#is that painted on mouth or like torn into who knows

[vizslasaber]

FRIENDLY FIRE ──── ii.

SUMMARY | The mission continues, and with it, your growing suspicion of Krell’s authoritarian methods. But the troopers relying on you—including Rex—lead you in the right direction: one of unyielding kindness, even when it’s hard.

PAIRING | Captain Rex x female Jedi!reader

WORD COUNT | 3.7k

WARNINGS | Combat/action, mentions of injury & death, Krell being a bitch as usual, gender neutral use of the term “sir,” gratuitous use of Mando’a, and one (1) curse word. Also, a Shakespeare reference because I’m a historian & couldn’t help myself.

A/N | Yay, chapter 2! As you'll probably notice, I changed the reader's story a little bit, and I like it better now as it adds more tension to the plot. Enjoy!

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST | TAGLIST | NAVIGATION | AO3

For once, you’re glad to have woken up early. It gives you time to get in a pep talk you know will motivate the men rather than bring their morale down, as you know Krell’s speech—which he gave upon arrival—would have done.

“Alright, men,” you call briskly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as you pace back and forth in front of the battalion. “You would all do well to remember that it’s not just the safety of the Republic relying on our success—the other battalions have placed their trust in us. Generals Kenobi and Tiin will stop approximately two kilometers outside the capital city, waiting for us to get close enough to begin our initial assault.”

You glance at Rex, who’s standing beside you, and nod for him to continue.

The Captain steps forward. “We’re about elevens klick behind them right now, and fifteen klicks from the capital,” he says. “We’ve got to make good time—and it’s going to be hard, what with the enemies we’re sure to meet along the way. The native population doesn’t play around, and neither do their weapons capabilities. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” comes a unanimous shout from the rest of the troopers. They start to disperse, packing up camp faster than your eyes can follow, and you nod to yourself in satisfaction.

“Rex,” you start, then hesitate as he turns to you with a raised eyebrow. “Is it… are you alright with forgoing titles? I always seem to forget to use them.”

Rex looks almost torn—likely between protocol and what you’re asking—but eventually nods. “Of course, sir,” he says, then blanches. “I mean…”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “I just don’t want to feel bad if I slip up.” He smiles slightly, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “As I was saying—do you have a chief medical officer that I can talk to?”

“Yeah, that would be Kix,” Rex tells you, then frowns. “Is… everything alright?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You adjust one vambrace, looking out at the men, then at General Krell on the far side of camp, who’s been surveying the battalion tempestuously since you began to speak. “I just… wanted to ask him something. About battlefield medicine.”

“Are you a medic?” Rex asks, shifting his helmet to one hand.

You grimace at the clinical, militaristic term. “Something like that.”

Rex looks doubtful, but motions to a trooper with an intricately buzzed haircut who's putting supplies into a pack. "Kix—get over here!" he calls, before nodding to you and leaving as he puts on his helmet.

"General," the trooper greets with a crisp salute, and you notice that his pauldrons have the universal sign for medic painted on them in a bright, obvious red. "How can I help you?"

"Actually," you say with what you hope is a courteous smile, "I was hoping to ask you the same question. You're the battalion's CMO right?"

Kix tilts his head. "Yeah..." he says. "I'm not the only medic, though. Got a whole team of 'em. We specialize in what we do, sir, train for it our whole lives, so I don't want to be rude, but—"

"Don't worry about that," you cut in, shaking your head. "I'm not a medic—I haven't been trained in combative tactics—but I am a healer."

"So, like," Kix pauses, searching for the right word as he does so, "a Jedi doctor?"

You snort. "That's... one term for it, yes." You watch as Kix moves the weight of his medpack from one shoulder to the other. "Force healing is an ability that a Jedi is born with. Not every Jedi can become a healer—using the Force to reverse the effects of an injury is not something that can be learned."

There's a pause as Kix nods slowly. "Reversing the effects," he echoes, fascinated. "Even bacta can't do that—it just speeds up the healing process. Sounds like we could use your help."

"Yes," you say. "That's why I wanted to speak with you." You let out a sigh, remembering one of the first things your master told you as a Padawan. "But it's not all-powerful. Just like bacta can only heal what is able to be healed, Force healing cannot create a life force where there isn't one. If someone is near-death, trying to bring them back would render me unable to defend myself from exhaustion."

"Right," Kix replies. "So no resurrection."

"No resurrection," you affirm, smiling. "But I can help. And I know triage."

"Oh, that's even better!" Kix exclaims, then holds out his wrist comm. "Here—we've got a medic frequency—" he waits for you to scan his comm to yours, and when the happy little chime sounds, he pulls away. "Thank you, General."

"Of course," you say as he turns to leave. "And thank you, Kix."

The battalion falls silent and prepares to move out—but just as you’re double checking your armour, a cold, sharp presence casts a shadow over you. Turning around, you make eye contact with General Krell, who's now standing just a short ways from where you and Kix were talking—like he was listening.

“Conspiring with the soldiers, General?” Krell sneers, putting a mocking emphasis on the last word. You raise an irritated eyebrow.

“Conspiring?” you repeat, glancing at the hastily assembling troopers. “They're hardly the enemy, Master Krell. I only want us to win this campaign as quickly and smoothly as possible." Before you can reign in your impulse control, you add, "And continuing to let the troopers rest will get us there faster."

“Rest is a luxury we cannot afford!” Krell snaps, and you jump in surprise at his excessive volume. He leans forward, acrid breath forcing you to resist the urge to cough. “The other battalions are far ahead of us, and you think we have time.”

“We do,” you reply calmly, despite your quickening heartbeat. “The men are keeping a good pace, especially with this difficult terrain. Fifteen clicks isn't far, especially with the supplies we have.” You purse your lips. “Now, I suggest we set off. Talking will slow us down as well, Master—and as you so wisely pointed out, luxuries are not something we can ask for.”

You walk away, then, and feel a rush of satisfaction enveloped in a Force signature that you’re almost positive belongs to Rex. Resisting a pleased smile, you let your hands drift to where your lightsabers are clipped to your belt before moving to walk beside Rex.

“Captain,” you greet, taking notice of the way Rex’s shoulders tense just slightly. “Shall we?”

“Yes, General,” Rex replies, voice clipped. He motions for the battalion to follow, and soon the two of you, along with a still angry General Krell, are leading the troopers through the unwelcoming terrain of Umbara.

The journey is precarious and—as much as you hate to admit it—tiring. Hours pass, and soon you’re almost to the checkpoint Rex had pointed out on the map, situated just outside the city’s heavily fortified border.

You stop for a moment, leaning against the glowing trunk of a colossal tree, and fidget anxiously with the tabards of your tunic.

“Sir,” Rex says, and you turn around. “We’re ready to bring our forward platoons in. What do you suggest?”

“We should continue with Anakin’s original plan,” you say quietly. “A surgical strike on the outer defenses—we must take great care not to needlessly damage any of the city’s buildings. I'd prefer minimal collateral damage when we’re done.”

It is a plan you’ve been turning over in your head since you’d landed on the Umbaran surface. Hopefully—and assuming there were no hindrances—it would succeed. Despite being overly idealistic, and sometimes a little too impulsive, Anakin is nothing if not a strategist—when he wants to be.

“If I may,” sneers Krell from behind you, and you set your jaw. “I do not think that General Skywalker’s futile plan will be necessary.”

In spite of yourself, you clench your fists at your sides. “And why not?” you grit out, not bothering to turn around as Krell comes to stand at your side, towering over your figure.

“Captain Rex and his insolent men have already brought it up with me, and I explained this to them as well. I hold the authority here, and I am ordering all platoons to execute a full-frontal assault,” Krell continues, seemingly unfazed by your irritated expression. “We will travel along the main route to the city and force them to yield.”

“Force them to—” you cut yourself off and draw in a deep, calming breath. There is no emotion, you remind yourself vehemently. There is only peace. “Master Krell. With all due respect, we can't just storm in there with no plan. Casualties will rocket if we try something that impulsive. I just don't think—”

“Need I remind you, General Neridian,” Krell interrupts scathingly, “that you are only one week into Knighthood? We may be of equal military rank, but I am a Master, and therefore hold precedence over your commands.”

“This isn’t about me or you,” you hiss, swiveling to face Krell as your patience is finally pulled taut. Ignoring the shocked stares you know the troopers have fixed on you, you cross your arms. “It’s about this campaign. It's about our mission, and it's bigger than us. So I suggest we agree to disagree, and carry on with General Skywalker’s plan—”

Krell clicks his tongue. “Losing your temper already?" He asks, and you could swear he's taunting you, waiting to see when you'll do something mortifying like raise your voice (but then again, he's done it several times already and it's only been a day). "How unfortunate. Perhaps the Council should not have been so adamant that you face the Trials so early."

You blink and take a step back. He's right, and you know it. You're one of the youngest Padawans to face the Trials in generations, as are all your peers, thrust into a rushed end to your training at the beginning of the war. So many of your friends—Darra, Galene, Ferus, and of course, Anakin, the most tenacious of them all—seem to have risen to this unique challenge with their heads held high. But all you can seem to do is flinch away from the ugly parts, the parts that remind you of just how unprepared you are for these new and daunting responsibilities.

Unclenching your fists, you swallow the bile in your throat and try to stop your hands from trembling. “The Council,” you say, voice tight, "made their choice. And so must I make mine." You turn to Rex, who's standing just behind you and gripping his helmet with both hands. “Captain—prepare the troops. We’re going with General Skywalker’s plan.”

“I…” Rex’s knuckles have gone white with how hard he’s clutching his helmet, and he looks strangely helpless. “I’m sorry, General, but—the regs state that General Krell outranks you due to his status as a Jedi Master.” He presses his lips together and averts his gaze from yours, cheeks red with what you know is anger. “I’m afraid that General Krell’s orders do indeed… take precedence over yours.”

Beside you, Krell looks more satisfied than you’ve ever seen him. The Besalisk turns to the battalion and crosses his upper set of arms over his chest.

“Troopers!” he barks, and the soldiers stand at attention simultaneously. “Prepare to move out!” He presses a button on his wrist comm, and a holomap flickers to life. “You will take the main road straight to the capital. You will not stop and you will not turn back, regardless of the resistance you meet. We will attack them with all our troops—not some sneak attack with a few men.”

You close your eyes and clasp your hands behind your back. There is no emotion, there is peace.

It feels less like a mantra and more like a meaningless, empty chant. Peace, you think despairingly, looks to be farther than ever.

"Sir." Rex clears his throat, making you look up to see him watching Krell like one might survey a blown fuse at risk of setting fire to a building. "Sir, General Neridian is right. This is practically a suicide mission. I don't think—"

“What you think, Captain, is irrelevent. You have my orders, and you will follow them explicitly,” Krell growls, then leans forward, turning to the Captain. “Do I make myself clear, CT-7567?”

Your eyes widen in shock and you glare at Krell, crossing your own arms over your chest to mimic Krell’s stance. “It’s Rex, General,” you snap. “Captain Rex. That’s how he introduced himself, if you've forgotten?”

Many troopers turn to you, and you can tell—even under their helmets—that they’re clearly surprised at your derisive tone. You ignore them, turn on your heel, and storm away, but not before you hear Rex mutter, “Crystal, General Krell.”

The path is lit with some form of concentrated bioluminescent light, making it easier for you to see where you’re going. The clones have the advantage of night vision built into their visors, which makes it hard not to envy them. That alone, that feeling so unbecoming of a Jedi is enough to make you feel a sting of shame, not unlike the feeling that so often came with a scolding from Master Venn when you were still a Padawan.

You wonder for the millionth time if you’ve been forced into Knighthood too soon. Of course, there is nothing to do about that now—every war needs warrior, after all—just like there was nothing you could do when Master Venn told you the news just one week years ago.

She was grim when she told you, and your stomach goes cold with the memory of how she delivered the news, like she was handing you your own death sentence. Now, you know why.

And some have greatness thrust upon them, you think bitterly, remembering how often Master Venn made you read ancient poetry as a Padawan, the kind so old it's still stored on dusty books instead of firmware.

“General.”

You turn to find that Rex has fallen into step with you and smile. “Captain,” you acknowledge. “Forgive me. I was just…” you clear your throat. “Lost in thought.”

Rex—now wearing his helmet—nods and turns his gaze to the path ahead. “Thinking about the plan?”

“No,” you admit sheepishly. “Just about—” you gesture vaguely to your surroundings “—all of this. This war, this strife.” Shaking your head, you fidget with the one of the lightsaber hooks on your belt, clasping and unclasping it. “How fast I've been thrown in, and whether or not it’s necessary.”

“Hm.” You can hear the frown in Rex’s voice. “If it’s any consolation, we clones have mixed feelings about the war, too.”

You raise an eyebrow and turn to look at him. “How so?”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug and turns his head away. “Just that… well, I’d rather do without all the lives lost, but... without it, we wouldn’t exist, would we?”

Frowning, you consider this. “I suppose you’re right,” you concede. “But it is the will of the Force that you came to be. And,” you add, shooting Rex a sly smile, “the galaxy would be very different if you hadn’t, hm?”

There’s a moment of silence, during which you get the feeling that the troopers behind you are listening to your conversation. Rex seems lost for words, until he clears his throat. “Me specifically, sir?” You nod, and Rex adjusts his helmet. “I—I don’t know. I’m just one man, aren’t I?”

“That may be so, Captain, but you’ve made more of a difference than you think,” you inform him. “I think I’m correct in assuming that you’ve saved General Skywalker’s arse more times than he alone can count.”

Behind you, someone lets out a surprised laugh, then tries to cover it up as a cough. You smile at Rex and continue.

“And even without that, you’re responsible for many of the Republic’s victories in this war.” You shake your head. “The smallest insect feeding off of a single flower’s nectar has an impact on the entire garden. In the Force, we are all an entire world, a whole galaxy. Never assume that you do not make a difference.”

You feel a ripple of shock, gratitude, and something else—something you can’t quite place—flow through the Force. It’s a refreshing change from the tension and stress of the mission, and you’re just about to open your mouth to thank Rex when—

A white-hot warning flashes in the Force, and there’s a split-second warning as you scan your surroundings for the threat. Then—

“Get back!” you shout, and the troopers in your immediate vicinity immediately scramble off of the path.

They’re just in time—the sheer force of the explosion is enough to knock you off your feet and send you flying backwards. You land on something hard and feel all of the air get knocked out of you.

“Mines!” someone shouts. “Nobody on the path move!”

You freeze as you realize that the surface you landed on is, in fact, Rex—specifically, his armour. Your back is pressed to his chest plate, and you can feel his nervousness as though it is your own, but neither of you move for fear of setting off another mine.

Your cheeks burn when Rex finally leans forward, void of his helmet—it must have been knocked off it the blast. He's close enough to your ear to whisper, “Left. Slowly.”

It sends chills down your spine, but you shake them off. Drawing in a deep breath, you oblige, easing left and onto your knees, so you’re kneeling beside a disoriented-looking Rex. He looks shaken, but quickly gathers himself and cautiously stands up as he scans the area for his helmet.

“Oz is down,” you hear one of the medics say grimly. “So is Ringo.”

Rex spares you one last glance before swooping down to pick up his helmet, brushing the dirt off the visor. He moves to inspect the dead troopers. “Can you sweep ‘em?”

For a long moment, there’s silence as the medics gently move the bodies aside—you respectfully avert your eyes, feeling the sting of grief from the other troopers—and set them down on the side of the path. You hear Kix declare happily that there are no injured despite the two casualties and smile to yourself.

There’s no time to bury the dead troopers, so you settle for approaching Rex and placing a hand on his tense shoulder, over his pauldron with fading and scratched blue paint. “Nu kyr'adyc,” you murmur. “Shi taab'echaaj'la."

Not gone, merely marching far away.

Rex turns his head, and this close, you can see his wide eyes through the visor of his helmet. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then raises his hand and places it over yours. It lasts for a split-second; the next thing you know, he’s pulling away, talking quietly to Fives and Kix.

“Come on, men,” you call to the rest of the battalion. “We need to—”

Chills fly up your spine and you stiffen, just as a loud, shrieking sound engulfs the path and—BOOM! More troopers go flying into the air. There are shouts of Basic, Mando’a, and Umbaran, and the firefight begins, during which you realize—

An ambush. You draw one lightsaber to deflect an oncoming barrage of blasterfire, but it's not enough, and there's no cover afforded to the terrain.

“Shit," you mutter under your breath as you switch on your shoto saber, calling on your knowledge of Jar'Kai to deflect the bolts with both blades. You raise your voice and call over your shoulder. "We’re fully exposed! Retreat to the forest!”

“We can’t, General!” shouts a voice, and you turn to see a blue-painted helmet accented with a small red arrow: Fives. “They’re coming from all directions—” he grunts and fires another blast “—we don’t have any cover!”

You feel your blood run cold. There’s no way for you to retreat—and it’s all Krell’s fault.

“We need them to follow us!” Rex answers, standing with his back to yours as he fires his blasters rapidly. “If we can draw them out, we can see them—and if we can see them, we can hit them!”

“Good idea,” you breathe, even though you know it’s too loud for Rex to hear you. Raising your voice, you lift one lightsaber so the other troopers can see the path. “All squads, pull back now!” You close your eyes for a moment to call on the Force, then propel yourself upwards and leap through the air so you’re at the back of the group. “I’ll take the rear! Cover me—sword and shield maneuver!”

The troopers obey, and soon you find yourself at the center of a tight semicircle formed by clones, all firing mercilessly on the Umbaran soldiers. You bite your lip and shift to Soresu to parallel the blasterfire more easily, deflecting the barrage as quickly and efficiently as you possibly can.

Just behind you is an AT-RT walker, defending your flank. Beside you is a trooper with intricately painted markings on his helmet, firing a rotary cannon and shouting, “Ha-ha! Where you goin’? Get back here, you wimps!”

You grin at his sheer audacity. “Careful there, trooper,” you admonish playfully, deflecting another blaster shot.

“They’re falling back!” Fives shouts, then, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The troopers all holster their blasters while you hook your lightsaber onto your belt.

“CT-7567, do you have a malfunction in your design?” You turn around and raise your eyebrows as Krell approaches Rex, looking furious. “You’ve pulled your forces back from taking the capital city. The enemy now has control of this route. This entire operation has been compromised because of your failure!”

You feel your hands start to shake. “Master Krell,” you say, trying your best to remain calm, “I gave the order to pull back, not Rex. We were completely surrounded and couldn’t risk losing any more men.”

Krell, looking furious at worst and disgruntled at best, saying nothng. Seizing the opportunity to walk away, you turn on your heel and breathe through the anger, urging yourself to keep going, trying to find a quiet place to rest and meditate for just a few minutes.

And you do. Closing your eyes, you lean against the firm trunk of a glowing tree, wiping sweat from your brow. It’s quiet, and you can hear the steady chirping of crickets (or something else) in the phosphorescent grass.

“General Krell,” says a trooper’s voice. It’s more firmthan Rex’s—Fives, you're pretty sure. “In case you haven’t noticed, Captain Rex just saved this platoon. Surely you won’t fail to recognize that.”

Blinking in surprise, you start to return to the group, wondering if this is an argument you’ll be able to break up—but the hum of a lightsaber being drawn makes you stop in your tracks.

“ARC-5555,” Krell growls. “Stand down.”

You feel your mouth go dry and approach the other troopers. Krell is standing with his back to you, but you can clearly see the green blade of his lightsaber from where you stand, hovering next to Fives's neck. If only Esya could see this, you think, horrified.

Don’t make any sudden moves, your Master’s teachings remind you. He could strike, and then you’d be responsible for the death of yet another man.

Just after the tense conversation between Fives and Krell, the Umbarans returned, sparking yet another firefight—this one with more casualties than the last. You were forced to retreat with the platoons, exhausted and spent.

Now, you sit on the ground, leaning against a fallen tree trunk in a brief moment of rest while the troopers drive away a small squad of Umbarans. In your hand is a pocket holotransmitter, refracting a cluster of blue light in the form of Esya Venn.

“I feel your discomfort from here, young one,” the older Theelin Master is saying, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Impossible,” you scoff. “You’re all the way on Coruscant, there’s no way.” There’s a moment of silence, during which the hologram flickers. You add, “And I’m not so young anymore, you know.”

Esya smiles wanly—you notice the shadows under her normally bright eyes with a pang of sadness—and shakes her head, her long colorful hair swishing lightly.

“You're still young to me,” she says softly, gently. "And you're avoiding the subject."

“I’m fine, Master,” you sigh. “Really.”

"You must not know me as well as I thought," Esya replies primly, a hint of a smile showing through her stern expression, "if you think you can lie to me like that."

You sigh again, frowning down at the flickering hologram. "It's just..." you shake your head, staring off into the foggy distance. "I'm concerned about Master Krell's tactics. They're aggressive, nothing like what you taught me of strategy, and they don't take into account the fact that we need to strive for as little casualties as possible—on both sides."

"Hm." Esya crosses her arms. "I have heard of Master Krell's... unconventional style. Is there anything else that concerns you about him?"

"I mean—everything, really," you admit, lowering your voice. "He has a blatant disregard for life that I haven't seen in a Jedi in, well... ever. He refers to the clones by their birth numbers, not their names, and he sees the native fauna as just—objects. Nuisances." You place the holotransmitter on the ground in front of you and shift your sitting position. "I fear that, to him, no life is sacred."

"If that were the case, I do not think the Council would have granted him the rank of Master," Esya says, but she looks thoughtful, like there's something she isn't saying. "Who is the commanding officer?"

"His name is Captain Rex," you say. "He's Anakin's first-in-command. I think he's just as worried by Master Krell as I am, and..." you trail off, unsure how to voice your next thought.

"What is it?" Esya prompts, light eyebrows raised.

"There's something about him—about Rex," you say finally, reluctant. "It's like the Force is trying to tell me something. That—that he's important. But I can't figure out why." You huff, fighting back a frustrated scowl. "I wish the Force would just tell me. But the answer is so—so elusive."

"As is everything since the start of this war," Esya replies, shaking her thorned head. She fixes you with a fond expression. "But, Padawan... you must remember that the Force is not your enemy, but your ally. If you open your eyes, it will show you the way."

"Yes," you murmur, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. The sounds of talking from the group's position behind you make you frown. "I have to go. May the Force be with you, Master."

“And with you. Always,” Esya replies before cutting off the connection seconds later.

You stand, tucking the transmitter into your pocket, then make for the rest of the group and move to stand beside Captain Rex. He's observing General Krell talk to General Kenobi via comlink.

“The capital city’s too fortified,” General Kenobi is saying grimly. “We still need your battalion to help us take it.”

“Resistance from the Umbarans has been greater than anticipated,” Krell replies. “We’re holding our ground at the moment.”

You swallow, averting your gaze to your boots. Holding our ground… what does Krell think is happening? Surely he hasn’t failed to notice the heavy casualties your battalion is sustaining.

“We’ve gathered intel on an airbase to the west,” General Kenobi replies. “It is resupplying the capital’s defenses.”

Taking a step forward, you cross your arms over your chest. “Should we attempt to take control of the airbase, then?”

Turning to you, General Kenobi nods. “Yes,” he answers. “Doing so will sever the capital’s supply lines, allowing the rest of our forces to move in.”

“I’ll see to it that the airbase is placed under our control,” Krell says decisively. It sends a wave of nausea through your stomach.

“Remember, Master Krell; Knight Neridian,” Kenobi says, mouth pulling into a tight frown, “The entire invasion depends on your battalion.”

Krell nods and severs the connection, then turns to you. “Neridian, have those coordinates mapped when you’re finished here, and make sure all troops are ready to move out immediately.” He walks away, leaving you alone with Captain Rex.

You watch Krell retreat with a feeling of incessant dread. “Right, then,” you say to Rex. “What do you say the odds are that we finish this thing his way?”

“Good question, General,” Rex says, and you can hear the smile in his voice as he watches the Umbaran sky darken with more eerie purple clouds. "I guess there's only one way to find out."

NEXT CHAPTER >

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[chimerahyperfix]

The spot of endless night-time in the sky mocks you. It chases it's way to the House through the sky like a snake approaching its prey. Because that's what the King is; a predator coming to feast on the weak. It's the sign of the end. The end you can't seem to stop. A big old "crab you" for even thinking of trying.

You try anyway. Try to climb the mountain with your bare hands. Push the boulder up the hill. You tackle the situation from all angles, but nothing works. You've worn yourself thin throwing yourself at the equation, and it's killing you. Literally.

It's stopped being as painful, which sends alarms ringing through your brain. Your nerves are frying. Dying. Being frozen in time has thawed to the sensation of pins and needles instead of being bone-chilling. Caustic liquids don't hurt to chug down as much. You can phase out of thinking when the King attacks you. You can simply turn your thoughts off and move through the day like a phantom. It concerns you and you just don't care at the same time.

Your blood sings and your voice rots and you go and go and go, pushing yourself thin until you are a walking corpse.

It's just you, though. One for many. You have you have you have you have to remember that. Remember that. Just you just one, saving everyone else. Just you. No one else will remember this.

No one else will remember this.

You sit in the big room with the big window and all the dot charts. You don't remember what it's called-- did you ever know? Who cares? It's not important right now. Sit on the floor and look out the window like a child looking over the ocean.

The King, you can see him now. His tall, dark shadow appearing over the horizon, lit by the moon. His armor shimmers like the stars he seems to love so much. [Because that's what they are, right? Is that the correct term? Stars? You're not sure. There's a torn page in your mind where it should be.]

Just seeing him drives you up a wall. Echoes of pain from how he's killed you run through your body, even though you know its imagined. Mashed to gore painted on the walls screaming howling make it stop make it stop. You don't care anymore. He can come, and he'll kill you. Or you'll kill him! Eventually! It has to happen!

Maybe he can feel your stare. It looks, to you, like he looks up just a little bit, to look in your direction. You, alone, sitting behind a giant window under a shaded masterpiece, clashing sky of sun and moon and all his stupid stars. [Stars feels like the right term, it feels nice in your mouth, but you're not sure. You don't know, if it's right or wrong or if you've just crabbing made something up to describe simple spots in the sky.]

You want to kill him. You want to make sure no one ever has to hear his stupid wails again, or fight his monsters, or be frozen in time or look at his stupid crabbing sky ever again. Make that armor of his a cradle, a grave, a casket or a cage, it doesn't matter, you're going to bury him in it. Trap him six feet under like time has trapped you, a squirming angry animal of a thing behind bars of a birdcage.

No one will find you here. That's fine. The other housemaidens have started to avoid you, because you've become an angry little thing overnight. You don’t bother Mirabelle and some loops you flat out avoid Euphrasie, because they shouldn't have to see you like this, clinging to what was you from over a hundred today's ago. You don't want to worry the two of them, overstep a boundary you can't remember or something, because you've done this all for them and the consequences of your capital-C Change can come later when the King is gone and you don't have to do today over.

For now, you will wait. This loop probably won't be the one because, realistically, when will it be? When will you win? Are you going to be trapped here forever, doomed to repeat the same day over and over in a cage made of craft and wishes and pure spite?

You just wanted to help. Look where that got you. Over and over, forever.

#isat #in stars and time #claude looping au #isat claude #in craft and cages #isat spoilers #regular late-game isat levels of verbal violence #cw implied death #<-doesnt happen but its mentioned a Lot #MORE CLAUDE LOOP POSTING YIPPEE!!!!!!!!!!!! #sizable one this time #started leaning into the 'cage' theme ive sprinkled throughout the other posts #because i named the fucjing au LMAO #FUCK posted early timr to salvage this with tags lmao #good enough lmao. gen didnt mean 2 post yet. pov phone tumblr moment #no not good enough the tags r pissing me off. curse u tumblr mobile I wasn’t done

[socksandbuttons]

Hear me out ✨solar flare meetings bean eclipse✨ (if your au has solar flare)

BEHOLD. He's not small exactly. Monty ended up rebuilding him from a Staff bot. Eclipse wasn't too happy about that actually but ya boys got wheels now!

#is that painted on mouth or like torn into who knows #kc adores having YET ANOTHER CHILD even tho technically its grandchild??? #im still debating on those 'rays' and mouth bare with me #sams solar flare #myart #sun and moon show #sams killcode #sams eclipse #bean eclipse au

[thesuperiorrobin]

Bruce told him countless times.

It’s dangerous to get close to a civilian as a hero. But when does Damian Wayne ever listen to his father? But he retreats it. He should have listened to him this one time, however. When the news broke out that a certain girl was taken in broad daylight on her way home from school, He knew. It was a gut feeling. A horrible feeling that ate him away.

You two have been caught countless times—with headlines booming on the news about the secret girl Robin has been seen with. The good thing is no one has gotten a good clear picture of your face.

Until now that is.

Damian doesn’t know how they found out about you—much less figure out the specific route you take home. It takes him two days to find out where you are. With no help.

He wanted to find you and bring you back home safely.

To your family and back to him.

The men that belonged to Joker weren’t bright, but they were kind enough to keep you fed at least. They wanted you alive to be used as bait to capture Robin. You kept your distance from them, tried to at least. When they asked you about his identity you kept your mouth shut. For one reason being that you don’t know his identity. They never believed you. It was always the same for two days straight. They’ll get angry and take it out on you if you said nothing—hopping that the constant abuse would lead you to blurt it out.

At the end of the second day, you’re curled away in the corner. Knees pulled to your chest, head down trying to hide away. You were scared that they were going to kill you if you didn’t fuss up, fearing that you’d die for something you never knew. You could hear heavy footsteps—the sound made your heart drop every time and when the door slammed open, you couldn’t help but let out a yelp, scooting closer to the wall hoping it’ll suck you up as you covered your face.

Someone grabs ahold of your wrist—as a reflex you try to get away from their hold. Thrashing and pulling, But they’re much stronger than you are.

“Let go!” You shout “I already told you I don’t know who he is! Please I’m telling the truth!”

“Hey—y/n—Hey!” Your ears seem to block out the person who calls out your name as you keep fighting until the person grasps ahold of your forearms—shanking you roughly to get you out of the trance. They bring their hand up and you flinch back.

“Y/n, It’s me! Please you need to calm down” You are taken aback by the sudden familiar voice and you finally open your eyes as you look up. Green, red, and yellow fill your vision—and green eyes stare back at yours. You recognize them.

You recognize him.

Damian stands before you with his mask stripped off his face and a worried look painted on his features. Your breathing is heavy “Dam……Damian?”

He nods, gloved hand bringing itself up towards your face gently as he brushes strands of hair out of your face to get a better look. Clothes torn, hair messy, dirt and specks of dried blood cover your body as well as faint bruises that he could see. It makes him angry, but his priority is you right now. Bruce is dealing with the idiots who took you.

“It’s me. Yes—are-are you alright?”

You don’t answer—instead, you throw yourself in his arms—wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you clutch his cape. Damian doesn’t hesitate as he wraps his arms around your waist securely, soothing you as he gently rubs up and down your back. Like how a parent would soothe their crying child at night. He can feel you shaking in his arms and sobs that escape past your lips break his heart, all he can do is stay quiet and hold you.

“It’s alright, I got you. You’re safe now”

#damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian x reader #robin x reader #damian scenarios #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne fanfiction

[aesthetic-bbyg]

(Smut) Loser!Luke…

who thinks your just another camper. Just another girl, normal, albeit very pretty, but normal. You prance around camp with a kind smile, wave at those you know, even at him sometimes. Nothing that makes you too special that would distract Luke from his duties.

You’re just another camper.

Or so he thought, completely unaware of the truth. The innocent, pretty girl that resided in the Hermes cabin, yet to be claimed, had a dirty secret. He discovered it purely on accident, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he pushed the cabin door open that morning, discovering that you were missing from the daily head count, his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

There you were, shirtless, a tight pair of low jeans stretched out as you bent over to collect the obnoxiously bright orange camp shirt that you’d discarded earlier in the night. The sound of the door being open made you immediately stand up straight, turning around as you gasped and covered your chest. Feigning a wide eyed look once you noticed who it was standing in the doorframe. Allowing a faux embarrassed look to paint your feature as he stuttered out an apology and shut the door.

Though he couldn’t get it out of his head, the sight of the black ink etched carefully on your lower back. A tramp stamp decorating your skin, half of it hidden under the jeans you wore, he wanted to slap himself for being so disgusting. The fact that it was the first thing he noticed because he was gawking at your bent over ass.

He had to collect himself. Who was he, the leader of the Hermes cabin, if he was over here, a flustering mess and potentially growing an uncomfortable bulge in his pants over what? A tattoo? He’s seen some of the campers his age with them, it’s not like it was a new thing. Perhaps it was the placement of the ink, the fact it was only visible to him through an intimate moment. He swallowed thickly, brushing a way the thoughts when he heard the door click open, slowly watching as you stepped out.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like that—“ The boy mentally slapped himself for babbling like an idiot, he definitely knew that his cheeks were embarrassingly pink.

“It’s totally okay, Luke.” You giggled, a smirk playing on your lips as you patted his shoulder, letting it slide down his arm slowly. You’re voice so soft and gentle, yet antagonizing. You began walking towards the others of the Hermes cabin, your eyes staying connected to his until you were fully turned away.

He just watched your figure as you disappeared into the crowd, swallowing back once more as he felt his mouth dry up. You seemed so slick, unlike the image of you he’d built in his mind. You were a sweetie, a pitifully innocent new girl that was just barley getting the grip on this whole camp life within the first month of your arrival. And yet, that smirk, and the shirt? Did you purposefully cut it up so that it was more cropped.

When he’d finally found the strength to step forward, cautiously, almost like he was learning to walk again, he found you within the crowd. The bottom of the shirt looked to be messily torn up, some parts uneven, so you did cut it up. It did it’s job of revealing your midriff, just enough so he got a glance at a gleaming stone that pierced your belly button.

Gods.

You really weren’t like anything he’d imagined, but it only made his pants even more uncomfortable. Luke couldn’t hold it any longer. Desperately, he was covering himself shamefully as he scurried back to Hermes cabin like a deer running away at the sound of a twig snapping. He needed to relieve himself before he thought of presenting himself to the others.

It was humiliating , Luke thought to himself. Having to jerk off because you. The stupid image of you shirtless, bent over. What if he was standing behind you while you were in that same position? Bent over a bed, maybe? Him just pounding you from the back as he got full view of that tramp stamp that stained your skin. It made Luke moan like a pathetic loser, which he was was, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating.

It was all part of your devious planning. To get him this vulnerable, it only took one move and it was like dominos falling perfectly atop of each other. Just a singular sight you shirtless and it had the poor boy bucking into his fist. You would’ve loved to have an image to the noises you were hearing as you pressed your ear up against the cabin door. But of course, as you twisted the doorknob, the same creak that unveiled Luke’s presence earlier that morning, ultimately revealed you entering the cabin.

Luke immediately sat up, wide eyed and hurrying to cover himself with a blanket or pillow. It was a faint sense of deja vu, now the roles reversed. You shut the door, smirking softly as you approached the bed. The boy looked up at you like a innocent little thing that could do no wrong.

“Need a hand?”

#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #son of Hermes #percy jackson and the olympians show #Percy Jackson show #Percy Jackson #charlie bushnell #luke Castellan smut #luke Castellan imagine #luke castellan blurb #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson disney+ #pjo tv show #luke castellan pjo

[illyrianbitch]

Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths

Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel

Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

Warnings: ANGST, Helion being compassionate and its sexy, Inner Circle slander (sorry feyre baby), Y/N is kind of a bitch (but its warranted and a slay), family trauma.

Word Count: 2.9k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

It was Helion, the High Lord of Day, who had seen the flicker of hope in your eyes. A man of discerning wisdom, he recognized your yearnings of a better world. He knew you, he knew your heart, and he trusted your vision— with the promise of your support shall he need it. You knew that your support, in the grand scheme of things, meant nothing to Helion. He had always held a heart of gold, of understanding, and he would have helped you without anything in return. But you had insisted, declared that you needed to give him something to thank him. Your support, he had agreed on. It was all you had left, anyway. 

Now, you stood before him, pleading. Your chest was tight and a calm panic filled your veins. You needed to act. You needed to keep things in place.

"Helion, please," your voice, normally composed, now carried a tremor, a plea that hung in the air, reeking of desperation. Low light poured through stained glass windows as the sun slowly set, painting a kaleidoscope of muted colors on the marble floors.

His eyes, usually filled with warmth, held a regretful sympathy. 

"Y/N, I wish I could," He replied, his voice caressing the air,  "But with the current state of affairs and your father’s growing paranoia, it's too risky. I can't jeopardize my people. My help is needed elsewhere."

Approaching you, he extended a large hand, gently cupping your chin, his touch reassuring and pained. "Give me some time, sweetheart."

Desperation deepened in your eyes, and the intensity of your plea swelled. Aching with fear and worry, your gaze remained locked on his. "I don’t have time. Hewn City corrupts swiftly. You know this.”

Helion sighed, a sound filled with a blend of both compassion and helplessness. "Perhaps you should reach out to Rhysand. His influence might help, now more than ever."

Yor felt a bitterness surface, like bile rising through your throat. A soft scoff left your mouth as you roughly pulled Helion’s hand away from your chin, withdrawing from his touch in offense. "Rhys had a chance to help. He didn’t. He couldn’t care less. I won’t go crawling to him."

Helion's gaze softened, a tender response to your rough tone. He let out a sigh and pulled you close to him once more. His touch sent a wave of comfort through you, something that happened often when you visited him to discuss these things. Helion was a man who loved physical connection— you didn’t mind it. It made you feel seen, understood. Now, you craved that feeling more than ever.

 "I don’t understand this contempt you hold. Surely they will want to help you. They miss you."

You rolled your eyes at this. Of course Helion would think so. As much as you trusted him and his admiration for you, he always did love your family. Your sister and your cousin would always be in your life, tied to you in one way or another. Frustration tinged your voice. 

"It's too late. Going to Rhysand now would draw unwanted attention or, worse, he’d halt my efforts because of some perceived danger."

There was a moment of silence, and your eyes bounced around the room, searching for somewhere to land that wasn’t Helion's burning gaze. Once more, he moved a hand to gently cradle your face.

"You cannot foresee every outcome. You're not a mind reader, Y/N."

A bitter laugh escaped you, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "I might as well be when it comes to family."

 "You've accomplished so much. Allow yourself a reprieve. You can't bear the weight of the innocents lives in Hewn City alone."

You blinked away the tears that welled in your eyes as you admitted, "I can't afford to stop. If I do, they'll think I've given up." 

"No," Helion asserted, his voice unwavering. "Your dedication is commendable, but you need to care for yourself. Let me help you."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you stared at him, his brows furrowed slightly and a sad smile on his face. He moved his hand once more, gently tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear. Then, he ran a finger along it, a soft caress carried by a weight of understanding. You shuddered at the lightness of his touch. 

 "Stay, Y/N,” He suggested, his voice smooth and low, “Let me be a distraction. You take care of others; let someone take care of you."

You leaned slightly into his caress, feeling the warmth radiating from his hand. A fleeting sense of comfort teased at the edges of your weary soul. Yet, reality swiftly reasserted its grasp, and you gently withdrew, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

"I appreciate the offer," you murmured, your voice tinged with regret. Your hand delicately intercepted his, guiding it away from your cheek. "But I can't afford the luxury of distraction right now."

He acknowledged your decision with a small nod. 

“I wish I could do more for you."

A tender smile found its way to your lips and you held his gaze for a fleeting moment of gratitude.

“I know.” You replied before you winnowed away, leaving the luminous embrace of the Day Court behind.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You were on edge. You had been for the last few weeks. Now, after failing to convince Helion, you could feel it catching up to you, a dark hole forming in the pit of your stomach. It felt like you were being swallowed alive, eaten by your own anxieties and fear. But you didn’t have time for this. You couldn’t risk falling apart, becoming vulnerable. No, not at a time like this.

You had mastered the art of drowning your thoughts, of discarding the weight that threatened to pull you under. Tonight would be no different. The impending storm would be weathered, as it always had been. You would begin to drink your worries away, give them time to manifest, and then shove them away into the crawlspace of your mind, free to collect dust and rot away.

You moved toward a small table where a simple platter of dark amber liquid awaited. Your fingers tightened around a small crystal glass as you poured. As the first sip touched your lips, you felt the familiar burn, a welcomed distraction. The amber liquid offered solace, if only for a fleeting moment.

And then, you stilled. The creak of the floorboards behind you announced their presence, and you felt it—a pricking at the base of your neck, the subtle disturbance of the air as someone entered, no, appeared. Your body tensed instinctively, shoulders rigid, as you ceased your movements. You took a moment to compose yourself, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply-- a futile attempt to ground yourself.

You downed the drink, the warmth spreading through your veins, and set your glass down, a definitive thud echoing in the silence as it met the table. You turned around slowly, the ever-present undercurrent of anxiety beneath your skin momentarily masked by a face of composure. The simple décor of your home surrounded you—the tattered tapestries, broken furniture—all a testament to a life you had built in the aftermath of your return. One that lacked the color that you once held.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Your voice, laced with both mockery and a hint of something darker, hung in the air.

In front of you, Rhysand stood tall and proud, a figure of authority. His eyes, once familiar and comforting, now held a look determination. His gaze held yours strongly, and for a swift moment, you saw them soften. But the tenderness quickly dissipated, his eyes narrowing with a slight tilt of his head. You ran your eyes along his face, then down his form, taking in the detailed and intricate patterns of his clothing— an embodiment of Night Court royalty. Then, you looked at him again, your jaw clenching. It had been a while since you looked into his eyes, a violet color deeply embedded into your mind. For a moment, his presence consumed your thoughts, distracting you from the other man that you felt in your home.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see the dark figure stepping out from the corners of your room. A darkness licked at your skin.

"Hello, Azriel," you acknowledged him, your eyes remaining fixed on Rhysand.

Azriel's presence was a dark whisper. The edges of your room seemed to blur with shadows as he stood there, a silent observer.

"I’ve come to request your help," Rhysand's voice cut through the stillness, his words carrying the weight of urgency.

Your response was swift, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, that's rich."

The corners of the room seemed to darken further as Rhysand's frustration manifested in the clenching of his jaw. The subtle play of shadows accentuated the lines on his face, revealing the strain of a desperate plea.

"Please hear me out."

You shook your head. They shouldn’t be here. This was risky, dangerous. You needed them to leave. They needed to disappear, to let you go and never find you again. That was the only way you would be able to survive.

But every fiber in your being was screaming to do the opposite, to embrace your cousin and explain to him, tell him everything. You wanted to get on your knees and beg for the kindness he always showed you, to ask him about your sister. For him to tell you about his life, his love, his child. But you couldn’t. And from inside you, your heart tugged you to Azriel, his stoic form. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to catch his gaze. It was all so wrong. This disconnect, this anger you felt for them, for your situation, for yourself… it was eating you up. But this wasn't the time. So you pulled your thoughts together and focused on the one thing that had never let you down: your fire.

You reminded yourself of the resentment you held, deep down. Reminded yourself of how they had failed you, separated themselves from you, your vision, and the suffering of the good people here, in Hewn City— your city. Rhysand's city.

Ignoring his original words, you looked at Rhysand with the hint of a wicked grin on your face.

"Where’s your child bride? I heard she’s reading at the same level as your babe. You must be overjoyed."

Rhysand's expression tightened, anger simmering beneath the surface. The mention of his mate touched a clear nerve, and for a brief moment, you reveled in the discomfort you had caused. It was a twisted satisfaction, a way to regain some sliver of control in this unexpected encounter.

His temper flared, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability replaced by a presence of anger that you knew all too well. He bit down on his frustration, attempting to maintain a semblance of composure. But you pressed on.

“I’m only kidding, take a joke, Rhysand. 500 years and you still have the emotional regulation of a teenager. Nice to see some things don’t change."

Rhysand's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and confusion, observing you and your wall of icy nonchalance. His name sounded foreign on your lips, spoken with such malice and distaste. Even the last time he had seen you, during a bloody war against Hybern, you had not been so venomous. This was a fact you both thought of as you stood here, now, in front of one another again. You moved gracefully through the room, ignoring their presence, and opened a small box that sat on your table. The delicate aroma of sugar wafted through the air. You took a seat.

Azriel and Rhysand exchanged glances. Your fingers idly played with the box, an ornate creation that held delicate, candied treats. With an almost casual indifference, you brought one of the sweet confections to your mouth, savoring the taste as if the weight of their presence meant nothing to you. You could feel the tension building in the atmosphere, heightened by their growing sense of agitation and frustration. It radiated off of them like heat. You welcomed it with open arms, like a freezing child in the cold.

"These are the loveliest desserts,” You explained, bringing the candy close to your face with an examining eye, “Hard to come across here. But I know a guy.”

“Want one?" you offered, dropping your candy back into the box and extending it toward Azriel, whose stoic expression remained unchanged.

"What? Doggy can’t take a treat?" You taunted with a measured smile. You didn’t miss the slight flare of his nostrils, or the way his shadows began to snake up his arms, angry and riled up.

A tense silence lingered as Azriel remained perfectly unmoving, his eyes holding a depth of attentiveness that made you uncomfortable. But the discomfort within you sought distraction, and you continued with your mockery. You waved your hands in the air as a dismissal.

"Bah, you guys are no fun."

The room felt charged as you baited them, your attempts to deflect the gravity of their visit becoming slowly evident in every casual gesture.

Rhysand's frustration reached a boiling point, and he took a step forward, shifting the conversation.

"We didn't come here for sweets and jests. We came for you."

You chuckled, a sound that held a bitter edge. "Me? You must be desperate, Rhysand."

A flicker of hurt crossed his eyes, swiftly replaced by a steely resolve. "There are rumors of rebellion here,” He took a pause, glancing around the room as if he was contemplating continuing. He spoke again, “But, I'm dealing with a larger threat that has me on the defense. I cannot afford an uprising."

Your laughter cut through the air like a blade. "Is the idea of civil unrest among your people an inconvenience? My, what an issue, must be terrible."

Rhysand's patience waned, his features hardening. "Stop this, Y/N. We need your help to prevent a disaster."

You leaned back against your furniture, your eyes narrowing as you regarded him with a chilling indifference. "I've heard nothing about any unrest. You've wasted a trip."

Rhysand's gaze bore into yours, an unspoken challenge. "Azriel has been in Hewn City, gathering information. He's heard the rumors. I know you're lying."

In that moment, a silent battle waged within you. The desire to help, to make a difference, warred against the fear of exposing yourself to the dangers lurking beyond your sanctuary. The memories of the past, the reasons you returned, echoed in your mind. You wanted to help, but you knew their presence could unravel the delicate life you had crafted.

Rhysand's voice softened, a genuine plea beneath the layers of frustration. "Y/N, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious. Why do you refuse to acknowledge that?"

Then, his eyes softened, sensing a crack in your facade. Inner turmoil clouded your eyes as you locked gazes with him. The conflict within you played out in the subtle tremor of your fingers, a telltale sign of something bubbling beneath your icy exterior. But as quickly as it manifested, you shut it down, fast enough to resolve Rhys of his attentive eyes. He swallowed and fixed his composure.

"Azriel has gained information that it's not just a rise against me. There are whispers of a rebellion against Keir himself. I need you to listen for information from your father."

Your father. A wave of nausea rippled throughout your body and you clenched your jaw in response. The title sounded strange coming from Rhysand, a stark reminder of your place here, of your place in his family. No, no. You thought. I will not let them see me falter.

Rhysand continued, "Azriel has gathered intelligence, but we need someone on the inside. We need you."

A cynical smile now played on your lips as you taunted them, "Maybe it's time for a change. The mighty High Lord struggling to keep control – how novel."

Azriel, who had maintained a cold silence until now, spoke up for the first time, taking a heavy step forward towards where you sat.

"We both know you do not mean that."

You turned your gaze to him, eyes dark. "And what do you know about what I mean, Azriel? You don't know anything about me."

Rhysand put a hand out in front of Azriel’s form, biting back his retort. The room hung heavy as you finally declared, "You've overstayed your welcome. It's time for you to leave."

Rhysand's eyes met yours with a determined glint.

"I will be back. Family does not give up."

His words pulled out a surge of anger bubbling within you. Family? Without a second thought, you stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "Family, huh?" Your voice dripped with bitterness, and you moved toward him, anger etched on your face.

But before you could reach him, Rhysand winnowed away with a controlled fury, leaving Azriel lingering.

Azriel stood still, his eyes slightly narrowed, his brows furrowed at you. You met his gaze and felt a wave of guilt through your body, filling the hole where your fury once was a second before. If you didn’t know any better, it seemed as if Azriel was….. Disappointed? Hurt? But you stabilized yourself, pushing the observation away. Your anger, raw and unfiltered, had an intensity that took even him by surprise. He held your gaze. Then, like a wisp of darkness, he too disappeared, leaving you alone with the remnants of unresolved tension and the taste of bittersweet candied treats lingering in the air.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

a/n: hello hello!! welcome to my lil new fic!! im new here and i have no idea what im doing but i hope at least one person enjoys what has become my creative fictional baby. when i tell you this story has a place in my HEART....y/n here is multilayered and complex and flawed but that is why i love her!! serving cunt 24/7!!!

tumblr scares me so any feedback is so very loved and any advice is great too!! mwuah

#azriel #azriel fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel x y/n #azriel/reader #acotarfandom #acotar #acotar writing #reader insert #acotar reader fic #a court of thorns and roses #helion acotar #high lord helion #rhysand #morrigan #hewn city #night court #court of nightmares #this is terrifying #im so sorry feyre baby its for the plot #pls validate my new writer heart #beneath the ashes of our broken oaths #baobo #about baobo

[lair-of-asmodeus]

Imagining...

Imagining General!Lilia in his glory days...

Him fucking you so slow that your body spasms in every move of his hips. Making you have multiple orgasms before he truly starts to fuck you.

Your armors are literally torn to the side, your bare skins exposed to the outside. You can feel the breeze on your body.

Though, it doesn’t matter. You two are sweaty as heck.

It’s tantalizing how he manages to hit your core and make your body twitch, how he knows all the spots in your body that will arouse you more, how he feels inside your pretty hole.

He bites your neck as he pushes his hips inside you again. You feel like cumming, once more, and your insides end up painting him with your juices.

He pinches your nipples as he slowly pulls his hips, muttering something you cannot understand. His cock twitches inside you.

He licks the shell of your ear, causing you to tighten around him.

“Lilia...” You speak up, earning a small groan coming from the fae general.

“Quiet down, you utter fool...” He mutters angrily, “Someone will hear us.”

And he smacks your ass, then squeezes it right after.

You cover your mouth again, but your groans can be heard. You internally thank the Gods above that you two are in a different part of the forest, otherwise someone would hear you. But even so, he orders you to be quiet in case someone happens to pass by and witness you two indulge in sin like this.

He lets go of one of your nipples and that hand goes to caress your genitalia.

“Cum for me, you little slut...” He rasps out and smacks your ass, “...with such watchful eyes that are on me, this is the fitting punishment for the likes of you..!”

And your body spasms once again, cumming once more. He stops moving and he watched your aroused form tremble with a toothy grin.

“Like that...” He smirks, “What a wonderful slut you are, doing as I say. Oh, if only my soldiers were just as obedient as you right now~”

You look back at him,

“...General... Lilia...” You whisper, “...please... just fuck me already..~”

He raises an eyebrow, “My~ How demanding you are, asking for something like this from your general~”

You bite your lips and look at him seductively, trying to tempt him. He just laughs and says,

“...Kufufu~ You have endured the punishment long enough, I might as well reward you for being so patient~♡”

...And starts to RAM HIS FUCKING COCK INTO YOUR HELPLESS HOLE!

You nearly lose your composure and give in, but you cover your mouth at the last second.

“Liliaaaa..!!” You gasp as he smacks your ass once again, “...Oh... Oh gosh..!”

“It is General Lilia for you, (Name)..!” He smacks your ass once again as he leans down and bites your neck.

His cock feels hard inside you. You can feel it twitching while hitting the good spots.

He pulls you by the hair and makes you look at him.

“You are so fucking cute... But are you worthy of receiving my seed~?”

You nod almost immediately and eagerly. He bites your neck hard enough to draw blood and holds still while thrusting inside. You feel the pain, but it makes you feel more aroused than before.

“LILIA..!!” You scream his name as you reach your peak again, but it doesn’t stop him. His cock just twitches more and more until he hits your core once more, hard, and you feel something warm pouring inside.

“ARGH..!!! NNGH!!”

Your mouth opens to scream, but it comes out like a quiet whimper. His seed keeps pouring inside you while your walls suck him in.

You momentarily collapse as you two pant and you feel the general pull out. As you two lay on the grass, you look at him. He looks back at you with a mischevious glint in his eyes.

“Who said I am done with you~?”

And with that, he lays you on your back and spreads your legs which causes his seed inside you to spill a bit to the ground.

And with that, he fucks you again...

(inserting to be continued meme)

#twisted wonderland smut #twst smut #lilia vanrouge smut #general lilia vanrouge smut #lilia vanrouge thirst

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Solstice, Shana! more Lady Mo or something else genderbendy?

Tony's spent her whole life proving she was good enough to make it in a man's world. Her own father had written her off as a debutante, but he'd let her spend time in his workshop and look over the papers spread over his desk, on his lap or a safe distance away from all the sparks. He probably thought she liked the pictures and the lights.

She builds an engine when she's six years old, her dress torn and stained with grease and and burning with pride as she grins up at her father.

It's the first time Howard ever sees her and, she thinks, when he stops loving her.

Existing in a man's world is different than being a man. She's not allowed to forget, to indulge, she can't ever be anything else any other way than a performance.

Her whole life is a performance, so maybe there's no real difference.

She can wear broad silhouettes and make sure no one calls her Antonia and keep her hair in it's iconic pixie cut have her employees call her sir - ma'am was her mother, she says with a laugh, and god knows she took more after daddy dearest - and she spends so much of her time having dick measuring contests with generals and business rivals and every man that thinks he can put his hands on her that sometimes it's a shock to remember she doesn't have one of her own.

It's not that she doesn't like being a girl, that she doesn't get a thrill out of outrageous dresses and all her soft curves, that she doesn't like at least seeing something of her mother in her mouth and her nose.

It's just that she thinks that she could be something more. That she is something more.

But that sort of things belong to someone who doesn't have her life, her job and her responsibilities and the eyes of the world watching her every move.

~

She doesn't even think about the fact that the armor is a man, narrow hips and broad shoulders and nothing feminine about his cold curves of metal, until Pepper sees it.

Pepper is quiet after, pressing ice to her bruises as she sits by Tony's hips. Her eyes stray to the arc reactor, a diamond of light glowing between her breasts. A circle would have been a more solid matrix but would have required her to get a mastectomy to make it fit.

She's thought about having a smooth chest before, but in the moment when it was an option that she could reasonably provide to the public - a medical device, for her health - she'd balked, and lost a day to redesign to make it something less, something that would fit and not require her to change to too much.

It had felt like a metaphor, or a sermon, as she'd beat sheets of metal until she bled.

Pepper asks, "Is it to protect your identity? So they don't think it's you?"

Tony stares, caught off guard, her mouth open in answer that she hesitates to give because she knows it's a lie. She doesn't like lying to Pepper.

She softens. "Or is it the opposite?"

Tony is sore and exhausted and Obie is acting strangely and Rhodey isn't talking to her (he calls her and he'll call again and again until she picks up, but he won't say a word, will just listen to her breathe to make sure she still is and then hang up like a fucking a coward) and she just killed sort of a lot of people and her weapons are where they shouldn't be and every defense she's built up around this question feels like it's crumbling around her.

"Pepper," she says, then can't bring herself to say anything else.

She doesn't want to lie to her.

"I like the paint job," Pepper says, hand soft where it's gripping her shoulder. Tony hasn't had soft hands since her father loved her.

"I like red," Tony says and Pepper's cheeks turn the same color as her hair.

#identity shenanigans and gender fuckery #my two favorite things #tony keeps her identity as iron man a secret #which totally works #for a while #prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #alexseanchai #avengers

[ohbo-ohno]

pretty pls need ghoap x reader in the motel with this prompt: waking up in a random room with no idea who/where/why/how you got there

🌚

1k game here

oh man this one is like my bread and butter

1k of Ghoap x Reader with a motel & waking up in a random room with no idea who/where/why/how you got there (ft. vampires! no smut, just a bit of weirdness)

You can hardly breathe as you stare into the ice box. The cold air wafting from it does nothing to soothe the heat emanating from your every pore, but you don't move.

You're not sweating. You've never once in your life been upset about a lack of sweat, but now? You feel like you're about to overheat, you're almost sure that if you were to put even the slightest pressure on your skin it would melt right off.

But you're not sweating. Your heart's not beating, your eyes don't burn after minutes standing here without blinking, and you aren't sweating.

You don't know how you got here.

You've been awake for nearly an hour now.

You'd come to in an old tub (painted an absolutely hideous green) with the worst headache you've ever experienced in your life, and absolutely no recollection of the last... Well. You're not even sure what you can remember.

There are vague notions of friends, faces that aren't entirely clear in your memory, and a crowd gyrating to something bass-heavy and loud. You're sure you remember a man dancing with you, but you can't remember where he went.

You don't know how long ago it was, but the last clear memory you have is stepping out to an alley to smoke a cigarette.

Then nothing. Then the green tub. Now the ice box.

You washed yourself off as best you could before stepping out of the cheap motel room, but you still feel the phantom itch of dried blood down your chin. It had been everywhere when you first woke up, soaking your entire face, covering your chest and arms and hands and shoulders and... just everywhere. You nearly rubbed off a layer of skin trying to get it all off of you.

Your gums throb. They're the only part of you you can still feel, and even if it's painful, it's still a comfort that you haven't gone entirely numb.

The motel is silent as you stand at the ice box. You passed a corpse on the way out of your room, it's head nearly torn off it's body, left to rot on the ground.

For some reason, it didn't scare you. You don't feel much at all emotionally, past a bit of hunger.

"Bonnie?"

The voice has a tinge of desperation to it, and you turn slowly to look at where it came from.

There's a man across the lobby from you. Somewhere deep in your mind, something perks up. Your gums throb, and your stomach twinges from hunger.

"Oh, thank God," the man groans, appearing in front of you in the blink of an eye. He runs cold hands over your arms, pulling you towards him. "You can't run off like that, lovie, you're too vulnerable right now!"

Something feels wrong about that. You're not sure what.

It doesn't really matter. You can't work up the energy to do much but tilt your head up a little towards his. He's good looking, definitely your type some distant part of you recognizes, but his eyes are a bright red as he scans your face.

"Bonnie?" His voice edges into concern, cupping your cheeks in his palms.

You can't do much more than blink lethargically at him.

"Oh, lass, did you already feed?"

That... that sounds right. You fed, but you're still hungry, so you nod and whine a bit at the same time. There, two birds with one stone.

"Oh, love," he sighs, pulling you into him and angling your nose into his neck. You can feel a vein beneath your lips. "You were supposed to wait. Now the turning process is gonna hurt. Why'd you run away? This was supposed to be easy."

You're not really listening as you open your mouth, pressing against the thin skin of his neck. Without even realizing, you start to bite.

"No, no," he scolds, gripping you by the nape of your neck and tugging back. "You don't want to start that here, lovie. We'll get you fed once you're in the nest."

You whine at that, an animalistic sound that some far off part of you knows shouldn't be coming from your hroat.

"I know, I know," the man consoles. He scoops you up into your arms, easily holding you in a bridal carry and dipping his head down to press a kiss to your hair. "We'll be lucky if you get to drink from me, anyways. Ghost is gonna stake me for letting you out of sight before you fully turned."

The man smells good, so you ignore his weird words and lean a little further into him. He shifts you closer, and the starts to move.

You're not conscious of much as he travels. There's a lot of wind, some pressure against the part of your body facing out into the world, and noise coming from all sides at once.

You comes back to yourself just a bit more as you're deposited onto something soft. You moan as you sink deeply into it, something in your head clicking, telling you this is right.

The man's scent is stronger here, as strong as it was when you pressed your nose to his jugular.

"Took you long enough," a new voice - lower pitched, British instead of Scottish - grunts. The soft thing beneath you shifts, and you feel yourself being lifted.

You hiss as you're tugged away from the comfort, closed eyes squeezing tight as you're laid across a hard chest.

"Hush," the brit says, running a hand over your hair and giving your nape a quick squeeze. You nearly melt into him, lounging across his large body like it's a mattress. "We'll get you fed, just be patient."

"Is she gonna be ok?" The first man asks, his nervousness palpable. "You said it's worse if she feeds from someone else first. Is the turning gonna hurt?"

The man beneath you sighs, and pulls you further up his body. Your face rests naturally in his throat, and you purr as you burrow closer.

"Shouldn't be too bad. We just have to get the human blood out of her system, replace it with ours instead."

You mouth at his vein, beginning to bite down on instinct.

"She's got the right idea," the man beneath you rumbles a chuckle, pushing your face a little further into him. "Go on, pet. Take all you need."

You bite down with full force, and sink into the delicious taste of the warm blood flowing into your mouth.

#ghoap x reader #bo writes #1k celebration #🌚 anon

[belovedvenom]

how rafe and his weird girl met

☠︎︎༒︎✞︎🕸𖤐

"when are they going to tear that house down already?" rose grumbled, face full of disgust

"someone bought it." rafes head snaps up the second those words leave his father’s mouth.

the house on the end of figure eight. littered with cobwebs, cracked windows and deteriorating walls. shingles torn apart from previous storms. it was desolate. eerie. depressing. ugly.

who the hell would want to buy it?

rafe was hanging with topper and kelce. topper yapping on about god knows what. rafe wasn’t paying him any attention, just typing away on his phone.

“looks like halloween came early this year” topper nudges rafe with his elbow, nodding his head fir rafe to look ahead when he turns to him with a scowl.

rafe did a double take when he saw you. you certainly did not fit in here with your sharp claw nails painted red, black corset on top of a short black lace dress with gloves to match. he felt two things looking at you —curiosity and anger cause why the hell are you dressed like that.. all that black? in this heat?? he felt hot and overstimulated just looking at you. he's never seen anyone dress the way you do and you were definitely going to be the talk of the town. hell— you already are.

"i hear shes the one living in that decrepit old house" kelce speaks up.

"the one on the end of figure 8? that shit gives me the creeps" toppers face cringes at the thought of it. "yep. her and her family just moved in. they're weird man"

rafe stayed tight lipped and hummed. not taking his eyes off you for a second. you meet his gaze thru red sunglasses, giving him a once over before walking away, practically gliding. there was something strange about you. something….off. but you carried yourself with such confidence and it peeked his interest. he just had to get to know you.

he did it from a distance at first. asking around about you. only to get the same annoying answers. she's weird. she doesn't talk. her family is a bunch of freaks. they're creepy . he was getting no where so he decided to take a trip to your place, not that he really wanted to, you just rarely left the house so where the hell else is supposed to see you.

knocking on your front door. he's stunned when an older woman opens the door— like you dressed in all black, a gown that covers her feet. “hello. may i help you?” her voice is smooth. airy. he asks for you, honest in his intentions. always the smooth talker when he wants to be. she eyes him before telling him your name and points to the back.

that’s where he finds you. in the backyard cemetery— reading under a tree. “hi there.” you peek up at the sound of his voice, squinting. “whatcha reading about?”

“amputation” your voice is small but silvery. he likes it. despite the weirdness that just came out of your mouth. he wasn’t expecting that.

“wha-“ he sniffs. “is.. is that like for school or something?”

“no. just for fun.” theres a tiny smirk on your face. one would almost miss it if his eyes weren’t solely focused on you.

oh he’s hooked.

from then on he hasn’t left you alone, it’s almost borderline stalkerish. when you two start dating, it’s intense. you’re intense and he doesn’t know how to handle you at all. you match his energy which pisses him off but he’s obsessed with you and word spread fast. as if you weren’t already talk of the town, its dialed up by 11 now. the kook prince and the town freak. everybody talked. most things negative— not in earshot of you or rafe tho. no one wants to deal with rafes wrath if he heard them talking smack about you. you were untouchable. not that you needed rafes status to protect you. you had a bite of your own and weren’t afraid to fight back either.

you’re just as insane as he is. if not more.

 ☆*:.｡.o🕸o.｡.:* ☆

#rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron fic #drew starkey

[arieswritez]

Just thinking about pervy Mark rn…. Giggles

I think he should be nasty.. a lil gross,, That would be hawt

mark should allowed to be nasty & gross as a treat!!

cw; MDNI! DARK CONTENT! yan!mark grayson x gn!reader, abusive relationships, manipulation, food tampering, drugging, somnophilia, blackmail, scent kink, rape & sexual harassment, mentions of body size (weight fluctuations, implied chub!reader, mark teases reader about it)

he should be allowed to taint your food with his spit and his cum and get hard while he watches you eat it! he should be allowed to put trackers in your car or on your phone! why can't you understand he's just wants to keep you safe?! stop being so ungrateful >:[ !!!!

how do you think it'd make mark feel if something happened to you? or are you that fucking self absorbed that you don't stop to think about how your actions affect those around you? specifically him. your boyfriend who does so much for you.

what if someone got their hands on your cute little body? is that what you want? because mark obviously doesn't want anything happening to you. . but if that's what you really want: he can make that happen.

he won't like it. but if it means teaching you a lesson, he can always hire a few low lives to scare you straight. and it's not like it's hard to find them and reason with them. mark gets a favor and, in return, they don't have to worry about mark - or invincible, as they know him - lurking on their turf.

despite their reputation, they don't do anything too bad. nothing big enough to cause any permanent, physical damage. although he's sure - and hoping - your psyche will take a hit. he specifically advised they not rape you but they do enough to leave you shaking with fear once it's over.

when you come home to him, clothes torn, sobbing about being cornered and groped, he'll be there, soothing and cooing at you,

"babe~ i told you! this is what happens when you wear that while i'm not around! you have to tell me where you are at all times! it wouldn't have happened if i was there!"

mark should be allowed to make you absolutely, completely, A HUNDRED PERCENT!!!! dependent on him!!! he should be allowed to slip things into your drinks that make you drowsy and force you to stay the night. he should be allowed to set up a cute little camera in the corner of the room, facing his bed, and film himself slipping his hand into your underwear while you sleep! you wouldn't believe the sounds you make while you're passed out <3

he should be allowed to give you medication that causes your weight to fluctuate! & he's allowed to be a little mean about it, too ;( to pinch your chubby cheeks or your softening belly, grab your rolls and say, "you're lucky i love you so much ~"

he should be allowed to use your throat as leverage when he fucks you from behind!!! he should be allowed to stick his thumb/stuff his fingers into your hole while he strokes you or eats you from the back!! he should be allowed to paint your back and/or belly with sticky white cum while you're throbbing for him. he should be allowed to make excuses !!! oh, i hafta go. cecil needs me. im tired. get yourself off, you can do that, can't you?

or just a blatant, "no. you don't deserve to."

mark should be allowed to throat fuck you until your face is covered with tears and snot and he should be allowed to laugh at you and plug your nose while you choke around him!

he should be allowed to force you to your knees & tongue at his balls the second he steps into the house despite the fact that he hasn't showered the day's worth of sweat and grime off of him! you should BE GRATEFUL HIS DICK IS IN YOUR MOUTH!!!

mark is a good bf! and you shouldn't complain!! no one will love you the same way he does!!

#io ramble ramble #im in love w him #im supposed to be out #instead im writing about mark being gross #trying to get this out before i get a lick of sunlight #cause ik my serotonin will surge #and i wont be able to be sick and psycho and needy #i am so rabid over him #i want him so bad #FUCK IT I AM IN LOVE WITH MARK GRAYSON #AND YOU CAN ALL JUDGE ME IF YOU WANT #BUT I DO NOT CARE #I HAVE NEVER #EVER #BEEN HAPPIER!!!!! #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson #invincible #yandere mark grayson x reader

[brewed-pangolin]

Fine I'll send another. Captain MacTavish ON THE BEACH. 🥵

I love the beach. I live on it during the summer. It's my second home, I swear. And the way the sea salt air and warm waters can cure the soul is something I just can't ignore with this man. I love this ask so much!!!

18+ MDNI Sexual Themes

You sat alone, comfortably in your beach chair with a cold beer in hand under a magenta colored sky as the sun set beyond the horizon of a turquoise painted surf.

The rhythmic sound of the waves synchronizing with the beat of your heart as the scent of sea salt and sunscreen etched itself into your skin.

The air was still warm, yet it carried a cool breeze off the waters edge as the slow curtain of dusk crept over the white sanded landscape.

It was perfect. A picturesque conclusion to a hot summer's day.

And off in the distance, with a Yeti tumblr of whisky in one hand and a cigar permanently clutched in his mouth, Captain MacTavish cast out his last line into the crashing surf and placed the warn grip seamlessly into its plastic holder dug into the sand.

The beach had done wonders for him since his retirement only a few years ago.

Soothed his war torn psyche with the constant ebb and flow of the tide. Molded his scars beneath a layer of sun kissed skin that further accentuated the seascape blue of his eyes and made every woman swoon with just a mere glance and a smile.

Yet it was here, under the blanket of encroaching night that you saw the man he had truly become.

A man at peace with himself. Letting the setting sun and roll of the tide absolve him of his past and breathe fresh life into his lungs at dawn's first light.

You couldn't pull your eyes off him anymore, and you were no longer ashamed about how your stare lingered on him.

The loss of sunlight elongating the shadows within the curves of his musculature. Accented by the seafoam swim trunks that hung perfectly on his hips. Creating a more defined sculpture of his frame as he effortlessly strutted along the sand to take his place beside you.

"How long you gonna fish for tonight, John?" You asked quietly, rim of the beer can caressing your bottom lip.

"As long as you'll let me, m'lass."

You smiled, watching him raise his tumbler in cheers to take a healthy swig while gently tapping the ash of his cigar into an empty can.

"Guess we'll be here all night, then."

"Aye. Looks that way."

As he relaxed back in his Tommy Bahama chair, your hand reached out to instinctually cusp the back of his head. Thumb and index finger pressing into the back off his skull, pulling a slight groan from his chest as your touch soothed his sun drenched soul.

"Careful, lass. Y'know what that skillful touch a'yers does to me."

"Mhmm. It's a good thing we brought the boat."

Soap rolled his eyes, glancing between your smirking expression and the vessel anchored just beyond the last sandbar.

"Which one ya love more, hm? The boat, or me?"

You raised a brow at his testing inquiry, firmly pressing into the back curve of his jaw with your fingertips as a hushed murmur fell from your lips.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to, John. Won't get you anywhere."

Soap growled in response. Placing his hand on your thigh and giving your flesh a firm yet playful grip.

"May have ta shorten th'fishing trip then. Looks like I gotta assert my claim over you again."

"Claim over me, John?"

"Aye. Ain't no way I'm losing you to a gas guzzling bàta."

-

You both lasted no more than another twenty minutes before loading everything into the skiff and jetting back to his prized vessel. Where Soap MacTavish made good to his word and staked his claim over you once again.

Spreading you over every flat surface beneath the bow and docking his thickened cock repeatedly into the deep cove of your cunt.

Master of the Swell Masterlist

This is but a taste of the new WIP I have in store for you, Soap Squad. Johnny's got the 4Runner, the Captain's got a yacht. And goddman, do I have plans to rock that boat.

Tagging those who showed interest. Let me know if you liked to be tagged for further posts. Much love 💛

@deadbranch @ohgeesoap @astraluminaaa @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @d3athtr4psworld @ghosts-goldendoodle @homicidal-slvt @shotmrmiller @glitterypirateduck @macravishedbymactavish @sofasoap @tacticalanxiety @random-thot-generator @writeforfandoms

#teaser for master of the swell #this asked warmed my sun kissed soul #love the beach so damn much #soap squad™️ #glitterypirateduck #the brainrot of Captain MacTavish #captain soap mactavish #captain mactavish #captain soap x you #captain soap x fem reader #og soap x you #og soap x fem reader #soap smut #call of duty #cod

[hamsterclaw]

Desecrate

A fall from grace causes you to stumble into the hands of a demon prince. Inspired by Lilith.

Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader

Word count: 2.6k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Sex, swearing, mention of murder, non-explicit attempted assault, angels and demons

Min Yoongi is older than most creatures to walk this Earth, this much he knows. It’s been years since he last felt that any of the petty skirmishes mortals involve themselves in was worth any of his interest or his time. 

Even though time, for him, stretches out, almost infinitely. 

He doesn’t know your face at all, but you catch his attention, and hold it. He can sense your mortality slipping through your fragile grasp as you grapple with the men holding you down. 

You’re not going to win, though he admires your grit. 

Yoongi’s no stranger to blood but he has no desire to watch you get used and torn to shreds. He’s moving on when your eyes meet his. 

You plead with him wordlessly, desperately, as the light dims in your eyes. 

Yoongi knows that this is a dangerous time, the twilight between living and dying. You’re straddling both worlds, dying even as you push uselessly at the hands around your neck. 

It would be facetious to say that Yoongi kills without a shred of remorse. It’s more truthful to say that he kills without a thought. 

He’s standing amidst the mess he made, you at his feet, your face pressed to the ground. 

You’re unconscious, but you’ll live, unlike the men Yoongi dispatched on your behalf. 

There’s something unbearable to him about the way the lovely line of your cheek is touching the dirt of this human dumping ground. 

Yoongi doesn’t know what possesses him, but he takes you with him as he leaves. 

***

You wake in stages, in a very human way. 

Your eyes flicker open, shut. Yoongi can hear your heart accelerate, your breathing quicken, he can see your muscles tense. 

Your mouth opens on an inhale, and your eyes flicker open again. 

‘Where am I?’ you rasp. 

Your voice is soft, plaintive, your vocal cords swollen from your assault. 

‘You’re in my home,’ Yoongi replies. 

When you turn your head to look at him, your eyes are more focused. 

‘And who are you?’ 

‘I saved your life,’ Yoongi tells you. 

He watches as your eyes scan the domed ceiling, the painted frescoes, the stained glass. Your gaze stops at a scene of the Madonna. 

Yoongi studies your profile, the dirt smudged on your cheekbone he’d not bothered to wipe off.

Your gaze returns to him.

‘You’re Min Yoongi.’

It’s not a question, but Yoongi’s compelled to answer anyway, because the fact that you’ve guessed his identity means there’s more to you than he first thought.

You sit up, and Yoongi wonders how he managed to miss the celestial aura emanating from you. 

Lords and beings.

You’re an angel.

Seokjin is never going to let him live this down.

Min Yoongi, ancient slayer of humans, demonic legend from the mediaeval history of man, saved an angel.

Yoongi gets up, lets a tiny fraction of his darkness show. His voice deepens, resonating through the chapel.

‘Leave.’

You’re frightened, he can see it in the way you’re tensed, body held taut like a bow.

‘I can’t. It’s the night of Pandemonium.’

Pandemonium marks the beginning of when the Gates of Hell open each year. From your reaction, Yoongi guesses you’re a young angel, limited in power, incapable of cloaking or protecting yourself.

He laughs sardonically. ‘I don’t think the home of the bulgasari Prince is the right place for an angel on the night of Pandemonium, do you?’

You clasp your hands.

‘I’m not an angel.’

Yoongi stares at you.

‘Not anymore. I was cast out.’

For the first time, Yoongi feels a flicker of interest.

He can feel the scales in his mind threaten to tip by the tiniest of margins. 

For the first time, he thinks he might not kill you.

Seemingly unaware of his internal debate, you take a step closer to him.

Towards the most dangerous being in the room.

Yoongi flicks his tongue over his lower lip, steps forward so you can see him in the red glow.

His human form is beautiful, drawing others in. Leading them to their own destruction.

He can see the way your pupils dilate, your tongue wets your bottom lip, as you see him clearly for the first time.

‘You want to stay with me?’ he asks, silky. He takes another step.

You tilt your chin so you can keep looking at him.

‘Show me how much you want to stay.’

Yoongi turns his head towards the painting above the hearth.

‘Destroy it.’

You turn to the painting. 

It’s from the 14th century, by a little known Italian painter called Diavollo, depicting the death of Santa Lucia. He was gifted it by a corrupt nobleman in exchange for his life. Yoongi had taken both. 

You cast a defiant look at him, rush towards the painting. You stop, head bowed, before it.

‘I can’t.’ 

‘You can,’ Yoongi says, pitching his voice low, letting the heat of it flare out to you.

You clasp your hands together again, despairing. ‘I can’t.’

Steps heavy, head bowed, you head for the door. 

You stop just inside the front entrance to the chapel, as if giving him a chance to change his mind before he sends you to certain death.

Yoongi’s had countless beings plead for mercy from him in his long life and he has never once given in.

There’s a stirring in the recesses of his mind as he admires your profile for the last time. It feels like longing.

Then you’re gone, door swinging closed behind you.

***

Yoongi dislikes gatherings like this, when the princes of Hell and their delegates celebrate their misdeeds in front of the beings who serve them.

If Seokjin hadn’t asked him to attend as a personal favour, Yoongi would be in his home.

Oddly, he’s not been able to look at the Diavollo since you gave your life rather than destroy it.

He wonders if that sort of foolishness is what got you exiled.

He’s thought about your face so much that when he sees you, he’s momentarily stilled.

You’re knelt at the feet of Malvarius, the highest ranking demon of Yeomna’s court, save for Seokjin, and Yoongi himself.

Yoongi watches with revulsion as Malvarius scratches a bloodstained nail along the line of your neck, stopping at the iron collar around your throat.

Malvarius wraps his fist in the chain attached to your collar, tugs.

You fold to the ground in a heap of loose limbs and the sheer drapery he’s dressed you in.

Yoongi finds he still doesn’t care to see your face against the ground.

He approaches the demon, and you.

When you see him, there’s a flicker in your eyes.

‘She’s mine,’ Yoongi says, unceremoniously, to Malvarius.

Malvarius, the treacherous devil, says smoothly, ‘Pardon me?’

‘I made her a deal,’ Yoongi replies, preternaturally calm. ‘She owes me.’

Malvarius sits up, and Yoongi realises there’s a crowd gathering.

It doesn’t take much to have demons baying for blood.

Malvarius draws himself up to his full height.

‘Do you mean to say, Yoongi, that you own the soul of Azariel’s only daughter?’

Yoongi blinks.

Azariel, the most revered of the archangels, is a name that strikes fear even in the hearts of the most seasoned of demon princes.

You’re Azariel’s daughter? 

Yoongi remembers the way you cried over the Diavollo as you walked to your death.

You’d not used your father’s name as a bargaining chip. 

Yoongi says, coolly, ‘One fallen angel is just like any other.’

‘She’s a lusty slut,’ Malvarius remarks. ‘Can’t stop opening your legs for me, can you, angel?’

You gasp in pain as he pulls up on the chain, making you dance on your toes to keep from being choked.

Yoongi finds he doesn’t care for the sight of you in pain, either.

‘Give me what’s mine,’ he says, bored. ‘Or we can ask Yeomna to mediate.’

At the mention of the lord of Hell, Malvarius scowls. The last time he clashed with Seokjin, Yoongi had come very close to removing his power, Yeomna’s rules be damned.

He tosses the chain on the stone floor with a clang.

‘To your new master,’ he says, with little grace.

Yoongi removes the collar from around your neck.

‘Follow me,’ he commands.

Yoongi leads you through the debauchery, ignoring your gasps and sobbing breaths as you step through blood, entrails, sex. 

It’s only when you’ve followed him all the way back to his door that he speaks to you.

‘I’m deciding what to do with you,’ he tells you. ‘You will stay here, whilst I decide.’

‘My father won’t engage in barter for me,’ you say immediately. ‘He’d as soon as I was dead as alive.’

‘You must have done something terrible, angel.’ 

Your mouth clamps shut, lips flattening into a straight line.

‘Did you kill?’ Yoongi asks. ‘Maim?’

You barely react to his taunting tone.

‘Were you envious? Greedy?’

You’re quiet.

‘You’re not wrathful,’ Yoongi observes. 

He waits until your eyes meet his.

‘That leaves pride, and lust?’

From the way your face tightens he knows he’s stumbled upon his answer.

Yoongi lets his eyes travel to your beautiful form in the sheer silk you’re draped in.

Your breasts press against the material, rounded, enticing, and as he looks, your nipples tighten visibly.

‘Ah,’ Yoongi says, voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘He said you were lustful.’

Yoongi leans down, close to your cheek, and enjoys the way you shiver as he breathes on your skin.

He flicks the tip of his tongue against your skin, and your pupils dilate so much your eyes are practically black.

Your lips part on his name, and Yoongi, for the first time in a long while, feels a surge of lust.

You stay completely still as he touches your cheek.

‘What do you want from me, angel?’ Yoongi taunts. ‘Aren’t you fallen enough?’

Your breath trembles in your chest as his fingers tighten on your face.

‘Come,’ says Yoongi. ‘Show me how you fell.’

He lets go of your face to caress the swells of your breasts, and you gasp, but you don’t stop him.

Instead, you arch your back to press your breasts into his palms.

‘You want more?’ Yoongi asks. He knows you do.

He grasps the front of your gown, rips it all the way down.

Your thighs tighten on his hand as he reaches between your legs.

Yoongi’s hand explores you, leisurely, slow, until you’re twitching and trembling.

Your nipples are so sensitive now that when Yoongi rolls his tongue around one you buck your hips into his hand.

‘Uhngh,’ you moan. 

Yoongi thumbs the bud at the top of your sex, and your warmth pulses around his fingers.

Wet, hot, tight.

Yoongi drags his tongue along the round of your breast, and your breathing hitches.

Your nipples are so puffy and erect they almost look painful.

You whine as he grasps your rounded flesh. The sound causes a stirring, low in his belly.

Yoongi’s cock swells at the sounds you make. You’re so pleasured, breathless, and he’s barely making any effort.

He’s already almost fully erect when your soft hand brushes the front of his groin.

‘Bold for an angel,’ he says.

There’s a spark in your eyes, clouded with lust. 

‘How many angels have you defiled, Lord Min?’

Yoongi considers your question as his eyes roam your beautiful body.

‘None,’ he tells you.

You smile, and you’re so pretty he can’t take his eyes off you.

‘Luckily, I’m not an angel any more.’

Yoongi smirks. ‘Let me show you how the other side lives.’

He turns, and you follow.

***

You’re lost, Yoongi isn’t sure when it happened, probably between your fourth, maybe fifth peak.

He’s covered in your arousal, he can taste you on his lips, on his tongue. His cock’s still so rigid inside you he’s aching, caught in the delirium between pleasure and pain.

He plunges into your wet warmth, rocking his hips against yours.

Your arms are limp, one draped around his neck, just barely holding on, the other splayed out, fingers uncurled. You look dazed, fucked out, teetering on the edge of consciousness.

You cry out as Yoongi moves, dragging his cock against the walls of your cunt, and he notes with grim satisfaction how hoarse your voice now is.

‘Yoongi,’ you beg, ‘wanna feel you.’

‘You’ll feel me,’ he promises.

You shake your head. ‘I want to feel your pleasure.’

Yoongi groans as you hold your legs apart for him, letting him see exactly how he cleaves you apart , the way he looks entering your core.

He wraps a hand around your neck, tight, and your eyes close. Your hand snakes around his wrist, urging him on.

You’re clenching around him so sweetly Yoongi’s disarmed, and when you press a kiss to his temple he releases, shouting your name, spilling inside you.

Belatedly, he remembers to loosen his grip around your neck, and as you remain still he feels an unnerving wave of fear that he might have hurt you.

He says your name, and you stir. Relief floods through his chest. 

‘Stay,’ you mumble into his chest. ‘Stay.’

Yoongi curls his arm around you, a display of skinship he’s unused to but that you seem to want.

He wonders, curious, why he’s swayed to want to give you what you want.

***

You wake during the night. 

Yoongi’s flat on his back, arm propping up his head. He watches with dark amusement as you look your fill at his naked form. 

‘You’re too wide-eyed considering you have my seed all over you,’ he drawls. 

You blink at him. ‘I was surprised to wake, my lord.’

‘You thought I’d kill Azariel’s fallen daughter?’ Yoongi muses, not bothering to acknowledge how close to the truth you are. 

‘You do have a reputation, Lord Min,’ you say, so seriously that it takes him a moment to realise you’re teasing him. 

He’s startled into laughter that sounds rusty even to him. 

You turn over, breasts spilling onto the silk bedcovers, lush and beautiful like you were made to tempt him. 

His cock stirs, and it doesn’t escape your notice, minx that you are. 

You reach for him, gentle, soft against his hardness. 

Yoongi groans, eyes never leaving you as you stroke him. Your lips part on a breath, tongue flicking between. The cavern of your mouth feels like the heaven Yoongi will never know. 

He’s never rued being born a demon prince until this moment. 

Yoongi pulls you off his rigid shaft, seeks the warmth between your legs. You’re already gasping, spreading to take him, so soft and slick and willing he can barely hold himself back. 

His hand finds its way around your neck again, squeezing, and the pleasure ramps up a thousandfold. 

Your back arches as you peak, and this time Yoongi doesn’t have the patience to deny himself. He groans into your hair as he fills you, remembers to loosen his grip. 

You’re emboldened to press a kiss to his lips, a moment of contact so searing Yoongi’s jolted out of his post-pleasure daze. 

Neither of you speak, and neither of you makes a move to leave. 

***

It’s just past dawn when Yoongi stirs to the back of your entirely naked body. 

You’re getting re-dressed, helping yourself to his clothes. 

‘I should go,’ you say. 

Yoongi hadn’t realised you’d noticed he was awake. 

Pandemonium has passed, but Yoongi finds he doesn’t care for any possibility that you might get hurt. 

He rises, unclasps a chain from around his neck, fastens it around your own. The ancient rune now hanging between your collarbones is distinctly, identifiably, his. 

There aren’t many who would seek his wrath. 

‘My father will —--’ 

‘Rue the day he let you fall into the hands of a demon prince?’ suggests Yoongi. 

The hint of a smile plays around your lips, and Yoongi can’t tear his eyes away. 

‘I’ll be back,’ you say. There's a faint question in your voice.

‘See that you are,’ Yoongi replies. 

You bow slightly. ‘My lord.’ 

You take your leave, and Yoongi allows himself to watch you go until you slip between two buildings, and then you’re gone. 

©hamsterclaw 2023

#yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi fic #bts fanfic #bts smut

[wyn-n-tonic]

That's a Real Fucking Legacy: Legacy

Pairing: Joel x f!reader/former Tommy x f!reader Word Count: 2.6k+ Warnings: Talk of pregnancy, childbirth, child loss, grief, alcohol, drugs. Author's Note: I'm sorry.

Writing Blog: @wyn-writing. Sign up for my taglist HERE.

Empty.

The shelves of his belongings, sparse as they may be; the maps that hung tacked to the wall; the knife taped beneath the table; the life of his laughter drained from the walls.

And the guitar.

Of course the guitar was gone.

“I'm sorry,” his note read. “I had to go. I had to know if it was possible for us to have a safer, happier life outside of here. I’ll be back for you, I love you.” 

Nothing else, just gone in the night leaving nothing else but a note and a broken heart.

It always ends bloody—day after day, year after year.

But this didn’t end at all, it just never came back.

It left two things in its wake—you and a brother.

A brother who couldn’t look you in the eye after reading the tear stained note that mentioned him nowhere in it.

It didn’t say he’d come back for Joel.

It didn’t say he wanted better for Joel and it fed into Joel’s belief that he was no longer good enough for good things or good intentions. 

Somewhere along the line, you picked up on that feeling for yourself. It was easier to tell yourself that Tommy had forgotten about you and the promise he made in his letter. It was easier to assume that he no longer loved you because the only alternative was that he was no longer living.

Not Joel, though.

That callus nature ticked off Tommy’s life like a box in his goddamn head. Compartmentalized it away as one less person that made him vulnerable—weak. It was the illusion of strength that drove you to him; to showing up at his apartment with some poorly constructed moonshine and an ache you hadn’t felt satisfied since the night before everything changed.

You told him how Tommy had fucked you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, knowing it was the last time, and that motherfucker didn’t even have the balls to say goodbye.

“I never meant fuck all to him, did I?” You had asked.

Shattered glass wasn’t the response you were looking for but it’s certainly the one you got, expletives crawling out of his mouth as he knelt down to pick up the shards. 

Only that and the silence that followed as he disposed of the crystalized remnants and paced the small room.

“My brother loved you,” he finally said. “You were the best goddamn thing my brother had going for him—he said you were the best thing he had ever done. His love for you is how I know he’s fucking dead, sweetheart, so you need to stop sitting here convincing yourself that what you had was fake—some fucked up way to protect yourself—and start grieving like the goddamn widow you are.”

That grief stood to meet his and both of you fell into bed shortly after.

It made sense, he’d promised you. You weren’t doing anything wrong.

You got the next best thing to Tommy Miller.

He got to protect the most important thing to Tommy Miller. 

It’s what he would’ve wanted.

But now he looks like he’s going to throw up.

The sex got more frequent, the small laughter and the stolen touches.

For a while, you’d kept separate dwellings—him sleeping alone, you sleeping with a ghost.

Then the apartment was ransacked one day while you were out, you came home to Firefly spray paint on the doors and half the floor boards torn up.

Joel barely let you out of his fucking sight after that.

He also fucked you blind most nights, giving over small glimpses of the man he used to be—the man he still wishes he was.

There’s half a glimpse of that now followed by fear followed by a set jaw and a mask he wears when it’s not just you beside him.

“Are you sure?” He asks, hands worrying into the edge of a book over and over again.

You shrug, “who can really be sure of anything these days? Especially this early on but… I don’t know.” Looking down at your nails, you start to pick at the bloodied skin already ravaged by your anxieties. “I’m fairly certain though,” you tell him. “Don’t feel obligated to anything.” 

“Shut up,” he snaps. He is harsh when he wants to be but he’s never been so with you. “Don’t sit there and tell me you’ve got my baby inside of you and then tell me not to feel obligated. You are the only person I feel that for anymore.” 

The chair kicks back and falls behind him when he stands, clattering down in a way that shakes you. You’re used to the loudness of his voice, the attack dog style way he turns on anybody who looks at you sideways.

"I'm sorry,” he says after a few beats from the other side of the room. He’s staring down the window but you’re not sure his eyes are anywhere, really. Not sure he’s here either.

You know where he goes on the nights he doesn’t exhaust himself enough between your legs after a long day. Hell, he goes there even then. Because no amount of sex or drugs or alcohol is going to scrub that memory out.

Tommy told you about that night; the subsequent nights and the years that followed where Joel turned into somebody completely different. Joel, who used to be goofy and happy, even if he was stressed. 

But he’s not that man anymore and, even if you catch the glimpses of him in fleeting moments, he never will be again.

“I'm sorry,” you tell him. Because it’s all you can say. You’d been as careful as you could. You’d drank the tea. You did the best you could.

He doesn’t turn until you stand, following the noise of your body with his good ear to bore his brown gaze into you. “Where are you going?” 

You shrug, “I think you need some time and uh”—you rub at your eye—“I heard a rumor a while ago about somebody who can help take care of it so—“

“So just like that”—he snaps his fingers for emphasis—“you’re gonna take it all away? Never happened, huh?”

“You don’t want this,” you tell him. You say it plainly like a fact because it is.

His features twist up, eyes squinting as he pulls back like you've slapped him. “It's not that I don’t want this,” he says, accent coming out thick. “It's that I don’t want this for you”—he starts counting on his fingers, taking steps toward the fallen chair and the door you stand at now—“I don’t want this life for you; I don’t want this life for that baby; I don’t want me for that baby, sweetheart. Don’t you understand? That should be my brother’s, you should be my brother’s—“

“Yeah, well he fucking left me, Joel!” The way you heighten your voice shoots pain right up into your head, the headache you’ve been nursing from nerves all day growing worse as your fists clench and unclench. “He fucking left you, he left us! This should be his baby, but it’s not, Joel. It doesn’t have to be yours either.” 

“Sweetheart,” his voice is so soft now. Another glimpse. He walks towards you slowly, hands out as if trying to pacify a wild animal. “Can we talk about this before you just go off and—“ 

But you’re already halfway out the door before he can finish the thought, letting it slam shut behind you on the man you never should’ve told.

——————

It’s always bloody—this life we’re forced to live now.

Starts in blood, ends in blood.

In the moment you hemorrhaged from childbirth, all you could think of was Tommy and how you hoped his end was the fast kind of blood and not the kind you were experiencing. 

It was the first time you saw Joel cry, stood back and shaking with clenched fists. In the end, it was how stern his voice got that brought you back from the blackened edges of your vision. 

That’s how he spoke to you, to the baby. Soft voices, yes. But stern, too. Like every statement was a warning shot not to leave him like the rest. 

Life in the QZ wasn’t exactly a good one but it was enough; safe enough. Joel took the risks he needed to, to get you and the baby what you needed. 

That was her name for the longest time, just Baby.

Baby, who fit in the palm of her father’s hand.

Baby, who made him laugh like he hadn’t in years.

Baby, who made his smile reach his eyes again.

Baby, who was told stories of how much like her big sister Sarah she already was with all her sass and all her charisma.

He was obsessed with her tiny hands, her little toes and the way she cooed up at him with big, dark eyes. 

He was obsessed with her little face, the curve of her lips and the way she latched on to feed.

“You're gonna hate me for saying this,” he started when he walked in the room one day, her tiny body nestled in the crook of his arm like a football. “But I think she kind of looks like Tommy.” 

You did hate him for that but he wasn’t wrong. It was some sick cosmic joke; the baby that should be his; the baby made out of grief for him.

Three weeks later, her papers were officially filed with FEDRA under the name Thomasin Miller; never imagining that, one year later, you’d be walking down the street to see her namesake stepping out of your old building like a bad dream.

Or the best dream.

If that’s where he went first, finding that the entire thing is cleared out, then he’d be going to Joel’s next. 

Unless he stuck with not ever wanting to see his brother’s goddamn face again.

You split left before he saw you, turned the corner and took the other way to Joel’s; to Thomi—home.

Fighting with your keys to get into the lock, the door pulled open and your muttering stopped as Joel stood easily at six feet with baby girl tucked up on his chest fast asleep. From the looks of it, he was too.

He barely came around to the pregnancy, trying hard to school his emotions through every milestone afraid that it was going to drop just like everything else. He carried that fear through the birth, told you that he was so afraid you were going, too. So afraid that you were leaving him with a baby to fend for so he could start this sick cycle of his life over again.

Except this time he wouldn’t even have Tommy and he knew the only outcome of that was him leaving the baby or her leaving him.

He said he wouldn’t have survived.

That’s the only way you know Joel Miller loved you—his version of it anyway.

Obligated.

“What's wrong?” He asks, worry covering every part of his face as his large hand covers yours. “What happened?”

“Tommy.” It’s all you can choke out.

He goes to hand you the baby, says she’s right here. Says she’s okay and asks again what happened. Asks if there was a baby on the trucks today.

“No,” you shake your head. “No, Joel, Tommy’s here.” 

He tells you you’re crazy, that it can’t be. Says the heat of the day and the smell of the infected dead must’ve gotten to you. That wasn’t even your job today; he stopped letting it be your job a long ass time ago. He didn’t want you seeing Thomi in every snuffed out life the way he saw Sarah.

“Listen to me, Joel!” Your yelling wakes the baby but only half a cry comes out before she realizes she’s in her daddy’s arms. “Tommy was coming out of our old building, he is here and I wasn’t there and you know where he’s gonna go next.” 

After two hours with no knock on the door, Joel starts to examine you; your eyes; your head; your neck. Any sign of trauma at all that can explain away the ghosts you saw in plain sight.

And then it comes. Just a couple of knocks at the door. Joel’s eyes rake down your face as all the color drains from it and crosses to the front door. “Who is it?”

“It's me,” a muffled voice on the other side comes through. “I-it’s Tommy.”

Joel opens the door enough to fit his broad body into it, one arm raised to lean against the deteriorating wood jamb. “Thought you were dead.”

“Why would you—“ 

“Maybe because you fucked off with a promise to come back and didn’t.”

“I—“ He stutters looking for the words. “I sent letters.”

From here, you can see Joel’s eyes squint and his face twist in near disgust. “We don’t exactly have a goddamn postal service, shitbird.” 

“Yeah, I fucking know that,” Tommy quips back and you can imagine just the face he’s making too. “I fucking radio’d, every fucking week, and I got nothing back. I just want to know she’s okay.”

You watch from the hallway, one arm hugged around your body for warmth. It’s not even cold.

“She’s—" He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how to fucking answer that. I hope she’s fine now but I’m worried that knowing you're around might slide that progress back.”

“Progress?”

“Yeah, Tommy, she fucking grieved for you for a long ass time. That was after she waited for you until I told her to accept that you weren’t coming back.”

“But I radio’d…” 

“We didn’t get a goddamn radio from you, Tommy!” 

Thomasin screams at the sound of her father’s raised voice, howling out every thing she’s got in her tiny lungs as you move to pick her up.

Tommy’s asking what the fuck that is and you can see Joel’s fists clenching, tightening the grip he has on the door. He looks back at you, back at his daughter and his face betrays the parts of his heart that are breaking as Tommy asks whose goddamn baby is crying in his apartment.

“Mine,” Joel responds. 

Then he shuts down, jaw setting and unsetting as Tommy asks question after question. 

Where’d you get a baby?

What’s going on?

Why can’t I find her?

You know where she is, tell me where she is.

Joel can’t answer any of them, can’t make eye contact with his brother anymore but he doesn’t move from the door. He wants to, you can tell. He wants to shut it, go back to this morning when you and he and the baby were all still sound asleep in the early light of day.

“Can I just come in, Joel?” He finally asks. “Can we just talk about this? You can tell me where she is, I’ll set it right with her, I meant to come back for her a lot sooner.”

“Yeah,” Joel breathes out, “you really fucked up on that one.” 

He looks to you then, a silent question in his eyes.

Are you ready for this?

No. You aren’t. Three hours ago, you didn’t know this man was still breathing and the only solace you could hope for was that he was truly dead and not some fucking monster with a mushroom growing out of his gorgeous head.

Sitting, finally, with Thomasin in your aching arms to cover your aching heart, you nod and Joel lets the door open wider until Tommy's eyes are on you; your daughter.

“I'm sorry, Tommy,” Joel says. “I’m really fucking sorry.” 

#tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller #joel miller #o writes

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Chiori, Chiori! Chiori army grows!

Anyhow, Chiori with a s/o who just can't keep their clothes in good condition. They're just out adventuring, a lot which caused their clothes to get messed up.

(Genshin Impact) Chiori's S/O being unable to keep their clothes clean

You should honestly see my clothes whenever I get to painting my minis. My elbows are covered in paint, not even mentioning my hands.

Chiori is going to do violence to S/O.

She works hard to keep her own clothes in relatively clean condition.

Sure, Fontaine had plenty of helpful technology to help wash and dry clothes, but that didn't mean she went frolicking in the mud on purpose.

So, Chiori is very frustrated with S/O waltzing into their home, covered in dirt, torn rags, and Archons know what else.

She pinches the bridge of her nose as a loud sigh exits her mouth.

(Chiori) "Seriously? I just stitched that shirt last week."

(S/O) "Hah...uh, sorry."

Chiori teaches S/O how to take care of their own clothes so she doesn't have to fix it every single damn time.

After a certain point, she doesn't even cringe at the state of their clothing anymore.

She's honestly amazed they haven't just waltzed in half-naked at this point.

Hearing the bell ring on her doors, she spares S/O a single glance before going back to cutting the cloth with her swords.

(Chiori) "Shirt or pants ruined?"

(S/O) "Not even a hello first, cHIORI?"

(Chiori) "Hello, S/O. There, now what part am I fixing?"

(S/O) "...The shirt...-"

(Chiori) "I must be psychic. Take a seat over there, I'll get to you eventually."

Just because S/O is their boyfriend/girlfriend, does not mean they get any special treatment.

In fact, they probably get ragged on even worse for knowing how she is, yet having the gall to walk into her store looking like that.

#genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #chiori x reader #chiori genshin impact x reader #chiori genshin impact

[vilebird]

BOTH TOO MUCH AND NOT ENOUGH

1) "I have been found wanting, Natalie thought; I have made myself unacceptable and am not worthy." - hangsaman, by shirley jackson

2) text: "meat must be beaten brutal into tenderness, that any body softens with violence, she grinds salt into the carcass, like a wound, a memory". image: a carcass of beef, cleaned, with the ribs on prominent display, painted in oils and rendered in thick strokes of red, orange, tan and white, on a plain dark red background. the text is cutouts on top, dark red text on light tan. - Family Portrait as Unfinished Meal, by Torrin A. Greathouse and Le Bœuf by Chaim Soutine. collage put together by @invisiblemonstrosity

3) a pale hand crushing ripe red strawberries, green leaves still attached, on a plain white background. - apparently by ouiloved on flickr, but they seem to have deleted.

4) bust photo of a tan person with a spotlight on them outside in the dark, head turned down, shoulder length messy wet black hair obscuring their face. their hand is raised to their chest and they are wearing a white tank top. fake blood is splattered and wiped around their chest and mouth. - i can't actually find this one all my attempts lead back to unsourced tumblr posts if you know where its from. help me

5: "You have no one who has any sort of consideration for you. You have had patience and endurance, and what have they done for you? Half-killed you." - carlyle’s house and other sketches, by virginia woolf

6: "try your whole life to be righteous and be good, wind up on your own floor, choking on blood" - sept 15th 1983, by the mountain goats

7: "such a waste of a girl, such rumination. i am obsessive. i contain nothing but the replay. i am blood and blood and replay. i am please don't go." - i put the coffin out to sea, by lisa marie basile

8: an image of a partially bald baby bird begging for food, drawn in the desaturated greens and black of a trailcam, on top, the text reads "i am asking you for something i need", on bottom, the text reads "why is it so hard to give it to me?" - trailcam baby, by @quezify

9: "was i raised without love? / or was i born unloveable?" - @psychwarded

10: "I, in my corner, with my monstrous needs." - As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh, susan sontag

11: "oh, i know that i'm not whole, and sometimes feel the flies swarming, like much of me is rotten." - roadkill ode, chad abushanab

12: a photo of a cut tree where much of the centre is rotted from fungus, accompanied by the text: "heart rot in pine. heart rot is the softening of a pine trees resinous heartwood, caused by an in-dwelling fungus. not all pines have it, but those that do make the excavation of a tree-hole next cavity easier for the red-cockaded woodpecker."

13: "rot made a home inside my body." - i know it's from "bloat" but cant find the authors name again. i think it starts with a c?

14: photo of an abandoned house in shades of brown and beige and orange, the walls are wet and scuffed and the drywall has been torn open in places, exposing the old lath. - abandoned, by @jaggedplains

15: photo of a mouldy strawberry, fading from bright red to grey-green fluff - Strawberry Gray Mold disease stock photo, by MediaProduction on gettyimages

16: "you ever feel like you were born with something rotten inside you and if people get close enough they're gonna find out" - tumblr post by @twoheadedfawnn

17: "we are meat, we are potential carcasses,' he once said. 'if i go into a butcher's shop i always think it is surprising that i wasn't there instead of the animal." - francis bacon

18: "you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth." - speeches for dr frankenstein, by margaret atwood

19: photo of a python hanging off a roof coiled around a black and white bird, poised to eat it - i heard some noise on the roof this morning, by candycane7 on reddit

20: "all that matters is that you want to hurt me. all that matters is that you want me." - when rome falls, by yves olade

21: "god told me i was forgiven and then he split me open" - god is made of hunger and i am made of dreams, by katie maria

22: "but this is not about love. once a pig is hung and cut straight, cut from rectum to neck, step inside her death like it is a room: that is how to touch her now. the lord said, you must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses. then came the end of the rib." - oh let's just be hogs, by gregory emilio

23: photo of a strawberry cut in half with its leaves attached. it is bright red, steel knife wet. the background is bright white and plain. - cut strawberry by liz west on flickr

24: photo of a handmade cloth sculpture of a dead autopsied pigeon, red zipper like an incision opening to its empty red interior, small cloth and thread organs arranged around it. - pandora: city pigeon, by jessica bartram

25: '"u need a therapist" actually i need to be euthanized' - tumblr post by deactivated user @122mg

#webweaving #webweave #web weaving #thoughts #poems #quotes #words #aesthetic #spilled ink #writing #trauma #tragedy #poetry #bpd #borderline personality disorder #ptsd #collage #graphics #art #story #prose #lyrics #moodboard #literature #litstack #animal death #gore #mold #bipolar