#something something the authors barely concealed interests

[jackals-ships]

ANOTHER THING...i forgot (bc it's very new and im still poking it) is the idea that in l8r acts jackal has a pack of either Actual Hyenas or a 'pack' of other vastaya that follow them around

this is 100% bc i wanted them to do that cheesy villain entrance ft talking about how they had to take their boys for a walk or they get Restless yanno At Some Point,

[thecharacterchronicler]

Snakebite || (Peacekeeper) Coriolanus Snow x Reader ||

Outline: Coriolanus has his eye on the new nurse of the caserne and he’d do anything to have her.

Word count: 5’593

Warnings: Peacekeeper Coryo is a warning in itself, blood, virgin/first time sex (and it’s not gentle), breeding/marking, pain, possessive behavior, rough sex, explicit smut.

Author’s note: If you’ve read my other stories, you know my way of writing peacekeeper Coryo is pretty wild. If not, please take the warnings seriously before reading this one. This is prompt # 4. (sorry I didn’t feel like writing another arranged marriage one for now but I hope this will be good enough.)

“Good to see you back on your feet !” Smiley said, as a greeting when Beanpole entered the cafeteria and joined them at their table.

“We were worried, you hit your head pretty badly on the ground when you fainted today.” Bug added.

Coriolanus watched as his comrade took place in front of him, his tray overly filled with an array of different foods. He was still pale and had a bruise on his forehead from where he had hit the ground but despite all that, he seemed happy. So happy in fact, that Coriolanus wondered if they had drugged him at the infirmary to put him in such a state.

“I’m honestly starting to wonder if you don’t do that on purpose each time we train outside, just so the new nurse gets to take care of you.”

“There’s a new nurse ?” Coriolanus inquired, his curiosity piqued by something finally remotely interesting.

“I think she’s an apprentice.” Beanpole corrected.

“Didn’t you notice the amount of guys lining up in front of the infirmary door these days ? I heard everyone talk about how beautiful that girl is.” Smiley added.

Coriolanus thought about it for a moment but couldn’t really recall noticing anything out of the ordinary. Not that he paid much attention to life in the barracks anyway. Or in District 12 in general. He missed the Capitol and his thoughts often drifted back to his old life rather than focusing on his current situation.

“She really is beautiful.” Beanpole commented, to answer Smiley, with a stupid smile on his face. He may as well have heart shaped eyes from how obvious his crush on the girl in question was.

The other soldiers at the table laughed of their friend’s amorous daze and everyone soon focused their attention back on their meal, knowing that they needed to gain some strength for what the commander had planned for them on the next day.

Smiley and Bug stood up as soon as their trays were empty, but Coriolanus lingered a moment at the table, watching Beanpole stuff his face with green beans and spinach leaves. He wondered how someone who lacked basic knowledge of table etiquette could be from the Capitol too. People there, even poor, were more refined and elegant usually. Was District 12 slowly turning him into some kind of feral animal ? What if it was happening to Coriolanus too ? What if he didn’t remember how to behave properly once he’ll be back in the Capitol ? The thought terrified him, the one thing he had promised himself was that he refused to let District 12 change him.

“Crap, I forgot to ask for painkillers.” Beanpole managed to say, despite his still full mouth.

“Didn’t you have a whole tablet of those in your trunk from the last time you hit your head against a tree ?” Coriolanus asked him, unable to conceal his sucpicious tone. He was wondering if, indeed, the young soldier was faking being of such fragile composure and in weak condition just to be granted extra trips to the nurse’s office. Not that he cared about his friend’s whereabouts, he just cared to know if Beanpole was this good of an actor, able to hurt himself just to get something he wanted.

“I used a few after I burned my fingers when I was on cooking duty and sold the rest on the black market.” He answered, totally and foolishly honest with Coriolanus. He attempted to stand up, his tray still half full but almost lost balance, barely able to catch himself.

“Are you alright ?” Coriolanus asked him, standing up to help steady him, even though he really didn’t want to.

“Yeah, it’s just the concussion.” Beanpole assured him. “I need to go back for some pills and then I’ll go to bed.”

“I’ll walk you there.” He offered, not out of the goodness of his heart but by sheer curiosity for the apparently very pleasant new nurse. He wanted to judge for himself, even though he didn’t expect her to be anything special, his comrades were so sex deprived that their standard barely reached the floor.

With a hand gripping his arm to help him walk steadily, the two peacekeepers made their way to the infirmary, Coriolanus almost dragging Beanpole behind him from how impatient he was to see what was really going on there.

At first glance, it seemed that Smiley told the truth, there were a line of more or less injured soldiers waiting for their turn behind the door, even skipping supper in hopes to be cared for here.

“It might take a while.” Beanpole sighed, ready to join the back of the line.

The door opened and a peacekeeper walked out with his arm in a cast, his face visibly upset but not because of the pain he had endured but because he was escorted out by Flavia, the old nurse instead of the new one. She gestured to the next man in line to enter her office and he shamelessly sighed in disappointment.

Beanpole and Coriolanus barely had time to take a step in direction of the end of the line when the door in front of them opened again, revealing you, wearing a white blouse and your hair tied up in a messy updo.

“Next please !” You called, and a soldier excitedly sauntered in your direction. But your gaze landed on Coriolanus for an instant, before noticing Beanpole leaning onto him for support. “Oh, is the concussion getting worse ?”

Coriolanus had to admit that you were very pretty indeed. Even with the worry that suddenly appeared on your face, you reminded him of the expensive dolls Tigris used to play dress up and hold tea parties for.

“I just need something for the pain.” Beanpole told you, trying to sound self assured but the sight of you made him smile stupidly again.

“He’s barely able to stand.” Coriolanus said because, as time went by, he kept leaning his weight more and more on him and at this point, he was starting to worry that he might have to carry him back to their dorm.

“Come in.” You said, standing aside to let them in the infirmary. There were a few whispers of indignation and protest as they passed by the line of eager soldiers, the one who almost got in taking his place back at the front while glaring daggers at them.

Coriolanus helped Beanpole to the bed placed in the middle of a small room, of which you closed the door and searched a shelf for a file, before stepping to the counter to retrieve some medical tools. He watched you as you carefully shone a light into Beanpole’s eyes, observing his pupils with attention before turning the small flashlight off and on in his face. You scribbled something in the file you had placed on the bed next to him, and exchanged the light for a stethoscope.

As you leaned forward slightly to reach his heart, your blouse hunched up, revealing some of the curves of your body to Coriolanus, who had a very privileged view of it all as he leaned against the wall behind you, his arms crossed over his chest.

He observed you carefully, starting to understand why all the young soldiers in the building were interested in you. There was something about you that was particularly enticing, maybe it was the alluring curves of your body, or maybe it was your pretty face and the way you made sure to be gentle as you examined your patients ? Whatever it was, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to forget it. And, as you turned around to take one more tool from the counter, you glanced at him in a way that made his whole body buzz with electricity, he could tell that you were disturbed by him, by his presence and by his appearance, the same hint of curiosity in your eyes than the one he felt for you.

————-

The sun was shining bright in the sky, yet it still did very little to ease the humidity that saturated the air. Coriolanus was assigned to patrol the borders of the District in the heat, while forced to wear his peacekeeper uniform and helmet, hand on his gun, always prepared. However, for once, it didn’t seem so bad. He knew that if he had a heatstroke and fainted, he might have the chance to see you again and the idea oddly excited him.

Actually, he had been thinking about you for most of the night, reminiscing of the perfection of your body underneath your white blouse and how you had looked at him, even smiled at him once when you had cleared Beanpole to go back to his dorm. He had seen with his own eyes the impressive amount of soldiers lining up by the door with the hope to spend a few minutes in your company and, this morning during breakfast, he had heard a group of them talking about how each of them was planning to attempt to ask you out before the weekend. You truly were the talk of the caserne.

He didn’t like that you had so many admirers, but what claim did he have on you ? He hadn’t even spoke more than a few words to you… And yet, he felt extremely possessive of you. Like you were some kind of precious treasure that should only belong to him. And maybe he had good chances to make everyone else jealous if he convinced you to give yourself to him, judging by the way you had looked at him, all he had to do was ask…

And, just for the sake of not waking up with a very painful and frustrating erection again - after dreaming of you, naked on your exam table for him - he was determined to shoot his shot at you. He knew it only was a matter of time until you’d agree to go out with one of the idiots who probably pestered you about it on a daily basis, so he had to act quickly.

He wasn’t sure of how he could fake a convincing heatstroke. And if he pretended to have fainted, he might stay there on his own all day until someone eventually found him and helped him. So he needed a better idea, something that wouldn’t require him too much theatrics to be convincing. In fact, being in real pain would probably help to coerce you into taking care of him before everyone else.

His fingers danced on the handle of his gun as he tried to imagine how bad the pain could get if he shot himself in the foot or in the knee. It would make him a pretty useless peacekeeper which might grant him a few weeks of forced vacation to recover but he was worried of where he might be sent to next if he wasn’t fit to be a soldier anymore…

He looked around him, seeing nothing but tall grass swaying in the wind and a rocky dirt road leading to a row of delabrated shacks that people from this District called homes. Not much to help with his plan.

Suddenly, something slowly undulating further down the road, moving the peebles on its way caught his attention. He approached carefully, realizing that it was a green snake trying to go back to the tall grass that it could use as shelter.

Coriolanus didn’t know much about snakes. Actually, his knowledge in the matter was so limited that he never would be able to tell the difference between a venomous snake and an inoffensive one. However, it seemed to him that this one was very similar to the one that had bit another peacekeeper’s ankle when they were running laps around the barracks. As far as he knew, the guy was still alive so it might be his best chance to get to see you again.

He kneeled down on the road and tugged the sleeve of his shirt up, offering his entire arm for the nervous snake to bite into. But it wasn’t aggressive enough to gratuitously attack a human being it seemed so Coriolanus picked the reptile up, feeling the cold scales under his fingertips before letting it fall on his bare arm. Nothing happened, except that the animal was now terrified and tried to slither away in the grass, at a surprisingly fast speed.

He barely managed to catch it before it vanished in the grass the same color as it was. He pulled it back to him and the reptile’s head snapped back to dig its sharp fangs inside the soldier’s exposed wrist.

Coriolanus grimaced, immediately pulling on the snake until he was able to pull his fangs out of his skin. He sent it flying across the road, not seeing where it landed as he focused his attention on his now aching wrist and the two dots of blood rapidly bubbling at the surface of his skin.

“Shit.” He breathed, the pain in his arm sharply stinging. It was almost as if he could feel the venom, slowly invading the blood in his veins.

He stood up, applying pressure to the bite so that he wouldn’t bleed too much despite the pain it provoked, and took off in direction of the casern. He was hoping that his plan would work and that he wouldn’t end up being treated by Flavia instead of you but, above all things, he hoped that he wouldn’t die from such a stupid action. You may be absolutely gorgeous but he wasn’t ready to die for that. Not yet.

When he knocked on the infirmary door, blatantly ignoring the queue in front of it, his main concern became reality as Flavia opened. The old nurse’s gaze was strict and unwelcoming, the polar opposite of your warmth and beauty.

“Another heatstroke ? Go wait in line for your turn.” She said, authoritatively.

“No, I was bitten.” He told her, showing her the mark on his now inflamed skin. Even if he was hoping to see you, his bite still needed urgent medical attention and he wasn’t sure he would survive if he had to wait in line before treating it.

Thankfully, as if on cue, your face appeared behind Flavia, eyes wide in surprise.

“I can take care of that, I just finished treating Armstrong’s heat rash.” You suggested and he could tell that you were hoping to see him as badly as he was hoping to see you.

“Alright. I was planning on taking a coffee break after this one, anyway.” Flavia nodded, before disappearing in her own office where a distressed soldier waited for her.

Coriolanus followed into the room where you had taken care of Beanpole the day before, but this time it was his turn to sit on the examination table. You repeated the same gestures as he had observed last time, fetching his file from the overflowing shelf before approaching to examinate his bite.

“Did you see what the snake that bit you looked like ?” You asked, as you ran your gloved fingers over the two deep holes in his skin. He noticed the worry that instantly showed on your face, making him wonder if you truly cared this much about your patients.

“It was green, and pretty small.” He recalled, momentarily forgetting about the pain in his arm because of how close you were to him. He could smell your perfume and see the subtle variations of the specks of color in your eyes from here.

“Mmh, I don’t think it’s a venomous one but it’s probably going to hurt for a few days.” You announced, going back to the counter to take a small glass jar in your hands. Then, you carefully applied an herbal salve to his wound, instantly giving him some relief from the stinging pain that lingered there. “But I only have one jar of this salve so you��ll have to come here so I can apply some to the wound and change the bandages every day.”

“Alright.” He answered, struggling to contain his excitement at your words.

You gently wrapped his wrist up in an immaculately white bandage, soothing the last bit of pain he still felt from the bite. He saw it as the perfect opportunity to ask you what every soldier in this building was dying to.

“I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink with me sometime ?” He suggested, trying to sound as confident as he usually was but his heart was racing in his chest.

You lifted your eyes up to meet his, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“That sounds nice but unfortunately I’m not allowed to do that. The only time I can be seen with peacekeepers without risking my job is here, in the infirmary.” You replied and he silently stared at you for a moment, trying to determine if it was an excuse or if you really would have accepted if your position allowed you to. “But maybe you could spend more time here ? With me ?”

Your voice was hesitant and a lovely blush creeped to your cheeks as you said that, a risk you seemingly were ready to take for him.

“I could.” He smiled, charming as ever. “But how would we pass the time ?”

“Maybe we could get to know each other ?”

His smile grew wider as the vivid images of last night’s dream filled his mind again, visions of you naked for him, begging for his dick, that he was determined to make come true right now. He stood up, stepping closer to you, his hands already tugging at your blouse to get it to slide down your arms.

“I’d love to get to know you more… Intimately.” He whispered, his lips brushing over yours. And, since you didn’t step back or push him away, he finally pressed his mouth to yours, in a chaste kiss that still managed to get his whole body buzzing with adrenaline.

Your professional blouse dropped to the floor and his arms closed around your waist, pulling you into him, where you could very obviously feel the hard bulge that had formed in his pants pressing against your stomach.

His lips moved to your neck, peppering it with wet kisses as he eagerly tried to find the hem of your shirt so that he could pull it off of you and see what was hidden underneath. You let him, even though your heart was about to implode inside of your chest.

He only stopped kissing you to be able to take a good look at your now bare chest in front of him, the sight worth a thousand snake bites.

“Oh gosh.” You whimpered, as he roughly squeezed your boob in his hand, taking a bite at your lower lip to shut you up because you could say anything else.

He probably should have taken his time to enjoy every inch of you as he uncovered them one by one, giving attention to your very appetizing breast before attempting to remove your pants but he was never one to be patient, nor could he possibly renounce to something that he so ardently desired.

“Wait, wait.” You pleaded against his mouth, your hands on his chest to gently push him away but even like this, he had trouble to let go of you.

“What’s wrong ?”

“It’s just that… I wasn’t expecting this. I… I never did this before.” You stuttered, your eyes fixed to his with a bit of panic on your face.

“Well, it’s not that uncomfortable in here.” He remarked, briefly looking around before focusing his attention back to you. You were shorter than him and almost naked, chest bare and pants tugged down to your thighs. All he had to do was reach between your legs and he’d be able to catch a feel of your panties, see if you were already wet for him or if he’d have to work for it. As for him, he was already rock hard, his cock begging to be released out of his pants so that it could be shoved inside you. But he enjoyed being in his uniform in front of you, while you were about to be naked and vulnerable, at his entire mercy…

“No, I mean… I never did it” Your words had the effect of a cold shower over his head, pulling him out of his hungry contemplation of your body and getting his full attention on you. For the second time, he stared at you while trying to decide if he believed you or not, the idea of you still being a virgin making no sense in his mind, how could you be ? You were far too gorgeous to not have had many opportunities to lose your virginity to someone in the past, even here, soldiers lined up at your door every day, desperate for your attention. Surely one of them would have convinced you to do it by now. Or at least, if you were so concerned about the rules, some coal miner from your district or a free spirited muscician would have done it.

“You… How come ?” Was all he managed to say, the question burning his lips since it seemed entirely impossible to him that you’d still be so innocent and unaware of the pleasure you were missing out on.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I guess I wasn’t interested enough in anyone to go this far…”

Coriolanus couldn’t help but smile at your answer. He felt insanely pleased imagining you refusing all these filthy miners and weak soldiers. You had standards. And you definitely were the only person that he had met in District 12 who was this reasonable.

“I can show you what it’s like if you want me to.” He suggested, trying to sound detached but the idea of being the one to take your virginity, the one to corrupt your innocent body, was making his cock ache in his pants.

You seemed hesitant, looking around at the office. He could understand that it probably wasn’t how you had imagined your first time would happen, not here, not with him. Yet, when your pretty eyes landed on him again, you quietly nodded.

He had to be cool about, appear as if it was a regular thing for him, like he had done it before many times and would be doing it again with other girls, but his blood was boiling with excitement. When he had asked you out for a drink, he was expecting to have to work for it. He would have been proud of being seen with you at The Hob by all the recruits lining up for your attention, and he would have made sure to charm you into taking things further, probably in a dark alley outside where no one would have seen your perfect body except for him, but where surely some people would have heard how good he was making you feel.

Unable to wait any longer, he reached down to open up his pants and free his hard erection from his underwear, stroking it in his hand, enough to get it to develop to its full length but not too much, in case he might cum just from the way you were staring at it, with wide eyes and shock on your face.

“You’re so big, I’m not sure I’ll be able to do this.” You told him, worried.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to take it.” He assured you, with a proud smile on his face. He always liked when women noticed how well endowed he was. Even better when it made them nervous. “Sit down on the table.”

You obeyed, even though you still seemed very uncertain. He pulled your pants and panties down your legs, discarding them on the floor so that you really were completely naked now, beautiful and vulnerable.

“Maybe it’ll work if you enter just the tip.” You suggested, and an amused chuckle left his lips.

“Alright.” He agreed, but only to reassure you. He had no intention of depriving the rest of his length from entering you so you would have to take it fully eventually.

“Okay.” You sighed in relief but your body remained tense as he approached and forced your legs open. He held his cock in his hand and gently stroked your exposed folds with the tip, groaning from the pleasant warmth and wetness that instantly coated his sensitive skin.

He knew he should have been a gentleman about this and made sure that you were ready for him but he simply couldn’t wait. His desire for you was consuming him, he needed to have you and that instantly made him forget how cautious he should be to make sure the experience would be enjoyable for you too. So he lined himself up to your entrance and pushed forward.

“Just the tip.” You reminded him, your entrance stretching out for his wide dick, causing a sharp burn in your lower stomach.

“Right.” He said, with a smile, as he kept increasing the pressure that already felt unbearable inside you, very slowly but surely pressing his hips further against you.

“That’s too much.” You cried out, tears welling in your eyes.

“You can take it.” He said again, because one way or another, he was going to break that dam inside you and then, he’ll fuck you until he’ll be close enough to mark you as his with his cum.

“No, I really can’t.” You replied, your voice breaking. Coriolanus felt a pang of guilt in front of your distress, the grimace of pain on your face and the tears silently rolling down your cheeks weren’t exactly what he had imagined when he had fantasized about taking you on this examination table.

“Just try to relax.” He instructed, momentarily putting his eagerness and need for relief aside to focus on you. He pressed his hand between your legs, his thumb finding your sensitive spot and gently massaging it to ease you into it, mixing the pain of his intrusion inside you with the pleasure of his caresses.

With two fingers, he opened up your folds so that he could see his big cock shoved halfway inside your tight and aching pussy. He could see it sliding further inside inch by inch, his way of teasing your clit seemingly helping your body accept him.

And then, suddenly and without any warning, your pussy engulfed him. You cried out once more, as something inside you was teared apart to allow him to finally be completely buried in your tight warmth. Your arms instantly closing around his neck for support. He almost came from this alone, the force with which you clenched around him from the pain you felt almost making him dizzy.

“What’s going on ?” You asked, panicking. “Why did that hurt so bad ?”

“Your pussy just swallowed my cock on its own accord. Because despite the pain, you want me to fuck you, right ?” You want to feel me inside you, want me to show you what real pleasure is.” He explained, breathless, doing his best to calm down before his ejaculation might end this all too soon. “Say it, tell me what you want.”

“I want to feel you…” You told him, wincing when he started pulling away.

“And ?”

“I want to have an orgasm. I want to be fucked until you have one too.”

“Fuck.” He groaned, realizing that his plan to calm himself down by getting you to talk to him was failing miserably. He almost entirely pulled his cock out of you, only to shove it back inside slowly. As eager as he was for relief, he now wanted you to enjoy it too.

The more he gently slided back and forth inside you, the more your face eased back into a peaceful expression, the pain visibly fading as he tried his best to replace it with pleasure.

“Look how well you’re taking me now.” He told you, and you both looked down to his impressive cock, his length coated in your arousal and faint traces of blood as it went back and forth at a peacefully steady rythym. As tight as your entrance was, he still fitted inside you, managing to hit deep.

“Am I bleeding ?”

“Yes, but that’s normal, that’s how we know you’re no longer a virgin.” He explained, even if you probably knew that already.

“Is it going to be like this every time ?”

“No, now that I broke you in, you’re going to enjoy it when someone fucks you like this. You’ll be able to take it fast and rough with a little bit of practice.”

“Is this how you like it ? Fast and rough ?” You asked him, curious.

“Most people do.”

“Will you help me get used to it then ?”

“I already am, sweetheart.” He replied, his hands gripping your thighs to bring them up against his hips and give him better access to you. His movements amplified as his rocked his hips more rapidly now and you pressed your forehead against his, still fascinated by the way you could see his hard cock disappearing inside your folds and slamming deep inside you.

You closed your eyes, feeling something powerful building inside of you. A loud sound that carried the whole intensity of the pleasure that he was giving you escaped your lips. Your eyes widened and you covered your mouth with your hand, embarassed.

“Don’t, I want to hear you.” He told you, moving your hand away and pinning your wrist to the table. “And I want everyone outside to hear you too. Let them know I’m the one taking your virginity.”

“But… Flavia.” You warned him, breathlessly.

“She said she was going to take a break, she’s probably at the cafeteria.” He replied, trying to reassure you but in reality, he had no idea of what the other nurse was up to. He knew that you were risking your career if you got caught by anyone in such a compromising position but it didn’t really matter to him, not now, because he was pretty sure that if anyone bursted inside the room in hopes to interrupted him, he’d still keep fucking you until you truly belonged to him. Now that he had started, nobody would be able to stop him.

You didn’t object. You couldn’t. He could tell from the way you arched your back and rolled your eyes that there wasn’t a single reasonable thought in your head anymore. You needed relief as badly as he needed it too and that was exactly what he intended to give you.

“Oh… It’s starting to feel really good.” You panted, your nails digging in his shoulder to steady yourself as his thrusts grew a bit more brutal.

“Good.” He groaned, making sure to slam himself as deeply as he could inside you. Damnit you felt too good, he wasn’t going to be able to restrain himself much longer, the tightness of your virgin pussy around him and the knowledge that he was the first one to ever penetrate you so deeply was too much and relief instantly washed over him as warm cum spilled from his cock into you.

Fuck.

“Oh !” You exclaimed in surprise, not because he had climaxed without giving you a warning but because his twitching cock unexpectedly pushed you over the edge too. You were shocked by the strength of the orgasm that hit you, imploding in your core like a firework and washing over your entire body, ensnaring him inside you in reaction.

You moaned again, the pressure around him caused by your own climax felt unbearable. He was trapped in you and the contractions of your body were so intense that he groaned and felt his cock shoot another load of his seed inside you.

A moment went by during which only the sound of your panting breaths filled the room. Then, you relaxed and he was able to pull himself out, both of you watching as his soaked length dropped out of you. He adjusted his uniform, making sure he was presentable again as you did the same, putting your white blouse back on as if nothing had happened.

“I… I’ll need to take care of that bite again tomorrow.” You told him, still a bit breathless as you walked him to the door.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” He promised, with a grin.

Everyone stared at him as he walked out of the office. He smugly smiled at the line of soldiers and stood straighter, feeling extremely proud of himself. Not only had he managed to fuck the new nurse everyone was after but he had also taken your virginity and marked you as his. Of course, the soldiers waiting in line had no way of knowing that your blood was still on his cock and that his cum was probably dripping down in your panties by now but, if they were observant enough, they might notice how you were leaning against the door for support because your body was sore, or the trace of faint lipstick you had left on the collar of his peacekeeper uniform.

♡ - (( Tip Jar )) - ♡

[hyuny-bunny]

camgirl!reader x skz (OT8)

moodboard, character inspo, settting ideas, just a post for the imagery that comes to mind when i'm writing.

NSFW

MDNI (18+) this is nsfw work in progress, this post has suggestive ideas AND with works of (18+) content below the cut.

authors note/ update: read the prologue here !

camgirl!reader has always been interested in sex work! her roomate, sana, is the one who really brings into the sex work industry. she invites reader to join her and her girlfriend on a live stream one night. concealing her identity with a masquerade mask at first

camgirl!reader works at a restaurant as a waitress, barely scrapping by on the tips she makes. when sana introduces her to the camgirl world, reader really sees the true advantage and beauty of the industry. the sex is fun and the money is even better.

camgirl!reader has only ever confided in sana with her double life style. she can't help but feel anxious at the idea of her work friends, or even worse, her crush on head chief, Minho, finding out. it didn't matter to her that almost everyone knew that sana had a stream, she was terrified of how people would look at her.

little did she know, two of the younger servers already knew her secret. seungmin + jeongin always had their own little crush on her but would never think to expose her that way if she didn't want to share her hobby/2nd job ! of course it didn't stop them from telling their tightly knit friend group that included, minho. of course the other half of their group didn't even know who reader was since they worked in cafe down the street from the restaurant but they definitely knew her camgirl channel well.

it's not that minho didn't care though, he just didn't believe it. he thought the camgirl just looked insanely good and had a very similar look to you but not you exactly. maybe a part of him felt guilty at the thought of how many times he'd had jerked himself off watching this camgirl while thinking of you. only to then turn around the next morning and make flirty passes at you every time you came by the kitchen.

camgirl!readers streaming room

moodboard for readers cam room

reader likes the coquette hyper fem persona for her cam girl alter ego. it's not something she normally would wear for everyday life but there's something thrilling about saving this kind of look for sex work activities. it gives reader the confidence boost she needs to wear such cute and frilly lingerie. she'll often switch up her looks for darker more sultry colors depending on what type of mood she's in, after all she's a switch!! she can't stay conformed to only one look but the room will mainly keep this energy.

readers wardrobe outside of the stream!

this style is not indicative of any physical attributions that reader has. these are just wardrobe inspired clothes! reader has more relaxed "cool girl" inspired sense of fashion opting for baggier or looser fitting jeans with grey knit sweaters paired with docs or loafers. occasionally switching out jeans for skirts and or even a cute black babydoll dress.

her style is often most noted by jeongin, he loves the look almost idealizing in his head what his dream girl dresses like

readers neighborhood + apt visuals

you apartment is on the 2nd floor of this building. sharing a floor with jeongin + seungmin, on the floor above you is chan + changbin + jisung, and on the first floor just below you is felix + hyunjin + minho.

let's just say you put a lot of effort into how you sound proof your camera with layers of carpet and sound proof foam lining the wall with foam pieces to mute as much as you can after receiving a note about being a little too loud.

[avelera]

Thinking about blasphemy and Good Omens right now and I can't help but notice an interesting phenomenon around some discussions I've seen about the Second Coming and Jesus Christ being a character in S3.

Namely, I see much more underlying discomfort around the possibility of the show poking fun at the figure of Jesus Christ than I do with any other prediction discussion or discussion around religion in the show.

On the one hand, I completely understand how poking fun at the Antichrist dogma from Revelations doesn't feel particularly blasphemous, where poking fun at Jesus does. The Antichrist is a stock character of horror at this point. Many more disrespectful teams than Gaiman and Pratchett have played with that story. It's barely even considered poking fun at Christianity to have Adam, the son of Satan, be a good kid in Good Omens. But Jesus is a very important figure to Christians all over the world. There are devout Christians who truly love Jesus and no one wants to be a jerk by just outright disrespecting a figure that is dear to so many.

But on the other hand, expecting Good Omens to not make fun of Jesus is a bit absurd to me. Literally saying, "I don't think the satirical religion show is going to satirize religion because it might upset people." Gaiman hasn't shied away from messing with religion or religious bigots before. He gleefully shrugged off attacks over God being a woman, or Adam and Eve being portrayed by people of color.

The Book of Job is lampooned in Season 2. I know it doesn't feel like it to many people here, but the reinterpretation of the Book of Job in S2 definitely registers as blasphemy on some religious scales. It is satirizing a religious text after all.

Saying that angels and demons fall in love and worse, have that love be portrayed by actors of the same sex could be seen as blasphemy at the very least on the level of saying God is a woman. And by the way, it's not like these religious texts say "God is whatever you want the entity to be" or "God is a woman if that makes you happy". Hell no, the Bible is extremely damn clear on God being male. The official position of the Catholic Church is that God is male. Official Catholic dogma is incredibly anti-female in terms of inherent holiness, women cannot become priests, even nuns are dependent on a priest to deliver the Sacraments, it's a huge deal and they are not planning to change any time soon and it is totally unambiguous.

Making God explicitly female might not seem like a big deal since films like Dogma, another religious satire, did it in the 90s but to True Believes in the official doctrine, that is a form of blasphemy.

Good Omens is by definition a blasphemous work. How offensively blasphemous it is really depends on the devoutness of the viewer. And I find it interesting the extent to which there's something of a knee jerk, "Oh they won't do that!" in terms of further satirizing religion in the show about religious satire. As if Jesus hasn't been satirized in other mainstream movies before like the aforementioned Dogma or Life of Brian.

And here's the thing, my personal opinion is? Blasphemy is good! Blasphemy laws on the books mean it's ok to punish, hurt, or even kill a person for making fun of religion or just doing the religion wrong. Human progress has been frozen in place by blasphemy laws, sciences have progressed when blasphemy laws ease or often while deliberately concealing their efforts from authorities in places where blasphemy laws or laws that were otherwise based on the dominant religion exist.

If anything, I am actually a bit uncomfortable with the idea that Good Omens should hold back on lampooning a figure like Jesus Christ. If devout Christians will make laws that determine what other humans can do with their bodies based on their religion, then their religion should absolutely be open to outright mockery without punishment or ramification to anyone. Of course on an individual level I wouldn't wish to be offensive to someone sincerely religious but at the same time, I am also violently anti-censorship of any kind. And blasphemy and religious mockery are often right at the heart of censorship debates.

The world is a better place when we can openly mock religion.

I'm not going to caveat that as an opinion. Being able to openly and without fear discuss, criticize, and mock religion is an incredibly important part of any free society. The battles over this right have been vicious and bloody and are actively ongoing around the world. Just as an example, anti-blasphemy laws were on the books in Ireland until 2020, there was a huge campaign to have them removed because other countries were pointing to them as an example of why they should keep and exercise such laws.

My point is that I suppose this is something of hyperbole or alarmist or overly strident. I can understand people wanting to be decent about not openly mocking a figure of such importance to so many like Jesus. But quite honestly? I hope Good Omens does whatever it pleases with mocking Jesus. I hope they don't hold back. I hope people remember that being able to mock religion is really important, especially when representatives of that religion are actively trying to clamp down on the rights of others.

And honestly, if religious people are offended they should just not watch or they should develop a thicker skin if they expose themselves to such discourse. Religion and Christianity in particular is an active part of the public sphere. It is worthy of discussion. Public discourse often includes mockery, especially of the powerful and of powerful forces that steer the course of nations, like Christianity.

And I think it's important for Good Omens fans, who are a very progressive group, not to cherry pick and moralize over what satire or blasphemy is permitted. All satire should be permitted. All blasphemy should be permitted. The religious bigots don't care if you think God being a woman is ok but making fun of Jesus isn't. It's all the same, anything but glowing praise is criticism to some of these forces. Open discussion is far more important and yes, that includes mockery, and silly discussions in a silly show about an angel and a demon who avert the Apocalypse and fall in love.

[0bticeo]

may the odds be in your favour | coriolanus snow x fem! reader

series masterlist.

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5.

chapter summary: blood will have blood.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

there’s silence. there are twenty four gazes pinning you down to your seat. there’s coriolanus snow, blue eyes a shade darker than they were before you started talking. you meet his gaze and sense something shifting. it’s in the way he leans a tad bit closer, lips parted as though to speak – no. to taste.

wc. approx. 2000 words.

cw. sexual tension. probably innacurate anatomical description. manipulation. reader and coriolanus being assholes. death threat (implied). religious imagery. sleep deprived author.

weeks pass. snow greets you every morning at your front door and extends his arm to you until you have no choice but to link it with your own. occasionally, he brings a rose, gently tucking it in the lapels of your coat. in your hair, fingers gently brushing your cheek. in your breast pocket. 

you know it to be a blatant claim. here you are, proud descendent of the ash dynasty, allowing him to own you. you tell yourself it’s only for a few months. that, whatever the outcome may be, there’s no way that damned prize will escape you. you ignore the growing ache between your thighs, the way you lean into snow’s touch when he leads you back home. 

let him think he’s playing you like a fiddle. let him think he’s turned your own game against you. let him think, and weaponize the truth to your advantage. 

you have very few things left to your name. pride is one of them. you won’t discard it for his name.

what you will do is this. you will sit next to him in class, head held high, legs crossed under your skirt. you will not pretend you’re not enjoying the way his gaze burns into you whenever you turn one of his arguments against him in rhetoric class. oh, rhetoric.

etched in white remnants of chalk against the blackboard is the question you’ll have to treat today. there’s silence in the class, as you all take it in.

what are the hunger games for?

date’s fourth of february. in five months, maybe, you’ll get an answer that doesn’t rely solely on theory. that doesn’t rely on the minds of know-it-all, privileged bastards whose only experience of life has been luxury. for now, your only choice is to take your seat next to coriolanus snow and lean back ever so slightly, trying not to roll back your eyes.

they talk, all of them. felix ravinstill, arachne crane. 

the hunger games are a proud display of savages from the districts—to remind us that we are better than them.

clemensia dovecote. lysistrata vickers.

the hunger games are a reminder of what befalls the districts. that they should not stand against the capitol.

sejanus plinth.

it’s barbaric.

at that, your attention shifts. you focus on him, the one from district 2. the one whose father’s wealth was enough to bring to the capitol. the one with the dark curls and passionate fire in his eyes—he dreams of justice and fairness. interesting.

he doesn’t talk. no, he argues. finally someone who understands the noble art of rhetoric.

“putting them in an arena to fight—they’re doomed the moment their names are chosen! it’s inhumane, having them slaughter each other for our own entertainment!”

you watch him, cheek cradled in your palm. he’d make a good lawyer, you muse. the naive, righteous type. 

you watch the others. the way arachne crane rolls her eyes so far back in her skull you think they’ll stay stuck. the way felix ravinstill snickers, barely conceals his disdain for the district boy, for daddy’s precious boy. it’s palpable, the way they all disregard him. doesn’t matter if he’s wealthier than half the class—he’s district.

“what about you, ash?”

fucking snow.

you glance at him, from the corner of your eye. he’s been watching you, too. wonderful mise en abîme. you watch them, he watches you. who watches him? are you all being watched?

ah, he’s waiting. they all are. as if your opinion matters to them. as if it matters at all. but you have to put on your usual show, display your wit. so you lean back against your chair, lips drawn in a sharp, sharp smile, and say:

“why, it’s a dreadful reminder of human nature is all.”

there’s silence, then. twenty-four gazes are on you, and they’re waiting. 

what are you, a messiah?

snow smile, judas dressed in red.

“go on, ash.”

you do, martyr thrown to the lions.

“so far, the general sentiment has been that we’re better than them, those savages from the districts—don’t look at me like that ravinstill, i’m only quoting you.” 

you pause. you can’t outright tell them they’re influenced by a centuries-long tradition of countless philosophers. you’ll lose their interest.

“we think they’re savages. we see what we think is proof—footage of the games, of how they use anything at their disposal to slaughter themselves for our own entertainment, as plinth wonderfully put it.”

you nod in his direction and watch the glint of confusion is his eye, perceptible even from afar. poor boy will be torn to shreds if he doesn’t learn to conceal his emotions better. this is the capitol—worse arena known to panem.

(you think of your father’s flesh being torn by a man-beast’s bloody teeth in what was supposed to be a beacon of civilisation. you think of the dark abysses of his eyes, of the silent promise in them – you’d be next.)

you intend to make that fact known to those oblivious to it.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

there’s silence. there are twenty four gazes pinning you down to your seat. there’s coriolanus snow, blue eyes a shade darker than they were before you started talking. you meet his gaze and sense something shifting. it’s in the way he leans a tad bit closer, lips parted as though to speak – no. to taste.

“those are bold words from such a young lady, miss ash. you shouldn’t speak so lightly of such grave matters.”

you realise that in the brief time your gaze met snow’s, your classmates have looked up. up towards esteemed casca highbottom who stares you down, short silhouette all-encompassing. there’s something in his tone that makes your blood boil.

you smile, sweet and sharp.

“then maybe we shouldn’t brooch the subject in rhetoric class, sir.”

the odds switch and twist and turn with each passing second. you might get a glimpse of what’s in store in the way the dean’s hand trembles as it reaches in the recesses of his robe – morphine.

he gulps down the contents of the small vial in one go.

“class is dismissed for today.”

when you leave the room, you feel the weight of his gaze like a knife between your shoulder blades.

you don’t like the feeling of it.

**

philosophy’s only worth it if you’ve got someone to discuss with. unfortunately, you don’t. rhetoric class doesn’t count. after the dean’s impromptu interruption, you don’t get to debate. not anymore. instead, he makes you pour over law texts – capital punishments for traitors. you think of it as a warning and keep your mouth shut.

what you do enjoy is anatomy class. which is why you’re currently in the library, pouring over a heavy tome, nibbling on your lip as your fingers trace over the shape of a drawing. it’s beautiful, an inked figure detailing the different veins in the neck. jugular. internal. external. carotid artery. dorsal scapular artery. your finger follows the pattern, lips parted in an inaudible murmur as you stare ahead. inferior thyroid vein-

“what are you doing?”

fucking snow.

you have half a mind to throw him an annoyed glare and go back to your drawing.

“what does it look like?”

he raises an eyebrow. inquisitive bastard, that one.

“studying. badly.”

this time, you raise your head.

“and does the great coriolanus snow have a better way to memorise the anatomy of the cervical region? enlighten me.”

he slides on the bench next to you. close. close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him. to smell him. roses, as usual. the same fragrance of the roses he gives to you each time he notices one withers away. (you don’t tell him you’ve kept them. each of them, pressed neatly between the pages of what books remain of your family’s once grandiose library.)

he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his neck. pale as snow. how very fitting.

“well? Where’s the external jugular?”

you let out a chuckle and move closer to him, until your fingers trail down his neck, following the path of his vein.

“what’s next, snow?”

he gulps, adam apple bobbing up and down ever so slightly. Leans into your touch as he glances down at the book – your fingers dig into his neck, until you feel his pulse, quick as the fluttering wings of a jay bird.

“inferior thyroid vein.”

there’s no pattern to the veins he’s asking you to map out on his skin. your fingers move slightly to the left. if you squint, you can make out its contours, faint blue line under the pale, pale skin. You wonder if you’d see it better if you’d blow on it. you do, softly, until you feel his breath catch in his throat – he coughs.

“next.”

“anterior jugular vein.”

you chose to start your path from the bottom, lightly pressing your finger over the button of his shirt – not yet undone, this one. you trail up.

“next.”

“external carotid artery.”

you chuckle at that. Ssomehow, you’ve moved closer to him. His hand has come to rest on your hip, steadying you as you trace the patterns that make up his life. you look up at him. he meets your stare, stark blue eyes darkening. pretty, deadly eyes.

“do you know the difference between the jugular vein and the carotid artery, snow?”

you move to his jaw, pressing your fingers lightly against the bone, until you’re all but cradling his face between your hands, a breath away from his lips.

“tell me.”

“the carotid’s harder to reach with a knife.” you lean forward. his eyes dart to your lips. “however, If i were to succeed, it would take you two minutes to die.”

when you lean back, you’re the one smiling.

"thank you for helping me study, snow. it's been most... enlighting."

[sweetsweetjellybean]

Oh sweet sweet jellybean... How about a caption for this baby? 💋

I know this was probably meant to be fratboy!Steve but this one just kind of took root. I do have a second request with this photo specifically for frat boy so keep your eyes out for that. I hope this one is still okay and you enjoy it!

Hot For Teacher – Blurb

“What are you boys doing here this late? Is that a flask in your hand, Mr. Harrington?” As you cross the parking lot, the click of your heels on the asphalt punctuates each word. The ache in your calves matches the one growing behind your eyes. It’s been a long day – a long week, for that matter and the last thing you're interested in is dealing with any more students, especially cocky basketball players who think they're above the rules. 

“Let’s go, give it to me.” Extending your hand, you close the distance.

“I’ll give it to you.” The voice comes from the crowd—Harrington, Tommy H, or one of the others whose names don't seem worth remembering. Their eyes, glassy and brimming with swagger, barely conceal their snickers.

Your expression hardens, a practiced look of authority taking shape as your hand finds its way to your hip. “You with the glasses, you’re about as smart as you look, aren’t you? Wipe that smile off your face.” 

Their laughter fades, eyes shifting downward, lips pressed tight in a failed attempt to hide their amusement—except for Harrington. As your gaze settles on him, he stands taller. His posture defiant – hat on backwards, an eyebrow arching in challenge. Meeting his gaze without a word, you extend your hand once more. 

He hesitates before pressing the smooth metal flask into your hand, his fingers lingering longer than necessary against your wrist. Locking eyes with him, you unscrew the cap and bring the container to your nose. Bourbon – warm and smoky, not the cheap stuff. Procured from his father's liquor cabinet, no doubt. You stretch your arm to the side and turn your wrist. The rest of the alcohol pours onto the ground, eliciting a round of groans. 

“Is there any more?” You ask, tossing the flask back to Steve. “Empty your bags. Now.”

Murmurs of complaint ripple through them, as they fidget and shift in a vain attempt to stall.

That’s when Harrington steps forward, his confidence on full display. “Come on, teach. We’re celebrating our win. Where’s your school spirit?” He asks, turning up the charm with his best, winning smile. “You could stay and have a drink with us.”

“Excuse me,” you huff out on an incredulous breath as he edges forward. 

“It could be fun,” he suggests with a shrug, “You’re not that much older. Live a little. Let that pretty hair down.” 

His hand rises toward your temple, but you're quick to bat it away. “Have you lost your mind, Mr. Harrington?”

His eyes roll, amusement lingering in his smile. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, “We could go somewhere else if you want. I could drive you home after.” 

Your mouth drops open at his audacity, but it only eggs him on. “You know what you’re doing. Running around in those tight skirts that hug that ass just right. I’m sure you thought about it.” He takes a step back, his eyes traveling up and down your body before his lips twist into a smug smirk. “I know I have.”

The air seems to thicken as the moment stretches, quiet enough to hear a pin drop until the scuff of a sneaker kicking at the crumbling blacktop has the bubble popping. “Well, I hope running laps will give you something else to think about. I’ll be letting Coach know all about this little celebration. Now take a step back, Mr. Harrington.” 

His hands raise in surrender as he retreats back to his friends. 

“Now, if you all aren’t out of my sight in the next five seconds, it’s going to be detention for the rest of the year.” They probably know your threat is empty. You have as little desire to sit in an empty classroom after school hours as they do, but they scatter anyway, unwilling to test the waters any further. 

Your arms cross over your chest as you watch the cars their parents pay for kick up dust on their way out of the parking lot. With a tired sigh, you head back to the school to grab the last box from your classroom. Your steps echo in the empty halls. You pause when you catch sight of yourself in a mirror bolted to the wall. Slowly, you turn, looking over your shoulder at your reflection. A small smile curves your lips upwards before you continue down the hall, adding a little sway to your hips. 

[kittenofdoomage]

Sweetheart

Summary: Sometimes he's a hunting partner, sometimes he's... something else.

Pairing: John Winchester x female!reader

Word Count: 2060

Warnings: Backseat of the truck smut (including fingering, dirty talk, full penetrative sex), teasing, very little in the way of plot - 18+ content.

Ao3 (over 800 fics to read!)

Author's Note: Yeah, I know I don't post much here anymore, but I'm having a crappy day, and I feel like some other people might be having crappy days too so I thought some John PWP might cheer someone up, I dunno 🤣

You had always prided yourself on your ability to cope without anyone else around, but there was something about John Winchester that kept dragging you back to his side, although this time it was the final death of your beloved Camry that had put you firmly in the passenger seat of his truck. He had been fresh off of a ghoul hunt, and you were planning on chasing down a spirit in Kentucky - turning down his help would have been rude. It didn’t hurt that the man was pretty to look at, even if he was hard to get a read on. The last few times you had hunted together had ended in some of the most fantastic sex you could have ever imagined but since he’d come to your rescue, he had barely looked your way.

“Have I pissed you off?” you asked, watching him from your side of the front seat.

He spared you a glance that lasted only a second, and his lips twitched as if they wanted to curl into a smile. “Not at all, sweetheart. It’s just been a long few months.” You pulled a face, looking out of the window at the rolling corn fields, illuminated by the setting sun. John chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “Was I giving you the impression you had?”

“I dunno,” you sighed with a shrug. “You’re normally a little more… interested.”

“We got a thousand miles to cover,” he pointed out. “I figured you’d wanna get some shuteye.”

“I’m good for a few hours.”

“You can put the radio on if you want.”

He wasn’t getting it, though you hadn’t met a man yet that was good with hints. Sighing again, you leaned forward, switching the radio on and fiddling with the dial until you found a station playing something you liked. John didn’t seem to care about the music, focusing on the road ahead as it darkened once the sun had disappeared behind the corn.

Finding a motel on the back roads he was taking was next to impossible, so when he pulled onto a secluded side road and parked up a few hours later, you didn’t complain. The truck had a back seat in addition to the front bench, and he gave you the choice of which you wanted, and it was all you could do not to suggest sharing. Instead, you climbed over and tried to get comfortable underneath a blanket, attempting to actually sleep when all you wanted was laying less than two feet away.

Your fantasies were running wild, leaving you uncomfortably aroused, replaying the last time he’d actually touched you over and over in your mind. It wasn’t in you to come out and say it, to ask him for what you really wanted, and your fingers itched to take care of the problem, the little devil voice in the back of your mind encouraging you on, promising he wouldn’t notice, though you probably wouldn’t have minded if he did. Still, you didn’t move, glaring daggers into the back of the seat concealing him from your sight.

After your tenth heavy sigh of frustration, you heard him shift. “You okay back there?”

“Mmhmm.”

A beat passed, then he moved again, dark eyes suddenly peering at you over the top of the driver’s side of the bench seat, one eyebrow quirked high. “You don’t sound okay.”

Your mind scrambled for an excuse, avoiding the obvious answer of telling him the truth. “It’s a little cold,” you mumbled, shrugging lightly.

He huffed out a tiny laugh, then disappeared from sight, rocking the whole truck a second later as he hoisted himself over the top and into the back of the cab. You squeaked when he tugged you out of the way with a gruff “scoot over” and settled behind you, warm arms encircling you from behind.

“Better?” he asked.

You shivered at the close contact, feeling him press along the whole length of your body, one hand splayed possessively over your belly. Outside the truck, it started to rain, drops splattering heavily against the windows. “Yeah,” you breathed, hoping he couldn’t sense the quiver in your tone.

“Shame we didn’t come across a motel,” John murmured, hot breath fanning across your throat, the sensation making a beeline to your cunt and your insides clenched. “This ain’t so bad though, right, sweetheart?”

Forcing your eyes shut, you closed your eyes, trying not to think about how easy it would be for him to take you like this. His body was so warm against yours, and even with the material between you, you imagined you could feel his cock pressing into you from behind, inspiring a fresh wave of moisture at your core. John’s nose brushed the shell of your ear, and you couldn’t help the tiny noise that escaped your lips, a moan he didn’t miss.

“What was that?” he asked with a playful tone, the hand on your belly slipping just a little lower.

“Nothing,” you exhaled, shaking your head.

“Hmmm, it didn't sound like nothing.”

He was fucking with you now, you were sure of it. “I can’t sleep,” you complained, still keeping your eyes closed. He hummed again, lips on the back of your neck now, hand gently tugging your lower half harder into his body. “You’re too…”

“Too what?” he teased.

You groaned, finding it increasingly hard to resist the urge to grind back against him. “John,” you mewled, almost choking on air.

“Thought you were cold, sweetheart?” he grunted, pulling your ass flush with his crotch, letting you feel the outline of his erection through the fabric of his pants and yours. You gasped, grabbing the edge of the seat underneath you as you let your body react, pushing back into him.

“Stop calling me that,” you whined.

“What, sweetheart?” He chuckled, lips against your ear again. “Why would I do that when I know how fucking wet it gets you?” The moan you let loose this time was louder, and he laughed, letting his fingers brush underneath the front of your pants. “You think I didn’t notice you squirming away all day? What were you thinking about? Maybe the last time we saw each other?” You nodded, biting your lips when his fingertips crept underneath your waistband. “Hmmm, it’s been on my mind too.”

You writhed in his hold, desperate for his touch to be lower, but he seemed intent on teasing you. Another needy gasp of his name made him laugh again, and you whimpered, pinned in his strong hold. His fingers made short work of the buttons on your jeans, bypassing the thin cotton panties covering you until he was brushing against your wet folds, a low moan reverberating against your ear.

“Goddamn, I forgot how wet this sweet little pussy could get,” he rumbled. “Haven’t forgotten how good you felt wrapped around my cock though, sweetheart. Been losing sleep thinking about it.”

His words made you whimper, and you arched your back as a single fingertip found your clit, circling it as he pressed his lips to your neck. He kept moving his hand, inspiring a shudder that ran up the length of your spine before descending again, and when you parted your thighs to try and give him more room, he chuckled.

“That’s it, sweetheart.”

The pet name did exactly what he wanted it to do, and you felt your entire body tighten in anticipation as his hand dug further into your pants, two thick digits finding your soaked entrance. He didn’t hesitate, sinking them into you as far as he could, restricted by the denim but still enough to make you cry out his name in ecstasy. When he pulled his hand away in the next moment, you went to protest, only for him to tug at your pants until they were slipping over your hips.

“Get these off,” he ordered, and you rushed to obey, barely noticing him reaching for his own belt. The backseat of the truck was bigger than the average car, but it still restricted your movements, and it took a few seconds to push your pants down, kicking your sneakers off so you could discard them entirely. John didn’t even bother with his boots, shoving his pants down to his ankles before lifting, forcing you to roll onto your back.

You looked up at him breathlessly, aware of his cock pressing against your inner thigh. “John -”

“Ssh,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss you as he reached between your bodies. Instinctively, you lifted your knees, parting your thighs as much as you could, moaning when you felt the thick head of his cock brush through your folds. “You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked, teasing you with the threat of penetration, letting your slick coat his skin.

You couldn’t force the words out, nodding as you stared up at him wide-eyed, feeling the throb in your core. He grinned, kissing you again as he pushed forward, breaching you with one hard stroke, burying himself deep inside. The sound you made was muffled by his lips, and you threw your arms around his neck as he slipped his hands underneath your shoulders, letting his weight pin you down. It was almost suffocating but only in a way that made you feel incredibly satisfied.

He remained still for a moment, looking down at you with an odd look on his face, but you were too drunk on him to give it much thought, squirming in an effort to make him move. When you whined needily, John grinned, rolling his hips into you to let you feel how deep he was. “Impatient?” he chided softly, kissing along your jaw.

You keened quietly, glancing up at the window as the rain got a little harder against, seeing nothing but darkness beyond the glass. “Something like that,” you whispered back, sliding one hand across the back of his neck to pull him into a deeper kiss, rocking your hips to encourage him to move.

He finally started to withdraw, sinking in again before he could escape the clutch of your slick channel entirely, and you moaned on his reentry, trying to find purchase on the leather with your feet. When he slammed into your sweet spot, your toes curled and you moaned into his mouth, breaking the kiss to cry out.

“Gonna get you in a bed tomorrow night, sweetheart,” he panted, moving faster, harder, punching the breath out of you with each thrust. You released your hold on him to grab at the headrest with one hand and the door above you with the other, whining through the build up of pleasure as he lifted enough to get better leverage behind his strokes. It was too easy to come apart for him, but he wasn’t satisfied with how quickly you broke. His hand dipped between your bodies, and when his thumb brushed your clit, you cried out, bucking onto him, tossing your head back.

“John!” you gasped, chest heaving.

He grinned, rubbing the tiny bud with the calloused pad of his thumb in time with his thrusts. “Just let go,” he crooned. “Gimme everything you got.”

With a high-pitched cry, you came, arching up as you clung to the headrest. John growled, taking the opportunity to slide his arm underneath your back, fucking you through your orgasm almost like you were a ragdoll. His climax was hot on the heels of yours, drawn out by the pulsing of your walls around him, and he groaned into your throat as he spilled into you, slowing to a stop as his seed dribbled out around his shaft.

Both of you were still and silent as you came down from your respective highs. He nuzzled at your throat, slowly letting you fall back onto the seat, still buried deep. You made no attempt to move, content with the weight of him inside and on top of you, warm from head to toe.

“You said something about a bed,” you mumbled, rolling your head to look at him as he gazed at you.

“Tomorrow night,” he replied, smoothing his hand over your shirt to cup your breast through the fabric. “As spacious as this truck is, I wanna see you all spread out for me.” He leered as you moaned, cunt clenching around his renewing erection. “Sweetheart.”

I love feedback, btw 😘

[siren-in-the-shadow]

Twisted Fate: Cazador X Reader

Chapter 5

Mentions: She/Her, Series, Slow Burn

Word Count: 2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cottage looked like something out of a storybook, snugly nestled within a patch of wildflowers. Smoke drifted lazily from a stone chimney, and the sweet scent of herbs lingered in the air. Every corner of the cottage seemed draped in something charming—a wreath of dried lavender on the door, little hand-painted pots of herbs on the windowsills, and a quaint wooden sign above the door that read, “Knock, and enter as friends.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up with wonder. “Isn’t it adorable?”

Cazador scowled, looking entirely out of place amidst the cottage’s charm. “Adorable isn’t the word I’d use.”

They stepped up to the door, which opened before they even had a chance to knock. Standing there was a rotund, robed figure with twinkling eyes and a disheveled shock of white hair. He held a steaming cup of tea in one hand and offered them a friendly wave with the other.

“Welcome, welcome!” the wizard boomed, his voice deep and full of warmth. “Well, don’t just stand there, come in, come in! It’s no good lurking on the doorstep like lost ducklings.” I’ve just put the kettle on. Mint tea, anyone? Or are you more of the ‘mystery brew’ type?”

Y/N stifled a laugh, charmed immediately, while Cazador looked around with barely concealed disdain.

Y/N paused at the threshold, her heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and apprehension. She glanced around the cozy interior, taking in the myriad of trinkets and bubbling concoctions that filled the space. “I’m really sorry for coming unannounced,” she said, her voice steadying as she met the wizard’s warm gaze. “We didn’t mean to disrupt anything. We’re in need of help with something important.” Her expression turned earnest, the weight of their predicament reflected in her eyes. “I hope it’s not too much trouble to ask for your guidance. It’s... a matter of some urgency.”

The wizard beamed at Y/N, his eyes sparkling with kindness. “Oh, no worries at all, my dear! I live for helping those in need!” He waved his hand dismissively, as if to brush aside any concern. “It’s not every day I get visitors, especially ones who seem so eager to learn.” He stepped back, gesturing for them to enter. “Now, come in, come in! Let’s see what we can figure out together.”

Meanwhile, Cazador stood slightly apart, arms crossed and an unimpressed look etched across his face. He rolled his eyes at the wizard’s overly cheerful demeanor, muttering under his breath, “Of course he loves to help. Who wouldn’t want to play the part of the kind old wizard?” His skepticism hung in the air, but he kept his thoughts to himself, not wanting to dampen Y/N’s newfound enthusiasm.

Cazador stepped forward, his posture shifting from indifference to authority as he addressed the wizard. “We’re here because we’ve been cursed,” he said, his voice steady but laced with frustration. “Both of us have these sigils carved into our wrists.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the intricate mark that bound him to Y/N. “We don’t know what they mean, but they cause us pain when we get too close to each other. It’s... unacceptable.”

The wizard’s brows furrowed in concern as he leaned closer, examining the sigils with great interest. “Cursed, you say? That’s quite troubling indeed. I’ve never seen markings quite like these before.” He looked up at Cazador, his expression shifting to one of earnest curiosity. “And you’ve come to me for help? Ah, how delightful! We can certainly explore this further together.”

Cazador nodded, his jaw set in determination. “We need to understand what this curse means and how we can break it,” he stated, his voice steady but edged with urgency. The intensity in his gaze contrasted sharply with the wizard’s earlier cheerfulness, creating a palpable tension in the cozy space. Y/N stood beside him, sensing the seriousness of their situation as Cazador took control of the conversation, his posture unyielding and assertive, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

The wizard nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the weight of Cazador’s words. “Ah, I see. Let me get my glasses; I’ll need them for this.” He turned and shuffled toward a nearby shelf, rummaging through drawers filled with an assortment of oddities—scrolls, trinkets, and a rather bewildering collection of colorful stones. “They’re always in the last place I look!” he muttered with a chuckle. “Or maybe it’s just that I forget where I put them! You’d think I’d learn after all these years.

As the wizard searched, Y/N gazed out into the wizard’s backyard, where colorful wildflowers danced in the gentle breeze. A soft giggle escaped her lips, and Cazador’s gaze shifted to her. He watched her, momentarily captivated by the way her body relaxed, her chest rising and falling gracefully with each breath. His shoulders instinctively relaxed for a few moments, the tension of their predicament slipping away just a little as he took in her unguarded joy. But he quickly masked the brief moment, returning his focus to the wizard as he resumed his search.

After a moment of rummaging, the wizard emerged from behind the shelf, his round glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He adjusted them with a grin and waved Y/N over, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Ah, there we go! Now, let’s take a look at those sigils again, shall we?”

Y/N stepped forward and joined Cazador, standing close beside him as the wizard approached. He leaned in closer, examining their wrists where the sigils were etched into their skin. The wizard’s brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the patterns with his finger, a mix of curiosity and concern on his face. “Fascinating… very intriguing indeed,” he murmured, glancing between the two of them.

Cazador stood resolute, arms crossed, his gaze steady. Y/N could feel the tension in him, even as the wizard continued his examination. “What can you tell us about them?” Cazador asked, his voice firm yet tinged with a hint of impatience.

He reached out a gnarled hand, his fingertips brushing over the faint, intricate sigils that shimmered faintly on their skin. His eyes widened slightly, a spark of intrigue lighting up his gaze. “Ah, fascinating, fascinating! This is some very old magic, indeed. The craftsmanship is remarkable. Could bind two people together for a lifetime… or perhaps just a week! Or a season or two. Hard to say, really.” He peered up at Cazador, his face full of innocent curiosity. “Tell me, does she always have that spark in her eye?”

Y/N bit back a laugh, finding the wizard's antics charming. However, she noticed Cazador's jaw tighten visibly at the wizard's comment. He shifted in his chair, his eyes narrowing into a piercing glare. “Are you actually capable of reading this sigil, or are you just wasting our time?” Cazador's voice was low, but the urgency was clear.

The wizard chuckled, seemingly unfazed by Cazador's intensity. “Oh, my dear boy, this is ancient magic—one your old man cannot even decipher! I would never waste your time. However, I’m afraid I’m not quite familiar with these particular markings. What I do know is that they’re steeped in powerful magic, and for that, we need to consult someone far more experienced than I. You’re in luck I know a friend!”

Cazador's frustration boiled over, and he stepped closer, his voice a low hiss. “Are you telling me we’ve come all this way just to hear that? We need answers, not riddles! If your friend is the only one who can help, then we need to go to him, now.” His eyes narrowed, revealing the raw intensity of his frustration as he glared at the wizard.

Y/N could sense the tension building in the room, a stark contrast to the cozy charm of the cottage. She placed a hand on Cazador’s arm, attempting to calm him, but he remained fixated on the wizard, unwilling to let go of the urgency that drove them here.

Y/N looked up at him, her expression softening. “Hey, take a deep breath,” she said gently. “Did you really expect the local wizard to cure us, just like that? This is bigger than we thought…” She paused, searching his face for understanding, hoping to ground him amidst the whirlwind of emotions. “We need to approach this with a clear head.”

Cazador hesitated, the fire in his eyes flickering for a moment. He clenched his jaw, fighting to temper his impatience, but Y/N’s calm demeanor made it slightly easier to breathe.

Cazador let out a slow breath, visibly attempting to rein in his emotions. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he straightened his posture. “Fine,” he said, his tone begrudging but more composed. “What do we do now? Where is this friend of yours?”

The wizard’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and he rubbed his hands together as if warming them by an imaginary fire. “Ah, splendid! My friend lives in a quaint little village not too far from here. He’s a bit eccentric, but his knowledge of the arcane is unmatched—trust me, you’ll find him quite helpful.”

Cazador remained stoic, his brow furrowing as he considered their next move. “Where is this friend of yours?” he repeated, cutting through the wizard’s exuberance.

The wizard beamed, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Oh, it’s a lovely little place called Baldur’s Gate! You’ll find a wealth of knowledge there.”

Cazador's expression darkened, and he muttered a curse under his breath. “Really? The farthest village from this one?” His tone dripped with disbelief, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Of all places, it had to be Baldur's Gate?”

Y/N glanced between them, sensing the rising tension. “Cazador, if this wizard truly has the cure we’re looking for, then the journey will be worth it… right?”

Cazador shot her a sidelong glance, his expression laced with irritation. “Baldur’s Gate is full of watchful eyes, and now we’re set on a long, winding path to get there. We’ll have to tread carefully the whole way, especially with…” He trailed off, the weight of their predicament pressing down on them both.

The wizard, seemingly unfazed by Cazador’s agitation, chuckled lightly. “Oh, my dear boy, you worry too much! Baldur’s Gate has its dangers, sure , but it also holds opportunities. Knowledge and power are found in abundance there. You’ll be safe if you keep your wits about you.”

Y/N nodded, trying to lift the spirits around them. “If we’re making this journey, we might as well enjoy it. I’ve heard they have the best butter beers in Baldur’s Gate!”

The wizard interjected, his voice bubbling with excitement. “Aha! That’s the spirit! Together you are a force! And who knows, perhaps your journey will lead to more than just answers. Adventures await!”

Cazador let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples. “Yes, but it’s not just about us anymore. The sigils… whatever they mean, they could attract unwanted attention. I’d rather not waste time on a long journey when all I want is to get to the bottom of this without drawing too much notice.”

Y/N chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. “Adventures, huh? Like what? Getting chased by a dragon?”

Cazador shot her a mean look, half-amused despite himself. “Let’s hope not.”

The wizard waved his hands dramatically. “Oh, but wouldn’t that be something? You’d have quite the tale to tell over a cup of tea!” He beamed at them, clearly unfazed by the prospect of danger.

Cazador let out a loud sigh, his annoyance palpable. “Great, let’s just grab what we need and get moving. The sooner we leave this delightful spot and head to a city teeming with prying eyes, the better. I can hardly wait.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors Note:

Thank you for reading !

Posted this Chapter from my iPhone, hope it looks aight haha

Please like/reblog if you enjoyed :)

-Siren

[zakalwe-the-ninth]

Kiss prompt! I’d be interested what you’d do with either #49 or #42. But if those are both hard, you could try #22, which might be easier?

Lots of choice, thank you @lewistheeditor! Because I apparently don't like an easy life, I went with 42, 'out of pride'.

I'm not entirely sure this was what the prompt intended, but it's my interpretation!

The Spark - 1.3k words, Teen and Up, established relationship, no warnings, no angst, just introspective fluff!

The Rat’s Chamber is loud this afternoon; representatives of the city’s largest guilds are seated down one long side of the table, and each man studiously avoids looking at the axe buried in the lacquered wood before them.

Vimes sits alone, on the other side of the axe. Vetinari muses on the probable symbolism of this from his position at the head of the table, where he listens to the raised voices with increasing - yet well-concealed - irritation.

The argument has been going on for some time, and Vimes is getting laid into from all angles. He is, however, defending himself deftly against every accusation and thinly veiled threat that is lobbed in his direction.

He is lobbing a fair amount of his own back in return.

Vetinari would be willing to intervene, but he knows absolutely that to do so without invitation from Vimes would be highly detrimental to their…relationship.

The word relationship evokes an odd feeling within him. Vetinari cannot recall the last time he had cause to use it in regard to himself; at least, in the manner it refers to now.

That is, an intimate relationship.

Thinking of it in those terms gives him a small thrill, and as Downey demands to know what Vimes is planning to do about…well, something that evidently has him very irate, Vetinari wrestles a small smile to prevent it from taking over his lips. He leans forward and covers his mouth with his hand, as an additional layer of protection against intrusive glances.

He tries very hard not to stare at Vimes, ignoring the colour in the man’s cheeks and dilation of his pupils that indicate he is very much riled, and the clenched fists that show he is fighting every impulse to act on it.

But the image is reminiscent of seeing the man in other – more intimate – ways. The way he looks when Vetinari has him spread, flushed and dishevelled, on the bed. Or, on one memorable occasion, on the table before them.

The fingers covering his mouth tap distractedly against his lips.

Vetinari hears his name mentioned and briefly drags his focus back to the argument, but it seems no one is awaiting his input, so he returns his attention to Vimes.

He has to remind himself, sometimes, that Vimes was not born into this. He had no noble upbringing; no elite education. No upper-class role models to instil the confidence that comes from believing you are the most important person in every room.

Some element of it must come to him naturally, then, instead; ingrained within his nature. The people in this room are some of the most powerful individuals in the city, and yet Vetinari has never once seen Vimes intimidated by any of them.

By anyone, in fact. Not even Vetinari himself. Because even before he became part of the nobility, Vimes showed respect to authority only in a kind of abstract way; when it was required for him to keep his job. As an alcoholic, barely keeping himself out of the gutter, he would still go toe to toe with the likes of Rust and Downey.

On two very memorable occasions he has even arrested Vetinari.

A man who would arrest his absolute ruler; what could you do with such a man, if not elevate him? Execute him? Of course not; what a waste, that would be.

Vetinari listens to Vimes tear Boggis apart over a spate of unlicenced thieving, and muses that ultimately, he had to promote the man to give him a social status that finally matched the fire that burned within him.  

At times like these, Vetinari finds it fascinating to light the man’s touchpaper and then stand well back; a strange pride swells within him to see Vimes skilfully cut through the bluff and bluster.

He is filled, suddenly, with an urge to somehow convey that to Vimes.

Thankfully the meeting is coming to a close, or at least, everyone is finally tired of shouting at one another and has quietened down. Vimes seems to have won, but the others would undoubtedly insist it had not been a competition.

Vetinari raises an eyebrow and finally speaks. “Thank you, gentlemen. This has been…enthralling. I look forward to discussing it all again next week. For now, however, you may leave.”

There are glances exchanged at the abruptness of the dismissal, but no one is in the mood to argue further. The men get up and start to shuffle out.

“Commander, would you remain for a moment, please?”

Vimes frowns with suspicion, but stands still behind his vacated chair while the great and the good file out past him. He looks ready for round two and as soon as they are alone, he turns to the Patrician and immediately starts talking.

“Look, I’m sorry. But they were talking bollocks. Downey has been up my backside for weeks about that assassin I arrested, and Boggis needs to bloody remember who does the real policing in this city – ”

He stops then, because Vetinari has swiftly covered the distance between them and has a very distinctive look on his face.

“Ah…?” Vimes gets out, and then Vetinari is pressing him back against the table, one hand in his hair and the other gripping his hip to hold him in place as he kisses him.

Vetinari’s kisses are usually fairly reserved, to start with – though admittedly, they don’t tend to remain that way for very long. This one, however, starts out as anything but; it seems watching Vimes hold his own against the guild leaders has sparked something in him and so he kisses Vimes like he might be able to consume him.

Vetinari makes a mental note to examine that more closely, later.

Vimes is evidently surprised at the turn of events, but he always did adapt quickly. He takes a second to gather himself and then kisses back, leaning into the contact, his fingers clutching Vetinari’s hips tightly and pulling him closer.

They stand like that for a long moment, until Vetinari pulls back. They are in a public space, after all, and it wouldn’t do to get caught. That may give the guild leaders enough ammunition to come at Vimes in a way he couldn’t defend himself against. If that were to come to pass, Vetinari would be forced to intercede; Vimes’ pride be damned.

He is musing on this while Vimes blinks and gathers himself.

The man gives an embarrassed cough, his cheeks flushing. “Right. I mean, that was…unexpected. I thought I was going to get a bollocking.” He hesitates. “I mean, it was good, though. I’m certainly not complaining.” A small frown crosses his brow. “I thought you had a rule, no funny business at work?”

Vetinari raises an eyebrow. “What good is being a tyrant if you cannot break your own rules?”

Vimes just glares at him, and Vetinari sighs. “You handled yourself very well during that, Vimes. It merely spurred me to demonstrate my…appreciation…of you.”

The commander narrows his eyes. “I nearly launched Downey out of the bloody window.”

Vetinari smiles. “I am aware. And yet, you did not.” He feels instinctively that if he tells Vimes he is proud of him – not just today, but always - he will risk defenestration himself, and so he does not share that particular feeling.

Vimes grunts, but still looks suspicious. “Alright.” He looks vaguely around the empty room. “Don’t envy you dealing with this bunch every day.”

Vetinari puts his head to one side. “Some days they are easier to deal with than others, Commander.” When you are beside me, he does not say, and files that thought away for later consideration, too.

For now, however, Vetinari redirects the talk back to matters of state until Vimes is officially off the clock, at which point there is much less talking altogether.

[valentine-writes]

hiii would love to see anything about miguel or spot!! if it’s not too much trouble!

in a good way.

「 tws + notes: no tws, unedited, might be ooc, almost all fluff, ok maybe a little angst but nothing crazy, pining becuz im a sucker for the chase, they are Yearning 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. miguel o'hara/spider-man 2099 and the spot/johnathan ohnn

author's note: I LOVE U ANON!! IT IZ NO TROUBLE AT ALL!! i hope these suffice,, plz 4give me if miguel's part is lackin just a bit!! im workin on writing him more accurately (*ﾉε｀*) <3 and y'all ATE UPPP the hcs for the spot last time so,, i hope y'all end up liking these too!! (also psstt,, usually i take into acc reader's personality here but since nothing specifically was requested, i'll try to keep it vague! sorry if certain parts aren't what you'd like!!)

MIGUEL O' HARA headcanons:

"i didn't know i was capable of being happy right now / but you showed me how"

▸ he's already lost,, a lot. this man is someone who had lost everything he had ever loved in pursuit of keeping it with him

so when he finds himself growing attached to you?? he feels like it's something he simply can't afford

he's doing everything to make sure he doesn't end up too attached, that you never get any closer to him

however– overtime, he finds that you are unavoidable. whether you're doing it on purpose or subconsciously, you always manage to pull him back to you.

just when he thought he had finally left you behind for good, you lure right him back in.

▸ i've seen a lotta hcs saying he's like,, smooth w/ it and stuff– BUT... part of me thinks that he doesn't have a clue about what to do with his feelings towards you

and he is far too prideful to ask for any sort of help or advice from anyone.

...so does it take an immense amount of time for him to even consider that it's okay to wanna be close to you? yes.

but he's weak for you. he knows it. part of him really, really doesn't want to be. but he is. and though he tries to convince himself it's not evident, it doesn't take a genius to realize it

▸ especially because miguel allows more to slide if it's you. this especially manifests in touching.

while miguel's not all "ew don't touch me" he doesn't really care for brief, friendly touches. this is different when it's you.

he might be speaking to you after a mission. while he talks, you're silently tracing the tips of his fingers with your own, observing his hands like they're the most interesting thing in the world.

"are you even listening to me?" he questions. there's a slight hint of irritation in his voice, his brow furrowing slightly. this expression of his softens almost immediately as you look up at him, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"...your talons," you comment quietly, "they're retractable. that's cool."

he makes no effort to pull his hand away from yours. maybe he even secretly hopes you'll do it again sometime.

▸ miguel might be haunted by loving and losing from his past. but maybe loving you isn't such a bad thing. maybe it's a pain he's willing to endure. he'll try for you.

for you, it's worth it.

▸ OK GETTING LESS SERIOUS HERE. so i understand in atsv his fangs are retractable. but in the comics, it's noted that he tends to open his mouth very little when talking to conceal them.

i love this first of all.

now, miguel's not necessarily insecure of his fangs or his teeth (which are slightly crooked because of the new growth of his sharpened canines) but i imagine that he finds it easier to just keep them hidden and avoid any questions.

if he has to explain he's not a vampire to someone again he'll genuinely explode

"morning, migs–" you greet casually. another sign of his lenience towards you– he lets you give him nicknames.

"morning." he mutters back, just barely audible to you

you blink at him, trying to process what he said. "huh?"

"i said, good morning." he repeats, still mumbling without much of a volume change.

"damn, okay, okay– what's with all the grumbling? something got you stressed?" you're aware your question is stupid. knowing miguel, who always finds something to stress about– even at 8:30 am

he shakes his head this time, much to your surprise.

"i'm not grumbling." miguel insists.

"sounds to me like you are."

("nuh uh"

"fym nuh uh–")

miguel– when not bossing people around– is out here, mumbling and grumbling in casual conversation

and you're the one who's trying to remind him to speak up.

▸ no matter what relationship you're in– friendship, queerplatonic, romantic, whatever– he's generally a bit more reserved about it.

he sees it like this: if you two are close, why would it be anyone else's business?

however a certain holographic companion and her big mouth (which i wanna kiss oh so sweetly i heart lyla) ends up making a little joke about you two in front of a few other spider-people

lyla's casual abt it– saying sumn like, "don't mind him, he's being grumpy because his favourite isn't around."

name-drops you before miguel can tell her to shut up– and everyone's like "?!?!?!"

and the word SPREADS

▸ but like. is it really too much of a surprise? more than often, he finds himself trying to check up on you to see how you're doing.

"just making sure you're fine." is his weak little excuse just to see your face and hear your voice again.

when something is just mildly wrong though... he's the type to scold while taking care of it.

"i'm fine," you shrug, trying to rub some warmth into your arms, "just a little cold."

"i told you to bring a sweater." he groans, looking around for his.

those seemed to be miguel's favourite words sometimes: "i told you."

"i know..." you mumble sheepishly, staring at your shoes.

before you can say anything else, he drapes his sweater over your shoulders. "next time, i'm letting you freeze."

you look up at him with a little smile, mouthing a quiet "thank you" to him.

(there is no next time. he lets you keep the sweater.)

▸ ok one last headcanon cuz im obsessed w/ the little details abt this man. so. canonically (and i love this) HE DOESNT HAVE SPIDER-SENSES LIKE MOST SPIDER-PEOPLE.

instead, he has elevated super-human hearing and vision. but– (if you're like me) when this information is revealed to you,,, the immediate thought is to mess w/ him as much as possible.

trying to sneak up on him and startle him has become a common game between the two of you– so much so, that he's almost expecting you to be around every corner he passes if he hasn't seen you in a while.

he catches you before you get the chance on occasion. you forget to hold your breath and he hears you. your heart is beating hard, out of the sheer adrenaline rush of hiding and he picks it up. maybe you didn't notice that you're not fully concealed.

each time, he'll sigh exasperatedly and pull you out of your hiding spot.

"you think you're so funny." his grip is still on you, and though most would read his expression as annoyed– you catch the slight glimmer of amusement in his eyes. you're just lucky he finds your antics endearing.

on the chance you do manage to genuinely catch him off guard, he curses loudly, immediately going on defence mode

"shocking hell," he groans, upon seeing it's just you, "i was going to web you to the wall."

miguel probably does accidentally web you at some point. "play stupid games, win stupid prizes" he'd say.

(he might act like you're a complete headache sometimes- but ur his headache <3)

THE SPOT/JOHNATHAN OHNN headcanons:

"you make me wanna cry in a good way"

▸ he finds an excuse to talk to you always. (SINCE WHEN DID "I WANNA HEAR YOUR VOICE" NOT BECOME A GOOD EXCUSE) calling you up, messaging you– if you give him permission, he'll ramble a ton to you. about physics, the multiverse– anything he's passionate about.

it means the world to him if you ask him questions about it, actively engage in the conversation, or even just showing that your listening by welcoming his endless chatter. he even tries to impress you with his knowledge. he wants to be perceived as cool in your eyes so bad. craves admiration,, or at least appreciation. and nothing makes him feel more admired than you listening to him talk.

but he's obviously not tryin' to talk your ear off and bore you to death. he wants to hear your voice too– and takes genuine interest whenever you decide to ramble back with whatever's been in your head recently– maybe it's something you find particularly interesting, a piece of media you really like, something you're passionate about– he'll pay attention and listen to every word.

you get a turn and he gets a turn! ´͈ ᵕ `͈

if you happen to share a common interest– whether it's because you got him into it, he got you into it, or you both just liked it in the first place– the back and forth about said topic will be as endless as you want it to be

▸ the type of guy to bump into you constantly while you walk with him (is this also a habit of mine? we'll never know...) and it is PURELY unintentional. he can't walk in a straight line to save his life

he's walking with you casually, and all of a sudden, his shoulder will crash into yours, nearly knocking you off balance

he fumbles over his words a moment, reaching out his arms to catch you– and he manages to break your fall. he regards this as a very smooth move on his end, in spite of the fact he was the cause of you nearly eating pavement

"sorry! i'm so sorry– are you okay? i mean, yeah, you probably are. i caught you. you're welcome–"

"my hero." you reply, with a playful roll of your eyes, giving him a light smack on his arm (earning a little "ow" and a nervous chuckle from him) as you restabilize yourself.

▸speaking on his little “ow haha” moment… headcanon that even though he’s not really all that sensitive, he reacts like he is. the type of guy to say “ow” at every minor discomfort.

he has a mild headache? actually his brain is melting inside his skull and he needs to whine about it. he has a cold? he’s literally dying. when he’s comfortable with you, he’s comfortable enough to complain– even about trivial things

he's well aware it's not actually the end of the world. he's just silly enough to act like it is. very reactive fella :>

totally the type to exaggerate just to see you react,, he thinkz itz funny–

"oww,," he whines, rubbing his arm where you'd just given him a light punch, "you're so mean to me."

you try to stifle a laugh. "man, c'mon. i didn't even hit you that hard."

"it's gonna bruise :((("

"can you even bruise in uh..." you trail off, staring at the his post-collider incident body, white and spotted with black portals "...your state?"

"ok now that actually hurt."

▸ he's more selfless with you. ohnn often finds himself wanting to do anything in his power to make you happy. anything for you. anything.

may be just a teeny bit insane about the way he carries this out, but it's mostly innocent and sweet gestures

like, if you casually mention wanting something, he'll 100% dimension hop just to bring it back to you.

and while you know that he's probably stolen it,,, you can't find it in yourself to blame him. he's got the purest of intentions. his demeanor changes from nervous and awkward to proud, as he presents you with the thing you were just talking about a few days ago.

“no way, dude!” your eyes light up, taking the bag of candy (or whatever you like if you're not a big fan of sweets) he just presented you with, “i haven’t had these in ages-  i swore this was discontinued, though. where'd you get them?”

“i have my ways.” you can hear the dorky grin in his voice.

he loved watching your face light up in excitement over even the simplest of gifts.

▸ feels like he's holding you back sometimes. he's well aware that his situation means that you two can’t really be in the public eye. it hurts him to think you could be living a completely normal life if he was just never in that stupid collider… or if he let you go, so you could find someone else

he’d never break up with you though. he feels too selfishly about you– if you’re gone from his life, who else could love him the way you do?

sometimes, these thoughts and worries keep him up at night. expect late night conversations, his face buried in your shoulder as he holds you tight, as if he’s scared you’re going to slip away if he lets go.

there are nights where he has a hard time believing you really wanna live like this.

“hey…” you whisper, pulling away slightly so you can look at him. you gently grab onto his jaw, tilting his chin up so he meets your gaze.

his entire frame is trembling, leaning into your touch. he doesn’t speak.

“you know you’re irreplaceable to me, right?”

he melts at the tenderness of your voice, the patience you have with him. he pulls you in just a little tighter. your comfort never fails him.

▸ TRUST ME WHEN I TELL YOU THIS MAN IS 100% FOR YOUU. on your side. always.

someone was mean to you? they're an asshole and he hates them.

someone was condescending towards you? they're an idiot and they've got no clue who they're talking to.

but if someone dares to bother you beyond just making you mildly irritated and/or upset– if someone makes you cry?

DAWGGG,, ALL HELL IS BREAKING LOOSE. nevermind if you insist you're fine or that you can deal with it yourself. he's asking for full names, addresses, details– he's revenge motivated. anything for you.

▸ ok moving onto normal fluff for the last bit (ﾉ)'ω`(ヾ)

corny. corny. corny.

he's incredibly endearing with his earnesty as he tries to expresses his adoration for you... but also very cheesy and dorky when it comes to showing you affection.

it's sickeningly sweet, the way he stammers over every compliment, trying to explain how much he loves every bit of you.

giving him a genuine compliment back to shut him up has him nearly fainting.

johnathan likes getting verbal reassurance and praise,, but he's much better at showing his affection via physical touch– of course, only if you don't mind. doesn’t wanna make you uncomfortable!!

but if you're comfy, he ends up craving physical affection as well– i talked abt this in these headcanons but IM BRINGING IT UP AGAIN AS PART OF TOUCHSTARVED JOHNATHAN NATION.

one day, you're leaning into his side sitting close to him on your couch. your cheek rests against his shoulder while your fingers are gently tracing his arm up and down, brushing against his skin with a feather-light touch, absentmindedly. he squirms a little beneath your touch, the room being too quiet for his liking.

"so... what are you doing?" he asks, glancing over at you.

"guess." you reply, not looking up.

you're tracing... something. he can't seem to get why though.

"oh uh- okay." he thinks for a moment, a bit puzzled. after a second, he perks up, piecing it together slowly in his head.

"are you tracing a letter?" johnathan asks curiously.

you nod silently.

"okay, okay– uh... L?"

another nod.

"O?"

nodding again, there's a small smile on your face.

"V? ...oh–" he chuckles slightly, now understanding what you were spelling.

he's amused at your strange way of affection. guess he isn't the only one capable of being sappy.

you laugh softly, finally tracing an E on the skin of his forearm, followed by a U and a little heart <3

"you could've just told me, y'know." in spite of his words, he knows that he likes this. you and your silly ways of showing that you care. the ways you tell him that he's cherished.

you huff, giving him a light smack on his arm. "you're no fun." your eyeroll does little to conceal the grin growing on your face.

he flinches from the playful hit. "owww..."

(YOU TWO ARE SILLY 2GETHER!! SILLY NATION!!!!)

[essayofthoughts]

If you're still interested in taking asks for the games you reblogged how about 4, 21, 22 and 🔥 for Percy?

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

Book. Book. Give me a book. I want to know Percy's internal monologue if possible, or at least how he was with his family prior to the Briarwoods, and I think a book would be a great way of showing the fun nuances of that given we won't get anything like that on stream.

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I mean I think the obvious choice is that I love to poke at his trauma but also like...

I like to provide a small change and try to figure out how it'd affect him? Partly because small points of divergence are fun for me, but also partly because Percy is an overthinker and also someone who comes to conclusions and then rationalises them to himself, not always realising the inconsistency between his emotional conclusion and the actual facts. Percy loves to portray himself as rational and reasonable and he almost never is! He has reasons for what he does and what he thinks is best, but he's also a lot more emotional than he wants to think he is, and I think that's interesting. Percy's brain is a big old thorny mess and I like to really get into the weeds with that, to pick apart how he thinks and why he thinks it, where his logical errors are and where he remains consistent.

I don't think there's anything in particularly I dislike? I mean, I don't tend to write crack, but that's more because crack isn't where my skills lie, it's not to do with Percy. When it's to do with Percy... I mean my goal is to write a good story and sometimes that means geode method-ing it - to find out what a character is made of, first you must break them. Which I think leads on to the next question-

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to this character? Something you don't like?

Because something I don't like is stories which deny Percy's capacity for awful. I dislike the fandom propensity for woobiefication and how many fics just have him simp for Vex and ignore the ways he can be kind of awful, and neglectful of his sister and just generally kind of a mess. I also hate just...

Okay this is layered but, there's this habit in fandom, largely by people who I think are either inexperienced writers or just inexperienced with trauma to... flatten it. To make the ability to relay a narrative easy, to make triggers simple and obvious and the reactions similarly clear cut.

But the thing is... it isn't? It's way more fucked up and messy? We see Percy in canon try to relay events and it's choppy and erratic and disordered - trauma messes with your memory! And yet I see fics which have Percy just blandly exposit his trauma to Vex, no ums or ahs, no pauses, no hesitation, no chewing over his words or trailing off to silence as the memories overtake the present. There's ones where they have Percy perform anxiety and trauma when encountering people a part of things, and yet it's nothing like what we see in canon - his seething anger with Stonefell, his razor's edge calm at Ripley (that's barely concealing screaming terror within). There's none of his capacity for total irrationality (again, Ripley) and it's...

I don't think it's intentional on the part of these authors. I don't think they realise just how much of a shit job they're doing. But at least to me, with my own trauma - it doesn't feel remotely reflective of 1. My own experiences with trauma and that kind of shit and 2. With what we see in canon.

Instead it feels like someone playacting something they don't remotely understand - like a child. And that's fine for the people learning about it, but for people who've got their own experiences and who like to read about similar experiences for the catharsis of seeing a character overcome it or the relatability factor or anything else - it can feel weirdly mocking? Dismissive? Like the author doesn't care enough to actually think about how those kinds of events affect someone. It's like they think our stories make good stories - but they don't care enough to portray it accurately.

And, again, I don't think most authors do this with malice, I think it's pure ignorance, but that doesn't stop me hating it.

On the flipside, I really love stories which actually tackle Percy's trauma and bullshit well.

I also... and this is much more petty, but I dislike the portions of fandom that like to make Percy some kind of sex god, or even overtly horny. Percy is very restrained and very internal that we see, and he's easily flustered. When Scanlan makes a joke about him having syphilis when he has his cough early in the Briarwood Arc Percy's flustered response is along the lines of once! Vex makes a point that Percy has improved because he's good at learning and knows when to listen. He was a nerd who explicitly had nothing to do with court - he's not the kind of person who was likely to go fucking around before the Briarwoods and after the Briarwoods he had awful, personal, visceral trauma and violation from being tortured, as well as dissociating to shit! I highly doubt he fucked around after! It seems likely to me that he has very limited sexual experience and also was someone who was deeply flustered by a lot of sexuality for some time - he notably relaxes once he's getting some on a regular basis which very much suggests to me that if he had more experience, he'd be less flustered!

There's also that Percy is very much someone who overthinks. Who hates himself for his own terrible thoughts and ideas. I'm sorry, but I can't see him easily fantasising about someone he knows - Percy strikes me as the kind of person who'd think even a wet dream about someone to be terribly rude and an imposition. He hates his reflexive awful bad ideas, the Ripley of his brain, he was raised posh and noble with rigid etiquette expectations - I think Percy's sense of propriety probably extends even that far. Repression is a hell of a thing.

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.

Percy's a dick, no not a dick like that, no, not a misunderstood woobie, Percy's kind of an arrogant rich wanker and that's half the fun of his character. As I say above, there's a lot of people in fandom who just want Percy to be cool and kind of ignore his capacity for awfulness or petty bullshit, and also who ignore his capacity to be a dork or a fucked up uni kid! He's a traumatised man in his early 20s, he's basically a fucked up uni student! Percy wants people to think he's cool, but this man is a nerd! He invented guns! Don't make him cool! Make him a dork!

A huge swath of fandom is wrong about Percy and I remain narky about it.

Character Ask Game | Send “🔥“ for an unpopular opinion | Ask Box

[writingsofwesteros]

#haunting with lust

Bit of a combo with the names but thoughts on Warren??? Matches well if we think he’s a sneaky bastard son of Lyonel and is Harwin and Larys’ brother…

-

The Targaryen girl relaxes into the plush fabric of the library’s chaise, her nightgown concealed by a hefty embroidered robe. Even in a relaxed state, the girl is clearly a highborn lady, exuding regality and poise. And yet, the words in the book the girl laps up would be nothing expected of a highborn lady. She had struggled to choose a book for her late night escapade, instead her eyes resorting to flitting across the spines hoping to find a spark of interest. She had almost given up when she saw one book. No title or author, only a deep purple cover. A curious flick through the pages had her pausing, heart racing as she scanned the words. Never had she read such provocative sentences or seen such customs written in such… vivid detail. And now as she lay on the chaise, she wished to never tear her eyes from the scandalous writings.

That’s how the Strong bastard finds her; A slight figure gripping the unnamed book, wide-eyed with softly parted lips as she stretches out across the pillows. His gaze catches the way her legs are more exposed than is proper, her nightgown having ridden up as she shuffled. The candlelight reflects off her skin, the sheen more tantalising to him than expected. He draws his focus back to her face at the sound of a small gasp breaking the silence. She seemed to have read a particularly delicious sentence he guessed, if only basing his assumptions off the way her thighs clenched and her chest began to heave quicker. His teasing had the poor girl so worked up as of late so it wasn’t surprising to him that the girl now seemed unable to control her desires. After their encounter in the hall earlier, he knew he was getting closer to her breaking. Every dream brought her closer to him - to her seeking solace in his arms. As his sister had shown him, the Targaryen’s were still human.

“Good evening, my Lady,” he quips, breaking the silence in the library. The older man smirks at the shock that courses through the girls body, her body shooting up to a seated position. He watches the way she tries to compose herself, as if her core had not been clenching around nothing at the words she read. “I trust you are having a pleasant evening?”

The girl can barely get any words out, only spluttering. “What are you doing here?” she manages to gasp out, heart racing at the sight of him. It would be so shameful to admit that she had pictured him as she read about the acts that occurred between men and women, and yet, he stared at her like he knew.

“I came to find a new read for the night, and yet it seems that I have found something much more interesting in its stead. I see you have found one of the more interesting books in Harrenhal’s collection…”

The girl can only stare as his eyes travel down to the unnamed book, the flush creeping up her neck and across her face amusing him. He watches as she leaps up, immediately attempting to depart from the room. It only amuses more when she attempts to push past him. However, much to the girls dismay, she makes it no further than the threshold of the room, for large hands grip at her waist keeping her stationary. He leans down to speak into her ear, his voice so quiet she almost cannot hear.

“I think it’s time we have a discussion, don’t you?”

The Strong bastard can only smirk down at the girl as she begins to tremble. He has finally got her exactly where he wants her: frustrated and alone, and oh so needy for someone to finally relieve the ache between her thighs.

Warren is HOT!

The Princess can only stare up at him; eyes so wide and her heart pounding in her ears. Gods, was this another dream, she thought to herself? Had she fallen asleep in the chair of the library with this book lulling her.

A spark of fear came over her at the thought of not knowing if she was awake or not but the feel of him so close had those worries moving from her mind, for now.

His larger hand rested on her thigh as he leaned impossibly closer; her mouth watering scent coming over him

[isleofdarkness]

Poor Andromeda, I'm glad Ace found her before anyone else could. Could we know more about her and Marionette's history? How did Marionette become one of Maleficent's "experiments"? How did Andi get her colour powers and what are they exactly? Also, do Andi and Rose get along?

(Before I start on the backstory, I need you to remember one thing- Mari is a massive horror nerd and is a natural-born author.)

Oh my gods, this is so long. I spent four hours on this ask. However long you think this answer is below the cut, it's longer. Warning for child abuse, slavery, weaponizing magical children, kidnapping, beating a child half to death in broad daylight while the child's sister watches in horror, irresponsible use of telepathy, Maleficent, gun violence, arrow violence, murder of children, Ace killing people gruesomely with blood (blood as the weapon,) reference sexual assault of a minor, Andi said some messed up things about that to Ace but it isn't bothered because it knows she didn't mean it, swearing, Lovecraftian horror, fake child murder?, suicide attempt, implied and referenced past suicide attempts, unknown character death, and, again, an extremely long post

Andi doesn't know much, and she doesn't know if Mari knows anything more. She remembers tiny flashes from the first few years of her life- some so early it's definitely a red flag that she remembers them (think a few months old)- but most of what she remembers is being trapped in a tiny closet without any light, having lost the instinct to cry because it did nothing. Mari was the one Stromboli took interest in. Some of the most comforting memories she has are Mari's voice speaking to her through the door, a child trying to comfort a baby. Andi doesn't remember most of the words, but she remembers the feeling of calm and safety that would wash over her the second she heard that voice.

Andi was six when Marionette finally broke and stole the key from "Father" (neither of them knew if he was Andi's father, but Marionette knew he was hers and the two could be twins, they look exactly the same.) Something had happened and she wouldn't tell Andi what, but it had clearly terrified her.

The thing Andi remembers most from that night were the abrasions. When Mari slipped and didn't keep her shoulders high to conceal her neck with a hood, there was a thin abrasion going all the way around her neck. When she reached and her sleeves rode up her arm, the same abrasions circled her wrists. Andi asked about them, once, when the two were holed up in a cave Mari had pre-dug under the roots of a tree, and Mari had just whispered her name, Marionette, and said that Andi would understand when she was older.

(She does and gods she very much wishes she didn't.)

Marionette never explained anything to her, just said that Andi couldn't leave the cave because Father was looking for them and the two stood out. Mari could leave, though. Andi thought that was extremely unfair until Marionette demonstrated "the reason we're being chased" to her.

Mari's pure white waves filled with colour from root the end, turning into a pitch black. With a blink, her stark white eyes became the colour of the wet earth around them. Colour filled her white skin, turning it a healthier peach colour, and the scars from the corners of her lips down to her chin vanished.

Marionette was a shapeshifter. That was why they had to leave.

Andi spent years in that cave, only rarely allowed to leave with her eyes hidden behind glasses and her hair covered. Words she had never heard before, "I'm sorry," became commonplace, leaving Marionette's lips every time she left for even a moment. After a while, Andi was content to stay there. As long as she and Marionette were safe and they had each other. Until

"Andi, wake up. We need to go now."

Marionette didn't have her time to grab her belongings, barely gave her time to slip on her shoes and jacket before yanking her out of the cave and dragging her deeper into The Woods at a run.

"Hide. No matter what you hear, don't come out. She only wants me."

Just like that, Andi found herself shoved into another cave, this one stone instead of dirt. Marionette had stopped running, but she was still breathing so fast.

Later, Andi would know she was hyperventilating.

"Where's the other brat?" She'd never heard a voice like that, a woman's voice. Mari's voice was still young and Father's had been deep, booming, and cruel. Thw voice had sounded otherworldly and as dangerous as a rattler, and even the sound of the voice made her understand why Mari was panicking.

"You don't need her. You have me. I'll come quietly so long as you forget about Doll."

Doll. She hadn't heard that name in years. As Marionette had chosen a new name for the streets, Mari, she had given Andromeda a few ideas. The two liked the name Andromeda. She shortened it to Andi to match Mari.

The sense of forboding grew at her old name. Mari wouldn't use that unless something truly horrible was happening.

"My property," the woman growled. "I've not come all this way to retrieve it only to compromise and take only half."

Mari growled, but there was something pained in that growl. A groan she was trying to mask in anger. "Fuck you, Maleficent. Boys?"

Dozens of pairs of feet moved in the foliage.

"Pull out your guns and point them at the wicked heart that no longer deserves to beat." Clicks filled the air, clicks Andi would later recognize as bullets being chambered and safeties turned off. "Fire."

"Fire."

"Fire."

Each time she repeated the word, impossibly loud firecrackers would sound. Andi heard the woman snarling something, but her ears were ringing. The "firecrackers" were that close.

"Foolish thing," the woman snarled as clicks answered Marionette's final command. "Did you really think lead would be enough to end me?"

"Die."

Andi's heart stopped as the woman let out a pained groan that trailed into a laugh. "You can't kill me."

"Simon says forget." Mari's high, wind-chime giggle filled the air. That giggle never meant anything good. "White blood stains the fallen leaves. You've followed me through this forest for hours, to massive hollow carved into the top of one of the towering sequoia trees. You know the one."

An absent hum.

"But Marionette Stromboli is not there, and neither is her sister, Doll. The only clue you can find is white blood, Marionette's or Doll's you can't tell, splattered all over the leaves that rot from last years fall.

"You and your men followed the trail of blood, far too much blood to have been shed without leaving a person a corpse, for what feels like hours more. It's nearly the new morning when you finally see one girl, Marionette, standing at the edge of the ravine."

Andi had never been so terrified in her life, at least she hadn't before Mari's next words seemed to wash over her, soothing her fear and making her feel safe.

"She turns around when you demand it, and the sight of a stark-white heart in her hand is nearly enough to make you wish you'd never followed her. She has no blood, no wounds. There's no doubt the heart in her hand did not come from her own chest.

"You realize that the heart can only come from one of two people with pure white flesh. One is ruled out. The only other is Doll.

"A chilling smile splits her face as she watches you connect the dots. Heart of a photokinetic, she trills, sounding pleased, freshly harvested at time of breaking under the ultimate betrayal as the first white moon of winter rises. And now, as this moon sets,

"Say goodbye to Marionette.

"She hums Pinnochio's horrifying tune as she turns her back to you, the one about being free from oppressive strings. As the first rays of dawn begin to light the sky. You order your men to shoot her dead as a pitch-black seam splits the air in front of her, but it's too late.

"She turns around, grin seeming to stretch inhumanly wide. She blocks your view of whatever she has summoned, but your men see it. Minds snap beyond mending as horror beyond your mortal comprehension fills their pathetic minds. As Marionette cackles, unaffected by the madness that can now never leave your soldiers, tendrils begin to reach through the rift.

"At first you think it's Cthulhu, but, as you watch these tendils slither across the ground and wrap around your stupefied soldier's ankles, you realize that these are not tentacles. In fact, you can't figure out what they are. They're black, smooth, and shiny, appearing to be made of metal but moving as easily as a kraken through the tides.

"Guns turn on you. You barely have time to order your men to drop them before the first volley of shots ring out. But lead works not on a fae. The bullets emptied from the guns serves only to wound you. One by one, your men fall to the floor and breathe no more as the terror in the portal stops their rotten hearts. You know you are as good as dead.

"But Marionette holds up a hand, making the horror pause. Not her, not yer, she purrs. Let her get away with a demonstration of the power of the Library. If you continue your quest to find The Book of Azazoth, if you continue to use the names of our kind in your pathetic attempts to give you a molecule of power, the owners of the names you disrespect will come looking. Consider this a warning.

"With that, she turns to face the tall figure of pure shadow without so much as a flinch. It turns to allow her access and, just before she steps through the rift, she holds her hand out. Doll materializes from the icy air and takes it before the two sisters step through the rift and into the Void.

"Now, you are going to walk home without remembering your journey or the truth of the events that transpired this night. When you lay in your bed, you shall fall into a constant nightmare from which you shall not awaken for a week."

Andi is eight and has no idea what the hell she just heard. When Marionette tells her the coast is clear, her sister sheepishly admits that she'd binge-read some kind of horror series and frequently imagined that exact scenario with Father in place of Maleficent.

As you have probably guess by now, Marionette is also a telepath. She's maybe just a bit above a beginner, but she has an extremely good imagination and a lot of free time.

The first part of the war, the one between Maleficent and Ginny Gothel, breaks out not long after that. When the second part broke out and Maleficent frequented their woods, Marionette used her power to convince the Demon leader to let them join even though she was claiming they were civilian kids. She was at the stage where she could use her power to erase her and her sister from the minds of those who interacted with them. It was kind of driving the Demons insane because they swore they heard someone walk into the caf and they knew they checked but they can't remember if they found someone. It worked for a while, though, until two very major things happened.

One, Maleficent visited the Demons by surprise with a nine-year-old boy in chains. Marionette, while hidden, was in the room and shock and outrage made her control slip ever so slightly. And Maleficent felt the warm tide of telepathic magic swirling through the air that she knew she remembered from somewhere.

Two, the hostage she gave the Demons, as well as several other hostages, vanish into thin air. When Maleficent encounters Jay a month later, she can still feel that silky telepathic magic on him.

Telepathic magic like that night with Marion...

She sat on her throne staring at the wall in silence for several hours when she finally realized what had happened. Obvious in hindsight. She starts searching for Marionette and her sister.

It doesn't take long. Marionette was not being subtle and her magic had an extremely distinct feel. Without guards to fire bullets and break Maleficent's concentration, it's almost comically easy to beat Marionette half to death in the street with her staff.

What she didn't know was that the missing sister had been watching her do that. In fact, Andromeda had been only a few feet away.

The stress of finally seeing Maleficent had cause Andi's magic to manifest hard and really made Marionette and Andromeda wonder who the fuck their mom was, because Andi was photokinetic and neither of them know how she manifested with as much control as she had.

Andi can't shapeshift, but somehow she can change how light reflects off of her to change how she looks. Her hair is stark white, but she can alter the way light reflects off of it so that her hair absorbs all wavelengths except for blood red, turning her hair red. It's the same with her eyes and her skin. With a lot of effort, she can expand this change. Doing it with black is easiest. With black, Andi can create a sphere up to twelve feet in radius that absorbs all wavelengths. She usually doesn't. It's draining. The most she really does with it is turn herself completely black and then manifest an aura of a couple of inches to help her blend into the shadows.

Mari had shoved Andi into the shadows seconds before Maleficent attacked and told her to stay hidden. "Don't come out no matter what you see or hear."

Andi was right there, maybe six feet away, as Maleficent beat her sister hard enough to break bones in the middle of a daytime street and drag her away like Mationette was a bag of trash. She froze, or at least she thinks she did. She doesn't know that Marionette was using her telepathy to force her to stay hidden until she was out of range, meaning Maleficent would be super far away. All Andromeda knows is that she froze and watched her sister get beaten and kidnapped by Maleficent and, instead of helping, she just froze so severely that she was still frozen for ten minutes like a fucking idiot instead of helping the sister who had sacrificed so much for her.

She tried to find Marionette, but she didn't understand as much about the Isle. Marionette had spent her life absorbing knowledge from every mind she came across. Andi couldn't do that. She couldn't find even the tiniest lead to help her save her sister.

When she was twelve, after years of desperate searching that lead her nowhere, Andi accepted that she was going to fail her sister yet again. That she couldn't save the girl who had raised her. She was such a failure. What was the point if she couldn't put in the effort Marionette had put in for her? Marionette could have run when she sensed Maleficent coming. Had she not hidden Andromeda, she would have gotten away. She had sacrificed herself for Andromeda and Andi was repaying her efforts by being useless.

She didn't have any hope left and she really didn't think she deserved to live with how she felt she had failed the only person who had ever been there for her. Her original plan had been to take one of the roses from the bushes of Salazan's Grum and get beheaded, but Ace had been in the garden.

Ace, widely known for being extremely violent and having no problem with murdering people who annoyed it. Much faster than waiting in a cell all night for a beheading. She just had to annoy it.

Andi cut deep, using every horrible rumor spread about it on the Isle and turning everything against it. The words she used, the blame she put on it for its own suffering, were so horrific they made her want to rip her own tongue out, but she didn't stop. She just couldn't stop. She needed it to kill her.

Unfortunately, Ace knew the game she was clearly playing. Knew it- hell, it invented the game. It had done what she was doing with intentions to goad the other person into killing it over a dozen times. It had done this to Mischa Rasputin five times, to the point where Mischa just looked tired whenever it happened. Sure, maybe it should kill her. She was talking shit that would have gotten anyone else put down bloody in two seconds flat. But it didn't kill her. As it watched, letting her scream and insult it to try and involve it in what was clearly a suicide attempt, she reminded it of itself.

She also reminded it of Rose.

Not in what she was saying, obviously, but there was something in her eyes. It reminded Ace of Rose's desperation every time she shrieked the most horrible things at their mother to try and redirect her anger from it to Rose. The way her voice got higher and high and she repeated things, trying to make her words even nastier when she had run out of things to say. There was a curl to her lip as though there was a sour taste on her tongue, a tell Rose had. The way she gestured, trying to make Ace think she was going to hit it when she clearly was very much not going to do that. The horror hidden so deep in her eyes that only the tiniest spark could be seen, a spark Ace had learned was the tip of the iceberg of how much she hated herself for the words coming out of her mouth.

Every tiny habit she had was reminding it of Rose. It also had to admire the balls it took to storm up to it in its own backyard and start victim-blaming it and calling it horrible names when it had a history of not having a problem with torture. She had hit rock bottom so hard she just wanted someone to throw the first blow to put her in the ground.

Unfortunately, Ace wasn't going to do that. If this never worked for Ace, it wasn't letting it work for some random twelve-year-old who had broken into the garden and started screaming at it while it was just trying to eat dinner.

"Okay, okay, I see, thank you for your input. But can you please give me that whole schpiel from the top only not lie directly to my face?

It never claimed to be an emotional support murderer.

She tried, to her credit, but she couldn't force herself to repeat what she had said. She hadn't believed it in the first place and now it had been polite to her on top of everything. In her separation, she lunged at it to try and grab the dagger on its hip.

Ace was faster than her and far more prepared for what she had been obviously telegraphing. It had pushed her back, assuming she knew how to get her footing or at least take a fall easy like Isle kids normally did, but she didn't. She fell hard, smacked her head on one of the broken stone benches, and now it had an even bigger situation.

It went and got Rose.

She got Andi fixed up and used her rarely-seen gift, what she called Grim Psychometry. It's a form of psychometry where she can only access memories though contact with someone's blood, but she got far more from it than someone with regular tactile psychometry. She sat on the bed for a solid four hours and the blood dried to her fingertips. She was actually starting to worry Ace. It had almost broken and decided to get Ginny when she finally snapped out of it.

"We're surprise adopting her. This is our sister now. Go do the thing you did with Queenie and King." The Thing being gaslight its mother into thinking she had more than two children.

Andi was exhausted. She didn't even wake up, just went from unconscious to asleep without waking even a little bit. The room they'd put her in what the servant's quarters attached to Rose's room (one of them needed to be in earshot and she knew what any girl on the Isle would think if they found themselves in an unfamiliar room and someone who looked like a guy came in. She heard Andi start freaking out. There was a thud that sounded like when Ace panicked and kicked itself out of bed while tangled in its blankets, and the sound of trinkets falling to the floor told her than the girl had tried to stop her fall without much success. She could hear the girl panicking (mostly just repeating "Oh shit" again and again) through the wall, so she stepped into the room.

Without thinking much of it, she gave the girl an amused smirk to try and put her at ease and bent down, intending to grab a pewter model of what had probably been a bulldog that had lost its legs at some point, which she was sure was older than her, and the girl freaked out.

Yeah, Andi's first interaction with Rose was falling out of bed, creating a massive mess, making a fool of herself (according to her,) and then she bit Rose when Rose wasn't even reaching to grab her.

"You bit me." Rose looked at her bleeding hand, eyebrows raising. The panicked girl on the floor nodded, clearly not knowing what else to do and in a state of complete shock and panic. Rose fought to keep herself from grinning. "With your mouth."

"How the fuck else am I gonna bite you?" The girl cringed, ready for Rose to get angry that she had bitten her and then not even had the decency to hold her tongue.

To her shock, Rose grinned, shaking her head. "You ballsy little shit. I see why Ace thinks you're cool. Welcome to the family."

They kind of forcibly inducted her into the family, but Ace framed it as an "It's the least you can do for making me miss dinner when I was minding my own business." She stayed because she felt bad for biting Rose and being extremely cruel to Ace when she's only just met it a few seconds before, but the two of them grew on her fast. Ace helped her see that she wasn't horrible for hiding when her sister had told her to hide- it told Rose to run all the time and if she didn't run, it would have felt even worse because now both of them were gonna get it. It told her that Mari was probably relieved Andi had escaped. It was an older sibling, it had a general idea. It would have been sighing in relief with every day that passed without Rose getting caught. It would have prayed she'd stay far away because it wouldn't want her to get hurt. It sure as shit would have never been upset she couldn't rescue it from Maleficent, because that would be a suicide mission and it would never want her to put herself on the line for it. It would die to keep her safe and it would do so with a smile.

And it was willing to bet Marionette felt the same way. Rose confirmed that, based on what she had seen, Marionette was probably praying Andi just stayed far away from this, hoping that Andi was safe and free. She wouldn't want Andi to force herself- no allies, no training- on a suicide mission to try and find someone Maleficent had taken hostage when Maleficent was very interested in said hostage. Andi would die if she was lucky, and Rose knew Marionette wouldn't want that. They would help her try to find her sister, of course, but finding a prisoner she could be keeping anywhere on two separate islands was going to take a while.

And then Marionette found them three hours ago.

Rose, Ace, Andi, King, and Queenie had been sat down for cold raw cabbage in dirty water- sorry, cabbage soup for breakfast- when someone knocked on the door. The Queen ordered Ace to get it, so it went and got the door.

Five arrows to the chest and a kick from someone wearing seven-inch platforms put it on its ass. It barely activated its blood power in time to stop the bleeding, and those two seconds got it four more arrows which laid it out.

Rose, who had heard Ace fall, had come running into the entranceway. She saw Ace on the floor with nine arrows it its chest like some kind of demented hedgehog, a group of people dressed like they're from the Demons, who were wiped out years ago, letting themselves into her house, and she barely manages to twist in time so that an arrow hits her in the side instead of in the kidneys.

Andi heard Rose's shout, "We're under attack! Clear the house!" and she knew what her role was in that. She was supposed to provide a smokescreen. She darts into the entrance hall and gets halfway through throwing up a wall of darkness (which Rose manages to use to cover her escape so she can get help, but the sight of the person leading the charge made her falter.

Scars at the edges of her mouth that went down her jaw. Wavy white hair in two perfect pigtails. Even her eyes, a strange blue-violet instead of the white Andi remembered, were familiar. Andi saw the same shape every time she looked in the mirror. Eyes that seemed to big for her face, people said.

Years hadn't changed either of them enough to change the fact that they could be twins. Even with the bizarre eye colour, Andi couldn't even try to entertain the idea that she was wrong.

A group of Demons were invading her house. Her lost, beloved sister, the one she had been desperately missing for so long, was leading the charge.

There was no recognition in Marionette's eyes, only a sadistic joy at frozen prey. Ace got its bearings as she levelled some kind of crossbow with a package arrow, hooking a leg around hers and twisting it a way that had to be agonizing, bringing her to the floor. Mari adapts fast, faster than Ace can hope to with nine arrows in it, getting on top. She makes a point of using one hand to restrain its wrists, pinning them to the floor over its head. It freezes for half a second, terror taking over despite it knowing that she's just doing this to scare it. It pays for that second of weakness with a long, deep cut across its forehead.

Her original target had been its glowing eyes.

"Andi," it snarls, blood beginning to drip from its wounds as it diverted some power to use magic and push her away. "Get out of here! Now!"

But her job was to help-

And then she saw it.

Ace wasn't the target of this break-in. All eyes were on her. There were just trying to get past Ace to get to who seemed to be their real target. Ace had already seen it. It couldn't fight them off and keep over a dozen people from shooting her with those arrows. It needed her to run.

She tried to throw up another wall of darkness, but Mari forced the arrow in Ace's shoulder deeper. Ace groaned, struggling to keep control as she broke a major vein, and she used that second of weakness to throw something at Andi.

Andi barely has time to recognize a choker, a dark, blue-violet gem on a black velvet ribbon, the same one Mari is wearing, one that matches that strange eye colour- when the gem seems to hone in on her. She tries to protect her throat, but the path of the choker follows her. The ribbon locks around her neck and she can feel fae magick flooding her system through the gem. Agony lances through her throat as the gem seems to nestle against the thin skin. Something starts stabbing her- the gem was trying to make it impossible to remove without killing her.

Ace is just as on top of things. It uses its magic to force the intruders back and reaches out to her as her throat starts to burn. It was like the gem had injected her with acid. She tries to get it off, damn the consequences, but she can't. She can barely even think through mounting panic as Ace forces its powers to do so many different things at once. It's focusing too hard to even think about dodging the arrows someone shoots at it. Its body curls in on itself with impact after impact, arrow after arrow embedding in its chest and stomach. But none of the wounds bleed.

They can only hope King and Queenie can evacuate without them. Andi can barely move and Ace is forcing its power far beyond its safe limits. The two of them weren't forcing the Demons- or Andi's sister- out of the home. They could only buy time and try not to die.

King and Queenie have different plans.

Ace screams for the two twelve-year-olds to go back into the palace the second it registers what they were trying to do, but they were as stubborn as it was. Unfortunately, as they were about to find out, King and Queenie's magic didn't come with a complimentary mental shield like Ace's did. She felt blood rush to her head as it tried to extend the protection to her, but it can't protect the other two. It's pushing its power too dangerously as it is.

But gods, it tried.

The swords the two had in their hands, the swords they were experts in using, did nothing to protect them as Marionette grinned. Andi tried to scream that she was a telepath, but the choker is stopping her.

"Die."

King and Queenie go down before they can register the words. Something in Ace snaps.

It didn't scream like she desperately tried to. All emotion vanished from its face. The weakness she had been seeing, the tension and the trembling from doing far too much as once, vanish just as completely. Ace straightens, letting its hands drop to its sides, and somehow its magic continues to work without it anchoring.

"You come into my house." She doesn't know how it can speak with so many arrows in its lungs, but that confusion is a distance second to the terror the tone of its words invoke. As smooth as silk, as cold as ice. The cockney in its accent vanishes, leaving the same refined English as its mother. That tone of voice only ever meant it was about to go maximum casualties.

Despite everything that's just happened, she begs the gods to spare her sister. She knows that something is wrong, that Marionette can't control herself, and she knows it without a shadow of a doubt.

Because Marionette wasn't singing. She hadn't hummed even one note during the fight.

Marionette's signature in fighting was that she would sing. Over and over, to the point where the silly song was a panic trigger for most of the Isle, she would sing Pinnocchio's "There Are No Strings On Me." but now, she wasn't singing. She wasn't humming. She couldn't, because the song would no longer be true.

The only reason she would stop singing during a fight was if she couldn't control her actions. Marionette was entangled in strings again, and she was trying to let them know.

Did Ace catch that?

"This-" it snarled, ripping the blood out of someone's veins with a flick of its wrist, "Is for blindsiding me during a meal. Where's your fucking decorum?"

Yeah, it was pissed to the point of no return.

"This-" a wave of its hand and someone's head imploded, the veins restricting on the skull like iron cables under Ace's control. "Is for shoving me before I could open the door more than an inch. You were gonna get through the door anyway, at least give me a chance to comprehend stuff before my morning coffee. Rude as fuck.

"This-" she cringed as someone's ribs split open down the center, spreading wide and exposing their inner organs in a wound that would be unfixable in a matter of seconds. "Is for shooting me five times. Again, rude as fuck and I'm keeping these arrows. Mine now.

"This-" it did a more elaborate motion and someone's entire body imploded like the other person's skull. The intruders, all except Mari, were backing away. No sense of self-preservation. Mari would've abandoned the fight the second Ace got angry enough for hysterical strength to apply to its lethal magic. "Is for kicking me literally half a second after I got shot five times. And in seven-inch platforms, too? Compensating for something? I think yes. To be honest, that move had micro dick energy so severe they need something smaller than nanometers.

"This-" it sent two people flying into the stone ceiling with crunches that could have only been lethal, "Is for shooting my sister. I'll add this-" a hard pushing motion and two people went flying into the moat, "For shooting my other sister. It's not enough to turn me into a pin cushion, you have to shoot my sister and my other sister too? What is wrong with you?

"This-" it moved both hands in a swirling motion and someone's body contorted with a sickening, full-body shatter, "Is for having the utter motherfucking audacity to use psychological torture on a fourteen-year-old girl by putting her brainwashed beloved older sister in charge of the squad sent to either enslave or murder her ass before she's even out of her pyjamas.

"This-" it didn't kill anyone, just used its power to force those few who were still alive closer to the doorway as it advanced, "Is for that shit I know was your idea, Maleficent. What is it with you and using past rape against someone to get what you want? I cannot believe my standards for how I fight, disable, torture, and murder people are higher than yours. Show some goddamn class. Honestly, the move is getting old. And that-" another push. They were nearly out onto the drawbridge- the drawbridge over the moat filled with hundreds of gallons of blood. "Is for trying to fucking blind me. Please don't tell me you did that because you think it would get rid of my powers. It wouldn't, and I would just be even angrier and I'd take the chance to learn using my powers long-distance. I wouldn't even have to be in your palace to brutally maim you using your own blood. Think about that.

"And this-" another shove. It was defnitely trying to get them out to the drawbridge. "Is for shooting me even more. I already look like a backwards porcupine and someone's petty ass just has to shoot me even more. At least aim for my head or something.

"This-" the final push sent the survivors flying and landing hard on the drawbridge. The moat of blood and heads stilled as Ace took control of it, "Is for murdering two twelve-year-olds. Again, what the fuck is wrong with you?! I would've made them go back inside. It would've been easy- like how easily I just got you guys outside- if you're given me half a goddamn second to divery more power from... worm drive or whatever the fuck it's called so I could make them not a threat to you while also not letting that collar kill Andi or these arrows kill me. Oh, and speaking of the collar-"

All but one set of eyes widened in terror as the moat rose out of the basin, hundreds of gallons of blood hand heads suspended by a dying and multi-tasking Ace as though it was no big deal. "This-" despite its injuries, it twirled on its heel, raising its arms as though it needed to point out how much blood it was about to clobber them with, "Is for putting a magical shock collar on my sister. This is also for the poison it injected her with, and it's for the grappling hook-type shit piercing her throat to fork out in her windpipe. It's for the fact that she can't talk, she can barely even breathe between her pain and panic, and, again, she. Is. Fourteen. Absolute loser behaviour to attack a scared little girl who is barely a teenager and who was hiding behind me and trying to escape. That's humiliating how low that is. I know, no morals and stuff, but have some goddamn class. Put a collar on me next time," it challenged, grinning with bloodstained teeth. "Significantly more impressive and, while collars in general are loser behaviour, at least it wouldn't be as pathetic. You should be ashamed, and not just for the genuinely horrible stuff. This is the most pathetic wannabe-villain type shit I've ever seen in my seventeen years on the Isle. Make sure you tell Maleficent that."

She couldn't see its face, but she was almost certain it winked. And then the blood turned into a tidal wave.

[sirowsky]

--I Came By--

Description: This is based on the excellent movie with the same name, starring Hugh Bonneville as the baddie. I've taken Dave York to be the "hero" of the story and twisted it around a bit, hopefully creating something entertaining. No reader or OC, just Dave and the baddie.

Rating: Mature 18+ Warnings: Observe! Author is choosing not to display warnings on this story, to avoid spoilers. Read at your own risk. Word Count: 1160 Author’s Masterlist

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

   He’s broken into a thousand places before. Always alone and always with a fully mapped out plan from which he never deviates. If even one small thing differs from his plan, he will abort and try again later.    No one ever knows that he’s there, even when the owners are home, and no one ever finds any trace of him. That’s how good he is.

   The target for tonight was picked months ago, and then rigorously studied, first from afar, and then up close. He’s already been inside the house a dozen times, mapping it piece by piece, finding all the flaws but also any potential danger, preparing for every eventuality.    The plan is set, and the operation begins at 2am.    Everything goes smoothly on the way in, he’s on schedule.

   But halfway through the operation, there’s a deviation.

   Normally, that means it’s time to back out, but this anomaly is so odd that instead of making him apprehensive, it’s making him feel stupid.    Because he’s been in the basement several times, so he knows that that’s where the safe is, along with the rare and expensive wine bottles and other collectibles that the owner enjoys.    He also knows that there was no door down there on any of the other visits.

   And yet, there is now.

   The walls are stone, so an extra room can’t simply have been added in the two days since his latest recon visit, it had to have been there all along, just extremely well hidden.    Which leaves him with a dilemma.    It’s not part of the plan, so he should leave it alone, but people hide doors for all kinds of interesting reasons, and usually to conceal valuable things.

   The door has no handle and it’s only protected by a normal padlock, which he can pick in seconds, and it won’t take long to assess whether there’s anything in there that he might have use for, so he decides to risk it.    It’s not the first time he’s gone off script, although the occasions are few and far between, and this time, it really does seem harmless enough.

   He could not have been more wrong.

   The door opens inward, revealing a prison-cell like room, where a young man, no more than twenty years old, is chained to a bed.    He’s in such bad shape that he can barely lift his head to see who’s there. Clothes that are so filthy that their original color can’t even be distinguished, and so torn up that much of his scarred and bruised skin is visible, hang loosely over his body.

   Whoever this kid is, he’s been there for a long time, and every day of it has been torturous. Dave has seen and been responsible for enough cruelty in his days, to know exactly what this person has suffered.    And for that, he pities the man. But he doesn’t owe him anything.    This is not his problem, and he has no interest in becoming a savior. In fact, that’s about as far from his usual person that he could possibly get.

   The kid has just begun trying to sit up, realizing that it’s not his captor who’s standing there, when the thief backs out and closes the door again, bolting it back up and returning to his schedule.    And just five minutes later, he’s back outside with his loot, calmly walking away without a care in the world.

   But the next day, there’s big headlines in the papers about the richest man of that area having been robbed during the night, which catches his attention. Because for the most part, people who lock other people in their basements tend to wanna avoid having policemen search their houses for clues.    Not this particular creep, though. And that makes him interesting.

   So, the following night, the thief returns to the large house, sneaking inside while the owner is still up, sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea, reading a book.    Dave has been watching him for a good half-hour when the man eventually realizes that he isn’t alone in the spacious living room, and to his credit, he remains perfectly calm despite the startling discovery.

   “You’re the man that robbed me,” he simply states, as if it’s of little consequence.

   But the thief can hear the concealed contempt at the trespasser’s audacity to steal from him.

   “Yeah. Sadly, I’m not here to return it,” Dave replies just as casually, with the exception that his leisure isn’t faked.

   “So, you’re just back to gloat, then?”

   “Nope. Not my style,” he offers, before just jumping straight to the point. “I’m here about the hidden door in the basement, and the kid you’ve got chained up there.”

   The man scoffs at that, but not to suggest that such a thing is ridiculous. He scoffs at the notion that this lowlife and common criminal has uncovered his precious secret, something that he clearly considers to be insulting.

   “Oh, let me guess, you’ve decided that you do have a heart and that you’re gonna try and force me to let him go so that you can be a hero, instead of the cockroach underneath my boot.”

   He practically spits the last few words, before reeling himself in again, smoothing his hands over his own thighs and letting a smirk adorn his lips as he continues.

   “Well, that’s not gonna happen. What is going to happen, is that I am going to step on you, until your every bone is broken and you’re leaking your stinking filth all over the sidewalk.”

   But Dave just smiles back, while he pulls a 9mm pistol from the back of his belt, and plants just one bullet in the man’s head.    Then he leaves the house and the entire neighborhood. Someone will have heard the shot and called the police, and they can rescue the kid and spend the rest of their days trying to figure out who shot the creep, for all he cares.

   Because the truth is, he didn’t do it to save anyone. He did it because the rich asshole upset his perfectly devised plan. Because he somehow missed the door on all previous visits and that pisses him off.    The fact that the guy was a genuine monster is of no consequence. Had he not fucked up the schedule, he’d still be alive.

   No one is allowed to interfere with his operations, before or after the fact. That’s why he will never have a partner, and that’s how he always wins.

   He doesn’t read the paper the following day, so he doesn’t know that the kid lived. It makes no difference, since the boy never saw his face.    But Dave does recognize him when he crosses paths with him nearly two years later, and he does notice that the kid is doing well.    Why he notices that, he can’t understand, because it doesn’t matter to him.

   Or at least… it shouldn’t.

THE END

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

Thank you for reading and helping me celebrate! I wish you a wonderful day <3

Tagging a few people who I think might wanna read these stories: @startrekkingaroundasgard @deadhumourist @tintinn16 @suttonspuds @tanzthompson @shsoba05 @f0rever15elf @justnat15 @lowlights @dornish-queen @radiowallet @spishsstuff @harriedandharassed @i-love-movies @tiffanypooh @chaoticfestninja @insomniamamma @pedrostories

[jomiddlemarch]

Dawn was theirs

It was a glorious English autumn day when the Courcelette survivors arrived at Downton. Sybil wasn’t certain any of the men could appreciate the brilliance of the light falling across the green fields, gilding the towers, the ruddy leaves of the oaks along the winding drive. Four of the men were insensible, two had grubby bandages wrapped around their eyes, long overdue for changing, and the last, young, slender, dark-haired, gazed at something beyond any comprehension, murmuring all this is ended as if it were a nun’s litany.

Walter Blythe remained unconscious for four days.

*

Matthew had turned his face to the wall when Mary approached, wept when he thought no one would notice. He was very polite, very cold, bitter, a fallen angel. Mary stood in the hall and wrung her hands before she came into the room where he lay, her heartbreak in the shadow of her dark eyes, the trembling palm she pressed against her breast. Sybil hadn’t thought any other soldier would pose as great a challenge, for they had all known Matthew before he went off to war and he was precious to them, even to Granny, who’d never admit it but still visited and sat with him for the fifteen minutes expected of a social call.

Walter Blythe, burned, broken, his face spared, seemed unreachable. One of the other men had been in his company and spoke highly of him, describing a man uncomplaining, steady, a doctor’s son who wasn’t at all squeamish about lice or dysentery. Then he shocked them by telling them Walter was a poet, the renowned author of “The Piper,” one of Canada’s most honored sons.

Walter had been mute for a fortnight after he’d opened his eyes.

* 

Sybil tried, but she’d couldn’t conceal the fact that Walter was a favorite of hers. She lingered by his bed, eager to fetch him a book from the library, the paper, a fresh cup of tea. He was easy to be fond of him and if doting by the nursing staff were enough to heal a man, he’d have been up and sent back to the Front in a week.

“It’s because I have sisters,” he said, he told her, when she admitted to him that she was idling and he didn’t truly need his pillows plumped yet again. “You’d like them, Di especially. She’s determined to become a VAD though what she really wants is to become a doctor like Dad.”

He was like that, Walter Blythe, charming and well-spoken, sharing bits of his life before the War, always wholesome and cheerful, making it seem to the nurses that he was unchanged from the man who’d set off from the Glen. The other patients enjoyed listening. It was a respite from the pain and boredom of recoveries that would only ever be incomplete.

He fooled everyone but Thomas Barrow.

*

Thomas watched Walter when no one else was looking. 

At rest, if there was such a thing, Walter’s face had an expression of blank horror, as if he looked into an abyss seething with the most monstrous visions, agony and annihilation. He pressed his lips together to keep from calling out, screaming, though not for help, for Thomas could see Walter believed he was beyond any assistance, befouled in a way that could never be made clean.

He shied away from the touch of any of the nurses, Sybil most especially, though he forced himself to be tended.

He ate little, crumbling rolls with his barely functional left hand, the right still bandaged. It wasn’t clear if another surgery would restore even the least function there, old Clarkson preferring to wait and see how Walter did overall, putting on weight, expressing any interest in getting out of the ward they’d made of a drawing room.

He liked music, better if it came from another room. He’d finish his cup of tea if Thomas stirred in another lump of sugar but left it black. He frowned whenever anyone mentioned his famous poem and never asked for the journal and pencil Sybil brought when she discovered he was a writer. He didn’t hate the Germans, never called them Huns.

He never wanted to re-read the letters he was sent from home.

*

Thomas didn’t exactly hang about, but he knew how to be present when he was needed. It was a skill that had helped him advance in service, though Carson frequently gave him his version of a dirty look if he noticed him lurking in a manner unbecoming an under-butler. 

Thomas wore his uniform, was caring for sick men, doing the heavy work that only the oldest and toughest of the nurses undertook. 

He ignored Carson. 

He paid attention to Walter.

The man had turned Sybil away when she offered to write another letter home for him, to his younger sister or his mother. Walter had smiled and thanked her and declined, with such grace Sybil walked away glowing, as if he’d granted her dearest wish.

Thomas knew this was his time to come round. That Walter would want to talk but only to someone who could understand.

"She writes a fair hand," Walter said, his voice rough, the words picked out slowly, his grey eyes trained on the man in front of him. The letter in his hand was a distant afterthought. "But they won't be satisfied until it's me writing them, Barrow. They won't ever be satisfied."

He began to turn his face away when Thomas spoke.

“No, I don’t suppose they ever will be. But you might be, Blythe. You might.”

*

“Not much like home,” Thomas said. He’d wheeled Walter out to the gardens, the prospect of fresh air alleged to tempt the men back to health. He’d not seen it make much difference and Nichols had wept and screamed to be brought back inside, but Mrs. Crawley kept fussing about it and he’d welcomed the chance for some conversation that couldn’t be overheard by a nurse or Carson. Walter had acquiesced because he did that and because Thomas had volunteered to manage his chair.

Now they sat together in the sunshine, a blanket over Walter’s lap, the sky a perfect blue. An idyll of a sort. Their sort.

“Not very. Beautiful but not like the Glen. Nor Rainbow Valley,” he said. 

“What’s Rainbow Valley?” Thomas asked. Once he would have sounded snide or mocking but today, Walter looking across the manicured grounds, something almost like a smile on his lips, Thomas only wanted to hear more.

“The woods behind Ingleside. Where I grew up. We had the run of it. I knew every tree there,” Walter said.

“On your own, were you?”

“Sometimes. Jem and I, he’s my older brother, we’d staked out our favorite spots, but we let the others come along. Jerry and Carl, Shirley, and the girls—Nan and Di, Faith. Una. But I went alone too. That’s where I wrote, most often,” Walter said. He had a big family and a number of friends, all of them happy and hale, a cheerful father who never laid a hand on them. A mother they all worshipped, who came to them in the night when they were ill or scared. A far cry from Thomas’s childhood but he didn’t find any envy within himself when Walter spoke of them.

Walter didn’t want to go home.

“Poetry, right?” Thomas said. “What you wrote.”

“You could call it that,” Walter said, making the gesture that was now his version of a shrug. 

“You don’t?”

“What did I know of the world, Barrow? I don’t think I could ever read what I wrote then,” Walter said. “It’s all bloody fucking pretty nonsense—”

“Maybe you were just young,” Thomas said. Walter’s eyes had a frantic look of a man about to break down. Thomas reached over, touched Walter’s arm where it rested on the chair. 

“I was young,” Walter said. “I dreamed such dreams. And now I can’t remember them without  wanting to be sick.”

“That passes,” Thomas said.

“You sound so certain,” Walter replied.

“I’ve got to be,” Thomas said. A confession. 

“It’s that way, then?” Walter asked.

“Just so,” Thomas answered.

*

“She’s got a face like a flower,” Walter said as Sybil walked across the room. Thomas had come over to tell her the Earl was asking for her, but it had been an excuse. A poor one, far weaker than anything he would have allowed himself before the War. Walter kept watching Sybil. Thomas felt his gorge rise.

“Thought you said you weren’t a poet anymore,” Thomas remarked.

“That’s not poetry,” Walter said. “It’s an observation any man here would make.”

“Not the way you made it,” Thomas said flatly.

“Is it an argument you want, Barrow?” Walter said. There was something in the way he said want, the way he said Barrow, something direct and stunning. It was irresistible.

“It’s what I can get,” he said.

There was a curious expression in Walter’s grey eyes that could never have been there before the trenches. Thomas suspected it had been there when Walter led the charge at Courcelette. When he hadn’t expected to return to the world.

“So sure,” he said softly. “So wrong.”

“Seems to me you’re arguing with me right now, Blythe,” Thomas said.

“I’m not arguing. I’m observing,” Walter said.

“Safer that way, isn’t it?” Thomas replied, giving them both an out. He looked down at his feet, the uneven shine on his boots. His hands resting on his thighs, the bandage around the maimed one. His ticket home, he’d thought it, before he got back to Downton and realized there wasn’t any leaving, only trying to find someone who was caught in the same way. Who cared, who could see a flower and turn away from its loveliness.

“Nothing’s safe. Not anymore,” Walter said. “Maybe it never was and I was just pretending—”

“Maybe you think too much,” Thomas said.

“What else do I have to do?” Walter said. 

“Ask for me,” Thomas heard himself say. He was shocked by the words, uttered aloud, a secret. A wish.

“I shall keep that in mind,” Walter said. 

*

Walter wasn’t getting any better.

That was Clarkson’s diagnosis, not Thomas’s, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t disagree with the man. Sybil, external optimist, pointed out that Corporal Blythe was able to stay awake for longer periods and had not turned away a meal in a week, and they all nodded, because those things were true.

They didn’t signify, not when it came to Walter’s progress. They were exhausting what could be done for him at Downton. Had done, except that no one liked to disappoint Sybil and there hadn’t been an urgent need for an empty bed. It couldn’t last.

“I’m an old crock, aren’t I, Barrow?” Walter said, not bitterly.

“If you exerted yourself more—”

“I have done. It’s no use,” Walter said. He smiled, his unmarked face terribly handsome, his hair in need of a cut. He’d begun to go grey, not only at the temples but scattered throughout. “I shan’t write again and I think I must become accustomed to this chair.”

“You’d put yourself in a grave if you could,” Thomas snapped.

“Yes. I think you’re right about that,” Walter said. “But I won’t do anything…foolish. I’m not capable of it. Just of being a fool, sickening on my folly—”

“Are you quoting someone again? Remember, that’s wasted on me,” Thomas said.

“No. A flight of fancy, a glimpse of Walter-Before. I told you, you wouldn’t care for him.”

Thomas turned and faced Walter directly. It was a rare gesture; most often Thomas was off to the side, pushing the chair, engaged in some work. Watching Walter across a room, obliquely. Concealed.

“You’ve got to try,” he said. “Else—”

The pause was long, long enough for another conversation to fill it, one of exhortation and coaxing, reassurance and even, possibly, declaration. 

“Time has been friend to neither of us,” Walter finally said. He knew about Thomas’s father the clockmaker and Thomas’s War. He knew that men at Downton didn’t go back to the Front, but they didn’t stay longer than a few months. They went to Glenside or Allison Court. Or they were sent home. 

“If you’d only try, Blythe,” Thomas said.

“Get me a pencil then,” Walter replied. “I need to be able to write my own letters.”

*

“Dear Thomas,

I find I cannot address you here as Barrow, though it was all that I called you at Downton Abbey. I will admit it was not the only way I thought of you by the end of my time there and I hope you don’t find that presumptuous, nor this letter. You did tell me to try and look where that’s landed me.

Oxford, as you must know from the envelope, if not through some other channel. I imagine Mrs. Crawley might have mentioned what became of poor Corporal Blythe. She is a kind lady, but she very much reminds me of a family friend, a Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who is famous for her forceful opinions and her determination to keep tabs on anyone who has ever crossed her path. Mrs. Crawley is perhaps a generation younger, but made in the same mold. If she is not quite as well-informed as Mrs. Rachel, I’ll explain what happened.

I couldn’t go home. 

It was not only the risk of the ship being sunk in the crossing, nor the difficulty my limited mobility posed, nor the expense my family might incur trying to make the trip comfortable and me even more a ruined crock dependent on their management and pocket-book. (I must inform you that writing a celebrated war-poem doesn’t yield any significant financial success and you have a good idea of what’s found in a corporal’s pay-packet.) I couldn’t make the journey and then arrive at the train station in the Glen, my family and all their closest friends and half the town lined up, scrubbed and dressed as if for a wedding, flowers and Susan’s best cake waiting for me at Ingleside. I couldn’t make my way off that train and face them, knowing what I know, being who I am now. And even less could I have faced every day thereafter, the praise and reassurance and consolation, their pride and their poorly concealed pity, the guilt in my father’s eyes, the gratitude in my mother’s. Of everyone, I could only imagine Una Meredith greeting me and not making me feel like a monster and as much as I love them all, I have to live with myself.

I left university to enlist and I need the chair more than you think I ought and I can’t expect my father to put me up in a London flat to molder, but I am a well-regarded poet of no little renown, at least at this moment, when all the better poets are trying to escape being gassed or shot, so I wrote to Oxford and they agreed to let me come and finish my degree and very likely become one of those Oxford dons who is never without their gown. A gown hides a multitude of injuries, I’ve discovered, from those around you and sometimes from you yourself, and when I cannot think of how to turn the page, I can pleat the Russell cord with my good hand and pay attention only to the texture of the material. It helps a little.

Other things do as well. The town is so very beautiful and so different from the Glen and the Front. It is a place that does well with ghosts, so the relative absence of young men isn’t felt quite so much, and the smell of the stone and the old books is a tonic. It can be hard to get around, but that’s true for many of the elderly professors. The tea is not as as well-brewed as Mrs. Patmore’s but that was to be expected. My coursework occupies me, the distance of the past a balm. I believe if I could study the people here before the Druids, I’d find that even more comforting, but allegory and mysticism suit me well. I’ve begun to learn Old English and if I can’t find it within myself to write poetry, I can at least appreciate those old works and take respite there.

You must be frowning at my nonsense or wishing I’d written something more practical. I couldn’t blame you—I don’t, Thomas. I miss you, that expression in your blue eyes and the curl of your lip, your calm, your sense of shadows. I should have asked any number of questions before I left Downton Abbey, but I didn’t, so I must ask them now and hope for the best. I have no idea what leave you are entitled to and how you choose to use yours; I know you don’t have the same rapport with your sister as I had with mine, but I don’t know if you have friends you’d visit or prefer to travel to London and escape the country. I don’t know if you would want to come and see me but I would like it, very much. I could promise not to ramble on too much about old manuscripts or interrogate you about Dr. Clarkson and la belle dame Lady Mary. We might go punting on the Cherwell, though you’d have to do the work while I regaled you from a position of repose, or I could stand you a pint or three at the King’s Arms. The porter for my hall is rather a friend of mine and would find a camp-bed if I asked, so you needn’t fret about finding lodgings. It would be just as you like, for as long as you like.

You told me once to ask for you. And now, Thomas, I have. Will you come?

Walter.”

@tortoisesshells gave me "my Heart -- my Eye outweighs" as a fic I wouldn't write but then I did write it, though I renamed it.

[grandhotelabyss]

I've read the Baffler review, the competing LARB reviews, and the Nation interview, and even after all that, I still barely understand what Anna Kornbluh means by "immediacy." From your previous answer, I know you haven't read the book, but can you help us morons understand what she means? You have such a good way of explaining art and ideas (not that art can be "explained") that open up possibilities of thought for the budding belle-lettrist. (I should probably just read it myself...)

Thank you! I think she means that in a host of domains from communications technology to economic transactions to artistic styles to modes of philosophy there were more barriers or relays a thought had to cross on its way to materialization in the world. This allowed thought a greater purchase, in the form of critical distance, upon what the world really is.

Here's a thought: "I would like to make an economic transaction." You once had to go to bank and talk to someone to withdraw cash; then you had to go to a machine to get cash, and now you don't need cash at all but can just tap your card or use your phone to pay for something. In terms of communication, your feed is constantly refreshing on your screen as you're in instant contact with people all around the world. (How would you, specifically, have asked me, specifically, a question like this 30 years ago?) In the world of art, we no longer value novels, for example, that are complex verbal artifacts densely recording a complete fictional heterocosm, but instead we have speed-written records of the author's personal life. Not to mention streaming TV directly reflecting present conditions as we binge-watch them without critical reflection, etc.

As a Marxist, she's probably interested in the way these developments are an intensified form of ideology qua false consciousness, concealing from us in the blur of the world's increasing speed the material economic and political facts subtending these trends: the labor exploited, the forests cleared, the minerals mined in hellish conditions to bring the high and low bourgeoisie of the imperial core its immediate pleasures. When thought was slower and more "mediated" through real experiences—when we held cash in our hand, when we had to sit through the complexities of a Balzac or even a Pynchon novel if we wanted to be entertained—then even this cosseted bourgeoisie found it harder to deny, harder to avoid comprehending and criticizing, the blood and fire the world of capital is actually made of.

That's the best spin I can put on it. I didn't read the whole book, so I'm making assumptions about where she's coming from theoretically and politically. I agree with some of her critiques on an aesthetic level—I don't love Knausgård or Maggie Nelson either—but, as I said on Substack, I think she's observing an autonomous cultural dialectic, as well as paying too much attention to meaningless pop culture and fashionable pseudo-intellectual nonsense ("climate grief," please), and not really peering into the essence of the current economic order, which, as today's bad review in Compact suggests, she doesn't even really grasp. I don't either, but then I don't pretend to. Plus, her own prose style, as several reviewers pointed out and as anyone might notice, abjures the formal corollary of mediated thought in the Marxist critical theory tradition, i.e., Jameson's Anglicizing of the magisterial world-digesting architectonic sentences of Kant and Hegel and Adorno, and instead itself indulges in a certain vulgar and staccato burble.