#wild stone code

[codegrooming]

Pre-Date Grooming Tips to nail your look

Whether you’re taking your long-time crush out for a romantic dinner date or debuting into the dating world, the odds are that you’d want to look your best in every situation. At all costs, you would want to avoid a misplaced spot that can ruin your romantic date. But fortunately, here are some proactive pre-date grooming tips that you help you to make sure that you always look your best when you are going on a date.

Source: https://medium.com/@codegroomingcare/getting-ready-for-a-date-follow-these-pre-date-grooming-tips-to-nail-your-look-c1e69c4532b6

[teen-lyoko-fan7777]

Wild in the Streets will premiere on Saturday, December 23rd at 1:00 PM Central Standard Time. :)

[ramp-it-up]

Bolder

Summary: Bucky and Steve's relationship is practically perfect in any way. And then Bucky wishes for what would make it complete for his birthday. Happy Birthday Bucky Barnes!

Word count: 5.6 K

Pairing: Stucky x Enhanced!Reader (Sparrow)

A/N: This is another dream inspired by #BuckyBarnesBirthdayBingo by @avengers-assemble-bingo. This fulfills the square: Another Year Older, Another Year Bolder. Althought I've written mfm before, I've not written Stucky. Let me know how I did. 😬 Please reblog, comment, and like!

Another note: This is canon divergent in the events of Endgame, Steve returns from replacing the Infinity Stones, but he still gives Sam the shield.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Bucky and Steve. That should be the entire warning, but it's not. Grumpy Steve and, cock blocker Sam. Poly sex acts, angst, emoting, wild thoughts, a birthday wish, which leads to birthday sex. Birthday sex: Captain and Sargeant kink, fingering, voyeurism, nipple play, oral (female receiving), raw p in v, two sex acts simultaneously (not dp) cock denial, creampie, squirting. I wish I could say this was a one shot, but... well, let me know if you want another part.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The way Bucky pushed back against Steve’s command and control, subtly at times, outrageously at others, was a sight to witness.

The order and restraint that defined the former Captain America trembled in Bucky’s presence.

And Steve made Bucky come alive, fully awake for the first time in years. 

Steve belonged to Bucky and Bucky to Steve, for almost a century, even when he couldn’t remember his own name. After all they’d been through, they finally had the time and space to proclaim and celebrate their love.

They were the most beautiful couple you’d ever seen. 

When you first joined the team, you were starstruck not because they were some of the most famous Avengers, the hero and the villain, but because they were sun and moon, yin and yang, and seemed utterly perfect and complete in their relationship.

They were nice to you, respectful and curious, as you were the most like them. But you were so very different. You’d wanted to serve your country as a volunteer for a 20 week trial of the serum, the effects of which you were assured would be reversed.

Turned out, the people doing the assuring were HYDRA in disguise.

Now, here you were, another supersoldier and newbie on the team, and that caused them to drift toward you naturally. Skittish at first, you warmed up to them and became the third musketeer, training, working together, and hanging out.  

Your code name was Sparrow, because you were small yet fierce, which Steve admired, and handy with sharp implements, which made Bucky smile, which was a feat.

With this team, you third wheeling became a running joke. Although you didn’t admit that you would jump at the chance, you could handle the ribbing, mainly because you thought you were in no danger of having your deepest fantasies fulfilled. 

Of course it was a joke, because what would they need with you?

It was a question you were beginning to ask more in the past few months. It had almost been a year since you joined the Avengers and everyone was comfortable with you now.

Especially Bucky and Steve. 

As time progressed, way they acted with you was more than familiar and you began to feel something…else in the way they interacted with you.

When he looked at you, Steve’s gaze was steady, with heat simmering just beneath it. You admired the way he shared command of the team with Sam easily, his restrained and disciplined demeanor the default until he was pushed.

And so you did it, because you wanted to see that control crack for you like it did with Bucky. 

You disobeyed Steve on a routine mission, but the actions you took put you in slightly more danger than was planned. Steve snapped and chewed you out so thoroughly that you were wet for the entire seven minutes that he lectured you on protocol. It was a thorough dressing down, and it made you want to get undressed for him.

After, he retreated to the other side of the room, looking at you like he was considering all the ways he could break you apart and put you back together. You stared back at him, silently daring him to.

He would have bent you over the desk if Sam hadn’t told him to give you a break. He stalked out and you wanted to follow him and submit to anything he wanted, but Sam followed him instead.

Bucky didn’t hold back that day either. His hunger was blatant, carved into the smirk that tugged at his lips, in the way he leaned just a little too close, testing, demanding.

His voice dropped when he spoke to you, low and rough, thick with the promise of something dark and dangerous. 

“What you did wasn’t too smart, Sparrow. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger like that. Better be careful, before Steve takes it out on your ass.”

Bucky devoured you with those sharp and knowing eyes, like he already knew how you’d sound when you moaned his name and how you’d feel beneath his hands.

“Something tells me that you wouldn’t mind that…”

Sam came back into the room and cocked blocked yet again. This time you escaped the situation. 

After that, you were caught in a storm of tension so thick it was dizzying. You knew what Bucky and Steve were to each other, two halves of something unbreakable that was forged through war and loss and survival. 

And yet, somehow, they’d turned their attention on you.

The heat between you was filled with unspoken promises that these two men would destroy you in the most exquisite ways. 

And God help you, you wanted them to.

—-

Bucky’s birthday rolled around not too long after that, a crisp March day bright with newfound sunlight and celebration.

Steve had apologized to you and you to him, yet there was something unfinished there. He still held you at arms length.

Nevertheless, you were able to have a fun day celebrating your “old man,” as you joked about Bucky. Steve’s eyes flashed and Bucky’s jaw clenched when you said it. 

And when you kissed him on the cheek after wishing him happy birthday, Steve’s cock hardened when he noticed the way Bucky’s fingers twitched on your lower back.

Bucky had never been one for birthdays. For too many years, they were just another mark on a calendar he didn’t remember, a reminder of how much time had slipped through his fingers like sand.

But now, things were different. Bucky was bolder now.

The older Bucky got, the more he leaned into asking for what he wanted. And for what he needed.

Because of that newfound boldness, now he had Steve.

And this year, he had you.

Was that right?

Maybe he should’ve questioned the way you had slipped into their lives like you were always meant to be there, and the way his body recognized your presence before his mind did.

But it was all so obvious.

He noticed it in the way Steve looked at you, that quiet hunger he tried to reign in but never quite managed to. He felt it in himself, in the way his pulse jumped when you laughed, in the way his fingers twitched with the need to touch you. It was also in the way his stomach tightened whenever you looked straight through him into his essence.

Only Steve had been able to do that before. 

And Steve was lost, too. His eyes followed you when you walked out of a room, like he was waiting for the moment you'd return. 

Strangely Bucky wasn’t jealous, but at first he was alarmed when he noticed the way you looked at both him and Steve. Like you were just waiting for one of them to finally say it out loud.

But then he realized that he just needed to ask for what he wanted. For what he and Steve both needed.

So Bucky did.

It was 2 AM of the morning after night of his birthday, the three of you the last hangers on in the living room of their apartment. Each time you made to leave, one of them drew you into another conversation.

Finally, Steve lit the match.

He asked Bucky what he wished for when he blew out his candles.

Bucky didn’t even hesitate because he wasn’t good at pretending. Never had been.

"I wished for Sparrow to join us," he said simply, leaning back against the couch, watching as Steve processed his words.

Neither you, nor Steve, had to question what he meant. The meaning was painfully clear.

Steve’s blue eyes flickered with something unreadable. His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed against his thigh. Bucky could tell he was already overthinking, probably considering a dozen different ways this could go wrong. 

That was just the way Steve was, always careful, always considerate. Even to the point of denying himself.

But Bucky knew Steve wanted this too.

Across from them, you stilled. Then, slowly, like you wanted them to see, you tilted your head and uncrossed your legs in your short skirt, just to cross them again, the smooth slide of your thighs against each other made Bucky’s mouth go dry and Steve’s pulse race.

A smirk played at the edge of your lips, but your eyes gave you away. There was curiosity there, something that said you’ve thought about this too.

Bucky pretended to be cool even as tension and heat coiled tight in his gut. 

"It’s my birthday. And I figured—why not make it interesting?"

Steve exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand through his golden hair, his ears tinged red. Bucky knew that look. 

He had seen it in battle, right before Steve made a decision that would change everything. 

He’d seen it in private, right before Steve begged for his cock.

Steve’s gaze flickered to you, then back at Bucky, then at you again. He and Bucky had built something solid between them, something unshakable, but he couldn't deny there was a certain pull whenever you were around.

The tension, the glances, the way you fit so seamlessly into their lives. It was heady.

You sat watching the scene, eyes flickering between them with interest.

"You don't have to say yes," Bucky said, giving Steve an easy out. 

But he smirked anyway, because deep down, he already knew what the answer would be. Steve was flustered, Bucky could tell, but not upset. 

No, this was something else.

"You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?" you asked Bucky, your voice smooth, teasing.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea," Bucky chuckled.

You gasped as if those words alone sent a jolt through you. Then you hummed trying to remain calm as you tapped a finger against your knee, eyes flickering toward Steve. 

"And you, Captain?"

Steve’s breath hitched just slightly as he gazed at you. Small, but Bucky caught it.

And when Steve’s gaze landed back on him, slow and deliberate, Bucky felt it. That heat. That unspoken understanding. 

Bucky saw it happen in real time, the shift in Steve’s expression, the way his pupils blew wide, the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to reach for you right now.

Steve smiled and his voice was a low rasp when he finally spoke.

"Happy birthday, Buck."

Bucky grinned.

—

The second Steve said it, the air in the room changed.

You didn’t move right away, just watched them, your breath just a little uneven. Bucky could feel your body heat, close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin.

He’d imagined this. Countless times. 

What it would be like to have you here, caught between him and Steve, wanting them.

But reality was so much better.

Bucky reached out first, metal fingers around your wrist, pulling you up and forward until you landed on his lap with a soft gasp. His other hand found your waist, grinding you against him. Your body was warm, soft, and pliant in all the ways he had dreamed about.

"You sure about this, sweetheart?" he murmured against your ear, his lips just barely brushing the sensitive skin there. 

His voice was rough and hungry.

You shivered in his grip. 

"I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t."

Bucky let out a low chuckle, his grip tightening. 

"Good."

Behind you, Steve shifted, so close Bucky could feel the desire radiating off him. When he spoke, his voice was thick.

"You look good like this," Steve murmured, and when you turned your head slightly to look at him, Bucky caught the way Steve's face changed to a look of pure lust.

Fuck.

Bucky had always known Steve wanted you, just as much as he did. He’d seen it in the way Steve watched you, in the way he tried to be respectful, to keep a distance, even though everything in him wanted to close it.

Not anymore. He was going to help Bucky thoroughly defile you.

Bucky leaned in, pressing his lips just beneath your jaw, smirking when he felt your pulse racing beneath his lips.

"You gonna let us take care of you, Sparrow?" he rasped. "Since it is my birthday, after all."

Your breath was uneven, but you didn’t hesitate. You turned slightly in his lap, your fingers reaching up to fist in Steve’s shirt, tugging him closer.

"Yes. I want you both to take care of me tonight.”

With those words, the space between all three of you disappeared in an instant. Bucky felt your body press against his, your breath warm against his neck, and it took everything in him not to lose himself right then and there. 

He wanted to take his time. He wanted to feel this, wanted to drag it out until you were breathless, until Steve’s control cracked, until all three of you were left trembling in the aftermath.

Steve’s lips hovered just above yours, his breath uneven. Bucky watched, enthralled, as you stared up at him, eyes dark and half-lidded.

"You absolutely certain about this?" Steve asked, voice low and thick with something deeper than just desire.

You reached up, moving your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips brushed his. 

"Never been more certain of anything."

Steve groaned softly, capturing your lips in a slow, hungry kiss. Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as he felt you melt between them.

Holy shit, this was happening.

Watching you kiss Steve, watching the way his hands skimmed over your sides and the way your body responded, Bucky swore he could feel it in his own skin.

When you finally pulled away, your breath hitched, and your lips were swollen as your eyes flickered toward Bucky. He smirked, tilting his head slightly, fingers grazing your jaw before he leaned in, capturing your lips with his own.

While Steve’s kiss had been slow and languid, Bucky’s was something else entirely.

Possessive. Starved.

You let out a soft sound against his mouth, your fingers tightening in his shirt as he deepened the kiss, his metal hand trailing up your spine, cold against the heat of your skin. You shivered, arching just slightly, and hell, that was enough to drive him crazy.

Behind you, Steve let out a low chuckle, pressing closer, his lips grazing your collarbone. 

"Didn’t think you’d be the greedy one, Buck," he murmured, amused.

Bucky smirked against your lips. 

"Oh, I know how to share." 

His blue eyes flickered between both of you, dark and full of promise. 

"Especially when it’s something this good."

Your breath came in shallow pants, eyes flickering between them, heat pooling between the three of you, thick enough to drown in.

Steve’s fingers traced the curve of your jaw, tilting your face back toward him, his lips barely ghosting over yours as he whispered, “You sure you can handle us both, Sweetheart?”

His voice was teasing, but beneath it was reverence, like he needed to be sure before he let himself fall. This was the fourth time they’d asked for your consent.

They were really about to ruin you.

“Guess we’re about to find out,” you murmured.

A soft, delighted hum rumbled in Steve’s chest behind you. Bucky caught the way your body shivered at the sensation of the warmth of Steve pressed against your back and at the weight of Bucky in front of you. 

Sandwiched between them, you fit perfectly, like you had always belonged here, like this was inevitable.

“We should take our time with this,” Steve murmured against the skin of your neck.

“Make sure she knows exactly what she’s gotten herself into.”

Bucky smirked, sliding his metal hand up your spine, relishing the way you arched into his touch. 

“That sounds like a plan, Stevie.”

The way they were talking about you as if you weren’t there served to make you wetter than you already were. You wanted to be used by them for their pleasure.

For yours. 

The two men looked at each other in a silent exchange that didn’t need words. It had always been that way between them. Decades of understanding built through war, through loss, and through finding each other over and over again despite the odds. 

But this?

This was new.

Sharing something, someone, this intimately wasn’t just about lust. 

It was trust. It was knowing Steve would move when Bucky moved, and that Steve would read him the way he always had. It was knowing that they could balance each other, even in this.

And you were centered in it, the tether between them, the unspoken possibility they had both been too afraid to touch until now.

Bucky slid his hand to the back of your neck, guiding your lips back to his. He kissed you slowly and deeply, savoring the way you melted into him, the way you rolled yourself over him. 

The sound of your soft sigh sent heat curling in his stomach, and just as he deepened it, Steve’s hand slid over your hips, grinding you down harder on Bucky’s lap.

“Fuck, you feel s’good, Bucky”

You were already lust drunk, the thought that you would have them both electrifying your body. And your mind.

“Think she likes this,” Steve mused, fingers teasing at the hem of your shirt.

“What do you think, Buck?”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark, searching. You were breathless, caught between them, pupils blown wide.

“Oh, she loves this,” he murmured, dragging his metal fingers down your spine again, watching the way you arched your back, feeling the heat pool between your legs.

Steve hummed in approval, his grip on your shirt turned to pulling it up and over your head. Bucky’s eyes widened at the fact that you didn’t have on a bra. Well, he’d guessed at it earlier as his eyes took in your body, but seeing you in the flesh, and in his face made his blood heat. 

When Steve grabbed your tits and, softly at first, then more urgently pulled and rolled your nipples, Bucky licked his lips and glanced over your shoulder before he leaned down and sucked you through Steve’s fingers. 

You threw your head back on Steve’s chest as you rode Bucky’s straining jeans covered cock.

Oh, this was heaven.

“Open your eyes, Sparrow.” 

You hadn’t even realized you’d closed them. You opened your eyes as Bucky’s hands went to your thighs and spread you wider against him. The move bunched your skirt high up around your hips, leaving you with only your panties covering you. 

Steve watched as Bucky pulled your dress higher yet and then palm your pussy through your panties. He reached down and together, the two men tore your panties and tossed them aside like they were made of tissue paper.

“She’s so wet, Stevie. Wet and…” 

Bucky slid his hand to your pussy and pushed two fingers into you.

“…Tight. Holy fuck she’s going to feel so good.” 

You rocked your hips to take his fingers deeper, but he gripped you with his metal hand, forcing you still.

“"M gonna fuck you first since it's my birthday. But should we show Steve what he’s missing?” 

Bucky’s touch, while authoritative and demanding, was nothing less than reverent. And Steve’s gaze was on you as much as it was on Bucky. 

You made a noise that must have been enough for Bucky, because he turned you around on his lap as Steve backed up for a better view. Bucky palmed and finger fucked you for Steve’s benefit.

And yours.

You moaned and squirmed in his clutch, while the only reaction from the blond was a tightening in Steve’s jaw and his blue eyes going molten steel. Bucky laughed softly. 

“I’ll tell you a secret, Sparrow. I’ve never met a man with better control than Steve. It’s downright supernatural. It’ll take a better show than this to get him over back over here to put his hands all over you.” 

He nipped your earlobe. 

“If you make it very, very good, I’ll even let him use his mouth.” 

There wasn’t enough air in the room. There couldn’t be. Your breath hitched in your lungs, and it took you two tries to force words out. 

“What–what if I want his cock?” 

This time, Bucky’s laughter filled the room. He sat up, taking you with him, and positioned you with your legs on either side of his thighs. 

“Tell her, Stevie.” 

The other man crossed his arms across his broad chest, his features cold. Why did that turn you on so much?

“After what you did on that last mission, you have to earn my cock, Sparrow.” 

His arrogance should have been a turnoff. It should have made you want to put him in his place and make him earn access to you. Instead, a part of you that you just met whispered in your brain.

I want to earn your cock, Steve. Just tell me what I need to do. 

You slammed your mouth shut hard enough that your teeth clicked to avoid giving voice to those thoughts. You took a breath, and then another, then leaned back against Bucky more firmly. 

“Then let me play with you, Sargeant.” 

Bucky didn’t laugh again. You were a team now, testing Steve’s restraint. He let you stand and guided you out of your clothes.  A few seconds later, his shirt joined the growing pile, then he sat you back down on him again. 

The shock of his bare skin against your own drew a small moan rom your lips. There wasn’t a soft spot on his body, and he caged you with his chest and arms, one flesh and one metal, holding you open for Steve’s perusal. 

You twisted to offer him your mouth, needing to taste him again, and Bucky didn’t hesitate to give in to your unspoken request. His tongue tangled with yours, and he cupped your bare breasts and pinched your nipples to aching peaks. Bucky spread his thighs, forcing yours wider.

You felt Steve’s gaze all over you: On the curve of your neck. Following the path of Bucky’s hands. Centering where your pussy was exposed.

You felt it as if he’d reached out and touched you. 

Or maybe it was Bucky responsible for those sensations. It was too much and not enough and you whimpered against his mouth. 

“Stop teasing and touch me.” 

You grabbed his hand and pressed it between your spread thighs. 

“Please, Bucky. I’m gonna die if you don’t make me cum..” 

“Can’t have that, can we Stevie?” 

He looked him in the eye as he drew your wetness up around your clit with a single finger and circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, easily finding the motion that made your entire body go tight and hot. You opened your eyes and met Steve’s gaze as your orgasm spiraled closer and closer. 

A challenge rolled around your brain.

I’ll get what I want, and you’ll have to watch while it happens, knowing you could have been a part of it.

Bucky, damn him, seemed to know exactly you were thinking. He slowed his pace, dragging it out. You whimpered.

“You see how he looks at you? He’s seconds away from stalking over here, smacking my hand away, and licking that pretty pussy until he takes your orgasm for himself.” 

You made that soft whimpering sound again. The whole situation was overwhelming your senses, dragging you into a place where every part of you centered around these two men. 

“Please!” 

You didn’t know what you were pleading for. An orgasm. Bucky. Steve. All three. 

“I’ll make you a deal, Sparrow,” Bucky murmured in your ear, his finger never stopping its slow circles that seemed designed to keep you on the edge but never take you over it. 

“I’ll let you choose this time. Who do you want to gift this orgasm to?” 

“Both!” 

The answer tore itself from your lips, too honest for your own good. Steve grinned. His white teeth flashed and his eyes lit up with amusement, the whole effect knocking him from just handsome to downright dangerous. 

Oh God, what have I gotten myself into, you thought. 

Bucky kissed the back of your neck.

“Good girl.” 

He slid his hand away from you cunt as you grunted in displeasure.

“Stop playing and get over here, Steve. We’ve got to take care of our girl.”

Steve walked toward you and stopped to tip up your face, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip.

“This mouth was made for one thing.” 

You caught his thumb between your teeth and bit him, just hard enough to get his attention. You felt off-center and floaty and needy, but you weren't weak. 

You lifted your chin at the same time you looked at the bulge in his pants.

“Then do something about it.” 

There it was again. The heat radiating off of Steve that made you sure he wanted to ruin you. You shifted, but Bucky held you, caged and spread by your thighs and your elbows behind you.

You rocked your ass back against his cock, desperate for him to lose control the same way you were on the verge of doing. 

Steve just stood there, staring down at you with his mouth quirked in a smile. He released your mouth and shook his head.

“You haven’t earned my cock and you damn well know it.” 

He kneeled and braced his hands on Bucky’s legs. His knuckles dragged along your inner thighs, close enough to where you wanted him that you felt his heat near your clit

Steve leaned towards your face, his dark eyes intent, and you braced for another kiss. 

But he didn’t kiss you. He dragged his rough cheek against yours, and you twisted as best you could to watch him take Bucky’s mouth. 

You stared in shock as they kissed right next to you.

No, calling it a kiss was too mundane.

Steve and Bucky came together like two titans clashing, like opposing forces of nature, where one had to submit or they would destroy each other. Bucky shifted his grip on your elbows to one hand and used his free hand to tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair. 

He disconnected the kiss, and Steve groaned softly. You felt it as intensely as if it had come from your own throat. Bucky raked his teeth over Steve’s bottom lip as they parted, his blue eyes darker than they’d been before. He ran his thumb over Steve’s bruised mouth, mirroring what Steve had done to you. 

“You give her your cock when I say you do. Not before.” 

Through some unspoken agreement, they reversed positions. Bucky released your arms and Steve caught your wrists in a single hand before you had a chance to fully appreciate your freedom. He dropped onto the couch with you sprawled on his lap. 

You huffed out a breath. 

“I can move on my own, you know.” 

“We like moving you.” 

Bucky knelt between your and Steve’s spread thighs. 

“And you like being moved by us.”

He looked up at you and whatever smartass comment you were thinking of disappeared into thin air.

 “Wider, Stevie. I want to see all of her.” 

Steve responded, spreading his thighs and parting your legs further. Bucky ran his thumbs up the dip where your thigh met your pussy, exploring, his expression intense as if committing every bit of you to memory. 

He glanced at Steve, and that was all the other man needed to guide your hands down to the couch on either side of his hips. 

“Don’t move.” 

Steve spoke softly in your ear, as if too much volume would break through the spell Bucky wove around you three with his touch. Steve released you and you realized that he wanted his hands free, too. 

Lust made your head spin. 

You nodded, “Okay.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the quirk of his lips. 

“Good girl.” 

Steve ran his hands up your stomach and cupped your breasts as Bucky dipped his head and dragged his tongue up your center. Your body went hot and cold, tight and unfurled, all at the same time.

You gripped the edge of the couch cushions with everything you had and bit your lip hard. It was only when Steve nudged you back to lean fully against his chest that you realized you were frozen in a half sit-up, waiting for Bucky’s next move.

The man between your thighs chuckled, the sound vibrating across your skin to your clit. 

“Let Steve watch, Sparrow.” 

Steve moved your thick hair to the side with one hand and dragged his mouth along the line of your shoulder up to your neck. His beard prickled against your skin, which only made the smooth slide of Bucky’s tongue even more intoxicating. 

Your brain couldn’t handle the onslaught of sensation. 

Bucky’s hands gripped your thighs as his mouth worked your pussy. Steve played with your nipples as he sucked on the pulse point in your neck. A sound came out of your mouth that you’d never heard before, a keening cry that was more animal than human. 

“There you are,” Steve murmured.

Bucky speared into you with two fingers, and then a third, spreading you almost painfully, the sensation completely at odds with the way he sucked your clit. He met your gaze and then looked over your shoulder, and you knew he and Steve were watching each other as Bucky ate your pussy. 

The realization sent you hurtling into an orgasm that blanked what few thoughts you had left in your head and bowed your back sharply enough that you would have fallen off Steve’s lap if both men hadn’t held you down. 

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh my god, oh shit.” 

You were just saying words as you experienced the feelings.

Bucky brought you down gently, giving your clit one last thorough suck and shifted to ever-widening circles as your pulses slowed down. He nipped your thigh and sat back on his heels. 

“We’ve barely gotten started.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I don’t know if I can survive more.” 

“You can take it.” 

This from Steve. He reached down and cupped your pussy, his fingers huge and causing you to dream of his cock.

“Change your mind yet, Sparrow?”

“Is that a trick question?”

They had gotten you off harder than you’d gotten off… well, ever. You weren’t about to stop now.

“I want this.”

Bucky didn’t take his gaze from your face as he unbuttoned his jeans and underwear and replied, “Good.”

You weren’t as polite. You stared at his cock.

Holy shit, you thought.

You’d known he was big, but he wasn’t just big, he was big.

“Oh fuck,” was what you said aloud.

“That’s the idea.”

Steve lifted you and turned you around as Bucky caught your hips. You ended up with your hands on the back of the couch on either side of Steve’s head, your legs wide on the outside of his thighs as you were bent over, tits very nearly in his face. 

You looked from his beautiful eyes down to his jeans, to where his large cock was straining against the heavy material. You licked your lips, but Steve used a single finger to tilt your chin back up.

“Not. Yet.”

Bucky stroked his metal hand down your spine and gripped your hip as he lined up at your entrance and you tensed, thinking he would slam home in one thrust.

Or maybe you were hoping.

Instead, he held you tightly so that you couldn’t throw it back on him, and teased you, one delicious inch at a time. 

“More, Bucky, moreeeee…”

You were desperate.

Steve shut you up with his mouth, his tongue twisting over yours as Bucky shoved into you to the hilt. Steve cut the kiss off prematurely, then sat back with a smirk as Bucky started fucking you.

“Oh. My. GOD!”

Bucky drove into you again and again, making you sob. He felt so fucking good. Pleasure spiraled through you, and you didn’t know if it was Bucky’s cock, or the way Steve was watching, or both, but you were so close so soon.

Bucky stilled, buried deep, then leaned over and braced his hand on the back of the couch, caging you in with his chest to your back. 

Steve moved, sliding down to sit on the floor.

“What are you…? Oh fuck…”

The words choked out of you as Steve captured your hips, his and Bucky’s hands entertwining around you, and then his mouth was on you.

“OH GODDDDD.”

“Not God, Sparrow, Steve.” 

Bucky started moving again slowly, and you weren’t able to do anything but take what they were doing to you.

Steve was relentless, and there was nothing restrained in the way his mouth moved over your pussy. He tongued your clit even as Bucky fucked you, and their hands clasped you so hard, that you were sure there would be bruises later.

The thought brought you closer to the brink.

You were gripping the couch so hard that your knuckles went white, and the wood inside was cracking from your strength.

The sight of Steve's golden head between your thighs, of knowing exactly how close it was to Bucky’s cock sent you speeding toward the edge.

Bucky seemed to read your mind. 

“Another time, and it would be a stroke for your pussy and one for his mouth,” he chuckled as he palmed your breast and rolled your nipple.

“You’d like that.”

“Yes!” you gasped.

Like didn’t even begin to describe how that image made you feel. And when Bucky’s fingers laced through Steve’s hair, holding him to your clit, it was too much. You could only imagine what Steve was doing to Bucky as well as you. And the image tipped you over the cliff.

Your orgasm buckled your knees and it was Steve and Bucky that kept you on your feet. They held you in place as Bucky kept fucking you, his strokes becoming wilder.

How could one person endure this much pleasure?

The pressure built until you couldn’t hold it any more and then the pleasure caused you to release, squirting all over Steve and all of you melted into a puddle on top of him.

You were speechless, as both Bucky and Steve soothed you with their hands, and words that were meaningless murmurs because of the blood rushing in your ears.

There was no mistaking that this wasn’t over yet. And that you didn’t want it to be.

Bucky stood up, and lifted you in his arms, looking at you for a minute as Steve started down the hallway ahead of you, stripping off his clothes.

You heard the shower start as Bucky murmured.

“Been one hell of a birthday so far. Stay with us tonight?”

“Yes,” you managed to whisper as Bucky claimed your lips again.

“Happy Birthday Bucky Barnes.”

——

Let me know if you liked it! 🥰

[littlestpersimmon]

Guy with cataracts and scarred from an explosion has a fail toymaking shop in front of a rundown temple and he has a crush on a disfigured lowly priestess whom he suspects is a stealth trans guy because she always picks the boy option when they play board games (he’s right btw)

He's from Kalantiaw, but his mom is diaspora, and I thought her to be half "Japanese" (coded) - still trying to figure out how japanese ethnicities come to play.

She was a sailor turned pirate. She didn't know the language spoken in Kalantiaw (more akin to Khmer), and she spoke a different language (more austronesian), and she named him Kahilingan, which means "wish". But in Kalantiaw, where she settled, his name means "curse" or "bad omen" 💀 it doesn't help that her life ended with the beginning of his. So.

Kahi spends much of his life chasing the image of his mom and trying to.... live up to her- because sailing is the most esteemed occupation in their world. Only very very very very very few people have managed to work on "dragonships".

Basically, their world is physically broken (like living on an asteroid belt) and they sail to and fro each sundering / country on specialized stone ships called "dragonships" / "bakunawa"- and the ships themselves are semi-alive? They're like.. Stone ships laminated with the spirits of devas and dragons and other great beings who have all died because of (redacted).

Anyway, his mom, Maaya, was a renowned sailor- she tamed a dragonship that was imbued with an infamously wild dragon called Duksa- Dragonships are Sponsored, but those who sponsor the ships are almost never in command, and they also easily lose ownership to their hired captains- because the ships themselves are sentient, and they never obey anyone who they deem are incapable of commanding them. Only Maaya could control Duksa hehe. So she became known throughout all their world as this wild woman who loved fast boats and only accepted voyage commissions "if they are very fun". Anyways blah blah blah she fell in love w Kahi's other parent (who is nonbinary) and she got pregnet with him. And they eventually settled in Kalantiaw, in it's countryside near the subterranean capital (Kamharik).

Kahi always annoyed his other parent abt his mom because he too wanted to meet Duksa, but his parent kept warning him not to go near the ship because after Maaya died, it went even more mad with grief. Kahi more of an engineer than a captain like his mom, but his goal was simply to acquaintance with Duksa rather than actually captain her. But Duksa did not accept anyone, not even anyone who was part of Maaya's original crew.. Kahi went to an apprenticeship on shipbuilding-

he became somewhat popular for being clever with his hands, and all around Kalantiaw, everyone thought of him as reliable and very creative when it came to problem solving. So he went from normal ships to fixing dragonships.. ..

The Greatest dragonships are ones that are imbued with the spirits of actual ancient dragons and qilin, bc some are imbued with "lesser" dragons or false dragons, and some are with non-dragon albeit great spirits- like minor gods, wind spirits, phoenix,naga, etc etc..

Duksa was a true and great dragon, and Kahi knew that she was suffering from severe neglect, so all he wanted was to patch her up-

Everyone, every single one of Kahi's peers discouraged him, bc it is known that anyone who even approaches her is immediately kilIed by her; but Kahi, he is different. When he approaches Duksa, she was a shadow of herself, a ghost ship- She senses Maaya, and she even thought that Kahi was her at first- so she lets Kahi patch her big crabclaw sails, fixed her boilers and really tried to replicate how she used to look when Maaya lived.. and Duksa didn't know it wasn't her, because her eyes were covered in barnacles.. The "eyes" of a dragonship is its lodestar, and Kahi was purposefully saving it for last because he is frightened of what Duksa could do to him;;

But before that, Duksa spoke to him, joked like "ah beauty, what happened to you?! Your voice sounds like you swallowed a frog.. are you ill? Why did you abandon me?" Fhjsjs

"Why are your hands so gentle now? I want you to be rough!! Stop this at once! I am not old!"

But when Kahi started scraping finally at the lodestar, and he opened Duksa's eyes to the world once more, she cried in great anger because who tf was this intruder! And why did he carry Maaya's spirit with him !!!

Her entire deck creaked so hard the floorboards broke again, and she swayed her whole body so Kahi nearly fell from the lodestar;; he tried to reason with her, and it sort of mirrors how his mom tamed Duksa. She barrelled in head on and confidently, but Kahi was meek and gentle.

Eitherway.. an angry dragonship is like highly radioactive, its like being in a storm in a contained environment, and she started puffing steam- it's like microdosing being in fukushima; And she called Kahi a fool, he'll never measure up to Maaya, he will never be her- aaaah, but she didn't kiIl him. Maybe because she knew he was Maaya's boy. She warned him never to return, and tossed him into the open shallows. So, he was absolutely brokenhearted. He was 19.

~intense lonely lovestory between him and a closeted trans guy raised by mean transphobic priestesses in a cult the antithesis of a loving and wise lesbian death goddess occurs.~

There she is.. her name is Viharana Magayarin

Names-

Maaya's name is spelled a certain way in kanji, I want it to mean "True"

Duksa's name is Tagalog, it means "grief"

Kahilingan's name is tagalog- and it means "wish". Inspired from.. in tagalog, "curse" is a contronym of sorts- "curse" and "promise" is the same word ("sumpa")

Kahi's trans boyfriend's name is Tala, and it means "star" 😌

[sparrows4bats]

Thinking about Street Artist Damian.

A Damian who rebelled by becoming a doctor. That believes Gotham can be better.

That writes his love letters to the city on brick and stone.

That tries to fill it with more colour on the nights he misses being out on rooftops, and nightmares won't let him sleep.

He paints tributes to his family, portrays the city's strength on towers and gargoyles

At first, not many people notice. The people of Crime Alley appreciate the art but doubt it'll last long. The richer gothamites ponder it as a new installation.

Damian keeps going. Pours his love into artistic representations of the heroes.

Batman, in his characteristic black on a background of wild blooms.

Spoiler, in bright purple, watching the alleys protectively.

Signal, bright, and foreboding on the wall of a shelter.

Orphan is a silhouette among the figures of happy people, guarding them.

Nightwing flips and flies on bridges and overpasses.

Red hood stands over housing estates and apartment blocks.

Red Robin is painted on the roofs and alleys granting safe passage.

The street children count the pretty drawings, they soon realise they appear where it's safe to sleep.

The downtrodden follow blue birds to shelters and food banks.

The injured follow red bats to free clinics and hospitals.

If you find a yellow bird, it usually means there is a box of food, blankets, and cash nearby. They refill every few days, and people take what they need.

There is a code painted on Gotham streets if you care to learn it.

Damian watches it all with a secret smile.

He paints flowers on lampposts and park benches. He draws cats outside the windows of the children's hospital.

When he has a bad night, he paints for the city he can't fight for anymore but protects all the same.

When Jon catches him one night, years after he starts his murals, the Super just smiles and helps him reach higher spots.

Superman flies through the city and tries to find each piece of art.

There are dogs with capes now outside the children's hospital.

Jon kisses Damian for the first time when he sees the giant portrait of Superboy watching over the Gotham library. Damian holds his hand with spray paint covered fingers

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆

# with vice-admiral smoker.

the point of your lover's weapon has a small piece of sea-prism stone. you, wickedly, happen to find it'd be just as useful on your heels.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day nine. smut (mdni!) boot worship. tights. teasing. choking. office!sex. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2k.

the path of a marine officer was complicated; oftentimes disappointing. the naive trust in the justice code had died ages prior, buried underneath piles of bitter dirt, destined to rot alongside the witnessed corruption, lodged within the walls of the organization whose code he once chose to surrender his freedom to follow. smoker grew harsher, more prone to snapping; the character of his career and the never-ending growth in pirate activity all but a fuel. tashigi — meekly — pointed out that perhaps the cause of such annoyance came from a tendency to overwork himself. hina — on her hand, revolted — stated that he needed to get laid.

the latter proved to be correct.

yet, the road that led him to you had done it so in an agonizing pace. as quite a known, high in hierarchy, marine officer, the pursuit of love had to be engulfed in wariness. smoker was one responsible for the capture of an innumerable amount of pirates, most harmless to those with certain skill yet for sure lethal to a common civilian. escapes were more often than not ruled out, but one could never be too sure, meaning that a relationship engaged with an individual unable to fend for themselves was improbable — which left him with either pirates, revolutionaries, or a co-worker. marines, however, either incompetent or insufferable, save for a select group.

smoker had not once envisioned himself in a loving embrace with those of shared values and career, for the thought alone of finding one interesting enough seemed but a wild dream. that was, of course, until he caught a glimpse of you.

rather than losing himself in the reasoning forbidding him from pursuing a long-term partner, smoker had started to weigh the pros and cons of dating a fellow vice-admiral. distance was an obnoxious obstacle, for the pair of you were commanders of marine bases on divergent directions. transponder snail was not quite a viable method of communication either — at least, not when one aimed to share romance-coated sentences — for the call could be wiretapped, and the embarrassing contents of the conversation overheard. and, at last, you were only ever saw in cases of obnoxious, general reunions or unrecommended straying from your patrols.

it happened to be one of the pros — you were far more daring. smoker had no respect for twisted orders, and more often than not decided to act with no regard for the upper heads’ plans whatsoever, yet somehow he had managed to find a partner with a behavior twice as rascal — distance was an obstacle you did not bother to counter. your strength absolved him of worry, for you were far more capable than most. but what had convinced him altogether was the sheer urge to have an ever-current carnal connection with one he nurtured something for — and those tights. he adored tugging at them; vanishing his fingers amidst conjured smoke to tease the bare flesh under the fabric; staining it with the ash of his cigar. smoker had never spared much thought to one’s thighs until he was given the opportunity to leave yours red; figure spasming due to the violent pinch of his large fingers.

he had commanded his subordinates to dock and re-stock, the interval of time required for the log pose to adapt being one above a week. it was but a matter of days until your fleet was seen at shore, having followed the vivre card leading to him. smoker had his legs spread, a sour figure growing restless at your absence, a veil of spiraling nicotine all but staining the walls of his office.

languid, sensual-esque knocking; the echoing of heels against the ground. he opened an eye, failing to contain the pleasure born from your arrival. the marine’s coat hand from your shoulders, usual tights hugging the delicious flesh of your legs as you strutted in his direction, wearing an expression that promised nothing but trouble.

“we have full-on uniforms to use for a reason,” he scolded, though his tone held neither sharpness nor annoyance.

“is that so?” you hummed, sitting on his table, legs crossed. smoker’s hand went to your thigh as though second instinct, gripping it with non-forethought strength. “you first.”

he grinned. whenever the weather warmed up, smoker was one to rest shirtless in his office, and the occasion at hand was far from different. the point of your boot brushed against his bare chest, and he ceased the roaming of his fingers on your ankles upon noticing you have never used that piece — at least, not with him.

“new boots?” smoker inquired, aware that one valued having their partner pointing out appearance shifts — no matter how minor.

your face lit up as though a forest fire, a malicious smile surging on your lips as you leaned forward, playfully kicking his abdomen. “you liked it?”

“it’s black leather,” he stated, not quite able to differentiate it from your previous ones.

“wanna see what it can do?”

the smile offered was mischievous; borderline diabolical. instincts alight due to the unspoken promise of trouble. unpredictable endeavor of sexual character that had his member twitching regardless of the warning goosebumps. smoker retreated from your figure, making use of the comfortable armrests at his sides. aware that he’d regret his decision, smoker spurred you on, nodding his head with a grin.

the sole of your boot applied pressure to his chest, forcing his back to meet the leather surface of his seat. that position was far from distasteful. smoker adored having you on his table, whether splayed or bent, vulnerable to the assault of his cock; perhaps crawling with your ass up, teeth tugging his zipper down. he did not mind the perspective of having you on more comfortable surfaces — a soft mattress, a large couch — yet his office remained his most favored spot. smoker was obsessed with the sight of your juices smearing the wooden table; of pressing you against the wall, shoving himself so deep he had your head hitting the harsh surface. whatever thought you had in mind, so long as it had you in such a position — sitting on his table, biting your lip with hooded eyes —, he was pleased with it.

until he flinched at the touch of your heel. the smoke once conjured had vanished, as though a gust of wind traveled past his power, dismantling the veil that had once covered the lightning of his office. smoker hissed, trapped under your foot; squirming with gritted teeth.

“sea-prism stone heels?” he snarled, gripping the armrest.

“stole the idea from you,” you teased, dragging the heel against his bare chest. “thought we could match.”

smoker’s fingers curled in the hole straps of your tights, tearing through the fabric in an attempt to drag you closer. yet, your grip on the edges of the table was steel-made; unmoving, regardless of his insistence. power and strength were drained without distinction, the man left at your entire mercy with a mind much too hazed to react in equal fervor.

“no spite in storage?” you cooed, tilting his chin up with the point of your boot, aware of that being far from the truth.

smoker was livid. yet not at you; rather at himself. his underwear was but a narrow prison, constricting his aching cock. he trailed his eyes down your bare shoulders, to the enticing inches of flesh of your thighs, wrapped around black, thin straps. when your other foot started to hover above his belt, slim heel threatening to angle itself down on his covered erection, smoker had to convey the urge to moan. it was pathetic; maddening. you were but reducing him to a puddle of meek sensation, condescending tone with lascivious-wrapped orders, and rather than to struggle and regain his dignity, he was willing to fold.

his eyes shone with uncovered rage, and that all but excited you twice as much, the point of your heel moving his chin to the sides, dragging itself far closer to his sealed lips.

“take these heels off me,” he ordered, though the bark lacked its usual fierceness. you dared pretend to ponder it over, a faux expression of concentration; an index tapping on your chin.

“so mean,” you pouted, sighing dramatically. “didn’t you adore it?”

prolonged time spent for the innuendo to be understood; the light drag of your boot on his lower lip. smoker’s expression shifted into one of pure disturbance, yet his treacherous cock twitched under the pressure of your other heel, denying him the right of pretense.

“c’mon,” you edged him, all but threatening to step on his face.

perhaps it had been the numbing effects of the sea-prism stone; perhaps smoker had lost his mind to lust; for his lips met the sole of your boot a second thereafter, pressing a short-lived kiss against it. he shuddered, tongue lolling out as his eyes caught a glimpse of your blown-wide ones, as if you were struggling to believe that he had conceded to your wish. smoker coated the leather of the tip with saliva, roaming his tongue from the covered region of your fingers.

trembling hand settled on your leg, raising and drawing it closer, as a lustful mouth left a trail of wet kisses throughout the entire extension of your boot. he dared use the other one to grip the bare flesh, pinching and squeezing — a promise. you trembled, growing hot with the sight. smoker observed you through his eyelashes, making out with your boot, inching his head forward until his nose brushed against your knee and your heel hovered above his flexed abdomen. you gasped when his teeth nipped at your tights, tearing through the straps; tongue claiming the exposed flesh of your knee. when smoker guided a set of fingers closer to your intimacy — the other ones busying themselves with the grip of your ankle —, and had his thumb pressed against your clothed clit, you trembled. when he closed a fist around the crotch and threatened to rip it, the surprise had your heel pressing itself with regained fervor against his cock.

smoker stiffened, his breath growing labored. his teeth met the leather of your boot, tugging at it as though a wild beast, a muffled grunt of pleasure vibrating through the material. he could sense your own excitement; feel it dampening his hand, for you went to visit him without panties. that made him rut against the heel, yet again trailing desperate kisses through the extension of your boot, licking and witnessing the gradual dripping of saliva.

the prolonged contact with the sea-prism stone had his limbs growing limp, threatening to reach a point of uselessness. the merest act of raising a questioning eyebrow had demanded an insane amount of energy. he felt close to slipping out of consciousness, as though poisoned. your legs trembled — or perhaps, that had been his own hands —, and you parted them as much as your flexibility permitted, the sea-prism stone inching out of touch as a consequence.

without it, the return of his usual strength was but automatic. smoker’s smirk was borderline crooked when he witnessed your anticipating — yet shrinking — behavior; fear and lust overlapping. he tugged down at the material of your shorts, ripping it in two, all but turning it into a minuscule skirt. no longer restricted to the limits of his chair, smoker raised himself to his full height and gripped your neck, pushing your back against the table. you gasped at the sudden lack of air; the strength that would not give.

“lost your big words?” he taunted, spreading your legs further. “you were enjoying yourself then, weren’t you?”

you attempted to nod, eyes rolling due to the pressure. your voice came out rough, strained, even, for you knew that smoker demanded vocal replies. “i– i was.”

his smile was all teeth and malice. “i will be enjoying this.”

smoker grabbed your spit-coated ankle, holding it high above his shoulder, careful not to allow the heel to touch his hand. he kept the other leg spread, forcing his own knee against it while his fingers undid the button of his pants, allowing it to slip off. smoker struggled to grow accustomed to his own strength due to the previous extended restriction, and his underwear, too, fell prey to his vicious grip, the waistband snapping in two alongside the rest of the fabric. the man scoffed before releasing the pressure on your throat for the briefest instance, enough to have you draw-in a desperate breath before he tightened the grip yet again.

withdrawing with his shaft free of its previous cuffs, he positioned at your entrance, grinning at your alarmed reaction. smoker slammed himself inside, not minding the fact that your tights were still on. his tip tore through the straps, the length invading your cunt without further ado. smoker hissed when your walls enveloped him, the wetness added to the material of your tights creating an odd, yet welcoming texture. you clenched around his cock, and would have screamed at the sudden invasion if you happened to have enough air in your lungs.

the first thrust had him deep, balls hitting your ass. he released the pressure on your throat in order to set a ruthless pace, the table underneath cringing at the used strength. for your own pleasure — and for the perspective of witnessing the roll of those teary eyes — smoker licked the sole of your boot yet again, biting down on the tip; scraping his teeth down against the leather. you mewled when he brushed your g-spot — again and again, without mercy —, arching your back and gripping the edges of the table.

“that’s it,” he rasped out, leaving a bite mark on your boot, aiming for his teeth to reach your flesh. “that’s—shit, where you belong.”

the jerk of his hips was coated in brute force, a repeated pattern, base-to-tip; in-and-out. he hammered through your walls without an ounce of mercy, the cacophony of your pleasure the most ethereal music he had ever heard. the regained clenching had him know you were close, and smoker deprived you of air yet again, aware that the choking sensation would lead you to the edge. no warning was ensued on his part, and as soon as your high coated the sensible skin of his cock, smoker shot his load inside, chasing the ends of his orgasm regardless of the shared stimulation, grunting at the sight of your mixed essences dripping out of your cunt.

he was careful not to collapse into you, elbows pressed on the table in order to support his weight. smoker pressed a kiss on your sweat-coated temple, raising himself ever-so-slightly, eyes scanning the room.

“what are you searching for?” you inquired tiredly, your voice rough due to the strength of his grip.

“my weapon,” he replied, grinning down at you. “after all, you wanted us to match.”

[never-rxne]

─── you believe me like a god, i'll betray you like a man

sevika x stray dog coded reader. character study. || 3.6k words

summary: sevika saves your life. in return, you become her dog. she owns you - and she knows this.

content warnings: heavy angst. canon-typical violence and gore. mild sexual content (read at your discretion). depiction of a codependent, abusive relationship (not romanticized). || song: "I'm Your Man" by Mitski

note: skimmed it for format, and it's interesting to see how my understanding of sevika's character has evolved over time. if i were to rewrite this there are definitely things i would do differently

you're an angel, i'm a dog or you're a dog and i'm your man

Sevika does not quite know why she saved you. 

It was a night as dark and filthy as the river water. Like the toxins, the streets were crowded with brutes. Things recoiling from flashes of light in the alleyways. Hungry hands outstretched. Flickering neon lights from building signs reflected off the stone pavements slick with rain. 

Sevika storms through the streets, a scowling force. Her height and build are enough to ward off attackers. They don’t approach her: very, very few come close enough to discover what is hidden under the dusty red cloak wrapped around her broad shoulders. 

The rain pelting her face takes her back to a night she never wants to think of again. She can almost smell her own burned flesh. See the ruddy glow of the flames. A massive broken body. 

She’s not broken anymore. She will show them. 

Maybe it was this thought that drove her to follow the sounds coming from an alley across the street. This side of the city is nearly empty by midnight, and the noises of a fight pierce clearly through the relentless whisper of rain. 

Flesh hitting flesh. Metal on concrete. 

“Piss off, you fuckers! Shit eating street rats!” 

Sevika never interfered in petty street scuffles. No one in Zaun did. It simply wasn’t worth it. A fight was an indicator of your right to survive, in a way. If you couldn’t fend for yourself in a hand-to-hand once in a while, you had no business eating off the tables of those who could. 

But your voice…this wild, desperate, rage-filled voice…it intrigues her. 

Sevika turns her steps toward the alley. 

In the darkness, she sees three figures pinning down a struggling fourth. This angers her. She doesn’t care who the attackers are, she doesn’t care who you are—it’s the unfairness of the scuffle that infuriates her. You are clearly a woman, smaller in size than the three men cornering you. 

Sevika reaches up and unclasps her cloak from her shoulder. Her mech arm gleams in the dim light of street signs spilling into the alley. She activates the Shimmer capsule. The world turns pink, then red with blood. 

You were losing strength, but still kicking. The men had been tailing you through the streets for hours, no matter how many fucking false corners you turned to try to throw them off. They were after money you didn’t have, you couldn’t guess how the hell they had gotten the tip that you had assets, but here you are.

You can’t tell the difference between the blood and rainwater running down your face. Your arms are pinned to your sides as the third man brings the knife to your throat. 

Then: a gravelly yell, a flash of rippling hot pink light. The blood sprays against your face, all over your clothes, and the man lies dead on the ground. 

The other two thugs whirl around, dropping you. You fall to the ground and press your back to the wall, squinting through the darkness for a glimpse of your savior’s face, but all you see is a massive, statuesque figure. 

And that arm of searing pink and metal. 

The thugs run at the stranger. She grabs one by the throat with her human hand and flings him against the wall as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. She drives her mechanical arm straight through the body of the other. You see her metal fist come out clutching the dripping mass of his organs. She jerks out the arm, kicks the body aside. 

Silence settles. You hear nothing but the roar of your beating heart. 

The stranger stands with her back to you, panting hard. She picks up her cloak from the ground and uses it to wipe the gore off her mechanical arm. The bright pink fades. 

You part your cracked lips. “Thank…thank you.”

She turns quickly. Evidently, she had completely forgotten you were there. 

You can make out a chiseled, harsh face. Dark brows drawn tight, a downturned mouth. And a faint blue glow from the web of scars in her skin, like some inner power glinting through cracks in marble. 

She gives you the faintest of nods. Bunching up the cloak in her human hand, she begins to walk away. 

You stumble to your feet. The world spins, but your bones are intact. “Wait—” you call. 

She stops. 

“What’s your name?” 

The scarred woman turns her head slightly. “Better off not knowing that,” she says. Her voice is deep and rough. She strides out of the alley. 

Without a second’s hesitation, you follow her.

you believe me like a god i'll destroy you like i am

It did not take long for you to become devoted. 

At first, Sevika tried to shake you off. She tried threatening you. Cursing you out. The fuck makes you think I’d take in a stray? Does this look like a dog pound to you? 

But there you were, every night at her door, whether the weather was clear or it was pouring, thunder rumbling. She found you asleep on the doorstep of her small apartment, she found you in the shadows around her frequent haunts: In the backstreet of The Last Drop. Leaning against the side of the building of Babette’s. You said nothing to her—it was enough that she saw you. You followed her through the streets, never too close, but just close enough to keep her in your sight. 

She finally turns around one day, eyes narrowed. You stop in your tracks, just a few paces behind her. 

“Get over here,” she says sharply. 

You obey. You look up to meet her gaze. She has grey eyes like the blade of a sharpened knife. She pierces right through you. Your savior. 

“The hell do you want from me?” she demands. “And will giving it to you finally make you fuck off?” 

“I want nothing,” you say simply. “I want to give you something.” 

Her scowl deepens. Suspicion darkens her gaze. “What?” 

“My life.” 

A long pause. She draws back and lets out a short, barking laugh. “It wasn’t anything personal, girl. Now go home.” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Not my problem.” 

“No,” you agree. 

Sevika stares at you for several minutes. Sizing you up. For the first time since you’ve met her, she sees you in the full light of day. You don’t seem as pathetic and helpless as she thought you were that night, crumpled against the wall in the alleyway, beaten up and bleeding. You meet her gaze unflinchingly. There’s something genuine and passionate blazing in your eyes that cuts into her. Something that reminds her of the girl she once was, a girl now buried deep inside her like something dead in the pit of her soul. What is it? What was the look? 

Loyalty. 

Her dark lips curl into a sneer. “What can you do?” she asks. 

“Anything. Everything.” 

You’re nothing but a stray. You would be nothing but a mouth to feed, a body to shelter. But a part of Sevika likes the devotion burning in your eyes. The reverence you give her for the simple reason of her violence. She thinks, you have not seen who I’ve once been. You don’t know who I am now. You are so very mistaken, and you’ll pay for it eventually. 

Besides, you could prove useful. You look sturdy enough. Quick on your feet, observant, sharp-witted—you had proven that in the weeks of following her around the city, learning her habits from afar. 

“I can’t pay you anything. And you’ll have to work for what I can give you. You’ll have to work like a dog.” 

“Yes.” After a second’s hesitation, you incline your head to her. “Master.”

i'm sorry i'm the one you love no one will ever love me like you again

You are true to your word. 

Stick to it like a blood oath. 

You become known to the undercity as “The Brute’s Shadow.” Where Sevika is, you are too: the smaller woman in the background, arms crossed, face impassive: fading into the walls until the second Sevika needs something. In the Last Drop, you have her drink and ashtray on the table before she sits down. She pulls out a cigarette, your lighter is hovering before her lips. She does not give you a single glance—not, at least, in public. When she is ready to leave, she gives a whistle. And you are on her heels in a heartbeat. 

She has given you a corner in her apartment to sleep—but never lets you inside her bedroom. She rents two dark rooms, with an after-thought-like kitchenette and small bathroom, and you have never seen where she sleeps. You are up at dawn to wash her clothes and fix her small breakfast of coffee and brown bread. You mend her boots, clean her tools, and when she runs out of cigars you are out—no matter what time of night it is—to get her more. 

Yet the more you try to please her, the more you seem to repulse her. 

She sends you to fetch her whiskey. You return with the drink, and she snaps that she wanted beer. She tells you not to touch her tools, then demands why they are not sharpened. She mocks you for your devotion, the way you would spend your life groveling on your knees. She is gentle one day. She is brutal the next. She laughs in your face for the way you follow her around like a dog parched for water. She calls you her stray.  

You are a mortal kneeling at the feet of a heartless god. Your life is in her hands. Whether she obliterates you, burns your body up into nothing but vapor, it does not matter. You do not care. If she burns you, you will lean into the warmth of her flames. 

Because you find home in cruelty. If Sevika had been kind, generous from the beginning, you would have recoiled, frightened. The act alone of saving your life was enough for her to secure your loyalty forever. It doesn’t matter how she treated you. 

And Sevika knows this. 

Sometimes, she takes you into the brothel with her. Never offers to get you a worker, and you never ask. Usually she makes you stand outside the room to “keep watch” while she has her time with whatever girl she picks, back turned to the closed curtain, listening to the grunts and moans and heavy breaths. But today she tells you to come into the room with her. 

The girl glances at you with misgiving. Looks up at Sevika, as if for an explanation. 

“She’s not here for you,” Sevika tells her. She sits down on the couch, legs splayed, mechanical arm draped over the back of the chair. “I want the usual.” 

Her eyes never leave your face. And you cannot look away. 

The girl hesitates, but Sevika’s tone demands obedience. The girl turns her back to you, standing as still as stone by the curtain, and goes down on her knees. Sevika watches you closely as the girl unbuttons her pants. Lazily, her human hand wanders down and her fingers gather in the girl’s lush hair, pulling her closer. Sevika’s heavy-lidded eyes go dark as the girl slots her tongue between her thighs, but her expression betrays almost nothing, as if the pleasure of sex is stripped bare for her, as if this is just another procedure she goes through as methodically as her work for Silco. 

As soon as she comes the girl pulls away, but Sevika does not let go of her hair. She has never taken her gaze off you. 

With her mech hand she pulls up her pants. She stands, and the girl stands with her. She turns the girl around so that you are face to face with her, so that you can see Sevika’s arousal glistening around her mouth, her beautiful vacant eyes. 

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Sevika says. 

You say nothing. 

Sevika scoffs to herself, as if some inner voice told her a private joke. She counts out the money for the girl and leaves it on the table. 

You know she wanted you to see her superiority. You know she brought you in there to show you the pleasure she can afford, the status she holds, a position you will never reach, never rise to. You know she brought you in there so she could remind you of your place—beneath her, always at her feet. 

But you saw the haze of her darkened eyes. The suppressed pleasure and agony and bitter loneliness. Sevika thinks she can hide from you. She thinks eventually you will be disgusted by her, pushed beyond the breaking point. You only want her more.

so when you leave me, i should die i deserve it, don't i?

Gradually she allows you to come closer. She lets you into her bed. She finds herself desiring you, to the point of blind passion. There is something about the worshipful way you gaze up at her as she hovers over you. Something about the helplessness of your body, limp and sweaty beneath hers. It lets her believe, even for a second, that she is not hideous. 

But how is that possible? 

She looks at you sometimes and wants to crush you like the fragile body of a bird. Her hand covers half your face, her thighs cradle you like boulders. She could break you between her thumb and index finger. She wants to destroy you the same way the explosion destroyed her. She wants to ravage you, she wants to ruin your beauty, the steady symmetry of your body. 

She looks at your arms, the scars lining your skin from numerous past street scuffles. And she is filled with a rage and envy so potent it brings the tears to her eyes. Why do you—so inferior, so helpless, useless, a stray from the streets—why do you have the blessing of two arms, a complete figure? Why do you have the privilege of beauty and strength? Your unblemished skin, your unmutilated body. You have the inner strength and rage, the will to survive. You could go anywhere and do anything. 

Why do you stay? 

Why do you stay for her? 

Pity, Sevika thinks. It is nothing but pity. All this time she thought she had the upper hand. All this time you must have been laughing at her in your mind.

It is a simmering summer night. You watch from the bed as Sevika pulls on her shirt. Her mechanical arm is off. Before she clothes herself, you can see the muscles rippling in her back, the jagged blue scars lining the left side of her torso. Her beauty makes you breathless, and the stagnant air feels tight around you. She looks into the cracked mirror and sees you watching her in the reflection. 

“Enjoying the view?” she says roughly. 

Your tongue fills your mouth. 

“Come here.” 

You climb out of bed and walk over to her side. She grabs you by the arm and pulls you next to her, forcing you to stand next to her and look into the mirror. 

“Do you think you’re better than me?” She says in a low voice. “Little street brat? What kind of savior game are you trying to play?” 

You have no idea what she is talking about, but you make no sound. 

“I saved your life,” Sevika hisses. “I picked you up off the filthy streets. I fed you and gave you a place to sleep.” 

When you still give no answer, she pushes you away from her. Then in a movement so sudden you don’t even have time to process it, she hits you hard across the face with her right hand. The force knocks you off your feet and throws you against the side of the bed, bruising your ribs. 

She walks slowly over to you. Sweat streaks her dark hair over her forehead. She reaches down and grabs you by the face, forcing you to look up at her. Something dark and dangerous teems in her grey eyes, a rage you know is not even directed at you. 

Sevika is sick with self-loathing. When she sees the blood running down your lips, the bruise forming on your face, she wants to destroy herself. She wants to fall to her knees and weep. She wants to tell you to run from her, quickly, before it’s too late. 

“Who do you belong to?” Sevika asks, her voice low. 

You cough, and see flecks of red in the air between you and her. “You.” 

“You, what?” 

“You, master.” 

She drops your face. You slump to the floor. Sevika turns away. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

one day you'll figure me out i'll meet judgment by the hounds

Sevika wonders why you don’t leave. 

You don’t leave because you see her weakness. No matter how she tries to conceal it from you, you have seen her worst sides, her uncertainties. The way she comes home exhausted and reeking of blood, the way she stumbles into the bathroom and vomits Shimmer after a grueling fight. The way she tells you things when she is drunk enough not to know who she is talking to—or care. 

She’s leaning against the wall one night, too tired to even pull herself into bed. There’s whiskey on her breath. She watches you through half closed eyes as you stitch up a deep gash in her leg: some fucker had caught her calf with a blade in a fight in front of the Shimmer warehouse. Since you have come to live with her you’ve become skilled in tending to wounds. 

“If you…” her voice trails off, then returns. “If you’re ready to go, I can pay you your due.” 

You don’t look up from your hands on her leg. “I’m not leaving you.” 

Sevika frowns as your words make their way through the thick fog of her mind. She looks at you more intently, ready to argue. Then her head falls back against the wall again. 

“Right,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “You can’t leave.” 

She gives a low, joyless laugh. “Where would you go? Huh, stray?” 

Finally, you look at her. She tilts her head at you. Pain fills her gaze. 

“You’re stuck here. Just like me.”

people always gave me love others were never to blame after all

On an overcast morning, you follow Sevika on a trip to one of the Shimmer supply houses. Silco had heard of some trouble brewing around the area there and wanted Sevika to station more cyborgs on the premises. The streets are quiet and smoke drifts from chimneys, disappearing into the cloudy sky. Sevika had been in a lighter mood that morning. Even whistled as she fastened on her mech arm. As she strode down the street with you, she pointed out landmarks and storefronts, telling you all the scraps of history she knew to pass the time. 

Turf wars were quieting down since Piltover closed the gates against Zaun and stationed enforcers at the border. The insult to the lower city resulted in a newfound solidarity among the Zaunites, uniting them against Topside. Because of the decrease in street fights, it has been weeks since Sevika used Shimmer, and the effects of it showed. Her appetite returned. Her moods were calmer, less volatile. 

She has never treated you better than this time, and you have never loved her more. 

At the warehouse, you stand close by Sevika as she directs the cyborgs’ stations around the building. You survey the rows and rows of Shimmer vaults, the massive glass containers bubbling with the raw substance. Until they are diluted, you know they are extremely reactive. 

You don’t know who ignites the blast. 

The screams of alarm, the sudden rush of heat, the echo of shattering glass—they fade into nothing as your vision registers the wave of the explosion hurtling towards you and Sevika. Your body reacts before your mind. You hurl yourself against her, pushing her out of the way. 

A searing pain like you’ve never known before cuts through your senses, and then the world goes dark. 

When Sevika comes to, she is aware of a loud ringing in her ears. Her mechanical arm is mangled beneath her, leaking oil, wires sticking out. With a grunt of effort she raises herself up on her human arm and tries to squint through the pink haze of dust. The world is shattered glass and splintered wood. 

Her gaze falls on an arm outstretched nearby, but she can’t see the rest of you. Everything rushes back to her. She scrambles across the floor, half dragging herself, and throws aside the debris covering your body. Your face is streaked with soot and blood. Your body is twisted into itself. Your chest is barely moving. 

Sevika cradles your broken body in her arm. She looks into your senseless face. She feels a deep chasm open up in her chest. Through cracked lips she whispers, “Hey. Hey, stray.” 

I’ve lost her. 

Your hand stirs. Briefly, you reach up and touch the bend of her elbow. Then your hand falls to your side. It was all the hope she needed. 

She has owned you all this time, but only now she looks down at you and feels that you are someone that was hers to lose. 

you believe me like a god i'll betray you like i am.

end note: 🥲

[inklore]

if it's one thing your girl is great at it's making a million different google docs full of lists full of resources, ideas, etc that will help future me when it comes to posting fics.

fic titles are literally one of the biggest lists i have and not even in a perfect world where i write ten fics a day would i ever be able to use all of these, and i don't like to see things go to waste, and i know there's people out there that struggle with titles as much as i do. so i hope this list comes in handy for someone!

i don't think i need to say this but just in case: no one owns fic titles, anyone can use these, a dozen people or one or none. these are literally just words and letters. no one owns them. sharing is caring, enjoy lovies!

★ — ONE WORD.

overboard 

runaway 

repercussions 

sledgehammer 

stargazing 

symmetry 

deathless 

honey 

retrograde 

stitches 

gravity 

helpline 

hollow 

suffer 

pushing 

warrant 

want 

wonder 

emotions 

nonchalant 

lavender 

daydream 

nosebleed 

jigsaw 

static 

float 

limbs 

hologram 

careless 

lush 

rotting 

phonograph 

hypnotic 

splinters 

magnetic 

wasted 

lithium 

dealer 

she

candles 

sabotage 

secrets

better

crescendo

deny

phenomenon

nights

guilty

move

criminal

blue

rise

thirsty

strangers

clockwork

closer

hectic

change

somebody

more

misery

like

sour

lowkey

peaches

she

nervous

sympathy

scars

disappear

melody

gemini

cruel

persona

supernatural

nectar

obsessed

casual

tryant

xo

dare

honestly

yummy

out

paradise

nuts

groin

heaven

lost

stardust

tangerine

monolith

lunch

pov

perfume

dealer

tough

arson

★ — TWO WORDS.

hush hush

night away

heart stop

stone heart

waiting for

black rose

sad kids

spine breaker

look here

autumn leaves

for you

spring day

love maze

bad decisions

take two

wild flower

blue side

rainy days

face off

slow dancing

polar night

like crazy

club heaven

deeper water

romantic devil

hold me

angel eyes

picture you

after midnight

twilight zone

drain me

sorry sorry

pretty please

how sweet

bubble gum

empty box

love therapy

play me

red velvet 

cherry bullet 

midnight guest 

cherry wish 

code words

ghost walk

bad intentions 

atlas hands 

broken crown 

crystallized words 

filthy pride 

fresh eyes 

heavy feet 

hungry ghosts 

imaginary paintings 

neon jungle 

perfect storm 

slow hands 

stop signs 

sad farewells 

untranslated stars 

after hours 

bad liar 

bonfire heart 

bruised lips 

cherry bomb 

damaged goods 

dead end 

fire away 

gunpowder hourglass 

lonely together 

lost language 

old moons 

one dance 

paper knees 

sleepy eyes 

stolen dance 

vice city 

artificial heart 

cry baby 

daylight fading 

dream awake 

empty bottle 

exit wounds 

ghost orchards 

moving stones 

paper walls 

oceans away 

playing fiction 

something wild 

wild thoughts 

everybody’s fool 

eyes closed 

storms incarnate 

writing tragedies 

stereo driver 

soul searching 

party’s over 

backseat driving 

fearful heart 

backwards directions 

nosebleed seats 

high hopes 

lovers rock

wet dream 

selfish soul 

washed away 

rose rogue 

midnight sun 

teenage fantasy 

wandering romance 

sure thing 

wildest dreams 

rock candy

losing momentum 

ruin you 

heart holiday 

sink her 

cut splinters 

hot mess 

frozen devotion 

little star 

blind faith 

favorite crime 

romantic homicide 

those eyes 

play pretend 

plot line 

pretty poison 

intimidate you 

pretty face 

strawberry kisses 

lovers rock 

worlds apart 

desperate/separate ways 

those eyes 

the blonde 

loving machine 

spill blood

someone’s someone

★ — THREE WORDS.

got my number

happy without me

not over you

crazy for you

back to you

flame of love

just one day

let me know

hold me tight

make it right

closer than this

love me again

still with you

out of love

never let go

love in space

ready to bleed 

bleed for love

between the bars 

can’t be still

cold morning mist 

in cold blood

matter of time 

piece by piece 

ship to wreck 

taut with love 

waste a moment 

can’t see straight 

down and out 

in a blackout 

just like fire 

notes on tenderness 

across the room

fire with fire 

going half-mad

loving to ruins 

rust to gold

send my love 

talking in code 

cradling a dream 

cut to black 

dear to me 

run me dry 

dancing with demons 

kiss and tell 

if you care 

the cry out 

steal this night 

just for now 

heart on fire 

hold my head 

nobody but you 

simple and plain

a familiar sound 

fool for you 

drown your memory 

falling into you 

just like heaven 

warm like beaches 

love that stings 

rotting in places 

moves on you 

save your tears 

a single tear 

light my cigarette 

long nights, daydreams 

boys like you 

love me forever 

hands on me 

like a phonograph 

taking over me 

dug so deep 

touch the ground 

heart shaped box 

where’s my love

tears of gold

lover of mine 

love me wrong

kiss or kill 

exes and why’s 

love is easy 

stupid in love 

easy to love

lost with you 

glimpse of us 

keep you safe 

death with dignity 

just like heaven 

heart of glass 

baby i’m yours 

pull my strings 

★ — FOUR+ WORDS.

love me a little

happy without me

you can't hold my heart

wishing on a star

give it to me

around the world in a day

waste it on me

this mess is yours

feeling like i do 

on a war path 

blood on the surface 

corner of the sky 

do the divine love 

drinking the corinthian sun 

everything is laced in (add word) 

lost in the moment 

in the nick of time 

mouth like a pomegranate 

the bones you’re made of 

when the mania speaks 

all desire & no thought 

blue in the face 

collapsing and relapsing 

middle of the night 

sail to the sun 

lay down your arms 

falling into the sky 

take me where your heart is 

she’s like the bad weather 

kill for your love 

the cigarette and the smoker 

the match and the fuse 

saint, i’m a sinner 

when the sky comes falling 

pretty little hand in mine 

even when the sun don’t shine

staring at the sun / sunset 

tangled up with you all night 

paper airplanes flying 

maybe i’m a fool 

tastes like rock candy 

blood in a lemon

(a) heart ready to die 

fate is losing its patience 

at least we feel alive 

death for your secrets 

someone’s gonna ruin you 

dancing in a crowded room 

smell you on my clothes 

always taste like you 

leave me wanting more 

hunger for (insert here) 

swim before you drown 

put your hands on me 

drink my (these) tears and cry 

i’d sleep all day just to dream of you 

so high we never stood a chance 

i’d break down anytime for you 

maybe i’m wrong, or maybe it’s true 

i only breathe so that i breathe with you

a worn out cassette 

lips on my cold neck 

talking in my sleep 

make me feel like someone else 

locked inside your heart 

hooked on her flesh 

it’s bloody and raw 

the angel of small death 

just a couple sinners 

smiles cover your heart 

charmer and the snake 

stuck on your thumb 

if i killed someone for you 

dancing with your ghost 

i miss you, i’m sorry 

woman of the hour 

shut up and look pretty 

queen of the night 

devil in a dress 

the thought of you 

to be your lover 

falling over you 

just like a movie 

love on the line 

[vettelsvee]

GOODBYES ARE BITTERSWEET | Sebastian Vettel ✩₊˚.⋆PART 6: LITTLE WHITE LIES [PREVIOUS PART] [NEXT PART]

goodbyes are bittersweet masterlist | a not so secret santa project ‼️ f1 masterlist | ao3 | ask anything or let's talk!

ferrari sebastian vettel x ex gf!female reader (smau)

summary: seb just wants y/n to accept that contract, and he's going to do everything he can to make it happen. also... the sebastian vettel fandom goes wild when her ex girlfriend does her comeback

warnings: curse words, bad language. mentions of cheating. faceclaim: emma stone, hanna prater

taglist: [ @saltycomicsanimalssalad @hc-dutch @mycenterfold @simplyamberj @spitesfvl-blog @jaydaaasworld @lottalove4evelyn @zoeyjadetice2010 @jehun @ferralari @cosmoscoffeee @mcmuppet @myescapefromthislife @sleutherclaw @youre-on-your-ownkid ]

a/n: surprise, i posted again! and first smau! I've been wanting to do one of this for a long time, so i hope you like it (please tell me)! feedback (please let me now what you thought of this!) and reposts are truly appreciated. and also comment me your thoughts and theories on the story pls!

© VETTELSVEE (2024). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

MAY 25TH 2018

JUNE 1ST 2018

ynyln just posted

ynyln moving on from him is impossible when i still see it all in my head in burning red... see you on june 15th x (more news coming soon... in july <3)

user1 omg are we having red mv? this is ALL red coded

user 2 THERE'S NO WAY SHE DID THIS ↳ user3 wait what is this about? ↳ user 2 user3 take a closer look to the pictures 😁 ↳ user4 i'm not getting it... someone explain it?

lewishamilton it's good to see you finally achieving your dreams! ❤️🙏🏿 ↳ ynyln can't wait to see you soon lew! missed you lots x

user6 she's absolutely insane for posting this pictures... i gotta love her ↳ user7 why is it with the pictures she chose to post? aren't they related to what her song says? ↳ user6 take a look at the twitter thread sebsrrari just posted!

user8 EXCUSE ME MISS YLN? WHAT DO YOU MEAN WITH THAT "SEE YOU SOON"? ↳ ynyln maybe redbullracing can give you a hint... ☺️ ↳ redbullracing ynyln, do you really want us to post certain something we have already saved? ↳ ynyln redbullracing you know i do! i don't know what are you waiting for?

user9 wait wasn't she dating sebastian vettel back in the day? it seems like she's recalling her years with him ↳ user10 i'm 110% sure that the quote goes to seb ↳ user11 and the fact that lewis has left a comment... they know i'm sure

user12 if this post has anything to do with seb... the og wag fandom is going to rise from the ashes and go WILD.

redbullracing just posted

redbullracing We are so delighted to announce that from now on we will officially become the main sponsor of our former golden girl, ynyln, who just started her career as a singer. Also... she will be joining us for the 2018 German Grand Prix next July! More details coming soon.

user1 THEY POSTED SEB AND Y/N OH MY GOD ↳ user2 is this some kind of throwback? weren't they dating a while back? 😯

user3 ok but the fact that they posted that picture makes me think maybe seb and y/n never really lost touch... could this be the start of something more than just sponsorship? ↳ user4 exactly thought this! there's definitely something more going on

user5 seb and y/n together again in 2018 does this mean they're dating again or is it just for promo? ↳ user6 probably promo... ↳ user7 or maybe they know something we don't... ↳ user8 really why posting a picture of them together when they broke up a while ago? ↳ user9 user8 WAIT THEY WERE DATING? ↳ user8 user9 yes! twitter is now full of their story, it's quite a romantic one but also bittersweet... it didn't end well according to most of people

user10 of course seb's the reason y/n's getting back in the spotlight ↳ user11 seb and y/n have way too much chemistry for you to say that ↳ user12 exactly! seeing her again after going viral without us knowing, and her being with seb again, is making me think there’s more to this story!

[felassan]

blue lyrium veins in the Deep Roads, or an abandoned mine.

in the very next scene, Harding uses her new magical powers to protect Rook and herself from red lyrium darkspawn (blue vs red/blue and red coding cropping up a lot in this trailer..). when she uses her power, her face glows blue-white with a veiny pattern that reminds me of blue lyrium veins, and petrifying something to stone is well.. Stoney. :D (which 👁️ bc it doesnt feel like a wild out-there guess that her powers have something to do with Titan stuff [see Valta]). the color of her magic powers here is blue-white. this reminds me of this post where I was looking at her beautiful tarot-style art piece and wondering if the white 'feathers' and strands of white light amalgamating around the arrow she's about to fire there is suggestive or symbolic of her new magical powers.

I also wanna say here that the acting for Harding's dialogue line at this moment, "What is happening to me?", was so scared, emotive and well-done that my heart-broke for real. she sounded so afraid :<

later in the trailer we literally see her using her new powers to like, Earthbend! this shot reminded me a lot of Toph. :)

she's so pretty omg 😭

[codegrooming]

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[hollow-writing-place]

The Ghost King and The Firecracker

Chapter 7: The... uh... End?

Word Count: 5574

Masterlist for this work/info about the fic

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Chapter Summary:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

CLOCKING IN AT OVER 5000 WORDS! LET'S DO THIS!! SO GLAD ITS DONE

---

- Previously -

---

The emotionless mask of the Knight tilts, scanning the room. There’s a silence unlike any silence Tim had ever had to sit through. The calm before the storm, or perhaps, the eye of the storm. It’s the quiet of the void of space.

Jason’s armor crackles with embers, smoke twisting from his mask in mesmerizing swirls, like gravity doesn’t really matter. The two parties are at a mutual, silent stare down.

Then, like a bubble popping, the air shifts.

The countless arms of the King draw into his form, eyes blinking closed and density shifting, pulling in until all that is left is…

Oh my god is that fucking guy from the warehouse . The ghost from the warehouse, identified by Tim’s research as Phantom, hero of Amity Park, Daniel Nightingale, and now the fucking Ghost King, smiles weakly and waves.

Oh what the fuck.

---

- Now -

Nightwing knows his jaw is dropped, but he can’t do anything about it. What the hell is going on?? He frantically looks towards Tim, who looks just as stunned. That offers no reassurance. Their plan had been so well thought out! Nightwing mourns.

-Batcave - maybe a day or three ago -

Tim is pacing again.

Dick normally leaves him to it, not one to judge thinking/coping mechanisms, but… he looks kind of ragged.

He’s in his corner of the cave, pacing a path into the stone. The other bats designated, consciously or unconsciously, that wall to Tim. Or maybe he just took it over? Either way, it was his. Nearly ten square feet of corkboard and papers scrawled with words in a script none of them had quite cracked, the Collection offered an insight into Tim’s mind rarely shown to anyone.

And thank God.

A real peek into the prodigy's mind would probably break the average person.

Still, family of detectives and all. Dick’s proud to say he thinks he’s figured out the yarn color coding system. Kinda. Maybe. Look, that’s not important right now. Tim looks worse off than he normally is.

Dick cautiously approaches, like one would with a feral, cornered animal. Tim gives no indication he’s noticed. He's muttering underneath his breath, and all the words blur together so much Dick can’t make any of the ramble out. Dick winces, hissing a breath out through his teeth. Ooh yeah, that's bad. 

Dick slides a step closer. “Heyyyyyy, Timmy.” He says, voice deceptively cheerful as he sets a hand on Tim’s shoulder to halt the pacing.

Tim whirls on him, and for a second, Dick thinks he might lash out.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he looks up at Dick with wild, crazed eyes and a toothy grin. It is… unsettling, to say the least. “I cracked it.” He says, and his voice is rough from overuse. Dick tries to smile.

“That’s great, bud. Hey! How’s about you come with me and… and we’ll go… uhm. Somewhere else. That’s not here. Somewhere away from here.” Dick loops an arm over Tim’s shoulder, attempting to guide him towards the stairs.

Tim doesn’t budge.

Tim also doesn’t seem to be blinking.

...

The sheer amount of coffee cups littering the ground nearby might give Dick a clue as to why.

“Can’t leave. I cracked it .” He says, stepping back and away from Dick’s arms. Back to his boards. Dick watches him eye the lines and lines of string with a healthy dose of brotherly concern.

“Right. You cracked it. Good job!! What…” Dick takes a deep breath, still smiling as best as he can. “What did you crack?” Dick quickly taps the emergency button on his watch. Alfred, please hurry.

“I know how to find Jason.” Tim says, turning his head to peer at Dick over his shoulder.

Dick winces yet again. They’ve all been dealing with that whole… situation… differently. He thought he and Bruce were handling it worse, but clearly he’d been blinded by his emotions too much to notice how it affected Tim.

“Alright.” He lowers his voice, speaking softly. “Alright. You can tell me all about that after you take a nap, yeah? When's the last time you slept?”

Tim’s slightly unhinged smile drops at this. “You think I'm crazy.”

“I wouldn’t say that… maybe just… not completely in your right mind?” Tim huffs an exasperated breath, and Dick just knows he’s chosen his words wrong. “Ah- in the sense that- well-” He stutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. Tim just rolls his eyes.

He grabs Dick’s arm, tugging him forward, closer towards the Collection. “Look.” is all he says, pointing up to one of the boards. One covered in primarily red thread.

Dick thinks, not totally sure, but he thinks red is for really important stuff. Or maybe for manhunts. Or theft cases. Honestly, he’s not too sure. Regardless, Dick humors Tim and scans the board.

It’s covered with grainy pictures of a green tinged figure, newspaper articles from a town called Amity Park, and bunches of that indecipherable script Tim uses for the Collection. Dick nods and hums like he gets any of this at all. His head hurts just being in close proximity to the Collection.

“Soooo. What am I looking at?” He says after a long, awkward moment.

Tim again huffs and rolls his eyes. “Did you read any of it at all?”

“I tried! That code you use is hard to break!” Dick defends, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tim looks confused. “Code? That’s-” His face falls into a displeased deadpan. “Dick, that’s my handwriting.”

Dick blinks.

“ That’s your handwriting??” He whispers, sounding far more horrified that he intended to.

“Oh shut up. Just- Okay.” Tim takes a deep breath, before launching into an explanation.

It’s only half coherent, with lots of wide gesturing and starts and stops. He walks over and starts pointing to an entirely different board, explaining the connections between the two. Dick recognizes pictures of Daniel Nightingale on that one with some displeasure. He’d really hoped Tim would stay out of it. Dragging that poor man into this case just because he was a friend of Jason’s felt… wrong.

Tim sounds delirious, but Dick tries his best to follow the winding loops of the story. Tim barely pauses to breathe, and the pacing begins again.

“-so then, if it goes well, we summon a ghost and use that to get into the Otherside, right?? EXCEPT! The only ghosts capable of opening portals are incredibly strong ones. At least, according to this super old site I dug up. So, we can’t summon any old ghost, not that we’d even be able to- I mean- half the rituals I've found are for the Head Hunter or this Time God thing- honestly all the other names were super intimidating, so I left that alone but-”

Dick feels lost. He feels crazy. He definitely zoned out and missed something because what is Tim even on about?? He sees Alfred enter the cave from the corner of his eye and relaxes.

He frantically waves Alfred over, dropping the gesture the second Tim turns to look at him. Tim frowns, probably sensing somethings off, but continues on his rant.

“-think I know where to find the right book since finding a valid summoning ritual for the actual Ghost King online is a struggle, but they’re totally our best shot since Constantine said there’s a new one a bunch of meetings ago. You remember that, right? Right. Better to get on their good side or at least find out if they’re a tyrant like the last one. Win-win either way! And the supplies are easy, just-”

Dick blinks the morse code for SOS at Alfred, who picks up the pace ever so slightly. He’s at Dick’s side soon, poised and proper as ever. He raises one eyebrow, looking over Tim and the whole… ordeal… with his usual air of grandfatherly judgement.

“Did you bring the stuff?” Dick whispers lowly.

Alfred nods and passes him a mug of coffee. They’ve done this song and dance far too many times. It’s easy now. How Tim falls for it every time, they don’t know.

Dick makes the appropriate hums and nods, holding out the mug of coffee. Tim absentmindedly grabs it as he paces by, taking a sip near immediately before jumping into his rambling spiral again. Dick and Alfred just wait a good five minutes until the mug is drained.

Tim stumbles, blinking heavily, before turning a frustrated gaze on Dick, who smiles and shrugs. He quickly catches the mug as it slips from Tim's hands, passing it to Alfred, before moving to catch Tim himself.

“Sorry baby bird. Bedtime now.” He crows, much to Tim’s fading displeasure. The teen quickly falls into soft snores, and Dick relaxes that little bit more.

“I will take care of the mugs. Please return him to his bed.” Alfred says primly.

“Will do. Thank you.” Dick murmurs, scooping Tim into an easier carry. Alfred just nods and turns away.

Dick gets Tim to bed no problem and only holds silent worried vigil over him for an hour or two before he manages to pull away and get back to work.

...

Of course, when Tim appears at the dinner table the next afternoon, carting two cork boards clearly pried from the Collection and a distinctly rested expression, Dick realizes maybe all his talk the day previous wasn’t a sleepless, delirious, emotional breakdown after all. 

-Present-

“You.” Comes the cold growl from Batman.

He takes a step forward, but Constantine’s aggressive head shaking stops him. Batman gives him his patented glare to which Constantine responds with grit teeth and another panicked gesture to get back, dammit!

Daniel looks back and forth between them before tugging at the collar of his hazmat suit. He looks far more anxious than he should for a being that was supposedly THE Ghost King.

Dick worries his lip between his teeth, trying to decide what needs to be said. All his usual peacekeeping and easy conversation skills seem to have fled at the worst time.

Again, Dick glances over to Tim, who now has his hands tangled into his hair, tugging at it and muttering.

Dick inches his way over, eyes flicking back and forth to make sure his subtle movements are not caught.

Then again, he can’t tell if Jason’s visor is tracking him or not. (Is that even Jason still??? God, Dick is almost scared to find out.) Jason, or whatever was piloting that suit of armor, piloting his body, hadn’t moved since he was set down beside Daniel.

Dick smooths whatever expression he was wearing off his face as Tim turns to see him. “Red Robin? What’s-”

“This- This has to be because I screwed up the circle. The modifications- The- No-” Oof.

Okay, so Tim won’t be any help here.

Bruce is still arguing with Constantine just through looks and minuscule gestures, Tim’s out, and Robin has… disappeared. That’s not good.

Daniel is still inside the circle, though he looks like he’s getting antsier by the second. Jason- or whatever- is still entirely too still.

Why does Dick always have to be the adult? He steps forward, closer to the circle than the rest of them. Of course, as he draws attention to himself, he feels the weight of eyes on him. Not just Daniel’s, but the other bats behind him. He tries for a relaxed smile.

Daniel tenses though, and Dick is reminded of their last encounter. Of the sound Daniel made when Dick’s escrima sticks made contact with his arm.

Suddenly there’s a sort of pit in his stomach that he really doesn’t like. Daniel doesn’t look evil. He doesn’t look like a monster that brainwashed Dick’s brother, forced him into a raging fire, and pulled him into a swirling green pit to a place they couldn’t follow. He looks… scared.

Dick nearly falters on his cautious approach, but then his eyes wander and find Jason again.

Jason, still, (unmoving, which is so wrong, it's so wrong), practically drowning in thick plates of armor dripping magma.

His resolve strengthens, and he stops just a few yards from the summoning circle. The circle continues to glow an unbothered green, pulsing with light like a galaxy.

“So. The Ghost King, is it?” He remarks. “I will say, when we called you up, we didn’t expect you to be the same person- er, thing? that stole our brother!” He quips, smile tight on his face. He recognizes he’s treating this quite a bit like a hostage situation, like Daniel is one of their rogues, and by distracting him, Dick can get a hand up. Reality threatens to overwhelm him.

This isn't a human he’s talking to. It’s some undead- or just dead maybe - thing that had his brother captive. Still, this isn’t exactly something Bruce trained them for, so he just has to use what he’s got. God, why wasn't there a protocol for this?? Bruce anticipated everything expect for ghosts being very real and, apparently, very dangerous.

Daniel bristles, literally, his hair floating up like it was unaffected by gravity. There’s a low hiss from Jason, and the flames visible between his armor plates seem to get brighter. It’s something though, some sign of movement from him. Dick doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.

“I am a person. I am not a thing.” Daniel speaks finally, voice echoed and layered.

A chill runs down Dick’s spine, but he hides it easily.

Constantine comes up behind him, Dick can tell from the smell of cigarettes and panic, and he doesn’t startle as the magician whispers close to his ear. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, Nightwing, but that thing -” he spits the word as he gestures at Jason, “That is not your brother. Not- not anymore. That’s the fucking Knight. The King’s right hand.” There’s a barely there tremble in Constantine’s voice, just under the anger and franticness.

Dick’s heart drops further.

“Okay. Noted.” He whispers back, forcing his voice to remain level.

He pushes the feelings beginning to bubble up in his chest into a tiny little box, which he promptly tosses off a mental cliff. Surely it’s not as hopeless as Constantine just painted it. He focuses his gaze back on Daniel, who appears to squirm slightly under Dick’s white-cold mask.

“Alright!” He lifts his voice so that it carries across the distance once more. “Now, about the stolen brother? Let’s talk about him.” Dick gestures at the armored form.

Daniel shifts his body slightly, halfway hiding Jason from view. It’s a protective move, and it confuses the criminal profiler in Dick. The number of things that don’t add up freak Dick out, but he’s so far into panic that he’s reached the fuzzy numb state that lies beyond terror. He's always been good about that.

“I didn’t steal him!” Daniel protests avidly, looking legitimately startled at the accusation. 

“Good! Then give him back.” Dick pushes.

“I- I can’t do that.” Daniel shifts on his feet. Dick files that reaction away too.

“Okay then you kidnapped him.”

“I didn’t kidnap him! You just don’t understand!” Daniel barks, an eye or three opening up on the visible skin of his arms and neck.

“Okay then explain!” Dick snaps right back. Whoops. There are those emotions. Bad. Put those away.

Tim staggers to Dick’s side. “I- I don’t know what you’re trying, but it seems dangerous.” He murmurs. The tone of his voice is warning, but the way he grips his bo staff shows how ready he is to support Dick. Dick tilts his head to acknowledge both points before he gestures at Daniel in a ‘go on…’ motion.

Daniel takes a deep breath, does he even need that??? , and begins to talk.

Or, he tries.

Jason, the Knight, steps forward finally.

It’s so sudden it takes nearly all of them aback, even Daniel. Another thing Dick numbly files away.

The Knight pulls from beneath his cape the same smoldering sword from their last time seeing each other. The air feels different though. Settled. None of that chaotic, out of control burning from before.

Constantine takes a sharp breath beside Dick, and when Dick peers at him from the corner of his eyes, he looks more on edge than Dick had ever seen the man.

The Knight brings the sword to rest in front of him, both hands resting on the pommel, the tip of the blade kissing the metal of the floor.

“You guys never learn your lessons, do you?” His voice is so suddenly, startlingly Jason . Dick didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

“Get the Bat to drop his weapon and the littlest bird to stop creeping over and I'll explain.” The Knight growls.

Dick finds himself torn between searching the room for Damien and walking over to Bruce to make him drop his batarangs, which he was surely holding.

The tension in the air seems to stretch the seconds. Dick clenches his jaw so tight he's worried for his teeth.

Finally, a shadow detaches from the wall just behind the circle and crosses to stand in line with Constantine, Dick, and Tim. Damien. He’s clearly displeased, arms crossed over his chest, but at least he understood the importance of listening.

Soon after, the sound of metal clattering on metal rings out as a couple batarangs are dropped to the floor. Dick breathes out in relief. They all know that’s not all of Bruce’s weapons, but the Knight seems to take that as enough. 

The air is thick as the Knight begins to speak.

---

Jason is frozen.

The warp of the portal made him sick. For a long moment, far too long, he thought he had been lost. He couldn’t feel the chill of Danny, couldn’t locate the sound of his core through the scream of the portal. It was petrifying .

Then he was encompassed in the same chill as when Danny first grabbed a hold of him to bring him into the warp, and he relaxed. Being bodily wrenched from the void by a hand about as big as he was was startling, but far from the oddest thing to happen to Jason in the past days. He’s set rather gently on the ground, which, after the disorientation passes, appears to be made of metal.

His eyes slowly focus, and he reorients himself in this new space.

A familiar space…

Oh hell . They’re on the watchtower.

They’re face to face with half the bats and fucking Constantine . Jason grits his teeth, eyes narrowing on the magician.

For some reason, during their very brief  interactions, Jason felt the man was wrong . Was it appropriate to say his vibe was off?

It felt juvenile to articulate but was probably the best description Jason had at hand. He did not like the slimy feel of the air around the magician.

That was clearly the least of their worries now, though. The man looked more nervous than anyone else.

Jason’s eyes flick away from whatever the Bat and Constantine were communicating, instead taking note of the demon brat. Damien is skirting the far wall, melting into the shadows just as easily as Bruce does, and clearly taking the long, slow route to get closer. There’s a flash of a katana and Jason wants to sigh.

He dismisses that and focuses on Dick and Tim. Tim looks like the weight of the world has just landed on him, and Dick just looks… he looks tired. Worn, even. Every so often, Jason catches the slight tilt of his head that signifies his gaze turning on Jason’s impassive mask. The solid white film in his mask may hide his eyes, but Jason’s trained well enough to notice the micromovements. He remains still though.

Just as Jason thinks it, Dick’s straightening up and plastering an easygoing expression on. He strides forward like there’s not a care in the world.

Jason feels frozen still. Danny’s saying something, bristling like a cat, blocking him from view.

The room rings with a distressed sound, like the ‘thwump’ of snow caving just before it rolls over into an avalanche. It’s so loud Jason shifts, feels his own core pulse an angry sort of sound. Clearly no one else hears, or else they wouldn’t still be talking.

Jason needs to tune back in. He needs to focus and move .

Dick has a near snarl on his face, and his words register as hostile. “- Then explain! ” He barks.

Danny shifts, breathes in deeply like he’s trying to calm down. The distressed sound emanating from him doesn't stop though. If anything, it ramps up. 

Jason snaps out of whatever trance he was left in from the portal and the suddenness of seeing the bats as the sound of snow tumbling over into a roar begins.

He strides forward with solid, purposeful bootsteps, drawing the blade at his back. Settling it in front of him, he steels himself much as he had before his Knighting ceremony.

His awareness of the room stretches, and it’s like he can see and hear everything. He mentally clocks this as a very-new-very-startling occurrence, and probably some kind of Knight stuff to bring up to Danny, before pushing it aside.

Damien still slowly makes his way closer in the depths of the shadows, trying to get behind them. Bruce has three batarangs spread in his hands like playing cards, the metal ready to sing through the air at any wrong twitch. Tim is at Dick’s side, a silent, defensive support to Dick’s steady stance. Dick’s true feelings and thoughts are only given away by the tick in his brow. Constantine is hardly breathing it seems, and Jason is almost surprised he’s still standing. He looks ready to pass out.

The new wealth of information on the room and its inhabitants is overwhelming, but Jason just sighs.

“Y’all never learn your lesson, do you?” He says, low Gotham drawl coloring his words.

Danny has relaxed ever so slightly at his side, the sound of his core reduces to powder snow crunching beneath skis. Surprisingly, Dick also relaxes where he stands, miniscule as it is, like a weight has been lifted.

Jason feels the tension in the air and, as much as he’d like to avoid it all, knows an explanation is needed to keep the peace.

“Get the Bat to drop his weapon and the littlest bird to stop creeping over and I'll explain.” He growls lowly.

Damien jolts from where he stands in the corner, just a few yards from their circle, swords drawn. He grumbles something Jason’s sure only he hears, tucking the swords away after a moment and pushing off the wall to join the group in front of Danny and Jason.

Bruce looks conflicted, but it takes just a moment for him to drop his handful of batarangs onto the ground. Jason takes it as the miniscule win it is.

“Good. You can listen.” There’s a snarky note to his words, but he thinks he’s in the right with this one. He leaves both hands on the sword pommel.

How best to go about this? He’s always had a flare for the dramatics, but he gets the sense there are a lot of misunderstandings going on. Best clear up questions first.

He turns his head to Danny. “What is the issue?”

Danny looks meek suddenly. “They- uh- they think i kidnapped you?” comes his voice, wavering ever so slightly. Maybe a held back laugh, maybe that earlier panic.

Jason blinks, despite knowing it can’t be seen. He turns back to the gathered bats and magician.

“You thought I was kidnapped??” He blurts, voice chock full of disbelief. It seems to catch them all off guard. “Me? Kidnapped? By him???” He says, gesturing at Danny.

Danny puffs up. “Hey! I could kidnap you if I wanted!!” He protests.

Jason drags a metal gloved hand down his helm in a mimicry of a face palm. “No. No, I don't think you could.” He groans.

“Well what were we supposed to believe??” comes Tim's exasperated voice. “One second you’re with a green glowing man, the next, you’re throwing yourself into a bonfire! Then, you come out different and get whisked away! What would you conclude?!” He sounds haggard.

Jason pauses, then winces. “Okay, yeah, I can see how that looks.” he trails off. “But you’ve got it wrong. Like, completely embarrassingly wrong. I’m here of my own free will.” He tries to explain.

“Is he making you say that?” Bruce finally speaks up in a low growl.

The sound of powder under skis escalates to the sound of cracking ice over a lake. “No! I’m not making him do anything!” Danny bristles, standing taller.

“Then let him go!” This is possibly the worst time for Bruce to show he cares about Jason. The worst time.

“I’m not going anywhere!” Jason snarls, whirling about. The magma between his armor plates flares brightly, white hot.

“Your issue is with me . Not him. Leave Danny out of this.” He spits. “You want an explanation, I’ll explain .” He’d always been protective, but right now, the urge to keep Danny away from this whole mess is overwhelming .

He picks up his sword and paces forward but is stopped by the edge of the circle. It glows ominously, and he doesn’t risk going further. He doesn't want to push his luck with magic. He's got enough problems right now.

He makes sure to turn his visor to look directly at Bruce.

“I was dead.” He says finally, voice low. Bruce twitches back, and Jason knows if Bruce weren't channeling Batman so hard right now, he would've full on flinched from the abruptness of the statement.

“Now I don’t know if you know this, but being dead leaves some lasting effects.” He gestures at his full body. “This is part of that. I didn’t come back all the way. I’m still half dead.”

There’s a whispered, “oh, what the fuck .” from somewhere in the room that threatens to make Jason crack a smile. He shakes his head and continues. This is serious.

“There’s a lot of ghost shit I can't explain, and you wouldn’t understand, but Danny saved me. He- he got rid of the Lazarus effects and helped me figure out, well, honestly everything .” He gives an incredulous laugh, still amazed at everything that happened. "I was always half dead. Even when I believed myself to be alive. The pits did more than make me sick. They blocked this half of myself off, choked it out." He clenched a hand into a fist. 

This time, he’s sure it’s Constantine that murmurs a curse.

"But Danny saw the problem. He knew more than I did and it's over now. I look different. I am changed. But this-" Again, he gestures to himself. To the armor. "This is what I should've been from the start. And it's not like I can undo any of it, so you guys need to suck it up and get over yourselves." He says with a note of exasperation and finality. 

“ So, to conclude, no, I'm not in danger. No, Danny didn’t kidnap me. And, since I'm sure you’re thinking it, no , I am not brainwashed .” He says finally, ticking each point off on his fingers. “Anything I missed?”

No responses, and Jason nods.

“Good. Then you guys can let us out now, right?” Something about the circle feels wrong, and it grates at Jason’s skin. It must make Danny uncomfortable too, but he doesn't say anything. The pinch of his brow is enough for Jason to know he’s affected.

“Now hold on a minute!” Constantine says, eyes wild. “Like hell we’re just going to let you out!”

He pales and turns to Danny. “No, uh, no offense, your… majesty? No offense meant.”

Danny just arches an eyebrow, part condescending, part questioning.

Dick crosses his arms and stares Jason down. “He's got a point. How do we know for certain you aren’t brainwashed?” He says, cop voice in full action.

Jason groans exasperatedly, wanting to face palm. Then, “When I was younger you made us watch ‘Marley and Me’ and at the end you cried so hard you threw up on the nice carpet and we had t-”

“Okay okay!!! We believe you!” Dick shouts, voice tinged with franticness. He didn't even let Jason get halfway into the story! Still, Jason can't help but grin beneath his helm.

Dick squirms under all the sets of eyes on him, and he rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s him. Tim, get them out.”

Tim shrugs. "Alright. I'm convinced."

Constantine sputters. His cigarette lies abandoned on the ground in his protests.

Danny relaxes. “See? All just a misunderstanding.” He sighs.

Tim steps forward, murmurs some words, and scuffs at the paint mix with his shoe until the glow dissipates.

A weight leaves both Danny and Jason, and they sigh. Jason shakes out his arms, ridding himself of the staticky feeling of the circle. He then sheathes his sword and steps out. 

Danny follows, floating over the runes like the idea of touching them makes him sick. “If there are any other questions, I'm happy to answer. Uhm. So long as it isn’t, like, the answer to the universe or something crazy.” Danny gives a stilted laugh, eyes darting. Jason eyes Danny, who looks suspiciously like he knows something he doesn't want to say. Maybe he asks about that later. 

“Good. I have got so many questions.” Tim chimes up, an odd book in his hands.

Is- is that human flesh?? Why does Tim have a book bound in actual human skin? Jason shakes his head, awed.

“Don’t overwhelm the guy.” Dick chirps, stepping up to Danny and Jason. “And I also have questions.”

Constantine's eyes are wide as saucers as the group passes by. Bruce shoots Constantine a look and then trails after Jason and the bats.

As they go to find a more comfortable place to rest and chat, Danny speaks up again. “Oh! I have a question too!” 

“Fire away.” Dick says, already seeming to have warmed up to the halfa. Too easy... Jason knows his brother is going to have endless questions for him, and he's not looking forward to it.

Danny grins. “I just want to know how you knew I was the King. I mean, no sane person would just summon The King. You had to have known.” At the prolonged silence, Danny freezes, smile dropping.

He eyes each of the bats individually as they avoid eye contact and shuffle down the hall.

“You- you did know, right? Right? I mean, you had to have! Right?? No, don’t walk faster! Did you know??”

Jason drops his head into his hands. 

---

The house is a mess of cardboard boxes.

Jason sighs in relief, throwing himself down into a kitchen chair in his apartment. His real, not safehouse apartment.

Danny carries in his last box, bumping the front door closed with his hip and setting the box down with a hiss of air. He stands and stretches his arms out before sighing.

“Wow. So much for helping your boyfriend. You’ve got the muscles here! Why am I doing all the work?” He huffs, mock upset.

Jason rolls his eyes playfully. “If you recall, I was the one that got most of it. And I carried up your bed frame! If you could just be happy with my setup, maybe this would’ve been different!” He teases.

Danny whirls on him, actually offended now. “Jason. Your bed was on the floor . No box spring. No frame. Nothing .” He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. “Like hell am I living here and sleeping on a floor mattress.”

Jason averts his eyes with a cringe. “Yeah, okay." He admits weakly. "Got me there.”

“Heck yeah I did, now get over here and help me get these to the living room. I’m about to introduce you to the wonders of useless throw pillows and blackout curtains.”

Jason groans good-naturedly and gets up to help.

---

Danny could burst, he’s just so happy.

The future, as it pertains to the Ghost Zone and its King and Knight, isn't known yet, but Danny and Jason have plenty of time to figure it out.

…

After they navigate life as it is now.

I mean, Danny’s first two meetings with Jason’s family were disasters! And, apparently, he hasn't even met all of them yet! Don’t even get him started on how little of Danny’s friends and family Jason knows about! Jazz is going to have his ass when he breaks it to her he’s got a boyfriend…

for life…

and for afterlife.

Oh Ancients. That’s barely the beginning. Seriously, Danny-

Jason calls Danny’s name from across the living room, and he snaps from his thoughts to turn and look. He’s barely made eye contact before a pillow smacks him dead in the face.

Jason barks out a laugh while Danny fumbles to grab the offending pillow. “Oh that’s funny, is it?” He says, deadpan.

Jason’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over at the waist, but he manages a nod.

“I’ll show you funny, Firecracker.” Danny says, grin uncannily wide.

Jason has the sense to pale as Danny rears back to hurl the pillow. The room devolves into all out war.

Yeah, Danny feels pretty good about this whole thing. They've got plenty of time.

---FIN---

Finally done cross posting this! I'll say what I said in the notes on Ao3. I'm glad this is done! I'm thinking about making a lighter, slice of life type thing where I can focus on just shenanigans now that this is done. It would, of course, be like a book two to this one because I like what I've established so far.

Any ideas, (or plot holes you want covered), should totally be dropped in the comments! Id love to hear them!! Thank you all!

[mattsghoul]

❛❛    ──── ㅤstain ㅤㅤ╂⠀⠀⠀cult leader!matt.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☺︎︎ㅤ ㅤwarnings: religious oppression, bullying, blackmailing, psychological tension, mild sexual undertones, social estigma

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀⠀⠀▃▃⠀⠀⠀ summary: in this fourth chapter, runa and natalie sneak to the stain family’s opulent party, where runa’s drawn to matt’s dangerous charm. his teasing in the kitchen sparks fear and fascination, threatening her resolve.

chapter four: the stain of secrets

the night air is sharp, heavy with the scent of damp grass and the distant tang of woodsmoke, as runa crouches low beside natalie, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

“duck!” natalie hisses, her voice a blade of urgency, her auburn hair spilling loose over her shoulders. they’ve slipped out of runa’s house after dinner, the lie of “going to bed” barely settled on clara’s trusting ears.

now, they skirt past the glow of the living room window, where clara and thomas linger, their shadows flickering against the curtains. one wrong move, one glance, and runa’s world could crack open—her rebellion exposed, her reputation shredded in ashwick’s unforgiving jaws.

natalie’s outfit is a defiance of the covenant’s code: tight jeans hugging her curves, a low-cut top that flaunts her chest, the fabric a riot of colors against her warm brown skin. her wavy hair frames her face, wild and free, a stark contrast to runa’s restraint.

runa, coerced by natalie’s insistence, wears a floral dress with long sleeves, its hem brushing just below her knees, modest but lighter than her usual armor. her dark hair is coiled into a perfect bun, each curl tamed, a mirror of clara’s expectations.

i can’t believe i’m doing this, runa thinks, her stomach churning. breaking rules isn’t her skin—it prickles, itches, claws at her. worse, it’s not her choice; jess’s blackmail, natalie’s silence, have dragged her here, a puppet on their strings. if anyone from town sees her, especially with natalie—whose name is ashwick’s favorite scandal—the whispers will reach clara before dawn. natalie’s freedom is a stain, and runa’s tethered to it.

they clear the house, the street unfolding before them, the stain residence looming across the way, its silhouette a jagged tear against the starless sky; the garden is a vision, almost unearthly: manicured hedges, roses bleeding red in the moonlight, and at its heart, a fountain with a statue—an angel, its stone hand stretched skyward, yearning, its wings shattered at its feet.

a fallen angel?

runa’s breath catches, the image unsettling, a whisper of blasphemy in ashwick’s holy air. the statue’s gaze seems to follow her, its brokenness a mirror to something she can’t name.

they reach the massive wooden door, its surface carved with intricate vines, gleaming under the porch’s soft light. runa’s nerves ignite, a sudden weight pressing her chest. this is it—the threshold to the stains, to matt.

his voice haunts her:

i wonder if i should free you or destroy you.

i’m gonna have a hell of a time with you.

he’s a shadow she can’t shake, his gray eyes a lure and a warning. she’s drawn to him, a moth to a flame, yet every instinct screams he’s dangerous. is it his beauty, sharp as a blade? his arrogance, the way he speaks like he’s unraveled her soul? or something darker, something ashwick’s prayers can’t touch?

natalie adjusts her top, pushing up her chest with a practiced smirk, and presses the doorbell, the chime echoing like a summons. runa rolls her eyes, her irritation a flicker of defiance against the fear clawing her insides.

the door swings open, and mila stain stands there, a vision of elegance in a black dress that clings to her like a second skin, its neckline daring but refined. her blonde hair is woven into a braided updo, intricate as a crown, her blue eyes bright with surprise.

“oh, runa,” she says, her voice warm, almost intimate, as if they’re old friends. “i didn’t expect you, but i’m delighted.”

natalie shoots runa a look—you said you didn’t know them, liar—before extending her hand, her smile all charm. “pleasure to meet you, i’m natalie, runa’s friend.”

mila’s gaze sweeps natalie’s outfit, a flash of surprise crossing her face—ashwick girls don’t dress like this, don’t bare skin so boldly. but her smile returns, unruffled. “welcome, girls, thank you for coming. please, come in.”

they step inside, and runa’s breath catches. the stain house is a cathedral of opulence, alien to ashwick’s austere piety. a massive crystal chandelier hangs in the foyer, its prisms scattering light like captured stars. a sweeping staircase of polished mahogany curves to the right, its banister gleaming, each step a silent invitation to secrets above.

the walls are adorned with gilded frames, paintings of stormy seas and shadowed faces, their eyes seeming to track runa’s steps. a fireplace, its mantel carved with vines, glows softly, casting warmth over cream-colored walls and gold-accented decor. this isn’t a house, runa thinks, it’s a palace.

why would people this wealthy, this worldly, choose ashwick, a speck of a town bound by faith and suspicion?

to her relief, the living room is empty, no crowd to witness her transgression. mila leads them to a long table laden with food—platters of roasted meats, glistening pastries, bowls of vibrant fruit, a spread that dwarfs ashwick’s modest potlucks. “honestly, i didn’t think anyone would come,” mila says, a wry smile tugging her lips. “i’ve been waiting a while. guess the town doesn’t check facebook much.”

runa bites her tongue, the truth sharp: they’re shunning you, mrs. stain. they’ll freeze you out until you bend to their rules. but she stays silent, her upbringing a leash on her words.

natalie’s jaw drops, her eyes wide as she takes in the grandeur, her restraint crumbling. “your home is stunning, mrs. stain,” she says, her voice dripping with awe.

“thank you,” mila says, her smile softening. “matt designed the renovations.”

“matt?” natalie asks, her curiosity sharp.

“my eldest son,” mila says, pride warming her voice. “he took an interest in interior design last year, so we let him lead. we loved the result, but he’s moved on. matt tires of things quickly, though there’s nothing he can’t master if he tries. he’s a genius.” she covers her mouth, laughing softly. “sorry, i ramble about my children.”

“no worries,” natalie says, her smile calculated, all charm. “and if i may, your kids are as gorgeous as you.”

runa suppresses an eye-roll, her patience thinning.

mila laughs, a light, musical sound. “thank you, i know. they’re my pride, especially matt—he got my eyes, my charm.”

matt, always matt. runa’s pulse quickens, a mix of dread and anticipation. voices drift from a hallway near the fireplace, low and indistinct, and her heart lurches. is he here? she doesn’t understand the pull he has, the way he unravels her without trying.

ray and maia emerge, their twin faces mirror images, sharp and striking, their dark hair and blue eyes a stark contrast to the room’s warmth. surprise flickers across their features, maia’s lips curling into a smirk. “well, mother, your dream’s come true,” she says, her voice laced with sarcasm, her accent faint but biting. “visitors.”

natalie steps forward, all confidence. “hi, i’m natalie, runa’s friend,” she says, her eyes lingering on ray, bold and unashamed. runa stays quiet, studying the twins.

ray’s taller, his black hair falling messily across his forehead, his deep blue eyes colder, more guarded than maia’s. his expression is a wall, unreadable, giving runa the sense he speaks little to outsiders. he meets her gaze for a fleeting second, his look pure indifference, then turns away. maia, shorter, her hair sleek and chin-length, radiates a restless energy, her eyes brighter, more curious.

maia steps closer to runa, her smile teasing. “nice to see you again, runa, no mom around,” she says. “between us, she’s a bit scary. strict, huh?”

“she just holds our faith dear,” runa says, her tone sharper than intended, a defensive edge rising. something about the stains—their ease, their judgment—stirs a raw, almost rude spark in her, a side she barely recognizes.

“where’s matt?” mila asks, glancing at maia.

maia shrugs, her smirk fading. “who knows? you know how he is.”

runa’s chest tightens, a pang she can’t name. why am i disappointed? she saw him hours ago, chopping wood, his bare skin seared into her memory. she shakes her head, trying to dislodge the image.

ray climbs the stairs, vanishing, and natalie settles beside mila on the L-shaped sofa, her chatter relentless, every word a calculated bid for favor. runa drifts to the fireplace, her eyes drawn to the mantel’s photographs. one catches her—a faded image of six children, not three.

she recognizes ray and maia’s sharp features, matt’s taller frame, but the others? two brown-haired boys, one vaguely familiar, and a girl with mismatched eyes, one blue, one brown. who are they? the boy’s face nags at her, a ghost of recognition she can’t place.

maia’s hand finds hers, warm and sudden, pulling her from the puzzle. “come with me,” she says, her voice bright, tugging runa down a hallway.

they enter a kitchen, its marble counters gleaming, a constellation of pots and platters spread across them, the air rich with spices and sugar. “try everything,” maia says, her excitement infectious. “i cooked it all. that strawberry cake we brought your mom? my work. mom doesn’t cook, but i love it.”

my own recipe, mila had lied that night. runa’s lips twitch, a flicker of amusement. the dishes are a gallery of perfection—golden pastries, herb-crusted meats, vibrant salads, each plate a work of art. she hesitates, reluctant to disturb the beauty.

“always so quiet?” maia asks, her head tilting, her eyes searching.

runa clears her throat, caught off guard. “no, it’s just… it looks too good to ruin.”

“it’s food, not a museum,” maia laughs. “i made too much, thinking the house would be packed. guess we’re not ashwick’s favorites.”

runa tastes a bite, then another, flavors bursting—sweet, savory, exotic, a world beyond ashwick’s bland staples. clara’s cooking, hearty but plain, can’t compare. maia’s talent is alchemy. “these are… incredible,” runa says, her eyes fluttering shut.

“eat all you want,” maia says, grinning.

“maia!” mila’s voice calls from the living room. “your father’s on the phone, take it in the hall.”

“back in a sec,” maia says, darting off. “keep eating!”

alone, runa circles the table, her restraint crumbling as she samples more—honeyed chicken, berry-glazed pork, each bite a revelation. she’s lost in the flavors, her guard down, when a door creaks behind her. she spins, a piece of chicken nearly choking her, as matt steps in from the back patio.

he shakes out his white sneakers on the mat, his black shorts loose, his white t-shirt baggy but clinging just enough to hint at the slightly chiseled lines beneath—chest, arms, a body honed by effort. his brown hair, damp with sweat, sticks to his forehead, darkening in the kitchen’s soft light. black earbuds dangle from a device strapped to his arm, a band of sweat marking the fabric. he’s clearly been running, his skin flushed, his breath steady but deep.

runa freezes, her mouth full, her cheeks burning. she’s caught, unguarded, gorging like a child, the last person she expected to face standing before her. matt’s eyes find hers, and that familiar, crooked smile spreads, slow and predatory, as he pulls out his earbuds, winding them around his fingers.

“well, well,” he says, his voice low, teasing, “what do we have here?”

runa swallows hard, forcing calm, but her pulse betrays her, hammering in her throat. matt isn’t like ashwick’s boys—timid, predictable, bound by the covenant’s leash. he’s a storm, confident, worldly, his presence filling the room like smoke. the image of him shirtless, axe in hand, flashes unbidden, and she curses her traitor mind.

“hi,” she says, the word clipped, a shield against the way he unnerves her.

he moves toward her, his sneakers silent on the tile, his blue-gray eyes glinting with something unreadable—amusement, curiosity, danger. he stops close, too close, forcing her to tilt her head to meet his gaze, her neck exposed, vulnerable. “didn’t think you’d show,” he says, his voice a low drawl, his accent faint but sharp. “would’ve waited here for you if i’d known.”

“why?” she asks, her voice steadier than she feels, defiance flickering.

he bites his lower lip, a gesture that sends a jolt through her, wrong and thrilling. “wanna be good neighbors, obviously,” he says, his tone mocking, daring her to call the lie.

don’t buy it, her mind warns. his hand lifts, reaching for her face, and she slaps it away, her skin buzzing where their fingers brush. “don’t touch me,” she snaps.

“you’ve got something,” he says, tapping the corner of his mouth, mirroring her.

her face burns—crumbs, of course. she wipes her mouth, mortified, her glare sharpening.

“always so hostile, runa?” he asks, his smile widening, unbothered.

“always so bold?” she counters, her voice trembling but firm.

he laughs, soft, genuine, the sound disarming. “bold?”

“yeah,” she says, standing her ground. “you don’t just touch people like that.”

“just trying to help,” he says, his eyes dancing. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“we’re not friends,” she says, her words clipped. “i met you days ago, and that cemetery talk wasn’t exactly charming.”

“fair,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, his smile never fading. “won’t touch you again, runa.” a pause, then, softer, “unless you ask.”

as if i’d ever ask, she thinks, but his amusement, the way he seems to relish her defiance, unsettles her. her expression is stone, but he’s grinning like he’s won.

“keep eating,” he says, turning to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. “didn’t mean to interrupt.”

she tries to ignore him, focusing on the food, her back to him as she samples a cranberry-drizzled roast, the flavor rich, divine. but his presence is a weight, a heat at her back, and she’s hyper-aware of every sound—his bottle cap twisting, his soft exhale. she’s not used to this, alone with a boy, the covenant’s rules a noose around her neck. clara would kill her.

she nearly chokes when he moves, his shadow falling over her. his arm reaches past, grazing her waist, not touching but close enough to make her skin prickle. he plucks a cherry from a cake, his breath warm against her neck.

“love cherries,” he murmurs, his voice a caress, too close, too intimate.

does he not know personal space? she sidesteps, masking it as a casual move around the table, putting distance between them. he pops the cherry in his mouth, grabs another, and lounges in a high-backed chair across from her, his posture lazy but his eyes sharp, tracking her every move.

“so, runa,” he says, his tone light but probing, “why’s our family so unpopular here?”

he’s noticed. she hesitates, choosing her words. “it’s not personal. we’re… a tight community.”

he raises a brow, his smile skeptical. “tight because of… religion?”

she doesn’t answer, her silence a wall. his gaze is relentless, dissecting her, searching for cracks. “do i make you nervous, runa?” he asks, leaning forward, his voice a velvet trap.

“no,” she lies, her jaw tight.

“i think i do,” he says, his smile smug, certain.

“i don’t care what you think,” she snaps, her defiance flaring, a spark she barely recognizes.

his laugh is low, delighted, his eyes gleaming. “i wonder if you’re this sharp with everyone or just me. if it’s just me, i’m flattered.”

“you’re so weird,” she says, exasperation breaking through, her hands clenching.

“you’re right,” he says, his tone almost earnest. “haven’t made the best impression.” he stands, circling the table, his fingers trailing the marble, slow, deliberate, as he closes the distance. he stops before her, extending a hand. “let’s start over. nice to meet you, runa. i’m matt.”

she eyes his hand, wary, then shakes it, her grip brief, electric. she pulls back fast, but he leans closer, his face inches from hers, his breath warm, his eyes a storm of blue and gray.

“i know we’re gonna get along, runa,” he says, his voice a promise, a threat.

up close, his face is a sculptor’s dream—no flaws, every angle perfect, his eyes a depth she could drown in. get away, her mind screams. he’s dangerous. but she’s caught, her gaze locked, her body betraying her with a stillness she can’t break. he’s too close, too real, a boy like no other she’s known, and the forbidden thrill of it shakes her.

footsteps echo from the hall, snapping the spell, and she steps back, her breath ragged, her face hot, as maia’s voice nears.

matt straightens, his smile lingering, unrepentant. runa’s heart races, a vow searing into her mind: stay away from him. no matter how perfect he seems, how his eyes pull her in, there’s something in matt that screams ruin. she won’t let it touch her. she can’t.

©pokesturns any and all forms of modifications, reposts, and translation of my work are prohibited.

› TAGLIST ﹕─┈ @sturniolohohoho @zenithsturniolo @courta13 @pizzapocketpocketpizza @izzylovesmatt @venusbabysblog @riasturns @bluestriips @ribbonlovergirl

[shamerli]

Gather ‘round, ye merry souls, and let me spin ye a tale so wild, so full of twists and turns, ye’ll scarce believe it true. It’s the story of a rogue, aye, but not just any rogue—nay, this one’s a beast of a different sort. Trunk Shadowveil, they call him, a Loxodon, if ye can fathom it. That’s right, an elephant, skulkin’ through the shadows of Baldur’s Gate like some great tusked ghost. Now, I know what ye’re thinkin’—an elephant rogue? Pull the other one, stranger! But I swear on me mother’s grave, every word of it’s as true as the ale in yer mug.

Picture it: a massive beast, ten foot tall, with a trunk that could snatch a coin from yer pocket afore ye even knew it was gone. Stealthy? Ha! Ye’d think a creature that size couldn’t sneak up on a deaf man, but Trunk, he’s got ways. He’s a marvel, he is, a walkin’ contradiction, and that’s what makes him legend.

Like all good tales, this one starts with sorrow. Trunk’s herd—peaceful Loxodon folk, mindin’ their own—were slaughtered by poachers. Ivory hunters, hired by some shadowy noble with a taste for rare trophies. They came in the night, and by dawn, Trunk was the last of his kin, a wee calf standin’ amidst the carnage, his heart heavy as stone. Aye, it’s a grim beginnin’, but that’s how these stories go, ain’t it?

But fate’s a funny thing. Just when ye think all’s lost, along comes a band of rogues from Baldur's Gate Guild. They stumble upon this tremblin’ calf, and instead of seein’ a burden, they see potential—or maybe just a good laugh. They take him in, raise him in the underbelly of the city, teach him the trade. Lockpickin’ with that nimble trunk of his, daggerplay—though his daggers are more like swords to the likes of us—and, aye, even stealth. Now, stealth for an elephant? Ye can imagine how that went. He’d try to blend into the shadows, but let’s be honest, a Loxodon’s about as subtle as a dragon in a library. He’d pose as a statue in the marketplace, or knock over a stall and claim it was “part of the plan.” And somehow, bless him, it worked. He was never outmatched only on one terrain - in a tomato field. No matter how hard others tried - no amount of scrying was able to find him hiding between these red veggies.

The Guild loved him for it, especially his mentor, a halfling named Sly Jack, a rogue with a silver tongue and a heart black as coal. Trunk looked up to Jack like a father, trusted him with his life. But ye know how these tales go—betrayal’s always lurkin’ ‘round the corner. During a heist on a corrupt merchant’s vault, things went sideways. The Flaming Fist was waitin’, tipped off by none other than Sly Jack himself. He pinned the whole mess on Trunk, sold him out for a fat purse of gold. Trunk, in a panic, did what any self-respectin’ elephant would do—he smashed through the wall and bolted, leavin’ a trail of chaos in his wake. From that day on, he swore vengeance on The Guild that raised him, determined to bring ‘em down, one bungled caper at a time, and he does not intend to back out of this whole revenge gig - you can say what you want about Trunk, but he sure does have a damn good memory.

But here’s where it gets interestin’. Despite his life of crime, Trunk’s got a heart of gold. He’s no common cutpurse, oh no. He only steals from the rich—greedy nobles, shady merchants, the lot—and slips the loot to the downtrodden. They call him the “Elephant of the People,” a hero with tusks. He’s got a code, ye see, won’t harm the innocent, and he’s fiercely loyal to the few friends he’s got left. Aye, he’s a rogue, but he’s the kind ye can’t help but root for.

And if that weren’t enough, there’s whispers of more to Trunk’s story. Some say he’s the long-lost heir to an ancient dynasty, rulers of a forgotten empire, beyond Chult. Some madmans claim that he is an offspring of a powerful wizard, strong enough to walk between planes of existance, and that his kind is from another world. Others mutter about an ancient prophecy, a “great tusked shadow” destined to bring balance to the underworld. Trunk dismisses it as tavern talk, but sometimes, in the quiet of night, he dreams of a crown atop his head and wonders if there’s truth to it.

But let’s not forget the best part—his signature flair. Trunk’s got a move that’s all his own: usin’ that trunk of his to snatch purses or keys while distractin’ foes with his sheer, absurd presence. “Look at me, I’m just a harmless elephant!” he’d say, all innocent-like, while his trunk’s riflin’ through their pockets. And he’s got a lucky charm, a chipped ivory die from a fallen comrade, which he rolls before every job. Street-smart as they come, but ask him to read a scroll, and he’ll scratch his head like a confused ox.

Now, I know what ye’re thinkin’: an elephant rogue? It’s madness! But that’s the beauty of it. Trunk Shadowveil’s a walkin’ punchline, a lumberin’ legend who somehow makes it all work. I’ve seen him with me own eyes, ye know. Once, he tried to sneak into a noble’s manor, got his trunk stuck in a window. Took three of us to pull him out, and even then, he claimed it was “all part of the plan.” Another time, he faced down a gang of bandits, only to trip over his own feet and send ‘em scatterin’ in confusion. But somehow, he always comes out on top.

So, if ye’re ever in Baldur's Gate and ye hear a trumpet blast in the night, don’t be alarmed. It’s just Trunk Shadowveil, the clumsiest, cleverest rogue ye’ll ever meet, bunglin’ his way through another heist. And that, me friends, is a tale worth drinkin’ to. ------------------------------- Let me know if you want to bid. Current bid is $170

[noorpersona]

just read part 6 of rivals w/ atsumu…. zoo wee mama 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 ur just TEW good!!!!! jealous reader is always a fun read lol

ik u already posted an atsumu version for ur jealous series (?) but like… reverse situation where atsumu gets jealous when reader is seemingly cozying up with another guy that isn’t him in the context of rivals…. just throwin it out there hehehehehe

HEHEH THANK YOUU (i really went overboard cause UGHHHH)

I think I got what you're looking though 😩😙

Enjoy <333

--

Anon Asks: Atsumu (NSFW)

The afterparty wasn’t your scene. Not really.

The rooftop lounge glittered with low lighting and clinking glasses, soft music pulsing under conversation that ebbed and flowed like a tide. Some modern Tokyo bar—sleek and expensive, with panoramic views of the skyline and a dress code that required heels too high and smiles too sharp. It smelled like citrus spritz, fresh sweat, and ego.

You weren’t here to impress anyone. You were here for one reason only: to see him.

Atsumu had texted earlier. “Gotta wrap up post-game press, be there in a bit. Don’t let Sakusa talk shit about me too much before I arrive.”

You’d smiled at the message, slipped into your dress, and made your way to the party solo. The win had been solid—MSBY had taken it in four sets, with Atsumu playing one of his most controlled matches in recent memory. You’d seen it in his hands, the way he moved—calculated, sharp, barely restrained.

Now he was off doing damage control with a couple of reporters who liked to probe a little too far past what made it into the official soundbites. You didn’t mind. You knew the drill by now. After three years with Atsumu, patience wasn’t just a virtue—it was a requirement.

You were standing near the bar with a glass of sparkling wine when someone tapped your shoulder.

"Well damn. If it isn’t my fourth grade science partner.”

You turned, startled, before recognition settled into your chest like a stone dropping into still water.

He was taller now. Broader. The baby cheeks you remembered had been replaced by sharp cheekbones and a dimpled grin. His hair was dark and parted at the center, curling slightly at the ends, and he wore a lightweight sport coat like it was second nature.

“…Ryouta?” you asked, brows lifting.

“Bingo,” he grinned, gesturing between you both. “Still got the same face. Just—grown-up.”

You laughed before you could help it. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Work,” he said, leaning against the bar like he’d done it a hundred times. “I’m with the JVA now. Media and comms department. I’ve been helping with internal campaign stuff—athlete profiles, team outreach. It’s new, but… legit.”

“That’s wild. I haven’t seen you in—”

“Since we failed that volcano project because we couldn’t agree on what color lava actually was?” he finished, eyes twinkling.

Your smile widened. “Still think red is a cop-out.”

He laughed, the sound familiar and warm in a way that startled you. Nostalgia crept in gently, not overpowering but present enough to make the moment feel oddly suspended.

You moved off to the side together, drinks in hand, and the conversation flowed more easily than you expected. You talked about your shared elementary school, the time you got sent to detention for painting the school mascot purple, the fact that he used to cheat off your math tests until you started writing all your answers backwards just to mess with him.

He told you about how he fell into PR by accident after a marketing internship went well, how he never expected to end up in volleyball again, and how weird it was to be attending afterparties full of pro athletes he used to watch on TV.

“Can’t lie,” he said, glancing around, “you clean up scary well. I wouldn’t have recognized you if you didn’t still raise your eyebrows the same way.”

You snorted, sipping your drink. “That’s weirdly specific.”

“What can I say?” he teased. “Some things stick.”

You weren’t flirting. You knew that. And still—there was something easy about talking to someone who knew you before high school, before volleyball, before everything. Someone who saw you before you were who you were now.

You didn’t notice the way time was passing. But someone else did.

Atsumu arrived just under twenty minutes later, stepping into the lounge with the smooth confidence of someone who knew all eyes followed him when he moved. He wasn’t dressed to impress—just black slacks, an open collar, and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled neatly to the elbow. He was flushed faintly from earlier exertion, hair still damp around the temples, and his gold eyes scanned the room with habitual sharpness.

They found you immediately.

He saw the guy. Saw how you were angled slightly toward him. Saw the way you laughed—small and genuine—and the way your drink was now halfway gone.

The look on Atsumu’s face was unreadable. His expression didn’t change, not really. But his jaw flexed once, and he didn’t walk toward you.

Not yet.

He stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, posture too casual to be natural. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

Sakusa nudged him. “That your girlfriend talking to—whoever that is?”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Just narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Oh,” Sakusa said blandly. “You’re pissed.”

Atsumu gave him a look. “No shit.”

You didn’t notice the shift in the air until it was nearly too late.

Ryouta had just finished telling you about a disastrous campaign involving an accidentally misspelled slogan on a national team ad — something that went viral for all the wrong reasons — when you felt it. That creeping pressure, like someone watching too closely. Your back straightened slightly, instinct kicking in before your mind could catch up.

You turned your head.

And there he was.

Atsumu, maybe ten feet away. Staring.

Your breath hitched — not because you were doing anything wrong, but because of the look on his face. Tense. Composed. Gold eyes too steady. You knew that version of him. It meant a storm was brewing behind his tongue.

“Tsumu,” you called softly, lifting your hand.

He didn’t wave. Just approached, slow and deliberate, like a lion that had already caught the scent.

Ryouta followed your gaze and blinked. “Oh. That’s him, huh?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Atsumu stopped beside you and tilted his head slightly at Ryouta, smile tight. “Don’t think we’ve met.”

Ryouta, oblivious or bold — maybe both — extended a hand. “Ryouta. Old friend. We were in the same class forever ago.”

Atsumu shook it. Too firmly. “Atsumu. Her boyfriend.”

The silence that followed stretched just long enough to sting.

Ryouta cleared his throat. “You played a great match tonight. Your control in the second set was impressive.”

Atsumu shrugged like he didn’t care. “Guess you’re real observant, then.”

You blinked at him. “Atsumu.”

He finally looked at you.

And that’s when you saw it — the tight coil in his shoulders, the barely-contained frustration just under his skin. Not fury. Not anger. But something older. Possessive. Dangerous. Familiar.

“I should let you two catch up,” Ryouta said, stepping back. “Good to see you again.”

You nodded, exhaling slowly as he walked away.

Atsumu didn’t say a word until Ryouta disappeared into the crowd.

Then:

“You flirt like that with every old classmate or was tonight a special fuckin’ occasion?”

Your mouth parted. “Excuse me?”

“You were hangin’ off him.”

“I was not.”

“You were laughing at everything he said like it was the funniest shit you’ve ever heard.”

“Because he was funny, Atsumu. I know him. We were just catching up.”

His jaw flexed again, but his voice didn’t raise. That was worse. “He was touchin’ your arm.”

“For like two seconds—”

“He was leanin’ in like he wanted to taste your breath.”

“God, you’re being so—”

“What?” he asked, stepping closer. “Jealous? Too fuckin’ bad.”

You stared up at him, your own pulse rising. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

“Oh really?”

“You’re pissed because you weren’t here when I walked in. Because I wasn’t waiting by the door like some show dog for you to collect.”

His eyes narrowed. “Watch it.”

“No,” you snapped, poking a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to make me feel guilty for talking to someone you’ve never even met.”

He laughed once, bitter. “I know exactly what I saw.”

“Yeah? Then maybe next time show up when you say you will.”

That landed. He didn’t move. Just stared, breathing slow and deliberate, hands curled into fists at his sides.

You held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned sharply. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Sure,” he said under his breath. “Run off.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. You stormed away, weaving through bodies and music until you reached the far hallway where the single-occupant restrooms were tucked behind a velvet rope.

You slipped inside, locked the door, and pressed your back to it, chest rising and falling in uneven beats.

Your heart thudded beneath your ribs — from the fight, from the tension, from something else. Your hands were shaking. Not out of fear. Out of the strange electric thrill that always came from standing toe to toe with him, matching him fire for fire.

You didn’t hear the knock.

You only heard the lock twist open.

And then he was there. Filling the doorway. Chest heaving. Eyes burning.

“I wasn’t done with you,” he said.

You swallowed. “You followed me.”

“I always follow you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to fight again, but he was already stepping forward, pressing you back against the wall with nothing but the heat of his body.

His hand landed beside your head, palm flat against the door. His other hand found your waist.

“I didn’t like it,” he said, voice low. “The way he looked at you.”

“Tough,” you said, breath catching.

“You’re mine.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Your lips parted—but then his mouth was already on yours.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Atsumu’s mouth was already moving against yours, hot and unrelenting. There was nothing gentle about it. It was claiming—raw and messy, built from jealousy and the way you argued like you wanted to be pinned. His teeth caught your bottom lip, and your hands flew up to grip his shirt, clutching tight, like that was the only way to stay grounded.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered against your mouth. “You like gettin’ me riled up.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered back, gasping when his hand dropped to your thigh, squeezing hard.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled, already bunching up the fabric of your dress, sliding it high enough to reveal your panties.

You didn’t. Wouldn’t.

The air between you throbbed with heat and unresolved anger, with the ache of being seen and wanted so completely.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hand cupping the back of your neck as the other slipped between your thighs. His fingers grazed the edge of your underwear, dragging the thin fabric to the side with a kind of reverent disrespect that made your stomach drop.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dropping lower, teasing. “And here I thought you were mad at me.”

You could barely respond, breath fluttering out in a shaky half-laugh. “Shut up.”

“Yeah?” His fingers slid through your folds, spreading slick warmth across your skin. “Thought you might be drippin’ for him for a second.”

Your head thudded lightly against the door behind you. “Don’t start.”

He chuckled darkly, and then two fingers pressed into you in a single, smooth thrust.

You gasped—sharp and sudden—gripping his arm.

His palm settled against your mound, anchoring him as he pumped his fingers slowly, deliberately, curling them just enough to make your legs quake. His eyes never left your face, watching the way your expression crumbled with every stroke, every wet sound of him moving inside you.

“That's it,” he murmured, leaning close enough to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Let me hear you.”

“We’re in a bathroom—”

“So?” His thumb began to rub slow, tight circles around your clit. “You think anyone’s gonna say shit to me?”

Your reply melted into a moan, bitten off at the edge as you buried your face in his shoulder.

His rhythm never faltered. The fingers inside you curled and stroked with practiced ease, filling you just enough to ache for more. His thumb moved in time with your breath, coaxing you toward the edge with every flick, every grind.

You clenched around him without meaning to, the pressure building fast, too fast. Every nerve in your body felt lit from within, tethered to his hand and the molten heat of his mouth against your jaw.

“You gonna come?” he whispered. “Right here with my fingers in you?”

You nodded, desperate, thighs trembling.

“Then come, baby,” he said against your ear. “Let me feel it.”

You broke.

Your moan caught in your throat as your hips bucked forward, grinding down onto his hand. The orgasm rolled through you hard, your walls fluttering around his fingers, your breath ragged as you shook against him.

He didn’t stop until you physically twitched away from the overstimulation, gasping for air. He eased his fingers out slowly, eyes on your face the whole time, like he was cataloging every little tremor.

And then—without breaking eye contact—he brought his fingers to his mouth.

Sucked them clean.

You stared, stunned, pulse still pounding in your ears.

“You gonna behave now?” he asked, cocky and breathless.

“You’re an asshole,” you said, cheeks burning.

“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning as he reached to fix your underwear, then smoothed your dress down with slow, practiced hands. “But I’m your asshole.”

You glared, but your legs were still weak, your mouth still swollen from his kisses. He fixed your hair gently, ran his thumb under your eyes to smudge away anything left behind. It was intimate in a way that undid you more than the orgasm.

He kissed your temple, hand resting low on your waist. “You ready?”

You swallowed, nodded.

He opened the bathroom door with casual ease, and you stepped out together.

The party hadn’t changed—music still thumping softly, lights still low, voices still buzzing.

But your cheeks were flushed. Your lips slightly parted. Your hair just a little mussed.

And Ryouta was standing near the bar, talking to someone from his team.

He glanced up.

Saw you.

Saw Atsumu’s hand on your hip, the way he was guiding you out like he’d already won.

Ryouta blinked. Said nothing.

Atsumu didn’t even look his way. Just leaned down and murmured in your ear, “Let’s go home.”

You followed him without a word, legs still trembling with every step.

[inkwelldesires]

Heirloom of the Heart – S.R

A box full of proof that he watches you love.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Rating: G

Word Count: ~2.5k

Category: Domestic Romance | Emotional Slow Burn | Comfort

Summary:

The night before Mother’s Day, Spencer builds a memory box with your toddler by his side — not bought, but made. It’s how he tells you: I see you. I cherish you. I built this from the pieces of our love.

Spencer made a spreadsheet, actually — color-coded and titled “Mother’s Day,” sitting quietly in the background of Spencer’s computer screen for nearly three weeks now.

He’s updated it obsessively between case reports and bedtime stories, filling columns with notes: sentimental, practical, handmade, child-involved. But none of it seems good enough.

Not for you.

He’s read fourteen parenting blogs, skimmed six academic journals on gift-giving and memory association, and even reached out to Garcia, who responded with something like thirty-two glitter-covered ideas before veering into personalized astrology.

He tried. But nothing felt right.

Nothing captured the way you press your lips to your child’s forehead like it’s sacred. Nothing acknowledged the way you hold the entire household together — emotionally, logistically, quietly, without complaint.

There is no column for that. No algorithm.

Spencer sits on the floor of the nursery late one night, your favorite chipped mug in his hand, cooling tea forgotten.

The house is quiet.

The kind of quiet that holds things — old baby laughter, your voice humming in the kitchen, soft footsteps padded in socks. He watches the nightlight cast slow-moving shadows on the wall and thinks.

Not with statistics.

With his heart, even if it still surprises him that he knows how to listen to it now.

He decides on something he can build.

A memory box — wooden, soft-closing, sanded smooth until the edges feel like river stones. He lines it with pale linen, the color you once pointed to in a boutique window and called “peace.”

Inside it, he lays a photo of you in the hospital holding your child, sweat-soaked and glowing. The first onesie, folded small. A crayon drawing from your toddler that mostly looks like a chaotic storm cloud, but he insists it’s “mommy’s smile.” And then there’s the letter. Spencer writes it by hand, his knuckles sore, his pen looping through words he can barely say out loud.

It’s about you.

It’s about how the world feels different now. How even the hard days are laced with gold because of you.

How he watches you — constantly, lovingly — with awe.

The night before Mother’s Day, he keeps your child up just a little past bedtime. They pad into the living room in footie pajamas, rubbing sleep from their eyes as Spencer sets up the surprise. The box goes on the coffee table. He arranges wildflowers around it, picked earlier from the edge of the park you like. Not the expensive kind — the kind that look like they were gathered by accident.

The ones that look like you—beautiful.

He hands your child a paintbrush and lets them swipe a crooked red heart on the corner of the box lid. There’s paint on their nose, and Spencer doesn’t wipe it off. It feels like part of the story. They add their stuffed giraffe beside the box for decoration, declaring, “He wants to say happy day too.” Spencer doesn’t argue. He just smiles and ruffles soft hair and feels something so tender in his chest it almost breaks him.

Before he carries the toddler back to bed, he lingers in the doorway of the living room.

Everything is still.

The box. The flowers. The half-prepped breakfast tray. The quiet hum of night. He pictures you walking in — sleepy-eyed, your hair a little wild, feet bare on the hardwood. He imagines the way your fingers will touch the lid. The way your breath will catch when you unfold the letter. The look in your eyes when you realize he didn’t buy this.

He built it.

For you. With your child. With his heart wide open

And in that moment, he knows. This is the gift. Not the box. Not the flowers. But the ritual. The remembering. The way he chose to love you — in full detail, with evidence, with intention. Just like you love him.

Just like you love them.