cece693

[cece693]

So this is part two of that request I mentioned in the wax house head cannon. This one is more fleshed out, but maybe it's also because I'm more knowledgeable about twilight. Hope you enjoy it!

ORDER AND CHAOS

pairing: jasper hale x male reader REQUEST: Male is a bit of an anarchist and that makes Jasper's little rule following heart panic but he loves the male reader so he deals with it.

Jasper had always lived his life in order. Rules, routines, hierarchies—he thrived in them. They kept his darker instincts in check, kept his mind from unraveling under the weight of so many years of blood and guilt. And then there was you.

You were chaos. Not destructive in the way Jasper had seen mortals tear themselves apart, but untamed. You had a habit of looking at the world and asking, “Why?” when everyone else quietly accepted. Laws meant little to you; they were only suggestions written by people too boring to imagine anything better. If someone said don’t climb that, you were already halfway up. If a teacher or a cop tried to scold you, you just grinned like you knew a joke they’d never get.

And Jasper? His heart—long dead and yet pounding only for you—panicked every time.

“Darlin’,” he muttered one night after you’d snuck into a restricted area just because there was a keep out sign, “you can’t keep doin’ things like this. You’ll get caught.”

“Caught doing what?” you shot back with that infuriating smirk, hands shoved in your jacket pockets. “Living? Existing outside someone else’s neat little lines?”

Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d commanded newborn armies, bent chaos itself into obedience, but you—one reckless, grinning human boy—were undoing him with ease.

“Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?” Jasper’s voice was tight, Texan drawl curling with his exasperation. He reached out, steadying you by the wrist as though you might disappear if he let go. “Rules exist for a reason.”

“And I exist to break them.” You leaned closer, daring him to argue. “Besides, you love it.”

Jasper’s mouth opened to deny it, but he couldn’t. Not when he felt it so strongly—the thrill, the way your defiance lit up the dull eternity he’d grown used to. Your chaos made his carefully regimented world bearable. “I don’t.” he tried, weakly.

You raised a brow, grin widening. “Then why are you smiling?”

He wasn’t aware he had been until you said it. With a soft, almost defeated laugh, Jasper tugged you closer until your forehead pressed against his chest. “You’re goin’ to be the death of me.” he whispered.

“Lucky for you then 'cause you can’t die.” you teased, muffled against his shirt.

His arms tightened around you instinctively. It was true—your wild streak made his instincts flare, made his protective nature sharper than ever. But he wouldn’t trade it. Not for peace, not for safety, not for all the rules in the world.

[cece693]

So, as many of you remember I wrote a Bucky fic sometime ago about his luscious hair, and because I'm immensely obsessed with it, here's something else that came to mind. Hope you enjoy!

THE GREAT HAIR CRISIS

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader synopsis: You’ve seen Bucky's old photos—clean cut, sharp jawed, every inch the American soldier—but nothing compares to the Bucky you know now. So when one day he casually mutters about getting a haircut, you act like it's the end of the world. Because it is.

It started with the photographs.

Steve had pulled out an old box one night—wartime snapshots, black and white Polaroids, glossy postcards from decades gone by. You’d expected to see the wide smile and clean cut charm of the man you’d heard so many stories about, and sure enough, there was Bucky Barnes: crisp uniform, hair slicked back, eyes bright enough to burn through the grain of the paper.

“Hot,” you’d muttered under your breath, flipping through them with interest. “Okay, yeah, definitely hot.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Don’t inflate his ego.”

But the thing was—none of those photos compared to the man who now stood in your kitchen, hair brushing his shoulders, dark bangs shadowing those large doe eyes. There was something about him now—something untamed, a mix of softness and danger—that made you ridiculously weak.

Every time he tucked a loose strand behind his ear, every time his bangs slipped forward and he huffed them away, every time you caught him tying his hair up before a sparring session—you fell harder. You were done for.

Which is why his casual little statement, one rainy evening on the couch, nearly killed you.

Bucky was sitting beside you, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends from his shower. He combed his fingers through the strands, staring at them with a frown. “Y’know…” he said casually, “maybe I should get a haircut.”

You sat up so fast the popcorn bowl toppled over. “Excuse me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Don’t you dare joke like that.” You pointed at him as if he’d confessed to treason. “You listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes—if you cut that hair, I swear—”

“Sweetheart, it’s just hair—”

“Just hair?!” You were already on your feet, pacing. “That’s like saying Mjölnir is just a hammer or Steve's shield is just metal! Your hair is a national treasure, Bucky.”

He snorted, hiding his grin behind his hand. “A national treasure?”

“Yes. Smithsonian levels. Maybe even the Louvre if they’re lucky.” You snatched the pair of scissors off the coffee table (why they were there, neither of you knew) and dramatically shoved them into the junk drawer. Then you bolted into the bathroom, reappearing seconds later with his electric shaver held high like it was a live grenade.

“And this—” you shoved it into your backpack—“is going into witness protection. No sharp objects near you for a week. Maybe two. We can't risk you having an impulsive moment.”

Bucky burst out laughing, head dropping back against the couch. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely right,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Do you have any idea what that hair does to people? I mean, look—” you snatched an old photo from the mantle, one of him clean cut in uniform. You held it up like Exhibit A.

“This guy? Hot. Sure. Boy-next-door energy. But this—” you gestured to the man in front of you, the shoulder length hair falling into his face, the way he brushed it back with his metal hand—“this is feral, mysterious, brooding assassin chic. Do you understand how rare that is?”

He was shaking with silent laughter now, watching you get red in the face over his haircut.

“And don’t even get me started on the bangs,” you added. “You hide behind them like some tragic romance novel cover model. Do you know what that does to me?!”

Bucky held up his hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Alright, alright—I won’t cut it. You win.”

“Damn right I win.” You collapsed onto the couch again, grabbing the popcorn bowl with all the dignity of a general who’d just won a war.

A beat of silence passed before Bucky leaned close, eyes glinting with mischief, and whispered conspiratorially, “What about trimming the ends?” Your gasp rattled the windows.

[cece693]

hihi!!

i adore your writing sm and i do hope that this request is easy to understand as im writing this sleep deprived and living off of one burger from 5 hours ago…

i would like to request Tim Drake x reader, more specifically an enemies to lovers scenario.

reader is a villain turned into a reformed vigilante, going from being a simple nuisance around gotham to trying to get onto good terms with the batfamily after a small short few years of being a villain and getting away with it.

despite everything though, Tim and the others are still rightfully pissed off at the reader, refusing to here him out while he yells at the top of his lungs that he’s “one of the good guys now”.

for the actual current scene you could do something like reader cornering Tim, or Tim cornering the reader, and after a few empty threats from the both of them, reader ends up confessing that his change of ways was from a deep admiration for Red Robin, Tim.

If possible and if this wouldn’t be too much to add, reader being stupidly cocky and a complete idiot (in the other’s eyes).

I hope this isnt too long of a request. Have a lovely day/night when you see this!

Damn, Tim Drake is the Robin that I least know of, so I had to examine his wiki closely to write this fic. If there's any mistakes, please let me know (or at least kindly point them out in the comments.) Also, I made the reader be cocky and insufferable because I just love the idea of a snarky/confident reader.

I'M ONE OF THE GOOD GUYS

pairing: tim drake x male reader

The city’s lights bled through the fog, neon glowing off rain slick rooftops. You had been waiting—perched like a cat on the ledge—because if Red Robin was going to keep avoiding you, then you’d force the conversation. Tim arrived like a shadow, staff in hand, cape flicking as he landed.

“Not tonight,” he said flatly, his voice laced with irritation. “I don’t have the patience for you.”

You hopped down, grin cocky, hands raised in mock surrender. “Aw, come on, bird boy. Don’t tell me you still don’t trust me. I’ve been playing nice for months. No bank heists, no sabotage, no hacking Wayne Enterprises’ servers. I even stopped spray painting rude things about Bats across half the Narrows. I’m practically a saint.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a parasite who got bored of being chased. That’s not redemption, that’s convenience.”

“Harsh.” You whistled low, rocking back on your heels. “But accurate, I’ll give you that. Still—look at me.” You gestured to your gear, stripped down and patched with Gotham-style vigilante armor. “I’m one of the good guys now.”

Tim’s jaw clenched, his staff extending with a snap. “You don’t get to decide that. We do. And no one on this team is buying your little rebrand.”

You stepped closer, deliberately into his space, smirk widening. “Then maybe I just need to convince you, Red.”

Tim’s staff jabbed into your chest, hard enough to sting. “Back off.”

You tilted your head, refusing to flinch. “Or what? You’ll drag me back to the Cave and let your family glare me into submission? Please. Half of them already wanted to toss me in Blackgate when I showed up.”

Tim’s glare burned hotter. “Because you earned it. Years of taunting, playing games, putting civilians in danger just to prove how clever you were. Forgive us if we don’t throw you a welcome party.”

“Funny thing about forgiveness,” you shot back, voice loud enough to echo off the concrete, “you can’t get it if no one lets you try.”

For a moment, silence hung—broken only by the city hum below. Then Tim pressed harder with the staff, daring you to move. You laughed, loud and reckless, the kind of laugh that made you look like an idiot even in the middle of a standoff.

“God, you’re stubborn. Fine. You wanna know why I flipped sides? Why I started playing hero instead of pest?” Tim said nothing, but the stiffness in his stance betrayed curiosity. “Because of you.”

That cracked his composure. His brows furrowed. “What—”

You leaned in until the staff dug into your ribs, grin sharp. “I admired you, Red. Still do. Every time you outsmarted me, every time you dragged my smug ass back into the light instead of letting me rot in the dark—I couldn’t get you out of my head. You made it look…worthwhile. Saving people. Fighting for something bigger. I hated you for it. Still kinda do.”

Tim’s lips parted, the first flicker of uncertainty breaking through his mask.

You shrugged, cocky and unbothered. “So yeah. Joke’s on me. Villain falls for the Boy Wonder. Pathetic, right?”

Tim didn’t lower his staff, but his grip loosened. His eyes searched yours, caught between suspicion and something softer. “You’re unbelievable.” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said, grin wide and stupid. “But at least now you can rest your pretty little head about my change of ways having an ulterior motive.”

Turning your back on him, you were about to disappear into the shadows when thunk—the end of his staff tapped your shoulder. Not hard, but enough to stop you mid-step. You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow. “What, changed your mind already? Gonna drag me in for questioning? Or is this the part where you admit you’ve been dying to kiss me this whole time?”

Tim’s mouth twitched, though whether it was annoyance or amusement you couldn’t tell. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“Not part of my charm.”

He stepped closer, staff still angled lightly against your shoulder. His voice dropped, low and sharp. “If you’re lying—if this is just another game—I’ll be the first one to put you down. Permanently.”

Your smirk softened into something dangerously close to fond. “Now that’s the Red Robin I admire. Threats and all.” You leaned into the staff like it was a friendly hand instead of a weapon. “Don’t worry, Timmy. I’ve got better things to do than stab you in the back. Like impress you.”

That earned a real reaction: Tim’s ears went pink, his eyes narrowing as if he could glare the heat away. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you said, tilting your head with a grin, “you still stopped me from walking away.”

For once, Tim had no immediate retort. His staff lowered a fraction, though his eyes never left yours. The tension between you hummed, taut and unspoken. You took a step back toward the ledge, giving him a lazy two-fingered salute. “See you around, Red. Don’t miss me too much.” And with that, you let yourself fall into the night—cocky, reckless, and already planning how to make him chase you again.

[cece693]

Hi! I really hope this is not too vague, but I would love it if you could write something about either Hannibal or Lestat tying the readers silk neckerchief (kinda like the one flight attendants wear haha) for them? I could see them doing it either in a sweet, fluffy way, just wanting to be close or perhaps in a slightly possessive, jealous way. Thank you so much in advance!

Tell me why my mind immediately jumped to Lestat and how he would purposefully tie one of his scarfs (cause Lestat is a fashionista) on the reader as some sort of mark. Perhaps some sort of friends with benefits turning into a relationship situation. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Left open ended on purpose.

I WANT TO BE EXCLUSIVE

pairing: lestat de lioncourt x male reader

The candlelight in Lestat’s salon flickered low, painting the walls in honeyed golds and long shadows. You were buttoning your shirt, ready to leave, when you felt movement behind you—Lestat rising from his chair with a swiftness that carried no sound.

“Running off so soon?” His voice was velvet, teasing, yet there was an undercurrent that made you pause.

You turned, only to find him standing so close you could feel the cool brush of his breath. Before you could react, his hands lifted, smooth and practiced, sliding a strip of silk around your throat. One of his handkerchiefs, deep wine red, fragrant with his cologne. His fingers lingered at your nape as he tied the knot, slow and deliberate, his pale eyes watching your every twitch.

“Lestat…” you began, fingers twitching toward the fabric, confused.

His grip closed over your wrist before you could tug it loose, deceptively gentle but firm enough to stop you. “Leave it,” he murmured, almost a command. “It suits you.”

A laugh escaped you, incredulous. “What is this? A token? You don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

His expression darkened, but not with anger—with something sharper, hungrier. “It is not sentiment.” He leaned closer, his lips grazing your ear. “It is a claim.”

That word made your body stiffen. “Claim?”

“Yes.” He drew back, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight, his smile stripped of its usual careless charm. “I want more than scraps of your time, mon amour. No more lovers scattered like discarded wine bottles, no more games of who leaves whose bed first. I want you. Exclusively.”

You blinked, startled by the sudden slip of possessiveness. “Exclusively? Since when do you care about exclusivity?”

His jaw tensed, and then—true to his dramatic nature—he let it slip. “Since I smelled her on you.”

You frowned. “Her?”

“The perfume,” he spat, suddenly unrestrained. “Clinging to your shirt when you came here. And the mortals circling you outside the theatre a few nights ago—women, fluttering around you like moths. Do you think I didn’t notice? Do you think I didn’t burn with the urge to rip their throats out?”

You stared, utterly bewildered. “You…you were watching me?”

“Of course I was.” His tone was so matter-of-fact it sent a shiver through you. “I always watch. And it enraged me. The thought of their hands on you, their scent staining what is mine—” He stopped himself, but his eyes gleamed feverishly. “I cannot tolerate being one among many.”

You barked a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “Do you hear yourself right now? Hypocritical doesn’t even begin to cover it. You—the man who has never kept to one bed for more than a season—are furious because my attention strayed elsewhere?"

His silence was dangerous. His lips pressed thin, hands curling into fists at his sides before he forced himself forward, gripping your jaw in a cool, unrelenting hold. “Yes,” he hissed. “Because it is you. The others—let them rot in memory. They are nothing. But you…” his thumb traced your lower lip, trembling with restraint, “you are the only one who makes me hunger after the music has died. You are mine, and I won’t share you.”

Your chest tightened under the weight of his words, though you forced steel into your tone. “And what happens when you get bored, Lestat? When I’m just another conquest in your very long history of paramours? Do you expect me to wear this handkerchief like a collar and believe this sudden devotion?”

He flinched—subtle, but unmistakable. The flicker of vulnerability cracked through his usual bravado, though his voice was still low and dangerous when he spoke. “You think me fickle. And perhaps I am, but you're different.” His hand pressed the silk at your throat, sealing it in place as though it carried some unbreakable vow. “Call me a liar, call me a monster—but give me the chance to prove it. Keep the silk. As a reminder that I will not let you slip away without a fight.”

You swallowed, conflicted, your confusion mounting in the silence that followed. For the first time since you’d known him, Lestat’s dramatics were stripped raw, replaced by something you couldn’t name—something fragile, desperate, terrifying in its sincerity.

And yet a voice in the back of your mind whispered that this was still Lestat de Lioncourt. The man who never stayed. The man whose love stories always ended in ruin. The handkerchief seemed to burn against your skin, leaving you to wonder—was this truly different, or just another one of his beautifully spun traps?

[cece693]

I was wondering if you could write an Emmett Cullen fic? I love his character so much<3 I don’t really have anything in mind for the fic…

Why did my brain suddenly go to a size difference—hear me out. You know how Emmett picks up Bella in that one scene when they're deciding if she stays human or not, what if his mate is of a similar size (let's be honest, Emmett towers over everyone). But the reader is like a smoll bean and Emmett likes picking them up, bonus points if the reader is embarrassed and is like 'put me down' but Emmett is like nah.

UP YOU GO

pairing: emmett cullen x gender neutral reader

High school was the worst part of blending in. You didn’t mind the Cullens themselves, or even the cloudy Forks weather. It was the act—pretending to be a teenager, pretending homework mattered, pretending cafeteria food didn’t smell like a wet dog’s breakfast.

You had just started walking down the crowded hallway towards the cafeteria when the telltale sound of Emmett’s laugh rumbled behind you. You barely had time to tense before an arm swept around your waist, hoisting you clean off the ground.

“Emmett!” you hissed, voice sharp as the startled chatter of human students rose around you.

He tossed you onto his shoulder like you were nothing more than a gym bag. “Hi, sunshine.” he boomed, striding down the hall as if he hadn’t just abducted you in broad daylight.

The humans ate it up. Someone whistled. Another shouted, “Get it, Cullen!” The mortification burning through you could’ve melted through the linoleum.

“Put me down right now." you muttered, trying to elbow him in the back of the head.

“Nope,” he answered cheerfully. “You look miserable every morning. Carrying you is my good deed of the day.” He patted your thigh with a grin so wide you could hear it in his voice. “Besides, admit it—you love riding me.”

A chorus of gasps and giggles broke out from nearby lockers. You covered your face with your hands. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Loud and clear,” he said shamelessly. “And so did the entire junior class. You’re welcome.”

When he finally set you down—smack in the middle of the cafeteria—you smoothed your clothes with as much dignity as a vampire who’d just been manhandled could muster. Bella, sitting beside Edward, barely suppressed her laughter.

“You two are ridiculous,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean…he actually carries you around school unironically?”

You shot her a withering look. “This isn’t by choice.”

Emmett plopped down beside you, slinging a massive arm around your shoulders. “Correction. It’s destiny. I was built for strength, you were built for compact storage. We fit.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes from across the table, muttering something about Neanderthals. Alice just smiled knowingly, already scribbling in a notebook. You didn’t even want to ask.

“Compact storage?” you repeated flatly.

Emmett grinned down at you, utterly unbothered. “What? You’re perfectly carry-sized. I could toss you over my shoulder, cradle you like a baby, or even princess carry you through the parking lot. Options, babe. Options.”

Bella burst out laughing, quickly muffled by Edward’s hand over hers. He looked annoyed, probably catching every innuendo before Emmett even opened his mouth.

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “I hate you.”

Emmett pressed a kiss to your temple, loud enough for everyone to see. “Nah, you love me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t still let me haul your fine ass around like my favorite backpack.”

“Emmett,” you warned, but your mate just laughed, his chest rumbling against your side as if he hadn’t just declared ownership over you in front of half the student body.

And as much as you wanted to argue, your lips twitched despite yourself. He’d noticed the slump in your shoulders this morning, the way your patience for Forks and the humans was thinning by the day. He knew exactly what he was doing—embarrassing you into smiling.

Unfortunately, it worked.

[cece693]

A FRIENDLY LITTLE KISS

pairing: adam raki x male reader synopsis: You didn't cheat. You swear. But the only thing Adam saw was your coworker kissing your cheek—and yeah, it was no surprise his pretty little head jumped straight to an affair.

You had just survived another grueling day at work. Paperwork, emails, deadlines—by the time you powered down your computer, your head was buzzing. You were more than ready to get home to Adam, curl up on the couch, and let his rambling stories about astronomy or his latest gadget invention wash the stress away.

As you gathered your things, one of your coworkers stopped by your desk—a sweet woman you’d grown close to over the last few months. She was holding a small box, grinning brightly.

“Don’t forget these,” she said, pressing the package into your hands. “My mom sent extra cookies. You liked them last week, right?”

You smiled warmly. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, please. You basically saved me from drowning in spreadsheets yesterday—you deserve it.” She gave your arm a quick squeeze, then leaned in and planted a kiss on your cheek. Harmless. Friendly. A habit of hers.

Unfortunately, you didn’t notice Adam standing at the glass doors of the office lobby, watching.

From his angle, all he saw was someone handing you something wrapped like a gift, your smile—bright, easy—and then her kiss. His heart seized, his brain instantly stringing together every worst case scenario. Without a word, he spun on his heel and bolted out of sight.

You only realized he had been there when you reached the doors yourself and caught a glimpse of his retreating figure disappearing down the street.

“Adam…” you whispered, already knowing the storm that must be raging in his mind.

The office incident replayed in your mind the whole drive home. You knew Adam—his mind was like a projector that never turned off, looping images and ideas until they grew into something unbearable. By the time you unlocked the front door, cookies in hand, you were already bracing yourself.

The apartment was eerily still. Then you heard it—the muffled sound of drawers slamming, the rustle of movement. Placing the cookies on the coffee table, you followed the noise to the bedroom. The door was locked, but through it you caught the unmistakable sound of Adam’s voice breaking into frantic words.

“Stupid—stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course. Of course this happens. Why wouldn’t it happen? She’s—she’s better. Everyone’s better. Why would he stay? Why would he—” His voice cracked. A sharp, uneven breath followed.

Your chest ached. “Adam,” you called gently, pressing your palm to the door. “Please, open up.” You tried the handle, but it was locked.

"Don’t come in!” His words were ragged, panicked. “I don’t…I can’t—”

You leaned your forehead against the wood. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe. We’re safe. It wasn’t what you think.”

“Stop,” he said, voice breaking. “Please stop.” He was crying now—loud, gasping sobs that made your throat burn. “You—you smiled when she kissed you. I saw it. You were happy. You don’t—”

“Adam.” Your tone firmed, steady but soft. “I smiled because she gave me cookies. Cookies, Adam. That’s all. She’s a friend. She’s not you. Nobody could ever be you.”

There was a pause, just long enough for you to hear him hiccup through tears. Then the sound of pacing, his hands slapping against his thighs the way he did when he was trying to regulate himself.

“Adam, baby, breathe with me,” you said. You pressed your back to the door and inhaled slowly, audibly, before exhaling in the same steady rhythm. “In and out. Just like that. In...and out. I’m right here.”

His breathing was jagged at first, but after a few rounds he started to sync with you, his sobs catching less violently.

Then, with a trembling click, the lock turned. The door cracked open, and Adam stood there, pale and blotchy, his curls a mess from running his hands through them too many times. His eyes were red, wet, wide like a cornered animal.

“Y-you’re lying,” he whispered. “You’re only saying that because you feel sorry for me.”

You cupped his face before he could retreat. His skin was damp, trembling. “I don’t feel sorry for you, Adam. I love you. And I hate seeing you hurt because of something that isn’t true.”

He blinked hard, tears spilling again. “But she kissed you.”

“On the cheek,” you reminded softly, thumb brushing under his eye. “A friendly kiss. Like a handshake. But if it bothers you, I’ll tell her to stop. Because I only want your kisses. No one else’s.”

His lip wobbled, and he collapsed into you, burying his face against your chest. His whole body shook, his hands clutching fistfuls of your shirt like you might disappear. “I don’t want to lose you.” he mumbled into the fabric, words slurred with tears.

“You won’t,” you promised, pressing a kiss into his hair. “You couldn’t lose me if you tried. You’re my home, Adam. Always.”

Eventually, you coaxed him onto the bed, tucking him under the blanket and sliding in beside him. He curled against you instantly, clinging like a lifeline. “You promise you’ll never smile at anyone else like that?” he asked quietly, voice muffled against your chest.

“I promise,” you said, kissing the top of his curls. “From now on, if anyone gives me cookies, I’ll scowl and say, Adam Raki's baking is better.”

That earned you a watery laugh. “But I don’t bake.”

“Guess you’ll have to learn,” you teased. “So I can keep bragging.”

[cece693]

WHATEVER

pairing: art the clown x male reader synopsis: The usual reactions Art the Clown received ranged from full blown crying to murderous anger, but never had he kidnapped someone and had them be nonchalant.

The chair creaked every time you shifted, ropes biting into your wrists and ankles. The air reeked of copper and rot, the sticky warmth of blood splattered on your jeans. One of your friends lay in pieces not even five feet away, guts curling from their open torso like some sick ribbons on a birthday gift.

The Clown stood in the center of it all, blood painted across his teeth in a grin that stretched too wide. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, it seemed. Just stared at you, waiting.

You stared back. Bored. Unmoved.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, slumping against the chair. “You’re very scary. Top marks. Can we speed this along?”

Art cocked his head so violently it made his spine pop. Slowly, he shuffled toward you, black garbage bag slung over one shoulder. He dropped it with a wet thud, crouched, and began fishing around inside. The first thing he pulled out was a rusted hacksaw. He waved it in your face with a flourish, tilting it back and forth to catch the dim light. His mime act screamed: Does this scare you? Hm?

You raised a brow. “You actually keep that thing in there? Impressive. Innovative use of space. You’ve got a whole Home Depot in that bag, don’t you?”

Art froze mid-swipe, eyes narrowing. He jabbed the saw toward your chest, close enough to nick your shirt. He waited for the panic, for the begging. You only looked down at the blade and sighed.

“You should oil it. It’s gonna lock up on you one of these days. Can’t have that, right? Bad for business.”

The clown’s grin faltered. He blinked rapidly, looked at the saw, then back at you. Confusion. Disbelief. He tossed it aside and dove back into the bag with an angry huff. This time, he pulled out a length of chain, rattling it in the air like some phantom jailer. He wrapped it around his fists and slammed it against the ground, sparks flying.

“Yeah, sparks are cool,” you said, unimpressed. “But honestly? You’ve got a lot of style points already. You don’t need to oversell it.”

Art stomped his foot, silent tantrum. He mimed an exaggerated gasp, then pointed both hands at you in a what the fuck is wrong with you gesture.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you said with a shrug. “I’m just bored. My friends are dead. You’ll kill me too. Whatever. It’s not like I had a date tonight.”

Art stared. For the first time, his expression slipped. His grin twitched, uncertain. He leaned down close, his painted face inches from yours. He sniffed, long and deliberate, like he could smell your lack of fear.

“Smell good?” you deadpanned. “Better than the guts on the floor, I bet.”

Art actually choked out a silent laugh, shoulders shaking. He pulled back, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, with a showy wave, he pulled a scalpel from his bag and pressed it gently to your throat. The cool edge kissed your skin, a threat of red.

You didn’t flinch. “If you’re gonna do it, do it. If not, quit wasting my time.”

Silence.

Art’s hand hovered, trembling with something uncharacteristic—not rage, not hunger, but hesitation. His grin sharpened again, but there was confusion under it. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the scalpel back into the bag.

With a theatrical bow, he untied the ropes at your wrists and ankles.

You rubbed your wrists, nonchalant. “Thanks.” Standing, you stretched, joints popping. The clown pointed dramatically at the door, his gesture clear: Go. You’re free.

You didn’t move. Instead, you walked over to the gore-smeared wall and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Nah. I’ll stay. You’re entertaining.”

Art went still. Then, suddenly, he doubled over in a fit of silent, hysterical laughter. He slapped his knee, stamped his foot, and twirled in a circle. When he finally turned back to you, his painted face was lit up with something new—interest.

Not prey. Not victim. Company.

[cece693]

how do you get fics out so fast🫠i write one and i’m wiped out for the week

I received a similar question just a few days ago, but, honestly, the majority of fics that get published are old works that I've stored in my draft section for months. But when I do get a new idea, I write it somewhere, and when I have enough time, flesh it out. Example:

So I begin with a small description, such as shown above. It has enough that I won't forget completely the plot I've already made in my mind, but not so much that I get overwhelmed about making it perfect. And that's the main thing I need to remember when writing—IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE PERFECT. So, honestly, have fun and take your time. What works for me, doesn't for others, and don't compare yourself to what I put out. I'm not the best writer either.

🥰

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How do you find the time to write? With all the requests you get every week i cant imagine how you manage

Oh, don't get me started on how many requests I've received in the last week. Honestly, I have material to write for a solid year (not including the multi-part fics that I haven't gotten around to updating.) But to answer your question, most of what I write comes easily to me because I do enjoy writing and some requests are so inspiring, that when I sit down and begin to write, I can complete a fic in under 40 minutes. Also, I have had this Tumblr account for years, but never posted anything, so I do have quite a few works in the draft section (I only need to add tags and everything before publishing.)

[cece693]

(3RD) SLASHERS MASTERLIST!

HANNIBAL LECTER

Male Reader

Unconventional Dinner Guest REQUEST: I need, not want, NEED to call NBC Hannibal "daddy" A Favor For Society REQUEST: Hannibal met someone as elegant as him, but unlike him, he only kills criminals. He kills because he thinks is doing a "favor" for society, Hannibal takes the parts he normally takes and makes his work of art. Marked By You Summary: Your tattoos are admired immensely by Hannibal, so when you jokingly say he should get one too, you're taken aback by Hannibal's willingness. It's simply another intimacy between you, after all.

HANNIGRAM

Male Reader

Tears On The Couch Summary: When Will and Hannibal come home to find their boyfriend inconsolable—red faced, sobbing, and clutching a pillow—they immediately assume the worst. Ready to hunt down whoever hurt their sweet boy, they press for answers…only to discover he’s crying over the tragic ending of a TV show.

ART THE CLOWN

Male Reader

Whatever Summary: The usual reactions Art the Clown received ranged from full blown crying to murderous anger, but never had he kidnapped someone and had them be nonchalant.

BO AND VINCENT SINCLAIR

Male Reader

Two Pretty Boys REQUEST: Reader who kinda just doesn't care about the whole wax people thing, just gets distracted by the boys being pretty.

[cece693]

Hi! First time requesting at your blog here ^^)

I was wondering if you could write for Jason Todd x male reader who's secretly a super!catboy (half cat and half human but super speed, agility and strength). Reader takes a bullet for Jason and Jason doesn't know about reader's secret identity so he believes reader's dead because of him. Until reader (who has nine lives) comes back and tells him everything.

Sorry if my request sounds too much for you to handle ._.) You can consider changing my request to however you like if possible!

...SURPRISE?

pairing: jason todd x male reader

The warehouse stank of cordite and blood. Gunfire rattled through the rafters, ricocheting off rusted beams, and Jason was right in the thick of it, Red Hood’s guns blazing as he ducked behind cover.

You moved with him, as you always did—silent and fast, eyes sharper than human, body thrumming with strength you kept carefully hidden. He didn’t know. Jason thought you were just reckless, stupidly brave, maybe suicidal. He didn’t know the truth.

“Two on the catwalk!” Jason barked.

You were already moving, vaulting onto a stack of crates, flipping higher with impossible agility. Your claws itched to come out, but you kept them sheathed, sticking to fists and kicks. A roundhouse sent one thug crashing into steel piping. Another tried to raise his rifle, but you swept his legs with a blur of speed.

Jason swore under his breath. He’d never admit it, but sometimes you scared him with how fast you were.

The fight spilled into the open. A gunman behind a forklift raised his weapon, aiming square at Jason. You didn’t think—your body just moved.

“Jay!”

The crack of the gunshot echoed. Heat tore through your chest as the bullet found you instead. Jason’s world froze. You collapsed into his arms, blood soaking his jacket. “No—no, no, no, stay with me. Don’t you dare leave me!” His voice broke as he pressed his hands to your wound. “Why the hell would you even take a bullet for me!?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, heartbeat slowing until—silence.

He screamed your name until his throat went raw, rocking your body against his chest. For hours afterward, Jason couldn’t breathe without guilt crushing him. He’d lost too many people already. Losing you was the final straw.

But you weren’t gone.

Deep in the shadows of the Batcave, your lungs seized. Air flooded back in with a violent gasp.

You shot upright on the cold slab, chest heaving. Pain lanced through your ribs as bone knit itself back together with sickening cracks. Flesh sealed, skin smoothed over the bullet hole with a soft golden glow that shimmered faintly, like sunlight caught on fur.

You touched your chest where the wound had been. Smooth. Unbroken. Alive.

One down. Eight left.

The echo of boots hitting stone made your ears twitch before you even turned.

Jason’s voice broke the silence, sharp and furious. “…No.”

You turned slowly. He stood in the dim glow of the Batcave’s consoles, helmet under his arm, gun dangling forgotten in his hand. His face was pale, eyes bloodshot, jaw slack like the world had just collapsed around him again.

“You—” He staggered forward, chest heaving. “No. No, no, no. I held you. You were dead. You were dead.”

“Jason—”

He dropped the helmet with a metallic clang. In two strides he was on you, fist cracking against your jaw before you could dodge. Pain flared white, snapping your head to the side, but you didn’t fight back. You’d expected this.

Jason’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as he grabbed your collar. “You bastard!” His voice broke, thick with grief and rage. “I’ve been losing my mind—blaming myself, wishing I’d taken that bullet—and here you are? Standing? Breathing?” His eyes shone wet, fury and heartbreak burning together. “What the hell are you?”

You swallowed, shame tightening your throat. Slowly, you let your claws slip free with a metallic rasp, your tail flicked free behind you. Your pupils thinned into sharp feline slits, a faint glow shimmering along your skin.

“I should’ve told you sooner.” Your voice was low. “I’m not just human. I’ve got super speed, strength, agility...and nine lives. That bullet only cost me one.”

Jason’s breath came sharp and ragged. His fists shook at his sides. He looked like he wanted to hit you again, but instead he grabbed your collar, yanking you forward into a kiss that was nothing short of violent. Teeth clashed, lips bruised. He kissed you like he hated you, like he loved you, like he couldn’t decide. When he pulled back, he was shaking.

“Hey,” you tried with a weak grin, “at least I still have eight lives.”

Jason’s glare cut you down. “Don’t. Don’t you dare make a joke out of this. Do you have any idea what I went through? What it did to me to watch you die in my arms?” His voice cracked on the last word, his forehead pressing against yours, eyes squeezed shut. “I was ready to burn Gotham to the ground for you.”

Your throat tightened. You laid your hand against his chest, feeling his heart thunder. “I’m sorry, Jay. I just…I didn’t want to lose you because of what I am.”

Jason swallowed hard, still trembling. He muttered against your lips, voice wrecked: “Idiot. You’re mine. Catboy, alien, whatever the hell you are—you’re mine. And if you ever pull that disappearing act again, nine lives won’t be enough.” This time, when he kissed you, it was still rough, still desperate—but beneath the anger was relief, love, and the unshakable truth: you were alive, and Jason Todd wasn’t letting go.

[cece693]

So I got this request, but it had two different ideas and because I liked them, I decided to break them up into two different posts (also it makes organization much more easier.) It's relatively short because I didn't know what else to add and I thought it felt right, so in my eyes it's kinda a head cannon.

TWO PRETTY BOYS

pairing: vincent & bo sinclair x male reader REQUEST: Reader who kinda just doesn't care about the whole wax people thing, just gets distracted by the boys being pretty.

You probably should’ve cared more. Most people would’ve been screaming, throwing chairs, and running for their lives the moment they realized Trudy’s little wax figures weren’t mannequins at all. But you? No. You took one look at the “wax museum of horrors” situation and then immediately got distracted because—well, Vincent was unfairly gorgeous and Bo had the kind of southern drawl that made you want to sin twice before church.

When Bo cornered you first, hand braced against the doorframe, eyes gleaming with mischief like a wolf about to bite, you should’ve been terrified. Instead, your brain betrayed you with, “Wow…he’s pretty when he’s angry.”

“Y’know,” Bo drawled, eyes narrowing, “most folks don’t stick around once they see what we do ‘round here.”

You tilted your head, gave him a half-shrug. “Most folks don’t have cheekbones like yours. Kind of unfair, really.”

Bo actually faltered—faltered. You caught the twitch of his lips like he was fighting back a grin, and that only encouraged you more.

Vincent was worse. Every time he loomed in the background with that mask and those silent movements, you caught yourself staring too long at his hands, at the way his hair slipped into his face when he tilted his head at you. It made Bo snap eventually.

“Jesus Christ, you’re starin’ at him like he hung the damn moon. He don’t even talk."

You smiled softly. “Doesn’t need to. He’s beautiful.”

Vincent’s hand stilled mid-carve, chest rising just a little faster, and you swore you saw his shoulders tighten like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill you or keep you.

And that was the problem. The brothers were used to screams, not compliments. Used to prey, not someone sitting cross-legged on their porch saying, “You know, I should probably be horrified right now, but honestly? You two are distracting as hell.”

Bo huffed, muttered something about you being “the weirdest damn thing to stumble through Ambrose,” but he didn’t chase you off. Vincent kept carving, but his eyes—hidden or not—you could feel them locked on you like you were just as fascinating as the wax itself.

[cece693]

SUGAR COATED POSESSION

pairing: willy wonka x male reader synopsis: When Mrs. Beauregarde gets a little too flirty with Willy during the tour, you’ve had enough. Trailing in the background, you wait until Willy lets everyone explore the Inventing Room before pulling him out of sight and reminding him—quite passionately—that he belongs to you, not anyone else.

You followed silently, a step behind and always just out of the circle of attention. Willy had asked you not to be part of the performance—this was his spectacle, his grand tour for the lucky children. But no matter how whimsical his words, how bizarre the rooms became, your focus was narrowed to him.

And to her.

Mrs. Beauregarde.

With her polished nails and syrupy laughter, the way she leaned in as if his coat were hers to touch, as if she had any claim. Each giggle curled sharp in your chest, each flutter of her lashes stoked something hot and territorial under your skin. You kept your silence, jaw locked tight, following them through the chocolate river until they arrived at the Inventing Room.

Willy’s voice bounced off the metal walls. “Now, here we are—the very heart of innovation! Lots of things to see, lots of things to sniff, some things you probably shouldn’t sniff.” He twirled his cane with a flourish, hat bobbing precariously. “You may explore to your heart’s content…” His violet eyes darted across the eager crowd, “…just don’t touch anything.”

The children scattered instantly, Violet dragging her mother toward a gleaming vat, Mike gawking at a humming contraption, Veruca already whining about something shiny. Every pair of eyes turned away from Willy.

Except yours.

The moment he exhaled, cane tapping once against the floor, you were on him. A hand closed around his wrist, tugging him sharply behind a massive machine that belched sweet-scented steam.

“Ah!” Willy shouted, his voice cracking high with alarm—but you quickly pressed your palm over his mouth. His wide violet eyes darted in panic, his shoulders stiff, until they finally locked onto yours. Recognition melted through his expression like sugar dissolving in tea. His muscles slackened, lips parting against your hand.

Slowly, you let your hand fall away.

“Darling, now isn’t the—” he began, but the rest of his words drowned under your kiss.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was hot, possessive, and punishing, claiming him with a force that left him gasping against your lips. He whimpered, the sound muffled between your mouths as his cane clattered uselessly to the floor. His gloved hands fluttered in the air before catching at your chest like he was drowning.

You tilted his chin up, teeth grazing his lower lip, and pressed him harder against the warm metal of the machine. The velvet of his coat bunched under your fist, and your other hand trailed down to grip his hip with a rough squeeze that made his knees buckle.

When you finally pulled back, he was flushed scarlet, hat tilted, lips swollen and wet. His breath came in shallow gasps. “W-what in the everlasting gobstopper was that for?” he whispered, voice trembling.

You leaned close, murmuring against his ear, “Because you’re mine. Don’t forget that.”

His laugh was shaky, almost delirious. “You…oh, you are a terribly jealous fellow.” But the way his eyes lingered on you, sparkling with delight, told you he loved it.

You fixed his hat before shoving him gently back toward the crowd. He stumbled out from behind the machine, cheeks flushed and words stumbling over themselves as he tried to resume his usual patter.

Nobody noticed the difference. Nobody, except you—and Willy, whose sparkling eyes kept flicking back to where you lingered, shadowed in the corner. His lips curved into a secret smile, sweet and unshakable.

[cece693]

Hello! I’ve recently discovered your work and have been obsessed ever since 🤩 you’re really talented! I really hope you take the request (Enoch x fem reader lol): maybe the girls and reader all sit and gossip just for the sake of it. And the girls complain about Enoch’s overall behaviour. Reader begins defending him and accidentally spills that they are together (or smt like that it’s up to your creative mind)

Made it into gender neutral reader cause I'm inclusive like that (and I don't cater to fem readers cause you guys get all the good stuff.)

SLIP OF THE TONGUE

pairing: enoch o'connor x gender neutral reader

The lounge was alive with lazy chatter, the kind that bloomed when there was nothing pressing to do and far too much time to fill. A few of the girls sat sprawled across armchairs and couches, and you had been dragged in by Bronwyn with the promise of “good gossip.”

Somehow—inevitably—the conversation had circled to Enoch.

Olive groaned. “I swear, he’s the most insufferable person in the house. He barely says a word unless it’s sarcastic.”

Bronwyn laughed, shaking her head. “Last week he told Millard to ‘be useful and go haunt someone else.’”

Emma leaned back on her hands, smirking. “He’s like a grumpy old man trapped in a young body. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone puts up with him for more than five minutes.”

You found yourself smiling despite the jabs. “He’s not that bad.”

All three girls turned to look at you, their expressions somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Not that bad?” Emma repeated, one eyebrow arched.

You shrugged, fiddling your fingers. “I mean...he can be sharp-tongued, yeah, but he’s different when you get to know him.”

Bronwyn tilted her head. “Different how?”

The question shouldn’t have made your heart skip, but it did. You could feel heat creeping up the back of your neck. “Well…he’s actually pretty kind.”

Olive snorted. “Enoch? Kind? Did he hit his head?”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “No. He just doesn’t show it to everyone. But if you give him time, he’s—” You hesitated, realizing too late that your tongue was moving faster than your brain. “He’s… really sweet, actually. Calls me cute. Sometimes adorable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Emma’s eyes widened. Bronwyn’s lips parted like she was about to ask something. Olive’s mouth fell into a mischievous grin.

“…Wait,” Olive said slowly, “did you just say he calls you adorable?”

You froze. “Uh…”

Emma’s smirk turned positively feline. “You’re together, aren’t you?”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny it, but the look on their faces told you they already knew. Your pause was answer enough.

Olive clapped her hands, delighted. “Oh my God, you are! That explains why you defend him like you’re his lawyer!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as the girls burst into giggles. “Great. Just great. This is exactly why I keep things to myself." Somewhere in the house, you were certain Enoch just felt a shiver of impending doom.

[cece693]

Would you be open to writing a Rosalie hale x male reader (vampire or human) who is just really overworked to the point of harm or passing out and she basically stages an intervention with all this hurt/comfort

SHE'S NOT WORTH THIS

pairing: rosalie hale x male reader

You hadn’t fed in three days.

Every ounce of energy you had was poured into one task: keeping Bella Swan alive.

The moment James’s interest in her blood became known, something in you snapped into motion. Unlike your family, you didn’t wait for Carlisle’s measured discussions or Edward’s obsessive vigilance—you acted. Plans upon plans, fallback routes, safehouses, and alibis; you spun them into existence with your gift, reshaping the odds of her survival.

But that came at a cost.

The darkened crescents under your golden eyes, the tightness in your jaw, the twitch in your hands every time you set a new precaution—it was the toll of neglect. You hadn’t hunted, hadn’t rested. Every second was given to Bella. And Rosalie noticed. She was not a patient woman, but with you, she tried.

Until now.

She found you in the study, papers scattered across the desk, maps marked in sharp lines, escape routes circled again and again. You didn’t hear her enter—you were too far gone, scribbling another contingency plan. “Enough.” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the frantic silence. You froze, pen hovering mid-air, as Rosalie strode across the room and slammed the notebook shut.

“Rosalie—” you began, but her eyes—those molten golds usually soft for you—were blazing.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Look at yourself.” She cupped your face suddenly, forceful, tilting your chin up. You knew what she saw: the starved gleam in your eyes, the strain cracking your perfect marble composure.

“I can’t,” you whispered hoarsely. “If I don’t prepare, if she dies because I missed something—”

Her hand tightened, marble fingers digging in with trembling restraint. “Bella Swan is not worth this.” The words spilled out of her, furious and unyielding. “She has ruined you. Do you understand that? This pathetic, fragile human girl has dragged you to this state. She’s not even family, not even yours to protect—yet you’re breaking yourself in half while the rest of them let you.”

Your lips parted, but Rosalie was only getting started.

“Edward is too lovesick to see what’s happening to you. Carlisle is too hopeful to intervene. Alice too blinded by her visions. And Esme—” Rosalie’s lip curled, a rare bitterness in her tone, “—she loves the girl for no reason except that Edward does. And none of them notice that you are destroying yourself for this.”

She gestured violently at the desk, at the maps and frantic scratches of ink. “This is madness. This is not you. And I will not stand by while my mate starves and suffers for her.”

Rosalie's voice cracked then, the fire giving way to anguish.

“I don’t only hate Bella because she’s human. I don’t only hate her because she wants to join us. I hate her because she’s stealing you. Because she’s tearing you apart and no one else gives a damn.”

She pulled you against her suddenly, marble arms like a cage, like salvation. Her voice broke into a whisper against your temple. “You are mine. My mate. My everything. And I will not lose you to her.”

The tension drained out of you, all at once. Your body, weak from starvation and too much strain, sagged into her hold. For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe—or at least pretend to.

Her hands stroked through your hair, firm, grounding. “Come with me. Hunt. Relax. Let the others take their turn in protecting her. You’ve done enough.”

And you did.

[cece693]

I WILL STAY, EVEN IF IT DESTROYS ME

pairing: lucas x male reader synopsis: Lucas wasn't the monster people rumored him to be, yet even those who had known him for years, treated him like the devil. You wouldn't be one of them. You knew the rumor was false and even if Lucas begged you to leave him—to not jeopardize your own life for him—you wouldn't. Love wasn't always easy; this was just another obstacle you needed to pass together.

The first snow of December always softened the town’s sharp edges—white icing on brick facades, candles glowing behind lace curtains—but this morning, as you crossed the square with two cups of coffee, Luca's expression caused you to stop momentarily. He stood outside the kindergarten, shoulders hunched in a way that made him look smaller than his six foot frame. “Bad day?” you asked, passing him a cup.

“Klara said something,” he murmured in Danish-tinged English, eyes skipping over the frost-stiff playground. “Something…wrong.” Your stomach pitched. Lucas was the man who coaxed laughter from shy toddlers, who carried an injured blackbird home in his coat and nursed it until spring. Whatever the rumor, much less a negative one, couldn’t stick.

Except it did.

It spreads like mold in wet walls—slow at first, then everywhere. Reason dies quickly in small towns. By the end of the week, parents yank coats from pegs, whispers multiply, and children are told not to look at Lucas.

That night, the house felt more like a shell than a home. He sat on the sofa with his cup untouched, steam long since vanished, staring at the floorboards as though they might gape open and swallow him. Shadows stretched across his face, turning his eyes hollow.

“You can leave, you know.” Lucas murmured at last. His voice was flat, but beneath the calm tone lay something sharp—resignation, or maybe a kind of desperate mercy. He didn’t look at you. He hadn’t dared to all evening.

You lowered yourself beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. “Is that what you want?” you asked, careful, though your chest ached at the thought.

“I don’t want…” He stopped, jaw working. “I don’t want you ruined because of me. They’ve decided I’m guilty. Staying with me—” His throat closed around the words. “It will ruin you too.”

The weight of his despair pressed down like the snow outside, heavy, unrelenting. But you only reached out, your fingers brushing his before lacing firmly through them. His hand was cold, trembling faintly.

“Let them talk,” you said, your voice steady even as your pulse thundered. “Let them stare. You think I care what they say about me? About us? They don’t know you like I do. I know the man who fixed broken toys after hours so a child wouldn’t cry the next day. I know the man who helped old Mr. Jensen shovel his drive last winter without being asked. I know you, Lucas. And I’m not going anywhere."

At that, he finally looked up. His eyes, red-rimmed and glistening, carried the weight of someone already sentenced, already condemned. And for the first time in days, his chest shook—not from sobs, but from the fragile exhale of someone finally being able to let go. He leaned into you then, head bowing against your shoulder, and you let him.

A DAY LATER

The bell above the grocer’s door jangled sharp against the hush of falling snow. Lucas ducked his head as you both stepped inside, the smell of dried fish and wood polish clinging to the warm air. You reached for a basket automatically, pretending everything was normal.

That was the trick, wasn’t it? If you acted like life was still ordinary—two men out for bread and milk—maybe the world would follow.

But eyes followed you down the narrow aisles. An old woman abandoned her basket near the sugar, shuffling quickly out. A father steered his daughter behind the freezer chest, whispering harshly in her ear. You felt the tension radiating off Lucas like static, his shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for a blow.

At the counter, Holst didn’t even reach for the register. He just folded his arms, thick mustache bristling. “Out,” he barked.

Lucas froze. “…Excuse me?”

“Out,” Holst spat again, his jowls trembling. “You think you can walk in here, filth like you? Touching things other decent folk have to buy? You disgust me.”

Your blood boiled instantly. “Watch your mouth.”

Holst leaned forward, sneer curling. “You keep company with a pervert, you’re no better. Men like him don’t belong near children—don’t belong near anyone. You should be ashamed.”

Lucas’s face went blank, the way it always did when words hit too deep. He reached for your arm. “Let’s just—”

“No.” You shoved the money across the counter. “He’s buying this like anyone else.”

Holst didn’t even look at the bills. His eyes locked on Lucas, burning with righteous hate. “Pedophile,” he hissed. Louder, for everyone in the store to hear. “Godless bastard. You’ve got the devil in you, I can see it plain.”

The other shoppers gasped, murmured. Some nodded. One woman gathered her son closer. Lucas flinched as though struck. You saw the tremor in his hands and something in you snapped.

“Say it again.” you growled, stepping forward, fists curling.

Holst sneered wider. “You want to defend your sick boyfriend? You’re just as rotten. Maybe worse.” And then he lunged across the counter, fat hands grabbing for Lucas’s coat.

Your body moved before your brain could catch up. You slammed into Holst’s arm, shoving him back. He swung, his fist catching your mouth, splitting your lip wide open. Pain flared hot. But you didn’t stop. You grabbed him by the collar and drove your knuckles into his nose, the crack loud and wet. Blood sprayed across the countertop. Holst stumbled, howling, collapsing against a rack of tins that clattered to the floor.

“Touch him again,” you snarled through bloodied teeth, “and I’ll break more than your nose.”

The store was silent except for Holst’s wheezing. Mothers clutched their children, men stared wide-eyed. Lucas dragged you out by the arm, his grip iron-hard, your breath ragged.

Back home, he sat you down hard, eyes burning. His hands shook as he cleaned your lip with a damp cloth. “You can’t keep doing this,” he snapped, voice breaking. “I can’t—” He swallowed hard. “I can’t watch you bleed for me. I can’t have you ruined because of me.”

You grabbed his wrist, forcing his gaze onto yours. “Lucas, he called you filth. He put his hands on you. And I’ll do it again if anyone tries.”

His jaw tightened, breath uneven. “They’ll destroy you, too.”

“Then let them try,” you hissed, lip stinging as you spoke. “I’d rather bleed at your side than live without you.”

For a moment he stared at you, eyes wide, and then—finally—his shoulders crumpled. He pressed his forehead to yours, whispering hoarsely, “I don’t deserve this. I don't deserve you.”

“Too bad,” you said, thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re mine. And I protect what’s mine.”

The kettle screamed from the stove, shrill and desperate. Outside, the town sharpened its knives. Inside, you wrapped your arms around him tighter, daring the world to take him from you.

[cece693]

Do you write Jane from Twilight fics?

Yes, here is something that I quickly came up with!

HYPOCRITES, ALL OF YOU

pairing: jane volturi x gender neutral reader synopsis: You never asked for Jane to be your mate—but fate couldn't be ignored nor changed. However, your family aren't as understanding. Even when Edward risked their lives again and again for Bella, his human mate.

The clearing was a graveyard of ash. The scent of smoke still clung to the trees, and the newborn army lay in shattered pieces across the charred earth. You stood among your family, relief mixing with exhaustion—but something electric caused you to straighten up. The Volturi arrived like a phantom storm, black cloaks dragging across scorched ground.

And then—everything stopped.

Your eyes locked with hers.

Jane.

The air between you pulled taut, invisible but unbreakable. It wasn’t just recognition. It was lightning under your skin, eternity carved into stone in a single glance. You felt the bond clamp down like a chain you could never, would never break. Mate.

Her crimson eyes widened—barely, but you saw it. Then softened, just for you, before the mask of Volturi composure slid back into place. But the tether was already there, binding you to her in a way no force on earth could sever.

At first, you thought you could endure it. Hide it. Pretend. But Edward’s silent contempt was deafening. You could feel him digging through your thoughts, recoiling with disgust every time Jane’s name surfaced in your mind. Soon, the rest of the coven knew.

And the judgment began.

Carlisle tried to remain diplomatic, but you could see the hesitation in his golden eyes every time he reminded you of the “dangers” of the Volturi. Esme’s warmth grew distant, her smiles thinner. Rosalie scoffed openly, making no secret of her disdain. Even Edward, who should have understood the binding force of a mate, muttered bitter thoughts under his breath—monster, executioner, sadist.

You defended Jane every time. “She’s not what you think,” you snapped when Emmett laughed at the mention of her. “She’s my mate.” But your words always bounced off their conviction that the Volturi were tyrants and Jane the symbol of their cruelty.

The worst part wasn’t their words—it was the way they looked at you. Like you had betrayed them just by loving her.

One night, after another tense argument in the Cullen’s living room, you stood with your fists clenched. "Enough. I can't stand to live here any longer if you're going to continuously insult my mate." You snapped, venom dripping from your words. "Where was his energy when Edward fell for Bella?” You turned to Edward. “Don’t lecture me about danger and being a monster when you stalked a teenage girl and almost bled her dry." Edward’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. The silence only stoked your fury.

“But me?” you pressed, voice rising. “The second fate ties me to someone you don’t approve of, suddenly I’m the villain. Suddenly I’m the traitor. You’re all hypocrites.”

Rosalie scoffed, flipping her hair. “I never accepted Bella into this family—don’t lump me in with the rest of them.”

“Oh, I know you didn’t. You never miss a chance to remind Bella she’s doesn't belong to our world, that she’s fragile, that she’ll ruin everything. At least you're honest in that front. Consistent."

Your gaze cut across the room, sharp as broken glass. “But the rest of you? Don’t you dare act like you’re saints. You all bent over backwards to excuse Edward’s obsession. Alice, you cheered them on, so blinded by your little visions of Bella playing house with us that you ignored the reality of what Edward was doing. Jasper—” your voice snapped like a whip, “—you who nearly killed Bella yourself at her birthday party, you of all people don’t get to sneer at Jane’s control or past. Emmett, where were you then? Laughing it off? Because when it comes to me, suddenly you’ve grown a backbone.”

Carlisle’s voice came low, placating. “We only want to protect you—”

“No. You want to protect your illusion. Your perfect, delicate image of what this family is supposed to be. But when that image is challenged, when I don’t fall neatly into your script, suddenly I’m the problem.”

The room went deathly still. Jasper’s jaw ticked, Alice’s eyes darted away, Emmett shifted uncomfortably, and Carlisle—Carlisle just looked torn, but remained silent.

“You know what I see? Cowards. Every single one of you. Too afraid to admit that Jane is exactly what you need—what the world needs—to keep order. Too afraid to admit that maybe the Volturi aren’t the monsters you paint them as. Maybe they’re just the ones willing to do what you can’t.”

You swept your eyes across the room one last time. “You won't accept Jane? Fine. I'll be gone, but don't ever call me family again." The door slammed behind you and no one came after you.

VOLTERRA (A FEW DAYS LATER)

The Volturi halls were carved in shadow, but they did not suffocate. They echoed with history, power, permanence. And in the center of it, Jane stood waiting.

“You came.” she said softly, disbelief threaded through the words.

“I had nowhere else,” you admitted. “Not when every word they spoke was poison.”

Her crimson eyes softened, rare and unguarded. “You left them…for me.”

“I didn’t leave for you,” you said firmly. “I left because they’d rather call me a traitor than admit the truth. You’re my mate. And I’ll burn every bridge before I let anyone insult that.” Her lips curved in the faintest, rarest smile, and for the first time in weeks, you felt steady.