#he's secretive in a way the story allows and glosses over.

[wolves-in-the-world]

thinking about how the one time eliot masterminds something, it's because the circumstances are dire and we don't actually see it happen; how he says he plays chess and nate believes him but we don't ever see it or hear about it again; how we don't even see his most basic fighting skills until they're needed and he has to drop the cerebral and nonthreatening grift he was using in front of the team. and I don't know what to think except that in some ways he's just as secretive as parker is, we just don't see it because on top of that he's this very believable gruff-but-sorta-amiable person who meets up with his vet buddies and goes on dates and cooks for his team.

#not heading anywhere particular with this just. #with parker we see the warehouse and the multiple addresses and it's all shown to us in a way to draw attention to her caution #and how much she trusts the team regardless by letting sophie figure out the combination #and we have to assume that eliot has safehouses too but the show never even flirts with the idea of showing us. #he's secretive in a way the story allows and glosses over. #the difference between him and parker is that he pretends hard to be normal and she either can't or doesn't. #once again reminded of the ship dynamic 'there is something wrong with you that is also wrong with me.' #like. I sort of love that we don't see eliot's discussion of the kidnapping. what he figured out and how they'll handle it etc. #because just like in the pilot it's including the viewers in his grift #and this time it's the grift he resorts to most around people who know his job #the one that says he's violent and simple and not especially bright. the one that leads people to underestimate him. #power negativity applied in the best way for a hitter's career. #it's a grift we see multiple times and we're only barely shown the edges of it. #I would still kind of love to see more. because once again #it is fascinating to me that you can watch the entire damn show and still believe the grift of it. #eliot #leverage #hi I've been ignoring tumblr to get writing done and I keep having thoughts. it's terrible.

[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter iii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), blood & gore, scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, guns, SMUT!!, unprotected p in v, fingering (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 9k

authors note: the fucking. at long last. thank god. (this is my first time writing smut omg goodbye)

series masterlist | masterlist

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joel speaks to you like copper oxidizing in the sun. it’s slow at first, a shiny amber thing you covet, bestowed every once in a while on patrol or in the dining hall. but when the green catches hold, the gloss of it gone but easier, softer, it’s only a week or two from start to finish. he remains taut with you, strung into a tight wire you weary your hands trying to soften. even still, his prevailing silence makes him a vault, and at every moment you deem appropriate, you store your secrets there.

you tell him about the strawberries first. of the redness of that first one, and the way you’d wept with tommy and noah over the soil. of your hoarding of them, too. you recall to him your brisk walks in the biting air with ellie, smuggling handfuls stained red in the warmth of your coats, to deposit the bunches of them in your kitchen. 

he doesn’t ask you again, after his vulnerability on your porch that night, about ellie, but regardless you tally your moments with her to recite for him. you watch him grip to them like a wounded animal in the snow, though still he is joel, and so mostly he is quiet as you recount your greenhouse conversations. you’re certain, now, that he isn’t her father, but she mirrors him to a degree of uncanniness, what with her constant bristling. this you do not say to joel, but mostly because you suspect he already knows.

you pull from joel what he lets you. you learn he lived in austin, before. you learn he worked in a boston qz most recently, up until the trek with ellie to wyoming (the motives of this are strictly off-limits, and though you enjoy pushing him, you allow this omission to stand). you learn he loves music, and played the guitar a lifetime ago. and you gather scraps of him in the moments between the stories, too; he is performative, despite himself, and runs inhumanly hot, and reaches still for his southern manners like he’ll someday be rewarded for them. most of all, though, you learn he is not very good at covering the craters of himself. the small set of moments from his life before jackson he allows you to see are censured, punctured through by his own tongue, you deduce to muzzle the voices of the characters of his past he won’t let you meet. but his recollections remain wounded by his carving of them, and so the ghosts of his memories, unnamed as they are, are clear to you. there is one in boston, and another set along the path to jackson. most incurably, there is one in austin, but unlike the rest, joel carries this specter with him. 

the dining hall is always bloated with townspeople when you return from your rounds. the warmth of them overcomes the cold of the outside (it has persisted into late january this year) and as you find a table with joel at your side, the buzzing heat tickles at you from under your coat. you sit down at an empty table with joel on your left.

“but i do think they’re being weird. quiet, i guess, and tommy isn’t ever quiet.” you turn to joel, whose mouth is full already, and he leans back in his chair. tommy pulled away from you, and joel, too, over the last two weeks or so. maria has kept her distance—you have learned to expect this—but tommy is so insistently social, and so his waning outings in town seem odd to you.

“i dunno. tommy’s tommy, ain’t he?”

“yes, tommy’s tommy. but tommy hasn’t been tommy. you see what i’m saying?”

joel shrugs, stabbing again at his plate. “i guess,” but his thought isn’t finished, so you don’t respond quite yet. the brown of his eyes flickers when he’s let the tail of his sentence go, and you’ve learned to make space for them. “i…i don’t think maria’s too comfortable with my bein here.” he won’t look at you, but still it’s as vulnerable as joel ever is with you; he thinks tommy is distant because of him. you’re thrown to that night with maria in your kitchen, asking (demanding, really) that you patrol with joel, to the unyielding truth that your forced proximity to him begins and ends with your proclivity for violence. you aren’t quick to guilt, but it lays its clammy hand on your shoulder while you watch him eat. you’re reminded of how hot the room is, and begin to pull your arms from your jacket, turning your head slightly to lay it across your chair.

“maybe not, but she’s never been too excited about me, either. maria’s protective, very protective. but tommy’s different, too, he–” you don’t know if it’s the looking or his finger that comes first, but in any case you’re jolted somewhat ungracefully into silence. joel’s face has contorted into something unrecognizable as he looks down at your arm, bare in a tank top for the first time in months, and you watch as his pointer finger follows his eyeline down the scar on your left bicep. oh fuck. the callous of his touch just barely dances along the top of it, padding his fingertip along the skin in what feels like disbelief and disappointment and something else entirely. the mark closed up years ago, but the feeling of joel’s hand along your skin nearly burns the thing off. your sanity and your wanting of him are so flammable, and the spark of his touch sets the whole of you in smoke. after a few seconds of it, of the looking and the touching and the silence, joel remembers himself and stiffens again in his chair.

“i’m sorry, darlin, i-” he stops himself. “i'm sorry.”

and him calling you darlin is entirely unfair. you flush, across your chest and down your spine and down through your sex. there is something truly wrong with you. “no, no. it’s okay. i didn’t realize you hadn’t seen it.”

though he’s retracted his hand, joel’s stare remains clutched across your bicep. his fists curl in on themselves in his lap, and he stays there, firm and looking at you and cupping on nothing in his palms. you fill the silence.

“it was a long time ago. i don’t think about it much anymore.” this is only halfway dishonest.

“i shouldnta touched it.” he almost sounds bashful, boyish. he finally looks away from the scar and back at his food. “shouldn’t be starin either.” the depth of his voice tears through you despite the softness of it now, a whisper nearly unintelligible under the sounds of the dining hall. it strikes you that he thinks you a victim, and the thought nearly makes you sick. by maria’s fear of him, you’re certain joel has as blood-stained a past as you do, and late at night you tell yourself he would understand. still, you haven’t had the heart to tell him. what would you even say?

joel shakes his head slightly side to side like he’s reprimanding a child, though the child is him, now, and you could laugh at how awful and sweet and misinformed it is. you’d like to forgive him again, but you think he’ll excuse himself if you say any more about it, so you let the whole thing dissolve away.

“you like strawberries, sting?”

joel groans. yes, along with the lusting and your little fruits, the nickname is a luxury you cannot deny yourself.

“‘n so i played, but never out at bars or anything. tommy sure as hell wanted me to,” he said, securing his horse back in the barn.

“so who’d you play like?” you called from your stall in the stables. 

“nobody,” he grunted back.

“you play like sting?”

noah found an old record of his on a run once, and you sat by jesse’s record player for hours at a time listening to it. in truth, it was some of the only music you really knew by heart. as you asked it, the both of you stepped out from your corners of the barn, and he stood with his hip cocked. you grinned at him, but he looked incredulously back at you.

“like sting? are you serious?”

you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m asking a question. can’t i ask a question?”

“jesus. sting played the bass,” he said, exasperated, as he turned from you to walk out. you thought of his thorniness and guitar playing and the colors of his voice. sting. you decided you’d call him that as you followed out after him.

“i think so. i think i used to.” he seems far more relaxed in his chair now, and it makes you sink further into yours.

“i just have too many now. i’ve been thinking of giving some away,” you say, looking at him. “would you take some?” and it’s true; they’ve been overflowing into your sink and onto your windowsill. your little plant has been bountiful, and you had insisted her harvests were yours, but watching them mold on your counter has not proven as indulgent as you had thought. another, quieter and much more dangerous piece of yourself, tells you that really, you just want to give something to joel, to give anything to joel, but you cite instead the rotting by your fridge and allow yourself to ignore that little voice.

joel eyes you. “you really askin? or you bein courteous?”

“am i ever courteous?” you laugh. he smiles a little and laughs, too.

“no, no. i guess not.”

you’re giddy with the shake of his chest and his grin. he doesn’t laugh all that often, you suppose because it exhausts him so, but when joel laughs it’s an anatomical revelation. the whole of him wrestles with it. you’re wet, again, (it’s nearly constant for how often you’re together), and you eat what’s left of your lunch.

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

your favorite of the group before jackson was danny. you’d met eliza first, in the salt lake qz, but danny was your age, and beautiful in a delicate sort of way that struck you as unnatural. you remember the stories your father told you from the bible, of the angels with eyes and wings and bloodlust, and danny was of that sort. it surrendered you to him, you think, and so you let him fuck you when the moon wasn’t out. he never made you come, really, but it wasn’t about the coming then. you were teenagers and guilty, so heavy and ashamed and good at the killing, and so the rub of a tree at your back as you let him put his cock in you was an escape from your being and the blood on your hands. 

in his back pocket danny kept a polaroid, folded up and frayed around the edges, of him as a child, much of the same abnormality and prettiness, and ellie reminds you of that photo. for a thing you’re certain has seen death on and about her, ellie remains strange and stunning. she sits to your left with her legs out in front of her, sorting through your stock of seeds. you spin your knife along your knuckles as you sort through a pole bean plant to harvest the ripened pods, the orange light of sunset filtering through the leaves and quilting shapes along your skin. 

“okay, mainly you’re almost outta radishes. everything else you gotta pretty nice setup on,” she says, setting the box down next to her. ellie had broken her outstanding silence with you, and you determine quickly that she isn’t disillusioned with who you have been. she’d told you once that you hold your knife like you’re worried someone will take it from you. she’d laughed and laughed, conjured scenarios of your vegetables rising against you, and you laughed with her. still, she sees your practice with it, the disjoint of your grip against the unmoving of your plants, and inherits the knowing of the damage you’ve done.

“alright. i’ll see if anyone going through the set of cabins down south can find anything,” you say back, sifting still through the bean leaves. 

“and what do you say now?” ellie’s voice lilts with her smile, all childlike wickedness, and you turn to her, grinning back.

“thank you, ellie.”

with a grunt and a stumble she stands back up and gives you a half bow, echoing self contentedly, “thank you, ellie.” you snort.

as she leaves, you watch tommy approach through the greenhouse walls. you think he’s frightened of her, hides himself in his coat as though she may reach out and tear him apart, but still he tips his chin to her as he makes his way towards you and crosses her path. you can’t help but smile, tracking the peeking green of a few pole beans she’d stolen bounce from her pocket as she walks away. you walk out the doors to lean on the outside greenhouse wall.

“i see you’ve risen from your crypt,” you say as he arrives fully in front of you. 

tommy grins tight lipped, his arms cradled to his ribs as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. there’s an anxiety to him, to the way he rocks back and forth before you. “yeah, yeah. i already heard it from damn near everyone i’ve seen today.” 

“i’ve been more social than you these past two weeks. you know how fucked up that is, tommy?” you’re trying your hardest to show him you’re joking, coax him into honesty. he’s come to confess something to you, you think.

“oh give me a break,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows slightly and holds your arms out in front of you; you have the floor. a beat.

“well i came to tell you the news.” you hum. “maria and i are, well i guess maria is, shit,” he says, but he’s smiling now, coy and wistful, scratching the back of his head as he asks, “how did people used to do this?” you say nothing, still. “maria and i are having a baby.”

and something between your lungs shifts out of place. they are going to have a child. a child. your first thought is that they will be good parents, tommy and maria; their flesh and blood is warm with sun and work and something lovely, and it will make for something worth growing, you’re certain. they will be of jackson, like your plants and the snow, and maybe the whole of humanity is forgiven for children like this, born into safety and wood cabins.

your second thought is so horrifically selfish you can hardly stomach it, let alone recite it. you swallow it back down.

“tommy, that’s amazing,” and you hug him there, a copy of your embrace standing in the reflection of the greenhouse walls. “how are you feeling about it?”

he pulls back grinning. yes, he will be a good father. “well shit, scared out of my mind, you know,” he chuckles, “but real excited. maria, too.”

you give him a smile that you mean. “well, you guys let me know if i can do anything,” you say, and gesture towards the garden, “if there are any herbs or things that could help maria with any of it you just let me know.”

tommy nods and puts his hands in his pockets, nodding. “i thank ya for it.”

for a moment, the two of you stand there in the waning sunlight, watching what you’ve become. tommy, you think, is precisely what he was meant to be. he has always been far too content with existence, molded over as it might now be, to deny fatherhood. you wonder what he sees in you. 

“well, give maria my congratulations. lord knows she’s doing the heavy lifting,” you chuckle as you move to go back into the greenhouse, “and come knocking if i can help.”

you make it to the door before tommy calls your name and you turn around.

“how’re you doin on patrol with joel?” he asks you from his spot, letting the words cross the now sizable distance between you. you’re thankful for how far he is, hoping whatever grin is laying itself across your face is too subtle for him to make out.

“we’re doing okay, i think. he’s a little tense…and can be fucking terrifying.” and now you really smile. “but i can handle him.”

tommy barks out a laugh and begins to walk backwards towards the town square, calling out with a palm cupped to the side of his mouth, “you’re good for him!”

and you let yourself be jovial, laughing as you kneel to your beets, but really you might never forgive him for saying something like that. 

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

joel still hasn’t come to visit your garden, though you’re grateful for this now. the warmth of the greenhouse has become your respite from the constant wanting, and you think if he materialized in the doorway you’d melt there in the soil. pacing through your kitchen, you eye the little basket of strawberries on your counter. you’ve named them joel’s already, but each time you’ve made to bring them to him your resolve disintegrates down your thighs.

but oh, they are so perfect now, reddened into a vivid blush, and if you don’t hand them off today you’ll have to throw them out. you grab the basket and slip out the door, doing your best to avoid spitting up your heartbeat on the walk to joel’s porch.

it’s nearly dusk, and when he opens the door he has a glass with about a finger of whiskey in his right hand. it sloshes as he looks you over, eyes measured a little with surprise and something else, but you stay tied to the wrap of his fingers around the glass and lock your knees to keep from dropping to them. 

“hey, sting,” you grin (or grimace, more like).

“uh,” he leans a shoulder on the doorway and the movement brings his chest closer to you outside of the threshold. you smell the whiskey and the pine of him as he continues, “hey.”

his voice is deeper, now, hoarse with the weight of the day, and you conclude that you are, in fact, doomed for madness, if he keeps looking at you like that. you bring the basket of strawberries up to your chest and gesture them to him. “i just wanted to drop these off. they’ll go bad in a few days.”

joel peers down into the basket and grins a little, turning to put the tumbler on a table behind him before stepping more fully out of the house. you think he expects you to take a step back to make room for him, but you allow his chest to crowd yours, tilting your head further back. “well shit,” he laughs, “these are real.”

“yeah, well, now they’re real and they’re yours.”

joel lets his eyes circle once more over your face before extending his hands to take the basket. the warmth of his fingers as they brush yours along the weaving makes you clench and expand in the span of a moment. “thank you, really,” he says softly, sincerely, and the basket is so much smaller, now, held to his front. 

you shove your hands into your back pockets. “eat them soon, though, please.” 

joel turns around again to put the basket inside just beside the whiskey glass, and says to you behind him, “can always make jam or somethin if i can’t go through em all.”

your stomach twists up and it pushes what can only be described as a giggle (an awful thing) from you. “jam? you know how to make jam?”

he shifts back around and cocks his hip, sticking a knee out. “the fuck you mean by that tone?”

you laugh harder, earnestly, nearly folding over with it as he grips the door, ready to close it. “jam?” 

“yes, jam. it ain’t that hard.”

you keep laughing just for the sake of it now, but as joel begins to swing the door shut with a quiet jesus you hold your hands out. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just don’t look the type is all.”

with a tilt of his head he asks, “oh yeah? so what type am i?”

this quiets you. please, do not give yourself away, do not bleed your hand, do not. you narrow your eyes at him, dramatizing your assessment, pleading with yourself to construct an answer suitable for near sunset, but you take too long, boots nearly reaching his. he grunts, bringing his thumb and pointer finger up to hold your chin and twist you away from him. you feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers for the moment that he grasps your head between them, and your pussy drools a little. still, you begin to make your way down his porch; this is far from the most aggressive way joel has decided the conversation has ended, and so despite his push of your chin from his palm you make it to the final step pleased, the warmth of his skin still licking where he touched you. 

“goodnight.”

you stop, take a deep breath in, the silence behind you petting down your spine. he hasn’t closed the door. he’s waiting for you to say it back. and you die a little death there, with one foot on the road. “goodnight, sting.”

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

the air is noticeably warmer this morning as you drag it into your mouth, padding along the beginnings of spring towards the stables. joel has prepared his horse already when you walk in, giving you a mornin, and he’s leaned up statuesque on her side with an elbow. the sling of his gun’s strap hugs his chest through his flannel, and the barrel peeks up over his shoulder, but only just. you salute to him as you saddle your horse.

“morning yourself.” you feel him stretch behind you as he mounts his horse (you are always so painfully aware of his body) and smirk, “rough night? did the jam give you trouble?”

“christ, i didn’t make any, darlin i’m just tired.” 

you mount your horse. darlin. jesus.

“well you rest up, cowboy, i’ll cover you.”

joel grunts and says nothing as you trot out the gates together. he doesn’t think you capable of protecting him; in all, it is your best kept secret.

as the both of you wind through your northern route, you notice again the opening forest floor, weeds and flower beds resurfacing again beneath the trees. elderberries start to bloom out here this time of year, and in years past noah has uprooted the bushes for you to replant and harvest. the flowers are edible, too, and beautiful, and you wonder if joel will let you stop a moment to look for them. you wait until the trees grow thick and quiet around you before asking.

“joel,” he makes a noise in response, “could we stop here for a little? there are berries that grow around here and i want to see if i can find any to take back to the greenhouse.”

joel looks at you from his horse, affectless. “you serious?”

“yes.”

he lets out a sigh that morphs into a yawn midway through and shakes his head around a little, dusting something from his mind. “alright, alright. fine. but stay close, please,” and he trails off as he says it but you catch the end all the same.

you smile up at him, feet already on the ground and setting your rifle at your horses hooves to pull your knife out. as you weave through the shadows of the brush you call back to joel, “maybe you can make some marmalade out of these, too,” and you’re buzzing with the scoff that passes even through the feet between you, but he’s grinning, small and against his best efforts, and you spot that, too.

“you ever gonna let that go?”

and you don’t answer, ducking into an embankment of bush and leaves. 

it’s been years since you’ve foraged like this. you used to pick mushrooms and berries from the ground with danny at night when you ran with the raiders, eat them together and take your chances. this feels different, though, charged with a tenderness and gentle knowing that’s new to you now. the world out here looks so much like your garden, feels so much like yours, and it strikes you that the mountains answer to you in your own small way. you could find a spot, up and away from the snow, and decide what grows there, play god with the grasses and the weeds. so though you find no elderberries in this brush, you are quiet with that little victory as you pace back to where you left joel.

as you approach, joel’s voice calls through the trees. a deep and pained “fuck!” and the rustling of clothes grows louder as you pad forward. there’s a shrill grunting, too, not joel’s, not joel’s. you take stock of your heartbeat and your fingers and the blade in your coat. there is someone else here. you move silently on the dirt, hiding your body in the bark and greenery, and then you spot him, kneeling with his hands behind his head, his gun kicked a few feet away, and a scrawny figure holds a glock to the skin of his forehead. suddenly you’re 19 again, and unafraid. joel spots you from your place halfway behind a tree and his eyes widen a fraction. don’t come out, he’s pleading with you, but you will not listen. your father’s knife, tucked into your jacket, coughs to life.

you trample the ground below you as you stumble out, hands in the air. you whine, “please, please, don’t hurt him,” and the man whirls around to you. he looks gaunt, his cheeks pressed into his face, but his beard, which hangs wiry by his chin, is streaked with something bloody and dead. he bares his teeth and laughs with delirium.

“so there is another one,” he says as he approaches, gun pointed now at your nose. you let him think you a coward and flinch as he presses it to your face. “you’re prettier ‘an your partner, ain’t ya?”

you keep your eyes wide, say nothing. not yet, not yet, he isn’t close enough. joel barks from behind him, lowly and wild, “don’t you fucking dare,” but the man has already brought his other hand to drag around your face, through the hollow of your collarbone, down your sternum. you let your lip tremble and joel flinches ahead of you.

the man calls behind him to joel, saying “if i hear you move a goddamn inch i’ll shoot ‘er.” joel’s face is pulled up into fury and brutality and helplessness, nostrils flaring and chest heaving, but he stills.

“please, please, i’ll do anything, let us go,” and as you say it, already his right hand is tilting, the barrel of the gun slowly drifting from your cheek. just a little more.

his breath is soiled with rot as it fans over your face and he’s so close to you now, whispering, “anything?” 

the gun is pointed just to the right of your ear. 

now.

you twist your arm between your shoulder and his wrist to grab his hand, pointing the gun to the treeline as you duck under it to spin behind him, your free hand reaching into your coat and stabbing through the artery that runs through his neck. blood pours from around the handle as the man falls to his knees, and you grip him by the filth of his hair to pull your knife back out. you let out a breath, standing over what is now a corpse. it’s been years, but you are always yourself, aren’t you?

you falter only when you turn around and joel is there. he’s sat fully on his haunches, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looks up at you. and the look on his face is…you don’t entirely know. his eyebrows kiss, knit together on his forehead, and his eyes look through you, like you’re an apparition before him, but still his mouth hangs open slightly. you think if you stay here, standing above him, the whole mangled history will come clawing from your mouth, so instead you move to sit beside him, the both of you now facing the body you left behind. 

the silence survives, for a few seconds. joel’s shoulders slump as he adjusts himself to sit with his legs out, and he pulls in a deep breath. 

“you done that a lot?”

you take a moment before replying, “yeah.” you think of how the truth seems to demand to be known regardless, regardless of your stifling of it and your wanting of joel and whatever innocence you’ve never had but cling to when with him. you think of this, and begin speaking.

“i was 18 when they found me in the salt lake qz. there was a group of them, 9 at the time, and this woman, eliza, she promised they’d take care of me. feed me more than the qz had. and i wasn’t starving or anything, really, or in any kind of trouble. i could take care of myself, you know. maybe i should’ve had a stronger moral compass. i was just…” you take a breath, “i was so alone, then. my father died on outbreak day, and mom was never really in the picture. some of them were my age, some were older. i don’t know. i’d learned how to use the knife like…” you look again at the corpse, “like that by then. i’d killed by then. it didn’t feel like i was losing anything, being a raider.”

joel is still beside you, looking down at his hands, but you know he is listening.

“and so we used to trap people like that. men, mostly. they’d throw me out in groups of them, let them get close and then…” you wave your hand around, a stand-in for the killing. “i ran with them for a few years. they kept their promises.” your scar throbs beneath your sleeve and you take another breath. “and then another group got the jump on us. we’d been looking through a warehouse and they’d been hiding there, i guess. they killed a few, nearly killed me, i think. they sliced through the artery down my left arm,” and you trace the line of the scar as you say it, “but matteo killed the rest before they slit my throat. he tried to stitch me up a little with what was left of our twine. still, they left me there. i didn’t really blame them. still don’t.

tommy found me there. he patrolled with noah, back then, and they came passing through after everyone else had left or died. at first they said i could only stay until the wound was healed, but in the end nobody had the heart to turn me out.” finally, you look at him, and he shifts his head up to look back at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.” and you are.

joel’s eyes flit over your face, scowling still but soft, too, and brings a hand up, slowly. he cups his palm around your cheek to turn your head, thumb soft along your face, and wipes the blood splatter along your neck and jaw with his other hand. when he shifts your face back to his, he lets his thumb trace the line of your nose, around the curve of your chin, once, featherlight, under your bottom lip. your mouth opens up a little, watching him watch you. he nods, then, decisive, and pulls himself off the ground, helping you up after him. 

you ride back to jackson in silence, leaving the dead man in the open. you let joel turn over what he saw, what he heard, in the quiet of your horse’s footsteps. he leaves you in the barn when you’ve dismounted, tells you to stay put, and reports the man to tommy. you stay, leaned up against the barn wall, waiting for him, something inside you scratching along the lining of your body, wondering what he’s thinking and knowing you have no right to it. when joel comes back, you notice the streak of blood on his thigh where he’d wiped his fingers after holding your face. you consider each other a moment from across the stables, and something passes between you. you saved his life today, and he’s grateful for it in a way he’s struggling with, and you can both agree you needn’t mention it again, at least until tomorrow. these thoughts he lets you read, before dropping them.

“you like whiskey?” he asks. and god what you wouldn’t do for a drink, so you nod. he jerks his head behind him and grunts, “c’mon.”

you let him lead you to his house, and for the first time you come inside.

joel has lived in jackson for years less than you, but still he’s filled it more than you have yours. there are books, on little tables and in the shelves, and half-done whittlings, and pencils. you flush with the scent of him, so strong in the curtains and the couch.

joel pours you a healthy shot into a tumbler, and then one for himself, and he lets you roam as you sip on it, following at your back without a word. you approach each of his shelfs, run your fingers along them, linger on the pieces of him he’s littered around. you finger through a pile of guitar picks and set your glass down there.

“what did you think of me when you first met me?” and you don’t entirely know why you ask it, at first. it comes, maybe, out of a selfish need to be reassured, or an even more dire want to hear his voice.

“what did i think of you?” he asks, and you can feel him approaching your back slowly. you hum, and joel reaches around you to set his glass down next to yours. he’s so close now and you squeeze your thighs together. “why d’you wanna know?”

and really you do your best at keeping yourself even. certainly, you tell yourself, he doesn’t mean to have this effect on you. certainly, he’s only trying to be kind after you sliced someone open for him. “i guess…” you think a moment, and then, “you asked me last night what kind of person you were. i want to know what you thought of me.”

he sighs a little, inches closer still. and his voice is so deep when he says at your back, “can i touch you here?” and you see in your periphery his pointer finger at your shoulder, hooking lightly over your hair. you barely muffle the shake in your chest and nod, and he pulls your hair over your other shoulder to bare your neck.

joel runs his nose along the line of your shoulder and lets out a breath there, pained and dismantled. into the seam of your neck, he whispers, “as soon as i saw you darlin i thought,” and he pauses to bring the backs of his knuckles, desperately light, down your spine, and you clench around nothing. “i thought you looked so goddamn soft. the fuckin garden and the strawberries, jesus, the strawberries.”

the paw of his hand, now at the base of your backbone, stretches itself along one of your hips. he says, now, “what about here? can i touch you here?” you nod again. joel’s fingertips press into you over your jeans there, but still he keeps his palm raised with a tremble that feels like restraint. “i thought i’d scare you.”

you let out a breath, slow, and muffled by your own attempt at control, and press your thighs together. the growing wetness at the nexus of your legs sears you, all lightning and heartbeat, and you will yourself to stay standing against the insistent pull of your arousal. joel tips his nose above the lobe of your ear to speak into it, lowly and gruffly and nearly apologetic (but not quite), “i’m too goddamn selfish.” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and breathes deeply again. “and violent.” this time, his words really do sound like repentance, and you stay silent to make space for the full of his confession. but his lips hover over the crest of your shoulder again, barely grazing, branding you all the same. “but you’re…” his jaw unhinges slightly, but he collects himself, “you’re vicious, baby.”

you whimper, then, and the sound of it makes him press his entire hand into your hip, suddenly frantic and squeezing at you.

“you hurt people, haven’t you darlin?”

you have to gasp for air, your pussy leaking into your underwear, because he’s seeing you, horrific and violent, and choosing to seek you out anyway. you nod cautiously, and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. and then gruffly, into your ear:

“you gonna hurt me?”

and you figure now, at least, you must be honest with him. “probably.” you barely recognize your own voice, the color of it darker with want than you’ve ever heard before.

joel pulls himself flush with your back, letting you feel the hardness of him, and allows himself a single push of his cock on your ass, muffling something animal in the back of this throat. he bands his free arm around your front to splay his palm on your sternum, pressing unforgivingly, and you feel the wild screaming of your heartbeat echoed back at you through his skin. he’s shaking, whispering, “don’t let me do this.”

you lay your head back into his shoulder to bring your mouth further up to him, arching yourself into his hold, making a home for yourself there. and pleading is a crime you refuse to commit in the presence of others, but you cannot help your own desperation now. “please.”

he spins you around then, and the lip of the shelf behind you presses determinedly into the skin below the hem of your shirt, but he’s kissing you (like he hates you, almost, or maybe himself) and so you take in the pain like it’s easy and you love it. his hands cup your head on either side, cradling the base where it meets your neck and threading his fingers through your hair as he nips at your bottom lip, laving over it with his tongue. he moans into your mouth as you kiss him back, lord forgive you for what that makes you feel, and you hitch a leg up to his hip to press your cunt into him. even through your jeans and his, he is an inhuman kind of large, and you wrap a handful of his shirt between your fingers to anchor you to sanity as you grind your hips at him. i need you i need you i need you, and you don’t say it, won’t say it, but you think it all the same. 

his hands move from around your head to grab at both ass cheeks, dragging your center across the front of his pants and you groan at each other from the feeling. whatever it is that sews you together is being reaped. you let yourself be dramatic; you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“joel, please,” you whisper into his mouth, which continues to eat at you.

“please what?” he pants back through your lips. “say it. what are you askin for?” despite this torture, his hands start to grope down your sides and pull at the buttons of your jeans. you move to press yourself into his grip but he insists, pushing you back into the wall. “tell me,” he growls, and it’s shadowy and lustful and deep, but as desperate as you feel, and it emboldens you.

“fuck me now, joel, please, please,” and you continue to beg, though your words turn incoherent, as he brings you up the stairs, holding your pussy still against his cock as it hardens behind his zipper. your pleading tightens joel's fingers on your waist, your thighs, the crook of your knee.

joel splays you on his bed, the tendrils of his hair haloed out around him as you run your fingers through and hold, and joel sucks and bites down your neck as he smooths his hands under your shirt to feel your skin. you whine out as he grabs at you, tight and wanting, and he pulls away so the both of you can pull your clothes off. you’re frantic as you sweep away your shirt and then your jeans, left bare besides your underwear on his bed, and you’d be embarrassed at your frenzy if joel wasn’t equally so pulling at his pants and shirt, but as it is you let yourself marvel at him. the broadness of his shoulders and biceps as he opens himself to you, the softness of his tummy, and oh, god, his cock tents in his boxers and you feel the already overwhelming wetness in your panties spread itself further. as soon as he’s on the brink of nakedness he’s on you again, caging your head between his palms on the mattress and pressing the hard line of his cock into your aching sex. his eyes bite at you with as much physicality as his teeth and tongue. something rumbles and unlocks in joel’s chest watching the rise and fall of your breasts as you heave, still grinding on you like he has no choice.

“goddamn it darlin,” he grits out, letting his eyes close a moment to feel the drag of your pussy against him. “you think about this?” your jaw falls open as you let a sigh out, one that means yes, and he moans deeply as he wraps his palms around each breast and squeezes. “you think about it as much as i do?” you nod again; you are past embarrassment, even humiliation, you are unreachable. it is only joel and his depth and you under him. “you touch yourself thinking of me?” and now you moan with the full of your chest, letting it loose in the sliver of air between you, and he returns it. “show me,” he pleads.

you let yourself a moment to pull the air, now heated with your body and his, into your lungs before you drag your fingers down your front and into your panties. he watches the movement of it, and his mouth stays open around a silent groan watching your fingers circle and push under the fabric, hearing you. you’re fucking dripping, and the squelches of your digits as you fuck yourself on them makes him groan and thrust his hips a little into nothing. you whimper his name and he falters a little. 

as a tightness grows in your belly, approaching without mercy with the scent of him at your lips, he finally brings his own hand down into your panties. he cups his palm over your moving hand and you begin to pull it out, but he catches your wrist. 

“no. keep going,” he groans. and you realize now he’s feeling how you touch yourself, barely resting his hand over your fingers as you pet inside, and you nearly come at the sight and thought and feeling of it. 

as you near your high again, he tightens his grip on your wrist and pulls your hand from your cunt with a growl. you whine at the loss, but he pushes two fingers inside you and suddenly you’re yelping like an animal, thrashing as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. he whispers, mostly to himself, “oh jesus christ you are so fucking tight,” and you keen. joel circles the spongy spot deep inside you and you clench around his fingers, pushing your clit further into his hold, and you’re so close, so close, so close. you tell him so, and he smiles a little, lustful and wicked but nearly in disbelief, too, and he says back to you, “it feel good, honey?” and you could almost laugh at him for questioning something so glaringly obvious, but any thought is cut off by a white and swirling pleasure that coils and then unties itself, and you come with a high pitched moan while he groans above you. that’s it, baby, oh my god. he whispers this to you as you come, but it sounds underwater and you can barely process it even as you come down from your high and joel pulls his fingers away. 

when your vision clears, you look above you to joel with his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and stroking himself over his boxers, and now you really think you’re hinging on death.

“fuck me now, joel, please, jesus,” you say, though it’s breathy and broken with the intensity of your orgasm, which throbs still through your clit and around your walls. 

joel pushes you further up his bed and lets his head dip again into your neck as he pulls his boxers and your panties off, biting with a diminishing mercy and chastising, “greedy.” you nod because you are.

when finally, finally, his bare cock is running through the wetness of your cunt, barely catching on the opening, and you’re two heaving bodies with the feeling of it, the both of you pause for the first time since joel’s entryway. you press a little foot into the back of his bare thigh, and you watch each other there, nearly in and of one another. 

you whisper, “you gonna be okay, sting?”

joel breathes out onto your face and you feel his cock jump and pulse along your dripping seam. he looks pained, but you grin because you know better, can feel better by the rawness of him on you. 

“yeah,” he replies. “are you?” and he looks down to where you nearly connect, gyrating his hips again and prolonging the feeling of his head at your entrance. you have just enough sense to notice his cock is as massive as you’d felt it to be, red and weeping along your pussy, and you’ll take him in your mouth sometime but not now, he has to fuck you now or you’ll blind yourself with your own wanting heat.

you murmur back a yes (it’s the best you can do), and he fists his hands in the sheets by your hands as he pushes himself in. 

you imagined joel would fuck you roughly, unforgivingly; in this, you were right. but he is not rushed. joel drags his cock deep through your walls, letting the head bump your cervix before pulling nearly all the way out, and then reburying himself inside, but it is meticulous, intentional. you press back up, as best you can, to rub your clit in the dark curls at his base, and in return he curves his hips deeper into you; the friction there makes your walls pulse, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it pistons in and out. 

only when you’ve recovered from the initial stretch of him can you hear the noises the both of you are making. it is unholy, unceremonious, and loud. you’re moaning in his ear as he fucks you, and he groans into your mouth, the side of your head, your neck, every patch of skin on the expanse of you that he can reach. 

so fuckin wet f’me, huh?

fuck, baby, this pussy is so fucking good.

yeah, yeah—oh fuck—clench me like that, fuck.

you know you won’t last long, and from the stumble of his hips each time you whimper at him you know he won’t either. with each thrust his balls slap and stick to your skin, the bed frame bumping on the wall. 

joel sits up straighter, eyes trained on your stretch around him and the wetness that pours out there. he looks wild, awed at how you suck him in, and you’re mewling just as wildly because he’s so fucking deep and you think you can see the bump of his head below your navel when he thrusts inside. you curl your hand over his bicep and press your nails in, moaning out, “joel, joel, oh my god, you’re so deep i can see it.” 

joel follows your eyeline and moans out something broken and incoherent, pressing a palm down where he knots up from your skin to feel himself moving in your walls, and you scream. the sensation makes you clamp down harder on him and joel grips the other hand on your hip.

“stop, oh my god, stop,” he grunts, cock still hard and unyielding and beating inside you.

“i won’t last, joel, please,” you whine back, and joel lets his eyes slip closed for a moment before nodding. he mutters out a fuck and presses your knees up to your chest, slinging each calf over his shoulders as he fucks you harder, deeper, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“jesus christ, darlin, you’ll kill me.” another moan. “come on my cock, baby, c’mon, let me feel it” and it’s a demand and a prayer at once, and who are you to refuse? you feel your cunt soaking him, the squelch of your bodies together intensifying, and the filth of it unravels you a second time. you come like a punishment, hard and drawn out and expansive in your body, and joel is moaning out at the feeling, “so good, so fucking good.” 

you drag your nails down his back, hoping the marks are harsh enough to stay, and joel’s head tips back with his mouth pulled open. his cock swells and twitches inside you, and as his fingers turn white with his grip on your legs he pulls out, pushing your thighs together and fucking the skin there until the white ropes of his come paint your chest and stomach.

you both pant as joel slumps slightly over you, keeping an elbow at the side of your head to keep his weight off you but allowing your legs to fall to the bed again. despite the fucking, this is by far the most intimate; your breaths meeting between your faces, his nose pressed against yours. you look for something to say, but come up short. joel spares you by pushing himself off the bed and retreating to the bathroom.

you are both quiet as he wipes you with a cloth, though he remains gentle, diligent. when you’re clean, he throws it somewhere off the bed and sits on the edge, back to you and head in his hands. you shift to let your legs hang off his quilt, but don’t turn to him.

“joel,” you say, lowly. it’s only his name, but you know you’re asking something of him now, something you’re not sure either of you are strong enough to give. still, you wait for his response, keeping your gaze on his floorboards.

“what are we gonna do?” and it’s so soft, it reminds you of the day you met months ago. he is timid again, and it frightens you. the weight of your friendship, which you feel finally has bloomed into something worth nurturing, presses along your airways. you’ve wanted him for so long, and now you’ve had him, and you want him again. and so you’ve had your cake, and you move now to take a bite.

“we…” you let out a breath, as steady as the moment allows, “we’re friends.”

joel runs his fingers through his curls once before looking at you, and you gaze back. his eyes squint as he assesses your naked body on the edge of his mattress. “you gonna want me to fuck you again, darlin?”

you think he’s trying to panic you, euthanize whatever amalgam you’re constructing on his bedroom floor before it overcomes the both of you, but you do not shrink from him. “probably.”

he nods.

“are you?”

joel sighs. “probably.” 

and so you redress yourself and return home, legs trembling and aching unbearably between them, and wonder for how long you and joel can deny absolutes in favor of the gray area you’re carving out together. probably probably probably, the both of you are clinging to probably. but you have no qualms with using nails and teeth to find purchase, and so despite all better judgment, you mostly feel sated, at last.  what price could you possibly pay for this anyway? your heart? your soul? you forwent your ticket to absolution years ago, and you suppose the last half holy thing you can do is want, so why deny yourself this carnality? this is your last testament to living, to fuck joel and be his friend and deny the inevitable complication. you have taken and taken and taken and the blood remains on your hands, so what’s one last smeared fingerprint on the walls of your existence? when death comes for you, she’ll have such an awfully easy time, for you’ll have left a walkway in red behind you. what’s one last sign post? i am here. and it will be painted in your wanting and platonic insistence and the piece of joel you took within yourself tonight.

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

taglist: @koshkaj-blog @shotgun-shelby @limerence4u (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #fem!reader #jackson!joel #the last of us #tlou #on strawberries and masonry #joel miller smut

[atrwriting]

chapter five: the wolf and the dragon - gangleader!aemond x you

warnings: no smut (yet -- anyway), reader has a panic attack, medication, threats of violence

you scoffed when your security detail for the day walked in. “you’re my bodyguard?”

the infamous aegon targaryen smiled. “the one and only.”

his hair was messy, his eyes were glossed over, his face had barely any color in it… seven hells, it was safe to say aegon targaryen was already drunk, even before his shift at a bar that he’s supposed to be watching over. figures.

you rolled your eyes. “don’t intimidate my customers.”

“with the exception of two,” he spoke, settling into a bar stool.

your quirked an eyebrow.

“it’s no secret that my brother and i are not fond of our… half sister.”

you wiped down a glass. “her i can handle. her… pet is a different story.”

he sipped his drink. “you’re smart to be afraid of him. let’s see if you’re smart enough to not get in his way.”

you narrowed your eyes at him.

“my brother would tell you to learn from my mistakes.” he shrugged, unbothered. his gaze settled on his drink then, already in a far away lane of his mind.

i’m already smarter than you, idiot, you thought. i just have to be less impulsive.

given the fact that it was a tuesday, your crowd was small. the next part of your agenda was somehow changing that, while decreasing how you fed your community’s alcoholism. there weren’t any individuals that stood out to you, and you figured that was a good sign, but you realized it was difficult to be a productive member of your community when your clientele revolves around them handing over their money for poison.

“aegon… what do you know about promoting?” you asked, restocking bottles.

“enough, doll,” he slurred, already on his seventh drink of the day. “what i’m famous for, anyway.”

you sighed. “i’d like to get more people in here on week days, but i’m not extremely keen on advertising only alcohol.”

“you run a bar,” he stated plainly.

“yes,” you agreed. “i don’t know. do you think a band would do anything? people would come in for entertainment instead of only booze?”

he shrugged. “not a bad idea. old people love their cover bands.”

you snorted. “i shouldn’t be laughing because i love cover bands, but you’re right. i’ll look into it.”

“i aim to please, doll,” he replied, practically absent from the situation.

you chose to ignore him, and set right to work.

your waitresses were taking care of the customers, and your line cooks were keeping up with the pace, so you didn’t think it was a bad idea to step into your office and create some advertising. your juris doctor wasn’t exactly a communications major, so you had no idea where to start, but you figured some fliers and social media posts were the best way to start it.

you created an instagram account for the bar and started on some content.

you made a flier that advertised that you were looking for bands or singers to perform in a small bar and attached the bar’s number.

and you started updating your menu — chicken fingers were a staple, but given the fact that more people made money off of “tomato purée” and not just “ketchup,” you figured you could spice some things up.

you smiled down at your progress.

you felt proud of yourself.

and you hoped your grandfather would be, too.

* * *

you didn’t spend that much time on your promotional project, but when you walked back out to the bar… it was like you were gone for hours.

aegon was face down on the bar.

you scoffed. “some bodyguard.”

no one really seemed to notice, so you did your best to usher him out of the bar and up to your apartment. he fell asleep on the couch almost instantly, letting his snores echo throughout your apartment.

again… some bodyguard.

your retreated downstairs to the bar and nothing else seemed to present a problem to you. you texted aemond.

you: my bodyguard is out of commission

aemond: i told him he wasn’t allowed to drink

you: he’s asleep on my couch

aemond: i’m coming

you: you don’t have to. it’s slow

aemond: omw

you: great now i have snow white and one of his seven dwarves, grumpy

aemond: keep it up.

you: aye aye captain

aemond: read your message at 7:49PM

you shoved your phone into your back pocket and hoped for the best. your customers looked taken care of, and their glasses were filled, so you decided it would be okay to do some other tasks while your wait staff was on top of things. stocking bottles and wiping down glasses was mundane, but you figured it was better than nothing. your sales were stable, none of your staff appeared stressed… you could call that a win.

until a targaryen walked in, that is.

you expected the next targaryen you saw to be aemond, but unfortunately you weren’t graced with oscar the grouch’s company just yet.

no.

not just yet.

none other than daemon targaryen swept through your front doors.

alone.

you plastered on your best smile when you two connected eyes. “mr. targaryen. how are you?”

the man was decked in nothing but westerosi finery. he was in a perfectly tailored all black suit with a patterned jacket. there were a few specks of silver littered throughout his outfit that complimented his attractiveness and scariness quite well, you had to admit. you glanced back up to his face to bare witness to his less than pleasant expression.

“well,” he stated plainly. “i brought samples for you to try.”

“that was nice of you,” you replied awkwardly, tucking a hair behind your ear. “what’s your vineyard’s speciality?”

“red,” he mumbled, pulling out small test tubes from his briefcase. you figured chemistry class was overrated, but you guessed it came in handy when you had to transport wine samples. “thick as blood.”

“you sell with that slogan?” you laughed, attempting to break the tension.

“more than you do, yes,” he bit, eyes wide.

he took a seat. his hair was swept back, prim and proper. exhaustion and inconvenience seemed to adorn his expression, meaning there was no trace of the wickedness or dangerousness that lingered in his smile when you saw him last. you weren’t dumb enough to consider him safe at the moment, but you hoped that if he didn’t want to be here… it meant you were safe for the time being.

“hoping that changes,” you replied. “with my new stock and all.”

“one can hope,” he clipped.

you quirked an eyebrow. “maybe you should leave these with me. you seem busy. i can call you with the ones i like.”

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you raised an eyebrow at him. “why don’t you just show me the samples?”

he rolled his eyes at you before he laid out all the test tubes in front of you. he gave the most lackluster description of all of them, barely making any of them sound enticing. however, it was difficult to concentrate on the conversation anyway. he may not have been dangerous, but it wasn’t like he was pleasant to be around, either.

“what’s your favorite?” you asked.

“the red brewed in the whisky barrel,” he stated.

you nodded. “did it have success at your club yet?”

“we haven’t launched it.”

you pursed your lips. “i think i would like that one. my customers might like the essence of liquor.”

he snorted. “trying to bring class to this establishment, are you?”

“no, because then we’d be in competition, wouldn’t we?” you narrowed your eyes. “can’t have that with our newfound business relationship.”

“good,” he stated. “you know your place then.”

you gritted your teeth. “my grandfather said you used to come here in your younger years. looks like your place is the same as mine.”

“emphasis on ‘used to,’ ms. stark,” he bit. “unlike some, i learned to have a taste for the finer things as i grew older. unlike some.”

“watch your mouth, daemon,” you spat. “there are things i could say that would make you as beneath classy as you think i am, and i don’t think your ego could handle that.”

he laughed. he actually laughed at that. his eyes glittered with mischief before he leaned forward, over the bar, and whispered, “my ego, maybe not — but that’s what my gun is for.”

all the color drained from your face at that.

“red, and as thick as blood, remember?” he spat, barely above a whisper as you could feel his breath hit your face.

your breathing turned shallow as you stared at him. there was mischief, yes, but there was no threat in his eyes. only a promise. a promise that he would absolutely waste you on your bar top if he wanted to.

fucking targaryens.

you heard your front door open as you contemplated daemon’s words. you saw another blonde approach out of the corner of your eye, and you knew you needed to end the situation quickly. “tell your boss that if she wants to continue to work with me, she’ll send someone else rather than her dog. you seem to be a defensive biter.”

“you’d know a lot about dogs, wouldn’t you?” he spat. “starks roll around in the mud with them. dirty things.”

“at least we don’t roll around with our step-nieces,” you bit. “and our dogs heel when they’re told. rhaenyra should teach you a thing or two, starting to not fuck up her business deals.”

he smacked a closed fist on the bar top then, boring into your eyes. the music was much too loud for anyone around you to have noticed, but aemond did. aemond saw and heard almost the entire thing.

“you’re dirtier than old jimmy,” he laughed darkly. “pity he died, isn’t it? no one to cower behind now.”

“says rhaenyra’s bitch-“

he stared at you for a few moments then before he reached a hand up to cup your cheek. it was heavy, and you would’ve considered it a soft gesture if it wasn’t daemon fucking targaryen looking at you as if you were his next victim or meal. the mischief in his eyes made you feel like you would end up dead and bloody, and that he would enjoy every second of it. you stopped breathing as you stared back into his eyes.

“like you said,” he whispered. “i am a defensive biter.”

he patted your cheek twice, and then stood up from his seat.

you couldn’t move. how could you? you were more afraid for your life after a gesture that could be considered affectionate than when aemond manhandled you. your eyes flicked over to your latest bodyguard.

he was having a stare down with his uncle, who returned to his inconvenienced state. aemond might have looked at daemon with the intent to pursue him if he struck, but daemon did not share that. his eyes registered… boredom. like aemond could never come close to the power that daemon possessed.

“it’s time for you to leave, daemon,” you spat, trying to put on your best show of confidence.

“yes,” he settled, still staring at his nephew. “i have much more important things to attend to than dealing with dogs.”

and he left. you didn’t move until he was out the doors, in his car, and halfway down the road. when he was gone, you sank to the floor. you threw your back up against your cabinet, and curled your knees into your chest.

“fucking hell,” you cried softly. “he’s fucking terrifying.”

aemond bent his posture at the knees so he was resting on his toes. “what did he come here for?”

you swallowed thickly and tried to find the words. you fiddled with your fingers as you stared absently at the wall perpendicular to you. dread was having you gnaw on your bottom lip, making you want to scream or curl into yourself.

“y/n,” he asked again. “what did he say to you?”

“he came to have me try samples, but he was being so rude,” you admitted. “i tried to diffuse the situation, but then he started calling me names. insulting my family. so i insulted him. he threatened me.”

aemond swore under his breath. “you need to get up.”

“i need a second.”

“now, y/n.”

you pushed yourself to your feet, almost on the verge of tears. you declined his help to get you to your feet, but you did allow him to tell your hostess you would be stepping away for a few minutes. you both retreated upstairs.

“i’m going to fucking kill aegon,” he seethed under his breath, marching up the stairs.

you didn’t say anything.

you walked straight past the still-sleeping aegon and went straight for your bathroom. you sat down on the cold tile floor, and hugged your knees to your chest. you could hear a thud in the living room, and a few loud voices, but nothing seemed to grab much of your attention.

all of your attention, try as you might, was focused on the tile floor in front of you. you tried counting to ten, you tried reciting what you could with your five senses, you tried keeping your breaths in check, but nothing was working. your breaths were labored, your heat was pounding, and your eyesight was blurring.

you needed your medication.

you tried to stand, but it was a struggle.

you could hear someone banging on the bathroom door, and you tried to mutter a weak “just a minute,” but you don’t think anything came out. all you could hear was your own struggle to breathe and a few gasps that were coming out, but you could feel every tear leaking from your eyes as you gripped the sink.

you needed your pills.

you swing the cabinet door open the same time as someone behind you swung the bathroom door open. you paid them no mind as you had more important things on your mind.

breathe. breathe. breathe.

orange bottle. orange bottle. orange bottle.

breathe.

breathe.

breathe.

over the counter pain medications and other bathroom items were falling out of your cabinet and into the sink, but you didn’t care. you just needed your pills. when you found the bottle, you struggled to unscrew the cap as your unconsciousness began to fade in and out.

you shoved the pill bottle into the hand of the unwanted visitor. “open this. one pill.”

they opened it. they handed you one pill.

you shoved your face under the faucet and gulped as much water as you could hold in your mouth. you slammed back the pill, and swallowed thickly. you gasped, holding your hands to your chest, and fell to the floor.

pills always hit you quickly, that you were thankful for.

a few minutes passed and already your breathing was easier.

one.

two.

three.

running water.

wet hands.

can’t taste anything.

black boots.

aftershave.

you looked up.

aemond knelt down in front of you.

you rubbed at your face to get the tears to go away. a few small gasps left your lips, but nothing like before. after a pill, nothing was like before.

“i’m sorry,” you gasped out. “i don’t want you to see me like this.”

“he should’ve been there,” was all he said. “this wouldn’t have happened.”

you shook your head. “you can’t blame daemon on aegon.”

“did he hurt you?”

“no,” you laughed sadly. “he just made me so anxious. i know you’re going to make a comment about me being pathetic, but please save it. you can make it tomorrow, but not now.”

he pulled you to your feet. “stop pitying yourself. it’s not a good look.”

you swallowed thickly, embarassed.

“i will take aegon’s place,” he said.

you laughed. “and leave aegon in charge of everything else?”

“he can handle it,” he mused.

“can you handle daemon?” you asked, honestly.

“we had a deal, and i keep my word,” he stated.

you could only nod in response.

“are you alright?”

you honestly didn’t know how to answer that question. how could you? you just had a panic attack in front of a man you barely trusted yourself to smile with, and now he was basically getting your pills for you because you couldn’t. you felt like a mess, and only the gods know how you could possibly look in this moment.

“i’m sorry you had to see me like this,” was all you said. “it won’t happen again.”

“that’s not what i asked,” he stated sternly. “i asked if you’re alright.”

“yes,” you rasped, trying to focus on anything besides the man that was kneeling in front of you. “we should get back to work.”

“i’m sending aegon to take care of our other work, so i’ll be here for the rest of the night,” he replied.

“you promise you’re not just doing that because i freaked out?” you asked. “i highly doubt the attack dog will come back. if you have better things to do…”

“i already said i would be taking over,” he reminded sternly. “the world doesn’t revolve around you. now this is also my business that my half-sister and daemon are messing with.”

you glanced up at him then through your wet eyes. it shouldn’t have comforted you that he couldn’t have given less of a shit about you, but it was very comforting to know that he wasn’t staying because he felt bad. it reminded you that you were partners, and for him to do his job, you had to do yours.

“fair enough, grumpy,” you rasped. “let’s get to work.”

* * *

aemond had planted himself on your bar stool and remained on his phone until closing. he perked up every now and then when the door would open or he thought he heard something troubling, but otherwise he remained in his place and out of you way.

given the slow day and your panic attack, you figured it was as good of a day as any to close early. you sent your employees home with generous tips and a free meal before you flipped the sign closed. you had almost an hour until the actual close, but you needed to clear your head… so you cleaned.

you had made aemond some chicken tenders and fries without him asking you to, and he munched on them as you closed. he used way too little ketchup for your liking, but you should’ve guessed TheGrump™️ would be a stranger to the finer things in life. you smiled to yourself and kept sweeping.

“i see you are looking for live entertainment,” he stated.

“yeah,” you replied, focusing on the dust bunnies on the floor.

“my eldest nephew is in a band,” he swallowed. “‘of fire and blood’ is the name. i would prefer if you didn’t allow them to play here.”

“is that a preference or an order?” you called, joking but also meaning it.

“if he plays here, i will most likely shove his guitar down his throat… but in that case, maybe you should allow him to play here. if he wants to, that is.”

you quirked an eyebrow at the man who was munching on a fry while scrolling on his phone. the sight was almost cute and comical, but you kept your smile to yourself. “now i don’t think i should allow him.”

“he’s quite good, but that is the only time i will admit that,” he spoke. “i don’t mind jace. i mind his little brother, luke.”

“what happened?” you called as you finished up sweeping.

“you don’t know?” he raised an eyebrow at you, looking up from his phone.

“no, i don’t,” you shook your head.

he swallowed. “he stabbed me in the eye when we were young.”

you were silent for a long time, contemplating his words. you honestly couldn’t remember how that had slipped past you, let alone google. the press might have kept it quiet because they wouldn’t have been legally allowed to discuss the faults of minors, but still… his eye? how fucking barbaric.

“if you’re about to give me sympathy, don’t,” he spoke. “it’s useless.”

you raised an eyebrow, annoyed at his words. “i don’t feel bad for you.”

it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. he wasn’t appalled by your words, but he knew there was another meaning behind them.

“sympathy is useless, like you said,” you replied. “i don’t feel bad for you because you’re hotter with the sapphire eye.”

you immediately turned away into the kitchen and regretted your words. you weren’t lying about how you found him attractive, or that you found him hotter with the sapphire eye, but you were lying how you did feel bad for him. losing an eye is a trauma of the highest degree… even if he was an asshole, that sucked for him.

still. you shouldn’t have called him hot. bit bold, even for a stark.

- - -

tag list:

@hopebaker @iiamthehybrid @chainsawangel

#aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fic #aemond #aemond x you #aemond x fem!reader #aemond one eye #aemond fluff

[writer-k-pop]

Mastermind

난 아무데도 안가요. I’m not going anywhere.

Description: [Literally based on the Taylor Swift song because I couldn’t get it out of my head and Jeonghan fit the song so well.] Yoon Jeonghan and (y/n)’s relationship was everything she wanted it to be. But that’s because she designed it by hand. Warnings: Swearing Genre: fluff, Idol!Jeonghan x Celebrity!Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.3k

SEVENTEEN Masterlist | Other Masterlists

Yoon Jeonghan. From the moment I saw him, I knew I wanted him. And nothing was going to stop me. He was going to be mine and no one would stand in my way.

Did he know this? Absolutely not.

Would he ever find out? If the dominoes lined up correctly, he would never find out.

Sure, we’d heard of each other before but never met. That’s because I played my pieces perfectly. Pushing pawns forwards and keeping the Queen a mystery. It was simple, truly, listening carefully to everyone around me to find out he was single. Then it was only a matter of time until he was going to a place that I was going to be at as well. I made sure it would be the first night we met and the start of everything.

I made sure at that party to watch and listen to everything going on around me. An hour or so into the night, I found the perfect moment. 

He pulled himself away from his friends to go grab another drink at the bar. I had to carefully time out everything. He was known for his love of the chase but there had been stories of him getting bored if the chase was too intense, too calm, too bold, too boring.

Leaning against the bar, I waited to order as the bartender made his drink. As if by accident, I let my pinkie brush against his. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance over, gaging the distance I had put between him and me. Not far enough to say we were strangers but also not close enough to be obvious that I was interested in him. Just somewhere in between.

“Haven’t seen you around much lately.” He commented, facing forward again as if we were on some covert mission, which I most certainly was.

I looked over, studying him like I knew his secrets when I was dying to uncover every single one. “I’ve been busy with this and that.”

“Would you allow me to buy you a drink since you’ve been so busy with this and that? We can just put it on my tab." He offered and pulled out his black card, attempting to impress me with his wealth and status. He must’ve started a tab on a different card but was trying his best to impress me. 

I smiled and looked over the card, making sure to keep a intrigued look glossed over my face. The bartender placed his drink down on the table and I turned to the bartender.

“A Vodka Mojito, muddled.” I told him and pulled out my own black card, “And start a tab for me.” To make him think that I was staying for a while. 

“Right away, ma’am.” The bartender took the card and walked over to the register. 

“Hm.” Jeonghan hummed, slowly lowering his card and looking up and down my face, impressed.

“What?” I leaned my head on my fist, “Figured I didn’t have one myself?" The bartender stood behind the counter, listening but keeping his eyes and hands busy with my drink.

He shook his head, "It's a first."

A new piece of information flips open a new page in my mental notebook of him. "First time a woman rejected you?"

"Usually women reject me and turn away empty handed." Jeonghan corrected me, "This is the first time a woman has rejected me as an equal." 

I knew then I had him interested in my hook. But he was just looking. I needed him to bite before tugging and securing him. If I tugged too soon, I'd lose him in the dark waters.

"If you can find me again, maybe I'll let you buy me the second." I said, wrapping my hand around my drink and disappearing into the crowd. 

Little did he know I wasn’t going to stick around for that second drink. Spent an hour nursing my mojito and when it was nearly finished, I returned to the bar, closed my tab, and retreated to my home.

Over the next couple days, I heard whispers that Jeonghan was quite mystified by my disappearance. But just like I knew, he didn’t turn away. My disappearance only made him more curious. I heard from friends he was poking around, asking if I’d be at places and making comments about the cities I bounced around.

I knew we would have to meet again but it was all calculated. Timed so his obsession would grow instead of diminish. 

It was after a few months of cat and mouse did he finally bite the hook and got me alone. 

“I have not stopped thinking about you for months.” Jeonghan whispered lowly, “Would you care to share why you have not left my mind?”

I looked up amused, “Maybe I’m just that unforgettable.”

“I decide when people are unforgettable.” He pushed back, lifting his chin ever so slightly.

“Is that so?” I tilted my head to the side, “Then do share, when do you know people are unforgettable?” I asked, tempting him to take the bait.

Jeonghan smirked and I knew he thought he had me where he wanted me. Though I wanted to kiss away that smirk because it was actually me who had him where I wanted him. “Usually after a date or two.”

“Then, Yoon Jeonghan,” I crossed my arms over my chest, “Take me out on a date, or two.” 

His smirk turned into a smile and the dominos started cascading in a line. 

One date turned into two.

Then two dates became two months.

Two months flew to a year.

And suddenly we were together for a year and a half. 

It’s not like I was dishonest in our relationship. I told him all my secrets. I let him into my turbulent storm of emotions swirling in my mind. Everything I let him see was the truth. Everything except the timing. 

How I needed to meticulously pick and choose what I told him and when I told him. Letting him think he was peeling back the layers on his own when in reality, I was the one at the top, releasing my hold of the layers when I saw fit. 

And as the layers fell, so did the dominos. They fell, one by one, all in a perfect line. Crashing into each other with the most satisfying sounds. 

Until one was crashed into but didn’t fall, only teetered before stilling once more.

We were out eating dinner at a restaurant. It was one of the higher ends, something we both loved - the glam and glitz. 

Talking about our days and the latest gossip surrounding us and those around us. Then he looked up with a nostalgic look in his eyes.

“You ever think about it?” He asked, holding his fist under his chin.

“Think about what?” I picked up my wine glass, peering at him over the rim. 

He resumed cutting into his steak, “The night we first met.” 

My hand faltered for second but I quickly recovered before he saw, covering up the fear that he found out. “What about it?” I kept my voice calm and curious. 

I was not going to let a simple question reveal my web of schemes. 

“Just how the planets, fates, and all the stars aligned so perfectly that I met you that night.” He smiles softly, silently thanking the universe for aligning so. “I can’t imagine my life if I never met you that night. Like what if I simply passed by and not noticed how intriguing you were.” He shook his head, “Crazy.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and chuckled lightly, “Yeah, crazy.” 

He carried on like normal, but his simple ‘what if’ question sent thousands spiraling in my mind. 

‘What if I told you none of it was accidental?’

‘What if I told you how nothing was going to stop me from having you?’

‘What if I told you how I laid the groundwork?’

What if I told you how, just like clockwork, the dominoes cascaded in a perfect line?’

‘What if I told you it was all by design?’

Yet one repeatedly came up until is was the only question I could think about.

‘What if I told you I’m a mastermind?’

‘What if…’

‘What if…’

The question kept me up hours after we had returned to my apartment. Long after we had finished the movie. 

I knew he knew something was off. It was evident in the way he cuddled me closer and kept a hand trailing up and down my arm, occasionally drawing shapes into my skin. 

But he never asked. He knew I would tell him what was bothering me when I was ready. But this, this was something I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready to tell him. 

This would be me admitting to every scheme I had ever executed. This would be me giving up my control to him and dear god, that was my worst fear.

For my whole life I was a schemer. It started on the playground when no one wanted to play with me as a little kid. I schemed like a criminal to make everyone love me and to make it seem so effortless. And everyone had fallen for the plot lines. Including him. 

So why did I feel the need to confess. Why now? And why with him?

The moon sat in the sky, brightly shining and keeping me company through the midnight hours. 

Jeonghan laid beside me, sleeping soundly and probably dreaming about me. 

Giving up on the sleep, I padded out to the living room and sat on the couch, legs crossed underneath me and hands folded in front of me. 

My mind was reeling with all the possible outcomes. This was not part of my perfect plan. I had always plotted the obstacles that I could encounter through each scheme. But never once did it occur to me that I would need to plan for the obstacles my own mind would throw at me. 

In the midst of my thoughts, Jeonghan stirred awake, missing the feeling of my warmth beside him. 

I barely noticed him exit the bedroom and search through the house for me. He was silent when he sat on the coffee table directly in front of me and moved like a ghost, enclosing my hands in his. 

It was there, in my living room, under the watchful midnight moon, that I spoke my fears to the one I swore would never know them. 

“I have to tell you something.” I said softly, staring only at his hands. I was afraid if I looked up and saw the hurt on his face, I would never forgive myself for making such a costly mistake. 

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going anywhere.” He said with such certainty I almost laughed.

I took a deep breath, the bubble of fear lodged in my throat and growing. “What I told you I’m a mastermind?”

He leaned forward on his thighs, “What do you mean?” There was no malice, only confusion. 

He hadn’t caught on yet.

“What if I told you that none of this was accidental?” I pushed on, squeezing my eyes shut and listening for the telltale gasp of realization and betrayal. “That the first night you saw me, nothing was going to stop and I knew I wanted you. That I laid the groundwork and watched the dominoes fall like clockwork. What if I told you you’re mine because it was all my design and that I’m the mastermind who planned it all.”

I rushed to finish and listened. I was listening for the gasp. I was waiting for the air to change to something I needed to cut with a knife. I was waiting for him to say he hated me.

But I heard nothing. The air didn’t change. The tight grip of his hands was still around my hands. He was still sitting in front of me.

Confused, I slowly raised my head. 

And there on his angelic face was a wide smirk. 

It hit me like a ton of bricks. 

He knew this entire time.

My mouth dropped open in surprise.

“I was wondering when you would realize.” He brought my intertwined hands up to his lips and kissed them. “Everyone said you were a mysterious one. They all said they thought you were some kind of spider, setting traps and creating seamless crimes. But I didn’t care.”

I searched his eyes for any sign that he was going to take my trophy and smash it to pieces. But instead, he polished it, held up it up to the light, and admired it.

“I saw every move you were making and I willingly fell for every single one.” He continued, “Because I finally found someone who was as equally Machiavellian as I was. Every move you made impressed me because you constantly surprised me. Going left when I assumed you’d go right. Pushing when I thought you’d pull.”

“You knew.” I whispered, stumped beyond belief.

He nodded with a smile. “I knew. You were going for checkmate and I wanted you to get there. I wanted to fall since the first night I met you. And I want to fall every day from now until forever. I’d get checkmated by you in every goddamn lifetime.” He confessed and the midnight stars were the witnesses.

A smile grew on my face as I untangled my hands and pulled him into a kiss. A kiss that could’ve moved mountains. When he pushed, I pulled. The both of us tempting the other to break away first. To be the one to relinquish control of the uncontrollable hurricane of schemes that we both loved so much. 

It was the night I knew he was mine for good. And the night I knew I was his all along. 

I was a mastermind.

But so was he. 

#kpop #kpop imagines #seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen imagine #seventeen jeonghan imagine #seventeen jeonghan imagines #seventeen jeonghan #jeonghan imagines #jeonghan imagine #jeonghan #yoon jeonghan #yoon jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan imagine #writer-k-pop

[erstwhilesparrow]

i've been thinking about maps and how they're inherently tricky little liars. you know that story about the emperor who wanted a 1:1 scale map of his entire kingdom, but creating that map required them to perfectly replicate the entire kingdom, at the exact same size as the kingdom? you see how that's kind of useless and how maps kind of have to leave things out for us to get any of the usual navigational help out of them? someone has to make decisions about what gets left out. what's important enough to be included. how things and places get represented. modern day maps loooove to promise objectivity and accuracy, but maps have stories and beliefs and historical contexts embedded in them no matter how hard you try to get away from those things. but this also means you can use them to tell interesting stories! how a thing is depicted on a map tells you things about the person / people responsible for its production!

due to being who i am, i think about this a lot in relation to empires smp. the kinds of maps that could be produced as the landscape of the world changes. the way that the in-game maps allow for a kind of instantaneous transfer of information over literally any distance via map copies. the extremely fixed and limited point of view provided by the in-game maps. the biases and interests of the cartographers of any given empire.

some (many) scattered thoughts in list format under the cut:

the particular idea that spurred this post: topographical maps of the regions surrounding the cod empire and mythland -- the way intensity of colour / shading and the choice of scale could be used to emphasize or gloss over the ravine separating them -- the ravine like a scar on the page, deep and dark, or the ravine like a neat line bracketed by the two other neat lines of the empires' respective walls. there are easy enough to guess reasons for who would want to create each type of map and why; tells you something about how each empire responded to the separation and war.

maps of pixandria from above -- i think a lot about how fwhip took copies of maps that the other empires had on display and put them up in his base so he would be able to see immediately if any of them start building something new. i think a lot about how when i was looking at minecraft maps of pixandria, big chunks of it just blended into the desert sand because pix was building with sandstone and i wasn't at all used to seeing pixandria from anything but ground-level. i think a lot about how this could add an extra element to how pixandria is supposed to have a bustling city under the anthill, and how fwhip's secret base is also underground, and how yeah, that's just A Cool Thing People Do Sometimes, but if it's so dangerously simple to get information about the surface of the world... how might people respond to that? consider spycraft in the empires. consider clever tricks and countermeasures. (consider s2, katherine's kingdom is falling apart, and her response, among other things, is to collect maps of her neighbours' territories. what's she worried about?)

itinerary maps -- maps have not always been bird's-eye view and carefully made to scale! itinerary maps were designed for travellers, and interested in accurately displaying the relative length of one's journey from one place to another, as well as the landmarks that one might see along the way (take a look at the Tabula Peutingeriana -- are you aware it's showing you italy?) -- in the context of empires, what types of journeys are so common that there might be demand for itinerary maps? who makes them, who uses them, what's considered a major landmark in this area and also does every mapmaker in this region consider that thing to be a major landmark? can you make something a major landmark by representing it on a map? (consider the turn of phrase about putting oneself on the map. who might want this, or not want this? the conspicuous absences in a map can also be telling. huh. i wonder how often that raid farm impulse built shows up on an empire's map in season 2.)

the usefulness of a given perspective -- kind of related to itinerary maps, i wonder how much more use you can get out of an in-game map when you have elytra? the emperors pretty much all have elytra, and the emperors often keep in-game maps of their empires. is there something there? what might it suggest about the expected use of those in-game maps?

self-aggrandizement -- another anecdote i think about all the time (and this one might be anecdotal sorry take it with a grain of salt) is the one where jesuit missionaries went to china and managed to convince some chinese nobles to trust them more after showing them a world map in the ortelian style, because chinese maps at that point mostly showed china as disproportionately large and at the center of the map, with europe (and the threat of barbarian invasion) dangerously close, and this map... didn't do that! consider how maps can create a nation or empire's sense of itself. the cod empire and mythland, always so fucking careful about the clarity of their borders. mezalea that looks massive on one map and is shoved off to the side in another. pixandrian maps that are cross-sections and not views from above. maps from the crystal cliffs that emphasize the mountain ranges like a jagged warning.

shape of the map -- hey did you know medieval european maps were often circular, with jerusalem in the center and the rest of the world split into asia, africa, and europe? you know maps can be different shapes, and this can tell you about what the creator thought was important (i don't remember exactly how circles are important to christianity but it was something about the perfection of god, maybe?) and how they understood the world? you think it could tell you something about where the map was meant to be used (a big circular map was probably meant to go on display!) and who was meant to see it? (ha, if you live in minecraft, what shape do you think the world is?)

questions and answers -- stuff like "who made this? to what end? under what influences?" are questions i have been specifically taught to ask about maps that i am presented with. in the context of empires worldbuilding, there's a really fun inversion where you do not have to work from the map to the context, but from the context to the map that might result from it. you can do cool things with this!! i am sure of it!!

#sparrowsong #please. consider maps with me. #i've seen REALLY EXCELLENT empires maps before and loved them greatly! #but sometimes i think about. well. hey. who in-universe made this map and why like this and what does it say about the creator and #the context of creation and do you see how you could manipulate the details of the map to convey or gesture at that background information #wouldn't that be so fucking cool to play with. #hm. these might also be mostly the same points multiple times. well! hope you get the gist!

[pttucker]

Okay so it seems to me like the Fourth Wall (AKA “the largest Fragment of the Last Wall”) is becoming more and more present in the story. And by that I do mean more sentient but also just more there. In the world that Dokja is living in. It’s almost like it’s being pulled into the story more and more, or maybe like the barrier between the it and the world is getting thinner?

It’s gone from being a passive skill that only Dokja could see with very general [The Fourth Wall is strongly activated] type of messages to being something that seems alive when it eats Nirvana (which was outside the physical world, actually, because Dokja and Nirvana were both in soul form inside of Joonghyuk iirc) and then it fully becomes sentient and can directly talk to Dokja after it eats Devourer of Dreams, but more importantly, after Dokja turns it off for the first time and looks at his Attributes Window. And then it’s only after Dokja turns it off a second time (and looks at his Attributes Window again) that Secretive Plotter can not only see it, but identifies it as Fragment of the Last Wall, as does the sentient portal door.

Not to mention it can act independently of his will to show 1863rd Joonghyuk Dokja’s story (…the story that mirrors the actual opening of ORV itself…) whereas before it only acted independently to activate. And when he gets back to Earth, for the first time ever it’s “shimmering faintly” and now Metatron and Briareus can see it too. I won’t be at all surprised if it starts to shimmer more than “faintly” in the future and more and more beings of lower power levels begin to see it.

And now Dokja has turned it off only a tiny bit and TWSA comes flowing out of it.

I think that the Fourth Wall is the novel itself, or perhaps the concept of everything being a novel, which I’ve sort of talked about before and which ORV has kind of shown us because we saw way back with Nirvana that it contained the text of TWSA and Dokja has long since realized that it’s protecting him from being too immersed in the story. A weird theory I’m starting to develop that kind of goes off an old theory that I had is that it might actually literally be TWSA in the form of a "character" and the real “novel” in ORV is…ORV itself. (I just can’t get over the fact that it start showing 1863rd Joonghyuk the literal opening of ORV…)

More than that, though, I think that every time Dokja either turns it off or looks at his Attributes Window, I’m not certain which maybe both, he makes it (and thus TWSA) more “real.” Possibly by losing his protection long enough for doubt to begin to creep into his subconscious? Or maybe just for TWSA/the Fourth Wall itself to creep more into “reality?” Or something like that. It’s worth noting that after Dokja turned it off the second time is also the first time Dokja saw a message stating he was a “character.” I'm thinking that if Dokja keeps messing with it, he may end up fully immersed and at that point idk if he'll even be able to read TWSA anymore? Because he no longer sees it as a novel?

Also, on a totally different note, I see that Dokja’s “new” Scenario Interpreter skill (who knows if it’s actually new or if it’s been there the whole time but he had to know about it to be able to use it since it appeared after he looked at his Attributes Window the second time) is actually giving Dokja information that he didn’t even know but which could have technically been “canon” to TWSA in between the lines. It was kind of glossed over when it allowed him to know exactly where to stab Surya in the previous scenario but it’s now outright showing him the memories of the giants.

I’m not quite certain how this is possibly related to the Fourth Wall becoming more sentient or Dokja being a character or anything like that. Maybe it’s not really related at all because technically interpreting a scene in a novel and thinking up what might be going on in the background is something a reader would do.

#orv novel chapters 323-324 #orv #orv liveblog #orv spoilers #omniscient reader's viewpoint #kdj #the fourth wall

[caesarflickermans]

What are your thoughts on the District 11 tributes in the 74th (Rue and Thresh) and 75th (Seeder and Chaff) The Hunger Games?

How do you think life differs between Distinct 11 and 12?

*Spoiler alert*

What do you think about the inserted scene of rebellion in District 11 in the first movie (scene after Rue's death)?

Thank you :)

@curiousnonny

What are your thoughts on the District 11 tributes in the 74th (Rue and Thresh) and 75th (Seeder and Chaff) The Hunger Games?

I really liked Rue. I think she was a sweet kid whose story was kept vague enough for Katniss to fill in the blanks, and vague enough to feel like 'Rue' is a character as much as she is a symbol for all the 12 year olds who were reaped before her. As in, every (other) year there is a Rue, and her death will be as glossed over as Rue's would have been hadn't it been for Katniss.

I don't have many thoughts on Thresh. His character is only laid out to us in so few pages that he's a mystery as much as most of the other 74th tributes; their lives ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of things, and the further one goes along the trilogy, the less the 74th tributes truly matter--with the exception of Katniss and Peeta (and maybe Rue).

Seeder is the same for me. I'm sure there's dedicated fans who have gone above and beyond to write a backstory for her, but she's just a flat character existing in the story. Chaff would almost have been the same hadn't it been for his connection with Haymitch. And, again, I'm sure there's great work on him, but he's on so few book pages that I've barely got the time to get invested in him.

How do you think life differs between District 11 and 12?

Tremendously so. To me, it seems that Collins wanted to show the end of both extremes; a District that is relatively free to do as they please (D12) and a District that is controlled as much as possible (D11).

The people of District 12 starve in front of a fence that is not powered, with every chance to escape but every fear set in their head that the outside is dangerous. They live a life with a secret black market system, and young women sell their bodies to a peacekeeper. District 12 exists away from the government eye, but their suffering continues.

District 11 is regulated in every way possible. People work themselves to death, they don't receive the appropriate wage to make a living, and they get beaten and punished and killed for every breath they take.

That difference in the life people are leading was important for Katniss to see; because it was a way of oppression she had not seen in such a manner, and one that Snow had slowly began to bring back to her own District. It's a different kind of cause for rebellion.

*Spoiler alert* What do you think about the inserted scene of rebellion in District 11 in the first movie (scene after Rue's death)?

To me, that scene reads as being a way to show the unrest in the Districts. It's a good foreshadow, and I've got the feeling it is a way of replacing the bread scene (iirc the movies didn't feature that) and to hammer in the speech Haymitch gives at the end.

And speaking of which, I find that scene much less strange than the inclusion of District 11 sending bread, which, I know is canon, but seems so strange to me that Districts are even allowed to wager. Always seemed a bit strange to me, that with the Games being a punishment and something for the Districts to endure, not actively participate in influencing the results in the way that the rich people in the Capitol are. I've explained it away with the D11 mentors cooperating with Haymitch to send their money Katniss' way, because the other idea makes no sense to me.

#the hunger games #thg #thg meta #inbox #curiousnonny #many thanks for this question! #now I wanna think in depth about seeder lol

[faroreswinds]

This is a bit late, but I was reading through your answer to the dimitri-dedue and edelgard-hubert ask, and I wanted to add that I personally find the former to be more interesting on account of the fact that we know why dedue is so invested in dimitri (i.e., because dimitri shares his beliefs on duscur and has the power to enact those beliefs, among other things).

The same can’t really be said for edelgard and hubert. feel free to correct me if i’m wrong, but as far as i’m aware we don’t really know what it is about edelgard’s goals/ideals that draw hubert to her. the game tells us his loyalty towards her runs deeper than him just fufilling his duty as a vassal, but like….it never elaborates on that lol

This is also a good point.

If I recall, Hubert's loyalty is mostly implied rather than outright said, but someone who understands Hubert better than me can educate me.

But from what I remember, Hubert's loyalty is implied to come from two places: romantic love, and tradition.

Hubert's family has always served the royal one in an intimate way. They are their confidants, assassins, keepers of secrets. Bribers, liars, underworld masters. They do whatever is needed for their lord, no matter the task. Hubert has inherited this responsibility, and takes it seriously and personally. Which is funny, because it was a path of life chosen for him, in the route all about breaking these kinds of paths. But he never complains or seems to hate it. In fact, he seems to relish it. Like if he could it all over again, he would in a heartbeat.

The second is his romantic interest in Edelgard. He outright says he loves her at least once, so I would imagine his loyalty stems from his desire to take her to bed, although would never outright say as such. I am sure this would make some fans foam at the mouth at the impure idea that someone's loyalty for Edelgard would stem from their carnal wants of her, but I have no real doubt that this is something Hubert wouldn't mind doing.

So you basically have a man who was raised to believe that his lord, the emperor, is supposed to be the most important person in his life. And when he finally met this person, he eventually fell in love with her, which only enhanced his loyalty up to 11.

I believe the game kinda just glosses over this idea, since it doesn't really mesh well with the idea CF is supposed to convey.

So while I believe both Hubert and Dedue's loyalty comes from a romantic form of love, Dedue's did not start like Hubert's did, which you could argue is a form of childhood brainwashing. Dedue was not raised to believe Dimitri was to be the most important person in his life- it happened because Dimitri literally saved his life, then dedicated his own to helping Dedue and his country.

Dimidue also has the opportunity to take the position of platonic love, since the game skirts around the idea of two large men being soft and intimate with each other as a gesture of romantic feelings. Hubert's relationship with Edelgard is not granted this opportunity. It's outright said to be romantic in nature.

To me, I prefer things to be implied, it allows my imagination to run wild and elevate a story or idea from just ok to fantastic.

#anon asks #Dimidue #Hubert discourse

[my2phetaliaheadcanons]

Do any members of the 2p Allies or the 2p Axis enjoy reading? What are their favorite genres? If they don’t read for leisure but their darling did, would they try and start to read more?

Also, I love 💙 your blog!

Thanks to both of you guys. I'm glad you enjoy my blog and I went ahead and did both groups.

Allies:

France – He is an avid reader. It’s no secret that he sets time aside during the week to just read. He prefers French classics and horror stories. Though he is open to other genres when he is looking for a change of view and style.

His darling’s love for the book just encourages him to read more. Its one of the ways they bond. Its especially cute when they spend a lazy afternoon cuddled up with the same book.

Canada – Matt likes to read occasionally due to it being very low on his priority list. He would rather be out hunting, hiking, maybe even fishing.

On the cold, winter days where he does have that free time, he’ll open a good book and read books about various wildlife and biomes mostly. When Matt grows weary of reality, he changes it up with a good sci-fi or fantasy. He sometimes enjoys the fictional ecosystems that some of the authors come up with more than the actual plots.

If his darling was big on books, then he would ask them to read aloud. This would give Matt the ability to join his darling in her hobby while being able to relax after a long night of work. Other times, Matt would okay an audio book as they travel, so at least part of them time they would share a common title.

England – Fantasy stories that carry the same tone as The Lord of the Ring or The Chronicles of Narnia are the ones Oliver enjoys reading. Usually, they are what he reads while flying, if he’s waiting for someone, or before a meeting starts when there is nothing else to do.

When he’s looking for inspiration, Oliver will gloss through various cookbooks, some older and others newer. He marks them up and will cross reference them while building new recipes.

If his darling read, then he may ask them about their latest obsession. Indulging them as they proceed to spoil the whole series for him. He wouldn’t really read more due to her love, just seeing her happiness, and being the only one she talks to about her books is enough for him.

Russia – Viktor enjoys history books and war stories. He doesn’t read them often, instead focusing on his work and keeping his home in balance. During periods of grounding or days off does he allow himself to indulge. Sadly, for him, those are few and very far between.

If he darling were a bookworm, then he would ask them for suggestions. Taking them and compiling a long list of books to read, even if they are outside his favorite genre. Occasionally this will lead to a discussion about the genres and their tropes.

America – He doesn’t enjoy reading, finding it to be boring no matter the genre. He would watch a movie, work on his bike, or snuggle with his doll. If Allen had to pick, then he would pick adventure or apocalyptic.

A lover of books wouldn’t change anything. He would still love his doll and occasionally indulge her buy buying her the next book in the series or taking her to the movie version when it comes out. He thinks the rants over the changes between the book and movie are too cute.

China – Jin’s not a big reader either; living for centuries he finds it hard to keep engaged with since he’s read so many similar stories already. If you were to press, and I do mean really press him for an answer, Jin would say a pharmaceutical book. This is only because he references them often while working. It also confuses everyone which amuses him.

If his darling was reader, then Jin would nod his head absent mindedly as Qin explains the plot. He would make a comment here or there to show that he was listening, but it would never go deeper than a shallow puddle.

Axis:

Spain – Armando’s is usually too busy to read. He’s working on his farm or torturing some kind of slime ball and when he’s done with that there is no more energy for reading. If he was to pick a genre it would be horror. The books help give him new ideas to torture someone with.

If his darling read, he would ask them about what the villains were doing or what was causing the heroes to suffer. Whatever it is, Armando will laugh and depending on the severity may use it on his own victims.

Romano – Fabrizio loves a good fashion log; he reads them often. Seeing the latest pieces of fashion can not only give him ideas of new looks but also push him to be bolder in his designs. The only other type of book he would read is romantic dramas. He likes how the stakes are so high and the potential of will they, won’t they? These he reads when he doesn’t feel like sewing.

His darling could inspire him to read more. Usually as a way to become closer to his lover, but his genre choice will never change. He will spend his time chatting about drama his characters are going through while asking his love which characters they ship.

Japan – This man is an avid reader, spending many hours of his free time bouncing between horror and manga. His face wouldn’t change as the stories progress, but Kurai would be fully invested; even ignoring those around him to read instead.

If his lover read, nothing much would change. Kurai would spend just as much time still reading. This time though, his Sakura would be with him. Reading along side him in the glow of the setting sun.

Germany – Lazy is as lazy does, and this extends to reading. Luther may listen to an audio book if someone else were to play it for him. His favorite genre to listen to is mystery. He feels smart when he figures out how it happened before the characters. Often loudly explaining how it was done, interrupting the story for the heck of it.

Sadly enough, Luther would live to tease his darling. Often interrupting and hiding the books to take his attention for himself. Even if she got annoyed with him, Luther would chuckle as he scoops her into his arms. Stating that she owes him a nap.

Italy – Luciano likes to read for ideas. Often turning to horror books and drama to find new ways to mess with people. If you throw in the occasional psychology book; then you have created Luciano’s library. He is a mild reader, usually reading when he is traveling or needing a break from all the paperwork and screens.

A reader in his life would be nice. Luciano would expect that they would use the books to entertain themselves while he is off doing work. Just don’t expect the same thing when is around though, should the books take too much attention from him, then they’ll burn.

Prussia – This war-torn soul enjoys reading his Bible. He reads it daily, but he also enjoys reading books about war and politics. It doesn’t matter if they are fictional and full of fantasy, if those two topics are included, they interest him. Wil, since he is ‘retired’, has a lot more free time and will use his books to fill the silence. At least until Luther barges into his home demanding his help.

Wil’s darling would be spoiled by a small library full of books. Some dating over hundreds of years old. The two will often speak of their current books, comparing them, finding symbolism that its kinda cute. He even shares things from his bible that stood out to him. Asking for Maus’ thoughts on the verse as well.

#2p russia #2p hetalia #2p headcanons #2p america #2p england #2p canada #2p france #2p italy #2p romano #2p spain #2p germany #2p china #2p japan #2p prussia

[biblelady]

Hanging On By A Thread (Part 1)

Have you ever experienced something in life that was so bad you wanted to completely abandon your faith? I have quite a few times. I’m not ready to give the details of what lead me to that mental space, but I do want you to know, Reader, that you’re not alone in that regard.

I find a lot of comfort reading Job when things get particularly bleak. A lot of times we think bad things happen to us because we did something to deserve it or cause it, and while sometimes this may be the case, this isn’t always true. Job lost everything; he lost his family, his livestock, his house, and his health! All he had left was his life, and even that was hanging on by a thread, contingent on two things, either him taking his own life, or cursing God and dying that way, both which he remarkably refused to do.

In Job Chapter 1, we see that Job is described as a man “blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil.” (Job 1:1). This is our first look into the life of Job, and it’s important to note how the story starts, that he did nothing wrong. What the man is about to experience is not a result of anything he has or hasn’t done; in spite of what his friends say, there is no secret evil he committed. However, it’s also not random chaos happening to him. While it wasn’t a punishment from God, it also wasn’t caused by God, but rather allowed by God. Let’s keep reading.

Back in those days a man’s wealth was seen in his possessions, but instead of yachts and mansions, it was livestock and servants! It says that Job had “seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred donkeys, and very many servants; so that this man was the greatest of all the people of the east.” (Job 1:3). Even if these numbers are being exaggerated, the point of the matter is, Job was very wealthy and was at the very top of his world. Perhaps a modern example of his wealth would be someone like Jeff Bezos or Mark Zuckerberg. I will go so far to say though that that is where their similarities begin and end, because the more we learn about Job, not only was he wealthy, he was righteous and blameless in all that we did. I wouldn’t say the same about Mr. Jeffrey or Mr. Mark.

Another sign of wealth and prosperity was the number of children someone had. To be childless was considered a curse, and it says here that Job had ten children, seven sons and three daughters! (Job 1:2). For Job, though, his children were more than just a possession or a sign of his prosperity; to read the text in its entirety reveals that Job genuinely loved his children. According to verse 4, his sons would hold elaborate feasts in their homes and would "invite their three sisters to eat and drink with them" (Job 1:4). Once the feast days came to an end, verse five says "Job would send and sanctify them, and he would rise early in the morning and offer burnt offerings according to the number of them all" (Job 1:5). Job always did this (1:5), because he wanted to make sure his children were redeemed in case they "sinned, and cursed God in their hearts" (Job 1:5). The fact that the Bible makes it a point to mention this about Job's actions is a strong testament to his righteousness, but also his love for his children. As a matter of fact, later on in the book after Job lost everything, he laments his children; "O that I were as in the months of old...When the Almighty was still with me, when my children were around me" (Job 29:2, 5). These details in the text, which are easy to just gloss over at first glance, set Job apart from most people in this time because he clearly loved his kids and was always looking out for their best interest.

It wasn't just the people in his land that saw and respected what a righteous man he was. As a matter of fact, God took note of it too! Verse six changes the scene from earth to heaven. Here we are introduced to God and his angels. It appears that God is essentially "holding court;" "One day the heavenly beings came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan (the Accuser) also came with them." (Job 1:6). Keep in mind that Satan is also called “the Accuser” in this story. God asks Satan where he came from, to which Satan replies, “from going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it.” (Job 1:7). God then asks Satan if he took note of Job; “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil.” (Job 1:8). This further drives home that Job was a good man who did nothing wrong. This part of the story always bothered me, as well, because it seems like God is unnecessarily challenging Satan, especially when we read Satan’s response. Satan says, “Does Job fear God for nothing? Have you not put a fence around him and his house and all that he has, on every side? You have blessed the work of his hands, and his possessions have increased in the land.” (Job 1:9, 10). Satan is winding up his reasoning to challenge God. Next he says, “But stretch out your hand now, and touch all that he has, and he will curse you to your face.” (Job 1:11). Satan is basically saying, “Ok God, I see your Job, you say that he is righteous and good, sure, he is. But don’t you think it’s only because you have blessed him and he is so prosperous? I guarantee you that if you take all his prosperity away, he will not remain faithful to you!” God responds with, “Very well, all that he has is in your power; only do not stretch out your hand against him!” (Job 1:12).

After gaining God’s permission, Satan returns to the earth to reek havoc on everything Job has. First the Sabeans stole all of the oxen and donkeys and killed all the servants, except for one who was able to escape and tell Job what had happened. Next, "The fire of God fell from heaven and burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them" (Job 1:16). One man escaped to bring the news to Job, but before he had finished talking another messenger arrived with a worse message; "The Chaldeans formed three columns, made a raid on the camels and carried them off, and killed the servants..." (Job 1:17). Finally a messenger appears with the worst news of all; while Job's children were enjoying a feast at his eldest son's house, "a great wind came across the desert, struck the four corners of the house, and it fell on the young people, and they are all dead..." (Job 1:19).

After receiving this news, Job began the process of grieving. It says he "tore his robe, shaved his head, and fell on the ground and worshiped." (Job 1:20). This is all he had to say after losing everything; "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." (Job 1:21).

"In all this Job did not sin or charge God with wrongdoing." (Job 1:22).

This concludes part 1. Part 2 will be arriving soon!

#book of job #kids #bible #god #faith

[theshatteredrose]

Nugatory: The Secret War (Chapter 2) - Disgaea 5 Fanfiction

AN: Ok, just want to make things very, obviously clear; this story will take place in the second half of the game. When all the story characters have been introduced and are part of the team. I know that it’s bleedingly obvious to anyone who has read the first chapter, but in case it’s not, now you know! I’m not going to completely retell the events of the game as that would be pretty boring after a while, so forgive me for glossing over them. Some events, yes, I will retell, but not all. This story will be long enough as is. Anyway, please enjoy reading!

Ao3 | Wattpad | Inkitt | FFNet

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Chapter 2:

Killia needed to find Goldion. No; General Bloodis. And he needed to find him alone. He couldn’t drag the others into that battle. Into that mess. His mess. Too many had already been hurt in this war, a war that had begun because of one selfish, violent demon.

Void Dark.

Was it his fault that there was a war ravishing the Netherverse? He couldn’t be sure. Void Dark had always been wholly full of himself, unpredictable, and utterly spiteful and hateful. How he had managed to amass such power, such a following; Killia may never know.

But…he was fairly certain he knew how Void managed to defeat his own father; abuse of that scar.

That was his fault.

And he had to find a way to fix that.

Bribing a prinnie to secretly search for information about Bloodis’ location was incredibly easy. Especially with how little Seraphina paid them. A single sardine was enough. He felt sorry for him, though, so he gave him two. He was a hard worker.

With everyone else busying themselves with eating their share of the curry that Killia had prepared earlier, he slipped away to approach main bridge of the pocket netherworld. Their dimensional gatekeeper was unexpectedly absent. Instead, someone else stood before the bridge before the gateway.

Samuel?

Wasn’t he eating curry, too?

Thinking about it, he had been suspiciously absent.

He leaned against the railing, his elbows resting against the guardrails with his head tilted back slightly as he stared up at large windows and out at the vast netherverse outside the pocket netherworld.

In an army filled unusual characters, Samuel was an interesting one. He presented himself as a warrior, but he didn’t act like any warrior that Killia had encountered or met before. Snow white hair, blue clothing, and a white sleeveless vest that reached the back of his knees and was cinched at the collar. A deep scar marred his forehead now but was hidden behind a blue headband.

He was unflinching in his loyalty, fearless on the battlefield, and regarded everyone with a familial pleasantness. Never a flicker of fear or uncertainty on his ever-smiling face.

However, Killia was certain that his air of friendliness was a front for his uncertainty. He had often caught Samuel staring out through the windows of the Pocket netherworld at the universe beyond, a faraway look in his eyes, as if unable to truly comprehend the sight before him.

Maybe he couldn’t.

Yet, he gazed at the stars and netherworlds with a heavy heart.

Killia wasn’t sure why he allowed Samuel to follow him after realising he had amnesia. He was intent on doing things on his own. Even now, surrounded by too stubborn and determined teammates, he wanted to remain a lone wolf. It was better that way. Safer that way. For everyone.

Yet, he allowed Samuel to tag along. Was it his earnest gratitude? His vulnerability? The way his smile reminded him of Lieze?

He didn’t know. Back then or now.

Though, he could admit that he didn’t mind his company.

“Oh hey, Killia,” Samuel greeted as he finally turned his gaze away from the view of the Netherverse outside.

“What are you doing here?” Killia asked, curious. And, yes, a little suspicious.

Samuel ignored his question, however. “If you’re looking for prinnie, he’s on a lunch break,” he explained, his usual carefree grin plastered on his lips. “I’m covering for him.”

Despite his friendliness, Killia couldn’t help but feel that there was something else hidden behind his motives. “Is that so?”

Samuel turned around to lean back against the handrails. “He did mention something to me, though.”

He knew it.

“I have good news and bad news,” he began. “Good news; I know where Bloodis is.”

“And the bad news?”

“I’m not letting you through the dimensional gate until you agree you’re not going alone.”

Killia frowned as Samuel continued to lounge casually in front of the walkway leading to said portal; hands atop of the guardrails, legs purposely stretched out across the path and crossed at the ankles.

“…How many sardines did you bribe him with?”

Samuel held up his fingers. “Three.”

Damn, and Killia bribed him with two sardines. He better up his game next time.

“It’s better for everyone’s sake that I do this alone,” Killia insisted. “It’s-”

“No, it’s not your fault,” Samuel interrupted, making no attempt to move.

“But-”

“Yes, yes.” Samuel finally stood up but maintained blocking the path. “You feel guilty because you think Goldion was brainwashed and defeated because of you. It’s a wrong you must right all on your own. And you’re not going to drag others into your problems, even though you’ve inserted yourself into the troubles of others. Am I right?”

Killia was rendered speechless.

Samuel gave a short, half chuckle as he paced over to him. “I’m psychic,” he said, playfully.

He probably wasn’t, but he very well could be if he kept showing him up like that.

“I’m kidding. It’s written on your face.” Samuel shook his head, maintaining that outgoing smile of his. “When, in reality, it was entirety because of Void. Everything was because of him and his maliciousness, his willingness to take advantage of every possible weakness and fault.”

That could not be denied. Still, to think that Void would brainwash his own father. The maliciousness he held could not be underestimated.

Samuel raised his right hand and pressed his fist against Killia’s chest lightly. “I may not actually be psychic, but we both know what would happen if you managed to sneak out now; They-” he tilted his head toward the cafeteria of the pocket Netherworld, where their teammates were currently dinning on the very curry dinner Killia had cooked for them, “-would immediately track you down, give you the lecture of a lifetime, all the while chewing you out for worrying them.”

Yeah…Seraphina would immediately get her guns involved, and then act clingy for literal days afterwards. That was definitely something he could do without.

“Honestly, Bloodis would be the least of our worries,” Samuel added for good measure.

“You do have a point,” Killia conceded with a defeated sigh. “Alright, fine. You’ve made your point. I didn’t skip out on the lecture after all.”

Samuel practically beamed at him as he threw up his hands in an overly apologetic manner. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll restrain myself next time.”

Killia arched an eyebrow as he rested the knuckles of his right hand on his hip. “Next time?”

“If there is a next time, of course,” Samuel quickly amended, before his expression quickly took on a playfully scolding tone. “And there had better not be one.”

It took more energy than Killia cared to admit not to wince. There truly were times when Samuel just reminded him so much of Lieze. Little mannerisms like lecturing him, chiding him, while still having utmost faith in him, in spite of everything.

In spite of everything…

“By the way ‘our worries?’” Killia asked before he had he could stop himself.

Samuel blinked before he gave a carefree shrug. “Well, of course. I’m your right-hand man, after. Besides, you said to follow you until my memories return, didn’t you?”

Well, yeah, he did say that.

“And that includes heading off into unknown netherworlds to face off against brainwashed former mentors,” Samuel added for good measure.

That wasn’t what he had in mind, however.

A movement from the corner of his eye caused Killia to turn his head to the right, toward a prinnie as they approached. Ah, they were their Dimensional gatekeeper, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Ah, Killia-”

“It’s ok,” Samuel interrupted. “I’ve already told him. We’re just figuring out what we should do once we get to Sandcano.”

Sandcano? That Netherworld’s terrain was going to cause them a bit of trouble. And sure to be crawling with Lost Soldiers, more than willing to use the terrain to their advantage. Bloodis was to be within the centre of the Netherworld, attempting to heal from the injury Killia managed to inflict upon him.

There had to be a way they could reach Goldion that was sure to be inside that dark armour, hidden somewhere within.

Maybe…

“Hm? What’s going on here?”

Christo’s voice quickly Killia pulled from his musings, and he was silently startled that the other demon had already joined him and Samuel.

“Just plotting our next move,” Samuel was the one to answer. “It seems that Bloodis has holed himself up in Sandcano.”

Christo immediately frowned as he pushed his glasses further up upon the bridge of his nose, a nervous tic of his he had when he was displeased or unsettled. “Hm? I see. So, we’re heading to Sandcano? That Netherworld is rather frustrating. We best prepare ourselves for battle, against the Lost and the elements.”

“Yeah. We were just discussing that.” Killia decided to play along with Samuel’s ruse, so not to worry the others, and not to earn their ire should they learn what he had initially planned to do.

“I’ll go inform the others, then.”

Killia watched as Christo turned on his heel and quickly walked down the steps and back over toward the cafeteria. He waited until he was out of earshot before he turned his head to his left, toward the warrior that stood next to him.

“Samuel?”

“Yeah?”

“We can’t let anyone else die.”

Samuel knew exactly what he meant. “Of course, we won’t,” he said as he clasped his shoulder. “I’m your right-hand man, after all.”

… … … … …

Samuel winced as he rolled his neck and shoulders to ease out the stresses and knots of post-battle.

They had found Bloodis, like they had wanted. But their plan to use the Final Skill to free him of his brainwashing hadn’t gone how they had planned, which was greatly unfortunate. Though, in hindsight, it wasn’t that much of a surprise. They kinda went in without much of a plan otherwise.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. They had a plan. For once. It just hinged on someone that wasn’t honest. Or ready for that much responsibility.

With Killia and Zeroken needing to be in top shape to use the Final Skill on a defeated Bloodis, Samuel and the others had borne the brunt of the battle. Mostly Samuel and Red Magnus as they were on the frontline, with the others staying further back. They had tried to keep their tactics subtle; Samuel guarding Killia while Red Magnus did the same with Zeroken.

Bloodis seemed to have realised that they were protecting Killia and Zeroken, however, so targeted Samuel and Red Magnus mostly.

They got through that battle. And had Bloodis right where they wanted him, where they needed him.

Only Zeroken wasn’t able to perform his half of the Final Skill.

Samuel sighed as he walked along the gangway that hang over the main console of the pocket Netherworld. He reached the corner platform and sat down and dangled his legs over the side as he leaned back on his hands, staring out at the inky blackness of the vast Netherverse beyond the windows.

He wasn’t mad at Zeroken. Just disappointed. Especially after learning the truth of what he had endured.

Poor kid.

That was what he was. Just a kid, lost and alone. Like so many others.

Samuel winced again as he rolled his shoulder to ease out another strained knot.

Yeesh. Bloodis wasn’t a Demon General for nothing.

Footsteps resounding against the metal pathway alerted Samuel that he had company, and he immediately knew who they were. After all, there was only one other demon that would frequent the bridge above master control panel.

“Hey, Killia,” Samuel greeted.

“Samuel,” Killia returned in his usual smooth, cool manner. “How are your injuries?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Only minor,” Samuel replied, dismissively. He never liked talking about himself anyway, so best change the subject. “Don’t be too hard on Wolf Pup. He had a lot of expectations thrown at him quite suddenly.”

Killia uttered a sigh as he lowered himself to sit down next to him, sitting cross-legged rather than following Samuel’s example. “I suppose it was quite sudden.”

“Though, it doesn’t help his case that he tried to bluff his way through it,” Samuel added as he turned his gaze back to the vast, seemingly endless Netherverse. “Honestly, kids these days.”

“Yeah.”

Kids these days indeed. Don’t know how to deal with a war. Not that they should know how to deal with a war. With the brutal death of their parents. With the destruction of their home world.

With the decisions that their parents made.

Samuel inwardly sighed. No kid should have to deal with that.

“What’s wrong?” Killia suddenly asked him.

And Samuel immediately plastered a carefree grin on his lips to hide a wince. He thought he had inwardly sighed. He must have let one slip. “Oh no, it’s nothing,” he insisted, hoping to sound dismissively.

Yet, Killia wasn’t convinced, even going as far as to arch a sceptical eyebrow at him. “I don’t believe that.”

Guess there was no point in lying to the guy.

Samuel heaved a sigh, his shoulder drooping forward with mild fatigue, as he turned his gaze back toward the endless expanse of the Netherverse. “It’s just…it’s clear you’re all haunted by your pasts, and I don’t know what that’s like. Not really.”

Killia made a quiet sound of surprise and disbelief. “You’re not haunted by a past you don’t remember?”

He…he guessed he was. In a way. He remembered major facts. Like the name Nugatory, and how he wasn’t to talk about it to anyone. About what happened beneath the stormy surface of the hidden, lost Netherworld. Of the war that raged inside. About certain…facts.

He knew those things…at least, he thought he did.

“That’s a little bit different,” Samuel said with a slight shake of his head. “I’m…unsettled by what ifs. You’re haunted by facts and truths. You know exactly what you’ve lost. You know exactly who and what is responsible. You know and remember exact details. You’ve all lost so much, and I’m not sure how to help with that.”

Even if he could help with that.

How could he begin to help Killia with that? With anything?

Killia remained silent for the longest moment, allowing Samuel’s words to mull around in his head as he carefully chose his next words. “I guess I understand how you feel.”

Samuel turned toward him with his head titled to the side in curiosity. “Hm?”

“I don’t know how to help you with recovering your memories.”

Samuel blinked before he gave a short chuckle. “You have more important things to worry about right now.”

Killia arched an eyebrow. “Recovering your memories aren’t important?

With a lopsided smile, Samuel nudged Killia’s shoulder with his own. “Not when there’s a war going on, dingus.”

Honestly, and the guy had the nerve to not want to drag anyone into his troubles when he’s willingly sticking his nose into other people’s messes.

He was unable to stop a frown from making its way to his lips and he regarded Killia with a look of curiosity. “There is something else bothering me, though.”

“What is it?”

“I overheard your conversation Usalia earlier,” he began, carefully choosing his words. “You said that it is your past that is your reason for living. Your need for revenge is what is keeping you going. I just can’t help but wonder if my past is the same.”

That brought a deep frown to Killia’s lips as his eyes flickered over to the windows, and to the Netherverse beyond.

Since that short conversation, it had been weighing on Samuel’s mind. Maybe he…didn’t want to remember his past. Maybe that was the reason he was so blasé about it?

“Or, maybe, if my past is a reason for me to…stop living.”

Killia snapped his sharp gaze in Samuel’s direction and he immediately realised he had said that last part aloud.

Looking away, Samuel abruptly straightened his posture, raised his hands, and slapped his palms on each side of his face simultaneously, startling Killia in the process once more. “Right.”

“What are you-?”

“Ok, that got dark real quick,” Samuel continued, cutting Killia off, before turning back toward him and giving him a purposely curious look. “Anyway, let’s focus on the present here. Are you going to try to hunt down Bloodis so soon?”

Killia stared at Samuel for the longest second, completely caught off guard by him. He soon snapped out of it, thankfully, and nodded his head. “Ah, yeah. He’s been weakened further by that battle. We need to continue. We have to find a way to free him from his brainwashing. We just have to.”

“Right. Got it.” Samuel hefted himself up on his feet. He lingered crouched down, hands on his knees and eyelevel with Killia, however. “I hope Wolf Pup is ready to learn the Final Skill from you.”

And Samuel managed to surprise Killia once again. “What?”

Samuel winked at him. “Psychic, remember.”

The corners of Killia’s mouth twitched into a half smirk as he moved to stand up, too. “I’m beginning to think that you are at this point.”

Samuel shot him a smile as the two of them made their way off of the gangway.

His past was a puzzle, but it would have to wait a bit longer to be solved. Hopefully, with Killia and Zeroken’s efforts, they could free Goldion from his brainwashing and put an end to this war sooner than anyone expected.

…His own past would just have to wait.

#disgaea #disgaea 5 #nugatory: the secret war #fanfiction #killia #christo

[ficsnroses]

—𝑨𝒏 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝑬𝒙𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆. 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓—

summary : you sell your virginity to John Wick.

warnings : smut, consensual sex. oral sex. x f! reader. 5.5k.

notes : hope ya like it! I’m hoping to actually maybe make a part two. I think it would be nice to explore how this turns out for them. please leave feedback! I’m a little nervous about this one, feedback would be so so appreciated. enjoy! xx

John Wick is a man of focus; little diversions that fray from his work were often absent of his mind. It’s been years since his semblance of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel had gave out on him, and he’d been dragged back into the world of gruesome sin for good.

Bound, serving under the table. A life liberate of vice was something John had stopped dreaming of long ago.

Work had been all that engrossed John, absorbed each inch of energy his battered bones could muster up for far too long. To be working, meant to be seldom alone. Being alone, translated to being unaccompanied, with himself. Listening to the weary, dark loomed thoughts that crawled in the crevices of his mind.  

A crisp pour of amber bourbon sloshes into the clear crystal glass; a lone cube of sparkler ice accompanies the liquor John would soon shoot. Something that burns, something that might ease the part of him that thinks, ponders, wonders if this was alright.

      Is what he’s doing, really, alright?

He stands, leaning on the high raised counter of the bar equipped in his hotel room. The crème walls of the Continental held many secrets, secured home to the worst of folk he’d had the ill-fate of dwelling among.

The men in here were awful. Cold, indifferent, chilled blood coursing wicked veins; John knew well of the evil that rummages within the corridors of this so called, safe haven.

Anyone else would destroy her.

Could ruin her.

John wouldn’t do that. Something separates John from the bulk of the crowds, something that differs him from the norm. John would on no occasion hurt an innocent being. John wouldn’t rip her to shreds. John would treat her as human; something people often forgot that John too, is.

Temporary relief, relaxation, substance; he’d vexed them all. Often, after a job well complete, he’d find himself in dire need of long repose; a minute to rest his somnolent composure. A moment to recharge, before he’d be forced to do it all over. Human contact, connection, was something he’d scarcely recalled.

A Bourbon would often have to do, the familiar scald down the cascade of his throat the only comfort he’d been accustomed to as of late. Yet recent, he’d been craving more. He’d been yearning for something more; something physical to satiate relief.

A heavy inhale floods his lungs, a lone hand held to his drink as his other toys with the collar of his brittle white dress shirt. Her eyes stayed on him, drinking in each of his features, desperate to understand how he’d be. John Wick is a man of few words, a stoic nature barely illuminating enough light to read.

He turns, the crystal glass set down on the hotel room table as he turns to her, on his bed, her legs crossed closed, silent. Like a lover, the silk of her short black dress seduces each curve of her devourable body, thin straps kissed to her satin shoulders, her silken skin gleaming under the hotel room lights. His voice is deep, ravishingly rich, throaty with gruff as it protrudes her ears. “You’ve never done this before?” He confirms, walking closer to her delicate frame, watching her equally unreadable expression.

When he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d found himself unable to look away. Captivatingly beautiful, enough to make any man week in his knees. John wasn’t one to fantasize, to want a woman, let alone offer a second look.

Yet seeing her, he’d downed in the enchant of her beautiful features; and the best part of all,

She was selling. She’d been looking to give herself to the highest bidder.

John Wick had found himself at the right place, at the right time. An impulsive buy, one might say. But he couldn’t leave her. Not only did his body yearn for someone, something to channel his deep need into, he also knew. She was far too precious, pure; whatever circumstances had brought her to do such a thing, he wouldn’t ask.

He’d buy her. And he’d use her service.

He needed it. Sex hungry, his body longs for someone real to take care of him.

Her eyes are soft, lips stained a rosy shade of mauve as she makes direct eye contact. Blushy cheeks, soft, shining hair flutters gentle in free air as she shakes her head ‘no’.

She’d never been with anyone before. She was pure. Untouched.

With a down of the final few drops of drink in his glass, John’s shirt unbuttons, peeled off his torso in a swift motion, revealing beautifully toned, bulked muscles; rosy skin, a broad back, tattooed with bold ink on display. John must have been 20 years her senior, yet his shape proved peak. Firm biceps, defined torso, beautifully groomed, lengthy chocolate locks only adding to his splendour.

She’d expected to be bought by some middle aged, unattractive man looking to be with anyone other than his wife. John was far from that. She didn’t know if he’d seen seeing anyone else, if he was married, taken.

Not that it was any of her business.

She watches his hands move to fondle a heavy worn belt, working the buckle as it comes off his dark slacks.

“Is there anything you don’t want me to do.”

John’s rich voice surges through her ears, his question falling his thin taut lips as more of a statement, an establishment of boundaries.

She didn’t think she’d get that choice. She’d expected to be used however her buyer pleased.

With a gentle clear of throat, she nods her head no, gazing out the window of the high story hotel suite. Busy New York city life buzzes below, the nightlife pulsing through the city heart. Endless opportunity. Endless chance.

John’s belt thuds to the marble floor with a heavy clink, his body inching closer, hand dangerously close to her feeble frame as he asks, the question sending shivers down her spine. “Can I undress you?”

The question came with surprise. Part of her thanked the universe for delivering her to John, of all men. He’d been hard to read, reserved, but he hadn’t done what she’d prepared herself for immense. Although she knew, her body was merely a vessel for him to use, to get what he wanted, he hadn’t treated her as such. Hadn’t treated her as she’d gave up her right to respect when she’d bartered her purity.

When Y/N nodded, John moves in closer, placing his dense frame beside hers as he begins, unravelling her as if a present. Yearning, wondering of what held underneath the rippling drapes of the sleek fabric, his eyes gloss over her skin, thick fingers removing the straps of her dress, before reaching behind her to unzip the seams of her wear. Diminishing to her mid, her modesty falls perfectly plump on her chest, embellished in expensive lace. The swell of her chest leaves him feel the weight in his pants to harden, the sight of her cleavage, pursing together with hardened nipples. Unclasping the dainty hooks that shield her breasts from his prying gaze, John allows the thin textile to fall off, exposing her beautiful femininity; her breathtaking curves, soft, supple skin tender to the touch. His hands can’t seem to resist, callous palms moving in to roam the exquisiteness, thumbs swirling her tender nipples as he sighs, drinking her in.

“Stand up.” John’s voice demands, his own form staying placed at the foot of the bed as he instructs. Doing as told, she feels his warm hands tug at the seams of her dress, allowing the fabric to pool at her feet, leaving behind nothing but her lacy underwear covering what no one had indulged in before. Paired with pencil black heels, John takes a moment to devour the look of her stood in front of him; bare, voluptuous, almost entirely nude, causing a tent to rise in his pants. Without time to waste, his fingers intrude the skimpy cloth, gentle peeling her panties down, revealing all of her, solely, exclusively for his taking.

Had this not been an exchange where John owned her, he might have just fell prisoner to her mercy. Y/N was a beauty he’d never seen, mirroring a sex siren in her own right. The dips and curves of her frame mesmerise him, a gulp swallowed down his tight throat, a hefty palm unknowingly moving to palm his swollen cock through the fabric of his slacks. She bites her lip, vulnerable, never have being shown to anyone this way before.

John was the first to see her in all her glory, she finds herself moving shy hands to cover her form, nervous to the way he scans each inch of her body, as if memorizing it, keeping the sight locked away, stored within his gaze forever. “Gorgeous…” John’s voice whispers a gruff, two of his sturdy fingers moving to slick through her folds, palming her pussy as shivers tingle down her spine. She’d been trying her best to stay calm, to allow John to do as he pleased.

Right now, in this moment, her body rightfully belonged to him. He was permitted to do whatever he sought.

“I want you on your knees.” John explains firmly, connecting his bold gaze to hers and she nods, falling in front of his form sat on the silky sheets. Without a moment to waste, his hands trail down his zipper, throwing the expensively stitched slacks off his thighs to the floor, left in nothing but a pair of thin boxers. In a swift moment, his stocky fingers dip into the opening, allowing a hardened shaft to fall out in his grip, full, bursting balls to accompany.

She’d seen a man’s cock before; but John, John’s member was a sight to be seen. She swallows, intrigued by the grandeur, the rosy tip swollen, the thick veins that run up his length, a slight curve to its form. He offers himself a few measly tugs, dark eyes connecting to hers once again. “Do you want a safe word?”

A safe word. Perhaps if a word; a small, paltry word could save her from nonetheless being in this situation, she would have used it.

“No.” Her voice falls quiet, eyes diverted to the crème marble below. “If its too much, I’ll tell.” In the dim light of the room, a channel glow casts to her exposed skin; velvet and soft, making the plump of her mauve stained lips rouse John’s needy cock in desperate anticipation.

Without hesitation, John’s lust falls deeper, his throat tight, breath heavy.

Being with a woman, was something John felt had last happened centuries ago. Seeing her, stripped, uncovered, on her knees, keenly awaiting to be wrapped around his length; a fire burns in his belly. A hunger that rumbles across the surface, desperately ready to chase sweet, sweet relief, from her.

“Here,” John encourages, taking hold of his base with a loose grip. With his spare palm, his fingers thread into the locks of her hair, gently pulling her mouth closer. Slowly, firmly, his palm glides over the bottom of his shaft, beads of glossy pre cum quivering out the pink tip as he speaks. “Put those pretty lips on me.” Obliging, she nods, positioned between John’s thighs, nervous to the core.

She’d seen videos, heard people talk. But she’d never taken a man into her mouth before.

John would be the first, to feel her in every sinning way he pleased.

“Fuck,” John sighs through gritted teeth, feeling the warm haven of her lips circle around the thickness of his tip. Tightening on her tresses, his hand falls from his base, cupping hers in a gentle hold, before guiding it to replace his own. “Use your hands on what you can’t fit.” He instructs, walnut eyes darker, yet held with a certain sympathy.

A tenderness; mortality. “Move, baby.” John manages, eyes fluttering shut as his senses indulge, the feel of her tongue gently, kindly swirling his shaft take over. Gradually, his hand, laced within the locks of her hair guides her further down the bulk of his cock, forcing her to take a little more with each eager bob.

“Hallow your cheeks, darling.” John watches her intent, in awe with the way she learns so quick. “Eyes on me,” Practically sputtering into a pool of bliss, John’s deep baritoned words sear through her veins.

“Tighter.

Deeper.”

Drawn into his, her eyes pierce into his own earthy orbs, unknown to the throb of arousal growing in her core; John bought her for the evening. Was it sick of her to be…fascinated by him?

His room is simple. A suit jacket rests to the arm chair on the right, a barely touched bar of liquor to accompany. Little of him can be told from the depths of this room, perhaps he wasn’t here too often.

The folk of the Continental were scarce when not at work, leaving little trace of who they really were behind. She’d heard whispers of a man they called John Wick, she hadn’t been entirely unfamiliar to the dread he’d upheld within the sanctioned walls. Wick was a name that held fear to the tips of even the worst of sinner’s tongues; yet she finds herself far from. She wasn’t fearful of John Wick. She wasn’t scared of what he’d do.

As John urges her further, a choked gap emits her throat, eyes filling with a char of hot tears with his cock still shoved inside her mouth. Collecting herself, she keeps him inside, albeit, allowing some of him to fall out. “You’re alright.” John soothes, wiping escaped tears with his callous thumb. “You’re doing well.” With a nod, her movements commence, eager to find her pace again, free hands massaging his thick balls and veiny shaft that couldn’t accommodate in her mouth.

The sound of hallow gags and a mouth full of cock echo the room, throaty slickness and gasp for breath, John harshly praising her with a guide of pace. “Perfect. Fucking perfect.” A firm hand follows suit to her bare breast, palming, kneading the fleshy skin as her mouth words wonders on his sensitive skin. Without much notice, John’s eager hips buck impatiently into her mouth, so nonchalantly, a test of waters if you may.  

If he had it his way, he would fuck her tiny mouth senselessly right then and there. Have her throat bruising, aching for days in his aftermath.

But John Wick isn’t a monster. John isn’t selfish.

Each time she comes down, slowly, cautiously, his swollen tip hits the back of her throat, threatening to venture further with each throb John’s bulge radiates inside. With his hips thrusting into her mouth lightly, John’s jaw tightens, goosebumps peppering his ink adorned skin. With his pace fastening, his primal desires barely cease; barely offer mercy when he pulls her head closer, wrapping his palms firmly to her head as he moves her head on his cock hastier, stiff, needier, causing srteams of sweltering tears to flow her soft cheeks as she tries her best to hold in her gags. Dangerously close to release, her head yankers back in John’s grip; strings of saliva webbing off her lips, connected to his tender shaft, allowing the bulk of his member to fall out, still erect to an intimidatingly large size.

He could have done with just her sinfully tight mouth; yet he wouldn’t. Tonight, he’d cum inside her. Tonight, he’d have something other than the lonesome grip of his sloppy hand for company; to extinguish that rummaging burn.

With a rise off the bed, John offers her a larger hand, eyes interlocked as she accepts, rising off the ground. His gravelly voice is low, Y/N’s unchecked tears and swollen lips leaving her a beautiful mess as John’s inquisitive gaze washes over her. What comes next, causes her breath to hitch; her insides searing, arousal growing wetter by the second.

With his rock hard cock digging into the skin of her stomach, she finds her self locked lips with John, who’s taken her in a sweet kiss, tasting himself on her tongue. The kiss personifies appetite, thirst, all things John craved in the moment. With his hand taking hers, deliberate movements guide her to the tall side of the bed, silky sheets and cotton pillows awaiting her arrival. His skin smells of cologne, something expensive, something sauvage. The taste of his heavy liquored tongue meddles with hers before letting go, lustful eyes encouraging her to lay down in the ripple of sheets. With his cock firm in his hand, he continues to offer himself a couple of strokes, a spare hand intruding into the hard oak nightstand to the side.

“Are you taking anything?” His voice flows through the room, heavy, shallow, adding clarification when her brows furrow. “For protection.”

Fiddling with her growing nervous fingers, she tenses, suddenly urged with the realization of what would come next. This was happening.

This was

  really

     happening.

John was going to fuck her. John, soon, would take that piece of her. This beautiful stranger, mysterious, yet intriguing, would make a part of her belong to him

     forever.

“No sir.” She answers, eyes downcast, unsure of where to look as he preps himself. Fishing out a condom from the side drawer, the silver lining falls discarded somewhere on the marble floor along with the shambles of their clothes, mindlessly placed. “Lay down.” John tells, dimming the lights further, the curtains closed shut as night falls over the shadowy New York city horizon. She does as told, awaiting his body to accompany.

Her eyes find his back once again, watching delicate, cryptic ink that coats his broad skin in curiosity. A seemingly cross centers in the middle, an arrangement of words unknown to her cognizance bedecked along. As he finds himself crawling a top her sprawled figure, his hands guide her legs open further, hand palming her mound as she bites her lip. Slow, steady, he guides in the stock of two fingers, sensually slow, preparing her pretty cunt for his taking.

Coated with her silky arousal, his fingers gleam, a creamy mixture of her gloss glazed over his hand. Punctuated by her tender, soft, barely audible whimpers, a light chuckle emits John’s throat. “You don’t have to stay quiet.” He clears, fingers pumping slightly faster now, expertly judging her expressions. “Ever done this before?”

Y/N was a virgin; but no saint by any means. She’d touched herself before, even brought herself to orgasm on occasion. With a shy nod, she answers, punctuated by her own barely held together, soft moans to the feel of John’s much thicker fingers pulsing in and out of her. With the pad of his thumb, he works her clit, his hand arranging a beautiful symphony begging to fall off her lips.

The feel of John’s touch was nothing like her own, paired with the weight of his body on hers. As if habitually, her back arches, her toes curl, a whimper secreted when he draws his fingers out. With his heavy cock in hand, John lines himself up with her entrance, wanting nothing more than to be buried inside; to feel what she had to offer. With his enlarged tip rubbing over her clit, his voice registers barely in her ears, lost in the feel of him on her.

“Tell me to stop.” His gravelly voice reminds, assertion heavy on his tongue.

John was proving awfully hard to read. She appreciates the respect; the boundaries he was willing to set for her. She’d sworn, she could see a light of humility in him, contrasted, laced with dark need. If he wanted, she knew he could ruin her.

Without much warning, she feels his tip impend into her walls, sinking slow, stretched by his weight, her eyes widening noticeably when John’s girth pushes into her, cock widening her immensely.

She knew John’s member would be far larger than the feel of anything she’d felt before; yet perhaps she’d underestimated just how much larger it would feel. Plunging in further, a tight moan escapes John’s lips, drowning in further, slower, steadier, until he’s reached her end. Hissing at her tightness, he feels her clench around him, a breathy gasp of her own fleeing, nails sinking into the sheets in a fitted clasp.

Had the circumstances been different, he’d have asked her to hold onto him instead; maybe even let her burry her face in his neck as he works her body whole.

But that wasn’t what this was. This was merely an exchange. An agreement for him to get exactly what he needed;

       mind blowing sex.

All John needed right now, was a rough, and good fuck to hold him over.

He stays still for a moment, feeling her cunt pulse around him, and her eyes shut tight, breathing measured as she relishes in the feel of him full, nestled inside her wet haven, before placing both sturdy hands on her hips in a strong hold. Rapt with desire, John’s primal instincts kick in, the feel of her welcoming pussy so perfectly mould to his cock; he’d sworn or a moment that she was perfectly, exclusively crafted just for him to fuck. With his hips picking up pace, John sucks in a sharp breath, a groan of pleasure to the way her heavenly walls tighten around him, tight, blissfully gratifying.

She can’t help but gasp, searing tears returning once again to the ungodly stretch. John burns inside, allowing her minimal time to adjust. His hips buck into hers, gradually picking up pace as he thrust deeper, harder, conjuring up an almost selfish pace.

She’d never felt anything like this before. The pain, the pleasure. The sinful pleasure of him practically splitting her inch by inch. His cock glides in and out her constricted entrance, and she practically whimpers; unsure of whether the moans signified pain, or immense pleasure.

It hurt, but in the best ways possible. His aggressive roll of hips only quickens, faster and faster until Y/N’s moans caged no more. Her lips longed to moan his name, scarcely able to keep her eyes open to see the way he pants above her figure.

With her breasts bouncing vigorously to his pace, John’s want only cultivates further. Watching his cock glide in and out of her sends him in a frenzy, the way she violently jerks with each movement, the sound of his balls smacking against her sweltering core give life to a filthy symphony of her stifled yelps and moans, blended religiously with his growls and throaty gruffs.

His eyes roll shut and he bites his lip, the sounds of her wetness bobbing him fill the room to his violent labour of hips, each time he sinks in and out. His cock glistens with her honeyed dew, her hand reverting over her mouth to confine a loud moan threatening to surface. Whimpering, she bites her arm in complete ecstasy, the feel of John throbbing, completely filling her whole becoming much.

John had been practically pounding her, minutes in. The feeling of having someone to spend the night with, left him far more aroused than he’d initially planned. Her legs tremble, gazing down to observe the way his load exits her cunt fully before slamming back in repeatedly, over, and over, and over, erratic imperative. With every nerve in her body threatening to snap, she relishes a moment to feel John inside.

John’s thickness is something she doesn’t think she’ll be able to forget. Each nerve, each throbbing vein, that curve of his shaft she witnessed earlier; his thrusts become urgent, cock twitching within, grinding vigorously to her g spot as his breathe lays hot, close to her skin. Ridged and rough, his fingers threaten to leave purple bruises peppering into her hips, his hold of her body immensely stiff, as if fearful of her disappearing. The bed below creeks, headboard assaulting the walls with profound hits to his demanding haste; she’s already sore from his massive size, and he hasn’t even finished yet.

“Fuck...you feel,” John’s deep voice, sultry and stiff surges her ears, rich as butter. “You feel fucking amazing, tighten up for me, darling.” He instructs, wanting to feel her milk his cock. She follows as told, squeezing her walls around him, squirming, wailing underneath his form. He pushes as much of himself in as possible and she screams, feeling a cocktail of their fusing released drip down her thighs. John looks delectable this way; beads of exertion peppered to his forehead, muscled skin sticking to hers, the smell of sex prominent around them as he continues pumping her relentlessly, senselessly. To a particularly rough thrust, her toes curl, arms coming around his shoulders to hold on dearly, tightly as he continues his rummage into her body. She holds tight, fingernails digging into his skin as grunts and ear-splitting moans intrude the atmosphere.

John is fucking her so well, so intense, that tears fall still, the raunchy sounds of skin slapping skin, enticing whispers of praise off his lips for her body only pushing her further. John feels his release close, lost in the tender haven she’d given him to spoil in, and he shudders; shivering, buried deep, deep inside her, the sounds of her wetness slicking his member echoing the walls. Within a few particularly lewd, unaltered thrusts, she screams his name, gasping, holding onto his biceps lifelessly as he quickens his pace, his own release not far behind.

He slams, harder, and harder, channeling an animalistic pace to her core, a rhythm of lust drunk pleasure imploring each inch of his body as he still deep, deep inside her pussy, spurting thick streams of sticky, glossing white cum into the dainty condom he’d worn. He stills for a moment, neither of them speaking; heaving sighs and rapid breaths as they come down from their highs, her limbs still securely wrapped around his frame. A joint euphoria; a paradise they’d created together. A creamy mixture of their releases drips to the satin sheets below, although John ceases to care.

Right now, in this moment, he finds himself truly, wholly

relieved.

He’d gone so long, so distant without sex. Without human touch, connection. With his cock still sheathed inside her warm harbour, he sighs, relishing even in the feel of her holding him.

And a moment passes, then another; and another. With his weight rested on shaky palms to the bed sheets on either side of her, John sighs, panting, watching the way she swallows a lump in her throat; beads of vapour dotted to her glistening skin.

Gorgeous, he thinks.

She’s got those pretty eyes, satin skin. She felt surreal. He’d seen the stars buried inside her.

Slow and steady, John moves, allowing his flaccid member to slip out her warm hold. The sun has fully set, and the moonlight barely filters in through the slits of opaque curtains. With a towel retrieved, one he’d set aside prior to their session beside the bedframe, he finds place back, next to her worn out frame.

John had fucked her so good, so hard, she’d worn her legs may just give out in any attempt of rising on her feet. Relishing, sunken into the mattress as she watches him move calm, collected, the feel of John cleaning what he’s left behind off her womanhood causes the softest of blush to intrude, peppering her skin. With the condom discard, John’s hoarse voice rasps, breaking the still of long endured silence. “You’re alright?” He probes, watching the way she sits up on the bed, the threads of the duvet he’d spent countless nights burrowed in alone fixed in her grip, pulling it over her bare breasts, covering herself from his chocolate gaze.

She’s shyer now than before, after sex bliss stippled over her skin, her pussy sore from the action. The emptiness John had left ached. She’d be reminded of the mysterious man with painted skin for days;

prompted by what story his back really told.

What intrigued her so much, about the man who’d taken her in the filthiest of ways.

“Did I hurt you?” He inquires, and she’d sworn the way he looks at her…the way his eyes glaze over her features, as if watching so intently her every move, a symphony flows inside her, coursing that acquainted boil in her stomach. Nodding her head, no, she watches him pull on a pair of long forgotten boxers, opting himself a seat to the edge of the bed as she stays put. Despite having just had had sex with him, she finds herself nervous to be exposed to his eyes again; a dire side effect of the toll his handsomeness had truly taken on her.

She finds herself, tense. Intimidated by his grandeur.

A story writes itself, a tale that brews in the depth of their minds. Racing a mile a minute, he’d known. And perhaps she had too; that the sex had been far too good.

Dangerously good.

The words brew on the tip of his tongue, yet he finds himself cautious of their release. Would he be awful for thinking these thoughts? Was he soiling her, tainting her for his selfish needs, thinking of the dirtiest fate he could try her; propose to her before she’d be gone.

A fuck this good doesn’t come easy, and John wasn’t looking for romance. Love was something he’d forgotten a long time ago, wasn’t sure he’d been worthy of such a thing.

      ;yet he’d found her. Someone who could take care of his physical needs; someone he could use for that intimacy he too, direly needed. Had lacked for years, finally tasting it, within her.

The way she felt was something John would find himself struggling to forget. The warm, wet, deliciously slick feel of her welcoming cunt; John hadn’t had someone as good as her. She’d ruined it for him. Nothing had compared. No one had taken care of his cock the way she’d done in a meagre 30 minutes.

He’d request. He’d propose. He’d bargain her an even exchange.

With a gruff crisp in his throat, his guttural voice catches her by surprise. Under the duvet, her naked skin flushes to a warm, temperate ease. Fulfilled, relaxed, riding high on sex satisfied clouds, tingles still felt within each snapping nerve of her skin. His tone is calm, collected; upheld with dominance.

She delighted in his dominance. “I want to offer you.” He begins, a hand placed on his bare thigh. “A contract. For your services.”

Services. Bold of him to assume, this was something she’d planned on doing for more men. “An offer…?” Her tongue seeps, the words a quiet, barrel mumble to his proposition. In the barely lit room, her inquisitive eyes glow; a familiar glow to the way they’d shone, glossy. When his cock had been rammed deep down her tight throat.

“A contract.” He repeats, professionally. “I want you. Again.” His tone finds a quiver building within her core, her thighs longing to be wrapped around his waist, the way they dripped control, power. “I’ll pay you, generously.” He nods, eyebrows raised, a gaze to her smaller body buried in his sheets. “But when I need you, you come. No questions, no excuses.” He adds, studying her form, the way her brows furrow, lost in the aftermath of his words.

“You’ll be mine to use. For the duration of the contract.”

His. She could be

his.

Racing a mile, a minute, her thoughts haze, the rush of adrenaline, the weight of his proposition thick in a fog on her brain. Her senses tense, her thoughts freeze. The sight of him catches her lost.

His. To belong to the man, with the muscled back and bold tinted ink. The man who’d fucked her pornographically. Her cluster of deliberations interrupts with his thick voice, velvety, rich. “I’ll let you sit on it.” He offers, standing, the crisp white dress shirt he’d peeled off his frame earlier back in his sturdy grip as he drapes it on. “I need to take care of some business with the manager. I’ll be back within the hour.” Buttoning the top, coffee hued locks curtain his face, his perfectly groomed beard in perfect contrast with the lighter fabric; the bulge of his toned arms protruding at the textile. “And when I’m back,

      I’ll be expecting another round.

Have yourself ready, please.”

And with those piercing words, he dresses himself, leaving her bare, exposed, in his bed.

A promise to come back for more left behind.

A demand, for more when he’d be back.

John wasn’t looking for love. John made it clear. This was physical. Something to quench his every longing need.

The ring of the door shut, the buzzing New York traffic below. She sits, decision tense on her mind.

        John Wick, was her first.

        And he, wanted her to be his last.

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

part 2 

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

#john wick x reader #keanu reeves x reader #john wick fanfiction #john wick imagine #john wick x you

[mxvladdy]

What do you think would happen if MC (in an attempt to keep it away from him) tucked Goldie under their boob?

[A bra is the best wallet but underneath even a C-cup boob is damn near Fort Knox (or the tower of London, I.e. Impenatrable fortresses)]

lmaooo. Let’s us gather round and pray for Mammon’s remaining sanity. What little remands. The himbo never saw it coming. I’m weak and got a little spicy at the end, apologies if that’s not what you wanted my heart was thirsty for ONE greed man;.;

  A/N I originally called this work Tiity prison bc I have a sense of humor lol.

Hope ya like!

To say he is conflicted is an understatement. Depending on when and where you do the titty lockdown will change how he reacts.

If it's at school, he is a mess. I’m talking about the works. He’s red in the face, can’t focus, and sweating the whole rest of the school day. He is definitely torn between fighting his goldie withdrawals and making a pass at your chest.

He won’t do the latter, as much as he threatens it. He may be scummy but he has a code of conduct (most of the time). You get a kick out of watching him try not to stare at your chest and getting smacked by Lucifer when caught.

If it’s on Lucifer’s orders to keep his card away from him he’ll have a bit more control but will bitch the WHOLE day. Honestly, you might give it back just to shut him up.

He won’t outright grab your chest or physically try to snatch it. He’ll try to be sneaky about it. Dropping stuff and making you bend over to grab it. “I swear I ain’t try nothin’”. Right.

If desperate enough he’ll just downright pick you up off your feet and jiggle you like a piggy bank. Like I said, he has a code of conduct. It’s just kinda flexible sometimes.

“C-come on! Give ‘er back.” Mammon pleads, pulling off his classic bagger’s pout. Good thing you were immune. His toned arms cage you in, your back resting on one of the school’s marble walls. “How am I going to buy lunch?”

“I made you lunch.” You laugh. Ducking under his arms you make your way to the dining hall ignoring his flustered shouts. He’ll follow soon enough. The promise of your cooking and potentially nabbing goldie back was too great for him to ignore. Sure enough, he slinks in a few minutes after you. His shades now out and perched on his nose. Even hidden under the tinted glasses, you could see his flushed cheeks and darting eyes. “Better eat now, Beel is going to join us today.” You say around a mouthful of food. He whines but forces himself to focus on his quickly cooling food.

He follows you even closer than before after lunch, barely a hair’s breadth from your back. His clever fingers pinching and pulling at the bottom of your shirt in the crowded hallway. “Please~” He whimpers through his teeth after your swat his hands away again. “I swear I won’t use her.”

You plop down at your desk. “If you’re not going to use her, then she is safe where she is.” You stick your tongue out and give the boob hiding goldie a lovely squeeze. Mammon groans as if stabbed, teeth bared and fangs growing in a mix of frustration and want. “Babe come on. Ya’ killing me.” His eyes are glued to where your hand rests.

Before you can respond a leather-clad hand smacks Mammon across the back of his head. Mammon yips in fright. “I will kill you first if you don’t keep your eyes up at the board.” The cold warning from Lucifer was enough to shut you both up for the rest of the class. You watch him disappear when the bell chimes. His next period was across campus while you were stuck here for another hour. Your phone buzzes the moment his designer boots disappear out the door.

Pretty Boy: what did you do to Mammon?

You: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

You catch Asmo’s eye from his seat a few rows back from you. He winks at you, thumbs flying across his lit screen.

Pretty Boy: Bull- tell me your secrets. I haven’t seen him that flustered in eons, not since Helen paid a visit.

You: Got “asked” by Lucifer to keep Goldie away from Mammon for the day. A limited edition car he wants just got released. Luci is still paying off Mammon’s last shopping spree, so he’s on ice till tomorrow afternoon.

Pretty Boy: Ouch- you not telling him where it is?

You: Oh no. He knows exactly where it is. He is just too nervous to go for it.

You hear Asmo’s scandalous gasp behind you earning you both a glare from the professor. You bite your tongue to hide a chuckle. The professor turns with a huff, and Asmo starts up all over again.

Pretty Boy: Is it in your pants! Can I take a look ;*

You: No and No.

Pretty Boy: Ah- he was always a chest man. Good luck with that, he can hold out for only so long :)

What does that mean? You whip your head around waiting for an explanation text. Asmo has the gall to ignore you, busy reapplying his lip gloss. Even if he wasn’t looking at you, you knew that impish smile was for you. Turning back around in your seat you shiver, now you weren’t sure if you should be scared or excited.

The rest of the day passes quietly. Too quietly. It gives you the jitters. Every corner of the school could be a potential hiding spot for one conniving demon. You weren’t expecting him to attack you, not outright. Yet, you were expecting some sort of retaliation. The last bell of the day came sooner than you expected and it was time for afterschool activities. Packing your bag you wave off Beel and Satan, assuring them you would be fine to walk to the music and arts wing by yourself.  They had their own clubs to get to anyway.

Making your way to your activity you feel the hair on the back of your neck began to rise. Something wasn’t sitting right with you. You look up and around. No one was in the corridors, not even a stray teacher rushing to the breakroom. Odd. You peak over your shoulder and frown. Even the air was still. Chalking it up to a probably very haunted school, you pick up the pace. Even if you didn’t believe in the ghost stories like Luke, it was best to just never find out. No matter what hallway you took or how fast you walked the feeling of being watched only intensified. Your flight or fight instinct kicked in.

Who could you call if you need help? Where in the hells was Mam- was that your pencil case? You skid to a halt bemused. There, in the middle of the floor was your favorite case. The calico kitty design stares up at you innocently from the floor. You open your bag to double-check. You could have sworn you had thrown it in there after last period. Did it fall out? Had you taken this path before? You approached it cautiously, bending down to grab it.

Strong arms wrap around your waist locking around you like a spring trap. They lift you up and up and up. It was so sudden you could do nothing but squeak in surprise, pencil case clutched tightly to your chest. Were you really going to die here? Caught in such a childish trap...wait.  “Seriously Mammon!” The fear disappears, replaced now with exasperation. He grunts ignoring your words to shake you slightly. You yelp feeling goldie and your bra shift. “Oh, my Gods. Mammon! I know you can do better than this.”

“Shut up! I’m desperate.”

Unbelievable. "That's the best you got? Really, I’m kinda insulted." Mammon stops shaking you, his arms loosening enough for you to turn around to face him. He looks up at you batting his long lashes. “Put me down.” It wasn’t a pact order, but firm. He pouts but sets you back on the ground gently. Not before giving you a hearty squeeze. You catch his hand sneaking up the side of your shirt with a raised brow. "Why didn't you just make a grab for it in the first place?"

He scoffs turning pink. "'M allowed ta just cop a feel whenever I want now?"

"Absolutely not, not in public at least. I like you breathing."

“Could have fooled me,” Mammon chuckles. He glances around the empty hallway then back to you. A slow rolling purr starts deep in his throat. "Though, there is no one here now." Slowly his dexterous fingers glide back over your sides. His touch is searing on your shirt. You could feel goldie pulsing underneath the cotton of your bra. The plastic seemingly growing warmer than your skin as his hand travels closer. You do nothing, watching his face grow hungrier with each passing centimeter as he gets close to his prize. “What’s stopping me now?”

“Just you.” He stops at the side of your chest, eye wide and greedy. You could feel him trying to temper himself. His adrenaline, fear, lust, and his raw cardinal desire thicking the air around you. It all pulsed red hot in his veins and travels down to yours. He wanted more than just goldie now. His natural magnetism pulling you in closer. You wanted him, you wanted him to just take it- take everything. The pact mark slams shut, its heat snuffed out like a candle. "Mammon?" Had your teasing gone too far?

"Hold tight to her till tonight." He growls tapping your chest possessively. His many gold rings resemble talons as he drags his fingers across the stitching of your school uniform. "I'll come for her tonight," He leans in, smoke and leather clouds your sense. "and I'll be taking a tithe for all the trouble you caused me too." His husky promise sends a shiver down your spine, gut twisting in anticipation. Mammon's bright blue eyes jump over your shoulder, a frown grows on his beautiful face, he could hear footsteps approaching from your club room. Probably the angels looking for you. Brushing his lips across your cheek he parts, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Be ready. You know I always come to collect."

#obey me #obey me mammon #obey me headcanons #this was fun lol #requests

[realcube]

ARCADE

summary ★ she needs to get the action figure that's in the claw machine for her sister’s birthday, so saiki does her the favour of using his a telekinesis to win it...along with a few other favours.

trigger warning ★ gambling, god, swearing, fem!reader & reader has a younger sister

construction on the new arcade near pk academy had finally come to an end. the grand opening was today after school so of course, nendou suggested that they attend as a squad. usually, saiki tried to avoid getting roped into outings like this but for a change, he actually agreed without the need for any further prying. that's because the arcade was attached to a small cinema where they'd be premiering the latest action movie — based on the TV show adaptation of the game — 'Olfana's Story X-2'. as it turns out, a few months after saiki gave the game a shot, it became a craze and a massive hit among speed-runners. so from it's new-found popularity, they developed a TV show series which inevitably flopped so now they have created a movie. only the most elite people among the gaming community were allow to see it before the official release date and they all said it was incredible; but there was not a doubt in saiki's mind that they were being paid to sing it's praise. a crappy game turned into a crappy show, now adapted into a movie was sure to be crappy. so you may be wondering why he even wanted to view the movie if he was set on it being awful. Well, there are two simple answers; curiosity and the mystery. since it was so exclusive, he had yet to overhear spoilers through his telekinesis and he now had a germanium ring in his possession so he could watch the movie in peace. also, having played the game but not seen the show, he was curious to see how bad the movie is going to be and perhaps he'd be able to get a good laugh out of it. but he made the mistake of mentioning his plan to see the movie which screened a few hours after the opening of the arcade, as now kuboyasu, nendou and kaidou were all going to see the movie along with him. In theory, it shouldn't be a problem since he'll have his germanium ring on but in practise, the world seems to be against saiki so one of his friends will probably end up stealing his popcorn or chatting throughout the entire movie. he'll just have to wait and see. kaidou and nendou did not even stop to take breaths as they raced on about how excited they were while they were all walking to the arcade. "i'm sure the movie is going to be sick!" kaidou exclaimed, followed by rapid head nods from nendou as he replied, "yup! And i can't wait to see what sort of games they have!" saiki was a bit excited himself but he didn't care to show it like the others did. but when he saw the vaporwave building covered with bright neon lights come into view, his lips curled into a small smile. though it was short-lived as he noticed the massive queue to get in; it appeared as though they weren't the only ones who had the idea to visit the arcade after school as he noticed many familiar faces standing in line, amongst crowds of others. all of their cheery auras dissipated for a few moments until kuboyasu perked up, approaching the doors to the arcade with a smug smirk, cutting in front of everyone in the line and gesturing for the boys to follow him, "don't worry about the queue, guys. follow me." nendou followed without any further questions but saiki and kaidou were a bit apprehensive. all three of them watched as kuboyasu stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the guard by one of the doors, muttering something in the man's ear, causing him to sweatdrop and hesitantly open the door with a shaky smile; allowing all four of them inside. "woah, that was awesome, aren!" kaidou yelled, not only out of awe but so he could be heard over all the cheering, laughing and game noises from inside the arcade. "yeah, that was so cool! but what did you say to that guy? he looked freaked out!" nendou inquired, surprising saiki with his actually intelligent observation. kuboyasu's hand found it's way behind his neck, rubbing it awkwardly as he chuckled, "oh, nothing! it's not important-- hey! how about you guys start playing your games and i'll go get the tickets we reserved, yeah?" "yeah!" kaidou and nendou cheered in unison, high-fiving the purple-haired boy before the all ran off in different directions, leaving saiki standing alone at the entrance. he fidgeted with his germanium ring, contemplating taking it off as he stared at kuboyasu; he really wanted to know what the teen boy could've said that'd incite such fear into a grown man, but he decided against it — merrily making his way towards the claw machines, leaving kuboyasu's secrets alone. ★★★★★★★★★★ "shit." he cursed under his breath as he watched the cyborg cider man plushie that he's been trying to win — for yuuta — for half an hour straight slip out of his grasp once again. 'these things are rigged. and what's the point in having psychic superpowers if i can't use them.' he thought to himself but had to quickly shake off the idea, as there was no way he could risk using his powers in such a crowded place, especially for a plush that wasn't even for himself but rather for an annoying kid. he sighed, slipping another coin into the slot and about to find the right state of mind until he heard a loud "fuck!"  from in front of him. his head jerked up, scanning the area for the source of the noise until his eyes landed on you. the claw machines were lined up, back-to-back, and playing on the machine diagonal from him was a girl with enchanting (e/c) eyes which contrasted greatly with her disheartened expression as she stared at the box. the only emotion she wore was sadness as she stared at the machine, so out of curiosity, saiki slipped off his ring in order to read her thoughts; feeling no guilt in listening to the affairs of a complete stranger. 'c'mon, stupid claw machine, i need this!' your silky yet whiny voice rung through his mind, 'what's she gonna think about me tomorrow when i tell her that i couldn't get her the gift she's wanted? she's gonna hate me- even more than she already does. and now i've spent all my money on this silly game so i can't even try get her a crappy gift with the little money i had. Wow, (y/n), you're the worst big sister in existence.' saiki cocked his head to the side, peering through the glass of the machines to see the contents of the claw machine you were standing in front of and when he saw the limited edition, silver cyborg cider man action figure sitting on a pedestal — almost as if it was taunting the poor girl — he finally connected the dots. your hand dug through your pockets until you found the smooth metal surface of your final coin, 'just once more try. if i win her this action figure, maybe she'll finally respect me as her big sister! and this toy will surely make her more happy than any gift mom could've possibly thought of. i'll make her sixth birthday one to remember!' the dejected look on your face slow lifted into a determined one, but it wasn't very convincing as saiki — and anyone else — could see the worry and shame in your eyes as you dropped your last coin into the slot of the machine, giving you one more chance to redeem yourself and claim the title of 'best big sister in the world'. saiki watched you maneuver the claw of the machine with bated breath, admiring how your pretty nose crinkled and your tongue poked out from the corners of your perfectly glossed lips in concentration — 'ew, stop being a simp, kusuo.' he mentally rebuked himself before engaging with your scene one again. your fist slammed down against the big red button, followed by the claw opening and lowering over the box of the cyborg cider man action figure, slowly closing it's jaws around the box and grasping it perfectly, resulting in a slight gasp to escape your throat as your lips pulled into a grin. the claw kept it's grip in the toy as it lifted up, slowly making it's way over the hole where it would drop the action figure, straight into your possession.  that is, if the grip didn't falter hence allowing the toy to fall down, off it's pedestal and onto the bottom of the compartment to join the rest of the more average action figures. "fuck!" you screamed in an almost identical way to which you did earlier, expect this one held more pain. 'this can't be happening; is this the third year in a row that i'm going to show up to my little sister's birthday party empty-handed?' you thought, your bottom lips quivering so you quickly bit down on it, staring at the damned toy before turning on your heels, shuffling away from the game with your head hung low, the thoughts which cried in your head about how much you budgeted and how hard you worked made saiki's heart sink. 'maybe i could take out a mortga--' your thoughts were abruptly cut off when you heard the noise of something falling behind you. whipping your head around to see what happened, you exhaled a sigh of relief upon seeing nothing out of the ordinary. however, you caught a glimpse of inside the machine which you had been cursing at and realised that the toy wasn't with the packaging peanuts where you left it, as if it magically disappeared in the few seconds you had averted your gaze. creeping up to it, your gaze darted around in search of anyone who might've won it in less than 5 seconds but that was unlikely. now that you were closer, you peered through the glass once more to confirm that the toy was in fact missing and you were right. recalling the noise of falling you heard just before you turned around, you dropped to your knees and lifted the flap to the compartment which held the good that people would win from the machine. you almost screamed with delight and shock when you laid eyes on the limited edition, cyborg cider man action figure that was tucked snugly inside. yanking it out, you pressed it to your chest and the tears you were choking back finally came running down your cheeks, but now they were from joy. "thank you, god." you whispered to yourself, making saiki chuckle from his spot at the claw machine which he hadn't moved from. he wasn't god — nor was he friends with god — but he didn't mind not being able to take the credit for his kind actions of using his psychokinesis to drop the box into the hole for you. honestly, he found that seeing you happy, sitting on the floor with brightest beam gracing your features along with your now cheerful thoughts in his head, was enough of a reward for him anyway. also, he appreciated how you didn't question how the box ended up in the hole and instead you just deemed it a miracle as you were too overjoyed to use logic; that sort of thinking saved saiki a lot of trouble. 'i should probably go home and wrap this.' your internal monologue had now calmed down slightly as you were now able to produce a thought that wasn't just a squeal of delight, 'hm, maybe once i am done i could come back and see the new movie that's premiering-- but i've not got much money left so i guess i shouldn't get ahead of myself.' you hummed, picking up the box along with yourself, dusting yourself off before heading towards the exit. saiki must've been staring for a tad too long though as you caught his gaze while brushing off your clothes. he cringed, instinctively darting his eyes away so you didn't think he was an ogling creep but the fact he appeared defensive probably didn't help. so he fully expected you to frown or cast him a dirty look, judging him for his actions but to his surprise, you simply chuckled. waving at the pink-haired boy before strolling off with the box under your arm. 'he seems cool. where i can get clips like those?' why were you thoughts making him blush like an idiot? time to put the germanium ring back on. ★★★★★★★★★★ as it turns out, nendou is surprisingly good at poker. he figured this out after he stumbled across the casino section of the arcade, and since he looks way older than seventeen, nobody questions it when he took a seat at one of the slot machines, under the impression that it was a fancy, old-timey arcade game. he was then offered a round of poker with some old dude with way too many gold teeth and nendou ended up taking the poor, stubborn guy's entire fortune. god-knows how many games with how-many people later, nendou was sitting on stacks of cash at a round table with a tired dealer, and two grown men — one crying into the shoulder of his arm-candy and the other weeping into the sleeve of his suit — while the three boys who had came to give him his ticket stood by, all wearing matching confused expressions. "uh, nendou." kuboyasu tapped his friend on the shoulder, waving the ticket in front of his face, "the movie is gonna start soon, we should start heading over there right now so we can buy snacks and get good seats." nendou raised an eyebrow, puzzled until he recalled that he was supposed to watch a movie today, "oh, that sounds cool and all but i'm having a lot of fun right here." he smiled, motioning to the large casino area. kuboyasu chuckled awkwardly, backing away from nendou slightly as he turned on his heels, ushering the two other boys away, "alright, well, have fun, nendou! don't stay out too late!" nendou sung an okay in response, sliding a kaidou some cash for the extortionate theatre snacks before he was rushed away by kuboyasu, the purple-haried boy not wanting to spend anymore time in the casino than needed. "if nendou isn't joining us for the movie then we have a spare ticket. here, saiki, you should have it!" "why me?" "uh, because you said you saw reita earlier. so if you see him again maybe you could offer him the spare ticket." 'absolutely not.' was vocalised as "sure." by saiki as he took the ticket from kuboyasu's outstretched hand, fiddling with it before stuffing it into his pocket along with his own ticket. "what i said to nendou was kinda an exaggeration" aren mused, glancing at his watch before looking up at his two pals, "we still have some time left before the movie starts. i'm gonna go handle some business — you two have fun, and try find reita!" kuboyasu said before pivoting on his heels in the direction of the staff only closet. the only thing saiki could think to do during this free-time was escape kaidou's pestering to play dance dance revolution — since saiki didn't want to dance, dance or revolute, he darted outside as soon as kuboyasu left, leaving kaidou alone and confused in the middle of the arcade. 'finally, fresh air.' saiki inhaled, filling his lungs with the cool air rather than the stuffy, arcade oxygen. scanning the surrounding area, his eyes caught a glimpse of a figure standing by the ATM, which he immediately recognised to be that of the girl he had helped earlier. so naturally, he flicked of his ring to figure out the reasoning behind the awkward look on her face. 'do i really want to withdraw money to see some stupid movie? i mean, i could leave that money to accumulate and buy something nicer later.' without thinking, saiki hummed in agreement with your thoughts as he had been in your position many times before. 'but then again, i should treat myself! when was the last time i saw a movie that wasn't pirated? hmm..' your indecisive thoughts matched perfectly with your conflicted expression as you stared through furrowed brows at the screen of the ATM. a soft breeze passed, followed by something light smacking against you face. you winced slightly, your hand snapping your cheek and grabbing at whatever it was; just by the texture, you could tell it was paper. holding it in front of you, upon further inspection you realised that the mysterious sheet that had flew into your possession was in fact a ticket to tonight's showing of 'Olfana's Story X-2'  row G, seat 9. you double, triple checked it out of fear that this may be a cruel prank but no, this was completely real! you cheered, bouncing up and down and away from the ATM since you no longer needed it's services as god had blew the desired item straight into your hands — or your face, rather. either way though, you were over the moon, clutching the ticket to your chest and basking in your second miracle of the day. unbeknownst to you, saiki's smile was almost as wide as your own. you thanked god for your relief and saiki had no problem with that; seeing your little happy dance and squeals with your free ticket was enough for him. but actually, perhaps he might benefit himself after all, since the ticket he had given you previous belonged to nendou. meaning that saiki was seated at row G, seat 10; right beside you. ★★★★★★★★★★ saiki forgot to send a few notes flying your way in the wind, so you walked into the theatre and took your seat, completely snackless since you couldn't afford the exorbitant prices that they sold food for at the cinema. but perhaps that wasn't all bad as it revealed the possibility for saiki to offer you some of his popcorn as a conversation-starter, as he's usually not too good at socialising with new people — forget starting a conversation. however, he didn't need to work up any sort of courage to talk to you as the first thing you did when you plopped down in your seat beside him was turn to him and chirp, "oh, you're the guy i saw at the claw machines earlier! i love your clip thingies." your buoyant-adrenaline allowing your to be more bold than usual. the movie had yet to start, low murmurs of chatter coming from across the theatre as the trailers played in the background, "yes. and thanks." 'good grief, curse myself for not being more talkative. she probably thinks i'm dull now. perhaps i should channel my inner nendou..if i have one.' instead of ending the conversation right there like he assumed you would, you continued talking and saiki was..glad? why did he want to interact with you so much? he spends most of his days trying to avoid interacting with people; why were you any different? "no problem- also, did you get what you were playing for?" you inquired, tapping your lip in genuine curiosity. his ring remained on his finger, despite the fact he wanted to know what you thought about him, he didn't want to invade your privacy any more than he already has. "no. did you?" "yeah, i did, actually!" you chirped, not noticing the smirk creeping onto saiki's lips as you were too engulfed in your memories, "i thought those games were rigged but maybe they're not 'cause i managed to win this super special action figure that my sister has been on the top of my sister's wishlist for like- forever! and her birthday is tomorrow so i'll be a--" you cut yourself off, crinkling your nose in embarrassment, "sorry, i'm over-sharing, aren't i?" your enthusiasm made his heart flutter in a way he wasn't used to, if you didn't know any better, he would have thought he was having a medical emergency. his eyes widened slightly as you halted in your speech, "no, you're fine." he said, the uncharacteristic softness in his voice catching the attention of his two pals sitting on the other side of him. you shook off his comment, "i mean, i'm telling you my life story and i don't even know your name." you said, laughing sheepishly at the reality of the reality of the situation. 

“saiki kusuo.” he blurted out without a second thought.

you blinked a few times, shocked that he’d give his details away so easily as you somewhat expected him to be more of a reserved type of guy but evidently, you were wrong. “uh, i’m (l/n) (y/n).” you choked, biting down on your bottom lip slightly before continuing you story as he seemed to wait expectantly, “as i was saying, today’s just been the best day ever! everything has been going so well, i’m a bit scared as to what is going to happen when it hits midnight.” 

saiki nodded along, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth before remembering his plan, “oh- would you like some?” he asked, offering you some popcorn from his bucket. unfortunately, the plan was a last-minute thing so he had only bought a small, but he still wasn’t opposed to sharing. 

you shook your head, trying to grin foolishly wide at his kind offer, “no thank you.” 

saiki nodded, about to open his mouth to reply until the blaring music from the beginning of the movie started, putting a swift end to your conversation — despite the fact saiki would much rather talk to you than watch the crappy movie — out of theatre etiquette. 

★★★★★★★★★★

it was worse than you or saiki could’ve ever imagined.

it was painfully trying not to burst out laughing right in middle of it or lean over and giggle in each other’s ear at the silly dialog but out of respect for the other people in the cinema, you both stayed silent and just cast each other occasional knowing glances whenever something cringey happened on screen. 

you both let out audible sighs of relief with the credits began to roll, accompanied by a slow indie song. “that was..something.” you mumbled, grabbing your purse and jumping to your feet, wanting to exit the building as soon as possible and hopefully leave your memories of the movie behind you. 

“definitely.” he snickered, absently flicking the side of his empty popcorn bucket, “i stopped paying attention once i finished my popcorn.” it felt weird to vocalise — or rather, telepathically communicate — the comments he’d usually keep to himself; why did he feel so comfortable speaking to someone he only just met?

he began gathering his things, stuffing all of his rubbish in the bucket so he could dispose of it all at once. his mind was fixated on crappiness of the movie and how a five-year-old could’ve shot a much better film, until you grabbed his attention by calling out his name, followed by a question which made him blood run cold.

“before i go, it gotta ask’ how’d you do it? or more importantly, why’d you do it?”

he blinked several times before putting on his best bewildered expression, with the idea that maybe if he played dumb, he could gaslight you into thinking that it never happened or that he had nothing to do with it. “what?”

“oh, don’t give me that!” you scoffed, narrowing your eyes at the boy, “i’m not stupid. every time something good happened to me, you were nearby. i’ve connected the dots so fess up. why did you do all those nice things for me? was it out of pity or are you that nice to everyone?”

“i’m that nice to everyone.”

“i don’t believe you.” you snapped, fixing your tone when you remembered that even though he was lying to you, he still helped you get the present for you sister and gave you his spare ticket. “i don’t care if you’re not gonna give me a straight answer, but at least let me make it up to you.”

he huffed, an unimpressed look covering his features before you even proposed your idea. there was really nothing he could possibly need from you. what were you going to give him that he wasn’t capable of obtaining on his own? so he frowned, ready to decline your offer. 

“i saw that you bought one of those jelly pots from the snack stand and i actually work at a little café in the town, so i might be able to get you few things for free or discounted?”

“yes.” wait, that wasn’t refusal. 

“great!” you chirped, glad that you wouldn’t have to pry further, “does later this week sounds good? we could meet up here then i can walk you to the café- or i could give you my number and we can arrange a date later?” 

“sure.” saiki said without thinking once again.

but it wasn’t as though he regretted it when you slipped the piece of paper you had scribbled your number onto, into the front pocket of his shirt, tapping it with a smile. “alright! i’ll see you later then- unless you want to walk home with me?” you fidgeted with your fingers slightly, instantly regretting what you just came out with. not because you didn’t want to walk with him, but due to the fact you highly doubted he was going so say accept so you mentally prepared for the impact of his harsh rejection.

“sure.”

★★★★★★★★★★

BONUS 

saiki ended up walking home with some girl he met at the theatre so that left kuboyasu and kaidou to fetch nendou once the film finished. they both searched the casino area for almost half an hour but neither of them had any luck finding nendou. that was, until kuboyasu had to take a step outside to escape the casino as he noticed an old friend of his playing on the slot machines, and he found nendou crouched by the garbage cans, on his phone. 

“nendou! we’ve been looking all over for you- why are you out here by the trash? and what happened to all your money?!”

nendou chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with his spare hand, “fun story actually. i was doing so well and i was on my way to becoming a millionaire until these schoolgirls came marching in and absolutely slaughtered me! it was so embarrassing and the only way i could escape them was by running away so i hid back here.”

kuboyasu’s aura just screamed ‘disappointed but not surprised’, “so you’re telling me that you lost millions to highschool girls?”

“they might’ve been middle-schoolers, i’m not too sure. i didn’t get a very good look at ‘em but they were all wearing creepy red uniforms.”

all kuboyasu could do was massage his temples to ease his headache at the stupidity of his friends, “so you lost all your money to school girls in creepy red uniforms?” he repeated aloud, just to make sure he was hearing things correctly.

“yes. but not all my money.” he said, pulling out his wallet and grandly opening it to reveal a few notes and a button, “i’ve still got enough to spend on ramen with my bros!”

#the disaster of psi kusuo saiki #saiki headcanons #saiki kusuo no psi nan #saiki no psi nan #saiki k x reader #saiki x reader #kusou saiki #saiki imagines #kusuo x reader #kusuo saiki x reader #the disastrous life of saiki k. #saiki k headcanons #psychic kusuo #kusuo saiki

[outrunningthedark]

If Eddie's parents are anything like mine, Eddie could be a trained professional with raising children with disabilities (someone actually good at his job, unlike someone else we had on screen ehem) and they would still criticize his every move and decision and thought concerning Chris. Eddie could've proven his better at Ramon's job a thousand times over and they would still not think he's doing it right. They'd criticize and treat him like /theirs/ to control and maneuver, anyway. Little offhand comments they "don't even realize" are hurtful, much like we've seen the Buckley parents, possibly less obvious ones, where people could gloss over it thinking "ah but they meant well". And that's what they would say "we're doing this bc we love you" & "we only want what's best for you" - and they won't know anything about Eddie's PTSD or other struggles and they'll still think they know more and better than him. A little bit of "tough love" - ofc Eddie would be trained to "stick it out" and feel like the only way to make it out of their grappling grips is to run away, bc those kinds of parents don't give up. They would be homophobic but low-key once Eddie comes out and pretend to accept him as a sign of their "unconditional love" and the "goodness of their hearts" and yet will hold secret resentment and not so secretive judgement. They'll always try to tell him he should sacrifice every bit of himself for family. no one who doesn't fold to their will or is different, will ever be good enough for him. Only they would know what's best for Eddie, and only they would love him "right". All of this extends to Christopher, in the sense that they would consider Christopher as something that belongs to them, bc ofc Eddie wouldn't know well enough ever. They'd have the same tolerance as the Buckley parents when it came to mistakes. They would be the kind to look at young child Eddie and not give him privacy or anything of his own, they'd reprimand and punish him and then have a good at him for "ruining everyone else's say!" just because he wasn't smiling. He wouldn't be allowed to get angry, bc that would be him "act dumb" and make more of those mistakes that he could've avoided if only he always did what he was told. They might have learned to apologize but they make the same mistakes. That's where Eddie learned the repression. And hell, when Christopher came along, Eddie found a person putting himself through all that that made it worth it. That's why he tries to go for what he's supposed to, for that "perfect family" with whatsherface. But Christopher is also the variable that allows him to break from what he's learned.

We see Eddie be soft with Chris, see him on his level, working with him, being open with him, not just being authoritative and demanding and restrictive.

And along comes Buck, who also responds so. fucking. well. to these new little ways, these new paths and languages Eddie learned with Chris. He starts to feel what 'real family's feels like.

But if you havent dealt with your past yet, it will come back to haunt you, you can't yet break free, can't completely be yourself and live a new life. That's where Eddie is right now. It feels like something is breaking and this is where he might think his parents were right. Because that's what he was always taught. In words and 3 decades of behavior.

I would find it hard to believe that these would ever understand Buck, as a presence in Eddie's life, and Christopher's. Not without resistance. Not until Buck showed them steadily and for a while, that they are wrong. Not until there is irrefutable evidence. And even then they'll think "oh you would've gotten to a happy place like this faster if you would have done it our way"

...long story short, I have many feels about Eddie and family and repression and I know we didn't have "that much" of Eddie's parents on screen but what we have had, hell it speaks volumes and volumes.

2/2 Oh and another addition to the Eddie ask bc it probably plays a role: when you're a minority growing up in a white Western world, your parents strive for perfection to prove to everyone that they can do it- they can fit in, they can be just as good, better. And ofc their children: they're just another greater extension of that. Live the best of both worlds, all words, their children can be everything all at once- their children better make use of this opportunity, make THE MOST out of every little chance they get or else they're squandering, throwing away something easy. That's why mistakes can't be made. Just listen, be obedient, be as efficient as unnaturally possible, be better bc the path has already been cut ahead for you, it's simple. They don't consider how much weight they are putting, how any expectations they are pushing, urging, asking the children to prove that they are just enough. That's what we've heard Eddie talk about before, just being enough. Similar as to how Buck feels too. And that's why their love is so beautiful? Bc these two dudes don't mince their words/actions respectively to try and make the other believe that they are just that. More than enough. Worthy of love, regardless. And naturally, Chris has gotta grow up that way, not like them, with this deep aching trench in their hearts, deep shadows of fear making it gape - fear that they'll never be able to fill this cavity that is their existence. (Also a reason why they're firefighters and throwing their lives on the line constantly for other people) ----------- Nonnie, I can tell you relate to Eddie's storyline as strongly as I relate to Christopher's, so this ask is really for anyone who has these same feelings and perhaps wants to add commentary of their own.

#anonymous #tv: 911 #tv: 9-1-1 #eddie diaz #christopher diaz #buddie

[sapphicwhxre]

nemesis

♥︎ pairing: pansy parkinson x fem!reader, past draco malfoy x reader and draco malfoy x pansy parkinson

♥︎ summary: you reconnect with the girl that draco malfoy cheated on you with at hogwarts, and realise you have more in common than you thought ─ including the belief that the other knew they were the other girl.

♥︎ warnings: past cheating, asshole draco, arguing, use of the word slut, swearing, slut shaming, bar/alcohol, enemies to lovers

♥︎ a/n: we’re acknowledging that the title isn’t nemesis it’s nemesis but how taylor swift says it in long story short 💅🏼 also just yay ‘cause idk if anyone remembers since i shitpost so often but i’ve wanted to write this forever and i finally did it!!

you have got to be fucking kidding me.

that was your first thought when you saw her.

today was horrible. troubles everywhere you went and you thought you’d be safe in your favourite coffee shop. well, you were wrong. in line, there stood pansy parkinson, the slytherin princess herself.

pretty, put together, pansy fucking parkinson. the girl your highschool love ─ or so you’d thought ─ had cheated on you with for a year. you were over draco, truly, and hoped he’d matured after the war but to see the reason for all his lies to you left a stinging, bitter taste in your mouth.

you’d finish your coffee and be on your way, simple. there was no reason to acknowledge her or remember the smug look on her face as she kissed him, on one of the many days he stood you up. why torture yourself by remembering the glint of happiness in his eyes turning into one of panic when he saw you watching? you hadn’t cried that hard in years and weren’t planning on it. not over a stupid high school nemesis, you're better than that.

downing the hot liquid as fast as you could, you gathered your things and walked straight for the exit, not daring to glance at her. almost there, just a few more steps. but of course, the universe could never let you catch a break. the ladies’ restroom door flew open only an inch away from you and you were now face to face with pansy parkinson. shit.

as if in shock or relaying every dirty memory about the other, you stood in silence for a moment. “i didn’t know you lived around here,” pansy finally broke the ice. she swallowed after unleashing her hissing tone on you, visibly thinking hard about merlin knows what. “away from it all, i mean.”

nodding, you forced out a smile, determined not to return her clear irritation at seeing you. maybe it was childish to hold onto the past. “i do,” you agreed. “i’m more surprised that hogwarts’s resident pureblood princess is living in the muggle world, especially going to places like a cheap, shitty coffee shop.” pent up venom hit the both of you and you instantly regretted what you’d said, ruining the civil demeanor you’d hoped to keep.

the pursed-lipped scowl you’d grown so used to seeing in the halls during your school years met you and pansy crossed her arms, standing up tall. “things change, l/n,” she spat, omitting any details she’d considered giving away. “what about you? you’re here too, couldn’t find another girl’s boyfriend to sleep with?”

here you were just like old times, bickering and hissing petty insults at the other. you narrowed your eyes and scoffed, “isn’t that your area of expertise, parkinson? being so pretty and perfect that you just can’t help going and wrecking a good relationship?”

pansy looked deeply unsettled and upset. she raised her voice so much that any louder and she’d be causing a scene. “what are you on about?” pansy all but yelled. “you were the side chick! draco loved me until you went and started to spread your legs for him!”

you blinked at her, processing her words. there was no way, no way that she thought you were the other girl. she was the slut that fucked everything up, not you.

then it hit you. neither of you were to blame. “fucking draco malfoy.” you sighed, de-escalating suddenly. your eyes flickered up to pansy’s apologetically. “he lied to both of us, didn’t he?”

pansy stared at you blanky before responding, much more softly than before. “you... you mean you didn’t know he was seeing me?” she asked, curiously. you shook your head no and pansy quieted for a moment. “i didn’t know about you either, l/n, honest,” pansy said.

maybe it was the tender sincerity you hadn’t known she was capable of but without knowing what came over you, you sat down at the table beside you and gestured an invitation. “do you maybe want to talk? try to put this behind us?” eyes widening, pansy didn’t answer. she did, however, take a hesitant seat across from you and gaze at you oddly.

“the things i said were awfully petty, uncivilized, and immature. i'm sorry,” you hurried out an apology and added, “today and when we were in school.” something about the situation filled you with so much. anger that you’d blamed the girl who was a victim just like you instead of the abuser. sympathy and sadness for how she was feeling since you’d spent so many nights with your face buried in your pillow and feeling the exact same thing.

pansy smiled surprisingly warmly and exhaled deeply. “i’m...” she seemed to struggle with finding the right words. “i’m sorry too. all this time, i never even stopped to consider that you were hurt too.” you felt the same way, all of the hatred you had for pansy parkinson melting away. she was just a girl who, like you, trusted the wrong boy. no one deserved to be punished for that. yet you’d inflicted your hurt on the other for years. “draco’s a fucking dick.”

slightly caught off guard by her shift in demeanor, you laughed ─ to her surprise. “yeah, draco is a fucking dick. there’s a bar just a few blocks from here, care to let me buy you a drink?” you proposed. “it’s the least i can do after thinking you were a homewrecker for the past almost decade.”

“it’s only noon,” she objected and you raised your eyebrows. pansy looked to her lap, allowing herself a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a pleased giggle. “i’d like that.” you helped her with her things and for an unapparent reason, you noticed that her nose crinkled when she laughed and couldn’t help but think she looked awfully pretty. for the first time, you noticed pansy's beauty in a kind way, not one filled with jealousy.

on the way to and eventually inside of the bar, you and pansy conversed shockingly easily. you found many things in common. you had the same favourite hobbies, made fun of the lines that draco had disgustingly used on the both of you, and even ordered the same drink. you and pansy acted as if you’d always been best friends. you clicked so well that it was hard to believe you’d ever hated each other.

“y/n, you’re kidding, that was you?” pansy snorted with laughter, on the edge of her seat at one of your stories you were sharing. the use of your first name sounded like honey on her tongue and the feeling in your chest told you it was something you could get used to. “blaise and i were laughing for weeks, how on earth did you manage to not get caught?” she propped up on her elbows and listened intently.

“it’s a secret, pansy,” you rolled your eyes playfully, fondly recalling the memory you’d shared of you and hermione accidentally filling dumbledore’s study with bubbles that dyed anything they touched. you hadn’t followed the witch’s instructions and absolutely refused to let her turn you two in. who knew it’d make for a great conversation piece all these years later?

“oh, you’ll tell me one day,” she sighed. one day. you had to say, despite having butted heads at the beginning of your encounter... you got along incredibly with pansy. you could genuinely say that you were elated to hear her say ‘one day’ as if it was fact that you’d see each other again.

laughter dying down, you grinned at pansy and took her hand. the back of your mind told you that you’d only been friends for a few hours and that physical affection should be off the table. but something about pansy made the unfamiliarity not matter.

“i never thought i’d find you so wonderful,” you admitted. “makes me think we should have dated each other instead of that blonde ferret prat back in hogwarts.”

pansy didn’t laugh at your half-joke, instead taking the hand you’d extended in both of hers. “we could always start now, since said blonde is out of the picture.” briefly taken aback by her boldness, you returned her glossed smirk and felt a flutter in your chest. you turned and sprawled your number out on a nearby napkin, handing it to her.

“i do have to get going. but it’s a date then, parkinson.”

“i’ll see you then, l/n.”

and in the fateful turn of events you never would have expected at the start of that already terrible day, you found yourself unbelievably excited to see pansy again.

•──♥︎

#pansy parkinson #pansy parkinson x reader #pansy parkinson imagine #pansy parkinson fluff #pansy parkinson fanfiction #pansy x reader #pansy imagine #pansy fluff #harry potter #harry potter series #harry potter x reader #hogwarts x reader #harry potter x you