#fic: duty is the death of love | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

toadbreath · 4 months

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dear john;

simon keeps a journal to grieve johnny's death and we all have to suffer for it..

✒ w.c: 3,5k

✒ pairing: ghost x soap // simon riley x john mactavish

✒ rating: m

✒ archive of our own: link here

✒ genre: angst

✒ warnings: mcd!! soap is dead in this fic. suicidal thoughts, alcoholism, implied self harm, emotional distress

✒ author's note: this is only the first chapter, the rest is on ao3, i might add more to it but i'm not sure yet. all ur comments and tags mean the world to me omg

JANUARY 19th, 2024

They call it longing because it takes forever. It is a yearning without an answer and a desire without a satiation. But that is not the whole truth. Longing is only the beginning of it. Longing is a seed in your belly that sprouts the roots of love, but even as the plant begins to grow, you don't know if it's going to bloom a red rose or a poisonous weed. When you're a kid, you think you will know the difference when the time comes, and you will choose the rose, but the older I get, the more I realize that it's not up to me. There is no rhyme or reason to who blooms a flower and who is pruned instead.

I never thought I'd find myself standing among the dead waiting for the flower to bloom. I always assumed I'd be the one with my hand on the sheers, trimming back the branches that would never bear fruit. But I am a soldier, not a gardener.

It’s been three months since your funeral, Johnny. I know you're not listening, and even if you were, there's no way for me to send these to you, but the psychologist said it would help, and I'm running out of ideas.

I'm not used to having something to lose. You changed everything, you changed me. You were a brother, a comrade, a friend, a leader. But you were never just any of those things, and now I don't know how to find my balance again.

I didn't know how much of my weight you were holding up until the ground fell out from beneath my feet. And now, every morning, I wake up, and I forget. Just for a moment, I forget, and the world is right, and the sun is shining, and then I remember. And the loss is the same as it was the day you left, only, now, the wound is festering. I'm rotting, and nothing I do is enough.

There is no honor, no pride in your loss. I cannot make a martyr out of the memory of you. Your death was senseless and meaningless, and I cannot find peace in the knowledge that it was in the name of a noble cause.

There was no nobility in the way he killed you. He didn't kill you because you were a soldier or a terrorist or a man. He killed you because you were in the way. The only comfort I have is that you went out the way you would have wanted, fighting, saving lives, being a hero. But the way you died doesn't erase the way you lived, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot separate the two.

The first time I met you, I saw the same thing in you that I see in myself. You were a killer, and I didn't want to like you, but you made me laugh. It's hard to hold onto your ideals of goodness and righteousness when you've had your hands around the neck of a man begging for his life. But you reminded me what it was like to have a heart, to be human. You made it okay to be the things I was.

There's not a lot of things in this world that scare me. I've stared down the barrel of guns. I've been beaten, tortured, starved, shot, stabbed, burned, and I've survived. I've faced down monsters in men's skin, and I've killed them all, and yet, I don't think I've ever been as afraid as I am right now. I'm scared of who I'll become without you. I'm scared that the last few years will have been wasted, and I'll turn into the kind of man that I would kill. I don't know who I am without you. I don't know how to be alone.

You told me once, after our first mission, that there was no room for regrets on the battlefield, and that there was no point in dwelling on things that could not be changed. At the time, I thought you were being flippant, but I think, now, you were trying to prepare me.

You knew, didn't you? That one of us was going to end up buried.

I wish we could go back, to those first days when the war was new and so were we. Back to the nights of playing cards and talking shit and watching cheesy American movies. We were young and invincible, and we knew everything. It feels like a lifetime ago. I was a different man then, and so were you.

Now, I look at myself, and I don't recognize the person staring back. I'm harder, colder, angrier, and there is a blackness inside me that I'm afraid will swallow me whole.

You were a light in the dark, a candle burning in a window that I could find my way home by. I was lost without you, and you found me. You saved me, and I will never be able to repay you for the debt I owe.

There was always a part of me that wanted more, a part that longed to burn up in the fire of you, to be consumed and destroyed. The only time I have ever felt alive was when you were in my arms. You were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that was good and pure and true, and now you are gone. And I'm left standing in the darkness, waiting for the storm to pass.

I hope that wherever you are, you are finally at peace. I hope that, somehow, you can hear me, and that, maybe, you understand.

I'm not sorry for loving you, Johnny, but I am sorry for saying it too late.

Yours, Simon Riley

read the rest of the chapters on the ao3 link up top~

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123pixieaod · 9 months

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WIP of a Harry Potter x Maxiel one-shot that has somehow escaped the uni essay stress which has sadly displaced all the space in my mind usually given to writing 🥲🥲

"Are you -" are you well? Is what Max wanted to ask. Are you eating, are you sleeping?

It feels stupid, though, to ask such things in war. Like the shadow of childhood stretching into the present.

Daniel opens his eyes, gaze finding Max. The action is excruciatingly slow, as if the movement alone is exhausting.

"Am I what, Maxy?" He says. He tries for a smile, the facsimile paling to the memories that linger in Max's dreams.

"Are you sure about this?" Max forces out. Daniel huffs something near a laugh, kicking back off the wall he'd been leaning on.

#daniel is a slytherin and i will be taking no further comments on this #max is more difficult #hufflepuff???#gryffindor????#gryffindor have the whole lion and golden boy going for it #but hufflepuff has the softness and the loyalty #daniel is all slytherin with his RB to Renault to McLaren and leaving a train of heartbroken and bitter managers behind him #because he wants MORE and FAME and SUCCESS #and Max is all like :))) Red Bull is my team and i am happy with them :))))#so... maybe more hufflepuff than Gryffindor???#anyway #in the AU they both were quidditch captains and should've been enemies but somehow were both rivals and friends #and now it is the Wizarding War and Max is Good and an Auror and helping Dumbledore #and Daniel somehow followed his Slytherin friends and ended up as a death eater #but as a double spy???#and Max has all these feelings because he's Daniel's man of contact #and can see how exhausted he is and how drained and how dangerous this all is #but at the same time can't work out if he trusts Daniel and whose side Daniel is really on #and it's all love over duty and heart over mind #my fic

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haveyoureadthisfanfic · 5 months

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Summary: The war was about to come to a close, the united forces of both the Kingdom and the Alliance finally broke through Fort Merceus and was about to engage Edelgard in a final fight within the city of Enbarr. Through it all Ingrid had served her king even if she wished to be on a certain songstress' side instead. With a determined heart, Ingrid sets off to find Dorothea during the siege of Enbarr in order to whisk her away from the final moments of the war.

Author: RaijinFenrir

Note from submitter: THE POTENTIAL ANGST BETWEEN THESE TWO IS DRIVING ME CRAZY

#official fic poll #haveyoureadthisfic #pollblr #tumblr polls #fanfiction #fandom poll #fanfic #fandom culture #internet culture #Duty Is The Death Of Love #fire emblem 3 houses #fire emblem three houses #dorogrid #fire emblem #authorless

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reachexceedinggrasp · 1 year

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Omg, thank you for replying to my ask. (*/ω＼*) Yay so excited to hear about your Lokane fic! Such a Heraklean effort! I have a similar problem with a novel-length WIP, actually near the same emotional peak and I really think it must be that last final push that's almost harder than anything else - in a way I don't want to finish mine! I had a similar rule about not starting other WIP's so I have a document where I've amassed everything I'm not writing, and that's helped me a little because it feels like I've 'done' something so I can do other stuff haha.

Regarding Solas/Lavellan: don't worry about a disappointing response, to be totally honest I was a bit worried you already didn't like it (though wanted to know what emotional chord didn't work for you), but the fact you're not familiar with it is almost kind of better!! It's one of those pairings for me that manages to hit the epic romance notes and actually consummate the romance and then affirm the narrative importance, which is already pretty hard to do with a video game (and often times I'm left disappointed by pairings grounded primarily in potential). I can't really reveal too much about Solas because learning about him is the journey but if you like your trickster god/vulnerability/concealed pain/the dinan'shiral (the Journey of Death) that love endures against etc. it's all there. A non-spoilery detail I like about him is that sometimes when he talks he speaks in iambic pentametre or the musical notes of Hallelujah, so there's a poeticism to him and subtlety to his character execution that I just love.

I think the only drawback to Solas/Lavellan is that because it's a game it's more of a time investment and you also need the Trespasser DLC for full effect, but honestly you can watch it on YouTube lol. There's a lot of lore that enhances the pairing as well. I don't think you need to really play the first two games to 'get it', but I generally enjoy Bioware games and I think they're both fun experiences. The Solas/Lavellan romance also doesn't have an awkwardly animated sex scene, if that puts you off like it does me, though it's not entirely lacking eroticism.

wank magnet tragic murder boy

I love this thank you hahahaha.

If you ever get around to playing Dragon Age or watching the romance on YouTube, I look forward to hearing your thoughts on it, though my curiosity is now successfully sated! Thank you! (Hopefully my ask doesn't come off as pressuring you to get into it... mostly I'm just surprised/happy you didn't know much about it hahah!)

Also, as one final departing remark, yes, I'm actually the same regarding genuinely Nice Guy/Ingenue/Bad Boy, but I don't really gravitate towards that dynamic because it can come off as a bit superficial to me and I cannot STANDDDD love triangles unless it was only ever a matter of who she 'should' be with versus whom she really wants, it has to be true love soulmatism or I cry!!!

Hope you have a lovely day and good luck with fic writing!

Yeah, I pretty much know some memes about Solas and that he apparently betrays the PC somehow. And people debate his motives and level of sincerity a lot. But I know so little about the plot that I've forgotten most of the details I ever came across. Poetry is a selling point! but I really can't say whether I will vibe with the ship or not based on what I know. The sad murder boy really has to hit a specific way for me.

Yes, exactly! I feel exactly the same way about love triangles. I talked about this before, but I hate them unless they're the forgone conclusion kind where it's not about who she actually loves (because this is never in doubt), it's about whether she's going to choose love over pragmatism or whether true love will conquer outside circumstances, etc. I think it was in my first ramble about Fated to Love You, which is a great example. All three characters know Mi Young is in love with Gun, the tension is always about whether they will overcome both the internal and external obstacles separating them and take the risk for true love or if she'll settle for playing it safe in a platonic pseudo-relationship with Daniel where her heart can't be broken.

If there's genuinely romantic feelings for more than one person and the middle point is not just in denial about where their heart lies, I'm out lol.

Ditto! ;)

#I see a lot of people complain they don't like love triangles bc both branches are clearly not equally valid options #but yeah that's the only way I tolerate them #when the dichotomy is idealism/pragmatism or true love/duty or scary true love/safe complacency then it's a great device #because those are great character struggles and set us up nicely for True Love Conquers All #but 'I don't know which boy I like better' is the worst fucking plot of all time #if that's really what's in question then I don't care you are boring #the triangle has to be actually about something else or it can fuck off #the conflict for me needs to be about whether the soulmates will get to be together and fully realised as people #not 'will this mundane relationship (other options are available) work out okayish?'#go big or go home #'we're compatible but I could take it or leave it' is the death knell for my interest in a ship #when people write fic like that about my OTPs it's the most weirdly demoralising experience #bring me the massive emotions and spicy melodramatic devotion or bring me death #there's nothing worse than beige unromantic romance #it's better to go way over the top than to be '''realistic''' like that

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puckwritesstuff · 2 years

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What if... Sigyn refused Loki's proposal in the Father of Death AU?

I mean, how much can we take from Loki before he fully breaks? A little bit more, I guess.

Thank you for the ask!

---

“I saw how you felt when I married Angrboða,” Loki said. “And I don’t regret… I will cherish every day I had with her, because I did love her, and it was absolutely the right thing to do.”

“Of course, it was,” Sigyn said.

“What I will regret,” Loki said, “is if I spend one more moment than I have to not married to you.”

Sigyn looked away.

“Loki…”

“I love you, Sigyn,” he said. “You’ve always been there for me, in my darkest moments, in ways no one else has ever been, in ways no one else could have been.”

He took her hand. The kitchen staff continued to work as though they weren’t there, allowing them this moment of privacy.

“Please marry me,” Loki said.

She looked back at him.

“No,” she said.

Loki deflated a little.

“Why?” he asked.

“I can’t… you are the most important person in my life,” Sigyn said. “I can’t deny that anymore. But I cannot marry you. Your wife must be a Princess of Asgard, the representative of your house, and mother to your daughter. I will do whatever I can for you, but I cannot step into those roles with any grace. I wasn’t born for it. I wasn’t raised to it. You can ask anything of me— ask me to help with your daughter, ask me to defend you in battle, even ask me to your bed. But I cannot marry you.”

Loki looked away. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, no,” he said. “Never apologize for your honesty. It is one of the more beautiful things about you.”

She smiled. “Still.”

He nodded. “I know.”

---

That night, as Loki slept alone in his bed, his dreams were filled with clouds. He ran through them as they passed— pink, ochre, yellow. He had the sinking feeling that he didn’t belong there and that he needed to leave as soon as he could.

“Loki!”

He skidded to a stop, looking around for the source of the familiar voice. He turned around to see Angrboða standing there. His eyes welled with tears, and she ran to him. He pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her.

“How..?” he started to ask. She shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m here, Loki, I’m here.”

“I tried,” he said. “I tried to ask her, I thought…”

“Sigyn?” she said.

He nodded. “I think she does love me. She said that I was the most important person in her life, that I could ask her to my bed if I wished, but that she couldn’t marry me. I don’t understand.”

“To bear you as a burden is a singular task,” Angrboða said. “One I’ve always believed she could do. But if she’s not ready, please don’t force her.”

“Force her?” Loki asked, stepping back.

“Don’t try to argue that you are not capable of it, my husband,” Angrboða said. “I know you as well as she does.”

Loki paused, looking away.

“I miss you,” he breathed, starting to cry again. “Every day, Hela grows, and I see more and more of you in her. And as much as I love her, I can’t look at her without seeing you. Without missing you. And that’s not fair to her.”

“You cannot control your heart,” Angrboða said. “But you can control your actions. You show her love, and she does not doubt that you love her. There’s nothing more I could ask for her.”

She stepped forward and kissed him again.

“I will always love you,” she said. “I will always be here for you. Never doubt that.”

“Of course,” he said. “I just wish you were here.”

She nodded.

“Let her love you,” she said. “In her own way, in her own time. However she needs to. I will be here for the rest.”

He smiled. “Promise you won’t get jealous?”

She laughed softly. “I almost think you want me to.”

“Well, that might not be entirely false…” he said.

He kissed her again. The dream started to fade, and she was slowly pulled away.

“I love you,” he called after her. “I still love you.”

The dream faded, and he was left with the impression of her in his arms.

#prompt #fanfiction #loki #sigyn #angrboda #logyn #loki x sigyn #loki x angrboda #Love Duty and Glorious Purpose fic #LDGP Father of Death AU

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x3no9 · 4 months

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Couldn't sleep so I wrote a fic. I get dark at night. Work in progress.

Ghost x Soap

Revenge, death, sorrow and profound, transcendant love (also sex)

#m/m #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw fanfic #ghostsoap #ghoap #ghost x soap #death and loss #revenge fic #transcendent love #call of duty fanfiction #ghost takes his bloody revenge #ghost finds johnny again #ptsd and suicide

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b1rds3ye · 11 months

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Can you make a fic / short headcanon of how the COD men reacts to reader riding those bull mechanical? Their usual bar/pub has installed a new attraction which is that bull mechanical. Either they dared reader or reader wanted to try to ride, depends on the character. You know how those bulls move makes the rider look like they’re grinding?? Yeah I wanna know how the guys reacts to that 👀

OHOHOHOHO GOT IT thank you for sending in the request!! This is the first one this blog has gotten 🥳🥳 I hope you enjoy~

Ride On

The local bar has installed a mechanical bull for an extra activity among the drunk and whimsical. One day off duty, you decide to give it a go and have some fun, and it seems the boys are enjoying it just as much as you.

Characters: Captain John Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, König

GN!Reader w/ no physical descriptions (except you're shorter than König)

Word Count: 2.5k (~500 each)

Genre: Fluff, Spice, established relationship

Warning: Spicy (but no smut), 18+/MDNI, awkward dialogue (it’s the cutest thing during flirty time fight me)

A/N: I don’t even write stuff that’s mildly spicy so I hope I did a decent job - also apparently mechanical bulls can do some real damage oh my god???

Captain John Price

On duty Price may be your direct superior but off duty you were more than free to do as you please even in his presence, he had always been clear about that. So he knew you were up to something when you sauntered up to him asking him for permission to go on the mechanical bull in the middle of the bar

He could only stare at your deceptively innocent smile for a moment before repeating the mantra that you could do what you want, his free hand automatically reaching into his pocket for a smoke as you strutted to the mechanical bull. You were going to be the death of him

He’s sure this is what emperors felt like in the days of old. Food, drinks, some very enticing entertainment and Price feels like he’s on cloud nine. Sitting by a table, he lounges back, thighs spread as he takes up the entire space of his seat and then some, feeling like a king as he watches you on the mechanical bull. He does not move, save for the occasional shift as his pants tighten

When you’re done riling him up, Price stays put as you approach him again. He can’t hide the incredible smugness he feels when the hungry eyes of strangers trail you, only to look at him in envy when they realise you’re already taken. He isn’t bothered by any of their stares, he can easily give any of them a piece of his mind

“You’ve got guts, love,” Price huffed out a puff of smoke. He remained seated by his table while you stood beside him, his face directly in line with your torso. His gaze travelled along every line and curve of your body that was so tantalisingly close, he could feel the body heat emanating from you. He stifled the urge to lick his drying lips.

“I did a good job though, right?” You beamed. He quirked an eyebrow at your sickeningly sweet voice. So you were going to keep up this charade, as if your face was only flushed from the physical exhaustion of remaining upright on the automaton and not from being so close but so painfully far away from him. Even in the darkness, he could see how your pupils swallowed your irises but he chose not to comment on it - he wasn’t faring any better.

“Passable. You’ve got two choices, sergeant.”

You swallowed, a shiver travelling down your spine as Price tilted his head down, idly extinguishing his cigar against the ashtray.

“Either you go back on the bull for some further training, give everyone here a sight for their sore, miserable eyes…”

Price regards you again, head up so that you could finally see his full face. Like a man lost for days in the desert, he gazed at you as if you were an oasis. Eyes lit up in awe, full of reverence, yet glazed over in carnal hunger.

“Or we leave this pub and you give me a private encore.”

Simon “Ghost” Riley

The instant he saw the new attraction he instinctively groaned under his breath. He already knew that you, Soap and Gaz will be provoking each other for some sort of competition. He’ll interfere if anyone seems uncomfortable but if it’s all smiles and laughs he’ll just quietly watch on with a mirth in his eyes reserved only for you and the task force (he will make a quip about you lot behaving like muppets though)

That being said, he already knows how suggestive a mechanical bull can look. When it’s decided that you’ll give it a go, Simon can only exhale slowly out of his mask, mentally preparing for an unexpected trial of restraint

He slinks back into the darkness of the bar, one with the shadows. His eyes shine like jewels as they reflect the treasure that is you. He drinks in the sight, committing it to memory. If from the bull you manage to see him in the gloom, his gaze is so intense it can single-handedly throw you off the automaton

Even off duty, he’s good at keeping his composure. When you return to him, you almost mistook him for being completely unfazed by your little stunt on the bull. But his voice is a little gruffer, the muscles in his throat straining with every syllable. He shows his neediness through his presence, you won’t be alone for the rest of the night as he accompanies you for even the smallest of errands

Rubbing your shoulder that was bruised from falling off of the bull, you beelined for the rest of the task force, only to get unexpectedly pulled towards the corners of the bar where the lights could not reach.

“Simon?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as you feel his hand splayed across your spine. He was never big on public displays of affection, he was possessive in that all of his love will be seen by you only. Daring a move like this has you turning to him in concern, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable in the slightest.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“And that is?”

Simon doesn’t reply, not verbally. He takes your hips in his hands, you can tell he’s trying his best to be gentle but his fingertips dig ever so slightly into your skin. Guiding you back to stand just in front of him, you grunted as you felt a hefty weight against your backside. Now that is a big problem indeed.

“Need you,” he rasps, voice so thick with air they were barely discernible words. You allowed him to pull you further against him, a guttural groan escaping him. “Fuck, didn’t know you could ride like that.”

“I’m a soldier of many talents,” you replied. He huffs against his face mask, digging his face into the crook of your neck. “I suppose I could go again. Just, not on the bull.”

Simon’s lips curved into a smile that warped the mask against your skin. His hands on your hips tighten, you won’t be escaping him anytime soon.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

When Johnny’s eyes settled on the mechanical bull, he then took a brief glance at you and his mind went places. This absolute menace is conjuring up a million and one ways to get you on that bull ASAP (with your wholehearted consent, of course)

He’ll do anything, making a dare, teasing you, trying to make a bet, just so he can see you mount that thing. He’s a dedicated man, once he has a goal he’s seeing it through, no matter how many playful slaps and lighthearted glares you give him. He’ll even set an example and go first - he’ll be flattered as hell if he can get you out of all people riled up

Johnny thinks he can handle it, but he’s always overestimating himself when it comes to you. He can’t play off how you’re bothering him as your hips slide forward and back against the saddle. He can only clear his throat uncomfortably and choke out a fake laugh when the rest of the 141 comment on how quiet he’s become

He bit off more than he can chew, he thought he was the smooth one for being blessed with such a sight but he’s finding himself more bewitched by you by the second. When you get off the bull he gives you a feeble punch on the shoulder, trying to act like he’s alright but really he’s completely at your mercy, hovering around you near begging you to give him attention

You didn’t even have time to greet him as Johnny pulled you away from the rest of the task force, down into a quiet corridor of the pub. His silence was unnerving, you asked him if something was wrong but his only response was his lips against yours. When you reciprocated, the Johnny you knew was back with you, smiling into the kiss with an exhale of eagerness into your mouth as he traps you against the wall with his body. His weight against you, it was already hard to get a breath in as he claimed your lips again and again and again. But what truly made you gasp was the hardness that brushed against your thigh. It was initially so brief, you could credit it as a phantom of your own lust, but as Johnny got bolder, it rested permanently against your upper leg.

Now that he made his predicament clear, he reluctantly pulled away from you, just enough for him to speak. His heaving breaths burned against your skin, no more than his azure eyes that bored into yours.

“I got another thing you can ride, aye?”

You burst into laughter as you gave him a playful shove on the chest. It did nothing push him off of you, his smile widening at your countenance.

“Johnny, that was awful.”

“I ain’t lyin’. My li'l MacTavish needs some help.”

“I swear to god I’m leaving you.”

“You know you love me. Now are you gonna help me or no?”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Kyle has a playful streak, when he sees you eyeing the new attraction he’ll approach you with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he slides some cash to you. “This twenty says you won’t last five seconds on that.”

And with that, a light-hearted competition started. Kyle’s intentions were genuinely innocent, he just wanted to have some fun beyond drinking the night away. After you gave the bull a go he was wholly planning to try after you to show you how it’s done - and possibly impress you with superior balancing powers

It started off fun as you laughed at the odd movements of the bull under you and Kyle smiled with you. He’s willing to give up that twenty as you were clearly having fun

What he did not expect was how as the mechanical bull became more erratic, bucking indiscriminately in all directions that the sight seemed more… suggestive. A yelp of surprise from you has him situating himself behind a table, ensuring no one can see the growing issue below his hips

He dares a look at the rest of the task force who are taking in the sight innocently. Soap is shouting encouragements like a battle cry, Price pulls a face that’s a mix of amused and impressed, Ghost offers a single dip of the head in respect and now Kyle feels dirty, guilt mixing with arousal into a sinful concoction that drips down his tightening pants

As you returned back to the task force, Kyle immediately came up behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist, he sat his head on your shoulder, cheek against yours. With his entire body smothering yours, his whole being moved with every inhale and exhale of yours as you tried to recollect yourself after that exhausting ordeal of the mechanical bull.

“Getting touchy’s not going to make me forget about that twenty, Kyle,” you chided with a smile. You hear a little hmph as one of his hands dip into your pocket, resting over your hip bone. He slips the note in but his hand stays there, his thumb tracing over the wrinkles in your pants.

“You looked real nice up there, you know,” he mumbled into your ear before giving it a peck, arms tightening around you possessively.

“Feels like you enjoyed it,” you whispered, voice disappearing as you noticed something firm pressing against your ass. Your laugh came out far too weak. “Is that a pistol or are you happy to see me?”

He chuckled, husky and restrained, too distracted to reply. His hand in your pocket was becoming more animated, rubbing at your skin. Even through the fabric, you can feel how hot he is, only getting warmer as he gets more antsy, his free hand now tugging and teasing at your shirt.

Kyle spares a look at the rest of the task force, clearly distracted with their own drinking and antics.

“Do you think they’ll notice if we leave?”

“... No, let’s go.”

König

König will never ask you to go on the mechanical bull because he’d never go on it himself. Putting on a show for a whole lot of strangers in a pub? Potentially embarrassing himself in front of said strangers, his allies and you? The thought already fills him with dread and he is empathetic to never ask for such a thing from you. That being said, when it’s established you’re more than happy to give the bull a go, he’s not going to stop you

He knew how suggestive a mechanical bull can look but he figured he could handle it; he did not reach the rank of colonel by giving in to every temptation. But he should have known better when it came to you, your mere existence making him feel like he lost all composure and combat experience

Upon noticing the lustful stares of others, König doubles as a bodyguard. He slowly stalks around the bar, using his hulking figure to strategically block the view of you for others. He also takes note of anyone who seems a little too fixated on you, not hesitating to send a glare their way

Once you lose to the bull, he waits by the edge of the ring, taking your hand to escort you back to your friends. He does it both to be a caring partner for you, but also he’s preening as onlookers visibly deflate upon realising that if they want to get to you, they have to go through him

König’s hand was tight around yours, you could feel it occasionally twitch, aware of his own strength and trying to loosen his hold on you.

“Entschuldigung, mein Schatz,” he grumbled. “You wanted the night here, but I must leave.”

“Why?”

König turned his head away in embarrassment, but you noticed his eyes dipped lower for a split second. When you followed his gaze, you took a moment to pride yourself for getting your partner so riled up. It was only broken when he gently took your chin with his free hand, tilting it up - or just anywhere away from his growing predicament.

“It is embarrassing,” he muttered. “You were just having fun, but I am here… needing.”

“Not at all,” you smirked. “I wanted you to notice me.”

“I am always watching you, Schatz,” König whispered. He was getting bolder - or perhaps more desperate - with every word, the hand on your chin moving down to settle on one of your hips. You tilted your hips into his grip and the consequent breath he emitted was forceful and ragged. “I did not think such a machine could be so… crude.”

“But you liked the sight, right?” Your voice was smug as you pulled his face down to be in line with yours. You now had a perfect view of his eyes that were alight with lust, pupils blown so wide you could not distinguish if it was the gaze of a predator or prey.

“Zu viel.”

Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #könig x reader #könig x you #/*avery actually writes*/#/*avery checks the mailbox*/

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noxtivagus · 2 years

Text

hmmm i wna write

#🌙.rambles #T_T how many times do i speak of wants and how many times do i even reach out to them? hdkfajsdfl that said tho i find it interesting how #yk personally for me in doubt there i can find certainty. in silence we can find answers that speak more than words could at times #and we can realize the meaning of life when faced with death #idk all those r pretty obvious in a way bit i like pondering on them a lil deeper n. it's beautiful to me. perhaps rather bittersweet #it's 5 am n i shld be asleep this is likely to be a mess n i'm not gna make any sense hdfkajsdlkfsdj oh my god wtf am i saying #it's in my head the sentiment the sort of color of this thought but i can't write it!! this sucks #i'm a mess rn these r just random musings from a stressed sleep-deprived girl ok #read a belial fic from one of my favorite writers on this site n hdfjalkdfjd OKAY THAT PUT ME INTO EVEN MORE OF A MESS #n so i've been thinking of a lot more stuff too n oh dear my cramps r killing me i am rambling so much at this hour but #made me think about how yk i rlly love characters like that. those that r rather tragic. there's smth so bittersweet abt them #i like a lot of kinds of characters but those too me r really special in a way!!#one time of sad characters i like r those. yk those kind ones #the ones who help n listen n give to others but when it comes to accepting love n something soft for their own self.. Nah #that sort of.. pain is smth that touches me a lot probably bcs i'm similar. i find myself v drawn by it #wishing these characters were real in a way too so i cld. help them in a way. not rlly in a way that i'm responsible for it or its my duty #but. something that makes me so happy is seeing ppl i love. improve n get better. happier. they deserve it so much n #it makes me really happy to even just. contribute even just a little to it. even if i'm not. idk the sun of the sky. not the 1st or fav wtv #even if i'll just be the shadow or the ghost or forgotten n left behind i'm happy enough. w that #i'm crying i shld've wrote this in my notes instead there r sm words in my head that i can't say here #oh fuck #is this one reason why that one song made me so emotional #recently i have been.. denying myself haven't i? hiding. burying my own wants. can't reach out.#i don't fucking understand it's not like i never particularly lacked when it comes to.. yeah? growing up i #no wait it's.. not as simple as that there's a lot of factors i know affect me here. it's a bit overwhelming n.. it hurts.#i can't write anymore here goddamn it i'll write to myself sm words fuck but i'll write them to myself i've alr said more than i should hav #maybe being so used to fiction affected me negatively in a way bcs it seems i can't wholly n completely accept the.. no wait thats enough;;#it hurts but.. i will i absolutely will keep all this to myself. even if it suffocates me inside. i can't. i can't do or. have that #this is a painful realization smth i mentioned earlier's how i wrote the uh. 'reader' YK YH in that story two years ago lmfao 'starlit sky'#& my wol.. my wol is like that. my main oc too. who's basically my self-insert. no way. no fucking way i hate this

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rhaenyraslaena · 10 months

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Duty is the Death of Love Chapter IX

Jerusalem Beckons

Available Here: ao3

“I do not recognize these banners, Eulalia. Might you recognize them because you are the princess that is most properly trained in court etiquette and knowledge?” Marwan reining in his horse in approach to her side is accompanied by a snark laced voice and an inquiring brow raised with curiosity.

“They belong to Godfrey of Ibelin, one of the great knights of Jerusalem.” Though her plain garments of white cotton may disguise her identity as Eulalia of Bethlehem , the growth of annoyance against her features is curbed though she may wish to grant a slap against the skull of her cousin for the mocking tinged commentary. “His banners are very common at court, especially now if he’s made his return from France.”

An utterance of an Aramaic name derogatory in nature for a person of French descent follows with swiftness as Marawn has never held any drop of affection for the nobility of foreign descent that took occupation of the lands upon the creation of the kingdom.

#kingdom of heaven #kingdom of heaven 2005 #kingdom of heaven fanfiction #koh fanfiction #baldwin iv #baldwin iv of jerusalem #baldwin iv x oc #king baldwin iv x oc #penned by khadija #fic: duty is the death of love

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asykriel · 10 months

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Love is the Death of Duty - 13.

® do not repost or translate !

☆ Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Male! Targaryen OC

☆ Status: Ongoing

☆ Summary:

“He is half of my heart.”

War made monsters of them all, but it also brought the two second sons together in a flurry of death, love, deceit and delusion. The story of Aemond Targaryen and the eldest son of Daemon and Rhaenyra, Maegor Targaryen, second of his name.

☆ Warnings: Sexual content, explicit violence, dark themes, targcest etc.

☆ AO3 ☆ || ☆ Wattpad ☆

☆ CHAPTERS: (Prologue) / ( 1 ) / ( 2 ) / ( 3 ) / ( 4 ) / ( 5 ) / ( 6 ) / ( 7 ) / ( 8 ) / ( 9 ) / ( 10 ) / ( 11 ) / ( 12 ) / ( 13 ) / ( 14 ) / ( 15 ) / (16 from now on upcoming chaps only on- AO3 || Wattpad )

☆ Masterlist ☆ || ☆ Spotify Playlist ☆

➸ Previous part

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CHAPTER 13

The air is thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant whisper of the wind. Before him lays the ruinous silhouette of a city shrouded in darkness. Twisted spires and crumbling walls seem to echo the weight of centuries past and desolation.

Moonlight casts an eerie glow upon the ruins, turning shadows into remnants of the forgotten. Maegor moves through the city, as though in a trance, drawn by whispers and an unseen force towards a destination he cannot fathom.

He walks until he finds himself inside a giant castle, standing in a vast hall, its walls adorned with tapestries that tell the stories of his family's history. He walks among the depictions of dragons and Targaryen conquerors, his footsteps echoing in the silence against the marble. But as he gazes upon the scenes, they warp and twist, coming alive with the sounds of battle cries and dragons roaring.

Maegor stops to stare in awe, mesmerized by the shadows of men and beasts alike, as they begin to dance against the ceiling.

"Help me!"

A cry from the dark gets his attention and Maegor forgets all about the tapestries in an instant, his legs carrying him forward until the hall shifts into a void of pitch black, nothing desciphrable, not even the ground he steps on.

Suddenly, amidst the darkness, the same Targaryen ancestors emerge looking like ghastly specters, standing still as Maegor walks in the middle of them. He recognizes Aegon the Conqueror, Rhaenys and Visenya, Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys I.

Then he stops as he realizes he starts passing by his own family when Viserys shows up before him. Next to his grandfather, Daemon, stands tall, his features a blend of that cunning charisma and danger, he knows so well. Beside him, his mother, Rhaenyra beacons with arms wide open, and he can feel the warmth coming from her. Then he sees all of his brothers smiling with the innocence of youth, the laughter of the youngest ones echoing in the emptiness around them.

But there is one figure that stands apart, his presence casting a shadow over the rest.

Aemond.

His one eye regards him with an intensity that Maegor cannot decipher. Their bond shreds through him. Aemond's gaze is full of yearning and love for his nephew, leaving him with a profound sense of longing.

"Qybor." Maegor calls out for him with no avail. The specter does not answer, instead, his uncle, along with the rest of the ghastly silhouettes, turn around, pointing at something.

A silver haired child. Standing in the dark with his back facing Maegor.

"You there, kid!" He calls out to the child, but he remains still.

Maegor moves towards him, placing his hands on the child's shoulders. He spins him around and lets go in an instant, taking a step back, startled at the realization. The same odd colored eyes, the same clothes he wore years ago.

The child is him.

A sinister cackle suddenly echoes through the dark and Maegor's child self starts trembling, running to hide behind the present Maegor, clinging to his side in fear as he buries his face into his clothes.

"Show yourself!" The Prince barks, one hand on the hilt of Nightbringer and the other, protectively covering the boy's ears.

Maegor Targaryen.

The same voice hisses, right in his ear, its tone a blend of mockery and malice.

The Prince turns around, unsheathing his sword to cut to whoever is behind him. But instead of slicing through flesh, the valyrian sword merely swishes through the air.

The darkness around them seems to become even darker, an abyss that seems to stretch infinitely in all directions, a sense of danger looming in the air.

A faceless figure emerges from the shadows, its form shifting and contorting, its features a swirl of indistinct shapes. Long black locks cascade down its shoulders like a shroud, framing a visage that remains obscured. The figure's presence is suffocating, filling Maegor with dread.

You are destined to be alone, Prince of nothing.

The bonds you hold so dear will crumble.

The entity chuckles at him, as it starts to circle around, black locks moving in the air like they have no weight.

The child falls to the ground on his knees, covering his eyes as he starts crying.

"Who are you!?" Maegor shouts in frustration, lunging after the figure with his sword drawn.

It disappears right before the blade touches it, causing the Prince to stagger as he desperately darts his eyes around, searching for the whatever demon came to mess with him.

"Please....help me."

Maegor turns his head towards his child self and widens his eyes in shock. The entity had its shadowy grasp on the boy, long clawed fingers dragging across his cheek. Flashes of Alliandra looming over him and doing the same gesture appear in Maegor's mind, gnawing at his sanity.

You will lose yourself.

The entity speaks, and its voice hits Maegor from all sides, multiplying into mocking echoes, clouding his head and driving him crazy.

The Prince snarls in anger and dashes forward. Before he can reach and save his younger self, dozens of hands, mangled and rotting extend out from the darkness, taking a hold of the boy and pulling him into the abyss as he screams in anguish while the shadowy figure cackles in delight.

"No!" Maegor shouts, but there's no use. The child vanishes and his screams die out, leaving him alone in the dark again.

Oh Maegor...No one can save you from the abyss.

The faceless figure whispers as it appears before the Prince again, its voice mocking a tone of pity.

Not even the one you hold closest to your heart.

"Who the fuck are you! What do you want?!" Maegor shouts again, furious and frustrated and confused. However the more he lets out his emotions bubble to the surface the more it amuses the entity.

Who am I? Who are you, Prince of nothing?

The grip on Nightbringer becomes painfully tight as he readies the sword again until something under his fingers begins to shift, the hilt of the blade starts moving, and the whole sword transforms into a large black snake, coiling around his forearm.

The snake strikes, piercing skin. Maegor winces in pain and throws it to the ground before it slithers away into the darkness. He staggers, just barely trying to stand on his feet as he retches, feeling the venom course through his body. It feels like deja vu, the same feeling when he got poisoned starts to unravel.

Maegor's fists clench, his teeth grit as he fights against the waves of doubt and despair that the entity plants in him with every word.

You will lose everything.

Relentlessly, the voice cackles, and amidst the torment, the specters of his family reappear, surrounding Maegor in a circle.

This time their faces are distorted, their expressions contorting into grotesque masks of despair and gore. Daemon glares at him, his dead expression full of hatred and disappointment, Rhaenyra's once warm smile turns into a cruel sneer, his brothers' eyes become hollow and empty.

You have failed them. You are unworthy of their love and trust.

The twisted images close in on him, their distorted voices blending into a cacophony of eerie whispers of accusation and laughter. The air becomes heavy with their presence, suffocating Maegor as he struggles to break free from their grasp.

Aemond's face remained unchanged, his eye fixed on Maegor, but this time with a cold gaze, full of distance, a gulf that seems impossible to bridge.

Maegor's heart races with panic, his chest constricting with a fear that he cannot escape. He tries to call out again, to demand answers, but his voice is drowned by the entity.

Even Aemond.

The taunting voice continues, its words a venomous hiss that pierces through his defenses.

How fragile the bond that hold you together. How easily it can be shattered by a single touch.

The figure's tone shifts, its mockery replaced by a syrupy sweetness.

He will slip through your fingers, just like water.

A clawed shadowy hand slices through the specter of Aemond and he vanishes like the mist in thin air.

"No! I won't let it happen!"

The darkness seems to press in on Maegor from all sides, suffocating him as the faceless entity's laughter fills the void from all sides. His chest heaves with a mix of fear and anger, his heart pounding like a drum.

"You won't break me!" Maegor's voice reverberates through the darkness, his words fueled by fury mixed with panic. He clenches his fists, the nails digging into his palms until they draw blood.

The faceless figure's form shifts and contorts circling around him, its cackles echoing through the void.

Oh, but you're already broken, dear Prince.

Broken by your doubts, your fears, and your desires.

"I won't let you control me demon!" Maegor sneers, panting as he tries to control his labored breathing.

The entity moves closer, its presence oppressive as it hovers just beyond the edge of his vision.

You can't escape your fate, no matter how hard you try.

The threads of destiny have been woven, and you are bound to unravel.

"Shut up!" Maegor's frustration is boiling over.

You cannot escape the darkness. It is a part of you.

His breath catches in his throat as he grapples with the implications of the entity's words. The darkness surrounding him feels painful, laden with his own doubts and insecurities. He fights to push them aside, to focus on the strength he knows resides within him.

"You're wrong!" He shouts in desperation as he starts running aimlessly through the abyss, trying to distance himself from the faceless figure.

Oh...am I?

A faint laughter echoes.

Maegor curses, falling to his knees from exertion. He heaves, trying to catch his breath until he feels something warm.

He lifts his hands, confused by the sickly wet sensation on his skin and clothes and jumps on his feet.

Blood. Pooling under his boots, pouring out of his palms and falling off his forehead, onto his face as he desperately tries to wipe it away.

The darkness seeps away revealing a vast and torn battlefield, red skies above him.

He gasps as he sees the mound of corpses under him. Mangled men and dragons alike, the banners of his house protruding between them as they pile up in the mountain he stands on top of.

Maegor trips and falls to the ground. Next to him, Aemond's lifeless body, stiff with a horrifying expression. Rotting and covered with flies and maggots.

"No more!"

In an instant, Maegor's eyes snap open as he lets out a scream. His body is drenched in cold sweat, tears flowing down his cheeks.

"My Prince! You have to lay still!" The urgent voices pierce through the haze of fear, and Maegor feels hands gripping his arms and legs, holding him down on the bed.

"No! Let go of me!" His voice rasps with a mixture of fear and desperation as he struggles against the restraints, his body writhing in an attempt to break free.

"Maegor! Get a hold of yourself!" He recognizes a familiar voice as a pair of strong hands grip the collar of his nightshirt pinning him against the bed.

His chest heaves with frantic breaths as he takes in his surroundings, his gaze darting around the dimly lit room. Familiar shapes start to form as his blurred vision gets cleared and he lets out a shaky sigh of relief as he recognizes his bedroom in Dragonstone and Daemon holding him firmly with a couple of maesters next to him. His father, looks down at him with concern etched across his features.

He's not trapped in that horrible nightmare anymore.

"Kepa..." Maegor's voice cracks, and his trembling hands reach out instinctively, seeking the comfort and safety of his father's embrace.

The Rogue Prince doesn't hesitate, wrapping his arms around his son and pulling him into a tight hug. His hand rubs soothing circles on Maegor's back, offering a sense of security and reassurance that helps calm the young Prince's racing heart.

"Shh ziry iksos sȳz, ñuha tresy. Ao gōntan sȳz." Daemon murmurs, his voice a soothing balm that helps chase away the lingering remnants of the nightmare. He never saw him like this, not even when he was a small child, so afraid and vulnerable, begging to be cradled and kept safe.

Something is off and he's not sure if it's all due to the side effects of the poison.

Maegor clings to his father, his breath hitching as he tries to regain control over his emotions. The vivid images of his dream and the sound of that faceless demon still haunt his mind, the grotesque visions and taunting cackle refusing to fade completely from his brain.

"Thank the gods you're awake." Rhaenyra exclaims full of relief as she hurries, coming inside his chambers followed by Jace and Luke as the maesters step out of the way to let her approach the bed.

The Prince nods tiredly, clearing his dry throat as his family flocks around his bed.

It slowly becomes suffocating, every touch, every pat on the back, every sound starts to overstimulate his senses. Maegor's head begins to spin, full of drowsiness and a knot in his neck forms. He feels sick to his stomach as he begins retching, reaching after the bowl on his nightstand. Nothing comes out though and he sinks back against the pillows in defeat.

"The Prince needs rest, he's still feeling the aftermaths of the poison, I'm afraid." The eldest maester speaks

Despite the support surrounding him, Maegor's attention is drawn to a figure standing in the back and waiting patiently in silence. A figure whose presence exudes a sense of calm and understanding, a figure who has always been there, no matter the circumstances.

Aemond.

As his eyes meet his uncle's, Aemond's expression instantly softens, a faint, warm smile tugging at the corners of his lips. A silent message-one of gratitude, of trust, of the profound comfort.

In that moment, everyone else fades away, all of them become background noise as his focus narrows to one person.

"Qybor." Maegor calls out for him, rushing to sit up and trying to get off the bed to reach his uncle. But his body protests and his legs give out in an instant. Daemon has to catch him before he falls to the floor, helping him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Testing the waters, Aemond can no longer restrain his patience and he tentatively takes a few steps forward, pretending to ignore the wary frown of his sister and the sharp eyes of his uncle watching his every move.

"I'm here." The Prince comforts his nephew, his hands itching to get closer, next to his bedside. But he cannot, not with all the eyes on him and the tension in the air.

"Clear the room. I wish to speak to my uncle, alone." Maegor orders without thinking and the maesters immediately oblige even if they throw curious looks before they leave. His mother throws him a look as if he struck her.

"My son, you need rest." Rhaenyra insists, trying to keep the tone of her voice soothing. But there's a pang of obvious jealousy in her heart seeing how Maegor chooses Aemond's company instead of everyone else in the room.

"Mother please. Just for a little while" The Prince looks at his mother with tired eyes, pleading to be indulged.

That's all it takes for Rhaenyra to give in. He's suffering, he's in pain and barely escaped from the grasps of death itself, she can indulge his request, it's her son after all.

"Very well." She sighs and ushers her other two sons out of the chamber, looking behind at her husband with a curious look when he stays behind. Daemon only gives her a silent hand gesture as he's left with his son and nephew. What's he planning?

If he would be in full health, Maegor would argue with his father but right now he has no energy left, neither in his body nor in his mind to put up a fight. So he let's Daemon be.

Aemond is tense, he feels uncomfortable with the presence of his uncle and his ever vigilant gaze, but he tries to drown it out and focus on Maegor instead as he comes next to his bedside. He would want nothing more than to hold his nephew's hand at least, but he knows he has to refrain from such tender gestures when he feels that cold glare on the back of his head.

"How long was I out of it?" Maegor questions, throwing a curious glance at his father who's leaning with his back against the wall, close to his son's bed.

"This would be the fourth night." His uncle sighs tiredly.

He's been sneaking around at night and losing sleep to be by Maegor's side ever since he flew from Sunspear here. Not sparing himself any second to let his guard down or his worries fade and now that he can finally breathe relieved that the younger Prince woke up, all the exhaustion came crashing onto him.

"Hells. What about that bitch" The Prince grits his teeth as he recalls how Alliandra poisoned him. That's the last thing he remembers before everything went dark, her smug smile of victory.

"You don't need to worry about her. She's long gone, torn to pieces."

Maegor's frustration simmers beneath the surface, the desire for vengeance burning within him. Yet, he understands the nature of justice and the cycle it follows. He clicks his tongue in acknowledgment, aware that retribution always has its own ways of manifesting.

His feet tap lightly against the floor as he tests his strength. Slowly, his mind also regains its sharpness, faster than his body it seems.

A sense of panic grips him again as his psyche recovers.

"Saagael! Where is he?!" He grips his uncle's arms as he tries to stand, frantically seeking out his dragon as he can't recall his fate through the jumble of memories before he fell unconscious.

"Calm down boy, he's fine. Come see for yourself." Daemon's calm voice interrupts, drawing their attention. He points to the window.

Slowly Maegor relaxes and with Aemond supporting him so he doesn't stumble, with uneasy steps, he slowly makes his way to the window overlooking the clifftop. Outside, under the moon's glow he instantly makes out the sleeping forms of both the Cannibal and Vhagar. The weight of his chest lightens instantly.

Sensing his rider, Saagael stirs from his slumber and snaps his eyes open, lifting his large head. He shakes off the sleep, the spines along his neck moving with every ripple of muscle as he fixes the window with his sapphire gaze. A low rumble of contentment escapes his throat, acknowledging the Prince.

Ever since his rider fell ill, the Cannibal refused to move or eat, threatening to kill all the dragon keepers that tried to urge him to scrap on something when they came to feed Vhagar. He stood watch, always looking up at the window in the tower. Waiting.

An unbreakable bond that defies physical distance, but not a surprising one, not for Daemon at least, familiar to his own unnatural connection to Caraxes.

Maegor smiles weakly and sighs in relief as Aemond's support helps him return to the bed, their steps in sync as they navigate the room.

"Sit down." Daemon command draws their attention, as he leans off the wall to come stand before the two young Princes.

Aemond raises an eyebrow, giving him a cautious look, but obeys, taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to Maegor.

"After Maegor is fully recovered I want you to return to King's Landing-"

"Prince Aemond saved my life, I won't have you kick him out." Maegor scowls at his father feeling his anger slightly flaring up, despite the fatigue and weakness in his body.

Daemon lifts a finger warning his son to be quiet.

"Let me finish, boy. You will accompany him since you have affairs to settle now, Prince of Dorne. And your uncle will vouch for your claim in front of the Queen and Hand of the King, if he was so generous to proclaim your rule himself. "

"What?" Maegor blinks.

The unexpected direction of the conversation leaves him bewildered. He turns his head to give his uncle a questioning look. Daemon retrieves a letter from his tunic's pocket, tossing it in his son's lap.

"Very well, I'll do it. And if someone comes forth to deny his claim?" Aemond doesn't hesitate. His latter question is obvious, both his mother and grandfather won't support this decision even if it's him who proclaimed it.

The Rogue Prince lets out an amused chuckle that fills the room.

"Well, you'll make sure that doesn't happen." Daemon throws them one more look, waving a dismissive hand in the air before he closes the door to the chambers behind him, leaving the two Princes alone.

He can allow it this time. Throw them both a little reward so that he's certain Aemond will keep his word.

Maegor finishes reading the letter and sits in silence. He doesn't know what to think or say. Uncertainty clouds his thoughts. He's grateful that he finally has a title over something given like his half brothers, but at the same time, with everything that happened he's not sure he wants it. Prince of Dorne, it doesn't sound that appealing.

"You've shed blood and sweat, managed to do what the Conqueror couldn't and now "the Seven Kingdoms" has a real meaning. I wanted to give it to you, because there's no one else more deserving than you, Maegor." Sensing his nephew's conflicting emotions, Aemond speaks first, clutching his hands with his own, now more relaxed to show his affection in the privacy of each other's company.

"For that I am grateful, uncle. I just don't know what to do with it." Maegor admits as he lifts his head to look at Aemond, sketching a faint smile.

"You don't have to do anything. Your vassals will rebuild Sunspear in your name and you don't have to make your seat in Old Palace if that's not your wish." Aemond's touch is gentle and comforting as he cups his nephew's face between his hands and leans in to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"I wasn't planning to. I've come to realize I really hate sand." Maegor chuckles, trying to crack a joke despite the drowsiness and weakness in his body. He rests his forehead against his uncle's shoulder as he pulls him into a warm embrace.

Eventually, his uncle stands up, ready to call it in for the night and Maegor's heart skips a beat.

"Rest now, love. You need to get back your strength." Aemond reluctantly lets go of him, ready to return to his guest chambers before Daemon returns and drags him there himself.

He will slip through your fingers, just like water.

Flashes of his night terror and the haunting image of his uncle's spectral form resurface, unsettling his thoughts.

"No! Don't go, please don't go!" Maegor's voice cracks as he lets out an unexpected shout, gripping Aemond's arm until his fingers dig into his skin. His heart is racing again and his breathing is labored.

The older Prince stops dead in his track, startled by his nephew's reaction. He turns back to Maegor at once, his concern outweighing his confusion and he doesn't hesitate to pull his nephew into a tight, comforting hug. He heard the maesters talking about how poisons can give you hallucinations, he just didn't imagine they would persist for so many days and only hopes they won't be permanent.

Aemond waits, his hold on Maegor unyielding until the panic subsides. He releases him just until he removes his boots and jacket before sliding under the covers next to his nephew, drawing him close.

Maegor buries his face in Aemond's embrace, his racing heart slowly finding its rhythm.

"Your father will have my head for this." The older Prince mutters with a smile at the corners of his mouth and buries his nose in the clump of unruly silver locks.

"You've managed to survive him just fine for four days without me." Maegor chuckles, closing his eyes.

Finally he can let his guard down and let the warmth and comfort engulf his painful body.

"Only because I wasn't in bed with his son." Aemond strokes along his shoulders, easing out the obvious tension gathered in his muscles.

"You've been in bed with me before. Just not under his roof." Maegor mumbles, letting out a yawn.

Exhaustion finally catches up with him as sleep pulls at his consciousness.

Aemond smiles, pulling the bed covers higher on both of them. Daemon can have his head if he wishes so. This is worth it.

"Sȳz bantis, ñuha zaldrīzes."

────────────────────────

Translations:

Kepa = Father

Shh ziry iksos sȳz, ñuha tresy = Shh, it's alright, my son

Ao gōntan sȳz = You did good

Qybor = Uncle

Sȳz bantis, ñuha zaldrīzes = Good night, my dragon

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diejager · 1 year

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a Miguel x f!reader "who did this to you?" Angst fic?

Bittersweet Devotion

Pairing : Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, neglect, canon death, dead wife, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.5k

Miguel’s been distant these days, the world around him coming to a stop. His temper shortened and his patience dropped lower than it was before, but his attentiveness to his work sharpened. He divulged more of his time to the cause, to defend the multiverse from every anomaly that kept popping up in wildly different universes, at the cost of his personal life. Ever since the *Miles issue* had been dealt with (Spots was stopped from ending Captain Morales’ life prematurely, the canon was kept safe and intact, but his parents knew of his identity and his duty to New York and the multiverse.), Miguel shut himself inside the main office, closed off from the wandering Spider-people he brought over to help him protect their livelihood.

Atop his platform, he worked tirelessly, swiping screen to screen in search of any escaping anomalies. He depended on Lyla to help him search and the rest of the community to capture and contain these anomalies before they could be sent back to their appropriate universe, closing the rifts they used to escape. The brooding Spider-Man locked himself in, imposing shoulder peering from the edge of his high-floating platform while he stayed there most nights; days even, he hadn’t returned to your shared apartment in the building. He ate when you, Jess or Peter B. brought food to him, he drank and cleaned only when you urged him to do so.

Staying in his den meant that he rarely slept, the dark bags under his beautiful eyes growing as the days passed. Anomalies appeared left and right, Spiders were dispersed to catch them, sometimes in solo missions, and other times in teams if Miguel deemed it necessary for the anomaly (Green Goblins, Vultures and Sandman were some that were harder to deal with for their volatile attacks.). If you weren’t sent away on a retrieval mission, you’d be working around his office, keeping it clean and usable while he moved around, growling and throwing things as he went.

That’s where things became complicated, Miguel hated meddling and you were often in his space. While he was soft and caring in your shared room (the one he hadn’t been in for weeks now), he was domineering and imposing around the others. His shorter temper meant he often hissed and growled at you, brown eyes glimmering red as he sneered your way. You hadn’t made much of it, contributing his issues to the stress and anxiety he felt while shouldering all this madness. His glares and growls meant little, he was under pressure, but his words, his rants in your face hurt.

His words burned you to your core, the degrading things he screamed at you when you did something that might’ve ticked him off or the insults he’d throw your way when you did something he deemed unsatisfactory. They stung, but you ignored the pain that tore into your heart, the tears that threatened to fall and the anger you felt at his shrugs. You simply missed him.

Didn’t you deserve some affection? To feel the tender caresses of Miguel’s hands on your skin, the loving promises of his dreams and wishes, and the adoring stares he sent your way. Were you selfish for wanting that? For wanting to have your lover back in your arms. Or were you feeling neglected from the time you spent alone in your bed, the faded scent of his musk, the coldness of your apartment and the uneaten and forgotten plates on the dining table? Were you at fault for feeling forgotten? To sacrifice one for the good of thousands. To sacrifice your love for the safety of all universes. Did one outweigh the other?

“Hijo de puta! Why can’t you do anything right?!” He’d scowl at you, talons digging into the metal of his desk. The ear-splitting sound echoed as he dragged his talons to the edge of the table, red eyes brimming with wrath. He seemed on a warpath, ripping into anything he could get his talons in and throwing the things he could lift off the platform. (Motherfucker-)

You skipped around the objects he threw in his fit, ducking under a chair he gripped and swung randomly, over the desk he kicked, and around the cabinet, he swiped at. Every object he used to vent his emotions were light, in comparison to your given strength. He’d complain afterwards about his things being broken and needing fixing, something you helped him with unless they were too technologically advanced for your time. You webbed all the things you could, aiming your wrist and quickly sticking your end to the floating platform when it stuck to the victims of Miguel’s power.

You danced around him, catching everything without getting too close to Miguel. He acted without thinking at times in these fury-filled moments, eyes tinging red and reverting to his more animalistic side. He’d warned you before about staying clear of him, to wait until he calmed himself down and realized the devastation of his office. Then he’d apologize and kiss you in hopes you’d forgive him (you always did, you knew his biology made him different - more violent - than you and the Spiders.). You’d fix the platform up, remake the broken parts or simply forget about it, like the many cabinets he ended up buying instead of patching them up.

Now especially, his tantrums began more often and lasted longer, a common occurrence when it was rare months ago. You couldn’t fault him, you didn’t want to, even if your heart throbbed painfully at his words, shoulders curving under the immensity of his tone and actions. You loved him, so you’d bare him in his best as in his worst.

“Detente- Simplemente detente!” In his fits of rage, Miguel reverted to his vulgarity, spitting Spanish words at anyone he faced. His voice was low and gravely, body convulsing as he swung at the fizzling, orange screens, dissipating under his aggressive gesture. (Stop- Just stop!)

When his fuse popped, he’d throw words left and right in Spanish, the enchanting slur of his Mexican accent turning hellish, slamming loudly like the Hephaestus’ hammer. Along his hit came the blow, the effects following them. Whether they were positive or negative, he pushed on, frenziedly hammering the weight of his words into whoever was the nearest to him. Which, coincidentally, happened to be you at the moment when you climbed onto his platform to relay the summarised report of last week’s missions from every Spider.

You let him ramble in silence, watching him twist on the spot and walk circles before his desk, turning and gesturing arbitrarily at something that wasn’t there. He’s expressive with his love, his spite, his care, his needs and his fury. He’d make big motions with his hands, voice dipping low and sometimes rising high with the pitch of his impatience. He growls when he’s displeased. He roars when he’s furious. He spits when he’s agitated. He smirks when he’s pleased. If not his voice or his lips, his eyes shine with emotion, showing those who knew how to read him how he felt.

That’s why you ignored the sharp nabs at your person, the low jabs at your work and how you dealt with the other Spiders as his right hand, or at your simple performance of his care. He didn’t want your care when he was busy, he didn’t want your soft and soothing words when he was tracking down another anomaly with vehement hate, and he didn’t want your meddling when he was focused on important matters of the multiverse.

He was stressed, and pressure mounted over self-expectations made him lose himself. Down went his tolerance for failure and mistakes. Down went his awareness of his needs. Down went his patience with people and Lyla. Every man and woman would buck under intense pressure, some would break and stop working, and others would submit to the fate of their failures, but Miguel persevered, he pushed and pushed, pulling at the strings he could grasp, even the shortest ones.

“Can you just- Coño- can you just shut up for a second?!” Miguel bucked, slamming his fist into the desk. It’d probably leave a dent for you or him to fix, a hole in the shape of his fist.

You rushed to him, hand wrapping around his upper arm, supporting his hunched body as you webbed a chair closer to him, pulling on the synthetic fibre until it was behind Miguel. You whispered encouraging words into his ear, easing him into sitting on the rolling furniture. His legs shook, falling limp when he finally sat down, back slumped over and head low. You ran your fingers through his hairline, pulling up his wild mane. His eyes were closed, bags the deepest you’d seen, and his cheeks were sunken, near sickly.

A chill wracked your body at his deteriorating appearance, his exhaustion had finally caught onto him. You wanted to fuss over him, to berate him for letting it get this far, but his exhausted figure made you frown and rethink your words. You couldn’t let this go on, you’d have to sit him down and talk to him after you took care of him. You lowered the platform, watching Miguel from the corner of your eye until you reached the lowest it could go.

“Miguel,” you hushed, pressing your lips to his cheek, soft and gentle for his fatigue. “We need to get you to our room, you can’t work anymore.”

He grumbled, feet weakly moving to ease the weight on your shoulders, you wanted to remind him that you were strong and that you could easily carry him back if you wanted, but he liked to keep his pride as the strongest, the boss that people could depend on. You nodded at those who gave you worried glances, shaking their helping hands for carrying him (you knew Miguel wouldn’t have liked others to touch him so casually.) and asked some to run errands for you while you two were busy. Lyla would take over for now, until you took care of Miguel.

“Let me help you, Miggy. Let me take care of you.”

He slept better than night, the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks - months - and was grounded to a week of rest and recuperation. You helped him shower, washing his back and hair. You cooked his favourite dishes, following the Mexican cooking books you had laying around. You gave him daily massages for the aches over his shoulders and back, massing the tenseness off his arms and legs. At night, you’d force him to bed, blocking his access to his office and kissing him goodnight. The sun rose with you, you rode Hélio’s chariot, turning his nights into mornings as you pulled Selena’s moon into the sky.

While he rested, you worked tirelessly to fill in Miguel’s seat, scouring the multiverse for anomalies and sending Spiders to deal with them. You had Lyla run diagnostics and simulations about the chance for future appearances, playing the game of prediction and bettering the percentage after each successful prediction. Peter B. and Jess could help you around the clock, they shared the job you had as Miguel’s right-hand and worked fantastically together when put in charge of it. They were still sent on missions if you and Lyla determined it was too difficult to face alone, they were skilled and had experience, and they would mentor those who needed help. If the case came forward, you would step away from the office and jump through the multiverse, aiding your fellow Spiders to capture anomalies while Lyla took care of the office.

Miguel came back healthier, stronger and more energetic. He thanked you in the forms of kisses and hugs, gratified words and gestures that made your heart warm, flutter like wings. It nearly made you forget all the heartache he burdened you with within the past months. Nearly.

Something had ticked Miguel off, his ragged breath simmering in the air, a steady stream of fury. It burned like the lowest pits of hell, ruled by the cold tone of its god, seated at the top-most throne of the Underworld. Powerful and iron-handed, Hades led with strong principles and meticulous habits, much like Miguel did. His fury and anger were dealt by Cerberus, the three-headed dog of hell, as ferocious and dangerous as Miguel’s agitated state was.

His shoulders shook, waves of unadulterated rage filtered off his back, rippling his sculpted back as metal creaked under his hands. His talons sunk into the metal, drawing lines in his anger-filled moment. He spun to face you with a roar, arms flailing until he faced you. He heaved heavily, shoulders and chest moving as his blood rushed with emotions, eyes dilated and turned deep red. He stalked towards you in all his mad glory, like the form of the Cyclops casting its dooming shadow on Odysseus’ men. Except, unlike his men, who were eaten in a blink, embraced by death in such a violent but swift way, you’d be ripped apart by it, pieces of your being torn apart for a slow and painful descent.

He moved in big, lumbering steps, looming over you, shoulders broad and demanding. He sneered at you, in ways that would kill others but wound you deeply, to tear your heart out and throw it away like old, wilted flowers. The air seemed stuffy, hot and confining, his breath even hotter, burning you when he stopped inches from you. You gaped at him, eyes wide and fingers trembling, something crossed your mind, a flash of emotion that you never thought possible to connect to Miguel: fear.

“Why can’t you be like-!” He started, mind dead set on breaking you down to your smallest, his force slamming into your softer one. Then he stopped, body seizing as if he was shot, but his round eyes told you he almost let himself slip, to let the name slip from his tongue in a haze. You knew who he was talking about, the memories that he related to her, that he was simply mad, but it didn’t ease the pain that ripped through your heart.

“Like who, Miguel!?” You cried back, hands clenching and rigid on your side. Your body trembling with disgust, shock and heartbreak. You couldn’t believe he would bring her up, to compare you to her and voice it out. It hurt; it drove the nail deeper into your coffin, adding another thing over the mountain of doubt and pain.

He just stared, he couldn’t finish his sentence, a starch contrast to his attitude seconds ago. It pained you that he couldn’t even say the words, to apologize to you about what he said. He knew how to run, how to ignore, and how to push things back. He did that well, and now he couldn’t face what he said to you was pathetic.

“Like who, huh?! Like her!? Like Dana?!” Your vision blurred, and your breath hitched as your body crashed down with agony, sadness and betrayal. You shook this time while he looked on with desperation, body unable to make a sound or motion.

“I- no- mi cielo, no- I didn’t mean to, I swear, ” he reached out, hand (his talons had received back into his pads) extending to touch you, to hold you in an apologetic embrace, but you stepped back, unable to contain your sobs. “Mi vida, please. Perdón, no fue mi intención.” (I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.)

You backed away from him, his warmth, his adoration, his love. His apology sounded guilty, dripping with regret and sorrow. He winced, watching you step away from him, regret gripping his heart as he moved to follow you. Every step you took backward, he took one forward, copying you, trying to approach you as if you were a wounded and unpredictable animal, to appease and soothe you.

You shook your head, tearing your eyes away from his teary ones. You fiddled with your watch, opening a portal to your world and shook off your watch. You jumped back before he could catch you, hand extended to you in a desperate attempt to stop you. He wanted to bring you back into his arms, to kiss the tears away and beg for forgiveness until you let him back in, but to leave him, to throw away the watch that connected you to him. It broke him.

He wouldn’t be able to see you unless you wanted to be seen, the tracker in your watch left blinking before his feet, discarded as you had with him; after he pushed you away, tore you down with his words spurred by the moment’s rush of negativity and pressure. It wasn’t an excuse, he knew that, but it didn’t ease. He sank to the floor, raking it with his talons as he cried out, a pained sob breaking out of his chest as he cradled his head, cursing himself for not being careful, for not heeding your winces and frowns, and not taking your heart into consideration.

You fell when you landed in your universe, knocking a few boxes as you crashed onto your side. Your body jerked, cold droplets pouring down on your broken figure as you sat back up on the pavement. You hissed, the downcast atmosphere making your body heave a heartbroken sob, clutching your chest - where your heart would’ve been if Miguel hadn’t shattered it - and falling into yourself. You made yourself smaller, hiding your tear-stained face between your knees as you let the rain shower over you, soaking you down to your socks.

A relationship built on pain, need and desperation was bound to fall. The carelessness of his ways cracked the edge of your relationship, slowly breaking it down into a shell of what it was. You bled for his cause as you bled for your loss. Like Apollo - a caregiver, a watcher of the fates of the people he oversaw, all the good and evil he could do just by saying the word - Miguel loved and felt, he gave and took, but lost it all in the end. His heart was broken and his soul lost over and over, the people he loved and cared for lost to time and fate. Like the Greek god, he loved what he could not have, loved what he could not hold, loved what he could not keep.

As would Daphne’s story, she loved as much as you did, she cared as much as you did, and she hated as much as you did. In love was the god, as Miguel was with you, heart-stopping in every aspect. He stood like a god over them all, tall, broad and caring. But like any Greek love story, yours was as tragic, the hymn of your love left to fester with hate and anger, with regret and untold pain. Run, you did as Daphne had, crossing where you hoped he couldn’t reach you; where you’d be left hidden from the heartbreaking sorrow.

You didn’t know how long you sat in the rain, perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but every moment blurred into one. The once vibrant colours of New York dulled to a boring monochrome, the world was swallowed in tones of black and white. Your limbs felt numb, you could hardly feel the cold, only the drops of rain and the heaviness of your heart in your chest. You could sit here a while longer, to drown in the sensation of the world falling around you-

Then it stopped raining. That wasn’t right, you could see the water crashing onto the ground by your feet, inches from you. Your side felt warm, a calm, soothing warmth that made your body quake from the cool air. You looked to the side and saw feet, big ones. You followed their body, tracing the lines of their soaking pants, to a warm jacket, broad shoulders and to a familiar face.

“Oye, who did this to you?” His voice dripped with worry, a calmness that contradicted his frowning eyes. It was a familiar voice. It was a familiar face. It was Miguel’s face. Your lips quivered, staring at the face of your lover - ex-lover now that you thought about it - with newly shed tears. His eyes widened, even more worried than before as he crouched down to your height, hand running down your back soothingly. “Hey, hey, calm down. It’s all right.”

You wished you could believe his words, believe the softness in his tone and the beat of your torturous heart that missed the Miguel you knew. This one - your universe’s Miguel O’Hara (you didn’t even know you had one in your New York, it felt surreal to your depressed mind.) - was a stranger wearing the face of the person you loved. His face was a carbon copy of your Miguel’s, but softer on the edges, calmer and more… human than Spider-man 2099. His voice was gentler, caring more warmth for a stranger in need than yours has, like a whisper from an angel lulling you into a peaceful rest.

“Vamos, let’s get you out of the rain first.”

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iceunhie · 1 month

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fragility — sunday.

summary: disagreements may often occur with sunday, but the two of you seem to always find a way to resolve it. (or, in which sunday is a little too devoted; lucky for you, you'd never have it any other way.)

notes: sunday character study, reader and sunday are arranged to be married/betrothed; not canon compliant, sunday might be ooc and i do not apologize he must be down bad 💯 reblogs are appreciated ! would love for u to tell me what you think about this experimental fic hehe

Sunday has always been the picture perfect image of control.

It is in the way his suit never has a single wrinkle, save for those he intentionally keeps to exude a more tolerable presence to The Family—and even then, he has always smoothed out every crinkle, every flaw; whenever they wouldn't look. It is seen in the way Sunday fights to calm his voice after a particular burst of his emotions, the way he almost obsessively tends to his plans to make sure nothing shall go awry.

If Sunday is a lone bird flying in the sky, then his control over himself, his conduct of his emotions is the chain that binds him to the earth below. Grounding him oft when he himself cannot.

If his sister is akin to a bird that spreads her wings to freedom, then Sunday shall clip his own, chain them down onto the earth if only to protect himself.

“Six gatherings.”

“Eight.”

However, there are often exceptions to his near flawless aspect of self-control; situations in which back him up into a corner, unable to retort.

“Seven gatherings and no more.” Like now, when you were being—for a lack of a better term—an extreme pain in the neck. Sunday exhales a weary breath.

“You can't be serious.” You frown at him. “Surely they'll be satisfied with six? They don't even care!”

“It would be best if we were to leave no possibility unaccounted for.”

“Sunday, you cannot subject me to any worse horrors other than prancing around being buddy buddy with those two-faced fogeys!”

He snorts at the barb. Trust that you use your rather extensive lexicon to state your mind in the most absurd of ways, most especially in the rather glitzy and pompous Family gatherings you both are required (read: forced) to apply yourselves to. Sunday should really ought to put in a word about it to you.

(He does not, however, tell you that your opinion is wrong.)

“I assure you that you will live. Acting like I'm sending you to your death is an immense exaggeration.”

Sunday drowns your complaints and listens to it with one ear. He knows, and trusts that you would relent anyway, so there was no reason in arguing over it any further.

Because, despite the innumerable ways in which your very existence rattles his, turning his carefully constructed world upside down in jeopardy, Sunday cannot stray away from anything you request.

(it would be blasphemy to do so. a sin he would never dare to oppose. you had that effect on him.)

You lounge leisurely at his personal quarters as though it belonged to you (it would, Sunday corrects himself, it will) and meet his eyes, liquid gold taking your existence in its entirety, as though it would be ripped away from him in an instant. He sees your eyes soften, just for a bit.

You put your fisted hand onto your cheek, squishing it slightly as you sulk. Sunday thinks he's finally gone mad when he considers running his fingers through them. (Would it be as soft as he had dreamed?)

Even with your face scrunched in a grimace, you are as radiant as gems and jade; your emotions splayed out before him like a clear spring reflecting the bright sky. (You are a reflection of the freedom he longs to embrace.) As wonderful as everything that Sunday is not.

Sunday knows your distaste is rooted in your aversion to the feigned lies and the prospect of sugarcoating your relationship as one of duty and not true affection (despite it being the complete opposite, he likes to assume) and being put on a pedestal by others.

But compliance is his owner, and Sunday is its dutiful servant.

“I know you're less than inclined-” Sunday starts to say, emphasizing the less. “-but now, with the Charmony Festival within full preparation, they want to see us there. United, as-”

“-As a happy pair.” you finish the thought with a rueful smile. “Something to calm them down while everything is in shambles. How characteristic of them.”

He nods. Meeting your gaze has always made him weak-willed. Sunday thinks that you could bring him down to his knees in reverence if you wish; he would not mind. “I know it goes against your principles.”

Because you believed in truth, that the chaos that Sunday abhors has a beauty to it he cannot understand; that you were a delightful paradox Sunday doesn't want the ugly claws of his control to grasp onto.

(He does not deserve you.)

“While I would gladly endure any gathering if it's with you…” you start, and his heart makes that familiar leap, like wings flapping in his stomach. “I don't want to keep up appearances to those who only see through the surface.”

“Then you shouldn't.” Sunday takes time to stand and stay seated next to you, if only to feel the actuality of you at whole. “You know better than anyone what we are.”

After all, Sunday sees no use in looking at the gazes of others when you are always at the forefront of his mind.

“...I know.” Sunday stiffens when you lean your head on his shoulder, your head brushing by the wing below his ear. He shudders. “I’m aware. More than anyone else.”

Your voice flutters in the wind like a bird soaring through the sky, and you illuminate his world in a stream of color. This is the most he gets to an ardent declaration of love, and Sunday would be damned if he would not reciprocate in any way.

(He does not deserve you, but you make it a point to disagree otherwise, every time.)

“I’ll be by your side at every step.” Sunday says, lacing his gloved hands in yours as a promise. “You need only be by my side.”

In the present, and even in the future, Sunday hopes. Your gentle squeeze of his hand is the content of your answer.

“I can't really say no to you, can I?”

Sunday chuckles. “I should say the same.”

If his mind is bound to seek control, then his soul is bound to seek your warmth. Sunday thinks this is as it should be. As he hopes will always be.

You laugh. “Eight gatherings it is. Though I suppose in the future it would be even more than that.”

“Mm. We shall hope it to be so.”

“Oh, it definitely will.”

All by his side, where his heart shall whisper your name and where your soul shall be forever intertwined with his.

writing process for this was vv inspired by a tiktok audio that i can't remember the name from but it encapsulated sunday so perfectly my keyboard started typing lol

#mhie's spirals #sunday x reader #sunday honkai star rail #sunday hsr #sunday x you #sunday x y/n #hsr x reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr imagines #hsr drabbles

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freyito · 8 months

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"ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ" ⨟ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴡ/ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ʙᴏʏꜱ

i know i was like just hornyposting and all buuuut i've had such a rough couple of days and everythings really building up. figure i'd sit down and write out my favorite "prompt". hurt/comfort... without the hurt, i guess. too hurt to write the hurt :P. essentially what the boys would do when your feeling down and ask to stay with em, of course. is this what im calling the boys now? yes. its MY fic and MY comfort, i get to choose the silly little name for my boyfriends.

cw: gn reader, angsty undertone, comfort, just fluff, bonus characters!, not proofread

⎯ Liu Kang

You do not even need to speak. Liu Kang can see it. You are hurt, near breaking. You trail behind him all day, head down. You actively seek his touch, small things, reaching for his hand, brushing your fingers against his bicep. You are afraid to say it, and yet, he knows.

That night, before he leaves your room to attend to his duties as Earthrealm's protector, you finally speak up. Those three simple words, so quiet, so soft. He does not hesitate to turn around. He is logical, he likes to think, but you pull him in. Within moments, he is in bed with you, his arms wrapped around you firmly. He presses his forehead against your cheek, and whispers,

"I will not leave you, my dear, I am here. Forevermore."

⎯ Bi-Han

Bi-Han knows you almost better than the back of his hand. However, he prefers to let you wallow in peace. He is afraid of pushing past your boundaries, and as such, he is far more distant. Yet, he worries. He worries with his whole heart. However, he cannot let it show. So he is as cold as ever, in front of the Lin Kuei. Strong, vigilant, unyielding.

Tonight, he does not let you go. He misses you so, and you have no need to tell him what you need. It is tender. He pulls you on top of him, holding you close by the waist. And yet, you still speak. And he listens. His gaze softens, tremendously. He looks as if he may be on the verge of tears. His voice steady, as he speaks, yet his face betrays his tone,

"There is no possibility of leaving you, no, not even in death."

⎯ Kuai Liang

Kuai does not know what ails you- but he must. He must know. You have done well to shy away from him, but he is hot on your trail. He knows that hollow look, devoid of emotion, too afraid to show any. Because if you show one, you show all. He does not smother you, no, but he does question you.

The questions stop at night. It is quiet. He is afraid of pushing you further. So Kuai Liang leaves you alone in the bed, with one last kiss on your forehead. Yet, he stands in the doorway. He waits. You speak. And he listens. All you say is one word. He retreats back in bed with you, pushing you closer to his neck. He runs his hands through your hair, calming you down. To still your beating heart. And he speaks with conviction,

"I am here, as long as you need, forever, if you so wish, my love."

⎯ Johnny Cage

Perhaps, Johnny is too much for you recently. And that's okay! He knows his limits. Yet, he finds himself seeking you out. He misses your warmth, your smile, you. He knows that he can be loud, that he can be a lot. And he's always given you space. Yet that look you hold, it is miserable. And he knows exactly what you feel. He follows you around, as if a lost dog, the entire day. He wants you to have space, but he wants you to say those words.

And you do, that night. Finally, those words escape your lips. Just what Johnny wanted to hear. He's got you wrapped up in the blankets, pulling you up into his chest. His hand rests on the back of your head, gently rubbing his thumb into your hair. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers, gently, almost out of character,

"It's alright, sweetheart, I'm not leaving, not tonight, not tomorrow, not anytime."

⎯ Kenshi Takahashi

You cannot hide that sinking pain within your heart, Kenshi can hear the melancholy dripping within your words. He can hear it in your breath, your actions. How your footsteps drag, how slow you walk. He can see it, too, do not be fooled. You stay close, unnecessarily close, you look up at him with such heavy eyes, you stay quiet. He knows. He is waiting for you to act on it, to act on the voice he hears at the very edge of his mind. He is a telepath, you must remember.

And so, when you speak your mind finally, he is all too eager to make sure you know he won't leave. He pulls you up onto his chest, his heartbeat even, soft, and regular. The moment is tender, and he lets your words hang in the air. Silence covers you two like a blanket, comforting. And finally, as he runs his hand down your sides, squeezing your waist gently, he speaks,

"Do not be afraid to tell me what you want, my heart. I will stay close, I will stay."

⎯ Kung Lao

Kung Lao does not need words to stay by you. Night and day. He is glued to your side, trying to cheer you up with his charm. He does not give you enough room to sulk. He's dragging you along with him, even if it's something as simple as watching him train. To keep you at ease, to put a smile on your face. He is making sure everything he does has that effect.

Yet, you still ask him to stay when night comes. He does not deny it, and he pushes himself closer. As if you were not in his arms already. But he makes sure you know he heard you, he squeezes you, and lets out a soft sigh. There is nothing that will take him away from you, and you must know,

"I won't. Nope, not even tomorrow. I'm here as long as you want me here."

⎯ Raiden

You cannot keep Raiden away from you. The minute your expression is somber, he is following close behind you. He does not ask, or interrogate you. But he follows. He is on the lookout for any sort of thing that could have stolen his light from him. What has gotten to you, what dares rip the spark of his life from you? He does not know how to ask you, he is afraid that perhaps it is him.

But it is not. Your hand pulls him back to you by his wrist as you speak. And he obliges. He does not know what has made you feel this way, but he does know, that maybe even this one night will be enough to bring your smile back. He will stay here, as long as you need, as long as he needs. And he makes it known,

"Oh, my light, nothing can keep me away from you."

⎯ Zeffeero

Zeffeero is on you the minute your face so much as drops. Perhaps he is a stubborn lover, too prideful to admit that he cares deeply for you. But he cannot handle loosing your presence, his sunshine. He wants your attention, but does not say so outright. He will do that little thing with the water manipulation and the shapes to amuse you... without you asking. And when that does not bring the smile back to your face, he does not know what else to do.

His heart near stops when you tell him to stay that night. He feels so stupid to have skipped over that part. But he accepts. He tries to show restraint, however he is by you within a matter of seconds. He places a kiss on your jaw, before hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around you, keeping you close. Just as he wanted to the entire day, and he finally speaks,

"Do not scare me so, my dear. I want to keep you safe, and I'll stay until you no longer want me by your side."

⎯ Tomas Vrbada

Your distance is noticeable. However, Tomas does not act upon it. He believes that you need the space you have put between you and him and everyone else. So he does not question it. However, there is a void where you once were. His world fills with the same emptiness and sorrow you felt at your absence. He cannot help but seek you out in the final hours of the dawn. He is afraid, once more. He does not want to pressure you, so he turns his back to you.

You surprise him with your words, he near spins on his heels, a wide and beautiful grin gracing his face. He makes no effort to hide this. His happiness, his light has asked him to stay, and he would be a fool to deny them such a request. He practically throws himself back onto the bed, and wraps his big arms around you. He presses his forehead against yours, and holds your gaze. He speaks, quietly, softly, and you can even hear his smile in his voice,

"I am here for you, Drahoušek. I always will be. Do not be afraid to come to me."

⎯ Baraka

Oh, how Baraka feared this day would come. You have turned your back to him, the air around you rife with despair. He is not afraid that you suddenly dislike him. He is afraid of loosing your positivity. One of the very few things he has held onto because of his affliction. You make him forget all that is bad within this world, within him. And now, there is an absence. He does not know what to do.

But that night, you guide him. Through his own sulking, your words pull him away. Yes. He will gladly stay. If that is what you want. If that is what it takes. He keeps his distance, still. He will always be afraid of his infection spreading. But he sleeps in the same room. And just before you drift off into sleep, you hear him,

"I cannot lose you. Please, tell me when, and I will be there."

⎯ Geras

Geras has reason to believe the reason you have pulled away from him is because of his absence. Because of him. Human emotions are a strange thing, they are intricate, even more so than the dozens of timelines he has watched over. Oh so suddenly, you are turned away from him, too caught up within your own thoughts to voice what has been troubling you. Perhaps it is the fact that he does not have nearly enough time for you. That is the answer he settles on.

Before he can leave you that night, your pleas make him stop. They make him understand, even for a second. He was so sure you were asleep. And yet, you are awake, asking him to stay. He is unsure what to do. But, he must give his love what they want. What they deserve. So, he leans in, and places a gentle kiss on your cheek. His words follow soon after,

"I will always be here, my duty is important, but so are you. Know this, I am always watching over you."

⎯ Syzoth

You've ran off. And Syztoh does not know what to do with himself. He paces, he fidgets, he waits. He must see you again. But you were so hurt beforehand, and he does not know why. You have withdrawn into yourself, without a word. And Syzoth does not know how to comfort you. He knows you are feeling down, horrible even. Yet, he feels as if he has ran you off. His insecurities well up within his mind as he waits. And waits.

And the time comes where you ask him, you reach for him. Your voice quivers. Oh my, how could he have let this happen. He pulls you in, almost bringing you down to the ground. He wraps himself around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His nerves calm, in that moment. Muffled, he speaks, his words true and clear, if not a little shaky,

"I waited, my love, and I will stay. I will always be here. Every moment, every moment you need me."

⎯ Havik

Havik is apprehensive. He does not quite understand what to do in this situation. With you, his lover, in front of him, a mess, voice hoarse, your emotions addle your mind. He looks at you dumbfounded. He reaches for you, but his hand does not meet your shoulder. Now, you feel as if you are miles away from him. Space. That is what he understands, now.

But, the space he has given you is broken that night. You find him in bed, intertwining his fingers with yours. His scarred flesh does not scare you, as much would believe. His eyes are warm, peaceful for once. The words are on the tip of your tongue, yet you do not need to speak. Havik answers, regardless,

"Finally. Do not run from me like that again, I do not mean to leave you alone."

⎯ Shao Kahn

To return home, where you are not waiting for Shao in the kitchen, it is a nightmare. The worst is the first thing that runs through his mind. You are lost, perhaps. Taken. But he finds you, safe and well. Back to him, on the edge of the bed. He does not speak, but he lets his presence be known. He lays down on the bed, facing you, and simply watches.

Until it is time for you to speak, you look at him with such sad eyes. He is there. You do not have to ask, for you know the answer. But you ask, anyways. Shao simply reaches a hand out to you, and pulls you back in bed gently. Tonight, he can. Maybe not tomorrow morning, but tonight, he can. And he will,

"I will always stay by your side. I am here to keep you safe, do not forget it."

⎯ Shang Tsung

Shang Tsung pampers you, right out of the gate. He hates to see you like this, so sullen, so quiet. It is his goal to pull you out of this feeling. Even if it hurts his wallet. And yet, it seems his plan falls short. He is disheartened, to say the least. Perhaps he might sulk, as well. But he doesn't, or he tries not to, anyways. He simply follows you around, now. Trying to lift your spirits.

And that only comes when night falls, nestled underneath the covers. Shang Tsung is still close. Extremely close. Yet, you can't help but ask, regardless. And he listens. He chuckles softly, and pulls you in for a quick peck on the lips. For a moment, he stares into your eyes, rolling your words over in his mind. His tone is sly, but his words are, for once, kind,

"There you are, my darling. Of course I'll stay. Who would I be if I didn't? I'll stay forever, if I must."

⎯ Reiko

Reiko wants to be soft with you, and yet, he can't find a way through to you in this moment. He does not understand why you've withdrawn from him. Why you are so somber. He decides that it is space you need, not him. So, he gives you exactly what he believes. Yet, he still keeps an eye on you. He wants to make sure you are safe, regardless. Even as you sulk.

You find him once more at the end of the day, laying in bed. The idea of him, of Reiko, relaxing, seems so odd. Yet, he is lounging. He is waiting. So you speak, and all he can do is look at you. He gestures towards the bed, and you do so. Laying down, he holds you close. Properly. His arms wrapped around the small of your back, your forehead against his chin. And he speaks, finally,

"If I am to say no, then I would rather be decapitated by General Shao himself. Do not ever hesitate to ask, you know I will."

⎯ Erron Black

Outlawin' and Gunslingin' is a hard trade. What's even harder is making sure you are happy. And now, you are pulling yourself away from Erron. This mood you're in... he's going to get you to snap out of it, dammit. And he tries. He tries real damn hard. He flaunts off his skills, just how quick and precise he can fan the hammer, maybe take down some poor bird from the sky. Yet, you still look at him, devoid of emotion.

Erron has all but given up until you find him in the bed that night. Somehow, you look more of a mess then before. And he just can't forgive himself for it. Yet, you still ask. He's dumbfounded, really. He doesn't know what to say. But, his body knows what to do. Absentmindedly, he pulls you into the bed by your hand. He keeps you close, yet still leaves distance between your bodies. His hand finds your cheek and caresses it with his thumb. Finally, he's found his words, and so he speaks, for you,

"Ya ain't gotta worry about me leavin', pumpkin. I'll stay riiiiiiight here, long as ya need."

⎯ Takeda Takahashi

You're quiet. You're so damn quiet and it's almost irritating for Takeda. He can't get to you, he can't break through this heavy, melancholy air around you. He's following you around, regardless. He's going to find out why you're acting like this, and if it's because of someone, he won't mind sweating a little. But it isn't. It isn't cause of anyone, it isn't cause of him. It's cause of you. And now, he truly doesn't know what to do. So he backs off.

Until you find him once more, seeking his attention. His touch. His comfort. Takeda doesn't deny this, as you slink into bed, behind him. You tap him on the shoulder gently, and he turns his head back to you. Before he can speak, you ask. The lightbulb goes off in Takeda's head, and suddenly, he feels horrible. You didn't need him following you around like a bodyguard all day, nor did you need the bombardment of questions. You simply needed him. So, he responds,

"Don't scare me like that, dammit. Of course I'll stay, but just... yeah, yeah. I'll stay."

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