#he’s the big brother slash father Ever and i love him to death | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kurorama · 1 year

Text

When The Time Comes ( III. )

⇀ ( I. ) ( II. )

Sully family x Sully!reader, oc x Sully!reader

IN WHICH your family leaves for Awa’atlu under the threat of Quatritch, leaving you and your mate to rule the Omaticaya. You all reunite after 2 years but someone seems to be missing? Your younger brother, Neteyam.

WC: 9k

Warnings: ANGST, death, grief of a brother:(, suggestive, feeding the Mo’rata babes with this😋.

It was late at night as you waited for the moment when your mate would return home to you. Usually he would’ve returned home to you and your daughter, but to your surprise and shock when you had woken up in the morning, your daughter was nowhere to be seen.

Your senses were enveloped with an intense feeling of fear as you rounded the village in search of your child, only before getting your nerves eased by one of your mate’s trainees. The news of your mate leaving the village with your young daughter right after your instance of dread was not necessarily pleasing, but you appreciated the honest man’s actions nevertheless.

Your ears were downcasted and your tail tense and resting right between your legs. You just couldn’t wait to chew him out once he would step foot into your shared tent. After your father had left to seek uturu from another clan because of Quaritch’s constant menaces, you had decided to stay behind and lead the people alongside your mate.

Your family and you both knew that without Jake here, no trouble would arise for the Omaticaya. It had been with heavy hearts and tear stained faces that your family and you had both seperated, watching them fly further and further away upon their ikrans. Before they had left, Jake had surrendered his title of Olo’eyktan to the future leader of his people, Morata. Your heart and eyes burned as you watched your dad get slashed across the chest by your husband, in an act of ‘killing’ him to pass his title to Mo’rata.

You knew how hard he had fought for the title, how much he had given for his people. He had given up his life on earth, his beliefs and everything that he once had for this life. For your mother who he had fallen so foolishly in love with. Watching him give it all up for the sake of his family brought tears to your eyes, which Mo’rata was quick to dry. You weren’t Tsahik yet, considering that your adoring grandmother was still rolling. Though Tsahik training did not did not strain you any less.

At the news of your bearing, you had been both elated and exhausted. The clan swayed and shared a feast all night at the news of a new clan member soon to be welcomed. You were truly happy at the side of your mate, and the grin on his face told you that he felt just the same.

But now you were so, oh so angry at him. How dared he take your only daughter out on a hunt with him and the older na’vi men. Wasn't he aware of how dangerous the rainforest truly was? Surely his numerous scars must’ve been a forewarning.

At the sound of heavy footsteps, you turned your whole body to the opening of your tent. Few years prior, he would’ve probably jumpscared you by sneaking up on you, courtesy of his silent footfalls.

Though fatherhood has taken a toll on the man’s overall playfulness, deep down you knew that he was still the unruly teen that he once was, just having matured outwardly for the sake of his people.

There he stood in all of his glory, with your tired daughter laying limp in his arms. Her barely opened eyes was the only indication that she was awake, even though it wouldn’t last for long. He knew that by the sight of your furrowed eyebrows and scrunched up nose that he was in trouble, he had already known ever since he had taken your daughter in the morning. You walked towards him, angry footsteps making more noise than his as you approached the both of them.

Your daughter looked at you through her big and tired round eyes, a familiar trait that you both shared. Her head was swaying adorably back and forth as she tried desperately to stay awake in her father’s embrace. You pulled her away from Mo’rata, rightfully ignoring him as you undressed your daughter of all of her jewellery. You unclasped the necklace that she wore, a tinier version of her father’s. The same necklace that you had weaved him so many years ago.

Your daughter, Sewii, had always wanted to be like her father. She was born a natural sweetheart, but it amused you how she tried to act stoic just like her father at times. Her facade would always break when you’d lift her up in your arms and nuzzle your nose into her chubby neck, ripping a wholehearted belly laugh out of her as she claimed that it tickled.

Your mate watched with adoration as you delicately placed your daughter onto your shared hammock, given that she was too small to have her own, and mostly that you loved having her in between the both of you at night. You placed a kiss on her temple as her eyes shut tight for the night. Once Sewii was off to dreamland and her quiet snores resonated all over the tent, you turned back to your husband.

“I think we need to talk.” you hissed, teeth clenched together as you spoke. Lo’ak and you would always try to stifle your laughter when your angry mother would speak to you both in such a way, but now you could understand that it was truly a given mom thing. Mo’rata’s ears fell as he began to make his way out of the tent. He knew that if he even dared to utter a word to you right now, you would most probably serve his ass right back to him.

“You brought our daughter out of the village gates, without even telling me?” you seethed, whisper-shouting at your irresponsible mate before you. Mo’rata’s eyes stared deep into yours as he remained quiet.

“You are like a baby, like a child that has first stepped foot into the forest. You know if it’s dangers and yet you dragged her along with you!” Mo’rata’s eyes then casted downwards at your accusations. Your tail flickered wildly behind you, the tip of it curving upwards as it conveyed your discontentment.

“She is 2 years old now, she should be able to see the world like we do.” Mo’rata raised his voice involuntarily as he started, wincing slightly as he saw the way your shoulders fell. “You prevent her from being like the other children, she is bored and sad sitting in the village all day.” he tried now in a softer tone, though it was hard when the subject affected him just as much as it did for you and your daughter.

His hands had moved to grab onto yours somewhere between his statements, but you were too lost in his words to even have noticed.

His fierce yellow eyes softened as yours practically sunk. You didn’t wish to bore or sadden your child, she was your everything. You felt as though you were your father in this instant, and she was the younger you that wished for nothing else than a sliver of freedom. You didn’t want her to be imprisoned amongst the invisible walls of the village, but your fears laid deep within.

Ever since your father and family had left for awa’atlu, the clan had deemed it safe enough for you all to move from the high camp and back onto the comfort of the trees. Everything was more accessible that way, more livable.

“I just want to keep her out of danger, yawne. She’s our only daughter, and I fear that it will stay this way for long.” he practically melted at the nickname though his heart fractured upon your words. The tears that had involuntarily gathered in your eyes breached the water wall, now pouring freely onto your cheeks. Mo’rata wasted no time as he pulled you flushed onto him, dropping your hands to comfort you in his embrace.

One of his arms laid onto the back of your shoulders as yours wrapped around his torso. His other hand caressed your hair in a comforting manner. It was silent as Mo’rata could never find the right words to bring reconfort, but his touch and actions always did it for you. He knew deep down that you had not forgiven him yet for the whole previous incident, but that was something that you could work on later. Now there was some sort of solace that you both sought after the weight of your words.

Years prior, after you had been promised under the gazes of the many people - Mo’rata wasted no time in claiming you as his. You both had waited until eclipse before sneaking out like young teens once more. Jake had not stopped you from running off that night, solely because Neytiri had been physically holding him back. He knew what this meant, why you had been running off specifically that night.

He knew that it was hypocritical and selfish to stop you from relishing in your newfound mate, because he and Neytiri had been through it. He knew that it was wrong to stop you. So he watched as you ran away, not showing your face until the break of dawn as you came back riding your ikran alongside Mo’rata.

He acknowledged that you were a grown woman now, and that a family of your own would soon issue. jake told himself that he was ready for his eldest to finally leave the nest, though he and Neytiri both knew that they would grieve upon your departure for some time. It was hard enough watching their first child grow up so fast, but it was harder helping you move your things onto your new tent. 4 kids in their home was definitely something that they would have to learn to get used to.

Though after the 5 months mark had hit ever since you had publicly announced your bond with Mo’rata, there was still no signs of you bearing any child. It was slightly alarming, and your family began noticing soon enough - though no one had the balls to ask.

Except for your youngest brother Lo’ak, well he had gotten close to before getting smacked by Kiri.

When you had first laid with Mo’rata, it had truly been a breathtaking experience for the both of you. Mostly for the male na’vi, given his inexperience - you had made it your goal to make him see the stars from up close on that night. You had started the night by leading, touching him in all sorts of ways after he had given you the green light.

It didn’t take him too long to learn, given his keen attention. Though he was still a little sloppy and blowsy, the intimate moment you had first shared was engraved onto his heart permanently. He loved that you were his first everything. His first love, first kiss, first relation - in all kinds of ways. You had laid besides each other at night, under the protection of the All-Great Mother. Your head had rested on his firm chest as his hands held you tightly in his embrace. Your queues still attached, tendrils intertwined firmly together.

Your little nightly moments had been doubling, tripling and soon you found yourself going at it like rabbits. You felt once more like a teen that had just discovered the amazing world of pleasure, and mo’rata was adamant on being the one who made you see stars now.

After five months, the fact that you remained unbearing had begun to trouble your busy mind. You had seeked the presence of your grandmother, the great Tsahik herself. Though she could not find anything anormal within your anatomy, you had gone back home full of self doubt that night. Your husband was quick to comfort you, holding you like he always did when you needed a little more reassurance.

You had always found it hard to affirm your feelings, courtesy of your father’s strict lifestyle as a young child. So when you had finally opened up to your mother about it, you couldn’t stop fiddling with your fingers or looking at anything but her. Neytiri had a soft frown present amongst her features as she watched tears of frustration gather in your eyes before blinking the pathetic tears away.

She had not known what was wrong with you. Well nothing was wrong with you, you just didn’t know how to word it. She had conceived you quickly after first laying with your father, and soon came your other siblings, so you being late on the whole pregnancy thing was strange.

After the tragic departure of your parents and siblings, a whole year after becoming mo’rata’s loyal mate - was when you had finally found out about your pregnancy. Hitting the 2 years and 2 months mark after her birth, here you were now - arguing with your mate about your light and joy.

You would always remember the prideful look amongst Mo’rata’s face when he had first announced your bearing to the clan, then the one that he had on while holding your child for the first time. He held your tiny daughter up and high for the clan to see, chanting her name as they did. She was barely bigger than the two palms of his hands, a big baby indeed. Despite her chubby cheeks and body full of fat rolls, she was still the cutest baby that you had both ever seen.

You had always had some kind of faith in the thought that your family would return soon. Even though it’s soon to be 3 years since their departure, their absence still left a black hole in the depths of your heart. You could almost imagine it, the look on all of their faces upon their returns when they see your little one for the first time.

How happy and proud your family would be for you, how proud they would be to see the fine chief that you made alongside your mate. Even in your upset state since earlier, your ears raised at the thought of your family, folding outwards. You wondered how the Metkayina were treating them, you wondered how big Tuk had gotten now. You’d dread the moment when she would not fit in the comfort of your arms anymore, or worse, when she would not want to be in them.

You wondered if your father has been treating your youngest brother well, and vice versa. If your mother is at peace with your brother's arguments and if Kiri is able to connect with Eywa as much in Awa’atlu as she does here. You almost laugh at yourself for this one, of course she would, the people here even nickname her ‘Child of Eywa’ because of her strong connection with the All-Great Mother.

You thought of your brother, Neteyam. You wondered if he was happy now that some responsibilities were taken off his back. You knew that at their arrival, he would most likely have it harder than here, but you prayed to Eywa for her to take all burdens off of his shoulder - and that’s what she had done.

Just not in the way you would’ve wished for.

Though you ignored anything that was happening with your family at the moment, you could only pray for them. Sewii sat in your lap as her face was squeezed in between your breasts in an attempt at getting breastfed again. She had reached the age where she could eat soft fruits and begin to chew on shredded meat, but she was so adamant about letting go of her sweet delicacy.

You sighed at her once more, moving your hands from your work to push her away. She was just as hard-headed as her father, though Mo’rata would always argue and say that she had gotten that trait from a certain someone else. Sewii reached her little hand up again to grasp at the beads on your top, pulling it downwards towards her with all of her might.

You were just about to reprimand her as you had heard it, the loud ringing of horns. You would’ve gotten up way more abruptly if it wasn’t for the little bundle of joy that was on your lap, so you gently took her and dragged her outside with you. The horns could only alert two things, an unwanted arrival - most probably a sign for humans on sight. Then there was the arrival of people, na’vi people.

You looked up at the 4 Ikran’s that were approaching your clan and you felt cold sweat gather up on the nape of your neck. If those were to be intruders then you feared for the safety of your clan, mostly of your family’s. They couldn’t be though, their path was immediate and there was no hesitation in their moves. They knew the forest like they knew themselves.

Mo’rata had suddenly popped out of nowhere, now being by your side. He raised a protective arm around the both of you, holding his family safe behind his stature. Everyone turned their eyes at the sight of their Olo’eyktan, wondering what the judgement for the new arrivals would be.

Though when a series of gasps had been let off amidst the crowd, you knew better than them being a threat. You gave your daughter for Mo’at to hold as she happily accepted the embrace of her great-grandchild. You loved Mo’at not only because she was the best grandmother but because she was so loving to her family. She has always been when you were a child, and despite her age now she continues to be for the child of your own.

You looked at your mate in the eyes before pushing through the crowd, with Mo’rata straight on your tail. You didn’t know who you were expecting when you had seen the 4 Ikrans, but the sight of your family had shocked you. It left you frozen in your place as they all eyed you, small smiles present on their faces. There was something more to that, more to the happiness that they displayed, though you couldn’t quite catch up on what.

Tuk was the first to pounce on you and your heart soared at her affection. You were so happy that your little sister was not in her ‘don’t touch me, don’t talk to me’ phase yet, because you would miss embracing her like this. You had gone through it as a rebellious teenager, and looking back at it made you physically recoil in cringe.

Your eyes moved towards your brother and sister, who were both two grown young adults now. They were not much taller than they had been before leaving, though Lo’ak looked a little more muscular. Defined muscles flexing at his every move. What had shocked you the most was the tattoos that adorned your little brother’s skin. There were some under his lips, nearing his chin. The longer ones went all the way from his arms to the side of his face. You smirked at him teasingly and he could only roll his eyes playfully at your banter.

He was all grown up now and you couldn’t tease him about being your baby brother anymore. Before you could physically greet your siblings, the skinny arms of your mother had found you first. For the first time in 2 years, you had never felt more at peace than now. Mo’rata was your pillar and Sewii was your comfort but a mother’s embrace is so much more than anything else.

You looked back at your father that observed you, his yellow eyes widening at how more mature you looked now. You haven't even changed height or had any crazy physical change happen to you other than the change that came with bearing a child. Somehow becoming a leader had just made you look ten times older, in the best way possible. You looked wiser than the young adult that he had left behind. He simply smiled at you, approaching you to pat you on the head and you closed your eyes, trying to relish in this happiness forever.

Unfortunately, all things are temporary and you would soon learn of this.

You looked back to be met with the playful sight of your husband headlocking Lo’ak. They played like two brother’s and you were rejoiced to see him being acknowledged as a sibling by your own, because you know that he had not gotten to feel that during his youth. Brothers, you thought.

You had brothers, not just a brother.

You looked back into your mothers eyes and she seemed to have caught on to your curiosity. The previous unknown look in her eyes had seemed to triple in size at your oblivion.

“Where is Neteyam? I have someone very important that the family must meet, but the family must be complete first.” you said to your mother and your smile soon faltered as her face remained the same. She looked back at Jake who he simply nodded at your mother. You knew that your father was never really good at anything sentimental and that your mother would always be the one to break things to y’all, so you prepared for the worst.

Mo’rata was quick to be at your side as your mood dropped, silently standing besides you. He had an idea of what had happened and he knew that so did you. You just wanted to play into the oblivion, because maybe if you never knew then it would never be true. Maybe your mind was just being pessimistic and your brother was waiting somewhere along for him to jumpscare you.

“Neteyam is not with us, my dear,” your mother tried to say but her own sorrow would not allow her to wreck the heart of her oldest child. Somewhere deep inside of your heart, Neytiri knew that you were somewhat sensitive. Though you never showed it because of the emotional absence that you had lived through during your youth. Courtesy of your father for raising warriors, not children.

She knew that when you had an argument with your father, you would secretly weep in the sheer darkness of the night. Where no one could see you.

You breathed out a laugh at your mother’s words and she frowned at your reaction. Had you not understood, or were you mocking your brother’s departure to Eywa’s afterland. She shook her head internally, cursing herself for thinking that way of you. “He has finally found a woman huh? That’s why he has chosen not to return.” Kiri’s stomach churned at your words.

She and Tuk had not been there to witness the tragedy of your brother’s passing, and it was just as devastating to hear from afar as Quaritch announced the death of their older brother. They were somewhat glad to not have witnessed the incident, although grateful to have been able to say goodbye to their brother before he was engulfed forever unto the arms of the ocean.

You however, had not been as lucky as them to have gotten such a chance, and the guilt would forever nag at your heart.

“He has finally found a woman that makes him happy. That’s why he’s not here.” you said and your father pitied the sight of you. The subtle quiver of your eyes held so many words that you just couldn’t express at the moment, because your throat burnt so much that you just couldn’t voice out anything more. Your mother was the first to break as she tilted her head down, reliving the fresh memories of her arrival before her firstborn son’s lifeless body.

Your lips wavered as you looked back desperately at your husband, looking for some kind of hidden answer somewhere. You gritted your teeth before squinting your eyes at Mo’rata. “Tell me it isn’t true,” you questioned him as if he hadn’t been here with you the whole time, as if he had been there to live through what your family had. He said nothing at first, face crestfallen as he didn’t quite know how to respond to your pleas.

Before the sobbing could consume you, your husband had made it his priority to engulf you into his embrace, holding you tight against his toned body. You cried as loud as a lost viperwolf cub in search of its mother, you cried for Eywa to take the pain away from you. Tuk ran to the arms of your father, still a visibly sensitive child at heart as she couldn’t stand the sight of your mother’s and your tears.

For a second, you had wished that you had made different decisions in your life. You had wished to have followed your family there, because then maybe you could’ve protected your brother better than you had ever done in your entire life. You could’ve saved him but you weren’t there and nothing in this world could ever change that now.

You know that the hurt will never go away, but you know that at some point your sobbing will cease and your tears will dry. Because no matter how much you cry and beg, your brother will never return and you will live with the guilt of your decisions until the day you die. Mo’rata rubbed a hand over the back on your head, comforting himself just as much as you. Just because Neteyam wasn’t his biological brother didn't mean that he wasn’t allowed to grieve too.

The feeling of tiny hands on your toned calf had shaken you out of your distressed state. You looked down at the sight of your concerned daughter, and you had allowed yourself to let out another breathy laugh as you spotted her. Perhaps it was because you tried to make yourself happy in this moment of sadness, you’d never know.

You picked her up in your arms as she made grabby arms towards her father instead. Usually you would’ve faked offence but you were not in the mood to play pretend with your child at the moment. You gave her to Mo’rata and Sewii was quick to nuzzle her face in the collarbone of her father, she looked sad as well and you couldn’t help the new wave of deception that rose upon you. She was sad because you were sad, you were the cause of her dejection.

Before you could go for another round of tears, Kiri had approached you softly. She graced her hand upon your shoulder, rubbing comforting motions onto you.

“Who's this little one?” she asked despite already having her suspicions. She would fake it for the moment though, in an attempt at easing her family. You tried to smile at her as she asked about your little family, something that you had dreamed about introducing forever.

Sewii attempted to hide from the unwanted attention by forcing her head deeper into her dads neck. Mo’rata groaned at her force but he couldn’t get himself to be angry at her, she was just a shy little girl after all.

“Would you like to introduce yourself, ‘ite?” you spoke softly to your daughter, and the many eyes of your family behind you widened - except for Kiri’s of course. It was obvious that the child was yours, though hearing you say it was like a truth revealer.

Neytiri stepped forward, her cheeks now vacant of any tears as she tried her best to stay strong for her family.

Neytiri stood before your daughter, raising a cautious hand to stroke at the shy girl’s cheeks. She visibly relaxed as she noticed that your mother was no one to be afraid of and so she slowly began to pull her head out of her fathers neck. Much to Mo’rata’s relief. You looked back at your father that was still standing awkwardly in his place, then to your siblings that had now vanished somewhere in the clan. Your father had told Kirk and Lo’ak to bring Tuk somewhere else for now, until everything was settled.

“Would you want to stay with grandma tonight, i’m sure she’d love to have you over?” you questioned Sewii as your mother moved out of the way to let you speak with your daughter. She nodded before shocking the whole of you. She extended her hands towards Neytiri, making grabby hands at her grandmother.

Mo’rata himself seemed shocked, even though he wasn’t a man for many expressions. The creases that formed on his forehead could say everything at the moment. Neytiri on her side wasted no time grabbing Sewii from under her armpits and into her own arms. She ushered the both of you out, and so you went, peaceful minded as your daughter was safe in the arms of her grandparents. The great warriors.

You had been ranting to your husband for a good 30 minutes now, though it’s not like he would complain. If he could, he'd even retrieve himself a cup of wine and listen to you talk about your sorrows like a good househusband, but he can’t, so he’ll just stick to sitting pretty in front of you.

The moss under the both of you was soft and inviting, almost making you fight the urge to lay down on its large bed of softness. Your husband fiddled with a stray twing as his ears turned towards you, showing you that his attention was on you. He broke the twig into little pieces to entertain his fidgety fingers in the meanwhile, watching as your ears twitched each time that he did so.

“I don't understand Mo’rata, I feel like I'm failing everything and everyone,” you said, throat feeling heavy at your confession. Though you were shred that you wouldn’t cry. You couldn’t. You had emptied the whole of your body crying earlier as you grieved the fall of your younger brother, and your head still aches as the aftermath.

Mo’rata looked at you through half-lidded eyes as you ranted to him. “First of all It has taken me a year to give you a child, then I heard about the death of my own brother.” you wavered, head tilting downwards as you drowned in self pity.

“Maybe if we had gone with them, then we could’ve saved my little brother.”

“Stop blaming yourself for things which you cannot help, if Eywa has decided of his fate then so be it, there was nothing that you could’ve done to undo it anyways.” his words sounded scolding, but his tone held nothing more than tenderness. He sounds anxious as he speaks, like something was physically holding him back from comforting you. Though you don’t blame him for the awkward way that his words come out, because you’re just as shitty as him at expressing your feelings.

On a usual, that is, with him it just feels like you can rely your deepest secrets upon his shoulders. He’s like a safekeep, with a double lock and tied off with a steel chain. Like a confession post that you can confess to at any moment.

“And stop with those deprecating thoughts, it doesn’t matter to me how long it has taken for Sewii to be conceived. What matters to me is that she’s here, a part of our growing family,” Mo’rata reproves you in his own loving way, but he means well. “Your body has done so much hard work just to carry and birth her, you should be proud of yourself.”

He stares at your silent figure for a solid minute, his eyes unwavering as they trace your distinctive features. He thought of ways in which he could comfort you other than his awkward consolation words, and remembers how much you love it when he spills his totally unfunny jokes that you can’t help but cackle at.

“Is it the wrong moment for me to want to kiss you?” you can’t help yourself but let out a dry laugh at his words, not that you didn’t find him funny, just that you didn’t really have the energy to. There’s a comforting smile on his lips as his ears turn inwards and towards you.

“Maybe..” you joke back at him. “But maybe a kiss is what I need to get my head off of everything right now.” Mo’rata is quick to submit into your desires as he brings a hand up to lay upon the smoothness of your skin.

the feeling of his warm palm resting upon your chin felt grounding, his thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. The look that your husband was giving you was filled with love, yet again when was it not? To the clan and other people, he might’ve appeared as a stern or stone cold leader, but you knew better than that, he had a hidden side for his little family.

Oh and he was beautiful. Better looking than any men that your sister has ever tried setting you up with during your teen years. Better looking than any guy from the clan that you’ve ever had a stupid crush on, yet he was still the same guy that was outcasted because of his looks and now look at how far he has advanced.

Mo’rata watched as your eyes strayed further from his own, instead they traced every single feature on his face. From the varying scars that went from barely noticeable to the ones that dug so far into his skin that were sure to follow him to his deathbed. He watched as your smile grew bigger once your eyes laid on his hair, clearly happy with its growth.

The first time that you had met the man, he had one long loc of hair that caged his face, while the other had seemed to have been accidently cut during one of his hunts. During the years, the awkward loc had grown, and now he looked more marvellous than ever. You had even tried to lure him into wearing matching beads with you, but he denied, saying that it would affect his mean look.

As he grew to embrace his duties more seriously, and took some more time to train his students and himself, his physique changed drastically. He was afraid that fatherhood would’ve taken a toll on his body, but clearly it failed to do so. He was so entranced and lost in his daydreaming that he had failed to notice you moving closer to him, until you pressed a peck to his cheek. It brought him back, reviving him like a flower in dire need of water after a rain session.

His hands laid firmly on your hips as you kissed, oftentimes digging into the soft flesh with his calloused fingers. You whined desperately into his mouth as you felt him grabbing you by hips in his bruising grip, dragging you onto his lap as he sat you there. He manhandled you like you weighed nothing, like you could compare to thus of a feather. Your arms were quick to be thrown over his shoulders for stability, clasping your hands together behind his neck.

You smiled into the kiss once you felt his hands exploring again. His fingers dug under the strings of your tweng, exploring and caressing the skin of your hips again. You tilted your head to the side for better access and everything was going perfectly. That was until you felt the soft pinch that Mo’rata had given you to the side of your body.

You gasped as you opened your mouth for a second, overtaken by the slight feeling of shock in the moment. Though your husband wasted no time as you felt his tongue slip into your mouth, smooth bastard. Battling for dominance as two switches was more entertaining than a match of mud wrestling itself. You unlatched your hands from each other and away from the nape of his neck, dragging it painfully slowly down to his chest.

You could’ve felt him hastily sliver once your fingers reached his torso. Feather-like touch caressing the hard bed of muscle above the sculpted V-line that ran past his Tweng. The same V-line that would attract the unwanted eyes of many single na’vi women amongst the clan, but it satisfied you to know that you were the only one that could ever look further down than that.

The tip of your fingers caressed his toned pack of abs as Mo’rata stifled his chuckle at the feeling. Mo’rata had grown so much ever since the Sully family had left for Awa’atlu. He was bulkier now, his abdominal muscles being the result of his training. His shoulders were broader now and it accentuated that tiny waist of his.

Mo’rata was sure that having to carry his daughter 24/7 was what had been the reason for his arm muscle growth. His breath hitched as your curious hands explored his body. Even after so many years of being mated to the man, he just couldn’t get enough of your touch.

You removed your mouth from his, much to his dismay. Though the feeling of you nipping at his neck was more the less rewarding as he craned his neck back, his head tilting backwards in pleasure. You knew his body like the back of your hand, what made him recoil of displeasure and what made his body tingle like no other. You knew him like nobody else did, his body was practically yours at this point.

Mo’rata felt the purging need to have to be closer to him, closer than you physically could. You continued your assault on his neck, leaving a trail of faint hickeys on his neck. You kissed the underside of his jaw, assaulting his jawline with your mouth. You could feel his loincloth tightening right under you, and you grinned at the feeling.

Being a parent and a chief meant having less time to spend like this with the other, so you’d be sure to make the best of your time tonight. It didn’t matter if you went until sunrise and returned at sunset, your daughter was in the safe hands of your family. You knew that she was already fond of your family anyways, despite it being the first time that she has ever met them in her 2 years of existing, but she could always go back to the warm arms of her great-grandmother if she wanted to.

“Stop worrying so much, y’know she’s probably having fun with Tuk right now.” Mo’rata whispers in your ear as though he could read right through your thoughts, his voice was raspy and it dripped with impatience and desires. You could feel his warm breath hitting the side of your face as his fingertips ghosted your sides while he ran his hands up and down, awaiting for you to come back to your senses.

You could only laugh at his desperate sight before snaking your arms over his shoulders, your hands gliding from his neck and onto the start of the hairs at the lower back. He grunted as you grabbed a handful of his locs, pulling the twists of fine hairs between your fingers roughly. His ears folded upright as you continued pressing toothy kisses onto his exposed neck.

You didn’t want to leave too much because you’d have to return to your family afterwards, and you and your brother were always known for teasing your parents when they’d come back home after a date night. Now you imagined that he could only do the same to you, considering that your little brother has always been a living menace. The feeling of your fangs nipping at his skin was sending him over the edge, and Mo’rata swore that he’d have you reaching for the stars again tonight.

The walk back home was nonetheless relaxing and it reminded you of the many times that Mo’rata had walked you home during your teenage years. His squinted eyes watched as you played with the surrounding nature like a child, and he found himself reminiscing of the moments where he could allow himself to be so carefree along your side.

Things were different now, you had both aged and you had more responsibilities than any other clan member upon your shoulders. As parents and clan leaders, this short-lived night was more than what you could’ve ever dreamed of.

Being formally greeted in the village was something that you had gotten used to since birth, being a Sully and all, but it was a whole new concept to your mate. Surely new means since 3 years ago, but it was still new. You both passed by feasting village men and women who offered you a place in their family circles for dinner, and your heart warmed at the act.

Though you both had your own family to attend, so you politely denied the offers. It was nice to see everyone getting along so nicely and it surely saved Mo’rata from his olo’eyktan duties of having to separate stupid men from fighting each other to death. With your hand tightly holding his, you both entered the tent that harboured your little family.

Your family tried their best to ignore the light marks on your husband's neck, but Lo’ak just couldn’t help himself and make a silent joke about it to himself. Like the one time that he had nicknamed you Dracula, a fictional character that he had found in one of the human’s books, widely known for his neck biting antics.

Without missing the disgusted and knowing looks that your little siblings threw at you, except for the all innocent Tuk. She was now 11, and you feared the instance where those stupid boys would ruin her pure mind with the mindless things that they say. Needless to say that the first thing you felt amongst entering the tent was the feeling of a small body crashing into yours, a little head stuffing itself wherever it could reach.

And that being unfortunately your poor

kneecaps.

You reached down to the obvious little person being your daughter, given that Tuk now reached just below your upper chest. Sewii was quick to nuzzle into your chest as she pressed the feathers uncomfortably into your skin, but could you really blame her when she looked so adorable?

“No hugs for dad? How unfair.” you heard the scruffy voice of your own father from behind, and Sewii was quick to throw grabby hands at her dad. She didn’t want him to feel left out, but she’d always have a soft spot for her mother. You chuckled lightly as Mo’rata took her effortlessly into his arms, resting your daughter on his hips with one strong arm. You’d have other times to gnaw about the way his muscles rippled with the way he positioned his arm, for now you had a family to entertain.

“I see that parenthood has found you well?” your mother now spoke, rather to your mate than to the both of you. Neytiri brought a piece of the fruit that she was eating up to her mouth, sticky juices running down her arm before she could even stop it.

“It’s exhausting, but…” Mo’rata trailed off before your entire family, afraid of revealing his feelings out loud to everyone. Surely had fatherhood been a way different routine then his usual one, not that it was unexpected. During the first year that you had brought Sewii on this planet, she had been nothing more than a living menace. Between her raging mood swings and the fact that she just felt the need to wake the both of you up by wailing in the middle of the night was excruciating.

But the moments in which he’d get to go back home after a long day, only to be welcomed by the sight of your daughter waiting patiently for him while you prepared for the night's meal was more than gratifying. For so long had Mo’rata dreamed of such domesticity, even though he wouldn’t verbally express it.

After getting rejected for the first time by a woman he once liked, he believed that there weren’t many options of a future life laid out for him. Sure it might’ve seemed like he was just overly dramatic, but it was just so hard to fit in when he was so different. He was scarred both physically and mentally and rejection was practically a word that was engraved in his vocabulary.

Not many women had ever looked his way, not when he was littered in war scars and had a permanent frown gracing his features. He was a walking dark cloud, and he passed off as rude even to people who he had never even interacted with. Then he met you, the certain Sully that had changed his life for the better. The person that had given him the loving family that he had always secretly dreamt of. He loves you more than his words can describe, and he would go to the world's ends for you.

Unbeknownst to you, your mother was staring dead at you as you interacted with your daughter from her father’s lap. The men in the tent were too busy talking on and about to even notice her sudden silence. Neytiri was undeniably proud of how far you had grown, and how much you had earned for yourself. She knew that it was no easy task, because she had once been tsakarem just as she was still a mother.

She was glad that Eywa had finally blessed you with a child of your own, because even if she wouldn’t admit it out loud, there was always this subtle fear that the Great-Mother wouldn’t give you her blessings. For whatever reason, it didn’t mean that you weren’t deserving of one, Eywa just has different paths for everyone.

“What are these on your face, brother?” you ask Lo’ak, and the whole room turns to him. Your brother’s ears falter for a second as all eyes turn to him, before he pulls himself together.

“These are my iknimaya tattoos.” you watch with curious eyes as Lo’ak points towards the sleeve tattoos that run all the way up his both arms. Your own ears raise for a second at the word.

“So you’re a man now?” you beam, happy for your little brother. For his whole life, he had been seen as some immature little boy by the people around him. It made you happy that he finally decided to pull his head out of his ass and prove to everyone that he is a worthy warrior. Mo’rata himself can't even stop his own smile from showing, though it’s more subtle than anything.

For a minute, the tent is filled with nothing more than a comfortable silence. Other than Sewii’s baby babble, you all enjoy your meal in the casted quietness.

“The ones on my face here, is to show my mateship.” Lo’ak boasts loudly, his pointer finger directing your eyes towards the top left of his forehead. Your family watched with amusement as yours and Mo’rata’s eyes widened comically at the news. Though it wasn’t that surprising because he had reached the age of 18 now, you knew that the Metkayina had a tendency at doing everything earlier anyways.

oh, and it clicked in your head. This is the perfect moment for you to get revenge at all of the times that he had teased you about Mo’rata.

“Sooo…,” you moved closer towards your brother, throwing an arm over his shoulders as you pulled him towards you. The mischievous glint in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed by your keen husband, and he grinned to himself at your undying playfulness. “I haven’t even met my sister-in-law yet, so make sure that I don't catch you with my niece or nephew when I do meet her.”

The tip of your brother’s ear immediately flushed to a purplish colour at your insinuation. Jake only rolled his eyes at your sibling’s banter, not being able to scold you both for your crudeness now that you were both adults.

“So what is she like?” your husband asked, startling you all as he awakened from his silence. Lo’ak tilted his head to the side as he looked at your husband in pure puzzlement, before the gears seemed to have finally turned in his head, and inevitably got stuck again. He was just stupid. Your good old stupid brother.

“Your woman I mean, i’m afraid that she’s another troublemaker like you my brother. That’ll make your father’s hair fall off faster.” your mate joked, accent thick as he accentuated his words. His tone held no malice, no venom in its syllables, and it told you that he didn’t really care if Lo’ak’s mate actually could be another little gremlin just like him.

He treated your siblings like his own family, teased them and took care of them like a real brother. Eventually, the whole tent erupted into laughter at his joke, before Lo’ak reassured him that it was not the case. On the contrary, he explained that his lover kept him grounded if anything. Tsireya sounded like a good woman to you, and you couldn’t wait for the day that you’d get to meet your new sister.

Eventually everyone came down as your daughter fell asleep in her father’s arms. Her body was limp and it looked like her neck would crack at any moment from her weird position, but she was comfortable like this so what could you do? Her face was resting against Mo’rata’s chest, chubby cheeks squished together in a drooling mess that you couldn’t help but chuckle at.

You’d spent a good amount of the night gossiping and weaving with your little sisters as they now laid unmoving on their temporary hammocks. Even your parents looked the more exhausted, the trip must’ve messed with them pretty badly. Your little family wished them all a goodnight before moving back to your own home, not all that far away from theirs.

You were just as tired as you reach your tent, and Mo’rata being the amazing husband that he was had volunteered to prepare your daughter for bed. You were already laying on the big hammock in the middle of the room when Mo’rata had arrived with the sleeping Sewii in his arms. It was like an immediate reflex to wrap your arm around his upper torso as he laid down on his back besides you.

One of his arms was placed under your head as a pillow as you laid on your side, enjoying the sight of your daughter peacefully placed onto his stomach. She drooled still, but it didn’t seem to disturb him much. He’d gone through much worse as a warrior, a little baby slobber was nothing to him. His other hand rubbed warmth onto the small of Sewii’s back, keeping her heated up for the night.

It was silent around, darkness enveloping the land if not for the bladder lantern spread across the village.

Closing your eyes, you tried to sleep for the night and put everything that had happened today in the past. Your day was truly an eventful day, filled with heartbreak and longing highs. The heartbreaking loss of your brother was still there, fresh and uncovered as you laid in the comfort of your family’s presence. Even if it had not been spoken of ever since the moment of your breakdown, it still ran wild through your mind.

It was like you were being punished for all the wrongs that you had committed during your life. Fresh just as old memories of your brother replayed through your head, leaving you to feel empty at the end of each. They spiral repetitively in your mind, like a broken loop of haunting memories. And you felt unable to open your eyes, like Eywa herself was forcing you to take it all in. Forcing you to accept that the brother that you used to spoon-feed would no longer be there at your wake.

You were shaken awake at the sudden feeling of some warm fingers upon your cheek. Though your vision was blurry from the tears, you knew by the size of the palm that it could be no one else but your husband. His thumb ran across your cheekbone, rubbing the fresh tears away, moistening your skin. You could faintly distinguish a little smile on his face, not one of derision or amusement, but one filled with condolence and solace.

A wobbly smile of your own made its way onto your face as you leaned into his palm, closing your eyes once more as you seeped into a filling void of darkness. But the memories didn’t stop coming in, and your tears failed to stop as they drenched your husband's fingers that laid unmoving on your cheek. Though the smile on your relaxed face contradicted your tears. You were just happy to see your brother for a few final moments, even if it was simply in your mind.

You wanted to take advantage of the moment where you could still see him, before his face disappeared from your memory bank and became nothing more than a blurry mess as you grow older. You felt your husband press a chaste kiss onto your cheekbone before his breathing levelled out, and the images of your brother completely faded out as you succumbed into slumber.

You were happy as you fell asleep. Happy because your family was safe and there with you, Neteyam was safe in the Great-Mother’s hands. You were content because you knew that you’d always cherish your brother, even if he wasn’t here with you to do so physically anymore, even if one day you wouldn’t be able to make up a picture of him in your head anymore. You were happy.

taglist:

@neteyamforlife @ssc7514 @iloveavatar @killinqpills @ilovejakesullysdick @liyahsocorro @sujekie @zaddyneteyamlovergirl @miawastakens @onlytays @junnniiieee07 @mashiromochi @rinloversworld @kadu-5607 @hai-kbai

#neteyam x reader #jake sully x reader #neteyam x sister!reader #jake sully x daughter!reader #jake sully x daughter #sully!reader #neytiri x reader #lo’ak x reader #atwow #avatar #avatar 2 #neteyam sully #avatar oneshot #kiri sully x reader #jake sully #lo’ak x sister!reader #neytiri x daughter!reader

710 notes · View notes

the-whispers-of-death · 1 month

Note

okay but im feeling malicious

Stone (any variant) with a reader who is highkey kinda evil. he's sweet and loving to Stone but is nasty, vindictive and manipulative to everyone else (he doesn't let Stone see that part of him. he's trying to be nicer for his boyfie). anyway reader finds out what Stones dad did to him and sets out to completely ruin his life, burn everything that man had built up. reader has connections so he finds out where Stones dad lives and begins tormenting him psychologically at first. appearing outside his house with a weapon, standing there menacingly like a black blob in the darkness, breaking into his house while he's sleeping and messing with things just enough for Stones dad to notice but not enough for him to be certain that someone was there, ramping up the paranoia. then there's the more physical part. reader sends him threatening letters and writes nasty words on his house and car, keys it and slashes the tires and cuts the brakes. if Stones dad takes any medications reader steals those so he has to go get new ones which makes him look like an addict. if Stones dad has any interpersonal relationships with anyone reader fabricates messages and pictures and spreads them around as well as spreading rumors to ruin any social life he might've had. reader even gets their claws on his military record and makes false reports acompanied with false evidence to fuck with that too. reader keeps pushing until Stones dad is hanging off a cliff, clutching at the last straw (metaphorically) just for reader to come along and burn the straw while stomping on his fingers. reader just wants the wretch that hurt the love of his life fall deeper amd deeper until there's only the most drastic way out.... and reader can go as long as it takes to reach that point

Stone only finds out about his fathers demise some time later yet never finds out what really was the cause of it unknowing that the cause is right beside him, letting him lay on his chest and feeding Stone strawberries. reader is quite proud of himself for taking out the trash

Stone does not care about his father's death, he knows he should, he just can't get himself to care. He just worries about his eighteen year old half-brother Mohandas.

One of the things that keep him up at night is knowing that while Bharat had gotten therapy at the time he kicked Stone out, that didn't mean he was guaranteed to be a good father to Mohandas. So Stone often worries about his half-brother, but he's also too scared to reach out to him.

So as long as Mohandas is okay, Stone does not give a flying fuck about his father.

(Do I think Canon!Stone would be the best big brother ever if he actually had a chance to be a big brother to any of his half-siblings? Yes, which is why Baker!Stone is a variant of Stone, because I needed to create a universe where Stone finally got to be a big brother.)

#task force 141 oc #call of duty oc #cod oc #task force 141 oc: stone #call of duty oc: stone #cod oc: stone #baker!stone #stone variants #Baker!Stone has my heart since he was able to actually be a big brother to three out of his four siblings #Actually since I made it so that Bharat is in prison during Baker!Stone AU Stone is a big brother to Mohandas as well #The Mishra brothers interacting with each other is just so interesting to me #:)

4 notes · View notes

yugiohcardsdaily · 1 year

Text

SO I was trying to say something with this, but I never got it out all the way and I've lost my motivation to work on it. Still, I'm posting it in its incomplete state. Sorry.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Related to my last God of War post, I think there's some important things to acknowledge in regards to the storytelling across the entire God of War franchise. It's like, what, 15-20 years old? Or at least around that age at this point. The way narratives in games were told in 2005 and the way they are told now are different. The way characters are allowed to express themselves has changed, too.

In 2005, it was more common and acceptable for a male protagonist to have his wife and/or child threatened and/or killed as motivation for his quest. Kratos's story is also largely inspired by that of Heracles, better known by his Roman name of Hercules. God-induced rage/bloodlust led him to murder his wife and child, which leads him to be indebted to a god in an attempt to atone for his sins, though for Kratos it was multiple gods and he was more driven by a need for vengeance than pure atonement.

In the main Greek Era God of War trilogy, Lysandra and Calliope are less characters and more plot devices, because that's all they needed to be. The story was about Kratos killing Ares, and then killing Zeus and any god or being that stood in the way of that. Typical hack-and-slash platformers with over-the-top gory kill animations, scantily clad ladies, and a raging, overpowered vengeful hero with a tragic backstory. That isn't to say there wasn't decent storytelling at certain parts. That part is at its strongest in III, in my opinion.

The other three games of Greek Era God of War (Ascension, Chains of Olympus, and Ghost of Sparta) provide glimpses into a life before Kratos made that big mistake in a moment of weakness. I mentioned this in that post about Lysandra. Ascension shows us a couple of interactions with Kratos and his wife and daughter, and although these are illusions created/performed by the Furies, he isn't fully aware of this in the moments he's caught in them, so his behavior is genuine. He is an affectionate father and husband and expresses this mostly through touch and action more than words. It's worth noting the necklace and ring he uses to ground himself belonged to his daughter and wife, respectively, gifts he gave them if their descriptions as "spoils of war" are to be believed. These expressions of love are seen again in Chains of Olympus with the real Calliope, though words would've been helpful in explaining to Calliope why he had to betray his word and leave her when he just promised he'd never leave her again. If he stayed, Persephone would have gladly made the sacrifice meaningless as she used Atlas to destroy all of existence, so to save Calliope, he had to hurt her. The game even forces you to push her away, which is probably the only time (minus when he unknowingly killed her, of course) he ever physically harmed her in her entire existence. And in flashbacks, we see another act of love in that Kratos is the one who made Calliope's flute himself. That she has it in Elysium, in death, gives weight to how much it means to her, and I'd like to think she eventually understands her father's actions and forgives him for breaking his promise, perhaps by the time she reappears in III alongside her mother in Kratos's psyche to lead him to forgive himself.

Before I turn to Ghost of Sparta and focus on his relationship with his mother and brother, I want to point out when Ascension and Chains of Olympus came out, since I mentioned the original God of War of 2005 was kind of a product of its time. Prior to the Nordic Era games, Ascension was the last GoW game created, releasing in 2013. Chains of Olympus came out in 2008. I think it shows the writers were trying to prove, even only three years after the original game, that there was more to Kratos than we speculated, that he wasn't just a violent avenger with a typical tragic backstory, but a genuinely good father, and they tried to make his daughter more than a simple plot device driving his actions in life. This is extended in Ascension, but surprisingly less so despite how much later it came out. It might've been nice if Lysandra got a name-drop in either of these titles or the main trilogy, too, but I digress. (At least those manipulating him and writing him know he loves her enough that she'd be at important events in his life, like with the King of Sparta...)

Something that never changes about Kratos's character is how much his family means to him, which we see stems from having lost his in childhood in Ghost of Sparta. His brother Deimos was taken from him when he was too young and weak to really do anything to stop it. His mother disappears from his life and ends up in Atlantis in her old age somehow, but regardless of that, life for a Spartan boy wouldn't really allow him to remain with her, anyway.

[to be continued, maybe, someday...]

#not duel monsters #god of war #long post //

12 notes · View notes

macrosdesfleur · 2 years

Text

A ficlet for you to have a “ha-ha”

SO, I was slightly busy (and lazy) this past three days and i kinda wanna indulge myself now that i have a spare weekend

But i had this dumb idea a whole-lot-of-time ago, so now that i have a bit of free time to sit and outline slash translate this piece so yeahh

what-a-will await you is uh? i have no experience tagging ficlets of even fanfiction but i will try;

Zuko joins the gaang early kinda

Just past s1ep13 The Blue Spirit

Sokka & Aang bonding i hope

Sokka (finally) being a big brother (in his own way tho)

Sick Katara being coddled

Confused Aang

Momo & Appa!

Confused Zuko

Frogs

...and spirit shenanigans

Word count: 2296

So yeah? Click keep reading i guess if you wanna read it *shrug*

A fair share of spirits slips into the world of people. Capable of performing miracles and curses that are worse than death. The Kingdom of Earth seeks protection from spirits for a long milenia now; Honorable grand spirits of Earth, strong-war-thriving ghosts in battlefields, even the weak non-seeable ones receive a fair share of offerings in exchange for a slight chance of protection on their village from Fire Nation army, such a frequent wish. Shridevi, the patroness of rice and plantations; turned out to be friendly and tolerant of small spirits seeking refuge. It is not surprising that minor feeble spirits appear in her grand fields of crop, looking for their calling in this realm. Some of them will become attached to a quiet tree and make it their home, someone will find the hearth of a house and will join the service of Agni. Or be overwhelmed by another more greedy spirit to never exist as itself again. Spirits have no reason to love, definitely not. However, seeing a feebler existence begin to engress her safe plantations, drawing earlier and earlier, keeps a reflection of her deep anguish tangible.

The spirit that freed the avatar from Pohuai Stronghold must have been born in a moment of true unbalace that broke out there. Such a pity her plantations and worshippers long burned. Shridevi sent a gentle breeze across the space where endless fields stood as a farewell to another being she had not been able to see in person hoping her touch reached far enough.

A breeze run through a foliage of trees. “You know what's the worst part about being born over a hundred years ago is? I miss all the friends i used to hang out with!” Aang was sitting on the root of a tall tree. At what point they both ended up here is a real mystery. Why the avatar-child decided to open up abruptly and start talking about his past - a detective thriller in three acts, buy first two act-scrolls and get the finale for free. “Before the war started, I used to always visit my friend Kuzon; the two of us, we get in’n’out of so much trouble together,” Aang's voice rose to the usual fluctuations in volume, if his head didn't hurt so much, it would be just perfect.

“He was one of the best friends i ever had; and he was from Fire Nation-”

“Just like you.”

OK, that’s it, maybe Aang got sick as well afterall ‘cause what is this sudden Fire Nation sympathy-talk means than. And it could kinda explain why he sees any other people -Fire Nation people- anywhere near their earshot. Well, if sickness makes Aang go suddenly all soppy and open and trusting, maybe it’s not gonna be real pretty if he now betrayed it. Plus, it’s healthy to be emotionaly open isn’t it? Not girly at all right?

“If we knew eachother back then, do you think we could’ve been friends too?” Aang's voice was full of trepidation, excitement, hope. But in his own gut- how could he let Aang down so badly? Hadn't they made it clear to the monk that they were friends? They are not just friends, they are each other's family.

Well, his father wouldn't have been such a great dad if he hadn't taught him how to support others. It remains only to remember how he did it and not how his gran-gran showed it.

“Aang,” the fear to say something wrong fettered him for a second. The voice didn't even seem to belong to him, but a real warrior does not show fear and sticks to his believes till the end. “I hope you know that I'm your friend, we're not on different sides afterall. I understand that your situation is difficult, so much so, that no one has actually faced it before you, but I hope that we can support you in some way, make it easier y’know” laying down and saying those words seemed wrong, but trying to get up and worry Aang seemed like an even worse idea, so be it. By the way, Aang at this moment looked shocked, only looking at him, goosebumps went up his skin. Shock quickly replaced relaxation, and a modest smile crept onto the face of the boy with the arrow on his forehead.

"I knew you weren't bad," Aang replied, he stopped hugging his knees, his smile broght ease into his gut. Well, he probably said something right ‘cause now this mischevous airboy got back at him for exiling Katara and him back and the South Pole right?

"I don't know what you mean, Aang." now, smiling seemed comfortable and easy. Their misunderstandings cleared up and they can relax again on treir respectable sleeping bags? Where is his sleeping bag?

“A-a-ang, what are those- are these leaves?” Oh the universe just lo-o-oves making him miserable huh, maybe he was too quick with the smiles so throwing a frown on his face seemed appropriate. Aang laughed. Even in his throbbing head he could’t stop his muttering about stupid airnomads and their stupid avoidance and their stupid all- Aanginess.

“Well, can you stand up? It's time for us to collect frogs for Sokka and Katara,” the monk jumped from his place on the root of a huge tree.

“What? Frogs? Why do I need frogs all of a sudden?” his body ached,little spots swam in his eyes, it seems that he did not fully recover. But he managed to get to his feet.

"I was at this herbalist's house and she said I needed to collect frozen bog frogs for Sokka and Katara to suck on." Aang looked sweet, content, as if he hadn't said the dumbest thing in the whole wide world. There was a springiness in his steps that usually showed when he was particularly pleased.

“Y”know, Aang, I'm not going to suck bog frogs and I think Katara will not approve either,” he hoped that maybe his fever still hadn't gone as he assumed and his mind was still coming up with words that Aang didn't actually say at all. It's a strategic move to mention all the keywords that Aang said to make sure he said them right.

"Mhm, I guess you won't need to suck on frogs," Aang looked away a little worried and stood still.

“You're not sick, are you? We can get more frogs, you know,” and lo and behold, the eyes of the avatar-child looked at him full of concern. How he could be so sincere was still a mystery worthy of great detectives.

“Uh, Aang, I do get what you mean, but I won’t put a frog in my mouth and definitely won’t suck one,” it seemed like the best option to move them legs and follow the boy; maybe he stopped coughing, but the fever churring weirdly in his stomach and whatever it was with him and Aang's hallucinations that say that somewhere there is a person from the Fire Nation and the frogs that heal are definitely still here. At least he doesn't feel like an earthbender. Everything has its pluses.

"Oh, we can't leave your mask and swords; I'll help," Aang muttered and quickly ran to the tree and the bed of leaves. And he returned, surprise-surprise, with a mask and a sword sheath with a sword hilt sticking out. At what point he managed to acquire a mask and a sword was also a mystery, but such gifts are not just dismissed. Aang jumped a little using his air magic tricks and shod a mask on him, the sword was bestowed in his hands.

***

It turned out that frog-hunting was not a hallucination and as for Aang's behavior; it could be mistaken for a hallucination or some kind of high fever symptom. He literally never ceased to generate happiness.

Something on the left side of his head kept pulling his whole face together, maybe when Katara gets better they can fly down to this crazy herbalist Aang told him about and she can examine his head. Good thing their hiding place wasn't as high as he thought. As soon as he frees his hands from the frogs, he will immediately claw from the avatar how he even ended up in the forest on a bed of leaves. Throughout their frog-hunting, Aang never stopped telling his past adventures with Kuzon and avoided any mentions of the dumb leavy-bed he made.

“Katara! Sokka!” It would seem that Aang can't vibrate with joy any harder than it already was, but here he is, in all his avatar glory.

“I brought you medicine! And you won't believe who I met!” oh, there it is, now he's jumping into the air without realizing he's using his air magic, typical Aang. Katara leaned out from under Appa's legs in an attempt to wave her meets to them. Oh, ocean spirits, she looks even worse than Aang described. She muttered something unintelligible and waved her hand languidly. The older brother's instinct did not fail him and he was already next to Katara and hugging her tightly. How could Aang leave her alone? How did he himself could leave her alone?

“Aang, what should we do? This so- so not looking good,” perhaps his voice betrayed a lot more concern, but this is his family, he can't just not worry.

“Zuko! It'll be all right, just give her the frog!" Aang's eyes darted from him to Katara, he was much more alert, almost nervous, stance ready for battle. Wait, Zuko? The mere mention of that name sent him into a fight-or-flight to inspect all of their hiding place, if the burning-fists prince-jerk was somewhere nearby, then they urgently needed to pack Katara up and fly away, but, there was no prince.His vision swam, he himself was not good to stand a fight and Aang still joke around about Fire Nation. Just. Not good.

“Aang, cut it!” he definitely didn’t shout so loud, as- he didn’t mean to frighten the monk so badly, but the boy cringed under his voice, his fighting stance wobbled as if he readied to bolt. OK, he'll deal with him later, Katara needs help right now. He wiped the cleanest frozen frog he could find and brought it to Katara's mouth. She herself reached out to the frog and literally inhaled the frog until it was half hidden in her mouth.

She...

Sucks.

The frog.

And her face seem’d to calm, the bog frog worked.

“Okay, I'm sorry I shouted, but just imagine how strange it is to put a frog in my sister's mouth, right?” he was still carefully examining how his sister sucked the frog from all sides and looked a little stupid, his hands found themselves gently patting her head and feeling her temperature. Definitely, if he remembers this sight well enough, he can come up with a joke and annoy Katara when she is all healthy.

“Sokka?” Aang asked puzzled. Sokka turned to look at the monk and raised an eyebrow, as if asking silently what he wants. The monk met his eyes, his face full of indescribable emotion, the main emotion was definitely bewilderment thogh.

“Oh, monkey feathers, how did i not see it sooner,” the monk slapped himself on his bald head and left his hand slowly slipping onto his face. Momo swooped down from the sky onto Aang's shoulder, Katara's water skin hanging full around his neck, Momo's fingers actually looked so weird sometimes, especially when those little grippers dug into people's shoulders.

“Aang? What?” Aang was a little too mysterious today, not in a soppy-sick way, it's time for Sokka to sort this out.

“You're Sokka, right?” Aang asked the strangest question Sokka had ever heard, not for the first time today. This is either a field of philosophy that he has not plowed and is not going to plow any time soon, or his fever is playing out again. Collecting himself and pulling himself out of his guesses, Sokka cleared his throat. Momo repeated his cough, but it definitely sounded like Momo, so his fever wasn't so high that he thought Momo was a conspyrasy-spying-animal against their world-saving plans and his high inteligent plays only for their side of this war.

“Yes, Aang, I'm Sokka, the one who is sick and sucks the frog lying on Appa - Katara, the one who stubbornly looks at me and-”

Sokka squealed. His squeal was the most masculine of all possible squeals, thank you very much, it certainly wasn't so loud and high-pitched in sound that everyone's ears got clogged. Momo seems to have suffered enough and flew away to hide behind Appa hiding his ears.

***

The second(?) Sokka broke out of the sleeping bag and performed a firebender kata that was supposed to set something on fire, but instead he just held his fist in the air for a couple of moments. “Hmm, didn't work.” Noticed the second Sokka out loud lowering his fist, after that he quickly did a couple of rolls, after which he grabbed Zuko-Sokka and took away his sheath with a sword- swords, after a couple more rolls, the second Sokka was near Aang, between Sokka and Aang, another Sokka that looks like Sokka. Oh this is so confusing, they need a better system than that.

"Avatar," a voice full of authority sound itself from the second Sokka. Hearing Sokka's voice in that tone was terribly unusual. The second Sokka drew Zuko’s sword from its scabbard and split the sword in two with too much grace for Sokka’s image.

"Whatever body you're hiding in, give up." The second Sokka's voice held on to determination, but his eyes studied each person in their place as like searching for a clue. The swords pointed at Aang and Sokka. “And, my body, you are also coming with me,” nervousness finally caught up with his intonation, he still continued to study everyone in turn thogh. Sokka let out what sounded like laughter in Zuko's body.

"Aang, Katara won't believe the kind of hallucinations I'm having right now. Here, Zuko in my body is threatening us with swords so that I go with him,” Sokka cackled laughing in Zuko's body.

“Well, you know, Aang, you convinced me. I now won't refuse to suck a frog," Sokka said in Zuko's body and was already stuffing the whole frog from his hands into his mouth. The squeal that followed will also be the manliest in the world if real-Sokka wished so. The real-Zuko's swords clanged to the ground,Sokka’s whole body restraining real-Zuko's hands with a reprieve. Appa did not like this concert of squeals as he let out a lowing sound that inclined his fatigue.

“What are you doing with my body?” shouted the second Sokka, probably Zuko-Sokka. “Trying to suck a frog whole?” Sokka-Zuko answered too simply, still stretching his whole face and tongue towards the restrained hand with the frozen frog in.

“No! Do not dare!” Zuko-Sokka continued to slur, hiss, and pull Sokka-Zuko's hands away from the frogs. Honestly, Aang managed to get confused about who is who, their behavior was not very different from the originals, according to his observations, if he wants to keep track of where who was, then he should come up with something better than Zuko-Sokka and Sokka-Zuko as well.

“Spit it out!” “Spit it out! STOP!” yes, Sokka was always the one who was not happy with things and he complained, he used to complain loudly. So? Not so different.

“No wait- it’s not- it’s not so bad, I- shhose fhe khleanesht onesh,” Sokka-Zuko justified himself. But to be honest, they saw how Zuko could do things worse than eating frozen frogs, and Sokka realy did choose cleaner ones. And so, the frog ended up in Zuko's mouth. Zuko's body? The loudest squeal escaped Sokka's body, okay, there's nothing to hide, they were both squealing too loudly. Appa sighed with his mighty lungs and lashed his tail in displeasure. Momo was definitely twittering as he crawled all over the bison's hide looking for cover.

Soon, the screams and even hissing stopped. Zuko, in Sokka's body, lay on the stone floor of their hiding place, barely moving. Aang should probably raise him off the stone floor so he could sleep peacefully. “I'm cursed.” Oh, thanks the spirits, he doesn't need to be lifted up.

"What do you mean, Zuko?" Aang asked, using Zuko's name just because, avatar intuition, definitely. “My inner fire, my body, I have been deprived of all,” Zuko began to list sounding too depressed for Sokka’s voice. He let out a shaky sigh and muttered something else, Sokka liked to lie down like that sometimes.

“This is the work of the spirit, I shouldn't have saved the avatar. Spirits are apparently inheritantly evil.” cut Zuko, still face down on the stone floor. “Maybe I could’ve saved the avatar without using a spirit disguise?” at least now he unsticked himself from the ground. Good for him. “Of course!” hissed the prince in Sokka's body, and banged his hands onto floor into a shape that meant flames were about to come out of them. There was no flame.

“Aang! Aang!” having understood, the voice of screaming Zuko meant Sokka. So Aang turned his eyes towards Zuko, well, Sokka. Monkey feathers,what an awkward situation.

“Look!” Sokka was still screaming, but there was fire on his arm, so it wasn't much different from Zuko- It's not really surprising that Sokka was silent when Zuko whailed about loosing his fire and body. He made fire. Zuko seemed to be looking in the direction of the scream as well, because now he was screaming into the stone floor. His cries generally had the idea of something like “you can’t be a firebender for less than two minutes and already make a stable flame” and “this is my body, how does this fire even come out like this”.

#atla au #sokka #aang #avatar aang #zuko #katara #avatar the last airbender #atla #atla s1 #prince zuko #momo #appa #my fic #my art #the gaang #atla fanfic

16 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 3 years

Text

break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

✰ ✰ ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

✰ ✰ ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

✰ ✰ ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

✰ ✰ ✰

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

✰ ✰ ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.

#zenin naoya x reader #zenin naoya smut #jjk smut #zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #tw:incest #tw death #tw toxic relationship #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY #whew okay

1K notes · View notes

one-sad-human · 3 years

Text

•Pinky Promises• Steven Adler

Pairing: Steven Adler x Reader, Axl Rose x Sibling! Reader

Requested? Yup! By an anon

Theme: Angst(?) to fluff

Warnings: Language, sexual references but nothing explicit

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Fic 1 of 2! Hope you enjoy! Also, the makeout near the end gets sorta hot and it was pretty fun to write? Like I’m considering exploring into writing smutter pieces. I didn’t want to originally because I thought I’d cringe all the way through and hate the result but I might try it out in the near future. Nothing too crazy but it’s something for me to think about.

You step off of the large bus, your combat boots hitting the ground as you adjust the bag slung over your shoulder. It's stuffed to the brim with whatever you threw in, you're surprised the zipper did burst.

You take a deep breath of the LA air. It's hot and humid and despite the thick air pollution, you can breath easier than you did in Indiana.

You grew up in Lafayette, Indiana with your older half-brother William. You were raised in the hellish house with your shared father, which you finally managed to escape.

William left right at eighteen. He tried taking you with him, but you didn't want him to be charged with kidnapping and have the cops on his ass. Now, two years and your father's stolen wallet later, you're finally in the city of dreams.

"Will!" You yell out, spotting your redheaded other half.

"Y/N!" He mocks, catching your figure in a crushing hug. He's taller than you, so you have to stand on your tippy toes during the embrace. "Thank God you're alright."

"I'm fine, I'm happy to finally see you again," you say, a huge grin on your face. "How's the band? Everything going well?"

"Well enough," he says with a shrug, grabbing your heavy bag and slinging it around his shoulder. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the guys. You already know Izzy of course, but the rest of them."

The walk to the 'hell house' as Will had called it is filled with catching up. He made sure to keep in contact with you, but the phone calls were always short. It felt nice to have a full length conversation in person with your brother again.

"Welcome home," Will says, leading you into the house. You grimace when you catch a whiff of stale beer and weed.

"You seriously live here? This place should be condemned," you say with disgust.

"And then where would we live?" The oh-so familiar voice of Will's best friend meets your ears. You whip around and fly into his arms.

"Jeffery! I missed you so much! You really should've tried calling, you ass!" You exclaim. Izzy rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless, patting your back during the hug.

"Who's this?" Another man enters the living room— if that's what it should even be called. He's blonde, taller than you but shorter than the other two men in the room. He has kind eyes and the smile he has on his handsome face leaves you speechless.

"U-uh, hi. I'm Y/N," you say after a moment of shameless gawking. If he noticed, he doesn't mention it.

"Oh that's right! Axl talks a lot about you! I'm Steven," he says and bounds up to you, catching your hand in a shake. You don't question who the hell 'Axl' is, but you smile stupidly at him and bite your lip with a blush staining your face.

"No," Will says, glaring at the cute blonde you've taking an immediate liking to. "Absolutely not."

"William!" You squeak out, pinching his shoulder harsher. He yelps and swats your hand away. Will glares further at you as he ushers you up the creaky stairs to your room. "Nothing happened! And who the fuck is 'Axl'?"

"I saw how you were looking at him! I'm not naive, Y/N. You were giving him the 'fuck me' eyes! And me, everyone calls me Axl here." You give him a look. "Except you, of course. You can call me Will."

You don't give him another word as he leads you to your bedroom. He was the one who didn't have a roommate before, and he'd have to share with Slash now but he was determined to give you your privacy.

"This is the only room with a working lock, use it. Especially when your changing! Three horny men in a house with one you isn't a good combo." You make a face and shake your head, but you can't really tell if he's being overprotective or if his band mates really are pigs.

"Are you not including Izzy?"

"Please, he's the only smart one besides me. He knows I'll rip him a new one." You laugh and give Will another hug.

"I've really missed hanging out with you like this, and thank you for letting me stay here." He nods and rubs your back.

"No problem, we have each other's backs, always." You nod and release your bother from the hug. "One rule though: no hooking up with the guys. One time thing or not, you don't know them like I do, I won't let you get hurt. So don't even try anything with Steven!"

"Even if it's nothing sex?" Will levels you with a look that would make you sweat if you were anyone else. You sigh and roll your eyes. "Fine! I promise."

"Pinky promise?" He asks, holding out his pinky finger. You shake your head but comply anyway, hooking your pinky on his.

"Wow, bringing out the big guns, pinky promises," you tease.

"Bitch," he mumbles. You gasp sarcastically.

"Asshole!" You reply. William takes his leave with another slew of insults under his breath but none to be taken seriously and all with a smile. You shut your door after him and lay on your bed, content with how things are finally beginning to look up.

If you knew where you would be in just a few months of living with your brother and his band, you never would've agreed to the naive promise Will had forced on you. You think back to the day with a frown.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Steven asks, pecking your bare shoulder as he lays behind you on your bed. You both lay naked and damp with sweat, glowing from the moonlight streaming in the room.

"William," you say with a sigh.

"We just had sex and your thinking of your brother? Should I be worried about you?" Steven asks teasingly. You fight the smile growing on your face and lightly pinch the his arm tightly wrapped around you. He never fails to make you laugh.

"I just feel bad keeping this a secret from him." You turn around to be face to face with Steven. "It's been months of sneaking around. I'm always nervous we'll get caught together or I'll blurt it out to him."

"Then why don't we just tell him?"

"Do you want to die! Steven, honestly, do you have a death wish?"

"No, but—"

"Then we can't tell my brother we're together. He'll murder you, and then probably me one he finds out how long I've been lying to him," you say and move your head in the crook of Steven's neck.

"Then we can be together in the afterlife!" Steven folds his arms around you even tighter. "Seriously though, we can't lie to him forever. We've been together for six months already, surely he'll see how much we care about each other and not want to kill us."

"Yeah, maybe," you say halfheartedly and close your eyes, finally letting yourself fall asleep.

The next night, Guns has a gig at the Whiskey A-Go Go. The ritual goes like it has been, they play the gig, you wait for Will to get drunk, and you and Steven sneak out to the back of the club to make out and maybe get felt up a bit before returning like nothing happened.

It isn't different this time. Steven's hands leave your skin ablaze as he lets them wander down your sides and up your thighs. His lips don't leave yours, even as he squeezes your ass and you let out a moan. He grins on your mouth and presses his pelvis up to your stomach.

His mouth leaves yours to press feather light kisses to your cheek before trailing down your jaw and onto your neck, where he sucks nips at. You have to press a hand to your mouth to stay quiet.

"Don't leave marks," you remind him through batted breath.

"I won't," he reassures and silences you with a chaste kiss to your swollen lips before returning his attack on your neck.

You hear footsteps fast approaching, but as quickly as you hear them, Steven is ripped away from you. He's slammed into the brick wall next to you harshly and groans. You jump away and gasp.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" William asks, his voice lower than usual. His green eyes dark and downright scary.

"Will! Let him go, come on. Stop fucking around, you didn't have to slam him into a wall," you say, but your shaky voice falls on deaf ears as Will doesn't move. Your hands grasp at his arm and try to yank him away from Steven, but he's stronger and taller than you and doesn't budge, he just keeps his eyes focused on Steven.

"Nothing!" He squeaks out. Even in the dark, his kiss bruised lips and flushed red face is obvious.

"'Nothing?' That's why you were ten seconds away from fucking Y/N?" Will asks.

"William stop it! You're scaring me! Leave him alone!" You push him again and this time, he relents. Will paces and runs his hand through his red locks while you rush to make sure Steven is ok.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Steven mutters and presses a kiss to your brow to comfort you, sending you a smile when he pulls away. He keeps his hands on your arms and rubs circles with his thumbs.

"How long has this been going on?" Will asks, crossing his arms as he finally stops his pacing.

"Six months..." Steven says nervously. William scoffs and shakes his head. "But it isn't just fucking around! I love them, Ax. Really."

You smile bashfully, biting your lip to try and contain it. You knew you felt strongly for Steven and that he returned the feelings, but you haven't outright said you loved each other— until know of course.

Will stays silent for a few beats, staring contemplative at Steven. He finally sighs, bring a hand up to rub his temples like he has a building headache.

"Yeah? And you love him, Y/N?" He asks. You nod, reaching out to grab Steven's hand. Steven lets a grin creep on to his face. "Then I guess I can't stop you. But if you ever break their heart, I'll fucking gut you, Adler."

If Will makes Steven nervous, he doesn't show it. He gives him a salute with his puppy dog like smile before sticking out his pinky.

"I promise I'll never hurt Y/N purposely, ever." Will rolls his eyes, the irony makes him nearly groan aloud. He sucks it up anyway when he sees your hopeful expression, hooking his pinky onto Steven's.

"Don't make me regret this, Steven," Will grumbles before leaving and walking back into the crowded club. Steven lets out an exhilarated laugh and kisses you, hard.

"Told you he wouldn't kill me!" Steven exclaims, making you laugh out of surprise.

"And we don't have to sneak around anymore!" Steven kisses you again, and again and again until you're breathless.

"I'm so in love with you," he mumbles between his attack on your lips. You smile, tangling your hands in his aqua-net filled hair.

"As I am with you."

#classic rock imagine #guns n’ roses #guns n’ roses x reader #guns n’ roses imagine #80s #steven adler fluff #steven adler imagine #steven adler x reader #steven adler #axl rose x reader #axl rose imagine #axl rose fanfic #axl rose

229 notes · View notes

a-simple-gaywitch · 3 years

Text

“I’m SO Fired”

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer falls in love with Dave Rossi’s adopted daughter

Word Count: 2038

Warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of brutal case, mentions of death of parents, that’s it. it’s mostly fluff

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” -Anton Chekhov

Spencer was leaning over Emily’s desk, helping her with some details of her paperwork. He glanced up and noticed a beautiful woman briefly talking to Anderson before entering through the glass doors.

“Reid. Reid!” Emily said, snapping her fingers to get his attention.

“What? Oh, sorry.”

Emily shook her head. “And just like that, 187 gets slashed to 60.”

The woman walked over to the desk with the two. “Uh, hi,” you said. “Is Dave Rossi here?”

“Oh, um, he should be here. Did you- do you have a meeting with him?” Spencer asked.

“Kind of,” you said with a small laugh that made Spencer’s stomach flutter. “I’m-”

“(Y/N)!” Hotch said when he saw you.

“Aaron!”

Emily and Spencer exchanged glances as you gave Aaron a brief hug.

“Are you here to see your dad?” he asked you.

“Yeah, is he here?”

“He should be in his office. How long are you in town?”

“Just the weekend,” you said. “But I’m coming back in June for vacation.”

“Well, I’ll let you go see your dad,” Hotch said. As you walked up the stairs, he turned to see Spencer gawking at you. Emily looked at Hotch apologetically. Hotch sighed and said, “Reid, focus on your paperwork, not (Y/N) Rossi.”

You knocked on the office door, waiting to hear your father’s voice.

“Come in!” You pushed open the door and your adoptive father’s face lit up. “Tesorina!” he said, getting up to kiss your cheeks. “I was wondering when you were getting in. How’s work? And what about that boyfriend of yours? Anything-”

“Dad,” you said, cutting him off. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know at dinner. But you promised you’d introduce me to your team the next time I was in town.”

“I did promise that, didn’t I?” he said, pushing up from his desk. He slung his arm around your shoulder and steered you out of his office. The team was gathered in the bullpen, and they all turned to face Rossi when he cleared his throat. “Guys, this is my daughter, (Y/N).” He then introduced each team member to you, save for Aaron.

“Wow, Rossi, I didn’t know you even had a daughter,” Morgan said.

“Gee, Dad, you don’t talk about me to your coworkers? I’m hurt,” you said, pressing your hand over your heart.

Rossi rolled his eyes. “Drama queen.”

“So, you’re a Rossi?” Emily asked you.

“Not biologically. Dave adopted me when I was five,” you explained.

“Initially, I was just fostering her for a little while, but I fell in love with this little rascal,” he said, ruffling your hair.

You set about fixing your hair. “Well, I gotta run. See you at the house for dinner?”

“Yeah, I should be done around 6. Don’t get into trouble.”

“Me, get into trouble? When have I ever been known to do that?” You shot a wink at the man you now knew to be Dr. Reid before leaving the BAU.

Spencer’s cheeks turned pink and he felt Rossi’s eyes on him. He looked down at his desk, busying himself with organizing his pen cup. When he heard Rossi’s office door close, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Derek rolled his chair over to Spencer’s desk. “You’re looking a little flushed there, Pretty Boy. That wouldn’t have anything to do with Ms. Rossi, would it?”

“Shut up, Morgan,” he muttered, focusing on folding a small piece of paper on his desk into even smaller squares.

Dave walked into his house (mansion) to the smell of garlic bread and tomato sauce. He smiled and set his coat on the rack by the door.

“You know, I would have cooked!” he called as he made his way to the kitchen. You were setting the table for the both of you.

“Yes, but how often do you actually cook?” you asked him as you poured two glasses of red wine. “You’re always away on cases, I know how much fast food and takeout you eat. Now shut up and enjoy my carbonara.”

Dave chuckled and sat down at the table across from you. “So, how’s work going?” he asked you.

You shrugged. “You know, there’s good days and bad days. We had a brother and his little sister get adopted together this week, which is always one of the big wins for us.”

He nodded. “What about that boyfriend of yours, Chad?”

“Oh, we broke up,” you said. “About a month ago.”

“Good, I didn’t really like him.”

“Dad, you say that about every guy I date.”

“And it’s true, I haven’t liked any of the guys you’ve dated.”

“Yeah, the only guys you’ve liked have been the ones you’ve tried to set me up with.”

“That’s not true!”

“Dad, remember Stephen?”

“I thought you would be a good match, honest. And before you say it, it’s not just because I’m overly protective.”

“So, we can admit you’re overprotective of me?” you said.

“Of course I am. And can you blame me?”

“I guess not,” you said with a shrug. “And you could be worse. I could still be living here.”

“Oh, come on. Would that be so bad, having a huge house mostly to yourself?”

“Well, no, but I like living in Pennsylvania,” you said. “And I like having an apartment.” Your father gave you a skeptical look. “Stop profiling me.”

“Sorry, it’s hard to turn it off.” He took a sip of his wine. “You’re planning to go to the cemetery tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“I do every year, you know that.”

“Yeah. They’d be so proud of you, you know.”

You smiled down at your plate and pushed the pasta around. “I know. I, uh, I don’t have many memories of them anymore,” you said. “But the one I’ve been trying to get rid of is still there.”

Dave reached across the table and grabbed your hand. “Hey. Your parents loved you, so much. That’s all you need to remember, okay? They loved you so much that they sacrificed themselves for you.”

“Yeah.”

You lost your parents when you were five. There was a serial killer in the Greater DC Area, a family annihilator. He’d called himself the Orphan Maker. The man would seek out young families with kids no older than 8 and kill the parents first, in front of the children. Then he would kill the children.

Rossi had been on that case, and had found that your family was the next target. Unfortunately, they did not get to your family before the man killed your parents. But fortunately, they caught him before he could get you.

Rossi felt guilty they didn’t make it in time. When the law officers found that you didn’t have any family to take you in, Dave offered to bring you home. The plan was to originally just be a foster parent to you until CPS found a place for you to stay officially. But he fell in love with you. You were a little spitfire, a little troublemaker. Dave adopted you and dedicated the rest of his life to taking care of you and protecting you.

“Hey, Rossi!” Morgan said as he met the man in the kitchen to get coffee. “How was your weekend with (Y/N)?”

Rossi noticed Reid’s back straighten at the mention of (Y/N)’s name. He smiled to himself, a plan forming in his head. It was a bit of a convoluted plan, but it would work out for everyone in the end.

“Oh, it was fine. She made me watch an episode of that show Reid and Garcia like.” He glanced over at Spencer’s desk and noticed he was listening intently. “I agreed since she’s still recovering from a recent breakup.”

“Is she okay?” Derek asked. “I know breakups can really suck.”

“She’ll be okay, she bounces back quick. I didn’t like the guy anyway. He was a meathead jock who thought being the high school quarterback was his entire personality. I want her to find a guy who’s smart and kind, someone I like.” He walked out of the kitchenette and passed Reid’s desk. He clapped his shoulder. “Morning, Reid.”

You were back in the area for a week-long vacation, and Dave had promised to go sight-seeing in DC with you.

You walked into the bullpen and were greeted by Penelope, who had quickly become your friend. She wrapped you in a hug before Rossi made his way over to you.

“Hey, Dad. You ready to go?” you asked after giving him a hug.

“Um, actually, I have to work late. But, you know, Dr. Reid here,” Spencer’s head snapped up from where he was packing his bag at the mention of his name, “knows more about the area than anyone I know. He can show you around. Right, Reid?”

Spencer looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You smiled at him and Spencer felt the butterflies that were already in his stomach go crazy. The two of you walked out of the office, Spencer nervously gripping the strap of his bag while you walked alongside him.

Penelope looked at Rossi narrowing her eyes. “You don’t have to work late.”

Rossi smiled. “No.”

Penelope gasped. “You’re trying to set them up, aren’t you?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” Rossi said before walking back to his office.

“So, Dr. Reid,” you said as the two of you walked out of the FBI building, “I heard you’re a huge Doctor Who fan.”

Spencer turned to look at you, losing his footing and tripping on the sidewalk. He straightened himself up and cleared his throat. “You, uh, you can call me Spencer. And yeah, I’m-I’m a fan.”

You smiled and Spencer thought the sun had come out again with the brightness you radiated. “Who’s your favorite? Personally, I’m a Tennent girl, but Baker is a close second.” Spencer was staring at you, his jaw dropped. “What?”

“You might be the hottest girl I’ve ever met.”

When Spencer woke up, the first thing he noticed was the beautiful woman asleep next to him, her head on his bare chest. He smiled and ran his hand through your hair as you started stirring.

“Morning,” he said as you looked up at him, resting her chin on his chest.

“Morning, Pretty Boy.” You saw his smile falter and his eyes go wide. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m so fired,” he said. “I slept with my boss’s daughter. I’m so fired. No, I’m more than fired. I’m dead. Rossi is going to kill me.”

“Hey. Spence, breathe,” you said, cupping his face in your hands. “He’s not going to do anything to you. And if he tries, he’ll face my wrath.”

Spencer chuckled. “Well, after that guy drove through that puddle and splashed you last night, I believe it.” He was silent for a moment as the two of you sat up in the bed. Spencer wrapped his arms around you, pulling your back to his chest. “What are you going to tell him when you go home?”

You shrugged, leaning your head back. “The truth. I got to know a sweet guy last night and I stayed the night at his place.”

Spencer smiled and gave you a soft kiss.

You slipped into the Rossi Manor, feeling like a teenager missing curfew again. You got about halfway through the kitchen before hearing Dave clear his throat. You spun around to see him standing by the kitchen island with a cup of coffee.

“Oh, uh, morning, Dad.”

“So, you were out all night.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re wearing the same clothes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who is he?” When you didn’t answer, he said, “Spencer?”

Your face paled. “How did-”

“You didn’t really think you could hide that from an old profiler, did you?” He handed you the mug. “Don’t worry, I approve. I’d be more than happy to have Spencer as a son.”

“Dad!”

“I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.” - J.R.R. Tolkien

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #x reader #rossi!reader #criminal minds #em's fics

398 notes · View notes

weirwoodking · 3 years

Note

I feel like that if Jon was a girl, she'd be hated so badly by the fandom for everything she was loved for as a male

Oh, yeah, of course. Jon (and the other male characters) gets away with feeling emotion in a way that none of the female characters do or would ever be able to do.

I was going to do this in a separate post, but your ask gave me the perfect opportunity to do it right here. I took the liberty of compiling a few Jon excerpts, and switched the name “Jon” to “Dany” and the male pronouns to female pronouns.

And then she heard the laughter, sharp and cruel as a whip, and the voice of Ser Alliser Thorne. "Not only a bastard, but a traitor's bastard," he was telling the men around him.

In the blink of an eye, Dany had vaulted onto the table, dagger in her hand. Pyp made a grab for her, but she wrenched her leg away, and then she was sprinting down the table and kicking the bowl from Ser Alliser's hand. Stew went flying everywhere, spattering the brothers. Thorne recoiled. People were shouting, but Dany did not hear them. She lunged at Ser Alliser's face with the dagger, slashing at those cold onyx eyes, but Sam threw himself between them and before Dany could get around him, Pyp was on her back clinging like a monkey, and Grenn was grabbing her arm while Toad wrenched the knife from her fingers.

—Jon VII, AGOT

Ser Alliser seized Dany by the arm.

Dany yanked away and grabbed the knight by the throat with such ferocity that she lifted him off the floor. She would have throttled him if the Eastwatch men had not pulled her off. Thorne staggered back, rubbing the marks Dany’s fingers had left on his neck. "You see for yourselves, brothers. The girl is a wildling."

—Jon IX, ASOS

In the end Halder and Horse had to pull her away from Iron Emmett, one man on either arm. The ranger sat on the ground dazed, his shield half in splinters, the visor of his helm knocked askew, and his sword six yards away. "Dany, enough," Halder was shouting, "he's down, you disarmed him. Enough!"

No. Not enough. Never enough. Dany let her sword drop. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Emmett, are you hurt?”

Iron Emmett pulled his battered helm off. "Was there some part of yield you could not comprehend?" It was said amiably, though. Emmett was an amiable man, and he loved the song of swords. "Warrior defend me," he groaned, "now I know how Qhorin Halfhand must have felt."

That was too much. Dany wrenched free of her friends and retreated to the armory, alone. Her ears were still ringing from the blow Emmett had dealt her. She sat on the bench and buried her head in her hands. Why am I so angry? she asked herself, but it was a stupid question. Lady of Dragonstone. I could be the Lady of Dragonstone. My father's heir.

—Jon XII, ASOS

“Men say that freezing to death is almost peaceful. Fire, though…do you see the candle, Gilly?”

She looked at the flame. “Yes.”

“Touch it. Put your hand over the flame.”

Her big brown eyes grew bigger still. She did not move.

“Do it.” Kill the girl. “Now.”

Trembling, the girl reached out her hand, held it well above the flickering candle flame.

“Down. Let it kiss you.”

Gilly lowered her hand. An inch. Another. When the flame licked her flesh, she snatched her hand back and began to sob.

“Fire is a cruel way to die. Dalla died to give this child life, but you have nourished him, cherished him. You saved your own boy from the ice. Now save hers from the fire.”

“They’ll burn my babe, then. The red woman. If she can’t have Dalla’s, she’ll burn mine.”

“Your son has no king’s blood. Melisandre gains nothing by giving him to the fire. Stannis wants the free folk to fight for him, he will not burn an innocent without good cause. Your boy will be safe. I will find a wet nurse for him and he’ll be raised here at Castle Black under my protection. He’ll learn to hunt and ride, to fight with sword and axe and bow. I’ll even see that he is taught to read and write.” Sam would like that. “And when he is old enough, he will learn the truth of who he is. He’ll be free to seek you out if that is what he wants.”

“You will make a crow of him.” She wiped at her tears with the back of a small pale hand. “I won’t. I won’t.”

Kill the girl, thought Dany. “You will. Else I promise you, the day that they burn Dalla’s boy, yours will die as well.”

“Die,” shrieked the Old Bear’s raven. “Die, die, die.”

The girl sat hunched and shrunken, staring at the candle flame, tears glistening in her eyes. Finally Dany said, “You have my leave to go. Do not speak of this, but see that you are ready to depart an hour before first light. My men will come for you.”

—Jon II, ADWD

“Lord Janos,” Dany said, “I will give you one last chance. Put down that spoon and get to the stables. I have had your horse saddled and bridled. It is a long, hard road to Greyguard.”

“Then you had best be on your way, girl.” Slynt laughed, dribbling porridge down his chest. “Greyguard’s a good place for the likes of you, I’m thinking. Well away from decent godly folk. The mark of the beast is on you.”

“You are refusing to obey my order?”

“You can stick your order up your arse,” said Slynt, his jowls quivering.

Alliser Thorne smiled a thin smile, his black eyes fixed on Dany. At another table, Godry the Giantslayer began to laugh.

“As you will.” Dany nodded to Iron Emmett. “Please take Lord Janos to the Wall—”

—and confine him to an ice cell, she might have said. A day or ten cramped up inside the ice would leave him shivering and feverish and begging for release, Dany did not doubt. And the moment he is out, he and Thorne will begin to plot again.

—and tie him to his horse, she might have said.

If Slynt did not wish to go to Greyguard as its commander, he could go as its cook. It will only be a matter of time until he deserts, then. And how many others will he take with him?

“—and hang him,” Dany finished.

Janos Slynt’s face went as white as milk. The spoon slipped from his fingers. Edd and Emmett crossed the room, their footsteps ringing on the stone floor. Bowen Marsh’s mouth opened and closed though no words came out. Ser Alliser Thorne reached for his sword hilt. Go on, Dany thought. Dark Sister was slung across her back. Show your steel. Give me cause to do the same.

[...]

“If the girl thinks that she can frighten me, she is mistaken,” they heard Lord Janos said. “She would not dare to hang me. Janos Slynt has friends, important friends, you’ll see…” The wind whipped away the rest of his words.

This is wrong, Dany thought. “Stop.”

Emmett turned back, frowning. “My lady?”

“I will not hang him,” said Dany. “Bring him here.”

“Oh, Seven save us,” he heard Bowen Marsh cry out.

The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Dany said, “Edd, fetch me a block,” and unsheathed Dark Sister.

By the time a suitable chopping block was found, Lord Janos had retreated into the winch cage, but Iron Emmett went in after him and dragged him out. “No,” Slynt cried, as Emmett half-shoved and half-pulled him across the yard. “Unhand me…you cannot…when Tywin Lannister hears of this, you will all rue—”

Emmett kicked his legs out from under him. Dolorous Edd planted a foot on his back to keep him on his knees as Emmett shoved the block beneath his head. “This will go easier if you stay still,” Daenerys promised him. “Move to avoid the cut, and you will still die, but your dying will be uglier. Stretch out your neck, my lord.” The pale morning sunlight ran up and down her blade as Dany clasped the hilt of the sword with both hands and raised it high. “If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” she said, expecting one last curse.

Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at her. “Please, my lady. Mercy. I’ll…I’ll go, I will, I…”

No, thought Dany. You closed that door. Dark Sister descended.

—Jon II, ADWD

And, of course, let’s not forget about this line:

"Well, he will not want it said that Stannis rode to the defense of the realm whilst King Tommen was playing with his toys. That would bring scorn down upon House Lannister."

"It's death and destruction I want to bring down upon House Lannister, not scorn."

—Jon II, ADWD

If these scenes had been Dany’s, she would have been called a power-crazed mad bitch who’s destined to be the villain of the series. And... people still do that anyway, even though none of her scenes come close to these Jon ones. And no, this does not mean Jon is going to go mad, of course it doesn’t. I love these Jon scenes, and I think that his bursts of anger and emotion are valid and understandable. It just shows how men/boys are allowed to act in ways that would never be possible for women/girls to behave without massive, massive misogynistic interpretations and critique.

#i hope y’all appreciate this it took me so long #also mmmm the imagery of dany having dark sister is really tasty #ask #anon #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #jon snow #daenerys stormborn #fandom misogyny #misogny #fandumb

507 notes · View notes

giorno-plays-piano · 3 years

Note

Can I request a dark king Steve and inexperienced princess please? Thank you❤❤

First of all, I’m so sorry it took me so much time to finish this request. However, I’m very grateful to you for it because it made me remember my favorite mini-series Gormenghast 😌💖 Hope you’re going to enjoy this!

Boy in the castle

Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x princess!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, death of minor characters, forced marriage, allusion to non-con.

Words: 2430.

____________________

When coup d'etat had happened - for the first time in centuries - your old nanny almost had a heart attack, locking you two in your chamber high up in the tower and barricading the window. The bastard boy would kill you, she kept repeating over and over until your head hurt. He is wicked as the Devil himself, she said, holding a heavy fireplace poker in her old shaky hands as a weapon. He will stab you in the back as he did to your royal father or poison you like he poisoned the Queen.

That time you thought it would be much easier to push you throw the window and make you fall from the tower instead. Why bother with a knife or a poison? But you didn’t voice over your thoughts to your old nanny, knowing well her old heart wasn’t strong enough for this conversation. Strangely, you felt nothing hearing of the death of your parents. From your books you knew people were ought to mourn their families, but sadness had never come to you, anyway. Could it be because you only saw the King and Queen several times a year since you had been three years old? Maybe so.

Nevertheless, your nanny kept talking and talking about the dangers waiting for you outside of your room: the new King would murder anyone who posed a threat to him, and he had most likely already killed your younger brother, a true heir to the throne. You shrugged your shoulders at her words in return - you saw the boy as much as you did your parents. Despite being both a princess and King’s and Queen’s firstborn, most of the time you were confined to your chamber up in the tower where the only one serving you was your old nanny, a woman who had been taking care of you since the time you were born. You only encountered other people on special occasions like your honored brother’s birthday or the first day of a new year when you were allowed to leave your chamber.

You couldn’t feel sorry for those the new King had killed - the one who had never felt compassion from others barely knew what it meant to care about another human being. Of course, you loved your nanny, that foolish old woman who still slapped your back hard if you didn’t sit straight in your chair while reading, but you had long found peace with the thought that one day she would die, too, leaving you all alone. You weren’t scared of that. You had always been alone, locked away and forgotten even by the faithful servants of the King.

Maybe that was why you weren’t worried about being killed by the bastard boy who came to power. Being backstabbed certainly wasn’t pleasant, but it was a quick death, maybe even an easy one: in some books you read people were skinned alive or burnt at the stake, and you imagined it to be much more painful.

Silly girl, your nanny had told you then, weakened by the lack of food - it was the second day of your imprisonment after coup d'etat. The new King could do so much worse things to you, the only woman belonging to the old royal dynasty.

At the end of the third day when you were delirious from lack of water, the guards had broken down the heavy wooden door of your chamber, and a shy little maid got in, carrying a large tray of food. The new King had probably picked the poison, you thought then when the girl poured water right into your mouth and it run on your dry, parched lips. moistening your skin and hair. She fed you some chicken soup while the guards forced the food down your nanny’s throat. Oddly, neither her no you died that day.

What could the bastard boy possibly want from you, your nanny asked over and over again, passing from one corner of your chamber to the other while you cleaned yourself in a metal basin filled with cold water. Wasn’t he supposed to kill you like all other members of the royal family? You thought so, too, but didn’t speak out loud to the old woman, knowing of her poor nerves.

When several man dressed as court attendants came to your chamber in a week, they announced your marriage to the new King, and a few maids assigned to you took your screaming and cursing old nanny away, assuring you no one would harm her. You, on the other hand, were brought to the castle, an army of maids following you to what they said was your new chamber, a large room with several windows and walls decorated with peculiar floral paintings. It was beautiful, but you felt you missed that small room high up in the tower with no one but your old foolish nanny by your side.

The new King was fearsome yet fair to the ones under his control, the maids told you, all eager to speak to you as you were left alone by the guards. He was a kitchen boy once, they said, a bastard son of some lady’s maid who left him right after giving birth, afraid to be punished by her mistress. Weak and ugly with his body like a twig, the boy was smart enough to rise in his ranks over years, becoming the servant of the court magician - you saw him once or twice on your brother’s birthday celebrations, you thought. Weaving his net around all right people of the royal court for years, in the end Steven Rogers overthrew the old King, the man who cared about no one but himself, and the Queen who was more worried about her cats rather than her people dying of hunger.

The new King was a good man, all of them told you once they bathed and clothed you, combed your wild hair and put some flower oil behind your ears and on your wrists. It was good he decided to marry you, the one forgotten even by your people.

Be nice to him, they warned you before escorting you to his chambers, be gentle and choose your words right when speaking to him, and then you’ll be safe and sound. The new King wasn’t a bad man, oh no, he just suffered so much inside the castle walls.

When you entered his chambers, the ones belonging to your father before, you saw so much light coming from open windows it made you hold you breath for a second. You had only been here once - on the day when your brother, the successor to the throne, was born - yet you still remembered how dark and gloomy was the room lit by dozens of candles smelling like pig fat. It was so odd to see the same room that looked so different now.

The man standing up from a heavy mahogany desk turned towards you, and you saw his handsome face: his eyes were of dark blue color like the twilight sky; his skin pale but cheeks a bit rosy as if he had just returned from outside; when you saw his full lips, you thought they were too sensual for a man, though not that you knew much about men, anyway. Truly, the new King looked like he belonged here - maybe even more than your father, old as ancient skies, with his back hunched and crooked. He wasn’t dressed in a heavy dark mantle of your father but in an embroidered and slashed doublet, ankle-length breeches fastened with points, a sword of your father hanging by the man’s side. Oh, he looked so much more like an Ancient King than your father ever did.

“People said you are ugly.” You said, watching his face with curiosity and tilting your head to the side - your old nanny hated this habit of yours. “But I don’t think it is true.”

“I have been ugly.”

He didn’t speak loudly, yet you heard his low voice perfectly clear in the silence of this huge chamber, his expression calm but eyes unsettling.

“But one day I have drunk the potion the court magician prepared for your father, Your Highness.”

Funny, you thought, coming a little closer - you struggled to walk in this heavy crimson dress with many layers, the neckline adorned with precious stones generously. It was probably one of your mother’s dresses she never wore.

Watching his dark blonde hair shining in the sunlight, suddenly you remembered something, something you had long forgotten, and you stopped, watching the blue eyes that now seemed familiar. A little boy with his body so feeble he could get swept away by the wind. No, no, he couldn’t be. It was impossible.

“You’re the boy who fell off the Moon.” You stared at him with your eyes wide, your lips slightly open as you saw the little guy whose name you didn’t remember - the one who had fell on your balcony when you lived in the castle for a couple of months while your chamber in the tower was being repaired.

He was a funny boy, skinny as a rail with his hands so white you thought he had always been cold. When he turned up on your balcony, you had been reading and almost screamed at the loud sound of him falling. Gladly, you didn’t make a sound - the guards were everywhere in the castle, and they’d surely take him.

You remembered the boy saying he was a moon knight, showing you how he handled the invisible sword he carried and, once you two sat in front of the fireplace, he told you many stories of all places he visited and things he saw. Gladly, he disappeared before your nanny showed up, carrying a tray of food in her shaky hands, but the boy came the next day, and then the day after that, and after that one, too. He kept coming for seven more days before the reparation of your chamber had been completed, and you moved back. Sadly, he couldn’t get to the Tower, saying the angle wasn’t right to jump off the Moon.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am the boy you let into your room years ago.”

A part of you refused to believe him - the new King is too big and handsome to be the little boy whose arms were so skinny you thought you could see his bones through the skin. Besides, for many years you kept thinking the Moon knight was just a dream you saw. But what if the new King told you the truth? What if it was him?

“I remember standing on one knee in front of you and pretending giving you an invisible ring as something to remember me by when I’d return to the Moon.” His face lightened up for a couple of seconds, and suddenly you saw the familiar twinkley eyes and that shy little smile when the new King curled his lips. “Isn’t it peculiar I have been thinking about those days with you when the Royal Chef whipped me till my back bled? When I was strangling him, all I thought was the day when I see you again, Your Highness.”

Uneasiness washed over you once you heard the man talking. Living alone in the tower, you knew very little of a life in the castle, but you knew murdering someone was wrong.

“Why did he whip you?” You asked, furrowing your brows when the man in front of you chuckled. “You killed him for that, right?”

“I killed him because he was the most disgusting son for a bitch you’d ever met, dear princess.”

You winced at his harsh words: your old nanny had never even once sworn in your presence except the day when the new King killed your father, but, of course, the man in fancy clothes knew nothing of etiquette and good manners.

“I’ve killed the court magician, too.” The new King continued, marching to you like one of the guards you saw once in a while, and you felt the urge to retreat to your room immediately. “I’ve killed much more people, your father and mother, too, and I don’t regret it even the slightest bit.”

You made a step back, looking at his face growing darker once he sensed your fear, and you were on the verge of running away the very next moment, thinking he was going to murder you, too.

“Are you scared now, princess? Do you know what I’ve done to get so far? Do you understand who owns the castle, your tower, even you, Your Highness?” With each question he was getting closer and closer until you showed him your back and sprinted towards the heavy doors beside you, clenching your dress and lifting it up to move faster. “Do you know what I’ll do to you, darling?”

You didn’t, and you had no desire to figure it out, finally reaching the door when the man beside you pushed your body into the wood with his, his hands on the door, preventing you from leaving.

“I’ve lied and cheated; I’ve drank the potion that broke every bone in my body and healed them back; I’ve killed your father and all those who stood in my way.” His words turned into a low, guttural growl as he pressed your body into the wood. “I’ve did everything to own this goddamn castle that made me feel so unhappy, so miserable and pathetic. I loathe this place. I loathe you. God, I loathe you so much.”

He was going to kill you. Dear Lord, you should have listened to your old nanny.

“You made my feel like I was someone. It was because of you I couldn’t stay just a kitchen boy. I wanted to have what you nobles had. I wanted to control all the ones who looked down on me.” He nuzzled into your hair, and you felt his firm touch on your shoulders. “God, I wanted to have you, but, unless I had the castle, I couldn’t get to you, princess. Do you know what I’ve done to get here? Do you have the slightest idea, darling?”

“Please, don’t.” You whispered quietly, afraid to raise your voice as you felt his angry breath on your skin.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, for I’m too far gone.” Moving your dress up in haste, the new King put his knee in between your legs, ignoring your whimper. “Whatever you have, I’ll take.”

___________________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @lovelydarkdaydream @ninefuckingoneone @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks

#yandere #captain america #dark steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #mcu #mcu fanfiction #requests #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers

695 notes · View notes

piratewithvigor · 3 years

Text

Masterlist

Videos:

Tiktok I Made About Hawkeye In A Fit Of Despair

Tiktok I Made About My Assorted Wrestling Obsessions

Pictures Of The Undertaker As Random Sounds

Ooh It's Captain Jack Sparrow

TVC-15 Music Video V1

TVC-15 Music Video V2

Wrestling Videos Masterlist (Just AEW)

Wrestling Videos Masterlist (Everything But AEW)

Stories:

Music

Snake Boy - GNR, slice-of-life drabbles featuring Slash and his snakes

Love Break My Heart - GNR, Axl X Izzy, A half-life relationship is disintegrating at the seams. Neither of them is good for the other, but after 14 years together, they don’t know how to be with each other anymore. [Chapter 2], [Chapter 3], [Chapter 4]

The Big Five - GNR, Y/N X GNR, A newcomer to L.A., Y/N isn’t much for anonymous sexual encounters, but there are 5 exceptions

M*A*S*H

Out Of Sight, Out Of Our Minds - After a freak accident lighting a stove, Hawkeye suffered severe flash burns that have left him blinded. Most people recover within a week or so, but as the days drag on, BJ becomes more convinced that Hawkeye isn’t most people. [Chapter 2], [Chapter 3]

Wrestling

Ain't No Grave - Undertaker prepares to rise from the grave, but begins to wonder why

Dr. Isaac Yankem, D.D.S. - Reader encounters the most interesting classmate

Snaps - Kane questions his reality post-match

Forsaken - Undertaker wakes up in the hospital after the fire and meets a once-in-a-lifetime visitor

One Day - Undertaker always knew he would outlast his loved ones…

I Have To Bake A Cake? - Kane has to bake a cake

Kane Is Actually A Cold-Blooded Creature HCs

Eldritch Horrors Anonymous - Dr. Shelby’s led plenty of support groups before and helped plenty of people in them. But these people aren’t exactly people…

Stars - Kane's steadiest relationship through his life was always to the stars. [Chapter 2], [Chapter 3], [Chapter 4]

Romance Isn't Dead (Just Buried Alive) - When faced with one of the most frightening emotions of all time, Undertaker turns to Goldust for assistance

Exodus - 2009 Shane McMahon X Reader

Chest Cavity - Undertaker X Dr. Isaac Yankem, What 26 years of knowing someone inside and out does to a person…

Kitchen - Undertaker is given an option to change a part of his brother's past and potentially give him a brighter future

KNIGHTS - WWF Medieval AU, In the year 1184, King Vincent, Second Of His Name, has found himself nearing financial ruin. Ever since the death of his father, he dreamt of expanding the borders of his kingdom to span the continent and maybe into the lands beyond the seas. The further he expanded, however, the lower the reserves of the kingdom became. In an effort to revitalize the economy of Greenwich, the king devises a brilliant plan with the help of his council of lords. A plan for a tournament more beautiful and spectacular than any that had come before...

Lost - Kane X Daniel Bryan Kane loses his mask

Bubbles - Bret Hart X Shawn Michaels Shawn has a surprise for Bret

Fluff - Bret Hart X Shawn Michaels Bret faces his own fears of the pink and fluffy

Farm Fresh Produce - Bret Hart X Shawn Michaels Our boys get their happily ever after

Miscellaneous

Florist Gump - Forrest Gump Flowershop AU

How I Listen To Each Of My Favourite Bands (A Bullet Point Piece)

How To Listen To Prog Rock (A Bullet Point Piece)

#Writing #My Videos

45 notes · View notes

esther-dot · 3 years

Note

Hound asked Arya about hating her sister just like he hates his brother and ask if she wanted to kill her. Tyrion in agot told Jon how he wanted to kill his father and sister and asked Jon if he had fantasies. Jon was horrified and angered by Tyrion statement and Arya was furious and wanted to kill hound and left him without mercy. Both Tyrion and Hound projecting their issues on Jon and Arya and both have hurted Sansa. Ghost and Lady growled at them in warning.

Martin seems to really like the “brother against brother” idea because its recurring throughout the series/in many POVs. We have The Cleganes, the Lannisters, the Baratheons, the brothers of the Watch, and of course, a much more tame version with the Starks. It's interesting that those two men, who have relationships with Sansa, have such similar conversations with Arya and Jon, several books apart. I assume because the Starks, Arya and Sansa specifically, will be the ones to healthily resolve their issues where everyone else fails.

Here’s the Arya and Hound quote:

It wasn't the first time he had talked of killing the Mountain. "But he's your brother," Arya said dubiously.

"Didn't you ever have a brother you wanted to kill?" He laughed again. "Or maybe a sister?" He must have seen something in her face then, for he leaned closer. "Sansa. That's it, isn't it? The wolf bitch wants to kill the pretty bird."

"No," Arya spat back at him. "I'd like to kill you." (ASOS, Arya IX)

and the Jon and Tyrion one:

"I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister." Jon Snow was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrion guffawed. "Don't look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You've dreamt the same kind of dreams."

"No," Jon Snow said, horrified. "I wouldn't …" (AGOT, Tyrion II)

Arya does have a lot of rage, so this idea will play out in some way between her and Sansa when they reunite, but just because Arya and Sansa verbalize their issues in extreme fashion (Arya says she hates Sansa, Sansa says she wishes it was Arya not Lady who died), doesn't mean that either would act on those feelings. Obviously, considering how the Hound has no issue killing kids and Tyrion does kill his dad, they’re a different story. Tyrion even has a dream about killing Jaime (who he loves):

That night Tyrion Lannister dreamed of a battle that turned the hills of Westeros as red as blood. He was in the midst of it, dealing death with an axe as big as he was, fighting side by side with Barristan the Bold and Bittersteel as dragons wheeled across the sky above them. In the dream he had two heads, both noseless. His father led the enemy, so he slew him once again. Then he killed his brother, Jaime, hacking at his face until it was a red ruin, laughing every time he struck a blow.

Only when the fight was finished did he realize that his second head was weeping. (ADWD, Tyrion II)

And I assume that this is because Martin wants to look at his idea of brother v brother, and while Cersei was abusive, and then believes Tyrion killed her son (so their mutual hatred makes sense), even between siblings that love each other, this world breeds comparison, competition, pain, and anger. I think the pairing of Tyrion saying this to Jon makes a lot of sense because that’s very clear in his relationship with Robb even thought we don’t fully realize until later in the series:

And then the years were gone, and he was back at Winterfell once more, wearing a quilted leather coat in place of mail and plate. His sword was made of wood, and it was Robb who stood facing him, not Iron Emmett.

Every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; Snow and Stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of Winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see. They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or Robb would say, "I'm the Young Dragon," and Jon would reply, "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne."

That morning he called it first. "I'm Lord of Winterfell!" he cried, as he had a hundred times before. Only this time, this time, Robb had answered, "You can't be Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born. My lady mother says you can't ever be the Lord of Winterfell."

I thought I had forgotten that. Jon could taste blood in his mouth, from the blow he'd taken.

In the end Halder and Horse had to pull him away from Iron Emmett, one man on either arm. The ranger sat on the ground dazed, his shield half in splinters, the visor of his helm knocked askew, and his sword six yards away. "Jon, enough," Halder was shouting, "he's down, you disarmed him. Enough!"

No. Not enough. Never enough. Jon let his sword drop. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Emmett, are you hurt?"

Iron Emmett pulled his battered helm off. "Was there some part of yield you could not comprehend, Lord Snow?" It was said amiably, though. Emmett was an amiable man, and he loved the song of swords. "Warrior defend me," he groaned, "now I know how Qhorin Halfhand must have felt."

(ASOS, Jon XII)

I don't blame the kid for his feelings, but that last sentence is wow. And then, he too has a dream in which he kills his brother:

"The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. "I am the Lord of Winterfell," Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder." (ADWD, Jon XII)

The boy is eaten alive with guilt. Poor guy. Anyway, Martin really, really likes intense relationships that have a mixture of anger and pain (talk a little about this love/hate idea here). I think Jon's feelings for Robb are there, genuine love with the anger that comes from being the overlooked/inadequate sibling in comparison to the other. That's how I see Arya and Sansa too. Arya and Jon want what the other sibling has, they do not actually hate them, unlike the people who they have those conversations with.

Another way Martin has looked at this idea is the Watch, with Jon and Mance’s relationships with their brothers via vow. While Jon tries to pull away from his family loyalty and be loyal to his brothers of the Watch, his actions don’t engender the same loyalty from them, and as soon as he snaps and chooses blood (Arya), his “brothers” kill him. This line:

"Qhorin was my enemy. But also my brother, once. So . . . shall I thank you for killing him, Jon Snow? Or curse you?" He gave Jon a mocking smile. (ASOS, Jon I)

sums all of this up pretty well. Martin really loves stacking emotions on top of each other, never letting a relationship be one note. Not an enemy or a brother, his enemy and his brother. There’s a real fascination with love, what it can overcome (with the Starks), and a rather brutal dissection of loyalty throughout the series, and no relationship is exempt.

Beyond the Arya and Sansa reconciliation, I wonder if the other Sansa connection here is that Jon will likely be chosen over her to rule the North, but she will not give into jealousy or allow the Starks to be turned against each other, and instead, will support Jon and help him lead the North. That would work with the bigger idea that a house divided cannot stand, so the Lannisters will fall (Tyrion already got Tywin), and the Targaryens will fall (Dance of Dragons 2.0), but the Starks love each other enough, are loyal enough, they’ll survive.

#ask dot #arya and sansa #jon and robb #sibling rivalry

67 notes · View notes

blursed-ninjago-ideas · 3 years

Text

Whumptober 5

So I decided to revisit an older idea I had and do it better. I think I went too far, but a little drama never hurt anyone.

Prompt: Betrayal Misunderstanding

Randomly Selected Whumpee: Kai

Lloyd didn’t know what it was that struck him about the masked man when they first met. Something about the way his eyes burned with some emotion Lloyd couldn’t quite read. His snide comments set Lloyd off and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before from countless enemies, but something about the way the masked man said it made something at the top of Lloyd’s spine seize up.

The others seemed to feel it to some degree, but only Nya felt it like he did.

Those eyes burned in Lloyd’s nightmares so bright they were all he remembered when he woke up. He wasn’t particularly afraid of the masked man, but something about him flooded Lloyd with a sharp dread.

He seemed interested in Chen’s goals in the looses possible sense. He flat out didn’t care. He approached the work like it was an office job he had no love for. Zane was theorizing that Chen was blackmailing or forcing him somehow, and that made some sense. But Lloyd felt like there was something deeper. It didn’t explain why his eyes looked like that. Why they burned like that.

Despite how intense his eyes were when they looked at them, the masked man mostly avoided them. It relieved and angered Lloyd. Whenever they did face off, Lloyd choked on feelings he couldn’t name. He wanted answers, but he feared them. Some instinct told him he was better off not knowing.

Better off or not, Lloyd couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep dreaming of burning burning eyes and waking up with tears on his face, remembering nothing but feeling like his heart had been scrapped hollow.

So he decided to confront the masked man. Alone in an abandoned building, far from both their allies and completely alone with one another, they stared at each other silently.

“I have a few questions for you.” Lloyd said.

The masked man’s eyes shifted in curiosity. But they still burned.

“Ask away then, Green Ninja.” he said. First Master, his voice burned too.

There was a long silence. Lloyd wanted answers, but he didn’t actually have any questions to ask.

“Why do you work for Chen?” Lloyd settled on asking.

The masked man shrugged.

“I don’t really have a reason.” he said causally.

There was no burning. There was no intensity. His voice was light and plain. He didn’t care about Chen. He wasn’t happy, he wasn’t angry. He was completely indifferent to it.

“Let me ask you a question.” the masked man said.

His tone was almost playful as he turned things around on Lloyd Why did that burn worse? Why did that hurt more? But his eyes were smoldering again.

Lloyd made a squeak to respond, not able to force anything more dignified.

“Why do you hate Chen?” he asked “And don’t tell me it’s because he’s evil or whatever. I’m not interested in the hero speech. I want to know what he did to you.”

Lloyd took a step back. There was so much hiding behind what was so carefully phrased to seem causal. Just behind those words was a burning burning burning that Lloyd wanted to run away from. He didn’t know what it meant and he was almost ready to decide he’d rather not know.

But Lloyd had come this far. He was so close to an answer. He couldn’t, wouldn’t back out now.

So he met the challenge. He straightened his back and answered honestly.

“Chen took someone from me.” Lloyd said. “Someone important.”

The man’s stare cracked and Lloyd almost heard it. Those words seemed to slash through some kind of barrier that stood between them. Lloyd was no longer locked out, but he had lost his shield from that horrible burning.

“Who?” he asked.

It was such a simple word, but the weight behind it was agony. This was deeper than Lloyd thought. He was standing on the tip of a chasm and quickly losing his ability to turn back.

Continuing to throw away his chances to back out, Lloyd answered honestly again.

“My best friend.” Lloyd said, swallowing the tears that tried to attach themselves to the words, to the name “Kai.”

The masked man reacted, but Lloyd couldn’t read it.

“Guess he wasn’t much of a friend, huh?” the masked man said. So much anger. So much burning.

It was Lloyd’s turn to burn.

“Kai was the best!” Lloyd yelled. “He was my brother!”

“Then why didn’t you rescue him?” the man asked.

Why were his words so heavy? Why did his eyes burn with so much judgment? Why did it bother Lloyd so much?

“Because….” Lloyd was fighting back his tears with all his willpower “Because Chen turned him against us. He be-”

Lloyd choked on the word.

“He betrayed us.”

Saying it was too hard. Lloyd sobbed and covered his mouth.

“Did he?”

Lloyd couldn’t breath through the rage and offense. Before Lloyd could start to curse, the masked man began speaking again.

“Because I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen him in Chen’s ranks. If he truly betrayed you, don’t you think he’d still be working for Chen? Did you ever figure out why he wasn’t?”

“I….” Lloyd stammered.

“Did you care?” the man asked his voice burning hotter than it had ever before.

His words were fire; red, hot, and scorching. They burned into Lloyd, branding his soul.

Before Lloyd could adjust to that new searing pain, the masked man spoke again.

“You know, I think I remember this boy. Brown hair, right? Kind of spiky?”

Lloyd could only nod.

“Yeah, I saw him in Chen’s dungeons. He had been there awhile. I almost felt bad for him. He used to say his friends would come rescue him, but eventually I think he gave up hope.”

Lloyd crumbled to the ground, wishing he had left it alone. Wishing he’d left it as nightmares he couldn’t quite remember. Anything was better than hearing this.

“He died a little after that.” the man continued, ignoring the broken noise Lloyd made as his world washed with grief. “Cold, hungry, and begging for his family. I can only assume he meant you. I used to wonder what sort of people could inspire so much hope and loyalty in him. What a disappointment you turned out to be.”

Lloyd’s grief started to burn in anger. What did this stranger know? How dare he taunt Lloyd with his brother’s death.

“Shut up!” Lloyd yelled, slashing his sword toward the man.

Disappointingly, he dodged.

“What? Do you care now!? Now that he’s dead you actually feel something!?” he yelled, bringing his own sword out and clashing against Lloyd.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lloyd yelled.

“I think I do better than anyone.” the man said with his eyes burning so dark and hot.

Lloyd kept slashing at him, taking out all his fury and regret.

“HE WAS MY BROTHER! HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND! LOSING HIM DESTROYED ME!” Lloyd yelled, tears blurring his vision almost as much as his rage.

It was true. After they got away from Chen, a part of Lloyd died. Kai’s betrayal killed him.

He kept even the other ninja at arms length, too afraid of getting hurt, of ruining them. Lloyd barely let his father in anymore, too convinced he was unlovable. Nya had tried, oh she had tired, but Lloyd couldn’t stand the guilt he felt for ruining her big brother. Whatever happened to Kai was Lloyd's fault and he knew it.

Clearly the masked man knew too, that was why his eyes burned so much when he looked at Lloyd.

Clashing their swords against each other, it was the closest Lloyd had ever gotten to the man. He was so close to that burning gaze, he could almost feel the heat. The anger, the judgment, the concern.

Wait, that wasn’t right. Why, was it so warm? Standing so close, with all the walls torn down, Lloyd finally saw how much kindness there was hidden in there. It was hidden well, but behind all the burning was something soft. Something familiar something….

“KAI!?” Lloyd yelled.

Those eyes! How had Lloyd not noticed! He knew them! That was why they haunted him so much. That was why the masked man had set Lloyd on edge.

The masked man, Kai, launched himself backwards, as if burned by the word, by the name.

He was right.

“It’s you! It’s really you!” Lloyd sobbed, he wasn’t bothering to fight with his tears.

“I told you your brother died.” Kai spat.

Lloyd shook his head. He wasn’t buying it. He knew those eyes! He knew his big brother.

“It’s you. It’s you, Kai. You’re alive!”

Lloyd knew those eyes, but he didn’t know that burning in them. The Kai of his memory had eyes that flickered with kindness, like a candle meant to sooth a scared child in the dark. This Kai was nothing so soft.

Kai finally ripped his mask off. The face Lloyd knew, the one he ran to after nightmares, the one he’d longed to see after so long, was twisted and sharp. A distortion of the brother Lloyd had lost.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t me. I told you your brother was dead.” he snapped.

“I don’t understand.” Lloyd said.

He just wanted to run into Kai’s arms. He wanted his big brother he had spent to so long missing.

“I meant what I said. I spent so long in Chen’s dungeons waiting for you. I broke, and I died. I’m nothing more than a ghost, Lloyd.”

It sounded so hollow. So broken. Like he really was speaking with the voice of a dead man.

“Please, Kai. We can fix this! Please!” Lloyd begged.

His brother was there! He was right there! But he was so far away, hidden inside a stranger.

“You can’t fix this, Lloyd.” he said, shaking his head.

Lloyd couldn’t reach him, no matter how desperate he was. His big brother was back from the dead, but he’d come back wrong.

“PLEASE!” Lloyd begged.

Kai just shook his head again.

“There’s nothing left to say Lloyd.”

Kai turned to leave. Lloyd reached out to stop him, to grab him and hug him, to bring him home, but his grip was too weak and he was too slow.

Lloyd was left on the floor, devastated, wailing, burning.

Ahahahaha! Maybe I technically whumped Lloyd a bit more here, but A, it takes two to have a betrayal, and B, I will be making up for this on Day 8. (I’m super excited for that one.)

Here’s the link to the prototype of this story on Kat’s personal blog.

This is very inspired by both the Princess Bride scene and the song “I Know Those Eyes/This Man Is Dead” from The Count of Monte Cristo (the musical)

Anyway, I adore parts of this, but also feel like I overdid it in certain places. No brakes today I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-Ivy

#Mod Ivy #ninjago #lego ninjago #blursed ninjago snippets #whumptober

24 notes · View notes

chandelier-s-notebook · 3 years

Text

One afternoon five year old Tommy asks if his friends could have a watch party at Phil’s the next day. “Please please please! The Blade is going to be in a big tournament run by Lake!”

“The Blade,” Wilbur teases. “Some days it seems like you love him more than us some days.”

“Never!” Tommy shot a distraught look a Wilbur. “Please please please!”

Phil laughed. “How many friends?”

“The whole gang.”

“How many Tommy’s do I need to feed?”

“Just one!” He smiled. “And eight friends.”

“Well I’m not staying then. One Tommy is enough.”

“You love me!”

“Do not!”

“Do to!”

Wilbur stuck out his tongue at Tommy. “Minecraft Monday right?”

“Yeah!”

“I’m gonna go watch it at the Soots’ if you don’t mind. We’re going to cheer on Schlatt.”

“Schlatt’s in it?” Tommy wore the most adorable conflicted facial features.

“Awww. Tommy.” Wilbur brought Tommy in for a hug. “You watch your beloved Blade. Schlatt can tell you about it next time you come to MineVille.”

“Okay!” He batted Wilbur off of him. “I’m ready to go to Hypixel now!”

Phil laughed. He once again wondered if it was save to just let his five year old son run around Hypixel where there was nothing stopping from playing the same dangerous games as the Blade. He wondered if he should really be letting his ten year old son play with the type of kid to get invited to Minecraft Monday with the Blade. Oh well, too late to change. Besides, both of his sons have never come back home hurt.

Both MineVille and Hypixel were infinite life servers. None of that three important cannon death stuff. So they could always return to the server no matter what and they were never hurt.

After dropping his kids off, he reopened the book he had gotten in the mail. “Minecraft Monday.” He had declined the invitation but if both of his sons were excited about it, then maybe he’d have to reconsider.

Of course, it seemed that neither of his boys would be watching his perspective nor cheering him on, but they might get a kick out of seeing him in the background.

Other problem, should be really be leaving nine Tommy aged kids alone in his house? Absolutely; live life on the edge.

- - -

Wilbur ran off to meet up with Connor before stepping through the MineVille portal to prepare to watch the event with the Soots.

Phil went in with Tommy to pick up his friends. He’d met Tommy’s friends before, none of them lived in Hypixel and sometimes they’d run into each other in the Hall.

Phil followed Tommy around the Hub Server to the designated meeting spot: Hub 1 in the TNT Games Lobby. They played around in TNT run while waiting for Tommy’s friends to arrive. One by one they all arrived; Jack, Cyber and Badlinu, Tubbo, Rudy, Bitzel and Deo, and Luke.

“You’re parents are all chill with this right? I don’t think I’ve met all of them yet.”

“Yes Mr. Tommy’s Dad,” Tubbo said for the crowd. “My Homeworld is 2B2T so my parents don’t really care.”

Deo lightly jabbed the other boy in the side. “Bad example. We want to be reinvited.”

“What! I’m just being honest!”

“It’s fine,” Phil soothed the jokey tension. “Just making sure I’m not kidnapping anyone.”

“We are kidnapping someone. You!” Tommy grabbed Phil’s arm and started to run towards the portal.

“Tommy!” Phil tripped over himself a few steps but he was eventually running along with the kids. He must look crazy. It was fine. He loved his boy. Boys, but Wilbur wasn’t here right this very second.

- - -

Phil was impressed with the technology used. Lake had gotten some really good engineers working on his show. All of the competitors seemed to be outfitted with a camera on their person that’s connected to a live video feed, so anyone from any world could watch their favourte competitor.

Going in, the Blade seemed to be the favourite to win. That was a given given the audience on Phil’s couch, but some of the other competitors seemed to think that as well.

The ten of them watched the Blade’s perspective on the big screen TV. Phil kept Schlatt’s feed open on his handheld just to keep an eye on him, and gauge how Wilbur would be feeling when he got home the next day.

Over the course of four hours Phil got more and more invested in the Blade. He watched this guy tear down the competition all the while making jokes with his teammate. Like it was nothing. Like he was having fun. Like he was simply running around with his friend on the play ground.

Phil watched the Blade’s team intersect with Schlatt’s team near the end of one of the rounds. He looked to his handheld, and saw pink. This man, this killer, this winner, was a piglin. No wonder killing seemed second nature. He slashed through Schlatt in two hits.

Comm from Wilbur “This Blade guy is good.” and “No wonder Tommy likes him so much.”

- - -

Phil is in the roaster the second week of Minecraft Monday. He’s a little on the older side of the competitors at 27, but he’s put with Jerome, someone as old as he. The two mingle and bond. They get to know each other, they play off each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

Well. Not yet. But they’ll get teamed together for weeks to come and they’ll learn.

He knows that his sons are watching; Wilbur over at the Soot’s in MineVille and Tommy with his buds in his kitchen. He left his girlfriend Kristen to watch over the kids. He hopes that both she doesn’t strangle them and that they don’t send her running for the hills.

Phil spends a few minutes catching up with Schlatt, wishing him well.

He doesn’t get close to the Blade. Jerome doesn’t seem to care for him and Phil doesn’t want to make a bad first impression.

In his first encounter with the Blade he expects to know what’s going on. He’s heard plenty from Tommy and watched the first week, and he’s not a bad fighter himself. He doesn’t stand a chance against the piglin. He gives it his all, going down swinging.

He laughs as he gets teleported out of the game. He sends a comm to Tommy “Dishes for a week if I ever take him down.”

“Deal.”

Techno wins the whole show again.

Phil goes over to congratulate the piglin on his victory. The Blade tells him that he fought well.

Tommy doesn’t shut up about that encounter all week.

- - -

Phil continues to compete week after week; getting a feel or Jerome’s play style. They become a solid team.

He also watches the Blade. He says it’s to stake out the competition. Really it’s to make sure that Tommy is picking a good role model to look up to. And maybe to learn a few things along the way.

The week that the Blade and Schlatt are teamed together and win is a very loud one for Phil.

- - -

Two weeks after that, Wilbur gets letter in the mail asking him to play in Minecraft Monday. His new friend Jack Sucks wanted to team.

He looks up at his father expectantly. Tommy is bouncing on his toes, excited for Wilbur. His older brother, in Minecraft Monday with the Blade!

“How old are you again?”

“Ten.”

“They really don’t have a minimum age on this event do they?” He puts his face in his hands. He can’t say no to his kids.

- - -

Two weeks later, Phil gets a letter in the mail regarding the next event. “You’ll be teamed with Technoblade.” He doesn’t tell Tommy.

Phil arrives at the Lobby for the event. He gets is camera and his team placement. He, like many others, is here early and there’s still time before he needs to hook up the camera to the live feed.

“Hello Philza.”

He turns. “Technoblade.” He extends his hand for a shake.

“Techno please.”

“Phil then.”

“That works. I hope you don’t mind the teammate swap. They’ve been carting me around every week and they let me pick this time.”

“And you chose me?”

“You’re good. And cool. And I’ve heard of you before.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Phil found that hard to believe.

“Of course; you’re the hardcore guy. Working away on his world on one life for years.”

Phil blanched. “It’s nothing special.”

“As someone who neva dies and kills so very often, yes it is.”

“Oh. Well. I’ve heard about you as well.”

“Good things I hope.”

“The best things.”

They decimate. They win by a landslide.

Phil decides that he likes this guy. They exchange comms information, and promise to stay in touch.

After the feeds turn off of course. Tommy would freak and die on the spot if he heard that interaction. Wilbur almost did, bounding up to Phil with his eleventh place ribbon in hand. He managed to keep his cool and give off a good first impression.

He teased Tommy about the conversation all week.

Phil and Wilbur teamed the next week. They played a little game of hide and seek in the Lobby with Technoblade and Connor while they waited for the event to start.

The week after that Wilbur got to team with Techno. Phil felt it was safe to leave his son with the piglin. He was capable, and he’d keep Wilbur out of too much trouble.

- - -

Tommy and his friends barraged Phil and Wilbur, begging to know what the Blade was like; some more than others. But once the boys were all gone, and Kristen had left back to her homeworld, and it was quiet.

Wilbur told Tommy was Technoblade was really like. How he looked out for his teammates, even when they were weaker and generally bringing down his efficiency. How he was actually just a chill dude.

Phil told Tommy about how cool it was to watch him fight up close. How you could see hoe effortlessly he used any weapon the games bestowed upon him.

They told that to little Tommy and little Tommy only. They told him how he was more than the legends said. How he was a person. How he told Phil he could call him Techno.

As sat on the couch, his boys asleep beside him he wondered. How old was Techno? He had to be old enough to do all those things Tommy had told him about. But he still must have been pretty young if he was still as dexterous as he was. Twenty-three maybe, that sounded right. He had the build and voice for twenty-three. Maybe he’d ask one day.

The question never seemed to come to mind whenever Techno was around.

#Philza #Technoblade #Tommyinnit #Wilbur Soot #JSchlatt #Jeromeasf #Jacksucksatlife #connoreatspants #Tubbo #TimeDeo #Minecraft Monday #A Familial Unit

173 notes · View notes

ssson-of-sparda · 3 years

Text

A TRIP TO THE BEACH - PART 2 (DANTE X FEM!READER)

Summary: When Dante shows up, Patty finally learns how things ended between Y/N and him but that's not the kind of ending she likes. (Part 5 of A Tab To Erase) (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

Tags: Dante is Tony Redgrave / Love / Angst / Blood and Gore / Minor Character Death / Violence

Author’s note: This is the end! I hope you enjoyed this fan fiction as much as I enjoyed writing it. I can't wait to read your thoughts about it. Is it the end you expected? How did you imagine it? Tell me everything. I'm all ears

Patty dared peeping from above the headrest of the couch when the woman opened the door, definitely curious to see the two adults’ reactions when they would finally see each other – though she still feared Dante’s wrath a little. But when she finally saw them face-to-face, this couple she had been imagining – and rooting for - for weeks, she didn’t care about her friend’s anger or disappointment - He would definitely thank her later - . They looked so perfect, like coming from an episode of one of those telenovelas she loved so much. Dante was towering Y/N perfectly and she was so pretty. And the lighting. Gosh “Like a scene from a movie.” She sighed. If only she could read their minds right now. “There you are, young lady!” Dante declared with a menacing finger as he entered the house “Hi Dante! What are you doing here?” Patty tried to play innocent but there was something in her voice that couldn’t fool Dante. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I never thought this annoying little brat would dare come here … or steal my stuff.” “That’s alright, Dante. We were having fun actually. And at least, that girl dared visit me … unlike someone else.” Dante definitely felt that sting and he knew he deserved it. “How long has it been?” “A while.” He said, pretending to be casual even though he had the right amount of years and months in mind. “And this day never happened. Come on, Patty. Let’s go.” No, no, no. This couldn’t end like that. Patty thought. Not after all this time. “Can I at least finish my tea please?” “ I’ll buy you a tea on the way back to Red Grave. Let’s go!” Dante insisted as he came closer to the girl to grab her by the arm and drag her away from Y/N’s place as fast as possible. “Right. Like I’m going to believe you. You never buy me anything, even when you owe me.” Y/N smiled while Dante sighed deeply. “Damn it.” “ Plus, you still owe me a trip to the beach.” “ Alright. I’ll take you to the beach. You happy? Now let’s go.” He tried to pull her from the sofa but the girl resisted. “ Or … you can let Y/N finish her story.” Patty suggested. Dante glanced at Y/N whom he hadn’t seen go to the kitchen to prepare him a strawberry sundae. “Actually I’d prefer that. Y/N can you continue your story, please?” “ Well, maybe Dante can tell you so that you can finally erase his tab while I’m making this devil a strawberry sundae. Topped with a cherry and two pink wafers, is that it?” “I don’t know. You’re the pro.” He had a faint smile at her that Patty noticed and beamed at. About time. “Where did you stop you damn story?”

A TRIP TO THE BEACH - Part 2

Dante was sitting at his desk, eyes closed, a magazine covering his face while he was listening to some good old school metal on the jukebox he had just acquired when the damn machine starting to sizzle and shake. “You gotta be kidding me.” Dante complained and, with a deep sigh, got up from his chair to kick the jukebox like Y/N had once taught him. “Funny how those machines always need a good kick to work.” When he thought of his beloved girlfriend and realised how late it was, he wondered how the hell she had not arrived yet. It was very dark outside and the clock was striking one. The restaurant should be closed by now and Y/N should have been in his arms at least an hour ago, naked preferably.

Not sure Patty needs to know that.

Worry tied Dante’s stomach in a knot in spite of his sleepy brain screaming at him not to be paranoid. “Relax, Dante. She’s probably helping clean the kitchen or something”, he told himself And yet, tired of repeating this sentence over and over again in his head, he decided to grab his coat and head to the diner. Better be paranoid and look like fool rather than wait here and worry one more second. Plus, he had waited long enough already and he had made a fool of himself in front of Y/N more than once. So what was one more time, huh?

But when Dante arrived at the restaurant and found it empty and dark, he wished he looked like a paranoid fool. But he was not paranoid and he was not a fool. He was terrified and alert in ways he hadn’t been for years. “Please be okay.” He whispered as he entered the place, feeling once again like a little boy hidden in a cupboard, crying for mommy and his brother. A ghastly feeling for someone who had spent years burying his past deep in his armoured heart as a promise … a dying wish.

Dante climbed the stairs quickly, very quickly and yet not quickly enough to his taste, only to stop and freeze at the sight and smell of warm blood on the wooden floor. But there was not just iron and salt flowing to his nostrils, there was this stench, rotting and disgusting, a stench only his demon sense could pick but that would soon be unbearable for humans too, he was sure of it. The stench of decaying corpses.

The son of Sparda never really liked Y/N’s parents. He actually lost almost all sort of respect for them the second they insulted him and made him understand they would never approve of him or of his relationship with their precious daughter. But when he saw them both, drenched in blood and completely ripped apart, their broken bodies lying on the floor of in their bedroom, he couldn’t help but feel sadness and compassion especially for the woman who was standing in the corner of the room, petrified and in tears, her small feminine frame strongly hold in a demonic grip. A nightmarish vision that had been scaring Dante for too long. “Took you long enough… Son of Sparda.” The demon said with a calm and yet menacing cavernous voice that would make anyone tremble in fear. But that wasn’t the sound of his voice that made Dante afraid – because yes he was afraid –

You? Afraid? Rrr, shut up!

It was the sight of the woman he loved so close to that monster’s sharp claws. The half-demon squinted at the devil before him, at his cloaked silhouette hidden in the darkness, trying to hide his fear, turning it into a nonchalant and over-confident mask he knew how to wear better than anything else (except his red leather jacket) but that somehow didn’t look as convincing as usual. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy, pal. Sparda may have a son. But that's not me.” “Tony, what’s going on?” Y/N’s voice was shaking just like the rest of her body. “It’s alright, baby. I’ll get you out of here. I promise.” He had too. “You can try and pretend to be someone else. But I know who you are. Dante, Son of Sparda. And soon, your blood will flow for what your father did to my master.” Usually, that same old routine would have made Dante scoff and slice that creature in two for he was used to demons coming at him with pathetic threats and silly villain monologues. But today, what was at stake was simply way too important for impulsiveness. “And who would that master be?” “The one true king of the underworld. Mundus.”

Dante had heard that name before, long ago, in something that was now a long-time memory. Mundus was the villain of his favourite bedtime story, the one his father would always tell him and Vergil before going to sleep, when they were nothing but kids tucked in their beds. Mundus. He remembered how that name would make him fidget and jump in anticipation and how his big brother in the bed under his would always kick him through the mattress to make him stop wriggling like a hyperactive goldfish out of water. Mundus, the so-called Prince of Darkness Sparda had cast away and locked in the underworld a long long time ago to free the human world from his diabolical tyranny. Never thought he would have ever heard about him in another context though.

“Oh. That dude. Thought he would be dead by now… like you soon will be” “Cocky, just like that filthy betrayer Sparda.” The demon smiled, showing short pointy black fangs that yet shone in the dim moonlight. “And in love with a human, just like he was. It would be a shame …” He grabbed a strand of Y/N’s (colour) hair to toy with it with a vicious smirk, making the young woman shiver even more. “… if something were to happen to her the same way something happened to your slut mother” Dante felt his jaw clench tight and his nails pierce the flesh of his palms. The rage, it was slowly yet surely eating at him. “Don’t you dare talk about my mother! And don’t you dare lay even just a finger on Y/N!” Dante growled, not realising he had just given his identity up. But the black demon did and with a satisfied smile, he cupped Y/N’s face in between his vile sharp claws to burry his long nose in Dante lover’s soft hair and smell her human perfume that was oh so exquisite to him. An intended provocation and an effective one. “How chivalrous! How noble! I’m sure your father would have said the same thing…” Dante frowned and clenched his fists even tighter, trying to stay put and in control, trying desperately to resist the powerful will to pounce on that demon and impale him on his sword and spill his guts on the floor. He knew he had too because he knew that the reaction he thought so much about was exactly what that monster wanted. He was trying to infuriate him, to make him reckless and stop thinking rationally so that he would have him at a possible advantage when he let his rage have the best of him. Provocation at its finest. A strategy Dante knew all about. “… had he been here when I and my fellow demons tore her apart.” Yes, he knew all about it and yet... “Mundus says farewell, hybrid filth.” He suddenly stopped caring about what he knew.

Dante jumped and with a scream, unsheathed his sword to slash the arm that was holding Y/N. An impulsive move, a mistake he realised only too late, when the demon pierced the soft neck of the one he loved the most with his sharp claws in an attempt to protect himself from the demonic blade. Everything went so quick to Y/N and yet so slow to Dante. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even have time to realise what was going on or to process the sudden pain. She only understood something was wrong when her body hit the floor and she saw Dante’s icy blue eyes widen and stare at her in horror. Then she felt the blood, her blood she was quite certain of it, running along her pale skin covering it in shades of dark red. Dante screamed like never before, like no human could, so loud the walls trembled and the demon slightly bowed down in fear. He screamed with an anger, a rage he didn’t know he was capable of, something so deep and passionate he never thought was in him. Something fiery … something … demonic. It felt like his skin was burning, like there was a ravaging fire spreading, growing in his body, menacing to burst, to combust him. And it almost did. It almost did but it stopped just when Rebellion sliced the head of the demon open, spilling his brains and his blood on the walls behind him. Then, there was a relief that all this was over. The fight. The fire. The fear… No not the fear!

“Y/N” Dante ran to her and quickly pressed her body against his. His hand found her neck to apply pressure on her bloody wound. She was barely conscious but she was still with him. “I’m so sorry, baby. Hold on, I got you.” He kissed her forehead. It was so cold against his lips. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

Dante stayed by her side for what seemed hours to him, holding her tight against him, trying to keep the weakening life in her safe, when finally blue and red lights began to flicker in the bedroom. What happened next was so blurry. All he could make out were a group of men dragging Y/N from his embrace, saying they would take care of her and that he had to let her go. He didn’t know how he did it but he eventually obeyed those men, in spite of his arms trying to reach for her. He followed them- followed Y/N- to the crowded street where the nearby residents were crammed into, whispering and trying to take a peep at what was going on in this usual very quiet neighbourhood. But he didn’t care about them or their judgmental looks. All he cared about was Y/N being taken away in an ambulance. The paramedics didn’t let him in. And in spite of how much he wanted to fight their decision, Dante chose not to. He couldn’t delay them. Y/N’s life depended on time and too much had been wasted already.

But he found her again, like he would always find her, and he spent days waiting for her to wake up, waiting for her beautiful (colour) eyes to open again, for her sweet voice to say she was alright, his hand holding hers in an eternal grip that only her awakening could break, days in which he had to think about what happened, about what could have happened and what will happen. So many hypothesis, each one worse than the last. And when Y/N finally awoke and, with a soft smile that bear no grudges or hatred, said. “Hey handsome.” He did what he thought he should have done days ago. “We need to end this.”

***

Patty’s eyes were glowing with tears as she was staring at Dante without blinking. This was certainly the saddest love story she had ever heard in her entire life. Even Bolero in Spring had never made her feel so much. “You can’t do that!” She declared as if in denial, as if she could change the past. “The story can’t end like this!” “But it is not a story, Patty. This is not some television show made to satisfy a bunch of hopeless romantic little girls. It’s real life. And real life is tough and …” Dante looked at Y/N, at her sad eyes and at the scar she was trying to conceal under a red silk scarf. “What’s done cannot be undone.” “But you loved each other!” The girl was almost furious, shaking her head nervously. “Patty.” Dante said calmly. “And you still love each other, I’m sure of it. I can tell by the way you both tell your story.” “Patty.” Dante repeated with insistence this time. “I won’t have this ending! No way!” She shouted with a deep frown. “It has already ended!” Dante screamed and Patty froze. He had never screamed at her, never in his entire life, even in times when she was incredibly annoying. He had never screamed at her. “It has ended. And neither you nor anyone can change it, okay? If it doesn’t please you, you can leave, wait in the car and go back to your mushy love series.”

There was a pregnant silence in which Patty stared at Dante with a disappointment he had never witnessed. “Y/N was right. You know how to fight demons. But you don’t know how to fight YOUR demons.” And she got up and left the house to do exactly what her beloved friend had told her, meaning wait in the car to go back to mushy love stories, leaving Dante and Y/N alone in the living room with nothing else but a heavy discomfort.

“I’m sorry for making a scene.” “ Well, you always had a flair for the dramatic.” They both had a conspiratorial smile similar to the ones they used to share when they were younger except it was fainter, sadder. “ She read the letter, the one you wrote me” Dante said staring at his hands in discomfort. He couldn’t look at Y/N, not with all the memories rushing in his head. “ I figured.” But she looked at him, excepting deep down he would say something, anything about what happened.”Never thought you would have kept it though.” “ Why not?” “ You never replied.” And there it was, that disappointment Dante well deserved. “I did reply. I just never sent the letter.” Y/N's eyes slightly widened at this unexpected confession. What did he mean by that? “Huh, words of advice. After writing a letter to someone, you need to mail it.” She declared sarcastically, not really knowing how she managed to crack such a joke. Was it a joke? Maybe, because Dante laughed a bit. “ I had no money to buy a stamp.” The girl scoffed. She knew the man before her all to well to know that this was “Bullshit.” But she had missed it, missed him. “What did it say?” “ Same crap I told you at the hospital. How much I was sorry and … You know what? … There.” He opened his red coat to take a crumpled letter from his inside pocket. It was unsealed, stamped –obviously- and her name and address were written on it. “ I hope Devil May Cry will never provide delivery service cause this has clearly arrived way too late.” However she took it in her hands, gathering all her inner strength not to tremble as she could feel all those emotions shaking inside of her. “ Years too late. You can say it.” Dante smiled as he watched the letter he had kept to himself for so many years finally reaching its long-awaited recipient. “I don’t expect you to read it … or open it. You can actually turn it into a paper plane or shove it down my throat if you want. I won’t fight you.” Of course he had to joke, to play it cool but she didn’t mind. She knew it was just one of his defence mechanism and she couldn’t blame him for it. “ So why giving it to me?” Dante shrugged, refusing to admit he did want her to read what his young 19 years old self had to say, what he still had to say. “You can’t stop with the devil-may-care for a second and admit what you truly want, what you truly feel, can you?” “ Fight my demons, huh?” He quoted her and she nodded. “Yes. Would that be so complicated for a ‘menacing devil hunter’ like yourself?” It was her turn to quote him but that quote made him melancholically happy. “ I guess that’s a challenge I still can not face.” “ Or don’t want to” There was a new pause and as they finally looked at each other’s eyes, they knew they would not fix what had been broken years ago today. He was not ready. Not yet anyway. And that was okay. Y/N was patient. She could wait. She could keep waiting. “Goodbye Y/N” Especially when this time a kiss on her forehead and a hand on her cheek felt more hopeful than ever. “Goodbye, Dante.”

And she watched him leave, again, but certain that someday, one day he would come back to her as he always would. After all, he promised.

#DEVIL MAY CRY #DANTE #DANTE X READER #DMC FANFICTION #DEVIL MAY CRY FANFICTION #A TAB TO ERASE #PATTY LOWELL

47 notes · View notes

ingek73 · 3 years

Text

Fairytales for fuckwits: Meghan, a children's book, and the school bully tactics of the British tabloids...

Piers Morgan's obsession with Meghan Markle continues, while Mike Graham appears worried there may be too many big words for him to understand.

Mic Wright

May 6

On May the 4th, there was a great disturbance in the force, as if thousands of tabloid reporters and talk radio pundits cried out at once: The Duchess of Sussex had announced she was writing a children’s book.

Since the earth-shattering news that Meghan has written a story about the relationship between father’s and their sons — apparently based on a poem she wrote for Prince Harry — the tabloid press and talk radio stations have gone into meltdown.

The Sun has managed to crank out seven hysterically-pitched stories on the announcement since it dropped — the book isn’t out until June 8th — with each more unhinged than the last:

MEG TO PAPER Meghan Markle writes children’s book inspired by Prince Harry and baby Archie about ‘bond between father and son’

MEG-A MOVE Meghan Markle’s first priority should be mending broken relationships with royals not writing kids’ book, expert claims

SOUNDS A BIT WOODEN ‘Schmaltzy’ Meghan Markle ‘on dodgy ground’ with kids’ book celebrating fathers ‘after own bust-up with dad’ says author

DOUBLE DUCH Meghan Markle accused of copying her kids’ book The Bench from another story – but author defends her

NOT WRITE Piers Morgan slams ‘hypocrite’ Meghan Markle for kids’ book on ‘father-son bond’ after ‘ruining Harry and Charles’ ties’

'RIDICULOUS' Meghan Markle using Duchess of Sussex as author name ‘laughable’ after she wanted to cut Royal ties, says royal expert

CUT PRICE Meghan Markle’s kids’ book has price slashed already at Amazon and Waterstones

You’ll notice that Piers Morgan — a man who has turned one drink with Meghan after which he claims she “ghosted him”, which took place in 2016, into a five year and counting obsession — gets his own story there. That’s The Sun filleting Morgan’s spittle-flecked Daily Mail column on the book for its own news piece.

Morgan, who trails his columns on Twitter like they are exciting new releases rather than the tabloid equivalent of a letter scrawled in faeces forced through your letterbox, dashed out his thoughts on The Bench with the indecent haste of a man running along while his trousers fall down.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @BreeNewsome

DEFUND & ABOLISH POLICE, REFUND OUR COMMUNITIES

@BreeNewsome

Piers Morgan’s obsession with Meghan Markle is genuinely disturbing. He’s really just using the guise of journalism to be a public stalker and harasser.

May 5th 2021

1,414 Retweets10,252 Likes”

Beneath a typically screaming Mail headline — How the hell can Meghan 'I hate royalty but call me Duchess' Markle preach about father-child relationships when she's disowned her own Dad, and wrecked her husband's relationship with his? — Morgan howled:

… she continues to cynically exploit her royal titles because she knows that's the only reason anyone is paying her vast sums of money to spew her uniquely unctuous brand of pious hectoring gibberish in Netflix documentaries, Spotify podcasts or children's books.

Of course, her equally cynical publishers don't give a damn about any of this shocking double standard.

Forget the fact that Meghan had a good degree of personal fame before she ever met Prince Harry, Piers Morgan accusing anyone else of being a cynical fame chaser is beyond parody. From his earliest days as a gossip hack, Morgan has muscled into pictures with the rich and famous, desperate to be someone.

When Meghan was willing to indulge him, he showered her with praise, but once she stopped taking his calls, he turned into the Tinder match from hell. That he has been married to his second wife, fellow controversialist columnist Celia Walden since 2010 seemingly did nothing to dampen his obsession.

Having repeatedly interviewed Meghan’s estranged father Thomas Markle — another man aggrieved because a woman would rather not spend time with him — Morgan sneers:

If she really cared about father-child relationships, she'd take a chauffeur-driven limousine on the hour-long trip to see her own father who's never even met either Harry or Archie.

It’s projection again: Piers Morgan’s ego is so egg-shell thin that after Meghan decided that one drink was more than enough, he’s spent 5 years seeking revenge and convinced that he’s been wronged, just like her ‘poor old dad’. That’s the ‘poor old dad’ that insists on talking about his daughter to journalists at every possible occasion.

At the end of an article that implies Harry and Meghan contributed to the death of Prince Philip — he died of natural causes — and rants on about “the woke”, Morgan ends with this:

But then as we've seen from her gruesomely self-interested behaviour during a pandemic that's caused so much devastation and pain to billions around the world, Meghan Markle doesn't really care about anyone but herself.

Remember, the Duchess of Sussex’s only ‘crime’ here is to write a children’s book which people will be free to buy or ignore with equal ease. But, as ever, Piers Morgan treats the news with all the proportionality of a US drone strike.

The real story here is about how Morgan — the bittiest of bit-part players in the narrative of Meghan and Harry’s lives — is so desperate to upgrade his place in the cast list that he will rant and rave to stay relevant. His departure from Good Morning Britain came after his last stream of invective about Meghan and he knows this schtick gets him the attention and money he craves.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @MariaLRoach

Maria Roach

@MariaLRoach

Meghan Markle inside the tiny space called Piers Morgan’s head. #duchessofsussex Tap Dance GIF by Miss America

May 5th 2021

122 Retweets1,619 Likes”

Aside from Morgan’s column, MailOnline has published 9 other news stories on or related to the book announcement. The most telling of them is one that links the Duchess of Sussex’s book to another one… by the Duchess of Cambridge.

Headlined Bookshelf battle royale! Kate Middleton shares a glimpse inside her Hold Still photobook just a day after Meghan Markle unveiled her own £12.99 children's story, the story unsurprisingly treats Kate with kid gloves while continuing to imply that Meghan is the kind of person who would make gloves out of kids if it suited her devilish schemes.

There’s no shade thrown at the Duchess of Cambridge for revealing further details of her book just hours after Meghan’s announcement. Instead, the story — lavishly illustrated with images from the book — gushes:

The Duchess of Cambridge has shared a glimpse of her photography book Hold Still ahead of its release on Friday…

… Kate, 39, a keen photographer, launched a campaign during the first lockdown last year to ask the public to submit images which captured the period.

It even includes a mention of an image of a BLM protestor saying:

Over the course of the project, the Duchess shared a number of her favourite images on the Kensington Royal Instagram page, including a Black Lives Matter protester holding a sign reading: 'Be on the right side of history.'

If Meghan had done the same she would have been decried for “supporting extremists”. Remember the contrasting way their mutual taste for avocado was covered?

15 Headlines Show How Differently The British Press Treat Meghan Markle Vs Kate Middleton | Bored Panda

Over at The Daily Telegraph, Spiked alumna Ella Whelan offered her thoughts on a book that isn’t released until next month under the headline Meghan Markle’s fun-free children’s book may put an entire generation off reading, which makes it sound like a grimoire full of dark magic rather than a gentle children’s book about kids and their dads.

Just as with the Mail’s story on Kate’s book, it’s worth imagining what Whelan would say if the Duchess of Cambridge had written The Bench. Look at the following section…

It reveals something of the political superficiality of Harry and Meghan’s activism that an “inclusive” book would use the military father as its promotional message. Perhaps it’s a cultural thing, but if my kids have to read about soldiers, I’d prefer Hans Christian Andersen’s tin version rather than the woke posturing of a former royal.

… and notice that because Meghan is the author including a father who is in the military is “political superficiality”. If Kate had written a story that featured an analogue for Prince William — who also spent time in uniform, though in less dangerous circumstances than his ‘spare’ brother — Whelan would likely deem it a ‘touching tribute to their love’.

Similarly, Sarah Ferguson — the ex-wife of Prince Andrew, top Yelp! reviewer for Jeffrey Epstein’s houses and noted avoider of FBI questioning — uses the title Duchess of York on her many execrable children’s books.

Now that Meghan is the tabloid’s new monster in the monarchy, Fergie’s antics are pointed to as a positive with her books flattered even as Meghan’s as-yet-unpublished book is panned.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @talkRADIO

talkRADIO

@talkRADIO

Meghan Markle is releasing a new children's book about father-son relationships.

Mike Graham: "It's so juvenile. This is somebody who acts like she's still in high school... it's not exactly Tennyson, is it?

@mrmarkdolan | @Iromg Image

May 5th 2021

36 Retweets221 Likes”

Over on talkRADIO, Mike Graham — a melting mass of expired meat — ranted about a children’s book, worried perhaps that it will contain too many long words. Speaking to his colleague, Mark Dolan — Dennis Pennis without the charm — Graham crowed:

It’s so juvenile. This is somebody who acts like she’s still in high school… I don’t have anything against her for any particular reason, other than she’s a bit too American, you know. She thinks everything is just great and cheesy. Rhyming the words ‘joy’ and ‘boy’. It’s not exactly Tennyson, is it?

Ah yes, that famous children’s author, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, known for such devastating rhymes as this one from The Lady of Shallot: “She left the web/ She left the loom/ She made three paces through the room.”

I’m not saying The Lady of Shalott is rubbish — though I do still hold a grudge against Tennyson after some very tedious teaching in high school — but that focusing on one rhyme in a poem is an easy trick if you want to say its shit. That Graham cannot see the irony in decrying writing a children’s book as “juvenile” is just one of the reasons he’s employed by a station with less than 1% reach.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @NadimJBaba

Nadim Baba

@NadimJBaba

Piers Morgan ranting about the one who got away in 5, 4, 3.......

Media Guardian @mediaguardian

Meghan wins copyright claim against Mail on Sunday over letter https://t.co/cJZTgDMvgz

May 5th 2021

1 Like”

There’ll be a new round of these columns, stories, and talk radio segments when the book is released, particularly as The Mail on Sunday just lost the second part of Meghan’s copyright claim against it.

There’s nothing that either Meghan or Harry could do that wouldn’t drive these rats in a sack rabid. If they did nothing, they’d be called lazy. When they make things, take jobs, or really say anything the very media that benefits hugely from stories about them scream that it’s a cry for attention. And yet Piers Morgan regularly pissing himself in public is “commentary”.

#meghan markle #prince harry #duchess of sussex #duke of sussex #piers morgan #brokenbottleboy #toxic tabloids #uk press

24 notes · View notes