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#this man wakes up each day and chooses violence
rieloving-mess · 1 year
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💚
(is that why you use that emoji so much?) 🤣🤣🤣
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RN JEJE
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steviesbicrisis · 7 months
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Thinking about YouTuber Steve who’s gaining a lot of popularity with his weekly vlogs. The routine is very similar: he goes to work, hangs out with friends, acts silly for the camera, cooks for his roommate, watches movies with his roommate, goes out with his roommate.
His roommate is there a lot.
His new growing fanbase doesn’t take long to divide into factions regarding Steve’s dating life and sexuality; There are ships, OTPs, people who want him single so they can date him, and a surprisingly small portion which questions his heterosexuality, which gets always shut up by the following compelling arguments:
“stop assuming he’s gay.”
“Steve doesn’t look gay. He’s just a guy, a former jock, who loves to cook and hangs out with friends. A friend more than the others, but it’s his roommate so it makes sense, right?”
“And yes, they do cuddle while watching movies, but who doesn’t love a cuddle? You don’t have to be gay for that.”
“Sure, they hold hands when they go out but the city is crowded and they might lose each other.”
“Since when two male friends can’t be close without assuming that they’re gay?”
“Have you ever seen them kiss in ten minutes of weekly vlog? No, so drop your gay agenda already.”
And Steve Harrington, who started the whole vlog thing in the first place because he wanted to update his friends who live miles away and still doesn’t know how he got this much heteronormative bullcrap in his comments, has had enough.
One day, Steve Just-A-Guy Harrington, wakes up and chooses violence.
He replies to a tiktok comment that says “stop assuming he’s gay” with another video.
It begins with Steve glaring at the camera “oh yes please, stop assuming I’m gay.”
Then there’s a quick motion and Steve is pulling a curly haired guy into frame: Eddie, his roommate/platonic friend/totally not his boyfriend of 5+ years.
Eddie yawns, looking sleepily at the camera “are you vlogging?”
“I’m proving a point” Steve replies, then kisses him. They almost get lost into it, but Steve is a man on a mission, so he pulls back and turns to the camera.
“This is Eddie, my boyfriend. Not a friend who’s a boy, you delusional homophobes, we are together, a couple, in a relationship. We haven’t been just friends for over 5 years. We live together, he isn’t just a roommate.
And even if he was just my roommate, do you think I would live with this” he squeezes Eddie’s cheeks between his fingers and zooms in to show his face up close. Eddie blinks a couple of times, but let’s Steve do whatever he wants.
“Do you seriously think that I would live with this 24/7 and stay straight? Like, are you insane?” He gives Eddie a quick smack on the lips, leaving him blushing and more confused than ever.
Usually, it’s Eddie the one getting almost feral over Steve, not the other way around.
He doesn’t complain.
“So yeah, stop assuming I’m gay. Because I’m bi, you homophobic little shits.”
The video ends with Eddie pulling Steve for more than a quick peck on the lips, and Steve throwing the phone on their couch, face down.
Somehow, under Steve’s video, there’s still someone that comments “I mean, this doesn’t mean anything. It’s just bros helping bros, right?”
Steve is too busy making out with his “bro” to read it.
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wildestdreamsblog · 3 months
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Latibule Season 2: I
Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)
Summary: In which he lost his latibule.
Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.
A/N: In the spirit of Christmas hehe
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Masterlist, Prologue
He didn’t believe that you were gone no matter what anyone said.
Everyone was saying the same thing. You were gone and there was nothing anyone could do to bring you back. However, Min Yoongi didn’t like their answer and anyone who said that you had already passed on from this earth was met with his wrath that was communicated through his fists and weapons. No one could even tell him that he now couldn’t physically follow where you were. In his twisted mind, he thought that he could follow you because you never left this earth. Of course, he could follow. You did promise, after all, that you would never go somewhere where he couldn’t fucking follow. His angel would never lie to him, he thought. But your absence was saying otherwise. Your absence was too loud.
The days following the moment he opened his eyes and learned of your demise were bloody and dark. Everyone was on edge, and the traitors went to hell here on earth. They did wish they had died instead, but death was never quick when it came to them, nor was it painless. Min Yoongi made sure that they felt every ounce of pain he felt when you were taken away from him. His brothers could not even reason with the man. They didn’t know how to handle this Min Yoongi. It was as though he died there with you, and what was left of him was only his darkness. Agustd was already ruthless, but now he was just outright cruel, burning everything and everyone that crossed his path.
No one could even say their piece to him-well, all except Kim Seokjin. Despite Jin choosing the less violent life and despite him spending his days treating people in the hospital, no one could deny the power he naturally excluded. It was the power that was inherent to him when he was unfortunate enough to be born to a father that was the previous mafia king. Kim Seokjin may possessed the face of an angel, but he was the most dangerous of them all. It was just that he had a patience of a saint, and everyone fret the day someone snapped his patience. He was a dangerous, eccentric man. And he was a ticking time bomb in comparison to Taehyung who just kept on exploding without an end in sight. Min Yoongi, though, was known to be a reasonable man, his calm nature was never broken. It took losing you to break the calmness in him. The days after he woke up, he was seen back where he was the happiest. Day after day, Yoongi could be found there, leaning against the tree with cigarette in between his lips as he looked at the ruins of your house. The fire took everything from him. It was angry as it smoldered what once was his latibule to the ground, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. Yoongi thought that the world was simply too cruel to him to strip away the only place he had of you. He couldn’t even smell you anymore, couldn’t even go to the place that was full of your presence.
How cruel was it to have you once and never again? How cruel was it for him to finally have found the warmth, to finally have basked in it for a moment too short, only for him to live in a winter forever after you? He would never admit to anyone that each time he closed his eyes, the only thing he saw was the moment you fell as the bullet pierced your skin. So, he had not been sleeping well. If you were here, he thought, you would chase away all the demons in his head. If you were here, you would put your arms around him, rub your hands on his shoulder in a soothing way only you knew how, and you would silently tell him that everything would be okay, that he wasn’t as bad as he thought he was. Yoongi couldn’t do anything. All he did was to go to the place where he found and lost you.
He was always there, Jimin noted. He made this place your temple, mural and shrine. However, never once did he visit where you were finally laid to rest. Never once did he even acknowledge your death. It was like not seeing it would make your death untrue. And so, day after day, hour after hour, the man could be found there as though he was waiting on a miracle, as though if he waited long enough then you would return, as though if he stayed long enough, you would walk back and smile at him, all while calling him a fool for looking too sad.
But you never did.  
And after a whole year, Min Yoongi never uttered your name again.
---
“Y-you’re supposed to be the good one! W-what is the Chief of Police doing here?!”
Yoongi watched in boredom as Jungkook pushed a man to kneel in front of him. The warehouse was quiet, well, save for the screaming of the traitors. The other brothers were busy with torturing the remaining traitors they kept alive. And today, he was faced with the last remaining traitor they had yet to kill. See, this asshole was so below the rank that he didn’t know that the Chief of Police was also the same Agustd, the leader of the mafia.
He was nothing, Yoongi thought. And yet, he was the one who blew up your house. He could almost laugh if he still knew how.  “T-the public will know! I’ll tell them that you’re the d-devil!”
Yoongi blew the smoke on his face emotionlessly, a strand of his dark hair falling on his face. “You’re not an intelligent man, are you?” he asked evenly before pulling the cigarette in between his lips and onto the idiot’s eyelid. He heeded his screams no mind as he removed his jacket with his badge on it. Someone from his right stepped in to carefully fold his jacket. Yoongi folded his sleeves to his elbows and without any warning, punched the man on his face.
The man proved to be an even greater fool as he laughed in false bravado, blood a stark contrast against his crooked teeth, “Is that all you can do? You don’t have it in you to kill. You’re a civil servant!”
“Is that so?” he asked in a conversational tone as he picked up a knife, putting it up over the light to inspect it before turning to the buffoon. “Which hand burned the house?”
“What?”
Yoongi looked at Jungkook and the latter manhandled the man near the table, flatting both his hand on it. “Which hand should I cut?” He walked nearer to them as though he had all the time in the world. “This one,” he stabbed the table, missing the man’s hand by a centimeter. “Or this one?” he repeated the action for the right hand, except that this time he intentionally stabbed the knife through his thumb, severely cutting it. “Oh no,” he said in a deadpanned voice before looking directly at him. “Guess my aim got bad.”
“W-who are y-you?!”
He smiled at him; his eyes remained emotionless. “Hi, I’m Agustd. Nice to meet you. So which hand?”
“N-No! No, please! I’ll give you what you want-“
Yoongi sighed, already losing his patience. “You do have to choose. We won’t stop until you only have one hand. Or do you want me to choose?”
“L-lef-“
Before the traitor could even finish sputtering what Yoongi deemed was bullshit, he buried the hilt of the knife into his hand. He didn’t even blink when he felt resistance from his bones, Yoongi merely kept on pushing, uncaring of the wailing man. He never stopped until he the knife finally touched the surface of the table.
And after that, he stabbed his hand again. He never ceased, not until the hand was completely mutilated. He never stopped, not even when the blood kept sputtering on his face from the man’s open wound, a stark contrast on his pale white complexion. He never stopped even when the man lost consciousness.
“He’s going to die, Yoongi,” Seokjin noted lightly from his seat. From outside looking in, he looked like a perfect image of peace, yet the hold he had on his phone was a telltale sign that he was far from pleased. He was not even phased by the violence around him, his focus merely on the whereabouts of his runaway sunshine. “I do not have the patience required to revive a dying man tonight.”
Yoongi paused, leering at the man who was slipping in and out of consciousness, before heeding his hyung’s statement. He did not want to test Jin’s patience tonight when it was apparent that he was barely holding on to his control.
He didn’t want to kill this man tonight. No. He planned on keeping him alive for years and years to come. He planned to give him hope, only for him to squash it away like he did his. As long as Yoongi shall live, then he shall suffer with him. As long as he was living in this fucked-up nightmare where you weren’t by his side, then so should he lived his very own crafted nightmare.
If he wasn’t happy, then why should anyone be?
---
“That phone looks like it wants to rest,” Jimin observed lightly as he and his hyung visited another crime scene that was definitely not because of them. It was three hours away from Seoul, the travel time giving him headache, similar to what Jimin was giving him. He watched as Yoongi ended the call before glaring at him.
“What about my phone, Jimin?”
“It looks like it wants to retire. Please, for the love of all that’s good, let me buy you a phone.”
“No.” It was the only thing he had of you.
“Whyyyyy do you love that phone so much, hyung? Our enemies would think our business is not doing good that you cannot even buy yourself a phone!”
Yoongi just shrugged his broad shoulders before walking out of the police line and through the busy market. He nodded at the policemen as they acknowledged him. His watchful eyes observed the chipper attitude of the marketgoers, chatting among themselves. He wondered how people could wake up this early and yet looked so alive. He hadn’t felt alive since that night. However, he thought that had you been here, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would. He would wake up at an ungodly hour for you.
He could hear Jimin chatter beside him as they navigated their way out of the busy street when it happened. Until it all turned into a white noise when it happened.
When he saw you.
He halted his brisk walk, his eyes following as you walked away yet again from him.
 For a brief moment, he believed your eyes met. For a brief moment, he felt his heart beat again. Yet, your eyes seemed to hold no recognition for him as it only passed through him. You didn’t even stop. It was as though he was merely a stranger.
On the other hand, he thought that you looked different, but he knew in his dead heart that it was you.
Or was it his mind finally crumbling on him, reveling on his insanity?
He blinked once and you were gone.
Jimin, suffice to say, was shocked as his hyung ran back. He never saw him moved that fast, uncaring of the people who he would runover from his haste. His dark coat trailed behind him as he moved, a touch of desperation evident, compelling Jimin to reluctantly trail after him. Yoongi forcefully cleared a path, parting the crowd with determined strides. His singular focus was on reaching you, leaving his mind devoid of any other thoughts.
It was you, he was sure. It was his angel.
He was almost sure.
But when he reached where he saw you last, you weren’t there.
Jimin was breathless when he finally reached his hyung who was looking around the crowd like a lost child. His hands were on his waist as his desperate eyes searched for…who, exactly?
“What happened, hyu-“
“It was her, Jimin-ah. I saw her.”
He blinked, following his hyung’s shifting gaze. “Who?”
“My angel. She’s alive."
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Latibule 2.II
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adragonprinceswhore · 23 days
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Colour My Mind, Bring Me Back
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Chapter V: The Kinslayer King I Series Masterlist Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!wife
Summary: Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen returns to King’s Landing victorious after besting his uncle during The Battle Above the Gods Eye, securing his withering brother's claim to the Iron Throne. Upon his arrival, he learns that his wife was a casualty of a Black ambush, suffering a severe blow to her skull.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns (3rd person), angst, canon divergence (Aemond survives), war trauma, depictions of violence, head injury, amnesia, ableism, medieval medicinal practices, longing, yearning, major character death, smut (loss of virginity, P in V, erectile dysfunction), allusions to Aemond’s 13th name day
Word Count: 4000
A/N: Dreams, thoughts, and letters are in italics.
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Alys places his hand in her palm, slicing into the prince’s calloused skin. The cut stings, and Aemond winces as her fingers press meanly into the sides of his palm, forcing more blood to flood from the wound. 
She hums in satisfaction, catching the prince’s blood on a piece of fabric. Bringing the red-stained cloth to her lips, she whispers something unintelligible before throwing it into the fire before their eyes. 
She’d ordered his men to build a fire three times larger than what they usually made do with. After, they had all been dismissed, leaving the prince and the witch alone. 
The fire roars, shifting from orange to green before his eyes. Alys continues to mumble words he cannot understand, grabbing his hand, still leaking fresh blood, and holds it for him in front of the fire. 
“Look” 
In the green flames soot dances, forming shapes before his eyes. 
He sees himself on Vhagar, plummeting down from the sky, breaking the surface of God’s Eye with such force the water ripples to the sides and crashes around them like the waves of Blackwater Bay. 
He can clearly see the cause of his death, Dark Sister penetrating the socket where the eye he was robbed of used to be. 
“Now you know” 
The soot from the fire travels to his face, infiltrating his lungs. 
It’s hard to breathe, each inhale burning. 
Air cannot reach his lungs. 
Overcome with panic, he breathes in deeper, more forcefully, but he’s still suffocating. 
Just as Aemond thinks he’s dying from lack of air, his lungs fill up. He loudly inhales, waking himself from the memory that had felt just as vivid as the day he’d asked Alys to show him how he’d die. 
His study is still dark. As his seeing eye adjusts to the lack of light, he rises from the settee he finds infrequent sleep on. 
He scarcely remembers how it feels to sleep uninterruptedly. How it feels to have dreams. Instead, when his mind is too tired to stay awake, it chooses to remind him of the battle wounds he still carries. 
It started after Rook’s Rest. He woke most nights in panic, heart racing in his chest as visions of Aegon’s burning body flashed before him. Seeing his brother’s armour melt against his body, hearing his screams of agony, begging for futile help no one could grant him as he was stuck on Sunfyre’s back, the beast echoing his rider’s roars of pain. 
As a child, he’d found solace in sleep, preferably by Alicent’s side. After he lost his eye, he learned that sleep is a privilege not granted to those who fought for their birthright. 
Still, his night terrors had eased as his wife began to share his bed, allowing him to anchor himself to her soft flesh as they drifted off to sleep together. 
A short time after Rook’s Rest, he’d asked for the Maesters help in finding uninterrupted sleep. They’d simply suggested he drinks enough wine to quiet his mind before retiring to bed. Aemond did not enjoy the loss of control, or the unexplainable sadness that often made itself known whenever he indulged in too much wine, and therefore dismissed the advice. 
When the pain of losing his eye grew too great to disregard, his younger self used to soothe the ache by picturing the man he is today; a feared and skilled swordsman who rides the largest dragon in the world. A man worthy of respect; someone who instil fear in the weak-minded. 
He’d taken up the habit once more, only now it was her his mind’s eye visualised whenever he felt disoriented. In war, a good night’s rest was invaluable to the wellbeing of a man embarking on battle. Away from his wife, he’d ease his constant fretfulness by imagining their reunion. 
How she’d look at him with adoration and admiration as he returned victorious to King’s Landing. How she’d cordially greet him in front of masses roaring in excited delight, only to lean in and make her desire for him known in whispered High Valyrian. 
Sometimes, he’d even imagine telling her he was to be crowned king, imagining how her eyes would shimmer with contentment as he tells her she’ll be his queen. Wishing for his own brother’s demise is equal parts foolish and juvenile, but in the seclusion of his imagination, he’s allowed to indulge in any scenario able to calm his inner turmoil. 
Thinking about what’s to come doesn’t work anymore. 
She did not greet him when he came back from Harrenhal. She did not whisper any High Valyrian confessions. She was not delighted to reunite with him. 
Now, recollecting his own fantasies makes him wince with humiliation. 
How could I have been so foolish? 
His chest contracts painfully whenever he reminisces about their youth, yet that sensation is still better than the aversion he feels for his previous naive ways. 
Laying his head back on the settee, Aemond breathes slowly through his nose, reminding his body that it can still draw breath. 
He visualises one of their first meetings, only a short time after he’d returned from Driftmark, gaining a dragon and losing an eye. 
His head seemed to be in a constant state of anguish then, always pounding so loudly he was sure even the Maesters could hear it. 
All he had wanted was to escape the pain, hurtling himself head-first into reading, desperate to study any subject which could one day make him into the feared prince he knew he was destined to become. 
One day she’d just been there, waiting by the side of his bed until he awoke. 
“Were you having a bad dream?”
“Who are you?”
“You know how I am! How did you find the tome? My Septa told me to ask for it back”
“It belongs to me. Besides, it’s in High Valyrian, hardly legible to you or your Septa”
“Oh, come now, Aemond! Your sister told me your High Valyrian is far superior to that of your siblings. You could teach me!”
“You’re not of Valyrian blood”
“Yet I am a diligent student!”
“Perhaps I could teach you a few simple words. Your tongue is probably not able to pronounce the more demanding ones”
“Excellent! In return, I could teach you some manners befitting a prince”
The playful bickering they’d indulged in as children was a fond remnant of a time when they were free from the shackles of duty, teaching and teasing each other endlessly. Now, a bitter feeling spreads within the prince, tainting the memory. 
Remembering merely serves to intensify his loneliness. A memory is like a bolt of lightning, kept alive because it is bouncing between those who recollect it. A shared effort. 
Being left alone with remnants of the past serves no one. It only feeds the bottomless pit of lonesome despair remaining. 
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Dawn brings light into Aemond’s quarters, illuminating the dust-covered books, half-written correspondences, and pots of ink adorning his writing desk. 
He usually begins his duties towards the realm in the early morning, attempting routine in the hopes it will encourage normalcy to enter his life and ease his mind. 
This morning however, he feels far more disoriented than usual. He’s guided by his urges; unwilling and unable to carry out his monotonous morning routine. 
Instead, he allows himself to sink further into indulgence, slaking his unabated yearning. 
He reaches into the top drawer of his desk, just as he’d done the night before. The worn letter greets him again, his fingers careful not to ruin it further. His weak mind last night had done enough damage. 
Foolishly, he had only kept three of the letters his wife had sent him when he was away fighting for his brother’s cause. He’d made sure that each of their correspondences was hand-delivered, keeping their exchange away from the prying eyes of the Blacks. They’d also written exclusively in High Valyrian, to ensure that the young messenger boy did not steal a peek. And when he read whatever it was she needed him to know, he promptly burned the paper, ensuring that it would not end up in the hands of their enemies. 
This letter was his most treasured one, a small remnant of a loving wife no longer by his side. She’d sent it mere days before the Blacks seized King’s Landing, perhaps even the morning of the ambush. 
“My Aemond, 
I bring joyous tidings.
Your seed has quickened. I am with child. 
Do not plan your festivities yet, dear husband. 
It is still early and I have yet to tell the maesters.
But I can feel him.
If his claws are those of a lion or dragon, I do not know.
They scratch me from the inside, making me aware of his presence.
When I miss you dearly, I lay a hand on my belly and feel the warmth of our child inside of me.
Reminding me that I will never be without you, my love.
We’re waiting for you”
When Aemond returned home, he found that neither was waiting for him. 
Before melancholy bests him, there’s a loud thud against the prince’s door, followed by the harsh echoing of wood slapping against his wall. Ser Perkin the Flea looks bewildered as he rushedly pants, 
“Your grace, forgive my intrusion. Your presence is needed. Urgently”
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When he enters the small council and sees Aegon’s chair empty, Aemond knows why he’s been summoned.
The King is dead.
His mother is also absent, surely succumbing with grief yet again. This was the third child she’d outlived, each loss pushing her further and further towards madness.
We’re all slowly losing our senses. 
He moves to his usual seat, to the right of the empty chair reserved for the King. After returning victorious to King’s Landing, Aemond had assumed his brother would appoint him Hand of the King, a fitting transition from Prince Regent. Yet, his brother had stalled the task, causing Westeros to drift further away from normality.  
The meeting commences swiftly, Grand Maester Orwyle taking the lead and confirming what they all already suspect, 
“The King is dead. I have examined his body and cannot be sure what caused his demise, though his weakened state needs to be acknowledged”, he says, inhaling deeply before continuing, “It would not have taken much for him to perish”
The room is eerily quiet, no one willing to make the first assumption of what the King’s untimely death entails. 
A few silent moments pass before Lord Corlys Velaryon clears his throat, the rustling of his robes breaking the silence, “King Aegon did not leave any heirs”
Aemond tries to meet his eye, but the Sea Snake looks away.
“Except for his younger brother”
In the corner of his eye, the prince watches a smile break out across Lord Larys Strong features. 
“A Kinslayer King?”, the Clubfoot mumbles gleefully. Corlys ignores him, finally shifting to meet Aemond’s gaze,
“Two Targaryen men remain; you and the young Prince Aegon. If the boy were to be appointed, the Seven Kingdoms would still not know stability. Eleven is far too young for a regent”
Corlys voice grows louder, “The realm needs a strong leader; someone who instils respect in his subjects. Someone who is fearsome, yet fair”
The cautious eyes of the small council members move to observe the prince.
Aemond hums, pondering his reply. He’s dreamt of being crowned king more than once, yet he must consider the perils still lurking in the Seven Kingdoms. Would his coronation cause an uproar, or prompt the cheers that had greeted him when he and Vhagar returned from the battle above God’s Eye?
The Lord Commander of the King’s Guard breaks the tense silence this time, 
“The armies that had set sight on King’s Landing quickly surrendered when word of His Grace besting Prince Daemon reached the capital. I do not think many would dare to question his reign” 
The room vibrates with low hums of agreement rumbling from the lips of the small council members. 
“Still, we’ll need to convince former Black allies-”, Corlys says impatiently, 
“Traitors”, Larys corrects him. 
“Yes-”, the Sea Snake bites back, “-They need to be convinced that peace is once again secured in the realm” 
Aemond hums, “They may protest a Kinslayer sitting on the Iron throne”
“All Targaryens are kinslayers”, Larys chimes in, his tell-tale unsettling voice sending a shiver of unpleasantness down the prince’s spine. 
‘Tis true. Though Aemond slaying Prince Lucerys had instigated the Dance, war had turned each Targaryen into a murderer of kinsfolk. Only the children were spared of the ill-famed title, too young to wield a knife, or ride a dragon into battle. 
“Spare young Prince Aegon”, the Master of Ships suggests, eyes solely on Aemond, “A simple act of kindness the realm needs. Make him and Princess Jaehaera your wards. Stand before your Kingdom with your wife by your side; show them you were spared with the grace of The Seven. Chosen to survive and rule”
The room is quiet again, every member present observing the prince’s reaction. 
Corlys’ eyes are kinder than Aemond remembers them; perhaps tired from the violence they’d spent years enduring. The adventure he’d chased as a restless, young man seemed to finally have bested the weary Lord of the Tides. 
“A strong, united front with an undisputed King and his Queen. If we secure that, we have enough ammunition to convince the rest of the realm to bend the knee” 
Aemond lowers his head once, agreeing with Lord Velaryon’s assessment. He feels a rush go through his body, a mixture of fear and excitement running in his blood. He sets to leave the small council, head already overflowing with matters that need to be sorted before his coronation.
Grand Maester Orwyle rests a hand on his shoulder, asking the Prince to stay and discuss one final matter before retreating. 
He’s left with Orwyle, Corlys and Larys, the latter still faintly smirking as if the realm’s insecure succession amuses him greatly.
“One of your greatest strengths is your wife, your grace”, the Grand Maester says, “She’s been loyal to you throughout the war and survived a fierce ambush” 
Aemond feels unease spread inside his chest at the mention of his wife. He had only briefly discussed her with Orwyle since returning from Harrenhal, not keen on allowing his uncertainty of her to be known. 
“Showing the realm her fondness for you might sway the public's perception of you as a… insensitive man”, he continues, evidently choosing his words carefully. 
Larys breathes out a low snicker, “They say your heart is as black as the night you slew Prince Lucerys”
Corlys looks at the Master of Whispers with disdain, “Your grace”, he says, demanding Aemond’s attention, “One of the quickest ways to ensure stability is for your marriage to reflect the strength you will have as a leader” 
Now it is the Sea Snake’s eyes that search for the prince’s, begging for understanding, 
“The princess needs to act the part of a queen; round with babe, hand in hand with her husband. It is up to you to ensure the realm has an heir, Aemond” 
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The Seven must mock him. 
Cordially leading his wife towards their seats in the Great Hall, Aemond places his hand by the small of her back like he’s done countless times before. Each time his hand grazes the fabric of her golden gown, her back goes rigid. 
The coronation had been quick, a simple summoning of Lords and Ladies residing in the Red Keep together with a handful of delegates from the smallfolk. After they’d been informed that King Aegon II had perished due to the numerous injuries he’d suffered through the Dance, the coronation began. Corlys Velaryon announced Aemond, first of his name, as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. 
The Lord of the Tides had also paid his wife special attention, proclaiming the “comely Lady Lannister now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Mother of the Realm”. The addition to her title hadn’t been consulted with Aemond prior to the coronation, and the young king wondered if it was a last-minute addition to appeal to the masses. They ardently cheered, seemingly pleased with their new regents. Still, ‘twas the Lords outside of King’s Landing that needed to be persuaded into supporting Aemond as king. 
The freshly appointed Queen appears disoriented, surely exhausted from the tumultuous day. Aemond takes it upon himself to guide her, pulling out her chair and whispering for her to take a seat since the celebratory feast will soon commence. She says a quiet “thank you”, mindlessly following his instructions. She seems lost.
Or empty.
The irony of thirsting for the Iron Throne, for the title of King, for so long and now dispassionately seizing it, is not lost upon him. 
He does not feel changed. He is still the same man; mind left in battle and with a broken wife by his side. Only now with the Conqueror's crown above his brow. A crown he’s worn before. 
Aemond steals a glance at her. How many times had she told him he’s the one who deserves the crown. That he was a far better choice to rule the Seven Kingdoms, instead of his drunken brother. This was the unattainable fantasy they’d whispered into each other's ears late at night, shielded by the private comfort of the other’s embrace. 
This was supposed to be a victorious occasion. 
When he’d consulted Grand Maester Orwyle on his wife’s condition, the old man said “You have to teach her how to be herself again”
The task feels impossible. 
He did not construct her. How was he expected to put her back together again? 
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Neither of them eat much, both consumed by the thoughts fighting for space inside their restless minds. He knows she’s far too exhausted to stay awake much longer, yet she makes no attempt to excuse herself, or ask him to pardon her. 
“Shall we retreat?”, he leans in to ask quietly next to her ear. She jumps at the sudden sound of his voice, pulling her from her thoughts, and unsurely nods in accordance. 
They walk back to their chambers in silence. 
“Teach her how to be herself again”
Aemond swallows the ball on unease in his throat, “If you feel weary, do not hesitate to tell me”
She doesn’t look at him, “Of course, your grace”
He opens the door to their chambers and gestures for her to enter. She rushes inside, going to the vanity to remove the lavish gold and red necklace around her neck, followed by the ruby-adorned rings in her ears. 
“Good night”, he says stiffly, cursing himself for being so utterly inept in her presence. 
“Will you not spend the night here?”, she asks, fingers moving behind her to undo the lacing of her shimmering gown. 
He does not know what to answer. 
“I-, I apologise deeply for my indiscretion last night, lord husband. I know we need an heir to placate the realm”
She tugs at her dress, pulling it down her shoulders, leaving it on the ground as she steps out of it. 
For a moment he recognises her. 
The determined look in her eyes, the assured steps she takes towards the bed. 
But as he approaches, she’s lost again. 
She’s lying on her back, clad only in her shift. Through it, he can see the contours of her thighs as the fabric gathers between her legs. 
Her heaving breasts as she takes deep breaths. 
Her plump lips. 
None of it causes arousal to stir within him. 
Offering herself to him, she resembles prey; drained of life and ready to sacrifice herself to her predator. 
“Teach her how to be herself again”
“Can I kiss you?”, he asks, voice quiet yet deafening in the silent room. 
“Whatever you desire”
He places one knee on the bed, hands balancing on each side next to her head so that he may lower himself over her, and presses a careful kiss to her lips. 
She’s cold. Her body is still stiff. She doesn’t kiss him back.
Wounded, he retreats, observing her face. Her eyes are closed and when she opens them, he cannot disregard their sadness.
“Perhaps tomorrow-”
“-No!’, she interrupts him, voice desperate, “I want to! Please, your grace”
On his 13th nameday, Aemond has also feigned bravery. He’d told the whore on the Street of Silk that he wanted to, even when his body did not comply. 
His body does not obey him now either, distress amplified by the giggles and cackles echoing in his mind, bringing him back to the overcrowded whorehouse he was humiliated in. 
He ducks his face again, now moving to press his lips to the tender skin of her throat. He burrows his nose in her hair, inhaling her scent and thinks of the first time they laid together, when he’d been afraid of sullying her, tainted by the brothel he was forced to visit. 
He’d been afraid of not being able to please her; not being able to show her how much he loved her, memories of spectators laughing at the one-eyed, impotent prince still burned into his mind’s eye. 
Removing each of her garments, his love had slipped under the furs of the bed, beckoning him over gently. 
Under the furs, surrounded by darkness, Aemond had only felt the soft warmth of her skin touching his, freed from the internal heckling cursing him for years, and finally finding home as he sheathed himself inside of her. 
Coming together as one felt natural; like they’d been parted in a previous life and finally brought together again. 
Everything with her had always been self-evident. 
Growing bolder, he presses more kisses down her collarbones and towards her chest. With each movement of his lips, she flinches. 
Still stiff. 
Her reluctance quenches any arousal bubbling in his belly. It only reminds him of how pitiful his life has become; a king detested by his people. By his wife. 
Left with the memory of her, forbidden from grieving her. 
Cursed to remember. 
He persists, moving down her belly to reach the tuft of hair between her legs, obscured by her chemise. 
He brings one hand lower to caress her leg, letting it travel up under the fabric towards her centre. 
She’s even stiffer now, breathing rapidly in anticipation. 
I cannot. 
He removes his hand from her thigh, sighs and moves back to observe her. He cannot bear the look in her eyes.
Fear. 
If he thought that seeing disgust reflect in her eyes pricked his heart, fear broke it into two. 
Exhaustion, grief and loneliness consumes him, causing his throat to close up. 
He cannot see her like this; take her like this. 
He moves to stand, gaze avoiding her spread out silhouette. “I have a matter to attend to”, he mutters in panic, mind not vigorous enough to produce a proper excuse.
“Please, let us not stall the inevitable any further”, she interjects, voice no different from a plea, “I-, I want you to take me”
“P-, please. I am yours, Lord Husband”
Liar. 
“AEMOND!”, he roars, unable to take her exclusion any longer. His outburst startles both himself and his wife, who twitches in fright on the bed, “You call me Aemond!”
Spinning around, he walks towards the door in long, quick steps. His hands are tingling with bloodthirst; itching to wield a sword, preferably stabbing something with such force it falls apart.
Just like he just did. 
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Everything taglist: @humanpurposes @theoneeyedprince @valeskafics
Aemond taglist: @moonlightfoxx @iloveallmyboys @violetletovi @ietss
HotD taglist: @xcinnamonmalfoyx
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psychedelic-ink · 1 year
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𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊
Pairing: FEDRA!Javier Peña x firefly!reader
Genre: slice of life, smut, romance, angst, enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, TLOU AU, minors dni
Summary: Javier, a former member of the Federal Disaster Response Agency in Kansas City, is haunted by the guilt and violence he indirectly caused by not taking action when he should have. After fleeing Kansas City in the aftermath of Kathleen's violent overthrow of FEDRA, you and Javier seek refuge in an abandoned train in the middle of a forest.
As you and Javier turn the train into a living space and learn to navigate the dangers of a post-apocalyptic world, you gradually overcome your differences and form an unlikely bond. But when your pasts catch up with you, you must confront the demons that haunt you and make a choice that could mean the difference between life and death. Will you choose to protect each other and find a way to build a new life together, or will the ghosts of your pasts tear you apart?
word count: 4.5k
chapter summary: you and javier get off on a rocky start.
warnings: canon typical violence, arguing, a brief reference to Ellie and the main TLOU plot, no y/n
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Deadhead - A railcar or locomotive that is being transported empty, typically to be used for future shipments.
The day was warm, the sun bright. Small petals flew further away from the green grass, colorful flowers moving left and right with the soft caress of the wind. The vest Javier wore dug uncomfortably into his chest, his rifle slung over his back and pistol snug on his hip. The lovely weather mocked him, taunted him. It was a lie. A facade. The color, the white clouds, the green grass— all of it seemed muddled now. If he tried hard enough he could see specks of blood, tainting the visual that could as well be a spitting image of a Van Gough painting. 
But despite it all. Despite knowing it’s a lie, despite knowing the horror, he still wore the letters; F E D R A— Federal Disaster Response Agency. He liked to think that they were doing some good. At least they drove the wretched infected underground, right? They did one good thing, so that made the killing, the rape, and the torture okay. 
Right? 
“Fuck me.” he muttered into the wind, hoping the words, later on, would be carried back to him, reminding him that hey, at least I knew something was wrong. 
He noticed someone walking up to him. He was expecting it, really. Micheal Coghlan. The man who by some goddamn miracle still carried goodness inside of him. The type of goodness that would radiate through the cracks of skin and bone, the type that would bring light to a person’s face. 
Micheal had a limp. 
It was caused by someone Javier knew but didn’t particularly like. He saw it happen. He still heard the bone snapping into two when he closed his eyes at night. The man stood next to him and Javier observed him from the corner of his eye. Once upon a time, he could call his face roguishly handsome. It wasn’t a sharp face, round around the edges, with a bit of stubble; shaved by his sister no doubt. His eyes were kind, a darker shade of brown compared to his own, lips thin and chapped. Thirsty. 
Javier cleared his throat, hand going to his waist, he pulled out his flask and offered it to him. 
“Water?” 
He took it without an answer. Drank it in a way where water droplets would stream from the corner of his lips, his gulps loud. It made Javier feel awkward. Micheal stood a bit straighter when he offered the flask back. It was empty. 
“So what did you want to talk about?” Javier asked. 
Micheal smiled and crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes. “The people.” 
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It’s a bird violently flying into the window that wakes you. 
Your eyes open fearfully, your heart beating a mile a minute. Your breathing is uneven. Dust clings to both the inside of your throat and skin. Eyes still wide open, you stare at the ceiling of the train. The seats you managed to sprawl yourself upon are uncomfortable, jagged metal sticking into your skin, making ugly marks and dents. When your breathing calms, and body relaxes, you slowly get up. 
The weather is hot, yet gray clouds decorate the sky. The heat of rain, you like to refer to it as. You can barely see the sun, the light of it filtered through the gray, painting the world into a muted color. Fitting. 
You hear a snore and direct your gaze toward the sound. You see the boots that belong to a man that’s sleeping a couple of rows ahead, too big to truly fit and get comfortable. Javier Peña. You heave yourself up by grasping the heads of the seats, your legs aching and stumbling like a newborn doe’s. His shirt is unbuttoned from the top, revealing golden, scarred skin. Your eyes trail further down, and they don’t stop until you see the gun strapped to his waist. You think about how easy it would be to just take it, to shoot him and try to find your people. 
Then you remember. They’re all gone. You have no people. Marlene’s words were clear;
The girl’s gone. No more soldiers, no cure, no nothing. The fireflies are dead; you’re on your own now. 
A chill crawls up every inch of your skin. Why are you even here? Why are you with him of all people? You’re not sure yet. It’s much easier to dislike him when he’s not speaking and his eyes are closed. 
You hate that when they are closed, the only memory of them is him being struck with fear, the flames behind you mirrored in his eyes. Kansas City quickly became a place of destruction and death. It was unexpected and with every fabric of your being, you wished you had never seen it. 
“Why are you watching me?” his voice startles you; it’s deep with sleep. “It’s creepy.” 
“I was thinking about taking your gun and shooting you.” 
“I’ve always loved an honest woman. What stopped you?” 
“I have no place to go.” 
“Neither do I, as you know,” he says. He finally opens his eyes, but only to stare at the ceiling in a similar way you did not moments ago. “So where does that leave us?” 
You don’t understand what he’s asking you. The air is still.  Javier takes a sitting position, his elbows pressed into his knees and hands hanging loosely between his legs. 
“I say we stay here,” he says, voice firm.
“The train?” you ask, confused.
He shrugs. “Why not? It’s covered pretty well, it’s far enough for people to see and close enough if—god forbid—we want to head back into the city.” 
“You want us to live together?” 
“I want us to turn this into a living space. After that leave, if you want,” he rubs his thumb into the corner of his lips. “Though I wouldn’t really advise leaving, and I definitely need your help.” 
“So I should stay because?” 
“Safety. Security.” his smile is bitter. “What else can a person want during the end of times?” 
“Someone they can trust.” 
“You can trust me.” 
You look him over. He must’ve sensed your immediate hostility because his gaze slowly moves to you. He returns your suspicion in like, contemplating what to say. You don’t trust him. He doesn’t trust you. Javier’s fingers twitch and his hand moves to clap over his pocket. He lets out a sigh of relief when he feels the familiar shape of a cigarette box. 
He licks his lips again. 
You gaze out the windows. They’re thick with dust and vines, the outside seems a tad bit brighter now, the gray clouds clearing up a bit. 
“Being addicted must be hard,” you mutter. “What are you going to do when you run out? Sacrifice yourself for a box of Marlboros?” 
He chuckles. “Maybe. Who knows. I’m not out of stock yet.” 
“Not a very comforting thing to hear from a man that’s arguing that I should trust him.” 
“It’s not like I said I’d trade you for a pack of cigarettes.” 
“Who knows. That’s what you said, right?” 
He sighs and gets up. He walks down the narrow hall of the train, hands brushing over the headrests. You follow him outside, and just like you suspected, the weather is grossly warm with no light. The dry weeds crunch under your boots. Javier pulls out the crumpled pack and offers you one; you shake your head. You’re surrounded by trees, with little to see except the sky.
“Wouldn’t want to dry out your stock faster.” 
“That scared of what I’ll do if I run out?” he smiles, placing the butt of the cigarette between his lips. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re paranoid or smart.” 
“Paranoia works.” 
“I guess that’s true.” he mutters, lighting a match. “So what are you going to do? Stay or leave?” 
Javier inhales deeply, his lips not too tight not too loose. A soft groan vibrates from the back of his throat and he lets go of the smoke. Your eyes follow the dance of it, twisting and dissipating like the vapor on the first exhales of winter. He places the cigarette back between his lips and tucks his hands behind as he leans back into the metal surface of the train.  
He waits as you think. It’s ironic really, the fact that you’re actually contemplating staying with him. Needless to say, FEDRA and the fireflies don’t have the best relationship, but you guess that’s all behind you now. There are no organizations at this moment, no rebellions. Just him and you; two people looking for a way to survive. 
You turn to stare at the train. It’s nearly completely intact— there are six cars and the locomotive. If you stare hard enough you can spot the tracks buried under the moss and grass. It would take a lot of work, but indeed it was possible to turn it into a living space. 
“Give me a gun,” you say and he smiles. 
“What makes you think I have more than one?” 
“Then give me the one.” you press. 
“The first thing you said to me this morning was that you wanted to shoot me.” he pushes himself away from the metal surface. Pulling his cigarette away from his lips, he stands an inch away from you and holds your gaze. His smile disappears as smoke fans across your face, making your stomach churn. “Are you going to stay?” he asks. 
“If you give me the gun then sure.” you tilt your chin up. “I don’t trust FEDRA.” 
“I’m not FEDRA anymore and you’re not a firefly.” 
“You were once. I think you can see why I have my reservations. You weren’t just any FEDRA soldier, you were a part of it in Kansas City. I heard horror stories about that place.” you rub your eyes, trying to erase what they had seen. “And I actually witnessed the fables.”  
Javier takes a step back then, admitting defeat. Something horrific seems to cross his face, a series of violent images perhaps, or maybe it was the loss of his “friends” whatever it was you don’t pay much mind to it. Everyone has pain. Even children who are meant to be carefree and happy. You’re surprised when he suddenly hands you the gun, cigarette loose between his lips. You take the weapon. It’s heavy in your hand, cold between your fingers. 
“Satisfied?” 
“Very much so, yes.” you don’t smile, but you pull an expression very similar to it. He exhales another breath of smoke, and you push the gun under your waistband. “Where do we start?” 
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“You can’t be serious, Carillo.” 
It was dark and he could barely see the figure of his colleague. Javier had the intention of stepping forward and taking the gun from the other, but he stood there instead, heart beating in his throat. His stomach churned, bile thick on his tongue. Carillo didn’t bother to look at him. There was a man that was on his knees in front of the captain, his head bowed, shaking like a leaf. Carillo aimed his gun at him, his jaw tense. 
“You rather them kill us?” 
“I rather none of us kill each other.” 
Carillo finally turned to him then. Javier would expect the captain’s eyes to soften but they didn’t. 
“You heard what happened in the other QZ’s,” he spat. “Soldiers being killed, murdered. The people rioting. We can’t let weeds grow free Peña, he already killed one of us. You heard the rumors to overthrow FEDRA.” 
Before Javier could say anything a gunshot echoed, a body fell lifelessly to the concrete. He didn’t move. He didn’t even twitch. He just watched. Carillo placed a hand on his shoulder and the skin under Javier’s shirt burned—his stomach trembled then. 
“Ya no vivimos en un mundo de misericordia. Elige un bando.” 
Pick a side. 
Carillo left, Javier followed. Without thinking, his hand went to his empty flask. The cool metal under his fingertips did little to soothe him.
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It’s odd being here with him. You feel trapped by nature, by circumstance. Nothing is the same and nothing would ever be the same. You lean over and sweep out the glass into a tattered bag. Javier had decided on burying the glass or anything else you might find and have no use for down into the dirt. You didn’t have any objections to that. When you lean over to pick up a piece of a broken wine bottle, you feel the gun Javier gave you pressing into the skin of your hip. 
You always hated cleaning before the outbreak. Now it was a soothing thing to do. It felt normal. A reminisce of the past. Still, you can’t help but feel sick from being at ease. Change has to happen. But with the immune girl gone, and the fireflies basically disbanded (at least that was what you could tell from Marlene's massage) there is nothing you can do. 
You see Javier approaching, a sheer amount of sweat coats his skin, his shirt clinging to his body. Surprisingly, he’s silent. You had expected him to talk, to pry into your past life. But he seemed to be content with just cleaning for now. 
“We should scout the area,” he says when he catches your gaze. “Look for abandoned houses, supplies. Maybe we can find a fruit bush or something and plant some here for food.” 
“You do know there’s no way this is going to be like…a peaceful suburb residence right?” 
“A man can only dream.” 
He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and your curiosity gets the better of you. 
“I need to ask,” you say and he piques with interest. “Why FEDRA? No offense but you don’t exactly look the type.” 
“I remember you saying that the first time you saw me.” 
“Still surprised you didn’t shoot me then, considering who I was.” 
“No offense but you didn’t exactly look the terrorist type. I didn’t know who, or what, you were.” 
“We weren’t terrorists.” 
“So you guys didn’t plant bombs?”  he asks sounding amused. “You didn’t kill people?” 
You narrow your eyes, heat pooling under your skin. “Only pieces of shit like you.” 
“I thought I didn’t look the type?” he sighs and shakes his head. “Look I’m not going to argue the ethics of it all and you’re definitely right. The things they—we did, FEDRA, It’s inexcusable. But don’t come here and tell me the fireflies were squeaky clean.” he takes the broken bottle from you and throws it into the bag. “I don’t want to fight about this. I don’t want to argue with you all the time. I’m not telling you I’m a good person, I don’t understand why you have to remind me. I know I’m not.” 
Silence follows. Your anger shifts into guilt and you push those feelings down. He gives you one last stern look before turning his back to you. 
“But neither are you so let’s stop bulshitting ourselves. And if you’re going to start interrogating me about my decisions—about my past— I recommend you not cuss me out a minute later.” 
His steps are loud as he leaves. You notice he left the bag behind, meaning that you managed to rile him up enough that he just had to get away from you. You probably deserved that. You don’t understand how he can shove the past aside so carelessly, how he can just forget what he’d done, what you’d done. But he was right, you aren’t a good person. Unlike him, you enjoy believing that you are. Joining the fireflies…it made you believe that you were doing good, that you were better and more noble. The killings you did were for the greater good, the people that ended up under the rubble of explosions were just a sacrifice that needed to be made—you told yourself that, again and again. 
Maybe you aren’t as bad as FEDRA but you aren’t that above it either. 
You contemplate going after him. Apologize without actually apologizing. You remember a time you used to break the tension by making a joke, how did you do that again? You can’t quite remember. 
You shake your head and continue to clear out the debris. He’ll come back. You can think about what to do then. 
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Javier does eventually come back, but not before the sun had set. 
The stars appear one by one, and you hate to admit that you’d worried about him. Being alone is worse than being with someone you hate. 
Dirt and dust sit uncomfortably on your skin. After an entire day of work, you managed to clear out the broken glass, rust metals, dead insects, and rodents (you shudder at the memory). Now all of it lays outside, waiting to be taken further away from the train. 
“Where were you?” you ask when he arrives, you notice a bow strapped to his back. “And where did you find that?” 
“Careful, it almost sounds like you were worried about me.” he grins as if he hadn’t stormed away from you when the sun was at the very top. You decide to let it slide. He lifts two rabbits and your eyes go wide. “I went looking around a bit. Found this in an abandoned cabin, then did some hunting. Assuming you’d be hungry.” 
“Thanks. I…actually forgot that we need to eat.” 
“Help me build a fire?” 
You answer. “Sure.” 
The process of building a fire has become as natural as breathing air. If it were a couple of years ago, most people wouldn’t know how to build a fire but that wasn’t the case now. You doubt that anyone who had survived in this world did so by not knowing how to create flames from scraps of wood and dried leaves. Even the children know. That’s just the world they grow up in now. 
Your eyes constantly follow him whenever he moves and you can’t decide if it’s due to old habits or is it because of something else. He has a bizarre aura about him. Something that you can’t quite read. He’s soft. You’ve met a lot of FEDRA soldiers back in the day, have argued and fought against them, but you never met someone like him. He has a bite to his words, but you see the kindness swirling in his eyes, suffocating him from the inside out. It’s an odd contrast and makes you feel uncomfortable. 
He’s a man that has been beaten down by the world and the system. Him asking you to stay here is his way of giving up on everything he wanted for the world. You can see it as vividly as you see the stars. Just glimpses of his backstory winking down at you. 
The flames come alive, roaring and eating the rabbits whole. Javier had taken the job of cooking for himself, patiently watching the fire, he pokes the sizzling meat from time to time. 
“You like cooking?” you ask, and your eyes water when the wind blows the ashes into your face. 
“I did,” he answers without looking. “I wouldn’t really say I particularly enjoy cooking this.”
You cross your legs as Javier hands you a branch, skewered with rabbit meat. You take a moment to examine the branch, noting the rough texture of the wood and the way it's been stripped of any leaves or twigs. The delicate slices of meat have been threaded onto the branch with care and precision, each one spaced perfectly apart.
He takes his own portion and sits across from you, the flames curling into the air in between. He doesn’t say a word as he takes the first bite. You watch him chew. The flames lick his face, the tip of his nose a dusted red. Javier swallows and when he does you bring a piece to your lips and slowly chew. It’s gamey, slightly sweet. Overall, tastes pretty damn good. 
Your lips twitch up to a small smile. Biting into it more eagerly this time, your stomach growls as you swallow. 
“This actually tastes pretty good,” you mutter, feeling the fat from the rabbit coating your lips. 
“Well, don’t go overboard.” 
“It’s the truth.”
When you lower your gaze back down to the meat, you don’t miss the way a smile curls at his lips. The night grows louder and you two finish the rest of your dinner in silence. You hear crickets, the leaves rustling with the wind. A sweet scent touches your nose, something like newly blossomed flowers. You look into the distance and all you can see is darkness. 
Your eyes play games with you, shows you shadows of people, tricks you into thinking that you and Javier might’ve been followed by Katleen’s resistance. 
You blink. 
No. 
There’s no one there. 
Your pulse skyrockets, your heart beating in your throat. Vibrating, you turn back to Javier only to see that he’s already staring at you. His look is one of understanding, his lips relaxed as his eyes flit around your face. 
“Are you alright?” 
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “I just thought—” you look back to the silhouette of trees. “I thought I saw something.” 
“The curse of the forest,” he answers, placing a cigarette between his lips. He realizes he doesn’t have his matches with him so he leans forward and lights it from the source. Javier’s face illuminates, and you see splashes of blood, of death. It lingers over his skin, curls around his throat, stains the white of his eyes. “It makes us see things we don’t wanna see.” 
“There was this girl,” you suddenly say, swallowing down the gasp that threatened to slip from your lips. He raises an eyebrow and sits back, listening. “Marlene told us that she was immune. I was supposed to meet up with them in Boston.” 
“Immune?” he scoffs. “Immune to what?” 
“Cordyceps.” 
“Bullshit.” 
“No, it’s true,” you answer with a sudden need to convince him. You’re not sure why. “She got bit and never turned.” 
“Did you actually see it?” he exhales a puff of smoke when you shake your head. He believes he made his point. “So what about this girl? Is there a reason why you’re telling me this or are you just that afraid of the dark?” 
You bite into your bottom lip, the sting offering a fleeting relief. “It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s just too silent. It feels…naked.” 
“Naked?” he asks, grinning, he steals the cigarette from between his lips and evens his gaze with yours. “We’re covered, cariño. Nothing to worry about.” 
“Famous last words,” you tease, ignoring how his tongue rolled as he mumbled cariño. “I guess I’m not used to it yet. There’s always something to fight. Someone is always lurking in the shadows.” 
He voices out the rest of your thoughts, “It’s like all the noise and chaos of the world has disappeared, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts.”
You take a deep breath of the crisp forest air. 
Emotionally, you want to lean into him. There’s a need in your chest that doesn’t go away but it’s tainted with the anger and the hatred of the organizations that tear you away from each other. He might’ve wanted to do good once, but he chose the wrong side. He thought fireflies were terrorists, and maybe to some you were. However, at least you weren’t fascists and tried to help the people. For better or for worse.
“It doesn’t hurt does it?” he says, guiding your attention back to him. Javier looks up to the sky, takes a deep inhale of smoke. It spills from his lips as he continues. “To have someone by your side.” 
No, you think as you get up and head into the train, it doesn’t. 
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You don’t know what it is this time that wakes you up. There’s no noise. The only thing that convinces you that you’re not in a soundproof cell is the moonlight filtering through the dirty windows. You watch as the pine leaves move together, you’ve always enjoyed the smell of it. The sound of it comes like an afterthought, slowly gaining and getting louder. 
You get up when you feel the train shake. 
Javier is in the same spot that he always sleeps in, only a couple rows ahead. You move past him and you sneak a glance. His lips twitch and move as he sleeps. 
Stepping outside, you take in the same sight as before. It’s still eerie. 
Interestingly enough since the fire was gone the darkness seemed lighter somehow. A shimmering blackness. The moonlight probably helped. 
Dry earth cracks under your boots. The sound of the trees now mixed with something else, something violent and cruel yet beautiful. You feel the gun on your hip and travel deeper into the forest. The scent of pine and flowers that only bloom during the night stronger. The train is still visible so you don’t worry much about the distance in between. Your fingers brush over the tree trunks, you feel the moss, the sticky resin. 
You hear a click. 
Click. Click. Click. 
Just ahead there’s a clicker, moving with its arms bent and dragging its feet through the soil. Swallowing, you take a slow step back. Then another. And another. 
The chill of the night stings your skin, sticky from sweat and burning. The clicker turns in your direction and you stop moving, your one foot suspended in the air. It gains momentum, head twisting and turning. Very slowly you lower your foot, and your heart beats loud in your chest. Surely the clicker hears it. 
Fuck. 
The sound of the branch snapping underneath you was like a gunshot, reverberating through the stillness of the woods.
You don’t even get the chance to pull out the gun on your hip. 
You’re slammed into the dirt, all air forced out of your lungs. You struggle against it but it’s too heavy, too wild to be pushed off of you. The clicker screams into your face, the stench horrid. Bile builds in your throat and coats your stomach. You’re helpless. 
It makes a move towards your hands and you pull them away, its full weight suffocating you. Killing you. You can’t breathe. 
Tears flood your eyes. You know you’re about to die because you see your life flashing before your eyes, snippets of the past and possible future. You think of the fireflies, of Marlene. You see earth cleansed from the virus. 
You see Javier. He’s smiling, leading you in a dance around the wilting flames. You don’t push the thoughts away. You take them as a blessing in moments of lingering death. 
A gunshot echoes. You hear the bullet cutting through the air, whistling in the night. It sinks into the clicker’s shoulder, you hear another one, this time the bullet strikes its head.  The clicker collapses. Before you can shove the lifeless vessel away, it’s being lifted. 
You can breathe again. 
Javier is standing before you, his brows creased with worry. His lips are parted as if he’s about to say something but you beat him to it. You’re still gasping for air when you speak. 
“You had a gun.” 
“Yeah,” he heaves, sweat clinging to his chest and moonlight trickling down his skin. “I had a fucking gun.” 
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Oh man, you guys have no idea how excited I am to finally be sharing the first chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed it, I'll probably be posting a new chapter every Saturday (the first 3 chapters will def go up and Saturdays, after that, if everything goes well, I'll continue it the same way)
A few thank you's are in order; @pedrito-friskito , @inklore , @fuckyeahdindjarin and @pedrorascal who listened to me go on and on about this and for their endless moral support ♥︎ and thank you to @laters-gators who beta'd this.
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kining-the-evil · 1 year
Note
hello :) i absolutely loved your yandere haymitch hc’s and i was wondering if i could request a yandere haymitch x fem reader (can either be hc’s or an imagine) where reader is in her early 20s and another victor from district twelve? you can write whatever you’d like, i’m good with any level of yandereness and dark content! thank you <3
I’ll Protect You
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Summary: Haymitch promised himself that after your games he would protect you, but after the announcement of the Quarter Quirl there isn’t much he can do
Warnings: hunger games violence, soft Yandere!haymitch, mental manipulation, angry Haymitch, drinking
An: I am genuinely shocked by the lack of Haymitch fics on here. I Hope it lives up to your expectations!
🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐
To some, it seemed like you had signed your own fate. Sure, you didn’t volunteer to fight in the hunger games and it wasn’t your fault that Haymitch was your mentor, but you had been kind to the man. The first day on the train you helped him to his room after getting drunk at dinner, and you brought him breakfast the next morning. While your fellow tribute got angry and yelled at him, you defended Haymitch.
How was he not supposed to feel something for you.
For the first time in a long time, he gave his everything into helping you succeed in the games. He painted you as the princess of the capital, charming and sweet, and someone they would all want to keep around. You got a tone of sponsors, all of witch helped you to hide and let the other tributes kill each other until the last hours of the games.
When you won, Haymitch thought he would cry. In fact, he did later on when alone. He was there immediately, in the infirmary when you came out, on the train, when you got home, and when you had to do your tour. And you seemed to be there for him, something he hadn’t had in so long.
It was less then a year before your ‘relationship’ started. If you had been on the outside of the relationship, you would have seen the red flags. The flags Haymitch justified.
He was older, but that meant he could lead you through this new life.
He was a drunk, but you didn’t seem to mind taking care of him.
He was possessive, but he was just protecting you.
You didn’t have a friend or family member who could warn you, and you fell into his ‘trap.’ You listened when he said you should stay with him, or when he didn’t want you to leave the house for months at a time. You listened when he told you how he was the only one who could keep you safe, that he would protect you because that’s what you do when you love someone.
“Good morning, Katniss,” You hollered when the door to your home opened. Despite the girls prickly attitude, you were so happy when her and Peeta had won this year. They deserved it, plus it gave you other people to see. Haymitch was always much less…intense around others. So the two of them coming in the home you and Haymitch shared was a welcoming change.
The girl didn’t great you other then a small smile before grabbing a cup of water and marching over to where Haymitch was passed out on the table.
“Here we Go…” you mumbled while grabbing a towel. You back was turned when his voice rang through the room.
“What the hell!?”
You hurried with the towel, getting to him quickly to start drying his head.
“If you wanted kind, you should have asked Peet’s to wake you up.” Katniss didn’t stay to chat, choosing to leave as quickly as she arrived.
“Thank you darling.” He took the towel to finish drying his face. His hair was a tangled mess, and the bags under his eyes highlighted the recent lack of sleep. He looked like a mess. But a simple smile from the man made you melt. Something about that smile made you willing to do anything for him.
“Of course.” You kissed his cheek lightly, feeling the skin of his cheek tighten lightly from his smile. You grabbed the breakfast you had made a while ago, setting it on the table for him. “I made this this morning.”
“Looks wonderful,” he slurred lightly before eating the food. That was one thing that brought you happiness, his smile. Even when he was blackout drunk, he still smiled at you like you were his everything.
The rest of the meal was quiet, nether of you really talking. The most anyone said was Haymitch encouraging you to eat a bit more.
“Do you have anything you have to do today?” You hoped he said no, staying alone in the large house was awful and you never really knew how long he’d be gone.
“Not really, other then damage control for Katniss.” He sounded tired, but pulled himself out of his seat to walk over to you. “I’ll have to go out for a bit.”
He pulled you to him slightly, scanning over your face. You could just imagine how someone else would react to how he treated you, the asshole alcoholic holding you softly.
“Promise me you’ll stay here, all day, and I’ll be back to watch the Quarter Quell announcement with you.” You shivered at the mention of this years games. You couldn’t help but wonder at what fucked up idea they would use for this year. “Hey,” he took your chin in his hand so you’d look at him. “Promise?”
“Ok.” You nodded lightly and he gifted you that beautiful smile. He placed a light kiss on your forehead before pulling away from you and walking away to change out of the clothes he had passed out in.
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
The slight breeze bit into your skin as you pulled the large door closed behind you. It hadn’t taken long for you to get board after Haymitch had left, and you weren’t really looking to read a book or watch some Capital broadcast. So you had decided to take a small walk. You’d stayed out of the main part of town, keeping towards the fence on the boarder.
You walked through the house, getting a drink, and walking into the living room.
“Where were you?”
You jumped, letting out a surprised cry and spinning around to see Haymitch. He was slouched down in one of the chairs, a glass of what you assumed was whiskey in his hand.
“Haymitch! You scared me!” You chuckled a bit, giving him a smile. “I just went on a quick walk, clear my head-“
“Why did you leave?” He stood up surprisingly quickly, considering the half bottle of whiskey on the table next to him.
“I just told you? I went on a walk.” You chuckled, slightly confused. Was he…angry?
“You told me,” he set the glass down and walked up to you, caging You between him and the wall. “That you wouldn’t leave. And yet, I get home and you’re gone.”
“I-I didn’t think-“
“You’re right, you didn’t think. If you had, you would have fucking stayed here like I told you to.” His voice was dripping with anger, but his face was unreadable. That was something you hated. He could be so unreadable, and it made it that much harder to know what he was thinking.
“I’m sorry,” you offered. You didn’t know what he wanted to hear from you.
“There is no reason to leave without me, understand? I don’t want to ever see you out there without me, I don’t care if Katniss, Peeta, hell, I don’t care if Effy is with you.” For a moment his face cracked, making your breath hitch. If you could read it on his face that he was mad, then you knew he was mad.
“Ok, I won’t,” you whispered. He seemed to accept that, pulling to his chest.
“Good. Now come on, we have to watch the broadcast.”
He led you to the couch, sitting down before pulling you to his side. You tended to avoid any of these broadcast that you could, but you weren’t able to this year. The announcement of the new stipulation would be on, and Snow was adamant that ever Victor be watching.
It started normal, Snow talking about how the games were required for peace. He discussed the terms of the last two games, and finally he made the announcement.
“This year, to remind us that even the strongest are not immune to the Capitals power, the tributes for the 75th hunger games will be reaped from the existing pool of victors from each district.”
He continued to talk after that, but you couldn’t actually hear anything. The ringing in your ears blocked everything out as you processed his words. Victors would be chosen. It would be you are Katniss. Peeta or Haymitch. 
“Y/n? Darling, come back to me.” You vaguely recognized his voice as Haymitch gently shook you. “Darling, talk to me.” He tried again, but got no verbal answer. Instead, you folded in on yourself, letting him gently hold you.
“It’s gonna be ok, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
“Peeta lives.”
Haymitch glanced up, practically glaring at Katniss. Of course she was already over here. “You should learn to knock.”
“Last year you fought for me to win, I want Peeta to win,” she repeated.
“Let me tell You a secret sweetheart,” he stood up to be face to face with the woman. “I don’t really care what you want.” She looked slightly stunned, but he just continued. “The only thing I care about, is keeping her alive.” He pointed towards the hall that led to your room. “In fact, I would kill you and Peeta if it meant she’d be safe.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“Really? Don’t forget, Ive killed too. I’ve also convinced y/n to willingly give up any freedom she had. She willingly stays in the house, she moved in, she truly loves me. And I love her. And I’m sure as hell not letting that go.”
His voice was steady, eyes hard, clearly not playing. He was serious.
“I knew there was something wrong with how you interact with her. You kidnapped her, didn’t you.”
“It’s only kidnapping if She is here against her will. Go home, and you better hope to god she doesn’t end up in those games because I think we both know Peeta isn’t going to let me go in there. He’s far to nice.” He smirked lightly before walking away from the girl standing in his kitchen.
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mistertiberius · 2 months
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Get To Know Zai'kuur & Hollow
A/N: Unfortunately, I couldn't help myself, so here's two more Yautja ocs.
Predator Masterlist
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Name: Ihraind (aka: Hollow)
Rank: Elite
Gender: Male
Height: 7’0"
Some General Information About Him:
Hollow wakes up every day and actively chooses violence, lol. He has a hell of a temper even at his age, because usually male Yautja mellow out as they get older, but not this bloodthirsty hothead.
Hollow has a black color scheme with gray accents on his shoulders, knees, elbows, and chest (kind of like freckles). His dreadlocks are shoulder-length and left unadorned because they’re more sensitive than the average Yautja’s dreadlocks, you can make this guy's knees very nearly buckle just by touching them.
It’s a bit of a sore spot though, so maybe keep teasing him about it to a minimum (or strictly to the bedroom).
Hollow programmed his biomask to have a Scottish accent because his most difficult hunt was a military unit, one of the last men standing was a Scotsman that actually managed to give Hollow some nasty scarring when he took shrapnel from a makeshift bomb to the left side of his body.
Hollow came out victorious in the end, taking the man's skull as a trophy. But in honor of his worthy advisory, he adopted the human's voice. He also displays the Scotsman's skull in his personal quarters instead of the trophy room, because that particular hunt was the closest that he's ever gotten to being defeated.
You and Zai’kuur are literally the only ones who can bring this beast of a hunter to heel, he outright refuses to listen to anyone else. Hollow also –unsurprisingly– has authority issues and will absolutely argue just for argument’s sake, which usually escalates into a vicious brawl.
As a result of his volatile attitude toward his fellow hunters, Hollow has been challenged to a duel numerous times (though elders are exempt from his savage behavior since he holds a modicum of respect for them).
Hollow is a bit of a show-off, especially when he’s trying to impress you and Zai’kuur.
He’s also pretty possessive, though he makes an effort not to be controlling because of it. But even so, sometimes he has to hover a little in order to calm himself down so he doesn't cause a commotion. There have been several occasions where he’s literally tried to murder someone or something that had laid hands on either you or Zai’kuur, regardless of whether said touch was friendly or not.
He's the living, breathing definition of the phrase "guard dog privilege" so please take advantage of it. In fact, he'll actively encourage you to do so.
Hollow and Zai’kuur aren’t in a clan, choosing to travel the universe as a pair in order to hunt larger and more dangerous prey. On that note, their ship is large enough to comfortably house six, but because of their race’s advanced technology and their own intelligence, they can easily pilot and maintain the ship themselves.
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Name: Zai’kuur
Rank: Elite
Gender: Male
Height: 7'4"
Some General Information About Him:
Zai’kuur has undeniable himbo energy, his general attitude far more laid back and chill than his rabid counterpart.
Zai’kuur and Hollow grew up together and formed a strong bond that can come off as either platonic and/or romantic at any given time. Their relationship is complex in the sense that they don’t label whatever it is that they share, they simply go with the flow of things.
Zai’kuur has a muted brown and green color scheme, with dark brown accents on his shoulders, chest, and stomach. His dreadlocks are on the longer side, hanging past his shoulder-blades with rings carved from bone evenly spaced along the length of each dreadlock. He also has two smaller bone rings on his lower mandibles, which was a gift that Hollow gave him when they first began traveling together.
He programmed his biomask to have a southern accent since his first hunt on Earth was in Georgia during the summer months. The state became his preferred hunting grounds when he visited Earth, especially the national parks.
Despite his friendly deposition, Zai’kuur is extremely protective of those that he cares about. He is more than willing to go behind both your back and Hollow’s in order to get his hands dirty, only to effortlessly return to his usual sweet and sheepish self when you and Hollow scold him for running off on his own. It’s not a mask or anything, he just prefers to be a big teddy bear whenever it’s not necessary to tap into the violence that he’s capable of.
The quote “Don't mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone, but when someone is unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me.” from Al Capone sums Zai’kuur’s character up nicely.
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soullessdianthus · 11 months
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Soft!Bo Sinclair X Reader | Headcanons | PART 2
<< PART 1
Author's note: Due to your positive responses to the first part - here's the sequel of our murderous husband! Thank you very much for all the reblogs and notes <3
Warnings: mostly fluff, canon typical violence, tiny bit of Stockholm Syndrome?, NSFW under the cut
Word count: 1.6k woops
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First days after your arrival in Ambrose, you were following Bo like a ghost, a shadow - since the dawn until the sunset you were alongside him
Bo had to keep an eye on you, see if you wouldn't try anything foolish, so he told you to come with him
But deep down he was almost sure you wouldn't dare to leave the abandoned city, you were a smart girl after all and he was your saviour
When you finally gained a bit of his trust he let you stay inside the house while he worked in the garage or outside the Ambrose
In the second case, he would tell Vincent to watch over you, from a distance of course, his brother would be quick to eliminate any occurring problems
Then, after Bo had completly fallen for you and his heart softened (don't tell this anyone), he wouldn't mind you going with him, staying in the family house or walking around the town - without anyone looking after you
At this point he was sure of your commitment to him
You were gratefull for his care and kind words
Mornings of those days when he wouldn't have to go to work was your favourite part of the day
You'd lay in bed longer than usual, entangled in the lengths of yours limbs
Each night Bo would try to hold you as close as possible - by being a big spoon, craddling you with his arm into his embrace
But when he chooses to sleep on his back, he would keep one of his palms on your thighs
Just to feel you near him
When he seriously has to wake up and start preparing for the work day, he takes a short glimpeses now and then at your sleeping form, sunk between the sheets, spreaded where he used to lay during the night
Bo appreciates when you make him coffee in the morning
And breakfast
During your first weeks in Ambrose he was overwhelmingly trying to shield you from his brothers or "the workshops" (with your friends' corpses still there)
Bo was extremly mean towards Vincent (nothing new), because he kept staring at you akwardly, not understanding why are you still alive
And even if you and all the Sinclair boys met in one place, Bo would instantly place his hand over your shoulder or on your back to underline you're his
As the time passed by, he became more handsy - by keeping his hand on your back (upper and lower), hips or waist
Bo loves to keep you close, so he can feel your scent, touch your hair or soft skin - which is a complete opposite of his coarse, mechanic hands, in his opinion at least, you long for his touch
He'd appreciate if you cook for him, he finds it really sexy
After some time he takes you outiside the town - for a simple car ride kind of date, dinner in the city nearby or a picnic near the lake
Just to be alone with you
If any foolish "tourists" came into the town, you'd stay in the house for your own sake - that's what Bo and Lester suggested to keep you safe
But that one time, while you were slicing the vegetables for dinner, minding your own buisness, someone intruded the house in the hill, almost breaking the doors - a member of a local motorcycle club, his leather vest revealing everything
"Who the hell are you?" you asked, grip tightening around the kitchen knife you held "You shouldn't be here."
The man was already partially covered in blood, probably one of his friends, he kept staring at you, something vile sparkling in his eyes
"Get out, he won't like your presence" you stated, slowly backing away as the intruder walked towards you
"You're with 'em?"
Within a brief moment he was painfully squezzing your wrists, wrestling you until you tripped and fell down
He was trying to take away the knife from you, but you kept struggling under the attacker
During the scuffle you managed to stab him once in his arm - shallow, but always something
"Fucking bitch!" he yelled when he couldn't rip the weapon out of your grip
But those were his last words ever spoken, before a bullet of a rifle put a hole in his upper back
The blood splashed over your cheek and his agonizing body fell to the side
You saw Bo pointing his gun to the dead man's corpse from the door's threshold as he stepped inside the house
"Stupid sonbitch" Bo hissed through his teeth, before pulling the trigger again, making sure the intruder is stone cold dead
You crawled to the side to get as far from the body as you could
Barely keeping up with the scenery, a kitchen knife was still inside of your palm
"Come 'ere, sugar" Bo instructed you, helping you up from the floor
Mechanic gently grabbed your arm and took a quick glimpse over your frame - to see if you had any wounds, if the dead motherfucker hurt you
Oh, only if the biker was alive, Bo would make him regret every single second spent in Ambrose
Then he caught your jaw, just beneath the chin, tilting the face of his lover to the sides, looking frantically for a wound "You alright?"
You nodded and his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you into his heated chest
You dropped the knife to the floor
"You did real good, sweetheart. I'm sorry"
Bo let out a loud breath, his lips pressing against the tip of your head, man's body turning with you around, creating a space between you and the corpse
"Hey! Ya were supposed to keep them OUT THE HOUSE, fuckin' freak"
Only when he yelled just above your head, you realised Vincet was in the room too, taking care of the bloody mess
"For fuck's sake"
"Bo... It's over"
His gaze softened as your voice sounded like a milk and honey, whilist your body shuddered in his embrace
"Go upstairs and wait for me, okay? We're gonna take care of it"
"Are you sure?" your eyes asked him non verbally - the wrinkles on his forehead beacame even more distinct in that setting
"Off you go, girl"
Later that night Bo's head was pressed tightly to your chest, your arms drawing him closer, soft fingers gently rubbing his occiput
Listetning to the heartbeat of yours helped him fall asleep, especially after such... troubles
The heartbeat he could have lost that night in a matter of second
And it scared him to death for the first time in ages
NSFW
Bo would dirty talk to you, only to see you blush and be all flustered
If you're rather a shy person and topic of intimacy makes you embarassed - he'd be in heaven, that man has a corruption kink you cannot prove me otherwise
He wouldn't talk dirty in a deregatory way though, just to mess with you and your shyness
"Ya keep putting those lil' skirts like you wanna me to look under them. Would ya like that, huh?"
"Gone all quiet now? You'd never dare to be this silent in the bedroom, sweetheart"
Beauregard enjoys taking the time to prepare you for the lovemaking - make out session, slowly undressing you and himself, his big hands tracingevery inch of your body? God, yes!
In a bedroom? Definitely a soft type of dom
Experienced or not, Bo would guide you through it all taking a lead between you two
He'd appreciate picking positions when he can see your face - all the emotions and pleasure spasm being visible
A traditional missionary (with your legs close to the chest) or a cowgirl are his top fucking tier (also pinball wizard)
Bo loves when you ride him - slow, sensual sways or rapid, wild bucking, doesn't matter to him as long as he can devour your sweet, little noises of pleasure
It helps him to relax after a long day at work
And the view of your tits just in front of him? He loves your soft, warm flesh bouncing before his hungry gaze
He might lick or suck them
During such intimate moments he places a trail of kissed along your skin - face, neck, spine, stomach, breasts, thighs... EVERYWHERE
Lots of praise mixed with dirty talk
"Takin' mah cock so well, darlin'. Doin' real fine"
"Like that? Like when I stuff your pussy full?"
"Jesus, such a good girl, all wet and warm for me"
You even manage to pull some grunts and moans from him, occasionally, but hey - it finally happens, it's very intimate for him, as it shows his vulnerability (look at the attachment below, you won't regret it) 👀
"Gonna make you feel real good"
Bo won't admit it, but he likes when you pull his hair
When the white light and tickling pressure hits you like a truck and you grasp onto his strong arms and curls - he loves it, absoluetly doesn't mind if you pull to hard or if you scratch him with your nails
"Go on, sugar, show me how much you love this"
Sometimes he would eat you up like a champ - your body squirming between the sheets, eyes watering with pleasure, thighs shaking uncontrollably
Bo is more of a reciver in that case, but he does just fine in the reverse role
When you're both done, he invites you into his embrace - his strong arms entangeling around your back, gently rubbing the curves of your body
He'd offer you a glass of water (such gentleman) or a quick shower
Oh, how he loves to take a shower or a bath with you
Bo would be willing for a round two after you caught your breath, but it all depends on you - if you still had enough strenght for that kind of fun
If not, both of you would try to fall asleep in the embrace of the lover
I'm gonna drop the link for his "noises" 👀 God bless you @bosinclairz <3
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saintmurd0ck · 2 years
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aere perennius | matt murdock x reader | drabble
series masterlist | main masterlist
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summary: matt murdock's love for you can only be described as 'aere perennius', or more lasting than bronze
warnings: a little angst, brief mention of blood/matt typical violence, gn reader
a/n: inspired by the lovely em's (@marvelswh0re) comment on bun's moodboard (@pleasedin), as well as the most incredible fic, quintessentia by my love jace @murdocks-devil // releasing this while i work on the rest of my sleepover stuff because i’m feeling incredibly wholesome rn 😌
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Matt thinks of you so much he worries it’s become prayer.
If you’d stopped him on the street a year ago, and told him what a life with you would turn out to be, he would’ve laughed. He would’ve simply arched his eyebrows, flashed you a non-committal smirk, and laughed.
But here you are, waking up next to him in his old Columbia sweatshirt, heart so full it feels like it could leap out of his chest, completing each other so perfectly he doesn’t even know where to start. On rainy days Matt smiles at the crinkle of leather echoing in his ears, as you sink down onto the couch, kicking your feet up with coffee and a good book. He joins you moments later, not fussing about his messy hair, his sweatpants tucked into his socks or the half-asleep state he’s in. He doesn’t need to worry about that stuff with you.
This just isn’t something he’s ever envisioned; that someone loves him for who he is, truly for every facet of his identity. And unlike Elektra, you bring out the very best in him, making him not only want to be the man he’s always striven to be, but the protector of his city it so desperately deserved.
Life with you is one filled with tenderness, akin to the gentle warmth of the first rays of sunlight filtering into your bedroom; the domestic bliss of slow dancing in the living room at three A.M. or voice messages left on each other’s phones.
Your relationship is also contoured by the darkness in which Daredevil thrives. This darkness, this call to protect Hell’s Kitchen; it’s fuelled by purpose deeply ingrained in Matt’s DNA. Sometimes this urge is overwhelming, one that takes ahold of his body, mind and spirit, but nothing, nothing compares to the feeling that slid in his veins the second he met you. Sure, he’s devoted his life to his city, but there is nothing he would more fiercely protect than you. You’re entwined in the fibre of his being, curling like a luminous thread that wraps around his body, sparking in his fists when he enacts his crimson justice.
He thinks of you, especially when the worry and frustration simmering in your gut grows too much, too heavy, further amplified by the tang of his coppery blood in the air and the bruises that mar his body. Matt knows it isn't easy, but still you accept him. Still, you love him more and more for all that he is; every gossamer layer of Catholic guilt, every scar inflicted, every single good day and all of the bad.
And so he wonders, in the confession booth, when he's on his knees in Mass, in every admission of guilt... he wonders what he's done to deserve you. Matthew Murdock; God's lonely soldier, His favoured one, the one He put the devil in, the person who always thought he was destined to be alone.
But then you came, and there you shine. A star so brilliant, so radiant, your heartbeat alone became his lifeline; its steady rhythm his tether to this world.
For you it feels the depths of his love knows no bounds, for you’re everything he could’ve ever prayed for. For he would choose you, in a hundred different lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality. He would always find you.
Because in the middle of his chaos, there you were.
And there you will always be.
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fanficapologist · 3 months
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Of Dragons and Maelstroms
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Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
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Chapter Fifty-Six
After two days, the man known as Blood was captured, the head of little Jaehaerys in his satchel, yet there was no joy in this victory, for the air in the Red Keep and throughout King’s Landing remained heavy with grief and fear. The city itself seemed to shudder under the weight of the tragedy, and the news had spread like wildfire among the common people.
In the Red Keep, the once bustling halls echoed with a somber silence, the shadow of the heinous act looming over every corner. Maera, too, found herself entangled in a web of conflicting emotions. The reality of the horror that had unfolded left her grappling with a fear for the future, a fear that clung to her like a persistent specter. The atmosphere in the city mirrored the gloom within the castle walls. The streets whispered with the shared sorrow of the people, creating an eerie symphony of mourning.
Lord Otto Hightower's suggestion of placing Jaehaerys's body in the Sept for seven days, allowing both nobles and commoners to pay their respects, carried an undertone of political maneuvering. Maera couldn't shake the ambiguity surrounding the decision – was it a genuine desire to let the people mourn with House Targaryen, or a calculated move to publicly shame and condemn Rhaenyra's actions, further pushing the agenda that Aegon was indeed the rightful King?
The thought of witnessing Jaehaerys's body again, this time in the open for all to see, proved too much for Maera. The haunting image of that night lingered vividly in her mind, and the prospect of public mourning became a spectacle she could not bear to partake in. Choosing not to attend the Sept, she grappled with the internal conflict between personal grief and the political ramifications surrounding the tragedy.
The Greens had not yet retaliated over the death of the young Prince. When Maera had approached her father and asked if there was any update on this matter, Lord Jasper had stated no formal decision could be made without the King’s order or consent. It did not surprise Maera to hear that Aegon had sunk further into his cups since the death of his son, as opposed to being there for his wife and other children. She likened it to the distant dynamic she shared with her own father, Lord Jasper, where familial bonds remained strained, even if the desire for the best outcomes for their children lingered distantly in the background, unbeknownst to the offspring of the unapproachable fathers.
Aemond's emotional distance since Jaehaerys's passing weighed heavily on Maera. While she expected it, coping with both her own grief and his detachment proved challenging. Each night, Maera noticed Aemond's late arrival to bed, long after she had fallen asleep. Waking up frequently, she would feel his warm presence, his arm draped around her, and cling desperately to the fleeting connection. However, come morning, Aemond would vanish once again, leaving Maera grappling with the void of his absence.
Despite Aemond's physical presence in the Capital, symbolized by Vhagar on the beach, Maera felt he might as well have been miles away. Adding to her isolation, Maera found herself barred from seeing her dear friend Queen Helaena, who, in her struggles, had banned all visitors. Disturbing accounts from Maera’s spy, the laundry maid, revealed Helaena's distress, spending her days at the window, slipping into screaming fits. The Maester's visits were frequent, administering limited doses of milk of the poppy to soothe her anguish without harming the life growing within her.
Now that Jaehaerys was gone, the Realm expected Helaena to produce another male heir, and the members of the Small Council engaged in many conversations about the Queen’s health in order to produce another Targaryen Prince. A disgusting pressure for a mother in mourning, who could not even look at her remaining children due to the guilt she felt from that traumatic night.
Maera, a Wylde accustomed to the warmth of family and numerous siblings, felt a profound isolation in the unfamiliarity the chambers she shared with her husband. Frustrated by the monotonous confinement, Maera summoned her maid, Thena, yearning for a respite. She requested preparations for a walk in the Godswood, a small attempt to break free from the suffocating routine.
Draped in mourning attire, Maera was laced into a somber black dress, its high neckline adorned with embroidered golden dragons, a symbol of both her mourning and her place within the royal court. Sitting at her dressing table, Thena then began to braid Maera’s hair, intertwining the strands of brown and silver with intricate skill. Maera could see concern etched across her loyal maid’s face in the reflection of the mirror, knowing a string of questions would follow.
"I heard from the kitchen maids that you didn't eat breakfast, nor your dinner from last night, Princess," Thena voiced gently.
Maera sighed, "You know my appetite tends to wane during times of stress, Thena."
Thena, undeterred and beginning to pin the long braids back, replied, "I'm merely concerned for you. The castle has certainly been shaken by the death of the little Prince."
Maera clenched her jaw, discomfort evident in her solemn green eyes. "It is truly an awful tragedy," she acknowledged. What did not help Maera is that there seemed to be no escape. When exhaustion took over every night and she was forced to go to sleep, Maera was met with the same nightmare she always had. Not to only did she have to watch her mother perish, a devastating image all on its own. Now, in the background, a small headless body lay alone, cold and bloody on the stone floor.
After a pause, Maera opened up, "I see Jaehaerys every night. In my dreams. It is haunting to relive that experience constantly." She shook her head, as if attempting to remove them from her mind. Instead, memories of little Jaehaerys replaced the gory image, transporting her to a time that felt not so distant. It was as if the echoes of his laughter lingered among the leaves, a haunting melody of a joyous past.
The recollection of assisting Helaena in the birth of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera felt like a vivid tableau frozen in time. It was a day marked by anticipation and hope, a stark contrast to the current sorrow that enveloped Maera’s heart. During times when she wasn’t in Kings Landing, Helaena’s letters acted as windows into the twins’ world. The updates were like lifelines, each word painting a picture of Jaehaerys’ boldness and confidence that outshone his twin. The letters spoke of a little boy who walked sooner, his adventurous spirit giving Jaehaera the courage to explore the world alongside him. And now, within a blink, it was gone. Jaehaerys was gone.
Thena, finishing pinning the thick braids, placed a comforting hand on Maera's shoulder. “The world is a cruel place. War does not spare anyone, not even children,” the maid sighed, before reaching for a thick golden headpiece and delicately placing it on Maera’s head. The black mourning veil attached to it cascaded over Maera’s hair and neck like a shroud of mourning, creating a visual testament to the heavy heart she carried within.
“Grief is a heavy burden, and sharing it can lighten the load. I'm always here if you need to talk, Princess," Thena offered, the sincerity in her words reflecting the deep bond between maid and mistress, an alliance that Maera was thankful for in a place like Kings Landing.
The Godswood, once a sanctuary of serenity, now bore the weight of mourning since Jaehaerys' murder. The atmosphere, once alive with the whispers of wind through leaves and the chirping of birds, now held a heavy stillness. The ancient weirwood tree stood as a silent witness to the grief that echoed within its sacred space, it’s usually crimson leaves seeming duller than usual. The plants, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed to droop in empathy.
As Maera wandered through the winding paths, she found herself the sole inhabitant of this once-shared sanctuary, the silence was only broken by the soft crunch of her footsteps on the gravel path. Ser Arryk, her loyal protector, had offered his presence, but she insisted he stay stationed outside Aegon's rooms, where the King was guarded around the clock, given the recent incident.
Abruptly, the atmosphere shifted as a rainstorm swept through the Godswood. The rain descended with a gentle insistence, each droplet a soft lament against the hallowed silence. Normally finding comfort in the rain, its rhythmic patter echoing the familiar weather of her home in Rainwood, today it seemed to mirror the collective grief that enveloped her world.
With the rain intensifying by the minute, Maera hastened her steps, seeking refuge from the downpour. In her hurried search, she stumbled upon a small stone structure adorned with winding pillars. Its sturdy roof promised shelter, and she gratefully entered.
Inside, the Seven-Pointed star on the floor, meticulously patterned into the stone, caught her eye. It was a sacred symbol that seemed to offer a momentary respite from the storm both outside and within. A stone bench leant against the wall between two pillars and above it, a clear view of the Godswood, now cloaked in the gentle veil of rain.The rhythmic tapping of raindrops on the roof created a comforting melody, and through the arches, Maera could witness the dance of raindrops on the leaves of the ancient trees.
Kneeling before the bench, the rough surface beneath her knees grounding her, Maera clasped her hands fervently. The Seven-Pointed star on the floor seemed to connect her to the divine as she whispered her prayers, each plea a delicate breath escaping her lips. Her supplications sought comprehension for the violence that had befallen Jaehaerys, a plea for the ethereal care of his innocent soul. A heavy sigh carried the weight of her grief, anger, and fear, emotions entangled like the vines that adorned the Godswood.
Amidst her silent communion, the gravel outside crunched under familiar footsteps. The sound, like a delicate herald, indicated an approaching presence. The footsteps transitioned to the stone floor behind her, and Maera, caught in the vulnerability of her prayers, felt the weight of another's gaze upon her, a silent witness to her plea for answers in the face of inexplicable cruelty.
“Gaomagon ao pendagon pōnta rȳbagon īlva? Se Jaehossas, nyke nūmāzma?” Do you think they hear us? The Gods, I mean? The familiar purr of High Valyrian was a comforting sound amongst the rainfall.
Maera lifted her eyes and a mix of relief and uncertainty washed over her at the sight of Aemond standing over her in the sheltered space. Clad in a black cloak, he lowered the hood, revealing his straight silver hair cascading like a waterfall. His usual attire of black leathers adorned him, and the expressionless look on his sharply contoured face hinted at a stoic resolve. The atmosphere between them, however, felt strained and uneasy. The weight of grief hung heavily in the air, exacerbating the tension that had settled between them during the past week.
“Nyke daor unna. Issa pasābagon emagon issare pasābagon hen hēzīr.” I am not sure. My faith has been tested as of late, she replied, her voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Rising to her feet, the skirts of Maera's black mourning dress rustled softly as she stood before her husband. She couldn't help but notice Aemond's tall form, his figure towering over her. The once-familiar presence now seemed distant, adding to the strained atmosphere that enveloped them.
Aemond's voice, when he finally spoke, cut through the silence like a chill wind. “Pār skoro syt gaomagon ao johegzi naejot jorepagon?”Then why do you continue to pray? His question seemed to lack empathy, the emptiness in his tone mirroring his own inner turmoil, and perhaps his own current struggles with his faith in the Gods. Despite Maera being aware of her husband’s coping mechanism to shut down during difficult times, facing the emotional void he presented proved challenging.
Taking is question personally, Maera replied with a tense jaw, “Kesrio syt lo konīr iksos gīda nykeā kelinītsos naejot maghagon lyks naejot Jaehaeys’ gīs, nyke jāhor gaomagon ziry.” Because if there is even a slight chance to bring peace to Jaehaerys’ soul, I will do it.
The One-Eyed Prince simply hummed in response, causing Maera to tear her gaze away from him to instead look ahead at the rain-kissed Godswood, the sacred surroundings offering a sanctuary from the tension that thickened the air. A heavy silence lingered, like a fog that refused to dissipate. The space between them, once filled with shared sorrows and understanding, now seemed fraught with an unfamiliar unease, leaving Maera and Aemond stood side by side, grappling with loss, faith, and the haunting specter of tragedy.
And yet through it all, an unanswered question remained. A question that Maera had avoided asking her husband due to fearing what the answer would be. But in the wake of Jaehaerys’ unthinkable fate, the dread of an answer seemed eclipsed by the horrors already endured.
With a stern countenance, Maera turned to Aemond, her green eyes widened with a mix of trepidation and determination. “Why did you do it?”
Aemond turned his face towards her, his eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. Frustration mounting, Maera pressed further, her words cutting through the air, “Lucerys. Why?”
A gruff response came, “You know why.”
Scoffing, Maera retorted, “I thought you said it was a fair exchange. Evidently not, considering you killed him.”
Aemond turned his body towards her, anger flickering in his eyes. “You do not know what it is till have a crime against you go unpunished. To be made a cripple, with one slice of a blade.”
Maera, her own anger rising, shot back, “Lucerys took something from me too: you! He took the boy I cared for away from me. And if he were anyone else, I would have killed him myself the minute you arrived back from Driftmark!” Pacing restlessly, her steps echoed the unease within. Quickened breaths betrayed the internal struggle, and her fists clenched and unclenched, mirroring the conflict that raged within her. Maera pressed on, her voice revealing her anguish. “But Lucerys was a Prince, and killing the son of an heir to the throne has dire consequences. Consequences that poor Jaehaerys paid for.”
Aemond, adept at masking his emotions, remained stood with a stoic facade at the words getting hurled at him. His face was a mask, revealing little of the turmoil within, his body language controlled. His unyielding composure clashed with Maera's expressive turmoil, each movement and expression contributing to the mounting tension.
A heavy silence settled in the Godswood, the rain creating a soft symphony as Aemond, after a pause, began to speak. His voice held an intensity that drew Maera's attention.“The bond between dragon and rider is not a simple one. It is one built on trust and a profound understanding of one another, a relationship that does not even need words to communicate.”
Maera, frustration etched on her face, couldn’t hold back her anger. “What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?”
Frowning at her interruption, Aemond implored, “Let me finish, Maera,” causing her to bite her impatient tongue and attempt to listen to his explanation, watching him skeptically.
“Yes,” he started, with a smug tilt of his head, “repaying the Strong bastard back for what he did would have been immensely satisfying. But I am no fool, I knew what the ramifications would be.”
Maera’s gaze narrowed but she listened on, torn between understanding the complexities of Aemond's motivations and grappling with the consequences that lingered in the shadows of their words. The rain, indifferent to the turmoil beneath the canopy of trees, continued its rhythmic dance, as if echoing the ebb and flow of their emotions.
Aemond paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “Dragons do not care for the intricacies of politics, nor the consequences of their actions.”
As realization slowly dawned on Maera, she watched him, the truth sinking in. Aemond continued, “Vhagar knows me better than most. Despite the control I maintain, deep down, I wanted Lucerys dead. And Vhagar delivered.”
Maera nodded, though her gaze turned away, grappling with the unsettling truth. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stated, “What’s done is done now.”
She remained beside her husband in silence, the relentless storm continued on, but the comfort of the rain could not soothe Maera’s growing concerns for her future. The murder of Jaehaerys, an unspeakable tragedy, cast a long shadow over her psyche, each raindrop a reminder of the tears she had shed for the innocent life lost. The ongoing war between the Blacks and the Greens added another layer of dread, the conflict threatening to engulf everything she held dear.
Worries for Helaena's fragile mental state intensified Maera's anxiety, the haunting image of her friend sitting by the window etched in her mind. The unpredictability of war left her in a constant state of unease, wondering about the safety of her family and herself. Fear gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, raising questions of what if she became a target, or worse, if her family faced the wrath of the turbulent times.
“What if it does not stop?” Maera asked aloud, the vulnerability in her voice causing Aemond to face her, a frown on his face as she continued. “What if the Blacks feel one death is not enough? What if I am in danger? My family?”Her green eyes, usually vibrant, now reflected the storm of emotions within, and her shoulders bore the tension of the fears she dared to voice.
Aemond’s response was not just words. With a determined resolve, he seized her face with both hands, tipping her head back to meet his fierce gaze. “You are my wife, Maera. I will not let any harm come to you.”
His thumb brush over her cheek as tears began streaming down Maera's face. "If they managed to get Jaehaerys, what is stopping them from trying again? And this time, killing the wife of the person who murdered Lucerys?"
A growl rumbled in Aemond's throat. "They are trying to break us, but they will not succeed. They will not break me, and they certainly will not break my wife. Do you understand?" he demanded.
In a silent acknowledgment, Maera nodded, her eyes momentarily cast downward. Aemond, refusing to let the fear linger, lifted her face once more. In a moment that transcended words, he pressed a hard, rough kiss to her lips. The intensity of the kiss served as a promise, a shared defiance against the fears that threatened to unravel them. As Aemond's nibbled on her bottom lip and began tasting the inside of her mouth, the passion between them intensified, a flame rekindled amidst the rain-soaked Godswood.
Maera, caught in the intensity of the moment, felt herself being gradually pushed back. The world around them blurred, the raindrops forming a hazy curtain as the kiss became a fervent exchange. The stone pillars of the garden structure loomed around them, and her back eventually met the unyielding surface. Against the cold stone, the heat of their shared passion persisted. He span Maera around so her face and chest were pressed against the pillar.
Aemond yanked the black mourning veil from her head, discarding it across the Seven-Pointed star floor buried his fingers in the roots of her hair, causing her head to tilt to the side. With better access, Aemond began to lick and suck at her neck, leaving blooms of red and purple markings in his wake, his strong hands settling on her rounded hips. He then pressed against her, and through the thick black skirts, Maera could still feel his long hard cock digging into her backside, becoming aware of his intentions.
“Aemond,” she breathed, stifling a moan as he bit her neck. “We can’t.”
“Be quiet,” the Prince spat at her, his voice low and commanding as he desperately bunched up the back of her skirts in order to gain access to her. Maera felt the fabric of her smallclothes being ripped and heard the remnants of them hitting the ground, the cold air hitting her now bare core, which was now slick with her arousal. The sound of the unbuckling of a belt hit her ears and before she could turn to look at him, Maera felt her husbands thick cock enter her fully, causing her to gasp. Filling her to the hilt, Maera welcomed the stretching feeling of being reunited with her husband in this way.
“Fuck, so wet for me. And I barely even touched you,” Aemond groaned as he began to rut into her deeply. Hanging onto the pillar for some form of support, Maera pushed her hips backwards, desperate to take in more of him as he fucked her against the stone. The Prince pressed his face to hers as he licked the shell of her ear, breathing heavily and quickly next to it, causing Maera to shudder with excitement. He then turned his attention to one of her hands which grasped at the stone wall, bringing it towards his face and sucking on two of her fingers, coating them with his saliva.
He then withdrew them from his mouth before whispering into her ear. “Touch yourself, Princess.”
Maera gasped at his demand, a blush tinting her face. “I cannot,” she whined in response whilst he continued to thrust into her harshly, embarrassed that he would ask to see her do such a thing. She yelped as he smacked her behind sharply, the stinging sensation acting almost as punishment for denying him.
“Do as your Prince commands,” he hissed, kissing along her jawline, making her lean her head back against his shoulder in pleasure, a silent plea for more.
Wanting to be a dutiful and obeying wife, Maera reached under her skirts and began to rub vigorous circles against her clit with her now wet fingers, her jaw falling open and her eyes squeezing shut at the ecstasy that began to build within her. Spurred on at the sight of her, Aemond began to pound harder into her, each time hitting that spongey spot deep within her core, causing her to moan loudly with pleasure. Thankfully, the rainstorm had continued in the background, muffling any noise that the pair made within the stone structure.
The nerves on her lower body were on high alert as she began to approach her peak, her walls clenching around the Prince, causing a deep “fuck” to leave his lips. The stone of the pillar scraped against Maera’s face, but she did not care as she teetered on the very edge of pleasure. And Aemond knew it.
“Yes, that’s it. Let go, let me feel you,” he purred, and that’s all it seemed to take. Maera’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as a warm wave of pleasure hit her, sending her mind reeling. As her cunt fluttered and squeezed around him, Aemond too felt his release, spilling his seed inside of her with a deep and guttural groan.
Small whimpers left her mouth as Maera’s breathing began to slow, coming down from her high. She felt Aemond lean against her, his forehead pressing against her shoulder. With a hiss, he withdrew his cock from her and she could feel his hot seed spilling down her leg, a feeling that was not unpleasant and made her smile with pride. As Maera let go of her skirts and smoothed them out, erasing any evidence of the encounter, she looked up at her husband, seeing that he had removed his cloak and was holding it up, so they could both find shelter beneath it.
“Let us go back inside,” he implored, a smug smile on lips. “It is getting too cold.”
“Thank the Gods then that I have you to keep me warm, husband,” Maera replied cheekily as she dove under the cloak beside him before the pair ran down the gravel path to return to their shared chambers.
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Notes: Here, have some smut; it’s nearly Christmas after all 🤣
Tags: @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek
Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤
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mk-oc-imagines · 4 months
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This post is heavily inspired by @criminalmutantsins and their Johnny Cage song post. If the original creator feels like I'm copying feel free to DM to delete my post.
Bi-Han and Songs - Character Analysis - Post under read more
TW: D*eath, Child A'use and more
Sleep Token - Take me back to Eden
| I dream in phosphorescence
Bleed trough spaces
See you drifting past the fog
But no one told you where to go |
- This part of the song could very well be representation of death, more importantly the death of Bi-Han's mother, her presence nothing more but a fading memory and dreams. Bi-Han sees her eveeywhere he looks but her presence does not bring warmth anymore.
| We dive trough crystal waters, perfect oceans
But no one told me not to breathe
And now the weightlessness recedes |
- The start of Bi-Han's training, it seemed picture perfect but the high expectations of his father and the responsibilities of a future Grandmaster weighed heavy on his shoulders and there was no one Bi-Han could confide in, since no one would he sharing his responsibilities.
| My, my those eyes like fire
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre
Come now, bite trough these wires |
- Bi-Han says in one of his clash intros, that his father was a man of many secrets. Bi-Han knows who he truly was, before Kuai Liang was born and Tomas was brought into the clan. He knows how ruthless he can be towards his own and how he changed when his brothers came into the picture. Bi-Han knows that the man puts on a mask in front of other people to be seen as something he's not.
The last line represents Bi-Han plotting his own father's demise.
| I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher
Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire |
- This could represent Bi-Han and Liu Kang not seeing eye to eye, Liu Kang underutilizing the Lin Kuei and telling them to hold back, always hold back.
Perhaps people knew about his desire to grow the Lin Kuei, evolve with the ever changing world but unless he could convince his brothers, he could not move forward.
| Well yeah, I spit blood when I wake up
Sink porcelain stained, choking up brain matter and makeup
Just two days since the mainframe went down and I'm still messed up
Room feels like a meat freezer, I dangle in it like cold cuts
Missed calls, answered phones from people I just don't trust
Mirror talk, fake love
But I'll take a pound of your flesh
Before you take a piece of my paystub
White roses, black doves, Godmother, rise up
I need you to see me for what I have become |
- Bi-Han's struggle in becoming Grandmaster and the guilt he felt for his father's demise. With his ascension to Grandmaster, there was a certain paranoia that his father's followers would come for him, that they would find out about his plot so he surrounds himself with loyal members, while he tries to convince his brothers to evolve, they grow further and further apart.
| I guess it goes to show, does it not?
That we've no idea what we've got until we lose it
And no amount of love will keep it around
If we don't choose it
And I don't know what's got its teeth in me
But I'm about to bite back in anger
No amount of self-sought fury
Will bring back the glory of innocence |
- The Lin Kuei brothers drifting apart as time goes on, their bond withering. Bi-Han pushes Tomas away when his adopted brother tries to get close, because everyone he knew and loved either died or abandoned him, so Bi-Han isolates himself, lashes out at anyone who tries to get close. He's done making compromises and he'll do whatever it takes to push the Lin Kuei forward.
Nothing More - This is the time
| When did we become these sinking stones?
When did we build this broken home?
Holding each other like ransom notes
Dropping our hearts to grip our brother's throat |
- This focuses on the crumbling relationship of the Lin Kuei brothers, Bi-Han actively trying to convince his brothers to follow him and his vision but since Kuai Liang nor Tomas saw what Bi-Han saw, he's isolating himself from them, lashing out at his own brothers.
| You can't see because you don't know
You're caught below, beneath your own shadow
Stuck inside, half alive
Do you ever stop to ask yourself why?
Close your mind, identify
Do you feel, do you feel?
Do you call this a life?
All you waited for
Drowning just to keep score |
- This could represent perhaps Bi-Han hiding what his own father was doing to him.
Bi-Han didn't understand why his father was so hard on him but lenient on his brothers, later on he would chalk it up to him being future Grandmaster but that wasn't enough.
| We always start with good intentions
But lose ourselves along the way |
- Pretty self explanatory
I'm sorry that I can't write out the rest of the text since I want to work on Jericho, but feel free to add your own and listen to the rest of the second song or look up the lyrics.
-Nell
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obitohno · 2 years
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primeval | 03
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satoru gojo x reader
synopsis ⤸
you have never believed in fairy-tales. besides, werewolves don’t actually exist… right?
chapters ⤸
៚ contents
៚ prev | next ᝰ
themes ⤸
fem! reader, 18+, dark fic, werewolf! gojo, human! reader, slow burn, soulmates, omegaverse, werewolves, mating bond, smut, masturbation, cunnilingus, blowjobs, anal, breeding, creampies, ruts, heats, action, angst, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood
word count ⤸
5.9k (semi-edited, lowercase intended)
a/n ⤸
thank you all so much for the support that this fic has received so far! this third chapter is the last of the rewritten parts, so after this, it’ll all be new content that i’ve never written before, which is super exciting! pls be aware that this chapter contains a scene with noncon marking, so if that’s not your thing, pls don’t read bc this chapter is a whole load of angst...
reblogs are appreciated ~
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three:
for the next week that follows, gojo does not sleep.
you, however, do. for the seven days that pass since your meeting, gojo is glued to your bedside for a reason that he’s unwilling to admit out loud, even when geto teases at him for it. the human male—your father, gojo has to remind himself repeatedly whenever he feels a bout of discomfort upon witnessing the man kiss your forehead—visits daily. his wife awakens on the third day, gojo learns through itadori, and although she doesn’t bother to hide her animosity towards him, she is evidently calmer once she’s well enough to visit. 
the days are busy, and yet every time gojo asks about the cause of your slumber, his frustration grows with each hypothesis that doesn’t conclude with a definite answer. by the fifth day, your father is preparing to return home with his wife, agreed upon the assurance that you will be watched over. however, as they are leaving the pack hospital, your mother chooses that moment to voice her distaste towards leaving her daughter with such dogs. she actually turns her nose up as she sneers at gojo, and your very red cheeked father bows and apologises several times until geto ushers him out of the door. 
gojo watches their tiny car disappear down the drive, a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue. 
‘you think the daughter knows?’ geto asks from beside him, leaning against the doorframe with a frown fixated between his eyebrows. 
arms crossed over his chest, gojo hums a non-committal answer. 
‘fuckin’ witches,’ geto scoffs, before he retreats, leaving gojo to his own thoughts. 
the nights are lonely, gojo had decided a very long time ago. most of the pack are asleep, and gojo spends the long hours of the night sat in the windowsill, the curtains pulled open. behind him, he hears your breathing, as slow and as even as your pulse. it comforts him, easing the unspoken thoughts that worry at him with each moment longer that you sleep. several times, he has wondered if you’ll ever wake. his wild has already made it abundantly clear that it doesn’t favour that way of thinking, and after gojo’s restraint had slipped, caused by an incident in which he’d accidentally-on-purposely throttled the nurse who’d made the mistake of voicing the chance that you may never wake, it was decided that any health updates would be passed through geto instead. 
gojo turns his head to watch you sleep. 
your skin is illuminated by the moonlight that gleams through the window, and gojo simply stares. you’re beautiful; he’s willing to admit that much. and although you are now free of injury, thanks to the consumption of his own blood, gojo wonders if it’s normal for one’s stomach to churn upon the sight of their mate. his mind drifts to memories of how he’s seen geto act around shoko, or itadori with megumi, and although their displays of affection are more open—or more bold and in-your-face, in itadori’s case—he still questions if it’s okay to think of the things that may or may not bring a heat to your cheeks. 
if you accept him, that is. 
his wild stirs from its silence, a warning throbbing across the base of gojo’s skull as its power ebbs at the surface of his skin. his teeth grit and he scoffs under his breath. 
his eyes close and the back of his head comes to rest against the wall. inhaling deeply, he breathes in your scent, still as sweet as the day he first saw you. it’s not as potent as when you were awake, he realises, eyes snapping open to stare at you again, brows furrowing.
he’s spent twenty-eight years on this earth, and not once has he ever imagined to find something—someone—who belongs solely to him. he’s heard tales of one finding the very person that was made for them—geto has relayed the story of his and shoko’s meeting several times more than gojo has ever cared to hear—and yet he never thought of it potentially happening to himself. growing up as an only child, he knew that he’d be taking over the pack once his father stepped down from the role as alpha. and although that day came much sooner than anyone had expected, gojo has been so busy with taking care of his ever-expanding family that he hasn’t ever stopped to think about creating one of his own. 
the thought is honestly a little sad to him, and he physically winces as he dares to think of the possibility of having never met the human that now lies prone before him. 
your father’s face comes to mind, and gojo ponders on the man’s reaction upon meeting your mother. had he always known that his mate wasn’t human? did he remain with her out of fear of her species, or had he just simply not cared? would you wake and decide to leave him despite your parents’ successful relationship?
that thought actually knocks the breath from his lungs as his wild riots under his skin, pushing and pulling at his muscles, attempting to force them to shift form. jaw clenched, gojo growls softly, a curled fist pressed tightly against his right temple. the wild puts up quite a fight, much to gojo’s bewilderment, and it struggles just as much as he does, its anger made clear as it roars so ferociously that the sound jolts down his own spine. it takes a few minutes, and the process is painstakingly slow, but he manages to force the wild back into place, sweat collecting upon the nape of his neck as he slumps, exhausted. for a long while after, he sits there, perplexed. he’s not struggled that hard for control since he shifted for the first time, when he was still deemed a pup. he sucks in a deep, shaky breath, running his fingers through his hair, clenching at the sweat-soaked strands. but he doesn’t get the chance to dwell upon what has just occurred, as there is noise that immediately gains his attention. 
someone is coming down the hallway, he realises, instantly recognising the lazy stroll that can only belong to geto. his suspicions are confirmed once the familiar head of dark hair curiously pokes through the doorway, eyes focusing on him. from where he sits on the window-sill, gojo can see geto’s pupils adjust as he comes to stand directly in line with the moonlight. his body, all lean muscle and tall, long limbs, blocks gojo’s view of you, something which he can only frown at, in a futile attempt to hide his frustration. he pretends to not notice geto’s knowing grin. 
his lifelong friend glances towards the sleeping human, a minuscule frown pinching between his own brows. ‘still sleepin’ huh?’ 
gojo tilts his head, eyes darting away as if embarrassed to be caught looking. his only answer is a clenching of his jaw, left hand coming up to massage his temple. 
geto watches him, clicking his tongue before drawling, ‘mine was the same, you know?’ 
gojo doesn’t answer, but the side glance he gives geto is enough to show that he’s listening. 
geto inches closer, pausing to lean his weight against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. ‘do you remember when me and shoko met?’ 
gojo exhales, eyes closing. he’s heard this story relayed a hundred times over. he isn’t even sure why, as he was physically present the moment his best friends met one another. but still, he’s sure there must be a reason why geto is asking, and so he grunts an unintelligent answer, eyes subconsciously flickering towards you as he does so. 
‘i remember scenting her first—pretty sure fushiguro did the same with itadori—and then i shifted the first time i saw her,’ geto reminisces with a faraway look in his gaze. ‘remember?’ 
gojo does remember. in fact, he’d been the one who had to force geto to shift back into his human form. it was the first and only time that he’d ever had to use a command on his childhood friend. shoko had been absolutely bewildered by the entire encounter, but had still allowed a very red faced, very naked geto to greet her with a sheepish, yet proud grin plastered across his face. and from that day forth, the healer she-wolf has been a member of gojo’s family. 
geto recalls the meeting in great—albeit unnecessary—detail with a fond smile ghosting over his lips, and gojo wonders if he’ll wear the same expression someday, eyes darting over to you once more. 
‘what i’m trying to say is,’ geto starts, his own gaze shifting to the bed, ‘it’s okay to want her.’ 
immediately, gojo’s spine is rigid, defensive. his eyes narrow, ‘and what would make you assume that i think otherwise?’ 
geto completely ignores the glare that is aimed at him, all teeth bared as he smiles knowingly, ‘you forget that i know you better than anyone, inujo.’ 
the alpha grunts at the ridiculous nickname, something which geto has yet to give up after over ten years of friendship. 
there’s a pause, and then, ‘are you ashamed?’ 
if it had been anyone other than geto that was asking, gojo is sure that he’d have their head for daring to utter such a question. but all the beta receives is a warning growl, which geto barely blinks at. 
‘her mother—’
‘irrelevant,’ gojo all but spits. 
the suggestive look on geto’s face serves nothing but to irritate him even further. 
after a moment, gojo relents, sighing heavily. ‘the mother… hates us. if she sends word—’ the rest of his sentence loiters between them, unspoken, and his hands shake at the thought of a potential threat. clearing his throat, he says, ‘the last war almost wiped out the both of us.’ 
geto doesn’t have to ask to know that he is referring to the witches. for centuries, both the wilds and the witches have been at wars with one another. luckily—for both sides—the leeches have avoided any disputes, keeping neutrality since before the existence of man began. but whilst the night-walkers have mostly kept out of pack business, it is no secret that they favour the witches, yet there haven’t been any sightings since long before gojo was born. thus, many believe that the creatures of the night no longer walk the planet. gojo isn’t entirely sure what he believes. all he knows is that a war is the last thing needed, especially when the wilds have only just replenished their missing numbers, despite thirteen years having passed since the last war. 
the five year war had started when he reached his first decade on earth, and lasted until just after his fifteenth birthday. 
gojo remembers those years to be bloodied, and back then, he’s sure he could’ve tasted the grief that permanently clung to the air, just on the very tip of his tongue. it was during the third year of the war, of which he and geto had met for the first time. gojo’s father had still been alpha, then, and geto’s had been stationed in a neighbouring pack. by chance, when passing through said territory, their parents had met, and thus began a friendship that gojo will be eternally—albeit silently—grateful for. 
‘we’re only just starting to build our alliances again,’ gojo begrudgingly admits. ‘the pack won’t ever survive another slaughter.’ 
geto visibly flinches. gojo sighs. 
eyes focusing on you once more, he murmurs, ‘they may not accept her as luna because of what her mother is.’ 
at this geto scoffs, eyes dark as he says, ‘she’s yours, ‘toru. dunno why, but the gods wouldn’t’ve made her for you without a good reason. witch or not, the pack will have to remember that.’ he shifts his weight so that he’s no longer leaning against the wall, and then makes his way over to the door. glancing over his shoulder, he smiles, and although it doesn’t reflect in his eyes, gojo returns it with one of his own.
‘if she chooses to stay, that is,’ he states, ignoring the wild that stirs at his words. 
‘when,’ geto corrects, sounding far too sure of himself. 
‘if’ he stresses, pretending that he doesn’t feel his pulse jump in fear of the possibility of rejection. ‘she could—’
geto’s smile broadens, interrupting, ‘she’ll surprise you, just you watch.’ he sounds so confident, that gojo doesn’t have the heart to voice his doubts. geto then glances at your sleeping form one final time, gaze softening, and whispers, repeating his earlier sentiments, ‘fuckin’ witches.’ 
gojo watches him go, frown pinching between his brows. the door clicks shut and he listens to geto’s retreating footsteps until he can no longer hear him. 
sighing, he looks to the bed once more, eyes flickering across your face, memorising every hair and eyelash that he can count. his eyes trace over the curves of your cheekbones, the tresses of hair and the shape of your bottom lip. his wild purrs, and gojo allows himself to inhale your scent for the umpteenth time, eyes closing as he does so. when he dares to open them again and sees that you still show no sign of waking any time soon, he disguises the disappointment churning in the pit of his stomach as hunger pangs. his wild huffs knowingly. gojo pretends to not hear. he watches your sleep until the moon begins to retreat behind the trees, the sun slowly taking its place in the sky. and just when the first rays break between the treetops, gojo dares to dream of what life will be like if you do choose to stay. but then he thinks of your mother, and all hope he has is quickly diminished into nothing. there’s a niggle that  gnaws at the back of his mind, but swallows it back, sighing heavily. 
fucking witches, indeed. 
you finally wake on the eve of the eleventh day. 
it takes several attempts before your eyes finally struggle open, aided by what feels like someone’s finger-tip gently peeling back you left eyelid open. you immediately squints upon the flash of something shining directly into your pupil and you shy away from the offending objecting, a soft groan croaked out between chapped lips. 
someone speaks, but you struggle to make out the words, the noise muffled as if your head has been dunked underwater. you attempt to speak, but your tongue feels heavy, clinging to the roof of your mouth, dehydrated. someone is holding onto your shoulder, hands shaking as if making sure that you don’t slip into unconsciousness once more. you manage to blink your eyes open this time, sight blurred as they adjust to the dimly lit room. the first face you see is itadori’s, whose boyish grin beams down at you, evidently excited by you regaining consciousness. you don’t have time to think that his reaction is a little odd, as he’s already turning his cheek to yell over his shoulder, ‘oi! she’s awake!’ 
you jolt at the volume of his voice, eyes wide when you suddenly remember exactly where you are. he’s quick to steady you as you bolt upright, breath ragged as your hand flies up to clutch at your aching head. the sensation makes your stomach churn, and you groan, other hand settling over your stomach as you exhale deeply. itadori is quiet as he watches your eyes dart around the room, eyes wide as you quickly assess that you’re in some form of hospital. the entire room reeks of bleach, which makes your nose crinkle at the offending scent—pointedly ignoring the snort of amusement that itadori releases—and you learn that you also can’t move your arm much, as you’re currently hooked up to a drip. other than the bed, a small cabinet, and an armchair beside you, the room is vacant. it’s also evening, you realise upon glancing out of the open curtains, before your gaze settles on the pink-haired male before her, confused. 
‘what—?’ 
your question is interrupted by the hospital room door flying open so roughly that you’re surprised that it doesn’t come off its hinges. 
gojo marches into the room, and your brain doesn’t even register the other people who follow behind him, your eyes glued to his tall, broad frame as he crosses the room. he’s surprisingly swift for a man of his stature, and you gawk at him as he leans over the edge of the bed, hand shooting out so fast that you have no time to flinch out of his hold, his fingers gripping your chin. he tilts your head from side to side as he inspects you, and his attentions heat your cheeks. the hollow look in his gaze makes your resist the urge to slap his hand away, and instead, you allow him to stare at you until he’s seemingly satisfied that physically, you’re okay. he looks exhausted—the skin under his eyes darkened by lack of sleep—you think as his thumb brushes across the length of your jaw, ice-like eyes unblinking as he then leans close enough to press his ear to your throat. his grip is firm enough that you can’t move, but you’re currently distracted by his ministrations, eyes wide, stunned, as you stare over his shoulder at a bemused-looking geto, a dark haired woman stood beside him, baring an endearing smile of her own. 
it takes several long moments to realise that he’s listening to your pulse, and with his close proximity, you’re sure that the entire room can hear it hammering away in the side of your neck. your eyes close as if you can hide from your own embarrassment, and in a moment of weakness, your hand flies up to grip the hair brushing his nape. he makes a startled noise that sounds something between a choke and a grunt, but he allows you to grab at him, subconsciously moving until your nose presses to his crown, inhaling. 
‘interesting,’ someone—who sounds suspiciously like itadori—stifles a laugh. 
and then, there’s a soft voice—a woman’s voice, you realise with a strange, powerful bout of jealousy—who calls gojo’s name. your fingers suddenly tighten in his hair, and he grunts, his breath coming out as a huff against your neck. 
‘very interesting,’ itadori repeats, not bothering to mask the amusement in his voice. 
‘very,’ geto mimics. he meets gojo’s scowl with a grin, the same expression mirrored on itadori’s face. 
gojo is slow as he reaches to ease your fingers from the tresses of his hair, and upon seeing the flash of annoyance flitting across your features as he stands upright, his wild purrs from within his chest, satisfied. he quashes down the urge to return to your embrace, and instead turns to shoko, whose big warm eyes silently ask for permission to approach. he tilts his head, granting her request, and he takes a step back to allow her to take his place by your side. 
your stare lacks any animosity that shoko may have expected, and instead, heavily lidded eyes peer at her, both cautious and curious. you’re eyes dart down to the stethoscope that hangs from shoko’s neck, and upon doing so, you see the beginnings of a scar that peeks out from the collar of the older woman’s shirt. 
you’re no idiot, you like to think, and it doesn’t take much to put things together. you read fictional stories, much like all teenage girls had, about werewolves and the big show of romance once they found their soulmate. you’d been fascinated by such stories, but that was all it had been—fiction. but the sight of shoko’s soul mark suddenly makes everything feel a little more real. 
your stomach lurches suddenly, but without anything to hurl upwards, all you can do is groan, torso hunching as your arms curl around your stomach once more. 
‘luna—’ shoko sounds concerned, her hand reaching out to you, eyes wide, worried. but you’re slapping her hand away with such a force that it stuns the brown-haired woman before you. geto bristles, jaw clenching momentarily before his eyes flick towards a stony-faced gojo, who is watching the entire exchange with an expression of indifference. but his eyes give him away, and even you aren’t oblivious to the wild that dances beneath the surface of his stare. 
‘that’s not my name—’ you start to argue, voice crackly and dry from lack of use for the past fortnight. you aren’t allowed the chance to finish your sentence as gojo is then lunging past shoko, sending the poor woman flying into geto’s arms as he grips your chin once more. this time, there is no tenderness to his hold on you, and the entire room is witness to your wince, his fingertips biting into your skin. you try, and fail, to pull his hand away, your fingers snapping a hold on his wrist. he ignores the sensation of your nails carving crescent shaped indents into his skin. 
‘you will be luna,’ he seethes, hot breath fanning across the curve of your cheek. you match his glare with one of your own and you sneer back up at him. 
‘fuck you, dog,’ you slap him away without any effort at all, as he’s already recoiling from you as if you’ve burned him. the hurt flickers across his face before he can hide it, and he takes a step back, eyes hard as he regards you with a look of scorn. 
the entire room suddenly feels much smaller, and you are now being watched as if they’re wary of your next move. you find it ironic that you’re the one being cornered like an animal, like you’re the abnormal one. you suppose, for a fleeting moment, that in their world, maybe you are. 
when no-one says anything, your eyes dart towards the door, and you debate on whether the risk is worth it. it takes just a second for you to decide that it is, and faster than any of them can process, you’re darting from the bed and making a dash toward the door. the iv rips free, but you barely feel it wrenching from your skin as you shove past a bewildered shoko and even dart under geto’s outstretched hand. you make it halfway down the hall before you hear shoko yelling, ‘luna, wait—!’ 
you continue to peg it down the hallway as fast as your legs will take you—which isn’t actually all that fast, now that you think about it—and angrily shrieks over her shoulder, ‘that’s not my name!!’ and then you’re pushing your feet even faster, desperately trying your best to ignore the fact that you’re clad in just an oversized t-shirt that definitely doesn’t belong to you. you somehow make it to the entrance, despite the multiple pairs of feet that are quickly gaining on you, and you throw your entire weight at the huge double doors. only, you don’t make it very far, as the doors are locked, and all that greets you is a harsh connecting of your temple against a glass window. you immediately crumple to the floor with a pained moan, struggling to haul yourself to your feet once more. a hand curls around your left bicep and yanks you upwards, and your body wavers, head lolling back as your eyelids droop heavily. pain throbs across the expanse of your forehead and you whimper, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. you refuse to allow them to escape, however, even when you manage to look up to meet the gaze of a certain white-haired alpha. 
gojo looks less than impressed, nostrils flared with a thunderous expression that probably should scare you. but all it does is induce a soft hiccuped giggle that bursts past your lips, that is quickly morphing into a hysterical laughter that wracks your entire body against his. he’s frowning now, evidently concerned by your reaction, and his hand is reaching out to press against the trickle of blood that is forming at your temple. 
‘shoko,’ he barks, and the brown haired woman appears within your line of sight once more. shoko’s features are a mixture of surprise and worry, lips parted as if she doesn’t know what to say. she reaches for you, and you seem to have realised that you won’t be able to run a second time now that adrenaline has run its course, and you now slump against shoko, who is surprisingly strong enough to support most of your weight as she guides you back to your room. 
once you’re back in bed, geto stands guard by the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he regards you with a look of what you guess to be disappointment. somehow, that expression hurts, and your head ducks to avoid his gaze as shoko makes quick work of patching up the fresh wound where there’s now a gaping hole where the iv needle had once been. blood stains your skin, and you use your free hand to pick at it as it congeals. you don’t notice the grimace itadori aims your way from his place by the window. shoko is then cleaning the wound on your temple, and you hiss, glaring at shoko’s offending fingers. 
‘sorry,’ her apology is genuine, as is her small smile, ‘if you want, we could…’ her voice trails off as she glances to gojo, who watches them from the end of the bed. you catch the insinuation and you flinch. 
‘no,’ you snap, wincing when shoko’s fingers prod at the bruise forming somewhere under your hair. ‘not that.’
‘it’d heal faster,’ shoko’s voice is calm, as if she’s used to dealing with difficult patients. you don’t like that—you aren’t a difficult patient. you’re just tired, and confused—very confused. and you want to go home, wherever home may now be. and where are your parents? is your mother okay, and why—why, why, why? why is this even happening to you? maybe if you squeeze your eyes shut hard enough… just like that… and when you open them again…? 
no. 
you’re still sat in clothes that don’t belong to you, in a room full of people that you don’t know, in a town that is still foreign to you, and—wait. are you even in shirakawa? 
‘yes, we are,’ shoko smiles gently. ‘on the border, but it’s still ‘kawa.’ 
so you’d said that last part out loud. your cheeks are hot as you exhale, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip in an attempt to stop its trembling. after a long pause, you muster the courage to meet gojo’s gaze and reluctantly ask to see your parents. 
he doesn’t answer right away, but he eventually settles on, ‘we’ll see.’
you’re already seething, ‘what do you mean ‘we’ll see’!? you can’t stop me from—’
‘i can,’ he says simply, expression deceivingly bored. in reality, his wild is already panicking at the promise of you leaving. the very small rational side of him knows that it’s a simple enough of a request, one that he knows he’ll eventually grant. but the other large part of him—the primal, animal side of him—fears her departure. he may have never dared to dream of having a mate, and yet, now that you’re sat right there in front of him—injured, but alive—he doesn’t want you to leave. 
he can’t let you leave. 
you, however, are clearly going to put up a fight, as you’re already gearing up an argument, and it takes him several seconds to realise that he’s zoned out half of your sentence. 
‘—you even listening!?’ 
‘luna, please,’ shoko urges desperately, hand coming to clasp at your shoulder before you can move from the bed. 
‘that isn’t,’ you hiss, eyes ablaze as you aim your glare at shoko instead, ‘my name! do you hear me!?’ you then furiously sound out the syllables of your name, hands waving in various directions. 
you’re visibly upset now, and whilst you feel a stab of guilt at the crestfallen expression on the other woman’s face, you also refuse to back down. you shirk your shoulder free from shoko’s hold, and she immediately takes a step backward, geto coming to touch her elbow in what you suppose is to be a comforting manner. 
the sight boils an irritation within you and you jab a finger at your own neck and spit, ‘so that’s his doing?’ 
geto is bristling once more, immediately on the defence as he pushes shoko behind him. she stumbles, gripping the back of his shirt, as she whispers a warning, ‘she’s scared, ‘guru. she doesn’t mean what she’s—’ 
‘yes,’ gojo is the one who answers your question. his eyes are heavily lidded as he looks at you. you see the glint in his pupils, shrinking backwards as he takes a slow step closer to the bed. ‘soon enough, you’ll have one of your very own.’ 
he’s not asking if you want one, you realise. he’s telling you that you have no choice. 
something in you snaps, and you snarl, ‘like fucking hell i will.’ you see itadori’s head tilt towards the ceiling as if he’s praying, and if they were engaged in a different conversation, you probably would’ve thought that he looked comical, standing there with a very discomforted expression twisting his features. instead, you’re spitting every curse-word that you can think of, followed by the the threat of, ‘—if you even think of touching me with your dirty, stinking paws, i’ll fucking—!’ 
you don’t even blink before he’s lunging for you again. you roll across the bed, trying to wriggle free, but he has you pinned, his hand clasped so tightly around your neck that you chokes, face warming. 
‘gojo—’ geto looks on in sheer horror of seeing his best friend man-handling his own mate. he can already sense what’s about to happen, but by the time he’s taking a step forward to pull gojo away, gojo is already on top of you. 
the chuckle that comes from gojo’s mouth isn’t his own, almost resembling a growl, and the rumble that erupts from his friend’s chest is downright terrifying. from where he stands, geto watches as gojo’s shoulders hunch as he continues to laugh darkly. his hold on your throat has loosened, but you now stares at his face, petrified. 
his features have twisted into a grin so manic that it doesn’t sit right on his face. it looks like it doesn’t belong there, and when his eyes meet yours, you aren’t even surprised to see the whites of his eyes are now as dark as his pupils. your spine trembles with fear, and yet it’s that same fear that keeps you still, despite the fact that you can feel that he’s not holding onto you as tightly as he was a few moments ago. you feel a cold sweat forming down the length of your spine, pulse drumming across your chest as you inhale a breath so shaky that you’re surprised that you don’t choke on it. he looms over you, the tip of his nose now replacing where his hands once held you, and he inhales so deeply that it makes your stomach clench. 
and then there’s grazing of fangs against your pulse, and you aren’t able to stop yourself from whimpering out loud. 
and because he’s a second too slow, geto is too late when he yells, ‘don’t—!’
the impact of fangs piercing your skin is bruising and it knocks the breath from your lungs. his grip is bone-crushing as he holds onto you so tightly to ensure that you aren’t able to escape, ears ringing with the sound of your scream. the searing heat that smoulders under your skin is excruciating, but your attempt to push him away is both futile and weak. all too soon, you submit, defeated, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you blankly stare up at the ceiling. 
geto and shoko watch on, horrified, as eventually, gojo detaches his canines from the comfort of your neck. a pained moan echoes from between your lips, and your head lolls, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 
‘move!’ shoko pushes past him, and geto can only watch as she uses force to shove gojo from the bed, her hands catching your limp body just before you hit the mattress. something in him feels just as drained as you are, as he easily falls from the bed without so much as a protest. uncharacteristically, he lands on the ground, and the impact seems to knock him to his senses, and he simply stares, wide eyed, as shoko rushes to lay you onto your back. 
there’s blood, so much blood, and shoko’s hands shake as she begs geto to give you some of his own. ‘i-i think he hit a vein, she won’t stop—’ the rest of her sentence is a garbled mess that gojo doesn’t hear over the ringing in his own ears and he vaguely feels itadori yanking him to his feet. 
shoko is experienced, and although gojo knows that this is his fault—his wild’s fault—he’s still relieved that geto turns to him instead, and orders that he donates his blood. he complies without hesitation, and shoko watches with careful eyes as he bites his own wrist and holds it to your parted lips. once again, you’re unconscious, but enough of the liquid seems to enter your bloodstream, as the wound begins to stitch itself closed before his own eyes. to be sure, shoko still hides the fresh wound beneath a bandage. he manages one last glimpse of it, and where he should’ve felt pride upon seeing his mark on your neck, he only feels nausea jumping to the back of his throat. 
‘it’ll still take a few days to heal properly.’ 
shoko’s tone is curt, and the look she gives him is enough for him to understand. 
he fucked up. royally. 
‘i’m sayin’ this as your friend, not as your beta,’ geto starts, voice hollow as he looks at your unconscious form. ‘you’re a fool.’
shoko looks as if she wouldn’t have put it as bluntly as her mate has, but she also agrees, and gojo has no choice but to nod, swallowing down the bitter acceptance as he knows that geto—despite the fact that as alpha, he should feel something towards the blatant disrespect—is correct. itadori is yet to say a word, having remained eerily silent throughout the entire encounter, as he also stares at the bandage covering the right side of your neck.
‘if you ever want any chance of her staying,’ he eventually breaks his silence, tone uncharacteristically bland, ‘fix this.’ 
and then, for a long time, no-one speaks. 
eventually, gojo forces himself to leave the room first, unsure of how he makes his way across the hall, to the room he’s been staying in, when his legs feel so numb. he collapses to the bed, his head in his hands as he swallows down the very possibility that he may have lost his mate before he’s even had the chance to simply… have her. 
his chest heaves with shame, regret and rage. his eyes sting, and there’s a wet trickle that gathers on the tip of his nose before it splatters on the tiled floor by his feet. 
his wild purrs from somewhere within his chest, and for the first time since his father passed, gojo wishes that he was born human. 
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runningfrom2am · 10 months
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the sea around us; chapter three
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In which Rafe Cameron has to choose between his dad and a pogue who's changing his outlook on life more and more every day.
(rafe cameron x f!oc)
(eventual!jj maybank x f!oc)
warnings/tags: violence, drug/alcohol use, smoking, sexual content (if you squint), slowburn, older brother’s best friend, (these tags are obv not exhaustive but regardless it’s pretty PG13)
wc: 3.3k
my masterlist, series masterlist, requests
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*:・゚✧*:・゚
The next morning, JJ and John B picked me up at the dock behind my house on the HMS Pogue. John B sure has a thing for naming vehicles- he's not the worst at it. I live just down the street from the chateau, so I could see them from the porch right after they left John B's.
Hurricane Agatha sure did a number on the Outer Banks last night. The three of us, Anna, Deck, and I, huddled up in our bathroom since Anna wanted to tell "scary" stories and Deck just wanted to be included. The wind was loud all night, cracking trees and crashing sounds outside kept us up. I ended up passing out on the floor around 4 am, with the twins laying tangled on top of each other in the bathtub.
"Morning, Snow White." JJ says to me as I approach them tied up on the dock.
"Snow White? Really?" John B elbows him in the ribs and he winces.
"Dude- ow. I was gonna say Sleeping Beauty but I just thought it was funnier. You know, because-"
"Yeah JJ I got it." I cut him off. "Good one." I say, jumping into the boat with my cooler backpack over my shoulder. "I slept on the bathroom floor last night- my neck is killing me."
"I'll drink to that." JJ says, turning me by my shoulders to get into my backpack as John B unties us and we head off towards the Heywards'.
"Dude, look at this place." John B says as we pull up to Pope's.
He's out working on the dock with his dad, cleaning up the mess that Agatha had left in her wake.
"Well, look who we have here." Mr. Heyward says as we approach, JJ standing up from my side, preparing to help Pope on.
"We have a safety meeting, attendance mandatory." He explains.
"I can't. My pop's got me on lockdown."
"Come on, man."
At this, JJ holds his hands up to his mouth, pretending to talk into a radio. "Your dad's a pussy. Over." I gasp, reaching forward and giving a light hit to the back of JJ's arm.
"Oh, I heard that, you little bastard." Heyward says, pointing a finger at JJ.
"We need your son." I add, standing up and slipping my arm over JJ's shoulder to steady myself in the moving boat.
"Yeah, and island rules. Day after a hurricane's a free day." JJ shrugs
"Who made that up?"
"Uh... Pentagon, I think. We have security clearance. I have a card." I roll my eyes and shake my head.
"Think I'm stupid?"
Pope chimes in now as he starts to head toward our boat. "I'll do it tomorrow. I promise. Tomorrow."
"Hell no. You doin' it right now." Heyward says sternly.
"Get in the boat." John B whispers to Pope, loud enough for Heyward to hear.
"Boy, if you get in that boat..."
"Go, go, go." Pope says as he climbs in and I wave goodbye to his dad.
"Bring your ass back up here."
"I promise I'll do it tomorrow, Dad."
"You gonna clean shrimp, clean fish, you'll clean your dirty ass room!"
"Love you, Pops."
"Bye, Mr. Heyward! We'll bring him back in one piece." I smile and he shakes his head at me.
"And I don't like your friends!"
Next on our bus route, is Kie.
"Hey Kie!" I smile and wave as she walks up with a cooler behind her. She's greeted with a chorus of "good mornings" from the boys as she jumps in and reaches out for the cooler behind her.
"Whatcha got? You got some juice boxes?" Someone asks as I help set the cooler down on the bottom of the boat, and begin dumping my bag of drinks into the ice with the ones she brought.
"You know, just some yogurts and carrot sticks." Kie says, getting settled herself as John B steers us away. I'm looking forward to some fishing this morning.
"You got my kind of juice box?" JJ asks her and Kie nods.
"Yeah." She says as JJ starts going through the cooler already.
*:・゚✧*:・
We're almost at our fishing destination of choice out in the marsh when JJ decides to practice his favorite and least successful party trick.
"Hey, Snowy, hold this up for me will ya?" He asks, cracking open a beer and holding the bottle out to me. I roll my eyes as I take it from him, stepping up onto the front of the boat and facing everyone.
"Punch it, Pope!" JJ shouts, pointing a finger at his dark-haired friend, who's now taken over for John B behind the wheel.
"Here we go, I'm movin'.." Pope rolls his eyes and starts to go faster,
"We've tried this six-thousand times and it's never worked." John B protested and I nod in agreement.
"I've got this, it's gonna work." JJ insists.
When we get to the right speed, I slowly tip the bottle back so the drink inside starts flying back toward JJ's face and open mouth. Safe to say about three drops end up in JJ's mouth, and half the bottle ends up on our friends behind him.
"Dude stop you're getting beer in my hair." Kie groans, putting her hands in front of her face so she stops getting sprayed. John B turns away so it doesn't get in his face either.
Pope puts his hand up in front of his eyes too, telling JJ "alright, alright!" He laughs, and John B agrees. "Yeah, alright, you're done JJ."
Their pleas go ignored, only because the bottle is almost empty and I am getting way too much of a kick out of this. This suddenly stopped when we heard the motor make a rattling sound and we were all suddenly thrown forward, JJ and I flying off of the boat and into the water.
When I finally get my bearings and stick my head out of the water with a gasp, the other three are leaning over the edge of the boat shouting at us. "JJ? Snowy?"
"I'm good." I cough as I swim back toward the edge of the boat, giving a brief thumbs-up to my friends.
"I think my heels hit the back of my head." JJ groaned, swimming up behind me. He grabs my waist with one arm, and with the other, he grabs the boat as he helps push me up while John B grabs my hand and lifts me back in.
"Everyone okay?" Kie asks and I look around at everyone, watching JJ climb back in on his own. I definitely don't have the upper body strength for that. His arms though... man.
A chorus of "Yep" and "All good" answered her question, and I pulled my soaking wet shirt over my head, laying it across the front of the boat to dry since I still had my swimsuit on underneath.
"Pope, man what did you do?" JJ asks, removing his shirt as well.
"Sandbar, the channel changed." Pope said and I look out over the edge of the boat, seeing if that beer bottle is within swimming reach for me to grab it. Kie might have a conniption if I left it behind. I squint a little as I see something at the bottom of the water, something big. Not quite the sand, but not a tarp or something either. A boat?
"Guys? I think there's a boat down there." I point, and JJ walks up behind me and looks down at where I'm pointing my finger with his arm around my waist holding me in so I don't fall back over the edge.
"Shut up, what?" John B said, joining us and looking over the edge.
"No way..." Kie says, shielding her eyes from the sun and squinting down into the water.
"That's literally a boat." I said, looking back at everyone.
Within seconds, everyone was stripped down to their bathing suits and diving in to get a closer look. I didn't want to get too close, so I kind of hovered above as long as I could, watching the others swim down.
After a few seconds, JJ starts to swim up towards me, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me back up with him so we can get some air. When my head breaks the water I take a deep breath, and JJ smiles at me with a slight chuckle. "A Grady White."
When everyone makes their way back up onto the boat, JJ tells everyone else. "That's a Grady White, a new one is 500 g's- easy."
John B flipped his hair out of his eyes and shook it on top of his head to try and get some of the water out. "That's the boat I saw when I surfed the storm."
"You surfed the surge?" Kie gasped.
"Yeah." John B said, high-fiving Pope.
"That's my boy, pogue style." JJ said, laughing and high-fiving him as well.
"Do we know whose boat it is?" Kie asks and I look back down over the edge.
"No, but I'll see what I can find." John B said, grabbing the anchor to ride it down.
"Be careful," Kie tells him, as he sits on the edge of the boat, walking up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. That one came a little out of the left field. I mean, it's kind of obvious that the boys always hit on her, but that is typically a one-sided inside joke.
"Diver down, fool!" Pope said, walking up and pushing John B off the edge with JJ as Kie stepped back.
He's in the water for a while, and I find myself sitting on the edge of the boat looking down at John B. He's been down there for a while, I definitely would have drowned by now.
Pope speaks up, sharing my thoughts. "He's not back yet..."
"He probably just found something cool." JJ shrugs, sitting down next to me to look over the edge.
"Should we try and get him?" Kie asked, just as John B bursts out of the water gasping for air.
"Oh, my god." I sigh a breath of relief, putting my hand on my chest.
"Any dead bodies?"
"Looting potential?"
"I don't know, I just found this busted motel key." John B says, holding up the key on a small keychain, with a room number written on it as he climbs back onto the boat and hands the key to Pope.
"A key?" He asks, turning it over in his hand.
"Yes Pope, a key."
JJ sighs. "Great, we salvaged a motel key."
"Hey, we should report this to the coast guard." Kie states, our voice of reason.
"What if we waited to see if there's a finders fee?" I suggest and JJ snaps and points his fingers at me, nodding excitedly. Kie rolls her eyes a little at us, in a fun, loving way.
"Yes, Snowy's right. We won't have to work all summer! Thanks, Agatha, ya batch!" He says, pointing his hands up to the sky now.
We quickly pack up to head back to town, in hopes of reporting it and collecting a check.
*:・゚✧*:・゚
Without any success, we weigh out our options, and ultimately decide to go to the motel that the key belongs to, and see if we can return it to someone personally. At least, that's what we've convinced ourselves was the plan. No premeditated breaking and entering intended- unless no one is home.
JJ whistles as we pull up towards the motel. Definitely a classy place, at least 2 stars.
"It looks like somewhere kids would stay as a dare."
"A real shitshow.."
"Motel, or meth lab?" The group voices their thoughts, similar to mine.
"It doesn't look like somewhere someone with a Grady White would stay.." John B says as he steers us in.
"More like somewhere with a Grady White gets killed," I add.
"Snowy lay off the true crime pods. This may be a dump but we'll probably be fine." JJ says, ruffling my hair with one hand while bringing back his radio bit and bringing his other hand up to his mouth. I squint and try and pull my head out from under his hand where he's just resting it now. "This is your captain speaking, HMS Pogue comin' in for landing."
JJ jumps out to the ground to help pull in the boat, as John B and I climb out behind him.
"Don't let JJ do anything stupid, Snowy." Pope tells me and I give him a salute.
"Yes sir." I say and JJ wraps his arm around my shoulders.
"C'mon, Pope, she's in on it and you know it." He says, turning us both to walk up to the motel.
We hear John B talking to Kie, telling him again to "seriously, be careful. I mean it." and JJ scoffs slightly. "She's so far up his ass bro." He whispers to me and I quietly laugh.
John B caught up with us quickly, and we headed up the stairs to the second floor, where the motel room we are looking for should be.
"What's with all the mattresses?" I ask JJ, looking up at him next to me.
"After a hurricane, they get ditched because they get all moldy."
"Oh, gross." I reply, scrunching up my nose a bit and JJ reaches over me and taps it before bringing up John B and Kie's chat from just moments ago.
"Yes Snowy, gross. However, not as gross as that conversation we just heard." He said, letting me go and walking up to John B just ahead of us.
"What conversation?" John B just asks and JJ looks back at me knowingly.
"Oh, be soo careful John B..." He mimics Kie's voice, and I can practically feel John B roll his eyes.
"God, you're so weird." He brushes JJ off, walking ahead of us again across the balcony. "Maybe she just wants us to be careful."
"It's true! Ever since you've been threatened with exile from that conversation you had with the social services people she's been like," He grabs John B's shoulders from behind, rubbing them at the same time. "Oh, be soo careful John B, just give me that John D already!"
"Get off me." John B tries to duck under JJ's grip so he would stop as I laugh.
"He's not totally wrong."
"Yeah! See? Snowy knows, when are you gonna swoop on that, man?" JJ asks, looking back at me briefly.
"You're the one always hitting on her and Snowy anyways." John B tells him and JJ nods quickly.
Me too? I didn't know I was actually included in that after what happened between us. I've been known to be a little oblivious though.
"Of course I am! Snowy is pretty much Princess of the Pogues out here, like, look at this hair." He says, reaching back and grabbing the ends of some of my hair that's draped down in front of me, almost reaching my hips. He twirls it gently before dropping it just as I could feel a blush spreading across my face and chest. "-and Kie's a super hot, rich, hippie girl slumming with us, for some reason."
John B chuckles and shakes his head.
"Exactly, I can't figure that out either bro, but who cares?"
John B was unimpressed. "You need help. Not a little help, you need a lot of help." JJ rolled his eyes. Here he went again. "It's like every girl who just has a heartbeat, you're like. . . Uhh!" He imitated a zombie.
John B then stopped and backtracked a step looking at the number on the door next to us. "This is us, 25." He says, changing the subject.
JJ steps up and knocks on the door. "Housekeeping!" He says, in this really funny high-pitched voice.
"That's what you sound like, Snowy." John B leans down to say close to my ear. I side-eye him and roll my eyes, giving him a light shove as JJ tries to look in the window when he didn't get an answer.
"No power, AKA no cameras, let's try the key." John B says, stepping up to the door and inserting it, trusting the handle and holding it for us to slip inside.
"JJ, don't touch anything- this is probably a crime scene," I whisper, as he promptly begins to touch almost anything he can reach. He picked up a bag, and John B instructed him to look for a nametag or something on it, as I look around the shabby-looking motel room. No doubt in my mind that there are bed bugs in here.
We shuffle through everything we find, me with a tissue in my hand so I'm not touching anything, while John B tries to open the safe. He eventually gets it open and calls JJ and I out of the bathroom to come and look.
"Holy shit.." I say, staring in awe at what's inside as he pulls it out. Bare hands. Of course. An orange document envelope, filled with some papers and a load of cash, and I don't notice what JJ pulls out until he talks to me.
"Hey, Snowy, check this out! John B can you take a picture of us? Mr. and Mrs. Smith style?" He says, holding up what I now see is an actual literal gun, leaning his back into me.
"Oh my god, JJ!" I say, backing away.
"Oh yeah? Seriously you want a picture? We're just making our own incriminating evidence now, that's what we're doing?" John B says, running his hand through his hair.
"This is a fuckin' speedy gat, man. Just, bam! Bam!" He laughs, posing with it again. We all jump a little when we hear something tap the window, and JJ and John B look out to see Kie and Pope waving at us wildly, then pointing over to the door and saying something.
"Fuck, cops. Cops man!" John B whispered as we frantically look around for somewhere to hide. We're screwed. JJ grabs my arm and pulls me towards the window as John B opens it.
"I got you, don't worry." He whispers to me, holding my hand and placing his other hand on my hip as I step out onto the small platform under the window. He and John B climb out after me, and John B shuffles to the side opposite us, while JJ steps in front of me and I grab onto the sides of his shirt for dear life, looking up at the sky as he places one hand on my waist to hold me against the wall, and the other up next to my head to steady himself.
I see John B lean over to look back inside, and we hear a small exchange between the officers. They're taking some of the cash. Unbelievable.
I try and take deep breaths, but I can feel myself starting to panic. I'm not good with heights. or cops. "Hey, Snowy, you're okay. You're okay. I've got you." JJ whispers to me and I nod slightly, squeezing my eyes shut. I feel JJ shift his arm that was next to my head, and something falls out of his pocket and hits the dumpster below us, making a loud bang. I flinch and close my eyes tighter somehow, as JJ pushes himself closer to me against the wall, tipping his head back. I can feel his chest moving as he breathes, and I try to focus on that to help me relax. I open one eye to look down at Kie and Pope, who have assumed the "just act natural" position down on the Pogue. Oh god, the cops are looking out the window.
"Oh. My. God." I whisper and JJ slowly moves and puts his hand over my mouth.
"Shh.." He hushes me, and I cringe internally as I feel my cheeks burning up under his hand, and hope he just chalks it up to me literally having a panic attack. But, he's JJ. He'll never let me live this down.
Suddenly, John B and I see Kie and Pope resume their waving, signaling the cops have left the room. That's our cue to get out of here- and we can't do it fast enough.
*:・゚✧*:・゚
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A/N;
Hi, me again :)
Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm loving writing this, let me know what you want to see in the future!
-R
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adragonprinceswhore · 4 months
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Rumours I modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader
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Prev I Next I Series Masterlist
Aemond's POV: Storms
Summary: As your band, Dragon Dreamers, start to take off, you find yourself in the middle of a foul divorce with one of your bandmates; guitarist, singer and songwriter Aemond. After spending 3 months apart, only communicating through solicitors, you reunite to go on your first ever national tour of Westeros. To boost sales, your management suggest you perform some of the new songs from your upcoming album Rumours. Heartbroken, you've channeled your grief into writing. So has Aemond.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, smut, tags to be added for each chapter; angst, allusions to smut, physical violence and blood
Word Count: 2200
A/N: Here's the extra chapter with Aemond's POV, set a week-ish after his wife left the divorce papers. I have interwoven the lyrics with the story here, since it's essentially only one scene, so the lyrics are in italics with '' around them while Aemond's thoughts are just in italics.
Dividers by Saradika
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‘Every night that goes between, I feel a little less’
8 hours and 25 minutes. 
That’s how much sleep he’d gotten in the last week. 
Since the fight. 
Fights. Plural. 
It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten into a physical altercation with his brother, his childhood memories tainted by endless disputes, especially after their father died, back when Aegon would sneak out to get drunk while their mother worried sick at home. 
Why couldn’t he just behave? Not make things harder for her? She already had so much to deal with, grieving the loss of her husband while navigating the internal political turmoil the death of such an influential man left behind. And Aegon couldn’t even spare her further heartache?
Fucking pathetic excuse of a man.
But it was the first time he’d hurt her. Physically, that is. She’d told him he’d hurt her before, when his jealousy got the best of him.
He knows he’s crossed a line. As soon as he’d lost his temper and thrown that plate against the wall. Dangerously close to where she was standing. 
He wishes she wouldn’t have pushed him so far. If she’d just cooperated with him; worked with him instead of against him. Instead of hiding things from him; talking with Tyland behind his back. 
He always knew that she’d leave. One day. 
He’d never leave her.
He lets out a quiet sigh in frustration as he gets up from the bed, moving to sit on the edge, slouching as he places his head in his hands. He suddenly notices how quiet the room is; the loud thoughts echoing in his mind momentarily disappear as he ponders what he could do instead of sleeping. He moves quietly to not wake Alys next to him, whose heavy breathing provides the only real sounds in the room. It is almost eerily quiet now that he thinks about it; such a stark contrast to the insufferable buzzing of thoughts roaming around in his head. 
Rest doesn’t come to him anymore. 
His mind can’t provide him with any repose. Not even for a second. 
He closes the door to the bedroom with a quiet ‘click’ as he exits, moving towards the balcony connected to the large open-plan living room. 
She had picked this apartment, together with him. Our home. 
The memories of going to look at cabinets for the kitchen together, choosing a sofa together, fucking on said sofa, overtake his mind before he can distract himself. 
‘As you slowly go away from me’
When he realised that she’d left and wouldn’t come back, he tried to erase her from the space, shoving all of her belongings into one of the wardrobes in the spare bedroom. 
He couldn’t bear to throw them out. He couldn’t bear to see them either. She’d left behind everything he’d ever given her; all gifts he’d carefully picked out for her. Seeing her wedding ring on top of the kitchen island, next to the divorce papers and the shattered plate on the floor had made his stomach turn when he came home from the hospital.   
‘This is only another test’
He’d suffered much harsher trials than this. 
When he lost his eye in a car crash at the tender age of 10, he suffered through the most excruciating pain of his life. He had to relearn everything; how to focus his gaze, how to read and write without developing a headache, how to play his favourite sports without running into his opponents. 
He’d managed all that, yet this time he felt consumed by an aching sense of dread. A hopelessness deep in his chest. 
‘Every night you do not come’
It was all too late. No turning back.
‘Your softness fades away’
He knew that the aching dread was the longing he felt for her. The thought of never touching her again, of never being close to her again. 
Of never being in her embrace again. 
He feels a chill run through his body as he settles on the armchair placed by the wall, overlooking the bright lights of King’s Landing. 
Reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nearby table, he takes one out and lights it before taking a long drag, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back to rest against the back of the chair.  
She’d chosen the patio furniture as well. 
He fucking resents himself in this moment. Why was his body, his mind, incapable of doing what he wanted. Forget her. She sure as hell wanted to forget him. 
‘Did I ever really care that much’
‘Is there anything left to say’
When she left during the fight backstage last week, he had wanted to run after her. When he threw one last glance at his older brother, he could barely see his expression due to all the blood smeared over his face. He called out to him, but Aegon didn’t answer, laying limply on the old leather sofa with one arm hanging from the side and his mouth open. That was when Jace had come back in, face turning white in an instance as he regarded the scene before him, pulling out his phone from his pocket with a shaky hand to call an ambulance. 
Aemond went with his brother to hospital, waiting by his side until he regained consciousness while trying to calm his distressed mother and wide-eyed sister. They had looked at him in the same way she had; eyes filled with animosity. He could barely meet their gazes as shame left his cheeks scalding. 
‘Every hour of fear I spend’
‘My body tries to cry’
All he could think of at that moment was coming home. Home to her. To her warmth. 
‘Living through each empty night’
‘A deadly call inside’
He takes another drag of his cigarette. Not being able to sleep, to eat, to think clearly was so foreign to him. It was like when he lost his eye; he had to relearn everything. How to fucking breath. 
There was this restlessness inside him that wouldn’t disappear, no matter how hard he tried to exorcise it. He’d tried going for a walk; his usual go-to when he needed to clear his mind. 
On one of those walks he’d smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. How much time had passed? How long had he been out? He could hardly remember where he’d gone, what he’d seen or what time of day it’d been. He’s lucky to have grown up in the centre of King’s Landing, knowing every street by heart, intuition leading his steps as he eventually finds his way back home. To an empty flat, haunted only by the memory of her. 
‘I haven’t felt this way I feel’
‘Since many a years ago’
He tried drinking; Aegon’s lobotomy of choice. After downing two bottles of the Dornish red he’d received from some business associate when he was still working with his grandfather, he found sleep for 1 hour and 12 minutes before waking up with a racing heart and body covered in a slick sheet of cold sweat. 
He would have tried talking to someone, if the only person he wanted to speak to hadn’t blocked his number. He’d realised that after being connected directly to voicemail each time he called her. That didn’t stop him from leaving messages though. First, they were filled with apologies and promises of never losing his cool again, of being better for her, of reassurance that he loves her. But as he grew to understand that she wouldn’t come back, his frustrations got the best of him. 
He called her just to scream at her, into the nothingness that was her disconnected voicemail. “I always knew you’d leave me! You fucking liar”, he spat as he threw his phone against the same wall he’d smashed the plate against.  
It doesn’t matter. She’ll never hear them anyway. 
The tiny bit of relief he felt afterwards hadn’t made any significant difference. He still couldn’t sleep, couldn’t find even a moment of tranquillity. 
He places the cigarette between his teeth as he reaches forward to grab the notebook he uses to write down lyrics laying on the patio table next to his seat. 
There’s one thing he still hasn’t tried. 
As he plucks the pencil from where it's hanging on the side of the hardcover, he begins writing without thinking too much of what’s coming out, letting his hand guide his thoughts as he brings his plagued mind down on the paper. 
‘In those years and the lifetimes past’
‘I did not deal with you, I know’
‘Though the love has always been’
His most recent attempt at finding respite from his mind was sleeping in his bed. 
Our bed, he corrects himself with a wince. 
He’d met Alys Rivers, manager at Riverland Creative Agency, earlier that day when he stopped for a drink during his quotidian nightly walk. She recognised him instantly, swiftly approaching him to mask her true intentions with some saccharine small talk. He knew she wanted to inquire about his band’s management; if they were satisfied with Tyland or if they’d be persuaded into joining her instead. 
But all he could focus on was her hand casually placed on his shoulder as she spoke, her large, green eyes locking with his as she playfully teased him about his stoicism. 
The heat radiating from her palm alone lit a fire inside of him, but rather than lust, he felt something akin to longing. Yearning. For warmth. 
He asked her if she’d like to have a drink at his house, and when she replied with a wink and a cheeky retort, he knew she’d give him what he craved.
‘So I search to find an answer there’
‘So I can truly win’
Alys didn’t feel like her. Didn’t set the fire within him ablaze. Nor did she extinguish it. He didn’t feel better; he felt the same. Restless. Uneasy. Different. Broken. 
‘Every hour of fear I spend’
‘My body tries to cry’
‘Living through each empty night’ 
‘A deadly call inside’
His hand moves on its own accord, words pouring out from him without having a chance to pass through his consciousness. 
‘So I try to say goodbye, my friend’
‘I’d like to leave you with something warm’
Maybe he never gave her comfort? 
Maybe all he did was take? 
No. He knew he’d been a dutiful husband. He’d always been by her side, supporting her no matter what. Unlike his own father, who’d been more of a burden on his mother’s shoulders than a pillar to lean on. Aemond knew he was nothing like his father. He gave his marriage his all; he never neglected his wife. He gave her all of him. 
‘But never have I been a blue calm sea’
‘I’ve always been a storm’
But she didn’t want his love. She didn’t appreciate all he’d done for her. She didn’t understand him, not really. If she did, she wouldn’t shut him out like this. 
Fuck her selfishness. 
When he left his grandfather's firm to pursue music full-time, Otto Hightower had threatened to disown him, telling him that he’d make sure all ties Aemond had to the Hightower name would be cut off. All he knew was how to be a good son, grandson. How to please his grandfather and mother. But when he confided in her about his predicament, asking her for advice on how to handle his grandfather's wrath, she’d cupped his cheeks and gazed into his eyes as she reassured “I am your family now Aemond. We’ll always have each other”. 
Liar. 
He feels bile rise in the back of his throat as he keeps writing, allowing the feelings he didn’t know how to express some outlet. The thought of her now makes him feel sick. 
‘Always been a storm’
‘We were frail’
He feels stupid; blinded by the light of her love. 
‘She said, “Every night he will break your heart”’
‘I should have known from the first, I’d be the broken hearted’
Being given such warmth from another person. That’s what made him addicted to her. 
He’d never experienced that before, not even from his mother or sister. There was always this restraint; this rift between them, for as long as he could remember.
But she let him in with open arms; let him into her comfort without resistance. 
And now she’d taken that away from him. 
‘I loved you from the start’
Looking at the lyrics written down in front of him, he doesn’t feel better. His shoulders don’t feel lighter. His chest doesn’t feel less tight. All he knows is that she did this. She promised to be by his side forever and broke that vow. 
He leans back in the chair, fiddling with his lighter in one hand as he reads over the text again. What would she say if she saw how much she hurt him? Would she come back? 
The fleeting thought makes a tight knot form in his throat and he swallows forcefully to make it go away. 
She’ll never come back. 
He picks up the paper, letting the fire from the lighter in his other hand grace over the bottom corner and set it alight.
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A/N: I knooooow, this is not a Rumours song! But Aemond never records it, so it makes sense, okay?! 🤭
Thank you for reading besties, let me know your thoughts! 💙
Taglist: @watercolorskyy @nockerin @yazzzmints @mooncalvin @persephonerinyes @bellstwd @toodlesxcuddles @nsr-15 @daenerysqueenofhearts @aquakaris @targaryenmoony @ainhoamunson @wintrr13 @julczimozart @moonlightfoxx @sweethoneyblossom1 @boofy1998 @snh96 @iloveallmyboys
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reggies-eyeliner · 9 months
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𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐏𝐒 (CLOSED)!
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OPEN 7/14-7/30!!
-> matchups + moodboards + playlists + headcanons! please read all of the rules listed below and pop into my ask box! if you need an idea on what my past matchups look like please check out these links! :DD
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THIS IS LIKE A BUFFET. PICK AND CHOOSE WHAT YOU WANT BABES MWAHAHAHA
FANDOMS (up to two*):
across the spider-verse*
most animated movies (httyd, bh6, rotg^^)
lockwood & co*
stranger things
avatar: the last airbender
the legend of korra
rottmnt**
voltron: legendary defenders
* i've only watched the series so far + i'm about to start the comics/books (and very excited to omg) !! just an fyi that my pairings will most likely revolve more around the characters featured in the series IM SORRY I SWEAR I'LL GET TO THE BOOKS/COMICS ASAP
**exclusively platonic matchups preferred/qpr!
* if you are requesting two fandoms, please tell me which one to prioritize more! the first one will be the full-length, but the second will be around a half of the content in the prioritized fandom.
TYPES OF MATCHUPS:
the classic: submit in matchup information + get paired with (a) romantic partner(s)! in return for the matchup information, you will receive: a 1x3 moodboard, one song + a hefty list of headcanons + a mix-and-match randomized trope explanation! (ex: a blurb about sharing a bed, first time meeting, fake dating confession scene ; ~100 words!)
the platonic machup: platonic matchups (my personal fave MWAHAHA)! you'll get paired with as many characters as you'd like<3!! in return for matchup information, you will receive: a 1x3 moodboard, one song + a hefty list of headcanons + incorrect quotes describing your dynamic between you and your found family/best bro<3
customized schedule: submit what your schedule looks like throughout any day of the week (up to two) + matchup information (platonic or romantic), you will receive: an hourly schedule on what life is like with said character i match you with + the aspects of your life with them! (ex: 8am, wake up by their side + they make you coffee blah blah blah), + a song for each moment of the day to describe your dynamic :D
MATCHUP INFORMATION:
name + preferred gender(s) to be paired with + preferred age group(s)
preferred fandom (up to two are okay, but please let me know which one you'd like me to focus on more!)
platonic and/or romantic + polycule preference etc + preferred age group!!
you can include your sexuality if you'd like to (only if you want me to touch on the aspect on how your matchup will support you because. yeah<3)
giving + receiving love languages
hobbies, talents, things that make you you (think: if this wasn't in my life, how different would i be?)
mbti/zodiac (optional)
personality, how you handle difficult situations
what consist of a good memory for you
favorite songs + music taste/colors/any kind of aesthetics!!
anything that brings you comfort/anything that doesn't give you comfort (can be about a relationship or just in life :-D)
OTHER RULES?
preferably off anon! i'd love to talk to you more after the matchup submission as well MWAHHAHA<333 if you're planning on being anon, an emoji anon would be p cool so we can chat more!
as i'm also a busy student, i will prioritize school-- if you submit a matchup, please be prepared to have up to anywhere from a 1-14 day wait! i'll send you a message that i got your ask hehe
i will also be mostly inactive writing-wise from 7/18-7/23 as i will be on a trip, so please keep that in mind!
you should totally use a pick up line in my ask box i enjoy pick up lines so much. or one of those "less than one minute" videos on youtube those are the best man
please know that i absolutely love writing and talking to people, but i also have my own limits to what i can/cannot do for people! if you send nsfw content, pedophilia, violence, gore, heavy vents, all that not-so-great-stuff or an ask comes off as rude or demanding, i have all rights to avoid doing it and dismiss it without any warning. ASJCHS JUST be a decent human being in short that's all i'm asking RAHHH
OTHER THAN THAT MAN write as much/little as you'd like!!
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#send a request here! :D
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magnolix · 1 year
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MHA exchangestudent!y/nheadcanons
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They would definitely be interested, Iida and Momo would be trying their damndest to make sure the class was as respectful as possible (gotta respect the class reps) - They probably told Mineta that class was canceled for that day just to save you
If you don't speak the language (native English speaker) then I feel that either Midoriya or even Pony (from class 1-B) would try to help you out.
If you speak Spanish then Sero's gonna be your buddy as he loosely translates for you
If you do speak the language (hey good for you, Japanese is pretty hard to learn) then you get a bunch of more options
If you're from the UK or with a heavy ass accent (like me ^^) then you're probably gonna be hanging out with Bakugou because even though you two can't understand each other, there's enough hand motions and tone raises for him to understand what you're saying
Y/N: "You lavvy-heided wankstain, bug off yay mangled beetroot, I cannae function rit!" Kirishima: "Bakugou, what did they say?" Bakugou: "Piss off, I'm working." Midoriya: *frantically taking notes*
I'd like to think that the Bakusquad would hoard you to themselves and Mina, Denki, and Sero would be walking you around campus, showing you all of the cool stuff to see
"And this is the other class for the generic studies, and that's the area for the support item workshop thingy," Mina explained. "You mean the Department for Support?" Denki corrected her. "Yeah yeah.."
The lunch rush fucking scares you. You're used to leaving class early to get in line so it's a new feeling to be able to get what you want on time without breaking some noses.
Y/n: *running full speed towards the cafeteria right after being let out of class* "OUT TEH FUCKEN WAY!" Bakugou: *running alongside Y/n* "THIS BITCH WANTS PASTA!
You probably made fun of some of their quirks at first but in a friendly and joking way,
you even gave some of them nicknames
Midoriya: Mocha Todoroki: Zuko Kirishima: Jaws or Hammerhead Mina: Weed Jesus Iida: Speed Jesus Sero: Spiderman Jiro: Bluetooth Bakugou: Blondie Ayoyama: Cheese-eating surrender monkey (took you a while to explain that one to him (yes it's a Simpsons reference))
When it comes to actually doing some of the work like homework n stuff, you'd either get shy and have to work up the courage to ask them for help or Momo would just take the lead and invite you for a study session - you didn't know she was rich until you went to her house
The work studies really freaked you out, no matter what your quirk was, you got scared of Bakugou, Todoroki, and Midoriya after seeing what they could do - really made the mind wander when you saw them panting
If your quirk is support based, I could see you helping out some of the others Recovery Girl style
If your quirk is attack based, I could see you running around as Bakugou is trying to spar with you
(you most likely hid behind either Shoji or Eraser Head)
SPEAKING OF PRO HEROES!
the moment you realize that almost everybody has either a hero work-study or daddy issues (or both if they're lucky) you try to get assigned to a work-study as well
If you apply for Edgeshot's, Mt.Lady's, or Ryukyu's agencies, they would accept you on the spot. Saying something along the lines of "expanding your horizons", "getting you good experience", "making you stronger" etc.
If you apply for Best Jeanist's, Endeavor's, or Hawks' agencies, I feel like Endeavor and Jeanist would have a full-scale interview but Hawks would have you join immediately
As for other heroes like Mirko, Crust, Gang Orca (and the other top heroes), it would be a mix depending on what your was
Speaking of Endaevor
Oh poor, poor Endeavor
YOU WOULD ABSOLUTELY BULLY THIS MAN
I may be an Enji simp but I cannot deny how quickly this man would fall to the verbal wrath of our generation
You'd misspell his name on documents
You'd get his food order wrong
You wouldn't tell him about changes to his schedule
You'd wake up each and every day and choose violence
And best of all, he wouldn't be able to do shit about it
He's stuck with you and you know it
#gaslightgatekeepgirlboss (or boy boss, non-binary boss, you get the idea)
#itboss
Y/n: "You have some paperwork you need to fill out, you have a press meeting today at 8:30am, one of your sidekicks is currently out doing your laundry, and that mission report should be back in an hour." Endeavor: "Y/n, it's 9 am. Are you sure that meeting isn't wrong?-" Y/N: *smirking* "I know what I said."
When it comes to events at UA like festivals or other small things like that, it's up to you
if there's a sports thingy though like the Baseball OVA (god bless) I feel like you'd be absolutely amazing at either soccer or baseball
like, you know how to swing
and you know how to kick
and you know how to girl boss (sorry I'll stop)
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