#like is fighting the reckoners even worth it

[leggypuppy]

I'd recommend you:

1. Grab a Weapon/connections as soon as you can

2. Run Away

It's not just to replicate struggle, but also being hunted. You're likely to do better if you grab what friends/items you need and fuck off immediately. Don't be afraid to spend years, you have 77 of those.

I'd also remind you that Wounds are GREAT sources of Winter for Vaults and that you should prioritize leveling your Edge because it works damn near everywhere.

it's good to know that the tactics I was already leaning towards match up with this advice- good game design encourages you into the mode of play the game intends!

unfortunately in my attempt just now, the Moment I managed to grab a weapon it instantly got yoinked off me by the reckoners so that fuckin sucked. I guess accepting the heavy lean on rng would help me not Explode with rage but hoo boi

also I seem to remember the first several times I played, I like. ended up running out of places to run away to almost every time. Maybe that is on purpose, maybe I leant a bit too hard into Running Away? who knows anyway good to know I could technically go back to where I left off and it not automatically be a loss

#Cultist Simulator: Exile #cultist simulator #cultsim #Weather Factory #I got an Icon a Lionhunter Rifle with two shots and Lalla #and I am currently in Kaunas with No Money #I think this is my fourth move #maybe fifth #and I got uuhhh 38 Years left? being afraid to spend them is the Opposite of my issue #any more specific advice would actually be really appreciated I don't like floundering like this #like is fighting the reckoners even worth it #are operations even worth it #or should I sell Years and focus on gathering enough resources to kill the Foe/Obscurity to hide and book it literally wherever possible

[deadsetobsessions]

I just really like the trope of Danny getting summoned, alright?

——

After he shoved Pariah Dark in his coffin shaped locker what what Danny hoped to be for all of eternity, the half unfortunately inherited all of Pariah’s responsibilities.

“What was it again? With great powers comes great responsibilities?” Danny let his head hit the table with an audible thunk. He’s in his “office,” the ghost zone’s approximation of where he might be able to do work seriously. The house- the extension of his haunt- had added the room right next to his bedroom. Danny had to lift all of the paperwork from Pariah’s castle (that’s now also a part of what’s considered Danny’s but he doesn’t think about that) and move it to his main haunt.

He prayed to the universe at large to let him off. Danny hated doing homework- science not withstanding because at least he understood that- let alone an asshole’s centuries worth of work. Danny bemoaned the fact that he was elected the King. He didn’t even defeat Pariah all by himself, so why couldn’t the others do it?!

Like a wave of merciful fate, the beginning tugs of a summoning pulled at his core.

“Thank Ancients!”

Danny scrambled to grab a sticky note, unfortunately glowing green as things tended to in the Ghost Zone, and scribbled down that he’s been summoned and to not look for him until his vacation work was done.

With that note done, Danny decided to bring his A game to the summoning. Allowing his secondary form to wash over him, Danny quickly checked the mirror to make sure he was presentable. A bright glowing ice crown- not the crown of fire, because it was essentially useless without the ring and Danny wasn’t keen on being a king, let alone a near infinitely powerful one- settled across his brow showed his status. A cape, this form’s best feature, made of an expanse of galaxies, nebulae, and frost cling at the end was swept over his shoulders and pinned together with a cloak pin made of clusters of black holes.

A couple of additions to his normal hazmat suit and his trusty thermos at his side, Danny all but dove into the summoning magic with an excited whoop of glee.

As Danny got closer to the magic-made portal, he could hear the whispers of the living presences beyond it.

His summoners! Hopefully it’s not a cult again, even if he thought they were pretty funny trying to summon the king of the dead to kill more people. Not funny “haha,” funny weird.

How should he do this…? Scary? Funny? Oh! Or maybe he should ditch the crown!

Danny grinned, waving his hand to dispel the crown of ice. It was nice, but he was in a dungeon critter mood today.

“Oh, this is going to be gooood.”

Danny cracked his knuckles and put on the most dead-inside-and-outside expression he could manage, modeling it off of the Nasty Burger workers during closing shift. The halfa stepped through the portal.

——

“The ritual is completed! You will all face the might of Pariah Dark, the eternal king of the dead!” The villain of the week cackled as his cult cheered. Wonder Woman, scuffed and injured from the magical bolts these magic users had shot at her earlier, grimaced and raised her sword.

“We will defeat Pariah Dark,” she proclaimed. Her allies rallied at her proclamation and readied themselves for another fight. “This world will not bow to the likes of you!”

“We are all but mere ants before the king of the dead! Pariah Dark will bring forth the reckoning this shitty world deserves!”

“Actually, Pariah Dark’s kind of busy, so you’re gonna have to leave a message.”

Green Arrow’s arrow jerked towards the new voice. Batman paused, hand holding batarangs at the ready. He, out of all of them, knew better than to underestimate a young voice.

A gloved hand shoved through the green portal, using the edges like a door frame to heave itself through. A humanoid shape, with sharp ears all but crawled out of the Lazarus green portal. Batman wondered if this was what Jason saw when he came back to life.

"Lord Pariah Dark is busy?!"

The figure- a boyish not-human- heaved a sigh. "Do you people seriously think that the High King of the Infinite Realms isn't swamped with work?"

"And who are you supposed to be? His secretary?" Hal asked, Ring glowing and at the ready. Wonder Woman tensed and mentally struck Hal away from the list of people to consider for diplomatic missions.

"Me? I'm a glorified paper pusher." The being turned back to the cultists, his cape containing the universe swished behind him. "Did you have a message for Pariah Dark?"

"He was meant to rain down death and destruction!"

"Okay, first of all, I feel like you guys are missing a really important point." The being pointed at the cult leader. “It’s not called the King of the Dead for no reason, you know. Death comes for everyone eventually. Also, I have to do a seriously giant amount of paperwork every time one of you fruitloops gets the bright idea to cause an influx of deaths.”

Danny stomped across the circle, grabbed the collar of the cultist leader’s cloak and yanked him down. He shook him. “Do you people have any idea how annoying it is?! Huh?! Do you know how long the A-354 Form is?! Stop trying to get Pariah to kill people! I’m sick of the paperwork, dammit!”

"How- how did you get out of the circle?!"

The cultists and the heroes squared up, ready to fight the possible common enemy: Danny.

Danny is having the best time of his half life. Screw kingly dignity, Danny’s gotta de-stress somehow! He had a whole bag of complaints!

"You wrote the circle wrong, idiots! Ancients, are you people even literate? What even are those scribbles?" Danny kept shaking the cultist. Wow, what an amazing stress ball!

“Uh- hey, he looks kind of sick…” The Flash said, trying to be a good hero and mediate before escalating. Danny snarled and Flash held up his hands, gulping in fear as Danny’s eyes narrowed at him. “Did I… do something?”

“You,” Danny hissed. “You mother- fruitloop! Stop screwing with the timeline, you giant red-! Do you know how annoying it is to readjust the death count every time one of you little merry red jesters takes a jaunt through time and space?! Do you even know how many complaints I had to field?! Oh, boy you’re all going to regret summoning me today, because I’ve had a long time to think about what I’d do to everyone who made me work overtime!”

Danny bared his teeth, eyes sparkling with mirth as he froze the cultists.

"We're not letting you take over the world," Hawk-Woman said, raising her mace that pulsed with electricity.

Danny snorted to hide his wince. "I'm not interested. Just let me punch him once. Just once." Danny pointed at the Flash.

"Honestly, I can't even blame you," Black Canary muttered, fists raised.

"Wha-! Canary! That's so rude! You traitor!"

"Shouldn't have put skittles in my shoes then. Those hurt, Flash."

"Enough." Everyone shut up at the sound of Batman's command. "What do you mean they wrote the circle wrong."

Danny, who was watching the byplay with interest, shrugged. "They wanted to summon the Ghost King, right? We've had a... change of leaders recently."

"Who is the leader now?"

Danny waggled a finger at Batman. "Nuh-uh. I'm gonna collect my over-time compensation, which is punching the Flash, and then we can negotiate for information."

"Flash."

"I don't want to get punched, Bats!"

"The alternative is that I let the current Ghost King have a go at you."

"Flash."

"Oh my god, just get punched, Barry!" Danny heard Green Lantern Hal Jordan whisper.

"Ugh, fine. No one video this."

Immediately, three phones go up to record the Flash getting decked by a teenage looking ghost. Danny floated closer and wound his fist back, letting loose some of the ghost strength he normally keeps restrained. "This is for my overtime and for Clockwork, you jerk."

The halfa slammed his fist straight into the Flash's face, knocking him clear into the air. Superman catches him but Danny no longer paid attention to the Flash, petty vengeance enacted.

"Honestly, I don't have a problem with you as a person. You're kind of cool. Break the timeline again in the next three months, though, and you're on my shit-list."

"What do you want in exchange for information?"

Danny hummed. "Depending on the level of information, and I reserve the right to not answer any questions. For the name of the current Ghost King..."

He did want that new gaming console. And Jazz could use some help with her rent.

"I want $5,000 and a plate of really good spaghetti."

"I have cash."

Danny nodded at the Dark Knight. "You just carry $5,000 in cash on you? Who does that?"

"I like to be prepared."

"And he's rich," Superman chimed in.

The Flash reappeared with a plate of spaghetti from an Italian place he teleported to. "Here you go. Fresh, and pleasedon'tscrewwithmyafterlife."

Danny shoveled the spaghetti into his mouth, jaw unhinging like a particularly disturbing snake right before he dumped the whole thing- plate and all- down his throat. "Thanks! The food didn't even try to kill me this time! You're good."

"Does your food try to kill you all of the time?!" The Flash- Barry, apparently- asked.

Danny nodded as he took the cash from Batman's gloved hands. "Totally. It sucks."

"Identity." Batman demanded.

"Oh, yeah. The current ghost king is me."

"...What."

"You have been swindled. Bamboozled. Outwitted and outsmarted," Danny snickered, shoving the bundle of cash in his chest. "But seriously, I'm the king. We got rid of Pariah a while ago."

The crown of ice materialized.

"You said you were a glorified paper pusher!" Hawk-Woman chortled.

"I am! I'm pushing so many papers across my desk, it's unending, I swear!"

Batman growled. "You tricked us."

Danny smirked, "You got tricked." Red Robin, in the corner, snorted quietly. "Anyways, if you've got more interesting things around here, I'll considering busying myself with that instead of sentencing you to an afterlife of paperwork."

The adults straightened, grimacing. "Beast Boy is green," Hal offered up.

"Hey!" Beast Boy shouted, offended at the easy way Hal offered him up. He turned to Danny. "But have you ever seen a green chinchilla? Super cute. Watch!"

"Woah!" Danny clapped. Yes, he'll hang out with them before dragging himself back.

#danny phantom #batman #tim drake #dc x dp #the justice league #justice league and the ghost king #ghost king danny #superman #hawkwoman #shayera thal #beast boy's most effective attack is being adorable #red robin #red robin enjoying the weird ghost boy clowning his sad emo dad #hal being annoying but so relatable #green arrow

[squishycheekanon]

Just a little price thot🥰🌸

You meet Price in a supermarket. Bumping right into him, more like slamming into him. The pint of chocolate ice cream and box of extra soft tisses that were safety tucked in your arms going all over the floor. Moving rather swiftly for a beefy man of his size, he quickly darts to the ground to grab the dropped items.

He’s so careful about the way he gives them back to you, holding them out to you with a small smile. The comfort items look so much smaller in his hands than they did in yours, he doesn’t even have them all the way out to you. They’re practically against his stomach, unconsciously encouraging you to come to him for them.

Then you look into his eyes and you think you feel your knees going weak, he definitely feels his buckling. The way you blink up at him with your pretty eyes all teary with smudged mascara and your soft lips formed into a sad little pout.

The words who did this he instinctively wants to say die on his tongue when he realises you aren’t his to protect, you don’t even know each other. Strangers, and he already wants to fight your battles without even know what they are.

“M’sorry.” You sniffle.

“Not a problem little darlin.” It’s a deep rumble from within his chest when he speaks. Thin lips curving up slightly, his bushy moustache moving with them, those thick mutton chops and that full beard catching your attention too. His voice is gruff and accented. You reckon you could listen to it every second of the day and never want for silence.

John was there from then on. He was just there, had inserted himself into your life, almost like a stray cat you feed once and suddenly it comes back everyday. This gorgeous older man had simply become a part of your day to day life.

You’re heading to work? He’s giving you a lift in his black chevy truck. You’re on your lunch break? He’s luring you outside for a cute little picnic in the park. You’re finishing work? He’s taking you back to your place and staying. He’s cooking you dinner, massaging your tired body. Lingering touches and longing stares. He wasn’t even trying to hide how much he fancied you.

Especially when it came to you dating other guys. He’d hate when you’d come home after a date, he’s in your apartment obviously waiting for you to return, and you’re all sad it didn’t work out. Questioning yourself and your worth or beauty. It would have Price’s ruggedly handsome face contorting in anger.

He would tell you no man would ever be good enough for you. He would also say no one was deserving of you. John would express that although he very much believed that, he would love it if you gave him the chance to try.

You would be so confused what he meant. Only understanding when he would hover over you, caging you in with his tall, burly figure and repeating the words “be mine” over and over again like a mantra.

He caught a look in your eyes at his words, similar to the one he saw when he first met you. It was clouded with confusion and want but it was there. Price knew. It was so obvious he wondered how no one else had seen it. But he knew, one look into your pretty eyes and he knew you needed taking care of. And the retired vet was more than happy to fill that role in your life.

#john price x oc #john price x reader #captain price x reader #price smut #captain john price #price x reader #cod price #john price #captain price #price #captain price x you #john price x y/n #john price x you #captain price x reader smut #captain price x female reader #price x you #price x oc #price x y/n #captain price x y/n #captain price smut #squishycheekanon #asks are appreciated #price thots

[charliemwrites]

Part 7

Content: sparring and injury

Sparring is one of your favorite activities. With your team, it’s a chance to learn and improve, to keep from falling into old habits. And yes, okay, it’s also become something of foreplay. Especially with your captain, who seems to delight in tossing you around and pinning you with his bulk.

(And Keegan, who came in his pants once when you had him in a chokehold, one your thighs between his. But no, no, now is not the time to think about that…)

You’re not the best hand-to-hand operator on the team, sure. That title belongs to Nikto, who hits so hard and fast you’re down before you even realize he’s swinging. But you’re certainly a force to be reckoned with.

Not this much though.

If you were in the mood to give them credit for anything — and you’re really not — they’re at least subtle. You don’t catch on during the first round with Soap. Your brain has completely transitioned into the comfortable rhythm of practice combat. Something to be taken seriously, but not the high-stress of victory or death in a mission.

No, Soap gets away with it in the moment. You only notice as you’re taking your water break, rotated out with the uneven numbers between your teams. You’re surveying the pairs and notice him sparring with Keegan.

There’s something decidedly more intense about it. Like… like he’s putting real effort into trying to beat Keegan. An effort he did not put into fighting you.

Rage burns through you, hot and thick, buzzing in your head.

Does he think you’re not worth any real effort? Does he think you can’t handle a proper fight, that this is just playtime? Is he really treating you like some fresh-faced recruit that needs to be babied after all this time?

When you captain finishes wiping the floor with Gaz, you go to his side. One look at your face and he knows.

“Whose head is rolling?” He asks, plucking your bottle from your hand for a sip.

“Soap threw our match.”

His eyes flare before he closes them, swallows the water in his mouth and sighs.

“How do you want to handle it?” He asks.

“Wait, wait,” Gaz interrupts. And the look your captain gives him… Christ. To his credit, he doesn’t back down though. “He probably just thought it would be good, yeah? To… let you get some anger out.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, a mean laugh slipping out. The captain arches his eyebrows in what could almost be sympathy. Or arousal, hard to tell when he’s got such a good poker face. (Mix of both, you figure)

“Oh, he wants me to get some anger out?” You roll your shoulders. “Sounds like a great idea.”

Ghost is your last match before reset — before you’ll get a chance to show Soap just how much steam you need to let off.

Except now that you’re looking for it, you recognize almost immediately that he’s throwing the match. Probably especially because it’s Ghost. You never stood a chance against him before leaving, even now you didn’t have optimistic expectations for a fight with him. So the fact that it doesn’t feel like you’re working for every inch you gain…

The final straw is when you try a move from before. Something he never fell for once and always reprimanded you for using. He “falls” for it this time. You don’t pull your punch when it goes directly into his face.

Know immediately that he’s feeling it, that wicked hook Keegan always whistles over. Blinking past his mask. And you don’t let up, pressing and pressing the advantage. Take him down to the ground using all your built strength, twisting into a vicious arm bar and pulling, pulling, pulling—

“Bloody hell, I yield!” He snarls, palm slamming against your thigh.

You release him, but not without one last nasty kick to the soft spot beneath his ribs.

The gym has gone silent. You don’t care, pushing to your feet with hands still balled into tight, angry fists.

“You ever throw a fight with me again, I’ll break your fucking jaw, Riley,” you snarl.

Price, expression stormy, takes a step forward.

“He threw the fight?” He asks.

You scoff, “Either that or the 141’s quality is lacking nowadays.”

You step off the mat to join the rest of your team, exchange a frustrated look with your captain. Nova comes to your side, curling a finger into your belt loop in solidarity.

“Gotta say, Price, I’m disappointed,” your captain says. “This is getting out of control. I won’t have my team put at risk because yours can’t keep it professional. I’d rather just tell Laswell to get you a different support team.”

You’re almost surprised to see how the 141 jolts, four pairs of eyes flicking to you in panic. What in the actual hell?

“Take it easy,” Price says, eyes flashing. “I’ll have a word with them.”

You glance up at your captain, see from the twitch in his jaw and the tightness around his eyes that his patience for this is wearing gossamer thin.

“See to it. In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.”

He turns his back on the 141, and you’re all too happy to follow suit, pressing a kiss to Nova’s cheek when she sends you a worried look. Whatever weird issue the 141 is having, they need to stop making it your issue.

“Keegan, with me,” your captain says. “Nikto, you’re up against the girls.”

Nikto tilts his head in a nod, then jolts as you and Nova take either side of him.

“Gonna show us a good time, Nik?” You coo.

“Always love a tag-team,” Nova purrs.

The captain grins. “Have fun you three.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #former 141 reader #specgru reader #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley

[powdermelonkeg]

Theory that solves(?) "founding of Hyrule" timeline inconsistencies:

Origin of Hyrule no. 1: Skyward Sword. Zelda, Link, and the Skylians settle the surface world at the game's conclusion. Notably, their dress looks nothing like the Zonai era.

Origin of Hyrule no. 2: Tears of the Kingdom. Rauru and Sonia are the king and queen who founded Hyrule. Notably, Zonai mechanisms and architecture greatly resemble the pre-Skyward-Sword-era Lanayru mining tech and symbolism, though Skyward Sword's art direction is more cartoony than TotK, so that has to be taken into account.

That's where it gets cyclical. If TotK's forgotten era came first, then:

Zonai influence should be ALL OVER Skyloft

The Gerudo should not exist, because they're (implied to be) descended from Groose, a Skylian; at the very least, there should have been a whole Gerudo culture in the Sky

Where did the Secret Stones go?

We should have seen Zeldra flying around in the sky, let alone Dinraal, Farosh, and Naydra

But if Skyward Sword came before all things Zonai, then:

The Lanayru Mining Facility (assuming it to be Zonai in origin) should not exist

Hyrule should have already been founded by Rauru's time

Of the two, Skyward Sword being first on the wild surface makes more sense. But if that's the case, there are even more questions:

Where did the Secret Stones come from? Are we to believe that Hylia gave them to the Zonai, since the Golden Trio have already left the Triforce and departed?

What about the Zonai themselves? They supposedly descended from the heavens. Were they just up so high that the Skylians couldn't find them? Did Hylia cleave the ground twice? Did they spontaneously appear up there like mice in grain bins?

Why is there a whole Temple of Time with bells that Rauru, one of two of the LAST of his species, woke up and went to sleep to? In fact, why is there an entire kingdom's worth of structures already built before the Sky Reckoning?

My solution:

The Zonai did exist pre-Skyward Sword, and did descend down from the sky ages ago. They built the Lanayru Mining Facility, utilizing the power of Timeshift Stones in their work. This is not Rauru and Mineru's era.

The Zonai are among the people that stay behind to fight Demise alongside Hylia, while the Skylians were sent up to Skyloft. The people of the Surface are entrusted with the Secret Stones as weapons against Demise, with the caveat that they keep them hidden. That's why they're called Secret Stones despite being well-known to Ganondorf in TotK, it was PARAMOUNT that Demise not know he could get any stronger.

The war ends. Just about every civilization is obliterated by it. The Zonai retreat as far from Demise's seal as they can to lick their wounds. They take the sages' Secret Stones with them, so as to not be caught unawares and lose them to Demise when he eventually reemerges.

Skyward Sword.

The evil is defeated, the Skylians come down to the Surface. That's the signal that it's safe to return now. Shortly after the Skylians officially start to settle, the Zonai, who know how things work, help them build a proper civilization.

Time passes. The Surface is officially a bunch of scattered clans with varying degrees of territory. People are content, though nothing is particularly efficient. The Skylians take on Zonai fashion and building styles as generations pass. The Zonai themselves dwindle.

Rauru, married to the leader of the Hylians, looks to unite the scattered clans under one banner in the name of prosperity and shared resources, idolizing the pre-Skyward era where the gods walked the land. He and Sonia officially name the place Hyrule, and any clan that signs treaty with them is considered within its borders. Mineru, meanwhile, has made her first construct models based on the Lanayru Mine Robots of old, which add to the appeal of joining Hyrule as its subkingdom territories.

Tears of the Kingdom, Zelda's first 12 memories.

Between the Master Sword going back in time and Zeldra's ascent, Zelda and Mineru get to work with as many constructs as possible to protect the Sky Isles they plan to send upwards. They need a TON of Zonaite, and recycling is a priority, leading to the gachapon machines.

Zelda knows enough about her kingdom that she knows where the land is particularly rich is where the people of her time settled, and Zonaite is shown to enrich soil greatly. This is why all the old Zonaite mines are underneath the towns in modern Hyrule, despite changing geography through other eras, and Tarrey Town's new-ness.

Zelda ascends.

The secretive Sheikah clan, having seen the Blood Moon's rise when the Demon King took power, realize that Demise isn't, in fact, all gone. They decide this means that their job serving Hylia isn't truly done, and return to help the fledgling kingdom as best they can. They bring the knowledge of the Master Sword of Skyward Sword days with them.

Ganondorf first shakes the seal he's under without form, leading to the first Calamity and the initial rise of Calamity Ganon. This is 10k years before BotW. This is also the first documented use of the Master Sword to seal the Demon King away, recorded in the tapestry.

The Sheikah are forced to abandon their technology. The Yiga/Sheikah split happens.

Literally all the rest of Hyrulean History happens after this.

Breath of the Wild.

Tears of the Kingdom.

#totk #botw #skyward sword #theory #loz #zelda #timeline shenanigans #things make a lot more sense if you divide the zonai into TWO eras instead of one #also FINALLY i have a reason why there are mines under Tarrey Town. like all the rest were iffy as is but TARREY #that thing was built SIX YEARS AGO and I BUILT IT #long post #bee attempts to make sense of zelda lore by eating all the wrenches nintendo keeps throwing into it

[kingkatsuki]

More fic ideas that I have absolutely no intention of writing.

Knight Bakugou who’s positioned to guard you. The King wants the best to protect his Princess, and Bakugou is the best. Besides, it’s not like the man had a choice, he doesn’t want to lose his job— or his life.

You hate to admit that Bakugou is good at his job, much better than the men that had tried to guard you before. Making it difficult for you to sneak out into the gardens in the evening to watch the stars, or to sneak into town for the weekend festivities.

You should hate him for ruining the routine you’d managed to work yourself into over the years, for stealing away the freedom that you’d rewarded yourself when no one else would offer you the same luxury. But somehow you can’t force yourself to dislike him, there’s something behind his cold and brash personality that has you inquisitive to find out more. Enjoying trying your best to rile him up or push his buttons— spilling your evening tea over his pristine boots, or dropping your towel in front of him when you prepare for your evening bath.

Knight Bakugou knows exactly what you’re trying to do, and he’s determined he won’t fall for your tricks— which is why he’s just as surprised as you are when he finds himself outside with you past curfew in the castle grounds watching the stars. But instead of staring up at the gorgeous night sky, he finds himself turning his head to the side to see how the moonlight glows against your skin. It’s just another thing that has now woven its way into your daily routine together, and as he walks you back to your quarters each night you like to fool yourself that it’s because he wants to, not because his life depends on it.

It isn’t long before the King begins to bring in suitors from neighbouring towns to vie for your hand in marriage. None of which are out of love, but a necessity to strengthen alliances between armies. Which is why it doesn’t matter if you even like any of them, because the choice won’t be yours. The men are scheduled to fight for your hand, and as you sit and wait for them to joust you notice Bakugou clad in full metal armour across the field.

The King positioned him as his strongest guard— because he is.

A man worthy enough to beat his strongest soldier is a man worthy enough to take his daughters hand in marriage. And yet as you watch every man come head to head with Bakugou he beats every single one.

And you think Bakugou has just beat these men because he wants to show how strong and powerful he is, but secretly it’s because he’s so in love with you.

You can’t tell whether your father is proud or annoyed at the fact, especially when Bakugou knocks the son, young Midoriya, off his horse. The man that you believed the King wanted to you marry, the most suitable alliance available.

It’s a few weeks later when Bakugou is sent away on a mission by the King. The head of an army sent out to pillage a neighbouring village who threaten to compromise the power of you’ve forged.

The morning he’s scheduled to leave is the first time he lets you kiss him, he lets you get that close. As though he’s wondering whether he’ll even return home himself. Standing in his quarters in the lower part of the castle, clad in your pyjamas and your feet freezing against the cold stone as he cradles you in his arms. Pouring every ounce of emotion into the kiss as he finally allows himself to have you, even if just for a few selfish moments. Bakugou reckons it’s worth the risk of dying, to feel your lips on his again. A fellow guard, Kirishima catches you both as he takes Bakugou away from you— watching them ride off on horseback as you still feel the warmth of him surrounding you.

You stay awake each night wondering whether he’s even still alive too— whether you’ll ever see him again. The new guards are just as useless as before and you find yourself longing for his safe return.

It’s two months before your father has another man lined up as a potential suitor. Wondering who might fight for your honour now that Bakugou is gone, but you’re shocked when the King says there’s no need for such friviolity. That the wedding is scheduled, and it’s the right reason to strengthen the Kingdom. It’s not for love, it could never be when your heart belongs to Bakugou.

And even if you told your father about your feelings for his guard, it would be issuing Bakugou his own death sentence if he even managed to make it home at all.

But fate really can be a cruel, fickle thing— and as fate would have it Bakugou returns home the day you’re standing at the altar wearing a pretty wedding dress like you’d dreamed about, while you’re waiting to be betrothed to another man.

#but can you imagine the LONGING #like I’d love this from Bakugous POV??? #like imagine his thoughts when you drop your towel?!?! I’ll scream #and he wants to fight his feelings so bad #but when it comes to jousting he can’t help but jab the fuckers extra hard. knocking them off their horses and the wind out of them #and he starts thinking about how it would feel waking up beside you or plunging his cock into you #finds himself watching you in the wee hours when you’re fast asleep because it’s the only time he can look at you without you noticing #and it kills him to have to push you away when you try to kiss him and the hurt that flashes in your eyes #but he doesn’t want to die AND he doesn’t want to get you in trouble #because a life with you even if he can’t have you is better than not having you at all??? #knight bakugou #soft bakugou

[hillbillyoracle]

For those with home related New Years Resolutions:

I’ve been a disabled homemaker for 5 years now so I wanted to share the resources that have helped me take our home from complete chaos to reasonably functional and enjoyable.

If you’re not functioning...

If you’re constantly tripping over things and getting injured, eating food that makes you sick, dealing with pests in the home, and struggling to complete basic tasks like feeding, clothing, and bathing yourself, then you should start with...

KC Davis aka StruggleCare aka DomesticBlisters

TikTok

Book

Podcast

Website

I recommend KC Davis’s stuff with a big heaping dose of “keep what works and leave what doesn’t.” She’s one of the few people I’ve seen talking about compassionate care focused on maintaining a level of personal functioning rather than maintaining a home. Her stuff has been very helpful to me during some very challenging times. 

I think her some of her best work is probably her videos on the 5 step tidying process, the ones on setting up bedside hygiene and food kits, and the ones on dealing with DOOM (Didn’t Organize Only Moved) boxes. 

That being said she has a tendency to use neurotype as a shield for not reckoning with other dynamics in a situation (gendered, narcissism, etc) when asked for advice by viewers which can lead to this “all people with neurodivergence are good” vibe which I find off putting (especially as an autistic person). I mention it because her bleh stuff was all I was coming across and I missed out on her good stuff for a while. It’s worth picking through though. 

Her book is a little better on the whole. 

If you’re functioning but still very overwhelmed...

If you can complete your daily activities of living pretty regularly but you’re still losing papers you need, rebuying items you didn’t realize you had, or looking around your home at a mess that feels impossible to clean, then check out...

Dana K White aka A Slob Comes Clean

YouTube

Website

Podcast

Books

I love Dana K. White’s stuff. Honestly, I recommend her to every level on this list but I think she probably shines brightest in this category. 

Her 5 step decluttering process is pure fucking gold. It’s a decluttering process that doesn’t rely on feelings at all - really helpful for those with trauma or alexthymia generally. She has multiple videos explaining it and even more where you can watch her go step by step with someone over the course of an hour and make a huge dent in some very overwhelming mess. Its the process I’ve used to go through over 50 moving boxes to declutter so we could fit in this much smaller space we moved to in April. 

Her day to day cleaning advice is also excellent. Her concept of dishes math has really helped me make decisions about what chores to focus on when I’m low energy. Her 14 Days to Opening Your Front Door series is amazing if you’re having to host for a given occasion but your home is a wreck. 

If you’re not painfully overwhelmed by your stuff but there’s still a lot of friction in your home...

If your stuff doesn’t overwhelm you but your home still doesn’t feel that good to be in, you’re still not finding things when you need to or it’s taking you a long time to find them, you create homes for things but they look terrible or they never seem to stick, then you’d love...

Cassandra Aarssen aka Clutterbug

YouTube

Books

Website

Podcast

Clutterbug types were kind of a game changer for me. It’s what really opened my eyes to why the systems that worked for me did not work for my partner. She is a Bee - lots of small categories that are all very visible - and I am a ladybug - big bucket categories that aren’t visible. When I reorganized our space according to the compromise between our types, Butterfly - big categories and very visible - all of a sudden the systems just worked so much better. There were many fewer fights sparked by things not getting put away or not being able to find things. So I really recommend her videos on the different types and examples of each. 

Quick word of warning, she does have regular videos about diet and exercise that I personally find pretty triggering to my disordered eating habits so I’m not subscribed to her and just check her channels every now and then so it’s easier to skip over videos where that might be a topic she talks about. 

Cliff Tan aka Dear Modern

TikTok

YouTube

Website

Book

Cliff Tan’s work is the most recent of these resources that I’ve come across but holy shit I cannot recommend it enough. 

Because my parents didn’t originally intend on my partner using the room she wound up using, there’s simply not space to keep some of the furniture and items in there anywhere else. Meaning she just kind of has to keep a fair bit of junk in there. But after watching (read: binging) the Dear Modern YouTube channel and seeing him completely change spaces by moving furniture around, I redid my partners room over the course of about 2 hours and it’s a completely different room. Way more comfortable and she’s already mentioned she’s getting much better sleep. 

So I really really recommend his stuff. Sometimes what you really need isn’t new stuff but just rearranging what you already have. 

If you’re pretty content with your home but want to streamline the process of caring for it...

If your home is pretty functional but regular tidying, deep cleaning, and maintenance tasks specifically keep falling through the cracks, then you might like...

FlyLady System

Website

The Secret Slob - YouTube

Diane in Denmark - YouTube

There are lots of systems out there for house keeping but I’ve yet to try or see one that seems to do better than FlyLady for me. Since with my illness my energy varies wildly, I don’t necessarily do things when her system recommends but I do them according to the priority her system ascribes to them as I’m able. 

FlyLady is a notoriously convoluted website so I really recommend learning from a secondhand source. The Secret Slob and Diane in Denmark are my favorites. 

Maintenance Lists

This Old House

There a lots of maintenance lists out there and honestly finding one and doing what you can is better than nothing. I personally like the ones from This Old House because they’re broken up into annual, seasonal, monthly, and some weekly tasks - which are essentially priority categories, similar to FlyLady. I’ve linked the winter one here but there are many others to pick through depending on what you want to work on. 

Bonus: Paper Clutter

My System

Link

This is what I’ve arrived at after years of experimentation. It’s an amalgam of a few different ideas from different systems in one place. I keep mind on my fridge but put yours where ever you’re dumping paper anyways. If you’re in a room or live in a car/backpack - I have ideas on how to organize it for those in this post too. 

Sunday Basket

YouTube Video

The Minimal Mom’s Video

She’s in Her Apron Video

Need something a little more robust? The Sunday Basket is probably be best version of a paper (and other stuff) system I’ve seen. Got something that needs dealt with? Chuck it in the Sunday Basket. The creator also has videos on long term paper storage ideas if that’s something you need as well. But her videos usually run an hour long so I recommend starting with either the Minimal Mom’s video or She’s in Her Apron’s video. 

Bonus: Digital Clutter

PARA System/Building a Second Brain by Tiago Forte

YouTube Channel

Website

Book

Essential Video

The branding on this system can be very productivity tech wonk which is off putting to me but when I finally started hearing what was at the core of it and applying it - my digital life was changed. I’ve linked my absolute favorite video he’s done here. Ignore the bit about it being the last in the series, most of us are already using some note app and if you like it you can always go back and watch the rest. But just applying what’s in that video to your digital systems will make things easier to find. 

Hope this helps someone out there! 

#homemaking #housekeeping #getting your shit together #organizing #adulting #life skills #home #decluttering #studyblr

[crowlipso]

MC - Agatha Crowley sheet

Information under the cut!

Basic Information

Full name: Agatha Chandra Crowley

Nickname: Ag, Aggie

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Bisexual

MBTI: ESTP

Species: Human

Date of birth: 18th June 1875

Nationality: British (British/Trinidadian/Siamese)

Blood status: Pure-blood/Half-blood (unclear)

Wand: Redwood wood with a dragon heartstring core 10 ¼" and quite bendy flexibility

House: Slytherin

Patronus: Dragon

Boggart: [LOCKED]

Amortentia: Burnt wood, Chocolate, Gasoline

Appearance

Hair colour: Platinum white

Hairstyle: Short soft curls

Eye colour: Magenta 

Skin tone: Medium-dark skin with yellow-golden undertones

Height: (unclear) 3cm shorter than Sebastian

Weight: 60kg

Other distinguishing features: Two moles under the bottom lip, Fangs, Black nails polish

Personality 

Agatha is confident and ambitious despite feeling neglected by her family and has developed a strong sense of self-worth. She's rebellious and doesn't conform to traditional gender roles, preferring to dress and act in a way that makes her feel comfortable rather than trying to please others. She can come across as cocky and sarcastic at times, partly because of her family's wealth and status, but also as a defense mechanism developed from her experiences with bullying.

While Agatha can be sarcastic and biting in her humour, she's also fiercely loyal to those she cares about and will go to great lengths to protect them. Her experiences with bullying have made her somewhat hostile towards those she perceives as a threat, but she's not inherently violent or cruel. She values intelligence and cunning.

Traits: Chaotic, Cocky, Charismatic, Sarcastic, Barbaric

Likes: Dragons, Insects, Leeches, Forbidden Knowledge

Dislikes: Milk in tea, Skirts

Good at: Martial arts, Animal Handling, Intimidating, 

Bad at: Showing true emotions and Affection, Persuade

Hobbies: Bug collector, Quidditch for fun(played as Beater), Drawing

Fears: Become nobody, Her father

Ambition: Domesticated Dragons

Family & Backstory

Agatha Crowley was born into a wealthy and prestigious pure-blood family known for their diplomatic skills and trading. Her father always wanted a son to carry on the family name and legacy, but instead, he was disappointed to have a daughter. As a result, Agatha was neglected by her father and most of her extended family. Only her mother showed her affection and attention, taking care of her and even allowing her to play with muggle children in their neighborhood.

Agatha's childhood was rough due to her family's neglect and the bullying she experienced from muggle children because of her unnatural hair and eye color. To cope, she became rebellious and defiant, refusing to wear skirts and acting more like a boy to try and please her father.

Despite not showing any signs of magical ability, Agatha's maternal grandfather, a Siamese man who was skilled in Muay Thai, taught her martial arts from a young age. Agatha fell in love with the discipline and art of fighting and trained vigorously with her grandfather.

At the age of 15 Agatha's magical abilities finally awakened, and she received her acceptance letter to Hogwarts, Though she possessed traits of a Gryffindor, her ambitious nature led her to be sorted into Slytherin, much to her family's relief.

In Hogwarts, Agatha's skills in martial arts proved to be an asset in her studies, especially in Defense Against the Dark Arts. However, her troubled past and lack of parental guidance caused her to develop a rude, sarcastic, and mean personality, often pushing people away with her hostile behavior.

Despite this, Agatha remained fearless and savage, always ready to fight for what she believed in, and became a force to be reckoned with in both academics and combat.

Father: Josiah Crowley

Mother: Chandra *Thai people still haven't had a last name back then*

Paternal grandparents: Victarion Crowley and Calypso Lovegood

Maternal grandparents: Narong, -

Uncles: Bran Crowley (Josiah’s brother), Edward Crowley(other brothers)

Aunts: Alannis (Crowley) Sanchez

Cousins: Isis Crowley(Bran’s daughter), Rose Sanchez, Jason Sanchez (Alannis’s children), Ramsay Crowley, Victarion II Crowley, Aretha Crowley (Edward’s children)

Pet: Bunch of unnamed insects, two leeches name Robert and Henry

Family home: London, Wandsworth

Relationships 

Friends: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, Giona Regali(oc), Natsai Onai, Poppy Sweeting, other fifth years

Best Friends: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt

Love interest: Sebastian Sallow click

Others

Headcanon CV: Robyn Addison

Character inspiration:

Rhaenyra Targaryen - House of The Dragon

Nanno - Girl from nowhere

Veronica Sawyer - Heathers 1988

Cruella De Vil - Cruella 2021

Jo March - Little Women 2019

Agatha Harkness - Wandavision

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy oc #hogwarts legacy mc #hphl #hphl mc #slytherin #hphl oc #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #agatha crowley #hogwarts #oc #original character #my art

[perfectsunlight]

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘

𝒇𝒕. 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆, 𝒌𝒊𝒎 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒋𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓. 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐲, 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥, 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 𝟑.𝟐𝐤

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐲 - 𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐨

eunchae remembered the first time she saw wonyoung on television.

izone was one of her favorite groups when she was younger. fiesta was her favorite song and she recalled just how badly she wanted to be an idol someday.

she would spend hours watching fancams and performances, mesmerized by wonyoung and the rest of the girls. sometimes eunchae wishes izone stayed as a group. maybe chaewon would be happier.

being an idol was hard, but being a trainee was even harder. 

the grueling life of a trainee, with its endless hours of practice, sweat, and tears, often seemed like an insurmountable mountain. but in those moments of despair, when the weight of ambition threatened to crush her spirit, eunchae found solace in her idols.

she often wondered how wonyoung made it look so easy.

lacy, oh, lacy, skin like puff pastry

aren't you the sweetest thing on this side of hell?

insecurity was a foreign feeling to hong eunchae. she knew she was more than capable of being an idol. as the youngest member of le sserafim, she knew that her spot in the lineup was not just a stroke of luck. it was a testament to her hard work and dedication.

despite all the challenges she and her fellow members went through, the young idol knew that le sserafim was a force to be reckoned with. she knew that despite her own age, she was more than qualified for a position in the group.

the first time eunchae doubted herself was when chaewon slipped up on a live with sakura and kazuha.

dear angel lacy, eyes white as daisies

did i ever tell you that i'm not doin' well?

“konnichiwa, izo–” 

kim chaewon caught herself and immediately stopped speaking. sakura’s face fell for a split second at the realization of what her former izone member said before forcing a smile and saying the correct greeting.

of course, eunchae knew izone was always going to be a part of her leader and the eldest member’s past. it wasn’t something that would be erased. 

but the young girl started to doubt the validity of her group at that moment. she questioned her worth, her abilities, and her very presence in le sserafim. it felt like chaewon was still longing for something she no longer had.

or rather, someone. 

ooh, i care, i care, i care

like perfume that you wear, i linger all the time

watching, hidden in plain sight

“look, it’s yujin.” sakura whispered to chaewon, motioning with her eyes to the group of girls that had entered the room. ive and its leader, another former izone member, were making their way to their seats. eunchae would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a pit in her stomach at the smile that formed on chaewon’s lips when she saw wonyoung.

it was a smile that spoke volumes, a silent reminder that jang wonyoung was more than just an idol – she was family. 

“ah,” the japanese girl sighed softly. “wonyoung’s all grown up.” sakura's whispered words, filled with both nostalgia and a touch of wistfulness, only deepened the pit in eunchae's stomach. the leader next to her nodded absentmindedly. 

“i know. she’s not my maknae anymore.” 

my maknae.

oh how that small phrase burned a hole in the young girl’s chest. the term was once a term of endearment, something that chaewon always called her.

now it just echoed in her mind like a painful reminder of her place in the hierarchy of her leader’s heart.  

she poked the inside of her cheek and stared at her folded hands in her own lap. despite sitting amidst her fellow idols, eunchae felt like an outsider peering into a world she could never truly be a part of. 

she bit her lip, fighting against the surge of emotions threatening to engulf her. she couldn’t be sure whether her unease stemmed from the shifting dynamics among her former group members or from the unsettling realization that her position within the group might not be as secure as she had once believed.

eunchae's eyes flickered back to chaewon, whose gaze remained fixed on wonyoung as if captivated by an unspoken connection that stretched beyond the confines of words. 

the way chaewon's smile softened, her eyes glowing with a mixture of pride and longing, cut through eunchae like a knife. 

it was a smile meant for a cherished younger sister, a smile that belonged to someone else. someone who had once held the title of chaewon’s maknae. a knot tightened in eunchae's throat, and she clenched her hands into fists to quell the rising turmoil within her. 

despite the undeniable talent and potential that had secured her a spot in le sserafim, the presence of her illustrious seniors, both past and present, weighed heavily on her young shoulders.

ooh, i try, i try, i try

but it takes over my life, i see you everywhere

the sweetest torture one could bear

hong eunchae’s daily screen time was averaging around 10 hours. 75% of that time was spent on looking at wonyoung. or rather, comparing herself to wonyoung.

her fingertips danced over the glass, scrolling through images, videos, and social media posts that showcased wonyoung's charisma and talent. each swipe brought a mix of fascination and self-doubt, as if she were willingly subjecting herself to a torturous cycle of comparison. 

the effortless grace with which wonyoung carried herself, the way her smile seemed to light up even the darkest corners of the screen – it was all a constant reminder of the standards she felt she had to meet. 

eunchae, despite her own remarkable abilities, couldn't help but measure herself against this unattainable ideal. 

the more she looked, the more the lines between admiration and envy blurred, leaving her trapped in a cycle of insecurity. 

it also didn’t help that wonyoung’s face was practically everywhere. the girl was being casted in commercials, plastered on the covers of magazines, and dominating television screens with her charismatic presence. 

everywhere eunchae turned, there was wonyoung.

the constant exposure amplified eunchae's feelings of inadequacy, as if the world itself were conspiring to remind her of the gap between her dreams and her reality. even as she closed her eyes at night, wonyoung's image lingered, an uninvited guest in her thoughts. in her dreams, eunchae found herself shadowing the footsteps of her idol, trying to mimic every gesture and expression. 

it was as if she were living a fractured version of her life, a relentless pursuit of a mirage she could never truly catch.

the true cracks in the glass began showing when eunchae met wonyoung for the first time. 

smart, sexy lacy, i'm losin' it lately

i feel your compliments like bullets on skin

chaewon laughed as she leaned over and hugged wonyoung tightly. eunchae stood next to her leader, her hands clasped tightly, trying to conceal the tremor that ran through her fingers. the moment hung in the air like a fragile thread, as if the universe itself held its breath, waiting to see how this encounter would unfold. wonyoung's presence was magnetic, drawing everyone in with an effortless charm that seemed to defy the laws of gravity. her voice felt stuck in her throat, unable to form the words she longed to say. 

compliments that should have flown freely, expressing her admiration for the girl who had once been her beacon of inspiration, now felt like shards of glass, cutting her from the inside.

as chaewon and wonyoung exchanged pleasantries, eunchae's smile wavered, her eyes momentarily clouded with uncertainty. it was a subtle shift, one that might have gone unnoticed by others but not by her leader. chaewon, perceptive as always, sensed the inner battle raging within her youngest member. 

sensing eunchae's hesitation, the le sserafim leader gently nudged her forward, as if encouraging her to step into the spotlight. the young girl took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage she had left. “um, wonyoung sunbaenim, it's truly an honor to meet you,” she managed to say, her voice quivering ever so slightly.

the moment wonyoung’s eyes met hers, eunchae wanted to throw up.

when the taller girl spoke, her words were laced with a sincerity that cut through eunchae's defenses like a blade. “thank you,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of genuine appreciation. “i've seen a lot of your performances. unnie speaks highly of your group, you are all hard workers.”

wony’s praise, genuine and unfiltered, hung in the air like a double-edged sword. to any other listener, her words might have been a beacon of validation, but to eunchae, they were a reminder of the expectations now etched into her skin. 

her throat tightened, and she forced herself to swallow the lump that seemed lodged there, trying to respond with a gracious smile. “thank you,” eunchae managed, her voice barely above a whisper. her words felt inadequate, drowned out by the cacophony of her internal struggles. 

in that moment, she realized the weight of admiration was a double burden. it was building her up to knock her down.

the praise that was meant to inspire now felt like an anchor, chaining her to a pedestal she was not sure she could stand on. beside her, chaewon's grip tightened on her shoulder, a silent reassurance that felt both grounding and suffocating. eunchae wished she could voice her fears, her doubts, but the words remained lodged in her throat, silenced by the fear of exposing her vulnerability. 

the ive member’s smile never wavered, but her eyes, so full of wisdom beyond her years, seemed to see through the façade eunchae wore. it was a gaze that felt like an x-ray, peeling away the layers of her self-doubt and revealing the raw, unvarnished truth beneath. 

the room buzzed with conversation around them, but in that moment, eunchae felt like she was standing in the eye of a storm, where the world was still, and only her internal turmoil raged on. 

dazzling starlet, bardot reincarnate

well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?

wonyuong was all anyone ever talked about. she was the perfect example of everything anyone ever wanted to be. and hong eunchae couldn’t feel any less inadequate.

everywhere eunchae turned, it seemed, there was a whisper of wonyoung's name, a fluttering echo of her successes that permeated the air. magazines showcased her flawless smile, billboards displayed her commanding presence, and social media platforms buzzed with her fans' adoration. 

wonyoung was not just an idol; she was an icon, a living embodiment of dreams realized. she was the epitome of grace, talent, and beauty – everything anyone ever aspired to become.

chaewon’s birthday was coming up, and the young girl wanted to make her a nice card. she spent 3 days cutting, gluing, and coloring together the perfect card for her leader.

when she finally showed chaewon, she felt proud of herself. and it would have been a perfect moment if not for the comment that she said.

“ah, this reminds me of when wonyoung used to make cards like this. you remember that?” chaewon said towards sakura, reminiscing on the past and lingering on the only girl who made eunchae feel everything she wasn’t. the japanese girl cooed at the remark and nodded her head, agreeing silently with the former izone member. 

eunchae knew her leader meant well, and it wasn’t a jab at her in any way directly, but she felt like she was invisible.

eunchae's heart sank at chaewon's innocent remark, the joy of her accomplishment instantly overshadowed by a wave of insecurity. the compliment meant to lift her spirits now felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder of the constant comparison that loomed over her, even in moments of genuine connection.

for the following days, eunchae found herself haunted by that moment. the specter of wonyoung's achievements seemed to follow her everywhere, even into the sanctuary of her practice room. the movements that had once flowed effortlessly became stilted, the melodies that used to inspire her now carried a bitter undertone. doubt, like an unwelcome companion, whispered in her ear, casting shadows on her every step. desperate to break free from this suffocating cycle, eunchae immersed herself in her training. 

the practice studio became her refuge, the place where she could pour her frustrations into every movement.

she practiced until her muscles ached and her breaths came in ragged gasps, hoping that with enough dedication, she could drown out the cacophony of comparison that echoed in her mind. yet, even in the midst of her determined efforts, the memory of chaewon's unintentional remark lingered, an invisible barrier between her and the confidence she so desperately sought.

 she felt like she was trapped in a never-ending loop, unable to escape the cycle of insecurity that threatened to consume her.

but there was nothing that eunchae wanted more than to be her own person in the eyes of the leader she admired so much.

ooh, i care, i care, i care

like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots

you got the one thing that i want

everything eunchae did seemed to only cement herself deeper into the shadow of jang wonyoung. 

in the following weeks, eunchae became acutely aware of the seemingly insurmountable chasm that separated her from wonyoung. every accomplishment, every effort to shine, only served to highlight the gap between them. despite her best attempts, the world around her continued to echo with wonyoung's name, a constant reminder of the impossible standards she was expected to meet. 

even within the confines of le sserafim, eunchae found herself walking on a tightrope of comparison. her every move, every note she sang, was scrutinized against the backdrop of wonyoung's flawless performances. the praise she received, though genuine, felt like a reluctant acknowledgment. even in the practice room, where she had once felt the most liberated, the young idol now felt even more of the weight of expectation pressing down on her shoulders. 

each dance move became a battleground, a chance to prove herself, to show that she was more than just a shadow of someone else's brilliance. yet, the more she pushed, the more she seemed to stumble, the movements losing their fluidity and grace under the weight of her insecurities. 

what did she bring to the table that was truly hers? what made her unique? what made her special?

what made her different from jang wonyoung?

“manchae?” 

chaewon’s soft voice rang out, snapping the young girl from her thoughts as she entered the practice room. it was 3 in the morning.

“unnie.” eunchae said, bowing in the direction of her leader. “you’re up late.” the leader added, walking over to the younger girl with a worried look on her face. “everything okay?”

the younger girl forced a smile and nodded. “i just want to make sure i have the dance break down.”

“i think you know it better than anyone at this point.” the older girl chuckled, gently patting the maknae’s head. “you should get some sleep soon.”

eunchae appreciated chaewon's concern, her leader's presence providing a comforting reassurance amidst the late-night silence of the practice room. the gentle pat on her head felt like a touch of understanding, a reminder that she wasn't alone in her relentless pursuit of perfection.

“i just want to make sure i get it right,” manchae said, her voice a soft murmur, filled with determination. “i want to be the best out there.” the leader’s eyes softened, her gaze reflecting a mix of admiration and concern for her youngest member. she took a step closer, her hand resting on eunchae's shoulder, grounding her with a touch that felt like a lifeline.

“eunbi unnie told me this before, and i’ll tell you it too. i even told wonyoung this.” chaewon leaned down to be level with the youngest member. 

“you cannot perform the best, without even a little bit of rest.”

there it was again. the sinking feeling, that anything eunchae did or heard, was just a reminder of wonyoung.

she wondered if wonyoung ever heard the leader say she’s told her the same things. why did it always have to be the other way around?

ooh, i try, i try, i try

try to rationalize, people are people, but

it's like you're made of angel dust

“but i can rest after our performance.” eunchae pushed lightly, motioning with her hands for emphasis. “that way i can know my rest is well earned.” chaewon chuckled softly, mentally noting how similar eunchae’s attitude was to wonyoung’s all that time ago. “you’re more stubborn than my last maknae.” she teased lightly, gently pushing the younger girl’s shoulder.

of course wonyoung took advice from her leaders. of course wonyoung would rest when told to. of course she did everything right.

unlike her sunbae, eunchae seemed to only do everything wrong.

the teasing words resonated in eunchae's mind, sparking a sharper pang of insecurity that she thought she had somewhat buried. as she watched her leader's retreating figure, a wave of self-doubt washed over her. the comparison to wonyoung, meant in jest, felt like a spotlight highlighting her perceived shortcomings.

once again, she was reminded of her place. 

lacy, oh, lacy, it's like you're out to get me

you poison every little thing that i do

lacy, oh, lacy, i just loathe you lately

and i despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you

in the quiet, the room seemed to close in on her, the mirrors reflecting back an image she didn't recognize. the young girl who had once dreamed of being an idol, who had once danced with joy and passion, felt like a distant memory. 

now, in her place, stood a girl burdened by the shadow of comparison, questioning her every move, her every decision. 

she found herself spiraling into a cycle of negative thoughts, each one a barb digging deeper into her confidence. 

“maybe i'm just not cut out for this,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely audible above the distant hum of the air conditioning unit.

wonyoung was someone she once idolized. she was someone she looked up to and wanted to be exactly like.

was it wrong to say that she despised the girl now?

all she ever wanted was to be like wonyoung. and to hold a special place in her leader’s heart. but it seemed like she could do neither.

the question gnawed at her soul – what had she done wrong? why couldn't she be the person chaewon admired so deeply, the way she admired wonyoung? the uncertainty clawed at her, leaving her with a sense of isolation that cut deeper than any criticism from the outside world.

she wiped her watery eyes with the end of her sleeves. she was so caught up in her head that she didn’t realize the tears cascading down her face. as she gazed into her own eyes, red and puffy from crying, she finally admitted defeat.

hong eunchae would never be jang wonyoung. 

but maybe that was okay, even if right now it didn’t feel that way.

yeah, i despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you

a/n: this is my first fic that isn't an x reader...but i hope u guys like it :)

#eunchae #chaewon #wonyoung #izone #lesserafim #angst oneshot #lesserafim oneshot #izone oneshot #lacy olivia rodrigo #perfectsunlight

[delopsia]

Streetlight Glow | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 10,00 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, shameless use of the one-bed trope, best friends to lovers, one(1) mention of a gun. 80% smut, 20% dumb fluff. Multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, questionable use of an old ring, road trips, taking Bob's virginity 🌷 Brief Summary: In which you go against everything best friends should be doing and become something more.

You've heard this radio song one too many times.

It's so overplayed that your belly tightens with a sickly sourness the second your ears catch wind of that dreadful tune. Top one hundred radio stations are cute until you're trapped in Bob's itty bitty car, forced to listen to the same set of songs. Over. And over. And over. Like some sort of modern torture, vying to drive you mad before you reach your destination.

And yet, Bob's fingers drum against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. Completely and utterly content with this strange new hell you've been shoved into. Even Rhett's humming along to it. Had never heard of this song before he climbed into the car, but has memorized it over the course of the past four hundred and something miles.

You couldn't ask to change the station if you wanted to; Bob reached over and played with the dial a few minutes ago, ciphering through endless static until he landed back on this god-forsaken station once again—the perks of being out in the middle of nowhere.

If Rhett doesn't land top ten in this rodeo, a raging bull isn't going to be his only problem.

It's the distant clicking of a turn signal that garners your attention. Hadn't realized you were looking down at the promise ring in your palm until after you drew your attention back to the road.

"Please tell me this isn't where we're staying," you mutter, leaning back into your seat as if you can possibly cram yourself into it and disappear entirely.

An ancient husk of a hotel, with its flickering 'open' sign plastered haphazardly in the window. Two lamp posts hang in the lot, and yet, their light has done nothing to fight off the velvety darkness that has long since fallen. It's only because of the headlights that you can see the grass breaking through the cracks of the concrete, so worn and weathered, that the painted parking lines no longer remain.

It's enough to send you high-tailing out of town, and yet, Bob's putting the car in park, "Rhett—"

"I know," Rhett's fingertip taps against something metal. "I know."

You don't need to turn around to know that it's his gun. A necessary evil that begrudgingly made its way into the trip itinerary after learning of where this rodeo is located. Though unarmed himself, Bob's head nods, and the door squeaks open without another word. You'd pitch a fit about this, but your choices are either to stop here or take over the driver's seat and hope you can stay awake long enough to find a better resting place.

On their own, your eyes drift back down to the ring in your palm. Dainty. A promise of a life together that your ex couldn't keep his word on. Leaving you with this dumb hunk of metal. Too cheap to pawn and not worth the years it's spent sitting in this old jacket pocket, waiting on the day you would wear it again.

"Hey, Rhett?" Your voice feels foreign in your own mouth. Too loud in this quiet little car.

In the rearview mirror, you can see his head lift. "Hm?"

"Can you make this disappear?" Open palm sliding to rest on the console, that damned ring sitting in the middle of it. Far too innocent for the memories it carries. "Please?"

Rough fingertips brush against your skin as he takes it from you, and suddenly, the ring seems to have shrunken by four sizes. Entirely too tiny in his oversized hand. A part of you reckons he could snap it in two.

"This is from that one guy, ain't it?" There's a bitterness to his tone that you very nearly forgot the sound of. The kind that only bubbles out of him when that old fling gets brought up as if he had his own heart broken in the process. You don't have a response, mouth devoid of another word, but he doesn't seem to need it. "I'll find a place for it."

The reception door swings open, Bob's hand now occupied by a thin, plastic keycard. A reluctantly welcomed sight that you're unsure what to make of. A bed to stretch out and rest in, but at what cost? A lumpy mattress? Bad neighbors? A busted car window come morning?

Roaches?

Ugh.

The car door is squeaking back open, and much to your dismay; Bob is already dishing out the spare keys, "second floor, room two o' one. It's the only room they've got."

Whoever decided that the stairwell should be outside rather than inside should be fired immediately. Metal creaks beneath your slip-on shoes, slippery, threatening to send you tumbling to the bottom at any given moment. You only carry one bag, some tiny thing you threw overnight essentials into, things that you wouldn't miss if you had to get rid of them. Yet, you've already caught yourself feeling as if you shouldn't have brought all these things inside.

The interior carpet is the definition of dizzying. Nonsensical white stripes stretching across navy blue only starts to bug you once you're walking down it. You know you're moving, but the endless hallway and repetitive pattern makes you wonder if you've wound up on a really fucked up treadmill.

Even worse, your room is all the way on the end. Leaving you to trod the entirety of the building, shoulder bumping against Rhett's, somewhat off-kilter.

"Talk about some fucked up carpet," he mutters, and you're pretending that you don't feel the way his arm is curling around you. Protectively cinching you into his side as someone's door creaks open.

If your heart doesn't quit hammering against your chest, you're going to be sick.

But you can't help it. Rhett's so warm in this chilly little hotel. Has yet to let you go, even after stopping at the door, thump swiping up and down against your hip as Bob fiddles with the keycard.

A shrill beep soars through the air, and suddenly, the door opens. Allowing you into your room, devoid of that migraine-inducing carpet, introducing you to a stained, yellow husk of a floor that you suspect was once white, a CRT television, and...

...

huh.

"Now, what made ya think we can all fit into a queen-size bed?" Rhett's chirping, head tilting, as if he doesn't quite believe what his eyes are showing him. Maybe if he shakes his head, a second bed will appear.

There isn't even a couch. Or a complimentary, uncushioned wooden chair, for that matter. The set of four indents in the carpet is your only hint that there once was a chair, or even a small table, of some sort.

Bob scratches the side of his head with the plastic key, only pausing to look at the numbers printed on the door as it swings closed with a heavy slam. Not designed for the luxury of silence, it seems.

Your head tilts, peering into the dark room to your right; hypothetically, that should be the bathroom, but as of right now, it might be an endless void that drops off into nothingness. Home to the monster that lived under your bed when you were six. Maybe even the one who used to live in Rhett's closet, the subject of his lunch conversations with you and Bob back in your elementary school days.

Rhett, once petrified of the dark, now the one to reach into the void, flicking on the light switch.

...on second thought, you would prefer the monsters.

Tiny black and white tiles coated with a yellowish substance that audibly sticks to Rhett's boots as he steps across it. The ripped shower curtain clings to a total of two hooks, poorly concealing the tub and the blackened scuff marks at the bottom.

Rhett lifts the toilet lid up with his boot. "Whatever y' spent on this place," his nose wrinkles as he speaks, "was way too much."

Thunder rumbles outside, as if mother nature herself has agreed with his conclusion. Beligerantly shaking the hotel, an ill-hung picture frame rattling against the wallpaper. The greater half of you expects the lights to entrap you in the total darkness of a power outage, but they remain as bright as ever.

In fact, they never flicker. Not even once, even as the storm begins to pick up. Droplets of rain patter against the window, hued by the golden glow of a streetlight hanging proudly outside of your room. An abstract portrait perfectly framed by stale curtains that refuse to budge, denying you the ability to close them entirely.

The black light in Bob's bag only confirms everything you already knew; half of the floor seems to light up the moment he flicks it on. Parts of the walls are stained in something you don't want to know the origin of, corners of the bathroom that you didn't plan on touching to begin with. Strangely, the bed is entirely clean, the new sheets sticking out like a sore thumb in this dated room.

Your shoes remain on, even as you slip into loose-fitting pajamas, unwilling to put your bare feet on this ancient floor, regardless of the inconvenience it causes. In fact, the only time they come off is when you climb onto the bed.

Rhett's standing at the foot of it, eyebrows knit together as his gaze flickers from the carpet to you, then Bob. "I reckon I take the floor?"

"Absolutely not," Bobby's beating you to the punch, nodding his head toward the open space to your left, "we can all fit."

You don't need to look to feel Rhett's questioning eyes, seeking your help in building a defense that you have no interest in. Instead, your hand idly pats the mattress, and it's the only answer that he's going to get out of you.

Maybe in another hotel, but certainly not this one.

The sigh that cuts through the air is the sweetest sound of defeat that you've ever heard, the corner of the bed dipping as Rhett swings his knee up onto it. And maybe you should switch sides with Bob because your eyes are already gluing to Rhett's bare chest. Old bull rider tattoo sitting proudly beneath his right collar, drawing your gaze down to the gentle swell of muscle.

You reckon you could get a nice handful of it if you were daring enough.

But it's too late to object to your positioning. Bob's already settling in on your other side, glasses clanking as he sets them on the rickety bedside table. His shirt still clings to his body, but his legs bump into yours as he shifts, a warm presence that makes you wonder what it would be like to tangle them together. And that's just as bad as if he was shirtless because now your mind is venturing into a territory that it doesn't belong in.

It's strange having him so close. Remnants of his cologne still cling to his skin, warm, sugary notes kissing your nose, and your selfish mouth wonders if his lips are just as sweet. If kissing him would be like walking into a hometown bakery, cozy and familiar, with welcoming arms that wrap you into a hug. 

"Y' know," Rhett's stiff as a board next to you, back flat against the mattress, staring up at the questionably stained ceiling tile, "this ain't how I saw this goin'."

A part of you supposes that you can't blame him, though. You can't move either. "What, didn't plan on sharing a bed with us like old times?"

Bob is the only one daring enough to move, rolling onto his side, to face you. "At least, in the old times, we all fit."

God, how old were you the last time you three shared a bed? You know must have been before you turned thirteen because Bobby still had those obnoxious green-rimmed glasses, and he didn't change them until the day after your birthday.

Rhett must be on the same page as you because the corner of his lip lifts. "It's inappropriate fer you three to be havin' sleepovers!" Speaking in his best, mocking tone of his momma.

"Ma was so convinced that we'd get it on the moment we were left alone," Bob snorts, "meanwhile, all we wanted to do was play pictionary and watch tv all day."

Your head tilts, internally grasping for memories that you haven't dug up in years. "You didn't even know what sex was until you were, what, fifteen?"

"Fourteen," he clarifies, knee bumping into your thigh as he shifts against the mattress, "and I only learned because of that health class we were required to take.

Rhett's chuckle vibrates through the bed and up your spine. "Y' should've seen the look on his face when we went to the restroom after."

You reckon it's the same look that sits on Bob's face right now. Lips tightened into a straight line, eyes a smidgen wider than usual, and you're certain he'd be a shade paler if not for the street light. Warm rays shine through the water-stained window, puncturing through the darkness, painting everything it touches with its golden hues—some strokes of yellow and brown, too.

Those brilliant shades arc across your skin, staining you with its color, and stretch to fade against Rhett's bare skin. The rise and fall of his chest making that old bull tattoo look as if it's bucking in a pool of liquid gold. You've lost track of how many times you've caught yourself staring. The amount of hours wasted, wondering about what it would be like to tangle your fingers in his hair. To kiss across the broad expanse of his chest, if his hands would roam down your back or curl around the back of your neck.

Lightning cracks. For a moment, the only sound in the air is that of your breath.

The heavy fist of thunder strikes the ground.

You don't feel your back leave the mattress, but you certainly feel the landing. The way Bob jolts into you. Rhett's big arm darts out to curl around the both of you, cinching you to his chest, damn near rolling Bob on top of you. Squeezing tight, as if someone has come to steal you and Bobby away from him. Muscles so stiff that he feels like a steel post against you.

Outside, storm clouds grumble as if to laugh, as if this is some sick joke they orchestarted.

"God," Rhett lets go of a breath, fanning out against your cheek, "had me thinkin' someone kicked the damn door down." His head tilts down, lips pressing into the top of your shoulder, where the collar of your shirt exposes your skin.

The world around you screeches to such a sudden halt that you can hear the brakes squealing. Their shrill protests bouncing around the inside of your skull until your ears begin to ring.

He just...did he really...why?

Bob's gaze meets with yours. Then Rhett's. It's strange. Him being without his glasses and all. Almost just as strange as it is to see his eyes so...wide. Like a deer caught in the headlights, as if he's the one guilty of kissing your shoulder and not Rhett.

Rhett's chest rises with a breath.

"I'm...I'm sorry." Voice strained, afraid to let go of the air in his lungs.

"No, it's..." you're speaking before your own brain can catch up, too distracted by the way butterfly wings tickle your lower belly to think. "It's okay."

What the hell are you even saying? You're friends. This isn't...you're not...this shouldn't be okay.

Bob's mouth finds the side of your jaw. A fleeting peck so quick that you only register it when he's gone. Deliberately turns his head down, avoiding your attention, as he mutters something that sounds like, "Gotta even it out, right?" 

It was here and gone so quickly that you're only beginning to feel how his thin lips pressed into your skin, leaving behind a coldness that wasn't there before. Far too real to match up to the hopeless wonderings that have frolicked in your imagination for so long. 

Something must be in the air. Maybe you've fallen asleep, collapsing into the warm embrace of your imagination, because there is no way that Rhett's chapped lips are finding the other side of your jaw. No, this must be a trick of your mind. You've thought about this too many times for it to be real. This version of Robert Floyd, the one who scoffs and presses a second, insistent kiss on top of the old one, feels too dreamlike. 

"Bobby," Rhett's whining, drawing out the vowels in that annoyingly pitchy tone that you so rarely get to hear. 

"You started it," Bob's muffled by another kiss. Incessant, one after the other, spreading across your cheeks. The scruff of Rhett's unshaven jaw. The sweetness of Bob's cologne, up close and overpowering your senses. Are you sure this is a dream?

"I did not!" The sudden pitchiness in Rhett's cry is too on-point. 

"Yes, you did!" You know that tone on Bob. Playfully accusatory. Breath puffing against your skin, so warm that the hotel air feels cold in comparison.

Their heads are rising. Neither realize how close they are until their noses ram into one another. Too headstrong for gentleness. Not when their giggles are dying down. 

Bob's breath catches. 

Rhett's eyelashes flutter. 

The room is too quiet for this to be a dream.

This is real, and it shouldn't be happening. The nagging of reality chastises you for letting it get this far, for telling them it was okay and not putting a stop to it at the second kiss. But your stubborn heart hammers excitedly at your chest, and your tired soul knows better than to let your shaking hands settle behind their heads. You know not to push their heads in.

Yet, you do it anyway. 

And their parted mouths find each other in the lightest embrace they can muster. Only lasts for three beats of your heart before they part, neither quite opening their eyes. The voice of logic asks why you did that. 

The voice of your heart wonders why their attentions are turning back to you. Why Rhett is leaning in so suddenly, and why you've considered that he may want to kiss you, too. Because his mouth is warmer than the burning streetlight, and he smiles into it like he's gotten everything he's ever wanted. 

You don't know when your eyes closed, but you don't need to open them to know that it's Bobby who kisses you next. Sweet and soft, like you're kissing a marshmallow and not your best friend. Then Rhett's finding you again, then back to Bob, and you're beginning to lose track of all these toothy, chaste pecks that never fail to stir up the butterflies in your belly.

"'s this what we're doin' now?" You can hear Rhett's grin in his tone, punctuated by your own daring venture, leaning up to catch his mouth again. "Kisses?" 

Bobby's nose bumps into your temple, close for no reason other than for the sake of it. "What else would you call these?" You think that might be a little bit of stubble you feel, scratching against your forehead, only makes you want to run your hands across it. "Lip locks, smooches, a touch of the lips as a sign of—"

Rhett's cutting him short, the remainder of those babbling words devolving into a smothered grunt. 

There's something off about this picture. You shouldn't be collapsing back into the mattress, smothered by the combined weight of Rhett Abbott and Robert Floyd. If this goes wrong, then how many years of friendship spiral down the drain? This isn't what friends do. 

Friends don't share hotel beds and kiss under the streetlight glow. The sins of your selfishness are illuminated by those gleaming rays, allowing your greedy gaze to eat up the way Rhett's hair falls into his face as he sucks at the juncture of your jaw. How Bob's guiding himself with his nose, finding a spot behind Rhett's ear that makes him gasp.

"I suppose this is what our folks were afraid of," Bob's muffled voice punctures the silence, "us in the same bed and all."

A chuckle draws out of Rhett's chest, so deep the thunder ought to be jealous. "The ol' tyrant of my house would be havin' a fit if he knew 'bout this."

The voices in your head are still crying for you to stop here.

But you've forgotten how to listen. 

"Who gives a damn," and before you can think twice about it, your hand is grabbing hold of Bob's shirt collar and yanking him in. 

There's nothing worth worrying about. Not when Bob's weight is fully settling on top of you, chests rising and falling in perfect unison. The short locks of his hair fall forward, tickling against your skin, his big, warm palms cradling your cheeks, the gentle bump of his chin against yours drawing a whine out of your throat.

He jolts, breaking away with a gasp, "Rhett—"

"Don't you worry 'bout what I'm doin'," is the only response Rhett gives before Bob is sucking in another breath of air. Squirming, as Rhett nibbles at the juncture of his sensitive neck, has already left a red mark in his wake. And with Bob's unfortunate reputation, it's sure to bruise by sunrise. 

Rhett's hands delve between your bodies, sliding beneath Bob's shirt, and that's all it takes for you to tug on it again. The three of you devolve into a tangle of limbs as you haul it over his head, exposing miles upon miles of milky white skin and intricately freckled shoulders. Tiny spots that you're racing Rhett to kiss. 

All it does is make Bob bolder. Defiant palms gliding up the sides of your waist, pushing your shirt up to expose your warm tummy to the chilly hotel air. Bold fingertips stop just short of your breasts, bumping into the swell of them for a fraction of a moment.

Rhett's calloused touch glides up your newly revealed skin, greedy for a feel of you. "'n here I thought I was rushin' y'all." 

"I didn't know there was a set timeline for this," Bob's leaning back, bumping into Rhett, as he fights to get a better look at you, laid out beneath him.

"There's going to be if you two keep talking," your eyes roll, pleasantly annoyed to find that they're still the same, even now. 

"Ain't gotta tell us twice, darlin'." And before you can process what Rhett has just said, he's planting a palm between Bobby's shoulder blades and pressing. Has him collapsing on top of you in the blink of an eye, falling right between your parted legs.

It's Rhett's hips that push him forward. Grinding into the soft fat of Bob's ass, simultaneously pushing the outlnie of Bob's half-hard cock into your core. You don't know if it's you or Bob who whimpers the loudest, a bolt of lightning jumping up your spine. 

That's... that's...

"Shit," Rhett swears, leaning in close, like he's worried someone will hear him through these ancient walls, "forgot you're still a virgin, Bobby boy."

"I'm begging you not to bring it up," Bob's choking through a stifled noise as your body rolls upward, his cock twitching so hard that you can feel it through your clothes. "Fuck—"

And there's more to that, but he's burying his face in the crook of your shoulder, breathing hard as your hands slide up his back. Rising up into the first, weary motion of his hips. Strange at first. Doesn't quite know what he's doing yet; not quite as fluid, a little too rigid. But Rhett's grunting beneath his breath, and you've got the sneaking suspicion he's learning fast. 

It sure feels like it. The heavy bulge in his sweats massaging against you, only drawing back to press into the body behind him, letting Rhett's instinctual thrust push him back in. Wondrously punctuated by the glisten of Rhett's teeth as he bites his lip, failing to hold back a groan. 

Oh, and their hands are wandering. Rhett's calloused palms finding their way to your thighs, dragging up until he bumps into the hem of your shorts. Bob's fingers dare to rise and dance across your breast, feeling the way you fit into his grasp. 

"'s an awful nice sight," Rhett muses, and now he's reaching beneath your shirt, too. Rucking it up to expose your chest, thumb fondly drifting over your nipple. Sends you jolting, knees knocking into Bob's sharp hips.

"You're one to talk," you don't realize it's you who's talking until the words are already out of your mouth, unhindered by the sudden yank on your clothes. Tugging the thin t-shirt over your head suddenly exposes you to them in your entirety. 

They're falling over each other. Shoulders collide, and heads knock together as they dip down. Rhett's hot mouth wraps around your nipple. Bob's tickling tongue guides him down your collar, taking his time to shower your neglected breast with his attention, softened gaze never once leaving your face. 

Your palm clamps over your mouth, back rising up off the bed. Oh, this is...this is...

Bob's whine cuts through the air. Has the utmost audacity to bat his lashes at you and pout. "Wanna hear you." His hips buck forward, knocking a noise past your lips before you can think twice. 

You're in so much trouble.

But you can't dwell on it for longer than a fracture of a second because their attentions are already migrating. Working their way down your belly despite the limited space they've given themselves. Bob's shoulder bumps into Rhett's chin, growing closer and closer together until they're snug against one another, forced to stop just shy of your shorts. 

Your thumbs are hooking into the hem of them before you can think twice. Had only intended to draw off one article of clothing at the time, but Rhett's helping hands tug your underwear down, too. Not an easy task when your legs are split around Bob's hips, forcing you to draw your knees up to your chest. Can't imagine the kind of view you must give them, just trying to get the material past your heels. 

"Now wait a damn—" Bob's squeaking, batting at the hands yanking on his sweats. "Rhett!"

But it's already far too late because Rhett's shoving them down his thighs without a second thought. Heavy cock springing from its confines, so heavy and long that it struggles to stand upright, knocking into his hip instead. It's only because of the streetlight that you can see the thin vein running along the side of him, some dumb little quirk that you shouldn't find so endearing.

Rhett has yet to notice the apparent monster that's unwillingly made itself known in the room. Too busy messing with his own pants to look up and pay attention. Until a wayward glance damn near reels him in like a fish on a hook.

"Jesus, Bobby," he breathes like he's caught up in a goddamn trance. "Why'd ya never tell us y' were hung like a goddamn horse?"

Your daring hand reaches up.

"Forgive me," he's sucking in a sharp breath as your warm fingers wrap around his cock, feeling the weight of him in your hand, "I was waiting to tell you over a candlelit dinner somewhere in Paris."

You don't know what Rhett is up to until your hand is drenched in chilly lubricant poured from a bottle you don't recognize the origin of. Slickening the glide, squelching far too loudly for how delicately you spread it across him. Such a simple touch that draws the sweetest whine past Bobby's parted lips, so unused to the sensation of a hand that isn't his own. 

Rhett's big hand encompasses yours. Squeezing tight as he guides Bob's cock down, thick length sliding through your folds. It's against everything a best friend should be doing, and yet, it feels so good—a twinge of excitement twirling up your spine from this alone. 

"Y' ain't fixin' to believe how long I've thought 'bout this," Rhett sounds like he's on another planet. Doesn't fight as you take hold of his wrist, guiding his lube-slicked fingers between your legs, right to where you crave his attention most. 

He doesn't need a lick of guidance from there. The rough pad of his finger presses daringly against your entrance, gasping with you as he slips inside. 

"'n by the feel of it," his eyelashes flutter at the way you clench around him, some involuntary little movement that makes your knees feel weak, "y've got it as bad as I do."

Bobby shifts, throbbing length dragging against your clit a smidgen harder. Such a strange sight to see his flushed tip between your legs like this, rubbing up and down in languid motions, so distracting that you damn near forget that Rhett's hand is crammed between your bodies. 

At least, you forget until his finger curls upward. Stroking against a spongey little bundle of nerves that makes you squeal. "Rhett!"

Wordless, he chuckles, a second finger dipping inside to join the first. Shallowly working his way in and out, only focusing on tormenting the one spot that makes you squirm. Your hand flies down to grab hold of his wrist, head tilting back, trying your damnest to ignore the way Bob traces his nails up your naked sides. A distant tickle that makes your back rise up off the bed, unsure if you want to lean into it or squirm away. 

It's hard to ignore how easily Rhett's working you open. Two wonderfully thick digits growing to become three, stretching you wide and so, so much bigger than your own. You don't know how you'll ever satisfy your cravings, now that you've had a taste of the real thing. The way his knuckles catch on your rim, how his gaze fixates so heavily on the sight of your cunt taking him in.

As quickly as he appeared, he's drawing away. Leaving behind a certain kind of coldness that can only be thwarted by him. 

"God, you're such a pretty sight," Bob marvels aloud, a certain sort of sparkle in his eye that wasn't quite there before. And there seems to be more he wants to say because his short pink tongue is darting out to wet his lips, already parting with the beginnings of another sentence. 

But Rhett's hands are appearing on his naked hips, squeezing the bone there, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't notice the way some of his fingers glisten with your wetness. Catching in the light as he nudges Bob forward. 

"Jesus, Rhett—" Bob's knee slides against the comforter, struggling to keep up with the way Rhett's pushing him forward. "What're you doing?"

You've already got a pretty good idea of what your beloved cowboy is up to, your hand already reaching to wrap around his wet cock. Guiding him between your folds. Selfishly pausing to enjoy the final drag of his cock head against your clit, on its way down to where you're aching. 

"Oh." He murmurs dumbly, sucking in a shaky breath as he squints up at your face. Never has been able to see far without his glasses. "I-is...is this okay? Are we...?" 

"Only if you want it," you don't know why you're whispering, too focused on running your thumb over his slit to do much else.

Rhett's chin comes to rest against Bob's shoulder, peering down at the sight between your legs, then flicking his attention elsewhere. It's the kiss he plants on Bob's cheek that soothes his nerves because the tension melts from his shoulders in an instant.

Weary, Bob's head nods as if he needs to affirm it himself, too. "Okay..." the gears in his head are spinning a hundred miles a minute, but again, he's drawing a blank."I...don't know what I'm..."

On their own, your fingers guide him to press against your entrance, and from there, Rhett's got the rest. 

"Jus' like this," he murmurs, biceps flexing as he nudges Bob's hips forward. 

Pressure blooms. Your head falls back against the pillow. This doesn't feel real. There's no way you two are taking your best friend's virginity. But there's no way a dream could recreate the ache as his head slips inside you. 

"There y' go...nice 'n easy," Rhett's deep grumble is something else entirely. 

Bob's eyes squeeze shut, barely muzzling a whimper that sparks a heat in your lower belly. Can feel yourself grow wetter around him as he gradually pushes inside. The stretch is enough to make you reach for the sheets, squeezing them tight in your fist. Doesn't necessarily hurt per se, but God. You could have never anticipated this. 

But he's slowly disappearing inside of you, inch by dizzying inch, and the bed is dipping as Rhett moves to settle next to you. Big chest on full display, the golden glow of the streetlight drawing your eye down his gently toned belly to where his cock rests against his hip. Thicker than Bob is, a glistening pearl of precum collected at his tip. 

You can't help but reach over and take him into your hand. No, you've waited far too long to deny yourself the simple pleasure of spreading the clear fluid with your thumb, ears blessed with the sound of Rhett's breath catching.

All the while, Bob's hands find themselves braced on either side of you until he's finally confident enough to let himself lay against you. Soft lips find your jaw just as he bottoms out, not an inch of him left to take, his hips flush with yours. 

"Ain't you two jus' somethin'," he's rolling onto his side, head snug against his pillow, and you reckon this is what a Greek god would look like down here on the mortal plane. Long hair and soft muscles, wrapped up in a cozy golden glow, smiling in a lazy sort of fashion that only ever looks good on him, "lookin' at me all doe-eyed."

But you can only focus on him for so long before you start to grow impatient, squirming, jostling Bob inside you. "You can move, Bobby,"

Obedient, he does just that, rising up onto his forearms, caging your head between them as he draws himself back. Only by about an inch, maybe two, before gravity reels him back in. The upper side of his cock already dragging deliciously against the nerves hidden along your walls. 

He's learning too quickly for his own good, pulling out a little quicker, less hesitation in his hips as he figures out what he's doing. Knocks the breath right out of your lungs, keening in your throat. There's something about getting fucked by your best friend while the other one watches that really does things to you. 

"Fuck," Bob's cold nose nuzzles your cheek, so close that you struggle to get a look at his face, "You feel so good, oh my god." 

And he'd be babbling if he weren't whimpering like the cutest thing you've ever seen. Blindly guiding himself across your skin until his lips bump into yours, but he's too far down to kiss you properly. No, he's got to draw himself up a little higher, biceps trembling as he pulls himself upward, and—

"Bobby!" Stars sparkle in your vision. 

Distantly, you think you catch the sound of Rhett chuckling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Bob's chanting under his breath, a dainty whisper of your name chasing it, your lips clashing for the briefest of moments, "'s that it?"

"Right there," you blurt. Can't keep a damn word on your tongue for longer than a millisecond. "Keep—keep doing that." 

And he does. 

Oh, he does, and you fear you might float right out the damn window and up into the stars. Legs rising, squeezing his hips, some obscene, wet noise punctuating the slick glide of him. Only worsened by the way he leans back, peering down at where you're split open around him, just enough of a shift for him to knock into those nerves a little harder. Mushroom tip kissing them over. And over. And over. Sends your pussy fluttering around him like a goddamn butterfly.

"Shit, I can feel—oh," and you're so thankful that he collapses back into you because your hands are aching to roam the war, freckled expanse of his back. Blunt nails digging into the meat of his shoulder, draws the faintest whisper of a hiss from his lips. 

There's a hand on you that isn't Bobby's. Calloused. Wet fingers trailing down your side and into the pocket of space between your and Bob's bellies. Crawling down, down, down. Between your parted thighs, devilishly rough fingertips pressing to your clit. 

"Rhett—" your strangled voice hardly leaves your mouth. Legs twitching around Bob's hips as those damned fingers start to spiral against you. It's not fair. He's figuring you out far too easily. Makes it so much harder for you to open your mouth again. "Stop." 

Bob's head pops up. Wide eyes peering up at you, rhythm stuttering to a slow. 

Delirious, your head shakes, "not you." 

He doesn't say a word, but he's drawing himself back onto his haunches. It does nothing but give Rhett more room to torment you, even if his fingers have already stilled to a halt. You'll never understand how they manage to give you the same damned look, furrowed brows, and tilted heads, like two puppies trying to figure out what you're asking of them. 

"Can't yet," you choke. It's so hard to find words when Bobby's still rolling into you, balls gently smacking against your ass. "Wanna..." you're trying to motion with your hand, but all you can manage is to flail your palm in Rhett's general direction.

But Rhett's figured you out. You know he has because his eyebrows rise, incredulous. "Wantin' both of us in the same night, huh?" 

For a moment, you think you've won. His hand draws away as he moves to sit up, instead opting to tangle his hand in Bobby's hair and pull him in for a kiss that you hear more than you see. Wet lips smacking together, Rhett seeming to groan purely from Bob's little whine. 

He's close. You can feel it. The way he's twitching inside of you, spontaneous motions of muscle that have no right to spark a fire within you. Burning up into your chest, eating away at the oxygen in your lungs. Rhett may have given up on getting you close. He may be sidling up behind Bobby again. But he might as well still be tormenting your clit, because that heat is spreading, and a familiar coil is beginning to tighten, clamping down around Bob's throbbing cock. 

Rhett's big palm slides down Bobby's chest. Doesn't stop until he can pinch a perky little nipple.

Bobby yelps. And it's like he's been kicked back into gear because his hand is dipping between your legs, thumb stroking up your soaked folds, picking up right where Rhett left off. Rubbing feather light spirals into your clit. Shouldn't be enough contact to satisfy you, and yet the faintness of it all is somehow too much. 

"I'm—I'm," he's stuttering, head shaking back and forth like he can fight off the feeling bubbling in his lower belly. 

You should stop him here. You don't have anything to clean up with. If he cums in you, it's going to be in you for the whole damn night, making a mess of you, your clothes, and the sheets. And yet your legs are tightening around him anyway, ankles locked behind him, and you're nodding. In the same damn boat as him. "Uhuh." 

His whimper cuts through the air. Pretty blue eyes rolling. The only reason he doesn't collapse on top of you is because of the arm Rhett's coiled around his waist. Hips stuttering to a sudden halt. Shoves you over the edge before you can think twice. Back arching up off the bed, cumming around his spasming cock with a cry you're certain the whole fucking building hears.

But clarity doesn't come to you. 

There's no dawn of realization as your muscles quit twitching. Your shaky inhale does nothing to put out the embers still raging deep in your bones. Isn't a hint of sudden overexposure as you pry your eyes open, weakly smiling up at Bobby's sweaty face. You don't mind them seeing you like this at all.

Gingerly, Bob leans back, taking his time as he pulls out of your cunt; the muscles there still clenching around him, even if you can no longer feel that you're doing it. He barely has the energy to settle beside you, a warm arm resting across your stomach, pressing chaste kisses to your shoulder. 

In the back of your mind, you think you can feel his cum spilling out of you. 

"Shit, Bobby," Rhett murmurs, a wayward finger rising to push it back inside; you can't imagine what that must look like, "made a fuckin' mess."

The only remark he receives is Bob's half attempt at a grumble. Not his fault that you defiantly pulled him deeper, rather than push him away. But he does have the strength to reach for Rhett's forgotten cock, half hard and still just as flushed as it was before. Seems to know what he's doing when he flicks his wrist because Rhett's entire body jerks.

Your foot kicks his thigh, "still not done, cowboy,"

"You're somethin' else," he chuckles, with the faintest shake of his head, like he can't believe what's happening, "both of ya, actually." 

But first, it seems he's got something else in mind. Rubbing up the inside of Bob's knee, breaching into the territory of his pale thighs, not particularly thick but just plush enough to grab a handful of. Squeezing, kneading the fat between his big fingers. 

Bob's idle hand keeps stroking him. Slow ups and downs that work him back up until Rhett's leaking into his palm, angry red tip demanding attention. You have to roll onto your side to get a better look, the show only stopping long enough for Bob to lick the pad of his thumb, bringing it back to massage over the engorged head. 

A beat passes. He does it again.

"If y' wanted to taste me, all ya had to do was ask," Rhett's fighting to speak through his grin, and you're primarily certain he's joking, but there's an undertone of seriousness hidden there, too. 

That's all Bob needs to hear. "So come up here, then."

And who would Rhett be to deny him? Climbing up to straddle Bob's pale chest, leaning forward to grab hold of the headboard, his other hand guiding his cock to that cute, waiting mouth. Greeted with a shy kitten lick at first, unfamiliar with the ropes. 

Your jaw aches just looking at the size of Rhett. Can't imagine what it must feel like for Bobby when he hesitantly parts his lips, taking him in, heavy on his tongue.

He's still new to this. Can't take very much into his mouth before he starts to gag, but his hand works what he can't fit, the corners of his eyes glistening with fresh tears. Whining his frustrations, breathing hard through his nose.

"There y' go," Rhett's sucking in a breath, "fuckin' fast learner, ain't you?"

It's impossible to reign in your laugh, "You're telling me." The mess between your legs is a testament of its own, sensitive and aching, whether it be craving from more or exhaustion, you can't tell.

"Eager as hell, too," Rhett's eyes roll; you wish you had a camera to capture that sight for the rest of forever. "Shit." 

All Bob can do is whine. Mouth too full to do anything else, trying his best to lift his head and take more of Rhett's cock, even with the fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him back. Lips struggling to stay closed around him, knocked loose by Rhett's slow thrust.

"That good?" You murmur, so fixated on the sight of him that you've forgotten everything else. 

It sounds like he tries to hum a little "uhuh" in response. Muffled, racing all the way up Rhett's sensitive spine. Has him jerking away with a gasp. Gripping the base of his cock with his fist like he's trying to chase off the twinges of sensitivity. 

"Did I do something wrong?" Bobby's tone is frail. One loud noise, and it'll shatter into a million tiny pieces.

Rhett's breath slides between his closed teeth on its way back out. "Complete opposite, actually." A beat passes, and he's on the move again. Sliding down the bed, his hands coming to settle on your hips, squeezing lightly.

It's hard to tell if it's you or Bob who yelps. But one way or another, you've found yourself face down on the mattress. The whole damn world spinning around you, struggling to catch up. Has he always been that strong, or are you actually dreaming these things up?

"Chris above," Bob mutters, "since when were you able to do that?"

Rhett's not done. Lifting your hips until your knees slip beneath you, propping your ass up for him. "Y' wrangle enough calves 'n eventually it becomes second nature,"

You can't believe what you're hearing, blindly kicking with your foot once more. Miss. "Are you really comparing me to one of your cattle right now?"

"A mighty cute one," a wet noise emanates through the room as his cock smacks against your cunt, "if that makes it any better." 

So long as he doesn't give you any ear tags, you suppose.

Maybe you've bitten off more than you can chew because, from the moment he nudges into you, one thing becomes painfully clear. He's so much thicker than Bob is. Stretching you even wider, has to pause to slick himself with lube because even with the obscene mixture of Bob's saliva and cum, it's not enough. 

"Still so fuckin' tight," he hisses, grabbing a greedy handful of your ass. You don't know if you're tight or if he's just big, splitting you wide open, forcing the air from your lungs, eating up every bit of space you could possibly offer.

Thunder rumbles. The streetlight flickers like a candle. Off, on, off, then on again. Wind howls outside of the window, seems to be squeezing through the cracks of the seal because you don't know where else that cool breeze would be coming from. But it's no match for the heat radiating off Rhett's big chest, snug against your naked back as he presses kisses to your shoulder. Still pressing into you. Inch by devastating inch. Until his hips are flat against your ass, not a centimeter between your bodies.

You'd try to lift your head if you weren't fighting to keep it attached to your shoulders. Feels like it's about to spin right off your shoulders. 

"Y' alright?" Rhett's asking so gently, infuriatingly, sets a half dozen butterflies fluttering in your belly. 

As if this is an appropriate situation for them to be showing their flashy little wings. 

"Move," it's only one word, and yet, you damn near have to strangle it out of your throat. 

Rhett doesn't need another ounce of encouragement. Pulling himself back with all the power and confidence of a man who knows what he's doing. So thick that he hits those little nerves without the slightest effort, strikes them hard as he snaps back into you. Balls smacking into your oversensitive clit. His soft grunts nearly washed over by the smack of skin on skin.

"Bobby really did a number on ya," marveling aloud, so focused on the mess made of your pussy that you can feel the warmth of his gaze. Sticky cum audibly squelching inside of you, about to be so, so much worse once he's done with you. 

But you can't think about that right now. Not when he's kissing up your spine, forearms bracketing your hips, keeping you from sliding up the bed and away from the heavy punches of his cock. "Y've no idea," kiss. "How much," another kiss, groaning under his breath. "I've wanted this." Kiss.

Your head tilts, peering over your shoulder, straining for a look at his flushed face. "You been dreaming 'bout fucking us, cowboy?" Taunting. A little too confident for someone split open on his dick.

"I'm the reason all our folks were worried," he's taking it all in stride, leaning back, sweaty chest glistening in the light as if to give you a show, "still waitin' to wake up 'n learn this is all a dream."

He leans off to the side. Feeling around, digging through the pocket of his discarded pants. Produces something shiny. Enough to make Bob's breath catch, but far too small for you to see what the hell it is. 

And he sets it right against your ass. Metal so cold that it's the only thing you can think of. Round. With a little—

"Oh my god," you gasp through a whimper. Suddenly have the strength to rise onto your forearms, trying your damnest to defy the laws of your body and turn your head all the way around. "My promise ring?" 

"Y' told me to do somethin' with it," he grins, downright devilish. An idle hand reaches below your belly, feeling around. 

"I told you to make it disappear," the fight leaves your tone the moment his fingers press to your clit. What strength you have fades from your body in an instant, suddenly unable to think of anything but the motion of his fingertips. "Christ, Rhett." 

Next to you, Bob seems to have stolen your energy, moving to sit up, unable to rest and watch any longer. You can barely see the way he sidles up next to Rhett, soft cock pressing into his thigh, kissing at that pale, sweaty neck, defiantly sucking a mark into the skin there. Seems to match the one Rhett left on Bob's neck earlier.

Rhett twitches inside of you. Keening in his throat. Doesn't realize what he's just knocked into. Electricity bolting up your spine. Arms going weak. So sensitive all of a sudden, pussy spasming around him. Driven by the spirals of his fingers and the sweet grunts that kiss your ears.

"Rhett," you're collapsing down into the pillow once more, writhing. Panting for a breath you can't catch. "fuck, I...I—"

His hips stutter. "I know it," breathy, rhythm quickening with an urgency you recognize too well, "c'mon, cum 'round my cock, doll."

You don't know where it's come from. All at once, your nerves are on fire, and you're shaking from head to toe. Biting into the pillow. Fighting to keep quiet as he fucks you, fat cock head rubbing against those little nerves over and over and over. You're gonna...you're gonna...

It washes over you like an ocean wave on a serene afternoon. Slow. Starts with a twitch in your foot and boils higher. Tightening like a vice as you cum around his cock. Mewling into the open air, head spinning. And yet you're just conscious enough to feel the stutter of Rhett's hips. Cumming inside of you with a guttural groan that rumbles deep into your bones. Think you can feel him twitching, throbbing as he pumps you full. Only adding to the mess they've made. 

A mess that you have no idea how you'll clean up.

But for right now, you don't have much energy to be thinking about that. Because Rhett's collapsing into you, smothering you into the bed, and Bobby's coming down, too. Forming a big, sweaty pile on top of you. Arms wind around you. Kisses pepper your skin. It happens so quickly, and yet, you already don't know where they start and end. 

And they're warm. 

"We've made such a mess," Bob giggles, the tip of his nose bumping into your forehead. 

Yes, you have. But all you can think about is squirming backward, stealing the heat radiating from Rhett's naked body, hugging someone's arm to your chest. You don't think you'll have the strength to move in the morning. Or the day after that, for that matter. 

Frankly, you don't think they will be able to, either. 

---

A part of you expects to wake up to the crushing reality of regret. That someone has had time to simmer on what happened and has decided this isn't what they really want. That it was just a heat-of-the-moment thing. A mistake made over some well-timed hormones and poor thinking.

Not one bit of you expects what you're actually greeted with. 

Two sleepy bodies. Kissing up on you. Whispering sweet nothings into your ear as they bicker and fight over who gets to kiss your lips. Heads knocking together. Messy hair poking up in every direction as they struggle for dominance. Each stubborn in their own, adorable right.  

It's not until later that you realize they're just as serious about this as you are. 

It happens some time after Rhett bends Bobby over. Bob's inexperienced but eager tongue drawing an orgasm out of you before you've truly adjusted to the sight of him between your legs. Drooling. Whining as Rhett drills into him from behind, neglected cock bouncing between his pale legs, struggling to keep upright. 

You reckon this is what you looked like last night. God, just the thought of it makes you sore. 

Fresh tears spill down Bobby's face. Overwhelmed but too into it to stop, as his trembling body collapses on top of you. Lips still slick with your wetness, shuddering like a leaf in the Wyoming wind. Muttering weakly for Rhett not to stop. Leaning into your hand as it tangles through his hair. 

He's cute, like this. Trying his damnest to keep up with Rhett, leaning on you to keep himself from falling apart at the seams. With his flushed cheeks and pitchy noises. So loud and unlike him. Confident when it's just the three of you. Unashamed to babble for Rhett to cum in him. Doesn't fear the cleanup that will involve or the short amount of time you have to get out of this hotel, lest they charge for another day.

No, you don't realize until after they both tumble on top of you. Heaving chests and tangled legs, pinned up against one another like sardines in a can despite the ample room available.

"Can I convince you two to get breakfast with me?" Bob's soft voice kisses your ears with its appearance. "I'll buy."

And all Rhett does is laugh. Loud. Hearty. The kind that makes his head tilt backward, curls bouncing. "Oh, so now y' wanna wine 'n dine us." He grins, palm coming down to lightly smack Bob's ass. Knocks a surprised whimper out of him. "Got that a lil backwards, Bobby."

Bob's eyes roll; he should have seen that remark coming a mile away. "I'm offering you free food, you dumb cowboy."

"Hey now," Rhett's still chuckling, the prettiest noise you've ever heard, "I never said I wouldn't take ya up on it." 

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to you. Each glistening with their own form of excitement and hope that you've come to recognize over the years. You know it better than you know yourself. How Bobby offers you his every emotion on a silver platter. The way Rhett fails to hide the soft fondness reserved for you and Bob.

"Breakfast sounds good," and unknowingly, you've sealed your fate. 

Not that you mind. Of course. 

 The drive takes twice as long as it was supposed to. Not one of you can keep your eyes on the road for longer than a few hours at a time. Too eager for kisses and fleeting touches and the shy, awkward giggles that come with crossing into this unfamiliar territory. Cramming yourselves into the backseat for an uncomfortable but cozy nap when the road becomes too much to handle.

When you were kids, your attachment issues were horrible. Not one of you could go without the other. Bobby sulked and refused to socialize with anyone who wasn't the two of you. Rhett raised hell when he was placed in a class away from you and Bob. Your entire week would be ruined if you couldn't go out on one of your adventures with the Abbott and Floyd boys. 

You'd thought those issues had faded with time. A sort of thing melted by maturity and the understanding that separation would not be forever.

You were wrong. 

When it comes time for Rhett to part ways to get ready for the rodeo to start, your heart defiantly aches. Isn't helped by the number of kisses he showers you and Bob with, the way he refuses to let go of your hands until the very last second. It's dumb, and it's childish, and you can't help it. Emotions are hard to handle. Especially ones that have been pent up for several years.

So you and Bob glue to each other. Share the same gasp when Rhett bursts from the chute. Unable to breathe as that beast of an animal bucks and twists through the air. Fighting with everything it has to get him off its back. The crowd roars for a cowboy they've never seen before and shoots to their feet before the buzzer sounds. 

You don't see him fall off, but Bob catches sight of him bounding out of the arena. Disappearing once more, mixed in with the other riders. There and gone in less than a minute. All that driving done for such little time in the limelight. The only confirmation he was really there is when his name soars up onto the scoreboard.

He doesn't appear again until after the rodeo. When you and Bob stand idly by the parking lot, ears pricked for the sound of his voice, unsure if you're in the right place or not. These rodeos are never the same. Sometimes the riders come out into the parking lot. Other times, they wind up on the far side of the stadium, where they have no reason to be.

It's the clank of spurs that give him away. Moseying out from behind a gate, 

His name still sits on the scoreboard, occupying the second-place slot. Got knocked down a peg by a bull rider with a hell of a ride. He should be cussing. Scowling that he almost had it, he'll do better next time and won't be beaten out by dumb luck. But that version of Rhett doesn't seem to exist anymore.

Because he's running. Arms wide open. A big, dopey grin on his scruffy face as he downright jumps on you and Bob. Spinning, dragging you two along with him like he's just won the lottery. Streetlight casting a perfect, golden glow on his handsome face. 

He steals a kiss from your lips before you can register it. 

Then one from Bob, too. 

"Are you alright?" You're blinking. Once. Twice. But the illusion never fades; it's as real as you are.

All Rhett can do is grin. "Never better."  But the corner of his lip twitches; knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're sure?" Bobby's falling right into his trap. Forever blind to the antics of a dumb cowboy.  "You only act like this when you win."

"But I did win,"  Rhett beams, far too proud of himself, as he opens his mouth and says, "I got both of you, didn't I?"

...

huh.

Bob's groan resonates from the very depths of his soul. Eyes rolling. "Oh my god."  Physcially needs to turn and look away, as if the very sight of Rhett pains him.

A smile bursts out onto your face. Truly don't know what you were expecting, all things considered. "How long were you working on that one?"

Rhett's grin grows impossibly brighter; you reckon the streetlights are jealous of its shine. "Stole it from the fella in sixth place, actually." 

And with a wink, he starts to walk. On a one-way track to the car, he doesn't need to look over his shoulder to see if you'll follow or not. He knows you will. You all know it.

It will take twice the amount of time to get back to town. But as you and Bob stumble after your shared cowboy like a pair of too-eager puppies, you can't help but wonder if the home is where your boyfriends are. Wherever that may be.

Even in run-down hotels out in the middle of nowhere, as much as you may complain about it.

#rhett abbott #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader x rhett abbott #oneshot

[baiabay]

No Role Modelz (ATSV Black Cat Variant! Reader Insert)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Current Chapter

Chapter 6

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^^links 2 chapters!! this story is also on ao3, wattpad, and quotev under the same name

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Chapter Five: A Villain Worth Fighting

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You flinched as guitar strings screeched in your ears. The thump thump thumps of heavy boots prompted you to dart your eyes around the room, though you couldn’t quite find the source of the sound. Just as you started to convince yourself you were imagining things, a blur of neon colours dashed past you, crashing into the barrier Miles had been trying so hard to break earlier. 

The neon blur posed dramatically before The Spot, summoning a bright smile on the masked faces of Gwen and Pav. The colourful figure reached to strike what looked like to be an electric guitar -  a heavy musical note rang in the air. Before you could comment, Gwen piped up in your right ear. “Hobie!”  

Pav, on your left. “Hobie, my guy!” 

It seemed both you and Miles were on the same wavelength regarding the presence of this new ‘Hobie’ character, speaking up simultaneously. “Hobie?”

“Look at that,” The Spot spoke up. “Another one. I love how many… variations of you guys there are, I mean…” 

You squinted, taking in the form of the new Spider-hero. You couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was but something with his chaotic…nature? Appearance? … Accent? Whatever it was, consider your interest piqued. It didn’t help that you were a stickler for shiny things either - you caught your fingers twitching at the thought of plucking one of those silver pins off his vest…cashing it in maybe…(Are they vintage? I wonder how much they’d be worth…)

Shaking yourself out of your klepto-manic stupor, you instinctively reached for your hook, flinging yourself forward along with Gwen and Pav, dodging attacks Spot had begun to throw at your group. You opted to focus most of your energy on landing whip-lashes on the spotted villain… yet you managed to pick up on the murmurings of the now four young heroes on the other side of the room. 

“...bleedin’ from the armpits?”

“Miles, Hobie. Hobie, Miles.”

“Hi, I’ve never heard of you because Gwen barely ever mentions you…”

“You’re the younger from sixteen-ten, right? And who do you reckon that’s supposed to be, Gwendy?”

“Not…really sure yet, actually.”

In the midst of your eavesdropping, you paused. It just now hit you that you never actually told these people who you were. Granted, there hasn’t really been an appropriate time to give a friendly introduction given the fact that Spot has been cons-

CLUNK!

A sharp cry left your lips as Gwen slammed suddenly into your face, landing ungracefully on top of you. She seemed to have popped out of nowhere, Spot’s voids leaving the two of you in a tangled mess of limbs and possibly broken noses. Before any apologies could make their way out of either of your mouths, you felt the ground give out - your stomach drop. Falling through a void, you barely had time to collect your bearings before you were slammed into a desk back-first. 

“Y’all make a heck of a team.” Spot teased. “Team?” You mumbled groggily, dizzily reaching for your whip. 

“I don’t believe in teams-” Hobie croaked out, squirming in Spot’s crushing grip alongside Miles. “...Aren’t you in a team?” 

Spot was cocky. He moved with ease, an air in his step as he flung the group around. Not even bothering to deliver actual blows, Spot depended on throwing around blackened portals, disorienting you all to no end. As best as you could, you kept your eyes trained on Spot. In the corner of your peripheral, Hobie, Gwen, and Pav groaned, piled over each other. A clear product of Spot’s doing. 

“This is gonna be good for us, Spider-Man.” Spot stepped once, twice towards Miles. Your body reacted before your mind did, and you found your arm reeling back, striking a lash of your whip in the villains' direction before you could think. He caught it, of course. Not once stuttering, not once releasing his grip, not once pulling his gaze away from Miles.

“You, and me, we’re finally gonna live up to our potential.”

Whirring. Ringing. Growing louder and louder in your ears-

“You’ll finally have a villain worth fighting.”

He still hasn’t let go. In fact, he’s starting to pull you in-

“And I won't be just a JOKE to you!”

A crescendo, into a blast. It knocked you and the others back a significant distance, leaving the end of your whip in the crushing grip of Spot. Your head buzzed violently, and the tips of your fingers tingled from the burn of being dragged across the floor. Your vision spun, and you found yourself blinking frantically in hopes of clearing your fog. A soft clack sounded out before you, and only once your eyes cleared did you recognize it as your whip. Tilting your head upwards, your eyes caught Spot, playfully waving to the group, floating towards the collider. 

For the umpteenth time that day, you found yourself acting out before knowing what you were doing. In the back of your mind, you wondered why you were doing this, why you were helping them.

Don’t you remember what he did to Dad?

Nevertheless, your stubbornness powered through. Pushing past the aches, the way your body screamed for rest, you flicked your wrist, wrapping the tip of your whip around The Spots’ center. You pulled like your life depended on it. The salty sting of tears began to prickle in the corner of your eyes. Spot pulled back. He was strong. He was about to drag you over the edge. It hurt. Your fingers hurt, your hands hurt, your arms hurt, you really wanted to let go. You had to let go until-

“You’re not a joke!”

A coil of web around your waist kept you suspended in the air, between The Spot’s pull and the grip of Miles. 

“Right gang?”

“Absolutely,” “Completely unamusing.” “I don’t believe in comedy!... Just kidding!”

“See, no one here thinks you’re a joke!”

Spot slowly lowered his head. For a second you thought some progress was being made. Until he raised his arm and-

snip.

You flew back, along with the others. You couldn’t stop it. Spot continued his float towards the violent innards of the collider. The machine rumbled, then paused. Quiet, as if it had never been activated in the first place. You untensed, slouching over as you huffed out a heavy sigh. “It’s over, right?” A soft laugh left Pav’s lips. “Seems like it- looks just like another easy adventure for Spider Ma-” 

A frantic choir of ‘no’s interrupted Pav’s relaxed sentiments. You didn’t even have time to act confused before you were hit with another blast. This one ten times stronger than the last. Thankfully, Gwen managed to shoot a few webs in your direction, softening the blow of what could’ve been a harsh landing. In front of you, you heard Miles groan. 

“What…was that?”

“Our future.”

You recognized that tone. You recognized that it meant you had to get the hell out of there. 

“I’m gonna take everything from you like you took everything from me.”

You took slow steps towards Miles, trying your best to hide the way your hands trembled when you moved. “Miles, we need to leave.”

“See you back home, Spider-man.”

You watched with furrowed brows as Miles shook and panted in a way that was very familiar to you. You wished you could do something. Comfort him the way he did when you encountered Spot- but there was no time for that. The walls were crumbling. You grabbed his arm, forcing him off the ground. “Miles, hey. He’s gone, it’s alright.” You tried to speak words of encouragement to him, but he showed no reaction, gazing right through you. “Liven up mate,” Hobie spoke. “We’ve got to go.” 

Miles, still out of it, barely budged. Above the two of you, a large piece of the ceiling was falling fast. Gwen reached for Miles’ free arm and started sprinting, narrowly missing the rubble. On the other side of the room, Pav used his web to pull your form towards him, opting to grip your wrist while he ran towards the buildings’ exit. 

Bounding through the halls of the facility, you all managed to make it to the building's balcony, looking down upon the chaos that had begun to stir in the city below. Pav let go of your hand to hunch over and grip his head. With a swift pat on his back, Miles deducted the game plan.

“We’ll clear the path. You slow down that building.” He and the others wasted no time, leaping off the balcony, diving headfirst into the disarray that stirred under you all. “Cat, you follow my lead!” He yelled, now airborne. 

“Wh-” You hesitated. Your heart was running a mile a minute in your chest. ‘What the hell did I get into?’ You thought. You didn’t do this. You didn’t save people. The Black Cat was a selfish, egotistical, chaotic antagonist. That’s how it’s supposed to be. No matter how much you want it to change. You sighed, debating turning the other way. You were tired, bruised, even. Plus, it would’ve been best to not meddle in this Spider-business you clearly had no place in - yet, everything in your being screamed for you to follow. 

You hesitated, you sighed, you jumped. 

#miles morales x reader #atsv x you #atsv #reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv reader insert #spider-man: across the spider-verse #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse x reader #black cat! reader #hobie brown x reader #gwen stacy x reader #pavitr prabhakar x reader #miguel ohara

[love-that-we-were-in]

the harder the pain, the sweeter the sun

the aftermath of Luke's quest. or the consequences of not being a hero.

a/n: hello i didn't mean to be so sad on my entrance but we move! have fun (i'm so sorry)

It shouldn’t be like this, he thinks as he steps back across Camp Half-Bloods borders. There’s still the same mill of activity, archery and pegasi and swords grating against one another. Everything is exactly as it was when he left. Some people notice him as he makes his way towards his cabin - they don’t make small talk, what’s the point of that when he’s not the hero returned. His scar, still fresh, still raised and red across his face, feels heavy. It’s almost a beacon; a guiding light towards his failure. No one comments but he can feel it, the shift in energy as he walks past each cabin. Pity for the son of Hermes. 

His bunk is untouched. 

Collapsing onto the sheets, he glances around the space. It’s only him here, faced with his own reckoning and renown. His bunk is untouched but there’s two abandoned opposite, a careful stack of belongings at the end of each. Before dinner, he’ll change those sheets. He’ll pack Cora and Eric’s belongings into a box to stow away in the big house, amongst a dozen others he’s left there over the years, and he’ll burn shrouds to them with his campmates in the evening. 

Luke wonders, as he takes in the makeshift beds on the floor, if it was even worth coming back at all. 

Everyone moves on. Within days, there’s barely a mention of either of his quest companions. Both of them were unclaimed, watching their lives tick by in the two years he’d known them with little idea of who they were. The Stoll twins were given their beds upon their arrival at camp two days after he returned. They had been claimed, sent in the right direction by Hermes himself, and Luke despises the way he has to sit down with people he’s known for years and tell them they’re back to sleeping on the floor. Seniority is one thing - being claimed is more important. 

He trains. It’s the only thing he can do. There’s no pride that comes with failure. Some of the Ares kids jeer at him but none of them try to fight him, just watch as he fights with Annabeth like old times. Knife against sword. He trains and he studies and he watches as the floor of Hermes cabin becomes a minefield of belongings as summer peaks. 

Little will change between now and fall, he knows that with certainty. He’ll still be stuck burning food for his father, willing something to happen that will earn him a deserved quest. Maybe it’s foolish, this desire to try again, to keep going on quests until he returns from one he can say was his. Not a feat of Hercules, but a tale of Luke. He has camp glory, he needs more than that.

*

Summer ends, as it always did. He says goodbye to more cabinmates than anyone, standing at the edge of the borders until the sun is nearly setting in the sky. Thalia’s tree is behind him as the last kid leaves, an eleven year old girl that had done nothing more than stare with wide eyes every time he lifted a sword. He wonders if he’ll see her next June at all. 

“Back to basics again,” Annabeth says from behind him and he rolls his eyes as she shimmers into existence, baseball cap in hand. “Do you think it’ll get easier?”

He forgets sometimes that she’s still a kid. Wise beyond her years, a strategist to be admired, but just a kid. And a first time cabin counselor. She hasn’t said goodbyes like this before, to everyone she’s housed over three months. Teenagers that had looked to her as their leader, even if they didn’t understand her being given such power. Children who revered her position and her history as if she were a Greek tale herself.

Luke had understood it, had fought for it in April when Kieran Ho had sent word to Chiron that he wouldn’t be returning that summer. She had seemed so prepared to take on the role. He hadn’t realized that it might take more of an emotional toll than she was ready for. 

“Honestly,” he leans back against Thalia’s tree, surveying the camp below them as if he’s never seen it before. Annabeth glares at him for it. “It gets harder every year. It doesn’t end.”

“Some of those kids aren’t coming back.” Annabeth says it as a statement, a fact of life that they’ve both come to terms with. But there’s a shake to her voice, the kind saved only for when she’s terrified of being wrong, so he lets it linger in the air and get carried away. He thinks that’s answer enough. 

*

Winter Solstice comes and he feels ready. Months of only fighting Clarisse and Annabeth. Meals spent with the busiest table still, but with nothing to talk about. So long dedicated to being angry, to dreaming, to waking up in a cold sweat from everything he’s been given permission to see. 

He steals the bolt. It’s a simple plan, one he doubted originally, but it works a charm. There’s no questioning how important the Gods think of themselves anymore, how above everybody else they view themselves (literally and figuratively) to be. He escapes from floor 600 of the Empire State Building with the source of Zeus’ power in his possession and no one bats an eye. 

Annabeth will never have to come to terms with losing campers. Thalia’s sacrifice won’t be in vain the way it has been since his return. Hermes won’t be able to ignore him any longer, pretending as if being a glorified mailman means more than his son. By next summer, the world will already have begun to change. 

Trekking through Manhattan, he understands now why he was destined to fail against Ladon. What his scar will come to represent in years to come. Luke Castellan was never meant to steal an apple - he was destined, instead, to change history and with that, the world.

#luke castellan #percy jackson #pjo #🖋️abi writes…

[padfootagain]

The Last Ones On Earth (IV)

Chapter 4: An Age

Hello, hello! Here is a new chapter for my Darkling series!

I hope you like it! Let me know what you think!

****

Pairing: The Darkling x reader

Warnings for the series: mentions and depictions of violence and warfare, mentions of trauma

Warnings for the chapter: None

Summary: You and the Darkling are a team, even if no one knows it. Beyond being a team, you are the only one he trusts, and he's the only one you care about, and you're each other's true love. But if you've kept your secrets hidden for a long time, now that the Sun Summoner is fighting against you, it's time to reveal who you are, and what you are capable of...

Word Count: 2744

Masterlist for the series – The Darkling’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Alina stares at you as if you were a ghost. Or perhaps a dragon. Or a strange mix of both.

You give her a minute to register your words, you can almost call them a threat. You doubt that she’s weighing her options, though. You reckon she simply tries to understand what your words mean.

And then it’s back. The pride in her gaze, the rise in her chin, the tightness in her jaw.

Stupid girl who believes herself important…

“You say you want to talk, and yet you use threats already.”

“Who was put in chains to see you again?” you reply with amused sarcasm.

“And we were clearly right to mistrust you,” Zoya crosses her arms before her chest, her beautiful features slightly distorted by anger.

“Indeed!” you shoot her a smile. “It was pretty reckless to let me see all of you so easily.”

“David vouched for you,” Genya replies in a grim fashion, and David averts his eyes to stare at the carpet.

But your smile softens as you turn to him.

“Thank you, David. That was very nice of you.”

You turn towards Alina again. You notice that her hands ae touching.

Your smile grows, this time, more threatening, almost predatory.

“Child, let’s not make a mess. I simply want to talk, I haven’t come to hurt anyone.”

“Say that to the soldiers outside.”

“Collateral damage, I’m afraid,” you shrug. “I’m not going to hurt anyone in this room, I promise.”

“If you side with the Darkling, is your word worth anything?”

You raise a surprised eyebrow.

“If you truly knew him, you’d know how foolish that remark is. The Darkling is a lot of things, but he does stay true to his words.”

“And by ‘a lot of things’, you do include mass murderer, of course,” Nikolai points out.

“Coming from a man whose main occupations are pirating and inventing mass-destruction weaponry, I do find the remark particularly ironic.”

But you heave a sigh, tired of losing time you don’t have. There is too much work to do. Grisha to rescue, friends to bury, a whole nation to lead…

“Now, please, Alina. Again, I will not hurt you, so come sit down so we can talk.”

“I’ve never liked you,” the girl mumbles under her breath, her hands slowly moving, and you can see glow coming from her fingertips.

You roll your eyes.

“If I fought every person I didn’t like, only three people in this room would still be alive, including me. And you would not be breathing anymore, Starkov. But as I can’t choke you to death with my bare hands the way I truly long to, please, don’t do anything stupid and sit down.”

With a frustrated sigh, Alina closes her fists, but lets her power subside, and at long last, joins the gathering around the wooden table again.

“We will not yield when it comes to destroying the Fold,” Alina stubbornly declares.

“I am aware of repeating myself, but it will not work without the Fold,” you reply.

“You cannot destroy entire villages!”

“You cannot force people to change if you give them a chance to remain as they are.”

“People can change.”

“They can,” you nod in agreement. “But most of the time, they don’t want to. Why would they? If what you are asking for goes against their own interest, why would they change?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

You snort at that.

“Please… Don’t be so naïve. Of course, some people have enough compassion to not hurt Grisha. But the majority will take centuries to reach this kind of tolerance. And in the meantime, people are dying. Our people.”

“We are all Ravkan,” Nikolai argues.

“Are we? Because when I was arrested by your men a few weeks ago and kept in a cage without water, food, or anything against the cold for three days, waiting to be executed that more Grisha were captured because, and I quote ‘it would be a waste of energy to set up the gallows just for a couple of them’… without any sort of trial or justice whatsoever, I did not feel very Ravkan… but I did feel very much Grisha.”

Nikolai doesn’t answer, instead he looks guiltily at his hands.

“I don’t care about Ravka,” you answer in honesty. “I don’t care about Shu Han, I don’t care about Fjerda, or any other nation. At the end of the day, we are all humans. And we are Grisha, and otkazat’sya. The Fold is not to be used as a threat against Ravka alone, that’s the whole point. It’s the only weapon in our possession that is powerful enough for all Grisha to be safe, no matter where they come from.”

“I do not condone what has been done to you,” Nikolai finally speaks, his voice slow and measured. “But if people are turning against Grisha, it is because of the Darkling’s actions.”

You roll your eyes at that.

“This has been going on for centuries, it is nothing new, they simply have an excuse to do as they please without any repercussion, and they enjoy their newly-found freedom to slaughter all the Grisha they want. It happens again, and again. We have tried to be useful, we have tried to prove people we are no threat, we have tried working hand in hand with kings, and it doesn’t work. The Fold is our last chance.”

“You speak as if you had done all of that, but you are barely older than us,” Zoya spits in a venomous tone. “Who do you think you are, Maeve?”

“Y/N,” you interrupt her.

The girl frowns.

“What?”

“My real name is Y/N. Maeve is only my latest identity, I’ve had many of those before.”

Suddenly, Alina’s eyes grow round, and she finally seems afraid of you.

At long last, some intelligence…

“Are you a spy?” David asks, taken aback by your statement.

But you shake your head.

“Not exactly.”

“You are like him.”

All turn to Alina as she speaks again, her voice uneasy.

“You said you are a powerful Durast.”

“Incredibly powerful,” you correct her.

“You are like the Darkling.”

“Aleksander. That’s his name.”

He’ll hate you for saying it out loud, for revealing something so personal about him.

Aleksander. His first name, his true one. The one only you and Baghra know. The one that tastes of the young man you met all these years ago, unconscious in the snow somewhere near Fjerda…

 All around the table frown. As if they never wondered what his name was. And perhaps they truly never cared to wonder. Perhaps the title was enough. It’s easier, anyway, to stare at a man you send to die on a battlefield and see only a rank, a title, and not the human wearing it. It’s easier too to kill an enemy if he is but a shadow, a symbol, and not an actual breathing man.

You lean a little over the table, your forearms resting on the hard surface, your fingers intertwining together.

“Aleksander and I are extremely powerful Grisha. Just like you, Alina. Just like Baghra. Just like Saints.”

“I don’t understand,” Mal admits.

“Grisha draw great strengths from using their powers. The more powerful you are, the better your health. Some of us are so powerful, we are virtually immortal. Or, well, if you smash my head with a sword, I will die. But I barely age at all. I can leave for thousands of years.”

“Bullshit,” Nikolai curses.

“I’m afraid not. It is a great curse, indeed. But power always has a cost.”

“Some would consider themselves lucky to never age. Especially my mother, considering all her efforts to hide her true age…”

“Well, my dear prince, your mother has not seen people dying for hundreds of years.”

Again, Nikolai looked away.

“You said that Alina was like that too…” Mal insists, and you don’t fail to notice the way Alina flees his gaze.

“Indeed. She will without a doubt outlive all of you, and your descendants on many generations.”

“If it’s so unbearable, why are you still alive? We wouldn’t be in this mess if you and the Darkling had given up,” Zoya adds bitterly.

But when you turn to her, your stare is filled with a cold fire that shushes her.

“Many powerful Grisha kill themselves, after a while, after it’s too much to see all the people you love die over and over again. Aleksander and I were lucky, we found each other. And don’t forget that without our efforts, the Little Palace would not exist and Grisha would have never known any type of safety. We were the first to manage to live for longer than a couple of years at the same place, while using our powers, and remain safe.”

“You speak as if you were there when the Little Palace was built,” David frowns.

“I was there,” you correct him. “I built the place. Literally. I am a Fabrikator, after all.”

“You do expect us to believe you?” Mal scoffs, but Alina shushes him quickly. And you can see on the faces of the others that their opinion of you changes as they realize that Alina does, indeed, believe you.

And rightly so. After all, you are telling the truth. The way you had planned to do.

You choose your next words carefully.

“I have seen the same pattern again and again. I know what will happen, because I have seen it before. I have tried every other way to help Grisha: hiding, fighting, being useful, being tamed, being strong… it doesn’t work. It never works, because otkazat’sya are afraid of our power, because they feel different and thus frightened. You ask me to wait, that we are in no rush to change the world, but I have been working towards that goal for hundreds of years. I am not in a rush, I am patient, indeed. But things must change, eventually. And we have an opportunity here that will never present itself again for things to finally go the way we want.”

You heave a sigh, and you seem tired now. Despite your face untouched by the many years you have spent on this earth, there is something new in your gaze, a sadness that doesn’t fit the youth of your features. It seems ancient, brought by a pain too great to have occurred in only a lifetime.

“If you want proof, I can tell you everything you want to know. I’ll tell you how Aleksander and I met. How we ran. How we hid. How we fought. All the things that we tried to help Grisha and how it always failed. How we were betrayed and how we survived. If it can prove my point, then so be it.”

“How old are you?” Alina asks after a short silent.

Her voice is cautious, slow. As if she’s afraid of your answer. And perhaps she is. She should be. After all, it shows how powerful you are, how much of a threat you can be. To her, who is doomed to a deathless life as well, it also means facing the truth about her lover.

Your smile is smug when your lips curl upwards and you answer.

“I’ll turn 889 in a couple of months.”

Over 400 years ago

Os Alta – over the grounds of the royal Palace

Your hands moved relentlessly in those days. There was so much work to be done. You had help, of course, from otkazat’sya workers but also from other Fabrikators. It was the name that was chosen for the Grisha sharing your powers, along with a colour: purple, like the petals of flowers, like berries, like poisons…

But on this room, your work was to be done in solitude. No one could know about the changes you were bringing to Aleksander’s War Room. It would protect you from eavesdroppers, fire, and many other threats. It would be a safe room. Even if Aleksander’s plan in the army seemed to be working for now, you reckoned you couldn’t stop being cautious. You needed safety, as always.

“You are working too late, my love.”

The warm voice filled your heart with something both peaceful and excited. You couldn’t refrain a smile as you turned to your husband, who was walking inside the room and closing the door behind him.

“You must rest,” he insisted, but you shook your head.

“I am perfectly fine. Besides, I can’t work on this room during the day, it’s too risky.”

Of course, he knew you were right. Still, he wished you could rest more, he wished you could be safe and wouldn’t have to hide…

Soon. He hoped it could be soon. With this safe haven you were building together, it could be the answer to everything. Perhaps it could even be a home…

You chuckled fondly as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you close.

“You’re distracting me!” you complained in faked annoyance, and Aleksander knew perfectly what you were doing.

“You love it.”

“I do not! I am busy!”

“And I am tired and long for a good night of sleep in a comfortable bed with my beloved wife.”

“Is it not too risky?”

“We are safe for now, let’s enjoy it, while it lasts.”

“Do you think this could be it? That we could finally remain safe?”

“I do not know. I hope so.”

“But we’re both too old for foolish hopes, huh?”

You exchanged a sad smile.

“We should not be seen as a couple,” Aleksander went on, and he knew he was breaking your heart a little by saying that, the same way he was breaking his own. “It would be too dangerous.”

“I agree. We are both powerful, we will live long lives… It would be too frightening for the otkazat’sya.”

“Build us a room where we can be ourselves, my love. We will pretend the rest of the time.”

You turned in his arms to face him, and his hand immediately raised to rest over your cheek.

“I’ll make you pay for that,” you warned him, and he raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Really? Will you? And how could I repay this debt towards my favourite Fabrikator?”

“An awful lot of kisses will be required. And some cakes. Lots of sweets.”

You both laughed at that, despite your shared tiredness, despite all the things you had been through. A bright laugh made of bright hope, a fool’s hope perhaps, but hope all the same. The sounds filled up the empty room, and echoed in its blank space.

“So, we’ll hide that we are married?” you asked after growing quiet again, and Aleksander nodded, although you could see it pained him to do so.

“It’s safer this way. If I am to step up, I will have many enemies.”

You nodded, tugging your head on his chest, so he could rest his chin on you.

“We’ll make it work,” you reassured him, feeling the tension in his body, the fear too. “We’ll make it work, Aleks.”

“I know. I’m just… worried that you might… that I might lose you.”

“You won’t lose me. I’ll be right there. And I’ll steal an awful lot of kisses in this room.”

“Is it safe already?”

“Safe enough for us to have this conversation, yes.”

“Can you lock the door?”

“Already done it.”

He chuckled.

“You’re getting good at using your powers without moving your hands.”

“I still had to move a finger, but my hands didn’t touch.”

“That’s my wife. So powerful.”

But he felt you tensing in his gentle hold.

“It will be worth it, right? All these moments together we’ll have to sacrifice, all this fighting, all this work… tell me it will be worth it. Tell me we’ll make it.”

He took your face in both his hands to force you to look up at him.

“It will be worth it,” he assured you, and in his dark eyes, you saw no lies nor doubts. “We will make it through. You and me, the way we have planned. The way we promised each other we would.”

“Until we’re the last ones on Earth?” you still asked in a trembling voice, even if you didn’t doubt him.

He nodded, a smile on his lips as he pulled you in a tight hold again.

“Until we’re the last ones on Earth, my love.”

*****************************************

Taglist : @reg-arcturus-black @wolfmoonmusic @budugu @sayumiht

#the darkling #the darkling x reader #the darkling x you #the darkling x y/n #aleksander morozova #aleksander x reader #aleksander x y/n #the darkling fanfic #the darkling fanfiction #the darkling series #aleksander fanfiction #aleksander fanfic #aleksander series #grishaverse #grishaverse fanfic #grishaverse fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #series

[sarucane]

How did Stede leave pirating so easily?

So in the space of 2 episodes, Stede goes from being "the motherfucking man" to an innkeeper, and there's really not *much* in between there--all his scenes are primarily about other characters in the finale. So I wanted to rant about what I think fills in this gap.

Why did Stede become a pirate in the first place? Well, because he wanted to be a "real boy." He wanted to have a life that felt like his own, a life that wasn't swaddled in comfort (completely, at least). He wanted to break the monotony, the despair of a life without room for deep emotions or agency. And he became a certain kind of pirate because he wanted to be someone important and good in the lives of others, not just a marginal figure.

But why did Stede become a pirate the second time?

Ed.

Sure, there were other reasons: he didn't belong with his family anymore, didn't fit in his old life, and trying to have his cake (having run away) and eat it too (coming back) was just hurting everyone. He changed, and they changed, and a foundational truth of this show is that you can't change back.

But the reason he didn't belong with his family anymore was that he had gotten his original wish. He'd become a "real boy," someone who felt things deeply, who didn't need to keep one foot in his old life by hanging onto his wealth. He'd become important and valued in the lives of his crew, which they demonstrated when Chauncy challenged his right to the Act of Grace

But the moment Stede crosses the line forever between his old life and his new one is when he tells Mary "his name is Ed."

When Stede leaves, he falls in with the marooned crew--but he spends more time pining for Ed then talking to them. There's a place for him with his crew, and he fits in it, and we see in E5-6 that he cares deeply about doing right by them.

But neither Ed nor Stede fully fit into the crew when everyone's back together. Ed's caught up in his own self-reckoning, and Stede's splitting attention between the crew and Ed. In a way, they've outgrown Stede: they no longer need his help to enable the community on the ship. They've reached a point where they can deal with the conflicts in E4 by themselves, can absorb Archie and then Izzy and give both of them space to relax and integrate. They like having Stede as captain, but they don't need him anymore. In E7, Stede takes Olu leaving as a betrayal, but even that goes back to Stede being more focused on Ed than on the crew, and acting out over hurt feelings from a fight.

The only thing left that Stede can only get through piracy is the lure of fame. And that's a real perk--Stede genuinely enjoys his taste of infamy in E7. It's fun, it's a fulfillment of a childhood dream.

But it's also hollow, and it's a trap. It's hollow because Bill isn't Stede's real friend, and the loss of Steak Knife wasn't worth Stede dying by challenging Zheng (nor was Stede's ego worth Steaky's death, but that's another thing). And it's a trap because Stede really is a terrible pirate. Stede has to deal with the pirate world without Ed three times during the show. The first time, the Spanish almost kill him; the second time, Spanish Jackie almost maims him; the third time, he challenges Zheng to a duel and refuses to back down, then tries to "ambush" British officers who kick his butt. Stede's fantastic when he stays in his lane of nontraditional piracy, but if he became a really successful traditionally infamous pirate, he'd no longer be Stede.

So Stede doesn't need the infamy of success as a pirate, any more than he needs is pretty clothes (though he likes both). Stede doesn't need to stay a pirate to keep his relationship with the crew, and they don't need him either. Stede doesn't need to go out and be a pirate to feel real things, or think he's "adequate" enough for his father.

But Stede does need to give his relationship with Ed a real chance, to be what they want it to be. And Ed just cannot be a pirate anymore--there's too much damage and pain. Plus, living on the ship, their lives in danger all the time, heightening everything, pushing their actions out of their control. Their relationship was crushed under that pressure in S2, and it's still a pretty fragile thing. They need space and time. And by leaving the ship, they can have it.

For Stede, piracy meant belonging, love, and fulfillment.

He has those things now: He's got Ed. He doesn't need piracy anymore.

#ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd #ofmd s2 #our flag means death #ofmd spoilers #ofmd meta #ed teach #stede bonnet #blackbonnet #i love the finale and i'm eternally grateful a cancellationwon't be straight traumatic but just FIVE MORE MINUTES oh well life is what it i

[whatareboats]

Thomas wasn’t quite sure what the wooden monstrosity presented him was.

(full story below)

It was a poor attempt of whittling, in all honesty. James had been limited in tools and he had not actually whittled anything before..or properly seen anybody do it really. He just sort of stole Jacks knife and did his damn best.

Getting beaten would absolutely be worth it! (It really wasn’t, considering what he actually produced. I mean he was 11. What did he expect?)

At first, he had tried to carve it out with one of their little sharp stick things that he was forced by Jack to wield but it did not work at all.

The damn things were bloody useless and James stuck by that. He supposed they could pierce the skin of a pig well enough to be effective,or a Simon,though he reckoned that teeth or nails would be more affective. He supposed the other boys-in their smashed bottle mentality-had flairs for the dramatic even he couldn’t quite quite grasp.

Thomas Jude Smith did actually quite like them,though,James would argue that Tommy had good reason. He fancied them drawing sticks. Or well,’well-intentioned evil-plotting and who is most likely ranking lists’ sticks.

Off topic.

The whittling!

It was a toy boat! Or a hell-sent mimicry of a toy boat that could not fool a blind man.

He had decided it best to use the mucky, repulsive warpaint for some good and paint the boat to look a little more…boat like. The war paint freaked Tommy out. Too ‘dutty’. James’ was symmetrical. It was acceptable. If James had to wear it it best be symmetrical, not smudged (unless it was white, the white looked nice smudged) and god forbid a stripe be a la’al bit thicker than another.

Red smudges were an absolute no unless they were remnants of stains he couldn’t quite get out. They reminded Tommy of blood and due to recent events he had gained quite a hatred towards blood.

“We otta be tidy, red velvet cake.” He’d often say with an anxious smile and hands wracked with tremors that often overshadowed the fact that he had taken to calling James a ‘red velvet cake’ since he had started ‘caking’ on his warpaint which Thomas often compared to makeup. A mockery but James didn’t mind. It was banter not bullying.

Off topic!! Another thing Thomas insistently said was that when he got off the island his granda Felix was going to get him a lovely little toy boat for his birthday.

Thomas adored boats. He knew the names of at least 5 different boats. Since being on the island, he was starting to forget them. Particularly the different names of those navy, military ones.

He used to brag about how he definitely knew more about boats than Ralph could ever know and his daddy didn’t even need to step foot into the navy. He was doing all the proper fighting, with guns and that but he’d be home soon.

Ambrose Smith didn’t like the war. In fact, he had even tried organising protests against it with Auntie Katty before he was drafted. (It failed miserably but Tommy would never tell anyone that or any unimpressive thing about himself for that manner.)

Off topic!

Granda Felix and the toy boat!

Lately, Thomas had been rather down. You see, Tommy knew that Ralph’s downfall was inevitable though he’d always assumed it would be through the other boys rightfully appointing him as leader. Definitely not Jack going batty and running a totalitarian state, anyhow.

Being an active opposer of Jack was slightly scary. With Roger going stick crazy, Jack going more mental by the second and Ralph and Piggy being nowhere to be seen Tommy had sort of been on his last footing and Joseph was no help anymore.

I mean not to be rude to the poor bastard but he’d been going battier than Simon. Wandering around aimlessly without a care in the world-in fact in another world entirely would be a better descriptor-wasn’t helpful when trying to get out of the way of hunts.

Having a ‘hes alright’ relationship with Corny and red velvet cake would only get Tommy so far and Joseph didn’t have that at all with Cornelius.

Tommy spent half a day hoping Piggy would sneak up to him and they could formulate some sort of plan.

Cornelius often attested that Piggy was long dead and waiting around for him like some lost puppy was not at all helpful. Thomas didn’t believe that for a second.

Piggy was smart. Very smart. He was good with the maths and science and Tommy was absolutely no good with it so anyone who was were always instantly impressive to him. Tommy figured that if a boulder were to start hurtling towards Piggy, he would sense it even if he was caught up in talking and would be able to use his maths and science to get away from it.

Cornelius would often reply with “Well theres no wonder you’re getting an E then isn’t it?” Tommy often assumed Cornelius was praising him for his clear intellect. James often found use for sticks at moments like that.

Off topic. Anyways, suffice to say, Tommy needed a pick me up. James figured:whats the point in waiting an eternity to get off the island to get a toy boat when James could make him a 10x cooler one on the island?

James didn’t have the humility to admit his toy boat probably wasn’t 10x better than Granda Felix’s.

They met up upon the rocky cliff face just south of castle rock;it was a risky move for Tommy, in all honesty.

As James handed him the poor excuse of a toy boat, it took Tommy a few seconds to recognise what exactly it was other than a lump of wood. He had the sense to know James wouldn’t gift him a lump of wood. When Tommy realised it was a toy boat all for him, however, he gasped. His mouth agape, he stared at the boat for a few moments before grinning and giggling wildly as he snatched it from James’ hands.

“A proper boat like what Granda was garn get us!!” He exclaimed. Thomas was, admittedly rather impressed with James’ craftsmanship. The poorly crafted work of children was often impressive to other children after all, particularly because they know they wouldn’t be able to do much better. Tommy didn’t have an artistic bone in his body so it was extra impressive.

“Well aye! Probly better than what ya granda was garn get ya, eh.” James stated, grinning at Tommy’s elated reaction.

“Maybe, I ‘spose.” Tommy shrugged, quickly blowing a strand of chestnut brown hair out of his eyes as it fell out of place and over his face.

“Deff.” James asserted.

“Aye but me granda’s quite good wiv making things, eh.” Tommy reasoned, lifting the boat in the air as he carefully observed it and it’s ‘impressive’ craftsmanship.

“Not as good as us.” James snickered proudly, placing a hand upon his painted chest.

“Right…”

Tommy found arguing with an egoist like James pointless.

#james forkle lotf #lord of the flies #oc art #lotf #lotf oc #thomas smith lotf #the constantly overelaboration and then quick subject change is meant to mimic ralphs zoning out narrative style later in the book #plus the slight bits of regional dialect in it #i heart my (/p) jammy dodgers 🥰🥰 #send me asks #/nf #half of the reason i came back was to post this lolzies

[dreamersbcll]

Waiting Room

plus i know whatever happens to me- know it’s for the better

for @psychofreakforc and their brilliant idea

——————————————————————————

Thirteen was a young age. Tara knew that her friends knew that, and her sister knew that. Thirteen was too young to get a learner's permit, get a job, or even hold a position of importance in anyone’s life.

Tara knew that, too. She knew her time being the love of her sister’s life was over, and now, her position as Sam’s baby sister was also fleeting. There wasn’t much time left to be anything of importance in Sam’s life.

She knew Sam was leaving. She’s known for a while. It wasn’t a difficult thing to figure out. Her big sister wore her heart on her sleeve, her vengeful tongue always sharp, constantly lashing. Sam Carpenter was a force to be reckoned with, shaking every room she walked into, commanding it to her will. No matter what her big sister thought of herself, Tara saw her as the girl who put the moon and the stars to shame.

Sam was beautiful like she had never seen before. Her big sister was something to behold indeed—strength, grace, and courage, all wrapped up in the package of a beautiful big sister. Even as Sam tried to ravage her body inside and out, using anything and everything to destroy herself, Tara still saw her beauty.

How could she not? Sam was her big sister, her angel, her guardian. No drug or alcohol could ever change that, even if Sam tried her hardest to clean her insides out with the taste of sin.

That was her big sister. That’s all Tara needed to know that she would love her forever.

It wasn’t hard to figure out Sam’s plans after five years of silence— conversational silence, that is. Tara never gave up on Sam. She did her best to show her big sister the love and support she deserved, even if Tara wasn’t what she wanted.

Tara really wasn’t what anyone wanted anyway.

But she persevered because Sam was worth it. Sam was so goddamn worth it, worth all the stress, the silence, the heartbreak. All because that was her big sister, and her big sister would never be alone.

It took Tara a bit to adjust to the cold shoulder and silence, but she adapted. She figured out that Sam got thirsty after long nights out and that she often threw up between 2-3 a.m. In preparation, Tara would fill a water bottle and leave it by the upstairs toilet, along with anti-nausea tablets and clean hand towels.

She also learned that Sam coughed a lot when she smoked, and that often led to long fits of coughing up blood. When Sam disappeared into the night to wrap herself in the comfort of fleeting smoke, Tara would ensure her big sister had water bottles and paper towels by the back door. There were nights that it was too warm or too cold to stand outside, and Tara would leave scarves and ice packs at the back stoop.

Her big sister may have wandered away from their home, but Tara would always leave the porch light on whenever Sam found the need to come home.

As the warm spring started to transition into steamy summer nights, Tara could sense that something was changing. Sam had turned after that fateful fight in December- the one Tara was too young to remember but old enough now to know that it changed everything. That fateful night it led to five years of silence, of change, of broken bodies washed ashore, alone and dead as they arrived. Even though Tara lived with her mother and sister, the three were never alive.

They were just three ghosts living in the same house, all standing in the places they used to be. None of them could remember how it truly felt to have a heartbeat. But none of them could leave the house they were shackled to.

Until Sam decided to leave first.

It started slowly, as all things did. Sam stopped going to school at the beginning of May, instead choosing to do all her work and turn it in, knowing that even as she could fail every class, Woodsboro High wanted nothing more than to get rid of the latest Carpenter that haunted their halls. Her big sister stopped going to her shitty part-time job as a gas station attendant and stopped staying at the Carpenter home altogether.

The final warning was the night Sam stumbled into Tara’s room, wasted, her hair wild and her eyes unfocused. It had been years since the two sisters slept in the same bed or even stayed in the same room for ten minutes.

Her door slowly opened, creaking at the ¾ mark, like it always did. Tara wasn’t sleeping anyway, knowing something was wrong, and she couldn’t prevent it, only anticipating it when Sam wandered in. Her big sister was stumbling, a crooked smile on her face illuminated by the dim hallway light. Tara sat up in bed, her head cocked, wondering why her seventeen-year-old big sister was staring at her in the middle of the night.

Thousands of words swirled between the two, pleas of mercy and love and rageful rants of how dare you leave me like this. But nothing was said by either party. They just stared at each other, wild eyes meeting gentle ones, two pairs of lips unmoving.

Eventually, Sam left, mumbling under her breath about goodbyes and something else Tara couldn’t catch. But she knew what that meant.

Sam was leaving soon, and Tara had to be ready. No matter where Sam went or wanted to go, Tara wouldn’t allow her to do it alone. They were sisters, for god’s sake. Blood was thicker than the hometown they suffocated in, and it was thicker than the people they were surrounded by.

She knew her big sister wasn’t capable of packing Tara’s stuff anymore or even knowing what Tara needed to survive. It had been years since they talked, really talked. Tara would do it herself, packing and tying up loose ends. She researched rigorously about being a middle school dropout, seeing what she needed to find a school to finish her education. Christina left their papers hidden under her bed, and it took Tara five minutes to find her social security and birth certificate, along with her hospital records.

It took two suitcases to hold all her belongings, and it took an hour for her to decide what she could keep and forgo. Sam held up her world. Tara could live without every stuffed animal and pair of fuzzy socks she had. All she needed was her big sister.

Two nights before Sam’s birthday, Tara dragged her bags to her door, settling them under the light switch. She knew they would leave in the dark, probably after midnight, once Sam turned eighteen. It didn’t matter where they went, whether they were rich or poor or had a good time. They had each other, and that would always be enough for her.

Tara would bleed out if it meant Sam’s heart could beat soundly; she would throw her body in the way of a moving train if it meant Sam would be able to breathe. No matter what, she was Sam’s, and Sam’s was hers. That’s all she would ever need.

Or so she had thought.

On the eve of Sam’s birthday, Tara heard movement in the bedroom next to her. Sam’s bedroom. She sat up in her bed, knowing that something was wrong. Sam never made that much noise at this time of night, and they weren’t supposed to be leaving until well into the wee hours of the morning. Something was right.

This wasn’t right.

Once she heard the front door open and slammed shut, she scrambled out of bed, racing down the staircase. Her mother’s sleep be damned. Sam was leaving.

Sam was leaving without her.

Tara threw herself out the front door into the muggy summer night. There, she saw her big sister closing the door on the car across the street, buckling herself in.

A thousand words sat on her tongue, begging to be told. But she couldn’t; she was frozen, rooted in the dewy midnight grass, shivering despite the humidity that engulfed her body. All she could do was stand in place, watch Sam turn the car on, and pull out and away from their home.

From Tara.

She found herself wandering into the middle of the street, ignoring how the gravel embedded into her feet and how the midnight air suffocated her.

None of it mattered anymore. All she could do was watch the leaving taillights of the only person who once loved Tara like she was worth it.

As the red lights faded into the night, Tara fell to her knees, letting her blood paint the street, a reminder of the lights that would haunt her every day for the rest of her life.

Thirteen was too young to hold any importance in the life she knew. But she was young enough to know that she used to know everything, used to have everything she ever wanted.

But, it was young enough for Tara to know that maybe it was for the better. She could wish all that she wants, but it won’t bring them back together.

Plus, she knew deep down that whatever happened to her, It was for the better.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #waiting room x scream #little tara waiting #and sam always leaving #ao3 author