, there have only been moments when he feels peace, happiness and joy. Each emotion all underpinned by moments involving shadow-touched skin and sun-kissed bodies.

You patting the seat next to you, loading up another movie—your favourite, you’d said—with popcorn in an orange bowl, and a blanket (all earth green and lined with thick fluff) just for him.

He loves curling up, but there’s something about thickened blankets and soft layers that has him excited by the season.

He just feels disappointed that with another autumn arriving, he realises he hasn’t managed to sort the things he wanted to do for you.

The shelving he said last year he’d put up in the kitchen, so you can put more of your ornaments on display. Fix the door to the end cupboard, so you can put your baking and cookie trays away, rather than hiding them in the oven. But mostly, he had hoped to—

“You alright under there, Morales?”

Blinking, he finds you smirking, watching him. “Stop staring at me.”

“Well, it’s hard not to,” you murmur, swinging your legs on the counter.

The one he should have remodelled by now. It makes his jaw tighten, and his teeth slide together.

His head turning, dark pools of brown drinking you in as you swirl the spoon around your mug—not because you need to mix the sugar or milk, but for something to do other than drool over the appearance of him under the dining table he’s fixing.

Because Frankie knows your mug is practically empty. And he also knows that when he begins these home projects, he doesn’t tend to finish them in one day if you’re around.

“Could say the same to you.”

You roll your eyes, because, to you, it’s a jumper and leggings. But to him, today’s attire is a deep forest green jumper, the one with flecks of white and orange woven in periodically—a favourite of his, and apparently yours too.

The socks today, however, are different. Thick, woollen ones he recognised all too well, smirking to himself as he brushes the hair from his forehead, slotting the screwdriver back in place before tightening.

Because the socks are his.

Feeling your eyes on him, until he hears you jump down from the counter.

“Fine, I’ll begin baking before the little man gets dropped off.”

A smile being shot over your shoulder, pulling at the cookbook that’s more flour than paper from the shelf, before splaying it across the counter.

He knows you know what you’re doing when you hinge at the hips, and lean over the counter in front of him. His mouth going dry, just like it always does when you’re teasing him.

Frankie’s about to comment on what a distraction you are, that if you want to eat at the table tonight he needs to concentrate. But then you hiss, pulling your hand back from the edge of the counter—the one chipped and forever catching on clothes, once again catching against your hand.

Then he’s just full of annoyance.

Both at the fucking counter and at himself for not prioritising the kitchen. For not giving you the dream kitchen you deserve.

The emotions shoved into his repair of the table, completing it in record time, that by the time he’s stood, you’ve chosen whatever it is you’re aiming to make. Your fingers twitching—all lost in your mind, likely calculating, mentally checking timings.

It’s what makes it easier to slide up behind you, lose his hand up the jumper of his you’re buried in. Sliding it up until he can feel your skin, all toasty, warm. Your smile slowly grows as he rests his chin on your shoulder, watching you.

Frankie has the pleasure of seeing you smile in Spring, Summer or Winter—three-hundred and sixty-five—but your skin isn’t always tinged with the scent of spiced apple, to the point he’s not sure if the season is pouring from you or if you’re just around the candles and soaps too much. He doesn’t get to see you glow in the same way as you do in Fall, like you do in the other seasons.

“Is it sturdy? The table.”

Lifting his brow, he turns you in his arms. Fingers sliding up your neck, jaw until they’re resting on your cheek.

As much as he tells you that you’re easy to read, Frankie knows he’s not all that difficult himself. Least of all with you. He’s been told he gets a twinkle, a shimmer—a soft tug of his lips that he tries to bury in nonchalance.

Shrugging, he drops his hand as he sighs. “Maybe we should check.”

“How do w—Frankie!”

With ease, he spins your body, moving it backwards, twisting, until the top of your thighs nudge against the lip of the table, fingers fanning out, palm cupping your waist as he sniggers. His palm rests under the fabric, worn and toughened, flush against skin, tasting the warmth that burns from your lips—swallowing the joy which emits from every part of you.

“We can’t.”

“We can’t?”

Shooting him a look, you purse your lips. “If we break another piece of furniture…”

You’re not cross, he can tell. If anything, your eyes are gleaming, swarmed in happiness, so close to cracking and asking him to help you on the surface.

But then, you twist your fingers in the hairs at the base of his neck. Whispering that you love him, that it looks more than sturdy, it looks solid, perfect, amazing—more words punctuated by kisses, before his hands keep you nose to nose.

Because if he does, he won’t stare at the kitchen counter.

The one he despises, hates. The one that’s chipped and was up there at the top of his list to replace when the two of you bought the house you’re both standing in. But then it fell, plummeting, landing somewhere around ‘someday’ rather than ‘today’.

You don’t hate it.

Rarely ever see an issue with it. Barely recognise how ill-fitting it is to the rest of your hand-painted cupboards and thrifted accessories. That at least once a week, if not a day, you catch your hand in the same place—scuffing jumpers, blouses and more on the cracked edge.

You deserve better. A thought which pulsates inside him—constantly doing so, too. It vibrates in his ribs and echoes in the dark when he should be sleeping. He thinks about it like he does much of the house, the one he told you he’d fix, repair, re-build—even if you weren’t fazed then, and aren’t now either.

Your excitement swallows up any of his concerns, his internal beatings. Because I love it Frankie, I love you and I love this for us. He’d have thought you were lying, except your eyes still gush with joy when you look over it, as though you cannot see any of the imperfections he can.

Unable to see how he’s let you down. That he should be providing more for you—even if you never, ever think it or even say it.

“What you thinkin’ about, baby?”

Your knuckles trace his cheek. An answer there, burning on the tip of his tongue. That, thanks to you, it was hard to hate anything, never mind the counter.

The one you did a good job covering in assorted-sized decorative pumpkins and coloured pencils you’d pushed to the side. That in truth, he liked the things which sat on it, like his mail being alongside yours—and the set of mugs that had once housed both your coffees that he’d brought to you in bed this morning and the ones you’d made when he’d begun his table-fixing.

Morning. It seemed so long ago—more than hours, more like days. It forces him to tighten his arm around you and bury his face into your neck.

“Frankie,” you whine, soft, all innocent. “Talk to me.”

“Just thinking about how pretty you look.”

“Oh, shut up.”

His nose brushes against your cheek, eyes finding yours as you try to avert them. “So much so, I really, really wanna put your elbows on the table and take you from—“

“Francisco.”

Laughter flows from the last syllable to paint the room in even more contentment. Coating him in genuine bliss that smooths over the cracks, the rougher parts of him.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Later?”

Later, you echo. Even if he knows the day has already been swallowed by him visiting the store to fetch nails and a tool, he’s sure he already owns—but can’t for the life of him find. The rest will be filled with hyperactivity and pumpkin carving with his son.

“You do look good in my socks, baby.”

He watches your chin dip, before your hand presses against his chest—fingers and thumb digging into his t-shirt. You try to bite back your shy smile, because even if the two of you have been together a while, you still seem to go shy when he compliments you.

“Really like the sight of you in my clothes,” he continues, hands on you as you head back to your place in the kitchen.

Turning, you swat at him, laughing—the sound you make is like music to his ears. Forever makes his days better. The noise which plays in the back of his head when he’s driving down a long, winding road—desperate to get back to you.

It’s why he tugs on your wrist, pulling your hand from your face, letting him hear it fully, watching it fade as your eyes blink, pupils fixing, lids widening as you take him in. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how you look at him—full of appreciation and love, like it’s easy to do. Like you’re not forced or feel obligated.

“They’re comfy,” you say, all tinged with embarrassment—as though he would ever mind.

As though the sight of you slowly wearing his wardrobe doesn’t make his chest swell—doesn’t fill the space with warmth where his heart doubles.

Smiling—almost mirroring yours—he brushes your cheek. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Looping an arm around his neck, you press a kiss to his lips—his hips pressing into yours, unable to move from him, arms looping around his neck. They won’t bake themselves, Frankie. And, doesn’t he know it, but neither of you move.

The kitchen counter—the one he hates, and wants to rip out—keeps you in place. Not that he gets the impression you want to be anywhere but here, laughing with him, baking, likely recanting a story about spiders and the reason you had needed to buy new wooden spoons and a spatula.

Your cheek warms under his palm, his thumb stroking a path that curls up with your cheek as you begin to grin. “Shh, Morales.”

And he does.

But only so he can kiss you.

You in his fluffy woollen socks, his jumper and your leggings.

Starting it slow before he deepens it. Before his whole body wants to feel you pressed against his, fingers sliding around your cheek and jaw, feeling the way you move to kiss him back.

It’s intense, fire being breathed into his throat and down into his chest. He laps up every flame—allows it to coat his tongue, and spreads its heat through every nerve as he licks into your mouth.

He’s happy, oh so happy.

Losing himself in you, mouth sliding from your lips to the curve of your jaw and down the pulse of your neck. Your fingers knotting in his curls and his top, leg trying to hook around him—leaning, cautiously and foolishly, against the counter until he stabilises you with his hands.

Because you’re brilliant. Perfect. Beautiful. But, oh so fucking clumsy.

His teeth roll over the space where your neck meets your shoulder, and he groans. Hands dropping from their place, finding a new home on the back of your thighs, lifting, leveraging until you’re safe. Sat all pretty and set to be devoured, upon the counter he can’t wait to replace—

“Stop thinking about the counter, Frankie.”

He smirks, biting back a laugh. “How’d you know?”

Hooking your legs around him, his fingers run up the bare skin—thumb dragging a line more intentionally than the rest—coming to a stop between your thighs.

“Because I know you. Because you look at me like I saved you from a burning building, and you look at the counter like it was the reason the building was on fire.”

Kissing you, he grins—right against your mouth. “I really hate it.”

“I know,” you coo, biting his lower lip. “So, how about we move to the bedroom.”

Pulling his head back, his eyes narrow—your fingers brushing his curls behind his ears.

an: autumn is my fave, can you tell?

[jensensfanfic]

CAM GIRL

pairing: modern!ellie x camgirl!reader

a/n: so nervous to post this. i didn't want to write a full fic, so this hc kinda thing happened. anyways, lmk what you think...

warnings: smut. mdni. -> sex work via live cam/stream. onlyfans/patreon/etc - no site is stated specifically, stripping, toys, masturbation (reader & ellie), exhibitionism, toys, toy riding (reader), strap-on use, dirty talk, hints of dom!reader, even smaller hints of dom!ellie

[dialogue = purple for ellie, blue for reader]

—★•°°•☆°••°★•°°•☆°••°★—

thinking about ellie dating a girl who cams...

—

"ellie, i wanna be really clear with you about what i do before we... you know?" "date?" "yeah. i just don't want any secrets where my job is concerned."

imagine her reaction when you first tell her. the way her eyes were half intrigue, half envy. on one hand, she thought it was incredible; the confidence you had in your own body and what to do with it. on the other hand, the confession from you caused her to grow more possessive. she felt almost sick, knowing that people all over the world were logging in to their profiles with only you in mind.

but that was at the beginning. after several months, pride swelled within her. you were making a lot of money through your sessions online, made clear by the fancy clothing, lingerie, even the apartment you'd bought for yourself. she could also tell that you enjoyed what you did. it made you feel confident and beautiful, and those feelings bled through to your sex life with ellie.

"fuck, i love your tits so much. love seein'm all beg to touch." "but only you can, els. c'mere and get them all wet with your pretty mouth."

"mm, babe, you like watching my ass when i fuck my toys, don't you?"

sometimes she worried about 'trolls', but you reassured her that you had a few moderators who would bat away any unsavoury comments before you could see them.

"see? if anyone says anything overly disgusting or offensive, it gets removed." "ever had to report or block anyone?" "mm, only a handful of creeps have made my blacklist."

then it was a couple of years into your relationship, and nine out of ten times when you were cam-ing, ellie would come over, either by yours or her own invitation.

"i'm live in 20, you can come over if you're quiet." "and what happens if i'm not?" "you wanna find out?"

"hey, i'm bored, you live? can i watch;)"

she loved to watch you, and you absolutely revelled in it. even your regular viewers had started noticing how you seemed to be even more enthusiastic than before. you wanted to impress ellie, despite already knowing how much she desired you.

when ellie came over during a cam session, you would make sure to put in the most effort with your look for the night. you would wear ellie's favourite colours, slap on a little extra makeup, and put on your best show.

"you were on fire tonight, princess."

"do you have glitter in your cleavage!?"

"you should do the war paint more often. it's hot."

"fake tattoos tonight?" "yeah, it was a request from a my best tipper... you like?" "hurry up and i'll show you how much i do."

ellie would be just out of shot, laying back against the pillows on your bed, one leg crossed over the other. she could never take her eyes off of you. she adored how you changed your voice just slightly on camera; still confident, but with an edge of shyness.

"y'all like the lace tonight, hm? i'm not quite sure if it suits me... tell me what you think, should i keep it or..."

her eyes travelled all over your body as you danced along to the beat of whatever song was playing gently in the background. and then, when it had been a few minutes into your show, and dollar signs started popping up on your screen, you reached for whatever item of clothing you were going to slowly, torturously remove. from that moment on, she was locked on you, following every glide of your fingertips over the straps of you bra, the soft material of your panties, or the thin lace stockings.

ellie always praised you for a good show when it was over. and whenever toys were used, she'd clean them for you, and on the occasion that you actually came for real after using said toys, she would offer to clean you up too. she'd bring you warm pyjamas and a hot drink and mentally congratulate herself for pushing away the urge to jump you after what felt like hours of teasing.

"god, that was so hot."

"you need water? your favourite snacks are on the side over there, too."

"els, help me up out of this mess, please. ugh, the fake spunk is so sticky." "wanna take a shower? maybe create some real mess?"

sometimes, she couldn't hold back, though. on most cam nights, she would be clenching her thighs and biting her lip, watching you with a wetness forming on her boxers. but she couldn't always hold back from touching herself. she'd watch you lifting your tits into full view of the camera, squeezing them and giggling at the comments that followed. then you'd push them together, wait a moment for more tips and then start to pinch at your hard nipples.

"mm, yeah, feels so good. should i pinch harder? want me to lick them for you darlings?"

eventually, inevitably, she'd end up sliding one hand into her underwear, the other fisting the sheets. as you bounced up and down on one of your silicone cocks, moaning out appreciations for the tips that flooded in on the screen, she'd reach her throbbing clit. her gaze would be glued to your slick hole that wept around the toy as you moved, and she'd match your rhythm on the toy with the circles she traced on herself.

when you first saw her doing this, you weren't surprised at all. in fact, it made you that much more smug and turned on, resulting in less of a need to fake your arousal for the people watching. you'd pretended to the camera that you were turning your head to bite your own shoulder, but in fact you were mouthing encouragements for her to fuck herself faster over a wink and a smirk.

"faster, babe. just like that."

"edge yourself, el. better not come until i'm done here."

then there was this one particular night. ellie had two of her fingers deep in her cunt, while you rode a thick, veiny fake cock that took several pumps of lube to sink down onto.

you'd bought it with only your girlfriend in mind. though, of course your viewers were impressed with it, too.

"ooh-oh-oh, i need it f-faster. you want me to go faster... huh loves? gonna need your help then."

it was her favourite colour, and you'd made sure it attached pefectly onto your shared strap harness. it also came with a companion toy that was a little smaller, but could also attach to the harness, so that ellie could have her own pussy stuffed as she - hopefully, if your little scenario panned out - pounded into you once the camera was off.

of course, this is exactly what happened. you couldn't stop trying to get a look at ellie as you heard her little pants. she was trying to stay as quiet as possible, and watching her slap a hand over her own mouth, muffling her pleasure as she got off to you, only made things worse. you sped up your movements for a few seconds, opening your mouth and letting out an exaggarated moan. you then licked your lips, smiling at the camera as floods of tips came in, a bunch of water emojis flickering on and off. you bid everyone goodnight, promising to be back again the night after next, then ended the session.

"fuuuuuuck yes! mmmm!"

"fucked me so good. thank you, sweethearts. go grab yourselves some water and i'll see you next time. buh-bye, huns. mm."

then you turned to ellie, her hand stilled in her boxers. you slowly pulled out the toy and then pushed it all the way back in with a groan. you watched ellie's eyes flash at the obscene wet sounds your pussy made. once more you pull the glistening toy out, so slowly that it draws out impatient whines from the both of you. you rub the head of the toy around your folds, spreading the glistening wetness all around your waiting entrance.

"did you come, babe?" "uh uh, saving it all for you tonight, love."

"want you to fuck me so hard that i won't be able to move." "fuckin' hell. come here, now!" "need one more thing."

you reach down to your 'cam box' and take out two things. you first toss ellie the harness, which has the smaller cock attached, something you'd gotten ready earlier. then, you crawl between her already spread legs, and make a show of attaching the still-wet toy, your pussy clenching at the sight, greedy for it to be back inside you.

"put it on."

"was thinking about you filling me up the whole time tonight. need it now." "gonna do it. gonna make it so you can't stand."

several times after that night, you'd jokingly discussed ellie joining you on your site.

"if you made me gush like that on live, we'd make so much, d'yuh know that?" "maybe, but i don't want anyone else seeing you like that. all fucked out and dribbling from you gorgeous little pussy. no, baby. that's a show only i get to watch."

—★•°°•☆°••°★•°°•☆°••°★—

if you're after more modern!ellie x cam girl!reader ->

CAM GIRL DRABBLE (ellie helps you film)

CAM GIRL: SPECIAL GUEST (part 2)

[legionofshaza]

The emissary's choice

Lucien week day 6 @lucienweekofficial

🔱🔱🔱🔱🔱🔱🔱🔱🔱🔱⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️🔱

Lucien strode through the streets of Velaris, his steps measured.The City of Starlight was aglow with twilight, its sky shimmering with colors of dusk. But tonight, none of it reached Lucien’s eyes. His mind was focused, braced for what was to come.

There was a time when Lucien had been welcome here—trusted, even. The emissary of the Night Court had earned a precarious respect. But now, after the wars, after the betrayals, he walked these streets with an invisible weight pressing down on his shoulders.

He felt their stares. He heard the whispers.

Lucien Vanserra. Traitor. Spy. Outsider.

It was a reputation he could not escape.

"He's no better than his father," someone had once spat behind his back. The words had cut deeper than a sword. The name Vanserra carried a legacy of cruelty, one Lucien had spent his entire life trying to distance himself from. And yet, here he was, in Velaris—no longer trusted, no longer the man they had once believed him to be. Tamlin's lackey, Beron’s son, unfit to be at Feyre’s court.

Despite everything he had done for this city, for his friends, his loyalty still hung in the balance.

Lucien halted at the edge of the Sidra, the river’s waters glittering like liquid starlight. For a long moment, he stared out at the view, letting the cool night air settle around him. He knew he had only one place left to go. The House of Wind stood tall and imposing above him, a reminder of where he belonged. If Feyre and Rhys still had a shred of belief in him, they were his last chance.

His thoughts scattered as a voice interrupted him. "I didn’t think you’d actually show up."

Lucien didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice. Cassian. His tone was neutral, but there was something simmering beneath it. It was as if Cassian, too, was weighing Lucien's worth in his mind.

"I gave my word," Lucien replied, keeping his eyes on the river. "And when I give my word, I keep it."

Cassian stepped closer, folding his arms as he stood beside him. “That’s what they say. But not everyone here believes that anymore.”

Lucien clenched his jaw. “Because of what happened with Tamlin?”

“Because of a lot of things.” Cassian’s hazel eyes flickered over him, sharp and assessing. “There’s a lot of history between you and this court. Some of it good. Some of it... less so.”

Lucien turned to meet his gaze, his copper eye gleaming in the fading light. “Do you think I betrayed them?”

Cassian’s stare was unreadable for a moment, but then he sighed. “It’s not about what I think. You know how this works, Lucien. Trust isn’t something that comes back easily once it’s broken.”

“And yet I never broke it.” Lucien’s voice was low, hard. “I did everything Feyre and Rhysand asked of me. I went back to the Spring Court, I dealt with Tamlin. I bled for this city—”

“And still, people question your loyalty,” Cassian cut him off, his tone quiet but firm. “Because they don’t know where you stand. You’ve got a foot in too many places. The Spring Court, the Autumn Court, now this... People don’t trust what they can’t define.”

Lucien’s shoulders tensed, the weight of his name—his reputation—pressing down like a vise. He had tried so hard to prove himself. But it seemed like no matter where he went, he was always the outsider.

“I don’t belong anywhere, do I?” Lucien said, his voice almost a whisper.

Cassian tilted his head, his eyes softening slightly. “That’s not true. You just haven’t decided where you belong yet.”

The words sank deep, but they didn’t soothe the ache in Lucien’s chest. He had been drifting for so long—between courts, between loyalties—that he wasn’t even sure who he was anymore.

“I don’t want to be my father’s son,” Lucien muttered. “And I don’t want to be Tamlin’s shadow.”

Cassian nodded, leaning against the railing as he looked out over the Sidra. “Then stop letting them define you. Make your own name, Lucien. Build a reputation that’s yours.”

Lucien felt something stir within him at Cassian’s words. The truth of it. For too long, he had allowed others to write his story—to cast him in roles that didn’t fit. But he wasn’t Beron’s cruel heir, nor was he the lost emissary of the Spring Court. He was more than that.

And it was time the world saw it.

“What if it’s too late?” Lucien asked, though he already knew the answer.

Cassian smiled slightly, the first hint of warmth in his expression. “It’s never too late. But you’ve got to earn it. Reputation isn’t built in a day, and it’s not restored with just words. It’s action.”

Lucien’s hand curled into a fist at his side. He had done enough watching, enough playing the part others expected of him. Now, it was time to act.

He turned to Cassian, his golden-red eye gleaming with new resolve. “Then I suppose I have work to do.”

Cassian clapped him on the shoulder, a grin breaking through the tension. “Good. Because I have a feeling we’ll need all the help we can get soon.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Is that a recruitment pitch, General?”

“Maybe,” Cassian said, his grin widening. “Velaris could use someone with your... talents.”

Lucien let out a dry chuckle. "We'll see. But don’t think I’m just going to be a soldier at your beck and call.”

Cassian laughed, stepping away as he started back toward the House of Wind. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just try not to burn down anything before you’ve built your new reputation.”

Lucien watched him go, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Perhaps his reputation wasn’t set in stone. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could be more than what the world saw.

As the last light of day faded from the sky, Lucien took a deep breath and followed Cassian up the path. His past may have shaped him, but it didn’t have to define him.

From this moment on, he would decide what Lucien Vanserra stood for. And he would make sure the world knew it.

📜End📜

[leikeliscomet]

“But We Love Martha Jones!” - The Doctor Who Fandom’s Selective Memory of Racism

Chapter 1 - Everybody Hates Martha

Contrary to now popular Whovian belief, no, the fandom didn’t like Martha at first. In fact, most Martha praise wouldn't come until years after her exit. The issue came from the “Rose shadow” of RTD1. Rose’s traumatic exit hit Ten like a truck and this echoed throughout The Runaway Bride. The episode beautifully covers the stages of grief; his denial as he forgets he can’t have another Christmas on the Powell Estate; his anger at the Racnoss; his bargaining as he reminisces good times with Rose; his depression knowing her can’t get her back and eventual acceptance - ending the episode with a solemn “her name was Rose”. On paper, this was the perfect closure Ten needed for Rose and a lovely way to say goodbye to her even in her absence. But her shadow still covered the rest of S3 and S4. And not in a good way.

From the jump Ten tells Martha she could never replace her but mind you, Martha never claimed she would, but the fandom acted like she did and was. Her presence is mentioned throughout S3: the “not that you’re replacing her” in Smith and Jones; the “Rose would know” in Shakespeare Code; Ten taking Martha to the New New York slums in Gridlock when Rose got “glitter and cocktails”; the ink drawing of Rose popping out of Ten’s subconscious through John Smith in Human Nature/Family of Blood to Jack and Ten’s convo about her in Utopia to even the Master in Last of the Time Lords, calling Martha useless for not absorbing the Time Vortex like a certain companion. Can you guess who she is? Martha to this day is the only companion to be treated as the rebound to a previous companion and this bled into the fandom. Despite Donna’s growth in Partners in Crime working so well because of her growth after The Runaway Bride, it was still a common sentiment to “wish we went straight from Rose to Donna”. The S4 writing didn’t help Martha’s case either. Ten tells Donna about the crush and other “complications” while conveniently leaving out the mixed signals he sent to her. Plus, he admits his mistakes to well… Donna, and not to Martha’s face despite sharing three whole episodes with her. Martha spent those episodes being a host to a Sontaran clone and being kidnapped by the Hath so the “I’m sorry for underestimating you and comparing you to my previous companion, Martha Jones” never came out of Ten’s mouth. The show’s insistence on Martha as the “failed Rose replacement” gave the fandom great excuses to attack her and welcome a mountain of bad faith criticism that haunts Martha Jones discussions to this day.

It doesn’t matter Martha saved the Doctor with CPR in her debut episode, used the Gamma Strike to defeat the pig men on the spot, saved John Smith, Joan and the rest of the village from the Family of Blood despite how racist they all were towards her, came up with the right word to banish the Carrionites on the spot, got the DNA sample needed from Lazarus and distracted him for Ten, got the 42 crew to dump the sun particles in the fuel, warned Ten about Yana’s watch and most importantly, stayed alive in one of humanity’s most hellish years to restore the Doctor and defeat the Master - she was incompetent.

It doesn’t matter Martha never attacked, belittled or actually insulted Rose but was rather tired of being put down for her instead, or the fact Rose within minutes of seeing Martha said “I was here first” and “Who is she?” with disgust - Martha was jealous and bitter.

It doesn’t matter Ten kissed her for a DNA sample despite her cheek, forehead and hand being available, knew about Martha’s crush and still acted oblivious post-Smith and Jones, hugged her then blamed her for said hug, lied to her about Gallifrey but told Rose the truth in her 2nd episode, called her a novice and literally screamed in her face in Utopia - Martha 100% to blame for the failed TenMartha friendship but not our unproblematic fave Ten.

It doesn’t matter Ten was willing to protect and travel with Donna in The Runaway Bride minutes after losing Rose and Eleven having no issue welcoming Clara after watching another version of her, Amy and Rory die in front of him - Martha had to be belittled by Ten because of grief. 

It doesn’t matter Rose and Donna, then Amy and Clara in the Moffat era would need supernatural intervention to gain their titles, or that Rose and Donna needed Ten’s help a few times in their series - Martha had no agency. 

It doesn’t matter Ten fell in love with Rose, Madame de Pompadour, Joan Redfern, Queen Elizabeth I, River Song, Astrid Peth AND Lady Christina, or RTD1’s insistence of (heterosexual) romance being the most human trait of humanity (which is a whole other conversation) - Martha’s romantic feelings were a flaw she needed to correct.

It doesn’t matter Rose, Amy and Clara would fall in love with the Doctor to the point of being willing to abandon their families for him, forcibly kissing him or trying to be him - Martha was the clingy one.  It doesn’t matter Professor Yana’s drumbeat began before he met the gang because it was Martha’s fault the Master came back too apparently. Remember little Tim Latimer stealing the fob because it was reaching out to him? The fans didn’t because Martha was blamed for losing the fob too! Martha’s not a flawless person but it can’t be denied Martha was critiqued for moments that were out of her control. From various nuanced plot points where she was a victim of circumstance to lacking hindsight she literally couldn't have had because she wasn’t in S1/S2, to being disliked for doing the exact same things her white female counterparts did, it’s highly unlikely the Martha Hate Train was born from constructive criticism.

<- Intro Chapter 2 ->