#some scenes you have to do some gentle rewriting in your head around to make fit but no I think this is pretty much it.

[vaguely-concerned]

first of all rye 'hello fellow kids' ingellvar there is nothing in this world or any other I wouldn't do for you. second of all, considering where this story ends... I'm going to die. this conversation -- and how much he genuinely believes what he's saying at this point -- held up against the fact that in a couple of months max he's going to get her killed (well. that's how he feels anyway) and then go against everything she believed in and stood for as a person in the end and have to live forever with knowing that's how he honoured her sacrifice. (and live with how easy it is to live with, the way he doesn't regret what he did at all. she'll haunt him from time to time, that's fine, he's a watcher he's loved many a ghost before and will again. but that won't.) 'no one is beyond help? oh lace I'm so so sorry, wherever you are now please forgive me for who I am, but after what he pulled and by the time I'm done with him on my watcher's oath he will be beyond help. I'll hold every hand in this world that reaches back but his'. and she'll still be gone.

'or none of this matters'. im so fucking sad I feel sick *through tears* this is great I love fiction I love this game (embarrassingly genuine as is my wont)

[tojigasm]

House

Authors note: Here is the long-awaited Sam fic!! Funny thing, actually. I finished this last night only to open my computer and realize it hadn't even been saved, so I've spent this morning or so rewriting all of it, lolz. Anyways, I hope you lovelies enjoy!!

Warnings: nsfw 18+, smut, fem!reader, stepcest, sam is your stepdad, daddy kink, creampie, doggystle, kissing, anxiety

Synopsis:

Home is not the same afterward.

She doesn't notice Sam's more frequent absence as he spends more time in your room. And when you don't have college work to get done, the two of you are talking, making out, or fucking.

Your mother doesn't notice. Because if she did, what would you do.

The stone is hot beneath you – settling a baking ache into your skin that seeps up from your beach towel beneath you.

And the sounds of the rushing waves are heavy and soaked with foam that crawls up the sand as though it's coming to grab at you and pull you into the sea along with it.

You pop a bubble of gum from your glossed lips, swinging your feet behind you. You've finished the page of your book.

"Y/n," Sam's voice calls to you against the windy beach. "Look here."

He's set up a few feet away, and a digital camera stares back at you in his hands. The red recording light pulses above the lense.

You wave bashfully, fingers dancing as you wink to the camera from under your sunnies. "Hi, Sam's camera," you roll your eyes, turning back to your book.

Sam tugs at the string of your pink bikini top, "What's a pretty thing like you doin' out on the beach all alone?" His voice draws in a southern heat to it. He looks from side to side before settling down next to you, "hundereds of boys out here probably waitin' fr'their chance to steal y'away, huh?" He tips your chin, still recording you as you meet his baby blues.

A smirk pulls over your lips and you smile, teasing at the end of the string of your bathing suit top, "oh, nothin' just enjoyin' the view," you stifle a giggle through your southern accent.

Sam nods from behind the camera with a smile before stroking his hand over your jaw to behind your ear, thumb circling the soft of your cheek.

His thumb slips past your sticky lips, he lets you wrap the plush of them around his digit, and he sighs softly.

"You're a naughty girl," the light of the camera catches your eye, and you stare down the barrel of the lense before looking up at him, smirking. "What would your mother think?" The southern accent weans.

You pull away from his thumb with a 'pop', "What would your wife think?" You pull your sunnies up to rest on your head.

Sam gages you under a watchful eye of baby blue. Tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, he lifts the camera up again to look at you through the grainy lense.

Your lips perk under the scene, glossed and plush when you run your tongue along the soft of them again.

"Keep doing that, and you're gonna be in trouble, missy." Sam teases, his voice deep with warn.

You nod, "Oh, of course, daddy." There's a draw to your voice that Sam catches almost instantly. A draw of dangerous wean that suggests something that challenges him.

"Am I a bad girl, daddy?" You peer over your shoulder, "a bad, bad girl?"

Sam doesn't say anything. Rather, he watches you, smirk pulled in loftiness and eyes narrow for a moment before he stands and makes his way near the water.

—

The ride home is gentle and soft as music plays throughout the car.

Your legs are propped out the side window, and the sun blazes over your skin a glittery shine.

Sam keeps a hand on the wheel and the other past the button of your jean shorts, circling the pads of his fingers over your clit.

—

Sat in his lap, thin fabric of your bathing suit pressed into his hot bulge. Sam's hands slide up and down the soft of your back to squeeze at the plush of your ass.

You gasp playfully, arching your back some to press your hands up into your breasts with a soft moan.

Sam groans from beneath you, relaxing deeper into the leather of the couch and spreading his thick thighs.

"You're so pretty." Sam speaks earnestly, resting his head against the arch of the couch.

You bite at your bottom lip, scuffing your hands into his thick tufts of roan. "What would my mom think?" The question is far softer.

Sam chuckles, and you can feel his leg bounce up and down beneath you. His head rolls to the side lightly, "Let daddy take care of you, hmm?"

Rough hands scoop under the plush of your ass to lift you, gently moving you to rub against the hot bulge of his cock.

A sharp hiss passes through Sam's teeth, and he holds a hand at your waist as the other strokes up and down the length of him.

The fat swollen tip presses into your bathing suit, and you whine, followed by a teaching 'shh' from Sam.

"Christ, can already feel how wet you are."

"Please fuck me." Your brows drop into a pout "wanna feel good, daddy." and Sam nods, moving the thin material to the side with one hand before pushing his tip against your sopping folds.

"Deep breath fr'me, angel," Sam guides gently as you take the girth of him inch by inch. The ache pools in your thighs, stretch so delicious your knees ache.

Your head falls forward to his chest, and he takes on a protective role when you've taken the bulk of him. Completely filled with him, balls pressed up against your velvet folds.

Sam presses a kiss to your temple, "feel okay?" He asks, testing a soft thrust that makes you keen in want.

"Please," you sob, tucking your face into his shoulder.

The two of you go on like that for a while; taking from one another and all at the same time fliiing each other up in a suffocating hold that contracts and pulses.

Windows of the living room fog and both you and Sam's skin runs slick with heat.

"M'legs hurt." You mumble, and Sam nods.

"Okay, hon," he helps you off of him before standing and maneuvering you to sit on the slick seat of the couch.

You wiggle in an anticipation and Sam chuckles quietly, running his hand over the globes of your ass.

"Arch yr'back, sweetie," he stands behind you, pushing at the dip of your spine to which you follow, dropping your head to cushioned pillows and letting your knees support your cunt In the air. "There y'go."

His cock fills you so deliciously that you sob.

And it's all so overwhelming; your slick that trickles down the insides of your thighs, the 'pap, pap, pap' that echoes throughout the living room, the weight of him and the stretch of his girth against your gummy walls, and the vulgarity of it all.

"Fuckin' swear you were made fr'me," Sam groans and you cry.

Your cheek presses into the hot leather of the couch, and your nails dig into the rough seat.

Sam's hand trails down your arm to hold your own, grounding you as he gently circles his thumb over your hot skin.

"So deep," you mumble, "feels so good."

His hand slips to hold at your chin, pulling you up to rest your back against his chest.

The angle makes your breath hitch and your eyes screw shut as his cock stretches you open.

"Please," you cry.

And when you cum, your lashes fall to your cheeks and your walls squeeze around his girth.

"M'cumming, daddy, fuck" you sob and Sam soothes you, letting you fall back to the couch, laying himself atop you.

"You're okay," Sam whispers against your cheek, still pumping into you.

The overstimulation sends shivers through your thighs and toes, making you squeal under him.

Sam drops his chin to your shoulder, kissing up the soft of your neck and your chin. The bristles of his beard tickles against your soft cheeks.

"Oh fuck," Sam warns, swollen balls tapping your soaked folds. "Shit, daddy's gonna cum," he bites at the skin of your shoulder when he fills you.

The heat of him spills into you and trickles down the insides of your thighs and Sam gently places you to the couch before scooping his cum back into your swollen cunt.

Large hands run up and down the soft of your legs.

"You okay?" He asks after a moment.

You nod. Lashes closed to your cheeks.

He stands and sits beside you on the couch, pulling you into his lap, holding you to his chest as he rocks the two of you back and forth gently.

—

Home is not the same afterward.

Your mother doesn't return from her trip for a few days, and though she's none the wiser, you know eventually one of the two of you would slip.

She doesn't notice the Sam sitting on your side of the table, his hand soft on your thigh or your foot on his shoe.

She doesn't notice the small splintered pieces of leather from her favorite couch that are missing.

And she doesn't notice how excited you are when she tells you she's planning another girl's trip at the end of the upcoming month.

She doesn't notice Sam's more frequent absence as he spends more time in your room. And when you don't have college work to get done, the two of you are talking, making out, or fucking.

You tell yourself your mother doesn't notice as Sam pulls you into his lap against your headboard, kissing over your cheeks and nose and chin. The bristles of his beard tickles you again, and you giggle.

Your mother doesn't notice. Because if she did, what would you do.

[ladytauria]

"You're going to get yourself killed!" or maybe even “I’m sorry I scared you” with damitim?

i went with both, although i changed the wording of the first a little!

um. this is reverse robins! specifically a rewrite of the scene where ra's kicks tim off the top floor of WE and dick-as-batman rescues him <3

also pre-relationship.

oh, and warnings for some suicidal ideation in the first part. it's in the paragraph immediately after the cut

>> AO3 <<

Tim realizes what’s going to happen a split-second before it does. Ra’s’s boot impacts his chest hard enough to bruise, even through the armor. Glass shatters at his back, the sound ringing in his ears.

He plummets, almost in slow motion.

There is no panic. He knew, going in, he wasn’t like to walk out alive. That makes it easier; acceptance washing over him, relaxing his muscles. He feels—weightless. Free, almost. The air combs through his hair like gentle fingers—his eyes falling closed under his mask.

It’s not the ground that slams into him.

Instead, it’s a body. The force of it rattles his teeth, hard enough he’s almost worried they’ll crack. An arm locks around his waist, clutching him tight, holding him up even as they touch down on a nearby rooftop.

He’s set on his feet almost gently. 

The grip on his arms, after, is not so gentle. Neither is the shake he gets.

“Timothy,” Damian barks, yanking the cowl from his head like they aren’t on some random rooftop, where anyone could stumble upon them. “What the hell were you thinking? Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

The pure—Tim can only call it panic, despite how ridiculous the idea is—in his voice knocks Tim entirely off balance. Still…

He grins, crookedly. “I knew you’d catch me.” He tucks away the messy tangle of feeling in his chest. He’ll examine it later, when he’s alone.

Damian stares at him—the look in his eyes one Tim cannot read. “You—“ His jaw tightens. He lets go of Tim just as abruptly as he’d grabbed him, cape swishing dramatically as he turns, shoving a gloved hand through his hair, mussing it even further.

Tim…

Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline. Maybe it’s that he hasn’t fully processed his survival. Whatever it is… Tim feels off-kilter.

This is not how Damian behaves with him.

Damian doesn’t… For one thing, he doesn’t call him Timothy. He doesn’t lecture Tim when he does something reckless—well. Not like this, anyway. Normally he calls him a moron, and whatever other synonyms he can think of, and lists all the ways Tim failed.

This—

This is new.

Damian seems genuinely, terribly upset, and…

Tim feels… guilty. “I…” He steps closer, not quite daring enough to reach out. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

He didn’t… He didn’t think Damian would care.

Maybe that was uncharitable of him. Damian had certainly seemed to care when he died the first time—at least enough to not make the same mistakes with Tim’s successor. But… Well. It would have been Tim’s own fault this time, in a way the last one wasn’t.

“Shut up,” Damian snaps, whirling on him again. “You— Do you—“ He snaps his jaw shut; throat working. “How dare you? How dare you?”

Tim isn’t sure he’s ever seen Damian so incoherent before. He blinks at him, mouth opening, but— He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, uselessly. “I didn’t… think you'd be this upset.”

Damian flinches like Tim slapped him.

Hell. Tim’s not sure he would have flinched that hard if he had smacked him.

“You didn’t think—“ Damian scoffs. To Tim’s horror, the sound is distinctly wet. “I nearly failed to save you a second time, almost had to discover your corpse again, and you didn’t think I would be upset.” His eyes are glassy; rimming with red. He swipes a hand down his face. “Did you know your body was still warm when I pulled it from the wreckage, Drake?”

Tim—

Tim thinks he might have made a few errors in his calculations.

Damian steps closer to him. Something about the Batman uniform makes him look taller. Broader. Even though Tim has always had to tilt his chin to look at him, he doesn’t recall ever feeling quite this small.

The feeling is enhanced when broad, warm palms cup his cheeks, the kevlar scratchy against his skin.

“I cannot do that again, Timothy,” Damian whispers. “Do not— You cannot put me through that a second time. Please.”

Tim swallows, throat achingly dry. He covers Damian’s hands with his own. His voice cracks as he says, “I won’t.”

[matchingbatbites]

nobody else but you

This is incredibly niche and self indulgent, but sometimes that's just what you have to write for yourself. This is a Steddie + Buckingham rewrite of the final scene from Some Like It Hot, because while this movie is very near and dear to me, the last line gives me the ick! So we're fixing that. Much love to Read and Bee for looking this over and giving me some excellent feedback <3

Eddie and Robin scramble across the beach, both still wearing the performance dresses and Eddie doing his best to keep the wig on his head as they make their way to the pier. 

Steve is waiting for them and he looks over as they approach, his bright smile upon seeing them creating a flurry of butterflies in Eddie’s stomach. He drags Robin over, down the steps and across the planking to where the other man is waiting.

“Steve!" he calls, his voice slipping into a higher tone to keep up his illusion of femininity. "This is my good friend, Robin! She’s going to be a bridesmaid.”

To his credit, Steve just smiles at Robin and barely gives her a “Pleased to meet you,” before Eddie is grabbing him and dragging him down to the speedboat. Steve just grins and throws a look over his shoulder at Robin. “She’s so eager!”

They’re just climbing into the boat when a noise pulls their attention. The trio turn to see Chrissy biking down the stairs, honking the attached horn as she gets closer. Eddie and Steve settle into the front seat as Chrissy hops off the bike, leaving it where it lay as she rushes over.

“Wait! Wait for Chrissy!”

Steve looks at Eddie as he starts the boat, says “Another bridesmaid?”

“Flower girl!” Eddie replies, and Robin stands as Chrissy gets closer, taking one of her hands to help her balance as she climbs into the back seat. 

“Chrissy! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I told you: I'm not very bright.”

How sweet. Eddie reaches over and smacks Steve’s shoulder with a “Let’s go!” and starts to relax as they pull away from the pier.

“You don’t want me, Chrissy,” Robin says as she undoes the top of dress, revealing the masculine clothes she hadn’t had time to change out of, clothes that Chrissy surely recognizes from her supposedly male suitor. “I’m a liar and a phony, a trumpet player, one of those no-goodniks you’ve been running away from!”

“I know,” Chrissy replies, the smile never leaving her face. “Every time!”

“Chrissy, do yourself a favor: go back where the millionaires are, the sweet end of the lollipop. Not the cole slaw in the face and the old socks and the squeezed-out tube of toothpaste-”

The singer just giggles as she winds her arms around Robin’s neck, pulling her closer. “That's right, pour it on. Talk me out of it.”

Robin melts as Chrissy kisses her, can’t help but to wrap her arms around the smaller girl and pull her close. Eddie turns back to the front, knowing that isn’t something he should be seeing, that gentle intimacy between the two girls. He catches Steve’s eye and the man smiles at him.

“I called Mother. She was so happy she cried. She wants you to have her wedding gown, it's white lace.”

Oh this is- This is not going to be fun. Eddie takes a breath and steels himself for the conversation ahead. “Steve, I can’t get married in your mother’s dress. She and I- We’re not built the same way.”

Steve shrugs. “We can have it altered.”

Fuck.

“Oh, no you don't! Look, Steve, I'm going to level with you. We can't get married at all.”

The other man frowns at that, and pulls his eyes away from the water to look at Eddie. “Why not?”

“Well, to begin with, I'm not a natural blonde,” Eddie says as he brushes at the bangs of his wig.

Steve just huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

“I smoke! I smoke all the time.”

“I don't care.”

“I have a terrible past. For three years now, I've been living with a trumpet player.”

“I forgive you.”

What the fuck! Eddie feels desperate now, and he lets his eyes mist up as he looks into the middle distance. “I can never have children.”

Steve, who had clearly mentioned something about six children while they’d been dancing until sunrise, just smiles. “We can adopt some.”

Well shit. Eddie is out of cards to play, and knows the only thing he has left is the ace up his sleeve. “But you don't understand! Oh-” He reaches up and tears off the blonde wig, revealing his short, curly brown hair, and lowers his voice to its natural tone as he says “I’m a man.”

He certainly isn’t expecting Steve to smile, to give him a gentle, sincere "Okay."

What? He- Huh?

“Okay? That's it? Just okay?”

“Yeah? We spent hours dancing together the other night, you think I wouldn’t notice that something was different about you?”

Oh. “But- But what if I never said anything? You were just going to accept me as a girl with a guy’s body or something?”

Steve looks at him, all soft and gooey as he reaches over to take Eddie’s hand. “Babydoll, I fell in love with your personality. You’re a fucking firecracker, and anything else is just the cherry on the sundae. If you say you’re a girl, then you’re a girl, and I was a hundred percent ready to accept that. You being a man doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Oh god, Steve really is the sweetest guy, isn't he? Eddie thinks about the night they spent together, the hours of dancing and talking and the way they seem to fit together like two perfect little puzzle pieces. He thinks about Steve, and makes a decision. 

“I mean, I’m definitely a man. But I- I don’t mind wearing dresses, and I wouldn’t mind posing as your wife, in public. Especially if it would get me Mother’s approval.”

The beaming smile Steve gives him is enough to calm any anxiety he has about the future, and he laces their fingers together. “You don't have to do that. I’m sure she would love you regardless, honey.”

“Eddie. My name is Eddie.”

Steve’s smile doesn’t fade as he looks over again with a soft “Eddie,” and Eddie really doesn’t know how it’s possible to fall for someone this hard this fast, but he wouldn’t trade it for a single fucking thing.

[some-pers0n]

Hey guys here's writing of Mastermind and Starflight with Morrowseer there too ig. It's a rewrite of his intro scene. Yayyy. Will I come back to this and make it into an actual proper oneshot? Who even knows at this point. No formatting or anything, I just needed to get writing down before midnight for my daily words

"Ach!" The NightWing across the room hissed. "Make no more movements. I was tasked with solving this *crisis* that we have found ourselves in, and I intend on finding a solution before we are all buried in rubble. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important things to tend to."

"...father?" Starflight spoke hesitantly.

He winced as he saw the dragon– Mastermind, the royal scientist– pause. He dropped his tools. "I swear to the *moons* if you don't stop pestering me with these strange..." As he craned his neck to face them, his words trailed off.

It was like staring at his own reflection. Starflight always felt out of place when it came to being the only NightWing in the cave, but here on the volcano? Every other dragons looked like him. Scales black as the night and wings made up of the skies above.

By this dragon was different. There was a light in his eyes that Starflight knew too well. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. His own father right before him.

Before he could properly get another word out, Mastermind lurched forward, grabbing him by the snout.

"Wh– what?"

"Hold still! I'm inspecting..." Mastermind murmered beneath his breath. He squinted as he looked over Starflight, jerking his head around and brighting his face up close to see. "Dark green eyes, splash scale pattern along the wing membrane, a rather perfect jawline..."

Without warning, he hugged Starflight. "Moons above! My son has returned!" He wrapped his wings around him, holding him close.

"Wh– what is..." Starflight was distracted by the sudden comfort and gentle embrace he had found himself in. Though, just as quickly as it had arrived, he let it go.

"My son! Morrowseer, I almost thought you to be useless by now, what with your little scheme."

"It's not a scheme, scientist."

"Oh, come now, don't get all formal." He scoffed. "I was led to believe that this little gamble of yours, personally setting up the Dragonets of Destiny and the formation of the Talons of Peace, was a fruitless endeavor. A waste of time and resources that, in all honesty, should have gone to my research either way."

"And what have you done in the past six or so years to make up for it?"

"Oh, plenty! You wouldn't truly appreciate it though. Yes, yes, indeed your mind is more for other, lesser matters." Mastermind's energetic eyes landed back on Starflight. "Which brings us to you! You already inherited so many of my most valuable traits. Although, you are missing my glasses. You also do not quite have the same, well, vibrato in your voice as I do. That's a problem for later. You'll adopt the accent and my very own spectacles soon enough, young newt."

He flinched upon hearing such an awful nickname. "My name is Starflight," he said.

"Starflight! Oh, Starflight!" Mastermind looked him over once more. "Hm, doesn't exactly strike me as a 'Starflight'. I would say you would be better off as a... 'Bigtalons'?" He laughed at his own comment. "I jest! I kid! It's only a rather common and boring name. Me? I fit the title of 'Mastermind' like a glove! You? Well–" He waved his talons– "I suppose I can't be upset at you. Rather, your cavegivers. Guardians, is that what you called them?"

Starflight nodded, slightly overwhelmed by how much this dragon was talking.

"Guardians, bah! What son of mine needs to be guarded? I doubted they were any good."

"They weren't. They were...not very nice." Starflight broke eye contact with him, staring at his talons.

"Oh, so you must have trauma of some kind from how you phrased it."

"H– huh?"

"It's obvious! Such a tone and hesitancy would mean you're inclined not to exactly talk about it. Play it down. It's basic behavioral psychology. You must also have been severely punished and have gone through rigorous and repeated trauma if you had left that cave in a state like this."

"Mastermind, I assure you the Guardians were not entrusted with five dragonets if only to harm them. It was to train them for the outside world. Pyrrhia is a cruel, uncaring reality that we live in."

"I agree with you, yes, but look at him!" Mastermind pointed to Starflight. "Healthy minds do not have a face like that. Clearly, despite growing up in far better conditions, he was subjected to enough mental trauma to become...this." He gestured in the general direction of Starflight. "No offense, of course."

[ravs6709]

An X-Ray Ain't Needed To See Within- Dex Study (ish), Minor Fedex

Word count: 7.9k words

Ao3 link here.

Aaaaaaaand here I am, nearly a whole month late, but my kotlc secret santa gift from @song-tam 's exchange is finally done!

@an-ungraceful-swan I'm your secret santa!!! So sorry for being as late as I am (the shit going on in my personal life was unreal) but I hope this near 8k fic will make up for the wait!

Because I was told to just "surprise you", I let the brain pick out a concept and spun it around in my head until this fic was made

That is, I took the vague premise of a fic from a different fandom -> the idea that every person is to be entrusted with taking care of someone else's heart—quite literally. Other than that, it's basically a canon rewrite of books 1-4 (ish, not all through 4) from dex pov with minor (pre-relationship) fedex

Warnings: depiction of the kidnapping/torture scene from book 1, bug stab Fitz scene from book 4, descriptions of heart anatomy (not too graphic but still fair warning), brief mention of vomit

Hope you enjoy!

•~•~•~•~•~•

"What's that?" A young Dex asked his mom. He'd barged into his parents' room without warning them, and saw Juline holding a heart in her hands, singing softly while Kesler held her hand with one hand, holding a different heart in the other.

"They're hearts," Juline said, but Dex knew that much.

"Why?" There were a whole slew of questions, like why the hearts were beating despite not being connected to a body, or why they were coloured in different shades of blue and green and yellow even though they should have been red, or where they even got a heart from. Dex was just barely older than a toddler, and while elves were born with some understanding of the world around them from birth, he’d never seen this before.

Kesler and Juline shared a look, and Dex didn't like that his mom was starting to frown. Was this supposed to be a secret?

"I don't want him to know everything yet," Juline said.

"He'll have to know eventually," Kesler said, "and it's not that bad."

Juline raised an eyebrow. "Tell me you weren't terrified when you first held a heart in your hand. I know I was."

"Fine, yes, but we'll help him adjust. The risk is minimal, very few have--"

"But she was one of them. Kesler, please," Juline said, her voice quiet, "We'll wait until he's older, okay? He’ll already have enough on his plate as is."

Kesler closed his eyes and took a breath, then squeezed her hand. "Sorry, I didn't think of her--okay. We’ll wait."

"Wait until I'm old enough for what?" Dex asked.

His parents both startled, turning to look at him, as if they'd forgotten he was right there.

Juline hummed, letting go of Kesler's hand so that she could trace gentle lines across Dex's face. "I'll tell you a little bit, but I won't tell you the rest until you're older, okay? Once it’s relevant to you."

"How much older?"

"Three years," Kesler answered.

For Dex, that sounded like a really long time. But as young as he knew he was, he was old enough to be able to tell when there were certain topics that made his parents upset. Abilities were one of them. Discussing the triplets with the other elves was another. He didn't know all the details, but he knew that the other elves didn't like his parents and they thought his siblings were wrong, and he knew they didn't like talking about those things in front of him.

Dex nodded. "Okay."

Juline held the heart out to him. "When you grow older, you'll have a heart to take care of."

The heart in her hand was a myriad of colours, it reminded him of Slurps and Burps with all the random splotches of colours all over it.

"Does it bleed?" Dex asked.

Juline smiled at him. "No, it doesn't. Do you want to touch it?"

He nodded, curious. When she held the heart out to him, he gently traced a finger along an artery. It was warm. It really was beating, and he didn’t imagine it. 

“It represents the heart of another elf."

"Another elf?"

"It represents your dad's heart. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Dad's heart?" Dex looked at Kesler, who had a fond look on his face. He was cradling a heart of his own in his hands, this one lacked the same colourful whimsy, but the various shades of blue with hints of colour had Dex thinking that it suited his mother. He opened his mouth to ask if elves always married the person who held their heart, then realized that was a stupid question because the elves didn't like his parents' marriage.

"Will I get a heart to hold too?" Dex asked.

"Yeah. You will."

•~•~•~•~•~•

What Dex assumed to be "several years later," Dex woke up and found a teal heart on the nightstand beside his bed. Blue-green, with hints of navy and gold that seemed to trace along where the blood would have flowed had the heart been in an actual body.

He'd had full intention of just lazing in bed for the entire morning, but he knew he had to tell his parents. He took the heart in his hands, beating softly, a rhythm unfamiliar to him. He walked to his parents room--they were already awake, Kesler preparing for work, while Juline was gently carrying her husband’s heart.

"Dex?" Kesler asked, "what's up--oh."

"It's about time he received his heart to hold," Juline said. "Dex, come sit down on the bed."

He sat down. Despite how he'd seen them direct plenty of fond looks towards their own hearts, neither of them seemed particularly excited to talk about his heart.

"To have a heart means to take care of it. But there's more to it than that, isn't there?" Dex asked.

"Let me be blunt with you," Juline said. She looked pained, her turquoise eyes slightly dull. "You must take care of your heart. If you do not take care of it well, the person who that heart belongs to will die."

To the average elf, it would probably have an initial shock. Elves lived forever, as far as they all knew. Elvin deaths were rare, a few wanderlings planted, but still, only a few.

To Dex, he himself had never witnessed a death. He had never known, never had been in this world long enough to know, but still, he knew, he knew that his family was haunted by a death from before he was born, and that because of it, he rarely ever got to see his aunt and uncle because they isolated themselves from everyone else. He'd never be able to grow up knowing her.

"Did cousin Jolie's heart..?"

"Her body was in a condition where she could have lived," Juline said, looking away. "But her heart–her heart had been burnt too much in the fire."

"Oh," he said, because what else could he say?

"To take care of that heart, you must keep it physically safe. But not just that, you also need to keep it emotionally safe too. An emotional or mental issue can be just as severe as a physical one."

"So I'll need to keep it around me often," Dex understood.

Kesler nodded, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "It'll be fine. Elf hearts aren't too fragile, so don't stress too much, okay?" Then looked down at his heart that was Juline's, the blues looking slightly pale. "You'll be able to recognize signs beforehand." He traced along an artery, and Dex watched as his mother closed her eyes, the tension releasing from her shoulders. Vibrancy flowed through like blood, painting it. "I know you'll take care of it well."

•~•~•~•~•~•

On occasion, Dex noticed how the heart would react differently. It wasn't at any regular occurrence, though it always seemed to last a few hours at a time. When that happened, he held the heart closer, turning it over in his palm. It tended to have a slow, steady pulse; the beat of a drum, the tick of a clock. Slow, steady, controlled, but during the odd moments the heartbeat would grow faster and weaker, like panic seeping into his bloodstream sometimes, when it made his skin all clammy and pale. It was the gold of the heart that would fade first, then the navy, though the teal always seemed to stay intact. At least though, the heart didn't get clammy like his hands would. No gross sweat or blood, just a beating heart.

He wasn't sure why, but sometimes he got the feeling that the elf the heart belonged to was kind of lonely. He'd seen Kesler's heart, bright and vibrant. Even Juline's had its own sort of uniqueness to it. The heart he held was beautiful, a piece of art, but distant. A painting that was not allowed to be touched after having been made.

Dex wondered how old the other elf was. The heart in his hands was smaller compared to his Kesler's or Juline's, so maybe it was possible that they were around Dex's age? He'd hope so. He'd be starting Foxfire at some point, it'd be nice if he had a friend there. One that wouldn't mind Dex being the son of a bad match, one who wouldn't be too judgmental.

•~•~•~•~•~•

When Dex started Foxfire, he had high hopes. Hopes that were quickly crushed. As he walked in the hallways, he could sense gazes following his path. No table ever wanted to let him sit there, so he tried finding random corners in the hallways to eat by himself, until one of his mentors noticed and took pity on him, allowing him to eat in that classroom. There was Stina, who openly insulted his family, so he got his revenge only for the situation between them to escalate.

And then there was Fitz Vacker. His first meeting with Fitz wasn't special, he happened to be with his dad and sister as customers for Slurps and Burps, and just like all the stuffy nobles, both him and Biana Vacker cringed at the sight of his family's apothecary. Maybe he wouldn't even have remembered him if he wasn't a Vacker. There were tons of people who shopped at the apothecary only to never acknowledge him in Foxfire. But then he saw Fitz again. And again. And again. In the hallway on his way to class. In the cafeteria as they waited in line to get the same food. The winner of the splotching tournament--had been, for years, if the screaming was to be believed.

Fitz was everywhere, popular, so many of the girls had a crush on him. He heard non-stop mooning about whether the heart they held would belong to him. Top marks, perfect looks. Dex was sick of it. Fitz wasn't special.

It made him almost want to hate the heart that he held, that teal heart that matched his eyes. He scoffed at the thought that the person whose heart he held was Fitz, or even Biana. Yet it was still a beating heart, his to nurture, and no matter how much the colour irritated him. Somewhere out there, there was someone who was relying on him. The thought alone pushed him forward.

•~•~•~•~•~•

During his next year at Foxfire, a new elf named Sophie Foster came out of nowhere. She lived with Aunt Edaline and Uncle Grady, she was an elf that once lived with humans. If that weren't cool enough, she didn't seem to care about his family and their status. Yeah, sure, it was because she didn't really know anything, period, but she still took the information in stride and chose to be friends with him.

And she was kind of cute. And smart, and totally fun--she'd gotten on Stina's bad side and destroyed Lady Galvin's cape. And...

And of course she liked Fitz. Because of course she did. Why wouldn't she? The perfect guy.

•~•~•~•~•~•

"Is that a--is that a heart?" Sophie asked.

They were taking a break in between one of Sophie's alchemy tutoring sessions, and Dex had grabbed his heart to unwind.

"Yeah? Why do you sound surprised? Don't you have one of your own?"

"No???"

Huh. That was weird. "Wonderboy didn't mention it to you or anything?"

"No??? Is this a normal elf thing?"

"Each elf gets a heart to take care of, it represents the heart of another elf. It's important, because breaking the heart means killing the elf."

"Oh. Am I exempt from this, because I don't remember a heart? Or did I accidentally kill an elf?"

"You're probably fine. While the elf who holds your heart isn't the only elf who can take care of your heart," he began, "the fact that you haven't died yourself says something. Besides, elvin deaths are super rare, remember? I can't remember the last time there was a Wanderling--Wylie Endal's mother, maybe?"

There had been a change in her facial expression, but Dex decided not to press. The Council actually explored that, ensuring there was no risk of attachment. Besides, the elf that Jolie loved--Brant, if Dex recalled his name correctly--was still alive as he proceeded to take care of his own scarred heart. That's what his mom had told him when he'd asked.

"Huh," Sophie said. "Well, whoever's heart I was supposed to take care of, I hope they're doing well."

"Yeah," Dex murmured, "me too."

•~•~•~•~•~•

Sophie started hanging out with Fitz and Biana, much to his annoyance. Like, going to his house on a constant basis hanging out. She even had him promise to keep the Wonderboy bashing to a minimum.

(But she also considered him her best friend, so he supposed he could take it as a win.)

•~•~•~•~•~•

Sophie. A Vacker. Or, potentially a Vacker. Grady and Edaline had cancelled her adoption, and she could be adopted by the Vackers. Siblings with Fitz and Biana? Gross.

Maybe he was too harsh on Sophie when he'd told her not to trust them. But she didn't understand—they didn't look at people below them and view them as equals. And it was proven as such, when Stina, of all people, exposed Biana for only having befriended Sophie because her dad told her to.

I told you so, he wanted to tell her so badly, but they were in Study Hall. Do you see what they're truly like—

"Dex?" A voice called out, and he nearly jolted as he realized that Fitz was talking to him. Ugh.

"What?" he asked, the acid in his voice so strong even Fitz flinched as if he’d been burned.

"You need to be with her."

"You two are the ones who caused this mess—"

"She won't talk to us. She needs you."

Dex almost started screaming at him for cutting him off, but the words made him freeze. He paused, took a deep breath. "Am I supposed to put in a good word for you? Newsflash, Wonderboy, I'm not doing that."

Fitz sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just be there. I don't-- I don't want her to be alone."

And that got Dex standing up, immediately grabbing his stuff. Damn it, leave it to Wonderboy to get him to realize that Sophie's comfort meant more than his own petty sense of righteousness.

When he made it to the cave at Havenfield, something felt off. He took a few tentative steps forward. Another few steps, and a voice that sounded like Sophie's rang out in his head, telling him to run. Before he could even think, someone grabbed him from behind, shoving a cloth over his mouth.

No, he thought. Sophie. He fought against his captor and...

•~•~•~•~•~•

He woke up, restrained. Everything was dark and he could barely breathe and it was burning it was burning—

In the off moments where he was awake and not burning until he fell unconscious again, he would barely be able to muster worried thoughts. His parents, how were they doing? The triplets.

Sophie. Sophie, who must be somewhere close and was also in the same situation and she was being tortured too. His heart. The one he normally held wasn't with him since he kept it at his house when he attended Foxfire, but what about the elf who held his heart? Did the elf care?

He fought against his restraints, managed to break free of them.

He'd barely made it two steps before a voice said, "One more step, and the girl dies."

"We should just kill him anyway," another voice said. "He's useless to us. A hindrance."

Dex sank back onto the chair, feeling absolutely useless for not being able to do anything.

•~•~•~•~•~•

When he woke up, he was in some unfamiliar area with Sophie, no kidnappers in sight. Turned out that they were in the Forbidden Cities. But that was fine, they were safe. Well, for now. Apparently there were a lot of secrets that Sophie had kept hidden from everyone. A telepath.

He'd also at some point manifested as a technopath. Huh. He was relieved that he had an ability, but ugh, did it have to be technopathy? It wasn't nearly as cool as telepathy.

The kidnappers had come again, one of them wielding a fucking melder, and as he was shot by it once, twice, and he was incapacitated on the floor, he could vaguely see Sophie trembling in rage as they all fell over. He couldn’t move, talk, or even see, but he knew when Sophie had picked him up to leap despite them being too injured and—

•~•~•~•~•~•

When Dex woke up again, he was laying in a bed. He had half a mind to just sink into the soft comfort of the bed, but as he woke up, all his senses awakened: the burns on his skin, the sting from the melder.

"Sophie," he gasped.

"Hey, relax," a voice said, and Dex opened his eyes to see Keefe staring at him. "You can't get out of bed yet."

"But Sophie--"

"Foster's alive," Keefe said, "she's alive, and Elwin's going to see her before he comes to see you."

Dex tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but it hurt too much, and Keefe had to help him out. "Is she okay?"

Dex watched as Keefe paused. His eyes closed, as he took a deep breath. He turned away, then back at him, and Dex had a feeling that he wasn't going to like what his answer was going to be. As if delaying to increase the weight of impact, turning to the desk next to him and picking up a heart.

"This is the heart I hold, it belongs to Foster," Keefe said. "I realized it when... well. You'll see."

Dex sucked in a breath. The heart, brown and gold and red looked so frail in his hands, just barely beating. The entire left side was nearly transparent, from ventricle all the way up to the aorta. He could actually see the red flow of blood, slow but not steady.

"The light leap," he realized. He remembered being carried, remembered being leaped. All of him was intact, not a single cell faded away, and he wasn't conscious enough to provide his own concentration to leap them. Sophie she-- she put everything into him.

"Foster's alive," Keefe repeated, "and Elwin's going to see her."

Dex stared at the heart that Keefe had, desperately hoping that she'd be okay. Looked at every heartbeat, to see if each pulse would become slower paced. So when the heart was still faded and Elwin had walked into this room, he was worried.

"Sophie's sedated, and I can't lie and say that she's okay right now," he explained before Dex could start rapid-fire asking questions, "but I can't do much else for now without waiting to see if what I've done for now will let her heal. So for now, I'll work with you."

Dex had been to Elwin once or twice for minor incidents at Foxfire for his elementalism class, and while getting healed wasn't bad, it wasn't really something he liked per se. However, there was no trace of discomfort as he could only focus on Sophie. His eyes couldn't leave the half-faded heart.

Elwin's gaze followed his own. "That's... a weird heart. Sophie's, I'm guessing?"

Dex nodded.

"That's probably good to keep close, given Sophie's already high attendance at the Healing Centre."

Elwin had said it as a joke, but neither him, Dex, nor Keefe felt like laughing.

"Are you going to tell her about the heart?" Dex asked.

Keefe paused, surprisingly hesitant considering what he knew of him. "You two are close, have you seen the heart she has yet? Would you say it reflects me well?"

"Sophie doesn't have one with her," Dex said. "She's got no memory of ever seeing a heart like that."

Though, now knowing what he knew, Dex guessed that the Black Swan probably had her heart? Since no human would be so accepting of a living, beating heart.

Keefe blinked. "Oh. Then... I guess I won't tell her yet. Don't tell anyone else either? At least-- not until she gets her own." He looked back up at Elwin, and Dex had forgotten that he was even there. Elwin nodded.

After the worst of Dex's injuries were healed, Keefe and Elwin left to go see Sophie, while he was ordered to rest for a bit. He knew that sleep wouldn't come easy, but the stress of everything had kicked in and eventually he was knocked out. At some point, the door had opened, quiet but enough to rouse him into consciousness. He was too tired to open his eyes. Footsteps approached the bed, close, stopping a few steps away. There was the sound of a heart beating, maybe. He could feel his own heart in his chest beating in time to the sound.

"It’s you..." A whisper sounded out. Quiet, low, familiar.

He wanted to open his eyes and see who was there, to see if it was who he thought it was (not that it made any sense at all for him to be here), but it was nice and warm in bed, his heart feeling warmer than ever as he drifted back to sleep.

•~•~•~•~•~•

"Dex!" Bex called, running up to him and hugging him. His two brothers joined the call, all of them shoving to hold him close. Dex wrapped his arms around them.

His parents stood slightly off to the side, their skin paler than he remembered. Both of their hair was messy, and he could see as they clung to each other's hands.

"Don't leave us ever again," Rex cried, smearing his tears on his shirt. Neither of the other two triplets made fun of him for crying as they both fought back their own tears.

Dex could only nod, his throat too choked up to speak. He could only hope that would be true.

•~•~•~•~•~•

Weeks passed, and slowly, Sophie recovered from having almost fading away. He'd spent his fair share of the time alternating between hanging near Keefe to stare at Sophie's heart, and taking care of the heart that he had.

His own heart... during the kidnapping, what had it looked like? Did it mirror his state too? Had there been burns all over it? He could vaguely picture someone cradling it, oh so confused as to what was going on. Did they panic? He supposed that no one had been able to connect the timing of it all back to his disappearance, given that nobody came in rushing to tell him.

Then again, who would have wanted to admit that they held Dex Dizznee's heart?

•~•~•~•~•~•

For the next few weeks, everything went back to normal. Sort of. He visited Sophie to help her with the animals at Havenfield, helped his dad at the store, sat in his room and tinkered with gadgets—this time using his ability.

He'd tried working on a variety of inventions, his major priority having been a device that would somewhat replicate telepathy.

He also had a side project, he wondered if it was possible to be able to know the heartbeats when he was not with the heart.

His parents were concerned, rightfully, but they were getting way too on his case. Between them and looking after his siblings, he felt suffocated.

But other than that, things were back to normal-ish (if he ignored the nightmares and the constant dread he felt).

...until Sophie found an alicorn, then suddenly she had a whole bunch of secrets she couldn't tell him, and she was so busy that he could barely even see her. Both Fitz and Biana weren't coming to Foxfire.

The heart he had, it was doing something weird, and it had him panicking. It was slightly swollen, the arteries and veins bulging a faint red, not unlike the way the veins in his hands would when he clenched his fists trying to hold back his anger at the triplets for breaking yet another thing of his. But that kind of anger was situational, just a brief moment. Maybe at worst, lasting a day, if he was having a really bad day.

The heart represented an elf's physical and mental state. He didn't know much about how hearts worked physically, but Dex had the feeling that the problem with the other elf wasn't physical. Obviously though, everyone would go through a variety of feelings, and not every feeling could be reflected from moment to moment.

So the problem was clearly mental, and it was clearly huge. The weird bulging persisted for one, two, three, more days.

"So, just the three of us?" Marella asked during lunch. "Again?"

Sophie and Keefe had ended up in detention, so the group at the lunch table was the smallest it'd been in a while.

"Something's clearly up," Dex said.

Marella rolled her eyes. "Obviously. The Vackers not being here is proof of that."

The group fell into an awkward silence, and not even Jensi's generally uplifting demeanor could ease it.

"The heart I have has been acting weird," Dex said suddenly.

Matters of the heart were generally kept private, but he didn't want to keep it to himself, and he didn't really want to tell his parents yet, even though they'd probably have some kind of solution.

"Weird how?" Jensi asked.

"It's getting all bulge-y, it's kinda gross."

"Mine's been paler than normal lately," Marella said. "Not quite shrinking in on itself, but curling weirdly. It almost feels like it wants to hide away. Been like that for a few days now."

Nobody said anything else after that, and they went back to eating their lunches in silence.

•~•~•~•~•~•

The whole elf heart scare had him working harder on his invention. He couldn't keep the heart on him at all times, it was too fragile to do so. But he needed to know. Needed to know if the heart would burst.

When it was revealed that Alden's mind had broken, when his wanderling had been planted and he'd learned that Fitz was blaming Sophie, he almost thought that it'd be another thing for Dex to hate Fitz for.

He thought back to the heart, ready to burst, and Fitz's explosive anger. This much... this much he didn't think he could hate Fitz for, even if he was being an ass. He thought of his parents trying to keep him in his house, the triplets telling him what they'd been like while he'd been proclaimed dead.

Fitz's own manifestation was a stranger to him in the sense that Dex had never been in that state before, but understandable nonetheless. If he didn't dislike Fitz, if they'd became friends, maybe Dex would comfort him.

But Dex did dislike him, and they weren't friends, and so Dex turned all his attention towards the heart. It was the only thing he could really do, while Sophie had her own things to do and Keefe was helping her.

Nothing he did seemed to work, but whether the other elf had gotten over it or if circumstances had changed, the swelling had eventually gone down and the heart looked normal again. The beats were slightly unsteady, but the heart didn't look like it was ready to burst.

(He tried to not think about the timing of it all.)

•~•~•~•~•~•

Someone decided to be a snitch and tell Dame Alina that he'd manifested as a technopath. Ugh. He blew up on Sophie a bit, and then learned from Dame Alina that the Council had told her.

The Council.

The Council? They cared about his ability? Enough to have his mentor be Lady Iskra? The most famous technology who invented like... everything cool.  Sure, his ability wouldn't do much, but he got to work with Lady Iskra.

•~•~•~•~•~•

He finished the heart monitor, and then began to work on a panic switch for Sophie, because the kidnappers would come again. He knew it. He made them both into rings, and he gave Sophie the panic switch ring. And yeah, he knew that a ring wasn't the greatest, but it was the best option he had.

He could see it on her face though, that she wanted nothing to do with it. Half of Foxfire were talking about their matching rings, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Sophie needed other ways to be able to reach out. Not just to Fitz via telepathy, but also to him.

Because he was important too. She was his best friend. He was her best friend, as she'd called him. But lately, he didn't feel like that was the case.

•~•~•~•~•~•

His next invention was an ability enhancer. Sophie was going to heal Fintan, which was definitely going to be dangerous, and she needed to be able to have every card in her favour. An Ancient's mind wouldn't be easy to penetrate.

But when he told her about his invention, she didn't want it. She didn't seem to trust him. But she trusted Fitz, enough to let him past her blocking apparently. Because they had a "connection."

What about her connection with him? Did they not matter?

"Seriously?" Fitz asked, staring at the circlet. He couldn't for the life of him tell if that was curiosity or disgust, but when Keefe grabbed it out of his hands, he forgot all about that.

Dame Alina told him to put it away and for them to all be quiet, and he was hurt that Sophie didn't even consider using it.

I think... A voice said in his head, and he jolted when he realized it was Wonderboy. I think it's cool, but it's too risky.

Seriously?

This entire task is risky, he thought, carefully trying to not think of anything too awful.

I know. But that's exactly why we can't use it yet.

Was that Fitz's way of comforting him, or what?

We can't rely on technology to replace telepathy in this situation.

Wonderboy, get out of my head, he thought bitterly, turning his gaze down to his notebook as reread all his notes on the circlet.

...surprisingly, Fitz left without another word.

What was even the point of that? He didn't understand, he would never understand. What would someone as privileged as him know what Dex was feeling, to be able to even attempt comforting him?

•~•~•~•~•~•

As the healing proceeded and Dex was just stuck at home, he couldn't just sit and rest. His siblings were running around screaming as though everything were normal, but everything was not normal.

He alternated between holding the heart, fidgeting with the ability enhancer and looking at his panic switch. When the heart started beating fast, somehow Dex knew that something was wrong. And even though he knew he wasn't capable of helping at all, he rushed out to see his parents—

—only to find his dad just as distressed as he was.

"Dad, what's wrong?" He asked, trying to swallow his panic.

Kesler only said one word, but that was enough: "Everblaze."

He started rushing out, grabbing all his alchemy supplies and Dex followed after him.

"No," Kesler grabbed his shoulders, and Dex froze. "You can't come."

No no no absolutely not. "You'll need every alchemist."

"I said you can't come, Dex. And that's final."

They're in danger, he wanted to say, and he had no idea if he was talking about Sophie and the others, or the elf whose heart he held.

When Kesler left, Dex didn't even take off his shoes. He kept staring at his ring, wondering if Sophie would call for him.

...of course, she didn't.

The next few hours passed by in a blur, even though he was just holed up in his room. He kept himself busy, and was surprised when his dad came back, Councilor Terik accompanying him. What was a Councilor doing in his house--his room? It was even weirder when Kesler nodded at him and left the two of them alone.

"Dex Dizznee, the technopath. I see you've got quite the workstation here."

Dex bowed, flushing at his words. Was that supposed to be a compliment? An insult?

"Dame Alina mentioned that you were working on an ability enhancer?"

"Y–yeah. I am. It's untested, and—"

"Can I test it?"

"Um," Dex said, not knowing how to reply to that. "I designed it with telepathy in mind specifically, so it wouldn't work on you."

"I see. I think your inventions have great potential, Mister Dizznee."

"Really?" Dex asked, beaming. A Councilor thought he showed potential? "You think it'll work?"

Councilor Terik smiled at him, a thin, wan smile. "Maybe not an enhancer. But... an ability restrictor, possibly."

Dex could tell what he was talking about. If Fintan didn't have his pyrokinesis, he wouldn't have set Everblaze.

"But that's not what I wanted to ask you about. The Council would like your help in the creation of weapons."

He mouthed the word, hating how it felt on his tongue. Weapons. Elves didn't usually use weapons.

...but Dex had a weapon used on him, and he could still remember the shock of the melder—

"I'll do it," he said.

His own inventions, needed by the Council. To think the Council would want help from a Dizznee. If only Stina could hear this, see that Councilor asked for his help specifically, had thought he displayed potential in his talents. No one would talk bad about him or his family again.

"I'll get back to you on what kind of weapons that we will want soon. I'll also be bringing up the restrictor with the others, so it may be possible that we'll ask you to create one."

Dex nodded, and Councilor Terik left.

•~•~•~•~•~•

No. No no no, it couldn't be like this. They'd told him that the restrictor would be used on people who needed their abilities taken away, and Dex had imagined those black-cloaked figures, those murderers.

He didn't think it'd be used on Sophie.

He watched as she convulsed in pain, falling to the floor, curling up. A few cries had escaped her, and nothing could be more haunting than that.

Apologies spilled from his lips, and when Sophie looked at him, she looked so broken.

"I'm not having anything more to do with this," he said to the Council, "I'm not helping you with that."

"And need I remind you that disobeying a direct order from the Council is an exile-able offense?" Councilor Emery asked.

He didn't care if he went to Exile. Not if it meant this.

"It's okay, Dex," Sophie said, "Just do what they're saying."

"How can you say that?" He asked, his voice cracking.

How could she bear that pain? Bear her abilities being taken away, becoming Talentless, and knowing it was due to the hands of someone who proclaimed to consider her his best friend? How could he live like this? It was a betrayal. And he couldn't do anything, he couldn't fix it, because they threatened to exile his family.

He thought... he truly thought he was helping. Making a difference. Being useful.

But never in his life did he feel more useless than he did now.

•~•~•~•~•~•

Sophie drank slumberry tea. A sedative. Something he knew she refused to use. He visited Sophie, apologizing uselessly, and he came across the others--her friends. They were Sophie's friends, not his.

Unsurprisingly, none of them were able to meet his eye. None of them jumped him, beat him or anything like that, and he supposed that was the best he could ask for. For a moment, he thought he'd felt Fitz's gaze on him, and he wondered if Fitz was going to transmit in his brain again like he did earlier. When he looked at Fitz, he turned away, and his mind remained silent.

...he wasn't sure why that hurt, considering he didn't like Fitz, and Fitz sure as hell wouldn't like him. It's not like anything he could have said would make things better.

(But anything, anything, would feel better than the ashamed glances directed at him.)

•~•~•~•~•~•

He had Sophie promise to use her panic switch if she needed anything, but he didn't think she'd use it so soon. She wasn't at Havenfield. He leaped there as soon as he could, and saw Everblaze burning.

A pyrokinetic, holding a ball of fire ready to be thrown at Sophie and Grady. Dex didn't think, he ran and tackled the elf. It bought Sophie a few seconds, but the elf had grabbed him by the throat, his voice that had haunted his nightmares. Fingertips searing his skin just like his memories.

With the help of another invention he made, he was able to send Brant--he was pretty sure he was Brant, based on the little he'd heard--reeling, and they restrained him. He was ready to make sure Brant was captured, but Brant knew about the Black Swan's ambush.

He didn't hesitate to take off that circlet from her head, throwing it into the Everblaze. The Council could exile him, that's fine with him. But he refused to let anything happen to his friends.

•~•~•~•~•~•

After everything, the Council would be after them. Sophie was planning to run away to the Black Swan, and he knew that he wouldn't let her go without him. They left for there, Keefe, Fitz, Biana too. It was weird, being roommates with Fitz and Keefe. He hadn't exactly been friends with them--eating lunch together at Foxfire had always been more about their mutual friendship with Sophie.

The riddles unfortunately did not stop, but at least they were assigned a mission. Of course, that didn't stop them from doing their own snooping.

•~•~•~•~•~•

"Did Mr. Forkle ever give you your heart?" Dex asked Sophie.

"I did try asking once," Sophie replied. Her face scrunched in annoyance. "He said it'd be a distraction. I mean, come on, I get to be the freaky brown-eyed elf with lots of abilities, and they think I can't take care of a heart? I feel bad for whoever's heart that is, I'm sure the Black Swan's too busy to notice every detail."

"I'd feel bad for them too," Dex said, trying not to think about how Keefe's mom was a part of the Neverseen. That heart would definitely need a lot of comfort.

"Are you two talking about hearts?" Fitz asked, walking into the room, holding a heart in his hand.

Huh. He never thought he'd actually see Wonderboy holding one. It was on the smaller end, blue and rusty copper and bits of green.

"Oh, that's cool, can I touch it?" Sophie asked.

Fitz's eyes flitted to him for a moment, then nodded.

"Is it hard to find out whose heart belongs to who?"

"Depends," Dex shrugged. "If the elves are already close with each other, then they're more likely to figure it out."

"It's not a documented system like Matchmaking is, so there are plenty of elves near ancient who probably have no idea who their heart belongs to," Fitz added.

"So I'm guessing it'd be stupid to ask if you knew who your heart belonged to?" Sophie asked.

Surprisingly, Fitz tensed. Both him and Sophie started staring into each other's eyes. Probably having a telepathic conversation. Gross. He waited a minute before he pretended to gag, and the two jolted.

"You should... tell them," Sophie said quietly.

"I know," Fitz replied, his voice just as soft, "but they won't be ready to hear it. I don't want them to feel obligated."

Ew, they were still ignoring that he was there. And what was that about what Fitz said? Feel obligated? People would give the world to be able to brag about holding Fitz's heart, even if it wasn't romantic. But like everyone had a crush on him anyway, so how on earth would it be an obligation?

He was surprisingly loyal, got angry and spiteful like everyone else, that golden image just a coverup. Not as perfect as what they all thought him to be, but he was a good friend. He was willing to run away from his perfect life and perfect family, to side with Sophie. To do everything in his power to help his world.

And that, Dex could respect.

•~•~•~•~•~•

Dex had spent days practicing working on the lock from Exile so that they could rescue Prentice. He was a little worried when Sophie's directions were apparently taking them to the surface. Even more so when the lock was changed, and they couldn't even access the inside of the cell.

The Council even showed up, trapping them. Things were escalating, and Mr. Forkle was ready to turn himself in. But not if Dex could help it. He'd brought several different small cubes with him, in case anything happened. The first filled the room with burning green mist, the second squawked and served as further distraction.

The third was zapped by Councilor Zarina, and--

It was going to explode.

"Everybody get down!" He screamed, but the room was too loud and no one could hear him.

No one but Fitz, who grabbed it and flung it away from them all. But not in time for the explosion to send him flying, landing right on the sharp horn of an arthropleura.

He was running before Sophie could even scream stop, was already kneeling at his side. Dex reached for his chest to stop the bleeding, only to see that one of his hands had already been stained with blood without having even touched him yet. It dripped down his palm, originating from one of his rings.

No.

He hadn't known his ring could do such a thing, but he knew what it meant.

Fitz got sent flying because of his own gadget. And he wasn't stupid to not realize why his ring that monitored the heart would suddenly start streaming blood staining his hands. He hated that he couldn't tell which of the blood came from Fitz, and which came from the monitor of his heart as it all mixed together. He just knew he had to fix this. He had to, because he couldn't let Fitz die like this. The blood was thickening from the venom, and it didn't look good.

Dex took his chance and leapt out of Exile with Fitz, where an elf with a sparkly mask was waiting.

"You're back quicker than I thought, where—oh." She froze when she saw Fitz in his arms, and they both carried him to the medical room. "Are the others still there?"

He nodded. "He needs a physician, can you get them?"

The other elf was hunting through cabinets, pulling out several vials and bottles and salves. "Physic, resident physician. I'll take care of him from here. It'll be really messy."

He opened his mouth to protect that nothing that he could see could be messier, she repeated that he should go, and she'd give updates.

He reluctantly agreed, and went to wash his hands dry of the blood. But the ring was still bleeding, and when he picked up the heart, it wasn't in great condition either. The gold lines were black with venom, and it had left a bloody mess on the nightstand. He grabbed a basic first aid kit and a bunch of towels and sat on the floor by the fireplace, carefully tending to the wounds on the heart. He hoped that bandaging the heart would help slow down the bleeding in Fitz's body. If nothing else, he could do this much.

Now that he looked back at the heart, wasn't it obvious that it belonged to Fitz? Teal like his eyes--something which had long bothered him, but he'd grown used to, gold like his image he always portrayed.

Fitz's heart, huh. That's whose heart he held.

When the others arrived back, they all stared at the bloody heart in his hands, but they said nothing. He didn't say anything either, taking comfort in every beat, because every heartbeat was proof that Fitz was still living.

Mr. Forkle told them that Fitz had stabilized, and they all rushed to his room. And oh. He looked even worse than Dex had thought. Black spiderwebs painted his chest. It looked even worse than it had on his heart earlier. Maybe his heart would've reflected it too, if it weren't currently bandaged.

"Oh, you have his heart?" Physic asked, turning to Dex. "That'll make his recovery from near death go smoother. You should've told me earlier."

"I only just found out," he mumbled, reluctantly handing her Fitz's heart.

"Good thinking for bandaging it. I had thought that the bleeding had gone down easier than expected."

She went back to treating Fitz, and it was messy and the vomit was disgusting, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. He had to stay. Once Physic was no longer needed in the room, he decided that he and Fitz should probably talk.

Fitz looked at him, and Dex didn't know if he wanted to meet his gaze or look away. He settled for looking at his neck.

"How long did you know?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Know what?"

"Don't play dumb." He picked Fitz's heart off the table from when Physic left it there. "This."

"A while... your kidnapping."

Dex tensed. Since then? He knew since then? Though, with the burns, maybe it wasn't hard to figure out.

"And you never told me?"

"Would you have wanted to hear it?"

He let out a breath. It wouldn't. He would've hated it. He would've hated the irony that the elf he'd hated most held his heart.

His silence must have been enough of an answer, as Fitz didn't say anything else.

"I'm sorry," Dex said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. The heart in his hand both comforted him and pissed him off at the same time. "I almost got you killed."

"You were trying to get us out of there," Fitz said, smiling weakly at him, "and we made it out. You don't have to blame yourself for this, you wouldn't predict Councilor Zarina's electricity."

"Not just that. I'm sorry for hating you so much. I'll try to hate you less."

Fitz blinked. "Why do you hate me?"

He almost wanted to roll his eyes, it felt like such a stupid question. But it wasn't like he had a good reason to hate Fitz at this point either.

"You're everything I'm not. I hated it."

Those few words couldn't represent the waves of emotions that had flooded him for years, but he didn't know how to say it.

"I..." He said, knowing he was going to sound stupid for saying it, "I wanted you to notice me."

The heart in his hands skipped a beat.

"Do you-- do you want to try being friends?"

Friends. With Fitz Vacker. If the Dex from a few years ago heard that, he would've laughed.

"I'll try," he mumbled. "I don't promise anything more. If nothing else, your heart is in my hands."

Fitz's weak smile turned bright, blinding him. Dex turned away, not knowing how to react to that. He wasn't sure how to react to the twitch of Fitz's arms either, as if he wanted to ask for a hug.

"Rest well, Wonderboy," he whispered, as he rushed out of the room.

Thump. Thump-thump.

Fitz's heart beat steadily in his hands, and Dex thought that his reluctant words would probably end up a reality.

•~•~•~•~•~•

Kotlc taglist: @my-swan-song, @stellarune, @impostertamsong, @subrosasteath

Want to be added/removed from the kotlc taglist? Just let me know!

[fitalich]

There's Always a Tell

Jake Kiszka x Reader (Post-Band Film AU)

[Edited - 11/9/23]

After lurking here and there, I finally caved and incorporated Jake into a short piece I'd started for a college class. No, I have no shame.

I hope you find it titillating.

Feedback is welcomed and greatly appreciated 🖤

Contains: Alcohol, cursing, sexual situations...hand kink?

Lead-in: You've overworked this scene to smithereens, rewriting the score, recuts, to where the original scene has been completely abandoned. All to avoid telling the director that you need to reshoot the practical effects that were half of the film's budget. Musician blames the edit; Editor doesn't think it's salvageable. The Musician [Male, sat left] and Editor [First Person, sat right] are reviewing the sequence on the projector. 

“It's just not cutting enough," you said. 

"Mmm.” He took a generous swig of neat blanco from his hatched rocks glass, audibly forcing the liquor down. The long silver pendants around his neck fell forward, dangling in front of his chest whenever he reached for the coffee table. 

His severely unbuttoned shirt did the same, black linen separating past his sternum and joining just below his ribcage, opening itself to expose skin you hadn’t seen. Jake’s body was akin to his other features–His frame was soulfully edged, strong-knit like a craftsman, but his flesh was gentle, supple, a little romantic. 

"I think we’re just gonna have to reshoot it," you said. "Build this up properly." 

His eyes fluttered shut. All the work he’d done, it wouldn’t be lost entirely, but the time wasted pained him. The entire night had been a battle over the pacing, and why it felt so awkward. He had already written the score, so you were left to the task of cutting the film to tempo by hand. If you even alluded to the issues within the raw footage, he’d shoot you a look, don’t say it. One time you muttered, you can put glitter on a piece of shit, it’s still a piece of shit. His best suggestion of the night, I could use a drink, so could you. 

He finally agreed, nodding his head reluctantly. "I'll talk to Josh, see what we can do." He patted the top of your hand twice, resting it there loosely. "What you've done here is fantastic, I'm sorry if I–I didn't mean to insult you–"

"You didn't," You chuckled. "The blind leading the blind," you said pointing between the two of you.

His head fell back with a soft laugh. "Right you are," he said, emphasizing his words with another pat on your hand, resting it there yet again.

You've never rejected his touch, but you've felt the need to question it. You wouldn’t put it past him, whether his actions were intentionally absent-minded, or he was simply unaware of the effect he had on you. Neither he nor his brother were ones to be very shy of physical affection. After a drink, however, he would languidly dance the line of professionalism and flirtation, making himself impossible to extrapolate. That was when you realized, this was the first time you too had been drinking.

He began to tap his thumb against your skin rhythmically, contemplating, while his eyes rested on the frozen film. You watched the tendons in his strumming hand twinge and flex, his middle finger joining in for what was some pattern playing in his head. 

Then the tapping faltered, slowing to a stop. 

You could feel him watching you now, no longer lost in thought. For once, this felt unadorned, forthright, like he was asking for your permission to continue. You looked to him, searching his face for a tell of some kind, but he was only doing just the same. Like you, he had no intent to speak.

You were taken aback by his pupils, so clearly blown out, even with only the flicker of a projector. His lips fell apart from how shallow and desperate his breathing had become, but he tried to hide it. He sucked on his lower lip, softly dragging it out against his teeth, wetting it with his tongue. You felt his hand begin to stir, gently pressing the entire surface of his fingers into your skin. Neither of you had blinked. 

You began to turn your palm over. He took over naturally, leading your hand to be fully encased underneath his. It was warm, almost hot, and it flooded your body. Slowly, he curled his arm, lowering his head slightly as he brought your hand to his soft mouth. He paused. 

A small breath that had escaped his nose tickled your skin. He became entirely transfixed in your eyes, silently ordering them to stay locked on his, before moving again.

He pressed his lips delicately to the base of your thumb, again along the joint, and once more against your knuckle. You pulled a long breath through your nose. 

He looked pleased with himself, wearing a small smirk as he extended your thumb with the coaxing of a finger. He then wrapped his lips around the sensitive pad, watching your mouth part for him. With a gentle squeeze to your hand, he started to suck lightly. A jolt shot up your arm when you felt the brush of his tongue.

"Fuck," you whispered. A small, sweet sound pressed in his throat. He looked to your forearm, catching the trail of goosebumps he'd left behind. You needed to touch him. 

You brought your other hand up the side of his neck, weaving the tips of your fingers through the hair just behind his ear, lightly tracing your thumb along his jawbone. He gave a final kiss to the pulse point in your wrist, and you closed your fingers around the roots of his soft hair. He blew an impish wisp past his lips, shaking his head as if he were trying to taunt you. You tugged harshly. 

He held his jaw stiff, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth, followed by a dark, full-toned groan vibrating in his chest. As your hand wandered back down his neck, he pulled you in by the lock he had on your arm, wanting your body close to his. Pressing your thumb into the hollow under his ear, you rolled his head to the other side, exposing his neck for you.

"That’s what you wanted," he said…

[mamahoga]

My Love Is Not Insane, You Are Just Too Sane - Chapter 1

{ Here's a story my lovely cockroaches. I've never written horror before so maybe I'll rewrite this in the future? I haven't figured out a title yet. }

Elizer hums a cherry song to himself as he inspects the liver in his hands. “Hm…decent enough. You’re lungs are terrible though. Do you really smoke at this age?” His smile was sweet and caring like talking to his child. But suddenly it became black and he kicked the empty carcass into the island wall in the kitchen. “Don’t you?!” He continued to kick and spit at her before he finally calmed down and panted, grabbing his inhaler and shook it before he took a breath from it. “Fucking bitch. I leave for one month and this is what I find. You’re lucky I know some who like them a bit banged up because you look like a mess.” He let out am maniacal laugh and smirks, unaware of his visitor behind him.

The unknown man freezes in horror at the scene before him. He couldn’t move, too transfixed by the horrific sight of someone butchering his ex. He lets out a loud gasp, getting the attention of the crazed man. Elizer turned around quickly and froze with a guilty expression as he slowly got closer to the other with a small smile. “Colter…you weren’t…You weren’t supposed to see that my love. You really shouldn’t have.” The young man known as Colter took a moment to react before quickly taking steps back to run from the bloody male. But that was all in vain as he was easily caught by him in a tight grip.

“You have to forget all that. You love me don’t you? So do this for me okay love?” His hands moved to the other’s cheeks clutching in a gentle possessive grip and giggled not even noticing as he stained his face with blood from his hands. Colter could only frantically nod as he tried to flinch away unless he wanted the insane man to hurt him. “Y-Yeah.” His voice trembled and intense green eyes bored into Elizer’s vantablack ones. He only smiled sweetly back at him and loosened his grip on the other and pulled them close.

“Don’t be scare okay? I would never hurt you. I did all this for you!” He dragged him over to the mangled and mostly tortured body smiling more widely. “See?! It’s the bitch who hurt you! I took good care of her till she was begging for forgiveness.” Elizer hugged his arm with a sweet smile and went to kiss his cheek when he was suddenly slammed into the wall. “What the hell?! What in the fucking hell did you do to her?!” The male’s face was cold and uncaring for the atrocity he just committed. “I killed her for you,” he said calmly. He slipped his arms around the shorter man’s neck and smiled. “Are you happy? She was going to use her popularity and riches to ruin your life-”

“Why the fuck is it any of you business?!” He pushed him away harshly making him gasp and wince. In a hand to hand fight, Elizer would be lucky to barely scrape by since not only does he have asthma, he’s so thin one could see the bones slightly poking out his skin. He watched as the love of his life paced around the room caught between rage and panic. “Because I love you!” He reached out for the other’s cheek again and whimper. “Are angry because I left it so messy? I’ll clean it, I promise. Do you not like her blood on me?” Elizer beamed and laughed brightly. “I understand perfectly! I don’t want her pig blood on me either.”

Colter shook his head and pulled away, backing up against the wall. “W-Who are you? How did you get in here?” He thinks for a moment and his eyes widen. “Shit, how long have you been watching me?!” Elizer blinks and tears fill his eyes as his face falls with a betrayed look. “You…don’t remember me? How could you?! I wasn’t even gone that long!” He trembles and starts to furiously wipe the blood off his with his sleeve. “Can you not see me through her blood?! Once I’m pure will you remember me?!”

Colter hesitates, trying to place the boy in his mind. “N-No…why should I?” He asked even more wary when he saw the other start to laugh before kicking over a chair with sudden anger. “My love, don’t be cruel…is this your punishment for being gone for so long?” Colter flinches more surprised than frightened at this point. “Well…Why don’t you try to remind me.” He softens his voice to trying to get him to calm down as well and it started to work after a moment. “…We last saw each other a month ago. I had to go on a business trip with my mom so I had to leave. I wasn’t able to keep an eye on you for too long but I knew enough to make me come home a bit early.” He digs into his shirt and pull out a green half heart and opens it revealing a picture of him being kissed on the cheek under a mistletoe.

Colter’s eyes widen and he digs into his pocket and pulls out the matching other half of the heart except it was black. Inside was a picture of himself kissing someone under the mistletoe. Elizer smiled and tears pricked his eyes again. “So you still have it?” Colter slowly nodded. “Yeah…This was one of the things on me when I woke up. I didn’t know who was on the other side but I wanted to find them…” Elizer only laughed lightly and hugged him tightly. “So do you remember me now, Colt?” The memory for the former was in flashes but it was there nonetheless. “A bit…I was in a car crash a month ago…” He slides to the ground as recognition fills his expression before frustration takes over and he grits his teeth.

He slams his fist down on the ground and curses, “Damn, why can’t I remember your name?” Elizer nods gently as he smiles and scurries into his arms for a hug. “It’s fine love. Don’t hurt yourself.” He grabbed his knuckles and kissed them softly and smiled warmly. “We’ll go slow. If we go too fast it might put you in a bad shock. Remembering my name will be like the final puzzle piece! Let’s just get out of here okay?” Colter doesn’t hug back still wary and gently pushes him away, his dark curly hair falling into his eyes as he looks down. “…Why?”

“Because I love you Colt. I always have and always will.” He was stunned for a moment before nodding. “And I…” He swallowed. “Appreciate that…but you can’t just go around killing my exes…especially when you’re killing for someone who doesn’t even remember you.” He glanced at the girls body but Elizer blocked his line of sight which he was thankful for. “Well alright. I won’t do it anymore.” He guides Colter’s face by his cheek to look at him and smiles. “We’re leaving. That thing will be taken care of so only look at me. I promise to be good, just for you darling.” The other shivers and slowly climbs up to stand on his own feet. “Where are we going?” He was happy to leave the room without being dismembered.

“My home of course. Don’t worry, I don’t bring other people in there.” He stands up after him and pulls out his phone so he can text a colleague. Once he’s done he puts it away and gives all his attention back to Colter. “Let’s go hun.” He puts his arm out so the mention could take it, but he remembered that they’re still rebuilding their relationship so he pulled his arm back and just opened the door for him. “Thank you,” he says not just thanking him for opening the door. Elizer seemed to get the meaning and just shook his head. “Stop, I don’t deserve for something as small as this.” Colter half expected to feel the icy blade of a knife slip into his ribs but only felt warm hands on his back gently pushing him out.

Once they got in front of his car he opened the door for Colter. “Hop in.” But he did not get in and instead too a step back. “You…How do I know you’re not lying to me…You could just kill me too.” For a moment it became silent and even the crawling of bugs could be heard.

“Hm…Now that I think about it, I very much could do that.”

Backstage:

Elizer: *stab stab*

Colt: What do you have there?

Elizer: *holds up a bloody knife* A knife!

Colt: NO-!!!

[aphroditestummyrolls]

This one is the last one! For both @devouring-time and @ladybastet92 who requested Smiling and Hugging! I combined the two prompts because they worked so seamlessly together, I hope you don’t mind.

This scene (something like it, from Yusuf’s POV, like the rest of the story) was in the original cut of chapter four, and I think this one is the one that’s finally gonna break open the floodgates for this rewrite. I changed a few things here, like the setting (I just wanted to describe Yusuf in the rose pavilion) and the POV (but I’m definitely gonna add some Nicolò POV to a few chapters— it really needs thing up), but I took the dialogue and premise. I hope you love this, it made me feel oh so soft. 🌸✨🍓

“Can I see you again?”

That was what he always asked him.

He had so many questions, always posed with a strange formality that didn’t reach his glittering brown eyes. The Prince almost looked hopeful, as if he waited with bated breath on the edge of Nicolò’s reply.

Nicolò could hardly find a single word in his entire head when faced with that breathless politeness, and those deep, warm eyes. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the yes, yes you can, whenever you like— please let me see you again on the tip of his tongue. There was something new inside him, and it clung to him like ivy, spreading over his bones and into his chest to grip his heart.

It was want— Nicolò did not often want, but he did. He wanted to see Prince Yusuf again. And the Prince wanted to see him— he asked him.

Nicolò hardly knew what to do. He’d never had such power. If he was needed, he was sought, and brought before his king. He was ordered, not requested by the elite. Was it a trap? Or had this strange foreign prince forgotten his station?

“Why do you always ask me that?”

The question caught him off guard, and he fumbled his words. “Because you have no obligation to do so, if you… if you don’t want to.”

He had only been able to nod. He had no thoughts beyond the tug in his chest of something— something that twined them together, ever tighter and harder to resist.

It was dangerous.

It was exhilarating.

So, the Prince returned to him, again and again. He asked questions, he told stories, he complimented Nicolò’s work.

Not you, he reminded himself sternly, the traitorous heat of a blush blossoming under his skin, his palms sweating a little. He only compliments the gardens.

But the look in his eyes when he said such things was enough to leave him permanently pink and flustered, his ears burning. It was too much, almost, to hold Prince Yusuf’s gaze, and yet Nicolò could not look away. He came back, again and again.

Like that day— that day at the pavilion, Yusuf had seen the roses fully in bloom for the first time. The jasmine was in it’s last days before wilting away, but it’s cloying scent still wrapped itself round the pillars, mingling with the roses’ sweetness.

Yusuf looked transcendently beautiful.

The soft white pillars of the pavilion flanked him with the climbing vines of red, white and pink buds, petals unfurling against the backdrop of green gardens and distant lavender mountains. The darkness of his curls, his closely trimmed beard, and the black silk of his tunic set a striking contrast to the riot of nature’s colors, framing him like the negative space between stars— like a constellation.

He was looking up, and the awe laid plain on his face would have been enough to make Nicolò truly arrogant, but it didn’t. Because as Prince Yusuf gazed up into the kaleidoscope of roses that weaved up and under and around the wrought iron roof above them, Nicolò was looking at the Prince, just as struck. Just as breathless.

He had a dazzling smile— that of a true diplomat. His lips were dusky pink, and his teeth were straight and gleaming. Nicolò had been stopped in his tracks by it more often than he cared to count.

But, this smile was different from all the others he’d seen from him. The tightness around his eyes had softened, gentling his features into something genuine and unguarded. He looked young, and Nicolò realized for the first time that the Prince could not be much older than himself.

“Oh Nicolò,” he breathed, the words curling and intertwining with the scents of roses and heady jasmine. Suddenly, his throat went dry— he was rendered speechless and utterly stupid, hearing his name spoken like that. “Nicolò, this is… it’s magnificent, you’re magnificent.”

He tore his gaze from the canopy of petals above them, fixed those eyes on him, and he called him that.

Nicolò was sure he’d gone redder than any flower he’d ever grown— his cheeks burned with it, and he pressed his lips tight together, willing his face to school itself into an expression tamer than the wildness that bounced up and down in his chest. He met the Prince’s gaze, and found that he couldn’t look away.

“Gr- grazie, I…” he stuttered, voice trembling with restrained emotion, lips curling into something bright and warm against his will. He couldn’t stop the smile. “Grazie mille, your Highness.”

He should leave. He couldn’t stand the emotions threatening to burst from his chest, growing between his ribs like seeds under the sun. Under the Prince’s gaze— so soft and young, so sincere— he couldn’t take those warm attentions at such strength.

He was one breath away from making a break for the chestnut groves, when the last of his resolve finally broke.

Yusuf took his hand. It was warm and strong. His fingers were long, as elegant as the rest of him, stained at the fingertips with charcoal smudges and dried ink.

“Nicolò, are you alright?” His smile was still there, but his eyes glittered with concern.

He couldn’t contain it for a single second longer, blurting out “Y-You are just so kind.”

He thought maybe the young Prince would laugh at him— and he wasn’t sure he could take that. He was overwhelmed, a lack of control threatening him in a way he’d never felt. He should run, he could burst into tears, he could lean in and kiss those pink, smiling lips—

Yusuf let go of his hand, leaving it too cold against the air, only to throw his arms around Nicolò’s shoulders.

He was holding him. He was hugging him.

It was barely a second, but it felt like a hundred years to Nicolò’s mind. He was frozen to his spot, rooted into the ground as he had been any and every time in the past when he’d had to brace himself for impact.

It had been so very long since someone had reached for him this way.

Just as quickly, Yusuf was pulling back, urgency reversing the action, and he was wide-eyed as he did. As if he’d burned poor Nicolò, the Prince started to back away, and through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, his could hear his furtive apology.

“I should have thought, Nicolò, I should asked—”

And his arms moved without thought. “No!” he cried, and took the other man by the waist, reeling him back in.

The weight was steadying, comforting. It was as if a bubble had popped around them by feeling the reality of the Prince under his hands— he wasn’t some distant constellation, or a diplomat, or even a Prince. Yusuf was a man. He was young, and solid, and he loved Jasmine. He asked questions, and made requests.

A spell that had held Nicolò at the edge of propriety was suddenly broken, and he breathed the smell of Shea butter and coffee— Yusuf.

He had relaxed into Nicolò’s chest, deflating with relief and maybe something else— Nicolò felt almost like he’d been given whiplash, leaning into the man hugging him as he went from overwhelmed with pent up formality to the most at ease he had ever felt in the presence of another person.

The tip of Yusuf’s sweet, freckled nose brushed against the skin of his neck, and his beard was softer than it looked. Nicolò wanted to memorize the sensation of every single place they touched— he wanted to never let go.

But, they were out in the open, in broad daylight, only shaded from the world by a wall of flowers.

They had to let go.

“May I ask something of you?” Yusuf asked, just far back enough to hold his shoulders, arms length away, and Nicolò missed the way he could feel his heartbeat beside his own.

Nicolò beat him to it. “Yes, I would like to see you again.” He said, and he didn’t dare try to tighten his lips against his smile this time. The wildness of his joy could not be contained, not with his fingers bunched in the silk at Yusuf’s hips.

“Yes?” He grinned back.

“Yes.”

[cjsinkythoughts]

FATWS One Shot #3 - Stars, Stripes, and Bubbles

Word Count: 1912

Warnings: Cursing, Fluff, erm…a Relationship that You Want to Happen but Know Never Will

Setting/Characters: The first part of Captain America: The Winter Soldier in 2014 after Steve’s hostage mission; Reader, Steve Rogers, mentions of Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, and Nick Fury

A/N: This…isn’t what I thought it was gonna turn out to be. But I like it, it’s cute, and I needed something pure with the shield after that ending scene, so I’m posting it.

I have a few more One Shots planned that take place during TWS so I’ll be writing those today and tomorrow. This week is a lot less hectic than last week (I was being trained in another area of my job last week, hence crazy hours), so expect more One Shots coming this week. Again, I’m trying to post them chronologically, but there might be some out of order depending on what you guys request and when, which is totally fine!

For today, I have the Reader meeting Sam (which is kinda what this was supposed to be, but…oh well) and more about the notebook planned. Also Reader meeting Bucky unofficially for the first time because he’s, you know, brainwashed and stuff. Later this week I’m planning on AoU stuff which will include the Party Scene and Wanda interactions.

If I can get through those by Friday when the new episode comes out, I’ll start on CA:CW which will include Reader officially meeting Bucky and possibly the airport scene if you guys are interested in that. Then I’ve got some Wakanda scenes and some Peter interactions. If not, I’ll start CW:CA next Sunday. Once the backstory is set up and completed chronologically, I might go back and just write some drabbles and stuff of random moments - kinda like this one. 

I did get a request earlier for Bucky’s perspective on the dancing scene in Part 4.2, so I’m planning on doing more rewrites of scenes in Bucky’s perspective, but that’ll come after the One Shots, so hopefully next week.

I think that’s all…umm…yeah. Once again, not beta’d so please excuse any mistakes! Thank you so much for reading! I’m so glad you’re all enjoying this almost as much as I am! Be kind to yourselves and others! Enjoy reading and stay tuned!

FATWS Masterlist

cjsinkythoughts Masterlist

The beeping of the timer made you groan and set down the book you were digging into. You were just starting to get to the good part, but the food smelled so good, so you decided it could wait.

You were so focused on your task of getting your breakfast ready that you didn’t hear your front door open or the footsteps that followed it shutting, the thud of boots hitting the floor just around the corner. Setting the ready food on the counter, you jumped at the arms that wrapped around your shoulders and waist.

“Shouldn’t you be more observant for a spy?”

You gave a hum at his deep voice, tilting your head slightly as he placed his cheek on your shoulder, nose pressing up against the column of your throat. “Shouldn’t you be heading over to the Triskelion for your debriefing with Fury?”

He growled at the mention of the mission he was just sent on yesterday morning. The first few assignments he had surprised you with how quick they were over, but then you remembered yours were a bit different than his and you got used to him being back within the next couple days.

“We don’t have secrets right? I’m so fucking tired of secrets.”

Your eyebrow quirked up as you turned to face him, his hands slipping down to your hips. You took in his state; he was still in uniform, dirt on his face, hair unruly, the shield on his back gray with the dust that covered it. He obviously hadn’t even gone to his own place yet, meaning he just got back. “What happened?”

He huffed, letting go of you to rub his face tiredly. “Natasha. She didn’t tell me that Fury sent her to do something other than what we were supposed to be doing.”

“They’re spies, bubs. It’s what they do.”

“You’re a spy. You wouldn’t do that.”

Chuckling a little at his comparison, you shook your head. “Our relationship is a little…different than yours and Nat’s.”

“I wish they’d put you on my missions. I don’t know why they don’t. We work well together, don’t we?”

You snorted. “That’s probably the reason.” At his confused look, you shook your head. “Never mind. Just…we’re closer. I know you better than they do. You can’t compare them to me. It isn’t fair.”

He grumbled, eyes glancing down to your feet. “They still should’ve told me.”

“Hey,” you tilted his head back up to meet your gaze. “It was a hostage mission, right?” He nodded. “Did you save the hostages?” Another nod, which made you shrug. ���Then there you go. You did your job and you saved people. It was a success. That’s all that matters.”

“He got away.” Steve argued. “He got away because she didn’t feel the goddamn need to tell me-”

“She was following orders. Don’t be mad at her.”

“You’re right.” His quick admission stunned you for a moment, until he continued speaking. “It’s Fury’s fault. I think I’m gonna go-”

He started moving away, but you tugged him back, shaking your head again. “Not yet, bubba. You can talk to him later. Let’s get you cleaned up first. Then we’ll eat and you can tell me how that run you went on yesterday was. Okay?”

His features softened and he nodded, setting his forehead against yours. “Okay.”

You had half of your dresser sectioned off for Steve’s things. SHIELD had moved him to DC about a year previous to be closer to HQ, especially after the Helicarrier became decommissioned for repairs. You already had an apartment in DC - it was where you stayed for the most part, hence the reason you were more than willing to stay in New York for a couple years. 

The moment he moved in about ten minutes from you, you knew, just like in DC, he’d be spending a lot of time at your place. Which is why you made the executive decision to have him bring a bag over one night and unpack his stuff.

It wasn’t the first shower he took at your place and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.

While he was cleaning up, you got to work washing his suit and the shield. You teased him by saying you’d just throw his suit in the washer and the shield in the dishwasher, but you wouldn’t actually.

His suit was air drying by the window and you were at the sink scrubbing off the shield, wishing you had a backyard and a hose, when he padded back into the room, hair plastered to his forehead, dripping down his temples, sweats and a t-shirt clinging to his body. He shook his head, leaning on the counter besides you. You always found it amusing how big he looked in your tiny kitchen.

“You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

You scoffed. “If you think I’m gonna let you walk around in that disgusting thing all day, you, my friend, are nuts.”

He chuckled, moving behind you and setting his chin on your shoulder, his larger hands stopping yours from their movements. “At least let me do this, then.” He murmured, taking the scrub brush from you, spreading the bubbles over the rings of the shield.

“You can help me. But I like finishing what I started.” You whispered back, reaching for a clean rag and dunking it into the soapy water, wiping down the star in the middle.

He placed a gentle kiss to your jaw, relenting easily. “Fine.”

You two worked in silence, the water running over the shield, taking the dirt and grime with it, hands occasionally brushing each other. Almost finished, Steve placed his hand over yours, moving it over to a certain spot. “The brush won’t get it.” He explained, his low voice sounding right beside your ear.

Smiling, you turned your head to look at him. There was a crease between his brow as he concentrated on getting rid of the smudge on the precious metal. Your lips turned up when you noticed a dark spot on his jaw he must’ve missed. He looked at you with a grin when you started giggling. “What’s got you giggling so pretty, honey?”

Letting go of the side of the shield you were holding, you reached up to wipe the dirt on his jaw that he missed with your thumb. “Can’t let that handsome face of yours get stained. And, speaking of stains,” you turned back to the shield, holding it up for the both of you to look at, the soft light from the window above the sink making it shine even more. “You think we got it all?”

“Hmmm. I think you missed a spot.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What? Where?”

He leaned closer to the shield, face right besides yours, cheeks practically brushing together. “Right…here.” His hand that you didn’t notice cupping water, came up and splashed your face.

You let out a shriek, stepping back, further into his chest, your jaw dropped. “Steven! My pjs!”

He cackled, leaning back and holding his chest, before gasping when you did the same thing back to him. “You’re on!” He grabbed his shield and filled it with water, making you squeak and try getting out of his hold. Stupid Super Soldier strength. He dumped it on you, water falling on your head, sliding down your back and making your pajamas stick to you. You quickly retaliated, grabbing the facet and turning it towards him, laughing at his shout.

The water fight continued for a few more minutes, bowls and cups coming into play, with Steve diving behind the counter and you slipping on the floor.

“Woah, there, honey!” He chuckled, the chortles coming from your lips reassuring him that you weren’t hurt. He leaned over you, reaching his hand out. “You okay?”

You nodded, taking his hand. “Let’s call it a truce, yeah?”

“Truce? Hell no! I won!”

“You did not! You just got lucky!”

He pulled you up, tugging you close. “Alright, alright. Fine. A truce. Let’s get you into some dry clothes, now. Don’t want you gettin’ sick, honey.”

You shook your head. “That’s actually a myth.”

“I’ll take note of that.”

An eyebrow of yours raised. “In that little notebook you never let me read?”

He smiled innocently. “Maybe. I added something else yesterday.” He informed you while tugging you down the hall to your room.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Marvin Gaye’s Trouble Man Soundtrack.”

You hummed with an approving nod. “Yeah. That was a good suggestion. Who gave it to you?’

“This guy I met on my run.” He shrugged, heading over to his dresser as you grabbed a couple towels. “Sam Wilson. He seemed like a good guy.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, grabbed another set of sweats and a shirt, before turning to you and taking the towel you handed him. “Yeah. He served two tours in Afghanistan. Now he’s working down at the VA. Told me to drop by sometime.”

“Aww.” You stood on your tiptoes to ruffle his hair. “My bubba’s all grown up and making friends.”

He rolled his eyes, ducking away from your hand and running his own through his hair. “Yeah, yeah.” His smile dropped as he looked at the clothes in his hand. “I think I’m gonna head out now. I should talk to Fury.”

You frowned. “You have all day, Steve. Just eat first, okay?”

“Okay.”

He was holding something back, you could tell. Picking out your clothes for the day, you decided to question him about it. “What’re you thinking about?”

Your backs turned to each other, you started changing, just as you’d down countless times before. “I was thinking about going to the Air and Space Museum again. If you wanna come.”

“You know I do.”

It was quiet for a few more minutes, only the sound of rustling clothes and zippers filling the air. “I-I think I’m gonna go after. To see her, I mean.”

You froze, keeping your heart and your breathing steady so he wouldn’t pick up on anything. “It’ll be good for you. She…she always knows what to say.”

“So do you.”

You cleared your throat, finishing with the final touches of your outfit. “I actually forgot that I have some stuff to finish up at HQ today, so I dunno if I’ll be able to go-”

His hand grabbed your wrist, turning you around, eyes pleading and face fallen. “Please. Please come with me. Honey. I need you there. With me. Please.”

You inwardly cursed yourself for falling for those puppy eyes, a soft sigh leaving your lips. “Okay, bubs. I’ll come with you.” You might regret it later, but the relief that washed over his features was worth it for now. The power he had over you scared you, especially since you knew he didn’t realize the hold he had on you, but you couldn’t help it. It happened quickly, swiftly, and you were down before you recognized it. And you didn’t know how to deal with it other than taking it one day at a time.

“Let’s go get some breakfast, now. I can promise it’s at least decent.”

The beam he shot you made your heart flutter no matter how hard you tried keeping calm. “I’m sure it’s better than anything I could ever make.” He pulled you close, lips brushing over your forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You sighed, leaning your head against his, eyes closing.

“Existing.”

***********

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The Right Thing

[Baron Zemo Masterlist] [Marvel Masterlist] 

Pairing: Baron Zemo x Reader (no gender, race, body type given)

Synopsis: As Zemo is sneaking away from his abode in Latvia in search of freedom, he is pulled back when he notices the fight in his home above has become dangerous for those in the streets. *Fluff:Comfort/Care*

Word Count: <1,500

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing Zemo. I don’t know what happened but he is living (and dancing) in my head rent-free so I hope you enjoy this little fic. I typically write third person; second person/reader is not really my area of comfort, so please excuse any mistakes. Not betad. A/N2: This reader becomes “Reader A” on my masterlist. Most fics can be read as this reader with their relationship with Zemo developing (even though they are all mostly one shots)

TW: non-graphic mentions of blood and injuries

He averted his gaze, pulling the collar of his coat up, attempting to blend in with the crowd forming in the street as he slipped out of his Latvian home. He could hear the clash of Vibranium echoing on the floor above. Children gathered in the street below, looking up curiously at the unusual sounds. He wanted to warn them. He knew the threats of fallout that followed from being too near those so-called heroes better than anyone. However, he feared the delay would cost him his freedom and what he must do. He quickened his pace away from them.

The shattering of a large window sounded behind him as the building took a beating from those fighting. He turned at the noise, too late to do anything more than observe the shards of colorful glass rain down on those below. 

He watched in horror as the debris struck a few people. You caught his attention when you protected a young boy, which caused you to suffer the most. He admired your resolve. You did what he wasn’t strong enough to do. He turned back the way he was heading, trying to forget the damage he saw.

You were curious about the cacophony of sounds coming from the building. You had heard that some of the Avengers were in town. You had secretly hoped to catch a glimpse of them. Not because you were a fan, more because you wanted to see them—to size them up. You had always been a good judge of character, and you wanted to determine for yourself whether they were essentially good or not; although, you already knew the world was far grayer than most people gave it credit. 

The noise above grew louder, and you could tell a battle was ensuing. You watched the number of people growing beside you, more specifically, the number of children enchanted by the unusual sounds. For a moment, fear flashes on your face, remembering Sokovia and the damage left in the wake of the last Avengers fight in the area. 

Before you have time to warn them, screams fill the air as glass and bricks begin to fall. You turn quickly, covering a small boy standing beside you, shielding him from the brunt of the crumbling debris. You cry as the glass pierces your skin; you feel blood begin to drip from some of the larger wounds. 

“Are you okay?” You ask the boy whose body trembles in your arms.

He nods, his lips quivering. He runs off down the street, following the crowd away from the scene without a word to you. 

You drag yourself away, too, hoping to find a quiet spot to nurse your injuries. You’re grateful they’re not worse since you can’t afford to go to the doctor. You turn a corner and sit on an old crate in the quiet alleyway. 

You peel off your shirt and turn to pull the first piece of glass from your back. You cry at the pain but continue on, gritting your teeth.

“Let me?” His voice was soft as he held his hands out in front of him, gesturing toward your wounds. 

Weary of the new stranger, you pull back defensively.

“Please.” He remained where he stood, not moving on you, giving you space. “I can help. You saved that child. Let me help you now. You won’t be able to reach them all on your own.”

Reluctantly, you nod, allowing him closer.

He slowly moves beside you, keeping his hands up, showing you he meant you no harm. 

His touch is softer than you imagined. You don’t even feel his careful fingers removing the glass. Eventually, you work up the nerve to ask, “Are you a doctor?”

“No,” he replies simply and continues his work. “Unfortunately, I have seen more destruction and loss than I would like.”

You sit in silence until he is done. He takes a minute to carefully inspect you, making sure to have removed all of the pieces to prevent infection. 

He wipes the soft fabric of his trench coat over your skin, collecting the blood that had spilled. 

His movements were so tender and warm that you can’t help but relax at his touch. The pain in your back seems to disappear under his care.

“There. All better.”

“Thank you, truly.”

His lip curls up in the corner. “You were a hero today. Many only delude themselves to be that. Few actually prove themselves to be so on occasion.”

You search his face for more. There is pain there that cut deeper than any shard of glass could. The two of you shift closer. There’s something in his eyes that lets you know his thoughts had drifted away from you. You know that look‚ the look of loss—of longing. It was all too common in the recent months and years. 

Before you can step back and thank him once more, his lips brush over yours, slowly. It feels like a dream, and for a moment, you’re afraid to breathe, as it feels like the wind whispering quietly on your lips. His eyes seem brighter at that moment like something had changed. As you decide to give yourself over to it, he pulls away, startled.

“My apologies.” His tone is honest as he steps back. He almost sounds surprised that it had happened.

“It’s okay.” You aren’t in the habit of letting random men kiss you and get away with it, but there was something genuine about him. Your eyes widen, truly focusing on the man in front of you for the first time. His brown eyes are warm and kind. You could tell he had been through a lot, but he had still taken the time to assist you. “It wasn’t you. Well, at least not completely you. It’s been a long time since someone was that…tender to me.” You swallow hard at your confession, unsure of why you had told this stranger that. “Most men want more. Demand it when it is refused.”

His eyes fill with what you think is concern, but he’s hard to read. You wonder if you’re fooling yourself, and it’s a look of pity that you’re trying to rewrite. 

He looks around nervously as people rush past the entrance of the alleyway. “I should be going.”

Filled with courage you didn’t know you had, you take a step forward and brush a kiss on his cheek. Your fingers linger on him. “Thank you again.” 

“My pleasure.” 

His smile, as he begins to move away, left you wanting more—needing to better understand him. You watch him walk toward the busy street. “Wait.”

He turns toward you, his head tilted to the side, waiting for you to continue.

“Why did you help me?” 

“It was the right thing to do.” He stated plainly. 

You nod thoughtfully. Not many people would have helped you like that without wanting more. Not many people know what the right thing is anymore. You’re not even sure you know all the time. “Can I ask you something else?”

He looks around again as if waiting for someone to find him. He offers a curt nod. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you need a place to lay low for a day?”

His head tilts further to the side, “why would you ask that?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I guess, you just look like a man who’s running.”

“How very astute of you.” He marches closer again, studying your face more carefully now. 

“You can stay with me...just for the night,” you clarify quickly.

“You don’t know me. Why would you make such an offer?”

“It’s the right thing to do." You look down, bashful for a moment, before continuing. "Plus, you helped me; I owe you a debt.” Both were partly the truth, but the third reason you couldn’t bring yourself to admit to him was that you weren’t ready to let him go. 

He considers your offer, as he proceeds to attempt to understand you. "One night." 

"One night," you agree. You reach for your shirt, attempting to shake out the remaining bits of glass and put it back over you. 

"Here." He stops you, pulling his lavish coat off his shoulders, and wraps it around you in one fluid motion. 

The gesture catches you off guard, and you let a little noise of surprise slip from your lips. 

He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he isn’t smug about it. He buttons the coat closed, shielding your body from the outside world. Stepping to the side, he extends his arm, a gentle smile on his lips. "After you."

You're not really sure what you're doing or why you made the offer you did, but you do know that for the first time in a long time, there's a smile on your face that you can't seem to wipe away. You touch your fingers to your lips, still mesmerized by the delicate kiss. You step forward, ready for whatever the future has for you. "Follow me." 

[Next Part: A Promise]

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Zemo tags: @montypythonsholysnail​

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[descendantofthesparrow]

Before Rewrite - Hades

*Spoilers for D3 rewrite~!!!! takes place from when Hades gets to the isle to the scene where Mal takes the ember from Hades!*

=

Hades cursed the rulers of Auradon every hour of every day for putting him on this wretched isle of filth and trash. He was a god! The god of the undead, the underworld! He was a crucial player in the mortal's circle of life; without him, there would be no place for souls to go, Thanatos would harvest them but with no one to claim them; they would wander around the lands forever.

He could already sense the disturbed souls, miserably watching their families walk by, or through them. All alone with no one to turn to and nowhere to go.

He had only been here for two weeks and he was already sick of it; he may have never liked it but his job was important and he needed to get back to work

-

Two weeks and four days…that's all it took for the gods to replace him. He didn’t know who it was but they seemed to know what they were doing, claiming souls so fast Hades could hardly sense when one had left the mortal world to live in the underworld.

Hades perked up at the sound of crying

Oh, Hadie.

He turned on his heel and speed over to the makeshift crib of his son, rubbing the top of his fuzzy blue hair and picking him up; gently rocking him as Hadie continued to cry, Hades didn’t know from what but he would try to find out.

-

Like the little god he was, Hadie unexpectedly thrived on the barren isle of the lost; with what little food he got and with little sun, Hadie grew quickly and strong. At four years old he was already growing into his namesake; though Hades couldn’t ever resist being a dad over his little gap tooth in the middle of his teeth.

Hades just wished Persephone could see Hadie grow, and Hades wished he could see his little flower, Melinoe, grow into the headstrong warrior she was meant to be.

-

Whaaaaaaaat the fuck did he do….what in the actual fuck did he DO?!

He had stupidly gotten black out drunk at Gaston’s bar and somehow ended up with Maleficent! Of all people on the isle?! No-not out of all people, just with someone in general!?

He had prided himself in being the most loyal husband of his brothers, Zeus who had slept with a woman every time Hera blinked, and Poseidon; who wasn’t any better.

Hades had always been loyal and true to his wife…well there were those two times BUT compared to his brothers; he was loyal.

AND NOW HE HAD TO GO AND FUCK UP THAT STREAK; over 1000 years, 1000 years! And some bad whiskey had to ruin it.

He left that bed without a word, rushing home to his 4-year-old son who luckily hadn’t woken up yet from his sleep; and Hades swore if nothing came from that mistake, Hadie would never know about it.

-

Welp…that was something that came from the mistake. 11 months after the incident with Maleficent-

-There, right in front of his gates to his underground lair; was a little baby girl, halfheartedly swaddled in a green blanket and set at his gate, a little note taped to the front.

‘your problem now -M’

Hades leaned out of the gates, looking around for any goblins or any sign of the mistress of evil herself. But there was nothing. Hades sighed and crouched down, gently picking up the baby girl and holding him to his chest, her cries quieting as her cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt.

She opened her eyes, vivid green with sparks of gold and yellow. She laughed, reaching up to his hair with a gummy smile. Hades sighed again and turned on his heel, closing the gate with his foot.

At least he got another chance at raising his daughter, and he would do his best to do as he would’ve with Melinoe.

-

Hadie had asked a billion questions when Hades placed the new baby in Hades old crib, leaning over and peering down at his little sister. Hades had explained it the best way he knew how to a child; but Hadie miraculously understood, didn’t blame him. All he did was reach down towards his sister and grin as the baby took his finger.

“I like her! Are we keeping her?” Hadie had asked, his gap tooth making his little grin seem even bigger.

“she's not a dog Hadie, but yes that’s the plan. I don’t think her mother’s coming back.” Hades rubbed Hadie’s fluffy blue hair and then reached out to rub his daughter's bluish-purple hair gently, her two-month-old hair curling around his fingers.

“What's her name?” Hadie continued to babble off questions, his yellow eyes staring directly into his sister's emerald eyes.

Hades thought for a moment, pursing his lips as he looked at the note and turned it over. Nothing other than Maleficent's writing and initial. Either the fae hadn’t given the baby a name or didn’t care enough to tell him.

“Morana“ the pagan Slavic goddess of winter and death; he had met or once or twice, not enough to know her but the name matched the baby girl before him well enough. (in this world, gods of all religions/beliefs exist in the same universe, they usually keep to themselves and rarely interact.)

Hadie repeated the name, pulling his finger around with Morana still holding onto him. “I like it!”

-

Three months later, Maleficent returned and took Morana from him; not even letting him give her a damn thing to remember him by. “I need an heir, that evil queens been bragging about her little rat and I won't let her get the upper hand with it” Hadie watched from behind Hades legs as the fae walked away with his little sister, her blue-purple hair stark against the black of Maleficent's sleeves.

Morana cried the entire time, reaching out for her father with tears streaming from her sparking yellow-green eyes, her face red with the flurry of confusing emotions she was feeling.

Hades took a step forward, going to take his daughter back but was stopped by Maleficent's goons, all glaring at him.

He was outmatched.

He stepped back, glaring at Maleficent's back as she took back their daughter she had abandoned so heartlessly three months ago.

-

Mal. That was her name now. He had heard many talk about the newly revealed daughter of evil; the daughter of Maleficent. Mal.

Hades clicked his jaw at the thought of her name, Maleficent had been shellfish and named her own daughter right after her; Hades would bet his stash of chocolate that Mal’s full name was just Maleficent.

At least Hades had been original.

-

Throughout the next couple of years, as Mora-Mal. Grew up, Hades kept out an eye on her; just out of sight from her and just barely stepping in if any of the older people of the isle, who had…less than ideal moral compasses, got any ideas about his daughter.

A few times he tried to go up to her, but each time she saw him she either ran away in fear, or stared him down with no spark of familiar want or recognition.

So he kept away, respecting her non-verbal wishes and leaving Mal to herself.

It didn’t stop him from trying to keep her safe. He left her food on the nights Maleficent or her goons forgot, never charged her when she came into his restaurant, was never harsh with her. Some of the other villains got curious at his gentleness with Mal but quickly shut up with a spark of red in his eyes. He might’ve lost his magic but he was still a god.

-

Hades watched from the shadows as Mal and her three ‘friends’ climbed into the limo, the son of Hook and son of Gaston climbing in alongside them. Mal looked up at Maleficent, who did an odd gesture and Mal nodded, sliding in and closing the limo door behind her.

He followed the limo all the way to the bridge, watching his daughter leave the isle for the first time and go to Auradon. If she didn’t end up burning it down; he hoped she would have a good life away from her mother.

-

Over three years later, his son was chosen to go the Auradon by his sister, and Hades watched melancholy as Hadie packed his things; fiddling with the dull ember between his fingers. Hadie hefted his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his duffle bag, nodding at his dad; who stood and walked over to his son “stay safe” Hades muttered, pulling Hadie in for a side hug, his hand resting on the back of Hadie’s head. “say hi to your mother and sister for me?” Hadie nodded against him, using his free arm to squeeze Hades back, and turned on his heel, walking out of the mines.

-

Only an hour later Hades stood at the bridge plaza, ember in hand; pointing it at his daughter, who cried out in pain against the embers draining powers. He pulled back as much as he could, he needed to get out; he just couldn't do it anymore, the isle was hell and he needed to leave.

Mal screamed in pain again and Hades faltered, remembering her cries for him when Maleficent took her oh so long ago. But the girl besides Hook took his falter and rushed at him, slamming him back behind the barrier and walking back through it a moment later.

Hades growled to himself, he had failed his attempted escape and hurt his kid. He stood and walked away from the plaza, planning to stay in his lair for the rest of the week in shame.

-

It was just the next day when he saw his kids again, Hadie and Celia standing in front of him; giving the excuse of a forgotten bass and some delivered goods. But Mal wasn’t as quiet as she should've been, he grabbed her hand just as she grabbed the ember and pulled it from her grip, staring her down behind his sunglasses.

She meekly asked for the ember multiple times, and on the third time, he raised his brow, holding up the ember in the air as he looked down at his daughter “You’re only half Hades, the ember won't do everything for you that it does for me” Mal huffed and gestured to Hadie.

“Hadie’s gonna be the one to use it anyway, I just wanted-to…” Mal looked up at him wide-eyed and shocked, and Hades had a startling realization that Mal might have not known about him at all.

After a few minutes of Mal screeching about her mother’s lies and her not being able to understand how ‘she’ happened, she demanded the ember once more “if you wanna make up for being a lousy dad” ouch that stung, he didn’t mean to be one; he just was forced into that position “gimme the ember”

Hades gave Mal the ember and watched her walk out, sighing sadly as he realized he could’ve been there for Mal a long time ago if not for his stupid assumption. He warned her about the ember getting wet and she just pushed past him, Hadie sharing one last glance with him before following after her.

Hades sighed, collapsing back in his minecart turned chair and leaning his head back. So much for respecting her wishes as a child, she hadn’t even known he existed as her dad.

-end-

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[spencers-renaissance]

a touch that never hurts

Summary: a rewrite of the Tobias Hankel aftermath, in which Spencer gets plenty of cuddles and physical affection from his father figure

Tags: aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, platonic cuddling, whump, protective hotch, dad hotch, fluff, angst TW: brief mention of the non-con drug use that occurs in the Hankel arc, as well as the physical torture Spencer underwent

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid; Platonic

Word Count: 1.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Happy bonus fic Thursday :) I wrote this because I noticed how gentle and kind Hotch always is to the victims he rescues, and I was in the mood for some good, mushy Dad Hotch fluff. Title from Charles Dickens' Hard Times: "Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts."

When Spencer Reid falls into Aaron Hotchner’s arms — his feet whipped and bleeding, his veins throbbing with dilaudid, his body bruised and aching — he decides that he never wants to let go.

He’s spent countless hours at the mercy of three different personalities, only one of them even close to resembling something kind, and all he could think while he was tied up in that chair was how much he ached to be held and comforted by the man he trusts most in this world.

So when Hotch saves him — and he does; he sent that message directly to him and it was heard loud and clear — he can’t help that he breaks down, that he cries into his shoulder in front of the entire rescue party, that he falls apart in the most painful way possible, until he’s not sure he can ever be put back together again. But when Hotch speaks soothingly into his ear, caressing his hair with the gentle touch of a father, he thinks that maybe he can be. Maybe he’ll somehow make it out of this in one piece.

He’s driven promptly to the hospital, of course. He’d anticipated an ambulance, but apparently it’s harder than you’d think to get an ambulance to a crime scene at 3am with absolutely no notice in deep, rural Georgia.

Derek drives, eyeing him anxiously in the rearview mirror, and Spencer sits glued to Hotch, refusing to be separated from him for even a second. He considers vaguely that he should probably be embarrassed of that fact, but he can’t find the energy. Not when Hotch is sitting just as closely; seemingly matching his need to be comforted with his own need to protect.

“It’s gonna be okay, Spencer,” Hotch murmurs, a little too quiet for Derek to hear over the noise of the car engine. “I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s not entirely sure he believes him. Instead, he just burrows closer into Hotch and hides his face from the soft illumination of passing car lights and the sporadic street lights of rural Georgian roads.

He accepts the wheelchair Derek runs in to grab from the hospital because his feet are suddenly screaming in agony. When he’d had to stumble through the graveyard behind Tobias Hankel’s cabin, the adrenaline had prevented him from feeling the true extent of his injuries, but now, with the adrenaline seeping out of him like a river through a broken dam, he can feel every single fractured bone, bruised patch of skin, abused and broken tendon.

Panic immediately arises when he sits down in the chair, though. All of a sudden, he doesn’t have that connection he’s had to Hotch since he was rescued, and he’s almost instantly on the verge of hyperventilation until Hotch crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, Spence,” he says gently, patient and soothing in a way the team doesn’t often get to see. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. How about I hold your hand?”

Spencer nods, and Hotch smiles at him encouragingly before giving the nod for Derek to push the chair towards the Emergency entrance. Hotch’s hand clutches tightly at Spencer’s, and he squeezes his eyes closed against the panic, against the memories, against the fear of what’s to come, and focuses all his energy on the firm, unwavering connection he has to Hotch.

It makes the minutes that it takes them to cross the parking lot bearable, and he’s grateful for that much.

As soon as Hotch explains the situation to the ER doctor that greets them at the door, Spencer is rushed into an examination room.

“I’ll wait outside, Spence,” Derek promises. “I’ll be right here.”

Hotch doesn’t let go of his hand.

They examine his feet first, using a portable x-ray machine to find three broken bones overall. Spencer cries when he hears that. Knowing they’re broken doesn’t change how much they hurt or how scary the situation feels, but it is a tangible acknowledgement of the torture he’s just been put through, and he thinks that that’s probably enough to make most people cry.

“It’s alright, Spencer,” Hotch soothes him, laying his palm on his forehead and smoothing it over his hair gently, slowly. “I’m right here. The doctors are going to help you out.”

“The good news is that most of the fractures are fairly minor,” the doctor explains. “You’ll need a cast for your right foot since the damage to the metatarsal bones is much more significant, but most of the damage overall appears to be torn tendons and bruised muscles, which means plenty of rest and a simple brace or boot on the left foot should do the trick.”

She smiles encouragingly at him, but he barely reacts. He’s so tired. It feels like he’s not even in the room; the only tether to reality being the soothing hand in his hair and the occasional whispers of support.

They treat his feet before sending him off to a CT scanner to check that the rest of his injuries are minor enough to heal on their own, and rule out internal bleeding. Spencer cries the whole twenty two minutes, because this time Hotch can’t hold his hand. He’s stuck watching through the observation window, trying not to cry himself as he listens to Spencer’s sobs over the intercom.

Thankfully, he manages to stay still enough to ensure clear enough images of his body to confirm that rest and pain medication should take care of the rest of his injuries.

A specialist comes round to talk to him about withdrawal. He’s been moved to a room on the assessment ward, which is at least a little more comfortable than the bay in the Emergency Room, but it still feels foreign and frightening, and he’s had quite enough of that in the last few days, thank you very much. At least Derek’s been allowed to join them now. He feels safer with both of them as close to him as humanly possible.

“The good news,” the doctor starts — and God, Spencer wishes they would stop associating any of this with the word ‘good’ — “is that you haven’t taken enough doses to become truly dependent on the drug, which should make your withdrawal easier. I’m prescribing buprenorphine, clonidine, acetaminophen, and ondansetron, which when combined, should make your symptoms significantly more bearable. We do advise that you stay with somebody—”

“He’ll be staying with me,” Hotch interrupts firmly, both of his hands clasped warmly around Spencer’s as he eyes the doctor with an unwavering gaze.

“Well, that’s perfect, then,” the doctor says cheerily. It feels grossly misplaced. “You’ll need to prepare for the coming symptoms and ensure that he has no way to get his hands on more dilaudid.”

Spencer resents the doctor for saying that. He has no desire to inject more of that poison into his veins: it might have been a pleasant distraction when he was being whipped and beaten and forced to choose someone to die, but now that he’s back with his family, now that he’s safe, the last thing he wants is to keep reminding himself of that god-awful man in that god-awful cabin.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just closes his eyes to try and smother the turbulent emotions threatening to show on his face.

“That won’t be a problem,” Hotch confirms.

They wait for an hour in relative silence, Spencer enjoying the solace of a safe, quiet room with the people he considers protectors both holding his hands and soothing him when panic threatens to overwhelm him, before the discharge doctor comes round. She checks him over one last time, before helping him into a wheelchair, handing him his medication, and wheeling him towards the entrance.

Derek goes ahead once they reach the airstrip where everybody’s been waiting to go home and herds them onto the jet first to give Spencer some privacy going up the stairs.

“Are you okay for me to carry you?” Hotch asks as he climbs out of the car first, speaking gently as he has done since he rescued him.

Spencer nods. Of course he is. It means he’s even closer to Hotch.

Hotch carries him the short distance between the parked jeep and the jet before ascending the stairs as carefully as possible, making sure Spencer’s feet don’t so much as brush the railing. He sets him down on the sofa, but Spencer clings to his hand, looking at him desperately as he tries to get him to understand what he needs. Thankfully, he’s obvious enough that Hotch simply smiles and sits down on the sofa with him.

They get settled in a horizontal position, Spencer resting his head on Hotch’s chest as he revels in the feeling of safety that having both of his arms wrapped around him provides. A gentle hand finds its way to Spencer’s hair again, and he closes his eyes against the relaxing feeling, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

He vaguely hears some quiet laughter in the background, and he’s been with the team long enough to predict the raised eyebrows and teasing expressions on their faces.

“You’ve gone soft,” Derek accuses warmly, making sure to keep his voice down, and the others chuckle in agreement.

“Wait until Penelope hears about this,” JJ teases quietly.

Hotch laughs, and Spencer feels the pleasant vibrations against his cheek. It makes him feel even warmer inside than he did before. “You wouldn’t dare.” Spencer imagines the smile on his face and burrows closer to him.

“It’s a good thing, Hotch,” Emily chimes in, her voice bright and easy. Spencer really likes her. “It’s nice to see this side of you.”

“Well, you’d better savour the moment because it won’t happen again.”

He must feel Spencer’s panicked tensing, the way his muscles go rigid and his breath hitches, because he rushes to add, “unless Spencer needs it of course.” His hands resume their gentle caresses of his back.

“I’d do anything if Spencer needed it,” he murmurs, and the team might hear, but the words aren’t for them.

Spencer hears them loud and clear, and somehow — when he thought only hours ago that he might never be put back together — he falls asleep feeling calm and safe, with a small, hopeful little smile on his face.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley (add yourself to my taglist here!)

[booksteaandtoomuchtv]

Always Practice Safe Hex - Scene Rewrite

First, it is important to note that I LOVE this series. I adore this book. I have reread this series a few times this year. Ruben and Jules get their HEA this October and I am dying to read it. I did, however, have a small quibble with one scene. I get, for plot reasons, why the scene played out, for plot reasons, the way it did in the book...for plot reasons. But, I did not love it. I wanted to... fix it up a bit. If you have not read Always Practice Safe Hex by Juliette Cross, I highly recommend it.

So anyway, here is the scene in the workroom with the oily boss, written a bit differently. CW: Harassment in the workplace - this is taken from the harassment scene in the novel. I did not add significantly to the source material, but if the book was uncomfortable in this scene, my tweak will be uncomfortable as well.

Anyway, enjoy? Let me know what you thought of this scene and feel free to reach out and scream with me about it. Because I have some thoughts!! -------------------------------

Again, I push all my influence into my words, “get off me, Robert.” Again, the magic does not come. My voice sounds timid and weak. I shiver as the warmth of magic, a constant companion in my life since I could remember, leaves me. For the first time since I came into my powers, I feel true helplessness. 

The ticking of the clock is too loud, the bitter smell of old coffee on Robert’s breath too sour, the air in the room too cold. The room is far away, but the details are clear.

Robert runs his hand up my arm. The hot, moisture from his touch pulls me back into my body and the dread of knowing he could sever my connection with my magic permanently and I could not do anything to stop it. “Look how hard your fear makes me,” Robert growls into my ear, his body pressed against mine. 

Dark magic caresses my skin and I draw even further into myself, trying to retreat but finding no place for escape. Robert smiles at my retreat and licks his lips before saying, “Would you like to play a game, little mouse?”

Another pulse of dark magic pushes against me, this time demanding and determined. This pulse tastes like the burning, smooth taste of aged bourbon and wraps around me with unexpected warmth. For a moment, I am frozen before, rather than fear, I draw strength from the dark magic surrounding me. I sneak a glance at Robert, he hasn’t noticed. Of course, he hasn’t noticed. It isn’t his power I am drawing from and he is too focused on me to notice the new power in the room.

Livonia. 

My name is a plea, but the mind opening the connection between us is not desperate; it is angry and brutal. 

Gareth? Gareth? I repeat, praying that I hadn’t imagined my grim here.

Unleash Hell, is the only response before the mental connection is severed. I am shaking with fear and confusion, he’s ended the connection before I could tell him that my magic was failing, that I was powerless. 

“You will answer me,” Robert snaps, “you will answer, ‘yes, sire,’ to whatever I request. Understand?”

“Ye..,” I start to answer when that deliciously smooth magic presses against me again, insistent. Though it isn’t the sunny warmth of a late spring day that accompanies my Earth-gifted magic, this dark power, Gareth’s power, does warm and strengthen me. It seems to envelop me and also demand something from me. 

Robert’s smile has turned cruel, “I am sorry, Livvy.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, “I will have to reprimand you…” Robert keeps speaking, but Gareth’s power has begun threading through me, demanding and urgent, pulling me from Robert’s gentle and calm reprimand. 

If I could have a moment to breathe, to think, I could get my magic back. I need Robert to back off!! Or maybe Gareth could step in any time now, surely he has noticed my power isn’t working, and didn’t he just tell me that he was some super powerful grim?

“What the fuck?” Robert snarls. I snap my head to where his voice sounded from across the room. Robert is no longer pinning me, but next to the door, trying to walk toward me and seemingly unable.

I look around the room until my eyes land on Gareth. He is leaning against the wall, looking cool as ever but his body is tense, aware. He flashes me one of his rare and heartbreakingly beautiful smiles, at the same time I am momentarily overcome by a heady rush of his power flowing, calling for blood, craving death, whispering dark promises. As quickly as it pushes it, it is pulled back, my own magic returning, strong and present as ever. 

I look back at this man, this wonderful, incredible powerful man with my jaw hanging open like a fool. “Did you just..? How…? Is that even possible?”

“You have something you need to handle before we have that conversation,” he says smoothly, his eyes alight with amusement. 

[perriewinklenerdie]

Steam (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 2,3 k

Summary: OH3 Chapter 8 rewrite. Claire finds a way for Ethan to let out his frustrations and get some control back.

Warnings: NSWF, strong language, adult situations. By reading this you consent that you’re 18+

A/N: My relationship with the canon scene is complicated and I knew I’d rewrite it. Here are C and E at their finest, all about that teasing business.

Ethan stared at her with a complicated glint in his eyes. He barely heard a sound of his surroundings, blood rushing through his ears loudly. His one anchor, his one thing that kept him from drowning was Claire.

Her eyes were wide – they’ve been that way since the moment he told her that he was in a dark mood. Something shifted in the air between them; got heavier and more intense. She nodded slowly, an idea forming in her head.

“I think I know how you can let all the steam out of your system.”

Looping her arm through his, she pulled him with her away from the exit. He followed, albeit reluctant. Soon enough, they walked into the gym, empty due to the late hours of evening. Ethan went inside first, Claire trailing behind him, closing the door.

She turned the lock into place. Her white coat met the floor seconds later, exposing her tightly fitted shirt and a pencil skirt. Slowly, without a single care in the world, she moved towards the windows, closing the curtains, one by one.

“Strip”

“What?”

Closing the last curtain, she turned towards him with an enticing smirk. “Strip, Dr. Ramsey. You’ll damage your clothes if you exercise in them.”

He wanted to say something, but instead decided that it was futile to argue - she definitely had too much power over him - so with a huff, he began to lose clothes. Just as his pants hit the floor, he raised his gaze to her, eyebrow raised in question. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll be stripping too.” She dimmed the lights, creating an enthralling atmosphere in the room. “But the rate at which that will be happening is entirely up to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ethan asked, feeling his blood rushing faster through his body, already expecting what she had in mind.

“For each issue you work through, I’ll be losing one clothing item. Of your choice. How undressed I’ll get is in your hands.”

“And what happens after that?” He growled, ogling her through her clothes. Claire walked over to him, dropping her voice to a deep whisper.

„Whatever you want.”

Ethan nodded slowly, hesitation leaving his body. She gave him the gloves, watching him closely as he put them on, pulling on the straps with his teeth. His stormy gaze seemed to eat her alive, want evident in his every move.

He approached the punching bag hesitantly. The first hit was probing. It couldn’t have been his first time boxing, but something about this particular session felt different – most likely due to the emotional charge of it and the fact that Claire watched him very closely. He could feel her eyes on the skin of his chest, and he enjoyed that very much.

Letting go of his hesitation, he focused on his frustrations and it did the trick. The bag began swinging from the chain it was hanging on, loud sounds of protest created by each hit filling the room.

“What are you thinking about?” Claire asked, wanting him to externalize his struggles in hopes of helping him get through them.

“Bloom.” He barked, seemingly invigorated, hitting the bag faster. “His rules.” Hit. “His meddling.” Hit. “Him going back on everything he said.” Hit.

Ethan grabbed the bag, breathing heavily. His eyes strayed towards Claire, locking on her legs.

“Lose your shirt.”

She smirked, then slowly, button by button, took off the article of clothing, letting it fall to the floor with an innocent sigh.

Satisfied with the view before him and encouraged by it, more than he’d care to admit, he turned towards the bag again. Squaring his shoulders and digging his feet into the ground, he began punching again.

“Tobias.” This time, there was no experimenting with the strength of the blow. He began hitting the bag with fervor.

“His stubbornness.”

Hit.

“His smugness.”

Hit.

“This stupid competition between us.”

Hit. Hit. Hit.

Frustration rolled off him in waves, every strike sending the bag higher and higher. He went on until he couldn’t anymore, then steadied the bag again with a firm grip.

Claire’s eyes followed his every move, staring at the way his muscles worked. Her breathing quickened, chest moving up and down in no particular pattern. Having lost her shirt earlier on, there was nothing constricting Ethan’s view of her chest – the gentle rise and fall of it, gathered and held by the burgundy piece of lace that he longed to peel away with his teeth.

“Skirt” he grumbled, catching her gaze with his darkened eyes. His voice dripped of lust, face red from boxing and from all the ideas his mind was coming up with.

She reached behind her slowly, dragging the zipper down. Her heels clocked against the floor as she took a slight step forward. Dragging the fabric along her legs, she leaned down. Giving him a glorious view of her ass.

Taking her sweet time, she stood back up, smiling at him innocently. “See something you like?”

“I see something I want.”

“Keep punching, then. I still have some fabric to take off.”

He smirked, walking over to her. His voice dropped to a low rumble while his nose followed the line of her bra strap. “Or I could just take you like this.”

“Yeah?” She panted, biting her lip softly. Her hand wandered to his boxers, fingers dipping beneath the fabric so her nails could scrape against the skin of his hip. With a cheeky grin, she snapped the band of his underwear sharply. “Get back to boxing, Ramsey.”

Shaking his head after staring at her for a moment longer, Ethan walked back to the bag. She asked if he wanted to get something else out of his head and he didn’t even hesitate. His shoulders tensed and soon after, the room was once again filled with the sounds of angry punches, gloves hitting the bag, over and over again. Unlike before, he didn’t say out loud what got him so angry – not at first, at least.

“I should have found another way. We wouldn’t be in this mess.” He hit the bag so hard that the chain almost broke. “You wouldn’t be in this mess. It never even crossed my mind that the fault would fall anywhere near you.”

“You set the record straight – that matters the most.” She smiled at him reassuringly. Ethan steadied the bag one final time, taking a deep breath before he turned towards her.

“Panties.” He growled, rushing to get the gloves off, tossing them aside as he strode towards her in a hurry. As soon as she was within his reach, he grabbed the flimsy lace of her panties and pulled, the ripping sound filling the room.

“Ethan!” she scolded him, unable to fight laughter. He smirked.

“I never said I was a patient man.”

His hands grabbed her by the hips, using them as leverage to push her against the wall. With eagerness she’s come to expect from him, he stole a kiss from her, fitting his lips to hers. She grinned, looping her arms around his neck to pull him closer. With the tips of her fingers, she played with the hair at the back of his head.

The kiss was short-lived, as his lips left hers to wander down her neck. Foregoing their inhibitions, he bit and sucked on her skin, hard enough to leave a mark in a place that was visible enough to raise questions. Neither cared, however, because they were lost in each other, almost as though they were under some spell.

Moving further, he reached the valley between her breasts. With the tip of his tongue, he followed that invisible line, straying towards the curve of each breast, tasting her skin as though it was an aphrodisiac.

Ethan’s palms trailed up her sides until he reached her bra. The lace, as delicate as it was, felt coarse against the skin of his chest. He pressed his hands to the sides of her chest, gathering her breasts together. With his thumbs, he traced circles over her nipples, eliciting a breathless moan from her. She gripped his hair tighter, pressing his head closer.

His mouth closed over one of her nipples, licking and biting through the material. With his free hand, he dragged the straps off her shoulders, then reached towards her back and unhooked the clasp of her bra, flinging the garment far away from them.

Like a starved man, he dove forward, tracing non-sensical patterns over the skin of her chest with the tip of his tongue. His low hum sent vibrations through her.

“Ethan, please…” Claire sighed, her back arching off the wall when his teeth grazed her nipple.

“What do you want, Claire?” he asked, burying his face in her chest, taking a deep breath. She scratched his scalp before pulling his head away from her body, allowing her to place of ghost of a kiss upon his lips.

“I want you to take me against the wall.” She muttered, words slightly incoherent.

“How?” he asked, squeezing her breast with one hand while his other slid down her body, towards the apex of her thighs. His fingers dipped between her legs, running through her folds and then diving into her. “Should I squeeze your nipples and make you take my fingers until you can’t catch your breath?”

“Yes.” She whined, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the wall.

“Or maybe I should pin your hands above your head and wrap your leg around my hip.” He muttered, curling his fingers inside of her as he moved them in and out. Claire’s broken sigh was like music to his ears. “Bury my cock inside of you until you’re begging me to fuck you.”

“Please.”

Claire moved her hands to his hips, pushing his boxers down and out of the way. He kicked the fabric away, catching her hands by her wrists and raising them above her head, pinning her to the wall.

Meanwhile, Claire lifted her leg and wrapped it around him, pushing on his ass with her heel to press him closer. Ethan smirked at her eagerness, guiding himself to her entrance. Slowly, he slid inside, stopping once he was buried entirely. Their noses were touching, eyes locked in an intense stare. Mouths opened at the mind-boggling sensation, both breathing heavily.

Ethan palmed her thigh, stroking the skin gently. Neither moved nor made a sound, testing each other’s patience, seeing who would break first. She squeezed her inner muscles, smug at the way his façade broke.

“You ready?”

“Take me.” she flashed him a grin, moving her hips off the wall to further prove her point.

He wasted no time, his hold on her thigh tightening to grand himself something to hold onto as he retreated and then drove into her again. His hips snapped against hers, meeting her halfway, push for push, thrust for thrust. Her moans, at first subtle, were gaining volume, expressing the urgency she felt. Watching him work out aroused her more than she anticipated it would. Not having him right this moment would drive her mad.

Ethan adjusted his grip on her hands, pressing his lips to her neck, whimpering at the feeling of her walls engulfing him, taking him, and driving him wild.

“Say my name.” he growled, moving his hand to her backside. She sighed, swallowing heavily.

“Ethan.” Claire’s moan went an octave higher when his hand suddenly met her ass in an unexpected move. She flashed him a smirk. “Do it again, Dr. Ramsey.”

“Jesus.” His groan was the only thing on her mind. He spanked her again and she cried out, her hands twitching in his hold.

He drove into her, each thrust deeper than the last. He was getting close, very close, in fact, and the dark look she was giving him only pushed him further towards the brink.

“Harder.” Claire demanded, squeezing him again. Ethan’s head fell onto her shoulder with a primal growl, hips snapping faster and rougher against hers. Room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, punctuated by their moans.

Her sighs were getting higher, her lungs taking in so much air that she was getting lightheaded.

“Come.” Ethan ordered, sinking his teeth into her lower lip and pulling on it. She shattered around him, gasping his name. He still moved, chasing the release until he followed her, sinking into her with her name on his lips.

He let go of her wrists, her arms falling heavily onto his shoulders as they reveled in the bright aftershocks. They remained intertwined for a long while, breathing heavily and stroking each other’s bodies with gentle hands. When they finally separated, they took care of each other, helping each other get dressed and smoothing each other’s hair.

Claire looked at him sheepishly – he noticed, blushing furiously as he asked. “Something on your mind?”

“Are you feeling better now, Dr. Ramsey?” she grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Jesus, Claire, I- yes. I do feel better.” He shook his head, realizing that it was a battle he wasn’t going to win. “But I’d feel better if I could take you home.”

“So we could cuddle?” she joked, grinning at him softly.

“Among other things.”

With a nod, she hooked her arm around his for the second time that evening. Just as they were about to leave, Ethan turned to look back at the room behind them.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to look at this gym the same way ever again.”

“Have fun working out with The Boys the next time you’re here.”  

Notes

I almost forgot this fic even existed, my head isn’t really in it right now. But I really enjoyed writing it and thought you guys should get a chance to maybe enjoy it too.

Thank you so much for reading! <3

Tagging separately

[pomegranates-and-blood]

With our veins running fire

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: “May I please request a fluffy one shot with Ivar’s first time? I’ve always wanted a better rewrite of that one scene in 4B, besides his insecurities were fully fledged and he just deserved a nice lover to help him along the way.”

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+. Smut and fluff, soft!Ivar, and again, there’s a top and it ain’t him.

A/N: Title from the Charlotte Brontë quote: “...soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. (...) I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs.”

I am so sorry it took me this long to get this request out, I have nothing to say in my defense. Sorry sweetheart, hope you like it!

The blond Prince nudges your foot with his, demands your attention as Hvitserk walks around the room somewhere behind you.

Sigurd lowers his voice, and tells you, “You can still back down. Say the word and-…”

“Thank you, but no,” You interrupt, lifting your eyes to his, “You can stop offering that now.”

“I’m just-…”

“I know what you’re doing.” You interrupt again. You know there’s kindness in his gesture, when it comes to you there’s kindness in all Sigurd does.

Doesn’t mean he can’t be cruel.

“She made her choice, brother.” Hvitserk states, standing tall across from Sigurd and leaning his shoulder on a wooden pillar. His eyes remain on his younger brother for a few moments before turning to you and offering you a smile.

You narrow your eyes, slightly unsettled with how the two just…linger here.

“Surely you aren’t planning on staying.”

Hvitserk offers you a lift of his eyebrows, and a playful smile.

“Why, are you offering?”

You throw a pillow at him, but there’s no anger behind it. You know he does it to make you laugh and he manages to ease your nerves a bit.

Because…this is a strange situation, there’s no way around it. Your family and theirs have always been close to one another, with your father being a earl under Queen Aslaug’s jurisdiction, and it is true you’ve always been interested in the youngest Ragnarsson. A couple of weeks ago, sitting with Ivar outside while the feast raged on in the main hall, you dared close the distance and kiss him.

Still, none of that made being visited by Ubbe and asked if you’d want to have sex with Ivar any more normal, or expected.

“I want to talk to you. About Ivar,” Ubbe states, eyes piercing but warm as they gaze into yours. He sits in front of you, elbows on his knees, and even reaches with one hand to put a hand on your knee, a smile on his face, “I know you care for him, I know you like each other.”

You stay silent, because there really isn’t anything you can say, and this doesn’t really sound like him questioning about it.

He offers a smile. It is polite, but strange.

Past the extremely strange interaction you had with the eldest Prince, or the incredibly odd situation you were asked to be a part of, you didn’t think much of it, until earlier today, when you were approached asking if you were free tonight.

Though you did question at first why it wasn’t Ivar the one who approached you with these questions -would have certainly helped make everything much more normal if he had been the one to ask you-, you know him well enough to know why it was Ubbe the one to ask.

The door to the cabin you are in is kicked open, and Ubbe walks in with Ivar thrown over his shoulder. It is foolish, but you feel a ball of nervousness tighten in your core.

You have been with a man before, it is no secret for you what awaits you know. A few months before your father first brought you to Kattegat, almost more than a year ago, the son of a family friend and you fooled around and stumbled into having sex with each other.

But it is completely different now, even if you tell yourself what you ought to expect is the same. Ivar is different, and how you feel about Ivar is different.

His brother drops him on the edge of the bed, Ubbe has that odd smile on his face as he remains bended at the waist, his hands on his knees and his eyes on his brother.

He relays some silent message to Ivar before he straightens with an exhale. Why Ubbe looks as nervous as you feel is beyond you, but he still smiles at you and nods his head, before signaling with his head for his brothers to leave, and doing the same.

And you are left alone with Ivar, who still sits on the edge of the bed and refuses to even look in your direction.

Knowing it is up to you to take the first step, you walk to stand before him, resisting the urge to fidget with your fingers.

Ivar spares you a glance but almost-wide and somewhat unmoored pale blue eyes fall from yours after but a breath, and he leaves you with no choice but to crouch on the ground before him, trying to find his gaze but not succeeding.

So, with a hand on the side of his face, a hand that you surprise yourself at seeing not shake as much as you thought it would, you gather your courage and lean up to press your lips to his.

It isn’t too unlike the first kiss you shared with Ivar. He remains unnaturally still as you cup the side of his face and guide his face to yours, he lets out the faintest of sounds when you press your lips against his, and he seems to want to chase after the faint touch when you pull back but is stopped by the way he holds his body so tightly under his control.

Your free hand lets you find purchase on the bed, and Ivar jumps a bit when the place your hand rests is right beside his thigh.

There’s something to the way he holds himself, still yet jittery, uncomfortable yet longing, scared yet wanting.

Which is why you kiss him again, not giving him time to think or speak. If he starts thinking, you know his thoughts will chase themselves in circles and one way or another he will end up angered or biting, and that is not what you want. The side of him they all know, the side of biting wit and wrath and dangerous edges; that is not what you want.

You want the side of him you and a few others are fortunate enough to have stumbled upon, the side of small smiles that seem to surprise even him and vulnerability and hesitant softness.

You want the side of him that you saw bare of any lies the night you kissed him, when he watched you with wide eyes and parted lips, asking questions you didn’t want to answer yet.

So you press softly against his mouth, willing him with gentle touches of your hand and careful movements of your lips to relax and let go of any thought that isn’t this.

But, of course, how could you hope Ivar would let anything be easy.

He pulls back, turning his face slightly down, you do not know if either to hide his expression from you or to give you a silent command not to kiss him again.

“Y-You saw Ubbe bring me here, didn’t you?” He asks, startling you. Ivar scoffs, but it sounds tremulous, “I bet it was quite a sight, him carrying his crippled brother for you to have sex with.”

His older brother meant well, even if he was a bit overbearing. You have a feeling Ubbe would have carried you here if you hadn’t arrived earlier.

You search his eyes, your hand on the side of his face trailing slightly downwards, resting at the side of his neck. Though you think of something to say, Ivar doesn’t give you a chance to, because he just…keeps talking.

“Maybe this was all for nothing, and the Gods really made me boneless. Thought about that when you said yes?”

You pull back, crouched on the floor in front of him, looking up at Ivar’s uncertain blue eyes that seem to want to look everywhere except in your direction.

“What is going on, Ivar?” You ask. It is the easiest way you can voice the turmoil of questions inside you. Do you not want this? Do you not want me?

“You said yes.” He states, but you know it is a question.

“I did,” You tell him, offering a soft smile, “It is no secret how I feel about you.”

His eyes fall from yours, and he offers a small hum, but it dawns on you like a weight in your stomach that he thinks you to be lying. Or worse, mocking him.

“I know how you feel.” He tells you, but he still doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I thought you knew I liked you,” You say quietly, leaning closer. He seems to tense up even more at your proximity. If he didn’t know… You continue, “Ivar…we’ve kissed before.”

There’s a twitch of anger in his expression, a tell of gritted teeth. The anger is familiar, but it speaks of no less fragility than his hesitance.

“Sigurd told me.” Ivar bites out, voice low, words almost a growl.

“Told you what?”

Now, he meets your eyes. A storm of rage and pain and so many more things.

Accusing eyes and cutting words leave his lips like a curse, “That he dared you to do it.”

“What?” You frown, your heart feeling cold on your chest, “That isn’t true!”

When his eyes search yours, you dare think for a moment he believes you, you dare hope he sees you for who you are and not who his insecurities make out of you.

But he holds on to the anger, to the resentment, to the bitterness and the vitriol. ‘It is easier to be angry’ he told you once, and you think the meaning behind the words becomes a tad clearer for you just now.

Ivar presses,

“You agreed to…to this,” There’s a faint tremble in his mouth that speaks of jagged edges and embarrassment. “Why? To say after that you had sex with the cripple out of pity? Just like you kissed me as a joke?”

To all his chaos what you can offer is certainty, and so you do, and so you remain unwavering, straightening your back and meeting his gaze, “I did not kiss you as a joke. No one ‘dared’ me to do it. You know me better than to believe that.

His eyes threaten to fall from yours, and at your truth you see the resolve his anger gave him crumble, and there’s a battle between holding on to the anger and surrendering to the vulnerability.

“And I did not agree because of pity. There’s nothing to pity about you, Ivar,” Your voice is certain even as your heart beats wildly in your chest, and after a breath of hesitation you confess, “I agreed because I want you, I have wanted you…ever since I met you. I thought…I thought you asked this of me because you wanted me too.”

And over the conflict and angry hesitance that were clear I his expression wins something softer, something awed and hopeful and vulnerable. His eyes soften as he looks down at you now, and his lips are slightly parted as Ivar takes in your words.

Still, silence reigns between you, for a few breaths but long enough that you feel exposed and uncomfortable, with your words, your confession, hanging in the air between you.

You offer what you hope is a smile and not a grimace, and your eyes fall from his, partially afraid of rejection and partially humiliated.

Ivar seems to realize you were waiting for him to speak, because he sucks in a sharp breath and stutters out,

“I did, I-…” He stops himself, but the words are still as rushed when he speaks again, “I-I did, I…do, um, want you.”

At his words relief mixes with the foolish hope and joy that make your heart flutter, and you smile around a sigh.

“Can I kiss you, then?”

Ivar’s eyes jump to your lips, and he swallows thickly before nodding his head.

“Y-Yes. I, um, I liked that.”

You close the distance between you slowly this time, lingering when your lips are but a hair’s breadth away from one another so you can admire the way his eyes flutter shut as he awaits the touch of your mouth on his.

You kiss him for long enough your nervousness dissipates, is lost in the shaky breaths you draw out of him, is drowned by the soft little sounds he lets out when you deepen each kiss.

But Ivar pulls back. Again.

“I don’t…I don’t really know what to do.” He confesses, not at all what you were expecting.

It’s not that you were expecting him to know what to do, or have any experience; it’s that you weren’t expecting for him to admit it, for him to be pulling back to offer unguarded truths instead of accusations or something else.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

He grits his teeth, petulant, “I told you already, I want you,” He tells you, and even if the tone is biting it still sends a thrill through you. Ivar’s nose furrows a bit in anger, “Why would I ask you here if I didn’t want to, hm?”

You bite back a retort about how he could ask you here just to spend time with him, he has before, but you know this isn’t the time to try your hand at irking him.

So you kiss him, and between murmured words you move further back on the bed. And in between kisses Ivar murmurs the words that steal your breath,

“I want to see you.”

There’s a war between thrill and fear within you, a war that makes you demand the same if you are to offer yourself.

“And I you.” You tell him, the deal you ask for in exchange unsaid but understood. Ivar nods his head, eyes roaming over your face before venturing lower, tracing with his eyes a path over your clothed figure.

A deep breath, and you stand up, undoing the loose laces of your dress and letting it fall on the ground.

He doesn’t say a thing, but the way he looks at you, the slightly parted lips, the big blue eyes taking in your form in the low glimmer of the candlelight, it makes you feel beautiful, strong. Powerful.

You take another deep breath, and move closer to the bed.

“Your turn.”

Ivar forces his eyes to leave you and faces ahead again, a choked little hum leaving his lips as he accepts your words.

He takes off his shirt first, and the sight of the muscles of his arms and back moving as he lifts the shirt over his head makes your mouth run dry.

You know you are probably staring at him like a ravenous woman, and…you are. Gods.

He hesitates only for a moment before tugging down his pants, leaving himself completely bare to you. Almost, since he hasn’t fully taken off his pants, but there’s time for that, you tell yourself.

You let your eyes trail over the whole of him, before returning to his face, and meeting his wide eyes that now hold a silver of uncertainty you thought you’d banished.

Instead of saying anything, you return to your previous place on the bed, straddling him and claiming his mouth, your hands eager as they trace over his heated skin, as they find purchase on his chest and become witnesses to your effect on him as you feel his chest rise and fall in uneven breaths.

It doesn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat in your chest, the way you feel him gradually relaxing under your kisses and your caresses. The way his shoulders drop, his muscles loosen the tension they held, his hands don’t shake quite as much and start exploring your curves.

You lose track of time in all the breaths you share, and in all the sounds you are able to draw out of him, and in all the different ways he says your name.

The electrifying press of his half-hard cock against you is enough to draw a few shaky breaths from you, to make the daze of lust that envelops you take you under.

And hungry lips trail down his chest just as your hand reaches down. When your fingers wrap around him, you lose your breath at the moan you draw out of him, the mindless and unashamed sound you earn for yourself before he bites his lip and grits his teeth.

Your core tightens at the thought of what delightful sounds of pleasure you can draw out of him when you take him in your mouth, and so you continue exploring, and your hand keeps moving over him, feeling him harden more and more under your touch.

When you reach far down enough, Ivar stops you with a call of your name, and a hand on your hair. You look up, but don’t move.

“I want…I want to be inside you.” Ivar tells you, resolute even if his voice wavers and his chest trembles with yet another shaky sigh when he looks down at you, so close to his cock.

A stubborn part of you wants to insist that you want to pleasure him with your mouth, eager and starved for the moans and whimpers you may earn, for how you could make him quiver and surrender.

But you silently comply, moving back up his body and searching his gaze carefully, half hoping and half dreading he sees in your eyes everything you are too afraid to say out loud.

And you keep your eyes on him, you keep him trapped in the spell of your gaze, as you lean a bit back and ready to take him inside you.

Because he might be able to see all you cannot say in your eyes as they gaze into his, but you are also able to see all he doesn’t say. And you don’t want to miss a thing.

Your nails claw slightly at the skin of his shoulder as you take him inside you, and if having him watch you as you bared your body to him made you feel powerful, there isn’t a word the Gods have granted you to convey what it feels like to have Ivar underneath you, gasping your name in a choked moan as you move over him.

There isn’t a word for the thrill and the need that courses through you at the sight of him, there aren’t words for what each sound you draw out of his perfect lips does to you, there aren’t words for how each twitch in his expression and each quiver of his body reduces you to something that only wants to admire him and claim him yours.

He doesn’t last, and you certainly didn’t expect him to. Regardless, you lose a bit of yourself -a bit if your heart, maybe- as you watch Ivar’s face contort in pleasure. Head titled back, eyes screwed shut, and almost-painful ecstasy written in his expression.

Your breaths are still as heavy as his as you watch him fascinated as he comes down from his high.

His eyes remained closed for a while, but he doesn’t let go of you, hands firm -even if gentler than they were before- on your hips. You settle against him, unable to keep yourself from pressing a few kisses against heated and sweaty skin and whispering your praise in between those kisses.

Ivar sighs your name, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“That was…” He loses his breath again, as if breathless just from the aftershock of it, from the memory of it, and your smile widens.

Ivar’s hand on the back of your neck brings you closer to him, and he kisses you breathlessly, half a man starved and half a man that lost all his strength.

And you kiss him back, hoping he has found in this something he is as insatiable for as you have discovered you are.

When you pull back, and darkened blue eyes search yours, lips parted and breaths heavy, you find your answer.

You were asked to remain in that cabin for a night, you end up not leaving for almost two days. You were asked to be at Ivar’s side for one night, and you willingly give him all of your nights and days.

____ ____ ____

Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed! Ik this isn’t my best work, but holy hell I am so unimaginative when it comes to smut, sorry! Love ya!!

Btw, I don’t think Ivar would be so comfortable being completely bare on his first time with someone, but I debated with myself whether that particular insecurity is deepened by the events of 4x11 or if it was there from before, because he does go fully nude in canon, so idk. Anyhow, I wanted to keep this somehow related to canon since the person who requested asked for a rewrite of sorts, so completely naked it is.

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