#but powers and everything else speaking no

[vampiresbloodx]

for the warmth of another.

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader

synopsis: your girlfriend has been acting strangely lately, you couldn't quiet wrap your head around what it could be, maybe it was all in your head, maybe it was right in front of you this entire time.

word count: 1.3k

warnings: established relationship, dom/sub, smut, angst, fluff, top!wanda, bottom!reader, power play, praise kink, vaginal fingering, it gets rough

a/n: the song in this fic is double take by Dhruv.

The first time you argued with Wanda was the worst experience you’ve ever felt compared to all that you’ve been through. 

Nothing could have prepared you for this, the amount of guilt that went through your body was horrible. It's worse than accidentally stepping on a bug. You already feel so much for her that it pained you even more. 

Wanda had a tendency to ignore you when you didn’t agree with her on everything. Especially when she was about to do something stupid, you of course, had your own opinions based on the safety of your beloved girlfriend which she didn’t think about then how that would make you feel. 

God forbid you care about her. 

You knew it wasn’t just that though, you were scared of losing her, she was everything to you, you’re entire universe, you weren’t kidding when you declared that to her when you first confessed. 

And here you are, sitting on top of the roof of your apartment building as you hear Wanda’s loud music blasting, it's her type of therapy where yours is silence, she also does it to piss you off. 

The cold breeze brushes against your skin and you realize you’re barely wearing nothing, and its close to winter. You shivered, wishing for the warmth of another, you truly never meant to make her mad, she knows that, of course she does. She reads you so well. She knows you better than anyone else you’ve ever met. 

The two of you have been dating for two years now, in a few weeks it is gonna be your third year anniversary, you wondered if you both will even last until then. Your heart ached, you hope so, you don’t ever wanna leave her. 

You sighed as your phone vibrated in your pocket, you took it out to see a message from natasha. 

Nat: hey, tonight was intense. You ok? 

You shivered once again, of course she’d check in, she’s your best friend.. She can tell when you're upset and can see right through you if you try to hide it. Natasha was great, you were so glad you had her in your pathetic life. Yeah, pathetic was one way to describe it, you bitterly laughed. 

You: she’s still mad. 

Nat: I would be too, you made quiet the scene there. 

You frowned at the screen, sighing. Of course she’d side with her. 

You: nat you're supposed to be on my side :(

Nat is typing….

Nat: come on now, you know I mean well. I care about you both, don’t let one little thing be the end of it, ok? 

You smiled. 

You: I love her so much. 

Nat: I know, go talk to her. 

You: she’s literally ignoring me as we speak. 

Nat: yeah, she’s waiting for you to talk to her, dumbass. Now go. 

You huffed, not wanting to go inside just yet, enjoying the night breeze and the sound of the city, then you heard a pretty voice, Wanda was singing, you laid down on the ground and smiled, closing your eyes as you listened to her sweet voice. 

Your mind had drifted, to the first few weeks after you both started officially dating, then when you told everyone, you were so in love, seriously. Everyone could see how love sick you were. Even she was, according to everyone else, she only had eyes for you. That was clear. 

She made it known to anyone that was near that she was yours, even if you didn’t feel worthy enough for her, she was always making it known to you in her own way. Sure, she can be jealous, that’s an understatement of the year. She can get possessive, but you love those qualities about her, even if she got a bit much. You knew you were a lot at times, and yet she stuck by your side. 

“I could say I never dare to think about you that way but I'd be lying” her beautiful voice sung through the apartment along the words to the song, your eyes still closed as if she were right next to you. “-in the midst of the crowds in the shapes of the clouds I don't see nobody but you” 

The voice got more clear, like she was closer, then you felt something tickle your face like it was hair touching you, confused, you open your eyes, to see Wanda staring down at you, you were in awe, the moonlight reflecting off her face as she smiled.

“Are we still in a grump?” she asks playfully. 

You huffed, “maybe.” 

“Is that why you haven’t come back inside?” she said, her voice merely a whisper. 

“I-” you paused, unsure of what to say. She raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Come inside” she says, not taking a no for an answer. 

“Wanda-” 

“No.” 

You went quiet after that as you let her drag you back inside, the feeling of her warm hand on yours as you smiled, once she had you inside where she wanted you to be, you turned her around, bringing her hand up as you kissed her knuckles. She smiled softly, caressing your cheek with her other hand. 

“Do you wanna make it up to me?” she asks with a pout, and you’re captivated, you nod. 

She pats your cheek, muttering something under her breath as you frown, not noticing the change in her demeanour, as if something had taken over your girlfriend. You then noticed the way her nails were painted darker, she never has them that black, black like ink, it was painted strangely, she saw you staring at them as she pulled them away, not saying a thing. 

You follow her mindlessly to the bedroom as she pulls you in for a kiss, you wrap your arms around her, deepening the kiss. Her hands roam your body freely, you moan, leaning into her as she lifts you up and you put your legs around her waist. 

She hums, her tongue slipping inside your mouth as you groaned, she gazes at you intensely, you feel yourself being pushed to the bed as she crawls on top of you, biting down on your lip, you hissed. 

Wanda was never really this rough, what's gotten into her? 

But before you could question her, she’s taking your clothes off and has you silenced, you watched her as she smiles, her smile feels different. Was this her? You wondered. You tried to touch her but she wouldn’t let you. 

“Cute, but no touching,” she muttered, “my turn.” 

You were too confused and horny to reject her, you let her win. 

Wanda leaned in, spreading your thighs open as you were bare before her, in all your glory, she moaned at the sight, her fingers coming up as she traced along your wet pussy, you whimpered. She smirks at your reaction, her eyes darkened, without warning, she pushes two fingers inside of you, making you gasp as your hand goes to your chest, she grabs it and pins it back onto the bed. She fucks you, thrusting in and out at a pace so good you could almost start crying, you wanted to move, but she had a tight grip on you. Wanda wasn’t usually this dominant but fuck it was hot. 

Your wanda was usually shy about taking control. She did enjoy it, but tonight she was wild. You wondered where this wanda had been the entire time. 

Your pussy clenched around her as you came, crying out her name as wanda just stared at you, watching you, which made it even more hotter, if that was possible. She smiles, pulling her digits out that were now soaked as she brings them to your mouth, you gladly opened, sucking on them. She groaned, grabbing a fist full of your hair as you whimpered. 

“I need you to fuck me next, can you handle that? Fuck me with that pretty bratty mouth of yours baby?” she whispered, her voice making you shudder as you whine. “Do not disappoint me.” 

You never will even think too

[strnilolover]

Special birthday request hehe

Ride or Die Matt - reader ignores Matt after he hasn't fucked her in a while and gets bratty whenever he speaks to her. Matt sees her sexual frustration and draws it out a lil until she begs for it. The actual smut is yours to create and imagine. LOVE YOUUU

⌗ . . . A GOOD FUCK

WARNINGS : DOM!MATT. MEAN!MATT. BRATTY!READER. SMUT. PNV. DEGRADING. TEASING. SEXUAL FRUSTRATION!

for my lovely kay!! @endereies happy happy birthday!! <3

you knew matt wasn’t intentionally meaning to ignore you—you knew he had a big race coming up in a week and he just wanted to make sure everything was perfect and ready for himself to win.

but it was getting to you.

sitting in the hot garage day after day just to watch him work on his car with chris—his attention barely on you day after day. you were growing frustrated—needy—the tension in your body so tight you felt like you were going to burst.

and really today was no different than the last few. you were in the garage again—sitting on the empty tool bench in the far corner with your legs crossed. you were doing everything in your power not to look at him. you wanted to be mad at him—you were mad at him. but it was like your body just didn’t care what your mind thought.

matt was bent over the open engine bay of his race car, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his hands buried deep inside the guts of the machine. chris was next to him, his sleeves rolled up with grease on his jaw, and tossing tools between his fingers while reading torque specs off his phone.

“she’s still knocking on the left side. probably a valve lash issue.” chris muttered, reaching for a socket wrench. “did you tighten these already?” you overheard him ask and matt grunted, reaching back and pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. he nodded, sighing. “twice. and she’s still not settling.”

“You think it’s the camshaft?” chris asked, trying to help matt figure out what could be wrong with the car. he hummed. “could be.” matt replied before he stood straight for a moment, cracked his neck, and swiped sweat from his brow. his half-zipped suit hung low on his hips, exposing the white tank under it, stained with grease from the car and whatever else.

you didn’t even blink. chris noticed your behavior—and you were sure matt did too—and shot you a quick look, raising a brow at the way you sat there all stiff and silent, but didn’t say anything. he knew better.

matt had already tried to make conversation with you three times already today.

“did y’see the new tires?”

no reply.

“you wanna help baby? or just pout all day?”

still nothing.

“you’re not mad at me right?”

you were. but you smiled sweetly at your phone like he didn’t even exist. and matt scoffed low under his breath and leaned against the hood while chris ducked back under it. he was watching you and that made you twitch, but didn’t look up. he definitely noticed.

chris glanced up from under the hood of the car with a smirk like he was used to tuning you both out when you got like this. he himself could feel the tension between you two now beginning to grow rapidly. “i’m gonna..go grab the plugs.” he muttered, suddenly disappearing toward the supply shelf in the back.

as soon as he was gone, matt tilted his head at you and smirked like he was going to say something, but instead he gave you one last knowing look before he turned back to the car with that same smug little shake of his head.

matt definitely knew. it was like he could read you like an open book even if you didn’t want to be read. you were needy—throbbing and pent up. and you hated that he knew. hated how cocky he was about it. like he could feel it on you.

you could feel how flushed your face was, how hot you were just from him staring at you. it had been days since he’d touched you—fucked you. and it felt as if every little thing he did just served to rile you up more. you just turned yourself away from them once chris returned, keeping silent.

you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. not another glance or sound. you crossed your arms over your chest, your lips tight as you just stared away from them. your phone was still in your lap, but you’d scrolled past the same tiktok five times. you couldn’t focus.

you hadn’t realized that matt started to watch you again until he spoke—too wrapped up into your own head and trying to be mad at him. “baby.” matt called again, from across the garage after chris walked off again—this time taking his sweet time at the far end of the room. “you’re not even gonna look at me?”

you didn’t. you were barely breathing at this point.

there was a long pause—nothing but the sound of chris messing around somewhere in the back room could be heard. but the the sound of his boots coming toward you echoed through the garage.

you didn’t bother to move. but your stomach dropped and your cunt clenched—it didn’t take long before your eyes flicked up in spite of yourself just as he reached the tool bench you were sitting on. his frame was towering over you, arms crossed as he looked down at you.

“you’re actin’ like a fuckin’ brat.” he muttered, voice low enough to be for you only. “and honestly, it’s cute.” and you just blinked, like you didn’t hear him, but your nails dug into your arms. “don’t give me that.” he said with a chuckle, dropping his voice lower as he leaned in closer. his hands came to rest on the side of the bench, right by your thigh. “you’ve been sittin’ there all day with that little attitude. like i don’t know exactly why you’re so quiet.”

you still didn’t say anything—but it was becoming increasingly hard to stay quiet. to not just give in right now and drop your whole bratty act. you knew what you were doing—you did this every time you wanted his attention. he was so close. too close.

“poor baby.” he said, the mock sympathy dripping from his words as he cocked his head. “so neglected. must be real hard not getting my cock for a few days, huh?” and you clenched your jaw, exhaling slowly. your thighs pressing together. of course he knew—but you weren’t expecting him to say it out loud. not here at least.

“bet you been touchin’ yourself when I’m not around. whining into your pillow.” he sneered, his fingers barely brushing the top of your knee as his hand moved slowly. “but it’s not the same, is it?” and that’s what got you to finally look at him. finally. and he grinned.

“m’not a brat.” you mumbled, crossing your legs the other way, trying to move away so he wouldn’t make your walls crumple anymore than they already were. “oh, sweetheart.” he said, now dragging his thumb across your thigh. “you’re the fuckin’ definition of one.” he leaned down now, his lips right against your ear. “but i love when you act like this. makes it more fun to break you down later.” and then he pulled away, giving your thigh a light squeeze then and tap before turning away to go back to his car.

your heart was racing now, and you swallowed—your stomach already twisting and turning—mind running with so many thoughts of what he just might do.

-

the next day was worse. you were so much more worse.

you didn’t even say hi when you walked into the garage—and honestly you weren’t even sure why you kept coming back in here when you knew you didn’t have to. but you just strutted in anyways in a pair of tight little shorts and a cropped tee.

you made it a point not to look at matt when he glanced up, watching the way you climbed up onto that same tool bench and crossed your legs. but your whole body was stiff—because you could feel the way he looked at you.

chris was underneath the car, his legs sticking out like some cartoon, which honestly made you crack a small smile. but you wiped it away quickly as you started to peel open a popsicle you had brought with you and stuck it between your lips without a word.

matt shook his head and chuckled under his breath—he knew what you were doing. and you knew that he knew. it was on purpose, what you were doing. every little slurp you made on the red popsicle was for him. even the eye-roll you did every time you moved your head down was meant to test him. to tease him—just to see how far he’d let this go.

but he just kept working, even if you were staring to become distracting. his eyes flicking over to you every few minutes, watching the way some of the juice from the popsicle was dripping down the sides of your mouth. and how your nipples were poking through that shirt of yours. of course you weren’t wearing a fucking bra—matt didn’t like the thought of chris’ eyes landing on you and seeing it.

you sat there for a while, not watching the boys, just scrolling on your phone and eating your popsicle until it was finished. but at some point chris had left to “take a call.” he knew how you guys got, and really he wish he didn’t, but he was around be too often to where he started picking up on little details. and so he shoot a knowing glance between you both before heading out. the door swung shut behind him.

and that’s when the air seemed to change. it became more tense—so thick you could probably cut it with a knife. you and matt were both on edge, but it wasn’t going to be him who was going to snap first.

you didn’t hear mat move right away, just the sound of tools being set down gently in the tool boxes where they went before the sound of a rag was heard. and then his shadow was being casted over your legs. he didn’t give you time to react before he was already speaking to you.

“i should bend you over that hood.” he murmured, not even giving you the satisfaction of looking directly at you, instead he was looking else where. his hand rested on the edge of the bench beside you, fingers slowly curling just like they had yesterday.

he startled you to say the least but all you did was blink slowly before your lips parted, taking little breaths in and out. your heart hammering.

when he finally looked at you, he moved to step between your knees. “don’t look so shocked sweetheart. done nothin’ but try to provoke me today.” and you couldn’t stop the next words from slipping past your lips. “fuck you.” you mumbled, though it came out breathy.

he hummed, his hands moving slow—up your thighs, spreading them apart just a little as he leaned it towards you. “i like this version of you. all pouty. all worked up.” your breath hitched as his fingers ghosted over your core—so close you could feel the heat radiating off his knuckles.

but he didn’t touch you. not in the way you wanted him to—and that make your head spin, your walls crumbling down in an instant. “please.” you whispered without thinking and matt tilted his head, smirking to himself. he had you exactly where he wanted you. “please?” he echoed mockingly. “that’s it?”

he tsked, leaning in so close to you that his lips brushed your ear, just like they had done yesterday. and you could feel the way your breath caught in your throat. “nah, baby. you’re not gettin’ my cock until you’re begging for it. i wanna hear how bad it hurts not having your pussy stuffed after a few days.”

you whined, your hips shifting forward. he hadn’t even done anything to you yet—but yet here you were—your body already on fire and your mind already beginning to turn to mush just from how he was talking to you. “it hurts,” you whispered. “been hurting all week.” your words were breathless, almost inaudible as you spoke.

matt shifted just slightly, moving his palm to suddenly press flat against your cunt over your shorts—your legs parted more for him as you gasped at the contact. it was such a small move, but fuck did it feel amazing.

“oh, I fuckin’ bet.” he growled, his fingers now moving to rubbing slow, firm circles over your clothed clit. he was focused on the fact that chris could come back into the garage and see you both like this—no—he was focused on making you pay for how you had been acting towards him. “this little pussy’s been neglected, huh? bet she’s been so fuckin’ soaked for me, isn’t she?”

you nodded so fast you thought you’d get whiplash, your breath catching. he was always so hot when he spoke to you like this. it was exactly what you needed—and you were so so close to getting what you wanted, it was like you could taste it. “mhm—yes. fuck, matt please.” you begged just slightly, but it obviously wasn’t enough. because just as your hips started to grin against his fingers, he pulled back and just stepped away.

just like that.

and you stared at him with your lips parted in disbelief. he touched you and then backed off—why would he just do that?

“mm-mm. that’s not what i asked for.” he said, reaching out and wiping his hands with a clean rag, turning back toward the car with a smirk. “i said to beg. not whimper. makes you sound desperate baby.”

you were seething. your eyes turning to slits as your voice started before your brain could catch up. “matt!” you slid off the bench, storming over to where he way by his car, your voice beginning to raise. “you’re such a—” and before you could get the rest of the words out, matt was spinning quick to pin you back against the edge of the car with a hand against your stomach. “careful. sat the wrong thing and i’ll edge you on my tongue for an hour just to send you home without my cock.”

your eyes widened—welling just slightly as your whole body began to throb even more. it wasn’t fair how he was acting—he would’ve just given into you by now. you felt as if you’d cry right here and now with how much you needed him.

“now be a good girl,” he whispered, one hand coming out to grab at your hip as the one on your stomach began sliding down and into your shorts. his fingers dancing along the outside of your panties, tracing faint lines over your pussy. “and tell me what you want.” you were warm—everywhere—the wet patch on your panties growing by the second, sticking to you.

“want your cock,” you gasped, the words being mumbled, your pride crumbling. your body basically shrinking in front of him. “please—want it so bad—been aching for days.”

“yeah? what, you want it—here?” his fingers moved and pressed hard over your clit. you nodded desperately, lips parting as your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. “c’mon baby, say it. tell me what filthy little thoughts have been swimming around in that pretty head of yours.” your hips twitched at his words, eyes fluttering back open.

“I want you to bend me over and fuck me like i’m nothing.” your voice cracked just slightly—you felt so embarrassed. “want you to use me. make me cum so hard i forget how long i waited.” matt groaned out a noise of approval before he leaned down, his mouth connecting to yours in a heated kiss.

his hand moved out of your shorts, coming up to land on your other hip as his lips broke away from your own, quickly spinning you around—pressing you against his car. the hood was down now, and you hadn’t even realized it was. almost like he planned for it to end like this.

he pressed a hand up between your shoulder blades, a quiet signal for you to go down. and you listened—bending yourself forward and arching the best you could, letting your legs spread more for him.

you let yourself lay flat, your cheek pressed to the metal of the hood. matts hands grabbed at the waist band of your shorts and yanked them down to your knees—your panties now on full display for him, absolutely soaked through. “look at you, soaked through your fuckin’ panties,” he muttered. “how pathetic is that?”

you turned your head slightly to look over one of your shoulders the best you could—catching a small glimpse of him before you let your head fall back down. “please.” you whined, pushing your hips back against him. you could feel how hard he was already, his cock straining against the material of his pants.

he thought about teasing you more—letting you grind yourself back into him like a needy girl—but he decided not to waste anymore time. after all, he was getting impatient himself.

so he just reached down and slid your panties to the side, his other hand coming down and undoing his pants, pulling his cock out as quickly as he could. he pulled back slightly so he could spit down onto his hand, reaching down to fist himself until he was slick enough. the loss of contact made you whimper, your desperation growing more by the second.

he chuckled when he noticed, tsking before grabbing your hip and lining himself up. “so fuckin’ impatient baby. you want it so bad? then fucking take it.” and with that his hips pushed forward rather rough, his cock burying itself so deep inside you, it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

you moaned loud—the sound almost between a cry and a scream—but he reached around and clamped a hand over your mouth rather quickly, shutting you up as his hips snapped forward. “shh, baby. y’gotta keep it down. wouldn’t want chris hearing what a needy little whore you are, hm?”

you shook your head, small “no’s” slipping past your lips as your nails scraped against the hood of his car. he started fucking you rough and deep, one of his hands tangling itself in your hair as the other stayed over your mouth.

“five days without my cock and look at you,” he hissed. “takin’ it like you’re starved for it. you are, aren’t you? so upset that my attention hasn’t been on you, you greedy girl.” your moans we’re muffled against his hand, drool pooling in the palm of it as he tried to keep you quiet.

“say it.” he growled, the hand in your hair yanking your head back and away from his hand that covered your mouth. your moans echoing through the garage now as his cock kisses that sweet spot inside you over and over again. the drool now trailing down the sides of your mouth, pool against your shirt.

“I—i was upset!” you gasped, a hand reaching back to grab at him every time he rammed inside you. your scalp starting to burn slightly from the grip he had on your hair. “just—just wanted your attention matt—missed it—please!” he cursed under his breath, his own eyes rolling back from how good you were behaving now. “there’s my good girl.” he murmured. “all that attitude just cause you needed what? a good fuck?, hm?.”

you nodded, the words dying on your tongue as he fucked you faster. the car under you was shaking and neither of you cared if chris heard you—both of you were just focused on the moment and how good you both felt.

every part of you felt on fire—from the heat or from matt you weren’t sure. but your stomach was becoming tighter, your orgasm building. you were crying by now, you were sure of it—your eyes all watery and nose sniffling as matt’s hips didn’t stop. he could feel the way you clenched around him, drawing him in every time he pulled out—it was like you were milking him.

“c’mon sweetheart, i can feel you clenching around me. you gonna cum already? missed my cock so much that you can’t even last?” your body shuttered at his words. he was mocking you—and you tried to deny it, tried to lift your head to say no but it was no use. he wasn’t lying.

the hand tangled in your hair pushed your face back down to the hood of the car, sliding down to grab at the back of your neck. holding you there. “cum on my cock baby. show me how bad you missed me.” hips get kicked your legs wider as he thrusted forward, the new angle making your eyes rolling back as you clenched around him again.

“ah—ah—oh fuck!” your body shook and tensed, walls fluttering around matt’s cock as you let go. you came with a loud cry, your juices beginning to rush out and down his cock. soaking the back of your thighs and the front of his pants. your legs almost threatened to give out on you, but matt just held you up as he fucked you through your high. his own not too far behind.

it wasn’t long before you body started to become over sensitive, twitching slightly in his hold as you started to babble. “matt—fuckfuckfuck—ohmygod—“ his hand on your neck decided to move again, this time trailing down your body and pressing to your clit, rubbing it quickly as his thrusts started to become sloppy.

“y’gonna cum again baby. c’mon, want you to cum again—you can do it f’me.” he groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest flush to your back, his teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder as his hips stuttered. he stilled moments later, his balls drawing tight as he spilled himself inside you. thick ropes of cum painted your walls, some even leaking around the sides of him as he tried to bury himself deeper into your cunt.

the feeling of it triggered your second orgasm—your cunt clenching down around him once again as you came. your vision blurred for just a moment as small gasps slipped out of you. matt continued to empty himself inside you, making sure to fill you to the brim before his body relaxed on top of yours basically.

“this what you wanted, huh?” he muttered, turning his head two press a kiss where his teeth bit into your flesh. light purple marks already blossoming around the bite. and you nodded, your body half-limp and your mind absolutely gone. your breath catching.

“good.” he whispered—his arms moving to peel himself off of you gently. he was being gentle now. this was your favorite part after it all—how gentle he is with you, knowing he pushed your limits just a little. “stay right here for a sec while i get stuff to clean us up baby.”

you whined as he started to pull away—not wanting him to go. you just wanted him close now. “matttt.” but he just shushed you as his hips pulled back, his cock slipping from your now spent and full cunt. he watched as a mixture of his cum and yours leaked out of you, giving just a small smirk before he wandered off to get some clean rags.

matt had managed to get you both cleaned up in time and dressed before chris came back inside. matt had been situating you on his lap, your head snuggled into his neck, before chris came back into the building. you yourself were already starting to doze off in his arms, your body tired and weak.

and chris glared at you both—knowing just from how calm you were and how smug matt looked—that something went on in here that he’d rather not think about. a quite “you guys are disgusting.” muttered from him as matt just laughed.

a/n : this was supposed to be posted on june 28th but i’m very bad at sticking to a schedule obviously. but happy birthday kay!! my sweetest and bestest friend ever. i love you so so much and i hope your day was fantastic and just know that you are stuck with me forever 🤗

this also isn’t proofread so if there’s any spelling mistakes, i apologize

[suunani]

fucked stupid [ park jongseong ]

you push jay too far, and he shows you exactly what it means to be put in your place.

❛ content 3.6k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, bratty bottom! male reader, mean! jay, degradation, orgasm denial, unprotected sex (p in a), power play, dirty talk, finger fucking, semi–public, forced begging, requested here.

you were asking for it — and jay knew it.

that sly smirk you threw his way earlier in the practice room when your hand accidentally grazed the side of his thigh. the subtle way your voice dipped just low enough during warm-ups, those little comments meant only for his ears. even now, back here in the quiet dressing room, you were sprawled out on the worn leather couch like you owned the place, legs spread, one ankle hooked over the other knee, phone lazily scrolling, cocked eyebrow daring him to make a move.

jay didn't speak. he didn't even need to.

when the last member's footsteps faded away down the hall and the door clicked shut with a heavy finality, he finally turned to you. slow and deliberate. every inch of him radiating that simmering heat you both knew was about to spill over.

and before you could even blink properly, you felt his body pressed into yours, a firm weight against your chest as your back slammed softly against the cool wall behind you. your breath hitched, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.

"you're such a little fucking problem," jay whispered, voice rough like gravel, one hand braced flat beside your head, fingers splayed wide to cage you in.

the other hand reached out, fingers closing around your chin with a possessive squeeze, tilting your face up to meet his burning gaze.

"mouthy little brat."

your lips curled into that grin he hated but craved. your breath came quicker now, shallow little gasps, a spark flickering low in your belly.

"maybe i just think you need to be put in your place," you breathed back, voice low but full of challenge.

his eyes darkened, narrowing like a predator about to pounce. "that right?"

you shrugged with fake innocence, but jay saw through it. your pupils were blown wide, shimmering with want, and his gaze flicked down instinctively — caught the subtle twitch beneath your sweatpants, that unmistakable promise of your need.

"you think you can run your mouth like that and not get dealt with?" his voice dropped lower, thick with something dangerous. "you think i haven't noticed the way you watch me every time i bend you out of shape in practice? the way you crave it, don't you?"

you swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the curve of his lips, wet and slightly parted.

"maybe," you whispered, voice trembling with want. "you gonna do something about it, hyung?"

that grin of his was sharper than any knife — cold, sharp, and utterly intoxicating.

"take your fucking clothes off."

you barely had time to register before he shoved you again — not rough enough to hurt, but enough to jolt your chest forward, breath catching in your throat. he stepped back, arms crossed, watching with a slow-burning intensity, jaw tight, as you peeled your shirt over your head, skin prickling where the fabric left you exposed to the cool air.

your fingers trembled slightly as you tugged down your sweatpants, revealing yourself fully.

he didn't say a word. he just moved forward, heat radiating off him as he pressed his hands to your waist, gripping firmly, pushing you down onto the couch. your back hit the cushions with a soft thud, your breath hitching at the sudden pressure.

he settled between your thighs, knees digging lightly into the couch cushions as he leaned forward, breath warm on your skin. his fingers brushed up your inner thigh — slow and teasing — making your muscles tense and twitch under his touch.

"look at you," he muttered, knuckles ghosting near the line of your cock. "all that cocky bullshit, and you're already hard."

your hips jerked involuntarily at the brush of his palm, thick and flushed, heart hammering. you could feel the slick warmth pooling low, every nerve ending alive and screaming.

he didn't touch you directly, not yet — he just dragged his palm deliberately past you, a smirk curling his lips when your thighs trembled, quivering beneath his touch. with deliberate intent, jay spread your legs wider, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through your chest.

"you're not gonna cum until i say. you hear me?"

you blinked up at him, dazed but grinning, breath shallow and thick with want. "what if i do?"

his palm cracked sharply across your thigh, the sting mingling with the heat already blooming in your skin.

"then i'll edge you until you're sobbing."

you bit your lip hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood, arousal pulsing through your veins like wildfire, making your toes curl instinctively. your whole body seemed to hum, alive with need and the sharp sting of anticipation. jay leaned in closer, his breath warm, almost hot, fanning against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

"you don't get to cum just 'cause you're hard and desperate," he murmured, voice low and steady, full of command. "you're gonna learn how to behave."

then, finally, his fingers slid down, tracing the dip of your stomach, skimming across the base of your cock with an almost cruel patience. the touch was electric, every nerve ending sparking with hunger.

your breath hitched sharply.

a gasp tore from your throat as his fingertips brushed your entrance, teasing and measuring, making your thighs clench instinctively. you tried to shut them tight, but his grip was firm, relentless, holding you open like you were his possession.

"don't hide from me now," he muttered against your skin, voice low and rough.

then, without warning, he pushed one slick finger inside.

you barely had time to register before the stretch hit — immediate, intrusive, just on the edge of overwhelming. it was almost too much, but your body betrayed you, responding like it had been waiting for this moment, aching for it. you realized he'd grabbed lube without you noticing, the cold wetness only adding to the strange deliciousness of the sensation.

jay's eyes never left your face, sharp and intense, reading every flicker of expression.

"so fucking tight," he growled. "already twitching around one finger. fucking needy little thing, aren't you?"

you moaned, jaw slackening as your back arched involuntarily, muscles coiling and releasing under his touch. the heat of his palm pressed firm against your inner thigh anchored you, kept you steady as the pleasure and pain mingled in your chest.

"look at me," he demanded.

you did. his eyes burned into yours — dark, unblinking, filled with raw hunger and possession. you wanted to look away, but couldn't.

"you're gonna take it all. understand?"

your head nodded quickly, almost on its own, hips twitching against the pressure as he slid a second finger inside, stretching you wider.

he didn't rush. his movements were slow and brutal, no mercy, no tenderness — just hard, deliberate strokes curling right where they made you gasp the loudest. every time your muscles clenched around his fingers, he smirked like he'd won some private victory.

"god, you’re tight," he said, voice thick with satisfaction. "what, you been holding out on me? waiting for me to stuff this pretty hole full?"

your cock jerked sharply at the dirty words — he noticed, eyes flickering with amusement.

"oh, you liked that?"

you tried to answer, mouth opening, but only a breathy whimper escaped before he pressed deeper, fingers scissoring slowly inside you, stretching, claiming. his thumb brushed over your taint, light and teasing, and you damn near bucked off the couch, muscles trembling from the overload of sensation.

jay chuckled, a low, pleased sound.

"sensitive," he teased. "thought you were tough, baby."

you let out a strangled moan, helpless beneath him. three fingers now worked inside you, stretching wide, curling, pushing you to your limits. it felt like your body was going to shatter, break open in his hand.

"please," you choked, voice ragged, raw with need.

"please what?" he taunted, eyes glinting with wicked delight.

you couldn't think straight, just heat and pressure, the way his hand filled you, moved with ownership.

"touch me," you gasped. "fuck—need—need—"

finally, his free hand wrapped around your cock, firm and commanding. the moment his fingers closed around you, a sharp, desperate wail tore from your throat, heat crashing through every nerve ending.

"yeah," jay said, voice low, steady as he started stroking you with slow, tight pumps. "that's what i thought. always acting smart. now you're just my fucking toy."

his thumb swept over the tip, dragging precum across your skin like it was some offense. your cock throbbed wildly under his hand — slick, flushed, already leaking again. his fingers buried deep inside you kept stretching, curling, relentless in their claim. the combination, the pressure inside you and the friction outside, made your head spin dizzy with sensation.

"don't cum," he warned, voice dropping to a growl thick with menace. "don't you fucking dare."

you sobbed, breath hitching. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he snapped, voice sharp like a whip. "you're gonna take what i give you, brat. and you're gonna thank me for it."

your whole body felt like it was on fire. cock twitching wildly, hole clenching tightly around his fingers with every stroke, abs tightening so hard it felt like you'd snap. your legs trembled uncontrollably, mouth parted in a silent, desperate cry.

jay's eyes tracked everything — the way your hips jerked against his hand, the flutter of your lashes, the pulse of your cock sliding in his fist.

"you're so fucking pretty like this," he murmured, almost to himself, voice rough. "squirming. shaking. just a wrecked little brat who needs his hyung to ruin him."

you whimpered, hips stuttering up against his palm, chasing that release even as he growled a sharp.

"no. you don't get to cum. not yet."

without warning, he let go of your cock, and you cried out, breath breaking into ragged gasps.

your hands shot down instinctively to your cock, desperate to touch yourself, but before you could, his grip was lightning fast — he yanked your wrist over your head, pinning your arm flat against the cushions.

"you don't get to touch yourself," he snarled, voice low and fierce. "you gave me that control when you started mouthing off."

"hyung," you whimpered, voice breaking, desperate.

"you'll cum when i say."

then, just like that, his fingers thrust hard inside you again — fast, brutal, and merciless.

you sobbed, back arching, muscles trembling.

"not yet, baby. not yet."

you weren't sure which part of you trembled harder — your legs shaking against the couch, your fingers curling tight in helpless tension, or your voice cracking with so much need.

jay held your wrist pinned high, fingers still plunging inside you, now slow, mocking in their deliberate rhythm. your thighs glistened with sweat, hips twitching uncontrollably at every curl of his knuckles. your cock throbbed, untouched and aching, left flushed as your pulse pounded loud in your ears.

and he hadn't even fucked you yet.

you were wrecked, raw, undone — and he wasn't anywhere near finished.

"look at you," he muttered, eyes narrowed with that sharp, calculating heat, like you were a puzzle he was solving inch by inch with his touch. "fucked dumb just from my fingers. what the fuck is gonna happen when i actually put my dick in you?"

you whimpered, breath catching in a sharp little gasp. he chuckled low and mean — the kind of laugh that said, you wanted this.

"yeah? you want that? want me to ruin you now?"

"yes—please," you gasped, voice hoarse, trembling. "i need it, hyung—please, just fuck me already—"

slowly, deliberately, he dragged his fingers out of you, savoring every inch as your walls clenched, protesting the loss. you felt the slick trail left behind, a wet reminder of what had just filled you.

"you beg like a good little slut when you're desperate," he murmured, licking his fingers with a smirk, watching you wide-eyed, breathless and blown out. "that mouth runs nonstop all day, but when you're like this?"

he leaned in close, lips brushing your cheek.

"you don't say shit unless i tell you to."

your body jolted with a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the room. every nerve ending felt raw, skin feverish, muscles clenched tight like coiled springs. your cock throbbed relentlessly, still hard and leaking, twitching helplessly against your stomach, betraying you with need. you heard the slow metallic clink of jay's belt coming undone before you even saw it. that sound sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

jay stood, tugging his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. it sprang out thick and flushed, already hard and pulsing. your mouth parted involuntarily, a low moan slipping free as your legs instinctively tried to close. he caught your thigh and pried your legs apart, grip firm and unyielding.

"nuh-uh. open wide, baby. you wanna act like a brat? then you better take every single fucking inch."

your breath hitched as he spat into his palm, the slick sound loud in the quiet room. your eyes locked on the way his fist moved down his cock — slow, lazy strokes, veins standing out against the flushed skin, slick and tight under his hand.

jay leaned down, aligning himself with your entrance, the heat radiating off him scorching against your skin.

"i want you to feel it," he said, voice thick and low, each word heavy with promise. "every stretch. every inch."

then, without any warning, he pushed in.

your whole body arched off the couch, muscles tensing so hard it felt like you'd snap. no buildup, just the blunt head of his cock forcing past your rim, dragging a choked gasp from deep in your throat. he was thick, slow but relentless, filling you inch by agonizing inch.

"f-fuck—" you whimpered, voice breaking.

"yeah, that's right," jay growled, fingers tightening their grip on your thighs, anchoring you down. "say it. say what a tight fucking hole you've got. say how much you love getting stuffed full by your hyung."

you bit your lip, trying to hold back the moan threatening to spill free, but he slammed his hips forward hard — burying himself to the base with a brutal force that stole your breath. you screamed, raw and ragged.

"say it."

"i—i love it—fuck, i love it—!"

jay grinned, breath heavy, hips grinding deep and slow just to make sure you felt every inch of him inside you. you clenched tight, back arching as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper like your body refused to let him go.

"of course you do," he muttered, voice possessive. "you were made for this. made to get fucked stupid."

he started moving.

slow at first — just enough to make you feel it. the drag of his cock sliding over your sensitive walls, the way your hole fluttered and clenched every time he pulled back. the stretch burned, delicious and sharp, only growing worse when he sped up, hips snapping harder and faster.

each thrust made you cry out — raw, breathless, your whole body trembling under the relentless pressure. you could feel every ridge, every vein, every brutal inch of him driving into you, your hole gripping him like it never wanted to let go. jay's body was slick with sweat, muscles flexing and shifting above you as he fucked you hard. his abs tightened every time he pulled back, jaw clenched tight, biceps straining as he held your thighs wide open with brutal strength.

"you're fucking squeezing me like a vice," he groaned, voice rough with need. "you want it that bad, huh? want me to ruin this tight little hole for good?"

"y-yes—yes, fuck, please don't stop—"

your voice broke on the last syllable as he shifted his angle, slamming hard and fast into your prostate with a sharp, punishing snap of his hips.

your vision whitened, breath stuttering.

"right there," he said darkly, voice low and hungry. "i feel that. you almost came just now, didn't you?"

your whole body was trembling — shaking, really — with a ragged moan slipping from the deepest place in your throat. your eyes were glassy, unfocused, like you were drifting somewhere between pain and pleasure, caught in the middle and unable to catch your breath.

"you're not gonna cum," he repeated, slower this time, each word deliberate.

he bent forward, chest pressing heavy and warm against yours, his breath fanning hot over your cheek, sending a fresh shiver down your spine.

"you're gonna take it."

then he fucked into you harder. no rhythm, no mercy — just brutal, punishing thrusts that knocked the air out of your lungs with every slam. the couch groaned under the weight of you both, the slick, wet sounds of skin sliding on skin echoing loud in the room. your cock bobbed helplessly against your stomach — red, angry, leaking steadily with no relief in sight, twitching with desperate need. jay's eyes flicked down, sharp and hungry.

"look at this pathetic thing," he muttered, voice low and almost amused. "you're throbbing so bad. must hurt, huh?"

you whimpered, legs trembling uncontrollably beneath him. without warning, he wrapped a hand around your cock — but didn't move it.

"still think you're in control?" he whispered, breath hot against your ear. "still think you get to run your mouth to me like you're not just a cock-drunk little brat?"

you couldn't answer. not even a sound came out. your throat was tight, your whole body burning.

he gave your cock one slow, deliberate stroke, fingers sliding over your slick skin with cruel patience. then he squeezed tight at the base, thumb brushing over the swollen tip.

"don't you fucking cum," he warned, voice a growl that vibrated through your chest.

you nodded frantically, hands clawing at the cushions beneath you, thighs shaking as he resumed pounding into you harder now. he didn't care that you were sensitive to the point of pain — it only seemed to fuel him, watching you unravel like this.

"you're gonna cum when i say," he growled, voice low and commanding. "and not a second before."

your body was barely holding together. every brutal thrust made your legs twitch, stomach knot tighter, your mouth hung open in a silent, desperate moan. the stretch and burn deep inside were unbearable and electric all at once.

and still — no release.

jay's breathing was ragged now too, hips stuttering slightly as he dug his fingers into your thighs, holding you open like a prize.

but he wasn't done with you — not even close.

"touch yourself," he ordered suddenly, voice sharp as a whip. "but don't you dare cum."

your hand shot down to your cock, jerking yourself wildly, desperate and on edge. every nerve was firing — cock sore and twitching, your hole pulsing tight around him, skin hypersensitive to every touch.

jay leaned in close again, lips brushing just behind your ear, voice low and rough.

"i want you to beg."

"please—hyung, please, i need to cum, i need it—" you gasped, voice breaking.

"not good enough."

he slammed deep again, thrust hard and merciless.

"beg."

"i'm gonna lose it—fuck—please, let me cum, i'll do anything, i swear, i swear i'll be good—just let me cum—"

jay finally stopped moving.

he stayed buried deep inside you, his cock twitching gently, heavy and warm against your slick walls. his eyes locked on your face — watching every tremble, every flicker of desperation as your expression crumpled under the pressure of all the need you'd been holding back.

"then take it," he said low, slow, like a command and a promise all at once.

and suddenly, everything exploded.

you came with a scream, raw and ragged, your cock jerking violently in your hand as thick white streaks splattered across your stomach. it didn't stop — it just kept pouring out, hot and endless, your body trembling beneath the flood of pleasure. your muscles clenched, quivering, every nerve ending lit on fire.

jay didn't stop either.

he started fucking you again through your orgasm, relentless, driving deep into your trembling body. his hips slammed forward with power, dragging every last shiver and moan from your overstimulated skin.

you were sobbing now — soft cries breaking free as you pushed weakly at his shoulders, overwhelmed and utterly wrecked. but jay wasn't done.

"oh no," he growled, voice thick, fucking you harder, faster. "you think you're done? i haven't finished yet."

you gasped, voice hoarse and broken.

"c-can't—too much—"

"you can. and you will."

then he came.

with a deep grunt, hips slamming forward one last time before stilling, cock pulsing deep inside your spent, shaking body. you felt every hot spurt, every lingering throb against your walls, your breath hitching as your body absorbed it all. jay stayed there for a long moment, chest rising and falling against yours, sweat slick and warm dripping down onto your skin. his breath was heavy, ragged, filled with something like satisfaction.

slowly, deliberately, he pulled out, watching as your hole twitched and clenched, messy and ruined and still fluttering from the aftershocks of everything.

"look at you," he said softly, voice low and rough. his finger brushed gently along your still-sensitive cock, and you whimpered, raw and tender. "so fucked out. you really are the best when you shut up."

you blinked up at him, dazed, tears clinging to your lashes, lips swollen and red from biting them too hard. your chest rose and fell, heart still racing.

he leaned down, brushing his lips to yours. soft. slow. nothing like the harshness of how he'd just fucked you.

but it made your heart skip a beat.

"next time you wanna mouth off," jay murmured, lips tracing the curve of your temple. "remember what happens when you push me."

you shivered beneath him.

and you already knew you were gonna do it again.

[xocxyo]

𝕿𝕳𝕰 𝕴𝕯𝕺𝕷 - THE IDOL

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Attraction is never just chemistry. Sometimes it’s a trap—and you’ve learned how to use it. Y/n is the kind of person who doesn’t need to speak loudly to be noticed. A subtle manipulator, a look that reads more than it should, a presence that confuses. But everything changes when a name starts to echo: Megan Skiendiel. Chaotic, talented, and as unattainable as she is dangerous. There’s something else going on inside Megan’s head, a mess so deep that she doesn’t believe it can be fixed. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control…not entirely.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Idol!Megan x Uncertain!g!p!Y/n, psychological tension, power play, mystery and emotional fragility, intimate atmosphere, subtle references to fame, trauma, manipulation and desire, two emotionally broken characters, mention of drugs, alcohol, weapons, sex, swearing

𝔞/𝔫: I know I haven't been around for a LONG time, so first of all I really want to apologize to everyone. There's no reason for my disappearance, I've always been here, just lacking creativity, so this time I'm really going to take a break, I promise!! Anyway, I decided to bring you something more elaborate since I've been away for so long. I changed a few things on my profile, so I don't even know if you remember me…

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰:

00 | Characters

01 | The Lure

02 | Im A freak

03 | Devil’s Paradise

04 | ?

05 | Take Me Back

06 | Get it

07 | Jealous guy

More coming…

[etherepaar]

Consciousness is the only reality.

Let that sink in.

Not your circumstances.

Not what people say.

Only your consciousness is real.

If you understand this truly understand this you’ll stop asking “how do I get it?” and start realizing “I already have it. I am it.”

Let’s break this down:

✧ What is consciousness?

Consciousness is your awareness. Your I AM. The core of who you are before you attach any identity to yourself. Before “I am broke,” “I am beautiful,” “I am unloved,” or “I am powerful,” there is just:

I AM.

It’s not poetic. It’s literal. You are pure awareness. And whatever you place after “I am” becomes your reality.

The inner knowing becomes law. The outer world has no choice but to follow the inner command.

✧ You are not trying to create, you’re selecting.

There are infinite versions of you. You, rich. You, healthy. You, adored. You, successful. You, glowing. You, with your SP. You, living the dream.

You don’t “get there” by force. You don’t have to earn it or chase it or wait for signs.

You get there by conscious alignment you shift your awareness to the version of you who already has it.

Not hoping. Not wishing. Not checking the 3D.

You become aware of it. You assume it. It's done

✧ Consciousness manifests. Always.

Every single thing in your life right now is a reflection of a state you once occupied. Even if it was unconscious.

This is not to blame yourself. This is to empower you.

If you created this reality with unconscious assumptions… imagine what happens when you consciously choose your assumptions.

“I am chosen.”

“I am loved.”

“Everything is working in my favor.”

Say it. Persist in it.

The 3D is a mirror. It’s showing you what you were aware of before.

Your job isn’t to manipulate the 3D.

Your job is to maintain the assumption.

✧ Choose your state, and live from it.

Every moment, you are in a state. A state of lack or a state of fulfillment. A state of love or a state of fear. You shift states all day long mostly unconsciously.

But the moment you decide, “I am now the version of me who has it all,” and you persist in that state, everything else begins to align.

Live from it. Think from it. Speak from it.

Not “I hope I get it.”

But “I already have it. It’s mine. I am it.”

✧ You are not separate from your desires.

This is where most people get tripped up. They see their desire as over there, and themselves as here. But that’s not how consciousness works. There is no separation.

If you can imagine it, you can have it. You already have it in consciousness. And what you have in consciousness, the 3D must reflect.

So when you imagine having your dream life you’re not making it up. You’re accessing a real dimension that already exists.

You’re not a beggar in this game. You are the source.

✧ Final truth? You’re not here to “get” things. You’re here to remember who you are.

You are not a small, limited human waiting for life to favor you. You are life. You are God. You are the operant power.

Nothing is outside of you.

Not your SP.

Not your money.

Not your health.

Not your dream house.

Not your dream life.

It’s all within your awareness.

And the moment you accept it as yours and persist in that knowing it has no choice but to show up.

Because…

> Consciousness is the only reality. And you are that consciousness.

Start acting like it.

Start remembering it.

Start choosing from it.

You don’t need to wait anymore.

It’s already yours.

I know it’s been a while since i posted, school started and senior year is already keeping me busy arghhh😭 but i promise i’ll be posting more soon <3 thank you for sticking around mwah.

- etherepaar

[twilight-good-yall-dumb]

This might come off as sort of cynical, but honestly, the boys' actions in the last few months have really proven their characters to me. I think I always knew they were genuine, but it's only become clearer to me. As absolutely vile as it is to think about, anybody with marketing sense is probably urging them to release new music or projects right now, to capitalize off the recent "interest" in the band and in their careers, and it's not lost on me how none of them have really taken advantage of that.

Zayn, whose tour had already been scheduled and sold out before Liam's death, did everything he could to leave room for grief, pushing back BOTH his UK and American tours (which must have been a massive hassle when you have so many contracts with venues involved). Otherwise, they've each taken time to heal, work on their art, and simply exist, all while the spotlight is very firmly fixed on them. They could have used this to their advantage, and they have done practically the opposite.

Zayn, leaving room for Liam's memory at every show of his tour, singing a song Liam used to sing, using a red microphone, dedicating one of his singles to him and playing it only during his tribute, speaking about him during the show in his hometown and making slight changes to represent him, allowing a space for the people who loved him to grieve, taking away the spotlight from himself. There's something very selfless about ending every show with a tribute and no encore. He literally left his audience with a memory of somebody else because that was more important to him than them leaving with a lasting impression of himself.

Louis speaking up for him boldly, taking time to remember him and to appreciate the effort of others remembering him, doing a show that benefitted small venues, playing in a soccer match that benefitted children around the world (a soccer match that Liam himself had played in only a few years prior). Living his life in honor of somebody he's made his love for very clear. Reconciling with Zayn, something Liam would have absolutely wished for them.

Niall staying out of sight for a while. Clearly doing his best to keep the attention off himself. When he finally did come back into the spotlight, it was unrelated to his music career, and clearly allowed him to find peace and fulfillment in something else for the time being. And even this was probably a commitment for him that he couldn't really avoid. He's part of a golf management company, he had to come out and support the people he made those commitments to. When the heartbreak weather anniversary came around, he simply rereleased some music and thanked everybody for their love, which frankly was a little bit of joy I (and many other fans) needed.

And then there's Harry. Harry, who so many had been speculating would announce or release new music just around the time Liam passed. Harry completely withdrew for months. For a while, it seemed he was rarely out in public, and refusing photos when he was. And every time he was spotted, he always seemed to carry a heaviness with him. No projects, no new music, no announcements. Just him living and grieving. And Harry, the "biggest" of them all, leaving his post about Liam, a photo of just him, as the top post on his Instagram account for over half a year now. A reminder to anybody who looks that this is who matters right now, that this is who we should be thinking of.

I think their relative silence in this time has been more powerful than we've given them credit for. Some other artists would have capitalized off of this. None of them have. In fact, I'd wager they've put projects on hold, stunting their careers temporarily to ensure that what's important is remembered.

These are men who loved their band and their bandmate. They will not let him be forgotten, that much I am sure.

[kallianthiutdr]

I don't think there's a super specific audience for this ultra specific thing my mind can't stop thinking about. But, man, do I wish Mettaton and Undyne would interact in more fan content. Their dynamic and their subsequent parallels fascinate me and they have their fair share of interactions.

They both only tolerate each other for Alphys' sake, that much is obvious.

Undyn and Alphys are soulmates, of course. They relish each other's passion, they cover each other's weaknesses. Undyne fills a void in Alphys' heart at a very vulnerable time of her life, meeting her when she's literally about to kill herself. She never directly addresses that fact because she's not that type of person, but she shows up for her. She treats her well. She wants Alphys to know her value–she wants Alphys to love herself. Because she believes in her, she respects her, even if she thinks everything Alphys is into is just “nerdy crap.” In turn, Undyne becomes a beacon of courage for Alphys at a time when she seems to be completely alone.

Mettaton, meanwhile, owes everything to Alphys. His transition, his career, his hopes and dreams. Without her encouragement, he'd never have the courage or chance to pursue any of it. These two are soulmates also, platonic if we may. They understand each other–and even when Mettaton doesn't agree with her, even when he is actively furious at her, he humours her plan. He helps her. But then comes the baggage–and it's heavy. Mettaton's entangled in her lies. He's cut off his family. He lives with the knowledge that the sister of a good friend has turned into an amalgamate, amongst others, and Alphys is to blame. Even when he betrays her, he doesn't expose nearly as much as he could.

Undyne doesn't particularly like Mettaton because of how he treats Alphys at that particular time period in which she meets them. She lacks tons of context. To her, he's a superficial asshole who actively mistreats the woman who “made him.” Partially, she's correct. Fame did go to his head.

I think that, in truth, Mettaton respects her. He respects and resents her at the same time, for being there for Alphys when he wasn't. For being an actual, important symbol of hope. He himself is important, he IS a symbol of hope for monsters–he brings joy to their lives. But Undyne shoulders her position like a responsibility, a duty, while he lets his get to his head. For Undyne, it is always about the people and never about herself. Mettaton often forgets to prioritize his audience, because all he's ever wanted was to express himself. To be loved for being himself, which Undyne has always unashamedly and unabashedly been.

If Undyne knew Mettaton is Blooky's cousin, I think she'd find him to be a coward who ran, at least at first. But Mettaton is not a coward for choosing to be himself. He isn't a coward at all, judging by the genocide route. Look at Mettaton and Undyne's devastating musical mush-up eith power of neo and battle against a true hero sharing a leitmotif because now that Undyne is gone, mettaton wishes to be the hope alphys and the underground desperately need, even though he's nothing like undyne. even if he's never been that brave, that strong, even if his being "human eradication robot" is just a performance. even if, unlike undyne, he isn't a true hero, not in the typical sense–because he's nowhere near as clear headed and he falls in one hit.

Yet he tries to be Undyne. He tries. To be. Undyne. He tries to be the epitome of courage and bravey and determination, to protect all those he loves.

AND THEY DON'T EVEN LIKE EACH OTHER.

I said it, they tolerate each other. They share leitmotifs, they most love the same person, they're both admired symbols of hope in the underground, they both owe their confidence and abilities to someone else, (asgore+gerson, alphys) and use it to guide others/be idolized by them, (papyrus+monster kid, hotland lioness, shyren, many many others technically) (speaking of shyren both of them try to reach out to shyren when they see her struggling. yet another parallel!)

AND. THEY. ANNOY EACH OTHER--

The piano / grape-eating scene in undyne's house already says much about their dybamic. (mind you, I hc that he went to waterfall in a moment of weakness to come clean to blooky but he just couldn't do that to Alphys so he instead changed courses to undyne's house and put on his most obnoxious persona-) then the alarm clock dialogue, all with Undyne calling him a space heater (which was tbf a running gag) and him constantly fucking with her, like during the team ice hockey game when mtt played referee and chose the dog as the winner soley to annoy undyne. They are passive-aggressive to each other–and Mettaton is as jealous of her, because she is what Alphys needs and deserves. He is not so much jealous for her romantic relationship with alphys, like how Mew Mew is jealous because she has feelings for Undyne. No, Mettaton has show continuous encouragement for these two together. (will you two just smooch already etc etc) He is proud of Alphys for finally finding someone who brings out the best in her and treats her right. Even though he finds this woman insufferable and lives to torment her–and even if the opposite also applies.

Every interaction we know they've shared is hilarious and every narrative parallel is devastating. Why are there not a million more character studies/fics/comics that explore their co-existance even slightLy.

Give me more of their begrudging, desperate attempt at forming an understanding. Please.

[itslikepoetrythat]

Hot take.

While I’ve stayed out of the ‘Who’s at Fault for Weirdmagedon discussion pretty much since the beginning of my liking of Gravity Falls. I think there’s something about this conversation that has always rubbed me the wrong way. Obviously there’s the blaming of Mabel which was horrible and literally she was a 12 year old girl tf you want her to do. But also, the plain blatant dismissal of Ford’s trust issues.

Like I’m seeing a lot of people say that: ‘If Ford had told Mabel what the snowglobe thing was, then none of this would have happened in the first place!!!’ And while that is true. It feels almost cruel to say that, when it’s so in character and understandable why Ford would do so. In Gravity Falls— ‘There’s no one you can trust.’ And while, that’s very much Ford’s paranoia speaking, it’s understandable and almost painfully human in the way this harkens back to when Ford was last here. Keep in mind that Ford has only been back for what? A week tops. The last two weeks Ford was here before he fell into the Portal, he was quite literally going insane from sleep deprivation. He believed he saw Bill possessing everyone at the diner when he almost fell asleep in that one page in J3. Also queue the long list of torture Bill put him through in TBOB after his painful betrayal at the hands of someone he thought he could trust the most. And this isn’t even accounting in the fact of everyone else who he has ever felt betrayed by. (Stanley, Fiddleford etc.) I would imagine the memories, the scar of this, is still quite fresh for him, especially since he has relegated himself in the basement area where the Portal is. How many long nights has he spent dismantling the Portal, staring at it, and reliving his worst moments over and over again?

While we know Mabel wouldn’t have told anyone. How could Ford be sure? It was a surprisingly big step for him to even open up to Dipper at all about the Rift, and that was after he felt safe and understood. Those two bonded first, and I believe that if we had more time to see Ford and Mabel interact one on one, then he would have eventually told her about the Rift as well. (Looking at you, Gravity Falls fan episode where Ford erased Mabel’s memories.) We know that he should have told her, but I don’t see it as a failing that he didn’t.

And it’s like ultimately, I think it’s neither of their fault that Weirdmagedon happened. Not Mabel’s, not for dropping the Rift; Not even Ford’s, for summoning Bill despite the warnings and ‘falling’ for his tricks.

I think people forget that despite everything, there was really no singular person at fault for Weirdmagedon. Because it was all Bill. Bill isn’t some kind of time bomb, he’s a being with fully autonomous decision making capabilities and with powers to back it up. At any time, he could have been like, ‘This partying thing is dumb.’ And just not taken over the world. Or told Sixer the truth about the Nightmare Realm collapsing and just moved, normally, into the dimension. But no, he wanted his party and his takeover and his weird stone throne made out of humans. So yeah. That’s my take. And I fully believe that Bill would be offended if you said that Weirdmagedon was anyone’s machinations besides his own.

[formulafanfics13]

Well today I need some Lewis fluff :)

Maybe the reader (28) is his PR Agent and they fall in love, but she is afraid she is not good enough for him and even the whole Ferrari team think they belong together, so Fred and Charles talk to Lewis and help him with some cute ideas :)

Have a nice day :)

The girl who writes his headlines - LH44 

Masterlist

Summary: A Ferrari-era Lewis Hamilton x PR agent slow burn, where after two years of silence, missed chances, and watching from the sidelines, she realises he’s been in love with her all along. Encouraged by Fred and Charles, Lewis plans a rooftop dinner to finally confess — not with a press release, but with a handwritten note that says everything she ever needed to hear.

Warnings: emotional intensity, workplace tension, power imbalance (though addressed gently), unspoken love, slow burn, implied future smut, longing, self-worth issues, fluff, love confession, team meddling, Maranello magic, fairy-tale vibes, mild angst with a deeply soft resolution. No explicit content. Safe for emotional consumption.

You’ve written every word of his public persona for almost two years. The captions. The press releases. The apologies he doesn’t mean but says anyway. You’ve rewritten quotes mid-race, silenced scandals before they ignited, and negotiated PR nightmares with five phones in one hand and a Red Bull in the other.

You know the tone of his brand better than he does. But none of that prepared you for the day he joined Ferrari. Because Maranello changed everything.

It wasn’t just the red. It was the way they treated him, like a myth, not a man. It was the way the factory staff whispered around him. It was the way the world watched.

And it was the way you felt, suddenly aware that he could have anyone in the world, and that you were just a PR agent with a tight bun and a colour-coded calendar, watching from the edge of the garage.

You’ve never missed a briefing. Never fumbled a call. Never let your feelings show. But you love him. God, you love him.

You love him the way no one else does, in the quiet, in the chaos, in the three a.m. press notes and the hotel lobbies where he looks at you like maybe he already knows.

And still, you never say a word. Because who the fuck are you to think you’re good enough for Lewis Hamilton?

Fred Vasseur figures it out first.

He watches the way you hover near the back of the debrief, fingers tangled around a pen that doesn’t write, eyes never quite meeting Lewis’s. Watches the way Lewis lights up the moment you speak. The way he leans in. Smiles too wide. Waits too long to look away.

“Just ask her out,” Fred says one night, quietly, in the hallway outside the sim room.

Lewis startles. “What?”

Fred shrugs. “You stare at her like she’s the moon. Everyone can see it.”

“I don’t know if she wants me to.”

“She wants you to.”

“How do you know?”

Fred smiles. “Because I asked her if she wanted wine or coffee at dinner and she accidentally said your name.”

Charles is next. He corners Lewis in the hospitality tent during media day, sipping espresso like it’s a personality trait.

“I heard you like your PR agent,” he says, far too casually.

Lewis laughs once. “You make it sound like I’m twelve.”

“Well, you look at her like one.”

Lewis rolls his eyes. “She’s… different.”

Charles softens. “She’s scared, you know.”

Lewis frowns.

“She thinks she’s not good enough for you.”

Lewis’s heart stops.

“She doesn’t see what we all see,” Charles continues. “That you’re only really yourself when she’s in the room.”

He plans it that night. With Fred’s help. And Charles’s uninvited creative direction. He books a rooftop in Maranello. Just the two of you. Soft lights. Candles. The whole fucking fairytale.

He asks the Ferrari chefs to cater something vegan. He calls your mother for the wine you said you loved in passing. He tells Charles he’s not allowed to show up in a tux pretending to be a waiter.

And then he writes something. A note. Not a press release. Not a caption. Just one sentence, handwritten on a card. For once, he’s the one choosing the words.

You don’t understand what’s happening until the elevator dings and he leads you out onto a rooftop bathed in warm light, quiet music playing, a table set with flowers and soft laughter hidden in the distance.

You freeze. “What is this?”

Lewis turns, hands in his pockets.

“It’s a date,” he says. “If you want it to be.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ve been in love with you for a year,” he says simply. “And I think you know that. And I think you’ve been in love with me too, but you don’t think I see you the way you deserve to be seen.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I want to fix that,” he says. “Because I do. I see you.”

He hands you the card. You open it with shaking hands.

It reads: The only words I ever needed were yours.

You kiss him under string lights. Soft. Hesitant. Then all at once. He kisses you like he’s been waiting a decade. Like you matter more than trophies. Like your words always have.

[nikethestatue]

Winglord

A ficlet

Calanmai was coming up. And whereas Rhysand, the High Lord of Night Court used to enjoy actively participating in the festivities, especially in his youth, and his two brothers didn't complain either about being part of it, now, things have changed. He was a mated male, and a father. It was one thing to be frolicking in the grass among the bonfires under the starry skies when he was a Prince, but now he has a whole different perspective, and he is not as keen to attend. He knew that he must attend, and that the land would benefit from the ritual. But fornicating in front of his citizens and exposing his mate in such a manner didn't hold any attraction to him.

He devised a plan though--the High Lord was crafty, if nothing else. He was going to send Elain. Elain, whose power of Life and Rebirth recently emerged and who made plants grow, flowers bloom, fruit ripen and whose touch, it was whispered, aided in conception. He wasn't sure about that one specifically, but he noticed how females touched her cloak or even her hand, when she was out and about. Anything she touched--whether it was a peach or a cloth or a hair comb was snatched right after by her eager fans.

He would send Elain then. She wouldn't need to fornicate. Her presence alone would be enough. She could probably just wave her hand and a whole wheat field would spring up in a few moments.

He would send Elain. And Azriel, as her guide and guard. Cauldron knew that Azriel used to be very active during Calanmai. Rhysand wasn't sure who was more active among the three brothers, but somehow, it seemed that Azriel ended up with the most companions for the night. One year, Cassian suggested that they start taking bets. Azriel declined. But Rhys knew. Just like when it came to the snowball fight, somehow, Azriel came up on top, literally and figuratively speaking.

But he could trust Azriel to keep his head. The magic of the Ritual would not sway the shadowsinger' and Rhys know that Elain would be safe with him.

_______

The morning stars still twinkled in the sky, the night fading. The air smelled of fire and roast meat and ale. It was quiet.

Azriel opened his eyes. His head was buzzing. A soft thigh was caught between his own, a round knee almost pressing into his bare cock. Everything about him was bare--he was completely naked, his wings smashed haphazardly beneath him. He felt his hand cupping a round, silky and very bare ass cheek. He stroked it. The scent of jasmine and honey wafted up to his nose. Bare breasts, full and delicious, pushed into his chest, her nipples firm from the cool morning air and from all the sucking that he inflicted upon them last night.

He didn't rush to wake her, enjoying the quiet and the fell of her spent, exhausted and freshly-fucked body draped all over him.

Suddenly, Calanmai became his favourite holiday of all holidays.

Did Rhys know? Did he predict that Fire Night magic would be impossible to resist?

Whatever the High Lord did or didn't know, for once, Azriel was grateful to his brother and his need to be a very good High Lord who respected all the customs and traditions of Prythian.

[yourslaveheart]

The door opens, and just like that, the world shifts.

The Man of the house, strong, calm, unshakable, steps inside, and the air seems to change; it always does. That moment, that sound of the lock turning, the footsteps on the floor, the slight grunt as He sets His gym bag down or slips off His blazer...that’s the cue. That’s the sign that the order has been returned to the home. That He is home.

The slave is already in position. Bare knees on the floor, eyes lowered, back straight, breath slow and still. Wearing nothing but his jockstrap and the cold, inescapable embrace of his chastity cage. No words. No movements until permitted. This isn’t just about protocol; it’s about reverence. This is a daily ritual, a sacred one. The moment the Master arrives, everything else fades. The world's noise, the day's stress, even the ache of the cage pressing down on his desires..it all quiets when Master walks through the door.

He doesn’t always speak. Sometimes He just looks down at His boy, that same look that says Yes. You belong right there.And then He lifts a shoe or turns His foot slightly, giving the silent command: Untie Me.

Carefully, reverently, the slave begins, tugging at laces, peeling the shoes away like a gift being unwrapped. The scent hits instantly: sweat, leather, power. He presses his face to it without even thinking, drinking it in like oxygen. The master might let him worship there a moment longer, or he might simply turn, expectant, ready to be served in the way He deserves.

From there, the evening unfolds the way it always does.

Clothes removed, drinks prepared, dinner served. The slave doesn’t eat unless permitted. His hunger isn’t physical anymore - his hunger is the ache to please. Every movement becomes service: pouring a glass, kneeling at His side while He scrolls His phone, massaging His feet, rubbing His shoulders, ready with a towel if Master decides to shower, or a collar if He has something more demanding in mind.

It’s quiet, structured, deeply intimate.

And it’s not about sex...not always: it’s about energy, devotion, knowing your place and loving it. It’s about the satisfaction of being useful, seen, owned, wanted, and used in exactly how you were meant to be. The leash might come out. The paddle might, too. Or maybe it’s just a hand resting possessively on the slave’s head while they silently sit. The boy doesn’t need to know what’s coming, he only needs to obey.

Every night, without fail, this is how the household re-aligns itself.

Not through chaos, but through structure, ritual. Through the unspoken understanding between a Master and the boy who kneels for Him.

And as the night deepens, and the house quiets, the slave curls up on the floor beside the bed or at the foot of it, caged, aching, owned, falling asleep knowing he did his duty.

And that tomorrow, he’ll do it all again. Because that is love, in its most disciplined form.

[abiatackerman]

All it took was a single manga panel for me to deeply respect this man.

That moment said everything — how much he loves his comrades, how desperately he tries to give meaning to every life lost. Just look at how he speaks to the dying man, begging him to understand that he's done enough. He's not just offering comfort — he's pleading. Pleading for him to know his resolve, his memories, and even his death will continue to fuel Levi's will to fight.

He's trying to say, "I can't do this without you. Without all of you."

Because to Levi, losing a comrade isn't just painful — it's infuriating. It's soul-crushing. Every loss becomes part of his resolve. He clings to their sacrifices not because he's weak, but because he refuses to let their deaths be meaningless. That's why he trains harder than anyone, why he pushes forward no matter how deeply he bleeds. Because he's carrying them. All of them.

That's what makes Levi so powerful to me.

He understands the value of human life more than anyone else. He doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but you can feel it in every move he makes — how fiercely he tries to keep others alive, how much he suffers when he can't.

He'll always be the character I admire most.

Quiet. Loyal. Devastatingly human.

And no matter how many stories I read or shows I watch…

Levi Ackerman will always be my favorite.

[mahowaga]

WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT V

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 9.2k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

series masterlist | previous | next

🌸 ACT V – THE GARDEN ENDURES

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The world outside your chambers is silent.

But inside–within the dim space where the curtains are still drawn and the air still carries the faint scent of blood and sandalwood and everything in between–the storm begins to stir.

You wake before he does.

He feels it first in the subtle shift of weight beside him. The breath you hold. The way your fingers twitch once against his chest before pulling away, slow and careful, as if untangling yourself from something you shouldn’t have embraced in the first place.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. He wants to preserve this moment–the stillness before the strike, the breath before the blade. He knows you well enough to know it’s coming.

And when you speak, your voice is not soft.

“What you’ve done,” you begin, “is not something that can be undone.”

Nanami opens his eyes slowly. You are already sitting at the edge of the bed, your back to him, robe hanging off your frame in creased folds of bloodstained silk. The deep red has dried at your sleeves, darker now, like bruises at the edge of moonlight.

The light through the curtain slats stripes your spine. Even in ruin, you are composed. Even now, you are beautiful.

He doesn’t answer.

You rise, barefoot, and begin to pace. One hand lifts to your temple, fingers pressed tight.

“They will not forgive this,” you say. “Do you understand? They won’t forget it, either.”

He sits up, wincing slightly at the pull of linen across his wound. You turn then, and the full force of your expression strikes him.

It is not cold. It is fire held behind glass. It is fury wrapped in love. It is devastation, barely leashed.

“You didn’t even try to speak to me first,” you hiss. “You decided. You acted. As if this throne–this crown–was something you could protect by cutting off its head.” “I did not kill the empire,” he says quietly. “Only the man who had already begun to rot it.”

Your breath catches. Your hands curl into fists.

“And what now, Kento? What do I tell them?”

You step closer. Your voice drops, rougher now, threaded with something raw.

“There are two dead guards outside my door. And a general covered in their blood. Do you expect me to say it was a failed assassination? That you saved me in time? That you killed them before they reached me?”

You’re pacing again. Your feet are soundless against the floor.

“No,” you mutter, almost to yourself. “That doesn’t make sense. If it was an assassination attempt, you would have alerted the other guards. You would have sent word. Checked on the Emperor. You would not have come here.”

Nanami watches you, still seated on the edge of the bed.

“I came to you because there was nowhere else I wanted to be.”

You flinch. Just slightly. But you don’t stop.

“You weren’t seen,” you say. “That is the only advantage we have. No one saw you leave. No one saw you enter. The Emperor was alone.”

Your gaze lifts, and he sees the calculation warring behind your anger now.

“If I say he was killed in his sleep,” you murmur, “they’ll search every guard. They’ll fear there’s a traitor in the ranks. I’ll need to name someone. Someone else.”

You drag your hand through your hair. Your braid has come undone, and strands fall across your cheek, wild and sharp.

Nanami cannot stop watching you. This is the woman they all feared. This is the woman he would follow into the fire.

“I will take the consequences,” he says quietly. “I knew what I was doing. I do not regret it.”

You stop. Turn. And glare at him like you want to strike him yourself.

“No. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to look at me and tell me it was worth it, like I’m something to be sacrificed for.”

“I didn’t kill for you,” he says, and this time his voice is rougher. Honest. “Not just for you. I killed because I’ve seen what men like him do to women like you. I’ve seen what they turn empires into. I’ve seen what they make of power.”

You go still. His breath comes shallow.

“I served the empire,” he whispers. “Every day. Every breath. Until I realized what it had become. What I had become.”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“And then I saw you.”

The room falls still. The both of you stand on opposite ends of the war you’ve both fought differently, desperately.

You cross your arms. Your sleeves stick slightly with dried blood. Your lips tremble–but not from tears. You are trembling because you are angry. Because you are afraid.

Because, Nanami realizes, you love him, despite all he’s done.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say at last. Your voice fractures there. “I don’t know how to protect you.”

Nanami rises slowly. His muscles burn. His wound aches. But he crossed the room toward you.

He does not reach for you. He simply stands.

“You don’t have to protect me,” he says. “Just let me stand with you.”

You don’t answer. Not yet. And he doesn’t push, because your silence, this time, is not distance. It is the weight of choice.

You do not sit.

You pace the room like a storm contained in silk, your feet soundless against stone, your breath sharp and uneven. The bloodied robe clings to your body–creased, heavy, dried in places that should have never seen red. Your hair is falling loose, strands sticking to your temple and neck where sweat and worry have begun to gather. You haven’t looked at him again–not properly.

And yet he cannot take his eyes off of you.

Your beauty is no longer the kind that invites stillness. It commands it. You are more striking now than you have ever been–not in the delicate way poets write about, but in the way fire orders the eyes, the way thunder freezes a room.

You stop near the window, resting your hand against the frame as if to steady yourself. The curtain is drawn back just enough to catch a sliver of sun, and the light hits the edge of your cheekbone like a blade being honed.

“God, Kento,” you whisper, your voice barely carrying. “What have you done?”

“I did what needed to be done.”

You turn to him then, eyes narrowing.

“No. You did what you wanted. Don’t twist it into some noble cause.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hands remain loose at his sides, but every muscle beneath his skin is taut. He hasn’t moved from where he stood before. He can still feel the imprint of your weight on the mattress behind him. The memory of your breath against his shoulder. Your lips on his.

“You weren’t supposed to be the one to spill royal blood,” you continue, pacing again, this time in tighter lines. “Not you. Not after everything.”

He watches you, jaw tight. “I’d kill the brute from the north too, if it came to it.”

You freeze. “No.”

Your voice is so sharp it cuts the air between you both.

“No, Kento. You don’t get to decide that again. You don’t get to take the next knife and call it salvation.”

He flinches at the sound of his name in your mouth. It lands heavy. It sinks deep.

You exhale, quieter now. Your arms cross tightly over your chest, fingers white at the knuckles. “We have to think. Not react. If you die, what does that leave me with? What does it prove?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I can’t say he was assassinated,” you mutter, beginning again. “It’ll ignite fear. Panic. And not just in the court. In the provinces. If word spreads that the Emperor was murdered in his own bed…”

You trail off, but he sees the thought bloom dark behind your eyes.

“Could you have staged it?” you ask suddenly. “Made it look like suicide?”

“I didn’t think about staging anything.” His voice is low. “I didn’t want to lie about what I did.”

You laugh. It is a cold, brittle sound. “You didn’t want to lie. And yet here I am, rewriting the entire palace narrative to cover for you.”

Your hands lift, threading into your hair. “You should’ve come to me,” you say. “We could’ve planned. God, Nanami, we could’ve made it look like anything but what it was.”

“I didn’t want you to carry the stain.”

Your hands drop. Your eyes flash. “You think I don’t already? My father. My brother. My entire life has been a series of ghosts trying to make me smaller than I am. Do you really think this blood will scare me off now?”

He watches you cross the room again. You move like smoke, like something once human that’s since evolved into something greater. You stop a pace away, close enough for him to feel the heat in your breath.

“The guards?” you ask. “Outside my chamber.”

He nods. “Still where I left them, I presume.”

“No one’s found them?”

“No one comes to the eastern wing unless summoned. Not even the servants.”

You press a hand to your mouth, thinking. “Their families–”

“They had none.”

Your eyes flick to his.

“I knew them,” he explains. “No kin. No records. They were chosen for their silence. Their loyalty to the Crown.”

Your shoulders rise, then fall. Slowly. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

You walk to the window again. The sun is higher now, casting faint light across the dusty air between you and him. You lean one arm against the stone wall, your head bowed.

After a moment, you speak again. “I’m not forgiving you yet.”

He nods. “I wouldn’t ask it.”

You turn. Your eyes are dark, unreadable. “But I need to know something. Those guards–did they draw first?”

He meets your gaze without hesitation. “Yes.”

You stare at him a while longer. Then you nod, as if some unspoken threshold has been crossed.

He takes a step toward you, and says your name.

“No.” Your voice halts him. You lift a hand–not a full gesture, but enough. “I can’t. Not now. I need to think. We’ll need a reason. We’ll need a story. One clean enough to survive questioning.”

His throat tightens. “You are protecting me.”

You don’t answer immediately.

“I am trying to protect what comes next,” you say finally.

And he knows what you mean. Not just the aftermath. Not just the throne. But him. You. The both of you. Whatever remains of it.

He wants to touch you. God, he aches to reach out, to feel the warmth of your skin against his. But you are standing in blood-stiffened robes, beneath the weight of a hundred choices neither of you can undo.

So he waits. And watches the way the morning light bends across your shoulder like a crown.

You turn from the window after a long time and walk toward the lacquered table at the far side of the chamber. Your hands drag across the edge, fingertips smudging the dust. Your thoughts are no longer spiraling–they are narrowing. Sharpening.

And then you begin.

“If it wasn’t an assassin, and it wasn’t a suicide,” you murmur, “then it must have been something else.”

You stop. Lift your eyes to meet his.

“He poisoned himself.”

Nanami straightens. “What?”

“He was already taking tinctures,” you say, voice quickening. “Opium drops for sleep. Decoctions for the nerves. All delivered quietly, nothing official. If he mixed them incorrectly–if the dosage was wrong–if it combined with something new–”

Nanami cuts in gently, whispering your name. “He died by a blade.”

You look at him. “Yes, I know. Your blade.”

He flinches. But you’re already moving. You cross the room in a few strides, pulling the cloth from the water basin. You wring it out, eyes flashing with urgency.

“You’re wounded,” you say, gesturing to him vaguely. “His own blade, yes? That’s where your cut came from. That is what I will use.”

He watches you. “You are making this your burden.”

“I’m making this clean.”

“No one has found the body yet,” he says after a pause. “They won’t. Not until someone is brave enough to knock.”

“Then I’ll find him.”

You walk to the armoire, flinging it open. Your hands hover over your mourning robes before digging past them. You pull free a more formal one–deep blue, high-collared, with the imperial crest embroidered on the sleeves.

Nanami’s voice follows you, lower now. “You’ll go into his chambers?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t–”

“I must.”

You lay the robe on the bed, your movements swift, precise. “I’ll find his blade and place it by his hand. I’ll adjust the bleeding. I’ll scatter the vials. The scent of tonic will be thick enough to account for the stupor. No one will question it. They’ll say he mixed something wrong. Took the blade in a haze. In delirium. A wound that was meant to relieve–gone too far.”

“And the guards?”

You pause. “A disagreement. They were both loyal to the Crown, but tensions are high. A dispute turned violent. One struck first, the other retaliated.”

Nanami exhales slowly. “And me?”

“You were never there.”

You meet his eyes again.

“I’ll say I placed you on rotation elsewhere. West wall. Early morning watch. Far from this wing. I’ll say I requested it personally. No one will question the change.”

He steps forward, but you lift a hand. Not now.

“You said no one saw you. That’s our only truth to protect.”

His throat works. “You’re doing all of this for me.”

“I’m doing this,” you correct, “because the alternative is you dying for a moment you can never undo.”

You reach for your sash. Start to loosen the blood-soaked robe. Nanami glances away out of respect.

“Don’t make me cover for your decisions again,” you add. “If you ever do something like this without telling me–without trusting me–I’ll make certain the next sword pointed at your throat is mine.”

Nanami stands still as stone, watching you disappear behind the screen.

He hears you untie your belt. Hears the shift of fabric against skin. The faint clatter of the hairpins you grabbed as they fall into the dish by your washbasin.

Your voice floats out again, cold and clear.

“Get cleaned up. You look like the weapon you swore you weren’t anymore.”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t move either, because all he can think about is how the lies you spin for him sound more like vows than stories–and how he does not deserve them.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

The next days pass like a dream laced with iron–shaped more by silence than sound. Every step echoes too long, every corridor bends around corners like it’s listening. The palace does not mourn in the open. It recalibrates.

The guards outside the eastern wing are found first. You alert the court yourself.

“I awoke to silence,” you say, composed and solemn. “When I opened my door, they were already on the ground.”

The field marshal of the Imperial Guard dispatches an investigative unit, but you quietly intervene before they can begin speculation. You suggest the guards may have quarreled in the dark–tensions between loyalists to the previous Emperor and his rising heir had been mounting. You mourn them publicly, speak of their ‘unspoken service to the realm’, and ensure their names are recorded among the honored dead.

No one pushes further. There is no appetite for more scandal.

When the Emperor is discovered–his chamber reeking faintly of bitter herbs and clove–you are already seated in the Hall of Imperial Petitions. Your posture is precise. Your expression is a mask of regal grief. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers laced tightly–still, steady, composed.

It is not you who speaks of his cause.

It is the physicians, led carefully to the scene after one of your discreet attendants finally breaks the sealed doors.

A small porcelain vial lies shattered near the bed. A thin, nearly visible residue coats the Emperor’s lips. A small, deep wound pierces the side of his abdomen.

“Opiate poisoning,” one murmurs. “Combined tinctures. Possibly unintentional. The blade wound appears self-inflicted. A moment of pain-induced madness. A tragic accident.”

You say nothing. You only lower your eyes.

Behind closed doors, you instruct the steward to burn the bloodied linens. The Emperor’s own blade is placed beside the body with reverence. Not a staged death.

A final indulgence gone too far.

Rumors bloom–slow and cautious at first, then fast. He was unwell. He was delusional. He feared betrayal. Some whisper he took too much of his sleeping tonic again. Others say he grew paranoid and injured himself in a feverish haze.

None of it matters.

You never refute a word.

You wear garnet now, trimmed in sable. Your mourning robes are rich and unadorned, signaling piety without weakness. You say little when asked, and even less when not. Your face becomes the emblem of dignity–of royal restraint, of imperial calm.

You walk the corridors like a shadow cut from silk.

When the ministers try to corner you privately, asking if you intend to support the next succession, you redirect them effortlessly.

“I only intend to serve the realm,” you say.

When the temple priest offers condolences, you accept them without tears.

When the steward of the court asks what to do with the Emperor’s seal, you answer, “Leave it where it is. For now.”

You allow the world to conclude what it will. You permit the court to lean toward survival, to follow the path of least resistance, because survival favors strength disguised as serenity.

Nanami is never summoned from his post.

The reports state clearly: he was posted at the western wall. His logbook is signed by a ranking officer–handpicked by you, trusted without question. The attendants confirm it. There is no whisper of his name. Not even a shadow cast on his station.

The court is restless. Some ministers are uneasy. But none dare rise, because you walk the public steps to the Lotus Pavilion in the capital in steel blue and do not tremble. Your voice, when you speak, is as sharp as frost on riverstone.

“We will not bury the Empire with its emperor,” you say. “We will honor him by preserving its strength.”

No poetry. No tears. Just command.

The square holds its breath. And then–kneels.

You return to the palace like a queen already crowned.

Your attendants bow deeper. The court pages whisper titles. Foreign envoys ask your name twice.

And the ministers, once divided by lineage and legacy, begin to speak of you with reverence. Some cautiously. Some gratefully.

The crown is not placed yet. But the throne is already yours.

Preparations begin. Not for a wedding. That is for another day. Not for mourning rites either.

But for a coronation.

And in the quiet between ceremonies, you meet Nanami’s eyes once–only once–across the length of the west wing garden.

You do not smile. But you do not look away.

NORTHERN WING – 天命の殿 (THE HALL OF HEAVEN’S MANDATE)

The first time Nanami sees the brute, he understands why the old Emperor has chosen him.

The lord of the northern territories arrives cloaked in polished arrogance. His beard is neatly combed, his armor embossed with his sigil–two iron wolves at each shoulder–and every movement of his is made to be seen. Not a step wasted. Not a word left quiet. He speaks loudly, laughs more loudly, and his eyes roam the throne room as if weighing its worth.

No–its spoils.

And when he looks at you, Nanami sees it for what it truly is.

He does not see a sovereign. He sees a conquest.

The woman promised. The bed unclaimed. The throne he believes will become his.

“I see she is as fair as the wind once claimed,” the lord says, sweeping into a deep bow before you. “And just as fierce. The cold of the north will suit you well, Empress. I will ensure your chambers are warmed by more than hearthfire.”

The words are meant to charm. They settle like rot instead.

Nanami’s jaw tightens. He does not move, but his hand curls subtly at his side. The desire to sever the man’s tongue is fleeting–but deep.

You do not sit on the throne. You stand beside it–regal in a pale robe embroidered with thread so fine it drinks the light only when you move. Your sleeves hang straight, unadorned. Your neck is bare. The crown has not touched your head yet, but no one could mistake you.

You are the Empress. And you do not smile.

“My lord,” you say, and the words fall coolly in the distance between you and the man. “Your journey must have been long. Perhaps it is fatigue that makes you speak so freely.”

The lord’s grin does not falter. “Only admiration, Majesty. And anticipation. Once the rites are complete, I imagine there will be much to… explore.”

Nanami counts his breaths. One. Two. Three.

Your eyes narrow a fraction. “Indeed. Let us speak of rites, then. Of laws. Of paper and seal.”

You turn, reaching for a scroll held by one of your aides. Your movement is smooth, deliberate. You unroll it slowly, hands steady.

“This,” you say, “is the marriage contract drafted under the late Emperor.”

You hold it up for him to see.

“There is no imperial seal. No ratification by the court. No signature by either party.”

The lord shifts. “Your father made the agreement in good faith.”

“My father,” you reply, voice unwavering, “is not the Empire. And I am not his proxy.”

A ripple moves through the gathered ministers. They glance at each other–nervous, expectant. Waiting to see if the fire will burn the right direction.

The lord steps forward once. “Then let us finalize it now. I am prepared. My priests are here. Your court is assembled. There is no obstacle–”

“There is one,” you cut in.

Silence follows.

And then:

“I do not consent.”

The lord stares. “You would cast away alliance? An army? Legacy?”

“I would cast away a leash, yes.”

Nanami’s gaze flicks toward you, heat building in his chest. You do not raise your voice. You do not flare with temper. You only speak–as if truth were an axe sharpened between your teeth.

The lord’s patience begins to crack. “You need the north. You need a husband. Without one, your reign will be challenged before it begins.”

You tilt your head. “You assume that power lies in the men who stand beside a woman. Not in the woman herself. That is your first mistake.”

He scoffs. “And your last may be sending me away.”

You step forward once. Just one step. Your robe barely stirs.

“You may remain in the capital for three days. As a guest. You will be afforded every courtesy. But speak of marriage again, and you will be escorted beyond the gates and stripped of title within the capital. Do I make myself clear?”

You do not wait for an answer. You turn. And behind you, the lord burns.

Nanami watches the man swallow his fury, his hand twitching near his hip. But he does not move. Not in this hall. Not with every eye watching. Not with you still standing.

You descend from the dais without fanfare, your steps slow, every inch a sovereign.

And Nanami follows, lagging by one pace, no longer three.

For the first time, he feels as though he is walking behind the entire Empire itself.

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ EMPRESS’ QUARTERS

Your chambers are quiet when you return.

Not empty–nothing about the air feels abandoned–but full in a way silence only becomes when it follows the storm. The stillness carries weight now. Not the hush of grief, nor the bite of solitude. This is the breath held between endings and beginnings. Between what was taken–and what you will claim.

Nanami steps inside after you. He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t need to. You left the door unlatched.

You don’t sit. Don’t loosen the comb from your hair or let the robe fall from your shoulders. You stand at the far end of the chamber, your back half-lit by the lantern glow, your hands at your sides, still clenched.

“You hate him,” you say.

Nanami doesn’t speak right away. He closes the door behind him and lets the silence answer first.

“Yes,” he says eventually. “I do.”

“I think he hoped to scare me into submission.”

“He should have feared you.”

Your laugh is breathless and short. “I’ve never met a man who sees a crown and does not immediately think he owns it. That I am simply the ribbon tied to the prize.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches. He sees you from behind, the curve of your spine beneath silk. Your hands tremble once–just barely–and then still.

“He looked at you like a conquest,” he says. “Not like a woman. Not even like an empress.”

You turn slowly at that. And when your eyes meet his, there is no mask. No veil of imperial restraint. Just you–bare, brilliant, burning.

“Did I do too much in the Hall?” you ask softly.

Nanami’s response is a breath delayed.

“No,” he replies, steady. “You did what they needed to see. You reminded them who you are.”

You study him for a long time. Then, without speaking, you walk toward him.

You reach for the clasp at his shoulder first.

“Take this off,” your murmur, fingers brushing over the edge of his armor. “You look like you haven’t breathed since that meeting.”

He hesitates.

Your fingers move to the second clasp.

He says your name.

“Remove it,” you say again, quieter now. “You are no one’s soldier tonight.”

So he obeys.

The clasps come undone. The pauldrons slide from his shoulders, the weight of them heavier than he remembered. His breastplate follows, landing on the lacquered bench beside the doorway with a dull, exhausted thud. His gloves are last, peeled from fingers that quake more than he expects.

When he looks up again, you are closer.

“Your wound?” you ask.

“Healed,” he replies. “Scarred.”

Your hand lifts, brushing the fabric at his chest. Beneath the black undershirt, just under his ribs, he knows the scar still burns. A mark from the Emperor’s blade. A mark from the night everything ended–and you began.

“I see it when I close my eyes,” you whisper. “Your blood on my robes. On my hands.”

“I would bleed for you again.”

“I don’t want your blood,” you snap. Then softer, immediately, “I don’t want you as a sword.”

He stills.

Your hand remains at his chest, over the place where his heart is beating a little too loudly.

“I don’t need a blade,” you say. “I need–”

But you don’t finish it. You don’t need to. He hears it in your voice. He sees it in your face. In the way your lips tremble and firm again. In the way your shoulders square but never rise to strike.

He reaches out, slowly, one hand lifting to touch your wrist. You let him.

“I never wanted to be your shadow,” he says. “I only became one when they told me to control you. But you–you never needed to be controlled.”

You breathe in sharply.

His fingers slide gently along the edge of your wrist, anchoring you to him. Not pulling. Not demanding.

“Then why did you stay?” you whisper.

“Because I fell in love with the way you never bowed.”

You flinch, but don’t pull away.

“And now?”

He lifts your hand to his chest again. Over his heart.

“Now I kneel only here.”

Something flickers in your gaze. Something raw and wild and aching.

“You’re a fool,” you mutter.

“I was,” he says. “Until you forgave me.”

“I haven’t.”

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “But you touched me.”

“I was making sure you hadn’t bled out on my floor.”

He lifts his brow. “You removed my armor.”

“I gave an order.”

“You brushed your hand across my chest.”

“That was the wound.”

He leans in, only slightly. “I remember where your fingers stopped.”

You flush. Just faintly. Your eyes narrow. “You remember too much.”

“I remember everything.”

You look away then. But you do not move. His hands are at your waist now–light, reverent. Not possessive. And when you finally look back up, your lips are parted, your voice rough.

“I don’t want you to die for me, Kento.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“I don’t want you to kill for me.”

“I already did.”

You close your eyes. He steps forward, and wraps his arms around you.

You stiffen at first. Your hands press lightly against his chest. Then, slowly–like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding–you melt. One hand slides to his shoulder. The other finds his back.

And you lean into him.

The Empress, pressed to the chest of the man who was meant to hold you in place.

There are no tears. No apologies. Only heat and heartbeats.

Your face turns toward his neck. Your breath is warm against his skin.

“I should hate you more than I do,” you whisper.

He holds you closer.

“I don’t deserve anything more than that.”

“But I still–”

You cut yourself off. Your hand curls against the back of his neck.

And you both stay there. Longer than is wise. Longer than is safe.

The coronation will begin soon. The court is waiting. The world is turning. But for this moment, in this room, beneath the gold and the ghosts–

There is only you. And him.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

The coronation is unlike any in memory.

There are no trumpets. No golden veil. No grand procession of nobles parading themselves for favor.

Instead, the palace bells toll low and slow, calling the court not to spectacle–but to reckoning.

The Hall of Heaven’s Mandate is full, but not loud. The ministers whisper, the nobles straighten their robes, but no one dares to interrupt what is unfolding.

You step into the hall not like an heir–but like a verdict.

You do not wear your brother’s robes. You wear your own. Cut in lines no Empress before you has dared. The fabric is black as storm clouds, threaded with silver and ash-gray, not for mourning, but for memory. The sigil at your back is not the dragon of conquest–but the plum blossom of endurance.

You kneel beneath the throne only once.

And when you rise, the weight of the Empire settles not like a burden–but like something you were born to carry.

Outside, the people gather. Not out of obligation, but longing. The gates open to them–not ceremonially, but physically. You walk the gardens. You stand on the balconies. You pass through the market in simple robes, without guards at your heels.

And the people see you. Not as a symbol. But as someone who listens.

And the Empire listens back.

Months pass, and your rule unfurls like ink in water–clean and irreversible. There is no chaos. No revolution. Only clarity, cutting like wind over glass.

You undo the decrees your father carved into law with fear and fire. You abolish the marriage pacts. You nullify the Crown’s right to marry daughters for power. You reinstate land rights to border towns once stripped of them for failing to pay impossible tributes.

You cast out the ministers who once whispered about your silence as if it were a flaw. You send the cruel to the provinces, give them posts where they cannot harm, only watch. You summon the clever to your court–scribes, farmers, former officers, women whose names were never permitted to grace petitions. Now they lead policy.

You are precise. You are exacting. Mercy has its place in your court, but it is never mistaken for softness. A single misstep from those in power is enough to have them removed. Not punished, not paraded–simply excised. Quietly. Cleanly. Your justice leaves no blood on the stones, only absence where corruption once stood.

Your laws are not just rewritten. They are refined. Where once there were volumes of vague decrees, you introduce clarity. Transparency. The weight of a title no longer shields incompetence. Every minister must now meet with the public quarterly. Every province must submit annual records audited by a third party.

You do not issue commands in anger. You do not scream. But when you speak, the court listens.

The nobles murmur. The old guard recoils. But no one dares defy you. Because every step you take is calculated. Every law you lift is replaced with one stronger, cleaner. The Empire is not burning.

It is blooming.

And the northern alliance?

You send back the gifts. Politely. With a letter written in your own hand. No insult. No slight. But a refusal that brooks no argument.

You are already the Empress. You have nothing left to prove.

Nanami watches all this from the edge. Never your shadow now. He no longer walks three paces behind.

But he is still your sword–until you say otherwise.

You have not dismissed him, but you have not asked for him either.

He stands in the halls like a sentinel. Not guarding a throne. But bearing witness to the only ruler he would ever follow.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

It comes on a quiet morning, in the tranquil garden where you once told him he would not be intolerable after all.

The air is crisp, but not cold. The kind of chill that carries clarity. Above the gently curving roof tiles, the sky is pale with dawn, and the sun is still low enough to cast long shadows across the worn flagstones. Wind breathes through the tall bamboo groves like a secret whispered from the earth itself. Shadows tremble across the surface of the koi pond. A single plum blossom, too stubborn to fall, clings to its branch above the water.

You are already there.

You stand at the garden’s center, where the light touches first. Your robes are a pale dove-gray, trimmed in the quiet silver of your seal. You wear no crown. No veil. Your hair is left loose, not like a sovereign, but like a woman with nothing left to prove. There are no guards at your side. No attendants. No fanfare. Just the hush of morning, and the sound of stone beneath your slippers.

You do not turn when he arrives. But you know.

Nanami’s approach is slow, unarmored. He does not wear the blue of the Imperial Guard. There is no steel at his side. The only sound is his footfalls across the path–the same path he once walked three paces behind you.

He stops only when you breathe his name. Not a command. Not a call. Just: 

“Kento.”

It’s the first time in months he’s heard it spoken like this–bare. It curls in the air like a ribbon loosened from a braid, slipping free.

He swallows. The win brushes past the collar of his coat, and still he feels warm. Warmer than he should.

“Your Majesty.”

You turn then, finally. Not abruptly. But with a quiet, deliberate sort of grace that makes even the birds pause in the canopy above. The rustle of branches stills. The garden holds its breath.

There is resolve in your spine, in the tilt of your chin–not hardness, but certainty. A knowing long in the making.

When your eyes meet his, they do not narrow or pierce. They hold him. Steady. Still. Like you have been waiting for this moment far longer than the day it arrived.

“You’ve served the Empire since you were thirteen,” you say, your voice softer than the hush of wind through reeds.

He bows his head–not in deference, but because the truth of it still weighs heavy. The words settle heavy between you like a stone dropped into a deep, still lake. 

“I have.”

You step forward slightly, just enough to let the distance between you narrow. There is no barrier anymore. No crown between you. No throne. Only the fullness of the garden and the quiet honesty it demands.

“I was a child when I first heard your name,” you murmur. “They said you had no fear. That you felt nothing when you cut down your enemies.”

There is no accusation in your tone. Just memory. A girl recalling whispers passed like incense smoke in gilded corridors.

You tilt your head, eyes searching his face. “They were wrong.”

He does not move. But he feels the words land, soft and seismic. Something in his chest loosens–not relief, not grief. Something deeper. Something closer to being seen.

You speak again, your voice quieter now, low and full of something that tastes like forgiveness.

“I saw your hands shake, that night in my chambers. Covered in blood. Not from weakness. But from the weight of your own restraint.”

His jaw tightens. He does not look away. He cannot.

The air shifts. A blossom breaks loose from the tree above and spirals between you. You both watch it fall, slow and weightless.

“And now,” you say at last, breath slow, eyes steady, “I release you.”

The words fall like the last breath of winter. Gentle. Irrevocable.

Nanami doesn’t respond right away. He lowers his gaze, unsure if it’s grief or relief pressing at the edges of his throat. Unsure if it matters. Because the moment you said it, he felt the tether slip from around his chest.

“I will always protect you,” he says. His voice is low. Rough. Earnest.

You shake your head once. Not a denial. A redirection.

“But not as a sword,” you reply.

The words are not cruel. They are kind. More than he deserves.

He meets your gaze again, and the sun has risen just enough to catch the glint of light in your eyes. For the first time in weeks, he sees you not in silhouette, not in memory, not through longing or regret, but fully.

The way your shoulders are no longer drawn in caution, but carried in choice. The way your hands remain behind your back, not because they are hiding anything, but because you no longer need to reach.

You are not hiding. You are not retreating. You are simply here, and you are brave.

“There will always be blades in the court,” you say. “But you deserve to be something more.”

His hands tighten at his sides. The memories rush forward–barracks and blood, frostbitten marches and shadowed corridors, orders delivered in silence and wounds worn without name.

He had given everything. Every piece of himself. Every rule he lived by.

“I don’t know what I am without this,” he admits.

You take another step toward him. The wind lifts your sleeve, revealing the faintest outline of a scar along your wrist–he remembers it. The shard of glass in one of those suffocating halls. The way you bled quietly and refused to speak of it.

He sees it now, like a story he’d missed reading.

“You are mine,” you say, voice barely above the wind. “Still.”

There is no hesitation. No doubt. 

The breeze stirs the hem of your robes. A petal brushes against his shoulder before slipping past. The space between you shrinks further–not yet touch, but nearly.

“And I am yours,” you say. Not softly. Not like a secret. But like a vow.

He breathes out, shakily. There is no ceremony. No announcement. No audience.

He steps forward, slowly. Then falls to one knee–not with the stiffness of obedience, but with the surrender of a man who has nothing left to guard but you. Because he cannot remain standing under the weight of what he feels.

You lift his chin with one hand. Light. Deliberate.

“Look at me,” you say.

You are not regal. Not now. You are reverent. And raw. And beautiful in the way dawn is beautiful–because it means the darkness has finally passed.

He has knelt for emperors. For gods. For death itself. But this–

This is the only time he has ever felt holy.

“Rise,” you whisper.

And he does.

No longer the General of the Imperial Guard. No longer the Empire’s blade. No longer the Stoic Blade.

He is himself. And yours. Only yours.

You look at him for a moment, your eyes softer than he’s ever seen before.

“Walk with me, Kento.”

“Of course.”

You walk through the lower gardens, just beyond the east wing–where the wind carries the scent of stone and pine, where lanterns swing on long silken cords in the breeze, untouched by court hands.

You walk ahead of him. Not out of habit, but out of comfort.

And he follows. Not because he must. Because he wants to.

The garden paths are quiet at this hour, nearly deserted save for the rustle of wind. The palace is full of ministers today–letters to sign, alliances to review. But you have carved this hour free, and he knows it. Not because you said so. Because he knows you.

You stop by the water.

The pool here is small, shallower than the koi pond,but clearer. The stone bottom glints beneath the surface, catching light like old coins.

He stands beside you now. Close, but not too close. He watches the water ripple around a single falling blossom.

“You used to say nothing,” you say.

He glances at you. You don’t look back. Your eyes remain on the pool.

“For weeks. You would follow me, answer when spoken to, and vanish like mist the moment you were dismissed.”

He offers a small sound. Something between a breath and a laugh.

“I didn’t trust myself to speak.”

That earns him a look. Sharp, but curious. “Why?”

His gaze drops. “Because I was sent to watch you,” he says. “Not to know you. And I knew, if I spoke freely, I would fail at one of those things.”

You don’t answer immediately. The wind rustles through the leaves.

“You looked fearless,” you say at last. “When you drew steel. When you stood before my brother. Even when I turned from you. You never flinched.”

He exhales. Slow. Controlled. “I wasn’t fearless.”

“No?”

He shakes his head, eyes on the water. “Fear just looks different when you’ve lived with it long enough. You stop showing it. You learn how to bleed without making a sound.”

You turn toward him fully now. “Then when were you afraid?”

He hesitates. Then meets your eyes.

“The first time you smiled at me.”

That makes you blink. He continues, voice quiet.

“Because I knew then I had already lost. The empire, the rules, the silence–none of it stood a chance.”

You study him. The sunlight shifts above, filtered through blossoms and pine needles.

Then, you speak.

“Don’t call me ‘Your Majesty’,” you say.

He pauses. You step closer.

“Not now. Not when we’re like this.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“My name.”

He tries it once, softly. Like a prayer.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. He’s called you by your name before, but this time, when you open your eyes, something has softened.

“You never looked at me like the others did,” you say. “Not even when I gave you reason to.”

He tilts his head. “Like a threat?”

You huff. “Like a conquest. A prize.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I looked at you like a man who looks at the stars when he’s too far from home.”

Your breath hitches. Not sharply. Just enough.

“You have a way with words, Kento.”

“You gave them to me.”

You smile then. Real. Not wide, not bright–but true. It tugs at the corner of your mouth like dawn slipping over the horizon.

Your hand lifts. Not to his face. Not to his chest. Just the back of his hand.

A touch. Light. Certain.

He turns his palm upward beneath yours. Fingers curling slowly. Carefully. No gloves serving as a barrier. Just your warmth against his.

The silence lingers between you in the garden–long and deep and brimming with the weight of things unsaid. Your last words still echo, like the hush that follows thunder, not for fear of the storm, but for awe of its passing. The morning has shifted, warmer now. The light casts a gentler glow across the stone paths, and the koi pond glimmers like glass just barely stirred.

You are the one to step away first, your fingers brushing the fabric of your sleeve as if rolling up the memory of what just passed, tucking it away somewhere private. Nanami watches the motion with a reverence that makes his chest ache. He would memorize each movement if he could. He would spend the rest of his days chasing the curve of your knuckles in stillness.

You lift your hand again–not toward him. Toward the air above the pool.

A blossom, half-unfurled, hands just above the surface, its petals pale with the season’s end. It sways slightly, heavy with dew, just beyond reach from the stone embankment.

“That one.”

Nanami glances at the blossom, then back at you. Your expression is unreadable again, but not closed. Not cold. A window left ajar.

He doesn’t hesitate. He steps off the stone edge and into the pool.

The water laps quietly at his boots, cool even through the leather, soaking the hems of his trousers. The tadpoles scatter, glimmering like obsidian ghosts beneath the surface. The pool is shallow, no deeper than a calf, but the moment feels deeper than it is.

You watch him with your hands folded lightly before you. You do not smirk. You do not tease. But there is fondness in the line of your mouth.

When he reaches up, tall enough that only a slight stretch is required, and plucks the blossom, it comes free with little resistance. He cups it carefully in his palm, wading back across the stones slick with moss, and stops before you.

You lift your gaze expectantly.

“It’s cold,” he says mildly.

You exhale–not quite a laugh, but not far from it. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have stepped in so eagerly.”

“I was under the impression it was a command,” he says.

You don’t say anything, but you reach for the flower. He holds it just out of reach.

Your brow lifts a fraction. “Really?”

He allows the corner of his mouth to tilt–not a smile. Something near it. “You didn’t say please.”

A breath of a pause. Your lashes lower faintly, and then you lean forward by a fraction, your voice dropping to something private. “If I ask nicely, will you still make me wait?”

His hand tightens around the stem, heartbeat stuttering beneath his armorless chest.

You mean the blossom.

You must.

But the question sinks deeper than the water did.

“No,” he says, and holds it out for you, real this time. “No waiting.”

You take it. Your fingers brush, and your hand lingers on his longer than it needs to. The petals tremble in your grip, but you do not look away from him. You stare, and beneath your gaze, he feels like a blade being tempered–heated, reshaped, made new.

You turn your attention to the flower, studying it, turning it between your fingers.

“It was my mother’s favorite flower,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why you tell him this now. He simply waits.

“She used to say,” you continue, “that any man who would tread through cold water for a single bloom was already halfway in love.”

Nanami’s voice is quiet. “Only halfway?”

You don’t look at him. Not quite. “She was an optimist.”

A long pause. The silence now is not discomfort. It is possibility.

“You are still unwed,” he says.

Your lashes lift slowly. “That was the plan,” you murmur. “But plans change.”

The blossom turns in your fingers again. Your gaze is careful when you speak next. “They want me to choose.”

Nanami breathes evenly. “And will you?”

You do not answer. But your eyes lift to his, and what they ask is louder than any spoken question.

Will you ask me? Will you stand beside me?

His throat tightens. He takes a half-step closer, still damp from the pool. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you again.

“I would stand where you placed me,” he says at last. “So long as it was beside you.”

You close your hand around the flower. When you speak, it is not quite forgiveness for everything that has happened, but it is close.

“Then do not make me ask.”

The wind stirs the water behind you. A tadpole rises to the surface, then slips beneath again.

Nanami doesn’t speak. He only nods. 

The stillness lingers between you in the garden–not silence now, but waiting. The kind of pause that invited motion, as if the earth itself has stopped spinning for a moment, holding its quiet breath just to watch what will unfold next.

Nanami does not move quickly. He never has.

But there is a difference between caution and care, and the way he lifts his hand now–slow, deliberate, reverent–is not to protect himself. It is to honor you.

His fingers are warm when they touch the underside of your chin, lifting gently–not to command, not to possess, but to make space for what he must say. His other hand takes the blossom from your fingers–the one he retrieved without hesitation.

You watch him with stillness in your chest and thunder in your blood.

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your temple with featherlight precision. Then he tucks the flower there–careful, precise, as if afraid it might bruise with the wrong touch. His knuckles trail the curve of your cheek as he pulls back, not entirely.

Your breath shudders once through your lips.

He sees it, but it’s not fear. It’s everything else.

Your lips part, not to speak, not yet, but to breathe him in.

And then, he speaks.

“I have never asked for anything,” he says, voice low and steady, each word dropping like smooth stones into deep water. “Not from the crown. Not from the court. Not even from you.”

You tilt your head, the barest invitation. A spark dances in your eyes–part daring, part something he does not yet name.

“But if I were to ask,” he continues, “I would ask for this.”

His gaze does not falter. “To be yours. To be what you reach for when the halls close around you. What you choose, freely. Not out of duty. Not out of forgiveness. But because you want to.”

His hand is still by your cheek. The wind rustles the fabric of your sleeves. You do not answer immediately.

Instead, your hand rises. Not to push him away, but to press flat against his chest, where the scar lies beneath–earned in silence, in shadows, in loyalty.

The heart beneath it that has bled for you. Lied for you. Killed for you.

You say nothing still, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. And you pull. Just enough.

He leans in, and this time, there is no hesitation. His breath brushes your skin. His mouth finds yours not in question but in knowing.

The kiss is slow, deep, drawn from somewhere that aches. Your lips meet his with an aching precision, like a vow passed between mouths, like the final stroke of ink across a lifetime of withheld confessions.

He exhales softly through his nose. One hand lifts to your waist, fingers splaying there with care. The other brushes your back, holding–not restraining. Holding.

Your hands climb to his shoulders. You feel the solid line of him beneath your palms. The heat.

When you part, it is not far.

Just enough for your lips to break the seal and your forehead to rest against his.

A single breath, shared.

You speak first.

“I do not want a wedding,” you whisper. “I want a choice.”

His hand tightens ever so slightly at your waist. “You have it.”

“I want you to stay,” you say, voice like spun thread. “But not as a blade. Not as a title. I want to fall asleep beside someone who will not lie. Not even to protect me.”

“I will not lie to you,” he says, quiet and firm. “Not again.”

Another breath passes. He closes his eyes as your fingers curl along the edge of his jaw.

“I want you,” you say again, softer now, “but not the way they said I must want. Not to breed heirs. Not to be seen. I want you because I remember the way your voice broke when you thought I might hate you.”

His chest tightens.

“And the way you knelt,” you add, your voice trembling like light on water, “not to obey–but to stay.”

His hands are steady. But his heart is not. His heart is a thunder that does not end.

“And because when they caged me,” you whisper, “you broke the lock.”

This time, the kiss doesn’t come from either of you reaching. It comes from both of you meeting halfway.

It is not gentle. It is not chaste. But it is not frantic either. It is reverent. It is real.

It is a kiss born of ash and blood and silk and silence, a kiss wrapped in everything you did not say in those long months of standing across a breathless line. His hands anchor you. Yours dig into his shirt. When he lifts you slightly off the stones, your feet leave the path, but your body stays steady against his.

When he sets you down again, you do not let go. Neither does he.

“What now?” you ask, voice full of wonder, full of disbelief, full of aching relief.

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his nose to yours, “I keep choosing you.”

Your smile is real. Small, but real.

You slide your hand to his cheek. “And I you.”

The garden breathes around you, caught in the hush between spring and summer.

Above, the branches of the plum trees sway, heavy with blossoms that drift like slow stars down into the still pool.

You stand together, forehead to forehead, hand to hand.

Not as Empress and General. Not as power and weapon. But as two people who have known war and have chosen tenderness anyway.

No crown. No sword. No throne between you.

Only what you’ve built. Only what you’ve become. Only what you’ve chosen–again and again.

And as you stand there, the wind stirs the garden around you. It curls through the bamboo. Carries the scent of the season’s last bloom. The tadpoles ripple the pond with soft circles. The air is full of petals and memory.

It is the quiet after survival. The stillness after the storm.

Where once you were shadow and blade–

Now, you are flesh and vow.

You are the breath between promises.

You are the place each other returns to. Not for safety. But for home.

And above you, the plum trees release their final bloom. Not in mourning, but in blessing. Soft as forgiveness. Certain as sunrise.

Here, in the garden where every wound bloomed into something unbreakable–

You stand together. Whole. Unhidden. And in love.

In the place where truth lingers.

In the place where you chose each other.

In the place where the plum blossoms fall.

A/N: okay i made this man get down on his knees a little too much but is anyone complaining (art by ykRRR23 on X)

[crowfish-brainrot]

Since I want my mains to come home quickly for this next banner, I’m gonna yap my love for my mains because fuck I love them both so much.

Rafayel speaks to me, deeply, which is funny because he was my least favorite at first. I always liked all the LIs, but I fully expected to be a SnowCrow main. As wild as it is, Raf has become my number one favorite, which I didn’t expect!

Maybe it’s because I’m also an artist (though, with words versus painting), but I feel so seen by him. He loves so deeply, he feels so deeply, and all of it hides under a playful mask that makes it easier for him to face the sheer depth of his emotions. I’m much the same way. Also the way he shares his vulnerabilities with MC (like in his Nightly Rendezvous card “will you still like me if I become someone who only takes from you?”, Ebb & Flow “there’s still time to care for someone else,” and his entire spring event card) is so tender. He shows true maturity by expressing himself to her, and it’s so intimate.

I also love how he plays with MC! He goofs her, makes her flustered, teases her. He lets her overpower him because it’s fun for him, but he always takes back over & I just LOVE how they play off each other. Brat x brat is such a fun dynamic. I’m also a brat, so of course I love this.

He’s so passionate with MC, too. His spicy cards always get me so damn flustered! I can read the nastiest smut known to man & listen to most with a straight face but for some reason I blush to my ears when listening to his secret times 😂

I love when we see how dangerous he really is. The card where he protects MC from that creep? Swooon!! How creative he is when he kills people?? Hot. Hot. Hot!!! I personally think he’s actually THE biggest threat to MC, but he would rather die than hurt her, which is so 😩. Also he literally let his world fall apart rather than kill her and that does things to me. (Granted, all of them have done that to an extent, which is probably why I love all of them!)

Also, the way he yearns…? 😩 He’s waited 800 years for her. They’ve both died in each others arms, their love is star crossed but they still make their way back to each other in every lifetime & my heart can’t take it. I love him. I love how their bond gets stronger the more they love each other, because that is such a beautiful way of describing what happens when two people are together for a long time. Love only grows deeper. I know the next banner isn’t going to be a real wedding but I can’t wait for MC to be his WIFE instead of only his bride 😭😭😭😭

Now for Sylus.

He’s the entire reason I downloaded the game. My sister showed me Dragon Sylus & I was down bad immediately. I love a morally grey man, I’m a monster fucker, and I have a thing for deep voices so I was immediately in love.

Then I got into his story & lore. I cried at his dragon myth. I love Sylus so much because he is devotion. He chased MC through time and space. She has half of his soul, and you FEEL it through every interaction he has with MC. Yes he’s dangerous and kills people on the regular (which is hot in a fictional man, ngl), but what I love most about him is his softness. To MC & no one else. I’m a sucker for that, because I am also that way. I’m not a big fan of people, I don’t trust easily. But for my husband? I am the softest little thing. To everyone else? I will bite. He has that same energy & I loooove it!

Also I love how calm he is. How stable he is. How he encourages MC to want more, to do whatever she wants. I love that he inverts the Dark Romance Mafia Boss Archetype where he doesn’t control MC, he isn’t toxic toward her, and how he honors her power bc she isn’t a damsel he needs to save. I love that he wants her to be powerful and strong. I love that he challenges her. I also love how they don’t take either of each others bullshit 😂

I adore how much of a pathetic lover boy he is. It’s so cute. He’s so painfully in love with MC. How everything he’s ever done is for HER, to call her back to his side, to find her in all the vastness of space and time. I love his dominance. I love his confidence. The man speaks poetry & Magnum Opus truly is one of the best memories in the game. My heart can’t take it. Every time he talks to her after the face mask scene I melt all over again. I love how he tries to fit in her world, instead of just expecting her to fit into his. How much he tries for her is so fucking precious.

I also love how he plays with MC. It’s different than how Rafayel does, but it’s still playful banter, teasing, with a lot of back and forth. It’s so fun to watch them dance around one another and to see how they get under the other’s skin. I love how he finds joy in her audacity & bratiness. As a brat, I will always simp for a brat enabler!!!!

His spicy cards also have me in a chokehold. Every time I’m always blushing!!!! His playfulness seeps into the steamy cards, and it always gets me. How he and MC push/pull one another, how he teases her??? Please I’m dyiiiing every time! He’s so damn hungry for her, it’s just hot.

Again, the yearning. How he didn’t interfere in her life at all until she came to the N109 Zone, even though he saw her, knew where she was, etc. he waited for her to come to him, and then of course she didn’t remember him. How much that must’ve hurt after all he did for her. But, after a rough start he goes hands off and lets her come to him. He would’ve left her alone if she asked him to, but she ran for him & THAT scene made me all misty-eyed. He’s waited so long to have her in his arms, and he’d wait forever if that’s what she wanted. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her(which again, could be said about all of them, but I digress), & I can’t help but love him!!!

Sylus might be my number 2, but it’s by like maybe three points. I love both Sylus and Rafayel sm, & I can’t wait to ugly sob while watching the wedding banner. 😭😭😭

Come home quickly my husbands!!!!!!

[forresttfirre]

— a game of chance (dick grayson x reader)

Summary: Luck is your thing, charm is Dick's. So it's not a surprise when you get paired together for an undercover mission at a casino. But it seems your luck isn't enough to cover two people, and his charm can only go so far. Warnings: fictional drugs (power enhancers), mentions of religion + something being sacrilege (it's very minimal), french because it's set in monaco (feel free to correct my french, most of it i wrote on a hope & prayer), pining & tension, dick gets hurt, reader gets hit on. Word Count: 2.4k — Notes: reader has the power to manipulate luck & is a member of the JL.

Casinos are nothing new to you. After you got a handle on your powers, you spent your down time in disguise, always dressing older than you were. You'd enter with a fake ID in between your fingers and a decent amount of money you'd exchange for chips. You always won, always knew when to fold or what to bet. Every casino you went to grew suspicious but with no actual evidence to prove you cheated, you always went home with your earnings.

When you enter the Casino de Monte Carlo, you can feel the different levels of luck that fill the area. A lot of bad luck stains certain areas. It's always the areas that the casinos rig to the high heavens.

The com in your ear crackles as it turns on. "No getting distracted. Focus on the mission." A teasing smile grows on your face. You glance at Dick when you speak, trying to cover up who you're actually talking to. "I'll be focused in a minute or two, darling." You can hear how Batman bristles at the pet name through his little hn. Dick just smiles and laughs, his cheeks a little rosy.

He's got on a pair of thick, black glasses that obscure the features that make him recognizable as Dick Grayson. You never would've thought they'd actually work.

Everything else about him feels normal: his jawline is still sharp, his hair is still perfectly styled, and even his suit is a deep Nightwing blue.

"I need a drink." Before you can move, his hand is on the small of your back guiding you over to the bar near the middle of the room. Strings of crystals hang down alongside the exterior of the bar, extravagant mirrors decorate the walls behind.

The bartender gives you both a judging look as you sit at the bar. You position yourself with your back to the side of the building Dick can visibly see, and vice versa. Dick orders two drinks in practiced French as you scan the room for anything suspicious.

From the intel Batman was able to gather, illegal dealings of power enhancers have been going on in the backrooms of the casino. You've stumbled upon the drug before, during your nights as a vigilante. They'll be concealed well, but once you uncover one, all the other stashes will be easy to find. They can hide them in jars or water bottles, but they can never get rid of the shimmer the drug holds, even if it's not bright blue like the first formula.

The meta power enhancers are illegal around the world and are not meant to be sold or even made in the first place. But people always try to be sneaky.

Batman was able to discover that the dealers here aren't trying to hide that they're selling; it's the electric blue formula you're used to, stashed in small, clear tubes. Apparently, they're also not even trying to hide where they're doing their dealings.

A man guards a door a couple feet away from the bar, burly and muscular, wearing a suit and dark sunglasses like he's a caricature of a bodyguard. Though he does wear a blue beaded bracelet — the group's signature.

Your lips curve into a sultry smile and you lean toward Dick, lips almost brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Behind you, to your right." As you pull away Dick raises an eyebrow, his tone faux teasing as he says, "Oh, really?" You roll your eyes and pick up the drink you haven't touched. When you take a fake sip, Dick locates the door via one of the mirrors and you mentally remind yourself of the 'secret password' to enter the hidden room.

Sacrement, because apparently the people who take the enhancer treat it like it's holy — as if an addiction to power is anything but sacrilegious. You repeat it in your head with a heavy French accent to take your mind off the deeper meaning. Might as well try to enjoy the mission just a tad.

"The bartender looks antsy. Max amount of time before he approaches is approximately five minutes." You can barely contain your snort at Batman's formal tone. Dick leaves his barstool smoothly, extending a hand to you when he's got his feet on the ground. "Shall we?" He asks with a blinding smile. A little laugh leaves your lips, and you take another fake sip of your drink to ignore the warm feeling in your stomach.

You place your hand in his and step down from your barstool. Dick puts more strength toward his arm then he needs to, as if you'll stumble and fall from the chair. He probably just doesn't want to abort the mission just because you happen to roll your ankle.

You both put on a graceful walk, trying to exude the wealth needed to gain some respect here. As you approach the guard, you bend luck in your favor. Though you can't see it change — you never have — you can tell it's worked with the way the air around you feels. Like it's lighter.

When you stop in front of the guard, you can barely get the 'secret word' out of your mouth before he's allowing you both in. Dick looks at you a little shocked, like he knows what you've done but not how you've done it. "Merci, monsieur," you say to the guard with a kind smile, and he nods stiffly before closing the door behind you both.

"Mind if we join?" Dick places his hand on an empty chair, causing the men in a game of poker look up. They all wear the signature blue beaded bracelet, but the oldest at the table wears a bracelet of smooth, clear crystal beads. The boss.

He gestures toward the two empty chairs. His voice is gruff as he speaks, "Asseyez-vous." You both comply, sitting down at the table and accepting the cards you're dealt. "Steer away from the cards if you can. We want to get this over with before more guests join." Dick shoots you a look, making you sure you heard Batman's orders. You give him a subtle nod while placing your cards on the table.

"We're not just here for cards, you know," Dick comments as one of the boss' men adds a few chips in to the betting pile. The boss seems surprised at how forward he is. "Ah, j'sais. J'sais," He waves it off, raising the bet just as casually.

"How much for one unit?" Dick inquires as he matches the bet. The boss laughs as he points a finger at him. "You are nosy, aren't you? You did not get your information before coming here, huh?"

"Are you a meta, monsieur?" He continues. Dick straightens at the question — looking visibly unprepared. "Il ne l'est pas, monsieur. Mais, moi si." You catch the boss' eye as you throw your chips in to match the bet. His grin grows, showing yellowed teeth and age lines.

You hold his gaze as his eyes scan you, like he'll see your power through your body language. Beside you, Dick's jaw clenches, feeling uncomfortable for you. He places a hand on your thigh as if he's saying I'm here for you. The placement isn't anything scandalous, but the table hides most of his arm, leaving room for curious eyes.

"Careful." You'd like to be able to tell Batman to shut up. You know what you're doing. So does Dick. "Are you an enchantress, mademoiselle?" You force a flattered look and a soft laugh.

"I wish— Do your exchanges always include flirting with your clients, monsieur?" Dick cuts you off with a bitter tone that leaves you stunned. The boss and his men laugh as Batman's voice sounds through both of your coms. "Fallback, Nightwing. Focus on the mission."

"Ah, I guess we will start the exchange then." He stands from the table, placing his hands against it to help him up. His men stand along with him, revealing the guns holstered on their belts. Both of you notice them immediately. "Ici."

One of the men pulls a black cloth off a non-descript object revealing a set of crates. Very original.

The boss grabs one of the small tubes from a top crate, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. He holds it up near the bulb on the ceiling, showing the glimmer that the power enhancers always hold. "It's high quality. You will enjoy it, chérie." You hold out your hand as he walks back over to you, and he places the tube on your palm. When you close your fingers around it, the tube is ice cold, but you can feel the power within it.

Dick gives you a worried look before speaking. "How much do we have to pay? You never said." His words are stilted, like he's trying to bury his emotions and focus on the task at hand. He's not doing the best job. "Don't worry, you'll get a discount. It's not often we get a pretty face in this room." He and his men laugh again as Dick lets his anger show through clenched fists and a small twitch in his jaw.

"Listen, man—," Dick takes a step forward, hand extended just as a gesture, nothing more. Yet all the men pull out their guns and point them at him. Everything goes silent, and you use the moment to bend the luck in the room. The air doesn't feel as light as it used to be.

"Listen? Ah, funny. You want me to listen, yet you don't let me speak."

"It's alright. I don't need to speak either." Dick shrugs off his suit jacket and drops it against a nearby chair, then swiftly undoes the buttons on his wrists to make his movements easier as he punches the boss. You place the tube on the table before joining the action. As Dick fights the boss (he's down in a few hits) and his right-hand man, you focus on the others.

You grab one trying to get to Dick by the shoulders and send him into the table, crushing it under his weight. There's two others; one charging at you and the other is busy turning off the safety on his gun.

He stumbles after the first punch then blindly throws a punch toward you. Because he misses you completely, it makes it easier for you to push him on the ground next to his friend. As he collapses against the ruins of the table, a gunshot pierces through the room.

You turn around in a hurry and are met with the sight of Dick holding his side, where blood is starting to seep through his white shirt, while his other hand quickly disarms his assailant. When the gun clatters to the ground, you grab it, backing him into a corner. Your eyes frantically scan the room around you for something to tie him up with, when Dick walks by you, undoing his tie.

You snatch the tie from him, sending him a glare that says what are you doing. "Go grab a few tubes and put them in my bag. And maybe grab one of their shirts or something to help stop the bleeding?" You give him a sarcastic smile that makes him cringe like he's in trouble.

As he does what he's told, you tie up the guy's hand with Dick's tie, then gag him with another tie, courtesy of his now unconscious boss. Hurried footsteps begin to approach the door.

"Are you gonna be safe to leave?" All he does is nod before he pushes open a back door. A padlock falls from a lock and clangs against the ground. Guess that's where your luck went.

The suite the JL had rented has only one bed since you had to stick with your cover as a couple for your entire stay. So, once Dick was able to get stitched up, you gave him the bed. It was only fair.

After lots of arguing from him before he eventually relented.

Now, Dick sits awkwardly slumped on the bed while you lay on the couch, feet kicked up on the opposite arm rest. Every few seconds you glance up from your book to check on him. He's clearly antsy but unable to sleep, trying to distract himself with something on his phone.

"Dick?" He hums in acknowledgement. "You okay?" That gets him to look up from his phone, which reveals the exhausted look in his eye. Not just tired from the mission, but also his emotions.

"Yeah, it's...B's just a little annoyed about how the mission went. You know him." You freeze at that. Because you could agree, say that makes sense, but is that what he needs to hear right now? "Mm, well the mission, for him at least, was during the day. I'm sure he's just tired from missing his afternoon nap. Being a bat, and all." It's a bad attempt at a joke but it still gets a small huff of laughter from Dick. Worth it.

"You should get some sleep too." His head tips back toward the headboard, a bored look on his face. "I don't think sleep wants me right now."

You don't know what compels you to get up from the couch — your luck making its own decisions or how sometimes you don't want everything to be playful, and rather have it be real — but you make your way over to the bed, book in hand. Dick blinks at you in surprise as you sit down next to him cross-legged.

"Ever read The Great Gatsby?" That gets a little smile on his face. "Yeah, in 10th grade English, maybe."

"I'll give you a refresher then." You open the book back to where you stopped and clear your throat. As you start to read, your words trail off when Dick shifts closer to you. After a minute long staring contest, where both of you seem to have an internal war on what's happening, you begin to read. Next to you, Dick visibly relaxes.

As the sun starts to rise over the Monaco skyline, Dick falls asleep. He's closer to you now that his limbs are all loose.

It takes you longer to fall asleep — you swear you heard birds chirping right before your head hit the pillow — just because of the way your heart races because he's in proximity to you.

You wake up, your limbs are all tangled with your copy of The Great Gatsby bent between you. Neither of you acknowledge it beyond a few apologies, just like how you've treated every other accidental (or purposeful) display of affection.

Though you'd never bend your luck to win him over, you can only hope your natural, non-superpowered luck can take over.

i have so many other ideas for these two so i might make a collection of some sorts? let me know what you think! i had so much fun writing this so i'd love to do more! + also, maybe i'm overthinking this but i feel like the JL wouldn't do a lot of undercover missions? or at least the members of the batfamily, considering their civilian identities. ex: it's different for marvel characters because most of them have their identities public so there's not as much to lose, you know? anyway, even though i considered this i still wrote it 'cause i liked the idea :) (they've definitely done undercover missions i just don't know why some members would do that)

[sweetfirebird]

Someone a while ago said Forget Me Not had a large number of typos, so I have been slowly rereading and skimming it. Lots of formatting errors so far from the earlier version of Atticus.

Anyway, I am reading it in pieces both to suit my available time and because... it's a hard read. I mean writing it helped give me an ulcer (sort of a joke). But also in particular *right now* it is a hard read.

Ray's world is falling apart and everything he thought he knew and could rely on is being taken apart or taken from him.

Yeah. A lot right now.

But uh. Also. I am at the slow unraveling of how institutional powers band together to maintain power and profit and how they scapegoat outsiders and queer people (and the Spanish-speaking area of a city). And it is not another #SeerProblems situation but also... it kind of feels like it is.

And I did not resolve everything in this book. That's not how it ends. But it ends with rest, and care, and preparing for the long-haul fight. So I guess I will see if that comforts me now or not...

I can see why people do not like this one. I knew that at the time. A fluffy cop romance getting deconstructed to show the violence in the system turning on one of the cops? I get it.

But also. Ray and Penn and Cal and Benny, and Calvin and Lis (and Steve!) And Walter and Hyacinth and everyone else are on the case. And that's not nothing.

(And I keep mentioning the Gilded Age robber barons!! Ugh fuck my life)