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stylesispunk · 3 months

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Waiting room

Joel Miller x f! reader

summary: A few years ago, Joel saved your life and you have loved him ever since but he didn't reciprocate your feelings or that's what you thought. word count: 2,5k a/n: I didn't write a chapter for "The Not so Invisible String" series but wrote this. I would appreciate receiving reblogs and comments. Happy reading!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

"What happened to me?" you questioned, your curiosity seeking answers.

"I found you," the stranger replied. "You had slept for two days."

In two days, you changed the rules of the game.

In two days, Joel came across with his humanity when he found you laying on the ground after being beaten up by some smugglers.

And what a plot twist you were.

You were so young and naïve when the world broke into a mess, and the reminisces of your old life before were just fogging memories threatened to be erased completely by the clouds of your head. You had forgotten your mother’s voice, the taste of the cookies she baked on Sunday’s afternoons, and the essence of her perfume enveloping you in embraces you were never going to get back.

You still craved a lingering, real sort of comfort that hadn’t come. In this world, emotions make you weak, and being weak means you die.

The closest thing to caring you received from someone was from Joel. The day he found you, he treated your wounds, he prevented you from dying by starving himself, and he fed you with his food.

“I broke my rules for you.” He peeped once you recovered, but still, he let you stay.

Through the months and years, you had become accustomed to the idea of him and Tess being the only people you could trust; they were older and wiser than you, a perk but also a source of constant disappointment over the idea of you being seen as the foolish, weak kid.

You felt a burden. You were a constant troublemaker, getting into trouble with everyone who seemed to mess with you, but under some eyes, you were still Joel’s girl, just that you really weren’t. You just idealize the idea of it.

Because every time somebody hit you, he was there, and if that wasn’t love, what the fuck was it?

You knew that there was something between them beyond a simple partner-in-crime relationship. They weren’t what you would call lovers, but there was unspoken language between them you couldn’t decipher, not because you were a fool but because you weren’t a part of them.

Because you weren’t important,

You didn’t know if Joel cared about you coming back.

You were just someone Joel found almost dying.

Whereas for you, he was the closest thing you felt to home.

"Where were you?" his voice called out in the middle of the dark room, breaking the silence of the eerie night.

“God, you scared me,” you answered. "I thought you were asleep."

"You know I don't go to sleep unless I know you're here." His voice was so sharp it could cut in half.

Liar.

“You are asleep other times,” you acknowledged, trying to remove your boots without whimpering as the pain settled in your bones. “And I'm here. You can go to sleep now," you hissed, out of frustration but also from the pain emanating from cuts.

"No."

"Well, I'll go then," you replied.

“Come here, show me,” he demanded.

“No.”

“Come here,” he repeated, frustrated this time.

“I said, “

“Now!” the raised tone sent shivers down your spine, forming a lump in your throat.

You were there, not moving, and he was closer. The dim light in the room cast eerie shadows as he examined your face, his fingertips tracing the evidence of the scars painted on your skin.

The cut on your bottom lip throbbed with each breath. A bruise, vividly purple, marred the skin around your eye, testimony to the violence that had been part of it and the cut on your nose, which seemed to be broken.

Not only do you face hurt, but all your body is carrying the consequences of a beating you didn’t think you deserved. Your bones felt crushed under the pressure of the emotional turbulence going on in your head.

And Joel’s touch, his gentle touch, so delicate yet full of fury, not towards you but at the merciless people that forced such a wound on you. You winced as his fingers grazed the tender skin; his silence was so loud.

“Who did this to you?” he muttered, frustration lacing his voice. The sharpness of his earlier tone softened under your teary stare.

“It doesn’t matter,” you replied.

“It does to me,” he retorted.

“No. Joel, let me be alone. It hurts; my body was hit, and I would be dead if it weren’t for you,“you sobbed.

“For what?”

"For you," you admitted through a shaky breath, the weight of the truth bearing down on you. The room seemed to shrink as you uttered those words, exposing a vulnerability that had remained buried beneath the facade of strength.

Joel's eyes softened, and the fury in his touch transformed into a gentleness that contrasted with the brutality of reality outside. In that fleeting moment, it was just the two of you, suspended in a fragile moment.

His voice, now a whisper, carried a mix of concern and disbelief. "For me?"

“The only reason I’m not dead is because of you. Can you believe it?” You chuckled. “One of the men there recognized me as Joel’s girl, who I am not, and then they stopped. Not even because I’m a person, but because I am associated with a man.”

Joel's expression tightened at the revelation, a flicker of anger passing through his eyes.

“Let me clean your wounds, “Joel began, his voice a gentle plea to attend to your wounds.

"No. I don't need your fucking help," you interrupted, frustration lacing your words, tired of being the dog at Joel’s door waiting for him to notice your loyalty and devotion.

"Yes, you need it because you're a fucking naive baby acting restless and so careless." Joel retorted, frustrated.

“"I have no one. My life is just a waste of air for this damn world, so why should I care about my well-being?" you shot back bitterly, the pain in your voice mirroring the bruises on your body.

"Because I care about you," Joel admitted, his words a brief glimmer of hope. However, before you could fully grasp the weight of his confession, he extinguished any expectations. "You have Tess and me; we share our roof with you."

"Exactly. Your place, not mine," you argued, a stark reminder of the boundaries that confined your sense of belonging.

"Your point?" Joel challenged.

"You found me once and brought me here, okay? Thanks for it. But that doesn't mean I have your respect," you asserted, the frustration bubbling to the surface.

"My protection is not enough." Joel questioned, his patience wearing thin.

"It's not," you replied with conviction.

"Then you can go and find your own fucking place."

"That's what I'm doing. I'm leaving the QZ. There may be a place that fits for me," you declared, the decision firm in your voice.

Joel's silence echoed through the room, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. But you offered none, maintaining a stoic resolve as you walked away from the confrontation.

"What? Where?" he finally managed to utter, a mixture of confusion and concern etched on his face.

"Goodnight," you replied tersely, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. The darkness of the hallway enveloped you as you retreated towards the bedroom. The door creaked shut behind you, leaving Joel standing in the dimly lit room, grappling with the echoes of your departure.

The room was shrouded in darkness, and you lay on the bed, the events of the night replaying in your mind like a relentless loop making fun of you for being so foolish, but despite the physical exhaustion, sleep eluded you, and your thoughts continued to wander through the tangled maze of emotions.

And Joel, of course, whom you were leaving behind tomorrow morning before he could even notice you were going to disappear.

As you lay there, the door creaked open, and Joel entered, carrying a small bottle and a cloth. The soft glow of a flashlight in his hand illuminated his face, revealing concern and remorse for his previous attitude.

"I brought something for the pain," he muttered, his gruff voice softened by a vulnerability you rarely could see. You remained silent, acknowledging his presence with a nod.

Joel approached, his movements deliberate as he poured a few pills onto his weathered palm. "Take these. They'll help with the pain and help you sleep."

You reluctantly accepted the medicine, swallowing it down with a sip of water from a nearby bottle. The bitterness lingered on your tongue.

Joel then reached for the cloth, dampening it with water. Gently, he began to clean the wounds on your face, his touch surprisingly tender. The initial sting of contact faded, replaced by a strange mix of relief and discomfort.

"Joel,” you said, but he didn’t answer and focused on tending to your injuries.

"Joel," you repeated, a little more assertive this time. His name hung in the air, yet he remained silent, his attention fixed on the task at hand. The rhythmic motions of cleaning your wounds seemed to be his sole purpose.

You took a deep breath, the weight of unspoken words settling heavily in the room. "Joel," you said once more, this time with an edge of urgency, attempting to draw him out of his concentrated silence.

He finally looked up, meeting your gaze. "What is it?"

The room felt hot with tension as you hesitated before finding the words. "I appreciate this—the medicine, cleaning my wounds. But it doesn't change my mind about leaving.”

His gaze held yours, an unspoken plea for understanding. "You're hurt; you can't go so far in your state," he replied, a touch of concern in his voice.

"So what?" you retorted, frustration bubbling to the surface. "If I have to die outside, I will. I don't care. I'm just tired of this life."

Joel's eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from anger to concern. "What would make that thought go away?" he asked, his question cutting through the defiance in your tone.

"What?" you responded, caught off guard by the unexpected question.

"What would make life worth living?" he repeated, his gaze unwavering. The weight of his inquiry settled in the room, demanding introspection.

The silence that followed was heavy, the question lingering in the air as you grappled with the complexities of your own desires and the harsh realities of the world outside that broke any chance of achieving the dreams you had when you were a child.

The silence stretched, becoming a tangible force in the room, until Joel's desperation cut through it like a blade. "I'm waiting," he said, his tone laden with urgency.

"To have someone," you confessed, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken longings.

"How?" he pressed, searching for clarity in your cryptic words.

"To have someone that cares for me," you explained, the vulnerability in your voice laying bare a deep-seated yearning, a yearning you had been carrying for years.

"You have me," Joel insisted, his desperation now tinged with frustration.

"You're not mine; you're hers," you said, invoking Tess. "Do you think I don't hear you both having sex?”

His eyes widened, realization dawning on him as the unspoken truth reverberated in the room.

"Maybe my body was hers, but inside, it's here." Joel took your hand and placed it over his chest, just above his heart. "I'm craving for you."

A tense silence enveloped the room as your words hung in the air, and Joel's eyes reflected all the sincerity of his feelings slipping from his lips. Your skepticism pierced through the charged atmosphere, casting a shadow over the vulnerability that had been exposed.

"I don't believe you," you declared, a note of disbelief in your voice.

Joel's expression tightened, a blend of irritation and determination etched on his face. "You don't?"

"You're just saying those things out of pity," you accused, the walls of defense rising once more.

He shook his head, a flicker of frustration evident in his eyes. "You are whiny, a pain in the ass, arrogant, naive..."

"Stop!" you exclaimed, the litany of criticism hitting you harder than expected.

"Yet, despite it all," Joel continued, his voice a mixture of exasperation and something deeper, "you make me go crazy, and still, I want to break every single finger that has been laid against you."

The weight of Joel's words hung in the air, a revelation that cut through the tension and laid bare the depth of his emotions. His eyes, always filled with exasperation, now held a raw vulnerability.

"You don't realize that you brought sense back to my life!" he exclaimed, the urgency in his voice echoing through the room. "If you go and you die, there's nothing left for me to fight for."

"I want to be the last one you love," he spoke, his hands cupping your face, fingers tracing delicate patterns over the scars that adorned your skin. His gaze, dark and intense, held a promise that lingered in the air. "I want to be your ending."

"And I want you to be my ending," he added, referring to the weight of the words hanging between you.

A profound silence settled, punctuated only by the erratic beats of your heart against your ribs, In that moment, you felt that the confession of love coming from Joel was the last source of breath you needed to become a person again.

And then, he kissed you. With a warning written on his dark eyes, yet you didn't see it coming. He kissed you because there wasn't anything else to do. He wanted to claim your lips as them because they were his.

Joel's lips lingered against yours, the warmth of his kiss irradiated foreign feelings for you. You had never felt so loved for someone before, and as the kiss deepened, a subtle smile played on his lips, a rare expression coming from him.

He pulled away slightly, his dark eyes searching yours for any sign of resistance. His hands, calloused and weathered, gently caressed your face, tracing the contours of the scars on your face.

"You're not leaving," he spoke against your lips, with another gentle peck on them.

A shy smile played on your lips in response. "Whatever,” you replied.

Joel's confession had acted as a healing salve, mending not just the physical scars but also the emotional ones that had marked your journey through this world.

Joel's eyes softened as he caught the playful glint in your smile, and a warmth seemed to spread through the room. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The strength in his arms felt like a shield against the harshness of the world outside.

"You can be stubborn as hell, you know that?" he teased, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

As he held you in his arms, the world outside faded away, and all that remained was the warmth of the embrace and the quiet assurance of shared moments.

"Get some rest," he murmured, his voice a soothing whisper. "I'll be right here."

With Joel's arms wrapped around you, the weariness of the day and the weight of the past seemed to dissolve.

In the arms of Joel, the night embraced you, and as you closed your eyes, you found life worth living because of him.

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xianyoon · 2 months

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body & soul.

alhaitham x gn!reader. inspired off that pride & prejudice scene. 0.7k words.

the dense morning fog is quite the sight to see, you think to yourself, trudging through the grounds of the estate. you barely make out anything apart from the white fence that had been your guiding light for the past quarter hour, muddied boots making embedded footprints in the steps you take. it is frighteningly cold, but there seems to be a particular kind of coldness within you this sombre morning. it feels almost–

empty.

as if you soul was longing for something. you know very well what it misses, but how is it that you can miss something– no, someone, so dearly – if they had never been yours at all? he was never yours, he could never be; although you wished quite the opposite. as if you'd ever make those intentions known to him.

speak of the devil, alhaitham. you could vaguely make out his broad silhouette, shadows in the fog becoming larger as he walked towards you. your boots seemed to refuse to move – frozen in the very presence of this man. alhaitham now stood before you, his towering stance seemingly softening at the sight of how cold you were.

the unspoken question hung in the air as he stared at you, not unkindly. why were you out here, at such an unfathomable time of the morning?

”i couldn't sleep.” you exhale. the air feels a little colder, an obvious sign of the coolness the two of you shared.

“nor i.” he lets a small smile grace his features before taking a quiet breath. ”my aunt–”

”yes, she was here.” you nod. there was no need for trivialities.

the silence seems to only amplify after your four words, slowly filling in the crevices of the conversation – until alhaitham steps forward.

“how can i ever make amends for such behaviour?” he whispers, addressing the elephant in the room. a brave step – one you couldn’t have bore to take. what amends, alhaitham? how do you dare to speak of amends you could make when you have done nothing wrong in my eyes?

“after what you've done for kaveh, and i suspect, for nahida also, it is i who should be making amends.” you look back up at him, almost uncertainly. you wonder if you should revert your gaze back to the earth.

you see him sigh softly. gather yourself together, alhaitham is something you can glimpse at, by the weary look on his face.

“you must know, surely you must know, it was all for you. you are too generous to trifle with me. i believe you spoke with my aunt last night and it has taught me to hope as i’d scarcely allowed myself before.”

hot, salty tears gather, threatening to spill over. please, don’t you dare to betray me. you've betrayed me once.

“if your feelings are still what they were last april, tell me so at once.” alhaitham continues. he straightens his back, looking at you straight on now. he looks … glowingly different. almost empowered. “my affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever, i promise.”

no, alhaitham – how foolish it would be to think that it would have changed. do you not see it? how the light returns to me the second i hear you speak, how i stop to listen to you even when my soul remains obstinate – my affections will never allow themselves to be changed, they belong to you, and you alone.

“if however, your feelings have changed – i would have to tell you, you have bewitched me body and soul, and i love... i love...”

”i love you.”

oh.

“i never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

oh, alhaitham. there is no doubt about it now – salty tears have won their freedom, flowing down your cheeks only to be caught and thumbed away by his hands. he holds you so gently; do you deserve this kindness, little bird? do you deserve to be held so dearly?

you look at the spark of light in his eyes – it is warm, inviting, loving. he loves you. there is no doubting it anymore. you whisper those three special words into his chest, burying your head into him when you feel him nod and rest his head atop yours in acknowledgement. he feels ... safe.

i love you.

“well, then. your hands are cold.” you chuckle wetly, holding his hands tightly in yours. and maybe, just maybe –

he squeezes your hand back tighter.

"it's quite alright. i trust that your touch is enough to warm them."

#long post #― latest brew.#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact x gn reader #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x gn reader #alhaitham x you #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham fluff #pride and prejudice #genshin drabbles #genshin fluff #astronetwrk

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jackinthebox80085 · 6 months

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What the SBI + Others would dress up as for Halloween

Philza - Biker (leather jacket and all) (he probably had a motorcycle when he wasn’t old and decrepit lmao L imagine being old)

Techno - a princess. (That’s it.)

Wilbur - A vampire if he’s feeling serious (would definitely overdo it with fake blo0d), and an M&M if he isn’t (you know what color + he would put his hair into pigtails for both)

Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo - Those ghosts that are just sheets with sunglasses (would switch out their costumes into cheap masks and double back on their trick or treating to get extra candy)

Michael - Pumpkin (or some other fruit themed children’s costume, preferably with a little hat)

Shroud - a roller skater (mostly so he could wear roller skates on all 8 of his feet) (also an excuse to shoulder check people)

Niki and Jack - Thing 1 & Thing 2 (from the Cat in the Hat) (they definitely argued about who was #1, and of course, Niki won)

Kristin - Dragonfly (or other cool shiny/elegant creature)(I love you mumza)

Quackity - Cowboy (yes, he did bedazzle his hat himself, yes, he is wearing platform boots, and yes, he is paired with Slime and Foolish) (has a toy g*n that shoots silly string)

Slime and Foolish - one of those two person horse costumes (Slime in front, Foolish in back with two coconut shells to clop together like hooves)

James Marriott (yes I’m counting jamesdoesmining, screw you) - Scooby Doo (he thought that they were doing a group costume, was sadly mistaken)

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blueberryarchive · 6 months

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The Evergreen Game

The white pawn moves to E4.

"Pawn. E4." Jungkook swallows, sweat pooling on his temples and Cupid's bow.

"Pawn to E5." You murmur in a hiss, your legs trying to move, but Jungkook leans forward to move your chess piece. Your nails grab the hair at the back of his neck as you reposition yourself in his lap.

Jeon grabs your waist with his forearm so you won't fall, although he also feels that his body is going to betray him at any moment.

"Knight F3." Jungkook played after taking a breath, his cock feeling hot and completely covered in the viscous, milky liquid. He hadn't taken his cock out in an hour, and his dress pants, boots, and the floor were covered in his cum. Nasty, cold, and drying with the fall breeze. The scene was indecent.

"Knight to C6." You responded, holding your boyfriend's sweaty head so you could stand up.

"No, I'm not done yet. I have to win."

"It hurts, Kook. I can't anymore." As you moved further the liquid fell thickly onto the floor, making an obscene sound as you moaned. Your puffy lips were swollen from fucking too much, your insides reddened. But every time you moved ever-so-lightly it felt like scratching an itch, painful pleasure. "Let's play again later-"

"Bishop to C4." He interrupted, lifting your listless and tired body. You put your feet on tiptoe and moved on top of him again, the hair on his thighs sweating under your ass and your nipples gnawing at Jungkook's cashmere sweater.

You thought about your next move while he used you as a simple glove or toy.

"Hurry up or I'll go harder."

"You don't need to win."

"I do. Hurry up or I'll go harder." He repeated firmly.

Jungkook's mind wanted to focus on this round, he had an important game tomorrow; he could earn good money to pay for the apartment. But you offered him some gummies to which he just opened his mouth to chew them without thinking much.

Bad decision. In the first fifteen minutes, he felt his body warm up. Fifteen minutes later, you appeared completely naked in front of him.

An hour and a half and you no longer know how to count the times he has filled you until you were dripping wet and overflowing.

Half an hour ago, you asked for mercy, like a hypocrite. The fact that you thought it was going to end without your pussy being abused was just foolish.

"Bishop to C4?"

Jungkook left his painted hand on your right asscheek. You purred, biting your lips with delight, and curling your toes.

"Think, pet. I need you to concentrate."

"C5, I- C5" You begged, moving with a little more energy, the cum lubricating your pain, pure bliss.

"Mhm. Keep moving like that. I'll let you go after this round.." Liar, you said to yourself while you hugged his neck. He held you tighter while he moved your black bishop.

"Pawn B4."

This game sounded familiar.

"Bishop to B4." You said, lifting your body even higher. The white pawn out.

"Pawn C3."

Jungkook didn't resist and kissed your neck for the umpteenth time that autumn afternoon. Your sweaty back under his hand moved, trembled, rose, and fell in short moans.

"Bishop A5."

"Bishop D4."

"Pawn to D4." Jungkook's index finger pushes the pawn to its new position, with that, you begin to groan as you shake the pieces with your hand on the table.

"Are we playing the Evergreen game?" You laughed breathlessly when you noticed how fast the game was going.

"Looks like we are." He smiled, revealing his dark eyes beneath the wet strands of his forehead. "You know what that means."

"You win at the end."

Jungkook growled before lifting you up and completely destroying the board until he placed your body on the table. Your breasts bounced with every hit and crash of him inside you.

"Koo, please, slow down. It hurts."

But he just couldn't. God, he wished he could because it hurt him too. But those pretty little cries that came out of your drooled and swollen lips didn't want him to stop filling you up.

"One more time."

"It'll burst out."

"I don't care, love. My floor and boots are already a fucking mess because of you."

You laughed through your tears. You loved seeing him so desperate.

Jungkook grabbed the queen and bishop between his fists before feeling how he filled you to abounding again.

And yet, after feeling himself almost faint and his legs spasming, he felt like he could win another round.

#jk.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook #bts jungkook #bts imagines #bts fanfic #jungkook imagine #bts #bts x you #bts x reader

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bahja-blix · 2 months

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😐💀Longish Post regarding Vivziepops Stans (POC Woman Speaks up)

TW: The following post mentions serious topics: S*icide, bullying, racism, and other topics, viewer discretion is advised (and No I do not know whom originally sat here and typed this post I don't want to know)

So I saw this image floating around and I as a Bisexual biracial Woman of color wanted to speak up about this because if y'all think it's hilarious or cool to say dumb shit on the Internet and not expect to get called out for your crap by reasonable people that you yourself put yourself out there for then your dead wrong.

Let's take a look amigos

Let's start from the beginning

This person who's an obvious biased boot licker who deliberately put themselves out there on the Internet ON PURPOSE said all of This!

Here's some things I completely disagree with because in their own words:

"You probably heard over and over again that Viv is a terrible person who's toxic that made all kinds of terrible things in the past but I assure you, (even if it's true) these stories are all "completely fake" and "made up" and that Viv is "flawed" and makes mistakes like all of us and that she "doesn't deserve" the "hate" and "bad faith" comments"

"I have decided to "fund" the "StopVivziepophate" train because poor ol Viv is sweet and innocent and we as fandom must stick it to these "critics" and express to vivziepop our eternal love and "actively convince" people (without any proof btw) that Vivziepop has done absolutely "nothing wrong" at all and we must defend her to the ends of the Earth because I said so and thats the Truth. You guys are liars and bigots and racist and are anti progressive"

Vivziepop has proved Time and Time again that she's a deliberately toxic shitty ass dumbass of person and has gotten much WORSE over the years! That is a FACT! She HAS made shitty, questionable, nasty things in her past artworks depicting minors, Nazi shit, racist shit and other stuff! This is a FACT and can be proven!

These Critical people on the Internet are All people who Used to LOOK UP to Viv because she was inspirational, saw right through her bullshit, and decided to call her out For said bullshit that she inflicted on herself especially nowadays seemingly on the daily. These Critical people who used to look up to Viv often back up their claims using pictures and evidence to Prove what they say! Vivziepop is a person who has proven that she is ass backwards on an absolute altitude of ways through thick and thin.

Viv refuses to back up her claims, do basic research on complicated topics regarding many things, weaponizes her fanbase to silence Anyone and Everyone regardless of who they are or what they identify as who speaks up or validly critiques her foolishness, never improves on herself as a person and chooses to carry herself in a negative way that affects her overall character and the people around her, bullies or judges anyone who chooses a different path, didn't call out her cult of a fanbase out for bullying Shay into suicide, and the list goes on.

What are you Stans going to prove huh? That we as a critical are right? There's an abundance of evidence against Viv yet your going to sit here and make a post like this?

Please tell me what you said is Bait!

Viv absolutely deserves EVERYTHING that people throw at her ESPECIALLY regarding the fact that Shay is no longer with us because Vivziepops cult of a fanbase brutally bullied Shay into s*icide over a fictional ship that these hypocritical Stans supported Before their new ship with Alastor came out with a different character

And Viv also absolutely deserves to be criticized for hiring a disgusting person with a r*pe fetish who's NOT a s*xual assault victim at All who also fetishizes r*pe and let this person illustrate and write their own sick fantasies into HER SHOW which she actively supported and still supports!

She's Shit All Around!

lastly...

"Most" of the "hate" comes from the "fact" that she's both *Checks notes* 🧐 "inserts identity politics here"

"Woman and Hispanic" ahh yes who Could've thought that poor ol Viv was being targeted simply because of her identity! Why as if I didn't hear that BS before as a fucking POC woman myself

People are "totally not" validly criticizing her for actual shit she does to herself on purpose

We critics are "totally" all just "making up" shit regardless of clear as day evidence, articles, or any picture evidence we have and are "totally jealous" over her success

We critics totally dunk on Viv because we're magically all racist, bigots, or istaphobes even though we're of varying backgrounds and identities and don't dunk on her for the bullshit you pulled out your ass because you decided to do what some far left thinking people would do. Blame the entire world for X, Y, Z using their identity as a shield even though vivziepop herself got caught! BY HER OWN POLITICAL PARTY which is the left.

Let me bring up a successful Black YouTuber who's indie for Black History Month whom I support and followed for years and bought his comics! Since you wanna blame the world for people criticizing Viv for her identity, I've decided to use an excellent example! He may not be a woman but he's Black so... :D let's begin

You wanna know who's Black and made millions of dollars because of his comics and is successful? Youngrippa59! Yes the Black Libertarian himself who made the Rippaverse, ISOM, and ALPHA CORE and made millions of dollars in short periods of time who also helped successfully dominated the comic book industry when it was dying! He's Not a conservative btw!

Heres one of his most recent successful projects ALPHACORE

Look at this! A Black person made this! He's successful! He didn't use his race as a shield. He ain't Viv but doesn't have to be! That's the beauty of him because he doesn't have to be the richest, or the most popular!

His message to everyone! Mr. Rippa also known as Eric July is one of my biggest inspirations to this day and this is why! People who were on the far left decided to attack him (it's been proven btw) but y'all say your for "diversity" and "inclusion" but when a black person becomes successful now it's an issue???

I Can't imagine what will fly outta your mouths when I become successful with my own shows behind the scenes... As diverse as I am as a biracial, bisexual, goth, God damn X, Y, Z, I Don't pander, I observe what everyone wants through multiple people!

Now,

Vivziepop is a woman who's a biracial Hispanic! I am ALSO a woman who's a biracial Hispanic

As a biracial Hispanic I'm more Puerto Rican looking IRL. Viv is a biracial Salvadoran Hispanic but looks more "white" because maybe she has more European family members. My family is made up of mainly Puerto Ricans on both sides of the family some European. I have dark eyes and dark naturally curly hair too. Few have said I can pass as "Indigenous" because of my features and tanned skin. Regardless my point still stands! I don't actively use my identity as a shield and neither should you!

I don't want to know who sat here and typed up that post! I as a woman of color of the brown community am still sick of this! Like who's saying they hate Viv because she's Hispanic? Huh? Who? Who's dunking on her for simply being a woman too???

Prove to me by providing solid concrete evidence by pictures or tweets or something else actually showing me people are dunking on Viv because she's both "Woman/Hispanic"! Well I tell you now that that shit Doesn't happen and if it does, it's a VERY SMALL minority that are saying shit for bait reasons or to be an asshole on purpose to get a reaction. The fact this person decided to say "Most hate comes from her race and being a woman" is BS because they cant even take the time to dig up evidence of this to prove it!

Show don't tell not TELL DONT SHOW goddamnit!

Legit you wanna play the race x woman card so badly then BACK IT UP with actual evidence or someone like me with more than two functioning brain cells will call you out.

I'm sorry but I agree with the critics on this one because they're not wrong for calling Viv out!

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midnightmoonkiss · 1 year

Text

Devotion

Wednesday Addams X GN! Reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

Wednesday Addams wasn’t one to care too terribly much about birthdays, let alone her own.

This was something she explained to her, for lack of better words, ‘friends’ last year.

Though she enjoyed them when she was younger, when she could have parties that would terrorize the local youth she’d invite, that same enjoyment was hard to recreate as she got older.

Sure, she could order a crate of spiders and let them loose in Ophelia Hall or perhaps a classroom, the screams of her classmates no doubt going to amuse her, but it would only prove to waste her time.

Wednesday wasn’t a child anymore, though she was still full of woe.

She still did enjoy torture, just not at the expense of her valuable time.

She’d much rather celebrate by writing her novel for an extra hour in peace.

Only.. this year was a bit different than last.

Her bond with a few certain classmates grew, but also..

This year.. she had you.

Her darling (Y/N). Though she swore she’d never be so foolish as to fall in love again, her idiotic black heart couldn't help but yearn for you. So, she decided one day that she would have you.

Here you both are over half a year later, still together. It made her feel as if she was having a heart attack whenever she thought about it.

Wednesday supposes she would like to spend most of her day with you, if not all of it.

What a fine present that would be, your complete and utter attention on her for an entire day.

As if you didn’t do that already.

She’d never admit it, and deny it whenever brought up, but she does the same for you.

Her observant eyes always find you in a crowd, and despite an outfit that blends with the rest of the student body, you’ve always stuck out to her.

She was certain she could find you among a hundred lookalikes.

When you asked her what she would like for this dreadful and rainy day that felt like any other, she said exactly that.

“Give me your complete devotion.”

Oh, how easy a wish that was to fulfill.

You were already obsessed with the gothic girl, from her twin black braids to her tall boots.

Though her uniqueness drew you in, it was her own personal flare that made you stay.

How she acted as though she didn’t care about people, and most of the time she didn’t, but on some rare occasions.. you could see her care for others.

You also admired her boldness, something you admittedly did not possess. Oh, how simple the world would be if you were more direct and confident.

You needed a girl like her.

She reminded you of a finicky black cat. Crossing her path was supposed to bring you bad luck, but you’ve only been blessed.

Afterall, a cat’s claws are retractable if they like you enough.

A thousand mirrors could shatter in her presence, but all you would think is how the reflective surface couldn't handle the ethereal beauty that is Wednesday Addams.

Part of her charm is the enigma that shrouds her.

One of your hobbies was uncovering the mysteries, or indulging in them whenever she would share the truth.

Throughout the glorious stormy day, your attention was solely focused on her.

Wednesday couldn’t help but smirk to herself when she felt the consistent burn of your eyes piercing into her skin, nor could she extinguish the bit of pride that blossomed in her chest when you escorted her to her next class.

Typically she would escort you, but following for once wasn’t so bad.

And maybe she was a bit giddy when you showed up after boring lecture with a freshly baked batch of cookies from your cooking class, red velvet with black icing that spelt her name out a dozen times.

Her name was so long, and with this precision.. it must’ve taken you all of class to finish.

“My love,” You whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to her pale cheek, “I’d write your name a thousand times over should you ask me to.”

Yes, this is what she deserved.

A day entirely dedicated to her featuring you worshiping her entire being. She felt like a Princess of Darkness.

“Even if I were to ask you to carve it into your skin?”

Her face was as blank as a slate, and yet you could see the curiosity and excitement in her murky gaze.

She wanted to know your genuine answer.

“Yes, even then,”

You answered honestly,

“But I’d much rather have you do that, your handwriting is far better than mine.”

If you were going to have something permanent, it’d be better if it was given to you by her.

She scoffed with amusement, turning on her heel to go to lunch, you right by her, “You’re right, it’ll better show that you’re mine.”

Her birthday falling on a Friday was beyond convenient, as soon as classes were over you were both free until Monday.

So, with utter elation, you took her out to Jericho that evening.

She donned her classic cozy checkered sweater with her black jacket atop it as you walked to town, the scenic view refreshing your mind, even if there was a chill in the air that turned your noses red.

You had discovered the local theater was playing Friday The 13th this evening last night, and you were all too excited to bring her to it.

Even though she has definitely seen it a multitude of times, watching it with you on her birthday did make her lips twitch upwards.

She found herself smiling even more when she noticed the utter terror on your face while watching the film.

You were so cute, going out to watch a horror film with her despite being easily terrified.

Love clearly made people do dumb things.. but it didn’t feel that dumb when you clutched onto her arm, shoving your face into her neck when another gorey murder took place on the large screen.

Of course, she could think of many ways to make the murder more realistic or even more horrific, but..

What screamed devotion like seeking comfort in her? She was objectively the most terrifying person in this full theater — and yet here you were, cowering beside her yet seeking her for comfort.

Her cute little mouse. She’d spare you from death a million times.

Resting her head atop of yours, she let contentment fill her amongst the blood curdling screams of the audience.

The movie finished when the sky had turned dark, and walking out of a theater being greeted by night when you had entered with daylight was always a bit of a mindfuck.

“Stop complaining.” Wednesday simply said, or rather commanded, grabbing your hand and dragging you to the Weathervane.

There, you all too willingly paid for both of your to-go orders.

The walk back to Nevermore was nothing short of romantic in Wednesday’s eyes.

Fear still covered you like a blanket as you walked along the road next to the creepy forest, fully clutching her arm as you sipped your drink.

“I would never allow something or someone to harm you,” She suddenly said, making you both stop so that she could stare directly into your eyes, “So don’t be so tense.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes softening as you looked into her own, you could see your reflection in them.

“Oh, so you don’t want me to cling to you? Alright,”

Just as you made a move to unlatch yourself from her, Wednesday was quick to pull you back in, “I did not say that.” Annoyance prickled in her tone as she held you tightly against her, and yet all you could do was giggle.

“Pulling away from me doesn’t sound like devotion.”

Her birthday wish from earlier today came into play, melting your face with a soft smile.

“Wednesday, there’s no one else I’d rather devote every fiber of my being to than you,” Your frigid hand came up to caress her warming cheek as you spoke. The stars above you sparkled in her eyes, leaving you utterly entranced.

Surely this was witchcraft, but you were all too willing to be under her spell.

“I’m yours, same as you are mine.”

Just as your lips found hers, headlights found you both.

The loud honking made you both jump, and you practically dragged Wednesday out of the middle of the road just in time for the vehicle to pass.

How you both wound up in the middle of the road.. who knows.

All you knew was the silent anger on Wednesday’s face as she glared at the car whilst it faded into the fog.

“I guess this is sort of a metaphor, only a car barreling down the road can separate us?” You joked, only for her to turn to you and declare with dead seriousness, “I’d rather be hit by it.”

Rolling your eyes, a stupid smile on your face, you kissed her once again.

Wednesday has plenty of time still to write for her novel tonight, surely a few minutes, or maybe more, spent in your embrace wouldn’t hurt.

Wrapped up with you, her lips upon yours, passion swirling between you both, she could get used to this on her birthday.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday x you #Wednesday addams #wednesday #wednesday x y/n #birthday #gn!reader

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gothic-thoughts · 3 months

Text

Who Is She?

(a/n): now as a black person... I wouldn't let this slip nor slide 🤣😂

Geto Suguru x Black GN Reader Fluff

Bimbo!Reader, Meetcute(ugly), Drabble

CW: Geto saying monkey (cuz 🙄), Suguru slowly falling for your empty headedness

While in the plaza, I feel someone bump into my back, I turn around in disgust to see a short person sitting on their butt from the force of the fall. They were wearing leather knee-high boots and a short skirt that no doubt came down mid-thigh. A black low-cut crop top hugged their chest as well as revealed a chubby stomach.

“Of course, it's a monkey.” I scoff, “Choose your next words wisely, non-sorcerer.”

They struggle to stand back up on their platform boots and then wobble before steading when they stand. I continue to coldly look down on them.

“Ohmygod, I'm so sorry.”

“Be more careful with your movements and know your place. You may only address me respectfully since I have allowed you that much.”

“You're right, cute guy.” They giggle, “Ion even know why I was running so fast in these fuckin’ heels.”

My eyebrow raises as I register their words. “What the hell did you just call me?”

“Uh, yah. Ion your name so I just went by your face. I mean I guess I coulda said ‘tall guy’ but I'm 5'2" so...”

I try to calm myself down. “You are calling me 'cute' simply because you don't know my name? That's the most foolish excuse I have ever heard.”

“Fine then, ‘cute guy’. What's your name so I can call you that instead.”

“I am Geto Suguru, the special grade sorcerer and the leader of the Curse User Organization, monkey. And you will address me as 'Lord Geto' from now on.”

“Ooou, that sounds important. Suguru is a cute name, by the way.”

Nobody's ever found my surname cute, or even said so, so their words instantly throw me for a loop.

“What?”

“I love your name, it's fun to say. Suguru rolls off the tongue.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“I mean, I could start. I did say you were cute. I'm Amber by the way~”

It was strange, they're annoying, but I don't even think it's on purpose. It's almost cute, the way that every time those glossed lips opened it was to let out a sweet voice saying something idiotic.

“A human like you has the guts to flirt with THE Suguru?”

Why?” They tilt their head dumbly, “You famous or something?”

“Famous? Me? Oh ho, yes.” I smirk at the naive human before me, “Not only am I world-renowned, but I am also feared by many and have quite the reputation for doing some heinous things. I don’t think you comprehend how dangerous I am.”

“Ohhhh.” They lean in and whisper under the noise of the plaza, “Are you a yakuza boss? I won't tell.”

Oh, they're adorable. I’m gonna have fun with them. A smirk spread across my face, making the decision to play along with the idiotic thing.

“Why, yes I am. My empire is the most powerful in the entire world. And if you tell anyone about this, you will never see the light of day again.”

“I won't, I swear. I am so good at keeping secrets.”

“I bet. Something tells me your skull doesn’t quite have the capacity.” I touch the tip of their nose with his index finger, “You are quite the interesting thing, aren’t you?”

“So you like me too?”

They’re so dumb, I can’t even tell if they know I’m flirting. Or does that make them clever? This enigma alone makes me want them even more mysterious and I love it. I don’t even think they know how mysterious they are

“In fact, I think I do. And since you know about my um... secret business, I might have to make you mine.”

They gasp. “Really? That was fast.”

“I just know when I see potential in someone, and you? You have that potential.”

“A mafia boss likes me? It’s like a fanfiction.”

“Yeah, exactly; just like fanfiction. I don’t know what else it is about you but,” I grab their chin and pull them so our gazes meet, “You just keep entertaining me with that smooth brain of yours, and I think I want to own you.”

“Ooh, kinky~”

I chuckle and roll my eyes at their oblivious yet flirty reply despite it enticing me further. I lean in closer, lips just an inch away from theirs.

“Kinky, indeed.”

#x black reader #black reader #black writers #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #black bimbo #suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #suguru geto x y/n #suguru geto x black!reader #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x black reader #geto suguru x y/n #jjk suguru #Spotify

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benedictscanvas · 10 months

Text

be still, my foolish heart [3] - jamie tartt x reader

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k (we're getting into it folks)

series warnings: lots of language throughout, some allusions to smut but nothing explicit, a LOT of fucking fluff mostly ngl

a/n: you're still enjoying this?? you're a mad lot, you are. in all seriousness, i'm writing like i have a new lease on life so i'm really glad so many of you are liking this as much as i am. jamie is really torn, the poor boy, but i've got 12 chapters planned in total so strap yourselves in for a slow(ish) burn <3 <3 <3

series summary: when jamie gets called up to the england team for the first time, he’s terrified. enter you, all smiles and swearing, and suddenly his only fear is falling head over boots for you.

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

---

chapter three - if i could hold you for a minute

“That’s a wrap, thanks boys, you were both great.”

Jamie nodded his thanks, giving his mate Rife a pat on the back that seemed to pass as a hug around here. Rife was quick to run off to the pitch behind them, getting back in on the passing drills, but Jamie hung back. Of course he did. He always fucking did, and he was getting quick sick of himself.

In the last week of being at England camp, he’d taken part in around 10 PR opportunities, all of which were open to volunteers, none of which he was obligated to do. But there were so few of them willing to take part and the smile on your face every time he hesitantly stuck his hand in the air was worth whatever embarrassment you might put him through. And, most of the time, you weren’t big on embarrassing PR moments. Mostly wholesome conversations with the team and stupid challenges that he’d found himself quite competitive with. When he won the competition to roll the 10p coin into a fork yesterday, he was buzzing.

The spelling bee had not been his finest moment, but you’d been very reassuring that people loved someone relatable, and what was more relatable than not being able to spell ‘mediterranean’?

You’d only been able to reassure him as such because he made a habit of sticking around afterwards. Asking if you needed any help taking down the camera equipment, because Tiff still hadn’t come back to work but you’d kicked Brian to the curb days ago. Now you seemed to be doing it all by yourself, and sometimes the way you rushed around made Jamie’s chest ache.

“Hey,” he said softly, gently touching you on the shoulder to get your attention. You turned from the equipment you were taking apart and boxing up, your whole expression changing for the better when you saw who was disturbing you, “Can I get that one?”

He points a thumb over his shoulder at the other camera and is rewarded for his kindness when he sees you physically sag with relief.

“Lifesaver, you are. Thank you, Jamie.”

You didn’t call him Just Jamie anymore. He missed it at first, the silly nicknames that had made you feel like fast friends, but then he’d realised that the way you said his actual name, soft and thankful a lot of the time, was better than any stupid nickname he could come up with.

“Nah, you’re good.”

He gets busy putting the camera away, following your lead as inconspicuously as possible by glancing over at your handiwork when he’s not sure where to put something. When you’re finished, he’s almost done. You come over to take the heavy case from him and he holds it out of your arm’s reach.

“As if. Lead the way, boss.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly at him, then protest when he also snatches the box you’re carrying from you with his free hand. He tries to convince you to let him carry the third, tiny microphone box over his shoulder too, but you simply flip him the bird and lead the way to your office.

He’d carry you there, if you’d let him, because he knows the walk of a woman whose feet are hurting in her heels - Rebecca had taught him the signs. You were walking solely on the balls of your feet, trying to keep a normal rhythm but failing.

“You think Gareth will tell me off when he realises I’m using one of his star players to carry my shit around the place?”

He wants to argue that he’s not one of the star players around here, but he’s already learnt where self-deprecation gets him with you - an argument. Instead, he basks in the glow of the compliment inwardly as you open the door to your office and usher him in.

“I think he’ll wonder why the fuck nobody’s been hired to help y’ out,” Jamie says, then sees the determination in your face and course corrects, “Not that you can’t do anythin’ you set y’ mind to, of course. Sorry. Just hate seeing y’ rush about the place with your feet on fuckin’ fire.”

There’s definitely a visible wince on his face when he’s put the equipment down on the right shelves and turns to find you staring at him in disbelief.

“How do you know my feet hurt?”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think just anyone would notice,” he’s quick to reassure you, then hopes that doesn’t sound like he’s only one who notices anything about you, “It’s just that one of my mates taught me to notice when someone’s struggling on heels. Can offer her me arm then, like.”

“Hm.”

You look thoughtful, but he’s already put his foot in his mouth enough for one day. He can’t seem to stop when you’re around. Yesterday, he’d tried to ask you about your day but all he’d said was the word ‘day?’ as a question. He was still getting over that one.

Deliberately not flirting with you was getting harder and harder every time you fucking smiled at him.

“Anyway, you’re steering me off topic. I hope Tiff’s back soon,” he says sincerely, hovering by the door. Already, he feels he’s outstayed his welcome, cluttering up the place, “An’ if there’s anythin’ I can do until she’s back, then…”

Just let me know? Shout and I’ll come running? Let me convince Gareth to give you a day off so you can relax?

He doesn’t know what his intended end of the sentence was, but you nod like he finished it anyway. You’re looking at him pensively, not saying goodbye yet. Eventually, after a few moments of what looked like an internal debate, you flop into your office chair and stare up at him ruefully as you kick your shoes off.

“I’m so thoroughly fucked Jamie, you have no idea.”

There’s a thought in the back of his head that he’s supposed to be training right now, but he doesn’t even think about leaving. He won’t be able to stay long, but he’ll be damned if he leaves you when you’re pouting like that. He kicks the door closed and walks closer to your desk.

“Can’t be that bad,” he says, hoping its soothing not patronising, “Ted always says something like…a problem halved is a problem shared or somethin’. Lay it on me.”

Again, you’re looking at him pensively. He’s not sure he likes you studying him so closely, like you’re searching for something. He gives you a shrug and a smile.

“Okay, but I’m only taking two minutes of your time, I promise,” you sigh, “Really shouldn’t keep you from training with the fucking England squad for this.”

It’s the first sign of self-deprecation he’s ever seen from you. He hates it with a passion. Briefly, he wonders if this is what you feel like when he does it, if that’s why you always argue against him. Maybe if he plays this right, he can leave this conversation safe in the knowledge that the two of you have become proper friends.

“Oi. None of that, alright? If I’m not allowed, you’re fuckin’ not either,” he insists, firm as he catches your eye. You look surprised, but you nod with a small smile that he’s over the moon to see, “Good. Right. Let’s problem halve then.”

There’s a laugh on your lips that you’re keeping in and he definitely hasn’t used that expression right, he knows. Maybe part of him likes that, though, because he likes the amusement that’s creeping through the exhaustion that radiates from you.

“Gareth’s asked for Saturday to be ‘team bonding’. Something fun but also compelling, you know, pictures to get the public on side. I’m drawing a fucking blank, because I normally bounce stuff off Tiff, but now all I’ve got is a big empty office and no ideas.”

It all comes out of you in a rush. A totally new side of you he hadn’t expected to be let in on when he offered to help with the equipment, but somehow it felt like a privilege. You’d spoken every day for a week, yes, but just small talk, stupid talk that he often walked away from annoyed with himself. Still, he couldn’t have been doing too badly at trying to be your friend if you were willing to open up like this, and the thought made him proud.

Jamie still didn’t think he was very good at making friends. Maybe he could go home with a new one (if he could make himself forget how pretty you really were).

“Y’ literally couldn’t have asked a better person for this,” Jamie grinned, trying to alleviate some of the stress that had collected between your eyebrows, “Answer’s staring you in the face, you know?”

You glared at him. Okay, not the right thing to say. He hoped you’d forgive him when he pointed behind you and you turned. The back wall of your office was entirely made of glass, a window that overlooked the huge indoor swimming pool that the training complex housed. When you turned back to Jamie, you just looked confused.

“The pool?”

“Not just the pool. Pool party. Footballers go fuckin’ crazy for ‘em, trust me. Y’ can’t lose, cause you’ll get a load of pictures of us lookin’ relaxed an’ fun an’ shit. Never know, some people might enjoy the fact we’ll be half naked. Win-win.”

You nodded slowly, still thinking. The furrow in your brow was lifting. Jamie wanted to high five himself far too enthusiastically.

“I’m not one to exploit you lot for your looks…” you begin, and yeah, Jamie knows he maybe shouldn’t have added that bit. Maybe that part of him he was trying to bury wanted to fluster you, “But the rest of what you said was good. Really good.”

“It was?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Jamie! Thought you footballers were meant to have massive egos, huh?”

He knows you’re kidding around, but even the insinuation that he didn’t have a massive ego would have made almost everyone back home laugh. A lot. He liked glimpses into what you thought of him.

“Yeah, well, I’m hidin’ it under me hat,” he joked, a shit joke that you still laughed at, “If you get us some of those floaty things too, the ones kids have at their birthdays? Fuck, do you think we could get an obstacle course?”

He hears how childish it is when he says it, feels the pink blooming across his cheeks. He’s expecting a response that he’d usually get, something kind but placating. Instead you jump up and round the desk, giddy.

“Yes! The ones with a slide at the end, you’re a genius! Thank you so much, I really mean it, I’m going to go and run it by Gareth right now,” you’re already grabbing a notebook and pen, your diary, ready to rush out of the door. He might not have found a solution so quickly if he’d known it would cut your conversation short.

“Might want your shoes, love.”

That nickname just tumbles out of him. Now his face feels like it’s gone up in flames. You don’t react, not that he can see with you rushing back to put your shoes on with a muffled thanks spoken under the desk. You’re rushing out of the door when you shout back to him.

“Find me later and I’ll sneak you an ice cream!”

He chuckles, left alone in your office. It takes him a few moments, but when he catches himself stood there grinning to himself, he’s quick to jog out and in the direction of the pitch. There’s nothing like penalty practice to take his mind off the butterflies in his stomach.

---

You were true to your word. Even though you hadn’t been able to source him any ice cream later that day, much to your own annoyance however many times he told you it was fine, you’d found him in the hotel first thing Saturday morning with a Mr Whippy.

“I snuck out to an ice cream truck to finally keep my promise,” and you look so excited, that Jamie eats his Mr Whippy at 8am in the morning and enjoys it immensely. He begins to ask what ice cream trucks nearby are operating at 8am, but you shut him down immediately.

“I think you’ll really enjoy the pool party later,” you say once you’ve both finished your ice creams, because of course you got one for yourself too. Watching you eat your ice cream so quickly made him wonder if your promise had been for him or for yourself, “Pulled out all the stops. Gareth was thrilled with the idea.”

“Yeah, he pulled me aside yesterday about it. Y’ didn’t have to give me any credit, y’ know?”

“Uh, yes I did. It was your idea, idiot.”

It hadn’t even crossed his mind at the time that you might tell anyone he’d thought of it. Gareth had been really nice about it yesterday, said something about leadership qualities that Jamie wishes Roy had been around to hear.

You rushed off again after that, but he was pleased to notice as you speed-walked away that you were wearing flats today.

Jamie spent the rest of the morning with some of the lads he’d gotten on with best so far. Even though he’d sorted things with the City boys and spoke to them often, he was surprised to find that the ones he’d become closest to were the others from the smaller clubs in the league, lads who’d also come to camp on their own without any club teammates. Rife was one of them, even though he was West Ham, along with Pattinson, or Patty, and Gondo. The four of them would sit in Rife’s room, cause it was biggest, and just piss about really. Patty had ended up flooding the bathroom once.

After a morning spent playing Mario Kart on Gondo’s switch, which Jamie was fucking great at, even if he said so himself, the four of them made their way out of the hotel and walked over to the training complex.

“I heard it’s a pool party,” Patty said, eyes lighting up, “Hope so. Fucking class idea, that.”

Jamie could feel himself talking before he registered it.

“You know Y/N? Think she’s the one who planned the whole thing,” he supplies, watching as the three boys nod appreciatively. He hopes at least one of them will thank you for your hard work at some point during the afternoon. Rife gives him a funny look as they enter the pool, but Jamie takes no notice.

They’d clearly gotten carried away with their Grand Prix, because everything was in full swing by the time they’d gotten changed and entered the pool area. There were unicorn rubber rings that some of the boys were jumping into the water with, a huge obstacle course over to the left that people were racing on, both the team and some of the backroom staff were joining in. Jamie was amazed you’d been able to put all this together in just a few days and he was proud of himself too, for the idea. It was something he thought he might text his mum about later, so she could be proud of him too.

It didn’t take him long to spot you, likely because he was actively looking for you. You were stood by yourself over by the inflatable obstacle course, holding something on the wall, but watching the scene in front of you with a bright smile. Rife nudged him in the back of the shoulder and looked over at you.

“Fuck off,” Jamie mumbled, but he was walking over to you anyway and he knew Rife was decent enough not to say anything to the other lads and turn it into a whole thing. It wasn’t a thing anyway. He was just trying to do the right thing, like he always was nowadays, by going over to thank you for putting on such a fun time for everyone.

“Pool party, eh? Musta taken some kind of hotshot genius to come up with that one,” he says as he comes to a stop next to you against the wall. You screw your eyes shut like you’re thinking.

“Think it was just a run of the mill genius, if I remember,” you tease, and your bright smile is always blinding but he can’t help but wish it was only ever directed at him, “A run of the mill genius who is late, I might add.”

“Ah, you know it takes a lot of effort to look this good,” he says, gesturing down at his bare chest and black swim trunks. He hopes, because you didn’t know him during his prick days, that you know he isn’t being serious as he would have been a few years ago. There’s still a tiny whoosh of his heartbeat in his ears when your eyes travel down his body and back up again.

“I can only imagine,” you say, a blatant lie when you look as good as you do in your wrap dress, Richmond red this time. He’d think you were doing it on purpose if that wasn’t outlandish, “Now, go on, go and enjoy it! We’ve only got the obstacle course for three hours and no one’s been able to pry King away from it.”

Sure enough, when Jamie glances over, King is pulling Gondo over to race him because ‘no one’s ever gonna beat my record’. Even though that’s his cue to stop spending his team bonding time chatting to you, he can’t help but let his eyes drift to the air hose that you’re holding against the wall.

“Is ya arm not crampin’?”

You try and angle your body so he can’t see your arm.

“All good!”

“Excuse me language, but what the fuck are you holdin’?”

Your sigh comes out frustrated and you relent as you turn and switch arms, shaking out the other one vigorously.

“It’s the air pipe or whatever you call it. For the inflatable. It has to go through this window to the pump on the other side at this exact fucking angle otherwise it doesn’t stay inflated. Found someone with a cheaper rate and this is what I get, the little fucker.”

He has to really fight not to chuckle when you spit out the last bit, because you’re clearly enraged about this very fun pool party. However funny he finds it, however, he can tell that you won’t take any jokes well, so instead he holds up a single finger and legs it out of the pool area.

It’s only a short jog down to the dressing room, where he finds a roll of duct tape in the first locker he checks. Footballers have all sorts of uses for the stuff. He practically sprints back to you with it in his hand and the prospect of solving an issue for you has him floating through the corridors.

He enters the pool area again and knows that he’s bounding over to you like an excitable puppy.

“Hold still, yeah?” he says, more out of breath than he’d hoped, but you’re staying still because you look a stunned by his sudden exit and return. He takes the opportunity to start wrapping the duct tape around the pipe, securing it to the wall with a few small pieces, then strengthening it with a longer ones. He takes one glance at your face, far closer to his than its ever been before, and decides he shouldn’t look at you.

Not with your parted lips and sparkly eyes and-

“Right, try takin’ your hand away, if ya would?”

You do so slowly, but the pipe holds in place, same angle, the obstacle course finally self-sufficient. The sound you let out can only be described as a squeal of glee, hands clasped in front of your beaming face.

“Running out of adjectives for you, Jamie Tartt,” you say happily, reaching out to push him in what he assumes is an affectionate gesture. He’s consumed by the sparks that follow your touch, so much so that he doesn’t correct his balance in time, and the floor around the pool is wet. A startled yelp leaves him as he falls backwards into the pool, arms flailing in what he assumes is not a sexy way.

He sees you with your arms stretched out, reaching out for him with your face an absolute picture, when he surfaces, running a hand through his hair as he gasps. When he looks around, most of the team is laughing and he joins in, shaking his head at some of them who are pointing.

“Hope one of you fuckers got that on camera,” he calls out to the other side of the pool and he gets a thumbs up along with more laughs from his teammates. He turns back to you as all the laughter dies down, sees you sporting a look that’s 50% guilt and 50% amusement.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie,” you breathe out, but it’s followed by an immediate giggle that you try to cover up. If you were in a swimsuit, or a bikini, god forbid because he might actually lose it, he’d pull you right in after him. As it is, he just tamely splashes your ankles.

“I’ll getcha for that. An’ after I just helped you, too.”

You grin.

“I’ll make it up to you. Right now actually,” he sees a new mischief on your face that scares him, “Hey! Make sure you don’t get this one, alright? I fucking mean it!”

The cameraman you’re gesturing to nods and looks scared, pressing buttons on his camera. Jamie’s still looking up at you from his spot treading water in the pool, a mixture of anticipation and pure fucking awe on his face.

“It’s a pool party, right?” you grin, then jump into the pool next to him, still in your dress. The whole place cheers as you come up to the surface, laughing and flicking your hair out of your face.

Jamie feels like all his breath has been stolen from him as he watches you try to keep the skirt of your dress from floating upwards too much. He’s totally transfixed. Can’t believe his luck when you’re looking at him again. “We’re even?”

He can’t find words, so he just nods. You swim closer to him, taking a glance on your way, at everyone else presumably to check the attention had turned elsewhere. When you’re sure it has, you whisper to him.

“I know all you’ve done since getting here is be my personal knight in shining armour, but could I ask one more favour?”

Again, no words. He wants to reach out and curl his finger into one of your wet strands of hair. Wants to dunk you under the water. Wants to kiss the living daylights out of you.

Oh fuck. He just nods again, dumbstruck

“Think you could give me a boost? I didn’t think about getting out of this pool gracefully.”

You gesture to the side of the pool. Jamie wonders if he’d died on the way over to the complex earlier and now he was in heaven.

“Uh, yeah. If you’re sure?”

“Please,” you confirm, swimming over to the side and he follows, just like he always does, watching as you brace your arms against the side. He gulps as he places two tentative hands around your waist, then tightens his grip as he pushes you upwards until you can turn and sit on the side of the pool. The hem of your dress brushes his chest in the process and he almost swallows some of the pool water.

Once you’re sat on the edge, feet dangling, he’s just a few inches away from being able to rest his head on your knees as he stares up at you. He feels like his heart is running away from him. You lean down to thank him softly before you stand up, wringing the water out of your dress as you strike up a conversation with one of the coaches on the sidelines about your recklessness.

Those fucking butterflies are fluttering up a storm in Jamie’s stomach, crowding his chest, getting in his head. Yeah, he’s found you attractive from day one, wanted to be your friend from day two. Now he’s that stupid word that Colin always uses to describe Dani when he has a new girl, but he just can’t remember it.

It comes to him when he’s staring at his bedroom ceiling late at night, thinking until he makes his head hurt. Smitten. He’s fucking smitten.

next chapter

---

if you read this far, as usual, i fucking love you <3 also, this chapter is partly based on something the actual england team did before the euros a few years ago, if anyone knows what i'm on about i love you even more ahaha

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt fluff #jamie tartt series #be still my foolish heart

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vampyrsm · 1 year

Text

⚸ 'Save Your Tears.'

⚸ Synopsis - The End is never truly the End.

⚸ Pairing - Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

⚸ Warnings - MDNI. Reader referred to as a woman. Domestic violence (not between Bakugou & Reader), no quirks, non-canon au, heavy angst, angst with comfort, murder, descriptions of wounds, blood, tending to wounds, alcohol consumption, discussions of grief & death, questioning of morals.

⚸ Word Count - 8.5k

⚸ Author's Note - Not 100% beta read, I apologise for some spelling mistakes. I wrote most of this at 1am & extremely tired. I'm also not going to tag the things that are huge plot spoilers, but everything that may be triggering/needs the proper content warnings has been included above.

I know I'm not giving much away but I really want you to read this for yourself and have your own thoughts on this. Please enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you think! Also posted on AO3.

It was loud here. It was always loud in this house. You never knew peace and quiet, never had the chance to relax. It was foolish to believe this man—this monster could ever know what love is. He was terrifying once the door closed and the curtains were drawn, he was no longer the cheerful smile and caring boyfriend but rather he turned into the volatile, malicious man who was currently digging the heel of his boot into the white wooden door separating the both of you.

It wasn’t meant to go like this. A gentle disagreement that spiralled out of control the second you got home. You were just out for dinner with friends, or rather, his friends. You never saw your friends anymore, he said they weren’t trustworthy and you believed him. You had said you didn’t want to go for more drinks after dinner, that you felt sick from the food — not a total lie, but also not entirely false. You did feel sick and you didn’t want to go for drinks, not because of the food but because when your boyfriend had a few drinks in him … consent didn’t matter to him after that.

Of course, he had to keep up appearances. Gently kissing your knuckles, feeling the temperature of your forehead and cheek, all to live up to the image of being such a good boyfriend. But you knew it was a ruse, a warning for what was to come. You weren’t meant to disagree with him, you were meant to always say yes and follow him everywhere.

You were right, as usual, as soon as the door to the house was closed it was like being bathed in the icy waters of the Antarctic. Your blood was frozen solid, and the air felt charged. You could feel his glare through the back of your head, this wasn’t going to end well for you. At first, he was slow in his approach, methodical with his steps so as to not spook you too quickly and you’re ashamed to say it worked.

His hand was always quick, grabbing at the nape of your neck to slam your head first into the old oak door frame. There was a sickening crunch, your nose felt like it had been stuffed with tissue paper and smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer. His words were violent and angry, they always were. Filled with enough curse words to make a sailor blush, he never held back.

He screamed at you, “How dare you fucking embarrass me in front of our friends?!” but you didn’t understand how it was embarrassing. You simply didn’t want to go drinking, you didn’t want to end up hurt and yet here you were. Nursing your broken nose and staring at the way the blood dripped in thick droplets onto the pristine white carpet. You picked this carpet out, it was the one thing you were allowed to do when he forced you into the new home for the both of you—your new prison.

It was a flash after that, a flurry of punches and kicks until you had managed to slip under his arm when he was winding up for something that would definitely have you unconscious and vulnerable to him. You should’ve made a dash for the door but something in your mind told you that he probably locked the door already, he always knew to cut off your escape routes before he did any real damage.

So the next best bet was his study, it was right next to the open plan kitchen and living room — a place where he could keep an eye on you whilst working. The door had a lock on the inside to keep you out but tonight, it’d be used against him. He wasn’t happy about that, of course, and you could see the anger on his face even through the frosted glass window on the door.

The window behind you was your best next chance of escape, and the sound of his boot kicking into the door was enough to spring you into action. You scamper across the wooden floor, fumbling in the dark for the latch. The windows of the house were old, they were the ones that slid upwards and the latches always got caught. It resisted on the first two tugs but it seemed at least lady luck was on your side tonight as the window creaked before sliding up and up—

“No you fucking don’t.”

A hand in the hair on the back of your head has you yelping, the pain in your head only gets stronger when he starts to drag you backwards on the floor by your hair. Your palms graze through the broken shards of glass, and you get a glimpse of the door that had protected you for a mere moment to see he had shattered the glass window to get to the lock.

He shoves you hard onto the floor, your head rattling from the sudden pressure before he’s straddling your stomach. Both his legs hold you in place for him to do whatever he deems good enough to be your punishment for not only embarrassing him but daring to run away from him. His fists are lethal, punches that could make even a grown man cry from the force behind them.

They’re laid on thick and fast against your face, your cheeks when your head turns, his fingers wrap around your throat when punching simply isn’t enough. You have nowhere to look but his face, he looks calm despite what he’s doing. His eyes are lowered to meet yours, his lips set in a fine line whilst his fingers squeeze and squeeze.

Your fingers grasp uselessly at the floor next to you, trying to grab anything — something to leverage yourself on to throw his weight off, but instead, something slices your fingertips. Glass. You feel along it frantically as your vision starts to blur and darken, it feels like your head is full of water and your lips ache from the pressure he’s putting against your windpipe.

It’s quick. The way his face morphs into one of shock and then agony, the spray of blood is quicker though. It shoots out of his neck like a fountain, your hand still holding the glass in its place deep inside his neck. He jerks back, just as you withdraw the shard of glass and it causes the gash to widen. The glass slices effortlessly down and around the front of his throat, dousing you in the sticky red that turns your once pristine dress into a deep crimson.

His blood is warm, and it’s all you can focus on when he falls to the side still clutching his throat in his final moments.

You had to get out of here. You had to leave. It would only look like you did it when someone inevitably calls the police for all the yelling and screaming. Your feet were wobbly beneath you when you finally got them under you — just what had you done? You killed someone, you killed your boyfriend. It was self-defence but you still did it, you could’ve stabbed him anywhere non-fatal but you didn’t. You wanted him dead, you wanted him to leave you alone forever.

The cold night air sticks to the blood sprayed across your face and body, making it grow tacky where it was the thickest. The street is empty save for the cars that had been parked there all night, you could take his car but they’d only trace it, trace you. No, you couldn’t take his car.

So you run.

You run until your calves ache, until your lungs burn with each heavy air intake. You run until the blood on your skin is dried and cracked, finding a home in your pores. Everything hurts to the point where you feel nothing at all. Your mind spins and it’s nauseating. With each aching breath you take, it becomes harder and harder to breathe. The ache in your throat makes the bruises that had already started to form make their presence known, you can feel the ghost of his fingers squeezing and squeezing until you can’t breathe—... you can’t breathe.

A pair of hands grasp the tops of your upper arms, holding you in place when you scream and squirm to get away–to get away from him.

“Hey!” A voice calls through the fog of your mind, sharp and deep. Those same hands are warm on your skin, they hold you so differently from how you were used to. They were soft, uncertain and yet they weren’t letting go. Reassuring. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

That same fog slowly clears from your eyes with each slow blink, until finally, you can see the person before you. It’s hard to see them in the dim light of the overhead streetlight but you can see the worry in the ruby red of his eyes. An odd colour for eyes, you thought absentmindedly, but they were so captivating to stare into. The yellow hue of the light gives the blonde hair on his head an ethereal glow, like a halo.

Another shake to your shoulders as you once again meet his eyes, and you can see him processing all the bruises and broken skin on your face. The bruises around your throat are barely visible beneath the blood caked into your skin, and still, he doesn’t shy away when he asks again if you’re okay. “Is this your blood?”

“..No.” An answer that would have any sane person running away or perhaps even calling the police, but instead the man just nods as if he understands.

“Alright, let’s get you back to–”

“No!” The man’s eyes widen at your sudden raise in volume, but he doesn’t back down nor does he show if he’s uneasy. “Please. I can’t–...I can’t go back.”

The stranger stares back at you, the silence stretching between you both until a shrill siren makes you jump in your skin. He glances over his own shoulder to see a multitude of police cars and an ambulance speeding down a nearby street until they disappear from view.

“Please.” You whisper this time, and the man nods at you. He rolls his shoulders, shucking the thick green parka off of his shoulders until he drops it over yours. It’s warm and has the faintest smell of coffee and caramel. It’s comforting, it smells like home – your real home, back with your mother who tried her hardest to protect you from the harshness of the world. You wonder how she’d feel today knowing how things turned out for you. Maybe you can tell her one day.

“My place isn’t too far from here, I guess you wanna get cleaned up?” His hands linger on the collar of the coat, holding it in place so that the fuzz of the fur brushes against your battered and bruised cheeks. He waits until you nod before dropping his hands, taking a few steps backwards and you follow without thinking. Always the follower.

The walk isn’t long, but the ache in your thighs makes it seem longer. Every step after the last is tiring, and you know you’re lagging behind but the man says nothing. If anything he slows his natural gait to walk by your side, even offering the crook of his arm when you stumble over your own feet. Whilst your body slows with fatigue, your mind runs at a mile a minute. You know it won’t take long for them to figure out what happened, you were the only person who lived in that house with him, and you were missing from the scene of the crime.

The apartment complex the stranger lives in is small, probably only housing two or three different households. Wordlessly you follow him along the gravel path, the small garden lights bathe you in a white light that feels like you’re under inspection. Every speck of blood practically shimmers in the light, exposing you to the world for your transgressions. Yet there is no one to judge you for your sins, no one who screams in fear at the sight of your battered and bloodied face – no one to ask what had happened other than the blonde stranger who leads you into his apartment.

It’s nice inside, cosy yet also empty at the same time. How was this place something but also nothing at the same time? It had no hints of being lived in other than the small white lily in the now darkened window-sill in a pretty white pot. Its petals even from where you stood in the doorway looked like pure snow, soft as the skin of a babe’s cheek. The ambient light of the warm amber lamps gives it a soft glow, and you yearn to stroke the tips of your fingers against its petals.

“C’mon, let’s get you clean.” The man offers, drawing your eyes away from the white lily and he has a saddened look in his eye when he meets yours. Did you genuinely look that awful? Perhaps you did, the dull ache in your nose stings when you think about it too hard and your lips feel numb. You just nod, following quietly along behind the man who had yet to offer you his name.

You watch him from behind as you traverse closer to the bathroom, his shoulders are broad and well-defined even under the black hoodie he’s wearing. His hands are buried inside the pocket of his hoodie, a relaxed and calm air around him despite leading a total stranger covered head to toe in blood that didn’t even belong to them into his bathroom. He lets you stand in the doorway quietly as he goes about setting up the bathroom ready for you to be cleaned.

He offers you a look that invites you into the white bathroom, it’s almost blinding when he flicks on the overhead light that floods the room. You turn to look in the mirror, to assess just how much damage was truly done to you but the man’s hand wraps around your forearm. It’s enough to make you jump in your skin, your hackles rising with the ghost of your boyfriend's hands wrapping around your throat.

“It’s best if you don’t.” His lips are set in a fine line, eyebrows furrowed – he’s serious. Was it that bad? “Don’t look, I mean, it’ll only upset you more.”

That made sense, you supposed, perhaps your mind hadn’t quite caught up with the events of the evening just yet. So you just nod your head, letting his hands move to help you up onto the counter with your back to the mirror. The blonde set the first aid kit down next to you, unboxing a few items that you know will be unpleasant when the time comes to use them.

“‘M gonna wipe the blood away first, will make it easier for me to get to the open wounds.”

“Why?” You ask quietly, watching how his eyebrows come together in confusion whilst wetting a washcloth in the warm water from the sink just off to your side.

“Why do I need to clean fir–”

“Why are you doing this?” It felt rude to cut him off, but the man shows no anger at how you cut him off, instead his features relax a little in understanding.

“Why not?” He offers you a question to your own. He shrugs his shoulders alongside it. “It’d be pretty fucked up of me to ignore someone who needed help.”

You smile a little at his words before hissing at the ache in your jaw, and his eyebrows knit together again in worry. He forgoes speaking to you any further, opting instead to focus on cleaning you up. The way he strokes the washcloth along your skin is featherlight, careful of the bruising and cuts along your cheekbones and the obvious one on your nose. He strokes it along your cheeks, gently along your lips. The sink next to you is slowly turning a reddish hue each time he rinses the cloth to go back in. He finishes the cleaning with a gentle side-to-side motion along your forehead before bringing the cloth gently down to the bridge of your nose.

“I won’t sugarcoat it, this is gonna hurt a lot.” He finally speaks again, the deepness of his voice is jarring in the tense silence of the bathroom and yet it lulls you into a sense of safety. A certain element to it tells you that this man won’t harm you, and you can trust him to get you through this next part.

“Don’t blame me if I accidentally hit you or pinch you then,” you smile a little easier than before and the man mirrors a slight grin back to you.

“I’d like to see you try, those little hands and feet aren’t gonna do shit to me.” You snort at his words but you can’t stop the pang of guilt in your stomach. Your hands had done something; you held that piece of glass and took someone's life. You did that, just you.

“Hey.” The man nudges your knee, ducking his head down to meet your eyes. “Sorry, shitty joke. I’m not the best with that shit–”

“It’s not you, don’t worry.” And now it’s his turn to snort, his eyes drifting back down to his hands as he opens up the antiseptic wipes.

“Like I haven’t heard that one before.” There’s a twinkle of humour in his eye when you meet his gaze again, and it’s easy to ease back into the comfort of just the two of you being alone in this room. A sanctuary away from the harsh reality of the world that’s awaiting you just beyond the door. “Alright, hold still. G’nna hurt like a bitch.”

The second the wipe comes in contact with your skin, you jolt. It hurts a lot more than you were anticipating and you have to steel yourself for the next time he wipes away at your skin to fully clear out the wounds. He manoeuvres you with gentle fingers, gently set at your jaw to turn you to the left and right to make sure he’s gotten everything before he hooks them beneath your chin to tilt you to look up at him.

He’s absolutely gorgeous, for the lack of a better word to describe this benevolent stranger. His skin is flawless, and the red of his eyes has little flecks of brown in them. The slope of his nose is mesmerising, he was truly made in the image of beauty. It begged the question as to why his house seemed so unlived in, did he have no one to come home to? That just seemed impossible for someone as breathtaking as he was – was there something you were missing?

You hiss again when he presses a butterfly stitch down across the bridge of your nose, his own nose wrinkling at the visible discomfort he’s causing you.

“All done, I’m gonna guess you want to get out of those.” He points at your clothes, and you look down again to see the material stuck to your skin. It’s cold, and wet, the sensation makes your skin crawl in remembrance of just what had transpired. “I’ll go get some of my stuff, you can finish cleaning yourself up right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You offer a smile when he nods his head, he makes short work of throwing away the dirtied cloth and empty boxes before he’s gone.

You’re left in the eerie silence of his bathroom, you can’t even hear the outside world from here. It leaves you susceptible to your mind. The dreaded thoughts that condemn you for what you had done – telling you over and over that you were going to be found. Punished. Locked away and the key thrown away.

You didn’t want that, you didn’t want to be punished for something he had done. No one would believe you if you said it was in self-defence, if anything it looked like he was the one who was defending himself. No one was there to tell the judge and jury what really happened. You’d be found guilty with no one to save you.

It feels like you’re drowning, choking on the guilt that bubbles up in your throat. Something grabs at your throat, squeezing and squeezing until you feel a similar ache in your lips and a fuzzy feeling behind your eyes. Your hand scrambles to get whatever is off of your throat, nails catching against the raw bruised skin but it’s fruitless. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe. You can’t–

“Hey.”

It’s a deep intake of breath, one that has your lungs inflating until they hurt and your head tilting back to greedily take as much as possible. There’s no pressure around your throat anymore, just the feeling of your own cool fingertips pressing against the bruises that had started to blossom against abused skin.

There’s a knock on the door, some shuffling of socks on wooden floorboards. “You okay in there? Do you need help?”

“N–No.” You clear your throat, coughing to clear the uneasiness in your throat. “Sorry, was getting undressed.”

He’s silent on the other side of the door for a moment, and you wonder if he’s figuring out if you’re lying or not. “Okay, sure. I’m gonna open the door so you can take these clothes, alright?”

He waits for your consent to open the door, and when he does he’s true to his word. He sticks just his arm through with the pile of clothes he has to offer, you take them gratefully and just like before he’s closing the door to leave you alone.

This time you don’t hang around to hear what your mind might have to say about your little freakout, so you start to peel off the sullied clothes from your body. You take extra care to not drag your dress against your face when you change out of it before letting it drop onto the white tiled floor with a wet plop. It looks so wrong on such pristine flooring, an imperfection; a sin.

Though you don’t allow your thoughts to drag you beneath the icy depths once again, you set a simple goal in your mind – to clean yourself and then change into new clothes. It’s easier to remove your ruined underwear when you disassociate yourself from what really happened. Your clothes were simply just wet, not dripping with blood. Your skin was just caked in mud, not cracking with blood. It was just easier to let go.

The sponge is smooth against your skin once you run it beneath some warm water, letting the rivulets of watered-down blood slide along the smooth expanse of your chest until you’re clean. You glance at the clothes that were given to you by the man who took you in, it seems to be a basic combo of grey sweatpants and a nondescript black t-shirt that looks soft. Your fingers brush along it, feeling the fabric beneath dried fingertips before you take it to slip on over your head.

Getting dressed was much quicker now you were clean, but you were presented with another problem; these clothes were far too big for you. They dwarfed you which had both good and bad sides to it. Good being it hid the fact you had no clean underwear beneath. Bad meaning you had to roll the waistband of the sweatpants up three times and cuff the legs to make sure they didn’t slip down.

Now all you had to do was face the man who most definitely would have a million questions for you. He had every right to know just what had happened given he was harbouring a criminal. The thought however doesn’t bring you as much dread as it should. This stranger had taken you in without any second-guessing, he had cleaned your wounds and provided you with new clothes. Perhaps he would see your side of things, maybe he’d even understand and now hand you into the police when you tell him the truth.

The bathroom door creaks when you open it, much to your dismay, your face crumpling a little at the obvious attempt to sneak out without being noticed immediately. Yet there is no voice asking you to come forward, or questioning if you need anything. In fact, it’s quiet, a silence that settles against your chest and melts into your skin. It’s comforting, and slowly it coaxes you out of the bathroom and further into the house.

Each step you take back the way you came confirms that the man isn’t waiting for you to emerge from the bathroom. Instead, you find the living room of his apartment to be completely empty, even the kitchen from what you can see seems to be barren. It’s odd and it should worry you but it doesn’t. You focus your mind on looking around at your surroundings. It definitely confirms what you had thought when you first arrived – it looked unlived in, or just extremely clean. The sofa looks like it had never been sat on and just plucked straight from a showroom.

Even the rug beneath your feet felt new, like it hadn’t gone through the hardships of someone dropping coffee or food on it.

It was strange, to say the least. You venture towards the bookshelves lining one wall, and there doesn’t seem to be a speck of dust on the old oak bookcase and yet the books look old. Older than you, you’d wager. Was this guy a clean freak who liked to collect old literature? You lean in to take a closer look at the titles, some of them rubbed off from years of use you presume but even the ones you read are in a different language. Latin perhaps? You can’t tell. So he was a man who could read—speak?—Latin.

Maybe you should be more scared of the man who was nowhere to be seen.

Something catches your eye on the wall next to the grand bookcase. You have to take a step back to see it in its entirety – it’s a grand oil painting and it may just be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. You’ve seen plenty of knockoff paintings being spoken about on TV shows where they go to auction off old things they find in their attics but this screams authentic to you. Which only begs the question; just how did he manage to get such a thing like this in his house?

“Fall of the Damned.” A voice is behind you, deep and yet quiet so as to not scare you. Yet it fails as you jump out of your skin, clutching at your chest as if to stop your heart from leaping out. The man makes no move to laugh at the fact he scared you. When you look at him, he’s staring up at the grand painting with a strange look on his face. He looks almost wistful, perhaps even reminiscent.

“The original from 1620.”

“But I thought the original was damaged. An acid attack–”

“No, that was a fake. But this is the real one.” He’s certain in the words he speaks, leaving no room to argue with the fact you were very certain that the original had been damaged in the 1950s.

You look back at the painting, and there are certainly no markings of any damage to it. You can see the individual strokes of the paintbrushes the closer you look; it most definitely was authentic. But this thing was priceless, so many people had tried to replicate it or reproduce it in their own image but they could never match the beauty of this. The jumble of bodies tumbling from Heaven merge together the longer you look until it looks like a stream of white meeting the fiery pits of the abyss.

“How do you even have this?” You ask quietly after a spell of silence, turning back to finally meet the burning gaze of the man who towers over you.

“A friend gave it to me.” He offers, and he must see the disappointment in your eyes when he doesn’t provide the full answer. “He told me that it would suit me well.”

Perhaps it’s best to not push for a further answer, whoever he was speaking of didn’t sound like much of a friend with the way he had spat out his words. Maybe an old friend, someone who wanted to gift this as a jab at the blonde.

“Anyway. How you feelin’?” He asks you, his shoulders relaxing a little when he takes you in fully cleaned to the best of your ability.

“Fine. Better now that I have clean clothes, thank you by the way.”

“Don’t mention it, I wouldn’t want to be stuck in bloody clothes, so.” He shrugs before sinking into the untouched sofa, his massive frame takes up a good portion of it and you can’t help but stare a little. He makes no move to speak again, instead, he leans forward to swipe the bottle of wine he must’ve placed there before he caught you staring at his artwork.

He still does not speak when you watch him pour two glasses of red wine, the red liquid swirling and settling in the pristine glass before finally, he meets your gaze, offering up a glass for you to take. A small part of you tells you to not drink in the presence of an unknown man but you can’t find it within you to reject him, something alluring in the way his face is completely relaxed – he poses no threat to you.

When you take the wine glass from him, he leans back into his spot on the sofa with his own glass and swirls it between fingers that seemed to have done such an action over and over.

“So–”

“I don’t know your name.” You blurt, nerves finally bubbling up your throat in a form of a barked question that has his eyebrows raising for a second in wonder if he really hadn’t told your name thus far. You busy yourself with a sip of the dark red liquid.

“Bakugou Katsuki.” He sips his own wine as you do before continuing. “What about you? Only fair I know the name of the woman I saved.”

You supposed he had a point, and you offered him your name. He seems to roll it around in his mind for a moment, a small nod of his head seems to be all you’ll get in return.

“So, Y/N.” Your name slips free from his tongue so easily, the rich timbre of his voice imbues your name with a sense of regality. “I won’t outright ask what you’re running from, but do I have to be worried about the police turning up to my door because I’m harbouring some axe murderer?”

Your lips twitch downwards into a frown, and you move to settle into a spot not too far but also not too close to Bakugou. He wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Not an axe murderer.”

Bakugou hums deep in his chest at your answer, the noise reverberating in the glass of wine as he takes another deep sip.

“Ex?” Your face crumples involuntarily at his easy guess, the ache in your throat returns tenfold when you try to stop yourself from crying. You hadn’t really cried once, had you? It makes your face ache, your eyes sting with confessions of just what you had done and this poor man next to you had no idea.

“Dickhead probably had it comin’, I’m sure he’s out there licking his wounds like the sad fuck–”

“He’s dead.” It feels like ash on your tongue to admit it, but at the same time, it feels like a deep breath on a spring morning. It feels both refreshing and restraining at the same time; to admit to something as ghastly as the murder of someone who had treated you as less than dirt is a perplexing feeling.

“Oh fuck,” Bakugou adjusts himself next to you a little, sitting forward so he can see your face a little clearer. “Did you do it?”

You simply nod your head, expecting Bakugou to leap up from his seat and immediately call the police. But instead, he stays still, contemplating what to say next.

“He hurt me,” you breathe, sucking in a harsh breath like you’d been submerged under water. “He hurt me so much, I couldn’t–... I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to get away, I needed to. I was scared that if I didn’t get away he’d really do it this time. He was going to kill me this time, I’m sure of it. I didn’t want to die by his hands and he got away with it–”

There’s a warmth draped around you, a heaviness that forces you to crumple inwards on yourself when the crying really starts. A hand on your shoulder coaxes you into a clean warm shirt, your face pressed into the fabric doesn’t do much to mute your crying. That same hand rubs up and down against your arm, comforting you in a way no one had in a very long time.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his chin tucked against the top of your head when you find refuge in the safety of his neck. “You deserved so much better, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That’s what you wanted to hear, even if you didn’t realise it. You needed someone to acknowledge your pain, your hurt. It was hard to believe now that you deserved better with how it had all ended up, but you didn’t have it in you to argue with the man who was still gently cradling you into his body. You’re not sure how long you cry into Bakugou’s neck but eventually, the tears stop. It leaves you feeling empty, and your face tacky from the tear marks that stain your face.

“Better?” Bakugou asks finally, clearing his throat of the emotions that were soaking into his words to the point where his voice cracked. His voice rumbled against your body, a deep resonating sound that helps ease you back from the precipice of despair and back into reality.

You have to awkwardly peel yourself away from Bakugou, cringing at the wet patches on his shirt and the slight tinges of blood from where you had buried your face against him. “Yeah, thanks.” You have to look elsewhere, hoping he doesn’t mention how you ruined his shirt.

Thankfully he doesn’t, a simple “Fuck it,” leaving his mouth and instead he leans forward to grab the bottle of wine taking a long swig directly from the bottle before offering it to you.

“Let’s have a toast,” you take the bottle for him slowly, confused at where he could possibly be leading with this. “A toast to a better future. One without assholes, one where you can do whatever the fuck you want and no one will give a shit.”

A part of his small toast felt like he was directing it to himself also – like he wanted to be free of whatever shackles were chaining him to the past. But still, his toast sounded good. Something you could get behind and hope for, maybe the future does hold something better for you. So you raise the wine bottle when he raises his own glass, tapping the two together.

“A toast to a better future.”

Bakugou watches as you drink from the wine bottle, his own lips hovering just by the edge of his own glass before he finishes it all in one go. A deep sigh, of relaxation or vexation you’re unsure, expands his chest before he relaxes back into the sofa to stare at the grand painting that looms over the both of you like a bad omen.

“Bakugou?” He only grunts in response. “Do you believe I’ll really have a better future?”

His head turns on the back of the sofa, staring over the slight fat of his cheeks to catch your own gaze. He’s quiet for a moment, a long moment that has you fidgeting in his gaze. Why was he so silent all of a sudden? Did he simply say that to make you feel better? It would make sense – perhaps that’s the only way he thought he could ease your mind when in reality you’d be spending the rest of your miserable life behind bars.

“Yeah,” Bakugou finally replies, “I do.”

And once again, the conversation comes to a silent end. Your mind wanders for a moment, your gaze set on the small lily on the window ledge. Even from here, you could tell how well-nurtured this flower was, the petals practically glowed in the moonlight that streamed through the window and spilled out across the floor in pale beams. The man next to you didn’t seem quite like the type of person who cared for a plant so well, it was the only thing in this whole place that seemed out of place.

You venture over towards the flower, and all Bakugou does is move his legs to allow you to pass. You can feel his gaze on your back the closer you get to the flower, and now within reach, you can truly see its beauty clearly. The white pot it lays in is pristine, hand-painted from what you can tell when you lean in to take a closer look. The lily itself has the type of smell you’d expect of a flower; green and earthy, yet there’s the oddest subtle spice that lays beneath all of that. It’s baffling.

The purity of its white petals has you envious of a plant, it is without blemishes and yet here you are; stained for all of eternity by the hands of someone who had grown greedy and cruel with your life. It aches the longer you stare at the flower, wishing you could somehow steal its light and store it away in the void that had opened up in your chest. Yet despite its purity, there is a single curled-up petal nestled into the dirt beneath. It’s browned with decay and it’s curious as to why its owner would go to such lengths to care for it but not remove the dead petal.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Bakugou says from his place now over by the door. You hadn’t even heard him get up and move but you’re thankful for the distraction from your petty envy.

“Is that a good idea?”

The question makes him stop midway putting his black leather jacket on. Did he not consider the fact you were most likely a wanted criminal by now?

“You’ll be fine as long as you’re with me, now c’mon. It’s too stuffy in here and I wanna go to the park when there's no extras roaming around.”

He waits patiently by the door when you slip into your previous shoes, they weren’t nearly as bloody as the rest of your old clothing which you were thankful for. Bakugou locks the door behind you both before he extends a hand out for you to take, you look up at him to question why he’s asking to hold your hand when you stop. He has a soft red hue to his cheeks, a blush perhaps or maybe the alcohol is just settling itself beneath his skin.

His palm is soft against your own, much larger, yes, but all the more comforting. He must be thankful for you not saying anything as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before he’s guiding you back out the way you come. Each step is as nerve-racking as the last, this feeling that someone is waiting for you around the corner to snatch you up and lock you away.

You’re thankful for the fact Bakugou had offered to hold your hand as he encourages you to keep pace with him, to not fall behind as he guides you out into the cold night and down the dim street towards an unknown location. There is no one you encounter on the way to the park, the streets are desolate and quiet as everyone slumbers in their beds unknowing of who is walking by.

The park itself is pitch black save for some street lamps that light the occasional park bench along the winding path that traverses from one side to the other, Bakugou must sense your hesitance to enter as he gives you another gentle squeeze. “It’s fine, no one’s here.”

You somehow doubt that he knows that, there’s no way for him to know that the park is completely barren. There are probably some teenagers messing around late into the night against their parent's wishes, or perhaps a homeless man that seeks a quiet night's sleep on one of the many benches.

Alas, you still follow him through the large iron gate that squeaks when you pass through before it rattles behind you with a jarringly loud noise. Despite that, no one comes out from hiding in the dark shadows and no one shouts at the two of you for being out so late.

Now in the park, Bakugou slows his walk enough to enjoy the cool night air, to tilt his head back as he peers up at the overhanging moon and the clouds that shroud it in a gentle white blanket. He seems at peace here, like his mind can finally unwind and the alcohol in his system helps with sorting through whatever may be troubling him.

“Do you regret it?” He speaks once the two of you come to a standstill in the middle of the path, only the overhead street light illuminating the both of you. “Do you regret what you did?”

It’s a sucker punch of a question, it hurts to think about if you truly regret it or not. Your eyebrows come together in a deep frown, and you turn to face Bakugou who also does the same to you and you’re surprised to see he’s also frowning down at you.

Although, when you think about if you did or did not regret what you did. You’re torn between two minds; part of you regrets the fact you had taken another human's life but at the same time… you ponder the question if he was really a human anymore? Did he deserve to be treated as one if he did not treat you the same? He beat you whenever you defied him or shoved you into the boiler closet when you had accidentally cut the vegetables the wrong way.

He didn’t see you as human, he lost his right to be a human the moment he laid a hand against you.

“No.” You finally reply with the word breathed out with a small white cloud that fills the space between the both of you. Bakugou is silent as he fully takes in your choice, his nose wrinkles a little when he frowns again before he turns his head to look away from you.

“I want to show you something.”

And he’s moving before you can question just why he had frowned at your answer and changed the subject so sharply. Your steps are hurried behind his as he tugs you along, further and further down the path before he’s suddenly diverting into the thicket of trees to your left. It has a shot of fear racing through your veins, your hand squeezes tighter around his own as he continues to traverse through the unknown darkness.

All at once the darkness fades away for a blinding bright light, and you’re forced to shield your eyes away with your spare hand and curl yourself into the arm of the man who had been pulling you through thorns and sharp branches for the best part of two minutes.

You come to realise that Bakugou has also stopped. You peek around his jacket arm, squinting at the bright white light that slowly fades away to reveal … a security light. Confused, you start to take in your surroundings. By the looks of things you’re in a garden, the grass is overgrown and filled with a mixture of weeds and wildflowers, some wilting and others blooming. The birdbath that you assume must’ve been the centrepiece is filled with brown water; neglected for years and unused by any birds since the owners had turned their backs on their garden.

“Where are we?” You finally ask, turning your head back up to look at Bakugou who is staring straight ahead still.

You follow his gaze, and immediately you try to jerk your hand out of his own. You try to tug and pull will all your might to escape the ever-tightening grip he has on you. How dare he! He betrayed you, he pulled you into a false sense of security so he could what?! Take you back to your home?! How did he even know where you lived anyway, how did he know and why did he do it?

“Let go!” You all but scream, tears once again blurring your sight. “Please, let me go! I don’t want to go back!”

“Please,” Bakugou pleads, his word sounds wet – like he’s crying as well, and the sharp intake of breath he takes is enough to confirm that perhaps he really is. “Don’t fight me, just follow me and it’ll all make sense.”

“No!” But he’s moving again, and you’re forced to come with him. It feels like your lungs are filled with water, and your throat feels like it starts to shut the closer you get to the backdoor of your house. “Bakugou, please!”

He isn’t listening.

“Bakugou, listen to me!”

The door is open and the sense of dread increases tenfold.

“Katsuki!”

Finally. He stops. But it’s far too late, you’re both past the threshold and you’re forced to stare at the red patch on the pristine white carpet that looks more cream now. His fingers slip away from yours but it’s like you’re in a trance the longer you stare at the stain that grows duller and duller the longer you stare at it, there are no shards of glass littering the floor.

In fact, as you look around the house is completely empty. Barren. There are dust sheets over the expensive marble kitchen counters, the doors have been removed and there are no light fixtures. What? This didn’t make any sense, it was your house you’re sure of it but it felt like an empty husk.

“I don’t… I don’t understand, is this some sort of sick joke?” You whirl on your heel to stare at Bakugou whose face is crumpled in what can only be described as agony, the white of his eyes are red with unshed tears.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“Why–”

“I shouldn’t have taken you in when I found you. I was told to never do that, I was meant to lead you back here at the start! To help you find peace but I couldn’t do it. It hurt too much to see you crying and pleading with me to take you somewhere safe, I thought I could keep you safe from all of this!” His words seem so out of place on the brute of a man, his large shoulders bunch up with each heavy breath he takes to stop the tears from overflowing.

“But you looked so happy when I said I think you would have a better future. You’d never have a better future with me, not really, you would always have that longing you feel in your chest right now. That emptiness that isn’t ever really gone until you move on.”

“Katsuki–... What are you trying to tell me?” His words in truth scare you, nothing he’s saying makes sense and yet it does. That feeling in your chest is true, and you’ve felt it from the moment you stepped foot out of this house just hours ago.

“You died!” He yells, a sharp intake of breath has him nearly hunching over as if he was punched. “He killed you, right there. And no one ever found you.”

“I don’t… I don’t believe you, that makes no sense. I’m right here! I can feel that I’m right here.” Your hand presses to your chest but even then, it feels cold. You can’t feel the pitter-patter of your heart beneath your fingertips.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, I could never lie to you.” His hands are warm when they press on either side of your face, cupping your cheeks until you look into his eyes. He looks heartbroken. As if his world has collapsed in on itself and he may never see the sunrise again. Perhaps he may never get to see it again, much like you, you’re unsure just who Bakugou Katsuki really is but the way he’s holding you is undeniably intimate.

“Do you remember when I said I truly believe that you could have a better future?” You nod in his hands, and he nods along with you. “You still can have a better future, I can give it to you.”

His fingers dig a little into the plushness of your cheeks, clinging to you as if you may slip from between his fingers like sand and he’s unready to let go of you just yet.

His face is so close to yours that you’re greedily breathing in the warmth of his breath, your noses brush with a slight raise of his chin. He’s asking for something; for permission, you realise, and you wonder if this is truly how it all ends.

His lips are just as soft as you imagined, they’re undeniably warm compared to the coldness of your own. Bakugou is greedy when he kisses you, his hands clutch that much tighter until you’re forced to feel the ache in your jaw. He breathes in when he can, only to dive straight back to your lips – to bite on your bottom lip until you allow him in. But you pull away before you let him in, and he’s forced to press his forehead to your own.

You meet his longing gaze once again to ask one final question.

“Did he survive?” Your question clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows furrow and his hands loosen for just a nanosecond. “Did he get away with killing me?”

“...Yes.”

You expected that answer and yet it still hurts to hear, that he had gotten away with it and would most likely get away with it again and again until the hands of Death cradled him the same way Bakugou cradles you now. Something deep inside of you tells you that you can’t settle for that, you can’t let him have the last laugh nor can you let him believe that he got away with discarding you so easily.

“I can’t truly have a future as long as he’s still out there.”

Bakugou grows silent once again, the natural red hues of his eye dull as the tears dry up and his lips drop into a slight frown. “Is that what you’re asking for?”

“Yes. It’s my final wish.”

And Bakugou just nods solemnly, he knows what this means for both him and yourself. It hurts him that you feel like you’d be unable to move on without this one final thing, and still, he must obey your final wish. After all, he wouldn’t be the Angel of Death if he ignored the plea of an innocent.

… Somewhere in the city, in an empty apartment that sits lonely. A white lily wilts, one of its beautiful petals curling as the decay spreads until it falls into the dirt below. A lily that once had three petals has been reduced to two as the Angel sacrifices his own salvation in order to save yours.

#tw domestic violence #cw domestic violence #cw death #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugou x reader

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kaizestar · 19 days

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tw: violence, murder & gore

we need more insane characters, let’s be fr. and not insane in the “omg i love you sm i’ll kill anyone and everyone for you 😍😍” yandere way.

no, i mean in the bloodthirsty, violent, snarky kind of way. the way that has them soaked in blood, from head to toe, but they only click their tongue in annoyance as they swipe some of that red off their cheek and grind their boot into the crushed skull of one of their victims.

that kind of way that has them laughing raucously at the brazenness, the naivety, the foolishness of the people that dare to face them—before their face sobers in an instant, and suddenly, they’re hacking limbs off with a broadsword, and snarling as they brutally mutilate their victims’ bodies.

but they’re not stupid. instead, they’re quite smart. they just don’t care. they have no inhibitions. they kill because it pleases them to. they’re careful, calculated—but also egotistical and unpredictable.

they’ll ruin you.

wouldn’t that just be so nice?

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witchmoon · 1 year

Text

by our red string of fate.

Part 1

Pairing: Prince Aemond Targaryen x fem! Reader

Summary: Aemond returns to King’s Landing for Aegon’s name day celebration during the midst of war. Immediately he regrets his decision to join the festivities, threatening an existential crisis, but then a mysterious beauty catches his attention - intriguing his jaded heart. It’s an unlikely place and the most inconvenient of times, but somehow he's renewed by the prospect that he could finally have a love he’s never known.

Word Count: 4.6k

Author’s Note: Third person perspective, reader/she (Y/N) is from an unspecified house with limited knowledge of the Targaryens. Some deviation of timelines and of HOTD canon/ details. Multi-part wip / slow burn, angst, eventual NSFW (lots!), language, soft feels.

I just want to write about Aemond falling in love, so the story is hyper-focused on the two mains-only without a lot of scene setting and background regarding the dance. Hope you stick around and enjoy! Comments/asks welcomed. LMK if you want to be tagged.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

don’t stop trying to find me here amidst the chaos. though i know it’s blinding, there’s a way out. say out loud, we will not give up on love now.

Sometimes Aemond wonders why he still shows up for shit like this, especially when the attendance is so insufferable. Not that he doesn’t occasionally enjoy hearing his name mentioned in mixed tones of reverence and fear when he returns home.

Admittedly, he does find the soft whispers amongst the crowd of highborn families that his mother insists on periodically inviting to court dryly amusing, but only just.

The attention can also prove a nice stroke to his ego every once in awhile, but it isn’t important to him the way it might have been before the war started. The pointed compliments and overt side-glances his way seem particularly insincere, holding no significance, as every person in the room fails to override his growing boredom.

Heavens save me.

Aemond begins to seethe at the fuckery of it all, and the night continues to progress with no clear end in sight. Time passes and with every moment that it does, his interest in remaining present depletes.

It’s unsurprising in consideration of how the conversations stay surface-level, lacking quality as the topics float weightless and repeating, forever removed from reality. Even with so many moon turns passed, everything still seems to remain relatively ordinary. No- dull as shit, he internally counters. Its personally stifling within the confines of the Red Keep.

He hates it here. The lack of evolution disappoints Aemond, even despite his expectation already residing at an all-time low. But what could be expected? Certainly nothing more from the self-indulgent snobs so far up their own asses as they regale in false self-importance, and definitely not when they maintain this guise for their foolish king’s name day celebration. What a farce.

His train of thought compels him to consider the raised dais where his idiot brother currently sits, already several cups deep into his spirits. Aemond can’t help but roll his eye, a habit he’s no longer keen to conceal. He’s grown tired of putting on fronts, especially for his family, wearing his emotions more easily on his sleeve so to speak.

Disdain and bitterness reignite at the sight of Aegon, selfish prick that he is, weaving back into Aemond’s marrow as he reflects on the many sacrifices he continues to make in the name of honor, loyalty and duty. And for fucking what?

i don't feel guilt at being unsociable, though i may sometimes regret it because my loneliness is painful…

The wine is weak, the food is tasteless and the music - abhorrent. He swears he’s going to gut the damn jester that keeps circling the main floor if he sees him again, envisioning the crimson pool that would undoubtedly ruin his newly polished boots in his mind’s eye, were he to act on the impulse.

It wouldn’t be worth it and Mother would be none too pleased…

Convincing himself of this, it’s actually not lost on him that he’s spent his entire life actually living within and throughout this ever-growing debacle. So many nights just like this, and the irony of such staggering a truth becomes too fucking rich. He blames his father most of all for this, but there are other factors too, ideas less congruent, but convincing all the same- he’s been cursed since birth.

His aversion to remain in this hall, in the entirety of this damnable Keep, only builds. The mood of Aemond is a transformative black and he’s past annoyance when more people fill the space, to the point it feels like everything probably should implode on itself. And he can’t say he wouldn’t welcome this, even if it meant his own demise, because at this point who fucking cares?

but when i move into the world, it feels like a moral fall- like seeking love in a whorehouse.

Alas, it does not. But the cynicism within him just keeps expanding. He can only blame himself. Just lay in it then, and try to be civilized.

Truth be told, the appeal for him to do anything these days that didn’t include partaking in the plotting for destruction and so many endless deaths during war meetings, or patrolling for visible threats from the sky on Vhagar had been strong. He’s convinced it must have been in a moment of weakness, during one of his deep bouts of loneliness, that the invitation bearing raven had conveniently arrived to him.

Aemond can’t justify any other reason than this, for he’d made haste to King’s Landing without any true forethought upon receipt of his mother’s handwritten request. Why had he been so easily swayed? Was it because life of late felt reduced to boring days, an unknown future, an irregular sleep, repeat? Yes, likely. But these were weaknesses better kept under wraps.

He smirks at such an unmerciful fate, but mostly to himself when he turns again to the main table, witnessing in real time as his only living parent bestows Aegon with a small surreptitious slap at something mouthy he’s just said towards her. In all these years, nothing ever changes.

Their grandsire holds Aegon in a death glare full of contempt by her side, utterly disapproving as well, which is something Aemond finds satiric. After all, wasn’t this what The Hand had always wanted for The Greens? Irreverent power and glory, Aegon upon the throne…such folly.

i can hardly breathe, and now you're right above me and your shadow suffocates.

The Keep had momentarily seemed a welcoming concept, but the present is too sobering a contradiction, impossible to ignore now. Sadly, the notion that he’d feel differently for this homecoming was once more proving false.

He can’t deflect responsibility, knowing his decision in actuality has been swayed by the growing weariness of violence - how tired he is of constantly being on the defense; forever at odds with his heart, his soul. It all feels heavy, a burdensome weight that will not hold much longer. What is my purpose? Although he will never admit this to anyone, he’s begun to lose sight of what he’s even fighting for anymore.

He needs something else to focus on for a while. A spark of interest would be nice, anything might do, as long as it could keep him from lashing out in anger - mostly at himself. Or worse, he could go spiraling downwards, back into the deep abyss of his emotions for a long-term residence. Just wither away into nothingness, and he has half a mind to let it happen. Fuck it all.

The actuality of all this flits across his mind, leaving the room suddenly muted to his ears. He shuts out the conversation he’s been involved in for an undisputed amount of time. Interestingly, the group surrounding him is littered with several lords and ladies that used to scoff and shirk at him a mere handful of solar cycles previously.

Hypocrites, cowards, utter cunts - the lot of them.

It doesn’t really matter to him though, these fools from a bitter and harrowing past, nor their opinions. Instead he inwardly returns to a more pressing matter up for his contemplation - the emptiness he’s been feeling for awhile, how internalized and damaging it still is.

He thinks of the way it all stacks up against him, how it’s reduced him to a man underwhelmed, unfulfilled… and the greatest issue of all, unloved. This is something Aemond is forever conscious of, and it’s like he’s suddenly experiencing the same oppressive state he’d lived in for so much of his youth, a time in which he was not in control whatsoever.

Once upon a time, he had been soft - a dreamer with a lot of heart to give. Unfortunately, by no fault of his own, his sensitive nature had proven detrimental, swiftly making him the target of many immature, albeit cruel intentions. Even despite being a Targaryen son, he’d constantly found himself the brunt of jests amongst his eldest brother and younger kin alike.

It had been a callous awakening, one that both fed his deep-seated feelings of inadequacy and expanded his burgeoning anger, turning him more spiteful with age.

What the fuck?

He wonders why these memories are suddenly seeking their re-emergence, particularly when it feels like he’s already spent a lifetime making painstaking efforts to finally move beyond such devastating haunts.

But it never really leaves him.

In defiance of persistence, self preservation and all he’s mastered, everything he’s proven of himself through accomplishment and challenge, some things still refuse to detach themselves from him. They are core memories that shall remain forever tied to the very matter of which he’s made, and because of this, he’s tried to make peace with their aggravation.

Even still, it’s a nuisance for him when he considers his own personal defects, how ingrained they seem, like a sustained poison in his blood. Inescapable fallacies that others have convinced him of, no matter his renowned skills as a swordsman, his impressive mount on the biggest dragon in the world, all his knowledge - the rarity of an education that is vast, uncommon… the notoriety of his crimes.

Am I not more than this?

He’s flawed - yes, as painfully aware of this truth as he is of his demons, so many well-acquainted old foes that have been around his entire life, lurking endlessly. They’re more repressed than before, but Aemond doesn’t think they’ll ever truly leave him, and he’s inclined to accept this damnation too.

But try as he might to tamper it, he feels primarily defined by his navigation and survival through neglect and bullying, at being physically maimed and sexually taken advantage of at a young age, none the wiser at the time. It’s all very tragic, even still, and yet he’s tired of being married to the victimization of it all.

He often wonders what’s so terribly wrong with him that every day, it feels like Westeros is trying to strangle him. As if she’s been trying to do this for his entire life - kill him slowly. And this plausibility doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility as he sardonically considers his existence, how shit it’s been, that the bitch might actually be succeeding in the endeavor.

It's an ever-present thorn in his side, and it feels deeper tonight, the stab somehow greater. He feels like disappearing or giving up, and the decision to give in only persists in the absence of an anchor - one he’s been in dire need of for some time.

If only there was a new strength from which he could draw, something powerful that he might feel inclined to cling to. His mind reels at what could possibly keep him grounded, give his life meaning, keep him sane enough to remain in this living hell.

But hope is a foreign concept, a dangerous entertainment that Aemond doesn’t make a practice of, and happiness is even more evasive. For him, there’s no miracle waiting in the wings for the perfect moment to unveil itself and show him kindness. There’s no fortress from which to seek refuge within, no bastion or brave defender to come to his aid, no salve to erase all the hurt in his torn heart. It’s a lost cause.

He knows that coming here tonight has been a grave mistake.

no dawn, no day, i’m always in this twilight.

He wants to move, but the will to do so momentarily abandons him, leaving him to remain trapped within himself. His singular vision loses focus as his stare shifts to the intricate flooring before him, a distracting pattern of which he really isn’t seeing. It’s not promising, but he’s somehow hoping the ground might miraculously deign mercy upon him by opening up and just swallowing him fucking whole.

He holds his breath, willing this occurrence, but of course it's all for naught. Then, as if from the end of a dark tunnel, he hears the familiarity of his name, spoken and echoing, drawing him back to the present. He begins to anticipate the confused stares from the group he’s been standing with, though no genuine conversing has taken place thus far.

When his mobility reinstates of its own accord, he shifts his weight to buy some time before looking up to consider the lord who’s asked him... something. He knows not what, nor does he care, but upon Aemond’s vision refocusing, he’s not seeing them or anyone - only her.

in this light, i swear you’re mine.

It's a mysterious occurrence, the way time works - how the stars seem to have finally conspired to align with opportunity and chance. And for the first time tonight, perhaps ever, he finds himself captivated.

The crowd has split, forming a clear path from where he’s standing to the opposite end of the room. He swears his traveling gaze has been moved by some greater force, something he cannot name, beckoning him. It must be true, he’s convinced as the connection he’s feeling with the nameless woman increases.

The air becomes charged with renewed energy, a unique heat that seems untainted by pretense. And it’s heat that flourishes within him now - inexplicable, drugging when he realizes all at once that she’s staring back at him. Only him.

There’s a curiosity to their exchange, the way it goes on in silence, in secret. It’s everything but fleeting, what they’re sharing from afar. And although it's from a great distance, he knows this could be something of substance, worth pursuing. Something unnamed within him spurs this idea, urging him into action to seize this unexpected opportunity, but then she looks away and he’s completely startled.

Suddenly, Aemond cannot breathe. She is fucking beautiful. From his remote observation, this is clear, but he’s also sensing something else about her. Aside from the obvious, that she’s literally the most stunning person in the room, that he has probably ever seen, her energy is not supporting this fact.

It perplexes him.

Amid the many exquisite objects within this opulent hall, she outshines them all, easily taking center stage. But what’s drawing Aemond the most, putting him on the highest of alerts, is the unease he senses emulating from her. She looks about ready to dart from the stale festivities, as if she’s simply gathering her nerve while mapping out her next move in order to see this realized.

Take me with you.

Actually, she looks exactly the way he feels, and intuitively he knows that she is someone he needs to have in his life. He’s still staring when she unexpectedly looks at him again, and with this second glance - a feeling of pure elation begins to take root within him. The air rushes to enter his lungs once more.

Suddenly he feels alive again, awakened from the dead at long last.

i looked at him with unexplainable recognition, i stared at him with a burning throat and teary eyes.

It’s time to panic.

Truth be told, she hadn’t meant to stare for as long as she had, and then again. It's definitely not something she’s prone to do - fixate on strangers, especially considering how uncomfortable it’s always made her when on the receiving end of such attentions.

But in her defense, dear cousin had recently disappeared, leaving her to her own devices without any formal introductions. Thus, voiding any and all potential attempts at social interactions on her own, should she have chosen to pursue them.

She had not, and it wasn’t a great loss for her either, as the night so far had proven rather stale - falling flat despite its nauseating frivolity. And yet, as a first-time visitor to the capital with limited knowledge of court customs, being put out like this felt like a blow, like abandonment.

It did not bode well with her to feel less than, misplaced, unwelcome. And these were all issues she’d been struggling with since arriving, trying desperately to maintain a sense of calm confidence that she did not actually feel an iota of.

In honesty, she could have anticipated this if only she’d removed the figurative rose colored lenses from which she’d been trying to experience tonight through.

It wasn’t fated to be ideal though, as she had immediately sensed something malignant from the moment she’d walked through the entry door earlier. Bittersweet, but unsurprisingly, it left her longing for the solitude of home with its rolling lands, the beauty evergreen.

She maintains vexation over recent decisions, once more finding herself in a situation that’s left her ill at ease - hellbent on forfeiting any and all of the night’s eventualities. If I could just get out of here. Yet, something holds her back.

Perhaps it’s the perceived lack of decorum in disappearing that stays her. Hardly - but the watchful eyes throughout the room do give her pause. Aware of the scornful judgement being passed about, in constant motion from one fiend to the next, she can’t say she’s trying to draw more attention.

She’s not senseless either, having been told numerous times of the weight this invite held - one of generosity and privilege and opportunity. In theory, it had seemed plausible, so she hadn’t dismissed the importance of impression that kept being pressed upon her every day leading up to now.

And now, there’s contradiction at every turn - the night proving to be little more than a pitiful show of extravagance. A colossal inconvenience to celebrate and placate an unworthy man-child.

As if I really give a shit about this Aegon twat.

He apparently IS the king, but she really fails to comprehend this as fact. From her personal observation, he appears more juvenile than ruler, all tired eyes and messy hair. He’s wearing a permanent scowl of disinterest too, as he begins making his rounds amongst his guests. It’s plain to see he’s intoxicated, struggling at times to stay upright on his two feet.

Even the heavy crown atop his head fails to stay centered, impossible to maintain its position with the continuous sway of its wearer. Such a mess.

Though she finds herself wondering why she left home for this, she can’t deny the inherent need within her to be pushed - really move out of established comforts for the sake of growth. Admittedly, life had become dull enough for her to consider travel, even despite perceived dark times in the more well-known parts of the world.

The risk had been taken, and tonight was accomplishing her misguided notion to experience something new, something she’d never had before. It was definitely not a place of comfort either, but neither was it engaging as she had hoped it might be.

Perhaps a little intrigue would do some good in this social wasteland, but there is nothing, nobody.

While she wasn’t a stranger to taking inherent leaps of faith, having a rather optimistic outlook most days, nothing was presently inspiring the spark within her. Likewise, nothing was pulling her to put some faith into this night, relinquish any benefits of doubt. There was nothing compelling, nobody convincing her that this particular setting was anything other than cold and callous.

More than that though, it felt undeniably toxic, laced with the unmistaken undercurrent of condescension. And for the first time in her life she yearns to be invisible.

These are not my people and I don’t belong here.

The realization of this hits hard, at a very inopportune moment, and it's causing her cool facade to deplete significantly. It feels like she’s breaking down, on the brink of a total collapse. She could crumble and it would be so easy, but still, she hangs on.

She sips her wine and it’s disgusting, aware that any further indulgence in it won’t be worth tomorrow’s ache in the head. However, the heavy cup remains a functional prop to keep her semi-occupied with intended movement. She thinks at the very least, it's helping her blend in more with the rest of this cunty crowd, appearing like less of an outsider, less...delicate.

The thought of taking another walk around the hall seems a viable option - an attempt to kill more of this rotten evening. She finds more appeal in the notion, rather than standing still and pretending she’s agreeable with her surroundings.

Everything continues to fall away, and it’s getting harder to crawl out of her melancholic mood. Though, on a very specific level of self-awareness, she knows she’s being too critical of the situation and too hard on herself. It’s a deep flaw for her, to be constantly plagued by one’s own high expectations, equipped with the unfortunate knack of also being dramatic.

It’s a curse in many ways - limiting, exhausting, upsetting. She hates that she feels so much, so deeply. She hates the way she always ends up let down in the end. She hates the way she wants more from life, yet always comes up short.

What did you actually expect… to fall in love with a prince?

The thought is enough to get her angsty, exasperated that she could still have the capacity to be this naive, to think that such wonders might exist. Fairytales, her personal kingdom of dreams recognized, come to life. She could romanticize the idea for the rest of her days, but they’re simply that, dreams. And only dreams they will remain. Intangible.

When she considers this, and she’s done so often throughout her life, it always leaves her reeling with the harshest of realities in the end. She wonders why she puts herself through it, time and again - dreaming up a life and a love that will never belong to her.

The outcome will never change, you’re destined to be alone.

She’s too much in her head at this point and it weights her, but she’s done pretending, over the tolerance. She realizes she has to get out of here, that it doesn’t even matter where to. Just away. And suddenly there’s no more argument left within her of what she should do by staying. There’s no room left for lingering guilt either.

It’s simply time to go.

Scanning the space, she finds her exit route in record time. But beyond these four walls, she has no idea where she’s going. It doesn’t matter, I don’t care.

Although it momentarily deters her from taking action, she decides to chance one more look across the room in an attempt to locate her kin. At the very least, it would be wise to give notice of her leave for the evening, but the effort is fruitless and she’s quick to abandon the search.

That's when her eyes land on him.

are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?

Who is he?

She has no idea, though she could draw some conclusions and seven hells, he is stunning! There’s an enigma about him, a danger and acuteness to his character that exudes a well-steeped confidence. She can tell all this just by the way he holds himself, at least that’s the impression she’s receiving by his body language, the semi-defensive stance.

He intrigues her, radiant yet darkly masculine as well, and he physically stands out with his impressive height and athletic build - everything she’s attracted to. He looks important, but displaced. It’s also clear he’s disinterested with those around him, perhaps jaded by the same shortcomings in his life as she is with hers. She wonders, thinking it could be true.

The energy from him draws her the same way his appearance does, all black leather and belts, a dagger, a donned eye-patch, gorgeous long hair that is pale, glorious. Even in the dim light, it shines as if illuminated - a most mysterious beacon, working to draw out her withering heart with a renewed vibrant curiosity.

Fuck, that is lovely. She thought she was leaving, but now her feet feel heavy and she can’t look away.

A Targaryen, obviously. But who the fuck is he, which dragonlord is this? She MUST know.

He’s striking, it's undeniable, even despite looking forlorn in this current setting. Or maybe it’s just a blasé air that he keeps. It could be a front. Again, she wonders. Either way, she picks this up right away, deliberating how it isn’t obvious to the imbeciles he’s standing amongst, of how very little he cares.

Its a strange concept, like tragic art, as she spectates the scene. It's like he’s invisible, such as she, or he wants to be, such as she. He’s completely withdrawn from the conversation… and he is beautiful.

Unbeknownst to him, he’s also outwardly manifesting everything she’s been internalizing - its just something she feels, senses. The silent energy emanating from him becomes a fucking madness, moving unseen across the space, weaving through faceless bodies. And suddenly it’s crashing into her with subtle violence, summoning her in a manner that’s arcane, unintentional.

It transmits nonetheless, in a demand to feel something, anything.

She thinks she might, knowing he would be the reason, and she casts a silent wish then: look at me, escape with me. She expects nothing. And yet, it seems he has somehow received her unspoken plea with perfect aim, because almost immediately he looks up, finding her without pause, effortlessly.

It takes her breath, taken aback by the depth of his stare, even from afar. But it’s not merely the meeting of their eyes that's causing her panic to grow now.

It's the way the most beautiful man she’s ever seen maintains his stare, subtly tilting his head in acknowledgement of her existence. It’s the way he’s just excused himself from the small group he’s been standing with as she watches him finally break loose from them.

It’s the way he's walking directly towards her now with unmistaken interest.

the sadness you carry, it hangs like a ghost.

Aemond’s need to go to her is instantaneous, his mind quickly made up, surrendering to her unspoken beckoning. What he’s feeling can’t be described, but it puts him in motion with assured steps towards her, intent to maintain their connection.

The last thing he wants now is a deterrent, some dumb bastard interrupting his advancement with meaningless words and insincere praise. He can’t be fucked, especially since the exuberance of others often exhausts and bores him.

Besides, he’s not that infamous and he thinks his appearance should emit a genuine aloofness, at least enough to mark him as unapproachable.

In this moment, he hopes for it to be true.

As he continues, his boots on the stone floor leave an echoing sound - the faintest of cadences to his ears. Even the soft music that’s been playing, sounds he’d previously drowned out, return to fill his senses. He’s aware of how the room comes alive once more and how his attention hones into the finer details - the beautiful things that matter enough to hold some of his appreciation. But nothing is shining as bright, as gorgeous as her.

i’ll just tear it down, and i’ll wear it like a ribbon - give it.

His perspective is altered, biased. He’s ever grateful for the reprieve in detaching from the aimless buzz of verbal interaction. He carries on as the swooning strings from instruments and all the paintings and flickering candles in the room act as a backdrop for the dream he’s finally found himself in.

There’s a grandeur to the moment, and it doesn’t even seem like he’s in the same place as before. It's a subtle shift with great impact and to Aemond, it’s like a slow awakening of his spirit. His heart feels lighter, his chest less constricted somehow. Breathing comes more easily as he realizes he’s no longer holding everything in.

For him, tonight finally makes sense - he sees with so much clarity and with it, an aspiration to unearth something extraordinary. I am here because she is here. And she’s his focus, it can’t be misinterpreted.

This is intense, he knows it is, because he can be intense - in looks, in demeanor, in speech. For example, the effect of his set jaw and determined eye are apparent just based on the way she looks away again, like she needs a moment for herself. Like maybe she’s alarmed by him and his imminent approach…

Regardless, he can tell she’s ready to go simply by her nervous shifting of weight from one foot to the next and the way her hand grips her wine cup. It’s so obvious, but he silently demands for her to stay put, at least until he can reach her, join her.

Don’t you dare move!

As he draws closer, he realizes he hasn’t actually formulated an introduction, though. He’s been fixated on priority one - getting to her, but now that he’s almost within her sphere, it's possible he’s going to come on too strong.

It really isn’t in his nature to be aggressive, at least not towards women. But there's a fine line between that and being resolute, and he can only hope she won’t confuse the two. It gets him stressed either way, just the anticipation. And its abrupt, how the air circulating now feels to have stopped altogether.

The urge for something clean in his lungs grows more intense. In fact, it's been too many lapsed hours since he last stepped outside, so he thinks maybe this is the angle he will use with her.

He sees her look down at the drink in her hand, then back at him with a ghost of a smile, and then away again. All these nervous habits miraculously enchanting him, though he’s aware it’s all stemmed from a discomfort and he could sympathize. He does - this brave girl.

Aemond needs to get to her, knowing this setting has become too intolerable for them both. It leads him to mull through all the potential areas he could take her to - more private areas within the Keep. He’s trying hard not to envision her on his bed though, laid out before him, but it’s a challenge not to go there…

His thoughts come up short, interrupted and replaced by disbelief in an instant. And he can see the shock on her face too, witnessing the scene in horror the moment Aegon, of all people, drunkenly clashes into her with unabashed force.

It happens quickly, the unexpected contact of his body propelling the cup she’s been holding towards herself, effectively spilling its dark contents onto her bodice and sleeve. His fiend of a brother remains unsteady, loud and obnoxious as he begins to inappropriately grope her figure with slurred and insincere apologies.

But it gets worse when he sobers just enough to focus his vision, and fully consider the beauty of the woman he’s currently offending - the one that he still holds fast within his clutches. He voices his immediate thoughts, loud enough to be heard by many.

“Heavens, what a pretty present you are! I think I shall wait to unwrap you in my chambers.”

Aemond sees fire, he walks faster.

i can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; i am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger.

The familiar sting of tears begin to surface in a rush, threatening to fall although she wills them not to. It would be so easy to cry now, and it’s something she tends to do when she’s at her limit. The frustration becomes unbearable, but she simply cannot allow this weakness to display.

Aside from the fact that everyone appears to be looking at her, the music has also stopped and the only sound filling her ears now is the seething laughter from the king. His prodding fingers are still at her waist, her lower back and his breath is hot on her ear, repulsing her just as much as his verbal filth has.

This little blond bitch, I could kill him.

She wants to scream, fueled by so much repressed anger, thinking she might act out soon if she doesn’t escape the predicament. Above all things, slapping the fool touching her is of the highest priority, but she also wants to cut out the eyes of every person currently gawking at her as if she were the problem.

She wants to combust into flames, she wants to cease to exist altogether.

Even her free hand has formed into a fist so tight that her knuckles ache, and although it's of little consequence to her, she can vaguely feel the shallow cuts her nails have begun to make into the delicate skin of her palm. Time halts and she’s burning from within, her vision clouding with rage as her arm begins to raise as if by its own accord.

She intends to lay one into Aegon’s jaw. At the very least, he deserves a slap, although the consequences will be dire. Even with this knowledge, she can’t seem to tamper the physical urge to do some harm to him. It’s the least he deserves.

How dare this fucker be so blatantly disrespectful.

Her mind is made up, he’s getting slapped and she’s determined to see this through. But suddenly her movement is blocked, stilled by a gentle pressure of long fingers wrapping securely around her forearm. A deep breath is drawn and she’s still trembling in her animosity, her embarrassment, when she turns to consider the disrupter.

To her relief and amazement, she’s met with a welcomed face, a beautiful one. It’s him, the only one she wants to see, to know.

The good Targaryen - finally, he is here.

And he is so close to her when he leans in, offering a verbal warning with a solemn tone for only her to hear.

“Don’t.”

His touch is reassuring, sending bursts of warmth throughout her at the tenderness being exhibited. His expression however, betrays a significant degree of anger and it hardens his features further, in an impossible way. Oh gods!

She’s seeing a lot of sharp lines and hard angles, an immaculate bone structure and the most impressive scar that runs a great length down one side of his face. It hadn’t been noticeable from a distance, not really, but now it draws her. Truthfully, it’s devastating how devilishly handsome he is and how weak she’s begun to feel just being near him.

He almost doesn’t seem real, but the obvious irritation emulating from him is substantial. Even still, there's a compassion in his touch and it’s his touch alone that she feels upon her body now. It compels her to be soft again and then she is, loosening and moved by his thoughtfulness to come to her aid, offer her stability in both body and mind.

His actions ground her, and he’s respectful as he takes the emptied cup from her with his free hand, discreetly handing it to a passing servant without a word.

She’s aware of how she turns into him then, drawn to his body heat, the most natural attraction. And with Aegon now gone, a relief in itself, she feels safe - protected. The urge to throw her arms around him in gratitude is strong, but she abstains.

He continues looking at her, his face otherworldly, and he’s saying something that she cannot comprehend as her world goes quiet. She can’t capture a thought or formulate a word, feeling her mind draw a blank, abandon her while he looks on.

Her mouth turns dry and her clothes become too warm as she gets lost in the intensity of his eye, the riveting color of it. From afar she couldn’t decipher, but up close she can clearly see that it’s a glorious azure blue, rimmed by a darker hue - indicating something of further mystery, an enigma. It isn’t typical, and therefore stunning, moving her in an inexplicable way.

A soft moan escapes her lips, ever so telling of the effect he’s having, as his brow lifts with some amusement. He’s clearly heard the sound, providing some inclination to him of her desire and he can’t help but pull a small half-smirk, satisfied by this revelation. But he’s still waiting for a response, impatient once more, and he demonstrates this by reinstating his firm grip on her arm to give a slight squeeze.

She wonders if he’s always like this, communicative with gestures and touches of varying pressures. It takes her mind somewhere it shouldn’t - to a place that involves just them, their bodies and very little clothing.

Does she want to know? She isn’t certain, but he seems physically overbearing suddenly, as if he’d moved further into her unnoticed. And he might have accomplished this while she lost herself to a budding desire, envisioning what he might look like fully unclothed…what he might feel like against her, from within her.

Fuck!

His close proximity isn’t helping reel in her thoughts, as the sensual scent encapsulating him climbs to meet her senses. It's fresh, something divine, and she finds herself wanting to chase and consume. It brings a new type of fire to their shared space as she imagines her lips pressed to the exposed skin on his neck, breathing him in.

The visual finally releases her from her mind trap, and she refocuses to stare at his face, placing her hand blindly on his own without thought. She shakes her head apologetically, helplessly, needing him to repeat the question - it’s really all she can do.

He obliges her, knowing she can hear him, that she’s listening now.

“Come away with me.”

come home to my heart.

It really isn’t a question and she finds herself silently nodding in acquiesce to his demand, feeling the adrenaline begin to flourish. The only audible response from him is a deep “hmm” as they take their leave. It intrigues her, but not nearly as much as the way he walks in equal measures of grace and arrogance or how his silken hair begins to move illustrious over his back with each step taken.

To her, he is an exquisite creation, surely made from the gods and he walks as one amongst ineffectual men as he leads them through the mass of people. It’s a quickened pace that she matches, noticing the way he calls off a small group of approaching knights, the Kingsguard, with a flick of his wrist to still their advances.

Although they’re amid many watchful eyes, the music has begun again, reinstating many dancers back to the middle of the floor following the scene with the king. It offers some relief, but what she’s finding to be the greatest comfort is the contact he maintains on her elbow, at the small of her back while he guides her out of the hall.

The heat infiltrates from his hands, runs along her spine and she doesn’t mind the mild possession of his touch. It thrills, and her spirits continue lifting as something akin to hope seeks to re-enter her heart.

i promise you, i was here. i felt things that made death so large it was indistinguishable from air, and i went on destroying inside it like wind in a storm.

It’s a well kept secret that Aemond considers himself a lover, not a fighter (at least in theory), though he doubts anyone would believe this if he were ever to admit it aloud. In fact, he feels that he’s improved in reining in his more violent impulses when they arise, attempting to adopt a more critical stance on whether to act on said impulses or not.

He reflects on this now as he navigates through the Red Keep with familiarity, thinking perhaps this banal approach is prominently wrought from Lucerys’ death. He knows it is… but this is different.

Despite the beautiful woman with him, casting a curious glance his way, he’s silently fuming with a sudden need for vengeance. And the center just won’t hold, he can’t call this off now that he’s in action - moving, intentional.

As such, his steps are calculated, the direction mapped as they ascend a set of stairs together in record time. She follows willingly, half-dragged by his hand at a certain point, though she doesn’t complain. He’s grateful for it, and without a word, they turn down a dark corridor that takes them further through the never-ending maze of apartments and bedchambers.

His heart is pounding, the most violent of slams from within his rib cage, as his long legs carry him closer to his oldest nemesis.

you go on by finding a channel for your love…

Aegon’s behavior is always unacceptable, but tonight it’s inexcusable as well.

Tonight, it feels more personal.

In fairness, Aemond’s tolerance had already waned substantially throughout the course of the day. Though not uncommon, his brother had been acting an absolute wretch from the moment he’d risen and begun interacting - effectively wearing most everyone thin.

Still, recent events simply won’t release from his brain. His brother’s actions, specifically the ever-occurring heinous mistreatment of women, continues to spread like a plague. It’s bothersome, but whats worse is the fact that such behavior remains unchecked, tolerated, as everyone turns a blind eye time and again.

Aegon, the perpetrator that knows nothing of consequence, who could care less who he offends and hurts. Aegon, who never learns.

The loathing for his sibling is prominent more now than ever, the rage significant in power as it burns at the very core of Aemond. It threatens to spread like wildfire as he recalls the image of Aegon colliding into her, touching her, taunting her - the one whose hand he’s now holding. This exquisite darling that’s with me.

It leaves him seeing red once more, and he’s resolute to make right this gross wrongdoing, finding the catharsis absolute when at last, he does.

…and another for your rage.

There’s justification in the way Aemond storms Aegon’s bedchambers, startling the room’s occupants as he dismisses a handful of ladies already in various stages of undress.

There’s satisfaction when he knocks the wine from his brother’s hand, spilling it across the regal bedding before advancing to lay waste to every last spirit within sight, all crashing bottles and broken glass.

There's an absolution when his fist meets Aegon’s mocking face, disrupting his cavalier smile with brute force. The delivered blow drops his brother to the littered floor as so many shards seek to break the skin of his hands, his knees.

It’s an absolute agony for the king, but he continues in a deranged manner with uncontrolled manic laughter filling the luxurious space. In High Valyrian, Aemond speaks departing words of revulsion and fury and threats.

Then he’s back outside the room, the splintered door now unable to properly close as guards rush to Aegon’s aid with trepidation and no small degree of bewilderment at what’s just transpired between the siblings.

He grabs his awaiting companion’s hand then, his own showing the faint beginnings of a bruise as it takes form, darkening just beneath the surface. It’s inconsequential for Aemond, for he’s more surprised that she’s remained to wait for him despite whats just been witnessed firsthand.

He sincerely wonders how he hasn’t managed to scare her away with such a wrathful display. Yet, he’s finding a great relief in knowing he hasn’t managed to achieve this after all. In fact, he’s in a bit of awe that she’s remained. It means more to him than he could have imagined, and certainly more than she will ever know…

At present, his knuckles sting, but he doesn’t care. His heart is thunderous, but he doesn’t care.

An incredible amount of relief is washing over him at what’s just transpired through words and actions, honest emotion pent up for so long, finally released. It’s palpable, this foreign elation being felt as they retreat, backtracking so many of their steps. Even servants rush to either side of the halls so as not to remain in their wake, potentially interrupting their progress.

And he’s so certain of his menacing appearance now, just by their reactions, though he half-wishes his brother had put up a fight and tried to roughen him up. But it matters naught. At this point, his immediate intention is strictly to get himself and her to a place of privacy - as far as possible from Aegon’s blasted existence too.

Aemond huffs in spite of himself on reflection, feeling a bit bitchy over the circumstances, for this wasn’t the first impression he had wanted to make.

Too late now.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond targaryen

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stray-kaz · 1 year

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Twice Wounded : a Mal Oretsev x f!reader oneshot

Summary: You think that what you and Mal have is purely physical and are ready to call it off, until he proves to you otherwise.

Warnings: A bit of 18+. Mostly fluffy angst. Injury and blood. Mal being heroic.

Index: lapushka: Ravkan/Russian for honey, darling, etc.

A/N: I LOVE this. This is one of my favourite things I’ve written.

Sweat slicked and panting, you half shoved Mal off you while you simultaneously rolled away from under him. You turned away as he draped himself over you, kissing a line of stars up the nape of your neck. You shivered and closed your eyes, leaning over to grab the shirt you had discarded earlier and pull it on over your head. His deep voice rumbled in your ear.

“Are you okay, lapushka?”

You curled your hands into fists against your stomach at the sound of that tender word rolling off his tongue, so effortlessly sweet after the hay roll he had just given you. You nodded, but your neck was stiff and he knew you, knew your body, well enough to know that you were lying to him.

You felt him ease back and turned slightly to see him, see that his face had become inscrutable, the shield erected so you couldn’t see the truth of him. But you had been doing that since the start, so why should it bother you?

“Did I hurt you?”

The question came quiet, dark and low, an anxious thread woven through it. And it was then you knew he wasn’t mad, he was afraid he had harmed you in the course of the lovemaking, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. You were just heartsick and tired of lying, to yourself and him.

You knelt on the mattress and held his face between your hands.

“No” you said softly. “You never hurt me, Malyen. I am safe with you.”

His shoulders relaxed and he lay back down, brown eyes focused on your face.

“Then what is it?” he asked, trying to hide a yawn. “Come back to me.”

Heartstrings tugging you back to him inexorably, as always, you slipped back into your trousers before leaning down over him, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and kissing him deeply, surprising him. He grunted and slid a hand up into your hair, twisting it around his fingers and anchoring his palm to the back of your skull. His mouth worked under yours until you felt the same needy ache as before stoke up between your legs, and you made yourself pull away, lips already swollen.

Mal looked up at you, eyes dark and wide, knowing and wanting.

“So” he murmured. “Same time next week, dove?”

You startled, your eyes flashing to his at the use of yet another endearment. Same time next week. Same time, same bed, same man with the boyish grin and chocolate eyes. Chocolate contraband. Same foolish heart beating in your chest.

“Yes, I’ll be here” you told him eventually, and looked away from the grin he offered, his arms now propped behind his head.

“And I’ll be waiting.”

You stood and found your socks and boots, choosing to leave his room before pulling them on, unable to stand for one more moment in his company.

Once fully dressed, you leaned back against the wall, ignoring the curious eyes of an inn servant hustling past you in the corridor. She knew you; in a seaside town this small, it was hard not to. It was also difficult to conceal your own private business from all others, and so most everyone knew about the tall, handsome privateer in the turquoise frock coat who visited with you once every week, without fail, and had done for the last year.

You sighed then pushed away from the wall, head down, your feet leading you to the nearest exit without you needing to look.

As soon as you walked in through your own front door, your mother’s front door, she glanced up toward you, hopeful expression on her face.

“This time?” she asked, gaze flicking down to your hands and the still flat pockets of your trousers.

“No, Ma” you muttered. “He doesn’t pay me.”

She scoffed and went back to her sewing.

“Well, he should” she retorted, ignoring your bruised expression and quiet eyes. “We all know who he is, daughter. The notorious Sturmhond. He has money enough, and more, to pay you for his visits.”

You walked away, thought of slamming your bedroom door, then thought better of it, closing it with a quiet click and collapsing facedown on your bed to dry the tears on your cheeks.

The moment Mal’s boots hit the deck of the flying ship, Tolya was waiting, arms folded across his chest. Mal just looked back at him and waited, knowing what was to come next.

“Have you told her yet?”

“No.”

“Why not, Captain?”

The title was dripping with sarcasm and a little disdain. Mal sighed and scrubbed a hand over his hair, spiking his palm.

“Because it isn’t the right time” he said.

Tolya scoffed.

“You do know how weak that sounds, right? We have been flying here, from wherever we were first, every seven days for fifty two weeks. Your woman has even had a birthday in that time, for which you bought her a very expensive pearl bracelet. Not stole, bought. Not to mention the books you bring her every visit.”

“I didn’t bring her any books this time” Mal mumbled begrudgingly. “And she’s not my woman.”

Tolya shook his head, clicking his tongue in disagreement.

“Whatever you say, Malyen. But I do not believe you.”

“I’ll take that into consideration” Mal muttered as he shouldered past Tolya and made his way belowdecks to his study.

He looked around him at the wall mounted bookshelves, books pressed cover to cover all around the room. All for you.

Mal sank down in the chair behind his desk and groaned, pressing his face into his hands. He hadn’t thought he would ever be able to fall in love after Alina. But that was fate, destiny. This, with you, was a shout across the void, an answering call, and the choice to jump.

Next time, he would wear his wounded heart on his turquoise sleeve and say the words aloud.

Next time.

Next time, Mal grew increasingly frustrated as every person in your town he asked for your whereabouts gave him the same pat answer: you were unwell, and so not to be disturbed, not even to deliver a message. He walked the streets, searching for your familiar face and ignoring the hopeful looks of a few other young women eager for his attention.

You saw him as he strode past your house, on the other side of a narrow curtained window, coat flicking at his ankles like the tail of an angry cat, head on a constant swivel as he looked for you.

You pulled your gaze from him and instead looked down at the pearl bracelet clutched in your hand. It gleamed pearlescent and gold against your skin. It would have cost him no small amount. Maybe it was some sort of payment for your...service? Was that what you did? Did you service the sky pirate Sturmhond, Sankta Alina’s lost love?

You dropped the bracelet on the windowsill and turned away, reaching up to dash furious tears from your cheeks.

You wanted to grab him by his strong shoulders and shake him until he saw you, truly. Until he knew that all those afternoons and mornings under, on top of, beside him, were more than sweat, bliss and time wasted for you.

You wanted to go hoarse from telling him he was loved by you.

You wanted him to say it back.

You wanted him to mean it.

But you had lied to him, persuaded your town to lie to him, and he wouldn’t be back again. You were sure of it.

In spite of all his instincts screaming at him not to bother, Mal returned to your town another week later, but this time, he came as himself, bright coat conspicuously absent and replaced by his old grey greatcoat, warm and familiar to him. Collar turned up to shield his neck from the worst of the chill wind, he again marched through the streets, wary of the eyes that watched him.

“Where are you, lapushka?” he muttered to himself.

In all his hours in this place, he had never been to the beach. The flying ship could wet or dry dock, and he always dry docked it when he visited you.

Mal turned on his heel and moved quickly in the direction of the sea breeze, salt tasted on the air. Maybe his tracker instinct was gone, but he knew you and something told him he was right.

And the second the thick soles of his boots sank into the gritty sand dune, he saw you. The wind tore at your hair, whipping it across your face, but you were determined to read, your shoulders hunched to protect the pages of the book, making him smile. There were a few young Grisha a ways down the beach, practicing. Inferni, from the looks of the fire lashing to and fro between them.

He called your name, but the wind ran away with it, so he trudged over the shifting sands to reach you. Halfway to you, a flicker caught his eye, a flicker that turned into a flame. Mal dodged, his experience with Grisha leading the movement, and it swished past him. Past him to you.

He felt his stomach twist, hard and painful, and he started to run, stumbling on the sand, the fire spreading over your shoulder reflected in his dark eyes, your screams of fear and pain stinging his ears. He finally reached you, almost sick from the sight of the fire eaten meat of your shoulder, Grisha fire burning hotter than ordinary fire.

“No!” he gasped.

No, dove, no.

Mal lifted you bodily off the sand and waded into the sea with you, fell to his knees in the waves so that the cold water would wash over your shoulder, cleansing your burnt flesh. You were limp against him, dead weight, your pulse thready where he pressed two fingers to it. Your eyelids fluttered and you moaned in pain as sea salt entered the wound, abrasive and unkind.

“Malyen?” you murmured, barely moving your lips.

Your fingers curled in the front of his coat, head rolling to his shoulder.

“It’s me, dove. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”

“Why do you call me dove?” you asked, voice a whisper so quiet he had to bend his head to hear.

A flicker of a smile touched his lips.

“Because you fly to me every time, lapushka. My little dove.”

You closed your eyes with a sigh and he grasped your jaw in one big hand, squeezing and shaking gently.

“No, no, no, no, no” he pleaded. “Not you, too.”

He looked wildly over his shoulder in the direction of the Grisha, now watching with hands to their mouths and eyes wide.

“Healer!” Mal roared. “Is there a healer here?”

One of the girls nodded and took off, and he lurched to his feet in the water with you in his arms, and followed.

You woke hours later, time gone missing, in a familiar bed that wasn’t yours and bundled inside a huge greatcoat that definitely wasn’t yours. The room was dim, only a little light allowed in through a crack in the curtains, but you could see a bulky shadow slumped in a chair near the door. You swallowed, your mouth dry as dust.

“Mal?” you croaked, testing your voice.

He jerked awake and was beside you in seconds, warm, strong hands running over your body, from your head to your knees. You closed your eyes. It had only been two weeks, but you’d missed him.

“Are you okay? How do you feel?” he gasped out, his touch lingering on your waist underneath his coat. “A healer came, but there’s a scar. I’m so sorry, dove.”

You were not deaf to the pain in his voice. You sat up and reached out, your hands coming into contact with warm, bare skin, and when you looked down at yourself, you saw that you were also wearing his shirt, buttoned haphazardly up your torso. But instead of shying away from him, you explored further, trailing your fingers over his chest, and he pressed himself into your hands. You splayed your hand over the thick scar that branded his heart, reminiscent of his death.

"I've missed you" you admitted, glancing up into his eyes through the shadows.

His dark eyebrows came together and he frowned.

"Then where were you? And don't tell me you were unwell, because I know that's bull. I waited for you. I searched for you."

You sighed.

"I know. I saw you."

His eyes widened and he turned his head away, wounded.

"Malyen Oretsev" you said softly.

He turned back, but he looked at you with fresh pain. You took a deep breath before beginning.

"I thought you only wanted the physical side of a relationship" you explained, speaking slow and clear. "And I couldn't do that anymore, so I lied to you and asked everyone else to as well."

There was a sweet furrow in his forehead that you wanted to smooth away with your lips.

"What does that mean?" Mal asked, his hands in his lap.

"It means I love you, but I want all of you, not just a few hours snatched once a week."

He stared at you, blinking slowly.

"Do you honestly think I've been dragging this big rig home to you once a week for a whole year just for sex?" he demanded, a slow smile kindling in his eyes and at the corners of his beautiful mouth.

You blinked, shocked by his choice of words.

"Home?" you repeated, quiet.

Mal nodded.

"Yes, you beautiful idiot. Home."

"I'm your home?" you asked, beginning to tremble.

In answer, he surged forward to kiss you, the rasp of his day old stubble on your skin and his rope roughened hands cupping your face. And then he was all you knew and the residual ache in your shoulder faded as he pressed you down into the mattress and sailed you home.

I am PROUD of this. Please comment/reblog.

#mal oretsev #mal oretsev x reader #mal oretsev x female reader #shadow and bone #liss writes

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