#I hope I don’t need to spell out what Mark is thinking in the final drawing…😳

[avida-heidia-5]

Here’s some more fanart of @kaossbells’s fanfic There Is Thunder In Our Hearts, Baby because why the hell not!

The following are scenes from Chapter 3 (Minor spoilers ahead!):

☔️ Rainmeister:

🐶 Puppy Love:

😏 “Vorfreude” (Anticipation):

I’ve now created a tag specifically for this series for those who are interested in finding more fanart of it. You can find it under #TITIOHB fanart. Expect lots more Martian goodness to come!

#TITIOHB fanart #I hope I don’t need to spell out what Mark is thinking in the final drawing…😳 #This is the first time I’ve drawn dogs and bare feet. I’m making progress!!! 🤪 #Trying new and challenging things is my speciality #there is thunder in our hearts baby #kaossbells #martian #sebastian vettel #vettel #mark webber #webber #formula 1 #f1 #ao3 #archive of our own #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 fanart #formula 1 fanart #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

hey so i finally wrote more witch au!

enjoy, friends!! though it's significantly shorter than the first part

pairing: steddie | word count: 2,004 | rated: T

Mama thinks that Steve’s had a love spell on him this whole time.

“Since when?” He’d asked.

“I don’t know, my dear, maybe since before you were even born.”

“What?! How?! I thought you said there was no such thing as love spells!” He knows that’s not true.

“There are none that are worth the pain.” she repeats, trying to placate him.

“Yeah, well.” Steve huffs, dropping his hands to his hips and heaving a sigh.

“But there are some that are rumored to be true love spells, soulmate spells.” She continues on when she sees the look on his face. “Rumored, Steven, only ever rumors.”

“Okay, so what do the rumors have to say about them?”

“Every spell like that I’ve ever heard of of this nature is specific to each caster.”

“So I’ve had this spell on me for possibly my whole life, and there’s no way to know anything about it or about the caster.”

“...I’m sorry, honey.”

“Maybe there are clues in the words you have.” Robin cuts in, reaching for the notepad and sliding it in front of her.

Steve huffs, “I need to know the whole thing; there’s definitely words missing.”

“Should you eat more bread?” Robin asks, already sliding the previously abandoned plate of bread towards him.

“You shouldn’t overwhelm yourself.” Mama says, pushing the plate back. “We don’t know if there’s a trigger to the spell, or if you and the caster’s paths will just cross one day, maybe they don’t even know they cast it.”

Steve blinks at her. “So I have a true love and they might not even want me?”

“No!” Robin belts out immediately.

“No, of course not,” Mama says, continuing on. “The one known thing about any spell like this is that they only work on those who are receptive to it.”

“So some weirdo can’t put you under their spell?”

“Yes, exactly Robin; Steve, whatever this is, whoever this was, they love you with all that they are. And you them.”

“I don’t even know who it is! How can I?”

Mama doesn’t have an answer besides saying “Your soul must know them already.”; Their conversation was over soon after that.

Steve spends the next couple days silent and brooding. He can’t stop thinking about how he’s what, marked to love someone he doesn’t even know? How’s that fair?

It could be any random person on the street that thought he was hot, some weird old guy or a lovesick middle schooler..He only just turned 25 the day before the bread incident, but he’s saddled with this huge unknown that isn’t going to get better any time soon?

Okay, apparently not just some weirdo according to Mama, but still. Un-fucking fair all the same.

He’s also pissed that he can’t give anyone all the baked goods he’s made within that time. Each and every one of them ending up with a sour aftertaste. 

“Damn witch bullshit…” he grumbles to himself, only half serious, as he scrapes another batch of sour sugar cookies into the trash.

He’s salty, okay? Pun intended. If he hadn’t ever learned the truth about the powers over food his grandmother (and now him too, apparently) has, he could’ve just excused the batch after batch being off on bad butter, or old flour.. Something other than his mood being what’s ruining his cookies.

That’s what he’d done every other time something he’s made tasted off, now he knows it was him the whole time.

Mama comes in then, he doesn’t have to look up to know the look she’s giving him.

Steve leaves the bowl of leftover dough on the counter, mumbles out a “I gotta go.”, then tromps out the back door and into the woods behind his grandparents’ home. 

He supposes it’s good that they live just outside the city, really, having the trees to escape under like this has helped him before, and he’s hoping will help him now.

Meandering through the underbrush, he strolls along until he reaches the small clearing he’d claimed for himself when he was what, 8? 9? Doesn’t matter. It’s his spot to get away from anything he needs to.

He sits down against the big oak at the edge of the clearing and tips his head back toward the sun filtering down on him through a gap in the canopy above him. He breathes in the fresh air, focuses on the warmth hitting his face, and just exists there for a while, slipping in and out of a soft snooze.

Suddenly, he’s shocked out of his dozing by the sound of twigs snapping underfoot.

If it were coming from behind him, he’d expect it’d be Robin coming to find him here, but it’s not. It’s coming from ahead of him across the clearing.

Steve stands and presses back into the trunk of the tree, wondering if there’s bears in these woods when a person stumbles through the tree line.

The man is thin, about Steve’s age if he were to guess, and covered in dirt, his light wash overalls and his boots are caked in it. His hair is long, pulled half-back away from his face and full of bracken from the forest.

He also seems to be in a daze, staring with dark eyes at Steve with an unfathomable expression. 

It shifts soon after, though, warming into a watery smile. “I’ve come home to you.” he says, clear as day, then collapses onto the grass.

“Oh, shit!” Steve rushes forward, kneeling down beside the man and quickly checking him over for injuries. 

Steve presses his fingers to the man's pulse confirm it's still there (it is) and there don’t seem to be any bruises or breaks in his limbs, so he goes to his head, feeling quickly under the tangles in his hair for any blood, any knots.

Nothing. There’s nothing apparently outwardly wrong with him.

“Hey, hey, wake up! You gotta stay with me, man.” he says, shaking him lightly. 

The other man’s head lolls to the side and his eyes open a crack, his lips quirking up into a smile. “M’love…”

“What is your name?” Steve insists in a slow, clear voice.

Instead of answering, the man raises his hand slowly to cup Steve’s cheek. “...v’wait’d so long..” he slurs, then goes limp again, his hand dropping to his chest.

“Oh no you don’t,” Steve gets his feet under him and gathers the man up into his arms in a bridal carry. His steps falter when he feels how light the man is in his arms, how much more thin he is than how he’d looked.

Steve adjusts his hold on him, making sure not to let his head hang backward over his forearm, and rushes back toward the house.

“Mama!” he shouts as soon as he clears the treeline into the yard.

She’s at the back sliding door as soon as he is. “Steve, honey, what—”

He pushes past her, hurrying to the spare room on the first floor with her on his heels. “I found him wandering the woods, I couldn’t just–I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Mama.”

She gestures him forward to the bed, “Put him there, on top the covers,”

He does, setting him down as if he’s made of glass.

As soon as the man is out of his arms, Mama takes his place. “Nothing seems broken, but he’s so light, he needs food, he needs water, should I call 911? I don’t even know his na—” he rambles on, not even realizing he’d started to pace until his grandma stops him in his tracks.

“Steve, listen to me.” she says, pulling at his wrists gently, removing his hands from his hair. “He will be fine. Now, go get a bowl of warm water and a washcloth and come straight back here.”

He nods dazedly, stumbling backward out the doorway and spinning to the kitchen.

Steve slides to a stop on the tile floor in front of the kitchen sink at the same time Robin gets home from her classes that day.

“I have a date!”

Wait, he needs the bowl first. He scrambles to the opposite counter for the large mixing bowl Mama uses for her damn bread and fishes it out with a clatter of everything that that had been in front of it on the shelf tumbling out to the floor.

��Steve?”

Should he put soap in it?

“Steve!”

No, Mama just said ‘warm water’, not ‘warm soapy water’. He nods to himself and turns on the tap, reaching under the sink next for a washcloth.

“Steven Otis Harrington.”

“Oh, hey Robin, you’re home.” The bowl’s almost full.

“Steve.” She spins him to face her, holding tightly to his shoulders.

He tries to twist back around futilely, “The bowl–”

“Steve. What. Is. Happening.”

He blinks at her a couple times. “Robin!” He pulls her to him in a tight hug. “Holy shit, you’re not gonna believe–”

“Steve, the bowl?”

“Shit,” It’s nearly full when he shuts off the tap, so he dumps a bit out and picks it up with both hands, “C’mon, he’s this way.”

“He? Who’s he?”

“Dunno, I found him in the woods.”

“Aw, Steve, you can’t just take in any ol’ stray dog you happen to find out in the wood—-” Robin cuts herself off as they get to the bedroom door. “Ohhkay…so..not a dog.”

“He looks to be dehydrated, but I don’t think he has any injuries.” Mama says in lieu of a greeting when they return. Steve sits down on the opposite edge of the bed that she is, and carefully passes over the bowl of water without looking at her.

The stranger immediately takes in his attention. His soft features, dark brows…Steve starts to pull the bits of brush out of the man’s hair, untangling twigs, leaves, and he can already see one of those pesky prickle things twisted into the hair next to his ear.

Mama sets the bowl on the sidetable, and gets to work immediately, wiping the dirt and grime from the man’s face and arms. “Robin dear, can you grab one of those sports drinks Pa loves so much outta the fridge? And a bottle of water.”

“Of course!” she says, darting back into the kitchen.

“We’ll need to get some food in him too,”

“We should make him scones.” Steve states apropos of nothing. “With chocolate chunks.”

“Maybe after he’s a bit better, sweetie.” Mama scoffs, wringing out the washcloth. “He needs healthy fats first, butter, oatmeal, avocado, things like that.”

“I can do that!” Steve says, jumping up excitedly. His former task forgotten, he rushes out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, nearly bowling Robin over in the process.

He gets to work on simple eggs and toast for their houseguest, avoiding Mama’s lucky bread in favor of his own store-bought stuff for now, he can make him his own later. 

As he scrambles the eggs, he focuses everything in him on the stranger, on getting him better, making him healthy again. He’s not exactly quite sure how to do what Mama does, but the sour cookie dough says he’ll do it without thinking about it…kinda.

Whatever. 

All he knows is that he’s telling the fuck outta these eggs to make his love better. Make him whole again.. Make him—

Wait..

Did he just refer to the random man laid up in the other room as his love?

Is…

The fugue state he’d been in since first laying eyes on the man crackles away just long enough for him to think.

What did he say before he collapsed? "I've come home to you."?

That..sounds right....why is that so famili—

Steve's eyes leave the pan of eggs in front of him and snap immediately to the scrap of paper he'd scrambled for a few nights ago.

Is he…?

And of course, as if the words weren't already plastered permanently onto his grey matter, there they are, plain as day.

tagging those that were interested on the last part!!! @mugloversonly @kittydeadbones @maybequizas @queenie-ofthe-void @newtstabber @angeldreamsoffanfic @eyesofshinigami @sunflower-trashbaby @perseus-notjackson @kaspurrcat @quinns-shadowy-arts

also, idk if this counts for it, but one of february's songs for @steddiesongfics is work song! which is what this fic is based on! 😊😊

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #witch!eddie #witch!steve #work song #hozier #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #stranger things #st #robin buckley #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve has good grandparents #steveddie #eddeve #witch au #noelle writes

[starsstuddedsky]

Chapter 2 - What Happens in the Closet...

reader x jihoon

Chapter 1 | masterlist | Chapter 3

summary: when you're caught in a simple lie, the best solution? dig in and stick to your guns until everything inevitably goes wrong and everyone gets hurt

or, a serial dater and a pessimist fake a relationship in the vain hope that nothing will go wrong

genre: fluff, angst, non-idol au, lawyer au, coworkers to lovers??? friends to lovers???? fake dating!!!!!

warnings: cursing???? i think that's it???

wc: 5.2k

a/n: tysm for reading!!!! school is kicking my butt this week lol so there's a solid chance there's typos, i'm sorry :(

taglist: open! send an ask or comment!

Jihoon has always trusted his gut. It’s never led him wrong; the schools he chose, the law firms he declined, the clients he advised, they’ve all been good choices. He knows better than to ignore the little feeling deep down in his stomach that doesn’t sit right, warning him that something is wrong. 

Unfortunately, this morning he convinces himself it’s just because he hasn’t had his coffee yet. 

He multitasks, typing a furious reply to Mark from accounting (who has apparently lost the ability to read, since the information he is asking for is in the first e-mail that Jihoon sent) while also heading toward the pretty wall of expensive coffee makers that played a significant role in his decision to accept the job offer here. That’s why he doesn’t notice you until you practically bounce off his chest. 

“My bad, I—” You freeze when you meet his eyes. 

I’m sorry, Jihoon tries to say, except the words don’t come out, and now he’s stuck looking at you with the same wide-eyed stare you are giving him. It’s not often that Jihoon finds himself speechless, but there’s so much he needs to say, to explain. Too much. He hasn’t had the chance to even think about telling you the absolutely idiotic things he said on Saturday night, even after he spent all day Sunday staring at his ceiling and imagining how to explain. The only proof it wasn’t all a nightmare is the texts blowing up his phone this morning from Seungcheol and Joshua who managed to find your Instagram (apparently they approved, though it was tricky to explain why he wasn’t following you). 

“We need to talk,” Jihoon finally says. 

“I really am sorry,” you respond. You lean back against the counter and Jihoon catches a glance of a cup of coffee behind you, a mug decorated in bright letters that spell out your name (Fact #5: you like colors?). 

“Not about that,” Jihoon says. “Well, I guess about that, but not really, it’s complicated, and—” 

“Morning,” a familiar deep voice says. Jihoon turns around to find Wonwoo behind him. His eyebrows are raised well over his round glasses, forming shapely arches. He slings his arm over Jihoon’s shoulder, glancing between Jihoon and you. 

A sudden thought crosses Jihoon’s mind. Even though Wonwoo was shipped off on a last minute “emergency” work trip over the weekend, there is no way that news as inconceivable as Jihoon finally losing his lifelong title of ‘bitchless’ wasn’t the first thing Wonwoo saw the second he turned his phone off airplane mode. Meaning that the side eye he is giving him now is because he’s about to call Jihoon out on the worst lie he’s ever told and turn him into the biggest laughing stock the world has ever seen. 

He really should have listened to his gut. 

“So,” Wonwoo says, “How long has this been going on?” His grip on Jihoon’s shoulder tightens. 

You frown. “What are you talking about?” 

“You and him,” Wonwoo says, gesturing between you and Jihoon. 

Jihoon elbows Wonwoo, pushing the taller man off. “Not here,” he mutters. 

Before he can say anything else, you gasp. “It’s not what you think!” 

Jihoon grabs your hand before you can say anything else, pulling you past a bewildered Wonwoo. He ignores the stares of the paralegals and lawyers in the halls as he pulls you past the peering eyes, into the nearest open door, which, unfortunately, is the janitor’s closet. There goes any chance at subtlety. 

“Jihoon?” You ask as he fumbles along the wall trying to find the light switch. He’s still holding your hand, which he only realizes when you lightly tug it out of his grasp. 

He finally finds the switch, flipping it on to find that it connects to a solitary lightbulb hanging from the ceiling that flickers and is definitely a safety hazard. You’re standing directly under the light. Because the light is tinted yellow, Jihoon gets the faint impression that you’re glowing. 

You glance between Jihoon and the door behind him, which he realizes he is accidentally blocking. He steps to the side, not wanting you to think that he’s trapping you in here, though he doesn’t have a contingency plan if you run away now. Not that he has any actual plan right now; none of his Sunday-morning-imaginary-conversations took place in a room that smells like bleach and has lighting that hasn’t been touched since the ‘80s. 

“I swear, I have no idea how Wonwoo found out,” you say quickly. “No one knows other than my friends, and I told them we’d both get fired if anyone at work found out, so I really don’t know how he found out, but I swear, I’ll tell him it was just a rumor and it isn’t true at all. I’m really sorry, I know you said you wanted nothing to do with me, so, whatever I can do, I’ll do it, just please don’t report me to HR.” 

Jihoon felt bad before, but now if guilt could build a time machine, he’d go all the way back to elementary school and beg his mother to take him with her when she left. Maybe then you wouldn’t be looking at him with actual tears threatening to fall. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s made someone cry, but somehow it’s not nearly as satisfying when he’s the one at fault.  

“So the thing is,” Jihoon says. “I think it might have been me.” Thankfully your frown doesn’t send the tears tumbling down, but your confusion means that he must, unfortunately, continue to explain. “I sort of told a few of my friends that I was dating someone from work.” He can’t bring himself to say it all, not with his own words echoing in his ears berating you for doing something so foolish. “It’s a very long story, but they believe that I am dating you, and I let them believe it.” 

“You let them believe…” you repeat softly, as though you still aren’t understanding. Jihoon can’t blame you; he hardly believes it himself. 

“Well, believe isn’t really the right word, because they didn’t see any evidence.” Jihoon had also spent a lot of time on Sunday trying to explain why he didn’t have any photos of you, let alone with you. “So I may have told them that you are coming to my friend’s thing on Saturday. As my date.” 

You stare at him. If you keep looking at him with a frown that deep you’re going to get wrinkles, but he figures now is not the time to mention that. There’s nothing he can do now but wait, (most of) the truth now out in the open. He holds his breath as you open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. 

“Are you asking me to fake date you?” You finally ask. 

“Yes?” Jihoon says. 

Fact #6: You have a ridiculous laugh.

He discovers this as you burst into laughter, smile finally breaking the frown as you gasp for breath, clutching your sides. It sounds like something between a machine gun and a dying deer, not that he’s heard either of those sounds in real life before. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, because it seriously doesn’t look like you can breathe, and he’s starting to worry that he’s actually broken you. 

“You told them you’re fake dating me?” You manage between gasps. 

Jihoon sighs. “Yes. Look, I know an apology is overdue—”

“Way overdue.” 

“Way overdue,” Jihoon says because you’re mad enough at him already and he can survive appeasing you at least a little. “So I do apologize. I shouldn’t have yelled at you and threatened HR, and I should have talked to you before I did anything as dumb as telling my friends that we are dating.” 

“Obviously,” you say.

“Are you okay?” Jihoon asks now that you’ve mostly stopped laughing, wiping a few tears from your eyes. 

“I don’t really know how to answer that,” you say. 

Jihoon nods. “I don’t blame you for being mad.” 

“I’m not mad,” you say quickly. “Shocked and stunned and a lot of other words, but mad isn’t one of them. Mostly, it’s funny.” 

“Funny.” 

“Funny!” 

Jihoon frowns as you burst into giggles again, though you stifle them quickly at his glare. 

“Seriously, I mean, who goes off on their coworker and then not even a day later does the same exact thing,” you say. “I’ve always known you were a little… But that’s beside the point, because you are, in fact, asking me to fake date you?” 

“Wait, a little what?” Jihoon asks. 

You shake your head, leaning against a metal pole, then immediately straightening when you almost knock over a shelf of toilet paper. “I don’t think I’m obligated to answer that.” He opens his mouth but you raise your eyebrows. “If you ask again I’m going to answer something that you won’t like.” 

“Is it the truth?” 

You shrug. “Do you want me to come to the thing on Saturday and pretend to be ridiculously in love with you or not?” 

“You don’t have to be ridiculous,” Jihoon mumbles. He takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself that this is still a good idea somehow (eventually he settles for the conclusion that it’s much too far to turn back now). “Yes, I would like you to please be my date on Saturday.” 

“Can you say that again so I can record it?” You ask a little too innocently. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please.” 

“You’ve barely heard me say five words,” Jihoon says. “This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.” 

“With the exception of literally three days ago when you yelled at me. And the presentation you gave in eighth grade on the importance of fish in the ecosystem of the creek by the school and you were so excited because you brought your fish except it died on the way to school and you were so upset you locked yourself in the bathroom and they had to call your dad to pick you up.” You look a little too smug. 

“If you tell anyone about that, I’m telling them about the time you wrote an entire essay on symbolism in the Harry Potter series over the summer, and then it wasn’t even accepted because they said extra credit was unethical.” 

“You remember that?” You frown at him. “Look, I was a different person back then. J.K. Rowling was a different person back then.” 

“Pretty sure a TERF is always a TERF,” Jihoon says. It’s easy to fall into banter with you. He finds himself wondering why he’s never spoken to you like this before, until he remembers Fundamental Fact #3: you are an idiot in love. 

More than anything, he wants to leave this closet. Run away and lock himself in his room and dive into his work (and tell Mark that he’s an idiot who can’t read) and forget all of this. But you still haven’t said yes. 

“I will do whatever you want,” he says, quickly adding, “within reason,” because your eyes light up a little too brightly. “You can tell your friends that we’re fake dating. We can actually fake date. I can write a contract and everything, just, please, come with me?” 

Jihoon has always thought that your kindness made you weaker, but he’s grateful for it now because you smile at him and say, “Yes.” 

He hopes his sigh of relief isn’t too obvious. He thinks you might say something else (“You have to pretend to be my date to my friends in return,” or “I was just kidding, you’re insane and I won’t do it,” or “Don’t fall in love with me”) but before you can open your mouth, there’s a knock at the door. 

“Hey,” Wonwoo says, voice muffled. “I hate to interrupt, but yn, we have a meeting in like two minutes.” 

You glance at the time on your phone and curse, pushing past Jihoon and practically bursting out of the closet. He loses sight of you sprinting toward your office as the door swings shut. Jihoon seriously considers staying here for the rest of the day (possibly the rest of his life), but the door creaks open again to reveal Wonwoo, pinstripe suit and all. He folds his arms and leans against the door. 

“We need to talk.” 

Jihoon has never been scared of any of his friends, but fear is the only word he can use to describe how he feels now. The final beats to Jihoon’s life sounds a lot like Wonwoo’s footsteps as they echo while he follows the tall man to his own office. This is it. The jig is up before he even shows you to his friends. Well, it was an idiotic plan in the first place and at least he didn’t embarrass you alongside everyone else. 

Wonwoo has the decency to wait for the door to shut behind him. 

“I can’t believe you,” Wonwoo says, shaking his head. “I leave for one weekend, and you tell everyone that you’re dating yn?” 

“I know, I—” 

“I mean, seriously, we’ve been friends for how long now?” Wonwoo pauses to count on his fingers. “Eight years? Nine? We work together! I know yn better than any of them, and I had to hear from Mingyu that you two are dating?” 

Jihoon frowns. Did Wonwoo actually believe him? 

“Honestly, I’m offended,” Wonwoo says. “Seriously, how am I not the first person you think of? I’ve been saying for years that you and yn would be perfect together.” 

“I didn’t mean to tell them,” Jihoon says. “They were just being annoying about it, so it slipped out.” 

Wonwoo shakes his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. Right under my nose and I didn’t see it.” 

“Well, you are like a point away from being legally blind,” Jihoon says. 

Wonwoo glares at him. “You owe me details.” 

“Don’t you have a meeting?” Jihoon says. 

Wonwoo’s phone rings. He answers in a hushed tone, shooting Jihoon a look that clearly says this isn’t over. Jihoon breathes a sigh of relief as Wonwoo exits, resting his head on his desk. What just happened? 

A small part of him had hoped that Wonwoo was going to call him out and this entire mess would be over. But he believed him? Jihoon, who had only ever scoffed at you, despite Wonwoo constantly talking about how well you would work together. Well, he’s clearly having the last laugh now. 

Jihoon takes a deep breath and sits up. He still has a job to do. Though his life is clearly falling apart, he should at least make sure Mark from accounting doesn’t mess up his paycheck (again). And he has a contract to write. 

.

.

Objectively, Jihoon has to admit you look good. It has nothing to do with opinion; it’s a fact (fact #8: you look good in formalwear, though he makes a mental note for an addendum that says that’s the whole point of formalwear). Jihoon spends a normal amount of time looking at you (counting to five seconds before looking away), then ushers you into the backseat of the limo because for some reason you aren’t moving. 

“Do I get to know why we’re in a limo or why I had to buy new clothes?” You ask, taking care to make sure none of the flowy garment got stuck in the door. 

“I told you I’d cover that,” Jihoon says. 

“No, it was kind of bad that I didn’t have anything this nice, and now I have something to wear to the end of the year gala,” you say. “Way to dodge the question though.” 

Jihoon grimaces. It’s difficult to judge how people react to finding out about his friends (given that he has “little-to-no” experience introducing anyone to them), and he isn’t entirely certain that you won’t jump out of the car when he tells you the truth. But apparently you can’t sit in silence for long. 

“Okay, well, if you won’t tell me, then I’m going to guess,” you say. “Are we going to a wedding?” 

“No.” 

“A funeral?” 

“Why would I wear a tux to a funeral?” 

“Hey, I don’t judge,” you say with a shrug. “It looks very good on you, by the way.” Jihoon glances at you but you’re twisting your face into a strange frown as you think, so you don’t notice the way his ears tinge pink at the comment. “Prom?” 

“We’re grown adults.” 

“Prom needs chaperones,” you say. “Besides, you never went to prom.” 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t catch my date making out with someone else either, so, it wasn’t that bad of a night for me.” 

“Ouch,” you say. “That was low.” 

Jihoon remembers that you are technically doing him a favor today (if saving his life counts as a favor), so he says, “Well, there’s no way you could know I was in my pajamas watching anime all day, so, it wasn’t fair. Sorry.” Maybe around you he’ll get used to apologizing. He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. 

Luckily, you accept his peace offering, flashing a smile that is quickly becoming familiar. Your face twists into that strange frown again, and Jihoon determines Fact #9: you are unwaveringly stubborn. 

“Oh!” You gasp. “Are you secretly rich?” 

Jihoon snorts. “What makes you think that?” 

“Well, you picked me up in a limo wearing a tux, after telling me to dress in fancy, expensive clothes,” you say. “Plus you are super secretive about your personal life, and, I don’t know, you give off rich guy vibes. Unless I’m totally wrong?” 

“I’m not rich,” Jihoon says. “I mean, I guess I have a decent amount of money saved since I mostly just work and go to the gym and the only thing I really buy is groceries.” Jihoon realizes just how boring he sounds. “I mean, I do go out. Just not often, and I buy… things, anyways, I’m not rich.” 

“Sure,” you say. You turn to look out the window, but Jihoon doesn’t miss the laugh poorly disguised as a cough. 

Luckily (because Jihoon is absolutely positive you would have continued interrogating him), the limo stops and you don’t have to guess anymore. 

“You’re joking,” you say, whipping around in your seat to stare at him. 

Jihoon can’t say that he doesn’t enjoy seeing you speechless. You look back and forth between him and the chaos on the street. 

“You said you weren’t secretly rich!” You say. “How did you get tickets for a literal red carpet event?” Your face is centimeters away from pressing against the glass, breath quickly making it too foggy to see. “This is the Eternals sequel!” 

“You like Marvel?” 

“No, actually I think the franchise has a lot of issues.” 

Jihoon gasps, but you’re already climbing out of the limo, turning back to face him with a smile. It’s so bright Jihoon forgets why he was mad. 

“Come on,” you say. You hold out your hand, and after a moment, Jihoon takes it. He doesn’t let go when he gets out of the car, tightening his fingers around yours, anchoring you to his side. 

It’s chaotic, but not nearly as chaotic as he knows it will be soon. Half the press haven’t even arrived yet, and the theater is mostly surrounded by the scatter of crew members and invited guests that aren’t celebrities. Jihoon spots Mingyu first, his tall head standing out in the crowd. 

“You ready?” Jihoon asks, turning to look at you. You’re still staring at everything, unable to hide your grin. Maybe he should have warned you, but it’s kind of fun to see you like this. Bright. 

Mingyu literally shouts when he sees Jihoon. He watches as Mingyu’s eyes practically lock on to you, and he starts pushing his way towards you, Wonwoo and Seungcheol in tow. 

“The tall, overly excited one is Mingyu,” Jihoon whispers. “You know Wonwoo, and—” 

“Seungcheol, right?” You glance at Jihoon. 

He frowns. “How did you know that?” 

“We did go to the same college, you know.” Right. Because this wasn’t complicated enough. Jihoon starts to think that all of this is a mistake, but it’s hardly the first time today, and as Mingyu approaches, all he can do is tighten his hand around yours and commit. 

“Jihoon!” Mingyu says as soon as he’s close. His voice carries, more than a few people casting a glance at him. He takes another step, but his foot gets caught on something (knowing Mingyu, it’s nothing), and he’s sent tumbling to the ground. Neither Seungcheol nor Wonwoo attempt to catch him, letting the tall man collapse on the ground. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” You ask over Seungcheol’s giggling. Wonwoo helps Mingyu up, but he’s laughing as well, and even Jihoon’s nerves aren’t enough to stop him from breaking a smile. 

“I’m used to it,” Mingyu says, walking much slower. His hair took the worst of the fall, now a disheveled mess. Jihoon wonders how long it’ll take for him to notice. 

“Mingyu, Seungcheol, this is yn,” Jihoon says. “My real, living, breathing, human date.” 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Mingyu says, shaking your free hand. “We’ve heard so much about you.” 

“Really?” 

“No, this is Jihoon we're talking about, we were lucky to get your name.” 

“That sounds more like the man I know,” you say, turning to flash a smile at him before facing Mingyu again. Mingyu glances at your other hand, fingers still intertwined with his, and Jihoon thinks he might actually believe it. 

“We’ve met before,” Seungcheol says. “Though there was a lot of alcohol, and I don’t really remember it all that well.” 

“Georgia’s Bar, right?” You say. It takes all of Jihoon’s self control not to react. Surely he would have remembered seeing you at the only bar his friends could drag him to during college? 

“Probably,” Seungcheol says. “I was getting my MBA, and there were a lot of bars. Very few that we could get Jihoon to go to, though.” He raises his eyebrow. “That’s why we're all a little surprised that someone actually managed to get him out of his apartment and away from his work.” 

Jihoon glances between you and Seungcheol as you think about the answer to what is obviously a test. “I don’t think I really got him away from his work.” You turn to Jihoon with what can only be described as a warm, loving smile. You’re really good at this. “But I’m pretty much married to my job too, so it works.” 

Seungcheol nods but Jihoon can tell he doesn’t believe fully, at least not yet. “We should go inside before everyone else gets here and this turns into a mess.” He turns to head into the cinema, leaving everyone else to follow. Mingyu and Wonwoo start chatting about Mingyu’s (alleged) drama at work that has something to do with a secretary, the CEO of the company, and his famous but estranged brother. Jihoon doesn’t bother to listen, turning to look at you. 

Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “He doesn’t believe us.” 

“Not yet,” Jihoon whispers. “Give him time, he’s just particular.” He pauses, then says, “The detail about Georgia’s was good.” 

You nod. “It was true.” 

“How many times have you met him?” 

“Just once,” you say. “You were there too.” 

Before Jihoon can ask anything else, Wonwoo calls, “Hey, lovers, are you coming or what?” They’re already inside the cinema, waving for you to catch up or get left behind. You flash Jihoon a determined smile and squeeze his hand, jogging to catch up to the rest of the guys. 

Jihoon can’t help but wonder how long your lives have been like this, the roots of two trees that brush against each other but never tangle. Until now. 

“Do we have an ETA on the kid?” Wonwoo asks as you settle into the theater seats. You’re doing a good job of acting natural, or at the very least, not gawking at every other detail of the (admittedly stunning) theater. 

“You’re not calling him that now, too,” Jihoon says. “He’s a grown adult. Also, he should be here soon.”

“How’s the kid?” Seungcheol asks, folding his arms. Jihoon rolls his eyes with the emphasis on kid. “No nervous breakdowns?” 

“He was fine when I called him earlier,” Mingyu says. “As soon as the cameras are on him, he’ll put a smile on.” 

Seungcheol grunts but still looks worried. Jihoon would tell him that he cares too much, but he knows Seungcheol will just say that it’s to make up for Jihoon not caring at all, so he doesn’t quite see the point. Besides, it’s Seungkwan; Jihoon is pretty sure all his friends have a soft spot for the younger man, Seungcheol especially. 

“He must be here,” Mingyu says when screams erupt from outside. He checks his watch. “A little early, isn’t he? Doesn’t he normally make a grand entrance?” 

Jihoon doesn’t miss the way you frown at him, clearly aware that you’re missing something very important. He studies the lights and pretends not to notice your glare. 

Most of the commotion is at the entrance, though the bulk of the press aren’t allowed into the theater. Jihoon hears more than he can see, but he knows it’s Seungkwan and the rest of the star-studded cast that are used to being the center of attention. He doesn’t miss you craning your neck to catch a glimpse of why everyone is staring. 

Seungkwan’s blonde head appears from the crowd, but he makes the rounds first, checking in with every staff member, shaking hands and taking pictures. Ever the perfect celebrity. 

Still, he doesn’t miss how Seungkwan locks in on you, grabbing a tall skinny man and whispering a few words before striding across the theater to where the entire group sat. 

“That’s Boo Seungkwan,” you whisper. “And he’s walking over here.” 

“I didn’t tell you we’re friends?” Jihoon says. 

If looks could kill, Jihoon would be dead, but it’s worth it because even with murder on your mind you (objectively) look good. Maybe it comes from being a divorce lawyer—Jihoon wonders if this is the glare you use when the to-be-divorced couples bicker, then wonders if he’s thinking a little too much about your glare. 

The rest of his friends greet Seungkwan as if this is normal, which, technically, it is. Except this is a blockbuster movie premiere and Jihoon is using it to soft launch his (fake) relationship to his world famous best friend. To your credit, you manage to shake his hand and greet him normally. 

If Jihoon is being honest with himself, Seungkwan is the only one he really feels guilty lying to. It doesn’t sit right, even though Seungkwan is partially to blame for thinking Jihoon’s happiness is reflected directly onto his love life. It doesn’t help that Seungkwan knows exactly how to guilt him, smiling and greeting you as if this is normal. Jihoon knows him too well, seeing the suspicion behind his friend’s eyes. As if convincing Seungcheol isn’t hard enough. 

“So are all of Jihoon’s rich and famous?” You ask after he introduces himself. 

“Hey! We have the same student loans,” Wonwoo says. 

“I’m not rich,” Seungcheol says. 

“Yeah, but your family is, so basically the same thing,” Mingyu says. 

“Not the same thing,” Seungcheol says, glaring at Mingyu, who, honestly, should have known better than to bring that up. But because it’s Mingyu, he laughs it off, and soon enough Seungcheol is smiling too. 

“Joshua’s pretty broke too,” Minghao says. “He doesn’t make a million dollars for crying in front of a green screen.” 

“I told you, my character has grown since then,” Seungkwan says. 

“You cry on an actual different planet?” Seungcheol asks. 

“I’m convinced none of you actually pay attention to the movies,” Seungkwan says with an overdramatic sigh. “We were on Earth for the entire movie.” 

“Wasn’t there a bit where Gemma Chan yelled at someone in space?” Jihoon asks. 

“Nerd,” he’s pretty sure he heard you whisper through a fake cough. 

“I don’t know if that counts, she wasn’t actually there.” Seungkwan rounds on you. “I don’t suppose you remember?” 

“Weren’t you technically in space right at the start?” 

Seungkwan cocks his head, thinking back. “Huh, oh yeah. I forgot that.” 

Jihoon has about a million questions that he wants to ask you, mostly related to Marvel movies and the fact that you’ve seen them all, even though you clearly don’t like the franchise. He curbs them because he knows you’ll call him a nerd, plus Seungkwan almost looks like he approves. 

“Do I have a lot to look forward to today?” You ask. “Someone didn’t tell me where we're going, so I couldn’t look up any critic reviews.” 

Seungkwan winces. “I don’t like looking at those.” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “I saw at least three headlines talking about the prodigy dropping another masterful work of acting, or whatever they say about people like you.” 

“Not a prodigy,” Seungkwan mutters. 

“Either way, whatever Seungkwan is in, it’s good,” Seungcheol says, patting Seungkwan on the back. “And he gets paid.” 

“That’s the most important part,” Wonwoo says. 

Seungkwan looks like he wants to say more, but the director of the film waves him down and he’s forced to say a hasty goodbye, promising to meet with them later. 

Jihoon feels your hand squeeze his tight enough to cut off his circulation. He turns to face you in the dim lighting, finding you with a disarmingly sweet smile. 

“When were you going to tell me?” You ask, voice so sweet he almost believes you aren’t upset. 

“I thought it would be fun if it was a surprise?” Jihoon says. 

You lean in close to him, your breath mixing with his, smelling faintly like clementines and something else citrusy. For some godforsaken reason, Jihoon thinks you are about to kiss him. “You’re going to regret this.” 

He opens his eyes and you are gone, laughing at some joke Mingyu made about PDA. Jihoon is vaguely aware it’s at his expense, something to do with how red his ears are, but he’s too busy trying to get his heart to at least pretend like it isn’t about to explode out of his chest. Why the hell did he think you were going to kiss him? Why is he disappointed that you didn’t? Jihoon wonders for the thousandth time if it’s not too late to call the whole thing off, but the lights in the theater are dimming and a spotlight is put on the director, who gives an unnecessarily long speech about what a labor of love this movie was to make, and then the movie is starting, and it’s too late to run away.

#seventeen x reader #woozi x reader #svt x reader #svt #seventeen #woozi #lee jihoon x reader #lee Jihoon #woozi angst #woozi fluff #lee jihoon angst #lee jihoon fluff #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen fic #as a matter of fact

[freeuselandonorris]

give me piarles in all their in love, fighting for the same thing to varying levels of success and fucked up borderline unhealthy glory 🙏🏻

thank you so much for finally giving me the excuse to write angsty piarles!! I had so much fun with this prompt and got to write something a little different from my usual (i.e. it’s not just straight-up filth 😅). I hope you enjoy it too!

pierre gasly/charles leclerc, F1 RPF. rated M. cw for mild masochism elements and a mention of past self-harming behaviours (specifically scab-picking).

They say that the mark of true love is to give someone what they need, not what they want. Charles turns the thought over in his head like a lucky penny as Pierre grips the back of his neck with one hand and his waist with the other. 

It’s not that Charles doesn’t want it — how could he not? But wanting is a dangerous thing, in their line of work. To want is to admit a weakness exists; the object of desire becomes a target. 

You don’t want to be the best, Charles’ father had corrected him as a child, one hand on his shoulder. That means nothing. You have to need it.

And so, here they are. 

They’re both making animal noises, raw and ugly. Charles thinks maybe Pierre’s cheeks would be wet with tears if he were to turn his head. He doesn’t turn his head. Pierre prefers his anger to go unacknowledged, to express it while Charles’ back is turned like a child who believes that he’s invisible because he’s covered his eyes. Charles is happy to buy into the illusion. Pierre has been betrayed too many times to let anyone see him vulnerable without a fight.

Charles prefers an audience for his pain. If he suffers and is witnessed suffering, doesn’t that mean that some cosmic balance will be redressed? Surely someone, somewhere is taking note, adjusting weights on some golden scale. 

If he repeats it to himself often enough, the pain takes on a holy shape. It’s always been this way, ever since he was a little boy in karts, picking the scabs off his knees as punishment for missing an easy win. Pierre, sitting next to him, watching the blood roll down his shins and saying: who’s your favourite driver?

He closes his eyes, drops his face to the pillows and spreads his legs wider. 

Above him, Pierre lets out a breathless laugh. It might sound cruel to somebody who didn’t know Pierre well, but to Charles it sounds like coming home.

“You’re always so desperate for it,” Pierre says, and well, he’s not wrong. 

Charles was born desperate. His mother never tires of telling him how, as a baby, he would keep the whole house awake for hours, hating to be left alone in his crib. Lorenzo still ribs him about the way he cried when he was told to share his toys, convinced that what had been taken from him would never be returned. Ever since he can remember, he’s been hungry for something bigger than himself. It could have consumed him too, had he not been able to channel it into a desire for silverware and speed. 

“I am,” Charles pants out. 

He gets his hands fisted into the blankets either side of his face, giving himself enough leverage to push back and meet Pierre’s erratic thrusts. Pierre transfers the hand that was on his neck to his hair instead, nails scratching gently across his scalp before his fingers tighten around the longer hair at the crown of his head. He pulls and Charles goes where he’s directed, dragged up to all fours. 

“Tell me,” Pierre says. His voice wobbles with every snap of his hips. He’s fit enough that he could fuck Charles for an hour without losing his rhythm, if only he had the self-control. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“Pierre,” Charles says. Begs, really. Pierre always makes him spell it out. “Pierre, no, come on—“

Pierre shushes him, wraps his free arm — the one that isn’t fisted into Charles’ hair — around his chest so he can’t squirm free. 

“Tell me,” he says directly into the shell of Charles’ ear. “Or I won’t let you come.”

Charles sobs, going lax in Pierre’s arms. The words scrape his throat as they force themselves free.

“I — I want it,” he starts. It’s always hardest at the beginning. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I’m already fucking you,” Pierre says. deceptively sweet. “That’s no secret.” 

He bites the heated skin of Charles’ shoulder. It’s probably not hard enough to leave a bruise, however much Charles wishes he could carry the reminders of these liaisons with him after they’re done. 

“Fuck,” Charles curses. He can feel himself dripping onto the rumpled bedsheets. “I want you to come inside me, Pierre, please.”

Pierre inhales sharply, his thrusts getting more erratic. He’s close now. Charles knows the intimate tells of Pierre’s body as well as he knows his own. 

“Why?” Pierre says, so hoarse it takes Charles a moment to understand what he’d said.

“Because it’s all I’m good for,” Charles answers. Like most things, it gets easier the more he does it. “To be your — your little toy.”

“That’s right,” Pierre says, and wraps a hand around Charles’ aching cock. “My little whore.”

Charles makes a wounded sound and nods, feverish. The starving beast in his belly doesn’t respond to kindness, but it understands cruelty. 

“Yes,” Charles gasps. His world narrows to the feeling of Pierre inside him, around him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

*

Pierre brings him tea afterwards. He knows where everything is, the teaspoons and the honey and the teabags and the fruit bowl with the lemons and the milk in the door of the fridge. It’s one of Charles’ favourite things to see, Pierre moving around his space so easily, at home there.

He’d told Pierre this, once, and Pierre had smiled at him from across the kitchen. Of course, he’d said. This is practically my home too. I should move in, huh, save myself some money.

He’d not long lost the Red Bull seat when he’d said that. The skin around his eyes looked bruised, evidence of his insomnia. Charles was in his first season with the Scuderia, his star still ascending: certain he would have a championship soon enough.

You know you would always be welcome here, Charles had told him, and Pierre had nodded, twisted his fingers with Charles’ when he came to sit next to him. 

Now, four years later, they’re both a little more bruised, their expectations tempered. But Pierre remains a constant, shuffling into the bedroom with two mismatched cups. 

It’s been another bad weekend for both of them: Pierre retired on lap 36 with an engine coolant leak, Charles the victim of a poor strategy call to switch to the soft tyres too early, swallowed up by both McLarens and Fernando in the dying laps of the race. They should be used to it by now, Charles thinks, but somehow the disappointment spikes fresh every time the fates conspire against them.

Charles has already cleaned himself up perfunctorily, dragged the blankets back onto the bed where they’d slumped to the floor, cracked open the balcony door to let in the breeze and dissipate the smell of sex and sweat. Outside, the sun is just beginning to set over the harbour, light glinting on the hulls of the yachts moored there. 

Pierre manages to get back into the bed without spilling tea, presses a kiss to Charles’ temple. 

“I didn’t leave a mark, did I?” he says, checking Charles’ shoulder where he’d sunk in his teeth. His fingers run over the skin, making Charles shiver. 

“It’s fine if you did,” Charles says. It’s not, really — Andrea would be sure to notice it — but it doesn’t stop him wanting it.

“No, it’s not,” Pierre says. His thumb rubs the bump of Charles’ spine, still warm from the hot cup he’d been carrying. “But you’re okay. There’s nothing there at all.”

*

Sometimes it’s a celebration.

When Pierre had won at Monza, for all Charles could feel the bruises and self-recrimination blossoming across his skin at roughly equal speed, he still felt the joy of it split him open. Watching Pierre disappear behind a curtain of confetti in the colours of the Tricolore, Charles thought he might cry with selfless joy. Taken aback at the rarity of it, to be truly happy for someone else’s success instead of wanting it jealously for himself.

He’d found Pierre afterwards — no mean feat with the Covid restrictions still technically preventing them from mixing at all — slipping into his motorhome unseen and wrapping himself around Pierre, trying to communicate his congratulations in the form of open-mouthed kisses pressed down his champagne-sticky neck.

 “Can I suck you,” he’d whispered into Pierre’s ear, listening to his wet gasp. “Right here? You deserve it, I think.”

“I have to see the team,” Pierre had said, sounding genuinely agonised. Some small solace to Charles, that he could still command Pierre’s attention like this. Even take it away from the trophy he’d been working towards all his life. The hunger was still with him, just transmuted. “For photos and things.” 

“You can be late,” Charles said, one hand between Pierre’s legs. He was already half-hard, probably had been since he’d crossed the line. It wouldn’t take long. Not with the way Charles sucks dick. “They won’t mind, you are a race winner.”

Pierre had looked like he was seriously considering it, but it wasn’t going to work, and they both knew it. Pierre had his media duties, and Charles was due at the stewards’ office. His back was hurting anyway, body seizing as the adrenaline of the crash and the race wore off. Still, it felt good to say it, to offer himself up to Pierre as part of the festivities. 

“Soon,” Pierre had promised him, smiling dazed and delighted. “I’ll see you this week, I promise.”

When they kissed, Charles prayed Pierre would bite down, transfuse the champagne still slicking his teeth right into his bloodstream.

*

Charles had sworn he would never let himself forget the feeling of a top step, but when he finishes second at the Red Bull Ring, he stumbles his way to the podium. He has to glance at the FIA staff who gesture, smiling and applauding, the right direction for him to walk from the cooldown room. Winning is no longer second nature. He tries to take his pleasure as he’s handed the secondary, smaller trophy. Can’t help staring at the step above as Max takes the plaudits from the ecstatic crowd.

Pierre flies out to Italy two days later, after a day spent in the sim at Enstone. He takes an evening flight that arrives in Bologna after the sun has set.

Charles tells him in a text that he doesn’t need to make the trip; he doesn’t need to celebrate a podium finish. If he starts celebrating when he finishes second, he might as well be admitting that’s all he’s good for, these days. Some nights he lies awake until the sun starts to rise, wondering if this is all he can hope for now: to fight for Max’s scraps until his body gives up on him or the Scuderia does, whichever comes first.

Alors nous compatierons 🤷‍♂️, Pierre sends back: then we will commiserate. 

That’s not really what Charles wants to do either. Not after a day at Maranello with the team carefully trying to make everything sound better and more in control than Charles suspects it actually is. They barely bring him and Carlos together for meetings anymore, unless they have to. He thinks of the chip in the windscreen of his Stradale that he had failed to have repaired before he drove it on the Autostrada, only to see it splinter into a long, jagged crack.

He doesn’t know what he wants, really. It’s been so long since he considered it that he’s forgotten how it works.

Pierre looks tired when Charles lets him into the flat, bundled up inside a cream-coloured hoodie despite the summer heat still flooding the air. He smiles like he means it when Charles leans up to kiss his cheeks, though. His skin smells like sweat and the factory, the particular smell of new plastic and engine oil common to every facility, no matter the team.

Charles pours glasses of local Trebbiano, asks if Pierre is hungry. 

Pierre shakes his head. “Only for you,” he says, because that’s the kind of thing Pierre can get away with saying. 

He smiles as he says it, looking at Charles through his eyelashes. Pierre knows what he wants. Charles feels his shoulders drop in relief.

“Oh, yes?” Charles says, leaning back against the kitchen island, crossing one leg, nonchalant. He bites down on the inside of his cheek but it doesn’t stop the smile. “Why don’t you come take what you want, then?”

The grin on Pierre’s face spreads wider. “I see how it is,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “He gets back on the podium, thinks he’s too good to get on his knees.”

He toes off his trainers and sits down on the wide sofa, nursing his wine glass. The glow of the floor lamp in the corner of the room catches his eyes, makes them glint. 

“No,” Charles says, too fast. Pierre laughs, not unkindly. 

Charles looks around for somewhere to put his own glass. His knees are already buckling of their own accord. It’s like Pierre can drill through to some essential core of him, find the pieces even Charles has lost and show them to him: see, this is what you need. This is what’s good for you. 

“Crawl to me,” Pierre tells him once Charles’ knees have hit the terracotta floor. Charles takes a shuddering breath. 

Despite the heat, the tiles are cool through the thin denim of his jeans, their hand-hewn imperfections rough beneath his palms. He places his hands one in front of the other with slow deliberation, through the kitchen and into the open-plan room where Pierre waits, watching.

Is this a celebration or a commiseration, Charles wonders as he waits with bowed head for Pierre to pull down the zipper of his jeans and allow Charles to get to work. Probably Pierre had this planned no matter where they finished up. 

The cosmic joke of it all: Charles still needs to be put on his knees and told what to do whether he wins the race or crashes out.

Pierre had scored one point at the weekend, a decent result by AlphaTauri’s current standards, and Charles hadn’t known whether to congratulate him or not. He’d seen Pierre before first practice, staring up at the massive iron bull, face blank but for the twin creases between his eyebrows. Pierre’s hunger runs deep, too. It’s just that, like a dog punished for begging, he’s learned to stay lean and survive on the scraps he’s given. It’s a quality Charles admires.

Charles’ knees are starting to hurt. He breathes through it, glances up at Pierre without raising his head. There’s a particular kind of peace that spreads through him at moments like this that he can’t seem to access at any other point. Even when he wins a race, he knows the trophy will be taken from him after he steps away from the podium, walled away behind glass at Maranello. He will stand on the top step and let the champagne rain down his face and think: I could have gained an extra couple of tenths in turn 12. I could have won by more. I could have been better.

He doesn’t feel that, here with Pierre. He touches each part of his body with his awareness: the growing ache in his knees, the curl of desire in his belly, the flood of saliva in his mouth as he waits for Pierre to grant him the permission he can’t give himself.

“Say please,” Pierre says, soft and deceptively gentle.

Pierre needs this, too: to know that he can ask for what he wants and be given it, not have his worthiness weighed up and his desire thrown back in his face, deemed undeserving. Charles can give him that. 

Charles looks up, meets Pierre’s gaze. Parts his lips, allows the familiar hunger to surge inside him. Accepts it as his own. 

“Please,” Charles says, and Pierre nods, the shadows falling across his face. Charles bows his head, lips touching heated skin, filling himself up. 

#fic prompt fill #pierre gasly/charles leclerc #piarles #f1 fic

[alexanderlightweight]

A Magnus from a different reality shows up and he’s here to stay. He didn’t lose his Alec because I could never do that to him. For whatever reason, he comes from an Alec-less world. (Those poor bastards.)

He was just never born. Maybe one of his parents died young or they never married or or or. Doesn’t matter.

So now there are two Magnus Banes. And both of them are enraptured by Alec. And you might think Magnus might get jealous of another him but he’s delighted. With two of him, it will be easier to look after Alec. One of them can stay with him always because now he can be in two places at once. Besides, who else could be worthy besides himself? And Alec will always love Magnus. There are just two of him now.

(And please feel free to make something smutty with this one. Alec getting taken apart by two Magnus’s is a very beautiful thought. Just one was overwhelming. Now that there are two, passing out is practically standard.)

so this actually fits with a fic i have on the backburner and i dusted it off and finished writing some of it to make it work with this prompt and i hope you enjoy it because it is definitely going to be overwhelming for him. i loved this prompt and i hope you enjoy it, thank you for sending in such lovely ideas <3

lumine

nsfw/threesome/poly/self-cest sort of

-

It’s been nearly eight-hundred years of his soul-echo being torn apart from him again and again.

Magnus can no longer take the pain he knows will always come. Because the clave will not risk facing him but they will also not risk Magnus ever being allowed to find and claim his soulmate.

Magnus cannot risk Alexander slipping through his fingers one more time and so he will do every last ritual and risk everything to ensure they are finally united.

Magnus presses his palms flat to the burning ash of the pentagram.  His hands sting, the acrid stench of his own skin and blood burning fills his senses and yet still he endures, pushing past the pain and nausea to complete the ritual. 

He’s spent centuries suffering and researching to find this spell.  Waited aching hours upon hours upon years for the right time.  A little pain will hardly stop him now, not when he’s so very close.

— 

It’s been centuries since Bane has been tempted by something this interesting, this new.  A strange face — but one with magic that nearly mirrors his own— stands before him, an expensive replica but ultimately lacking the same power that Bane holds. 

Even with all of that, he and his magic taste familiar.  

“Just what has you so desperate that you would use a spell like this?”  Bane asks, almost gently as he surveys the array that has been used to summon him.  “Not even I have ever been nearly bored enough to try this and you, well you don’t have nearly the same amount of power at your disposal.  And you know it.  What is worth this kind of risk?”

His counterpart, a being whose name is the same down to the twirls of their demonic runes, doesn’t answer immediately.  Instead, he seems unsteady as he presses a hand to the image etched upon his chest bare chest and Bane’s eyes are drawn to the design.

“I know that mark.”  Bane whispers, eyes stark and gold and glowing as he stares covetously at the mark on Magnus’ skin.  

“What does that mean?”  Magnus asks and for the first time since he summoned Bane, he sounds defensive.  

“It means, that I’ll help you and I’ll fulfill your request, if you fulfill mine.”  

Bane watches with hungry amusement as his counterpart scoffs but ultimately seems willing.

“Is there somewhere for me to sign, a dotted line perhaps, for me to place my signature?” Magnus snarks at him and Bane smiles, sometimes old and dark unraveling at the opening offered him.

“Oh, I can think of something much more binding than that.”

Bane kisses his likeness with the fervor of a god accepting their tribute.  Magnus is hot and his teeth a sharp reprimand that Bane quickly tames with his tongue and hands and magic.  

“There’s no need to fight me,” Bane pulls back just long enough to say.  At Magnus’ startled confusion, he grins, “after all, fighting yourself never goes as planned.”

He uses magic to undress them both, finding similar scars on Magnus’ body but also unfamiliar ones.  He wonders just what happened.  What changed for Magnus to have a different warlock mark then him.  He must have, as Bane can’t imagine hiding his eyes and Magnus’ have yet to even flicker.  

Whatever Magnus’ mark is, there is plenty of time for Bane to discover it and this, well this is only just the beginning. 

 —  

Magnus is hot around him, tight as he opens him up and tighter still as he clenches involuntarily.   His eyes are a clear, dark brown and while Bane could dull them with magic, he won’t. 

Not yet.  

Magnus thinks it’s magic opening him up and, in a way, it is.  

Glamoured tentacles, a gift from his father in Bane’s youth, fuck into Magnus with glee.  They give him pleasure and pain until he gasps with it, on the verge of coming but not quite there. 

“Do you agree,” Bane whispers, lips pressed in a sweet mockery to Magnus’ ear, “do we have a deal, Magnus Bane.”

Magnus nods, eyes clenching shut, and Bane catches a shimmering flash and wonders if it’s tears.  

Even if it isn’t, it will be. 

Someday. 

Bane’s lip is still bleeding from their first kiss, and he bites down on Magnus’ lip, gentler than he could be. 

A reward for Magnus’ compliance.  

Their blood mingles. 

The line of Asmodeus meeting and me and the pact seals between them.  It could be finished now, the agreement complete but Bane has never been one to back away from a deal without dotting every ‘I’ and crossing every ’t’.

The room they’re in is dull.  Neutral blue sheets on an unused bed that Bane plans to christen fully.  

He shoves Magnus down and follows, using tentacles to spread his legs.  He’s fucked others in front of a mirror before, but this is different, this is new and this is all him.

His cock fills Magnus like it was made perfectly to do just that and Bane chuckles at the thought.  His palm hovers just above the mark on Magnus’ chest, his magic crossing the distance to bring the flames to life and turn them to a dancing blue on Magnus’ skin.  

“I know this mark because this is my mark.”  Bane tells him, “and that means, Magnus Bane.  That you are mine.”

Magnus shakes his head, eyes flying open in a shocked refusal and mouth parting and Bane fucks the protest from his lips with a punishing thrust, just to watch him choke on his denial.  

Whatever strange things brought Bane here, it was with a purpose and Bane will find out just what belongs to him in this new world before he destroys it.

—

Bane slips out of Magnus with a gentleness that he allows only because Magnus’ eyes are closed in rest and his legs limp as Bane unwinds them from his waist.  Magnus’ hole clenches around him, as if to beg him to stay and Bane watches as a little of his come slips free.  He’s tempted to summon a toy, something to keep Magnus’ company but as much as he would enjoy it, he doubts his counterpart would appreciate it just now.  Better to save it for later, when Magnus is more aware and welcoming of his affection and efforts.  

The contract between them hums. 

A pleasant tune that fluctuates throughout Bane’s body as he steps through the door surveys the rest of Magnus’ home.  It will settle even further once Magnus fucks Bane, but Bane plans on Magnus being awake and aware and remembering it, so he’ll wait for that pleasure.

The entirety of Magnus’ lair is a pleasant atmosphere with decor he doesn’t hate and the presence of his twinned soul everywhere.  

The contract binding him to his word tugs at him, urgently now and Bane lets out an irked sigh as he raises his hand and opens a portal, hoping to finish with this nonsense as quickly as possible.  Why Magnus is so worried about one, mewling mortal shadowhunter is beyond him, but he’ll honor their deal, no matter how silly it may seem to him.

The guidelines of what Bane was brought to do were written into the very heart of the array and so even without Magnus telling him, Bane knows who he needs to get and where they are.

Bane ignores the laws of reason and magic and steps into the unknown.  Limbo does not wait for him, as his magic has carved a way for him.  His magic goes before him and he follows, feet meeting wood and stone and angelic power humming around him.  He is in a nephilim stronghold, as apparently in this world, they still stand strong.  

A figure turns, fists raised defensively as a towel slip from his hand.  It’s undoubtedly the nephilim Magnus contracted him to find.  The one he wanted delivered safely and unharmed to his side. 

The one he paid for in advance. 

With blood and seed, pleasure and pain.  A contract more than thrice bound that even Bane would hesitate to break. The nephilim that Magnus was willing to do anything for, an open-ended payment branded into the array, so long as Alexander Lightwood is delivered to him.

Bane stares at this soft, mortal warrior.  The small scar bisecting his eyebrow and the strong corded muscle of his bare arms.  He looks young and he should look lost, instead he seems as though he's finally been found.  

“Magnus?”  Alexander asks softly, confusion and hope in his voice.  Water drops from his hair, leaving darkened spots on his sweater as he steps forward, hands lowering to his sides.  He takes only a few steps before his wariness returns.  He leaves his hands down, but Bane can read the tension in his muscles and sees the pain in his eyes as he realizes it’s not the Magnus he thinks.

“I’m to bring you to him.”  Bane says with a smirk, “I’m Bane, shadowhunter.”

"Bane?"  He’s asked and Bane nods.  "Bane."  Alexander says again, less a test and more a declaration and Bane isn’t sure why he leans forward to kiss the sound of his name from Alexander’s lips.  

The nephilim is soft and pliant to his touch, a dazed blankness to hazel eyes as Bane portals him away.  

Bane's spine lights with sparks of muted recognition as he leads Alec to the bedroom Magnus purposefully avoided earlier.  The bed inside has sheets of gold and cream, and he vanishes them with a thought.

Maroon sheets, the hue of freshly lost blood welcome him as he settles back against the headboard.  He pulls Alexander with him instead of taking him to Magnus, a soul deep curiosity growing inside of him. Alexander goes willingly, nestling between his thighs and Bane marvels that somehow, he's been split in two and yet in his hands the world beats with a warm, steady pulse. 

Bane leans down and presses their lips together, his teeth claiming as he tugs on Alexander’s lips.

Alec whimpers, lost to his kiss and Bane pulls away, letting him gather his breath before using a finger to vanish his pants.  His gold eyes feast on Alexander’s expression as his breath catches and his hand cautiously reaching out to stroke Bane's cock.

"You can worship so much more devoutly than that, little angel."  Bane suggests and places his hand on the back of Alec's neck, "share with me your ardor.  Let me taste your veneration."

Angelic power floods into Bane freely, a gift given to him with such trust that he could take it all and Alexander wouldn't even try to stop him.

It's a heady, tempting taste of the power given to him over this shadowhunter and Bane uses magic to strip Alec of his shirt and pants, leaving his hand on the back of Alec's neck, holding him in place and keeping the connection wide. 

It means that Alec can feel him, when Bane sees the mark.

It sits there, so innocently and innocuously, as though it weren't a claiming brand that Bane once spent hours upon hours toiling over.

For Magnus, the twinning of his soul to bear it, is one thing. 

For Alexander, it's entirely another.

"Mine."  Slides through his thoughts, a phantom truth that wreaks through the towers keeping him in isolation and under his touch, Alec clenches and cries out, knees tight around Bane's thigh as he comes, hot and wet and without control.

Bane admires the twists of color on Alec's mark for a moment and then brings a matching flame to his hand, twirling it around his fingers before reaching out and stroking Alec's cock, letting the flames tease the sensitive skin there.  

"There," he murmurs, "my sweet boy, aren't you.  Mine.  Matching me in every way.  Made for me, my perfection."  

There's a crown that he remembers, an old relic of centuries long past.  He'll summon it another day.  Crown Alexander in Idris' fallen treasures and anoint him as holy and royal with his cock.  One ruler to another.

For now, though, he will enjoy this moment, the one where he met his soul and their mate. 

—

Magnus wakes up feeling sore like he hasn't in centuries.  The last time he felt this sore was when he took down a horde of Lilith's scum while battling for his father's crown and it certainly hadn't been accompanied by such a delicious burn or a wet trickle of evidence down his thighs.

It leaves his thoughts sickly sweet and oozing in his skull like honey, worries like bees buzzing in his ears too loudly to concentrate and the first thought to truly penetrate the fog is Alexander.

He hurries through the loft.  Tripping over randomly placed furniture, as though his home was overturned while he slept.

The bed he'd woken in was the guest bed, the unused room that he’s used to summon Bane to leave his master bedroom untouched.

Yet when he gets to it, the door is open.

Magnus enters with his glamour down and his power out.

Gold meets gold as the heirs of Asmodeus match stares and Magnus blinks away first, lowers his gaze to search frantically and sighs in devastated relief when he sees Alexander.

Alexander is safe.  

Bane rests seated on sheets the color of freshly spilled blood as though it is a throne and Alec is in the safest place he could possibly be.  Lying spread out and naked but for a sheet and a claiming hand in his hair, face nestled against Bane's hip and lips parted in sleep a parody of a kiss against Bane's cock.

"I see why you would consider destroying the world for him."  Bane says something close to reverence in his voice and that alone is so blasphemous that Magnus can't think about it at the moment.  "I even understand why you would summon me."  There is something there, in that moment that makes Magnus understand that in this, with Alexander between them, they are closer to equals than any lineage or favored gifts from their father could bring them.

His mind is still too slow to deal with that, however, and he pushes aside everything but the need for Alec to finally be in his arms and beneath his hands.  Magnus stalks to the bed and climbs, still naked, to press a kiss to Alexander's forehead and breath in his scent, his perfect, warm scent and then he kisses his boy.  

Bane's cock twitches against his cheek and Magnus groans into Alexander's mouth as his soulmate whimpers and comes awake, sucking on Magnus' tongue and instinctively chasing him when Magnus starts to pull away.  

They part and Magnus is aware enough to shudder, his own cock hard against Bane's leg as Alexander blinks at him, hazy eyed and lips wet as he stretches in sleep-addled supplication.  

"Our good boy," Bane murmurs, hand catching in Alexander’s hair and tugging on it, earning a sleepy groan that's muffled by skin as their boy turns and yawns against the crease of Bane's groin.  "How should he greet us this morning, Magnus?  In my world nephilim would worship when they wake, do some traditions in this stay the same?"

magnus is harry shum jr portrayal and bane is godfrey gao

#lumine writes #writing wednesdays #writing wednesday #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters #shadowhunters au #my fics #my fanfics #my ficlets #soulfire #soulfire vs

[isamajor]

Whumpril 2024 : day 11 to 15

11 . Can't Sleep

Nebarra came and sat down heavily near the campfire near which Taliesin was already installed, a fur wrapped around his shoulders.

“Can't sleep, mmh?”

A growl answered the elder Thalmor. Both knew the question was purely rhetorical. They were both veterans of the Great War and had experienced their share of horrors. Enough so that once you close your eyes, they take the opportunity to haunt you. Rather tired than reliving this in their sleep.

“Hand me the wine.”, Nebarra finally growled.

Taliesin sighed, rolled dramatically his eyes but handed him the bottle. Lacking sleep, Nebarra needed it to numb his memories. (100)

•

12 . Weak Pulse

Lydia was found lying in the tall grass, pale and motionless. The ground was soaked with blood beneath her. Kaidan threw himself on his knees beside her and immediately tilted his head to listen for a breath, then placed two fingers at her jugular. Time seemed endless. Kaidan seemed to feel a very slight pulse, but so faint that he doubted he felt anything.

“Damn, I think we’re losing her!!!”, he shouted.

Lucien arrived a few seconds later and, although out of breath, began to perform his best healing spells on her. Both clung to the hope of that faint pulse to save her. (104)

•

13 . Angry Tears

At first Lucien's features expressed shock. As if he couldn't believe what was happening before his eyes. Then, being assured that it was not a mistake but indeed a betrayal, his big blue eyes filled with tears.

"You said you wouldn't kill him ! I trusted your word !"

Lucien was trembling. It was not the blizzard that froze his tears on his cheeks that caused this, but rather his anger. Taking his courage in both hands, he stepped between the Dovahkiin and the old dragon.

"I won't stand for this." he finally said, his tone suddenly icy. (100)

•

14 . Urgent Care

They had faced an imposing Falmer pack which had divided their group in the maze of the cavern. Remiel clutched her stomach, pale and doubled over in pain. Inigo quickly understood that she was badly injured. He forced her to lie down and tore the sleeve of his own tunic to make a pressure bandage.

"It's gonna be alright. I'm sure Xelzaz will be here in a minute. He'll have potions to heal you.", he reassured her. But his voice was uncertain. He could only provide the minimum amount of emergency care. The Argonian needed to come, and quickly. (102)

•

15 . Mind Games

A memory had arisen. His father watched him, while he was still young, practicing the magical arts, scrutinizing his every move. “Your posture. Straighter!” he ordered, sharply adjusting his position. “Don’t shame our name.” he added.

Instinctively, at the thought of this memory more than a century old, Taliesin corrected his posture. The conditioning imposed by his father in order to make him a perfect Thalmor had left its mark. His father's little games had molded him that way, by exploiting his vulnerabilities and constantly pushing his limits. Each failure was accompanied by his abuse, forcing him into a endless search for perfection. (103)

#skyrim #whumpril2024 #skyrim custom followers #whumprilday11 #whumprilday12 #whumprilday13 #whumprilday14 #whumprilday15 #Nebarra #Taliesin #Kaidan #lydia skyrim #lucien flavius #inigo #remiel #can't sleep #insomnia #weak pulse #angry tears #urgent care #blood loss #mind games #conditioning

[starryhiraeth]

If you’re taking requests for the Taylor’s Version fics, do you think you could do “False God” or “So It Goes” with Rhys?

Rhysand x reader

Warnings?; suggestive hints, dumb teenage shit, alcohol and… Spelling Errors! SHOCKING…not

I hope you like it, tbh, originally, the meaning of the phrase “so it goes” was totally lost on me, but basically it’s means “so is life” “that’s what’s going to happen” “it is what it is” kind of like that 😂



You’d first met Rhysand in a bar, you were 17, as was he, at the time and had taken your older sisters ID to get in, the music was great and the alcohol was lush but…the people…the people were annoying

You didn’t quite realise just how many there was going to be, not to mention you were generally a good girl, it was your first time doing something like this.

You felt like your throat was closing up, you are definitely tipsy and panic started to rise until

“Need some help?”

You turned around to see the most beautiful creature you had ever seen, with deep violet-azure eyes and a devilish grin

It took your a while for you to realise your mouth was agape, you slammed it shut and blush spread across your cheeks

“Uh..uh what?” Your said, trying to act casual

He chuckled and moved closer

“Well even though the drinks here a great, It’s starting to get a little crowded” his breathe smelled of rich whiskey

You hummed and he took your hand, leading you outside

Once out, you felt like you could finally breathe, the cold air greeted you warmly

Ironic

Mystery man was next to you taking in the sight

The bar was in the forest, fairy lights decorated the trees and a streamed flowed on your right.

“Fancy going for a swim, darling?” He gave you that intoxicating grin again, offering you his hand as you took it

Soon enough you were both down in your underwear and splashing around in the water from the stream, until he grabbed turn wrist to stop you winning the water battle, not realising how close he had pulled you.

You breathing became shallow as your noises touched, your lips met in a heat of passion.

(I’ll let you imagine what happened next)

The next time you met Rhysand, you are 20 and you finally learnt his name!

(Good for you babes!)

Though the conversation was an odd one

“Your name darling?”

You told him

“and yours handsome?”

“Rhysand”

“Ha, you have the same name as the prince”

Looking back you wanted to slap yourself

He smirked “I suppose I do, don’t I”

“…”

“…”

“WAIT-”

You hummed and he started to move closer

“Want to go have some fun”

You smiled and took his offered hand, again

What you didn’t know was that “having fun” consisted of breaking into a museum, fucking on the furniture and stealing from various bars, gods you felt so bad but so alive, with Rhysand it felt like all the pieces fell into place, you get lost in the moment.

You certainly weren’t a bad girl, as already mentioned but with Rhysand, you did all kinds of bad things

By the next morning, you are in his black shirt and Rhysand has scratch marks down his back, as your red lipstick covered his gorgeous face.

Over the years you’d definitely done numbers on each other, but hey, who’s counting, seriously through.

You’d break down a little every now and again and date others then of course came meeting his family, biological and not, the death of his biological family, Amarantha, and now.

When Rhysand has returned it truly all fell into place, finally seeing him for the first time in 50 years

It finally hit.

Mate

mate

mate

Prythian was saved by Feyre Archeron, Tamlin’s mate and through her and you, Night and spring were able to reach a peace, at least politically.

And even then, after the war with Hybern, it was always you and Rhys

And EVEN now, with you being high lady and even with being a mother to your son, nyx.

When it’s just Rhys and you, you still get lost in the moment, lipstick is still painted on Rhys’s face, and you’ll always loose yourself becoming bad with your mate and doing mischievous things, almost like you were wild 17 year olds again but so it goes…

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhysand #rhysand x reader #rhys acotar #taylor swift x acotar & throne of glass #taylor swift x acotar #rhys x reader #taylor’s version #Taylor Swift #so it goes #reputation

[rays-of-fire-and-ice]

Final preview of the year

Seeing as doing these have motivated me in the past, here's the final preview of the year for a fic I'm hoping to get out before the end of December. It's shaping up to be an introspective piece for Momo (with Hitsuhina sprinkled in of course); a warning though that this section contains violence and descriptions of injuries:

The boy’s sobs make Momo's chest clench, and glancing at his face makes her bite the inside of her lip. Her blood pumps harshly in her veins, heating the backs of her eyes and the tips of her fingers. She thinks to look over at Toshiro, standing almost a yard away in her periphery along with a group of Shinigami, but chooses the boy instead.

“I-It’ll be okay,” she tries to reassure. “We’ve called for some people to come help you.”

The boy only whimpers and tilts his head down at the bite mark in his leg in horror. She can’t be glad he can’t see the full gruesome detail while he’s lying down, because it’s likely what he can see is bad enough. He’s getting too pale, much like his bedraggled mother, who clasps his hand in a death grip between her own. Momo can’t ignore her any longer, and says to her as she prepares for a healing kido, “I-In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Save him!” she begs. “He’s losing so much blood!”

“I-I don’t –”

“You’re supposed to save him!”

It’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over her rising panic. She holds her hands over the bite wound and stammers out the kido chant. As the green glow engulfs his limb, the boy yelps and his leg jolts.

“I-I’m sorry, I know it hurts,” she says to him, “but you’ll have to keep your leg still. This won’t take long.”

His bottom lip quivers, but he does as asked. It likely won’t be enough as the spell works deeper into the injury. Momo nods to his mother. “I-Im afraid I’m going to have to ask you to…” For some inexplicable reason, she can’t get the words out. Wasn’t she trained to handle situations like?

The boy’s mother whimpers when she realises what Momo wants her to do. She releases one hand from his and shakily brings it to his calf, pinning it down.

Another wounded Soul hisses in pain, but Momo doesn’t look away from the task at hand. Around her, Shinigami are trying to do the same she is with Souls who are injured to varying degrees. This boy is one of the more severe; aside from his injured leg, he has lacerations all over his body and internal wounds she suspects are in various places across his chest.

Considering the destruction caused by the Hollows in this area – from the snapped trees to the destroyed homes – it’s a miracle he wasn’t killed in the chaos.

His small face is scrunched up, his teary eyes focused on the sky.

She needs to distract him. “What’s your name?”

Before the boy can wince out an answer, his mother flatly replies, “Arai Tomohito.”

“Ah, that’s a really nice name,” Momo compliments.

Tomohito’s mother doesn’t respond, keeping her gaze on her son. The boy, however, shifts his attention to her. A tear falls down his cheek and lands in the dirt, but Momo can only take in how wide his eyes are. He wants assurance from her.

She finds some strength to smile. “I know it hurts a lot right now, but you’ll be all right. After I’m done, there will be other Shinigami that’ll heal you completely. You’ll be able to walk and run again before you know it.”

Tomohito blinks, looking both uncertain and hopefully.

“After I’m done, is there anything I can get you? Water? Or maybe something from your home?”

The boy’s eyes light up. “Kei-chan.”

“Huh?”

“M-My --”

“His toy,” his mother murmurs.

“Oh, I see.” She nods to her. “Maybe after I’m done, we can go get Kei-chan and –”

“Our house is gone.” The woman’s voice cracked, the flatness edging closer to something raw.

Momo can’t look away as Tomohito’s mother finally raises her head to her. Stands of dirt caked hair fall from what’s left of her bun, landing on her torn yukata. Her lips are parted, as if to say more, put they only quiver with a repressed sob. Momo’s gut churns; she knows this image will be burned into her memory for years.

#hitsuhina #momo hinamori #fanfiction #bleach

[notebooknonbinary]

Happy Holidays @willow-lark ! I'm your byler secret santa! I hope you enjoy the fic! D&D is usually outside of my comfort-zone but I had a lot of fun writing this!

- Also posting to AO3!

-

“Don’t move, you self-sacrificial moron,” a familiar voice snaps.

Paladin Mike blinks his way back into consciousness, aware of nothing other than that voice, and the searing pain in his abdomen. He lets out a hiss and goes to touch it, but a hand smacks him away.

“Do not undo my hard work, Michael, I swear to Apollo and all of the gods.”

“Why’re you bein’ mean to me, Wise?” he mumbles. His lips feel numb and it’s a struggle to open his eyes to glare balefully at his friend (more-than-friend? He’s still unsure, what with all the unsaid tension they’ve been having lately). Will glares back twice as harshly. His face is blotchy from crying. 

“Because you’re an idiot who used Divine Allegiance to take a hit that I would have survived.”

It takes Mike a long moment to remember what Will’s talking about.

They’d been fighting…a Bearded Devil and Mike had suddenly turned to see Will on his knees, struggling to move, to reach his staff. Terror and desperation had Mike’s body moving without thinking. He’d cast Devine Allegiance, calling out for Apollo.

Apollo had sent the assistance, of course. He thinks the god might care about Will almost as much as Mike does. More than he cares about Mike, anyway.

(The feeling is mutual.)

“I won’t apologize for doing it,” Mike murmurs. “But I am sorry to make you worry.”

Will huffs and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he silently continues tending to the mess that is Mike’s torso. It makes Mike slightly queasy to see, so he looks away. 

Instead, his eyes drift over the makeshift camp. It’d been clearly set up in a hurry, just after the fight, likely aided by Lady El’s magic to streamline the process. But the Party is staying clear of the ramshackle first aid area that Will has commandeered. They know full well, at this point, to leave him be if he’s healing someone. (Dustin still has the bite marks.) The Cleric doesn’t appreciate unnecessary interruptions.

Lucas, sitting by the campfire, seems to feel Mike’s eyes on him. He looks up, giving Mike a relieved smile. His eyes flick up to Will and then back to Mike, and he shrugs—as though to say, you’ve made this bed, now you have to lay in it. Then he gets up to join Dustin at the river. 

Mike sighs and turns his eyes back to watch Will work. 

He carefully keeps an eye on the man, rather than what he’s working on. The sweet brush of Will’s magic belays the way he’s been glaring. Mike’s always loved the way Will’s healing magic feels—like a warm hug, or a cup of hot tea from Will’s mother. Even before they swore allegiance to Apollo and the Light, Will has always been warm.

The year he was gone was the coldest time of Mike’s life—even the always warm presence of Apollo seemed farther away and cooler. Life felt perpetually overcast until Will was saved. Until he had his Cleric held in his arms—safe and alive.

There’s a tension in the air as Will works. Mike wants to reach up and smooth the furrow away from his brow, but he doesn’t dare. It’s rare that Will gets this way, but he’s…protective. And sometimes that need to protect translates into anger.

Finally, Will speaks, quiet but still upset. “What I don’t understand is why? You’ve never treated me as though I cannot take care of myself. You had to have known I could take the hit.”

Oh.

Mike hadn’t been sure, is the thing. All he’d known, heart beating a tattoo into his throat, was that Will was on the ground—with that damn Bearded Devil above him, about to strike down. And he’d thought, not again, please not again. Mike had cast the spell before he finished his next breath. He’d called out to Lucas just before it’d taken effect, asking him to take charge. He’d taken one last glimpse into Will’s horrified eyes.

Then blinding, horrific pain, and the blank, blissful nothingness of being unconscious.

He tries his best to explain this, before reaching up to grasp Will’s hand. The warm weight and shape of his fingers is as familiar as Mike’s own. “The night…the night Vecna spirited you away…I wasn’t watching out for you.” He stares up into Will’s forest floor eyes. “T’was my fault I—we lost you. Can’t lose you again, Wise.”

“I—” The words stop Will’s argumentative voice in its tracks. His eyes finally soften, the furrow in his brow leaves, and he squeezes Mike’s hand. “I’ve told you before, that wasn’t your fault. And you’re not going to lose me, Mike. We’ll defeat Vecna and make Hawks a safer place to live.”

“Maybe we could finally retire,” Mike hums, closing his eyes to imagine it. Returning to their village, heroes. No longer having to fight every day. Not waking up footsore and weary from whatever battle they’d had the previous night. Helping Will in whatever clinic he’s bound to set up. And maybe…returning home to the same house, the same table, the same bed as his Cleric. Will being the last thing he sees when he closes his eyes for the night, and the first sight in the morning. Oh, what a dream that would be. “We could go back home and help your mother with her farm.”

“You’re crazy,” Will whispers, with an oddly choked laugh. “You’d get bored within a fortnight.”

“Mm, well, crazy together, right? Bored with you, doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Yes, Mike. Crazy together.” There’s a warm splash on Mike’s cheek. When he reopens his eyes, Will’s have welled up with tears, but he’s smiling.  “But to get to that day, you have to be alive. Which means you need to stop making needless sacrifices. I can’t bear to lose you either, Mike.”

“Alright, Wise. I’ll do my best,” Mike mumbles sincerely. He’s gratified at the sweet smile he’s gifted.

And then he feels himself blush, as Will leans down and brushes the faintest kiss to the apple of Mike’s cheek. “Get some rest, hero,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through Mike’s hair. Will goes back to humming his healing incantation, as Mike drifts back to sleep.

#byler fic #byler secret santa 2022 #happy holidays i hope you enjoy!! #will byers #mike wheeler #stranger things #byler #byler secret santa #bylersecretsanta2022

[gremlinvapor]

“Right place right time” Sukuna x Cinderella

Part 3/8

=== ======================================== ===

Chapter 3 “A way back home”

Just like the beautiful autumn sun rose once again, Sukuna returned to the Tremaine residence to search for the lost wand. The thought of spending yet another day looking for it made the man grow terribly frustrated. While pacing once more around the area he noticed a red head of hair darting just out of sight. Knowing who it was he just scoffed at the thought of the person. Certain that there wasn’t anything to worry about he continued his search. 

One of the last spots he decided to visit was where the Fairies stone likeness stood. Flowers that wouldn’t bloom at this time of year covered the area. A thick vine of ivy caught Sukuna’s atencion. The plant was quickly growing around one of the closeby trees and between the leaves the man noticed something. “Finally!” He thought while reaching for the object. His sharp fingernails ripped the wand out of the vines with ease. But before he could examine it a burning pain pierced his body. Sukuna tried to endure it, but the harder he held onto the wand the worse the pain became. Eventually he involuntarily threw the object to the side.

His red eyes affixed to the deep burn mark on the palm of his hand. It was like nothing he experienced before. In a cold sweat he looked around hoping he hadn’t lost the wand yet again. 

-Damn it!- he burst out having no idea where the wand landed. 

In anger he struck the ivy ridden tree, breaking it in half. While stepping back to collect himself  he noticed that the statue vanished from its pedestal. “Did I knock it over?” He questioned while drawing closer. Right then a figure appeared. An old woman wearing a blue dress and hood came out from behind the pedestal.

-Oh my, what an awful fall I took. Hopefully nothing terrible happened during my absence. Now let me see, hmm. It seems that the silly goose hadn’t messed anything up in the past. Well that’s good. I guess I don’t need to fix anything then-... Oh, hello! Are you the kind soul that reversed the spell on me?-she ranted not taking any notice of the man standing in front of her until the last second.

-More or less.

 -Oh, but you’re not from here are you? I’m terribly sorry about having you stuck in the past.  As a gesture of my gratitude I can send you back to your time good Sir. -she chirped toward Sukuna.

-No need. Not yet at least.

-No need?-she coked her head to the side- Well sir if you insist, but if you ever need anything, i'm here to help.

-Well then, I have a question.

-What is it?

-Does your wand have some kind of safety mechanism?

She seemed to be caught off guard with his question.

-I was burned by it when I grabbed it you see.- Sukuna explained.

-Oh! Hold on. Let me first fix it then.-she waved her wand and with a Bibbity-bobidy-boo, his hand looked just like new.- It wouldn’t hurt a regular person. However if a wizard of some kind would take my wand away, well, he would suffer the consequences. So that’s probably why you got burned.

Soon Sukuna’s hopes of using the wand for himself vanished. If him being a sorcerer or curse would make this cursed tool unusable, he decided to just forget the whole thing all together. He thanked the Fairy Godmother and went to meet up with Cinderella.

At approximately three in the afternoon Cinderella met the pink haired man in the nearby forest. They diligently honed her skills, progressing at a surprising pace. During their practice they discovered that the blue eyed girl could only reliably control animals no larger than a cat. After a couple of hours of training they finished their day by watching the sunset on the meadow they practiced on. The couple sat in silence. Sukuna’s eyes fixated on the girl's beautiful face. 

-You know. There is a ball at the castle this week.-she said, not moving her gaze from the setting sun.

-You’re invited?

-Every girl in the kingdom is, I think… I wanted to ask if you’re going.-her head turned, focusing her blue eyes on the man beside her. Sukuna felt strangely embarrassed.

-Do you want me to go?

-Yes, it would be great! I always dreamt about having fun with friends at a party.-her hand absentmindedly inching closer to his.

-...Then I’ll think about it. When is it exactly?

-Sunday.-she stopped to think for a moment- Would you like to go to the market with me?

-Tomorrow?

-No, no. I’m terribly busy tomorrow, but I’m going to the market the day after. We could meet up at the fountain in the city then.

-All right, would eleven be good?

-Yes, I think it would.-she said as she placed a soft kiss on Sukuna’s cheek- I’ll see you on saturday.

Cinderella stood up from the gras and went in the direction of her house, leaving Sukuna by himself. He stayed motionless while watching her disappear in the treeline. His thoughts swirling in a jumbled mess. Questions like “Is this real?” and “Am I dying?” being the more prominent ones.

#ao3 #crackship #disney cinderella #jjk sukuna #sukuna x cinderella #fanfic #jjkxdisney #jjk #fanfiction #writing

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 12 WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

“Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

enjoy @tatsujeff <3

“You’re an asshole,” Guy grunts, hauling Hal to his feet and jamming a shoulder under his arm to keep him standing. “Hey,” he says when Hal doesn’t react, barely making an effort to move. “Ya heard me? I said you’re an asshole.”

“I heard you just fine the first time, Guy,” Hal pants between breaths, one hand curling around his ribs. “I’m not.” Hal spits when Guy gets ready to repeat it, petulant and cold.

“Are too.” And finally Hal decides to start using his legs, putting a foot in front of the other.

“Am not!” He tries to sound pissed but he misses the marks and falls on a solid hurt and in a pathetic way, not an intimidating one.

“Are too.” And great, he’s got him going, at least now Hal is talking instead of gazing with unfocused eyes at the sky. “Dumbass here decides to go on a rescue mission all alone in planet bumfuck in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere without no backup and no battery, thinks it’s the best idea of the century.”

“You’re a dumbass too,” Hal cuts him off.

“Hold on, how was I supposed to know this weird ass crystal would siphon the ring’s energy?” They stumble off the bridge where Guy found him and onto the flat surface of the temple right next to it. He’s glad they’re not above hundreds of feet of void anymore, this crevasse is freaking him out.

“Maybe because I was lying right next to it, no ring and no shield, well on my way to choking to death!” Hal throws an arm in the air and Guy is impressed that a man who was so short on air barely minutes ago can go on a yelling spell without turning blue. He says so out loud, earns himself an eye roll. “We’re doomed.” Hal coughs a pained grunt when his twisted ankle hits a rock on the ground. “Gonna die here, all alone.”

“You’ve got me, asshole.” And they’re not going to die. Guy didn’t go to the trouble of tracking him down just to end here, he won’t let that happen. Hal’s quiet by his side, no smart comeback or barb, only focused on walking, still leaning half his weight on Guy and hoping on his good foot. Beads of sweat pearls at his forehead. He's too quiet. “Come on, pal. Talk to me now, don’t ya dare go out while I’m carrying you.”

“You’re not carrying me,” Hal huffs, indignant and prideful even with the strain on his voice.

“What d’you find anyway, doesn’t look like rescue needs to happen here.” Guy throws a look around, the entire planet’s dead, a fossilized rock with not even a bacteria or microbe on the surface. Just rocks and putrid gazes. There are remnants of civilization, of life, but it’s long gone.

“The call for help was lost, it didn’t reach a habited planet in time. When I got there, it was long past helping.” Hal explains. He talks about how he got there, and what he found, and how he decided to investigate the crystal before leaving, just in case. Guy listens, the tension in his chest relieving by the minute as Hal’s voice grows stronger with each word.

“Here,” Guy points at a bigger rock, one that looks like it could have been a bench, or some kind of chair ages ago. Hal’s been getting progressively paler as they walked, and he’d rather not have him keel over right now. Hal doesn’t even protest, which goes to show how badly he’s hurt. Looks like at least a couple of bruised ribs, if not more, and various pulls and twists in his limbs. The cut at his forehead is still sluggishly bleeding, matting his hair down.

“What now,” Hal asks with a gasp, holding his chest with both of his arms now.

“Now I save us both, and you say thank you, Guy, you’re the best.” He flashes his grin, the best one he can conjure up, the one that says everything’s just peachy.

“I’ll save that for when we’re back home,” Hal says, but he ignores him. Guy turns around and walks away from him and his bench, deeper into the room, paces along the baren hallway of the temple, holding up his ring and staring at it.

“Come on. Just a little, just enough to call ‘Wog or somthin’.” But nothing comes up, it’s dead, cold and heavy on his finger, unresponsive. Entirely useless. He stomps further down the hall, grinding his teeth. “Son of a-” as soon as his feet make contact with the ground, it cracks beneath his sole, and Guy watches horrified as the entire thing crumbles right underneath him.

He hears Hal yelling somewhere behind him as he’s suddenly swallowed by a dark empty, and he realizes the temple is built directly above that freaky canyon. John should have some words with the one who designed this place about safety regulations, Guy thinks as Hal's voice follows him down the hole.

He doesn’t have time to be afraid, or think much else, really, because he leaves the open sky for deep darkness, not even seconds later there’s a flash of green around him and his back hits something hard and unyielding. The violence of the shock makes everything fuzzy around him, and before he can understand what’s going on he slips out of consciousness, Hal's yells reaching the edge of his mind.

#hal just recharge his ring made of his own will to catch guy #guy will yell himself blue for ten minutes because why the fuck couldn't he have done that before? dumbass #wt22 #halguy #dc

[captainlilyuniverseworld]

5 Times Plus 1

“You are staring,” Lestat mused. 

“You’re reading,” Louis pointed out. 

“Vraiment?” Lestat looked at the book he held and put his hand on his chest feigning surprise. “Mon dieu! I had not noticed.” 

Louis rolled his eyes and threw a balled up piece of paper at him as Lestat laughed. 

“I just meant,” Louis leaned back in his seat. “In the short time we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read one. Considering all those books you own.” 

“It is a pass time I have yet to purge from my repertoire,” Lestat closed the book after marking his place. “Besides, you are busy doing whatever it is you are doing.” 

“Working, as some of us need to do,” Louis chuckled. “You could always go out with the others. I’m sure they’d enjoy your company.” 

“But then you would be in here alone,” Lestat crossed his legs. “Unless of course, you wish for me to go, in which case…” Lestat moved as if he were going to stand. 

“You don’t…you can stay, if you want,” Louis shrugged and tried to seem nonchalant. 

Lestat settled back on the couch and went back to his book as Louis continued reading over documents. Signing things. Most of it was for the house and his mother. Money he wanted to set aside for Grace and Levi’s children if they had any. 

Until finally he finished and stretched. He glanced over and saw Lestat had moved from the couch and now sat on the floor, with his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled his shirt sleeves up, arm propped up on the couch as he kept reading. 

“What are you reading anyway?” Louis asked. 

“The book itself is a collection of 14th century poems. Currently, I’m reading the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” Lestat answered. 

“Interesting?” Louis asked. 

He stood up and laid down on the couch with his head resting on the pillow and his hands laced over his stomach. 

“Shall I read it to you?” Lestat asked with a hint of amusement. 

“Would you?” Louis asked. 

He wondered if he’d gone too far. Said the wrong thing when Lestat didn’t answer at first. The other man cleared his throat and Louis realized he was surprised. Caught off guard by a simple request. 

“Alright,” Lestat nodded a little. “It has been some time since I read aloud though, so I hope you forgive any mistakes. Shall I start at the beginning or…?”

“Wherever you are is fine,” Louis assured him. 

Lestat cleared his throat again and skimmed the page for his spot before starting to read. 

“Her face was a dim dream of shadowy light, like misty moonbeams on the fields of night, and in her sweet voice nature's sweetest tunes sang the glad song of twenty cloudless junes.”

Lestat paused. 

“Don’t stop, please,” Louis had his eyes closed and his head tilted towards Lestat. 

Something in the way Lestat read the story, or maybe it wasn’t even that, maybe it was Lestat’s voice himself, or even just Lestat. But the sounds outside the room, the sounds of the city seemed to fade away. 

Lestat found his place once more, this time reading with renewed vigor. “Beneath her dress a woman’s heart was beating, the rhythm of love’s eternal eloquence, and I confess to you, in confidence, though flowers have grown a thousand years above her, unseen, unknown, with all my soul, I love her.” 

Lestat looked at Louis as he read, the words seared into his mind. He reached out to touch the other man, his fingers nearly grazing his cheek. Until a loud crash broke whatever silence spell had been cast on the room and Louis pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.

“Goddamnit, I swear something better be on fire or already burning for that kinda noise,” he hauled himself off the couch and grabbed the cane from the coat rack. 

The one with the blade hidden inside, Lestat noted. Louis was nearly halfway out the door, the yelling and cursing louder, when he turned back, his expression soft. 

“We’ll have to pick up some other time, maybe we could start from the beginning,” Louis told him. 

“I would like that,” Lestat smiled. 

Another loud crash and what sounded like glass breaking caught Louis’s attention once more. His voice louder than the others as he demanded what all the ruckus was. Lestat contemplated continuing, but instead, he closed the book not bothering to mark his spot. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50033239

#loustat #amc interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #lestat x louis #louis de pointe du lac #claudia #5 + 1 fic

[hopelessrromantix]

inure |3

-rewritten @zi-deactive​ work-

summary - To some, The Spectre is a serial killer. To some, a hero. But to everyone, you were entirely a mystery. You had no history, just a list of victims a mile long. No matter how many people searched your name, they couldn't find anything. If only they had the spelling right. Now, you’ve come across some unfortunate information that drives you out of your usual shadows and into the path of the Avengers. Including two of the more reclusive members of the team. And it’s hard to pick only one of them.

(t/w): this series contains violence and alcohol abuse

                              ═════════•°• ⚠ •°•═════════

Drink Number 12

Finally, you arrived on the doorstep of a target you’d been tracking for months. You’d gotten the tip from a morally questionable FBI agent who really needed a break. Apparently, this target had been leading quite the operation.

Managing drug rings, human trafficking, and murder. Not to mention the number of people she had killed on her own. Even that sounded like your usual case. A major criminal who you got to take out. Just your average job. Until you looked into her a bit more.

She didn’t just murder. She tortured. All of her victims had gone through days of torture, maybe even weeks. Apparently, even forensics investigators weren’t sure exactly how long these people had to suffer. It made you sick.

“Violet.” You said, rounding the corner. Unlike most of your targets, she had an office of her own. It was almost ironic, a monster hiding in plain sight as some corporate CEO.

She was an older woman, though still fit and physically strong. Her tan was obviously fake, as was her dyed black hair. You weren’t sure it was a fashion choice or an attempt to keep the authorities from finding her.

She was one of the last people in the building, meaning fewer people to hear the gunshots. Or the screams. You hadn’t decided yet.

“Yes? Can I help you? I didn’t see any appointments marked this late, I hope you have a good reason for coming in,” She said half-heartedly, not looking up from her work. She had a heavy accent, certainly European, though you couldn’t tell what country.

There was a moment of silence before she let out an annoyed sigh. “I have things to do, if you don’t mind hurrying this up.”

She flipped a page of her documents, still not looking up at her.

You stepped into the room, making your way to her desk. She looked visibly annoyed. Not that you cared.

The whole room smelled of lavender, likely due to the small candle she had burning on her desk. It provided little light in the room, especially because of the dark aesthetic of the office. The smell was heavy in the air, nearly choking you as you got closer.

Finally, she looked up from her work, immediately staring at you in confusion.

“What sort of getup is that supposed to be? Last I checked it wasn’t Halloween,” She laughed slightly at her own joke, looking more confused when you didn’t respond.

“I don’t think that’s important, Ms. Wagner,” You began. She didn’t seem surprised that you knew her name, but her eyes narrowed, scanning over your form.

“Do I know you?”

Your face was obscured by your hood, making it hard for her to get a good look.

“That’s not important. What’s important is you,” You said simply, eyes trained on her. The confusion didn’t leave her face. She looked you up and down, as if trying to remember who you were.

“What the hell do you want? Say it quick then get out.” She was short-tempered, brows furrowing as she huffed at you.

“Fine then,” You started. “You’re an ex-Hydra agent. After about ten years, you got too much for even them to handle. Your torturing was gruesome, even for Hydra. Imagine that. Being called a monster by the worst of the worst.”

Violet was starting to look offended, but you only spoke louder, cutting off whatever she was going to say.

“Now you’re in the US. You moved countries just to start your cycle of death all over again, not to mention the drug rings you’re running.” Your voice was calm and unwavering as Violet searched your face, trying to figure out who you were. “Tell me, how many children have you killed? Surely the number of adults is in the hundreds… but I wonder how many of them were kids.”

You knew the answer, of course (47), but she didn’t need to know that.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?! Accusing me of things like that?!” She yelled, standing from her desk. She looked outraged, though you were accusing her of murder.

“Get the hell out! NOW! She yelled, pointing toward the door behind you. You didn’t move.

“I said now!! Can you hear, bitch?!” She crossed her arms (as if that would intimidate you). “I’ll call security.” You could tell it wasn’t an empty threat, but you weren’t worried.

They wouldn’t get here in time anyway.

You focused on her. Her mind. What she was thinking, what she felt, anything about her. Then you heard it.

“Who does she think she is? March in here like she owns the place. Pathetic.”

Her thoughts.

You focused harder, this time on her fears. Everything she regretted, everything she hated, things she was scared of. You found every last one of the monsters in her closet. And then you made them real.

She looked left and right, probably hallucinating something awful. You could never completely see what you created unless it was an illusion, but you could usually guess what was happening based on what they said.

“Mother?” She asked. She was only staring at a wall, a painting of flowers hung on it along with other paintings she had collected. The look on her face was horrified. You wondered what the story was there.

It was an ability you’d had since you were young, though it was much weaker before you ‘died’. Now, it was one of your most useful skills.

“Stop! Dear god, stop, please. Fuck. Please!” She said. There were tears forming in her eyes already and her voice was cracking. She looked up at you. “You! What did you do to me? What the hell did you do?!” She continued yelling at you but eventually, her words became jumbled, the occasional scream cutting in. She’d glance from side to side before squeezing her eyes shut and looking down. They always acted like that. Strong, determined to stop you, then reduced to nothing but mumbling husks.

You focused on yourself now, this time disguising yourself with an illusion. Another woman walked into the office. Her skirt was short, though professional and you could see a red collared sweater tied around her hips. You’d left the door half open, her screams could be heard down the hallway, so it wasn’t a huge surprise to see someone else come in.

“Miss Wagner?” The woman said. She looked like a college intern, twenty years old at maximum. “Oh my god.” She walked toward the desk until she spotted the broken woman. Violet’s artificial tan didn’t help how pale her face had become. Her legs had given out and now her arms were struggling to support her as she sat on the ground, tears running down her face. She was mumbling things about her mother, father, and ‘the children’, which you suspected were the ones she tortured. Hm. Maybe she did feel some guilt about that. She’d glance back to where you stood. You made sure she could see you, though the intern was oblivious to your presence.

“Miss Wagner? Miss Wagner?! Are you alright?!” The girl asked with urgency, clearly unsure what to do. Violet didn’t respond. She continued staring down at the floor, mumbling, and sweating. “Violet?” The girl tried using the woman’s first name instead. She flinched back like she was expecting some huge outburst. Her employees must be treated poorly as well.

“I-I…” the girl paused. It seemed like she didn’t want to help the crying woman on the floor. You figured Violet wasn’t a very nice boss. The girl shook her head a bit, standing up. She took a deep breath before speaking with confidence, “I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll be back, I promise.” She ran off, back to her desk presumably to make the call. You nodded, appreciating her morals to do the right thing for an awful person. Sadly, you didn’t live by the same rules. You could hear her talking to someone as you made your way over to Violet.

“Awe, darling.” You lifted up her chin with your fingers. You met her eyes. They were filled with pure terror and they kept glancing over your shoulder. You laughed at her. The way she seemed unable to focus and how clammy her face felt. You wondered if her victims looked the same.

“Please…” She started. “I can’t live like this, at least kill me. I understand. I’ve learned. Is that what you want? Learning?” You shook your head. Of course, she tries now. You’re torturing her like she once did to others and now she wants to ‘learn her lesson’?

“No. That’s not what I want. I want you to rot somewhere. And maybe someone out there, someone much nicer than me, will take pity. And kill you.” Your hand left her chin and she was left, crying out for as long as the strain in her voice would let her.

                              ═════════•°• ⚠ •°•═════════

The next several days consisted mostly of theorizing. You knew what the mystery terrorist would need to construct SPCTR, but not where they’d go first. Sadly, it was better to wait for an update.

Meanwhile, you’ve had to adjust to living with the Avengers. Most of them were constantly on guard. The Falcon and Stark hadn’t calmed down since the moment you walked into their base. At this point, it was kind of funny.

You and Loki had started your own two-person ‘book club’, if it could be called that. It mostly consisted of you recommending your favorite books and discussing them with Loki a bit later.

Bucky and Natasha had shown you some of their fighting techniques, though you never stuck around long with Natasha. It wasn’t out of disrespect to her, you respected her a lot actually. It was because she was trying to find an ally in you. You weren’t the same as her. She was a good woman trying to make up for her mistakes. You, on the other hand, were too busy making them.

The rest of the team was anxious to find any new information about SPCTR. You didn’t blame them, but you had to explain plenty of times that waiting for some sort of attack was your best shot. Needless to say, the world’s mightiest heroes didn’t feel like waiting around.

A very, very small part of you didn’t want it to end quickly though.

Did you want to save the world from mass murder? Yes, of course you did. But you hadn’t lived in a real home since the 40’s. Even then, you’d spent the last years of your life living in a crowded military base, holed up in a lab.

Whether you liked it or not, Loki and Bucky were the closest things you’d had to friends in a very long time.

Most of the team still wasn’t happy to have you with them. Though it felt bad to be on the outside, you were used to it. If you had it your way, you never would’ve come there at all, but there were lives on the line and you really needed immunity.

“Everything alright?” Bucky asked as he adjusted the tape over his hands. The two of you had tried out sparing since you could take one hell of a hit so he was free to use his metal arm on you. He had even consented to letting you study it for an hour or two. The two of you got along well and both he and Loki had moved up from the position of ‘not-enemy’ to ‘associate’, though it wasn’t much of a leap. You were hardly ready to trust them, it had only been a few days.

“Just fine. Whenever you’re ready, Barnes.” You said, tossing aside your sweatshirt as you stood across from Bucky. You readied your stance and waited for him to say the word.

“Go.” You took a step forward but Bucky rushed toward you, taking a swing with his metal arm. You knew he appreciated an opponent who could take a hit from a weapon like that, though it took some convincing for him to go all out. You were certain he still wasn’t using 100% of his strength, but it was a start. You ducked, sliding next to him before getting up on one knee and taking a jab at his leg. He stumbled a bit but stayed standing. Although it wasn’t as effective as you hoped, it gave you time to stand without interruption.

The second he turned to face you, you punched him in the chest, sending him back a bit. He stepped forward and swung his leg into your side, making you stumble too. You kept your hand out to help you balance. You lowered yourself and swiped under his legs. He tripped, but caught himself with his arm. You stood up, jumping back.

He stood again, rushing toward you, metal fist raised. You caught his punch and you could feel the sting against your hand. You were definitely going to have a bruise or two after this. You threw his hand aside, setting him off balance, and kicked into his side. He landed on his stomach with a small thud and you kept your foot against his back and kneeled down, arm held against the back of his neck.

“Not bad.” He said, you stood and helped him up.

“Same to you.” You nodded as a small sign of respect. “I’m going to take a shower, I’ll need it before the rest of your group calls some sort of meeting.” You rolled your eyes and Bucky nodded. You could tell he didn’t really like you making fun of his ‘team’, but he never said much. It made you feel a bit bad, but on the other hand, the do-gooders were about as annoying as it gets.

The elevator felt slower than normal, though it was probably just the uncomfortable feeling of sweat on your skin. You stepped out onto your floor. You shared it with Clint and Natasha, probably so they could keep an eye on you. You didn’t mind too much, Clint wasn’t too bad and you had a certain amount of respect for Natasha. She used to have a similar career to you after all. She’d made her way onto your radar for a while, though there were bigger fish to fry and SHIELD was already on her tail. Still, you’d much rather be alone.

You were about to open the door leading to your room when you sensed something was off. Your abilities were helpful in your line of work. Sensing other people had become a skill of yours and right now, something was wrong.

You were on high alert, though you knew it was probably just a team member. You opened the door slowly, prepared to fight if need be. Instead, Natasha sat on your couch, cleaning some of her guns.

The weapons didn’t bother you too much. They were all disassembled for cleaning, the magazines sitting on the table, completely empty. You were sure she’d done that part on purpose, just so you’d know she wasn’t here for a fight, but she’d fight back if need be.

You walked over to your makeshift kitchen and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Whiskey was more your thing, but you’d make do with what you had. You poured a full glass, not caring much about how you were ‘supposed’ to pour it, Natasha was silent the whole time, waiting for you to come over to her.

You moved toward the couch and sat next to her, waiting for her to talk.

“Good to see you again.” She said, not looking away from her weapons. You smiled, taking a large sip of your drink. It burned a bit in your throat, though it wasn’t anything new.

“I’m glad you cleaned up your act.” You said, not offering her any greeting. You could see her smile.

“Why did you let me go that day?” She asked, this time looking up at you. She looked genuinely curious. She didn’t waste any time getting to the point, huh?

“You were finally on the right path. After spending so long killing who you were told to, Hawkeye got you where you were supposed to be.”

She shook her head, not quite understanding. “I was about to kill him. That target, I was going to kill him. I did kill him, and you walked away and left him with me. Why.”

You relaxed against the couch, realizing your shower would have to wait a little longer. “He deserved it. SHIELD was right to send you after him, his death saved lives. I was just making sure you were staying on task. And staying on the right side of the tracks, so to speak.” You took another long sip, hoping you’d feel the effects sooner rather than later.

“You were watching me?” She asked. You were a bit surprised. Natasha was a talented assassin, someone capable and good at protecting herself. Though you doubted that she would know it was you, you did think she’d figure out that someone was watching her. It gave you a small confidence boost.

“I watch a lot of people, Natasha. I like making sure that people in powerful positions really want what’s best for society. Sometimes, they become a target.” You took another gulp of your drink, slightly anxious to finish it as quickly as possible. “Like that Stark.” Natasha began putting a few of her guns back together and into a small black bag next to her.

“Stark was a target?”

You shook your head. “No, but he was on my watch list. His dad wasn’t my favorite guy and for a while, he made some rather destructive weapons. I had to make sure he wouldn’t turn into some power-crazed nut job.”

Natasha laughed a bit, “Yeah, pretty sure he did that anyway.” You laughed. Making fun of a Stark was something you did with Peggy. It felt familiar. Sitting down with ‘the other woman on the team’ and having a chat about your friends. Familiar, but not the same.

“Tell me, if I hadn’t been doing the right thing, if I had let him go or left him alive, would you have killed me?” You didn’t pause, you knew your answer.

“Without a second thought.” You took another sip, this one longer than your previous ones. Natasha nodded, understanding. Of all the people in the tower, she was probably the one who would understand most.

She finished cleaning another gun before Friday’s voice was heard in your room. Great.

“Spectre, Miss Romanoff, you’re wanted in the meeting room. There’s been a robbery.”

You downed the rest of your drink, ignoring the burn in your throat. Natasha gave you a slight side glance, probably worried for your health. Not that it was a real concern for you anymore.

“Uh… do you guys usually answer robberies?” You asked, setting down the glass. Natasha grabbed her bag, bringing it with her out of the room.

“No, there’s something else to this.” You nodded, accepting her answer. You internally groaned at the feeling of sweat still on you. At this point, you’d even settle for a five-minute shower. You ran to your room quickly, pulling off the tank top you were wearing and grabbing a t-shirt. At least you wouldn’t have to wear a soaked shirt. It was just you and Natasha in the elevator in silence. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t a situation you wanted to be in.

The room was almost completely full, though Wanda and Vision were right behind you. You took a seat toward the end of the table next to Steve. You were sure they put you there just in case someone needed to knock you out in a worst-case scenario, but you didn’t care.

Steve set down a few papers just as Wanda sat down.

“Alright, everyone’s here.” He pulled his seat closer to the table. “There was a robbery earlier today.”

“What, did some kid swipe a candy bar? How is this our problem.” Tony asked. He was wearing sunglasses despite being indoors. Though the normal assumption would be that he just came inside, you somehow doubted that.

“Not exactly. The focus is on what was stolen. It was at a nearby museum, the owners themselves weren’t sure what it was since it didn’t have any sort of identification. Just that it was World War II memorabilia.”

“Oh I see, someone took your old helmet?” Tony said, interrupting again. Your eyes narrowed. You were getting annoyed with his constant comments, though the rest of the group seemed unbothered. That, or they had grown used to his obnoxious personality. You saw Loki’s face shift though, so he was probably feeling similar emotions to yours.

“The owners said it was part of an unfinished project, we think it might be a piece of Project SPCTR.” A few eyes turned toward you, including Steve’s. “Do you recognize this?” He asked, setting a photo down in front of you. It was most certainly a piece of your machinery.

“It’s what we used to stabilize our core. I built it forever ago just tinkering with supplies, no blueprints. It’s one of a kind. I doubt I could remake it myself.”

“Well, that explains why it was stolen,” Natasha said, just loud enough for the few people around her to hear.

“So, what now?” A man asked. You now knew him as Sam, or ‘The Falcon’, the other bird-themed hero.

“We find anything else we can.” You said, choosing to look at Steve. It felt odd talking to a room, so you tried to focus on one person instead. You were used to creating plans by yourself, not brainstorming with a group. “I left plenty of materials and blueprints behind. I never got a chance to examine why it malfunctioned, but I’m sure a good percentage of the original machine is usable. Assuming it hasn’t been used since, of course.

“So, where is it?” Clint asked, contributing to the discussion.

“Well, it’s been almost 70 years so I have no idea. Didn’t have a reason to keep track of all that junk.” Steve nodded, though some of the group sighed out loud.

“Let’s check the site and see what else turns up.”

#inure #x reader #bucky barnes #loki #loki x reader #bucky x reader #loki x reader x bucky #bucky x you #marvel #avengers #tony stark #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #clint barton #hawkeye #captain america #iron man #black widow #the falcon #the winter solider x reader #sam wilson

[moonlitceleste]

wish upon a moonstone (ch 5)

wuam masterlist  

ao3

After a weekend spent doing nothing but studying, Marinette is excited to finally be in Charms. Jon, the blue-eyed boy Professor Zatara seats her next to, looks strangely familiar, but she can’t quite put her wand on it. She doesn’t have much time to dwell on this fact, because between the professor’s instruction and Jon’s friendly chitchat, her mind is occupied. She’s glad she gets along with her seat partner, as their shared laughter has already put her in a good mood necessary to endure Potions. She’s no longer upset about the incident with her partner, but she doesn’t know if he’ll let it go so easily.

·

It turns out Marinette’s worries are unfounded, because Professor Tyler had chosen to do a theory day. She still sees Damian during Defense Against the Dark Arts, but the class is still in an independent format and he doesn’t seem very keen on approaching her for any reason. Today, they’re working on Patronus charms, the most notorious and notoriously difficult of all defensive charms. Though Marinette has already conjured her Patronus in the past, she still listens to Professor Clark as he stands in the middle of the open floor.

“Even experienced witches and wizards struggle to produce an incorporeal Patronus. It is an exceedingly difficult spell, so I don’t expect you to succeed right away, but I believe that each of you has what it takes to cast this spell. Remember, focus on the happiest memory possible rather than producing a corporeal form.”

With this dismissal, people start trying to cast the spell. Some murmur the incantation while others mark the motions by drawing circles in the air. Marinette watches for a second, then raises her own wand. She’s already familiar with the form of her Patronus: a Tonkinese Cat. During lonely summers, she’d summon it, letting it twine around her legs and leap gracefully onto her bed.

At first, it’d felt wrong to use the spell that way. Marinette was aware that producing a Patronus at her age, and a corporeal one at that, was unheard of—wasn’t it disrespectful to use her ability so flippantly? Once she’d started summoning her feline companion for no other reason than that she could, however, she’d continue to relish in its brief company.

It’s been a while since she’d last called upon her Patronus, but Marinette is still familiar with the motions. She thinks of the same memory she’d always used: the birthday after her second year of Hogwarts, when her parents had called her downstairs, and she’d seen her friends gathered in her living room—oh. Marinette’s concentration falters at that, but she continues focusing on the memory. They’d cut a huge cake, played games, and at the end of the night, unwrapped gifts. Alya had gotten her magical, color-changing fabric, Nino some supplies she’d needed, and Adrien a book of spells for designers. They’d all stayed for a sleepover, and when they finally left, Alya had hugged her goodbye and Adrien gave her a kiss on the cheek—

A faint wisp comes out of Marinette’s wand. She stares. Tries again, and nothing. Panic seizes her. The memory isn’t good enough. It’s no longer unmarred. She switches tactics and tries to shelve the emotions warring within her. She doubts she’ll be able to cast such a complex charm half-heartedly, but she has to try.

Just like the previous memory, the new one involves her parents. This one is recent, however; she thinks of her the new people she’s met at Hogwarts, the bright smiles they’ve given her, and the hope she has that things will get better. And that’s what she’s good at, isn’t it? Finding hope.

A brilliant silvery light bursts from her wand and her Patronus emerges, leaving a shimmering trail from its paws as it walks in midair. It descends toward her, and Marinette can hear the classroom fall silent as people turn to watch. The cat is at head level now. It dips its head and slowly touches its nose to hers, then backs away, starlight spilling from its paws, and dissolves into air. Marinette stares at the spot where it’d vanished until her concentration is broken by a clear voice.

“Remarkable,” Professor Clark praises. “Now, Marinette’s performance is quite exceptional, but don’t let that intimidate you! You are all capable enough. Let this give you hope,” he says, then chuckles at his own joke.

When everyone finally turns away, she allows herself to exhale. The downward tilt of her lips doesn’t go away, and her thoughts fight for her attention as she turns to look at the clock. When her eyes pass over her classmates, she catches Damian looking at her, furrowed brow mirroring her own expression. His thoughts are indecipherable.

·

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!”

Marinette rubs her head, dazed, as the girl who’d just bumped into her scrambles to pick up the star charts that had fallen to the ground.

She leans down to help up the brown-haired girl. It’s weird to be the person on the other side for once; whenever she’s involved in a collision, Marinette’s clumsiness is usually the instigator.

When all of the papers are safely in her hands, the other girl straightens. “Sorry for bumping into you! My thoughts are all,” she makes a face that could be best described as blegh, sticking her tongue out, and waves her hands, “you know?”

Marinette nods. She does know. It’s been two days since the incident in DADA, but things have been uneasy since then. It’s nice to know she’s not the only one with jumbled thoughts.

“Anyways, I’m Mia, but you can call me Maps! I’m the junior leader of Hogwarts’ one and only Mystery Club.”

Maps starts walking as she talks, and Marinette instinctively follows her.

“Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“I just transferred last week,” she answers.

“Oh, cool! You know, if you ever get bored, the Mystery Club is always looking to recruit!”

They stop by a telescope, and Marinette notices that people are still milling about, chatting to their friends before Professor Inwudu starts class.

“I’ll come by and visit you someday!” she smiles. “I didn’t know Hogwarts had so many clubs.”

“Sure we do. There’s the Mystery Club, and then there’s also the Gobstone Club, Art Club, Celestina Warbeck Fan Club…” she trails off.

“Art club?” Marinette perks up.

“Yeah! It’s on Saturdays like most clubs. Second floor, I think,” Maps says, screwing her face up in contemplation.

Marinette notes that for later and redirects the conversation to the club her new companion had seemed so keen on.

“So, what do you do in Mystery Club anyway?”

·

It’s Friday, and Marinette’s begun to get a bit stir-crazy. Felix gives her a strange glance as she drops her head onto the dining table, groaning like an elderly citizen with particularly sore back pain.

“What is it today?” he sighs.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” she says indignantly, glaring at him from her place against the table’s surface. She drags her body upright and faced him, letting her head rest on her palm. “I’m just bored,” Marinette replies. “I’ve studied everything there is to study already, and now there’s nothing left for me to do! Spending all day in the library has done something to me.”

“I wasn’t aware you had so few classes today,” Felix observes, ignoring her woes like the cruel person he is. “That explains why you finally got to the Great Hall before me.”

“I’m not that late!”

“Mm,” he hums in response, mouth set in an entirely-too-amused expression. Rude. “I suppose if you’re bored, I can introduce you to my… friends,” he says, with a face much too sour to be convincing.

“Oh?” Marinette perks up, intrigued.

“Did you perhaps think I had no friends?”

“I—what? No! Of course not!” she scrambled. “That’s not what I meant! I was trying to say… oh, you jerk!” she glares when she realizes he’s looking at her with amusement rather than anger. “But if you have other friends,” she says, much more serious, “why have you been sitting with me instead of them?”

Had she somehow forced him into keeping her company? Said something that made him feel responsible for taking care of her? Or even worse, what if he had only been entertaining her because of her friendship with Adrien? Or what if—

“Stop that,” Felix interrupts, rolling his eyes. Coming from Chloe, it’s a demeaning action, but from him, it’s comforting. “I’m perfectly capable of deciding where to sit on my own. I’ve never joined my… friends… for lunch before, and even if I had chosen to sit with you instead, I’d have done it out of my own will. Contrary to what you might think, I enjoy your company.”

He says the last words like they’re physically painful, but it managed to convince Marinette even more. “I enjoy your company too, Felix,” she replies, beaming at him. He scowls.

“Now don’t make me say it again.”

·

“Felix, my man!”

Marinette isn’t expecting to see Claude and Allegra when they walk over to the Gryffindor table, but she’s not exactly surprised. It’s an expectedly unexpected development.

“And ‘Nette!” the brown-haired Gryffindor exclaims. “What are you doing here? And together, at that,” he adds, wiggling his brows in a comical over-exaggeration.

“Funny, Vaillant,” Felix says, deadpan. He places his bag next to the person on Allegra’s left—the boy looks vaguely familiar, but Marinette’s not sure what class she shares with him.

“This overgrown toddler is Claude Vaillant, as I’m sure you know,” Felix introduces. “Allegra Blanchet and Allan Durand,” he points.

Allegra looks up from her book to greet Marinette, then offers her a seat between her and Allan.

“Hey, I wanted to sit next to Marinette!”

“And did you ever consider what Marinette might want?” Allegra glares.

“So much for the pot calling the kettle black!”

The two devolve into bickering and hardly notice when Allan pulls her away to introduce himself. “We’re in the same Herbology class,” he explains when she asks if she’s seen him before. By the time Claude and Allegra end their squabbling, Marinette is already deep in conversation with Allan and Felix.

The period is over before she knows it—Claude’s vehement assertion that the Hungarian Horntail is the best dragon species is cut off, and the sixth years scatter back to their classes. Marinette is left to aimlessly wander the library once again, with nothing more than books to keep her company. Somehow, her boredom doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

·

1) The Zatara in question is obviously the one and only Zatanna Zatara!

2) I am decidedly ignoring the existence of the Trace, a charm used by the Ministry of Magic to track when there is magical activity used around someone under seventeen.

·

PERMANENT TAGLIST @astoriaandromeda @avengerthewarrior @bluesimani @enternalempires @ev-cupcake @flower-girll @freesportspalacesalad @glastwime859 @heart-charming @idontwannaexistsopleasekillme @iloontjeboontje @jayjayspixiepop @jalaluvsu @jeminiikrystal @jumpingjoy82 @kitsunebell @maskedpainter @moongoddesskiana @nathleigh @no-username2544 @phis-corner @too0bsessedformyowngood @ultimatetornshipper

WUAM TAGLIST @hardcore-daminette-shipper

#wuam #maribat #daminette #celestewrites #cel's fics

[evil-quartett]

So I've decided to start publishing this even though it's not finished. English is not my first Language, hope you can excuse the mistakes I am bound to make.

Lacrimă Draculesti's story, part 1

The full moon shone brightly, illuminating a deserted landscape. Only a small cottage atop a hill signalized there were living beings nearby. Well, not exactly living, undead.

On the window a girl with bright white hair tied neatly in a bun can be found, stargazing. Her face was void of any trace of emotion, her blood red eyes reflecting but emptiness. The girl was thin, her skin almost ghostly pale. She wore a Victorian black dress, resembling a woman in grief returning from a funeral, lacking any kind of jewelry even though she carried herself like a queen. One could almost think she herself was but a corpse with how still she was being.

Then, a deep voice broke the silence and destroyed the spell that had seemed to bewitch the girl. “Lacrimă, time for dinner!” She felt sick to her stomach.

The voice originated from a man wearing a suit that was, too, fitting for a funeral. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail and his eyes were darker than the girl’s blood red orbs. They seemed more brown than red.

“Yes, father.”

The girl stood up and went to another room. This one was small as well, not as small as the room she had been in before which had only consisted of the window and a tiny bed, but still small. In it was a table made from dark wood. Covered with numerous burn marks and tiny to big dents, it gave the impression it had seen better days. Standing atop it, there were just two dirty wine glasses filled with a thick red liquid. To the untrained eye, it appeared to be cheap red wine. But what was its true nature? Blood, taken from innocent deers in the last moments of their pitiful lifes by a merciless predator.

Pale fingers wrapped around the glasses. The man took a sip instantly, while the girl just swirled hers in shaking hands, eyes fixed on it with disgust. Not a word was uttered, when the girl blankly stared up at the man and him meeting her gaze in the same manner. This silence however was not as peaceful as it had been before.

Then, suddenly, it got interrupted by a harsh knocking at the door. The man jerked, dropping his glass. His gaze was clouded by fear, panic.

"Lacrimă, hide! I’ll open”, he ordered.

Lacrimă pushed back her shoulders. She was not going to back down this time. “But-” she started, only to be interrupted: “No buts.” This was final, an order demanding obedience. Still, in a last attempt to rebel, she stayed in the room refusing to obey and hide.

The second the black door opened a mere inch, the man’s chest, and his heart with it, got pierced by a spear. “So we finally meet again, Mihnea Draculesti. So sad your story has to end here. In this world, monsters like you can and will not be tolerated. Plus, I really need the bounty set on you. I’m rich!” Mihnea did not let himself get provoked. Instead he chose to devote the last moments of his life to the one person he had spent the most beautiful moments of his life with. His lips twisted into a smile, the first in decades and the last for eternity.

“Father..”

Then his body grew limp.

A female scream pierced the silence. “Father!” The man who had thrown the spear and his companions turned around to see Lacrimă looking at her father’s body, terror apparent in her expression.

Yet the men remained unfazed by her shock. In fact, they even seemed pleased.

“Another Draculesti! You all know what that means, don’t you?”

“Double the bounty, fellow hunters!”

Though they were the only humans in the cottage, their words and thoughts were anything but humane. Ironic, considering the ‘monster’ they were after was acting more like a human than the self-declared protectors of the species.

A sharp pain spread in Lacrimă’s mouth. She screamed in pain. It felt like her teeth were being ripped out brutally.

And yet, she had never felt better.

Finally, and way too soon, the pain ceased and she could finally feel what had happened. Her human-like teeth had grown into fangs. These new fangs were yearning, begging for her to pierce them into flesh. Human flesh. And they desired, craved the blood flowing underneath.

The hunters circled the girl in, pointing their spears at her. That moment, she had no choice but to let her instincts take over.

Lacrimă dodged half a dozen spears before grabbing the hunter closest to her and pouncing on him. It all went so fast, the man couldn’t even scream before her fangs had pierced his neck and drained him of all blood. A twisted way of revenge, malice against the simple loss of control. Her world went blurry as she, barely conscious, attacked the hunters until there was nothing left of them except a pile of bloodless corpses.

Inmidst of them stood a woman. Her bright white hair glowed in the moonlight as it came undone from the confinement of the bun. Her bloody eyes were shining with euphoria. From her chin, liquid trickled down, turning the formerly white roses blood on the ground crimson. Her simple dress had ripped on multiple places. Her body was shaking as much as it had during the excuse of a dinner. Though, the cause was entirely different.

Finally, she felt alive.

If you've read this far, please so consider leaving me a comment ❤️

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp fanfic #lacrimă draculesti #my oc

[foxfirefallout]

If Heron is teaching Ell'iandyr, they're gonna do at least some light sparring at some point, soooooooooooooooooo...9? -vesuvian-disaster

Several months and... ~3500 words later, we finally have an answer to this! The prompt, for anyone playing along at home was 'Sparring turns into sex' (or at least something along those lines). We... took some liberties.

Content warnings: physical and magical fights, non-consensual contact

Minors DNI

Under cut for excessive wordcount...

“Yes. Like that.”

Ell’iandyr repeated the gesture, glancing to Heron for another affirmation. “That’s good. Very good. Now, put some energy behind it.”

The makeshift target that had been set up some distance away burst briefly into flames, blue tongues of heat flickering over the surface before extinguishing themselves with a gesture from Heron.

“I’m still not entirely sure that I could set an actual person on fire,” they commented as they considered the faint scorch marks on the target.

Heron looked at them for a moment, and arched an eyebrow. “You don’t think you can set someone on fire, but you have no trouble--”

“That was different! Reflexive, and entirely unintentional. I… just wanted them to go away.*”

“And that’s why we’re doing this now. Setting someone on fire will definitely make them go away, and at significantly less cost to your own personal well-being.”

“I know… but hitting a target is not the same thing as actually… dealing with a person.”

“That’s why we spar. You are getting better. Even if you don’t feel like you are.”

“I know, I know… just…” Ell sighed and shook their head.

“You’d rather not have to learn at all. I know. I can’t be with you all the time, but I can, at least, teach you enough to keep yourself safe.” Heron offered a slight smile as he ghosted a touch over Ell’s cheek. “I teach you to fight because I care. Let’s get to work.”

For the next half hour, Ell resigned themself to a flurry of fast-paced casting. Spells, counter-spells, shields and attacks as well as more mundane means were all fair game with little time to think before reacting. As it would be in a real fight, Heron had reminded them. Heron had also reminded them, repeatedly, that a real fight would not likely last very long, once the first spell was cast. It was cold comfort for the present, however, as they continued to spar and Heron no longer offered suggestions but let Ell work out their best defense for themself.

“That’s very impressive,” Heron said, nodding his approval at Ell, who had fallen onto their back, but maintained a very solid shield spell. “I think we can be done for the time being,” he added, offering a hand to assist Ell back to their feet as the spell dissipated. They weren’t entirely sure how falling on their ass could be viewed as impressive, but they were reasonably sure that Heron wouldn’t try to flatter them over something like this.

“Thank you,” they murmured as they held on to Heron’s hand for a moment, steading themself while Heron ensured their clothes were clean again with a simple gesture. Ell was still holding on as they moved to the edge of the clearing where a small basket lunch waited for them. They had forgotten that Heron had brought that along, but was grateful for his forethought all the same. These practice sessions always left them feeling anxious and unsettled, even though they knew that Heron would not allow them to be hurt in the course of training. A little bruised, perhaps, but nothing that couldn’t be healed easily. What worried them was the notion that they might have to use the skills they were learning at some point when Heron was not around to help.

Ell was quiet as they settled down, watching Heron pour tea and hand over tasty treats that were among their favorites. “Thank you,” they repeated, accepting some spiced bread, magically warmed, and tea freshly brewed.

“You’re welcome, Ell. You really are gaining ground with these practices.”

“I’m feeling a little more confident, yes. But I still hope I never really need to use any of this.”

“So do I, but I feel better knowing that, if you need to, you can.”

For several moments, Ell concentrated on enjoying their tea, staring into the depths and expecting to see nothing save the bottom of the cup. They weren’t here to do a reading, after all, and seldom looked into their own future unless circumstances seemed dire.

Ell’s thoughts, such as they were, were broken when Heron spoke again. "I'm sorry I'm having to push you through this training. You have a gentle nature."

“I know that you’re doing it because you care. And I do appreciate it. I would rather know.”

***

Work for a client had taken Ell into a part of the city they did not often venture, but when the older woman came to their shop, pleading for help to find her grandchild, Ell could hardly refuse. Such work did not always end well, but in this case, they were able to locate the girl before too long, and with the grateful thanks (and generous payment) of the family, they headed towards home.

When the feeling of lightheadedness struck them, Ell realized that stopping for food was going to be necessary, if they wished to make it out of the district in one piece. Fortunately for them, taverns and pubs were plentiful throughout the city and they ducked into the first one they came to, placing an order at the bar for light ale and some food before finding a table in the corner.

All the while, they were scanning the place, all the more wary for how exhausted their last job had left them. This was something else that Heron had warned them about, and something they clearly needed to work on. At least their food was served with no incident and they were able to enjoy it in peace.

As they were readying to leave, it seemed that some of the clientele felt that it was time to make the evening more interesting. And, being a stranger in the tavern, it was clear to them, at least, that Ell was the most interesting thing in the room.

“Hey there, gorgeous! Leaving so soon?”

Ell felt someone grasp at their arm, but they tried shrugging it off as they headed to the door.

No such luck.

“Naw… you’re gonna stay awhile,” another voice slurred in their ear as another hand grasped their arm.

“I don’t think so,” Ell managed in their calmest voice as they reached up to remove one of the hands that held them, electricity gathering in their touch. Fire seemed ill-advised in an atmosphere already rife with alcohol fumes and exceedingly flammable furnishings.

The shock was enough to get one person to let go, but the impeding grasp was replaced before Ell could make much headway to the door.The swore quietly to themselves as the tumult of voices grew louder, some jeering the person who’d let go, others commenting on the ‘liveliness’ of their ‘new friend.’

“Is there a problem here?”

This was a familiar voice, calm and orderly in the face of the tavern turmoil. And it was not a voice that expected to wait for an answer.

Though Ell had sparred with Heron and was familiar with his fighting technique, they still could not quite follow all that happened in the next few moments. For them, it was sufficient that they were no longer being held and that no one seemed to have any more interest in impeding their exit.

Seeming satisfied with the result, Heron offered Ell his hand and together they made their way to the door.

Outside, in the relatively fresh evening air, Ell turned to thank Heron, and ask just how he’d come to be in the area. The words died on their lips as Heron leaned close to murmur, “You let yourself run low… we should see if we can do something about that.”

The purr in Heron’s voice, coupled with the now very welcome arm around their waist meant that Ell was developing a very good idea of just what Heron had in mind. In a few steps they were away from the tavern, and in a few more, Heron had led them down a small, dark alley. In a fluid motion, and with no thought of self-defense, Ell found themself pressed against the cool stone of a building, struggling to catch their breath as Heron trailed kisses over their neck, his teeth grazing over Ell’s skin. His hands supported them, running along their sides as they failed to find any sort of equilibrium.

If it was anyone but Heron, Ell would have been in a panic, frantic to get away, to get home. Now, all they could think of was submitting to Heron’s whim, shivering a little as they became intimately aware of magical hands, along with Heron’s own.

“H-Heron…”

“No one’s going to notice us. I promise.” Indeed, the sounds of the street and tavern seemed more distant to them, a vague susurration, rather than the raucous cries they’d heard only moments before. “I’d hate for you to have to go too far. As depleted as you are.” 

The words were murmured against Ell’s neck before Heron bit at their collarbone, then shifted to claim their lips for a kiss. Though they were left breathless by Heron’s intensity, they returned the gesture and were very aware of the flow of energy through the contact; their own magical reserves beginning to regain what had been lost over the course of their evening’s work.

As the kiss deepened, Ell twined one hand in the soft curls of Heron’s hair. There was no reason to worry about Heron drawing away when it was clear that this was exactly what Heron wanted to be doing-- but it was a way to steady themselves, to find grounding in a sensation that was not the caress and grasp of hands that they were now beginning to lose count of.

When the kiss broke, Ell gasped, breathing heavily, but Heron seemed entirely unphased. He did seem intent on keeping Ell breathless,those various hands tugging at their clothes to caress the skin hidden underneath while he continued to nip along the sensitive line of their jaw. 

They curled their fingers in Heron’s hair, their other arm wrapped around his shoulders. When they felt a very firm, decidedly flesh hand grasp their ass, though, they froze for a moment, tensing their own hold on Heron as the reality of the situation suddenly came into full focus for them.

Above them the night sky, what they could glimpse beyond the rooftops surrounding them, was clear and painfully distant, the full moon only just now high enough to shine down on them. At their back, they were aware of each chisel-mark hewn into the stone, catching at the fabric of their tunic. There would be marks, they thought as they blinked and found that Heron was staring at them intently, his breaths still falling with perfect regularity.

“My place is closer. I’d really rather that you did not go home alone tonight,” he murmured, something like an apology in his voice as he eased back, helping Ell regain their feet and smooth their ruffled clothes. Soon, it was only Heron’s hands, none of the magical ones, giving their hair a stroke and trailing over their neck to see if marks had been left.

Though Ell was not entirely sure what had caused the sudden shift in mood, they managed a nod. “I’d really rather not be alone tonight,” they admitted, nerves still buzzing from the combined adrenaline of getting out of the tavern and being very forcibly kissed by the person who had done that for them.

Heron nodded and, arm once again wrapped around Ell, led the way back out of the alleyway and through the district to his own home. It seemed to Ell that the noises they expected to hear were still distant, coming to them through the fog of whatever spell Heron was keeping up. It also seemed that, as they went, their path was entirely clear and no one they passed even glanced their direction. For this, at least, Ell was grateful-- they were not glowing, but they were feeling far more disheveled than they liked, despite (or perhaps because of) Heron’s best efforts.

The chime over the door sounded as Heron opened it, and Cicero scampered forward to investigate them both. When he discovered that there were no treats in the offing for him, he slipped out the door, presumably to find some trouble of his own to get into.

“Did I… discomfort you?” The door was closed again, and Heron was watching them, his face registering hints of concern.

“I was surprised,” Ell admitted. “You aren’t usually so, um, impulsive.”

“Ah. That.” He quirked a slight smile, reaching up to trail his finger’s over Ell’s jaw and neck, noting that where he’d bitten was no longer red, even if it was clear from the change in Ell’s breath that they remembered exactly what he had been doing. “A brawl can leave me feeling… amorous. It isn’t exactly the same as sparing or practicing, so there was no reason to bring it up.”

“I see. Are you still feeling… ‘amorous?’”

“Oh, yes. Very much so.” Heron’s touch ghosted again over Ell’s neck, feeling their pulse racing again even as they tried to appear outwardly calm. “And here we have the prospect of a much more comfortable venue. If you’re inclined.”

“I’m inclined,” Ell replied, closing the little distance that remained to claim a kiss of their own. They brought their hands up to tangle again in Heron’s hair and this time were entirely unsurprised when they felt Heron’s hands moving over their ribs and hips, pausing to grasp their ass.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Heron murmured when the kiss broke, shifting his weight to gather Ell into his arms.

‘Show-off,’ Ell thought to themself as they were carried up the stairs, retwining their arms around Heron’s shoulders, fingers trailing absently along the back of his neck. 

They were not particularly worried about being too much of a distraction while Heron made his way up the stairs, the door to his room opening obligingly ahead of them, and closing with the same consideration. Ell stared at the door for a long moment, relaxing slightly in Heron’s arms as the realization that they absolutely will not be seen sank in. “Thank you,” they murmured, lips brushing over Heron’s cheek as he stepped over to the bed to set them down.

“You’re welcome,” Heron replied, hand ghosting over their cheek for a moment. Then the gesture expanded as he quirked a smile and snapped his fingers.

“Show-off,” Ell murmured aloud as they lounged on the bed, entirely nude thanks to Heron’s spell, their clothes in a reasonably tidy pile on the floor. “You aren’t going to let me get cold, are you?” they asked as they shifted against the fine linen.

“Of course not,” Heron replied as he turned away to undress by more mundane means.

Ell sat up a little more, thinking to help Heron, only to be arrested by the feel of very warm, decidedly magical hands running over their skin.

“Just stay there… you’ve had a long day,” Heron murmured, not turning around as he started to unfasten his tunic. He worked with purposeful slowness, brass eyes flashing in the mirror to watch Ell’s favorable reactions to the most recent spell… and to being watched.

For a moment, all of Ell’s attention was taken up by the feeling of warmth as the hands wandered over them, watching how tenderly the polished brass figments caressed their arms, legs and chest until one slid over their shoulder, a finger crooking under their chin. With gentle pressure, Ell’s gaze was lifted until they could see themself in the mirror, and see also that, though his back was to them, they had all of Heron’s attention.

“I hope you’re not feeling too chilled,” Heron commented as he finished undoing the last fastenings of his tunic and letting it fall away as he watched Ell’s reflection. They were looking a little flushed, lips parted as, one by one, the hands vanished, turning invisible at Heron’s whim.

Ell was still very much aware that they were present however; the warmth was unmistakable, even if they could no longer track the paths of the hands visually. “I’m… I’m fine. Thank you,” they added, lest Heron somehow think they were not appreciative of the effort.

“Good,” he replied as he cast his shoes aside, then began to peel out of his trousers. All the while, though, Heron watched Ell’s reflection, noting their little gasps as the attention of the now-invisible hands grew more intimate. Heron was very well aware that Ell did not care for being handled roughly, but careful pinches here and there, with the promise of more tender attention to follow did not seem to spoil the mood.

Only when his trousers had joined the rest of the garments on the floor did Heron bother to turn around and approach Ell once more. That Ell liked to watch (and occasionally be watched) was something that had taken some time to discover, and the effect that it had on them was more than obvious now. 

Lounging on the bed, Ell sought out Heron’s gaze, shifting to better pose for their audience of one. They were very sure that Heron knew exactly what each of the hands he had manifested were doing, but played into the touches all the same before extending their own hand in invitation. Being watched was delicious, but what would be even better would be to have Heron close and kissable.

For a moment, it seemed that Heron was considering his options before taking Ell’s hand and brushing a kiss over their knuckles. With the same deliberate care he had shown since arriving home, he knelt on the bed, trailing kisses up Ell’s arm as he did so. After a lingering kiss to the crook of their elbow, he nipped delicately, teeth grazing sensitive skin before working back towards their wrist. Another kiss was pressed to their palm before he took one of their fingers between his lips, sucking carefully while he watched Ell’s eyes flutter closed, lost to the myriad of sensations.

The bed was, in Ell’s considered opinion, significantly more comfortable than the stone wall in the alley had been, a point driven home as Heron’s weight settled more fully over them. They could feel Heron’s hips rocking against them, a very deliberate tease as he released one finger, only to begin nibbling at the next. Surrounded by the scent of citron, underscored with a more subtle muskyness, Ell sank deeper, their free hand splaying across Heron’s hip as they began to move with him.

Heron offered a little hum of pleasure as they built upon the leisurely rhythm. There was no reason to rush in the comfort and safety of home, so he focused his attention instead on the magical hands that continued to caress Ell. It was hardly a challenge to summon a lubricant to those hands, nor to ensure that lubricant was suitably warmed before being applied.

With a soft gasp, Ell opened their eyes, focusing on Heron as much as they could through the haze of sensation. “H-heron?” they breathed, fingers clutching at his hip as he shifted again, positioning himself to sink down on their cock.

“Yes. Like that.”

Hands tangled in their hair, fingernails grazing their chest and always, always, the familiar scent of citron enveloping them. Ell’s gaze was becoming unfocused again as they stared up at their lover, flexing their grip at Heron’s hip as he rode them.

“That’s good. Very good. Now…”

When Ell found release, they could offer no warning and their cry was wordless and ecstatic, but even that was too much, too loud, and as their body shook with the pleasure of the climax they held their arm across their face to hide. In the quiet and relative dark of the room, it was too much to feel, too great a gift of pleasure after everything the day had held for them. And still, there were hands smoothing over their skin. Only two hands; Heron’s hands as he eased away only enough to free them, reverent kisses pressed above their thrumming heart.

“Just stay there, Ell’iandyr,” Heron murmured as he refreshed their skin with a spell and eased the fine linen sheets over them. 

Ell was sure that even if they wanted to go home, they wouldn’t be able to manage on their own. Even opening their eyes was a struggle now, their whole world the feel of Heron’s weight as it shifted beside them, of his touch on their face, or smoothing their hair. There was nowhere else they could imagine feeling safer, or more content, than where they were right now.

“You’ve had a long day.”

 *The incident to which they are referring occurred when Ell was out alone and almost mugged. In that instance, Ell’s form of ‘self defense’ was to essentially yeet the attacker into an entirely different timeline/reality. The amount of magical energy spent in that action, however, left them comatose for several days.

#asks answered #heron phan #my writing