#it’s the sharpening ���� always up the sharpening

[sadesluvr]

TEETH.

Sergei Kravinoff might be a villian, and you a hero; but at the end of the day you're both animals.

A/N: First fic in a while so my bad if it sucks. You already know this movie was basically ass but we only watched it for ATJ anyway - I'm changing some of Kraven's character so he's similar to the comics/Spider-Man 2 game, so be sure to read the tags bc he’s a lil dark…

Word count: 2.3K

Tags: SMUT / DUB-CON / Spiderwoman! Reader / Breeding / Unprotected + rough sex

Kraven feared nothing. 

It simply wasn’t in his blood; not his staunchly machismo upbringing, nor in his DNA, quite literally having that of a lion. Fear made one weak. Fear made you less of a man. Fear was what killed his mother. 

If anything, fear was just another animal; ready to be captured, killed and conquered, ultimately destined to be draped across his chiselled body or mounted on a wall.  

You were simply no different. 

He never really understood why people were afraid of spiders, but he knew that they were a nuisance, having haunted him since he was a boy. Spiders weren’t savages like lions or bears, but they were sneaky; crawling around in the dark and waiting to strike, with a face so obscured that you’d never really know what you were looking at...what they were thinking.  

But now, with your mask off, he could see you clearly. Fear; clouding your eyes and consuming your lungs as you heaved, choking on the intensity of the emotion itself as your pupils darted between the beige, bloodied teeth on his necklace and a crossbow pointed right at your heart. 

“So, you’re the insect causing me all this trouble?” the man mused; legs crossed upon a desk as he eyed you. “I should’ve known.” 

“Should’ve known what? You know nothing about me.”  

“You’re a girl.” 

“Sexist, much.” 

He chuckled. 

“Far from it. My father, however, was quite the traditionalist. He would’ve done much worse by now.” 

There was a heavy silence as you swiped at your bottom lip. Much to your dismay, blood had begun to dry, and you were left with a salty, scratchy throat. Liquid, some of any kind, would’ve been appreciated, but you knew all too well that Kraven wasn’t one for showing mercy. Like all the villains you’d encountered, you’d had a push-pull relationship with the Hunter since the very beginning. He created a plan; you foiled it, sometimes you’d get your ass beat but the ending was almost always the same – with you safe from harm's way, and a bloodthirsty ego chipped away, but momentarily put to rest. 

On this occasion you’d slipped up, your Spidey-senses failing you and placing you right into harm's way, shipped into the back of a van and somehow escorted to a somewhat uncharacteristically lavish mansion.  

You'd always found Kraven to be a man of contradictions; whether he realised it or not. He was the best and worst of both worlds, a hunter with all the grit of someone who’d been fighting their entire life as a poverty-stricken rogue, and yet you’d come to learn that he was a Russian aristocrat, hence his rather extensive knowledge and unrelenting desire for control. Still, nothing took away from the fact that he was a brute, not even his strikingly good looks. 

“Just shoot me and be over it,” You continued, watching as he lowered his feet from atop the desk and strolled over to you.  “You didn’t need to drag me all the way here.” 

He looked even bigger than usual, but perhaps it was because you were perched uncomfortably on a chair, arms bound behind you as you craned your neck to look up at him. Your mind couldn’t - no, didn’t - want to fathom what he was thinking of you from this angle. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I care nothing about your secret. I just wanted to look you in the eye.” He mused, rummaging through his back pockets. Your breath hitched in your throat as he slid a knife from its sheath, finely carved and sharpened and lowered it to his side before pacing around you, stopping as his firm torso pressed up against the tip of your neck. Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced for your neck to be split open, only to be released from your bounds.  

Instinctively, you went to shoot some webs, hoping you could at least catapult yourself across the room, but he tightly grasped your wrists, steadying your arms in place.  

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” he sneered. “These are antiques.” 

You rolled your eyes. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Get up,” he announced suddenly, almost dragging you to your feet. Hesitantly, you began to shuffle out of the room, overwhelmed by the seemingly endless walls and corridors, all framed in ivory and the finest mahogany. “Keep walking until I tell you to stop.” 

You continued down the hall, opting for a straight line. It seemed to be the correct way as once you passed into the threshold of a room that had a velvet chaise lounges and a dresser, he dropped his hands from their grip on your own, closing the door behind you. Oddly enough, you never heard the click of a latch. 

Without a word, he walked past you to open the drawer, rummaging through the contents. It utterly baffled you why you didn’t feel the urge to protest, or even fight. The entire ordeal was feeling more like a glorified house tour with a side of intimidation rather than a future crime scene. 

Was it because he was handsome? Wild? Filthy rich? Whatever happened to your values? Perhaps Jameson was right.  

Your thoughts were interrupted by the man placing something in the desk, curling his finger to beckon you towards him.  

“See this? This is what keeps me going,”he said, rolling a vial of florescent liquid in his fingertips.  “You and I are more alike than you think.” 

You scoffed, trying to ignore how close he was to you. He had an earthly musk that invaded your senses, sending tingles down your spine… and to your core. 

“I don’t need a drug to do what I do.” 

“Never mind the drug. It’s our blood that makes us strong.” 

You cocked a brow and he ignored your confused look. 

“You know, I’ve always hated spiders…” he began, rubbing his beard in contemplation.  “Too itchy; unpredictable. You never really know where they’re going to show up. If I ever saw one, I used to pop them like a zit.” 

There was a clear disgust in his words and vacant look in his eye that sunk you into a pit of fear for perhaps the first time since regaining your consciousness. You knew that it was just about you (surely), but perhaps a weird extension of your being; something bigger, far more innate than a girl in a spandex spider suit. 

“But then I realised that for their size, they’re deadly. Powerful, even. Recently I’ve wondered what it would look like if I harnessed it myself.” 

You swallowed, suddenly conscious of your dry throat once more. 

“A drop of blood usually does the trick.” 

He tutted. Perhaps you were being too fickle. 

“No, любимец [darling], not that way. I crave something more.” 

Your eyes darted to the lounge. Since when did Spider-Woman lack composure? Kraven’s impenetrable gaze followed your own, and he chuckled knowingly. 

“With your arachnid abilities and my strength, we could create something truly unique. Nature has its ways, you know.” 

“You’re sick,” you replied, your chin held high but your bottom lip wobbled. “I’ll never join you. What you do is immoral.” 

Kraven furrowed his brows. 

“You killed a man, and you talk about morality?” 

“He was a bad man.” 

“He was my brother.” 

The word humanised him a bit. The Chameleon wasn’t your most imposing foe, but he was still a challenge you’d been rather glad to conquer. It was all too often that you’d fallen into the trap of thinking that the world was black and white; good and bad, when occasionally it was grey. Kraven was allowed to grieve his brother, but at the end of the day they were both bad guys. 

Then why did he turn you on so much? 

“You don’t have to resist,” the man grinned, strolling towards you. He stopped, glancing down and reaching a hand up to cup the sides of your face, caressing your cheekbones and sides of your lip with his thumb, threatening to penetrate your mouth. “I’ve never been this close to you before…I can smell you.” 

You were both superhuman, but he had the thirst of a predator. Quite literally. Breath hitched in your throat as he angled his lips to your ear, whispering a few fatal words. 

“Give in, маленький паучок [little spider]. Your body yearns for me.” 

One large hand was wrapped around your neck as he kissed you, his wild beard scratching against your face as his other hand snaked down your suit, down to between your thighs. The latex did nothing to offer you safety, his callouses prodding at your wet slit and beginning to rub in small circles, oh-so internationally slow, making sure he pressed against the hood of your clit. 

He had you as soon as a small moan escaped your lips. It’d been a while since you’d been touched, let a alone by someone who was as well-travelled as The Hunter himself, and every kiss, nibble and squeeze was sending you into a deeper spiral of lust and guilt that you could barely fathom that you’d already made your way to the lounge. 

You pulled away as your calves collided with the frame, lips wet and parted as you glanced up at him – wholly helplessly. His hand remained firm on your face, angling his head as he smirked at your shielded demeanour, a far cry from the flashy superhero you’d been but an hour ago.  

“Kra—“ 

“Don’t call me that,” he said through gritted teeth. “Call me Sergei. I need to hear you say it.” 

The name rolled from your lips as a cry as he bunched the sides of your suit in his hands and tearing it apart, exposing your bare pussy and ass, with strands of fabric shaping your legs like a makeshift garter. He grinned, large hands frantically groping at your thighs and ass, spreading your cheeks apart and exposing your hot core to the cool air. 

“прекрасный.” [Gorgeous] he moaned, swatting at your ass before dipping his fingers inside you, rubbing your folds between his fingers as you coated him in your juices. Grasping your hands around his thick neck, you clung onto what you could as he explored your body, lowering you down onto the smooth velvet. 

It wasn’t long before he straddled you, holding your body down with his pelvis as he removed his jacket, giving you an eyeful of his crafted torso. Unsurprisingly, he had the body of a God, with a prominent v-line and happy trail pointing down to between his legs. Even through his heavy trousers you could make out his bulge, mounded and ready for you. 

You gasped in anticipation, watching as the man withdrew his cock from his briefs; red and girthy, with precum spilling from his tip. Skilfully, he spread your thighs, making sure they were safely by your sides (he’d seen how flexible you were, your ankles touching your ears was nothing) and lifting your lower back slightly off the cushions, pushing into you with a deep sigh. 

At first, his intrusion was a dull ache, but as he began to move his hips against your own you felt utterly fulfilled, moaning and writhing as he wasted no time in daggering your wanting pussy, making sure you felt every inch.  

“Sergei...” you cried, eyes fluttering shut as you flung your head back in pleasure. “Please...” 

“Say it again.” 

Words evaded you. 

The man grinned, flashing his canines as he tightened his grip, compelling him to fuck you harder. The whole ordeal was obscene; New York’s most treasured hero being bent into submission by the villain of the week, a scene so heinous that it was all the more endearing, and with every thrust you knew you wanted him more. Sergei didn’t care whether his combat boots scuffed the fine upholstery, or if his grip on your waist would leave a few bruises – he just wanted to own you. 

He huffed as his heavy balls slammed repeatedly against your crack, beginning to bottom out in you with every hit, so much so that it looked like you were conjoined.

Even through the strain in your legs you could tell you were close, knots in your stomach slowly beginning to unravel as your walls clenched around him, earning a delighted rumble from deep within his chest. 

You knew that he wasn’t one for talk, but you would’ve appreciated the warning that he was about to come. Every guy you’d been with tended to get sloppier, but he grew stronger, the literal animal in him taking over as he began to ramble and curse through gritted teeth in Russian.  

Sergei threw his head back as he held you down, hands pawing your breasts and strands of hair sprawled in a beautiful mess across his face as he came, ropes of hot white cum spilling into your pussy just as you dressed his cock in a silky sheen. Your chests heaved as you desperately tried to come down from your high, glancing down at your messy nether regions as his seed began to seep out of you.  

There was no going back. Nine months began now. 

Would it really be all that bad? 

It all went back to fear, really. In the back of his mind the thought of a spider still troubled Sergei, but at least he’d conquered it. Even if it was temporary. 

FIN. 

[theonottsbxtch]

MY PEACE | MV1

an: this was a request from a lovely first time requester ( @pinkinternetstarlight )i had so much fun with this except i probably went about this differently than was expected maybe? i don’t know but i hope everyone enjoys it

wc: 1.9k

THE MONACO SKYLINE GLITTERED outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s apartment, but the man inside couldn’t see it. Not really. He was slumped on the sofa, his head buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, still dressed in the sweat-soaked polo and race trousers he hadn’t bothered to peel off since getting home. The hollow thrum of the media circus still echoed in his ears—reporters’ voices, headlines dissecting every moment of his race, every mistake, every edge of aggression they couldn’t wait to sharpen into a weapon.

The living room was dim, the only light a faint glow from the kitchen where she stood, stacking plates from his barely-touched dinner into the dishwasher. He hadn’t asked her to come over; he never had to. She just… knew. She always knew.

She moved with quiet purpose, tying her hair back with a loose band, sleeves rolled up as she made her way around his space—tidying up the chaos he left in his wake. To anyone else, it might have seemed like she was cleaning for the sake of it, but he recognised it for what it was: her way of looking after him, of making sure that when the noise of the world threatened to cave him in, the corners of his life she touched felt a little less sharp.

He glanced up when she wandered back into the room, her bare feet soft against the wooden floor, carrying a folded blanket. She sat beside him without a word, the way she always did, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Without asking, she unfolded the blanket and draped it over his lap, tucking it in just so.

His breath hitched—he didn’t mean it to, but there it was, like a crack in a dam he spent his whole life patching up. He turned his head slightly, enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, and for the first time all day, the ache behind his ribs quietened.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

She turned to him, one corner of her mouth lifting in a small, knowing smile. “I know I don’t.”

He let his head fall back, tipping to the side until it came to rest against her lap. His body felt too heavy to hold up anymore, but here—here was lightness. Her fingers slid through his hair, slow and deliberate, untangling the knots the day had left behind.

The monster inside him, the one he kept chained under the weight of the world’s expectations, fell silent.

“Dinner’s in the fridge for tomorrow,” she said softly. “And I’ll stay the night if you want.”

He shut his eyes. He wanted to say he didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve her—but the words wouldn’t come. All he managed was a nod, and when she leaned back against the cushions, her hands still in his hair, he let himself breathe.

The silence between them stretched on, but it wasn’t heavy. It was soft, the kind that let him loosen the grip on his thoughts, if only a little. He stared at the darkened skyline, the city lights casting faint patterns on the walls, and tried not to get lost in his head. But it was a losing battle. It always was.

The thought crept in before he could stop it. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve her.

The words sounded like his own, but the voice behind them wasn’t. It was his father’s, sharp and clipped, laced with that same cold disdain that had haunted his childhood. His dad had always seen her as a weakness, a threat to his focus and discipline. How many times had he warned Max about letting anyone get too close? About “wasting energy” on things that didn’t matter?

And yet, here she was, the only person who’d stayed. The only one who’d made it through the wreckage of his life without turning away.

Her hand was still in his hair, her fingers slow and soothing, but he could feel the faint shift of her breathing as she glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Max,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise in his head. “You’ve got a flight tomorrow morning. You should shower and get some sleep.”

He opened his eyes, the weight of the day still pressing down on him, and turned to look at her. “I’ll sleep on the plane,” he mumbled, though he didn’t move.

“Shower first,” she said, firm but kind. “You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t argue. He never could, not with her. With a quiet sigh, he sat up, the blanket slipping to the floor, and dragged himself to his feet. The thought of standing under hot water—letting it wash away the grease and grime and whatever else the day had left on him—wasn’t as bad as he let on.

By the time he stepped into the shower, he could hear her moving about in the kitchen again. He let the water beat against his skin, his hands braced against the tiled wall as the heat loosened the tension in his shoulders. Still, his mind wouldn’t stop replaying the same loop: his dad’s voice, the doubt, the sense of never being enough.

When he finally emerged, towel slung around his waist, the smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment. He found her in the bedroom, already curled up against the pillows, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. On the bedside table sat another mug—tea, the way she always made it for him, a perfect balance of strong and soothing.

She didn’t look up as he walked in, her nose buried in a book, the soft glow of the bedside lamp making the room feel impossibly safe.

He took the mug and sat on the other side of the bed, cradling it in his hands as the steam curled up around his face. For a while, they didn’t speak. She kept reading, and he let himself lean back against the headboard, the warmth of the tea spreading through him.

It wasn’t until he was ready—until the words that had been choking him all day finally loosened—that he spoke.

“They hate me,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a rasp.

She looked up from her book, closing it without a hint of impatience, and turned her full attention to him. “Who?”

“Everyone,” he said. “The media. The fans. Hell, even Checo, sometimes.” He laughed bitterly. “They don’t even know me, but they’ve already decided I’m the villain. And the worst part is… I think they’re right.”

Her brows knitted together, and she set her mug down on the table. “Max,” she said, her voice steady, her gaze unflinching, “you’re not a villain.”

He shook his head, staring into his tea. “I don’t know how you can say that. You’ve seen it—how I am on the track, how I am off it. I push people away, I—” He stopped, the words catching in his throat.

“You’re human,” she said simply. “You’re not perfect, but no one is. And everything they say about you? That’s noise. It’s not who you are.”

His hands tightened around the mug, and he looked at her, his expression raw, like he was seeing her for the first time.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said, his voice breaking. “You could’ve left a long time ago. Sometimes I think you should’ve.”

She held his gaze, her eyes calm but fierce. “And sometimes I think you forget that I get to make my own choices,” she said softly. “I’m here because I want to be, Max. Not because I feel sorry for you. Not because you owe me anything. Just because you’re you.”

The weight in his chest shifted, just a fraction, but enough. He didn’t know how to respond to that—not yet—but when she picked up her book again, leaning against his shoulder as if nothing had changed, he let himself close his eyes and breathe.

For tonight, it was enough.

The tea was long forgotten on the bedside table, the room quiet save for the faint rustle of her turning a page and the soft hum of the city beyond the windows. Max shifted under the duvet, his body still heavy with exhaustion, but the ache behind his ribs had eased, just enough to let him breathe.

She lay beside him, her book propped against her knees, the light from the lamp catching the soft curve of her face. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the pang of something sharp and unfamiliar blooming in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but tonight it seemed impossible to ignore.

He adjusted his pillow and turned on his side, facing her. “You’re going to read all night, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low, teasing.

She glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Not if you need to sleep.”

“I always need sleep is what you say, no?.”

She laughed softly, her head tipping to the side as she closed her book, slipping it onto the nightstand. “Alright, I’m done.” She reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into comfortable darkness.

He shifted closer instinctively, the warmth of her presence drawing him in. They’d done this a hundred times before—falling asleep in the same bed, his arm slung over her waist or her head tucked against his chest—but tonight felt different. The space between them was charged with something unspoken, a tension he didn’t have the courage to name.

She settled into the pillows, her back facing him, and he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer, and she melted into him without a second thought.

“Goodnight, Max,” she murmured, her voice soft and drowsy.

He rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. “Goodnight,” he said, though his mind was far from quiet.

The weight of the day, the weight of everything, seemed to dissipate as he held her. She didn’t demand anything of him, didn’t ask him to explain himself or prove that he was more than what the world saw. She just… was. And somehow, that was enough to quiet the storm inside him.

His eyes fluttered shut, the warmth of her body lulling him into something close to peace. And before he could stop himself, the words slipped out, barely more than a whisper, lost to the dark.

“I love you.”

She didn’t stir. Didn’t react.

For a moment, panic flared in his chest—what if she’d heard him? What if she didn’t feel the same? But as her breathing deepened, slow and steady in the quiet of the room, he realised she was already asleep.

Relief swept over him, and he tightened his hold on her just a fraction, burying his face in her hair. It was better this way, he told himself. She didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to ruin what they had, didn’t need to drag her into the mess of his life any more than she already was.

For tonight, it was enough to hold her. To let the monster in him fall silent, just for a little while.

And as sleep finally pulled him under, he couldn’t help but hope—just a little—that maybe someday, he’d find the courage to say it again.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby

[joelsrose]

Face Masks?

i need to stop writing this shit bc its making me depresseeedd i need himmm

my masterlist xxx

The room was dimly lit, the golden glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the room. 

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the wooden frame slightly chipped but charming nonetheless, humming a tune to yourself as you adjusted the headband holding your hair back. 

The faint scent of roses filled the air, delicate and warm, emanating from the homemade face mask you were mixing in a ceramic bowl Maria had lent you. 

You bit your lip in concentration, the wooden spoon swirling through the creamy mixture as you tried to remember the exact instructions Maria had given you earlier that day.

From the bedroom, Joel’s voice broke the peaceful quiet. He was grumbling, his tone steeped in frustration and exhaustion. “He’s a goddamn idiot,” he groaned, clearly talking about someone from patrol. “Told him to stay low, and what does he do? Barges in and almost gets us killed.” 

A muffled clink followed, the sound of ceramic touching wood as he set something down on the bedside table. Likely your tea, judging by the faint whiff of chamomile drifting into the room.

Then, his voice shifted, the sharp edges dulled by a tired sort of affection. “Baby,” he called, low and gruff, “you comin’ to bed, or you plannin’ on spendin’ the whole damn night in the bathroom?” The words carried a teasing hint, though softer, quieter, he added, almost to himself, “Your tea’s gonna get cold.”

A small smile tugged at your lips as you called back, teasing, “You missin’ me already?”

There was a beat of silence, then his reply came, gruff but undeniably warm. “I wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t.”

Your heart fluttered a little, the way it always did when Joel said something like that—not exactly romantic, but the kind of thing only he could make feel like one. 

“Just a few more minutes,” you called out, “gotta make sure I’m extra soft and pretty for you.”

“Don’t need any of that,” he muttered, but it was loud enough for you to hear. “You’re already plenty pretty.”

Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment, even though his tone was gruff. You shook your head, grinning to yourself. 

“Alright,” you replied, your voice carrying through the half-open door. You set the bowl down on the counter and grabbed the jar of homemade moisturizer Maria had also insisted you try. The subtle scent of lavender and honey wafted up as you scooped some into your hands, rubbing it between your palms before smoothing it over your legs.

“So, what happened after?” you asked, keeping your tone light, though curiosity lingered beneath your words. Joel wasn’t the type to gripe unless something had well and truly gotten under his skin.

From the bedroom, you heard him sigh, long and heavy, the sound carrying the weight of his frustration. The soft rustle of the bedsheets followed—he was probably settling in, though you could imagine him rubbing a hand over his face, trying to shake off the day.

“What happened?” he echoed, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Had to clean up his damn mess, that’s what. Kid thinks he’s invincible.” The irritation sharpened as he went on, his voice rising as though he were speaking to the ceiling, reliving the ordeal as he vented. “Walked us straight into an ambush, and I ended up takin’ the brunt of it.”

“Wow,” you gushed aloud, unable to help yourself as you swirled the spoon in the bowl, your voice filled with playful admiration. “My man, taking on all those scary raiders. Bet you looked sexy doing it.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence. You smiled to yourself in the mirror, already imagining Joel’s reaction. The way his brows would knit together, that half-gruff, half-flustered expression he’d never admit to, and maybe even a quiet huff of disbelief.

From the bedroom, Joel sighed, loud and dramatic enough for you to hear. “Come out here, please,” he called, his voice carrying that familiar mix of irritation and something softer. “Christ, why’d I gotta beg with you?”

Curious, you leaned out of the bathroom just enough to catch a glimpse of him, careful not to draw his attention. There he was, sprawled across the bed in a way that was all Joel—equal parts rugged and weary.

His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, his expression carrying that familiar blend of irritation and exhaustion that somehow made your chest tighten. Gosh, he was gorgeous, and the sight of him had your cheeks warming despite yourself.

And then there was his face—flushed in a way you recognized instantly. The kind of flush he’d get when he was flustered but too stubborn to admit it.

One arm was tucked behind his head, his elbow jutting out, while the other rested on his chest, fingers absently tapping against the fabric of his shirt. The movement was rhythmic, almost absentminded, as if it might somehow work out the frustration simmering beneath his skin.

His tousled hair framed his face in a way that softened his usually stern features, and the sight of him in a soft gray pyjama shirt and dark pants—clothes that clung just slightly to his broad frame—was disarming. There was something so ordinary about it, so wonderfully domestic.

The bed, far too small for a man like him, groaned faintly under his weight, his legs just barely hanging off the edge. He shifted slightly, a sigh escaping his lips, and for a fleeting moment, you felt like an intruder on something too personal, too real. But you couldn’t look away—he was an unexpected contradiction, all gruffness wrapped in quiet vulnerability, and it left you completely undone.

You smiled to yourself, biting back a laugh at how ridiculously cute he looked in that moment, before calling out teasingly, “So you yell at the poor guy?”

“Hell yeah, I did,” Joel shot back, his tone unapologetic, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Well,” you replied, finally stepping out of the bathroom with the bowl of face mask in your hands, the soft scent of roses trailing after you as you made your way to the bed. “I got somethin’ that might help you relax.”

Joel shifted at the sound of your voice, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. His gaze landed on you, and for a moment, his expression softened, the frustration from earlier melting away just a little. “I like the sound of that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough around the edges. His eyes swept over you, lingering for a beat too long.

You could practically feel the heat of his gaze as it took in the sight of you in his oversized T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, the hem of the shirt brushing just above your knees. There was something unreadable in his expression, though the way his brow ticked up ever so slightly told you he probably had the wrong idea about how exactly you planned to help him relax.

The corner of your mouth twitched with amusement as you climbed onto the bed, careful not to spill the bowl in your hands. Joel’s eyes followed your every move, curiosity flickering in their depths as he tilted his head slightly.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from the bowl in your hands to your face and back again, his expression suspicious. “The hell is that?” he asked, his voice low and dripping with skepticism.

“A face mask,” you replied simply, your tone as matter-of-fact as if you’d just declared the sky was blue.

Joel’s brows knit together, his confusion almost comical. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he were trying to puzzle out some great mystery. “For your face,” you added, enunciating each word slowly like he might not have understood.

His reaction was immediate—his lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line, and he leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest. “No way in hell you’re puttin’ that shit on me,” he said, his voice firm, like he was drawing a line in the sand.

You pouted dramatically, sticking your bottom lip out just enough to make him groan, the sound low and reluctant as his head tilted back against the headboard. “Oh, come on, Joel,” you coaxed, your voice lilting with playful innocence. “It’s supposed to be good for your skin. Don’t you trust me?”

Joel groaned, a deep, reluctant sound as his head leaned back against the headboard. “An old man like me is way past carin’ about his skin,” he muttered, shaking his head.

His eyes snapped back to yours, narrowing suspiciously, but before he could protest again, you leaned in closer, letting your fingers brush ever so lightly against the hem of his pyjama pants. “Maybe if you do it,” you murmured, your tone teasing, “I’ll help you unwind another way too.”

Joel froze, his gaze locked on you as the faintest flush crept up his neck. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, visibly wrestling with whatever was going through his head. “You’re playin’ dirty,” he muttered finally, his voice low and gravelly, but there was no mistaking the way his jaw ticked, like he was trying not to let you see how flustered he was.

You tilted your head, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “Is it workin’?”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hand over his face as though already regretting the conversation. “The things I do for you…”

Your face lit up with a triumphant smile. “Is that a yes?”

He grumbled something incoherent before sighing deeply. “Hurry up before I change my mind,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the pillow.

You squealed softly, unable to contain your excitement as you settled closer to his broad body, the warmth of him grounding you. With gentle fingers, you collected the rose-scented mask and smoothed it over his weathered skin, taking your time to ensure every stroke was perfect. The contrast between his rugged, sun-worn features and the soft, floral scent of the mask struck you as oddly endearing.

Here he was, Joel Miller—the man who could take down an infected in seconds without breaking a sweat—now lying still and letting you paint his face with homemade skincare. The absurdity of it made your chest swell with affection, and you couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out as you leaned back to admire your handiwork.

You admired his face as he lay there, his features finally relaxed, the usual tension around his brow melting away. For a moment, he looked completely at peace, the lines on his face softer, his breathing slow and steady. Your eyes wandered over him, taking in the details you rarely let yourself linger on.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyelashes, baby,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could catch them.

Joel’s lips twitched, the faintest smirk forming, though he didn’t open his eyes. “Prettiest, huh?” he muttered, his voice rough but tinged with teasing.

“And the nicest lips,” you added softly, unable to help yourself as you leaned down, brushing your own lips against his in a fleeting kiss. His mouth curved into a smile beneath yours, the warmth of it sending a flutter of butterflies racing through your chest.

“Urgh,” you groaned, pulling back just enough to sit beside him, the bowl resting on your lap. “You’re so handsome.”

Joel’s hand moved without hesitation, even with his eyes still closed. His large, calloused fingers found your thigh, squeezing gently, the roughness of his touch making your heart skip a beat.

He chuckled low, a sound that was equal parts amusement and satisfaction. “Look at you, bein’ nice to me,” he teased, his eyes staying closed, though the smirk that tugged at his lips was impossible to miss.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile as you dipped your fingers back into the face mask. “Hey,” you said, swiping a playful line of the mixture across his forehead to smooth it out evenly, “I’m always nice to you.”

“Debatable,” he added lazily, the teasing warmth in his voice making you laugh.

“Shut up,” you shot back, still laughing as you set the bowl down on the nightstand.

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, his hand brushing against his cheek as he frowned. “Is it meant to be this cold?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, batting his hand away before he could smear it. “Don’t touch it.”

He opened his eyes then, fixing you with a deadpan look that would’ve been more convincing if his lips weren’t twitching. “You happy now?”

You grinned at him, your smile wide enough to make your eyes crinkle. “Very.”

“Good,” Joel muttered, leaning back into the pillow with a soft sigh. “Gimme a kiss.”

You leaned in obligingly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before pulling back, your gaze lingering on his face for a moment longer than you intended. “Okay, my turn,” you declared suddenly, sitting up and setting the bowl down before flopping back onto the bed beside him, your eyes falling shut in a dramatic flourish.

Joel raised an eyebrow, his skepticism plain as he turned his head to look at you. “You want me to…?”

“Yes,” you said, cutting him off with a firm nod, your eyes still closed. “You. Me. Face mask. Now.”

“Fucking hell,” Joel muttered under his breath, pushing himself up onto his knees with a grunt. The bed groaned under his weight, but he paid it no mind, instead staring down at the bowl like it was some alien artifact. “What, I just… put my fingers in it?”

One of your eyes popped open, and the second you caught the unintentional innuendo, you burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the room.

Joel froze for a moment, realization dawning as his lips pulled into a reluctant, crooked smile. He shook his head, groaning dramatically. “Christ, you’re dirty-minded,” he muttered, though the glint of humor in his eyes betrayed him.

“You’re the one who said it,” you teased, your laughter finally subsiding as you closed your eyes again, a grin still tugging at your lips. “Just spread it on my face, okay? It’s not rocket science.”

“Alright,” Joel said, his voice low and quieter now, tinged with something softer. He dipped his fingers into the bowl, hesitating for just a moment before shifting closer. “Stay still,” he murmured, his tone gentler than you expected.

“Hmm,” you hummed, relaxing further into his touch, the gentle strokes of his fingers soothing you like nothing else could.

“My gorgeous girl,” Joel murmured, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

Your lips curled into a small, pleased smile, the warmth of his words settling in your chest. “Hmm,” you hummed again, teasing now. “Am I the prettiest girl in Jackson?”

Joel hesitated for just a moment, and then he leaned down, his lips brushing your temple with a featherlight touch as he whispered, “Prettiest girl in the damn world, baby.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, a warmth blooming in your chest that made you feel like you might burst. “Joel,” you murmured, your eyes fluttered open, seeking his.

“Eyes closed, darlin’,” he said softly, his voice low but steady, a firm gentleness lacing his words. His thumb brushed against your cheek, the calloused pad grazing your skin so tenderly it made you melt.

You obeyed, closing your eyes again with a small smile, but you couldn’t help the way your lips curved up, warmth spreading through you from the way he spoke to you, the way he touched you.

He smoothed the last bit of the mask onto your forehead, his fingers moving gently, almost reverently. His eyes traced the lines of your face, committing every detail to memory.

“All done,” he murmured finally, leaning back just enough to give you space.

You opened your eyes, blinking up at him, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He was watching you with a softness that stole the air from your lungs, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your voice almost shy now, the intimacy of the moment making your heart race.

Joel’s lips curved into that small, crooked smile of his, the one that never failed to make your stomach flip. “Anytime, baby,” he replied, his voice low and warm, as he set the bowl aside on the nightstand. Without hesitation, he plopped down onto his side of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he stretched out beside you.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that felt easy and natural, until Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. He turned his head toward you, his expression equal parts curious and skeptical. “Now how long do we keep this shit on?”

You burst into laughter, the spell of the moment breaking just enough to make you grin. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” you said, still giggling. “You’re already doing better than most.”

Joel huffed, shaking his head with mock exasperation, but the faint smile tugging at his lips told you he didn’t really mind. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, leaning back against the headboard with a sigh.

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, settling beside him, your shoulder brushing his. His hand found yours without hesitation, his fingers curling around yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world

[wolvietxt]

heyy, congrats on 1000!! 🎉

i’d like daryl with the prompt below:

“it’s the middle of a heated argument, voices raised, hands gesturing wildly. suddenly, they stop mid-sentence, chest heaving. “you’re all i ever think about,” they blurt out, the anger draining from their face as if they only just realized it themselves.”

(from the “unexpected confessions” list)

thanks so much!🤍

DARYL was sitting in the corner of the cabin, sharpening his knife, while you paced the floor, words spilling out in a rush of frustration. it started over something stupid. it always did. 

"you can't just keep shutting me out, daryl," you said, throwing your hands up. "every time i try to help, you act like i'm some kind of burden!"  

"ain't about you helpin'," he shot back, his voice rough, eyes glued to the blade in his hands. "it's about you gettin' hurt 'cause you don't think things through."  

"oh, so now i don't think things through? that's rich, coming from the guy who runs off without a word and comes back covered in blood half the time!"  

his eyes snapped up at that, sharp and blue like storm clouds ready to break. "you think i don't know what i'm doin' out there? you think i ain't got it handled?"  

"that's not what i meant!" your voice rose, and before you could stop yourself, you were right in front of him, arms crossed and glare locked on his face. "but you can't handle everything alone, daryl! no one can!"  

"been doin' fine so far," he muttered, standing abruptly and towering over you, his posture tense. "you just don't get it. this ain't about bein' fine. it's about survivin'."  

"surviving isn’t the same as living!"  

he let out a sharp exhale, his hands clenching at his sides. "ain't got the luxury to live, not with how things are. you think this is some kinda fairytale? we got walkers everywhere, people worse than 'em, and all you do is - "  

"what? all i do is what, daryl?" you challenged, stepping closer. "care about you? worry about you? because that's all i’m trying to do!"  

"then stop worryin'! i ain't your problem to fix!" his voice thundered, louder than you'd ever heard it, cutting through the tension like a blade.  

you stared at him, chest heaving, hands gesturing wildly as the words tumbled out. "you’re impossible, you know that? you push me away, but you don't want me to go. you want me close, but you don't let me in. what the hell do you want from me, daryl?"  

he opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat. instead, he stood there, his breathing ragged, shoulders rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. and then, as if it had struck him like lightning, his expression softened, anger draining from his face.  

“you’re all i ever think about,” he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. his gaze locked on yours, raw and unguarded, like he was seeing you for the first time - or maybe realizing something he’d been trying to deny for far too long.  

your breath caught, the silence between you suddenly deafening.  

“what?” you whispered, barely audible, as if saying it louder would break whatever spell had just been cast.  

his hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “i said… i think ‘bout you. all the damn time.” he looked away, his jaw tightening, but not before you caught the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “don’t know how to stop.”  

you blinked, trying to process his words, the heat of the argument still lingering in the air but quickly fading under the weight of his confession. “daryl…”  

he cut you off, shaking his head like he couldn’t bear to hear whatever you were about to say. “just forget it, alright? shouldn’t’ve said nothin’.”  

but you weren’t about to let him retreat now, not after everything he’d just let slip. “no,” you said firmly, taking a step closer. “you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to drop something like that and walk away.”  

he scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “ain’t walkin’ away. just don’t wanna make this harder than it already is.”  

“harder?” you asked, your voice softening. “what’s so hard about admitting you care about someone?”  

his gaze snapped back to yours, and for a moment, he looked almost angry again, but it wasn’t the same. it was frustration, confusion, and something else - something gentler.  

“’cause if somethin’ happens to you, i wouldn’t… i couldn’t…” he trailed off, his voice breaking, and suddenly, all the walls he’d built around himself came crashing down. “damn it, i don’t know how to do this.”  

your heart clenched at the sight of him, this man who was always so strong, so sure of himself, now looking utterly lost. “you don’t have to know how,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. “we can figure it out together.”  

he stared at your hand like it was something foreign, something he didn’t quite know how to handle, but he didn’t pull away. instead, he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.  

“don’t wanna mess this up,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“you won’t,” you assured him, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “but you have to let me in, daryl. you can’t keep shutting me out.”  

he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and for the first time since the argument started, you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. “alright,” he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. “alright.”  

a small smile tugged at your lips, and without thinking, you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the stubble on his jaw. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?”  

he huffed a quiet laugh, the sound so rare it made your chest ache. “guess not.”  

and then, before either of you could second-guess it, he leaned down and kissed you. it was tentative at first, almost unsure, but when you kissed him back, his hands found your waist, pulling you closer like he never wanted to let go.  

when you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, but the tension that had been simmering between you for weeks - months, even - was gone, replaced by something warmer, something infinitely more comforting.  

“you’re all i ever think about, too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.  

he smiled, just a little, and for the first time, you saw the man behind all the walls, the one who cared so deeply he didn’t know how to show it. “guess we’re both screwed then,” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.  

you laughed softly, resting your forehead against his. “yeah, i guess we are.” 

ᰔ daryl dixon : @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid, @sunnykittyzz

@california-boys-and-sun, @cable-kenobi, @omen-keke, @hhiggs, @iheartpeterparker3000

@withasideofmeg, @corvuscattus

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[eggrollforyou]

Under The Mistletoe 

Zoro x F!reader

WC: 1405

CW: nothing but fluff here! 

A/N: with all the adorable holiday themed fics being posted, I couldn't resist posting a sweet fic stealing a kiss from my favorite swordsman. As usual, barely proofread 😅. Enjooooyyy!!!! Happy holidays everyone! 💚

The crew was buzzing around the Sunny, finishing up last minute decorating, wrapping gifts, and basking in the holiday cheer. Luffy wanted to go to a Winter island to celebrate Christmas, “Aw, c'mon Nami! You can't have Christmas without SNOOOOW,” he yelled as Nami massaged her temples, trying to deal with the headache of navigating to an island in the Grand Line that had a winter climate in such a short amount of time. 

Nami being Nami though, she pulled it off. The Sunny was anchored off the coast of an island blanketed in snow. It was always amazing to you the diversity of islands on the Grand Line. How could you be on a tropical island one day and literally sailing for 2 days, you'd end up in a Winter wonderland like this; snowy peaks, evergreens 20 feet high, and practically 4 feet of snow everywhere. 

When you joined the crew, everyone was welcoming and made you feel right at home. But Zoro, it took him a while to warm up, if you could call it that at the time. What seemed as bristled annoyance, then shifted to indifference, and that slowly morphed into a quiet friendship. You'd spent hours talking his ear off about anything and everything as he polished his swords, worked out, tried to nap. At first he was annoyed that you never seemed to leave him alone but he soon found himself missing your company if your attention was focused elsewhere. So, slowly he started inviting you to join him, “I'm going to sharpen my swords, you comin’?” with a grunt. Over time, you began to wiggle your way into his heart but he didn't know how to move forward with that. He was unsure how you felt about him. Despite how much time you spent together, he noticed he got no special treatment from you. You were just as silly and talkative with the rest of the crew. He had a goal in mind though, he couldn't afford to be distracted. He needed to help Luffy become the King of the Pirates and he needed to become the world's greatest swordsman, was there place for love in that? 

Little did he know that you immediately wanted to get to know Zoro more. Of all the crew, he was the toughest one to crack. You thought trying to spend time with him he'd eventually open up. At first, you had reservations, surely you were annoying him. But you continued being your unabashed, silly self. As time wore on, he finally let his guard down and seemed to enjoy your company. Your stomach would fill with butterflies when he started asking for you to join him. You both eventually found a rhythm and were practically inseparable. Zoro made it a point to teach you meditation though. “Woman, you talk too much. C’mon, we're gonna meditate.” 

And from there, your friendship grew. His affection for you much more quietly than your own. While you never thought you were trying to make your friendship anything more than it was, the rest of the crew clearly saw it. Robin and Nami were always grilling you about it, asking if you were ever going to make a move. But you found comfort in the routine you both had built and didn't want to rock the boat. You had family with this crew and feared if your affections weren't reciprocated, it would only complicate things. So you just left it be. 

Robin and Nami came back from a little shopping excursion in the small village by the coast. You, Zoro, Luffy, and Usopp wrapped up decorating and decided to extend some decorations down off the coast, setting up Christmas lights around a makeshift fire pit. Taking a break you decided to play in the snow with Usopp and Luffy. Pelting each other with snowballs, making snowmen, and snow angels while Zoro gathered firewood close by. “Hey Nami, Robin! Get a nice haul?” you laughed as you sat up next to Usopp from making your most recent snow angels. Nami walked by excitedly carrying two armfuls of bags as Robin smiled warmly at you, carrying a much more reasonable amount of stuff. “Oh my, it was quite fun. I managed to grab a couple last minute decorations as well,” Robin replied as she held up a smaller bag. Unbeknownst to you, Nami gave a glance to Zoro and tilted her head to Robin, raising an eyebrow and grinning widely. Zoro stood up straight, staring tight-lipped in return. What the hell has that witch done? He thought to himself. He begrudgingly asked for Nami’s help in finding a gift for you, not wanting to go further into debt with her, he agreed to give her free reign to pick it if it wasn't going to add to his debt. But he has no idea what she was planning. By the way she looked at him, he realized he may have made a mistake. As they walked past, Robin gave him a warm smile though it wasn't as devious as Nami’s, as she hinted that the small bag contained whatever the source of his current stress. He exhaled a clipped breath he didn't realize he was holding, the evidence of it fogging in front of him, and saw you getting tackled into a snow drift by Luffy, both of you disappearing into the snow. Your combined laughter and shrieking shaking him out of his nerves and into the present. “Oi! Be careful! I don't want to carry anyone into the infirmary because of your insanity!” he sighed. 

Much to your dismay, Zoro- ever observant- noticed that chill from playing in the snow finally settling in. He ushered the rest of you back toward the ship. As Usopp and Luffy raced to the ship shouting for a spiked warm drink to Sanji, you took your usual spot next to Zoro. He glanced down at you, seeing your lashes wet from playing in the snow, nose and cheeks bright red from the cold, and his heart swelled as you once again talked his ear off. This time about how you've never seen this much snow. 

At that moment he wondered what Nami picked up for him to give to you. As you both walked into the ship, you made your way to the galley. It was warm and bright with Christmas lights strung everywhere. Everyone was sitting down with a warm mug of hot cocoa or coffee that Sanji lovingly prepared. As you stopped to marvel at how wonderful the room looked, Zoro looked at Robin and Nami. They glanced quickly up at the ceiling above you both and their eyes darted back down to you. Zoro looked up and suddenly, his confidence shattered, falling into the pit opening up in his stomach. That…fucking…witch. She didn't?! And suddenly he realized what she had done. There was a bundle of Mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right above you. Your eyes made their way around the room and you noticed Zoro staring up, his eyes wide in surprise and you shifted your gaze to look where he was looking. “Hey! It's missile-toads,” you laughed. Your silliness suddenly broke Zoro from his trance, his body feeling hot, but suddenly his anxiety gone at your silliness that he'd grown to love. 

“What did you just say?” Zoro questioned, eyebrow raised as he looks at you. Your cheeks dusted pink, nose still slightly red from the cold, “I SAID,” you giggle, unable to contain it any longer, “look, there's missile toads.” He pulls back, “That's what I thought you said,” as he chuckles. Zoro's gaze softens as he smiles at you, a warm grin that he only reserves for you. “You know what they say about getting caught under the mistletoe…” he says as he pulls you to him, suddenly mustering the courage to act on how he feels, no longer shy or willing to fight it. Your eyes widen, sparkling under the Christmas lights.

Is he going to…? 

Before you can finish your thought, he presses his lips to yours in a soft kiss. It's gentle and surprisingly loving. Full of months of unspoken feelings and you melt. “Merry Christmas, Zoro,” you beam. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Tags: @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[dreamersworldduh]

INSUFFERABLE

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE READER

SUMMARY — Damian Wayne is infamous for his arrogance, icy demeanor, and undeniable lethality—a product of his strict upbringing and assassin’s training. In stark contrast, Y/N Prince embodies optimism, determination, and an infectious positivity that lights up any room he enters. On the surface, they couldn’t be more different—two polar opposites in every way. Yet, beneath it all, they share one undeniable connection.

WARNING! Swearing.

WORDS! 9.3k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! This is for @dwelkisses— it was going to be a oneshot, however, I got an idea, so don’t worry this is only part one out of three! The next one is definitely spicy…i hope you enjoy!😉

Damian Wayne has always been defined by his personality—arrogant, cold, and undeniably lethal. From a young age, he carried the deadly discipline of an assassin, a legacy inherited from his upbringing in the League of Assassins and sharpened under his father, Batman. This demeanor didn't fade as he matured into adulthood; if anything, it became more pronounced. Damian was never one to engage in idle small talk or seek companionship outside the tight-knit circle of individuals he considered family. One of the rare exceptions to his guarded nature was Jon Kent, the son of Superman and Damian's closest friend.

Damian and Jon's friendship began when they were just kids—Jon was 10, and Damian 13. Despite their contrasting personalities, the two quickly became inseparable. Jon's optimistic and good-natured demeanor served as a counterbalance to Damian's stoicism and intensity. Over the years, their bond deepened, evolving into a brotherhood that Damian fiercely protected. To Damian, Jon wasn't just a friend; he was family, someone he trusted implicitly. Nothing—and no one—could shake the foundation of their relationship.

That is, until Y/N Prince entered their lives.

Y/N, the son of Wonder Woman, was a force to be reckoned with. By the time Damian and Jon were in their early twenties, both were firmly established as heroes in their own right. No longer sidekicks, Robin and Superboy had proven themselves valuable members of the Justice League, earning the respect of their legendary predecessors. It was during this time, as Damian and Jon were navigating their roles as newly minted full-fledged heroes, that Y/N stepped onto the scene. Taking up the mantle of Wonder Boy, Y/N joined the Justice League with a striking presence and a legacy just as formidable as theirs.

Y/N's arrival would alter the dynamic between Damian and Jon in ways neither of them anticipated. What began as an exciting addition to their world would soon challenge the unshakable bond they had shared for nearly a decade.

When Jon Kent first met Y/N Prince, the connection between them was immediate and undeniable. Jon, with his open heart and innate kindness, found himself drawn to Y/N's charisma and strong-willed nature. Y/N, much like his mother Wonder Woman, carried himself with a regal confidence and a sense of purpose that was hard to ignore. He had a sharp wit and a warmth that made him effortlessly likable, even among the most intimidating of heroes. The ease with which Jon and Y/N fell into conversation—playful banter one moment, deep discussions the next—only solidified the natural chemistry between them. It wasn't long before they began forming a close bond, one rooted in mutual respect and a shared passion for justice. Jon saw in Y/N someone who could inspire him, challenge him, and understand the complexities of their unique lives as the next generation of superheroes.

Damian Wayne, however, had an entirely different reaction to Y/N. From the very first moment they crossed paths, Damian found himself bristling at Y/N's presence. To him, Y/N was everything he couldn't stand in a person: confident to the point of arrogance, outspoken, and unapologetically bold. While others might have found Y/N's charm and light-hearted attitude refreshing, Damian saw it as infuriating. Y/N's tendency to challenge him, both in strategy and personality, grated on Damian's nerves. He viewed Y/N as reckless, overly self-assured, and too quick to speak his mind without considering the consequences—a stark contrast to Damian's disciplined and calculated demeanor. It didn't help that Y/N seemed to have a knack for pushing Damian's buttons, often meeting his cold glares with a smirk or a sharp comment that only fueled the tension between them.

To Damian, Y/N represented an unwelcome disruption. He had spent years cultivating his role as one of the most respected and feared heroes of his generation, and the arrival of Wonder Boy felt like an intrusion into the dynamic he and Jon had built. Worse, Damian couldn't ignore how quickly Jon had taken to Y/N. Watching his best friend laugh and bond with someone Damian found utterly insufferable only deepened his resentment. Every interaction with Y/N felt like a battle of wills, a constant clash between their polar-opposite personalities.

What Jon saw as chemistry and camaraderie, Damian saw as an unnecessary complication. And while Jon was blissfully unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface, Damian's simmering dislike for Y/N threatened to become a fault line in their once-unshakable friendship.

Y/N often found himself tagging along with Jon and Damian during their downtime, something that seemed natural given his growing friendship with Jon. Whether it was meeting up in the Watchtower's communal areas, training together in the Justice League's facilities, or teaming up on missions, Y/N's presence became a regular occurrence in their lives. To Jon, this was a welcome development—he enjoyed Y/N's company and appreciated the way their personalities meshed so effortlessly. But for Damian, Y/N's inclusion felt like an unwanted intrusion. Every moment spent with Y/N only solidified his dislike for the newcomer.

Damian, never one to mask his feelings, made no effort to hide his disdain. At first, it was subtle: curt responses when Y/N tried to engage him in conversation, a cold demeanor whenever they were in the same room. But as time went on, Damian's distaste became more pronounced. He began to act as though Y/N didn't exist, outright ignoring him in nearly every setting.

During missions, Damian treated Y/N as if he were invisible. He would issue orders to Jon, coordinate strategies with the team, and even acknowledge the input of lesser-known members of the Justice League, but never Y/N. If Y/N offered a suggestion, Damian would dismiss it with stony silence or carry on as if he hadn't spoken at all. It wasn't just Damian's words—or lack thereof—that stung; it was the way he refused to even look at Y/N, as though acknowledging his presence would be a waste of effort.

The cold shoulder extended beyond the battlefield. In the Watchtower's common areas, when Y/N would enter the room and wave in greeting, Damian would pointedly avert his gaze, pretending not to notice. If Y/N sat down across from him during meetings or meal breaks, Damian would remain stoically focused on his food, a datapad, or whatever was in front of him, blatantly ignoring Y/N's attempts to spark conversation. Even the simplest acts of civility were beyond Damian's reach—no nod of acknowledgment, no casual glance, no sense that Y/N was even there.

For Y/N, this behavior was both baffling and frustrating. He couldn't understand what he had done to earn such hostility, and Jon, ever the peacemaker, often tried to downplay Damian's actions, insisting that his best friend would warm up eventually. But the longer this dynamic persisted, the clearer it became that Damian's animosity toward Y/N was deeply rooted, and it wasn't going away anytime soon. Y/N wasn't just dealing with the coldness of a teammate—he was facing the icy walls of a man determined to freeze him out entirely.

Growing up as the son of Wonder Woman, Y/N had always believed that handling difficult personalities came with the territory. He had spent his entire life watching his mother navigate tense situations with poise and grace, including her unique dynamic with Batman. If she could deal with Bruce Wayne's brooding intensity and unyielding attitude, surely Y/N could handle Damian Wayne's coldness. At least, that's what he thought at first.

However, as time went on, Y/N found Damian's hostility more grating than he'd anticipated. The constant dismissiveness, the refusal to even acknowledge his presence, and the palpable tension during every interaction wore on him. Initially, Y/N tried to brush it off, reasoning that Damian's attitude wasn't worth his energy. But after weeks of icy silence and blatant disregard, Y/N's patience began to wear thin. He wasn't one to take disrespect lying down, and while he admired his mother's diplomacy, he also inherited her fierce sense of self-respect. If Damian wanted to play this game, Y/N was more than ready to meet him halfway.

Gradually, Y/N's demeanor toward Damian began to shift. What had once been attempts at friendly conversation turned into curt, one-word responses. If Damian was going to act like Y/N didn't exist, Y/N saw no reason to extend him the courtesy of warmth or kindness. Around Jon, Y/N was his usual self—friendly, engaging, and full of camaraderie. But the moment Damian entered the room, his tone would shift. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and even then, his words were clipped and to the point. Any attempts Jon made to involve both of them in a conversation were met with polite but firm refusals from Y/N. It wasn't outright hostility, but it was clear to everyone in the room that Y/N was no longer interested in bridging the gap with Damian.

Still, Y/N wasn't entirely closed off to the idea of resolving their differences. Deep down, he knew that tension between teammates wasn't ideal, especially since they were both members of the Justice League and often worked together. He told himself that if Damian ever chose to act like an adult and address the issue, he'd be willing to have a civil conversation and bury the hatchet. But until that happened, Y/N decided he wouldn't waste his energy trying to fix something Damian clearly had no interest in repairing. For now, as far as Y/N was concerned, Damian didn't exist either.

Caught in the middle of this silent war was Jon, ever the peacemaker. Jon hated seeing his two closest friends at odds, especially since he could see the potential for them to get along if they would just make the effort. He often tried to mediate, encouraging Y/N to give Damian another chance and urging Damian to stop being so difficult. But both were stubborn in their own way, and Jon's efforts seemed to fall on deaf ears. Still, Jon felt it was his responsibility to fix the situation. Whether they liked it or not, Y/N and Damian were going to be working together for the foreseeable future. And if they were going to continue hanging out with him, Jon was determined to find a way to get them to at least tolerate each other. For now, though, he was stuck playing referee in what felt like an endless standoff between two of the most strong-willed people he knew.

Jon, ever the optimist and a firm believer in the power of friendship, decided that he'd had enough of the cold war between Damian and Y/N. Watching his two closest friends silently bristle at each other every time they were in the same room was exhausting. No matter how much he tried to smooth things over, Damian's stubborn pride and Y/N's growing indifference made it impossible to create any kind of harmony. It was clear to Jon that if things were ever going to improve, he would need to take drastic action. That's when the idea hit him—a bold, perhaps reckless plan that could either bring them closer together or completely blow up in his face.

Jon's plan was, in a word, devious. It was the kind of thing Superman would probably shake his head at, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If Damian and Y/N weren't willing to break the ice on their own, Jon would force them into a situation where they had no choice but to work together—or at the very least, talk to each other. The idea was risky, but Jon was confident in his ability to execute it. After all, he knew both Damian and Y/N better than anyone else. If anyone could pull this off, it was him.

The first step of Jon's plan was to engineer a situation that would leave Damian and Y/N completely reliant on one another. He knew that forcing them to cooperate under high-stakes circumstances might break down the walls they'd both built. Whether it was an "accidental" team-up during a mission or a carefully planned training exercise gone awry, Jon was determined to create an environment where they couldn't avoid each other. His goal was simple: put them in a situation so challenging that they'd have no choice but to set aside their differences and start seeing each other as allies.

Jon spent hours crafting his strategy, carefully considering every detail. He knew Damian would see through anything too obvious, and Y/N wouldn't take kindly to being manipulated. The plan had to feel organic—like fate or coincidence rather than a deliberate setup. He toyed with the idea of isolating them in the middle of a mission, perhaps arranging for an "equipment failure" or creating a scenario where they'd need to rely on each other's unique skills to succeed. Alternatively, he considered a more personal approach, such as tricking them into spending time together outside of work, under the guise of a casual outing. The possibilities were endless, but the goal remained the same: force them into a situation where they couldn't ignore each other.

As Jon finalized his plan, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbled within him. He knew this could go one of two ways. In the best-case scenario, the shared experience would break the tension between Damian and Y/N, helping them see each other in a new light. In the worst-case scenario, it could escalate their animosity and make things even worse. But Jon was willing to take the risk. Damian and Y/N were two of the most important people in his life, and he wasn't about to let their stubbornness ruin what could be an incredible friendship.

With his plan in place, Jon couldn't help but grin. Whether they liked it or not, Damian and Y/N were about to be thrown into the deep end of this manufactured bonding experience. All Jon could do now was hope for the best—and maybe prepare for the fallout if things didn't go according to plan.

It was a quiet afternoon when both Y/N and Damian were immersed in their civilian lives, enjoying a rare moment of normalcy away from their heroic duties. That peace was abruptly shattered when they each received an encrypted video message from Jon. The message was short and jarring, filled with static and tension. On the screen, Jon appeared disheveled, his usually calm and composed demeanor replaced by clear distress. "I'm in trouble," he said urgently, before the video abruptly cut out.

A second voice, cold and unfamiliar, replaced Jon's. "Catch him if you can," it taunted, before leaving behind a cryptic clue. The video ended abruptly, leaving both Y/N and Damian frozen with the same realization—Jon was missing, and he needed their help.

Y/N reacted immediately, his heart pounding with worry for his best friend. He raced to the Watchtower, intending to alert Superman, Batman, or even Wonder Woman about the situation. If Jon was in danger, they would surely have the resources and experience to track him down quickly. Damian, however, took a different approach. True to his calculated and independent nature, he focused on the clue. He knew Jon better than most, and he trusted his own ability to solve the mystery without needing to involve anyone else.

When Y/N arrived at the Watchtower, he was met by his cousin, Wonder Girl, who delivered disappointing news. Most of the Justice League, including Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman, were off-world dealing with an intergalactic crisis. There would be no immediate backup, no cavalry to call in. Y/N realized he had no choice but to handle the situation himself. With determination fueling him, he turned his attention to the clue left in Jon's message. If no one else was available to help, then he would figure this out on his own.

Meanwhile, Damian had already begun decoding the riddle. He pieced together fragments of the message, tracing Jon's likely location with methodical precision. As always, he worked alone, fully confident in his ability to solve the puzzle faster than anyone else. He hadn't even considered the possibility of teaming up with Y/N—or anyone, for that matter.

Their paths inevitably crossed when the first clue led them both to the same location: a desolate warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Y/N, frustrated but determined, had tracked the lead on his own, and the last person he expected to run into was Damian Wayne. The former assassin was already there, standing amidst the shadows of the abandoned building, his arms crossed as he glared at Y/N.

"You've got to be kidding me," Damian muttered, his tone dripping with disdain. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Y/N shot back, equally annoyed. "I'm trying to find Jon. You know, our friend?"

Damian rolled his eyes. "I don't need your help. I've got this under control."

Y/N bristled but forced himself to remain calm. "This isn't about you or me. It's about Jon. If we waste time arguing, we might miss something important."

Despite their mutual dislike, both knew Y/N had a point. The tension between them was palpable, but neither was willing to let their animosity get in the way of finding Jon. Reluctantly, they began to compare notes, realizing that their separate investigations had led them to the same conclusion. The first clue was a riddle referencing a hidden location within the city—a clue they would need to solve together if they had any hope of finding Jon before it was too late.

As they pieced the puzzle together, the friction between them remained, but so did an unspoken understanding. Neither would admit it, but deep down, both Y/N and Damian knew that working together—however reluctantly—might be the only way to save the one person they both cared about.

Inside the abandoned warehouse, the dim light flickered above as Y/N and Damian combed through the surroundings for any sign of a clue. Their search led them to a dusty table where an old projector sat, wires trailing to a small screen mounted on the wall. The machine whirred to life as they approached, displaying a haunting image that made Y/N's breath catch in his throat.

It was Jon—unconscious, his head slumped forward and his hands bound tightly behind his back. His normally vibrant face was pale, and a trickle of dried blood could be seen on his temple. The sight made Y/N's chest tighten with worry, and he clenched his fists at his sides. Next to him, Damian's sharp eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as his mind raced to assess Jon's condition.

Before either of them could fully process the image, the familiar chilling voice echoed through the room, distorted and mocking. "Ah, you're quicker than I expected," it said with a sinister chuckle. "But Jon is slipping further from your grasp. Can you save him before it's too late? Let's see how clever you really are."

The image of Jon flickered and disappeared, replaced by a second clue. This time, it was a cryptic riddle accompanied by a fragmented map. The voice laughed once more before the screen went black, leaving Y/N and Damian standing in tense silence.

Y/N was the first to speak, his voice laced with urgency. "We don't have time for this. We need to figure out this clue now." He leaned over the table, studying the map intently.

Damian, already annoyed by Y/N's presence, scoffed. "Don't state the obvious," he said coldly. "I'm more than capable of handling this without your input."

Y/N straightened, fixing Damian with an incredulous look. "Are you serious right now? Jon's life is on the line, and you're still acting like this is some solo mission."

"Because it would be easier if it were," Damian snapped back, his tone cutting. "At least then I wouldn't have to deal with distractions."

"Distractions?" Y/N shot back, his voice rising. "You mean the person actually trying to help you save your best friend? Grow up, Damian."

Their voices echoed in the empty warehouse as they butted heads, their tempers flaring with each passing moment. Damian's icy demeanor clashed with Y/N's fiery resolve, and neither was willing to back down.

"You're wasting time," Damian said, his voice sharp as a blade. "If you stopped talking and started thinking, we might actually make progress."

Y/N glared at him, stepping closer. "And maybe if you weren't so full of yourself, we'd have figured this out already. Newsflash, you're not the only one who cares about Jon."

For a moment, it seemed like their argument might escalate further, but the sound of the projector powering down snapped them out of it. Y/N exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Fine," he said tersely, pointing to the riddle. "Let's focus on this."

Reluctantly, Damian turned his attention back to the clue, his eyes scanning the words with sharp precision. The riddle referenced a "silent guardian of the city" and "a beacon in the darkness," cryptic phrases that seemed to point to a specific location. Damian muttered the lines under his breath, analyzing each word with practiced skill. Meanwhile, Y/N focused on the fragmented map, trying to piece together the missing sections to get a clearer picture of their next destination.

Though they worked in tense silence, the underlying friction between them remained. Every now and then, Damian would scoff at Y/N's suggestions, dismissing them with a cutting remark, while Y/N would respond with an exasperated sigh or a pointed glare. Yet, despite their clashing personalities, they slowly began to make progress.

"Wait," Y/N said suddenly, pointing to a section of the map. "This part here—it's an old signal tower. It matches the 'beacon in the darkness' part of the riddle."

Damian glanced at it, his lips pressed into a thin line. "And the 'silent guardian' could refer to the gargoyle statues near the tower. It's a stretch, but it fits."

Their eyes met briefly, a reluctant acknowledgment that they were finally on the same page. Without another word, they grabbed their gear and prepared to head to the next location. The tension between them was far from resolved, but for Jon's sake, they managed to set it aside—at least for now. As they left the warehouse, the image of Jon's unconscious form lingered in their minds, driving them forward despite their animosity.

Y/N and Damian raced through the city streets toward the old signal tower, the weight of Jon's plight pressing heavily on their shoulders. The abandoned structure loomed in the distance, its silhouette cutting a stark figure against the setting sun. Despite their mutual animosity, the urgency of the situation forced them to move in tandem, their shared determination to rescue Jon driving them forward.

The signal tower, long out of commission, was eerily quiet when they arrived. Its rusted exterior and cracked windows spoke of years of neglect. Y/N and Damian exchanged a wary glance before stepping inside, their footsteps echoing in the vast, hollow space. The interior was dimly lit by beams of sunlight filtering through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the dusty floor. The air smelled of mildew and rust, and every creak of the floorboards seemed louder than it should have been.

"This place is a dump," Y/N muttered, scanning the area for any sign of the third clue.

"Stay focused," Damian snapped, already moving toward a set of stairs leading to an upper platform. "They wouldn't lead us here without a reason."

As they searched the area, Y/N's frustration grew. There were no obvious signs of a clue—no markings, no hidden compartments, nothing that pointed to their next step. Meanwhile, Damian methodically examined the room, his sharp eyes scanning every corner. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional shuffle of boots on the dusty floor.

Then, Damian's eyes narrowed. "There," he said, pointing to a small console embedded in the wall. It looked out of place among the decayed equipment, its sleek design suggesting it had been installed recently. Y/N followed Damian over to the console, and together they examined it. A faint glow emanated from the screen, displaying a single phrase: "Enter if you dare."

Before either of them could react, the floor beneath their feet shifted. There was a loud metallic groan, and suddenly the ground gave way. Y/N and Damian plunged downward, landing with a heavy thud in a dark, enclosed space.

The room they found themselves in was small and suffocating, the walls lined with reinforced steel that shimmered faintly in the dim light. A thick, mechanical hum filled the air, suggesting some kind of power source nearby. Y/N groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust off his jacket.

"Great," Y/N said, his voice tinged with irritation. "A trap. Just what we needed."

"Obviously," Damian retorted, already examining the walls with meticulous precision. "Stay quiet. I'm thinking."

Y/N rolled his eyes but held back a comment. Instead, he stepped toward one of the walls, his frustration bubbling over. Without a second thought, he drew back his fist and unleashed a powerful punch, his super strength making the air ripple with the force of his strike. The impact reverberated through the room, but when the dust settled, the wall remained completely intact—untouched, as if nothing had happened.

Damian turned, one eyebrow raised in a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Impressive," he said dryly. "But if brute force worked, don't you think they'd have planned for that? This isn't just reinforced steel. It's likely lined with a composite that absorbs kinetic energy. You're wasting your time."

Y/N clenched his fists, his frustration mounting. "Well, excuse me for trying to get us out of here while you stand there doing nothing."

Damian ignored the jab, running his fingers along the wall's edges, searching for any hidden seams or mechanisms. "The people behind this aren't amateurs," he said coolly. "They've thought this through. If we're going to get out, we'll need to find the weak point in their design—not punch blindly like an idiot."

Y/N bit back a retort, his jaw tightening. "Fine. What's your brilliant plan, then?"

Damian didn't respond immediately, instead focusing on a faint indentation in the corner of the room. "Here," he said finally. "This looks like an access panel. If we can pry it open, we might be able to disable the locking mechanism."

Y/N moved closer, his super strength finally useful as he pulled at the panel's edges. With a metallic screech, the panel came loose, revealing a tangle of wires and circuits. Damian knelt beside it, his sharp eyes quickly identifying the control system.

"Just don't touch anything," Damian said as he began to work. "One wrong move and this whole room could collapse on us."

Y/N crossed his arms but held his tongue, silently watching as Damian's deft fingers worked the wires. Despite his irritation with the former assassin, Y/N couldn't deny Damian's skill. He had an uncanny ability to remain calm under pressure, a sharp mind that seemed to thrive in moments like this.

As Damian worked, Y/N's thoughts drifted to Jon. The image of his unconscious friend flashed in his mind, spurring him to action. "Hurry up," Y/N said, his voice tight with worry. "Jon doesn't have time for this."

"I'm aware," Damian replied curtly, not looking up. "If you stop hovering, I might be able to work faster."

The tension between them remained, but their shared goal kept them focused. Whatever lay ahead, they knew they would have to rely on each other to escape this trap and save Jon before it was too late.

Damian's hands moved with practiced precision as he worked on the wires inside the access panel. His brow furrowed in concentration, his sharp mind racing to bypass the security system and unlock the door. Y/N stood nearby, arms crossed and eyes trained on the former assassin, silently willing him to work faster. The room's faint hum grew louder, as if mocking their predicament, and the tension between them was thick enough to cut with a blade.

Suddenly, the sound of static filled the air, making both Y/N and Damian freeze. A distorted voice, the same one that had taunted them earlier, crackled through hidden speakers in the room.

"Nice try, Damian," the voice sneered, dripping with amusement. "But you really think I'd make it that easy? This isn't about hacking or brute strength. No, the two of you have a... different challenge to overcome."

Y/N's head snapped toward the ceiling, his expression twisting in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice echoing off the steel walls. "What challenge?"

The voice chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. "You've both been running around, bickering like children while Jon's life hangs in the balance. It's pathetic, really. You're supposed to be heroes, yet you can't even hold a civil conversation."

Damian's jaw tightened, his hands dropping from the panel as he glared upward. "If you think this is the time for games, you're sorely mistaken," he said coldly. "Release us, or I'll—"

"You'll do nothing," the voice interrupted, sharp and mocking. "The only way you're getting out of here is if you two start acting like normal human beings for once. Talk. Get to know each other. Drop the egos and actually communicate. Until you do, this room will remain your prison."

Y/N blinked, his brow furrowing deeply. "Wait, what?" he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You want us to... what, have a heart-to-heart?"

The voice laughed again, the sound grating on both their nerves. "Exactly! You're not leaving until you prove you can work together. Think of it as... team-building."

Damian's glare darkened, and he turned his attention back to the panel. "This is absurd. I'm not wasting time playing your ridiculous games."

"Oh, you'll play," the voice said with a knowing edge. "Because if you don't, Jon won't be the only one in danger. And don't bother trying to override the system. This room is designed to outsmart even you, Damian Wayne."

Y/N looked between Damian and the ceiling, his frustration boiling over. "This is insane," he muttered, pacing the room. "We don't have time for this. Jon is out there, and we're stuck here because someone thinks we need to 'bond'?"

Damian growled under his breath, refusing to acknowledge Y/N's comment as he crouched back down to inspect the panel. "Ignore the voice," he said coldly. "It's just trying to manipulate us."

The voice chuckled again. "Oh, you're so predictable, Damian. Always trying to brute-force your way through a problem. Newsflash: that won't work this time. You both need to figure out what's more important—your petty grudge or your best friend's life."

Y/N stopped pacing, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked over at Damian, his frustration warring with the nagging sense that the voice might have a point. "This is ridiculous," he said, exhaling sharply. "But if this is what it takes to get out of here and save Jon, then fine. Let's talk."

Damian didn't respond immediately, his fingers still working at the panel's wires. But the futility of his efforts was becoming increasingly apparent. The walls hummed ominously, as if to emphasize the voice's claim that there was no escape without cooperation.

"Damian," Y/N pressed, his voice firmer now. "We don't have a choice."

Damian's hands paused, his jaw tightening in frustration. He hated being backed into a corner, and even more, he hated the idea of bending to someone else's demands. But as much as he despised admitting it, Y/N was right. With a reluctant sigh, he stood and turned to face Y/N, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Fine," Damian said tersely. "Let's get this over with."

The voice cackled triumphantly. "Good. Now, let's see if you can play nice. The clock's ticking."

Both Y/N and Damian exchanged uneasy glances, their mutual dislike momentarily eclipsed by the weight of their predicament. Neither knew exactly what was expected of them, but one thing was clear: they had no choice but to confront their differences and figure it out together.

Y/N stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall, his jaw clenched as he stared off into the distance. Damian, on the other hand, had returned to studying the panel, though his movements were slower now, as if he were only going through the motions. Neither of them seemed willing to speak, the weight of their shared animosity hanging thick in the air.

Minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was sharp, like a knife poised to strike. Y/N could feel his frustration building, his patience eroding with every second. Damian's cold, aloof attitude grated on him, and the absurdity of their situation only made it worse. They were trapped in a room because someone thought they needed to "bond," and Damian's stubborn refusal to engage wasn't helping.

Finally, Y/N couldn't take it anymore. He straightened up, his eyes locking onto Damian's rigid form. "You know what? This is your fault," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Damian didn't even look up, his focus seemingly fixed on the wires in front of him. "I don't have time for your whining," he said flatly.

Y/N scoffed, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "Oh, I'm not whining," he shot back, his tone sharp with irritation. "I'm just pointing out the obvious. We're stuck in here because of you."

That got Damian's attention. He turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as they met Y/N's glare. "Excuse me?" he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You heard me," Y/N said, crossing his arms. "This whole situation—us being trapped, Jon being in danger—it all comes back to you and the way you act. We're supposed to be adults, Damian, but you act like a child every time we're in the same room."

Damian stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes cold and calculating. "I act like a child?" he repeated, his voice tinged with mockery. "That's rich coming from someone who can't stop blaming others for their problems."

Y/N stepped closer, refusing to back down. "You ignore me, dismiss me, act like I don't exist—and for what? Because I had the audacity to show up and be friends with Jon? That's why we're here, Damian. Because instead of acting like a mature adult, you've been throwing this petty grudge around like we're still in grade school."

Damian's jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said icily. "You don't know me, and you don't understand anything about the dynamics at play here."

"Because you won't let anyone get close enough to understand," Y/N countered, his voice rising. "You've spent so much time building walls and pushing people away that you can't even see how ridiculous this is. I'm not your enemy, Damian, but you sure as hell treat me like one."

The room seemed to grow even smaller as the two of them stared each other down, the tension crackling like static electricity. For a moment, it looked as though Damian might lash out, his expression hard and unyielding. But instead, he turned away, his shoulders stiff as he tried to bury himself in the wires again.

"This conversation is a waste of time," Damian said coldly, though there was a faint edge to his voice now, a hint of something more vulnerable hidden beneath the surface.

"Yeah, because God forbid you admit you're wrong about something," Y/N snapped, his frustration boiling over. "We're trapped in here because of your ego. If you'd just been willing to act like an adult from the beginning, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Damian said nothing, but the silence that followed was heavier than before, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Y/N exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he stepped back, his anger giving way to exhaustion.

"Look," Y/N said finally, his voice softer now but still firm. "We don't have to like each other, but we're stuck here. And Jon's out there, counting on us. So maybe, just maybe, you could stop acting like the world revolves around you and try actually working with me for once."

Damian didn't respond immediately, his head bowed as if he were still focused on the panel. But Y/N noticed the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give Y/N hope that maybe, just maybe, they could start moving forward.

Y/N wasn't done. The frustration that had been building inside him for months spilled out like a flood, unchecked and relentless. His voice echoed off the steel walls as he paced back and forth, throwing pointed words at Damian with every step.

"You know what really gets me, Damian?" Y/N said, his tone sharp and unwavering. "It's not even that you're rude or dismissive—though, trust me, that's annoying enough. It's the fact that you act like this for no reason! You can't stand being in the same room as me, you ignore me, you snap at me, and for what? Because I exist? Because I'm friends with Jon? Because I dare to breathe the same air as you? It's childish, Damian. It's ridiculous."

Damian stood rigid by the access panel, his fists clenched at his sides. His jaw was so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth, and his usually impassive face was marred by a storm of emotions he couldn't fully suppress. But Y/N wasn't stopping.

"I tried to be nice," Y/N continued, his pacing quickening. "I tried to get to know you, to be civil, even when you made it clear you couldn't care less. But no matter what I do, it's never good enough for you. You just shut me out and act like I'm some kind of nuisance. And for what? What did I ever do to you?"

Damian's glare sharpened, his hands twitching as if he wanted to lash out—but not physically. No, this was something deeper, something he'd been trying to keep buried. He opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut again, his pride battling with the emotions he was so clearly trying to contain.

Y/N stopped pacing and turned to face Damian directly, his frustration boiling over into an exasperated shout. "Just say it, Damian! If you hate me so much, just say it already! Because I am sick and tired of trying to figure out what your problem is!"

That was it. Damian snapped. He whirled around to face Y/N, his green eyes blazing with a mix of anger and something else—something raw and unfiltered. "You want to know why I hate you?" he shouted, his voice louder than Y/N had ever heard it. "Fine! I hate you because I don't hate you!"

Y/N blinked, completely thrown off by Damian's words. "What?" he asked, his voice softer now, confusion replacing his anger.

Damian took a step closer, his fists still clenched, his breathing uneven. "I hate you because I don't hate you," he repeated, his tone filled with a vulnerability he couldn't hide. "Because I like you. More than I'm supposed to."

Y/N froze, his heart skipping a beat as the weight of Damian's confession hit him. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. For the first time in the endless argument, he didn't know what to say.

Damian let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his dark hair as he looked away. "You drive me insane, Y/N," he said, his voice quieter now but still laced with emotion. "You're loud, you're impulsive, you're always trying to make everything about teamwork and feelings. And for some reason, I can't stop thinking about you. About how you always seem to be in my space, how you somehow get along with everyone—even Jon. Especially Jon."

He turned back to Y/N, his expression a mix of anger and vulnerability. "It's easier to push you away than to deal with this—whatever this is. Because if I don't, I might actually... I don't know. Care too much."

Y/N's breath hitched as he processed Damian's words. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as he stood there, staring at the man who had spent months pushing him away only to admit that it was all a cover for something deeper.

"So, yeah," Damian said, his voice breaking slightly. "That's why I've been acting like a 'child,' as you so eloquently put it. Because I'm trying not to feel something I know I shouldn't."

Y/N was silent for a long moment, his mind racing. He hadn't expected this—not even remotely. The Damian he knew, or thought he knew, was guarded, cold, and impenetrable. But now, here he was, standing in front of Y/N, exposed in a way that made him seem almost... human.

Finally, Y/N found his voice. "Damian," he said softly, his tone devoid of its earlier anger. "You could've just told me."

Damian huffed, crossing his arms defensively. "Right. Because you would've reacted so well."

Y/N couldn't help but let out a small, incredulous laugh. "Honestly? Probably not. But this?" He gestured between them. "This whole war you've been waging? It's exhausting. For both of us."

Damian's gaze softened slightly, though his defenses were still up. "I didn't ask for this," he muttered. "I didn't ask to feel this way."

"Maybe not," Y/N said, taking a tentative step closer. "But it's there. And I'm not saying I know what to do with it either. But maybe, instead of ignoring it—or me—we could... figure it out. Together."

The room fell into silence again, but this time, it wasn't the suffocating kind. It was heavy with possibility, an unspoken understanding passing between them as they stood there, neither sure of what would happen next but both unwilling to take another step back.

Y/N stood in the silence that followed Damian's startling confession, his mind racing as the weight of the revelation sank in. Damian liked him—not in the begrudging, "I can tolerate you" kind of way, but in a way that ran deeper, more personal. The sheer thought of it was enough to throw Y/N off balance, but as he let the moment settle, something strange began to happen. He started to think back, piecing together little moments, subtle actions, and things Damian had done that, in hindsight, might've been signs all along.

The first thing that came to mind was how Damian always seemed to find reasons to be near him. At first, Y/N had thought it was just coincidence. They'd end up on the same missions, sit in the same meetings, or cross paths in the Watchtower's training rooms. But now that he thought about it, there had been too many of those "coincidences" to ignore. Damian wasn't the type to linger around people he didn't like—he went out of his way to avoid them. And yet, he'd always been there, on the edges of Y/N's space, as if he couldn't bring himself to completely stay away.

Then there were the glances. Y/N hadn't noticed them at first, but now they stood out in his mind like neon signs. Damian had a habit of watching him—not in an obvious or creepy way, but in fleeting moments when he thought no one was looking. Y/N would catch him sometimes, those sharp green eyes studying him from across the room. Whenever Y/N noticed, Damian would quickly look away, his expression shifting to one of annoyance or indifference. At the time, Y/N had written it off as Damian silently judging him. Now, though, it felt different, like there had been something unspoken hidden in those glances.

Y/N's thoughts shifted to their arguments. Damian had always been quick to snap at him, his words cutting and precise. But looking back, Y/N realized that Damian's harshness had always been oddly personal. It wasn't the kind of casual indifference Damian showed toward people he didn't care about—it was sharp, heated, and filled with an intensity that Y/N now recognized as something else entirely. It was as if Damian had been trying to push him away on purpose, as if keeping Y/N at a distance was the only way he could deal with his feelings.

And then there were the rare, fleeting moments when Damian's guard slipped. Y/N remembered one mission in particular, where he'd been injured in a fight. It wasn't anything serious, just a nasty gash on his arm, but Damian had been uncharacteristically insistent about treating it. He'd hovered closer than usual, his hands steady but his tone sharper than necessary as he muttered about "not being reckless." At the time, Y/N had thought it was just Damian being his usual bossy self. But now, he wondered if there had been more to it—if that had been Damian's way of showing he cared without actually saying it.

Y/N's mind kept turning, pulling together a series of small moments that, individually, hadn't seemed significant but now painted a much clearer picture. The way Damian's tone would soften, just slightly, when Y/N was upset. The rare times Damian had defended him in front of others, even if he did so begrudgingly. The almost imperceptible hesitation before Damian delivered one of his usual sarcastic quips, as if he were holding something back.

And then there were the times Y/N had caught Damian staring at him—not with judgment, but with something quieter, softer. Those moments had always been brief, gone as quickly as they came, but now Y/N realized they might've been the most telling signs of all.

Standing there, Y/N felt a mix of emotions swirling inside him—confusion, disbelief, and, oddly enough, a strange warmth. He'd spent so much time being frustrated by Damian's behavior, by his coldness and dismissiveness, that he'd never stopped to consider what might be hiding beneath it. Now that he saw the bigger picture, it was almost overwhelming.

"So, all this time," Y/N said slowly, his voice breaking the silence as he looked at Damian. "All those arguments, the glares, the snarky comments—that was... you trying to hide this?"

Damian's jaw tightened, his face unreadable as he averted his gaze. "I told you," he muttered, his voice low and almost defensive. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't want it."

Y/N studied him for a moment, his frustration giving way to something softer. "Maybe you didn't," he said quietly, his tone gentler now. "But it's there. And, honestly... I think I've been too blind to see it."

Damian didn't respond, but the way his shoulders stiffened told Y/N that his words had struck a chord. As the silence settled between them again, Y/N couldn't help but wonder how things might've been different if he'd noticed the signs earlier. Still, one thing was clear—this moment, as unexpected and messy as it was, was a turning point. And neither of them could turn back now.

Y/N stood there, staring at Damian, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. The weight of Damian's confession lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, yet undeniable. For months, Y/N had been convinced that Damian's coldness was born out of dislike or resentment. But now? Now everything felt different. The idea that all of it—every glare, every snarky comment, every cutting remark—had stemmed from something deeper left Y/N both stunned and strangely intrigued.

And then there was the other thing—something Y/N had never allowed himself to dwell on until now. Damian Wayne was, objectively, one of the most attractive people Y/N had ever met. He was sharp, confident, and carried himself with an intensity that few could match. It wasn't something Y/N had actively acknowledged before, but standing here now, the realization hit him like a lightning bolt.

"So," Y/N began, his voice lighter than it had been moments before, a teasing edge creeping into his tone. "You have feelings for me, huh? You like me." He stepped a little closer, his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I mean, I guess I can't blame you. After all, I am pretty amazing."

Damian's glare snapped up to meet Y/N's, his cheeks faintly tinged with red. "Don't push it," he muttered, his tone clipped but lacking the venom it usually carried.

Y/N's smirk widened as he continued, undeterred. "Oh, I'm just saying it makes sense. I mean, look at you—you've got the whole brooding thing going on, the perfectly messy hair, and those stupidly sharp cheekbones. Not to mention, your dad is Bruce Wayne, so it's kind of unfair that you also got the genes for being ridiculously good-looking."

Damian rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the wall as if to avoid the conversation altogether. "Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere," he muttered, but the slight flush on his face betrayed him.

Y/N chuckled, stepping closer still until he was barely a foot away from Damian. "I'm just being honest," he said, his tone dropping to something softer, more genuine. "You're attractive, Damian. I'd have to be blind not to notice. But that doesn't mean I believe you have real feelings for me."

Damian stiffened at that, his jaw tightening. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, turning his head slightly to glance at Y/N out of the corner of his eye.

"It means," Y/N said, tilting his head, "that you've spent months pushing me away, acting like I'm the most annoying person on the planet. And now you're telling me you've had feelings for me this whole time? Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical."

Damian's lips pressed into a thin line, and Y/N could tell he was holding back a sharp retort. But instead of letting Damian retreat into himself again, Y/N decided to take a risk—a big one.

"Alright," Y/N said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "If you really have feelings for me, prove it."

Damian's brow furrowed, his confusion evident. "Prove it?" he repeated, his tone wary.

"Yeah," Y/N said, stepping even closer until they were practically toe-to-toe. His voice dropped lower, more challenging now. "Kiss me. If you really feel something for me, then kiss me."

Damian's eyes widened, and for a moment, Y/N saw a flicker of panic in his expression. But just as quickly, Damian's face hardened into a mask of composure, though his faintly reddening ears betrayed him. "That's ridiculous," Damian muttered, his voice quieter now.

"Is it?" Y/N countered, leaning in slightly, his smirk still in place. "I mean, if you don't have feelings for me, you've got nothing to lose. But if you do..." He trailed off, letting the weight of his challenge hang in the air.

Damian's hands clenched at his sides, his internal struggle plain as day. Y/N could see the gears turning in his mind, the way he was trying to weigh the risk against the reward. Finally, Damian let out a sharp exhale, his green eyes locking onto Y/N's with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine.

"Fine," Damian said, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. "If that's what it takes to shut you up, then so be it."

Before Y/N could respond, Damian closed the small distance between them, his hand reaching up to cup the back of Y/N's neck as he pulled him into a kiss. It wasn't hesitant or uncertain—it was bold, confident, and full of all the pent-up emotion Damian had clearly been holding back for months.

Y/N's eyes widened in surprise at first, but then he melted into the kiss, his hands instinctively gripping Damian's shoulders. It was like everything around them faded away—the tension, the argument, the very room they were trapped in—and all that was left was the fiery connection between them.

When Damian finally pulled back, his face was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. He met Y/N's gaze, his expression carefully guarded, though his eyes betrayed the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide. "Satisfied?" he asked, his voice softer than usual.

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, his lips still tingling from the kiss. Then, a slow grin spread across his face. "Okay," he said, his voice a little breathless. "You win. You definitely have feelings for me."

Damian rolled his eyes, though there was no real annoyance in the gesture. "You're insufferable," he muttered, but the faint curve of his lips hinted at a smile.

"And yet, you like me anyway," Y/N shot back, his grin widening.

For the first time, the tension between them seemed to dissipate, replaced by something warmer, something that neither of them could ignore anymore.

“Well, I must admit,” the voice began, “this is… unexpected. It seems the camera in your little room went out at the most inconvenient moment. How tragic—I didn’t get to see whether or not you two actually talked like I instructed. Still, let’s see if you’ve earned your freedom anyway.”

Y/N and Damian exchanged a glance. Before either could respond, the mechanical hum of the door unlocking filled the room. Slowly, the heavy steel door creaked open, light spilling into the confined space. And there, standing in the doorway with a wide grin on his face, was none other than Jon Kent—perfectly fine, looking as though he hadn’t been in any danger at all.

“Hey, guys!” Jon greeted cheerfully, his hands stuffed casually into his jacket pockets. “Glad to see you survived my little… experiment.”

For a moment, neither Y/N nor Damian spoke, both too stunned by the sight of their supposedly kidnapped friend. Y/N was the first to recover, his confusion quickly giving way to disbelief. “Wait—what?” he said, stepping forward. “Jon, what the hell is going on? You’re fine?”

Jon laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he admitted. “The whole ‘kidnapping’ thing? That was me. Well, sort of. The voice and the clues? All part of the plan.”

Y/N blinked, utterly dumbfounded. “You planned this?” he asked incredulously. “The video, the clues, the room—everything?”

“Yep,” Jon said with a grin. “And honestly? It worked out even better than I expected.”

Y/N turned to Damian, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. Damian, however, was glaring at Jon with a look that could have melted steel. “You’re telling me,” Damian said, his voice low and icy, “that you orchestrated this entire charade? You wasted our time, made us think you were in danger, and locked us in a room—all because you thought it would be fun?”

Jon raised his hands defensively, though his grin didn’t falter. “Okay, maybe ‘fun’ isn’t the right word,” he said quickly. “But I had a good reason! You two have been at each other’s throats for months. I thought, ���Hey, maybe if they’re forced to spend some time together, they’ll work things out.’”

Damian’s glare only darkened. “I should have let you stay in that room,” he muttered under his breath.

Y/N, on the other hand, couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, I’ll admit it,” he said, leaning against the wall. “It was a ridiculous plan. But… it wasn’t all bad.”

Jon tilted his head, looking curious. “Oh? Does that mean you two actually talked?”

Y/N shot a quick glance at Damian, who was still glaring at Jon with murderous intent. Then he shrugged casually. “Yeah, we talked,” he said, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I mean, if it weren’t for your little scheme, I never would’ve known about some… interesting developments.”

Damian’s glare snapped to Y/N, his eyes narrowing in warning. Y/N just grinned, thoroughly enjoying Damian’s discomfort.

“Interesting developments?” Jon asked, his curiosity clearly piqued. “What kind of—”

“Nothing,” Damian interrupted sharply, his voice cutting through the conversation like a blade. “It’s none of your business, Kent.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of them. There was an unmistakable tension in the air—one he couldn’t quite put his finger on—but before he could press further, Y/N clapped him on the shoulder.

“Let it go, Jon,” Y/N said, still grinning. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Jon frowned but eventually relented, though the suspicion in his eyes didn’t completely fade. “Fine,” he said, his tone reluctant. “But hey, at least you’re not trying to kill each other anymore. That’s progress, right?”

Damian rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “If I ever find out you pull something like this again, Kent, you’ll be the one locked in a room.”

Jon chuckled nervously, clearly unconcerned by Damian’s threat. “Noted,” he said, turning to leave. “But hey, you can’t argue with the results.”

As Jon walked away, Y/N glanced at Damian, his grin softening into something more genuine. “You know,” he said quietly, “he’s not wrong. I mean, I still think the whole plan was insane, but… I’m glad it happened.”

Damian’s gaze shifted to Y/N, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he sighed, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Whatever,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind the words.

Y/N laughed, bumping Damian’s shoulder lightly as they followed Jon out of the building.

Neither of them mentioned the confession or the kiss. It was their secret for now, something too raw and new to share with anyone else—especially Jon. But as they walked side by side, the unspoken understanding between them felt like the start of something neither of them could deny anymore.

[lunarriviera]

under the skin meta: The Monologue™ (part 1)

[spoilers for s2 in general and ep 20 in specific—which, trust me, you really don't want to watch out of order. it's worth waiting for this one.]

if you’ve seen The Monologue, you understand. this is why tan jianci fans are somewhere on a spectrum from chronically bitter to unendingly distraught about never not yet getting to see him play gu yun in sha po lang/winner is king. if uts were a north american prestige drama, tjc would have just handily won an emmy. as it is he’ll probably just be in a bunch of romcoms and do more goofy stuff on hi6, and that’s fine too. i guess we’ll always have “wet the bed.”

where was i oh right The Monologue. this will be long but it’s possibly the most glorious moment in this entire drama so here we go.

to build up to it, tho, we need backstory: namely, season two's gradual unraveling of shen yi. we know he can’t sleep well and has ghastly nightmares about a little girl he didn’t save, mostly because he didn’t consciously know she was in any danger. in her red dress, like the little girl in schindler’s list, she stands out, tragic amidst the desaturation, and shen yi makes a variety of horrified faces about having failed her. (horrified faces seem to be his main ones this season, which is partly what makes The Monologue so exciting.)

anyway shen yi has already been pretty thoroughly harrowed by this particular case as it is, having been the one to figure out (of course) the serial murderer’s ritualistic pattern and motive. shen yi turns his most Horrified Face to du cheng to warn him that the next victim's in danger, and they have this exchange, which will be important later.

(what du cheng says is 别担心, which also gets translated as "rest assured"—like, don't let your heart be uneasy. i got this.)

so du cheng takes off to save the victim, and shen yi goes back to his office to do…actually, what does he think he’s going to do? some paperwork, a little light filing, maybe sharpen some pencils? instead he predictably goes into a glass-shattering fugue state, and imagines the little girl. this begins the monologue scene, even though it all takes place in shen yi’s head. pls indulge me by watching it again, bc i assume you’ve already seen it anyway, and my god it’s such a gorgeous piece of face journey that ALSO sets up what’s to follow.

in some ways this compressed little piece is even better than what comes after. the way he FLIES to her and FALLS to his knees, just rushes up to her stammering and devastated and PROMISING he'll save her this time. honestly it destroyed me, i watched it like 5 times in a row before i could even move on. the unheld-back generosity of this brief performance, the way he’s completely focused on her and then just FALLS APART, it snapped my heart like a carrot stick.

me, a fangirl: SHEN YI SHEN YI NO BB NO PLS SOMEONE HELP HIM me, film nerd: huh fascinating never seen an actor's lips shake before

so now he understands what he needs to do. what he MUST do. having had this revelation, shen yi shows up at the killer’s door, creepy-smiling at him and barging inside. and then he delivers The Monologue, ten solid nearly-uncut minutes of sheer batshit insanity.

shen yi rants. he raves. he paces and pivots and gestures, he thinks aloud, he surmises and expostulates and revises and reverses and exclaims and delivers each conclusion with rabid glee. he scowls and shouts and is sinister and grins and is just one thousand fucking percent unhinged.

we have never, ever seen shen yi like this before, and thank god, because he would scare people on the regular, and he’s scary enough as it is. why do you think he wears all those baggy pastels and smiles so sweetly. why do you think he tries to pass as an unassuming twink, it’s because if people knew what was really going on inside his head half the time, they’d be screaming crying passing out. (tho the beauty of shen yi is: he also really is just an unassuming twink.)

anyway there i was, like a bonehead, stupidly trying to screenrecord this scene before i realized it would be like fifty gig of fire emoji, and then my hands fell limply at my sides, bc it dawned on me what was actually happening. sort of like that moment in “free churro” when you realize bojack horseman really is going to keep giving this heartbreaking eulogy for the length of the entire episode.

because The Monologue is virtuoso. it's tour de force. this is the kind of thing they play at the oscars during your "in memoriam" clip reel. this is what undergrads copy for their audition pieces. this is some heath ledger shit. it's jack nicholson in the shining, al pacino in scarface. this is about one inch away from brando.

as a result of all this, shen yi has the serial killer (whose name is ge yutian by the way) eating out of his goddamn hand within like half a minute, absolutely spellbound—which is the entire point. if shen yi doesn’t convince him, all of this glorious sorcery is for nothing.

(the guy who plays ge yutian is good too, a perfect scene partner for this. he picks up every cue and lets tjc have all the room he needs.)

just a few more notes on the performance, both tjc's and shen yi's:

1. where it really goes off the rails is when shen yi shrieks, DAMN POLICE! and ge yutian JUMPS in alarm. this not only made me laugh (him being so bonkers that he actually frightens a serial murderer!) but is also the moment when The Monologue stops being "aw haha such a fun thing for an actor to get to do" and “…jesus christ what the fuck am i watching." look how i couldn't even get a non-potato screencap. it's from this point on that shen yi is possessed.

2. because he has to show that he identifies with ge yutian, that the killer can and should trust him because they think alike. but that’s just the old “FBI profiler eventually becomes his prey” cliché, so there’s more to it. he also has to convince ge yutian that his ideas, shen yi's, are ge yutian's ideas, from the inside out—and therefore he's the right candidate for the sheng role. and finally, that it's precisely his ability to act, to be a strong performer, that makes him the right choice. that it’s shen yi who’s most suitable, thanks to his convincing mimesis of ge yutian’s highly suspect “thought process."

3. to really pull this off, even as shen yi builds him up (cf. ge yutian clapping enthusiastically, enthralled by this flattering vision), he also has to tear him down. so he plays two roles at once: ge yutian and an unknown theatre critic—who’s also shen yi, because he’s still the righteous officer of the People’s Police, here to inform ge yutian that his vision is sick and twisted, and not anything his gentle-hearted lover would have wanted, not her way of being in the world.

4. finally i would argue that shen yi's admittedly shaky s2 state here suddenly seems a lot more bolted-on. a few viewers have worriedly described The Monologue almost as some kind of psychotic break but honestly i read it as so very controlled and so very deliberate. while he’s desperate (must save victim this time. must not fuck it up again.) he’s not deranged. he absolutely knows what he’s doing.

i'm sorry to say part 2 will follow. but to conclude for now:

• actors are witches. • 16:9 can no longer contain tjc’s talent this man needs 1.85:1 • you hardly ever get to see someone just NAIL IT TO THE WALL like this, what a time to be alive • (and these were long takes too. there wasn't that much editing. that was all him. and you can see three uncut minutes of it here) • pls watch under the skin for some unexpectedly fine acting as well as ofc crime drama, ensemble comedy, weird art historical facts, and captain du cheng (jin shijia), who alternates between being a giant goofball and an aloof occasionally scary badass. also they’re in love.

[pleasantly-painful-fiction]

Whumpees overwhelmed by all the lights, sounds, and festivities. 

Whumpees with bad memories of past holidays.

Whumpers using the holiday as an excuse for a special punishment setting. 

Whumpees unable to be with their friends and family like they usually are during the holidays. Maybe they even miss festive activities they used to hate or wish they could see those annoying relatives that always annoyed them this time of year. Swearing they would never complain about any of it ever again if they could just go home. 

Whumpers using holiday decorations as tools of punishment: strangling whumpees with christmas lights, stabbing whumpees with sharpened candy canes, forcing whumpees to walk on broken ornaments, etc. 

Recovering whumpees feeling frustrated with themselves because they can’t get into the holiday spirit and celebrate like they used to, and it feels like they’re ruining everyone else’s holidays.

Whumpees frustrated with themselves because they think they ruined a holiday party or activity with their panic attacks. 

Whumpees left out in the cold. Whumpees shivering in a drafty shed or tied up outside like a dog. Even better (worse?), the whumpee has a view of everyone else inside enjoying the warmth of the fire, good food, and fun celebrations.

Whumpees triggered by Christmas music because whumper always played Christmas music during punishments. Maybe it was always super cheerful Christmas music or a popular song that’s played everywhere during the holidays. 

Whumpee feeling guilty for not being up to celebrating with friends and family this year, for not having the money or opportunity to buy anyone gifts, or for needing space and time alone when they’re supposed to be with family. 

Caretakers who tried really hard to prepare something fun for whumpee (a holiday tradition they used to love or inviting lots of friends over) and feel hurt and confused when whumpee wants nothing to do with it. 

Sole survivor whumpees facing the holidays alone.

[mallowsweetmiri]

Need you to continue Best Friend! Fred please… PLEASE… I am begging on my knees… You write so well… I will be waiting right here… Oh how I yearn for Best Friend! Fred…

Merry Christmas sluts ❤️

—————————————————————————

Bestfriend!Fred with no boundaries teaches you how to have sex pt 2

summary: its the day after you asked Fred to teach you about sex, and he's keeping up on his promise.

warnings: smut, cursing

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

It wasn’t unusual for you to think about Fred first thing in the morning. You often walked to breakfast with the twins and saw him within your classes on a daily basis. But it was unusual to wake up with your panties completely soaked while thinking about him. Was this something that happened the morning after, or did you just not shower well enough after last night?

Either way, you ended up taking a very cold shower before breakfast. By the time you came down to the common room, Fred and George were waiting by the couches. Fred smiled as he watched you come down the stairs.

“Good morning, lovely,” Fred said as you approached them. He pulled you under his arms as the three of you started towards the exit.

“Good morning,” you smiled, happy to start another day by your best friends side.

“What am I, a flobberworm?” George scoffed sarcastically from behind. You rolled your eyes playfully and looked back at him.

“Good morning to you too, George,” you teased, walking through the portrait hole. The day seemed much brighter in the halls, and it looked surprisingly nice out. The three of you walked into the Great Hall and sat down where you normally did, next to Hermione usually at this time of the morning.

"Good morning," she chirped, her head buried in a book.

“Morning, Hermione,” you greeted, taking a seat.

“Whatcha reading there?” The twins sat on the other side of the table.

“Ancient Uses of Mystic Herbs,” she replied, sitting up straighter and flipping her book up to show the cover. “Trying to find something that could help Harry.” You hummed in interest as Hermione sank back into her book. George pulled out a paper and began writing at the bottom.

"What’s that?" you asked, buttering your toast. George smirked and gave you a funny look.

"The Herbology assignment that's due today?" George said questioningly, raising his brows at you. Your brows shot up in response as you remembered the blank paper in your bag.

"I completely forgot about that assignment," you gasped. "Fred, can I please, please copy yours?" You pleaded, sticking your bottom lip out in persuasion. He shot you back an amused look as he gathered sausages onto his plate.

"Y/N, you're usually such a good student,” he teased, shaking his head at you in disapproval. “Were you distracted yesterday?” You sharpened your eyes at him and he laughed, passing you his paper. You felt your cheeks heat up. At least he was letting you copy off of him.

"You're too nice to her, Freddie," George joked, shaking his head at him.

"Ah, it's the least I can do for my best friend," Freddie grinned, leaning over the table to pinch your cheek. You batted his head away and started furiously copying his work, ignoring George laughing at you. As you copied his work, he filled your mug with tea. Earl grey with a dash of cream, just the way you liked it. By the time breakfast was over, you had finished the assignment and were off to your first class of the day.

The day dragged on per usual. In Herbology, Fred and George rubbed sneezewart on the observation sheets causing multiple students to rush out of class in a fit. You had a few classes without Fred and George, and Ancient Runes was your final class for the day. You stared out the window as dull clouds began to roll in from the forest. You tried to pay attention to Professor Babbling, but her droning voice quickly became background noise. The clouds came in closer to the castle, the sound of thunder rumbling through the windows. Rain storms always made you feel cozy, and you wished class would end so you could curl up in your favorite jumper. It was Fred’s Gryffindor sweatshirt and the memory of its smell reminded you of yesterday. His skin had been so close to you, and while it was comforting, there was something else. A want, a yearning to just press your hips against his. Your head snapped away from the window as your peers began to gather their belongings. You began to do the same, noting the slickness between your thighs. There it was again. You needed to find Fred and ask him what you should do about it. Was it pathetic that you knew virtually nothing about sex? You slung your bag over your shoulder and left the classroom, moving hastily towards Gryffindor. You knew Fred wouldn’t judge you and would actually teach you, that’s why you had asked him in the first place. But would he pity you for barely knowing anything at all?

By the time you got to the tower, it was pouring outside. There was the usual chatter and rough housing in the common room, but your failure to spot Fred had you climbing the stairs to his dorm. You were frustrated and cold and you just wanted to be near your best friend.

When you opened the door after a hurried knock, you were happy to see only Fred in the room. He was laying on his bed reading his book.

"Hi Y/N," he greeted, looking up from his book. "How was class?" You huffed as you moved towards his closet, pulling his hoodie out and slipping it on over your head.

"It was terrible," you pouted, coming over to his bed. Fred put his book down and opened his arms to you. You fell gladly into his chest.

"Why was it terrible love?" Fred mumbled into your hair. You groaned and buried yourself deeper into him.

"It's just..." you hesitated, always losing the courage to talk about stuff like this.

"Is it about yesterday?" Fred asked, his hand petting the back of your head. He always knew what you were thinking and you were relieved that he had caught on.

"Yes," you fussed, sitting up from his grasp. Fred huffed out a chuckle and followed suit. "It's just that, I can't stop thinking about it, y'know?"

"Oh, I know," Fred mumbled. You continued on with your ramblings.

"It's like I'm in class and I'm just distracted," you explained, your hands gesturing wildly. "And my underwear has been wet for hours. How do I make it stop?" Fred swallowed and dropped his gaze to your skirt.

"Darling, it's not something you can just stop," Fred explained, his eyes coming back up to yours. "Your body just wants more." You pursed your lips as you pondered this for a second, listening to the rain pelt against the window. Maybe you really did want more...

"I want to go all the way," you declared, sitting up straight and nodding your head. Fred couldn't help but smiled at your naivety.

"You want to go 'all the way'?" Fred chuckled, teasing your choice of words. He found this entire situation charming.

"Yes," you huffed defiantly. "I want you to have sex with me." Fred chuckled in disbelief and ran his hands through his hair. Your bold innocence made his head spin.

"It's going to hurt," Fred warned, trying his best to properly inform you before you made the decision to lose your virginity. He wouldn't be able to say no to you.

"Okay," you nodded, your fingers playing with the hem of your sock. "What else?"

"You might bleed," he said. "And it might not feel good at all this time." Your brows furrowed.

"But everybody says sex feels amazing?" You questioned, tilting your head. Freds half smile made you heart skip. That was new.

"It does," he chuckled, his eyes falling to your lips for a moment. "But it might be uncomfortable your first time. Especially with me,” he teased. You rolled your eyes at his insinuation and he laughed again. "I'm serious, Y/N. I don't want you to do something you don't want to do." This was clearly the wrong thing to say as you leaned forward to roughly grasp his shoulders.

"Fred, I want this. I want to know what it feels like and there's nobody else on this entire planet I trust more than you," you stated, gripping his shoulders as he watched your declaration.

"Well if I'm going to fuck you we need to kiss first," he grinned cheekily, watching the heat rise up to your cheeks.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," you huffed, finding the courage to lean forward to kiss him. He laughed into the kiss but gladly gripped your hips in return, his mouth moving in tandem. You kissed him greedily, your body moving on its own. Fred swept you onto your back, crawling over your without breaking the kiss. Within seconds, he had taken the control back from you, his kiss melting away your sudden burst of courage. He clearly knew what he was doing and you didn't put up a fight for dominance. The ache in your core surged as his knee pried open your legs, causing a moan to leave your lips. You felt more confident this time, less embarrassed of your noises of ecstasy as Fred's knee applied a much needed pressure to your cunt. You let your hands grip his hair, then run down his back. You felt him groan and it made you want to do it again. You were surprised at your self assurance, and even more surprised that you seemed to have to same effect on Fred that he had on you. His teeth bit softly into your neck in a change of pace.

"Fred," you moaned instinctively, you back arching off the mattress against your will. He didn't stop, instead tearing off your sweatshirt. This prompted the two of you to hastily take off all your clothes, only stopping to laugh when your hand accidentally whacked Fred in the face. The laughter faded as he came forward again, this time kissing you with such tenderness, you thought you were melting back into the mattress.

Fred was hopeless; he had been ruined since yesterday. He knew from the moment he kissed you that he'd been a complete fool. All day he'd been trying to convince himself otherwise, that he didn't harbor any romantic feelings towards you and you were still just his bestfriend. He wasn't going to bother lying to himself any longer. He was hopelessly in love with you.

His kiss began to trail down your neck again, then to your breast, then down your navel. Fred wanted to devour you. He wanted to watch as you came again for him. It drove him crazy that he was the only person to watch you unravel.

"F-Fred," you breathed, your hands tugging at his hair. "What are you doing?" His brown eyes peered up at you as he pressed his mouth into your thigh, making your hips buck.

"Before you have sex, we need to get you nice and wet for me darling," he breathed, kissing closer to your cunt. His fingers ran up your slit and you shivered. "Although, it doesn't seem like you need much help." You didn't have time to respond before he pressed a kiss into your clit, effectively sucking the rest of the air out of your lungs. You shuddered repeatedly as he licked gently on your sensitive clit. It felt so different from his fingers, so wet and warm. It took you a moment in your daze to realize he was moaning into your pussy, greedily lapping at your clit and pushing his tongue inside you. Fred wasn't even trying to hold himself back, his arms wrapping underneath you thighs and pulling you into his face. You tried to press him off of you, embarrassed at how close he was to you heat, but his grip won over you. His tongue lapped in circle, his gentle suck and kiss pulling terrible noises from your mouth. With every movement, the pressures built up inside you, sensation washing over you as you rocked your hips against his tongue. It felt like only a minute had passed when the tightness in your core suddenly snapped.

"Oh, fuck-" you cried as you came unexpectedly onto his tongue, the waves of intense pleasure taking away your ability to breathe. He sighed deeply as he lapped it all up, his grip not loosening for a second. It was only when he felt your legs kicking and your needy pleas for him that he gave one last gentle kiss to you clit. You stared at him breathlessly, unsure of what to say after you just came all over your bestfriends face. Luckily for you, Fred didn't miss a beat.

"You taste so fucking good," Fred praised, kissing up your stomach as you caught your breath. “You’re so good at this Y/N. Did that feel good?" He asked, coming up to hover over your face and brush the sweaty strands of hair off your face. You nodded shyly as you breathed, leaning up to catch his lips in a kiss. He chuckled as he accepted your kiss before saying, "Use your words, darling."

"Yes," you panted, pulling the back of his head down towards you. "That felt so good, Freddie." Fred groaned as his mouth came down to savor your kiss. You stayed like this for a while, kissing as Fred gently pressed his hips into yours. After a while, your hips began to rock with his, naturally moving with the rhythm he had set. There was nothing between the two of you besides his thin boxers, and you could feel his hard length rubbing against you. Occasionally, his tip would catch your entrance, and the pressure made the both of you groan.

"I'm ready," you mumbled into his lips, the two of you unable to break your kiss. He hummed into your lips and kissed you hard for a few more second before he pried himself off of you. He kneeled over you, freeing himself from his boxers with a slap. Your mouth parted slightly at the sight of him, and you were starting to believe him when he said it might hurt. His smile was more adoring than teasing as he watched you gape at his size. You watched breathlessly as he stroked himself a few times before coming back over you.

"Are you sure?" He asked once more, rubbing his tip up and down your slit, spreading your slickness. You weren't sure you could even speak as you watched him do this, you were mesmerized.

"Yes," you breathed, you gaze coming back up to his. His eyes searched your face for any hesitation, and when he found none, he lined himself up with your entrance.

"Just tell me if you want to stop," he soothed, brushing your fallen hair behind your ear. You nodded and tightened your grip on the back of his neck. He pressed a kiss to your lips and pushed himself inside of you.

Fred felt like an idiot as he exhaled into the kiss, his thumb rubbing gently across your cheek. He couldn't believe he didn't realize how much he liked you, how much he loved you. He wanted to swallow you whole. He wished that you knew how much this meant to him, but he knew you were too distracted to be thinking about anything else but his cock inside your tight pussy for the first time. Fuck.

"How does it feel, love," Fred asked, his voice nothing but a raspy whisper. You buried your face into his neck and whined.

"Just keep going," you whispered. "Please." Fred tried not to groan at your pleading as he pulled back again. He knew it must hurt for you, you were so tight. It was taking everything inside of him not to groan uncontrollably and push himself fully inside of you, you felt so good. His lips fell to your neck and left soothing kisses as he pushed himself into you again, this time going deeper. He felt your breath hitch into his neck as your eyes clamped shut. Fred's fingers gripped the sheets for his life.

"Just one more, darling. You’re doing so good," Fred muttered, pulling back gently once more. You nodded into his neck, making some sort of noise of assurance. With a final push, Fred bottomed out and let out an irrepressible moan. You cried again, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you felt his full length. He stayed like this for a moment, his lips encouraging you to return his kiss. You obliged and felt yourself relax, the feeling of his lips against yours softening your face. After a moment you let out a soft moan, the fullness inside of you finally satisfying what you thought would be a never ending ache. You moaned again into his kiss, this time louder as he became less controlled, his mouth eagerly devouring your own.

"It feels better now," you whispered into the kiss. Fred hummed and began to move with small and gentle pumps, letting you get used to his size. Fred's fingers were losing circulation as he gripped the bedsheets in an attempt to control himself from fucking you senseless. He fit perfectly inside you, and your breathy whimpers and pants were sending him over the edge. He made a critical mistake by pulling back to watch you as he picked up his pace, your watery eyes and swollen lips looked like heaven.

"Fuck, Y/N," he grunted, fully moving with his entire length at this point. "I'm not going to last long." You didn't seem to be able to form any coherent words besides your whines so you just nodded instead, overwhelmed by the unexpected knot forming in your stomach. He watched your eyes as he thrust into you over and over again, the pleasure on your face growing with each movement. His hand gripped your waist as he drove himself into you at his full capability for the final few thrusts. He couldn't help himself and from the noises you were making, you seemed to enjoy it. "Fuck," Fred whispered as he pulled out of you, pumping his cock a few times as he came on the sheets next to you. You watched in awe as he spurted hot liquid onto the bed, some of it falling onto the side of your hips. It made you buck you hips as the emptiness began to creep up, his warm cum dripping teasingly down your side. Fred finished and promptly smothered you in kisses, the two of you groaning as you rode out the last moments of euphoria with each other. Breathless and spent, Fred rolled off of you and pulled you in his chest.

"Are you okay, my love?" He asked, kissing the top of your head and your ears and your cheeks. You giggled and sighed into his kisses, coming up to place one onto his lips.

"Yes," you sighed. "More than okay." Fred smiled and huffed out a laugh, burying his face into you neck as his arms pulled you in tighter. You both sighed contentedly and rested like this for a moment, wetness and warmth in between your bodies.

"We need to get you cleaned up," Fred hushed, reaching over to his bedside to grab his wand. He quickly cleaned up the bed before moving to you, carefully casting the proper charms to get you clean before doing himself. "You should definitely use the bathroom soon and shower before you go to sleep tonight, love." Fred pressed a kiss to your lips again before pulling his sweatshirt over your head and finding you a fresh pair of his boxers to slip up your legs before pulling his sweats back on.

"Mmm," you groaned, closing your eyes and falling back onto his pillow. You were sapped. Fred chuckled and came to join you again, wrapping himself around you.

"Are you listening, love?" Fred teased, rubbing your back with his soft and sturdy hands.

"Mmm," you hummed again, burying yourself deeper into his chest, relishing in his comfort. He huffed out a laugh and buried himself back into your neck.

"Well, I'm getting you up in a moment to use the bathroom," he said, pressing a kiss into the fabric on your shoulders. "And you're not getting out of it. I'm not going to succumb to your cute little noises." You murmured again into his chest and smiled when this made him laugh.

"Can we do this again?" You asked quietly, almost hoping he hadn't heard you. He chortled at your question.

"Yes. Yes, we can do this again."

[familiarscars]

Ultraviolet | Joakim Karlsson

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Jolly X female!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Jolly have a much greater connection than simply meeting after an accident.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, vampirism, violence, blood, experiments.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

The night was suffocating, wrapped in a cloak of shadows and a biting cold that seemed to hold the world's breath. Dense clouds crawled across the sky, obscuring the full moon, its silver light reduced to a pale specter that barely pierced the oppressive veil. The air carried the scent of wet earth, mingled with something metallic and invasive. The forest's silence was broken only by the muffled sound of footsteps and murmurs in a language that did not belong to that place.

I could feel the disturbance before I saw them, like a shiver running up my spine and invading my mind. My sharpened senses picked up every minuscule movement, the irregular rhythm of human hearts, the soft clink of metal against the leather of their attire. Intruders. Their audacity was as absurd as it was predictable, armed with technology that sought to challenge nature itself, believing that gadgets of light and nets could tame the unknown.

They were here for her.

The Ultraviolet. Not just a simple plant, but a living fragment of an ancient secret, a pulsing curse that my family had kept contained for centuries. To touch it was to touch the abyss, to toy with forces that should not belong to human hands. But these men, these scientists, came with the same blind purpose as always: to possess.

I watched them for long minutes, camouflaged in the darkness like a living shadow. The steep incline offered cover, and the trees around me whispered in complicity with the wind. My muscles were tense, every fiber of my body vibrating with the anticipation of a predator about to strike.

“You shouldn’t be here.” My voice came like a muffled thunder, heavy with fury, breaking the thick air and freezing the invaders in their places.

For a moment, silence was absolute. Then, in unison, they reacted. Floodlights snapped on, bright beams slicing through the gloom and forcing me to squint. Weapons were raised, fingers ready to fire. I moved before they could act, a shadow between the trees, fast and relentless.

The first fell with a muffled cry as my hand sliced through the air, tearing the rifle from his hands and breaking it as if it were cardboard. The second tried to run, but was thrown against a tree with a swift motion of my arm. The dry snap of breaking bones echoed through the night.

But they were many. And they were prepared.

A shot hit my flank, a burning pain that seared like acid through my flesh. I staggered for a second, but pressed forward, my fury overshadowing the suffering. Every strike was precise, every movement carrying the force of a beast desperate to protect its territory.

They screamed, and the sound of panic replaced their initial confidence. Iron nets were thrown over me, binding my right arm and dragging me to the ground with brutal weight. I tried to break the metal, but a second shot hit my shoulder, and the intense light seemed to eat away at my skin.

Even so, I didn’t stop. My vision began to blur, but I still managed to strike. Another fell, his helmet crushed against the ground; a third was hurled toward the group, knocking two down on impact. The lights flickered erratically as they scattered, disoriented and terrified. The smell of their blood filled the air, mingled with the metallic scent of their weapons. My muscles burned, every movement tearing a cry from within, but I kept going. The last group fled, their footsteps echoing through the forest as they disappeared into the darkness.

When the last trace of human sound faded, I allowed myself to feel the weight of the pain. My chest rose and fell in short gasps, and the wounds burned like live coals. I staggered, my knees buckling under my weight. The ground seemed to give way beneath my feet, and then I noticed too late the ravine ahead.

The fall was swift but painful. Branches scraped my skin, rocks tore at my flesh, and the world spun in a whirlpool of darkness and stars.

When I finally stopped, the impact left my body immobile, every muscle screaming in agony. I looked up at the sky, where the clouds began to part, briefly revealing the pale glow of the stars. But soon, even they disappeared, as the absolute darkness enveloped me.

The smell of aged wood and medicinal herbs was the first sign that I was in some place safe. My senses returned to me slowly, as if they were hesitating to return to the real world. The pain in my flank was sharp, cutting like the echo of a distant scream, perhaps due to the force of the impact from the fall.

But there was something else... Something I couldn't identify immediately.

A presence. A voice.

"I'm glad you're awake!" she said, the softness of her voice touching the very fibers of my being, like a distant melody, yet firm, as her skillful fingers moistened a cloth in the basin beside the makeshift bed. "You'll be fine..."

When I opened my eyes, the light of the lantern beside me almost blinded me, forcing my eyes to squint as my vision adjusted. And then, I saw her. She was leaning over me, the delicacy of her movements with the cloth contrasting with the intensity with which she watched me. Her hair fell in untamed waves, but it was her eyes that paralyzed me, as if each one held a universe. One, lighter, had a familiar color, but the other, deeper, dark-hued, disarmed me, piercing me like a sharp blade.

Something within me yielded before that gaze, as if she were a key capable of unlocking what I had long tried to conceal. And then, I noticed the mark.

My gaze was irresistibly drawn to her arm, where a spiraling black scar seemed to pulse with an energy I vaguely recognized. The feeling that something within me connected to it made me shudder, and a chill ran down my spine.

"Who are you?" My voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper, as if the question was a denial of everything I had learned up to that point. Fear, something I hadn't felt in centuries, bubbled in my gut, and doubt twisted in my chest.

Could it be a trap?

She raised her eyes to me, surprised, but didn't pull away. Something in her look, perhaps the calm tranquility of someone unaware of the true threat I represented, made her seem even more enigmatic. "My name doesn't matter now. You're safe. Rest."

Safe. The word sounded like an insult. A cruel irony. But my body, exhausted and aching, lacked the strength to argue. When I tried to sit up, a searing pain made me fall back onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

She pressed my shoulder with a firm hand, stronger than I expected.

"Don't move. You've been hurt quite badly. It's possible you're still in pain. I've treated your wounds as best I could." Her voice was a strange balance between gentleness and authority, something uncommon among them.

I couldn't believe anything that came from the mouth of a human, I knew better than that. I had been raised to distrust them, to believe their kindness always had something hidden, something that could destroy me. But she... She seemed so genuine.

A part of me wanted to believe, but fear still ran through my veins. Nothing enraged me more than being indebted to a creature, and this felt even worse when I remembered she was human.

"You shouldn't have helped me." I closed my eyes, trying to stifle the turmoil of emotions that threatened to engulf me. Guilt, confusion, helplessness... It all consumed me.

Nothing was more detestable than this debt, this feeling of fragility. And she... She treated me as if I were an ordinary wounded person, as if I were not a monster who could kill her at any moment.

She sighed, moving the ceramic basin away, as if my words hadn't touched her. "I was washing my clothes in the river, your body appeared there. I saw you were injured. It was the right thing to do. You didn't seem like a threat..."

Her smile was brief, but something in it unsettled me. How could she see me like this? A predator, a being that hides in the shadows, hunting its prey, and yet feel no fear? Something about her didn't fit, and that was what intrigued me the most.

I watched her in silence, noticing the tension in her body, the lines of exhaustion beginning to draw on her face, the slow way she moved. But what really captured me was her gaze. There was no fear, only... compassion. Something I had never known how to handle.

Something that, I realized with a tightness in my chest, made me want to understand.

"What's your name?" she asked after a long silence, her voice soft, almost an invitation to trust.

I hesitated. I knew the risk carrying my name represented. But like a fog dissipating before the light, my answer came before I could stop it.

"Joakim."

She smiled, a gesture so genuine it made me question everything I believed.

"It's a beautiful name. Do you need help getting home? I can help you get there, but I’ll need you to guide me along the way."

I couldn't answer. My mind was at war, struggling against the idea of trusting someone like her, and with growing resolve, I lifted myself from where I had been lying, tucked in my shirt, and made her glance away from my exposed abdomen, returning her focus to my face. Every part of my body seemed to burn excessively for a fraction of a second, but I had to be stronger than that.

"I thank you for what you did for me today..." I said softly, bowing my head in a long nod.

My steps dragged to the half-open door, and gradually, the scent of the herbs grew fainter, along with her perfume, and how cruel it seemed to deal with the fragrance of the real world after having dealt with something different in the past hours.

"Take care. I hope to see you again, Joakim!"

She said softly, halting my steps at the doorway, making me glance over my shoulder. Smiling, she was still sitting in her chair, hands in her lap, and hair pulled back, accentuating her clavicle, installing another strange feeling with the shadow from her wrist, drawing my attention back to the mark.

"But I don't."

[stark-lord]

The Monty Eyebrow™️

for @purgatory606

[thii-nii]

Love is like a poison (2024) 毒恋～毒もすぎれば恋となる～

Episode One.

[thasorns-moved]

Next year... will I be the only one with feelings? Amane. Sorry! Forget what I just said. I didn't mean to rush you. Forget it. I won't forget. Today I want to answer you about the other day. I had something I wanted you to eat, but I didn't know how to reach out to you. So I didn't contact you. I want to see you.

KIMI TO NARA KOI WO SHITE MITE MO (2023) 君となら恋をしてみても, dir. Matsumoto Hana

[hellamorte]

i touch my pencils once in a century uGH what have this stupid pretty boy done to me 😐

[yameoto]

is it just me or has cai been TERRIBLE. to use lately?? like, the quality of replies has been jai levels of bad. even when i write long and detailed paragraphs, they’ll still hit me with the same ole “can i ask you a question?” or just plain forget who they are and what’s going on. sorry for the complaint, but i just NEED to know if this is a problem you or anyone else is having, it’s killing me.

ahh.. i can’t say i have. these are snippets from my latest roleplay which was a playtest w celeb!quinn 2 days ago

what i have noticed: whenever cai updates, the filter tightens for some amount of time, and becomes stricter. however, its strictness always wanes. but that immediate stretch right after an update is always tough. i’ve never found a problem with the llm itself though!

[daguerreotyping]

Magic lantern glass slide entitled "Man in His Strength" depicting a very fit fellow running in very small shorts, c. 1890s