#reference: night garish

[humanjarvis]

runner's high

synopsis: you and sylus play a game of cat and mouse.

tags: predator/prey, primal play, rough sex, sensory deprivation (blindfold), semi-public sex, established relationship, established kink, tracking (mephisto), begging, biting, licking, struggling, manhandling, marking, coming inside/breeding, light evol use, mocking, slight body worship, crying, destruction of public and possibly private property, a blink of aftercare and then fucking until dawn. some previously consented rules listed in italics throughout

pairing: sylus x fem reader (reader referred to as “girl”)

word count: 4.6k

a/n: i tried to tag everything, as you can see. this was nowhere near high priority on my calendar originally but i genuinely do think i need to practice writing smut

Linkon City is known for its nightlife. 

Bustling crowds flooding the streets, sweeping stragglers up in their revelry. Glittering neon signs stacked on top of each other, so garish that passersby never know where to look. Thumping bass and the piercing bleats of car horns, constant and deafening. 

The perfect place to run. The perfect place to blend in. 

Your feet ache as they thud erratically across the pavement. They take the lead in steering you tonight—your wide, unfocused eyes are much too busy playing lookout. 

Around every corner, you think you spot him. A tall frame, a steady gait, a knowing smirk on a chiseled face. 

Around every corner, you’re relieved to be mistaken. 

You’d started as soon as the sun had set. Blood pumping through your veins, heart racing as you threw wary glances over your shoulder. 20-minute head start. 

And oh, had you used it. Darting off in one direction, only to circle back and slink away in another. If you had any chance of making it through the night, you had to be everywhere and nowhere, all at once. 

Anxious pangs propel you forward, past streetlights and food stalls and closing shops. A baritone laugh—no, not him—and your gut roils with unease.

For just one second—all you can afford—you falter. 

To your left, the menswear store with the crooked mannequin out front. Didn’t you already pass it a while ago? 

Traitorous wisps of fatigue, unwelcome and insidious, lick at your stumbling heels. 

You’ve been out for too long. 

Quickening your pace, you scour the busy strip, looking for somewhere, anywhere, that you can rest for a moment. 

The simple dive bar at the end of the street fades into view like a desert oasis. When your eyes settle on its browning bricks, eroding walls, and the bright green sign that flickers like its life is near its end, you allow yourself to feel a glimmer of hope. 

When rowdy college students trickle out the doors and the sour scent of cheap beer wafts through the air, that hope only burns brighter. 

Never, even on his worst day, would he be caught dead in there. 

Relief soars in your chest. It’s perfect. 

The beer really was cheap, according to the yellowing menu on the counter in front of you. 

The bartender, young and heavily tattooed, nods in greeting. “What can I get you tonight?” 

You skim the limited options with disinterest. “Just a water, please.” 

“Not many people come here just for water. There’s a vending machine across the street, you know.” 

Smiling sweetly, you reach into your pocket. The bartender’s eyes bulge when you deposit a neatly packed wad of cash on the table. Take it with you—no buts. Use all of it if you have to. “Will that cover it?” 

“Coming right up,” she squeaks. 

As she whips around to grab a clean glass, stumbling over her own feet, you take the moment to survey the lackluster interior. A row of wobbly stools, mismatched posters on the walls, a pool table that looks like it’s seen better days. 

It’s hideous in here. And for you, right now, that’s beautiful. Your heart feels lighter already. 

Suddenly, a figure slides into the stool to your right. “Hey, you here by yourself?”

He’s a blond, lanky college-aged kid. Not too drunk, by the looks of it, which is better than the alternative. 

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.” The answer is evasive, but not untrue. 

He leans back immediately. “Oh, sorry. I’m here with mine, too. I was just checking in on you—too many girls come here alone.” He shifts his eyes around. “It’s not the safest of places, you know.” 

But for you, at this moment, it is. “Well, thank you for checking. You’re very sweet.” 

“No problem. While I’m here, can I get you anything?” 

Smiling softly, you shake your head. “Oh, no, I’m not drinking tonight.” Just as the words leave you, the bartender slides your glass across the counter, not-so-discreetly palming the cash off the surface. 

The boy nods. And behind him, you swear you spot a flash of silver hair.

No. There was no way. No way in hell that he’d—

Glasses and a round nose. Not him. 

Relaxing your tensed shoulders, you breathe a sigh of relief. But all fantasies of this place as one of refuge dissipate. 

Nerves alight, you dig out your cell and spare a flighty glance at the lock screen. Phone on you at all times. 

Precious minutes have slipped through your fingers. You have to keep moving. 

Cursing, you down your water and hop off your stool. 

“That…was not a very long visit,” the boy says in obvious confusion. “You didn’t wanna stay for a while?” 

You grimace as you lay an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “I don’t really have a while right now. It was nice meeting you.” Then, with a slight tip of your head, you head for the back exit. 

The air has cooled since you were last outside. 

Rubbing your hands over your bare biceps, you shiver as you stalk forward, ready to vanish into the night once again. 

“You really should try harder, sweetie.” 

Your foot hovers mid-step. 

Behind you. To the left, somewhere. Not many more than a few paces. 

Slowly, you turn. 

Polished leather shoes are the first thing you see. Fitted slacks that swell at the thighs, a shining silver belt buckle, a dark button-up under an expertly tailored overcoat. 

His sharp face is illuminated in the warm streetlight.  

Attentive red eyes subtly check you for injuries. When he finds none, a self-satisfied grin spreads across his lips. 

He opens his mouth again. But before he can speak, you spin on your heels, nearly smacking straight into a passing couple. 

A full, sonorous laugh, rich and mocking, echoes between your retreating footsteps. 

You’re more than a little unnerved.

Sylus—infallible, inevitable Sylus—had stood there, still and smirking, while you ran from him like he was a monster. 

Why had he let you get away? 

Sweat beads at your hairline as you slip through crowded sidewalks, heart thumping as loud as the bass in the background. 

Wiping your brow, you stare longingly at the distant tree line, wishing you could take the chance and disappear into the woodland. But alas, stay inside the city limits. 

Frantic footfalls take you to a sparse street, the city’s soundtrack fading behind you. On your right is a modern train station—open, but deserted in the midnight slowdown. 

Your stomach starts to tighten from your constant movements. But with a determined shake of your head, you push forward. 

Until the unmistakable, eerily perfect call of a crow sounds from above. 

He’s right on top of you. 

“And no Mephisto,” you proposed, knowing full well he’d argue.

His scoff was immediate. “I don’t think so.” 

“But that’s not fair! I won’t even have a chance if you get to use him. I’ll be a sitting duck out there!”

“You won’t be out there at all if I don’t use him. I won’t risk your safety just so you can feel the thrill of evading me for a little longer.” 

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he caught your jaw in his hand. 

“This one is nonnegotiable, kitten. Mephisto stays.”

And now, his master is toying with you.

You should have negotiated. 

The flapping of wings sounds overhead. In a panic, you look back to the train station, weighing your options in your scattered mind. No public transit. 

You step toward it. 

No public transit. 

Another caw. Closer. 

No public transit. No public transit. No public transit. 

The rule blinks in your mind like a warning light as you disappear through sliding doors. 

Since you’ve been with him, you’ve been no stranger to luxury hotels. 

You don’t know why you fled to this one. Maybe it’s the familiarity—you’d stayed here twice before. But you’d never ventured up to the rooftop lounge. Not until tonight. 

Ducking under velvet ropes, you take in the lavish setup. Cocktail tables and plush seating decorate the space, with tea light candles and white floral arrangements scattered throughout. Someone’s hosting an event here. Soon, by the looks of it. 

Inching forward, you pass a sign painted in beautiful calligraphy. Tom & Katie’s Engagement Party! 

Tomorrow’s date, big and bold, sits underneath. 

You’ll be gone before then. In and out, without a trace. 

You’d chosen the roof for two reasons: one, if—when—he comes, you’ll be able to see him well in advance. And two, not even that incorrigible crow can sneak up on you now. 

Nodding shakily, you step to the center, your attention stolen by a small photo frame. 

A shift. An electric charge in the air.

A hand around your nape.

“Caught you.”

In an instant, you lurch forward, barely suppressing the blood-curdling scream that rises in your throat. His hand slips from your neck as you attempt to flee, only to splay across your heaving ribcage as he corrals your body flush against his. 

Cautious as he is, his grip is firm, unyielding. But that doesn’t mean you’ll just give up like this, fall limply in his arms without a fight. You truly are a caged kitten as you thrash in his grip—a flurry of fists and elbows flailing wildly in the air. You’re not sure a single hit lands.

The threat of conquest looms with each passing second. His strength is unimaginable, the way he swiftly pins your arms to your sides with only a few annoyed grunts, as if your perseverance were merely a nuisance to him. An obstacle for him to surmount. 

He restrains your limbs with just one hand, his thumb firmly encircling both forearms against your clenched belly. As he leans downward, excited breaths brushing the shell of your ear, something long and hard and familiar prods your lumbar spine. 

“Playing with cornered prey is…tedious.” The words are a flippant, smug purr. He’s a lion that’s returned from a fruitless hunt, only to find a lost fawn in its den. “I’d much rather you conserve your strength. You’ll need it.” 

Anger flares at his assumption. Baring your teeth, you thrash against him again, but his power quells all protest. And with the way he pulses behind you, you’ve only made him more eager to consummate his victory. 

His free hand returns to snake around your throat, petting your feverish skin with hungry affection. Chuckling deeply, he raises it just to your jaw, circling two tantalizing digits around your mouth. It’s crude. Mocking. But it’s the opening you need. 

Parting your lips, you let his fingers slide onto the pad of your tongue, closing around them with a servile moan. Then, with a sudden snap forward, you sink your teeth into his prone flesh, just enough to leave an angry red imprint. Immediately, a harsh rumble sounds in his chest, the rippling waves against your spine a beacon of hope in your heart. If you’re lucky, he’ll let you go. 

But where you pray Sylus will flinch, pull back, do anything that will give you space to breathe, he only pulls you impossibly closer, lifting your head with his wounded hand. 

His eyes gleam with wicked delight. He leans down, brushing his nose to yours, feigning a pout as he tightens his grip on your chin. “If this is how you show thanks for my mercy, I can’t wait to see what you’ll do when I get mean.”

A suppressed whimper. Another failed thrash. And Sylus sighs with false sympathy, pressing a lewd, lasting kiss to your scalding cheek. 

“You’re so nervous, sweetie. Anxious animals often calm themselves when their eyes are covered. I wonder if you’ll do the same?” 

The words have barely hit the air before you’re plunged into darkness. With strong arms still subduing you, a strip of fabric secures itself around your eyes, leaving you blind and vulnerable to his whims.

So much for no Evol. 

His skin is hot. He smells of spice and fading cologne. And when he whispers in your ear, asking you how you feel now, the tip of his tongue hits the roof of his mouth with a sinful crackle. As if he's drawing out his dominance. Savoring it. 

Before long, you’re being maneuvered in his hold. Gathered and hoisted. 

Confident footsteps rattle the rooftop. 

You’re falling. Something soft hits your back. By the divots between cushions, it’s the oversized sectional you'd seen before your world went dark. 

You feel around the plush fabric for his hard, unwavering body. You snarl when you come up short. “Take this off! Take it off.” 

Somewhere before you, he tuts. “I was going to take my time with you, sweetie. But if you insist…”

Nimble hands sweep down your body, tugging your pants off with practiced ease. A choked gasp leaves you at the sudden movement, the cold night air nipping at your bare legs. 

You swipe wildly at an invisible target. “You know that's not what I meant!” 

“You’re not exactly in the position to be making demands right now.” Amusement bleeds through his tone. “There’s a much better use for your current…situation.”

The unsettling weight of his Evol lands on your shoulders, pulling and laying you flat on your back. A quiet thud sounds on the stony floor. Several beats of silence. 

And then, a hot tongue swirling on the inside of your ankle, soft lips sucking on untouched skin. 

“Sylus,” you hiss, failing to jerk away thanks to the heavy hand on your calf. 

He only hums dismissively, set on continuing his journey upwards. Slowly, methodically, he trails open-mouthed kisses and teasing nibbles over your calves, your knees, your thighs, ghosting a feather-light peck on your clothed core when it comes within reach. Throbbing with need, you hold back a whine when he stays his course, his eager lips coming to mouth at your tense lower belly. 

A moment later, and his touch leaves your skin, the nighttime breeze chilling you in its place. There’s a clinking sound, a soft rustling below. For a moment, you fear abandonment. But when the cushions dip and your shirt is swiftly tugged off, you know he’s just getting started. 

You wonder how you look to him—helpless and quivering, protected only by thin strips of fabric you’re sure he’ll conquer next. You wish you didn’t have to imagine the hunger in his eyes.

The next time he looms over you, his bare legs brush yours. The heat from his chest flows into your hips as his tongue reunites with your prickling flesh, dipping into your navel with unabashed intent. 

He leaves a wicked trail over the center of your stomach, stopping only when he reaches the lace hem of your bra. You try to sit up, try to push off, but fall right back down when his mouth closes over your stiff nipple. 

A wanton moan escapes you as his tongue roves over your clothed left breast. The friction is teasing, taunting over the flimsy barrier. A glimpse of what you could have if you gave yourself to him. But until that moment, he’s a cautious predator, refusing to be fooled twice by his prey playing dead. 

He’s right to do so. You’re desperate now, flexing fingers tugging sharply at his thick hair. When you scratch at his scalp, he scoffs around your dampened cup, his hand lifting to give your right peak the same treatment: tugging, pinching, rolling it under his thumb, all while relentlessly hollowing his cheeks around your other breast. As you writhe in his steady hold, sharp teeth threaten your swollen bud, and you arch fully off the cushions, pushing yourself even further into his waiting mouth. 

A few more greedy sucks, and he releases you with a pop, giving your tender flesh a much needed reprieve. “Still a feisty little thing,” he murmurs, “but you have gotten calmer, wouldn’t you agree? When you’re like this, supple and breathless beneath me…I can finally savor my prey.” 

Searing lips steal yours in a claiming kiss. With gluttonous audacity, he swallows your squeal, and you can feel his smirk as he tries to lick into you. Coming to your senses, you clamp your mouth shut with stubborn shakes of your head, denying him the triumph of tasting you. For a moment, you think he’ll relent—until he snakes an arm around your hips and gropes your backside in his hand. 

The bruising touch makes your lips part in a startled gasp, and the small opening is enough for him. Without hesitation, he plunges into your mouth, massaging the smooth insides of your cheeks before tangling his tongue with your own. 

His fervor chips away at the foundations of your resolve—slowly, precisely, as if waiting for it to topple like a felled tree. You barely struggle against him. You barely can, with the way he lays claim to every inch of your mouth, suckling your tongue like it’s candy. He tastes like sin and wine, and you’re anything but clean. 

You don’t realize when you start panting below him, breathy whines spilling from your lips in a frenzy. But he swallows them all with undisguised avarice, letting you moan into his mouth like he plans to siphon your voice alongside your energy.

The waistband of his boxers brushes your hips as he shifts, and his thick, heavy length throbs against you. But you’re so drunk on him, so high on his flavor, that the feeling of fabric sliding down your legs is only a passing thought.

Stars burst behind your blindfold as he spears into you. 

You convulse almost immediately, gasping at the sudden intrusion. He’s so warm and rigid, you don’t know how he’s lasted this long—you can practically picture his swollen tip, dripping with milky fluid under his boxers as he crumbled your will before taking you. 

From the relieved, guttural grunts that fall with each pump inside, you know your imagination isn’t too far off. 

His eager forward thrusts awaken the last of your instinct to push, to act—like a lamb fighting for its last breaths in the maw of a wolf. Surging upwards, you reach blindly around him, bumping your chest against his as you scratch wildly at his back. Your nails drag down his heated skin, catching at his rippling muscles, but you don’t let up. 

He snarls into your ear. “Give me it. Give it to me—everything you have. Exhaust the last of your strength and let me claim you completely. When you’ve worn yourself out, I bet I’ll reach even deeper.” 

Your nails sink further as your walls clench around him, sucking him in despite your brain’s protests. 

He leans closer. His nose ghosts the shell of your ear. “You feel it, don’t you? Your body taking me in? That means your time is running out. This is your last chance to prove to me that this night ends with anything but my seed spilling into you.”

The threat makes your heart lurch—anticipation masked as fear. With waning energy, you give a resolute grunt and thread your fingers in his hair once more, pulling until he hisses at the sting. But all the while, he never slows his thrusts—reveling in your weakness, ensuring no escape. 

With every surge into your tightening walls, Sylus takes what he won from you—what he knew he’d win from the moment you said no public transit. You knew he knew. For just one second, your eyes had shifted downward. Your guilt was fleeting for such a bold lie, but it’d been enough—enough for him to know you. Enough for him to chase you here and trap you with his foresight.

And now, you pay the price. Your frantic pants slow. Your fingers slacken in his hair. You’re barely wriggling in his hold now. Each relentless pump inside you, testing your limits, kissing your furthest depths, molds you more and more into willful prey. Under the sweat-slicked blindfold, where his touch is your only concern, your racing heartbeat calms to a steady pulse. 

He knows as much, with the way his strained grunts have turned to drawn-out moans—the way he coos in the ear he’d just snarled in, praising how smart you are for handing yourself over to him. How beautiful your surrender is. 

It’s not long until you’ve melted in his arms, clinging desperately to him as the steady slaps of skin on skin echo in your ears. Weakly, you kiss the closest thing you feel—his chin, it seems—and adoration burns through his resulting chuckle. 

Reaching under you, he deftly unclasps your ruined bra, finally freeing your tender breasts. They follow his thrusts with aching bounces, your hard, sore nipples ricocheting off his chest.

He kisses you again, cupping your cheek below your blindfold, and you open for him instantly, keening quietly into him. The pitiful sound wins a groan from him, and he laps at your mouth a final time before pulling away, a string of mixed saliva snapping as he does.

Whimpering, you paw at his chest, wanting to follow but not knowing where to go. His only response is to smooth a hand over your furrowed brow before dropping it to the cushion below, bracing himself on your makeshift bed. 

He pulls out, leaving you cold and empty, and you nearly wail at the loss. 

And then, he snaps forward with otherworldly precision, his hot, pulsing length pistoning into you with devastating speed. Dots sparkle across your darkened vision, and the obscene slaps of his hilt on your flesh carry into the night. 

Your walls are gushing around him, likely staining the expensive sofa below, but you’re well past the point of propriety. 

As need builds in your core, you cinch your legs around his waist, all but gluing him to you. A growl rips from his throat at the pressure, and he swipes his tongue through your mouth, nipping at your swollen bottom lip before he speaks. 

“Is this,” he begins, gasping between scorching waves of pleasure, “another tactic of yours? You squeeze me like this until I black out and make your grand escape?”

The euphoric buzz in your brain delays your answer. 

Until he licks a long stripe up your neck, biting down where it meets your shoulder. His tongue swirls around the angry bruise, the wet sounds of his mouth on you mixing with the rapid echoes of you sucking him in. 

A whine bubbles in your throat as tears slip from your closed eyelids, their sticky heat pasting your blindfold to your skin. “No,” you cry. “No escaping. I don’t want to, I only want—I need it. You promised me. You promised me if I gave in, you’d…” Your voice breaks. You can’t bring yourself to say it, even as you beg for it. “I need it, Sylus. All of it. Please.” 

Mirth fills his husky laugh. “That wasn’t what you were saying earlier, sweetie. You were fighting me so valiantly—what changed?”

Another whine from you. 

He rumbles in amusement, reaching between your legs to roll your swollen bud under his thumb. When you gasp, he bites your slackened jaw, suckling on your sweat-sheened skin. “I could hear your heart beating out of your chest. But you were never afraid of me. You know better than to be afraid of me,” he growls, surging far into your fluttering walls for emphasis. “Then…did you like being caught? Did you like me overpowering you? Do you like falling apart around me, begging for me to fill you?”

You’re practically sniveling as you nod your head, agreeing faithfully to his every accusation. Your safeword is Elysium.

“Filthy girl. And here I was, thinking I was so mean for giving you exactly what you wanted.” 

A broken sob escapes you. Shame, exhaustion, his bruising pace inside you still not letting up. At this point, you’ll give him anything he asks for. “I wanted you to catch me,” you hiccup, clinging to his arm like your life depends on it. “I wanted it so bad. I wanted you to pin me down and I wanted to fight, a-and I wanted you to win because you’re just that strong. I…I wanted you to break me, and now I want you to finish. I want to feel you inside me, even when you’re not there.” 

For just this moment, you’re thankful for the blindfold, knowing you don’t have to see the way his eyes gleam. 

“Hm,” he drawls, kissing your eyelid through the fabric. “Works for me, kitten.” 

He dips his head to lash his tongue around your breast. Its naked peak blossoms to life at his touch, still remembering his earlier onslaught. 

At the same time, he hurries the hand between your legs, circling and tapping the twitching nub until chants of his name spill from your mouth. When whispers turn to screams, he tugs it firmly between two fingers, and a rainbow of stars explodes under your eyelids.

You seize and clench around him, lodging him in your quivering core as your body eagerly broadcasts your defeat. 

He pulses once, twice, buried to the hilt in your heat, before warm bursts coat your flexing walls. Slumping forward on top of you, he buries his head in your shoulder with a guttural groan. 

His scent surrounds you until you're not sure where he ends and you begin anymore. But it’s exactly what you asked for. By nature's orders, you're his.

Reassuring touches are exchanged as you both catch your breath, embracing in the moonlight with the stars as your witness. After a while, he lifts slightly off of you and gently unfastens your blindfold, and when you blink your swollen eyes open, the purpling marks and scratches on your slick bodies are the first thing you see. The second? The once pristine decorations that lay scattered across the rooftop, misshapen and covered in dust. 

The third is the worst of all: the impish, arrogant glint in his eyes, so brazen it sparks a petulant pang deep in your gut. Squinting furiously, you surge upward and attack his lips with yours, emboldened by your captor’s brashness.

Again and again he takes you—until the hazy pink beginnings of dawn threaten to expose the outcome of last night’s hunt.

When he carries you down the lobby’s staircase, sauntering coolly past disgruntled overnight staff, you can only bury your head in his shoulder, blocking your vision once more. 

It’s late afternoon when you rouse beside him, kicking him under the covers in retribution. “You never said anything about a blindfold.” 

Sighing sleepily, he turns to face you and hoists your leg over his hips, trapping it for its insolence. “And you never said anything about raking your kitten claws down my back, so I guess we’re even.” He shrugs. “I was improvising, sweetie—didn’t you enjoy it? You certainly seemed to when you were begging me to—”

“Okay, okay! You don’t have to go there.”

He coos. “But what if I want to?” 

“I don’t care what you want,” you grumble, flipping over with a huff when he allows you to wriggle free. “Just…go back to sleep. It’s still your bedtime.” 

A rich chuckle envelops you as you drift off again.

The next morning, a mailman drops a deep red envelope on a hotel reception desk. Inside it are a seven-figure check and a small greeting card, the diamond ring on its front stained in swooping black ink. 

To the happy couple.

[finemadeline]

Knight!ghost x maid!reader

Warnings: Light gore, heavy smut, 18+

@readgoods wonderful artwork of Ghost in armor with a codpiece changed my brain chemistry

The kingdom should have Ghosts head for this.

Let his head loll to the ground after the blade sliced through flesh and bone, and stab it on a stake to parade around the kingdom — a message to those who think of disobeying the crown. To those who wish to commit high treason among the monarchy.

But greed is hungry. It consumes, and it takes. It makes his senses dull and his eyes linger when you walk by, tracing your features out of the corner of his eye. Makes a deep ravenous ache deep in his gut, that coils around his ribs and tightens around his heart.

It makes him weak, and soft. Forces his hand, and makes him seek you out in the dead of night to the servant quarters to hear you chatter on about your day, or sneak decadent treats from the ballroom to the room you’ve been assigned to see you smile.

The kingdom should strip him of his titles for this.

Take away his power, his roles, his possessions. Leave him bare and banish him to the wastelands, leaving him to fend for himself in the woods. Let the wolves finish him off and turn his bones into peat.

Ghost should be outside the princess's door. Waiting for her to call his name sickeningly sweet — her eyes filled with mirth and her makeup garish. He should be there, at her beck and call, protecting the Princess. Serving the crown, rotten or not.

That is his duty. That is his honor.

But his hands followed his eyes when they wandered. His brain strayed along, lagging behind his heart. He let temptation consume him and leave his duty behind. Let his fingers graze yours in passing — let himself follow you when you slinked into the servant quarters to busy yourself with duties.

He could no longer think of the consequences. Not when his hands pulled you into the nearest closet, pushing up your dress as his mouth clamped onto your neck, your soft whimpers making his ears fill with cotton as the curve of your thighs made his body pulse with need.

“You are a temptress.” He hisses, grabbing your hips and pulling you to grind against his codpiece. Ghosts hips rush to meet yours, pushing against you to catch your cunt against the cold metal. When he reaches to pull the hood of your clit as he grinds the codpiece closer, your thighs shake with need.

He relishes in your moans, nibbling onto your ear as two fingers tap your lips. “Open,” he rasps, pulling his fingers from your thigh to instead rest on your cheek, squeezing them together. When you open your mouth, his tongue hurries to meet yours.

It’s filthy in the way its teeth and tongue, his tongue pushing deeper into your mouth to hear you keen for him, only pulling away when you squirm — your glassy eyes and bated breath almost making his eyes roll into his head.

His lips move to your neck, tonguing at the salty sweat made. He threatens to bite, to crack your bones open and sink into your marrow to make a home there — and you do nothing but tilt your head away to give him more access.

He’d much rather kneel to you. Lower his head to kiss your hand — ignoring the chipped nails and gnarled skin, or the ratty clothes and dirt stains— and watch you night and day, waiting for you to call for him. No longer serving the rotten, but something much sweeter. Much softer.

Your whines of his name break him out of his fervor, hips canting faster as you approach your peak. He should punish you, he thinks. Pull his hips away and watch your release slip from your grasp for bringing him to his knees so easily. For weakening his heart so greatly.

But he relishes in the way your body squirms as you come, hips twitching as you bite your bottom lip to silence your moans. When you lean back onto him, reaching up for a kiss, he then knows he can deny you nothing.

He will give you everything.

He deserves to serve something more sweeter. More softer.

Link to photo reference! : https://www.tumblr.com/readgoods/778351895707287552/knight-ghost

[fear-is-truth]

𝜗ϱ fiancé! + husband! 𝓟𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝓑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍 hc

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw headcanons﹒violent fantasies﹒infidelity

a/n: i would like to thank anon for requesting this and credit to dear bow anon for helping out !!

one night, as you both rode in a cab on the way to dinner, patrick takes off his walkman and suddenly asked, “have you ever thought about getting married?” his tone was casual, but his body language betrayed his tension—the tightening of his grip on his leather gloves, the unnecessary way he adjusted his tie. when you turned to him, surprised, he waved it off almost immediately. for the rest of the ride, he ignored you, listening to his walkman.

full fic : the perfect girl

weeks later, the topic re-emerged. it was a quiet morning after sex—patrick lay beside you in his perfectly starched egyptian sheets, sunlight streaming in through the windows. “would you ever consider marrying me?” he asked abruptly. the question startled you—again. you blinked at him, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “marry you?” patrick shifted slightly, propping himself up on an elbow. his face was unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly. “yes. i’d assume it’s a reasonable consideration,” he said, as though the idea had been entirely logical. your heart fluttered despite the lack of romance in his delivery. “yes, patrick,” you said after a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “i would.”

full fic : patrick’s proposal

patrick wasted no time. the next day, he presented you with a ring: an 18k rose gold cartier panthère ring, encrusted with diamond accents.

smutty drabble: jerking him off

pre-nuptial agreements (obviously)

meticulously plans every detail of your engagement and future wedding. the venue must be the right blend of modern elegance and exclusivity, the guest list is capped at “only the most important people,” and the floral arrangements must feature imported orchids flown in from singapore. no compromises.

scrutinized every decision down to the smallest detail: the font on the invitations (garamond, elegant but understated), the centerpiece arrangements (white roses only, no filler flowers), and champagne (dom pérignon, chilled to exactly 45 degrees).

patrick donned a pair of ray-ban wayfarers as the two of you arrived at the reception venue (the pierre hotel), stepping out of the rolls-royce.

your wedding dress was custom-designed at dior’s paris atelier. it was a minimalist masterpiece: a structured bodice with a square neckline, flowing into a clean, floor-length skirt with a cathedral-length train. the fabric was italian silk-mikado with a soft sheen, the epitome of elegance. no lace, no unnecessary frills—patrick deemed them “garish.” the veil was long and simple, edged with the thinnest line of swarovski crystals for just a hint of sparkle.

patrick wore a bespoke zegna tuxedo, black with peak lapels, tailored to absolute perfection. the cuffs of his shirt bore subtle platinum cufflinks engraved with your initials and the wedding date. he spent an obscene amount of time choosing the exact shade of black for the tie.

patrick stole quick glances at you, a flicker of irritation shadowing his eyes at the slight asymmetry of your smile. he stewed in his own perfectionist hell, a seething internal monologue growing increasingly deranged.

the bridal portraits was complete nightmare. after making the photographer redo them six damn times—he still found fault. he had scrutinised the angle of your neck, the curve of your jaw, the flicker of light in your eyes. in his eyes, the photos should’ve been magazine-perfect. anything less was sacrilege!

his vows were an unsettling, almost surreal monologue. a strange, disjointed stream of poetic nihilism, peppered with bizarrely intellectual references. sprinkled in lines from fromm’s the art of loving, twisting them into cryptic confessions that left everyone unsure whether he was being sincere or just… pretentious patrick.

the reception unfolded in an impossibly sleek manhattan venue. a cavernous, glass-walled space filled with patrick’s circle of high-powered cronies, along with stick-thin models who seemed more at ease snorting cocaine in dark corners than nibbling on the overpriced amuse-bouches.

the waitstaff darted around the room, terrified to stumble into discussions about stock portfolios, yacht repairs, or debates over which luxury rehab center had the best cold-press juice cleanse. conversations were a mix of shallow ambition and transactional networking.

the dining experience was an exercise in culinary pretension. dry-aged wagyu steaks with precise marbling, delicate beluga caviar that was more a statement of wealth than taste, and desserts that were too decadent (and high in calories) to exist. everything was paired with wine that cost more than most people’s annual mortgage.

the cake was a towering six-tier masterpiece from sylvia weinstock, adorned with sugar flowers so intricate they looked real. each layer featured a different flavour, from vanilla-bean sponge to passionfruit mousse.

only dom pérignon vintage 1985 was served—patrick had insisted on it. the bottles were presented on silver trays by impeccably dressed waitstaff, with glasses refilled before guests could even think about asking. patrick spent weeks debating between this and krug clos du mesnil but ultimately decided the former “sent the right message.”

during the ceremony, patrick’s bored mind slipped into violent fantasies. he imagined choking out the priest with his necktie and chopping up his groomsmen like sashimi.

despite being invited out of obligation, evelyn didn’t show. patrick hadn’t mentioned her absence until much later, casually remarking, “it was better this way.” he didn’t dwell on her, but jane—his secretary and a guest at the wedding—looked quietly heartbroken for some reason.

dancing was beneath patrick. instead, he lingered by the bar, a martini glass filled with a pristine, artful concoction he hadn’t ordered but took anyway because it fit perfectly in his hand. he’d observed the guests, mentally doing fit checks.

after the night wound down, patrick would lie naked in your hotel suite, staring at the ceiling with an unsettling stillness. his jaw clenched as his thoughts spiraled. not about the wedding itself—that was a calculated performance he’d mastered. no, he was questioning the tie. the damn zegna tie. why hadn’t he gone with the brioni?

insists you accompany him to every social gathering, but not because he wants your company. you’re his accessory, his proof of a successful relationship. he spends the evening flaunting you on his arm, introducing you to people who matter to him (read: people whose opinions validate him), and correcting your behavior if he deems it less than perfect.

his morning routine is sacred, and by extension, you’re expected to have one too. patrick buys you a shelf’s worth of high-end skincare products and insists you use them exactly as prescribed.

takes immense interest in your wardrobe. if something looks even remotely outdated or “cheap,” he’ll whisk you through fifth avenue, steering you toward hermès or dior

has a habit of buying you extravagant gifts after every argument—designer bags, clothes and jewelry. “i thought this might cheer you up,” he says, like he didn’t just shatter your nerves an hour earlier.

morning sex is first thing when you both wake up, right before his meticulously scheduled workout—his body at its peak energy. once finished, he’d kiss your forehead and disappear into the bathroom for his grooming routine.

insists on watching the patty winters show and sit you both in front of the television. you often have no choice but to endure his running commentary.

patrick has a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. he claims it’s beneath him, but when he goes, he micromanages the process to an extreme degree—reading labels, debating brands, and spending 20 minutes in the imported cheese aisle.

your wedding photos are framed in the living room, carefully arranged in a symmetrical layout. patrick often stares at them as he works out.

his idea of romance sometimes verged on the grotesque. one evening, he decided the two of you should watch the texas chainsaw massacre together. he ends up fucking you into the couch as he enjoys the music.

not the type to be overly vulnerable, but in the privacy of your bedroom, he’d occasionally let down his guard. pillow talk with patrick is a mix of unnervingly sharp observations and random musings. he’ll ramble about the fisher account, dissect music lyrics in great detail, or comment on global events with an eerie detachment.

occasionally, he’d break the stream of words with a sudden, “you’re listening, aren’t you?”

patrick hates surprises—unless they’re from him. when your coworkers once threw you a small birthday party, he was visibly irritated the entire evening. “it was tacky,” he said flatly on the drive home. “you deserve better.”

he got you reservations at dorsia, a perfectly chosen gift (think chanel jewelry or a bvlgari clutch), and a bouquet of flowers with handwritten note that’s short, formal, and oddly impersonal: “to another year of excellence—patrick.”

patrick rarely laughs, but when he does, it’s usually at something dark or absurd. once, you tripped over a stack of magazines he left by the couch and groaned in pain. his response? a sharp, startled laugh, followed by an unconvincing, “…are you okay?”

he adores the opera—not so much for the art but for the prestige it carries. he’ll plan elaborate evenings at the metropolitan opera house, ensuring both of you were impeccably dressed. he wore a brioni tuxedo, while he’d insist on you wearing a custom-made gown from carolina herrera or oscar de la renta.

despite his outward sophistication, his attention drifted from the stage to you. hand resting lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing small circles through the fabric of your dress.

he’s absolutely neurotic about cleanliness. he’ll never leave a glass on the counter without a coaster and can’t stand an unmade bed.

hates clutter and will occasionally “edit” your belongings—quietly throwing out things he deems unnecessary, like old magazines or sentimental knickknacks, without consulting you.

micromanages household tasks. he critiques the way you load the dishwasher, fold laundry, or even stack the fridge. “this is inefficient,” he’ll say, rearranging items while you stand there, biting your tongue.

patrick has an affinity for the ritual of lighting cigars. he’ll let you hold the match for him occasionally, but only if you did it exactly right.

would only agree to a pet under duress, and even then, it would have to be something sleek and purebred. when you suggest something more practical, like a rescue, he’s visibly horrified.

when you finally get the pet, patrick is immediately jealous of the attention you give it. if the cat / dog sits on your lap during movie night, he’ll stare at it with naked dislike. “i don’t understand why you let it do that,”

patrick has an odd relationship with your pet. he’ll complain about it incessantly—“it sheds everywhere,” “it’s always underfoot”—but despite his constant bitching, you’ve caught him talking to the pet on more than one occasion. “she likes you more than me,” he mumbles bitterly. the pet tilts its head, oblivious, which irritates him further. after taking another sip of scotch, he nudges it away with his foot—not enough to hurt it in your presence.

but the true ugliness of patrick’s jealousy comes out when you’re not looking. he’ll straight up kick the poor thing or lock it out from your bedroom.

doesn’t officially cheat, but he indulges in frequent encounters with sex workers—usually in secluded, high-end hotels. these encounters, hidden from you, are his way of dealing with his violent fantasies.

afterwards, he comes back to you, his demeanor completely unaffected. he doesn’t apologize, doesn’t act like anything has changed—because, in his mind, it hasn’t. you’re still his. you always will be.

when he’s bored, he’ll ask you to try on outfits—sometimes just a simple dress, but mostly it’s something risqué. he watches you from the other side of the room with that detached gaze, silently critiquing your appearance. “it’s not quite right,” he’ll say, before giving you another outfit to try on like you’re his personal doll.

full fic : leather & lace

while patrick doesn’t outright admit his dependence on you, it’s clear in the small moments. if you’re gone for too long, he’ll call, his tone petulant as he demands your whereabouts, as though your absence disrupts his routine.

at age 27, patrick doesn’t yet feel the need to rush into parenthood, but there are times, especially while having sex, that he considers the possibility. it’s an idea that briefly excites him, but he quickly dismisses it with a wry smile, preferring the idea of you and him maintaining an image of “perfection” without the messiness of raising a child.

though you’ve never spoken about the future in concrete terms, patrick assumes you’ll always be by his side, forever wrapped in his controlling, perfectionist bubble. he doesn’t see any reason why you’d want to leave; after all, why would you when you have everything?

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[lees-chaotic-brain]

careless whisper by george michael , gojo , angst

WC: 2k

CW: cheating, angst, hurt/no comfort, reader has female pronouns (referred to as madam and birthday girl), alcohol consumption (all characters are of age), swearing

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to the event taglist): @chosolovers @ssetsuka @ichikanu

listen to this while reading

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For one night, one night alone you were going to put all of your suspicions and past hurt aside and enjoy the party. After all, it was your birthday so the night was supposed to be all about you.

Shooting a smile at your boyfriend across the room you can't help but feel your stomach flutter as he shoots you a wink and begins making his way through the crowd towards you. Stopping in front of you he sweeps forward in an exaggerated bow, extending his arm.

“Madam Birthday Girl, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Laughing at his antics, you relax, reassured by his usual behavior. Of course everything was normal between the two of you. You were just being paranoid. Placing your hand in his, you allowed him to escort you onto the dance floor.

I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor

Wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying slowly to the music you rested your face against his chest and enjoyed the peace of the moment. Or, at least you tried to.

As soon as your nose brushed his blue button up your senses were invaded with some sort of expensive oriental perfume, meant to be subtle with rose and jasmine. But judging from the way your nose burned, whoever had been wearing it must have been wearing a whole bottle for the residual left on his clothes to be so strong. Nothing like the one or two spritzes of understated wildflower perfumes you preferred. 

Fighting the urge to gag at the overpowering scent, you looked up over his shoulder in an attempt to get some fresh air. Instead you were confronted by lipstick stains on the edge of his collar. Bright pink lipstick stains, which couldn’t possibly be yours, because you would never wear a color that garish. 

Suddenly you no longer felt like dancing, and as the song’s outro played you decided to give him one more chance to explain himself after the party. If he couldn’t do that, then the two of you were done. Looking up into his eyes you gave him a forced smile, a small part of you screaming that this was going to be the last time the two of you danced like this.

As the music dies, something in your eyes

Calls to mind a silver screen

And all its sad good-byes

After the song ended Gojo watched you walk away, unsettled by the finality in your eyes. Had you figured it out? Did you know where he had been before the party? Who was he kidding of course you had. As much as the two of you had danced around the obvious truth for months he knew that you knew. He had fallen in love with your quick wits and intelligence. There was no way you hadn’t put two and two together.

But despite forgotten dates, the nights he came home late or not at all, the perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to his skin, he dared to hope that you would just keep pretending not to know. That things could stay the way they were. If only you weren’t so smart.

Though it's easy to pretend

I know you're not a fool

Walking across the room you mingled with the guests, accepting birthday wishes and engaging in small talk. Heading over to the bar, you got a refill on your drink and leaned against the bar sipping it. You heaved a sigh, wishing the entire thing was over and that you could just go home. A large warm hand placed on your shoulder interrupted your stewing, causing you to turn around.

“Oh! Geto! Hi! I wasn’t expecting you to come. How are you?” You were surprised to see none other than your boyfriend’s best friend, Geto Suguru. The large man chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly at your surprise.

“Sorry, I was in the area and decided to drop by. I’m doing okay, but actually I’m here to ask you that. I’m really sorry about what Satoru did. It was fucked up. How are you doing with the breakup? I may be his best friend but just know that I’m always here for you-”

“Wait, what? The breakup?” You were confused. You hadn’t even told your best friends about your plans to confront Satoru, seeing as you had only made up your mind a few minutes ago.  “What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean ‘what do you mean?’ We had a conversation and Satoru promised me-” Realization lit up in his dark eyes. “He didn’t do it, did he? Oh that son of a-” He stops, looking at you guiltily.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. You should hear it from him. I gotta go now.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your gut.

From across the room, Gojo watched his friend leave, knowing that whatever had just happened between the two of you could not not have been good. Not wanting to obsess over what Suguru could have said, he turned away and jumped into a conversation. Whatever was said had been said already. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

Time can never mend

The careless whispers of a good friend

If he had watched a few seconds longer he would have seen you shake yourself then chase after his friend, looking for answers. Darting around guests and avoiding dancing couples you caught up to Geto just outside of the building.

“Wait!” You yelled, hurrying to catch up with him. “You can’t just leave like that! I need to know what you mean.”

Not turning, Geto shook his head. “Trust me on this one. You don’t want to know. Let him tell you. I’ll make sure he does, but you shouldn’t hear this from me.”

“I’m pretty sure I already know.” The words fly out of your mouth before you could stop them. “He’s cheating on me, right? Listen, I need to know. I’m probably going to break up with him tonight. So it doesn’t matter anyways. Just tell me.”

Rubbing his face with one hand he sighed and chuckled without humor. “Of course you know. Jesus this whole situation is so fucked up.” He turned around and looked at you properly.

“Let’s go find somewhere to sit. This might take a little while.”

To the heart and mind

Ignorance is kind

Geto had left a couple of minutes ago, leaving you sitting on a sidewalk bench organizing your thoughts. Fighting the urge to cry, you were unsure why the pain in your chest was so sharp. You had been almost positive, he was cheating on you, so why did it hurt so bad to have your suspicions confirmed? It wasn’t like the knowledge was anything new to you.

Maybe it was because you now knew that the woman was the daughter of a wealthy family close to the Gojos. Maybe it was because you knew that it had been going on for months, and when Geto found out he had made Satoru promise to either end things with the other girl or break up with you. Maybe it was knowing that after making that promise Geto had found him with the other woman again, leading him to assume Satoru had broken up with you. 

Whatever it was, it fucking hurt. Letting out a small sob, you clutched your chest feeling your heart break. Unable to stop the tears from spilling over your waterline you opened your phone and texted him that you knew before you could back out.

But as you wiped your face and headed back to the party because you would be damned if you let him ruin your night, a small part of you wished you hadn’t discovered the truth.

There's no comfort in the truth

Pain is all you'll find

After receiving your text, Satoru watched the entrance intensely, waiting for you to return. The second you step through the door he locks eyes with you, gesturing towards the outside, mouthing that he wanted to talk.

Instead of turning around and walking back outside so the two of you could talk like he had expected, you just strolled into the party and joined a group of your friends. Whipping out his phone, he tried to send you a text, only to discover that he had been blocked.

Then the panic set in as he started trying to make his way towards you. But at that moment a popular song came on over the speakers, and the crowd became rowdy, making it impossible for him to get to you. It was like the crowd was against him, pushing him back towards the edge of the dance floor instead of across it to where you were.

Didn’t they understand that he needed to get to you? That he need to explain himself? He wishes the crowd would just disappear. That it was just you and him, with nothing else in the way.

Tonight the music seems so loud

I wish that we could lose this crowd

As he continues to scan the crowd for you, he finally catches sight of you dancing with your friends, laughing and singing along to the song. Shouting your name, he waves frantically, but the venom in your eyes when they meet his make his voice die out. 

Maybe it was for the better that the two of you didn’t talk right then. You didn’t seem like you were in a place where you would be able to talk reasonably. Turning, he decided to head out for the night and give you the space you so clearly needed. He would just talk to you tomorrow.

Maybe it's better this way

We'd hurt each other with the things we'd want to say

The next day when he went to your place to talk, Satoru was greeted by a box of all of his things sitting outside of your apartment and a post-it note declaring that the two of you were over. And despite all of his screaming and pleading and banging on the door, you didn’t come out that day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

Now it’s been months, and he’s given up on winning you back. It’s clear you have no interest in hearing him out. And in those three months he had come to realize just how much you had meant to him. You were his better half, the one he truly loved. The other woman he had cheated on you with couldn’t hold a candle to you. 

If only he hadn’t been such an idiot. Maybe if he hadn’t been so conceited and cocky he would have seen the value in what the two of you shared and the two of you would still be together. Maybe the two of you would have spent the rest of your lives in happiness together. But that’s not what happened, and now he was all alone. 

We could have lived this dance forever

But now, who's gonna dance with me?

Years had passed, and he was still alone. At first he had tried dating to get over you, but after realizing that the first girl had a similar smile to you, the second had the same shade eyes as you, the third your hair color, he stopped. 

It didn’t matter how hard he subconsciously tried to find girls to replace you. None of them were ever going to be you. And the guilt he harbored over the way he treated you would follow him into the grave. He lost the best thing that ever happened to him. There was no recovering from that.

And I'm never gonna dance again

Guilty feet have got no rhythm

Note: to the people who asked to be tagged on the poll, i haven't added you to my event taglist yet, it was just for this fiic dw. however if you would like to be added, let me know!!

[authenticcadence18]

phinabella with prompt 25?

25. “…..as a yes.”

(there’s a reference to season 5 in here, fyi!)

AO3

Kiss Prompts

…

Isabella watched her footing as she ventured into the dimly lit gymnasium, cautiously dancing over bits of broken glass and charred confetti butterflies.

Phineas sat in the epicenter of the calamity, the eye in a hurricane of an invention gone haywire, a few limp flowers clutched in his hands.

“Phineas?” she whispered.

He glanced up as she approached, heart catching in his throat because oh.

“….your hair.”

“My hair?”

Isabella’s hands rose to gingerly cup the curls framing her face.

“It looks different, huh?”

“It looks beautiful,” Phineas uttered.

Isabella’s eyes widened, face flushing pink at the unexpected compliment.

“You’re beautiful,” Phineas continued, “you’re so beautiful and I’m so……”

He gestured around himself.

“….so…..busted.”

It had been foolish. To agree to set up for the school dance last minute when their class sponsor caught a cold bad enough that even a teacher couldn’t be expected to suck it up and push through it. To insist on working totally alone so Ferb and the rest of their friends could go to dinner with their dates (or “stag” as Buford and Baljeet put it, they “totally weren’t going together-together” but Phineas didn’t buy that) before arriving. To completely change the theme in an attempt to impress a certain neighbor of his.

He’d thought that maybe. Just maybe. He’d create the perfect dance for her: a butterfly garden, complete with flowers and twinkling rainbow lights and red velvet desserts as far as the eye could see. And then Isabella would arrive and understand, innately, that he’d done it all for her and she’d feel so special and so seen and maybe possibly start seeing him in a more-than-platonic light!!! And then……

And then nothing.

Because Phineas could’ve quit while he was ahead. The gym had been gorgeous, perfectly beautiful but perfectly ordinary. He’d HAD to try and reverse engineer the birthday surprise he built Isabella years ago, to figure out how it summoned butterflies. But instead of butterflies, something went very wrong with the laser light show.

And this was the result.

A battered gymnasium. Broken DJ equipment. Splintered fairy lights. Inedible desserts.

There would be no dance. No chance to sweep Isabella off her feet. No jovial evening shared with friends.

They’d all be so disappointed in him. And he’d likely be in a heap of trouble (though, was the school not partially to blame for this, since he’d been working unsupervised?)

“You’re here early,” Phineas mused as Isabella knelt beside him. “Dance isn’t supposed to start for another hour and a half.”

Emphasis on “supposed” to. Phineas doubted anyone could dance over broken glass.

“Ferb told me you were here all by yourself.”

Maybe Isabella had given up on Phineas liking her romantically, but she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of him setting up an entire dance all alone. She knew firsthand how arduous this sort of thing was, what with all her extra-curriculars, and she loved helping others, especially Phineas, so…

“I came to see if you needed help. Like old times, you know? …and that offer still stands.”

Her words made Phineas’s chest ache with longing because of course she came to help him. Of course she was here, knelt beside him on the dirty floor, sparkling mauve dress and golden wedges and glittering eyeshadow and all.

How did he get so lucky to have a friend like her?

Isabella took a moment to survey the damage.

“I bet we could get this cleaned up in an hour. If we hustle!! We’ve accomplished harder things in an hour. I’ll sweep up the glass, and you can repair the sound booth, and then we’ll tackle the food. But….”

She’d been expecting to enter the gym and be awash with gaudy Eiffel Towers and stacks of Parisian pastries and curly cues and garish pink lights.

“I’m a bit confused, wasn’t the theme supposed to be ‘A Night in Paris’? I saw the decorations Ms. Chesterfield prepared, but everything in here looks like it was brand new.”

“Well, I overheard you say you hated the theme to Holly…..” Phineas replied sheepishly. “I just wanted you to have a nice time.”

Isabella froze, heart catching in her chest as the full implications of Phineas’s words dawned on her.

“….you did this…for me?”

“I mean of course it was for our friends and classmates too! A Night in Paris is a pretty generic theme—no offense to Ms. Chesterfield of course she was working with what she had on a limited budget!!—but. Uh. Well. I guess if it wasn’t for you I….wouldn’t have minded the Paris stuff so much. That was a fun day, when we went to Paris.”

He hung his head and mumbled, “And I should’ve just stuck with Paris, this is what I get for rushing and not thinking clearly.”

“So,” Isabella said, long dormant butterflies slowly stirring in her stomach, “…you did all this to impress me?”

“Well, yes and no? I just wanted you to feel special, I wanted to make you happy, and okay maybe a selfish little part of me hoped you’d be impressed and realize that I—uh….that I…….ugh…….”

Now this truly was a calamity.

“….Phineas…”

Isabella gazed at the boy who’d captured her heart so long ago, daring to consider a possibility that, actually, didn’t seem all that far fetched if she really thought about the last few years.

(I mean he’d showed up to all of her soccer games with a different personalized jersey with her number on it. And organized a massive bake sale to help the debate team when they lost funding. And the first thing he did upon seeing her tonight was call her beautiful. She almost felt silly for not putting it together sooner.)

“Do you….like me? Is that what this is about?”

Phineas felt his entire body flinch, nervous system on red alert, anxiety spiking and sending his heart rate skyrocketing.

This was not happening this could not be happening this could not be how Isabella realized his feelings for her.

“Because, you know….”

Isabella slid her hand across the scratched tile until it met his, gingerly resting her fingers atop his knuckles.

“I never needed big inventions to be impressed by you. Well. Except for that one time, with the pogo stick? To be fair, i was mostly just confused that day rather than needing to be impressed, a plain pogo stick just didn’t seem like you at all. But WOW I should’ve trusted you, that was an awesome day!!!!!!!!!”

She gently touched his shoulder, and Phineas slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze.

“I love your inventions, Phineas. I love them because they’re yours. I think you’re a genius, but what really impresses me is how you use all that knowledge to make others happy.”

She lifted her hand to his face, running her thumb over the freckles dotting his cheek.

“And you really are handsome, you know.”

Phineas could barely breathe, between Isabella’s compliments and close proximity and her hand was so soft and she was still holding his face oh God.

“….Isabella?” he managed to squeak

“Do….do you….like me?”

Isabella just smiled, sliding her hand to grasp the back of Phineas’s head as she leaned in close.

Close enough to count his freckles.

Close enough to meet his nose with her own.

Close enough to…

To…

They stayed suspended for a moment, taut between friendship and something new and far more fragile.

But when Phineas reached out to cup Isabella’s face, reverently brushing a few curls behind her ear, well.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

Phineas had more or less figured out where this was headed and yet, when Isabella kissed him, he couldn’t help but gasp, which made her laugh, which made him laugh.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!!” he giggled, shifting closer to her. “Can we try that again?”

Isabella gave him a playful smirk as she wrapped her arms around his neck and wove her fingers through his hair.

“Phineas, I thought you’d never ask.”

….

And then they cleaned up the gym and the dance was fine and all their friends had fun, hooray!!!!!

Thank you for the request!!!! I will be posting this on ao3 as well and will link to it here😁

[capr1pengu1n]

if you've got to spend your time, oh won't you spend it with me?

Summary: After a long day, Edward finds a solace in your bed that he can only get from you

Warnings: gn reader (no use of y/n), just fluff, like one sex reference

Words: 1.1k

Notes: Just a small thing I wrote while I wasn't feeling too great.

Feeling sleep claw its way across your body, settling in your dreary mind, you trudge along to your empty bed with weighted shoulders. But something's missing, something's always missing as you climb under the covers, settling onto your mattress. The duvet is heavy and plush on your skin, but the empty space next to you, where the duvet settles upon the bed instead of enveloping the warm body of your lover, is starkly noticeable to you as your eyes adjust to the dark.

You don’t know where Edward is, you never really do. The worry used to drive you crazy, settling in the pit of your stomach as images would flash in your mind of him being captured and sent back to Arkham, or beaten bloody, or worse. But you knew you had to put your trust in him, in the intellect that he prides above all else, that he claims will always keep him out of too much trouble.

So alas, the worry dissipates but makes room for a different kind of feeling to wash over your conscious mind; longing. You missed the feeling of him beside you, holding you and pressing you tightly against his chest. While you’ve spent many nights pondering the morality of finding comfort in the arms of a criminal who’d caused so much pain and destruction, the selfish part of your personality had won out whenever you think about the heat of his body. The soft kisses reserved just for you, at night when nobody is around, when his walls crumble just enough to feel comfortable sharing the burden of his mind and aching joints.

The memories weren’t helping you get to sleep, so reluctantly you sit up and switch the lamp on. As light fills the room, you get an idea as your bleary eyes blink. You get up, heading to your wardrobe and finding what you were after, quickly grabbing it. His jacket, a shade of dark green, had been left by Edward when he’s last visited your apartment. You doubted he even noticed, with how many tailored suits he has, from muted shades of green to more garish and outlandish outfits that never fail to make you giggle. Bringing it to your nose, you can still smell the expensive cologne he wears, and it brings a slight flush to your cheeks as you press it close to your chest.

While he isn’t a particularly strong man, he nevertheless was broader than you in the shoulder department, coupled with his height meant that as you slipped your arms in the expensive fabric, it hung a little loose around your form. Either way, you’re more satisfied as your crawl back under the sheets, flicking your lamp off and getting comfortable. While it wasn’t the same as him really holding you, it was enough for now as the scent lulls your mind into a dazed and relaxed state.

Edward was tired. Exhausted even. He staggers out of the warehouse, cursing at the slight drops of blood that speckled his waistcoat. It’ll be the last time he utilises one of Penguin’s men for a while, the corpse of his informant now floating face down in the river. But hours of being hunched over laptops and city architectural plans had taken its toll, since heaving the larger man into the river meant his spine felt splintered and sore. He straightens up, cracking his back and groaning a little at the relief. As much as he hated to admit it, he knows how exhausted he is, how much his body is crying out for rest. He supposes the rest of his plan can be continued tomorrow, as he makes his way over to his car and turns on the ignition. Going home, that’s where he needs to go, that’s where he tells himself to go…but he knows he won’t.

He almost wishes this was the first time he’d driven on autopilot to your apartment, striding inside and unlocking your door. To admit otherwise would be reiterating the fact that he cares, that he’s come to crave your presence and your attention just as much as you do for him. That is a weakness he can’t bring himself to stomach, and he knows he should cut you out like an overgrown weed from his life. But Edward Nygma is a very selfish man. And the selfish aspects of his personality would never deprive himself of you. Everything about you, the warmth of your smile, the softness of your skin, the way your voice would sound as he brought you and himself to ecstasy over and over. He could never give that up, and as he walks into your room and starts to shrug his jacket and shirt from his shoulders, that idea cements.

Stripping to his underwear, he climbs in next to you, slinging an arm around you gently but pausing as he feels the fabric. In his haze he hadn’t actually observed your resting form, and as his eyes adjust to the dark, he sees you curled up, his suit jacket wrapped around you like a lover's caress, like his caress. He momentarily feels relief at the darkness that shrouds the room, so you can’t see the uncharacteristically soft smile that traces over his features. You’d sought comfort in his clothes, in something that reminded you of him when he wasn’t with you.

With a single finger, he traces some hair from your forehead and smirks. “If you’re attempting to pretend to be asleep, you’re doing an awful job.”

You laugh softly, going to turn to face him before he stops you by laying properly on his side, arms clutching you tight to his chest. The feeling makes your skin tingle, relaxing in his hold. “What time is it?”

“Late” he answers lowly, and you feel the tension in his muscles fade as his breathing slows.

“Good day?”

He pauses, and you expect to get the same nondescript or egotistical answer that of course it was, he’s the riddler. But instead he mutters, “No…not really.”

A little shocked at his answer, you debate whether to respond, but you figure he wouldn’t want to discuss it…not tonight at least. So you gently press a kiss to the part of his arm you can reach, before closing your eyes gently.

But Edward doesn’t close his eyes, now fully adjusted to the darkness. He presses his forehead against the back of your head gently, but not before taking a last lingering look at your form, so perfectly wrapped in his clothes. It’s hard for him to believe right now he has you in his arms, and how content he is at that fact. The old him would have scoffed, laughed even at how soft he’d become. The great Edward Nygma, reduced to such common feelings like affection and-

He stops himself from thinking of that last word. Not yet. But as he feels your chest rise and fall rhythmically, feeling you fall into blissful unconsciousness, he figures he won’t be able to push back the painful reality for long.

[ohgodthevoices]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Save point °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

time skip kenma x f!reader

word count : 2117

note : this fanfic will be on my ao3 >here< it might be more organized and easier to keep up with it but i will still upload the chapters here <3

chapter 1/ chapter 2/ chapter 3

Chapter 2

The dim light of your desk lamp cast a faint glow over your bed, where sketchbooks, reference images, and your tablet lay scattered in a chaotic sprawl. You sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, tablet in hand, stylus poised but unmoving.

You stared at the screen, your latest draft of the character staring back at you with redish tired eyes. The bold colors and intricate designs you had once loved now felt garish, too loud for the muted, broken world they were meant to inhabit.

“Too flashy,” Kenma’s voice echoed in your mind.

You sighed and dragged the stylus across the screen, dulling the bright reds and softening the sharp edges of the armor. But no matter how much you adjusted, it still didn’t feel right.

The weight of the project pressed down on you, each passing minute reminding you of the deadline looming just hours away. You had always thrived on creativity, but now it felt like a cage, every idea scrutinized under the harsh light of expectation.

Your hand hovered over the undo button for a moment before you let the stylus drop onto the blanket. Leaning back, you stared at the ceiling, trying to find inspiration in the cracks of the paint.

Your eyes drifted to the corner of the room where a half-finished canvas leaned against the wall. It was from a time before this job, before Tokyo—when you painted for yourself, not for approval.

You took a deep breath, cleared the layers, and started over. This time, you let instinct guide you. The character began to take shape again, their colors muted but purposeful, their design simpler yet still distinct.

For the first time that night, you felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.

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

The morning air was crisp as you made your way into the office building, the faint hum of city life fading behind the sliding glass doors. The company’s open workspace was already alive with quiet chatter and the soft clicking of keyboards.

You headed to your desk, tucked near the corner of the art department. It wasn’t much—just a simple desk scattered with sketches, sticky notes, and a half-empty cup of pens—but it was yours. Your tablet and stylus sat waiting, and pinned to the corkboard above were references and concept art for the game.

Sliding into your chair, you exhaled, letting the familiar rhythm of the office ground you. Across the room, Kaori, your brightly-haired coworker, was animatedly chatting with someone from marketing. She caught your eye, waved, and mouthed, “Coffee later?” You nodded with a small smile before turning back to your screen.

The morning passed in a blur of sketches and minor tweaks. The art lead stopped by briefly to check in, giving a few notes on lighting and color palettes for one of your designs. “Looking good,” they said with a nod before moving on, leaving you with a small boost of confidence.

Alright! you can do it !

Around mid-morning, Kaori appeared at your desk, a takeout coffee in hand. She set it down with a grin, “You looked like you needed this,” she said, her tone light.

You chuckled softly, taking the cup. “Lifesaver.”

As she leaned against the edge of your desk, she glanced at your sketches. “So, what’s the verdict? Is mister happy with these yet?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around the coffee cup. “Not exactly,” you admitted. “He thinks they’re too much. Wants me to tone it down.”

Kaori rolled her eyes. “Of course he does. That man has the emotional range of a brick wall. Don’t let him get to you, though. Your work is amazing.”

You smiled faintly, appreciating her support, even if it didn’t completely ease your nerves. “Thanks. I’ll figure it out.”

Kaori gave you a thumbs-up before heading back to her desk, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You stared at your tablet, the screen glowing with the latest revision of a character design.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, but the weight of the upcoming meeting with Kenma lingered in the back of your mind.

[5:00PM]

It was now time, and you found yourself standing in front of Kenma’s office door. Your palms were damp, and you rubbed them against your jeans, trying to steady your nerves.

With a deep breath, you knocked softly. The door clicked open almost immediately, and there he was—Kenma, leaning slightly against the doorframe, his golden eyes meeting yours with calm indifference.

“You’re on time,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

As you entered, your anxiety momentarily gave way to surprise. His office wasn’t at all what you expected.

The walls were lined with shelves, each one packed with figures from games and anime. Some were small and intricately detailed, while others were large, commanding attention with their vibrant colors and dramatic poses. A few posters adorned the walls, depicting scenes from classic games, Youtube play buttons displayed next to them.

The desk was cluttered but in an organized way—headphones, a lit up gaming keyboard, high-end monitors, and a scattering of notebooks and pens ans oh— hey pudding

Warm, ambient lighting bathed the room, giving it a cozy, almost inviting atmosphere. It felt less like a CEO’s office and more like the sanctuary of someone deeply passionate about their craft.

“You can sit,” Kenma said, gesturing toward a chair across from his desk. His tone was neutral, but there was an ease in his movements, as if he was completely at home here.

You’d figure if he was to spend a lot of time here, he would make it feel like home.

You sat down, trying to focus on the task at hand, but your gaze kept drifting to the shelves. The room felt so personal, so distinctly him, that it was hard to reconcile it with the detached, analytical demeanor he usually displayed.

His office relaxed you in a way, maybe he wasnt so intimidating , maybe he was just a nerd who got to achieve his dreams.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, his voice snapping you back to reality.

Kenma’s eyes scanned the designs on your tablet with the same detached focus he always seemed to have. You sat across from him, waiting for some sort of feedback—anything, really. But his expression remained unreadable, his golden eyes flicking from one sketch to the next without giving anything away.

Finally, he stopped on one of the character sketches, his head tilting ever so slightly. “This one,” he said, his voice flat. “What’s the story here?”

You straightened, feeling the pressure of the moment. “She’s a scavenger, specializes in hacking old tech. She’s trying to find something that could help restore the world—or at least give people a reason to keep going. She’s tough, independent, but… she’s also lonely. Doesn’t trust anyone. That’s her weakness.”

Kenma didn’t look up from the screen. “Hmm. It’s interesting,” he said, his tone dismissive. “But it’s too clean. Too polished for someone in a post-apocalyptic world.”

What? You almost pulled an all nighter for this, and he’s still not satisfying ?

Your brow furrowed. “Polished? She’s wearing patched-up clothes. Her gear is cobbled together from scraps—”

Kenma’s lips twisted into a faint, dismissive frown. “It’s obvious. You’re trying too hard to make her look scrappy. It’s forced. Players won’t buy it.”

You clenched your jaw, feeling your frustration bubble,you were too tired to deal with this... “So, what are you saying? That it’s not realistic enough? That I should make her blend into the background and be boring?”

Kenma’s eyes finally lifted from the screen, meeting yours with a cool, almost mocking expression. “I’m saying you’re overcompensating. Sometimes less is more.”

You crossed your arms, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “Less is more,” you echoed, the words tasting like acid. “It’s easy to say when you don’t have to make your characters stand out. Do you even care if they feel real, or are you just focused on making something that works on paper?”

The air between you thickened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Pudding’s soft meow was the only sound, almost like she was caught in the tension too.

Kenma’s expression darkened, his fingers tapping on the desk in irritation. “I care about making a game people actually want to play,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the tension. “If the characters don’t fit into the world, it all falls apart. It’s not about you or your personal attachment to these designs. It’s about the bigger picture.” fuck his gaze is sharp…

frustration boiling over. “You think I’m too close to it? You think I don’t get it?” You said abruptly, “I’m trying to make something that matters. Not just something that’s easy to digest and forget. But I guess that’s what you want, isn’t it? Something simple and disposable.”

Kenma’s face was stone cold, but you could see the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “You’re too emotional about this. It’s just a game. Stop acting like it’s some grand masterpiece.”

Your breath was coming in short bursts, your body tense with the urge to lash out. “It’s not just a game, Kenma. It’s art. Something that should mean something. But you wouldn’t get that, would you?”

The room seemed to close in around you, the air thick with anger and frustration. Pudding let out a soft, nervous meow, sensing the tension between the two of you.

Kenma leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got potential,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “But you’re too caught up in your own head. Step back. Take a breath. Look at the bigger picture for once.”

His words hit you like a slap, the final blow to your already frayed patience. You grabbed the tablet off the desk, your fingers gripping it tightly as you stared him down.

“You’re right,” you said, voice low and venomous. “I’ll step back. But maybe next time, you can try stepping into something real.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and stormed out of the office, the door slamming behind you with a force that echoed down the hall. The weight of the argument lingered, but it was the quiet burn of his words that stayed with you, stoking the fire of anger deep in your chest.

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

The café next to the office was buzzing with life, as it always was during lunch hour. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the air, mingling with the hum of conversations and the occasional clatter of dishes. You sat at a small table near the window with a couple coworkers you got close with.

A bagel, toasted to perfection, sat on a plate in front of you, paired with a steaming cup of coffee. The three of you  were chatting and shared grumbles about deadlines making the stress of work feel a little less suffocating

You nearly choked on your bite when you  spotted him, hunched over his phone like it held the secrets to the universe. A bento box sat neglected next to him, the chopsticks placed at its side untouched . He didn’t even glance up, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing.

A slow smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs. Of course he’s alone, you thought, twirling your fork in the air. Mr. Less-Is-More probably scared off anyone who dared to sit with him.

The mental image of Kenma in his office, delivering his blunt critiques to a group of coworkers, popped into your head. You could almost hear him now: “Your lunch choice is too flashy. It doesn’t fit the vibe.”

You stifled a laugh, glancing at him again. He looked so out of place in the lively place, like a cat accidentally dropped into a dog park. Everyone else was chatting, laughing, or scrolling through their phones in pairs or groups. And there he was, the great Kenma Kozume, all alone with his glowing screen and his resting bored face.

For a moment, you almost felt bad for him. ALMOST. 

You took a bite of your bagel, feeling oddly triumphant. The sight of him sitting there, detached and isolated, felt like a small victory. So much for the all-knowing genius.

Still, your gaze lingered longer than you intended. He looked… tired. Not just in the way most people were tired after a long week, but in a way that seemed deeper, like it had settled into his bones.

You frowned, the smugness fading slightly. Whatever. Not my problem. He’s an asshole anyway

@miruac

[morelikeravenbore]

Can I Make It Any More Obvious? Part two.

He Was A Punk, She Did Ballet...

I do not know why I've included so many bloody Shakespearean references into this crackfic about a sk8er boi wizard, but since I'm writing this by the seat of my pants with absolutely no plan or outline, I'ma let my subconscious cook. Also, I'm hesitant to call this a "crack fic” any more. Let's call it tender crack. A crack fic with feelings.

Content: MEET CUTE MODERN AU. 🛹 Mentions of “magical drug use” (the recreational smoking of mallowsweet*), mentions of alcoholism, swearing.

*not my original idea. I've read this idea in a few fics before and think it's genius so credit to whoever wrote it before me!

Word count: 3.2k~

👉 PART ONE HERE.

[read on wattpad]

Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop, previously known as Steeply & Sons, was a garish, pastel-pink nightmare that took prominence in the village square like an overdone sponge cake at a corporate buffet.

The preferred meeting place for first dates, romantic rendezvous and anyone looking to indulge in tiny, outrageously overpriced cakes, Sebastian had been inside only once in his life and didn't wish to repeat the ordeal again: lace doilies, frosted cupcakes and sickeningly sweet tea was not his idea of a good time.

‘In a village brimming with interesting places,’ he grumbled, keeping in step with the little redhead beside him, ‘he invites you to Puddifoot's?’

Having naturally charmed Mr Brown into giving her a special discount on every book in the shop ("...a munificent diminution for the fair danseuse!”), a request to return any time day or night (“Antemeridiem, noonstead, or crepusculum!”), and an invitation to join the village book club (“...whereupon we postulate and divagate into scintillating literary excursuses!”), they'd left Tomes and Scrolls only after Sebastian, growing irritated by not having her full attention, had ushered her out the door and into the bustling street beyond.

Was he jealous of his middle-aged, married landlord simply for speaking to her?

… Yes.

‘What's wrong with Puddifoot's?’ she asked, sparing him no glance as she weaved through the main street.

Across the village square, the tea shop's frosted icing-sugar windows winked merrily at them under the midday sun.

Sebastian pulled a face.

‘Their cakes are small!’

‘Their cakes are small?’

‘Offensively so! And as far as first dates go, it's the most predictable, uninspired place he could have chosen! Puddifoot's, really?’ he scoffed. ‘Ominis might as well have admitted he hated you and been done with it.’

She stifled a laugh behind her hand. ‘Those are some wild aspersions,’ she said delicately. ‘Where do you prefer to take your dates in Hogsmeade, then, if you're such an expert?’

He bit his tongue before he could blurt out the words ‘Shrieking Shack’ — not that he ever took dates there; mostly he went there to smoke mallowsweet by himself and wallow in self-pity. Even so, it'd still be a better choice than squeezing into a lumpy, overstuffed loveseat while fairies dumped confetti over his head and people he wished never to see snogging snogged with unbridled relish and vigour.

‘I would take you somewhere fun,’ he scowled. ‘Like —’

‘Like a wedding altar?’

Sebastian flushed. ‘No —!’

‘Oh, oh! L'hôpital?’ She turned to him with a surprisingly impish grin for someone so renownedly elegant.

Something funny wiggled in Sebastian's chest.

‘Trust me, you don't want to date Ominis — he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse!’

‘I thought he was your best friend?’

‘He is! That's how I know he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse! Look —’

Running a hand through his tangled hair, he pulled her aside to a shady spot beneath an old, gnarled oak and tried not to loom over her: at almost twenty-one years old, Sebastian had started growing early in life and hadn't yet stopped.

Fuck, why was he so bloody gigantic.

‘You won't like him,’ he said, hunching awkwardly. ‘He won't make you laugh, or take you anywhere fun, or —’

‘Propose marriage while bleeding from the head?’

A nearby merchant — a humpbacked witch with one eye and somehow too many teeth — let out an amused cackle, but Sebastian was too distracted by the strange little wiggle in his chest to tell her to sod the fuck off.

Brilliant. As if a head wound wasn't bad enough, now he was having heart palpitations as well? Had he overdone it with the Shakespearean theatrics and inadvertently brought upon his own tragic, untimely death? Was he to die at her feet as Romeo for Juliet — only via self-inflicted concussion over a quick-acting poison?

Fuck it — if today was the day that he died, he'd at least try for a first (or last?) date. As a wise man once sang: Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear?

‘Don't go on a date with Ominis,’ he said, swooping his stupid hair out of his face. ‘Go on a date with me.'

She blinked at him. ‘What, now?’

Let's go, don't wait, this night's almost over.

‘Why not?’

‘Mmm… Because I already have a date?’ She shrugged past him, but he only lumbered after her like the big, brainless troll he was.

‘Wait —!’ He held up his palms. ‘Look, I know you get some blood-soaked guy coming up to you on the street, you don't know me — but I know me, and I promise I'm —’

‘A dirty, rotten, sneaky little rat!’

Sebastian whipped around.

‘Ominis!’ he squeaked.

In all his years of dragging his best friend into detentions, secret underground lairs, and Muggle mosh pits against his will, the sight of Ominis’ sightless eyes boring into his with all the fury of his Slytherin lineage never failed to strike fear into Sebastian's heart.

It also, simultaneously, never failed to amuse him.

He didn't hesitate. With an absurdly high-pitched giggle and not a single logical thought in his addled brain, he grabbed Aurélie by the hand and took off running.

Board in one hand, girl in the other, he pelted through the village, twisting and turning through back alleys and narrow openings, scaring children and the elderly alike as he barrelled past them, cackling hysterically.

Suddenly, he was fifteen again, facing off with Peeves after being caught on another midnight jaunt through the Restricted Section; challenging an unsuspecting victim to an unsanctioned duel simply because he was bored; running from the prefects when he was inevitably caught nosegrinding down the Grand Staircase at two in the morning.

He hadn't felt this alive in years!

Beside him, the ballerina kept pace easily, pivoting round corners and leaping over obstacles with all the grace and finesse befitting her profession. As they dashed across someone's backyard, whipping through rows of freshly hung laundry, Sebastian caught the edge of a smile on her face before a pair of granny knickers slapped him across the cheek.

The wiggly thing in his chest giggled and kicked its feet aaaaall the way to the outskirts of the village, where a low stone wall at the end of an alleyway ended their daring escape. Beyond it, rugged and heather-brushed, lay freedom.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

‘Over?’ he suggested with a hopeful waggle of his brows.

‘Well, I can hardly go back now,’ she returned with a wry shrug.

Grinning, Sebastian piffed his board over the wall and then turned to offer his little companion a helping hand. But to his surprise, she was already up, balancing atop the precariously narrow wall in a position he vaguely recognised as something ballet-shaped.

He gawked for a moment, unashamedly admiring the entire length of her legs, from ankles to knees, from knees to thighs, from thighs to butt.

‘Careful,’ he warned, scrambling up after her. A steep decline on the other side of the wall made him nervous. His hands hovered close, ready to catch her should she lose her balance, but she only peeked at him sideways with a smug expression, footsure and composed.

Cute.

‘This is the fifth position,’ she explained, framing her arms above her head. ‘It is the pinnacle of ballet's basic stances.’

‘The fifth position, huh?’ he said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. ‘Skipping ahead a few bases, I see.’

She ignored him.

‘It may look simple,’ she sniffed, turning her face to the sun, ‘but it takes years of training to reach complete security.’

‘Okay, show off,’ he snorted, climbing gracelessly down the other side of the wall. ‘Nothing about twisting your feet backwards like that looks simple to me.’

Safe now from the wrath of angry best friends and verbose shopkeepers, they picked their way carefully down to the banks of a shallow stream. A copse of willows drew them into a clearing, a dappled green reprieve from the midday sun. Sebastian couldn't remember ever coming across a spot as beautiful as this — but perhaps the company made it so.

In the middle of the clearing, she turned and caught him gawking.

‘Come here,’ she said. ‘I want to take a look at your head.’

Sebastian gulped. ‘My — my head?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh la la, the bump on your forehead!’

‘Oh.’ He'd almost forgotten. ‘My head’s fine,’ he lied, but she looked at him so sternly that he shut up and bent his stupid head for her inspection.

Please don't look at me with those eyes, please don't hint that you're capable of lies.

Gently, she pressed her fingers to the bump above his eyebrow.

‘Does this hurt?’

‘No,’ he winced, his voice rough. And then, ‘...Maybe a bit.’

‘Thought so.’

Her fingers left his face but returned a moment later holding a little jar of funny-smelling ointment.

Sebastian held still.

‘Hold still,’ she said.

Sebastian held more still.

With a touch that gave him full-body tingles, she pushed his hair back and dabbed a little ointment over the cut.

‘That stinks…’ was the best thing he could think to say.

‘It's Essence of Dittany,’ she explained. ‘I use it on my feet after a long day of dancing.’

He pulled a face. ‘You're putting foot cream on my face?’

‘It's Essence of Dittany!’

‘Yeah, for your feet!’

‘Oh, mon dieu.' She rolled her eyes. 'How old are you?’

Sebastian cracked a grin. ‘I'm surprised I didn't tell you that already.’

‘If you did,’ she began, tucking the jar back into her pocket, ‘I wouldn't forget it the way someone forgot my name two times. — Now…’ Without warning, she reached up and cupped his face between her soft little hands.

Sebastian's knees almost gave out.

‘Look at me,’ she said, and he looked, and looked, and looked, and thought he might not look away ever again.

‘Are you dizzy?’ she enquired, her face so close he could feel her breath.

Yes.

‘No.’

‘Dazed?’

Very.

‘No.’

‘Faint?’

Only when you touch me.

‘I'm fine,’ he murmured, but the tremor in his voice said otherwise, and his racing heart racing said otherwise, and the way his gaze kept dropping to her lips definitely definitely said otherwise.

I dread the thought of our very first kiss, a target that I'm probably gonna miss.

‘Okay,’ she said after a good long frown at his face. ‘But if you feel like you're going to fall…’

Sebastian almost told her he already had.

Thankfully, a sudden rustling in the greenery diverted him from embarrassing himself further, and from out of the treeline came another unexpected redhead (this one considerably less pleasing to look at than the one whose hands had just been on his face.)

‘Weasley?’

Garreth Weasley gave a start. ‘Sallow? What are you doing here?’

A fellow Hogwarts graduate and self-proclaimed “potion prodigy”, Garreth supplemented his apprenticeship wages at Pippin's Potions by selling his own “special blend” of mallowsweet on the side (unbeknownst to Pippin, of course, who, like most of the older generation of Hogsmeadians, vehemently decried the “grave misuse” of an otherwise unremarkable magical herb.)

Sebastian suppressed a groan: his mallowsweet dealer was the last person he wanted to see right now — especially when said dealer had an annoying habit of trying to steal his girlfriends.

Unsurprisingly, Garreth's eyes lit up at the sight of the pretty girl before him.

‘Hey, Aurélie!' said he. 'Nice to see you again.’

‘Again?’ Sebastian's mouth fell open. ‘You know Garreth bloody Weasely as well?’

‘Oui. We met just yesterday at your potion shop… Uhh, Peepins?’

‘Pippin's,’ Garreth corrected, his expression so jovial that Sebastian wanted to punch it right off his stupid freckled face. ‘I helped her pick out the best Valerian sprigs for her —’

‘— For my fudge!’ she cut in. ‘Oui, fudge. I'm making some. Fudge, that is. For — erm... Eating… Because it's, um… Nice? I think.’

Sebastian eyed her suspiciously. Why was she so nervous about fudge?

‘Right,’ he said, turning back to Garreth. ‘Anyway, did you want something, Weasley? Because we're in the middle of a date right now, if you can't tell.’

‘A date?’ spluttered the girl he most definitely was not on a date with.

‘A date?’ echoed Garreth, who looked slightly put out by the news. ‘Why aren't you at Puddifoot's, then?’

‘Oh, for fucks—’ Sebastian threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘There are other places besides Puddifoot's to go on dates, you know!’ he exclaimed. ‘All that mallowsweet's annihilated your imagination!’

Garreth's expression brightened. ‘Oh, speaking of —’ he said, procuring a small brown package from his pocket. ‘Got a new strain I'm looking to test out. Figured you'd be the perfect candidate.’

He tossed the package at Sebastian's chest: all three of them watched as it bounced off and hit the ground. Nobody moved to pick it up.

‘I don't know what you're on about,’ Sebastian lied, his eyes flicking nervously over the literal ballerina next to him; the epitome of elegance and refinement, he was certain she'd never smoked a bloody ham let alone indulged in the questionable (mis)use of mallowsweet.

Utterly fucking clueless, Garreth scooped up the package and held it out to him. ‘To be honest, I swore never to sell to you again after last time.’

‘Last —?’

‘Remember? You called me a “soulless fire crotch” and accused me of ripping you off —’

‘I never —!’

‘— but Leander reckons he's “giving it up” again, so now you're the only buyer I've got left who'll test out the experimental stuff.’

Unable to avoid it any longer, Sebastian snatched the package out of Garreth's hands and did his best to look thoroughly mystified. ‘Mallowsweet, you say? For potions, right?’

He sounded ridiculous even to himself.

‘Potions?’ Garreth looked puzzled. ‘No, you're supposed to smo—’

‘Smoulder it over a low flame before brewing, yep, I know, got it! Well, thanks Garreth, always a pleasure seeing you!’

‘But — you —’

‘Goodbye Garreth!’ He gave him a rough shove in the direction from whence he came.

‘Alright, alright, I'm going! Bloody hell. You fall off your wheel board or something?’

‘Skateboard,’ Sebastian said through his teeth. ‘It's a skateboard, Garreth. I know it's got wheels and it's very confusing for you, but —’

‘Oh!’ At this, Garreth turned. ‘Your uncle's up at the village, by the way.’

Brilliant. Uncle Solomon had a way of showing up drunk whenever things were going well for Sebastian; if he was at The Hog's Head already, he was probably halfway drunk by now. By nightfall, he'd be banging on Sebastian's door demanding to know where Anne was.

Sebastian didn't bloody know where his sister was. Nobody did.

‘How long's he been there?’

Garreth shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he was still upright last I saw…’

It was times like these that Sebastian was glad his twin sister had disappeared. Years of trying to hold together a splintered family had taken its toll on her; after all, looking after a drunken uncle and a brother obsessed with the Dark Arts wasn't exactly conducive to healing.

The hastily scribbled note she'd left had read: I can't die in Feldcroft. Please look after our uncle.

By the time Sebastian had found it, she was long gone.

He hadn't heard from her since.

No sooner had Garreth's flaming red hair disappeared into the brush than the baggie of experimental mallowsweet was yoinked unceremoniously out of Sebastian's hands.

‘Oi!’

‘Ooooh, you have a mallowsweet dealer?’ Aurélie danced out of his reach, giggling. ‘Can I try some?’

‘Wh — no, he's not a dealer!’ he spluttered, tailing her across the clearing. ‘And no, you can not “try some”!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s for potion-making!’

Grinning mischievously, she took a little whiff of the package then pulled a face and immediately thrust it back at him.

‘Eurgh, what are you brewing? Dungbombs?’

‘No — Wiggenwald.’

‘You're a terrible liar.’

‘Actually,’ he said, tucking the bundle into his hoodie pocket, ‘I'm a Slytherin. And if you must know, mallowsweet helps me sleep.’

‘So you do smoke it!’

‘Yes, mother, I smoke it.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Can't you just use potions for that?’

‘Oh, you mean like a Sleeping Draught?’ He quirked a brow. ‘Or is it the Draught of Peace you’re brewing up with your precious “Garreth Weasley approved” Valerian roots?’

‘I told you, it's for fudge!’ she snapped.

‘You're a terrible liar,’ he smirked. ‘You don’t use the sprigs of the Valerian plant in fudge unless you intend to knock yourself unconscious for several days. — Or are you hoping to use it on someone else?’ he added, thinking of Ominis.

‘Oh, and you're an expert on fudge now, are you?’

‘I passed N.E.W.T level potions,’ he said smugly. ‘So unless you’re brewing a Fire-Breathing Potion — which, as an aside, I don’t think you need — then you're lying about the fudge.’

‘I don't see why it's any of your business!’ With a dramatic huff, she stomped across the clearing and threw herself a fallen log by the creek's edge.

‘It's not,’ he chuckled, sitting beside her. ‘It's just not very fair for you to accuse me of lying when you're telling little fibs of your own, is it?’

Secretly amused, Sebastian waited out the stubborn silence that followed and tried to act like he wasn't acutely aware of her arm pressing against his. There was a strange sense of familiarity about her presence, as if in some other lifetime they'd sat together just like this, side by side beneath the trees.

Eventually, she spoke again.

'If you must know,’ she began, her voice tight, ‘I've been under some... stress lately. And now I can't sleep without, well…'

'Without knocking yourself out with a Sleeping Draught?' he offered helpfully. ‘I know what that's like.’

'Strictly speaking, I'm not allowed to use “substances". Not that my Muggle instructors would ever recognise the effects of a Sleeping Draught, but still…' She heaved a heavy sigh. 'It's just… I've been dancing almost my entire life. My goals, my plans, my future — everything about me revolves around ballet.’

‘And now?’ he prompted.

‘Something happened…’ she said slowly. ‘Something that made me realise that I don't know who I am outside of the thing I've been trained for my whole life. — That's why I'm here, actually.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘To find yourself?’

‘Oh — no, because I accidentally blew up the dance studio with my magic.’

Sebastian choked.

'I'm the only ballerina with magic, you see,’ she explained, patting him gingerly on the back. ‘The Ministry had to obliterate everyone who witnessed my, erm… mishap, and I was ordered to take the summer off for "stress relief" lest I violate the Statute of Secrecy by exploding on stage or something. So…’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘Here I am.'

Sebastian began to laugh.

‘You blew up your dance studio?’

‘I didn't mean to!’ she wailed. ‘It was awful! I broke all the mirrors! — It's not funnyyy, stop laughing!’

But he couldn't. Too far gone for composure, he hid his face in his hands and laughed til his cheeks hurt.

‘You know…’ he said, nudging her with his elbow. ‘I could teach you a far more effective way of relieving stress.’

Her scandalised look almost set him off laughing again.

‘I'm talking about skateboarding,’ he snickered. ‘Why? What were you thinking of?’

[captainofthedefiant]

I IV V in 4/4 time

back with another quick study from a reference screenshot that was 4px total 🤪 in the most garish colors available!! one night only

[sirnotsircos]

Monroe "Money" De Riva

dunno what is it but the Crow background in Dragon Age: Veilguard has got me obsessed with creating fandom content again so here's a little (too long) backstory for my sweet prince Money and how they meet Viago.

It's worth noting that Money uses They/Them pronouns however only discovered this in their later teens, for the purposes of gender exploration and a reasonable amount of self insert-ness going on here, Money is referred to with the pronouns assigned at birth in this first installment of self indulgent writing.

4.3 K words

Canon typical death and gore

themes of abductuion and trafficking discussed

Crows and Coin

All along the borders of the Tevinter Imperium, the bright dancing lights of the circus filled the dark nights of war time. For years a traveling band of performers moved from city to city, town to town, collecting cheers and coin, bringing smiles and laughter and whisking away worry. During the winters they would lug a big tent around, park near a town for weeks at a time and bid visitors welcome, and during the summer just a stage and clearing would do.

In the front wagons was the coin, the acrobats, the stage manager, in the middle wagons the provisions, the chests of contriband, stowaways, and in the rear the set, and the crew. Money, no older than six when she’d wandered into the tent during the circus’ brief stint in the Free Marshes, was never allowed anywhere near the middle wagons. They were always filled with crates, the extra plain looking ones with long sealed lids and too much hay, then there were the people she couldn’t talk to. Sometimes they were dressed in dark boring outfits that stood out only on account of the fact they were travleing with a circus, and other times they were garish and spoke loud with sing songy accents.

Either way, Money was to stay away.

 Baron made sure all the kids’ stayed away in fact. There was “real honest work to be done” and work Money did. When Baron had first found Money she’d had no name and matted eggplant hair that needed shaving, there was a generally irritated grunt that meant her and that’s all she knew. She’d only been named Money after he found she had a pension for finding it and stowing it in her pockets or shoes and anywhere no one could find easily. A joke, Money would later learn to appreciate the morbidity of. 

“Gon’ call you Money, you’ll never be without it,” Baron chuckled to himself, “but ye’ got to give me mine back.” 

Baron was a big man, his real name wasn’t Baron, no one used their real name in the circus. He was a qunari with a wild mane of white-grey hair and horns he kept cleaved at the root and filed down. He wore hats at all times, the only time Money could remember seeing Baron without one was when it fell off in his sleep, if he slept at all. He had ashen skin but he bathed in red mud and kept covered so that he passed as an unusually large human. He was loud, his laugh louder, and his anger loudest.

It was Baron who’d petitioned for Money to stay, he’d been the keeper of most of the kids who resided with the circus infact. It had also been Baron who started Money on her words and letters, and Kelon, the eldest boy, on her numbers. It was Hymn, the second oldest who taught her to look sweet so she’d get in less trouble and Huin the second youngest who showed Money where Baron kept his best sweets. Although Money’s hands grew calouses in the six years she lived with the circus, she stayed for family and the coin was a happy coincidence. 

At twelve Money was broad shouldered and kept her hair shaved to a shadow, it was a habit now and people stared less than the few times she’d let her curls grow out. Baron had always preached that the first rule of working for a circus is that you work for the circus, you are not the circus. Keep it simple. Money had no intention of performing or entertaining, she liked hanging out in the rafters and hauling the sand bags best. And so when she was too lazy to lather and shave her head she rubbed inked mud across her hair and wore hats like Baron. Keep it simple. 

The first really cold night of the year, the circus crossed over into Antiva for the first time. Aslo, the ringmaster said it was warmer and he could delay the hassle of the big tent for longer but Money knew it had something to do with their guests. Since they’d joined the caravan at the outskirts of Minrathous they’d been making a pretty direct haul towards Antiva with less stops and shows than were typical for this area. Money knew better than to ask any questions, and in all honesty she wanted to see the Antivan Coast enough that she was glad for the pace with which they were moving. 

As soon as they crossed the border Baron grew grim and tense and all together displeased. He led the caravan onto lesser traveled bumpy roads, the kind that made Money’s legs feel like jello when they’d finally stop for a rest. Four days into Antiva, they made camp no more than a kilomete outside of a town, the first place they’d set up a show since arriving in the country. It was warm enough for no tent as Aslo had guaranteed but the show was trimmed down so when it would get to it’s coldest everything would be packed away. This was also the first night their guests left their carriage since joining, they stretched their legs during dinner but kept to themselves.

Kelon said the woman looked like her name was Frivolousia with her long gown and incredibly intricate braids, and the man looked like a Craig with his poor form and rounded shoulders. 

“I dont know,” Hymn, with her long golden hair and sprite-like features, stared after Frivolousia and her long red gown, “there’s nothing wrong with dressing for your station.”

“Hm?” Money looked over her shoulder and stared intently, that woman looked like a bloody blotch to her. 

“You don’t ever think about wearing gowns like that?’ Hymn asked whistfully.

Money shrugged.

“If you had all the money in the world to buy whatever you wanted, what would you wear,” Hymn posed the question to all of them.

“First Warden Vestiges!” Huin puffed his chest out.

Kelon rolled his eyes, muttering something about clothes being the last on his list of things to buy if he had that kind of money.

Hymn turned to Money expectantly.

“Um-” Money chewed her cheek, “a cape?”

The books Baron would read to her always had people in capes on the front. “What's that fuzzy stuff called again?”

“Velvet?” Kelon raised his brow.

Money shrugged again.

For Money, shrugging either meant yes, no, maybe or sometimes possibly, I dont know. Money didn’t talk much. Luckily for her, the regular crew learned to understand what she meant most of the time.

“Okay so a velvet cape, a blighted tin can,” Hymn pointed to Money and Huin respectively, then to Kelon “and naked?”

Kelon huffed and began to defend himself, Huin spraying a mouthful of potatoes across the table. Hymn was equal parts proud of herself and vexed by the onslaught of starchy spray. It was a night like any other show night, they ate early and all together, the kids got shushed half-heartedly a handful of times despite the rest of the company being equally as raucous.  

As night fell and the camp settled Baron took up his normal post of insomniac. He fed the caged animals extra rations he knew Aslo wouldn’t appreciate, checked the wagons, the tent stakes and the horses. All was just as it should be, as it always was. Except for a door, a carriage door. It was a middle carriage. The door hung open, not ten minutes ago when he’d passed it the first time, it was closed. He peered inside from ten feet away, darkness swallowed the interior. The only thing Baron could make out was the distinct gleam of thick liquid running in a thin trail off the step.

Money awoke with a start, the wind rattling the canvas wall of the tent next to her. She was a light sleeper, always had been. Once awake it was nearly impossible for her to fall asleep, especially with Kelon’s snoring. He sounded like a bear, gruff deep gargling snores swelled in his chest with every long breath. Money hugged her blanket close and stepped down into her boots, keeping the laces loose so she could slip them back off once she got to her destination.

There was one place she could always go when she needed to sleep, Baron’s wagon. 

It wasn’t until she was nearly halfway to where Baron had parked his wagon that morning that Money felt the heavy silence that lay over the camp. There was no light, no stray lanterns or dimly glowing tents, not even the cats that somehow followed the caravan wherever they went were wandering about. The stillness felt oppressive. Money almost wanted to freeze in place feeling as though the silence was watching her, judging her for moving. The thought of being outside in the open any longer than she had to be overruled that instinct. 

She scurried along, staying close to the sides of the tents and wagons. When Money reached Baron’s wagon she found the flap wasn’t tied down and someone had been rummaging around. Baron wasn’t a particularly organized man but he had piles and his piles had a method to them. These piles did not. Money noticed the chest he usually kept as the foundation for his stacks of books was open, the inside cleaned out. 

A hand came down right infront of Money’s eyes and clapped down over her mouth, another wrapped around her shoulders tight. She howled. Money didn’t have a flight instinct, she’d never had that luxury before so she never took it now. Her hands were up and clawing in an instant, flesh raked off under her nails.

“Fu- Maker!” was Aslo’s hiss of pain.

In one sweep Aslo spun around, letting go of Money as he went. She sailed through the air for what felt like much farther than the six or so feet she did. She hit the ground hard, grass shredding beneath her as she skidded to a halt. In a second she was scrambling to her feet, Aslo was already launching his foot into her. Aslo was slow and not entirely prepared for most sorts of fights, however he was neary six and a half feet tall and his foot was heavy enough to throw Money back into the ground. 

Then came the fire. 

The sky was dark and starless, though any other stargazer that night in western Antiva would have had a clear view. Dark smoke had filled the air, billowing off the benches set around the perimeter of the stage. As Aslo’s foot made contact with Money’s chest the flames that had been eating away at the wood of the benches finally hit the black powder barrells used in the show’s pyrotechnics. Flame and combustion filled the air, wood splintered everywhere. Aslo stumbled back and winced away, his long gaunt face darting back and forth between the explosion and Baron’s wagon. 

Money wheezed in a breath, the hit left her chest feeling empty and aching. The air was hot now, the cool crisp air of the evening gone with the flames. She pushed herself backward as Aslo looked away and rolled herself under the trailer next to Baron’s wagon.  She came out the other side and scrambled to her feet, not wasting a moment’s breath looking backwards, she bolted. She ran away from Aslo, and away from the fire which lead her back towards her tent. As she ran, tent flaps were thrown open, people scrambling out. 

Those who’d traveled with the circus for as long as Money remembered scrambled for water buckets with bare feet and sleep quaffed hair. Those who Money didn’t know, the new hired hands from Minrathous carried drawn blades and already laced boots. Baron always had laced boots. Shouting filled the camp, and soon followed the clear ringing of blades on blades. Money’s veins froze in her skin when she realized what she was hearing. 

Everything was moving fast, too fast. The flames were roaring now, the sky swirling and everyone who rushed past Money was nothing but shadows.

A great big hand found her shoulder, and at first her breath caught in her chest and her fists balled. She pulled away hard and as she raised her fist she looked up into two familiar glassy grey eyes. Baron. 

“Money,” he was panting, thick dark blood covering his front, “what are you doing out here?”

“You’re bleeding-” There was a lot of blood.

“I’m fine, Money you have to get inside-” Baron grunted as Aslo barrelled into him. 

Aslo was younger than Baron, but Baron was bigger and a fighter through and through. It wouldn’t have even been a contest if Aslo hadn’t already skewered him through the ribs with a tent stake. Baron roared and swung a big fist in a wide berth, making contact with Aslo’s head. Aslo was nearly thrown to the side, if Baron had been at full strength Money had no doubt Aslo would be out cold.

Money held a shriek down, her throat pulled tight. The blood that had previously painted Baron’s front was now flooding with his own. It was darker and swelling so quickly Money couldn’t imagine it all coming from inside of him. She rushed forward. Her hands, small in comparison to Baron’s hulking frame, pressed down on the wound. Somehow it was to stop the bleeding — or maybe leaving the stake in there already did that — or should she be cleaning it or —-

Baron shoved Money away with his forearm, not hard enough to throw her off her feet but enough to get her out of the way as he rolled to his feet between her and Aslo. Before Aslo could even get to his feet a series of sharp thuds hit him, one in the neck, two in the chest. Three gleaming daggers. Aslo gasped and rattled, then sputtered and fell face first into the grass. Hissing. Choking. Then stillness.

Baron and Money turned in unison, the source of the daggers a young man, no older than his early twenties, in fighting leathers was perched atop a trailer. He was sporting a cloak, heavy and bearing the viasage of feathered wings.

“Crow,” Baron grunted, his chest heaving to take a single full breath. He was rattling.

The young man barely acknowledged them. Instead he turned his back and slid off his perch. He drew three more small throwing daggers and in the flash of an eye launched them towards what Money thought was object darkness. The thuds and groans that echoed after the singing of the blades begged to differ.

“Crow,” Baron called again, this time his voice was commanding, as if he had business that could not be ignored.

The young man turned to face Baron and looked him over thoughtfully, his styled moutache twitching with what Money could only guess was annoyance.

“Please,” Baron huffed, his big hand nudging Money, “there are children here…”

“They are not our marks,” the man said dryly, “they will not be touched.”

“Not good enough!” Baron shouted, a cough ripping through him and sending him onto one knee.

Money turned to him but he kept an arm out and held her at a distance.

“Money go,” he huffed.

‘No!” Money sobbed, hot tears welling in her eyes.

“Not with me, she’s not,” the man Baron called Crow scrunched his nose, “she’s a kid.”

“Exactly,” Baron was more ragged breaths that voice now, blood seeping into the fabric of his trousers.

The man stared at Baron, a strange look that Money didn’t bother to decipher crossed his features. He played at being stoic but he had yet to leave. Baron withdrew his hand from his back waistband. A roll, several layers of thin paper thick, of twine tied documents in his hand. “A contract,” he started, “for her safe delivery from this camp to a city.”

The man’s chin dipped sideways, his brow knit with peaked interest.

“The payment,” Baron thrust the papers forward past Money’s face, “Qunari  battle plans, logistics, code phrases- you name it, it’s here.” 

The man looked around, a cautious scan before jumping over the trailer and striding towards Money and Baron. He closed the distance quickly, he was agile and nimble and Money barely saw the grass beneath his feet shift. He snatched the papers from Baron’s hand and with a quick glance at the outermost document his eyes lit up. He looked over the roll and surveyed Baron carefully.

“Who were these meant for?” he asked, his eyes intense and probing.

“Highest bidder,” Baron gave a rueful grin, his eyes drooping, “Magisters passed —  biases ‘n all that.”

Crow raised a brow and he looked Baron over again, a gloved hand reaching forward almost reluctantly. Money made to intercept what she thought was no doubt a blow, the man was a killer after all. He swatted her hand away like it was nothing and yanked Baron’s knit cap from his head. 

“Ah,” Crow blinked, “we Crows are more open to… possibilities.” 

He placed the cap on the ground and held out his hand. Baron stared for a moment, Money could tell he was losing lucidity. It took a deep steadying breath and a few good long blinks but Baron mustered the strength and focus to raise his hand, coated in his own blood and clasp it in Crow’s. They shook hands, both Baron and Crow grimaced. The moment they let go, Crow wiped his gloved hand on his leathers and stood, depositing the roll of papers into a pouch at his hip.

“Very well,” Crow nodded, “a Crow always fullfills his contract.” 

In one swift movement Money was limp in his arms, braced against his chest and he was off into the dark tree line, a spattering of crows following him into the night.

***

The trees were dense and lucsious for this time of year, the sun barely poking through save in whispers of gold through the shifting leaves. Money felt heavy, like her body was an hourglass and all the sand had flowed to her back pinning her to the ground. This was a level of exhaustion she’d not felt since she was on the streets weighed down by hunger and illness. Only then the emptiness that gnawed at her was hunger, tangible pain born from neglect. This was different, so ravenous and crippling the bruising in her chest merely an inconvenience in comparison. Money had never lost anyone, before Baron and the circus she simply just didn’t have anyone.

She kept her eyes closed, the glowing greens and golds of nature untouched by her own cataclysm, mocking her. She wished she were melting into the plush earth below her, swallowed whole and forgotten.

“You can’t fool me, kid,” Crow’s melodic voice broke her solitude, “I know you’re awake.”

Crow. Rage boiled in Money’s gut, her muscles suddenly alive with vendetta.  He’d started this, him and his contracts. Money had never taken to sharing Baron’s rage, she’d always had been hard to stir any great emotion in. The world was cruel whether you screamed about the injustice or not. And yet, she was on her feet, bare against the tangled vines and charging. The thought that Crow was a trained assassin and not so easily sundered as to fall to a child’s fit of grief, hadn’t crossed her mind until she was already sailing downwards. Crow had side stepped her charge with ease and pressed a guiding hand to the back of her neck, steering her left away from a still smouldering fire pit. 

Dirt filled her mouth as she grunted on impact. Crow didn’t touch her after that, waiting patiently for her next move. In a series of clumsy movements Money rolled to her feet, dug into the earth and surged forward again. This time as Crow side stepped she reached out and latched onto a knife hoslter strapped to his thigh. She latched on and didn’t let go even when he parried her again, her momentum sending her spinning to the ground. Her weight on his leg was enough to pull him down too, the two kicking up dust and dirt. 

He’s down. A small victory considering he was a trained assassin and she was a child.

“Alright, that enou-” Crow began to chastise when Money interrupted him with a solid fist.

She made hard contact with his nose. She’d never punched anyone before. It hurt. Crow’s eyes nearly buldged from his head and he growled in pain. In one smooth movement his arm threaded up between them and came down on the side of Money’s head sending her world into orbit. He planted a foot at her stomach and shoved her away from him. 

“Mierda-” Crow huffed, his hand scooping up and amount of blood running down his face even Money was startled by, “-stupid fucking contract-”

He spat a glob of blood a little too close to Money for her liking.

“What is wrong with you?” He grunted rolling to his feet.

“You,” Money growled,the bruising in her chest was starting to feel much less like a mere inconvenience now. 

“Why?!” 

Money’s voice caught in her throat. Why? He’d technically killed Aslo. Why? Why did Aslo kill Baron in the first place? Why? Baron was the only good thing to happen to her. Why? 

Money threw herself onto her side, her eyes blurring with hot tears. She made it to her knees before a deep sob came, the blurred silhouette of Crow swayed awkwardly before her. 

“Why-” she breathed shakily, “whe were you there?”

“What?” Crow blinked.

“You ruined everything,” tears rolled down her cheeks, “why?”

“I’m a Crow I dont owe you-”

“WHY?!” She’d wanted to sound stronger, she’d wanted to be demanding like Baron had. Instead she found she was begging.

Crow hesitated, his bloodied hands awkwardly hovering above his hips and pockets. He settled with crossing them, tensing only a little as his blood spoiled his sleeves.

“We had a contract,” he spoke carefully, “the man I killed, he was in the contract.”

Money didn’t know what she was hoping for, what she thought knowing would do for her. She could have guessed that much, it still didn’t answer why. 

As if reading her mind Crow sighed.

“What your father gave me-” Crow sounded less sure of himself now, “ in exchange for your life… the Qun reports are a very large bounty, one so large perhaps the Crows would be willing to dismiss a contract to obtain.”

Aslo was trying to save himself.

Blood boiled in Money’s veins. Crow had been the one to kill him and that fact was melting her from the inside out. She felt it consuming her, revenge.

“Don’t do that,” Crow stepped forward and nudged Money’s foot with his own, “he’s dead, he got what he deserved.”

Money was starting to feel exposed with how Crow seemed to be able to read her. She didn’t like being so known. She took a long, deep breath. The air of the forest was cool and smelled sweet. She stared ahead, keeping her eyes still and willing the tears to stop. She didn’t need him, not with her, not in her head, not as a bodyguard. 

“Stop that,” Crow cleared his throat, “stop wallowing. That man was a slave trafficker, he smuggled nobels who deserved worse than death to safety all for a little  gold. There were a lot more people than just you who deserved a pound of flesh, but they couldn’t. I could. The crows could. You didn’t even have to pay to see him gone.”

“Who was he?” Money looked up at Crow. No one used their real names in the circus. 

“Marus Caldori, a slaver and real piece of work,” Crow scowled, the least neutral expression he’d had all day save after Money broke his nose, “he had many enemies throughout the Free Marshes.”

“And they paid you to kill him?” Money ground her teeth together, she imagined the other people who’d wanted him dead. 

“They paid for the Crows to kill the Orlesian nobles you had traveling with you,” Crow looked away, “ but his name was mentioned in the contact.”

“Why then —you killed him?” Money frowned.

“I Kirkwall, while we followed their trail north I met he parent’s of a little boy and little girl who were taken in the night, sold into slavery in the Tevinter Imperium by one Mr. Marus Caldori.” Crow uncrossed his arms and looked over the drying blood. “Some contracts are more worth taking than others, but all contracts are necessary.”

Money imagined all the Aslo’s Crow had gotten the chance to kill, all the wrongs he’d gotten to right. Perhaps she was conflating his accomplishments, perhaps she was thinking better of him than he really was.

“Why’d you become a Crow?” Money looked up at him, annoyed now how much taller he was than her.

“W-what?” Crow’s facade faltered for no longer than a breath, “that’s… none of your business.”

“Revenge?” Money pried, Crow knew too much for it not to be, “did you get it?”

Crow was quiet for a moment, his lips pressed together in a firm line. 

“Soon,” Crow conceded, “I’m working my way up.”

Money nodded, she thought hard about it, “I could be a crow.”

“You?” Crow laughed, an actual smile on his blood crusted lips, “ A crow?”

“I broke your nose,” Money grumbled.

“I let you,” Crow huffed.

“You didn’t let me!” Money pouted, “I got a good hit in!”

“Sure” Crow rolled his eyes, “and I certainly was not holding back at all against a child.” 

“No need to be embarrassed,” Money shrugged, “so, uh, how does it work? Being a crow?”

Crow looked her over as if he was making a final judgment. His arms crossed again and for a moment he looked unsure. 

“Well,” he held a hand out to Money who was less than enthused about taking the soiled glove, “for starters what’s your name?”

“Money,” she scrunched her nose as she took his hand.“De Riva,” Crow said in response, “you’re new house name. I’m Viago, your house Grandmaster. Don’t make me regret this… starting with your name, what the fuck is that?”

[lostuntothisworld]

Adrien is Represented by the Moon

“…and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.”

(From Romeo and Juliet, and engraved on Shoemaker’s capsule, who is the only person whose final resting place is on the moon)

As I’ve touched on Luka as being sun-coded (linked here), I think I should also make a post about how Adrien is moon-coded.

It’s a common fanon nickname that Adrien is called “Sunshine boy,” or thereabouts. But this nickname is within fanon only, and not something Marinette, Emilie or certainly not Gabriel gave him. Let me explain.

The name Adrien is actually a reference to the Adriatic Sea, but as explained in this post, it can also mean “dark one,” and could be a reference to Italian “atro,” or “adro,” which is a poetic word for black. There’s also the Venetic word, “adur,” which means “water.” As is common knowledge, the sun is not known for darkness, or water, but the moon IS.

It’s also interesting to note that when the Apollo Mission landed on the moon, and listened into its crust, that they noticed that the moon “rang like a bell.” This lead to false conspiracies that the moon is hollow, but in reality it’s because the moon just has a different composition to Earth, even if it is made of the same material. This can be of reference to Chat Noir’s bell, which represents his deep desire for domesticity. On the other hand, it can be of reference to the fact that while he is physically human, he was created by magical means, and his life and free will is tied to the twin rings. On ANOTHER note, it can ALSO be of reference to how Adrien doesn’t know who he is as a person, beneath the various masks he wears in and out of costume.

The moon is also tidally locked to Earth. This can be a reference to Adrichat’s one sighted goals, such as his desire for Ladybug’s affection. Once again, Adrien’s name is “tidally locked” to the oceans.

The moon has long been a symbol of disharmony. It’s many changing faces, and lunar eclipses (red moons!) being some of the reasons. It’s simple logic that it could be connected to the “Bad Luck” Miraculous of Destruction. That’s not even mentioning the moon representing disharmony within the confines of the show. Argos created Red Moon out of hatred, and when Chat Blanc couldn’t choose between Ladybug’s orders or his father’s, he chose ultimate destruction by splitting the moon, which was very reminiscent of a suicide.

I mentioned in my original post where Luka is represented by the sun that the three leader Kwamis (Tikki, Plagg, and Sass) can easily be interpreted as reference to a very simplified allusion to Hinduism. Tikki is Brahma, god of creation; Plagg is Shiva, god of destruction; and Sass is Vishnu, god of preservation. A major symbol of Shiva, the god Plagg could be based off of, is a crescent moon.

I would also like to point out the various combination of deities within Hinduism. One such instance is Vailintha-Kamalaja, the combined androgynous form of Vishnu and his consort Lakshmi. Vailintha-Kamalaja seems to represent the oneness and duality of the universe. It’s worth noting that this form is exceptionally rare. Another combined form is Ardhamarishvra, who is a combination of Shiva and his consort Parvati. Ardhamarishvra represents the synthesis of the masculine and feminine energies of the universe, and how they are essentially the same and inseparable. It’s also important to mention that Ardhamarishvra is also interpreted as Shiva alone. I find this second interpretation fascinating because of my Adrien is his own twin sister theory.

The next amalgamation of Hindu deities I’d like to focus on is Harihara, which is the combination of Shiva (destruction) and Vishnu (preservation). It’s important to note that it is believed that they are aspects of the same Ultimate Reality, also known as Brahman (god of creation). This concept is fascinating because it bears resemblance to Tikki (Creation) and Plagg (Destruction) combining to be Gimmi (Reality).

On a more scientific note, I’d like to point out the Nemesis Hypothesis and the Shiva Hypothesis. The Nemesis Hypothesis is that the hypothetical twin sun, Nemesis’ orbit coincides with extinctions that have been happening for 500 million years. This theory has been disproven and usurped by the Shiva Hypothesis, which is natural catastrophes like extinction events happen because of the periodic motion of the sun in relation to the Milky Way galaxy. And of course , Shiva is represented in the show as Plagg, kwami of destruction.

Which means I should probably talk about my Luka and Adrien semi-permanent kwami swap theory, shouldn’t I? Ah, in another post, I suppose.

Next up, I want to mention the Giant Impact Hypothesis, also known as the Theia Impact. The theory states that billions of years ago, a protoplanet about the size of Mars crashed into proto-Earth, and the ejected debris became the moon. If this hypothesis is true, it is believed that Theia provided much of Earth’s water, and helped facilitate life on earth by the tides, and stabilizing earth’s orbit. We know that Adrien’s namesake is very much connected to water. It’s also worth noting that Theia is the Titan of sight, shining ether, and bright sky. She is also married to Hyperion, the Titan whose was the inspiration for the name Viperion.

Theia's remains are believed to reside deep within the mantle of Earth, under the ocean.

It’s also of note that the protoplanet Theia is rarely known as Orpheus, the demigod who descended to the underworld armed with only a lyre (!!!) to save his love (!!!!) If this connection is true, hopefully Luka and Adrien will have a happier ending than Orpheus and Eurydice.

There’s also been a lot of confusion whether Adrichat is represented by yin or yang. A quick look into Taoism clears this up. Yin is destruction while Yang is creation. It’s as simple as that, and the moon has yin energy, whereas the sun has yang energy.

I’d also like to point out is the common phrase “the moon is made of [green] cheese.” While it’s a phrase used to denote a gullible person, and Adrien CAN be gullible at times, it’s more of a reference to Plagg’s obsession with cheese, and Plagg is, well, the Kwami of Destruction.

One final note I’d like to make is the final lines of Pink Floyd’s album The Dark Side of the Moon: 

And all that is now And all that is gone And all that’s to come And everything under the sun is in tune (Everything) But the sun is eclipsed by the moon There’s no dark side of the moon really, matter of fact, it’s all dark”

The album leaves us off with this being something negative, but let’s put this under the lens of Lukadrien:

Luka is the sun and Adrien the moon. Eclipses don’t last forever (like akumitizations…of course Viperion will descend to the underworld to save his Moon, armed with only a lyre) and while the moon has no light source of its own, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist and isn’t vastly important to life of earth.

Adrien just needs to find someone who shines on him so others can appreciate his true self, and of course that can only be the one person who is represented by the sun. 

If you reached the end of this, Thank you for coming to my TED talk!

[flavourlessfiction]

The idea of Tim being a red panda is so cute!

My guess is Puck, cause Puck the Panda is a name Tim would choose.

It might be a little on the nose but I think a fruit bat could be a fun pick for Damian. They are a little funny looking and he’d be fucking mortified if anyone EVER found out but i think a smaller animal would tie back nicely to his assassin up bringing, cause assassins are just spies that kill and they need to gather info

Fruit bat for reference 😆

Wait people can send photos in asks now? When did this happen because I took a long break from tumblr before coming back last year haha.

What I will say is the daemon will not be called Puck, or from A Midsummer Night's Dream. I do subscribe to the opposite-gender daemons belief, and if it is the same gender that is assigned at birth as the human, then it can signify that they're gay/trans or have powers of some sort.

It's not unrelated that I like the idea of Tim being convinced whenever Jason shows up and is like, "how is the pretty princess today?" or some other cutesy greeting that he's trying to get a rise out of him when Jason's really just gushing over Tim's daemon but he's too stubborn to see it.

I could totally see Damian initially being embarrassed, but instead of wanting to hide his daemon he overcompensated by being extra haughty about how the bat is a noble animal and actually useful considering its ability to see in the dark, and large daemons are actually garish and inconsiderate.

[trulybetty]

secret santa.

pairing: tim x cagney (f!reader) word count: 2,108 warnings: none, just tim being tim - set in the tim x cagney universe, somewhere before they become a thing for the first time, but you don't have to read any of that to get this estimated reading time: 10 minutes summary: secret santa at the lapd, for the first time tim is participating. ao3: linked

A/N: forgot to add a little note yesterday in my rush to post! This is for @bluestar22x's Christmas Writing Challenge - I recommend you check it out! Also thank you as always to the lovely @gnpwdrandsnshine for providing feedback and ideas and for always being the best to shout about characters and ideas with! 😘

The LAPD precinct was hardly the kind of place to muster any kind of Christmas spirit. The walls were a dull beige, the air reeked faintly of stale, over-brewed coffee, and the fluorescent lights flickered in a way that might make you question your sanity. But that night, the detectives, officers and support staff had transformed it—twinkling lights hung precariously from any high enough hook, a tree stood proudly (if slightly lopsided) in the corner, and the air buzzed with a rare, warm cheer.

Tim leaned against his desk, arms crossed, scowling at the garish tinsel someone had brazenly strewn around his office while he was out. He didn’t do office parties. He didn’t do tinsel. And he certainly didn’t do Secret Santa.

Except this year, he did.

When the sign-up sheet had been passed around, Tim had ignored it. But when you had casually mentioned how excited you were to participate—how the fact that the precinct had invited the assistant DA to join meant so much to you—he’d swiftly hunted down Betty in Operations, who was arranging the whole thing, to scrawl his name down on the list.

However, he didn’t trust fate to do its job. He’d called in a small favour with Betty—an exchange of the kind of mundane paperwork no one wanted to touch—and suddenly he had the only name he cared about.

You wouldn’t know. He’d swear up and down it was destiny if found out.

Paper snowflakes clung to windows, and the smell of mulled cider filled the bullpen. You were standing next to a crowded, multicultural-filled table laden with an array of foods. The warmth of the party tugged a reluctant smile to your face. It wasn’t every day that the grim halls of the LAPD felt this festive.

Your name echoed from somewhere across the room, “Hey, Cagney, come take a look at this tree! I think it’s leaning more than you do after three drinks.”

Detective Rivera waved you over, you rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. The nickname had stuck after Tim—in irritation of course—had called you Cagney after the two of you had argued over a case. He’d meant it as a pointed opinion that you had overstepped your boundaries as ADA. You were too stubborn and very much relentless—it was why you were so good at your job. But it’d firmly stuck when it’d been overheard by Rivera—though he’d remarked that naming you 'Elizabeth' would be more apt given Tim’s last name. The reference had flown over your head at the time. Tim had shut Rivera down with a withering look that had caused Rivera to laugh even harder when you had asked what was so funny.

Regardless, the name stuck and caught on faster than wildfire across both the precinct and the courthouse. You’d leant into it, mostly in defiance of Tim, fully cementing it when you’d dressed up as the detective one Halloween, and then promptly pulled into court. And thanks to an amused Judge the name and outfit reference were recorded in the case transcript courtesy of the court's stenographer.

Still, you didn’t mind it. It made you feel like one of them—an honorary member of the squad, a role that the actual DA, Connor Wallace, struggled with.

“Hey, at least it’s standing up better than you do under cross-examination,” you countered back receiving a chorus of ‘Oooo’s’ from the pen and Rivera’s signature cackle. “Anyway,” you said as you inspected the artificial tree’s crooked branches, “it looks like someone threw a bunch of ornaments on and hoped for the best.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Rivera remarked, flicking a branch, no one knew how old it was but it had been determined it predated even the oldest of them, “I’d say Tim had been involved.”

You laughed as you looked around the room for the detective, “Speaking of, where is he? I thought he was supposed to be a part of this.”

Rivera took a sip of his cider as he nodded to the other side of the room behind you, “Speak of the devil.”

Tim strode into the bullpen, his mere presence demanding the attention and respect of the room. He had left his jacket behind, dressed in his standard uniform of dark slacks, a white pressed shirt with its sleeves carefully rolled up to his forearms. His signature holster over his shoulders, and as always, one of the three ties you knew he owned hung loose around his neck—a minor display of defiance of having to wear one.

Turning around you just caught the softening of his face as he saw the sight of the wide grin you threw him, “There he is, Mr. Christmas himself.”

For just a second, his shoulders seemed to relax, which made your smile a little brighter. But then, as if catching himself in the moment, he looked away, his expression smoothing back into something neutral.

The gift exchange started with the usual mix of chuckles and groans—cheap mugs, joke gifts, lottery tickets that might pay off someone’s bar tab if they were lucky. You perched on the edge of one of the desks, absently sipping cider, when your name was called.

Placing your cider down you stepped forward, catching a few good-natured jeers about ‘lawyers stealing all the good presents, taking all the credit’, and plucked the neatly wrapped package with your name scrawled on it. The wrapping paper was a deep navy blue, tiny gold stars adorned the thick luxury paper and topped off with a velvet red bow. It was too thoughtful for this crowd. You felt a twinge of curiosity and you looked around the crowd gathered trying to figure out who would have been so thoughtful. Carefully, you opened the present with a reverence that felt almost out of place in the boisterous atmosphere.

You swallowed the gasp, curiosity giving away to something else, something softer, when you pulled back the paper to reveal your gift.

It was perfect. Your kind of perfect.

Nestled in a second layer of delicate tissue paper was a cardboard box, its familiar blue red and white colours standing out to you already. You didn’t need to pull back the paper to know what this was. This was a 6 Transistor Tape Recorder made by North American. Your breath caught. This wasn’t a generic Secret Santa gift, not the kind of gift you’d get someone who didn’t know you. This was personal.

You lifted the box to look inside—it was pristine, in so much better condition than the one you had tried bidding on over the summer. There were maybe a handful of people—if that—you had told about listening to your grandfather dictate his case notes in his study. He had so many devices, but this one had been his favourite.

You turned it over in your hands, a warmth spreading from your chest spreading to your cheeks. “Okay,” you said, raising it slightly for everyone to see, “This is amazing. Whoever my Secret Santa is—you have some explaining to do.”

The room quickly erupted into good-natured whistles, laughter and the odd question of confusion, but quickly enough moved on to the next Secret Santa participant. But one person caught your attention.

Tim.

He was leaning against one of the desks, arms crossed casually sipping from a chipped LAPD coffee mug. He looked like he did most days—stoic, brooding, and completely uninterested in anything remotely festive. You couldn’t help but feel though that he’d been watching every nuance of your reaction to your gift. That was, except for the briefest flicker in his eyes when he caught you looking at him, he raised his mug in a silent cheers and you could feel an unspoken acknowledgement between the two of you.

The office party had thinned out, most of the partygoers had dispersed, off home or to late-night patrols. It left the precinct quieter but still glowing under the soft multicoloured lights strung everywhere.

You knew where to find him—Tim. Picking up your belongings, you headed towards the far end of the bullpen, pushing through the swinging gate and heading back into the warren of offices that served as detectives’ domains and interrogation rooms. You didn’t have to double-check; you’d probably spent more time in his office than he had.

He didn’t hear you approach, his office door wide open, he was sitting behind his desk, swirling whatever was left in his mug.

“Detective Rockford,” you said, announcing your presence as you leant against the door frame, “you really are not much for festivities are you?”

He cleared his throat, his usual mask of indifference firmly in place, “Not really my thing.”

As he spoke, his knuckles tightened slightly around the mug’s handle, and you caught the way his gaze flicked from your face to the gift under your arm before he forced himself to look away.

You pulled your gift out from under your arm, “This is something, though. Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think detective?”

He shrugged, a little too casually—for such a hardened detective, his poker face needed some work, “Could’ve been anyone.”

“Could it?” You asked, tilting your head, and narrowing your eyes. “Because I’m thinking…” you tapped your finger against your bottom lip, “it’s not a coincidence. There’s less than a handful of people I told about this, and only one of them is in this precinct.”

You saw him stiffen slightly, still not wanting to admit his part in the gift, “Don’t know what you’re talking about Cagney. There’s a handful of competent detectives around here and half of them were in on this too, they could have figured it out.”

“You sure?” you stepped closer, placing your gift down, you placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward lowering your voice, “because either you’re my Secret Santa, or you’ve been sharing my secrets with someone else.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air thickening. You watched the muscles in his jaw tense, his eyes flick down to your hands on his desk. The idea of him gossiping was absurd, and you both knew it.

This is what finally cracked him, he pushed back in his chair and his lips twitched—barely, but enough for you to catch it.

He rounded his desk, avoiding the self-satisfying smirk on your lips. You opened your mouth to revel in your detective prowess, even if it was an open and shut case, when you glanced up. There, just above you and Tim was a small sprig of green tied with a neat red bow dangling from the ceiling.

“Huh,” you said, your voice full of mock innocence, “would you look at that? Mistletoe.”

His eyes followed yours, his posture stiffened and you could see a flush creeping up his neck, “That’s Rivera’s idea of a joke.”

“Sure,” you nodded, looking up at him, “but you know, the rules.”

“The rules?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Uh huh, and we all know how you’re a stickler for the rules.”

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he’d move. His jaw tightened, and his gaze locked on yours. The air between you crackled, growing heavier, warmer. He didn’t pull away when you stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

You were close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave, to see the tight line of his shoulders, as if he were deciding which way to move. Neither of you had mentioned the almost kiss in his car almost two months ago now—when you’d been taking part in the compulsory ride-along, he’d pulled strings then too. Then he had made the first move, this time it seemed like he was debating the value of the moment.

So you made the first move.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft and brief, but enough to feel his breath catch against yours. It was shorter than you’d like, but if you were going to kiss this man, and kiss him properly, it wasn’t going to be in his office with half the department outside the door. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours, dark and unreadable, but his lips parted as if he wanted to say something.

You smiled, a genuinely warm one, feeling your heart pound against your ribs. “Merry Christmas, Tim.”

For the first time since you’d entered his office, his mask cracked, and he gave you the faintest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen, realization dawning on him. “Merry Christmas Cagney.”

[astrologysaysno]

I'm shoving the newest media I'm consuming to my old media like a turkducken and eating it all for me.

I have concocted my very out there idea of SVSSS and everything is the same but Shang Qinghua does Kennedy Davenport's Glamazon Monologue.

Okay so here is the scenario.

Out of a side quest from the system to get some more b-points, Shang Qinghua decided to convince the peak lords to do a runway where each of them were to do a themed costume about an imagined death they would succumb to.

There's a few stand outs, a few lackluster ones. Shen Qingqiu, who came dressed as someone who got eaten by a shark, is eyeing Yue Qingyuan for making the decision to show up looking like a barrage of arrows went through him, but we digress.

All eyes turn to Shang Qinghua the moment he enters the room in the most garish, crystal covered bodysuit he had. Things sticking out everywhere as everyone looked in confusion. The strange white makeup on his face didn't help either. He looked like a bright orange, mutated chicken.

A while later, they sit down together to talk about their costumes. Qi Qingqi makes the decision to ask Shang Qinghua what his costume is supposed to represent. Qinghua, a little buzzed from the wine, responds.

QQQ: "So, What was the idea behind your... outfit?"

SQH, A little tipsy:"Okay so... After a long night of hookin', trade didn't like the session."

Shen Qingqiu nearly did a spit tank when he immediately recognised the reference from the monologue. Mu Qingfang looks at him warily, but Qingqiu tries to reassure him it was nothing as Qinghua kept speaking, trying to hold back a laugh.

SQH: "So he had gutted me-"

YQY: "Oh-"

SQH: "-and set me on fire,"

YQY: "oh,"

SQH: "But you know, I didn't die,"

QQQ: "Uh huh?"

SQH: "I ✨️Crystalized✨️"

QQQ: "Oh,"

SQH: "Now I'm a Glamazon, Bitch! Ready for the runway."

Shen Qingqiu can't hold it in anymore and starts laughing uncontrollably as Shang Qinghua joins him.

[Have fun with whatever this is]

[senqv]

HOUSE OF KINGS.

“ turn him into the stars and form a constellation in his image

his face will make the heavens so beautiful

the world will fall in love with night and forget the garish sun . “

— shakespeare , romeo & juliet

blue lock ! royal / fantasy au series featuring : michael kaiser x fem! reader

warning(s): fluff at the start then it quickly turns to angst , some comfort , insanity everywhere , death , violence , i might get stoned to death after this , lmk if there are more !!

doomed romance , arranged marriage , childhood friends to enemies to lovers

fictional noble houses , VERY historically inaccurate for the territories i made everything up they r not in the same time period !! , mythological references , circe / illiad coded

ONE. CHILD OF PROPHECY

TWO. THE WRATH SING, O GODDESS

to be continued …

[izzyhandswhore]

ALRIGHT SO,SINCE REQUESTES ARE OPEN, I hope you'll write this. Izzy slowly falling in love with Stede's sister reader,and Stede's reaction to it

((Thank you so much for my first request!! Absolutely love this idea. I'm gonna split it into two parts since it got a bit long. So Izzy reacting to it, then Stede)) Izzy falling in love with a Bonnet. - Slowly is right. Izzy meets you at a very turbulent time in his life and he thinks the last thing he needs is more dead weight.. Though of course you prove yourself to be anything but that. - He'll never forget the first time he laid eyes on you. Just when he thought he'd seen every absurd thing The Revenge could throw at him.. There you were. The final and most complex puzzle. - Everything about you confounds him and winds him up because really, in theory, he should hate you the way he hates Bonnet, but somehow.. He just can't. When Stede wears finery it looks garish and stupid, but on you it's perfect. When Stede wears something more pirate-like he looks like a boy playing dress up, but you look different and daring. - Claims he won't go easy on you just 'cause you're a lady (and my GOD does he love teasing and making fun of you for being 'a lady') but the whole crew notices right away that he does. You're not sure if it's subconscious or not, but Izzy never really raises his voice at you, never demands to know what you're doing and putting you to work in your downtime, never threatens to take away rations and always makes sure you have time to eat.. The list goes on. - Basically at first he's a lot of bark and no bite. He refuses to call you by your name only ever sarcastically or venomously refers to you as "my lady" or "your highness" or, if you've really got on his nerves, "madam" or "princess". - The score stays even though. He is VERY easy to get flustered, especially since it's been a while since he's had female company. The smallest of things (the way your hair or skirt blows in in the breeze, your voice, your touch or even the way you look at him sometimes) often catch him off guard. - But then things start to shift. Izzy can be pretty observant and it doesn't escape his notice that you're not as useless as he first thought. The total opposite, in fact.. Slowly a mutual respect starts to form. He even starts calling you by your name and seeking out your company instead of only talking to you when necessary. - Instead of mocking you or discouraging you from taking part in things like sword fighting and the running of a ship, you find he actually becomes your greatest guide. The two of you take to sword training in the quieter moments and star gazing navigating under the stars at night, just the two of you. - In return you actually get him to open up and talk about his feelings (though he would deny instantly that that's what it was). He tells you about life on the Queen Anne and listens when you tell him about your own life before The Revenge. You slowly dismantle the idea that you and Stede had a picture-perfect childhood and the respect grows to admiration as he realizes how strong you actually are. - Stede and the crew have no idea what you did but they notice a change in Izzy after that. He's still, as Stede would say, a complete arsehole, but his edges seems slightly softer somehow. At the very least he doesn't seem as stressed out all the time. - It's hard, but eventually you can get him to start accepting some of your fancy gifts. He wouldn't be caught dead with any of them, but he has a ring on a chain around his neck, beneath his shirt close to his heart. - Secretly wishes to be married so you don't have to have the name "Bonnet" anymore. He's not convinced you are a Bonnet anyway. There's no way you could be related to that foppish twat.