#hes like one of the kins i will never tell anyone about | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moongreenlight · 7 months

Text

141 gossiping about Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley for roughly 3,000 words idk titles are hard

Price was the first to notice. Priding himself on being incredibly observant, especially when it came to his boys.

He noticed that whenever they had a break from trainings or meetings, he’d somehow always find the two of you in a room together. Never close enough to give him reason to say anything. You scribbling notes on a patient report at one table, Ghost at another, his chair angled just enough so that he could watch you from the corner of his eye.

Noticed the way Ghost’s hand rested on the small of your back for a heartbeat when you entered a doorway before him. Just a brush of his massive hand on you, quick enough to be mistaken for an accidental touch.

Noticed how Ghost’s eyes seemed to always flick to you from across the mess hall. Not often, but enough for Price to casually turn his head and see that same nurse Ghost seemed to have a preference for.

At first, Price thought he could help by being a wingman of sorts. When Ghost took damage on a mission, Price would escort him to medbay and watch as he dismissed nurse after nurse until you were finally available to treat him. Price lingered as long as he could before you inevitably waved him away, cheekily reminding him you always took good care of his team and that you’d have ‘Lieutenant Riley’ back in no time. The only thing he could catch was the way Ghost’s shoulders relaxed by a hair’s breadth when you drew the curtain shut behind you.

He tried again during a meeting with his boys. Suggesting they bring a medic on a mission with them. Said something about how it would be better to have the option of a patch-up readily available. Keep his team fighting fit in real time instead of having to wait until they came back to base. Price saw the way Ghost tensed slightly in his seat, the muscles in his jaw twitching under his balaclava.

The notion was quickly vetoed. Ghost grumbling something about not wanting to babysit any more than he already does. How it’s ultimately more paperwork he doesn’t want to have to deal with.

He tried once more, going to Ghost’s office one evening. Almost turning tail once he realized how ridiculous it was to be this insistent on figuring out if his Lieutenant had some boyish crush on the sweet nurse he always seemed to be lingering around. But ultimately decided that it was good practice to know more about his team personally. Better bonding meant better interaction on the field, right?

He asked Ghost to redo some paperwork. Add a ‘next of kin’ to his file in the event that something happened and they needed to alert someone. Ghost looked a little suspicious, shrugging off the request.

“Left it off for a reason, Captain.”

He said gruffly, waving a hand. Barely looking up from his desk.

Price pursed his lips, shifting his weight slightly.

“You sure, Simon? Haven’t got anyone that’d be interested to know what happened to you?”

Ghost rubbed the bridge of his nose, like the conversation was more trouble than it was worth, before shrugging once more. Finally looking up from his desk and leaning back slightly in his chair.

“You planning on shipping me off somewhere and not picking me back up?”

A small chuckle from Price. A shake of his head.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Cheers, then. Leave it off.”

This quelled Price’s curiosity for a while, unable to dream up any other reason to try and force Ghost to indulge him. It no doubt hurt his ego a bit, thinking about how his Lieutenant and one of his closest friends was so dead set on keeping his personal life so closely guarded. He’d push the feelings aside, chalk it up to being jaded by his work. Over-involved in the lives of Soap and Gaz. It was probably good for Simon to have something sacred.

Soap wasn’t as easily deterred once he caught on. Not as immediately perceptive as the others, but he knew Ghost well enough to know his tells.

It was after a long mission. Months long. Grueling, shitty, exhausting work. They got back in the early evening, mercifully spared from a debrief until the following day. Soap somehow ended up dragging Ghost to a dive bar a few blocks from base. Trying to sound persuasive when he mentioned that it was a Friday night and they deserved a few drinks and some female attention after all this time going without.

And they did get attention. Two good looking military men sitting at the bar were bound to. Soap knew that Ghost wasn’t one to play the field, but this was a bit frigid even for him. Ignoring girls who came up and tried to strike conversation. Rolling his eyes, or huffing a sigh like it was a chore to even dismiss them, drumming his fingers on the wall of his glass like he’s bored. It was baffling.

What was even more baffling was the way that Ghost’s knee bounced slightly against the stool. An infinitesimally small movement, but the way it caught Johnny’s eye made it seem like Ghost was all but jumping up and down. He looked almost anxious. Itching to get up and leave.

“Fuck’s wrong with you?”

Ghost’s head jerked toward Johnny, cold eyes narrowing in a way that would have been terrifying years ago- before he’d gotten used to it.

“Come again?”

“Got somewhere to be, have you?”

He sounds almost indignant. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Ghost is stand-offish by nature, but this is a caliber he hasn’t yet encountered. Almost enough to be offensive. To make him question the quality of his company.

“Maybe I do. What’s it to you?”

Ghost grumbled, killing the contents of his glass with a final mouthful. Setting it back on the counter and moving to drum his fingers on the bar.

“Been out of the country for months and you expect me to believe you’ve got plans tonight?”

This earned a sigh, low enough to pass as a growl.

“You keeping my social calendar now, then?”

He stood, digging through his wallet for a moment before slapping some cash down on the table next to his empty glass. Not giving Johnny an opportunity to lodge any further complaints against him. Before he nodded his goodnight and slipped out of the bar. Mumbling something about needing to get back to his flat and check on some things.

Soap couldn’t get his mind around it. Ghost was elusive, sure, but again; something seemed off. He was calm, cool, and collected. Wouldn’t be caught dead manifesting his impatience physically. The fidgeting and twitching in his seat. The first place Soap’s mind went was maybe Ghost was dying? That’d be the only reasonable explanation for his behavior. But even then, it seemed a bit extreme.

The next day after the debrief, which was nearly as brutal as the deployment itself, Soap was still so in his head about Ghost’s behavior he almost didn’t notice the pretty nurse who seemed to be waiting for someone at the end of the hall. In fact, he was so stuck in his own mind, he only caught a fleeting glimpse of Ghost’s back rounding the corner with the nurse at his side. Hushed conversation disappearing with them. A softer, much more pleasant voice than Simon’s.

He debated whether or not to follow them, maybe answer the questions that’d been plaguing his mind. Ultimately, he decided in favor of it. Padding down the hall behind the duo who seemed to be headed back to Simon’s office. They weren’t walking closely enough to touch, but Soap immediately picked up on the tension between them. Like the distance was serving some sort of purpose.

Soap lingered in the hallway for a few minutes after the two disappeared into Ghost’s office, trying to sort the pieces of the puzzle he’d barely began collecting. He ultimately decided to go the route he was most comfortable with. Not one for sneaking about, he simply strode up to the office door and swung it open.

You were sat at one of the chairs in front of Simon’s desk, him standing with his arms folded over his chest next to you. Not compromising enough for Johnny’s taste, but he still put on a wide grin and nodded to you.

“Forget how to knock?”

Ghost’s voice was calm enough, but his eyes were shooting daggers straight through Johnny. You looked stiff as a board, chewing the inside of your lip through the tight smile you were giving him.

“Sorry, L.T. Needed to know if you’re still on for trainings this afternoon.”

He didn’t miss the way your eyes flicked to Ghost, communicating something that he couldn’t quite decipher wordlessly before you began studying your nails in your lap.

Ghost cleared his throat, rolling his tongue in his cheek. Growling something obscene under his breath. The agitation rolling off of him in waves.

“No. Got another assignment.”

And with that, Soap was all but thrown from the office. Querying about this ‘new assignment’ the whole way. Simon crowding him to the door until he finally snapped it shut on his nose.

He heard later that day Ghost was seen in medbay with a toolkit swearing at an X-Ray machine that had been giving you trouble for a month. After that, Soap was on the two of you like a fly on shit. Never missing an opportunity to bring you up to Ghost or vise versa. Mock-innocently saying something to Ghost in passing at dinner about you. Asking if he fancied you. When he said no, Johnny shrugged and nodded. Saying he was glad because he had plans to ask you out the next time he was injured.

That comment landed Soap in the bay sooner than expected. Escorting him to a different nurse’s exam area and standing guard the entire time his black eye was being iced. Berating him for not being able to block a few punches when they had sparred after dinner.

And Gaz, sweet boy that he is, was always more emotionally in-tune. Observant about the little things. Able to pick up on queues Soap and Price may have missed over the years. He was keen as he was quiet, keeping all his little discoveries to himself. Over the years, he’d created a small arsenal of moments he wasn’t sure were significant enough to bring up. Things he could have talked himself into imagining if he thought about them hard enough. Not wanting to jump to conclusions about anything.

But he noticed the incredibly subtle tan line on Ghost’s left hand. Noticed the way he tapped his foot impatiently when the debrief after a long deployment ran long. Noticed the way you always seemed to be around the yard when they touched down after a mission. The way your shoulders dropped when you saw all four of them had returned home. Like you had just been relieved the duty of holding up the sky.

He didn’t immediately connect the dots. Initially thinking that you’d just taken a special liking to the task force. They were some of your most frequent visitors, after all. Price had all but claimed you as their own. Specially requesting that you were the only one to patch their wounds, claiming the other nurses couldn’t hold a flame to your skill.

He didn’t mind. Came to enjoy the little chats the two of you had when the curtains around the cot were drawn. The little kikis you had where you chatted about anything and everything. Complaining about your jobs, irritating patients, botched missions, the morsels of gossip from around base.

One day, after a particularly nasty skirmish on a mission, all four of the men had gnarly wounds. You looked a bit more tired than usual. A bit more on-edge. Your answers were a bit more flat than they usually were. So the first part of the assessment was left mostly silent spare for a few soft “thank you’s” on his part.

It was only when you were bandaging a wound on his thigh did he notice the shape of a ring on your left hand under your glove. A thin band that wrapped neatly around your finger.

“Didn’t know you were married, doc.”

It was a passing comment, more just to spare him the agony of trying to hide his soft groans of pain in the thick silence.

You hummed your acknowledgment, focused more on working sutures through his skin neatly than anything else.

“Lucky bloke. Hope he’s good to you.”

It wasn’t flirty or predatory, like so many of the soldiers could be. A genuine thought. He’d always thought you were sweet. Easy to chat with, always offering him a smile and a chirped greeting when the two of you passed in the hall. Thought you deserved someone to share in your kindness.

You smiled, brow still furrowed slightly in your focus while tying off the stitches.

“He does alright.”

You chuckled softly, straightening on your stool and rolling back just slightly so you could meet his eye.

“All these years and you never mentioned. I’m hurt.”

He words came with a practiced ease, slipping back into your usual playful chatter without missing a beat. Flashing a coy grin as he carefully flexed and relaxed his leg. Getting a feel for the newly patched wound.

You rolled the gloves off your hands and tossed them into the bin. Standing from your stool to scribble a few notes on his chart.

“Not something that ever came up.”

“Now it has. He have a name? How long you been together?”

You chuckled once more, looking over your shoulder at him with an arched brow. A little skeptical of his curiosity.

“A good while.”

He noticed the way you evaded his former question, like you’d done it before. It only fueled his curiosity.

“You worried I’ll know him? Or are you embarrassed? Not much of a looker?”

This earned an amused snort from you, turning away from the chart you’d been working on.

“Nothing wrong with wanting to keep my personal life personal, is there?”

You winked at him, pushing open the curtain that divided the small exam area from the rest of the bay.

He made a small sound of protest, making no move to stand from the cot just yet.

“Alright, forget it. Didn’t even want to know anyway.”

He sounded like a child being denied a sweet. Even playing up the act with a small pout on his mouth.

You tutted softly, conjuring up the best mock-sympathetic look you could before motioning for him to stand.

“We’ll talk later. Captain’ll have my hide if I keep you away a moment longer than is necessary.”

Another sound of protest, followed by a throaty groan as he finally pushed up off the bed. Unsure if he was being dramatic or if the aftermath of the mission had truly gotten to him that bad. Always a flare for the dramatics, him.

He muttered his thanks, cupping your shoulder in his hand as he trudged out. Making you promise to have a proper chat with him later.

He lingered in the bay, allowing himself a few moments peace before getting back to work. Just as he finally turned to leave, he saw Ghost moving stiffly- like he was trying to downplay a limp- toward your little exam area. Though for some reason, the scene looked a bit strange to him. He couldn’t help but peek in.

He caught the way you watched him lumber over with big, worried eyes. The way your nails dug into your palms until he was finally within arms reach. The way you quickly glanced around to see if anyone was paying the two of you any attention before your hands flew to his neck, fingers slipping expertly under the hem of his mask and yanking it up over his nose. Not rough or angry, but with the kind of urgency that suggested you may die if you didn’t see a sliver of his skin. Make absolutely certain he was truly there with you.

The most jarring part- Ghost actually allowing you to touch the mask. Allowing your little hands to breach his personal space. Hands that would have easily been dwarfed by his own, swallowed up and twisted or shoved away like he had seen happen so many times in sparring matches with prospect soldiers. But Ghost just let it happen.

It was a flurry of movement, so fast that Gaz was certain he could have blinked and missed it. Frozen watching the two of you from just behind another exam area. Feeling like he was intruding without even meaning to.

And then he saw the way Ghost’s big arms snaked around your waist, drawing you flush to his front. You leaning up onto your toes to bring your face closer to the Lieutenant’s. A fervid kiss. You flinging your arms around his neck. The way your shoulders shook. A small, choked sob that Gaz was all but certain he imagined. Drowned out for everyone else by the sounds of the bay.

He was almost shocked that the world continued to move after that. Shocked that something that seemed so monumental could happen tucked away into your barely private exam area. Shocked that your reunion hadn’t halted time and space for everyone else like it had for the two of you.

He felt dirty. Like he should go up and apologize for lingering and seeing what he saw. But he stayed rooted to the spot, finding it impossible to move.

Truly the most damning part was when he caught the quickest glimpse of your badge just before the curtain was tugged shut. The badge you kept carefully pinned to your uniform face-down for a reason he couldn’t fathom until now. Twisted free for just a moment and finally connecting the snippets of information he’d collected over the years.

(Y/N Riley)

3K notes · View notes

savemefromanepicoftimewasted · 6 months

Text

Secret Lovers

Simon "Ghost" Riley X F!Reader

Simon wasn’t someone who very willingly opened up to anyone, his teammates were no exception either, save for Price. It was always better to keep things quiet and let people assume what they pleased instead of trying to answer their questions. Better to remain mysterious than show your cards to the wrong person. a/n:this was originally started because of a snippet @thebeesatemyknees had written, thank you so much for letting me turn this into a full fic! I hope I was able to do it proper justice warnings:none, just tons of fluff Part 2

Simon wasn’t someone who very willingly opened up to anyone, his teammates were no exception either, save for Price. It was always better to keep things quiet and let people assume what they pleased instead of trying to answer their questions. Better to remain mysterious than show your cards to the wrong person. Johnny had badgered him from day one if he had a partner, going on and on about how much he loved his girlfriend. SImon wasn’t going to tell him anything, no matter what he’d keep his lips sealed.

Kyle was the next one to ask, though it was more in passing rather than a true and genuine question when he cornered the older man. They had been discussing mission details when the topic arose, did he have a next of kin? And if so, who would be the one to inform them if Ghost were to be KIA’d? He never asked Simon after that day, instead going on to different topics whether they had to do with the mission or what they wanted to eat. Kyle treated him like a friend, it was nice.

And John, well he knew all about Simon’s personal and very private life.

~~~

You were a new addition to the team, a medic that could stitch up a wound within a minute and get you back on the field within five. They were thankful to have you come around with them, helping stitch up a wound on Johnny’s arm, or cleaning up a gash on Kyle’s head. The only person who seemed to be a little wary around you was Simon, which both Johnny and Kyle felt odd. You fit in their group like the puzzle piece that was missing, and yet Simon acted as if he wanted nothing to do with you. Surely he’d warm up to you a little more, they were all sure of it.

“Thank you all for meeting me on such short notice. We’ve got word that an arms dealer is hosting a gala and we need to get more intel before we can swoop in.” Kate was a woman who took no shit and left no prisoners, she wasn’t going to risk this.

“Who do we want to send?” John was nervous, his men were trained for this, but putting them into a situation where they’d have to become someone else entirely? Nerve wracking.

“I was discussing it with Shepherd last night, and we’ve decided that Simon and Y/N will be going on this mission while the rest of you stake out the building.” All eyes suddenly shifted to Simon who looked calm as ever.

He’d forgone the mask for this mission briefing, knowing that only his teammates and Kate would be in the room with him. Knowing that you were going to be there made things a little more tense, could he handle something that dire?

“If you think that’s what’s best, I fully support the decision.” John wasn’t going to argue, Simon could be suave and charm the pants off of anyone if needed.

“Thank you, we’ll be heading out tomorrow and meeting up at the hotel. Promise me you’ll behave so no one suspects you, please.” Kate knew how much of a troublemaker that Johnny and Kyle could be, given the opportunity of course.

“I’ll make sure of it myself if need be, don’t you worry.” John smiled up at her, leaving Kate to wonder how much trouble there would be.

They would need to debrief you on the plane ride over, given that you weren’t even in the room with everyone. Having something like that just dumped on you with no time to prepare was the worst, how could they manage? Simon would just have John give you the rundown so he could worry about more important things, like how he’d have to act like the two of you were so desperately in love.

You would have an entire day to get comfortable in the hotel room, there would be a few people lingering so you’d get used to being stared at. Simon knew they’d mainly be staring at you, you were downright gorgeous. And with the clothes that had been picked out? A deep navy blue tux, with a pitch black button up and black silk tie. It perfectly matched the dress they’d picked out for you, a deep V down the front that left just enough to the imagination. The color matched his tux almost identically, the only difference was your dress was silk.

“They’ve packed everything for you to do your own hair and makeup, we don’t want you to stand out too much, better to blend in.” It was the smartest idea, if you or Simon were to attract too much attention things would end badly.

“Yeah, Kate told me as much as she could, I made sure to pack my best heels.” You were nervous, it’d been so long since you’d been able to go out to something fancy.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” John knew you were smart and quick witted, but something about this mission unnerved him.

“I’m positive, Simon and I will get the intel and get out before anyone even notices we’re missing.” You were confident everything would go smoothly, Simon could be silent if needed.

John nodded at you, settling back into his seat as the plan began to descend down onto the tarmac below. Simon was staring at you from across the way, palms sweating slightly as the time drew closer to getting inside the hotel. Johnny was going to see how nervous he was and make comments, he was sure of it. The sound of tires squealing brought everyone’s attention to high alert. It was time to grab your things and head to the cars, you were driving over with Simon, leaving the other three to their own car.

It was mainly to not raise any suspicion, if you were seen driving with any man that wasn’t your husband word would spread before you managed to make it to the party. You were absentmindedly playing with your ring, twirling the obnoxiously large diamond with your other fingers. It was a habit you picked up whenever you tended to wear jewelry, though it was much better than picking at your cuticles.

“You feeling alright hun?” Simon glanced over at you, though his own nerves were shot, he wanted you to feel comfortable.

“A little nervous, but that’s to be expected considering the circumstances.” You kept twirling the ring, glancing between Simon and the road ahead of you.

Simon took a quick breath and grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together without skipping a beat or taking his eyes off the road. You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face, you had been waiting to see how long it took before he finally felt comfortable around you. You’d need to practice around everyone else if you were going to look natural around a bunch of strangers. Everything was going to be just fine, you were sure of it.

John had set up everything in the hotel room, along with hanging up your dress and Simon’s tux to help steam out any wrinkles if needed. So far there was nothing to worry about, save for Soap acting like a little shit and pranking Simon and Kyle for the most part. You’d all settled in, changing into comfortable clothes and ordering food so that you wouldn’t have to leave. Simon was cleaning up the kitchen so he could sit down and enjoy dinner with you.

“Do you need any help?” You walked over to him, pressing your hand against his lower back.

“Nah, just need to finish cleaning this plate and we can eat.” Simon smiled at you, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Whatever you say.” You patted his back gently, heading over to the small kitchen table.

Johnny raised a brow at how you and Simon seemed to naturally work with one another, he didn’t want to raise any suspicion. Kyle on the other hand was ignoring him entirely, digging into his own meal and scrolling through his phone. Simon had finally finished, grabbing his plate of food and heading over to sit with you. He could faintly hear that you were both discussing the mission and going over your alias’ one last time.

“Simon, you need to wear your ring.” You’d gotten on his case the entire day, he kept taking it off complaining that it felt weird to wear it.

“I’ll wear it during the mission tomorrow.” Simon brough the fork to his mouth, focusing on his plate rather than your raised brow.

“You say that now, but when we end up leaving you’re going to forget it and then we’re going to have to drive all the way back because you won’t wear your ring.” You had put yours on right away, mainly because you were forgetful and didn’t want to end up forgetting it.

“Are you really going to make me wear the ring all night?” Simon’s expression would normally terrify a recruit, but you’d gotten used to it.

“If I want to make sure you have your ring on? Yes, I’m going to make you wear your ring until we get back on that plane and go back home.” You’d glue it on if need be, but Simon knew better than to disobey orders.

John chuckled to himself watching the two of you, it was a dynamic he hadn’t seen in quite a while and it was pretty funny to witness. Johnny on the other hand was now even more flabbergasted at the way you worked together. Why did you seem so comfortable arguing with a man who’d killed for less? This was something sinister and it unnerved him to no end, he’d get to the bottom of this.

You’d offered to clean up everyone’s dinner dishes, carefully cleaning any knives before laying them on a towel to be dried by Simon. He walked over to where you were, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull your bodies flush together. Johnny’s jaw dropped open as he slapped Kyle’s arm to get his attention. The playful bickering was one thing, but watching Simon the Ghost Riley be so affectionate?

“Damn, he’s a good actor.” Kyle watched the way you and Simon began to sway gently, giggling at something he’d whispered into your ear.

“Scarily good, didn’t think he had it in ‘em.” Johnny shook his head, turning back towards the computer in front of him.

It wasn’t until the sound of someone kissing caught their attention once more. Simon had dipped you, lips pressed against yours as his arms wrapped around your waist. Johnny’s jaw dropped wide open, well if you weren’t together already that was surely going to change. You pressed your hands against Simon’s chest, laughing happily as you stared up at him.

“Cap, do ya think Lt and the medic are gonna get together after all this?” Johnny had high hopes, no one gets kissed the way Simon kissed you and simply part ways.

“What’re you talking about?” John barely lifted his gaze from the screen, typing up the pre mission notes to help catch up on them before.

“Simon’s practically tonguing the medic! He’s gonna woo her.” He waggled his brows at the older man, cackling when John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yeah that’s not gonna happen.” John’s attention focused back on the task at hand.

Johnny’s laughing abruptly halted, what the hell had he meant that Simon wasn’t going to woo the medic, it was obvious! Clearly John had no idea what he was talking about, Johnny could see the little twinkle in your eye from across the room.

“Gaz, am I wrong or do ye think Ghost and medic are gonna end up together?” He was determined to get someone to agree with him.

“Oh, if they don’t I’m asking for her number for him.” Kyle may have had a slight crush on you, not that he’d ever admit it.

John sat upright in his chair, focusing on Johnny and Kyle who thought they were being more subtle than they actually were.

“Have you ever looked at their name tag by chance?” John wanted to see if the other two would finally catch on.

Both Johnny and Kyle shook their heads, neither of them had a reason to over analyze your name tag when they had injuries to be taken care of. He sighed softly to himself before glancing over to you and Simon. You were laughing at some bad joke Simon had whispered to you, a bright smile on his face.

“Her last name is Riley.” John watched as realization dawned on their faces.

You’d been married this entire time and no one, besides Price, was none the wiser. How the hell had you managed to keep it hidden from everyone? Then again Simon wasn’t the most overly friendly or affectionate when it came to anyone. You were his wife though, that was different! Surely you could bring out a different side of him, something that no one usually got to…of course.

“Would’ve been nice to know at least.” Johnny shrugged off his disappointment, this was a big thing to keep hidden away.

“It wasn’t my place to tell, just remember that.” John wanted to respect your privacy, it was the least he could do considering your line of work.

Johnny and Kyle understood why Price hadn’t admitted to questions about your relationship, but knowing the truth? It felt good. They watched the way you and Simon danced to the music playing from your phone. Simon’s arms were wrapped around your waist, pressing kisses all over your face as you tried to squirm away. It was a side of their teammate they’d never thought to see, and no one outside of this hotel room would ever get to see it.

At least, not until after the mission of course.

tagging: @gaylemonshark

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #simon riley fluff #simon riley fic #simon riley fanfic #john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #kate laswell

2K notes · View notes

dawndelion-winery · 2 months

Text

Thanks for the Flowers

You send them a little prank thank you text with flowers they never sent

Ft: Alhaitham, Arlechinno, Childe, Scaramouche, Wriothesley

Alhaitham:

You thought it would be a funny prank to send him a stock image of flowers and a small thank you

"Glad you like them."

He smiles to himself, but then immediately deleted his message when he sees the attached image

That wasn't the bouquet he sent

His smile drops so fast because who exactly is sending you flowers apart from him?

"Throw those out, they aren't from me. Don't you like the one I sent more? I got your favourites, my love."

He gives the house a cursory scan the moment he steps in through the front door

It's only after you've given him his welcome home kiss and a hug that he starts looking for the bouquet for some trace of who the sender might be

At first he doesn't believe you when you say it's a prank because he wouldn't put it past you to just want to allay his worries

He'll come around though, and then he's annoyed

"That's childish and you know it, you can have my attention if you just ask for it."

Arlechinno:

This is her sign to publicly announce that you're with her because this sort of idiocy wouldn't be an issue if people knew you were spoken for

Initially chuckles to herself as she glares at the offending image

"Do you like them?"

Of course she's not telling you the weren't from her if you like them

The poor sucker who sent them to you deserves no credit anyway

If anything, they deserve her personal thanks for helping her gift you something!

Of course she needs to know their name and face to express her gratitude in person <33

In a totally genuine and non-threatening way (lie)

She ends up coming home late that day, having scared off any of your potential suitors just to be safe

"Had some unsavoury business come up, dearest, sorry to keep you waiting. Have you had dinner yet? No? Shall we dine together?"

She never brings it up though, so you sorta forget to ever tell her it was a joke

Childe:

At first he doesn't process that he didn't send you the flowers

It's not like he doesn't pay attention, but he has his subordinates send you so much stuff as he comes across it that it's really hard to keep track

For all he knows it might have been something he came across and spontaneously thought of you liking it

And your likes were pretty much needs to him

"Love you, my pookie <33"

And then he stows his phone away

Only to remember he hasn't gotten you any flowers that day

"My honey drumlet darling-kins, there doesn't happen to be a note attached to the flowers, is there?"

When you insist that no, there isn't, and you've checked thoroughly, he makes a mental note to look into anyone who's ever had a crush on you

For a friendly spar, of course!

He just needs to make sure his competition is even worth noting (they aren't)

He comes home, thoroughly disappointed that none of them could even hold their own against him - few even dared to try, scared shitless by the sudden appearance of a harbinger demanding they fight

Sweaty and tired, he's all over you, whining about his day and how everyone wants you and can't take a hint that you're so happy with him ("You are, aren't you? I'm your favourite.")

Of course you cave and tell him it was only a prank

He scowls at first, but then breaks out giggling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck

"It doesn't really matter because I think they're all scared of me anyway. Some of them took one look at me and blanched. Unlike you, of course; the sight of me excites you, doesn't it?"

Ah. There's your bastard ginger.

Scaramouche:

"Wrong number, I think you meant to text your side hoe."

Sends you the most unbothered replies

Is actually overthinking

He knows logically this is most likely a joke because he swears he has seen that bouquet somewhere on the internet when looking for flower arrangement inspiration

But what if it's just a really similar layout and someone actually did send it to you?

Horrible. He doesn't want to think about it

But of course he does anyway

Brings you flowers because he planned to sneakily replace the stranger's bouquet

Wriothesley:

"Honey, please tell me this is a joke."

Seething inside

Who in their right mind dared to covet you while you were happily dating him??

Don't even try evade his interrogation, he needs to know every detail

From the exact time the flowers were sent to the arrangement and paper quality

Don't mind him, it's just a small investigation he'll carry out in his free time

The sooner you come clean the better

Not that you'll go unpunished...but hey, confessing to your crimes must at least lighten the sentence, yeah?

Taglist: @ryuryuryuyurboat @yinyinggie @mx-kamisato @chaosinanutshell @haliyarobin @irethepotato @boundedbyfate @favonius-captain @aqui-soba @tiredsleep @sadlonelybagel @mastering-procrastinating @lemeowade

552 notes · View notes

lady-ashfade · 5 months

Text

The Snap Of Thread.

—£ Yan!Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader. (Slight Yan!Alicent & others)

—£ Ask!“Hi. Can i ask for yandere aemond with lowborn/maid reader? They have a friendship and one day she tells him that she is pregnant, even trough they never even share a kiss he starts to believe in his mind that the baby is his.”

—£ Warning: Spiders, Yandere behavior, Violence, Killing, Stalking, Being held captive of some sort, Pregnancy, Reader having a baby out of wedlock, Pregnant!Reader, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

—£Taglist: @watercolorskyy

You had been working in the castle since you were just a child. You and your mother had come to Kingslanding for work and you found it right away. Thankfully the work load was easier on you since you got placed under the Young Princess. You washed her clothes, made sure to prepare her bed and room to the way she likes, even running around the castle with a few extra tasks for others.

Helaena was a delight to work under since she was not cruel or demanding. She just wanted to be alone and lifted to her wonders and insects. Of course, you never really spoke with her since the maids above you had made sure to be near her at every moment. The only time you saw her was when you took trays full of food to her or cleaned them up but most time she was out when you worked.

Much like any other night you had gone to her room to clean, other maids helping around and you had gotten done pretty fast. The sweet princess not being messy at all. When things got done the others left but you stayed to finish up. That’s when you saw a spider with long legs cling to the wall. Your first instinct was to kill it but you remember the princess. This spider was from your hometown and not harmless at all, not even a bite.

So you catch it in your hands and when you did the panic set within you. Where would you put it? You couldn’t throw it out the window, couldn’t kill it, and it was over extreme to walk to the ends of the castle to release it, so you move around the room in panic looking for a place.

The princess came back and wondered what you were doing, seeing you in such a state confused her. When you told her she grew a smile and reached out her hand to take the creature and you gladly gave it over.

“Many people are scared of spiders, they fear what is small to the eye. But you did not kill like others,” she looked at you. “I like that.” You had told her you knew from your hometown of the spider and couldn’t kill it, she was overjoyed. That’s when you two started to hang out more and she called for you. You listened to her when she would talk about all the creatures she had, she liked you.

It was natural for you to met aemond when you hung around his sister so much and he usually was too shy to say anything. So you both only shared a few glances and only talk to heleana. And seeing you so nice and sweet to his dear sister, it mesmerize him to no end. He was taken aback by your kind natured and looked at her like a normal person or as normal as she could be for a princess. And you never look at him like someone weak among his kin but only as a boy.

Aemond started to follow you around when he would see you around the castle and watch you closely. He noticed the wrinkles in your fingertips when you washed clothes for long periods of time. He noticed how you worked like it was a passion and left nothing undone. How you helped the elders when they needed it. And how tired you worked yourself and had to take a breath but look around for anyone before doing so.

It was only a few times you both actually spoke. When he asked for something when helaena wanted cakes or anything, he always joined in even if he didn’t want anything. He wanted your gaze, your focus and pretty eyes on him.

Soon that sweet and shy boy was replaced with a ruthless man who was not shy. He was cold and sat back quietly knowing he could take anyone in the room or fed them to his dragon. He was a warrior now. The boy you had known died and was now a man..

A man who was obsessed with you.

He called for you now, making you clean his rooms or fetch him someone to eat. He’d just sit in his room as you replaced the “Scratchy” bedsheets and claimed only you knew the right ones. But he kept his eye on you the whole time as you would bend over or a stretch yourself over his bed.

At dinners you stood close to Helaena because you had moved up in ranks now you were a young woman and stayed close to her. So he got to see more of you.

Aemond was always hiding in the shadows while you worked. He was much more sinister with his watching now and did it every second of free time. And would get angry when you weren’t where you usually were.

When you looked at him he saw it as you taking him in and being deeply in love with him. You’re just shy, nervous the prince wouldn’t like you make. Oh, boy is he just so delusional about you. Once you laughed at his joke that he made to helaena and he was just stunned. In his mind you were giving him hints. Everything you do is to get his attention.

Through all these years you both spent much more time together so much that you watch him when he trains, he walks with you when you have a pile of clothes in your hands. You considered him a friend.

So when the words. “I’m pregnant, I have not bled in mouths.” He was frozen.

Aemond first reaction was to hunt down the man who had done it to you. Then something snapped within him as his mind was lost, all reality was rewritten. He had done it. That was his child.

He bowed down to the floor and hugged your waist and leaned his ear to the stomach, “Our child.” He whispered and your eyes went wide. His words and actions made no sense and you were slightly afraid to move from his hold.

From there he dressed you in the finest clothes and demanded you were to be kept in his room at all times, or Helaenas. The only time you could go out was with him by your side. And everyone had to agree, he had already killed five people who spoke wrong of you.

Alicent didn’t like the idea but her son made her with his actions saying he loved you so much. Of course she liked how sweet you were to her daughter so she was more than welcome.

Aemond would fall asleep holding your belly, he’d whisper to the child in your womb. He truly believed he was the father. Going as far as to say he took you months ago in a passionate night in the moonlight. And it freaked you out how he knew about all the skin details without seeing you without your clothes.

You become a bird in a golden cage. The life you always wished you had was now given to you but with no escape or freedom.

The child was born and aemond forced his way into the room when he threaten to cut off the maesters fingers. Aemond could never forget when he saw his son for the first time, bloody…

And with white hair.

His held his son and cradled it with a loving smile. Saying the name you had picked out, saying he was going to be such a brave warrior.

But the other prince only smiled at the news when he heard of the white haired son “born” to his brother.

#helaena targaryen #helaena the dreamer #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #yandere aemond targaryen #yandere aemond targaryon x reader #aemond targaryen #yandere house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #yandere house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #yandere alicent hightower

820 notes · View notes

rene-darling · 2 years

Note

genshin men reacting to you groping your boobies?genshin men reacting to you groping THEIR boobies

JSNDJSKSHDBD YES.

you didn't specify who so I picked hope you like my picks<3

GENSHIN- men reacting to you grouping THEIR boobies

Ft...Scaramouche...xiao...itto

Scaramouche

You promise you didn't mean to touch his cute little chest but- somehow you ended up in this position...

It was a normal day in sheznaya, the cold wind flowed through the air as the chilling white took over

Your beautiful lover had just returned from a mission and you wanted to be the first person to greet him! But in your haste, you had forgotten your clok and we're sure that you were gonna die before you would even be able to see him

But still, you're as hard-headed as they come..so now you're waiting outside in front of the tsaritsa castle. In the cold. Freezing to death.

Soon you could make out a small figure in the distance and even as it came close it remained small you were sure that was you kunikuzushi!

"Oh. y/n-" "Kuni!!" Shouting loudly and before he could respond you ran towards him- which anyone who's ever lived in sheznaya would never recommend to anyone... As people are very prone to slipping

Which brings us to now. "Scara- you alright? How are you, did your mission go well?, did-" you were cut of by yourself when you noticed your hand starting to turn warm so you gave it an experimental squeeze... "ah!-" oh... You were quckily thrown to the ground- still processing what you heard "k-kuni???... Wasthatamoan????" you were awestruck at you darlings lovely voice while he was far from that

"N-no what the hell do you think I am?! some kin- kind of perv?!"

You would definitely have to try that the next time you bed him

His moans would be the cutest when you play with his boobies ahem what?

Xiao

You had made some almond tofu for xiao and wanted to hand deliver it!

So you made your way to the top of the stairs were the adeptus is usually found... And to your surprise he wasn't there..its fine he would be here soon!

"he's not coming..." you were slowly going crazy, even talking to yourself you yearned for his presence

Soon you heard xiaos lovely voice asking verr goldet for some almond tofu "xiao!"

Soon you were running down the flights of stairs to make your way to him, at the same time he was coming up the stairs

"xiao!" "... Y/n-"

Thud*

With a loud thud, you collided with xiao and fell on top of him, "xiao- oh no my almond tofu?!" It seems while worrying about your almond tofu you had not noticed where your hand had landed- and were currently resting at "..." "Xiao, xiao?..archons xiao are you okay? You're burning up! Are you sick" you felt one of your hands was especially warm *squeeze "mhm" huh...wait a sec-

Quickly the man beneath you vanished into anemo particles.

The rest of the day was spent trying to find xiao..and when you found him you promised yourself to feign innocence so he doesn't run off again... You would definitely not be feigning innocence the next time you guys have intercourse.

Itto

Itto was attempting to ignore the fact that you were starting daggers into him but it was getting increasingly harder by the second also something that took him quite a while to notice was the fact that your eyes were starting daggers into a particular area of his chest

"..hey itto" finally you had spoken and broken the deadly silence that itto thought would eventually suffocate him, "y-ya y/n-" "are my boobies small?" "...huh?..HUH" you hummed while chuckling a little still looking like you were in deep thought

"uh.. I- OFCOURSE NOT there perfect..." look at him reassuring you! "but- uh, why'd you ask?" "Hm? Oh well look at my boobies and than look at-" to make your point you decided to hold his boobies "at- yours! There so much bigger! What the hell! It's not fair... Tell me your secret itto."

"I-I huh.. Umh.. Wha..???" it seems the poor boy has malfunctioned... Guess you'll have to wait until you ask him again... You soon went and got your poor red boy some water, he was burning up!

Kinda like when he eats beans but worse

#genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact #sub genshin #genshin xiao #genshin hcs #xiao fluff #scaramouche x you #scaramouche fluff #scaramouche imagines #kunikuzushi #xiao x reader #alatus #itto x reader #genshin impact itto #arataki itto #itto imagines

3K notes · View notes

harmonysanreads · 3 months

Text

Happy Birthday...!

feat. vampire!alhaitham

cw(s) : two dorks being too adorable, smitten alhaitham

wc : 1.4k

Every so often, Alhaitham could be found in profound contemplation in the study of his imposing mansion. Books strewn about, some half open and some in piles beside his chair and utop his desk—though the material of his perusal remains hard to deduce.

An amateur mistake would entail that Alhaitham wasn't in deep thought at all, but in a slumber and that could be credible, if you were to disregard his species' characteristics altogether. Though Alhaitham assumes a relaxed position, his senses are never in the same state of inertia. His ears pick up on tip-toeing footsteps, the vibrations registering as familiar in his sharp mind. These playful tricks could fool any ordinary human, not a vampire capable of catching the pressure applied in those pattering sounds.

He knows it's you, can predict you have a surprise in your hands and can envision the playful smile that must undoubtedly be stretching across your lips. But he does not move an inch, does not give any indication that he's aware. Alhaitham is not known for frivolity and neither would he be inclined to encourage such behavior if this was anyone else. Perhaps every action of an intellectual appears to bear some motive to the audience, or simply the intention is interpreted.

Nevertheless, Alhaitham continues to act his part, giving all the reactions you expect. Appearing to be startled when your arms wrap around his neck but before he has the chance to respond, you swivel in front of him after pressing a chaste kiss under his jaw. Turquoise eyes widen, for that he didn't see coming. He can only thank that blood never rushes to coat his skin pink as you stand in all your giddiness before him and dear vampire lords, are you the brightest.

“Happy birthday!”

The vampire blinks, vacillating between your expectant expression and at the ‘gift’ you eagerly present to him.

Ah, so that's the occasion. Alhaitham has always thought that humans were a bit too passionate about celebrating the day they were born. Such customs are not performed among his kin, for a vampire's ‘birthday’ is just a bitter reminder of their eternal damnation. But, you don't know that. Tied to your mortal sentimentalities and well wishes ; he knows of your sole and innocent wish to make him happy.

So, he carefully takes the wrapped object in one hand and grasps your outstretched palm in the other, gently guiding you to his lap. His unbeating heart swells when you follow him without the slightest hesitation.

“Thank you, what is the gift?”

“No no, you aren't supposed to ask me that, Haitham! You have to open it yourself.”

You chide him with a raised finger and one of his brows quirks up. He's still not yet accustomed to every nuance of human behavior but, for you, he continues learning.

“Apologies, let me correct myself then.”

Alhaitham undoes the ribbon and wrapping paper, putting them aside to feel the coolness of the ceramic mug on his hand. Orange pupils squint to capture the details, turquoise painting and the words ‘best vampire’ boldly printed in black in the mug's body.

“Do you like it?” your hopeful tone snaps him out of his inspection. If this had been even fifty years ago, he wouldn't have stopped a confused frown from showing. Or, if the object had been handed by someone else, he wouldn't have considered it anything less than a joke.

“I...yes, I do like it. I wasn't aware that I was the ‘best vampire’ in your eyes. But then again, have you met other ones?” Alhaitham asks smoothly, feigning indifference to the sardonic prospect that you might have.

“Not at all! But you know the stories of vampires everyone tells, they're usually so scary, mean and selfish. You're none of those, you're intelligent, calm and have the softest heart—which is why, you're the best.”

Alhaitham appraises your confident answer with a humorful look, surely you must not think he's like this with everyone else? But, he doesn't correct you at all, feeling almost inebriated by your heartfelt words. It's also a bonus that his ego swells, he's still like any other man in some aspects.

“You know, I actually wanted to add a mosquito and bat sticker to the mug.”

That yanks Alhaitham out of his bliss.

“A.. mosquito?”

“Yes..? Aren't you essentially an overgrown mosquito? You know, both of you rely on blood to survive?” you question innocuously, shifting in his lap nonchalantly.

Alhaitham's jaw slackens, not knowing whether to be offended or amused. If this was inquired of any other vampire, you would not be able to get a second sentence out. But, he identifies this as a lack of knowledge and decides informing you would be best.

“That is a grave misconception. Because only female mosquitoes drink blood, during the time they bear eggs, more precisely.”

Your mouth forms an ‘o’ shape in understanding, quickly morphing to a sheepish expression. “I’m really sorry…”

Alhaitham waves it off, pausing when he remembers something, “You also mentioned a bat sticker, why?”

This time you look up at him in barely restrained excitement, “I've wanted to ask this for the longest time! You can transform into a bat, right?”

“No, I can't.” your shoulders slump slightly.

“Then.. will you turn to ash if you come into contact with sunlight?”

“While prolonged exposure to sunlight can kill a vampire, we've evolved to be able to withstand marginal exposition. It's not as deadly as the movies portray it.” your expression falls but he notices some semblances of relief. Huh, were you worried for him?

You try again, “W-well, will you die if you eat garlic?”

“Garlic makes me allergic. Its scent is pungent and irritating. Not much different than human allergies.”

This time, Alhaitham doesn't bother masking his amusement at your pout, “Was everything I've known about vampires a lie?”

One of the first traits Alhaitham had noticed about you was your curious nature and eagerness to learn new things. You'd always be on the lookout for an opportunity to ask him questions regarding his vampire roots in particular, preferably when you deemed he was in a good mood. Most of the time though, you opted to make your own observations. It seemed both of you were the most interesting creature on Teyvat in each other's eyes.

The vampire puts the ceramic mug aside on the table, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours. He tilts up your downcast face with a finger beneath your chin, “It's not your fault that human media portray vampires in that particular light and weave these stereotypes. You know only what you've been shown.”

Ashen locks tickle your skin, “You’re not mad at me..?”

“Not at all.” how could he ever be upset with you?

Alhaitham sighs in relief when your smile returns in full force, turquoise eyes slowly shift to your neck, the pulse there beating with the essence of your psyche. A frown marrs his impeccable features as a thought passes by his mind. Humans cherish every year of their lifespan due to the limitation of it. They're fragile, susceptible to the whims of time. But instead of lamenting their inevitable end, they choose to celebrate and foster the memories acquired within their short lives. He's not subjected to the same laws, the shadow of death will not fall upon him as a result of old age.

He'd pondered about this mortality but never worried about those subjected to it. However, as he feels the warmth of your body envelop his cold one and cradles this vessel of the purest soul he's encountered — he can't stop a bolt of paranoia from racing down his spine. What would he do if he could never hold you again like this?

His thoughts are interrupted when he feels your arms around his shoulders again, your warmth presses against him. For a moment, Alhaitham stays still and stunned, all his senses focusing on your proximity, your scent and the beating of your heart. You don't say anything more, letting all your reassurance seep through that sweet embrace. A canopy of serenity drapes over the vampire and he returns your hug to imbibe these feelings deep in his soul.

His hand brushes along your back a few times before coming to a halt, “[ Name ],”

“Yes?” your hum tickles the skin of his shoulder.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

A beat of silence passes, Alhaitham was so caught up in the flurry of events that he completely missed the white shirt hanging loosely on your figure. Albeit, he's anything but irritated at this revelation, you could take his entire wardrobe and he'd thank you.

“Teehee~”

Alhaitham places a reverent kiss on your pulse, smiling as your mischievous giggle reaches his ear.

Just for this moment, he supposes he can forget the rules and restrictions of this wretched world and indulge in your presence.

[more vampire!alhaitham content]

#whenever i write for him it feels like my fingers are automatically moving #the grip he has on me is embarrassing whew #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #alhaitham x you #al haitham x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #alhaitham #al haitham #vampire alhaitham #vampire al haitham #vampire alhaitham x reader #vampire al haitham x reader #genshin fluff #happy birthday alhaitham 2024 #genshin impact #alhaitham fluff #alhaitham brainrot

362 notes · View notes

sergeifyodorov · 11 months

Note

would you actually be willing to give like a pretty long rundown of those main guys from the 2015 draft class?? because i would be Very interested

Of course! I wrote this in a Google doc so I could get it all down. It's a LOT btw -- this is the abridged version, leaving out what are probably important details, and it's still [checks] 11k words long. Sorry about that.

Anyone who tells you that the draft is a science is an idiot not worth their twenty-dollar stadium beer. The draft has analytical elements, sure, but it is a crapshoot through and through. If you dare to take a look back on draft histories from the past ten years -- the past twenty, the past thirty -- only rarely is the first pick, the “best in show,” actually the best of his class. I mean, no wonder, right? How well can you determine how good a man is going to be at hockey when you have only seen him as a teenager? Accuracy and prophecy are not kin.

Every ten years, though, you come across someone whose trajectory is easy to map. A prospect who is so head and shoulders above everyone else -- in numbers, in the eye test -- that you cannot help but say that they are going to be The Next One. God save the poor boy you put that name on.

In this case, it is 2014, and they are speaking those words again. On the dingy ice of an OHL arena, a red-haired Toronto boy with scared fawn’s eyes paces around the circles, faster than anyone else in the building. There are articles written about him already, calling his experience the torture test and labelling him Jesus, the saviour, the new great. It will get worse for him from here.

A Generational Prospect

It is 2004, and all eyes are on Sidney Crosby. He has eclipsed QMJHL scoring records. He performs highlight-reel antics. It is known that he will make the NHL as a teenager, and that whichever team has him will have an asset they should not ever think to relinquish.

Now, in 2023, all expectations of him are blown away. He is fifteenth on the all-time scoring list, having played most of his life in the dead-puck era, and will be inside the top ten by the time he retires. He has never been below a point per game, having gotten to a hundred points as an eighteen-year-old rookie and only slowed down to ninety at thirty-five. He has won three Cups; two Harts; two each Art Ross and Rocket Richard.

Something similar can be said for his contemporary, one Alex Ovechkin, sixteenth in all-time scoring, second ever in goals. While neither were always the most singular, dominant player of the past eighteen years (has it really been that long?) their longevity and consistent high-level play have cemented them into that tier of all-time greats.

Such players only emerge once (or, for them, twice) in a generation; a “generational talent.” Gordie Howe was the first, before drafting happened at all, then Gretzky, joined as a part of the WHA merger, then Lemieux, then, debatably, Jagr through the early half of the dead-puck era, then Crosby and Ovechkin. Jagr was drafted fifth overall partly due to political constraints (it was 1990, and Czechia was behind the Iron Curtain), but all of the other drafted ones went first. While development curves for everyone else are hard to map, it is easy to tell, for them, how good they are as youths. We all call Gretzky the “Great One,” but he actually got that nickname before he was a teenager, because of how much better than the rest of his peers he was.

This is how we go up to the 2015 draft. Let’s say that it is September 2014, a full hockey season before the draft, so we can set the scene. Go back to the dingy Erie rink, watch the red-haired boy speed around the ice.

This is Connor McDavid. He was born in January just outside Toronto; if you are unfamiliar with the term “GTA,” I will pause now to tell you that it means Greater Toronto Area, and that it is the nexus of all hockey in the world. He is a Leafs fan, as so many of the GTA hockey-playing hopefuls are.

Connor is an unusual child, even by young hockey prospect standards. Entry to any of the CHL major junior leagues -- the OHL, the WHL, the QMJHL -- starts at sixteen, but select few can apply early, and if they are academically, physically, and emotionally deemed adept they can be accepted for exceptional status and join at fifteen. This happens once every two or three years nowadays; Tavares and Ekblad were the only ones to predate McDavid. As well as being deemed exceptional by the board of the CHL, he is exceptional among peers, too: intelligent and analytical, black-and-white, painfully shy. He works hard in school, desperate to avoid coming off as a “dumb jock.” Media interviewers ask for him, but they have to change the settings on their microphones in order to pick up his voice, it is so soft.

He has already won trophies; scholastic achievement, sportsmanlike behaviour, CHL rookie of the year. He will score at least one point in all but one of the first eighteen games of the 2014-15 OHL season, before breaking his hand in a fight (getting himself a Gordie Howe hatty, being that he already has a goal and an assist). He will score a hundred points in thirty-eight games, and a hundred and twenty points in the forty-seven games he will play.

Understandably, his name is penned in at number one on the draft board. Even such deficits as breaking a hand and being out for six weeks don’t tank his stock, it is so obvious how well on track he is to outpace all but the best.

He is sweet and shy, a captain of Erie based mostly on skill, and tight-laced into the destiny of future franchise saviour.

At least he has a friend, though, right?

Dylan

The 2014-15 Erie Otters are a good team. A great one, even -- third in league standings by season’s end, and you don’t get that far if your single generational superstar is sidelined half the year with a hand injury.

This is where Dylan comes in. Like Connor, he’s a GTA boy, and a young Leafs fan. Unlike Connor, he’s part of a serious hockey family -- the middle child of three. His older brother Ryan has already been drafted, in the first round, no less. He’s a real student of the game, too, a stats obsessive and a calm, steadfast personality.

Remember how we said the draft is a crapshoot? That’s very true. Prospects may have precise rankings when all is said and done, but in the meantime I find it best thinking of them as instead arranging into tiers -- there’s the generational talent in this year, but disregarding him we have a first overall-level, then a small handful of top prospects. Not saviours in their entirety, but certain to make a team very happy. Dylan projects as the latter group -- he’ll be somewhere between three and five. In 2014-15, he’s the OHL scoring leader, and takes the Erie Otters’ single-season record.

He and Connor are also best friends. Connor’s quiet, anxious even, but Dylan has a coolheaded sort of confidence that brings out the best in him. Rarely are they pictured without each other; rarely are they spoken to without mentioning the other. There’s a sweet little video out there of the Otters going to New York state and going on this little ziplining/outdoor climbing gym, and Connor and Dylan are about as glued to each other’s sides as you can be while obeying the harness safety rules. In hockey terms, while a little young for it, they’re married. Much like Crosby and Malkin are, although over a much shorter term, and publically the two Otters are much closer.

Dylan is the one I feel as if I can talk the least about. He is mostly defined by what he is not: not Connor, to start, and before the actual draft takes place that is the most of it.

Of course, that’s the most of what any of it is, isn’t it? These are teenagers, separated into imprecise tiers and mostly defined by which tier they slot into. The three boys below Connor, no matter how good they are, are defined by being not Connor.

Jack Eichel most of all.

Jack, to start, is American, unlike any of the other three. He’s a late birthday -- born in November of 1996 instead of the first eight and a half months of 1997 -- so he’s, in theory, had another year to adapt. (Brief footnote: the September 15 cutoff is what determines draft eligibility, either the year you turn eighteen or the year you turn nineteen. If you were born in, say, June of 2000, you would be eligible for the draft in 2018. If you had the audacity to be born in October of 2000 instead, you’d have to wait until 2019.) His development pipeline is also unlike the others, having come up into the NCAA, college hockey, and playing at the US National Development team before committing to Boston University. He won the Hobey Baker award as a freshman, and led the NCAA in scoring as a rookie.

He was marketed, coming into the draft, as the American Connor -- the new face of American hockey, a homegrown star, a fellow generational talent, although that was a feeble marketing strategy to dull the disappointment of going second to greatness. He was proud and polite, quiet but not scared, a young man uncomfortably aware of his own myth and rather irritated at the fact he had a myth in the first place. Taken in and treated well, he would probably have a well-suited disposition to a high-stress, playoff-bound team.

It’s unfortunate that that wouldn’t realize until eight years after he was drafted.

The Draft Itself, or, What Caused All These Problems In The First Place

The draft lottery rolls around. The lottery and the draft take place on different days -- the lottery several weeks before, so that for a long time the boys have an idea of to whom they will go. The first four teams to pick are, in order:

Edmonton. Edmonton had been very bad, for a very long time, and had three shiny prizes already to show for it: Taylor Hall, drafted first overall in 2010; Nail Yakupov, drafted first overall in 2012; and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, drafted first overall in 2013. I’m sure you already know this, but Edmonton was Gretzky’s team, while Gretzky won all his cups, and they now stand to get themselves another generational talent in Connor McDavid.

Buffalo. The Sabres have a few decent pieces: Ryan O’Reilly, Sam Reinhart. They haven’t made the playoffs in a few years, and have plummeted to the bottom of the standings, finishing thirtieth out of thirty.

Arizona. Arizona has never gotten off the ground, not once. They are a dust mote of a franchise, held in place by Gary Bettman’s fragile ego and the skimmings of Original Six markets. Their survival, as doomed as we know it is, is banking on a distant hope of good prospect luck and better PDO.

Toronto. While Arizona is the smallest of small markets, Toronto is… well, it’s Toronto. Remember earlier, how I said that the GTA is the nexus of hockey? Toronto is called the Centre of the Universe, and for good goddamn reason. The Leafs are one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and simultaneously one of the winningest (the second-most Stanley Cups, after Montreal) and the losingest (their most recent Cup was almost sixty years ago.) Their fanbase dwarfs all but the most hardcore of French Canadian separatist contingents. There’s a common phrase now, when any hockey news is mentioned -- but how does this affect the Leafs? It’s well-done satire.

And with four teams, we have four boys. So I come upon the last one now: Mitch Marner. Mitch, like Dylan and Connor, is a GTA boy, a born and raised Leafs fan on an OHL team. He plays for the London Knights -- a diminutive forward (he weighs in at 160 pounds soaking wet at eighteen, and eight years later barely cracks 180) with fantastic playmaking skills, the creativity and gall to do things other players have never even thought of. He’s a sweet one, too, bubbly and energetic and cuddly and kind.

Here is how the draft goes:

The Oilers take the stage first, for the fourth time in six years. The ceremony is unnecessary. Connor McDavid is the name everyone knows they will say. Connor walks up to the stage, looking vaguely nauseous, and dons the jersey and the hat. (His facial expression in the interviews afterward is thoroughly dissected over the next eight years. Some say it’s simple stage fright; others say it’s personal distaste for the Oilers -- remember, Toronto boy, Toronto heart. I choose to believe it’s the first one. Not all of us are John Tavares.)

After a first-round prospect is chosen, they bring him down for an interview, then shuffle him off to some arena underbelly for photos upon photos. Connor performs his niceties, but before he is taken back, he asks to stay. He wants to watch Dylan get drafted.

The Buffalo Sabres come second, and pick Jack Eichel. Eichel is asked, throughout, how he feels about Connor, being behind Connor, coming second to Connor. The narrative being pushed is called McEichel -- the Canadian wunderkind versus the American one -- and he wants no part in it. He’s impressed by Connor’s play, in their few brief meetings he thinks of him as nice enough, he wants to carve out his own path.

This refusal to play along may have been the start of the discontent, in hindsight. The media clearly wasn’t going to get anything out of soft-voiced scared-eyed perfect Canadian boy Connor, but Jack, sharper edges and colder heart, might be good for a soundbite or two about this new league-made rivalry. Jack, though, ever aware, puts himself solidly into Generic Hockey Interview voice and backs off.

The Coyotes come third. Here is where a choice occurs, the first genuine decision. Connor McDavid had been slotted into first pick since the day he got accepted for exceptional status. Eichel had taken a few years more, but his place in second after Connor was well known for months on end. Dylan and Mitch, however, were up in the air. Do you pick the big one with more points, or the small one with star power?

The Coyotes follow the conventional hockey wisdom, and take the big boy. Connor waits to watch his friend take the jersey, then hugs him in the wings.

Finally, the Leafs.

Let’s actually take a step back to talk about the Leafs rebuild, for a second, because it, like everything the Leafs have ever done, is a testament to failure. Also, somewhat, because it is relevant. Also, moreso, because I can’t shut up about hockey and you’ve asked me to talk as long as I like. If you’re still reading, I want you to know that a) I am ever thankful for your time and b) we’re, like, just getting started here.

The Leafs’ last contending era was before the 04-05 lockout season, which means it predates the salary cap. They struggled in the midsection, for a long time, then finally fell enough to gain the fifth overall pick in 2008, with which they selected a big tough young defenceman named Luke Schenn, the first official piece of the Leafs’ rebuild, strange as it may be. Luke, while competent enough, was obviously not the sort of franchise-changing star the Leafs needed, and they struggled in the midsection again, before gaining, once more, the fifth overall pick, with which they selected Schenn’s partner, one Morgan Rielly. The two would be perfect partners, but we won’t know this for eleven years. Luke was traded twelve hours after Rielly’s draft.

Rielly is still in the AHL the next year, 2013, when the Leafs make the playoffs. This is the infamous 4-1 series: the Leafs go down 3-1 in the series, claw their way back up to game seven. They gain a 4-1 lead, going into the third period, and then blow it completely and lose the game, and the series, in overtime. They do not make the playoffs in 2013-14, and before the 2014-15 season begins they change management. The man they install as President decides to tank, and tank hard, selling as much of the Leafs as he can in the hopes of landing that elusive first pick.

They end up with fourth overall, and Mike Babcock, the Leafs’ head coach, does not want Mitch Marner, instead asking the then-management for the bigger defenceman, a boy named Hanifin who will go fifth to the Hurricanes. The Leafs take Marner anyway. Watch him as his name is called. He, like the first three, sits in a nest of other prospects and their families -- Mitch actually sits right behind Jack Eichel -- but unlike them, when his name is called the other prospects lean over to offer him congratulations, as well as his parents and brother. Mat Barzal, from across the aisle, offers a bro-hug as Mitch goes by.

The rest of the draft goes as usual. The 2015 draft, beyond narratively, is one of the deepest drafts in recent memory; players you may recognize include Timo Meier, Mikko Rantanen, Travis Konecny, Sebastian Aho (the Carolina one!), Roope Hintz, Kirill Kaprizov, Troy Terry… the list goes on. These players have their own stories, but few really tie in to this one. (So far.)

Summer passes; we move on. Training camp rolls around.

Connor McDavid, as expected, makes the team. He moves in with Taylor Hall, a fellow first overall. Jack Eichel also makes the team.

Dylan and Mitch do not. Dylan’s reasons are unknown to me, but Mitch is sent down because, again, Babcock does not want him. He’s naturally undersized and does not have a frame that builds muscle; Babcock is not under the impression that young men in Mitch’s image make good hockey players. Both Mitch and Dylan are returned to the OHL.

The stage is set now; each boy has a team. Eight years on, only half of them are on those teams. But we can’t worry about that yet! We have to make it to the NHL first!

World Juniors and the Memorial Cup

Once Connor makes the Oilers, Dylan Strome is named captain of the Erie Otters. Very cool, to only get what you deserve after the golden boy is gone.

Jack and Connor are off playing with the big boys. They’ll get their own section later -- we have to work our way up, not up and down and up and down. I’ve got to be somewhat cohesive, you know? So, we’ll stay, for now, in the world of junior hockey.

The Otters and the London Knights, Mitch’s team, are in the wonderful circumstance of not only both being very good at the same time, but also being in the same division as one another. This means they see each other quite often (no plane travel in the OHL. Bus only.) and have thus formed… a bit of a rivalry. It is becoming difficult to dance around: Dylan Strome, despite the politeness they’ve shown each other at the draft, hates Mitch Marner.

And why wouldn’t you? He’s the one Dylan fought with all last season for the OHL scoring title; he’s fast on his feet and can shoot from impossible angles; he makes plays you’ve never even considered, much less considered possible. He dangles through the Otters and scores the easiest impossible goal you’ve ever seen and laughs as light as air about the whole thing. And he’s tiny. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Marner drew a lot of comparisons to Patrick Kane in his junior days -- thankfully without the character in common, but as a hockey player. An undersized (almost comically so) London winger with otherworldly ability to manifest scoring chances out of nothing. The exact sort of irritating worm that not one of us wants on the other team.

So, of course, they get put on the same team.

The 2016 World Juniors are summoned. Connor McDavid, then dealing with a broken collarbone and a great deal of pressure, is not on Team Canada’s roster. Dylan Strome and Mitch Marner both are. Suddenly and thankfully, the media’s focus shifts from one, false rivalry in McEichel to a very very real one.

I don’t want to dismiss what happens next as a mere symptom of the fact that hockey players are engineered to get along with their teammates, even if they don’t like each other. Admittedly, it does start that way -- Mitch is a winger and Dylan a centre, and both skilled, so the coach puts them on the same line. Simple enough. And then they spark up a friendship.

Dylan’s reasons for hating Mitch were not personal, just hockey-related. Dylan hated Mitch because he was good and he knew it, the simple way a teenager hates their direct competitor. On the same team, though, the competition aspect is removed, and the barrier for hatred is gone. This is the Dylan/Mitch enemies to lovers arc, if you want to put it that way.

Mitch, for the record, I doubt ever hated Dylan. He doesn’t have that in him, never had. He saw a rival, sure, and as soon as that rival wore a matching jersey I assume he taped the word friend over whatever defined their relationship before. Mitch is probably one of the most gregarious, friendly, charming hockey players out there. Beyond his cute little face and on-ice highlights, even. He’s loud, sure, but when he talks he knows how to include you. He finds out what you like and talks about it, he singles you out if you’re shy and builds up your confidence. He’s just plain nice.

Dylan, like the rest of us, was charmed. Within weeks he went from calling Mitch annoying to telling us all about how he loves cuddling (!?) with him. They became fast friends and great linemates.

Dylan’s not the only one Mitch Marner befriends at Worlds, though. Somewhere between matches, Mitch takes an elevator at the complex they’re staying at, and ends up sharing it with a boy from the American team, a tall square-jawed Mexican centre with a Justin Bieber obsession. This is Auston Matthews, one of the projected top picks of the 2016 draft -- born just two days after the cutoff that would have made him eligible to go in 2015. He played with Jack Eichel at the USNTDP, before taking his age-eighteen year to go play pro in Switzerland. He holds the NTDP scoring record as a seventeen-year-old, and will continue to hold it until Jack Hughes breaks onto the scene. The two boys in the elevator do not yet know it, but they are about to share the mantle of franchise saviour, for the franchise most desperately in need of saving.

Either way. The Canadians place sixth at World Juniors, the Americans do better, the Finns win the whole thing. (In the long run, Laine turns out not to be better than Matthews after all.) Mitch and Dylan go back to their OHL teams.

Erie and London tie in points that year, but London wins the OHL title and goes to Alberta for the Memorial Cup, the CHL trophy. Mitch Marner takes home the scoring title, the Stafford Smythe (CHL equivalent of the Conn Smythe), and the Memorial Cup itself. He is one of the most decorated winners in OHL history, touted as being clutch, creating magic, and racking up points. He has close friends in Dylan Strome and fellow Knight Matthew Tkachuk, who will be selected sixth overall in the 2016 draft, the second American after Auston Matthews himself. And when NHL training camp rolls around in the fall, even Babcock cannot deny he is ready, no matter how slight he may still be.

Connor Complex

There’s nothing that fuels story like a good rivalry, and the NHL was obsessed with marketing this rivalry. The Canadian versus the American. The perfect child of a long line of red-blooded southern Ontario tradition versus the Boston boy with a chip on his shoulder. Jack and Connor, Connor and Jack. They hyped Jack up the time leading up to the draft, trying to hint that he was almost as good -- no, just as good -- as McDavid himself.

He was not, and everyone knew.

The 2014-15 Sabres, then the worst team in the NHL and having done an elite job at tanking (they are one of the worst teams in the analytics era, besides the 2022-23 Anaheim Ducks -- I wonder what prize might be waiting at that number one spot? Surely not someone named Connor.) wanted McDavid. The Pegulas, the owners of the Sabres, tried to hide their disappointment in him as pride. They had an all-American star, they said, someone who had grown up not too far from Buffalo himself, and in the same country, no less. He would be the sort of man to lead them into a new golden age, away from the misery of the tank years.

And yet the narrative persisted. McEichel, they whispered. Look at how good Connor McDavid is, and look at how much Eichel is not him. McDavid, they say, McDavid McDavid McDavid. No article could be written about Jack without mentioning how he came second to Connor.

The Sabres tried to quell the whispers. Look at our boy, they say. They signed Eichel to an eight-year, ten million dollar contract, and in the beginning of the 2018-19 season they named him captain. Isn’t our boy great.

The team does not improve. The Sabres hadn’t made the playoffs for three years when they drafted Eichel; they still haven’t made the playoffs today. I wasn’t around to look, but the team was bad. Eichel did his best, but he was young and inexperienced and did not -- never did -- have captain’s blood in him; Ryan O’Reilly lost his love for the game.

The whispers of character issues start to come out. Jack Eichel is a “locker room cancer;” he’s selfish, stuck-up, quick-tempered. He’s caught in a cage where the only key is to be Connor, something which he never wanted to achieve in the first place, and never could have even if he did want it. The whole narrative was completely fabricated. He liked Connor well enough when they met.

I do imagine he has feelings about it, though, and feelings about Connor now. He didn’t know him, not enough to have an opinion on the boy, but the name followed him around long enough for him to think about it. Imagine it. You’re good in your field, great, even. You’re doing well enough to earn yourself a superstar contract, you’re an All-Star, and yet the only way you will get any recognition at all is when they say that you are worse than one of the greatest players ever to play the game. They lock you into a connection that you have never wanted, barring you from forging your own path. You exist permanently in that orange-and-blue shadow. I don’t blame Jack for being angry. I would be too.

Babcock

Auston Matthews was incredible from the jump. He was big, he was strong, his wrister is the stuff of legend. He won the Calder in his and Mitch’s rookie year, by a not insignificant margin, well ahead of Laine. He was a coach’s dream doll, unusual enough to be marketed and good enough to be useful. Unavoidably masculine even at nineteen.

Mitch less so. Mitch is still small, remember, and struggles to gain weight. I know I talk about his size a lot, but it’s genuinely important. Hockey and its fan culture has long been a group that prioritized size and raw power above all things. Mitch possessed neither of those things, and when he struggled with gaining muscle it was seen as an unwillingness to try. If you know anything about the ability of our bodies to gain or lose weight, you know that it is simply a genetic roll of the dice, a scale that puts a little bit of us into the “gains muscle mass easily” category and decides when to stop. Most hockey players actually aren’t very far up the muscle-gaining spectrum, especially when compared to American football or baseball players -- mass is strength, yes, but it’s also more to move around on ice -- but Mitch is especially low on the scale. Because of this, he is seen as unmanly, a dangerous thing to be.

The Leafs media market is a nightmare, and always has been. Because this is the Centre of the Universe, there are more eyes on the Leafs than on any other team. More eyes mean more writers, means you have to say weirder and wilder things to beg for clicks. Outrage is a good marketing tactic. Getting mad about one of the prize prospects seemingly not wanting to bulk up for the good of the team is a very easy thing to do.

What’s more, Mitch, after his entry-level contract had expired, had had a very difficult and long-drawn out contract negotiation, asking for a lot of money -- essentially the maximum that the Leafs could afford at the time. Because of the salary cap constraint, this was seen as kind of selfish. The angry clicks move. Mitch is sensitive, they say. Soft, selfish, weak.

It’s easy enough to dismiss out of hand when your uncle from Belleville does it, because what does he know. It’s different when it’s the head coach of the Leafs. Mike Babcock, is, at the time of hiring, the highest-paid coach in the NHL. He was signed before the 2015-16 season, and at that point had an eight-year contract, which would have carried him up until this year.

Mike Babcock sucked. Structurally, his teams were fine -- the Leafs made the playoffs in 2016-17, and haven’t missed it since, but he was awful, horribly mean to the boys under him, and especially, especially Mitch.

We should skip ahead a little bit. It’s the beginning of the 2019-20 season. The Leafs have made the playoffs three times already, and lost in the first round each time -- but this, too, is not yet a phrase that strikes worry into our hearts. They’re young, and they have plenty of time left.

Respected veteran Jason Spezza came home to the Leafs, having spent his career -- a player who might squeak the Hall of Fame, but is more likely just below its level -- in first Ottawa, where he was the captain of the Senators briefly and one of its most well-loved players, and then Dallas. Like the boys I talk about here, Jason Spezza is a former OHL player, a GTA boy, a Leafs fan. The Leafs’ season opener is against Ottawa, the team where Jason Spezza left most of his mark. There used to be a promotion with the Senators -- a local branch of some pizza chain would offer a free slice if the Sens scored more than five goals in a game. Spezza (and his linemates, Heatley and Alfredsson) were so good, they named his line the Pizza line. Mike Babcock makes Jason Spezza a healthy scratch on that day.

This is seen as disrespectful, but no more than a coach living up to his hardass reputation. You do what the coach tells you, don’t you? Lest you become a whiner, or worse, a locker room cancer. Scratching an extremely well-respected veteran on the opener against his former team is just something some guys do. A message, if you will. Stay the course, Babcock just wants his players to respect him.

And then news of the list leaks.

It happened when Mitch was a rookie, but they kept it hidden for three years. The Leafs went on a father-and-sons trip, one they do every season. They’re on a road trip, with only their fathers, isolated from their home.

(A brief aside to talk about Mitch’s dad; his name is Paul Marner, and he is the most stereotypical hardass hockey dad on the planet. A nitpicker, an armchair coach, a bully. I do not imagine Mitch felt particularly comforted by his and Babcock’s combined presence on this trip.)

Babcock approached Mitch and asked him to organize all of his teammates in a list. He wanted Mitch to arrange them in order of hardest workers to laziest; he thought Mitch was one of the lazy ones, and wanted to drive this point home by making him categorize his teammates like this. Mitch, as a rookie hockey player does in the presence of the Maple Leaf hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, obliged. He was under the impression it would be a private affair, just an assignment from Babcock to teach him some sort of lesson. Whether it be out of fear or honesty, he placed himself last on the list.

Babcock told the others.

Specifically, two Leafs vets that Mitch had placed low on the list -- Nazem Kadri and Tyler Bozak. Imagine this: you are a decent centre on a bubble team, but nonetheless an established NHL veteran of about a decade, and your coach shows you a list a rookie made. He tells you that the rookie arranged everyone by work ethic, grinders to lazy shits. You are firmly on the “lazy shit” end.

How much does the coach have to suck, or how much does the rookie have to be loved, for Kadri and Bozak to react like they did? The rumour says they called for Babcock’s head on the spot. Mitch was in tears. I wouldn’t want to stay in Toronto if that happened to me. No wonder he and Auston signed for so much -- Babcock was barely halfway through his contract when they did. If I’d thought that I would have to deal with him for that long, I wouldn’t accept anything less than as much as they could possibly pay me.

In the end, in the beginning of December, 2019, Mitch got hurt and the Leafs went on a road trip. They were already losing by the time they’d left, and they kept losing. Normally, a team on a road trip doesn’t take the hurt players with them, but they took Mitch. The Leafs lost six in a row and finally fired Babcock, letting Sheldon Keefe take his place. Mitch’s presence was a comfort.

Go West

The Leafs make the playoffs first, and take Mitch with them. The Sabres are fighting a silent war with their star centre, but they are no closer to success.

Connor McDavid is named captain at nineteen, the youngest in the history of the NHL. He scrapes the team to a playoff spot, then to a second round loss. He wins the Art Ross and the Hart.

The year before his entry-level contract expires, when he is first eligible, he signs what is then the most expensive per-year contract in NHL history -- eight years, a hundred million dollars. He is looking forward to spending the rest of his prime as an Oiler. He wins the Art Ross the next year, comes very close the year after. The Oilers do not make the playoffs again until after Covid hits.

He gets hurt a lot, too -- he breaks his collarbone as a rookie, missing half the season, and at the very end of the 2018-19 year, crashes into the net irons and shatters his knee. There are rumours of the man who broke Connor’s collarbone doing it on purpose; Connor claims that he overheard the man bragging about it, and I am inclined to believe him. This guy gets traded to the Oilers not too long after that.

In the meantime, Dylan is struggling. The Coyotes stick him in Tucson, a team he is obviously too good for. His entry-level contract slides another season. He wiffles between Tucson and Arizona, not being considered good enough to stay up but being too good to stay down. In the end, on the last year of his entry-level contract, he is traded from the Coyotes to the Chicago Blackhawks, a similarly bad team with a few remnants of its Cup-winning days. Dylan, a feeble icon of Chicagoan hope for one last dance with the aging core, centres Patrick Kane.

In his first half-season with the Blackhawks, he scores 51 points in 58 games. There are hopeful flashes of what he can be, the touted prospect he once was.

Things wrap up on New Years like this: Connor is beyond a hundred-point pace; Dylan, although in no less danger, is at least out of the dust at the bottom of the barrel; Jack is caught in a cold war; the team loves Mitch.

John Tavares has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Playoff Series

March of 2020 rolls around, and with it the coronavirus pandemic. The league is shut down before the season ends, and the playoffs re-formed in July, inside a bubble -- no one in, no one out until they are eliminated. The Sabres stay with their families, having once again missed the playoffs. The Leafs are set to play the Columbus Blue Jackets, and the Oilers are set to play the Blackhawks.

This, to date, is Dylan’s only playoff appearance, and he is set to face Connor.

Dylan wins.

The qualifying round -- functioning as the first round of the bubble playoffs -- is a best of five, not of seven, and the Blackhawks defeat the Oilers 3-1. They then proceed to lose in five games (this one is a best of seven) to Vegas, but Dylan’s job is done.

The Leafs lose in the first round again. The Leafs have made the playoffs since Auston and Mitch’s debut, every single year, but they lose each time; in six, to the Capitals, then in seven every year after that. Or, in this case, in five.

Covid had not stopped by the end of the 2020 season ( :/ ) and the NHL was rearranged for what would be ostensibly the 2020-2021 season, but ended up being played mostly in 2021. Because of border laws, the Canadian teams are sequestered into their own, North division. Dylan Strome signs a two-year contract extension with Chicago right before the season starts -- one that will carry him until the end of the 2021-2022 season.

If you’ve seen All or Nothing on Amazon Prime, it is this season that is covered. The Leafs tear through what is seen as a weaker North division, taking a comfortable first place spot. Connor McDavid cracks a hundred points in fifty-six games. Both Leafs and Oilers lose in the first round.

The Leafs do it perhaps most remarkably. They have drawn the Canadiens, a rather insubstantial team who are in their spot mostly because they have one of the best goaltenders in recent memory at their back.

I watched this game, live, before I was a serious Leafs fan. I can only imagine what it would be like if you were already invested at that point; I would not wish to live that horror on anyone. I tried to watch All or Nothing, later, but I stop here.

Corey Perry and John Tavares are both on the ice, in the race for the puck. Tavares catches an edge, as you sometimes do, and falls, and Perry’s knee is in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, and it catches Tavares in the side of the head. He falls to the ice, his limbs splaying unnaturally. He won’t move.

Medics come over, to try and raise him to his feet. He fights against them, blood streaming from a cut in his forehead, unable to tell if they are trying to hurt him or not. There is no one in the crowd, the stadium empty for the pandemic. The camera cuts to Kyle Dubas in the rafters, who has a phone in his hand and swiftly vanishes back into the halls of the arena. He is calling Tavares’ wife. We do not know what is going to happen. Everyone looks shaken -- the Habs have just watched a man nearly die, the Leafs have just lost their captain, perhaps forever. They lose, although the game feels like an afterthought. I do not want to watch hockey anymore.

They win the next three straight, though, even without him. Then they lose, twice, in overtime.

The Leafs, as they have done for the past four years up to this point, go to game seven.

Partway through the game, Mitch Marner panics in his defensive zone and puts the puck over the glass. This is a penalty, it is a penalty every time, and he knows that. He sits in the box, looking defeated already. He curls in on himself, and the camera flashes to the penalty box. He’s crying. He knows the game is lost.

The Leafs are eliminated again, and there is a target on his back now, not only for the puck going over the glass but for the tears. He’s soft, they say. As they have said since he was picked, because he doesn’t look like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t act like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t play hockey like a hockey player should. He makes too much and he disappears when it matters.

Thoughts on the Leafs’ playoff successes suddenly switch from the core is young, even if this is frustrating to they need to win before it’s too late. Already, in recent years, they have suffered historic game-seven chokes and drastic failures to launch. Whether they do it against teams like the President’s Trophy-winning Capitals or the barely-alive wild-card Canadiens is irrelevant. They cannot win a round, at all. The Leafs are already the team with the greatest Cup drought, and they are now gaining a long playoff round victory drought too. It should be time, at least, for them to look like they are a contender.

This is how the Leafs find themself stuck; a particularly frustrating timeloop, even though hockey itself is nothing but. Sports are cyclical by nature. A team is bad, then okay, then good, then declining, then bad again, and this repeats anew. Some teams try to get themselves out of this cycle by being good forever; I can assure you that this only really happens to the New York Yankees, who employ a cadre of evil wizards to keep everything on that hell team going well for them. Most other teams who try end up stuck like the Canucks are, right now: bad enough to miss the playoffs, but not good enough to get key picks for a rebuild. I can see next season play out, clear as day: they struggle out of the gate, one of their stars gets hurt right when it seems like they’re at the very, very start of gathering momentum, they’re bottom-10 by January and the team says everyone but Pettersson are on the table, they trade picks and low-grade players, they get blazing hot post-deadline and finish twenty-first.

There is, unfortunately, also a perception that pure talent is not what makes players playoff performers -- instead, some so-called “clutch gene” that exists, or not. The reality is somewhere in between. Clutch exists. There are always players who can score when no one else can even dream of it, but a greater problem is luck. President’s Trophy winners are not often Cup winners (even if higher seeds are most likely to win), because the regular season is a much, much bigger sample size and the playoffs can change the course of all of it by a goalie having a hot streak at the right time. The 2018-19 Tampa Bay Lightning, third-best team in NHL history, got swept in the first round by Sergei Bobrovsky going crazy. The 2022-23 Bruins lost in seven in the first round in much the same manner.

And no matter what, the Leafs are always on the wrong end of the luck. Bounces hit the post. The refs take back goals for reasons they would have ignored at any other time of year. John Tavares slips, and his head makes contact with a knee.

Mitch ends up the whipping boy. He is the Leafs’ most valuable player, and this is a team with Auston Matthews on it, but I’m serious. He was the Leafs’ leading playoff scorer in 2023, he’s one of the best penalty-killers in the league, he’s adored by everyone who’s ever once talked to him. He only ever wanted to be a Leaf, and now that he is here he is the sacrificial lamb for the anger at a curse that is not his fault.

I do blame the media. I will always blame the media, those who turn on him at a moment’s notice because they know picking on the skinny pretty unmanly one will get more clicks than anything else. I beg of you -- know that, of anything that it could be, it is not Mitch’s fault.

Jack Eichel has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Neck Injury

It is 2021, and the Sabres aren’t going to make the playoffs. Jack Eichel has been captain for coming up on three years, and has been a Sabre for coming up on six, none of which have even slightly improved the team. He is widely disliked within the fanbase, and, rumouredly, within the locker room and organization.

Jack is frustrated, dragging a mediocre team along through a slog of the past six years, and he has never been the kindest man on the planet. He is about to get worse. The Sabres are on a losing streak when they head to Long Island, and Jack is hit the wrong way and slips a disk in his neck. The Sabres insist he’ll only be out a week and a half.

It is a great sin in hockey, to go against team. Anything that can be seen as selfish is demonized; shooting from a difficult angle when your teammate is wide open, not playing when you can muscle through the pain. Not trusting your coach or management is about as bad as you can get. If you’re a team guy, willing to sacrifice health and limb for the boys, you are held as saint, no matter how hurt you become in the end. This is a philosophy that has been drilled into these men since they were kids, as soon as they put their first skates on. You can stand any pain for the length of a hockey shift; you can play through anything for two minutes. It is a dangerous, dangerous school of thought, one of the most destructive parts of hockey culture. But it is, nonetheless, law.

Eichel is about to commit a sin so great they’ll kick him out of Heaven. I do think that, of the four of them, he is the only one with any semblance of genre awareness: when he was first scouted as a prospect and they were comparing him to McDavid, I think that he would be the only one to ignore the media’s spin on that as thoroughly as he did. He knows what he is, and he knows himself. Of course it comes off as bitchy and selfish, though -- that kind of pressure can’t be kind to anyone.

Before the week and a half is up, he visits a specialist doctor about his neck. This is where it all starts to go wrong.

The Sabres take issue with that for two reasons: one, that they hoped he’d be able to come back after the end of it. Keep in mind that he has herniated a disk in his neck, an injury typically so severe it’s impressive he’s walking -- slipping a cervical disk often causes nerve pain that radiates down through the entire spinal cord below that point, which is the whole body from how high up his is. Two, that the doctor he consults is an independent surgeon, one unaffiliated with the Sabres themselves.

The thing about belonging to a hockey team is that you are, because of the way your employment is linked to your physical health, essentially their property. They make your medical decisions for you, they feed you, they tell you how to move. Going to someone else is a breach of contract, and the already-tense connection between Jack and the Sabres gets more tense. The Sabres keep losing. They lose eighteen games in a row.

Jack’s doctor recommended a surgery that no NHL player has ever had; cervical disk replacement. The Sabres did not want this -- the surgery carries risks, yes, but they also wanted to control the way that Jack’s injury was handled, and going through with this surgery was Jack’s wish, not theirs. The Sabres do their own evaluation, and ask for a different, more common surgery: spinal fusion. This surgery carries less immediate risk, but the bones in Eichel’s neck will also be fused, and he doesn’t want that. Because the team has final control over a player’s health, not the player, they decline his disk replacement. Having reached a stalemate, they rule him out for the rest of the season, trying to win a war of attrition.

September 2021 rolls around, and the Sabres, along with thirty-one other teams, take training camp. At the beginning of training camp, players do a physical exam. Jack, because his herniated disk has not improved, because he needs a surgery that has been denied from him, because he is stubbornly and bravely willing to wait out the Sabres, fails his physical. As a result, the Sabres, fed up with him, strip the captain’s C from his chest.

Jack makes one final request to the team: either let him get the surgery or trade him. In the end, they trade him to the Vegas Golden Knights, a team that did not exist when he was drafted. The Golden Knights approve him for the disk replacement surgery the day they acquire him.

The surgery is a success; his rehab goes better than anyone expects, and he starts tearing it up when he comes back. I would argue that, if the Golden Knights win the Cup this year, he should get the Conn Smythe -- he has been an invaluable member of the team, even without a letter on his chest.

It is less important for him to win his million awards than it is for him to come in and out of this surgery in the first place, still able to play. He fought with the team that was supposed to have upheld him as their star for months over his right to do what he wanted with his own health; in the end, the only way to go was for him to change that team. He was the first to have this surgery, but after him there have already been hockey players who have undergone it -- much like Tommy John, the baseball player who got his ulnar ligament reconstructed and the surgery to do so named after him. He fought for the chance to control his own body and won.

And for that, he was demonized.

The Sabres missed the playoffs every year they had him; they missed the playoffs every year after he left. Because he was the captain and he had the audacity to go against the organization’s wishes, he was hated. In Buffalo, he is still hated. If you ask, they’ll tell you he was a locker room cancer, that he was undevoted to winning. If you look at him in Vegas, neither of those things are true.

Jack Eichel is a rare man -- he does have that “clutch” gene, or rather doesn’t have the choke instinct. He has always been unbothered by the spiral around him. He operates well in the mire, and when the pressure rises it doesn’t affect him (or maybe, even better, he feeds on it.) He has the right kind of mentality -- that fuck-you, I’m here and you can’t change that, you tried to control me and I wouldn’t bend mentality. He has only made the playoffs once, this year. Like Dylan, actually, his only appearance has involved defeating Connor McDavid. Go back and watch his highlights from the Vegas-Edmonton series if you can: he has a couple of pretty goals and more than a couple great defensive takeaways, but he doesn’t lose his cool, not once. He has earned his right to be here, and he knows it more than anyone else. I’m rooting for the Stars, but I hope he wins some day.

153

How do you talk about the Edmonton Oilers? I mean, without either excusing or demonizing them, although I admit I have Hater Instinct and trend towards the latter. They have the best player in the world; that grown-up incarnation of the wide-eyed boy on the Erie rink. They have the best playoff performer in the world; Leon Draisaitl, who I have not avoided mentioning until now on purpose, but whom I cannot continue without bringing up. They have been terribly cap-managed since the day McDavid was drafted, and are an unstable roster with blazing-hot offense and very little defence or goaltending at all.

For a brief moment, let’s not talk about the Oilers. Let’s only talk about Connor himself.

McDavid has 850 points in 569 career games. Not even Sid had that many points through that few games. If he stays healthy, Connor’s well on track to become the second player ever to hit two thousand for his career -- after a certain other Oiler, who need not be mentioned. He has won just about every award you can win, with the exception of the Selke… and the Cup.

If it’s possible, he has proven himself better than all of the hype at the draft saying he would become a great. To watch him, you can see the way he has changed his team, how even though they have all learned from him that he is still the best.

There is something that many Oilers do. When next your team plays them, pay attention to it: they cut into the offensive zone with possession on the outside, using tight little crossovers to gain speed, after which they’ll usually try to rush the net (if there are no defenders in the way). This is a move that McDavid has patented; he’ll use it, just as many of the others will, but he’ll probably be the one that scores. The depth all skate like him, really, fast and in wide arcs, trying to generate a rush chance.

Connor as a player is a tour de force, the best power-player in the world by a mile, no slouch at even strength, speedy enough to score even shorthanded. The boy’s got wheels. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which NHLers are fast and which are slow, but Connor’s just that tick above everyone else that you can see it without eye training at all.

Connor as a person is a bit less showy. He’s quiet by nature, shy and soft-voiced. Because he was hyped so much (franchise saviour, McJesus, Next One) he has been media trained into sterility, giving the same level answers as everyone else, hardly daring to express any opinion at all. His eyes are big, rounded, and one of them is lazy from a time when his brother tried to take it out as a child, and that combined with his heavy brow and stiff expression -- he’s never been a good smiler, smirks with one corner of his mouth and that’s mostly it -- give him a resting expression of something like concern, or maybe despair. When he laughs, he doesn’t really “laugh,” just kind of coughs, a one or two-syllable affair. He avoids eye contact with the camera, and often the reporters as well. There is no seething emotion under the surface, not like with Eichel, nor does he speak analytically like Dylan does. He moves through his life as if he is someone who does not want it to turn out quite like this.

I do not know if he wants to be in Edmonton. There are jokes about how he is desperate to leave, but I definitely don’t believe those; there’s a difference between not wanting to stay and wanting to go. I don’t think he hates it. He has been given a responsibility, the captain’s C -- and because, unlike Jack Eichel, he is a good Canadian boy who has been given a destiny, he accepts it. He loves his teammates, especially Draisaitl, whom he seems to derive all his confidence from.

I will also say that I don’t believe he’s stupid. Naive, perhaps; not stupid. There is no way out for him, even if he was sure he wanted to leave; he’s the best player in the world, far too expensive for any contender to afford in either trade or cap space, and if he asks for a trade he won’t let himself go to a team that isn’t already a contender. He will remain an Oiler at least until his contract is up, and I imagine that his staying afterwards depends on Draisaitl.

People talk about him leaving a lot, largely because of the team that has been assembled around him. The Oilers are not a well-created team, and I will say that plainly now and spend as little time technically deconstructing it as possible.

Beyond McDavid and Draisaitl, they have:

A rookie starting goaltender, whose success as we know it is based on a single-season sample size and a complete playoff collapse.

A five million dollar backup goaltender, who earned his contract by being carried by the Leafs, despite being utterly horrendous for a long enough stretch leading up to his free agency that anyone who looked beyond the win-loss numbers wouldn’t have signed him.

One genuine shutdown defender.

One young up-and-coming defender; by far one of the most promising Oiler (or otherwise) defensive prospects, beyond the usual suspects.

One netfront grinder who is great at playing wing to high-power setters, but cannot drive his own line.

One decent 2C.

Sarah Nurse’s cousin. Sarah’s better.

A supporting cast of bad defencemen and middling-at-best forwards.

Many charming characters, of course: Zach Hyman, the grinder, is a beloved ex-Leaf, and I’m personally a fan of Nugent-Hopkins, the 2C, but the vast majority of this is not the sort of thing a contending team is built upon. McDavid has missed the playoffs almost as often as he’s made them. The playoffs are a crapshoot, but in order to try your luck you have to at least be able to enter the lottery, and it takes a stunning amount of effort to be able to do that.

So, McDavid lingers, in this kind of limbo. It mirrors the Leafs, almost. (And yes. Because McDavid is an Ontario boy, and the Leafs are the Centre of the Universe, we have to mention them both in conversation. Not all stories revolve around the Leafs, but this one does.) One true contender, and one generational talent, both what we picture to be well overdue for their Cup run, but neither having yet done so.

The thing about the stories of the class of 2015 is that they intertwine, that they mimic and mirror each other. These boys have not simply gotten drafted in the same handful of picks in the same year and gone on their merry ways -- they layer, they parallel, they weave around each other. Connor is the captain of a team that cannot win, Jack is a captain, Mitch cannot win. Jack fought for the right to control his body and was demonized for it; Mitch negotiated for a contract that he determined to be a fair price for Babcock, and was demonized for it. Whatever pure saviour they figure Connor to be, Jack is the twisted inverse of that, falling from grace.

Connor has one of the best seasons in NHL history, one of only seventeen player-seasons with over a hundred and fifty points (Nine of those seasons belong to Gretzky. Another four belong to Lemieux.) He loses, in six games in the second round, to the Vegas Golden Knights. At the time that he’s eliminated, he leads the playoffs in points. Leon Draisaitl is tied for second place. Counting from the date Mitch Marner played his first game in the NHL, the Oilers and Leafs have almost exactly the same number of playoff game wins, with the Oilers having one more.

There’s No Place Like Strome

Before we can look to the future, there is one person I have been neglecting. Dylan, poor Dylan. I think it would be only half an unfair assessment to call him a draft bust. He’s talented, for sure, but not nearly the same calibre that the draftees around him are. Hardly a Marner, an Eichel, or even a Rantanen or a Meier.

His career has existed quietly in the shadows, so far from Connor McDavid that it only feels fair to mention them in the same conversation in this context. It has been eight years since they were best friends, Connor so close to Dylan he waited in the stadium in order to watch him get drafted. They didn’t look each other in the eye in the handshake line when Dylan won their series. Connor didn’t go to his wedding.

That being said: so far, he has found himself a knack for landing in the shadow of greatness. When he was an Erie Otter, it was Connor -- Dylan held the scoring title in their draft year, while Connor was out nursing his hand, but Connor was the chosen son and Dylan was the Coyotes’ consolation prize. When he was traded to the Blackhawks, he found himself centring Kane and Debrincat, but of course both of them were the offseason and trade deadline’s prizes, and not him.

And then he signed in Washington.

So now, we go back to Ovechkin. Alex Ovechkin is one of the greatest players of all time; his Capitals are on the decline now, but they contended for a long time while he was playing and may still contend as long as Ovi still skates. For a long time, the team relied on Ovechkin’s goalscoring, assisted mostly by his faithful centre, Nicklas Backstrom. They, too, are married; they have played a thousand games as teammates, been through a decade of heartbreak together before the Cup was theirs. During the 2021-2022 season, Backstrom took time off -- he needed hip surgery, something likely to end his career. Ovi was alone.

There is a fundamental difference, of course, between the expectations of wingers and centres. A winger, like Ovi, scores, or assists, at his own leisure, but it is the centre’s job to drive his line. Ovechkin is generational -- he will sink forty goals no matter what -- but he still needs someone to move him out of the defensive zone, someone to make his assist.

Enter Dylan -- a young centre, not especially fast on his feet but intelligent, and clearly experienced in the realm of managing high-calibre wingers (see: Debrincat, and the ghost of Patrick Kane.) He joins the Capitals on a one-year contract, desperate to prove himself. Chicago didn’t want him, and Arizona didn’t either. It takes barely until November before he is, once again, the necessary shadow of greatness.

Ovechkin, the team’s captain and centrepoint, clearly likes what he sees, and the management does, as well. The Capitals offer Strome a five-year extension.

Maybe it’s because he’s less of a superstar then the other three members of his draft class, but Dylan has a life outside of hockey -- a wife and young daughter. After being thrown away by other teams, and with his new family, I can only imagine that it was… peaceful, if anything, to be offered this contract.

Chicago, after rapidly getting rid of him, Debrincat, and then Kane, would go on to tank spectacularly, and win themselves the first overall pick. They will use it to draft another generational talent. His name is also Connor.

The Blue Wedding

So, here we stand, at the end of it all. Dylan finally has a home, a mother hen of a Russian bear that it has become his job to assist in record-breaking, and soon to be two daughters. Jack has a team that loves him, freedom from pain, and an ongoing potential Cup run. Connor has a sterile mansion, a best friend, and an unsteady team. Mitch’s life is up in the air.

Right as I’m writing this, the general manager of the Leafs has been unceremoniously kicked out. His tenure will end the day before Mitch’s no-move contract kicks in, but it is not known if Mitch’s time as a Leaf will survive that long. He is well on track to become one of the greatest Leafs of all time, and his tenure might be cut short in the prime of his career.

But let’s wrap up with this: Mitch will get married this summer. Because he’s Mitch, the darling of the league, everyone’s best friend, I imagine the wedding party to be extensive/ Packed to the brim of current and former Leafs, as well as people who have never been Leafs. I wonder if Dylan Strome will be there -- or even Connor McDavid, although McDavid never even attended Dylan’s wedding.

The stories, as they do, go on.

#asks #mitch marner #jack eichel #connor mcdavid #dylan strome #hope this helps and/or gives you brain poisoning #narrativeposting

702 notes · View notes

cacti-are-like-flamingos · 6 months

Text

Lover is a Day...

Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru

The Cursed Trio | Softcore

**¡Halloween, tricotrí! ¡Dame chavos, no maní! ¡No te escondas que te vi, en la casa de Pepín!

** 09/20, 2:18 p.m. - Gege, when I fucking catch you... there are no spoilers in this episode btw

**09/20, 3:18 p.m. - I hope you're bullet proof, because once you make the parallels, this bout to h u r t

...

Yaga had a knack for playing the role of a silent observer, that is, when he wasn't giving your group an earful (specifically your lot) for indulging in the most ludicrous antics right in his classroom.

I swear I wrote about the carvings in a previous episode but idk which and on whose desk but it is what it is

Who could forget the time he went ballistic because you lot thought it'd be genius to carve your names into the wooden surface of your desk?

(Side Note: You were the one behind that plan, with Gojo egging on Suguru to join in. Suguru had been adamant on not doing it, but funnily enough, he was the first to carve his name on the wood.)

(Add-On: Ieiri was the one who had the blade, a simple scalpel she always seemed to have on hand. Strangely, she carried it with her wherever she went. When boredom struck, she'd use it to carefully trim the ends of her hair.)

Honestly, for someone who had a strong distaste for vandalism, Yaga surprisingly couldn't find it in his heart to sand those carvings away.

(Side Note: While tidying up one of the campus storage rooms, Maki stumbled upon your desk from your first year. It had been concealed beneath layers of dust and a hint of mildew. Curiosity piqued, she couldn't resist taking a closer look, and there, amidst the neglect, she discovered two unfamiliar names, etched alongside Gojo's. She never mentioned it to anyone, but the curiosity gnawed at her. Still, she knew better than to pry into the Six-Eye user's business.)

Yaga swore he didn't play favorites, but if you pressed him, he might just confess to having a soft spot for either you or Ieiri (although, to be honest, it leaned more toward you, especially since you never missed a Friday for knitting lessons). When it came to Ieiri, well, their interactions were usually filled with her nonchalant and uncaring attitude, making it a bit tough for Yaga to really bond with her.

Yaga, as the implications suggest, regarded you as kin, perhaps even more dearly than blood. This sentiment deepened upon discovering the harrowing circumstances of your arrival, the cruel treatment you endured at the hands of the elders—treatment he loathed to the core. Yet, despite this fierce indignation, he was trapped in a web of helplessness. He lacked the political clout and cursed energy prowess to challenge the elders, not for now, at least.

So, all he could do was try to make your time at Jujutsu High a bit more bearable. And let me tell you, that wasn't easy when you had to deal with an insufferable tampon and that crafty schemer.

However

With you around, Yaga felt a certain calmness settling among your trio. It seemed his earlier assumptions about the two boys were spot on.

Gojo, usually the master of comical antics, seemed to don a more serious demeanor when you or Suguru were around. Gone was the need to perform, as you often referred to it during your knitting lessons.

(Side Note: Your theory was that Gojo's act served two purposes. Firstly, it was his way of appearing more human than the god-like entity everyone saw him as. Secondly, you thought it was his subconscious attempt to relate to humans. Gojo had always been seen as incredibly arrogant, having lived a life where he was hailed as a god. But even gods, you mused, might grow tired of their divine status. Perhaps, occasionally, they wished to experience life from the perspective of an ordinary "ant.")

(Add-On: You shared this theory with Yaga during your 24th knitting lesson. By that point, you had grown comfortable enough to openly share your thoughts with him. You tended to be more talkative, showing a vulnerability that made Yaga want to protect you like the child you still were.)

Suguru projected an image of calm and composure, but Yaga could discern the undercurrent of anxiety beneath the surface. His leg would bounce with the weight of silent worries, and his eyes would dart from clock to board, back to the clock, to you and Gojo, and finally outside. It was a restless ritual, but the moment either Gojo or you uttered a word, whether directed at him or not, his demeanor would soften. His leg would cease its nervous dance, his shoulders relaxed, and the lines around his eyes would ease.

Ieiri, on the other hand, remained something of an enigma. She often appeared as a two-dimensional character, lacking clear purpose or direction. Her nonchalant, carefree attitude occasionally irked Yaga. However, he couldn't help but notice the subtle looks she cast your way. The faint smile that tugged at her lips when you playfully insulted Gojo for the simplest of actions. Her golden-brown eyes, fixed on the faint glow of your own eyes whenever you practiced your cursed technique in the training fields; it seemed she could hardly tear her gaze away from you.

Love could be so wicked at times

Especially in the Jujutsu world

As a teacher, Yaga was an astute observer. It was his duty to decipher each of your unique behaviors, allowing him to tailor his teaching methods to suit your individual needs. But that also meant, that he'd be forced to watch both your highs and your downs.

Gojo's smile, once a radiant beacon, gradually dimmed as your interactions increasingly revolved around Suguru. In contrast, Suguru seemed to lean on you for various things ---. he always kept a slight distance, just five steps behind, the once-prominent dark bags beneath his eyes now softened. It was as though his very gaze held you in existence, fearing that breaking eye contact might make you fade away.

You, on the other hand, avoided meeting Gojo's eyes, even refraining from playfully snatching his glasses, all to evade his probing scrutiny. A profound guilt welled within, but you maintained a cheerful façade when you looked up at the tall boy, your eyes closed in a half-smile.

Ieiri trailed behind the trio, her lips gracing a gentle yet melancholic smile, her ember eyes holding a distant quality as she observed the three of you. A flush colored her cheeks when you teased her with a sly grin, the playful gesture diverting her attention from any pressing questions.

He observed it all, sometimes wishing he could turn a blind eye to the subtle shifts in your group's dynamics. There were moments when he yearned for the courage to confront his students, but he pondered whether that would truly be the wisest course of action.

But dwelling on such thoughts had to wait, for now, he charged headlong into a horde of high-grade curses. Halloween, in his personal opinion, was among the most dreaded days of the year.

The streets came alive with a riot of Halloween decorations. Every lamppost was adorned with eerie cobwebs, and pumpkins with wicked grins lined the sidewalks. People roamed about, their faces concealed behind an assortment of masks and whimsical costumes, some posing for pictures while others sought to startle unsuspecting passersby with their ghoulish get-ups.

Above, the muffled thump of music from nearby nightclubs resonated through the air, intermingling with the boisterous chatter and sporadic shrieks of delight from the revelers below. The city had transformed into a carnival of the supernatural --- he despised it.

In an ironic twist, it felt like a taunt. Halloween, a night of heightened fear, saw curses rise to a crescendo of malevolence. These were no ordinary phantoms; they were vicious, craving blood and terror. Yet, the unassuming non-sorcerer folk continued to revel, blissfully ignorant of the holiday's perilous essence.

It stood as a paradox, a poignant reminder of the sacrifices made by his colleagues and students. Their valor had shielded these unsuspecting celebrants from the brink of a nightmarish fate.

The rational corner of his mind comprehended that they couldn't be blamed for their ignorance. This veil of secrecy was a necessity; envision the chaos if the ordinary populace were to uncover the truth. The mere panic could breathe fresh vitality into curses, a catastrophe waiting to unfold.

Yet, the acrid part, the facet he labored diligently to conceal, was far from understanding. It harbored a bitterness, an ever-present sting. Why had his students chosen the path of potential sacrifice for those who appeared indifferent, oblivious even?

Nevertheless, there was something oddly cathartic about exorcising scores of curses, with no discernible bounds to the might of his technique.

Still, a nagging thought persisted in the recesses of his mind, one that refused to be ignored — how were you and the rest of the group faring?

You were meant to be a team, a rare instance where the elders had paired you with Gojo and Suguru. Missions with just the three of you were almost unheard of, and Yaga had always been curious about the reason behind it. But every time he tried to bring it up, usually when he passed you some yarn, you'd get all defensive and tell him to hush before the elders caught wind of his questions.

(Side Note: I'm sure you're all wondering where everyone else is, so here's a quick update. The trio is holding down the fort in Shibuya with Yaga. Nanami and Yu have been dispatched near Kyoto, working alongside the students from Kyoto Jujutsu Tech. Meanwhile, Ieiri is back on campus, safe and sound, mentally preparing herself for the impending chaos when everyone returns, and she has to mend their wounds.)

(Add-On: Ieiri's usual smoke breaks lack the same charm without you there to light them up. It's just not quite the same.)

The memory of those moments still stung.

What exactly were you scared of? Because something must've scared you enough to deny him that piece of information, especially with how close the two of you have gotten.

(Side Note: Yaga was there to see the trio off. Surprisingly, you allowed him to pat your head, a simple but genuine gesture that warmed his heart. A grin threatened to spread across his face, but it was quickly overshadowed by Gojo's playful banter and Suguru's quiet laughter as they teased Yaga about wanting to be a father or something.)

(Add-On: You would never admit it, but you, too, felt the subtle warmth Yaga had alluded to. You watched his soul transition from its usual darkish purple to a fleeting, light orange glow, and it left you with an inexplicable sense of unease.)

Perched atop a towering skyscraper, Yaga allowed himself a stolen moment to survey the world below. In this rare interlude, a semblance of composure washed over him.

Since your arrival, not necessarily your fault alone, but a persistent unease had gnawed at him, weaving dread into the very sinews of his muscles and the calcium ions within his bones.

From this vantage point, he observed, as he always did.

On your side

There was an unsettling aura about a frowning Gojo, a sensation that gnawed at the core of things. It felt out of place, like a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody. A stoic facade, Suguru mused, would have been more fitting. Even tears, a rarity that would require an earth-shattering trauma, seemed a lesser evil than the frown that now etched itself upon Gojo's lips.

Was it Suguru's doing? Did his actions somehow bring this perpetual frown to Gojo's face? The questions swirled within him like a tempest, an unceasing storm of uncertainty.

"You know the truth," a voice echoed in the recesses of his mind, resonating with a cold and cutting edge that made him flinch. It was his voice, yet not his own.

He barely had time to complete his internal inquiry when his trajectory carried him toward an impending collision with the wall. That is, it would have if not for the interlocking web of chains, forming an impenetrable barrier that spared him from a potentially incapacitating crash.

Despite the quick save, Suguru swore under his breath as he felt a light pain blooming at his waist.

Nonetheless

Suguru couldn't help but offer a knowing smile as he redirected his gaze skyward. Above him, you soared, gracefully navigating from one chain to the next. The buildings became your towering trees, and the streets transformed into your verdant jungle.

Ugh, comparing you to Tarzan leaves a bad taste on my tongue for some reason

You didn't need words; he instantly grasped the meaning in your gaze. A gentle smile blossomed upon his lips, and he assured, "I'm fine."

With a stiff nod in response, you swiftly redirected your attention to a Grade-1 curse. Your chains sliced through it like needles through fabric, siphoning its cursed energy to unleash a cascade of attacks on surrounding curses.

But where was Gojo? The sound of shattering glass served as his only warning. Shards lightly scored his uniform and skin. Suguru's eyes narrowed in irritation and a hint of anger as he observed Gojo's stoic figure striding through the wreckage, seemingly unfazed by the chaos that surrounded him.

Tiny tears marred Suguru's cheeks as his uniform bore the brunt of the Force, revealing glimpses of skin through the delicate fabric wounds. Strangely, not a solitary drop of blood stained the scene.

He couldn't restrain his frustration, hurling curses at Gojo with palpable anger. "Oi, Satoru! Are you out of your fucking mind? You could've ended me right there!"

In response, Gojo couldn't resist an eye-roll. "Nah, you really wouldn't have."

Suguru's eye twitched at the albino's careless words, spine straight and shoulder stuff as he eyed the man before him. Meanwhile, Gojo looked absolutely bored out of his mind as he nonchalantly cleaned out his ear.

"Fucking bastard." "If you're so irked by me, come get me, asshole "

And so, the pissing match began once again.

Lately, their little 'spats' had escalated into something far more heated. What once was a light-hearted banter and a contest of egos had taken a darker turn about a week ago. The laughter that usually followed their bouts was now replaced by an uncomfortable tension.

And you were fully aware of the reasons behind this shift. But would you intervene? Well, that's still up for debate.

Just as the situation seemed on the verge of boiling over, your phone chimed with a familiar ringtone. A smile grazed your lips as you greeted the caller with a lightness in your voice.

"Everything going well on your end, Kento? Is Yu doing fine?"

As you spoke, you couldn't help but notice a sneaky curse trying to creep up on Gojo. It's tendrils aiming for his rights side. With a casual flick of your wrist, your chains skewered the unwelcome visitor. The abrupt action prompted Gojo to cast an inscrutable look your way, sending a shiver down your spine.

He's still hanging in there, so I guess he's doing alright." In the background, another voice piped up, "Is that who I think it is? Give 'em a shout from me!" You couldn't help but chuckle as Kento let out a melodramatic sigh, "You heard?"

You replied, "Yep. Tell him I said hi back. And pass along the same for Mei-Mei and Utahime."

Kento quipped, "You're pushing your luck."

With a casual flick of your wrist, you dispatched yet another mess of foul goo.

"Why the call?" you asked. "...No reason," came Kento's mysterious reply. You grinned, "Ah, I see."

(Side Note: In the current scene, Yu found himself in a comically dire situation. A curse had him pinned down, and he flailed his arms around, calling out for Mei Mei's assistance. Mei Mei, thoroughly entertained by this display, couldn't help but find Yu's predicament rather endearing. She watched, amused, though she refrained from helping him until Utahime, embroiled in her own battle against two curses, shouted at Mei-Mei to come to Yu's aid.)

(Add-On: Utahime was seriously on edge; this year's Halloween curses were exceptionally gruesome. Just catching sight of them was enough to rattle her nerves. She had half a mind to go say 'fuck it' and haul ass screaming like a little bitch. No judgement here cuz same)

Suddenly, you sensed a stray piece of debris hurtling toward your head. In a swift motion, your chains sprang to life, obliterating it before it could reach you. You shot an exasperated glance at Suguru and Gojo, who seemed engrossed in their peculiar spar—basically, just tossing things at each other.

Your patience snapped, and you hollered at them to cease their antics and refocus on the mission. Before they could react, your chains coiled around them, effectively immobilizing the duo.

Suguru relented with a pout, while Gojo couldn't resist a snarky comment. "Always knew you were kinky."

Your response triggered Kento's voice blasting through the phone in a tirade against Gojo's behavior, which only fueled Gojo's maniacal laughter.

(Side Note: Gojo didn't particularly want to laugh, but it seemed like an obligatory performance at this point.)

With an eye-roll, you shifted your attention back to the call. "We're almost done here, so no worries."

"Alright, stay safe. Don't trust those dumbasses for anything," Kento admonished before ending the call, leaving you quietly chuckling.

The tension was as palpable as ever, making the mission feel like walking on eggshells. You glanced at Gojo and Suguru, both now reluctantly cooperating. What started as a straightforward task had somehow morphed into a convoluted dance of egos.

As you ventured further into the cursed zone, the silence weighed heavily on the trio. Gojo's trademark smirk, usually as constant as the North Star, had transformed into a stern expression, his gaze fixated on the distance. Meanwhile, Suguru's fists were clenched, jaw locked tight.

Shit

Once upon a time, these two had been inseparable, but now it was like watching two tectonic plates slowly drift apart.

As you ventured deeper into the cursed alleyway, the oppressive darkness seemed to swallow you whole. The narrow passageway twisted and turned, like a labyrinth designed by, uh, by ---- oh, fuck it. You don't have time to think about it as you use your technique to identify the more hidden curses.

You cursed under your breath as bits of your clothing became stained by the grime of the walls. Filthy, damp walls pressed in from both sides, making it feel like there was no way out. Absolutely fucking disgusting.

Gojo led the way, his steps echoing off the grimy pavement as he followed the faint trail of minor curses. Suguru trailed behind, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.

The darkness was thick, and the tension among your trio hung heavy in the air. It felt like a pressure cooker, waiting to explode at any moment. The distant cries of curses only added to the eerie fucked up atmosphere.

Gojo moved with an effortless grace, his sapphire eyes ablaze with cursed energy as he obliterated curses left and right. His movements were fluid, almost elegant, as he dispatched each threat with swift precision.

On the other hand, Suguru was growing increasingly agitated. He watched the curses he could've consumed vanish into wisps of nothingness with each sweep of Gojo's hand. His frustration simmered beneath his skin, boiling over into anger.

"Dammit, Satoru," Suguru glared, voice laced with annoyance. "I could've used some of those."

Gojo barely spared him a glance, his focus unwavering. "Too bad, so sad. You've got plenty in your arsenal already, Suguru. Don't get greedy."

Cue that angry mark thing on Suguru's forehead

You couldn't help but sigh internally, "I swear --- it's like a fucking k-drama breakup or something. Unbelievable."

But this was your fault

No, this is just things that have been simmering for a while finally boiling over.

And just what exactly prompted this...'simmering of feelings'?

...check your fucking tone and fix that attitude of yours.

Or what? You'll kill me. Please, I'd like to see you try.

Fuck. You.

Also...

What?

Watch out, hehe.

(Side Note: When stressed, you curse. A lot. )

Suddenly, an especially powerful curse materialized, catching you off guard. It lunged at you, the impact sending you crashing into the nearby shop's window. The glass shattered like your composure, and blood painted the scene.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you were hurled through the air and into the glass window. The shards of glass seemed to glisten in a surreal dance of glimmers and reflections, and for a brief moment, the shattered glass created a fragmented tapestry of the scene, as if you were glimpsing reality through a shattered mirror.

Blue rose petals descended gracefully, an ethereal contrast to the crimson stains on your battered form. They tumbled from an unseen sky, their delicate dance casting an otherworldly beauty over the grim tableau.

Upon collision with the glass, it shattered into a symphony of discordant notes, the cacophony ringing in your ears. The shards dug into your flesh, tearing at your clothes, and for a suspended moment, the world seemed crystallized in chaos.

Lying there, gasping for air and stinging with pain, you took in the surreal sight of the blue rose petals falling around you. In the corners of your quickly fading vision, you saw flower pots and greenery --- it felt like you were back in Yu's dorm room. Safe and warm.

Oh, it's a flower shop.

First off, why the fuck is there a flower shop at the end of some random creepy ass alleyway?

Second off, why was it so quiet?

The eerie silence settled like a heavy fog, muffling the once-chaotic sounds of curses. You furrowed your brow, puzzled by their sudden disappearance. Where had they—

In a sudden and almost comically abrupt fashion, the souls of Suguru and Gojo popped into your field of vision. It was as if they had teleported into view, their ghostly forms shimmering with an otherworldly light.

You couldn't help but blink in surprise, their appearance catching you off guard amidst the strange stillness of the cursed zone.

"Fucking hell," you swore under your breath as you felt one of the two gently pick up your head before leveling it on a soft warm --- thighs. Bony ones at that so it had to be Gojo.

(Side Note: You couldn't help but instinctively reach out to palm the limb, the blood seeping from your scraped hands staining Gojo's pants.)

Suguru dropped to his knees beside you, his face etched with deep concern, his eyes darting anxiously over your wounds. He hovered his hands over the injuries, torn between wanting to help and the uncertainty of what to do next. The injuries weren't life-threatening, but they were far from insignificant.

"Hey, are you okay?" Suguru's voice quivered with genuine worry as he assessed the damage. "Damn it, you're bleeding..." Panic flickered across his features as he glanced at the blood, his usually composed demeanor giving way to concern.

His soul was crying

Gojo remained uncharacteristically silent, his lips parting only to remove his glasses. His gaze locked onto your injured face, and in that fleeting moment when your eyes met, it was a meeting of pearlescent and iridescent. The connection would've been near-perfect if it weren't for...

Before the thought could fully form, Gojo finally broke his silence. His expression turned grave, and he spoke in a low, almost breathless tone, "Use your chains on me."

You couldn't help but snort with amusement, even as a wince of pain crossed your face. "Now, who's the kinky one," you quipped, your voice laced with playful sarcasm.

If you weren't injured, Gojo might have smacked the shit out if you, but in this situation, he opted for a sharp pinch on your arm until you acquiesced.

Drawing cursed energy from people was always a unique experience, but what intrigued you even more was the distinctiveness of each person's energy.

Suguru's had a bittersweet undertone, much like his tea, while Gojo's... Well, perhaps it was his cursed technique, but it felt almost exhilarating. Sweet, like his insatiable sweet tooth, and undeniably stimulating.

Your blood raced with adrenaline, and you couldn't help but savor the taste of Gojo's energy. It was strangely addictive, and you found yourself wanting more, even as you noticed the tremble in his soul.

Separating your chains from their souls, a shiver of relief coursed through your body as most of your injuries miraculously began to heal. With a soft hum of gratitude, you muttered a quiet thank you under your breath. With Suguru and Gojo's assistance, you managed to sit up on the pile of debris.

"Are you guys okay?" you inquired, concern lacing your words.

Suguru, still clearly shaken by the events, snapped, "You almost die, and you ask US if we're okay?" He couldn't hide his worry, despite his gruff tone.

You let out a playful pout as you leaned into the warmth of Gojo's hands, tilting your head back like a whiny child. "Well, fuck you too, Suguru." "Don't you curse at me, you little-"

As you and Suguru continued your bickering, Gojo calmly brought you closer, positioning you against his body and enveloping your waist with his arms. His chin rested on your shoulder, and he let out a quiet exhale that felt like a sigh of relief.

(Side Note: The exhale was so strong that it lightly pulled on your moon earring. The very one Gojo gifted you.)

You froze at the unexpected closeness, momentarily taken aback, while Suguru observed in silence, a pensive expression clouding his face.

One beat

"You two really pissed me off, ya know?" Gojo's words carried an unusual weight, and both you and Suguru had never heard him sound so sullen. It wasn't meekness; Gojo could never be meek or weak, but his voice seemed, in that moment, small.

Though you couldn't see his face, you could sense the tremor in his voice, and it sent a chill down your spine.

Two beats

Both Suguru and you dared not to speak as Gojo continued to talk, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly as he spoke. It was as if he had to physically restrain himself from retreating into his usual emotional barriers.

"You disappear for a few days, and suddenly, you're both different. And then, it's like I don't even exist. You made me feel..."

Three beats

"Unwanted? Jealous? Neglected?" You interjected softly, your voice tinged with understanding. Gojo pinched your side, causing you to wince, and earning a sharp glare from Suguru. "Don't fucking psychoanalyze me."

"Sorry," you murmured, sensing the tension in his voice.

Four beats

Gojo tightened his hold on you, his voice muffled against your shoulder, "I didn't know what to do. I hate not knowing what to do."

Suguru leaned against the wall, seemingly lost in thought. "Typical Satoru. Always the 'strongest' but falls apart when emotions come into play." You clenched your jaw.

Five beats

"Suguru. Not now." You swore you saw a flicker of a satisfied smirk on the albino's face as you scolded said male. "Gojo, stop smirking." Now it was Suguru's turn to smirk.

(Side Note: Gojo was so ridiculously satisfied.)

From the corner of your eye, you spotted something amidst the rubble. Leaning over to pick it up, a soft chuckle escaped your lips as you realized it was a nondescript bottle of sake.

Nothing too distinctive, just an ordinary bottle of sake.

Balancing it in your hand, you inhaled the aroma as you uncorked it. A soft sigh escaped, and a small smile graced your face.

As you took a cautious sip from the bottle, you were pleasantly surprised by its smooth and mellow flavor. The warmth of the sake spread through you --- a nice contrast to the cold air of Japan.

"Are you serious right now?" Suguru's voice resonated through the eerie silence of the ravaged flower shop. With a shrug, you tossed the bottle to Gojo.

Gojo grimaced, "You're seriously gross right now. Who knows where that's been?"

You rolled your eyes at his comment, "Well, either drink it and unwind or ditch it to relieve some stress."

He stared down at you for a good three minutes, his expression still contorted, before finally grunting and taking a sip. The effect was nearly instantaneous as the young Six-Eye User's tense shoulders relaxed.

Six beats

The severity in his gaze softened as he turned his attention to Suguru, who wore a similarly displeased expression.

With the bottle held in his large hands, Gojo seemed poised to throw it at the raven-haired man, but at the eleventh hour, he offered it instead. Their fingers brushed for a fleeting heartbeat as Suguru savored a modest sip.

A sigh escaped his lips as he let the alcohol slide down his throat, his shoulders dropping in a similar manner like Gojo as you silently stayed within the albino's arms.

A hush blossomed among the three of you, your gazes fixed on various points, as if deliberately avoiding eye contact with each other.

Yet, even in that unspoken silence, it seemed as if words were superfluous. Simply being present in that moment, basking in each other's auras and existence, sufficed to transmit everyone's sentiments.

Amidst the remnants of the flower shop, with broken petals strewn about like the memories of a fading dream, a subtle breeze whispered its way through the shattered windows, carrying the scent of blossoms that once danced in vibrant hues. And a soft, distant chirping of birds carried through the broken windows --- ah, it was morning already.

Suguru, his grip on the sake bottle loosening, glanced around at the desolation surrounding you. His eyes, once filled with annoyance, now held a touch of melancholy.

Suguru's gaze finally shifted, meeting Gojo's eyes for the briefest of moments. A flicker of understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of...something.

As if by an unspoken agreement, Gojo lifted the bottle once more, offering it to Suguru. With a nod of appreciation, Suguru accepted, their bond acknowledged in this simple act.

You couldn't help but make an undignified noise as you tried to reach for the bottle, "Oi! Don't drink it all, I want some too!"

With a playful smirk, Gojo leaned slightly away from Suguru, extending the bottle above you, just out of your reach. "Oh, you want some too?" he teased, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Suguru joined in with a sly grin, "You know, sharing is caring."

You responded with an exasperated sigh, your attempt to grab the bottle foiled by Gojo's playful maneuvering. "Alright, alright, you guys win. Just pass it over here before I start feeling left out." Ironic.

Gojo and Suguru persisted in their playful teasing, much to your chagrin, as you struggled within Gojo's grasp to lower his arm, desperately attempting to reach the bottle he held aloft. Suguru's laughter echoed through the room, while Gojo cackled with the exuberance of a madman.

From his vantage point, Yaga couldn't suppress a chuckle as he witnessed the scene unfold. It warmed his heart to see the tension between the three of you dissipate—perhaps not entirely, but enough that he believed everyone would experience a sense of relief come the next school day.

Seven beats

...

Song Inspo: Ray Laurél - CHARLES JEFFREY

(A/N): Hopefully, one day I'll see TCT on a 'JJK Tumblr fanfic recommendations' TikTok vid --- the moment people recommend this to others on that fucking app, that's when I know I'm doing a good job 💀

Valeria Garza has a chokehold on me rn. Ooo, should I write for CoD? It'd be interesting deciphering their personalities considering the shit load of trauma they all got going on.

09/20 - In the middle of writing this, a kitten sucked into my yard and I have dogs. I had to pry the poor thing out of their mouths (it's alive! Ran off tho). Unfortunately, the kitten did bite me. So I'm not writing this with an injured hand and a prayer that I don't have an infection. 🥹

09/21 - Just as I was finishing up, I received an e-mail from the Head of my Bachelor's Department saying that my current classes were not valid for my degree and that I'd have to re-enroll. I spent a whole 15 minutes bawling my eyes out, crying to mami on the phone before the mother fuckers had the nerve to tell me it was an error and I'm fine.

09/23 - it's like 12am rn and the most horrible thing happened and ugh, I could not stop bawling my eyes out and I was bleeding everywhere. I'm fine now but like damn bro.

Originally:

This episode was supposed to be published on September 20 due to, uh, reasons. (JJK 236 spoilers parallel) However, shit happened and I didn't publish it in time. My bad bros, hoes, and non-binaries bitches.

Originally, I had planned to kick off this episode from Suguru's or someone else's perspective – anyone but Yaga's. But, at the last second, I realized we needed a bit more Yaga content. Plus, it'd be intriguing to delve into his viewpoint regarding the cursed trio's dynamics and all that jazz.

"...gentle yet melancholic smile," was actually supposed to just be a 'gentle small smile.' This is because Ieiri was just happy to be there within the boundaries of your presence. But I changed it because, when written this way, it just confirms that Ieiri knows her status in the group. As in, she doesn't have an actual status.

"...Nah, you really wouldn't have." Was actually, "Oh come on, Suguru. You know I wouldn't go that far."

The plan for this episode was to kick off near a flower shop, but fate had other ideas. It concluded right at a flower shop instead.

"The narrow passageway twisted and turned, like a labyrinth designed by, uh, by ---- oh, fuck it." This was actually supposed to reference the ancient King of Curses but I couldn't figure how to do it, so I genuinely said fuck it.

"Don't fucking psychoanalyze me," was supposed to be, "So you knew yet you did nothing?" This is to imply your avoidance of confrontations. Maybe foreshadowing too.

Originally, you were going to apologize to Gojo for everything but then, as an author, I realized that the cursed trio are a bunch of teenagers put in the riskiest of situations with severe vulnerability problems and communication issues, hence the silence and the avoidance of eye contact.

This switch to Yaga as the main POV in this episode kind of plays with that idea that teachers are always watching their students, even if it doesn't seem like it. It's not just about observing; it's about whether they decide to take action or simply stay on the sidelines.

Ngl, certain characters, in canon, feel rather two-dimensional. Maybe, it's because I haven't really read the manga or finished the anime --- but like yeah. So I like exploring them, giving them depth and stuff like that. Like Yaga, Yu, Ieiri, and others.

Suguru narrowly escaped critical injury thanks to your swift response, an imperceptible wall formed by hundreds of tiny chains that perpetually encircled him, akin to a vigilant guardian.

Though invisible to Suguru's eyes, these chains remained visible to Gojo's discerning gaze. In truth, this visibility was the sole reason Gojo took the actions he did.

Suguru's lack of injuries was all thanks to a secret chain connected to his soul. It channeled cursed energy into him, helping him heal swiftly. The finer details of this ability were still a bit hazy, but that's a tale for another day.

The elders, were deep into an emergency meeting, no doubt wrestling with the current crisis. Or so, one would think.

"And so, the pissing match began once again." After this line, I genuinely had no idea what to write next. So I chose to involve the one character that just feels right to write about.

Kento's call came in the wake of an extremely close call, and he needed something to anchor him back to reality before diving back into his mission. The soothing sound of your voice, coupled with Yu's presence, worked like a balm on his nerves. (But you thought it was because he was worried about you. Which, technically, is true but that's beside the point.)

Episode: Borderline --- "...Keep it vague, just like your pointless existence." Goes hand in hand with, "...Or what? You'll kill me. Please, I'd like to see you try." Was that your own self-deprecating thoughts, or ???

The reason why Suguru's hands hovered was because he was afraid of causing more damage.

It wasn't his energy that made his soul quiver; it was the fear of losing you.

I wanted to have a little fun so I made that what you eat the most is what your cursed energy either feels like or tastes like. 🤷

As for Gojo, his Infinity vanished the moment he saw you crash through the flower shop window. The sheer shock and horror of the scene caused him to unintentionally drop it.

Typically, Gojo's soul is shielded from your sight due to the nature of his Infinity. However, when he released it, you were able to catch a glimpse of his presence, marked by a curious warp-like effect.

"It was strangely addictive, and you found yourself wanting more, even as you noticed the tremble in his soul." Energy vampire much?

The fact that you only ever truly feel safe is when you're in Yu's dorm room surrounded by his plants.

You intentionally left some minor wounds untreated, a small act of consideration for Ieiri. It would give her something to do when she arrived, and you secretly longed to be in her presence again.

"It was his voice, yet not his own." Is a reference to Suguru's creeping depression as well as an indirect reference to Kenjaku.

"...Are you out of your fucking mind?" Is Suguru referencing Gojo's technique and how it fries the brain to a crisp.

"Suguru swore under his breath as he felt a light pain blooming at his waist." and "...it's tendrils aiming for his right side" is a reference.

Note how, even though Gojo always keeps his Infinity on (or almost always) along with the fact that he's a Special Grade sorcerer, you still felt the need to protect his back from the minor curse.

The North Star symbolizes guidance, direction, stability and purpose. And no matter what, it stays in the same place no matter what goes around it.

It's not a glass ceiling, but rather a glass wall. Which can be interpreted in multiple manners. It can be the wall between you and Gojo, despite being able to see each other so clearly, a wall remains. The shattering of it representing your agreement in acknowledging the connection.

Or, it's the slow shattering of the Curses Trio's reality as we near Spring.

Or, it's foreshadowing.

Blue roses signify the unattainable. It's like a longing for something to exist, but it forever eludes your grasp. This is a direct reference to the Jujutsu Kaisen Season 1 Opening where Gojo carries around a bouquet of blue roses.

In this episode, the clash of "Pearlescent vs. Iridescent" gave way to a harmonious fusion of Pearlescent AND Iridescent. This is to reference that an emotional connection has been officially acknowledged. Not made but acknowledged.

"The connection would've been near-perfect if it weren't for..." His being is near-perfect in your eyes because if he had just never been born with Six-Eyes, you'd love his blissful ignorance

Although Suguru might be considered your closest friend (in Gojo's mind at least), it was Gojo you instinctively reached out to. Ironic considering how long you've been trying to emotionally avoid him.

If my memory serves me right, the traditional act of sharing a bottle of sake signifies a union among individuals, and for this particular chapter, it felt more like the forging of a soulful connection, a merging of three souls into one. You could even liken it to a form of matrimony.

The consistent theme remained that open communication was a challenge among the three of you. You rarely delved into meaningful discussions, each holding back in your own way. (Communication may be key, but understanding is the door.)

The heart beats are a reference to another Episode, but I don't remember which. Oops.

Gojo didn't throw the bottle at Suguru because he was genuinely tired of fighting with the bestie --- he just wanted you and Suguru back.

Yaga being the silent observer says A LOT. You just don't realize it.

What was the meeting about?

Were you talking to your continually fracturing mind or someone else?

And what exactly did you mean when you said you saw scenes in the shattered glass?

Drop a comment!

Feel free to donate me a🦩

Hope you enjoyed!

280 notes · View notes

two-white-butterflies · 1 year

Text

THE ALCOTT - a. targaryen

You tell me your problems (Have I become one of your problems?)

Description: As Rhaenyra's oldest daughter — you were expected to marry for the gain of your mother's fraction. Aemond Targaryen sees you in Winterfell, your heart feels like jumping out of your chest.

When the snow falls and the white wind blows. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Winterfell was colder than you expected, as a lady far used to the warmth of a dragon — it blew your mind how northerners lived in never-ending snow. The guards were cautious of your dragon. He was known as the Cannibal, who preyed on every animal — even those of its own kin. At the same time, you couldn't help but notice their lack of fear, like they were used to seeing dragons this big. "My princess!" Cregan came quick to your side.

The sides of your lips turned upwards, heart heaving with joy at the sight of the man you trusted like a brother. The sight of him made you less worried about war. "My lord," you smiled while wrapping your arms around him, aware of the fact that you stink of dragon and ash. "My mother, the Queen Rhaenyra, extends her gratitude for offering Winterfell as a safe haven." you breathed a sigh of relief, as the dragonkeepers began to usher your dragon away to safety.

Losing the war was your biggest fear. There was no doubt in your mind that your uncle, Aegon the Usurper, will execute you if you ever decide to surrender. He takes a deep breath, carrying a heavy burden on his back. "It is not much of a safe haven as you believe." he stares at you from the side, his hand was placed upon the small of your back — leading you inside of his warm castle.

"What do you mean?" you asked, eyebrows bumping into each other. Winterfell and Kingslanding were your second home, the thought of either betraying you was stupid, yet the latter managed to do so. "Fellow northerns lords have spoken about your house falling from grace. The house of the dragon does not know who rules it —" he explains but you interrupt him in annoyance.

"My mother is the Queen, my uncles are mere usurpers who stand against the throne." you correct, nose scrunching in disbelief. Shame flooded your features. The house of the dragon does now know who rules it, but you do it was fire and blood — the same two that will consume the Hightowers with avarice. "Not everyone believes that." he retorts, you take your gloves off — freezing at the sight of ... Aemond Targaryen. Your uncle, whose aided your sorrows for seventeen years in Kingslanding. Has he come to murder you now?

"My lord, if you wish to offer your loyalties to the Usurper. You are free to do so — but attempting to ambush me?" you accuse, he places a hand on your shoulder, Cregan's eyes staring deep into your own. Your mother called him 'sweet-summer boy' for he was born in the longest summer. He was sweet and kind, but also cold and dangerous. There was no doubt in your mind that he would execute you in the name of the greater good.

"I am not here to hurt you, sister. He arrived here a fortnight ago, offering his hand for one of my cousins to marry but I declined him, because I know that his brother is an usurper who does not deserve the throne. Gods be good, if I allowed a drunken charlatan to ever become king." Cregan's eyes pierced into Aemond's soft skull. He takes a deep breath, eyes trailing away from the Prince he welcomed into his home. "But my council does not offer the same sentiments." he scratches his nose, eyes pulsing with rage. Cregan Stark was loyal to your mother.

"And you thought that it was appropriate to welcome him here? When I am set for a visit?" you questioned, playing with the dagger inside your pocket. You couldn't trust anyone, not the lord beside you nor the uncle who has been with you for seventeen years.

"I am not here for him, my niece. I am here for you?" he admits, breaking the thick wall of ice. His good eye stared at you, lips puckered and pink from the cold. The man that you loved was gone, there were only mere traces of him left. "Are you still mad because of your eye?" you question, taking on a stance for fight. You were well trained in warfare, equipped enough to take his only eye.

"I've long forgiven you, but my sister?" he chuckles for a few seconds, lips smirking at the thought of Rhaenyra. "But still, we are merciful — return home. We'll imprison your mother in Dragonstone, your brothers will be cupbearers and squires for the King. And you, my lovely niece, we'll find a match worthy." he offers, laying out the terms in a way that seemed appetizing.

You stared at him. Blinking, but not thinking.

"Which side are you on?" he finishes, taking a step forward. He was a few feet away, but you could see him perfectly. He had a neat stubble, his left-eyebrow had a thin horizontal line on the center. He has aged more in three-months than he has ever had in his entire life. "The last thing I want is to be on your side." you insult through gritted teeth, Cregan stares at the both of you back and forth.

"No harm will come to the both of you under my roof. My princess, I'm sure that you are tired of all the traveling, it is best to retire. And my prince, the finest wines need your tasting down the Great Hall." Cregan tilts his head to the other door, pulling you away before you could ever start a fight.

----

The owls were chirping outside of your window, nocturnal animals prowling at night for their next prey. He knocks on your door, body standing rigid in front of your window. "My princess," he whispers, trying his best not to awake Cregan whose room was parallel yours.

Your hands reach the door, hands twisting to open the door-knob. You trusted Cregan's promise of no harm coming to you. It was favorable, for you wouldn't be hurt but the same thing couldn't be promised to your uncle.You meet his eye.

A Lavender Lazuli eye that showed you spectrums of different colors. "Aemond," you answered with no respect. No respect is given to rebels. "Go home with me." he offered and you leaned on the door-frame. His voice was low, breath stinking of ale — his eye was downcast and filled with melancholia. He missed you, but you weren't sure of feeling the same with him.

"My home is in Dragonstone. It is where I was born." you replied curtly, lips pressing into a thin line. He placed a hand on the doorframe, stopping you from shutting the door on his face. "Your mother is not the rightful heir. A woman can't hold into power, not in our times." he rasped, earning an eye-roll from you.

You are Rhaenyra's heir. The Queen after her.

"Not in this world yes, but we have always been queer with our customs. In Valyria, women can rule without fight — are you not Valryian, dear uncle?" you taunt, playing at the thought of his Hightower blood. You were not the daughter of Harwin Strong. You were either of Laenor or Daemon's. But one thing was certain, Valyria flooded your veins more than it did to him.

"That is not what I mean." he breaths.

"We waste too much time in fighting this damn war! I'm losing you, qogralbar ziry" he cursed, fist bumping into the wall beside him. Fuck it. He thought about taking you, and marrying you. "You are losing me because of your pride. Your belief of women being incapable of ruling." you rolled your eyes, walking away from him — but he takes ahold of your forearm, pulling you back in front of him.

"I do not think that you are incapable of ruling, I merely believe that your mother should lay down her arms and accept my brother as king." he asserted, keeping his hands on you. "The first thing you desire, is the last thing I could ever dream of." you scoff, pushing him away from you.

By this point, you were both outside of your room — feet barely stepping over the line that divided your room and the hallway. "That is our problem!" he raised his voice slowly. You bite the inner corner of your lips, imagining his murder. "I am one of your problems, uncle." you reply taking a step backward, returning inside your room.

You were just about to close the door, but he collapses unto you — knocked out by the strong northern ale. "I want to forget you." he mumbles before closing his eyes.

taglist: @scarwicht@nyctophilic0vitnir@witch-of-letters

673 notes · View notes

eroguron0nsense · 4 months

Text

"The Marines Are Garp's Found Family"

I am something of a certified Garp hater but one of the things I see floating around a lot of comments sections regarding Garp's behaviour at Marineford (i.e. his conflict of love and duty re: failing to do the right thing and help save Ace/leave the Marines for any number of reasons) is the notion that Garp is choosing between two found families: his grandchildren, and the marines that he's come to see as a second/found family in the vein of every other One Piece child looking for a place to belong and this is, as far as I can tell, pulled out of someone's ass. We truly don't know enough about Garp or what he thinks of the Marines to conclude that they are, in any way, shape, or form for him, a family that effectively filled a need for him that wasn't already met. He's mentored some kids, certainly, and he's close to Sengoku, but Garp is a massive mystery and the only feelings we see him display toward the Marines are a) absolute, flawed loyalty and b) a desire to see them change with a subsequent generation, hence his willingness to defend Coby til the bitter end. Garp's dedication to the Marines reads more like steadfast dedication to the platonic ideals of their propaganda –in spite of him knowing full well how fundamentally corrupt and oppressive they are– than anything related to seeing them as his kin or family; you know, the thing he decided was less important than his duty to The Evil Empire. If we're talking about Found Family though, there's a marine with a way stronger perception of that, who we know for a fact was raised by Sengoku and dedicated his life to serving the people who took him in after he lost everything. Corazon more than anyone sees Sengoku as his adoptive father, and the feeling's returned; after his expulsion from Mariejois and the incredible traumas of his childhood, they're the only people who gave him safety, stability, and affection. He has more motivation than virtually anyone to be unflinchingly, painfully loyal to the Navy, but when he's confronted with Law–a sole survivor of Flevance and living incarnation of the WG's cruelty–he's horrified, guilt-stricken, and eventually risks everything for a child he's only really known for a short time, betraying the Navy and his mission to steal the Ope Ope no Mi, because he knows in his heart that it's the right thing to do as a parent. He dies for love, but also to a lesser extent for justice– to give a child who's lost everything to the oppressive system he was part of, a child everyone else has failed and abused, who was condemned to death by the World Government, a second chance at life. Cora had a found family in the Marines and he left/betrayed them anyway because he knew, when confronted with a living example of their atrocities, where his real duty and morals lay. That their hypothetical interests didn't supersede the life of a little boy that their higher ups stole everything from and ruined. Garp could never.

#one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #donquixote rosinante #marineford #monkey d garp #corazon one piece #corazon #sengoku the buddha #ope ope no mi #coby #portgas d ace #monkey d luffy #dressrossa

112 notes · View notes

nebulaafterdark · 1 year

Text

More Than Anyone Pt. 6

Summary: Rhaenyra is crowned, Y/N is named heir before the masses…but not without sacrifice.

18+ ONLY, Targcest, light smut

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Daemon Targaryen is not a man who takes anything lying down. This recent assault against his wife and child is no exception. There is no need to sit around with their thumbs up their asses, chasing dead ends. It is clear to him that there are few people in the kingdom with the will and know how to poison Rhaenyra so cruelly.

Because he cannot say which member of house Hightower has betrayed them, he has made the decision to eliminate them all in one fell swoop. Caraxes is more than happy to assist. The dragon rears back without warning, screeching their frustration up to the ceilings of the dragon pit.

“Little bird,” Daemon clicks his tongue in annoyance. Watching as Aegon feebly attempts to put Y/N behind him. “You shouldn’t have come, the sight will upset you.”

“And finding out from the townsfolk that you’ve executed my husband and his family would not upset me?” Y/N retorts. Allowing Aegon to put his arms around her waist, holding fast to his wrists. Let me speak.

“Last we spoke you were less than thrilled with said husband. Thought you might thank me.”

“No matter how hard the storm lashes between us, never would I wish to be without him. Aegon would not harm my mother, for he knows that it would harm me.” Y/N tells him.

“Are you not disheartened by this?” Her stepfather scoffs. “For all your mother has suffered, you feel nothing?”

“That is untrue. I wish this assailant swiftly punished for their crimes, to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Then step aside.”

“Daemon, please. You’ve a daughter,” Y/N watches his face soften, “Visenya. Healthy. My mother, our queen, is recovering in her chambers. There is no need to rush an unjust execution. Let us be thorough so that we might eliminate the real threat to our family.”

Daemon’s jaw ticks, he has waited long for this. After all the greens hath done. To his brother, to Rhaenyra…to their children.

“I know they are not perfect,” Y/N huffs a laugh, “infuriating at best.”

The corner of the rogue prince’s mouth twitches upward.

“But we are one house and we do not slay our kin.”

Caraxes grunts, puffing harshly through their nostrils.

“If you are to be Queen, it will be your duty to crush rebellion. You speak like my brother, who never had the stomach for it.” Daemon shifts his weight between feet, a hand curled over the hilt of his sword.

“Give me a chance.” Y/N breathes, “take my hand. Let us uncover the truth and punish the guilty. I will prove that I can crush rebellion at its root. I will avenge my mother, I will do you proud.”

Daemon takes a step toward her, against his better judgment. Extending a hand to her, “one chance, Y/N.”

“One chance.”

————————————————————————

It’s not until Y/N has safely returned Aegon to her chambers that she feels crushed beneath the weight of what has transpired. She can sit and cry about it, she can run off to tell her mother or…she can take action. Show Daemon that she is not weak, that she deserves this and will fight for what is hers.

“Dōna riña.” Sweet girl. Aegon breathes.

“I want them dead. Whoever has committed this atrocity against my mother, I want their head on a spike before the fucking moon turns.”

Aegon blinks at his wife. Her dark hair has sprung free from its braids, hanging about her flushed cheeks. “If it is the second coming of Maegor you long for, I will be that. Make no mistake, my dearest love, I live for you and I die for you. You must heed my warning, Daemon’s wrath is tame compared to mine.”

It confounds her for a moment, the fire burning in his eyes. How this was the same man who held her close and told her he loved her, the man who would fuck her until she cried when it suited him. Aegon is light and he is dark; so is she.

She wants him, however he is, was and will be. Y/N wants Aegon. His love, his fury, his passion and his pain. Not Maegor or Daemon, nor any man between. I want you.

A knock at the door turns both their attention away from the discussion.

In strides Jace, and two members of the Queen’s guard. “Y/N, our mother has begun preparations for her coronation. We must report to the dragon pit, townspeople have already begun to gather there.”

“Very well,” Y/N sniffs.

“Mother has a dress prepared for you. The very same so wore when our late grandsire named her as heir before the masses. Today she will name you, all must swear their loyalty; to her, to you…to house Targaryen.”

“And those who refuse?”

“You know what will happen, sister.” Jacaerys squares his shoulders.

————————————————————————

Only on bended knees of the seven does Y/N find comfort. Rhaenyra is crowned, naming her firstborn daughter her successor.

And after, when the Queen returns to her chambers and the newborn babe; Y/N is left with her eldest brothers.

“We’ve a lead.” Lucerys informs her, quietly.

“Come.” Jace insists, taking Y/N’s hand. Leading them through the corridors, their pace leisurely, not wishing to attract attention.

Their stopping point is just off the royal quarters. A room in which the only living Strong takes up residence. Y/N looks to her brother. Surely not here, surely not him.

Luce remains just beyond the door, standing watch. Larys is sat in his chair, cane in hand. As if he’s been expecting them.

“Prince Jacaerys, Princess Y/N. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We know it was you who poisoned our mother, we have it on good authority.” Jace tells him.

“Whom ever hath told you this is surely mistaken.” Larys offers a coy smirk.

“We want to know why.” Y/N interjects. “Perhaps with good reason we could leave this behind us.”

“What do you imagine would happen if the King’s daughter birthed herself three bastards and married the eldest to the next rightful king, in an attempt to pass her off as the heir?” The man asks. “Would this go unpunished? For a while mayhaps, but not forever.”

“But if the children are not bastards?” Jacaerys squares his shoulders. “If their legitimacy was upheld by their true born father and their grandsire, the king? By all accounts of the law those children are not bastards.”

“They are abominations. To be eradicated from the bloodline. Not to farther besmirch the name of their house.”

The door swings open wide, several guards flooding inside, taking Larys into custody as Lucerys watches from the entryway.

“What were you thinking?” Aegon demands, gripping Y/N’s wrist and pulling her aside.

“Aegon.” Y/N blinks at him. Had he followed her?

“Do you think me a fool? That I could not have handled this?”

“No, I…” she stammers. “I know you could have.”

“Why then did you come? Without protection?” The prince snaps, teeth bared in his anger, eyes glossy.

“I had my brothers.”

Aegon puts a hand to her belly, “this babe is mine. Yours and mine, do you understand? You do not get to run off and cause harm to him as you see fit.”

“Aegon, I wasn’t.” Y/N shakes her head. “I would never harm our child. I was careful, I-”

“You will never run off like that again.”

“I will not,” Y/N promises.

“If anything had happened to you…”

“I am sorry, Aegon. To worry you, to upset you so was not my intent.”

His fingers tremble as they move to her cheek, cupping it.

“I love you and our children. More than anyone.” Y/N assures him.

The words land as blows to his gut, he is furious with her. Yet his heart yearns to hold her close. Love is the death of duty, duty is the death of love. “You know how dearly I adore you. Allow me to see this manner finished.”

“I will come with you.”

“No, you will not.” Aegon hisses. “You will go to your rooms and remain there with our children until I am through.”

“My love-”

“Do not argue.” He warns.

Y/N swallows hard. Accepting a light brush of his lips in parting.

The Princess does not see her husband again until after their children are long abed. Aegon enters their rooms to find his bride in the bathing tub. It is large enough for two and the Prince wastes no time removing his clothes and stepping inside.

He sits opposite Y/N, their eyes meeting. Daring one another to make the first move.

Y/N draws in a breath. “I understand that you are angry with me-”

“You are…” he breaks off, searching for words. “I did not want that for you.”

“Aegon, I am a woman grown. You cannot shield me from the world.”

“Surely for longer than you’ve allowed me to. I am not angry…I am beside myself with worry for you. I am sick over it. When I sleep, I dream of you. When I wake, I long for you and,” he draws in a shuttering breath, “I need you.”

“You have me,” Y/N tells him. “All I have done is to protect you.”

“Do not bother.” No one else ever did.

“It is not a bother, Aegon. You are not a bother. Your thoughts and feelings are important to me. You are important to me. I will spend the rest of my life proving it so.”

“Come,” Aegon sighs, reaching a hand toward her in invitation. “Come, my sweet girl.”

“Forgive me.” Y/N breathes, allowing her husband to situate her in his lap. One leg on either side of his. He smells of alcohol, his lips laced with the salty tang of tears.

“I forgive you.” He feathers light kisses to the skin of her shoulder as they break apart. “And I love you.” His eyes land on hers as practiced fingers find her wetness, sliding easily into her heat.

“Say you love me too.” Aegon pleads, curling his fingers against the sweet spot within her.

“I love you, Aegon.” She breathes, “I love you always.”

Part 7

Series Taglist: @sophiexoxosblog @alicentswife @f4ll-for-you @tempt-ress @percyjacksonspeen @zoleea-exultant @midnightrqin @buckystevelove @httpjiikook @neenieweenie @springholland @zeennnnnnn @yelenabeleovapocket @nejiho3 @thatkindofgurl @aemondsb1tch @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @alitaar@kiahpapaya@existential-echo@zzz000eee@janelongxox@bunny24sstuff@bibli0thecary@rwdkarla@minttea07

#hotd smut #house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon ii #aegon targaryen smut #aegon the elder #aegon smut #more than anyone #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen

625 notes · View notes

mhsdatgo · 1 month

Note

Alicent crowing aegon exposing her children to more risk than just letting rhaenyra became queen. Rhaenyra wanted that throne, there is no way she would have accepted those "terms", and alicent is 100% aware of this in the book and in the show as well. By crowning aegon she start a war and put her children DIRECTLY on the battlefield against people who were more experienced in war like daemon or ride dragon longer like rhaenyra and rhaenys amd consequently may control their dragon better. If you didn't want to consider a crash between two or more dragons, even if they were on a dragon against an army the danger is very high, look at rhaenys the conqueror or aemon the first son of jaehaerys, they were on dragon's back and yet both of them were killed by arrow. Not to mention that both in the book and in the show alicent spend years creating animosity with rhaenyra, If you TRULY believe that someone may hurt your children you do everything you can to maintain at least a civil relationship, and not constantly provoke them and then cry about how your children may be hurt by your stupidity. Because that what alicent has done in the book starting hating rhaenyra, pray viserys to name Aegon as heir and constantly share gossip to damage rhaenyra's image (with a 10 years old girl, meanwhile Alicent was a GROWN woman), and in the show the situation is not different. The truth is that alicent’s action were based on her own ambitious in the book and on her resentment to rhaenyra in the show, but NEVER in the interest of her children. In fact aegon never wanted to be king, he was forced by her and has to endure all the consequences while watching all of his family die

Ladies and gentlemen, here we have someone who quite literally didn't get a single thing about Fire and Blood.

See, anons like these are what makes my blood boil at the writers of HotD for making Rhaenyra appear like a saint which not only made most of the decisions she'll take from this moment onward out of (show) character (as far as character building and development goes) but also fucking boring.

I'm always one to listen to different points of view and interpretations of books as complicated as these, but something that has always bugged me is the way this fandom CANNOT DIGEST the type of tragedy that is just inevitable.

It was never about picking sides, it was never about sexism, it was always about kin torn apart by kin and their own flaws dragging them down. There was no way to ever avoid that and I cannot have a proper discussion about F&B with anyone who doesn't understand this first.

Moreover, just what do you think Alicent should've done? Shut up, be quiet, sit still and look pretty while Daemon's spies turned her children into bloody shreds? Allow them to be assassinated because of the threat they pose to Rhaenyra's claim? Does everything revolve around her? Is she some kind of Twilight Sparkle?

Let me tell you this: no woman would willingly step back and leave their children to their own devices when their own lives pose a threat to someone else's interests.

I have respect for Rhaenyra and her will to fight for what she believed was her birthright (although let's be honest, it was a feeling born out of nothing but the entitlement of a spoiled brat, it turned into a war of parents after one of each faction's children was killed) but I also have so much more respect for Alicent and her courage to bare teeth and claws and plan a coup to be allowed the upper hand and more possibilities of looking after her children if one of them is ruling. It's not "stupidity" it's awareness. And acting according to it.

It's true that Alicent has her own ambitions, but to say that they started growing in her when she was nothing but an 18 year old girl marrying a 30 year old man... Do you hear yourself? That's a girl getting graduated from high school. Oh shiver me timbers, we're scared of young adults here.

Everyone likes and loves and adores to talk about the way ALICENT was having beef with Rhaenyra as a 10 year old but nevermind Rhaenyra placing a bounty on two toddlers and one of them getting ripped apart because of it. Nevermind her refusing that bastard Corlys' advice to take Daeron as a hostage and demanding that he be killed instead. (Because this bitch was the #1 threat to her rule, but y'all aren't ready for that conversation)

She never "prayed" for Aegon to be named as heir, what she DID pray for was for him and Rhaenyra to be betrothed to one another. I hate Rhaegon personally, (no hate to any Rhaegon stan that reads this ♥️) but honestly this is the only marriage that could've MAYBE prevented the Dance. It started because there were two claimants to the throne. Just marry them to each other and the issue was solved. Both of them get crowned, no Dance, peace.

But noooooo, Viserys, the incompetent twat, as always had to act like an incompetent twat and be like "lol but they don't get along". IT WAS HIM WHO DOOMED HIS CHILDREN, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF HIS SONS AND DAUGHTERS. ALL. OF. THEM.

Everyone else acted as a consequence to the cluterfuck that the sick old man created. Namely, chaos. What else did you expect?

#hotd #house of the dragon #pro alicent hightower #pro team green #anti rhaenyra stans #anti team black #anti viserys i targaryen

109 notes · View notes

xxshadowbabexx · 1 month

Text

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish NSFW Alphabet

Thank you @chamomiletealeaf for picking who I did this for!

A- Aftercare (What does it look like?)

You’ll cuddle for a bit, the. he’ll go to clean you both off in the shower. Something that typically ends with one of you receiving oral. After the showed he checks in with you to see if you need anything and meets those needs, lastly he puts on some dumb show for hin to watch as you sleep in his arms.

B- Body count (How many people have they fucked)

You don’t want to know. He can’t count that high.

C- Cum (Where do they do it? How much is there?)

Prefers to finish on your ass but has no problem blowing his load on your face. His cum is thick and white, salty with a tangy undertone. You’re not sure if it’s gross or yummy, but either way you want it all over you.

D- Daydreaming (How often do they find themselves having dirty (day)dreams about their partner)

Probably once a day-ish. If he’s on deployment he tends to jerk himself off when he’s taking watch and the others sleep. Although he’s not as quiet as he thinks and his squad definitely knows what’s happening.

E- Emotion (Do they fuck when angry? Excited? Do they get emotional after?)

Excited for sure. You got a promotion? Well now he’s ready to reward you. You moved in together? Dick is standing at attention.

F- Famous (Would they ever be a camgirl/boy? How popular would their channel be?)

He would totally be like John Kilo (if you don’t know who he is check him out on twitter). Absolutely fucks the weirdest shit for likes and views and it works. Mans channel is always trending.

G- Goated (What are they the absolute best at?)

Johnny can make anyone feel like the most fuckable person on the planet. Something about how he looks at you while doing the nasty makes you feel like you’re insanely desirable, sexy, and just wanted.

H- Hair (How much do they shave? Does the carpet match the drapes? Do they mind hair on their partner?)

He really doesn’t shave, thinks it’s a waste of time. His pubes are a shade or two lighter than the hair on his head.

I- Intimacy (How intimate are they during it?)

Not really intimate at all, but the foreplay? Wildly intimate.

J- Joking (How serious are they during the deed?)

Pretty serious actually. Johnny wants to please, and although he’ll never admit it, he’ll be embarrassed if he messes up in bed. It’s not that he doesn’t love to laugh with you- because he does, it’s more than that. He watched a lot of porn throughout his life, and assumes that people want sex a certain way. Rough, filled with dirty talk, etc.

K- Kinks (Their five biggest)

Sensory play. He likes having his senses taken away to accentuate his other senses, or to do it to you. Would love it if you put a blindfold over him eyes, taking turns stroking his cock with your hand and giving it kitten licks. He loves never knowing what’s coming next.

Voyeurism. He loves letting his squad (mainly his Lt) watch your reactions as he pleasures you.

Dacryphilia is something he adores. Your fucked out, teary face is a sight he could never get enough of.

Begging is also a huge turn on for him. Feed his ego by telling him how much you just need his thick cock, how it’s the only one you could ever want. How he’s the only one.

Breeding. Even if you don’t have a vagina/means to get pregnant let him play into his fantasies. Let him talk about how he’s gonna breed you so good, get you full of his kin. Even if it’s improbable.

L- Location (Where are they down to fuck?)

It’s something about that damn couch. He needs to rail you there as the springs creak. Needs to fuck you until the cushions are soiled and nasty and your naked body leaves a permanent imprint.

Plus, loves seeing your guys’s mates sit on that couch with no idea how well used it really is.

M- Music (Do they like to listen to songs during the deed? If so what ones?)

You can ask, but it’s a no. Music covers the sound of skin hitting skin, covers your whispered gasps and his whiny moans. Who wants that?

N- No (Something they would never do)

No watersports/shit play. Johnny is willing to try most kinks at least once, but not those.

O- Orgy (Will they ever have group sex? If so with who?)

Basically anyone tbh. He has no problem going to a house party and having an orgy with complete strangers (it’s a miracle he doesn’t have an STD yet).

P- Position (What position do they favorite? Are they the giver/receiver in the position?)

Doggy style 110%. Doesn’t matter if he’s the one fucking you or if you’re fucking him up the ass. He loves this position. Loves spanking you of having his moans muffled by the sheets. Truly the ideal position for him.

Q- Quirks (Do they have any weird traits in bed?)

If you have the ability to, Soap would love to breastfeed from you. Boobies are just so perfect to him, and your milk tastes so good! If you ever have a child you’ll have to buy formula because Johnny is a greedy man and will be drinking everything you produce himself.

R- Rough (What’s their pace?)

Thrusts are quick, deep, and bloody hard. Never gives you a moment to catch your breath, and frankly he can’t catch his either.

S- Stamina (How many rounds can they last?)

Three to four rounds, but the rounds are short. He cums fast when he’s with you and he isn’t ashamed to admit it. But don’t worry, he makes up for it by using his mouth and hands on you for hours.

T- Toys (Do they use em? What ones? On their partner or themselves?)

Owns a fleshlight, bullet vibrator, and vibrating nipple clamps. Bought all three of them to use on himself but has no problem using them on a partner, or letting his partner use them on him.

U- Urgent (Their opinions on quickies)

Bloody loves them. Loves finishing all over you when he knows you’ll have to walk around coated in his semen for the rest of the day because you didn’t have time to shower before leaving for work. Consider it his way of marking you as his.

V- Volume (How loud are they in bed?)

So fucking loud the entire neighborhood will hear how he whines your name as he slips into you, moans as your lips wrap around his cock, and curses as he empties himself all over the swell of your ass.

W- WorldWideWeb (What sex things have they googled? What’s their porn history?)

Porn history contains a lot of lactation kinks, as well as bondage. Watches hetero and homosexual porn pretty equally, it all depends on his mood.

X- Xtra (A fun lil random fact)

On the down low, really wants to try sounding, but needs to look into the mechanics more first before he brings it up.

Y- Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

As I said before, he liked to jerk off daily. So sex drive? Through the mother fucking roof.

Z- Zzz (How fast do they fall asleep after sex?)

He’ll stay up for an hour or two, watching something or playing a video game while you sleep in his arms.

taglist

@theloneshadow24 @frogtowne @ladyxtiger @whitetiger846

#johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #captain mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mw2

79 notes · View notes

the-ace-with-spades · 2 months

Text

This, I hope, will eventually be posted on ao3 as a proper fic – current draft title is exhumation — but just in case it will not, gonna post it here and let it stew

Canon Divergence AU with secret Identity and later identity reveal drama

(also this involves the backstory from the Ghost comic because I vaguely remember reading it when I was in high school…)

Soap and Ghost meet before they become Soap and Ghost. Johnny is 20, Ghost is 25, and they’re stationed around the same place but different squads — somewhere not far away from Manchester — and they don’t know they’re both from SAS. They meet when Tommy tries to be supportive of Simon’s newly announced queerness and takes him out to a gay bar on Canal Street. Tommy is the one to chat up Johnny (while Simon, obviously not a fan of crowds or loud places, hides away in the bathroom) with ‘see, my brother this and that’ and ‘if you give my brother a chance, he will this and that’. Believe it or not, once Simon strolls back in with all his social awkwardness, Johnny is actually charmed. Things roll around for a couple of months before they admit to each other they’re in the armed forces.

By the time they find out Simon is of higher rank, they’re already gone for each other. They decide to keep going anyway — it’s legal, as of 2001, and they’re not planning on getting a civil partnership for a while, anyway, so in the end, they keep going. Simon changes his next of kin on file to Johnny, they ‘share’ a flat off base, and Johnny’s met Simon’s mum and brother. He more or less knows the lore of the Riley family, mostly how much of a piece of shite his father was and Tommy’s recently fought addiction, and somehow, Simon feels alive for the first time in his life.

It’s all going so perfect, they’ve been together for almost two years, which isn’t long for most, but feels like forever when you’re in the military. Johnny gives him a ring, a sterling silver one with thistle ornaments and a small garnet centre stone. It’s not a proposal, they can’t get married legally, and they won’t have anything but Simon’s will binding them legally for as long as they’re both in the forces — Simon doesn’t know it, but there’s a matching simple band waiting to slide in with the ring he’s got on his tags, and one day, Johnny plans for him to have a full set.

Simon and his team get send out, Simon tells him it’s going to be a long one, somewhere in one of the Americas — Central or South, if he had to guess by all the self-learning Spanish books that cluttered Simon’s bedside table — and Johnny, well, he’s got a bad feeling but when does he not, with their jobs?

Simon’s team gets back, partially. There’s talk about betrayal from his captain, and he’s painfully absent, Simon’s friends look half-dead and act half-dead and no one is telling Johnny anything. He spends his afternoons with Simon’s mum, taking care of her as best as he can while Simon is gone, even though it was never the plan, and dodges Tommy’s aggressive questions, because he knows goddamn nothing.

Johnny doesn’t give up. He waits.

Simon is gone six months — MIA, officially, but KIA in the words of anyone from the brass — when he emerges back from South America, giving Johnny a new heart and a new life. He comes back different, but Johnny doesn’t care, it’s Simon, it’s still him, and maybe there’s something dead in his eyes, and maybe he spaces out more often than not, and maybe he feels cold in Johnny’s arms, and maybe he doesn’t sleep in the same bed, but it’s still Simon, he just needs to heal and figure out how to keep on living.

And Simon tries — he’s got episodes every day, than every other day, than every week, every other week. He goes to therapy, he spends his days cooking with his mum, spends his days cleaning the whole of their flat again and again, spends his days wandering around Manchester, buying Johnny’s favourite drinks, favourite books, favourite breakfast babs.

He tells Johnny bits and pieces, about what happened, enough that Johnny can put it together in a horrifying if blurred picture, and things start to improve, slowly.

He comes back to their bed. He wakes up before Johnny, makes him breakfast, kisses him on the forehead and struggles with the crosswords from the newspapers he picked on his morning run. He goes out with his former teammates, very short trips but trips nonetheless. He stops being afraid to be alone with his nephew, stops being afraid he'll hurt him. He never quite gets used to the scars, covering them more often than not, not wanting the looks.

Second week of December, ten months after he was brought back to the UK from North America, his psychiatrist signs him off for a phased return to duty. No deployments, only base and training site duties, regular sessions with both the psychiatrist and the psychology for the first four months.

Johnny hasn’t seen his family since before Simon gone MIA — finally feeling okay-ish, Simon tells him to go Scotland for Christmas. He’s got his mum, his brother, his sister-in-law and his nephew, and he’s, weirdly, feeling almost optimistic about life.

Obviously, he can’t be happy for long and shit hits the fan.

On Christmas Day, Johnny gets a call from Greater Manchster Police. He and his sister drive down the country and in the early morning of the Boxing Day, Johnny is showed the tags with the familiar silver ring on it, sooted at the edges and slightly misshapen, melted.

Fifteen minutes after he identifies Simon’s body, they tell him he killed his whole family, probably in a PTSD induced episode, then set their house on fire and killed himself right after, when the trauma-haze went down. They tell him he was lucky not to be there when it happened.

Johnny doesn’t believe it. Simon’s mind’s been bad, but it’d always turn on Simon, not on others, he had too much control to let any episode take him over so much. So he doesn’t care what the police or the public says — he arranges the funeral and Simon is buried with the rest of his family.

Meanwhile, Simon goes on a rampage in Mexico. He kills everyone and anyone he even suspects to be involved with Roba’s people. He leaves a trail of dead people behind him for weeks until finally, the US military catches up — General Shepherd catches up and identifies him. The British Army doesn't know what to do with him — officially, he's dead already, the General Register Office has already issued his death certificate to his NOK, the armed forces had condemned his family's tragedy. His existence is…inconvenient. He is suspected to be either compromised or too unstable to be of use to the Army, even if SAS sees how valuable someone who could single-handedly destroy a whole cartel family and fake his own death could be.

Enter John Price, who had met Simon during SAS selection and had a bit too soft of a heart. There's a mural agreement — Price will take personal responsibility to keep him on a leash, at least until he proves he is not a liability, and he will remain dead on paper but active in the Army. No one is to know he is alive — not even Johnny, or maybe especially Johnny, who will be the last person anyone will see as a revenge method. Simon Riley's name is redacted from all available documents.

And thus, Ghost, a nameless lieutenant and a walking cautionary tale, is born.

The only thing Ghost has not predicted is that eventually, almost six years after he put Simon into the grave, Johnny will join the 141.

And somehow, Ghost is just Johnny's type, again.

#yes this going to be a then/now pov mix #soap angst will be like 70% of it #ghostsoap #ghoap #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #fic ideas #charlie writes #haven't slept yet so going now #goodbye be back in 2h #op

135 notes · View notes

spacebarbarianweird · 3 months

Text

Silent Scream

Summary: Another night and yet another nightmare. Tiriel and Astarion are discussing their traumas.

Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-game, named Tav, established relationship, f!tav

Thanks @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Tiriel wakes up.

She doesn’t quite know where she is - the surrounding is too soft, too warm. Unlike anything she’s gotten used to.

The room in the inn.

Tiriel looks to her right and sees Astarion. He is on his back, eyes shut and hands on his chest as if he were resting in a coffin.

Is he sleeping or meditating?

She smiles, looking at his features. He is beautiful when he is this peaceful. Tiriel truly hopes that nothing is haunting right him now.

Tiriel gently touches his soft curls.

Life is so good with him. To have him under the same blanket with her—naked or dressed. To feel his kisses, to hear his voice.

Tiriel had never known bliss like this before she met Astarion.

Before, she always had to stand vigilant. Always be ready to fight back. A lonely woman on the road is always a target, though people who tried challenging her had their hands and heads cut off more often than not.

Before, she always had to be strong. As a woman full of rage, she turned to ale to numb the everlasting pain, if only for a little while. And no one had ever asked how she felt because people like Tiriel the Barbarian don't know pain.

Before, she had always been alone. Her mother had beaten her mercilessly. The stepfather who’d been oh so kind to accept a bastard child openly lusted for Tiriel even when she’d only been ten years old. No one had bothered to give her a name - she was a fairy, a pixie, a bastard. “I wish I had strangled you the moment I saw those disgusting pointy ears!” the woman had yelled, and her voice still echoed through the years, clawing at Tiriel and forcing her eyes to prickle with tears.

Don’t let them touch you. Don’t let them pity you. Don’t let them see you.

Always strong. Always independent. A woman of no home, no kin, and no purpose.

But this is all in the past.

Now, Tiriel sleeps without worries - Astarion guards her, never letting anyone mistreat her.

Now, Tiriel can be weak. She can cry in pain or let herself be carried away from the battlefield. Astarion washes her hair and tends to her wounds. Tiriel can complain about anything she wants and he happily listens to her.

She isn’t alone. As a child, Tiriel used to lull herself to sleep because her mother had refused to touch her. Astarion never lets her hand go. They can spend hours in each other's arms never having enough. Both are extremely touch-starved and even though they have been together for more than five years, the desire to hold each other hasn’t ceased in the slightest.

Tiriel props herself up on her elbow to see Astarion’s face better. Young and old at the same time, he is absolutely breathtaking.

Tiriel smiles.

When she was little, the village healer told her a story. It was about a warrior whose ancestors were giants and an enchanted prince who had been turned into a monster. The warrior fell in love with him, killed the witch who cursed him, they married, and their descendants became the inhabitants of the Sunset Mountains. The prince was described as the most handsome man the heroine had ever seen, and little Tyriel was sure he was an elf.

Suddenly, Astarion sits up and presses his knees against his chest.

“Are you all right?”

No response.

Astarion clenches his fingers and his body shudders.

Something is wrong.

The fairytale ended with the wedding and no storyteller can tell if the prince suffered from nightmares and whether his warrior wife had to cradle him in her arms throughout the night.

Tiriel knows better than to touch Astarion right away. It’s always different. Sometimes he craves touch and begs Tiriel to hold him. Sometimes he snaps and pushes her away. It depends on what he saw in his nightmares.

If it was sexual, he feels his skin burn - and touches make it worse.

If it was torture, he just weeps in Tiriel’s hands until it all goes away.

Tiriel sits in front of him.

This is bad.

His eyes are shut but his mouth is open in a silent scream. His nails pierce the pale skin and there are droplets of blood.

The only time Tiriel saw him like this was in the mansion when he stood over his dead master’s body.

She didn't dare touch him back then. Just stood in front of him before Astarion managed to see her.

“Astarion, I am here,” Tiriel whispers. “Ikwe”

It doesn't help. Tiriel grabs a hunting knife and slices her wrist. The blood spills over blankets.

And she once was so afraid of vampires…

She puts her wrist to his lips and Astarion sinks his fangs into her skin. It is painful as hell - Tiriel thinks she will never like the sensation of being bitten. But her blood is the only medicine that saves Astarion from pain and nightmares.

“Seldarine,” he whispers, closing his face. “You are here.”

“I am.”

Astarion bursts into tears as silent as the screams before them.

“I killed you,” he finally manages to say. “I fucking killed you.”

“Nightmare, then.” Tiriel returns to bed and pulls him to her so that her nose almost brushes against his “You killed me?”

“Yes. I was… in that fucking mansion. And… you tried to talk me out of Ascension. When you refused, I… I murdered you. I was so sure it was real I was afraid to look back at your side of the bed.”

He keeps weeping and Tiriel strokes his mutilated back. When his tears cease, she asks:

“Astarion, what do I do to make you feel better?”

“Nothing. Go to sleep.”

“Be honest with me, please.”

“It’s just unfair to wake you up like this, considering you need more time to feel rested.”

“ It’s all right, Astarion. Tell me I will sleep better if I know you are all right..”

“Can you… tell me some fairytale? Please.”

Tiriel nods, and Astarion positions himself over her as a weighted blanket and she immediately runs her fingers through his hair. “A fairytale?

She often sings for him - ballads and songs of the Sunset Mountains, sometimes sad, sometimes cheerful. Astarion even thought for the first months she composed them herself before she managed to explain that her people are illiterate and pass down their stories by singing.

Astarion is less interested in human fairy tales, though she has told him one or two.

“Ok, I will tell you how the people of the Sunset Mountains came to be. A thousand years ago when the world was younger…"

He chuckles. “Darling, a thousand years ago isn’t some ancient time. It’s one elven generation”

“... There was a woman, whose father was a giant…”

Tiriel whispers the fairytale into Astarion’s ear. She heard this story only once when she was nine. A village healer told it to distract little Tiriel from pain after her drunk stepfather had cut her right ear. For some reason, Tiriel remembers the story word for word.

She notices Astarion gets unusually silent once the story comes to the enchanted prince part. The evil witch made him a monster and as a monster, he attacked the heroine. But she managed to see past the enchantment clouding his eyes and recognized his true nature.

By the end of the story, Tiriel feels her eyelids getting heavy. Astarion elbows up and kisses her cheek.

“For real, Tiriel? A woman who wielded a two-handed ax met a disgusting monster, decided he was a prince, saved him from the evil witch and they lived happily ever after? Did I understand everything right?”

“Yes. That’s my favorite one.”

“Because you see yourself in this… ancestor of yours? And wanted to get a prince?”

“I did. I also wanted her cape. All black with three golden runes. Home, Fire, Mountains. When the prince returned to his human form,” she yawns. “He was naked and she wrapped him up in that cape.”

Astarion chuckles.

“I am far from a fairytale prince.”

“Who said?”

“And you didn’t try to wrap me in your cape.”

“Because you were like an open wound.”

“I was.”

Tiriel yawns again and drifts into sleep.

** Astarion sits up on a bed. The vision of the nightmare is still in front of his eyes - a mutilated body, a cry of pain. But Tiriel is there. She is always there. Through his nightmare, pain, and suffering. Never giving up, never leaving. Her red hair and half-elven ears are the first things he sees when he wakes up and the last when he goes to meditate.

Her warmth, her kindness. Did that prince from the human fairytale pray to send him a hero? Was he too scared to recognize the hero in the half-giant woman?

Astarion prayed, that’s for sure. He hoped. Always hoped. And Tiriel came. Loud, rude, brave. His half-elven love who also fears nothing. No gods, no monsters, no vampires, no mind flayers. If the fairytale had any word of truth, she was a worthy descendant of that warrior of the past.

Astarion wants to do something for Tiriel. To give something to her, something she has never had. Something she will hold dear, something meaningful. Damn, Tiriel even didn’t have a name until she turned sixteen and took one for herself when she realized it wasn’t normal to be called slurs.

An idea comes to his mind and Astarion, making sure Tiriel is warm and comfortable in her bed, leaves the bedroom to disappear into the night.

It’s already late afternoon but she feels like she could sleep for another day or two.

“Hello, my sweet, awake already?” Astarion asks from the other side of the master’s bed. He is fully clothed and she notices blood on his jacket.

“Not really.”

“Well if you don’t get up you won’t see what I got for you.”

Tiriel tilts her head. “I am intrigued.”

“Get up, then.”

Tiriel stretches her back and stands up. She still feels dizzy but she also is hungry like a crag cat.

“I got up!”

“Such an obedient little warrior,” he smiles and reaches out for a soft bundle. “Take a look.”

Tiriel stares at the gift in disbelief.

It’s a black cape with bright golden runes.

Home

Fire

And the third one…

“I wasn’t sure what material your fairytale cape was made of but I assure you it’s very durable.”

Now it’s Tiriel’s turn to cry. “You made it tonight?”

“Lucky for me, you sleep like a bear.”

“But the runes? Those are Sunset Mountains runes! I thought no one knew them here!”

“Darling, these runes are quite spread among humans in the north. Though, I wasn't sure if I used the right ones.”

Tiriel sniffs and wraps herself in the cape. It is so thick and warm that it could very well protect Tiriel from both biting winds and freezing cold.

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I do!” She plants a kiss on his lips. “Thank you!”

“Did I do the runes well?”

“I thought you were sure you did them right? Yes, Fire and Home are.”

Astarion looks up and Tiriel notices his uneasiness. It happens to him when he makes mistakes - an echo of two hundred years of punishments and tortures.

“The third one is a different rune, it doesn’t mean “Mountains”. It has many meanings. But you mostly can see them on wedding capes. Astarion, it means “love”, “family”, and “bounds”. Are you sure you didn’t make this mistake intentionally?”

He grins and Tiriel knows he really didn’t mean it. She sits back and wraps the cape around them both.

“Well, considering we’ve been together for five years, I accept your belated wedding cape, my dear prince.”

They laugh and fall back down onto the bed. Astarion’s strong hands tug Tiriel closer.

“I love you, salen aravae,” he says, caressing Tiriel’s cheek.

Ikwe - get back! Salen arael - my greatest joy

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96

91 notes · View notes