#well it would be too easy let's make it parallel

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

For a request:

Maybe a rescue fic with ghost, price, or soap? One where they rescue their non military fem s/o? I know you’ve written some already and they are so good but I EAT THEM UP EVERY TIME and love that trope so much!!!!!!

Hurt/comfort is my drug I swear

I know that’s pretty vague so maybe I’ll think of more eventually but that’s what I’ve got for now.

I love your writing!

- 🧚🏻‍♀️🧚🏻‍♀️

None Lacking Sins

Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: It started with the incident at the grocery store and then built to the hidden gun in the nightstand and a quick, frantic, call to your boyfriend.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Implied stalking, violence & blood, angst, protective Soap, suggestive language and conversations, implications of wanting a kid, vulgar language, fluffy banter, hurt/comfort, canon typical actions, edited in the middle of the night

A/N: I've been in a Soap mood lately, tbh. I think I'm going to flip-flop uploads for my Gaz series and Requests too...anyways. Enjoy, anon! You can never go wrong with a rescue fic!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

You called him for the first time when you were at the store, picking out dinner and asking what he wanted for a welcome home meal.

“Well,” his sly voice made you roll your eyes, but a smile still blossomed over your lips. “If you want me to be rash, Bonnie, I’d say that I wouldn't mind a good bite out of your–”

“Johnny, you finish that sentence, you’re not going to get anything besides butter on toast. Give me a recipe before it gets dark out.” Veiled glee was obvious from your tone, and the heat on your face could all but be heard over the line. Two months apart had made you both eager to be in each other's presence. 

Picking up a box of pasta, you flip it over and check the price, sticking to your budget and tilting the phone parallel to your chin. A deep chuckle meets your ears, and your chest feels light as it pierces your lungs. 

Your boyfriend was off in Australia this deployment—he’d been complaining about the heat nonstop on those few and far between video calls the two of you shared. While it was a step-up to know where exactly Johnny was this go around, the prospect of his job still made you incredibly nervous. There was never a time you could remember when he came home without a new cut or scar; bruises were all but guaranteed. 

Sucking down a soothing breath, you place the pasta into your cart and fix the phone’s position. The Scot was coming home in a day or so, you wanted to make him feel at home again. Destress.

You’ll see him before you know it. There’s no need to worry.

“Bit snappy, then, eh? Oh, alright.” The man huffs good-heartedly, and you hear the springs of those thin barracks-bed mattresses as his large frame shifts. Johnny lets off a soft sigh before continuing. You listen intently, leaning onto the handlebar ahead of you. “What about a nice plate ‘O that one you always make—hell—the…the one with the Pollock and cabbage.”

You blink through a laugh, shaking your head and pushing yourself off to go find the needed ingredients. The dish wasn’t easy to make, in fact, it took a helluva lot of time, but you didn’t mind in the slightest when it came to cooking for Johnny. He deserved it. 

“Hey, now,” He teases, smirking to himself, “What’s so funny over there, Dearie? You makin’ fun of me?”

“I would never dream of it, oh great and wondrous, Mr. MacTavish!” You huff, fake serious, as you place a box of cookies into the cart and pass a few strangers who raise an eyebrow at your conversation. A man passes by with a blue cap on, and you swerve the cart to move around him while tossing back a frown. You soon continue on like nothing happened, pulling back the sense of security from the man over the line. “Do you want mashed potatoes with that as well? Wine?”

Johnny groans, “Hey, you’re the one that asked me!” 

Divulging into giggles, you make your way around the store and stock up, holding a light conversation about how he and the rest of the boys were doing. 

“Ghost told me to let you know he appreciated the book you lent him, said he’d get it back to ya as soon as he’s able.” The Scot comments, and a hum makes its way from you as you head to the self-checkout. 

“Well, that’s good. I said he would like it – the bastard’s so tight-lipped about what he enjoys it was hard to nail-down a genre.” A chortle sounds off when you gather the chilled pollock and scan it; the phone was held against your shoulder to your ear. “High Fantasy for the win, I guess.” 

“I should get the man to read ‘The Way of Kings’ next time—form a little book club, y’know? Get all the boys in on it like some old ladies.” It was adorable how cute Johnny sounded, like a kid on Christmas. “Stemin’ Jesus, could you picture that, Bonnie?”

“I’d pay to see you pitch that, Dear.” A cheeky tone leaks through. “Price would laugh straight into your face.” 

“Please, the old man doesn’t know how to laugh….He’d just puff cigar smoke in my face and tell me to fuck off.” 

“As I said—I’d pay to see it.” Your boyfriend grumbles under his breath as you place the paper bags into your cart, the contents heavy, and grab your receipt with quick fingers. “Gaz would definitely be in for it, though.”

“I don’t doubt that. Anything beats playing cards for weeks straight, aye?” Your hand can finally grip the phone once more, and you sigh contently as the strained position of your neck finally rights itself. 

You’re about to answer but slow your pace with a scrunched look of confusion as you exit. 

Passing through the front doors, you suddenly get a strange sensation in the back of your mind to turn around. The hairs along your arms stand up as a breeze passes the steadily chilling dark sky, but the way the shiver ran down your spine wasn’t due to cold. Lips thinning, you spare a glance over your shoulder and look along the brightly lit grocery store as its windows leave cascading rays of light over the sun-bleached concrete. The black asphalt of the parking lot is hard under your feet.

There are a handful of other patrons at the checkouts—mothers with children and others buying quick meals for dinner—but none are out of the ordinary. 

You huff and roll your shoulders.

Maybe the day’s just getting to me.

“Bonnie,” Johnny’s slightly concerned voice brings you blinking back, turning your head back to the sparsely lit parking lot and realizing you had stopped walking completely. Your hand was sweaty like you’d just run somewhere. Fixing your hold on the device, your boyfriend continues, “...Everything alright? You’ve gone all quiet over there.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh dismissively, trudging forward to your car, “I just got the weirdest feeling right outside the grocery store.” 

The cart makes a loud rumbling sound as it goes over loose rocks and the bumpy texture of the asphalt, the metal rattling loudly so you have to strain your ears to hear Johnny’s next words. 

“What kind of feeling?” His drowned-out voice was so serious that it shocked you—you’d only ever heard him use a tone like this when he had briefly talked about nightmares that had woken him up in your shared bed. 

The Scot’s words were monotone, slow, and even if the sound of the cart’s wheels was raging all around you and making your skull rattle, you’d still swear you would identify that tone over a hurricane. It made your gut churn. 

“Really, it’s probably nothing,” you play off with a tense shrug he can’t see, coming to a stop at your car and reaching into your pocket for your keys. “I just got a chill.” 

Your eyes look around before you open the trunk, biting into your lip at the long shadows that the tall street lamps give off. Licking over your teeth, you bink dismissively and shake your head, unlocking the vehicle and huffing as you begin loading in your purchases. 

“Anyways,” you try to ignore the hard build of your spine or the way your eyes travel back to the brightly lit store. There wasn’t anyone out here but you and the dead forms of cars, trees off in the distance, and far-off lights of other buildings. You swallow and clear your throat. “I was thinking about getting us a dog.” 

“You’re not gettin’ out of this that—wait, did you say dog?” Across the world in a shitty bed, Johnny’s once concerned eyes widen, jaw going slack. “No way in Christ’s Hell, Dearie.”

“Oh, come on!” You groan, placing the second to last bag into the car and tuning your back to the street, throwing out your hand. “It doesn’t have to be a big dog—just one I can go on walks with and keep me company. I know you have a bad past with them, Love, but I just want someone to help not make the house so empty when you’re gone.” 

Your voice slides off near the end of the sentence, and you try not to sound so sullen. Johnny frowns as he stares into the far wall of the barracks over the heads of sleeping men, itching at the back of his neck. It was no secret that the Scot wasn’t particularly fond of canines—his encounters with them were almost never pleasant unless he knew the handler. 

But…

“I’ll think it over, eh, Bonnie?” He relents, sighing, and he thinks he hears snickers from a dark form in the distant corner. The Sergeant glares over at it and continues with a pang of internal guilt about how lonely you must feel most of the time. “Promise…but you’re more likely to get a cat dressed in a suit than a mangy mutt anytime soon.” 

You laugh at the attempt of a lighthearted joke, closing the trunk with a roll of your eyes. A breeze goes by and your arms erupt into shivers, clothes not enough to keep out the chill. 

“I’ll take it.” 

“Hm, you know,” Johnny smirks, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes and grunting out huskily, “there’s another way to make sure the house won’t be all quiet when I’m gone.”

“Keep it in your pants, MacTavish. You’re not even here yet.” Smiling through the heat of your cheeks, the skin of your cheeks glows; your body rolls with heat. “Save it for tomorrow.”

“What, am I gettin’ you all worked up over there?” He hums, and you grab your cart, pushing it into one of the specific areas where someone would grab it in the morning. “‘Cause I have no problem with waitin’, Dearie, all the more perfect when I get to be with ya.’”

“You wish, handsome.” Walking back to the slight rumbling of your car, you speak through tilted lips and completely miss the form walking up beside you. “I think that—”

“Excuse me?” 

Yelping, you nearly drop your phone to the floor as it slips out of your startled grip; heart jerking at the sudden intrusion into an intimate conversation. Swiftly turning around you spot the same man as before—the one with the blue cap that had passed by quite rudely in the store. His strong face looks sheepish.

Johnny quickly calls your name through the line, and you let off a reassurance before tilting the device down.

“Holy hell, man, give a girl a warning next time, yeah?” Chuckling weakly to push back tension and the twisting of your intestines, you notice the stranger’s tall frame is covered in a heavy jacket. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” He’s not outwardly alarming to look at, the man, with his loose body gestures and controlled tone. “Sorry, but I was just wondering if you could lend me a hand. I found a kitten under a van back there,” he points, and you look over to the far corner of the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a large van surrounded by two black cars. Your eyes narrow on the scene, already getting a prickly feeling. “Do you have any food that might bring it out? Or maybe you’d be willing to reach under and grab the little bastard?” 

The stranger laughs and continues with a jerking of his shoulders. You watch every movement with an upticking pulse, fingers tight over the phone as Johnny listens with growing worry. 

The Sergeant's dark eyebrows pull tight, and he stands like he could run out the door to you; jaw tight and muscles wound.

“Put me on speaker.” You decline silently. Better not to get a hotheaded and protective Scot involved when he was thousands of miles away.

“Sorry,” Clearing your throat, you take a step back, attempting a friendly smile. “I have to get home to my husband.” It wasn’t the first time you’d had to use the spouse card to get away from creeps, and it won't be the last. Worked better than just the boyfriend title, honestly. And there was something about this man’s eyes that didn’t sit right with you. “Work night and all, you understand?”

“He left yet?” Johnny asks, gruff as his accent gets stronger. “Else I’m callin’ the store and sending security out to you.” 

“It shouldn’t take a long time,” the man begs and you take another slow step back to the car door, pupils going tiny. Breaths shallow. “You’ll be back to your…husband, in a few minutes. I’d hate to leave the poor guy all alone.” 

“Sorry.” You say again, firmer. “No.” 

Not wasting any time, you open the car and jump inside, wrenching it closed once more and pressing the lock. Breathing heavily, you stick the keys into the ignition, missing a couple of times, and look into the side mirrors to spy on the tall shadow that hovers like a plague. 

“Sweetheart? Hey?” Johnny calls out your name as you force the car to start driving away, face tight and limbs shaking. “Hey, are you alright?” 

The man has half the sense to wake up Price, but with the stirring bodies around him, there’s half a chance the Captain already knows something’s off. Johnny hadn’t bothered to check his noise level when the uncomfortableness seeped from you over to him. What kind of a man approaches a woman near dark and asks a question like that? The action didn’t sit right with the Scot. 

Johnny’s body hums with energy—volatile rage keeps his heart in a tight fist with a deep seething hatred of not being with you to help force back the freaks in person. He wasn’t above getting into someone's face if the situation called for it; after a couple of outings to less-than-nice pubs, all it took was a few nervous glances from you nowadays for him to create a barrier out of his own flesh.

“I’m okay,” you whisper to him, biting at your lips and peeling back flesh. “It’s all good. I-I’m on the road already.” 

A great weight falls from the man in the form of a sigh. He slowly sits back down on the mattress, lips thinning and slightly shaking his head. His free hand comes up to rub over his cheek. 

“Good. That’s good…” He snaps out of his concerned stupor quickly, but the fast beating of his heart does anything but slow. “You’re okay.” 

It wasn’t worded as a question, maybe more of a reassurance, but it helped you immensely. Your tension lessened at the comforting sound of Scottish drawl and deep, silver, voice. But you wanted him to wrap his arms around you; gaze into those cerulean orbs.

Tomorrow.

“Keep on the line until I get home?” You ask feebly, not able to resist looking in the mirrors as you turn out of the parking lot. 

The blue-capped stranger was still standing there, and one of the black cars in the far corner had turned its headlights on. A deep dread overtakes your ribs like you’d just gotten out of something very, very, bad. A sense of a lingering morality stays in between your ribs.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t be doin’ anything else, Bonnie.” Johnny utters, glaring at the floor. “I’ll be ‘ere the whole time.”

It wasn’t fair that he was unable to be there with you—never before had the constraints from his job hit him full strength in the chest like this. If he can’t protect the ones he loves back on the home field, then what was the point of the Task Force in the first place? 

By the time you get home after taking the fastest route, you quickly gather everything from the back and shuffle inside, pulse still racing. You lock the door behind you and take a deep breath, closing your eyes. 

Johnny’s soft breath over the call was like a lullaby, right in your ear as if he was beside you in bed. Oh, you missed his soft snores more than anything. Your gaze goes glossy, but the tears are held back stubbornly. 

As if sensing your turmoil, your boyfriend speaks lowly. 

“Y’know, I bet the rest of the boys would really love it if we kept ‘em over for a drink and a bite when we all get back. I can whip up something quick on the grill and you can take a breather, eh?” He speaks so softly it almost makes the tears worse, heart palpitating. 

You wetly laugh and place a hand to your mouth, standing in the dark foyer with groceries on the floor and a primal fear slowly leaving you. The familiar scents of charcoal and birch wood from the Scots hair product are stuck into the very walls of this shared dwelling, along with the scuffs on the floor from play-wrestling during movies; a light that needed to be replaced due to Johnny accidentally running straight into it at two am. He had thought an intruder had broken in, but it was just a bird that had snuck in through an open window.

The signs of a well-lived and loved home. 

“But you wanted pollock,” you grumble with a hidden smile and burning ears, pushing the tip of your shoe into the front rug.

Johnny beams and goes to lie back down, putting a hand behind his head against the pillow.

“Well, now I’m makin’ burgers. Guess you’re just going to have to sit back and watch my fabulous arse from the porch, yeah, Dearie? Don’t burn a hole into them, now, they’re the only pair I’ve got, and I know how much you like ‘em.”

“Shut up.” 

“I’ll even wear that apron you got me—what was it you said it did,” the cheeky Scot smirks, all teeth and crinkled eyelids, and hears your complaints get louder as your mind flies away from what had happened almost immediately. “Made me look like I should be in a porno? Hell, if you were in it with me, I’d not complain ‘bout it. Steamin’ Jesus, I’d let you do horrible things to me, Dearie.”

From somewhere in the barracks a low groan echoes out and Johnny snaps his hand down to stifle his loud laughter as you bark at him. 

“MacTavish!” 

Great bouts of laughter leave everyone glaring from atop pillows and from over fingers stuffed into ears; some even get up and gather blankets, leaving the barracks room entirely.

In your foyer, your body blazes with heat like you’d been set on fire, a hand placed over your eyes and a treacherous grin on your mouth. 

“Keep your voice down, you absolute arsepiece!”

“Aye—! That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya!” 

“Johnny!”

—

The second time you called him was out of pure curiosity, only a few hours before your lover was scheduled to come home and cook for you and his Task Force. Around six o'clock. 

“When was our postbox all scratched up?” Your thumb runs over the black numbers of the sequence, blinking with wrinkled skin as you take a glance at the neighbors’ and frown. No one else's was like that. “I thought you said you compromised with the local kids and would give them money for sweets so they would stop messing with our stuff?” 

“Little fiends were sucking me dry!” Johnny huffs, “No way the devils would pass up more sugar and do something like that. What’s it look like, then? A few stray rocks manage to dent it?”

Your lips release a sigh and you pick up your mail with an annoyed grunt, closing and locking the cubby as you reply. “No way, it looks like someone took a knife to it.” Clicking your tongue, you shake your head. “God, things have just been going wrong lately.”

Shuffling his feet over the tarmac and hearing the plane engines die down behind him, Johnny takes a glance back. Price was standing at the top of the C17 arms crossed and head tilted—the Scot could imagine the raised eyebrow almost immediately. 

He grimaces and holds up a finger, walking a few more steps away as Gaz leaves the hull with his bags slung over his shoulders. 

“I can’t talk any longer, Bonnie, Price’ll wring me for not helpin’ unload the gear. He’s damn near skinnin’ me already.”

You chuckle, “Tell him I said ‘hello’ and not to damage the face.” 

“Oh, you’re a horror, you are, Dearie.” 

Quick declarations of love and see you soons were exchanged before the connection was cut, and your feet carried you back into the house. Your phone and the mail went to sit on the tiny hallways table, shoes tossed onto the plastic mat sitting on the floor with a small thump. 

Sighing, you rub over your eyes, thinking over if it was worth calling the post office or just trying to fix the scratches yourself. 

“I think we have some paint in the garage…” You trail off. 

Ultimately, you just pushed that to the back burner. Johnny was coming home. Your lips peeled into a large smile, and you’re rushing off to get into a nice outfit for the rest of Task Force who was coming a bit later than your boyfriend. Thoughts of finally being able to be picked up by your boyfriend's strong arms were all-consuming, being held into a broad chest and digging your nails to the dip of his spine. 

Just being able to be around the mohawked-man was a blessing that you’d never take for granted. 

You settled on a nice top and casual pants—you’d met the others before, so there was no need to go overboard. Smoothing your clothes down, you enter the living room and go to open the curtains, letting the light of the interior spread to the small lawn and the street. Humming under your breath, the vehicle outside doesn’t catch your attention immediately; the black metal is just another parked entity sitting still. 

When you do pause, your curtains half-opened, the delayed shock makes you lose precious time as you stare slack-jawed at one of the twin cars from yesterday at the parking lot. Your fingers clench into the fabric in a sudden moment of frozen shock. As if a mythical creature had just run past your field of view, the parting of your lips is instinctual before the widening of your eyes. 

A still second passes before you’re sprinting to the front door—locking it and snatching your phone. Heart pounding, you make a dash to the bedroom, dialing Johnny with fear-tight pupils. 

He had told you if there was ever an emergency to call him right away, he’d get there faster than any police officer; for the record, you believed that wholeheartedly. Johnny was more loyal than a dog in a pack, once someone raised the alarm the Sergeant was locked in. 

Rushing into the bedroom, you trip over the tossed covers but right yourself as the dialing tone sounds out, heavy breathing making your lungs hurt. You open the nightstand table and dig under a collection of books, hand meeting the smooth metal of an M9 pistol. 

Putting the phone on speaker, you throw it onto the mattress.

Legally, you shouldn’t even have this—while Johnny had been teaching you to shoot, you didn’t have a license for it yet. But he’d insisted on leaving you behind with something to defend yourself with.

The confused voice of your lover sounds over the open space. “Jesus, Bonnie, you miss me that much? It cannae ‘ave been more than ten minutes—”

“The car from yesterday is outside the house.” You throw the books to the floor and hear them make a clatter just as you pull out a box of ammunition. Taking out the gun’s magazine, you load bullets with a violently shaking hand. Some hit the ground with a metallic ping, but you pay little attention, just blinking back anxious tears and a harsh focus on the sounds of the front door handle being jimmied.

“I…what?” Johnny’s voice gets heavier, demanding with a snarl trapped in the back of his throat. 

Standing stationary in the doorway Base—about a twenty-minute drive from home, the man’s heart suddenly jumps in his breast. Did he hear you right? Behind him, Ghost slows to a stop at the now blocked opening, watching with narrowed eyes; a large rifle slung over his shoulder and a carry bag in his arm. Johnny’s shoulders wind tight, feet parted as he suddenly turns on his heels and takes off back the way he came in, the phone still at his ear where the Lieutenant knew you were on the call.

“What the fuck?!” Ghost’s skeletal head follows after and pointedly notices the Scots lack of care for how his bags hit the ground but keeps the pistol holstered at his thigh and the combat knife strapped to his upper shoulder. 

“Johnny?” He calls out, but only the wind answers him. “The hell are you off to?!” The gargantuan man sends a glance over to Price who was watching just as intently, lids narrowed. Gaz cleared his throat.

“....Shouldn’t we follow him? Sounds pretty serious.” 

Price sighs, taking a moment to watch Soap sprint to the main building and shove past other soldiers and staff. He grunts.

“Move light.” 

The phone call was filled with heavy breathing and hurried orders. 

Your boyfriend was running you down the basics of firing at a moving target as the sound of pounding at the front door became more hurried.

“It’s not like a stationary target—when someone’s runnin’ at ya, they're gonna be moving quick and you’re not going to be able to fire if you don’t mean it!” 

“Okay, okay,” you mutter with a shaky inhalation, loading the M9’s magazine and clicking off the safety. “What the hell do they want with me?” The whispered question is more for you than it is for anyone else, but the answer from the sprinting Scot startles you. 

At that exact moment, the pounding of a fist stops completely.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna fire at the first bastard that comes down that hallway. We’ll ask the questions later.” You hear a car door opening and a yell from Johnny’s side, soon the clammer of grunting breaths an exclamation of ‘hurry the fuck up!’

“I—”

“If you need to, leave through the window and go to the neighbors. Take cover in the foliage and slip away to the back alley.” Johnny never spoke like this to you—clipped and deathly serious. But now that you think about it, as you stay frozen and barricaded in the bedroom, if he spoke any differently you’d probably break down. “Do you copy?”

This was Sergeant MacTavish, and damn him if anything came between that man and the people he cared about. 

He barks your name, “Do you copy?!” 

“Yeah,” the gun shakes in your grip, but nonetheless you hold it at your hip and turn your eyes to the window. It would be easier to leave, you think. You’re not trained for this! “I–I think I’m going to—”

The front door’s window is broken with a shattering of glass. You rush to the phone and turn off the speaker, afraid that the sound would immediately tell these people where you were. Loud shouts flow into the foyer and spread like venom under the crack of the thin barrier separating you and the intruders. 

“Spread out and find her!”

“Yes, Sir!” 

Sir? You ask, eyes snapping this way and that as Johnny is dead silent on the other side. You think you hear the slam of a foot to the pedal, but you can’t be sure. Fuck, there was so much going on, you didn’t know what to do.

“Screw this, I’m going out the fucking window.” You gasp out, lungs tight and skin sweaty, you turn on the safety on the gun and stuff it into your belt. 

One-handed, you unlatch the lock and strain your ears, hearing feet getting closer. Grunting, you shove the heavy frame up and try to stop the ringing in your ears. Whoever these people in your house were—they were professionals. They had patience; studied your intellect with the trick in the parking lot and followed you home so they could mark your postbox number as a reminder of your address. What the hell was happening? 

Just as you’re about to make the small drop into the flower bed, a creak echoes from behind the bedroom door. You freeze in place, one foot dangling into the backyard. 

Breathing slowly, your eyes lock to the deep shadow that spreads like two distorted poles as the large feet face the very place you’d holed up. As delicately as you’re able with an award-setting tremor in your gut, you place the phone down onto the window sill; Johnny’s loud and worried voice dims as all attention moves to self-preservation. You’re just about to reach for your gun when the door busts off its hinges. 

Starling, and before your hands can find purchase, you’re tumbling backward—out of the house entirely with a stifled shout of alarm. Slamming to the ground and crushing flowers in the process, you have no time to think about the pain going up your spine or at the base of your skull before you’re scrambling for the M9. 

Just as someone peeks out from the window, face covered and holding an assault rifle, you’re firing three shots in rapid succession as you don’t even remember flicking off the safety. 

Two shots miss entirely, but on the last and final press of the trigger, as your arms catch the recoil, it connects. 

A comment is cut short as blood explodes in a great wave of velocity, coating the house upwards almost to the shingled roof. The body slumps, weight bringing it down to hang limp over the frame.

Wide-eyed, you still hold the shaking gun in the air, muzzle smoking, breathing fast through your mouth. Had you just…

Your stomach bunched, acid traveling up your throat to pool under your tongue. Perhaps you would have thrown up at that moment, the setting reality that you’d just shot someone in the head like an anvil in your pounding skull. But the barking voices from inside the house snap you back. 

Gasping down the breaths you realized you hadn’t been taking, your wobbly feet dart to shove you up like a newborn deer as sprinting bodies close in on the porch’s sliding door. God, you could only imagine what Johnny was thinking. 

Bolting out of your backyard fence, you remember your lover’s orders and run as fast as you’re able to the neighbor's open yard, using the darkening sky to help cover you. Cursing under your breath and thinking over all of the ways this should have already gone wrong, you wipe at the tears cascading down your cheeks. 

Don’t think about it—just get away.

It wasn’t long before you were down the alleyway, feet weak and lungs burning. There was a stickiness to the back of your scalp, blood, undoubtedly, from an injury caused by the fall.

It’s a damn miracle I didn’t break anything. 

What would you have done then? Just let those people take or kill you? You shiver at the idea and force yourself to go faster. Darting around a corner, your feet skid to a quick halt. 

The barrel of a gun was pointed directly at your face. 

“Had a feeling you’d be slippery.” It was the voice of the man from the parking lot—the man with the blue cap. Your face jerks to an imitation of confined horror and unease at the same eyes boring into you. He was dressed in gear like the rest of the men now exiting your house to hunt you down. The stranger shifts his feet and you flinch. “Drop the gun, Sweetheart.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” You find your voice, hissing out. The pistol clatters to the floor as it slips from your grip and you hate how you flinch at the sound. 

“Your boyfriend and his buddies are hard to track down.” Blue Cap huffs, and the tall stature of the man makes you incredibly nervous. Backing up a step instinctually, he follows and smirks. “But I figured the best way to meet him was to find his little bird first—he’d come right to me. Cliche, I know, but you can’t fault me. Works every time.” 

What did this guy want with your Johnny? Gritting your teeth, your fingers shake at your sides, hips tense and ready to run.

“He’ll kill you.” You level, not keen to show this man how disgusting you felt being near him. 

He shuffles up next to you, grabbing the meat of your arm. Trying to jerk away, the barrel of his weapon is shoved into your ribs; gasping, your body goes rigid.

If your heart goes any faster, it’ll break.

“Not if I threaten to kill you first.” Forcing you forward, you glare and feel the urge to spit in the man’s face. “C’mon, hun.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, freak.” 

“Ooo…fangs. Can’t be surprised, you did shoot one of my men, after all. Not a bad trigger finger, but you do need decent work on your accuracy if you wanna make anything out of it.” Your eyebrows pull in as you’re corralled back out of the alleyway, barrel bruising your skin and blood dripping down your neck. The man’s grip hurts as a strangled whimper falls from your bitten lips. 

Feet scraping over concrete, you’re brought out into the street as neighbors peak out of windows with drawn curtains; phones to their faces. Did these intruders not care about the police? If anything, that made you sweat more. 

“Ride’s waiting.” 

“I’m not getting into that.” Grunting, your eyes are stuck on the black void of the car parked in the street. A menagerie of other armed men stands all over. “Hell no—you can just shoot me now if that’s the case.”

“Don’t tempt me, I can still go after the Sergeant’s dear old mom,” your lungs chill as the man chuckles to himself, looking down at you through dark lashes. “He has a cousin, too, am I right?” 

Rageful tears spark behind your lids as you blink. 

No way it was going to go like this. Where’s Johnny? 

The gun was taken from your ribs as you’re shoved forward. 

“Get in. Now. We’re already behind schedule.” You stare into the interior and clench your fists, lips quivering but jaw clenched. Your Lover’s voice comes to you, sure of himself and laced with stubbornness. 

If you’re ever in trouble, you wait for me, Dearie. I’ll be there ‘fore you know it, ready to defend your honor like the knight in shinin’ armor I am, eh? Why are you laughing…?

Turning back around with every ounce of courage you can muster, you splay your feet and cross your arms.

“No.” The gun is raised to your head, and you want to flinch back in terror but restrain yourself. 

“Get in.” 

“No.” How your voice wasn’t breaking was a question in and of itself, but Johnny had always said you were stubborn like him. Best time to prove him right was with a barrel to your face, apparently.

The stranger’s eyes light with anger, hands clenching over the body of the weapon as the rest of his men stare on in shock. A growl meets air.

“I’m not asking for a third time, Sweetheart—” One loud boom later and you’re ducking down with your hands over your head, ears ringing and body unsteady; a great weight hits the ground right next to you.

The sound of gunfire rattles the world all around the once quiet street, and you think that you and your Lover will have to move after this. No way the neighbors could let all this slide. Looking up, your eyes jump from the corpse spasming near you to the running men, chaos breeding in the lines between shouts and dropping bodies. 

A hand latches into your waist, and you’re being lifted into strong arms moments later. Squealing, your head snaps to the size and meets cerulean blue inlaid in a strong brow line. 

“I’ve got ya.” Your body loses all tension at the accent that you would know anywhere, even in death, a strong grip picking you up and keeping you close to his broad chest. 

Johnny carries you away in the midst of battle as the rest of the 141 get involved, making quick work of the remaining men. Breathing in his scent, you force your face under his chin, feeling the stubble scrape as your fingers dig into flesh. 

He’s here. He’s—he’s right here.

“Don’t worry, Dearie, I’m right here. It’s nearly over, now.” You try to bring him closer as he takes cover behind a wall, pressing his shoulders against the grating stone as he shields you closer to him. Sliding down to the ground.

His eyes snap back and forth, heart rapid. God, he was nearly too late. Johnny presses his nose into your hair as he breathes deeply, watching bodies fall and feeling you shake. Feeling you shiver; now finally able to let everything sink in. 

“Shh,” the Scot mutters, pressing you closer as you whisper his name in a hoarse breath. “You’re alright. I’m ‘ere, Bonnie, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hands filter over your skin, checking for injuries and feeling over growing bumps from under-the-skin abrasions.

His teeth clench together in hate, hotheadedness taking over for a moment as part of him wants to rush out and pick a few of these bastards off himself. But it’s just not that simple. 

Looking out into the street with serious eyes, the radio attached to his vest sounds off as the last of the firefight ends almost as quickly as it began. 

“Clear.” It was Price. “How is she?” 

Johnny sighs, looking down at you in his hold as he whispers comforting words in quick succession.

“Shaken, but alright…” The reply is muttered as you sniffle, your fingers going to wipe away tears. “She’s—she’s alright.”

Johnny beats you to it as he tries to calm down, large digits tilting your head to the side and studying intently as he swipes them away with a firm thumb and a careful frown. 

“Johnny—” Your eyes stay locked on him as the Scot gets rid of any trace of fear or sadness, calluses burning your skin just as they always did. His gaze flickers to you; lips pulling tight. None of you choose to move, too content with being this close to one another and safe, even if the situation was serious. “I…”

You trail, not even knowing what to say as the wetness of your eyes blurs your vision, body hot, and the back of your skull aching. Your hands go to cup his cheeks. It’s all the words he needs. 

Eyes soft, the Sergeant attempts a weak and worried smile. “I’m so proud of you, Dearie, y’know that? So damn proud.” Your lips quirk, a strained laugh echoing out. A finger pokes the side of your nose. “Hey, I’m serious now. Stop your foolin'.” 

Johnny’s fingers run deep circles into your temples as you trace the lines of his cheeks. 

“Shut up.” You huff, straining against a wide smile. It was easy to push all of this behind you when you were looking at him. He made everything better.

“Hm,” He moves forward and presses his lips to your forehead, quickly going to lay kisses all over your face until giggles spill out from the alleyway to the waiting three. 

Gaz smiles to himself, Price grunts lightly, and Ghost gazes off. 

“I’ll just have to prove to my Bonnie Little Lady that she’s a prime piece of work, then, eh? Smarter; more quick than a fuckin’ recon team,” he leans close and you have to try and shove him away playfully when he starts to squish you against him. Your laughter grows as his scratchy chin nuzzles your neck. “And don’t mind me sayin’ now, but a proper fine pair of tits and arse to go along with the brains of ya, Dearie.”

“MacTavish!” you squeal, “I should call your mother up and explain how you speak to me—that’s vulgar! I know for a fact she didn’t teach you that.”

“Teach me? Oh, now, then, no one could teach me a thing when you’re around. Cannae think a bit; better off talkin’ to a pile of stone.” You punch his solid chest and laugh so hard your face hurts, breath fanning against his neck as his roaming praise continues as if his mind was a bag of water punctured by a knife. “I’m always thinkin’ ‘bout you, my Little Bonnie.” 

The last sentence is quietly muttered into your temple, a kiss pressed tight. He pulls back slightly and feels at the dried blood on your locks, fingers separating to find the scalp. Johnny’s chest rattles in a sigh, hand shaking slightly when he sees it. 

He’d also seen the body on the window sill, though he knows not to mention it.

Christ, you’d had to kill someone. 

The prospect of taking a life was easy to the Scot—some days he felt like he had been born and bred to do just that. It became simple. Elementary. Like his mother could memorize a recipe, he could memorize the position of arteries; what shot to take at that instant, and which to wait on based only on past missions that resonated like past lives.

But for you…

Oh, it was never supposed to happen to you.

“Are you alright?” Johnny breaths, humor gone and left with guilt. 

He feels your lips on his raging pulse and lets his eyes close, content to feel you move against him as your head remains in his neck. Shifting his body into a more comfortable position, he cages you in protectively. Never again would he allow this to happen.

“I shot someone.” The man’s lips quivered, heart hurting at the blatant shock in your voice. It hadn’t hit you yet, and, hell, Johnny still remembered his first kill like it was yesterday. It wouldn’t be good when all this calmed down. He’d thrown up for two days straight, himself.

“Aye.” He breathes.

“His blood’s all over the house.”

“It is.”

“Is…is that,” you’re shivering, so he massages your spine soothingly until you find the words. “Is that a good thing?” 

He should say no, tell you that the situation that you’d been put in was never supposed to happen and it was just an unfortunate reality. Death wasn’t a good thing, per se. But the man had broken into your shared home—busted down the bedroom door with the intent of using you as a bargaining chip to get to him. So, to the Scot, the answer is clear.

No one messed with his family and lived.

“Yes.” Taking down the air of a dusty alleyway as sirens wail a street over, you weren't surprised that your boyfriend had managed to get to your home far faster than the police could. He said he always would, didn’t he? 

The bills for the speeding tickets and the running of red lights were going to be atrocious.

“Okay.” Your answer is muttered as you peel back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Johnny’s lips. You believed him. Always would. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me.” His bright teeth show off a smile as your mirror. He kisses you heavily on the lips. Whispers against your lips, a promise. A vow. “As long as you put up with me, I’ll always keep you safe.”

“Soap,” Price yells, snapping the two of you out of it. “Get on with it!” 

The Scot raises a shocked brow and smirks down at you as you tilt your head and listen in happy confusion. 

“Y’know, those shots weren't half bad back there. ‘Specially after takin’ a tumble into the flowers.” Your expression freezes in denial as you’re lifted bridal style into the air. Speaking over the calls of police and firemen as they come to the scene, your voice monotones as your legs swing.

“...I missed two out of the three, you dork. That’s failing.” Johnny gapes in mock surprise and you refrain from snorting at the boyish glint in his eyes.

“Jesus, is it really? Hell, you’ll be comin’ for my job in no time, won’t ya? That’s one better than me!” 

You kiss him and feel the grunt through your lips.

TAGS ||

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[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 12 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, some angst, DESCRIPTIVE SMUT with maybe 1 pet name and 2 jokes, a bunch of reminiscing and relentless flirting (bc jungkook is dowwnnnn badddd), praise kink if you squint?, minors please don't interact

words: 7.6k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 12 ► fall into your eyes like a grave, bury me to the sound of your name

You and Jungkook were silent for a solid fifteen minutes after you let him into your hotel room. You were both sitting on the bed, but with so much distance between you that it felt like you were on two different floors.

After your phone on the bedside table lit up for the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes, Jungkook finally spoke up.

“Your phone keeps buzzing,” he pointed out helpfully.

“Yeah.” You sighed. Being silent with Jungkook oddly felt less draining than dealing with whatever was happening on your phone. “It’s Kai.”

Jungkook nodded, remembering your brother’s misadventures the last time you two talked. He was almost happy to use that as an excuse to dance around the elephant in the room a little longer.

“How is he?” he asked. “With his broken…”

“Leg, yeah,” you finished, leaning your head against the headboard. “He’s home. Mum’s grounded him. She’s turned off the router and taken his Xbox, so he’s texting me because he’s got nothing else to do.”

Remembering how angry you were when your brother got himself into trouble and upset your mum, Jungkook asked with a small smirk on his lips, “and you had nothing to do with the Xbox?”

You shook your head. “I don’t believe it’s an appropriate punishment to withhold things from your children. I think it makes them withdraw from their parents, especially when they’re seventeen like Kai. And it makes them annoy their siblings instead,” you paused. Then shrugged. “But I’m not a parent, so easy for me to say.”

Dignified, Jungkook cleared his throat.

“You’ve contributed greatly to raising your brother,” he said in a voice full of contempt for your family’s general tendency to use the nine-year age difference between you and your brother as an excuse to have you babysit for free.

Although your heartbeat increased at the sound of his confidence—and his almost reflexive habit of defending you from yourself—your outward appearance remained composed. It was easy to appear collected when you weren’t looking at him and he felt so far away.

“And look at him now,” you said, an ironic smile on your face. “A mess.”

Jungkook snickered. “He’s really not that bad.”

Sighing again, you ran a hand through your hair and felt your fingers get caught in the last strand, only adding to your frustration with your brother.

“Sure. He’s a good kid,” you said, looking up at Jungkook. “But he tries too hard.”

Jungkook saw the parallel, he felt it. You might as well have said that about him.

At last, it seemed like the time had come to address the real reason he’d come to your room. He knew that this casual chit-chat was only temporary anyway. But if he wasn’t careful, it would be the last time the two of you spoke to each other with such ease, such familiarity.

He cleared his throat and said, “this might be the hardest conversation we have.”

He didn’t need to elaborate, you understood. And still, you thought about his words for a moment and decided to disagree.

“Or the easiest,” you said. “I mean, everything important that we could have said, we’ve pretty much said already.”

He blinked, surprised at first. Then dizzy.

There were several things he wanted to say to you, but he expected to listen to you first. He knew you wouldn’t initiate a conversation about your feelings, but he’d hoped this was different, especially considering all that you’d said to each other on the street.

It wasn’t different. You sat across from him on the bed and you looked a little uncomfortable, but not particularly confounded.

He’d expected to find you grappling with questions, armoured with rightful accusations, but you appeared settled.

Maybe it’s because it’s been four years, he realised suddenly. He hadn’t been there to watch you build your defences. He hadn’t seen your walls grow.

He worried, suddenly, that nothing he’d say would mean anything to you. He worried that the only reason you let him into your room was to deliver the finishing blow—to tell him that you were done one more time.

He switched the arm he was leaning against the bed with; his right arm was slowly going numb. Actually, so was his left, and, if he was completely honest, his whole body felt a bit like it was floating away from him, but he tried to focus on the moment.

“Uh, w-we haven’t said everything,” he said.

You looked at him. “What else is there?”

“Two things.”

Inhaling sharply, you turned away. You did not really want to continue the discussion you’d had by the canal. In fact, you didn’t think there was anything to continue at all.

You’d walked away as soon as you realised that you’d come face-to-face with your break-up. And this was it. You’ve found the reason why this could never work. Why you and him together could never work. And it was truly simple: it’s because it hadn’t worked before. You already knew it, but you enjoyed the leisure of pretending that you didn’t.

All that you two had to do now, in your opinion, was reach a formal agreement that this would be it. You’ve explored each other’s boundaries enough during this tour. The time has come to stop. To go back to your normal lives, your regular jobs and duties.

However, now that he was here, there was hesitation behind your closed eyes. You had learned that the two of you had different ideas about why you broke up. And you’d spent four years boiling in them, convincing yourselves you’ve moved on from them, then facing them head-on when you really looked at each other again.

Perhaps there were a few more things you had to talk about, after all, before you could truly put this behind you.

Finally, you nodded your head once and told him, “okay. What’s the first thing?”

“The first thing,” he started, “is that I'm sorry.”

It was well known that “sorry” wasn’t always a heavy word. People threw it around like a pebble and watched it bounce off the surface of the water, rarely ever intending for it to sink, to reach the depths not visible to the naked eye. Jungkook had been one of those people many times in his life.

But the word he used here felt different.

It carried a weight that forced him to lower his head as he said it. As if all his thoughts had been poured into this sentence – this fateful “I’m sorry” – and the heaviness of it was difficult to bear. As if he’d assigned different meanings to each “sorry” in his head, and all these little pieces suddenly added up to one big word that took up the whole room.

“For not realising what I was doing back then,” he said, dissecting the apology, “and what it meant for our relationship.”

He figured there wasn’t much that you could say that would make it easier for him to breathe – the conversation by the canal, the bet, the apology, all of it was too significant to leave much room for oxygen in his lungs.

But you said, “I forgive you.”

And it felt a lot like you were performing emergency resuscitation and successfully maintaining his brain function.

He wasn’t certain if you’d said that because it was the right thing to say, or because you’d meant it. If it was the former, Jungkook would have rather suffocated.

“You do?” he asked, unsure if he was prepared for your explanation.

“Yeah,” you said. “I didn’t know that you weren’t—that you didn’t realise why—why we broke up the way we did. And it sucks that you didn’t, but…”

You faltered here and Jungkook was keenly aware how you’d said it sucks, but you’d really meant it hurt me. It hurt that he’d been dismissive, negligent, and heedless – and had the audacity not to realise it.

He closed his eyes while you finished, “it sucks more to know that, all this time, you thought I’d just walked away for no good reason.”

An apology was on the tip of your tongue, he could sense it. Although you had many reasons to be angry with him for being so impossibly stupid, you also felt guilty because all this time, he had thought you woke up one morning and suddenly decided you didn’t want to be with him anymore. Like it was your fault that he didn’t realise he’d been taking you for granted every day for months before you broke up.

You should have been angry with him. Instead, you thought you were responsible for not explaining your reasoning properly before you left.

He couldn’t even begin to describe the ache in his chest. He wanted you so much, but more and more he realised that he didn’t deserve you.

“I didn’t try to stop you,” he said before you could say anything else, because this was another element of his initial apology. One more thing he had to be sorry for.

You shrugged with one shoulder. Over the years, you’d come up with several reasons why he never fought for your relationship, not even considering that he might have assumed you had fallen out of love with him. At the end of every day, you simply thought he didn’t care anymore.

“I thought you were okay with it,” you said. “When I told you we were over, you just stood there. You didn’t ask why and I didn’t... answer.”

“I wasn’t okay with it,” he replied. “But I didn’t think there was anything I could do.”

With a thoughtful nod, you agreed, “there probably wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but I felt that way because I assumed that you—you didn’t want to be with me. That you didn’t care about me anymore. And you, uh,” he stopped here and waited for a long minute. Finally, he inhaled deeply. “You thought the opposite.”

You probably should have shouted at each other as you discussed this, you thought abruptly. That would have been appropriate. Maybe even healthy, all things considered.

But then, perhaps the realisation that you both had different views on why you broke up was precisely the thing that softened the impact. His hurt because you’d left him without an explanation, and your anger because he made you do it—they both took up outstanding amounts of space in your chests. They weighed you down. And they almost balanced each other out.

Perhaps you weren’t ready to shout just yet. Or not anymore.

Perhaps you’d left most of the shouting in the past four years ago. Now you were finally on the verge of closure.

That was the point, after all: the two of you boasted—really, there was no other word for it, you were both proud of it—that you’d never spoken to anyone about the details of your relationship.

That could have been admirable, of course, this utter devotion to each other and no one else. Except that, you didn’t talk about your relationship with each other, either.

“Do you think this is our own fault?” you asked. “We were good at talking about everything except… well, us.”

“I know,” Jungkook was quick to agree. You had both been like this from the very beginning—that’s likely why he was never fully aware of his behaviour. You’d always argued, but never about the things that really mattered. “I nearly threw up before I asked you to be my girlfriend.”

You did a double take, your mind racing to supply you with a memory that matched his words, but coming up short.

You squinted at him. “Did you actually ask?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but let it hang there, no words coming out for a good minute.

“You don't remember?!” he accused, his voice so high-pitched that it could almost shatter glass.

“I remember going on at least five dates before someone called you,” you explained, “and I heard you say into your phone, ‘sorry, I’m with my girlfriend.’ And that’s when I assumed that, huh. I guess I’m your girlfriend then.”

Jungkook could remember this exact moment. It was Sid who had called him because the two of them were working for Sid’s grandfather fixing his Camaro at the time. Jungkook had needed the money, while Sid simply enjoyed the ‘69 classic car.

The memory sent a shiver down his spine because he recalled turning Sid down. He had prioritised you over everything back then. What had happened to him later?

Regardless – in Jungkook’s mind, the timeline of your relationship was different.

“I vividly remember asking you on our second date,” he said.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you attempted to remember the very beginning of your relationship.

Your first date was the traditional movie and dinner—although it turned into a movie and the rain when you got stuck in the park. You recalled the whole day with near-perfect clarity.

Your second date was a week later, at the carnival in town. It took you three hours to get back to your dorms, because the event was held across the forest that separated the university campus from a small town nearby. Jungkook had insisted that you could walk home, he had claimed to know the way. And then he proceeded to get you lost within a few seconds of entering the forest.

All you could remember him asking you back then, was, ‘I know where I’m going, so trust me, okay?’ and that certainly did not include any terms that specified your relationship status.

Confused if you were remembering this wrong, you asked, “when we got lost on our way home from the carnival?”

“Before that!” he was even louder now, both of his hands in the air as he frantically explained, “on the Ferris wheel! I can’t believe you don’t remember!”

“On the Ferris—Jungkook, you had motion sickness the whole time we were on it,” you reminded him.

“I wasn’t sick,” he argued. “I was nervous.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “All you said to me during that entire ride was ‘please’ when we were at the very top.”

“That was me asking!”

“That was—” You laughed in surprise before you could finish the sentence. “Okay, well, you can see why I wouldn’t remember that, considering you didn’t use a lot of words to explain what you meant. I thought you were asking me to end the ride. Not that I could have ended it, but—”

“You said yes, though.”

You didn’t think you heard him right, his tone noticeably lower compared to the agitated screaming before. “Hm?”

“When I said, ‘please?’,” he spoke, “you said, ‘yes.’”

You watched him, considering it.

“I think I was asking,” you said and demonstrated, “yes?”

“No. You made a statement,” he disagreed, showing you, “yes.”

You pursed your lips, choosing to quit before this escalated into an argument.

“Alright, fine,” you said. “Maybe I read your mind, then.”

He scoffed, turning away. “And forgot about it…”

Nevermind taking the high road.

“Well, I didn't think it meant anything,” you argued, “you were—”

“I had a different plan. I was going to fully embrace The Notebook and dangle from someone else’s seat to ask you,” Jungkook said, “but for that to work, you would’ve had to go on the ride with someone else. And at that point, I couldn’t let you sit in that cabin with someone who wasn’t me.”

You could feel your cheeks stretching as an involuntary smile spread across your lips.

“That’s a little crazy,” you said gently.

“Please,” he replied, lowering himself on your bed until he was lying on his back. “It’s just crazy. I went on a binge-watching session of romantic films before our first few dates. I did my research.”

You knew him too well not to point out, “was it really only for research?”

“Alright, after the first few, I started to really enjoy them,” he admitted, earning a knowing nod from you. He smiled in response and continued, “but then I got to know you better, and I figured that if I serenaded you like Heath Ledger did in 10 Things I Hate About You, you’d break up with me immediately.”

Your laughter sounded so sincere and calming that Jungkook felt his smile widen as he turned his head to look at you from where he was lying on your bed.

“So I became a singer instead,” he said, encouraged by the lightness in your laugh. “You can’t break up with me if singing for you is my job.”

Your stomach performed an intricate Loop-the-Loop and then dropped, seemingly down ten floors, all the way to the lobby of the hotel.

Desperate, you tried, “you’re not—it’s not—”

Noticing you were about to downplay his words—either because you didn’t think he meant it, or because you didn’t feel comfortable knowing that he did—Jungkook changed the topic instead.

“Were you angry at me?” he asked. “For not chasing you after you left that time?”

Struggling to collect the remains of your thoughts, you spoke very slowly, “I... I was angry that you didn’t put in any effort while we were still together. After that, I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

“I did,” he said. Then, realising, he corrected himself, “I do. And I didn’t want to make the same mistake again today.”

Hesitantly, you asked, “how do you mean? Because I left today?”

He nodded. “I'm not going to wait another four years before we talk about us.”

“Jungkook...” you said, but the sound of his name on your lips caused your thoughts to jumble once more. Your words stuck to your throat as your heart threw itself against the walls of your chest. You hoped to divert the topic, “y-you said there were two things. What—what’s the second thing?”

“The second thing is that I love you,” he said in one quick breath. “I took everything we had for granted, and I’m sorry. But the truth is that even then I was—I-I’d never stopped loving you.”

A sense of déjà vu clouded your mind, while the rest of your body reacted as if this was the first time you’d heard him say this. As if the four years you hadn’t been together were long enough to start a new lifetime, and now you’ve met again, reincarnated into different people – Jungkook, the vocalist of a rock band, and you, the manager.

But, buried deep in your subconscious, locked away in a box that your brain dared not touch even in a dreaming state, was the memory of the first time he’d said these words to you.

It was spring. You’d been together for about five or six months at that point, and you’d skipped class together to go to the same park where you’d had your first date. You’d spent the whole day walking around hand-in-hand, reminiscing about the past, dreaming of the future, taking pictures of the freshly bloomed cherry blossoms, and picking up the pale pink leaves from the grass to throw them at each other.

During the car ride back home, you were so exhausted that you could hardly keep your eyes open. The two of you had been running around so much—his energy was infectious, you’d both acted like Golden Retrievers set loose—that your legs felt wobbly and unsteady.

After a few more minutes, you had lost the battle against yourself and settled more comfortably into the passenger seat, closing your eyes. Your mind was already beginning to fill with the bliss of sleep when Jungkook stopped the car at a red light.

He glanced at you, seemingly asleep on the seat beside him, and leaned in to press his lips to your forehead. When he pulled back, he noticed a pale cherry blossom in your hair and a soft smile on your lips.

It was nothing more than a whisper—“I love you so much”—that slipped from his lips because he thought you were asleep. Nothing more than an overwhelmed confession as his heart drowned in his feelings.

But, to this day, nothing has ever come close to making your heart beat nearly as fast as it had in that car when the light turned green and he drove back to your dorm, still thinking you were asleep. That first confession of love remained a secret between you, him, and the stray cherry blossom nestled in your hair.

Slowly, you opened your eyes as the memory tugged at each and every cell of your skin, bringing goosebumps to the surface. You looked around the hotel room before you dared to look at him again.

Contrary to what Jungkook believed, you didn’t appear collected because you were done. Or because you didn’t want to fight with yourself about wanting him anymore.

It was because you were tired of still wanting him so much in spite of everything.

You were tired of forcing yourself to let go. To move on. To be rational and responsible.

Tired of feeling happy about things that were probably inappropriate.

Tired of finding those things inappropriate.

But rationally, you knew that you had to leave this behind and return to your normal lives after this, regardless of what you wanted.

It’d be much harder—to an infinite extent—because this wasn’t how you’d imagined this conversation going.

Quietly, you broke the silence, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?” he asked, sitting up on the bed.

“We can’t...” the words trailed off before you could catch up. You tried again, “I can’t—we can't do this.”

He observed the battle behind your eyes and then spoke, very softly, almost inaudibly, “we’re not doing anything wrong.”

“We’re—"

“We’re the ones who put meaning to things,” he continued. Not to contradict you, but to reassure you. “If we say it doesn't mean anything, then it doesn't.”

You shook your head with a sad smile, the situation vaguely familiar.

“It’s never that simple,” you said. “There’s so much more than just you and me to consider.”

“It is simple,” he insisted. Then, just like back in your bunk on the tour bus, he asked, “do you want me to leave?”

Just like back then, you answered without hesitation, “no.”

“Then this can have as much or as little meaning as you want it to. I don’t give a fuck,” he said. “I’m yours. You are all I’m considering. And I’m staying.”

In less than a second, the determination in his voice made you realise that rational didn’t always mean reasonable.

Rationally, you knew you should have drawn the line. You should have left or told him to leave. Should have distanced yourself from him for the sake of your heart. Your job. For the sake of the atmosphere backstage.

You were aware of all the damage this could do. You were aware of the risk. Of the questions. Of the pain.

You were aware that you were having the very conversation that you’d stopped him from pursuing a few hours ago on the street. But your response to him was vastly different now.

Really, the situation felt different, too.

The second thing is that I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—

You couldn’t imagine yourself leaving.

There was no place in the whole world that you would have rather been in right now. And no one else you would have wanted to share that place with.

It felt reasonable to stay. And wish for him to stay, too.

Jungkook had to scoot closer on the bed to reduce the distance between you two, and as soon as he did, he leaned in right away. He’d hesitated before, got scared, panicked and changed his mind. Tonight, he would do nothing of the sort.

His lips touched yours before you could formulate a single doubt and his kiss effectively silenced all the noises and echoes in your head.

Truthfully, he knew that there was a third thing he didn’t tell you, but when you kissed him back, less tentatively than the first time on the bus, he couldn’t imagine ever saying anything to you again. Speaking seemed like an immeasurable waste of time.

Instead, he pulled you closer, his lips locked on yours as one of his hands held the side of your face. His gentle fingertips contrasted with the coldness of his lip ring against your lips as he touched the skin of your cheek like he wasn’t sure, not even now, that it was really you he was holding. His other hand found its way around your waist and settled there—the gesture so intimate, so familiar.

He kissed you and it felt inevitable. Like everything you’d been doing up to this point was meant to lead you here – even the break-up four years ago.

As Jungkook felt your hands on his chest, careful and barely there, he mentally cursed himself for wearing this white shirt yet again—the fabric was too thick for him to properly feel you.

Still, he recognised the ghost of your touch as though he’d never been apart from you. As though you’d always stayed like this, locked in a desperate embrace in the tenth-floor room of a hotel in Amsterdam.

There were endless somethings bursting persistently in his chest as he tasted you, deepening the kiss by bringing his tongue over yours. Fireworks and flames and entire conflagrations all wreaked havoc on his heart.

This time, there were no promises of five minutes, and no curtains to separate you from everyone else. When you whimpered quietly, in response to him pulling you up until one of your legs was thrown over his and you were seated firmly on his thigh, he was the only one who heard it. The only one who felt your heavy breathing on his lips as he kissed you.

And if, by a lucky chance, there was any oxygen left in the room, neither of you needed it as your holds on each other grew tighter, hands grasping whatever materials they could reach and pulling—until he took your shirt off, until you took off his.

Every single one of your nerve endings was focused solely on him—his taste, his scent, his touch, his warmth, the roughness of his dark jeans underneath you, the softness of the skin on his chest. Your body instinctively drew closer, prompting him to clench his thigh as he wrapped his arms around you even more tightly.

His lips gently trailed kisses down your jawline and onto your neck, and it was as intoxicating as it was overwhelming. He remembered your body—how could he forget when it haunted his dreams almost every night?—but he yearned to create new memories, to trace the lines of your figure that he’d memorised and bring them to life in a new and different way.

You helped his eager hands find the edge of your sports bra and had to briefly pull away from him to slide it over your head. He pulled you back to him as soon as you did, needing to get lost in your touch, to feel your skin against his.

Your hotel room was filled with so much electricity, the two of you could have lit all of Amsterdam up.

“There’s so much I want to say to you. So much I have to say,” he breathed against your lips while his hands caressed your exposed sides, tracing the familiar maps on your skin.

You pulled him closer by gripping the back of his neck and exhaled, “show me instead.”

The meaningfulness, or rather, meaninglessness, of the moment seemed secondary. You wouldn’t analyse what this symbolised or where you stood.

Instead, you’d analyse how kissing him—touching him, feeling his skin, hearing his breathing—felt good. How it felt right. Like you’d been lying to yourself by doing everything else but this.

Sitting on his lap as he held you firmly in his arms—essentially trapping you in his grip, in his scent, in him—you could feel the rest of the world fade away into the recesses of your mind that you didn’t consider important at this given point.

Focusing on the feeling of his tongue against yours and the firmness underneath you, you allowed the scorching heat of the moment to take control of your movements as you instinctively moved your hips against his and forced him to suck in a shaky breath.

You undid the buckle of his belt and he had to pull back just a little, breaking the kiss. His head was spinning, overwhelmed by your closeness and the rapid beating of his heart. It wasn’t the first time you had been this close, but it had been so long, and he’d wanted this so much, that it felt like he’d never done this before.

Noticing your trembling hands, he helped you with his belt by loosening his grip on your waist. As soon as your fingers reached the zipper of his pants, he grabbed your forearms—successfully halting your progress in ridding him of his jeans—and swiftly flipped you over onto your back on the bed.

Your eyes met for a split second as he hovered over you, silently exchanging a conversation that neither of you dared to voice.

He leaned in to kiss you again and allowed you to get back to the previous task. Kissing him back, you finally managed to lower his jeans to his knees, and the simple feeling of your touch on the back of his thighs nearly made him see stars. Leaning his forehead against yours, he squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip to regain his composure.

He briefly sat up to kick off his jeans—as quickly as he could, because the room temperature fell a hundred degrees when he wasn’t touching you—and you took a moment to trace the patterns of ink on his arm with your eyes.

You were with him when he got his first tattoo.

He acted tough in the tattoo parlour, but once the artist took you both down to the basement, all of his bravery faded. It was rather chilly down there—Jungkook was pouting when he took his jacket off, revealing his shivering skin—and he’d chosen his knuckles as a place for his first tattoo. It was going to hurt.

He knew that, in theory. But the way he squeezed your hand and bit his lip when the needle pierced his skin for the first time still surprised you both. You weren’t sure who was in more pain by the end of the session—him, from the fresh ink on his hand, or you, from how hard he’d been squeezing your hand.

Now, he had a full sleeve. And you felt a pang of pain in your chest, because there were so many tattoos that you hadn’t seen him get.

You hadn’t been there when the needle pierced his skin again and again. You hadn’t seen the way he closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and placed a hand on your knee—for support, for reassurance, for all-consuming love.

You hadn’t helped him apply lotion on the fresh ink, hadn’t teased him for being a baby, hadn’t been shut up with a kiss. You hadn’t traced the intricate lines on his skin with the tips of your fingers—careful, gentle, loving.

You hadn’t been there for four years.

But you were here now.

Just as your gaze reached his shoulder, your eyes locked on the patterns you’d never touched, Jungkook turned to you and caught you staring. The dazed look in your eyes before he had even done anything affected him in more ways than he could count.

With a wide, shameless grin and a raised eyebrow, he leaned into you again. You noticed right away that he was about to say something that would surely ruin the moment, but you pressed a hand to his chest, stopping him before he could.

“Don’t,” you warned. There was humour and light and excitement in your eyes.

Chuckling as if you’d read his mind, he pressed a kiss to your lips and mumbled, “wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Liar,” you exhaled against his mouth as he quickly slid your biker shorts and panties down your hips, your back barely leaving the bed.

“Honest,” he countered in a soft whisper, his lips hovering over your neck as his hands returned to your waist and he aligned your hips with his. “I have better things on my mind.”

It was hard to determine which one of you was to blame for ending this unnecessary bickering by inhaling too sharply – you, who reached the edge of his boxers and pulled them down, removing the last layer of clothing between you; or him, who gently caressed your thighs, drawing deliberately slow, teasing circles that inched closer to your core.

He managed to kick off his boxers without letting go of you—which was a talent that was difficult to advertise, but a talent nonetheless—and kissed you deeply. One of his fingers slid over your thighs and traced over your folds, causing your body to twitch in anticipation as you gripped his forearms for support.

His touch felt foreign and familiar at the same time – he knew how to find every single one of your nerve endings, but your body seemed to have forgotten that he knew.

It was almost frightening how he sensed exactly how to touch you to elicit a response—the pillows of his fingers effortlessly reached the bundle of nerves on your clit at just the right time to make your back arch off the bed involuntarily, seeking more friction. Your breathing grew louder every time he applied more pressure to his touch.

It really didn’t feel fair at all—the way he appeared to know your body better than you did, even after all these years.

A frustrated whimper escaped your lips when he added another finger, picking up the pace. He alternated between gentle rubs and teasing caresses, and his touch made your head spin, but you wanted more of him. All of him.

He only inserted a finger for a fraction of a second before lightly brushing it over your folds—the motion so sweet and then suddenly not enough. Your nails were about to draw blood from how tight you were gripping his arms.

“Don’t tease,” you exhaled, more a plea than a command. “Not now.”

There was a hint of promise here, and Jungkook smiled before nodding. He kissed your lips, but instead of pulling away, he increased his pace—toying with your clit with just enough pressure and at just the right angle that you could have cried out if you hadn’t been biting your lip so hard.

“Fuck,” was all you could respond with as your eyes rolled back from the intense sensation. “Jungkook—”

This time his name was encouraging. It was begging. It made him groan as he leaned in, already almost painfully hard as he rubbed your clit, spreading your wetness with his fingers.

“Hmm.” He touched your neck with his lips in a sloppy, wet kiss that sent shivers down your spine. “You look so beautiful.”

“Fuck,” you repeated, the relentless ministrations of his fingers rendering you incapable of a more coherent sentence. “Fuck.”

And just when you felt the pressure in your stomach building, he pulled away abruptly.

The loss of contact made you exhale with enough agitation for it to resemble a whine. This earned you a smirk from him as he pulled back slightly, convinced he was just doing what you’d asked because he did indeed stop teasing.

To be fair, it was for his benefit, too. Your body, your warmth, your heavy breaths—he knew it all teased him more than he could ever tease you.

Struggling to maintain his composure, he bit his lip and reached for his length, giving it a few languid strokes.

The first glimpses of concern started to creep in when he realised he had no protection, but he saw you nod at the pile of suitcases by your bed. Confused initially, he rolled off of you and approached what appeared to be a welcome basket on top of the pile.

“Don’t tell me…” he mumbled in disbelief as he picked up the wicker basket—decorated with an appropriate white bow.

“Yeah,” you confirmed his thoughts and sure enough, among complimentary bottles of shampoo and tubes of toothpaste, he found a box of condoms.

Under different circumstances, he would have embraced his inner teenager and dropped everything to giggle at this, but he tried to stay composed. That is, until he looked at you and saw that you were biting your lip in an obvious attempt to hold back laughter.

“Well, this is quite convenient,” he remarked, encouraged by your amusement, as he climbed back on the bed. “Almost meant to be, no?”

“Don’t spoil the moment,” you warned, pressing your lips together to conceal your smile. “Just hurry.”

“Say that again for me?” he teased. “I love it when you beg.”

Undeterred by the punch on his shoulder that he received in response, Jungkook laughed and ripped the bag open. He unrolled the condom onto his length with relative ease despite the slight shake in his hands.

You reached out to help him, and he realised he might actually pass out when he felt you touch him. The tips of your fingers were on the tip of his length as he brought it closer to your entrance.

He shook his head and warned breathlessly, all of his previous confidence gone, “I’m not—not going to last long.”

He could tell as much even before he entered you, but after you nodded—giving him voiceless permission—and, slowly, almost agonisingly, he slid inside, he realised he may have miscalculated.

He might not last at all.

Lowering his head as he paused, not even halfway in, he bit his lip in concentration and closed his eyes. He couldn’t get himself together when you looked like that under him—almost too lost in the feeling of him, in the pleasant stretch, in the way you couldn’t help but clench around him as your walls anticipated fitting all of him in.

“Fuck,” he exhaled shakily as you tightened around him. He really needed to get a grip. More sternly, he repeated, “fuck,” and, with a more forceful thrust of his hips, he fully bottomed out.

You threw your head back at the sudden motion, needing a second to adjust to the stretch. This was helped greatly by one of his hands as he caressed your hips, your waist, your breasts while he gave you as much time as you needed. Hė toyed with your nipple between his fingers and the gentle touch and the utmost admiration in his dark eyes sent sparks straight to your core.

After you quietly urged him to move, it still took him a whole minute before he felt confident enough to pull almost all the way out and then push back in, testing both of your limits. He looked at you—because he couldn’t not look at you underneath him, not even if it meant he’d lose himself right away—and the expression on your face was so dreamy that he didn’t even realise he shuddered in exhilaration.

Your head was still thrown back as you held your lower lip in a tight grip between your teeth. When you slowly opened your eyes, your gaze met his right away. And there was barely anything—fuck it, there was nothing—that he could have done to prepare for it.

He thought he may as well have died then and there because nothing in his life would ever compare to the colour of your eyes when you looked at him.

Swallowing the groan in the back of his throat, he leaned in to press his lips to yours as he began to move. It was slow at first, then his hips gradually gained more speed as he felt your warm walls pulling him in. Your fingers found their way to his hair, getting tangled in the dark strands as his hips pressed into yours harder—not just faster, but with more force, too, each brush of his length igniting a new fire inside of you.

He made it impossible for you to catch your breath as he kissed you with as much fervour as before, not once slowing down the pace of his hips. Everything he did was in response to you—the way you arched your back, your whimpers in between the messy, open-mouthed kisses, the way you pulled his hair, the way you held onto his shoulders.

He knew that if he lost concentration, he’d unravel immediately. It’s been so long, too long. He’s wasted far too many nights in foreign beds, chasing highs that had always felt forced and artificial. He wasn’t prepared for the real thing. He wasn’t prepared for you.

“Fuck. I’d missed you, my love,” he whispered hazily between kisses, each word accompanied by a thrust of his hips, “so fucking much.”

You felt shivers run down your spine again. If you could have formed a sentence—let alone voiced it—you would have reciprocated.

You would have told him that you missed him too. And you would have told him how much it scared you, the way this feeling was so intense that you seemed to disregard everything else.

But you couldn’t focus.

His length stroked your walls with an exemplary balance of force and tenderness. His tongue was in your mouth, the kiss hot, heavy, messy. His hands were all over your skin, warm, eager, relentless.

He filled your head with stars.

You could not speak, you could not say anything that wasn’t a breathless whisper of his name every time he pulled away to give you both a chance to inhale.

He understood you without words, however. And the response you had to him was about to tip him over the edge. His movements became too fast to be precise, his thrusts grew sloppy, his breathing got heavier, his groans louder.

The knot in your stomach formed much faster than you would have liked. You wanted this to last longer, but all of it felt reckless—dangerous and outrageous—and so good—too­ good—that you broke the kiss, a strangled cry of his name passing your lips as a warning that you were close.

“Yeah?” he whispered, kissing your jaw as he pressed his thumb on your clit. The rubbing motion matched the speed of his hips and the intensified pleasure caught you so unexpectedly that you could no longer control how loud you were.

Your heavy breaths mixed with curses and broken fragments of his name—he knew these sounds would echo around his mind for every waking moment—as your back arched off the bed and into him.

And when he heard you cry out, when he felt your grip on his arms tighten as your body jerked forwards, your hips meeting his, then lowering again in uncontrollable muscle spasms, when he felt your walls clench around him so much that they nearly stopped his movements, he almost whined, sensing his own high, brought on by the feeling of yours.

There were curses spilling from your lips as you came and you held onto him so tightly that he knew he’d have bruises on his arms tomorrow morning. Already, he couldn’t wait to look at them. He couldn’t wait to do this again.

His hips drove into yours—sloppily, accompanied by loud sounds of skin slapping on skin—until he fell over the edge, groaning loudly as he spilled himself into the condom. His body twitched as he pushed into you—one final stroke of your soft, sensitive walls—then he stilled completely.

His face was inches from yours, and you were the one who reached out to connect your lips, turning his groan into a dangerous whimper. Your kiss burned through him like electricity and, impossibly, seemed to prolong his climax.

He kissed you back like it was the first time, still powerless from his high, still feeling like he was floating, unable to come down, to pull out, to stop kissing you.

Breathless, you whined against his mouth and felt him stir inside of you, sparking a sudden new fire in your stomach before the previous one could fully go out.

He wanted you, needed you still—maybe he’d never stop. But it was the way you responded to him, the way he felt you need him as much as he needed you, that made him growl into the kiss as his hands reached for the parts of you that he'd touched hundreds of times tonight already.

It was almost desperate, the way you were still clinging to one another—like you’d never touched each other before and never would again.

Finally, you pulled away to inhale. And to, hopefully, recover.

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispered, summarising all that you were about to say.

You both chuckled, giddy, excited, almost euphoric.

He rested his forehead against yours and pressed another soft kiss to your lips before slowly pulling out, and stepping back to discard the condom.

In no more than three seconds, he was back on the bed next to you, pulling you to his side and kissing you once more.

It was three seconds then, he decided, that he could survive away from you.

For a good minute after that, the two of you just watched each other, your chests rising and falling as your bodies tried to fathom something that your minds failed to grasp.

Suddenly, you shook your head.

“What?” he asked. His lips were stretched into what felt like a permanent smile.

“Nothing, I just… it would be very difficult to explain where we were if someone noticed us missing,” you said—your words humorous, but the meaning behind them serious.

Even though you smiled as you spoke, Jungkook swallowed and nodded, solemn all of a sudden.

“I know,” he said. “And I don’t care if anyone knows. I only care that we do.”

You ran your tongue over your swollen lips, preparing to say something that he knew he wouldn’t like. But he was paralysed as he watched you. He swore your lips were the colour of his dreams, and he had to clench his jaw so he wouldn’t lean over and kiss you again.

He forced himself to roll onto his back and spoke up before you could, making sure his voice was as nonchalant as possible, given the hurricane inside his chest, “can we—can we not talk about that right now? Can I just stay here instead?”

You looked at him—which was incredibly easy when he wasn’t looking back at you—and forgot, for a moment, that you had to reply.

He looked almost ethereal like this, with his head resting on the pillows next to you, his hair tousled, stray curls sticking to the droplets of sweat on his forehead, his lips pursed slightly as he stared ahead. A part of you wished to take a picture, to hold onto this moment forever. But a different part of you didn’t want anyone else to witness him like this, not even the lens of your phone camera.

He suddenly turned his head to look at you and you blinked, averting your eyes as you remembered that you hadn’t spoken.

“Hmm. Yes,” you said, the word scratchy as it caught in your dry throat. You cleared it and tried again, “okay.”

Jungkook hummed somehow ambiguously and looked away.

“What?” you asked, confused by the look on his face.

“I thought you’d still tell me to leave,” he admitted.

You sighed. “You should. But I want you to stay. I’m fine with doing what I want tonight, however stupid that might turn out to be.”

He ignored the doubt in your voice—he was getting good at that—and looked at you again. He knew you probably couldn’t even begin to imagine the sort of fire your words ignited inside of him, and just how far the sparks travelled on his skin.

“Then I hope you know,” he said, “that I’m fine with only getting ten minutes of sleep tonight.”

Quietly, you replied, “I think I’m fine, too.”

“Yeah?” he asked, briskly turning to his side and propping himself up on his elbow with renewed excitement.

His abrupt jump made you chuckle despite your best attempts to remain serious, and his grin widened as he brought his hand to the side of your face and leaned in to kiss you once more. Then, twice more. Then three more times—in perpetuity, he hoped.

He knew that he was blessed to have experienced a lot of happiness in his life. But nothing came close to the feeling of your lips on his as the two of you played around in your hotel bed in Amsterdam, two nights before his band’s inaugural performance in The Netherlands during their first European tour.

This was a dream, it had to be.

And he was determined to do everything to make sure he never woke up from it.

chapter title credits: sleep token, “like that”

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#jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook fanfiction #jungkook au #jeon jungkook x reader #bts fanfiction #bts au #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #bts rockstar au #jungkook rockstar au

[somerandomdudelmao]

It's Cass appreciation time!!! Don't get me wrong, I think we all appreciate you exactly all the time, but I wanted to write it out because I'm filled with SO MUCH LOVE RIGHT NOW THAT I PHYSICALLY CAN'T CONTAIN IT.

So!

First and foremost, I think you're a wonderful person. I may not know you personally, but the way in which you go about things - not just in your comic, but the way you interact with people - just leaves me in awe. You're so gentle but in the most chaotic way possible, and it makes me so happy to be alive. You're supportive of people and the things they create, while also just... spreading the joys of not just the fandom, but so many other things too. You're one of the people on here that unites the fandom as a whole, and it's so inspiring! You bring so much love here, and I admire that about you.

Another thing that I admire is that you know what your limits are and that you take care of yourself. I see so many people these days who don't - some who just forget, some who don't realize they're doing it, and others who blatantly refuse to do so - and it's frustrating to see. I want to help them (aka: wrap them in a blanket burrito to protect them from the world, offer coping skills, give them the support they need- the list goes on), but I can't really do much of that without burning myself out. Which is why I love to see you take care of yourself - whenever I see those asks that are like "reminder to drink water / rest / take a break", it reminds me that I need to do it too, and I'm positive that it reminds others as well. That, and it's refreshing to see!

I also love how creative and spontaneous you are! The plots you come up with, as well as the characterization and overall flow of the story - not to mention the PERFECT amount of fluff and angst you give us (WITH THE PROMISE OF A HAPPY ENDING??? OH MY GOD)- leaves me floored every time! I don't know a whole lot about writing and portraying things, but I've learned a bunch just by what you do. LETS ALSO REMEMBER ALL THE SMALL DETAILS YOU PUT INTO THIS - THE PARALLELS, THE LITTLE SHOWS OF AFFECTION,AND JUST- EVERYTHING??? GHDBDKDBSJ

AHH!

You inspire me to create, and whenever I have the confidence to post what I'm working on, I'll be sure to tag you (bc all of it is related to your comic)!

I have so much to say, but not nearly enough words to fully express it! But this is also getting much longer than I thought it would, and as much as I want to sing you praises all day, there's not enough time. So to wrap this up:

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for all that you do. I'm sure it's not easy - you're a whole person outside of this, and everyone has bad days - so, again, thank you. I may not know you personally, but I still care a great deal about you. Please keep taking care of yourself! Drink some water, have a snack, take a nap, make some time for yourself - whatever it is, have a fantastic time hon. You deserve it.

Keep being amazing, and I wish you the best!

Until next time, dearie ^-^

Oh god I don't even know what to say jcdtujdsukcdhb thank you yhank you thank you so much you just brightened my day I

[synthetickitsune]

can i please request how svt would make up with their s/o after an argument? if you can't write for all the members then i would like to ask for either 95 or 97 line. thank you so much in advance! <3

angst, my beloved <3 thank you for requesting this!

svt + making up after argument //gn!reader

S.Coups ❧ He hates fighting with you for many reasons. It gets too heated, and it’s too important, too close. And he doesn’t have any sort of authority to use as a leverage. Not that he usually does or uses it, but it helps ground him with fake confidence. He doesn’t have that luxury here. As a result, every argument with you shakes him to the core. Afterwards he trails after you, and it’s so annoying sometimes that it almost leads to another fight. But by then he’s too unsure about anything that isn’t his love for you to keep it up and he closes off. He won’t meet your eyes because he can’t have this right now, he’ll give you an easy victory that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. This is not a battle, something to win or lose, but he doesn’t like the feeling all the same. He swears the pout on his lips isn’t on purpose. It certainly works in his favor, though. As annoying as his constant hovering is, seeing Seungcheol lose confidence in his own kitchen is the most heartbreaking thing. You motion for him to come closer and he comes into your arms easily. He grows more comfortable. He apologizes again, and so do you. It’s endearing, his curious glances any time he wants to follow you. He needs to know you’re okay, and this time you let him. It’s easier to talk things out in the buzz of going about your day. He listens to your rant about what really upset you as you wash the dishes, and he opens up about why he’s been so snappy with you lately while he folds the laundry. To keep the mood going, you keep cleaning and talking. There’s nothing like doing chores to remind you you’re in this together and to get the house in order. Maybe you should fight more often.

Jeonghan ❧ In the silence and invisible distance after, he knows what caused the rift. He doesn't like giving space when it already feels like there's too much of it between you and him, but he knows when it's necessary to take a step back. It might be a weakness or a strength but his emotions are his own responsibility that he alone takes care of. Jeonghan needs to sit down and analyze; put things into perspective and create a mental model and draw parallels. Complex understanding of a problem is what he excels at, after all. He sorts out the mess in his head, thinks about what hurt you and comes up with the best way to explain himself - not to make an excuse, but to show his intention and apologize. He tells himself how to navigate through this next time. The other half, what hurt him, he sorts out as well. He is understanding. He can't let what you don't mean or you're right about to get under his skin. He can set his ego aside for a while. When he approaches you, it’s difficult for you. It feels like you’re chasing after someone miles ahead. You also want to deal with your feelings so efficiently. Maybe it's just hard because you long for him so much after arguments. Because you know the fight wasn’t worth it. You talk and you listen and you apologize to each other. While his apology flows like a river, yours is more like a mountain stream, rushed and crashing against your mental blocks, hurdles in communication you can't get over. But he still listens and he nods, holds your hand and helps you get your point through. You know he understands without you speaking and you’re grateful. Even if it breaks your heart you can never truly meet him in the middle, Jeonghan always being one step ahead, doing much of the work for both of you.

Joshua ❧ It's all about timing. Arguments are rare, and so the way away from them is all the more tricky. It's hard to get Joshua riled up like this, enough for a fight to take place, and it just so happens that he lets his other little frustrations slip into the arguments. The aftermath is both of you on edge still long after apologies were said. You want to make up, he wants to make up, but if you try too early, you'll snap at each other all over again without meaning to. Leave it alone for too long and the hurt will deepen. From an onlooker’s perspective, you could be a pair of naughty students, exchanging notes during class and waiting for each other's reaction. Joshua keeps stealing glances at you, you try to glance at him. It's all to see if it's safe to approach the other already. In an ideal world, you'd always get it right and end the day over cups of warm drinks, talking about the problem, resolving it, coming up with suggestions what to do differently to avoid this happening again. But you're only people. So sometimes it’s snark met with sarcasm, riling each other up again instead - only this time, the venom slowly disappears and you push each other’s buttons on purpose. You like that he can meet your level of sass, he likes how clever your comebacks are, and vice versa. You don't notice how close you've inched to each other until your lips all but brush against his. It's a wake up call for both of you. Sometimes the conversation takes place over coffee at the table, sometimes it happens in the bed as you bask in the afterglow. Either way, your fingers are intertwined and your voices are soft. You make up with kisses just as tender.

Jun ❧ This is why he always carefully considers whether the issue at hand is worth arguing about. Oftentimes he rather backs out, gives in simply to avoid the fight - or more accurately, to avoid the fallout. It’s awkward. Even after everything’s been said and settled, there’s tension between the two of you that he’s unused to. He can’t come up to you and act like nothing happened. It’d feel too inappropriate, even if that’s what he’d love to do. There’s nothing else to say, though. Words are pointless if you know how he feels and he knows how you feel. Everything is settled - only the emotions linger. What he does is on the line between his usual kindness and a love language. A bowl of cut fruit, watching the episode of your show first, or him picking only the whole, unbroken chips to feed you. It's all for you, to show that he cares, if you're ready to accept that. It melts your heart even if you’re still wound up from the argument. You take the fork and stab the fruit, not him. You don't roll your eyes and stop yourself from getting annoyed that he wants to appease you. You open your mouth and you don't bite his fingers. But sometimes you wish he would just apologize. It's not like either of you was wrong. It was mostly just an exchange of opinions. But still, sometimes the simplest solution is the best one - you apologized too. It's three damned words. That's not gonna kill him. But then you see Jun cut the fruit with the star-shaped cutter, or he hums the opening of the show, or he chuckles at the one chip that kind of looks like a heart. You can only sigh and smile and let go of it all. This is who you picked. This is who you're gonna stick beside.

Hoshi ❧ He might not follow you around, but his eyes do. Soonyoung is long past the stage of being shy around you, but he reverts back to it after arguments. His eyes never leave your figure unless you look at him. It's pointless, he knows it's obvious he's staring. Yet he can't help it, a part of him is worried about you leaving if only for a second. And it's not fair. It's cheating because he looks so small and vulnerable, and you know he is - know that you are too. How could you ignore him? You sigh, half exasperated, half fond, as you close the distance between you and sit down next to him. He has the decency to look sheepish when you do. He's moving ridiculously slowly when his arms reach out to hug you to give you a chance to refuse, sometimes it makes you angry that he acts like you’re the only one whose emotions matter or like you’re gonna refuse his affection. As if you could live with the heartbroken expression he'd make if you pulled away. Not that you want to. He tucks you under his chin, cushioning your head on his chest. His arms are wrapped securely around you and the muscles on his legs flex with your every move, ready to use all his limbs to keep you trapped. You'd almost think you did try to run away and he only just caught you. He murmurs into your hair about how much he loves you, the dates, wildly unrealistic, he'd love to take you on. He promises you stars, moon, and the sun, he promises you forever. He'd do anything to keep you happy and laughing as you are now. You know he's as serious as he can be. What you also know is that the only way to shut him up now is with a kiss. So you do.

Wonwoo ❧ You're both trying too hard and that might also, eventually, become a problem. Trying too hard to be mindful of the other to the point you ignore your own needs and feelings is never a way. When the argument happens, it feels inevitable. It leaves you both feeling defeated. So you agree to give each other space before discussing things further. And you both think pretty much the same thing - what is the other thinking? You're circling back to where the problem started but with the result of that fresh in your minds, you don't make the same mistake. Somehow you end up in the same room, on the same bed, lying on your backs and staring at the ceiling as you talk. Telling each other what conclusions you came up with, what you think the other wanted to say and felt, you learn a lot about each other. Wonwoo takes advantage of the situation. He's opening up anyway, he’s already showing vulnerability, he might as well compensate for struggling with it otherwise. So he does. He uses the mellow atmosphere after an argument to show you his heart, to explain a little about how he thinks, gaining confidence with each of your reassuring nods and the way you really listen and care. You don’t judge and neither does he. He tells you all the things he wanted to say but didn’t before, throws in a tiny thing or two that he secretly loves about you. He lets you in, comforted enough by the safe bubble enveloping the two of you to do so. Each fight is a step forward to never fighting again, he said once. No matter who it is, being honest without holding back is hard and takes a lot of courage. With your hand in his and his knee bumping against yours, however, even conquering the world seems possible.

Woozi ❧ Arguments are never easy on Jihoon. It's enough that he has to deal with them at work - because really, the negotiations he's gotta do sometimes are nothing more than pointless fights. Therefore at home, he tries to be as efficient as possible dealing with any issues that come up. Partly because yes, he's tired, but for the most part because he knows how patient and tolerant you are towards him and he wants to give back. Which doesn't mean he doesn't snap occasionally and full on arguments don't happen, and then he's quick to apologize. You talk about it more, get over it, and then it's up to you and Jihoon to each decompress and process everything. You might busy yourself or leave to get some space, but he stays right where he is. He leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. He lets time wash over him as he thinks and takes in the silence, finally indulging in the absence of sound. When he's had his fill, though, he thinks about how it must seem to you for him to tell you that things are alright, and then he makes no effort to move or approach you. So he does so now. It feels awkward when he finds you - should he apologize again? Will you understand? Isn't it too late? You notice him hesitating and call him over. He relaxes seeing your smile, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head. He mumbles something that vaguely resembles a sorry. He asks what you've been doing, and he lets you get away with it if you pull him with you to show him or glue yourself to his side. He listens too intently and thinks hard about questions to ask to really mind any skinship you're doing even if he'd grumble any other time.

The8 ❧ His first step is always to assess the situation. He tries to feel out if it’s space or his presence that you want. Either way, it’s not far from the truth to say he approaches you as if you were a stray cat. Once it's safe to assume you'd welcome him being in the same room, he still keeps his wary distance. He lets you lead. But Minghao's also only a human and the tension where there should be peace upsets him more than the argument itself. He creeps towards you slowly, and at first it's only brushing his fingers against yours or bumping his leg with yours as he sits down next to you. Like a flowing water, he slowly envelops you without you noticing. Soon enough, his arms are around your waist and his head is on your shoulder, planting a gentle kiss to your skin, nuzzling into you, asking for forgiveness and reconciliation. He's not opposed to talking things out, he prefers it, actually, but only after everything is settled and you're okay and back to being partners, not angry lovers sharing a home. He likes to have his hands on you while you talk it out after some time. He brushes your hair back, his thumb caresses the back of your land and draws reassuring circles on your skin. It's as nice as it is distracting. After arguments, he always feels the need to reassure and be reassured. They leave a sense of unease inside him that unsettles him as much as the fact that he lost control and fought with you - it's inevitable, he knows, but he's a fighter and if the opponent is the human nature, so be it. There is no rock that can withstand the flow of a river, after all. But until then, he makes sure to hold you tighter and cling while he has an excuse.

Mingyu ❧ He really is a shadow of you and you have to bite your tongue to keep quiet. Sometimes it makes you snap at him, other times you've gotten over the argument and it's just cute. His hesitant steps and the second of questioning warmth as his hands hover over your waist before they make contact. His chin on your shoulder while he asks if there's anything he can help you with - anything he can do to make it right again. And sometimes you're still upset, and you want to tell him to go to hell, but how could you - with his voice so soft and low, so gentle, and his hands slowly encircling your waist until he's hugging you. He pulls you close and sways with you a little, he apologizes again, with a kiss to the top of your head. He really is willing to do anything - take on your share of chores, go over the argument again, anything but leaving you alone. And it's not fair because his puppy eyes and dejected look anytime you try to ignore him always wear you down in the end. He promises to do better, he whispers the words into your hair through a pout at being denied your gaze meeting his. He is well-aware of his shortcomings and where you were right, and where he was, and it means everything to him that you, too, understand and without promises, without empty excuses, you silently acknowledge what was said and work with it. The little steps forward are appreciated, he tries to take notice of them, and puffs out his chest with pride whenever you smile when you notice his own efforts. Making up with Mingyu is whining and pouting and clinging, but it's also understanding and making an effort to make sharing a home, sharing your lives, easier.

DK ❧ He’s shaking - his entire existence is. His hands are trembling, he’s taking shallow, shaky breaths, and his eyes keep darting all over your figure, trying to see if you will flinch away if he touches you now. It’s only been a couple of silent minutes since the argument; call him weak and clingy, but he can’t take it anymore. He calls your name quietly, pleading for you to look at him, and he can’t help the primal instinct to pull you close once you do. Seokmin holds you like you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t, and he feels like he lets go of all the built up tension with the long exhale that slips past his lips once your arms wrap around him and hold him just as tight. He murmurs apologies, he stumbles over his words trying to explain, but after all the effort, he knows it pointless. You understand, and he understands too when you kiss his jaw and snuggle closer. After you part, he keeps babbling to keep the silence away. He hates it, he can’t stand it right now, but he stops talking so fast as soon as he sees you opening your mouth to say something too. He pays so much attention to you it almost feels overbearing, but you let him, because you analyze his every move too, trying to guess how he feels. Even if you talk things out, there’s this uneasiness that lingers and that makes him overcompensate for what happened, to prove that he’s worthy of you - he just kind of messed up. But that might lead to you feeling the same way, and it’s a downward spiral until it reaches a critical point where it hits you both how much this seems like farce, and you laugh, and you love each other nonetheless. You’re still smiling when you kiss.

Seungkwan ❧ He needs a good long time to cool down. At first, he hopes you know he didn't mean half the things he said. It's ridiculous, right? You know better than to trust him when he gets upset. As much as his pride and stubbornness hold him back though, his love for you eventually pushes him forward. Seungkwan approaches you and tries (and fails) to pretend like nothing happened. He tries to strike a conversation but he himself is too awkward - not to mention you, still hurt and shaken by the argument. You’re trying your best too, both of you miserably trying to get over the argument simply through relying on the strong foundation of your relationship alone. But when were you known for not holding grudges, a vice that you both share? He sighs and he takes your hands in his. A quick look into his eyes is enough to know he's dropping the charade. You drop it too and listen to him patiently explain his point of view. This time when he puts on a mask, it fits better. He tries to make it fun - he hates confrontation with you, and he finds reassurance in making you laugh. He holds your hand throughout and listens carefully when you speak, laughs when you insert jokes of your own. He finds it hard to let go of your hand. It's necessary sometimes but as soon as he can, he holds you again. Your hand in his, arm thrown around your shoulders, around your waist and pulling you close to himself. He makes you laugh in any way he can, he reminds you how much he loves you so there's no room for doubt in your mind about his feelings. He gets shy when you do the same, but it means more to him than he could ever explain.

Vernon ❧ At the end of the fight, both of you apologize. It's a habit at this point really, because it's what always happens. As justified as the reason for the argument might’ve been, nothing is as important as your relationship and nothing could ever warrant losing your temper at each other. Vernon asks if you're okay when you go through things again, calmly this time, and you know he means the two of you, and yeah, you've worked it out, things are alright again. And perhaps that's enough for him. He goes about the rest of his day as usual, though maybe his smiles are a little wider. You appreciate that and it's nice to fall into your routines, to return to normalcy of everyday life in your household. Then again, you can't help but wonder - is everything alright? Would he tell you if it wasn't? Maybe the way he closed the cupboard was a little louder than usual, maybe there's more to the tension in his shoulder than exhaustion from his morning workout. You call out his name and it's enough to alert him that something’s wrong. You explain, and he chuckles - you know he'd be more distant if something was bothering him, he reminds you. He told you he's fine, so he's fine - simple as that. He's warm and reassuring when he hugs you tightly and rocks you from side to side. You might even get a kiss. Just to make sure you have no doubts that he’s truly over the argument, he makes the time to spend some extra quality time with you. You tell him it’s not necessary, that his reassurance was enough, but you'll never say no if he wants to hold you. It’s nothing special, just a couple hours spent much like they would be on a day you’re both free. And that’s all you need, after all.

Dino ❧ He feels at loss after you fight. Apologizing and talking things through can only get him so far. The tension in the air lingers and he doesn't like it. His first impulse is to go buy flowers, maybe some sweets, but then he'd have to leave and that's out of the question right now. Part of him is irrationally afraid you'd take him leaving the wrong way and he'll do anything not to make things worse. He could tell you, ask if there’s anything you’re craving right now - and maybe that's not a bad idea at all. He brings it up to you and blushes a nice shade of red when you laugh. You end up coming with him, because the air is clearer outside, not as stifling. It's easier to remember the good times as you walk through the familiar neighborhood. Your hand finds his on instinct and he knows it made you as surprised as he was when he felt your touch. You don't pull away though. In the shop, he lets you go to grab yourself some treats while he does the shopping for necessities. He finds you at the snack isle when he’s done and follows your requests, throws into the basket even the things you're hesitant about trying - you said things are okay between you, so it’s alright to have adventures again. But then you need to compensate for the snacks, so you pick up some of the fruits you've never tried, and maybe also the cereal... Needless to say this wasn't the cheapest grocery shopping but the fun and having the comfortable atmosphere between you back is well worth it in Chan's eyes. He doesn’t forget the flowers - even if he has to run to the shop again without you so it’s a surprise. As he closes the door, he smiles. You’ll be there when he returns, and you’re as eager for him to come back as he is.

#seventeen reactions #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #svt scenarios #svt reactions #requested

[bat-connoisseur]

I turned your Baldurs Gate 3 characters into furries. Sorry. Actually no I'm not I won't pretend anymore.

General notes and specific species under the cut.

Astarion: He is a Ghost Bat! I like to think him being a vampire and being a bat are entirely unrelated, it's just a coincidence and he's honestly pretty mad about it. Ever since I first started playing bg3 I had him assigned as a Ghost Bat or a Spectral Bat in my brain, just arbitrarily, and I went for the former just because the colours work.

Gale: He's a Eurasian Lynx! I had to make him a cat. I just had to. And I trawled through the wikipedia pages for pretty much every type of cat and Lynx was about the only one that fit in my brain. The fluff kinda evokes his beard and hair I think, and I almost didn't have him have proper hair, just the fur, but in the end I wanted to be consistent about it so he got it. Peep the greying muzzle because mans is stressed and dying.

Karlach: She's a Bongo Antelope! I knew I wanted her to be some kind of large hooved mammal, because of the horns but also because their builds and general sturdiness really suit her I think. It was a tough pick, there's so many cool ones, and when sketching I was actually going to have her be a Mountain Nyala, but I changed my mind last minute just because the colours of the Bongo fit SO well. They're also my favourite antelope. Let me have this. She's so cool and she gets to be one of my favourite animals.

Lae'zel: She is a Pterosaur! My specific reference was Dorygnathus, but I was fairly loose on the details and so she doesn't super resemble them beyond the teeth and tail. I wanted her to be something prehistoric since the Gith are aliens or something (i dont know dnd lore that well), and so I wanted her to be in her own sort of category apart from the rest so, prehistoric! I considered making her a dinosaur but the idea of a Pterosaur just really appealed for whatever reason. Kind of parallels their dragon riding if they can fly, I suppose? And their Enhanced 10 Foot Vertical Leap.

Shadowheart: She's a Hare! Very specifically a Hare rather than a rabbit. Hopefully that comes across. I wasn't super sure what to do for her honestly, but in several scenes she has these big scared eyes, and she's generally just kind of having an awful time and being harmed by the gods for the whole game and I was like 'hey I know an animal that looks like it's been personally slighted by the gods' and so Shadowhare was born. There is a part of me that wishes I'd made her a cat for the warrior cats joke though.

Wyll: He's a Pine Marten! I just kind of got it in my head he should be a Mustelid of some kind, I'm not sure why, he just has that kind of vibe to me? Maybe it's the way he moves, maybe it's his skill at killing, maybe I'm just biassed because I love him and I love mustelids, who knows. I looked through em all and I didn't want one of the bigger sturdier ones like a Wolverine because. Strength stat of 8. So I went for one of my smaller favourites, the Pine Marten. The reason he's not an animal with horns naturally like Karlach is because I still wanted them to look out of place on him! I toyed with giving him wings (because they're cool) but ultimately didn't wanna stray toooo far from Pine Marten.

And that's all! Perhaps I'll get around to anthropomorphising the non origin characters, but who even knows. Halsin would almost be too easy. I could make Jaheria a cool ass fox or something though. Much to consider. If I do them then I'm gonna be doing my Tav Deimos and my Durge Lethe though. That's da law.

#baldurs gate 3 #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #karlach cliffgate #Lae'zel #gale dekarios #Shadowheart #Bg3 #dandy doodles

[nanamimizz]

tags: fem reader, drinking, reader is drunk, kishibe is a good boyfriend 🫶🏼, age gap (kishibe is older than reader), no warnings, sfw.

kishibe pulls to the bar you said you would be at with an easy parallel parking job. he just got off work, so he’s in his suit and tie when he steps out of the car. dark eyes catch you, sitting on the curb equally as drunk as your friends -but instead laughing and yelling you were…asleep. head tucked into your arms, even from here he can see the steady snd deep breaths you take as you snooze sitting on the sidewalk.

kishibe can’t help but laugh.

that’s what gets your friends attention, blinking at with bleary eyes as they let him walk closer and closer to them with purpose. mai, you’re old roommate from college scratches her head - she knows that you had a boyfriend that you described as older, tall and had a weird blonde dye job but it doesn’t click until she sees the most recognizable sew in scar from his lip to his cheek.

“oh!” she shouts, shaking you awake and making the rest of the girls jump. “that’s him! that’s her boyfriend!”

she’s met with more exclamations of surprise, glittery and lined eyes looking up at him the way little kids look at fish at the aquarium, all kishibe does is nod as he finally gets close enough to get a good look at you. you had a dress on - a tight little number he didn’t know you had and pumps with the buckle around your ankle. you had curled your hair, he recognizes and gets close enough to you that he touches your shoulder and begins to wake you up.

you wake up with a whine - the sound makes his lip twitch in amusement and you open your weary eyes only to say his name oh so sweetly.

“kishibe…you came.”

he huffs, sounding like the chuffing sound that tigers make when content - when pleased and responses,

“you called me. course’ i came.” he doesn’t take a moment more than to pick you up. pulling you up by the hand then tugging you, flipping you around like you weigh a couple of grapes to him until you are comfortable cradled in his arms. kishibe turns to your friends, all gob-smacked and too drunk to hide it as they stare at him with wide eyes.

“what about you ladies? you got a ride?” you tuck your head into his shoulder and neck. you smell his cologne and sigh against his ear. it makes him shiver, feeling your lips press against his stubbled neck as you begin to leave soft kisses on the skin.

he will be stained with the red of your lips on the way home.

“we have a taxi waiting - we just wanted her to get pick up first. she wouldn’t stop crying for you.” hana said looping aoi’s arm around her. the girls that you know so well all look up at him with a smile ; a little sleepy, a little drunk but genuine all the same.

“you’re really good to her. she likes you a lot. good night kishibe.” the girls all walk off to the bright yellow taxi that’s been waiting and he watches them all clamour into the vehicle as amusement dances in his chest at the indignant whines of someone stepping on someone else’s shoe. kishibe stays there with you in his arms and your friends bickering in a taxi until the car starts to move and it disappears on a right turn down the street.

“they’ve been wanting to meet you - sorry it when we’re all drunk.” you slur, eyes bleary and half open from tucked against his neck. he hums, and says he doesn’t mind as he begins to make his way to the car. you are limp in his hold and you make it easy for him to settle you in the front seat as he does your seat belt and crosses the car swiftly to get himself in the driver’s seat. when sits down kishibe laughs, letting his arm be weighed down by the soft weight of your head.

“you’re clingy when you’re drunk, huh?” his voice low and soft as he turns the engine on. you make a sleepy noise, one that would have been a scoff or a giggle if you were in your right mind.

“yeah. and sleepy.” you confess, letting your eyes shut at the feeling of being surrounded by the man you love - his warmth, his scent filling you up and making you fall deeper into a bubble of comfort. a hand comes to tuck away a strand of hair that hung in your face. gently as a calloused finger follows the path to carefully caress your ear.

“rest your eyes. i’ll try not to wake you up when we head inside.”

you fall asleep shortly after that and kishibe chuffs amused and lovingly at you.

#lamb.writes #kishibe x reader #kishibe fluff #chainsaw man x reader #chainsaw man fluff

[int-writersmind]

Hanging On The Telephone

Pairing: Peter Parker x Gn!Reader

Sequel to Potential Customer (but could be read as a stand-alone)

Summary: After lending Peter your favorite vinyl, you wonder when you'll see him again...to get your record back of course! No other reason...

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.8k

Author's Note: I imagine the album that Reader gives to Peter as Parallel Lines by Blondie but it's neutral enough to be whatever you want it be. The opening track is Hanging on the Telephone so use that info to your discretion.

Also I'm buzzed on two glasses of rosé editing this so bare with me lol.

~

It had been a week since that day at So-So Records, a few days since you met Peter Parker, a few days since you lent him that album. You try to not be glued to your phone, anxiously waiting for a response like a desperate thirteen-year-old, but still you wonder when he’ll reply. 

It was early one morning when the text finally came. You, in your apartment’s kitchen, sipping on your favorite hot beverage startling when your phone chimes.

I think I’ve found my new favorite album, read the text, This is Peter by the way. Peter Parker?

You respond: I had a feeling, You know, I don’t lend my albums out to just anyone.

Then I must be special.

You smile to yourself, covering your face when you realize what you are doing.

“Are you smiling at your phone?” Your roommate says, coming out from her bedroom. “Funny video, or that guy from the store?”

“Uh, the latter, he finally got back to me.”

“Ooh, so what’s next?” Your roommate goes to pour a glass of juice from the refrigerator, you turn in your chair to face her.

“I guess I'll get my record back.”

“Boo! That’s so boring! Make it interesting, call him and set up a meeting or something.”

You roll your eyes, “Calling? What am I? Fifty?”

“I think there’s something classic about calling, much more personal than texting.” Your roommate plucks your phone from your hand. You reach for it but your roommate pushes you back with great ease. “It’s easy, I’ll do it for you.”

“No! Don’t you dare!”

Ring ring!

“Hello?” You hear Peter’s voice faintly from your phone’s speaker. Your eyes go wide in fear, your roommate tosses your phone back to you, and you almost drop it like it was a game of hot potato and the spud was literally burning your skin. You suck in a deep breath before–

“Hey-Hi Peter…ugh so sorry I must have ah–misclick–”

You hang up instantly, much to the shock of your roommate. “What-Why the hell did you do that?!?”

“I don't know! I got nervous!” You start to pace back and forth. “Shit, I-I got to call him back.”

“Yeah, duh.” You throw a pillow from the couch at her on your way back to your room.

With the click of the door, you let yourself lean and slowly slid down onto the floor. Phone in hand you stare at the call screen, fingers hesitating on Peter’s number. You take a deep breath before finally pressing Call.

“Hello…”

“Hey, everything ok?” Even through the phone, Peter’s kindness shines through, like you can almost hear his smile through the phone. You kinda feel like a dick for panicking and hanging up on him earlier.

“Yeah, yeah, I was just…being stupid.” You shake your head and cover your eyes with one of your eyes.

“No, don’t say that.”

“It’s fine,” You go to change the subject, “So, the album, any standouts.”

“Well, I would definitely say that opening track has to be my favorite. Every time it ended I just wanted to restart it. A definite addition to my playlist.”

“Hmmm, that’s something I would like to listen to.”

“I’ll show you sometime,” You try and fail to suppress a smile, “Though it’s pretty much one giant mashup of styles and genres.”

“The playlist of a madman.” You joke.

As you listen in, you can hear wind passing by on Peter’s end. “More like the playlist of someone horribly unorganized.”

“Ha, wish I could relate, but I’m much too anal to let that happen.” You move your hand away from your face, letting your head fall against the door. “I know this is gonna sound crazy but what are you doing…I mean because, I like, hear the wind passing by and...”

“Uh, er, I’m running…yeah a nice little run.”

“Oh let me leave you to your run.” You say, “We can always talk again later.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Police sirens go on by on the other end, “Ah, I think I should hang up now, don't want to run into something crazy.”

“I get it, text me some time?”

“Will do.”

“Oh and Peter,” You say. “We should set up and time and place so you can give me back my record.”

“Just when I get use to playing it all the time,” Peter responds sarcastically, “I’m kidding, I’ll let you know when I can.”

~

At work, you couldn't help but sneak glances at your phone, one part hoping another text would come through, another part hoping that it wouldn’t.

On your lunch break you had an extra few minutes left before clocking back in, you decide to visit your store’s listening room. Well it was more like the back of the store where there was a wall cut-out, curtain, and small table with a record player and a two pairs of headphones. You pick up a small selection of 7 inch singles, trying to figure out what kind of mood you were in. you pull the curtain close to give a smidgen of privacy, picking up one of the headphones your co-worker swore he cleaned.

Halfway through one 7 inch, when you decided that you were in a different mood, you feel the curtain move, you look up to see–

“Hope you don’t mind,” Peter, in the flesh, fully cements himself inside the admittedly tight space. “Your co-worker said I would find you here.”

“And found me you have,” You switch the 7 inch to something else, a song that Peter might know. “Have some time to spare?”

“For you, of course.”

You look away, trying to hide your blush under the guise that you were reaching for the other pair of headphones. Peter graciously accepts, placing them atop of his head, as you set the record player to start.

As the track starts, you sideways glance at Peter and he does the same to you. You laugh it off as the opening notes begin to go through your ears.

It takes Peter a beat before he notices what song is playing–the opening song from the album you lent him. You sheepishly smile at his recognition before slowly moving to the music, a basic shimmy, then a head bob, then as the song reaches the first chorus, mouthing the words. Peter just smiles at you, and gives a modest head bob to the song the whole way through. 

As the song fades out, ending you and Peter’s private little listening party, you both take off your headphones and just stare at one another for a moment. “You know…I would love to keep playing music but…”

“Oh yeah… I was just in the area and I just–decided to pop in.”

“Without my record?” You say sarcastically.

Peter shuts his eyes in embarrassment. “Oh yeah…it’s just..um…god I honestly just forgot it–”

You place a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him from going on, before quickly removing it. “Don’t worry about it…” You pull the curtain just slightly back, glancing at your co-worker who was glancing at his watch repeatedly. “You can always just…return it to me at…my place...Oh my god, that was so forward–”

“No! I mean yes? Uh…yeah I can definitely return your record to your place.” Peter stumbles out, “I mean I already know where you live.” Peter’s eyes go wide in shock, his face turning red.

You just chuckle to defuse the situation, at least you weren't the only one who felt so awkward in this situation. Your skin felt warm, your heart was beating so fast it felt like it would drill straight through your ribs. 

Is this what it felt like to have a crush? Oh my god, did you actually just say crush? But, you didn’t know what else to call this feeling you had towards Peter. Hell, you barely knew the dude, only sharing a few things with one another, but at the end of each encounter, you were just itching for more. It was kind of embarrassing but honestly, who cares.

“How about you come over to my place around 8:30-ish? My roommate’s working the nightshift.”

“I can make that work.”

“Cool” You say. “Plus, I promise to tell you exciting little factoids about the album and others if you let me.”

“Oh please do so,” Peter leans in close, quite close actually, “It would make little nerd me so excited.”

For just a split second you think about leaning in, closing the gap between the two of you with your lips– Now that was too far, crazy talk. 

You settle for a quick glance at his lips before looking at his eyes, clearing your throat before turning to leave the listening area. 

You lead Peter to the front of the store, hands wringing in front of you, as you turn and face Peter.

“I’ll text you my apartment number, 8:30?”

“8:30-ish” Peter responds with a finger snap. You do the same with a nod of your head, as you watch Peter leave.

~

Why did you agree to meet at your place?

You think about what you proposed at the record store, standing alone in the middle of the living room in your apartment. You didn’t know whether or not to dress up so you settled for what you wore at work today with a long cardigan to cozy it up.

You pace back and forth, chewing on your fingernails on one hand, admittedly, overstressing about tonight. Was this like a casual drinks thing? A nice meal paired with casual drinks? Or was it really just a simple handoff and ‘Thanks for lending me the record, I never want to see you again, buh-bye!”

You stop short, pushing all those thoughts and then-some out. You decide to go simple and order a New York delicacy–pizza. If this was something then it would be fun, casual. If it was a simple handoff then, well, more pizza for you. A win-win honestly. But as you place the order, deep down you knew, you just knew that this wasn’t gonna be a simple handout.

~

Knock-Knock

Man that pizza delivery guy definitely deserves a great tip for speed, efficiency–

“I assume this is for you?” As you open the door there’s Peter, pizza in one hand, record in the other. “Or I just paid and stole someone' else's dinner.”

“Our pizza if you’ll indulge me?” You take the pizza from Peter, and with your other hand you gesture for him to come inside. “Oh, how much do I own you? Since the pizza was my idea and all.”

“Don’t worry about it,” As you close the door behind you, Peter does a quick 360 of your cozy shared space. “This is–”

“Small?”

“Nice. I was gonna say nice,” You walk the pizza over to the wall that served as the kitchen, getting your finest paper plates. “It would be more strange if you lived in some Friends level apartment.”

You notice Peter walking to another section of your living room, where your music set-up was, a fine turntable and modestly priced speakers. Which all sat upon a piece from IKEA that held you and your roommates record collection.

“You ok with soda?” You call out.

“If that’s what you're drinking,” Peter glances at you, “Then that’s what I’ll be drinking.”

You nod as you prepare a pair of pizza on separate plates and pour your favorite soda into slightly dusty glasses.

As you make your way to the main area of the living room, you set everything on the coffee table before standing next to Peter. “And to think I thought you weren’t a serious record collector.”

Your lips form a straight line, nodding your head, “If I let the wrong people know I secretly love collecting vinyls, they’ll never leave me alone.” You joke.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Peter hands you the borrowed record, which you take from him. You squat down, looking for the right place to put it, Peter follows you downward.

“While we're here…maybe I can show you something else?”

“Hmm, some music that will change my life?”

You roll your eyes, “No, just my personal faves.”

Your fingers skim over a few titles, before you select one, some indie, folky singer you actually saw in person. “But only if you wow me with some factoids, as promised.”

“Of course, I never break a promise”

~

A third record plays as Peter and you are lost in conversation, the scraps of pizza lying on the coffee table. The two of you are close to one another on the couch. You with your head resting on one hand, elbow resting on the back of the couch, Peter holding his glass in front of him.

“...And once I had the record in hand it made the long lines and freezing temperatures worth it.” You turn and hide your face in your hand. “God, I just realized how crazy that sounded.”

“No,no, that was a great story,” Peter lightly places a hand on your leg. “I can tell you're very passionate about this and I bet,” Peter scoots in close, “You really love working at So-So.”

You glance away before facing Peter’s smirking face again. That smirk that makes your stomach tie up in knots. “I mean why else would I work long hours for shit pay. But meeting certain customers also makes it worthwhile.”

“Like clueless customers who come in for some obscure album from the 70s that he doesn’t even bother to buy?”

“Yeah, even customers like that,” You remove your other hand from your head to rest on Peter’s, trying to ignore the burning sensation inside of you telling you to stop. “I know this is stupid but…I’m glad you walked into So-So.”

“Can I say something stupider?” Peter makes a face that makes you laugh. “What I meant to say,” Peter takes your hand, “I’m also glad I walked into So-So.”

The two of you just stare at one another, and it’s like you can almost feel a magnetic pull towards him. Like when the two of you were leaning on that wall at So-So, or when he walked you home and his fingers brushed your thigh, or in the listening room when you just wanted to seal the deal. You had so many thoughts racing through your mind it was hard to focus on the moment. 

Peter leans in closer, bringing you right back into the now, You close your eyes as his lips ghost over yours, his breath falling over your lips–the record stops, end of the side.

“Leave it.” Peter whispers before pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss was messy, a little hungry, as if each other's lips were the only way to satiate each other’s appetite. Peter places his cup on the coffee table as he brings one of his hands to cup your face.

His lips, god his lips, were coated in the artificially sweet taste of the soda, making him even more irresistible. You couldn’t help but let your hands wander up his chest, your fingers playing with the top button of his shirt, the closest to his neck, wandering fingers pushing themselves inside, feeling warm skin.

Great minds think alike as one of Peter’s hands goes to your waist, his long, slender fingers, going up your shirt, pressing lightly on the skin. You can’t help but sigh at his touch, as his hand slowly travels upward. You swing one leg over both of his, so that you’re basically straddling him, letting your hands go to his neck, as both of his hands fall to your waist.

Ending the moment too soon, Peter pulls away from you, letting his forehead rest against yours, but casting his gaze downwards as to not look at you. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Now why would you say that?” With one of your hands, you use your thumb and pointer finger to gently push Peter’s face upwards by his chin, causing him to look you right in your eyes. “I wanted you to kiss me. Hell, I've wanted to kiss you since you walked me home.” 

“It’s…it’s not that I regret kissing you, I’ll never regret that…it’s just…” Peter sighs, “I don’t know what this, the two of us, can be after tonight. I don’t know if I’m in a position right now for something…something more serious.”

You chuckle a little, “Bold of you to assume I wanted to ask you to be my boyfriend right now.” You say with a smile, you let your finger flick down his bottom lip. “I can do causal, Peter Parker.” You lean in close, your thumb blocking your lips from his, your voice lowering, “Can you?”

Peter sighs into your mouth, a smirk forming on his lips, “I can, but can I ask you one thing?” You nod your head, “Can I borrow some more of your records? I think your taste is starting to rub off on me.”

“Only if you promise to return them to me.”

“If this is what a return looks like…then count me in.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Read Part 3-> Fragile (warning includes smut!)

Thanks for reading! Ah, I can't believe I finally did the sequel to Potential Customer, I already have the last two parts written (since I wrote them in tandem with the og) so expect those soon, but this one was strangely difficult to write. Anyway...anyone want some smut w/ this pairing? That's coming soon, since my fever dream venom peter smut post got so many notes so quickly, lol. Anyway bye void!

masterlist

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #insomniac spider man #insomniac peter parker x reader #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #peter parker x y/n #ps4!​Peter Parker x reader #spider man 2 ps5 #ps5!peter parker x reader #spiderman remastered #peter parker fluff #insomniac!Peter Parker #insomniac!peter parker x reader #Spotify

[warsamongthestars]

One of the most interesting things about TCWs Rex's character arc struggles is that, he's constantly put into contrasts.

Rex, as we know him, stands to be the main representation of a Clone Trooper. He's the first major named CT Character, that isn't Commander Cody, who doesn't have any ties to the films (Unlike Commander Cody), and thus can act and be written with far more freedom to explore.

[ You can't write Commander Cody too much by the end of the day, because one, years of expectations weigh, and two, he still has to shoot Kenobi at the end of everything. ]

Rex has two major conflicts in his arc, that represent the three defining points of clone troopers:

Loyalty to their Brothers

Loyalty to the System

Loyalty to themselves

Let's have some examples.

Our first major touch up with this, is the exact Opposite of all three: Sergeant Slick.

He is not loyal to his brothers (And gets a lot of them killed, whilst blaming the Jedi), he is not loyal to the system (He's a traitor), and he's not loyal to himself (He will make a lot of claims... which are unsubstantiated, because he gets a lot of people killed for purposes of greed and perceived slights).

This one is your easy Villain. Its easy to see, via Slick, that Loyalty to Brothers, Systems and Self is very simple.

But TCWs takes it a step further into complication.

Cut Lawquane, a deserter, is not loyal to the system (because it certainly isn't loyal to him), is loyal to himself, but is neutral when comes to brotherly loyalty.

( I say neutral, because he was willing to slay Rex if it meant staying free and his family safe. He did stop, because he's true to himself, and the self he wants to be isn't someone who kills people... Its just that sometimes, what is wanted, and what it is needed, isn't always the same thing. )

This is the first major bang up to Rex's Character Arc, because now we have a decent enough brother who is absolutely Not Loyal To the System that Rex is. And eventually, Rex lets him go, showing that while Rex is Lawful Good--he leans more towards good, whilst still retaining lawful plausibility.

This step slapped Rex, but it was a surprise he could easily, just simply, file away and not think about too hard. Deserting is going to happen when you're in an army of millions, and if they're off to be farmers instead of soldiers, well that's okay and a very nice thought.

The real kicker was Umbara.

One could argue that the Lola Sayu Mission should've hit Rex, but instead of Rex, it hit Fives the hardest (And with good reason). It's probably why there was an implication of a fallout between Lola Sayu and Umbara ("Just like Old times, Rex.")

And Fives becomes a contrasting challenge:

Loyal to Self

Loyal To Brothers

Neutral to Disloyal to System

Fives would bend the system until it breaks if it meant saving his brothers and more. He's the Chaotic Good to Rex's Lawful Good.

Rex is painfully upright and loyal to the system, so when one of his best and closest brothers decides "fuck this", it shakes him up.

Especially when Rex is finally confronted with how rotten the System gets: by General Pong Krell.

To contrast the contrast, on other side of Rex is Dogma, who is Fives' opposite. The Lawful Neutral.

Loyal to the System above all Else.

Neutral to Disloyal to Brothers.

( It does not help that Anakin Skywalker only recognizes Lawful as being Obedient rather than "adherence and or comfort to a code or set of rules" and thus draws more parallels between Rex and Dogma, than Rex and Fives. )

The Umbara Arc throws Rex through the whole loop, with all its conflicts. Especially the challenges it would make to Rex's whole character and showing him how far things can go.

Until finally, Rex finding what lines to draw in the dirt when it comes to "Loyalty to the End".

... But not enough to save anyone.

Then comes the Conspiracy arc, and while we don't know Rex's side, we do have implication of the aftermath.

The coverup of Fives' death (Because it would've had to been), by brother no less (Another big thing), and with the chip arc, which Rex did look into--would've put Rex up against someone he could not and would not possibly be capable of working through or against: Anakin Skywalker.

( Obviously for narrative purposes, Skywalker can't be stopped less TCWs became an AU instead )

Rex finds that his closest and brightest was labeled traitor and terrorist for his attack on the chancellor, via the very same bulletin points that Rex's character lives by, and it would immediately put him up against Skywalker.

The reason being, is that Skywalker is close to the Chancellor, and likely told Rex to drop any investigation.

And through speculation based on aftermath episodes... and What we know by this point...

I bet that Rex did not want to lump Anakin with Krell as a "System Problem". Because Rex worked with Anakin, and Rex's character falls in line with Anakin, and to consider Anakin to be part of the problem would go against Rex's character--thus, it is "unthinkable" and much easier to simply... Believe that Anakin has the best intentions.

( Even if that came at the cost of Fives. )

( Even though it would come at the cost of the 501st in the future--Rex only did enough that it would save his Life, and Ahsoka's, but nobody else's. He pays dearly for that comfort in Anakin at the cost of Fives, and the cost of Everyone. )

Moving to S7... and the Bad Batch.

Rex comes up against his absolute Opposite once more--in Sergeant Hunter, and the various Bad Batchers.

We've hit full circle.

Hunter commands a small squad that he pretty much lets do whatever, whilst Rex hangs on commands and commanding. Hunter is Evasive, Rex is Honest; Hunter gets stressed by Command, Rex does not.

Hunter is endlessly snarky, whilst Rex is straightforward. Hunter loses his faith midway through Mission, and Rex does not. Hunter's appearance is against all regulations, whilst Rex is clean shaven.

Hunter wasn't made for command, he just wasn't the stronger personality in the Batch to cause problems, whilst Rex is trained and made to command.

The one thing they do have in common, is loyalty to brothers, and the difference is--Rex doesn't hang on to anyone in lieu of the bigger picture, but Hunter does, existing in the smaller pictures.

( That's the TCWs implication-- If I went into the TBBshow, Hunter would not be coming out nearly as good. )

With the other batchers, Rex comes up against each one being individually against an aspect of his character.

Tech is disloyal to the system, he's as far from any sort of clone soldier you can get, and he's not even dressed for it. Tech comes in as a research first.

Wrecker is disloyal to self, bolstering about his skills and making light of the situation before it crashes on him. His disloyalty isn't a case of selling out--its a case of simply not considering himself in any measure. He puts others above him.

Crosshair is disloyal to brothers. He makes it a point to start shit in the middle of a mission, question authority, making disparaging remarks, and attacking a sense of self. The difference here is that, instead of accumulating falsehoods (like Slick), or physically attacking--he attacks the comforting falsehoods that a clone trooper would take on out of loyalty to brothers, system and self. If you're a brother, why don't you act it. If you cared so much for this one guy, why did you leave him behind. If you were that good in your little system, why did the specialists get called in. ( Crosshair is also a dick, but one can understand why he does things. )

Each Bad Batcher serves as a challenge to Rex's character. They are as far from Lawful as possible--but they are Good.

And then there was Echo.

But Echo doesn't serve as a challenge to Rex's character. If anything, Echo might serve as the "reward" for Rex's character arc. He saved at least one Brother, and one of his closest.

...

Unfortunately, Rex's full character arc wasn't ever really fully realized, because he is, fundamentally, a satellite character for other characters to bounce off of, even if those characters are other Clone Troopers.

( hell, Rex serves to contrast Cody, and neither of those too really had full Arcs )

Its why Fives took more attention in Umbara than Rex. Its why Ahsoka gets off scott free at the end of the day but Rex doesn't.

Its why when certain points of Jedi pop up, particularly that even our main character Jedi aren't really all that Lawful Good and do fuck up and waste a lot of brothers' lives for it, that Rex does not intervene.

Because, his character was never given that development to step in and tell someone to "Hey, stop, you are going to get people Killed."

A full Arc would've allowed that, and he wasn't afforded one.

A post TCWs Arc for Rex to get that Development, to fully understand all he went through and implement it into a new character arc, was implied with Rebel's Rex... but is currently unfulfilled.

( Don't be shocked that I don't consider TBBshow to count. )

But there ya go, a nice sum Analysis on Rex.

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #the clone wars #the bad batch #tcws tbb arc #umbara #captain rex #analysis

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (III): Ready For It?

Imagine Aemond is sent to seek for Dorne’s support just in the moment you ascend as Princess of Dorne. What's going to be?

Warnings: violence, drama, smut--fluff endings.

***

• Prelude.

If there is something the new Westerosi king detests is the bloody council. But what angers him more is the idea of losing a throne that, in his mind, is rightful his—even if his own father never acknowledged this.

“Lords”, the silver haired young man, in his fourth and twentieth year of life, shorter so the one occupied in the throne, “We have received concerning news that the one who unfortunately is my sister by blood, Rhaenyra, has been gathering support from the East. This can only mean that uncle Daemon’s strength has not dissipated as we were led to believe. As much as I loath to waste my time looking at your ugly faces, I pray some of you will come with a resolution.”

A man named H/N raises his hand, almost promptly. Aegon looks interested at the man.

“We may have failed in bringing Dorne to our Kingdoms, sire, but they can be our allies. Their strength and wit will certainly be a plus to ours.” He carefully adds then. “Dragons will not be enough to win this war.”

Silence seems to reign over the Council Room as the king has all eyes on him, waiting whether he’s about to lazily throw his temper or if he’s buying the idea. It hardly surprises that he looks at his brother, lord Aemond, in look for advise.

“Well?”

“I can go there and do the diplomacy. It’s certainly easy, especially when I have Vhagar with me.”

The same lord H/N clears his throat and says:

“My lord prince, with all due respect, but Vhagar’s own sister was not enough to frighten the Dornish. It would do well to remember they bow to no one.”

Aemond clenches his jaw. Though he sees reason in the man’s speech, he does not like to be put in his place. But the Master of Coins carefully inserted an element few would have remembered.

“Perhaps we better have in mind that right now Dorne is… divided. The former prince H/N has been buried and his daughter, Lady Y/N, has succeeded him. But not many are willing to support her claim.”

Aegon scoffs, detesting the parallels. But Aemond eagerly says:

“I believe we can play this to advance, my king.”

The king, already impatient, waves his hand dismissively:

“Do what you can, Aemond. We need the Dornish.” He says unwillingly.

The Council is thus dismissed.

***

• The Dornish Throne.

You are sitting on the throne room, watching the view of Sunspear with preying eyes. Although the Dornish has long accepted that women are as capable to rule as any other man, a pretender has been trying to make the transition of power difficult for you.

Dressed in orange colors, with a dark veil covering your y/c hair, you wait for the arrival of your council. Having arrived earlier for this meeting, you are too preoccupied to let yourself sleep at peace.

This pretender attends by the name of Dorin and he is the illegitimate son of your uncle, who had been long dead and gone by the time the throne was passed to your father. He now claims that he has a better right than yours, specially considering that illegitimacy in Dorne is not an element to prevent succession.

What worries the council, who’s been loyal to you, is your sweet nature. Most of them have said that an evil will not grow if not cut before it’s rise. Diplomacy, you were told, is not helping your case.

Not intending to be underestimate, though, you know what should be done. You remember that your father, whenever he wanted to prevent a war, ended it before it started by using that sweet weapon most Dornish are known for.

So here’s your chance to assert yourself. You invite the said lord for a meeting. Despite the others desires to a public exhibition of force, you will remember him—as well as others—that sweet you may be, but you are viper nonetheless.

And vipers do not bow, do not bend, do not break to anyone.

***

• Dragons & Vipers.

Knew he was killer first time that I saw him. Wonder how many girls he had loved and left haunted. But if he’s a ghost then I can be a phantom, holding him for ransom…

In the midst of this mess, it’s been spotted a shadow of a large dragon. Your men prepare for worst, unwilling to trust dragon riders as they did for centuries. Your orders, however, are: do not attack under no first sign of threat.

You are very familiar to the situation happening in King’s Landing not to suppose what would be the prince’s intentions. Against your council’s wishes, though, you opt to meet him right outside of Sunspear’s palace, after your people have been safely evacuated.

As Aemond flies, cockily so, he is surprised to meet you and you alone before the opens of Sunspear, waiting for him. Something about your posture gets him off guard: you transmit a sensation of peace, bearing a sweet demeanor, the remaining of innocence in your eyes that reminds him of Helaena… every inch goodness in such a regal person.

Dressed in typical Dornish robes, you feel the eyes of this silver prince, who looks less like a fire dragon than you’d have thought. As his gazes study you, you study his, noticing his rogue posture, the mischief in his semblance—every characteristic that warns you this is a troublesome prince.

Indeed, the impressions cannot be positive to you. The size of Vhagar frightens you, but this is a year where you’ve been taught in the hard way how to play a poker face.

Much to his frustrations, Aemond Targaryen cannot read you.

“Princess Y/N of Dorne”, he greets you respectfully, every inch a lord. “I pray to find you well this day.”

“My lord Aemond of House Targaryen”, you surprise him by already becoming familiar with his name. You flash him a smirk. “A pleasure to meet the kinslayer.”

The silver-haired male has the decency to blush upon hearing the sobriquet out of your lips.

You make me sound like a sinner, princess.

“Gods know there are more to this world than rumours unfairly spred.”

You still feign a courage your soul lacks by responding easily:

“Where there is smoke, there is flame. In your case, literally so, lord Aemond.”

The prince clenches his jaw, the only sign of his irritation.

“Then am I refused the right to present myself formally so?”

“No, not at all”, you smile at him in a sweet way that disconcerts him. “Why’d you assume this easily, sir?”

Aemond ignores your question. Formalities must be followed and had his brother not been in need of Dornish aid, his emotions might’ve had the best of him.

“Princess Y/N Martell, I am Lord Aemond of House Targaryen”, and here he bows rather theatrically, although his one good eye holds yours in such an intent gaze that your face flushes. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My brother, Aegon II of Westeros, to short his long titles, has sent me with the due purpose of linking our houses in an alliance.”

“I see”, it’s what you say. “Welcome to Sunspear, Dorne’s main seat for Dornish princes and princesses, Lord Aemond of House Targaryen. I invite you to follow me inside so we can have a supper together. You must certainly be tired after flying such a distance.”

Aemond takes the arm you offer him, eyeing you still. He doesn’t admit how easily you captivate him with that sweet nature and soft voice that make him forget the lady that waits for him back at Harrenhal, whose name has now been turned to dust.

But what do you know?

***

I see nothing better, I keep him forever Like a vendetta-ta… I-I-I see how this is gon' go.

The two of you dinner together this evening and the next one alone in your privy quarters, soon doing too all the following week. Aemond detests to feel he’s been in a different sort of cage, trapped by your naivety, when he forgets that, however good by nature you may be, you are still a viper and he’s in your nest.

“You look bored, lord”, you tell him, enjoying immensely his company.

For seven days he taught you how to improve your archery all the whilst he was impressed by your sharp mind: in all frankness, Aemond was surprised to find a ruler like you completely versed in politics and history—specially the Targaryen’s.

Few would dream to outwit this bad reputed prince.

And whenever you danced, the prince sensed a new jealousy growing in his heart, for he didn’t enjoy sharing his view with other men.

Here he is, therefore, in deadly silence where neither is aware of each other’s thoughts.

“Do I?”

You don’t seem affected by his apparently indifference to you.

“Yes. Like a snowflake, you find yourself understandably an outsider here, under a very heat sun.”

He scoffs at you, but in his playful eyes you see some shade of scorn.

“Am I being compared with a Stark? My princess, a dragon does not shy away from the fire.”

You know however sentimental you are that reason comes first hand followed by duty. Despite shining like the sun, your eyes are cold like the moon.

“You haven’t been burnt enough to call yourself a dragon, sire”, and here a smirk dances in your lips.

“Madame, I am not one to be toyed with”, he advises you dangerously.

But neither breaks the gaze. The spell is done… and the consequences? Unpredictably beginning to burn.

***

All the whilst Aemond hasn’t received a definitive answer for the support to Aegon’s cause, you come to discover some deep scars in your guest’s soul.

Although declining a play in the privy pools of Sunspear, he is there, watching you going with a light gown properly chosen for the moment. But his eyes are now attentive to your curves, his body aching with desire when noticing your breasts—and thanking perhaps the Gods for the indecency view that is, however, so innocently displayed.

“The waters do good to our noblemen”, you invite him, ignoring this rising in your feminine parts at how he looks at you. “Come and join me. I ask you. It certainly will heal your distrust in me.”

As you giggle, Aemond cannot help a smirk, but then he snorts defensively.

“I don’t distrust you, Madame princess. But I’ve been caged here for weeks.”

“We have never forbidden our lordship to depart”, you tell him, tilting your head for a moment before disappearing in diving. “Vhagar is being well looked after and so are you. Isn’t that true?”

Aemond doesn’t respond. He, however, eventually cedes to your arms of seduction and removes partly his clothes. When being aware of your stare, the prince struggles not to smirk.

“You must dive in naked”, you suggest, gently.

“By the Gods”, he snorted. “Are you playing with me, woman?”

You laugh away before diving again, giving the appearances of letting him have some privacy. Forgetting all decency and protocols, he soon dives in, chasing after you.

I know I'm gonna be with you. So l'lI take my time… Are you ready for it?

When being caught by him, the playful flirtation turns into something else.

“You don’t have to hide away from me”, you tell him, smiling at him.

“What is this suppose to mean?”, he asks in his typical husky voice

As you take away the thing that hides away the eye that was once removed, there installed a sapphire, you move your wrist to caress it. Aemond impedes your bold gesture by holding it.

“Don’t.”

You know he’s being serious, threatening even. But that is only because Aemond is frightened for being so exposed at you in this land where vipers are known for so long ago defeating his ancestors.

Is he destined to suffer the same fate?

“I am not your enemy”, you say softly. “Isn’t it why you’ve stayed?”

“You’ve been toying with me”, he presses you against the wall of the pool, holding your thighs up as he inserts in between.

“I have not”, you tell him honestly, so crudely open under his gaze, burning under his touch as his right hand raises to your right thigh all the whilst you feel his erection.

“I am a kinslayer, I have many names”, he then holds your neck, aroused as how easily he dominates such an innocent viper as you. “How can I see love in your eyes?”

“We are not meant to be enemies.”

“No”, he agrees, unable to look away from you. And just like that he inserts a finger in you, making you moan so loudly suddenly. “Ah, so wet for me!”

“Lord, I mus say…”, whatever you are about to tell him dies in hitched breaths.

Having the control over you as his fingers slide curiously in your feminine entrance, pumping slowly as to tease you, Aemond comes so close to your lips where his breath mixes to yours.

“Playing coy with me, aren’t you?” And then he realizes what you meant to say. “And yet here you are with me, a damsel. Isn’t it scandalous?”

But the way you moan sensually, unable to fight away such strong desires tempts him to take you on that moment. And when maybe he’s about to explore your body more, unwillingly so you pull him away from you.

“No, lord prince”, even though it’s so hateful to interrupt this delicious intercourse, you know for the sake of your reputation this must come to an end. “We are a free folk, that is true, but we are unbent, unbowed and unbroken. That should not be forgotten.”

He watches astonished and speechless as you pull an innocent mask again, leaving him where he is.

And just like that the dragon is defeated in his own trap.

Baby, let the games begin. Let the games begin. Are you ready for it?

• The End Game.

Aemond watches in growing frustration that, indeed, the Dornish ought to support King Aegon in exchange for his aid in removing lord H/N out of Princess Y/N’s rule, but you behave graciously as if that intimate moment never happened.

To worse all, he is prepared to sacrifice his duty for you.

“My lord, you’ve received your prize”, a councilor tells him the very next day he could not find you. “We’ve arranged a deal. What else do you want?”

“I want to know where the fuck is princess Y/N!”, the dragon lord says under his breath.

Probably the councilor sighs thinking another one you’ve made fool of, but because this time is no ordinary man, he’s careful with his words. Aware of Aemond’s reputation, he eventually gives in and tells where you are.

Dressed in comfortable robes, you are found at the library, actually interested in this love story—always a romantic—you’ve found. After defeating the pretender and restoring peace to your kingdom, you are fighting away melancholy for you think Aemond wanted to bed you and after all he got, he probably vanished.

“Y/N”, you hear his voice and don’t wait to turn quickly when seeing him coming to your direction. There is pain in him, but also anger. “You played with me.”

Leaving aside diplomatic masks, but remaining your true sweet self, you wring your hands and say:

“I had no intention to. But I had to leave you, lord.”

“Why?”, the prince asks, making sure there is some distance between you two.

“You are taken”, you respond, alluding to Alys Rivers. “I felt fooled and thought that I have been enough fooled this year. You see, Ser, I am not temperamental like my ancestors or most members of my family are. I understand what’s like to be underestimated and learned how to use this to my favor. Like a true viper, I surround, indeed, but am above all a master in poisoning. By that, I don’t mean literally poison, that too, but metaphorically too. I must stand for me.”

You hate how tears rise to your eyes in this moment, but despite the lack of emotion in the prince’s eyes, you continue your speech.

“I shall not bend my heart to a dragon who thinks so easily to conquer me; I will not break before your iron claws and certainly not I will let myself bow to your brother.” You pause. “I am Aegon’s equal, lord. Because that is how it works here. And my maiden hood will not be deflowered by no other than my husband.”

“So leave if you may”, you turn your back at him. “I will endure as many before me had.”

Many words cross this prince’s minds as you speak, but seeing none will suffice to restore the bond between you two, Aemond forces you to look at him and, when cupping your face with his fingers, he says:

“I am yours, Princess Y/N. I will not leave until you have me at your command. Be it as your will. But poets will certainly sing about a viper and her dragon. For you I sacrifice my duty.”

And just like that the game comes to an end. His lips clash against yours and as your mouth opens to welcome his, his tongue slides inside and a fervent kiss comes as a result.

***

In a secretive ceremony, you welcome Lord Aemond of House Targaryen as Prince Consort of Dorne. In unofficial terms, Dorne is incorporated to the Seven Kingdoms, a political decision already contemplated by the Dornish council in their own terms.

Now in your privy quarters, there is no need to play further games. Aemond is aroused just by the lustful gaze you cast as him, eager to help him get rid of his robes.

“Princess Y/N, is there something you aren’t telling me? You surely aren’t a maiden”, he teases you as you kiss his neck and let your hands explore his exposed skin, not taking long to take hold of his manhood.

“I read too much, lord, and heard too much”, you explain. “Though I’ve had my share of fun, I had brains to know where to stop.”

You let him slide your white robes, feeling yourself wet in turn as he eyes you with the eyes of a hunter. No sooner he carries you to bed and there he begins to play with you.

“My wife”, he murmurs as he takes each nipples into his hungry mouth, hands caressing your thighs and hips before releasing one to play with your feminine parts.

“Husband!”, you cry out his name in turn, hands playing with his hair, body burning in flames under his gentle touch.

It doesn’t take more before Aemond dominates you completely. And just as you lock your bodies is the moment where one is exposed to the other. Truthfully. Beautifully so.

“I love you, Y/Nickname”, he smiles as he holds you dear.

“I love you too, my prince”, you mewl under his touch, his devotion, which eclipse every insecurity that has been within your heart.

***

•Epilogue

According to the chronicler of Princess Y/N Martell, it’s been of common knowledge that her reign was one of the longest in Dorne, reaching out exactly fifty years of government.

This was marked by some good deeds:

• The defeat of any pretenders to Princess Y/N’s sovereignty.

• The defeat of some noble rebels of the House Dayne.

• The alliance with House Targaryen that resulted in the marriage with Lord Aemond Targaryen, now acknowledged as Prince Consort of House Martell.

• The retaining independence of Dorne and it’s rule house (which shall not change the surname to Targaryen after the birth of the children, at least not officially: it shall be more like Nymeros-Targaryen-Martell) after incorporating Dorne to the Seven Kingdoms, a deed no fire nor blood of Aegon I and his sisters could have done.

• A golden age for the Dornish which arts, music, theater, chivalry and a love court rose in proeminente at your court without forgetting to sharp the reputation of holding a large and very disciplined army, now under the command of Lord Aemond Targaryen, now remembered as Aemond the Wise for his great contribution as Dornish consort, his participation in battles against the remaining usurpers such as Daemon Targaryen and his wife, Rhaenyra, amongst others.

• The union of Princess Y/N & Prince Aemond resulted in the birth of twelve children, some twins; they were said to have been partially like Lady Y/N, partially like Aemond, like children usually are, taking after their parents.

• Unusually for the day, the twelve children lived to adulthood. These are their names in the following order: Doran, Oberan, Aegon, Jaehaerys, Daenerys, Alysanne, Rhaella, Arthur, Gerold, Gwyn, Elia, Otto.

The chronicler, naturally, registered their lives too as it follows.

• Doran took as wife princess Jaehaera Targaryen, daughter of King Aegon II & the good queen Helaena. They had children of their own and in due time, Doran & Jaehaera became prince and princess of Dorne.

• Oberan opted to become a squire—and his life would be remarkably scandalous, with some saying he took after his royal uncle. Having plenty of mistresses, he produced, if we are to believe, ten illegitimate children. He is, as we are told, a good father to all of them, having recognized each as his. Apparently, he settled down by marrying—ah, scandalous as it is!—a granddaughter of Daemon Targaryen, a Velaryon lady we have no record of name. We also do not record Prince Aemond’s reaction to this fact.

• Aegon rose to become a great knight, serving King Jaehaerys II in due time by upholding no other than the legendary great sword Dawn, being the first of the royal Guard to be entitled as the Sword in the Morning. He was the epithet of honor and duty. Some still say he was his father’s favourite boy.

• Jaehaerys, a very common Targaryen name as one can perceive, chose to live his life religiously. Therefore he never married, although there had been a rumor he fathered an illegitimate child from an alleged liaison with a beautiful sept. Who knows?

• Daenerys, who inherited the charms and wits of her mother, captured her cousin’s heart. To the Dowager Queen’s delight, she saw her two grandchildren crowned overlords of Westeros. This is a fancy way to say that Daenerys Martell in due time became Queen consort of Westeros. She loves her husband as he loves her. Such a love story hasn’t been seen since the days of the first Jaehaerys and his good queen Alysanne.

• Alysanne. We know little of her. She married a Hightower cousin, and there she lives. Sometimes she and her husband are seen visiting Sunspear.

• Rhaella was very beautiful too, and some say she took after her father. She was very close to her parents and therefore married late, a nobleman of House Dayne named Stefon.

• Arthur was another of the Princess and Prince’s boys who was destined to be famed for his military skills. But, a free spirited himself, he declined the life serving at the King’s Guard: possibly, if we believe the gossipers, for fear of being eclipsed by his older brother. Whatever the case, he was given a seat at the Council, took the role that was once Ser Criston Cole’s and lived a good life. He married a younger sister to the lord Tytus Lannister.

• Gerold was renowned for his wit and therefore became a Maister in due time. He is currently in Winterfell. Some say, however, he is a lover to a sister to Lord Cregan Stark. Who knows? The man is too honored for that if I may leave my opinion here.

The ink is drying and my patience in writing is running thin. May the reader be told, however, that the youngest three (Gwyn, Elia and Otto) lived a good life like their eldest siblings. Gwyn married a Dornish nobleman of Starfall; Elia married a Targaryen cousin and Otto rose higher by surprising all and becoming the new lord of Harrenhal.

What a great time to be alive!

Signed: Chronicler Unnamed.

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #house targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #Taylor swift #Ready for It? #reputation

[luka-couffaine-ship-tournament]

Round 1 Side A - Pair 1

CAMPAIGN

Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

-They‘re just so good for each other. Luka is such a calming presence in Marinette‘s chaotic life and helps her relax when she feels anxious and unsure of herself, always willing to be there for her and offer a helping hand during tough times. Marinette has a deep appreciation not only for Luka‘s ability to play music but also hear heart songs, as if she understood immediately what he meant after listening to him play for the first time. They feed off each other‘s creative energy and are just generally so wholesome together. I could talk about them forever, they make me so happy!!

-Luka is the best boy, and deserves love from the girl he adores

-I just woke up and am too lazy to think of words for my favorite couple so here's some gifs as propaganda

Gif de gifs-misc

Gif de bizarrelovesquare

Gif de notasiren21

Gif de ouiladybug

Gif de kochengnoir

Gif de jeldraximo14

Gif de notasiren21

Luka Couffaine/Sabrina Raincomprix

-Listen, Sabrina needs someone who treats her well, she needs someone who considers her an equal and someone to show her what real love is like. And I truly and honestly think that she would try her best to understand and appreciate Luka but who he really is (if she can see the good in Chloe she is capable of seeing a God when she meets one)

-Vote lukabrina people. We cant lose this!

-This is just unfair we need to help our girl out!

I'll start!

Item Number One: Viperhound Is S Tier

This is the fucking duo right here, this is endlessly clever and positive tag team action, this is a pair who will NOT fail the mission alright?

They are designed so interestingly parallel and then put right next to each other in this sweeping shot of the new miraculous squad???

Like, am I supposed to not assume something about it??

Item Number Two: opposites contrast

Orange and Blue, extremely Sun and Moon energy, but I don't think that would make this ship sail smoothly. See, Luka likes being a moon. He is happy to support and enjoys being someone's shining beacon in the endless dark of night, and no one needs that kind of anchor to hold onto more than Sabrina right now. Sabrina cut ties with her best and only friend and while we see her hanging out with other classmates just fine, we don't really know how she is with being actual friends with people. I don't think anyone has tries to reach out to her since evillustrator and we saw in that episode how she approaches new potential connections. Overwhelmingly cheerful and warm and oppressively clingy, like a ray of sunlight that won't leave your eyesight on the hottest day of the year. She means well but, boy, she can be a lot. And more importantly, she needs to be the one helping because, what kind of friend is she if she isn't? Who is she if she's not doing everything for everybody else? It would, amusingly and annoyingly and endearingly, put her into conflict with Luka, who is similarly always pushing his own problems aside to help people with theirs. This would lead them into a loving rivalry of "take care of yourself" "no u" that goes both ways, a back and forth that ends with them reluctantly letting the other help them. And after so many years as someone's shadow, Sabrina deserves to have someone in her orbit, someone she shines a light on when he needs to be seen.

Item Number Three: YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE

Look I'm SORRY okay, but I have to say this even tho I also think their ship got done dirty by the show, I still think they wouldn't have lasted. I think Marinette and Luka being "too easy" is exactly their problem, as even if they didn't have everything else to worry about Marinette needs complexity or she starts to lose her mind overthinking things and goes looking for it. The simple nature of her relationship with Luka is what 13 year old Marinette needed, the Marinette who wasn't Ladybug yet, who hadn't stood up to Chloe and maybe even just had her heart broken in a mean prank. It makes sense she'd fall in love with and gravitate towards this living embodiment of all the comfort and security she wished she had, she had desperately needed at that time. But that's just it, she needed it then. And now she can rely on herself a lot better, she has a whole support system to fall back on, and what she needs from a romantic partner is something else. But Sabrina? She's done horrible things in the name of her friendship with Chloe and even enjoyed some of them, but had finally hit her limit of how much abuse she can both dish out and take herself. Sabrina can definitely recognize that Luka is a good person, but more importantly Luka would have to actually try to sympathize with a person, rather than just immedietely like them. Lest we forget, Sabrina is the one who locked Juleka in the bathroom on picture day. Chloe told her to but Sabrina physically did it. Being confronted with someone who hurt his sister but is, herself, hurting, and is determined to help everyone but herself will be a lot of conflicting emotions for Luka, and Sabrina would need to get used to being the center of someone else's attention in a way not entirely dissimilar to how Chloe was for her, although significantly less codependent.

What makes Lukabrina interesting isn't that they're perfect for each other or that it's immedietly easy.

It's awkward and messy and they clash, they push each other out of their comfort zones and find a new one to settle in together.

It isn't instant or love at first sight, but by resolving their issues with each other through communication, honesty and trust, they are able to become a happy and wholesome couple.

Don't fucking tell me the odds lol, I know they're probably not winning but they deserve a fighting chance. So please feel free to add your own Lukabrina Viperhound propaganda!

TAG:

Luka/Marinette - @mikoriin

Luka - Twitter @Karma_sensei_

@lukacouffaineappreciation

#luka couffaine #miraculous ladybug #viperion #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #ship tournament #tournament poll #tumblr polls #tumblr tournament #fandom polls #polls #luka x marinette #lukanette #luka x sabrina #sabrina raincomprix #marinette dupain cheng #mlb marinette #mlb sabrina

[bumpkinspice0]

Parallels Chapter 16: Empty

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!FemReader

No use of y/n

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: A month in and neither of you have worked up the courage to take the cure. The days seeming go longer as you prolong the inevitable.

Warnings: Jesus Christ the Angst, heartbreak, longing, sexual frustration, unhealthy coping mechanisms, obsessive/ possessive behavior, like WFT am I doing??

A/N:  An update in just over a week?! Yeah, I'm surprised too. This is going to make everything worse and I'm so sorry.

Previous. - Next

Series Masterlist

AO3

_______________

Chapter 16

Empty

There’s a deep aching in your chest that won’t go away. Something physical just to remind you how much life sucked right now. You used to think the term heartbreak was completely metaphorical. Turns out there’s some truth behind it. How can a heart break? Maybe not break completely, but you think it can crack. It can fracture and bleed. I vital part of your being was working at half capacity with no time to fix it.

Maybe that’s what you were feeling, you were bleeding out. Eventually, there’d be nothing left. 

It’d been a month since you’d seen him, but seemingly not a moment goes by that you don’t think of him. It felt stupid. Dramatic like in the movies. You and your lover can’t be together so now you spend your days wallowing, fighting, and eating too many cheeze itz. This is what the pinnacle of a hero’s sacrifice looks like, ladies and gentlemen. All done for the greater good of the universe. 

Your chest ached since you got home and your ears started ringing yesterday and haven’t stopped. The spider-sense won’t let you forget how miserable you are either. The buzzing is almost deafening, the carnal urges unsatiated by your own hands. You cry out his name whenever another unfulfilling orgasm shakes you, only precious seconds of faint relief. 

You could have put a stop to this weeks ago. The key to your salvation sat idly on your kitchen counter, waiting to be used. 

The cure. 

You’d pick it up every night thinking tonight will be the night, then as you hold the needle to your skin dread overtakes you. Like you’re going to burst into the flames if a drop of that poison gets into your body. It felt… wrong. Like cutting out a perfectly healthy organ. You just couldn’t do it. Not yet. 

Or maybe you were just trying to cling to some part of him— grasping at whatever pieces of Miguel you had left. 

You couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

Is he suffering as much as you are? A spiteful part of you hopes so, if it would only mean you’re not suffering alone. Misery loves company after all. Not that you really had company lately… 

You’d stopped yourself from calling him a few times when the urges got too painful. It would be so easy. Just seeing him would be enough, you’re sure of it. Would he even come? The tugging on the other end of your invisible chain tells you yes. Then you open the watch to see Lyla hoving there, disappointment tugging at her artificial features, and you instantly feel like a scolded child.

You’d barely been to the citadel because of it, worming your way out of any missions you can. Just being in the same building as him was borderline unbearable. Jess and Peter asked you a few times if you were okay. Apparently, you weren’t hiding it well. 

So instead you bury yourself in your work here, in your dimension where things made sense— and somewhere Miguel O’Hara was far, far away from. 

If you kept yourself busy with hero work then what time would there be left to grieve? An absolutely rock-solid plan that always worked when someone is in crisis. And the very thing you’d scolded Gwen for when she’d first come. Much harder to stop in practice, it turns out. 

Your late/ early hours in the city didn’t go unnoticed, Jack was checking up on you near constantly. It was sweet of him to be worried but there was nothing he could do. Even if he tried to be a voice of reason, you wouldn’t listen anyway. Maybe you just wanted to brood. Stew in your misery until it eats you up completely. It was so much easier to do that than to move on. Moving on required work. It required you to finally let go.

So dramatic. That’s your life now, you suppose. 

You lie awake in your bed, another sleepless night. The buzzing too powerful to ignore— because it was never supposed to be ignored. That’s what a spider-sense is for! To tell you something is wrong. He wasn’t here and it was wrong. 

You kick the sweat-soaked sheets off with a frustrated groan. You can't keep going on like this. It had to end. You march down to the kitchen, for the millionth time, with every intention in the world to end this cycle. 

The plastic of the injector gun groans in protest under your grasp as you hold it over your left wrist. It was right there. It was right there. You notice the pale liquid in the vial shaking. Your hand was trembling. 

“Come on!” you scream at yourself, “Just do it! Just do it!” 

You slide the gun away and bury your face in your hands.

Coward. 

The sun is coming up. Jack will be here in a few hours to use the studio. This house was more his than yours now, anyway. You’ll be gone when he gets here, not wanting to sit through another lecture about self-love and moving on. 

You slide your suit on and leave for the city that awaits outside. At least that still made sense to you. 

___________________

Miguel had found anger was a good substitution for feeling nothing. Not that it was really a continuous decision. He’d always been quick to anger, but now it was just easier. 

“You know you're supposed to bring them in alive, right?” Gabe had scolded him a few weeks ago when he brought in another Kraven anomaly, bloodied and battered with two broken arms. Not dead though. He seemingly couldn’t help himself, the hunter's face reminding him of that final mission he had with you all those weeks ago.

“He is alive,” Miguel mumbled back before disappearing into another portal. He spends more time in realities other than his own these days.

He wasn’t a killer, but he also didn’t have any pity for those who chose evil as a career path. Villains are no more than a distraction lately. Normally he’d bury himself in his science work when moods like this popped up. Countless engineering projects gather dust, just waiting for his skillful touch. He’d barely been in his lab the last month.

He could still smell you there. In his sheets, on his suit— your taste still lingering on his lips. You followed him everywhere and he couldn’t outrun it. Still, it didn’t stop him from trying. He’d cleared a record number of anomalies this month. 

He was burying himself in his work… in a way. 

Seemingly endless nights lying awake with the sense ringing in his ears. Hollow feeling jerk-offs in the shower, just to get any inkling of relief. They never did. He thinks he feels you too, sometimes— through the link. Doing the same shameful things as he did. It didn’t help to know you were suffering too. Suffering because of him. 

He hadn’t even touched it— the cure. 

You were right to be afraid of it, he was too. Every instinct in his mind was begging him to dump it down the drain. To get rid of it and never think about it again. He knew he couldn’t. It had to be done… eventually. 

He’d seen you only once. Passing by from a distance in the tower. You were exiting the lobby with Jess and Peter and he was on a walkway at least 5 stories up. He felt the tug and spotted you instantly. Sometimes advanced senses were a curse. That familiar urge stirred in him at just the sight of you, his cock instantly shamefully bulging in his pants. 

He saw you pause, undoubtedly feeling the desire too— the unbearable longing. If you felt him, then you hadn’t taken the cure either. A part of him wanted to rejoice and the other part wanted to scream. Neither of you could do it. But if just one of you broke that barrier then it surely would be easier for the other, right? To end this suffering. So far, it seems like neither of you were brave enough.

You didn’t seem to come to the tower much anymore. He can’t blame you. Still, it didn’t stop him from checking in on you any way he could. Channeling in on your dimensions news, watching you fight from across the vast multiverse. It felt dirty, spying on you this way. Yet by the time the disgust and guilt for his actions registered, a screen with you on it had already been playing for hours. 

You never seemed to stop, constantly on the prowl day and night. Either your city was under such a criminal siege that you had no time to rest… or you were distracting yourself just like he was.

Why did he torture himself this way? He tried to justify it by convincing himself it was for your safety. To make sure you were alright, ignoring the fact that you were just as capable of a spider as he was. You weren’t some damsel that needed saving or a lover that could be used as leverage. You were strong. A hero. Just like him. 

So why did he really keep up this dangerous game? Why didn’t he just bite the bullet and take the cure, making yet another ultimate sacrifice like he had so many times before?

Because Miguel was completely in love with you. 

He was in love again and he simply could not let that go so easily. Even just thinking beyond the spider-sense, he’s sure he’d loved you for months. He couldn’t even say it started out innocent because it definitely didn’t. Two spiders acting on their most primal of urges, devouring one another until they found the person on the other side of this desire. A beautiful, perfect, captivating person. A bond turned to an agreement out of necessity— now ending in the greatest heartbreak. 

Another thing he couldn’t have dangled in front of him and swiftly ripped away. Fuck the universe and all its cruelty. Fuck this job. Fuck you for even having the audacity to exist. Just fuck… everything.

Miguel rips through a portal into his lab, dragging a caged Sandman behind him. 

“From universe-694, take him down to Byte,” he commands into the ambient space. Instantly the ever diligent spider-bots emerge from the shadows, taking the caged villain down to sector two to be shipped back home. A constant ritual. Constant work. 

“Lyla,” he commands again, “Find me another one.”

“There isn’t another one,” the AI illuminates in front of him, “Everything’s being handled.”

“By who?” He bites out.

“I don’t know, the countless other spiders you hired to do this job exactly.” She glitches closer to him, doing her best to properly scold the seemingly emotionless Spider-man. 

“There’s always more.”

“Take. A. Break.”

He growls in frustration, swatting away her pixelated form. Fine, he could take a breather, just for a little bit. 

He jumps up to his desk, the various monitors illuminating in an instant. He wanted to see you, just for a little bit. He types in the coordinates to your universe, Earth-727.  The video feed illuminates for just a moment before it’s zapped back to black. 

“Lyla!” he barks, “Turn it on.”

She blips to the desk in front of him, “No. This isn’t healthy, Miguel.”

He rages, clawing through the projected monitors and pushing the mess off his desk. He’s not proud of it, but it doesn’t stop him from throwing a tantrum anyway. 

He takes a moment to gather himself, to just calm down, “Lyla please.”

Her yellow form stands there unmoving, sympathy drooping her artificial features.

“I… don’t think you should.”

Her tone makes him perk up. There was something to it. Something more than just pity.

“Why?” he asks cautiously. 

“I… told you, it’s not health—”

“You never tried to stop me before though. Not with her, not with my family.” He steps closer to the AI, as if he could actually intimidate her, “Why now?”

“Miguel—”

“You’re hiding something,” the acquisition is fueled by paranoia, yet he sees a shift in the small projections demeanor that shows truth behind it. She was made to mimic human mannerisms almost exactly. For all intents and purposes, Lyla basically was human—in the ways that mattered. Even she couldn’t hide things from him. 

She sighs, turning her gaze away from him. 

“I was overlooking some cannon and I came across something,” she starts, “Something in Earth-727.”

Your universe. He feels his heart clench in anticipation. 

“And?”

Though Lyla could show the entire range of human emotions he’d never seen her look so… sad. 

“Miguel… She's going to die. She’s going to be killed. Tonight.”

________

Taglist:

@ineedgarlicbread @pinkiemme @thesilenthill @bontensbabygirl @fallenangelsongwolf @raerorigel @littlefreakymunson @viriexo

@w33ni3 @del-ightfulling

Taglist post here!!!

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x spiderwoman!reader #miguel o'hara x you #across the spiderverse #parallels fic

[typicalopposite]

These

Clips

Freaking

Hurt!

Let’s talk about them shall we??

I have spent an ungodly amount of time rewatching this movie. I think many of us have… and it’s really because like you can find soooo much hidden in just their facial expressions if you look hard enough!

Obviously the scenes are meant to parallel Alex and Henry after the emails are leaked.

Alex having the freedom to go confront the press and the world about their relationship while Henry isn’t allowed. He’s crying alone in the back of a car, but has to suck it up once it’s time to get out.

He’s being talked TO by his brother and talked ABOUT by the man with Shaan, whereas Alex is able to be the one, and the ONLY one, doing the talking. And if he doesn’t want to answer anyone questioning after that’s fine.

That’s sad in and of itself.

But I have been trying to figure out what Philip and the old man are saying since I first saw the movie and Alex is talking too loud it’s not easy to hear over him (typical Alex am I right?) but I was able to pick apart enough that… well it only makes it hurt worse.

Philip says “in fact I can believe it,” and after playing and replaying and going frame by frame I’m fairly certain right before this line he says Stupid. ie Likely calling Henry stupid which is why he can believe he would end up in this situation. (Can we all collectively agree Philip is the worst?!)

Then I’ve seen multiple takes on Henry’s body language in the last clip. One being that he wanted to speak but wasn’t allowed and thus shuts down. And while I agree with that take too… after many listens the old man is saying there is to be no communication with anyone from the American… something… but in short he’s not allowed to get in touch with Alex. And that may have been the reason he looks so defeated.

After everything, and Alex saying he will be as patient as Henry needs… now they aren’t even allowed to see each other, or in anyway contact each other (Zahra is Queen and fixes that with Shaan’s help but still) poor buddy probably does feel so hopeless!

Aight, there… I have made myself sad today, and potentially y’all too!

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb movie #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #henry hanover stuart fox #rwrb on prime #firstprince #alex x henry

[cheshirecatuniverse]

Fight Back! (Rocky)

Rocky Mutsugi x Flag Girl! Reader

Song: Prince Charming - Willa Ford

Summary: To a lot of people, you're just a pretty piece of work. But tonight, you felt special.

WC: 1.8k

Notes: my works can be gorey, violent, and other mature themes! HIII IM BACK, school has been a pain in the ass but i have never stopped writing! this is my first oneshot to my high&low x fast&furious au, keep an eye out for more in the future. not edited.

Fast & Furious AU Masterlist

The streets were buzzing with people and cars in parallel lines. Giving space for the race "track" of the night.

The crowds of people overflowed the sidewalks and onto the street. Groups were flaunting their modified cars, some placing bets on the races, and others who took the opportunity to sell car parts.

Three white motorcycles sped past you, making you rub your arms at the sudden breeze. The bikes, or rather the drivers, caught the attention to everyone around you.

"Is it... a gang?" The girl beside you asked obliviously. Like you, another one of the boss's "showgirls" as he likes to call you.

Behind you, a voice intruded, "Girrll, do you even know who sponsored tonight?"

"Who?"

One of the belt loops of your shorts had the flag loosely tied around it. The custom logo on the black and white was known well on these streets.

"White Rascals," You answered, looking around. The men dressed fully in white had been patrolling even before you got here. Easy to spot in the crowd. The deal was that if the race was on their territory, then it would be in their control.

You told the girls around you, " 'm gonna go find Tej." Then split fast to go through the crowds of people. You couldn't start a race without Tej, everyone's favorite announcer.

"You look stunning, (Y/n)."

"Cute top!"

"Check out the flag girl."

You thanked the people you knew and smiled at the strangers who whistled and yelled. Something that happened everytime you walked into the crowded streets.

Once a week, you'd take the time out of your night to be a spectacle. The men who ran the races always needed women in short-shorts and skirts to get people's attention.

Which was fine by you. You got a fat check at the end of every night.

"(Y/n)," Tej jogged over you when he spotted you. Wearing a white jumpsuit with his garage's name on the corner. His gold watch and rings complementing his brown skin. "You gonna help me sell tonight?"

"As long as the money pours," You smile and nodded, walking back with him to the starting line.

"Mhm," He hummed and crossed his arms. "Though, you're probably not gonna get much from the boss tonight. You should help me sell a couple cars tomorrow, too."

"Wait, why?" You scoffed in disbelief.

"Boss has to split with Rocky. 55 to 45."

Rocky, you knew vaguely that he was the leader of White Rascals. He must have been a convincing man to get forty-five percent.

You pursed your lips, hiding your agitation. "Fine. Text me tomorrow then."

You found yourself back on the edge of the sidelines. The cars for this match already cruising down to line up, their supporters following beside them.

"Boss says 5 minutes 'til," One of the other showgirls called out.

"My cue," Tej popped out his collar and walked in the middle of the road.

Once Tej stepped away from the street, you came after. You tugged the flag from your shorts as you strutted to the center. Heels, hitting the black street with almost a bit of passion. But you wouldn't let your boss get your very best, no. Not with the pay you'll get tonight.

The whistles and whoops were all ignored. Only the loud and vibrant colored cars in front you had your attention. With a hand on your hip you watched, the racers revving the engine. The headlights made your earrings glimmer, made your lip gloss shine.

For a moment, it made you be the thing everyone was looking at. The only thing, something you ignore because it didn't really matter to you. The rush and the control, that was what you made you giddy. As you yelled for the racers to be prepared you raised the flag in your hand, you smiled at the way the cars and crowd grew louder.

Then, at your decision, you abruptly brought down the flag. The cars hurtled past you, and you turned back to watch them get smaller and faster in the distance. Still smiling, in your own world.

Back in the sidelines you handed the flag to the next girl for the next round. You could still feel the eyes on the crowd on you, which was good. When the matches were over you had to stand around and clean Tej's products.

Thirty minutes later you ended up at one of the public bathrooms. The buddy-system isn't something that is easily forgettable, the other girls employed by the boss made that clear. So when one of showgirls you were more friendly with had to go, you would be evil to say no.

"I'm right behind you," You gave her permission to leave the bathroom before you.

You took only one minute to fix the small flaws in your hair, adjusting your top even though it was fine as it was. But a minute was all it took for some guy to get all in her business.

Running heels was not the best idea, but the way the stranger was holding her arms slowly trying to drag her away made you panic.

No, nope.

So you slipped a heel off and threw it. You watched as the man stumbled at the impact to his head.

It was not going be enough to stop him but it gave you enough time to take of your other heel. You ran to your friend's side, ignoring the way your foot got cut for stumbling into some broken glass.

"Mind your business," The man growled. More agitated at the fact that you were shielding your friend than that you threw your 5 inch heel at him.

"Or what, bitch? You gonna hit a girl?" You taunt. Behind you, your friend's face paled at your insane provoking response. She was ready to yank you out of there and run for her life.

"I will if I have-"

A hand on his shoulder, made the stranger turn around and get hit with a baton. Soon enough, you aware of your surroundings. Figures dressed in white, chic with their appearances.

"That will not happen." The man in white was composed, even had a casual smile but his eyes were burning.

You expected him to finish the job, but to your surprise he backed away. Letting a man behind him step forward.

The way this man carried himself, you have never met Rocky. But you knew you were in his presence even before he pulled his hands out his coat, revealing a pair of handcuffs hanging on his wrist. Even before he opened his mouth, revealing his silver grill.

When he took off his crimson tinted sunglasses, the aggravator before you cursed quietly.

Rocky didn't glare, he didn't need to.

He titled his head to the side, simply staring at the man. "What are you doing?"

The man laughed shaking his head and pointed at you, "I didn't do shit, if anything you need to care of this crazy lady."

The audacity this man had you and your friend stare at each other with disbelief. As if somehow he was going to make this all go away.

When Rocky walked closer, and it seemed like the man lost his mind.

"Hey! It's not my fucking fault. They're a bunch of whores who walk around starting problems."

Even before Rocky could swing a fist at the man, he stumbled to his knees. The man clutching his head in pain.

Rocky watched as you scowled, hand holding up a heel up above your head.

Koo and Kizzy let out audible sounds of suprise. Koo even took a small step back.

"Try touching one of my friends again," You warned. Then starting to yell, "Try it, you creep! I dare you!"

You started jam your heel in his head again and your friend squealed for you stop. Unfortunately, she tugged you far enough away so the man couldn't be hit again.

"Let the White Rascals deal with it," She pleaded.

"Like hell 'm not gonna do nothing," You scowled and loosened her grasp enough to kick your bloody foot to his back. It made the pathetic man crumble all the way to the ground.

"(Y/n)!"

"Oh please. His pathetic ass is fine."

One of the White Rascals walked up to his beaten up form. She crossed her arms, "Woww."

She looked to the man beside her, "What do you think, Koo? Do we dump him in the street or the dumpster."

You exhaled loudly at the sight of them dragging the guy away, stress beginning to subside in you. Another member of the White Rascals took your friend aside to consol her and offer her security.

Rocky quietly approached you, extending his hand, "Please, come with me."

"Why?" You asked. Despite your confusion, you put your hand into his much larger one. It felt as natural as gravity.

"You're injured," He looked down to your legs. Which made you realized how easily you forgotten your stinging cut. "Did he do this to you?

His warm eyes looked at you with concern. This complete stranger, who loomed over you with power. You tried not to look so taken back.

"No," You felt embarrassed, "I just.. didn't watch my step."

He nodded, leading you somewhere, "Okay, that's okay."

How you ended up on a bench with a leader of Sword kneeling before you, is honestly something you couldn't exactly explain. At first you refused to look at Rocky, looking at the cane he placed at the floor but then slowly ended up back to him.

The way he bandaged your foot was so gentle and kind, it made you feel a mix a things. Especially when he cleaned the cut on your foot with rubbing alcohol. He muttered apologies when he heard the hisses under your breath.

Rocky even went as far as slipping your heel back onto your foot. The rough pads on his finger grazing your skin in the process. It felt, comforting.

"I'll have one of my men take you home in a couple minutes," He rose up from the ground.

"I can't. Boss only pays if I'm here the whole night," You stood up too, lips pursing at the pain in your foot.

"Careful," Rocky's hands held your arms when you saw you struggling to stand. For a moment you looked up at him meekly. Again, the feeling of his hands on you.

"Don't worry about that," He shook his head, "I'll make sure you get your money."

"But," You tilted your head, "Why?"

It was foreign to have anyone around here do so much for you.

Rocly looked at you with clear eyes. He honestly answered, "I protect women."

You laughed, a smile suddenly appearing on your face. Then leaned up, pressing your lips to his cheek. He didn't have his sunglasses on to hide the way his eyes widened.

You smiled deviously. Happy with his frozen state. "You must get a lot of girls with that line."

© 2023 chesirecatuniverse all rights reserved.

#high&low #high & low #high and low #high&low x reader #high&low imagine #white rascals #high&low white rascals #rocky mutsugi #high&low rocky mutsugi #rocky mutsugi x reader

[starflungwaddledee]

do you have any tips for leaving compliments on other people's art ?? your tags are always so well phrased !

oooo oooooooooooooo uuhhhhhhhh hmmm!

firstly, thank you!! i'm rather glad to hear that! i try quite hard to leave meaningful comments so it's nice when folks notice or appreciate it!

outside of commenting on the work, i first consider the tone of what i'm saying and who i'm saying it to.

i always try to make sure that what i'm saying will be appreciated by the person! that's the point. for the most part i leave comments to bring joy to the op, and thank them for their hard work, for being here and sharing art that made me happy! if i'm speaking to a mutual or friend, there's gonna be inside jokes and probably an amount of casual yelling. possibly even a little friendly roast, if i know them well enough. if i'm speaking with someone i don't know as well i try to keep it a little more professional, but i keep in mind that this is a fandom so an amount of yelling and screaming is expected. i tend to think about what i would like from someone else.

also if i notice that a caption or a blogs about is not in english i double check. if english is not the first language of the artist i make sure to construct tags that are easily translated and i use only and exclusively positive phrases. saying things like "delete this!!!! /pos" or "eating my own hands" can be totally lost in translation. i also keep in mind the age of the OP. don't tag as though you're Looking Disrespectfully at the art of a minor, even if that's your favourite blorbo.

as for how to comment on art or storytelling itself, this is indeed a learned skill, and it can be helped by training your eye to understand different things in artwork. but it's easy to start practicing! this is intuitive to me now, but an easy way to begin is to pick out one or two things that really stand out to you on a piece. (examples could be line quality; is it smooth? neat? textured? full of emotion?, shading: is it crisp? atmospheric? realistically rendered?, or colour choice: is it vibrant? is it moody? is it perfectly on model?) and draw attention to them and how the artist successfully used them to make the piece work.

if the piece includes design-work, pick something of that which you like as well. (clothes, colour choices, abilities, parallels to other characters, totally new or unique concepts that you haven't seen before. if you see your favourite colour combos or notions, let them know, but if it's a stranger remember they made the design for themselves, and you just share (good) tastes!) if you really want to make an artist/designer/storyteller's day, try to find the Little Thing that they've snuck into their art or design that ties into the story or lore that they are telling. even guesses to this end tend to be appreciated!

generally useful things you can also comment on are how well an artist has utilised a medium for its strengths, especially if the medium is a little unusual. if someone @'d me in particular i make sure to acknowledge that too because they probably read me for something and i should acknowledge the effort!

another thing i also always, always encourage, is to try to periodically share and comment on the work of people who are either less experienced or who have less visibility than you. especially if you have more of a platform! if you want to keep your blog clean of too many reblogs for aesthetic or professional reasons you can even go through and remove them later, but sharing the work of smaller accounts- even temporarily- makes such a huge difference! and encouraging + supporting younger or beginner artists is something we should be endeavouring to do as much as possible!

at the end of the day, i always just try to be very earnest in my tags.

there is generally no reason to withhold any praises i can think of, because it's usually nice to have your work perceived and appreciated! i personally loooovvve long rambling tags, screaming tags, stuff like "AAHH NOOOOOOO (THE BLORBO)" and so on. i try to leave the kind of thoughtful comments that i like (and am lucky enough) to receive, and i try to share artwork from a wide variety of people!

#asks #it's something you can get better at with practice and with training your eye to see Little Things in artwork #at understanding the components that an artwork is made up of; and picking the bits that are actually Popping Out to you in the moment! #i hope this helps?? it just takes a bit of Time. moreso than just hitting the reblog button! so i understand why not everyone can do it #i tend to shove stuff into my drafts for weeks/months and will go through and add tags when i have some downtime. #but all my stuff is also queued for the most part. #also if i ever tag something an OP is uncomfortable with; i am trusting they would reach out to me!! #sorry to all the folks who's pictures of galacta knight i have reblogged just going like UHHHHHHH because my brain short circuited #starflungs personal tag #<- sorta?

[fleet-off]

Headcanons regarding Pete and macau's relationship? Like their dynamics?

Ooohh, thank you for this question, anon! As it happens I have a whole essay of thoughts on Pete and Macau’s relationship, and I am currently going insane about it in an in-progress chapter of Menagerie. Have a free mini-snippet?

Pete hums. “Yeah, I figured your hia picked it up somewhere. He’s not half the original he thinks he is.” With a sideways glance, he adds, “You used to throw rocks at Khun Noo’s koi, too.” Macau’s ears heat up like he’s been caught with the pebbles in his hand. He whirls to face Pete. “I wasn’t mad, I was just,” he starts to protest, scrambling for the edges of the sneering mask that’ll let him pretend it doesn’t matter— Pete raises his eyebrows. He knows. “It’s easy to get vindictive when you’re angry about things you can’t control,” he offers. Pete is like that sometimes, under the feigned clumsiness and foolish-eyed smiles. He knows exactly what to say to make Macau feel uncomfortably understood. It’s fucking ruthless. Macau doesn’t know if he’ll ever quite be used to it.

Whoops, kiddo got perceived.

See, Macau has a lot of Vegas in him, and Macau is the reason Vegas has any capacity for tenderness. And Pete is very aware of this—Pete is the one who twice lists Macau as reason for Vegas to live. (side thought but. the parallel between Vegas and Porsche there, with Porsche having this directive from his mother to survive until Chay gets through college? and that not ultimately being enough to live for? simply fillet me okay I’m—)

Anyway. Pete knows he’s signing up for some Macau too, and that means signing up for the brat who likes to throw rocks and jumpscare poor unsuspecting spies. And Pete knows well that said brat is a teen with the family inferiority complex, that he is widely disregarded and ignored (in need of love), and that his world revolves around the only person in this world who has loved him and made him feel a part of things. And that person is—for the first month—lying comatose between them in a hospital bed.

Pete’s world revolves around the same broken-aching-tender point. And this is the part Macau knows even if he doesn’t know why, so for the first month? That’s where their dynamic lives.

And then Vegas is awake, and there’s a potential for happiness in him that simply was not there before, and it’s Pete. Pete can make Vegas better. That means it’s Macau’s job to help make sure Pete stays. And isn’t it fascinating that Macau goes straight for “in-law”? Straight for “family,” because in Macau and Vegas’s world family is the ultimate binding. Macau says in-law and means you’re part of us now. For better or for worse. For good.

(There is—not jealousy, but a niggling sense of personal insufficiency underneath. Macau’s world does revolve around Vegas. However miserable life gets, Macau has his big brother and that is enough to keep him living and pushing forward.

Macau isn’t enough to keep Vegas on this earth.

Which is. Fine. Nothing new. Macau’s never been enough, why would the most important person in his world be any different? He can help keep Vegas’s world here, and maybe that’ll count for something.)

I think it takes Macau several months to realize that Pete isn’t a silver bullet for his brother’s mental health and happiness.

Pete’s just a dude. He likes video games where he gets to play a secret agent. He and Vegas argue loud and make up louder. Dropping dishes makes him jumpy. He sweats and laughs a lot when he’s drunk, and swallows disgusting herbal concoctions the next morning to deal with the hangover. When he notices Macau’s expectations for him and Vegas, he either smiles too wide or goes very quiet and still and Macau’s not sure which is worse. Sometimes he forgets to lock the bathroom door. Sometimes Macau dozes off on his shoulder during movie night and he doesn’t move until Macau stirs awake.

Sometimes he fucks up, the way people do.

And Macau realizes: maybe the only person who can keep someone on this earth is the person themselves. And maybe Vegas sometimes needs his brother, the one who made his crooked arms a cradle. And maybe Pete and Macau sometimes need each other too, because their world is hard and there are struggles only the two of them know—as if by dull fluorescent light, as if by the steady-prayer beat of a heart monitor. And definitely, always, the three of them need each other.

#asks #kinnporsche #vegaspetemacau #vegaspete

[psalmsofpsychosis]

"#Alfred basically catches a lamb and goes

#''you're a beautiful wolf; i know you are; now you're gonna bite my hand until you draw blood so we both believe it;

#because that's the way we know how to be men.''

#and then 10 years down the line he looks at Bruce and he whispers in horror; ''that's a wolf''

#GIRL YES HE IS; YOU MADE HIM ONE. IT WAS YOU"

Your tags are so- Idk I don't have the words. No wait I DO-

THIS IS FREAKING BEAUTIFUL OMG

The way Bruce wasn't born with sharp teeth and claws to defend himself against the world. The place he was born into removed any need to grow them, but at the same time the place he was born into was the catalyst for him to turn into stone. Hard, unyielding to pressure and with its own jagged edges that you can hit until your knuckels bleed.

But the thing about stone is that you can chip away at it until it looks like what you want.

So Bruce was a lamb at the beginning, possessing talc for a heart, easy to rub to dust, but after the murders, he was molded into something different. He grew teeth and claws so big and strong it became difficult to be gentle, his heart was rubbed to dust and reformed and compressed and rubbed to dust and reformed and compressed until it turned into a diamond.

Alfred taught him how to be a wolf but didn't account on what would happen once Bruce's claws were bigger than his own.

CAN YOU TALK MORE ABOUT BRUCE AND ALFRED'S DYNAMIC PLEASE? You're literally rearranging my brain chemistry as I'm typing, wow. This feels so freaking strange. Thank you so so SO much

I wish you an AMAZING day

GOOD MAD MONDAY NOON TO YOU ANON YOU'RE KILLING ME. Like i'm over here lying face flat on the ground, head fucking full 99 thoughts per second this ride is going straight to hell—

You actually made them sound a lot like the Pygmalion myth, which is so right and true and also a very delicately apt interpretation of the way Bruce and Alfred's dynamic unfolds, particularly in Bruce's childhood, and particularly as portrayed in the Gotham series (which is my all time favourite Bruce&Alfred dynamic anyway, so excuse me for being annoying and immediately nosedive down that rabbithole)

See, to me the thing is, i dont think Bruce and Alfred understand each other at all. They're cut from very different clothes, and Alfred doesn't understand what Bruce /is/, but he understands what Bruce /can become/, maybe even what he's supposed to become, Bruce is the fifth element to him. Combine that lack of understanding and all the love and affection Alfred holds for Bruce and of course he makes a project of perfection out of him; Alfred molds and makes Bruce. Batman as a persona and as a purpose precisely exists *because of the way Alfred raises Bruce*, this is something that Gotham TV puts extra emphasis on. In many ways Alfred does carve Bruce into an idea of perfection, *his* idea of perfection, and Bruce lets him too. This is where stuff get a bit complicated though; Alfred is someone who struggles with his own humanity and darker side. He's so loving and loyal, but he's also bitter and mean with a vicious bite and he handles Bruce with such cold hands sometimes, and he hates every second of it, he hates his own humanity. So he pushes Bruce to get rid of his too, and they have this constant push and pull because Bruce has those exact traits. they're similar not in what they own about themselves, but in their shadows, when the sun shines on them their flawed humanity has the exact same shape and they both don't want a shadow; eventually the way they resolve this is by standing back to back and protecting each other and now they share their shadows and it's not so scary anymore. The Pygmalion myth as a parallel interpretation of their narrative fits so darn well because you are right, Bruce is made into stone and Alfred sculpts him to something beautiful and almost horrifying, almost inhuman, he sometimes forgets that Bruce is a person and not an idea, and it shows. But Bruce breaks mold, he always does, he forces Alfred to live with his own humanity and Bruce's, and this brings up a lot of grief for Alfred, but he loves Bruce so he finds a way to live with it and he does.

The Lamb/wolf metaphor is a different face to this same transformation process; in the early years Alfred has little space for Bruce's terrifying softness, but neither does Bruce. Bruce is scared of his own vulnurability and tenderness, this lamb *wants* to become something else, something less weak and helpless, something that could've saved his parents. He doesn't want to become a wolf persay, but the thing is, he has the makings. This is the reason Alfred can bring it out of him; he very much has the makings of a wolf. to juxtapose it with the pygmalion allegory; you cannot carve out of the stone what is not already in it. (this does bring up the question wether Bruce was ever a lamb at all, but that's a different topic for another day✨️)

anyway yep, i love your mind Anon, and thank you for the question! Hope you have an absolutely wonderful day too ❤️❤️

#i'm gonna put my brain in the Bruce&Alfred vibe juice and put in the lab fridge #let it soak for 79 hours i need to THINK #this is so so good so many good ideas happening here #and i'm always a sucker for Gotham!Bruce&Alfred talk 😩😩 #Bruce Wayne #Alfred Pennyworth #Bruce Wayne meta #Alfred Pennyworth meta #Batman #Batman meta #batfam #Gotham #Gotham TV