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corkinavoid · 20 days ago

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DPxDC My Brother in the Mirror

Damian doesn't like mirrors.

He never mentioned the fact to other members of the family, but they are detectives and vigilantes, it's their job to be observant. Which, after so many years, becomes a habit.

Damian doesn't actively avoid the mirrors - he has a mirror in his bathroom, he didn't express any discomfort over going into a mirror labyrinth at some carnival they've attended (he expressed disgust over taking part in something so stupid, in his words, but that's a whole another story), and he actually spent a few minutes in front of the funhouse mirrors when no one was looking, watching his own reflection distort in various ways. He also has no problems with his self-image - he doesn't mind pictures of him taken at any time (unless it's Tim, but that's, again, a whole another story), he's drawn a few self-portraits that were rather accurate and he liked them.

He just doesn't like mirrors. For some reason.

His family, both close and extended, never questioned it. They did some gentle research to see if the dislike was caused by some kind of problem Damian was experiencing without telling anyone, but when they found no proof of that, they've just decided it was some quirk of his. Everyone has quirks. Dick doesn't like eating cereal like a normal person, Tim despises sleep, Steph is at war with any color other than purple.

That is, until one day, Tim witnesses Damian sitting in front of a mirror.

He is not even aware of it - the whole family is having a game night, and through some arguments and rearrangements on the couch, Damian ends up sitting on the left side of it, where his back is turned to one of the three mirrors in the room. Tim, who's lost the last round, is slumping in an armchair nearby, pointedly looking away from the screen where Damian and Jason are enthusiastically competing over the first place in Mario Cart. Of course, Tim can't just not watch it since he needs to know their strategies. But turning back around would also be admitting defeat.

The solution? Easy, watch the screen through the mirror.

Which is when he notices it.

Damian in the mirror doesn't act the same as Damian in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see the real Damian moving around, shoving Jason with his elbow, fully concentrated on the game, and yelling something. Damian-in-the-mirror is sitting unnaturally still, the back of his head over the couch unmoving.

Tim forgets all about the game when Damian's reflection starts to turn around. Slowly and carefully, eerie in the way the horror movies are, the boy in the mirror turns his head around like an owl, his neck twisting inhumanely.

His eyes are green. Green like the toxic waste, like Jason's madness, like acid in cartoons, like the Waters of Lazarus.

Damian in the mirror smiles, his unblinking, gliwing eyes fixed on Tim, and his teeth are sharp and pointy, and there are too many of them, humans can't smile this wide.

"-im? Tim!" A hand nudges him in the shoulder, and Tim looks away from the mirror, finding Dick standing over him. The noise of the game room returns all at once, and, wait, when did it become quiet for Tim?.. He must have a strange expression on his face because Dick's easy smile falls slightly, and he frowns, "Is everything okay?"

Tim looks back to the mirror, but the green-eyed boy in the mirror is gone, and the mirror only reflects Damian as he is: sitting on the couch.

"Yeah," Tim shakes his head and forces a smile on his lips, "I just zoned out."

"Okay," Dick pats him on the shoulder and gives him the controller, "It's your turn now."

Tim takes the controller and turns around, facing the screen. Tim throws a quick glance at Damian, who had slid down on the couch so his head would not be in the reflection anymore. Tim sees the cold, warning hint to his eye, a clear do not speak of it message.

Tim doesn't like that the mirror is now behind him.

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endless-ineffabilities · 19 days ago

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be young, be dope, be proud

dynasty heir Aemond x heiress reader

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

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

main masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck off, Aegon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You eye him warily. What do you want?

He raises his eyebrows. Nothing. Just missed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't know me, Aemond."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How it always ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe... Aemond.

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

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

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

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

"So am I," you counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #hotd #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader

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cerastes · 3 months ago

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Legitimately can't stop thinking about the brilliance of Degenbrecher's introduction as a playable character.

We've known Degenbrecher for a long, long time before this event, and even before Break The Ice, actually: Before Arknights even released, Gnosis and Degen can be seen in this pre-launch trailer at 0:14.

Degenbrecher existed for years as this larger-than-life figure shrouded in rumor and fame, with an almost supernatural countenance to her presence in the corner of the narrative she inhabits: The three-time Grand Champion of the Kazimierz Major, the dreaded Black Knight, the peerless warrior, who has the strength of ten knight companies on her shoulders alone. Spoken of in equal parts awe and fear, her stint in the knightly competitions were legendary in how one-sided they were whenever she took to the field, and Platinum even comments that her portraits on the gallery of champions all make it seem like she doesn't even age, adding a supernatural element to her legacy. All we know is that she's currently SilverAsh's bodyguard and no doubt part of why his faction is so formidable, as it would be for anyone who has a one-woman army on their payroll. When we are finally introduced to her formally in the narrative, she's all business, no non-sense, in the middle of her job, and boy howdy is she good at it: We know the kind of juice Rhodes Island Elite Operators have, they are really, really strong, and yet all Sharp can do is stall for time against her, with tacit understanding that no matter how much he tries, he is NOT overcoming her.

There is not a single thing anyone present on Doc's side can do to actually overcome Degenbrecher during Break The Ice, so the very best thing anyone could do was stall her. THAT is the winning move, or at least as close to one. She's that formidable, and then some. We only see her in business mode here, with a small glimpse to her more noble nature in that she is nothing but non-self aggrandizing compliments for Sharp for being able to even fight her, even if there is no chance he can beat her, because most people just take a single swing from her. When Doc's plan succeeds and we reach the climax, she simply sheathes, says "Well played", SA recalls her back to her pokeball, and we are left letting out a sigh of relief that we made it in time.

Then, for some more years after that, that's our impression of her: Unsurmountable. We don't know much more about her other than she is simply not someone you measure up to. This, by itself, isn't particularly unique, both as a concept or in the cast of Arknights, but it leaves you to wonder exactly what is she beyond being Unsurmountable. Who is she, actually?

Then, The Rides to Lake Silbernherze happens, where she is the main character, and after all those years of mystique and grandeur, of guessing and wondering, we finally can see her not as a plot device, but as an actual character: The very first scene is her covered in blood and raw jumping on a moving train for some mysterious purpose. Oh god, oh no, why is she soaked in blood already? Is she already in Terminator mode?

Then, in the best possible payoff of years of mystique and build-up, we learn that Degenbrecher, the person, not the plot device, the person, is fucking hilarious.

She's covered in blood because she stopped by a nearby farm to help farmers deliver a farm animal, which covered her in blood given how messy births are. She apparently didn't have to do this, and just opted to because, well, she was there, they needed help, and she's in a perpetual state of down to clown.

While pursuing possible dangerous elements to Kjerag later, she stops by to talk with tourists and recommend good spots to sightsee and eat before resuming her chase Looney Toons style.

She looks the same in the three champion portraits because she didn’t like the photoshoots so she skipped them. They were just reusing her photo.

She'll have the single most mundane conversations with the simplest people in midst of off-handedly mentioning that she quite enjoys fistfighting avalanches -- in a setting where this is not at all normal or feasible -- just to test herself. Reactions to her saying this vary from "hey is this a bit" to "oh, Degenbrecher, you card, we saw you do that the other day, next time I'll bring my camera".

She's a combination of Bugs Bunny, Sakamoto-kun, and Broly, and her main gimmick is that she's a reasonable, normal ass person in terms of personality sans the more overt feats of power like fistfighting avalanches. She's just Someone, who just happens to be mind-bogglingly strong and skilled with the greatsword and with swordbreakers.

This is doubly hilarious when you compare her to other one-woman armies we know: Nearl's dialogue is entirely composed of flowery promises for a better tomorrow and heroic declarations, Saria has woman pain 9000 and hasn't had a good day in years, Skadi is afflicted with survivor's guilt which in turn lead to a potent-self loathing and rationalizing her mere presence is what causes tragedy to those around her. Degenbrecher, in comparison, is just happy to be here, enjoys a good fight within reason, loves challenging herself, and honestly is quite content with stuff like paperwork or small talk. She's the friend you call to help you move or when your pipe busts or when you need someone to take care of your kid for a few hours if you're going to be late home due to work. And she puts her entire god damn pussy into it, too, you bet your kid is going to have the time of their life if Degenbrecher is on babysitting duty. Degenbrecher chips in for pizza night. Degenbrecher helps you change your flat tire.

The essence of Degenbrecher is that the rest of Terra is going through some really dire, really interesting times, to say the least, but she's on New Game+ just sort of doing side quests, overleveled as hell and with her shit figured out, and she decides to be as funny as possible about it.

#arknights #degenebrecher #I fucking love her

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jasmines-library · 5 months ago

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hi!! i love your new marauder writings! could you do something with remus and his sense of smell- could either be an angsty one or a fluffy one- not sure what you are comfy writing (like she’s on her period, got injured by accident or by someone else, or she has self-h*rmed) ignore this if you’re uncomfortable! realizing now i should’ve looked for your request rules 😖

Blood Quill

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Warnings: Blood, protective Rem.

Word Count: 0.9k

⛧ MARAUDERS MASTERLIST⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

The quill sat comfortably in your hand, the black feather gleaming and shifting in the light. You shifted it between your fingers, it was light and seemed to fit as though it was an extension of your body itself. Yet you could feel the magic radiating from it. Dark and cold, wrapping itself around you like a thick tendril. It confused you too…..a quill with no ink? You frowned softly, unable to figure it out. But when you began to write, and your other hand began to burn uncomfortably, it began to make sense. The words appeared on the page in what appeared to be shiny red ink. But then, an identical set of your handwriting appeared on your other hand. The quill was writing in your blood.

By the time you were done, your hand was practically trembling with pain and the words ‘I must not disobey curfew’ were scrawled deeply on your skin as if it were an etch-a-sketch. You were with the marauders trying to set up a prank when you got caught. You hadn’t managed to make it under James’ invisibility cloak in time when Filch came stalking round the corner and caught you, deeming you a detention. James had apologised profusely, and Sirius, the great friend he is, had even offered to take the detention for you, but that would have only made the whole thing more suspicious and ruined the whole point of the plan. Remus, on the other hand, was rather angry. Not at you, of course, the sweet boy could never be mad at you, but rather at Filch and the ��unfairness’ that the other three of them had gotten away without a scratch. You supposed it had something to do with the full moon nearing. Remus is always on high alert and is rather overprotective when it comes to you. That was the reason you decided to pull the hem of your jumper over the evidence of your detention.

After reaching the portrait and uttering the password, the door to the Gryffindor common room swung open, revealing the warm hues of the space created by the swooping drapes and plush pillows. Your friends were gathered around the sofas, lounging about chatting as they waited for you to arrive. Making sure your sleeve was firmly covering your hand, you strolled over to them.

“Hey dove.” Remus greeted you softly, his hands coming around your waist as he guided you to sit with them. You greeted him with a kind smile, taking a seat by the fire.

“So, what did they make you do?” Sirius asked curiously, leaning back against the couch.

“Lines.”

James frowned, his forehead wrinkling together in disbelief. “Lines?! That’s it?”

“Yep.” You hummed.

“That is so unfair!” He whined. “I had to clean the boys’ bathroom for like a week.”

You laughed.

“It’s not funny!” He exclaimed, tossing a pillow at you. “Stop laughing at my suffering.”

The two of you went back and forth, bantering with Sirius throughout the evening. You found it relaxing spending time with them, though you couldn’t help but notice the way Remus was looking at you. From time to time he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, his eyebrows and kitted downwards tightly. His lips would also twitch into a frown as he observed you. With the moon being so close, he was on high alert. And so were all of his senses. He could tell something was up just from the way you were sitting. from the way you shifted constantly as if you were trying to hide something. And then there was the salty undertone of the nervous sweat that had broken out across your skin. He knew something was off. And if it wasn’t from that it was from the bitterly sweet scent of blood that lingered around you. There was something you weren’t telling him, and it made him worry.

“You alright, Dove?” Remus asked, his voice laced thick with concern.

You tilted your head up at him. “Yes. why?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Just studied you silently. “You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh.” You answered, pulling your jumper over your hand. Remus noticed the movement.

“Dove?” he lowered his voice. “Let me see.”

You tried to play it off as nothing. “See what?

“Sweetheart.” He gave you a look. One that said he was on to you. He reached for your hand tenderly. Relenting you let him push up your sleeve, revealing the red-raw imprint.

Remus furrowed his brow. “What? Sweetheart what happened? Who did this to you?”

“My detention….”

His expression darkens. “What. They did this to you?!”

“It was a- a quill.”

Sirius looks at you. “A quill?”

“It….i think it used my blood to write…”

Remus’ jaw clenches.

“Is that even allowed?” James frowned. “Surely the school can’t allow that?!”

You just shrugged meekly. This caused Remus’ expression to change.

“Does it hurt?” He asked softly, holding your hand gently.

“A little.” You admit.

“Oh Dove.” He says sadly. Let’s fix this up, hm?”

You nod, and he picks up his wand, casting a quick healing spell to help aid the healing process before bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles and pulling you close to him on the couch. He tucked you protectively under his arm, resting his chin on your head.

“There we are sweetheart.” He murmured, clearly not intending to let you go anytime soon. You leaned into him as he wrapped his arm around you. The perfect remedy.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

MARAUDERS TAGS:

@hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @marauderfreaksblog

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•

#marauders x reader #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #sirius black x reader #sirius black #the marauders #padfoot #moony #wormtail #prongs #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #marauders #fluff #marauders fanfiction #marauders fluff #james potter x reader

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miintsprigz · 11 months ago

Text

Mercs x GN! reader who drew them (ALL NINE!)

This goes out to everyone, not just my artists.

But yes, all my fic material is extremely self-serving.

Big thank you to a dear friend of mine for helping me with mercs like Pyro, Engie, Sniper, and Medic when I got stuck.

VERY LONG POST INCOMING

Scout

• Well, he IS an artist himself, that’s probably how the two of you first started talking.

• Ran past one day, only to immediately throw it in reverse and go “hey whoa whoa whoa when were you gonna tell me you could draw?!”

•Naturally…it was only a matter of time.

•He was always so encouraging about your stuff, so…after working up the guts, you showed him.

• “Yo wait a sec…you drew me??? I…” For once in his life, he’s at a loss for words. He’s never been drawn—not even a self-portrait. For as cocky as he seems…well…

•He just…stares for a second. Marveling. Is that…really what I look like?

• “Do you like it?” “Abso-friggin-lutely, (Y/N)!!! You kiddin’? I don’t even look that beautiful in real life! And ya know, that’s sayin’ somethin!”

•You laugh, and he pulls you in so fast to hug you that you weren’t even ready. “But seriously…thank you. I’ve uh…I’ve never been drawn before. You did amazing. …you know I gotta draw you now, right?”

•And he does. He’s a complete perfectionist about it—he feels like he can’t replicate you, you’re one of a kind. (He actually does very well! But he’s so shy showing it to you…d’aww.)

Pyro

•Pyro was more of a doodler than anything. They loved color. And of course, you could resonate with that.

•Sometimes you’d draw designs and let them color it in. They giggled all the while…they just adored how creative you were.

•Being the most secretive about their appearance, they’re hard to nail down…even for you. Pyro is most themself in their full gear. You, out of everyone, know that best.

•So you took a…different approach. Abstraction.

•Their hands, the ones that so often seemed to be magnetically drawn to you.

•Their back, the strong shoulders when they just felt content to sit in the quiet with you.

•The brief glimpses you’d caught of their face—split second instances in shadows—those were easy, yet challenging. Their brief sightings made them easy to be abstract about, and yet, it made them harder to actually nail down.

•Conjuring a rather fittingly smoky composition, it had a dreamlike feel to it. Pure Pyro.

•You were only a bit hesitant to show them, but when they did see…they surprised you a bit.

•You could see them straighten up a bit…surprised. They craned their neck a bit, looking closer, gently curling their fingers over yours to hold the snapshot-like portraits with you.

• “Hmmm…” There was a sort of…tranquility to them. So unlike your little sparky fella.

• “Do you like them?” Immediately, the edge of their mask bumped against your forehead—your own personal way of kissing. That was all the answer you needed.

•They couldn’t verbalize it, but…seeing beauty in images of themself. The same beauty they saw all around them…it made them see themself in a way they never had before.

•And of course, it made them fall even deeper in love with you, the one who cared for them so much that they took the time to look so deeply.

Heavy

•Heavy is a very intelligent man, but he’s never had much gift for creative work. Even his insults were kind of just the same thing repeated, when the other mercs made it an art form.

•So he couldn’t help but be enraptured by your artistic endeavors and how much work you put into them.

•He loved to see you covered in your medium of choice, your passion for it. Made him lovesick. How lovely you were doing what you loved.

•If he could paint, he would have wanted to paint that. So he could look at it forever.

•So of course, imagine his delight when you decided to draw him!

• That roaring laugh you so enjoyed boomed immediately, just elated.

•“Ohhhh…look at that! You captured me perfectly! Beautiful!” You couldn’t help but beam with pride.

•“Can Heavy keep this?” “Of course you can, hon.” This warranted a sudden barrage of kisses to your face, which cracked you up of course.

•“Very happy to have such talented artist as yourself to love. But to me? You are most beautiful. In all the world.” Despite being more eloquent in his native language, Heavy could still get you to turn red. “Oh gosh…” “Is true!”

Demoman

•Tavish had always been a pretty sentimental fellow. He really did enjoy artwork, but didn’t talk about it much.

•Once he discovered that you were an artist, he was over the moon. Finally, he felt, he could talk to someone about art without them possibly poking fun.

•He’d never go in your sketchbook unless you allowed him to, but he always looked with such admiration in his eyes. “That’s bloody brilliant. So long as ya luv it, never stop doin’ this. Cuz I’ll never stop lookin.”

•One day, you told him you had a surprise for it. “I dunno if I like surprises…” “Oh trust me, Demo,” you chirped, “I think you’ll like this one.”

•As you held up the finished product, his mouth went agape. Almost instantly, he began to smile.

•“Well aren’t you just the sweetest!! That’s me there???” “Yes, love. I uh, I hope that you like it.” His gaze shifted over to you, and you could see his eye had grown somewhat misty.

•Demo was at a loss for words. He had never thought of himself as particularly good-looking, certainly not good enough to be drawn. And yet. You had drawn him. Drawn him very well. And he liked how he looked. Was that how you saw him?

•“Aw, Tav…you okay??” He blinked quick, trying to keep composed.“Never better…c’mere, you…”

•Wrapping his arms around you, he gave you a kiss, just about taking your breath away.

•“My little artist…ya made me look so good.” You caught him rubbing his eye a bit. “I just drew what I saw.” “Well, ya see a work of art in me. And that? That’s the best surprise of all.”

Engineer

•With how much designing went into his machines, Dell could always appreciate the skills of an artist. So when he learned that you were one, well, that only sweetened an already sweet deal.

•You were a little self-conscious at first about him watching you work. You tended to just work parallel to one another, both lost in your own stuff.

•You’d sometimes stop what you were doing to follow his hands as he put the pieces together, fingers wandering as they looked for the correct tool.

•When the inverse happened though—when Engie watched you work—he admired your spontaneity. You could start off with a total wild card and somehow managed to pull it all together and make it work, in a way he never could have come up with.

•Being rather rigid in his own trade, that was something Dell couldn’t help but be dazzled by. Very smart man for sure, but rather by-the-book. Not like you. He saw genius in the way your mind worked.

•So, one day, as the two of you perused each other’s handiwork a bit, you shyly revealed the piece you’d made of him—hard at work on an updated sentry model.

•His lips parted a little like he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

•“I know it’s a little rocky…I’m not the best at drawing machinery.” Gently, he took ahold of the sketchbook and gave it a soft tug, nonverbally asking for permission to hold it. You let him.

•As he looked closer, a warm smile crept across his face. “Well, well…wouldja look at that. That’s me alright.” He chuckled heartily, but you realized it was from admiration, not amusement.

•“Look at you, (Y/N)! Saw me all covered in dirt an’ said ‘yeah, I can make art from that’. I love it…shucks, darlin’, I can hardly get my eyes off of it.”

•He looked back at you, still all aglow, only to find you blushing to the point of near luminescence. “Aw, c’mon now honey…no need to be all shy. You’re incredible, ya know that?”

•An arm slunk around your shoulders, pulling you fast to his side, quickly pecking the top of your head. “I love it, and I love you.”

Soldier

•Soldier was a brave man, that he was confident in. But even he was self-aware enough to realize he wasn’t the sharpest.

•Anything he’d ever drawn looked like kids’ stuff, so to see what you could make? It blew his mind.

•Jane tried not to stare while you drew—you’d gotten all nervous when you’d caught him, and he was trying to be courteous—but he couldn’t deny how it captivated him.

•“Whatcha workin’ on now?” “I’m drawing those two goofs.” You motioned to the Spy and Scout bickering as they often did. “Why them, of all things?” “I just like capturing the moment sometimes.”

•One day, as you sat while he drilled the rest of the team, you started to do just that. You found it hard not to chuckle just a little as the others groaned and rolled their eyes.

•Sure, you got their annoyance, but you couldn’t help but be pulled in by Jane’s excitement and hot-bloodedness.

•“Seemed pretty lost in your work there, or I woulda asked you to join in.” A strong hand ruffling your hair snapped you out of your daze. “Capturing the moment again?”

•“Uh-huh. I think this is my best one yet.” You turned the book around to show him, and you saw his lips part slightly in surprise before he suddenly laughed. “Haha! Look at that! It’s me!”

•You laughed with him, just happy to see him so tickled by it. “I think I really captured you.” “I’d say so, kid! I’d say so…wow.” The amusement gave way to what you realized was…almost awe.

•“I look…strong. Proud.” “Yep.” “…I look good.” “Of course you do.” He nudged his helmet down a bit with his hand, chuckling to himself. From what little bit of his face you saw…was he blushing?

•Imitating him playfully—it was something you two tended to do, he found it cute—you joked, in your best impression of him, “‘Are you going soft on me, maggot??? You’re red as a tomato!’” “Noooo…oh, (Y/N), what am I gonna do with you?”

•He caught the side of your face softly and pecked you on the cheek. “But…really. Thank you, sweetheart. I think that’s my favorite thing you’ve ever made.”

Sniper

•Truthfully, Mick had never given a lot of thought to the arts before he’d met you. What really caught his eye was the amount of time you put into it.

•Sniper knew better than anyone that holding still, completely focused on your task, being all but absorbed in it…that was respectable.

•The fact that he could leave for work and come back to find you in the same spot? It was just very attractive to him.

•You stopped by to watch him sometimes, very discreetly, on less busy days, although he wouldn’t lie, it got him nervous. He trusted in his own skills plenty, but…you weren’t just anyone. He couldn’t have you getting hurt.

•So one day, as he finally wrapped up, he saw you, still hard at work. He didn’t want to interrupt you, but if it was time to go, he wanted to go. Giving you a light pat on the shoulder, he chuckled. “Almost done there, darlin? Quittin’ time.”

•“Just a bit more…there. Perfect. Check it out.” You held up what you’d been working on: a full sketch of him invested in his own work.

•It took him a moment to process what he was seeing, but once he did, he couldn’t help but be amazed. Slightly slack-jawed, he looked up at you, the faintest trace of a smile.

•“Never considered myself the modelin’ type, ‘specially not out here, but…wow. Ya really did it. And I look bloody good, too!” “Well duh!” “Oh, stop—” Oh, that got him. The Aussie was surprisingly easy to fluster once he’d fully grown comfortable, and you loved it.

•“Awww, are you blushing?” “Just a little…now c’mon.” Taking your hand, he helped you up, quickly hugging you around the shoulders, catching you somewhat off-guard.

•“But really. Great job there. Thanks…it’s an honor, ya know that? To be drawn by you?” “Gosh—” “Heh, now you’re the one goin’ all red.” “Oh, stop—”

Medic

•The good(?) doctor first learned of your artistic prowess when he caught you trying to draw the charts he had on his wall. “Ooh! Very impressive.”

•Medic could do a lot of things, but drawing wasn’t really one of them. He couldn’t resist watching you work, even though he knew it was a bit touchy.

•“Poetry in motion, Liebe. Really.” Simp. “Oh, come on—” “I mean it! You have such precision, such grace…it’s a sight to behold!”

•So of course, when you were working on something that you absolutely would not let him look at, he wanted to see even more.

•“I promise that whatever it is, I will find it as beautiful as you!” “It’s not that, silly—it’s supposed to be a surprise!” He seemed almost sulky about it…it was kind of cute, although you did feel a bit bad.

•Eventually though, it was done—him, with Archimedes on his shoulder. “Okay, honey, you can look now.”

•One hand comes up over his mouth, audibly gasping. “Is that…? It is!!! Haha!”

•You had never seen him this happy, and you couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, (Y/N)! Look at that…and Archimedes too!”

•Perhaps unsurprisingly, he brings the bird out to show him too. It’s hard to gauge the response from a dove, but the tranquil cooing seems to suggest that he enjoys it.

•The doctor catches you off-guard as he sweeps you into a kiss. “Oh…danke, Schatz (treasure). May I keep this?” “Of course~”

•Best believe this man is showing your art off to EVERYONE who he treats, going on and on about what an incredible artist and person you are.

Spy

•This guy is a man of culture, he can appreciate good art. And good artists, wink.

•But in all seriousness, your attention to detail was incredibly attractive to him. After you’d been together for a while, the two of you would sit in his smoking room and relax together once the work day was over.

•Sometimes he’d be off to the side just doing his own thing, reading, but other times he’d actually sit beside you and watch. There was an intimacy to it, one you took time to grow fully comfortable with, but he was patient.

•So when you were very secretive one night, it caught his attention. Nothing slipped past him—not even you. You sensed him behind you surprisingly quickly though, and quickly closed the project up.

•“Shy tonight, are we? So unlike you, mon bijou (my jewel)…” “Hehe…be patient, babe, it’s not done yet.”

•His arms wrapped around you from behind briefly…gosh, it was difficult to keep anything secret from this man. “Very well. Keep your secrets…for now.”

•But he respected that you didn’t want him to see it just yet, and so he waited.

•“…Okay, you can look now.” In an instant, he was behind you again. It was hard to even look up at the guy right now, but once you did…there was this sense of wonder in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

•It wasn’t often that Spy looked at himself unmasked for longer than a few seconds—he’d almost forgotten his own face by now. For spies, he reasoned, it was better that way. But the way you had captured every detail of him…

•“Oh, what a handsome devil…wonder who that could be…” Was he trying to brush off his own flustering? Maybe a little.

•You couldn’t help but giggle as he almost hurriedly sat down next to you, quickly drawing you in close as he continued to look. Almost entranced.

•That element of intimacy I mentioned before? It was his turn to feel it now. Not even in a physical way, which is what this Casanova is so used to.

•No, the fact that you had clearly just…looked at his face, so intently. There was something raw and vulnerable to it. And as much as he wanted to look at it even more, his eyes were magnetically drawn to you.

•“I wouldn’t have ever asked it of you, but…I always wondered what it would look like if you drew me. I…”

•Glancing back down, he found that he couldn’t even come up with anything to say. The act of love had rendered him speechless. YOU BROKE HIM OH MY GOSH/j

•“…Do you like it?” Before you could say anything else, you were swiftly kissed, and I mean kissed.

•Spy always looked at you with a sort of passion, but this was different. He had never felt so much love for someone. Felt like a young, hopeless romantic boy all over again.

•“I adore it…and most of all, I adore you, mon cœur (my heart).”

AAAAND IM DONE. WHEW. That was fun!

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

Hello! I just want to start off by saying you're an absolutely amazing writer! I've been reading your blog for two years now, I believe, or something very close to it, and I still find myself awestruck by your talent when I check your blog, which is pretty much daily!

If you're up for the prompt and if you're not too swamped with requests, could I ask for a blurb with bombshell reader x Spencer? Maybe reader makes him something really sincere and handmade? Maybe a baked good or a knitted sweater? No special occasion needed, just because he deserves it 😋

Thank you for sharing your works with us! Be well and remember to take breaks! Love you Jade!!

Thank you my love, that is so kind! Love you♡

You feel sleek walking into the office that morning. Fitted clothes steamed and pressed, hair freshly upkept at the salon the previous weekend, nails manicured, smile primly painted, you look perfect.

But that's not what you're excited about.

Spencer lounges cross-legged at his desk, a book in his lap, surprisingly broad shoulders hunched as he reads at a more natural pace than usual. His desk is cluttered in organised chaos, books lining the partition that separate his desk from Derek's and Emily's, strange knickknacks scattered. There's a bunch of bright squishy things from Penelope, an upside down umbrella statue lined with hair elastics, and, cutest of all, his two photo frames. One of him holding baby Henry, and one of you. You and him, of course, but mostly you in the frame, closer, smiling like you love him as you angle the camera back in a well meaning and misaligned self portrait.

You do love him. He hasn't caught on yet, is all.

"Spencer," you greet, hoping he won't jump. He flinches minutely and lifts his head to yours, closing the book against his hand. "Sorry, I was trying to make it so you didn't jump."

"My fault." He rubs his eyes. "Just been reading this book for so long it's messing with me."

The book, of which he's told you about in detail, is about a documentary, which is in turn about a bunch of dark, ever-changing rooms, hallways and tunnels from within a house. The line between what's fiction within fiction blurs, and it's actually pretty scary if he's to be believed. "I've never seen you take so long reading one book, even if it is eight hundred pages," you say teasingly, letting the handle of your handbag slip down your shoulder.

"The point is suspense," he says, eyes following your fingers where they dive into your bag. "Which needs time to build. What are they?"

"These are for you, handsome."

"You already gave me a present," he says quizzically.

His birthday was a few days ago, and he's right. "These aren't for your birthday, Spence."

He cracks the lid off of the tupperware on side at a time like he's scared he'll ruin the sweet treats within. You've made him fresh baked shortbread biscuits dipped in dark-chocolate and topped with sparse coconut shavings.

"What are these?" he asks.

You both know that he knows they're cookies, so you answer the unasked question instead. "I wanted to make them for you. I think you'll like them, they're a little rich but the coconut helps even it out. You don't have to try them now or anything–"

"Can I?" he asks, lips quirked into a gentle pout.

"Sure." You hide your nerves as he bites into one, the cookie itself breaking softly, crumbs falling into his waiting hand. "They're messy. Should've warned you."

He puts the uneaten half back in the tupperware and places it atop his closed book on the desk. He's nodding as he stands, arms quick over your shoulders. You can hear him swallow, his voice mildly hoarse as he says, "They're so nice," he praises, clearing his throat, "I think I swallowed too fast." His laugh warms your ear. "I can't believe you made those. How long did it take you?"

"Not that long," you say, beaming as he pulls away. "I knew you'd like them."

"It helps that you made them." He holds your elbow. "I don't know how to say thanks."

You raise your cheek. "Only if you want."

He kisses your cheek. You smile like a fool and giggle much the same, reaching around his arms to nab a cookie for yourself. They'd tasted nice last night when you tried them, but they're perfect after Spencer's praise.

"No one's ever baked something for me before," he admits, the two of you standing much too close considering the setting. "I mean, there really wasn't a reason?"

"No, Spence. I was watching some TV last night when I started thinking about you, and I recently got that cookbook, you remember? That was one of the dessert recipes. I had to make two batches because I put too much butter in the first try and they spread flat as a nickel."

He smiles at your misfortune. "What?" you ask. "What's funny about that?"

"It's not funny. You made me cookies and when they went wrong you made me more. I don't know what I–" His hand flirts with your elbow, index finger moving with a mind of its own, tickling you through your thin blouse. "You're amazing."

"You make me really happy." You look down at his hand where it draws a line. "It makes me happy to be able to do something for you."

Spencer can evidently see you turning shy, and he's a sweetheart, so he rescues you from your timidity with a life jacket. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Not that I've found so far, handsome. Why, did you have something in mind?"

He makes a big and genuine laugh, grabbing two cookies and forcing one into your hand. "You have to eat your share before Emily gets here." He nudges your hand up with his. "Go on. I'm not in the mood to share with anyone but you."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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goldsbitch · 8 months ago

Text

Past lives

Charles Leclerc is opening an ice-cream shop...And nobody knows why.

romantic, soulmate au, one shot, short

"Past lives couldn't ever hold me down Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found I've got the strangest feeling This isn't our first time around" - Past Lives, Børns

It's the little things that resonate for no apparent reason.

The fact he would always lean towards a perfume with bergamot undertones - because ages ago, the love of his life was obsessed with bergamot tea.

The fact she would have the windows open at any possible occasion - because in her past, she and the love of her life lived in a small house at the top of a windy hill.

The fact he hated alcohol, because in one their lifetimes, the love of his life drowned her sorrows a little too often and lost herself in it.

The fact she could not watch war time movies, because in one of their past lives he died tragically, and a little too early for them to build a proper life together.

They did not get to meet in each life. But when they did, it was one for the history books. Not the ones about grandiose, history changing events, but the little sweet ones, usually to be found at the back of the antique bookstores. The mundane miracles that are hard to describe to the unlucky ones, who do not get to experience them. Some of them end up with a happy end, some of them with the biggest life lessons human soul can swallow.

It's the strange feeling of "I belong here" or "I think this will taste good". Why? Because you had seen it in the past, because you had been there in a different life time.

Fate plays a funny little game. Has one and their soulmate born just in time for them to be able to find each other, but likes to put obstacles in between. Distance, social barriers, conflicting dreams.

This kind of love leaves traces around the history. Songs, poems, buildings and initials carved into stones and benches. Wedding rings passed on in families and eventually sold once everyone has forgotten. Portraits of unknown faces and photos found at the bottom of old wardrobes. The ancient piping in an old house that still works because he built it for her to live in.

The soul keeps a memory, unreachable to the simple mind of the body, as it travelled from one lifetime to another.

That's how she found herself staring at a random, actually not that important, painting hung in a gallery exhibition dedicated to landscapes from the romantic era. She wasn't exactly a galleries type of person, but a girls trip to Paris had to include something more than parties and shopping. She stood there for good five minutes, totally mesmerised by a painting that did not particularly stood out from the rest. Little did she know that the silhouette standing in the field was one of her past self and that the painting had been done by her soulmate in one of their luckier past lives. It was like she could smell the summer weeds growing, hear the ground under her feet and understood what the author wanted to capture. And he was successful enough to capture the attention of his love throughout centuries once again. As her friends dragged her away to end their artsy part of their trip, she made sure to mark the name of the artist.

For some inexplicable reason, Charles Leclerc, in this life a racing driver, was opening an ice cream shop in in Milan. It probably would have made more sense to everyone, himself included, if he'd known that in one of their luckier past lives, he and his soulmate met in a small café in that city, few decades before that. He would come in one day, order an ice-cream and then did not stop coming until he managed to charm her.

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #soulmate au #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc x female reader #ferrari f1 #f1 fic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc imagine #chalres leclerc fluff #f1 fluff #f1 angst #charles leclerc soulmate au

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