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awkwardapologetic · 5 months ago

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Pulling the Puzzles Apart - Chapter 2

Summary:

Jayce is a scientist from a small town who wants to bring back the mythic technology of a past he feels a strong connection to. Viktor is a god who has spent centuries paying for his mistakes. Jayce didn't expect to find a mysterious man trapped in a magic prison. Viktor never expected he'd ever see the man who imprisoned him again.

Relationships: Jayce Talis/Viktor

Tags: Alternate Universe, Post Post-Apocalypse, Hurt/Comfort, Plot Heavy, Happy Ending, Reincarnation, Memory Loss, Recovering Memories

AO3 Link or read below

<<Chapter 1

CHAPTER 2

"...Back?" Jayce asked hesitantly. "I've, uh. I've never been here before."

The man hummed, lifting his head languidly. He looked Jayce up and down, slow and unself-conscious in his scrutiny. The tips of Jayce's ears burned, imagining how he must look after being down here for days with no opportunity to wash or shave.

"Who are you, anyway?"

The man's mouth twitched in either a smile or a grimace. "I'm... nobody."

Jayce found that to be an entirely unbelievable response, and wanted to ask just what the man was doing there, for how long, and why, but there was another pressing issue he felt took precedence. "Okay, Nobody. You wouldn't happen to know the way out of here? I thought another passage might appear after I opened your, uh..." He gestured to the scattered remains of the orb.

The man cast a disinterested glance around the room. There was a sluggishness to him, like he was only bothering to put in half the effort required to move his body. He grabbed the cane at his side, and— had... there always been a cane there?— used it to leverage himself upright, bit by bit. Jayce made an aborted move to help him on reflex, but caught himself. The man surely wouldn't appreciate being grabbed at by a stranger.

Shuffling the short few steps to the wall on Jayce's left, he tapped the end of his cane against its center. It rippled like the surface of a pond. Jayce could only gape in astonishment as it swirled around itself, stretching and smearing the runic equations together into a marbling of gray rock and dark paint that began tunneling upward at an even slant.

"How...?" Jayce breathed, watching the end of the tunnel extend until it disappeared in darkness. A moment later, a light appeared a short stretch away. A way out.

The man shot Jayce a small, mysterious half-smile, a softness that accentuated the delicate angles of his face, his high cheekbones, the beauty marks above his lip and under his eye. Jayce's heart jumped into his throat. "I suppose I'm partial to getting some air. Mind if I accompany you up?"

"I—uh, yes, uh, of course! Just let me, uh—" Jayce stammered. He forced himself to tear his gaze away and gather up his scattered research and supplies. The man waited patiently, and Jayce faced him with a sheepish grin once everything was packed up and in order. "After you."

Jayce should be asking more questions. Jayce should have more questions. The walk out of the tunnel at this odd man's side, keeping his own pace slow in mindfulness of his companion's cane-steadied gait, carried a peaceful silence that Jayce was loath to fill.

Despite the strange circumstances, Jayce held a bone-deep certainty that the man meant him no harm, and that Jayce had done good by unlocking his arcane prison. It was partially an accident, sure, and Jayce had no idea what he'd been doing until he'd done it, but once he saw the man it was like a breath he'd been holding all his life finally released, and he could breathe freely now.

It was something that was meant to happen. Jayce didn't entirely believe in Fate, and he knew what the acolytes of Ekko would say about how the future was always in flux, but all his life he felt the call to higher purpose. He was meant to change the world, and this man— Jayce didn't know how yet, but he knew— he was meant to be part of that.

Jayce was right about the rooms being inside the island's land mass. The two of them exited the tunnel and Jayce got his first real look at the city.

The stories of the floating cities told of their end in a last-stand battle against a world-ending threat. Hearing those stories, Jayce never fully imagined the wreckage it would leave behind.

Stone structures, wrought from remarkably identical bricks, towering higher and higher the closer they were to the city center, save for the city's own transport station, which stood closer to the edge. The white paint that once must have made these buildings gleam with prosperity was peeling, faded, and caked with centuries of dust. Tarnished gold accents lined window frames and doorways, curling around columns and archways in intricate designs.

Not a single one of them was left intact. Holes were blown through buildings, some toppled over, either onto the broken, rubble-filled streets, or supported by neighboring structures still stubbornly holding upright.

The streets could hardly be called such any longer, either blocked off or split open, creeping plant cover and wild grasses bursting through and crowding any available gap in the stone.

Abandoning these cities... Jayce always thought it was cowardice, gods and civilizations who would rather blame the tools they created for the pain of the war rather than the ones who wielded them.

He could taste the death and grief in the air.

"What a mess," his companion murmured, reminding Jayce that he was not alone. He picked his way through a gap in the rubble into the street. "Come. I know somewhere that will be of interest to you."

"Uh, y-you do?"

The man didn't respond. Instead, he tapped the side of his cane against a large chunk of stone, like he was shooing it out of his way. Jayce watched in wonder as the stone actually obeyed the unspoken command, sliding over until he could pass through with his cane without stumbling.

"Okay, yeah," Jayce mumbled, and followed behind.

They traveled outwards, away from the taller buildings, his companion nudging the rubble out from underfoot like misbehaving poros. During their trek, Jayce realized that what he thought was the city center was actually the center of one of the island's interlocked circles. He spotted the bridges connecting the two stretched over a deep trench. What little he could see of the other circle was darker than this side. More cramped.

Their destination was an unremarkable rectangular building of only two stories. It was untouched by neither the war nor time, half the top floor missing its walls and ceiling, ivy blanketing the ground floor and blocking the entrance. It cleared away at another touch of his companion's cane.

What was that thing made of?

Inside the building fared better than the outside, though what he saw was only the first floor. It was weathered, cracks covering the once-shining floors and parts of the ceiling caving in. They took a short walk down a nondescript corridor and stopped outside a warped, metallic blue door.

"What is this?" Jayce asked. Again, his companion didn't respond, simply taking the door by the handle and shouldering it open. The room behind it was large and open, old chalkboards pushed against the wall and placed beside sizable workshop desks, scattered with papers and schematics and tools and devices he didn't know the purposes for. In the center of the room was a cracked display fitted with a runic matrix. "Oh."

It was a lab. A lab where they tested— possibly invented— runes.

Jayce set his journals down on the edge of a desk in a daze. It was overwhelming, being here. The years he spent scouring the transport tower and experimenting with runes— the setbacks, the barriers of knowledge he hit, the near-death experiences, the breakthroughs, gods, the breakthroughs— all leading up to this moment when Jayce would learn from the source what his passion was truly capable of.

The notes on the desks were disorganized, spanning the length of both desks, some even strewn on the floor underneath. Jayce could almost picture it in his mind's eye: a scientist in a dark suit frantically sifting through his work to find something, anything, that could put an end to the cacophony of explosions and screams coming from outside.

Most of the pages were delicate with age, but Jayce could still make out the shapes formed by the faded ink. He handled them with care, only touching them with his fingertips to uncover overlapping papers, afraid he'd damage them.

Out of order as they were, it would take some time to piece together their ideas, but what Jayce could parse was already... revolutionary. Whoever worked here specialized in integrating the runes with machinery. There was a lot Jayce didn't understand, but he noticed schematics for advanced mining equipment that had the potential to end that kind of body-breaking labor.

"This is..." he breathed. No one would be able to discount the merits of this technology when he brought these designs back.

He moved to grab one of his journals to start his own notes, but found none of them were where he put them. Confused, he turned to his companion, finding him sitting on one of the lab's chairs, three of Jayce's journals placed in his lap, the fourth open in his hand. Sensing his gaze, the man looked up from his reading. "This is quite impressive. How long have you been working on this, Jayce?"

A flush crept up his neck at both the praise and the breach of his journals, because, yes, they were his research and he was proud of them, but they were also. Well. His journals. He shuffled his feet. "My... whole life, I guess. But I only started working on it seriously ten years ago." His bashfulness faded all at once in realization. "Hold on, how do you know my name?"

The man chuckled. Jayce thought it was going to be another instance of him not answering Jayce's questions, and was about to chalk up 'preternatural personal knowledge' to just another one of his idiosyncrasies along with having been trapped in an underground arcane orb and owning a magic cane, but then he lifted Jayce's journal in indication. "Every page," he said, and chuckled again, like he was sharing a joke with himself.

Jayce had a feeling he was the punchline. His mouth twisted sourly. "Right."

"It has promise," the man said, and Jayce perked up. "But you should know, tampering with the arcane can incur a steep price."

This was not the first time someone tried to warn him away from his work, but his usual defenses didn't rise. "Is that what happened to you?" he asked. The man's face turned stony.

"Something like that."

Sensing a conversational dead end, Jayce switched gears. "All innovation comes with risk. The good this could do..." He looked around the lab, the schematics catching his eye, and let himself imagine a future pioneered by technology that would nullify hard labor, allow for global exchanges of resources and knowledge, save people displaced by disaster or war with towns and cities that could be built overnight. A golden age of prosperity and equality. "Why fear it, when we could master it?"

His companion stood abruptly, the journals in his lap thudding to the floor. Jayce startled. The man's grip on his cane bordered on white-knuckled. "For your sake," he said, strained, "I hope you are able to find a way to neutralize the risks. I— I'm going to get air."

Then Jayce was alone in the lab, puzzled and a little lost.

The gentle prod at Mel's mind nearly caused her to choke on her wine. Instead, she discreetly placed a hand to her mouth and swallowed heavily, masking it as polite shock at an anecdote a fellow dinner guest was telling.

I'm here, the prod said, not in words but in sentiment. Unmistakably from Viktor. A Viktor who was no longer imprisoned.

A flurry of shock and excitement from the others let Mel know that Viktor had reached out to all of them, so she didn't bother communicating her intent when she knew theirs would be the same. She excused herself as politely as possible from the dinner she was attending— a gathering honoring the day of the Wheat Harvest god's rise to godhood. Nothing dramatic but a deeply important aspect in the mortal realm— and left Numesa in haste.

The mortal realm fit differently against her skin than Numesa. A consequence of the different flow of time, so said Ekko, and of separate axioms for the run of the world, so said Caitlyn. Such were the answers one was bound to get from Time and Truth, but Mel privately thought the answer was simpler. They didn't belong here anymore.

She was inclined to get sentimental whenever she took in the crumbling visages of Zaun and Piltover. They were never repaired once the war was over, instead emptied, bodies removed and citizens moved to the surface. The state of them only worsened with time.

But that old wound was nothing compared to the ache that bloomed within her at the first sight of Viktor. A figure she hadn't seen in centuries, sitting atop a slab of rubble with his cane between his knees, hands curled over the handle. She might mistake him for a wistful echo of the past if it weren't for his hair, reaching his waist now, and colored blond at the ends.

Gods. She knew this place. Viktor had come to his and Jayce's old lab.

He didn't turn to watch her approach, though she knew he felt her coming. The others were sure to be behind her shortly. She lighted on the ravaged street beside him, dropped to a seat beside him, and threw her arms around his shoulders.

Faint surprise emanated from him. He returned her embrace with a hesitant hand on her back.

"We've been trying—" she started to explain.

"I know," he answered, drawing away from her. His voice was tinged with exhaustion. "I felt you."

"I'm sorry we failed." She smiled. "But you found a way on your own. I should have known you would."

He made a negating hum. "Not exactly."

Caitlyn and Vi touched down then, preventing Mel from asking what he meant, Vi holding a steadying arm around Caitlyn's waist.

Caitlyn pressed her hand to her mouth, her eye locked on Viktor. "Gods," she whispered. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's been too long. It's good to see you, Viktor."

Vi nodded once. "Glad you're out. I know it's not— it's not good, being locked away by yourself so long."

"No," Viktor agreed softly. "No it is not." He studied Caitlyn's face, a slight frown pulling down his mouth. It became clear why when he raised a hand to eye, mirror to the one Caitlyn lost. Viktor wouldn't have known about this injury, entrapped as he was almost immediately after she got it. "Was that from one of mine?"

Caitlyn ran a finger along her patch's underside. "No. It was... from one of mine, really."

The unhappiness in Viktor's expression didn't abate. For all the time he had to ruminate on his known wrongs, it was surely a bitter realization that there could yet be wrongs to be reckoned with. Mel placed what she hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder. Viktor may have acted as the final catalyst, but he was not the only one to blame for the destruction of their home.

The ruinous remains of their former cities around them were perhaps not the best backdrop to inspire moving beyond their unfortunate past.

Jinx and Ekko arrived last, announced by Jinx's cry of, "Holy shit, he's really out!"

The two of them bounded over, Ekko indulgently allowing himself to be dragged along by the hand. There was a slight tightness to his jaw.

"Hey, fortune cookie," Jinx greeted, flopping down on Viktor's other side. She poked at his arm. "You couldn't have kept any of the metal bits?"

Oh, Jinx. Not an ounce of tact to her name.

Viktor snorted quietly. "Only the ones in my spine."

"I think we all prefer you this way," Ekko replied. "Good to meet you, man. Properly, I mean."

"Yes," Viktor said. "Our previous introduction was regrettably... explosive."

In his flat, tired tone, it was difficult to tell whether that was a joke or not. Jinx laughed like it was. Ekko shrugged a shoulder and smirked.

"You know," Caitlyn said with a small smile, "for a moment when I first saw you, I almost expected... I almost expected Jayce to be right there with you."

Jayce. An old scar on Mel's heart ached at hearing his name. The grief of losing him had faded, but it was continuously baffling to her that despite Jayce's great acts and deeds, his inventions, his sacrifices, he died a mortal man, never joining them in godhood.

He knew her as much as Mel allowed anyone to know her, back in her mortal life. Their two pieces were never going to fit together for long, but what they had was beautiful all the same. She was sorry to lose it, and even sorrier they never got a chance to find ways they were better suited to each other.

They should leave, soon, before the weight of the past became too much. She stood, offering her hand to Viktor. "Come. We can catch up in Numesa. We had a house prepared for you; we'd be delighted for you to finally see it."

Viktor remained seated. "There is something I should mention."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure we can—"

"About the one who released me." Viktor leaned his cane to indicate the lab building. Mel looked at its crumbling form and frowned.

"It wasn't you?" Ekko asked, eyes wide. "Who was it?"

"I think," Viktor said slowly, once more indicating the old lab, "you should see for yourselves."

Chapter 3>>

#arcane au #jayvik #jayce x viktor #arcane fanfic #pulling the puzzles apart

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planet4546b · 2 years ago

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the thing is that i don’t think the antidote to the puzzle box story is giving clear answers to everything in a given narrative, because the puzzle box relies on the expectation that answers will be given eventually to provide continued engagement. i think the antidote to the puzzle box is a non literal mode of engagement with media writ large and stories that do not expect a literal mode of engagement

#pers #if this makes no sense i’ll try to clarify later. shadowkeep just has me thinking about how storytelling in destiny has changed #which leads to this. i’ve been thinking about it a lot lately because of the way that signoise works #where there is no one true answer to things there is no one conclusion or way to reach closure #and samiras own belief that there is is what’s ruining her life #and i was like well am i puzzle boxing?? and i think (i hope)#the answer is no because i’m not like building webs of interesting things that i want people to pull apart and put back together #to investigate what the one true thing is. there’s no hint that there will be an answer eventually #it’s just not how things work in that narrative. idk. i think about it a lot and likely will continue to

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iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

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UNEXPECTED GUESTS II

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto& @omi-resources word count: 857 synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: y’all I’m still new to posting on tumblr, idk how to respond to your reblogs, but thank you for all the love!!

It started with a puzzle.

Then it became a movie.

Then it was breakfast.

Then game night.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened, but somewhere between Damian’s first drop-in and now, he had quietly and confidently moved in emotionally. No key, no warning—just a kid who appeared at your door like a stray cat who decided you were his human now.

Jason was not amused.

“Babe,” he muttered one night, standing in the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder, “I think he lives here now.”

You didn’t even look up from where you and Damian were halfway through a Harry Potter movie marathon. “He brought cinnamon rolls. That buys him, like, three hours.”

Jason’s eye twitched. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And yet here we are. With cinnamon rolls.”

Damian didn’t even glance away from the TV. “You’re welcome.”

It didn’t stop.

Damian started showing up with snacks. Then books. Then a bonsai tree that he insisted would bring “calming energy” to the apartment—though Jason was convinced it was a surveillance device.

The turning point was when Jason came home from patrol to find you and Damian doing face masks while bickering over whether Batman could take John Wick in a fight, without prep time.

“I hate it here,” Jason muttered, dropping onto the couch like gravity had personally wronged him.

“No, you don’t,” you said, patting the spot beside you.

Damian looked smug. “You should exfoliate more. Your skin is tired.”

Jason looked like he aged five years on the spot.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, the rest of the Bat-family had questions.

“He skipped patrol again,” Tim muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tracker on his screen. “He’s somewhere in Crime Alley, but he’s not moving. That’s not like him.”

“He’s not fighting crime?” Dick asked, frowning as he squinted at the grainy feed Tim managed to pull from one of Gotham’s ancient surveillance cameras. “Is he injured?”

“No,” Tim said, zooming in. “I think he’s… playing Monopoly?”

Dick raised an incredulous eyebrow. “He’s doing what?”

Tim leaned closer. “Wait—never mind. That might be a bomb.”

“I’m following him tonight,” Tim declared. “See what he’s hiding.”

“I’m going with you,” Dick said. “Damage control. Just in case he really has joined a criminal syndicate without telling Bruce.”

That night, they tailed Damian across rooftops, watching as he made his usual unannounced entrance into Jason’s apartment through the fire escape like it was a routine—and it was. By now, you’d already prepped hot cocoa, and a blanket was folded on the couch just for him.

Jason wasn’t home yet. Which meant Damian had free reign.

When Tim and Dick peered through the neighboring rooftop window, they expected secrets. Schematics. Maybe even an underground lab.

What they found was you and Damian arguing about whether waffles or pancakes were the superior breakfast food while watching John Wick in an aggressively cozy blanket fort.

Tim blinked. “Is that a fort?”

“Oh my god,” Dick whispered. “He has a fort buddy.”

Jason returned an hour later, tired, sweaty, and one patrol away from an identity crisis.

He prayed Damian was gone so he could finally have some alone time with you. Every time he tried to initiate anything romantic, the little demon just happened to be there—coincidentally, of course.

But what awaited him was somehow worse.

The moment he stepped inside, he froze.

Dick and Tim were seated at your kitchen table, sipping cocoa. Damian was calmly painting from he sat beside you, and you looked like you were completely unfazed by the three vigilantes in your living room.

“Don’t say it,” Jason groaned, setting his helmet down.

“We followed Damian,” Dick grinned. “Turns out he’s been living a double life.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “I think he’s cheating on us.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “Of course you idiots followed him.”

“Her cooking is nearly on par with Pennyworth’s,” Damian said casually, not looking up from his brushwork. “And she doesn’t interrupt me when I’m watching Lord of the Rings.”

Dick raised a brow. “Lord of the Rings?”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” you replied without missing a beat and Dick didn’t question it.

“We just wanted to meet the person responsible for his personality transplant,” Dick said with a teasing smile. “He’s been nice lately. It’s suspicious.”

You shrugged. “We made a deal. He’s nice to everyone else, and I let him pick Friday night movies.”

Tim gestured dramatically. “She tamed the demon.”

Jason looked up to the ceiling like he was searching for divine intervention. “Why are all of you here?”

“We came for answers,” Tim said.

“We stayed for the snacks,” Dick added.

“And the Wi-Fi,” Tim finished.

Jason looked at you.

You smiled sweetly. “Cinnamon rolls?”

He sighed, walked into the kitchen, and took one off the tray. “I hate all of you.”

But he didn’t leave.

Not when you handed him his mug. Not when you leaned into his side. Not even when Damian held up his newest painting like it was the Mona Lisa.

Jason looked around his overcrowded apartment—full of noise, cocoa, and chaos.

“…You’re all sleeping on the floor.”

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#jason todd one shot #jason todd fic #jason todd x reader #jason todd fluff #jason todd #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #batfam #batfamily #batfam x reader #platonic!damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily x reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood #Unexpected guests

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luveline · 5 months ago

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Hi Jade! (I’ve sent this before so ignore if you aren’t into it) just thinking about a bau!reader (maybe shy!reader??) who’s dating post-prison Spencer but didn’t know him before prison and she sees some footage of season one Spencer (maybe they need to refer to a recording of a previous case?) and she’s just dying at how cute he is 🥹

You’ve barely woken up with your face in a solid shoulder when Spencer’s turning around.

“Don’t,” he says when you whine, slipping a familiar hand over your hip. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Too early to make fun of me.”

“Do you think I’m making fun of you?”

His talking warms your nose where his head is angled down. Your skin smarts with goosebumps as he trails his hand lightly up your back, down again, the slowest, tumbling touch. You shiver, and Spencer, ever so slightly devious in love, says, “Oh, you’re cold?” with great pity as he pulls you closer.

You rub your face against his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“I smell.”

He hums. “Sort of. Not like sweat, though. You smell like sleep.” His lips touch your cheek.

He lets you ‘warm up’ in his arms for a few minutes, then however long you doze for, lost and too comfortable to bother even trying to wake up properly. Your phone pings a couple of times after it comes out of sleep mode, a sure sign you’ve overslept, but Spencer doesn’t make you move until your stomach growls.

“Come on,” he says, kissing your nose and slipping you back onto your side of the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“It’s nearly twelve.”

“You just woke up, and it’s the first thing you’re gonna eat. You are breaking your fast. Breakfast.” He looks pretty even through achy, tired eyes, all the sleep crusted in your lashes no match for Spencer Reid. How you went so long without knowing him is a mystery.

You get up only because he told you to and because he looked quite lovely when he did it, not because you want to. The bed is warm, that pit of his arms calling your name, but Spencer’s already rolling out of bed with an eager hand scratching through his hair. Sweat has made them tight and a little darker in the back. You’ll both have to shower at some point, preferably after he’s made you breakfast in bed.

He can see your expectations on your face, and he laughs as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. “Get up! I’m not bringing it up here, do you know how badly your sleep cycle is affected when you start doing the wrong things in bed?”

“What counts as the wrong thing?”

Spencer laughs again, softer now, and for a moment he traces your face with his eyes without speaking. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand at you as he makes for the bedroom door, “stay there. But only ‘cos you look so pretty!”

“Thank you!” you call back.

This time with Spencer isn’t enough. You need ten more years of this, thirty, fifty, you need to wake up in his arms and have him touch you and tickle your cheek with his breath. He’s too far to have him come back, so you resign to hugging him when he returns.

Your phone pings again, drawing your attention finally. The first notification is a reminder to buy toothpaste today at the grocery store. The second is a text from a friend, the third an email. It’s one from last night that piques your interest, another friend, full capital letters: HELP.

Her use of a laughing emoji defers any urgency. You click on the text thread and scroll up, puzzled by her previous messages, a link, and a caption: oh my god he was so dorky???

You open the video and feel your breath catch in surprise.

Is that Spencer?

You're not stupid, you’ve seen photos of him and his friends together dotted around the apartment from over the years, and every time you come across that photo of him and Diana at a spelling bee with his huge black-framed glasses you have to laugh, but it’s different seeing him to hearing him.

He’s so nervous. You can’t understand what it is he’s saying, something about mathematical components to profiling criminals. Jason Gideon stands in the background watching him closely.

“There’s actually a good joke that–”

“Spencer,” Gideon reprimands.

You watch in awe as Spencer stammers an apology, his cheeks a little pink. You’ve seen Spencer blush, but this feels different. He looks so young. His hair is straight as a pin.

“Spencer, did you used to straighten your hair?” you call, hoping he can hear you over the sound of a frying pan popping in the kitchen. “Or do you have a perm now, or what?”

“What!”

“I’m confused on the logistics of your hair!” You feel something weird in your chest as on screen Spencer tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a mixture of wanting to eat him and wanting to reach through the screen to stroke his cheek with your thumb.

Spencer treks back into the bedroom with his pink and white pinstripe apron over his shirt and sweatpants. He smells like cinnamon sugar already. “What are you talking about?”

“My friend found a video of you and Jason at one of those lectures you did.”

Spencer presses his lips together. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “I didn’t do any lectures.”

“Uh, yes you did, liar, and you looked so cute.” You turn your phone to him. “So sweet.”

He marches to the bed. Before you can stop him, he’s taking the phone from your hand, giving you the world's silliest, tiniest shove when you try to get it back.

“Cruel,” you quip.

Spencer stares at the phone screen, then you, “Sorry,” he says, turning pink, “I don’t know why I did that, just– I just–” He frowns deeply. “Can you stop smiling like that?”

You climb onto your knees, a morning disaster, but when you wrap your arms around Spencer’s waist he looks at you like you’re perfect. His eyes soften, brows relaxing, his irises like dark dimes that slowly dilate as he looks you over. Your phone presses into your back, his arm wrapping around you.

“You were adorable,” you say sincerely.

“Not anymore?”

You rub your cheek against his apron. “No, you still are. Let me watch the video again.”

“Not a chance.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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ketchuppee · 2 years ago

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During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

#long post #some thoughts I’ve been having

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hearts4hughes · 17 days ago

Note

ex bf rafe finding you crying on the beach??🤔😌

you’re curled in on yourself at the edge of the water, knees hugged to your chest, cheek sticky with mascara stained tears. the tide is low as it hits your bare feet. the moonlight glints off your skin like something reverent.

you didn’t mean to cry here. you didn’t mean to cry at all. but your chest cracked open like a storm-bloated sky. bare feet in cold sand, silence thick around you, the voice mail still playing in your head on loop.

“you’re exhausting, you know that? i can’t keep doing this. no one else would, either.”

it’s funny, almost. or it would be, if it didn’t hurt so much. you hadn’t meant to get so attached to him. it was a friends with benefits relationship that went wrong. you started depending on him, reaching out for him in the night only to be met with cold sheets. he didn’t like that. he wasn’t rafe.

“you’re kidding me.” rafe’s voice rings through the silence. the sound of sand crunching becomes louder and louder. your breath stutters. you press your face harder into your arms.

he drops down beside you without ceremony, sneakers skidding in the sand, and suddenly the air smells like cologne and rafe cameron—your ex. your mistake, if you ask anyone else. your ache, if you ask yourself.

“who did this to you?” his voice cuts like glass. “why are you crying out here all alone?”

you don’t answer. you don’t trust your voice not to break again. so you sit there, breathing through the sting in your throat, the familiar ache of him being too close. he leans in, sharp and careful at the same time. that unbearable paradox of him. his hand ghosts your back like he wants to pull you in but isn’t sure if he should.

“tell me who it was,” he says again. lower now, quieter, dangerous. his hand wraps around your wrist, thumb stroking your skin. he fights the urge to intertwine his fingers with yours.

you shake your head. “it’s not important.”

“wrong,” he snaps, teeth clenched. “you’re crying. it’s important. whoever made you feel like this,” he takes in a sharp breath, “i swear to god, i’ll end them.”

your lip trembles. “you don’t get to do this anymore, rafe.” you pull your hand from his grasp and bury your face in your knees. he flinches. but doesn’t back off—he never has. he looks at you like you’re some kind of divine puzzle that he forgot how to solve.

“you think i stopped caring just ‘cause you broke up with me?” he says, voice thick. “sweetheart, that’s not how this works.”

the nickname lands like a bruise. it ignites a flame of memories—late night car rides, stolen kisses, sweet nothings in the sand of this very beach. it’s stupid how much you still want to fall apart in his arms.

you drag your eyes up to meet his. he looks wild. hair a mess, jaw tight, eyes burning, worried, like you’re still his to protect.

you say, “he said i’m too much.” rafe stills. his hand grips the sand beneath him. he stops breathing. “said i’m dramatic, selfish. that i make everything harder than it has to be.”

the silence that follows is thick and trembling. he’s frozen, staring at you like he might actually snap in two.

“what else?” his voice is soft. you remember that tone all too well. it’s the same one he’d use when you two used to call it love.

you hesitate, “that i don’t know when to shut up. that my feelings are exhausting.”

he shuts his eyes, breathing hard. he’s trying not to get up and track the guy down right now. “jesus,” he breathes, like a prayer or a curse. “jesus, baby.” rafe’s hand slides over yours, warm and comforting. he brushes his thumb over your knuckles like he’s trying to rub the words off your skin. “you’re not too much,” he says, looking at you like he wants to memorize every trace of sadness on your face just so he can erase it. “you’re exactly enough. always have been.”

you let out a shaky breath, something breaking in your chest. “you used to say that when i cried.”

“i meant it then and i mean it now.” his fingers move slow, tentative, like he’s scared you’ll pull away. “you think it was hard loving you? no, baby. what’s hard is trying not to loving you.” you want to look away, but he doesn’t let you. tilts your chin until your eyes meet his. “c’mon, i’ll bring you home.”

“no,” you stutter and the tears stream down once again. “he’ll be mad at me. if he finds out-”

“then i’ll bury him so deep that the tide won’t find him,” he grins, bumping your shoulder with his playfully.

you almost laugh. almost cry again, too. but then he pulls you into his chest, just long enough that your heart remembers what it feels like to be held by someone who never needed to be convinced you were worth the trouble.

he always made a mess of love, but he never made you feel like one.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece

#nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #ex!rafe cameron #ex!rafe #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader

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jaysbaefie · 1 month ago

Text

your honour | psh

synopsis: in which you push the judge too far, you learn that actions have consequences—and he always delivers the sentence himself.

genre: judge au

pairing: judge!sunghoon x troubled!reader

warnings: meandom!sunghoon, cold!sunghoon, horndog!reader, manhandling, cornering, degrading (holy fuck sm degrading), crazy dirty talk, gagging with fingers, hair pulling, choking, biting, spanking ass + pussy, rough p in v (unprotected), clit rubbing, creampie, bondage, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial and no aftercare. think that’s it…

wc: 6.3k

a/n: this is so filthy!!! yall im on a plot burnout i have so many ideas i just can’t bring myself to write a proper full length fic :[ anyways… notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy <3

═══════

your arms are crossed over your chest like armor. it's not foolproof—your wrists are still cuffed, and the bruises from last week's chase are still turning the edges of your skin a dull yellow with splotches of blue. you hold yourself steady anyway, like you've already survived worse.

you have.

the courtroom is too quiet for your taste. sterile walls, tired faces, and that rusted old flag in the corner drooping like it's had one too many years of watching justice be handed out unevenly.

there's a bailiff at your side, fingers twitching near their belt, as if they think you might leap over the railing and bolt. you don't blame them. you've done worse for less serious crimes.

but right now, you're not thinking about running—not even close.

you're staring straight at him.

park sunghoon.

honorable judge. esteemed in the district. untouchable. 'not for long,' you think to yourself, a small smirk gracing your lips as you hold your gaze.

his nameplate gleams under the artificial lighting, but it's not as cold as the look in his eyes when he glances down at you. black rob, pale hands, pristine posture like he's never once had a bad day, or at least never shown it.

he speaks your name like it tastes bitter in his mouth, his plump lips pursing in distaste.

"theft. trespassing. property damage," sunghoon reads, flipping through the paperwork like it's boring him. "and now contempt of court. again."

your smirk is the only weapon you have left, "that one wasn't on purpose."

his gaze doesn't flinch, "you were caught lighting a cigarette in the bathroom during recess."

"wasn't lit," you say coolly, his gaze now piercing into you. "i didn't even get to spark it," you almost whine out.

"because the officer stopped you."

"because the lighter was out of fluid," you shoot back, offended that he'd think that you'd let some officer stop you from lighting a spark.

for a moment, you think you see something twitch in the corner of his mouth—amusement? disbelief? but it's gone before it settles. he leans back in his seat, elbows on the armrests, voice clipped, "you don't seem to take this seriously."

you stare him down, your eyebrows raised, "you don't seem to live in the same world as the rest of us."

sunghoon says nothing at first, just studies you, eyes narrowing the longer the silence drags. he looks at you like you're a puzzle he didn't expect to come across and now he's trying to decide whether to solve you or break you apart and pack you away.

finally, he speaks, "given the repeated offences and your inability to cooperate with court proceedings, you are hereby found guilty."

your chest tightens—not because you're surprised. you knew this was coming, it was always going to come to this.

"you're to pay a fine of $5,000"

you snort, loud and messy which causes sunghoon to look at you with what you could only assume was disgust, "you might as well say 5 million. i don't have shit, your honour." your voice drips with mockery on that last part, but it's not like you can help it. titles mean nothing to people like you. not when the system's always rigged the same way.

sunghoon doesn't react the way you expect. no fury, no raised voice. instead, he rests his chin against his hand and stares down at you, thoughtful, composed—calculating.

"then perhaps we can make alternate arrangements."

you narrow your eyes. "like what? community service? sweeping the courthouse floors?" you had heard it all before, and you'd be damned if you did any of it.

he ignores your sarcasm. "i'm offering you a deal." you don't trust deals, especially not from men like him. but you're listening.

"you're clearly resourceful. difficult, but clever." his eyes scan your face like he's making a mental file, "if you truly cannot pay, then you'll work it off. under my supervision."

you blink up at him, dumbfounded, "what?"

sunghoon doesn't smile, doesn't even shift, "you'll report here. every morning, 6 am sharp. you'll handle clerical tasks, sorting files, transcriptions. menial work, mostly. i'll be watching."

you lean forward, just a little. "and if i say no?"

his voice is ice cold, "then you'll serve time."

you flinch at that, prison isn't unfamiliar—but it's worse this time. you're older now, tired and you know the kind of people they throw you in with.

your jaw clenches, "this some kind of power trip for you?"

his eyes glint, unreadable. "no. but it might be one for you. if you can handle being civil."

you hate him for that. for the way his words crawl under your skin, settle in your ribs like they belong there. you hate him for being calm, for not flinching when you push back. for the way he makes you feel cornered even when you're standing tall.

"fine," you spit. "i'll take your little deal."

sunghoon nods, finally. bangs the gavel once sending shocks through your body.

"court adjourned."

but as you're escorted out, you catch the way he watches you. slow, deliberate. like he's already plotting what to do with a fire like yours.

and you know this is far from over.

═══════

6 am comes fast, you show up at 6:17am.

your boots echo too loud on the marble floors of the courthouse as you stroll in like you own the place. hoodie unzipped, hands in your pockets, chewing gum with all the arrogance of someone who knows they're untouchable—or just wants to see how far they can push before they aren't.

sunghoon is already waiting, of course. seated behind his desk in his chambers, reading over a case file, all rigid posture and starched cuffs. he doesn't look up when you enter, but you feel the chill in the air shift the moment he registers your presence.

you lean against the doorframe, pop your gum, and smile sweetly, "morning, your honour."

he finally looks up, no smile—no greeting. just a flat, "you're late."

you shrug, "public transportation's a bitch. and my ankle monitor doesn't exactly come with wings."

sunghoon closes the file slowly, deliberately, "your sentence began at 6 am sharp. not whenever you decide to roll out of bed."

you wander further into his office, dragging your fingers across the edge of his polished desk. "well, maybe you should've sentenced me to something more exciting. i'd be more motivated to be punctual." you snicker softly, your fingers brushing against some books before landing on a small statue.

he doesn't rise, doesn't react. just watches you with that unreadable stare, like he's already dissecting your every move.

"sit."

you raise an eyebrow before looking around the room, no chair in sight, "where?"

he gestures with his pen to a wooden chair shoved against the back wall. no cushion. no wheels. no dignity.

you scoff, "wow. luxury accommodations."

"sit," he says again, this time lower—sharper.

you do—but not before you tip the chair slightly and drag it across the floor, the screech of wood against tile sounding loud and obnoxious. you plop down and swing your legs up onto the edge of his desk like it's your living room.

"so," you say, folding your arms behind your head. "what soul-crushing task do i get to do first? file your fan mail? shine your gavel?"

sunghoon doesn't flinch. doesn't blink. just reaches over and, without warning, shoves your boots off his desk with one smooth motion. hard enough to jolt the whole chair, causing you to hold onto the desk for support.

you laugh in surprise before masking it quickly with a silly remark, "ooh. touchy."

he leans forward now, voice calm but laced with threat, "i don't care how you've gotten away with things in the past. in this room, under my supervision, you follow."

"or what?" you bite, eyes narrowing. "you gonna slap another fine on me? lock me up again?"

"no," he murmurs, his eyes not leaving yours. "i'll break you without ever lifting a finger."

you go quiet for the first time because for some strange reason, you believe him.

but that doesn't mean you're going to make it easy.

by 10 am, you've misfiled at least four court documents on purpose, accidentally-on-purpose spilled coffee on one, and whistled a highly inappropriate tune every time someone passes the open door.

sunghoon doesn't snap. he doesn't yell, but the tightness in his jaw gets worse. his sleeves are rolled to his elbows now, veins taut, hand gripped around his pen like he's imagining stabbing something with it. you allow your gaze to wander over him, relishing in his cold presence as you eye-fuck him to oblivion.

you stretch lazily in your seat across the room, flipping through a file upside down just to be difficult.

"you always this fun at parties?" you ask, eyes lazily scanning the document.

"you always this exhausting when you're sober?"

you grin, "you should've sentenced me to something harder. i get off on discipline."

he finally looks up. eyes dark and voice low.

"is that what this is? acting out so someone will finally put you in your place?"

you blink, not expecting that.

sunghoon stands now, slow and deliberate, and crosses the room to tower over where you're still slouched in your chair. he leans down just enough to make your breath hitch, his minty fresh cologne invading your senses—sending your body into overdrive.

"you want someone to punish you, is that it?" he says, voice barely above a whisper. "because you're skating dangerously close to contempt again."

you swallow harshly but you hold the smirk, even if it's faltering, "you threatening me, your honour?"

his lips twitch, not a smile—something colder.

"no," he says. "just waiting for you to slip. and when you do—when all that bratty bravado cracks, you'll beg for someone like me to be the one holding the leash."

your throat goes dry.

he straightens and turns away, already done with you for the moment, and you're left there blinking like the ground shifted under your feet.

this was supposed to be fun. a game.

but now? now you think he's playing back.

and he plays dirty.

═══════

you should've gone home.

you were dismissed hours ago. the office lights are off, most of the staff gone, echoing laughter and jangling keys disappearing down the hallway.

but you stayed.

because you wanted to see what would happen if you crossed the line, alone—with him.

sunghoon's still in his chambers with his door cracked, light spilling out in a narrow slice across the floor. you lean in the doorway without knocking, arms folded, teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek just to keep from smiling too wide.

he doesn't look up.

"still working?" you ask, voice low and sugary.

he doesn't respond at first. then, without looking away from his file, "if you're still here, it's because you want something. so say it, and make it fast." you saunter in, drag your nails across his bookshelf, pull a file halfway out and shove it back in crooked just to be annoying, "just wanted to chat. you seem lonely."

his jaw flexes, but he doesn't rise—doesn't yell. instead, he sets his pen down, lifting his eyes to you slowly, deliberately—and lets out a low breath through his nose.

"you're a desperate little thing, aren't you?"

you blink, "excuse me?"

he stands.

you don't move. just watch him stalk forward, quiet, composed, eyes cutting into you like scalpels.

he stops inches from you, doesn't touch. doesn't lean in.

but his voice? razor-edged filth.

"you dress like a brat, talk like a slut, act out like a girl who's been begging for someone to spit in her mouth and call her worthless." your breath catches and your legs almost give out.

"you're not here to talk," he continues, voice lower, crueler. "you're here because no one's ever put you in your place and you're too much of a mess to admit you want it."

you flinch, lips parting, "you don't even know me—"

"i know everything," he cuts in sharply. "i've read your records. i've seen the trail of damage you leave behind just to get someone to notice you. daddy issues, authority issues, zero impulse control. you want men to hate you just so they'll finally touch you."

you gasp, cheeks flushing hot—but not with shame.

with need.

because he's right. because no one's ever talked to you like this.

"look at you," he sneers. "breathing heavy already, shifting your legs like you're not soaking through your little panties right now. you came in here thinking you could bait me with your bratty mouth, hoping i'd snap and pin you against the wall like some filthy fantasy you've cooked up in that head of yours."

you say nothing. you can't.

"but i'm not like the boys you fuck behind bars or in alleyways," he whispers, eyes boring into yours. "i don't play with trash."

you whimper.

his smile is slow and cruel, "oh? that got you wet, didn't it?" your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and he laughs—cold, low, unamused.

"pathetic. dripping just from being spoken to like the little cum-dump you are."

you try to speak, but your mouth won't work. you're breathing too fast, too shallow, clit throbbing through your jeans, nipples hard under your hoodie, and he hasn't even touched you.

he leans in, barely. his cool breath fanned against your ear causing you to shiver, "you'll come back tomorrow, won't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "all sweet and mouthy again, hoping this is the day I finally bend you over my desk and fuck your brains out like the filthy little whore you pretend not to be."

you whine—a soft, needy sound that makes his eyes darken just a little.

then he pulls back, his hands stay folded behind him. he steps past you, calm as ever, voice low and bored. "go home. you're dripping on my floor."

═══════

you start showing up on time.

5:59 am, hair damp from a rushed shower, hoodie half-zipped, eyes sharp with purpose. you slide into the office like you own the place—and every day, you find him already there, perfect as ever. sleeves rolled up, tie tight, reading over a file like he didn't just spend the last twelve hours thinking about the way you moaned for him without him even touching you.

you don't speak much now, you don't have to.

the first time it happens, it's barely a whisper of a moment—you walk past him to grab a stack of paperwork, and your hip brushes his hand resting on the edge of the desk. soft. slow. deliberate. and you don't flinch, don't apologize.

you smile.

his pen halts mid-sentence.

you don't look back.

the second time, you lean in close to hand him a stapled report—closer than you need to, your fingers brushing over his when he takes it from you. you let your thumb drag just barely over his knuckle before pulling away.

he doesn't speak, but his jaw's clenched so tight you hear it pop.

the third time, it's worse. you're leaning over his desk, too far, pretending to scan the page while your hips subtly roll back, brushing against where he's standing behind you. it's slow—not full contact but just enough pressure to feel the line of his thigh brush your ass.

you feel him freeze. you breathe out, soft and sweet, "oops."

he doesn't move. doesn't even blink. you can feel his restraint like a second heat, burning against your skin.

you straighten up with a grin and saunter off and for the rest of the day, you can feel his eyes on your back like a loaded weapon.

═══════

you live for the control—the knowledge that you're the one unraveling him now. no chains, no cuffs, no cell. just you and your filthy little grin in his clean little world.

every time your hand lingers too long on his wrist when passing him a pen. every time your fingers brush his thigh when you "accidentally" drop a file. every time you stretch beside him, moaning faintly when you reach your arms overhead like you're trying to kill him with your spine alone.

he doesn't say a word.

not one curse, not one command. but every breath he takes feels heavier. every time he adjusts his cuffs, it's slower. rougher. the one time he looks at you, really looks, while you're standing by the window with the light catching your smug little smirk and you swear there's murder in his eyes.

or maybe lust, or both.

you bite your lip and wink.

he goes back to reading but his knuckles are white around the edge of the page.

you don't stop, of course you don't. you know he's cracking. you just want to see how far before he breaks.

═══════

you don't knock today.

you walk in like always—mouth full of gum, hair half done, smirk locked and loaded.

but the outfit? oh, this is new.

short skirt, barely mid-thigh. skin-tight, no stockings. no shame.

your blouse clings to your chest with every breath, just one wrong move from spilling open—and you bend to pick up a file by the door the second you walk in, as if you didn't plan the whole motion.

you make sure your ass is pointed directly at his chair, you hear nothing for a beat. then the sound of a pen snapping in his hand.

you bite your lip to keep from smiling. "good morning, your honour," you say sweetly, rising slow, letting your tits bounce just enough. "got something for you to sign."

he doesn't answer. doesn't look up. he just sets the ruined pen down, stands in silence, and walks to the far cabinet—jaw sharp, back stiff.

he doesn't speak for an hour, but you don't stop.

you lean across the desk to file something, letting your breasts nearly spill out. you sit on the edge of the table too close, too comfortable, skirt hiked up high on your thighs. you cross and uncross your legs too slow. you sigh every time you shift, like the fabric's clinging to places it shouldn't.

and the worst part? you don't even look at him anymore.

you just know. you know he's watching. you feel his silence like a leash. and still, you test it.

again. and again.

until—

"shut the door."

you freeze, glancing over to see that sunghoon's still behind the desk, hands folded, gaze pinned directly to your face for the first time all day.

there's no emotion in his tone, just something dark.

you step back slowly, click the door shut.

"lock it."

you do, your pulse skips.

he nods once toward the chair in front of his desk, "sit."

you obey—this time, no sass, no roll of the eyes. he watches you for a long, heavy moment. then: "stand up."

you blink, but you rise. he leans back in his chair, eyes raking over you with undisguised disgust. "this what you wear to court? no wonder you can't stay out of handcuffs."

you shiver when his voice drops an octave, "i've let you act out. walk around my office like it's a runway. rub your filthy little body against me like a dog in heat. but today?" his tongue clicks, "today, you came here begging."

you bite your lip and he notices. "don't even deny it," he sneers. "you dressed like a fucking pornstar and shoved your tits in my face three times before lunch."

you blink fast, thighs press together. "you want attention so bad," he whispers, voice cold and cruel. "you'd crawl under this desk and suck cock just to feel useful for once."

you whimper causing his eyes to narrow "pathetic."

you take a shaky step forward, voice too soft. "so do something about it."

"no." the word is a bullet. sharp. final. you flinch, "what?"

"i'm not giving you what you want," he says, standing now—towering over you, eyes blazing. "not until you ask." you swallow, your breath stutters, "...i just did—" "not like that," he leans in close, still not touching, his breath ghosting your cheek. "i want to hear you beg. properly. filthy. on your knees if you have to."

your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

"c'mon," he hisses. "say it. say you're a dirty little whore who wore this skirt just to get her judge to ruin her."

your knees go weak.

"say you've been dripping for me for weeks. say you need to be put in your place. beg me to spit in your mouth and call you mine." you nearly drop right there while he watches you—smug, furious, and impossibly composed.

"but you won't," he whispers. "because you're a coward. just a brat with no bite."

you snap, you sink to your knees with your palms on your thighs. skirt riding high, head tilted up with your tongue caught between your teeth.

"please," you whisper, cheeks hot. "i wore it for you. i wanted you to see what you've been missing. i wanted you to lose control. i wanted to feel owned. like a fucking toy." his nostrils flare and you crawl forward. "i've been dripping for you since the first time you called me worthless," you breathe out shamelessly. "you don't have to fuck me. just—just say i'm yours."

his hand twitches at his side but still he doesn't touch you, he just smiles—slow and dangerous. "you're finally learning," he murmurs. "maybe tomorrow i'll reward you."

and he walks out, leaves you on the floor—aching, wrecked and obedient.

═══════

you show up like nothing happened, tight dress, high heels and no bra. you don't even bring a file, you just lean against the edge of his desk like you're here to ruin him.

sunghoon doesn't look up, not right away. but when he does—it's over.

his eyes flick up to your chest, then back to your mouth, and the moment your lips part to say something smart, he moves.

fast.

the chair scrapes back with a violent screech. you barely have time to gasp before he grabs your wrist and slams you against the desk, stomach flat against the wood, cheek pressed down by the weight of his hand. you yelp, breath knocked out of you—but it's not pain. it's heat, flooding between your legs in a dizzying wave.

"this what you wanted?" sunghoon growls, voice raw at your ear. "me snapping like some animal? you filthy, needy, shameless little—fuck." he yanks your arms behind your back, pins both wrists with one big hand and grinds you into the desk. "look at you squirming and wet. couldn't go one more day without getting manhandled, huh?"

you whine out when his free hand slides up your spine, griping the back of your neck, forcing your head to the side so your cheek stays plastered to the wood. your eyes snap open in shock when he pushes his thick digits into your mouth, forcing your mouth full.

"you've been begging for this," he snarls. "dressing like a whore. moaning when i speak. bending over like you want to get fucked in front of the whole court." you can barely breathe—your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

he laughs—low and cruel, "what's wrong? mouth finally too full of regret?" he spreads your legs with his knee, lets his thigh press up between them while his grip on your wrists tightens.

you're soaked. dripping straight through your panties, probably smearing slick across his desk — and he feels it. his thigh twitches and he groans. "pathetic," he growls. "you're soaking my leg and i haven't even touched your cunt."

you whimper into the desk, legs trembling, thighs trying to grind down on his thigh—but he pulls it back with a smirk. "you think you run this game," he whispers in your ear. "you think a few bratty looks and slutty outfits make you powerful."

he yanks your head back by the hair and forces you to look at him—eyes wild, chest rising, jaw clenched.

"you don't run shit here." his fingers trail down your jaw, not gentle—gripping your face like he wants to crush it, "you're mine."

you blink fast. your lips part as he finally removes his fingers from your mouth.

"say it."

your voice shakes. "i'm—i'm yours."

"again."

"i'm yours."

"louder."

"i'm fucking yours," you scream—thighs shaking, cunt pulsing, wrists still pinned.

he stares down at you—flushed, dripping, ruined against his desk. then he leans in, lips just brushing your ear, "you're not cumming until i say so."

you whimper in response. "and when you do," he breathes, "you're gonna thank me for breaking you."

he steps back and lets you collapse to your knees.

undone.

and he leaves you there, again.

═══════

you should've ran.

the look on his face the second you step into his office—eyes cold, mouth tight, sleeves rolled up like he's about to sentence you to death, should've sent you crawling.

but you don't run, you smirk—and that's all it takes. he grabs you before the door even clicks shut—slams you against it, one hand fisting in your hair, the other squeezing your throat until your breath stutters.

"tired of you strutting around like you're untouchable," he hisses. "you want to be fucked so bad? fine. i'll fuck you like the filthy little criminal you are."

you whimper when his grip tightens—then he spins you, throws you against his desk. your hips crash into the edge, papers scattering, your hands scrambling for balance. he's behind you again, dragging your skirt up so high it tears, yanking your panties down and tossing them like trash.

you feel his palm ghost over your ass and you can't help but push yourself back against him in excitement. "already soaked," he mutters, disgusted. "fucking slut."

crack.

you yelp—the first spank makes you jolt. second makes you moan. third has your knees buckling. he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, hissing in your ear, "say thank you."

"th-thank you," you pant.

crack.

"louder."

"thank you!"

he pulls your head back harder, exposing your throat—then his mouth is on you, biting, not kissing, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin until you cry out. sunghoon groans when he feels you twitch violently in his hold, his teeth scraping against your neck as he continues to leave violent splotches on your skin.

"that's right," he breathes. "cry for me. scream if you need to. no one's coming for you." his hand slips between your legs, finally, and slaps your sopping cunt. you wail in response, your legs giving up on you as you rely on the desk in front of you and sunghoon as support.

"needy," he sneers. "dripping all over my desk like a goddamn animal."

his fingers slide through the mess—not inside, just over your clit, slow, taunting strokes that make you tremble, "you wanna cum?"

"yes," you gasp. "yes please—"

he pulls away, completely.

you sob—back arching, thighs clenching, breath broken.

"beg better."

"please, please—sunghoon, i need it, i need you, please—!"

he laughs. cold, "pathetic."

then he grabs your waist, slams you forward until your chest hits the desk with your hands flat, legs spread, back arched—and shoves his thick cock inside you in one brutal, single thrust. in the midst you hadn't even noticed sunghoon slip out his aching cock out of his dress pants, to busy fighting for your release.

you scream at the intrusion. he doesn't give you a second to adjust, he fucks you like he owns you—hips snapping, cock dragging deep, thick and brutal and perfect. one hand wrapped around your throat, the other gripping your ass so hard you'll bruise. your walls suck him in like a vacuum, refusing to let him go causing him to hiss.

you try to meet his thrusts — you try to grind back — but he slaps your ass again, harder, and hisses, "don't move unless i tell you to."

you go still, breathless and shaking. his fingers slip down again—circling your clit, slow, taunting and just as your body starts to tighten, just as your orgasm builds—

he pulls away. again.

you sob.

"not yet," he growls. "you think you've earned it? after all that teasing?"

his hand slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat in a punishing grip. "you're gonna take it," he breathes, "every inch. every slap. every denial. and you're gonna fucking thank me."

"thank you," you cry. "please—please, i'll be good—"

he leans over you, cock still buried, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he continues his pace and fucks you rougher, harder and crueler. you lose count of how many times he brings you to the edge—how many times he lets you feel it just to rip it away.

you're drooling. trembling. begging.

and finally—finally—when you're gasping, soaked, ruined—

"cum."

the word cracks through you like lightning. your body explodes in trembles.

you convulse around him, sobbing, screaming, cunt clenching tight as he chokes you through it —fingers digging in, cock pulsing deep inside you until he curses and spills inside, hips slamming once, twice more as he fucks it all into you.

then silence, just panting. shaking. his hands still on your hips as his cum dripping down your thighs.

you lay there lifeless but sunghoon has other plans, his hands grip you tightly as he contorts and pushes your body around—moving you from his desk to his chair.

you don't know how you ended up like this, but you're tied up in his chair and you're far to fucked out to care.

not just restrained—displayed. arms behind your back, wrists cuffed tight to the armrests. legs spread open and bent at the knee, ankles locked in place with thick leather straps he probably had custom made.

you can feel his cum leaking out of you and you can't do a thing about it. sunghoon leans back against his desk like he has all the time in the world—black dress shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, eyes drinking you in.

"look at you," his voice is low and cruel. you swallow hard, your cheeks are burning. your chest is rising and falling too fast.

he pushes off the desk and walks toward you, slow.

his fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, and you twitch, already sensitive, already leaking.

"legs shaking," he murmurs in admiration. "pussy swollen. thighs sticky."

he crouches in front of you, one hand sliding under your ass, lifting you just enough to tilt your hips.

"still dripping," he sneers. "you're disgusting."

your breath catches as he drags two fingers through your folds—slick and soaked and overstimulated—and lifts them to your lips.

"open." you obey mindlessly.

he pushes them in slow, watches you suck them clean, jaw twitching with how filthy the taste is. "good girl," he mocks. then his fingers drop back down and he spits on your pussy and watches it drips down between your folds, warm and thick, mixing with his cum and your slick.

you squirm—but the cuffs hold you down, "don't move." his palm lands on your inner thigh, hard enough to sting. then he slides two fingers inside slow, unforgiving—and curls them just right.

your whole body jerks. "that's it," he breathes. "let me feel it. let me feel this tight little hole try to suck me in." he fucks you with his fingers like he owns you, thumb rolling over your clit. soaking the leather seat beneath you.

your eyes roll back and your moans turn desperate. "sunghoon," you whimper. "please, i'm—i'm gonna—"

he stops and pulls out completely.

you scream, your thighs tremble and your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing. you're left dripping, throbbing, aching for him—and he just leans in, tongue sliding up the inside of your thigh like he's taunting prey.

then he bites, hard.

you cry out and he slaps your pussy in response, watching you twitch.

he stands back up, looming over you. his hand curls around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes flutter.

"you don't cum," he growls, "until i say you do." you nod, fast.

his free hand drags down the front of his pants—slow. threatening. you're his now. completely. tied to his chair, soaked with his cum, ruined from the inside out.

"we're not leaving this room," he says, leaning in close, "until you've screamed my name so many times you forget your own."

your arms are still pinned, your thighs are still open and your cunt is still leaking.

and sunghoon? he's sitting across from you like he's watching a show. shirt off now. cock out with one hand lazily stroking himself while the other rubs small firm circles on your clit.

you scream. your whole body jerks against the cuffs, hips snapping up, trying to run from the pressure—but there's nowhere to go. he hums, watching the way your thighs tremble, "this is what happens when you act out," he says calmly. "i could've been kind. could've been soft."

he presses his thumb hard against your sensitive nub. you sob out in response, far to overstimulated.

"but no," he breathes, eyes locked on your face. "you had to shove your tits in my face and moan my name like a fucking whore." you throw your head back, mouth falling open as he slides right against the bundle of nerves that are already so sore it hurts.

you're soaked, ruined, twitching. your legs keep trying to close, but the cuffs won't let you.

you cum again.

you scream—choking on the breath that never makes it out—your entire body jerking, wrists straining, tears spilling.

sunghoon finally moves, he kicks the chair until it swivels toward him, then straddles it—his knees on either side of yours, thighs wide, cock thick and leaking.

you cry in relief until he grabs his cock and slaps it against your overstimulated clit.

you howl in pain, he leans in close, lips at your ear, "don't pass out on me," he murmurs. "you're not done yet."

and then he pushes inside with no warning, no mercy.

just his cock slamming in deep, so deep—you can't even scream, just choke on the cry as your back arches, arms still trapped, legs locked wide open, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

"tight," he hisses. "fucking tight."

he doesn't ease in, he pounds you. the chair jerks with every thrust—your wrists slam against the armrests and your legs shake violently from the overstimulation, he grabs your throat to keep you still.

"cry for me," he pants. "let them hear you beg." you sob. scream. cum again and he fucks through it, groaning deep in his throat as your cunt squeezes him tight and refuses to let go.

"i should leave you like this," he growls. "cuffed to my chair. ruined. dripping. fucked open and forgotten."

you can't speak, you can barely breathe.

but then he leans in with his mouth pressed to your ear and growls, "but you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

you nod helpless and broken.

"filthy little thing." his hand slides to your face, gripping it—holding your jaw still as he fucks you rougher, meaner, hips snapping, chair rocking, desk rattling behind you.

you cum one last time your loudest scream yet—and he finally groans, curses, slams in deep and spills inside, so hard you feel it throb against your cervix.

silence, just breathing.

just cum, just slick and heat and soaked leather.

you're limp with his cum leaking out of you again. your wrists raw, thighs bruised and your head luls back.

your whole body is twitching. you're soaked. stretched. dripping down the legs of the chair, his cum leaking out of your throbbing cunt in slow, slick trails. wrists raw.

and sunghoon?he's already tucking himself back into his slacks.

not a glance spared, not a word spoken. just the quiet click of his belt and the sound of your ragged breathing. you whimper—a soft, broken little sound and try to shift, try to close your legs, but the cuffs keep them open. exposed. leaking.

"pathetic," he mutters, adjusting his cuffs. your lips part and you want to speak. to ask if he's going to untie you, if he's going to help you down—if this means anything at all.

but he cuts you off before you can even form the words, "that," he says, voice flat, "should teach you how to behave."

your stomach drops as he walks to the door. he doesn't touch you, doesn't untie you, doesn't clean you up or kiss your cheek or say anything kind. just unlocks the door, turns to look at you one last time—ruined, bound, soaked with his cum and shaking from everything he just did to you.

his expression is unreadable, cold. "next time you walk into my courtroom acting like a whore," he says, "you'll leave in worse shape than this." he pauses, walking back to you and you have a glimmer of hope that he'd untie you.

but that all comes crashing down when he reaches you and he leans in, mouth at your ear, voice dark and smug.

"court's adjourned, baby."

then he walks out, leaving you tied there, used, aching.

alone.

and still desperate for more.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

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fountainpenguin · 2 years ago

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4, 7, and 8

[Current Ask meme]

How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

In terms of unpublished works I don't really talk about, I have at least 27 named FOP stories [as in, I'm not counting anything that already has at least one chapter posted and not counting any 130 Prompts]. Not all of them are winners and some are currently being recycled into 130 Prompts. Some I'm looking forward to writing, but am reluctant to start when I have so many other unfinished projects that are public.

Case in point, I have a draft for a 10-chapter AJ-centric fic called Pulling Your Puzzles Apart. It's an AU where Timmy considered A.J. his best friend instead of Chester, so AJ ended up with Norm's lamp and Norm has to go to college with him while AJ scrambles to keep him under control.

I'd like to post this one, but I also want to wrap up Come With May and maybe Pink and Gray before I open a new story. I keep going back and forth, trying to decide if it's better to have lots of projects that I'm having fun with at my own pace or if it's just better to tackle them one at a time.

(More answers under the cut)

I know I had two unfinished Danny Phantom pieces (plus No Anesthetic which did have one chapter up). Lots of Mario world drafts that I'm never satisfied with. Two TUFF Puppy pieces I started but couldn't put a plot together for, at least two Lilo and Stitch stories and some Bunsen Is a Beast pieces I stopped for the same reason.

I keep meaning to go back to that, they were fun. I love "town that sits on a portal to Beast World" and "Official welcome committee boy who has to take charge of the new fuzzy transfer student despite being descended from a guy who used to hunt his kind," it's such a cruel vibe... It was fun, but I felt weird being super dark for such a goofy show.

I have a stack of WordGirl ideas I've been toying with over the years and I'm looking forward to sharing some of those <3 The one I'm posting on Friday is something I've wanted to write for over 10 years so it's very cathartic and I hope people like it as much as I do.

My favorite Lilo and Stitch story was a Jumba backstory with lots of experiments scuttling around his lab. I've perma-shelved it since it has a similar vibe to Origin of the Pixies and I don't have it in me to write something so similar (nor create all the unique experiments), but Slick (020) was always a favorite. Here's my favorite snippet from that story, and I think you can see a lot of Sanderson's personality in how I wrote him (2016 or 2017):

---

“That’s all you are! Big talk, big guts, but puny muscles and punier brains. I mean, you’re programmed to sell stuff. How bright can you be?”

020 plucked 322 up by the scruff and set one hand to his hip. “Aw shucks, that’s real cute and flattering, partner. Now, you’re new here, so I’m gonna cut you a special offer free of extra charge.”

“If it’s anything like the way you cut cheese, count me out of here. If you’re some major room-clearing experiment, you deserve a raise.”

“Name’s 020.” He tipped his hat, and then one of the claws on that hand came down to prod 322 in the bowtie marking. “And I’m Jumba’s number one.”

“Number one what? Back-scratching errand boy?” 322 tipped his voice into a high falsetto. “‘Jumba, I finished all your paperwork. You got mail’.”

I picked up spray bottle and splashed it across back of 020’s head. “Ah-ah! Whoever said you were alpha on block anyway? Please to be giving me 322 now.”

Seething through his teeth, 020 placed 322 in my large palm and crossed his arms.

---

Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

One of my favorite sections of prose is the way Foop speaks about Anti-Sanderson in "You'll Never Know." This story was written with Foop as an incredibly unreliable narrator who dodges questions, is unfaithful with his answers, and skirts around his emotions.

In this story, we hit the 77,777-year anniversary of Anti-Cosmo's mysterious disappearance and Anti-Fairy politics demand Anti-Wanda take a new ruling partner. Anti-Wanda proposes to the Head Anti-Pixie (Anti-Sanderson) and Foop (mentally 11) is dealing with a lot of complicated emotions. He feels abandoned by Anti-Cosmo, fiercely protective towards his mother, cowed into submission by the people who have always see him as reckless, and he struggles with a lot of guilt over the fact that he actually admires Anti-Sanderson.

Two weeks before the wedding, I ask Hap the same question I asked Mother, following it with, "Do you even know which kids are yours?"

He points down at my head with two fingers. "DNA test, sucker!"

"No you can't."

"Oh fudge, you're right. I didn't think this through. Eh, weh, meh." Shrug. "I'll draw straws. Now, where should I put the maps I brought? I also have questions about my wrapping paper collection, but I do not have answers."

"The High Count's office, I suppose."

Hap doesn't move, hands still templed before his chest. "Does anyone else have an opinion?"

The only other person in the room is Klangfar, so no. I lean back on my heels in the air. "Nothing's going to bite you. I store all my junk in there." Hap still twitches, so I shrug. "It hasn't been Father's office in a long time."

"It's still a 'Yikes' from me."

And… that's why I didn't hate my step-father. I could have stopped the wedding. Easily, with just a twist of my hand. But I didn't. Because Hap might have overthrown his own father to seize the Head Anti-Pixie title, but I'd seen him tone down his playful teasing during the points in Council meeting discussions he was most passionate about. When he first showed up at the Blue Castle with a backpack containing his favorite valuables and three anti-pixie kids behind him, I watched from the stairs as he looked around the entry hall, gripping those backpack straps and looking absolutely overwhelmed. It took a few weeks before he could remember how to fly after being deprived of clean magic for so long, and Hap didn't scream or cry every time he got upset. He would chuckle and, sheepish and bruised, ask the next person he saw for a lesson. Something about his laughter stopped my cheeks from burning with secondhand embarrassment. He felt no shame.

"I don't like this," Hiccup murmured.

Hap had skittish feet outside his own territory. I noticed early on that he followed my mother whenever he thought it wasn't weird. His whole presence was weird. He always stood crookedly with wings slightly open in a way that drew attention, but he didn't force himself into the centre of a room. He spoke when he wanted to and didn't when he didn't. For someone who wore bold red and yellow, he could certainly melt into the background when he wanted to. He walked the halls sometimes at night, hands clasped behind his back, and… not a single gram of anxiety shot through me if our paths crossed while I snuck midnight snacks upstairs.

"Take a scoop of vegetables with you," he said the first time he saw me, and I stopped dead.

"What?"

"Veggies," he said, walking right past me. "They're good for you. If you don't eat them tonight, get a lot tomorrow, yeah?"

"You're hardly the boss of me, Head Anti-Pixie."

"You got me there," he laughed. Never stopped. Never tried to push it. I saw the way he coloured pictures with his anti-pixies and listened in while Smoky played piano, offering advice and critiquing the bends of his claws. I saw how he spoke to my mother, keeping a respectful difference and trying not to overstep. I saw him stare some nights at the portraits of Anti-Cosmo on the walls, copying his posture for a few seconds before drawing a cloth from his pocket and wiping a bit of grime from the frame. He didn't try to take those pictures down. I saw him hesitate to seize my father's office, balancing on the heels of his feet. And that's why I don't stop the wedding.

"Can I have this?" I ask Hap three days after his coronation, pointing to a silver wand sheath lying on the High Count's desk. My father's own, if I'm not mistaken. Hap barely glances up from the weird golden bridle he pulled from the closet.

"Sure."

I buckle the sheath on. My ba-ba won't fit, but just wearing it makes me feel more like an adult. "Could I also get a little spending money for a camping trip with my friend Kelsia?"

"Mm, depends. Are you on a healthy diet?"

"Mostly."

"Then you sure can, pudding tin."

"Does pudding even come in tins?"

Hap points two fingers at me. "It does if we make some tonight!"

We do. Me and Smoky and Hap and the three anti-pixie children I keep not learning the names of since they rotate between the Castle and Isle every week. And it's fun. It's a lot of fun.

I fall in my coffin that evening without bothering to unclip the wand sheath, hands folded behind my head and feet kicked in the air. "Ah… Now this is the way a prince should be treated."

"Foop," Hiccup whines.

"What? You know I'm right. A father who respects Mother and gives Smoky and I anything we want is way better than a father who runs off with other lovers behind his family's back. Mother deserved better than him. We all did."

"This isn't fair to Daddy."

"What do you want me to do about that?"

"Are we ever going to tell Mum about the fight?"

"Why should we?"

"I don't know… I just don't like doing this."

I snort. "Nothing's ever good enough for you, Puck. I spent my formative years under so much distress that our mind split apart. All these years later, we're finally getting a normal childhood. For once, can you be happy for us?"

Of course it wouldn't last. Hap disappears five years later. Hiccup has the decency not to say I told you so.

It's not the most melodic prose voice, but I feel like it fits the vibe of "Foop being curious and not as judgmental as he expected to be." I really like the way I showed Anti-Sanderson's awkward adjustment to his new role as High Count (and Foop's temporary step-father). Anti-Sanderson is very unstable (as you'll see in the snippet after this one), and I love touching in on these moments where you see him out of his element, feeling self-conscious.

I love the parallels between how uncomfortable Anti-Sanderson is to be filling Anti-Cosmo's shoes and how Foop feels out of place and "never good enough" for his role as prince. I love how Foop sees beauty and strength where Anti-Sanderson sees his faults. I love this fragile, human side of Anti-Sanderson that shows how he's trying to do his best and find his way in the world.

---

Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I wrote the 130 Prompt "Look At That!" in 2016, and it'll still be a bit before we get to the Cavatina arc of the 130 Prompts... This is a spoiler, but it's still a dear favorite of mine. The Cavatina arc has its dark moments but it's a lot of angsty fun. This scene is one of my favorite dialogue exchanges...

“What about your son?”

“What about my son?”

That wasn’t the answer Sanderson had been expecting. “They’re synced up, same as you and me? If my son dies in that fall, yours will go down with him? That’s Anti-Entities 101.”

Anti-Sanderson tapped his right temple as he pushed himself back up to his feet with the leg of the barstool. “There are nine hundred ninety-nine more on the way genetically identical to him. I’ll probably let one of them live. Get yourselves a long running start, team. Draw on that sugar rush. Give it all you’ve got.”

“Wait.”

That small voice belonged to Anti-Cavatina. As before, as soon as someone asked him to, Anti-Sanderson made the signal for his followers to stop what they were doing. Still leaning on his makeshift cane, Anti-Sanderson turned himself around and squatted.

“Come here to talk to Daddy, wrigglepie. Come, come- don’t be shy. Won’t you give your old man a hug?” In slow motion, the little anti-pixie did. His father ruffled his star-blond hair. “Oh, yes, that’s the way you do it. What’s the matter, kiddo?”

“You…” Anti-Cavatina, not removing his arms, shot a puzzled glance in his counterpart’s direction. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him if I got the watch.”

Anti-Sanderson sucked air through his teeth. He nodded two or three times. “Ooh, that’s right. Thaaat’s right. Rats- I knew I was forgetting something. I did promise you that, didn’t I? Well.” Flipping back into a smile, “Change of plans, peachcake. Can’t be helped.”

“But I got the watch!”

“I know you did. You’re my big bwave boy.” Briefly releasing his cane, Anti-Sanderson took his son’s cheeks in both hands and squashed them inward. “And I wuv you so much, yes I do, you’re just adowable, oh yes you are.” He kissed Anti-Cavatina on the forehead, then patted him between the wings and pointed up the street. “Go tell Uncle Anti-Wosencwantz all about it. Daddy’s busy wight now.”

I love Anti-Sanderson as an antagonist because he's absolutely feral. His morals are extremely fluid and you can't even trust him to take care of his own son... I love this scene because I feel like even without context, it still gives off a chilling and villainous vibe. I love how poisonous and dangerous Anti-Sanderson can be. He's horrible but I also find him hilarious... Just a horrid man.

Thanks for your interest!

[Current Ask meme]

#ridspoilers #ridwriting #130 Prompts #Sanderson is neat #Fashion tornado mob boss #FAIRIES!#Pulling Your Puzzles Apart #Lilo and Stitch #Cavatina #Ask box games

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bvrnesher · 4 months ago

Text

۶ৎ — A Welcome Gift !

tap here for chb masterlists ! here for reqs info

warnings: heavy making out (percy is starved, okay?) pda, percy getting handsy & kinda dry humping, public beach so espect sand getting everywhere!

ㅤ୨ৎ — ˳ percy jackson ! fem. reader

summary: after months apart, percy is finally back at camp—and the moment he sees reader, he's all over them. Greetings can wait. Right now, all he wants is reader, and a whole lot of making up for lost time.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗢𝗗𝗦 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗘𝗙𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗬 𝗠𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚 with Percy.

There was no other explanation. He'd been saving Olympus ever since he found out he was a demigod, and what did he get in return? More quests. Nonstop.

The gods were a bunch of idiots. Seriously, they were pros at it. After everything he'd done for them, they still had the audacity to send him on more quest.

Wasn't that some kind of child labor? Sure seemed like it. Well, maybe not child labor anymore, but there was definitely some exploitation going on here.

They had to be joking. You'd think that after saving their godly asses time and time again, they'd at least give him a break. But nope. Overestimating the gods was always a mistake.

And now, finally, Percy was back at camp after yet another quest. Sadly, you hadn't been there to join him—lucky you, right? You weren't even around when he had to pick his team.

Now he was back.

You had just finished unpacking in your cabin and were heading to the beach for some much-needed relaxation. That was the plan... until you saw your boyfriend emerging from the water.

Clasic Percy. Coming back from a quest and just appearing out of nowhere, soaking wet. What else did you expect?

As soon as he spotted you, he sprinted toward you faster than Apollo reciting one of his cringey haikus.

Could you blame him? It had been months since you'd last seen each other. Ignoring his exhaustion, he practically knocked you down into the sand, trapping you beneath him.

You barely had time to process it before his lips took over yours.

A proper greeting? For what? His version of a "hello" was his salty mouth crashing into yours, his wet hair dripping down his jaw and chin, splashing onto your cheeks... and basically your entire face.

"Hey..." Kiss.

"Not now. Talking can wait," he muttered, just before capturing your lips again.

Percy didn’t care about being seen or the lecture that would come afterward. Right now, the only thing on his mind was you. It had been months. MONTHS.

“Mph…m'trying to speak here...” you murmured, trying to talk, but your voice came out weak and breathless.

"Yeah? Well, I’m trying to kiss you here," he responded, nibbling softly on your lower lip in that playful and sexy way that always left you breathless.

You rolled your eyes and shifted positions, now on top of him, pinning him to the sand with one leg on either side of his body.

"Now that’s better," he grinned. The feel of your body molding to his like two puzzle pieces was enough to leave him with a goofy smile, looking at you like you were everything he needed.

And, honestly, you were.

"Much better."

His hands slid under your shirt with a mix of tenderness and desperation, like he was trying to reconnect with you after all the months of separation. Percy's thumb began to trace slow circles on your hips, while his other hand explored a territory he knew by heart.

He looked up at you from beneath, his sea-green eyes locking with yours. Even the sound of the waves crashing against the camp’s beach seemed to fade into the background as you both got lost in the moment. Leaning in, he kissed you languidly.

"I love you..." he whispered.

Percy held your jaw, trying to pull you closer to him, to get as much of you as he could. The hand under your shirt slid to your back, tracing up and down your spine. Playing with the clasp of your bra.

Then—his tongue slipped into your mouth, finding yours. A low breathy moan escaped him and you melted. A soft hum vibrating in your throat.

Percy kissed you just the way Percy was supposed to kiss.

A small whimper slipped from your lips. And that’s when it hit you.

Public.

"Percy,” you tried to protest, but his name came out more like a plea than a complaint.

He smirked against your lips. His fingers toying with the clasp of your bra, teasing. That sound you just made? It should be illegal.

“Yeah, babe?” he murmured. Lips brushing against yours. His breath mixing with yours.

The beach was empty. Just you, him, and the waves. It would’ve been the perfect moment—if you weren’t ruining it.

But your boyfriend knew exactly how to fix that.

“What’s the problem?” he asked softly. His voice dropped an octave, low and smooth, like a secret.

"Percy, we’re in the open—”

“And why should that matter?”

A hand on your hip. A pull. He rolled his hips up, it was subtle. Intentional.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard.

His body was warm. His muscles tense with anticipation as he pressed you down against him. Seeking more of you. A deep, shaky breath left him as his hands roamed your body, slow and purposeful.

“Mhm...” He let his head fall back against the sand, eyes shut, lips parted.

Then, he looked at you. And that look? That look made you shiver.

His voice dropped again. Rougher now. “You... are wearing... way too many clothes.” His hand slipped under your shirt. Tracing the edge of your bra with his fingers. One swift motion and he flipped you over.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, your neck. Hot, open-mouthed kisses, he sucked gently, right where he knew you liked it.

“You look so good like this,” he murmured, voice husky. His eyes roamed over you, taking you in. “Make some room for me.”

He pulled back just enough. His hands found your knees, and he guided them apart, spreading your legs for him. As soon as he had room, he settled between your legs, gently pulling you to him.

A searing heat coursed through your body as Percy caught your wrists and held them above your head, his fingers tangling in the sand around them. His body pressed against yours, his weight enveloping you in the best possible way.

He leaned into you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. His eyes were fixed on your face, devouring your every feature as he drew closer. His gaze slid between your eyes and lips, taking in every detail.

"You have no idea how much I've missed this..." Percy murmured and he began to roll his hips against yours diligently as his lips sucked hickeys on your neck. His body molded perfectly against yours, and a single movement of his hips was enough to leave you dumb.

"Clothes get in the way..." He murmured, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, and you could do nothing but nod before grabbing his chin to kiss him desperately.

By the time the kiss broke, a trickle of saliva connected your swollen lips with his. A lopsided smile splits over his lips that makes your tummy flutter, and he's already thrusting against your clothed pussy.

Your own hips buck against his, and Percy can only let out grunts and curses in your ear at the sensations.

Percy would be ashamed of how he was leaking under his clothes if he wasn't too busy taking your welcome gift to really dwell on it.

NOTE;; I wrote this half-sleep, lol.

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awkwardapologetic · 5 months ago

Text

Pulling the Puzzles Apart - Chapter 1

Summary:

Relationships: Jayce Talis/Viktor

Tags: Alternate Universe, Post Post-Apocalypse, Hurt/Comfort, Plot Heavy, Happy Ending, Reincarnation, Memory Loss, Recovering Memories

AO3 Link or read below

Chapter 2>>

CHAPTER 1

The old transport stations to the floating cities were decommissioned long ago, before living memory, most of them in sad states of disrepair and overgrowth as nature sought to reclaim the crumbling towers.

There was one on the high mountain overlooking Jayce's town, a monument to the past he spent his whole life looking up to in admiration. Going near the towers was taboo. Both they and the floating cities they once granted access to were forsaken by the gods, so the town elders said.

Floating cities numbered in the dozens, but Jayce had only seen three in his life. The same three made their meandering migrations across the sky over his quiet town at regular intervals.

The first one was the smallest, and came by most often. Its shape was a perfect circle, it traveled north to south, and it took two years between appearances. The second was a little larger, with two little offshoots connected by thin bridges on opposite sides, and traveled northwest to southeast every four years.

The last was the largest, nearly double the size of the second, and shaped like two circles interlocked. It traveled southwest to northeast at ten year intervals. He'd only seen it twice that he could remember. Once when he was fourteen, and now.

He clambered one-handed up the verdant mountainside, clutching journals full of his research to his chest. They didn't fit in his supply pack, and he didn't want to throw out anything just to end up needing it, so only having one free hand it was.

From up here, his little hometown looked even littler, colorful wooden houses shrunk to the size of a fingernail. The windmills turned languidly in the valley breeze that grew stronger as it climbed up the mountain with him, buffeting his clothes.

There used to be a path. With stairs. Stairs that moved. The remnants of them were still obvious, though destroyed and weathered with time. Using them was more dangerous than convenient, bound to end in some stray scrap metal piercing something important, especially after it rained. Jayce preferred the slightly-less-perilous animal trails that criss-crossed up the least vertical sections.

The mountaintop flattened into a wide plateau. Jayce took the final step off the mountainside and paused to catch his breath. Gone were the days when he'd collapse into a panting, sore-legged heap after taking this trip. After so many times climbing up and down the mountain, he'd earned a bit of endurance.

The floating city crept closer, sitting high above the clouds. Hardly a speck in the sky the evening before, it was now the size of a marble, shining in the mid-morning sun. The slow-moving city would take nearly a month to cross from horizon to horizon, leaving Jayce plenty of time to put his research to the test.

Decayed buildings surrounded the base of the transport station. Crumbling concrete and solid metal frames that gleamed dully in the sunlight, moss and creeping vines inching up their high walls, they once might have served as homes for the station's engineers and maintenance workers. The highest was five stories tall and still dwarfed by the station itself.

Anticipation quickened his steps. This was it. The culmination of his work. Since he was young, he dreamed of flying up to those magical cities, full of lost history and relic technology only remembered in legends that captured his imagination. He spent his whole life in the same lonely little town. He longed to ride along and see the world from beatific heights. The view must be indescribable, akin to how the gods themselves watched over the realm.

Walking through the station's doors was like stepping into another era. The air was thick with something like nostalgia, the scent of it washing over Jayce and refusing to fade. The interior was weathered with age, cracking with vegetation making valiant efforts to grow in, but everything important— everything he would need— was clearly built with longevity in mind.

The station's mechanisms ran deep into the mountain, the most important functions taking place at the very base and at the peak of the tower. The trick was getting the two sections to link.

Jayce took the lift down, tapping his foot the whole way. Repairing the lift was his first project in the station, some years ago. The simple ingenuity was inspired; there were no cables or pulleys. Instead, at the very top of the glass shaft was a wind turbine that regulated the air pressure in the shaft, pulling and pushing the cab at controlled speed.

The shaft was, miraculously, still air-tight. Repairing the turbine was easy enough, save for the effort it took to get his tools to the top floor, but the locking mechanisms on each of the fourteen floors, plus the sublevel, took considerable time and climbing. A lot of them were still functional without him needing to do anything, but he still had to check.

The cab landed softly, locking into place against the bottom of the shaft. The sublevel housed the defunct generator that once supplied the power required for instantaneous transportation. Unlike the lift, its components were complex and its application entirely alien; what energy could his ancestors possibly have drawn upon to perform such miracles?

The answer, of course, was magic. And Jayce would be the first person to harness it in hundreds of years.

The methods of communing with the arcane were lost, as many things were, in the War for Tomorrow. A war fought amongst gods and the mortals they stewarded, records of the battles and the civilizations that waged them were lost in the wake of those catastrophic conflicts. The only surviving history from that forgotten era was in the form of stories passed down across fire pits or to lull children to sleep.

Little was known about the start of the war, but the end was credited to the god of Time, Ekko, and a mortal champion of Mel, the goddess of Wisdom, for defeating... something. A great enemy. The exact who changed depending on who was telling the story. The ruler of a warmongering kingdom. A demon who wanted to consume the souls of mortals. A bastardization of old tech come to life and filled with hate for its creators.

Jayce's mother told him it was the god of Nightmares, but that may be because he used to sleep fitfully on long winter nights. He hadn't had that problem since she passed.

The gods didn't take champions anymore. They hardly bothered themselves with mortals at all, save for the occasional blessing; the elders said the devastation of the war encouraged the gods to keep away for the sake of this realm's safety. Jayce didn't agree— according to the travelers that passed through from time to time, wars were still being fought, even with the gods away. If terrible things would happen regardless, surely they could use their power to do some good?

Well, it didn't matter. Once Jayce brought magic back to the world, they wouldn't need the gods or their paltry blessings.

The key was the runes inscribed on the control apparatuses on the top and bottom levels. Contrary to his initial hypothesis, the runes were not the language of the arcane. It was a little more complicated than that.

The arcane was not a thinking entity, in the way thinking entities were usually understood. There was intelligence there, but true communication with it would require a radical restructuring of basic conceptual understanding that was simply impossible without becoming something else entirely.

The runes were an intermediary system, somewhere between language and equations, capable of translating ideas to the arcane and then channeling the arcane's response into real-world applications. It required precise syntax, but the functions were really only limited by the runes themselves.

Jayce sat in front of the interface, running an admiring finger over a Precision rune carved into the spherical runic matrix. He splayed his notes out on the desk on either side, locating his method ideas for powering up the tower.

It was time to get to work.

Evening fell. An eerie blue lit up the valley, casting a wide glow over the sleepy town nestled within. Heads turned up, watching an artifact from a past only recounted in cautionary tales come to life, bleeding light from the interwoven veins etched over its decayed body.

The domed roof cracked open, its innards spinning around themselves in rings and pushing outward and up. The buzzing hum of machinery vibrated the very ground beneath their feet. Fear and awe collided in its observers as it came to rest, pointing toward the approaching city in the sky.

"Lady Violet, grace us with your protection," a father whispered, holding his young daughter to his chest.

The townspeople held their breath as one, watching, waiting. The tower appeared larger than ever, bright as a beacon for all the valley to see, and some beyond. The soul-devouring machine of their childhood stories was held at the forefront of their minds.

A beam of light fired off toward the floating city from the center of the inner rings, frightening some enough to shout, there and gone in an instant. Not a minute went by before it returned, zapping from the distant city like lightning, and the shouts reached a crescendo of screaming.

Another beam shot out from the tower. They held their breath once more, waiting for it to return like the first.

Heavy trepidation set in. The rings spun inward, tucking themselves back inside the head of the tower. The dome sealed shut around them.

Blue veins continued to burn, vivid in the growing darkness of approaching twilight.

It was poor procedure on Jayce's part to test a new— relatively speaking— invention only once before trying it on himself, but his activities were bound to be noticed when the transport station powered up and he didn't know how long he'd have before someone came to try and stop him. The tack hammer he placed on the launch pad survived his Send and Receive methods no worse for wear, so. It was fine.

Better than fine. It actually worked. A grin of elation stretched his face.

Jayce set up the Send method again, putting it on a five second delay to give himself time to step onto the launch pad. There was a temptation to close his eyes before the timer hit zero, but it was nothing compared to the way he craved a glimpse of that in-between place, no matter how unlikely it was that he would see anything in the time it took to transport him.

The ring of cables around the launch pad lit up with arcane energy, filling in under his feet and highlighting the complex runic equations etched there by his predecessors. He tightened the straps on his supply pack and held his research securely under his arm. He looked up at the floating city, a fragment of the past that held the secrets for a better future. Secrets that he would be the one to discover.

He didn't see anything between the launch pad in the transport tower and the receiving pad on the floating island. It was too quick, dizzyingly so, and he wobbled to his knees, trying to focus on any spot on the carved stone wall— or was that the ceiling?— until his vision stopped swimming.

He made it. He made it.

The receiving pad glowed, the only light in the enclosed space Jayce found himself in. It was strangely cramped for somewhere that, once upon a time, would have been bustling with new arrivals and shipments from the surface and other floating cities.

If Jayce didn't know better, he'd say he was underground. Somewhere inside the land mass the city was built on, perhaps?

The walls and low ceiling were carved from solid stone, the receiving pad in the center of a room no larger than five meters in length and width. The walls were engraved with repeating lines of images, cast in odd shadows from the receiving pad's blue light.

There was no obvious way out.

He stepped off the pad. There had to be a switch or a button somewhere to open the exit.

The receiving pad's light was just dim enough to strain his eyes, so he reached into his pack and pulled out his lantern, leaving the rest of his pack and his notes beside the pad. The lantern lit up the wall carvings nearest to him in stark relief, and examining them closer brought him a nagging sense of familiarity.

The images were of gods, some alone and some pictured together, but that wasn't what drew him in. He stared at a depiction of Ekko and Jinx, goddess of Rebirth, facing off on a bridge (the two were meant to be lovers, but their stances there were strangely adversarial) until he went a little cross-eyed, and that was when the familiarity crystalized.

There were runic equations hidden in the negative spaces of the carvings. Jayce scrambled for his journals, hastily flipping through them for empty pages to begin marking down notes.

Wow. Wow. This room was not built by human hands— or even godly ones. It was formed purely from these equations telling the arcane its dimensions, the placement and function of the receiving pad, the carvings on the walls. He inspected them with a whole new appreciation for the precision required to render identifiable characters in different settings and poses.

The applications of runes were incredible. Not just instantaneous travel, but instantaneous construction? The possibilities drove Jayce dizzy with the joy of discovery.

If the room was built with runes, it stood to reason he could find the way out written somewhere in them. A project that served two purposes— studying the compilation of these runes, and hopefully along the way not starving or suffocating before he could share the fruit of his research.

This was the most fun he'd ever had in his life.

It took several hours to puzzle out the general roles of all the lines of equations, during which he found that there was, indeed, a way out of the room. Or, there could be, theoretically. The equation that created the exit also disabled it, meaning that while it did exist, it was not functional or perceivable at all, so it might as well not exist.

He ate some of the food he packed while he considered what to do. On the one hand, he needed to alter the runes to be able to leave. On the other hand, altering the runes that formed the room he was in while he was inside it was probably a very bad idea.

How to remove the exit-disabling equation without removing the exit itself was another problem, but one he already had an inkling of an hypothesis for. He didn't want to alter any of the established equations directly— he hadn't studied them long enough to be sure he wouldn't be disrupting any key interactions— but if he added a method to cancel out the disabling attribute... There was space between the images he could make use of.

He worked up the method in his journal, dug his tools out of his pack, and got to work imprinting it into the wall. The last rune in the sequence, the Activation rune that would turn the equation from a bunch of meaningless scribbles into a conversation with the arcane, he hesitated over. Worst case scenario, the room buckled down on top of him and he was slowly crushed to death.

Being crushed to death was probably faster than starving to death. He finished the rune.

The seam of a doorway cracked open in the stone, spewing dust into Jayce's face. He recoiled, sputtering and coughing and blinking dirt from his eyes. Meanwhile, the hidden door rumbled, kicking up more dust, and sank down into the floor.

Behind it was a set of stairs leading... down. Huh. He peered through, squinting into the dark passage. At a glance, there were around fifty steps, ending in another arching doorway that opened into total darkness. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Where was he, anyway?

He grabbed his lantern. There was nowhere else to go but down.

Far outside the valley, a woman in armor gazed at the distant blue beacon. Her stallion, bred from warhorses with iron nerves, snorted and shook its massive head. She pressed a hand to its neck, wordlessly commanding it steady.

At the woman's left was her lieutenant, a man astride his own horse, holding a telescope to his eye. He passed it over to her with a curt nod. "The soothsayers were right."

"A welcome change," the woman responded dryly. She beheld the magnified tower, its strange otherworldly light not unpleasant to her eye. "Gather a small party. I'd like a closer look."

The lieutenant murmured a quick, "Ma'am," turning his horse and spurring it on toward their encampment.

The room at the bottom of the stairs was hardly bigger than the one above, but Jayce couldn't be bothered to notice its dimensions when his attention was arrested by the giant orb against the far wall.

It emitted light from within, its translucent skin thick enough to dampen its brilliance into a pale purplish gloom. A shiver went down his spine. He swallowed around a dry throat and inched forward, holding up his lantern.

There were runic equations covering the walls. The ceiling. The floor. Not hidden, not organized. Not carved, either, but painted in a dark ink. It looked... frantic. An uncomfortable, unnameable feeling bubbled in Jayce. His stomach squeezed. Maybe talk about these places being condemned by the gods weren't as superstitious as he thought.

Still... it called to him. Ever since he was young and figured out his first rune, he knew there was no other path for him. If that path led him here, then...

He knelt down to examine the equations beneath his feet. They were a mess, all nested inside each other, and he couldn't tell if the mind behind them was mad or genius. He hoped it would be clearer once he figured out what they all meant.

In Numesa, home of the gods, Mel surveyed the holy city from her perch on her bedroom window seat. A frown pulled at her lips, and a single, thoughtful line creased her brow. The gold markings lining her dark skin shimmered in the eternal sun of the godly realm, and even here, she radiated preternatural eminence.

The city was lovely, as always. Bustling with gods, minor and major, young and old, living out their immortal lives, presiding over their domains. Someone new would arrive every few decades or so, from some unfortunate corner of the mortal realm with the boilerplate conditions to forge a passion, trait or belief into divinity. There hadn't been more than one at a time since her and those who formed with her in the events now called the War for Tomorrow.

A grand name for a war that began as a petty dispute between the goddess of Conquest and the goddess of Deceit. The two of them and their followers would have razed the whole of the mortal realm to ash if a greater threat hadn't come along to endanger the immortal realm, too.

As lovely as Numesa was, she could never fully enjoy it. None of the others— Violet, Caitlyn, Jinx, Ekko— could either. Not when they still remembered their mortal home being used as this city's battleground.

Not when they were still missing another who rose to divinity with them. Viktor. Caged back in the mortal realm. Sitting in a trap designed just for him by the man who knew him best. Alone for centuries.

The six of them were more connected than other gods; a product of their shared apotheosis. It wasn't much help in the beginning, but once they settled into their new forms it was an easy way to check in on each other. To know that they were all safe.

Viktor held himself apart in his imprisonment for a long time. A decade or so in, he used the connection to spike her— Mel, specifically— with a torrent of rage and betrayal that she knew was, mostly, not for her. But the true target of his anger was long gone by then. She wanted to reach out in rebuke, or perhaps sympathy, but he cut himself off again to disallow her any response.

It wasn't for another few centuries that he reached out again, to all of them, pouring out remorse and regret and shame and a loneliness so profound it still stole her breath to think of it. They returned to Zaun and Piltover, then, to release him. To finally embrace him into their little pantheon.

The trap set for him was complex. Jinx and Ekko worked at undoing it for a long time before demanding the rest of them learn runic script to assist them.

It wasn't unbreakable. Mel refused to think that Jayce believed Viktor so beyond saving that he wouldn't allow for the possibility of his eventual freedom. But... they couldn't find the loose thread that would undo the arcane knot tied around Viktor.

Viktor continued reaching out, his despair growing. Until around a century-and-a-half ago, when it all went quiet. Not that he cut himself off again, but that when Mel reached out to him, there was nothing in him anymore but desolation.

They were still working to get him out, but a dead end was a dead end, and it seemed the only one who knew how to free Viktor from his prison was the one who died to trap him there.

It didn't matter. They'd find a way. She could only hope that Viktor wouldn't be forever lost by then.

Jayce was a genius.

Not whoever made this mess, though. Whoever that was, they were definitely insane.

It took a few days— probably, Jayce didn't really have a good grasp of time here other than how many times he’d needed to pass out for a few hours— and nearly all of his remaining paper, but the mad scribbles covering the room floor-to-ceiling finally held meaning.

It was a lock box. An overly complicated one fueled by paranoia that it would be broken from the inside or accidentally knocked open from the outside, but the vision for the key was already coming together in Jayce's head.

The question was: did he use it? Whoever put this together obviously thought they had a pretty good reason. But, they were also out of their mind, so who could say, really?

And, also, he didn't have a choice. Starvation, suffocation, whatever. He was low on water, too, and he didn't want to start getting creative about that.

The first step was digging out the "lock". The "key" was to reverse the locking sequence of runes, but the locking sequence was out of order and buried under multiple layers of nested arrays. He had to form the lock before he could unlock it.

It would take some recursion— fucking recursion, which he hated, because it was the worst and never worked for him first try— and carefully arranged parameters, but then it would only be a matter of, of course, more recursion to reverse the sequence, because parts of the mad scribbles were there specifically to prevent him from using simpler methods like the Reverse rune.

Recursion. The worst.

Things exploded a little on his first try.

His recursive loop didn't have an end condition even though he triple checked for one. He was wrong all three times.

It coughed up a blast of heat that singed his eyebrows and he had to splash his precious little water over the equations he painted— in his own blood, because he didn't have anything else— before they melted a hole through the floor and possibly also spacetime.

Alright. Failure out of the way. He would get it right next time.

Second try, nothing happened. A little anticlimactic after his first attempt.

He stared down at his bloody script for a good ten minutes, muttering the lines to himself, until he realized he forgot a closing bracket on one of his variables. He held his face in his hands for another ten minutes before fixing it.

Third time's the charm.

The runes lit up to show they were activated, starting at the beginning of the madman's script and working its way down to Jayce's. He watched with nervous anticipation.

The light lingered on Jayce's script, and he worried he would have to spit on it to keep it from infinitely looping again, but it was only working to pull up the lock sequence as ordered and the process took time. Time that Jayce spent biting his nails.

The reverse recursion lit up next, taking less time than the lock sequence before going dim.

Jayce looked up. Looked around the room. Looked at the purple glowing orb. Everything was the same.

Did he... forget another bracket?

The orb shuddered. Jayce took a curious step forward, remembered himself, and took three steps back, pressing against the wall.

Vibrant cracks tore through the orb's outer skin, leaking the brilliant light from inside. Jayce braced for it to burst open, but instead the pieces broke off and fell to the ground like scattered eggshells, beams of blinding light punching out with each one. Jayce had to turn his head away and shield his eyes.

He should be afraid, shouldn't he?

The light faded out. Jayce opened his eyes, blinking away spots, and finally saw what had been hidden and locked away.

It was a man. Sitting on the ground, purple eggshells surrounding him in a perfect circle, knees drawn to his chest, a simple, short blue robe covering his pale chest and down to mid-thigh. His cheek rested on his right knee, and his hair, brown at the root that faded into blonde at the tips, was long enough to brush the stone floor. His left leg was skinnier than his right.

Most striking were his eyes. A light brown, like golden tree sap, and utterly dull. Lifeless. He made no move to leave the area of his former captivity.

"Ah," the man said, his voice soft and broken, like he hadn't spoken in a long time. "You're back."

Chapter 2>>

#arcane au #arcane fanfic #jayvik #jayce x viktor #pulling the puzzles apart

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peachesofteal · 2 months ago

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Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: light daddy kink Flashback to the first time Captain Riley met Raspberry girl.

The bakery is slow.

He’s only been coming here for a few days, but he’s already figured out the best time to stop by so he can avoid the crowd. Before eight hundred, it’s always packed, too many people in line for tea, coffee, breakfast, pastries, half of them headed to base, the other half to somewhere else.

He starts his day early, and then swings out here for a mid morning breakfast, or coffee, depending on how his day has gone. Usually, it’s filled with paperwork and overseeing training exercises, all of it as boring as the next. He welcomes the reprieve of a pastry, a togo container closed over a massive raspberry sweet roll (or two) that he usually eats in truck before he makes it back to base. It’s hard to leave it alone when it’s sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him. He fucking dreams about things at this point, their sweet dough and cream cheese icing, raspberry jam, he assumes, swirled in every layer. If he’s lucky, he arrives just after or before a new batch is brought out, and they’re still hot.

A few tables are occupied inside, people with headphones in clicking away on laptops, or casually chatting over a tea. It’s never too quiet here which he appreciates, there’s always music flowing, and noise coming from what he assumes is the kitchen, hidden behind a typical swing door you’d see in any restaurant.

The familiarity is comfortable. There are no surprises, usually.

Except today, something new catches his eye.

You.

You’re holding a plate of flaky pastries of some kind, standing at the edge of the counter. Mara, the girl who usually works the register, makes coffees and teas, plates or packages things from the case, is giving you her full attention as you speak.

You stun him. Perfect from head to toe, beautiful in a way that’s making him believe you were created just for him.

A possessive pulse pounds under his jaw. Locked in just at the sight of you.

“They have nuts in them. Almonds. But they’re sl-slivers, so they’re just… they’re hard to see. So uh… make sure I guess, that people know?”

“Okay, I’ll put it on the sign.” She holds the little placard up and you nod approvingly.

“Right.” Like you’ve been holding your breath this entire time, your chest deflates shakily. Gun shy. Anxious. Fearful.

Precious thing.

That craving inside him perks up, hones in. Heat seeking missile.

For once, it’s not only sexual. Not only about keeping someone for the night, the morning, putting all his energy and care into them just to cut that cord, close himself off and send them on the way.

No. This is different. This is more.

“Can I get one of those to go?” The guy waiting at the counter in front of him points to the plate. “Almond croissants, right?” You tense. There’s a lapse, and he can see your gears turning, sifting, before finally settling on something.

“Sure?”

“Sure I can get one, or sure they’re almond croissants.” You flinch. It would be hardly noticeable to someone else, but to him, it reveals another piece of the puzzle. You picked the wrong thing. He knows could soothe this burn, honor these parts of you that don’t seem to fit in, keep your mind, your heart, safe. Love you in the ways you desperately need.

“Oh. Yes.” You nod, sliding one into the bag and pushing it across the counter as Mara cashes the man out, only looking up once he’s turned to leave.

It only takes a second before you’re locking eyes with him.

You freeze, and swears there’s a whisper of a whimper. Mara gives you a curious look, and then follows your line of sight right to him, her mouth quirking to the side in a small smile. Your hands clasp together at your waist, fingers interwoven. Immediately, they clench around one another so tight, he wonders if it’s hurting you. He wants to pull them apart, cover them with his own, hold them. Hold you.

His instincts are churned up. They scream at him, trying to run away with a fantasy of a future.

He thinks briefly of John and Grace, his old captain’s little blueberry pie, a sweet girl watching a movie and curled up on her daddy’s lap. His jealously is not from a desire of Grace herself, but of the relationship, the life John has carved out for himself, the purpose, the control, the ability to tend and care for someone who can give themselves so endlessly, be so trusting they let all their defenses go and fully let go. The love.

He’s never thought it was the right time for him, but now he knows he was wrong. It was never about the right time.

It was always about finding you.

Mara must see something, because she clears her throat and says your name, nodding in his direction.

“This is Captain Riley.” Military brat, she knows the rank of every uniformed person who sets foot in here, and always addresses them as such. You gulp.

“It’s n-nice to meet you.” Mara fills the gap quickly, nonchalantly, trying to ease your discomfort.

“Captain Riley is the one who buys out all the raspberry rolls.” You brighten.

“Really?” His chuckle rumbles in this throat.

“Really. Think I eat two or three a day now." He pats his stomach, and you grin, before it gets lost immediately, unsure, glancing at the ground.

“G-good, That’s… I’m glad.” It’s enough of a starting point. He can’t push too hard. You’re already trembling, looking up at him now, both with trepidation and wonder. Mara’s boxed up his order, quietly placing it in front of you, and you’re careful when you pick it up, handing it over like you’re handling a bomb, lips parting when he touches you. He forces the contact, intentionally brushing his fingers against yours, pleased when there’s an immediate reaction, a sharp inhale, a bob of your throat. He gives you a very gentle smile.

“Thank you sweetheart.” Your eyes go incredibly wide, and you squeak.

“You’re welcome!” He’s unable to get another word out fast enough before you’re practically running into the kitchen, door swinging wide enough for him to see just inside, eyes like saucers, nervous smile stretched across your face, your hands brushing your apron repeatedly, even though the batter and flour crusted on it doesn’t move.

Precious, sweet little girl.

You need someone to take care of you. Someone who will carve out space for you to exist, without fear. Someone who will understand your needs and instead of trying to force you to go where you don’t fit, they’ll protect you, encourage you, hold your hand. Someone who will build you a castle, a fortress, an entire world, just so you can be yourself, be happy as yourself, not a person the world wants to change.

You need him.

You need a daddy.

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #I really loved writing this one #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader

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girl-lostconnection · 2 months ago

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Thinking about Alpha!John Price x Beta!Reader today.

John, who leans always a little too close, presses himself into you ever so slightly, murmurs “Johnathan for you, love” and noses at your neck, coaxing out the faint soft smell of yours. Perfect darling for him, blushing so deliciously, hissing when he allows himself too much. Keeping him in line.

John Price whose hands are somehow always on you, thick fingers hooking in the loops of your jeans and dragging your hips to his, broad chest of his pressing into your back when he whispers “got you, sweetheart”.

He kisses you behind the ear, always lingering just a little to savour the taste of yours that he manages to swallow being this close to your scent gland. Licking air and not yet your skin, because you keep pushing him away, keep glaring at him like he is a dumb beast too keen on the idea of eating a local bookshop owner instead of looking for royal offspring. As he should have.

Dumb beast who is not realising that he shouldn’t rub his scent into you, that lingering pinewood and cigars kill all your chances to get a proper date with someone.

John, who hums when you protest and gently bites your neck, just holding you between his teeth, your pulse pounding into his lips.

Why’d you need dates with some boys, love? Don’t you have him? Isn’t he the best there is to get?

John, who keeps coming back just to chat you up, always with excuse to touch you, worming his way into your life until you don’t even notice that his thumb has been stroking your wrist for the last 10 minutes of your conversation.

He comes back after every deployment and rubs himself on you, smiling when you hiss and wiggle out of his grip. Feisty first thing after so long apart. He knows, sweetheart, he missed you too.

John who comes back once and has to swallow back a low growl, sound starting in his chest, his teeth itching because you don’t smell like him and you don’t smell like you.

He circles you around before pressing himself into your back, bracketing you against the counter, his nose diving into the neck of yours, beast in his head snarling when he finds someone else’s hickey there.

Kept yourself busy, didn’t you, love?

He’s been gone for too long, his scent got too weak.

John admits, he should have come back sooner, should have pulled you under a long time ago.

But he liked your little game of push and pull, he enjoyed the tag so much that he forgot he isn’t the only one playing.

An oversight, not a good thing for a captain.

John who is still hazy with the blood from last deployment, urge to tear another throat out simmering right under the surface when he presses his hips to your ass, slotting against you like perfect puzzle.

If he knew you’d get impatient, he would have taken proper care of you, sweetheart.

But he won’t make the same mistake again.

John Price, who takes leave of absence so he can stop taking suppressants for the first time in years.

Rut of his pounding in the back of his head, spreading through him like an infection, dripping under his skin like poisonous honey.

Sticky sweet, molten with yearning, hungry for blood.

Hungry for you.

John Price who clicks his tongue at you to stay behind your counter, as he locks the doors behind him and lowers himself down. On his knees, nudging your stance to widen.

So he can pull your jeans down, tongue sliding between your thighs, big hands holding you open for him.

No need to thrash, love. He isn’t letting go now. He isn’t backing away either, not anymore.

His rut makes you hazy, his rut clouds your head and makes you slip, bracing your forearms on the wooden counter, his ‘good job, sweetheart’ dripping slick between your thighs.

John eats you out until his knees ache, until your hips roll into his mouth, until the sweet faint scent of yours blends in with his.

Your whole bloody shop is going to smell like you have a man, love. Like you have John.

There is a low dangerous rumble in his chest when you try to pull away, to stop him from eating you out into overstimulation. Because where do you think you are going, sweetheart? You need to be nice and slick to take all of him.

You need to be soft and pliant for John to feed the thick length of his cock to your greedy hole.

“Goin’ to fuck attitude out of ya, lovie.”, John breathes out, biting your ass until you whimper trying to get him off and until the indent of his teeth is a red mark on you. First out of many. “Any bloke in this bloody country would be able to tell you are taken. Anyone who takes a step inside will know I was here.”, he growls, grinding on the plush of your buttock.

Not going anywhere now, love. Never again.

John Price who clicks his tongue when you whimper about condoms, because that’s just silly, sweetheart, you won’t need any of it with him. How are you supposed to feel his knot if you won’t let it in?

That just won’t do.

John Price who bounces you in his lap, thick calloused fingers holding onto the meat of your hips, slamming you down and pulling you up, until the knot of his pops inside of your hole, plugging you in, binding you to him for the next half an hour.

John Price who holds you in full Nelson, arms under your knees, teeth grazing your ear when he bounces you on his knot, pulling just enough so you’d feel the stretch, so you’d start whimpering for him, so you’d scent become sweeter for him.

Naughty fucking thing, you like him being mean to you?

John who lets the rut take reigns, so he can press you into the counter, biting all over your shoulders, snarling “mine, always mine, only mine” when you can’t help but arch. Whether to pull away or to press into him, he’s not sure.

John who licks the scent gland of yours, teeth itching to sink in, dumb beast in his head pulling him to rut into you. And Lord, you are slick and warm and perfect, squeezing him like you never want to let go, milking him for all he’s worth.

Perfect mate.

He humps into you like a feral dog, heavy thick hips of his pressing into yours, not letting you close your legs. Not when he’s folding you into the mating press and sinking his teeth in the crook of your neck, popping the untouched and unmated gland there. Binding you together, blending himself into you, drinking you in so your sweetness is always in his scent from now on.

Won’t be anyone else, love. Not for him. Nor for you.

John Price who presses your face into his neck, rasps out “bite, sweetheart”, his knot popping back inside of your hole — your legs twitching above his shoulders. Sweet thing, he’s too much for you without much of a preparation. But it’s okay, he will be better next time.

He will take you somewhere soft and warm, he will feed you meat and fruit, letting you lick juices off his fingers, he will suck on your tender sensitive parts until you are crying.

You just gotta bite, lovie, just sink your teeth in his gland, will ya?

John Price who licks his lips when you nuzzle in the crook of his neck, your teeth grazing his gland, your jaw trembling. Rode you ragged, didn’t he, love?

It’s okay, John will help, just open wide, aye?

John murmurs, voice half a growl when he presses your head into his neck, when he closes your jaws down on his gland, shiver running down his spine, everything clicking in place.

This is right. This is how it’s supposed to be.

John who kisses your face pulling you out the crook of his neck — your eyes gone, pupils blown wide and jaw slack when he ruts into you again.

Just one more orgasm, sweetheart, just one more. He knows you can do it, you can be good for him.

You can give him his reward for being so patient, you can thank him for not tracking down your now irrelevant suitor and not presenting you bloke’s fingers as a courting gift.

You can thank him proper and you will, won’t ya, lovie?

Come on, one more time, he rasps in your ear, fingers prying your mouth open and stuffing it until you are drooling messily all over him. Pretty thing, see how easy it is? Just had to come to your Johnathan and he would have taken care of this greedy hole.

He would have made it better. And from now on he always will.

Till death do us part, sweetheart. If he has to say anything about it.

#my stars is it anything?are we vibing? cause I do very much so #cod mw2 #call of duty #girl.snippets #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price #omegaverse au #omegaverse #beta!reader

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iamgonnagetyouback · 3 months ago

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curiousity glasses killed peter⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤ●ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ peter parker

the apartment is quiet, save for the hum of the city outside and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. peter had left a little while ago, probably off to grab coffee or run an errand, leaving you curled up on his couch with one of his old textbooks in your lap.

your gaze drifts toward the small table beside his desk, where his glasses sit, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a hurry. a small smile tugs at your lips. you’ve seen him push them up the bridge of his nose a thousand times, seen the way he squints when he forgets them, how they somehow make him look both like the smartest and the cutest person in the room.

curiosity wins. you reach over and pick them up, slipping them onto your face.

everything is…a little off. the lenses make the room blur at the edges, and you blink rapidly, adjusting. a quiet giggle escapes you. “wow, how does he even see in these?” you murmur, tilting your head at your reflection in the window.

the door creaks open.

“babe, i—” peter stops mid-sentence.

you turn toward him, wide-eyed, and his breath catches in his throat.

he blinks once. twice. his mouth opens, then closes again as if he’s buffering.

“pete?” you say, confused by his sudden speechlessness.

“oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “why—why do you look so cute right now? what is happening?”

you snort. “what?”

“no, seriously.” he steps closer, eyes locked on you like you’re a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. “that’s illegal. you can’t just—just put on my glasses and look like that.”

you grin, tilting your head. “like what?”

“like the most adorable human to ever exist?” he groans dramatically, dropping onto the couch beside you and burying his face in your shoulder. “this isn’t fair. i wasn’t prepared for this.”

you laugh, tugging the glasses off. “so what you’re saying is i should wear them all the time?”

peter lifts his head, eyes soft but full of mischief. “babe, if you do that, i’m never gonna be able to focus on anything else ever again.”

you smirk, slipping them back on. “guess you’ll just have to suffer, parker.”

and judging by the way he grins before pulling you into a kiss, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t mind one bit.

a/n. first peter fic omg?? was kinda gonna make a longer fic on the more angsty side but then i was like nah that’s too much effort so drabble it is. and honestly i love it so much ughhh enjoy!! ‹𝟹 also pls tell me it it's terrible

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eelliotss · 4 months ago

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— Borrowed time, part 3

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”

word count = 5.2k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over 🥺

part 1 | masterlist | part 4

The choir of rain showering down envelops your whole world. Holding yourself close, you hug yourself away from the constant roar of the thunders.

You did not notice the man watching— his gaze lingering on the drenched rag of a person curled up on the roadside.

Another roar tears through the sky, clawing at your chest, sending tremors down your spine. With each shallow breath, you silently pray for the nightmare to be over, to wake up under warm covers in the safety of your own room.

He probably saw the state you’re in—the haziness in your unfocused eyes and the way you blink, once, twice, sluggish and distant. A sigh leaves his lips as he kneels down to your level. With one gloved hand holding his helmet, the other lightly flicks your forehead.

The flick is light—too light for the weight crushing your chest, yet enough to tether you back to reality and bring some focus back into your gaze.

You slowly raise your gaze, meeting his crimson orbs. Unwavering. Sharp. Studying.

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite concern.

“You look like hell,” he states as he tilts his head, studying you like you’re an amusing puzzle.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your lips tremble, but no words form.

Sylus exhales, slow and deliberate—not quite a sigh, but something close.

“Can you get up?”

Silence. Only the sound of the rain, the low hum of the storm, and the quiver of your breath fill the air.

He clicks his tongue, running a hand through his drenched silver locks before shaking off the excess water. Then, without a word, he drops his helmet onto your head, fingers swift and practiced as he secures the strap beneath you chin

The sudden weight startles you. But before you can react, you’re lifted.

A sharp gasp catches in your throat as his arms hook effortlessly around you, pulling you up from the cold ground and onto the sleek leather seat.

He swings his leg over the bike, boots steady against the pavement. The engine purrs beneath you, low and commanding.

“Hold tight.”

The words are simple. A command. A warning.

Your hands instinctively clutch his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket. The sudden yank pushes you flush against him.

But through the turmoil of it all—through the howling wind, the biting cold, the chaos swallowing the whole world as you ride through the roads a little too fast—beneath your fingers, beneath the soaked fabric,

he’s warm.

The contrast is sharp. The world untamed, screaming, tearing everything apart. The situation rushes past you, too quick, too unreal.

Through it all, you—fractured, weightless, drowning— hold onto him— steady, unshaken—like he’s the only rope tying you to reality.

•

“What’s your room number?” he asks as the bike comes to a stop and the deep rumble of the engine fades.

By the time you’ve returned to the resort, the campfire is long gone—reduced to nothing but damp coals and the ghost of laughter lingering in the air.

People scattered, rushed towards shelter, their hurried footsteps splashed against puddles. The storm has chased everyone indoors.

Except for you and him.

You’re still clutching onto him, fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. The lingering warmth of his body beneath your touch feels foreign.

“Well?” Sylus’s voice cuts through the silence.

You blink, realizing you haven’t answered.

Your lips part, allowing a light whisper to leave your lips.

“409.”

Without a word, he starts walking.

Perhaps it’s because you did not want to be left alone in the darkness of the night again, or perhaps it was because the sudden loss of warmth prompted your body to move on its own.

You trail behind him through the dimly lit halls, the faint hum of electricity buzzing through the silence. Water drips from your clothes, leaving a trail behind as you shiver against the cold air-conditioned corridor.

You steal a glance at him. Sylus walks ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, completely unfazed. As if he didn’t just find you curled up on the side of the road, as if you’re not drenched and shaking beside him.

The two of you stop in front of your door.

You fumble for the key card, fingers trembling slightly, though you’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from everything that’s happened tonight.

“Shh, don’t be scared.”

Soft coos seep through the door.

“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

Soft giggles follow the gentle whispers.

“You’ve always stayed with me on days like these, holding me just like this whenever there were thunders.” Her voice is small and fragile—like something meant to be cherished, protected.

Your fingers hover the doorknob, frozen in place.

The storm rages on, harmonizing with the soft giggles on the other side of the door.

You stood there paralyzed, your mind too tired to register whatever it is that your heart is going through.

Sylus leans against the doorframe, watching you hesitate. Waiting.

“So? You gonna go in, or are we just standing here all night?” He finally asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

Your lack of response earns slow exhale from him.

Before you can fall any deeper, before you can drown in the ache clawing at your chest—he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unyielding.

You flinch, eyes finally snapping to him.

He doesn’t say anything—just turns, walking, dragging you with him.

Away from the door. Away from them.

“Sylus—“ Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t loosen his grip.

And deep down, you were glad he didn’t.

You let the warmth of his hand anchor you, let the storm swallow everything else, and let the laughter behind the doorframe fade into nothing.

•

Sylus doesn’t stop walking until you’re deep inside the quiet halls of the resort, the sound of rain and thunder fading into the background.

His grip finally loosens as he stops in front of a door.

Without looking at you, he pulls out his key card and swipes it. The lock clicks open.

“Get in.” His voice is flat, low—an order, not a request.

You linger by the doorway, water pooling beneath your feet.

Sylus exhales sharply for the nth time that night, raking a hand through damp silver strands, sending droplets scattering to the floor. Then, without warning, he grabs a towel from the bed and throws it at you.

It smacks against your chest, snapping you out of your daze.

“Shower.”

You blink up at him. His crimson eyes don’t waver.

His jaw ticks. Another sigh, this one slower, controlled.

More is tossed at you.

A shirt. A pair of sweatpants. His clothes.

They land in your arms, warm, freshly laundered, carrying the faintest trace of him—clean, sharp, and something unplaceable.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric.

“You’re soaked. You’ll get sick.”

It’s not concern. It’s a fact. A simple statement.

When you still don’t move, he clicks his tongue, tone dipping into something dangerously close to impatience.

“Either you go shower, or I’ll throw you in there myself.”

That finally makes your feet move.

You clutch the clothes tighter against your chest and step past him, disappearing into the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And only then do you finally exhale.

The warmth of the shower does little to soothe the tightness in your chest, but at the very least, it washes away the lingering cold from the rain, the exhaustion clinging to your skin like a second layer.

When you finally step out, damp hair sticking to your neck, Sylus is exactly where you left him—leaning against the dresser, one knee bent, a towel draped over his head. His silver hair peeks through, darkened by water, stray strands clinging to his forehead. He’s slow with his movements, lazy almost, dragging the towel through his hair before ruffling it out with one hand.

For the first time, you actually look at him. Not just a passing glance, not a flicker of acknowledgement,—but really look.

At the way the dim light carves shadows along his jawline—the cut of his jawline, the slight furrow in his brow, the way droplets trail down his collarbone before vanishing beneath the black tank clinging to his build—damp and unforgiving, outlining lean muscle and sharp edges.

There’s something effortlessly sharp about him, something dangerous in the way he simply carries his frame.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his gaze flickers up, sweeping over you. Unbothered. Knowing. Like he’s caught you staring.

“Like what you see?” his voice drips with lazy amusement.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck before you compose your features.

“What is there to like?”

His smirk deepens, crimson eyes flickering with something teasing.

“You really are a shortcake.” He smugs as his gaze roams your body. “Looks like my clothes are trying to swallow you whole.”

You glance down. The oversized shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders, the hem brushing against your knees. The sweatpants are cinched at the waist, tied hastily to keep them from slipping.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not my fault you’re built like a damn tree.”

Sylus snorts, shaking his head as he runs the towel over his hair one last time before tossing it onto the chair. “Move.”

He brushes past you, the scent of clean linen and faint sandalwood trailing behind him. The door clicks shut a second later, leaving you alone in the room.

For a moment, you simply stand there, staring at the empty space he left behind.

Then, with a slow, heavy breath, you make your way to the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and warm—a stark contrast to the cold pavement you were curled up on just hours ago.

You sink into it, pulling the blankets over yourself, letting your body finally rest.

But sleep never comes.

Even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs, your mind refuses to quiet.

The storm still lingers beyond the windows, faint rumbles reverberating through the walls. Every moment from tonight replays, over and over again—

The laughter at the campfire.

Caleb’s dismissive jokes.

Caleb’s warmth, his head rested on your lap as the sun sets.

His voice, gentle, whispered—“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

And the way the line cut before you could even finish your cry for help.

Your grip on the blanket tightens.

It’s pathetic. How much this hurts. How much he still has a hold on you, even when you know better.

You force yourself to listen to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, gripping into your own palm like doing so could lull you to sleep.

The blanket feels too heavy. The air, too thick.

You shift onto your side, curling in on yourself, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the ache sitting heavy in your chest.

The shower stops, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens.

Sylus steps out, towel draped around his neck, silver hair still damp, a few strands clinging to his skin. The scent of clean linen and something sharp, something distinctly him, fills the space.

He says nothing, nor does he acknowledge you.

Instead, he crosses the room in that effortless, unhurried way of his, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair before grabbing something from his bag.

You watch from the corner of your eye as he settles into the chair beside the bed, flipping the book open like he’s done this a thousand times before.

Like you’re not lying there, curled up in his clothes, drowning in the silence between you.

Like this is just another one of his quiet nights.

The pages turn, slow and steady, the faint rustle of paper weaving into the distant cries of thunder.

Still, the way the thunder rumbles through the sky, rolling and crackling so close, makes your body tense on instinct. You will your breathing to steady, to calm. But your hands won’t stop trembling.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

The sudden change from the steady rhythm of pages turning to the faint tap of his fingers against his phone screen causes your brows to furrow in curiosity. You crack an eye open just enough to see him searching something up. His expression remains as impassive as ever, his crimson gaze flicking across the screen, scanning whatever article he’s pulled up.

Then—without warning—he gets up, grabs your blanket, and yanks it off you.

“H-Hey—!” You barely have time to react before he moves, fast and measured, rolling you over onto the bedspread like you weigh nothing.

“What the hell are you—“

He ignores you. Ignores your flailing arms, ignores your indignant protests, and swiftly tugs the blanket around you, tucking you in so tight you can barely move.

You blink, completely stunned. You stare up at him, utterly dumbfounded, as he looks down at you with a face that is, somehow, completely unbothered.

“What the fuck is this?”

Sylus simply plops back down into his chair, cool as ever.

“It’s what they say helps cats with anxiety attacks.” He gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Something about mimicking the feeling of safety.”

Silence. You blink at him.

Once.

Twice.

His lips twitch—just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“What kind of dumb—this isn’t even—“ You wiggle, struggling against the tight wrap of the blanket. “Sylus, let me out.”

“No.

“Sylus.”

“They say chin scratches can also help calm cats down,” he smirks. “Would you want that too, kitten?”

You open your mouth to retort, but another loud crack of thunder cuts through the room. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Silence engulfs the room once more.

He flips to another page in his book.

“Do you hate it that much?” his eyes never leaving the words in front of him. “The thunders.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hating the way your hands still tremble against the blanket.

“No.”

Sylus hums, the sound low, almost skeptical. He flips another page.

“Convincing. Really.”

You would never admit it, but the tight wrap of blanket around you created a protective barrier between you and the world.

Or perhaps it is the steady rhythm of his breathing. The calm, unshaken presence beside you.

Your eyelids grow heavier.

The storm still lingers outside.

But here, in this quiet space, it’s bearable.

And before you realize it—the world turns dark.

•

Your eyes shoot open.

The room is steeped in deep blue, the quiet hum of dawn settling over the world. The storm has long passed, leaving behind only the faint scent of rain lingering in the air.

You instinctively look around, your pulse quickening as the memories of last night rush in like a relentless wave.

The chair beside the bed is empty. The book he was reading is gone.

He isn’t here.

A strange feeling settles in your chest—one you don’t have the energy to name.

You push yourself up, the oversized fabric of his clothes slipping loosely around your frame.

Right. You need to go.

Sliding off the bed, you grab your things, moving as quietly as possible. The last thing you need is anyone seeing you sneaking out of a room that isn’t yours.

The hallways are eerily silent, save for the distant rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through an open window. You slip into your own room unnoticed, the door clicking shut behind you.

MC is still asleep, curled beneath the blankets, her breathing slow and steady.

You exhale, body weighed down with exhaustion as you strip out of Sylus’s clothes, replacing them with your own. The fabric is warm, familiar.

Sliding your phone onto the charger, you finally crawl into bed, slipping under the covers beside MC.

She stirs slightly, shifting at the dip in the mattress, but doesn’t wake.

The silence stretches, the soft rhythm of her breathing lulling you into something close to peace.

You close your eyes.

•

You’re jolted awake by MC’s sudden exclaim.

“Oh my god, Yn!”

Your eyes snap open, the soft haze of sleep vanishing in an instant. MC is hovering over you, her phone clutched tightly in one hand, her brows furrowed in concern.

“Where the hell were you last night?!” she demands, voice a mix of worry and exasperation. “I called you like, a million times! I was this close to going out and looking for you—” She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “But, you know… how I am with thunders.”

You blink, mind sluggish, body too drained to react.

MC huffs, shoving her phone in your face. “Seriously, Yn. I was worried sick!”

You squint at the screen, barely making out the endless stream of missed calls and texts before you sigh, rubbing a hand down your face.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I—”

What are you even supposed to say?

That you got caught in the rain? That you collapsed on the side of the road? That Sylus found you?

That you spent the night in his room?

Your throat tightens.

MC sighs, finally pulling back. “I swear, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day.” Her expression softens, the frustration fading into something quieter. “You okay?”

The concern in her voice makes your chest ache.

You force a small smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

MC watches you for a moment before nodding. “Alright. But don’t ever do that again, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell me.”

You nod, though you don’t say anything.

She plops back onto the bed, stretching her arms over her head. “Anyway, we have a long-ass day ahead of us. Let’s get moving before they start filming without us.”

You hum in agreement, pushing yourself up despite the weight still clinging to your limbs.

The moment your feet touch the floor, a faint dizziness creeps in, but you shake it off.

Today is going to be long. You just have to get through it.

MC chatters away as she gets ready, pulling out outfits and rummaging through her bag. She seems to have let go of last night’s worries, and for that, you’re grateful. You don’t have the energy to explain anything right now.

By the time you both leave the room, the sun has fully risen, painting the sky in warm golds and soft blues. The air is fresh, carrying the lingering scent of rain, but the storm from last night feels like a distant memory—like something only you remember.

When you arrive at the set, the atmosphere is already buzzing with energy. Crew members are setting up, actors are going over their lines, and the director is barking out instructions.

MC quickly joins the main cast, slipping into her role with ease, leaving you to find your own place among the side characters.

“Action!”

The day begins.

It’s hectic—far more chaotic than yesterday. Since most of the key scenes are scheduled to be filmed today, there’s barely a moment to breathe between takes.

You go through your role automatically, delivering lines, hitting your marks, going where you’re needed.

And yet, through the commotion, you can feel him.

“Action!”

You can see him in the crowd, practicing and discussing his lines.

You can see him placing his hand on MC’s head, telling her it’s okay she messed up her part.

“Action!”

Every now and then, between takes, you can see the way his eyes land on you, a certain look that you can’t quite place your finger on.

And every now and then, during any short break he can muster, you can see the way he tries to approach you.

But the simple thought of him makes you sick to your stomach.

“Yn—”

You slip away.

“Where were y—”

Someone calls you over before he can finish.

“Why didn’t you pick—”

Another take is called, forcing him back into position.

Every conversation dies before it can even begin, and you make no effort to change that.

You don’t want to face him yet.

You can’t.

“Action!”

Fortunately, the day is kind enough to be relentless, dragging you from scene to scene, making it easier to ignore the weight of his gaze, the questions lingering between you.

But as the hours pass, the sun burns hotter, the air grows heavier, and a dull ache creeps into your skull.

It’s subtle at first, just a faint throbbing behind your eyes.

“Action!”

Your limbs feel heavier, your head foggy, the world tilting ever so slightly.

You swallow, forcing yourself to focus.

It’s nothing. Just exhaustion. Just the heat. Just the fact that you spent last night soaking wet in the cold for hours.

“Action!”

You push through.

A hand reaches for yours.

“Hey—are you oka—“

“I’m fine, Caleb.” You snap, finally turning to face him, snatching your touch away from his.

You look over his shoulder to find MC waving for him.

“MC’s looking for you,” you state, turning away just as quickly.

“You don’t look—“

The set sweeps him away once more.

The heat is unbearable. It sticks to your skin, clings to your lungs, burrows into your skull with a relentless pulse. Every sound around you—voices, instructions, the scuffling of feet on set—blurs into a distant hum.

“Action!”

You should sit down. You should stop.

But you don’t.

You push through, following the motions, forcing your body to move despite the dull, throbbing ache radiating from your temple.

The sun beats down harder.

Your limbs feel heavy. Your vision swims.

Something is wrong.

“Act—“

A sudden shift—the ground tilts beneath you.

The world spirals. Your stomach churns—everything is slipping too fast.

And then—a firm grip catches your wrist.

Through the haze, crimson eyes lock onto yours, sharp and assessing.

You don’t understand how, don’t understand why— but subtly, nearly imperceptibly—the sharpness in his eyes narrows, just slightly.

His grip tightens.

“It’s not called a dance if there’s no one to catch you when you dip,” a teasing smirk crawls up his face.

You narrow your eyes, a frown following closely.

“Let me go,” you demand, pulling your hand from his. To your dismay, he does not budge.

Sylus hums, tilting his head slightly, his crimson eyes flickering with amusement.

“Let you go?” He scoffs lightly. “Sweetheart, you nearly face-planted in front of half the set. If it weren’t for me, you’d be eating sand right now.”

A flush of heat creeps up your neck—whether from frustration or fever, you don’t know.

“But it did look like you were throwing yourself into my arms just now…”

Your jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—“

“You were.” He grins, lazy and insufferable, before tapping his temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll be generous and let you blame it on heat exhaustion. But next time, try asking before you faint dramatically into my arms, yeah?”

A scoff pushes past your lips, hot and irritated. “I didn’t—“

He cuts you off again, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Actually, should I be offended? You didn’t even call my name. Isn’t that what damsels in distress do?”

He shifts his grip to hook an arm securely around your waist, pulling you closer as your knees wobble.

You slap at his arm. “I can stand just fine.“

“Sure.” He drawls the word out, clearly not convinced. “If by ‘just fine’ you mean ‘barely upright and just one second away from proving me right.’”

Your glare sharpens, pushing his body away from you. However, your body betrays you as your knees struggle to find balance, causing you to lean just slightly into his hold.

Sylus smirks.

“You love proving me right, don’t you?”

You groan. “Just let me go, Sylus.”

Before he can answer, another presence looms in.

“Yn.“

The teasing weight of Sylus’s words vanishes in an instant.

You tense.

The air shifts—sharp, tight, suffocating.

Sylus’s smirk doesn’t falter, but the amusement in his eyes dims, replaced with something much more calculating.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Caleb takes a step forward, his expression unreadable—but his tone isn’t.

“Let go.”

A muscle in Sylus’s jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over Caleb, the amusement curling at his lips deepening.

“That’s funny,” he muses, low and almost thoughtful.

Caleb’s eyes darken. “I said, let go.”

Sylus tilts his head slightly, gaze dipping back to you.

“Mm.” His voice drops lower, amusement flickering at the edges. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

The tension snaps tight between them—like a drawn blade, waiting to be swung.

You exhale sharply, yanking your wrist away from Sylus. Caleb’s presence itself is enough to push you off the edge, adding the tension between the two and your head splitting in half definitely does not help.

“I’m fine. I can walk. You two have scenes to film—go do that instead of hovering over me,” you mutter, your glare shifting between them.

Neither of them move.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Seriously. I just need some rest. Go.”

Sylus studies you for a beat longer, then— with an infuriating smirk, he raises both his hands in a mock display of surrender.

“Whatever you say, kitten.”

He steps back, turning without another word. But, even if you’ve just known him for a few days, you’re well too accustomed to that glint in his eyes. He’s entertained—like he just witnessed something far more amusing than it should be.

You roll your eyes, turning to leave—only to find Caleb following closely behind.

You stop in your tracks.

“Caleb.”

“You’re sick,” he states simply, as if that explains everything.

You let out an exhausted sigh. “I just need a nap. The sun’s too hot. You have a job to do. Go.”

“I’ll take you to your room.”

You groan. “I don’t need you to—“

“Yn.”

Something in the way he says your name—low, quiet, edged with something almost like a puppy left alone—makes your breath hitch.

You swallow, annoyance and fatigue surfacing your expression.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.”

You start walking. Caleb falls into step beside you, silent. The set bustles behind you, voices and movement filling the space. But between you and Caleb, the silence is louder.

The walk back is slow. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your legs sluggish with exhaustion. The day had been merciless—your body drained from the heat, the lingering weight of last night clawing at your bones.

“I didn’t,” you murmur.

“You almost did.”

You finally reach your door, the cool AC left running inside brushes away a part of your exhaustion.

The door clicks shut behind you. You turn to face him, arms crossed.

“Alright. You walked me back. You can go now.”

Caleb doesn’t move. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets. “Kicking me out already?” he says with his usual playful tone, a grin plastered on his face.

“Out.”

Caleb sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just—why didn’t you say anything? You looked like you were about to collapse back there.” He slowly approaches you, placing one hand on your forehead and another on his. “You’re burning up.”

A deep frown crawls up your face, annoyance filling your senses. You swat his hand away, taking an unsteady step backwards.

“Get out, Caleb, I want to be alone.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly, taken aback by your response. A soft chuckle slips past his lips—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave. Right after I tuck you in.”

You let out a sharp breath, exasperated, but too drained to argue. Caleb takes a step closer, reaching for the blanket, but you snatch it before he can.

“Caleb—“

“You didn’t answer my calls.” The shift is almost imperceptible. His voice is steady, but there is an edge to it—like he is holding something back. His jaw is tense, something unreadable flashing behind his violet eyes.

Your breath catches for half a second and you grip on the blanket tightens, but you school your expression. “My phone was dead.”

“Where were you last night?” His voice is still too calm. Too measured.

You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose, exhaustion pressing into your skull. “Caleb—“

“Do you know how long I spent looking for you?” his tone is lighter than it should be, laced with something almost amused—but his eyes, his stance, the slight clench of jaw betray him. “I ran through the rain like a desperate idiot, calling for your name like a lunatic, only for you to act like I don’t exist the next day?”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s frustrated.

You don’t know what to say to that. Instead, you let out a dry laugh, shaking your head.

“Yeah? That worried? Sure, Caleb. Sure,” you pause. “Do you expect me to be grateful?” sarcasm drips from your words.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” his eyes narrow.

“No? Then what are you saying?” You cross your arms, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Because I remember calling you. I remember my hands shaking so bad I almost dropped my phone. I remember hearing your voice and thinking, ‘finally.’” Your throat tightens. “And then I remember you cutting the line.”

Caleb stares at you, his expression unreadable.

“I was in the middle of god knows where, drenched like a drowning dog, kneeled down on the road next to some fucking dumpster,” you continue, voice shaking despite yourself. “But it wasn’t a great time. You were busy.” A humorless laugh leaves your quivering lips.

His jaws ticks.

“You know how MC is with thunders,” he says, voice quieter now. Almost defensive. “But as soon as she fell asleep— I didn’t think—“

“Exactly.” Your words are barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think. Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”

Something in his face shifts. His breath catches. For the first time since you met him, he looks like he miscalculated.

The silence is thick, suffocating. His gaze lock onto yours, searching—for what you weren’t sure.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, looking away. His hand grips the doorknob, knuckles paling slightly.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I didn’t know.”

A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

He remains there for a second longer, a shadow of something you can’t quite place flickering behind his eyes. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself, pressing a hand against your temple as a dull ache throbs inside your head.

“I’m very—very—tired,” you continue, voice barely above a breath. “So just… let me rest, Caleb.”

His jaws tightens. He shifts his weight, like he wants to say something—like there’s something sitting heavy on his tongue—but in the end, he exhales through his nose, slow and steady,

His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet. Strained.

“…Get some rest, then.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. He slowly place his hand on your head, ruffling it softly—the way that has always brought butterflies to your stomach. His violet eyes flicker, scanning you—your unsteady stance, the way you press against your temple, the exhaustion settling deep in your features. Something flashes behind his gaze. But just as quickly, it’s gone.

He takes a step back. Then another.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you one last time—not with amusement, not with his usual lazy charm or playfulness, but with something much quieter. Much heavier.

“Try not to sleep through dinner, shortcake.” His usual grin flickers at the edges, forced, strained, before turning his heel.

Click.

part 4

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