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rustycopper4use · 8 months

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Ok, uhm....I've seen someone make a request for poly Ozzie x Fizz x Reader in which the reader is Blitzø's brother, but I got a better one for you! How about (poly ofc) Ozzie x Fizz x Male Reader who is Striker's older brother? Like, maybe he heard about what happened in greed ring and came to apologise on his brother's behalf and maybe offer his services as bodyguard?

Fizz x Ozzie x Male reader!

sorry I went a little bit off the rails but I hope you like it!!

At the beginning you were close to fizzaroli as kids.

you first met him at one of his shows, and you would try to see all his shows. And ended up dragging your younger brother striker to them, much to his protests.

You would spend hours with fizzaroli, him being the only sense of affection in your life. Giving your family’s old fashioned values. His was the escape from it all.

Your father resented the wasted time spent with some lowly circus clown, he would try every thing to make you to stop seeing him. After awhile he even turned Striker against you, which in retrospect wasn’t hard he idolized him.

In the ended up with you sneaking out the house everyday to see the goofy imp.

However that was until the fire. You had been only been able to talk to him when you actually came to the circus.

So one day you went to see him, with a small birthday gift you’d be able to pay for.

only to met with ashes, and burnt remains of childhood memories, it was hauntingly void of life still fresh with smoke.

And you never heard from him again.

You left the gift in the remains. It became a regular thing, you’d leave a small gift every year on his birthday.

A way to remember him, maybe you’d just like the sadness that came with it rather than the bitter empty feeling in your cold aching chest.

Or you’re still in denial, waiting for the day he’ll somehow come back and it’ll be some big cruel joke.

After that you replaced that time with meaningless jobs, helping dad around the farm.

While your younger brother took up kill for hire, you would be along aside for protection, an extra set of hands.

This new attitude brought a sense of pride to the rest of the family.

Your relationship wasn’t the same with your less than functional family. You weren’t ever close to your father or brother but, it got even more distant. Opting for only talking when needed.

One day striker came back from a job beaten bruised, and burned.

As you fixed him up, he whined about his failed attempt, he brought up an all to familiar name.

“Y’know that lowlife clown was such a brat to deal with, and his pathetic friend Blizto-“

“Are you talking about fizzaroli?”

“-Wait no, Fizzaroli’s alive?.”

“Look I don’t care if you had a soft spot for that thing, I had a job and I’m gonna go through with it.”

“You never thought to tell me he was alive!”

“Of course I didn’t, Dad and I knew you were going to act like this, you became a better demon because of us.”

“Get out.”

Striker gets to door before turning back towards you.

“Im not gonna give up this job because you’ve grown weak.”

“Oh I know you won’t.”

He left.

You weren’t sure what to do now. Striker was a stubborn person, he wouldn’t give up till Fizzaroli’s head was on a stick.

Luckily for you. you were just as petty as the snake.

For the next few days you looked for opportunities to work at Ozzie’s. You came across for a listing for a personal bodyguard for Fizz.

You got scheduled for an interview, part of you dreaded seeing him again.

You headed down(up?) to the lust ring. The gorgeous neon lights, against the calming rain.

The Ozzie’s club was nothing short of a spectacle. And the start to your new life.

Ozzie was apprehensive on hiring someone with relations with the demon that kidnapped Fizzaroli in the first place.

But Fizz reassured his worries, he knew you weren’t like him.

The start of this job was- not exactly awkward, but there was this weird air around you three. A few weeks in and you’ve finally settled in, you grew comfortable with the duo and life finally felt back on track.

You still felt guilt for what your brother did, you would always give gifts to fizzaroli as a form of an apology, a better change than what you did for 15 years. You also get into the habit of going above what was asked for even at your own expense.

Even when Fizzaroli explained he didn’t blame you, it was your brother’s actions after all. You settled for buying him flowers every other day.

The two would flirt with you, fizzaroli being more bold, knowing exactly what makes you tick and that special spot that makes you melt.

Ozzie on the other hand, had a different approach. He took on a more romantic strategy, he learned very early on that his voice was your weakness, a few praises and you were a goner.

When striker found out he was pissed. His own brother fooling around with blue blood, how did you turn out like this.

Every time he would show up you always up lovey-dovey just to rub salt in a wound.

Fizzaroli adored it when you’d get riled up and your southern accent would slip. He would purposely push your buttons lovingly just to hear it.

Every time Fizzaroli would want attention you’d always make sure to hold his face given it’s the only part he can really feel now.

Ozzie was the only one that Could cook, and that still didn’t change with you around. Sure you weren’t as bad as Fizz but still.

Fizzaroli would call you a cowboy (affectionately)

#x reader #lgbtq #gay #lgbtqiia+#fizzaroli x reader #fizzmodeus #fizzarolli #fizzaroli helluva boss #helluvaboss #hb spoilers #fizzarolli helluva boss #helluva boss asmodeus #fizzmodeus x reader #Fizzmodeus x male reader #helluva boss #striker #reqs open #request

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teainthesnow · 9 months

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@somerandomdudelmao is giving me emotions again so time to give some back...

- - -

It’s over.

it’s finally over.

Or, he thinks, with a shuddering breath and numb agony, that it will be over soon.

So he lies there, breathing in the dust and ash, and the sour taste of all that was lost, of the embers of a dying world, filling his mouth.

It would...

It would all be okay now.

He inhales.

And tries not to be scared by what comes next.

But, vaguely, distantly, as he slips further and further into numb acceptance he feels a presence, a familiar warmth blanketing him. Warm hands touch his shoulder feeling fiercely protective but tinged with fear.

It’s okay, he whispers but he’s certain the words come about as nothing more than a senseless whisper, if they even make it out at all.

But...

It’ll be okay.

It’s time.

He’s ready for the next step.

To face his ancestors, friends, family, and brothers.

And hopefully that meant all three of them.

He exhales.

And falls into the darkness.

But the darkness parts around him.

His thoughts swirl into a blurry haze, slipping from him before he can truly comprehend them or the things around him.

All he knows is this is wrong... he shouldn’t... he thought...

Wasn’t it supposed to be over now?

Not... not this incoherent haze of a life where the only comfort his can find is in the soft fluttering traces of red and purple.

So he hides; feeling scared and alone and wondering why this is his fate, why he has been cursed to stay isolated and away from those he cares about.

He is so tired, so exhausted.

Barely clinging on to the last of his strength even though he isn’t truly sure why he does so.

There’s something whispering, begging, cheering for him to keep going.

To hold on.

Something – or perhaps someone – calling his name, voice laced with a pleading desperation.

But

all he can do

slip

further

down.

And then something shifts through the fog.

The world tilts on its axis.

The is a fire surrounding him, burning away the encroaching darkness that he had been so willing to accept.

No, he pleads, reaching a desperate hand outwards.

Let me go.

Please.

Let me go home.

The fire, the warmth, the two flames do not listen as they cling tightly onto him, dragging him forcefully along with them.

Please.

And then the fire vanishes just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him weak and fading once more.

But then the static clings to him, trapping him, keeping him from fading, from moving on.

There is a comforting presence within the electricity, similar to the warm flames, but slightly different.

Familiar yet somehow unfamiliar at the same time.

There is something within the sensation that makes him pause and hesitate.

All he can feel is a weird mix of worry, relief, and unwavering determination.

He almost stops fighting.

But he can’t.

This isn’t-

He isn’t home.

He needs to go home.

So he fights against the static, against the energy it gives him.

Against those soft thoughts of you’re safe, please stop fighting, let me- let us help you.

But that wouldn’t be fair, would it?

Did he really deserve peace when they weren’t here?

He just wanted to see them again.

(Even though the whispers tried to convince him that they were already there because it didn’t make sense.)

So whenever he can he fights.

He runs.

But the static, the flames, keep finding him.

Keep holding him protectively within their embrace.

(keeping him safe)

Keeping him trapped.

(keeping him alive)

Keeping him away from home.

(giving him strength to keep himself alive)

In this fog-filled limbo that his existence has become.

And then.

Finally.

Something changes.

And.

He.

Falls.

Again.

He blinks open his eyes.

Confused and disorientated and still not quite fully himself.

He feels...

Empty.

Perhaps.

Nothing but a fragile reflection of who he was, of who he will be.

Hollow.

Lonely.

And lost in the vast empty darkness.

Empty, he realises slowly through sludge filled thought, but not silent.

There’s a voice shouting in the distance.

Muffled and incoherent but definitely there.

He looks around.

Suddenly desperate.

Overcome with the desire to find the voice.

To find-

He looks down at his reflection.

But it isn’t *his* reflection.

Maybe *he’s* the reflection.

Forced to echo, to copy.

He’s yelling at himself.

...isn’t he?

But then a hand reaches through the mirror and grabs hold of his scarf.

Pulling him upwards and through the once solid surface and the voice, the familiar and unfamiliar voice, becomes clear.

Becomes understandable.

And awareness washes over him.

The ‘anger’ leaves.

All he has left is a numb confusion and a growing hope.

And then he is falling again.

He blinks.

Awareness comes back to him slowly.

His vision slowly fading back into clarity.

And his first coherent thought is to be annoyed by a constant tap, tap, tap, of a keyboard being used.

He tiredly shifts to locate the source of the noise and sees Donnie tapping away, focused solely on his task.

Then that thought processes.

To See... Donnie... tapping away?

...Donnie?

And the tiredness immediately drops away as he reaches out desperately, hopefully.

And then he falls out of the bed with a thump.

But there are hands on him, gently picking him up, embracing him, words nothing but a murmured blur as reality drips into comprehension.

It can’t...

This can’t...

He is so overwhelmed, so utterly lost, he can only sit there as Donnie fusses around him, voice tinged with anger.

No... he realises, as a smile begins to creep upon his face and tears well up in the corner of his eyes, not anger.

Worry.

But he can’t let himself relax yet.

This is too good to be true.

Is this really truly real?

“D-Donnie?” He asks voice wavering and tinged with a fear he cannot hold back.

And when Donnie (and he hopes, really desperately hopes that it is) keeps fussing he reaches forward and takes hold of a flailing hand.

It’s... it’s warm.

The tears are there again, now dripping unbidden down his face.

“You’re real.”

The wrist within his grasp is solid and warm, and strong.

“You’re real!”

Not thin and weak and rattled with tremors.

But...

“Are you?”

He tentatively asks, scared for the truth but hoping against everything for the best.

That Donnie – his brother, his beloved twin is here.

And then Donnie soothes his fears, tells him the truth, the amazing, almost unbelievable truth.

He cannot stop the tears.

Does not want to stop the tears.

This is...

This is everything he had hoped for.

And the tears that drip, drip, drip down his face are no longer tears of pain and fear and utter sadness but those of hope and joy and the understanding that this is it.

There is a warmth surrounding him.

A hug, he slowly realises.

A hug he thought he’d never receive again.

The trickle of tears becomes a torrent. He cannot hold back, nor does he want to. The relief hits him like a sledgehammer as he clings desperately to the brother he never thought he would see again.

Crying loudly and unashamedly.

This is...

He chokes back the sobs once they calm slightly.

And cracks probably the best (worse) joke he’s made in a while.

And laughter is his reward.

There is a warmth swelling within him, a calmness, and a happiness he had thought unachievable as he and his amazingly alive brother share their joy with each other once again.

And then Donnie passes out.

Gently, carefully, he sets him down, noting the rise and fall of his plastron but he still presses a cautious hand to his brothers neck.

And sighs with relief at the comforting and steady

thump

of a healthy heartbeat.

He exhales in relief.

It’s okay.

A weight lifts off his shoulders as he raises a hand to his own neck feeling the very proof the he too is alive and healthy.

And that is when it really truly begins to sink in.

Despite his confusion. Despite having not even the smallest idea of how he got here, of how he’s alive.

Of how Donnie is alive when even his spirit...

He takes in a soothing breath, shakes the thoughts out of his head, and focuses on the good that he can find.

Because.

It’s over

It’s finally over.

But, he pauses, as he takes in his surroundings and processes what just happened.

To breathe in the clean air.

To enjoy the steady beating of their heartbeats.

To think he’s alive, they’re both alive.

So...

Maybe...

Hopefully...

...it’s only just begun.

#cass apocalyptic series #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #cass fanart tag #tmnt #rise fanfic #tarts&crafts #I've been wanting to write this for ages but wanted to wait until the leo donnie reunion #so here is finally is #god i love this series so much #agskwklwmwnwnej #disaster twins #future leo

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 7 months

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Rev. 22:20 - Chapter Five: Eat You Alive

Warnings: Mentions of death, male masturbation, canon typical violence, smut. Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: Aemond runs away from his problems, only to find they're right where he left them when he returns.

Main series masterlist.

Author's note: I do not have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications to be updated when I post a fic. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond strides through the winding streets of King’s Landing, hood pulled firmly over his head, back towards the Red Keep. Despite the chill that lingers in the night air, his blood runs hotly through his veins, making his skin feel flushed.

He can still feel the press of her lips against his, his skin tingles with the memory of it. He is certain he can see the rumpling of the material of his cloak where she’d clutched desperately at the front of it, but it is likely no more than his imagination, clinging to the feeling in the same way he convinces himself the softness of her face is still beneath his fingers. He rubs his fingertips together, his pulse racing at the fact he’d caressed her jaw with those same digits just moments ago.

Shaking his head in an attempt to erase the thought, he shuts himself in his chambers. It is no use fantasising any more. She is no better than a common harlot, given over to the Faith because she is no longer worth anything to her family. Worse still, she wishes to use her vantage point as Septa of his sister’s children to torment him for his lustful indiscretions.

Silently, he curses his treacherous heart and mind. Despite all of this, he still yearns for her. He has been painfully hard from the moment he saw her undressing for bed. He hopes relieving the tension will bring him peace.

The maidservant he summons to his bedchamber is a slight, pretty little thing. He has made use of her before. She is always discrete, and diligent in ensuring she drinks moon tea afterwards. However, this time as he thrusts inside of her, her tight wetness provides little comfort. Where he seeks the novice’s scent of camphor and cloves, he is met with the faint scent of ash - likely from her having swept his fireplace earlier. Her breathy moans do not match the cadence of the way the novice had sighed softly into his mouth as her tongue had moved against his own.

It’s unsatisfying. Even when he reaches his peak, spilling himself across the maidservant’s thighs, the relief he feels is miniscule, as though he has half heartedly scratched an itch. Nothing will compare now.

He groans in frustration, climbing off of the bed and throwing her dress back towards her.

“Get out,” he hisses, not bothering to turn and look as she hurriedly dresses and rushes from the room.

He ought to have strangled that pretty little novice when he had the chance. Instead, she will reside beneath the same roof as him, making a mockery of him, forcing him to remember the humiliating swiftness with which he had allowed himself to be enamoured by her - to still be enamoured by her.

Aemond cannot bear it. He decides he won’t ask his grandfather for permission to go to Oldtown to be with his younger brother, he will simply tell him. If putting distance between himself and the object of his obsession is what he needs to do in order to snuff out the flames she ignites within him then nothing will stand in his way.

He sends a raven to Daeron, informing him of his imminent arrival, before turning in for the night.

His sleep is restless, plagued by dreams of his lips against hers, but when he pulls away he is greeted by a mirror and it is only himself he sees, the marred flesh of his scarred left eye socket reflected back at him, ruined and empty.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

Awakening early, Aemond dresses swiftly, instructing his chambermaids to pack his belongings and have them sent on to Oldtown. He packs lightly himself for what he will need in the meantime and what he can manage to carry on Vhagar’s back, before donning his riding coat. He has no intention of coming back once he has sought out his grandfather.

Also an early riser, he finds Otto already in his study, quill in hand as he scribbles across a length of parchment.

The older man looks up as Aemond enters, raising his eyebrows slightly in question at his grandson’s appearance.

Before he has a chance to query it, Aemond speaks. “I am going to Oldtown to be with Daeron. I do not know when I will return.”

Otto draws in a breath, placing his quill down upon the parchment before leaning back in his chair. “Do you think that is wise?”

“I am not needed here,” Aemond says cooly. “I wish to see my younger brother.”

“Your father’s health worsens by the day. Your mother needs you.”

Aemond quirks his lips, huffing through his nose. “I am well aware of who you and Mother intend to crown once Viserys is dead,” he snaps, “I do not need to be here for that.”

He notices his grandfather bristle. Without giving him time to say anything further, he walks quickly towards the door, but a sudden pang of guilt squeezes tightly at his heart, causing him to look back once more. “Look after them both, please,” he says softly, referring to Alicent and Helaena.

Otto simply nods, lifting his quill and dipping it into the ink pot, beginning to write again.

On dragonback is the only place where Aemond’s mind ever feels truly clear. It is a full day’s flight on Vhagar from King’s Landing to Oldtown, and the meditative peace is blissful for Aemond, focusing only on the whip of the wind around him, and directing his dragon’s movements with slight tugs of her reins.

It is nightfall by the time Aemond finds somewhere suitable to leave Vhagar and makes his way to where Daeron currently resides.

He receives a warm welcome, despite the short notice of his arrival and the brothers settle down to share roasted venison and fine red wine from Arbor.

The conversation is kept light, the two exchanging pleasantries, as Daeron enquires about the wellbeing of their mother and siblings, and Aemond tells him about how quickly Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are growing up, as well as the rapidity with which their father is deteriorating.

“So, how are your studies going?” Aemond asks, fingers plucking absentmindedly at the stem of his wine goblet.

“I think we have exhausted the farcical pleasantries, brother,” Daeron says with a wry smile, placing his fork upon his plate. “Tell me why you are really here.”

Aemond scoffs derisively. “To see you, of course. Why would I have an ulterior motive?”

“Because you are running away from something,” he replies with a raise of his eyebrow, “tell me I am wrong.”

“I do not run away from anything,” Aemond mutters darkly, his grip tightening around his goblet as he feels himself growing hot with anger. “I claimed the largest dragon in the world when I was a child. I am not a coward.”

“And yet here you are,” Daeron quips with a light shrug.

“You came here to study, did you not?” Aemond asks defensively. “Why can I not do the same? I have exhausted the Red Keep’s library.”

“I could send you books,” his younger brother muses, narrowing his eyes. “You are not here because you have run out of things to read. So tell me. Is it a woman?”

“Stop it,” Aemond glowers.

Daeron simply sits back, sipping his wine, lips turned upwards in a smug smile.

His brother is right and he hates him for it. He is running away from her, but he sees no other option.

They retire for the evening, and Aemond is grateful that Daeron does not pry further into the matter.

Life in Oldtown is peaceful. Daeron makes for a more interesting conversationalist than either Aegon or Helaena, and he feels spoiled for choice with the selection of reading material that the Citadel boasts.

The days he does not spend poring over books and scrolls, he flies on dragonback. The great, elderly bulk of Vhagar moves at a glacial pace through the skies, while Daeron speeds ahead, propelled by the sprightly wings of Tessarion.

It would be idyllic were it not for the fact that he cannot seem to stop thinking of his novice. A month slips by and he can still remember the slope of her delicate neck, the way the sunlight shone upon her hair, the curve of her hips and legs as she’d undressed, how warm her breath had been against his skin, the softness of her lips against his own.

He is frustrated that even hundreds of miles away he cannot seem to escape her. Hard as he resists it, he still finds himself fucking his fist to the thought of her each night, thinking about what could have happened if he had not have fled from her.

Would she moan wantonly as his flesh slaps hotly against hers, or whimper quietly into the crook of his as she tightens around him, his fingertips pressing bruises into the soft flesh of her thighs?

Repeatedly he has to remind himself that she is just toying with him, bored with her own forced servitude she is preying upon his lust for her, using it for her own advantage. To return home would be his ruin. He is certain she must reside within the Keep now, caring for Aegon and Helaena’s twins. If he goes back she will only seek to make his life miserable, and when he eventually crumbles and gives into her, she will humiliate him. He will not allow it.

Each week two ravens arrive, carrying letters for Daeron and Aemond from their mother, sending news of Helaena and the twins, and asking after their own wellbeing. Each week they diligently reply. As much as Aemond loathes to admit it, he misses King’s Landing, he misses his mother and sister. It is a sentiment that is apparently unshared by his younger brother. He is suited to life in Oldtown, he seems settled and happy here, far more relaxed than he ever was in the capital.

It is three days before they are due to receive their weekly letters when a singular raven arrives, carrying a small roll of parchment addressed to Aemond.

He sits at the dining hall table, breaking his fast with Daeron when the maester deposits the message on the table next to him, before bowing his head and taking his leave.

Aemond picks it up and unfurls it between his thumbs, his breath catching in his throat and his eye widening slightly as a cold wave of dread washes over him.

Where his mother’s handwriting is usually careful, neat, precise, it appears rushed, the two words scrawled in a state of anxiety.

Come home.

“What is it?” Daeron asks, pushing his plate away and eyeing Aemond with concern.

“Our father is dead,” Aemond says in a hushed tone, sliding the parchment across the table for his brother to look at it.

Daeron swallows thickly, nodding as he reads the message before hastily screwing it up and hiding it within his sleeve. “You need to leave today.”

“Will you come with me?” Aemond asks, anxiously rubbing his index fingers against his thumbs.

He shakes his head. “It would look too suspicious if I were to disappear suddenly. You know why mother wrote only to you. You know what she means to do.”

“Yes,” Aemond sighs, “and it is not me she means to crown.”

“I know, Aemond,” Daeron says sympathetically, leaning forward across the table. “Believe me, there is no one that understands your frustration better than I. But mother needs you. You know he will not make it easy for her.”

He has the right of it. He always has the right of it. It would anger Aemond if he did not admire Daeron’s wisdom so much.

“Then I suppose this is farewell.”

“Until we meet again, brother.”

It is nightfall when Aemond returns reluctantly to the Red Keep. The entirety of the castle has been locked down, with no one allowed in or out, and the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast are eerily quiet as he passes through them, his boots echoing loudly upon the flagstones with every step.

He can see light shining through the crack in the doors to Helaena’s apartments, and hushed voices inside. He pushes the doors open, met by the sight of Alicent and Helaena sat upon a settee, both of them turn to look at him with wide, grief stricken eyes.

Yet it is not them that hold his attention, it is her.

Every bit as beautiful as he’d remembered, only now she wears the seven colour corded belt around her waist, and a crystal pendant. She has become a septa, no longer his little novice, but still every bit the temptress he’d left behind months ago. Looking at her makes his pulse race. In the rush to get back in the wake of the news of Viserys’ passing, he had quite forgotten she would be here.

She kneels upon the floor, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera sit either side of her, babbling and playing with toys. They had gotten so big; they look like real, tiny, little people now.

His throat runs dry when he sees the familiar look in her eye as she gazes at him, it holds the same heat and intensity he recognises from the night they had kissed. He has to force himself to look away.

He is met by the soft, sad eyes of his mother, surging forward to tenderly cradle his forearms. “I am so glad to see you,” she says gently.

“And I you,” he responds tenderly, eye narrowing affectionately as his own fingers return the gesture, squeezing softly. “But I am tired from the journey, can plans wait until the morning?”

“Of course,” Alicent nods, stepping away. “Rest. We have locked Aegon in his chambers to prevent him from drowning any further in his cups, so there is nothing that can be done until tomorrow.”

Aemond bows his head solemnly in understanding, before backing away. “Goodnight, mother.”

He gives a nod towards Helaena, purposely avoiding looking in the direction of the twins, not wanting to see her, before walking back towards his own quarters.

From the moment he saw her he has been painfully hard, and he loathes himself for it. Tossing and turning in the sheets, he will not allow her the satisfaction of him pleasuring himself to the thought of her. Not that she would know, but he refuses to do it with her beneath the same roof as him.

He wishes he had ignored his mother’s letter and stayed in Oldtown with Daeron. Not only does he have to navigate the coronation of his wastrel of an older brother, he now has to cope with living alongside the septa he has spent the last half a year lusting after.

Realising sleep will not find him, he throws the covers back, getting out of bed and putting his eyepatch, undershirt and trousers back on before leaving his chambers, intending to go to the library. It has always been a source of comfort to him when his mind is troubled.

Immediately he spots her, padding barefoot along the corridor, dressed in only a cotton shift, her hair loose. Even in darkness she takes his breath away and he hesitates a moment, gathering himself, before allowing his anger to guide his actions.

He lurches after her, gripping her arm and pulling her to him. “What are you doing skulking about the Keep at this hour?” He whispers furiously.

She regards him impassively, surprising him when she does not try to wrench free of his grasp. “I was attending to my duties, checking on the children.”

Her voice causes his stones to tighten. It has been so long since he has heard her speak. Aemond releases her, as though her skin has scalded him and turns to walk away. He cannot be this close to her.

“Why do you shun me?” She asks, causing him to pause. “We both have had things taken from us.”

“We share nothing in common,” Aemond says irritably. “I lost my eye because I dared to claim the largest dragon in the world. You lost your freedom because of your own depravity.”

“I dared to pursue what made me happy, just as you did,” she replies defiantly.

“You are a whore,” he spits, rounding on her.

“And you are a craven,” she juts out her chin with a smirk. “Running away because you–”

She gasps, her words cut off, as Aemond lunges towards her, gripping her throat forcefully, using the leverage to back her into his chambers, before kicking the door closed. Fury guides his movements, he wants to hurt her, make her realise she must never disrespect a Targaryen Prince so brazenly.

“How dare you speak to me like that, you insolent little bitch,” he snarls, shaking her slightly, “I have half a mind to strangle the life from you.”

Her gaze is unflinching as she stares up at him, there is no fear in her eyes. He sees desire dancing within their depths.

His eye softens, his grip on her throat loosening as he feels his resolve crumble, and then his mouth is upon hers, lips moving with greedy haste.

He groans appreciatively as he feels her hands tighten on the front of his shirt, much like they had on his cloak all those months ago. The hand not around her neck moves into her hair, gripping it tightly, directing her movements as their tongues writhe together.

Her hair is every bit as soft as he had imagined it would be, though she smells different. Long gone is the scent of the incense burned in the Sept. Now her aroma is laced faintly with lavender oil, though it clings to her flesh in a way that is unmistakably her. Aemond feels as though he is finally slaking his thirst after months without water.

Pushing her backwards, she falls softly onto the mattress, and he climbs over her, caging her in with his body. Her heavy breaths against his neck cause him to shudder, and he wastes no time in pushing her shift above her hips and freeing his cock.

This isn’t how he imagined their first time would be. He wanted to take his time with her, to drink in the sight of her naked flesh, savour each feeling. Yet when he imagined his first time with her, his father was not dead, it was not the eve of his brother’s coronation and he had not just throttled her.

In this moment he is driven purely by animalistic need, and to his delight she does not seem to mind.

Aemond spits into his palm, smearing the moisture through her folds, his cock aching as it twitches when he feels how wet with arousal she already is. He strokes the combined fluids over the length of himself, before driving forwards forcefully into her.

He is met with resistance, and the squeeze of her around him causes him to screw his eye shut, his jaw going slack at the feel of her tight, wet heat. She moans with unrestrained lewdness as he bottoms out inside of her, and he takes a moment to look at her, spread out beneath him, hair in disarray around her head, lips glossy and slightly parted, eyes darkened by lust.

Snarling, losing all semblance of control, he snaps his hips against hers, setting an unforgiving pace.

“Is this what you wanted? Is this what you fucking wanted?” He grits out, one hand grabbing her hip, the other gripping her chin to keep her focus on him. “Answer me!”

“Y-yes!” She cries out, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in deeper, making him feel light headed.

In all of his wildest fantasies she has never felt this good. It is not possible to imagine a sensation that is such exquisite torture. He would have willingly crawled back from Oldtown if only to experience this.

His skin is damp with perspiration, his brow furrowed with exertion as the bed creaks with the intensity of his movements. A lick of white hot heat tickles at his lower spine as he feels her hips bucking in time with his, chasing her own pleasure.

“Whore,” he murmurs hatefully, his hand from her chin back to her throat, squeezing the sides.

Her inner walls flutter around him, her moans and whimpers increasing in both pitch and frequency until he feels her tense up suddenly before tightening around him with a cry, her back arching with the force of it.

His own thrusts become sloppy, the ache inside him intensifying until the world goes black and he pushes hard inside of her one final time, spilling himself with a strangled grunt.

Collapsing beside her, he lays there for a moment in silence, the only sounds in the room are their combined heavy breathing.

A heaviness settles in Aemond’s chest, sullen regret weighing upon him. “So, who will you tell about this?”

“What do you mean?” She asks, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

“You have had this planned all along, to settle yourself as my sister’s children’s septa and make a mockery of me for your own amusement, and I have given in to you,” he says quietly, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

“Aemond, I did not know I was to be placed here,” she tells him with sincerity.

His expression softens, eye widening slightly as he turns to look at her. “You did not?”

“No. Novices are not told of their placement until their training is finished. It is to prevent us from being distracted away from our studies by thoughts of where we will end up. By the time I found out you had already left King’s Landing.”

Aemond furrows his brow in confusion. “Then why? Why did you do this?”

She huffs a soft laugh. “Because I wanted to. Do you not think it is exciting? Perhaps one day I will be the septa for your own children when you are married for political gain, and you can seek me out away from prying eyes and continue to have your way with me.”

His heart begins to race again, despite the fact it had only just begun to slow from having rutted mercilessly into her. The thought does excite him, depraved as it is. He has spent months lusting after her, to finally be able to have her whenever he wants her is enormously gratifying.

“You will be my ruin,” he says, voice filled with a playful, affectionate warmth.

“And your salvation,” she purrs with a mischievous smile. “I mean it, Aemond, you and I are alike. The only difference is I do not have the opportunity for revenge, but you do.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, rolling to face her.

Her fingers trace lightly over the scar on his left cheek and the leather of his eyepatch. “You are a Targaryen Prince,” she tells him, “you have the means to seek atonement for what you have lost, and I shall ensure that you do.”

It is then that he sees her fully for the first time. A reflection of his own darkest thoughts and desires. It both excites and terrifies him. His salvation and his damnation.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

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ffxiii-et-al · 5 months

Text

Joshua Rosfield is a true shield of Rosaria, and I wish that he'd gotten that acknowledgement at the end of FF16.

I want that man to know that he is everything that he looked up to in Clive when he was a little boy. He is brave, he is smart, he is a leader, and despite his frailty, he is not weak.

I want him to know that his brother needed him, that all of his suffering was worth it and appreciated, and that Clive wouldn't have made it very far without him. That he is ultimately Clive's protector and hero, as evidenced when he appeared in Ultima's trap and reminded Clive of who he was.

He even gave Phoenix to Clive in the end, which was a massive sacrifice. Not only was Phoenix keeping him alive, but his Eikon seemed to be the only reason he'd ever felt 'special' or powerful in his life. Sacrificing that to protect his brother was beautiful, considering how against it he was while they were in Ash.

As his English voice actor, Jonathan Case, described, he is "always an Angel, never a God" in a world of gods that made him feel like he wasn't strong enough.

And yet, he never waivers in his resolve, jumping into the fray to help his brother and his friends. He wants to leave them a better world when he departs, since he assumes he's on borrowed time, being born who and how he was.

And yet, he is a defier of fate, and forged his own path in order to love, protect, and ultimately save his brother.

Joshua Rosfield, you are the greatest shield of all.

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midgardian-witch · 10 months

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i saw you made a moon knight fic based off an ethel cain song, and i was wondering if you could make one based off her song michelle pfeiffer idk it just screams moon boys to me 😻🫶🏽🫶🏽 i’m so sorry for bothering you with this i just HADDD to ask

have a lovely day and don’t overwork yourself 🫶🏽

You are absolutely not bothering me with this! Thank you so much for your kind message and your request 💙 I really hope you like this drabble and that you're having a lovely day yourself ☺️

Home's Not Home Unless You're There

ships: Moon Knight System/Reader

AO3

Marc was the one that started it all.

One morning you woke up and he was gone; bags packed, wardrobe and bookshelves cleaned out. He even took his toothbrush with him. He had left you with only the memories of your time together, nothing else.

He took one last look at your half-naked, sleeping form and then left. He turned into a ghost, laying low, not moving too far away but always just out of reach. This wasn’t the first time he did something like this after all.

It was for the best - or so he told himself.

Marc knew that if he would have stuck around longer, he would drag you both down (and with his luck ‘down’ meant 6 feet under). He didn’t deserve you. Everything he touched turned to ash and he couldn’t live with himself if he hurt you too.

He couldn’t hurt you if he was gone.

So what if he spends endless nights alone, drowning his sorrows in booze (just like his mother; she’d laugh at him, tell him what a pathetic, selfish boy he was - if she was still alive) and thinks about all the different ways he could crawl back to you?

He won’t. He can’t. If he did all of this was for nothing.

In that space between tipsy and blackout drunk he wonders if maybe he is addicted to suffering. If it was just another fucked up part of his brain that needed to feel pain to live, or maybe it was his heart? Why else does he keep running away?

When those thoughts start he just cracks open another bottle.

Steven was the one that suffered the loudest.

When he woke up in the morning, having to deal with another of Marc's hangovers, he felt like crying.

He missed you. Everything around him reminded him of you and your absence in his life.

Marc got them a new flat and even here Steven saw you in everything; everything conjuring a memory of you together. They lived here now but it wasn’t their home. It could never be their home if you're not there with them.

He wants to call you but Marc deleted your number. He wants to go and see you, apologize for what happened and fall back into your arms but everytime he tries he blacks out, loses time again and finds himself back at their new flat. He wants to scream at Marc, beg and reason with him, make him see that this was all a mistake, that they need you in their life but everytime Marc hides in the darkest corners of their headspace.

He feels more lost than he did when he first found out about Marc and Jake. He feels alone, so utterly alone even when Jake tries to reassure him that they will be alright, that things will get better.

Without you there he doesn’t believe any of it.

Jake was the one to end it.

Jake had been patient. He waited for Marc to see reason but instead he watched his brother hurt himself more and more until all that was left was a heartbroken, sad shell of a man. He watched Steven rage against Marc’s decisions until he couldn’t anymore, until even he was a burned out husk of his former self.

He was their protector and he had been idle for too long.

And he missed you. Even inside the headspace all he could think about was the sound of your voice, of your laugh, the feeling of your skin and lips on his, the way you smell in the morning after a long night of lovemaking.

Did you think about them too? Did you hate them? Did you miss them the same way they missed you?

He was tired of wondering, tired of watching his brothers fall apart when there was a simple solution to their suffering.

So when his brothers were sound asleep Jake took over. With a clear goal in mind he got into his car and made his way to you. He drove like a man possessed until he reached the familiar building. It was late, the sun had already fled the sky hours ago. For a moment he worried he would wake you, or worse, that you would not be there. To his relief there was light in your window.

An old neighbor let him into the building, recognizing his face. He thanked them with a smile before continuing on his path. When he finally reached the door to your flat, his hands were shaking - all his calm gone just by the thought of seeing you again.

Before he can overthink his plan he knocks on the door. He can hear your footsteps, and even something so trivial is making his heart ache. But nothing prepared him for the way his heart stops beating for a second when he sees you again as you open the door.

You look like you hadn’t slept in weeks, like you had been crying every day since they had left - and yet you had never looked more beautiful.

Your eyes widen in shock and disbelief. He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I am so sorry, mi vida. We are sorry. Can you forgive us?”

He can’t hear your reply, muffled as it is as you all but tackle him with your embrace, your face buried in his shirt. Your fists pound against his chest with no energy behind them. You’re angry, frustrated, but most of all relieved.

They are back. And they won’t leave again.

The four of you had a lot to talk about: worries, feelings, fears. There are so many questions unanswered but that was for later.

All he knows is this: You will get through this; you’ll survive whatever comes together. Because they are finally home now.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight system x reader #moon knight/reader #marc spector/reader #steven grant/reader #jake lockley/reader #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight #moon knight fanfic #fran-writes

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celenawrites · 8 months

Text

Thinking about Human!Reader and Fae!Ghost rn.

Human!Reader who was abducted by a fae to live in the world of faeries and magic. She's got an upbringing befitting a fae royalty, but she cannot deny the mortality that taints her blood. The people around her serve that bitter reminder time and time again.

The fae general treats her like his own child, because she is. He is always there for her and prepares her to march into the royal court with a head held high and a disposition that makes her an asset to him and his allies. Her ability to lie and to blend in the background makes her a most useful spy and eavesdropper.

Human!Reader who swears loyalty to one of the King's children as she tackles the politics of the fae royalty. She wishes to finally have the power she needs.

One of such royal revelry forces her to cross paths with Fae!Ghost - bastard child, half fae and half human. A royal knight, forced to guard the royal throne and estranged from his father and his half-siblings, save for his own brother Thomas. His skull mask hides his face at all times, and you wonder which enemy was unfortunate enough to lose his head to the Ghost. He's tall and overbearing, silent and ruthless - and you feel on edge whenever you're forced to acknowledge him. And yet, you smell the fae blood and pine needles on him and resist the urge to goad the beast of a man into pummeling you into nothing.

You are soon betrayed by the princess who took you in as one of her own. You are hurt at the betrayal, and even more so, humiliated for getting bested by a fae. Unexpectedly, it is the Ghost who saves you from your predicament - taking on the blows meant for him and shielding you from the cruel goons as he obliterates them, leaving nothing but ash and bones.

You fret over him and his wounds, using your knowledge of herbs to create a salve to soothe his injuries, wiping away the dirt and grime and blood from his pale, scarred skin. He stays deathly still while you tend to him.

Things come to a head when the king is suddenly assassinated. Fingers are pointed, blame is shifted. Swords clash, loyalty dies. People die. But most importantly, the death of the monarch invokes such bloodlust in the hearts of his successors that almost all of them die fighting for the throne. All except three. The crown prince, the princess you used to work for, and Ghost.

The subjects of the kingdom anticipate that their future ruler must be between the prince and the princess. The idea of a half-fae like Ghost ruling over them is absurd. Luckily, Ghost is not too eager about taking the throne either.

The fight between the siblings drag on for far too long, and it ends with the death of the crown prince - establishing the ruthless cold princess as the tentative head of the household and the kingdom. But she's not satisfied, letting her pride dictate her actions and her pride would not let the Ghost live.

And so she plans to be rid of him, and you get to hear of it first. You rush to Ghost, urging him to hide - which he refuses. You beg him to leave and to never return, if he wanted to live - but he's Death on two legs. You decide that the least you can do for his kindness is stick by him in his last moments, and when the princess uses treachery to land the final blow on the half-fae, you decide that taking it in his stead would be the best course of action for the kingdom.

You're gone and dark and then you're alive - months after the fight between the royal knight and his sister. Ghost had to assume throne, and his brother Thomas is his advisor. The kingdom has successfully established a tentative peace after the constant bloodshed and familial betrayal. Sickened by the sights you had to witness and the horrors you have survived, you plan and plan and then you flee the fae lands - hoping to connect with your human roots and to be forgotten by the faeries. You hope your father can forgive you. You wish everyone else forgets you.

Except your disappearance causes chaos.

Ghost is inconsolable - unable to function without any trace of you. Thomas suggest him to get hitched to someone else - royalty from other kingdoms, princesses of powerful species; hoping that a political marriage to a powerful ally will strengthen his brother's position as king. Except all Ghost wants is you.

And so he searches for you for years. Five or more years since he last saw you, and when he's desolate and believes all hope to be lost, he finds a trace of you that won't end in a dead end now. He leaves the kingdom and ends up in the human world and it's overwhelming. He had always promised his dear mother that they would escape and live out their lives back here. Seems like you accomplished what he couldn't.

He's fuming when he finds you, all human and weak and occupied with mortal achievements and materialism. You left him reeling with your kindness, with the humanity you have lit up in him. You tended to him and cared for him in a way that even his kin failed to do so. And then you left.

Left him alone to deal with fate and its cruel games. Left him starving of your attention and gentle touch. Left him alone without a taste of you.

He's so furious and starving and yearning, so the moment he sees you notice him, he ensures that you have nowhere to run anymore. You try to run, and he's reminded of a bunny trying to escape the nets meant to trap it.

"You cannot leave me again, not unless you take responsibility of your actions".

You ask him about it, and your morbid curiosity leaves you horrified as you realise that he means to abduct you back into the unwelcoming and treacherous lands of the Fae. You feel hopelessness seep into you when he reveals that he had planned to take you in as his consort before you booked it, and now to ensure that it doesn't happen again, he decides that the best course of action would be to bind your soul to him in holy matrimony.

"Have to ensure that you don't go off running on me now, sweet human. I cannot afford to lose you again."

It almost makes you wish you hadn't helped him at all.

#call of duty #call of duty au #call of duty ghost #cod #cod:mw2 #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #ghost cod #ghost x you #ghost x reader #fae au #fae!Ghost #fae Ghost #char.simon ghost riley #celena.writes

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

Text

𝑰 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑬𝑳𝑳 𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑰'𝑴 𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫

pairing: tommy miller x fem!reader

genre: smut, soft enemies to lovers, minors dni

word count: 3.4k

summary: when you met him the first time him and his brother was your captor, months later he becomes yours, and quickly after that he become a resident of Jackson. You've already forgiven him for his past, but he's not happy with how eager you are to excuse what he's done.

warnings: tommy having a hero complex, tommy lashing out, piv sex, time skips, oral (giving & receiving)

a/n: the format I've written this in is inspired by @littlemisspascal 's getting lost is being found joel fic, which I highly recommend by the way it was amazing, one of my favorite things ever 💜

The world went to shit, well joke on the world, your life was already shit long before outbreak day.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Nothing just seemed to work out for you. But then all hell broke loose and suddenly it felt like you were off the hook, that you could be someone else, someone you always wanted to be. Someone that you knew you were. Before all this, you were just hurt, felt broken, but still smiled and went about your day. You tried to be good. Tried to be nice. For the most part, you like to think that you succeeded.

You became a guide. Somewhat similar to Charon, if you spared yourself the thought but instead of guiding the dead to Hades, you guided the living away from it. Things went smooth for the most part, you helped people where they needed to go, killed infected, shot down those who shot first. It was the oddest type of freedom that you felt.

But life had other plans, and life loved to point its middle finger right into your face.

It’s a dad and his two kids this time, you were helping them get to the nearest QZ. You cut the fence, helped them through, you knew hunters were lurking nearby, people who survived on killing and stealing—vultures.

You feel a tight grip on your neck and you’re being violently pulled back. The kids look back at you with horror lingering in their eyes, the dad eager to pull them away. With a deep breath, you manage to force out a smile.

“Go!” you shout. “You’re almost there!”

And they run, they run as fast as they can.

“Fuck!” you hear one of them say, a deep souther drawl heavy in your ear. “Shit, they got away. They had good weapons on them too.”

“At least we got the one,” the man that holds you answers. “Let’s go back, see what this one has.”

“Let me the fuck go!” you struggle, attempting to elbow him in the stomach. “You fucking assholes. They were fucking kids.”

Finally one comes into view, he’s broad—broad enough to stun you into silence. The fear of death lurks around your heart, sucking you into a black pit of realizing that this might be it. He has a glare that could kill, a hooked nose, and, most importantly, a gun. This man, you notice, this man would kill you in a heartbeat. He gives you one last once-over before tilting his head to the other holding you down.

“Knock her out, Tommy.”

ii.

It’s late. Far too late for anyone to be awake. The embers of the crackling fire had died down, only specks of golden orange shimmering between the ash. You’ve learned the names of your captors; Tommy and Joel. Brothers, you assumed, they didn’t really have to spell it out for it to be obvious.

You’re not sure why you’re still alive. You remember Joel muttering something about using you as bait, or to learn more about the routes that you seemed to know. Tommy had agreed.

In another life, another time, you would’ve deemed the men attractive. Especially Tommy. He had a boyish charm to him, longer hair compared to his brother (those poor dark locks had definitely seen better days), and mussed unkempt facial hair indicating that they’d been at this for a long time. You understand, to a degree, why someone might choose this to survive. Some people just didn’t know what else to do. Some people simply enjoyed it; the power, the freedom, the giddiness of not having a system to say no.

From what you understand, these two just had no idea what else to do. Too far off to reach a QZ, or they simply don’t trust FEDRA, whatever it is they seem to have made a life for themselves neither of them looked happy to be in.

Your eyes fall to where Joel is sleeping, Tommy’s on watch, which makes you somewhat hopeful, you don’t have the strength to piss off Joel—Tommy you can take a chance with, he seemed softer. Softer like a rose, pricking you if you’re too lax and not careful enough.

You’ve been captured before, and due to that, it doesn’t take long for you to free yourself from the hard ropes they tied you in. You hold your breath as you move away from the camp, careful not to step on any branches or rubble. You see Tommy ahead, he’s looking at you, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. You expect him to shoot, to chase after you.

He continues to stare as you disappear into the night.

ii.

You see a lot of dead bodies by the riverbed. Some infected, some not. You think about turning around, walking back to where you came from but before you can make a decision you’re surrounded. Your hands rise instantly, not wanting to cause trouble. Multiple rifles are pointed directly at you, and you notice a cute black dog but you have an inkling you won’t be feeling the same in a couple of minutes.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” you say, the cold seeping through your jacket. “Just lost. I’m not infected.”

“Naive for you to think we’ll believe you,” one of the horsemen answers. “You mind if we test that out?”

You didn’t mind, but even if you did, you doubt you have any say in the matter. The dog comes forward, ears pressed against his skull, and you instinctively reach out your hand. You can’t really feel the wetness of his nose, but you can imagine it as he presses into your gloved palm. A moment later he starts wagging his tail.

A horse, along with its rider, steps up and everyone looks nervously at the equestrian. You straighten yourself and notice that even the dog pulls away, the energy she has demands respect, and oozes power. You swallow, looking up at her with both amusement and fear.

"You can come with us," she says, and without hesitation, one of the men helps you up onto the horse they're riding. Your hands fumble nervously as you grab onto the horse's shoulders, trying to steady yourself.

You’re not dead yet so you must be doing something right.

iv.

You trudge through the biting snow, your skin prickles with cold and the relentless flakes melt as soon as they touch your skin. You shudder. The cold is almost unbearable, but everyone has to pull their weight, no exceptions. Narrowing your eyes,, you spot a lone figure struggling in the snow. The way he moves is sluggish and ungainly, like a snail inching its way along a path.

With a sharp whistle, you signal to your companions to follow. They circle around the body with hesitation; it’s a man, a man that is somewhat familiar to you. The stranger groans and turns to his back, chest heaving heavily, you notice the tremble of his lips, the redness of his nose. You even notice the build-up of snow in his hair.

You know him. You have no idea how he ended up all the way here, but you know him. Getting off the horse, you shake your head. You don't know him, not really. You only know his name and what he represents.

Ian approaches, his eyes questioning as he asks, "What should we do? Should we leave him?"

“I know him,” you say, a hint of amusement in your voice due to the irony. “Let’s take him in. I’ll talk to Maria.”

His eyes flutter open, a brief expression of confusion appearing on his features. You can’t help but lean over a bit, hands placed on your hips.

“You’re not dead yet. Don’t worry.”

But as soon as the words leave your lips, Tommy loses consciousness.

He’s alone at the bar. He’s always alone.

Initially, Maria was reluctant to let Tommy stay, but for some reason, you vouched for him. You deeply believe that everyone deserves a second chance. A slightly foolish, maybe even childish, thought on your part but you can’t help it. In his eyes you only see parts of a broken man, his belief in the world shattered and gone with the wind.

Tommy struggles with socializing. He says hi and good morning but that’s pretty much all anyone can get out of him. You’re the only one who knows he has a brother, what he’s done. He’s especially annoyed when you’re around, which you think is a little bit unfair but you digress. He does what he’s told and handy with most things—which is lucky for you, you would hear a handful if he couldn’t do anything.

You want to talk to him, you have ever since you first saw him again. Hoping that this time it’ll be different, you sit near him not next to him. There are two empty seats between you two.

“Hi,” you greet him, he doesn’t look at you. In fact, he doesn’t acknowledge you at all. “How are you?”

No answer.

“You’re not having any issues right? You know, heating, water pressure, all that jazz.”

You’re not surprised at the least when he gets up and leave, not a word uttered. He pushes past the crowd and disappears through the door, into the cold. Unlike other times, this is the first instance where anger simmers hot in your gut. You’ve been nothing but patient. But not tonight. He’s going to talk to you whether he likes it or not.

With anger in your steps, you storm out. Luckily, he’s not far. You find him staring up at the undecorated Christmas tree. Normally, you would find it a somber sight, but you’re too frustrated to think about how good he looks with snow falling around him.

“Tommy!” you yell out, and he flinches, head snapping to you with wide eyes. “What the hell is your deal?”

“My deal?” he answers, voice eerily smooth and calm. “I should be fuckin’ asking you that.”

You’re standing an inch from him, the cold biting into your skin. “My deal? I’ve been nothing but nice to you. Wouldn’t wanna play that card but may I remind you that you’re fucking alive because of me? You could at least not be an asshole.”

“Sure you wanna go that route sweetheart? Because I could easily say the same thing for you.”

That night—the night that you escaped, so he did see you. All this time you convinced yourself that it was your eyes playing tricks in the dark. You shake your head, wanting to dislodge the moment from your mind.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” you hiss. “Why are you avoiding me? I just want to talk.”

“Just leave me the fuck alone. You shouldn’t want to talk to me— someone like you… It ain’t normal. I should’ve died that night. I didn’t ask you to fuckin’ save me.”

You’re taken aback by the silent rage but refuse to show him the effect he has. The only indication that his words had any kind of result is when you take a step back, allowing him some semblance of space.

“You’re right, you didn’t,” you say softly, slowly. His gaze bores into you. “But I did. And you’re here. I didn’t save you that night to just make a point of who’s the better person. As you said, you allowed me to go that night—thank you by the way—but what are you going to do, just not talk to me? Ignore me? I don’t think that’s fair for either of us.”

You stand frozen as Tommy takes a step closer, his breath hot against your skin.

"What do you want from me?" he growls, his voice low and threatening.

You try to take a step back but he follows, closing the gap between you. You can feel the heat emanating from his body, a stark contrast to the frigid air around you. His lips curl into a slight sneer, and you can't help but feel a slight twinge of fear.

"You're always so nice, aren't you?" he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But what do you really want? You want me to be your little pet? Fixing me up like some broken toy. Well, newsflash, sweetheart, I'm not broken. I'm just fine the way I am."

"That’s not—" you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "That wasn’t my intention at all. The world is shit, I just didn’t want to add to it."

Tommy scoffs, his eyes glinting with anger. "But you did by keeping me alive. I did horrible things, things you can’t even imagine. So don't pretend like you understand me, because you don't."

“I know the shit you did Tommy. I was almost one of your victims, remember?”

His eyes drop to the ground, the fire in his eyes finally fading. He takes a quick step back, shoulder slumped, he shakes his head.

“I remember. There ain’t a day I don’t remember the shit I’ve done—we’ve done with my brother.”

Tommy gives you one last look before walking away, “I don’t need your pity.”

Half an hour later, you’re still standing there under the snow, completely alone.

vi.

It’s a dance almost. You find different ways for Tommy to communicate with you. You unlock his anger, his disappointment, his need to be good—the hero, if you will. But to be fair, you can’t take all the credit. It was mostly due to him, you got too close, and he got too frustrated. It was a brief moment of lips touching, then it quickly turned into a desperate ask for submission. You were eager to give, he hated that. Hated that you could when he couldn’t.

You know that there’s a high chance of other things lingering below the surface, things that he probably hadn’t dared to address himself.

In the privacy of your bedroom, you’re on your knees for him. Sucking on the tip of his cock eagerly as he stands upright, his hands are firsts that are stuck to his sides. This isn’t the first time, it isn’t the last. By the way salty precum coats your tongue, you know he’s enjoying himself. He has to be, if he wasn’t this wouldn’t be happening.

You figure that he enjoys fighting against it until he breaks. When he surrenders himself to it, to the pleasure, to the primal need to take, he pins you down and fucks you with everything he has. All his frustration seeps into you, each stroke deeper than the next. You enjoy that he’s rough, you enjoy feeling the lingering sting on your skin long after he leaves.

Looking up, you swallow him further down. He’s not overly thick but long, the dark curls at the base trimmed but still looking untouched. Tommy thrusts forward, the head of his cock brushing the back of your throat. Your nostrils flare as your lungs convulse with the need to cough, he notices but doesn’t pull back. Instead, you feel two hands cradling the back of your neck, pulling you further down his length, making you take him whole.

Your eyes go wide and squeeze shut right after. You feel him throbbing in your throat and you swallow, again and again, which prompts him to drag his cock out slightly only to bury himself back into your throat. Your jaw aches, spit dripping down the corners of your lips as you flatten your tongue over the underside of his cock. A faint growl echoes from the back of his throat, you swallow again, he fucks your mouth as he would your wet cunt. Tears flood your lashline, you can barely breathe. Your throat tightens around him.

“Fuck, don’t close your eyes,” he grunts, the dark curls at the base tickling your nose. “Look at me. Look at me like you always do.”

The Look, is something that you still don’t quite understand. He says it often, telling you to look at him the way that you do, but you emphasize nothing special when you do end up looking at him. It’s just your normal gaze. He only asks for it when he’s inside you.

You slowly open your eyes, your lashes wet and stuck together. His thumb smooths over the patch of skin right under your eye, his chest stutters, muscles growing taut under your gaze.

Ironically, he closes his eyes and lifts his head as if staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t utter another word after that, your lips raw from the way he thrust forward. You feel the twitch of his cock, thick ropes sliding down your throat. You never tire of the taste of him. Not sweet, not bitter. You enjoy the brief moment he forgets where he is, that soft noise escaping his lips, the juvenile way his thighs shake—those are the things that make you ache for the taste of him. You’re an addict.

But so is he.

vii.

Your palms press into the smooth surface of the bar counter. Tommy lurks behind you, cock pressing inside, fingers making dents into your warm skin. It’s late into the night, you’re not sure of the exact time but you know it’s late. His one hand slips between your legs, he feels how wet you are, how needy you get for him. He presses a finger to your clit, the pads of the digits moving in deft circles.

A sharp moan parts your lips, back arching as he pounds into you, the sound of skin against skin loud, yet not enough to pierce the sound of the snowstorm outside. A dose of pleasure buzzes through your veins, electricity crackling across your skin as you feel his length press deep inside. His fingers grasp your throat, pulling you up until his lips tickle your ear. He heaves, his warm breath fanning your skin.

“Tell me I’m a good person,” he chokes out. “Please.”

“You’re good,” you answer slightly out of breath. You touch his neck, the position slightly straining but worth it when he holds you tighter. “Such a good man—and I mean that.”

Your eyes widen with shock when he slides his tongue into your mouth. Tommy doesn’t kiss you often, if at all, but it lights a fire under your stomach. It burns you from the inside out, the smoke of it making your mind spin. Your eyes flutter close and you take a deep breath, he grinds his hips, your insides pulsing around him.

“I don’t care even if you’re lyin’—”

He releases you and you stumble forward, hands finding purchase on the bar counter once more. But you can’t hold your position for long, not with the way he’s hammering into you, reducing you into a babbling mess. Your hands slide, your upper body completely falling over. Tommy doesn’t pause, he doesn’t even slow down. He presses you further into the surface.

“Because I know that you are.”

Tommy suddenly pulls out, a sharp gasp rips from your throat, your cunt clenching around nothing. Before you can protest, however, he turns you over and pushes you. He kneels between your legs, lips finding the tender folds of your pussy.

Your head falls back when he licks into you eagerly, tasting himself and your arousal. His groans vibrate against you, your thighs threaten to close, the meat of them pressing into both sides of his face.

His lips press against your clit, suckling and teasing it in a way that drives you wild. His tongue moves in circles as he pushes two fingers, curling them and applying pressure. Without a second thought, you fingers thread his hair, tugging him closer. Arousal pools between your legs.

Your breathing becomes labored and your body starts to shake. Your eyes roll back as your entire body shakes. Your hips buck against him as he continues to bring you over the edge, your cries of pleasure echoing off the walls of the bar.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you collapse against the bar counter, your body still shaking from the intensity of the orgasm. You can feel your skin tingling, your heart pounding and your head spinning. Tommy stands, a hint of pride lingering in his dark eyes. You continue to breathe and watch as he fists himself, the tip of his cock a shade darker when he comes thick ropes over your stomach. You hiss at the heat, the feeling of having a part of him staining you.

Tommy pulls up his pants, and you notice as you get dressed, he’s avoiding your gaze. You’re too satisfied to care. He licks his lips, which you found was a nervous habit he has and offers you his arm. You hadn’t expected it, but indulge in the gesture by taking it.

“Let’s get out of here before someone sees us.”

#tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x f!reader #hbo the last of us #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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biscuitbox23 · 5 months

Text

“I’m alright on the other side, what about you?”

Summary: After your death, Daryl starts to lose his mind. He hallucinates about you in the woods, taunting him. well, that's what he thinks.

Author’s Note: I had to admit, I almost cried while proofreading this, not because the story is sad but because of the amount of grammar mistakes (I have a love/hate relationship with Grammarly).

warnings: mentions of character death, violence, typically angst shit.

Word count: 1.1k

Daryl's heart ached with a fierce longing for you. He spent countless nights consumed by anger and bargaining with fate, but nothing could ease the pain of your absence. The emptiness he felt inside was all-encompassing, and he knew that only you could have offered him any measure of solace.

He kept blaming himself for it every day despite your recklessness. You were torn at the hip by a walker and had to go through the hell of letting the blood flow and allowing the horde of walkers to rip through your body. Daryl tried his best to keep you alive.

He walked through the woods, away from the prison for now. It was quiet, other than the occasional squeaks of squirrels and rustles of the wind. Your death was recent, and it had an enormous impact on him. You were the type of person who feared death, so you did what you could to survive. You didn't want to give up because you were scared. He acted like a knight saving a fallen princess. It was ill-fated from the start.

You had met Daryl and his brother at the beginning of the camp when the situation was unfolding. Despite Daryl's rude attitude and his brother's questionable behavior, you always checked in on them. Making sure they were doing well. However, as the world around them crumbled, things started to change. Daryl's brother disappeared, and now you were gone too. For Daryl, his world had crumbled beneath his feet, leaving him lost in a sea of chaos and despair. Even so, you were always there for him, always willing to offer a helping hand or a kind word. You even helped him find Sophia, not because you wanted anything in return, but simply because it was the right thing to do.

But there was a saying, 'If you're a good person, you die out there.'

You were good enough to try and get him a way to escape on one run. The only thing is, you had no other way out. The best you could do was look at him with a deep sigh. The look on your face still haunts his dreams.

You left with acceptance. You didn't beg for your life at that point. It was just a sigh of acceptance, knowing there would be no way out. Back in camp, when things went wrong, you were like a scared little mouse that Daryl had to save your ass almost all the time. And it was okay for him.

"Still sulking over me?" You chuckled smugly.

Daryl felt himself jolt up from the ground. Your voice echoes through the woods. as if you were still there, sharing a cigarette with him like it always was. He enjoyed your company, and he needed it more now.

"Y/n?" Daryl breathed out.

"Hey, Dare," You puffed out smoke from your lungs as you leaned on a tree, "Guess you get a little jumpy now, huh?" The cigarette hung between your middle and pointer finger, tapping the small paper-wrapped intoxicant with your thumb to let some ash out. The ash trickled down like snow to the ground.

Daryl doesn't respond, just watching you look around at the trees as you lean back to the tree. Your eyes met him, a big grin forming on your face.

"Come on, you used to talk to me a lot. What's bothering you?" You looked at him with a chilled-out smile.

"Nothin' just missed you..." Daryl said, his voice hoarse and husky.

"I missed you too, Dare," You chuckled, "at least you were the last person I saw when I died..." You shrugged sheepishly. Your tone was casual, almost as if you weren't terrified anymore.

"Don't..." Daryl sighed deeply, "Don't remind me... please."

"Well, you gotta live with it," You scoffed, now on a tree trunk, taking a sip of a beer. Every time Daryl looked away, you started moving from one place to another, "live to fight another day, Daryl."

"You're the one who killed yourself to save me," Daryl spat as you looked over at him lazily.

"I didn't kill myself, Daryl. I sacrificed myself," You smiled, sitting on a log now. You held onto a leaf, examining the intricacy of nature. Your clothes changed too. You wore an orange-shaded striped sweater and jorts, like when he first saw you.

"No, you didn't. You killed yourself. You do not even know how long I have left," Daryl shook his head, feeling himself starting to lose it a little.

"Don't say that," you rolled your eyes.

"I have every right to. You were stupid to do that and sacrifice yourself for me," Daryl sighed deeply.

"I had no choice. There was nowhere to run," you said sheepishly.

"It could've been me in there, don't you think?" Daryl spat his tone with rage and anger.

"No, but you can protect yourself," you shrugged as if you weren't bothered. "I can't, but you got Judith's formula, didn't you?"

There was an eerie, long pause.

"It's okay, Daryl," your tone became gentler, more reassuring, "you can't save everyone, and that's okay."

You went over to him and hugged him from behind. He refused to look at you, knowing that once he looks at you, all he sees is his imagination. Despite his desperation to forgive himself and the longing for acceptance of your death, his mind can't help but think of you.

"I liked the way you cook squirrel," you smiled softly, hugging him tighter, "It tastes nice..."

Bringing up the small memory made Daryl feel his heart sink.

"you're not real, are you?" He asked as he looked at your arms wrapped around his waist. His hand reaches to your fingers, feeling your soft, cold flesh. Similar to when somebody dies in the hospital, their body becomes frigid as ice.

"I am," you console him, resting your cheek on his broad back and the leather bracing half of your face, "I'm living on the other side, Daryl."

"Is it nice there?" Daryl asks quietly, feeling his eyes tear up. He took a small halt but continued, "The other side?"

"Yeah, it's nice..." You nodded, "I'm alright on the other side. What about you?"

"I guess it's alright, too," Daryl's smile formed on his lips.

Knowing that you're happy somewhere brought him ease. It gave him a chance to move on calmly. That was when he opened his eyes, finally seeing you nowhere in the woods. A hallucination in which Daryl managed to move on. Walking back to the prison to finally let go of the burden of you.

———————————————————————

tag list:@richardsamboramylove55

A/n: Hello everyone! Yes I have brought you another tear jerker (i think). I have to admit I wasn’t really attracted to Daryl Dixon when I first saw him I started shipping him with Carol 😭 but anyways, I watched the Judas music video and OML he is so fine. Thank you lady Gaga for giving me the motivation to write about him ❤️

#twd daryl #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead #twd #daryl dixon x female reader #angst with a happy ending #angst #norman reedus #the walking dead universe #BiscuitWrites #twd oneshot

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 1 month

Text

Gone. (Ghost x OC) - AU!!!

for @xxshadowbabexx 's angst competition using prompts 1, 2, 6 and 9.

pairing: F!OC! Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley bonus: Moot!OC (Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley) x Johnny "Soap MacTavish words: 3.7k~ summary: An AU where Ghost died with Soap, leaving behind Whiskey and Meabh who are grieving for them :) cw: death and dying, loss, grief, blood, vomiting, crying, ghosts

At first, it was cold. Dark. The feeling of the blood seeping down his skin and pooling on the floor behind him.

The air was thin, he couldn’t breathe, his chest heaving, sounds of grunts and gunshots echoing around him.

His head lulled to the side, long enough to catch the sight of Soap. He was already unmoving.

Then, his eyes slowly unfocused.

Not the first time he felt it.

But the last time, whatever powers that be decided to spare him.

Not this time.

Then came the feeling of nothing. No pain, no coldness, no… nothing. No air in his lungs, no saliva in his mouth, no weight on his joints.

He opened his eyes and he was still here… and his body was, well… there. He looked down at it. A sorry sight, really, to see his body on the floor, the blood around his head, mingling with Soap’s next to him.

Soap was standing by his side. They could see each other, half-translucent, not quite there, but not quite gone. Neither of them seemed confused or lost… Only mildly resigned to the fact that This Is It.

Gaz and Price succeeded in disarming the tunnel bomb and Ghost turned slowly, looking at them as they approached the two bodies, Price’s voice announcing: “All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralised, bomb is safe… Two K.I.A.”

…

Soap and Ghost stood over Price’s shoulder, eyes locked on his own front door. Gaz stood beside him, both men looking solemn, Price holding Ghost’s dog tags.

It was just past 3 A.M., he’d noticed, when Whiskey opened the door, wrapped in one of her silk-like robes, the hall light illuminating her from behind.

She locked eyes with Price before he could even speak and her jaw clenched tight, her eyebrows rising lightly.

He knew that look. He knew it all to well. It was the same way she had looked when she told him about her father and brother. He knew the others could tell too, of course, but what they couldn’t tell, were the subtleties of it.

To him, she looked like she was about to cry, even if her tears were nowhere to be seen, and the swallowing of a lump stuck in her throat, which was, in reality, a scream she wanted to let out… And how, once they were gone, she’d cry herself until her throat was raw.

He wanted to hug her, fuck, he wanted nothing more than to hug her. To pull her tight into his chest, to murmur into the crown of her head that he’s here, that he’ll always be here. But he couldn’t. Not today. Not ever again.

“Don’t.” Whiskey said as she raised a hand to stop Price from speaking the same moment he opened his mouth. He knew better than to try to use the bullshit prepared speech they always give to grieving wives. She wasn’t just a grieving wife. She was a soldier.

“Give me the dog tags.” She demanded and presented her palm. He slowly set the round disks and chain in her hand. She, slowly, rubbed her thumb over them as she looked at them, Simon noticed how her skin traced his surname tenderly.

“I don’t want a big fuss. It’s not what he would have wanted.” She told Price and raised her eyes to meet his again. Had Simon been alive, he would’ve felt his heart swell in his chest, she really did know him so well…

Price nodded at her in understanding. “I know.” He told her in earnest.

“Do whatever you need to do… I don’t want to attend a funeral. Just bring me back his ashes and his mask and gloves.” She demanded.

“Okay. Should take a few days.” Price assured her with another curt nod.

“That’s fine.” Whiskey nodded at him and, slowly, she slipped her husband’s dog tags around her neck, the longer chain meaning they disappeared below the collar of her t-shirt. One of his, actually, full black, with the scraggly name of a metal rock band on the front.

“Soap?” She asked him as her beautiful hazel eyes returned to Price after fixing the chain. The man replied by shaking his head. “Give me a minute to get dressed and pack a bag. I’ll go with you.” She announced and turned around to disappear back inside their home.

Whiskey looked at him with a cocked brow as they laid tangled up, in her barrack’s bed.

“If something happens to me, I’d want you to get the widow’s pension.” Simon mused aloud as he stared at the ceiling.

“Yeah, same, it’d just make sense to-” Victoria began to say before she stopped herself and her head shot upwards, glaring into his eyes. “Are you proposing to me, Simon?” She asked him in shock.

That hadn’t been his intention. They had just been halfway through discussing what life would be like for the people around them, once they’re dead. But now that she mentioned it… “Yes.” He replied deadpan.

Victoria continued staring at him like he was insane, eyebrows scrunched, eyes narrowed… But then she simply answered an “Okay.”

“That doesn’t scare you, does it?” Simon asked her as he dipped his head to the side, looking at her through down his nose as her head rested on his chest again.

“No. Just caught me off-guard.” Victoria said with a shrug and a silent exhale of a laugh, shaking her head against his chest. Her ear was right on top of his left pec and she could hear his heartbeat, slow… steady.

Simon watched her lay against Meabh, staring at the ceiling, as Meabh slept against her, in the same position Simon and Victoria usually fit into, Meabh’s head on Victoria’s chest. Johnny sat on the edge of the bed next to Meabh, resting his ghostly hand on her head even though she couldn’t feel it.

It had been a shit show, telling Meabh that Soap was gone… Messy. Messier than any of them had expected.

They had witnessed Meabh losing her mind, denying it over and over and over, shaking her head, not believing the words Price spoke, the way he tried to hand her his dog tags, the way the tears rolled down her face even with her smiling in disbelief.

Victoria had risen up to take Meabh back to her room and let her cry it out, having shooed Price and Gaz away… then, in her room, Meabh screamed at God, pleaded for Soap’s return, bargained and begged, tried reasoning with God that He couldn’t take him, not before she had a chance to tell him she was pregnant…

Victoria struggled to wrangle her into bed, both falling to their knees, Whiskey clutching her tight to her chest, as Meabh screamed and cried, doubled over herself, making herself look so small for a woman that was usually so strong. Soap had cried with her, fallen to his knees beside her, and tried telling her he was right here… not that it made a difference.

Only the two of the women and their ghosts remained.

Meabh had another one, Simon had noticed. A curly-haired man lurked and loomed outside her window. Soap hadn’t noticed, too preoccupied with his woman’s grief and the recent discovery of the baby in her belly. He knew he was likely Meabh’s father. They looked alike. Same eyes, same hair, same facial structure… But he kept away for now.

Victoria was awake, eyes locked on the ceiling as she held Meabh close, the sun shining in, at 6 A.M., but Meabh had cried herself to sleep. Simon didn’t dare approach her, keeping to his namesake, and simply watching his wife from the sidelines, his lips pressed together.

He could see her clutching onto her emotions with an iron grip, her brows scrunched and her jaw clenched, teeth grinding loudly. She couldn’t let it go. Not now. Not when Meabh needed her most.

The funeral had been beautiful. Mr and Mrs. MacTavish were too much of a wreck to plan anything, his sisters even more so… So it fell on Meabh. It would’ve either way, she was his wife, after all.

It ended up being a beautiful celebration of Johnny and his life. Sharing stories of him, food and drink, and music… Full of fun and happiness and light, just how he deserved. It was an Irish tradition, Victoria came to find out.

The American had only left Meabh’s house after a week by her side, having traded spots with one of Soap’s sisters. She went home for a day, just needing a break. Three days' worth of celebrations plus four extra ones dealing with a grieving Meabh and a large family such as Soap’s had taken a toll on her. Simon went with her.

She crossed the threshold into their home quietly, not even bothering to turn on any of the lights in her wake. Then, she tossed her duffel bag aside, kicked off her sneakers, and pressed herself into the wall right past the living room door, sinking down to the hardwood floor.

Even in the darkness, he could tell she was crying. The way her breath hitched and her silhouette trembled against the wall. She cried like that for a long, long while.

Then, the tears got harder, faster, her breath rose and rose in volume, desperate for gulps of air, like she was suffocating and unable to breathe and she started openly sobbing, letting out these primal sounds of grief from the back of her throat.

Simon’s eyes welled up with tears too as the screams coming from her throat scratched at his dead heart. He wanted so badly to hold her… He wanted to. He wanted to. She cried and cried and he couldn’t do much more than kneel beside her.

He watched as she curled herself onto her hands and knees and screamed raggedly in pure and absolute pain, like someone had ripped her heart out of her chest. He had. Her heart had been his, and he had taken it with him when he died.

Primal, painful shrieks came from her mouth, so deep and loud that her whole form shook… or maybe it was the hiccups from the lack of air and the lump in her throat. He couldn’t tell. She banged a fist on the floor in front of her, once and twice and three times, until her hand hurt, until the external pain countered the grief. It didn’t.

Victoria ran herself ragged while she cried over Simon, crying so much and screaming bloody murder until her throat was raw and red, until her voice went hoarse and her throat hurt and her stomach churned…

And then she vomited, hurling whatever food Mrs. MacTavish had made for dinner that day onto the hardwood floors, then cried some more, hiccuping and trembling as she looked at the mess of her vomit on the floor through tear-filled eyes.

Simon’s sat beside her as she pulled herself back against the wall, breathing desperate, greedy gulps of air, feet parted and planted on either side of the puke puddle, as she wiped her mouth clean with the back of her right hand and then hung her head down, resting her forearms limply on her knees.

“God damn you, Simon Michael Riley…” She spoke in a whine, her voice hoarse and shaky, too broken to speak properly. “You can’t save me and then leave me here to bleed… What am I supposed to do without you?”

Simon leaned against her, pressing his bare lips against her temple, hoping, praying to a God he doesn’t even believe in, that she can feel it, can feel him… That Victoria gets some sort of realization that he’s not gone, not really… That he’ll spend a lifetime by her side, waiting for her time to come.

Victoria spent the next couple of days at home, having texted Meabh some excuse about wanting to be home to receive Simon’s ashes from Price, who was going to deliver them soon.

Meanwhile, she simply went about cleaning their house. They had had plenty of fresh produce, fruit, and meat in the fridge, which had spoiled after a week away. He watched her, like always, make herself feel better by deep cleaning the entire home.

He hovered over her shoulder the whole time, wishing he could just reach out with a firm hand on her shoulder like he usually did, making her turn around, hugging her tight to his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head… But he couldn’t. So, instead, he just hovered… watching her as she went about it all.

It was only after she was done cleaning, after she showered, after she took some melatonin gummies and passed out on the couch on day two, clutching his dog tags tight in her fist, along with her brother’s and father’s, that he heard it.

“She’ll be alright.” A manly southern-American-accented voice reverberated from behind him.

Simon turned slowly, coming face to face with an older man with short black hair, greying stubble, and intense, stern blue eyes.

“Are you-” Simon began.

“Owen Callahan, son.” The man introduced himself with a light, lazy salute. Simon returned it without even thinking about it.

“Worst possible way I can think of to meet my father-in-law.” Simon muttered sarcastically.

Owen’s eyebrows raised and he smirked a bit. “Can’t kill you again, son, so don’t be scared.” He added.

“‘m not, sir.” Simon added and shook his head, watching his father-in-law’s ghost move about the room, coming to stand over Victoria, a hand caressing her head, much like he’d seen Johnny do to Meabh while she slept, and her dad, Seamus, as well… when John was too busy fussing about his mam and sisters at the funeral. He didn’t want to show himself to Johnny, Simon had noticed.

“Is her brother around? Nathan?” Simon asked and looked around himself, seeking out another ghost.

“I’m here.” Nathan muttered as he fazed through the bedroom wall into the living room. He was a handsome young man. A crew cut worth of black hair, a shaggy stubble that extended down his jaw onto his neck, slender hazel eyes, and a notch cut into his left eyebrow.

“So… you two been here this whole time?” Simon asked as he looked at them, brows raised in confusion and surprise.

“Haunting her? Yeah.” Nathan replied as he came to stand by Simon’s side. He was a few inches shorter than him.

“So you’ve seen… everything?” Simon asked as he looked at them.

“If you mean you fuckin’ my daughter, no. We made sure to be far fuckin’ away from here when you two would get close to it.” Owen muttered crudely from next to Victoria.

“Ah-” Simon nodded a bit and scratched at the back of his neck, feeling, for once, a bit embarrassed. He could, strangely enough, feel at himself, just not others.

“Don’t get all coy now. Like I said, should be grateful I can’t kill ya again.” Owen added.

“I am, sir.” Simon nodded.

“But, all things considered… she could’a married worse, dad.” Nathan muttered as he slid over to Victoria and sat at her feet, on the armrest of the couch.

“I know…” Owen grunted as he looked at her. Then, he looked at Simon. “You did her good. Ain’t seen her smile as much as I saw her with ya, since we passed.”

Simon nodded and looked away. He’d never been good at this. Taking praise and compliments. Socializing. “Thank you, sir.”

On day three, she was awoken by a knock on the door. She was still in the clothes she had changed into last night. Not pajamas, but rather a pair of black leggings and one of Simon’s t-shirts.

Simon followed after her, like a lost puppy, constantly wanting to stay around her. Nathan and Owen remaining lounging about in the sitting room. They had more experience and no longer followed her so desperately… other than when she went into battle.

Price and Gaz stood on the other side of the door. Price held a non-descript matte black ceramic urn. Gaz, next to him, held Ghost’s balaclava and gloves, as well as a few of his throwing knives.

Victoria took the mask, gloves and knives first, looking at them closely and taking a deep breath before she set them in a shelf inside the coat closet. Then, she turned to Price and looked at the urn closely.

Her hands shook as she took the urn into her hands, feeling the weight of it. So much of Simon had been condensed into ashes inside a small pot that could be confused for a decorative jar if one wasn’t paying attention.

“Thank you.” She told them with a nod as she carefully wrapped a hand around the urn and clutched it to her chest protectively like it was a baby, and not just her husband’s ashes.

Price gave her a look and then looked down at the urn. She seemed to pick up on the sign he gave her, and returned the look with a barely-there nod.

“Do you need anything?” Gaz asked her softly, politely, caringly. “Food? Company?”

Price was still silent, however. He knew better than to offer. He might not have known Victoria as well as Simon and Meabh, but he knew enough.

“No, thanks,” Victoria said as she nodded at them. “I’m fine.” She lied and forced herself to smile a bit.

“Are you su-” Gaz was about to ask but got struck to silence by a sharp elbow to his side, from Price.

“We have things to do, Gaz. Gotta get back to base.” Price said, cutting him off.

“But si-” Gaz attempted again, instead, simply earning a glare from the man.

“We have things to do, Gaz.” Price repeated sharply. Then, he turned to look at Victoria again. “Will be expecting you to report to base on Monday.” Price told her, knowing she’d want to work through her grief. Just like Simon would.

“Copy that.” She nodded, then, the two men stepped back, and she closed the door in their faces, walking her urn back to the couch and carefully setting it atop the coffee table.

Simon was hot on her tail and sat beside her on the couch, peering over at her with a tentative glance. He could tell she was on the verge of breaking down again, now that she had Him home.

Nathan and Owen were gone. They tended to do that, sometimes. Disappearing.

She took a deep breath and popped open the lid, peering inside the urn. The ashes were inside a ziplock bag inside, as usual… But, atop of them, rested a small black velvet box. She pulled it out of the urn and onto her lap, then, slowly, opened it.

Inside, nestled in a foam pad, rested two rough-looking wedding bands. Made of gold but full of marks and scuffs… and with a dark grey piece of rough stone on the center, where one would expect to see a precious gem.

Simon wanted to hide away in shame when he saw them, groaning loudly, glad she couldn’t hear him. Of course Price would go and find his failed metal-work creations and give them to her.

Simon had spent the last year in a metal working class, trying to make them a proper set of wedding bands. They had gotten married without one, instead using their dog tags during the vow exchange, and then had never bothered buying some, because Victoria thought they were stupid, and it’s not like they could wear them out in the field…

But Simon wanted to give her something. He wanted her to surprise her! Wanted to make her all kinds of gold jewelry because he knew how much she loved to wear it when they were on leave… He just had to get good at it first! But he didn’t.

These rings were the most recent pair he tried to make, gold and meteorite stone, which, one day, he’d hope to substitute with an actual precious gem, once he got good enough, once the rings were smooth and sleek.

He just wasn’t good at it no matter how many times he practiced. They were still rough and uneven and her wedding band was twisted and strange… He just wasn’t made for making beautiful things… But he was willing to try… for her.

And yet, as she looked at them now, clutched in her hand, tears streamed down her face… All Victoria could think was how beautiful the rings were. “Fuck…” She grunted through her teeth. She slowly grabbed her ring and rolled it between her fingers, feeling the rough texture of it with her fingertips…

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Simon…” She murmured as she looked up at the urn, almost like she was looking at him, unaware that his ghost was right there, beside her, wanting nothing more than to wipe her tears and hold her hand.

Simon slid away from the couch and sat across from her on the coffee table, parking himself over his ashes, wanting to feel like she was looking at him… even if she couldn’t see him. “How long did ya keep these a secret? I wish you would’ve told me you were making ‘em…”

“I’m just fuckin’ unlucky, ain’t I?” She muttered to herself as she kept gazing upon her ring. “You ain’t that lucky either, are ya?” She asked, soft tears rolling down her cheeks, sniffling away the tears, batting her eyelashes to try and contain them. It was unsuccessful.

“You couldn’t tell me you were making these… I couldn’t tell you ‘I love you’...” She trailed off as she looked at him, smiling sadly as more tears ran down her face, her lips scrunching up to stop a hiccup and a sob.

“It just wasn’t in the cards for us, huh? Never is… for people like us, ain’t that right?” She asked him, looking right at him, but not seeing him. “It was never gonna end with us (retiring) together, was it?”

Simon reached out and placed a hand over her cheek, unable to do anything more than hold her like he had so many times before, muttering a reply that she wouldn’t hear: “I love you too, Victoria. You’ll see me again.”

the rings in question:

@crashtestbunny better see some tears bestie

#ikea writes 💚#angst #hurt comfort #but not in the way you think #the angst is angsting #i made myself cry writing this #tw death #tw grief #tw loss #tw vomitting #ghost died with soap #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty oc #cod oc #oc: victoria “whiskey” callahan #ghost x whiskey #meabh 'pirate' o'malley #O'Mac

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asumofwords · 11 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: We are back with another chapter after Aemond has left and Aegon has been a seedy little cunt. Someone help the reader because Jesus Christ. I needed a bit of a brain rest so thank you all for your patience. I really don't want to rush this story or the plot, so as I have said from the beginning, this is slooooow (and realistic) haha! Thank you all so much for you constant love and kind words.

Enjoy! <3

Chapter 73: Surrounded

When you had reached your chambers, the world around you blurred, and your skin felt cold.

It felt like you weren’t in your body anymore.

It was an odd feeling of watching yourself that washed over you, body on autopilot as it moved about the chambers. You (though it did not feel it) sat on the chaise and stared into space, not moving, even as the maids came to check on you and offer you lunch.

You had shrugged them off, body feeling as though it was moving through a thick sludge, limbs heavy and finding resistance in the air. Every limb felt simultaneously weighed down by stones and light as a feather.

When the sun fell from the sky and the moon had risen to its peak, the girls had urged you to sit at the table, guiding you with caring, gentle hands, until you sat in your seat. You ate what you could as encouraged to by the girls, who seemed to worry for your wellbeing.

Bread and bits of meat was all you found you could stomach as you sat at the table, mind reeling from the interaction as you felt yourself slowly come to your body again.

As though you sunk down from the corner of the room where you had been floating in the corner, and slid back into your casing, threading yourself into your arms and legs like a coat or gown.

Slowly, but surely, you became present in the chambers.

And that was when the dread settled in.

Sleep well this evening.

The girls had readied you for bed, and you had paced the room when they left, desperate to keep yourself awake as anxiety loomed over you at his words, eyes darting over to the chamber doors constantly in wait of a head of wavy silver hair to enter.

You paced the chambers until you slumped in the chaise by the fire, feet aching and legs warm, stoking the flames with a fire poker to keep it alive and distract yourself.

Where was Aemond now?

Would he be in Harrenhal already?

Was he awake with the anxiety of what his brother could do in his absence?

Was he awake in the arms of Alys?

Or was he asleep? Uncaring and unbothered?

The thoughts kept coming as you spiralled in the chambers, their only purpose was that they served to keep you awake. The never ending streams of anxiety and ‘what if’s’ prolonging your evening.

You moved to sit at the windowsill and watched as the sun slowly began to rise.

The sky turned a soft purple and then pink, the room glowing warmly from the light. It was only then that you felt safe enough to retreat to your bed, climbing beneath the sheets and pulling them up to your shoulders tightly.

You kept your eyes on the doors, waiting for any sight or sound of entry until your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open, and they drifted shut from fatigue.

You did not dream, and your sleep was shallow and broken.

Noise in the chambers jerked you awake, and your eyes immediately darted over to the chamber doors.

They were closed.

You sighed a breath of relief, resting your head back against the soft down of the pillows, steading your racing heart. Your mind felt foggy and your body ached from your lack of sleep.

“A fine morning.” Came a purr from beside you.

Your heart jumped in your chest, body shooting up from the pillow as you scrambled against the back of the bed.

Two violet eyes watched you as you clutched the sheets to your chest.

He was here.

Aegon sat lazily in the chair beside Aemond’s side of the bed.

Watching you.

He smiled widely as you dragged the sheets up to your neck, brain reeling at seeing him in your chambers.

How long had he been here?

How long had he been watching you?

It was like Aemond all over again. How he had been in your chair in your chambers. How he had watched you sleep.

You notice the similarities between the two men.

The two brothers.

Your two uncles.

Cut from the same cloth.

Your breath held in your chest as you felt panic rise in your throat, freezing as he smiled widely at you. Aegon was dressed for the day; green robes and the Conquerors Crown already sat atop his head.

One leg sat lazily over the other as though he was comfortable watching you. Lounging as you slept.

As though he had been for some time.

As though he had no cares or troubles for being in your shared chambers at all.

“You whimper in your sleep.” The King mused, smirking at you.

Words were trapped in your throat, not able to break free as you stared at him.

Aegon waited for you to respond and sighed when you didn’t. He suddenly stood, hands pushing on his thighs to help himself up lazily as he straightened his back with a hum. Violet eyes drifted over where your body was hidden behind the sheets before he spoke again.

“Enjoy your day.” He grinned, leaving your chambers through the doors he came in.

A breath broke free from your lungs, followed by a sob of fear.

He had watched you sleep.

How long had he been there?

Did the knight let him in?

Your mind raced as you thought of it.

You were never safe.

But now with Aemond gone, you were unprotected.

Exposed.

He could come whenever he wished.

Aegon was King.

And there was nothing you could do, lest you endanger the treaty and yourself.

You did not leave your bed that day, moving between panic and shock, crying and spiralling. Your stomach turned and you felt your mind reel from lack of sleep and anticipation of what was to come.

You felt yourself slowly begin to crumble beneath the new pressure of Aemond’s absence, the only thing that was keeping Aegon away from you.

Every time you closed your eyes, you felt the cold stones of the cell beneath your back. You felt the skin that had pulled away as he dragged you towards him. You felt the way he had looked at you, feasting on you with his eyes. The way he had leant over you. The smell of his breath.

It unnerved you.

It terrified you.

It crushed you.

And all you could do was wish that Aemond was with you.

The soft echoes of Lucerys and Helaena rose and whispered in the back of your mind as shadows began to hide in your periphery, causing you to snap your head to see who was there, only to find the space empty.

It was as though your thread was unravelling and at a pace faster than you could grasp or slow it down.

The maids had come to the chambers and brought you food, though you refused it. They had placed your tea beside your bed with the honey and had insisted for you to just drink that, and that having something in your stomach was better than nothing.

The eldest of maids had even stayed behind and ensured that you had drunk the last of the tea from the cup before she left the chambers, leaving you alone with your immeasurable fear.

The day moved slowly, and nightfall came quicker than the last. You struggled to stay awake, sitting yourself upright in bed as you stared at the chamber doors, willing yourself to not sleep again. To not be bested by a man who drinks himself to piss the bed.

Sleep came in small bursts, yet as soon as you found yourself sinking beneath the surface of it, your body would jerk itself awake, eyes frantically scanning the room.

It was empty.

Another day flew by, and you refused to leave your chambers, instead sitting and thinking of what you could do, mind jumbled from lack of sleep, and the maids insisting that you ate at least some fruit and drank your tea.

You listened to the girls and drank the brew, adding two spoonfuls of honey as always, and nibbled on some freshly baked bread that steamed on the plate, and the juicy flesh of a star fruit. It weighed heavily in your stomach, and the meal only served to make you sleepy.

When the girls had left the chambers and begged that you call for them should you need anything at all, you had paced the room, feeling like sand that had been scattered amongst a shore. Thoughts moving forward, yet never quite moving in the right direction.

Do you send for the star fruit now? Whilst Aemond was gone?

You had no access to Vermithor which would come as a disadvantage.

You had no weapon or way out, and if your family did come to your call, the Greens would no doubt use you as a bartering tool.

A hostage.

And then you thought of Aemond.

How much longer would he be gone?

Do you send word to Harrenhal? Do you send a letter urging him to return? Would he receive it? Would he respond?

Would he even care?

There was no way of knowing.

And so as you paced the chambers sluggishly, you thought of the purple flowers again.

“My pretty head of flowers.” Helaena whispered in your ear, and you fought to not flinch.

Your aunt and brothers presence becoming more constant than before. Whether they be mere shadows in the corner of your eyes, silently standing amongst the chambers, or whispering words and secrets to you.

"Dracarys, mandia." Sister.

Dracarys.

Star fruit.

Vermithor.

If you sent word to your family came now, you could go to the garden before their arrival and take some of the Monkshood, hiding it up your sleeve, or in a napkin to hide in your chambers.

If they came now, armoured on the backs of their dragons, and the Greens came looking to use you, you could eat the flower, root and stem, just to be sure, and die a cowardly death for your family.

But you did not want to die at the hands of poison.

You wished to fight.

You wished to succeed in what you had come here to do.

Secure the throne.

“Pretty head of flowers. Pretty head of flowers.” She continued to whisper in your head, her voice unnerving you.

You shook your head violently, trying to dispel Helaena's repetition, yet she did not stop, voice only quietening in the back of your mind, repeating the same thing, over and over.

Merely sounding like the gentle whispers of a breeze.

The sun was at its peak when you decided to sit upon the soft cushion of the chaise, to give yourself a moment as you struggled to stop your body from swaying, exhaustion beginning to take over.

You felt dizzy and rattled, weakened from the days gone by and the constant chatter of your mind.

The moment you sat on the chaise your body sagged, head leaning back against the hard wood of the lounge as the rest sunk into the soft cushions.

You turned your head upwards and looked at the ceiling.

“Please Gods, give me the strength to do what I have to do.” You quietly prayed, hoping they would hear you. Hoping they would give you a sign, any sign, that what you were doing was right.

But the room stayed still, and you feared your absence to the Godswood had turned their favour.

Your eyes slid shut, and you told yourself that you could rest them, if only for a moment, and then go back to pacing. You just needed to rest them for a moment, and then you would get up once more.

But what if you couldn't get back up again?

How long could one survive their own mind without rest or food?

You supposed you would likely find out very soon, as you made a promise to not sleep until Aemond had returned.

You drifted into a chaotic dream, mind so exhausted and jumbled that it followed you to your sleep.

You were sat atop a dragon, soaring high amongst the clouds, the world around you tiny and dark, shrouded by large storm clouds. The robes on your body weighed you down, wet from the rain as you soared higher, dragon growling out into the rain.

You felt your hands be tugged and you looked down.

In your hands were reins.

Large thick rope pulling at your palms, burning them as it was tugged away from you. You gripped the rope to pull them back, using your entire body weight to slow the beast. A crack of lightning lit across the sky and the scales beneath you became illuminated.

Green.

A smaller dragon flew higher up into the sky as your dragon chased after it, your heart racing in your chest. The tiny dragon disappeared into a break of light and you yanked the reins back, trying to stop the dragon from its course.

“Keligon!” Stop, You screamed yanking the rope, feeling it rip through skin of your palms.

But the dragon did not listen and instead, you emerged from the clouds and watched in horror as Vhagar opened her jaws and bit the smaller dragon and the small boy atop it in two.

You began to scream, looking at Arrax fall to the earth below yours, horrified by what you had done.

You killed him.

You killed Lucerys.

You killed your-

“Y/n.” A voice called from behind you, your head snapping behind you in the sky.

The sky fell away and was replaced with the darkness of a cave, scarce lighting around you.

You were in the Dragon Pit, torches crackling against the walls, the air damp and cold. The sudden change in space making your heart jump in your chest.

You looked around, spinning in a circle, feeling familiarity from the dream.

You turned once more and there he was.

Lucerys.

The boy was wet with rain, hair slicked to his head, and covered in blood. His mouth opened, and from his lips poured a small rivulet pf blood that trailed down his chin to drip on the floor below. Brown eyes blinked tears of blood, staining his cherubic cheeks red.

His little hand lifted and you watched in horror as he pointed beside you.

A sob came from where his finger stopped.

Slowly you turned your head, eyes not blinking.

A woman stood beside you, her back turned to you, with silver hair matted and braided behind her head. Her body heaved as she cried loudly in the pit, dressed in a chemise and robe.

Lucerys stepped closer to move on the other side of you as you were rooted to the spot, not moving, and stared. But then your body had a mind of its own and leant forward, lifting a foot up to place it towards the woman.

You stepped forward as she continued to cry, body rocking back and forth, little hushed breaths of air falling from her lips as she swayed.

Lucerys followed beside you, the soft dripping of blood and water on his robes echoing in the space beside her sobs and the crackling torches.

A scream tore from your lips as you looked at her.

Helaena, pale and eyes red, rocked back and forth not looking at you as she cooed into her arms, where she clutched a small bundle to her chest.

A bundle which had small arms and legs, that were covered with pale yellow pants and a matching yellow jacket. But crimson stained the front of the clothes, spreading outwards like a flower in bloom.

Blood soaked Helaena's front where the stump of its neck sat raw against her as she continued to coo the body in an attempt of comfort. Tissue and muscle sat exposed to her chest, which continued to pump slow and steady streams of blood down onto its stained jacket.

The headless body of a child.

Jaehaerys.

You scrambled backwards horrified by the scene, trying to get away from them both.

Helaena’s head finally looked up to you, eyes rimmed with tears that flowed down her cheeks.

“He is coming.” She whispered.

Lucerys moved to stand beside her as they both watched you stumble over your feet, tears pouring down your face as you fled backwards on unsteady feet.

“Vējes naejot zālagon hēnkirī.” Fated to burn together, Heleana spoke.

“A crown forged of blood.” Lucerys replied, blood falling from his lips as he looked at the child in Helaena’s arms blankly.

“He is coming.”

You woke with a jerk, a scream escaping from you.

Your eyes were wet with tears and your heart rattled in your chest. You stiffened in the chaise as you looked about the room in search of Aegon.

The room had darkened and it was nightfall again.

Then, you saw them.

A head of silver and a head of brown.

Staring at you as they had a moment before, except this time, dry and unbloodied, body of Jaehaerys missing from Helaena’s arms. A sob flew from your lips as you brought a hand to your throat.

The chamber doors swung open and the knight stormed inside, the sound causing you to jump, gasp flying from your lips as you whipped around to see him.

“What is wrong?” He asked, hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked around the chambers in search of an intruder or whatever had spooked you.

The pair began to whisper in the corner of the room as they looked at you, their voices causing you to wince as you stared at the knight.

“A crown of blood.”

“Dracarys.”

“Pretty petals-“

The knight took in your appearance; The tear stained cheeks, disheveled hair and crinkled clothing, but most importantly the fearful eyes which widened at every hushed word uttered by two people he was not aware were in the space with them.

“I shall fetch the Maester.” He said slowly, looking at you.

“No... need.” Your voice broke, “All is fine.” You took a steeling breath, “I thought I saw a spider.” You used the back of your hand to mop the tears from your cheeks and neck.

The knight looked at you for a moment more before bowing hesitantly, as though he thought better of himself and would perhaps stay or send for the Maester despite your reassurance, but the look was short lived, and the man left the chambers with a turn of his heel.

The whispers of Lucerys and Helaena became louder as the doors shut, the knight unknowingly leaving you with them.

A silent sob filled the room as you stared at the two in your chambers, their whispers never stopping. Looking as though they were speaking to each other, the words hard to discern beside the odd familiar whisper here or there.

You sucked in a sharp breath and whimpered, forcing yourself to rise and move to the side of the chambers where the pair followed you like a shadow, standing at your side as they continued to whisper prophesies and commands at you.

Prophesies of what has happened, prophesies of what was to come. Commands to act.

To do.

Dracarys.

You poured yourself a large goblet of wine, throwing it back, basking in the sharp burning it brought to you as it slid down your throat. Another tear fell down your cheeks as you stood there, eyes trained on the goblet so that you did not have to turn and face your brother and aunt.

“Sister.” Lucerys called, and you whimpered at the sound.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

“Sister.” He whispered again.

Slowly you raised your head to look at him and Helaena, both watching you with impassive faces.

“Dracarys. A crown forged from blood.”

“Spool hen Kasta, spool hen Zōbrie.” Spool of Green, spool of Black, Helaena muttered.

“Another eye will close.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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thatoneticklewriter · 3 months

Text

Ice Ice Baby

(Ler!Gaming/Lee!Freminet)

Fandom:Genshin Impact

Summary: Freminet seems to be upset about his robotic penguin Pers and Gaming tries his best to cheer him up.

Freminet sits on the cute stitch patterned blanket Gaming had bought for him. Pers toddles over to the ash blonde who fixes the robot. The ash blonde lately has been occupied with his invention, for some reason Per’s eyes wouldn’t light up and during the night the robot would have seizures disturbing Freminet from his sleep.

The ash blonde was almost considering handing his prized possession to a professional for help.

“Fremmy!” A familiar voice brings him back to reality and the teen was met face to face with none other than his fiery boyfriend.

“Gaming? What’re you doing here?” He widens his eyes at the bi colored hair boy who should be in Liyue right now.

“I haven’t heard from you in almost two weeks. I got scared something happened to you.” A blush spreads across the other’s face as he rubs his arm.

“Oh, nothing happened to me. I just been busy with Pers.” Freminet explains to his boyfriend who sits next to him on the blanket. “I’m sorry, I should’ve responded to your messages but I forgot.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Gaming hums tapping his chin glancing at the invention.

“He’s just been I don’t know Finicky? His eyes don’t light up anymore and he’ll wake me up with his seizures. Some days I can’t even get him to turn on at all.” Freminet lets out a sigh.

“Hmm.” Gaming holds up the robotic penguin wondering what he could do to help his boyfriend. “Argh, I’m not good with technology or machines.” He groans gripping the ends of his hair.

“It’s okay, I wouldn’t have asked you to fix him anyway.” A small smile crawls onto the other’s face.

“But seriously, you should check your phone, I thought you had really died on me. I even had to call your brother to make sure you were alive.” Gaming scolds pointing a finger in the freckled boy’s face.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not really used to being on my phone a lot, I don’t have much friends to text either.” Freminet pouts. “Pers is my only friend and I don’t need a phone to talk to him.”

“Yeah your brother said you’re not much of texter or caller either because you’re introverted.” Gaming mentions.

“But I will try my best to talk to you more.” A small blush crawls onto Freminet’s cheeks. “I’m just a little sad right now because of Pers. I don’t know not to fix him.”

“Are you crying, Fremmy?” Gaming leans over glancing at the stray tear leaving the corner of the other’s ocean blue eyes.

“I- um no. I got a little emotional.” Freminet rapidly shakes his head. “Pers has been with me ever since I was a kid and the thought of losing him hurts me.”

“It’ll be okay.” Gaming embraces his boyfriend into a hug. “In fact I think my friend Aether knows someone who’s good with machines, we’ll just go to him and see if they can fix Pers.”

“Thank you, Gaming. Really. You came all this way to check up on me and then helping me with Pers.” Freminet continues to cry wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“I mean I’m your boyfriend after all. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” Gaming affectionately nuzzles his face into Freminet’s neck who lets out a small squeal.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.” The bi color haired boy apologizes.

“Uh no, it just I don’t know felt weird.” Freminet stammers and immediately a smirk crawls onto Gaming‘s face.

“Aww is someone ticklish?” Gaming teases and Freminet backs away from the bi color haired boy.

Of course Pers begins to shut down before Freminet can order the penguin to protect him from his boyfriend.

“Gaming, don’t! Wait!” Freminet almost shrieks as the bi color haired boy literally pounces on top of him.

“You can’t just give me information like this and not expect a tickle fight.” Gaming jokes slipping his hands underneath Freminet’s jacket.

“Please, Gaming this isn’t fair! You’re a lot stronger than me.” Freminet almost whines giggling at the fingers prodding his bare sides.

“You know, you can fight back.” He teases pinning Freminet to the ground blowing a raspberry against his neck.

“Eeeeek, I’m trying!” The freckled boy shouts writhing underneath Gaming’s grasp who wouldn’t budge one bit.

“I’m not seeing any effort.” Gaming snickers while unbuttoning the other’s thick coat to reveal more of his bare skin.

“Pers, please turn on.” Freminet whimpers calling to his robotic friend.

“Not even your penguin can save you from this but that just means he wants you to smile.” Gaming chuckles roaming his fingers across his tummy and navel.

Freminet can’t help but curl into a ball hopelessly protecting himself.

“Hide all you want but I think you have more spots than this.” Gaming expresses kneading at the flesh above the other’s hips sending Freminet into a frenzy.

The ash blonde bursts into laughter attempting to push Gaming’s hands away. However the dancer, grabs onto Freminet’s hands tightly retaliating by blowing another raspberry against his tummy.

“Gaming, you jerk!” Freminet uses harsh language earning a shock look from his boyfriend.

“Those are some bold words from my shy little Fremmy.” Gaming teases, punishing him by squeezing at his ribs and Freminet lets out a squeal throwing his head back.

“Gaming please! Hahaah!” The freckled boy tries to catch his breath and Gaming decides his boyfriend has had enough releasing him from his grasp.

“See? You’re smiling now.” Gaming gestures to Freminet’s glowing cheeks.

“Only because of you.” The cold ash blonde says in a soft voice avoiding eye contact.

Without another word, Gaming pulls Freminet into his lap pressing his lips against his.

As cold as Freminet’s heart was, it couldn’t stay frozen forever.

A/N: I’m so sorry for being a

Inactive with this blog, I promise I’m alive. Recently started cosplaying again last year and it has taken up so much of my time with writing. I do have a few more finished stories in my draft to post on here so stay in touch 😊

#tickling #writing #genshin impact #fanfic #tickle fic #genshin #fanfiction #freminet #gaming #gaming genshin #freminet genshin #gaminet #gaming x freminet

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aphroditesmoon · 2 years

Text

lady of the house of wolves

jacaerys velaryon x reader

(one bed trope, stark!reader)

summary: after a sudden siege in house stark killing your brother Cregan Stark, his sister and succesor is left to ally herself with the visiting prince Jacaerys to defend themselves and escape the greens.

warnings: angst, gore, violence, death of a side character, grief.

°°°

This had to be a nightmare. Blood of the guards spilled everywhere and fire of beastly dragons burn through your roofs of your household. Where was Cregan? You heard his voice and clash of swords moments ago, but the moment the air turned to flame, the smoke filled room blurred your vision and your lungs.

An unrecognized man in armour lunged at you as you trip and fall back at the sudden attack. Blood splattered and the view of his head rolling off his body threw you off before you could close your eyes to accept the sweet fate of death.

His hands pulled you up in an instant to his chest as he holds your arm tight. "My lady, where is your brother?" Jace blurts out coughing through the ashes.

your eyes fill as you shook your head, "I don't- I don't know, I can't find him" the thought of losing your brother frightens you, a part of you believe it impossible, He was a force to be reckoned with, his will and soul as strong as the wolves, but gods knew he wasn't invincible.

Jace looks at you with an uncertain look in his eye before he nods and pulls you with him to escape as he clashes through half wounded swordsmen, ending their life at ease.

Leaving the burning building, he rushes you into the woods placing you behind a large tree practically shoving you there. "Stay here my lady, I need to go find Cregan" He let's out hoarsely, out of breath from the running.

you nod as your clasp on his hands tighten, "please, find him" you sobbed desperately. "I will, I promise" He squeezes your fingers in rush before running off back inside.

You watch him drag himself back inside the fiery place you've once called home. Your heart broke at the sight, just a few minutes ago, hope of peace had blossomed through your heart and now that hope had gone with the wind alongside any sight of your family or wolves. You felt absolutely weak and impatient of the wait for the sight of your brother to come out alive with the prince.

But as weak as you felt, a failure is what'll become of you if you doing try to fight for him.

Your legs pull yourself up as you gather your breath, ripping off the ripped pieces of your dress as you ran inside.

Pulling off a sword from a dead knight, you turn your eyes away from the sight of his eyes bulging out as his head bleeds, running deeper inside you push through every dead man's body to search for a resemblance of your sibling.

Trying to turn a fallen man's head to you to identify his face, you feel yourself being dragged behind by your hair.

You let out a screech as he slams you on the wall with his hand around your neck. The green knight spits at your face as he drags you further up the wall. "dog bitch" he gritted out through his bleeding mouth. "You will die in my hands just as your pathetic whimpering of a brother did."

His words snapped something in you. you scream through your lungs in rage despite his strangle of you. Your hands stopped trying to pull him off as you resort to dragging his face nearer by his hair and your fingers clasped through his eyes, digging inside his sockets pulling out his eyeball with all your might.

His howls a wretched scream immediately letting you fall as you rip his eyesight off of him, the eye rolling to the floor, your hand bloodied.

He falls to the floor and you took the opportunity to kick him in the face and taking your sword back, pushing the edge of it to his neck. "Where the fuck is my brother" you but all screamed in his face.

He let out a strangled scream and you punch him in the face and dragged his face higher s the swords pushes deeper into his veins. "answer me you fucking cunt" you seethed into his face.

he coughed out blood, mixing with the bloodied tears running down his empty eye socket. "u-up-up-fucking-stairs, furthest room" he forces himself to spill. Satisfied with the straightforward you needed, you lunged the sword through and kept your eyes open as his veins popped and blood splatters all over your face.

You pushed him back down and basically leapt up with all the might of your shaking legs and fingers.

"Cregan" You shout for him as you push the door of the chambers room. The fire in the specific room had been watered down, the lessening of the smoke clearing up the horrifying vision of your brother with a sword through his abdomen, eyes wide open, in the middle of the room.

The familiar face of Jacaerys Velaryon with his palms at the side of you brother's face was the trigger for you.

Your knees buckled, and all the strength you had a moment ago disappeared. You let out a howl so wretched as your bloodied hands grasped your chest, as if losing a part of your heart with your brother.

Tears fell down Jace's cheeks as he crawled from your brother to you, pulling you into him. your screams muffled by his chest. Your visions blurring and you breath felt like it'd cease to exist any second now.

The wolf of house Stark was gone.

°°°

You awoke with a scream, Eyes flying open, you feel a hands around your shoulders shaking you awake.

"[name] it's over, it's over, look at me- calm down and look at me" The face over yours was unregistered at first, but as his hands move to cup your cheeks, your heart fills with sudden warmth of the familiarity.

followed by the dread and reminder of all that's just happened.

Your hands placed over his as you feel yourself about to break again and he pulls you in his arms letting you silently weep, trying to process everything.

"Where is my brother Jacaerys?" you whispered hopeful. And you feel his hold tightens around you, an answer he's not strong enough to give. You burry your head at the crook of his neck and you feel his lips placed at your head, a small fethered kiss he could not help.

"I'm so sorry [name]" he speaks slowly. All formality long gone. You don't have the energy to reaffirm him in anyway, silently laying your head on his chest as he carries you up through the woods. It was dark at night, you've no idea where you are or going to.

where is his dragon? surely escaping through dragon back would be faster?

you raise your had slowly to look at him, your whole body ache even during the small movement. He glances back at you, detecting your newly found alertness and questions.

"They've got Vermax" he answers you silent question. "I can only hope he manages to break free, but till' then we'll try to find the closest safest shelter, for the night, then figure out a way to sail to dragonstone." He explains his intentions.

Of course, you're no longer safe here, all that you've had is gone, your home, your family, your wolves. All that's left is the company of a familiar stranger, an alliance you hope is strong enough for the sake of what's left of your house and honor.

You give him a small nod and lay back to his chest letting him carry you through the night, too drained to be embarassed, pride could wait for tomorrow.

°°°

A small abandoned cottage was found behind large lumps of snow by the edge of the forest. He lets you down as you assured him you're well enough to stand now. Walking in front of you as if shielding you from potential danger, he slowly pushes the door open. breathing out a sigh of relief if it's emptiness. he holds your hand and leads you in.

"This should be good for tonight, I think" He states gently examining the surrounding. You stayed silent, eyes blank as he walks forward towards a small room that had no door. "someone must've broken it down" you offered, after hours of nothing. His eyes glance over you suprised by your voice. seemingly satisfied by it's hoarse whisper of an effort. "yeah, someone must've"

there was a small messed up bed and no blankets, the windows were covered by fog and molds, no curtains either. He pulls a broken closet open successfully finding a long wool blanket enough for 2 person.

"I'll take the floor, you-" "we should share the bed" you cut him off.

He seemed so nervous you wanted to bite his head off. It sounded harsh and you felt guilty for resentment towards his emotions, but you've no time for silly feelings and humility. And despite the cold act you have, a comforting embrace to get you through the night would be a bit useful for your own nerves.

"The cold can kill you in nights like this prince, with not enough warmth we should take what we can get, you've not experienced the Winterfell's bitter cold like I have." You explained and he seems to understand and relaxed a bit.

A sudden wave of guilt passed through you as you sat by the edge of the bed. Jace has been playing saviour all along your weakest moment tonight.

After surviving such horrors you had and losing his friend who was your brother and his dragon being taken from him, he was coping and hiding his own grief and hopelessness far better than you. You are grateful for that.

He sits by you and you feel the urge to wrap his hands in yours. Acting on it, he looks to you with suprise, which then turned into a certain softness you can't quite explain. Pity, perhaps.

"I thank you, for everything you've done so far, Jacaerys. It's been unspeakable for us both. I owe you my life, for I can't imagine how'd my fate would be without you at my side." Your words made him raise your hands to his lips as he kisses them and grips them tigher.

"You've no need to thank me [name], I wish there was more I could've done, more I could've done for you, I-" his voice broke.

You dared raise your eyes to look at him and tears filled your eyes as well. It was as if this moment of vulnerability you allowed yourself to him had broke his own curse of self control he'd been forcing himself to keep up for you this whole time. You pull yourself upwards and wrapped yourself in his arms as he returned the gesture.

Your cheeks by his your tears melt with eachothers and as you hold one palm to his face and kiss the corners of his eyes, his forehead touches yours and and his sobs start.

Both of you were nothing more than children. no more than 8 and 10 of age.

Playing knights and adults. and now the war is realer than the fairytales and prophecy's you were fed as children, the pressure bare and heavy as the titles you're both born and forced to carry.

He rolled back on the bed and pulled you with him, lifting the blanket open to cover you both as you hide yourself in the crook of his neck, he holds you like his only path to salvation, like his last string of hope in this world so devoid of it already.

Neither of you know what would await you tomorrow, but by the power of the gods and the strength of the heart of the prince of dragons and lady of the house of wolves, you'd walk through fire if you needed to, side by side.

#jacaerys velaryon #jace targaryen x reader #jace velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #game of thrones

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the-common-cowgirl · 2 months

Text

Chapter 1 - Intro

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OFC (Anikyra Targaryen)

Summary: The Peaceful King Viserys hears word of a Targaryen Princess that resides in the broken stronghold of Valyria; which has since become an immature kingdom after of the doom befell their land. Feeling the tension between his house and believing the long night may soon come, Viserys proposes a betrothal between the Valyrian Princess and his second son, Aemond Targaryen, believing his daughter’s prophetic dream that the child born of this union will become the prince that was promised.

Warnings (Ch. specific): Mentions of murder and usurpation.

Word Count: 1600

A/N: AHA! First chapter of this rework done! Probably going to work on finishing The Lost Children after this unless this gets a lot of attention lol.

Masterlist

Dawn awakened over the vast land that once was the great stronghold of Valyria; now an emerging kingdom over the broken land. The red, hot sun greeted her on the east side of her balcony and the beautiful, bright rays danced along the pale, blue water of the sea that faced her to the south. The large, shiny, black castle, mounted on the side of a great mount of stone and soot, stood tall above the city. She could see the hustle of morning coming and goings of the smallfolk below her who now resembled crawling ants. She often sat high above them on warm dawns with her tea, wondering if, although their lives were harsh and rough, were they simpler? Were those people below her free in the choices they made or were they too, confined to a blind duty born of their station? Did they have autonomy over their beating hearts or were they too a prisoner in their own personal hell?

She doubted it.

She heard a door open in the distance behind her and knew her handmaiden was coming to ready her; she also knew the handmaiden would be bearing news in which she dreaded. News of the scheming of the King of Valyria and another King of a distant land. News that would be comparable to news of her own execution; at least, in her mind. She did not want to hear it but she knew it would come regardless of her wishes. So, she decided to muster up her courage, to take her cup with now cool tea and walk into her bedchambers to hear if this was the news her handmaiden would be bearing.

“Princess, a messenger has sent word that the Targaryens of Westeros have embarked on their journey here.”

The ‘False Targaryens’ you mean.

She all but slammed her cup on a table, nearly breaking the fragile porcelain, angered by the audacity of these Westerosi to come here and believe they have any sort of claim to what was once their homeland. A homeland they were exiled from when Aenar defiled the name “Targaryen '' by gambling his riches awash then trying to make good on his debts by stealing his elder brother’s, Aelys Targaryen, dragon eggs. Aelys should have not only exiled him, but executed him. No, her ancestor, Aelys, allowed his brother to be exiled comfortably with his family, a dragon and a handful of eggs. After the doom befell Valyria, all the dragons fell from the sky, burning from the outside in, and Aelys’ only daughter requested help from the Westerosi. She asked for Aenar to bring his dragons and help what remained of the dragonlords escape the wrecked ruins of what was their home. Aenar responded with a simple “Nyke ivestragon Aelys hen bisa vejes” [I tell Aelys of this doom]. So, desperate for help and to save the remains of her people, she took it upon herself as the last highborn blood of the dragonlords alive, she turned to head to Asshai…and the Taragryens rose from the ashes…without the help of the last of their kin.

“Princess?” Her handmaiden approached lightly and slowly; holding out her hand as if she were approaching a deadly beast that needed to sniff her first to know she’s not a threat.

“Yes, Tiah. I understand the words you spoke. I know they are coming. I’d be more content today if you chose to not speak of it. Is that understood?” She snapped with an edge to her voice she wasn’t intending upon. Realizing she was staring harshly toward her handmaiden, she softened her stance slightly and turned away to hide the outburst; lip twitching with residual anger.

Tiah, she thought, only a year older than I but such a meek and foolish girl still.

Her handmaiden took two steps back briskly. She held her head down and hands clasped behind her back. “Yes, your Grace. I will not speak further about them.” Like an obedient dog.

The Princess, overcome with emotion of anger she did not want to process nor dim, yet also, feeling the need to apologize to her poor handmaiden who was only doing her duty in informing Princess of the updates that the walls of the castle echoed, decided to walk out to the balcony again instead of apologizing for her misdirected anger.

Tiah is not the enemy here. Keep your head clear. Breathe.

After some time, the Princess decided to walk back into her bedchambers yet again, call upon her handmaiden, and ask for help dressing in a gown. She did not care which gown her handmaiden decided to pick, as long as it was light in this warming daylight and allowed her to breathe unrestrictedly. The day was hot and will grow hotter as the sun crawls higher into the sky. Tiah picked a thin silken gown that would allow her to stroll the castle on this day of summer without becoming faint. Emerald green silk with gold filigree embroidered on the sleeves and either side of her torso. It showed off a hint of her collarbone and she decided that it was an acceptable amount of skin to show to court. The Princess’ left hand slid along her exposed collarbone. Slender fingers caressing her soft skin.

I will not become some broodmare for a false dragon. She reminded herself in the mirror. I am the true daughter of Valyria. The last true dragon of Valyria and I will not let the false Targaryens of Westeros feast upon my body with their eyes. I will not bend, nor will I break.

She thought of her mother and how she did not bend, nor break to her father’s whims. The beautiful “Light of Valyria” remained gentle but firm in her hold of power. How her mother loved her father deeply but it was her who sat the throne. How her father helped raise Valyria from the ruins and strengthened their fledgling kingdom, his duty born purely out of the love he held for her mother. Despite all of their love, duty, and power, they only produced a single child. One daughter.

Naturally, being the “First Child of Valyria,” she would be the heir uncontended; free to marry whomever she wanted, regardless of status or power. If only the natural order of things were so easy to abide by.

The day they revolted against her father, the King Consort, she had viewed her mother’s face for the first time for who she truly was: a monster. Only a monster would sentence their true love to death. Only a monster would marry the man who usurped her father’s place and allow him to stand beside her throne as her new King Consort. Only a monster would lie with the man who murdered her only child’s father and only a monster would give birth to the most precious being in this world.

Her younger sister. Only four years younger but still so very wise and kind. The only person in this world whom Anikyra has ever had to love and cherish. The only one who had ever claimed to love her and didn’t abandon her for the sweet taste of death. The young Princess Scilia was the very image of their mother. Pale hair, purple eyes, touched by the dawn and the light above. She always wore light colors as well; an homage to her mother. The elder sister sometimes even thought that Scilia was the Sun itself; especially when times were dark and cruel. Many referred to the young Princess as “The Light Princess.”

Those very people had a similar name for the elder Princess. A name she did not care to refute as she knew the truth in it. When she was born, in the month of the Sapphire, her father was so happy his child would carry a reminder of him, regardless how small. The midwives called it “touch of dark.” Her mother called it “soul of the dragon.” But the people of the great castle called her “The Dark Princess,” for the small patch of black hair on the right side of her head, intertwined in her long, thick silver locks.

Those names, those whispers as she walked the slick, black floors of the castle, they gave life to the fire burning within her. Gave life to the rage she felt. Gave life and all that is unholy to the plan she had laid before herself once she heard the news, fourteen years ago, that her mother had been taken out of the castle a month after the birth of the Usurper King’s first child, the child that sealed his place on the throne, and executed in secret by the that very man. By the Usurper, her Father-by-law. She may be the heir to her parent’s murder’s kingdom, but this kingdom will bend the knee to her and her alone. She will take her realm back by blood.

She found herself in front of the massive iron double doors to the throne room. As they opened, the large crowd of the court turned all eyes toward her and dared not look away for even a moment, as they always had done. The masses watched the predator in the eyes of the Dark Princess at all times for sign of a threat, waiting anxiously for the day she finally snaps and ends the man who murdered the very couple who gave her life.

She began ascending into the throne room, straight toward the Valyrian Throne where the now-King sat and a voice called out before her.

”Princess Anikyra of the great House Targaryen. First child of Valyria, Heir to the Valyrian throne.”

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#house of the dragon #fanfic #aemond targaryen #false dragons #house of the dragon fandom #house of the dragon aemond #hotd aemond #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond x ofc #aemond x oc #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond

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vendetta-if · 11 months

Note

Hellooo, I discovered your WIP recently and AAAAAAAAAAH I’ve been obsessing over it for the past week now, it’s so good! You put so much effort into the flavour text and making the player’s choice come back into play, the MC feels so alive and I love it!

Anyways I’m sorry if this has been asked already, but what are Uncle’s and Дедушка’s opinions on the different ROs(including the poly)? Are they supportive whichever choice MC makes? Or do they have reservations over some of them?

I’ve been trying to catch up with all the asks you already answered but there’s so much content! So again I apologise if you answered this already.

Have a beautiful day<3

Thank you so much for your kind words! 💖 And no need to apologize! ☺️

For the poly for Grandpa and Luka, you can check here. 🤭 I’ll also include Viktor’s, Cara’s, and Grandma’s thoughts about the ROs because I’ve seen a few other asks asking for that as well.

Answers below the cut because they are long.

Ash

Luka: Automatic approval. He has figured out Ash’s crush on MC for a long time and if MC also has feelings for Ash, he’s this close to just tell them to kiss 😂 He knows that Ash prioritizes MC over themself in almost everything and Ash is one of the few people he trusts the most. No shovel talk is needed.

Pavel: Automatic approval. Ash is a really loyal member of the family just like their parents before them, and with their utmost dedication to MC, Grandpa knows that he’ll do whatever is necessary to keep MC safe.

Viktor: Yes! Yes! Yes! After spending a lot of time seeing the two hang out and babysitting them, he can’t help but notice Ash’s crush on MC. And he has witnessed firsthand how many times Ash has defended MC against anyone. He knows his baby will be safe in Ash’s hands and they’ll never experience heartbreak. Honestly, Viktor might be the captain of the ship 💀

Cara: She would be squealing in delight. She has noticed how hard it is for Ash to make friend and she is already happy enough that both Ash and MC can forge such a strong friendship. But them getting together… She’ll be relieved and overjoyed that her baby will finally be able to spend the rest of their life with someone who understand and love them. Ash and MC would be perfect for each other.

Alina: Not many people can impress her, but Ash’s loyalty and dedication to MC does make Ash one of the few people in that short list, and also, in an even shorter list of people she thinks would be deserving of her precious grandchild. It never fails to warm her cold heart inside every time she sees little Ash and MC play together. It is an instant approval from her.

Rin

Luka: Approval. Well, a wedding with Rin is just beneficial for both family all around and as long as MC doesn’t do it out of duty, but out of love, he’ll be more than happy. Plus, it will also make his best friend overjoyed. The only downside he can think of is that he’ll be brother-in-law with Takashi now 😂 Not that he actually minds, of course. He’ll often playfully complains about it, but he’s actually happy (don’t expect him to say it out loud though).

Pavel: Automatic approval. It’s just a very strategic wedding, tying the two families even closer through blood other than simply friendship. Pavel would be very satisfied of the union, although, he also doesn’t want MC to feel pressured to do it. He really cares about his grandchild and doesn’t want to push them too hard like he did Viktor.

Viktor: He would approve but not as readily as Grandpa or Luka. Takashi is a good guy—at least in Viktor’s standard—and he’s sure Rin is a good kid too. However, MC getting together with Rin would mean that it’s very likely they’ll get dragged into the family business. But as long as MC is happy and ready, he’ll support them.

Cara: Even she can’t deny that a marriage between a Morozov and an Aikawa is really beneficial. Personally, she’d like it more if MC can get with Ash because she knows about Ash’s feelings for MC. But as long as MC and Rin actually loves each other, she won’t have problems with it. Although, she’ll be a bit sad too in behalf for Ash.

Alina: Sure, the benefits of MC marrying Rin are good, but she cares more about what MC feels about it. After all, her own marriage to Pavel started out as an arranged one that thankfully ends far better than she expected, even if the road to there has not always been a smooth one. She wants to make sure MC actually loves Rin, and that Rin genuinely loves MC too. If so, then she’ll be more than happy for them.

Santana

Luka: Who? Oh, he thinks they at least know Santana’s father, although he has never interacted with him. Are you sure, MC? Santana is basically a nobody, not to mention, an underpaid detective and black sheep of the whole ECPD department. But seeing how in love MC and Santana are, he’d approve but not before giving a shovel-talk to the poor detective.

Pavel and Alina: Both agree that their precious grandchild deserves someone with far better prospects than a nobody detective. After making sure that Santana is not merely a high-maintenance gold-digger seeking to use MC to climb the ladder, they’ll be more receptive of them—especially since Santana is a polite and well-mannered person. But that won’t save them from a serious shovel-talk.

Viktor: He’ll be more open-minded and receptive of Santana compared to the rest of his family. He honestly doesn’t really mind Santana working a mundane job and he would be pretty impressed by their morals and how they try to stay as a clean cop, even to their own detriment. To him, Santana seems like a good, hardworking, honest, and well-mannered kid.

Cara: Just like Viktor, she doesn’t really mind Santana’s more humble background. And if MC loves them and they love MC back, and won’t try to fuck over the Morozov Family, she won’t have much problem with Santana. But to be safe, she’ll still give Santana a shovel-talk.

Skylar

Luka: Oh, hell no. MC, what the hell are you thinking? Have you not learnt from your dad’s and mom’s disastrous relationship? Luka is pretty sure that Skylar would prioritize their career over MC like Yvette, especially after learning that Yvette is Skylar’s mentor. He’ll relent if MC really insists, but he’ll keep an eye on Skylar and give them a stern shovel-talk.

Pavel: Being the child of Mayor Moore is certainly good. Moreover, their family is one of the richest in the city. But still, it’s barely enough to make Grandpa ignore the fact that Skylar is a superhero, and Yvette’s protégé too. He will certainly use his power to interrogate Skylar until they have nothing left to hide, and by then, if he judged that Skylar won’t hurt, betray, or break MC’s heart, and will always prioritize MC over their career, then he’ll reluctantly approve.

Viktor: Oh, this is complicated. What are the chances that his ex’s protégé getting together with his child? He’ll certainly be wary, even if he’s all charm and smile on the outside, constantly asking Skylar prodding questions in a disarming way. Might get charmed a bit back by Skylar, especially once they talk about both of their interest in photography. But once he saw that Skylar is actually different from Yvette, he’ll approve and be genuinely friendlier to Skylar, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get a shovel-talk from him.

Cara: MC, get behind her! Is this some kind of trick from Yvette? Was Yvette the one who introduced Skylar and MC to each other and tried to get them together? That cruel witch! Is she trying to make MC experience the same heartbreak she dealt to Viktor? Even after it has been proven that Skylar is different from Yvette, she’ll still be a bit suspicious, holding her breath for something that might not happen.

Alina: No, no! Skylar could be the child of the President for all she cares, but she won’t risk her beloved grandchild experiencing the same heartbreak that her son felt at the hands of Yvette, who also happens to be Skylar’s mentor?! After MC talks to her about how much they love Skylar and how Skylar also love them back, she’ll reluctantly approve because she wants MC to be happy. But she’ll always be on a lookout. Skylar won’t be able to charm her.

Ash/Rin Poly

Luka’s and Grandpa’s reactions are linked above 😁

Viktor: It is a pretty unconventional arrangement, that’s for sure. But if MC, Ash, and Rin are all okay and happy with it, then he’ll be happy as well. After all, his precious kid deserves to have two people who would love them fully and look out for them for the rest of their life.

Cara: Well, holy shit. This is such a perfect arrangement. Everyone’s happy, including her. Her child can still be with the person they love the most and who understand them, and that’s enough for her. Although, it still feels surreal that she’ll technically be sister-in-law with Takashi now. Well, she’ll prove she’ll be the cooler and more fun grandma to MC’s kids later on 😎

Alina: After making sure MC is happy with the arrangement, she will feel relieved. Everyone’s happy and get what they want at the end, and most importantly, she knows her beloved grandchild will be in good hands. Now, she hopes she can live long enough to meet her great grandchildren. A big, happy family is all she ever wanted.

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