#it doesn’t resolve anything it simply stops

[heyclickadee]

I understand that people are going to cope how they are going to cope, and trying to find meaning in the handling of Tech in season three is part of that, but it’s also okay to criticize the show.

I like a good character death. Tech’s departure was not that. My issue is not that he’s presumed dead, my issue is that it and the handling of it is nonsense. So (I once again get very negative about my favorite show under the cut):

1. When you kill off a main character, you really have to kill them off. How you do so can vary from story to story, but you really have to do four things:

One, you need a good reason to kill them off in the first place. (“Stakes” is not a good reason. A secondary character, sure, but not a main one. More on that in a minute.)

Two, you need to make it perfectly clear that the character is, in fact, dead.

Three, you need to show the other characters processing and accepting that death. This is important because doing so will allow the audience to do the same and let the character go. This is especially important if you’re writing for a young audience.

Four, you need to make it explicitly clear that the character cannot come back. This is especially true in sci fi or fantasy. Especially if you’re the Character Resurrection franchise.

And guess what the show didn’t do?

Any of that. Any of it. What it did instead was ambiguously remove Tech from the story (uniquely in a show that loves making us watch characters die on screen; last time we saw Tech for sure he was alive), never gave a good reason for doing so in or out of the show, never showed us any character working through the impact of his loss (even though there was ample opportunity for Omega, especially, to do so), and ripped the “could he come back?” box wide open by parading CX-2 in front of our faces. It is never, at any point, handled like an actual main character death. It’s handled as a plot point from which the narrative moves fairly quickly, and treated by all parties as an absence. By all the rules of storytelling, Tech isn’t dead. He’s just ambiguously gone. And that means the writing team did a terrible job if what they wanted to do was kill him off. We should not be debating this after the show has ended if he’s actually dead.

2. I understand why some fans are trying to find meaning in losing Tech. I am not, because that meaning is not offered by the text itself. And, if the plan was to never bring him back, it should have been.

We are not, for example, offered a lesson about how not everyone comes home from the war. In order for that to have been the case, we would have needed to see someone, probably Omega, working through that. We would have needed to see her refusing to accept that Tech is gone—like we do in Plan 99, by the way—and slowly coming to terms with the idea that her brother isn’t coming home. But we don’t get that, not even as subtext.

Something else we could have gotten that would have worked with all the little visual reminders of Tech, empty chairs, name-drops, and even the CX-2 leading? The batch being so haunted by losing Tech and not really knowing what happened to him for sure that they start seeing him everywhere. But for that to work we would have needed, again, to see that as an explicit subplot where someone, probably Omega, again, gets really invested in the signs that Tech is coming back and even starts assuming that CX-2 is him, only to realize that she’s seeing what she wants to see and having to accept that Tech isn’t coming back, but that she can still keep Tech’s memory alive by following in his footsteps. That’s something you can kind of project onto what we’re given in the epilogue, but you do have to project it, because it’s entirely absent from the rest of the show.

As is, Tech’s sacrifice isn’t given any weight. From a narrative perspective, it was an incredibly contrived set of circumstances that accomplished nothing except punting Tech off a train, and gave Tech no choice but to remove himself from the story—exit, stage down. Losing Tech doesn’t, even sub-textually, serve as anyone’s motivation. It does nothing to move the plot or anyone’s character development forward. The primary motivators of season three were Omega’s kidnapping, Crosshair’s PTSD, and Hemlock needing to get Omega back.

Tech’s absence does nothing to move anything forward and only really serves to slow the plot down and make the others struggle to do anything because he’s not there to carry the team like he did in the first two seasons—and nothing about that would have played out any differently if Tech spent the season in a coma in a bacta tank. The only part of Tech’s sacrifice that has meaning is that he loved his family enough to offer it. And that is profound, but that’s not something that would be negated by a return because the love and the offer remain. As for his presumed death? His return couldn’t have taken meaning away from that, because the show never gave it any meaning in the first place.

And no, Tech “dying” isn’t something I have to accept. Tech isn’t a real person, he’s an idea, and an idea that didn’t come to fruition. I can point out the ways the handling of his departure didn’t work all day if I want.

3. CX-Tech was not an overly online theory. I need people to understand this. It was an assumption made by most of the casual audience. My sister, who has no contact with the fandom and doesn’t like me discussing the show at all until she’s seen it, assumed he was Tech. My brother-in-law, who was a die-hard Tech-has-to-be-dead-shut-up guy for the entire hiatus and the first half of season three, was convinced he was Tech. Every kid I’ve spoken to who watched the show thought he was Tech and is deeply confused that he got speared like that. My brother, who doesn’t even watch the show but who does walk by when I’m watching it sometimes, thought he was Tech. You can’t get more casual and away from the fandom than that.

The thing is, the answer we get isn’t that he’s not Tech. It’s, “We’re not telling.” Which means that as it currently stands, a season-and-a-half of CX buildup amounted to a five minute boss fight and a non-answer. That’s…not something that works! That’s atrocious writing if that was the whole sum of their intent all along.

And you can say, well, that was a clever misdirect! Plot twist! Except, one, misdirects and twists only work if the real answer is more satisfying than the false one, otherwise it just falls flat. Two, if it was a misdirect, it’s not one the creative team is willing to own. No one will touch the Tech-CX-2 parallels with a twenty-foot pole, except the Kiners, who have incredibly meaningful explanations for every musical choice but then say shit like, “that chord just sounds good in brass” about Battle of the Snipers (…before going on to say that the four note lose motif from “Plan 99” is Tech’s leitmotif…which is also all over Battle of the Snipers…and is only there according because the batch is divided in that scene, a scene in which Crosshair’s leitmotif is entirely absent even though he’s just supposed to be fighting his own dark side represented by a guy who’s totally not Tech. Sure. I’m going to go eat drywall.) Because acknowledging that and saying that was supposed to be Tech will just make the audience angrier, and they may not even be allowed to do so, and saying that it is Tech—you can understand why they can’t do that, right? The implications are horrific. But that horrific implication is probably what at least some of the casual audience who will never interact with the fandom or a single interview is going to walk away with.

4. The thing that bothers me most about all of this is the combined toxicity of the fandom and the leading from the marketing and social media. Part of the fandom saying that there were never any signs Tech could have survived (in Star Wars, no less) is starting to feel like gaslighting; and while I don’t think there was any malice in the leading in the marketing and social media—I’m even willing to give a tiny bit of leeway for the creative team maybe knowing something we don’t yet—it was handled badly, expectations for this season should have been set early and clearly, and as of right now it all feels like an incredibly cruel prank at autistic fans expense, whatever the intent may have been or may still be.

5. And finally, here’s the thing: I’m willing to give the writers a bit of leeway on this. I’m willing to grant that some choices may have been out of their hands for unknown reasons. I’m even willing to say that maybe they’re not really done with this story yet, that The Bad Batch could just be the first chapter of a longer show that was split up for stupid business reasons, and that the finale is the way it is because they had to have an ending of sorts without actually resolving anything. I’m willing to grant a lot of grace there. In fact, I actually think there’s a very good chance we’ll still get Tech back alive in canon, and sooner than later, if only because no one (not even the voice actors) seems happy about this, most fans are coping but disappointed at best, the creative team got asked about Tech non-stop for a solid year and a half, and the writers don’t seem at all committed. We know from the rest of the show that they know how to definitively kill a guy, and, frankly, Tech in the first two seasons comes across as something of a writer favorite. They like using him!

But whatever I’m hoping or suspecting, and whatever leeway I’m willing to grant the creative team here, the final product is all we have right now. And I am going to criticize that final product for badly handling a (presumed) character death and straight up breaking the central conceit of the show in doing so.

#the bad batch #one thing I will say #is that if I knew for sure #that ‘the cavalry has arrived’ was simply a midpoint #not really a series finale in the writers’ heads but just a season finale #and that this story was going to continue but now with more focus on Rex and Echo #with Tech as the bridge between the two series #I would not be nearly as harsh about the finale as I am #it doesn’t resolve anything it simply stops #because it had to end

[katebishopsbow]

ENIGMA • OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x reader (18+)

summary: your best friend's brother seems to always be keeping a friendly distance from you. intrigued by how reserved and quiet he is, you devise an evil little plan to make him lose control and uncover the facade behind his polite smiles and curt greetings.

warnings: sexual content (minors dni), sub!oscar, praising, corruption kink, finger sucking, spit, handjob

word count: 3k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Oscar Piastri is an enigma, a riddle you yearn to solve.

You see him occasionally whenever you visit your best friend’s house, purposefully lingering later in the night to catch a glimpse of her brother coming home from practice. He would give you a small smile, and make some light conversations with you and his sister before excusing himself upstairs in hurried steps.

He is always so quiet, so shy and closed off, always keeping a friendly distance from you as if getting too close would burn. It intrigues you more than anything, and maybe a wicked part of you wants to unveil the secrets hiding behind that facade of polite smiles and friendly greetings. You want to see him lose control – to be the one to make him lose control.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Oscar comes home from an exhausting day of practice – muscle sore, completely starving, and in desperate need of a quiet, relaxing night. When he enters the kitchen to get some water, he’s surprised to see you there alone wearing a rather flimsy top that reveals more skin than usual, with his sister nowhere in sight. “Oh – hey,” he greets politely like he always does, shooting you a half smile as he trains his eyes on your face instead of your revealing neckline. 

What a gentleman, right? 

“Hey, Oscar,” you return the smile, your mind already coming up with a devious plan to break his resolve. “Is Olivia here?” he asks as he glances around the house, searching for signs of his sister since the two of you are almost always inseparable. “Something came up. She told me to wait for her here, said she’ll be back in an hour,” you say to him, to which he answers with a quick nod of his head, “Oh, okay, cool.” Classic Oscar, always so reserved and never uttering more than a few words to you. Yet this only manages to fuel your desire to discover what’s hiding underneath and watch him lose his composure.

With a friendly smile, you gesture at the tray of chocolate cupcakes on the counter in front of you and say, “I brought over some cupcakes. Try them!” Oscar’s eyes almost light up at the sight of the sugary treat. The only things he has eaten during the day are a protein shake and a turkey sandwich he packed this morning that did nothing to keep him full, so the boy immediately picks one up and gives it a huge bite, eyes widening at how delicious they are. “These are good!” 

How cliche, you think as you stare at the chocolate frosting at the corner of his mouth. 

“You have a little something on your…” you let out a giggle as you point at his lips, and with an embarrassed grimace, Oscar hurriedly wipes at his mouth with his hands. He’s about to bring his thumb up to his lips when you suddenly stop him, grabbing onto his wrist mid-air as he tilts his head in confusion. “Uhh – what are you…?” he questions with a puzzled look and furrowed eyebrows, and his words fall to silence when he watches you slowly bring his hand toward your face.

Oscar feels like he’s suffocating, like his head is being submerged in deep waters as your lips slowly fall open, tongue darting out to give his finger a kitten lick, just to test his reaction. He supposes he should be tugging his hand back, pushing you off of him frantically, but he feels like he physically can’t, or maybe he simply doesn’t want to. 

So when he doesn’t pull away in disgust and freaks out like a part of you expects him to, you take it as a sign to continue your devious little plan. Oscar can feel his stomach drop, his breath catching in his throat like all the oxygen has left his body, especially when you smirk and envelop his entire finger into your mouth. 

“What are you doing…” he asks in a breathy groan as he tries his damned hardest to recompose himself, holding back the desperate urge to moan at the way you hollow out your cheeks and suck until the tip of his finger just grazes the back of your throat. Fuck, why the fuck does this feel so good already? Something about the haze in your eye makes a chill run down his spine – dangerous and a little twisted, and it’s enough to make Oscar want to surrender himself to you in whatever ways possible, in whatever ways you’d take him.

Every rational thought inside his head is telling him to stop, screaming at him to put an end to whatever madness this is. This is insane, absolutely ridiculous, and you two really shouldn’t be doing this. His sister can be home at any minute, not to mention that he definitely shouldn’t be doing such sinful acts with his sister’s best friend. Unfortunately, his body is betraying him and the tightness in his pants is a clear enough indicator that his facade is starting to crumble. He’s losing control and he knows it, and maybe it’s about time that he realizes how utterly screwed he is. 

When you finally pull off of him, a string of spit connects his finger to your glossy lips, and Oscar almost moans at the lewd sight. “Fuck…” The sigh that falls from his lips makes you smile, because while he will never admit this, you can tell that he’s secretly enjoying whatever you are doing to him. 

Feeling courageous, you move closer toward the boy until your bodies press directly against each other, feeling the radiating heat from his skin through the layers of clothes he has yet to change out of. You lean in to plant a kiss on his neck, and another, and another, suckling on the delicate skin until a purplish-blue bruise begins to form when you feel Oscar wordlessly tilting his head to allow you more access. In the corner of your eye, you can see him biting down on his lips as if he’s trying his hardest to stifle his sounds, and you can’t have that, no. 

You need to hear him, to listen to the way you’re affecting him while drinking in every little whine and plea of his until he comes. So you allow your hand to slide, trailing along the soft lines of his chest and abs until it reaches the hemline of his jeans. Oscar squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, waiting for you to touch him where he needs you the most, yet that feeling never comes. “What?” he asks breathily when his eyes flutter open once again and is greeted by a grin on your face he would only describe as evil, calculative, as if you have everything planned out in your mind already – which isn’t exactly far off from the truth.

“You want me to touch you, Osc?” you say to him, voice sweet and mellow, knowing damn well what his answer is going to be. The bulge over his pants is rather prominent, and it must not have felt very nice under the confinement of his jeans, but you just want to hear him say it. You need to hear him admit it, that he wants this, that he wants you just as much as you want him – and also just to tease him a little.

Oscar nods his head, wishfully hoping that this is somehow enough since his ego won’t allow him to say anything more. To no avail, you shake your head at his silent response. “Yes or no, baby?” The nickname has him inhaling a shuddering breath, his head becoming foggy with lust and the burning need to be properly touched by you. It hurts – he’s so hard and his jeans are so tight, and all he wants is your fingers and lips around him. 

All he needs to do is say the word, just say that he wants it and you will give him everything he needs and more, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud, he just can’t do it. Maybe it is his headstrong personality, but Oscar doesn’t beg for anything. He never has to beg for anything that he wants, he simply works for it and gets it. Good grades, his parents’ approval, sponsorships, karting and race wins. He doesn’t beg – never has and never will – but god does he want to get on his knees and beg for you right now.

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know that he’s having an inner battle within himself, so you decide to be nice and give him a little… push. “Please, baby, please let me touch your cock. Let me make you feel good, Osc,” you pout your lips and look at him with the most desperate, pleading eyes ever, and he swears he is genuinely going to pass out.

Oscar likes to think he is in control most of the time, laid back and calm even in the most unpredictable times. Nothing can ever faze him, and he takes pride in that. But as he stands here before you, pushed back into the kitchen counter as you beg to jerk him off with the prettiest pair of eyes, every ounce of inhibition and self-control has suddenly evaporated from his body. 

So he lets himself go, and he lets you take – whatever you want. “Please, I want it,” he gasps out a strained whine as he returns the same pleading expression, shoving whatever “I never beg” principle he used to have to the very back of his mind and lets himself have this, lets himself have you. “Good boy.” Your words coax a breathy moan out of him, loud and unashamed and almost pornographic. You haven’t even properly touched him, and yet he already feels like he’s been completely taken apart by you, with every single part of his body humming in anticipation.

“Unbuckle your pants for me, baby.” Oscar doesn’t need to hear it twice, rushed hands fumbling with his belt to pull down his zipper, his eagerness endearingly funny. He looks at you with awaiting eyes after he’s done, trying his best to be patient as he waits for your next instructions. Placing a chaste kiss on his cheek, you slowly slip your hand into his pants, delicate fingers wrapping around the length of Oscar’s erection. Fucking finally, he thinks to himself.

His face contorts in pleasure when you begin tightening your hand, giving him a few unhurried, lazy strokes up and down his cock. “Argh… holy fucking shit…” Oscar isn’t normally much of a swearer, but he can’t seem to control himself nor the words spilling from his lips when your fingers feel so good around him. 

He lets out a displeased whine when you abruptly remove your hand from his jeans, staring at you with dazed eyes as you bring it in front of his mouth. “Spit,” you order, and Oscar being the good boy that he is, immediately obliges, gathering the saliva in his mouth and letting it dribble down to your palm. “That’s my good boy.” Using Oscar’s spit as lube, your hand returns to its original placement and begins moving, this time with much firmer strokes.

Oscar’s eyes snap close at the electrifying sensation, and he feels like his brain is melting inside his head from the overbearing pleasure that envelops him. Every muscle, every bone, every fiber of his entire being tingles with nerves, and your hand feels so warm and slippery and tight and so, so fucking good. He wonders if he’s dreaming, if he’ll suddenly come to his senses and wake up from whatever fever dream this is with a sticky mess under his covers.

The thing is, you have always been gorgeous. Oscar has eyes, and he cannot lie and say that he has never ogled at you when came over to their house and had your back turned, or that he never allowed his mind to wander in the late hours at night as he thinks about you indecent ways – ways a boy should never think about his sister’s best friend. He knows how wrong this entire thing is, with your fingers around him as he moans at how good you’re making him feel, but he doesn’t ever want to stop. So he prays, ever so solemnly to whatever higher power out there that this is real, that you are real, and please please please he just needs you to stroke him faster.

“Please, faster, I need – I need more!” 

Now how could you ever say no to him when he looks so good writhing in your arms like this? So you pick up the speed, pumping his cock in faster strokes and occasionally thumbing against the slit when you reach the head. “Does it feel good, Osc?” Oscar frantically nods his head at your question, gasping out strings of barely coherent curses under his breath, “Yes, yes, fuck! It feels so good, so fucking good…” 

“Good boy… I bet it does,” you lean down to brush a kiss on his jaw, relishing in the whiny moans that never stop spilling from his raw, bitten lips. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you?” Oscar nods again, eyes rolling to the back of his head whenever you draw teasing circles over his frenulum. but you want to hear him say it, to admit that he’s yours. “Say it,” you repeat yourself, purposefully slowing down the movements of your hand as you await his answer.

“I’m your good – boy!” he breathes out in a groan, wanting more than anything to be good for you. “That’s right, baby, you’re my pretty boy,” you whisper into his ear, and it’s nothing but the truth. With his hips bucking up into your hand in a desperate chase of pleasure as wonton moans never stop falling from his parted lips, Oscar has never looked prettier. Not the kind of pretty that makes you want to take him out to dinner and kiss him under the moonlight, but the kind of pretty that makes you want to take him apart and put him back together, to ruin him and make his eyes roll to the back of his head until he remembers nothing but your name.

You can tell Oscar is getting close with the way his breathing picks up and how he frantically grabs onto your hips just for something to hold onto. He’s jerked himself off before, plenty of times, but he has never felt anything like this – how you’re able to turn him into a malleable, whimpering mess with just a few deft strokes. It’s unfair how stupid-good your hands are, Oscar thinks to himself. Somehow he can’t find it in himself to be upset about it though, not when he’s too occupied with falling apart in your arms. 

“You’re gonna be a good boy and come all over my fingers, Osc?” Oscar barely manages to nod, making an almost begging noise in the process, and perhaps he would be embarrassed if it isn’t for how fucking turned on and insatiable he feels. “Yeah? You’re gonna come for me and watch me swallow every drop, baby?” Fuck, he is definitely not going to last when you’re muttering straight-up filth into his ears. 

When his eyes flutter close, he lets his imagination run wild the way he always does when he lies in his bed, hand stuffed into his pants while fantasizing about his sister’s best friend. He imagines you getting on your knees, opening your mouth with your tongue sticking out and waiting patiently as he spills all over you. He imagines your face covered in his come – so filthy and sinful – and you scoop them up with your fingers before sliding them inside your mouth. He imagines coming inside of you, warm and tight and so perfect for him. “I wish you were inside me instead, Osc,” you breathe into his ear, and that’s when he feels himself tipping over the edge.

Broken gasps and breathy whimpers are all Oscar can manage as his body overrides with pleasure – pure and utter euphoria that sends strikes of lighting down his spine. The pace of his hips stutters, and he thrusts up into your fingers once, twice, until his come splatters all over your hand, making a complete mess. Lines of white trickle down between your fingers, and he’s still desperately trying to catch his breath when you lift your hand and bring it to your lips. “Jesus fucking Christ…” he groans at the filthy sight of you sucking your fingers clean, lapping up his come and swallowing down everything with a teasing smirk.

You gently thumb at the streak of white that has spilled from the corner of your mouth, swipe it away and bring it to Oscar’s lips. Eager to please and obedient as ever, he parts his lips and lets you push your finger into his mouth, licking the taste of himself away. “You’re so good for me, baby,” you praise him softly, rubbing teasing circles over his glossy lips upon removing your finger. Oscar pouts, silently looking at you with eyes that say “Please kiss me” and you just have to reward him after everything, right?

Slowly, you lean in and press a kiss on his awaiting lips, feeling the way Oscar’s mouth falls open so willingly and melts into you without second thoughts. He isn’t a particularly great kisser, but it’s precisely his unskilled and inexperienced movements that make him so, so addictive. The thought of being the one to ruin him, to teach him all the ways you can make him feel good, to be the one to uncover his facade and make him lose control is exactly why you will never get enough of him. Now that you’ve seen him lose control, you don’t think you can ever stop. You can never stay away from him, and neither can he.

“Until next time, pretty boy.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri smut

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: f!reader | one night stand | angst? | objectification | hentai mention | daddy mention but it’s like the ‘daddy’s home’ way | sexual content.

JASON TODD who believes he has such a small impact on you. His influence on you must be nonexistent, he could never have real impact on you. He doesn’t understand what he could mean to people, his self-value shattered after unsuccessfully resolving his greatest trauma. He learned that he could never be worth more than principle to the person he loved the most, and after that he chose not to pay attention. Not to care too much. Keep people at arm’s length because chances are that’s where they want him.

So he fucked you. He spends one night with you. Left nothing to be desired. It was comfortable, it was affectionate, it was rough, it was safe, it was satisfying, it was passionate. He turned your world upside down, and made you cum so many times your legs had a permanent and reoccurring tremor to prevent you from walking straight for an hour. He made you act downright humiliating. Like a bitch in heat desperate for cock, you hounded for his attention. Anything he could give, you asked for, and he gave it. Your bedroom was in shambles after the encounter, and you didn’t even care because of how your cunt felt. Your whole body was on fire, and you were torn between the relief of putting it out and the pleasure of reigniting it.

And then he went home.

He made sure you knew what you were in for, you agreed because at the time it was all you wanted. A hook-up was all you could see yourself needing.

And when he went home, all you could think about was him.

The notion of it was so far removed from reality to him, it simply didn’t register. It had been put out of his mind that you could possibly still want him, and it was no skin off his back. People suck, people fuck, and people stop talking. There wasn’t anything to even get over.

It’s not like you were unremarkable. The sounds you were capable of making reminded him of those hentai videos he used to sneak watching on the Waynepad he was given for his birthday. All his downloaded books were on that thing, and the one time he was brave enough to watch a little porn he came to a bitch getting tentacled. It was damn romantic that you sounded better than a cartoon ever could. Not only that but the way you were acting, clinging onto him and forcing him in, like you’d die if you didn’t get dick right that second. Your poor pussy’d been so neglected, it needed him. The way it puffed up around him like daddy was really home. The memories bring a curl to his lips, especially when he remembers what it was like to cup your bouncing tits in his hands and use them as handles when he abused your little hole.

He treated you like a sex object that night, and you thanked him for it. But what’s done is done, and it won’t happen again, and that’s fine. It’s fine by him.

He doesn’t take note when you’re happy to see him and disappointed when he brushes you off. How your shoulders deflate and your smile wilts. He doesn’t understand the effect he has on you, and you can’t decide if you want him to. You’d agreed: it was just a one night stand. And when he comes up behind you, close enough to get a look at your ass and a whiff of your shampoo, he reinforces it in his thick skull: it was just a one night stand.

#indy: drabbles #jason todd drabble #ch: jason #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd imagine #jason todd fic #jason todd fanfiction #arkham knight smut #arkham knight x reader #red hood smut #red hood x reader #reader insert

[prythianpages]

A Man After Midnight | Eris x Reader

summary: though engaged to Sawyer Vanserra, you feel utterly and completely alone with only the company of autumn winds, blowing outside your window. that is, until, Eris shows up. Your man after midnight.

warnings: mentions of assault (reader gets touched against her will but nothing explicit or anything that goes beyond that), blood, bruises/abuse/bullying; reader having a panic attack

a/n: This originally was going to head a different direction but I decided to make it like a part three to this instead. You can also read this as a stand alone one-shot. I love ABBA and I knew I had to use this song. One of my favs but you'll find that I say that a lot. You can find the masterlist to my ABBA x ACOTAR series here.

Your eyes light up as you spot Sawyer stepping out from the High Lord’s study. Overridden with excitement, you eagerly fall into step with him, the sheer brightness of your presence outshining the dimly lit surroundings. You pay no mind to the fact that his other brothers, Hunter and Oliver, are not too far behind.

“Good morning, Sawyer! Will you walk with me?” you beam up at him with a smile. It's the kind of sight that would make many fall to their feet–that even Oliver wants to bask in the glow of.

But Sawyer? He doesn’t even spare you a glance, his dark brown eyes fixed ahead as he replies, his tone detached. “I’m doing that right now.”

You can hear his brothers snicker behind you–too close for your liking that it has you quickening your steps. “But I was hoping you’d walk with me in the gardens? Or maybe we can have lunch together? We are to be marri–”

“Our marriage is nothing but a business deal arranged by our fathers.” He cuts you in sharply and you find your resolve faltering.

“Love may not come from our marriage but perhaps, we can be friends?” You offer, hating the desperation that seeps into your tone, as you trail behind Sawyer.

Sawyer stops abruptly, causing you to crash into his chest and stumble backwards. You catch yourself, a hand rubbing at your forehead where you’re sure an imprint of the necklace he wears marks your reddening skin. Your betrothed looks down at you in a way no one has ever before. Ever since your father left, it appeared that so did Sawyer’s patience. It’s as if the male you met when you first arrived was a facade. Pure disgust simmers in his heated gaze and his nose wrinkles as he lets out a scoff, causing you to shrink back.

“Friends? I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t want to be anything with you. You’re the bane of my existence.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and instinctively, you take another step back, as though the physical distance could somehow lessen the impact of his words. It doesn’t. Your lip trembles as a frown threatens to overtake your features. 

“How can you mean that when you barely know me?” you ask, your voice a mere whisper but you know by the way his steps stop, that he catches every word. So you decide to remind him and add: “I didn’t ask for this either.”

Sawyer doesn’t bother to turn around or answer you, simply choosing to keep walking away. Hunter pushes past you aggressively, turning to smirk at your distraught expression as he catches up with Sawyer. It is Oliver who stops you from colliding into the wall. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, steadying you and pulling you close to him.

“Oh, sweet girl, you’re too pretty to cry.”

Oliver’s free hand reaches up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to him. His lips form a slight pout that contrasts the mischief twinkling in his amber eyes. He leans to lick the single tear trickling down your cheek and you wince. You want to run but his grip on you is strong.  

He then directs your attention forward, where Hunter has Sawyer in a similar hold. “Tell her,” Hunter says, gaze darkening with a thirst to torment. He flashes his teeth as his smirk widens. This is all a fun game to him. “Tell her why you don’t like her.”

Sawyer looks like he would rather die than answer Hunter’s demand. He glares at you as he struggles to free himself from his brother’s grasps but Hunter is much stronger. He realizes that he won’t be free until he says something. Finally, between clenched teeth, Sawyer answers. “She’s not my type.”

Hunter throws his head back in laughter, the sound echoing through the room with a dark and menacing resonance.

“What a shame,” Oliver says, his breath tickling your ear as his hand roams down the length of your neck. You swear your heart misses a beat when his hand stops right over the swell of your chest. His nails dig into your chest at your struggle to free yourself.  “She’s exactly my type.”

Your entire body tenses at the unwanted touch, eyes widening when you feel heat prick at your skin. The smell of burnt fabric reaches your nose and a chill permeates, displacing the warmth as Oliver lifts his flaming hand from you. You rush to cross your arms over your chest, desperate to cover your exposed skin from Hunter’s and Oliver’s hungry gazes.

“Just look at her,” Oliver continues, pushing you forward so harshly it sends you to your knees. His chuckle makes goosebumps rise on your skin. “So pretty, so docile.”

As you blink away tears of humiliation, your eyes remain fixed on Sawyer, pleading almost. He’s determined to look anywhere but you. You curl your arms tighter around yourself and lower your gaze. You don’t want to give the other Vanserras the satisfaction of seeing you cry. You suspect it will only prompt them to torment you further.

“Then have at her. I don’t care.”

Sawyer’s words reach you with a devastating force like the last blow. They pierce through the core of your naive heart and you can’t help the tears that escape and spill onto the floor. Hunter peels his gaze away from you to roll his eyes at his younger brother, releasing him with a rough shove.

“You’re no fun, Sawyer,” he says with a disappointed sigh, his expectation for a different response lingering unfulfilled. Hunter then looks back at you, you can feel his heated gaze, and you curl in further into yourself. “But it looks like you are.”

“What is the meaning of this??”

**

Beron’s cold eyes take in the sight before him, gaze sweeping over your slumped form on the floor. It’s Hunter who moves to speak but at the lift of Beron’s finger, his mouth closes shut. Beron comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t care as there’s other pressing matters to attend to. Such as dealing with your father and ensuring he keeps his end of the agreement. He turns to his oldest, who stands at his side with a perfectly donned mask.

“You deal with whatever this is.”

“Yes, father,” Eris replies with no hesitation and Beron pats him on the shoulder–the same shoulder he left a bruise on the other night.

Eris bites back a wince. He waits until his father is away from sight to take in the situation before him. The torches lining up the halls flare. With a simmering intensity that could rival a raging inferno, Eris turns his attention to the brother closest to him. The searing authority of his gaze has Oliver raising his hands in a gesture of surrender and stepping away from you.

“We were just having a little fun, brother.”

“Fun?” 

Eris releases a disbelieving exhale as he grasps onto Oliver’s shirt. He wants to burn his hand through his brother’s skin until he’s screaming and crying, the same way Oliver had intended to do with you. Because how dare he touch you, hurt you. It’s as if Oliver can hear the crackling roar of the fire burning within his older brother and his eyes widen in fear.

Under the weight of Hunter’s hawk eyes, Eris grudgingly settles on shoving Oliver further away from him. And you.

“If you want to have fun, go to a fucking brothel. This is our home.”

Oliver releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He doesn’t waste another second, happy to leave the hall before his brother can take back his mercy.

"And you," Eris seethes, his voice a low, rumbling growl as he turns to face Hunter next. Eris effortlessly surpasses him in both stature and might, looming over him like a formidable mountain casting its shadow. “Shouldn’t you be making haste to quell the riots in town? Or should I add that to your growing list of incapabilities?”

Hunter's fists clench at his sides, the dance of flames flickering along his skin, but in the presence of Eris, his fire pales in comparison. The fire raging within Eris burns brighter, stronger. A force that demands respect and obedience. Much like their father’s. Without uttering another word, he turns on his heel and leaves.

Stepping forward, Eris finally allows his gaze to fall on you and he feels a violent tug in his chest that threatens to weaken him. The desire to sink to his knees beside you and envelop your trembling form in his arms is an overpowering one, coursing through him like a forbidden current. Yet, the harsh reality holds him back. It’s too dangerous. He cannot act upon the fervent emotions that entwine his heart and it pains him, seeking to destroy him almost.

But he can’t just leave you there. Helpless. On the floor. So he masks his emotions–something he is well accustomed to–and dons a facade of annoyance. With a deft, almost dismissive motion, Eris removes his tailcoat, flinging it carelessly in your direction. The seconds stretch into a languid dance as your eyes, wide with surprise, meet his. You gratefully slip his coat over your smaller form, clutching it tightly to your chest.

There’s a bittersweet ache that lingers within Eris at the unexpected intake of breath you give.

A fleeting flicker of sweet agony passes through his eyes. It vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving you to wonder if it was a mere figment of your imagination. 

"And lastly," Eris starts with a deep sigh, the once-fiery intensity in his eyes dimming as he regards his last remaining brother. The only brother left that harbored some redeemable qualities but now, Eris questioned it.

"Is this any way to treat your fiancé?"

A ripple courses through Sawyer's jawline. “Why do you care?”

"I don't." Eris retorts with a glare. He's skilled at weaving falsehoods, and though this one is way far out from the truth, it slides effortlessly off his tongue like all the other ones. He immediately senses the weight of your gaze pressing into the expense of his back.

"But I do care about the consequences if she runs away. You should too."

Though it pains him, he doesn’t turn back around to you. He looks at Sawyer once more in warning. Then, he begins to walk away, every step pulling him further from the one he yearns to be with. Your gaze, burning into him like a relentless brand the entire time.

**

Weeks Later..

Autumn winds blow harshly outside the window as you look around your room. They mirror the melancholy that lingers in your heart. Your room is big and spacious, seems fit for a princess, adorned with sculpted art and paintings. In one corner stands a massive wardrobe crafted from the richness of dark cherry wood filled to the brim with a variety of dresses that would make any lady of your status swoon. Beside it, there’s a lovely vanity with golden carvings that hosts an array of makeup and beauty products. On the opposite side, is a desk that matches your wardrobe. It bears the weight of books, letters from your father, threads, unfinished embroideries and your untouched dinner. 

At a glance, it appears you have everything.

Yet, as you sit on the bed, a pitiful truth echoes louder than the winds outside. Your gaze meets a reflection in the full-length mirror positioned next to the desk, capturing the solemn expression that dances across your features. Dark, sad eyes stare back at you and the weight of isolation is evident in the downturned corners of your mouth. You miss your home. Your friends, your horse, your father, and gods do you miss your mother. 

Upon your arrival, eager anticipation filled your heart as you looked forward to getting acquainted with your future husband. You knew not to expect love to come from it as you were mere strangers but you had hoped for a friend. The promise of a lifelong companion, a partner to share laughter and weave a tapestry of memories together, stirred excitement and nerves within you. It’s what your father and mother had shared. Your foolish heart had eagerly counted down the days, each one a step closer to a shared future.

But now? As the appointed days draw near, the once-cherished anticipation morphs into a heavy sense of dread, casting a haunting shadow over you. Your husband to be looks at you as if you’re the scum on his boots.

The High Lord, your future father in law, is cruel and terrifying. You avoid him at all costs. Your future mother in law, Lady Autumn, is often busy and away. She helps you plan your dreadful wedding during the times she isn’t busy but you find that she is quiet and reserved. There’s a lingering sadness always present in her amber eyes that you assume comes from all the sorrow and grief she’s had to endure. You’ve met one of her sons–Lucien, you remember– during your travels with your father and you used to wonder why he no longer resided in Autumn but not anymore. You can only imagine the horrors he’s had to endure that made him leave.

Hunter enjoys berating you every chance he can. There’s a darkness that burns in him and you can’t help but think about what would become of you if Sawyer was interested in you. One day, while walking through the garden you overheard from some gossiping servants that Hunter was once married. His wife died shortly after the marriage and rumor has it that the frightening Vanserra had something to do with her sudden disappearance. They wondered if the same fate would befall upon you. A thought you didn’t want to linger on as it was absolutely terrifying.

Then, there’s Oliver. Though kinder, only in comparison to Hunter and maybe even Sawyer, he is not to be trusted. He undresses you with his eyes in every glance and vulgarly welcomes you to his bed. You do your best to stay away from him because as lonely as you are, you’re nowhere near desperate for his company, and fear the day he’ll grow wary of your constant rejection.

You find yourself, however, desperate for another’s. Eris. 

You haven’t seen him since that day Sawyer broke your heart, since he let Oliver make a spectacle out of you. Eris had been the only one you’d look forward to seeing during dinner and his noted absence was the reason why you stopped joining the Vanserra dinners yourself.

Days, even weeks have passed, and he hasn’t fulfilled the promise of returning your book, its absence on your nightstand a constant reminder. He hasn’t even asked for his coat back. It remains draped over your desk chair. He’s a rare sight to see when walking amongst the grounds of the Forest house, prompting a question to rise. Is he purposely avoiding you? The mere thought stirs an unexpected pain within you.

There’s no one here for you. 

A little over a month into your lifetime stay at the Forest house and you already feel so alone. So utterly and completely alone.

Suddenly feeling suffocated, you rise from your bed and head toward your favorite area of your room–the window seat. Kneeling on the soft cushion, your fingers reach to open the window, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation. The Autumn winds continue to howl through the darkness of the night but their chill does not reach you. Your eyes open and you raise your hand. A surge of electricity courses through you as your hand meets an unseen force. A magical barrier.

Turning your head toward the door, your gaze dips to the bottom where shadows dance. You can make out the planted boots of an Autumn guard and hope deflates. Nothing can come in. Nothing can go out. Not only are you alone but you’re trapped. 

A taste of what’s to come, of what’s to be of the rest of your miserable life. Lonely. Trapped. Locked away into oblivion. No breath you take is enough as you’re suffocated by the storm of emotions flooding through you. This place is your hell. Impending doom. You’re going to die here. Alone. There’s not a soul out there…

Water. You should drink some water. Tremors take over your body as you make your way toward your nightstand. Water spills onto the floor as you pour yourself a glass. You bring the water to your lips but your throat feels like it’s closing up. You glance at the pocket watch on your nightstand and notice it’s half past twelve.

There’s not a soul out there…

You extend your hand towards the watch—a cherished heirloom passed down from your mother. The gentle, rhythmic ticking of it has long been a source of solace and comfort for you. But it’s too late.

The hand clutching onto your glass of water shatters against the dark wood of your nightstand as you clutch the watch to your racing heart. You can only pray to the Cauldron, the Mother, to anyone as the room spins around you. But there’s no one to hear your prayer…

There’s a deep agony in your chest that tightens with every passing second, an inescapable loop of gloom that envelops your every thought and emotion. There’s not a soul out there. You can’t breathe. No one to hear your prayer…

“y/n.”

You catch the faint murmur of your name being called, yet a lingering doubt creeps in. You must be going mad because there’s no one here for you. Not a soul—

“y/n.”

And there it is again. Your name is being called. Louder, firmer this time. It’s real. The cruel clutches of your sorrow that held you captive begin to shatter like your glass from earlier. The sound of your name acts as a lifeline, pulling you from the depths of despair you inadvertently locked yourself into.

“That’s it. Breathe with me, angel,” the soothing voice persists, a gentle anchor for your drifting thoughts. And you can finally hear it. Your beloved watch. Though it's fast, it becomes a comforting undercurrent, a familiar melody that helps steady your racing heartbeat.

You feel like you can finally breathe again. As you blink away the haze clouding your vision and come back down, you are met with a pair of familiar amber eyes. The warm hues flicker like flames as they fixate upon you. Intense but tender and full of concern.

**

“Eris.”

You breathe his name so heavenly, like an answered prayer as you take him in. His dark red hair is tousled as though he emerged hastily from a slumber. Adorned in a thin, un-tied linen shirt, the fine contours of his chest are revealed, and his pants, creased as if donned in urgency, complete the picture of a man who arrived in haste yet with purpose.

"You're here," you say, your tone teetering on the edge of question and you glance toward your door, confirming that the Autumn guard is still stationed there.

You called, he wants to reply but instead, settles on, “I’m here.”

“How?” You ask, aware of the wards in your room preventing winnowing. At first, you thought they were meant to protect you. Now, you’re aware they’re really meant to keep you from escaping.

The corners of his lips lift into a small smirk. “I have my ways. I know every secret tunnel, every little crevice of this estate.”

Your head turns, eyes scanning your room in search of said secret tunnel. Eris lightly grasps your chin, focusing your attention back to him to keep you from spotting the secret door hidden behind your full length mirror. He wipes at the lingering traces of tears on your face, watching as your eyes dip and fixate on the golden chain encircling his neck. A sigil of three hounds captures your attention—an emblem unfamiliar to your discerning gaze, sparking a curiosity that mingles with the relief flooding your senses.

He finds his own breathing to steady at your calming state but at the sight of blood trickling down your hand, a knot twists in his stomach. “You’re hurt.”

You pull your gaze from his necklace, eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him. “I thought you didn’t care,” you tell him, echoing his words from the last time you saw him.

Again, Eris does not answer you. His eyes scan your room for a moment before abandoning whatever he was searching for. In his haste to aid your bleeding hand, he’s slipping his shirt off without another thought. 

“It’s fine,” you insist.

“No. It’s not.” He shakes his head at you as he guides you to the window nook. If only you knew the effect you had on him. The horror that crashed over him like a bucket of ice cold water, waking him so abruptly from his sleep. At your pain. Your agony. It nearly destroyed him the way it had been destroying you.

Eris pushes you gently to sit while he uses his shirt to wipe your blood off, frowning to himself when he can still hear the irregular beat of your heart. Too engrossed in cleaning your injury, he fails to catch on that the fluttering rhythm of your heart is now stirred by an entirely different source.

His expression transforms into one of genuine surprise as he encounters the gentle skin of your palm. Untouched, unmarked. His gaze flickers back to the shattered pieces of glass by the foot of your bed and then back to your hand. There’s no way. Not even with your healing abilities as a high fae. The amount of blood he had seen, the stinging he had felt through the bond–

“I told you it was fine.”

“But you’re not.” Eris counters and sucks in a sharp breath. “Angel–”

“Neither are you.” You point out, deftly redirecting the focus from yourself.

Your glistening eyes, pools of concern, flicker toward him. Toward his chest, where scars from injuries that had not healed properly and lingering bruises taint the muscles beneath, painting an alarming image. 

Eris averts his gaze, withdrawing slightly, reluctant to confront the vulnerability of the moment. Though your touch is gentle, the softest caress, his entire body tenses at the unfamiliar sensation. Your palm presses against a nasty scar that runs down the length of his abdomen, making him shudder at the memory it came from.

You suspect the answer but you can’t stop yourself from asking anyway. A blend of hurt and anger seeps through your voice.  “Who did this to you?”

Eris stands abruptly, caught in the tumult of conflicting desires–of longing to bask in the warmth of your touch and the simultaneous impulse to flee from it. “You should go to bed,” he says, voice strained. “Get some sleep.”

You stand up as well. “But I’m wide awake.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Eris, please,” you nearly beg and he finds his feet rooted to the ground. He watches as you walk over to your chair, retrieving the coat he let you borrow. You extend it toward him–a silent promise you won’t push him further on his scars.  “We can talk about other things.”

He feels his throat tighten at the urgency in your eyes.  “Like what?”

"Like…" Your voice trails off, your attention turning to the scattered items on your desk. "Embroidery?" you suggest, showing him one of your unfinished projects. It’s an outline of a yellow flower he has seen before but cannot recognize at the moment. 

"You want to talk about...embroidery?" His tone lightens, a subtle easing of tension as he slips into his coat and watches you raise another one. Unlike the first one you showed him, this one is finished and beautifully depicts a white horse with a brown mane and tail.

“This one is of my horse,” you share with pride, a subtle smile gracing your face. The warmth in your expression acts as an irresistible pull for Eris, compelling him to sit back down. "His name is Maximus.”

"I think I miss him the most," you add, the smile on your face faltering. 

It prompts Eris to speak–to keep it from falling. “It’s beautiful.”

Your smile, like the sun breaking through clouds, brightens once more. You’re beautiful, he wants to add.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Even though he knows he should leave, he finds himself nodding. Because the prospect of your smile faltering, of you returning to your state from earlier becomes an unbearable thought. 

He secures a glamor in your room to keep the guard outside your door from hearing you. Having spent centuries studying the wards in every room, he’s learned how to unravel some pieces of them. Eris allows you to teach him the craft of embroidery. He tries to take in every instruction of yours and finds himself not lost in the craft but lost in the light in your eyes, the delightful curve of your smile as you speak.

As the daughter of a powerful and influential merchant, you’ve stayed in every court and have so many captivating stories to tell. You speak so highly of your father that he doesn’t have it in him to tell you about his dark truth–the real reason behind your arranged marriage. The delicate pricks of the thin needle against his fingers go unnoticed, drowned out by the melody of your laughter, which proves irresistibly contagious. The bond in his chest hums with a resonance that echoes through his being. He wonders, a smaller part of him fervently hoping, if you can feel it too.

Eris stays until your voice trails off–until the heaviness of your eyelids becomes an insurmountable burden, causing you to slump against the softness of the pillows. The temptation to tenderly brush your hair back from your face is strong, but he restrains the impulse.

“Eris?” Your voice, laced with the soft tendrils of sleep, reaches him.

“Yes?”

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

The word—friends—sends a pang through him, but nevertheless, he manages a gentle "yes," reluctant to shatter the moment by uttering the truth that lies beneath the surface of his emotions. He doesn’t want to be your friend. He wants to be more than just your friend. 

A soft content hum comes from you, the only response you can manage. Mindful not to disturb your peaceful slumber, he beckons one of the blankets from your bed with his magic before carefully draping it over your curled up form at the window nook. He quietly draws the curtains shut, shielding you from the intrusion of the rising sun. He positions the embroidery hoop, adorned with the laughable but endearing image of the heart he crafted, beside you. He turns to leave but sneaks one last glance at you. Only then does he allow himself to truly smile.

Eris does not return the following night, even though he desperately wants to. Caution dictates his actions, a week elapsing before a clandestine note passed in the hallway signals his quiet return to your room. It’s during this second visit that he inevitably gives away the hidden door in your room. They lead to the house’s secret tunnels, one only Eris knows well. He promises you to take you through them one day.

It’s half past twelve and as the autumn winds blow outside your window, you're not alone this time. Eris is there with you, weaving conversations that never seem to run dry. An unspoken agreement unfolds–to keep your growing friendship hidden and away from everyone. He continues to sneak into your room, always warning you beforehand as to not scare you. The sacrifice of sleep on these nights becomes inconsequential, for both you and him.

Eris helps you chase your shadows away, taking you through the darkness to the break of the day. Your man after midnight. The soul that heard your prayer.

**

A wrought-iron table, nestled under a cascading canopy of amber leaves, holds an exquisite spread of breakfast delicacies. The air is laced with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed tea, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the flowers that surround you. Lady Autumn, whose name you learned is Raelynn, sits across from you. Her eyes, as deep as the autumnal twilight, reflect warmth back at you–no traces of the lingering sadness you’ve witnessed before in this moment. 

“My apologies, my dear, for not inviting you to breakfast sooner.” Even her voice is as warm as her gaze. “I know this court is not an easy one to adjust to.”

You find yourself smiling in reassurance back at her. Because you understand. If you were her, you’d also be wary of any newcomer.

“Eris tells me you enjoy embroidery?” Lady Raelynn says, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she brings her cup to her mouth. “Among other things.”

“I do,” you answer politely, gaze drifting to the perfectly tended lawn across from the patio you sit at. Targets for archery are neatly arranged.  There’s an arrow embedded into the bull’s eyes of every one of them.

Lady Raelynn follows your gaze. “Are you interested in archery?”

Yes, you want to say and though you find comfort in Lady Autumn’s presence, you're wary of her reaction. What if she deems it unlady like? And decides to forgo any relationship you’ve desperately clung to the hope to?

“I don’t know much about it,” you reply, choosing a diplomatic response.

 “I can teach you.” Lady Raelynn’s smile morphs into a grin. A gasp escapes you, and realization slowly etches itself into your features. “I think we’ll get along just fine,” she laughs, her words sparking hope within you.

“Good morning mother, I’ve come to–” Both of your heads turn to find Eris. He halts mid-sentence, his gaze locking with yours, a flicker of surprise and something deeper dancing in his eyes. It has you averting your gaze with a slight warmth tinting your cheeks.  “I should leave.”

“No, stay,” Lady Raelynn insists with a graceful incline of her head. With a wave of her hand, a plate full of food materializes at the empty spot between you and her, a silent invitation for Eris to join.

Eris bows his head at his mother, acknowledging her command. He takes his place at the table, his movements a bit awkward at first. As he settles in, he can't help the warming relief that washes over him at the sight of both you and his mother taking his advice. He remains relatively quiet throughout breakfast, choosing to chime in only when necessary. He’s content to bask in the soothing cadence of your conversation with his mother, indulging in stolen glances at you that linger.

Something that does not go unnoticed by his keen mother nor the way his grip tightens around his fork at the mention of your upcoming wedding.

Lady Raelynn didn’t mean to spoil the mood but she had taken it upon herself to help you plan the ceremony and reception. Albeit, reluctantly at first. That all changed after getting to know you better. Although the marriage would not be to the man of your dreams, she was now determined in ensuring that the wedding would be. It was the least she could do for you, especially after learning about the mistreatment you had endured at the hands of her sons. 

“I hope my son is treating you well?” Lady Raelynn asks you, carrying a note of concern. Her observant eyes catch the brief exchange between you and Eris, not missing the slightest tint that graces his cheeks. At least one of them is. She suppresses a smile as she awaits your answer.

“Sawyer is…” your voice trails off hesitant because he’s barely spoken to you since the incident. One of the rare occurrences being where he randomly met you in the library. He had reluctantly engaged in conversation with you, awkwardly asking what you missed the most from home. A spark of optimism brightens your tone because for once, you do have something good to say about him.

“He is actually arranging for my horse to come here! It’s silly but my horse was my biggest companion back home and I’ve been feeling a bit homesick recently.”

“It’s not silly at all, my dear. Once your horse is here, let's arrange for a morning ride. The Autumn grounds are the most peaceful in the early hours."

Your smile reflects the gratitude in your heart as you look at Lady Autumn. She, in turn, observes her son, who raises his tea to his lips, attempting to conceal the small smile playing on his face. It does nothing to mask the gleam in his eyes. Lady Raelynn is well aware that the sweet gesture is not Sawyer's doing. It's Eris's.

a/n: sooo I'm literally just going with vibes for this series (vibes to songs as that is what inspires most of these.) I wanted to write a slow burn but tbh, I think I'm too impatient for that 😂

When it comes to Sawyer, I do want to explore more of his character. I know that in canon, the Vanserras are menaces but I'd like to hope there's at least one more redeeming brother. I feel like him and reader can fall into a relationship similar to that of Rhaenyra and Laenor from House of Dragon. I also am still stuck between having the marriage actually go through or something drastic that happens that keeps it from happening. Either way, it will be angsty. I left some references in this from a movie that may prompt for more references from said movie. Any guesses? 👀

tagging: @fxckmiup

#eris x reader #eris x y/n #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #eris imagine #eris one shot #acotar x y/n #acotar fanfiction #acotar one shot #acotar!abba #eris vandaddy #eris angel au

[ih8simps]

Slightly unhinged/ yandere Gojo (x reader)

“Nanami”

“No”

“Na-Na-Mi” you cooed.

“Again, no” he sighed exasperatedly.

It had been exactly 20 minutes since you began following the sorcerer from Jujutsu tech and you were already giving the senior teacher a head ache.

“Oh come on. What would be so bad about having lunch with me?” You contorted your face into the visage of a pout. Since childhood, this had been the face that broke Nanami’s resolve every time. His eyes danced across your face for a moment, and it almost seemed like he was going to crack.

“No”

“But-“

“Just listen. I can’t. I don’t want to have to argue with him again. He’s just as annoying as you are”

Your face fell. He was always the wedge between you and anything you wanted.

“He doesn’t have a say in who I get to hang out with. Nanami you used to be my-“ the onset of your tantrum was stopped by a warm hand engulfing your arm. His grip on you was sudden yet firm.

“Who doesn’t have a say?” His voice was smooth like velvet and the soft hum of his voice sent a chill down your spine.

“And Nanami was what to you, again?” The grip on your arm tightened with every syllable that fell from his lips. You couldn’t form a tangible thought in his presence. His sudden intrusion left you feeling suddenly very unsafe. When did he get here? How did you not sense his presence?

The intel you received a few days ago said that Satoru Gojo would be far from jujutsu tech. He was supposed to be so far away that he shouldn’t even be able to sense you. How was he here? Did he ever really leave? Why did the informant lie?

Hearing Nanami’s deep sigh pulled you from your thoughts.

“I’m leaving. See you around, (y/n)”. The moment he turned on his heel to leave, your heart began to sputter. Panic began to rise in your bosom. You couldn’t be left alone with Gojo, not even in public.

“Na-nanami. Wait. Please”. The slight pitch to your voice must have coaxed him. He let out another exasperated sigh. It seemed that he was thinking deeply about something. He slowly turned back around to see you pulled closely to Gojo.

“You know. It would be nice to have a meal with you both.” he made sure to loudly enunciate the last word. Both.

If anyone knew of the possessive and obsessive nature of Gojo, it was Nanami. Since childhood he had noticed the way Satoru interacted with you. His gaze was always fixed on you a little too long and his hand always found some way to keep a hold onto you. It was no secret that Gojo had been unparalleled in his all consuming obsession with you.

Nanami was there the day young Satoru Gojo proclaimed to all of the students, although there were so few, that anyone who was dumb enough to get too close to you would have to get through him first. That day was the last real day of your individual freedom.

As the strongest son born into the family, it was clear that Satoru was going to be the next head of his clan. He never truly flaunted his status or threw around his influence. The day he proclaimed you as his, he was simply voicing what he considered to be obvious.

It didn’t seem that his message had the impact he intended because 2 weeks after his announcement, he saw you gallivanting around Tokyo with a new beau. Satoru didn’t even register what the boy looked like before he ripped you away from him. He said nothing as he dragged you away from him. The iron grip he had on your arm felt like he was truly trying to crush you.

Some part of you believed that was the day Satoru truly had lost his mind when it came to you. A week after that you realized that your family had been acting strange. Your father had more meetings than ever before and your mother seemed to be lost in deep thought at all hours of the day. The unspoken issue in your home came to a fever pitch when your parents finally broke the news. The Gojo clan had requested something from your family that only they could supply.

“Satoru wants you” your mother whispered, tightly grasping your hand. “H-he has threatened taking rash action if we decline” she continued, not even allowing you a moment to question her words.

“I’ve been meeting with the clan every day and it seems that he wants nothing else. There is no way to keep you from doing this, (y/n)” your father’s voice came out low and shaky. You realized you’d never seen him look so defeated. “I offered them many things, but they cannot decline a request from the next head of the family. He’s offered not only to take care of you, but the rest of our family as well. The only thing he wants in return is you. He’s quite adamant” he mumbled shaking his head in what looked like disbelief.

Time seemed to freeze as you took in his words. You’d been practically sold off to Satoru. You knew he had a powerful position, but you didn’t know he could just get his way like this. Every part of your body shivered in anger and disgust. He was like a plague or a natural disaster. He swept through a place and destroyed everything in its path.

Life was never the same after that. All of your things were moved to the Gojo compound and you began your life as Satoru’s ‘special guest’.

11 years later and you were still under his constant watch. There were days and moments when you felt like you were truly alone but those moments were short lived. The longest you had gone without being under those all seeing eyes was three months. Those were three of the most comfortable months of your life, but today because you were summoned by the higher ups, that comfort was surely over.

“(Y/n) can’t go to any meals with you today actually” if you didn’t know him, you’d think his tone was calm but that was quite the contrary. Satoru was seething. You’d been missing from his sight for three full months. He’d want everything from you now, including an explanation.

You carefully turned your gaze to his. “But Gojo I-“

A look of pure rage swept past his opalescent eyes and you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake. You were never supposed to call him that. It took him years to break you out of that habit and in only three months you were back to square one.

“We’ll have to take a rain check” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, “we have things to discuss”.

#x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo #satorugojo #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #yandere gojo #unhinged gojo #yandere x reader #jujutsu kaisen

[minisugakoobies]

Yours for the Night - Teaser | HHJ

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader Genre: smut, porn with the barest of plot, frenemies to lovers, Model!AU Rating: M (18+) Teaser Warnings: so. much. cockiness from Hyunjin, arguing as a form of foreplay, a bit of dumbification, kissing, what's a little fucking between frenemies? (fic warnings tbd) Teaser Word Count: 637 (fic count tbd) Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own SKZ - they just inspire me

Summary: “Let me lay it out for you, so there’s no misunderstanding. If you can stop pretending for five seconds that you don’t want me the way I want you, you can have me tonight.” Or, Hyunjin makes you an offer you simply can't refuse.

A/N: Hiiiii. Hyunjin has been wrecking the fuck out of me ever since KCON LA last year, so I had to write a fic to get him out of my system. This is just nothing but tension, teasing, and filthy fucking. Hope that's ok. 😁

My goal is to finish this one up and post by month's end. Taglist is open - comment, reblog, or send an ask to be added! 💕

SKZ Masterlist

“Listen, there’s no reason we can’t fuck. Friends fuck all the time.” Hyunjin's hand glides over your shoulder, light as a feather, and you watch dazedly as goosebumps ripple along your skin. His touch is electric. 

“Is that what we are? Friends?” 

Hyunjin shrugs, lips twisted in a droll smile. “Close enough. This doesn’t have to be complicated. You said it yourself - you’re in need.”

“What? When did - I never said that!” Again you struggle to speak coherently, sputtering in your confusion.

Hyunjin frowns. “Ah, you’re right, I misspoke. That was Felix who said that, wasn’t it? On the ride here?” 

You curse inwardly, remembering the private discussion you and Felix had had on the way to the club, when you were discussing your dry spell. Or at least, it was supposed to be private, but obviously someone had been listening in. Felix had offered to play wingman for you, saying he wouldn’t let anything keep him from helping you “in your time of need” - a bit dramatic, but that was Felix for you. You’d waved him off, insisting that you could snag someone without any help. 

“That’s not…” Sighing, you shrug. There was no point in trying to deny what he’d heard. “Fine, yeah, I came here tonight hoping to leave with someone, but I didn’t mean you!” 

“That’s because you didn’t know I was an option.” Again his gaze travels down your body, lingering like a slow caress. “But after seeing the way you look tonight, I had to offer myself up.” 

Always. So. Cocky. You want to deny that his words have an effect on you. Want to. But can’t.

And like that, your resolve starts to slip. 

“You really want to help me out?” you ask. He nods, irises blown as his eyes flicker to yours, and it just puts fire in your belly, has you biting your lip in contemplation. “What makes you think you have what I need?”  

Hyunjin doesn’t bother to check if any of your friends are watching as he steps closer, like he doesn’t care if anyone sees the way he cups your cheek. Or how he slides his thumb over your lips, dragging the bottom one down before lowering his mouth towards yours. He hangs there, just for a second - just long enough for you to tip your face up in a wordless answer.

His touch has nothing on his kiss. Your whole body thrums from head to toe, fizzing like the champagne on your tongue earlier, sweet and effervescent. His hand falls to your hip, squeezes there suddenly, and you feel a rush of heat between your thighs. 

Hyunjin’s plush lips part, letting the tip of his tongue briefly nudge against yours before he pulls away, leaving you blinking dumbly. He lets out a low chuckle, gently wiping a drop of spit from your chin. 

“I just know.”

You’re too busy licking the inside of your lips, hunting for any lingering trace of him, to respond.  

“Let me lay it out for you, so there’s no misunderstanding. If you can stop pretending for five seconds that you don’t want me the way I want you, you can have me tonight.” His eyes dip to your mouth and back, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for him to make a move again. Needing him to. “Just think about it.” 

And then he walks away, leaving you nearly toppling off your seat, floundering in his wake. 

The ice cubes in your cocktail have all but melted by the time you remember you ordered another drink. Sipping it slowly, you replay the last several minutes in your head. Did all of that just happen? Did Hyunjin really just offer himself to you? And then kiss you like that?

You feel like you’re going out of your mind. 

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜 

© 2024 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost. I do not allow translations of my works.

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #hyunjin #hyunjin smut #hyunjin x reader #skz imagines #skz x you #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #stray kids x you #fic: yours for the night

[musashi]

ace attorney popped the fuck off by doing that thing where certain characters have ‘hidden’ sprites that you only see once in the whole game, usually it’s an emotionally closed off character offering a smile in the final hour of their story to show a sense of peace and closure, but ESPECIALLY they popped the fuck OFF by having franziska von karma break down crying in hers.

‘the angry/mean character is actually deeply emotional and using anger to keep it at bay’ is an incredibly common character archetype but it is so often done in a more shallow manner. like they will just bust out their tragic backstory in the 11th hour and we’re supposed to sympathize because awww they’re sad :( but we already know everything there is to know about franziska pretty much immediately. we know she is a child prodigy, we know she is a genius, we know she is fierce and dedicated and that she loves what she does. and we know she’s lost her father, and we know she’s upset with her brother and wants to see him again. but she does not invite pity, because she does not want it. she lays these details out clearly and concisely when they’re relevant to what is being discussed--they simply are. she remains as she is, and she fights the same way she always has, for what she believes in.

franziska goes through it. we watch her go through it. we watch her lose everything, and then we watch her have to be confronted with the fact that her brother disappeared on her and is utterly remorseless about it aloud. and then we watch her get shot by a violent hitman, and kick and scream and fight while she’s bleeding out because she wants to go to court. she has to be dragged to the hospital by force. never once does she back down an never once does she present anything other than this steely determination and resolve. until the very, VERY end. until POST CREDITS. she doesn’t even crack until AFTER THE CREDITS HAVE ROLLED!

and it is KINDNESS that breaks her! it is softness that makes her cry. i feel like to a lot of people what miles says to her in that scene might seem cruel, but it isn’t about what he says, it’s about what he does.

by franziska’s own admission she has abandonment issues. one of the few single insights we get into her pain is that people tend to discard her and make her feel left behind. miles fled back to his home country and left her all alone in germany to pursue his career, and he wasn’t wrong to do that, but it obviously hurt franziska and she felt neglected and like he didn’t bother to keep up with her. and then when he took his dramatic fucking sabbatical, he refused to loop her into that, too. miles decided without the consent of the people who love him that he was not worth it. he was unbelievably selfish to disappear the way he did, blinded by this idea that he is not loved or worth love. franziska loves him more than anything, and he did that to her on the tail end of her father’s incarceration. she lost both of her favourite people in the span of a few months. 

she ran away at the end of JFA and intended to give up on everything. and she ran away from him because if she abandons him first, he cannot abandon her. but nothing miles says in that scene undermines the fact that he chased after her. he could look her in the eyes and tell her she was scum to him but the fact of the matter is he followed her. he loved her enough to not be content just letting her give up and run away. he chased after her. can you imagine what that must’ve meant to her? 

he didn’t have to chase her. and he didn’t have to bring her whip back. and when he said ‘if you stop being a prosecutor, this is where we part ways’ i think we all knew he was not being literal. i think we all knew he was full of shit. i think what miles meant by that was to light a fire beneath her. to say that he had no intention of stopping, that he would keep on fighting, and that he wanted her to fight alongside him. they’ve always been rivals and they have always pushed each other to do better and be better, and miles knows that rivalry drives franziska unlike anything else. she doesn’t actually want to stop prosecuting, she’s just emotionally vulnerable and struggling to cope and throwing a bit of a tantrum about it, and so he pokes at an old button he knows will clear her head. franziska is a difficult person, but miles edgeworth knows her more than any person in the world, he knows how to love her and he does. he loves her so much.

she has seen a lot of pain in JFA. she has seen a lot of wicked words thrown her way, a lot of pushback, a lot of antagonism and banter and bickering, but the one thing no one shows her is kindness and love. phoenix tries, when he brings her flowers, but he gets nervous and backs out at the last second. gumshoe tries, but he does it out of earshot where she can’t hear. every nice thing someone says about franziska, they say while she is not there to listen. miles is the only person who looks her in the face and says he loves her. 

it is love that allows her the space to fall to pieces. it is love that shatters her veneer and turns her into a sobbing mess. she’s literally just a little girl who was forced to grow up too fast. she’s 18 years old and everything’s so hard. she just needed a fucking hug. 

no scene in ace attorney will ever, ever, EVER mean more to me.

#wordy wendy #pwaa #ace attorney #franziska von karma #miles edgeworth #man. #wendy rambles #kin ramblings #wendys best

[abyssruler]

cyno x gn!reader

Cyno thinks his ears must not be working properly.

“You… what?”

You smile, a jittery sort of twist to it that belies your excitement (or nervousness and apprehension, his ever-suspicious mind supplies).

“A date, um, this Saturday, and you have to be there,” you tell him with all the seriousness you can muster.

He doesn’t understand why he has to be present for your date, but he has no complaints about it. Any man or woman who tries to woo you should be held under the utmost scrutiny to decipher any hidden agendas. (Deep within his mind, he already knows that no matter how perfect they are, he will always find fault with them simply for being the object of your affections.)

So he agrees to meet you at the meeting spot you designated and resolves to thoroughly observe whoever it is that managed to capture your heart under his nose.

✧

It’s been four hours.

Four hours of roaming through stalls, mindless chatter with merchants, arguments ensuing as his sharp eyes and even sharper tongue called out any seller who tried to scam you with their wares, combing through the streets and buying any food that managed to catch your attention.

Four hours — and your date is nowhere to be seen.

There isn’t a hint of distress on your face, however. If anything, you look content, biting happily into the fried skewer you recently bought as you strolled beside him at a leisurely pace.

Another hour passes — another hour of being dragged by his wrist to look at a group of dancers and laughing at street plays and doing anything and everything but being on a date with the mystery person who managed to inflict such a sheepish yet soft look on your face when you mentioned your date to him days ago.

He can’t bear the suspense of it anymore. If your date has tucked their tail between their legs and run and left you hanging, he will see them punished. You look far too calm, but perhaps you’re disguising the hurt that must linger after being ditched without warning.

So he pulls you aside and voices out the question that has been on his mind since the moment you grabbed his wrist and started pulling him along.

“Where is your date? It’s been hours since the agreed upon meeting time and they have yet to show their face.”

You blink at him, confusion painting your features. He frowns at that. You must be covering for them, hiding away your pain so he wouldn’t get mad as he predictably would and go after whoever it is that left you.

(A look of dawning understanding blooms on your face.)

No matter. Even if you try to hide their identity, Cyno can use his resources to discover who it is. It’s an abuse of his power, but he reasons that it is a perfectly justified use of the connections he has as the General Mahamatra. To let such a person roam free, a person who turns back on their word without so much as a warning, he won’t let that go unpunished. Cyno will—

You burst out laughing, hands clutching your stomach as you bent over to catch your breath. He ignores the way his heart quickens at the sound of your laugh, instead looking down at you with a disapproving frown.

“Laughing isn’t going to make me forget this slight against you. Tell me who they are so I can—”

“You dummy!” You gasp out, still breathless from your earlier laugh. There’s a wide smile on your face, the streetlights of the Grand Bazaar illuminating your face and casting it in an almost otherworldly glow. “Did you really think I liked someone else?”

You step forward, leaning in so close he could almost smell the lingering scent of the cologne that you tried on earlier at one of the stores. Your mouth opens—and this is the part where his ears stop working.

“You’re my date, silly!”

The intimate gesture of holding his wrist, hand-feeding him food, the pleased look you’ve been sporting all day since he arrived at the meeting spot…

Oh.

Perhaps he really is a dummy.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #cyno x reader #genshin cyno x reader #genshin shorts #gn reader #serious x airhead

[another-lost-mc]

Angels at the Door SIMEON x gn!Reader (Established); MICHAEL x gn!Reader (Developing) 4.2k Words | NSFW | Smut | Dubious Behaviour & Sexual Tension Content Warnings: Alternating POV. Pining, (resolved) sexual tension, accidental and non-consensual voyeurism, exhibitionism, scenting/marking, possessiveness, corruption kink if you squint, threesome (sort of), masturbation, intercrural sex, oral sex, penetrative sex. Next: Angels' Commendation | Epilogue: A Demon's Curiosity

When Simeon suggests to Michael that you should be given your own room in the Celestial Realm, he wholeheartedly agrees. You’ve spent many afternoons visiting your friends there, but you leave far too soon for everyone’s liking. Luke doesn’t try to hide his disappointment when he has to say goodbye to you only hours after your arrival. Simeon’s peaceful countenance turns bitter when he watches you pass through the Celestial gates, and Michael wishes he had more time to get to know you properly.

You move freely between the three realms now. You often stay in the Devildom for days, sometimes weeks at a time. It seems logical (and convenient) that the Celestial Realm offers you that same comfort.

Michael acknowledges your importance and gives you the empty guest chambers next to his own. It’s a lavish gesture, but he believes it’s fitting for someone of your importance. You’re the rare human that managed to instill hope for a peaceful future between the three realms. You charmed his fallen brothers in the Devildom and brought that menace of a sorcerer to heel. Michael can’t even express how much Luke has grown thanks to your influence, and Simeon seems to have found his path once more with your guidance. 

Michael furnishes the room himself and makes sure that it has anything you could possibly want. It has a private bathroom so you don’t have to share the communal showers with the other angels. He even has the wardrobe filled with garments fashioned in the style of the Celestial Realm and hopes you’ll choose to wear them. 

He makes these gestures of appreciation so you know you can consider the Celestial Realm another place to call home. He believes he’s honoring your efforts and helping to foster long-term friendships with the angels of his realm. After all, he wants nothing more than your happiness. He ignores the way his heart clenches when he sees you using the gifts he’s given you.

The day Michael catches you and Simeon being intimate together, the lies he tells himself about his purely platonic feelings for you start to crumble.

Many beautiful gardens grow in the Celestial Realm. Some are designated for vegetables and fruit trees while others are filled with the rare, colourful flowers that can only bloom in the realm of eternal light. Some of the gardens have paved pathways where angels can stroll at their leisure.

Michael’s garden is a small grove filled with wildflowers and willow trees. It’s near the back of the Celestial Halls where his chambers are, and very few angels bother to travel that far into the garden. It’s not officially his garden but sometimes when he takes a book there to read, or he simply leans against a tree to meditate, it feels like his own private space.

He heads to his garden one afternoon with a book tucked under his arm. You’ve been in the Celestial Realm for a few days and you seem to be adjusting well. Luke has been a near-constant presence by your side, and Simeon is usually not far behind. The other angels are warming up to you despite some of their initial concerns or suspicions about your loyalties. Michael reassures them that you should be considered a friend to angels, the same way the Devildom considers you a trusted friend to their prince and his fallen brothers.

It never occurred to Michael that you might be more than a friend to anyone in the Celestial Realm until he stumbles upon you and Simeon together. He ducks behind a tree and the faint sounds he hears on the wind don’t stop; neither of you seem to be aware of his presence. He tells himself he should leave as quickly as he can and pretend he didn’t see a thing. He’s not sure what invisible power keeps him paralyzed behind that tree, listening to your soft moans and sighs as Simeon’s lips and hands explore your body. You’re both laying underneath his favourite willow tree on a bed of flowers, and it seems so romantic—so why does he feel so much bitterness in his heart?

Is it because you lay with Simeon, one of the most slippery angels he’s ever known? Is it because Simeon’s hands push aside the soft, delicate clothes Michael gave you so he can touch the bare skin underneath? Is it because it’s Simeon’s name falling from your lips when his sinful fingers bring you so much pleasure you can’t silence your cries?

Simeon’s whispers and your delightful moans eventually fade on the wind and Michael panics. He worries that you’ll both walk this way and find him rooted in place behind a tree, sweat trickling down his brow and the front of his robes tented by his aching erection. He’s on the verge of prayer when luck looks favourably on him; Simeon leads you in the other direction that will take you both close to his room—and yours.

Minutes pass by and you must be inside the Celestial Halls by now—perhaps Simeon has stripped you down properly and laid you down on your bed, kneeling between your legs to touch you even more—but Michael can’t bring himself to move. His book lay on the ground at his feet where it slipped from his grasp. The sweat dotting his forehead and the back of his neck makes his skin feel tacky, but he doesn’t care. He tries to ignore the growing need buried deep inside him, and only when his cock softens—despite the way it still twitches when he thinks of you and the sounds you make, and your musky scent carried on a summer breeze—does he finally leave.

Michael avoids his room completely and hides in the restricted section of the Celestial Library, hoping the solace will soothe his troubled mind. He makes his excuses to Luke when the young angel sends him a message inquiring about his whereabouts. He skipped dinner feigning some lengthy task he had to take care of—he’s not hungry anyway. He has other insatiable appetites tonight.

He contemplates his predicament in the oldest part of the library where only the highest ranking angels are permitted to enter. He decides that his interest in you is simply a passing fancy. He tries not to ruminate about what drew you and Simeon together, or what he could’ve done to prevent it.

Looking through his memories of the past few days, he can see hints of the true nature of your relationship: the shy, subtle glances you shared, the way Simeon stood closer to you than socially appropriate, the way you said his name with more fondness than anyone else’s. He’s grateful for your discretion and blames poor luck that led him to the garden at that most inopportune time. He’s certain no one else would have found you there. He can’t fault either of you for that, no matter how much he might want to. 

It’s late when Michael finally leaves his tormented sanctuary and retires to his room for the night. The Celestial Halls are darker now so that the angels (and you) can sleep comfortably. Your bedroom door is closed when he walks past it to his own room. He shrugs off his robes with a tired sigh and nearly falls into bed. He’s exhausted, and he closes his eyes and thinks about embarking on new beginnings tomorrow.

He meditates so that he can unburden himself with torturous thoughts of you and accept your friendship with grace. He doesn’t want guilt to ruin what you’re building there, and if you’re truly content with—with someone that’s not him, he can accept it. He’s Michael, and he won’t be brought to his knees by something as insignificant as lust. He’s better than that. He’s—

A whimper on the other side of the wall reaches his ears, and his brittle resolve cracks. He’s already hard under the sheets, and when he concentrates, he can hear the noises you and Simeon are making: the shuffle of your bedsheets, the wet, squelching noise your bodies make together, the rhythmic creaking of your bed in time with his thrusts.

Michael feels possessed when he slides off the edge of his bed and walks over to the shared wall that connects his room to yours. He presses his ear to the cool surface and nearly groans deep in his chest when he can hear you even clearer this way. You moan Simeon’s name but it’s muffled, like you’re burying your face against his skin—or in the pillow, laying face-down while he fucks you from behind. Simeon pants your name too as his pace quickens, and the rocking noise your bed makes grows louder.

If it were anyone else but you, Michael thinks he could go back to bed and roll over and pretend he didn’t hear a thing. But he can’t, because it is you. He wraps his hand around his cock and starts stroking himself in time with your muffled whines and stuttered whimpers for more. His pace is fast and desperate, and he spreads his precum along his shaft to smooth the glide. He wishes he could be fucking you instead; your body would feel better than his hand ever could. 

He leans his arm against the wall and buries his face against it to smother his own noises. He bites his lip to stifle his moans and to prevent himself from uttering your name in desperation. He gasps from the white-hot pleasure coursing through his veins and he knows he’s close, but he slows his pace because he doesn’t want to come before you do.

When he finally hears your high-pitched moan followed by a loud cry, he pumps his cock and groans into his arm as his release covers his hand and the wall in front of him. He milks himself dry until it feels like he can’t breathe and he’s about to split open at the seams. He stumbles backwards and falls back on the bed, and he takes gulping breaths as his heart races. He’s hot and his skin is sweaty and his hands are covered in the proof of his sins.

The mattress next door creaks, and feet pad softly on the carpet. Someone runs the tap in your ensuite bathroom and Michael pictures Simeon washing you with reverence. You whisper quietly to each other but he can’t make out the words over the pounding of his heart.

Michael gets up to clean himself when he’s certain you’re both asleep and finished for the night. He remembers the streaks of cum on his wall he has to clean too. He washes away the evidence of his perversion and wonders how carnal temptation got the better of him.

Perhaps he should return you to the Devildom, or at least offer to give you a more comfortable room elsewhere. There are other rooms you can use that are far away from his, where he won’t be able to hear one of his angels touch you with his hands and fuck you with his cock.

When Michael finally goes to bed, he knows he’s too weak to send you away. While he waits for sleep to claim him, he wonders how long he’ll have to wait before he can listen to you again.

Simeon suspects Michael’s affections for you from the very beginning. Even as an honoured guest of the Celestial Realm, you’re given more freedom and gifts than he expected. Simeon said nothing—he was too delighted by your presence at his side to be bothered by whatever Michael was up to.

You both agreed to be discreet about your relationship. Angels might not abstain from physical intimacy the way humans believe they do, but you were concerned that any negative attention from Michael might complicate things. Simeon agreed, if only to ease your troubled mind; Michael would learn the truth eventually, and he could do nothing about it when he did.

Simeon doesn’t expect Michael’s behaviour towards you to change so drastically the night he discovered you together. Simeon wasn’t sure if the muffled groan he heard through the wall was his imagination. It lasted for only a brief moment, and you didn’t hear the noise at all. It would’ve been easy for Simeon to forget it, if it wasn’t for the increasingly affectionate way Michael started to treat you after.

Michael started following you both like a shadow. He justified his presence, of course—offering to show you parts of the realm you haven’t visited yet, teaching you history not taught in the Devildom—things that he knew you enjoyed, and your enthusiasm encouraged him even more.

The kitchens start preparing human world dishes with your recommendations, and Michael brings daily gifts to your room: a plate of his favourite pastries, a tin of Celestial Realm tea, vases filled with the most gorgeous flowers. He invites you to have tea in his private garden after he sends Simeon on some mundane task to distract him.

There are times that Simeon’s desire for you can’t wait until the nightfall to be sated, and you sneak private moments of intimacy together. Michael’s gaze lingers on your kiss-swollen lips when he conveniently finds you both shortly after. Sometimes he sniffs and pretends to have a runny nose while you search your pockets and hand him a tissue. Michael smiles at your thoughtfulness but Simeon knows he’s smiling because he caught the scent of your arousal in the air; it pleases Michael’s senses as much as it does Simeon’s.

When you make love in your room at night, Simeon knows Michael is listening. He has the same enhanced senses that Michael does; if Michael can hear you, then Simeon can hear him. To Michael’s credit, he tries to be quiet—and he’s more successful than that first night—but there’s only so much you can do to hide the sound of noisy bed springs and choked-off groans.

Simeon isn’t sure he can convince you to spend nights in his smaller, less comfortable room. He thinks about saying something to Michael on your behalf since it’s your privacy he’s concerned about; he hardly cares what Michael thinks of him now. But based on the way you react to the archangel’s presence, Simeon wonders how bothered you’d really be if you knew what he’s been doing.

Simon notices that your cheeks flush from Michael’s praise and attention. He also knows your heartbeat stutters when Michael dares to step a bit too close to you. The rare occasions when Michael has touched you—a hand on your shoulder or your back to guide you, a simple embrace, even—your body trembled with excitement long after Michael walked away.

Simeon remembers the way you stared at Michael’s bare chest one afternoon when you both saw him on the training grounds. The angels often tease Michael for growing soft due to his love of sweets, but his broad shoulders and chest still flex impressively when he wields his weapon. His movements are slow and calculated, and his blows are decisive and deadly.

You told Simeon after that he reminded you of Beel: he was a gentle giant, a hulking defender equally capable of great strength and kindness. Unfortunately for Beel, you never spared him a second or third glance the way you do for Michael.

Simeon muses that there must be something special about angels in particular that appeals to your most carnal desires. None of the demons in the Devildom seemed to interest you. Even his fallen brothers tried to seduce you and secure your affection for themselves, but none of them succeeded.

He’s curious what draws you to Michael: is it his skin that glistens when it’s covered in a sheen of sweat? Is it the way his long hair and broad chest draw your attention to him when he enters a room? Or perhaps it’s his eyes, haunted by years of painful memories and impossible choices that seem to brighten when he sees you, but darken with lust the longer he stares at you?

You’ve always been brave for a human. It’s not surprising that you would fall for wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Simeon wants to see how far he can push both of you in this little game you’re playing. He pulls you into a quiet part of the library and gropes your chest as he fucks his cock between the soft, warm gap of your thighs, but he leaves you a little messy afterwards. Your tacky thighs make a soft shlicking noise when you walk.

He leads you towards your bedroom so he can help you wash—after he fucks you properly—but Michael finds both of you first. He smiles warmly when he greets you, and his voice is like a deep, rumbling purr. He leans forward to pluck a loose thread from your tunic, and he scents you when his nose is closest to your skin. You don’t seem to mind Michael’s intrusion on your personal space, and Michael doesn’t seem to care that Simeon watches you both.

No matter what Michael might do or say, Simeon knows without a doubt that your heart is his and his alone. You’ve been through too much together, and his destiny is now tied to your own. However, he’s not entirely opposed to seeing where this path will lead if you desire it.

When Simeon takes you to bed that night, he feels particularly ravenous for you. He braces himself on his hands and knees above you so he can claim your lips in a hungry, filthy kiss. He licks into your mouth and detects a hint of tonight’s dessert on your tongue—a sweet vanilla cake, one of Michael’s favourites—and growls while he kisses you until the taste is gone. 

Simeon is worshipful as he slowly moves down your body. His lips graze your jaw and his teeth scrape the sensitive skin at the hollow of your throat. His hands glide over your chest as his lips leave a fiery trail over the heaving slope of your ribs and the soft skin of your belly. When you arch your back in quiet demand for more, he rewards your patience by tweaking your nipples. He pushes your thighs apart and makes himself comfortable between your legs. There’s a small bottle of lube hidden amongst your sheets. He reaches for it and asks you what you want.

“I want your fingers,” you whimper, and you wiggle your hips impatiently.

Simeon hears a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the wall, and he hides his smirk in the meat of your thigh as he peppers your ticklish skin with barely-there kisses. The first sensation of his fingers tracing along your arousal leaves you gasping and clenching your sheets. He lowers his head and mouths at your sensitive skin as he slips a finger inside you.

You roll your hips and encourage him to touch you more, to fuck you deeper with the finger that’s preparing your body for his cock. You never hide your lust for him, and like all the times before, it sends heat rushing through him and makes his cock ache. He ruts against the mattress to try and find some relief, but nothing can compare to your velvety walls sucking him inside you. 

He hears the soft, wet sounds of Michael touching himself on the other side of the wall, and it adds another sinful layer to the melody of breathy moans that escape your lips.

“Ahh–!” your voice trembles as you moan loudly when a second finger stretches you even more.

Simeon hushes you and he crooks his fingers inside you. “Be careful, my love. You don’t want Michael to hear, do you?” he murmurs. He doesn’t mean to ask that question out loud, but your reaction is so visceral that he doesn’t regret it either.

Your whole body jolts as if you’ve been shocked, and you groan deep in your chest like you’re having some sort of revelation. Your body clenches around Simeon’s fingers and he feels delightfully wicked as he basks in your depravity.

“Or perhaps you want him to hear us?” he teases you. Your eyes are clenched shut and you’re shaking your head back and forth against the pillow, but he knows you’re only afraid to admit the truth. He thrusts his fingers deeper inside you so he can brush against that sensitive spot inside that finally sets your hidden desires free.

“Y-yes–!” you cry out as you try desperately to fuck yourself on his fingers. No matter how deep or how fast he moves, it’s not enough—it’s never enough.

There’s a soft thump on the wall—like someone smacked it with their palm, or their fist—and Simeon suddenly withdraws his hand from your body and kneels between your legs. He adds more lube to his palm and pumps his cock until it’s slick. He presses the tip against you while he grabs your hips to hold you steady.

You hook your legs around his waist, but you look at him in confusion when he doesn’t move. You can feel the pressure of his cock pressing against your entrance. There’s something feral in his gaze, a dark hunger and possessiveness better suited to creatures of the Devildom more than any angel. His overwhelming need makes you tremble, but he doesn’t scare you.

You place one of your hands overtop of his and squeeze. “Please,” you whimper pathetically, because you feel so empty without him inside you and he knows it.

He clenches his jaw and utters a deep groan as he slowly sheathes himself inside you. He looks down and watches your body stretch obscenely around his cock.

Don’t hold back for me now, he thinks.

“Don’t hold back for us now,” he grits out, pulling back until the fat tip of his cock is all that’s left inside you. “Let him hear you,” he snarls when he snaps his hips forward and pulls your body down onto his cock to meet his thrust. The overwhelming sense of fullness leaves you breathless, and he begins fucking you with single-minded determination.

Simeon’s pace is faster and rougher than how he usually fucks you, but the intensity makes it so much better, and you can’t be quiet now even if you tried. There’s no chance that Michael can’t hear what you’re doing, not when Simeon growls at you to take his cock and feel how hard he is for you. You’re gasping for breath between moans and cries of Simeon’s name, and the headboard bangs against the wall in time with his thrusts. 

The heat of your impending release burns deep inside you and you know neither of you will last much longer. Despite the loud noises you and Simeon make, you think you can hear a third voice from somewhere close by—deep grunts and curses and choked moans that sound suspiciously like your name.

Is that—?

You glance over at the wall that separates your room from Michael’s, and when you look back at Simeon, his burning gaze stares into yours. He leans over you and reaches his hand between your bodies. His fingers are electric as he strokes at your slick, sensitized skin that coaxes you even closer to your release. You can almost taste it, it’s so close.

“Let him hear you,” he whispers, repeating his command from earlier. You could’ve ignored it the first time as something dirty he said in the heat of the moment, but you can’t deny it now. His hand and cock move so purposefully to drive you over the edge like he wants you to scream for him—for both of them. He moves his hand faster between your legs and you close your eyes and arch your back so your chest presses against his.

“Please, right there, fuck I’m gonna—mmm—!” your moan breaks off into a high-pitched cry when you come, and Simeon’s own brutal pace starts to falter when your walls clench around his cock. He tries to keep going but he can’t hold off his own pleasure any longer. He grunts as his hips stutter, and his rhythm is slow and sloppy while he finishes pumping his cum deep inside you.

You think you hear a muffled shout through the wall, but you’re not sure if it’s your imagination or wishful thinking.

Simeon’s panting breaths are laced with tired, contented sighs. He huffs in amusement when a bead of sweat trickles down his brow and over the tip of his nose. His skin is as hot and clammy as yours is, and you brush the sweat off his face and wipe your hand on the bed sheets.

Simeon braces himself on his forearm so he can lean down and brush a kiss against your cheek. You both stare into each other’s eyes and you know he sees the same things you do: satisfaction, an undercurrent of lust that always exists between you, and uncertainty. It feels like something monumental happened tonight between the two of you in this room and Michael in his. Your throat feels hoarse, and you’re not sure how to ask the question burning in your mind.

Someone knocks on the bedroom door, and you realize you might not have to ask at all. Simeon glances over his shoulder quickly, but you both know who it is. When he peers down at you again, you know the silent question he’s asking you: Do you want to let him in? 

Simeon’s lips curl into a smirk when you nod your head, yes.

#series: the edge of heaven #obey me michael #obey me simeon #obey me x reader #omswd x reader #obey me michael x reader #obey me simeon x reader #michael x reader #simeon x reader #obey me michael smut #simeon smut #obey me smut #omswd smut #obey me fanfic #omswd fanfic #x reader #someone dropped this 🚩 #gn!reader

[loservernon]

𐙚⊹₊⋆☆ my dream | sim jake

𐙚 idol!jake x student!reader (she/her)

𐙚 angst, fluff at end, part two to nice guy

𐙚 1.5k, not proofread sorry, swearing, panic attack tw

𐙚 note // it doesn’t get happy until the very end but i promise it does get happy lol. a second part as promised. i wrote this with lowkey no plan and one half hour sitting, so shitty writing ahead. also idk their dorm arrangements. enjoy nonetheless ~3~

“what do you want?” is the first thing jay says upon opening the door to their dorms. considering the fact that it was half past four in the morning, jake couldn’t blame the guy for the obvious peeve in his voice.

still, he can’t bring himself to say anything and instead just pushes past his groupmate into the dorms. jay seems to catch the gist of the situation from that alone, following suit and letting the door slam shut behind him without seeming to mind.

“was it your fault again?”

en route to the room he shared with jungwon, jake stops in his tracks. he doesn’t turn to look in jay’s direction, and he presses his lips into a thin line. “what do you mean by ‘again’?”

“i mean, last time you yelled at her for talking to that guy from her math class. i was just wondering what it was this time.”

at this, jake turns around abruptly, “you know i’m in a bad mood already. can you not rub it in my face that i’m a shit boyfriend?”

jay gives him a straight face. the tension between the two guys is strung high but he resolves it promptly and simply by responding, “i’m sorry if i overstepped and asked too much, but it’s not fair to take out your frustrations about being an asshole on me.”

neither of them break the stare for a few moments before jake caves, looking away whilst admitting, “i bought a drink for some girl at the bar we were at yesterday.”

“you what?”

jay’s immediate disbelief is jake’s affirmation that he’d truly gone too far this time. it made him feel dumb, really, for so fervently trying to defend his actions when they were so clearly viewed as wrong to those around him. jake turns his gaze to the ground, shaking his head in resignation.

“she kicked you out?”

with his eyes still on the floor, he replies drily and belatedly.

“yeah, something like that.”

in his top bunk later that night, jake stares at the ceiling that hangs two feet above his face. jungwon’s snores from below and the clacking of heeseung’s loud ass gaming keyboard two doors down should be enough noise to drown out all his thoughts, but it’s far from it. jake’s thoughts are loud enough to consume him whole.

he did not get kicked out of your apartment. jake knows you don’t have the heart to do that to him, not when he helps with the rent and not when he unofficially lives there. but jake can’t stand being there without your presence.

earlier that night, he was brushing his teeth to get ready for bed but there was no you next to him, trying to mimic his actions until he caught on and laughed at your imitation of him. when he turned off the lights and made his way to the bed, jake caught himself saying, “goodnight, love you,” to an empty room. it was embarrassing, sure, but it was even more so heartbreaking when he slid into the sheets and instinctively reached out for your warmth, only to be met with the coldness of your absence.

so jake kicked himself out. because staying in your room, where your scent lingered everywhere, ate away at his conscience until he had to physically remove himself from anything remotely related to you.

he still remembers with a heavy heart the last time the two of you had fought. without a sorry and only his angry words ringing in your ears, jake remembers how you’d tried to discreetly slip out of bed late in the night. immediately sensing your absence in bed, jake shot upright and asked where you were going.

“to the couch,” you had said. “i need some space.”

you had turned away from him before he even uttered his feeble, “i see,” the air around him stilling where your breath had once been. jake felt the palms of his hand grow cold, and the edges of his eyes stung with the threat of tears. he doesn’t cry, not even infrequently or on special occasions. but in that moment, jake swore he’d never felt closer to tears.

it’s these suffocating memories of his failures that make the ceiling above him seem as if it’s closing in on him, inch by inch. it seems it will smother him flat, squeezing shut his airways. any minute now, any moment now. he lays there unmoving, accepting his fate and in anticipation of his last breath. but the ceiling remains sedentary. instead, jake is gasping for air, breaking out into a sob so sudden that he barely registers what’s happening.

he kicks off the blankets, for he’s breaking out into a sweat. though he’s breathing hard and fast, there doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen. the sounds of his roommates diminish into nothing. his vision of the dark room blurs further into nothing, and his face is wet with oncoming tears that lack an end in sight.

it is a matter of fight or flight for jake as he scrambles to find his phone, clambering clumsily down the steps of the ladder on the bunk bed. once he reaches the bathroom with the door shut and behind his back, jake fumbles to press his speed dial.

each ring that goes unanswered feels like another step closer to death for him, thus it’s fortunate enough that his call was received on the third ring. the line on the other end is quiet, however, and only the sound of jake’s labored breathing and choked sobs fill the silence.

“jake? are you okay?”

he doesn’t stop crying until the moment he hears your voice. even his breathing manages to even itself out for the half second it takes for him to weakly respond. “i’m okay.”

“are you sure?”

as he returns from the climax of his panic attack, jake reassures you, “i’m okay now.”

“do you want me to come?”

it’s so sudden, the way the feeling dawns upon him. jake loves you. he’s sure of it all the time, but he feels it so strongly right this moment. if he thinks too hard about it, he could cry again. he is crying again. he’s crying at the way you pick up with no hesitation, even though it’s six in the morning. he’s crying at the tenderness in your voice, the warmth, the concern with which you speak. he’s crying because you’re upset at him — to the point at which you can’t stand being in your own apartment with him — but one sign of his distress and you’re asking if he needs you by his side. jake says yes. he needs you.

“i need you. come home, please. i– i can’t stand myself. why can’t i just be good to you? i just… want to be good for you.”

the lines goes silent, save for the occasional sniffles on jake’s end. he knows this isn’t the apology you deserve. he wishes he could do more for you instead of this emotional and unwarranted plea that probably woke you up. but this is his best. jake hopes it’s enough.

“i know,” you rejoin, “i know you’re just doing your best. and your best will always be enough for me.”

his world goes back to normal when you say that. whatever havoc he’d wrecked has been rectified, and jake is no longer seeking to fight or flee the cage he’s built himself. and in this way, you’ve saved him from himself.

“i love you.”

jake thinks he hears a laugh from the other end. he smiles.

you laugh again, and it’s definite this time. “i love you too, silly. i’ll be home after class today, so just let me know when your schedules end.”

“can i see you now?”

“really? me over work?”

your doubt is incredulous to him, “of course. you over everything.”

normally, you’d take that as is and move on, though you decide to play along with him a little more, “that’s nonsense. being an idol is your dream.”

“no,” there’s a dead seriousness to his voice that you don’t expect, “you’re my dream.”

caught off guard, you only manage to muster a, “what?” in response.

“when i’m seventy and wrinkled, i’m not gonna be dancing and singing in front of a bunch of screaming teenage girls. i’m gonna be with you, telling you lame jokes and doing indecent stuff at funerals.”

you don’t need jake to repent for his wrongdoings when his intentions are so clearly written out for you. even when he hurts you — which you acknowledge is inevitable in every entanglement — you know he loves you twice if not three times as much.

“you’re my dream.”

copyright ©️ 2024 loservernon all rights reserved.

#enhypen jake #enhypen fics #enhypen angst #enhypen fluff #jake fics #enhypen scenarios #jake fluff #jake angst #jake sim #enhypen

[nobibiname]

What I just can’t stop thinking about from the Bryce, Nesta and Az bonus chapter (spoilers ⬇️)

( I finally caved and read that one, I didn’t read the other bonus chapters so please don’t mention anything about what’s in them)

A lot of people did amazing work analyzing the songs and I’m in awe, but the moment that sticks with me is this;

First a reminder, this is Bryce’s pov she has no context for any dynamics between these people. The way she describes it, Az starts the chapter suspicious, quiet and broody. Nesta starts actually talking to Bryce, but here’s the moment Bryce notes specifically when Azriel is really paying attention

So, why is Az particularly invested in this little tidbit? There’s literally only 3 people (3 sisters) he knows that have previously been human and are now Fae, and only 2 of them have become Fae in the cauldron. (Unless you wanna count Briallyn 🤷‍♀️)

Bryce doesn’t have more context, but we do, and we know he has an adorable closeness, and painful “break up” after having been forbidden to pursue his feelings, with Elain, the other person that went into the cauldron.

As far as we know they haven’t kissed, she hasn’t said his name and she doesn’t know Rhys interfered in her love life. They may currently be mid-cliff hanger (i think of it as Jane and Bingley after he leaves nethefield, before he finds out Darcy interferred and goes back to propose)

If their relationship is not resolved (and he did answer “no” to Bryce’s questions) I don’t think it’s a stretch to say he could still be thinking and worrying about her. Perhaps he’s hoping that through Nesta’s account of what the transition was like, he might understand better how Elain feels as well?

Look, do I think he cares about Nesta? Obviously, they’re friends and her well being matters to him, but we KNOW about everything that went down between him and Elain. We know about the necklace specially designed for her. We know he suffers from smelling and being near her bond, we know they spent peaceful time together, that he came for her and gave her Truth Teller since he wouldn’t use it that day… we know about the potatoes!!

So while this IS about Nesta, it is very likely that he is ALSO thinking about someone else he loves. Why do I think that? Here’s what he says next

And THERE it is —What is the first thing he says? The first thing ON HIS MIND ? “The people you love”

Because what if he says it simply because the people he loves ARE on his mind right now? Because Nesta reminded him of the only other person who would know what it was like to go in the cauldron. Elain, who he loves 💕

So that’s what I think. And have been thinking about since I read the BC ☺️ Yes I could be wrong, there could be other interpretations this is just my reading of it.

#hofas #hofas spoilers #elain x azriel #Bryce Nesta Azriel #spoilers!!!! #elriel

[autisticlancemcclain]

“You know I love you, right?”

Keith smiles. He doesn’t stop his hands from their constant brushes through his boyfriend’s hair, doesn’t shift or move. Lance stays where he is, too, full weight on Keith’s body, head pillowed on his chest, moving slightly with every breath.

“Yes,” Keith says. “I know.”

“Good.” Keith feels the rumble of Lance’s voice in his ribcage, the puffs of his breath on his bare skin. “‘Cause I tease you, a lot, so I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

“I do. I know.” He pauses as he runs his fingers over the shell of Lance’s ear, tracing the scar on his skull, before gently tapping his finger three times. For a while Lance simply breathes, sinking into Keith’s touch, then he shifts slightly, turning brown eyes up to meet Keith’s.

“How do you know, though? Like if you had to define it.”

Keith leans down slightly to press a kiss to his freckled nose, just to watch it wrinkle. It makes him grin. “I just do, Lance. You say my name like you love me.”

The answer doesn’t seem to placate Lance completely, but enough that he sighs, putting his head back down on Keith’s chest and reaching over blindly to pull their blankets up to his chin.

“Okay.”

Keith says nothing for a long while, humming to himself, enjoying the feeling of Lance’s soft skin under his hands, the weight of his body pressing him into the mattress. It’s a relief after a long day, a balm to his exhausted muscles and tired brain.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

Keith tugs a strand of Lance’s hair in admonishment, not enough to hurt, but he grumbles anyway.

“Try again.”

“Maybe I don’t love the man who hurts me so,” Lance pouts, sticking out his bottom lip and rubbing his scalp like it actually hurts.

Keith rolls his eyes. Lance grins, then sighs.

“Just — someone said something, at training. Kind of huffed and said something about how annoying it was that we still don’t like each other.”

Keith snorts. “Well, you did shoot me.”

“I was justified! You were being irritating!” Lance shifts, moving to his belly so he can look at Keith properly, glaring. “And I put my bayard on stun! It barely hurt!”

Love of his life or not, Keith loves getting this man so riled up.

“Yeah, the giant bruise I have says otherwise.”

There is no giant bruise.

But messing with Lance is funny.

“You are not fucking bruised!”

Before Lance can get too enraged and start stripping him down to make sure, Keith laughs, giving up the game and grabbing Lance’s wrists. He pulls him forward so he loses his balance, arms around Keith’s neck, barely managing to catch himself before their heads smack together, face inches from Keith’s.

“You worry too much,” Keith whispers, nosing his way down Lance’s cheeks, peppering kisses as he goes. “I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. The whole point of keeping them in the dark is so that I can have you —” he bites Lance’s earlobe gently, pulling it slightly, making the Cuban’s breath hitch — “all to myself.”

“Still,” Lance tries to insist, but Keith can physically feel his resolve falling away, feel him melting into Keith’s touch. “It bothers me that people think I can do anything but love you. You’re — I dunno. You’re everything to me. You make me feel like I can keep going.”

Keith can’t help his smile, and he knows Lance feels it, pressed into the junction of his neck. He kisses slightly there, and Lance turns his head to give him access, slides his hands into Keith’s hair as he works a mark into dark skin.

“That’s gay,” Keith mumbles, as fondly as he can.

It takes a second for Lance to clock Keith’s words, too focused on the besotted sound of them, but he huffs when he does, shoving Keith away and glaring at him.

Keith bursts out laughing.

“You’re the worst,” Lance says, but soon he’s smiling, too. Keith leans in and kisses that smile, because he can and because he wants to.

“I know.”

“Jerk. I’m divorcing you.”

Keith hums, tugging him back down under the covers, wrapping him back into the position he was in earlier. “You won’t even let me marry you.”

“We are twenty years old,” Lance grumbles, but every time he says it he sounds less and less like he cares. “We’re not getting married at twenty years old.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Lance settles into the silence, breathing evening again, wandering hands going still.

“I love you too, by the way,” Keith murmurs, suddenly worried that Lance doesn’t know.

He feels Lance’s lips upturn, and smiles to match it.

He knows.

#look i love it when they’re soft and in love #vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #klance #established klance #established relationship #secret relationship #secret relationship klance #brown-eyed lance #keith is a little shit #flirty keith #keith has game #whipped keith #whipped lance #my writing #fic #longpost #?

[ghcstao3]

Soap likes to draw. It’s a simple fact of his life, and just about anyone who knows him knows it too. On or off base, he’s usually never without a notebook and an apparatus of some kind, because it passes the time, and it serves well to document his missions in further detail for both himself and debriefing.

Everyone knows this, and Soap is aware of that. What no one knows, however, is Soap’s favourite subject, because that’s a notebook that’s kept secret and often left only to be used on leave.

The only person who knows is Ghost, whose form fills those pages in some way or shape, because Soap knows damn well no matter the effort he’d never be able to hide such a thing from him, especially not once they’re living together beyond work.

(Of course, it doesn’t help, either, that Soap prefers to study Ghost while he sketches, rather than drawing solely from memory—because how else would he capture the most intricate of details?)

That being said, Soap could trace the fixation back to a single moment in time, where an itch to scratch branched off into a near obsession from only a couple of seconds, and that moment is the first time Soap ever sees Ghost’s face.

It’s unexpected, the way Ghost pulls off his mask in front of the 141 and company. His eyes are almost squirrely, never quite meeting anyone’s gaze, but Soap doesn’t think he’s ever been so in love.

He doesn’t get quite enough time to memorize, however, before another mask is being slipped over mussed blond hair and pale scarred skin, and suddenly Soap is overcome by the desire to draw Ghost.

To draw Simon.

When they finally arrive back on base following the Las Almas operation, Soap doesn’t waste any time pulling out his notebook and drawing Ghost to the best of his memory. When he finishes, he knows he’s gotten some things wrong, but he hasn’t much to work with. He erases and pencils in new lines tens if not hundreds of times trying to get it right, but it simply isn’t possible.

It’s too bad for Soap, because he just isn’t satisfied with his current result, and it’s too bad for Ghost, because Soap is a persistent, stubborn sonuvabitch.

They’re not quite on leave when Soap begins his endeavour, just between missions. He starts by making a purposeful show of drawing the 141, forcing them to sit so he can, supposedly, get everything perfect. It’s under the guise that he sucks at drawing people (a complete and utter lie), and what better way to practice than with those waiting around.

Soap saves Ghost for last, and it’s a damn good thing he does, because what a difficult affair it is convincing him to sit for, what Ghost deems, “a stupid art project”.

“I have better things to do, Johnny,” Ghost tells him. “And you do, too.”

Soap shrugs. “Maybe. But I won’t stop asking ‘til you agree, Lt.”

Ghost would continue to push off the request—a true testament to his resolve, really—but Soap would continue to insist, so finally, eventually, Ghost breaks.

The encounter is more than reluctant, but Soap figures that Ghost has realized it's either now or later that it happens. He still wears his mask, of course, but it’s only the balaclava—so at the very least, Soap could get his eyes just right.

And that’s a better start than none.

They’re tucked away in a quiet corner of the base for Soap’s “stupid art project”. Ghost shifts constantly while Soap scribbles away in his notebook, first unsure where to look, then unsure of where to put his hands. Soap wears a smile the entire time.

“You’re allowed to move, you know,” Soap says after much too long of a time. He keeps himself from laughing. “It’s better if you do, really.”

Ghost glares daggers at Soap. “You didn’t want to tell me that sooner?”

Soap grins at the Lieutenant but makes no further comment. He’d rather have his life spared for the time being.

Once Soap has finished, he doesn’t say anything. He just sets his pencil down and closes his notebook and makes to leave. Ghost watches every movement closely and remains silent himself. Only, he doesn’t move from his spot, and Soap can almost feel that he has a question he’s debating to ask.

It never ends up phrased as a question, but Ghost’s hesitation is so palpable it might as well have been.

“Let me see.”

Soap hadn’t expected Ghost would want to, though a part of him had most definitely hoped otherwise. He doesn’t put up a fight for such a reason, instead wordlessly passing the notebook to Ghost to browse.

It’s Soap’s turn to fidget as Ghost flips through pages. Most take only a few seconds, nothing more than an impassive look, but Soap knows the moment Ghost stumbles upon the page of his face, sans mask. There’s an instant of realization from them both, and the world feels at a standstill.

When Ghost clears his throat, Soap does his best not to flinch. Maybe this endeavour isn’t worthwhile. Maybe it’s nothing more than an invasion of Ghost’s privacy. Of his person.

Finally, Ghost looks up at Soap, his hardened gaze no different from the one he always wears. There’s no emotion in them, and Soap doesn’t know if that makes everything better or worse.

Soap doesn’t notice how tightly Ghost grips the notebook until later, when he spots the accidental smudge of graphite from the Lieutenant’s thumb.

“When did you do this, Johnny?” Ghost asks. His voice is low and steady as usual, but there’s a near unnoticeable strain that sends guilt through Soap’s body. By now he’s certain he’s made an irreparable mistake.

Soap swallows. “When we got back from Las Almas, sir.”

Ghost looks back at the drawing and nods. He does as Soap had and closes the notebook, sliding it back and standing from the bench where Soap had told him to sit. Soap waits nervously, impatiently, for Ghost to say anything, to curse him out, to tell him to get rid of it, but soon it seems like he would do nothing of the sort.

“Not bad,” is all he tells Soap, before walking off to disappear to God knows where. Soap stays glued to the spot for a solid five minutes following, until he finally feels like he can breathe again.

Not bad. Soap supposes it could’ve been a lot worse.

#i hope i haven’t posted this before #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ghost x soap #soapghost #ghoap #ghostsoap #writing

[dailytwsttweets]

Nothing prompted this but I wanted to share this cause idk if people still do this but I hate whenever someone calls Florid “abusive” or “bully x victim” because that’s simply not true at all. We need to remember, Floyd is canonically a violent character. In his PE Vignette, he literally threatened to squeeze Ace out of nowhere just for annoying him during one of his mood swings. In his labwear vignette, he’s seen threatening two students who got mad at him for bumping into them. And then there’s the panels from the Octavinelle manga and just that scene from Book 3 alone.

This is not to say he’s mindlessly violent ofc, but it’s not like he’s docile either. But when we look at him and Riddle’s interactions, it’s just simple teasing such as calling him short or stealing his books. This doesn’t really count as canon but the panels in the anthology manga of him calling Riddle “amazing” and I believe (correct me if I’m wrong) in one of the Halloween events, he noticed Riddle wasn’t eating as much and literally made him eat after he said “I’ve had enough calories for today” saying he knows Riddle likes sweets (I read that from the ship wiki so my info might be off so do correct me please). I’d say he’s nicer to Riddle than almost everyone that isn’t Jade or Azul. And I believe it’s implied that there’s some infatuation of some sorts with Riddle’s hair color as he’s mentioned how dull colors are underwater, and I believe it’s also mentioned in his beanfest vignette.

I’m just saying that if Floyd was actually bullying Riddle, it would not stop at book stealing or teasing. This is not to say Riddle is helpless at all either, Riddle can kick ass. He sent Floyd launching through the air on orientation (Beanfest vignette). So calling it bully x victim/abusive is really odd imo.

There’s also the idea that Riddle hates Floyd? He doesn’t seem to hate him at all?? I’d say it’s more like a small annoyance which can be resolved once they get to know each other more. I don’t know if the Stitch Event was canon but I think that was a prime example of them actually getting to know each other (again, ship wiki. I’m not that far into the game sorry T_T).

If I did get anything incorrect please do tell me ^_^! Btw this is not condemning people who don’t ship it, you ship what you ship!

#🪐 #twisted wonderland #twst #florid #floyd x riddle #riddle rosehearts #floyd leech

[ardourie]

“just choose better friends” “just date better men” “just stop xyz” does that get rid of the issue? if the issue is men are taught to view women as lesser and treat them as either punching bags or sex bots simply avoiding men doesn’t resolve anything, use ur brain

[hihhasotherfixations]

Okay I love your John hates kisses on the corner of his mouth post and the follow up!

How do you think he’d react to the reader doing the trend where you wipe away your s/o’s kiss?

Oh you’ve decided to hop on the pain train I see.

There is different ways this can go.

Him being aware of the trend is the best scenario. He’d just roll his eyes and pull you in, calling you a brat before kissing you again, making sure you can’t wipe it off this time ;3

However, if he is not aware and it comes out of the blue? He’s hurt. There’s no other way around it.

It takes a lot for John to get to the point in a relationship where he feels secure enough to show affection (betrayal and distrust have been on the forefront his entire life. It just takes him a while to warm up. But oh boy when he does). And wiping away his kiss, it hurts.

He’d lean away, asking what’s wrong and why you did that, a frown on his face. If you’re grinning/smirking, he’ll get annoyed. Because to him, he just wanted to show he loves you and instead you reject it and are practically laughing in his face about it (how he sees it). He’ll definitely demand an explanation or else be upset with you.

He won’t get mad, he’ll simply carry the hurt with him. If not resolved, it will fester. If you do it again, things will go very wrong, as there is always that little seed of doubt in his brain that he doesn’t deserve a good thing such as love, he’s done too much evil in his life. And that will confirm it for him.

While he is a strong man. Everyone has their weaknesses. And for John, self-doubt quickly turns into self-harm. Not in a physical sense, but he tears himself apart in his mind. Picking on every single one of his flaws and errors and unraveling them until it’s too much to handle or detangle. He will hyperfocus on every mistake he made that might make you - his love and partner - turn against him. His thoughts will take over to the point where he will be short with you and almost push you into the role his mind is so convinced you now take.

However, on the other side, if you wipe away his kiss and - instead of grin or smirk - just not react beyond that, he’ll think you’re mad at him.

He’ll be hurt, yeah, and confused because as far as he knows, he didn’t do anything wrong. But this man will do what he can to get to the bottom of it, turning you towards him, his brows creased in worry as he tries to get you to talk. Refuse and he’ll just keep pestering you, keeping you by his side all day until you break.

If you act completely normal, saying nothing is wrong when he asks, smiling and just being your normal self. He is especially confused. And he’s still not letting you leave his side. You can’t escape him. His worry will continue to eat at him and he won’t stop until he gets an answer. Communication is important to him in a relationship.

(That or he thinks it’s because he smoked recently. So he might brush his teeth and try again, hoping you’ll not wipe his kiss away this time.)

Now. If you reveal it was a trend, expect a grumpy Price.

“I can’t do shit anymore. Not even kiss my partner normally.” Spoken in a rumble while he has his arms crossed.

Please go make it up to him. Press short kisses on his face, kiss him to show you do actually want his affection and love and he’ll forgive you rather quickly.

Unless you smirked and did it to him twice. Then the hurt has festered a little deeper than in the moment surface level. Just go talk to him. It’s the best solution. Have a good heart to heart, he’ll forgive you in the end. Again though, give him kisses. Slow and sweet will win him back.

As self-assured and confident as he is, even he needs reassurance.

#hih answers #Is this turning into a kisses saga? #feels like it kek #john price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #price x reader #john price #cod x reader