#sky high profits

[margaretobrienpornpublisher]

Margaret O'Brien, Pornography Publisher

[wastelandnaturalist]

I'm so fucking tired bro

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

barista (t.d.)

Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: You have a big, fat crush on your regular—Gotham’s very own friendly neighborhood coffee addict, Tim Drake.

A/N: Please compliment me about the banner I worked very hard on it <3 Also Happy New Year!!!

Getting a job in food service was honestly the last thing you wanted to do. You had heard enough horror stories from your friends who had taken many summer jobs unlike you. They often complained of insufferable superiors, bad working hours, and even worse pay and even though their stories of annoying Karens were extremely entertaining, you didn't think you'd be any good at handling them yourself. Unless your boss was okay with you cussing them out.

So, when your parents brought up you getting a job, you had vehemently refused. It's not like you particularly needed the money, however, they made a good point about needing to gain experience and how you were practically a rotting pile of flesh since you had begun summer break.

You couldn't argue with their points, even you knew that you needed to get back into a routine and get some fresh air. However, a job as a barista was the last thing you wanted to do.

But when your parents mentioned that you'd be working at your aunt's cafe, you were quick to change your tune. You always had a blast with her, and she'd definitely pay you well, lest she face the rath of her older sister, your mother. Plus, she often claimed that you were her favourite niece, despite not having any other but you supposed it was the thought that counted. Plus, you'd make extra money that you could use for pretty much anything.

So, now adorned in an apron, you stood behind the counter and took orders. Your aunt oversaw the pastry making and baking while you were in charge of the register and making drinks.

The thing you liked the most about your aunt's cafe was that it was a rare find for many customers. The cafe was the perfect space for people to sit in the quiet and get some work done. There was rarely ever any rush unless a big party came, however even then you were never really spread thin. You suppose you should feel bad that your aunt wasn't getting much business but she more than made up for the lack of customers with her overpriced coffee and cakes. But you would never tell her that. Besides, she made most of her profits from custom cake orders.

That's not to say that you didn't get any customers, you had very many loyal regulars that were always polite and would always strike up a conversation with you. Most of them were residents from the high-rise building above the shop so they were usually pretty wealthy and thus knew how to tip well.

And of course, the most loyal customer of them all, Gotham’s very own coffee addict; Tim Drake.

You take back your previous statement; he was definitely the thing you liked the most about the cafe.

You would have been down bad if he had just been just good looking; with blue eyes that were unusually bright and clear, like as though God cut the fabric of the afternoon sky and the clear blue ocean and made his irises with them. His pale skin and dark hair definitely made them seem even brighter.

He was so good looking that your customer-service-smile had frozen onto your face when he first entered the cafe, barely hearing his order over the thumping of your heartbeat and your brains incessant chatter trying to tell you to pay attention to what he was saying. Eventually, you had to apologize and ask him to repeat his order in your stupor, giving the excuse that you were new even though you had been there for more than 2 weeks.

He just smiled politely and told you not to worry before fishing his wallet and paying for his drink, tipping 50%. He wasn't just gorgeous but also well-mannered and sweet. You were down so catastrophically, cataclysmically bad.

The next time he came in, you learnt his name by pretending you needed to write it down on the cup and he casually commented how you didn't really do that last time. You said it was because he had been the only one in the store last time even though there was only one additional customer there. And you all were aware that you didn't bother to ask for the other customer’s name.

Tim continued to come almost every morning for the next couple of weeks and once you learnt how to actually comprehend the words coming out of his mouth instead of just listening to angelic singing every time he looked at you, you realized he was actually very interesting.

He'd always strike up a conversation with you and sometimes you'd take your lunch break and sit with him at the table while you talked. He was hilarious and intelligent and creative and the more you talked with him the more your plain attraction turned into affection before you knew it.

"I see you like Red Robin." Tim commented casually, noticing the insignia pin that you had on your apron. You glanced at the enamel pin that you had bought from a bodega on an impulse out of instinct before nodding, "Yeah, he's my favourite amongst the bats."

"Oh really? How come? Most people really prefer Nightwing, like me."

You shrugged, "I dunno, I just feel like he doesn't get enough appreciation as compared to the others. Plus, he makes the papers the least often."

"So, what? You felt bad that no one pays attention to him?"

You shook your head, clutching the screen as you typed in his order that you had already memorized. A brown sugar shaken espresso that you had convinced him to try just once, and he had immediately been hooked onto. You obviously added a couple extra shots of espresso for his caffeine addicted self.

"On the contrary, the fact that he's not seen in the paper probably means that he's getting the job done quietly and efficiently. Or maybe not. But that's just my guess. He's not bad looking either."

Tim chuckled, passing you his card, "Don't let him hear you say that; he might just swoon at the compliment."

"Well, I haven't actually seen his face, so I can't say with full certainty."

Tim lingered by the counter while you made his coffee, speaking loudly due to the absence of customers at this time. You had once mentioned that this was your least busy time; you wondered if he visited during that time, so he'd get to talk to you for longer.

You shook your head, reminding yourself not to get a big head as you pulled a double shot of espresso, quickly adding it to the shaking glass with brown sugar.

"I bet I’m better looking."

You really hadn't meant to laugh as hard as you had; you just pictured Tim Drake, with his posh posture and Gotham elite personality, sniffing at Red Robin as he tried to critique and compare looks. You were fairly sure that Red Robin was a head taller than him as well. The more you thought about it, the harder you laughed.

When you finally managed to wipe the tears from your eyes, Tim was still standing at the counter with a star-struck expression, pink beginning to paint his porcelain skin in beautiful blooms. You bit your lip, smiling in apology. He must have been quite embarrassed at your boisterous laughter.

"S-Sorry, you caught me off-guard." You explained, still giving him a sheepish smile as you grabbed a napkin and straw for him. The red had made its way up to his ears and down his neck before disappearing underneath the hoodie he was wearing.

Great, you had a crush on the guy and just laughed at the thought of him being better looking compared to a guy you had never even seen before.

"It's fine, it was meant to be a joke, so I suppose I’m flattered."

"No, I was being mean, you're definitely better looking." You teased, "If I ever meet Red Robin, I’ll definitely let him know that."

"I’ll hold it to you." He joked, grabbing his drink.

Having a crush was way more physically taxing than you had remembered it being. Every time Tim was around you, your heart slammed so sharply against your ribcage you would get breathless, and your stomach would twist into so many knots you'd find your abdomen getting sore.

You'd grow visibly excited when it was around the time for him to enter the store, making sure everyone else's orders were fulfilled so that you could give him as much of your undivided attention.

After being hopelessly infatuated and pining for him for a while, you had thought that you had gotten used to the incessant butterflies flapping their fingers against the walls of your stomach. However, Tim continued to prove you wrong.

You had just finished wiping down the steam wand of the espresso machine, when the bell above the store door had jingled, telling you that you had a customer.

When your eyes landed on the man standing behind the register, you couldn't help but freeze, stomach squeezing so tightly you could feel your heart crawl up to your throat, stopping you from welcoming him inside.

Tim Drake was wearing a suit.

His hair was styled for the first time you had ever seen him; dark tresses neatly gelled away from his face aside for a couple strands that tickled his nose.

You clenched the cloth in your hands so tightly you could feel the rough fabric beginning to slightly burn your skin. A part of you wanted to collapse into a puddle on the floor, already knowing how weak your knees had gotten at the site of him adjusting his watch. Oh, you wanted to dissolve into a pile of warm syrup, and you bit your lips to hide a dopey, lovesick grin.

Another, more repressed part, wanted to grab his tie in a single fist and yank the handsome man toward you, climbing over the counter and kissing him all over until his white shirt was stained with your lip gloss, his immaculate hair was messed up by your fingers and his cologne had rubbed off on your skin instead. You forced that part of yourself into the corner because she seriously needed a time-out.

"Um, hey?"

This was the first time he had spoken, clearly noticing how you just stood awkward frozen in time. Oh god, his voice was so much more attractive than you remembered. This wasn't fair.

"H-Hi, where are you going off to so prim and proper?" You asked, pulling yourself together by pinching your thigh so painfully that you could feel a bruise beginning to form.

"Oh, I just have a meeting at work. I do most of the work from home, but I’m needed in the office today." He explained, handing you his card like clockwork and you nodded, stepping away so you could start making his drink.

"Wow, how adult." You mused, shaking the tumbler quickly before pouring it into his cup and handing it to him.

"You look good, by the way," His warm fingertips grazed against your own when you handed him the tissue and straw. You watched as a bashful smile grew on his face at your compliment, making your heart flutter like a feather floating through the wind, "Much better than Red Robin."

He rolled his eyes, small smile turning into a full-blown grin.

***

This was the first time since you had met Tim that he hadn't come to the bakery alone and thus it would be the first time in a very long time that you actually had to take the order instead of automatically input his drink order.

Unfortunately, it would also be the last time you would be taking his order. You were supposed to work at the coffee shop for the rest of the month, however you had gotten an opportunity from your professor to be a part of his research team for the next semester and he required you to begin early. Which meant that you would no longer have the time to work for your aunt.

You had yet to tell Tim, upset at the thought of not being able to see him every morning from now onwards.

You had thought long and hard about it last night after you had confirmed your participation on the research team; you didn't want it to be the last time that you spoke to Tim tomorrow, you wanted him in your life.

So, you came to the conclusion that you would finally confess to him. You didn't want to continue the pining and end up in the purgatory that is the friendzone so you figured it would be the least risky to admit your feelings to him on your last day there. If he said no, you'd no longer have to run into him again every morning. If anything, he might be relieved that his regular coffee runs wouldn't be awkward from now on.

However, there was one new detail that was going to make your plan more embarrassing—

"This is my older brother, Dick." Tim introduced and you nodded, recalling when he talked about his extremely big family. Also, there was no one in city who wasn't aware of the Gotham prince, Dick Grayson, the oldest son of billionaire Bruce Wayne. Your eyes flittered between the both of them; despite being adopted, they shared a striking resemblance to each other.

You gave him a kind smile, "It's nice to finally meet you, Tim talks about you a lot."

"Good things, I hope." He responded, ever the ray of sunshine and you found yourself turning toward him like a lone sunflower. You realized he had that effect on people, the other customers also were privy to his presence. It was almost like he had a halo shining on the top of his head. The term 'Prince of Gotham' was certainly well-earned.

"Those are state secrets." You joked, playfully winking at him and he gave you a good-natured grin.

"So, what will you be having today?"

Tim ordered his regular and Dick got a matcha along with a vegan cheese tart for 'Dami' who you assumed was Tim's youngest brother Damian.

Tim held his card out for you to pay for their drinks and you inhaled sharply, digging your heel into your other foot to strengthen your resolve.

It was now or never, (Y/N).

You shook your head, trying your best to remain nonchalant even though your stomach was taking a rollercoaster ride, and you pins began to prick at your toes from how hard you were stepping on it with your other foot.

"it's on the house."

Tim tried to protest but you shut him down, not even making any moves to try and take his card from him, only handing him his receipt with the order number on it.

"Don't let your boss find out you're handing out freebies to everyone." He teased, sliding his card back into his wallet and you dug your nails into your palm, trying not to chicken out in the last second.

"Actually, the freebies are only for the cute customers that the barista has a crush on." You replied smoothly, grabbing the filter for the espresso machine and not looking back at Tim, afraid of his reaction.

Oh god, was your voice shaking? You tried your best to remain collected on the outside even though on the inside your heart was erupting like a volcano, magma flowing through your veins and setting your entire body ablaze.

You spared a small glance at his older brother, embarrassed that he was here to witness this. A sizzling heat began to run up your neck and to your cheeks, fingers stiff as you tamped the coffee.

A chuckle brought you out of your stupor and your stomach sank. It wasn't the usual laugh that Tim had, instead a mirthless sound that made you look back up at him, only to find him staring at the receipt you had given him, now crumpled him in a tight fist.

"Glad I’m the exception then," He said through gritted teeth, "I’m gonna go."

He left without making so much as another glance at you and your cheeks coloured in humiliation when you had realized his brother had seen that whole interaction with an equal expression of shock and pity that made you quickly bite down on an ice cube to prevent any tears from lining your lashes.

You quickly made the drinks, reminding yourself that it was okay since you were never gonna see him again, keeping your customer service smile on until his brother had left the store and then some before you finally let it fall.

***

"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?" Dick asked, placing Tim's coffee order on the console of the bat computer, already finished his matcha. The coffee had long been watered down; the ice had melted in the Gotham heat on his walk back home since Tim had just left him there at the coffee shop.

The younger brother ignored him, staring at the screen with a glare that began to get increasingly annoyed. When it became clear to him that Dick wasn't going to move from his side until he got an answer, Tim finally sighed "I’m sorry for ditching you at the coffee shop."

"Apology accepted but that's not what I meant. Why were you so mean to that poor girl? I mean if you didn't like her, you could've at least turned her down gently."

Tim scoffed, incredibly peeved, "Are you stupid? She was clearly asking you out! I've been going there for like 2 months now and she's never been so blushy and nervous before you walked in there with your stupid tall height and stupid big grin and stupid good looks!"

Dick's jaw dropped open; blue eyes wide with shock. Wasn't Timothy meant to be like the smartest and most logical one amongst them? As far as he knew he was also acknowledged by R’as Al Ghul himself as a remarkable detective. Hell, he had discovered the dark knight's secret identity when he was nine.

And yet—

"Are you fucking stupid? She wasn't asking me out! That cute little flirty compliment was clearly directed at you!"

Tim still looked upset, though Dick could clearly see that he was beginning to doubt his conclusions. Thank goodness, he didn't inherit Bruce’s or his brother's stubbornness.

"So, you like her but thought she was hitting on me, so you got all emo?" Dick deftly deduced, watching as an embarrassed rash spread across his pale skin, "Dude, you really hurt her feelings. I think she was about to cry when you walked out like that."

You had really tried to look like Tim's exit hadn't affected you and to an untrained eye it probably would've looked like that, but Dick noticed how you were chewing down on your bottom lip til it bled just to prevent from crying.

Tim's eyes now raised to him, now completely uncertain with a touch of guilt and Dick sighed.

He wasn't the son of the greatest detective for nothing, but it wouldn't take years of training to know what a lovesick boy looked like. He had found out that Tim had been visiting this particular coffee shop every day at the same time when he flat out refused to have Alfred’s French press in favour of driving across town to the penthouse, he'd sometimes sleep in just to get coffee.

Tim would never refuse Alfred’s French press unless he was unconscious. Or dead.

Which lead Dick to do some sleuthing.

Didn't take any effort to check his credit card statement and find out that he had been visiting this particular store every single day. Which is really the reason that Dick tagged along that day, to meet the girl who had so clearly captured his little brother's attention.

He was honestly giddy when he realized that you were shooting your shot right in front of him. Oh, he could see the wedding happening before his eyes already, where he would very obviously make his groomsman speech, telling the crowd how he had been there the day you finally became a couple.

But Tim merely crushed up the paper receipt in his hand before storming out and he was left alone in the coffee shop, having to watch as Tim's future wife kept her gaze anchored to the floor while she tried to make the coffee that she had just given them for free. He left a fifty in the tip jar right then.

This would not be the last time that his brother would do something stupid throughout the duration of your relationship. He supposed you might have dodged a bullet due to the misunderstanding but Dick was biased toward his brother and so he felt obligated to try and get you both together.

"Are you sure?"

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, "Tim, she didn't even speak to me after you left because she was so upset that the guy she had a crush on brutally turned her down."

His eyes narrowed still, "Are you sure?"

This time Dick had had it. He grabbed Tim's ear, unaffected by his shouts of pain and curses at him as he dragged him toward the elevator, "Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you go back to that coffee shop, apologize for being a jackass and ask her out. And you better take her to a fancy ass restaurant on your first date to make up for this mess."

"Okay! Okay!" Tim conceded, finally ripping his brother's hand from his ear and he crossed his arms, "You know, this wouldn't have even happened if you hadn't been a nosy ass and followed me to the coffee shop."

"This wouldn't have happened if you weren't an idiot either."

***

Tim had been silent during the patrol and while he wasn't the most talkative, it was unlike him to be this quiet. They were already an hour into the patrol and batman had yet to hear this voice of his son over the comms, but he didn't ask about it. He'd inquire about his son's personal life after patrol when he was back to being his parent and not his partner.

Something was definitely off however, since even Nightwing was more on the quiet side of the spectrum that night, which was extremely out of the ordinary.

It all had to do with what happened right before patrol--

Tim really hoped that Jason wouldn't kill him for stealing one of his motorcycles that he left at the manor but honestly it was the fastest way for him to get to the coffee shop without getting stuck in Gotham traffic. And really if Jason didn't want anyone to be using his motorcycle, he really shouldn't have left it in the garage with the keys there for anybody to take. Hadn't he learnt his lesson after Damian had tried to take one of Bruce’s cars?

Even though there were still a couple of hours for closing time, when Tim entered the store, you were nowhere to be found. Hearing the bell, your aunt had answered from the kitchen instead, telling him that she'd be right there in a moment.

When she finally emerged, wiping her hands on her apron, she stopped, recognizing Tim as a regular but he could tell that she didn't really know anything about him or even his name, "What can I get you?"

He angled his neck, trying to see if someone was in the kitchen but when he couldn't spot anything he turned back to your aunt who waited patiently, "Um, is (Y/N) not here?"

"Ah," She shook her head, "Since it was her last day working here, I let her go early."

Oh, Tim really should've had his coffee today because the caffeine withdrawal was starting to make him hear things. He could've sworn he just heard your aunt say that it was your last day working at the coffee shop.

"Last day? What do you mean?"

Tim returned to the Batcave just in time for patrol, shoulders hunched over and a pitiful frown on his face that had answered Nightwing’s question before he could even ask how it went. He didn't say anything else, just walking over to the change rooms without so much as a glance to his father or younger brother.

Understandably, your aunt refused to give your phone number to Tim considering she had no idea of your relationship with him. If there was any relationship anymore. You clearly had every intention to not be in his life anymore if he had turned you down, explaining why you decided to confess on your last day.

He had asked your aunt to pass his number to you but there was no telling whether she actually would or if you would call him even if she did.

And in retrospect it would be fairly easy for him to find your number or address or which university you went to, but how was he meant to explain how he coincidentally managed to run into you before explaining the misunderstanding and confessing his feelings?

His mind was wracked with questions, and he continued to beat himself up for thinking that you had been flirting with Dick in the first place. If he hadn't been such an idiot, he could've avoided this whole mess and could've avoided upsetting you.

Now even if he managed to find you, there was always a possibility that his reaction managed to turn you off and change your mind.

"Woah Timmy isn't that the girl you like?"

Dick's voice cut across the unusual silence for that night, ringing in his ears so suddenly that for a second, he didn't even register what he had said.

However, when he did, it was almost comical the way his head lurched up like a meercat, spotting Nightwing’s figure a couple of buildings away and immediately grappling toward him, nearly throwing himself off the side of the terrace trying to spot you.

You stepped out of Gotham university, hands clutching a binder to your chest. Tim wasn't sure what had his heart beating faster—the sight of your frost-bitten nose, tinged red from the cold—or that you weren't alone.

You were laughing with a man who, much to Tim’s dismay, was undeniably good-looking and wearing a lab coat, which meant he was clearly smart and shared your interests and oh you both were going to get married, and he was going to be alone and coffeeless for the rest of his life.

"What are they saying?!" Tim leant over the edge of the roof like a right fool.

"This is beginning to get creepy, baby bird." Dick commented from behind him, but all Tim could tell him was to shut up because he couldn't hear just what had you giggling so animatedly.

"it's great that undergrads get a chance to be on a research team; I know it might not seem like much but it's gonna look great on your resume, (Y/N)."

You narrowed your eyes teasingly, "You're just saying that because you're relieved someone is gonna be doing the literature review and wash your empty beakers."

The junior assistant, a postgrad student was in charge of showing you around the lab and giving you a list of your responsibilities. Since it was short notice, you were going to have to learn the ropes quite quickly so as to look competent to the other professors.

He laughed, patting your shoulder and you could've sworn you heard a sound similar to a bird shrieking from above you, "You caught me there. But you'll get your name on your first research paper so that's there."

"I am but a modern-day Cinderella." You grinned, walking with him til he reached his car. He sat in the driver's seat, not yet closing the door when he called out for you just as you were beginning to walk away, "Are you sure you don't want a ride home?"

You smiled but shook your head, "No, thank you, maybe next time."

You watched him pull out of the parking space before driving away, wondering whether you should wait for the bus or just take a cab back home. The next bus wasn't for another 25 minutes, and you didn't want to wait around in the dark, however, a cab would be four times the amount you'd spend using the bus.

You suppose you could've called your father and asked him to pick you up from the university, but he had just gotten home from work, and you would hate to ask him to have to come and get you.

You sighed and muttered underneath your breath, "I should've just asked him to take me home." before beginning your trudge home. A part of you was scolding yourself for taking possibly the most dangerous route home but the other part reminded yourself that it was unlikely for anything to happen.

Besides, you had seen Nightwing patrol the area earlier that night and it was way too early for the bats to turn in for the night. With any luck, he was still roaming around here.

***

Looking back, taking a shortcut through an alleyway wasn't the smartest plan you had ever made. However, you were lucky enough because it seemed like the bats had been watching over you for the night; you didn't even have the chance to get mugged before Red Robin has scared off your potential attackers. You hadn't even noticed them creeping up behind you.

You simply stared at him, starstruck. It was the first time you had ever come into contact with the Gotham cryptids and you had least expected an encounter with the most elusive of them, Red Robin.

You had known he had black hair but through a screen it had really looked more like oily snakes that had further cemented your belief that they were demons.

But up close, his hair was soft and silky, he smelt of sweat and grime but with a slight tinge of cologne hidden underneath. You continued to stare at him, feeling like you could tattoo the sight of him onto your retinas.

"Um," You began, not sure how to even begin the conversation. Should you thank him for saving your life? Or apologize for being an inconvenience. Instead, you found yourself following his gaze to the lapel of your lab coat, only to find him staring at the Red Robin insignia pinned there. It was then you had been reminded of the same interaction with Tim Drake.

"Just so you know, you're way better looking than Tim Drake."

You were in slight awe of Red Robin and also still heartbroken over Tim Drake's scorn earlier that day, so you felt the need to settle the score with him even though it would clearly never make its way back to him.

Afterall what were the chances that the vigilante Red Robin knew the trust fund baby Tim Drake? They didn't exactly run in the same circles.

The masked man just stared at you in surprise, quite frozen after your declaration and honestly you couldn't blame him. He had just saved your life and instead of thanking him you began complimenting his good looks while at the same time insulting a completely random man, when really you had no business doing because you didn't really know what he looked like.

Though the more you stared at his face, finding your eyes drawing lines down the same jawline, cupid's bow, and nose bridge, you couldn't help but find similarities between the man you had just compared him to—

You physically shook the thought out of your head.

"Okay, then," You finished, finally turning around to walk away from him, having had enough of standing awkwardly in the middle of the alley, "Thank you agai—!"

"(Y/N), wait!" His gloved fingers clasped around your wrist, and you cut yourself off abruptly, staring up at him in surprise. It seemed his response had surprised him as well, considering the way he continued to stare at you. You couldn't really see his wide-eyed gaze due to the domino, but you could tell from the slight gap of his mouth and the raised brow.

Your lashes fluttered as you lowered your eyes to the hand still around your own, his voice echoing through your head. He had a modulator but this close to him it felt like you could hear the voice underneath it. His voice was crisper, cleaner and lighter underneath the automated depth, you could hear it just slightly through the syllables of your name.

You looked back at the whites of his mask, "How did you know my name?"

You weren't accusing him of anything, at least he didn't think so, not from your voice. You sounded genuinely curious and your eyes ping-ponged over his features, trying to find something. Then he noticed the ways they slightly narrowed before you whispered, "Tim?"

His jaw went slack, eyes going so comically wide now that you had just known you knocked the hammer right on the head. He took a step back, finally releasing your hand and you cupped your gaping mouth, in shock yourself.

"Wait seriously?! I was just guessing! Why on earth would you make it so obvious!" You chastised.

"I’m sorry, ok?! I didn't have any coffee today and so my brain isn't braining today!"

You crossed your arms over your chest, "And who's fault is that? You're the one who stormed out of the cafe after rejecting me—after I literally gave your drinks for free!"

Red Robin—Tim winced, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze fluttered guiltily away from yours, "That was...not my best moment."

"Not your best moment? You acted like I spat on your whole family and condemned you to death!" Okay perhaps you were being a tad bit dramatic, but it had been an extremely long day, and you kept being presented with new information which was a lot to take.

You were just a girl, for god's sake!

"Ok, in my defense, I thought you were confessing to my brother—not me! So, if anything, I was upset that you might like my family a little too much!" He retaliated and you gaped at him, incredulous.

"You are just—wow, unbelievable." You finally breathed. Truthfully, you didn't know what to even do now, something told you that you weren't going to be able to walk home completely unharmed. Since you knew his identity, the worst that could happen was that one of his bat friends was hanging over you to put you out of your misery. Best case scenario, you'd sign an NDA and be on your merry way home.

"I’m sorry, (Y/N). This is all my fault, I was being an idiot earlier and I got insecure cuz I thought you were asking out my brother which stung cuz I’ve been crushing on you for like months now." He finally admitted, holding his gaze low.

If you hadn’t been deafened by the sound of your heart pounding wildly in your chest at his confession, you would’ve given him a hard time about how nervous he seemed—just as you had been before he so brutally turned you down.

"You like me?" Your question, simple as it was, still managed to make Tim's heartrate escalate.

"Yes—I mean, of course—How could I not?"

You blushed, a gleeful response already on the tip of your tongue. Well, you would have, if you hadn’t suddenly been shrouded in a bat-shaped shadow that had you instinctively pressing yourself closer to Tim.

"Oh, I’m so dead." Tim muttered under his breath the second he had caught the figure of his father standing atop a building, having heard everything over the comms.

Your eyes widened and you stepped closer to him, a hand tightening around the utility belt strapped to his chest. You had remembered the rumours of what had happened to the second robin.

Tim's attention was snapped back to you the second he heard your sharp intake of breath, "N-Not literally, really (Y/N). I’m probably just gonna get grounded."

That got you to loosen your grip with a relieved sigh, relaxing and letting go.

"Grounded? As in Red Robin is grounded. Or Tim Drake?"

"Probably Tim Drake, Red Robin is still needed in the field. Maybe both." He admitted with a wince, and you have him a gentle pat on the chest that was meant to be a kind of 'there, there'. He gave you a small smile, gloved fingers holding the hand to his chest.

"I suppose our first date will have to wait, huh?"

Tim would be lying if a part of him hadn't kind of expected you to rethink everything. I mean, he had been so mean to you when turning you down after jumping to wild conclusions at no fault of your own. Then there was also his secret that he had been stupid enough to reveal to you.

You didn't deserve this; you deserved much better.

Still these thoughts were extremely fleeting, easily overthrown by his feeling of giddiness and outright joy, a blinding grin taking over his face.

"I guess so. I'll make it up to you, though—Dinner's on me."

You scoffed, "It better be, I’m standing in an alley 15 minutes past curfew with the identity of one of the illusive bats all because you thought I had a thing for your brother."

If his cheeks weren't already bitten from the cold, you would have watched as they went aflame, "I was young and stupid."

"It was this morning!"

"I was eight hours younger."

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@tchatso

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

@isawachickeninatree

@uxavity

@battlenix

@capricorn-stark

@evermoore580

@dumbbitchgalore

@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

@that-one-fangirl69

@eloriis

[stxrvel]

absence (1)

series summary. the holy grail of the seven men who ruled the country's entertainment used to be your friends at school. now, ten years later and between successes and failures, what reason would they have to want to come back into your life? pairing. eventually ot7 x f!reader... or not? content. first of all, english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes! curse words, fangirling a lot and some self-deprecation. no proofread. this is just silly writing, we're on the safe zone for now. a/n. hi guys! i was gonna wait a little bit but i'm really excited about this one so you're gonna have earlier! thank u all for the support and i really hope you enjoy this 🫶🏻

series masterlist | bts masterlist | next

You met them all at school. Each with their own ambitions, their different dreams, but so similar in the nature of their core. It was almost funny how everyone with their dissimilar personalities fit so strangely well into one school group. There were times when you could still remember how you used to tell them that all together they could rule the world.

Maybe that's why you didn't see them years ago.

Jeon Jungkook was an idol. There wasn't an hour in the day or a screen in the city where you weren't watching him. He was so popular around the world that you suspected that not even one person didn't know him. His voice was on every radio station, on every cell phone of the people you passed on the street and on the buses, his face on the TV sets with the last interview he had done, as if it were a national achievement. You even saw him in restaurants, chefs naming dishes after him, production companies releasing collaborations with his company. There wasn't an object in that city that didn't have Jungkook's face on its forehead. It was impossible to escape him.

He was closely followed by Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, two of the most promising models of the last decade, a national pride hand in hand with Jungkook. You didn't see them as often as Jungkook, but they still swept the international public and there was hardly anyone who didn't talk about them. Invited to catwalks in Paris, choosing their contracts and collaborations, wearing the most expensive clothes that you wouldn't even think of buying, wearing beautiful matching jewelry, expensive enough that a single outfit from each of them could buy you five houses in the small town they all came from. Taehyung and Jimin were known as the Siamese twins of modeling. Wherever one went, the other always had to be. Their exclusivity was incomparable.

In levels of recognition, Min Yoongi followed them in line. A great rapper who was well received by the general populace. Yoongi had managed to captivate a large audience thanks to his incredible command of the production of his music and his ease and gift for writing his own lyrics. His growth was gradual, but when he touched the sky he never went down again. His popularity was not low even though his presentation to the public was not that high compared to the other three. Still, Yoongi had enough charisma and talent to stand out, especially when his fans were obsessed with highlighting the duality he had when he was on stage and when he did those seventy question interviews with Vogue or whatever… that had made him one of the best rappers of his generation and probably of the last century.

Kim Namjoon was the owner of the company that made Jungkook's debut and welcomed Yoongi with total creative freedom. If he were not solely focused on music, he would surely also be Taehyung and Jimin's agent. Namjoon had inherited a company from his parents, but the success he had turned it into over the past few years, into one of the most profitable businesses in the country, was entirely to his credit and effort. His popularity was also high, because everyone said he was too handsome to be a mere businessman; not knowing, of course, that everything involved in maintaining such a business required much more than a pretty face. Of Namjoon the public didn't know too much, not probably like the other guys and you, if he was still half the person he was before.

Hand in hand with Namjoon were Jung Hoseok and Kim Seokjin. Hoseok was and still is to this day a national pride as he passionately played tennis since school and turned professional, reaching to participate in major international tournaments representing his country and winning one of them. However, two years after that great feat, an accident involving one of his hands prevented him from continuing to play. No one knows exactly what happened during the more than a year and a half that he almost completely disappeared from the public eye, but when he returned with his huge smile he announced that he would dedicate himself to dance, opening his own academy throughout the center of the city. Although he was not a recurrent teacher, his academy was one of the best in the country, and of course, it was financed by Namjoon's company. At one time Hoseok became Namjoon's associate.

Seokjin, on the other hand, was the one who kept the lowest profile. He was a great doctor, cardiovascular if you were not mistaken. In addition to being an amazing surgeon, his research projects were the ones everyone looked forward to the most at the end of each year. You didn't know much about the subject, but he was almost like the guru of medicine in his field specifically. The only reason he was so much in the public eye being a doctor was because he was regularly seen in the company of Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi. The four of them made up the holy grail of dilfs.

They had all had incredibly successful careers and you were glad that they had been able to accomplish everything they once talked about on the rooftop of Namjoon's house, with sneaky steps so their parents wouldn't scold them when they sneaked out in the wee hours of the morning.

You didn't know exactly what it was - or you didn't want to acknowledge it - that succumbed inside you every time you saw or heard about any of them on the news or on social media. Because yeah, no matter how low media exposure any of them had, always the faces of all seven appeared on your TikTok every week.

It was amazing how they had all moved on and you… well, you-

“Weren't you supossed to leave?”

You lifted your head from your phone, trying to hide it with trembling hands as you let Taehyung's face next to Jungkook's plunge into the darkness of your apron pocket.

“Huh?”

You tried to look distracted, returning your gaze between your boss and the notes next to the cash register. She had a soft gaze, between amused and sisterly. Her brown eyes shifted from your eyes and hot cheeks to the notes you held upside down in your hands, pretending to work as if she herself hadn't seen you completely frozen and gawking at the pair of the country's great casanovas.

“I thought you were leaving earlier today,” your boss shifted, settling her trench coat and long brown strap bag over her shoulder. At that moment she was leaving to walk around to each of the locations she had in town, just to do follow-ups. “Don't tell me you forgot.”

You followed her index finger until it landed on the red circle you had drawn on the calendar placed in your little cubicle a couple of weeks ago, with hearts surrounding it and exclamation points. Yes you remembered, of course you remembered, but at the point where you were at the time no one was going to miss you if you didn't attend.

“I didn't forget…” your voice trailed off as you looked down, your fingers finding the tips of the pages more entertaining than your boss's worried expression.

“y/n, you asked me to leave earlier this day from four months ago,” her high-pitched voice echoed in your head, reminding you how excited you had been a while ago for this day to come. “You can't just give up like that. Come on. You still have time.”

You began to shake your head, releasing your grip on the woman who was looking at you with the same worried eyes of a mother. Your boss had been one of the most encouraging people you'd ever had in your life, besides the handful of friends you had stored in your phone's contacts.

“It was a bust last time. I don't plan on going through that again.”

“But hadn't you told me afterwards that you weren't going to let that stop you? You said… what was it? I can't drown in this glass of water.”

You grudgingly resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Really you of four months ago was a deluded fool.

“I had no idea about life at the time.”

Your boss clicked her tongue, dropping her hands on your shoulders, giving little squeezes whose familiarity stole your breath.

“I'll leave Patrick waiting for you in case you change your mind.”

You shook your head, evading the memories. The man outside the store shook his head in greeting as the two of you turned to look at him, as if he knew you were talking about him.

“Don't miss this opportunity because you're afraid. It may change your life.”

You watched her leave, the clacking of her low heels drawing the attention of everyone in the store, earning every possible stare as she did every time she entered any room. Her chauffeur, Patrick, greeted her with a similar nod of his head as before and stood leaning against the black car parked right where he could get a perfect view of your nervous face.

You, unlike the great and successful lives of your high school friends whose company you still used to miss like a fool, had not had such a great and successful life.

You were a writer. Well, an attempted writer and, worse, part-time. The other part-time was this job behind the cash register at the largest pastry chain in the country. Or sometimes as a waitress, it depended on the day. There was good pay, mind you, at least it allowed you to make up for the losses you took every time you tried to sell a book and then had to market it on your own, only to have five purchases once every seven months and three of them were from your parents and brother. The other two were from your friends.

Four months ago you had been invited to a sort of convention for readers, how they had found you and why? You had no idea, but the idea of being considered in that way drove you crazy at the time. You were so excited that you had more copies of your failed books printed and prepared your booth several days in advance to present them to the horde of people who, you were sure at the time, would come to meet you.

Only one person came by to ask you about the bathroom.

You never recovered from that.

Even with all that failure, that same day you were invited to another convention and, for a while, you were excited to attend. Everyone goes through those kinds of bumps at some point in their life, right? You have to work hard to earn that kind of fame, you kept telling yourself. But as time went on and your networks didn't grow and your videos didn't get more than ten views, or fifty views at most in a week, you began to lose that spark of excitement you held for your dream. Your parents had never turned your back on what you wanted to do, but it was too demotivating and discouraging to have spent so many years at it, so many headaches and tears invested for you to just keep losing and losing money.

That was why you were sure you wouldn't go to that convention if you had to go through that mockery again. You hadn't even bothered to go and fix your booth so surely they already knew you weren't going.

“Have you seen them yet??????”

The female voice coming from the wine cellar made you jump up on your chair.

“Jesus, Yuna, you almost killed me here.”

“I don't care! We could die right now for all we care!”

“Wow, speak for yourself.”

“Haven't you seen theeeem?”

Yuna held up her phone, the screen at full brightness blinding you for a moment. The blurry dots you saw from the proximity of the device told you nothing, as your friend jumped excitedly beside you.

“God, hold still.”

Grabbing her wrist, you leveled the phone to see her TikTok and a picture of three men.

Namjoon, Yoongi and Jungkook coming out of a building. From Namjoon's building.

“They look amazing, don't they? They just came out! That means their car will pass in front of us any minute!”

Yes, Namjoon's building was just a few blocks away from your boss's place. In fact, your boss knew him and many times they would prepare large orders for parties at his company. You had never seen him set foot in this place or any other in the country, but every time he went to celebrate something he had to dial your boss's personal number and you would work until your backs burned because everything had to be perfect for the big businessman.

“Are you going out to greet them or what?” you frowned, letting go of her wrist and returning your gaze to the notebook next to the cash register.

Yuna let out an excited exclamation.

“Ohhhh~, should I? Should I?”

You grabbed her by the collar of her uniform as she tried to pass behind you.

“We're still on business hours.”

“I'm sure Sol wouldn't mind,” her almost heart pupil eyes stared down the street, her hands moving in front of her like she was a zombie. She almost seemed possessed by her fanaticism. Though of course you didn't blame her, if you didn't know any of the seven knights of the underworld you would surely be as excited as she was.

“Don't put words in her mouth. You'd better tell me if the lady's batch of cakes is out yet-”

Commotion erupted throughout the room. You almost saw in slow motion how all the people in the premises got up and running in the direction of the glass doors when you heard the screams coming from far away.

“They're comiiiiiiiiiiiing!!!”

Sometimes you wondered how they dealt with this level of fanaticism.

The ground almost shook with the amount of people running after a black car, where the three men who were causing such a furor so early that day were most likely to be, and the commotion was not tiny inside the venue where the screams erupted.

Having to deal with that on a daily basis would easily turn someone into a hater. Not that you were one... strictly...

“God, for a moment we breathed the same air,” Yuna plopped down on the table, her body doubled over with her eyes lost. You resisted the urge to smack her forehead.

“Their car windows were up.”

“So you saw them, right?????”

“Argh.”

You had to drag her back to work as the excitement in the store dissipated. You attended to another batch of consumers while Yuna fixed the display case and, in a moment of lapse you could almost tell, her back suddenly straightened and she turned to look at you with her eyes a little too wide. You passed the change to the man in front of you, who barely sent you a confused glance before continuing to claim his order at the other corner of the store.

“What's wrong with you?”

“You shouldn't be here.”

“Don't say that with that face. You look creepy,” you pulled out the bill to tuck it under the cash register as Yuna approached, leaving the frightened face behind.

“Wasn't that convention today?”

You sighed. “Yes.”

“Then why aren't you there?”

“Do I look like I want to be there?”

“Y/n! It's a great opportunity. You should-”

“A great opportunity for what, to be a laughingstock again?”

Yuna pursed her lips, looking almost pained that you would remember in that way the experience that was supposed to change your life. She had been one of the ones who had accompanied you to set up the booth and she was sure she had never seen you smile so much during all the time the two of you had known each other. Yuna was aware of how over time you seemed to have lost interest in this new convention, but she didn't think you would finally decide not to go.

On the sly, she had prepared your booth with the help of your mother and Sol, your boss.

“You were never a laughingstock! Don't say that,” Yuna patted your forearm harder than necessary. “Besides, I recently logged some purchases on the site! How do you-?”

“I know it was you and mom,” you raised your voice to interrupt her, stepping archly away from her body.

“What the… Of course not, ha, ha!”

“You're the only fools who would write down celebrity names to register purchases. Besides, the addresses don't even exist.”

“Fuck, I told her that wouldn't work.”

Under your heavy gaze, Yuna had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Okay, I'm sorry! We wanted to motivate you to go to the convention.”

“Can't you just let me do my own thing? If I don't want to go, I won't go.”

“Even if you leave Patrick waiting there?”

You followed his gaze, watching the man pull an umbrella out of the trunk of the car as the slightest breeze brushed against his body and the water droplets were smaller than a dew that the two of you had to squint to see them on the glass of the entrance.

“Whatever it is, I'm not going.”

“y/n…” Yuna pleaded, coming closer with her puppy dog eyes.

“No.”

“y/n, please…”

“No and stop doing that. You look weird.”

“I don't,” Yuna pulled away to frown at you. “I once heard you agreed with Seoyeon about my puppy face being cute.”

“I never agreed with that!”

“Seojun told me so!”

“Your first mistake is believing Seojun.”

“Do you blame me if the reason is your demonstration of love for me?”

“That was your second mistake.”

“Y/n!”

_____________________

That day you arrived home a little later than usual. Since Patrick had been waiting for you all day in the sun and mini rain and refused to let you take a cab on direct instructions from Sol, you asked him to take a ride downtown so you could buy the teokkboki your mom loved and incidentally bought some for him, even though he didn't want to accept it at first.

“y/n, dear, how did it go?”

Your parents were in the living room when you arrived playing Go. Your father left the table when he saw you carrying the bag of food and came over to take it from you.

“What does our little writer bring here, a contract by any chance?”

You watched out of the corner of your eye as your mother tried to get your father's attention by wildly waving her fan, while the man rummaged through the bag to find something warm and delicious smelling.

“Oh, it's teokkboki.”

Your mother stopped waving her arm to stare at the bag with sparkling eyes.

“The ones from the center? From Mrs. Wang?”

You nodded in her direction, taking a seat in their midst on the floor. Your parents started a pitched battle to see who would break the bag first to try the first batch of teokkboki and you could only watch them with a smile on your face. The day may have been difficult, but being home at the end of the day always made you feel so much better.

Amidst laughter and anecdotes, trying to avoid the elephant in the room because you knew your mother's furtive glances weren't for nothing, the three of you ate teokkboki until you were bursting at the seams. You organized the kitchen with your father while your mother grumbled from the living room whatever he said about her. You watched the three of you favorite soap opera on the fixed schedule and finally got ready for bed.

With your body more relaxed and lighter, you let yourself sink into the softness of the sheets, completely ignoring the messages Yuna had sent earlier and the stupid questions your brother asked at the most inopportune moments.

How do I unclog a bath?

Do I add salt to the rice???

Where do I get the kimchi mom makes?????

His independence was probably one of the worst things that could happen. You being the older sister thought you would leave home first. Even according to your twelve year old diary, you should have been married by then or at least planning your amazing, mega giant wedding, complete with helicopters and puppy dogs carrying drinks through the reception. You didn't know what kind of crazy dreams you had when you were younger, but up to that point you hadn't been able to fulfill any of your inner child's desires except to study for a career you were passionate about.

Still, what good had that done in the end? Maybe you should've listened to your grandparents to study medicine. Maybe your parents should've been a little more conservative instead of libertarian, which your grandparents always complained about when they had the chance. If you were a disgrace to anyone in the family, it was to them.

Ah, what a long day.

You didn't know at what point you fell asleep, but the incessant sound of your phone vibrating next to your pillow woke you up. With a grunt, you moved your hands to put the device in front of one of your half-open eyes to find Yuna on caller ID. Your eyes moved upward.

It was one in the morning!

“What the fuck are you doing calling at this hour? It better be an emergency because-”

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING THAT YOU DON'T CHECK YOUR MESSAGES?”

“WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT? IT'S ONE IN THE MORNING! WHY WOULD I BE DOING ANYTHING ELSE BUT SLEEPING?”

“I'VE BEEN TEXTING YOU FOR A WHILE NOW, Y/N!”

“YUNA HOW CAN I NOT FUCKING SLEEP-?”

“Well, whatever!”

You let out an exasperated snort, giving her time to say what she had to say.

“You're going to fall on your ass.”

“I'm lying down.”

“Your books have sold a thousand copies in the last hour!”

Silence. Absorbing silence…

“Yuna, if you really woke me up to play a fucking prank on me I'm going all the way to your house to pull out every single one of your hairs with a fucking tweezer.”

“First of all, gross. Second of all, I'm not kidding! Get on your fucking Instagram! What's worse is that's not the most shocking news. Well… depends on how you look at it.”

“Yuna, I don't think I'm following you.”

“Fucking Kim Taehyung was at the reader convention and he took a picture of your books and UPLOADED IT TO HIS INSTAGRAM STORIES!!!!! AN HOUR AGO! The damn shopping notifications woke me up and I think I took too much time trying to process what was going on because they already tripled!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, did you start smoking weed?”

“Ugh, why are you so insufferable? Just look at fucking Instagram!”

You didn't want to believe Yuna, but a part of you was vibrating in anticipation. You'd already seen her text messages, her exclamations and voice notes, you'd barely processed the images she'd sent you. You logged on to Instagram. The first thing you noticed was the exorbitant amount of notifications and direct messages.

You had to search for Taehyung's account because you weren't following him.

There was the colorful arc around his profile picture. The story.

You clicked on his picture on the screen.

Your books were all over his story, with his hand holding one of them.

It jumped out at you that there was a stand of your books that you had no idea where it had come from.

A description loomed between the image.

One of the best fantasy books I've read in recent years. And by one of the best writers I've ever met in my life.

Your user was next to the description. You had no idea how fucking Kim Taehyung had gotten your user when it wasn't even something related to your name. You hadn't even uploaded pictures of yourself once in all the time that account had been open.

“Did you see it?? Can you see I wasn't lying?”

With Yuna's malevolent laughter in the background, you felt your mind escape into an unknown mental space.

“You're going to be rich!!! And I'm going to meet Kim Taehyung!”

Your mind was racing a thousand miles an hour trying to make sense of what your eyes couldn't credit. His story was replaying on your screen. So many things you could say and just…

“What the fuck?”

--

tag: @rinkud @futuristicenemychaos @pastelpeachess @parapiop7

[allthecanadianpolitics]

All these fucking immigrants are ruining this country, nobody can find a job or housing because these pieces of shit are coming here and taking the jobs and buying up all the rentals, these selfish outsiders don't care that they are destroying this country. And people won't talk about it because if you point it out, you're racist.

You are a racist. Fuck off.

[morverenmaybewrites]

The Pizza Delivery Girl's Survival Guide to Gotham City Update

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Newest chapter

AO3 Link

Summary:

People who lived outside of Gotham City would most often think of it in terms of its heroes and villains. About Batman and Robin, Joker and Harley Quinn.

People who actually live in Gotham City would only think of one thing: surviving.

Who cares about the people in costumes when your house has been bombed for the fifth time, or your wife has been taken hostage just because she worked in a bank?

Or, in your case, when you have to make regular deliveries to places where even Batman feared to tread?

Because let's face it. In a world full of superheroes and costumed villains, the real heroes are the ones who make sure that people get their pizzas in forty-five minutes or less.

Chapter Preview:

You paused on the bridge that hung high above the Burrow, and for the first time in your life, you felt a terror was so great that it made your throat close.

Gotham City had never looked so beautiful. From such a height, the burning neon lights looked like stars. 

But above your head, the sky looked pitch black. It made you think of the bodies that would sometimes wash up on Gotham Bay’s shores, black and bloated with rot. It made you think of  the shadows of inmates in the asylum, their voices like the skittering of insects, rising and falling as you passed them by.

It made you think of the night Timothy Young died, and you wondered that if, back then, there had been light enough that he saw the shadow of a monster fall over him. 

You wondered if he had time to understand what was happening, before he started against the concrete below. And then decided decided that it didn’t matter: you would understand If Francine Langstrom came for you, you would know. 

You would understand what was happening to you before you hit the ground. 

Your skull splitting open, the pink-grey ropes of your brain scattering on the concrete. And the thousand pictures that follow. Your death turned into a spectacle and a profit.

Just like Tim Young’s.

The thought made you freeze. You were standing in front of one of the many wooden bridges that connected the rooftops of abandoned buildings. The Burrow’s infamous floating night market. Set up by dusk and torn down by dawn, only to rise up again the next night, the floating night market was one of the Burrow’s main attractions. A bustling collection of kiosks made out of cheap plywood and tarpaulin, it was said that you could find anything there, so long as you didn’t ask too many questions: cheap phones, likely stolen from someone off the street, fake licenses, a sample of Bane’s Venom for impatient bodybuilders. It was set high up in the air, amidst the rooftops of many abandoned buildings, connected by a series of rickety wooden bridges.

But now the rooftops were empty. The bridges were falling apart, its wooden planks dangling precariously from their ropes. The empty kiosks had been left to rot in the constant rain. You could even see some of the abandoned merchandise, left behind  in people’s haste to pack up: an old, broken phone, children’s toys hanging forlornly on strings, obviously meant to be prizes in a game, now swelling with rainwater. Mold grew on their cotton bodies like new fur. 

Timothy Young’s death had transformed the Burrows’ floating night market into a ghost town. The thought made you feel a little lonely, picking through the bones of a dead market, looking to find a monster. 

Francine, The voice in your head sounded like Professor Langstrom’s. Her name is Francine Langstrom. 

The buzz of static cut through your thoughts as cleanly as a falling blade. And then Jason’s voice was in your ear.

“Last chance to back out of this.” 

His voice was rough, even taking into account the poor connection and the voice modulators he used. Maybe he was scared, too. The thought eased you somewhat, to know that you were not alone. 

Even through the poor connection, you could hear the strain in his voice. You cast a glance at the direction where he was supposed to be, tried to look for even a hint of him: the faint glow of his helmet, the hulking figure of his silhouette. But you found no sign of him. Still, knowing that he was there made you feel better. 

You raised a hand and hoped that he would not see the way your fingers trembled.  

And waved. 

Read more on AO3

[purple-writer8]

Heather - ACOTAR

Azriel x Winter Court Reader

“But I watch your eyes as she walks by. What a sight for sore eyes, brighter than the blue sky… she’s got you mesmerized. While I die.”

warnings: unrequited love, pining, evil thoughts, intrusive thoughts, lesser fae thinks shes not enough, hating on girl, self doubt, oblivious az

1.2k words

Masterlist :)

Crushing on the shadowsinger was a bad idea, you knew that since the moment you joined the Inner Circle centuries ago. It was a family, and familiar dynamics could very well be affected by your stupid little crush, but that didn’t stop your heart from beating for him.

You were a master of lies, Azriel’s second in command as Spymaster— you were good at being a chameleon— at lying. So you’ve spent your entire life in the Inner Circle, lying to everyone, hiding your feelings for Azriel because surely you were not worthy enough for the shadowsinger. 

He was one of the strongest warriors in Prythian, the only current shadowsinger, an Ilyrian. You… you were just a sneaky thief turned spy. A lesser fae from the Winter Court, with eyes so white, you were terrifying to your enemies. Fingertips so cold, that with enough conviction, whatever you touched turned into frost. 

You weren’t enough for Azriel, or anyone really. The High Lord had found you three hundred centuries ago, you had somehow snuck into Hewn City, and then you had stolen heaps of artifacts and sold them in the Winter Court for profit. You were stealthy and quick, something he had appreciated when Cassian and Azriel finally brought you to him.

Rhysand gave you two choices: to be handed over to Kallias as a criminal, or stay in his court and serve him— because he was sure you would excel as a spy. In exchange, you got a family, gold, clothes, and a warm bed. It was a no-brainer for you.

Azriel and you were a dream team and with time, your feelings for the shadowsinger went from admiration to adoration. Who wouldn’t adore him? He was perfection, he was everything, and he was the love of your life— you weren’t his, though. 

You had never expressed your feelings because, frankly, you were not sure that you could handle rejection. So you pined and loved him in silence, hoping that one day a miracle dawned on him, and he would somehow fall for you— a frosty lesser fae. You knew you two were not mates, but cauldron, you could wish and yearn. 

It was more than wishful dreaming, though sometimes you thought that just maybe— maybe he reciprocated your feelings. He was so kind to you, so doting, so careful.

Though, that all stopped when Elain Archeron dropped into all of your lives. You liked Feyre, and loved Nesta— but Elain, you hated her. The middle Archeron was perfection, everything you were not. She was soft, kind, beautiful, High Fae, and… Azriel liked her.

You knew it was bad that you hated her for being of his interest, but you had never once claimed to be a good person. Two years into her arrival and you could not stand the likes of her. 

You were sitting in the River House, playing board games with the Inner Circle, Nesta, and Lucien. Much to your delight, Elain hadn’t joined. It was the beginning of winter in the Night Court, and though you were made of ice— you weren’t immune to the cold. You shivered as you laid down one of your cards, and it caused Cassian to laugh at you.

“You turned my room into ice last winter solstice, and now you shiver?” He teased you, making you roll your white eyes at him. “Should’ve brought a coat,” Feyre taunted you, and you nodded. “Guys, I really thought it wasn’t as cold,” you chuckled, rubbing your cold as ice hands together to get some warmth, which was to no avail because there was no warmth inside you. Frost appeared in your hands at this action, causing you to groan. 

 Your heart stopped, though, when you felt a warm sweater wrapping around your shoulders. Your eyes flickered to Azriel, who gave you a small smile, “thank you,” you said softly.

 “It looks better on you than it does me,” the shadowsinger shrugged, his shadows coiling around your frozen hands, trying to warm you up. You smiled, about to answer, but his eyes snapped away from you, as did his shadows. Your eyes followed his gaze, meeting with Elain as she walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Your heart dropped, she was a sight for sore eyes, a sight for Azriel’s eyes. 

 She had him mesmerized, and you felt like you wanted to die. Inching away from Azriel, you continued your game, dropping his sweater unto the couch behind you. You were an ice fae, you could manage. 

When dinner came around, you were quiet all through the affair. You seethed in silence as you watched him drape the very same sweater he had given you, over Elain’s shoulders. The cold pulsed through your veins, and soon your utensils were turning into ice as you watched the scene unfold.

Elain told some story about her up-and-coming garden, and you got the urge to go and freeze her flowers to death. Obviously you did not. She was an angel, a good person. 

You kind of wished she were dead. You reprimanded your mind for being so evil. How could anyone ever love you? You were terrible… and not even half as pretty as Elain. Your thoughts were dark, and your heart made of stone-cold ice. Love was not something you would ever get. 

After dinner, you seethed outside. The snow that fell over you felt like fire on your skin, and you could feel your fingertips freezing as they created small snowflakes. “Come inside, it’s so cold outside,” that husky voice you worshiped spoke from the from door, causing you to turn to him.

His shadows rushed to you, swirling around your body to shield you from the snow. You turned away from Azriel, not wanting him to see you in your essence. Your veins shone black underneath your pale skin, your eyes glowing white, while ice slipped from your fingers and wrapped itself around you. 

You heard his footsteps crunching in the snow, then large wings wrapped around you in a protective manner as he towered over you. “Don’t look at me,” you mumbled, your eyes casting downward, not wanting him to see your eyes.

“Why?” He asked softly, scarred thumb wiping away frost that had gathered on your cheek. Then it clasped around your chin, tilting it upward so you looked up at him. 

His hazel eyes skimmed over your face slowly, “what’s wrong?” He asked softly, making you tilt your face away from his grasp. “Don’t.” You stated. You wished he knew, wish that you had been obvious enough, because you were so tired of pining for someone who did not love you back. 

“What?” He asked, a puzzled look happening upon his chiseled and devastatingly beautiful face. “You gave her your sweater,” you did not care how preposterous you were being, you couldn’t hold back. You had enough of this. 

"What? It’s just a sweater, does it matter?” Azriel asked, his shadows coiling around his ear to whisper in his ear. Jealous girl, jealous fae. 

 “You like her better.” The jealousy was pouring out of you, manifesting in ice that crawled all over your body. 

 “I can’t keep wishing I was Elain.” 

-

Part Two

Author’s Note:

IK the elain/azriel x pining reader is done a lot butttttt i love this song and i wanted to write my take on the triangle with heather as inspiration!

Taglist: @mybestfriendmademe

[pookalicious-hq]

˚₊‎‧welcome to the all-japan youth summer games‧₊˚

description: the all-japan summer league is a prestigious event that runs from may to the end of august, with only the best players from various sports associations, leagues, and clubs from across Japan receiving invitations. we hope to see you there.

guidelines: - only sfw // there will be suggestive things but no smut - you are free to send in requests about a certain character - each reader insert will be specific to their own story/fic (differentiated by last names) unless otherwise specified - this IS a crossover au

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ welcome - 0.0 (intro)

For years, a vast stretch of land just outside Tokyo’s beating heart had been draped in secrecy. It sat quietly, like a slumbering giant, only fifteen minutes from the city’s restless hum, yet worlds away from prying eyes. Tall walls and guarded gates kept it hidden, while the murmur of construction whispered through the air. It was as if the earth itself had been stirring beneath the surface, preparing for something grand, though no one quite knew what. Rumors danced through the city—some claimed it was the site of a new stadium, others a corporate headquarters.

Then, as if the secret could no longer be contained, the truth was finally revealed.

The land had been transformed—not into a simple complex, but into a world of its own. A sprawling, exclusive sports facility, rivaling anything ever seen before. This was no ordinary venue. The gates would not open to the public, nor would casual spectators ever stroll its paths. Instead, a self-contained village now stood where dirt and machinery had once ruled—a place carved out for only the best of the best.

Here, in this enclave, Japan’s finest young athletes were to be housed, nurtured, and tested. Handpicked from high schools across the country, they came not just to compete, but to stake their claim on something far greater. This was the All-Japan Youth Summer Games—where talent would be sharpened to its finest edge, and where the fire of competition would burn hottest under the summer sky.

sports clubs to watch out for:

haikyuu (the monsters)🏐

MonstersJV is a Japanese volleyball league that spans from U14 to U19. This elite, non-profit organization represents the pinnacle of Japan’s youth volleyball scene, showcasing the nation’s top players on a global stage. Athletes from across the country go through rigorous tryouts, where they are selected to form a rotating roster of elite teams. These teams compete against one another within the league, constantly pushing the limits of their abilities in preparation for international exposure.

miya atsumu... ˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚first glance... 2.6k words: atsumu realizes love at first sight is a real thing when he falls victim to it himself. tags/tws: crossover au, insta stalker atsumu, swearing, fighting, love at first sight, jjk!mma!reader ˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ loading...

blue lock (the infinities)⚽

Blue Lock Academy earned its invitation to the All-Japan Youth Summer League following its explosive success in the Neo-Egoist League. Known for its revolutionary approach to developing strikers, Blue Lock has handpicked its top players to form elite teams that will represent the academy in the AJYSM. These players, already sharpened by fierce internal competition, now stand ready to showcase their unique talents on an even larger stage, further solidifying Blue Lock’s claim to producing Japan’s next great soccer prodigies.

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ loading...

kuroko's basketball (the miracles)🏀

KNGenBasket was established to spotlight the key players who transformed Japan’s youth basketball landscape. Over the years, the league expanded, bringing together more exceptional individuals to form elite teams. However, its true rise to fame came with the emergence of six extraordinary players, each possessing unique strengths that captivated the nation. Now, these teams represent the very best of Japan’s youth basketball, standing as a testament to the league’s evolution and the incredible talent it has fostered.

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ loading...

jujutsu kaisen (the curses)🥊

The Jujutsu Kaisen Curse is an elite MMA gym that exclusively trains and houses the top fighters in Japan. Known for producing ruthless and extraordinary athletes, the gym has earned a fierce reputation within the global MMA community. After years of dominating the sport, The Curses were invited to the All-Japan Youth Summer League to showcase their raw talent and unrivaled power on a new stage. Each fighter that steps into the ring under their banner carries the weight of the gym’s legacy, feared for their relentless strength and skill.

sukuna ryomen... ˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ bestest friend... 2.5k words: they've always been best friends since anyone could remember, what's changed now? tags/tws: crossover au, childhood friends to lovers, swearing ˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚loading...

attack on titan (the titans)👟

AttackElevate stands as Asia’s most elite and expansive Track and Field club, rising from Japan’s competitive landscape to earn international recognition. From the age of 10, the club selects only the most promising young athletes, putting them through rigorous training with one goal in mind: to reach Olympic-level excellence. These athletes, forged through years of intense discipline and competition, represent the pinnacle of track and field talent. Now, AttackElevate has been invited to the All-Japan Youth Summer League, where their relentless pursuit of greatness will be put to the test against Japan’s finest.

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ loading...

more coming... (send an ask)

[jennifer-jeong]

Okay so first, I really love your LnD fics (patiently waiting for more of your amazing works) 🥹🫶 and hear me out...

Reader who is reincarnated as a Fae being and has been alive since. But the thing is, her wings had been clipped off (with the use of silver chains, meaning she's vulnerable against silver) for a century and is in Linkon city since she feels that part of her (her wings) are somewhere hidden in the city (Think of Maleficent live action ig where her wings were taken from her) and meets the guys and so on :)

HI ANON THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR ASK AND YOUR KIND WORDS FJDSKLAFJSDL;A I APPRECIATE IT SM!! TY FOR INTERACTING!! I’m so glad to hear you like my fics and I promise more are on the way hehehe please do request me again if you have more ideas!!

I hope I did your prompt justice! I definitely did think a lot about maleficent when writing this hehehehe

Fluff + Angst | LADS x Fae!Reader Angel

CONTENT Angst to fluff, gender neutral reader, mentions of violence, blood, trauma, torture, healing alongside them, mutual pining between you and the boys, happy and open ended endings! ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+

Your wings were a pretty and pearly milky white. Your wings resembled those of high flying birds. They were thick enough to allow gliding and also strong enough to give you lots of control in the air. They were iridescent in the sun and carried you high in the bright sky. The air was thin but more refreshing up there. You played with clouds and soared through the endless blue. It was freedom. It made you feel alive, warm.

It was your gift, but unfortunately, it was on someone else’s wishlist.

You’d never been a spiteful being, nor had you ever hurt a fly. But when silver chains ripped your flesh and tore your muscle to take your wings, severing your very soul from your body. When they destroyed your forest, your home, your family, your heart. You swore to make them suffer.

You were powerful and hunting these fools down was nothing difficult for you. The problem was hunting without your wings, your best weapon.

The lack of mobility and being forced to fight on the ground made it so that you could maim the weak ones, but you could never reach the ones who profited off the suffering of you and your people.

Linkon city is where they were. You knew this. You could feel your wings there. You also knew that you’d need to hide, figure out who did what and how to get your damn wings back. It would take time, but time was all you had as a fae. You’d do whatever it took to make them pay.

It’d take years, but it was worth it.

2 years later and you’ve already made moves to apprehend (and torture) a few key figures, always leaving them in front of the police station when you were done. You still had so much good in you and it always prevented you from killing. But it made you seethe that they were filthy fucking rich from what they stole from your homeland. They sold your resources and displayed your bodies, your wings, like they were trophies. Life was still cold and depressing for you but you did manage to make some friends in Linkon. They’d even help you with your mission. You only trusted them with the information because they had similar goals.

XAVIER

Xavier was a local policeman you had met a few decades into your plot when you were hired to help with the case. He was coincidentally also investigating illegal hunters and black markets selling goods stolen from other civilizations such as yours. It was a big ring of crime and he was determined to end the atrocities that were being committed in it. Meeting you was just extra motivation on top of his already relentless drive for justice. You became investigative partners since you were both capable in combat and often investigated the same people anyways.

Xavier was kind, gentle, quiet, and stronger than he let on. He always worked without expectation of reward and you appreciated that. You just wanted justice and he wanted the same. It helped that he didn’t seek publicity because it would’ve made your life harder since you were probably wanted as a vigilante from before. Xavier taught you his philosophies and you realized you’d been consumed by your desire for revenge, unable to enjoy life outside of it. You admired him for his morals, so you learned from him, and it made you two grow closer. He was more than happy to help, it was so rewarding to see you slowly become your bubbly self that he guesses you lost a long time ago.

He had his suspicions that you might be fae. The man was smart but he played his cards carefully, he always held them close. He acted aloof with you and pretended to not constantly stare at the back of your shirt, trying to see if you had imprints of missing wings on your shoulder blades. He also figured that your motivation for wanting to crack these cases came from somewhere. If he also managed to figure out that you’d been behind some of the previous mysterious arrests, he’d turn a blind eye. He knew your actions weren’t crimes. He felt glad that you got them back for what they did to you and your people.

After a few years of planned raids and dozens of arrests, one of the recovered items from the warehouse was a beautiful pair of wings. Still buzzing with magic, craving to feel the wind again. You felt them when they were being transported to the police HQ. The surge of energy that continued to approach you made you hold your breath and bounce your leg out of pure anxiety. Xavier put a hand on your shoulder to try to calm you down. He’d already figured out what was going on just by looking at you. You didn’t need to say a word. It was something that slowly came naturally since you two spent so much time together. You smiled and he smiled warmly back. You were in the middle of panicking because Xavier was still touching you when you were presented with your missing soul, your wings. You requested to view the “evidence” privately with Xavier and wasted no time in feeling your delicate wings with your fingertips again.

Xavier stood behind you, his right hand found its way to your upper back. He finally traced the outlines of your cut wings. It made you gasp at first, but you trusted him. As he continued to feel them, you shivered. They were scars, they were more sensitive. He stepped to your side and you turned to partially face him, his hand sliding off of you. You looked into his eyes and your longstanding feelings for Xavier were making their presence known by heating up your face, flushing your cheeks. You swore you saw a slight tinge of red on the tips of his ears too. He spoke to you in his familiar voice that you loved so much. He decided to tease you slightly.

“I think I always knew that you’d have wings, you were too perfect to not be an angel.”

ZAYNE

Zayne was a surgeon you’d met one day when he treated your wounds since you collapsed outside the hospital. He discovered the scars where your wings used to sit on your back. You were high off the morphine when he checked your back for more injuries so you barely even realized.

He questioned you but not in the way you expected. You thought he wouldn’t know what they were or try to take advantage of you. But instead he asked what you knew about the hunters that took your wings. He already knew exactly what happened to you just by looking. He was involved in cracking down on research related to Fae and Lemurians since there were people trying to fuse their genetics with these races to gain their beneficial traits such as immortality.

He knew some things you didn’t know and vice versa. You both began working on this together, investigating research facilities, interrogating suspects, and fighting only when needed. You were unstoppable and the law didn’t plan to ask you to let up. You both hand delivered them collectors and shadowy figures that had hid from the police for so long. When you fought, Zayne could both heal and attack from afar while you rushed them head on. You were unafraid because you believed in your partner, your trust in Zayne only grew as the years went on.

Early on, Zayne encouraged you to let go of the spite, the revenge. You knew he was right when he said that they did not benefit you in this. He saw the rage in you and could see that it was hurting you, mentally and physically. You listened, you knew better. You stopped the relentless tortures and instead, let the collectors rot in jail, but not before you got in a few good punches. Zayne watched you slowly come out of your shell again, actually taking the time to enjoy the little things in life instead of being hyper focused on revenge. He’d be lying if he said you weren’t one of the most rewarding patients he’d ever had.

Working with your partner was definitely quite the rollercoaster. He was always so professional and mature but would also randomly tease you as if you were kids, albeit with a fully deadpan expression. Zayne was reserved and often came off as cold but he made you so warm. You knew he was an extremely compassionate and kind person under his exterior and you admired him for it. Zayne also adored you in the same way. You had gone through so much pain and suffering but you still smiled and shined like the sun.

Over time you adapted to live without your wings but after one specific raid on a collector’s mansion, you knew exactly what the collector’s prized possession was because it belonged to you. You could feel your wings. They still surged with energy and upon seeing them when you went to do follow up investigation, you immediately called to them. They flew towards you and you inspected them, almost not believing the scene in front of you. Zayne stayed close ready to support you, especially if you were to fuse with your wings again, he knew it’d be hard to keep them hidden and it’d just bring up so much previous trauma.

You turned to face him slowly, leaving your wings behind you. You hesitated. Not letting your wings fuse with you yet. Zayne looked into your eyes, trying to comfort you with his presence. After a few seconds, Zayne held out his hand, you took it. His skin was cold but somehow it made yours burn, the heat spreading through your body as your face warmed up. He spoke quietly to you, telling you to take your time. You closed your eyes and took deep breaths, your thumb slowly caressing the back of Zayne's hand as he did the same back.

Zayne had always been good at comforting you with his words, maybe it just came naturally since he was a doctor. Regardless, you knew it was exactly what you needed right now. You didn’t know what you’d do after you got your wings back. Would you go home? Would you continue this mission with Zayne? Would having your wings make it harder? Would it make it easier? You confided in Zayne as you spoke your thoughts out loud. Once you were done, you were overwhelmed and he could tell. He started his reply with a sentence that filled you with warmth, hope, and a little bit of giddiness. He speaks, teasing you a bit at the end, his face flushing.

“It doesn’t matter what you are or if you have the wings or not, you’re beautiful and you should follow your heart… especially if it’s here.”

RAFAYEL

Rafayel was a painter “looking for art or inspiration” that you met at an underground event where illegal goods were being sold, but you quickly figured out it was a front. Rafayel was a Lemurian, you sensed it immediately since you weren’t human. As a fae you had the ability to sense certain things, and so did Rafayel. Upon meeting each other at an art exhibition, you quickly exchanged information and agreed to meet up again the next day. You almost simultaneously revealed that you were both after the hunters that destroyed your homes when you finally got to chat alone.

The two of you start to frequent more underground events, both of you being well connected and hiding your true intentions very well. You use the events to gather information and then put your plans into action when your targets are alone. It worked amazingly well, you were both extremely skilled and efficient at what you did. It slowly chipped away at this network that shamelessly destroyed your beautiful homes.

Rafayel was a bit of a loose cannon. The man was so sweet and bashful one second and deadly serious the next. He was so gentle with you but didn’t hesitate when there was business that needed to be done. He could easily switch it on and off too. You were just glad you were on his side of this war.

Both you and Rafayel were out for revenge but something about your partnership changed you two. You both slowly helped each other heal, confiding your worries and traumas in each other. You were still both ruthless when it came to apprehending the people who did you wrong but the tortures stopped and the warmth returned outside of the violence. You two actually started to make good memories and live life instead of just trying to survive. You’d often watch the sunset over the ocean together, it was peaceful and you’d chat about anything and everything.

Eventually, after dozens of raids and missions, Rafayel finds weapons that used to belong to his family at the same time you find your wings again. You kept quiet until the mission was done, knowing you could feel your wings but not wanting to startle Rafayel. You looked at the weapons with him, you put your hand on his back to show your support for him. His eyes stayed glued on the knives and his face was a painful melancholic expression. You rubbed circles into his upper back with your thumb, hoping it could ease some of the pain caused by resurfacing memories.

After ensuring that the weapons would be sent to his personal studio, he continues to explore the mansion with you, following you while you find your wings. You communicated to him about your wings and he knew this would be tough for you too but you were both glad you had each other in this moment.

When you saw your wings in a display case at the end of one of the hallways, you bit back tears. It was a lot to take in. You passed millions of dollars worth of paintings to reach the most priceless thing in this whole building. Rafayel lags slightly behind you, wanting to give you a moment. You turn to face him, telling him that you don’t know if you want the wings back or not. Would they make you complete again? They can’t bring anyone back, can’t take away the pain. You couldn’t hide them like Rafayel could hide his true form, would it be a nuisance?

Rafayel makes his way towards you as you ramble, clearly distressed. He quickly envelopes you in a hug, letting you cry lightly into his chest, a painting of Lucifer on the wall next to you. You stay like that for a while. When he finally pulls back, he cups your face with his hands. You were his fallen angel, he wasn’t always great with his words but he truly spoke from the heart when comforting you like this.

“You never needed these wings to be complete, you’re ethereal with or without them. You’ll always be my angel, no matter what.”

|| MASTERLIST ♡ || Thank you for reading! ||

[ckret2]

This is the first time I see someone saying that Filbrick kicked out Stan as primarily a protective measure. To me, honestly, he sees his children as investing to make money and found the perfect excuse to throw away the son he never wanted on the streets when a convenient excuse appeared. After all, he already had a bag full of clothes when he throwed Stan in the streets.

It's a cartoon episode that had 22 minute to pack in the entirety of Ford & Stan's backstory. He flung a duffel bag at Stan as a way to tell the viewers "he's serious about kicking Stan out" and we didn't see him pack it because that would've cost 30 seconds to animate a boring scene that's unnecessary to the flow of the story, and where else in the episode would that 30 seconds have come from?

The show takes tons of visual & narrative shortcuts to tell its story. We don't question how a digital clock appears on Stan's desk between one shot and the next in Boss Mabel. We don't question where Soos's Burrito Bites went before and after traveling into Stan's mind in Dreamscaperers. We don't question where the remains of Quentin Trembley's ripped pants vanish to in the crate after he tosses them aside. The only reason we question the duffel bag is because there's a way to weave it into the narrative to make a bad character look even worse; but I think it ignores the spirit and intent of the scene to treat that, and that alone, like it's indicative of Filbrick's character rather than indicative of the restraints of the cartoon medium.

I don't think he saw his kids as investments. I think, prior to discovering Ford could be worth a fortune, he saw his kids as his responsibility. It was his duty to get them to adulthood and make them into proper men. What we know about their upbringing is:

When he thought they were wusses, he sent them to boxing to toughen them up.

When he thinks Stan stole a gold chain from the pawn shop, he also berates him for stealing from other people, starting a crab-fighting ring, and "pickpocketing and monkeyshining." He's opposed to Stan committing illegal or dishonest acts even if they're profitable.

And when he kicks Stan out, yeah, he says Ford "was gonna be our ticket out of this dump," but he also says "All you ever do is lie and cheat, and ride on your brother's coattails."

Before Ford is revealed to be a genius, we have no evidence that Filbrick saw them as future moneymakers. And in fact, given how the show emphasizes how hard he is to impress and how newly impressed he is at Ford's genius, it seems like he DIDN'T previously see any such potential in his kids. This was a new development. Before that, we only know of two things he wanted out of his kids:

For them to be tough enough to protect themselves

For them to be honest, law-abiding, and hard-working

His dreams of making money off one of his kids lasted a few days tops—high school science fairs don't exactly last long. If he was hotheaded enough to kick out one of his kids for dashing some pie-in-the-sky dream that was only a few days old, then either they woulda been kicked out long before then, or they woulda almost been kicked out enough times that that would be their dominant impression of their dad that they'd report 40 years later, not "hard to impress." Yeah, he was mad he could've made a fortune and then didn't, but that alone wasn't the main motivation behind disowning Stan. He was taking out years of frustration with Stan all in one moment.

"All you ever do is lie and cheat" "This time you cost our family potential millions!"

You've been a bad kid and a troublemaker for a long time; this time, your behavior has impacted someone other than yourself—it's harmed your brother and your family—and I won't let you do it again.

(And this is pure headcanon/conjecture, so I'm keeping it as an aside—but I think there's something to his relationship with Caryn in all this. We know from how he treats Stan's lying that Filbrick highly values honesty. We know that Caryn is a pathological liar—it's one of the only things we know about her. We know from out-of-show interviews that Stan's "—the girl snuggles up next to you, next thing you know you gotta raise a kid, your life falls apart—" is him repeating something his father said. We know Filbrick sees their current living situation as a "dump," but lacks the financial means to get out of it. We know now the baby WAS intended to be Shermie, which makes a nearly 18 year gap before the Pines decided to have another kid. I think the twins were an accident, that Filbrick married Caryn out of a sense of duty to his sons and their mother, that he does love his family but still feels trapped; I think he hates that Caryn is such a liar, that it would have been a dealbreaker if there weren't kids involved, and that now he doesn't feel like there's much he can do about it because that's his wife; and I think that's a major motivating factor in his demanding honesty out of his sons—because he doesn't want them to turn out like their mother.)

To be clear—I don't think Filbrick is a good father. But in interpreting him as a bad father, I want to interpret him as the bad father he ACTUALLY IS, not make up some new, different bad father and paste it on top of his characterization. Sometimes fandom has a tendency to take a bad parent and stick entirely new bad parent traits on top of them, in a way that makes it seem like some fans think "well, if they're a bad parent, they MUST do THESE THINGS too, because ALL bad parents do that (and therefore, if they're not doing these things, they must not really be a bad parent)."

And at times I think it's important to hold the line. Based on what we know of him, Filbrick is bad enough to be a Bad Father even if he doesn't do XYZ that fandom assumes all bad fathers must do. Filbrick is bad enough to be a Bad Father even if he didn't see his kids as a way to make money.

I think he raised his boys the way he did because he thought that was the best thing for their future happiness—and he was wrong, and his ideas about manhood are outdated and toxic, and he was a bad father.

I think he saw them as his responsibility rather than as profit machines, and that he cared about their well-being—and his decision to express his caring through emotionally distant tough love was harmful and neglectful, and when he got angry he was verbally abusive, and he was a bad father.

I think he was devastated at the loss of potential millions not because his primary motive as a person is greed, but because his primary motive is being a good caretaker for his family, and his family was in a tough financial spot and that kind of money would turn all their lives around—and even though pinning his financial hopes on his son was a recent development, it was still an awful position to put his kid in, and he never should have done it, and he was a bad father.

I think he cared about his family MORE THAN their finances—but he still prioritized their finances too much, and in a moment of anger prioritized their finances more than one of his own sons, and he was a bad father.

I think kicking Stan out wasn't a consequence of thwarted greed, but of years of anger at Stan's delinquency, and that the issue wasn't the lost money but rather the fact that he thinks Stan deliberately harmed his brother for selfish reasons—and it was still a cruel thing to do and the man seriously needed some anger management classes, and he was a bad father.

He's a bad father even if his intentions are good. He's a bad father even if he cared about his sons. And that's why I'm insistent on maintaining his characterization that way—because it's worth remembering that a parent with good, caring intentions can still be bad, and their intentions don't excuse their actions.

[captainjonnitkessler]

I think I've identified the reason I get so worked up about anarchism in relation to labor rights and safety in particular.

Three years ago I watched my coworker almost die when a piece of machinery we were moving unsafely fell on him. It missed his head by an inch and snapped his leg in half instead. It took months of recovery and multiple surgeries for him to walk again and he will be disabled for the rest of his life. And it didn't happen because of Capitalism or profit motive or because our evil bosses were forcing us to work unsafely. It happened because he'd done similar things a hundred times before and it had always been fine, and because I didn't know enough to clock just how dangerous what we were doing was, and just because of some plain shitty luck. Mentally it fucked me up for months in ways I didn't recognize until well after the fact.

And the thing is, almost every construction worker can tell you about the time they saw a fatal or near-fatal accident. An apprentice younger than me had a heart attack and was out of work for over a year after shocking himself on a live circuit. The woman who runs our apprenticeship program has a husband who had his arm blown off in an arc flash incident. One of my teachers had a coworker die after getting hung up on a live circuit and he wasn't found until the end of the day.

Construction is one of the single most dangerous industries to work in, and I believe this is why rates of drug and alcohol abuse and suicide are sky-high in the industry. I think many construction workers are low-key traumatized by knowing constantly that they could die or be permanently disabled due to a very simple mistake or oversight. It is simply inherently unsafe when you are working with live electricity, power tools, heights, thousands of pounds of machinery, cranes, etc. And so yes, I do believe that safety protocols and the ability to enforce them are absolutely necessary to preventing a massive amount of death. The number of worker deaths in the US has been slashed by 60% since OSHA was instated.

And so to get online and have someone who has never set foot on a jobsite in their life condescendingly explain to me that actually, we don't need OSHA or the ability to enforce safety standards because in a perfect world everyone will just suddenly start working perfectly safely, and I'm just too stupid or brainwashed to realize that The Real Villain Is Capitalism, and if we just get rid of that it will somehow also get rid of the inherent safety issues involved in the entire construction industry - well it turns out it pisses me off a little bit!

[pursuitseternal]

“Welcome Me:”Ascended Astarion x F!Reader, a fic to sate your desires, darling in “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x Reader | E | 5.3K Vampire smut

Summary: After the ending of the storyline… After weeks apart, the blink of an eye for you immortals, Astarion returns from consolidating his rule, expecting a “warm welcome.” But you miss your charming, tortured rogue… and you will play whatever games he wants to get him to remember. To make him remember the rogue he was.

Cw: dom/sub dynamics, choking, breath play, spanking, “don’t move unless I tell you😈,” power play, biting (obviously), blood kink and drinking (vampires, duh), NSFW on so many levels.

Ao3 link | Astarion Fic Masterlist

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It is late, the candles have all gutted out, the lingering scent of smoke wafting to your nose as you wind your way through hall after hall of the Crimson Palace. Your head would be swimming, should be swimming, with the amount of potent High Fae wine you have consumed.

But you are turned, your body pulses with ascendant blood in your veins. His blood.

Even as your irritation at him burns hot, you cannot deny how your body trembles to think of your master. And even as you leave the long vacant ballroom, you sigh his name to no one but the air… Astarion. He has been so distant of late, pulled from your side all day and night, meeting with important and powerful beings. Consolidating his… your… power as you take what is yours from Baldur’s Gate. No one cuts a deal, turns a profit, threatens your security without the effects lining your pockets or without enemies ending up dead. Drained. Signs to those who oppose Astarion the Ascended. Your mind fills with that shining smirk, those glowing crimson eyes framed in lustrous pale skin.

Your heart skips a beat. For the first time in weeks you saw him tonight, mingling at the ball, turning heads all around him, persuading with words, with promises of power and gold, if not with promises of his body. No. Never that again. That body is yours as you are his. He will never whore himself out anymore. Those days are so far behind him, you must always take caution never to mention what it was for him before his ascension. That vampire rogue that trapped you between his hard, cold thighs to hold a dagger to your throat.

Love at first sight.

You shake your head. No, not love. Obsession. Fascination. His thrall long before he gave you his blood.

You pass open windows, billowing curtains of finest gauze catching in the nighttime breezes. Starlight cuts the darkness in iridescent beams, patches of brilliance flooding the shadows that cling to every corner. You lose yourself, smelling the wine on your own breath as you sigh, looking into the sky at the multitudes of stars above.

Lost and alone. Until you hear that silken voice caress your ear. “There you are…” You whip your head around, catching two glowing red eyes and shining fangs grinning at you from the closest bank of shadows. Astarion turns his head to face you fully, reclining against the wall even as you tremble visibly at the sight of him. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he purrs. That line, the one that first sank his claws deep into your heart even as he sank his cock hard between your folds for the first time— that line still makes your breath snag in your own throat.

And you love it.

Noiselessly, he crosses to you, standing in the window, bathed in the light of the stars. “What, my treasure? Not happy to see me?” His full lips turn in a saccharine pout, all a show, bait to lure you in. “I really expected a warmer welcome home than this.” His fangs glint as he draws to a stop, so close to you, the gems and beads of his velvet tunic brush against you. “Or have you grown so cold blooded since I made you mine… my consort?”

He growls his possession of you, and the blood in your veins does run cold. Chilled. Frozen even as you feel his breath whistle in the stray locks of your hair as he lowers his mouth to your neck. You turn your head on instinct, baring your neck and trembling even as his mouth descends towards your skin. Lips press, soft and attentive, trailing caresses up to the tender spot beneath your pointed ear.

“May I bite you?” He breathes the question down your neck. A lingering vestige of the sad, unsure rogue you met on the road, asking for your yes even though he thrums with power, the power to coerce your every word to assent.

That memory of his tragic eyes and wandering soul, the male that first crossed your path, it haunts you. The moment you feel his lips sneering, raising to bare his fangs ready to bite, you turn sharply. “Who said you could bite yet, my love?” you smirk in return. “Gone for weeks, and you expect such a willing, warm welcome.” You shake your head, the links and gems of your heavy, encrusted earrings jangling with the motion. “No, you tell me first I am more to you than the power you horde now that you are free, and then maybe, just maybe, you may have your fill.”

His crimson eyes narrow, displeasure darkening his expression and tinging his pale skin with ashen pools as he stares in return. “Well now, seems you have forgotten your place. Forgotten that all I do is for us, and our rule of Baldur’s Gate.” His voice is cold and exacting, his arms folding over his chest to square his chiseled shoulders.

It is the same, the same posture he once stood in so often before you. After battles, blood spattered and charming. A mirage. It is a memory, nothing more, as you see only the dark, hungry ascended being he has become.

“Our rule?” You spit, squaring your shoulders, wishing you had some weapon more than the fangs between your own lips. “Doing this… for us?” You place your hands on his chest, pressing into the decadent stitching and beading of his tunic. Hard muscles push and flex beneath your touch. “I know there is an us, you and me, bound together for all time. But, do not deceive yourself, Astarion, you crave the power for you. Not as gift for me…”

“Mmm, my pet, sharpened your claws in my absence, readying your own fangs for my neck now,” he gives a low, rapid laugh. “Simply riveting.” His head cocks back, moonlight spilling into those silver curls that fall with reckless abandon. Haphazard. Sexy. And he knows it, the way you can’t keep your eyes off of him. “Now, be a good girl,” he growls, “and welcome me home.”

You eye him for a moment, but that is all he allows for you. Resisting is futile against your maker. Even without the magic of your blood bond, he knows your heart is and always has been his. That is enough to compel you, knowing how you will cave at the first tangle of his tongue in your mouth, the first slip of his fingers into your wetness.

Faster than the lightning, he sweeps you into his arms and bolts down hall after hall, swifter than wind with his preternatural speed. His laugh tickles your ear as you cling to his shoulders, arms wrapped firmly around his neck, until he bursts through your bed chamber door.

You catch your breath with a gasp, a muffled cry ripping from your throat as he tosses you into the middle of those blood red sheets. Like you weigh nothing to him. His precious toy, his play thing. And by the gleam in his crimson eyes and the run of his tongue over his fang points, he is about to have his fill of playing with you.

Slowly, he creeps on to the bed, the mattress buckling under his hands, his knees, as he slinks closer to cover you with his body. Master of all your desires, he makes certain you feel his arousal pressing on your mound through the layers of your dress and his trousers. So hard for you, you wonder briefly why you pretend to resist. The thrill of the hunt, you suppose, letting him grind into you slowly. His knee catches under yours, insistent, pushing, spreading your legs wider as your skirt naturally rucks itself higher. A slight breeze makes you catch your breath, the chill swirling over your skin, passing the throbbing heat of your mound. And he thrusts that massive and contained cock harder, more demandingly, against you. The friction makes your mouth water, but it is nothing compared to what it is to have him inside.

“Now,” he closes in to cover you, arms bracing firmly to cage you at your shoulders. One hand lifts, fingers closing in around your throat. Not too hard, but enough to make you shiver and open your mouth for air. “I think there is something you wish to say, an invitation, an acceptance that dances on the tip of your tongue. Will you share it….” His eyes flicker to your opened mouth, slack as his fingers press just a bit harder on your windpipe, “… or will you have me pull it from your mouth with mine, my love?”

You struggle for words, your agreement and your dissent fight in equal measure. No words will suffice, and with a press of your own elbow into the bed beneath you, you force your head to lift. Your mouth claims his conceited smirking lips, even as his hold on your throat grows painful with your movement. Stars fill your eyes as you gasp into his mouth. That controlling hand instantly lifts its clutch from your windpipe, sweeping to the back of your head. Fingers tangling into the unraveled strands of your braid. His taste is more intoxicating than the wine tonight. You missed him, his taste, the way his tongue sweeps and explores your mouth. The way it dances over the points of your fangs. The commanding manner he teases your tongue between his lips to do the same. Weeks of deprivation from his passion, and you fall right back into it, letting his lust for you thrum in your veins and race like fire through your nerves. You gasp as he consumes your lips, the slightest thrust of his arousal against your body enough to nearly make you come already.

So attentive, his hands begin to loosen the laces on your bodice, deliberate but gentle as he exposes you inch by inch. What fabric does not fall away, he grabs between his two hands, tearing without even breaking from your kiss. “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to do that all night. To get you completely bared… naked and mine. My little… treat.”

…with your cheeks all flushed…

That is him, that… was him. Your rogue. Despite the power that now consumes him, the darkness that whispers around him, that creeps into his complexion, your tortured rogue is still within him. No matter how much he tries to deny it, to bury it beneath power and wealth and sex with you.

You want to, need to, coax him out from there.

“Perhaps,” you breathe, “perhaps you need to show me you have missed me before I welcome you in, welcome you home… warmly?”

He breaks from your lips, that arrogant brow raising as his lips twist in that smirk that makes your core even more molten. “I have missed you, every moment we were apart, my love. Your blood inside me would never be enough to satisfy, not until I am inside you, and only then once we have totally…” he places a kiss on the crest of your shoulder, “…completely…” another kiss in the crook of your neck, “… spent ourselves… will we even be close to… “satisfaction.”

You shiver, your whole body shaking as he doesn’t bite, but runs those pointed fangs across your skin. You tap into your own reserves of immortal strength, threading your fingers into those unruly silver curls to pry his mouth from your flesh. “Your words are sweet, my love, but I prefer action.” Your hand pulls his pale neck within your own reach, your tongue running along the edge of his pointed ear, licking and sucking loudly, ignoring the cold metal loops and piercings as you pleasure him. He sighs, his body losing some of that rigid edge, softening under your attentions. “Let me bite you first, my love. Gain my strength as your spawn, so long deprived of her master’s power. Show me that you will put your love for me first, above your… ambitions… and just maybe I’ll let you slip inside without begging.”

“If that is what it will take,” he replies in that deep, honeyed voice of his, “then by all means, bite away, pet.”

That softness in his voice, that supple way his frame clings to yours, you know that the rogue he once was still creeps behind his ambition, his love for you still surfacing through his lust for power. You swirl your tongue over the span of his neck, the taste of his skin is a familiar blend of sweat and spice, cold to the touch as he ever has been.

Your undead lover.

Your own fangs prick his skin, gently, enough to fill your mouth with his blood. Sweet and heady, more intoxicating than wine. A bouquet that satisfies and overwhelms you in one swallow. Instantly, you feel the swirl of his power coursing through you, your limbs cramping as ascendant magic takes over. One more swallow, and you release your mouth, careful not to take too much from Astarion, let you spark his ire. His brows cant as he looks at you again, and you must look… different. More powerful? More lustful? But you can see as he gazes down at you, the trickle of his own blood running down his pale neck, that he is… impressed. Desire ignites somehow more brightly behind those crimson eyes.

You drink in his easy smirk, the soft caress of his fingers over your cheek, his thumb softly wiping away his blood from the corner of your mouth. Then he raises that thumb, his pink tongue licking his own blood from its stained pad. You feel his arousal beat as it throbs between your legs still. So pleased... but pleased with himself. His body instantly shifting to pin you back under him, bending you to his will again.

“Tch,” you make the sound that he so often makes at you, that condescending suck of your teeth. “So close my love, but I’m not through with testing your love.”

“Careful,” he hisses as his eyes narrow with danger and warning, “I bite… too.” He flashes those perfect teeth down at you. “Do not try me too hard, love,” his voice that silken growl.

“But I will try you just enough,” you dare to reply, your words earning that intrigued and sultry smirk from him. Closing your eyes, you picture the doors just beside you, garden doors that lead into the dirt and the trees of your private courtyard. His power courses in you, filling your belly and flooding your frame with your own heightened abilities. You push him off you, making him stagger to his feet on the floor. Your hands find his chest, racing with your own vampiric speed until you force him through those garden doors and into the moonlight. Your feet slip on the dirt, your dress falling off your body in the tatters he made. You stand naked, your strength making him buckle before you, making him lower his body to lie beneath you as you straddle your legs around his waist in the dust and grass and dirt.

He releases a low, feral growl, but he does not resist, letting you now press your body, bared completely to his eyes, to cover his. “Now,” his voice barely audible through the salivating hunger in his throat, “have I earned your assent at last, my pet?”

“Not until you fuck me in the dirt like the rogue you were,” you pant, fighting the urge to bring his long and cold fingers to pierce the molten slick between your thighs. You raise yourself from his chest, gripping your thighs around his waist and letting your slick soak his elegant and refined clothes. You feel him squirm beneath you, bucking his hips ever so slightly, dragging the sensation of his wet velvet breeches through your folds.

He sneers slightly, anger fluttering in that deep crimson gaze, as if you can see the memories of what he was clawing to the surface. His voice is like ice, slippery and cold. “The rogue I was is gone, my pet, but, if you wish me to be roguish, then roguish I shall be…” He barely gives you a warning, a flash of brightness in his eyes before he flips you on your back, your body slamming loudly against the dirt, knocking the wind from your lungs. His long, elegant fingers make quick work of the buttons down his chest. The bright fabric of his tunic flutters as he tosses it, not giving a shit where it lands as long as his skin finally brushes against your round, full, and swaying breasts.

He pauses a moment, kneeling over you, caging you between his cold and hard thighs. He licks his lips at you, the offering for his consumption, splayed in the dirt. Memories flicker over his eyes, a soft smile of recognition, of being here before, with you. Naked in the dirt. Your luxurious clothing crumpled, your sumptuous bed too far. If you close your eyes, you and he are as you first met, lust and love pulsing in the air, your backs covered in the grime of dust and sweat. Your hands press against those thighs that pin you, the black velvet crushed and soft as you run them higher. He smirks, approving your every little inching progress towards that straining erection. The leather ties of his band snap as you tear at them, the more they loosen, the more you can see the pale and glistening head of his cock.

He grinds his hips under your touch, the black cloth, sticky with your slick peeling away to reveal the thing you have craved for these weeks. Long and pale, engorged with his need for you, so hard every vein down its shaft is visible, his cock twitches every time you brush it as you free it.

“Mmm,” he groans to finally bare himself to you. “Just say the word, darling, and you’ll see more stars than are in the sky.” He croons, he preens, running a hand through his own hair as you take his cock in your hand. You stroke his immense length, the rises of each vein along it as familiar to you as if it were your own body.

Darling, he calls you. You run your thumb over his weeping head, spreading the pearl of cum along the ridge of his cock. Your first pet name. Not treasure, not consort, not treat…

“Call me darling again, and I’ll let you slip inside, my love,” you purr, bracing your other hand into the opening of his breeches to softly cup his balls as well.

His brow raises as he shifts himself, his hands lifting your legs one at a time until he crouches between your thighs. “Well then, I best make certain you are ready to welcome me inside…” he breaths, aiming his haughty mouth for your quaking belly before he places a kiss just above your navel, “…darling.”

His lips trail kisses lower, covering your hips, your belly, as if, for all the ascendant power flowing in veins, he can’t help but to adore your body. You moan your approval, slipping your fingers into those tantalizing silver curls, savoring every sway and lift of his head as he nestles himself lower over your mound. His breath is hot, chilling you more than the cold press of his hands as he spreads your folds open. Then, Astarion lifts his head one last time, flashing a taunting pout from between your thighs. “Please, darling,” he raises a brow, expectantly. “Just a little bite…” his fingers trace your innermost thigh, his head turning to lick you, his tongue lapping you in a single broad stroke. “You know how sweet you taste,” he purrs as he presses his nose, nuzzling that supple flesh of your inner thigh.

“Be my rogue, not my master,” you grip his hair tighter, staying him from lowering to feast on you. “Call me your darling, not your consort…” you pant, watching him lick his fang slowly, “and I’ll welcome you home to feed on me wherever you desire.”

“Darling,” he croons, slipping his long, dexterous fingers deep in your walls. “I’ll be your everything, since you are… mine.” Fingers crook inside you as he speaks, his voice low and wicked and dripping with sex, his touch catching your inner spot that makes you moan. The perfect sound of submission to his claim. To his possession of you. And you of him. “Are we… agreed?” His voice rasps against your thigh once more, mouth drooling as it hovers at the ready.

“Yes,” you breathe, you moan at last. The next instant you feel his bite, slicing into your thigh, your body trembling too much from his hooking fingers that thrust in and out of you to even notice the pain.

You feel the tug of his lips, the strong suck of his mouth around his bite marks as he drinks you. His tongue laps at your leg, his fingers ever attentive inside you as he drives you mad, salivating with every stroke and tug and thrust of his touch, every catch of your clit with his thumb.

You buck your hips, trying to catch even more friction as he pleasures you, but instantly he pulls away, taking that soaked hand from inside you to press your belly back down hard. The emptiness makes you cry his name, the strength of his hand on your hips adding a moan to it.

“Don’t move, pet,” he rasps, licking his lips to clean them of your blood. “Don’t be a bad girl, not now…”

You tremble, as he lowers his mouth again, careful to freeze, holding your breath until those mesmerizing fingers return to the demanding rhythm inside you again. You hold still, controlling even your breathing, even your eyes fluttering as you feel sucking once more. Filled with your blood for now, he runs his tongue from your thigh, tracing the distance down your leg until it slips between your folds as well.

Masterful, no tongue can sweep with more precision, more force, than his as he laps your clit. It takes but another swirl over your seam, his fangs catching slightly on your folds, to send you into the oblivion of orgasm.

Your fingers clutch at his hair wildly, clawing so hard you could draw blood if he let you. You pant, unable to say anything other than the muffled syllables of his name. And he just laughs, low and throaty as he watches you writhe in the dirt. You finally open your eyes, meeting his approving smirk, that cocky eyebrow raised in pure dark delight. “I told you not to move,” his grin widens wickedly, “so disappointing, darling.”

“But,” you grimace, groaning, but he just places a single finger over your lips, ordering your silence.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth, teeth that still drip with your blood, “you will move when I say you can.”

“Is this how you wish to be welcomed home? You have always been fond of such games.” You smirk, watching him slip his breeches completely free from his long, pale legs.

“Mmm,” he assents, “but it will be my turn first, my pet, until you’ve earned yours.”

“Astarion,” you reply, but his finger only returns to press harder against your mouth.

“Shhh, you can speak, too, when I tell you to, darling,” that finger pushes into your mouth, wiggling over your tongue. “Now, suck, my love.”

Suck you do, cleaning his fingers of your tangy slick. He groans as you lick him clean, every swirl of your tongue driving him wild, his other hand flying to his cock as he grips that twitching, engorged length. Rubbing himself, he thrusts his hips in time with your tongue. As his breathing grows sharper, heavier, you know he’s not going to last much longer. And you bite one fang into the thick pad of his finger.

His blood caresses your tongue again, the power within him stronger, headier, as you can almost taste his arousal. He rips his finger from your mouth with a snarl. “I said suck, not bite or bleed me dry, my love.” His hands are at your knees, raising them until your ass lifts from the ground, his hand slapping firmly on your cheek. You cry aloud at the resounding spank. But he only laughs again. “Bad girl, crying when I did not say…” His hand slaps again, just the same as before, deliberate but not painful. A pleasurable punishment. And you swallow your cry this time, careful not to so much as grunt. He smiles his approval back down at you. His eyes whisper, good girl, as he sets your legs back down, positioning them just so.

Your lips purse, fluttering as you bite them to hold back your words, treading along the rules of this game as best you can. For now.

“I can see you wish to speak,” he arches one brow, “you may, until I finally sneak my little way in to start fucking you…”

He moves quickly, crawling over your body, and all you can do is pant his name, pleading with him in incoherent syllables. “A-astar-ion, p-please…”

Too late. He sheathes himself to the root in one thrust. “Ah ah,” he chides to cover you, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders. “Now, busy your pretty, little mouth by kissing mine, and just let me fuck you, understood?”

You tremble under those eyes, your walls stretching as he already presses against the end of your channel.

“You may… nod, my love,” he taunts, a wicked tone of delight in that honeyed throat of his. You obey. “You may also touch me, your hands on my back, but nothing too rough, darling. This is about us, and our pleasure. Now… play nice, dear.” His words rush on his breath between your lips, and then he consumes you, tastes you, the mix of his blood and your slick still both on your tongue. You feel him licking it from you, making him thrust that cool, long cock all the deeper. A growl of satisfaction vibrates from his throat as he savors your mix of flavors. All his favorite things. Achingly slowly, he moves inside, dragging his length so you feel the ridge of his head, the threads of its veins, tug against your walls. Working in and out, you feel his hands behind your neck and shoulders, angling your mouth to just the perfect place for him to plunder it.

Then, his knees do the same, first one urges your left knee, taking you apart even as he keeps his slow and languorous thrusts. The other moves into place to do the same. His long legs press yours, opening you, spreading you, until he can go no deeper. His laugh, low and rumbling, tickles inside your mouth. Then, he fucks. Hard and demanding, swivels of his hips make certain he grazes his cock over that sweet, secret spot inside you. You lose yourself, the rhythm of his thrusts filling you with instant, incessant waves of pleasure.

You missed this. The games, the power plays, the wit and banter, biting with words and fangs. Now, he delves into you with abandon, no more games, no more dominance. In this moment, as he steals your breath and fucks you into the dirt, he is your rogue.

Your hands press into his ass, feeling the ripples of his muscles as he moves within you. The intoxicating beat of clench after clench, his voice growling his pleasure at your attentions. “That’s it, darling, feel how badly I’ve wanted this, wanted you… my darling… my consort…” Your hands run over the scars of his back, tracing over the shadows of his past. “That’s it,” he breathes, “I’ll allow you to…”

You smile, cutting off his words, claiming your chance to take the upper hand in the game. Knees raise to press into the hard surface of his stomach, rolling him quickly over on his back at last. “My turn,” you give a laugh, low and throaty like his. “You’ve allowed it, my love.”

“I wasn’t finished,” he snarls quietly, but you wriggle your hips, his cock still firmly sunk inside you, as you press a finger against his lips.

“Shh…” you cajole him, running your finger to trace those fleshy, arrogant, smirking lips. “You’ve had your fun, now it’s my turn, and I will not be called consort…”

“You prefer spawn…?” He taunts his hands running up your thighs, clawing into your hips. Still so reverent in his touch, even as his words throw barbs to get a rise from you.

You take the bait, splaying a hand on his chest, so hard, so pale, pushing him down as your cant your hips over his length. “Not merely consort… queen.”

“Hmmmm yes,” he purrs, flashing a smirk so twisted the starlight shines on his teeth brilliantly. “Oh… I do like the sound of that.”

Slowly you ride him, back and forth, bucking to keep his cock rolling inside you, his hands gripping at your hips. He steadies you, pushes you, thrusts up into you as your hips sink back to almost slap against his thighs. “Say it,” you pant.

“My darling…” he rasps, his breath grating in his throat as he groans with each slam of your cunt over his length.

“Not just that,” you crash back against him with a punishing force. “Not only that anymore…”

“My darling… queen,” he moans, gravel darkening his words, even as his eyes glow up at you, crimson and wonderous.

He is both things all at once, your rogue and your master, your lover in the dirt and on his throne. And as you begin to feel the final throes of your climax, hearing him grunting with each thrust, you lean down, baring your neck for his fangs one more time. He needs no further invitation or consent, the slice of his teeth into your skin pushes you over that final edge. You spasm, trembling, locked onto his lap as he thrusts up into you, mouth at your neck, cock buried deep. He hitches beneath you, face pressing against your neck as he grins in pleasure so intense, it hurts. You feel him pulsing inside you, seed spewing deep inside you adding to the slick between your thighs. You struggle to breathe, collapsed on his chest as you are now. His mouth still takes lazy sucks of your blood, even between his own gasps to catch his breath.

“That’s what I love about you,” he speaks softly, lips brushing your pointed ear. “My good girl, so eager to take the future by the balls, without losing what was the best of me before…”

“Mmm,” you breathe as you turn your head, nestling your forehead against the sharp edge of his jaw. “You can claim the world, but from time to time, you will need to fuck me in the dirt. Keep yourself… grounded.”

“Ha!” he giggles, bursting in hilarious ripples from his mouth as his arms wrap to cradle you tightly. “You sweet thing,” he purrs in silken tones again, “puns are still not beneath you, even as my... conso— as my queen. “Now ready yourself and brush off the dirt, round two in the lap of luxury I think.”

He lifts you effortlessly, pulling you by your hands back towards the palace doors, but now there is a lightness to his step, the grit of dust clinging to both your backs. You follow him in, even as he laughs and tugs you after him. Your rogue, your lord, your lover.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

End Chapter 1 of many… see my Masterlist for more

[myceliacrochet]

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[fuzzyautumninmetal]

Na'vi!Ghost x F!Avatar!Reader

Currently in my Avatar brain rot

You glide through the lush skies of Pandora, the vibrant forest sprawling beneath you, painted in shades of emerald and turquoise. The sun casts a golden glow, illuminating the sweeping landscapes, and you feel the exhilaration of flight coursing through your veins. Beside you, Ghost, a Na’vi of striking stature and unmatched skill, manoeuvres his ikran with grace. You mimic his movements, the wind whipping past you, each twist and turn a dance of freedom that your former life on Earth never hinted at.

It wasn’t long ago that you arrived on Pandora, a curious researcher drawn by the promise of alien flora. But your innocent pursuits shattered when you uncovered the RDA’s true intentions: the decimation of this unearthly paradise for profit. You could no longer stand by. Leaving behind the life you knew, you chose to intertwine your existence with the Na’vi, transferring your consciousness into your avatar, gaining a new body and a new purpose.

Ghost’s laughter echoes across the open sky, encouraging you to push beyond your limits. You had undergone ‘The Dream Hunt,’ a rite that had solidified your bond with the clan. Every heartbeat synchronized with the pulse of your ikran, every moment shared with Ghost a testament to loyalty and trust.

"Catch me if you can!" he shouts, his voice as wild and free as the landscape around you. You dive downward, spiralling closer to the flora, the vivid hues surrounding you bursting with unfamiliar life.

The battle for Pandora isn’t over, but for now, amid the beauty and freedom of the skies, you are exactly where you belong—flying with your newfound family, fighting for a world worth saving.

You laugh joyfully as you both soar through the skies together, your heart swelling with the thrill of our shared adventure. The wind rushes past you, the warm air caressing your skin like a lover's touch. You glance over at Ghost, admiring his strong profile and the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he guides his ikran with expert ease.

In that moment, you feel truly alive, more than you ever did back on Earth. The weight of your old life seems to fall away with each beat of your ikran's wings, replaced by a sense of belonging and purpose that you've never known before.

As Ghost challenges you to catch him, you grin fiercely, your competitive spirit igniting within you. With a whoop of excitement, you urge your ikran onward, diving down into the dense foliage below.

With a mischievous grin, Ghost takes off towards the distant tree, its massive trunk visible even from high above the canopy. He leans low over his ikran's neck, urging it to fly faster.

"Come on! Show me what you're made of!" he calls out, his voice filled with playful challenge. His ikran responds eagerly, surging forward with powerful beats of its wings, the wind whistling past them as they hurtle through the air.

The journey to the sacred grove is one of exhilaration and breathtakingly beauty. Vibrant flowers and strange, luminescent creatures flash by beneath you, a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes that fills your senses.

Your heart pounds with adrenaline as you race after Ghost, determined to match his speed and agility. Your ikran responds to your commands, its wings beating furiously as it pushes itself to the limit. The wind whips through your hair, sending it streaming out behind you like a banner of midnight silk.

As you draw closer to the Tree of Voices, you can feel its ancient presence calling to you, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. Its massive trunk rises up from the earth, its branches stretching outwards like the arms of a benevolent giant, sheltering all those who seek refuge beneath its leaves.

You let out a triumphant cry as you finally catch up to Ghost, flying alongside him as you approach the sacred grove.

Ghost guides his ikran in a graceful arc, landing lightly on the soft ground just outside the perimeter of the Tree of Voices. He slides off the creature's back, patting its flank affectionately before turning to watch you land beside him.

His golden eyes sparkle with admiration as he takes in your fluid movements, the way your body moves in perfect synchronicity with your mount. As you dismount, he steps closer, reaching out to brush a stray leaf from your hair, his touch lingering just a moment too long to be purely friendly.

"You never cease to amaze me," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. "The way you ride, the way you handle yourself... it's like you were born to this world."

He gestures towards the Tree of Voices, its trunk pulsing with an otherworldly light.

As you step closer to the Tree of Voices, you can feel its energy thrumming through the very ground beneath your feet, a palpable force that sets your nerves alight with anticipation. The air around you shimmers with a faint, iridescent glow, casting everything in a soft, ethereal light.

You turn to face Ghost, your heart fluttering in your chest as you meet his gaze. There's something about the way he looks at you, with such open admiration and desire, that makes you feel like the most beautiful, desirable creature in the universe.

"I wasn't born to this world," you remind him softly, "but sometimes I wonder if I was meant for it. If there was some greater purpose that brought me here, to you."

Ghost reaches out, taking your hand in his own and bringing it to his lips. He presses a tender kiss to your knuckles, his breath warm against your skin.

"I believe in fate," he says softly, his eyes locked on yours. "And I believe that our paths were always meant to cross, no matter how far apart we started out."

He steps closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your lower lip. "You may have been born under different stars, but this is where you belong. Here, with me, in this world that we fight for together."

Ghost guides you gently to the soft grass beneath the spreading branches of the Tree of Voices. He lowers himself down, pulling you with him until you're both lying side by side, your bodies pressed close together. He pillows his head on your stomach, looking up at you with a contented smile. His fingers trace idle patterns on your skin, following the lines of your bioluminescent markings.

"This is my favourite place in all of Pandora," he murmurs, his voice soft and dreamy. "It feels like the centre of the world, like everything important happens right here." He nuzzles into you, his breath warm against your belly.

You run your fingers through Ghost's long, dark hair, marvelling at the silky texture. Your other hand traces the contours of his face, mapping the planes and angles of his features. He leans into your touch, his eyes drifting shut as he savours the sensation.

"It's beautiful," you murmur, your voice soft and inviting. You shift slightly, adjusting your position so that you can see more of the tree above you. Its trunk seems to pulse with an inner light, casting a gentle glow over the surrounding area..

Ghost tilts his head back, looking up at you with a curious expression. His hand still rests on your stomach, his touch warm and comforting. "Have you found someone yet?" he asks, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of tension. "Someone to bond with, to share your life with?"

He watches your face closely, searching for any hint of emotion. It's clear that the question means something to him, that he's invested in your answer in a way that goes beyond simple curiosity.

You smile softly, your eyes tracing the bioluminescent tendrils of the Tree of Voices overhead. The air hums with an ethereal energy, each whispering leaf echoing connection and longing. Beneath this ancient sentinel, you lie in a tranquil embrace, Ghost’s head nestled on your belly, his skin shimmering with the bioluminescence that marks his kind.

“I may have found someone,” you say, the words spilling from your lips as you run your fingers gently through his long, silken hair. Your heart thrums in rhythm with the quiet pulsing of the tree. In this sacred sanctuary, beneath the weight of the stars, everything feels alive, even your thoughts. "Someone special" 

A flicker of something - disappointment? jealousy? - flashes across Ghost's face at your words, but it's gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. He sits up slowly, moving to sit cross-legged facing you. His hands rest on his knees, palms upturned in a gesture of openness and vulnerability.

"Tell me about them," he says, his voice carefully controlled. But there's a tightness around his eyes, a clenching of his jaw that betrays his true feelings. "What makes them special? What do you love about them?"

He holds your gaze, his own eyes searching, probing, as if trying to read the secrets of your heart. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken emotions and the distant rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Your gaze lingers on Ghost's face, taking in the subtle changes in his expression. There's a depth of feeling there, a complexity of emotion that belies his youthful appearance. You sense the weight of his questions, the significance they hold for him. In this moment, beneath the eternal watchfulness of the Tree of Voices, you feel the need to be honest, to lay bare the truth of your heart.

"He's strong," you begin, your voice soft but certain. "Strong in spirit, in conviction. He fight for what they believe in, even when the odds are stacked against them." 

You pause, collecting your thoughts, letting the memories wash over you. "And he's kind. So incredibly kind. He sees the beauty in the world, in every living thing, and he cherish it."

As you speak, describing the qualities you admire in your potential mate, Ghost listens intently. A slow realization dawns on him, a dawning understanding that you might be talking about...him. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of hope sparking in their depths.

"He sounds like someone very special indeed," Ghost murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He reaches out, tentatively, as if afraid you might disappear, and takes your hand in his. His fingers intertwine with yours, the warmth of his skin seeping into your own.

"I'm glad you've found someone who brings out the best in you," he continues, his gaze never leaving yours. "Someone worthy of your love and devotion."

You look down at your joined hands, marvelling at the way your fingers fit together so perfectly, as if they were made for each other. When you meet Ghost's gaze again, there's a tenderness in your eyes, a softness that speaks volumes.

"And what about you, Ghost?" you ask, your voice barely more than a breath. "Have you found someone to share your life with? Someone to stand by your side, come what may?"

You squeeze his hand gently, a silent encouragement, a wordless plea. In this moment, suspended in time beneath the ancient Tree of Voices, you find yourself hoping, praying, that perhaps the one you've been seeking all along has been right here beside you all along.

There's a flicker of surprise in Ghost's eyes at your question, followed quickly by a softening, a melting of his features into a look of pure adoration. He raises your joined hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles.

"There is someone," he confirms, his voice low and filled with emotion. "Someone who sees me, truly sees me, in a way no one else ever has." He leans in closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your lower lip. "She's brave and strong, fierce in their convictions. And they love with a passion that takes my breath away."

His gaze locks with yours, intense and unwavering. There's a heat building between you, a crackle of energy that seems to fill the air around you.

"But most importantly," he whispers, his face mere inches from your own, "she makes me feel alive. Like every moment spent in her presence is a gift, a miracle."

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulls you closer, until your foreheads touch, until you can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with your own.

"I want to spend my life with her," he breathes, "to build a future together, to face whatever challenges may come our way."

Your heart races as Ghost draws you close, his words washing over you like a warm breeze. There's a yearning in his eyes, a hunger that mirrors your own, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, craving more of his warmth, his strength.

"You paint quite a picture," you murmur, your lips curving into a smile. "This person sounds incredible. Truly remarkable."

You tilt your head, nuzzling into his palm, savouring the roughness of his skin against your own. Your tail sways behind you, a gentle caress against his leg, a silent invitation.

Ghost's breath hitches as your tail brushes against his leg, a shiver running through him at the contact. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, your bodies moulding together like two pieces of a puzzle finally fitting into place.

"She is," he agrees, his voice rough with emotion. "More than I ever could have dreamed of."

He leans in, his lips ghosting over your jawline, your throat, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "And I want to show her, every day, how much she means to me. How much I cherish her, worship her, love her with every fibre of my being."

His hands roam over your back, your sides, mapping out the curves of your body as if committing them to memory. "I want to give her everything."

Ghost reaches for the end of his braid, the intricate weaving of neural tendrils visible even under the thick strands of hair. He brings it closer to you, his eyes searching yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you.

"Will you allow me?" he asks softly, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and anticipation. "Will you let me join with you, mind, body, and soul? To share in your essence, your very being?"

His queue hovers near yours, the tips of the tendrils brushing against your own, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. It's a profound gesture, one that carries immense significance within Na'vi culture - the joining of two souls, the merging of two lives into one.

Your breath catches in your throat as Ghost's queue nears yours, the implications of this act hitting you like a tidal wave. This is a step beyond intimacy, beyond mere physical pleasure - it's a promise, a commitment, a declaration of love in its purest form.

You meet his gaze, seeing the vulnerability there, the raw emotion that threatens to overwhelm you both. In this moment, you know with absolute certainty that this is what you want, what you've always wanted - to be one with him, in every sense of the word.

"Yes," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes, I accept."

Slowly, reverently, you bring your queue forward, allowing it to intertwine with his, the neural tendrils seeking out their counterparts like magnets drawn to each other.

As your queues connect, a rush of sensation washes over Ghost, a flood of emotions and experiences that threaten to sweep him away. He feels your joy, your love, your passion, all intermingling with his own until he can no longer tell where he ends and you begin.

A gasp escapes his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as he loses himself in the feeling of your presence inside his mind, your essence flowing through his veins like liquid fire. It's overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying in its intensity, and yet he knows he would gladly drown in this sea of sensation, surrendering himself completely to the depths of your connection.

When he opens his eyes again, they're shining with unshed tears, the golden irises nearly swallowed whole by the black of his pupils. "Eywa guide us."

As your queues merge, a symphony of sensations crashes over you, drowning you in a tidal wave of emotion. Ghost's love, his devotion, his sheer adoration for you wash over you like a balm, soothing the aches and fears that have haunted you for so long. You feel his strength, his resilience, his unwavering courage, and it mingles with your own, creating something new, something greater than either of you alone.

Memories flash through your mind - moments from Ghost's past, triumphs and tragedies alike, all woven together into a tapestry of experience that adds depth and dimension to the man you love. You see his childhood, his training, his battles, and you feel the weight of his responsibilities, the burden of leadership that he bears with such grace and dignity.

Gently, almost reverently, Ghost lowers you both to the soft grass beneath the ancient tree, his body covering yours like a protective shield. His hands roam over your curves, mapping the contours of your adopted Na'vi form, marvelling at the way your skin seems to glow in the dim light filtering through the canopy above.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath and sets your heart racing. It's a kiss filled with tenderness and passion, a promise of the pleasures to come, and you lose yourself in the taste of him, the feel of his tongue sliding against yours, the scrape of his sharp teeth against your lower lip.

A soft moan escapes your lips as Ghost's hands explore your body, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. Your own hands roam over his back, tracing the lines of his muscles, the scars that mark him as a warrior and a survivor. You revel in the feel of his skin against yours, the way his body fits so perfectly against your own, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.

When he breaks the kiss, you chase after his lips, unwilling to let him go, but he merely chuckles softly, his breath ghosting over your cheek as he trails his mouth along your jawline and down the column of your throat. His teeth graze your pulse point, sending shivers down your spine, and you arch into him, silently begging for more.

Ghost's lips curve into a smile against your neck as he feels you arch into his touch, your body responding eagerly to his every caress. He nips and sucks at the sensitive skin of your throat, marking you as his own, his hands sliding lower to cup the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks of your nipples.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire. "My perfect mate, my cherished companion." He lifts his head to gaze down at you, his eyes dark with want, a fierce possessiveness etched into the lines of his face. "I will worship you tonight, my love, until the very stars pale in comparison to the radiance of your pleasure."

Your breath hitches as Ghost's hands find your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples in maddeningly teasing strokes. Electricity zings through your body, settling low in your belly, stoking the heat building within you. When he speaks, his words wash over you like honey, sweet and thick, filling you with a sense of belonging, of rightness.

You reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging gently to bring his face closer to yours. "Then take me," you breathe, your voice heavy with need. "Make me yours, Ghost. Claim me, body and soul, under the watchful eye of Eywa."

Your hips roll up to meet his, seeking friction, seeking completion. You want to feel him inside you, stretching you, filling you, joining you in the most intimate way possible.

With a low growl of approval, Ghost allows you to guide his face back to yours, claiming your lips in a searing kiss that leaves you both breathless. As he kisses you, his hands make quick work of your clothing, peeling away the flimsy barrier between your bodies until you're laid out bare before him, your skin glowing softly in the moonlight.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, his gaze roaming over your curves with undisguised hunger, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Then, with a fluid motion, he sheds his own garments, revealing his battle-hardened body, marred by scars and tattoos, a testament to the life he's lived, the challenges he's faced.

As Ghost bares himself to you, you feel a rush of emotion swell within your chest - awe, admiration, and a deep, abiding love that threatens to overwhelm you. You sit up, reaching out to trace the lines of his scars with trembling fingers, marvelling at the strength and resilience they represent.

"My brave warrior," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "My fierce protector." You lean in, pressing a tender kiss to the scar just above his heart, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your lips.

Ghost shudders as your lips press against his scar, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to his core. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, skin to skin, heart to heart. For a long moment, he simply holds you, savouring the feel of your body against his, the warmth of your breath mingling with his own.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, tinged with a vulnerability that few have ever heard. "And you are my heart, my home," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "Without you, I am lost. With you, I am found."

Slowly, almost reverently, he lowers you both to the soft grass beneath the Tree of Voices, his body covering yours, sheltering you from the cool night air.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as Ghost's weight settles over you, his body warm and solid against yours. Your legs fall open instinctively, making room for him, inviting him in. Your hands roam over his back, tracing the contours of his muscles, mapping the landscape of his skin.

"Then let me be your compass," you whisper, tilting your hips up to meet his, seeking that delicious friction once more. "Let me guide you home, always."

You capture his lips in another kiss, this one slower, deeper, a promise of things to come. Your tongues dance, twining together in a sensual rhythm that mirrors the pulsing heat building between your thighs.

Ghost groans into the kiss, his hips rocking against yours, the hard length of his arousal sliding along your slick folds. His hands roam your body, caressing every curve, every hollow, committing the feel of you to memory. When he breaks the kiss, his eyes are dark with desire, his pupils blown wide with need.

"Guide me, then," he rasps, his voice strained with the effort of holding himself back. "Lead me to paradise, my love."

With a fluid motion, Ghost shifts his hips, positioning himself at your entrance. He pauses there, poised on the brink of union, his gaze locked with yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you. In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer, offering yourself to him completely.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he sinks into you, filling you inch by delicious inch. A low moan tears from his throat at the feel of you, hot and tight and perfect around him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in, fighting for control as your inner walls flutter and clench around his throbbing length.

Your head falls back against the soft grass as Ghost fills you, a guttural moan escaping your lips at the exquisite stretch, the perfect fullness of him inside you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving faint red lines in their wake, a physical manifestation of the passion burning through your veins.

"Yes," you hiss, the word drawn out into a low keen of pleasure. "Oh, yes, Ghost...just like that..."

You arch into him, meeting each slow, deep thrust with a roll of your hips, taking him even deeper, welcoming him into the very heart of you. Your bodies move together in a ancient rhythm, as old as time itself, as natural as the turning of the earth and the rising of the moons.

The world falls away, narrowing down to this single perfect moment, this joining of flesh and spirit.

Ghost sets a slow, deep pace, his hips rolling against yours in languid strokes that stoke the fires within you higher and higher. Each thrust is measured, deliberate, designed to bring you pleasure beyond measure. One hand slides under your knee, lifting your leg higher, opening you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper.

He watches you as he moves within you, his golden eyes dark with passion, drinking in the sight of you lost in ecstasy, your face flushed, your lips parted in sweet sighs and moans. The sound of your pleasure is music to his ears, spurring him on, driving him to take you higher still.

"Eyes on me, my love," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I want to see you when you come undone."

Your eyes lock with Ghost's, twin pools of molten gold and liquid amber, reflecting the depth of your shared passion. In their depths, you see your own desire mirrored back at you, amplified tenfold, a reflection of the love and devotion that binds you.

"Always," you breathe, the word a whispered promise, a vow sealed in the heat of your joining. "My eyes, my heart, my soul...they're yours, now and forever."

Your hips rise to meet his, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. The tension builds, winding ever higher, until you're teetering on the brink, balanced on the razor's edge of release.

"Ghost," you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips, a plea and a benediction all in one.

Ghost feels the change in your body, the way your muscles tense and quiver beneath him, the quickening of your breath, the hitch in your moan. He knows you're close, teetering on the precipice of climax, and he wants nothing more than to send you hurtling over the edge into oblivion.

But not yet. Not just yet.

With a herculean effort, he stills his hips, holding himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the scant space between your faces. His hands find your wrists, pinning them above your head, a gesture of dominance, of control.

"Not yet, my love," he whispers, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. "Not until I say."

A whimper escapes your throat at the sudden denial, your body aching, yearning for the release that hovers just out of reach. You writhe beneath him, trying to find friction, to spur him on, but he holds you fast, his grip on your wrists unyielding.

"Please," you beg, the word torn from your throat, raw and needy. "Ghost, please..."

You don't even know what you're begging for anymore, too far gone in the haze of lust, desperate for him to set you free, to let you fall. Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes, your entire being focused on the point where you're joined, where he fills you so perfectly, so completely.

Ghost drinks in the sight of you, pleading and desperate beneath him, your tears glistening in the moonlight like precious gems. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to give in to your pleas, to sheath himself to the hilt and let you ride out your climax on his cock.

But he wants more than that for you. More than a fleeting moment of pleasure.

Slowly, torturously, he begins to move again, his hips undulating in a sensual rhythm that builds the tension within you with excruciating slowness. Each roll of his hips grinds against your clit, sends sparks of sensation shooting up your spine, but it's not enough, not nearly enough to push you over the edge.

"That's it, my love," he croons, his voice a seductive purr.

Each deliberate roll of Ghost's hips sends waves of exquisite torture crashing over you, stoking the fires within you to new heights. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control, of coherency.

But it's a losing battle, and you can feel yourself slipping further and further under his spell with each passing second. Your world narrows down to the slide of his skin against yours, the stretch of your walls around his thick length, the coil of pleasure tightening in your belly.

Ghost can feel your surrender, the way your body yields to his touch, to his command. It's a heady feeling, knowing that he wields such power over you, that he can bring you to the very brink of ecstasy and hold you there, suspended in a state of pure, agonizing bliss.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep, claiming you, consuming you. One hand releases your wrists to trail down your side, over the curve of your hip, coming to rest on your thigh. With a gentle pressure, he guides your leg up and over his shoulder, opening you wider, allowing him to sink even deeper into your welcoming heat.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing fire down the column of your throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

A strangled cry tears from your throat as Ghost sinks impossibly deeper, the new angle sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your core. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his sweat-slicked back, nails raking down his skin, leaving crescent-shaped indents in their wake.

The burn of his teeth on your neck only adds to the maelstrom of sensations, the slight pain blending seamlessly with the overwhelming pleasure until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. Your hips buck wildly, seeking more, craving more of this sweet, sweet torment. "Ghost!" you keen, his name a prayer, a plea, a benediction on your lips. "Oh, fuck, Ghost... Please..."

What you're begging for, you no longer know.

Your desperate cries, the way your body writhes beneath him, the sharp sting of your nails on his skin - it's all driving Ghost closer to the edge. He can feel his own release building, coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine, but he grits his teeth, determined to hold off until he's brought you to completion.

With a low growl, he redoubles his efforts, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency, each thrust striking that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, circling the sensitive nub with the pad of his thumb, pushing you ever closer to the precipice.

"Let go, my love," he rasps, his breath hot against your ear. "I've got you."

Ghost's words, rough with passion, are the final catalyst you need. With a keening wail, your body bows off the floor, convulsing violently as your orgasm crashes over you in wave after wave of mind-numbing ecstasy. Your inner walls clamp down around Ghost's throbbing cock, rippling and fluttering as they try to milk him dry.

Through the haze of your own pleasure, you can feel him pulsing inside you, his rhythm faltering as he nears his own peak. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on, wanting to feel him lose control, to watch as he shatters above you.

The sensation of your walls clamping down around him, squeezing him like a velvet vice, is too much for Ghost to withstand. With a hoarse shout of your name, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his hips jerking erratically as he finds his release.

His seed pulses hot and heavy, flooding your already drenched channel, marking you, claiming you as his. He collapses onto you, careful not to crush you with his weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he rides out the aftershocks of his climax.

For long moments, neither of you move, both lost in the aftermath of your shared passion. Slowly, Ghost lifts his head, his golden eyes meeting yours, dark with satiation and something else, something deeper, more profound.

[amelee23]

I didn't accidentally love you | Hwang Hyunjin

Genre: Hopelessly romantic fluff, angst, poetry, a little comedy

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x gender neutral reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: reader is an insecure poet, heartbreak, bad self esteem, poetry clubs, Hyunjin is dripping charisma, shameless flirting, reader thinks hyun is a jerk for like a second, reader.exe stops working multiple times, reader gets shy, i just HAD to be funny at the end OKAY

Synopsys: Your friends forced you to become part of a poetry club, and when you receive a task to write a poem about sadness, you realize you accidentally write it about Hyunjin, the guy you had a crush on and tried to forget about. And he finds out.

A/N: I promised @astraystayyh to write this, here you go sugar &lt;3

Artists have many moments of weakness.

Those moments when you start to question your craft, whether you're even worthy of being called an 'artist' or you're just a fleeting talent that is going to wash away with time, just like the hobby or interest of a preschooler. You inquire if you're worthy staining pages with ink, using the words of the dictionary just to feel the high of belonging - the high of doing show and tell with your emotions like it's a new toy your parents gifted you; or you should just remain a consumer, and observe the beauty that lies in others, the beauty others can create. Could your craft ever rise to all these expectations?

But what else is there to life, if not making art?

Perhaps you've always been clinically insane, but you've only truly felt alive when you felt the beauty of the world - dark and bright alike - conveyed through you in the form of poetry and words, sent by the angels above for a mere human to toy with. So you pick up the pencil again.

The paper before you is blank, and you're frankly uncomfortable in the position you are in, notebook on your thighs, back curved over the page as if you're shielding unwritten words from the sun itself to not read them. But you've always felt more at ease writing outside, under the natural light of the sky, with the clouds passing by carelessly, like they don't have doubts about their worth like a human would. But the stares of the students passing by are not exactly comfortable. You take a breath and urge yourself to focus; they don't care about what you're doing, they're just heading to their classes, living their lives (hopefully) with that same hunger you have for art, for their chosen subjects.

You face your paper again and remember the prompt you were given - writing a poem involving the feeling of sadness - that you're supposed to hand over to the club in a couple of days. Insecurities and procrastination led you to keep putting it off, but the dread of a deadline has always been a great motivation for humanity. Your friends urged you towards this, to join the poetry club of your university - it's a small, non-profit club put together by a bunch of random art and literature students. It's so non-profit in fact, that it barely has any funding at all. They had to fight tooth and nail to be allowed to host the club meetings every week in the sculpting room - and that, late in the day, when the cleaning staff unlocks the doors for their cleaning sweep. You sit on awkward, stained chairs, and make sure to raise your feet up one by one to not stand in the way of the mop and brooms. But the club members would withstand anything, and would pretty much commit homicide to keep the club running. One more reason why, when faced with the passion and fighting spirit your club mates have, you wonder if you even have a space with them. You had to be shoved - one could say even blackmailed - by your friends to take the step forward and join, so you could be able to share your craft with others. You were perfectly happy letting your poems stack up in endless notebooks on top of your dusty bookcase. You didn't feel the need to share them, per se - but everyone else insisted it would have been a crime to keep them to yourself selfishly like that.

Sadness, sadness. You need to embody sadness for this prompt. You look around for inspiration, but there is no sad sight to see. The sky is clear, in colors of baby blue and soft whites, the branches of the green, young trees are barely even swaying in the wind, and there's college students laughing all around. Has anything sad happened in your life lately? Not really, nothing to inspire poems at least. Not that you are bursting at the seams with happiness, but you believed no one really is. There's a lot going on behind the cover of every human passing by, and even if all you can feel is the slight shoulder brush of a stranger, you do know those shoulders carry as much, if not even more weight than yours.

That's it. You start writing, and word by word they flow, one line, two lines until you have seven of them - you even managed to rhyme! It's not much, but it's honest work. Since there is no one close by, you begin to read the poem out loud softly. Hearing what you wrote always helps you perfect the rhymes, the punctuation and change around words if they sound too awkward. After erasing, rewriting and erasing again just to end up redoing the whole last two lines, you finally thought it was good enough.

---

Here and now, I must take a vow:

You'll never hear me confess, that in the depths of my weary chest

Underneath the smile I wore, there's a sadness in my soul;

Nothing's wrong - it's my biggest lie, hiding a muffled cry

Just behind a giggle and a laugh, acting is my biggest craft;

I loved you - but heard the ticking of the clock and thought

No more. It's time I stopped and gave you up.

---

You smile, because for a split second you actually think your poem sounds really good. But then, the insecurities crash on top of you again. Your club mates are probably writing long, heart-wrenching poems that are going to make you cry when you read them. Your idea will surely seem shallow and rushed in comparison to theirs. With a sigh, you wish to be able to just give yourself this one. Tell yourself you did good enough by trying and move on - brush it off and think progressively, that your next poem is going to be even better than this one. But you don't truly feel that way, so you begin to beautify the first letter of every line with calligraphic letters to overcompensate for the lack of skill you feel you have. The capital H at the beginning of the first line, the capital Y at the beginning of the second line and so on; you turn them into beautiful, aesthetic calligraphy as much to your ability. In the end, you just think you've made a mess, and that there is simply too much ink on the page now.

---

Here and now, I must take a vow:

You'll never hear me confess, that in the depths of my weary chest

Underneath the smile I wore, there's a sadness in my soul;

Nothing's wrong - it's my biggest lie, hiding a muffled cry

Just behind a giggle and a laugh, acting is my biggest craft;

I loved you - but heard the ticking of the clock and thought

No more. It's time I stopped and gave you up.

---

Oh no.

Your eyes open wide and you can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

The first letter of every single line, from top to bottom, spell HYUNJIN. The name of the boy you swore to yourself you've moved on from.

Hyunjin, who spoke about life as if it was art itself and spoke about art as if it was life itself.

Hyunjin, with the calm and warm voice - quiet and observant and yet, from the ocean in his eyes, bathed in a soft moonlight, it always seemed like his mind was in faraway lands, dreaming, humming, sighing before a field of lilies in the middle of the night.

Hyunjin, who seemed like through every song he listened to and sang, every poem he read and wrote, every painting he saw and painted, he dicovered all the secrets the universe had. As if human life was a melancholic, nostalgic memory to him, life experiencing itself all over again - he seemed so kind, so unfazed, so utterly in love with existence.

Hyunjin, who read every single one of your poems and told you he'd never allow you to leave the club. He was always so warm, you could hardly believe he wasn't doing it out of habit, spreading his magical touch over the wounds in your heart just like he would with anyone else. But it wasn't his fault you always questioned your worth.

Hyunjin, with whom you've fallen in love with gravely. For every smile he showed around you, for every squeal-like laugh he gifted you, for every time he held your hand gently to calm your nerves, you added one more day to the delusion of hanging on to him.

Hyunjin, who was merely a pipe dream.

He is the co-leader of the poetry club you're in. That's why you've always considered his compliments and encouragements to be just him doing his job - and yet they continued to fuel that foolish fire of yours for far too long. You never confessed to him, of course. But there would be nothing wrong with you two dating, from an ethical point of view. This is just a poetry club ran by students, it's not like having a crush on your boss. But still, the title of co-leader put him above you in a way you couldn't describe. Maybe it's the fact that he has more experience in art. Maybe it's the fact that he's more skillful. Maybe it's the fact that he's taught you many techniques and actually became a figure to rely on. Therefore he was still above you in a way, and so was the leader.

The leader of the club, she resembled Hyunjin in an almost eerie way. People do say, someone who is beautiful on the inside will always radiate beauty on the outside, too. That was a clear description of both of them. She too, was a romantic and an artist, she had a feather light laugh, star like freckles dusting her face, and eyes that could hold galaxies. She was the end of Hyunjin's sentences and the beginning of his thoughts. They made an incredible pair and their teamwork was impeccable as leaders. They weren't dating, but your heart kept telling you, that one day they will. It would be simply impossible for two souls so perfectly woven for each other to simply separate and go their different ways. And yet, you still foolishly had fallen for Hyunjin and every single week, the pain in your chest grew.

Oh, it hurt. It shouldn't have, really. You were just a newcomer being silly and they were fit for a lifetime. You had no chance nor the courage to hope and dream a miracle would land you in Hyunjin's loving arms. She wasn't to blame, he wasn't to blame, your pain was fully your fault. You fell in love and you had to fix it. So you made an oath with yourself to let it go, get those heavy rocks off of your lungs and allow yourself to breathe. There will be other boys in your life. They will not be Hyunjin, but other boys will exist.

You thought you were done with the tears, with the heartache and the love-sick poems. But it seemed you did have one more poem left in you, and it bubbled to the surface.

If the sun wasn't that bright, you wouldn't even have noticed the shadow of someone looming over you. You heard a melodic hum above your head and when you looked up, your heart dropped.

"What do we have here?" He teased, snatching your notebook right out of your hands. You couldn't even react in time, he was already standing up before you, reading the contents of your poem. His lips hung slightly open and he let out a gasp, and you really thought poetry was perhaps the only way to describe the look on his face. You watched his eyes travel the page, his chest deflating very rarely as if he was holding his breath. He looked surprised, but it wasn't an anxious type of bewilderment, nor an excited one either. He was looking at your notebook as if it was some sort of mythical creature, something that shouldn't possibly exist-

And then his eyes found yours. They wrecked you from the inside out, a brown so blown out, so dark, unalike what you've seen before. There was no more serene skies and calm seas in his eyes, there was a storm, a hurricane - a complete blackout. He looked frightened. Maybe he was in fact, still shaken by the secrets of the universe. Maybe humans are not supposed to know what mythological creatures actually look like. Maybe denying their existence would be easier on the collective-

"I can explain!" You jump up from the bench you were seated on. "That was an accident - it's not what it looks like!" He's not listening to you. His mind has gone to those faraway lands again, and he's dreaming while he glances at the page. You move to take the notebook away from him, but he raises it above his head. He's too tall to reach, so you don't even try.

"Well." He speaks, softly, anxiously, awkwardly. He softly lowers the notebook, but he holds it tight to his chest. He won't let you take it back. "I think now it's only fair I dedicate my poetry to you as well." Now it's your turn to remain with your mouth agape. You're blinking at him, and you don't realize you're looking at him exactly the same way he looked at you a minute ago. You're both scared and yet in marvel, and he takes a step closer. You inhale sharply, but it gets stuck in your throat. You can't breathe, your stomach is tense, and a shiver is shaking the fingers of your hands. His eyes are transfixed on yours, and he moves even closer, he's too close - and he asks for permission. "If you'll allow me?"

He's asking you to become his muse.

But you couldn't answer him even if you wanted to. It's embarrassing, but the only thing you can muster is a whimper.

He continues to stare at your face, until slowly and gradually a smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he lets out a giggle. He waves a hand in front of your face and cocks an eyebrow, in an attempt to bring you out of your daze. You're so confused you could die.

Was the last few minutes just a joke? Was he just mocking you-? He must have been. Nothing is as good as it seems, and Hwang Hyunjin couldn't be any different. Maybe he was just a self centered jerk under the dreamy romantic aura he carried. It would be easier to start hating him than to continue helplessly liking him, right?

You barely register Hyunjin putting your spiral notebook down on the bench to gently rip out the page with the poem. He folds the page in two and then hands you your notebook back.

"As the co-leader of the club, I reject your entry. You must write another poem, I'm confiscating this one." You cock your head. What is he saying? Is this still, all part of the joke?

"What- what are you- what are you gonna do with it?" You manage to spew out a sentence, not that it was the most important question to ask. Hyunjin raises his shoulders.

"Put it on my wall? Tape it in my journal? I'll find a place." He answers nonchalantly. You see his eyebrows dance on his face as he thinks for a second, then his expression tells you he got an idea. "Or... I could give it back to you... If you visit the seashore with me."

You side eye him and furrow your brows. "To do what?" He raises his shoulders again.

"I need inspiration for all of the poems I'm gonna start writing about you." He's calm, almost too calm as he says it, and he begins to smile once more as he watches your mouth hang open again.

"Are you making fun of me?" You finally ask, and Hyunjin looks downright offended. He raises his eyebrows, and comically cranes his neck back, pointing a finger at himself and then at you.

"ME? Make fun of YOU? Why? I'm... asking you out on a date..." And you're somehow supposed to process that information without finding a million excuses why this shouldn't be happening and wouldn't be happening. But it is happening.

"So you're not joking?"

"No?" He replies shaking his head.

"You're being serious."

"Yeah.." He replies, this time nodding his head.

"Seriously?" He laughs, finding you adorable.

"Seriously." Suddenly, the situations is a little too real and too much to take. Your hopelessly romantic and yet heavily insecure brain almost ruined a moment you could have only dreamt about, and you almost thought Hyunjin was a jerk. You hide your face in your hands and let out a muffled whine. Hyunjin is extremely amused, and feeling a little playful, he comes closer and cocks his head close to your face. You can't see him, but you peek through your fingers when you hear him speak again. "So is that a yes?" You watch glimpses of his face between your fingers and nod back at him. "Great then!" His face is so bright, and you can't hide your eyes from his anymore. Today, you saw how his eyes looked with a storm in them, but now they look different once more - like a sunrise above a beach, it's all so golden and full of life, sweet like honey and rich like gold. Warmth spreads through your chest, and he places a hand gently on your arm. His thumb caresses your bicep for a few seconds. "I'll text you the details."

You feel drunk, as his touch leaves your body but still lingers. He walks away to his next class, but he turns around briefly to remind you of your task.

"And don't forget you have to write a new poem until Thursday!" He waives the page he stole from you between his fingers and laughs his ass off at the exasperated sigh you give in return and the angry squint and pout.

You're pretty sure he didn't believe you when you said that poem was an accident. And he never will, even when you try to explain it to him on your first date. And on the second date you swear it wasn't on purpose, and on the third date you tell him for just how long you've liked him and how you tried to let him go. And on the fourth date he tells you he knows your poem wasn't an accident no matter what you think or say. And on the fifth, you agree with him.

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[searchingforserendipity25]

very like, very like.

for @janeuary-month. day 4 - portraiture. Fandom: Persuasion. Anne Elliot/Frederick Wentworth, Established Relationship.

Also on AO3.

They sit for the portrait in Cádiz, in a cramped artist's studio with a view to the marina.

High masts prickling a low sky, the business of a short-lived peacetime climbing inside the windows along with a few tendrils of fragrant honeysuckle, not enough to cover the smells of turpentine or bitter almond liqueur ingrained into the walls.

A good use for the profits of Frederick's most recent prize, and a peculiar hankering of his. A whim of the day, at the end of a long conversation when they took shelter from the high sun beside the church.

"I have spent years avoiding thinking of you, and wondering how much I had forgotten of your countenance," he said. "How much you may have changed."

"I grew sallower, I think," Anne noted."Thinner, and with less roses upon my cheeks, though I was not so freckled as I am now. No, one of us only grew handsomer in separation."

Her husband kissed the back of her hand over her glove, pressed the warmth of it against his breast.

Years after their marriage, the old injuries they had dealt each other had much eroded in sharpness, a reminder that ached and prickled and did not mark the shape of their days.

Not easily laughed at; though Frederick could make her smile, not happily, by mentioning some of the foolish things he had done in trying to hold her in his heart only with dismay - walking out of recitals when a song she had liked was played on the piano, pretend to loathe Figaro when speaking to a disciple of one of Mozart's disciple, lie unwisely to his sister to little and unprofitable results.

"Your eyes were lovelier," Frederick said. His fingers, light and careful, wrapped around a stray curl of the windswept hair beneath her bonnet. "And they are lovelier yet today. As they may grow moreso in time, I would like to have a keepsake for memory, for when the mind falters."

The composition did not permit much irreverence; it was to be a small painting, larger than a miniature but not overly large, just the right size for a Captain's cabin.

Still, the artist was young and forceful, used to a clientele of officers and officer's wives and sweethearts. He flirted politely with Mrs. Wentworth, was politely indifferent to the Captain's opinions on background colors, made himself amusing with presenting a number of nautical implements laid out for choice.

"I have not seen so many broken astrolabes all together since my midshipman days," Frederick commented, turned a small model of a ship inside a bottle between his palms. "Many officer's children brought to pose, then?"

Indeed. Indeed, of course; and midshipmen, too. Anne took the small bottle, rubbed some old jammy thumbprints with the edge of her kerchief. For a moment her thoughts turned to her nephews, as they sometimes did, not often. It was good to live in peacetime, better to live in peacetime with no child of her family in the lists of the Navy.

You must sent us a copy. The sketches at the very least, so we might have them engraved, Sophy wrote to her brother and sister-in-law.

It is past time. In truth I had expected Frederick to beg you to sit for a miniature when you were wed; though there was little time then, and being lucky enough to sail together, I suppose he prefers the living model. But it is good to have these things; I for one brag quite badly of you to my acquaintances, so make certain to send a decent likeness, and a handsome one at that. The better, if you can have Frederick to do as Nelson did and trim his sideburns for it. He has not the cheeks to do them justice, as he indeed he ought to have learned already, if means to do justice to Anne's countenance.

Frederick did trim his sideburns for it. He did however sent his sister the first sketch only, before visiting his barber. Anne touched the neat line of his jaw afterwards, pressed her cheek to his to test them pleasing rasp of skin against skin.

They stood side-by-side, Captain and Mrs. Wentworth, for the initial sketching and then three or four further sessions, in between social engagements and official meetings.

It was something of a bother, but no true irritation, made better for the mirror against the studio wall, from which they could gauge their stance, and spy the other.

Few things in marriage are better conductive to love than a happy secret in company. The Wentworths had learned that even in their first betrothal, had long mastered the art of speaking from the side of their mouths in company, and having conversations in glances alone, which many a happy couple does possess, and few own to.

In the end Anne held a spyglass against her breast, while her husband rested a hand upon his sword, and another against the curve of her arm. Near enough the starch in his collar filled her nose. A few times he did touch her loose curls, to tease or adore; then the artist turned his back to fetch some paint or linseed oil, and pretended at polite deafness. Sailors, port side artists know, were very like each other, no more so than when in love.

 Not more than three months they stayed in Cádiz, and a pleasant time it was, more so by the knowledge of its brevity. In this fashion they passed some afternoons, and referred friends in their circles to the care of the artist. As for the painting, it referred itself.

A fine painting from a fairly mediocre hand, with some fine Mediterranean light to it; all that saw it agreed something to that effect. His epaulets glittered, her mantilla was well-made, and the lace passably managed in oil.

A handsome man; and the lady's eyes were striking. One could tell, not by the varnish or the trick of light in a delicate paint stroke, but the angle of her husband's chin, tilted to glance sideways at her profile.