#[ Reaching a Verdict - Open Thread ]

[timelostobserver]

He was whistling.. quietly to himself.

A slow, haunting tune that often permeated the Halls of the Dead, and at a time.. perhaps the living world might have gotten the chance to hear. Rarely, of course.

It was a rare day, a slow day where the steady stream of souls stemmed to a mere trickle.

Though when one worked neigh endlessly, it was hard to enjoy the peace and quiet. To enjoy a much needed 'break'. Even now, the howling of the never-ending blizzard continued to haunt him. Barely echoing over the whistle as he sifted through various bits of paper on his desk.

Busy work, more or less...

It wasn't like the Fallen Angel of Death had anymore more he could do in the moment. Or anywhere to go.

[neumond-alte-sonne]

biker!vi x masc/butch–biker!reader

Sunlight sliced through the open garage door, hitting the Yamaha like a spotlight on a stage. Dust floated in the air like ash, golden and slow. Somewhere in the garage, a fan hummed low and lazy, moving warm air that smelled like burnt rubber and metal.

Vi was crouched beside your matte-black R1. Her gear was abandoned somewhere, replaced with a simple sports bra and distressed jeans. Her forearms were tense and her shoulders were bright with the edge of the afternoon. Her fingers moved with deliberate precision. There was a smear of grease high on her jawline and sweat at the nape of her neck.

You leaned in the doorway, cracked open a cold soda with a snap-hiss, the sound sharp in the stillness. You didn’t say anything at first, just watched, admiring and appreciating the view.

The soft sound of a ratchet turning echoed under the frame of the bike, all tension and click. Click. Click.

"Unreal," you finally said, not bothering to lower your voice.

Vi didn’t even look up. "What now?"

You took a slow sip, smirking around the rim of the can. "Do you try to be this hot, or is it just some kind of cursed blessing?”

She arched a brow without breaking her focus. "I'm elbow-deep in grease."

"Still." You answered with a shrug.

She reached for a socket wrench, her bicep flexing under grease-streaked skin. Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.

“You really wandered in here just to cause problems, didn’t you?”

You stepped inside still wearing your gear, the scuffed heels of your boots tapping against the concrete. "Please. You left the door open. You wanted an audience."

Vi muttered something under her breath—definitely a curse this time—and slid a tray of tools closer with a sharp metallic scrape. She didn’t look at you, but she knew exactly how close you were.

You crouched next to her—not because the bike needed attention, but because she had yours. You watched her hands, the subtle twitch of muscle in her forearms, the calm under pressure. The engine hissed faintly with leftover heat.

“So,” you said, dragging the word out, “what’s the verdict, doc?”

“Chain tension’s off again. Someone’s been riding like they stole it.” She answered, looking at you out of the corner of her eye.

You widened your eyes, mock innocent. “You saying I was rough?”

Vi’s hands didn’t stop moving. “I’m saying you were riding it a little too aggressively.”

You laughed, low and warm. “Maybe I was trying to keep pace with my girlfriend. Ever think of that?”

That cracked her. Barely—but you caught the curve of a smile before she crushed it back down with a grunt and a turn of the wrench.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but it came out soft. “And a distraction.”

You stretched out your back, rolled your shoulders. “Should I take my shirt off? Even the playing field?”

She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, the motion revealing the full stretch of her back under that sweat-darkened sport bra. “You do that, and we’re not getting anything done for the next hour.”

“Was that a threat or an invitation?”

This time she looked at you—eyes dark and sharp, threaded with heat and exasperation.

“Sit your ass down,” she said, nodding toward the stool near the workbench. “And try not to combust.”

You dropped onto it without hesitation—not before leaving a kiss on the back of her neck—, relaxed and taking off your jacket, eyes glued to her like she was the main event.

Because she was.

And judging by the smirk tugging at her mouth now—she damn well knew it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟

[muiitoloko]

Belonging Theory

Summary: When the line between obsession and love blurs, Eli Michaelson begins to unravel—haunted by a past he refuses to name and a girl he swore he’d never need.

Pairing: Eli Michaelson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Angst

First, Second, Third and Fourth part here.

Also read on Ao3

Eli suddenly pulled out of you without warning, dragging a broken sob from your throat as your body clenched around nothing, shaking, slick, undone. You barely had time to gasp before he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you—just lifted you like it cost him nothing, like you weighed less than a grudge.

You clung to him out of instinct, half-limp and overstimulated, your body a trembling mess, your hands fisting the collar of his shirt. His cock was still hard between you, thick and soaked with you, twitching against your thigh as he carried you up the driveway and through the front door like a man possessed.

He didn’t say a word.

Not when the hallway lights flicked on. Not when your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips brushed his neck. His jaw was set, nostrils flared, baritone breath hissing through clenched teeth like he was holding himself back by inches. By threads.

He carried you into the bedroom and set you down on the mattress—his bed, sharp and cold and immaculately made—and you sank into the sheets, boneless and dazed, your thighs still sticky, your heart still pounding.

But Eli didn’t climb on top of you. Not yet. Instead, he straightened, adjusted his shirt with one hand, and turned toward the door.

“Stay there,” he said—gravel-soft, voice like a warning shot muffled by velvet. “Don’t fucking move.”

You blinked, watching him disappear down the hallway. You heard the sound of the fridge. The hum of something opening. Running water.

When he returned, he had a bottle in one hand—glass, not plastic. Chilled. Condensation beaded across his fingers.

He handed it to you without comment.

You stared at it for a beat, confused, your breath still coming in shallow little gasps. “What is this?”

Eli arched a brow, his hazel eyes burning with a slow, mocking patience. “It’s water, sweetheart. Try not to look so offended.”

You took it with trembling hands, fingers brushing his. The bottle was cold—blessedly cold—and you took a long sip without thinking, the liquid soothing your dry throat, your fried nerves.

Eli sat on the edge of the bed.

He still hadn’t come. He was hard. You could see it, thick and angry between his open trousers. But he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. He watched you instead, his hooked nose casting a sharp line of shadow across his cheek, his lips parted just slightly, like he was cataloguing every twitch of your bare, ruined body.

“You’re flushed,” he murmured. “Pulse high. Still leaking.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

He tilted his head, voice lowering to a dark purr. “I like you like this.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

“Ruined,” Eli said, eyes raking over your body. “Fucked open. Full of me.”

You tried to shift, to close your legs, but his hand was already there—firm, warm, splaying across your inner thigh to keep you open.

“You begged for it,” he murmured. “You begged for my tongue. My cock. You screamed when I gave it to you.”

You whimpered softly. “I said stop.”

Eli’s expression flickered—just for a second.

“You said ‘stop leaving,’” he replied coldly. “There’s a difference.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

“And you said it with my cock halfway down your throat,” he added, cruelly calm. “So don’t rewrite the story now. You knew what you were doing.”

Silence.

Then, softer—quieter, with something almost like… restraint:

“I’m not done with you yet.”

You were about to speak—maybe protest, maybe surrender—when he reached out and took the bottle from your hands, setting it on the nightstand with a quiet clink.

“Lie back,” he said.

You did.

And when he climbed over you, the weight of him pressed into your chest like a verdict. His baritone voice was low, but not gentle.

“I want to feel you come around me again. Slow this time.”

His cock brushed your inner thigh, slick and hot. His nose nuzzled against your jaw, voice whispering like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

“And then I want to come inside you,” he breathed. “So deep it doesn’t leave for days.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your body already had.

An hour later, the room was quiet. Still. The sheets tangled at your waist, your skin flushed and glistening, your breath soft with sleep.

Eli sat on the edge of the bed, seminude, elbows resting on his knees, one hand running slowly through his disheveled hair. His back was tense—broad shoulders hunched, spine rigid with something restless and unspoken. He stared at the floor like it might offer an equation he could solve, something he could fix, categorize, dismiss.

But there was no solution here. Just the sound of your breathing. The faint imprint of your body on his sheets. The smell of sex still hanging in the air.

You were asleep.

He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Not when his mind was churning like this—chaotic, volatile, embarrassing.

It shouldn’t be like this. You were supposed to be the toy. The subject. The willing object of his control, his money, his precision. The lab rat who signed her life away for a stipend and some tuition coverage.

He was supposed to be the master. Detached. Amused. Unreachable.

But here he was. Awake. Haunted.

The image of you moaning his name still vivid behind his eyes, raw and hungry and real. Too real. Your voice still echoing in his head. The way you clung to him. The way you looked up at him, even in anger—even when you said no, even when you said enough—like he was something that mattered.

It was infuriating.

He shouldn't be this affected. Shouldn’t care if you walked out. Shouldn’t care what you did after the contract ended. Who you fucked. Who you laughed with. Who you trusted instead of him.

But he did.

God, he did.

The thought of you with someone else—some eager little academic with soft eyes and cleaner hands, someone who smiled too much and said “good job” when you passed a test instead of ripping the paper apart with red ink—that thought made his stomach twist. Made his jaw lock. Made his hands tremble.

He didn’t get possessive. That wasn’t who he was. He didn’t want things. He used them. Controlled them. Discarded them.

Except you.

He couldn’t discard you. Not when your scent was still on his skin. Not when your voice still lingered in his ear like an echo carved into bone.

He ran a hand over his mouth, exhaling through his nose. His hazel eyes flicked toward you—still sleeping, still warm, curled half on your side like you belonged there. In his bed. In his world.

You didn’t even look scared anymore.

You looked safe.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He hated that you made him hesitate. That you made him reconsider. That you turned fucking into feeling, even when he swore he’d never be that weak.

It was supposed to be control. That’s what it had always been.

Power.

Not... whatever this was. This heat in his throat. This ache in his chest. This absurd desire to slide back into bed and wrap himself around you, to pull you close and stay.

He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. He’d paid your bills. He’d erased your contract. He’d memorized your body, your laugh, the exact cadence of your moans when you were seconds from coming apart.

He didn't own you. But he'd carved his name into you anyway. And now? Now he couldn't bear the idea of anyone else touching you. Not academically, not emotionally, not physically.

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head once like that might dispel the thought. You should’ve just been a phase, he told himself. A mouth. A cunt. A warm body that obeyed when he said bend over.

But no.

You’d become something else. Something messier. Something dangerous.

And the worst part? You didn’t even know it.

You still believed he could let you go.

Eli turned slightly, looking back at you over his shoulder. His baritone voice broke the silence—low, quiet, like he didn’t mean to speak aloud.

“You think I’m ever letting you leave?”

He stared at you, chest tight. Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it up gently over your bare shoulders, smoothing it down with a hand that didn’t shake.

But his breath did.

And that was worse. He closed his fist and bit down on it hard, knuckles white, the sting sharp against his teeth.

Get your head together, Michaelson. Get your fucking head together.

But he couldn’t. Not tonight.

Not with your scent still on his skin. Not with the taste of your still ghosting his mouth, sweet and salt and defiance. Not with your sleeping in his bed like she belonged there, like you’d carved out a place in his life that he never meant to give.

Eli shoved himself off the edge of the bed, pacing across the room like a caged thing, breath shallow, heartbeat thudding loud in his ears. He wanted to punch something. A wall. A mirror. His own fucking father’s smug face.

Frank.

That bastard.

He hadn’t seen Frank in person in two years, not since the last pathetic attempt at a family gathering—an awkward dinner where Frank tried to play father over roast chicken and Merlot, like decades of contempt could be erased with polite conversation and a plate of fucking carrots. Eli had made it thirty-seven minutes before snapping, calling him a sanctimonious bastard and storming out.

Frank kept trying, though. Kept calling. Kept sending books, tickets, awkward little gifts with too many commas in the card—“Just thought you might find this interesting, son.” As if that word still meant anything.

Eli didn’t answer. He never answered. Not after what that man had done. Not after he’d replaced everything Eli’s mother ever was with a child bride and a do-over kid.

Thomas. That boy.

Eli ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging hard enough to hurt.

He hated Frank. Hated the way he’d softened in his old age, as if marrying that cheerful, oblivious woman had magically absolved him of a lifetime of being a cold, withholding, judgmental bastard. Hated the way Frank treated Thomas like some kind of fucking golden boy—soft pats on the head, school awards on the fridge, bedtime stories and father-son science kits.

Where the hell was that version of Frank when Eli was seven? Or fifteen? Or twenty?

Eli had never known a Frank who laughed. Or hugged. Or called just to check in.

All he got was expectations. Orders. And disappointment.

And when his mother died, that already-icy world turned to frost. The only softness in Eli’s life disappeared with a hospice breath and a white hospital sheet.

That was the moment, really.

The rupture.

The hole that opened and never closed.

Eli tried to fill it with drugs at first. Ecstasy. Coke. A few trips into darker corners of chemistry labs where supervision was light and ambition high. He got smart about it. Started making his own. Microdosing during lectures. Popping molly before oral exams. Conducting peer reviews with pupils like dinner plates.

Frank found out. Of course he did. Had him yanked out of his PhD program and shoved into some elite rehab clinic outside of Boston. Military connections. Clean linens. No privacy. Eli had screamed. Begged. Bartered. Nothing worked.

“You’ll thank me for this,” Frank had said at the door, not unkindly.

Eli had laughed in his face.

He got clean. Stayed clean. Got out. Moved to California, poured everything into his research, won awards, published papers. 

Married Sarah. Slept with a dozen others. Got Sarah pregnant. Stayed married out of obligation and spite. Screwed his way through graduate assistants, conference attendees, the occasional colleague’s bored wife. Control. That’s what it gave him. If he couldn’t be loved the way he needed, he could be wanted. Owned. Obeyed.

Sex filled the gaps.

Briefly.

Until her.

Until the girl now tangled in his sheets like she might belong there, like she might stay.

And that was the real problem.

Eli closed his eyes and pressed his fist to his mouth again, harder this time.

Don’t be fucking stupid.

She was just another body. Another bright young thing who let him push her too far and came back for more. He paid her. She posed. She stayed. And she would leave. Eventually, they all did.

But this one? She made him hesitate.

And that hesitation—that crack in his armor—made everything else worse. Sharper. Uglier. It reopened every old wound. Every unmet need. Every bitter fucking memory of being the wrong son.

Thomas didn’t have to beg for approval. Thomas didn’t get told he was too much. Thomas didn’t get dragged out of a lab and locked away like a disgrace. Thomas got bedtime stories and field trips and a version of Frank Benson that Eli had never even imagined.

And yet…

God help him…

Eli liked the boy.

No.

He envied, loved him.

Couldn’t help it. Thomas called him “big brother” like it meant something. Drew him pictures. Asked him science questions. Told him he wanted to be “a cool genius like Eli” when he grew up.

It was impossible not to get attached.

And that made Eli hate Frank more.

Because it meant the bastard could have been that man all along. He just chose not to be. Not for Eli.

The rage surged again, and Eli grabbed a glass from the nightstand, flinging it against the far wall. It shattered, the sound sharp and immediate, waking the girl in the bed with a startled jolt.

“Eli?” you whispered, eyes wide.

He turned his back.

“Go back to sleep.”

You sat up, covers pulled to your chest, your voice shaking. “What happened?”

Eli said nothing. Not right away. Then, quietly, too quietly: “Wrong life. Wrong fucking life.”

You didn't ask what he meant; you held out your arms to him.

And Eli hesitated. He stood near the broken glass, baritone breath tight in his throat, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping along his cheek. The light from the hallway painted his naked back in pale, sharp lines—tension carved into every vertebra. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he didn’t walk away either.

Your voice was soft, hoarse with sleep. “Come here.”

Still, he didn’t turn. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curled like they were deciding whether to clench or reach. Logic screamed at him—Don’t. Don’t let yourself go soft now. Don’t fall for the warmth in your voice, the pity in your eyes. This wasn’t love. This was a trap. A soft little nest of feelings that would only leave him exposed. Dependent. Pathetic.

He went anyway.

Eli crossed the room in two strides, dropped to his knees by the bed, and let you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

You held him gently. Like he wasn’t the man who’d threatened you. Fucked you. Bought you. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Just tired. Just human.

“Are you hurt?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers through the hair at his temple. “Did you cut yourself on the glass?”

“No,” Eli grunted.

“Then why—?”

“I don’t want to talk.”

But you didn’t stop. You never did.

“Is it about earlier?” you whispered. “About what I said—about the breakup?”

His shoulders tensed beneath your hands. His breath caught.

“I’m still going to finish the contract, Eli. I said I would. I’m not going back on that.”

He pulled away—not violently, but fast enough to break your grip. Fast enough to sting. He stood, pacing, his hand dragging through his hair, tugging hard at the strands like they were guilty of something.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up fully now. “Talk to me. What is it?”

“Everything!” Eli snapped, spinning on you, eyes blazing. “Everything is wrong!”

You flinched at the volume—more from the rawness than the rage. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, baritone unraveling like a string pulled too tight.

He ran both hands down his face, then turned from you, talking too fast, too loud, like something inside him had finally come unhinged.

“Since the beginning, alright? Since the goddamn beginning. Since the day my mother died and that bastard of a father turned me into a fucking cadet!” His voice shook, rough and splintered. “Treated me like I was a project. A soldier. A fucking experiment.”

You didn’t speak. You just watched.

He paced again, bare feet crunching softly near the shards of the glass he’d thrown.

“And now look at him,” Eli spat. “Look at Frank. Smiling in every photo like he didn’t choke the life out of his first kid. Father of the year. Model citizen. And Thomas—”

He stopped, a ragged sound tearing out of his throat. He looked up at the ceiling like he might find the words carved into it.

“I love that kid,” Eli said, quieter now, but the fury hadn’t left his voice—it just folded in on itself, tighter. “And I hate that I love him. Because he gets everything I didn’t. Everything I should have had. And it’s not his fault. He’s just a kid. But I still want to scream every time he calls me big brother like it’s some fucking badge of honor.”

He turned toward you again, eyes dark and wild. “And then there’s Barkley.”

You blinked. “Your son?”

“My thieving, lying son,” Eli snapped. “Ran off with half my fucking money. I gave that boy my name, my blood, my legacy, and he pissed on all of it. And now, when I look at him, I don’t see a son—I see every single mistake I ever made shoved into a leather jacket and a smug grin.”

He shook his head, pacing again, hands clenching. “And now you—” he stopped, staring at you like you’d started this fire in his chest, “—you think you’re going to walk away? For what? For that scarf-wearing, open-mic-night philosophy major? Jordan?”

You opened your mouth.

“Don’t lie to me!” he shouted. “I see the way you look at him. Like he’s your salvation. Like he’s going to love you gently and say all the right things and touch you like you’re made of glass.”

He stepped forward, pointing, breath sharp.

“But he doesn’t know you. Not like I do. He didn’t see you beg. Didn’t see you scream. He didn’t drag the truth out of you like splinters. He didn’t pay your fucking bills.”

You stood too, hands shaking. “That’s not love, Eli. That’s control.”

“I don’t know how to love!” he bellowed, and the silence that followed was devastating.

Eli stared at you, chest heaving.

“I don’t know how,” he repeated, quieter now. “I only know how to keep people. How to own them. Protect them. Pay for them. Fuck them. Ruin them.”

His voice cracked again. “Because every time I loved something, it got taken. Or left. Or died.”

You took a step toward him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

The air between you hung heavy with something unspoken. Something broken.

Then, softer, like a confession he hadn’t meant to give: “If you leave, I don’t think I’ll know who the hell I am anymore.”

You exhaled.

And despite everything—every awful word, every ugly truth—you held out your arms again.

Eli looked at them. Looked at you. And this time, when he came to you, it wasn’t with hunger. It wasn’t with control.

It was with grief.

And need.

And something dangerously close to love.

The two of you didn’t talk about that night. Not about the bed. Not about the glass. Not about the confession that cracked open like a wound under your ribs and spilled something too fragile for either of you to name.

Eli stopped calling. He didn’t cancel your contract. Didn’t cut off your funds. He simply… stopped being there. The apartment was quiet. No more sharp baritone echoing through the halls, no more “Fix your goddamn posture” mid-study session, no more smirking commands to sit on the desk, to arch your back, to “earn your rent.”

And you didn’t go after him.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because you were tired. Because your final exams were looming, your hands were shaking every morning from too much coffee and not enough sleep, and every time you picked up your phone to text him—Are you okay?—you remembered the way he’d shouted, I don’t know how to love.

So you gave him space. Weeks passed like molasses. You studied. You worked. You kept your head down and your mouth shut. No more Playboy. No more photo shoots. Just you and your books and the deafening silence where Eli used to be.

And then, one afternoon, everything changed.

It was a Thursday. Warm. Early summer. The air outside still held the ghost of pollen, and your backpack was too heavy, and you were running on three hours of sleep and two Red Bulls. The exam had gone better than expected. You’d even smiled on the way out.

And Jordan was waiting at the curb.

He leaned against his motorcycle, helmet tucked under one arm, his scarf flapping in the breeze like a flag of hipster rebellion. He grinned when he saw you—wide and unguarded—and you couldn’t help it. You smiled back.

Eli saw it happen. He was crossing the lot, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other, heading for his battered Mercedes like it owed him a favor. He wasn’t even looking for you. Not consciously.

But he looked up. And froze.

You were laughing—laughing—as Jordan handed you a helmet and gestured for you to climb on. He was helping you fasten the strap under your chin, his knuckles brushing your throat, his voice soft, close.

Eli’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Just stood there, half-shadowed under the curve of the building, hazel eyes locked on the image in front of him like he couldn’t quite process it.

You climbed on behind Jordan, wrapped your arms around his waist, and held tight.

And Eli—

He felt something snap. Not a loud break, not a scream. Just a quiet, internal fracture, like a glass vial under pressure finally giving way. His hands clenched at his sides; his breath came sharply through his nose.

The motorcycle roared to life.

Jordan laughed.

You pressed your cheek to his back, grinning, hair whipped by the wind.

And Eli Michaelson, Nobel laureate, academic tyrant, expert in quantum chemistry and the systematic disassembly of human emotion, stood in a parking lot watching the only person who had ever understood him ride away on a fucking motorcycle with a boy who wore scarves in June.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. But his keys dug so hard into his palm, they drew blood.

And his baritone voice, when he finally spoke hours later into the hollow quiet of his kitchen, was so quiet it felt like a funeral.

“She wants him.”

He didn’t say it with anger. He said it like a sentence. Like a fact of the universe. Like gravity.

And somewhere deep inside—past the pride, past the genius, past the carefully constructed shell of control—Eli Michaelson finally felt fear.

Eli, the stupid fucking idiot Eli, found himself at a bar. Not a fancy one—not some sleek rooftop lounge where Nobel laureates went to be admired in dim lighting over overpriced whiskey. No. This was a dive. Sticky floors. Flickering TV mounted in the corner. One of the barstools had duct tape wrapped around the seat like a tumor. Eli took it anyway.

He was on his third scotch.

Maybe fourth. The bartender had stopped counting.

He felt ridiculous. Humiliated. Bitter.

Suffering. Over a girl. A girl.

He laughed—quiet and mirthless, more air than sound—and rubbed a hand over his face. His baritone rasped out low and sharp: “Christ, you’re pathetic.” He ordered another.

How ironic the world was. How small. How cruel.

He shouldn't have bought that Playboy magazine. He shouldn’t have picked it up in the first place—shouldn’t have flipped through the pages like some pervert. But he had. Like a fucking idiot.

He shouldn’t have chased you. Shouldn’t have dragged you against his car and shoved his mouth between your thighs like an addict licking the spoon. Shouldn’t have begged you to stay.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

He took another drink. At a nearby table, a woman had been watching him for the last twenty minutes. Pretty. Young. Too much makeup. The kind who liked her men older, tragic, and bleeding from the edges.

Eli glanced at her.

Then glanced again.

She smiled.

He raised his glass. Called the bartender. “Send her one of these.”

The man nodded, wiping his hands on a towel. Eli leaned back, glass dangling from his fingers, already seeing it—her in his bed, her knees spread, her mouth open, moaning his name like she’d known it forever.

Yes, he thought. That’s going to fix this. That’s going to make him forget you.

He was about to stand. About to walk over. About to slide back into the skin he wore best: charming, cruel, fuckable.

Then—

His phone buzzed. He frowned, dug it from his coat pocket, already preparing to ignore it.

Thomas.

He sighed. “Of course.”

He answered anyway.

“What is it, Thomas?” he muttered, pressing the phone to his ear. “You know these calls are expensive.”

The line crackled faintly. Then his brother’s voice came through, bright and unbothered.

“Hi, bro! Sorry, I just— I wanted to tell you—yesterday in school I did this project about chemical reactions, and I used vinegar and baking soda, and it exploded all over my shoes, and my teacher said I should be a scientist like you!”

Eli closed his eyes. Rubbed his temple. He didn’t respond.

Thomas kept going. “And I told her, I said, ‘My big brother’s a genius. He’s got awards and everything. He won a prize from Sweden!’ And she said—”

Eli cut in, voice sharp. “Tell Dad. He’s the one who cares. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it. His favorite son. His beloved second chance.”

Thomas was quiet on the other end.

Too quiet.

Eli blinked, something in his gut twisting—but before he could say anything, the boy’s voice returned. Softer. Confused.

“…He always talks about you.”

Eli froze.

Thomas went on, his voice a little smaller now, but no less certain. “Dad has this album. He keeps it in the study. It’s full of newspaper clippings. Photos. Your name. Your speeches. Even the one where you looked really mad and your hair was all messed up.”

Eli didn’t breathe.

“He always says you’re the pride of the Benson family,” Thomas added. “That you were the first person to show the world what we could do. He says I’ll be like you one day.”

Silence.

The bar faded.

The woman disappeared.

Even the scotch in his hand felt weightless.

Thomas kept speaking, unaware of the thunder cracking inside Eli’s skull. “He says he was a bad dad to you. That he messed up. But he never stops talking about how smart you are. He brags about you all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”

Eli let out a breath. Just one. Shaky. Quiet.

He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

And for the first time in a long time, that silence wasn’t filled with bitterness. It was filled with grief.

And something dangerously close to... relief. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

So he swallowed it. Like poison. Like medicine. Like everything he’d ever swallowed in his father’s house.

Then he cleared his throat and said, voice hoarse, “Go to school, Thomas.”

The boy hesitated. “…Okay. Good Morning, Eli.”

“Night.”

He hung up. The drink sat untouched in his hand. The woman across the bar was still watching. But Eli didn't move. He just sat there.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know who he was trying to forget. His father. Himself.

Or you.

There was a loud knock on your apartment door. Sharp. Repeated.

It was 2:11 in the morning.

You sat up fast, heart pounding, still dressed in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. No one should’ve been at your door. Not at this hour.

You grabbed the bat from under the side table—the old aluminum one you kept there for moments just like this—and padded silently to the door, bare feet cold against the tile. You peered through the peephole, every muscle in your body braced for a stranger, a threat, a face you didn’t know.

But it wasn’t a stranger.

It was Eli. Drunk. Disheveled. His white dress shirt wrinkled, the collar half-popped, and his dark coat askew over one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His hazel eyes were glassy, bloodshot. His hooked nose looked sharper in the hallway light, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.

You lowered the bat slowly.

Then you opened the door.

“Do you think my father loves me?” Eli slurred.

You blinked. “…What?”

He leaned against the doorframe, eyes not quite meeting yours. “You’re smarter than you look. What do you think? Is it love when someone makes you bleed and calls it discipline?”

You swallowed. “Eli, I don’t—I don’t even know your father—”

“Didn’t ask if you knew him,” he snapped, baritone thick and broken. “I asked if you think he loves me.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. There was no right answer.

Before you could respond, he pushed off the frame and leaned toward you—too fast. His hand caught your shoulder, and then his mouth was on yours, rough and uninvited. He kissed you like a man falling off a ledge, desperate to take something down with him.

You pushed him back with both hands. “Eli, what the fuck—”

“I can’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, breath shaking. “I can’t do this. Not if you’re with him.”

“Who?”

“Jordan,” Eli spat the name like it burned. “That fucking… cardigan-wearing… golden retriever.”

You stared at him. “Are you seriously here, drunk, at two in the morning, because you’re jealous?”

He exhaled sharply. “I’m not jealous.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not,” he insisted, hazel eyes flashing. “Jealousy is wanting something someone else has. You’re not his. You’re mine.”

You sighed, the ache in your chest blooming again. “It’s not fair, Eli. You sleep with whoever you want. I’m not even allowed to talk to another guy without getting a lecture from you?”

“I haven’t,” he cut in.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched, the words slow and deliberate now—like they hurt. “I haven’t slept with anyone else. In months. Not since you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I tried,” he said, quieter. “Tonight. I tried. Bought a drink for someone. Took her home. She said yes.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“But when I touched her… I felt nothing. Nothing. Like kissing the wrong ghost.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Eli met your gaze finally, eyes darker now, his voice cracked and low.

“Do you have any idea what that means for me? I don’t do this. I don’t lose sleep. I don’t chase anyone. But you…” He trailed off, mouth twisting like the taste of your name was a confession.

You stood still, your fingers twitching at your side.

“I couldn’t fuck her,” he said finally, like it shamed him. “Because all I could think about was you. Your mouth. Your laugh. The way you never flinch when I’m cruel. You just stare back like you’re waiting for me to be human.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the bloodshot eyes, the cracked knuckles, the tilt of his mouth like he was halfway between begging and breaking.

He took a step closer. “Don’t be with him,” he whispered. “Please.”

You swallowed hard. “Why? Because you can’t get it up for anyone else?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Then:

“Christ,” Eli muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I actually said it.”

You didn’t move.

Neither did he. He just stood there in your doorway, every inch of arrogance stripped away, and waited to see if you’d slam the door in his face—or let him in.

And you…

You stepped aside.

Not because you forgave him. Not because it was simple. But because somewhere deep inside, under all the wreckage, you wanted to believe it.

Wanted to believe he meant it, even if he didn't know how.

[diejager]

How would each of the monster 141 react if hunter were like- straight up killed in front of them. Like no wiggle room “oh they might be alive and just unconscious” but just straight up dead. Sorry I am a sucker for angst and I feel like this would be a fantastic read considering how bonded and feral they all are to protect hunter. Thanks in advance! Love the blog! Keep it up 👍

Are you trying to get me killed? Do you want me to have a heartattack?

End of the line Cw: death, suicidal thoughts, angst, mention of suicide, blood, injury, tell me if I missed any.

It had been a mistake, a costly one, but still a mistake. In that moment, everything had lost its point, the mission, the goal, the enemy and the celebration were pointless, forgettable. Time slowed, lagging behind in minutes when the shot rang out, booming in your restless minds until all they could hear was a loud thump, a body slumping down.

It was a rookie mistake made by their eagerness to return home, bodies bruised from the last deployment and still sore, skin painted in black and purple, but you pushed on, being sent from one end of the planet to the other. They were hanging on a thin thread of perseverance and training, practiced to live on perpetual soreness and exhaustion.

But that didn’t ease the pain, the open wound in their hearts. They watched you slump over, blood pooling from the wound in your chest —shot center mass. They dropped everything, Rudy rushing to turn you over, hands shaky and eyes blurry, he choked down a sob and a tear slid down his cheek. You were unresponsive, eyes glazed and dull, the light that they all loved gone in a breath. You upper torso bled, a bullet pierced through your kevlar vest, the bullet’s calibre higher than anything they expected.

Ghost joined Rudy, desperate to see if there were a chance to resuscitate you, to bring you back to them. His hands were frantic, tremors wracking his whole body as he loomed forward, trying to find a pulse, hand pressing against your still warm throat. He felt his fears surging forward, the dark voice at the back of his mind grinding out words, terrors that followed him at every step. It was like the last Christmas, when Tommy and Beth died, when Joseph and his mom were shot, when the people he cared for were killed.

Ghost felt his voice leave him, croaky and dying, it made him unable to utter a single word, and so was Rudy, mind blank. So Alejandro was the one to tell the verdict, but they hadn’t needed him to tell them to know. Soap, König and Horangi heard your heart stop, the powerful muscle in your chest explode from the bullet and grow silent. The pain clawed at their hearts, the overbearing weight on their chest made their retreat harder.

However much Price wanted to cry, to fall to his knees as cradle your body against his chest, he was the TF’s leader, he had to bring the rest of them back home. He ordered Gaz back from his perch for the sniper after he dealt with it, Gaz’s advanced sight catching the glint of the scope. Holding the title of a Task Force’s captain meant a lot, it placed a certain amount of responsibility on his shoulder and he couldn’t let his men down. Price could let a few tears slip, but he had to hold it in until he had a moment to himself in the silence of his office.

Gaz was silent during and afterwards, watching your limp body being carried in König’s arms until you reached the aircraft piloted by Nikolai who shared an equally heartbroken and saddened expression as them. His voice died with you, unable to voice his mind or his sorrows, confining himself to his room in silence. Although he lost himself, he had the others to bring him back like you did when Ghost wandered too deeply into his mind, bringing back up memories.

Soap did what he knew best, throwing himself into the fray, overworking himself with solo mission and spearheading other joint work. He almost worked himself to the bone until Horangi pulled him back, scuffing him and beating your wishes into his mind, telling him that you wouldn’t want them to break away like this, to wither away as if they were never here.

Despite helping Soap, Horangi suffered the same as the werewolf did, silently crying himself to sleep, fingers clawing at his head in desperation to quiet down the loud screeches in his mind, degrading words thrown at himself for failing you. He knew you didn’t want him to hate himself, but how could he quell the bleeding wound in his heart when you weren’t here to ease the pain away? The memory of you did.

Alejandro tried his best, acting and trying to feel better until it ultimately failed, he wasn’t in the right place to see you nor talk about you to others, murmuring your name when he slept and woke up with a start. He wasn’t as lost as Ghost was, didn’t shut the world around him down and closed in on himself, but he was following closely behind if he didn’t have the Task Force.

Rudy was the most human out of them, he felt more strongly but couldn’t cry. His mind was blank, the beat in his chest loud and erratic, yet his mind was silent, a ground of deathly quiet. He couldn’t do anything, work became hard, waking up exhausting, and taking care of himself harrowingly difficult. You’d scold him if you saw how he was behaving, how little care he had for himself —to near hunger and insanity. He hung onto your words, your confession, the three words you gave them as a parting gift, that’s what forced him out of his shell.

While the rest worked through their pain, to reach a stalemate together, none fell as hard as Ghost and König, both having a difficult childhood and a harder time following their enlistment. The lost themselves easily, becoming much more violent and deranged in their kills, ripping men in half and swallowing them whole, leaving all but a puddle of blood behind. The only thing that stopped them from ending their pain, to reaching out towards the knife that hung on the side of their thighs were your words, the handwritten words on your will and a message for everyone.

You wanted them to live, to be happy without you being there and that you’d be waiting for them on the other side until eternity. You were patient after all. At least a part of you hung from their necks, your ashes shared between the eight men and your items spread equally.

“I love you.”

Tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[gretaglasses]

Handsome Caitlyn Week Day 2: Formal/Uniform

“I’ve scheduled the tailor to come for a fitting before the gala next week,” Cassandra announced as the family sat down to breakfast, primly setting her napkin in her lap. “I want to ensure we have enough time to get everything hemmed properly.”

Caitlyn picked at her eggs with her fork, humming in vague agreement, hoping that Cassandra wouldn’t linger on the subject. She didn’t want to think about whatever monstrosity the tailor had concocted for her this time. Cassandra always insisted that the Kirammans attend the annual gala as a unit, which meant that Caitlyn was often just a miniature of whatever Cassandra wanted to wear. The last gown had had a high, lacey collar that had itched all night, and stiff sleeves that made it hard to raise her hand more than a few inches. Its skirt had been voluminous thanks to the piles of petticoats underneath, which she’d tripped over while coming down the stairs, sending her down the final steps in an inelegant wobble.

She’d felt like a fool, and that had been before the growth spurt that made her tower above everyone else in her class.

So as she watched the tailor unpack his accoutrements in their sitting room later that day, Caitlyn’s expectations weren’t just low–they were nonexistent. Still, she forced herself to smile politely when he directed her towards the dressing screen, where she stripped off her shirt and trousers without so much as a glance at the clothes he had so carefully hung just a moment ago.

Eventually, though, she had to face her fate.

Sighing, Caitlyn reached for the clothes, then did a double-take. For a moment, she worried that the tailor had gone rogue, because what was hanging inside the dressing screen was decidedly not what she’d been expecting, not remotely close to what she’d worn every year since she’d been deemed old enough to attend galas such as this one.

There wasn’t a single ruffle, for one thing. Instead, there was a smooth blouse tucked inside a neat, sharp blazer, the cut not unlike what Tobias would likely be wearing. The Kiramman crest had been embroidered on the blazer’s collar, golden thread bright against the familiar shade of blue, matched by the small, delicate chain draped artfully across the other shoulder. There was still a skirt, but there were no petticoats to go with it, only a simple pair of heeled boots peeking out from the bottom.

Caitlyn stared, open-mouthed, until Cassandra’s voice drifted through the screen.

“Is everything alright, Caitlyn?” she asked, and that was when Caitlyn knew it wasn’t a mistake, that Cassandra had commissioned these clothes for her, the slight, almost imperceptible note of smug amusement in her mother’s voice making it loud and clear.

Suddenly, Caitlyn couldn’t pull the clothes on fast enough. The blouse was like butter on her skin, and when she experimentally swung her arms forward and up, she was delighted to feel no pinching of fabric forcing her to keep them close to her side. She stepped into the skirt, delighted again when the hem settled neatly below her knees, but not so far down that there was any risk of tripping over it as she came out from behind the screen.

Immediately, Cassandra’s sharp eye was on her. Caitlyn was struck again with irrational worry, but she straightened her shoulders, returning Cassandra’s critical stare with her own while she waited for the final verdict.

It came a moment later, a quick, barely-there nod. Their gazes caught, Caitlyn’s wide grin met with a fleeting but real smile, before Cassandra turned back to the tailor.

“We’ll have to mind the sleeves, but this is excellent work, as usual…”

The tailor preened under the praise, nodding and following Cassandra back towards the rest of the clothes, discussing this or that detail that Caitlyn did not pay attention to. Her eyes were fixed forward, on her own reflection now visible in the mirror.

Her first thought was that she looked older. But then she realized that no, that wasn’t quite right. The ease in her posture had nothing to do with age. She felt, for once, comfortable in this new body of hers. Her rapidly growing legs, the wide set of her shoulders, didn’t feel quite so monstrous without the overlay of fabric and bows that Cassandra favored for herself.

She stepped closer, moving easily without the pinch of a tight blouse across her shoulders. She smoothed down the hem of her blazer, took in the set of the Kiramman blue against her skin, and felt a grin spread across her face.

<< Day 1: Prince/Knight Day 3: Gender >>

[xelliewilliamsx]

The Back Booth

༺♥༻❀༺♥༻

Club Owner!Ellie x Server!Reader

Previous

Summary: After a challenging breakup with her ex-fiancé, y/n has relocated to Los Angeles to embark on a fresh chapter. Having relied on her partner's success as an artist, she had never navigated the job market, which left her feeling both spoiled and dependent. Now, at 24 and living in a cozy studio apartment, y/n is uncovering the essence of self-sufficiency while working as a server at an upscale lounge bar, where she meets the intriguing owner.

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter; it was a little shorter than I wanted it to be. But, as the story picks up, they will get longer. Again, if you have any suggestions or requests that you want to see added to the story, I am open to feedback! Enjoy :)

Chapter 2. Shadow and Smoke

"I'm Ellie, the owner of Frond and Fire, and I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from treating my employee with such disrespect." 

Upon hearing that, Aster stepped forward, voice sharp with indignation. “Perfect. Then, as one of your most loyal and valued patrons, I’m requesting that you fire this imbecile for her blatant disrespect,” he snapped. “I come here every single Thursday and order the exact same thing—she’s always the one serving me, too.”

He paused just long enough to jab a finger harshly in your direction. Your breath caught, eyes widening as your heart pounded with the fear of losing your job over what felt like a small misstep.

“If she can’t manage the bare minimum,” Aster continued coldly, “then she’s certainly not capable of delivering the exceptional. And if she stays, I won’t.” Crossing his arms with theatrical finality, he tapped his foot, clearly waiting for Ellie’s verdict.

Ellie’s lips curved into a shadowed smile—one that held no trace of warmth—as she slid her hands out of the frayed pockets of her ripped jeans. At the sight of her expression, Aster’s confidence crumbled; his shoulders stiffened, and he quickly dropped his gaze. In stark contrast, you couldn’t tear your eyes away. A rush of gratitude swelled in your chest at her quiet defense, your attention drawn to the sharp elegance of her profile.

The lounge lights—low, fluid, and ever-shifting—danced across her face in a slow, cinematic rhythm. Each pass of light caught on the gleam of her nose ring, lit the small studs scattered along her brow, and followed the delicate trails of silver that adorned her skin like fleeting constellations. The glow pulsed between warm and cool, casting her features in an ever-changing balance of shadow and shine.

If Ellie noticed your gaze, she gave no sign—or simply didn’t care. Her voice cut cleanly through the tension as she picked up right where she’d left off. 

“Aster,” she said smoothly, “our mission at Frond and Fire is to provide an experience beyond expectation—where every detail is customized to your needs. No request is too minor, no luxury too extravagant. We strive to anticipate, personalize, and perfect, creating a space where indulgence is the standard, and attentiveness is absolute.”

Aster straightened slightly at her words, a flicker of hope tugging at the corners of his mouth. But Ellie's smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp glare as she stepped deliberately into his personal space. His posture faltered again, and he nodded stiffly, throat bobbing with a hard swallow as she drew even closer.

Without breaking eye contact, Ellie reached out and pinched a loose thread poking from the seam of his silk Versace shirt. With a swift tug, she tore it free—leaving behind a small but unmistakable hole in the expensive fabric. Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

“If I ever hear you speak to her—or any of my staff—in that tone again, I’ll make sure you’re blacklisted from every club in L.A. Do I make myself clear?”

Aster was pale and sweating now, his gaze fixed on her hand as if it still held the thread. His brow furrowed, but no words came. Just a shaky nod. The two women flanking him stared straight ahead, pretending they hadn’t just watched him get completely dismantled.

Ellie’s grin returned, all charm once more. She reached down casually, plucked a truffle fry from Aster’s plate, and popped it into her mouth. Then, turning to you, she placed a gentle hand on your arm and said, “You’re doing great. Keep it up.”

You met her forest green eyes, heart still pounding, too stunned to speak at first. When you finally managed a small smile, you gave a respectful nod. “Thank you, miss.”

She chuckled—a soft, genuine sound that lit up the freckles scattered across her face. “Please, call me Ellie. And if you ever need anything… you know where I sit.” With a playful wink, she turned and strolled back toward her booth in the back, every step magnetic. You couldn’t help but watch her go, momentarily forgetting where you were.

A throat cleared beside you. Aster. His cheeks burned crimson, and he still couldn’t look you in the eye.

“Can I… please get more margaritas for the ladies?” he muttered.

༺♥༻❀༺♥༻

The rest of your night passed without incident—except for the persistent weight of a gaze you couldn’t shake. You felt it with every step, every tray balanced on your arm. And though you fought the urge, you knew exactly who it belonged to. Ellie.

You’d caught her watching you more than once, each time her expression unreadable save for the faintest smirk curling at the corner of her lips as she casually sipped her tea. The book she'd started with lay forgotten beside her, spine-up on the velvet table. A cigarette smoldered lazily in the ashtray, occasionally lifted to her lips just long enough to cast her face in flickering light.

The third time your eyes locked with hers, it took everything in you to break away—and after that, you made a silent vow not to look again. One of the cardinal rules at Frond and Fire was clear: treat all guests with discretion, especially those in the VIP lounge. Any glances misread as too long, too curious, or too personal could be seen as inappropriate. And worse, if a bodyguard or staff member got the wrong impression, you'd be out of a job by morning.

This wasn’t the kind of place where celebrities tolerated being stared at—not even when they were the ones doing the staring. Making them uncomfortable? That was a one-way ticket out the door.

The emptiness you felt once Ellie left for the night was surprising—both hollow and oddly relieving. Deep down, you knew the rush you got when your eyes met hers wasn’t exactly right, yet behind those intense forest greens, there was a flicker of something else: curiosity. You’d noticed Ellie long before tonight’s encounter—after all, you often served her the Earl Grey she never seemed to put down, checking in on her from time to time. From the very first moment, you were drawn to her. How could you not be? She was completely your type.

There’s something magnetic about a woman who commands a room, whose presence demands attention. Now that you knew she was the owner, everything clicked into place. Her power wasn’t just an act—it was real, and that made her even more captivating.

As you made your way to the bus stop a mile from Frond and Fire, your mind replayed the night’s events. You smiled quietly to yourself as you settled into the back seat, stifling a giggle at Aster’s expression. Sliding your earbuds in, you drifted into a daydream of smoky green eyes and intoxicating power, realizing with a breathless chuckle—you were, yeah, kinda fucked. 

[imaginarytheatre]

A Yanfei x Reader with it centered like this 1 min clip called NewsRadio Negotiation (I think it'll really fit her). Here’s the link for the YouTube video just in case. https://youtu.be/wN9Jq3_Z-1M?si=CrfQtHoG4VVy6_E5

Let's say the reader is a lawyer but hails from Fontaine. Yanfei and the reader has had a rivalry for a number of years. Though it's only in the courtroom as outside of it they're friends. Finally, the reader just had it and plops down this stack of contract papers asking for a relationship. It's the initial draft for a contract of the terms for a relationship if they agree to it. Like alternating years to visit one's family for holidays and stuff like that but other points are negotiated. It even goes so far as having the Traveler sign it as well for the witness signature section to add more authenticity.

Case Closed - Yanfei x Reader

I loved doing this request! It was so fun. I chose Aether as the Traveler, since on my acc I have Lumine!

Yanfei laid her case perfectly. The way she has written her arguments and presented them, it should've been an open-and-shut case. However, the lawyer against her is just as competent. 

“Objection.” You started with that firm tone of yours. 

She frowned at that. What's there to object? She tied every last lone thread together and formed what she thought was a perfect explanation.

“If I may, according to this clause…” Oh boy, it was gonna be a long day.

As you countered, you could feel Yanfei using all her might to not glare daggers at you. You couldn’t have felt smarter.

Yanfei felt her heart get caught in her throat when the jury left to negotiate their Voir Dire.

She couldn't help but discreetly huff her cheeks at you. She has spent so much time working on her rebuttals, only for you to come and completely dismantle them with your evidence.

Even so, deep down she felt happy seeing how jovial you looked, seeing the verdict in your favour.

–

“Ah, no fair!” A drunk Yanfei sprawled herself over the table in the tavern. 

You smiled triumphantly, one leg crossed over your other. “I can't help but bet I'm just too good, Yanfei.”

“I totally thought I had you. Then for you to completely turn the tables on me… I’m my home base!” Yanfei reaches into her wallet and pulls out enough to cover the bill. “Next time I'm gonna make sure I win so you end up taking the tab.” 

“I'm glad to see you have priorities.” You state smugly. 

However, the last part gnawed at the back of your head because the next case you were going to take was one you couldn't afford to lose. You had all the papers drafted up and perfectly printed out. All you needed was to win the negotiations.

And win her over. 

That night when you went home, you pulled out the stack of documents from your office. You re-read them once, twice, several times over. It wasn't your first time re-reading them. However, it will be the last, because you will be presenting them tomorrow.

She was everything you've ever wanted. Smart, talented, challenging. She was so stunning when she argued against you in court. Even your losses don't feel so bad when she's the one putting on the heat.

You could only hope she felt the same way. And naturally, you'd do it on both of your terms. That's where the negotiations came in.

–

The next morning, you arrived at Yanfei’s office. You came here often to spend time with Yanfei, so the receptionist let you in immediately. When she saw your documents, she smirked and gave you a thumbs-up. You could almost hear the ‘Finally!’

You barely managed to control yourself from rolling your eyes. You have to maintain professionalism! 

You knocked on her door, you knew her office number by heart. 

“Come in!” Said the voice inside. Whoo, this is it. You were gonna hand it to her, and everything was gonna be on the table.

You walked in the same way you'd walk into a meeting with a client. Back straight, poised, and like a true professional. Because you were one, really. 

Yanfei looked at you in shock, before smiling brightly. “Oh, I didn't know you were coming today. You should have said something!” She smiled, looking up at you from her documents. “Whatcha here for?”

“Ms. Yanfei, I have some documents to present to you.” You say, keeping a neutral gaze. 

“Oh?” Yanfei's expression turns into mock professionalism, reflecting your own. “What do you want me to see?” 

You put down a stack of papers. Documents, to be exact. Yanfei's eyes went big at the top. Dating contract.

“Miss Yanfei, I'm currently single at the moment. Am I right in assuming that you are as well?” 

Her hand goes to her mouth. She clearly wasn't expecting this. “Well, yes, I am.” 

“So, I would like to negotiate some terms of a relationship.” You state flipping to the first page. “My offer is a relationship with a fellow lawyer. Since we are both lawyers, we understand the ins and outs of the business, and therefore would be more understanding of each other's problems than any other.”

“Objection.” She replies, “If there are any problems that arise that you are not prepared to handle, how would you react?”

“Naturally, I will be as understanding as possible and offer any aid that you require. Any questions?” 

Yanfei shakes her head.

You take this as a sign to continue and flip the page. “We both already know each other. Therefore, you would know by now if you are compatible with me.”

“I have an idea.” She says with a mild grin, “Do you mind elaborating on that?” 

You resist the urge to playfully roll your eyes once again. It feels like everyone knows what you're talking about, they just need you to explain it over and over.

“If you know anyone capable of dealing with you better, you're welcome to reject me. All I mean is, we've known each other for so long. I'm sure I can meet all your needs.”

You flip to the third page, revealing a list of discussion topics. “Living accommodations.”

“I need to live in Liyue to work.” Yanfei’s smile turns into something more serious. It seems the situation has finally sunk in completely. 

“I'm happy to work here in Liyue. However, I will need to travel for three months out of the year to do cases in Fontaine.” 

“One month.” 

“Two months.” 

“Deal.” She relents. 

You look at the next item on the agenda. “Overtime.”

“I do a lot of it.” You notice she seems firm on this, best not to cross a deal breaker. 

“10 hours, weekdays only.”

“15 hours weekdays only.” She presses. 

You weren’t going to give up. “10 hours on weekdays. However, during the busy season, Sundays are viable.” 

“Deal.”

Next topic, vacations. 

Yanfei is quick to start this time. “I propose alternating between my family and your family.” 

You retorted, “What if one vacation is longer than the other?” 

She thinks for a while before answering. But when she does, she’s splendidly leading the charge. And she was spectacular. “Then by the end of the year, if one of us feels like we got the short end of the stick, they get to pick an extra holiday.”

“Deal.” You said with a nod.

Just what you liked to hear. You look down your list. You couldn’t hide your smile when you saw the last topic. “Time together.”

You saw a blush creep on this ace attorney’s face, but you knew you most likely bore a similar visage. You decide to lay the first offer. “50 hours through the week.”

She didn’t say a thing. You worried you might have gone too far and she would reject the offer. But she looked straight at you and said with her courtroom conviction, “Whenever I can.”

Now you are the one that couldn't look at her without blushing. You coughed into your fist. “That may not be a set amount, but you have a deal.”

Yanfei took the documents and signed her name on the line, after reading it over, of course. You did the same. You frowned.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, softly. It was endearing.

“We’d need a witness.” You pressed your lips together, “I have someone in mind…”

–

“What is this??” Aether asked with mild fear. 

Anyone would be scared, seeing as you and Yanfei loomed over him. He gulped in his seat, staring painfully ahead. 

Yanfei held up the document. “We need a witness, as do many official documents. If anything goes wrong, you will be held liable.”

“Why??” Aether gulped again, seeing both of your expressions. “Well, since you’re both so similar… I doubt this relationship will sink.”

You felt your face heat up and you quickly looked away. You missed the way Yanfei did the same. You’d make a poor detective. 

Aether signed the document hastily. “Please let me go, Paimon is probably freaking out.”

You feel a hand touch your shoulder. You look up and see Yanfei squeezing your shoulder. She’s so warm, you want to be with her forever. 

“That makes this case closed then.”

[missdawnandherdusk]

The Innocent

Draco x Reader

The Case The Defendant The Witness

The Auror The Confession The Deceased

The Verdict

Summary: The day in court is finally here... for better or worse.

A/n: I was going to make this realistic... but then I thought to hell with that. This is fiction which means good prevails and love wins so screw reality. I'd like to personally dedicate this one to @drcelly love you

I paced back and forth on that marble floor. Draco was in Dr. Dresden’s office for over an hour with the Minister of Magic and a few other high ranking officials, as well as Pansy Parkinson, who was now the CEO of The Prophet. 

Anxiety clawed its way up my throat. All of this was going to go horribly wrong. I would lose my future. I would lose the case. Draco would lose his son. And I would lose Draco. Perfect destruction all laid out in front of me and it was all my fault. 

The door opened. My eyes flashed up. My heart hammered in my chest. Dr. Dresden appeared, gave me a tight look but nodded before heading on his way. Then the Minister left, giving me a small smile. Then other nameless officials. None of them said a word. Pansy left the office, still scribbling down notes while also being on a mobile fire call. 

Finally Draco appeared. All of my hopes were reading his facial expressions. 

The door clicked closed behind him. 

His face was solemn. 

My heart sank. 

He held out his hand for me to shake. 

Chewing on my lip, I reached out and he firmly grasped my hand in his. 

“I’ll see you in court on Tuesday, Ms. Public Defender,” A smile curled onto his face. 

I choked out a laugh. Tears pricked my eyes. I dropped his hand and threw my arms around his neck. Draco held me close. 

“Thank you,” I was crying. “Thank you, Draco.” 

“You deserve this Y/n. I’ve never seen anyone work harder to prove my innocence and I want you there with me,” 

We were face to face, threads of hope tying us together. 

“How—how did you even…?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Draco smiled warmly. “It’s going to be okay. I wasn’t going to let anyone do that to you,” 

“But Dresden…” 

“Will keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him.” Draco said cooly. 

“Are you blackmailing him?” 

“No darling,” Draco laughed softly. “But Pansy is the head of The Prophet and if he wants to go through with what he tried to pull on you—it will be headlining the papers for weeks to come,” 

“So we did it?” I dared to hope. 

“Well, you still have a case to win,” Draco said, amused. “But, yes I suppose we did.” 

“Thank you,” I said earnestly, hugging him again. 

“No thank you,” He said. “You are the only person who ever convinced me that I was innocent.” 

“You are,” I said. “And soon the whole world is going to know it.” Before I got lost too far in his eyes, I recovered. “I’ll… I’ll be over Monday evening? To tie up any loose ends before the case.” 

“As you wish,” Draco bowed his head and turned to leave. I stood there, watching him go, warmth spreading through my chest. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was nearing ten o’clock at night. Almost everything had been combed through and knit-picked. I thought we were done, and God I wanted to be. I could barely keep my thoughts on track. Draco’s study was so cozy and peaceful, with the fire going and soft music coming from who knows where. Even Draco looked half asleep sitting at his desk in a cardigan and loafers. My heels were long forgotten as I stood on the plush carpets in my stockings. 

Rifling through my notes, I found a page of questions I had written for myself. It was the first time I ever talked over the case with Draco. It seemed like forever ago. My brows furrowed. 

“What?” Draco asked, perking up. 

“Nothing,” I shook my head. “Just some notes. It’s nothing,” 

“You’re worrying,” Draco mused getting up. “Really what is it?” 

“Nothing… just a question from that first day,” A shrug fell off my shoulders. “I was asking about Harry and the Death-Eaters at the Manor that Easter.” 

“I didn’t tell them it was Potter,” Draco recalled. 

“No,” I agreed. “And you were so kind to Luna,” My fingers drifted over her witness statement. 

“Yes,” Draco admitted, “Is it important to the case?” 

I turned to look at him. “It’s important to me,” 

Draco came over, peering over my shoulder at my hand scribbled notes. He was so close I could feel his warmth. I tensed, my breath catching. Draco took the page from my fingers and read it over. I turned leaning against the ornate mahogany table. 

HIs eyes met mine. 

“I knew Potter could end the war.” He said, his eyes years away. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “I wanted to be free. I—I didn’t want to be what they wanted me to be,”  

“You’re not,” I said softly, taking my note from his hands. “And tomorrow I’m gonna prove it.” 

His grey eyes held such joy as he looked at me. His eyes flickered down to my lips and suddenly he was very close and I was too tired to make rational choices. I backed away and he did too. 

“I—it… it’s late,” I stammered. “I—I should go,” 

He didn’t say anything but gave a nod. I gathered everything as magic aided it back into my bag. I could feel the redness on my face, and I could see it on his. Every step I took felt as if I was being pulled back by invisible string. 

“Goodnight Draco,” 

“Goodnight Y/n.” 

As I laid in bed that night it wasn’t the worry of the case that weighed on my mind; it was Draco and his warm grey eyes and kind smile that held me as I found sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And before the Minister, a jury of our peers, witnesses, and those overzealous to see what came of this case, I acquitted Draco Malfoy. 

When the gavel hit the wood and his innocence rang loudly, the room erupted with applause and sounds of wonder. Scorpius’ cheers’ were louder than the rest. I couldn’t help it, and neither could Draco, as we hugged again. He spun me around before setting me down again. Scorpius interrupted us, and I had never seen Draco so happy, holding his son. 

He was free. 

They both were. 

I smile stayed on my face as Scorpius came over and gave me a hug. I knelt down and gave him a proper hug. Over the little boy’s shoulder I looked up and saw Draco gazing down at us. Some weird flickered in my chest. Letting Scorpius go, I stood. Draco closed the distance between he and I, taking Scorpius to his side. Draco’s hand wrapped around my waist as his other let go of his son to cradle my face and pull it to his. Draco kissed me. Something soft and sweet. 

And innocent. 

.

masterlist

.

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[bobfloydsbabe]

checkmate | jake seresin x oc

a turning tables fic

SUMMARY: Jake comes to the infirmary needing stitches after an encounter with Jas' ex-boyfriend.

WARNINGS: incorrect medical stuff (not explicit), blood mention, talk of slut-shaming.

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

TURNING TABLES MASTERLIST

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A/N: I haven't written for Jake and Jas for a while and I missed them, so I dug this out of my drafts and finally finished it. I forgot how much I love writing their dynamic, so I hope you like this little drabble.

There was a knock on the door and Jas looked up from the computer screen to find Martha in the doorway. She held a chart in her hands and had an annoyed look on her face.

“There’s a lieutenant here who needs stitches,” she said.

Jas furrowed her brows, glancing at the clock on her computer. “Stitches?” she questioned. “Usually you take care of stitches.”

Martha sighed, offering the clipboard with the intake form to Jas, who stood to accept it. Flipping the page, her breath hitched at the name. “He’s asking for you.”

Jas held back a groan. “Of course he is,” she muttered and followed Martha out to the reception area.

“Watch out for him,” she said as she situated herself behind the desk. “I remember him from when he was at TOPGUN.”

“Let me guess,” Jas said, heading for the exam room. “He was as much a pain in the ass then as he is now.”

She didn’t wait to hear Martha’s response, but opened the door to the stark white exam room. Jake Seresin sat on the exam bed, holding gauze to his left eyebrow.

“Who punched you this time?” she asked, closing the door behind her. He was in civilian clothes. Dark jeans, black boots, and a white t-shirt sprinkled with blood from his split eyebrow.

She expected him to grin, to make a quip, but nothing came. He looked defeated and a little angry.

“Met an ex-boyfriend of yours,” he said nonchalantly. Jas frowned at that, not remembering that any of her exes lived or worked in the area. She supposed a trip wouldn’t be out of the question, but it seemed unlikely.

She put the clipboard down on the bed next to him. “Yeah?” She asked and reached for a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall. “Which one?”

“Connor, I think his name was,” he said and removed the gauze at her indication. 

Jas chuckled. “Please tell me you threw the first punch,” she said, but caught herself. “Was it a punch that did this?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a shrug as Jas inspected the cut running through his brow. “Didn’t know you were into bodybuilders.”

Jas frowned at that. “He was scrawny when we were in med school.”

“Not anymore,” Hangman stated. “What’s the verdict?”

“You need stitches, so I’m going to numb you up and get started, okay?”

He nodded with another shrug. Silence fell over the room as Jas worked, finding a thread and needle, scissors, and tongs to hold the needle with.

“Tell me to stop if you feel any pain, okay?”

Jake hummed his acknowledgement, and Jas got to work putting him back together. He flinched a couple of times, but took it mostly in a stride.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend, you know.”

���What?”

“Connor,” Jas clarified as she tied up the last knot. “We went on two dates and had very boring, unsatisfying sex once.”

Jake frowned. His green eyes darkened, confusion overtaking his stupidly handsome face. “He wasn’t your boyfriend?”

Jas snorted so hard her nose hurt. “No,” she answered, discarding the gloves in a nearby trashcan. “He’s lying if he said that.”

“He did,” Jake said, as his feet hit the floor with a soft thud.

“So,” Jas began, looking over his intake form. “Why’d you punch him?”

Jake hovered near her shoulder, watching as she added her own notes, and she felt the intensity of his gaze. He was all body heat and tension and his cologne invaded her senses, making her head feel heavy.

“He’s an idiot.”

She looked up from the clipboard. She watched him put his balled up fists in his pockets and the way his jaw clenched. “I can’t put that in your chart,” she replied, straightening her back.

“It’s the truth.”

Jas nodded. “I’m sure it is, but I still can’t put that in your chart. So, what’d he say, Seresin?”

He looked around the room, avoiding her eyes. He clearly didn’t want to tell her, but she would pry it from him if she had to. She had her ways, especially with him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally replied.

Stepping forward, she came into his space, ignoring the electricity that burst to life between them as they breathed the same air. She could smell beer on his breath, and found that she didn’t hate it. “Come on, Seresin,” she coaxed, running a fingertip along his left bicep. “It can’t be that bad.”

Jake clenched his jaw again, turning his gaze to the ceiling as he let out a long breath. When his eyes returned to hers, he looked like he wanted to punch the man all over again. “He said you were an easy lay.”

Jas snorted again. “Did he now?”

“Yes.” Jake’s tone was harsh. Voice deep and hoarse.

“So you defended my honor?”

His eyes narrowed. “I–”

“I don’t need you to defend me, lieutenant,” Jas interrupted, squeezing his arm before taking a step back. “Certainly not to a guy who couldn’t even get me off.”

“He called you a slut,” he protested, clearly taken aback by her response.

She chuckled. “He’s not the first one to say that, and he won’t be the last. It says more about him than it does about me.”

Picking up a pen, she noted the reason for his trip to the infirmary, but left out some key details. No one needed to know that he’d started a bar fight.

“You’re not upset?”

She turned back to Jake, who looked as confused as ever. It was cute. “That he called me a slut, or that you punched him?”

“The name.”

“I don’t like it,” Jas relented. “But he’s just some guy I went to med school with. He’s an idiot.”

At that, Jake smiled for the first time. A small smile, but it the made the skin around his eyes crinkle in that way she loved so much.

“You’re not mad,” he said, sounding relieved, making Jas smile.

“No,” she said and stepped into his space again. “But if you still wanna make it up to me, come to my place after my shift.”

Jake’s eyes widened. When he opened his mouth to reply, Jas cut him off with a searing kiss to his lips that he returned with fervor, hands on her waist immediately.

They broke apart, and Jas leaned in, brushing her lips against his earlobe to whisper only a few short words.

“Get me off like the idiot never could.”

likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden

TAGLIST: @joaquinwhorres, @fantasias-creativebubble, @lostinwonderland314, @luckyladycreator2, @blue-aconite, @cherrycola27, @flashyourgreeneyesatme, @wordspin-shares, @atarmychick007, @lewmagoo, @yanna-banana, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @ereardon, @wkndwlff, @t-nd-rfoot, @sylviebell, @bobfloyds, @thedroneranger, @soulmates8, @withakindheartx, @eternallyvenus, @kmc1989, @bcarolinablr

[timelostobserver]

The old, tired fallen grumbles, using what's left of his break to idly read the newspaper that Hypnos oh-so-graciously brought him this morning. Hades was always behind on what happened in Hell... He barely talked to anyone considering no one even was brave enough to come and actually 'see' the ol' Reaper.

Well, the ones that knew he was there at least.

Still.. Hypnos seemed quite.. perturbed over recent happenings, so much so that he was rambling on and on about how 'messed up his stupid family' was.. And how he was happy to be out of their bureaucracy.

Said Goetia was up in his room ranting still.. Hades saw no reason to stop him. Not like anyone could breach Tartarus in his over-dramatic absence.

"And they wonder why I prefer to stay here, away from the sheer, raw chaos.." An outward grumble as he takes a sip from his mug, eyes continuing to read the paper.

[deadlincs]

spitballing here while i figure out if higu would ever be categorized as special grade sorcerer — could yall imagine if he somehow figures out a way to expand his reach with deadly sentencing. like, if, for whatever reason, he's on air — be it broadcasting or livestreaming or whatever — he's able to capture viewers?

imagine, someone comes across some weird channel or video about a trial that immediately seems ... off. the man on screen speaks to someone just out of view before the verdict's given. one single word that's screamed by a source most viewers can't see directly, but they can certainly hear it — shrill and loud and grating before the accused is ... dealt with. gruesomely.

then, the man turns towards the camera. looks directly at the viewer — at you — despite both eyes being sewn shut by coarse black thread. he addresses you by name to announce the beginning of your trial. the gavel in his already bloodstained hand strikes the table. both eyes start to open, tears flesh from thread to reveal twin voids of nothing — for justice is blind, is it not?

anyways, is this soft launching his curse user verse? perhaps :o)

[okaywhatabouthades]

One day, I’ll be sitting somewhere,  doing the most mundane chores—  and the dreaded news will reach me. 

Maybe someone will tell me.  Maybe I’ll read it. 

I’ll read about you announcing your relationship with someone else.  When I would have spent years hoping  I would be the girl you chose. 

The earth will slip beneath my feet.  The verdict will be given. 

The threads of hope will snap.  The walls of the home I built will be clean,  though I had hoped they’d be scribbled with the drawings of our children—  Five of them.  Just like you wanted.  And maybe more, if you insisted. 

I will take out the mop.  Collect the broken pieces of these dreams.  Shut them in a box.  As I leave to put them in the wardrobe,  From the corner of my eyes,  I will see a mirage of us dancing,  waiting for cookies to bake.  A song you sang will fill the background,  Smudges of flour on our faces,  the whiff of simmering hot chocolate on the stove. 

As I sit at the table to eat,  another image will flash:  Bickering.  Our children bickering.  I tell them off.  You laugh. 

And when I come home,  I’ll think about how I had hoped to open the door for you forever—  To take your coat,  run your bath,  ask about your day,  Comfort you when you were tired. 

Time will stop.  I will stop.  I will stop trying so hard  and succumb to destiny. 

The life I had started living because of you—  I’ll be able to look forward to its end again. 

People will say:  “Get married.”  They’ll try to explain to me why it’s important. 

Maybe I’ll smile.  Maybe I’ll look away.  Or just stare into the oblivion.  Their advice will fall onto deaf ears. 

Closed hearts can be opened.  Stolen hearts caught.  But a heart given away—  how do you ask for it to be returned?  Can you?  If you did,  the receiver—unaware of ever receiving such a gift—  would surely return it gracefully.  But how do you ask for something you do not desire?  You don’t.  

With cold bones yearning for death,  wrinkles hanging onto my skin,  and gnarly hands,  I will knit sweaters for children I never had. 

I will look outside the window  onto a treehouse that no one played in,  and a piece of land  that should have had all sorts of trinkets buried in it. 

Then one day, finally,  death will come for me. 

I will close my eyes—  and when I open them again,  hopefully, I’ll be in heaven. 

And I’ll ask Allah Tallah,  “Is he here?” 

[lunarcovehq]

Your Council held a meeting after the Campfire Retreat. The meeting happened a week after the event on Friday, July 26th. The Council sat down together to discuss the following:

Poppy brought to the agenda the issue of Rangi hitting Altan as it was the one interspecies physical altercation that occurred during the event, not at a scheduled game.

(Known to the Council Only/Redacted from Public Records for Privacy Reasons) Aiyla brought to the agenda Billie being an ex-hunter and making a deal with the Catalyst. Billie was a hunter before coming to Lunar Cove and has been a loyal member of the town since. But, during the Fae Ball, Billie made a deal with the Catalyst to save some of her loved ones, offering up her hunter skills in return for them getting out safely.

(Known to the Council Only/Redacted from Public Records for Privacy Reasons) Aiyla would also bring up how Poppy and JC made deals with the Catalyst. Though, JC’s favor has already been fulfilled as JC offered himself for the pack to leave, trapping them all at the ball.

Aiyla also brought up the issue of Dilan pulling the knife on Rangi now that Dilan has left the Fae Court and is unaffiliated. Dilan pulled a knife on Rangi during the event when she was still a member of the Fae Court. Aiyla wanted to punish her for it as a member of the Fae Court, but Dilan chose to leave the Fae Court and become unaffiliated instead, which is why Aiyla is bringing up the issue of punishing Dilan to the Council.

The Verdict from the Meeting is as follows:

For Rangi Hitting Altan: Rangi will have 6 months of conflict resolution (with the option for a shortened period to 3 months after a 3 month evaluation by a professional for progress. If no progress is found, Rangi must finish the full 6 months). Rangi must also complete an anger management course, grief counseling/grief meetings and have monthly check-ins with the Council for overall progress. No further legal action will be taken. (While the overall votes from the Council were for a shortened punishment, Aiyla & Poppy both were for 6 months and Aiyla had the final say, deciding upon the above).

(Known to the Council Only/Redacted from Public Records for Privacy Reasons) For Billie being an ex-hunter and for those who offered favors to the Catalyst: Poppy disclosed what he favor was to the Council being an open favor saying that she would do anything the Catalyst asked in return for Linden getting a seat. If Billie and Poppy are reached out to by the Catalyst, they will be asked to come forward so the Council can create a game plan. The Council will also be issuing a statement to the town about not negotiating with the Catalyst.

For Dilan pulling the knife on Rangi: Given that Dilan pulled the knife while she was still a Fae Court member, the punishment that Aiyla tried to give Dilan will still be honored (majority of the votes was for this). Aiyla also was allowed to up it (with the Council turning a blind eye to whatever Aiyla decided) given Dilan tried to rage quit. Dilan’s punishment is: A year (12 months) of conflict resolution (with the option for a shortened period to 6 months after a 6 month evaluation by a professional for progress. If no progress is found, she must finish the full 12 months) and an anger management course. She will have to get sign off of her hours by those running the course. No further legal action will be taken.

ANNOUCEMENTS

The above is a record of the past Council Meeting. We will be posting records like these moving forwards so all of the members can see what went down in the meeting.

All Council members are in the know about all of the above, but as for non-Council members, you would be aware of all of the above except for what favor Poppy offered & that Billie is a hunter. After the meeting, the Council would issue a statement about not negotiating with Lorelai Cavanaugh if Lorelai reaches out.

Feel free to react to the above in any upcoming threads or starters you wish!

[vievecorcityevents]

THE DEITY ELDER'S VERDICT...

The deity elders @elio-del-vecchio and @senkimura have decided to handle this situation with the Rosu clan vampire without involving any of the other species elders.

They have determined that the vampire will not face any legal repercussions for what she did as she was clearly manipulated and used by Artemis and her followers.

Sen Kimura will be holding the vampire with him until they can find vampires in the medical community to help her while she recovers from this ordeal.

As for Artemis, the deity elders would like call for the elders to convene and discuss how best to deal with them as quickly as possible. This meeting will be held in person on deity territory at the Natural History Museum.

OOC Info:

Now that the deities have reached a verdict on what they will do with the Rosu clan vampire, other characters are welcome to approach them in this regard. Feel free to use the information in this post for further plotting and threads~ Another thread will be opened in the OOC Discord for supernatural elders to discuss the issue of Artemis. Enjoy!

[f1-tennisgirlie]

okay so i saw this and just wrote something short....

hope you like it <3

The Art of War and Dinner: A Rivalry in the Courtroom

The courtroom was packed.

The moment Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz were announced as opposing counsel on a case, it became an event. Reporters lined the back row, hoping to capture the latest chapter in their legendary legal rivalry. Clients paid top dollar to have them fight on their behalf, and onlookers whispered bets on who would come out victorious this time.

Carlos Alcaraz, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit, flashed his signature easygoing smile as he greeted the jury with a confident nod. His charisma was effortless—he had a way of making people trust him, of drawing them in with warmth that masked the precision of his strategy. His opening statements were more like performances, subtly guiding the jury down the path he wanted them to take before they even realized they were following him.

On the other side, Jannik Sinner adjusted his tie with a methodical calm, his crisp charcoal suit perfectly mirroring his demeanor. Cold, precise, and razor-sharp, he wasted no words in court. Where Carlos charmed, Jannik dissected, wielding his intellect like a scalpel, cutting apart opposing arguments with ruthless efficiency. He spoke in clear, measured tones, every point meticulously laid out. His reputation preceded him—there was no room for fluff, no unnecessary grandstanding. He was here to win.

“Your Honor,” Carlos began, addressing the judge with a smoothness that made it sound like he was greeting an old friend. “The facts of this case are simple.”

Jannik barely resisted the urge to smirk. If Carlos was calling anything ‘simple,’ that meant he was about to weave a narrative so intricate it would take an expert to untangle it.

By the time cross-examinations rolled around, the courtroom was on edge. Carlos worked the witnesses like a seasoned interviewer, guiding them into responses that bolstered his case without them even realizing it. Jannik, on the other hand, went straight for the jugular. His questions were crisp, direct, and utterly ruthless. Witnesses faltered under his gaze, forced to concede point after point as he unraveled every loose thread Carlos had so carefully sewn together.

At one point, Carlos leaned on the counsel table and murmured, “You could at least pretend to let them get a word in.”

Jannik didn’t glance away from his notes. “Maybe if you didn’t lead them into weak arguments, they wouldn’t be struggling so much.”

The judge cleared her throat, shooting them both a warning glance. The courtroom might as well have been a gladiator arena, and the jury was enraptured by the battle.

In the end, the verdict was delivered—this time, in Jannik’s favor. Carlos took the loss with a gracious nod, though the moment they stepped out of the courtroom, he sighed dramatically. “You know, one of these days, I’d like to win without having to charm the entire city into submission.”

Jannik raised a brow. “I’d like to win without having to surgically remove your arguments piece by piece, but here we are.”

They walked in companionable silence toward the elevator, the tension of the trial already dissolving into something more familiar. By the time they reached the parking garage, Carlos had his phone out, scrolling through restaurants.

“Winner picks the place, right?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Jannik took one glance at the options on the screen and smirked. “I hope your firm reimburses expenses.”

Carlos groaned but didn’t argue. They were the best for a reason, and while the battle in the courtroom was always fierce, dinner afterward was tradition.

And tradition, in their world, was everything.

instead of doing my class readings i am thinking about sincaraz as rival trial lawyers on opposing sides who often get assigned to the same high profile cases bc they're just simply the best in their firms. carlos in court is known for being all professional charisma and charm, sweet-talking juries and judges alike and subtly constructing his arguments to lead them where he wants them to go. meanwhile jannik in court is known for being cold and calculating with a sharp tongue that cuts right to the point and systematically dismantles each and every one of the opposing counsel's arguments. people think they must be the most bitter rivals the way they go at it in court, but really they're the type of rivals that go to dinner and laugh about it after the case is done and dusted (winner pays ofc those attorney's fees are more than enough to cover dinner). and if the adrenaline and tension from arguing in court is still riding high and they need some other way to deal with it, well that's no one's business but their own 😏

[inmyfxith]

How they would react if... you accidentally pull on their queue

Including -> Neteyam, Neytiri, Tsireya, Aonung, Tonowari & Tsu'tey (might make the others later)

-> Requested

Non-romantic relationship -> If you accidentally pull on Neteyam’s queue, he would be upset about it because he would see it as a violation of his personal boundaries and disrespect his feelings. However, Neteyam wouldn’t be violent or aggressive, he would try to resolve the situation peacefully by expressing how he feels and seeking an apology. He may also withdraw and avoid further interaction.

Romantic relationship -> If you accidentally pull on Neteyam’s queue, he would prioritize preserving the emotional bond with you over the physical discomfort of having his queue pulled. He would express his disappointment or hurt feelings to you in a gentle, understanding, manner, hoping to find a solution that works for both of you. Neteyam would also try to understand why the pulling happened in the first place.

Neteyam stood still as the delicate threads of his being were disturbed. You, unaware of the fragility of the bonds that held him, pulled at his queue. A wave of sensations flooded through him - the sharp pain, the disappointment, the hurt.

He drew upon the depths of his composure and turned to face you, the one who had caused the disturbance. You looked at him with a mixture of guilt and confusion, your eyes not comprehending the weight of your actions. Neteyam could feel the warmth rise in his cheeks, but he kept his voice gentle and understanding.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned. "I know you didn't mean to pull my queue, but it still hurts. Can we talk about it?”

You were taken aback by his kind words, tears welling up in your eyes. "I am sorry, Neteyam. I did not know it would hurt you so," you said, your voice quivering.

Neteyam reached out and took your hand, pulling you close and wrapping you in a warm embrace. "It's okay," he whispered, placing a kiss on your forehead. "I am not angry, just seeking understanding. Let us explore this together and find a solution that suits us both."

And so, you sat and spoke from the depths of your hearts, delving into your emotions and finding common ground.

Non-romantic relationship → If you accidentally pull on Neytiri’s queue, she would be angry at you for not understanding how important the queue is for her people and her culture. As she views humans as threats she would take offense at any actions that show disrespect. Neytiri would give you a stern look, trying to keep her emotions in check in order to avoid a confrontation.

Romantic relationship → If you accidentally pull on Neytiri’s queue, she would react with annoyance, but she would be tempered by her affection for you. She may express her feelings to you about the situation, and take the opportunity to have an open and honest conversation with her partner about boundaries.

Perched atop her abode in the boughs, Neytiri gazed upon the verdant woods. But her peaceful reverie was abruptly disturbed, as a sudden yank on her queue incurred. With a fierce scowl, she spun to face the perpetrator, ready to defend her sacred honor.

Yet what she saw was not a foe, but the countenance of her beloved. You, her human lover, stood before her with a mixture of remorse and fear. Realizing your mistake, you hung your head in guilt, awaiting her verdict.

But Neytiri's wrath was soon assuaged, as she beheld the apology in your eyes. With a sigh, she approached and took your hand, her gaze softening as she spoke.

"To touch a Na'vi's queue is a sacred bond," she chided, her voice firm yet gentle. "Only those closest to our hearts may hold it in their hands."

"Forgive me, Neytiri," you replied, contrite. "I never meant to cause offense, only to bring joy to your day."

Neytiri smiled, her hand lifting your chin to meet her gaze. "I know your heart is true, and so I will forgive you," she said, her eyes shining with love. "But in the future, let us be more mindful of our actions, for the sake of our bond."

With a smile, you embraced her, your arms encircling her waist. Resting your head upon her belly, you whispered, "I love you, more than words can express." And Neytiri held you tight, her love for you confessing.

Non-romantic relationship -> If you accidentally pull on Tsireya’s queue, she would react with patience, asking you to be more careful or even why you pulled on her queue. She may try to explain to you the cultural significance of her queue and how it represents a deep connection to the natural world and her ancestral spirit.

Romantic relationship -> If you accidentally pull on Tsireya’s queue, I feel that she would respond with understanding and maybe even forgiveness. But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t feel hurt or bothered. Tsireya would communicate her feelings to you in a gentle and non-confrontational way. She may even express the importance of respecting her queue, and how it is tied to her spiritual identity.

You were strolling the sandy shores when you suddenly spotted a beautiful blue-skinned woman. Her hair flowed like a river, a brilliant shade of indigo.

Unthinking, your hand reached out to touch the braid that wound its way down her back. But as your fingers brushed against it, your grip tightened and you pulled, causing her to wince.

She turned to face you, her eyes reflecting surprise and sorrow. "Why did you tug on my queue?" she asked, her voice a soothing melody.

Embarrassment flooded through you as you realized your mistake. "I apologize, I didn't mean to," you said, flustered. "I was simply curious."

Tsireya took a deep breath, her body calming. "My queue is a symbol of my bond to the natural world and my ancestral spirit. It's a sacred part of me and tugging on it disrupts not only the balance within me but also the harmony of the world around us."

She gazed into your eyes, her voice filled with grace. "Though I know your actions were not intentional, I ask that you be mindful and respectful moving forward. If you have questions, I would be happy to answer them."

Her words were gentle, and you felt a wave of remorse wash over you as you absorbed the weight of your mistake. Her words were gentle, and you felt a wave of remorse wash over you as you absorbed the weight of your mistake.

Non-romantic relationship -> If you accidentally pull on Aonung’s queue, he would react with surprise, annoyance, and maybe even hostility. He would see your action as a disrespectful invasion of his personal space. This would trigger an emotional response, which could range from surprise to anger. At first, he may step away from you to express his discomfort toward the situation. This physical distance would help him regain control of his emotions, he may then verbally express his anger, or even use physical force to make his point, such as pushing or hitting you.

Romantic relationship -> If you accidentally pull on Aonung’s queue, he would feel angry at first but he would probably forgive you. He would likely react with a harsh reprimand and a cold demeanor, showing you that he takes his queue very seriously. However, after a moment of reflection, Aonung would likely soften his demeanor, as he realizes that the act was accidental. Aonung might show you a small act of affection as a way of saying that your relationship is still intact despite the mistake.

Amidst the lush and verdant forest of Pandora, Aonung and you strolled hand in hand, basking in its beauty. But a playful tug on his queue brought your blissful stroll to an abrupt halt.

Aonung spun, his eyes afire with anger, his expression stern. He pulled away, his voice a low growl as he spoke, "What do you think you're doing? My queue is not something to be toyed with."

Your expression changed from playful to worried as you realized that you had upset him. "I'm sorry, my love," you said, your voice trembling. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I was just trying to get your attention."

Taking a deep breath, Aonung's scowl faded as he looked into her eyes, filled with regret and fear. He spoke, his voice firm, "My queue is a part of who I am. You must understand the significance of it. I cannot simply forgive your actions without a proper apology."

You nodded, understanding the weight of her actions. "I am deeply sorry, Aonung. Please forgive me."

In that moment, Aonung's demeanor changed, his anger dissipating. He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder. "I forgive you," he said, his voice warm and loving. "But please, be more mindful in the future.”

He leaned in and gave you a soft kiss on the cheek, showing you that your relationship was still intact despite the mistake.

Non-romantic relationship → If you accidentally pull on Tonowari’s queue, he would react with both surprise and gentleness. He would be quick to undestand that your action was accidental and not intended to cause harm or discomfort. He would gently ask you not to touch his queue as it is a significant part of his culture and holds spiritual significance. Just as his daughter, he may also try to educate you on the cultural importance of the queue and why it is disrespectful to touch it without permission. Tonowari might also try to make sure that you not feel embarrassed or ashamed about the situation.

Romantic relationship → If you accidentally pull on Tonowari’s queue, he would be patient and would not take offense to your action. He may want to make sure you are comfortable and happy, so if you’re feeling guilty or apologetic about pulling on his queue, Tonowari would reassure you and try to make you feel better.

Admiring the intricate tattoos that adorned Tonowari's skin, you couldn't resist the temptation to play with his flowing queue, like silken strands blowing in the wind. Your playful touch turned to a gentle tug, a mistake that caused Tonowari to flinch.

But his eyes softened as he gazed upon you, noticing the guilt and fear that etched upon your face. With a warm smile, he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and whispered, "Do not fret, my love. Such a small thing cannot diminish my love for you."

And so, he pulled you into his embrace, wrapping you in a cocoon of comfort and security. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, reminding you of the love that bound you together.

"You are the light that illuminates my soul, the beat that stirs my heart," he whispered. "Never should you feel guilty or ashamed, for I love you just as you are, always and forever."

All your worries dissipated, replaced by a serene calm that only comes from being loved and cherished. You melted into Tonowari's embrace, feeling safe and protected. All your worries dissipated, replaced by a serene calm that only comes from being loved and cherished. You melted into Tonowari's embrace, feeling safe and protected.

Non-romantic relationship → If you accidentally pull on Tsu’tey’s queue, he would react with anger and frustration, seeing it as a personal affront, as a sign of disrespect not just to him but to his entire culture. Tsu’tey would instantly confront you, demanding an explanation for your action. Depending on the situation, he may also try to challenge you to defend his honor.

Romantic relationship → If you accidentally pull on Tsu’tey’s queue, he would be surprised first and maybe react with discomfort. Just like the others, he would see it as a violation of his personal space but would also understand that it was an accident. So he may end up forgiving you, and try to move past the incident after helping you understand and respect his beliefs and customs.

Tsu'tey sat in quiet contemplation, beside the flickering fire pit, when a sudden tug disturbed his peace. He spun around, a scowl of anger painting his face, to see you standing before him, with apologetic eyes.

"What act of disrespect is this?" he boomed, his voice echoing with fury.

"Forgive me, my love," you stammered, taken aback by his wrath. "I meant no harm."

"No harm?" he spat, disbelief tainting his tone. "Do you comprehend what this symbolizes to me? My queue is a testament to my heritage, my culture, my very identity. To tug it is to spit in the face of all I hold dear."

Your heart ached, seeing the pain in his eyes, as the magnitude of your mistake dawned on you. You begged for his forgiveness, but he would not be swayed.

"I demand an explanation," he growled, his voice a low rumble of menace.

You gathered your courage, and shared your intent, explaining that it was a playful pull, devoid of any offense. But he would have none of it. He felt that his people, his very soul, had been insulted, and he would not rest until justice was served.

The night passed with a tempestuous exchange, as he sought to educate you on the severity of your actions, and you sought to appease him with remorseful pleas.