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moondirti · 10 months

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8. VICES

CHAPTER EIGHT OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter seven / chapter nine ⇀

summary: a shower, a training session, and a blowjob

explicit (18+) | 5.8k words warnings: enemies to lovers, training arcs, unhinged smut, dubious consent, it's rough guys, blowjobs, handjobs, miguel o'hara is a strict (asshole) mentor, throat-fucking, choking, mentions of infidelity, mentions of starvation, homelessness notes: well. hope y'all still respect me after reading this

The cell doesn’t last long.

You don’t know what you expected; the terms of your deal weren’t exactly negotiated in full. As a matter of fact, they hadn’t been discussed at all. You’d assumed Miguel agreed based on his reticence – as you’ve come to anticipate from him, a non-answer always means you have a point he’d rather not appreciate. But he’d added little else after the figurative pouring of your soul, his back turning towards you instead, fixing his hands on his waist. And it had stayed that way, up until you were escorted back to the laser enclosure, still as much a prisoner as anybody else.

So, perhaps you were wrong. You convinced yourself that it was okay, that you didn’t have any hope for your own redemption. You weren’t his problem to deal with anymore, not since you agreed to go home. He probably couldn’t see the potential in you, anyway. A string of excuses drawn upon one common line – self-degradation. Tamping yet another pipe dream destined to leave you evermore downtrodden. And that was okay.

That is, until you were roused from sleep by the scarlet spider much later. It’d been light, a rest on the verge of consciousness, contorted into the most compressed position possible to make use of limited space. In truth, you’d been thankful for it – to be granted a break from the fruitless struggle and, finally, some cue towards your fate. But he led you away from the anomaly imprisonment sector – opposite from the go-home machine you thought would be your adjudicator.

Now, you’re here.

“Was ordered to pull something together from a spare recovery room,” Reilly crosses his arms, giving an approving nod to nothing at all. “‘Course s’not the biggest – not meant to be used for extended periods of time, but I could manage if I were you.”

You don’t let yourself harbour a reaction, not before he leaves you to your own devices.

Because, well – it’s perfect.

There’s not much to compare it to, naturally. You’d grown accustomed to sharing a dormitory back at college, cramped in shoebox square footage with your roommate. Then, when your earth had gone to shit, there were no houses left to revel in. The past year since your miraculous escape have found you homeless, huddled under awnings or atop park benches, and by that point, discomfort had found a permanent friend in you.

Yet–

White asymmetric panelling hems the studio, broken up only by a triangular window that peeks out onto Nueva York’s cityscape. On your right, the wall recesses in to form a bed nook, where fitted sheets hug a thick mattress, two feather pillows stacked at one end. Opposite it hovers a multi-purpose desk, niche’s carrying reusable utensils, bowls, a lamp and a small first-aid kit.

And it’s all you could want. Gorgeous. Not conventionally so, no; it’s plain and lacklustre with an air of futuristic frigidness. But it’s clean, and comes equipped with an air conditioning system that puts you in control of the temperature you sleep in. It’s a stationary point for you to return to, no matter the day’s drag – a place to call yours if not home.

Not to mention, there’s a flat door towards the back, too plain to have caught your attention until you actively look for it. It has no handle, opened with a slight push that releases a latch, and swings outwards. Given the size of the corner, you’re forced to take a step back – which, a more ungrateful version of yourself would’ve marked as a con, but you’re too caught up in the novelty of what you’re led into.

A bathroom. A private, unrestricted bathroom – with a toilet and a sink and a fucking shower. You’re unable to repress the grin that stretches your cheeks, absolutely ecstatic with the – however temporary – development. No more sneaking into gyms to use their bath facilities, fortunes splurged on soap over dinner. You can wash yourself whenever you see fit, not have to feel guilty about deluding expensive memberships or your own hunger.

(Small blessings; that still-pious part of you succumbs to the sign. You’re being rewarded. You’re on the right track.)

Immediately, you schedule your night. A shower, first – partly for your excitement, majorly for the necessity. You doubt there are laundry machines nearby, if there’s any at all, so soaking your clothes in the sink should have to do the trick. You have no others, and to ask for more would be testing the grace you’ve been granted so far. Besides, the sheets look sterile – to lay in them bare can’t be the worst option.

Wiggling your fingers, you plug the drain to fill the basin. The garments you shuck off quickly settle there too, crumpled in a way that only exposes all their worn-down qualities. Jagged rips in your jeans, caked gore on your shirt. It’s instinct to turn away once the grime bleeds into the water, dying the once-clear pool with the unsavoury colour of your recent exploits. Harder, however, is trying to ignore the dried slick on your panties, bashfully tucking them underneath everything else.

Engrossed by the chore, you’re almost taken by surprise by the flash of your reflection in the half-body mirror. It comes suddenly, a shape in your peripheral that looks like it’s in the wrong place. An apparition in a horror flick – darkened, wrapped in bandages and dirt and set with heavy eyes from days of unrest. Your heart rate spikes, stuttering rapidly even as you realise that it is, indeed, you.

Or – you and Wraith. Both, existing simultaneously.

Because it is the image you’ve become familiar with. The slope of your cheeks, the curve at your waist. It’s off putting seeing her again after some time; you don’t think you’ve spared a glance for more than half a second since the day of the gala, when you’d sat crouched in front of yourself, swiping gloss on puckered lips. But it’s those same lips that purse back at you now, unchanged. You recognise it all so quickly.

None of it resonates.

An ugly bruise mars your temple, a yellowing one at your ribs. Your skin is littered with silver scars, or purple, depending on recency, like the two points at your neck where fangs have made their mark. Stark, white gauze circles each arm, one below your shoulder, the other above your wrist. And you’re… less, than you had been – evidence found around your cheekbones, or across your collar. Your flesh sinks into the hollow planes behind bone. When was the last time you’d eaten?

Wraith. This haunted, cursed figure.

You breathe through the discouragement. You tell yourself that it’s okay, the words quickly becoming a new mantra. You won’t go as far as to say it’s ambition – but the new sense of purpose that courses through you works to drown it out. You have something to work towards, no longer an aimless soul wandering uncharted realms. Whatever happened, whatever happens – all of it doesn’t matter now that you’re finally setting things straight.

Your enthusiasm is enough to tide you over, at least, and when you step in the shower, the final dregs of hatred drip away.

White noise accompanies the cleanse. You’re suspended, surrounded by the pitter patter of water splattering down on the tiled floor. It’s overwhelming – the system has been pre-programmed to a common preference, but you find that it’s too cold for you, turning it up to one that singes your exposed form instead. Your lungs tighten, unaccustomed to the steam that quickly replaces oxygen. Hair plasters to your ears. It’s good, though, an appreciated racket. You look for soap and can focus only on that, the buzz of guilt that constantly occupies you drowned out in favour for more menial tasks.

Of course, that really only leaves room for one train of thought.

You wonder what he’s doing right now. Has he retired for the night, back to a warm home with a partner already drowsy, cushioned in their shared bed? He seems like a family man, the type to have a galley kitchen that breaks open to a dining room, four chairs tucked beneath glossy oak. One supplanted by a high chair, maybe, meant for a squealing babe; because he’s a dad, for sure. You’ve never known Miguel to be tender, but that’s towards you and your criminal disposition. There’s a sort of careful consideration he harbours – like stopping mid sentence, that moniker, Wraith, on his tongue, and opting for something less loathsome when you grimace. You imagine it honed in a gentler setting, fostered by children he adores.

And his spouse–

You squeeze a generous dollop of shampoo on your palm, working it into your scalp.

What is his type, anyway? Dedicated individuals who prioritise discipline over all else? Certainly, he wouldn’t be married to another spider-person, not when their relationship jeopardises his mission’s motto. Someone homegrown, then, a childhood sweetheart who knew him before he became all that. Who continued to love every inch of him as sinew stretched to brawn, the civilian he once was falling out like a baby tooth, fangs spouting in its stead. Unconditionally, or something along the lines.

You recognise the notion, how important it is for a hero like him. To be tasked with responsibilities beyond human ability, one has to become more. A martyr, a villain when need be. You don’t exactly blame his vendetta against you, but you’ve come to resent the man regardless. Doubtlessly, the sentiment is felt by others he’s put in their place.

So, someone who sees past all that. Miguel O’Hara, as he is behind the mask.

The provided bar of soap is small enough to wrap your hand around. You flip it a few times, lathering it until suds form. It’s unscented, so you imagine what it could be. Patchouli springs up, the most immediate smell in your memory. You have to squash it down, alongside the ache that gnaws your core.

Sulphur, pungent and sickening as it permeates your earth’s atmosphere.

Ichor and its metallic aftermath, clinging to your tongue.

The catalogue presented in the last year isn’t exactly pleasant. You push beyond it, settling on a vague cloud that accompanied your college roommate. Her lavender lotion, of which she bought in bulk. You’d smear it over your knuckles and knees prior to class, comforted by the balsamic undernotes. Light, fresh. Your peers would gravitate towards you, divinely feminine, resting their heads on your shoulder when lectures droned on for too long.

(And you’re aware of how dead they all are, blown to ash because of you.

You’ll ask for lavender products, perhaps, when you’re sent back.)

Is it a prerequisite to being a hero – to be loved by someone from before, who sees you for who you are? You have no one, and you’re afraid of what it means for your salvation. The right thing, in your case, is eternal solitude. When it comes down to it, would you be able to accept that?

Your gut sinks; the answer you come up with is selfish still. No.

There’s a long way to go until that changes.

(Your skin prickles. The water sprays right through you.

You wait until you phase back in.)

With nothing left to do, you rinse off. You can feel the rot begin to grow on the sanctuary you’ve built, and with hope to return, you can’t have it destroyed just yet.

Your room is cold when you exit, recycled air nipping your balmy skin. The towel – found folded under the sink for resident convenience – is shorter than you would like, barely enough to wrap around your bust. That is to say, it’s utterly useless at preserving heat. It occurs to you to stand in place and drip-dry, but going to bed damp is asking for a sickness that’ll knock you off course.

You’re about to check the heater when you notice something strange, lumped by the entrance.

For all intents and purposes, it looks like a trash bag. Slouched in a teardrop shape, tied off with an expert knot. The colouring is off though – not the plain charcoal you’d expect, but grungier, stroked with a varicoloured grain. It seems to shift, too, flicking between textures; red, yellow, grey with little inked words, as if cut straight from a newspaper.

It’s so distinctive that you can discern who it’s from; a spider-person expressed in much the same manner. Hobie.

It’d do well to approach it with hesitation. After all, you have no business with him. The most you’ve exchanged was a thanks, after he’d defended your plea the first time you’d been captured by the spider society. It seems so long ago now, but you recall the comfort his stance had provided, already scared out of your wits by the hoard of stylised people who claimed they were like you. He’d been the only one to see that.

Sighing, you tear through the side, nails too soft to undo the top. The contents are remarkably plain. Leggings. T-shirts. Packs of underwear and a hairbrush. Long socks, meant for the boots he’d also thrown in. The only article that reflects his personal way of dress is a cardigan, patches haphazardly attached with yarn. In one slouchy pocket, a piece of parchment sticks out.

(A housewarming gift. Figured you’d need it.

– HB.)

And it doesn’t feel like charity, as opposed to Ben’s escorting you here. Rather, his genuinity registers through the scrawled handwriting; prompting a tired, thankful smile.

You do need it. Not just the clothes, but the reminder that you’re not as alone as you might feel.

“You’re late.”

His voice cracks the silence you’d been walking in up to this point, pitched with an irritation seemingly etched into his being. It takes you off guard – not for its husky quality, that which you’ve grown relatively accustomed to, nor his sudden appearance. No. It’s how he stands when he says it; brashly centre-stage, taking up half of the gym with presence alone. His eyebrow is quirked, lips pursed in an inquisitive line, and you have to cycle over the day’s happenings to land on the invariable conclusion that he, in fact, did not set a schedule for you to follow in the first place.

“Wasn’t aware there was anything to be early to,” You hesitate, lingering at a bench near the doorway, keeping an eye on him as you lay your things down. The water bottle you’d pilfered from the cafeteria crinkles under your tense grip, condensation licking a frosty trail down your fingers.

“Would I let you prance around HQ on your own?”

“That’s being hopeful, but no.” Miguel makes no indication of where to stand, so you continue to amble awkwardly in his perimeter. “Just– A heads up would’ve been nice.”

“And were we given a heads up when The Spider showed up on Earth-15?” He pushes, maintaining the line of questioning that starts to itch at you. You shake your head, doing your best not to tip your chin downwards – with your hands wringing the fabric of your sweats, you already feel like a child, caught elbows deep in a figurative cookie jar.

Tension plucks at the strings tethered to the both of you. He waits for you to come up with a retort, then sighs when you fail to.

“Part of being a hero is adjusting. Security isn’t in the books for them.” From the lesson, you hang on to his choice of language. Them. Not us. Again, you’re excluded, but it occurs to you that he seems to exclude himself too. “You didn’t expect me today. What were you going to do had that been the case?”

To exercise sounds beyond stupid, even though your attire and location announce it as the truth. It felt the most logical place to start when you’d woken up this morning, but Miguel is verging on philosophical now, and that’s something you hadn’t planned on at all. You don’t tell him that, though, because it would be asking to be sent home.

“To strengthen my stamina.”

“What for, exactly?”

“If I’m going to go back to that wasteland of a world, then I need the power to tough it out.” You’re getting real sick of how incompetent he’s making you sound. “Transportation is entirely contingent on how far I can walk.”

“Huh. That’s… dumb.” He says, arms crossing over his chest. They’re thick, built like tree trunks, with muscles bulging along their lengths instead of bark. How hypocritical, you think, repressing the shiver that crawls up your spine – it’s clear he works out himself. You’re only as dumb at the way he looks today; clad in those same grey sweats, a compression top sculpting every bit of him. Out of uniform – like he’d been using the equipment before you got here.

(Or, he’s dedicated the entire day to training you.)

“If you have a better idea–”

“Think a few jumping jacks will make you a hero?” A smirk edges his lips.

Your stomach lurches – whether in anger or a more mortifying emotion, you don’t know. “Can you stop with the questions, big guy?”

He cocks his head, countenance straightening to one more serious. It terrifies you a little, the carmine in his eye, how fast it glints, sharpened with a daring edge. “Okay, then.” Miguel’s stature slacks, an open invitation. “Show me what you’re made of.”

You regret speaking up at all.

“Like, on the treadmill, or…?”

“Pin me down.” He adds, as if it’s the most normal command in the world. Granted, his mind is probably not as far gone as yours. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.”

“That’s not–” Fair skids on your tongue. His potential reaction is simple to imagine (‘nothing is fair’), and it’s obnoxious at best. You’ve had your fill of the condescending jabs, wedged to a corner where you don’t belong, ineptitude assumed of you. If his intentions are to keep you there until you give up, then you won’t let them come to fruition.

He starts to shrug, but the dismissal is interrupted by your clumsy resolve. You collide into his abdomen, channelling all your energy into the impact, arms in an arch. It’s made to grapple him by the waist, leverage in overpowering him to the floor. The odds are stacked against you, though. Miguel – twice your size – anchors himself in half the time, hard as stone against the onslaught. And your stance isn’t wide enough, feet positioned in a way that robs you of the necessary stability.

Perhaps carelessly, you press on, pouring everything into your attempt. The sheer force behind your manoeuvre is palpable; you are a spider-person, after all, and your enhanced strength would be enough to put the average human to their grave. But your opponent is far from that – he’s the pinnacle of what you preach, the resistance he musters now an attestation to the fact.

“Torpe.”

Your ribs burn with exertion, body still recovering from the injuries you’ve accumulated as of late. In a fluid motion that belies his size, Miguel retaliates, seeing the futility in your struggle. His hands clamp down on your shoulders, warm and vaguely comforting for the second before he flips you off of him. You’re propelled backwards, his shove sending shockwaves through your frame. Your bones rattle when you smack against the wall.

“That hurt,” You hiss, scrambling to a stand.

“In case you didn’t know, grace is a prerequisite for this little spider-club.” He ribs, calling to your quip at the quarry. It would be enough to set you off on anyone else, but the humour isn’t lost on you. Not with him.

“Did you just make a joke?” You start to pace circles around him, assessing the best angle of attack. His head turns to track you, forehead marked with lines from his lifted expression. “As I live and breathe. Miguel O’Hara made a fucking joke.”

“Symptom of imminent victory.”

“Cocky bastard,”

“You gonna keep talking?”

“I recall asking you to stop the questions.” You run up behind him, hoping your footsteps are light enough to not call any attention to your advancement. It isn’t very successful – he catches on quick, pivoting to confront you head on. You’re ready for it though, ducking under his reach to slip to the other side. His back is open, the opportunity presenting itself, and you spring onto his broad back with little contemplation.

Your arms instinctively wind around his neck, securing your hold, legs thrashing to follow suit. Transformed into a glorified backpack, you stubbornly cling onto him as he attempts to shake you off.

“¡Qué mierda haces?”

With half your face buried in his hair, you don’t respond, focusing instead on using your weight to throw him off kilter. Or, you want to focus on it.

But he smells like patchouli, the robust aroma laced in every lock. It’s potent, much more than usual; without the sweat that usually dilutes it, you’re hit full force with every idiosyncrasy. Damp soil, freshly turned earth – rich, like the verdant undergrowth of a forest. You’ve never noticed the touch of leather underlying his cologne, nor its nuanced spice. Now, they worm their way through your rationale, parasitic, eating away at tissue until they find a blooming incurve to settle in.

Your gut; broiling in that specific way it does when he’s around. It sinks to your core, right where you’re pressed against him, stimulated by the frantic motions of his body. Miguel hooks onto your calves, prying them off, and it’s innocent enough to only make your sudden desire worse.

“Get. Off." He emphasises, authority compounded into every syllable. His jerks steer you in various directions, spurring nausea that blends in with your desperation. The mix courses through your bloodstream, sickening and, along with your headlessness, allows the slightest weakness to seep into your stance – a crucial opening that he seizes without hesitation.

Your vision swims as you’re capsized, thrown off course and onto the unyielding embrace of the ground. Pain shoots down your spine, the oxygen knocked out of your lungs dissipating into air. It takes you longer than necessary to realise what had happened, gasping for breath until you land on the reality that he had just used your lust against you. But of course, he doesn’t know that. To him, you’d just faltered – a rookie mistake for the rookie you are.

It’s harmless, then, when he straddles your chest upon impact, knees touching the ground on either side of your head. Pinned in place – a mounted butterfly, captured in the perennial moment of your shameful sin – you’re convinced you’ll die like this. Miguel’s crotch under your nose, rubbing your thighs together to rid yourself of the nagging pressure between them. Wanton for nothing, wanton for him.

And it’s not the first time, a bank of memories coming available at the familiar arrangement. When he’d finally detained you on 15, groyne cleaving your ass while he undid your restraints. That damned kiss, exploring the plush lips that currently curl with a complacent sneer. They’d been so soft, the impression of his fangs just barely grazing past. And how good those had felt, too; your arteries swollen, bloated with venom injected into your neck. Lethargic for hours afterward, unable to do anything to sate the response he’d triggered.

Now, you’re not as powerless. He’s on top of you, doused in some fragrance from heaven, blessed with a robustness you’re sure extends to every appendage. If he is married, how high would fucking him be on your list of transgressions? Surely, it can’t be your worst, though you hope you’re above it at this point.

(But, if he wants this too–)

You look up at him, mouth parted. It isn’t a request so much as it is an assessment, tallying every suggestive hint he gives. There is none. Instead, he does much the same, catching your scrutiny before promptly looking away to calculate his options on an adjacent wall.

(The logical part of you can already sense how dreadful this’ll turn out. You’re not thinking straight.

You hope he succumbs to your debasement.)

Your hips buck involuntarily, a rip release effect to your rising need. He takes it as a plea to get off; that which he defers to, dismounting your chest.

No.

You stop him, left hand clamping down on his thigh. Slowly, he sits back, tipping his weight forward, onto the curve where your clavicle plunges to your throat. You can hardly move, diaphragm pinching in a bid for breath, and it’s okay for as long as he stays where he is.

(Apollo, meet Dionysus.)

It’s gradual – deliberate – when your fingers meander on their trek to his waistband. You skim over his hips, pelvis protruding to border his V-line – which holds prominence, even under the layers of his sweats and boxers. Miguel does nothing; gives no shiver in encouragement, nor an order to stop. He just looks down on you, dissecting the fervour with which you touch him; a woman crazed.

His shirt is stubborn in rolling up, elastic and tight against his form. You want to feel the way his flesh heats, defined abdomen rolling in eventual pleasure, but it’s a privilege you don’t have in this setting. You’re only able to pull it out from underneath his pants, allowing a sliver of skin to be exposed to your gluttonous gaze. Bronzed, gorgeously brown in contrast to the desaturated colours he’s chosen to don. Drool pools behind your tonsils.

The cords of his waistband unlace when you tug it with your pointer, hinged at the middle. Miguel makes a sound, the beginnings of a growl rolling up his throat. It’s to tease yourself, you want to say – because the fuzz of his happy trail leads down to a darkened bush, and the brief flash will forever be seared into your mind’s eye. Goodness fuck, if your yearning were any worse, that would have been enough to tip you over the edge. It’s been so long since you’ve wanted anything this bad.

Pining wreaks a foreign mess on your systems. Toes curl within your boots. Lashes quiver with every ruminative blink. Your new panties are doubtlessly ruined, generic cotton soaked through with slick; you’d been so ashamed of it just last night, washing your previous pair in the sink. Now, all you can consider is how expertly he’d test you, calloused thumb running over your clit until he witnesses just how wet you can get.

(Is it the length for which you’ve gone without this, deprived of your favourite vice? Before you’d discovered the stars, you’d pursued your most carnal desires, jumping from one hookup to the next.

You didn’t suppose you'd missed it this much.)

Maybe that’s why you go for him, out of anyone else. Because he’s immediate, the most prominent presence in your life. A convenient outlet, for all your bad blood. He doesn’t stop you, either, his pinky instead grazing your wrist, almost pushing for you to reach in.

If you do, things’ll change. When they had just settled.

Your dynamic seemed okay to morph into what you needed it to be: mentor, and mentee. But this–

This is so fucked. You would rather be anywhere else if not seated on his lap, and that’s a level of dysfunction you should be unsure about. Would he even let this progress? Beyond a one time thing, so that it doesn’t become a fixture you’ll always regret?

(Does it matter?)

You dip into his boxers.

(So, it is your lechery that negates your need for consideration. Call it thirst, or self-sabotage.)

Shit.

He’s thick, fucking pulsing on your palm, dry and heavy enough to cause considerable trouble when fishing him out. You’re at an adverse angle, twisting your arm to grip the base. Miguel’s hiss thins to a whispered curse, a muddle of Spanish and English that loses legibility as he shifts to help you. Hand swooping next to yours, he cups his balls, hoisting them out of the suffocating fabric. His cock follows suit, slapping his tummy upon release.

It’s–

Angry. A blossoming shade of purple that grows more vibrant the lower you go, guided by two fat veins that branch along his frenulum. Huge, too – not the longest you’ve had in your mouth, but stocky enough for you to worry about it regardless. You run your nail up its length, doing the maths in your head.

“Intimidated?” He says. It doesn’t register as proud as he probably intends for it to be, voice too hoarse, broken by some unspoken lust.

“Cocky bastard,” You murmur, holding your arm above you in the meantime. He takes a second to understand what your extended hand is for, bowed in a reverent-like appeal. And, even when he does, he pauses, gathering the saliva around his teeth. “Take that as a double entendre.”

He doesn’t laugh, spitting onto your palm, watching as you smear the natural lube around his mushroomed head. It melds with his pre-spend – that which pearls at the tip – forming a pearlescent marker for where your caress travels. Above the glans, rounding to coat down the body, and running out before you reach the root.

It’s enough, though. Enough to provide momentum to your motions, jacking him off above your face. Up to this point, Miguel has eased his mass off of you, balanced on his haunches – but your ministrations have him losing that awareness, leaning further and further until he all but sits on your neck. His fingers latch onto your head, cradling your jaw in a similar fashion to how he treated your whiplash, each thumb at a cheekbone – waiting for the opportune moment to plunge into your mouth.

It comes with the hypoxia, his choking straddle clotting the oxygen meant for your brain. What you can see – him mostly, meaty thighs and a lean torso, with a face that screws up with controlled precision – spots as secondary to black vision, your eyes bulging at the edges, struck with stationary blood. It’s opposite to smoke inhalation, that scratchy condition that only grew more uncomfortable the more you coughed. This is debilitating, the last dreg of stimulants you need to embrace your drunk efforts. You’re drowned in a pool where nothing matters except what’ll pull you out – life vest, a buoy, the hefty cock tapping your bottom lip.

You unhinge your jaw the widest it can go, accounting for teeth and all. Hollow cheeks accommodate his size when he drives in, but your lips still stretch, aching at the corners where thin skin threatens to rip. Immediately, your tongue laps over the dense intrusion, mapping out the patches where he seems most sensitive. Below the head, along the ridge. Right between his veins, if you press down hard enough. Your usher more of it in, stuffing your gullet full of him.

How does he manage to smell good here, too? Muskier, still, a heady ambrosia of masculinity.

His balls slap your chin, stopping you from swallowing any more. Miguel doesn’t take too favourably to that, however, bending your head to parallel his pelvis and pushing. Your neck aches, spinal plates prodding at where it inclines – the combination of that, the choking, and the swollen head that spears your tonsils makes for a deadly combination. You’ve been doing your damnedest not to gag, clenching your thumb in a fist, but the sound erupts from you regardless. A lewd, wet gluck – tears pool upon your lashes, caught by the thumbs still guiding your face.

And Miguel groans.

“Mmmf–,” His hips withdraw, giving you an instant’s respite, before snapping back forward. “Se siente tan bien.”

“Hnmghh,” You attempt to reply.

“Filthy fucking girl. So– mierda, always so goddamn stubborn,” He continues, accent curling with a raspy quality, smouldering at its core. “Never listens, never rests.”

You’re unsurprised to hear that what he really feels for you, exposed in this crude confessional, is just more indignation.

(Does it matter? Does it really?

He’s fucking your throat like cumming down it will reaffix the spiderverse.)

The gags drop rhythm, snowballing to become a chorus of the most salacious whines you can make, punched in tandem to his thrusts. Saliva coats your lips, bubbling when he withdraws, welcoming him back with the sight of you wrecked, glazed in salty liquids from multitudinous sources.

You lose yourself to it, squeezing your eyes shut until he urges you to open them back up again, brushing the corner where your skin burns from crying. His brows are pinched, canyons of deliberation formed between them, regarding your debauched expression with something more than the base measures exchanged in the past half hour.

He pulls out with a pop. You clasp around his dick’s circumference – rubbing over the tip, where his hole leaks a steady flow of prespend – and question him with a keen. You can’t exactly manage anything else.

“Where do you want it?”

You frown, leading him back into your mouth. Where else?

It isn’t much longer until he carries out the promise.

The sequence of events is more organised than anything else that’s happened today. You’ve come to recognise it, an expert in unravelling. He jostles your head back onto the floor, stabilising you for when his rear lifts, slanting his cock ninety degrees downward to ram straight into your mouth. You wince, incisors accidentally skimming the surface, which only prompts him deeper in. Your nose squishes onto the coarse hairs of his groyne, soaked with drool, and his balls tighten under your mandible, leaden in an indication of what’s to come.

You want it, so bad you can hardly gulp in precious breath. Your pupils roll behind your lids. You want, you want.

And finally – for the first time, over the entirety of your relationship – Miguel O’Hara gives that to you. Readily.

He cums. Hard. In throbbing spurts that coat your oesophagus, your molars, the back of your tongue. It’s sweltering, viscous and thick enough to choke you again – you cough up the excess that doesn’t quite fit, sinuses screeching with the overexertion. You can’t gulp, not when he’s still buried in you, so you do your best not to suffocate as he rides through his orgasm. Rope after rope, until he releases you, excess drops splattering onto your nose.

Then, he tucks his softening dick back into his pants and moves off of you.

You swallow, left with a weeping cunt and a swift sobering up.

Miguel proffers a helping hand, meant to lift you off the floor. Swatting it away, you clamber onto your own, unsteady feet, collecting your abandoned things from the bench, and bolt out the door.

What the fuck did you just do?

chapter nine

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cybsoo2 · 3 months

Text

my obsessive fan

╰┈➤ synopsis — Each story is a glimpse into what your life would entail if these seven were your obsessive fans.

╰┈➤ pairing — yandere!bts x idol!reader

╰┈➤ word count — 3.6k

╰┈➤ content warning — murder, yandere behavior, stalker behavior, kidnapping, just the usual

ੈ✩‧₊˚ note ; GUYS HOBI DOESN’T ACTUALLY KILL HIMSELF!! i realize it kinda seems like he did but don’t worry he’s alright just a lil traumatized :)

—Kim Seokjin

Jin considers himself unexplainably lucky

The universe has given him a chance that he’ll never be able to deserve

One day during his first semester of college he met someone special that little did he know would change the trajectory of his life forever

Seokjin made a friend and they grew fairly close as the years went on, until one day this friend came to him with a bittersweet conversation

She was switching to online school as her dreams of becoming an idol were finally answered

Jin supported her decision and waited patiently for her debut

An Autumn song caught his ear on the day of her debut and his eyes no longer followed her form

Instead, Jin became starstruck by the lively girl who made the stage her own

Since that day, Jin only sees his relationship with your member as insignificant

He only cares to engage with them when it involves you

Seokjin is a snake with his words and uses his charms to his advantage

He’ll manipulate and lie his way into getting new information about you

Although, sometimes it’s slightly suspicious when almost every time they hangout is when you’re tagging along

He really has just turned your co-worker into a tool at his disposal

At the most lowly point of his life, he even resorted to flirting with the foolish girl in order to sneak into your dorms

Granted, this repulsive act brought up serpents in his stomach and he had to restrain himself from the gags that tore up his throat

He wound up drowning himself in mouthwash to try and get rid of the rancid taste that never seemed to leave his lips (He was tempted to almost bury himself in bleach but resisted)

This traumatic event did have an upside though, as he was able to creep into the dark corners of your bedroom when his other companion was asleep

Unfortunately, you were not safely sleeping under his watch but just being able to stand in the place he frequently hallucinates about is enough for him

His consciousness moves into a dream-like state as he takes in everything that your fingers have touched

His heart flutters while silently sweeping his gigantic hands over your stuffies and sheets

He takes a seat on your bed and breathes in the reflection of your spirit

Shaking hands reach for the sweater tossed to the left of him

His lips quiver and he can’t hold back the sobs that force their way of him

His misty moon-eyes shine in the light that passes through your curtains

Blue bleeds from his curled up body and coats every surface of your previously vivid room

He despises the way his rotten emotions have blended into your walls

Nibble fingers then quickly gather any item that has sucked up his sorrow (At least that’s what he tells himself)

He’ll take these souvenirs of your sunshine and cherish them until that delightful day arrives when you eventually take their place

—Min Yoongi

He’s your producer and songwriter

Articles and fan sites have become fascinated and praise the poetic nature of your songs

Each line is drowning in lovesick emotion that carries the weight of the human soul

Each song is unique with a variety of tales telling love and sorrow combined with hateful rage and tortuous terror

Every lyrics he writes is a vow to love you

It’s not a surprise how romantic and illusionary his songs end up being, his heart always sings for you after all

Every time your songs win an award he feels as if his love is validated

And every time a songs fails to reach an achievement, he sobs for days on end, promising to do better

He will not let his words fall flat and be mistaken for empty oaths

His apartment is an archive, full of stacked books overflowing with the words of adoration that never stop their cascade

A graveyard of blue pens (your favourite colour of course) lies in the corner of his living room, each scripted soldier aiding to the thousands of verses written in your honour

Above the TV playing visions of you, are the hundreds of awards placed delicately upon his shelves

You’ll have to excuse his selfish desires but he couldn’t stop himself from taking them

Each award is a golden reassurance that his love for you is reality and the world is aware of it too

It’s even better that these trophies were once held lovingly in your hands

He used to trace the ghost of your fingertips along the lines of the figurine

Although, once he realized his tainted touch smudged away your memory, he cut his fingertips off in a panic and laid them up on his wall where they've stayed still ever since

Drifting away from painful memory and onto thoughtful perceptions, in a competition between your siren singing and your sweet spoken call, your regular voice comes as a close second

Each sonnet you speak is that much more meaningful due to the fact that what you say are the words he wrote

An angelic tone constantly fills the silence of his apartment from dusk to dawn

It’s even more euphonious watching you perform in the studio

He can’t help his glossy eyes from floating to stare at your open lips

Whilst your silver voice is the constant background noise that fills his head, Yoongi finds time to record you speaking light-hearted chit chat during your recording sessions

When the time comes and Yoongi must make his way home, he walks slow in the studio but sprints on the sidewalk

His rush can be contributed to the fact that Yoongi is always inspired to work on some arrangements when provided with new material

He’ll cut and paste the pieces of his collection and create new paragraphs that he pretends you said to him

Yoongi sees your life as a duet

Neither complete without the other

He used to sing in silence but his voice is so insincere compared to yours

And he takes pride in the way your career and prosperity relies on him so much

You two are so trusting in one another yet a step to far away

It’s a pity Yoongi’s too accepting of his life with you to risk taking it a step further

—Jung Hoseok

In Hoseok’s realm of reality, you are both undoubtedly in love with one another

Yet your relationship is a secret, kept hidden away from prying eyes and stuffed into the back of his closet where cardboard cutouts and posters sleep

Hobi’s too shy and nervous for his undying love to be publicized, so he’ll just stick to supporting you from the sidelines

He has a YouTube channel where everything and anything is all about you

His favourite segment is unboxing the hundreds of albums he purchases for everyone of your comebacks

Before cutting open the wrapping he’ll wish and beg to see your face so much it’s almost satanic

When he pulls your photocard he almost faints in excitement but when his hands are dirtied by pulling the face of another one of your members he ends up trashing the card

Speaking of your photocards, his collection includes every single card that can be found

Binders upon binders are filled with your face and when he ends up doing a tour for his channel, the video ends up being over 30 hours long

Hoseok’s favourite hobby involves curling up in his bed and cradling your limited edition twin plushie in his crushing embrace

He nestles up to the faux sense of security, stroking the soft fabric and pretending it’s you

Soft yet erratic gasps tumble from his warm mouth

His head controls the ghosts of you that creates strawberry cheeks

A sensitive smile paints it’s way onto a caramel canvas

His body grows hot as his hopeless fantasies drive him into delusion

Swollen lips begging out to brush up against yours

His eyes hang heavy lidded with overblown pupils

His previous crying mellows down as trembling whines grow needier

He daydreams about how you’d feel held up against him

A raw, rose-bud blooming between the both of your bodies

His heart trembles, overwhelmed by your hands tugging at his hair and dragging your peachy, plush mouth across his neck

Honey hot hands grip harder to the sheets beneath him

You make him so weak

Heat pools below his stomach, all strung up in pretty pleasure

Pressure building and body temp rising, Hoseok’s lost in a fool’s paradise

After every climax in utopia, Hobi is hit with the reality of his predicament

The rainy nights that follow look something like this…

Hoseok gets his head bashed in by a reality check

His brain is blown to bits, bleeding south along his bathroom tiles

Venom pulses through his veins as he wishes the world would lose it’s mania

Veracity is Hoseok’s enemy but it’s a good thing he’s hopeful

—Kim Namjoon

You make Namjoon so curious

His thirst grows stronger in need of consuming any knowledge slightly related to your existence

Namjoon knows you better than the gods who created you

He’s your worshipper who knows your wants and needs of the past, present and future

Namjoon always keeps updated about your schedules, personal plans, and tiny details which other fans have shared

He keeps a binder stocked full of information

The binding is bursting and pages threaten to flutter out of their place

He’s set aside every Wednesday and Friday to study your life and it’s interesting habits

Saturdays are for quizzes which he forces his roommates to participate in

He’s even started to live his life exactly like yours in order to feel closer to you

This includes him eating the same meals you do and visiting places you’ve been photographed at just minutes after its been posted

He’ll never miss out on purchasing all products you endorse or are seen using

He’s even tailored his style to match your own (He’s always been a fan of couples clothing)

And Namjoon, ever the worrier, is anxious that all your lives, messages, and posts are in danger of being corrupted and lost forever, so he downloads all your content into an archive for safe keeping

Namjoon is a worshipper, dedicating his devotion to your entirety

In a walnut wardrobe with a false backing is where your shrine meets his eyes in the early morning and late night

Of course it’s adorned with the finest and most expensive amenities

Jewelry, love notes scribbled onto loose-leaf paper, totems of the gods luck, and a single golden lock of your hair (Don’t ask him how he got it)

The centrepiece held in this sacred sanctuary is a painted portrait of yours truly

Namjoon’s never been much of an artist but it would be such a travesty not to document your desirable beauty

Every fine features flows into the next, blurred together with emotion and sentiment

He spend almost all the hours of his wake languishing away in an attempt to perfect every detail

He persisted in his laborious ways until every curve, divot, and colour matched that of your own

When a year has faded away and his mastery is finished, pearl droplets of ecstasy and varnish are used to seal it

His half of the shared flat he lives in resembles more of an art gallery and archive then an actually home

No part of Namjoons personality, hobbies, or are emotions are his own

All this mania and madness is for you

The generous god who was gracious enough to let him love you

—Park Jimin

Jimin is your #1 fan

He was there as you built your career from the bottom and has supported you in every way possible

Every album you produce winds up in his grasp and every song is played on repeat the minute of release

He’s watched every video you’ve ever featured in 100 times over

Posters of you are plastered over every inch of his room, some photos even spilling out into the hallway

Jimin’s favourite lullaby is the sound of your siren song that flows from his CD player every night

Your sugary, sweet voice slithers deep into his thoughts every moment of every day

You are the best things that has ever happened to him… but also the worse

Park Jimin is so fucking jealous

He’s always had trouble containing the fiery beast that lies unsettled in his stomach, yet lately it’s been getting bad

He sees the way you interact with your members and he doesn’t think they’re good for you

They hide your true potential under fake smiles that smear their scarlet lip gloss

He hates only being able to watch as ‘fans’ cover you in filth

His hatred has almost boiled over so many times that he had to stop going to fan-meets

Jimin would never lie to you but he can’t let you see him like this

Death would be a better fate than seeing the disgust that would splatter across your face at the sight of him in such a state

Crystal rain already begins to fall down his face at the mere inclination

The sour words you would spit at his feet and your hardened glare that would piece his chest

However, this doesn’t mean all that he’s done to show his love already is a lie

He not interested in deceiving you, and the truth is that Jimin is so very sensitive

He’s caring and emotional, selfless when it comes to showing his worth

But sometimes Jimin feels that there’s two sides to him

A twisted twin that he’s so very tired of pushing down

Jimin is growing weak and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to contain the monster that’s ripping apart his rib cage

—Kim Taehyung

Taehyung is your eternal shadow

He follows you in the light of day and stalks you in the dark of night

Having Taehyung as your obsessive fan would be like an undying disease

His entire life revolves around you

You are his universe

The first time he caught a glimpse of your face he rushed home to etch the memory onto paper

A fire ignited in his lungs where the smoke billowed out into short, wispy breathes

By the time the next day rolls around he still sits hunched over his desk drawing doodles of you in his notebook

This nights insomnia foreshadows many more sleepless nights spent studying pictures of you

After many weeks his drawings became too lifeless and he yearns for a stolen look at your features once again

The months that follow involve Taehyung spiralling into a new insanity

He quit his job and left his apartment, all in search for a closer spot to you

Taehyung and you share the same silhouette

This is proven in the way he pursues your every move

His new expensive camera captures every moment his eyes fail to catch

The walls of his room are covered in pictures of you taken by his artistic eye

He loses himself in the dreams these candids encourage and traces the outlines of your image as daylight falls

So lost in his own mania he catches himself mumbling your name in place of his friends and mistakes strangers scent in similarity to yours

As time grows old, Taehyung becomes bolder, more infatuated and impatient

This masochist like to tease himself with your touch, stealing the skin he meets when his stalking becomes more akin to silent assault

He takes the risks that put your whole relationship in stake

His crimes double in number as his obsession becomes insatiable

His delusions morph into a place of real-life euphoria as clarity escapes his mind

Last night, right when the clock aged 11 in the absence of light, he stepped foot into your domain

He hasn’t been thinking straight lately, too blinded by his fantasies to consider the consequences

He crawls over to your bed where heaven lies in a slumbering state

He’ll let his throat tear itself to sheds speaking his heart-felt confessions to you

“I’m crazy about you.” Two kisses laid to bed on the crest of your chest

“You’re the center of my world.” Bed sheets rustle as he pulls himself closer

“I’m completely, and utterly devoted to you.” He melts into your unconscious embrace

When the sun wakes, he takes his time dragging himself off of you and out the door

Let’s see how far Kim Taehyung is willing to test his temptations before he destroys it all

—Jeon Jungkook

“You’re the one I’m dreaming of, in endless love, you’re my forever.”

Jungkook’s love for you is infinite, yet despite his honest intentions, the execution of his attachment can be quite clumsy

It seems that your love is so shocking that it electrocuted his mind

Your breathe so toxic that it ties him up in a tongue-twister, tripping over his words for the days to follow

Body so heavenly that his brain has melted into mush upon your first encounter

Jungkook first spotted you on a billboard in the city and he swore he could see the stars in your eyes

Since then he dove head-first into everything there was to know about you

He schedule practically matches yours too a tee

Although this was not without great struggle, after losing his job, blowing his rent money, and setting fire to his friendships, Jungkook has endured everything in order to be close to you

He makes sure to attend all your events, concerts, fan-meets, and all things in between

He’s the one who shouts your name the loudest, he gives you the biggest gifts, and he sends you the most love letters

Practically every one of your fans knows who he is at this point

Jeon Jungkook is a psycho fan who stalks you, is blacklisted from almost every venue (But that never stops him from finding a way in), and has had rumours of assaulting other fans who get in his way

His obvious obsession is also what leads him to check all articles, management posts, and your social media every night

This is was leads him to a harrowing discovery

“Unfortunately, popular k-pop idol L/N Y/N has fa-” He never finished the sentence before he threw up

Checking back on the article his concern became reality as news of you being injured broke his barely beating heart

The ice water drifting through his veins pours out of him in the form of desperate teardrops

Ear-shattering wailing disrupts his neighbours sleep and Jungkook's crying continues on for the rest of the night

The only solution to his misery comes to him in a disfigured dream

Jungkook makes his way to your apartment on an evening that borders on sunset

Fresh flowers are placed in front of your door accompanied with a hundred page note and a stinging smile

He hopes that this will cheer you up in your times of great distress

…His plans end up backfiring completely

The next night you go live and Jungkook waits athirst for the words you’re about to speak

“Please, please stop coming to my home. I can’t trust or appreciate anyone who so blatantly ignores my privacy and safety. If I have to beg you to stop stalking me then how can I even call you my fans?”

You think he doesn’t love you?

No, no, no, no, he loves you, oh god he loves you so much

Why can’t you see it?

Can you not tell just how much his heart screams out for its other half?

Do you not notice all the agony he has endured, and will continue to endure, in the name of your happiness?

This revelation brings on a fit of hysteria

Fears squeezes the air out of his lungs as he hyperventilates on the living room floor

Wet words are yelled out between sobs and pleads for your love

His tears don’t stop flooding his eyes as he lies helplessly on the wooden floorboards that soak up the sadness

Hours border on days as he lays limpless

He doesn’t eat nor sleep yet only mumbles a hopeless mantra that he prays will reach your ears

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-”

Poor, pathetic Jungkook

All those days sitting in sorrow allow a dire idea to fester within his mind

Termites of idiocy tore apart his brain and spat out of the lovelorn remains

Perhaps this distance is what’s limiting your sight of his loving languish

He wants to be closer to you, craves it, no, needs it to survive in this confusing world that pins you two against each other

So all this thinking leads him to kidnap you from your dorm

He shushes your scream with the hand held over your mouth (one that also holds a wet rag submersed in chloroform)

When you wake you’re disoriented and full of confusion

You’re faced with an unfamiliar ceiling and dark shadows that spiral into your sight

The only strong force that keeps you connected to this world are the arms wound tight around your torso

The muffled man comforts your crying before you can notice his own

“Now I can finally show you how much I love you.”

217 notes · View notes

talesofadragon · 3 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬

Synopsis: Receiving wind that Hydra has successfully managed to awaken another wave of winter soldiers, Captain America appoints his two best avengers, Bucky Barnes and Y/N Y/L/N, for the job. But aside from Bucky’s trepidation at reliving his worst memories, there’s something else rooting him in his place–the fear of inflicting harm on the woman he loves the most. Between her encouraging words and his violent past, what will happen when Y/N is forced to encounter her boyfriend’s alter ego?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Warnings: Angst | Fluff

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 Masterlist | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

“𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, whose brilliant idea was it to hitch a ride to Antarctica at four in the morning?” Sam groaned, shooting Steve a tired side-eye. The glare would've carried more weight if Sam's eyelashes weren't so heavy he looked on the verge of collapsing into sleep right then and there.

“It’s a twenty-hour flight,” Steve stated matter-of-factly, ignoring Sam’s blatant groans.

Everyone was almost in the Quinjet, with Bruce and Clint slumped in a bunk each. By the sound of their rhythmic snores, the early mission hadn’t disturbed their sleeping schedules, and the Big Guy was too exhausted to comment about his new surroundings. Natasha was in there, too, plugging in the mission's coordinates. Needless to say, besides her and the two supersoldiers standing in the hangar, everyone else looked more than eager to go back to dreamland.

Y/N eyed Sam as he hugged his pillow tightly, using the walls to steady himself. Sam, who was this ball of infinite energy, was dozing off at the speed of light. And though he was used to waking up early and heading off for his morning lapses with Steve, the poor guy was stuck in a debrief with Nick Fury late last night and had barely managed to get some shut-eye.

“I think what Sam means is why endure a twenty-hour hassle to get to Queen Maud Land when we could’ve figured out a faster means of transportation,” Y/N interjected.

Steve raised a skeptical brow. “Like what?”

“Portalling,” she shrugged, catching Sam’s attention. “What’s the point of having friends like Dr. Strange if we don’t ask for help when we need it?”

"Because, for one, Strange is not a friend," Tony asserted, his voice carrying a hint of annoyance. He looked pristine and smelled fresh, his gym bag slung casually over his shoulders. Figures the insomniac would be the least bit aggravated at the prospect of deploying to Antarctica before even the worms were up. "And second, what makes you think he’d help us?"

“Maybe because he’s also an Avenger.”

Tony gasped aloud, his hand shooting up to cover his arc reactor. His melodrama got even Steve to roll his eyes. “Firstly, take that back. There are only six Avengers and a handful of enhanced sidekicks.”

“Excuse me?” Bucky chimed from next to Y/N.

“Seven Avengers,” Tony corrected, shooting Y/N a glance. Not even Bucky’s death glare or Sam’s scuff halted his monologue. “Anyway, back to the topic at hand. What’s bigger than Strange’s bibbidi-bobbidi arsenal is his ego—”

Natasha interceded, “Says the man who had his name plastered on a building.”

“I heard that, Jessica Rabbit.”

“As you should’ve. I’m sure,” Steve piped in.

Tony’s lips twitched in their signature way. He pushed Steve aside and entered the Quinjet, throwing his bag on one of the biggest bunks available. For a man who’s not keen on sleeping, or being accused of egotism, his behavior is quite contradictory.

“The point is, Stephen Strange’s medical license may scream, ‘I help people for a living,’ but doctors talk a big game until the hospital bill arrives.” He paused, turning his attention back to Sam and Y/N. “That’s when you realize their benevolence comes with a hefty price tag.”

"One that I'm sure you can afford because you're a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, as you oh-so-casually like to remind us all."

"Okay, weren't you sleeping?" Tony pointed an accusatory finger at Clint, who had rolled over and sassed him. Clint refrained from answering, his light snores filling the now silent area.

Sam took this as his cue to build on the previous point. "I’m with Clint on this one. Why don't you score three out of four on the Stark Personality Index and give Strange a call?"

"Why don't you channel your inner sorcerer and magically zip it? Because the less we debate, the quicker we might actually get something done," Tony rebutted. He waved his hands around, signaling for everyone to board the jet. Sam and Steve went further inside, both commenting on Tony's antics. Y/N and Bucky were the only ones who lingered in the back.

“James,” Y/N whispered, catching Bucky’s attention. His electric blue eyes held her gaze. He expected her to ask him about his well-being or point out his lack of commentary. But, to his surprise, Y/N gently took his metal hand and squeezed it. “It’s going to be just fine.”

Bucky laced their fingers together, bringing their interlocked hands to his lip and planting a soft kiss on her knuckles. Sometimes, he could’ve sworn Shuri had augmented the sensory feedback in his prosthetic. But when Y/N’s eyes twinkled as they did now, and a wave of undiluted love inundated his heart, he knew it had less to do with technology and more to do with her.

“Stick by my side,” he reminded her firmly.

Y/N’s lips twitched, the corners rising to form a smirk. “Till the end of all lines.”

Bucky broke into a chuckle, briefly shaking his head. He pulled on her hand, making her fall into step together. Though the nagging feeling in the back of his mind hadn’t dissipated, he gladly ignored it as he led Y/N to one of the bunk beds. She needed all the sleep she could get, and he needed the reminder that she was very much real and very much close.

“Avengers Assemble.”

Y/N bet Tony’s entire fortune (obviously, because he was the billionaire, not her) that Steve, along with everybody else, expected anything—literally, anything—except for Bruce to burst out laughing at this exact moment. It wasn’t even a shortle or an innocent giggle. He was doubled over, gasping for breath, one hand gripping his stomach while the other clung to a chair for support.

It was only when the entire group turned to face him that his laughter began to gradually cease. “You said Ass,” Bruce clarified sheepishly, his weariness rising now that all eyes were on him. “You know, because you’re America’s ass, and you could’ve literally said anything else, but you chose that word. Right, Tony?”

“Right,” Tony replied wryly.

It was evident that Bruce was growing increasingly uneasy. The team had reached Queen Maud Land, Antarctica, with only five minutes to spare before landing. FRIDAY was working to determine the safest landing spot, considering it was well past midnight and the relentless snowstorm showed no signs of abating.

A tingling sensation emanated from Bruce, creeping into Y/N's consciousness. Quickly, she skipped to his side, stretching out her hand. With a gentle smile and inviting eyes, she wordlessly sought Bruce's approval to make contact. As he extended his hands, Y/N eagerly accepted it. A radiant silver encircled her irises, the hue spreading through them. Likewise, her veins adopted a pale white, the color effortlessly transferring from her to Bruce. In a matter of seconds, she sensed his shoulders ease, a soothing wave of calmness enveloping him.

“Thank you,” Bruce said softly.

“Don’t mention it,” Y/N replied as her eyes reverted to their original color.

She swiftly made her way to Bucky, watching as Bruce stood taller, giving Steve his undivided attention.

"Now that we've all... assembled, for lack of a better term," Y/N giggled at Steve's joke, earning a lopsided grin. "At face value, this Hydra facility appears to be a scientific research ground. However, we know from SHIELD intelligence that it's not—particularly the East Building. It's safe to assume that both the Observatory and the Experimentation Lab may not include the soldiers we're looking for, but that doesn't exclude any relevant intel we could possibly gather.

"Sam, we'll need you to conduct a quick aerial scan. Deploy Red Wing to ensure the main entrance points are accessible and check for heat signatures to quantify the number of Hydra operatives inside. Nat and Bruce, you'll be in the Observatory. It's the smallest of the three buildings, with only one floor to cover. Sam, once you're done with your report, land in the Experimentation Lab and wait for Clint and me. Tony, you're with Bucky and Y/N in the East Building. Any questions?"

“For the record, that itself was a trick question,” Natasha noted as she double-checked her hidden weapons. The latest NSFW suits (abbreviated for “Nano Secure Field Wear,” though Tony insisted on using the acronym) made it impossible to discern the locations of her weapons. “None of you better ask a single thing because even this Russian ass is freezing and is ready to kick some butt to get warmed up a little bit.”

“Hey, I’m not one to argue when asses are involved,” Tony commented. “Let’s go, Wilson. Time is money.”

Sam rolled his eyes, lowering his night vision glasses. “Says the billionaire,” he huffed, wings at the ready.

“I heard that, Iago”

“As you should’ve. I’m sure,” Natasha sassed. Safe to say, Tony didn’t mirror everyone’s laughter.

“So, Lynx. On a scale of Africa to Antarctica, how are you two snowglobes enjoying this weather?” Tony quipped.

He was supposed to fly to the East Building, but the storm was unrelenting. Steve had asked Sam and Tony to limit their aerial assessments, not wanting to risk damage to their gear. Unfortunately, that meant Tony had to walk to the building alongside Bucky and Y/N. While this wouldn’t normally be a problem, the loud groans coming from the side painted a clear picture of Bucky’s sullen behavior. And God knew how much Tony and Bucky just loved to push each other’s buttons.

“Just because my moniker happens to be ‘Lynx’ doesn’t mean I am one, Tony,” Y/N shot back. Her eyes glinted with a hint of mischief as she gazed at him. “If we all carried the same traits as our pseudonyms, then you’d be as heavy as your ego.”

Bucky elected to laugh at this one, watching with glee as Tony made a face. Even with his suit hiding his features, it wasn’t hard to picture his reaction. “You should know better than to try and sass her.”

Tony shrugged, picking up his pace and walking just a bit ahead of the two. “Teasing your girl is my favorite pastime, Barnes. She’s a ray of sunshine when she wants to be. Too bad she’s stuck in the wrong season.”

“He can’t keep his mouth shut for thirty seconds, can he?”

Y/N giggled, shaking her head. “I’m afraid that might cause him an aneurysm, baby.”

The storm was fierce, with the wind battering them from various directions. For the most part, the trio easily navigated the road. Tony was leading them, using his altered nano blasters to inconspicuously clear the path when the snow was too thick.

And yet, while the enhanced suits blocked out the cold, they didn't imbue any of those who wore them with warmth, maintaining the body temperature at a neutral level. So, when Bucky unexpectedly felt a fiery rush glistening across his gloved hand, he immediately looked down and broke into a dulcet smile at the sight of Y/N's smaller hand in his.

“You seem lighter,” she commented.

Bucky kept his eyes on his surroundings as he responded, “Is this an attempt at praising Stark’s new suits?”

“No, silly,” she chuckled. Of course, she’d find ways to lighten his mood in these frosty conditions. “I was talking about you, not your clothes.”

“Using your abilities on me, Lynx?”

“You’d know if I was.”

It’s true, he would. Not that she had ever used them on him, anyway. It was only when he grappled with his nightmares that she did, and that was only when she had earned his explicit permission to do so.

“I’m convinced that even without your enhanced abilities, you would still be the only person able to influence my emotions.”

Y/N furrowed her brows. “What do you mean by that?” She almost missed a step when Bucky briefly chanced a glance at her. His electric blue eyes were darker, given the lack of light, but there was something else there—an emotion she had trouble deciphering. "That’s not exclusive to me. I’m not the only person who influences your mood."

Bucky smirked, his thumb drawing circles along Y/N’s gloved hand. “You are the only one that counts.”

“Do you say that to every woman you come across, Sergeant?”

“Only the ones I’d like to keep around, angel.”

Y/N playfully jabbed him in the ribs, and to his surprise, he felt it even through the layers he was wearing. Taking the light-hearted punch in stride, Bucky mock-pretended to be hurt.

“I don’t know if Tony has rubbed off on you or if it’s the other way around," Y/N lamented, her pout visible, even cuter with the cold air escaping her mouth.

“Don’t involve me in your lover’s squabble.” Speak of the devil.

Bucky had to roll his eyes at the unwanted intervention. “Overly narcissistic of you to assume you are part of the conversation, Stark.”

“Overly irresponsible to shamelessly flirt with your girlfriend before shutting off the open communication channel of your earpiece, Barnes. Judging by the flush of your cheeks, it seems that even this playboy can influence your emotions.”

It took too long for Tony to register the snowball Bucky had gathered and chucked at his face, even longer to notice Y/N’s outstretched leg before he fell face first in the snow—because the communication channel was certainly not open. Tony, as always, was just being a nosy little worm.

"Observatory sweep complete. Six targets eliminated. Uploading the recon data," Natasha informed, the audible huff in her voice coinciding with a forceful kick against a Hydra operative.

“Copy that,” Steve acknowledged. There was silence on the line, one that mirrored the noiselessness that greeted Y/N, Bucky, and Tony as soon as they entered the East Building. The three exchanged discreet glances, brandishing their weapons as they ventured deeper into the vicinity. “We’ve yet to face any resistance in the Lab. Clint found a hidden passageway on the far right, though. We’re making our way in now. Bucky, do you reckon we’ll find the soldiers there?”

“Unlikely,” Bucky answered promptly. “All prisoners are kept at sub-level units under strict observation. Unless the passageway leads you to a lower floor, you’ll most likely encounter more agents.”

“Speaking of agents. Any on your end so far?”

“None.”

“Well, looks like our luck ran out. Be careful.”

The corners of Bucky’s lips twitched as a grin began to spread on his face. “When am I not?”

With Steve’s grunts receding and the conversation dying down, Bucky and Y/N left Stark to scour the upper floor while they inspected the sub-levels. Though there was an enormous likelihood that the soldiers were situated somewhere in this area, the lack of supervision made them question whether this entire mission was either a trap or a distraction.

Bucky turned to Y/N as soon as he descended the staircase. He seemed disconcerted at the thought, while Y/N was unfazed. “They have an unknown number of active supersoldiers,” she said, graciously blending in with the shadows at the same time Bucky stuck closer to the walls. “Why would they need to have any guards surveying an area they've labeled as ‘barren’ for a reason?”

“You have a point,” Bucky acknowledged. He scanned his surroundings, locating an intersection a few steps across. “Can you feel if the soldiers are anywhere close?”

Y/N’s brows knit together in concentration. She huffed, the sound unregistered by her own ears. Bucky noticed it, though. Just like he registered her pout.

“I can’t detect any active emotions.”

“Maybe they've put them in cryo.” Bucky pondered aloud.

Y/N hummed, “Your theory stands as the most logical.” She craned her neck, attention drawn to the left path ahead. Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized it. “While this entire level is brimming with a negative aura, this side seems to be the nucleus. The energy is passive at this point, but there’s a lot of emotional turbulence emanating from there.”

With a swift swipe of his hand, Bucky uncovered the gun he had hidden in his suit. He extended his right arm, quickly drawing it to the side, in front of Y/N's body, as he followed the emotional trail she had picked up.

Y/N stepped behind him. Her presence almost always went unnoticed, courtesy of her agility and capacity to blend in with her surroundings. On various missions with the Avengers, particularly with Steve and Natasha, she had been told numerous times that her sudden appearances had caught them off guard.

Knowing the same applied to Bucky, Y/N intentionally placed a heavier weight in her footsteps—not enough to alert the enemy to her presence inside the base, but enough to assure Bucky's ears that she was still behind him.

A faint static sensation tingled in Y/N and Bucky’s ears before Tony’s voice filtered in, "I won't claim it's a competition, but if it were, I'd say I've gathered the best intel in this super squad."

"Share it with us so we can award you for it, Stark," Bucky replied sarcastically.

“Six soldiers,” Tony's tone carried a certain smugness as he relayed the information. “Kept in cryostasis. They’re still being heavily monitored and undergoing extreme medical and physical examinations. Expected to be deployed into the field…”

“Watch out!” Bucky hissed, cutting Tony’s speech off.

As soon as he and Y/N had stepped into a deeper part of the facility, laser beams deployed from all around them, entrapping them.

“What’s going on?” It was Bruce who had asked, but Bucky and Y/N were too busy ducking out of the way of the lasers to answer. “Bucky? Y/N?”

Y/N surveyed her surroundings, attempting to pinpoint the source of the laser blasts. Unfortunately, the beams emerged from the walls, rendering it challenging to counteract them with bullets. Bucky rolled on the ground, the edge of his suit singed by the laser’s touch. He groaned, his eyes hastily searching for Y/N, who had pressed against one of the walls.

The only exit lay a few meters away, but there was no certainty about where that path would lead or if they could bypass the abundance of lasers to reach it. Y/N patiently waited until one of the beams prepared to shoot, analyzing its trajectory. In the split second it readied to fire, she lunged, curling her body into a ball mid-air before landing on the balls of her feet.

She repeated the process several times, closely monitoring Bucky as he fired a series of shots to dismantle the laser mechanisms. Whether it was a momentary distraction in her brain or a miscalculation on her part, an angry red beam struck her. Y/N took a deep breath, summoning all her energy to shift into her incorporeal form. To her utter disbelief, the lasers surrounding her diminished.

“James!” she shouted, earning a worried look from the super soldier. He immediately jumped to his feet and rushed to her. A forlorn shadow crossed his face when a laser beam severed his attempt. “I think these lasers are triggered by our movements.”

“So what are we supposed to do, Y/N? Stay still?” Bucky said the last part with a sneer, tired from the disadvantage.

He was surprised to see the corners of Y/N’s lips edging upward before the translucent edges around her form completely engulfed her whole. “Don’t be scared,” she had asked of him before she disappeared—the laser beams mirroring her motions.

He supposed that she was making her way toward him, if the receding beams were any indication. He felt a slight pressure on his arm before his body felt lighter as gentle silver strokes tingled across his body. When Y/N turned them both invisible, they moved together toward the end of the small hallway.

“Laser beams,” Bucky breathed out into his earpiece. He kept a firm hand on Y/N's waist as she dropped the veil that shrouded their movements. “We’re fine. Y/N got us out. Stark, what were you saying?”

“I said that the soldiers were scheduled for deployment on their first mission this month, but the specific date was not disclosed. It looks like Hydra hasn't centralized information regarding this project.”

“The information is scattered,” Bruce added. “On the servers here, Nat and I found a list of potential candidates for the 'Winter Program,' as they've named it. Clint is attempting to extract intel from the Experimentation Lab's servers.”

“How many soldiers did you mention?” Y/N asked.

Her gaze fixed on the sliding door ahead of her. Bucky followed her line of sight, peering at the seemingly deserted area. Cautiously, the two of them entered, guns drawn and ears sharp, attentive to any movement. The expansive space was filled with cryo pods, and the two rushed to inspect them.

“Six,” Tony replied.

Y/N shook her head, though only Bucky could witness the gesture. She raised her hand to her earpiece, speaking directly into the open channel, “There are seven pods. All of them are empty.”

A tense silence gripped them, not even a sigh audible through their earpieces. Bucky and Y/N instinctively positioned themselves back to back, keeping a vigilant watch for any potential threats.

Suddenly, a grunt echoed, followed by a loud crash. Without hesitation, Bucky pulled on Y/N's wrist, shielding her with his body. It wasn't until Steve's voice came through their earpieces that they realized the commotion wasn't originating from their location.

Steve sighed, "We've got a problem."

"Aside from the 'seek six, and get an extra super soldier killing machine for free'?" mocked Tony.

"Three of these Hydra operatives that ambushed us are the super soldiers," Steve explained.

Tony groaned, and the sounds of his blasters kicking off resonated in everyone's ears. It looked like he’s got company, too. "Well, that's just perfect. Not only is Hydra onto us, but winter is coming as an unwelcome bonus."

"You couldn't help it, could you?" asked Y/N.

A blast went off a second before Tony answered with a simple "No."

It appeared that Hydra had stationed their soldiers in every building. Three were already locked in a duel with Steve and the others—two now, since apparently, Clint caught one off guard with a tranquilizing arrow. Bruce and Nat were fighting two, and Tony was trapped upstairs with one.

Y/N left Bucky's side faster than he could hold her back. She heard him curse as she inspected the names on the pods. She didn't know what she was looking for, but something told her the answer would be etched on the pods. With six super soldiers combating her friends, the question remained: who was the seventh, and where were they?

The pods all bore identical markings on their plaques, each displaying a serial number designating a soldier. Y/N moved methodically down the line, disregarding Bucky's protests. As she reached the last pod on the far left, she tuned out Bucky's objections. Suddenly, she froze in a way that even Tony's cold-resistance suits hadn’t thought possible.

"James," her voice quivered as she called, the blood in her veins turning to ice. "It's a trap."

Barely having time to convey the name she saw on the seventh plaque—the moniker that Hydra had assigned him—she heard the click of a gun.

Bucky watched with horror-stricken eyes as the bullet shot at Y/N faster than he could intercept it… faster than she could dodge it.

I am so excited for the next part!! Are you ready for the winter soldier to come out and play? 🫣 Share your theories on what you think is coming next!

All-Works Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @ye0nvibezzn

: ̗̀➛ Read Chapter 3 - VIOLENCE - here!!

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #winter soldier!bucky #winter soldier relapse #winter soldier x y/n #bucky barnes au

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diamondperfumes · 8 months

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I like and see the appeal of "Dany, Jon, and Young Griff" as the three heads of the dragon/"new Targaryen trio." I can't help but think, however, that people who are reluctant to acknowledge that the real three heads are likely Dany, Jon, and Tyrion, are simply being ableist.

It makes sense that the three heads are Dany, Jon, and Tyrion, centered around Dany (she is Aegon the Conqueror Reborn; this prophecy centers around her, whether you like it or not).

All three have dealt with an undying threat using fire (the Undying, aptly named; a wight; a stone man).

All three have connections to dragons (Dany the strongest connection, one I don't need to elaborate on, hence being the center of the trio; Jon, who wishes for a dragon "or three," who speaks of a dragon warming things up at the Wall; Tyrion, who adores dragons, who yearned for one as a child and even dreamed of them, who is an expert on dragonology).

All three have had concrete, extensive ruling arcs (and not just "for thematic exploration," as some would have it, but as tangible demonstrations of what Westeros needs, and how Westeros could benefit if they were in charge), as Queen of Meereen, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and (acting) Hand of King Joffrey I Baratheon.

Both Jon and Tyrion show up in Dany's House of the Undying visions; Jon as Dany's third ?* in her bride of fire prophecy, Tyrion as a white lion running through grass. Tyrion similarly hears a prophecy of dragons from Moqorro, a prophecy that likely refers to both Jon and Dany, among other Targaryens, and is said to be a snarling shadow amidst them all. If that doesn't scream Tyrion's importance, especially his future connection to Dany and Jon both, I don't know what does.

All three are the third child of their parents, whose mothers died in childbirth, and all three have some kind of rivalry with an elder sibling (though Jon's relationship with Robb is the healthiest and most loving). All three also look up to their eldest brothers. All three had a negative relationship with an authority figure while growing up: Viserys, Catelyn, and Tywin (and for Cat haters, no I am not comparing Cat to Vis and Tywin, except to demonstrate the similarities in thinking and emotional state between the three).

All three suffer a formative betrayal that leads to a physical or metaphysical rebirth, taking place over ASOS to ADWD.

All three know what it's like to starve, be hunted, and live in deprivation. These aren't just random experiences; it's obvious that George is setting them up to brave the harsh conditions of the Long Night, possibly to find the heart of winter together. Being able to endure and survive starvation and the extremities of physical environments like The Wall, the Red Waste, and Slaver's Bay, are building blocks to this.

All three have connections to nomadic cultures that are seen as savage and barbaric––the Dothraki, the Free Folk, and the Mountain Clans of the Vale.

All three are positioned to rectify the wrongs of their houses, though thus far Dany has done the most concrete work in this regard (this is not a slight against Jon and Tyrion). More on this later.

All three are "outcast" POV's, even explicitly referred to as such by GRRM. Jon because he was raised as a bastard, Dany as an exile, bridal slave, and teenage girl, Tyrion as a dwarf who has been abused and maligned his whole life.

All three have had arcs that take place away from Westeros proper; again, this geographic and geopolitical distancing from Westeros only serves to enhance their ideological values as rulers and leaders.

Under the complicated rules of succession, all three are positioned to inherit a title that is not immediately accessible to them: Jon as King in the North (Winterfell), Tyrion as Lord of Casterly Rock, Dany as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Why they can't access it is because of the very things that make them outcasts.

All three are foreshadowed to have three formative romances. Jon with Ygritte, Val, and ?*, Dany's marriages to Drogo, Hizdahr, and ?*, Tyrion with Tysha, Sansa, and ?**. Dany and Tyrion specifically share the parallel of having three marriages, with the first two "failing" in some way.

Their ruling arcs each deal with similar themes: the makings of war and peace, the line between compromise and justice, stirrings of revolution, poverty, hunger, disenfranchisement, exploitation, religion, ableism, classism, ethnic nationalism, etc.

Dany and Tyrion share in common being enslaved. This is a very important parallel that Jon does not have in common with them.

All three are related to, and have thus observed, kings: Jon is Robb's brother (biologically, his cousin) and observed Robert Baratheon; Tyrion is Joffrey and Tommen's uncle, and has extensively observed Robert and Joffrey; Dany is Viserys III's sister, and her POV is a bait-and-switch revealing that the protagonist of the Targaryen storyline is her rather than Viserys.

They have clearly outlined parallels with specific Targaryens from history: Dany with Aegon I, Rhaegar, Aegon V, Aegon III, and the first two Daenerys', most prominently, though the entire history of House Targaryen is centered around her so really every Targaryen could be counted here; Jon notably with the Targaryen bastards/dragonseeds, including Orys Baratheon, Jacaerys Velaryon, and Brynden Rivers; he is also paralleled with Aemon the Pale Prince; and Tyrion with Viserys II.

All three are romantic idealists; Jon and Tyrion are more outwardly cynical and ruthlessly pragmatic, however, a parallel they share with each other rather than with Dany, even if Dany will ~go darker~ in TWOW.

All three identify with beast/monster imagery, and not just because of their house emblems. All three have also been subject to malicious slander, in part because of their association with beastliness/monstrousness. All three are also seen as religious sinners/heretics.

All three have compassion for the marginalized (this is a fact; most ASOIAF fans tend to see Jon as a hero and Dany and Tyrion as villains, for obvious reasons, but as far as the text goes, all three are presented as empathetic toward the downtrodden and oppressed).

All three have both military and diplomatic experience; Jon is the only formally militarily trained one, with a traditional weapon (a sword), while Dany and Tyrion have to use more creative ways to wage war and fight in battle.

All three long for home, and feel guilty for doing so. Dany and Tyrion share a specific parallel of longing for an abstract ideal of home that may no longer be accessible (the house with the red door, the cottage by the sea).

Dany and Tyrion specifically share in common that they were suicidal. Dany was suicidal in AGOT, and Tyrion was suicidal in ADWD. Conveniently, the ASOIAF fandom wants both to die (as heroes or villains), and sees nothing wrong with such endings for them. One can argue that suicidal characters dying in the end is good, righteous, and beautiful, in the ASOIAF fandom (at least when it comes to these two).

Dany and Tyrion share in common that they failed to protect an innocent––Eroeh and Tysha––and this informs their political and spiritual development as rulers.

(*? = fill in the blank as you see fit; it is contentious in this fandom to admit who Jon and Dany's final romances are, and I am not in the mood to argue over this).

(**? = I genuinely am not sure whom Tyrion's third marriage will be with).

I could sit here all day and list parallels. These are just the ones off the top of my head. As you can see, Dany and Tyrion in particular share a lot of parallels unique between them. The experience of having a terrible father, and being alienated your whole life from your own family, while also taking pride in your family name, is something they will be able to help each other understand. The books are clearly setting that up.

Why then do people replace Tyrion with Arya or Faegon or Sansa or whoever else in the three heads of the dragon theory? Don't just chalk it up to different interpretations. The plain truth is that it's ableism. Tyrion isn't an able-bodied or conventionally attractive man and thus doesn't fit the aesthetic component of the three heads.

Yet for all the talk of wanting Dany to be the "antithesis" to house Targaryen, or wanting Dany, Jon, and Faegon to be Targaryens who "end the Targaryen dynasty" (is the dynasty not already ended?), why does no one speak of how Tyrion is the only Lannister in text to actually go against House Lannister, in concrete, material ways, and has suffered the consequences for it? The one Lannister who was barred from accessing his own identity? The one Lannister uniquely positioned to bring down his house?

Perhaps it's because what Tyrion represents is something people are afraid to admit about House Stark (upheld as unequivocally heroic) and House Targaryen (upheld as unequivocally villainous). Tyrion does not just foreshadow the ending of House Lannister as we know it; he foreshadows a RECREATION of it, a REFORGING in a new name and light. Tyrion has experience running the household at Casterly Rock, and did an excellent job of it. He was Hand of the King. He's known enslavement and hunger and violence, which a Lannister typically will never experience. This gives him a unique insight into understanding the plight and trials of the smallfolk who work Lannister lands and the commoners who work at Casterly Rock. Tyrion has not abandoned his identity as a lion of Lannister, even if he feels more alienated from it than ever. Nor has he abandoned love for his family, in spite of his dark spiral in ADWD. Yet his pride in being a lion, him being the only one of Tywin's children to truly resemble Tywin (as per Genna), while also undoing Tywin's legacy of oppression, and his idealism and desire for companionship and empathy, all exist in tandem.

Tyrion WANTS to be Lord of Casterly Rock. He WANTS to rule. He WANTS to be acknowledged as a Lannister. He WANTS vengeance against his enemies, including his own family. He WANTS a wife and family. All of this exists ALONGSIDE Tyrion wanting a simple life, to protect dwarves, enact justice for the disabled, care for the weak and innocent, create more equitable political institutions, foster more accountable ruling for the people, and pave the way for peace. Rather than Tyrion being part of "the good heroic house" (Starks) or "being the antithesis of House Lannister and dying to eradicate the house," Tyrion is clearly a balance forging new ground: an unabashed, proud Lannister, who envisions a future where a dwarf rules Casterly Rock, gets married, has children, may even be ruthless and cunning toward his enemies, but is also empathetic, compassionate, idealistic, dutiful, and kind. The crux of Tyrion's struggle is not "should I be good or should I be a Lannister," it's being accepted as a Lannister, knowing his disability, his status, his appearance, his values, his relation to his family. Tyrion as Hand of the King went against his own family, for both selfish and selfless reasons, and yet protected his family and heritage and strove to forge new ground AS a Lannister, rather than as an anti-Lannister.

This is anathema for ASOIAF fans, specifically in how they engage with Jon, Dany, House Stark, and House Targaryen. For the typical ASOIAF fan, Jon is a classic, traditional hero, unquestioned, unproblematic, unhateable. Jon is meant to "embrace" his Stark bastard identity and "reject" his Targaryen identity. His reunion with his siblings is meant to be nothing more than heartwarming and poignant. House Stark in this scenario is the "protagonistic heart" of ASOIAF, the unequivocal heroes, not problematized by the narrative in the slightest. House Stark "winning" is a moral victory, Northern Independence is reminiscent of anti-colonial justice, and a return to Stark rule is a proxy for GRRM's anti-feudalism, anti-war message, because the Starks are the good guys.

On the other hand, for the typical ASOIAF fan, Dany has to die. Now, some articulate this in the more honest, traditional way: Dany is a villain, destined to be a mad queen, and her death signifies the end of House Targaryen. Others articulate it in a more creative and deceptive way: Dany is just such a good person (with the caveat that she's still a "white woman whose arc is built on the suffering of women of color") that she clearly isn't like the rest of her family, and will happily die for humanity to redeem herself (because she'll still commit a sin; she has those dragons after all) and by dying, House Targaryen will end protecting humanity, where once it "colonized and enslaved humanity." The death of Daenerys Targaryen is supposed to emblematize a moral victory, anti-colonial justice, and a proxy for GRRM's anti-feudalism, anti-war message, because the Targaryens are the bad guys.

What we have here is that one side will win, reunite with his family, get the girl/the title/the house/the power, perhaps reject part or some of it so that the rest of his family can retain it, while the other side will have to die, either as a hero, villain, or redeemed anti-hero, and such death will thankfully symbolize humanity winning, order being restored, feudalism being destroyed, war coming to an end, peace flourishing, etc.

Where does Tyrion stand in this discourse? Usually nowhere. Most ASOIAF fans don't even care to write about his endgame; most of them write him off as a villain. Some think he'll die, some think he'll inherit Casterly Rock, but there isn't much passion in what most people theorize about his endgame. For better or worse, there is at least passion in people arguing over Jon and Dany's endgames.

In the TEXT, however, as I argue, Tyrion is someone who embraces his house identity and pride, while also going against the oppressive values of his family, and doing so in a material, concrete way. Tyrion doesn't cry about how awful Lannisters are, or hate himself for being a Lannister, or tell himself that he should give up his noble title in order to be a good heroic guy and save the day. But he DOES reflect on Tywin's evil, Cersei's greed, Jaime's stagnancy, Joffrey's petty tyranny, the near-enslavement conditions of the smallfolk at Casterly Rock, the corruption of the monarchic system in Westeros that the Lannisters benefit from, the ableism of his own family, how he benefits from the noble name that has also alienated him, etc. He seeks to protect victims of his family, like Sansa and Penny. Under the frameworks promulgated by the ASOIAF fandom, this should not be possible; he either should belong to "one of the good houses" (which the Lannisters clearly are not, and Tyrion is not Jaime, so he does not get the 50-page long PhD essays and dissertations on redemption, gender, and honor that Jaime does, despite being the more major Lannister POV character), or he should hate himself/distance himself from his evil family and die to eradicate their name (while Tyrion is suicidal in ADWD, it's not for selfless reasons; and he doesn't hate himself for being a Lannister, he hates himself for not being accepted by his family, for being a dwarf, for being a kinslayer, for being unable to save Tysha, for being hated by society).

Tyrion doesn't have to despise himself for being a Lannister in order to change his family and even be a class traitor to his own family. He also doesn't have to eschew his selfishly motivated ambitions and desires to effectuate real change. This makes him an excellent character, yet it also makes him one hard to parse for fans, not just because he is morally gray, but also because he defies the ASOIAF fanmade dichotomy of good house=good character/bad house=die (unless you're a teenage-girl coded cishet male character, e.g. Jaime, Theon, or Sandor). Tyrion isn't a selfless, abstract ideal of morally pure heroism. He has real flaws, often discomforting ones, and some of his desires are nasty. His ambition is ruthless. Yet he is still the one positioned to end House Lannister in its current form and recreate it completely.

It's clear that this is what unites the three heads: Targaryen, Stark, and Lannister, the actual heads of each house if they were allowed to be the heads if not for what makes them an outcast within their own family, embracing their names and identities while changing and recreating what it means to be each of these names. All three houses have been enemies at one point or another, but by coming together, these three will signify a real unity. Yet it's hard for fans to apply what Tyrion represents to Jon and Dany, firstly because most fans hate or ignore Tyrion, and secondly because Jon and Dany represent the two ends of the dichotomy I outlined. For fans to accept what Tyrion represents for the other two, they'd have to admit that House Stark is not the progressive, anti-colonial, feminist, pro-smallfolk force for change that fans claim it is, and they'd have to admit that Dany dying to end House Targaryen won't singlehandedly change the world and end oppression as we know it, and that House Targaryen isn't actually the devil.

A House Stark with a bastard as its head, mixed with Targaryen blood, is anathema to the history of House Stark. Have any bastards been Kings of Winter or Lords of Winterfell, save for Bael the Bard's child who killed Bael? Have any Kings of Winter had blood other than First Men blood (knowing that Starks only marry First Men-blooded houses)? Have any Kings of Winter intermingled with the Free Folk and reintegrated them into Westeros?

A House Targaryen with a teenage girl as its head may seem anathema to the history of House Targaryen, but it's not; really, it's a vindication for the women of House Targaryen. Certainly it's anathema to the WESTEROSI history of House Targaryen. What's even more anathema is a Valyrian heading an antislavery campaign and warring with other Valyrians to abolish slavery. This is the aspect of Dany's character that garners the idea that Dany is the anti-Targaryen Targaryen. Yet would not Jon be the anti-Stark Stark, by being half Targaryen and mingling with the Free Folk, when Stark identity for thousands of years has been rigidly defined in opposition to the Free Folk, exclusive of non-First Men blood, and in conformance with the Wall and what it represents?

That's what Tyrion is: House Lannister with a dwarf as its head, a dwarf who cares about women, smallfolk, bastards, commoners, children, and the disabled, who actually wants to protect the people rather than just exploit them, and who has killed and harmed other Lannisters both in the service of that cause and in service of his own goals. The other two heads of the dragon, Jon and Dany, are supposed to represent that balance and nuance as well, between embracing and embodying identity/rejecting its worst parts, destroying the old and ushering in the new.

But it's not in vogue to include Tyrion. He's not attractive enough and he's not able-bodied. He loves dragons, power, wine, and sex too much. He takes too much pride in his own identity and doesn't hate himself enough for being a Lannister. He's too ambitious. He's too ruthless. For a fandom so insistent on the aesthetics and performance of "ending the Targaryen dynasty and ushering in Northern Independence," he fits nowhere into that tapestry, so he is excluded. It doesn't sound as sexy to say he's the third head, not just because he isn't a Targaryen, but also because he doesn't fit the "pattern" ASOIAF fans want, of a "three heads" of the dragon that serves to uphold the centrality of House Stark as heroes and the centrality of House Targaryen as villains.

Yet it's for all of these reasons that TYRION is the third head of the dragon. People will continue to debate this and vehemently disagree (as if it makes sense for a completely minor character like Faegon to be the third head). However, only Tyrion thematically, philosophically, and plot wise fits the conception of the three heads of the dragon, and only he is foreshadowed to have that kind of relationship with Jon and Dany, but especially Dany.

#daenerys targaryen #canondany #canontyrion #danyrion #meta #my discourse #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #tyrion lannister #jon snow #the dragon has three heads

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cambion-companion · 1 year

Note

I have a request if you’re still taking them :)

Something with reader who knows how to fight and spars Aemond a bit and ends getting injured somehow (perhaps sparring Aemond 👀) and doesn’t tell him about it and he doesn’t know till reader collapses or something

Hope you’re having a lovely day! I love your fics :)

Hi guys! This is a great idea; hope you like what I made! ((His face in this gif hurts my heart))

Word count: 1156

Masterlist here

Aemond x wife!reader | Injury

You let out a sharp curse, throwing your body to the side as your husband’s sword arced down at you. Adrenaline coursed through your veins as your feet skidded on the soft earth, barely keeping your balance as you dodged yet another blow.

“Seven hells, Aemond!” You half-shouted, backing away yet further as he advanced, his one violet eye calculating your defensive stance. “Why must you always insist on sparring with real weapons?”

“It.”

You blocked a blow to your right side.

“Builds.”

You ducked another aimed for your shoulder.

“Character.”

Aemond accentuated each word with a flourishing attack, driving you back until you made contact with the stone wall of the courtyard.

Your swords met, with a ringing of metal, as you intercepted him yet again, your weapons scraping against each other as you struggled. Grunting with effort, you raised a booted foot and kicked at Aemond’s midriff, pushing him away enough to get in a few attacks of your own, though each he deflected with ease.

“There won’t be character to build if one of us gets stabbed through the throat, not that it would be you of course.” You eased up on your offense, panting to catch your breath.

“No better way to prepare for the actual experience of combat, Y/N.” Aemond chided, twirling his sword expertly as he waited for you to recover a bit. “The harder we train, the easier to defeat an actual enemy.”

He rushed you then, catching you completely and literally off-guard. Blood raced through your veins, your body hot and sweaty from the exertion of fending off his rapid strikes. In desperation, you leapt toward him, casting yourself to the ground, rolling on your shoulder to come upright behind him, and taking a swing of your own at his unguarded back.

Your sword made contact, though you were sure to hit him with the flat of the blade.

“Very good!” Aemond lowered his sword, giving you a cursory look of approval before returning it to the weapons table. “You’re improving significantly.” He spoke with his back still turned to you, his thick silver hair messily falling down his back. “Perhaps now you see the wisdom in training with sharpened weapons.”

“Aemond…I-”

“We can move on to dual wielding next, as you were so eager to begin last week.” Your husband continued, not hearing your small voice, wiping the moisture off the metal blade and sheathing it in a leather scabbard. “Would you prefer a shorts word to begin with, perhaps?”

“Y/N?”

He turned to see why you had grown so silent, his eye widening in alarm as he took in your blanched face.

“Aemond. I don’t feel so great.” You removed your hand from where it had been pressing against your thigh, your palm coated in your own red blood. The sight sent your vision spinning, as you swayed alarmingly on the spot.

You registered the crunch of gravel as Aemond ran to your side, scooping you into his arms as your knees gave way.

As he hurried up the stone steps to the Keep, pain began blossoming in your leg as the numbness from all the exercise began wearing off. You began groaning softly as it mounted, Aemond soothing you as best he could while hastening to the maester’s quarters.

You looked down to access the damage, seeing the torn fabric of your tunic pants, the thick blood seeping across the fabric, dripping onto the stone floor. That’s when you fell limp, you head lolling back, as you fainted, heedless of Aemond calling your name.

—

You were aware of soft voices, the feel of warm blankets cocooning you, a dull ache in your right thigh. Your eyes felt heavy, your throat parched.

“She should be right as rain in no time, my prince, there is no cause for worry I assure you.” You heard the voice of an elderly man speaking near where you lay upon soft cushions. “It was a superficial scratch, she’s lost some blood, yes, but I imagine the sight of the wound is what truly caused her to lose consciousness.”

“When will she wake?” This time, it was Aemond’s voice, sounding strained with worry. Something you’d never heard before.

You made an effort to speak, a garble of pain escaping your lips as you shifted, opening your eyes. Aemond crossed to kneel by your side, his fingers intertwining with yours laying upon your belly.

“Y/N, how are you feeling?” His eye roved your features, stress evident upon his angular face.

“Thirsty.” You rasped out, grateful as the old maester handed you a wooden cup full of spring water.

Aemond helped you sit up as you gulped it down, feeling instantly much better.

“Water, food and rest will be the quickest way to recover.” The maester refilled your cup. “The bandages will need to be changed twice a day; I’ll give you the healing salve in just a moment.”

You looked up at the wizened man gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Of course, my dear.” He shuffled to a wooden table, corking a small glass bottle. “If I might suggest.” Turning to the prince, he placed the ointment in Aemond’s hand. “Training with blunted weapons from now on, your highness.”

Aemond nodded briefly, thanking the maester before escorting him out of the room. He was at your side again in two long strides, bending to places a fervent kiss to your temple. “I was foolish, Y/N, and you paid the price.” He pressed his forehead to yours, his eye fluttering closed, brow furrowed. “I cannot stand the thought of you in pain because of me, tell me how I can help you.”

You closed your own eyes, the salve that had previously been applied taking away the edge of the pain in your leg. “Perhaps a nice foot rub would be a good start to your penance, my husband.”

“Hmm.” Aemond pulled back to read your expression, a tentative smile tugging at his lips. “That seems a small price for me to pay. Perhaps you can come up with more ideas in the meantime.”

He pulled your stockings off, rubbing circles into your aching feet, his hands feeling warm on your chilly skin. “You can bring me my meals, read to me…” You smiled slyly over at him. “Kiss me occasionally.”

He shook his silver head fondly, smiling with you. “That all goes without saying, Y/N.”

“Telling me how sorry you are and that I am always right wouldn’t go amiss either.” You hummed a contented sound, snuggling deeper into your blankets as Aemond began massaging up your calves.

He placed a kiss to your knee. “I’ll do all that and more, my love. Again, I am truly sorry for being so reckless with the one person in this world I couldn’t bear to lose.”

The sadness in his voice had you sitting up, despite his protestations to remain reclined. You leant forward, cupping his chin in your hand. “Oh Aemond.” You ran your thumb across his full bottom lip. “I’m not going anywhere I promise you. You’re stuck with me for a while yet, my dragon.”

#aemond angst #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x you #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #prince aemond x reader #pro aemond targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond x you #aemond imagine #aemond oneshot #aemond targaryen #aemond fluff #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc

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brisquad-unit-4402 · 6 months

Text

sitting with vox and the truth

(spoilers obvs)

happy the demon hungers everyone :D i did two watchalongs with my friends i hope we all show our appreciation to vox. he’s worked very hard and he’s very considerate of us his fans

this is all just to say that after a long, long, long two weeks i would like to rest so nicely on his chest. naturally i walked into this planning to write that but it turned into another vox breakdown fic which, really, couldn’t be a better description of unit 4402 if you tried

tags: gender neutral reader, angst, themes of self-hate, vox has a breakdown, spoilers for the demon hungers and the truth, ambiguous relationship (romantic intended but can be read as platonic; reader says “i love you”)

⚠️ spoilers for the demon hungers / the truth, vox akuma.

⚠️ contains self-deprecating dialogue

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

wings of melded leather and flesh writhe in the home of vox akuma. a dethroned lord, a wretched infernal. such a a wide reach. the talons of the wing threaten to scrape the ceiling with his greater height, while the membranous tatters hang loosely. if he represented Hell it would be a king’s robe. under wall and lamplight the sheet of skin is his chain.

gravity weighs down his voice all the same. it sinks his shoulders, drips off his hair and down his back. seven feet tall, with a shadow to cast over your body so small in comparison, and yet wind could knock him over as he stands his ground. the familiarity of gold within his eyes is gone but the guilt behind it is all the same, tainted in burning-coal. the smoke around his mouth and the embers along his tongue match the char. there is no fire. he’s put that out long ago. but what was scorched refuses to dwindle down to ash, remaining orange and red and that pink you swore you could see when there was nothing good on his mind.

nothing good, you thought, jokingly and enticingly. lightly. you see now that you were right, but without the fortune of intimacy.

he is scared, if he would be willing to admit it, and he is protective which he does. it’s why his hands are buried close to his chest, the swirling black-red, clasped together as if they were weapons. they are.

“do you understand?” vox asks. “i don’t deserve your pity.”

his frame is full with rage and power held dormant.

“i don’t deserve your attention, or your patience. or your love.”

a bead of ember rises from between his teeth. it fades to room dust as he grits them together.

when they snap apart an arc of flame accompanies it.

“It’s never been deserved. It’s never been okay. I have never been okay!”

the flames curl out of the air, following where the ember once went, room dust and hot air. without his hair in his face he can’t hide from the firing squad.

he can’t hide when you step forward, either.

“Don’t.” that’s what gets him to quit yelling. it’s replaced by inhaled cinder under his breath. “No, no, don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”

and quiet, you say, “you’ve held me before.”

“Don’t. Don’t. You can’t. No. Don’t.”

“and i’m nowhere near death.”

he backs away. “You don’t know that, you don’t know that, you don’t know, you don’t.”

“we don’t choose the bodies we’re born in. or the biology we function by.”

another step back. he doesn’t trip on anything. it’s the pure magma under his blood that sends him to his knees. “Get back.” a hiccup. “Get back!” his hands form tighter to his body. “Get away from me!”

“i trust you.”

“Don’t! Don’t! No! Away!”

“you aren’t hungry anymore. and i’m not in danger. i love you.”

vox’s back thumps against the corner of the wall. his hands tear apart. a prominent vein glides down the oil-slick arm. they tangle themselves into his hair. pale fingertips along bloodied streaks. white knuckles pulling at black locks.

he screams.

he screams again when you place yourself next to him, up against the wall, and bump your leg to him.

“if you could hurt me…” your eyes lower to where your legs are placed upon his. “then this would count. but i’m still alive.”

you look up to the ceiling. his talons didn’t scratch it but his horns certainly did. “and i’m still alive, and my soul is where it should be, with me.”

you cannot recognize the sound the voice demon emits.

“so i’ll stay with you. and we’ll figure things out.” with river under your hands you rub his arm. “do you remember this? it’s what i always do when you want me to help calm you down.

“that’s what i’ll do. just let it out. and i’ll be right here, and i’ll always be here no matter what.”

it’s a guttural, throaty cry across his register. a frog scratch.

“come on.” his blood twists under your touch. veins alight as live wires. “i have all the time in the world.”

“But I have been nothing but a blight.”

“i love you as you are.”

you place your head over his chest.

the first thing that happens is the draft from his wing wrapping around your face. your vision colors red. branches of uneven membrane along the wing’s flesh. so tight around his chest you don’t see a glimpse of the outside.

the next is how vox wracks himself over the lava within his throat.

your free hand takes over attending to him as much as you can, swaddled close to his chest.

through the wing, you can see how he forces his head away when he spits a flamethrower.

when the unpredictable flames raise to you and the wing-shield, it suffocates against the flesh. you don’t feel a shred of heat.

each fire is a bellow of pain gone unacknowledged for years. you don’t think he realizes his instinct to cover you. it would be a welcome validation if he weren’t lost in his own grief.

you spend the night beside the voice demon, listening to the shred of his screams. when he finds the courage to open his eyes, he shrieks for every moment that passes with your hand upon him, and soul within your confines.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ ⁭masterpost ✧. ┊ ⁭kofi

#vox akuma #vox akuma x reader #vox akuma angst #the demon hungers #luxiem #luxiem x reader #nijisanji en #nijisanji x reader #4402 writes #vox akuma headcanons #vox akuma imagines #the demon hungers spoilers #wrote this so sleepily… i hope. snnrk. hope it makes sense… nodded off a few times almost #it’s funny bc i told my friend i would go to bed early so i could take a break after all this hecticness!#…and then i wrote this. i’ll see if i can get a cuter monsterfucker appreciation post out at some point since clearly that was the goal #and failed

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fullscoreshenanigans · 26 days

Text

Somewhat stretching definitions here but whatever

Plugging my Lambda Phil AU and Norman Ratri & Peter musings because while I think Norman has way too much going on in canonto through another convoluted layer onto to it I absolutely love the thought of Peter taking a more direct, hands-on approach to interacting with him to contrast with the less dysfunctional parent-child relationship Emma and Ray have with Lucas and Yuugo.

While Mujika and Sonju both have a shared conflict with Legravalima that could be expanded upon, Sonju's individual one with her felt like more of an asspull, whereas Mujika's one could reasonably predict the angle of earlier.

Pictures below the cut:

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silvergreenseraphim · 16 days

Text

The Relationship Between Glenn and Rufus

[Ultimania Screenshot Removed Until Square Enix Lifts Copyright Strikes]

Glenn, a messenger from Wutai, appears often before Rufus. Though their conversations suggest that the two were old acquaintances, the exact nature of their relationship remains a mystery. Here is a summary of their meaningful exchanges and the relationship between them and Wutai as depicted in related works.

In the small box, it has some information on Rufus and Team Glenn’s connections to Wutai.

In "FVII Before Crisis", four years ago, Rufus lent a hand to the Wutai-based Avalanche.

Glenn comes into contact with Sephiroth, who was dispatched to Wutai seven years ago, in the opening of "The First Soldier" arc of "FFVII Ever Crisis".

Matt and Lucia, who were Glenn's colleagues (introduced by Yuffie in CHAPTER 7 as the "three ex-soldiers"), appear as captains in flashback scenes of the original Avalanche soldiers.

A small text wall next to Glenn’s death scene says:

When Rufus heard Glenn's name in Junon, a vision of him shooting a man flashes through his mind.

Text wall beside the “Please contact Captain Matt” dialogue says:

It appears that Matt and Lucia were participating in the operation to attack the Shinra Building.

Examples of Important Conversations Between Glenn and Rufus

[Ultimania Screenshot Removed Until Square Enix Lifts Copyright Strikes]

Rufus: "You're alive?"

Glenn: "Most certainly dead.”

(This was a bit of dialogue in the game that was difficult to translate. If anyone has a correction for it, please let me know. It appears that Glenn says he is “Dead, of course” to Rufus’ statement).

Rufus is surprised at Glenn's survival, and Glenn responds with a laugh. It sounds like a joking response, but based on his later words and actions, it may not be a joke at all.

Rufus: "The Governor will not stand on such a poor set.”

Glenn: "I see! Growing up a young master/rich kid is so bothersome.”

Rufus said these words as if he knew Sufur’s personality well. Glenn calls Sufur a rich kid/brat, but in Junon, he also mocked Rufus, saying, “Fond of (drawing) visions as ever, young master/rich kid).”

(I once again have been trying to receive help on this specific line because the connection here is how Glenn calls both Sufur and Rufus “Botchan,” which is an interesting term for a rich young master or boy. More in this in another post).

Glenn & Sephiroth: "Our 'Promised Land' will be born." Good (for you), you’ve succeeded your father.”

In the commentary scene, Sephiroth's appearance and voice overlap with Glenn, implying that Glenn's actions up to that point were in line with Sephiroth's intentions.”

Glenn: “As good at shooting people in the back as ever.”

A line that suggests that Rufus once shot Glenn in the back. It is also revealed in this scene that the person who had been thought to be Glenn was one of those in the black cloaks.

My translations are rough at the moment because I am hurrying, but I trust that I was able to get the essential parts accurate.

This is not much new information but I would say it confirms some things.

1. Glenn is dead.

2. It was a black cloak in line with Sephiroth’s intentions. Based on the other instances where black cloaks interact with Cloud with Sephiroth’s intentions, it is safe to say that this was also Sephiroth. A part of his will perhaps.

3. There is nothing suggesting that this was Jenova, as some were saying.

4. Sephiroth heavily mocks Rufus at every chance he gets and appears to hate him passionately.

5. Glenn came in contact with Sephiroth 7 years after Sephiroth was dispatched to Wutai. This is the opening of the First Soldier.

6. Rufus and the Before Crisis plot of his involvement with Avalanche has been confirmed.

#now to keep working on an analysis post with the rest of “glenn’s” dialogue #glenn lodbrok #team glenn #rufus shinra #sephiroth #wutai #ffvii rebirth #fvii first soldier #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #the first soldier #fvii rebirth spoilers #rebirth spoilers

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fandomflotilla · 7 months

Note

The alabastards hate sex must have been disastrous. Not to them, but their surroundings.

Yang: Finally, Ruby fell asleep and we can sneak in, we can finally find-JESUS CHRIST!

Yang: What…what the fuck happened here? It looks like a bomb went off.

Blake: …that’s not what it smells like, though.

Yang: When did our beds fall onto the floor? And why are three of them broken?

Blake: *taps the remaining bed and it suddenly snaps in two*

Blake: …four of them.

Yang: And-oh god now I can smell it too. What the fuck? It’s like fish.

Blake: Uhhhh…Yang?

Blake: *points to the bathroom, where they can hear running water and muffled voices*

Yang: *holds up her finger for silence and they creep towards the door*

*They hear thudding and muffled shouts, before finally getting close enough to hear*

Weiss: Is that all you got, you limp-dicked loser? I thought your daddy fucked seven daughters and one fuckup into existence.

Jaune: Big words coming from someone whose legs currently function as well as her family does.

Yang/Blake: *share looks of shock*

Weiss: Give me a fucking aura amp and I’ll take anything you’ve still got, you whiny little peasant.

Jaune: Hey, if you’re begging for it. I’ll be happy to give a spoiled little brat exactly what she wants.

Yang/Blake: *share looks of complete confusion*

Weiss: Schnees. Don’t. Beg.

Jaune: And Arcs Don’t. Pull. Out.

Yang/Blake: *gain horrified looks of realization*

Weiss: …

Jaune: …

Weiss: …fuck me like you did your parent’s expectations.

Jaune: …only if you take it like you did your daddy’s beatings.

*silence settles over the room*

Yang (whispering): What’s going on-

*THUD*

*The drywall craters outward as something is violently slammed against the other side*

*Dust shakes as something is repeatedly slammed into the wall.*

*The sound of furious making out and skin slapping skin can be heard over the thuds.*

Blake: …

Yang: …

Blake: …well that answers that question.

Yang: …you think they’ll get along better after this?

Blake: Absolutely not.

#jaune arc #weiss schnee #rwby #white knight rwby #white knight #alabastards #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #fucking love writing for this dynamic #it’s so fun

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ghouljams · 7 months

Note

I’m going through fae fic withdrawal ghoul TT

Y'know I kinda am too, here's the the conversation right before Gaz tried to tap Witch. Told from the golden boy's POV.

Gaz does his best not to shift on his feet standing outside the little cottage. It’s so out of place in the city, bracketed on either side by taller more modern brownstones. Exactly the sort of place he would have imagined a witch to be. Price knocks on the door with a heavy hand as Gaz glances over his shoulder. It feels like he’s intruding on something, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end just from proximity to the house. The knocks are met with absolute silence, not a peep from inside the house.

He can feel the arcs of magic though, the spectral movement of life behind the cottage walls. There’s the soft click of a lock and the door is pulled open. Price smiles.

You’re pretty, and younger than he’d have thought. You look about his age, or at least the age he’s pretending to be. Gaz glances at Price, the fondness in his eyes. What is it? Half your age and seven? Although, Gaz supposes that can’t really count here unless you have a spare few hundred you’re not showing. Probably not, you smell human.

“Price,” You frown, brows drawing together in confusion, Gaz meets your gaze with a smile, “and friend. I assume you’re here for business then.” You sigh and step aside, holding the door open. “Come on in, I’ll put a kettle on.”

“This should be quick,” Price assures you, nodding for Gaz to follow him into the house. It feels like stepping through molasses. Slow and sticky, pulling at him until he breaks through the threshold. Permeable, but only just. Gaz rolls his shoulders to shake the feeling off, following Price where you wave for them to take a seat. The couch you direct them to looks old, feels old if he counts the hands that have touched it. Still, it’s comfortable and sturdy when the two men sit.

“Quick or not business is business and that means tea,” You call from the kitchen. An ornamental butterfly on the wall flutters its wings in agitation.

“You’re sure this is the witch?” Gaz whispers to Price. When he’d said he knew who to talk to about Soap’s problem you weren’t really what Gaz had in mind.

“Positive,” Price leans back against the couch, folding his hands over his stomach. Perfectly relaxed. Gaz doesn’t see how he could be, all the foreign magic in the air is starting to make his head spin a little. He swallows, pinching the bridge of his nose, more than a little. This place feels like a fucking whirlwind, made to disorient. Price settles a hand on his back, and the next time Gaz inhales he smells smoke.

He takes a deeper breath, closes his eyes to feel his mentor’s magic steady him. The swirling smoke, familiar, clears his head, settles his vision. “Should’ve warned you,” Price mumbles, “it’ll clear.”

“I’m good,” Gaz tells him, just as a clatter of teacups are set on the table in front of him. The noise jostles Price’s magic, knicks him.

“This should help,” You tell both of them, fingers careful on the teapot as you pour. “Count it a compliment,” You smile at Gaz when he looks up at you, “not everyone is smart enough to know they’re surrounded.” It’s an ominous statement for the sweetness in your smile. Gaz doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be threatened by that or not. He takes the tea, what else is he supposed to do?

Hyssop. It clears his head as soon as it touches his tongue, settles the magic around him like the final acceptance of his presence. Funny how quickly magic can flip on a person. You must get enough fae visitors to know what to do, that’s reassuring at least. Price takes little more than a single swallow before setting his cup down. Not one for bitter teas if he can help it. You take your seat opposite them, and pick up a deck of playing cards from the table.

“Is he your apprentice?” You ask, shuffling cards.

“Supposed to be.” Price leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

“Hm,” you hum, looking Gaz over, “I suppose you do like pretty.”

“I like a lot of things sweetheart,” Price rumbles, his voice lower than Gaz has heard in a long time. He glances between the two of you, narrows his eyes at the silk strand tethers that silver between you.

“So I’ve heard,” you are far too fond to count as business-like.

“You’re askin’ around about me?” Price’s eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Should I be?” You lean forward, and Gaz has had just about enough of this.

“Do you two want to find a more private room?” He asks, cutting through whatever strange dance his boss and you are performing. You clear your throat and sit back, Price doesn’t move. His eyes are just as warm as they were, Gaz hardly thinks he heard him. Except maybe to take the jab into strong consideration. God if he tries to cart you off somewhere, Gaz will just leave. No point sticking around if- You know he’s really having second thoughts about your ability to help them now.

“What can I help with?” There, that sounds way more professional. Flirting with his fucking boss, Gaz is about to lose his damn mind.

“One of my boys found your trap,” Price says, no beating around the bush. You hum.

“Which one?”

Price blinks. Gaz blinks. Which one? Which one, what? Which boy or which trap? No, he knows what you’re asking.

“Does it matter?” Price asks finally.

“I suppose not,” you shrug, “did it kill him?”

“Did it-” Gaz feels anger well in his chest, you’re so casual with it. “Price,” He looks to his mentor for… Gaz doesn’t know, confirmation(?) that he’s hearing this too. Price holds out a hand to keep him in his seat.

“Soap’s fine. Lucky I had your little hexbreaker on me, could’ve been a lot worse,” Price explains, you stop your shuffling.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Tell us how to get rid of the trap.” Price presses.

“Except there, I’m afraid.” You sigh, and spread your cards on the table. Your fingers carefully push certain ones up, scoot others to the side, as if you’re picking the ones you like best. “I can’t help you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Gaz asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” You say firmly. “Besides, it sounds like the problem is taken care of.”

Gaz and Price exchange a glance, the problem far from taken care of. Soap is a stubborn bastard, one who doesn’t take kindly to threats. It’s better to clear the fae trap from the city before he goes looking for them again.

“Right, then just tell us how to break it,” Gaz tries diplomatically.

“No,” you tell him plainly, sipping your tea. Price’s eyes spark watching you, eager and entirely unhelpful. “You’re asking me to help someone who couldn’t even come here himself, against something I created, and you’ve given me no good reason as to why I should help in the first place.”

"What'll it cost?" Price asks.

"I'm not for sale," It's the finality in your voice that really settle's Gaz's mind.

This is going nowhere fast. He pushes down the spark of annoyance, no rules are being broken, they have no favors to cash in, and the witch clearly knows well enough to give them the runaround. There’s only one way forward, and that’s back. Time for a reset.

"Why don't we just wipe her and try again?" Gaz asks, pushing himself to his feet.

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nerdraging4point0 · 12 days

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Power Play // Chapter Seven // Hockeyplayer!Noah AU

Tropes and tags: RPF:AU hockey player romance, angsty romance, hidden relationship, forbidden relationship, smutty, MF, multiple POV.

Content Warning: angsty romance, hockey player shenanigans, locker room talk, smutty, aggressive hockey players, PinV, MF relationship, possessive male, protective male.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

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Despite having no obligations or reasons to rise early, I find myself waking before dawn, a nagging sense of unfinished business rousing me from slumber. I rummage through the cluttered closet, pushing aside the detritus of my old life to unearth a relic from simpler times: my pristine white ice skates, barely used since training gave way to textbooks and 12-hour shifts. Running my fingers over the smooth leather, I marvel that they have waited so patiently while life pulled me away. I dress in fleece leggings and a sweater as I grab my purse and head to the car.

The rink should be empty, the guys left around four this morning, as I pull into the parking lot it’s already six. I see some of the players' cars parked in the garage as I head to the elevator to enter the rink. The lights are on, but that’s to be expected, with the team gone, deep clean can commence. Yet as I walk through the quiet, empty halls of the arena, the familiar sounds of hockey emanate from the rink ahead. The rhythmic slapping of a composite stick striking a frozen puck echoes down the corridor. Scraping, swishing - the nostalgic melody of steel blades carving arcs across the freshly resurfaced ice. I push through the heavy wooden doors and gaze out at the rink. There before me a solitary figure glides smoothly about the ice, stickhandling a puck through an intricate array of cones.

Noah isn't in a uniform, just his athletic wear and skates, simple winter gloves on his hand as he skates around. The cold air nips at my cheeks as I observe him gliding effortlessly across the smooth, glassy ice. He looks so graceful and at ease, carving gentle curves with each push of his skates. I suddenly wonder if I should continue with my plan. It's been years since I've set foot on the ice. The last time I tried skating I clung desperately to the wall, my ankles wobbling with each tentative stride. I was that bumbling, awkward beginner all over again. What if I make a fool of myself out there? What if I slip and stumble repeatedly in front of Noah, struggling just to stay upright while he floats by with poised confidence? The thought makes me hesitate. I don't want to embarrass myself or look incompetent compared to Noah's natural skill.

"What are you doing here?" I call across the rink, seeing him turn and find me by the benches. He pushes the puck back and forth between his stick, the repetitive motion seeming to soothe his obvious frustration.

"Medics benched me for two games, to make sure my shoulder isn't seriously injured," he responds, and I can hear the pain in his voice - not physical, but emotional. Being forced to sit out is agonizing for any athlete, but especially for someone as passionate and competitive as him. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to watch his teammates head off without him this morning, their bus pulling away as he stood there, barred from joining them.

“Why are you here?” he ponders the question to me and I feel my cheeks go red as I stammer a response.

“Came to um-um-skate. But I didn’t expect…it’s okay, I’ll go.” I turn to leave. But I hear the hard scrape of blades on ice as Noah skates to the wall close enough to me I can smell the scent of his body wash from his shower.

“Where you going? Let’s see what you got, little fox.” I feel my heart race and my palms grow sweaty as Noah's intense gaze bores into me. His muscular frame towers over me, broad shoulders and chiseled torso accentuated by his tight black shirt. I'm frozen in place, mesmerized by his masculine beauty and commanding presence.

“Lace up. Get out here." he teases as he skates out to the rink, picking up the cones he'd laid out. I am not sure what propels me but I do as he says, slipping into the leather slippers and double knotting the laces. I stand on the blades feeling the unusual balance of them as I take long steps to the ice. The blades touch the ice and suddenly I'm wobbling on my knees as one hand grips the wall and the other wraps around myself trying desperately to hide the embarrassment. The empty ice rink echoes with each scrape of his skates as he circles me like a predator stalking prey.

I tentatively step onto the icy surface, the razor-sharp blades beneath my feet gliding smoothly at first. But as I push off, my ankles wobble precariously, threatening to tip me face-first onto the cold, unforgiving ice. I flail my arms, grasping for something, anything to steady myself. My hand finds the wall just in time, saving me from a humiliating fall. Meanwhile, he is gliding effortlessly around the perimeter, his strong strides propelling him forward with ease. I watch enviously as he picks up speed, the toes of his skates carving graceful arcs into the glossy surface. My own skates feel awkward and foreign beneath me, the thin blades clacking loudly with each uneasy step. I wrap my free arm around my middle, trying in vain to conceal my evident lack of skill. This was a mistake. I never should have let him goad me out here.

Noah skates around me, effortlessly turning his feet outwards to slow himself before sliding to a smooth stop, sending ice shavings scattering across the glossy surface of the rink. He looks back at me with a playful smile, taking in my awkward, shaky form as I struggle to maintain my balance on the slippery ice. I clutch the wall, my legs stiff and tense, my movements rigid and unstable. Noah glides back over to me, the blades of his skates slicing rhythmic patterns into the ice, and holds out his gloved hands, wiggling his fingers invitingly. "Here," he says, his voice warm and reassuring.

I eye his outstretched hands warily, hesitating. A painful memory surfaces of myself as an awkward thirteen year old girl, when a boy in skating class had offered to help me up, only to let go and trip me instead. I had fallen hard on the unforgiving ice, the wind knocked out of me, my pride injured far more than my body. I had never forgotten that humiliating experience, and since then, I harshly refused any offer of help when trying to skate, not trusting anyone to not let me fall.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Noah grumbles, breaking me out of my bitter recollections. Not waiting for me to decide, he takes my hands firmly in his, enveloping my fingers in the soft wool of his gloves. Then he begins skating backwards, pulling me along with him, his strokes smooth and steady. My legs tremble violently, overtaken by the fear of falling and I cling to his hands for dear life, as if I'm moments from plunging to my death. My ankles wobble and feet slip on my first few strides, struggling to find my balance. But Noah's graceful momentum carries us, and slowly I feel my legs begin to glide in sync with his, my rigid muscles easing. My confidence builds as Noah patiently guides me around the rink, the ice smoothly passing beneath me.

“I figured the coach’s daughter would know how to skate.” he teased. I rolled my eyes at his assumption that just because my dad was the hockey coach, I would naturally be an expert skater myself. Sure, growing up as the coach's daughter, I had spent countless hours at the rink, watching practices and games from the stands. And yes, I had even taken some basic skating lessons as a kid. But that was years ago now, and so much had changed since then.

“It’s been a while,” I countered, “I had other things going on.”

“Let me guess,” he looked at the white leather of my skates and smiled, “Figure skating.”

“Nope. Just lessons.” The truth was, once I hit high school, skating had faded into the background. I became absorbed in academics, friendships, and other activities that didn't involve blades on my feet and cold rinks. Sure, I had taken some recreational lessons here and there to appease my dad, but nothing stuck. “Dad really wasn’t a fan of figure skating, some unspoken rivalry with Hockey I think.”

My hold on Noah’s hands relaxed as we glided hand-in-hand across the ice rink, my fingers barely holding onto his gloved hands anymore. As we swayed our hips in unison, Noah gently turned our wrists, overlaying our hands before interlacing our fingers together. His soft yet firm grip provided a sense of security and balance as he led us around the rink, periodically looking back over his shoulder to navigate and ensure we wouldn't crash.

“And mom?”

“Mom wasn’t, the mom type.” I confessed with a sigh. I felt a familiar pang of sadness in my chest at the thought, dropping my head a little in shame. Noah raised an eyebrow, prompting me to reluctantly explain further. “Divorce. Just before I was twelve. Mom moved down to Florida with her new boyfriend, got the occasional birthday card then silence.”

“I get that,” Noah nodded in understanding, releasing our clasped hands so we could skate shoulder-to-shoulder, my legs now gliding on their own as we lazily circled the rink.

"Your mom too?" I asked gently.

"Dad," he replied tersely. "Wasn't the dad type. Mom did her best, but I lost her." His words sank in, my own petty grievances seeming trivial in comparison. While my mother may have been absent, at least she was still living. Noah had no one left, both parents gone, leaving him truly alone in the world. A swell of empathy rose within me, along with a new appreciation for the family I still had, dysfunctional as we may be.

As we glide, our skates' soft swish and measured breathing form a quiet harmony. All too soon, our wordless waltz comes to an end. I make my way to the bench on rubbery legs, fumbling with the laces and easing my numb feet from the rigid boots. Noah gathers his stick and returns to his solitary target practice, slapping puck after puck into the empty net with a methodical rhythm. The sharp crack of composite meeting vulcanized rubber echoes through the cavernous arena. I watch him for a moment, marveling at his self-contained focus. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I turn to leave, savoring the lingering chill on my cheeks. But then his voice stops me - that gentle tenor tone that never fails to make me shiver.

"Sarah," he says, my name emerging soft as a caress from his lips. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

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