#mystery of the emblem x reader

[luvlybunnie]

You stalking Navarre and is extremely obsessed and making physical moves on him makes him so mad he has to teach you a lesson 😤

a / n : reader has enticed him with her weird and off putting-ness . (um, like side note reader kinda sexually harasses him in front of his friends , brief sa mention , spit kink, brief anal mention... I STILL BARELY LIKE IT LEAVE ME BE . . .😭)

stalking, carving, pictures, drooling.

it's a cycle for you. your eyes stuck on the long black hair from that magnificent man. navarre. even his name is ethereal.

navarre. you giggle, eyes peering at the photos of him on your walls— hanging from lines on the ceiling, adorned with red lights to remind yourself of his clothes.

delusional? you don't know the meaning of that word. navarre's never even bothered to look your way when you're beside him, your hands grazing his shoulders only for him to ignore it and continue being the edgelord you love him for.

today was different, he felt off— dangerous.

it made you horny.

maybe it was the flicker in his eyes that screamed 'i killed an army of men' or maybe it was the splatters of blood on his skin that you knew wasn't his because he had no wounds.

you ran up to him nonetheless, silent eyes tracking your body as you did. you almost second guessed yourself.

almost.

"hi, navarre!"

no response, usual.

you place your palms flat against his chest, a small squeeze before your back heats in excitement— "it's sooo~oo good to see you." you giggle, sliding your hand down his abdomen.

his eyes follow in silence, your fingertips grazing his pants— "why aren't you saying anything?" you wonder out loud, the sounds of people mumbling and whispering behind you dull out when he takes a sharp inhale.

he's hesitant.

you stuff your hand in his pants, and you're barely able to touch his cock before your hand is snatched upwards— his hand around your throat and you're gasping for air. you did sexually assault him.

" you are insufferable. "

you can manage anything out but a choke as he drags you to your room, mumbling about how today was an awful day, and he has so much adrenaline to release. your brain is hazy from the lack of air— eyes blurring before your released upon your own cushioning of a mattress.

you see him lazily look around, "weird girl." he merely says, no emotion as usual.

"on your hands on knees, face toward me, mouth open, back arched."

it's demanding, but you're a good girl so you listen.

he pushes two fingers into your mouth, and you gag, loud.

"spit." he growls out, and you spit nearly forcing yourself into a coughing fit as he thrusts his fingers into your mouth thrice before removing them— he rubs his spit covered hand over your face and into your hair.

he looks down at you, his other hand rising to wipe the blood from his cheek— "take my cock out, you fucking whore."

you scramble to release the red demon's cock, his head tilted to the side as if to inspect his prey— "bet you're soaked right now. i should abuse your little pussy. use your cunt for my own pleasure— considering how you treat me." you should feel bad— the amount of times you've grazed his cock in public, or snuck into his room and nuzzled into his blankets— but you don't, and he knows that.

his cock is swollen, hungry, leaking thick beads of precum and it strikes a sense of fear in you.

"open your mouth."

your mouth falls open.

"wider."

"i- i can, i can't—"

"you fucking will."

he groans and hooks his finger on your lower row of teeth, tugging down your jaw and stuffing his dick into your mouth— tears spill from your eyes as you gag, choking on the bulbous tip of his cock as he bullies— abuses your throat.

"yeah. stupid fucking slut is so lost without me. doesn't know how to function without her fucking god."

perhaps it's a bit sacrilegious to utter gods name as he partakes in such a devilish act.

"I'll fuck your ass, then your pussy next. it's what i fucking deserve."

a / n : hi sorry im okay . 🤗🤗

[woso-dreamzzz]

Mignon's Halloween

Barcelona Femení x Teen!Reader

Summary: The eleventh of my Halloween-centric fics

It's Jana that finds the headline first. It's Jana who opens her phone one day on camp to see it trending.

'Barcelona Superstar to Return to her Childhood Club?'

With her contract running out in the summer, question marks over whether young French star y/n l/n will stay at Barcelona remain but eagle eyed fans think they've solved the mystery.

In a recent TikTok posted on her girlfriend's account, the young star seems to have been pictured wearing her old Olympique Lyonnais jersey.

Click Read More below to see what our experts think of this startling discovery:

It's Jana that slides her phone over to Alexia at breakfast. It's Jana who has to explain that the site looks kind of sketchy and it likely isn't true.

But then you start posting things while you're away on camp with France.

Most of it is harmless stuff. The kind of stuff Alexia expects from a teenager back in their home country - a few harmless pranks on your teammates, a picture of you and your parents, a cute video of you kissing your girlfriend's cheek.

But then there's a random selfie of you in your childhood bedroom.

You're relaxed back on your pillows, your family dog laying on your chest.

His snout is covering the emblem over your heart but Alexia can recognise a Lyon jersey anywhere.

That's when she gets a bit worried.

You left Lyon because you wanted game time they wouldn't give you. You'd pushed a bit too hard for game time and they'd told you they weren't going to renew your contract.

Surely you wouldn't go back to them now.

Surely even if they begged and begged and begged, you'd hold yourself in a high enough regard that you wouldn't go back to them.

But the Lyon shirt pops up a few more times while you're away.

There's even a video of your girlfriend wearing one of your old jerseys as she walks her own dog.

"Don't tell me you're stalking the girlfriend now," Mapi gripes as Alexia stares down at her phone," The kids can have fun without you hovering over them."

"I'm not stalking anyone!"

"You haven't even met her girlfriend yet you follow her on every bit of social media you can find her on."

"That's for safety. I'm making sure she's a good one."

"I think y/n is capable of choosing her own girlfriend."

Alexia makes a face and Mapi corrects herself.

"I think y/n's parents are capable of approving a good girlfriend. Don't be so worried."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Alexia mutters, looking up from her phone when you finally walk in with Vicky.

The both of you are speaking in hushed whispers, giggling to yourselves until you both split off to go to your own cubbies.

Back when Lucy still played with the team, your cubby used to be next to hers but now that she's gone back to England, you've been moved next to Alexia so she can keep an eye on you.

"So," She says, trying to be as casual as she can," How was camp?"

You give her an odd look. "Yeah it was alright. But you know that already. Because you're a stalker."

"Why does everyone think I'm a stalker?!"

"You follow my girlfriend on all your social media. You didn't even create a fake account."

"Fake account? What's that?"

You smile at her, the same smile that Vicky does at camp when Alexia tries to show off one of those dances from TikTok that she knows young people like.

"Don't worry about it." You pull on your training shirt. "Is the Halloween party thing still on for tonight?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just checking. I might be a little late though. I've got a meeting with my agent."

Alexia tries to make it seem like she's not all that interested in it but she isn't quite sure it works. "Oh? What about?"

"Just contract stuff. I'm going to head off with Vicky before training," You say," We're going to see if we can break into the vending machine again."

Normally, Alexia would try to stop you but her eyes catch on the familiar white of the Lyon shirt you have stuffed in your bag.

The sinking feeling in Alexia's chest returns in full force, staying with her for most of the day to the point that she finds herself glancing at you much more than she usually does.

"She's not going to just up and leave," Patri says that evening at the Halloween party," She loves it here."

"She had Lucy here with her," Alexia points out," They spoke French together. None of us speak French. What if she misses speaking French?"

Irene rolls her eyes, slightly preoccupied with making sure that her son isn't eating all of the sweets that Marta has been spoiling him with. "She calls her parents regularly. She calls her girlfriend. And I can speak French. She's not been missing the French language in the slightest."

"But what if-"

"If she's leaving us," Marta says, reaching across the table to give Matteo another skittle," Then it won't be for Lyon."

Alexia finds it kind of hard to believe Marta when she's dressed in an inflatable pig costume.

"She's meeting with her agent and-"

"And she's here," Patri interrupts, chin jerking towards the door that you've just slipped in through.

"She's wearing it!" Alexia hisses, heart thumping in her chest," The Lyon shirt! She's wearing it! This is it. This is it. She's leaving us."

"No way!" Vicky laughs from across the room," You actually did it?"

You grin back at her, showing off your ripped shirt. "I think Laporta thought I was crazy when I pulled out the scissors and the lighter. What do you think? Do I look axe-murderer victim enough?"

"Do you mind if we add blood?" Vicky asks.

"You have fake blood? You should have led with that!"

You and Vicky barely take a moment to look at the congregation of captains at the table before you're pouring blood all over your head and shirt, really rubbing it all over the white fabric.

Alexia's mouth hangs up just as Jana's phone chimes with a notification from the Barcelona Femení account.

Happy Halloween Culers!

FRENCH SUPERSTAR HERE TO STAY! Find out more below!⬇️

[dreamersworldduh]

HI, NEIGHBOR — FINALE

• JASON TODD x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — you’re new to the neighborhood and find yourself becoming friends with the residential bad boy, Jason Todd. From his perspective, you seem like an outgoing guy yet there’s a mystery to you he couldn’t quite figure out.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 2k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Again, thank you for all the love and support for this series. Don’t worry, I have more series coming, but until then enjoy.

PREVIOUS PART! FOUR

Gotham's skyline stretched endlessly before you, jagged and unforgiving, a maze of towering steel and cracked concrete that clawed at the cold night sky. Neon signs blinked erratically in the distance, casting eerie glows of red and electric blue over rain-slick streets far below. The moon hung high and distant, pale and remote, its silvery light spilling unevenly across the city's twisted landscape like a half-hearted blessing.

The city never slept—could never sleep. Faint sirens wailed somewhere far off, threading through the ever-present growl of engines, the angry shouts of late-night arguments, and the persistent buzz of flickering streetlights. Gotham breathed in chaos and exhaled violence—steady, relentless, alive.

You stood at the edge of the rooftop, motionless, barely registering the sharp, biting chill of the wind cutting through the seams of your armor. It howled around you, fierce and untamed, tugging at your cape as if daring you to leap into the void below. You didn't flinch. You hadn't flinched in a long time.

Your gloved fingers rested against the rough, weather-beaten edge of the rooftop ledge. The old bricks were cold and crumbling, worn down by years of brutal winters and fierce summer storms. Your gaze was locked across the street, fixed on the darkened, silent silhouette of a familiar building—your old apartment.

The windows stared back, empty and hollow. Once, those windows had glowed warmly, their light spilling out onto the cracked pavement like a beacon in the dark. You could still see it in your mind—the soft, golden haze of a lamp burning late into the night, curtains gently swaying in the breeze from a half-open window.

You remembered the way the old wooden floorboards groaned beneath your boots after long nights spent chasing shadows, the smell of cheap takeout mingling with the ever-present aroma of strong coffee brewed out of necessity, not comfort. You'd sit there in the dim light, armor peeled away, tracing worn-out street maps spread across a scarred table, planning your next move... still daring to hope.

But that life felt impossibly far away now, like a half-forgotten dream. Someone else's life. Someone softer. Someone less broken.

Your fingertips drifted down, brushing lightly over the familiar, sharp edges of the bat-emblem etched into your chest plate. The armor was cold and unyielding beneath your touch, its matte surface rough and scarred from countless battles. It was a part of you now—woven into your identity as surely as the blood in your veins.

There was no going back. No running. No hiding.

This was your life now. The mission. The fight. The endless war.

And you weren't alone in it—not anymore.

The familiar, deliberate sound of heavy boots landing softly on the rooftop behind you broke through the quiet. You didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

Jason.

"Figured I'd find you here," his familiar, rough voice called out, warm and teasing. You could hear the faint smirk woven into his words even before you turned around. Jason had a way of speaking like he was in on a private joke the world hadn't caught up to yet.

You exhaled slowly, already feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to unwind. He had that effect on you—steady, grounding, like the first breath after being underwater too long.

When you finally turned, he was standing a few feet away, clad in his signature Red Hood armor, its matte-black plates etched with battle scars and worn edges from countless fights. His blood-red emblem gleamed faintly in the moonlight, sharp and bold—a warning to anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

His helmet was tucked loosely under one arm, his other hand resting casually on his hip. Wind tugged at his dark hair, tousling it in a way that made him look effortlessly rugged, though you knew he hated when it got in his eyes. His piercing blue gaze locked onto yours with that familiar, intense focus—sharp and assessing, but gentler now... softer, just for you.

"You gonna stand there brooding all night," he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, "or can I join in on the dramatic rooftop staring contest?"

You couldn't help the quiet huff of laughter that escaped you. Jason always knew how to break the weight of the moment, no matter how heavy it felt.

Shaking your head, you leaned back against the rough brick ledge, your fingers trailing over the worn edges. "Thought you were on patrol."

Jason shrugged, stepping closer until he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Even through his armor, you could feel the familiar warmth radiating from him, grounding you in a way the cold city air never could.

"I was. Then I heard you were out here looking all..." —he waved a gloved hand vaguely in the air— "dark and mysterious. Thought I'd check in... make sure you weren't planning anything stupid."

You smirked, bumping your elbow lightly into his side. "Only stupid thing I've done is let you follow me."

Jason chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, wrapping around you like a protective shield. He shook his head, lips twitching into that lopsided grin that always made your heart ache in the best way.

"You love it," he said with quiet certainty, no hesitation in his voice.

The familiar, comfortable silence settled over you both. The distant hum of the city faded into the background as you stood side by side, staring out over Gotham's sprawling, chaotic skyline. The cold wind tugged at your cape, howling around the edges of the rooftop, but it felt far away now—just another piece of the restless city neither of you could ever quite leave behind.

After a long moment, Jason's voice softened, losing its usual teasing edge. His words were quieter, tinged with something deeper.

"Thinking about... before?"

Your gaze drifted back to the old apartment across the street—the empty, dark windows that used to glow with warmth and light. Memories tugged at the edges of your mind: late nights spent over binge watching movies, coffee growing cold on the counter; quiet conversations whispered in the dim glow of the worn kitchen lamp; stolen moments of peace in a life that rarely allowed them.

"Feels like... another life," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like... someone else lived there."

Jason tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful—serious in a way only he could be when it came to you. He studied you for a moment, his sharp gaze searching yours like he could see the thoughts you couldn't quite voice.

"Maybe... but you're still you," he said quietly, with a conviction that left no room for doubt. "Different suit, different mission... but the same person who's always fought like hell to survive."

His words hit deeper than you expected, settling into your chest with quiet finality. He always had a way of cutting through the walls you put up—seeing through the armor, both literal and otherwise.

You turned toward him slowly, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes were steady and unwavering, fierce in their sincerity.

"You know that, right?" Jason asked, his voice rough but soft—open in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

The weight of his words settled over you, pushing past the cold ache that had lived in your chest for so long. You swallowed hard, feeling something warm unfurl deep inside despite the icy wind biting at your skin.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I know."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt charged, humming with everything unspoken—but understood.

Then Jason's mouth tugged into a familiar, mischievous grin, the teasing light returning to his sharp blue eyes.

"Besides," he added casually, the warmth creeping back into his voice, "you're way too badass to be some regular apartment-dwelling civilian. I mean... you fly, for crying out loud."

A surprised laugh escaped you before you could stop it, light and genuine. Jason's grin widened, his expression softening with quiet pride—like seeing you laugh, even here, even now, was the greatest victory he could ever claim.

Before you could overthink it, you stepped closer, your fingers brushing against the cool, worn surface of his armored chest. His breath hitched just slightly, but he didn't pull away—couldn't.

His free hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing gently against the back of your neck as he pulled you in with quiet reverence. His touch was steady, sure, yet so achingly careful—like holding something precious he couldn't bear to lose.

His lips met yours in a slow, lingering kiss—warm, fierce, familiar. He kissed you like it was the only thing grounding him to this brutal, unforgiving city... and maybe it was. His hand stayed firm against your neck, anchoring you both in that shared, perfect stillness.

For that one moment... nothing else existed. No city. No missions. No past. No future.

Just you and him.

Then...

"You do realize you're still on patrol, right?"

Bruce's sharp, no-nonsense voice crackled through the comms, cutting through the stillness like a blade. The words were clipped, precise, weighted with the authority of someone who never asked—only commanded.

You and Jason broke apart instantly, breathless but grinning like a pair of guilty teenagers caught sneaking out past curfew. The cool night air rushed in between you, sharp and biting, grounding you back in the reality you'd momentarily forgotten.

Jason groaned loudly, tilting his head back toward the sky with exaggerated exasperation. "Of course he's watching," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand down his face.

You chuckled, still catching your breath, already reaching for your helmet. "Can't say we didn't see that coming."

Jason shot you a sideways glance, his smirk slow and wicked despite his frustration. His ice-blue eyes still sparkled with warmth, the echoes of the moment you'd just shared lingering there, untouched by Bruce's interruption. "Told you we should've gone somewhere higher," he added with a low, teasing drawl.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing another laugh as you secured your helmet into place. The familiar click of the locking mechanism felt natural, practiced—second nature after all these years. The HUD display flared to life, casting your world in sharp, tactical clarity as it scanned the city's endless expanse of crumbling rooftops and twisting alleys.

Jason hesitated just a second longer, still watching you with that same soft intensity, even as he reluctantly raised his red helmet. The smooth, battle-worn surface gleamed faintly under the distant glow of the city's scattered neon lights. His expression stayed open and unreadable for just a moment longer—raw and unguarded in a way only you ever got to see.

"Alright," he finally drawled into the comms, his voice flattening into something cool and sharp—the tone of a seasoned vigilante back on mission. "We're moving."

He tugged the helmet into place with practiced ease, the familiar, menacing faceless mask transforming him in an instant. His voice crackled again through the comms, distorted but still unmistakably him. "You coming, or you planning to stare dramatically at the skyline all night?"

You snorted softly, already moving toward the edge of the rooftop. The city stretched out before you—dark, endless, defiant—its tangled streets a labyrinth of secrets and danger. Gotham's breathless pulse thrummed beneath your boots, calling you back into its relentless embrace.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting the familiar hum of your Chi energy stir deep within your chest. It started as a low, electric warmth, igniting like a spark caught in dry tinder. The power surged upward, rushing through your veins in a brilliant, burning pulse of golden light. Energy crackled around you, shimmering faintly like distant thunder in the charged air.

You took a steady breath, embracing the sensation, letting it lift you effortlessly off the ground. The wind roared in your ears as the rooftop fell away beneath you, leaving nothing but open sky and electric possibility.

Jason lingered for just a heartbeat longer, watching you ascend with that same quiet awe he never voiced but couldn't quite hide. The edges of his mouth tugged into a small, proud smile—soft, private, meant only for you.

With a low, knowing chuckle, he crouched, muscles coiling with practiced precision, and leapt after you—graceful, powerful, unstoppable. His silhouette cut through the dark like a blade, chasing after you through the sky...

...Always.

[fandomtrumpshate]

Unlisted Fandom Challenge 2025— on your marks, get set, GO!

Not that you need any encouragement — we've got almost as many write-in fandoms now (not even THREE DAYS into signups) as we did in total last year! There are currently 158 write-in fandoms. 158.

And if your fandom isn't here ... we'd love you to sign up as a creator and add it! We're ready to set new records, so let's do this.

This post will include the WHOLE LIST of write-in fandoms. Under the cut because 158 fandoms = very long post. Future Unlisted Fandom Challenge updates will feature portions of the list and info about the rest.

Ready? Okay then:

6 Jeff Satur - Music Videos 4 Control (Remedy Game) 4 Zhen Hun / Guardian (drama and novel) 3 Cabin Pressure 3 Dungeon Meshi 3 Fire Emblem Awakening 3 Fire Emblem Fates 3 Roswell New Mexico 3 Schitt's Creek 3 The Goblin Emperor Series - Katherine Addison 3 Transformers 3 Zhen Hun / Guardian (drama) RPF 2 Animorphs 2 BBC Ghosts 2 Biggles Series — W. E. Johns 2 Binan Koukou Chikyuu Boueibu (Cute High Earth Defense Club) franchise 2 Cherry Magic 2 Dangan Ronpa 2 Dead Boy Detectives RPF 2 Detective Conan 2 Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast) 2 Five Nights at Freddy's - All Media 2 Inception 2 Iron widow 2 Kingdom Hearts 2 Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch from Mercury 2 Sailor Moon 2 The Blue Wolves of Mibu 2 The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (TV series) 2 The Poppy War 2 Tiger & Bunny 2 Tower of God 2 Voltron: Legendary Defender 2 What We Do In The Shadows 2 ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 / JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken / JoJo's Bizarre Adventure 1 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) 1 Alien Stage 1 Among Us 1 Arctic Monkeys/The Last shadow Puppets 1 Avatar: Legend of Korra 1 Baseball RPF 1 BBC’s Musketeers 1 Beyond Evil 1 Black Doves 1 Boygenius (Band)(RPF) 1 Bridgerton (TV) 1 Brokeback Mountain 1 Bullet train 1 Canji Baojun De Zhangxin Yu Chong (The disabled tyrant's pet palm fish) 1 Cassette Beasts 1 Castle 1 Challengers 1 Charmed (1998) 1 Conclave (2024) 1 Danger Force (TV) 1 Dead by Daylight 1 Descendants 1 Destiny 2 1 Digimon 1 Dimension 20 1 Dishonored 1 Dishonored 1 1 Downton Abbey 1 Dr. Stone 1 Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey 1 Emma - Jane Austen 1 Fangs of Fortune 1 Flight Rising 1 Formula 2/3 RPF 1 Ghosts (BBC or American) 1 Grantchester (TV) 1 Gravity Falls 1 Grimm 1 Happy Ending (Thailand TV 2025) 1 Hatoful Boyfriend 1 Haven (TV) 1 Helluva Boss 1 Henry Danger (TV) 1 High School Musical (Movies) 1 Hikaru no Go 1 HLVRAI - Half-life VR But the AI is Self-Aware 1 In Stars And Time 1 IndyCar RPF 1 It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia 1 Jeeves and Wooster 1 Jet Lag The Game RPF 1 Kane and Feels 1 Kraven the Hunter 1 Kuroko no Basuke / Kuroko's Basketball 1 Law & Order 1 Law & Order: Special Victims Unit 1 Lies of P 1 Live A Live 1 Lord Seventh/Qi Ye 1 Lovecraft Mythos 1 Lucifer (tv) 1 Mass Effect 1, 2 or 3 1 Mononoke (2007 series and 2024 movie) 1 MotoGP RPF 1 My Time at Sandrock 1 NBA RPF 1 Nirvana in Fire (琅琊榜) 1 Norah Grant Bruce's Billabong books 1 Oh No! Here Comes Trouble 1 Omniscient Reader 1 Once Upon A Time 1 Order of the Stick 1 Outlast games 1 Over the Garden Wall 1 Pacific Rim 1 Pathologic 1 Persuasion - Jane Austen 1 Pirates of the Caribbean 1 Power Rangers (2017 movie) 1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen 1 Princess Tutu 1 Prodigal Son 1 Puella Magi Madoka Magica 1 Quantum Break 1 Resident Alien 1 Resident Evil 1 S.C.I Mystery 1 S.W.A.T. (2017 show) 1 She-Ra Netflix 1 Shipwrecked Comedy 1 Slow Horses 1 Sonic the Hedgehog (Games) 1 South Park 1 Spinning Silver (Novik) 1 Squid Game 1 Starkid Musicals (no hp) 1 Stephen King's It 1 Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical 1 Super Sentai 1 The A Team (either the 2010 movie or the 1980s series) 1 The Coffin of Andy and Leyley 1 The OC 1 The Pairing - Casey McQuiston 1 The Paradise of Thorns 1 The Umbrella Academy 1 the vampire diaries universe 1 The Venture Maidens 1 The West Wing 1 The X-Files 1 Thousand Autumns 1 Tron 1 Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles 1 Turning 1 Universal Century Gundam 1 Valdemar Series by Mercedes Lackey 1 video games by Arkane Studios 1 Voltron 1 Wander Over Yonder 1 Watcher Entertainment/BuzzFeed Unsolved RPF 1 White Collar 1 Wind Breaker 1 Wonka 1 Word of Honor 1 X-Files

WHEW! That's a long list! And we'd love to see it get longer :)

If you're thinking of signing up and want to write in your fandom, we encourage you to make a promo post to grab the attention of others in your fandom so they come sign up, too. If you've already written in your fandom and want to see the number of signups grow ... we encourage you to create a fandom promo as well! We have an image generator you can use to add bling to your promo, or browse the 'fth promo reblog 2024' tag for inspiration.

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[angelremnants]

HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson

PROLOGUE,⠀The Inaugural Chronicle.

chapter summary : As the Courting Season dawns upon Asgard, the grand halls prepare to echo with whispered secrets and glittering alliances. You can put your worries aside, dearest reader, as the Hidden Storyteller is here to report on the new upcomings.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : none.

word count : 0.4k

(ao3 version)

⠀

HONORED DENIZENS OF ASGARD,

As the gentle breath of warmer winds and the lengthening of days herald a new chapter, we now stand upon the threshold of that most tantalizing of times—the Courting Season. A time when hearts are put to the test, alliances are forged or shattered, and reputations are both made and undone. The grand halls of Asgard shall once again glitter with the light of resplendent ballrooms and echo with the murmurs of clandestine secrets. Every knowing glance, every whispered word, carries its own weight in destiny.

This season, however, promises to be unlike any that has come before. The hour that has long been awaited is finally upon us: His Highness the Crown Prince Thor has declared himself ready to bind his fate in marriage. Though he has long since passed his coming of age, he now stands, every bit the emblem of royal virtue, seeking a match worthy of his exalted blood. Naturally, the noble houses of Asgard are already abuzz, each eager to secure his favor.

And yet, our whispers do not end there. Let us also mark the rise of his younger sibling—His Highness the Second Prince Loki who, having recently come of age at the venerable mark of 1315, now too steps into the realm of courtship. Still, dear denizens, one must wonder—what of the little prince’s past disappearance? The shadows of his unexplained absence still linger over Asgard, and rumors of his exile swirl through the court like a cold, biting frost. Some claim he has been cast out for transgressions too grave to be spoken aloud; others whisper of a more complicated fate, one that remains hidden behind a veil of secrecy. Whether his intentions lean toward union or mischief remains shrouded in mystery, a secret reserved for those with the keenest of ears.

As fate would have it, those same whispers do not end with these two noble sons of Odin. Among the usual faces in the princes' circle, there are those whose names have long since faded from the court's memory—figures who, of late, have reappeared in the most curious of manners. Could this be a mere coincidence? Or have these once-forgotten individuals returned with designs of their own, seeking to carve their place in the delicate web of Asgard's intrigue?

It is said that this season will bear witness to the peculiar rise of the convoited Amber—the one whose presence will outshine all others, whose influence will ripple through Asgard’s elite, and whose story may turn the very course of the Court’s future. 

What, dear denizens, lies in store as this season unfurls? One can only imagine the twists and turns that await. But one thing is certain: the stakes have never been higher. The Courting Season promises secrets, unexpected returns and perhaps, a touch more scandal than any might have ever bargained for.

Yours in expectancy,

Huldskald

The Hidden Storyteller of Asgard

⠀

⠀

PROLOGUE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER ONE.

see more His For The Season related works.

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

⠀⠀

dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .

angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.

[f3mme-f4tale]

which witch

part one

word count: 4k potential warnings: potential depictions of violence, sexual content, fingering (r! receiving) adult themes (explicit language), tension, angst, world building, more to come... pairing: rebel!ellie x princess!reader (categorized within the knight!ellie aesthetic)

authors note: there are some influences from game of thrones! :))

A cloud of gray smoke lingered above the vine-infested concrete walls of the booming city, machinery roaring to life and wildering conversations floating in the thick air. A war was looming over the Sovereign City, an invading force from the south eagerly plowing through the skin-biting tundra. The hundreds of guilds within the city's walls fed the economy, although some whisper that underground trading of magic folk is what really fuels the financial state. A spy for the rebellion circled the local market, running her hands over the bruised fruit and eyeing the common folk cautiously, trying her best to go undetected. The city center was preparing for the Sun Festival, ironic given the smog that shielded nearly all sunlight.  

A local fruit stand was at the center of the market, an older gentleman staffing the exotic fruit from outside the city walls. Bright, intricate starfruit and jelly-filled strawberry papayas littered the concrete mosaic ground. A small goat with a blue bell was tied haphazardly to a post, the yarn fraying with every slight tug from the animal. A group of children dressed in muted shades of brown and green played a game of dice on the other side of the courtyard, daring each other to steal blackberries. The butcher’s son was pushing a small wagon of discarded meat and small fish bones towards an alley, likely to discard the leftovers.  

The spy was adorned in local fabrics, muted mismatched stitching holding together a quilt-like material that resembled a shawl. Her deep maple hair cascaded down her neck with a simple silver pin holding some pieces out of her face. Her fingertips were stained with nightshade, her left-hand concealing a small dagger. The weapon was known for immediately striking down any foe, its metal laced with poison. Magic folk and creatures were no exception, despite their enchantments. An abstract fox decorated the handle, a symbol of the rebellion against the empire. On her hip was a small satchel containing various assortments of herbs, sliced plum mushrooms, and powdered oleander seeds. Being a spy, a magic one at that, had its benefits.  

The spy detected a woman pocketing something from a guard across the courtyard. She watched her scurry away down an alley, not before stealing a fig from one of the stands. With the day being as slow as it had been, she reasoned that any mischief became her mischief. As she made her way towards where the other woman went, her grip tightened on the weapon. Upon turning down the alley, she seemingly vanished. It was not often that the spy’s prey escaped her sight, not since she was a child at least. At the last possible moment, a speck of red disappeared through a doorway fifty feet in front of her. Swallowing a sigh, she followed. 

Inside was a desolate old factory, broken machinery sprawled across the floor and spray paint covering the walls. Sigils were marked on the concrete ground – emblems and allegories from The Blackmoor Book. She questioned how someone within the walls could have such knowledge, risking the high court finding such symbolism.  

What was this place?  

  She did not dwindle on this apprehension long, sinking into the shadows and scanning the place for that woman. A crackly, high-pitched laugh erupted from the other side of the room. Before thinking twice, the spy was across the room in mere seconds, her knife pressed firmly against the mystery woman’s throat, as if in reflex.  

“Ya know for as skilled as you are, I figured you’d recognize me,” the woman pestered, her dialect thick. The spy could place the voice, but the face was distant from her mind. The blade stayed against her throat, the pressure never wavering.  

“Ellie,” she cooed, “it’s me.”  

There was nothing I could do. My feet were lodged between the large stones that decorated the bottom of the fast river, the murky sand blinding my vision and setting my lungs on fire. I was becoming weak, fighting a losing battle with the force of the water. I wanted to give up, to let the depths swallow me whole and my mind run blank. My fingers just barely reached the surface, scratching at the sliver of life that was never fully mine. The anxiety was bubbling up from my stomach and began to make me tremble with complete fear; I wasn’t getting out of this.  

Once, when I was young, I would swim in streams and small rivers just like this one. Uncle would be back at the village, father out with the council. My older foster brother would often join me, teaching me how to catch the fish and which plants could be used for medicine. When it was a quiet day, we would read books to the frogs and small insects. Now, at the precipice of death, I can only focus on the day he showed me how to fashion an arrowhead. On how his fingers made sharp movements and the glimmer in his eyes was its purest. He was the mouth of God; I took his words as religion. But he wasn’t there.  

My arms grew numb, my body losing sensation. This was it. This was how I was finally going. I screamed against the current and inhaled the river. As my vision darkened and I began to accept defeat, I remembered the reason I was trying to traverse across in the first place; the heaviness of the guilt weighing me down. I made a promise, I swore to him. They were going to die, and it was all my fault. It was a mistake to think I could perform this journey alone, inexperienced.  

And then I could breathe again. My fingers dug at my chest, eagerly gasping for air. My eyes burned from the sunlight, my right ankle adorning a jagged cut from the rock that once imprisoned me. My savior hovered above me, breathing just as heavily as I was. Where did they come from?  

“T-thank you,” I managed to get out once the anxiety subsided, my throat still burning.  

Hesitantly, I glanced up in their direction. They were drenched in luminance, a godliness highlighting their physique, black paint dancing across their nose. Meeting their enticing eyes, I realized I recognized them. A local girl a year older than me from the village, her hair tied tight against her head and half of her body soaking wet. She offered me a curt nod, adjusting the straps on her satchel and securing a few stray pieces of hair. The outfit she wore was jarring, nothing like the large tunics the women wore at home. The breeches and sleek overcoat were skin-tight, a throwing knife strapped securely to her thigh. She did not say anything back, leaving me as fast as she appeared.  

“Dina,” Ellie mumbled, her voice rough against the soothing nature of Dina’s. Her eyes scanned the other's face, the memories of her childhood friend rushing back to her like a tidal wave. The same black paint was decorated across her nose, symbolizing her coven. Ellie let her guard down, the blade dropping to her side. The sigils made sense then – she grew up in the same village beyond this city within the Withering Woods, learned from the same potions master, and drank the same Mistmoor river water. Their village Jackson’s Crossing, surrounded by the White Mountains and often disregarded on official cartographer maps, was a cloister of small families from varied ethnicities. 

Dina’s fingers were also stained a dark purple – evidence of witchcraft. The last time they had seen each other was years prior, back when Ellie was recruited to fight against the tyranny of the High Ruler, who came into power with varying degrees of support from the public. The last she heard of Dina was that she had joined a coven, practicing magic in secret.  

She had grown a lot since their last encounter, her scarlet hair now many inches longer and herself several inches taller. They spared each other the formalities in catching up, Ellie reaching for the item Dina snatched from the unsuspecting general just beyond the door. She let her, Ellie’s mind working through possibilities as she brought the ring of keys closer. She should have known; such an item was predictable. Although, what did Dina need them for?  

“Trying to sneak someone out of the dungeons, hmm?” she finally spoke, placing her dagger back into the depths of her clothing. Dina smiled at Ellie again, raising her eyebrows and letting her face do the talking. “Ah, well, sneaking into prison seems more your speed anyways.” 

“The council has been very unyielding in my request for an audience,” she began, walking a few steps away from Ellie. “So, I’ve had to find my own ways.” 

“Why do you wish to speak to them?” Ellie questioned, puzzled as to what her companion could want with them. Dina’s gaze meant nothing but trickery, her smile growing wider and wider. Whatever her intentions, Ellie considered leeching on, her own assignment from the Rebellion creating a need to be inside those palace walls – although for a quite different reason.

“Remember Jesse?” she smirks, running a hand through her locks. Ellie snorts at this – because of course she remembers Jesse, how could she not? They were practically joined at the hip before Ellie left Jackson. 

“He’s gotta learn to keep his mouth shut in front of the guards. He’s so pretty, but he can be pretty thick headed sometimes,” Dina scolds, shaking her head. “So, naturally, they’ve finally decided to sentence him after years of causing mayhem.”  

“Well, I want in,” Ellie says coldly, adjusting with the fabric that covers her shoulder. Dina squints at her friend, questioning her motivations. “I’ve got orders to relocate a member of the royal family, per the Rebellion's bequest.” 

-

Deep viridian ivy covers the cobblestones and beige pillars of the courtyard, dark shadows stretching up the walls. Rain litters the ground, the damp air an inviting aroma. Billowing clouds darken the sky, the thunder a welcoming presence. 

You’re sitting at a desk, candlelight framing your face as you attempt to read the book in your hands. It’s no use however, as your mind is swirling with a million different thoughts. The betrayal of your father cuts deep; all that remains is the stark reality of your pain. You trace the outline of the candle's flame with trembling fingers, its flickering dance mirroring your thundering heartbeat. 

A knock at the door interrupts your spiral, haphazardly setting down your book and the weight of the chair creaking as you stand. A woman is on the other side, her curly black hair cascading down her back. The servant's uniform does her no justice, her figure cloaked in a tunic two sizes too big. You raise an eyebrow, questioning the intruder at such a late hour. 

“Yes?” you ask, voice wavering slightly. You know she can see the dismay in your face, your eyes all too forgiving. You instinctively hunch your shoulders, nails pushing into the meat of your palm, knuckles turning white.

“Lord David sent me to draw you a bath, my lady. He wants you to be clean and fresh for your engagement tomorrow,” she responds, bowing her head. She holds clean linens and a sponge in her hand, a slight look of sorrow crossing her face that you almost miss. You step aside begrudgingly, letting her through. 

Large buckets of water make their rounds over the fire as the servant works to untie the laces of your bodice, making quick work of the material. The cool air filtering through the partially opened window makes your skin grow cold, the woman helping you out your chemise, body bare to her wandering gaze. Her hands were warm, a stir emerging within your gut. You always disliked having other people bath you, yet you found yourself straightening your back, showing off. She made eye contact with you, half slitted pupils devouring your form. You welcomed this, using your left hand to remove a pin that was keeping your braids in place. She steps behind you to begin dumping the contents of the bucket into a metal tub. 

And then suddenly the servant is several inches away, hands agonizingly tracing your shoulders, her breath hot on your neck. She places a small kiss just underneath your ear, a shudder escaping your lips as you tentatively close your eyes. You’d never had someone approach you this way, not unless you count the several forty-something year old male suitors that you had declined since you turned sixteen years ago.

The servant uses one hand to pull your hair over to one shoulder as the other palms your bare stomach. You suck in a breath, not pushing her away. You knew this was wrong, save for the fact that she was another woman. What would your father say? What would the maids whisper to each other when they thought no one was looking?

Despite protests shouting against your very core, you remained still, leaning into her frame. You could feel her breasts pressing into your back, her right hand dancing dangerously close to the space between your legs. Her left hand dragged across your chest, fingers grazing and pulling. When her right hand plunged into your slick, you leaned your head back against her shoulder. 

“Lay down, my lady,” she murmured, gently moving your already wrecked body towards the bed in the corner. You obliged, sitting on the edge. She pushed you down, immediately dropping down to her knees. You were new to this, not even daring to touch yourself. Her mouth felt foreign on your pelvis, but you bucked up into her face regardless. 

Her tongue slid across you, pink bud becoming raw from the friction. When she pushed two fingers inside of you, a borderline scream escaped your delicate lips. The swell of your breasts bounced as she began to pick up her pace, rocking your body against the frame of the bed and adding another slender digit. Her tongue continues its assault on your clit, forcing you to take it, to take all of it. 

It’s over before you realize, her face covered in you. You pull her up by the collar of her uniform, forcing her lips against yours. She’s taken aback at first, but then melts into the embrace. She’s sticking her tongue into your mouth, the taste of you invading and arousing. 

“As much as I’d love to continue Princess,” the woman says suddenly, breaking the kiss. “I did come here to bathe you.” You nod, suddenly extremely aware of your surroundings and how easily you folded under her touch – a woman’s touch. 

As she dumped another bucket of hot water into the metal tub, you gazed off absentmindedly. Her coarse fingers work through your locks, detangling the pieces that frame your face.

“You’re so beautiful, but you have to keep him happy. He gets bored easily.”

You glance over at her, noticing the way the fireplace behind her makes her skin glow. 

“I don’t want you to end up, well, like the others,” she sighs, moving to grab a rag to clean your skin with. You were so used to the mindless handling of your body that sometimes you forgot how vulnerable you could be. 

“W-what others?” you croaked, tension once again creeping up your spine and through your fingers. You felt her movements stiffen, realizing she spoke out of turn. 

“Oh, I shouldn’t, it’s all hearsay. I apologize, my lady,” she replies, her actions becoming more disorderly. You watch her closely, her sudden discomfort adding another layer of unease to the already heavy atmosphere. Despite her attempt to backtrack, your curiosity is piqued, and you press further.

"No, please, tell me," you insist, your voice barely above a whisper. She hesitates, torn between loyalty to her lord and a desire to warn you. Finally, she speaks, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

"There have been others before you," she begins, her words careful and measured. "Women who were... chosen, like you." Your heart pounds in your chest, the implications of her words sinking in. You swallow hard, pushing down the rising sense of dread threatening to overwhelm you.

"What happened to them?" you ask, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain composed. She hesitates again, her gaze dropping to the floor as if unable to meet your eyes.

"They... disappeared," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. "Some say that he grows tired of his playthings, discarding them when they no longer amuse him, banished to distant lands never to return. Others whisper darker tales of rituals and… well," she clarifies, her hands shaking as she runs her nimble fingers through your hair once more. 

You struggle to process the implications of her revelation, the realization dawning on you with sickening clarity. "You mean... they're dead?" you whisper, the words feeling foreign and surreal on your tongue. You turn to her fully, putting on a show of false confidence. “This is my home. He can’t frighten me.”

“Of course, my lady. Forgive me.”

You nod, still reeling from her earlier words. As she finishes bathing you, you're left alone with your thoughts once more. The warmth of the water does little to soothe the chill in your bones, the weight of impending responsibilities pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.

“Will I see you again?” You mumble, eyes pleading with the woman as she’s half way out of your chamber, a robe now draped around your figure. A frown catches her lips, a sigh is all the answer you need.

“I’m afraid not,” she finally answers, yet doesn’t move from her place at the door. You feel your stomach drop, reaching out to catch her lips in a kiss once more. This one is less aggressive, a plea for more. She cups your cheek softly, kissing you back. “It’s not safe. We live in a world where desires are often sacrificed for duty.”

As she finally steps away, you watch her silhouette fade into the dimly lit corridor beyond your chamber. A sense of loss washes over you, as you're left in the silence of your chambers. The flames of the candles flicker ominously, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You try to shake off the unease settling in your chest, but the seed of doubt planted by the woman’s words grows with each passing moment.

You know you should rest, to prepare yourself for the challenges that lie ahead, but sleep eludes you. Instead, you find yourself pacing the room, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the whispers of your own fears.

This union is a death sentence, a promise made to satisfy your fathers requests. Your older sister was the next in line to rule, your brother already married off to a Duchess in the East. You would never sit on the throne; the pressure of said title always out of reach but forever a taunt. You could taste the longing for power – a snake wrapping around your heart, squeezing. 

By marrying Lord David, you help ease the emerging tensions between the East and South kingdoms within the empire. It had long been kept secret that you were a bastard, a lie living a life of luxury. Guilt ate away at you from every inch of your skin, your real mother a ghost of your past. Of course, maids and servants talked. That said, the effort to uphold the ruler's dignity and honor reigned supreme; Those who were caught gossiping would meet a punishment worse than castration. 

You understand the importance of maintaining stability within the empire, of ensuring peace between rival factions. But on the other hand, there's the gnawing fear that grips you, the fear of being trapped in a loveless marriage, of becoming just another casualty in the game of power and ambition.

You remember the stories you heard as a child, tales of kings and queens whose lives were dictated by duty rather than desire. You used to dream of a different fate for yourself, of finding love and happiness on your own terms. But now, as the reality of your situation sinks in, those dreams seem like distant echoes of a naive past.

Tomorrow, you will be betrothed to a man you hardly know; a union forged by politics and alliances. When morning comes, you will rise with a sense of resignation, steeling yourself for the path laid out before you.

-

Dawn breaks upon a canvas of melancholy, the sky adorned in swathes of slate-hued clouds. You dress in a gown of regal elegance, each layer of silk and lace feeling like a shroud closing in around you. Your reflection in the mirror is a stranger's face, masked behind a facade of composure that belies the turmoil within. As you fasten the intricate clasps of your necklace – a delicate chain of platinum interwoven with strands of glistening rhodonite and sunstone – you can't help but wonder if you're adorning yourself for a wedding or a funeral.

Downstairs, guests mingle in clusters of polished nobility. Their smiles are as artificial as the flowers adorning the tables, masking the alliances and rivalries that simmer beneath the surface. You navigate the crowd with practiced grace, exchanging pleasantries and feigned enthusiasm.

In the grand hall, where sunlight filters through stained glass, illuminating the opulence of the surroundings, you stand amidst a sea of faces, each one a mask concealing clandestine desires. At the center of it all stands Lord David, a towering figure of authority and ambition. His gaze finds yours across the room, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he turns to greet another guest. 

His eyes, like shards of obsidian, pierce through the veneer of social niceties. As he acknowledges your presence with a nod of his head, you offer a polite smile, concealing the turmoil churning within your breast. His lips curve in response, but there is a hardness in his gaze. With unspoken haste, the sea of guests transitioned into the next room, organizing into rows. 

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of color upon the assembled guests. The delicate lace of your veil cascaded like a waterfall around you, framing your face in a halo of soft radiance. Lord David, regal and imposing, awaited you at the altar. 

As you drew near, the murmurs of the crowd fell silent, and all that remained was the steady rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. With each step, you felt the weight of expectation pressing down upon you, the gravity of the moment settling like a cloak upon your shoulders.

At last, you stood face to face with Lord David, your hands trembling slightly as you clasped his in yours. The officiant's voice filled the air, the solemn words of the vows binding you together. His grip tightened at your wrists, thumb pressing into your pressure point. You fought against the sinking feeling in your chest, the fear washing over your features. 

Concealed behind a pillar, at the room's farthest edge, stood a guest with a blade, its hilt adorned with an abstract fox; A silent sentinel amidst the opulent chaos. Their gaze, like a river's current, flows over your form, lingering on each curve and contour with a cautious reverence. The bodice of the gown hugs your frame, accentuating the gentle curve of your waist before giving way to a voluminous skirt that pools around your feet in a sea of soft fabric. Layers upon layers of tulle and organza lend an air of weightless beauty to the ensemble, each fold and pleat catching the light in a mesmerizing dance.

The spy stole a final glance at the princess, and for a brief moment, she could've sworn she saw a glimmer of fear entrenched in your gaze. Rancorously, Ellie envisioned taking a blade to Lord David's throat and smiling as the congealed mess of his arteries betrayed him. She shoved the wrinkled piece of parchment into the confines of her satchel. Her mission began.

Secure the youngest daughter of the sovereign. 

taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak @elliewilliamsblunt @bready101

[biblicallyaccuratebrainrot]

Genuine

Gravity Falls x Male!Reader (platonic)

You opened up shop in Gravity Falls to sell your assortment of odd and strange items! It seems your genuine items of weird are overshadowed by the fake and plastic items of The Mystery Shack, sparking a competition between you and old man Stan Pines.

CW: Bickering, name-calling, not proof-read

"This is a hack!" "What a sham!" "It doesn't even look real!"

These words had an impact when you first opened up shop. Now, those words were the norm. You scoffed and rolled your eyes as the people insulted you, your products, and then left. You had the occasional pleasant interaction.

The occasional purchase. Those few times a regular supernatural believer came in to buy something were enough for you to want to keep the shop open. You didn't have employees, you didn't have a mortgage, and you didn't have a lot of expenses.

Most of all, there was one man you stayed open for. Mostly out of spite. "Stan Pines," you grumble at the old man in front of you in line. "Buying more glue and tape to put your fake product together?"

Stan turned around and stared with a blank look. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Seriously?" You scoff. "We've met several times over the past 30 years-- stop pretending you don't know me,"

"Oh!" Stan laughed. "You're the weirdo with the weirdo shop down weirdo lane,"

"Real mature," you comment sarcastically. "With a personality like that, it's no wonder people flock to your Mystery Hack,"

"Yeah, maybe you should take some notes," Stan taunted. "I could show you how to get actual customers-- but it'll cost ya... five-- no, ten bucks,"

"I may be the weirdo but you're demented,"

"Demented and making money,"

You nod. "I hate you,"

"Get in line," Stan chuckled. "You aren't the first and certainly won't be the last,"

"Can you say the same about making friends?"

Stan opened his mouth and furrowed his brows aggressively. "Next!" The cashier interrupted.

Stan grumbled and placed his items on the belt. You smirk and place your items behind his. Another battle won.

It wasn't a goal to put the Man of Mystery out of business. All you wanted was to do better than him, really. It didn't start out that way, though.

The door to your shop rung-- causing you to shoot up from your seat and crash into your counter to face the doors. You furrowed your brows and your eyes slowly looked down at the short figures that had entered.

"Uh? Are you kids lost? This isn't an arcade," you explain to the two.

"This is Mr. [Y/LN]'s Occult Shop, right?" The boy asked, looking around nervously.

You nod. "Yeah," you respond. "You two new? I never seen you around,"

"We're here for the summer!" The girl excitedly explained, a wild smile on her face. "Your shop is so cool!"

You chuckle. "Thanks,"

"We aren't really here to buy anything." The boy approached the counter, holding a tattered book. "We were wondering if you knew anything about this journal? I-- I found it in the woods and it's got a lot of weird stuff,"

He set the book on the counter. You stare at the emblem on the cover-- a six-fingered hand with a large '3' drawn in the centre. You hum and gently pick it up and examine it.

"I've never seen anything like it," you say. "It does document a lot of truth, it seems,"

You flipped through the pages, noting the familiar creatures. "You know about the weirdness in Gravity Falls?" The boy stared, wide-eyed.

You set the book down and laugh. "Look around, kid." You motion around your shop. "I sell most of the weirdness. And it's real! Unlike that junk at The Mystery Hack,"

"Hey!" The girl pulled herself up to the counter, a frown and furrowed brows now plastered to her face instead. "Our Grunkle runs that place!"

You squint. "Pines," you seethe. "Did your 'Grunkle' Stan Pines send you here? What is this, then, huh? You mockin' me?"

"No! No, no, no!" The boy waved his hands around. "I-I'm Dipper-- this is my sister, Mabel. Our Grunkle doesn't believe in any of this and I was really hoping you'd have answers,"

You continued your squinted stare. You placed your palms on the counter and released a deep sigh. "I'll lift the Pines Ban just for you two-- just this once!" You announced, holding a defiant finger up. "I can't tell you much about this journal. Dunno who wrote it or why-- I can tell you that most of the information in there is accurate,"

"We sort'a already found that out," Dipper explained.

"We fought gnomes!" Mabel exclaimed.

"Wow! You found out the hard way," you chuckled. "How did you find out about my shop? It's not really as grand as Stan's Mystery Shack,"

"Funny enough, it was Grunkle Stan who mentioned it," Dipper responded. "When we mentioned gnomes and weird Gravity Falls stuff, he told us we sounded as crazy as 'the weirdo who owns the weirdo shop down weirdo lane,'"

You groan. "That sounds about right,"

"How do you know our Grunkle Stan?" Mabel tilted her head as she asked.

You grumble. "It's a bit of a... story..."

○●○

I was fresh outta high school when I began collecting strange stuff. I hitched rides around the entire U.S., taking what I could find.

At first; it was just collecting-- no intention to sell at all. Then, I began trading. I had strange things that others wanted-- and, wouldn't you know it, they had something stranger I wanted.

I made all sorts of deals and trades. Finally, though, all my bags had been filled. I couldn't travel anymore with all that junk! So, I set up a small shop where I was; here! Gravity Falls, 1980. I believe I was... 20, at the time. It wasn't anything official-- I just needed to get rid of some of my things and make some money while I was at it. I fully intended on getting out the moment I could!

But then, I discovered the weirdness of Gravity Falls. It was everything someone like me could wish for! Not just strange items-- but strange beings as well! Strange places and strange people! I continued my trading within Gravity Falls and two years later, I officially opened up my shop!

That's when... Stanford Pines opened up his Murder Hut, or whatever he called it. He opened up his shop at the same time as mine! And he was getting more business than me! Oh! I was fuming! I-- I was, more rational back then, though.

Maybe, I was jumping to conclusions. Don't knock it till you try it! I went on over to that Shack and took a tour.

When I saw what he had, I couldn't help but ask; "Oh, you're running a tourist trap?"

He didn't let his facade drop for a second. "What? No! This is all real freaky stuff!" He responded joyfully. "I mean, just take a look at this!"

He held up a taxidermied badger body with a taxidermied mouse head sewn onto it. "Oh, right," I knew he didn't believe himself-- he knew I didn't believe him, either. "I-- I run my own shop about two miles from here. It's crazy, actually, we opened up on the same day!"

That's when he dropped his smile and the taxidermy amalgamation. "That occult shop? Here scopin' out the competition?" His cheer was gone from his voice. "Look, bub, I got important stuff to deal with. I don't need no occult freak here debunking all my work and takin' me outta business when I jus' got started,"

"I-- Oh, I don't intend on--,"

"--Get out,"

●○●

"And that's how I met Stan," you finished. "For the past 30 years, we've been competitors,"

"Wow," Dipper breathed out. "That... sounds exactly like how Grunkle Stan would react to your shop,"

"He's very unpleasant," you comment. "You guys aren't, though. Maybe there's hope for that old man if you guys stick around long enough,"

Mabel gave you a curious look when your words "that old man," came out of your mouth. "Well, how old are you?"

"Mabel!" Dipper harshly whispered.

"What! I'm just curious!"

You laugh. "You're bold, kid," you say, "I like it. I'm 52 this year,"

"Wow!" Mabel stared with wide eyes and mouth agape. "You look really young!"

"Kid, if you're trying get something free from me," you began, "it's working. You two are a pleasant change from ol' Gravity Falls. If you ever need anything for your weird adventures, you know where my shop is,"

"What sort of weird stuff do you sell here?" Dipper asked, peering around the shelves.

"Most of anything weird you can think of," you explain. "Live butterflies, demonic daggers, bidding boxes-- even got Dybbuk boxes,"

As Dipper and Mabel began to look around the shop, curious at the weird wonders your shelves held, the bell rang again at your door.

"Kids!" An unpleasant voice called out to the two. "What're ya doin' at this place?" Stan placed his hands on his hips while he stared down the kids.

"Ugh," you groan. "Mr. Pines, you know well enough you're not allowed within 100 feet of my shop!"

"My niece and nephew should know well enough they shouldn't be within 300 feet of this nut house!" Stan ushered the kids out before turning back to you. "Don't get these kids believin' a word of your nonsense! They shouldn't be anywhere near this,"

As he exited, you shouted. "It's not nonsense, Stan! I sell the real deals--!" The doors shut and you could now only watch the back of Stan lead Dipper and Mabel away from the shop. You clenched your fist and gritted your teeth. "He doesn't have a clue what he's saying,"

With their exit and your current frustrastions, you walked to your doors and locked them. You flipped your 'OPEN,' sign to instead display "CLOSED,' before pulling down your shutters and blocking the view of your shop.

"I liked him better when he acted sophisticated and smarter than everyone else,"

___

》 END

[little-mouse-gardens]

Yandere vampire rottmnt au concept/idea

A rottmnt au that popped up in my head (romantic)

Warning: Mentions of violence, blood, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, kidnapping (I do not condone this behavior in real life. I Do not condone anyone to do any of these actions in real life. this is only for entertainment purposes only.

I don’t normally do character x reader writing (mostly because I’m not great at it) I mostly do character x oc stuff.

However I got a random idea for yan vampire turtles au idea?

Thought about this a day or two ago and got some great ideas on discord. Saying thank you and Crediting at @lexiechr and @astral--horrorshow for inspiring some of my ideas!

Reader is an upcoming mystery thriller novel writer seeking inspiration for the next book they want to write who moves into the local village far, far away from the city.

Reader Hear legends about vampires and decided they want to stay a little while longer to write their novel and see what All the fuss is about and one night while they are out and about on some late night errand.

The turtles (separately) spot them and instantly fell in love with their personality, the way their eyes sparkle with emotions and the way they spoke. Making them want to make reader their bride. To love and to cherish them in their castle for the rest of eternity no matter who gets in the way. Suddenly reader notices strange things occurring around them that are quite hard to ignore.

- a local bookkeeper reader was talking to the other day? Suddenly disappears and is later found in the river. The only calling card being the turtles family name emblem carved into the bookeepers flesh. A dire warning to stay away.

- The turtles visiting reader outside their cozy cottage at night, talking with them. Trying to sweet talk them into letting them in and being theirs with equally sweet promises of love and anything reader desires. Though reader is clever enough to not let them in.

- the villagers suddenly being extra nice to reader. Offering them free things to them, letting them have special privileges, life is made easier for them. It’s very confusing to reader, but the villagers know they have to unless the turtles decide to go after them.

Reader, after another string of vampire based murders and disappearances, does their research on each of the turtles and discovers more information about them based on the emblem. Wandering into the local library one late evening and finding a book on them.

The turtles are a bloodline of vampires that dated back for many years.

- Raphael, dubbed as the brawn’s of his brothers and the most feared by the town. Actively known to hunt down and brutally maul people and livestock. Occasionally steals soft things like fabrics and plushies. However he is the only one recorded to have actually spared some peoples life

- Leonardo, the charmer. Everyone in town knows his tricks, he charms and flirts with his victims before delivering the finale blow. Has been known to enter the local tavern when it’s not busy, or even steal from local tailors and jewelers to buy new shiny expensive things to add to his collection or himself.

- Donatello the mad scientist. The second most feared. His methods are simple, grab and torture his prey with his experiments in his laboratory. Villagers will not hesitate to give him the things he needs and or wants for his inventions. Leaving them outside their homes at night in an effort to get him to leave them alone.

- Mikey the artist, he will use his victims blood to decorate the streets with messages to taunt those who don’t give him what he wants. Sweet but not unwilling to cause mass chaos. Every craft store and bakery will always find something missing by morning, and sometimes he will leave different paintings on the walls of the town as a reward for their offerings.

Then, reader leaves the library that night, they are kidnapped by the turtles (separately) and brought back to their castle to be their partner for life. Promising to make them immortal, to give them all the love and joy they possibly can and making the clear vow that they won’t escape them.

However reader is clever and determined to find their way out. Even if it means playing along for now.

- Forcing themselves to Cuddle with raph and accepting his gifts and tokens of affection

- letting Leonardo shower them in compliments, dolling them up in silks and jewels while they compliment him on his attributes

- listening to Donnie speak of his inventions and praising his genius no matter how diabolical it may seem

- painting with Mikey, eating all the treats and snacks he makes them while he paints their portrait

The ultimate sacrifice for reader, other than their freedom, is to let the turtles have a taste of their blood and agreeing to be their partner for life. The turtles (separately) are much more gentle with reader, or at least they try to be.

- they’ll make sure reader comfortable. Each turtle (separately) will praise them for being brave and shower reader with compliments, cuddles, gifts after they finish. Soft blankets, their favorite snack or comfort food, a nice warm bath scented with flowers. Name it and reader can have it so long as the turtles get a taste.

Each yan vampire turtle has a different wing in their castle. Each with a specific set of theme colors and decor. Each place being huge, full of secrets for reader to uncover and secret entrances for them to potentially use so long as they don’t get caught.

Leonardo’s wing = Soft blues. Golds and silvers. Jewels encrusted everywhere you go, silks arranged around as if you were walking through a kings palace. So many drapes and screens that make it very Easy to hide what isn’t meant to be see. All the jewels and fine clothes for him to dress reader in. To shower them with compliments and sweet promises, making sure that his beloved will never want to go looking for the secret passages in the castle

Donatellos wing of the palace = Reader never dares to get to deep into his Lab, lest they find the many remains of the missing villagers turned into something sick and twisted. Donatello prefers to keep his beloved partner close to his side, showering them with endless gadgets and gizmos to impress them. Keep them distracted and their interest away from his sources of food and morbid curiosity that would put victor Frankenstein to shame.

Raphael’s wing = His halls are expansive, almost never ending. A place for the brute of the vampire brothers to wander at ease, lest his rage be incited. Rooms full of soft things and others full of little objects he collects. Objects he will gladly show and shower reader with if it means they’ll stay with him as his bride for all eternity.

Mikey’s wing = All down the halls, throughout every room reader will find art of all kinds. All of which he painted, sculpted and crafted himself with delicate yet skilled hands. He will spoil the, with all the beautiful sights and delicious smells. How can they search for the secret corridors out if they’re too distracted by Mikey’s art and him forcing them to sit for another portrait or sculpture? Or making them try all the fine delicious foods and drinks?

Most of the time reader is able to get alone time, which would be when they leave at night. Though occasionally one will stay behind to watch them, reader mostly spends their time in the ornate guest room or exploring the shadowy halls of the old castle.

Using their clever mystery novelist mind to come up with plans of escape. Writing down things about their captors and potential routes of escape in a journal they keep under a floorboard beneath their bed.Reader is kept in the highest point in the castle. That Overlooks the village and forested mountains below. Reader can only see their freedom from a distance while they bide their time.

Now, if reader managed to escape? All hell would break loose. Reader running for their life and packing any important belongings to get out of town while the loud roars and shouts of the turtles don’t linger too far behind.

- Raphael wouldn’t hesitate to reign destruction upon the village in a blind panic rage. Demanding his beloved be returned to him unless this whole town gets stomped down to the ground.

- Leonardo who is portaling to every corner of the town and nearby woods to get his beloved home safely or even threatening to portal the villagers into the gator infested swamps and wolf infested forests unless someone spills the details.

- Donatello who actively starts torturing people until someone gives him answers on where his darling went to

- Mikey who is literally using his powers to tear apart houses and farms looking for his lover

No place is left unturned, and it wouldn’t shock reader if the villagers came hunting after them to bring them back or snitched about their where about’s and to be honest, reader couldn’t blame them either.

Once and if reader is brought back to them, they are never let out of their sight if they can help it. If reader wasn't smothered before, they’ll definitely be smothered now and the wedding date will be bumped up closer from a year to a few months time.

Anyways, that’s just my random take on it. Hope you guys enjoy!

[sleekervae]

Wicked Games ❅ 5

Masterlist

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x socialite!fem!reader

Summary: Sable and her father speak of her relationship

Warnings: spoilers for tbosas, mention of poison, stuff being put into eyes, Volumnia Gaul is her own trigger warning

Word Count: 3,391

The car hummed softly as it glided through the Capitol's glittering streets, the city lights reflecting in the darkened windows. Sable sat in the backseat beside Coriolanus, her gaze drifting from the flashing neon signs outside to the man beside her. He had been quiet ever since they left the exhibit, his expression unreadable as he stared out of the window.

She shifted slightly, crossing her legs as the silence between them stretched, "You've been awfully quiet," she noted, her voice soft but probing, "Is something on your mind?"

Coriolanus didn’t turn to face her, his eyes still fixed on the view outside, "I'm fine," he said, his tone clipped but steady.

Sable raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, "You don’t seem fine," She watched him for a moment longer, waiting for more, but when he didn’t offer any explanation, she pressed again, "We can talk about it if—"

He cut her off with a quiet laugh, finally turning his gaze to her, though his expression remained guarded, "Come on, Sable," he said, his voice light but with an edge of amusement, "Feelings aren’t part of our deal, remember?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but the look in his eyes told her not to push further. She instead focused her attention to the passing lights outside, letting the conversation drop. He was right, after all—they had an agreement. Feelings were never supposed to be part of it.

"Fine," she said, her tone lightening as she switched gears, "Let’s talk business. Tonight was promising. People were watching us, Coriolanus, and they were talking,"

Coriolanus relaxed at the shift, leaning back against the seat, "I could tell,"

Sable shrugged, her fingers tracing the seam of her dress, "They’re all buzzing. Even Senator Havemore's wife was practically drooling over you," She leaned in, voice lowering, teasing, "The man of the hour,"

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, "Is that so?"

"Absolutely. Tonight’s helped your image. If the polls weren’t in your favor before, this will tip the scales,"

He leaned back against the plush leather of the seat, his gaze now more focused, thoughtful, "I’d say we made quite the impression," he agreed, his voice measured but confident, "If it sways a few more votes, it’ll be worth it,"

Sable crossed her legs, her smile widening, "Oh, it will. People eat this kind of thing up. Power, mystery... a perfectly curated public image. We’ve given them everything they're crave,"

Coriolanus nodded, his eyes flicking back to her briefly, "And it’s only the beginning,"

She couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction. This partnership—they were playing the game exactly as it should be played, and the rewards were already within reach. The stakes were high, but the rewards... well, they could be higher than either of them had imagined.

The next morning, the Capitol’s newsstands were flooded with papers, all bearing the same image on their front pages: Coriolanus Snow and Sable Hanover, arm-in-arm at the Mastukane exhibit. The headline beneath the photo read "Snow’s Heart? The Rising Nominee's Capitol Debut Sparks Love Rumors!"

Garrison leaned back in his office chair, his lips pressed into a thin line as he scanned the article. It was full of speculation about the nature of Coriolanus and Sable’s relationship, with quotes from so-called “insiders” commenting on how they appeared inseparable, an emblem of Capitol elegance. The chatter had started, just as they'd hoped, and as much as Garrison hated to admit it, the public was eating it up. The backlash Coriolanus had faced over his hardened image seemed to be softening with each paragraph, replaced by curiosity and, perhaps, even admiration.

Garrison tossed the paper aside with a resigned sigh, his eyes still lingering on the photo of Coriolanus and Sable. “I’ll give it to you, Coriolanus… This is working,” he admitted, shaking his head at the picture of their perfect smiles. “It’s just the right touch of mystery and romance. People can’t resist it. Although, we really ought to get you some dancing lessons.”

Coriolanus, leaning against the edge of Garrison’s desk, allowed a faint smile to curl his lips, “Dancing lessons?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow, “I would say I didn't fare too badly,”

Garrison’s expression softened into a begrudging smile, “You're not my first choice, but not bad. You're a little too stiff, I will say. And that's coming from me,”

Coriolanus chuckled softly, nodding in agreement, “Fair enough. I’ll see to it,” He looked out the window, lost in thought for a moment before turning back to Garrison, “And the reaction from the public? Are we really starting to turn things around?”

Garrison’s eyes twinkled with reluctant admiration.,“Yes. Despite my reservations, I can’t deny it. The rumors between you and Ms. Hanover have softened your image. I have to hand it to that girl, she knows what she's doing,”

Coriolanus nodded, a confident glint in his eyes. “She'll be pleased to know you approve,”

"Oh no, no. Don't tell her I said that," he replied, "This was only night one, we got five-and-half more months of work to do,"

A smirk played at the corners of Coriolanus's mouth. “Maybe you ought to join me for those dancing lessons, Garrison?”

Garrison chuckled, shaking his head, “Not with these hips, boy,” He glanced at his watch, then back at Coriolanus. “By the way, you have a demonstration with your ‘girlfriend’s’ father at two tomorrow. All the nominees will be attending. I trust your sweetheart will be by your side?”

Coriolanus nodded, his gaze steady, “Of course she will,"

“Good,” Garrison replied, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.,“Keep up the good work, and let’s make sure this momentum continues,”

Sable entered the Hanover manufacturing facility, greeted by the crisp scent of polished metal and the low hum of machinery. Her father, Phillip Hanover, a commanding presence in his own right, was engrossed in preparing for his demonstration. The room was a hive of activity, with equipment and samples meticulously arranged for the unveiling of his latest innovation: a revolutionary eye drop serum aimed at mitigating the effects of glaucoma in aging patients.

Sable watched, a blend of pride and nervousness tugging at her as her father adjusted the display and conducted final checks. His attention to detail spoke volumes about his commitment to his work and his standing in the industry.

“Everything looks good, Father,” she said, moving closer to offer her support.

Phillip glanced up, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Thank you, Sable. I’m glad you’re here. Will you be attending with Snow today?”

Sable met his gaze with a practiced smile. “Yes, we’ll be there.”

Phillip’s brows furrowed slightly, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “I must admit, I’m still not convinced about this Coriolanus Snow. His pedigree might be impressive, but I’ve heard enough to be wary. He’s not getting my vote,”

Sable’s smile remained unwavering, though a flicker of concern crossed her mind, “Father, I understand your reservations. Coriolanus is… different. But he’s made quite a significant impact already,”

Phillip’s expression softened, but only marginally, “Different, indeed. I just hope you’re not getting too caught up in his charisma. You know how these politicians can be—charming until they get what they want. And what they all want is your money,"

Sable's tone was calm, but her eyes held a firm resolve, “Just like doctors, right?" this earned a stern glare from her father, but she brushed him off, "I assure you, I’m fully aware of how politics can be. But sometimes, alliances like this can be beneficial. Besides, Coriolanus and I have a... mutual interest in each other..."

Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly, his distrust not fully assuaged. “Well, you are an adult, I suppose. It's your life after all. Just keep your wits about you,”

Sable nodded, a soft, reassuring smile on her lips, “Always,”

As Phillip returned to his preparations, Sable found herself wandering through her father's lab, her curiosity piqued by the array of scientific instruments and neatly labeled vials. The lab was a marvel of modern technology, its cleanliness and organization reflecting Phillip Hanover’s meticulous nature.

Her attention was drawn to a new beaker filled with a clear, shimmering liquid. It stood out among the other samples, its pristine appearance almost hypnotic. Sable reached out instinctively, her fingers inching towards it, when Phillip’s sharp voice cut through the air.

“Sable! Don’t touch that!” Phillip’s tone was urgent, his stride quickening as he approached her.

Sable froze, her hand hovering inches above the beaker, “Why? What is this?”

Phillip’s face was grave as he moved to stand between her and the beaker, “It’s a new compound I’ve been working on. Not for public knowledge just yet,”

Sable’s eyes widened with intrigue, “It looks... boring. What’s it for?”

Phillip sighed, his eyes darting around as if to ensure no one else was listening, “It’s a poison. Created at the behest of Volumnia Gaul,”

Sable’s curiosity turned to shock, “What does she want another poison for? Doesn't she have enough... toys?”

“Volumnia has her reasons,” Phillip said tersely, his gaze intense, “This compound is highly potent. If ingested, you’d be dead before I could even get the antidote from my office. It’s designed for very specific purposes and is not to be handled lightly,”

Sable stepped back, her expression one of stunned realization, “But, there's an antidote?”

Phillip’s demeanour softened slightly, though his concern remained palpable, “Every plan needs a failsafe. I trust you to keep this information to yourself. It's government knowledge at the moment,”

Sable nodded, her mind curious with what she had just learned, “I won’t breathe a word,” she assured, "Will this also be part of your demonstration?"

"No, lab tests are still in the works," he replied, "Why don't you go get yourself dressed. Your... friend will be here in an hour, as will the actual candidates,"

"Oh, sure. I'll be back,"

Phillip gave her a reassuring nod before turning back to his preparations. Sable lingered for a moment, her thoughts swirling with a renewed interest for that beaker. The seriousness of her father’s work—and the potential danger—only heightened her awareness of the delicate balance she had to maintain in her own life.

The demonstration room buzzed with the low hum of conversation and the occasional shoes squealing on sleek flors as attendees gathered for Dr. Phillip Hanover’s much-anticipated presentation. The room was spacious and meticulously arranged, with seating set up to give everyone a clear view of the stage where Dr. Hanover was about to unveil his latest innovation.

Coriolanus, sharply dressed in a dark red suit, sat beside Sable. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were alert, taking in the details of the room and the attendees around him. Sable, dressed in a refined, blue polka-dot dress that complemented the afternoon's casual formality, maintained a composed demeanour. Her attention was divided between the demonstration and the constant, uncomfortable presence of Dr. Volumnia Gaul.

Volumnia, draped in a luxurious gown of deep crimson, was a striking figure in the crowd. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the room with a predatory grace. Though she exchanged pleasantries with various guests, her gaze frequently drifted toward Sable, who shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. Volumnia’s presence was a stark reminder of the intricacies and dangers lurking in the upper echelons of Capitol society.

As the room settled into a hush, Dr. Phillip Hanover took to the stage with the air of a man who knew his product would impress. He adjusted his microphone, cleared his throat, and began his presentation with practiced confidence.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hanover began, his voice carrying across the room, “thank you for joining me today. I’m excited to introduce you to our latest advancement in ophthalmic care—a groundbreaking eye drop serum designed to combat the effects of glaucoma in aging individuals.”

He gestured to a large screen behind him, which displayed detailed graphics of the serum’s molecular structure and its intended effects on the eye. The crowd leaned forward, their curiosity piqued as Hanover continued.

“Our serum, which we’ve named ‘VisioClear,’ works by targeting the intraocular pressure that leads to glaucoma. Through a unique blend of active ingredients, it helps reduce pressure and prevent further damage to the optic nerve,” Hanover explained. He then transitioned to a live lab test demonstration.

“Let me show you the results,” Hanover said, turning to a set-up on one side of the stage. He carefully took a small vial of the serum and applied it to a specially designed test eye model, which had been prepared to simulate human conditions. The room watched in silence as Hanover worked.

“Here we have our test subject,” he continued, pointing to the model. “We’ll administer the serum and observe the immediate effects.”

With a deft hand, Hanover applied a few drops of the serum to the model’s eye. As he did so, a digital readout displayed the intraocular pressure levels before and after the application. The numbers steadily decreased, demonstrating the serum’s effectiveness.

The audience murmured in approval, some of them taking notes or exchanging impressed glances. The other candidates, who had been initially focused on the technical aspects of the presentation, were visibly engaged, their eyes following Hanover’s every move.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Hanover said, his tone a mix of pride and reassurance. “This real-time decrease in intraocular pressure highlights the serum’s potential to make a significant impact on glaucoma treatment.”

He glanced around the room, noting the nods of approval and the thoughtful expressions of the attendees. Satisfied with the demonstration, Hanover smiled.

“I’m confident that ‘VisioClear’ will become a pivotal solution for those struggling with glaucoma. It’s a product designed not just with innovation in mind, but with the well-being of our patients at its core.”

As Hanover concluded his presentation, the crowd applauded, their appreciation evident. Sable felt a surge of pride. Watching her father’s unwavering dedication and expertise on full display reaffirmed her admiration for him. His work ethic was impeccable, and his accomplishments spoke volumes about his commitment to advancing medical science. She had always known he was a formidable figure in his field, but witnessing the meticulous care he took in presenting his latest innovation made her chest swell with pride.

Dr. Hanover signaled the start of the Q&A session, adjusting his glasses, his demeanor as composed as ever. “I’m happy to answer any questions you might have,” he said, his voice steady and professional.

The candidates, their curiosity piqued, began to raise their hands, eager to delve deeper into the specifics of the new glaucoma drops.

One of the candidates asked about the long-term roll-out of the drops, prompting Dr. Hanover to provide a detailed explanation about the distribution methods across Panem, as well as the funding required. The room was filled with the murmur of approval as he elaborated on the product’s potential benefits for aging individuals.

Coriolanus raised his hand, his gaze sharp and inquisitive, “Dr. Hanover, could you elaborate on the safety protocols you’ve put in place to ensure the product's effectiveness in real-world conditions, particularly in environments outside the Capitol? What measures are you using to monitor potential side effects over the long term?”

Phillip’s expression tightened slightly at the question, but he maintained his composure, “We’ve conducted extensive trials with subjects from all districts to ensure the drops are both effective and safe,” he began, “Our protocols include rigorous monitoring and follow-up studies to track any long-term effects. Safety is our top priority, and we’re committed to ensuring that our product meets the highest standards across all districts,”

Despite his reservations about Snow, Phillip’s professional demeanor never faltered. For the sake of his daughter, he stayed civil, responding to the questions with the same precision and care that marked his presentation. He could sense the subtle tension in the room, aware of the political undercurrents that accompanied the evening, but he remained focused on showcasing the merits of his work.

As the session continued, Sable watched her father handle the scrutiny with admirable poise. She could see how much it meant to him to present his work with integrity, and she was reminded once again of the dedication that drove him. Even in the midst of political maneuvering and personal biases, Phillip Hanover’s commitment to his work shone through.

The room, filled with the murmur of attentive candidates and aides, was suddenly interrupted as Dr. Volumnia Gaul rose from her seat, her presence commanding immediate attention.

“Thank you, Dr. Hanover, for that insightful presentation,” Dr. Gaul announced, her voice smooth and authoritative, “Your work is truly remarkable, and we appreciate the dedication and expertise you’ve shown. I’d like to invite everyone to join us for refreshments in the next room. Please, make yourselves comfortable while we continue our discussions informally,”

With a polite nod, she guided Dr. Hanover towards a side door, her arm lightly resting on his elbow. As they moved away from the main hall, Sable’s gaze followed them, her mind racing. She thought back at the beaker of clear liquid she had seen earlier, the memory of her father’s warning flashing through her thoughts.

A knot of suspicion tightened in her chest. Dr. Gaul had always made Sable uncomfortable; perhaps it was her wild hair or the piercing blue and brown eyes that seemed to penetrate into one’s very soul. She was the wicked witch in children's story books, the thing that lived under your bed and took your foot if it dared drop. Whatever it was, Volumnia Gaul was far from one of Sable’s favourite figures in her father’s circle.

“Are you alright?” Coriolanus’s voice cut through her thoughts, his tone laced with genuine concern as he observed her staring intently at the retreating figures.

Sable blinked, momentarily jolted out of her reverie. She forced a smile, trying to mask her unease, “Oh, yes. Just thinking,”

Coriolanus gave her a measured look, clearly unconvinced but choosing to let it slide for now, “Well, let’s not keep the others waiting. Shall we?”

"Of course," she looped her arm with his and they followed behind the rest of the crowd.

Coriolanus watched Sable’s interactions with the guests, he noted the subtle shift in her demeanour—her smile, though present, seemed more strained, and her eyes occasionally drifted toward Dr. Gaul with an unreadable expression. The evening had been a triumph in terms of public relations, but he could sense an undercurrent of unease emanating from her.

Coriolanus took a moment to reflect on their alliance. Sable had proven herself an invaluable asset, effortlessly navigating the Capitol’s social minefield and amplifying their image as a power couple. Her ability to charm and deflect scrutiny had undoubtedly worked in his favor, softening public opinion and enhancing his standing among the elite. Yet, her discomfort tonight hinted at deeper currents he needed to address.

He observed as she mingled, her gaze occasionally flickering back to the theatre of Dr. Hanover's presentation. Coriolanus’s own thoughts were on the impact of the day’s success. The demonstration had gone off without a hitch, and the positive reception was already palpable in the aftermath. The Capitol’s elite had been captivated, and the rumor mill would surely churn with speculation and admiration.

But the real game, he knew, was not just in maintaining appearances—it was in the strategic maneuvers that followed. Sable’s unease, whether related to Dr. Gaul’s actions or something else entirely, was a variable he needed to account for. If she was unsettled, it could affect their carefully crafted public image. Coriolanus had to ensure that their partnership remained seamless and that any disruptions were swiftly addressed.

As the last guests trickled out and the event drew to a close, Coriolanus’s mind was already shifting to their next steps. The day's success was just the beginning. The real challenge lay in capitalizing on this momentum while navigating the complexities of alliances and emerging threats. He glanced over at Sable, who was now engaged in a quiet conversation with a few remaining guests, her composure returning but her eyes still betraying a hint of concern.

For Coriolanus, the stakes were clear. Every move, every interaction, was a step in the high-stakes game of political survival. And with Sable by his side, despite the occasional turbulence, he was poised to make the most of every opportunity that came their way.

[the-reader-insert-gazette]

Eternal Bonds - Ghost!F!Reader x Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd

Fire Emblem - Three Houses (Time Skip)

During the war, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is haunted by the ghost of Reader, a knight he considering more than a friend, who died under his command.

TW: Death and grief, survivors guilt, emotional anguish

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

The battlefield was eerily quiet after the clash of steel and screams had subsided. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, once prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and now its broken heir, stood amidst the carnage, his one good eye scanning the horizon for signs of stragglers or ambushes. Blood stained his tattered cape, and the weight of his fury, his grief, bore down on him as heavily as the battle-worn lance in his grasp.

The voices in his head whispered incessantly. Accusations, condemnations, the ghostly wails of those he could not save.

And then, one day, amid the ruins of a dilapidated village, another voice cut through his torment.

“You fight like a man trying to outrun his shadow,” said the voice, soft yet unmistakable.

Dimitri froze, his grip tightening on his weapon as his gaze darted across the desolate village. There was no one alive—he had checked himself. The dead littered the ground, unseeing eyes staring into the void. Yet, this voice was different from the chorus in his mind. It was clear, almost melodic, and filled with something the others lacked: warmth.

“Who’s there?” Dimitri growled, taking a cautious step forward, his good eye narrowing.

“I’d forgotten how paranoid you could be,” the voice replied, almost teasing now.

And then she appeared, stepping from the shadow of a crumbled wall like a dream brought to life. Or, rather, half-life.

[Name].

Her form shimmered faintly, translucent but undeniably her. The memories hit him like a blow to the chest. She had been one of his knights—a steadfast companion, a voice of reason when the world had begun to crumble. Her laughter had been rare but infectious, a ray of sunlight in the bleakness of their lives. And then, one fateful day, she had been lost. He remembered her falling, her blood staining the snow, her lips forming his name in a soundless plea as life left her eyes.

He had failed her too.

“You’re—” His voice broke. “This is a trick. You’re dead.”

“I know,” [Name] said simply, a wry smile curving her lips. “Believe me, it wasn’t my plan. But I’ve been watching you, Dimitri. And, gods, you need help.”

His laugh was bitter. “What help could a ghost possibly offer me?”

“More than you’d think,” she said. “But first, you need to stop wallowing in self-loathing long enough to listen.”

In the days that followed, [Name]'s presence became a constant. At first, Dimitri thought her another manifestation of his guilt, but she didn’t act like the other voices. She didn’t accuse him of failures or demand vengeance. Instead, she nagged him about eating properly, teased him about his gruff demeanor, and occasionally drifted off to scout the terrain ahead.

“I’m not just here to haunt you,” she had said one night as they camped by a dying fire. “I’m here because there’s something you need to do. Something I need to do.”

Dimitri didn’t ask what she meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Yet, as the weeks turned into months, [Name]'s purpose became clear. She wasn’t just lingering to torment him—she was guiding him. Every village they passed through, every skirmish they survived, seemed to bring them closer to uncovering a mystery she refused to fully explain.

“It’s complicated,” she said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the air as if it were a solid surface. “But trust me, it’s important.”

“More important than the war?” Dimitri asked, his tone harsher than he intended.

Her expression softened. “It’s connected. You’ll see.”

Their journey eventually brought them to a forgotten stronghold on the outskirts of Faerghus, its gates rusted and walls crumbling. [Name] grew more agitated as they approached, her form flickering like a candle in the wind.

“This is it,” she said, her voice taut with an urgency Dimitri hadn’t heard before.

“What is?” he asked, glancing around the decrepit fortress. “There’s nothing here.”

“There is,” she insisted, gesturing for him to follow. “But you’ll have to trust me.”

He did. He didn’t know when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, he had stopped questioning her. [Name] led him through the ruins, her steps sure even as the floors threatened to give way beneath them. Eventually, they reached a hidden chamber, its entrance obscured by debris.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of decay. Old scrolls and ledgers littered the floor, and in the center of the room stood a pedestal bearing a tarnished crest—the symbol of the Blaiddyd lineage.

“What is this place?” Dimitri asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“A secret your family tried to bury,” [Name] said, her tone bitter. “The truth about the tragedy at Duscur.”

The words hit him like a thunderbolt. “What do you know about Duscur?”

“More than you,” she said. “And it’s time you learned the truth.”

As they sifted through the documents, the pieces began to fall into place. The massacre at Duscur had been no mere act of revenge but a carefully orchestrated conspiracy. Political machinations, betrayals within Faerghus—everything Dimitri had believed about that fateful night was a lie.

His hands trembled as he held one of the scrolls, the words blurring before his eye. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Would you have listened?” [Name] asked gently. “You needed to be ready.”

“I don’t know if I am.”

“You are,” she said, placing a ghostly hand over his. He couldn’t feel it, but the gesture steadied him nonetheless. “And you’re not alone.”

For the first time in years, Dimitri felt something other than rage or despair. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was close.

When they emerged from the stronghold, the sky was tinged with the first light of dawn. Dimitri stood taller, the weight on his shoulders slightly less crushing. [Name] hovered beside him, her expression unreadable.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“You take what we’ve found and use it to end this war,” she said. “Expose the truth, reclaim your kingdom. Do what I couldn’t.”

“And you?”

She smiled faintly. “I’ll still be here. For a while, at least.”

Dimitri’s throat tightened. “[Name], I—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice trembling. “If you say it, I might not be able to let go.”

He nodded, the words dying on his lips.

"Let’s go," [Name] said, her voice barely above a whisper, the faint shimmer of her form flickering as though her resolve had weakened.

Dimitri glanced at her one last time before turning his gaze forward, forcing himself to take a step. The weight in his chest remained heavy, the words he had wanted to say swirling in his mind like a storm. But he respected her wish. To speak now, to give voice to the connection he felt, might shatter the fragile tether that kept her with him. Or worse, it might bind her here forever, trapped between life and death because of his selfishness.

The walk back to camp was silent, save for the crunch of snow under his boots and the faint whistle of the wind. [Name] drifted beside him, her ethereal glow dimmed, as though the secrets they had uncovered had drained her strength.

When they returned, the camp was quiet. His band of loyal yet broken soldiers—those who followed him despite his madness, despite his failures—were resting. The faint light of the fire cast long shadows on the tattered tents.

Dedue approached, his face as stoic as ever but his eyes filled with concern. "Your Highness. Did you find what you were looking for?"

Dimitri hesitated, glancing toward [Name] . She gave him a subtle nod.

"Yes," he said finally. "But it raises more questions than answers. We will discuss it at dawn."

Dedue inclined his head. "Understood. I will keep watch."

Dimitri started toward his tent, but [Name] lingered, her gaze fixed on Dedue. "He still follows you," she murmured, a mix of admiration and sorrow in her tone. "Even after everything. You’re lucky to have him."

"I know," Dimitri replied, pausing. "I don’t deserve his loyalty, or yours."

"Maybe not," she said, drifting after him. "But we’re here all the same."

He didn’t respond, pushing into his tent and collapsing onto the crude bedroll inside. The exhaustion of the day weighed on him, yet sleep didn’t come. [Name] hovered nearby, her presence both comforting and tormenting.

"You’re thinking too much again," she said after a long silence.

Dimitri let out a dry laugh. "You should know by now that I can’t stop."

"Then let me help," she said, settling cross-legged on the ground. Her form flickered faintly, as if the effort of sitting drained her, but she steadied herself. "Ask me something. Anything."

He hesitated. There was only one question he truly wanted to ask, but he feared the answer. Yet the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Why did you stay? Why didn’t you move on?"

[Name]'s expression softened. "Because I couldn’t leave you like this."

He clenched his fists. "That’s not fair to you."

"It’s not about fairness, Dimitri," she said gently. "It’s about what’s right. You needed someone to pull you out of the abyss, even if it’s just a ghost who refuses to let go."

"And when I’m out of the abyss?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "Will you leave then?"

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze dropped to her hands, which shimmered faintly before becoming translucent again. "I… I don’t know. Maybe."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Dimitri stared at her, memorizing every detail of her spectral form—the curve of her lips, the determined set of her jaw, the way her eyes, though faint, still burned with the fire of the woman he had known.

"I don’t want you to leave," he admitted finally, his voice cracking.

[Name] looked up, and for the first time, he saw the tears glistening in her ghostly eyes. "Don’t make this harder than it already is."

"I won’t," he said, though the words felt like a lie.

They sat together in silence after that, the unspoken words hanging between them like a barrier neither dared to cross.

The days that followed were filled with purpose. Dimitri shared what they had learned with his inner circle—Dedue, Gilbert, and even a reluctant Felix, who had begrudgingly rejoined the group. They began to piece together a plan, one that could expose the truth and strike at the heart of the conspiracy that had plunged Faerghus into chaos.

[Name]'s presence was a constant, her guidance invaluable as they navigated the treacherous political landscape. But as the pieces fell into place, Dimitri couldn’t ignore the growing distance between them. She was fading, her form flickering more frequently, her voice growing quieter.

One night, as they prepared for a decisive battle, she appeared beside him, her glow faint but steady. "This might be the last time I can help you," she said softly.

Dimitri’s chest tightened. "Why now? We’re so close."

"Because you don’t need me anymore," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and sadness. "You’ve found your way. You’ve found hope again."

He shook his head. "No. I can’t—"

"You can," she interrupted, her gaze fierce. "And you will. You have Dedue, and the others. You’re not alone."

"But I’ll lose you," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

She smiled, a faint, bittersweet thing. "You’ll never lose me, Dimitri. Not really."

He reached for her then, his hand passing through hers like mist.

"[Name]—"

"Shh," she said, leaning closer. Her voice was barely a whisper now, her form flickering like a dying star. "You’re going to be fine. Promise me you’ll see this through."

"I promise," he said, his throat tight.

Her smile widened, and for a moment, she looked as solid and real as she had in life. "Good."

And then she was gone.

The battle that followed was fierce and bloody, but Dimitri fought with a clarity and purpose he hadn’t felt in years. [Name]'s voice echoed in his mind, guiding him, steadying him. When the dust settled, and victory was theirs, he stood amidst the carnage and looked to the horizon.

The weight of his grief remained, but it was no longer unbearable. He carried it now as a part of himself, a reminder of what he had lost and what he still fought to protect.

And though she was gone, he swore he could feel [Name]'s presence, a faint warmth at his side, urging him forward.

------

Dimitri had long since grown into the man [Name] always believed he could become. Years passed after the war, years spent rebuilding Faerghus and forging a fragile peace across Fódlan. But no crown, no throne, no victory had filled the space she left behind.

He lived for his people, his kingdom, his friends, and the memories of those he had lost. It was enough. Or so he told himself.

Until the day he died.

The transition was seamless. One moment, he was an old man closing his eyes for what he thought would be the last time; the next, he found himself standing in a field of endless light. The air smelled of spring—fresh grass, blooming flowers, the kind of clean breeze he hadn’t felt since his youth.

And there she was.

[Name] stood a short distance away, her back turned to him as she surveyed the field. Her form was solid, her figure more alive than the ghostly shimmer he had grown used to during her haunting. She wore no armor now, just a simple tunic and trousers.

“[Name],” Dimitri called, his voice trembling.

She turned, her expression stunned at first, before her lips curved into a smile so bright it took his breath away. “Dimitri?”

He took a step forward, then another, until he stood before her. Hesitant, he raised a hand as if to touch her, but stopped just short.

“Is this… real?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Her laughter was like music, unrestrained and full of life. “As real as it gets, I think.” She reached out and took his hand, solid and warm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

At her touch, something in him broke, and all the years of grief and longing spilled out. He pulled her into a fierce embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if afraid she might disappear again. She held him just as tightly, her presence grounding him in a way nothing had since her death.

“I missed you,” he murmured against her hair.

“I missed you too,” she said softly.

~Fin~

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Wrote this with a friend in mind, who together, we tend to make the angstiest storylines for each others characters pseudo-canon events. You know who you are 👀

[echos-girlfriend]

Tech and the Rebel

Tech x F!reader

Master list

This is a little Drabble. And sort of a reintroduction of me getting back into writing.. if this breaks canon or any timeline idc. Lmao I’m writing a story because I want to!

Tech was thankful his grappling hook didn’t snap.. but hitting the side of a rocky cliff edge wasn’t part of the plan. He had lost his helmet and goggles during the fall. When he finally came to there was a face looking down at him.

“Hello there.”

He was slightly startled and tried to reach for his blaster but he couldn’t really see anything

“Hey hey! It’s ok. I’m not gonna hurt you. You can’t see too well because there’s blood on your face..”

He still couldn’t say anything.. he couldn’t tell whether he was in shock or in too much pain. As this moment his genius brain seemed to fail him..

“Come on. I’ll help you..”

Whoever the person was, they lifted him up and placed his arm across their shoulders and carried him to their ship.

Once inside his face was cleaned, his wounds bandaged and his eyes blurry. He went to adjust his goggles.. but they weren’t there. He had forgotten they were lost during his fall

The person finally took of their snow coat and goggles.. it was a young lady with an odd emblem on her flight suit.. she told him her name.

“It’s nice to meet you..”

He finally spoke, still a little frazzled.

“It looks like you took a nasty fall there.. what’s your name?”

“My name is Tech.. I did fall.. out of a cart. My brothers and my sister were on it.”

“You were the ones in those carts. I saw the others run away towards a cliff side.”

“They were probably heading back to our ship” he tried to stand but failed.. “I need to get back to them. I don’t particularly trust any of them with driving it without my supervision. Well.. maybe Echo..”

She watched him talk and ramble on.. almost as if she wasn’t there. Like he was having a conversation with himself.

“Well.. they have probably already gone. I can take you back to my base. It’s small.. and there’s not much to it but it’ll be ok until you get better.”

Tech sighed.. he really didn’t have much a choice but to trust this person. He couldn’t walk or do anything for himself at the moment.

“Don’t worry.. I’m part of the Rebel Alliance.”

“Rebel Alliance?”

“Yeah.. we are trying to stop the empire! One small victory at a time.. sometimes anyways.”

He raised a brow at her confidence and bravery. She seems to think it could be easy to take the empire down. But he shook it off.

———

Some time later they had finally reached this mystery planet.

“This is Yavin 4. We’ve only got a small group of rebels and a few senators willing to support us but we will grow.. it’ll just take time.”

She helped Tech walk out of the ship and into the base.. he was placed on a small medical gurney.. not inside a medical room or even a medical bay.

“You act like you can’t see anything.. didn’t blood get in your eyes?”

“No. They did not. I am partially blind to put it simply. The goggles I had were lost during the fall.”

“Oh.. well that’s a bummer. Uh.. well we have other goggles here-“

“That’s all I need. I can simply recreate mine if you have to correct electronic parts”

She was a little taken back as he cut off her but she nodded.

“Yeah yeah. Just take what you need.”

Tech stopped himself before he started to ramble on..

“Thank you, I deeply appreciate you saving my life.”

“You’re welcome Tech..”

-_-_-_-

I KNOW I KNOW ITS SHORT! And also not.. my best work. But I really want to get back into writing and get those requests done too! I’m also glad to finally be back! THERE WILL BE A PART TWO TO THIS AS WELL DONT YOU WORRY

[nanamisflowerfield]

The Bird Who Fell In Love With A Spider – Alternative Universe (Dick Grayson x f!Spiderwoman!Reader)

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(Y/N) (L/N), known as the Spiderwoman from another universe, found herself in an unexpected adventure yet again. A dimensional mishap during a fierce battle transported her into an unfamiliar world – a world where she crossed paths with the masked vigilante, Nightwing.

Slowly, she starts to like this universe, even though she has to find a way back to her universe. But will she go back or stay in Blüdhaven at the side of her new friend, Dick Grayson, who she has a crush on? Idea/request: ao3: Iauny_poppies: "I would love to see vigilante reader x Nightwing heheheheheeh"

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They thought that it would be a normal day…

The vigilante named Nightwing, fought in a dark alley against a few criminals. Punches and kicks were thrown and bullets being dodged. His mind focused on the fight, not noticing a strange orange colored portal appearing nearby and through this portal jumped out the one and only friendly neighborhood Spiderwoman.

With a small gasp, she landed safely on her feet, surprised by what just has happened. Just a few seconds ago, (Y/N), also known as Spiderwoman, swung through the bustling streets of her own universe, engaging in a fierce battle against a strange bearded wizard. But now, disoriented and surrounded by unfamiliar surroundings, she found herself standing on a dimly lit alleyway. “Why does this day get weirder and weirder?” She huffed to herself, before she heard a scream.

The masked Spider ducked, walking sneakily towards the corner and watched a masked vigilante kicking another guy so hard, that the guy fell into a trash bin, making her chuckle at the criminal that lied there unconscious and banana peel on his face.

The small noise of the stranger startled Nightwing and when he turned his head to the direction, he heard it coming from, his eyes met hers.

Two butt-kicking vigilantes stared at each other, until Spiderwoman saw one of the criminals raise his hand, holding a dark gun in it. She stepped closer, shooting her web to the old criminal and catching his gun. With it, she threw it at the head of another one, before she gracefully swung to the crowd and defeated them with ease.

Nightwing couldn't resist throwing in a few cheeky lines amid the chaos, while he punched another guy in the face. “Web-slinging into my city, huh? Hope you have a permit for that.” He quipped, a smirk playing on his lips.

(Y/N) snorted, holding the fist of the criminal in front of her, who gasped in shock at her strength. “I left it in my place, sorry. Hope you don't mind the visit.”

They continued their fight and banter, until the last one fell and the vigilantes hearted the sirens of the police cars getting closer. Spiderwoman swung up on a rooftop, escaping the sight of the police and behind her was the tall man, she had talked with.

“Thanks.” He said and nodded towards the direction of the police cars. “No big deal. It’s part of the job. Uhh… And… It's not every day I get to crash a superhero party.” She shrugged her shoulders and leaned towards the fence of the large rooftop they were standing on. It was a beautiful sight and it felt… nostalgic? As if she has seen this sight before. But she never has been here. This city was unknown. It was different and mysterious.

It felt like… yeah, maybe she really was in another universe, just like that crazy wizard wanted to teleport her to.

A playful smile played on Nightwing’s lips. “So, what do we have here now? A spider spinning her webs in my city?”

“Looks like your city just got a little more exciting… Uhm…” She looked down on his chest to see a blue emblem, but not figuring out how she could call him.

He chuckled. “Nightwing. And you must be…?” – “Spiderwoman.”

The dark-haired man laughed loudly at the name. “Very creative.” You shrugged your shoulders, grinning under your mask.

“Hey, that’s how many people call me.” Spiderwoman laughed as well, glancing from Nightwing up to the bright shining stars at the sky.

Nightwing tried to calm himself and cleared his throat. “So, where are you from?”

The (h/c) woman smiled at him, knowing that he couldn’t read her facial expressions due to her mask. "From another universe." His eyebrows shot up in shock and he couldn’t form out any words, but she ignored it. “Yeah… A crazy wizard used a spell and now I’m stuck here. I should be in my universe and fight crime there… But now I’m here…” The young vigilante whispered under her breath, eyeing her own hands.

“Well…” She finally heard the man speak up after a couple of awkward minutes of silent. “… Blüdhaven is quite a great place. We have a great coffee shop around the corner, great rooftops. A few criminals that need their asses getting kicked and also…” He points at himself, smirking at the lovely woman.

Her cheeks turned red, burning at his charming expression before Spiderwoman let out a small giggle and bumped into him lightly with her shoulder. 

“Yeah… Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

As they stood there, leaned against the rooftop ledge, their bodies almost touching, sharing stories of their respective universes and some other ones, they started to enjoy their time together. They find common ground in the struggles of maintaining a double life.

Minutes and hours have passed. The sun rose and they parted their ways.

Nightwing had to go back to his place and live his life. A life that Spiderwoman haven’t known, as they haven’t shared any personal information and (Y/N), she found later on an apartment and a job. A job as a journalist for Blüdhaven Bulletin. Thanks to her powers, her job was quite easy.

Time flew so fast and only one thing has changed for Nightwing and Spiderwoman. Their feelings for each other. Every night, he had met her and they fought against some criminals together, spending time at rooftops and even drank some drinks, having banters, laugher and even a few pickup lines thrown around.

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Nightwing swung from rooftop to rooftop at night. His eyes scanned the city, trying to find any signs of trouble. Meanwhile, (Y/N), moved through the streets of Blüdhaven with her camera, full of hopes to find something for her job.

But suddenly (Y/N)'s heightened senses tingled. Danger was nearby, and her instincts guided her toward an alley. She ran towards it, no plan in head. To her surprise, Nightwing found himself outnumbered, facing a threat stronger than himself.

(Y/N) clenched her teeth and jumped into action without a second thought. She pulled her hood up, hiding her face. If only she hasn’t forgotten her mask on this day!

Her agile movements and web-slinging skills became useful. Punches, webs and a few amazing kicks were thrown until (Y/N) turned around. She tried to hide her face, but Nightwing was faster. He saw a glimpse of her face and grabbed her by the wrist. She suddenly felt herself being pulled up onto a rooftop.

“Thanks.” He mumbled, standing next to her. “No problem.” She whispered, her back facing him.

Nightwing grabbed her wrist again, turning her around so she will face him and with his other hand, he took of his mask, as a sign of gratitude and trust, exposing his face. She gasped, not knowing what to do and closed her eyes. “You don’t have to do it, Nightwing.”

He slowly touched her cheek, a smile on his lips. “I know. But I want to.”

And that’s how the vigilantes have finally seen the others face, before they revealed their identities and phone numbers.

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Days turned into nights, and their connection deepened. Coffee shops became heaven for Dick and (Y/N) during their off-duty hours. The masks were set aside, allowing them to normal conversations.

They loved spending their days together at different places like coffee shops or even the carnival and amusement park. Having fun at so many civilian activities, while they held each other’s hands, pulling the other one to get cotton candy and hotdogs. They even went to a circus show. It was one of Dick’s favorite days, as he watched the elephants and laughed with (Y/N) at the antics of the clowns. The black-haired man had a feeling that his heart stopped beating, when he saw her grinning oh so brightly at the show. Something that he always has loved. It was always lovely to see ones past intertwine with their present and seeing (Y/N) in his present, made him happier than he already was. The thrill of rides created wonderful memories, that the two vigilantes still love to think about.

However, the week took an unexpected turn.

(Y/N) has waited on a rooftop, phone in hand and pacing around impatiently. She was waiting for Nightwing the whole day and he still hasn’t shown up. Usually, he would text her, but no text message has reached her.

But this couldn’t stop her. She worried about him a bit too much, so she did what any Spider-person would do and hacked into his phone to track down the place he currently was and it was… A warehouse? “What the hell are you doing there, Dick?”

…

“He knew that it was stupid to do this alone and now no one can reach out to him.” A fist collided onto a table. “Master Bruce, please calm down. Nothing bad will happen. Oracle is tracking them down and Red Hood and Red Robin are on their way to Master Dick.”

Bruce shook his head. If only he could go with them, but Gotham needed Batman and Robin. They couldn’t leave the city right now. “Father, don’t worry. Grayson might be an idiot, but he will survive it.” Said a familiar voice. Damian Wayne. His son.

“You are hurt, so lean down, Father.” He pointed at Bruce’s broken leg and then at the lonely chair that stood there in the Batcave. His father nodded, sighing before he sat down, still angry at the whole situation.

And in the meantime, Red Hood kicked a man down, chuckling at his brother. “Sooo, Dick. You looking good there.”

He crossed his arm, smirking under his mask at his brother, who sat on a chair, tied with handcuffs and chains on a chair. “I’m sure that I look better with these things off of me.” He scoffed, making Red Hood laugh louder, while Red Robin defeated a few other criminals.

“Hey, I need some help here, Red Hood. Take care of him later. He is probably safer there on his throne.” The younger brother yelled towards them, making Dick roll his blue eyes and Red Hood nearly rolling on the ground and wheezing at them.

A man suddenly fell and before his back could touch the ground, a web spined around him and he was glued to the wall upside-down. “Don’t worry, I’m there.” All three brothers turned their heads up, seeing a masked woman.

With elegance and finesse, she jumped down, stopping a few men, while the two younger brothers stood there in shock. Who was that woman?

“Hey, Spiderwoman.” They heard Dick say, a grin plastered on his lips and eyes twinkling in adoration at the vigilante.

All the criminals were either lying on the ground or webbed on walls. Red Robin walked to Spiderwoman, thanking her and even shaking her hand, before he introduced himself, while Red Hood crossed his arms over his chest, standing next to the tied-up Dick. “Damn… She’s cool.” Dick’s gaze moved from the little scene of his brother and crush to his other one. Jealous, he muttered. “She’s taken.”

It wasn’t true, but Jason shouldn’t know that…

“Fuck… Really?” He grumbled to himself and walking away, leaving Dick on the chair, as he yelled at them for being idiots and not helping him out of there, but thank goodness that Spiderwoman was there, because she helped him out. Well… After she let out a few jokes and teasing comments at his situation.

Dick cleared his throat, glancing at Spiderwoman. “You know, Spiderwoman, I think I owe you one.”

The vigilante smirked. “Oh, I can think of a few ways you could repay me.”

Their playful banter was interrupted by two men coughing. Dick and (Y/N) looked at the younger men. “Sorry.” They both apologized. They shared a knowing glance, their unspoken desires hanging in the air. It was like a dance. A dance they knew all too well - one of flirtation, attraction, and a shared understanding.

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Nightwing and Spiderwoman sat in comfortable silence on a ledge of a rooftop. The city's heartbeat echoed in the distance.

“Have you ever wondered...” Dick began, his voice thoughtful, “about the other universes? The ones where we might not be vigilantes and live different lives.”

Her (e/c) eyes moved to him. “Yeah, sometimes. It's strange to think about all the possibilities. I bet there's a universe out there where I'm a circus performer, and you're a renowned journalist.”

Dick laughed. “Shouldn’t I be the circus performer?” She chuckled, “Hey, we were talking about other universes, right? There could be a chance of me being one!”

Her friend and crush, glanced between you and the street lights. “Or maybe, where I’m the vigilante and you an investigative journalist. Writing thousands of amazing headlines, while I’m beating up some people.”

“Sounds like one amazing universe…” She whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder, watching the stars now.

“I think, in every universe, I'd still find you. You'd still be the one who catches my eye in a crowded room. The one who I feel so connected with. It's like... fate.”

(Y/N)'s expression mirrored his seriousness. “Maybe it is. Maybe we're destined to find each other.”

“Destined or not,” Dick whispered, “I'm glad we found each other in this universe. I wouldn't want it any other way.”

She leaned back, eyes meeting his ocean blue orbs. “Me too.”

Their hands slowly moved, touching each other, just like their lips. A soft kiss, shared by two star-crossed lovers on a rooftop. And their love story…? Well…

Their love story echoed across universes, as the two were indeed lovers in so many universes.

🔖 Taglist: --- (if you want to get tagged, dm me)

Masterlist ❀ DC Comics Masterlist ✿ City Lights and Secret Meetings Masterlist ❀ navigation

Reblogs, plot ideas, comments and a ko-fi are appreciated. ( ‘ω’ ) © nanamisflowerfield. Do not repost, rewrite, plagiarize my work.

[jakegooglyeyes]

Emblem of Roses - Chapter 6

Hi, everyone. Sorry for the long hiatus. I finally sorted my stuff out so the update should be more frequent from now on. I've received a few messages and they are very encouraging. I apologize if the pacing of this chapter is a little bit choppy. I wrote it in a span of months and a lot of things happened during that time.

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Pairings: Jake Gyllenhaal x reader, Maggie Gyllenhaal x reader (Medieval AU) Summary: Lady Maggie's plan is set in motion, something is growing between the Lord and his wife (if you squint really hard). Word count: 6000 Warnings: brief mention of forcing marital sex on the reader, power dynamic Divider credit: @/firefly-graphics​ Tagged: @gyllenhaalstories, @looloolily, @charliehoennam

MINOR DNI. If any of these content upsets you, DO NOT READ

Author's note: I retconned a few small details from the Prologue. Namely the nickname of the character (Dog => Jackal), and the condition Jackal was in. He was temporary blinded during the time he was rescued by reader.

While the Lord is being requested to settle the unfortunate altercation, the musicians continue playing their melodies inside the Great Hall. The crackling sounds of the large fire pit and the joyful tune make it easy to forget the terrible intentions hidden beneath one’s mask.

As the guests become more intoxicated and well-fed, a mysterious figure, one among the King’s delegates, makes their way toward Lady Maggie’s table.

The woman dons a flowing gown made of dark velvet and adorned with elaborate needlework. Despite the fine quality of her garment, the dull choice of color makes her almost invisible among the opulence flaunted by other high-ranking members.

She makes her way through rows of drunk guests, her eyes sharp as that of a hawk, and her face cold and stern, making her appear unwelcoming and intimidating to the weak-willed.

Lady Maggie’s discerning eyes catch the sight of a peculiar gold pendant hanging below the old woman’s neckline, depicting an oak leaf. The two handmaidens accompanying her also bear similar accessories. Only theirs are made of iron.

The Lady’s brows arch. Not out of surprise, but intrigue. It seems she has expected this special guest’s arrival.

“Please accept our gratitude for the hospitality and care you have shown to our princess, my Lady.”

After greeting the Lady, the old woman receives a small golden box from one of her maidens and places it in front of Lady Maggie, who graciously acknowledges the gesture. The women silently return to their seats, avoiding any further conversation. Regardless of the old matron’s motives, she must not be seen socializing with the kin of the Usurper.

As the Lady opens the box, a dazzling piece of finely crafted jewelry catches her eye. It is exquisite, but not particularly remarkable, especially coming from someone like the old woman.

However, only Lady Maggie can see that the box’s interior is narrower than its external profile. After studying it for a brief moment, the Lady allows her steward to take it back to her chamber. Leaning back against her chair, a pleasant smile spreads across her face as her plan is set in motion.

Her watchful eyes gaze upon the heavy gate of the Great Hall, wondering what has taken her brother so long.

The weight of the cape presses against your shoulders, keeping you warm and protected from the prying eyes. You can feel the glaring behind your back and hear the muttering among the servants.

The Lord is walking beside you, surprisingly mirroring your pace with small steps. His jaw tightens as firmly as his grip on the hilt of the sword. He must be extremely angry, you can tell. His enemies have made themselves comfortable in his home, drinking his wine, and laughing as if the bloody war never happened.

And now he must forgive one of them.

For what? To maintain the illusion of a truce? This is asking too much of him.

The Lord, of course, has no intention of rejoining his sister in the Great Hall. Your “very serious” injury presents him a convenient excuse to extract himself from the noisy, inebriated crowd.

He accompanies you to your chamber and summons the old physician to attend to your wound. You want to decline. It is only a tiny scratch, and you can perfectly take care of it on your own.

You are about to protest, but the moment your eyes meet the Lord’s, you quickly swallow your words. The incident has left him furious, and he is still fuming over it. And it does not seem wise to cross him at this moment.

After fulfilling his duty, the physician bows and takes his leave, leaving you in the room with the Lord.

You have expected your husband to return to the feast or his chamber, seeing there is no reason for him to still linger here. And yet, he remains. His presence stretches the stillness in the air. At least the warmth emanating from the fireplace brings you some comfort, fighting off the harsh winter winds.

“Thank you for aiding me.” Suppressing your nervousness, you utter a few words to disrupt the awkward silence.

The Lord did save you during that commotion. Whether he did it out of the gallantry in his heart or because he saw the royal family as an eyesore does not matter (though it is most likely the latter). What matters is that he did you a favor he was not obliged to. And he graciously walked you back to your chamber, shielding you from the curious stares of the servants.

“Why did you forgive her?” The Lord’s brows furrow, a familiar sight when he gets frustrated. His voice carries a subtle annoyance, unable to comprehend the rationale behind what he considers foolish mercy.

While he harbors no affection for you, he was not about to let the King’s dogs bear their fangs in his domain. If you didn’t stop him, he would have cut that crone down. And a few others, just to be thorough.

You never expect to be asked such a question. You hesitate, searching your head for the right answer. It is difficult when you can't seem to understand why he would ask you such question.

“It is not my wish for anyone to die because of me.”

Indeed, you detest that woman, and there were, undeniably, times you have dreamed of her demise. But you have no desire for any bloodshed.

In the years spent learning from your mother, you witnessed more deaths than you could count. And it was under that guidance that you took a healer’s oath, sworn to save lives, not take them.

Moreover, her death on the Lord’s ground would only further complicate the situation between the King and House Gyllenhaal, would it not?

Any transgression from either side will be used as leverage against the other. And the last thing you want is to be the cause of it.

The Lord responds with a dry laugh. He finds your explanation very—irritating.

Given your status as a bastard, he can imagine the mistreatment you faced from people. And that old crone, in particular? It certainly was not the first time she struck you.

He recalls the days he used to serve under the King. Even then, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at the sight of your misery. He may pity you a bit. However, people of his status rarely prioritize the suffering of the unfortunate mass, unless there is something to gain from it. You would have been just another poor bastard whose entire existence is shameful and insignificant.

Everyone values lineage and legitimacy. His family, despite all the tales of heroism and altruism woven by his brilliant sister, is no exception.

You should be angry. You should not have asked him to spare that woman, but you did, and it is baffling to him. He finds that kind of empathy a nuisance, a weakness. It’s the kind of weakness that ends up as the blade to your back.

“Your wish? I can’t tell if you are arrogant or naïve. Her insolence is enough of a reason for me to take her life.”

He takes a step closer to the bed, where you sit, as he looks straight into your eyes, wanting to dig out your misplaced compassion. He cannot explain why, but it is upsetting him.

“Had she died, it would be by my will and my hand.”

“I understand that.” You concede softly.

“You understand nothing.” The Lord’s voice is snappy yet quiet, startling even the man himself.

He finds it absurd that he is standing here instigating an argument with you for a petty reason.

You were not at fault, and he knows that. Your only guilt was that you did not choose to act as he would.

He takes a moment to collect himself, calming his nerves before leaning down, closing the gap between you and him. With only the flickering fire illuminating the side of his face, his expression is unreadable.

“Only a fool spares his foes, expecting them to show him the same mercy he did. She threatened you, did she not? Spare her life does nothing but give her another chance to bite you. You are safe here, but what about the old healer you spoke of?” His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

The Lord notices the slight twitching on your forehead. He knows he has touched a nerve.

Although he is in no way comparable to his sister when it comes to the elusive art of reading people, he can still uncover little weaknesses others hold close to their heart.

That woman, the healer you spoke of, must be very important to you, since every mention of hers draws a powerful reaction. When his sister confronted you about your letter or when that woman used her name against you, you became agitated, betraying how much you care about that healer.

She is your weakness.

The fabric of your dress is crumpled into a small heap between your hands as you are unable respond. The Lord’s words are as sharp as a blade, driving into your chest.

It has been a long time since you parted with your mother. You haven’t been able to write to her, nor have you heard anything from her. You have kept your composure, but the truth is, missing her is driving you mad deep down.

The Lord sighs, exhausted from having to remind such a simple logic to you.

You, who have the misfortune of being a part of this undignified marriage. How are you going to survive when you can barely put up a fight? When you don’t know when or how to strike your enemies? You are just so… so shortsighted and unguarded.

“My Lord!” You let out a small yelp.

The sudden chill of the Lord’s fingers grazing your cheek catches you off guard. As your body meets the softness of the bed after being pushed, you let a gasp escape your lips.

His form looms above you, pinning you down by the shoulders. In the dimly lit room, you catch an orange glimpse of the hearth fire reflecting off his long lashes.

When was the last time you observed your husband so closely? You can’t remember.

Your muscles tighten in response, a surge of tension coursing through your body, feeling unprepared for whatever will happen.

“What are you doing?” You swallow the lump in your throat.

Your hands press into the fine fabric of the Lord’s garment as you brace his weight on top of you. The memory of his body heat against the cold, dark cellar suddenly resurfaces, vividly replaying in your mind. Your eyes dart away, unable to meet the Lord’s penetrating stare.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Indulging in my privilege as your husband.” His retorts, his voice low with a hint of enticing charm you rarely witness.

His face inches closer, bridging the distance between you. The heat on your cheeks intensifies, and you are unsure whether it’s from the Lord’s breath against your face or the blood rushing beneath your skin.

As he leans in to meet your lips, the air is filled with the faint scent of wine, enveloping your senses. The sensation isn’t exactly unpleasant, but neither is it entirely enjoyable.

His touch is gentle as he seeks to coax your rigid jaw to relax, but nervousness holds you in its grip, making it difficult to comply.

This is unlike any of your previous intimate encounters, if they could even be labeled as such. The first time was agonizing and humiliating, while the recent incident in the cellar left you feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. However, now, it feels as though the Lord is actually taking his time with you. Just you, not his spiteful enemy, not a substitute for his long-gone beloved.

The sensation is indescribable.

You wonder if the pounding in your chest is a normal reaction. Surely it must be, right? After all, the Lord is a man in his prime, undeniably handsome, too. It’s not unusual to be captivated by his uncharacteristic tenderness.

Regardless of the circumstances, you two are still husband and wife. You should expect these things, or at least, you were taught to expect them. Still, you struggle to make peace with the situation.

On complete instinct, you turn your head to the side, denying him the touch of your lips.

The Lord’s eyes capture every expression on your face, even when your eyes clench shut and your brows knit. He rises from you, a finger smoothing away the creases on your forehead.

You hear a drawn-out, weary sigh.

“See? You freeze up like a scared little lamb. Are you going to lie still and wait to be slaughtered?” The Lord asks, as he moves away and gives you back the freedom of movement.

You find yourself speechless, your head still spinning from the surge of excitement.

The Lord silently muses himself, savoring the colorful expressions on your face. He finds himself no longer upset.

It hasn't been a full day and he has spoken to you more than he ever had in the past. Somehow, he derives much comfort from these interactions, despite your severe lack of common sense. At least, he does not have to exert his mental strength like the times he converses with his sister.

The Lord is taken aback by the sudden wave of emotions he experiences in your presence. He is absolutely confident that he doesn't hold any genuine fondness for you.

Even if illegitimate, you are still the King's daughter, and that fact continues to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. You can't never by fully trusted, as blood and allegiance always matter in his world.

If it were up to him, he would have you removed from his domain. Be it setting you free or a less merciful alternative, you wouldn't be sitting here and being a thorn in his side.

Yet, if you are still being kept around, it can only mean Lady Maggie sees you as being of great use.

In the end, no matter what his sister has planned for you, you will not emerge from this war unscathed.

It is a pity.

As he prepares to leave, he turns around to look at you one last time, his face obscured by the darkness, disallow you to read his expression.

The door soon closes behind him, separating the two of you. You are left with your own thoughts amidst the soft cracks of the fireplace.

A few days have passed since the incident. The Lord's tolerance has been severely tested by the delegates' constant display of arrogance in his Keep.

They strut around, ordering the servants and making snide remarks about the absence of luxuries.

His sword arm has been itching non-stop. He should have executed a few when he had his wife as an excuse. It is a relief to everyone that the delegates are to leave soon. If this goes on any longer, Lord Gyllenhaal will make sure peace is no more, because he will skin these royal stains alive.

The festivity ceases and everyone goes back to their usual work.

Well, everyone except you, that is.

The Lord forbids you to work as a servant. Too many people have seen your face when you sat next to him that night, and words spread. He is indifferent about what you do as long as you are not posing a threat (and he thought you should try to be useful anyway), but the servants and even some of his men have given him strange looks.

No one knew your face when you first walked through that gate as the princess-bride. But now, more than a few people have seen you running around in servant's clothes. They are not blind.

The "new maid" who has been cleaning the stable and working in the kitchen turned out to be the Lord's wife. Royal princess or not, you are their lady Gyllenhaal. And this stirs people's curiosity, as well as their gossiping.

Truth be told, you have no qualm with his decision because the Lord is not the sole recipient of the judgmental stares.

The maids with whom you shared friendly conversations just a week ago are no longer interested in talking to you. They will respond to your queries, with ‘my lady’ appended to whatever they say. But they are only willing to speak when specifically asked. And even then, they speak with a distant, apathetic demeanor.

You are not surprised by their attitude. The Lord's enemy is not exactly welcomed in this place. They attribute your labor, perhaps, as a form punishment from the Lord or something akin to that.

Still, it hurts to lose the few genuine companionship you have gained.

And there is another issue contributing to your distress. People talk, and oh, do they talk? More than a few times, you've caught people stealing glances at your midsection as if they are looking for something.

And then it dawns on you.

A few relatives of House Gyllenhaal who greeted you during the feast had the same gazes, and at least one of them insinuated you might be carrying the Lord's offspring. Even your husband admitted that Lady Maggie was involved in spreading those rumors to ease the family’s concerns about the continuation of his legacy.

The siblings know you are useless as a political hostage at this point, but their subjects don’t. Even if you have no status to pass on to your children, at least you can make yourself useful by performing your “duty”.

It isn’t long before you hear whispers of your supposed development. The servants don’t confront you directly, but you catch the fragments of their conversations as they scrub floors or tend to the fire. And it’s not just the servants either.

“She must be with child,” they say. “Why else would she go into hiding like this? I used to see her in the stable all the time.”

“Haven’t you heard? The Lord commanded her to stop working, his intention is obvious.” they say.

Soon enough, it’s as though everyone in the Keep has come to a silent agreement.

They wait.

You feel their eyes on you constantly, searching for signs of life beneath your gown, scrutinizing every gesture, every bite of food you take—or don’t take.

But, of course, there is no child. You are quite certain of it. The idea of carrying the Lord’s offspring is as far-fetched as the whispers themselves. You haven't even shared a single proper night with your husband.

And even if he lay fingers on you, well, you haven't forgotten the potion Lady Maggie's asked you to take the day after your supposed consummation. You have an inkling feeling not everyone wants you to carry the the Lord's child.

Though, you must admit, the incessant gawking and whispering are really getting on your nerves. You stay away from others as much as you can.

It has got to the point where your own chamber becomes a suffocating prison cell. And you do not enjoy the look of maids who bring you food. So, you often wander in the courtyard, letting your feet and mind roam.

"…Your Highness."

An unfamiliar voice breaks through the haze of your thoughts. It takes them several attempts before you realize someone is addressing you. You turn around to a face you have never seen before. Judging by his clothes, he is a member of the delegates.

It's puzzling that any of them have needs to speak to you.

Discreetly scanning the area, you breathe a sigh of relief upon noticing several Gyllenhaal guards stationed within eyesight. At the very least, you hope to avoid a repeat of what happened the other night.

"Who are you?" With caution, you ask.

The man's lips curl into a sly smile.

"I merely wish to bid your farewell before I depart, your Highness. And perhaps…" His hand reaches into his robe, producing a small, folded cloth. "To present a parting gift, directly from His Majesty, the King."

With hesitation, you extend your hand, accepting the fabric. As you unfold it, a few strands of hair tumble out.

Time stops, and you are left breathless.

There, in the palm of your hand, is a silvering lock of hair. It takes everything in you to steady your knees, to keep your expression unchanged.

This color. This texture. You recognize this.

Your mother's hair.

The man leans in, his voice a hushed murmur, barely audible.

"My princess, I hope you have not forgotten the King's order. He is growing very, very impatient."

A sick chill bubbles in your stomach. The King's order. You have brushed it aside, pushed it into the recesses of memory where you thought it would fade.

Kill the Lord? You would never have the heart to follow through with it, nor have you ever intended to. But here is this man, this messenger, holding a piece of your mother in his hand as a warning.

Forcing yourself to calm down, you ask, “What is it he expects of me?”

The man’s eyes gleam, sensing your hesitation. His feigned smile disappears.

“The end of this foolish war, in exchange for this woman's safety. His Majesty hates waiting. Perhaps… this reminder will motivate you.”

“Leave me,” you try to keep your voice low, to appear fearless. But no matter how hard to try, you can't control your shaky breaths.

It takes all of your strength to be able to stand on your feet.

The man chuckles.

“Very well,” he replies, a smirk spreading across his face. “Do give this matter some thought, my lady. The King awaits good news.”

He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your body with a mocking glint.

“And, ah… my congratulations. Lord Gyllenhaal must be overjoy.”

You aren’t sure how you left the courtyard.

Your knees threaten to buckle if not for the cold stone your hand is tracing.

The nobleman’s threat is almost overshadowed by the unbearable ringing in your ears. Perhaps it is your mind’s way to block out the dread.

The vision of your mother being harmed is consuming your thoughts, leaving your stomach churning with each step. Your cheeks are feverish, but you don’t even have the mental strength to discern if it’s your own tears or you are falling sick.

You have intended to head back to your chamber, to a place you can be with your thoughts and feel safe. But your mind is all foggy as your trembling feet carry you all the way to one of the Keep’s corner towers.

It’s a place you rarely venture, and you don’t even know if you’re permitted here. The realization that you might be somewhere you are not allowed to be brings you back to your senses.

Just as you’re about to turn around, a warm, earthy scent drifts through the air. It catches your attention.

Burning incense.

At the far end, a pair of heavy wooden doors stand, one slightly ajar. The scent flows from within. A chapel, perhaps?

The reeling in your head is clouding your thoughts and making it difficult to focus. You slowly move closer to where the incense is coming from, driven by an instinctual pull. Your thoughts drift among the whirling, fragrant smoke.

You’ve never been particularly devout, but with everything that has happened, a prayer might offer some momentary peace, allowing you to clear your mind.

There isn’t much you can do right now, but pray. A meager prayer to any higher power that is willing to listen.

As you peek through the door, your eyes are immediately drawn to the majestic sculpture of a grand oak tree towering at one end of the room.

A feminine figure is carved right into the tree’s main body. As her hair weaves through the branches and her limbs meld with the trunk, it appears as though she is an inseparable part of the tree itself. With eyes filled with benevolence and wisdom, she looks upon those who come before her like a loving mother. Ever knowing. Ever caring.

The intricate craftsmanship of the sculpture leaves you so mesmerized that you almost overlook the man kneeling in front of the goddess, hands folding together with utmost reverence.

“Have you come to gloat at me, sister?” Speaks the kneeling man. You are taken aback, realizing whom that voice belongs to.

“My apology, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Stepping back from the door, you apologize frantically, your heart pounding in your chest.

As the Lord turns his head, he notices the terror on your face. Contrary to what you assume would happen, he appeared more relieved than upset by your untimely interruption.

“It’s fine. Better you than my sister.”

Despite his bitter tone, the Lord seems to tolerate your presence.

A slight curiosity arises in you as to why he wouldn't wish to face Lady Maggie. But it is a question that you don’t have the right to even ponder.

He shifts his gaze back to the statue, still in the kneeling posture, leaving only his back to you.

You would never guess that he could be a devotee of any religion, much less one centered around the Oak Mother.

The Oak Mother Cult.

It’s an ancient belief that very few still hold on to, even fewer in the Capital city from where you came. Your mother used to tell you stories about it, but not much.

And there is a reason for that.

The royal family outlawed the worship long ago in favor of a more loyalist religion, but they only truly cracked down on it after House Gyllenhaal’s rebellion.

Originally, they rejected it because many of the Cult’s beliefs clash with what the royal family deemed crucial for maintaining their rule. However, the court turned a blind eye and allowed people to continue the worship.

Not that there were many believers left by the time you learned about their existence.

After Lord Gyllenhaal’s capture and his subsequent escape, things changed.

The few remaining shrines were all burned down and the priests and priestesses were forced to convert or be executed in public. It was forbidden to discuss the event, but there were rumors of the Cult having a connection with House Gyllenhaal. Thus, the King deemed its followers traitors.

“Are you familiar with her?” The Lord asks, a little more casually than you expect. His eyes never leave the solemn goddess figure.

“Not much, my Lord. The King does not permit the worship or teaching of the Oak Mother.” You answer in earnest.

“What do they claim, that she is the perverse goddess of prostitutes and thieves?” He whispers in a sarcastic tone. Words travel far. He knows of the twisted words the King has spread.

You are unsure of how to respond. The culling of the Oak Mother followers was bloody, and with many awful accusations, which you cannot repeat in front of this man.

“I was told the Oak Mother was the protector of the less fortunate,” You carefully pick your words from the modest sleeve of knowledge you possess. “She was once the patron of healers and midwives.”

You vaguely remember a small carved oak tree pendant you used to own. A little trinket you stole from one of the court healers because you wished to be like them. This was before you were taken under your mother’s care. That thing was buried a long time ago to avoid trouble from the King when he began persecuting Oak Mother followers.

“Too impractical for the mass. She does not bestow influence nor does she grant wishes of wealth.” A soft laughter escapes the Lord’s lips. “The pantheon sanctioned by the King is more enticing, don’t you think? Those gods promise abundance to those who obey and power to those who rule.”

Rising from his kneeling position, the Lord slowly turns around to face you. The light filtering through the windows cast a shadow over him, concealing his expression from your eyes. The lonely silhouette of the man beneath the towering goddess causes a lump to form in your throat.

You have an inexplicable urge to say something to console him, but words fail you at that moment.

He doesn’t seem to expect any answer from you, however. The Lord takes a few strides toward the door, but abruptly halts right beside you.

“Have you been crying?”

A gentle warmth brushes against your cheek. His unexpected remark, almost a whisper, and the sensation of his finger on your damp, feverish skin startle both of you. Retracting his hand promptly, he hurries towards the door, moving so fast that it seems like he’s fleeing.

Your hand reach up to touch your face, feeling the lingering ghost of his fingertips.

No, you shouldn’t. You must not. He’s not someone you could—

You felt something similar once, years ago…

“What’s this thing?”

Curious fingers felt around the wooden object falling from your satchel.

The man, with his eyes bandaged and bored out of his mind, was fiddling with your possessions. He resorted to this activity to ease his immense boredom, with no other options in sight (not that he had any at that moment).

“Don’t touch my stuff.” You wrestled the small wooded oak out of the man’s hand and tucked it back into the satchel.

“It’s a healer’s charm. The King doesn’t want to see people donning it though, so I’m hiding it.” You explained.

It took you so long to obtain this. It was so hard to sneak into the healers’ quarter too. What a shame that you couldn’t put it on. You could not be seen with this thing. The King had enough reason to hate you already.

“It’s not a healer’s charm. It’s an Oak Mother insignia. There is a woman on it, yes?” The man asked, unimpressed by your lack of knowledge.

It seemed he spoke the truth. The face was worn down, but one could still make out a feminine form edged into the pendant. You only knew that the guards were checking people to find anything oak-ish.

“You stole it?”

“I did not.” You huffed, digging a small pit in the corner of the shed before placing the small pendant inside.

“Well, the owner dropped it, so it’s mine. Finder keeper.” You pat the dirt a few times to make sure it looked completely flat.

He let out a disapproving sigh. But, considering you had saved his life, he wasn’t in a position to lecture you. He brought a hand to his bandage, tugging at the fabric. But you soon swatted his filthy paws away from the covered wound.

“It’s really itchy.” He complained.

“The wound is scabbing. Let it be.” You lifted the bandage a little to make sure everything was dry. Dry means good. No more blood and puss.

“Will I be able to see again?” He asked, his voice quieter this time.

“Yes, for the thousandth time. Your injury is external. It was the infection that spread to your eyes. The blindness is only temporary.”

You understood why he was anxious, but bothering you with the same question every day would not make his wound heal any faster. You counted on your fingers. The blindfold should come off in the coming week.

“Not to mention, your body also needs time.”

When you looked at him, you couldn’t help but notice his emaciated appearance. When you found him, he was so mangled and starved that you didn’t realize he was still alive.

His unruly beard grew into a thick, tangled mess, but he was adamant about not letting you shave it off (after you’d nicked him a few times and almost sliced his throat). He at least allowed you to chop off his hair after your bedding was infested with lice.

“Hey, Jackal. What’s Oak Mother, anyway?” You scooted closer to him to get some well-deserved warmth, mindful of the injuries on his arms and shoulders.

His brows knitted, still not pleased with the nickname you gave him.

“What, you are a healer and you don’t even know her?” He scoffed. His lips perked up as he turned his left ear to you. For some reasons, he seemed a lot more willing to talk today.

“I’m not a he— I mean, of course I am! Just tell me.” You pouted and poked his gangly forearm, making him hiss in feigned pain. “Don’t play with me. Your left arm wasn’t hurt that badly.”

“Hmm, the Oak Mother is old, much older than all the gods they taught you about. Healers and midwives used to revere her as their patron goddess. Some of them still do, such as the person you stole from.”

You had to hold back the urge to strike your patient. But it was exceedingly rare for him to engage in a conversation with you, practically never, so you let this slide.

“In the eyes of the common folks, though, she is hailed as the savior for the downtrodden.” He continued smoothly, as if he didn’t just call you a petty thief.

“You worship her?” You asked. How else would he be so knowledgeable about such obscure belief?

His hand moved instinctively towards the bandage over his eyes, but you intervened in time. Again.

His answer was brief, spoken in a gentler tone.

“I prayed to her.”

You understood what he meant. A person in his situation couldn’t do anything but pray. Had you not been in the right place at the right time, you couldn’t imagine what would have happened to him. He would have been left for dead, or worse.

“How do you know so much about her?” You were curious.

No one had ever mentioned the Oak Mother. You had seen healers wearing her symbol, but people in the court always wore all sorts of regalia you didn’t know about. Moreover, no one was willing to talk to the King’s bastard.

Jackal didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t want to.

Instead, he reaches out, his hand brushing against your cheek, in a “If you won’t let me touch my face, I’ll touch yours” manner. His thumb and index picked at the soft flesh.

A jolt of pain grazed your cheek, making you yelp and recoil from his touch.

“You— what’s wrong?”

He was sure he didn’t pinch you that hard. He meant no harm, just wanted to tease you a bit, so you could stop your incessant inquiry. But there was a sensation under his fingertip he couldn’t ignore. A small patch of toughened skin, slightly raised and warm to the touch.

“It’s nothing. I’m used to it.” You shrugged and sighed, rubbing your sore cheek.

The head maid always finds some reasons to strike you. Even if you did nothing wrong, it didn’t matter. This was considered a light punishment.

Jackal’s hand hovered in the air between you.

What do you mean ‘used to it’? A quiet anger brewed inside his chest. He felt completely useless in this state. Even his sword arm wasn’t moving well. He bit back the words he wanted to say, knowing they would be meaningless.

With a heavy sigh, he unclenched his jaws and dropped his shoulders. He searched in the dark to reach out to you once more. His touch this time was feather-light, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.

“Take care of yourself.” he murmured. You could barely register his voice, as it was no more than a whisper.

You forced down the lump in your throat, grateful that he couldn’t see the tears forming in your eyes. There was a tightness in your chest. It was comforting, just for a moment, to have someone care about you, even if he couldn’t do anything to help.

[zapreportsblog]

Can you do rusty nail x male reader

❝road side rescue❞

✭ pairing : rusty nail x male reader

✭ fandom : slashers, joyride

✭ summary : here’s a little look into the life of rusty and his partner met

✭ authors note : no lie all these requests pouring in are becoming overwhelming :( don’t get me wrong I’m happy I’m getting them but it’s like they coming in back to back and it scares me that I won’t have enough time for myself and my own writing ideas

✭ slashers masterlist

The rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt was the only sound that accompanied (m/n) on his journey down south to visit his beloved Nana and Pa. He'd been driving for hours, the open road stretching out before him like an endless ribbon of possibilities. The radio played a soft country tune, setting the mood for the picturesque drive through the countryside.

Just when (m/n) was lost in thought, the tranquility of the moment was shattered by a loud, unmistakable "pop." His car shuddered as he instinctively gripped the steering wheel. (M/n)’s heart sank as he realized what had just happened - a flat tire. He cursed under his breath, pulling over to the side of the road.

"Damn it," he muttered, frustration welling up. He gave the steering wheel a few frustrated thumps with his palm, as if it would magically fix the situation. But the sky above had different plans. Dark clouds rolled in, and within moments, the heavens opened up, drenching (m/n) and his car.

With a sigh, (m/n) reached for the car's radio. He figured he might as well try to call for help. He fiddled with the dial until he found a frequency that wasn't just static.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me?" (M/n) spoke into the microphone, his voice crackling through the speakers.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and (m/n) was beginning to lose hope when a voice finally responded from the other end, "Hey there, buddy, what seems to be the problem?"

(M/n) was relieved to hear a friendly voice. "I'm stuck on the side of the road," he explained, "my car's tires popped, and I don't have a spare. I'm on my way to visit my Nana and Pa, and I can't leave them waiting."

The voice on the other end sounded thoughtful. "Well, that's no good. What kind of car are you driving?"

(M/n) leaned over and peered at the emblem on the steering wheel. "It's a classic [brand]."

There was a pause, and then the voice responded, "You won't believe it, but I've got the same car. I can swing by my place, grab you a spare tire, and help you out."

Gratitude washed over (m/n). "That would be a lifesaver! Thank you so much. By the way, what's your name?"

The voice on the other end chuckled. "You can call me Rusty Nail."

(M/n) couldn't help but smile at the unique nickname. "Alright, Rusty Nail, I really appreciate your help. I'll wait here for you."

As the rain poured down and the minutes passed, (m/n) couldn't help but wonder about the mysterious stranger who had come to his rescue.

(M/n) sat in his car, the rain drumming relentlessly on the roof. The minutes dragged on as he waited for the mysterious Rusty Nail, who had promised to rescue him from his flat tire predicament. The radio continued to play softly in the background, its soothing tunes doing little to ease (m/n)’s impatience.

Suddenly, the sound of a roaring engine filled the air, and (m/n) looked up to see a massive truck pulling up beside him. Out from the driver's seat, a man jumped with an agility that defied his trucker image. The rain poured down on him, but he didn't seem to mind as he approached (m/n)’s window.

(M/n)’s heart raced as the man knocked on the window. Despite the rain clouding his vision, he could make out the stranger's imposing build. The sight of the man made him blush, though he wasn't sure why.

"You the fellow from the radio?" the man asked, his voice gruff yet friendly.

(M/n) swallowed hard, feeling a bit flustered. "Y-yes, that's me," he replied, his voice trembling slightly.

The stranger extended a hand through the open window, and (m/n) took it, feeling the warmth of the man's palm. The rain continued to pour, and (m/n) held up a big flashlight to illuminate the area as the stranger got to work fixing the tire.

With practiced efficiency, the man changed the flat tire with a spare, his muscles flexing under his soaked shirt. (M/n) couldn't help but steal glances, admiring the man's backside. He quickly averted his gaze when he realized he'd been caught staring.

After finishing the task, the man leaned against the car's hood, a smug smirk on his face. "Aren't you going to thank your savior?" he teased, his tone playful.

(M/n)’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red as he stammered out a grateful, "Th-thank you."

The man chuckled, a deep and hearty sound. "Don't mention it, kid. Just doing my good deed for the day."

Realizing he hadn't introduced himself, (m/n) felt a pang of embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I never go to tell you my name."

The man waved it off with a dismissive gesture. "Don't sweat it. I already know your name."

Mark blinked in surprise. "How?"

The man simply grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's just say I have my ways. You take care now." With that, he turned and walked back to his truck, his broad shoulders disappearing into the rain-soaked night.

As the truck rumbled to life and drove away, (m/n) was left sitting in his car, still slightly bewildered by the encounter. Who was this enigmatic man named Rusty Nail, and how did he know his name?

[phantomstatistician]

Saturday Status Update

REQUESTS: OPEN

The wait time for a request is: 58 working days

Upcoming charts (if the sample size is large enough):

Danganronpa - Himiko Yumeno

Merlin - Merlin

The 100 - Clarke Griffin/Lexa most popular AU tags (AO3)

Megamind - 10 most popular tags (AO3)

Community - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Encanto - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Twisted Wonderland - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Mystery Science Theater 3000 - 10 most popular characters (AO3)

Star Trek: Lower Decks - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Baldur's Gate - 10 most popular ships (AO3), Raphael, Cazador Szarr, Zevlor

Percy Jackson - 10 most popular ships (AO3), Percy Jackson

Fire Emblem Awakening - Lucina, Severa

Descendants - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Into the Spider-Verse - Gwen Stacy/Spider-Gwen

Harry Potter - Remus Lupin

Naruto - 10 most popular tags (AO3), Obito Uchiha, Madara Uchiha, Kakashi Hatake

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Persona 3 - Akihiko Sanada

Powerpuff Girls - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Formula One (RPF) - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Yellowjackets - Lottie Matthews 

Chainsaw Man - Denji, Aki

Addams Family - 10 most popular ships (AO3), 10 most popular platonic ships (AO3)

Delicious in Dungeon - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Wicked - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Kill La Kill - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Persona 5 - Sumire Yoshizawa, Yusuke Kitagawa

Mario - Pauline

Undertale - 10 most popular ships (AO3) (no OCs, selfcest, or x Reader)

Invincible - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Chainsaw Man - Power

Soul Eater - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

RWBY - Jaune Arc, Oscar Pine

Women's Football/Soccer - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Project Sekai - Nene Kusanagi

DuckTales - 10 most popular characters (AO3)

Leverage - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Dr. Who - Fifteenth Doctor

Legacies - Lizzie Saltzman

Black Clover - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Xenoblade Chronicles - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Arcane League Of Legends - Viktor

Canon - Anime vs Canon - Manga - 10 most popular ships (AO3)

Mario - Bowser

X-Men - Magneto/Erik Lehnsherr

Have a more elaborate request?  Or want to jump the queue?  Or you want to support me as a content creator?  Buy me a Kofi!

[h0ney-gl0ws]

!Major Spoilers for the Fire Emblem Engage dlc! Rafal Fluff Headcanons

Request: Hello, I was wondering if I could request some fluff headcanons of Rafal x reader from fire emblem engage. Thank you! And I hope you Have a great day!

Of course! Thank you so much for requesting, I FINALLY got around to playing the DLC and oh my gosh do I have a lot to say about this boy! I love him, and there is so much potential for this alternate universe thing! Be expecting a lot more about this is the future haha

Anyways on to the headcanons!

Cw: Spoilers for the fire emblem engage dlc

Word Count (Approx): 560

Rafal would not be good at expressing his feelings to you, after all of the things he did he doesn’t believe he is deserving of you, let alone love.

So expect to be confused with many mysterious gifts at first. Be it a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a replacement necklace for the one you lost, or even handwritten notes.

Of course after you received the note you were able to decipher who it was giving you all these things. You press him on the matter of these secret gifts. In which he would express his interest in you and you would express your interest in him as well, and the rest is history.

He often takes you out for sweet treats, and you’d tease him every time about how its just a guise for himself to be able to eat sugar. He would respond that he needs no “guise” and that he does as he pleases. He just happens to appreciate sweets more in your company.

One time you caught him reading a book underneath a large tree in the somniel. In an attempt to get closer to him by understanding his interests you decided you would secretly read the same book and surprise him by talking to him all about it someday.

However, the title was most misleading, and a book you thought was gonna be about some fantastical fairytale turned out to be the most gut wrenching, disturbing, and gorey book you’d ever read. You had trouble sleeping for a bit after that, and Rafal got a bit concerned. He pestered you until you fessed up about what happened, to which he laughed at your mistakes. Laughed

You were very upset about the whole ordeal, and he had to console you by holding you close as you rambled about the horrors you uncovered in that story. But I guess you helped indulge in his interests anyways, as things you found really creepy about the book he never noticed how unsettling they were. He actually enjoyed hearing your thoughts on the book and helped you pick apart the narrative so it wasn’t as scary anymore, and actually got you invested in the plot line.

You ended up reading a lot more books with Rafal after you had that chat, and sort of had a make shift book club where you’d both just talk about your different experiences reading the material. It brought you a lot closer in the end after all :)

Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day, because what better start to the day could there be than eating sweets. So he always wakes up before you do. It’s nice to be greeted with breakfast in bed though, and you’ve come to cherish your little morning routine with Rafal.

You’re the best thing that could’ve ever happened to him, and even though he thinks he doesn’t deserve you, you know that he will fight till the end of the earth to protect you.