#i’ve had this man for 3 minutes and i would burn the world for him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

beneathashadytree · 3 months

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ALL YOURS - VINSMOKE SANJI X READER

Warnings : making out, implied grinding, implied NSFW, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : spicy fluff for my love <3

Word count : 1.1K words

Additional notes : Sanji brainrot go brrrr. Love this man infinitely 🫶🏽

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Masterlist

“Mon dieu…”

The breathless whimper that left Sanji would’ve been inaudible, had they not been greedily soaking up every single noise that escaped his kiss-swollen lips. Pulling back just half an inch, they looked at him through their eyelashes, trembling with effort and loaded emotions as they did.

He looked perfectly ravished, with hooded eyes and mussed tresses of blonde hair. The faint dusting of freckles of his was almost invisible underneath the blush on his flaming cheeks. His glossy lips were parted, breathing out heavy puffs of air as his chest heaved with the exertion. It was true that he always made it a point to say just how badly they’d ruined him, but seeing the results of said ruination always had pleasure shooting down their spine.

Maybe he’d gotten a little greedier over time, because now his hands were desperately clinging to the fat of their hips, tugging them even closer to him. “Easy there,” they languidly chuckled against his mouth, a sound he quickly swallowed into another open-mouthed kiss, kneading their soft skin as he did. Their teasing was all for naught, as they both knew that more was what they truly wanted.

Time was a concept lost to them. After all, this had all started when Sanji had called them to the aquarium bar, with the excuse of wanting them to taste-test a new mocktail he’d made while staying up at night. Since it was alcohol-free, they couldn’t really blame their impulsiveness on intoxication. In fact, even the mocktail was mostly untouched on the countertop, long-forgotten.

But really, were either of them surprised? When it came to their little midnight rendezvous, they never knew if it was going to be ten minutes or a few hours lost in each other’s eyes and entwined with each other’s bodies. Sanji was all lithe muscle and sharp edges and rough stubble, but he somehow carried all the world’s softness and warmth in him. It was no wonder they could barely think of anything else when tangled together.

His tongue was warm sliding against theirs, and his chest was solid underneath their palms. The lingering scent of cigarettes, musky perfume, and expensive aftershave chased after him. Every kiss felt like it would consume them whole; burn them alive down to the tips of their fingers and burrow deep into their chest. Every time their mouths met in a searing chase, he’d push up into their core, their back arching a little despite themself.

It took all the mental fortitude and strength they had to pull away with a gasp, earning a groan from Sanji who looked desperate enough to keen. “You’re cruel,” he somehow managed to whine out, “Mon amour, I’ve not yet had my fill of you—“

Pressing a single index finger to his lips was all it took to silence him. Perhaps as a sort of punishment, they even leaned in to nip at his jutted lower lip, teasing his pout. “Just a second,” they promised him, clambering off his lap before he could protest too much. “I promise I have a surprise for you.”

Smothering a laugh behind their hand knowing the disheveled state they’d left him in, clothes all messed up and so clearly aching for them that he couldn’t even bother to adjust himself, they pranced away to their room to get the box they’d hidden in their set of drawers.

It had been a hassle hiding it from any possible interlopers. After all, you never knew when Nami was about to sell off half their possessions for more cash, or if Luffy was feeling particularly curious that day and wondered if it would sink in the ocean, consequently jumping after it and nearly drowning.

At the very least, they were glad that they had the chance to get back to their sweet man, a forlorn look on his flushed face from having waited for them (what was, in his opinion) for too long. That needy expression of his could melt them with uncontrollable need. They just wish he’d never ever come to know that, or else he’d become insufferable.

Settled back in his lap, Sanji was all too eager to have them ontop of him, a curious look now on his face. “What’ve you got behind your back, my love?”

“A little gift,” they vaguely said, before thinking for a few moments. “You know how you like to wear rings?”

“Not when I’m cooking, but generally speaking, yes.” He hummed, eyes lighting up as he tried to take a peek behind them. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have, ma chéri—“

Interrupting his little rant with a kiss, that shut him up enough for them to wag a finger at him. “I’m not finished yet, you impatient man.” At that, they shifted a little in his lap. “I’d noticed that you always kept your ring finger bare. Knowing you as well as I believe I do, I think I know why that is.” Carefully, as steadily as they could manage, they pulled that small box from behind their back, popping it open with one hand while the other rested over his shirt. “But would you consider changing that now?”

A choked gasp left Sanji’s parted lips, and his eyes had turned large and glassy. The sparkling ring set into the velvet was not just impossibly gorgeous, but looked ludicrously expensive as well. He was certainly taken aback, though they hoped that it was because of him having not seen this somewhat-impromptu proposal coming, and not as a precedent to being rejected.

All that he could do was stumble over his words, his thoughts getting all jumbled up and his heart pounding furiously against their palm. “Is this… are you asking me to—?”

“Marry me, Sanji, yes.” Their laugh came out a little strained, nerves finally getting to them a little. “If you’ll have me.”

“You say this as if I’m not currently and always painfully wanting you,” he breathed out, briefly closing his eyes, before tugging them into his chest. Collapsing against him, they pretended not to know the reason why he’d hid his face into their neck, and pretended not to notice his half-sniffles. “Yes. Fuck, of course, yes.”

“That’s settled then,” they quietly said, surprised to find a lump in their throat themself. All they could do was just squeeze him back twice as tightly, their hands patting his back fondly as the embrace filled every single nook and cranny in their heart with love.

And if they happened to waste a few more hours holding each other so tight lest they break, locking the door to the aquarium bar behind them as they shared tender touches and pleasured sighs that were lost to the quiet night, then no one was to blame.

Taglist: @stories-that-shaped-me @finch-ya @wifeofkyojuro

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 2: Meeting

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Welcome to the second chapter of my rework! Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs, my slap daddy Ange, for reading through this chapter for me!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, objectification of women, age gap.

For the first time in a decade, Daemon and Rhaenyra sit together and talk.

She pours him wine, and he drinks in the first true taste of home he has had since arriving. Ah, Westerosi strongwine. None of that watered-down Pentoshi shit. She snickers gently at his expression, watching him as he swills the dark liquid around.

“Is it to your liking, Uncle?” she asks teasingly, glancing towards the cradle as she has been over the past few minutes. It is truly a miracle the boy had not stirred while they were engaged in their battle of wills.

“Hm.” He smiles wryly at her. She does know him well, he supposes. “It’s good.”

The brief moment of levity passes. They stare into their cups for a time, not knowing how to move forward. It is Rhaenyra who makes the first move.

“So,” she begins. “That happened.”

He snorts. He has missed her brazenness. “Quite.”

He takes another swig of the wine, relishing in the fullness of the flavour as it bursts across his tongue. It is unlike him to be so reticent, but he is unsure of what to say, how to possibly put into words what he is thinking.

When were you replaced by a stranger, niece? Where is the girl I used to bounce on my knee at feasts? The girl I used to race across the skies, laughing? The headstrong, haughty creature that I would have once called the other half of my spirit?

When did you leave me behind, Rhaenyra?

Where his thoughts are trapped in his mind, swirling fruitlessly with no hope of release, hers are not.

“I think it’s safe to say that won’t ever be happening again,” she says, looking over at him inscrutably.

He sighs, finally making eye contact with her. “No. I suppose not.”

He expects she is right. But it burns him to have spent so long wishing and hoping for something that would never live up to his dreams. There is an adage there, he thinks to himself, about being careful what one wishes for. It seems the fantasy he had conjured up would only ever be that.

“I’m sorry, Uncle. But we aren’t the same people we once were. And I think you know that.”

“I do.” He takes in her appearance almost wistfully.

She really is beautiful. But life had changed their trajectories irrevocably now. She had made a family for herself, had become a mother, had become something more than he’d ever thought her capable of—and he cannot say the same for himself.

“Does he treat you well?” He has to ask her; has to know she is satisfied with her life before he can let her go once and for all.

“Which one?” Rhaenyra laughs suddenly, wickedly. She knows he knows of the rumours, it would seem.

It shocks him from his stupor, and he guffaws lightly in response.

“Either,” he says. “Both.”

She smiles, looks over at the babe again. From what he can see, the boy is a handsome one, dark hair and pale skin and as bonny as any babe fresh to the world is.

“Laenor is a good man. He has never once begrudged me Harwin; sees him as part of us, even”—she narrows her eyes at him as he snorts at her mention of the Strong boy’s name—“and he treats the boys as his own. Calls them ‘fine Velaryon specimens’. You’d think he actually sired them from the way he goes on.”

Daemon’s curiosity and a twisted desire to indulge in self-flagellation prompts him to ask. “That’s all very well and good, but how does he treat you? ”

“He’s my best friend.” Her voice is soft. “I trust him—more than I’ve trusted anyone. I love him, and he loves me, though it is not the love you’d expect between a husband and wife.”

“I’m glad.” He is, though he smarts at the boy’s new designation as his niece’s prized confidant. He had once taken that role in her life, after all. “And the other?”

It surprises him to see his unwavering niece colour bright red. The part of him that loves her purely is warmed to see such delight cross her visage.

“He is good to me.” Her grin as she glances over at baby Joffrey again tells him all he needs to know. “He loves me, Daemon—and I love him, too.” It is as though she is beseeching him to understand why she had forsaken him.

He does not begrudge her for finding love, not after the way he’d left her so bereft. That’d be too cruel, even for him.

“I’m happy for you.”

Though it is a bitter loss, he can find it within himself to be pleased for her. He senses she has something else to add, but that she is hesitant to broach the subject. Searching for a means with which to tease it out of her, he continues the line of discussion.

“Say—did I not hear something about the Strong lad wedding our very own cousin?”

He is taken aback when the flush on her cheeks deepens further, and he leans in anticipatorily as he realises he has struck upon the correct line of inquiry. There’s something suspicious about her shiftiness, about the glow of her skin and the way she cannot hold his gaze for long.

No… It couldn’t be—

“How is Laena?” he asks, prodding, relishing the look of discomfort on her face.

“She is… well,” she replies hastily, “and is preparing to welcome a third child.”

He baits her to the finish, knowing all too well the reason for her prevarication. “Ah—I’m sure your Strong man is pleased.”

Had she not reddened in his own company, once? Had she not fluttered her lashes and smiled with closed lips in that kittenish, secretive manner whenever he dared step too close? Had she not been incapable of staring back at him, flicking her eyes to his for a moment before departing, face flushing ever brighter with each attempt? A Rhaenyra in love is an easy thing to spot, it seems, even after all this time.

He goes in for the kill. “What of you? Equally as delighted?”

“What?” Rhaenyra’s head snaps up, her tone startled. “What does that mean?”

“It’s merely a question, niece; no need to get so upset.” He pauses, gives her a moment to collect herself. “How long have you been bedding her, then?”

He can see that his niece knows there’s no chance of hedging. She sighs, rolls her eyes.

“None of your business” she says, shaking her head as he laughs his victory.

He had not been expecting her to be quite so adventurous, taking man and woman both as her lovers. But then, he is realising ever more clearly that he doesn’t know this woman before him.

What did I awaken that night in the brothel? he wonders.

Suddenly, the door clatters as someone knocks, startling the babe in his cradle. He begins to cry, and Rhaenyra sighs as she makes to get up.

“‘Nyra!” a man’s voice calls through the wood. “You decent?”

She is now, Daemon thinks wryly. An hour ago, perhaps not—he’d had to lace her into a new gown after the mess he’d made of the last.

“Yes!” She is already taking the child in her arms and bouncing him softly to soothe him. “Come in!”

“Do you have any idea where I can find Luke? Or your si—”

Laenor’s speech halts as he takes in the scene before him and the guest he has found in his wife’s chambers.

“Daemon!” He laughs, striding forward to clap him on the back. Daemon rises and does the same, looking over Laenor as he returns the greeting. The past ten years had served him as well as they had served Rhaenyra. “I had wondered where you’d gone!”

“Merely reminiscing with my niece.” Daemon glances over at Rhaenyra. She wears a look of fond annoyance, and he wonders if this is the normal dynamic between them two.

“Try the library—she took him for his lessons earlier, remember?” Rhaenyra answers Laenor’s previous enquiry, returning the now-soothed baby to the cradle. “And really, Laenor; do be careful with that fucking door. You woke Joff up again.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Laenor reaches over the cradle to brush light fingers along the babe’s head.

Daemon is struck by how practised the scene before him is. The realisation that he has missed more than he can possibly comprehend settles in further and further with each moment that passes, with every word that is spoken between his niece and her husband.

Then, he catches up to the conversation properly.

He frowns. “Who took him?”

“My sister,” Rhaenyra brow wrinkles. “You know—your other niece? You’re getting old, Uncle. Your memory’s terrible.”

“I remember her, you silly woman,” Daemon says, arms folding. How the fuck am I supposed to know that was what she meant? “Small thing she was, when I left.”

I will miss you, Uncle. Even now, it twinges.

You had always been small—too small, he’d thought as he held you for the first time, your tiny body nearly lost in the crook of his arm. You were a slight waif of a child, calling to mind the stories of magic and mystery from the shores of times past, from the very fount of Old Valyria. You were his ‘fairy girl’, ready to depart the lands of Westeros for your enchanted homeland at any given moment.

Such irony, it is, that it had been he to leave you.

Laenor cackles, the sound slightly deranged as he shares a glance with Rhaenyra. Daemon frowns, insulted, though he’s unsure what part of his statement is the source of the Velaryon boy’s amusement.

“Believe me, my Prince”—Laenor shakes his head sardonically—“what I would give to hear men call her that and only that, nowadays.”

“Oh, stop it, Laenor.” Rhaenyra smacks his arm chidingly, moving over to refill her goblet of wine. “If you keep that up around her, she’ll find somewhere else to hide and it’ll be that much harder to coax her out.”

“Our little princess not enjoying her royal matchmaking?”

He is intrigued by the facet of knowledge gleaned about you, his precious baby niece, his sweetling. Ah, but how like you to find the notice of others so unsettling, to be so overwhelmed by an influx of attention that you’d slip your minders to seek a place of temporary respite. He assumes the conversation has turned to the news delivered in that last letter, of the fact that you are seeking out a husband—or rather, being made to, as it now seemed. Ire tics strident along his jaw, threatening to grind his teeth into dust.

“Oh, do call her that,” Rhaenyra seats herself once more. “One more patronising pet name and she’s sure to ride off on that great beast of hers, never to return.”

Laenor is laughing once again, sitting in the seat at the head of the table and grimacing as Rhaenyra shoves his feet off the table. Daemon’s focus is drawn by mention of a beast. Last he knew, you’d not yet claimed a dragon.

“… and when you’re older,” he tells you, hand engulfing your own much smaller one, “you’ll go to Dragonstone and find yourself a hatchling, or a young dragon, or perhaps even one of the larger ones.”

“Like you and Caraxes?” you ask, head tilted up to him as you walk, seeking his assurance. “You got him when—when you were thirteen?”

He grins down at you. “That’s right.” Warm fondness wells when you wiggle happily at his approval. “And I’m sure that when you’re of suitable age, you’ll have your own chance.”

“But—but ‘Nyra got Syrax when she was seven,” you protest, stumbling over your sentence. Gods, does he miss the way your small self had pronounced ‘r’ as ‘w’, an adorable lisp that had lent unwitting comedy to all that escaped your mouth. It is strange to hear the words so carefully uttered, the slow shedding of babyhood made evident through speech. “And I am—I’m nearly four. So I have t—”

“So you have time, riñītsos.” He grows weary of your slow pace and hoists you up suddenly. Little girl, he calls you, and you are so, so little in his hold. You squeal at the motion, clinging onto his neck with tiny arms. “Don’t go rushing toward the future just yet.”

Don’t grow up, he wants to say. Don’t lose what makes you so precious to me.

“But I wanna ride a dragon just like ‘Nyra!” you chirp in his ear, high sugared voice ringing like a bell. “I want to be like you!”

He laughs, squeezing you to him. “One day,” he promises. “One day, you’ll claim yourself a mighty beast, and we’ll go flying together—how’s that?”

“Yeah!”

Unease blooms like first frost along the back of his neck, raising the hairs at his nape. Is there no vow he has broken to the girl you had been? What must you think of him now? To have found a dragon without him…

He pursues this line of conversation, eager to learn more.

“Yes, an awful-tempered wild thing she’s named ‘Afizar’ or some such—do get her to pronounce it for you, because I cannot.” At his befuddlement in expression—what does she mean, ‘wild thing’?—Rhaenyra adds, “I’m sure you would have seen it coming in on Caraxes. He’s usually menacing the skies at that time of day.”

The goliath from earlier. “That’s her dragon?” he asks incredulously. “The bastard nearly tore Caraxes from the sky!”

He cannot imagine his shy, guileless little niece claiming such a savage creature as her own mount. Perhaps he’s underestimated her.

“Sounds like him.” Laenor snorts. “Can’t believe she got that fucker to follow her here from Dragonstone. The Cannibal, if you’d believe. Nearly killed the King with fright when she landed it on Rhaenys’s Hill. Thought he was going to lock her up for the next five years.”

“He nearly did,” Rhaenyra says. “Except, after the beast ate several Dragonkeepers, the only one who could get him to calm down was her.”

The Cannibal? Seven fucking hells. So few had gotten close enough to see the beast in any detail, so it’s no wonder he’d not recognised the dragon earlier. He wonders idly if he can persuade you to introduce him. To be so close to such a force of nature…

“Well.” Laenor stands, pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of Rhaenyra’s head. “I’d best be off—Luke has training before it gets dark.”

He heads to the door, straightening up his doublet, which has rumpled from the slouch he had been sitting in.

Rhaenyra calls to him as he shuts the door. “Make sure that those boys don’t beat him around like they did the last time!”

He makes an affirmative noise as it closes; his niece sighs at the firestorm Laenor has taken with him as he departed, leaning her head onto the back of the chair and closing her eyes.

He sees now what she has made here, the laughter that has brought lines to the corners of her eyes and the love that pervades the interactions she has with those she cares for. His heart clenches in mourning for the life he missed, the life he will never have with her. They were once reflections of each other. Now, they are strangers, memories to take forth into a new existence. He wants to be bitter, angry, resentful—but he just feels drained. Carved out. Empty. All those years wasted…

“I’d best be going,” he says softly, feet already carrying him to the door.

She murmurs something at him, too low for his hearing to pick up. He turns to face her. She’s smiling at him, though it’s a sad, wistful thing.

“I’ll see you around, Uncle.”

His mouth twists up dryly, accepting the closure as given. She’s beautiful in her wisdom, her maturity, but she’s not his—not anymore.

“I’ll see you around, niece.” He shuts the door on her. On the past.

It is an ending. He can only hope that a new beginning lay somewhere around a nearby corner, waiting to give him a reason once more.

Well—when he said he was looking for something new, he wasn’t expecting it to smack him clean across the fucking jaw quite so suddenly as this.

Daemon spends the next days idly wandering the halls, lost in thought as he considers all that had transpired between him and Rhaenyra. He wars at times between white-hot rage at what has been lost to him and the melancholy of knowing that it—she—was never truly his for the taking in the first place. It strikes him that he might relieve the strain that pulls at his mind and stiffens his joints by frequenting one of his old haunts; but then, he’s not entirely sure he has it in him to sustain his lusts long enough to spill his seed in some nameless whore’s cunt.

A royal gift for the commons to mark my return. The notion amuses him.

Today is much the same—same old bejewelled sycophants looking for leverage with the King and Council, same old perfumed halls barely concealing the ever-present stink of shit, same old serving girls and page boys darting off at the very sight of him, like he is a plague to be outrun—until it is not. The endless monotony is interrupted when he catches the metallic glint of a finely polished breastplate in the sun.

Speaking of shits…

Squinting, he looks across the way to see the staid figure of Ser Cole, Crispin or Colin or whatever his name was. Beating in a knight’s head at a royal wedding wasn’t enough to get the man exiled? he wonders, dubious. The man is standing at the entrance to the garden, staring watchfully in at its occupants, and Daemon can hear the sounds of light chatter and laughter. What the fuck?

Daemon is striding toward the Kingsguard before common sense can rein him in.

“Still here, Cole?” he asks, enjoying the look of thinly veiled vehemence on the Stormlander’s visage. “I’d have thought you’d be an exile after the little stunt you pulled at Rhaenyra’s wedding.”

He relishes in the further lines of tension that spread across his face. Perhaps the only enjoyable part of that day had been watching the knight slay a royal guest during festivities, in front of all and sundry. It was remarkably transparent of him—what man didn’t desire his eldest niece? He wonders if she’d bothered to let him into her cunt, or if he was still pining pathetically.

He refuses to consider the potential that such a thing would make them more similar than different.

“The Queen was charitable enough to advocate for my continued presence, my Prince.” The knight narrows his eyes at him. “Unlike some, I was seen to have use yet.”

Daemon cannot help it. He laughs, impressed and infuriated and enraged by this juvenile upstart from some little-known region of Westeros. Who does he think he is?

“And indeed, you are! A fine guard, truly—of a tree.”

“I am the Princess’s sworn shield,” Cole says hotly before catching himself, reining himself in. The man exhales and returns to that vacant, accommodating stance that had first tickled Daemon with enough amusement that he felt it worth venturing over to have fun.

“How interesting.” Daemon steps closer to the man, forcing him to look up into his line of sight. ‘Tis an exercise of dominance if there ever was one. “I seem to recall you had sworn yourself to the elder one, not the younger; Rhaenyra is safely up in her chambers now.”

For whom else could Ser Cristian mean if not you, his little girl?

In three days, he had yet to encounter you. Always there is an excuse presented via messenger to the expectant ears of the King at mealtimes. Whether it be tutoring, minding your nephews and littlest brothers, or simply nowhere to be found, you are a whisper on the wind, a person in name only. If it were not for the frequent mentions of you made in casual conversation across the Keep, he would think you did not exist at all.

Cole smiles tensely. “Allegiances change.”

Daemon quirks a brow at the admission, not having expected such a sentimental acknowledgement from the knight. A change of loyalty, eh? Well, he shall have to see what it is that has turned Caradoc’s head so. Stepping away from the guard with a mocking little twist of the lips, he treads forward into the garden.

What had long been a place of silent contemplation is now alight with the sound of merriment. A group of young ladies all sit about on laid-out furs, giggling over grapes and sweet-wine. It is an endearing display of girlish delight that would have made any other man smile at the scene before him. Daemon is not other men. Staring upon the scene, he wonders darkly at just how many of them he could persuade to let him slip a hand into their smallclothes, to pry apart their coltish thighs, to wet his cock on their maiden’s blood and hear them scream.

He snorts at the thought. Knowing King’s Landing, I’d wager at least half of these girls have already trysted with some man or another.

He rolls his eyes at the sight of that crotchety old Septa—Marlow, was it?—the very same wretch to have ruled Rhaenyra’s childhood household with an iron fist and stern voice, sitting undercover with a silver-haired girl. At first, he thinks this is you. But upon looking at her closer, he sees the Hightower bitch pasted over Valyrian colouring, limbs too long and spindly, not as comely as your little-girl self had promised to be.

Wrinkling his nose slightly, he realises this must be the smaller one. Helen? Helaenys? He cannot think of her name, and nor does he care to know it. Casting his eye across the landscape, he frowns as he fails to see the form of a second silver-haired girl.

“Your Highness!”

Ah, fuck, his mind supplies. The old sow has seen me.

The hag’s eyes are upon him disapprovingly, and it pleases him wryly that he can at least count upon her to remain unchanged by time. Septa Marlow had never liked him, had constantly reproved Rhaenyra for being taken in by his gifts, his attentions, his flattery. He supposes she was right to be so concerned for her naïve charge.

“You have returned.” She sounds disappointed.

“Septa,” he says, bowing to her, though he’s sure the derisiveness of the movement is not lost upon her. There it is—her eyes narrow, lips pursing as she glares at him disfavourably. The young one tracks the interaction with a tilt to her head, wondering just who had come to disturb the peace of the afternoon. “It is truly a delight to see you once again.” Old cunt.

“Hm.” She turns back to the young girl before her.

No doubt proselytising about the dangers of letting a reprobate like me see so much as a slip of an ankle beneath her skirts, he thinks scornfully.

Once it is clear that is all he will get out of the old bitch, he wanders further into the garden. He smirks in an affectation of gentility as the girls whisper to themselves, staring at him, likely plotting their way into his line of sight.

As he passes the shade of the tree, he receives his first glimpse of you in ten years.

You are laid outstretched on the bare grass in a pretty summer gown of pale violet, so like the gown you’d worn that night, the night he’d left you, and your legs are folded at the ankle. He can see the limbs twine through your skirts, the barest hint of calf and thigh contoured by the dip in the layers of silken fabric, and your wild pale hair—that same untameable mess, artful now where it had been unsophisticated once—spills carelessly in a halo about your head. Your eyes are closed, your smile tipped up to the warming sun, your once-cherubic face lengthened, defined. He tracks the familiar slope of your nose, the arch of newly unveiled cheekbones and plumped lips, a red-mouthed nymphet of a girl become a woman in his absence.

Fucking—fucking fuck—

He cannot stop himself from studying you, tracing the curve of your bared neck—and why is the sight so obscene, gods help him—the spill of your tits regrettably encased in the cut of your gown and the way your little hands clasp together in chaste repose under your bust, highlighting the blooming of your body.

The sight exhilarates him. It devastates him. Who the fuck is this—this Maiden come to life, this princess-shaped, doe-eyed dream of a girl? Certainly not the child he had left behind, for there is nothing gangling or babyish about you now. He is utterly annoyed with himself at having expected some flat-chested, androgynous approximation of that little girl grown up.

He calls your name, and your startled head whips to face him directly. Your eyes open and widen in shock and confusion, a quizzical furrowing of brows disturbing the peace that had smoothed your expression only moments before. You sit up further as he advances towards you, making no move to leap up from your place situated below him. ‘Tis a place for gullible girls with pillow-soft lips and pink little tongues held out in prayer, begging to lap up his milk—but you only stare up at him, an utter lack of comprehension on your face. It is then that he knows, as only a man who’d stolen the virtue of half the ingenues now selling their wares in the Street of Silk could know.

How could he have stayed away for so long when an unspoiled prize such as you awaited a conqueror to snatch her up, to teach her what pleasures could be found in defeat?

How could he have stayed away when you—his littlest princess—awaited your beloved kepa?

“Hello, sweetling,” he says, crouching down beside you.

He feels a vicious sense of satisfaction when your brows uncurl, wet posy-petal lips unfurling into an open-mouthed expression of awareness as you recognise the sound of him, take in the ashen hue of his hair and the long-forgotten features that comprise a familiar face.

“Uncle Daemon?” you ask softly.

Uncle Daemon… you promised. Two images are affixed in his mind’s eye, the you of the past and the you before him now, warping and blending confusingly. It alarms him—excites him—to feel the twitch of his cock in his breeches. How can he debase an affection so pure as the one he bears for you?

And yet—as he looks upon you—how can he not?

Self-reproach stirs in his gut as he takes in the slow-dawning smile upon your face, the look of a little girl who’s favourite long-distant uncle has finally come home.

“I did not know you had returned!” you breathe.

Daemon shifts to sit before you properly, gaze roving. He takes in the tumble of Valyrian-white spilling from your crown, the dusky lavender-bruise of your eyelids, the cinch at your waist and all that damnable skin begging for hands to map its surface.

How did you not know? he wonders. It is surely all the city had been gossiping of since his homecoming.

This is not what he chooses to say. “I did not announce my arrival.”

You nod an acknowledgement, humming gently. Then, your eyes—deep lilac, soft, the same as they had ever been—flick to his. “You have been gone for so long, Uncle.”

A wistful sort of sadness, wrenching, steals the insistence from your voice. All at once, your expression is an echo of the forlorn girl he’d all but abandoned in the chill of evening, wide wet stare and trembling bottom lip and flushed nose, though the present display incites an unnerving pulse of—something—in his lower back, in his groin.

Your words speak to a greater loss than just his absence. Who has taken care of you since I left, my girl?

There is an ever-growing inkling taking shape in the back of his mind that you’ve been as terribly isolated as he has been all these years. Any other possibility seems daft upon reflection. With naught to yourself but a sister and father with their own new families and an old Septa to punish your desire before it is even allowed to spring into fruition, how could you have been anything other than bereft?

“It seems I have.” Though Daemon rails at the injustice of it, of a world in which you had not received every little thing you wanted, his taste for debauchery rules him. Helplessly, his scrutiny falls again to the figure below the face. He spies the hint of a collarbone as it peeks out from under an irritatingly high neckline, the darling swell of tits playing at the game of adulthood before they have been invited to the gathering, the flare of hips shrouded in damnable silks and satins. “You were a little girl when I left. Look at you now!”

At that, you laugh. “I still am.” You smile. “I am not so changed, really.”

He cannot resist but to picture that very same smile, lips wide-stretched and exhilarated as your downy-soft cheek nuzzles between his legs like a cat seeking cream. Little girl, little pet, you could be as guileless as you’d like on your knees, wide-eyed ‘kepus?’ as he tugs his laces undone to reveal his—

Fuck’s sake. He swallows, yanks back the tidal wave.

“Surely not.” His eyes rove again over you, uncontrollable, his hand reaching out to tuck the hair behind your ear before he has truly thought it through. “There’s not a trace of ‘little’ before me, talītsos”—the old pet name springs out unbidden—“but a woman grown!”

The turn of conversation—the turn in his behaviour—makes you uncomfortable. He can tell from the way your shoulders stiffen and your spine straightens, from the way you break eye contact with him and shift away ever so slightly, from the pretty peevish set of your rosebud mouth.

“You know, then? What I have been asked by Papa?”

In this, he sees Rhaenyra—the unwillingness to hedge, the direct line of pursuit—though the uneasiness is new. So too is the lack of delight at the pronouncement; it is the greatest wish of all young ladies to be perceived as mature, coveted, worthy of the attention of men. He knows this from experience. And yet, it seems you crave existence of another kind, a wish for anonymity most unlike the spoiled haughtiness of the highborn.

Strange.

It is frustrating, too, to be countered so early in the game of desire. He’d never had to coax out a maiden for long, the allure of his exterior qualities and his princely title and his roguish charm making even the most pious of virgins a willing whore without much work. He had certainly never had to lead Rhaenyra much, for she was all too eager to follow him to the darkness.

A small part of him is raging at the larger, how could you disgrace her so, how could you ply her with your cad’s tricks, but it is growing ever easier to ignore it. The temptation is too great.

“He mentioned it,” Daemon chuckles at the twitch your eye makes at the knowledge. This is different, a concrete evolution that helps ground him in reality, helps him resist the call of memory and the child you’d been. “Why—are your suitors so terrible?”

You sigh, looking down, twisting your hands in the skirts of your dress the way you did as a child. Like it had been when he’d first set sights on your elder sister, he finds that the comparison is becoming less and less disturbing. A moment to grow accustomed to the idea, he thinks, that is all. Child become woman become lover—it is practically a rite of passage for Targaryens to find their way into the beds of their own kin.

Could I? Dare I? As he stares at you, he finds he knows not.

You glance down at your lap. “I do not thi—”

“Princess!” the Septa calls, interrupting you.

Daemon’s gaze settles on her, the drab crone herself, face like thunder as she watches you both from the path. Her hand is out, ushering you forth. Like a marionette whose strings are being jerked, you stumble to your feet, brush the grass from your skirts—revealing the shape of your arse, and if that doesn’t set off a fresh round of depraved musings—and make for your minder, heeding the call as faithfully as any hound.

Then, you turn back. “Oh!”

You look to him startled, as though something has just occurred to you. You plod back up the hill as if on tiptoes, dainty, dropping to his side. Before his foul thoughts have the opportunity to register such a boon, you press your lips to his cheek, a whisper of “farewell, kepus” and the faint scent of rose oil heralding your departure.

In your absence, his head hurts, catastrophic in the wake of such momentous overhaul. He slumps on the grass, staring off into the distance, disoriented by the revelation of you.

Well. Fuck.

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/105793659

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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2baabbies · 2 months

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skz bingo; #7, she/her pronouns, with chan?? maybe some sort of bookstore meet cute where reader can't reach a certain book that's on a shelf just out of her reach, but chan is a little taller than her so he manages to crowd against her back and grab the book for her?? 👀 I don't mind either sfw or nsfw, whichever feels like it fits the fic best!

my dear, I couldn’t make chan taller for fear of excluding the tall girlies ;w; but I think I still worked it in well. and I hope you like hyunlix, because they’re in the background fulfilling my bookkeeper/florist couple fantasies. I also split the difference between n/sfw with extraflirty!chan, enjoyyy 🫶🏻

🖤 read me like a book (bangchan x reader) 🖤

Pairings: chan x reader, background hyunlix

Words: 1170 (I gave up on the world limit)

Humour + Suggestive (no smut) + Fluff

fem!reader

Request guidelines here!

!!ATTENTION!!

Reposting this fic to other platforms, including as a translation, is expressly prohibited. Do not copy, alter, or claim this fic as your own. Absolutely no permission is given to anyone to post my works, even with credit, and this fic should only appear on Ao3 or Tumblr under my accounts. Reposting is not only plagiarism, but a direct violation of my wishes as the original writer and owner. Please respect writers and don’t steal!

Likes, reblogs, asks and comments are very welcome and appreciated <3

~~~

Felix has been flirting with Hyunjin for over ten minutes, which is only a problem for you because he is sitting on the only ladder in the entire bookstore. The shop owner sits on the middle rungs as the florist leans against the wall and dramatically tells him about his morning. Felix clutches the bundle of white and yellow daffodils Hyunjin brought for him to his chest with a dreamy smile.

Residing on one of the upper shelves, out of your reach, is a new romance novel that you came to purchase. You steal a glance at Hyunjin and Felix, then continue glaring at your target. Now, it was not just the minor inconvenience souring your mood, but the envy of seeing the two men together. You felt incredibly unlucky in comparison to the perfect couple chatting away in the corner. You were tired of reading about romance, and more than ready to find it for yourself.

The tips of your fingers just brush the spine of one of the copies as you try again, and you sigh in defeat. Climbing the shelf would be entirely too hazardous, although you are getting desperate enough at this point to try it. You had been waiting for this book for months. But, as miserable as you were, you refused to interrupt Felix and Hyunjin.

“Hey there,” You look over your shoulder to face the man that speaks to you, “You, uh, look like you could use a little help?”

“I’ve got it.”

The speed in which you turn away is criminal. The stranger is incredibly handsome, and you would be damned if you let the cutest man to ever walk into this bookstore see the smut you were trying to pull off the shelf. He clears his throat gently and you peek over your shoulder at him.

“Hm, are you sure? I’ve got to grab something up there anyway.”

“O-Okay. I-If you wouldn’t mind…”

You are about to move when the man drops a stepstool behind you and springs onto it with ease. He braces one hand over your shoulder and leans in, his chest brushing against your back as he grabs the books. Your breath catches as he hops down again, and you will yourself to breathe as you turn around. You inhale sharply as he does not hand the book over to you, but flips through it instead. He then reads that lovely little page of content warnings- mainly kinks- listed by the author at the beginning of the book.

Your face burns as he hums and casually places it in your hand.

“Here’s your book.”

“It’s not mine,” You blurt quickly.

“Oh? Did you want a different one?”

You clutch it to your chest.

“N-No! I-I’m buying it… for my friend. I don’t read this stuff.”

“Oh, I see,” There is a troublesome little glint in his eye, “That’s a shame. That author is quite popular. Maybe you should give it a try?”

You squirm under his playful gaze. You wish you could just melt into the bookcase to escape this conversation.

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“It’s not… realistic…”

His eyebrows quirk but he looks satisfied with your answer. Felix interrupts the tense moment as he begins leaving the bookstore with Hyunjin.

“Hey, Chan, I’m taking my break now. You got an eye on the cash?”

“Yeah, mate, you’re good. I’ll see ya in a bit.”

Hyunjin gives you an excited wave, which you return shyly, as Felix adds:

“Oh, y/n, I put a book aside for you. It’s behind the counter. Chan, her name is on it.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you,” You murmur.

The doorbell chimes as the door falls shut behind them, and you are left alone with Chan. He kicks up the stepstool and catches it one hand.

“Well, y/n,” He coos in his lovely accent, “I’ll be at the cash if you need anything. Give me a shout if you have any questions, yeah?”

“Y-Yeah, sure.”

He winks and walks behind the counter, settling in and opening the book he pulled from the shelf. You stall for a bit, then steel your nerves and approach the checkout. Chan sets his book aside and smiles as you set yours on the counter. He finds the book Felix set aside for you, and it is the exact same book you pulled from the shelf.

The road to Hell is truly paved with good intentions.

Chan pauses then coyly asks, “I guess you don’t want two of these, hm?”

You puff your cheeks.

“No.”

He chuckles and begins ringing up your purchase.

“Okay, I won’t tease you anymore. You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know?”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

He side-eyes you playfully.

“Alright. Are you paying with cash or card?”

“Cash.”

You quickly pull the bill from your pocket and hand it to Chan. You are both quiet as he makes your change then hands it back to you. You count it then furrow your brow gently.

“Something wrong?”

“Um, it seems… You gave me extra.”

He checks the receipt then looks at your hand as you hold it out to him.

“No, it’s right.”

“You gave me a discount?”

You drop the change in your pocket and accept the book and receipt as he hands them to you.

“Of course. Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pay full price.”

You fluster.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to tease me anymore?”

He rests his chin in his hand and leans his elbows on the counter with a smirk.

“That wasn’t teasing. That was flirting.”

You clutch the book to your chest and duck your blushing face.

“Well…”

He giggles and the charming sound startles you to look up again.

“Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“I-It’s okay.”

“Hm?”

“Uh, you don’t have to stop.”

Chan smiles warmly.

“Only if you like it.”

“I, um, I do.”

“Okay then. Well, I hope your friend likes the book.”

“It’s almost worse when you pretend you don’t know…”

“Well, for the record, I believed you a little bit.”

“Sure.”

“I did,” He purrs, “And I would agree with you. I tried to read those books but they weren’t really my thing.”

“You did?”

“Mhm, like you said: it wasn’t realistic. If you’d like an example of something more realistic though, I’d be happy to show you.”

You roll your eyes as a grin breaks out on his face. Although he delivered the line with confidence, his whole face is flushed like yours.

“I’ll keep that in mind…”

Chan winks as you walk away.

“Have a good day!”

You rush out of the bookstore and pause outside as you notice something sticking out of the book you just purchased. You flip it open to see a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it. You look through the window of the bookstore to see Chan, giving you a fluttery wave as you piece it all together. You huff and cover your face as you stomp away, but you cannot suppress your charmed smile.

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x y/n #skz x y/n #stray kids x you #skz x you #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids fic requests #skz fic requests #bangchan x reader #bangchan x you #bangchan x y/n #hyunlix

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fruitcoops · 6 months

Text

Quicken

Fic O'Ween Day 10: Spellbound, for the Firefighter/ EMT AU! Read First Burn, Spark (rated E), and Kindling & Embers for previous installments! Coops 'n Cubs belong to @lumosinlove, fest header belongs to @noots-fic-fests <3

TW implied past smut, mentioned current medical emergencies

Keep me?

If you don’t want—

Keep me. Keep me.

I can do that.

Remus Lupin was the biggest idiot in the world. And also stupid. And utterly, hopelessly, unbelievably head over heels for the gorgeous lump of muscle and sweet smiles he had left, adorable and asleep, in a Midtown double-wide.

God, he was so fucking dumb.

You better not be on-call tomorrow morning, ‘cause you’re making me breakfast.

His mouth didn’t always run off on him, but when it did, it always did it with a bang. His bouncing knee rattled the broken edge of his seat and made the lady next to him shoot a dirty look across her phone. The subway hustled onward; Remus glanced at his watch and found that time had not, in fact, decided to run backward and that he was, in fact, officially late for his shift.

Shithell.

He wasn’t even given the mercy of an empty kitchenette to slink into after sprinting the three blocks from his stop to the station. “Good morning, sunshine,” Leo cooed with a smile wide enough to be frightening. He oozed the smug confidence of a man who had more than earned the purple smudge peeking out of his shirt collar.

Remus ground his back teeth against the blood rushing to his face and snatched a mug from the cupboards. The coffeemaker juddered a familiar rhythm. Id-i-ot. Id-i-iot. Id-i-ot.

“How was your night?”

“None of your business.”

“I covered your ass for the last—” Leo gave the wall clock an exaggerated look. “—twenty-seven minutes, my goodness. I think I deserve an explanation.”

A prim sip of tea made Remus’ eye twitch. “I overslept.”

“Exciting. You look sore. Sure you’re ambulatory?”

Remus managed to choke down a knee-jerk defense; something in Leo’s glittering eyes told him this situation would not be made better by a description of his rather athletic night. “Yes.”

“Nice hickeys. What is this, a frat house?”

His hand flew to his neck before his mind could catch up. The panic hit first, followed by a chaser of distilled regret. “God—fuck you!” he complained, shaking his hand out as if that would roll back an instant admission of guilt. Leo buried a grin in the rim of his mug and blew steam at him. Remus snatched the coffeemaker up and gave himself a heavyhanded pour. “It was a good night. I overslept. I’m here now.”

“Twenty-seven minutes.”

“…sorry.”

“No, no, this is worth it. Only your lucky-ass self would find the one call-free morning to oversleep.” Leo’s pager (a preference of the chief) gave a light buzz—saved by the bell. He downed his tea in one gulp, patting down his front pockets the way Remus had taught him during his first week. But then Leo paused with one hand on the wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the station. His chin jerked forward. “Nice shirt, by the way. Don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

Remus looked down at himself and spit a mouthful of coffee straight into the sink.

Hey I’m so sorry.

Nope.

Good morning—

Certainly not.

Hey, I’m sorry, I’m stupid and forgot about my shift this morning even though I was on your case about the same thing, so sorry for saying you could keep me and then leaving you in bed. You were too cute to wake up. Also sorry for stealing your shirt.

Remus’ phone dimmed over the open ‘Messages’ app. Sirius’ Instagram bubble had been green on his last break. He let the screen go dark. Boisterous laughter spilled in from the other side of the station and his heart kicked. No, he thought firmly. Sirius’ team. Not Sirius.

Sirius, who probably woke up alone and cold and confused. Hours had come and gone. He definitely hated Remus’ guts by now.

Don’t fuck your coworkers. How many times had he drilled that sentiment into the heads of his rookies? How many times had Moody drilled it into him? Other stations were fair game, open season, free reign, but don’t fuck your coworkers, stupid. And definitely don’t fuck your coworkers stupid.

Remus’ face heated. He forced those thoughts out of his mind. Under his thumbnail, his phone case bent, and he shoved it into his pocket before it could distract him further. The mental highlight reel of Sirius coming apart under him (around him) was no excuse. He knew better. Sleeping with a coworker was a rookie mistake, but this…this was so much worse, because it was Sirius.

It had been so much better, because it was Sirius.

And he had thrown it away. All of it. Sirius would be right not to look at him after this. He’d be right not to want him.

No more thoughts of dark stubble, or spicy cologne, or the clench of thighs around his waist. No more lingering on Sirius’ wayward grins and soft hair through Remus’ fingers, or the steady way his breath puffed over Remus’ skin when he began to fall asleep. If he could just focus on inventory for twenty more minutes—

The siren slit his concentration down the middle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, checking off a last box of sterile gloves before jogging for the door. Leo was dozing in the window seat he had padded for himself a year back and jolted awake when Remus smacked the wall next to his head. “Go time, Knutty, lights and sirens!”

“All EMS personnel, report to rig 6—”

“Inventory?”

Remus grimaced. “Halfway.”

“Why can’t people ever have convenient emergencies?”

“Make sure to send the next flash flood my calendar availability, yeah?”

They took the corner tight, sneakers squeaking on the concrete. The rig crew was already set up for them—Remus loved it when people took advantage of a slow morning—and he snagged a set of keys off the wall hook with a glance at his pager, chucking them to Layla.

“Bravo on 3rd and Central!” he called to her. “You drive, Knutty and I have the back.”

“On it!”

Go, go, go. If there was one thing Remus loved about this job, it was the total inability to dwell. His keel found even water best when the waves were rolling up around them. Stagnancy was not an option. “D-1, Layla, talk me through!”

“Multiple victims!”

“D-4?”

Her expression flickered for just a second. “Explosion.”

“What’s the Bravo tell you?” Seatbelts, stretcher, respirator. The first ambulance was already out—it would be engines next, then their backup squad. He opened his mouth to speak and found Leo already packing burn ointment into the front compartments. “Nice, Nut. Layla! Bravo!”

“Sorry, uh—potentially life threatening, basic support!”

He knocked on the window between the cab and the rear, and passed a thumbs-up through the gap. “Three for three. Keep it up.”

“Remus!”

“Hi, yeah—”

Remus nearly choked on his own tongue. “Sorry, bad timing,” Sirius rushed out. He pressed close to the ambulance, which was the logical and spatially-aware thing to do in a bustling firehouse, but did absolutely nothing to quell the tsunami crashing through Remus’ insides.

“Hi,” Remus repeated, breathless in the surge. “I’m so sorry. I’m so dumb. Last night was—good, it was really good to—um—multiple burn victims, also sorry for stealing your shirt?”

“We can talk later, it’s okay.” Sirius was looking at him. It was strange. Not…not quite desire, but searching. For what, Remus didn’t know.

The engines roared to life. Sirens fractured his hearing. Layla would have them up and running in the next fifteen seconds. “I’ll be right back!” Remus shouted over the noise, leaning out between the aluminum doors to be heard. “Probably! And—god, sorry I left, that was a dick move!”

“It’s fine!”

“Not really! I didn’t want to!”

Sirius barked a laugh. “I’m glad!”

A laugh simmered in his own chest, fighting to get out. He started to speak again (though to say what, he wasn’t sure) only to be silenced by a quick, chaste press of lips on his own. He sat hard on the cold bench behind him.

“Screaming people,” Sirius said. A grin dimpled his cheek. “Go get ‘em.”

The ambulance jerked forward; Remus kept his side of the doors open as long as he could, spellbound, just to see him stand there against the reds and golds of their shared home. The slam of aluminum and steel dragged him from his dazed reverie. He pressed back against the wall and blinked the stars out of his eyes.

On the opposite bench, Leo clucked his tongue. “So that’s where your shirt went.”

The laughter bubbled free, and it didn’t stop until Remus felt half-drowned from it.

#remus lupin #sirius black #leo knut #coops #sweater weather #coast to coast #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #firefighter/ emt au #fic o’ween 2023 #fluff

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johannestevans · 1 year

Text

Tailor's Hands

Romance short. A newly out man falls for a local tailor.

3k, M/M, rated M. Sweet and short, some bantering back and forth, some shyness and sillinness, some cute cats! Featuring Pothos Hearn. Adapted from a TweetFic.

Remember to reblog if you enjoy! <3

Also on Medium / / and Patreon.

---

Davis has been in the closet all his life. That’s what they call it, closeted.

His mother would never have accepted it if she’d known, always hoped and prayed every day that he’d finally meet a girl and settle down with her, and if he’d ever have let on what he was… Well, she’d have died earlier than she did, and he couldn’t bear it, the idea. He’d loved her, truly, he had.

She’s been in the ground three weeks when he first goes into a gay bar. He’s forty-six years old and he feels like he’s entering a whole new world, a new society – no one recognises him, but he still feels their gazes on him, feels late to the party.

Another man his age calls him “sweetheart” when he says hello, slips into the seat beside him at the bar, and a few minutes later his hand is on Davis’ knee, and Davis is giggling, giddy, can’t get over it.

He experiments. He plays.

It’s so much easier than he ever dreamed it would be, no matter that he’s so late at this, no matter that it’s all so new.

Months into his new self, his new life, his new everything – his new happiness, the flower that’s bloomed out of grief, a man walks into his local bar. He’s very popular, it turns out, and Davis isn’t surprised by that.

He’s a fat little tailor, handsome and smooth with beautiful hands, and he always has men in his lap. He’s so confident Davis can hardly believe it. He’s confident, he owns himself, he talks a lot and is so opinionated, and so funny.

He’s good at his work, does tailoring for everyone in town and nearby, and Davis has been working up the courage to go in and ask him to tailor something, anything, just as an excuse to make conversation.

He comes into the bar one night and he’s just looking at him, just glancing the tailor’s way, and he says, “You’re always examining me. Has it never occurred to you that you might touch as well?”

Davis is stock still, stunned by the question, at being addressed.

The tailor pats his knees.

Suddenly, Davis is bright red and burning and trying not to sweat as he says, “Oh, no, I… I can’t. I’m much too big to sit in your lap.”

“Do you think you’re the biggest man to ever sit in my lap? I can assure you, you’re not.”

“I’m too old.”

“Am I Santa Claus?”

“Eh?”

“Am I Santa Claus? Father Christmas? Do I look as if I set a maximum age requirement to sit in my lap?”

“I’m too old for you, I meant.”

“You’re not even fifty, are you? I’ve fucked men older than you, let alone had them in my lap.”

“I… don’t know,” Davis mumbles. He’s not been in someone’s lap since he was a boy, he doesn’t think.

The tailor laughs. He has a wonderfully expressive laugh, and bright eyes, and he wears jewellery in his ears. “You don’t know, is that it? You’ve never sat in a man’s lap before? Come here, let me tutor you.”

“I—”

“You’re not too old for me, in any case, I’m younger than I look,” says the tailor. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“You’re not,” Davis says immediately, but it makes something relieved and a little bit ashamed surge in his chest. The tailor laughs again.

“Kind of you to agree I don’t look it,” he says, “but yes, thirty-seven is right. What are you, forty-six?”

“I… Yes. That’s right. Spot-on.”

“I always get the bullseye in darts, too,” says the tailor, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m ever so cold, though. Come warm me up.”

It’s unthinkable, really. Davis has spent the whole of his life secretively reading romance novels and watching romantic films and it had always felt like something he’d grow out of, wanting to be in the woman’s position in one of those stories. He thought when he came out, as they called it, that he’d shake it off – that he could have the real thing, be with men, that he wouldn’t want to be… What? Wooed? Seduced?

And it is different. Things are different, in many ways better than he might have imagined, so much more casual than he had expected, men with men… But no one has wooed him. No one’s made him feel small and precious and delicate.

It was meant to just be fantasy, just be his imagination. It was meant to be different. And yet there’s something about this, something wonderful about it, that speaks to everything he’s ever craved, every wanted.

The tailor pats his knees again.

He strides suddenly forward, stiff and awkward, hands at his sides, and the tailor’s delicate hands settle solid and warm on his waist, turning him to the side before one palm splays on his belly. He can’t breathe and he feels light-headed at the touch.

The tailor’s thighs, fat and plush but a little awkward to perch on because he’s not a tall man, are comfortable and so warm he could cry. He’s aware of the tailor’s belly pressing against his side, the tailor’s hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, and the hand on his belly presses down in a way that makes him breathlessly laugh. It tickles him and overwhelms him.

“You needn’t call me that,” he says. “My name is Pothos Hearn.”

“I’ve never sat in a man’s lap before,” he says giddily, and he realises he has no idea where to put his hands. “You were right about that, too.”

Pothos, apparently sensing his hesitation, tugs one of his hands up to his neck, encouraging him to touch him there, to put his fingers in Pothos’ hair.

“Your hair is so curly,” he whispers. “And so thick.”

“And that’s just the hair on my head,” says Pothos, and he laughs. “What’s your name, old man?”

“I’m not that much older than you!”

“Mmm, you act older, though,” says Pothos, pouting his pretty lips. “It’s appealing.”

“Davis,” he says quietly: without his permission, the hand not wrapped around Pothos’ neck has settled on top of the hand he’s holding to Davis’ belly. His fingers feel strong.

“Where have you been all my life, Davis?” asks Pothos, and Davis shivers.

“Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but I’m a teaser by nature. I have to.”

“Do you have to, or do you like to?”

“I absolutely have to do things I like doing.”

Davis turns his head to look down at him, and Pothos gives him a smirk, his eyes glittering. His clothes smell faintly of lavender and camphor – Davis has heard him mention it, heard him say he keeps dried flowers in his wardrobe and his drawers, flowers and wood oils. It’s a traditional way of keeping out pests, and he likes the smell.

Davis does too.

“What do you do, Davis?”

“I’m a health and safety inspector, a risk management specialist.”

“Foresee any risks in this situation?”

“I might die.”

“Oh, don’t die,” murmurs Pothos, shifting his hand out from under Davis’ and interlinking their fingers. “I’m enjoying you.”

Davis lets out an involuntary noise, his thumb touching against Pothos’ hand, stroking over the side of it.

“Did you move here recently?” he asks, and Davis shakes his head; Pothos has spread his surprisingly strong thighs out a bit, giving him a wider seat, and Davis almost wishes they were lying down so he could sprawl entirely on top of him. “I’ve never seen you about.”

“I only came out this year.”

“Oh?”

Davis bites his lip, nodding his head, doesn’t meet his eyes, and Pothos leans forward, wrapping his arms around Davis’ middle and resting his cheek on his shoulder. Davis wants to cry, it feels so warm and secure and really quite wonderful, because no one’s ever touched him like this, not since he was a child, and yet part of him aches to hold Pothos’ hand again.

“You’re so handsome,” he says. “And charming. Everybody here loves you.”

“I do have my admirers,” Pothos agrees. “I’m sure you’ve plenty of time to accumulate your own.”

“No.”

“No,” Pothos repeats, seeming amused.

“I just meant— I’m not like you. I’m too old, and I’m not handsome and not pretty either, and I’m… People don’t want a man like me. Inexperienced and that, at my age.”

“How inexperienced?”

Davis risks a glance down. Pothos Hearn looks like he could eat him alive.

“I, um,” he mumbles, and Pothos looks up at him wit his eyes alight, his hands interlinking with one another and coming to rest on Davis’ hip again, squeezing.

“You’ve really got quite a lovely body,” says Pothos. “Jog, do you?”

“I— Yeah. Yeah, I, I jog. And I row.”

“Ah, that’ll be it,” murmurs Pothos, squeezing tighter and making Davis shiver, his knees pressing together. Pothos’ fingers are dancing over the surface of his abdomen, feeling the lines of the muscle there. “You row at school?”

“Yes.”

“You compete now?”

“In the local stuff.”

“Lots of trophies on your wall?”

“A few. Do you?”

“Have trophies? Oh, yes. Several. Not for sports, I’m afraid. I’d sooner kill a man before I ran a marathon – running a marathon might well kill me.”

“For tailoring?”

“Mmm-hmm. I’ve won all sorts of little awards.” His fingers tap against Davis’ waist, and Davis’ breath hitches in his throat. “I bet you’re a lovely mannequin.”

“I’m not handsome enough to be a model,” Davis demurs. Pothos chuckles, looking up at him, and Davis grips at the back of his hair – it makes Pothos sigh in a pleasured way Davis can’t quite cope with.

“Certainly you are,” he disagrees. “But I said mannequin.”

“What’s the difference?” asks Davis, and Pothos’ fingers creep up his side, up toward his armpit, making him laugh and squirm and then feel guilty, because there’s not quite enough space to squirm.

“A model is to be looked at. A mannequin, on the other hand, one touches.”

Davis laughs, feeling his cheek burns. “I don’t think that’s exactly the distinction.”

“Oh, it is,” says Pothos. “Trust me, I’m an expert. You can arrange a mannequin too, move it around, move it here, move it there. Bend it over.”

“You’re going to bend me over?”

“I thought you might bend me over,” says Pothos, sliding one hand up his back and making him shudder again. “But I don’t suppose I can make you do that, can I?”

“I don’t exactly need to be made. That sounds nice.”

Pothos’ laugh is a peal of bells. “Nice,” he repeats. “Is that how it sounds?”

“You can’t expect someone to be all well-spoken and that when you’re holding him in your lap.”

“Oh, I can do. I’m setting you a challenge, darling.”

“You’re the challenge.”

“Mmm, quite right.” Pothos’ hand comes up to cup the side of his jaw, and Davis loses the ability to breathe, feeling it catch in his throat or in his chest or somewhere. Pothos’ hand feels soft and delicate, but Davis can feel the muscle is strong. “Would you like to come home with me tonight, Davis?” asks Pothos quietly, his voice a warm purr, and Davis swallows.

“To be your mannequin?” he asks.

“If you like. I was thinking a bottle of wine and some sex, but I’m happy to pin something to you.”

Davis turns in his lap, stumbling almost out of it as he rushes to straddle Pothos’ thighs. The movement is clumsy, unpractised – there are men who come here who are really very good at moving in people’s laps, sitting in them, are used to it. He’s not one of them. Pothos seems anything but surprised that he’s trying anyway, his lips smirking, his hands sliding down from Davis’ hips to cup his arse.

“I’ve only done a bit,” Davis admits. “A bit. Not saying I’m a forty-year-old virgin, but I’m not exactly— what you’re used to.”

“Oh, I don’t like to get used to anything,” says Pothos, squeezing, his fingers pressing into the meat of Davis’ buttocks. “Variety is the spice of life, I always say.”

When Davis leans in, he hesitates once their noses brush against one another, and Pothos laughs before he closes the gap, tugging Davis down so that they’re mouth-to-mouth. His lips are so soft Davis can hardly believe it, plusher than anything. Pothos nips at Davis’ lower lip when he parts his to let Pothos kiss him more deeply, and Davis gasps in a hiccoughing noise, surprised at the heat and tingle the moment of pain leaves. His body feels hot and flushed all over.

He shifts his position, trying to adjust how he sits so that his legs aren’t as strangely cramped against the bench Pothos is sitting on, but he ends up almost grinding against Pothos’ belly, and the noise that comes out of him is torn out and ragged.

“Oh, the sweet sound of inexperience,” says Pothos musically, leaning in and nipping at the edge of Davis’ neck before inhaling deeply. “I do love noises like that. I’ll have to wring every one of them out of you.”

“Fuck,” says Davis.

“Yes, dear. That’s the plan.”

* * *

That night, Davis lies in Pothos’ bed, feeling as though he’s been wrung out like a cloth. He’s underneath a soft fleece blanket, propped up on pillows, watching Pothos feed his tarantula. He has another cage full of crickets, and he’s taken two of them out with chopsticks to pass them into her.

Pothos had offered to “introduce” Davis to the tarantula, which Davis has politely refused, but he’s interested in watching from this safe distance, craning his neck, as she comes out from her little log tunnel and pounces on one of the insects.

“What’s her name?” he asks.

“Tom Selleck.”

Davis laughs, his hand over his mouth, and he looks at Pothos’ boxer-clad arse, which is tempting him to get up and reach out to touch him even though he’s pretty sure he’d have a heart attack if he tried to have sex again tonight.

He thinks it might be worth it.

“Are your cats going to fight all night?” he asks after another miaowing scream and a thump filter in from the hall, and Pothos glances back at him, chuckling as he puts the lid on Tom Selleck’s tank.

“They’ll stop if I open the door – they’re fighting because they both want to get into the bedroom. Do you mind?”

“No, no,” says Davis. “I mean, they live here – I don’t. I always, ah. I always wanted cats. I just… couldn’t.”

“Why not?” asks Pothos, opening up the door, and Davis watches first a tubby orange cat rush in, its belly wobbling as it moves, followed by a tortoiseshell who seems to be made of muscle.

“My mother was allergic,” says Davis. “I lived with her my whole life. I, uh, I never… That’s weird. Sorry.”

“No,” says Pothos. “My sisters still live with my parents, and my grandmother, too. My aunts. You were her only son?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it makes sense you’d live with her and take care of her,” says Pothos, shrugging his shoulders. He picks up the muscular tortoiseshell when she tries to tug open the wardrobe, and Davis watches him fasten the doors shut with one of those child locks that goes over the door knobs. “She likes to get in and shed on my clothes,” he explains.

“Where do your family live?”

“Brighton, at the moment,” says Pothos mildly. “Until they get moved on again.”

“Oh,” says Davis, but he smiles when Pothos deposits the tortie in his lap – she’s heavy, and she purrs like an engine, falling onto her back and leaning back into his legs. “Pothos.”

“Hm?”

“Would you… like to go for dinner?”

“You’re hungry?”

“Not tonight, well— Yeah, a bit, I suppose, I could eat, but I just meant… Would you like to go out, another night? Or, or I could cook for you, if you wanted. I’m a good cook.”

Pothos looks down at him, his lips softly curved into a smile. “I’m not the sort of man people ask to dinner, you know,” he says quietly, not sounding too troubled about it. He says it as if he’s helpfully informing Davis of a faux-pas he’s made, a small error he hasn’t realised. “Being the sort of man I am. I’m really very fuckable, but not particularly romanceable.”

Davis feels nervous, uncertain. He wonders if he’s overstepping. “Do you want to be?”

“I would hardly complain.”

“Then— Then I’ll do it. You’ll have to be patient.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m not well-practised.”

“Well, that’s alright,” murmurs Pothos, cradling the big orange cat in his arms like a baby and making his way over. “As I said, nor am I.”

“What are they called?” asks Davis, scratching the tortie under her chin.

“This is Marmalade, you’re holding Marmite,” says Pothos. “The other one is Nutella.”

“There’s another one?”

“She’s shy, I’m afraid, not a slut for attention like these two. You’ll have to romance me for some while just to get a glimpse of her.”

“Okay,” says Davis.

When he looks up from Marmite’s belly to Pothos’ face, he sees a blossom of redness in his round cheeks, the skin darkening to show the colour, and Pothos looks like he’s trying to hide his smile, or trying not to giggle.

“Okay,” he repeats, and Davis swallows. “We’ll do that then.”

“We’ll do that,” Davis agrees.

They order in a takeaway and eat in their underwear, which Davis thinks foolishly is saving his clothes until he realises that Marmite has found where they’re folded and is sleeping on top of them.

Pothos scolds her on his behalf, and he looks wonderful doing it.

FIN.

Pothos Hearn also appears in:

#musings #fiction #original fiction #gay romance

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punchdrunkdoc · 6 months

Text

Part 3, Chapter 1

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 (maybe 4??) parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

————–

Part 3, baby! Lets go!

————–

PART 3

Chapter 1

Just over a week later, Calina’s new found resolve to do ‘whatever it took’ was put to the test.

She’d left the house early that morning for a run, after waking well before dawn. She’d tossed and turned for an hour trying to fall back to sleep before finally admitting defeat, so she’d gotten up, shoved on her workout gear and snuck out of the house. Her time was better spent exercising and improving her stamina instead of chasing elusive sleep. She’d spent too many weeks cooped up inside and sedentary - either in Matt’s apartment or in the Widows' base - and she needed to be in better shape for the battles to come.

She checked her watch as she slowed from a jog to a brisk walk on the long driveway leading to the house. She noted the time and frowned - she was minutes off her usual speed. She definitely needed to work on that.

She made her way around the side of the house to the back door. It led straight into the kitchen, where she hoped another early riser had already started brewing a pot of coffee. She was desperate for a caffeine hit before she grabbed a shower. There’d been too many sleepless nights over the past week and she was operating at a constant low level of exhaustion.

It was another thing she needed to work on. She just wasn’t sure how she could banish her insomnia without Matt beside her. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the one they’d spent together at Christmas...

She approached the back door, and paused at the sound of raised voices within. It was still early - and most of the Widows had started to enjoy sleeping late in the mornings - but judging from the racket, every Widow in the house was wide awake, sitting around the table and arguing with each other.

Something had happened.

Calina quickly yanked open the door…and the room went quiet.

Weird.

“What’s going on?” she asked slowly.

“You’ve infected them all with your romantic bullshit,” Yelena replied from her perch on the countertop. “That’s what’s going on.”

“What?”

“I found Volkov’s money man,” Anya said, seemingly changing the subject. She was sat at the table with the rest of the Widows, her laptop open in front of her.

That news was a more effective energy jolt than caffeine. Calina perked up and squeezed onto the bench beside Katya. “Who is it?”

“Salvatore Ranieri. The grandson of a wealthy Count based in Naples.”

Calina frowned. “Why would a member of the Italian aristocracy be funding Volkvo’s faction?”

Anya leaned back in her chair and began explaining. “The Ranieris used to be a big deal, but now they’re a family in decline. Not in terms of wealth, but in terms of relevance - when Italy became a republic in 1946, the recognition of nobility ceased. Salvatore probably spent his whole life hearing stories from his Grandfather about all the influence and power their family used to wield, and now they have none. From what I’ve been able to gather, its left Salvatore deeply angry and disaffected.”

“Basically, he’s a narcissistic man-child with a massive chip on his shoulder,” Katya summarised.

“Sounds like an easy mark for Volkov,” Calina added.

“Exactly,” Anya continued. “Being part of a secret organisation that seeks to manipulate world events from behind the scenes would definitely appeal to Ranieri. There’s also the small matter of him being a misogynistic man-whore.”

“Why does that matter?” Calina asked, not seeing the link.

“A misogynist, with a rumoured sadistic streak and a thirst for control and dominance would probably get off on the idea of ‘owning’ a group of mind-controlled women.”

“Gross,” Inessa said.

Calina agreed. But she also agreed with Anya’s assessment. She wouldn’t be surprised if Volkov had sweetened the deal with Ranieri with the promise of his very own Widow. A man who saw them as nothing but assets wouldn’t think twice about trading them away as part of a business venture.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, looking around the table. Several of the women dropped their eyes and looked away.

Again…weird.

“He’s too high profile to kidnap,” Yelena said. “Definitely too high profile to kill. Misogynistic womanisers are apparently popular with the Italian tabloids - especially when they’re handsome, rich, and party with movie stars. If something happened to him, the press would be all over it and the authorities would get involved. We need stealth for this one.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“We need to get close to him - close enough to clone his laptop and phone, and plant a few trackers - but in a way that completely avoids suspicion.”

It sounded a lot like the missions that Calina used to undertake for the Red Room. It was her speciality, in fact - getting close to a mark in order to steal their secrets, then leaving undetected. Which meant the strange tension in the room, and the lack of eye contact from her sisters, suddenly made a whole lot more sense. “You need me to do it,” she guessed.

Yelena sighed, and nodded. “Ranieri’s hosting a party at his family’s villa next month. It’s our best chance to get access to his private rooms. You’re fluent in Italian, and dressed in one of the tacky Eurotrash outfits that he likes, you’ll be guaranteed to catch his eye. You can do this in your sleep, Calina.”

“But that was before she had Matt,” Inessa said firmly. A few of the other Widows nodded in agreement.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “See?” she said to Calina. “Romantic bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit!” Inessa objected. “You can’t expect her to hookup with some random guy when she’s in a relationship with someone else.”

“No one’s asking her to sleep with him! Just flirt. Maybe a kiss or two. Enough to entice him up to his room where she can sedate him and get to work.”

Calina tuned out the argument as more of her sisters leapt to her defence. It was sweet of them to care, but this was her decision. And she agreed with Yelena. Not that romance was bullshit…but that there was no room for it here. The mission came first. Bringing down Volkov came first. She’d resolved to do whatever was necessary to gain her freedom and return to her life with Matt.

And this was necessary.

Besides, in the grand scheme of things, it was a small sacrifice to make. It would be a relatively low-stakes mission. A simple honey trap, similar to dozens that she’d pulled off in the past.

“Maybe it’ll be good for her,” Yelena said, her arms crossed and an obstinate expression on her face. “She fell too hard and too fast for Murdock. A little distance would do her good.”

“Love is not a potato, Yelena,” Inessa objected.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Its a proverb. ‘Love is not a potato, you can’t just throw it out of the window’.”

Yelena groaned. “Not you too! We get enough of those asinine sayings from Calina.”

“I’ll do it,” Calina said, ignoring Yelena’s jibe.

“What?” Inessa said.

“Are you sure?” Katya asked quietly.

“Yes,” she answered. “This is our best - our only - lead at the moment, correct?” she asked the wider group.

“Yes,” Anya and Yelena responded at the same time.

“Then let’s see where it takes us.”

———

One month later…

Matt jogged up the stairs of his apartment building, checking the readout on his watch as he did so.

3:22pm.

Plenty of time.

The meeting was in an hour and it wouldn’t take long for Matt to grab the file from his apartment and make it back to the office. Karen had offered to get it, but it was Matt’s fault for forgetting it in the first place, so he’d made the trip. His friends were bending over backwards to be nice to him these days, but he didn’t want to take advantage of their sympathy. He just wanted to get on with his job. Do his part for the firm, and keep himself busy.

Keep himself distracted, as much as possible.

His life had pretty much returned to the way it was before Calina had entered it. He worked all hours of the day. He suited up and patrolled the city at night. He went for drinks with his friends - he’d even played fifth wheel during a double date with Karen, David, Foggy and Marcie. He was living his life day-to-day, just trying to get by.

But all the while…he missed her.

Her absence was a constant. A low level discomfort, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. A forgotten word on the tip of the tongue. An ache in a phantom limb.

He tried to hide it from his friends. He tried to plaster over that feeling of loss with his diligence at work and his willingness to be sociable…but they saw through it, of course.

Hence, the sympathy and kindness.

“Guten tag, Matias.”

Matt slowed his brisk walk through the foyer to return the old woman’s greeting. “Afternoon, Mrs. Schneider.”

She paused in the act of unlocking her front door and rattled off a series of words in German. Matt only caught one of them: ‘Calina’.

He sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know where she is. And I don’t know when she’ll be back,” he responded, figuring one of those statements would answer her question.

And it was the truth. He didn’t know where she was. Or what she was doing. How close she and her team were to gaining their freedom, or if she was safe…

He didn’t know anything, because he hadn’t heard from her in over a month.

39 days to be precise.

He was back to counting again.

New Years Eve had come and gone without her. As 2017 had ticked into 2018, a part of him had held out hope that she would appear. That he’d get another surprise visit, like the one at Christmas.

Valentine’s Day was just around the corner, and that same hopeful part wondered if he would see her then.

As if they could punctuate this separation by marking the holidays.

It was a foolish thought, but it kept him going. The slim hope of seeing her - even if only for a night or just a few hours - helped him get through each passing day. And he knew that when February 14th came and went without her, he would pin his hopes on the next big occasion, whatever that was.

Probably St Patrick’s Day. The most romantic day of the year. She was bound to show up for that.

Matt huffed out a laugh at the sarcastic thought, and Mrs Schneider gave him a questioning look. He shook his head. “Its nothing. Enjoy the rest of your day.” He gave her a small wave goodbye, and made his way to the elevator bank.

Just as he reached his floor, his phone rang.

The phone rang. The burner that Calina had given him.

He almost dropped the device as he fumbled in his pockets for it. He carried it everywhere and always made sure it was fully charged, but it had remained silent and inert all this time.

He quickly flipped it open, his heart hammering in fear. “Calina? Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

He froze in the middle of the corridor, the handset pressed tight against his ear as he tried to pick up a sound from the other end.

But there was nothing. Not even the gentle rasp of her breathing. “Calina?” he called again. “Are you there? Talk to me, sweetheart. Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

There was a faint click, as if she’d unmuted her speaker. Then she spoke, her voice small and hesitant. “N-No. I just…I just needed to hear your voice.”

Matt exhaled, his breath shaking with relief that she was okay.

Well…at least not in immediate danger. She didn’t seem okay. At all.

“What’s wrong, Callie?” he asked softly. He hadn’t heard her sound so despondent since the aftermath of the serum when she’d been a shell of her true self. And the fact that she was calling at all - when she’d been so adamant that their conversations could be monitored and tracked - scared him.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” she finally answered after another few moments of silence.

But he didn’t believe her. Matt strained to hear what was going on in the background - to give him some clue as to where she was and what she was doing. He could detect her muffled steps as she paced barefoot on a carpet. There was the faint sound of traffic in the background, and a TV was on nearby - broadcasting a woman talking…in Italian?

Then a series of brisk knocks rang out in the silence between them. Calina gasped softly. “I have to go-”

“No, wait! Calina-”

“I love you,” she whispered quickly. Then hung up.

Matt quickly called her back the call went straight to voicemail. He flipped the phone closed with a curse and clenched the device with his hand, his grip so tight that the plastic casing started to creak.

He exhaled, and forced himself to relax - he couldn’t risk damaging his one connection to her.

He slowly and deliberately stowed the phone back in his pocket and took a few more deep breaths to try to calm his racing heart.

But it didn’t work.

The simmering frustration of the past few weeks boiled over. The agony of knowing Calina was out there somewhere hurting but that he couldn’t help her - and he didn’t even know what was wrong - suddenly spiked. He let out a primal yell and punched the solid wood of his door.

He punched until he felt the skin split over his knuckles. Until the jolt of the impacts ricocheted through his bones.

Until his cries turned hoarse, and he collapsed to his knees in the empty hallway.

———

Calina quickly snapped the phone closed and stashed it in her luggage. “Yes?” she called out to the person on the other side of the door.

It was Katya. “You almost ready?”

Calina glanced in the mirror. Her tears had bled mascara down her cheeks and her nervous lip-biting had worn away the siren-red lipstick.

She sighed. “I need another twenty minutes,” she replied.

“Got it. I’ll let the others know.”

Calina grabbed a wipe from her kit and scrubbed her face clean, then started re-applying her makeup.

She needed to look flawless.

Tonight was the culmination of weeks of hard work researching Salvatore Ranieri and honing the perfect cover to lure him into a trap.

She’d quickly determined that she needed to invent a persona that would tempt the playboy enough for a night, but not entice him so much that he’d go looking for her afterwards. And given that Salvatore was notoriously xenophobic - and looked down on anyone who was not Italian - she’d decided to create someone who was able to speak his language, but not be from Italy. Someone attractive and fun, with a common language, but a background that wouldn’t appeal to him long term.

So she’d created Eliise Kask, a nouveau-rich ‘It girl' from Croatia - a country that boasted a minority Italian-speaking population.

During the weeks of preparation, she’d thought about everything. Every possible conversation starter. Every dress choice. The colour of her hair and the exact level of gaudiness of her jewellery. How to get him up to his room, and how to administer the drug that would knock him out.

But she’d never thought about how this moment would feel. She’d never thought about how it would affect her to be back in this situation, using her looks and body to trick a man - just like she’d been forced to do for years under the Red Room’s control.

Even though this time it was her choice, and it was for a good cause, and Ranieri was by all accounts a horrible human being…the justifications didn’t seem to help.

She felt sick to her stomach.

She hated the idea that she was doing this again. That she was right back in this position, after months of supposed freedom. That she was back pretending and manipulating, when all she wanted to do was be herself.

And be with Matt.

It had all hit her at once - the unfairness of the situation; the anger at having to do this mission; the self-loathing it was causing and the overwhelming homesickness for New York and the life she’d tried to build there. It had led her to break down in tears.

And in that moment of weakness, she’d called Matt.

She’d needed to hear his voice. She’d needed a tangible reminder of why she was putting herself through this. She’d needed his strength to help shore up her own.

But it had backfired.

Because now - on top of everything else she was feeling - she had the added guilt of betraying the man she loved.

She’d managed to avoid that aspect of the mission over the past month. She’d convinced herself that what she would have to do as Eliise Kask would have no bearing on her relationship with Matt. Because it would be Eliise getting close to Ranieri - not Calina.

But that reasoning wasn’t working for her anymore.

Right now, in this hotel room, in the centre of Naples, an hour away from entering Salvatore’s party, the guilt and shame was suddenly overwhelming.

She was dressed for another man, about to go flirt with another man, and possibly kiss another man…and she was so scared that Matt would hate her for it.

Because she hated herself.

She dropped her lipstick, put her hands on the countertop and leaned forward to stare at her reflection in the mirror. She let all the contempt and disgust show in her eyes. She let herself feel every drop of it. She let it course through her veins like acid, until she felt nauseous with it.

Then she buried it.

She forced it down deep, swallowing it with the bile burning the back of her throat…and smiled.

It was a wide, vacuous smile. It was Eliise Kask’s smile.

Because that’s who she needed to be tonight.

Calina didn’t matter. Calina’s thoughts and feelings didn’t matter. This mission was more important. They needed to get to Ranieri, because he would lead them to Volkov. And getting Volkov was the number one priority.

It took precedence over everything else.

Even her relationship with Matt.

That thought felt disloyal, but it was true. Because there could never be a relationship as long as Volkov was still out there.

So she needed to suck it up, and get this done.

Whatever it took.

Katya called through the door again. “You good to go, Calina?”

Calina blotted her lipstick, the siren-red back in place. “Yes,” she replied, no hesitation this time.

She slipped into her heels, picked up her clutch with the tranquillising drug safely inside, and fluffed up her hair. Then she opened the door and greeted her friend. “Let’s get this bastard.”

————–

CHAPTER 2

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piratefalls · 1 year

Text

i've been back on my leverage bullshit for a hot minute now. in my effort to put off watching the season 2 finale of redemption (because watching the finale means the wait for a season 3 announcement has finally arrived and i'm not emotionally prepared for that) i dove deep into ao3.

parker/hardison/eliot

The Two Weddings Job by HugeAlienPie

A year later, Sophie and Nate finally remember to get married. Looks like Eliot beat them to the punch.

The De-Pantsing of Alec Hardison by lynne_monstr

Hardison was used to fielding constant demands on the job. Crack the code. Trace the cash. Do the impossible. It was what he did. Take your pants off, well, that one was a bit unexpected.

I hope you that catch me (cause I'm already falling) by pipistrelle

Hardison said, "I didn't want to leave you behind."

Post "The Rundown Job".

The Romcom Jobs by samyazaz

Five times Parker, Hardison, and Eliot lived out romcom tropes for a con, and one time they found themselves in one for real.

So I'll Go by zahnie

Eliot's nightmares and insomnia are worse than usual, and after a job goes poorly, he decides his boyfriend and girlfriend would be happier without him. They disagree.

My Original Establishment by phnelt

Eliot was looking at the door like it was on fire. Half like he should run towards it, and half a look of danger. Alec knew the door wasn’t on fire, so the looks must be directed at the unassuming elderly white gentleman standing on the other side. He could have been anyone in faded blue jeans, button-up stretched over his pot-belly, cap covering what was probably pretty wispy hair. Now, Alec had seen a lot in his life and so he did not trust appearances. If Eliot thought this guy was dangerous, then Alec expected to see a bazooka come out of that man’s head any second.

“What’s the play?” Alec whispered, not moving.

Eliot swallowed. “I’m going to open it,” he said, not sounding certain at all.

Parker asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s my dad.”

Right Round by letsgostealafandom

Or: The Lengths That I Will Go To A Love Story in 100 parts

It's the Thursday that never ends.

your body is a war zone but you are not a ruin by postcardmystery

“Make me a sandwich,” Parker says, so he does.

“Cut the damn wire,” says Hardison, so he does.

“Jump,” says Parker, says Hardison, and he never needs to ask, “How high?”

safe as houses by thecanaryfalls

Parker and Hardison comfort Eliot, in their weird multimillionare-convicted-felons-who-are-planning-a-life-with-him kind of way.

Set right around The Rundown Job.

like a map of a place you’ve never been by bydaybreak

He knows it’d be so fucking easy, if he’d let himself. Because he’s easy for them, has been since that first job, since the day he hauled Hardison’s ass out of a building about to explode. It’d be so easy.

So he won’t.

Sandbox by balloonstand

Five world-class archeologists meet on a dig.

I say goodbye but mean hello by lynne_monstr

The Brew Pub is drowning in Christmas and Eliot’s pretty sure Parker’s idea of appropriate tree ornaments is going to get them all arrested. If that’s not bad enough, he’s been sleeping with Parker and Hardison, and in all the time they’ve been together he hasn’t once stuck around till morning.

He’s never come out and asked if he could stay, but they’ve never tried to stop him from leaving, either.

you, you hold my heart by zahnie

After a job goes sideways, Parker is captured by Moreau and loses the last five years of memories.

Winter Song (To You) by letsgostealafandom

Eliot sat up straight when the lights went out throughout the apartment.

the warmth of your doorways by gyzym

Don't let me in with no intention to keep me.

Odd One Out by thingswithwings

"We should talk about Eliot," Alec says, at the same time Parker says, "We should have sex in a hammock."

something good can work (and it can work for you) by queenklu

“When you say ‘we’re making dinner,'” Eliot finally says, “do you really mean ‘Hey you should come over and cook dinner for us so we don’t burn down the apartment?’”

Five (almost) kisses for luck, or something like it by SquaresAreNotCircles

Parker turns to him and he’s about to give her a boost to the balcony one story up, when she grins at him, six inches from being nose to nose. “Kiss for luck?”

Or: Luck is a fragile thing. Eliot fumbles to catch when Parker and Hardison irrationally keep throwing it at him.

Leave You with an Empty Room by zahnie

Parker runs.

places to land by bydaybreak

She thinks she knows what Hardison means when he looks at her with his eyes all soft; thinks she knows what Eliot means when he bites out “dammit, Hardison”; thinks she knows what either of them means when, after a job, Hardison tells them that he’s ordered dinner, or Eliot comes back to the loft and starts chopping things in the kitchen.

Marriage Vows by waterbird13

How each member says their unconventional wedding vows, never quite at the same time.

Something Different by butterflybooks

Sophie says, “Something’s different.”

And Parker says, “It’s probably the sex.”

But actually, a lot of things are different.

(One of them is the sex.)

First on the List by thingswithwings

While he's waiting for the men with the guns to decide what to do with him, Alec thinks about what he'll do if he gets home.

The ASPCA Job by james

Parker has a new job for them. Alec isn't sure this is what he signed up for.

The One Where There's a Kid by boxoftheskyking

Oh shit Hardison has a kid.

Pure fluff.

Live Through This by zahnie

Parker, Hardison, and Eliot are running a job as a favour to Nate and Sophie when Parker starts experiencing a time loop: the day of the heist over and over, resetting every time she dies.

places to land by bydaybreak

In Front Of God And The Oklahoma State Flag by leiascully

Eliot gets a letter containing his father's obituary. Hardison goes with him back to Oklahoma while Parker's out of town.

The Thanksgiving Dinner Job by phnelt

“Oh no,” Hardison groaned dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m so sorry you guys.” They’re sitting on the couch, Eliot and Parker are cleaning their knives -- Parker uses hers to mostly cut rope, Eliot’s mostly uses them to cut people -- and Hardison is sitting next to them with his laptop. It had been a pretty pleasant evening so far. Nothing seems to be immediately bleeding, or on fire, so Eliot’s reaction is maybe a little more muted that it would be if Parker said the same words. Eliot thinks about switching to high alert, but Hardison, as a rule, has no sense of proportion. He gets about this dramatic when they run out of orange soda.

“I have to host Thanksgiving for the family this year -- and no I can’t get out of it, I already checked.”

Or: Eliot cooks a turkey

safe as houses by pipistrelle

After a rough job, Eliot takes his team to ground to make sure they're taken care of. (And of course they return the favor.)

you do not have to be good. by coffeesuperhero

Come hell or high water, Eliot is going to figure this out.

the punchline to this by bydaybreak

The woman laughs, her eyes crinkling behind her silver cat-eye glasses. "You must be Eliot,” she says, cheerfully. “He warned me you were charming. Where is he?”

Eliot’s stomach drops as he realizes that this is a terrible fucking mistake, because this ain’t a random elderly woman showing up to collect cans or take up donations or whatever it is that elderly woman in weird fucking places like Portland do. This is Hardison’s nana, and Eliot has just opened the door to the apartment—to Hardison and Parker’s apartment—like he lives there.

Wanting and Having by argyleam, phnelt

So yeah. That’s one of about a million reasons why it couldn’t be Hardison. Moreau at least was a stone-cold killer; it would be the death knell if he let the nerd in the van be the one to fuck him. And he is starting to lose the illusion that if they got their pants off he’d want Hardison to do anything but fuck him, pin him down under those gangly limbs and fucking give it to him. He’s been thinking about it in the shower lately more than he wants to. It makes it kind of hard to be around Hardison, and Hardison is not good at picking up on stay-out-of-my-airspace signals, Hardison gets right up close, Hardison talks and talks and talks while Eliot is trying to concentrate. Hardison hugs. It’s annoying. Eliot keeps having to specify that Hardison should keep his long legs and broad shoulders and eminently grabbable ass over there, on the other side of the van. The whole thing’s giving Eliot a goddamn headache.

Some part of Eliot really likes that about the guy, that Hardison’s so up in his own head that he doesn’t bother to notice that Eliot’s a terrifying person. The part of Eliot that’s into that should probably be taken out and shot for poor basic judgment.

Fair Share by shaenie

Parker doesn’t have manners; she has mannerisms, some of them disturbing, some of them endearing, most of them strange.

and we'll take it slow by lady_ragnell

“We can’t really get married,” Parker says one night, and is really sorry she can’t see Hardison’s face in the dark, because he definitely drops something.

The story of the necklaces.

Thieves In Love by superthousand

Eliot Spencer's stuff has been going missing lately, and he knows who has it. But he has no damn clue why.

Guard Your Eggshell Heart by letsgostealafandom

Parker had a theory, and her theory was this: it made Eliot really happy when they noticed the things he did for them. It made Eliot happy when they made sure he knew they noticed the things he did for them. And when Eliot thought they didn't notice, it made him- not unhappy, but something worse, something like he knew that was all he could expect from anyone and he'd resigned himself to it a while back. Once she'd noticed it, she couldn't stop, and the realization of how often they took Eliot for granted made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

The Slow Slip by waterbird13

Parker and Hardison notice that Eliot is becoming way more forgetful than he used to be, which leads to some hard truths and adjustments for their little family.

pre/ends in ot3

The Tender Things That We Were Working On by lady_ragnell

Maybe they're not the Breakfast Club, but there's something about Saturday detention that seems to bond people together.

Rings a Bell by venilia

Eliot wakes up in the hospital missing a lot of his memories. He's pleased to discover that apparently he has a husband, and a Parker.

Meanwhile, Parker has feelings, and knows she's weird, and Hardison might be a fish, a bird, or a turtle.

Quarantine and the Leverage 3 by Yuliares

Quarantine is declared—so of course Eliot shows up with a bag of groceries. As if they thought for a minute that Eliot would trust them to feed themselves.

The Waiting Job by sunspot

They're out of food, and someone's going to have to go out to get more before they die. They have no choice at this point. Hopefully the zombies will see it that way and not give them a hard time.

The Sex Pollen Job by dreamiflame

During a case, Eliot, Parker and Hardison get dosed with an aphrodisiac (Hardison and Parker insist it's 'sex pollen'). Can Eliot survive the fallout?

The DIY Family Job by copperbadge

Eliot technically stole a baby, which is actually the least of Leverage's problems.

This is the Place Where I Sit by lynne_monstr

Just because Eliot had pledged to always be there for him and Parker in a team-like, platonic way, didn’t mean he couldn’t go out and keep doing his thing with the ladies of Portland. Hardison could respect that, even if he wished the man would look a little closer to home. There were two people there waiting for him if he ever decided he wanted it.

Or, that time the Brew Pub gained a rival and Eliot finally figured out what he wants.

strange, how we are changed by thingswithwings

Eliot watches, fascinated, as Hardison brings the joint to his lips and inhales, making the lit end burn bright and cherry-red for several long seconds.

The Breakup Job by AppleJuiz

Parker hums thoughtfully. “How do we steal that?” she asks. “How do we steal a breakup for Eliot?” She frowns. “From Eliot?”

“I dunno, babe,” he says helplessly, tugging Parker in a little closer to fight off the strange shapeless fear of her slipping away too. “Just be here for him, I guess. Same as we always do.”

Parker makes a grumpy sound, but wraps her arms tightly around his waist.

“I don’t think that’s enough anymore.”

A Different Kind of Love by Telaryn

Eliot has been fighting his feelings for Parker and Hardison for a long time and he has a really good list of reasons why the relationship he wants can't work. When Hardison is kidnapped and Parker goes off the rails worrying about him, Eliot begins to suspect that in the end none of his reasons matter as much as his love for hacker and thief.

Some Place Better Than Where You've Been by lady_ragnell

Four conversations Alec has with his teammates while he's away, and one he has once he's back.

Or: the last four episodes of Redemption season 1 from Hardison's side of things.

Ain't No Fran Fine by letsgostealafandom

I’m ignoring the single parent part of this because I make great choices and also can you imagine Parker and Hardison with like an adopted kid and they’re still a hacker and a thief and then they need a babysitter and hire Eliot and-

Okay, to the half-assed story.

parker/eliot

Insomnia by entanglednow

"You can't just sneak into people's bedrooms in the middle of the night and demand that they have sex with you."

Fall factor by argyleam

Eliot knows that Parker could always get out of it. He also knows that she chooses not to.

heat wave by theredhoodie

Can it even get this hot in Oregon? Parker isn't enjoying this heat wave and pops into the restaurant to try to find something to both ease the temperature and her hunger. She only ends up with one of the two sated.

Change the Game by sunspot

The game is afoot, and then Parker goes and changes the damn rules.

Two Coins by Writewithpenandink

After the team splits up in LA, Eliot and Parker reconnect unexpectedly.

Takes place after the end of season one, and goes slightly AU from there.

Mine's Not a High Horse by hannasus

Five times Eliot and Parker don't kiss and one time they do.

What Did You Do? by Telaryn

In the aftermath of the San Lorenzo Job, Eliot realizes that he's been using Damien Moreau and the challenge of bringing him down to avoid his growing feelings for a crazy, blond-haired thief.

gen/non-ot3

The Job Interview Job by copperbadge

Unemployed librarian Bobby Dismas isn't sure how Leverage found him or what they want with him, but apparently it has something to do with his conspiracy theory website about Roy Chappel (and Kenneth Crane, and Jacques Labert).

Solicited Noods by lynne_monstr

Peggy invites Parker to attend a Fancy Food Festival, and it leads to conversations about cats, a weekend of food tastings, one (1) adorably annoying love interest, and a side of attempted murder.

(Or, What Parker knows about friendship is this. Friends don’t let friends fall into the clutches of international criminals. Unless they're good-guy criminals. Or a bad friend.)

crossovers + ot3

Don't Look Down by zahnie

Parker makes a demon deal to bring Eliot and Hardison back from the dead. As a direct result, she has to go on a heist with the Winchesters.

Can't Trust Myself Anymore by zahnie

Eliot is given the Mark of Cain against his will, with no idea what it is or what it will do to him.

Born to Strange Sights by zahnie

Parker, Hardison, and Eliot meet Sam and Dean because Sam saw Parker in a vision. Hardison is assumed to be Jake come back to life somehow, and the whole thing goes about as well as you'd expect.

The Second Labor Job by justanotherStonyfan

“I’m not a good person,” ‘Jack’ says. “And you prob’ly won’t wanna help.”

Eliot leans back a little. That implies a lot, and he feels like he’s digging them deeper with every word.

“Then why’d you come to us?” he says. “’Cause you’re good people,” the guy says. “And I need good people.”

Bucky Barnes needs help. He goes to see some people who might be able to give him some. (Leverage crossover AU)

Boeuf Mystère by galwednesday

“Quick question,” Bucky said.

Steve looked up, but didn’t stop moving passports and stacks of cash into a nondescript blue duffel, his mind busily ticking through logistics. He’d grab the glock taped behind the hidden drawer in the desk on their way out, and they could buy new clothes once they got across the border into neutral territory, so they didn’t need much else, apart from whatever Bucky wanted to bring. One duffle should be enough. “Yeah, honey?”

“What the fuck.”

#leverage #fic rec #eliot spencer #alec hardison #parker #nate ford #sophie devereaux #i wanted to add parker/hardison but 90% of those fics end in ot3 #or they're not the primary pairing #so enjoy a lot of the ot3 and a mixed bag of pairings and crossovers

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weixuldo · 2 years

Text

Enigma// ch 3

Anakin x Reader

(A/N: we’re gonna pretend u and Ahsoka have a god tier alcohol tolerance cause i don’t want to write a throw up scene lmfaooo, also we’re learning more abt ani!!)

This is not how you wanted your second meeting with Anakin to go...

Warnings: cursing, intoxication, alcohol, yelling, passing out?, implied injury

____________________________________

“Hello there” he said with a sigh followed by a yawn.

“I’m sorry Ben, we coulda got home just fine.”

He held a hand up, “No, it’s fine, I’ve woken up at unholy hours of the night to help people for years”.

He looked back at Ahsoka “I just didn’t expect to have to get you two when Anakin called”.

He began driving the road towards Anakin's apartment.

“Yeah, he scolded us for being immature and irresponsible” you huffed.

To which Ben let out a laugh, “He’s right, but that’s amusing coming from him”.

Soon, you arrived at Anakin’s place, “why did Anakin call you to get us? If we were just gonna go to his place?” you asked.

Ben tightened his grip on the wheel before answering, “He doesn’t really like driving at night, and I would just bring you two to mine, but my fiance, Satine is over”.

You gasped, alarming Ben, “Wait I feel so bad!!! You really didn’t have to come get us, You were with your fiance! Love is sooo important” the alcohol was still making you sound delusional. “Noo, Ben! Go home and tell her you love her and kiss her and hold her. That’s wonderful Ben, I wish I had that”.

He laughed and proceeded to help Ahsoka out of the back. You arrived at Anakin’s door and knocked on the door, no response. You began to knock again but Ben stopped you.

“I’ve got a key” Once you were in you looked around for Anakin but he was nowhere to be found. Ben sat Ahsoka on the couch and asked you to watch her while he went to get Anakin. You plopped down beside your friend who was fast asleep. She slumped over and rested her head on your shoulder, she was warm and smelled like liquor, but she was still radiant as ever. You waited for a minute, then two, then five, then ten, where were the guys?

You were about to go investigate when you heard the click of Anakin’s door followed by footsteps. An irritated looking Anakin walked out first, dressed in gray sweatpants, a burgundy hoodie and his normal gloves, followed by Ben.

He was still walking kinda funny as he came out to face you. Ben patted him on the shoulder, “You sure you got this?”.

Anakin nodded, “yeah, thanks for dropping them off”. To which Ben nodded, waved, and swiftly exited. Now the room was still with Ahsoka snoring lightly on your shoulder and Anakin’s gaze burning into you.

“Hi?” you said timidly.

“What the Fuck, F/N”

There was that feeling again, shivers down your spine.

“What?” you asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You two are adults, about time you start acting like it.” he huffed as he limped over to the chair on the other side of the living room.

“We were just-”

“And you two do this every week!”

“Hey! We don’t go this far! And it's not even that bad, you’re just being dramatic” you shot back, feeling cornered.

He held his hand to his forehead in annoyance, “Ahsoka needs to grow the fuck up, and so do you. You think you can just sustain this lifestyle in the real world?”

Umm, what the fuck?

Was this man really lecturing you? He doesn't even know you.

“Who are you to say what we can and can't do? You don't know me”

“Yeah, but I know Ahsoka and she was better than this as a kid. And you're right, I don’t know you, and now I’m not certain I want to” he spat.

Ouch.

You felt all of the confidence drain from your body, your heart anxiously began to race. You sat there in silence for a moment then looked over to Ahsoka and patted her head before you laid her on her side. You got up and the couch cushions shifted slightly.

“Ok, sorry for wasting your time, i’ll be going now” you said as you collected your bag and started for the door.

He rolled his eyes, “Where do you think You’re going?”.

“I don’t know, but not here, that's for damn sure” you said, gripping the door handle.

Soon you felt yourself sway and your vision got fuzzy, what the fuck? You wavered and your legs gave out and you were suddenly on the floor. Fucking great.

You opened your eyes once you felt something stiff gently shaking you. You looked up and saw a worried looking Anakin looking over you. “Fuck, are you alright?” he asked anxiously.

You closed your eyes and nodded before mumbling “mhmm, i’m just gonna sleep on the floor..”.

He shook his head and ran his hand against your arm, his gloves had gripy material on the insides of the palms but his hands felt hard. He guided you to a sitting position and asked you a few questions.

“Are you alright? Do you think you’re going to be sick?”

You shook your head, “I’m fine, I just have a headache”.

He nodded, “Ok, can you get up for me?”.

You nodded once more, leaning on him for support. It was like both of you were drunk by the way you were attempting to stand. His balance wasn’t very good and he had to brace himself against the wall before he could help you. Once you were up you rested on his shoulder for a moment, you listened as he caught his breath. Once both of you were ok he began walking.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“My bed, Ahsoka is on the couch so I can’t get the pullout”.

“What about Ahsoka?” you asked.

“I’ll watch her, but this isn’t the drunkest i've seen her, she’ll be fine” he said sitting you on his bed.

“Do you drink this much this often?” he asked.

“Not really, I go out but I usually only have one or two drinks” you said.

He sighed, “ok, here drink some water. We need to get you hydrated. I’ll get you some ibuprofen and then you can go to sleep, ok?”.

He sounded nicer?

“Why?”

“Why what?” he asked.

“Why are you being nice to me?”.

“I’m concerned, that’s all” he said, but his actions said otherwise.

He was rubbing your back as you sipped the water he offered. It was sweet.

God, you wanted to kiss him.

Once you were done with the water you set it on the nightstand and faced him once more. His cheeks were still rosy from the exertion of getting you off the floor. At least, that's probably why they were red.

If you weren’t so tired you would have made a move, but your body was telling you to sleep, so you ignored your urges and laid down.

“I’m sorry, Anakin” you whispered, eyelids feeling heavy with sleep. “I know you don’t like me, but just please don’t hate me” you trailed off at the end.

You felt him pull the covers over you and felt his hand linger over your side.

“How could I hate you?” he responded softly, almost as if he were only talking to himself.

You felt one of his hands smooth out your hair before you were out.

***

(a/n: the girls do b partying, but also anakin is def grouchy. he had been drinking too, but he still took you and ahsoka in…..interesting)

taglist: @dnamht @sxoulohvn @angeelcoree @wtf-andys @httpeachesblog @katsukiswrld @jetiikote @rabbitrabbit12323

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endofthelinexx · 2 years

Text

Roses and Flame | 4

Pairing: Female!Driver!Horner!Reader x Toto Wolff

TW: language, Christian Horner, slow burn, enemies to lovers, age gap, angst

AN: Hi y’all! sorry this chapter has taken me forever, i’ve been packing up for school and have been working. It’s a busy part of the year for me and i’d like to thank everyone for being patient! I’m way too excited for the upcoming chapters, probably more than you guys. Please comment if you want to join the taglist!!

Word Count: 2.1k

Mini Summary: Collins Horner is the eldest of Christian and Geri’s children. She has been raised to be the fastest female racer Motorsport has ever seen and to despise Mercedes while doing it. But what happens when her world turns upside down?

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of it, and claiming it as your own.

You stood in your room, staring back at yourself in the mirror. You had gotten home that morning, and it was a day after the incident. You stood in your bra and shorts, your face turning red at the light mark on your collarbone. You were lucky you managed to snap back into your senses in time to pull away from him before it could’ve become much darker and much more noticeable. Your hair was damp from your shower, you thought it would make you feel better, but considering you can’t wash off a hickey your negative feelings returned the second you saw it in the mirror.

You spent the previous night in Audrey’s hotel room trying to make it all make sense, it was out of nowhere, but what was really confusing to you was your feelings for him. You had never spoken positively of him and rarely did anyone you surrounded yourself with, of course, that wasn’t too shocking considering most of your friends that aren’t drivers are Red Bull fans. But, as much as you hated to admit it, you found him attractive; he’s tall, just as in shape as any of the guys your age if not more, wears collared shirts all the time, hell, he could speak like 500 languages, not to mention he still had all of his hair at 50. And then again, he was your father’s archnemesis and a principal of another team. It was like you were having an internal battle with yourself, you had no idea what to do and your indecisiveness was eating you alive.

Sighing, you looked away from yourself in the mirror, moving to put some fresh clothes on, you wouldn’t let your mistakes from yesterday ruin today even though they were really making an effort to. You went downstairs and, looking out one of the windows, spotted a Mercedes parked in your driveway. Your breath got caught in your throat, immediately rushing outside, Rooster following right behind you.

Opening your mouth you began to speak as you rounded the corner, “you’ve really got some bal- oh, Lewis, hi..” You were immediately caught off guard when you saw the amazingly dressed man getting out of the car.

He turned and flashed a confused look which was followed by one of his bright smiles, “hey, we made plans to get lunch today, I’m here to pick you up?”

Your eyes widened as the memory of your conversation from the day before flooded back to you, “oh shit, I am so sorry, I forgot!”

Lewis let out a chuckle, “you’re totally fine.”

“Oh my gosh, well you’re welcome to come inside, I’m clearly going to have to change,” you gestured to your extremely casual outfit which was nowhere near the level of high fashion that was Lewis’ outfit.

He responded to you with a nod and followed you back inside, looking around, “wow, this place is super cool, I love the vibe.”

“Thanks,” you smiled before gesturing to the kitchen, “feel free to help yourself to anything!”

“Okay, thank you,” he smiled back to you in return before you rushed upstairs to do light makeup and change into a nice outfit that covered up the evidence of the night before. After about 10 minutes you headed back down to find Lewis loving on your dog.

“What’s his name?” He asked when he noticed your presence.

“I named him Max, you know since he’s the fastest dog breed on the planet,” you teased, letting out a little laugh at your own joke.

Lewis rolled his eyes, “oh yeah, I’m sure your dad loved that, but seriously.”

You moved to sit down next to him, smiling, “his name is Rooster.”

“How sweet, he’s very handsome, aren’t you?” He spoke in a baby voice when speaking to the dog which caught you off guard, causing you to laugh hysterically. Lewis smiled a little and looked over, “what?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the world’s coolest person, I mean 50% of videos with you in it are in slow motion while you walk.” You spoke between laughing.

He huffed to pretend to be dramatic, “cool people use baby voices too.” This statement made you laugh harder, causing him to begin to laugh with you. Your laughter was cut off by a firm knock on your door.

“Let me get that,” you breathed, trying to catch your breath from laughing as you got up to open the door. Turning the doorknob, you pulled it open to reveal your father who had an annoyed look on his face. “Um, hello?” You spoke up, slightly shocked to see him standing there.

“Who’s the Mercedes belong to because I’m pretty sure I’ve never noticed one of your friends driving one?” He questioned, causing Lewis to stand up and walk over.

“That would be mine sir, I came to pick up Collins for lunch,” he smiled as he stood behind you.

“Ah, I see. Although you’re the last person I’d ever expect to see hanging out on my property, seems as though my daughter is a traitor,” he joked lightly, though you were sure he probably firmly believed you were befriending the enemy.

You rolled your eyes, “don’t be dramatic, plus we’re about to be off your property, right Lewis?” He nodded as the two of you walked out the door.

“Hmm okay, well have fun!” He spoke as you both walked over to get in Lewis’ car.

Lewis drove you both into town, finding some street parking before walking you to lunch. It was a small French bistro right on the street with a big blue awning out front. A French flag hung in the window and you noticed the rustic interior as you both walked in.

Of course, the hostess looked at you both with eyes wide like she had seen a ghost, “oh my goodness, table for two I assume?”

“Yes that’d be great,” You smiled, beginning to ask, “could we sit by a window perchance?”

“Oh of course Miss Horner, you both are welcome to sit wherever you like,” she nodded.

You laughed a little a pointed at a table by a window, “is there okay?”

“Yes, that’s perfect,” she grabbed both menus and led you to your table.

You both sat down, ordered drinks and your food, and began to talk about yesterday’s race. After quite a long and knowledgeable conversation your waitress brought your food, which you both thanked her for and began eating.

“I have a super weird question, well it’s not really that weird but coming from me it is,” you looked up at him from your food.

He looked back at you and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Miss Horner?” He began to tease, stirring a kick out of you from underneath the table, causing him to laugh.

“I’m being serious,” you smiled and took a bite of your food.

“Go on then,” he nodded.

“How was Toto this morning?” You looked up, he went quiet and looked back at you for a second before speaking.

“Why do you ask?”

You were quiet for a second before speaking, “well he and my father got into a little bit of a tiff last night.”

“Ah, yes, I heard about that. Well, he seemed normal, but he was a lot quieter than usual, looked out the window a lot like he was deep in thought,” he said between bites.

“Oh, I see, my father was a little out of step last night, I think he had one too many drinks,” you sighed.

After your amazing lunch, Lewis dropped you back off at your house and you both said your goodbyes. When you went inside, you checked your phone and saw a text from your mom inviting you to dinner at their main house which of course you accepted. 6pm came quick and you headed up to your family home, meeting everyone else at the table. You all talked and ate an amazing dinner cooked by your mother, but you could tell something was off with your father. And you’d find out soon enough you realized while you helped your younger sister, Olivia, with the dishes. Your father walked back into the kitchen, your mother was already seated at the bar, talking to you both with Montague in her lap.

“So,” your father spoke up when your mom finished talking, “you went to lunch with Lewis clearly.”

‘Here we go,’ you couldn’t help but think before speaking. “Why yes I did, and I had a lot of fun, thanks for asking.”

“Fraternizing with the enemy, are you?” He questioned, causing you to quickly turn around in frustration.

“You know technically I’m fraternizing with the enemy right now considering you’re the principal of one of my competitors,” you snapped at him in response, “I’m really not in the mood to listen to you tell me who to make friends with, it’s not like I stole plans from your engineers to feed to him.”

“You might as well be,” he snapped back causing your mother to sigh.

“Would you both just stop it, you know she wouldn’t do anything like that, you know she has a right to make friends with whoever she pleases, it’s not like Lewis is some criminal. He’s nice and could be a great mentor to your daughter.” She pointed out, “befriending a 7-time world champion wouldn’t do her any harm, now leave it be.”

Your father was smart enough to drop it instead of dealing with the red-head woman’s wrath, she always hated it when you both would fight, and honestly, it happened a lot. After dinner, your father went to his office and you sat in the living room with your mother. A bottle of red wine that you both were sharing sat on the coffee table between you as you both sipped from your glasses.

“So, you never told me what happened last night at the event, I flew in just for it and I didn’t even get a hi from you,” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Your mother was your best friend, you told each other everything and made you hope that she wouldn’t ask you this question just because you knew you couldn’t lie to her. You looked down at your glass before taking a big gulp of your wine.

“If I tell you what happened you have to promise you won’t tell dad,” you began, you were a little tense, it was hard just to tell Audrey what happened, this was going to be hell.

She laughed lightly, “oh please, I don’t tell him shit. But yes, I promise I won’t tell him.”

You took a deep breath and just said it, making sure your voice was low, “Toto Wolff kissed me.”

She almost dropped her wine glass, “Torger kissed you?!”

“Be quiet,” you shushed her, causing her to apologize, “yes he did, and I might’ve kissed him back..”

“Collie!” She quietly exclaimed, putting a hand over her mouth, “you know his eldest son is not ever 3 years younger than you.”

“I know... I don’t know why I did it.” You put your face in your hands after setting down your glass.

“I mean, he is handsome, and he has a nice voice,” your mother spoke, trying to help you to justify your actions.

You truly just wanted to break down and cry, between the stress of your job and now these jumbled-up feelings you didn’t even know you had weighted down on you.

“Hey, we all do things in the moment that we regret, the only thing you can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she spoke, standing to move over to your couch to comfort you.

“That’s the thing mom, what if I want it to happen again,” you looked up, feeling a tear fall.

Your mother wiped it from your face and sighed, “ah, now that might be a problem.”

“I know,” you began to cry as your mom pulled you into a hug.

“It’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to,” She pulled away to look you in the eyes for a second before hugging you once more. But you couldn’t help but wonder if the way it was supposed to work out was the way that it shouldn’t.

<< previous chapter | next chapter >>

tag list:

@lovingroscoee @laura-naruto-fan1998 @fxshernoizu

#Toto Wolff #Toto Wolff x you #toto wolff x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #christian horner #lewis hamilton #formula 1

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inlocusmads · 3 months

Text

slam poetry ~ stevie sun x rowan stone

Rowan decides she wants to audiotape the outcomes of her cases instead. With Stevie's involvement, it turns into the world's worst podcast. (Murder at Homecoming)

wc: 1.4k, teen and up, strong language

a/n: written for @choicesjanuary2024, day 16: "relationships". Ever since I finished MaH I really wanted to write something for Stevie and my MC Rowan but somehow writer's block hit. Eventually I stumbled upon this scene from 22 jump street which inspired, well, this whole thing.

Audio recording number -- erm, I might have lost track of this stuff already. Let’s call it Number 3, because I haven’t done this in a while and the previous was Gabriella’s case, which I think has enough audio transcripts of mine being circulated around in several small magazines.

All right, let’s do this one last time. Name’s Rowan, Rowan Stone. I have a missing sister and for the last er, let’s say two years-ish-- I’ve been a -- well, let’s say I’m more than happy to do stuff for this dead-end town. Kind of a hobby, actually. If I’m off the video game controllers and not playing the drums, I’d suppose. I don’t like cop work, not a fan of sitting at a desk either. My policy is to just toss paper at annoying people. Hate the clicky-clicky sounds of keyboards, hate when people cross-talk - people in general.

Are you recording tapes again?

Stevie, arghh, this is going in the archives, for heaven’s sake! Now I’ve got to do it again.

What’s it for?

The -- thing, the--

You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?

No, it’s like -- you know how I have been writing down my case reports as of lately?

When have you ever maintained an archive?

I thought it would look good on my resume or something, isn’t documenting a big thing now? You take five hundred photos everyday.

Someone has to document you moments before a disaster.

The idea is that I don’t have to deal with stupid keyboard clicks. You know the kind of annoying noise they make?

Aw man, I thought you were into the weird detective aesthetic with the smokey room and the brown furniture and this rusty-ass typewriter.

Anyway, well, I was meaning to record this tape as a summation of what happened with Pierre and the test scores thing that I cracked. You know how he ended up hacking into the school’s servers and everything. Blew out of proportion, I tell you. Pierre was right there and yet everyone had to blame it on Brian. The dude hasn’t seen sunlight in over ten days from that tendon he pulled.

That’s it?

Yeah, I mean, that covers it, right?

Okay, Ro, I love you, but you are the absolute worst at summing things up.

You’re not pulling a twenty questions on this, are you? Vogue 75 questions or something?

I am surprised you know what vogue is.

Of course, it’s that Madonna song. Kidding. Honestly if it weren’t for Stevie right now, I would have been done in ten minutes.

Right, isn’t that what Einstein said? Spend time with a girl for five minutes and it’ll feel like ten or something?

Totally not what Einstein said, but go on.

He also sat on a stove or something, right? Reckon he got his rear end burned or something?

Listeners, I humbly submit to you the stuff I put up with on an everyday basis. No, Stevie, I don’t suppose anyone wrote a thesis on Einstein’s charred end and I don’t think nobody wants to either.

Who are you even talking to? I mean, what’s this thing even for?

A Case-Revisiter.

You’d be better off typing on a keyboard, though.

I’ll pay you twenty bucks hourly to help me with this.

Nahh. No offense, but like I have way better things to do. Have I ever told you the time when I graffitied the vice principal’s desk? Serves him right for cutting off funding for the arts program to fund a get this, SEASONAL, emphasis on “seasonal” baseball league that somehow never happens. Oh my god, Rowan, you should look into this. If anyone smells like embezzlement and uh -- a bunch of other shit, it is this dude. Anyway, the graffiti was hilarious though. I drew like uh, like this erm- thing, y’know?

And who’s terrible at summing up again?

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait-- I’m trying to like, remember-

Right. Listeners, you might as well get bundled up for the next ten years.

Who are you even distributing these tapes to, even? I mean, I know there’s a market out there for feet and true crime, but like, we’re neither.

True crime sucks, by the way.

We should put like a picture of a foot, but with blood and stuff. Yay, podcasting.

For the record, listeners, this is your standard Stevie-Does-Oddly-Specific-Jokes-Because-She’s-Run-Out-of-Material segment.

Unless this is for your personal use, which is like, okay weirdo. I mean, if you really want to go to sleep with my voice running in the background, you can do so with some discretion. Like actually asking me.

For the last time, this is -- honestly I have no idea why I am doing this. My dad found this tape recorder thing and I was like, sweet, I don’t need to store hundreds of voice notes in my phone anymore.

You have voice notes?

Yes, actually. Some of them are long elaborate slam poetry things about you, falafels and the justice system.

Aw, you write slam poetry about falafels?

I’ve only got one line, though.

What is it?

Falafels are great. They’re -- your--

Rowan Stone, everybody. Will give Sappho a run for her money. Not the historical Sappho, the one I know from Couscous. It’s like this grimy run-down club that plays Avicii and Avicii only but they have these slam poetry nights where people just walk in with shit like ‘roses are red, violets are blue’.

Weren’t we talking about Pierre?

Pierre’s shit at keeping secrets. That’s why he gave you such an easy case. Donovan and I had the whole forging-ID business and this dude walks up and asks if he could get into this place, like a molerat and he blew our cover. Pierre, if you’re listening to this, fuck you for ruining my business and everything, y’know? I was running that like my own battalion of tin soldiers that puts Kathy Neighbourhood-Woman’s Christmas decorations to shame. Also, stop ruining school for us and forge your report cards like a normal person.

Let the record show that this is the first and last audio-memo-whatever-the-heck-this-is I am ever doing.

Good. Let’s go out. Come on.

There’s this fun karaoke place down the road that just opened up. But I do have --

I’ll punch you if you say work. You’re a child! An infant! A-- uh, small human person.

Chores, I have chores. Mom’s already pissed that I have, maybe pissed some people off at school for turning in my assignments late.

Get out of chores, y’know? Also you probably saved the whole town or something. Not cool, Mr and Mrs Stone. Also is it me or do you also see how weird the whole process of ‘grounding’ is? You get chores as a penalty for not doing homework. That’s like getting shot in your leg but being treated for an allergy to mushrooms.

Karaoke sucks though. We should get absolutely wasted in a bar.

I don’t know if you’re being serious or not.

Honestly, it’s difficult, because on one hand, it’s like-- nothing good happens in Beachwood. Karaoke places get shut down. Bars are raided because I dunno- for reasons. Carnivals are an excuse for sponsors to get more money into their pockets which ruins the experience for everyone. Arcades are no longer fun because the games are rigged to make you funnel as many quarters as possible.

You know, I thought dating would bring out a change in you, but you still sound like a grandma who has a picture of Aragorn thinking it’s Jesus.

It’s so difficult to make a change, though. I still think we should just do something familiar.

I am not having a repeat of the tuna salad incident.

Remember when this audio recording was supposed to be about Pierre?

Pierre who?

Now I remember this is why I had a crush on you.

The baiting isn’t going to work. I do it with nuance. What you do resembles a pathetic wet cat. You are not dragging me to the tuna-salad place. Please.

But I wrote some poetry, besides the falafel stuff. Here, listen to this. Titled ‘For Stevie’.

Someone kill me, please.

‘Slam Poetry! Lots of yelling! Waving-’

Pierre, where the fuck are you, Pierre?

‘Generic compliments about hair and eyes. Specific instances where I decided I liked her. Stevie! Ste-uh-vee-’

Okay, forget I ever said you were cool.

‘Not to be confused with steeds or the V in sweaters. Ancient Romans! Lots of uh, gerunds. Loving, big lovey-doving, uh-- girlfriending. Girl, friends -- ding. Doorbell. I reach out- press the button. Butane gas prices. Pa-pa-pa-’

All right, I’m pressing this button.

Wait, wait, wait, I’m not done yet, I’m not do--

***

Tagging:

perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me

I don't know if I ever plan on writing for MaH consistently, but if you are interested in these fun lil stuff, let me know! (Say even a potential Nora-meets-Rowan crossover fic) I'm also thinking if this garners a bit of interest, I'll do a character sheet for Rowan. Thank you so much for reading!

#w:inlocusmads #murder at homecoming #stevie sun x mc #stevie x rowan #choices january challenge

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butterflydm · 2 years

Text

rand & min: a self-fulfilling prophecy?

So, we’re told in text, by Min, that her viewings always come true. She definitely believes it. But the evidence we get in text is somewhat more fuzzy.

It seems to me that there are four broad categories of Min’s viewings:

Sure, seems like a legit prophetic viewing.

Requires some massaging of the events to make it fit the viewing.

Viewing only seems to come true because of active work by Min, or someone she has told about the viewing.

Viewing fails to come true but Min has forgotten about it and doesn’t mention the failure. (note: I do believe that, out of world, we are supposed to believe Min’s viewings are infallible and chalk up any changes in events to a mistake/changed mind by the author but I am noting this for completion’s sake)

Categories #1 & #2 are definitely the largest and I would definitely say that Min’s viewings are mostly reliable. Category #3 is actually the one that I find the most interesting. How much do Min’s viewings rely on her active participation to come true?

Because, for someone who firmly believes that fate is inevitable and there’s no point in fighting against it, Min shares her viewings and acts on them quite frequently (she’s always saying that she hates sharing her viewings but she also shares them constantly, so she’s another of the characters who lies a lot to herself, which is common with WoT characters). And a big example of that is her relationship with Rand.

In my reread, I’ve noticed that Min does not appear to love Rand ‘for’ any particular reason except that she’s certain that she is destined to love Rand due to her own viewing.

After having double-checking through her PoVs in the books, this is a sampling of her comments as she ‘falls in love’ but before they actually reunite in LoC:

Light, I don’t want to fall in love with a man that I’ve only met once, and a farmboy at that.

She goes on for a WHILE about how he isn’t the type of man she finds attractive while following the Pattern’s bidding to take care of him after the battle in Falme. She has one positive comment about him: he has silky hair. Two, I suppose, if you include, “you’re not bad-looking.” A glowing endorsement!

She compares the upcoming love square as “flies caught in a spiderweb”.

“I don’t know if I want you to choose me.”

She blames her being in Tar Valon in TSR as ‘doing fool things for a fool man’ (Rand has neither asked her to go nor even is aware that she has gone to the White Tower).

She blames him for her own choices: The Light burn Rand al’Thor for getting me into this.

Siuan: “Yet you do love him.” Min: “I don’t have any choice.”

re: being in a dress - Was this how Rand wanted her? Would he actually see her, if she wore dresses and simpered at him like a brainless chit?

There’s a whole tirade about how it’s his fault that she’s wearing a dress right now, despite it explicitly being Siuan’s fault. And she makes assumptions that he’s “staring at some Tairen woman with half her bosom exposed at this very minute”.

She wished they had never learned she was in love with Rand al’Thor. Sometimes she wished she had never learned it. A man who barely knew she was alive, a man like that. What he was no longer seemed as important as the fact that he had never looked at her twice, but it was all of a piece, really.

Burn him, if I’d never met him, I wouldn’t be in this pickle!

re: Leane flirting - If I could do that to one particular man, I’d be more than satisfied.

Now she was thinking about changing what she was, for a man.

She wished she knew how to make Rand look at her like those men were looking at Leane.

What she saw was always true. It always happened. She knew the same way that she had known the first time she saw Rand al’Thor that she would fall desperately, helplessly in love with him, the same way she had known she would have to share him with two other women.

-but she still had a personal goal. Making a man who had never looked at her twice fall in love with her before he went mad. Maybe she was as mad as he was destined to be.

Rand bloody al’Thor. Fall in love with a man, and you ended up doing laundry, even if it did belong to another man. When she marched into the kitchen to demand a washtub and hot water, she was snarling every bit as much as Siuan.

You’ll be whatever you think he wants you to be.

Before they meet up again in LoC, she doesn’t seem to know very much about him except that he was a shepherd (when she dislikes country-related things) and he’s “not bad-looking”, yet she constantly blames him for her own choices and makes assumptions about his personality that don’t match what the readers have seen in his behavior. Despite spending a winter in the same place in between TGH and TDR, she doesn’t appear to know him at all as a person. In all of her PoV chapters before they finally reunite in LoC, she’s named one positive quality about him: he has silky hair. That’s it. That’s all she’s got.

Yet she is so convinced that she is destined to love him -- desperately and helplessly -- that she talks herself into leaping into love without having a single reason for actually being attracted to Rand as a person (either physically or his personality).

All so that she can hurry on with: a. making him to love her back and b. clearing a path for herself by his side. Very pragmatic but not terribly romantic.

Now, again, from a pragmatic point of view, her actions do make sense -- she believes absolutely in her viewings and her viewings have told her that these three specific women will fall in love with Rand but she doesn’t know whether or not he will love them back. Obviously, being desperately in love with someone who doesn’t love you back kinda sucks.

But if Min had had all her other viewings but not the one about Rand’s three beautiful women, would she have considered herself ‘in love’ with him enough to go to him in LoC? The only reason she has given at this point for loving him is the viewing. How would her actions have been different if she hadn’t had the viewing and would they have ever ‘fallen in love’ at all?

We know that Rand is attracted to her, as well as to Elayne and Aviendha, because we have a sneak peek into his dreams. But we also know, because of his own destiny, that Rand doesn’t view himself as a desirable figure to get involved with and would never make the first move. And lots of people are attracted to people that they never actually pursue. Being attracted doesn’t inevitably lead to a relationship.

How would Min’s actions have been different if she hadn’t had that viewing?

She might not have tried to get close to Elayne if she didn’t have an extra reason to do so. Either way, Elayne wouldn’t have heard anything about needing to ‘share’ her husband but still would have learned of the idea of ‘sister-wives’ from Aviendha in TDR (so Elayne and Aviendha would still be on a relatively similar path if Min’s viewing were removed; I actually have Some Thoughts about Aviendha’s silver rings visions as well but the vibes on that are overall more positive because it actually pushes her away from Rand for quite a while and she’s forced to begrudgingly admit she likes him after being in his company for a book and a half. I think that it’s likely Aviendha and Rand actually could have gone through basically the same emotional journey in TSR/TFOH even if she hadn’t seen him in the silver rings at all).

Her love for Rand does feel to me like it was created by Min’s viewing, an odd little time-travel-esque paradox. She loves him because she saw that she would love him, but never actually does the emotional work of ‘falling in love’ with him.

In terms of ‘out of world’ reasoning (Doylist) for why Min has the viewing about Rand’s three women, I think it was likely the author trying to make it so that the reader wouldn’t be surprised by Rand ending up with all three women.

But it does (unintentionally, I assume) give a gloss of ruthless pragmatism to Min’s character, the way she is so focused on getting Rand to fall in love with her because she is certain that she’s destined to love him (there’s a strong Min/Mat comparison to be made in this regard, but I will get there in a few more books lol) rather than exploring her own heart and seeing if she actually DOES love him or if she can go against her own viewing. Instead, she takes it as a given and goes from there.

#wot reread #lord of chaos #this slots in here #wot meta #wot book spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #min farshaw #wheel of time #wot #a mental exercise on viewings and forcing fate to happen #anyway this is all very much about book!min #i think that the show has an excellent chance of improving the rand x min relationship #and have already started doing so by removing Min's attempt to sabotage Rand's relationship with Egwene #next step: don't have her subtly trying to manipulate elayne into accepting a poly relationship #let that be something elayne actually wants on her own!

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thestalkerbunny · 2 years

Text

TSB plays Legends Arceus Part 42

God.....Who knew Beni was such a 10.....

Yep. I also brought. These fists. Cause a certain old man. is gonna get. HIT.

OH IF ITS THAT FUCKING HORSE, MAN.

I AINT LEAVING WITHOUT IT’S NUTS, I’LL CASTRATE GOD HIMSELF

Let me at him, Adaman. Just LET ME AT HIM.

KAMANDO YOU BITCH ASS MOTHER FUCKER.

DAMN STRAIGHT ME AGAIN, YOUR LITTLE BOYTOY IS GONNA BE MY BOYTOY WHEN WE’RE DONE SO KISS BENI GOODBYE. WE ARE GOING STRAIGHT UP GIRL FRIGHT. I AINT TALKING ABOUT POKEMON-YOU ME, AND THIS BELT IVE WRAPPED AROUND MY FIST WITH THE BUCKLE FACING OUTWARD.

Kamando, we live in a world were lizards spit fire, pathetic fish become flying dragons and chickens learn kung-fu.

There is nothing impossible in this world.

Bitch.

YEAH IM NOT SMART ENOUGH FOR THAT.

HE WAS. HE HAD TO LISTEN TO VOLO BREATHING SO FUCKING LOUDLY IN MY EAR.

WE SAW THREE BABIES, KAMANDO. 3 FLOATING SPIRIT BABIES THAT TOUCHED AND PROBED MY FUCKING BRAIN.

-I reiterate I didn’t, I am literally NOT that smart, if I wanted to destroy everything you’ve built up here, I would LITERALLY just set fire to everything and burn it to the ground.

Damn straight, now move out of my way, I’ve gotta BEAT the fucking snot out of god.

Kamando, I’ve said up front if you don’t fucking move between me and my fucking beef of god, There WILL be a BODY COUNT on this mountain and it’ll be started with YOU.

YEAH-hey wait, no, Adaman, do not do that cause Again I don’t know how shit is gonna roll in the next ten to twenty minutes.

Oh?

Coin Toss?

Oh.

Kamando, you’re gonna leave this mountain in a fucking BODY Bag.

#TSB talks #Pokemon #pokemon legends arceus #PLA #Kamando #Adaman #Stalky Plays #TSB plays

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ofdemonsandangels · 10 months

Text

Rules: in a text post, list ten books that have stayed with you in some way. don’t take but a few minutes, and don’t think too hard — they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you.

I was tagged by @philosophicalparadox!

1. Percy Jackson: The Lightning Thief- It’s the book that started it all for me. I wouldn’t be the reader that I am today if I didn’t pick up the Lightning Thief during my third grade class’ monthly trip to the school library. I love Percy and the world the Rick Riordan created and I’ll continue to love it.

2. The Poppy War- I was in a serious reading slump prior to reading The Poppy War, so devouring it all up in nearly one day and ordering the next book in the trilogy right after was a welcome surprise for me. This book reignited my love for reading and the historical fantasy genre.

3. The Name of the Wind- If there’s one thing I love, it’s a hard and heavy fantasy book. Reading The Name of the Wind for the first time inspired me to finally open up a Google doc and write my first ever fic. I love its prose and how we’re in and out of Kvothe’s head throughout the book. Whenever I agonize over the fact that the Doors of Stone hasn’t been released, I reread The Name of the Wind to remind me that the wait will be worth it.

4. Mo Dao Zu Shi- You could say that I’m cheating with this choice but it is technically a singular novel broken up into smaller volumes. Where do I even begin with MDZS? I have yet to really fully read the official translation as I’ve already read the “official” fan translation, but I will say, reading that Exiled Rebels translation over the span of three hot and sticky summer night, completely in the darkness of my room, was one of the best reading experiences ever. I adore the rich world that MXTX built, from the sect politics to the admittedly loose laws of demonic cultivation. Wangxian is a couple that I love very dearly and I have yet to read a danmei novel that just grips me by the soul like they do. I was introduced to the danmei genre through this novel as well, and I couldn’t be happier that it was my first.

5. One Last Stop- This is my favorite of Casey McQuiston’s books. It’s a super cute and emotional sapphic book that fell into my lap at the exact same time that I was beginning to explore my sexuality and for that, it holds a very special place in my heart.

6. Fool’s Fate- This quote and this quote alone is enough reasoning as to why I love this book so much: “I pushed his golden hair back from his tawny forehead. ‘Oh, Beloved’ I said. I bent and kissed his brow in farewell. And then, grasping the rightness of that foreign tradition, I named him as myself. For when I burned him, I knew that I would be ending myself as well. The man I had been would not survive this loss.”

7. The Silmarillion- Unironically my favorite of Tolkien’s works, partly because the maiar and elves are hella gay and partly because I really like reading a fun history book from The Professor himself.

8. The Hunger Games- It still stands as the best YA book I’ve ever read and I’ll happily reread it every year

9. The Tombs of Atuan- My favorite book of the Earthsea Cycle and arguably my favorite book from Ursula Le Guin. Tenar is just such a touching protagonist and her relationship with Ged is seriously sweet. I also really liked how Le Guin further built upon the world of Earthsea in this book.

10. The Way of Kings- Everyone has that one book that they wish they could forget about just to reread it again and The Way of Kings is that book for me

Tagging: @abyssalpeach @seaofolives, @beansterpie, and @marley-manson

#tag game #violetposts.exe

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irithnova · 1 year

Note

I LOVE YOUR CONTENT SO MUCH! 🤭💛

I had one question. what do u think abt the Russia x Mongolia ship? I’ve seen many japanese artists drawing this particular pairing and it interested me so much

Aw thank you!! 😭❤️

I've made a post about Mongolia and Russia's relationship before so this post might be a little similar, I think you should read that post too to see how I feel about the Russia x Mongolia ship <3

I've seen the Russia x Mongolia ship going around, and while I'm still undecided on it myself, the impact they've had on each other's history makes the ship quite interesting to think about:

Let's go back in time for a minute to when the golden horde occupied Russia.

The Golden Horde was initially a Mongol state that ruled over parts of Eastern Europe and Central Asia from the 13th to the 15th century.

The Golden Horde had control over much of what is now Russia, imposing a system of tribute and taxation on the local population. This period of time was marked by frequent raids, battles, and military campaigns, which caused widespread destruction and suffering throughout the region.

However, over time, the Golden horde increasingly got Turkified and broke away from the greater Mongol Empire, and this is for a number of reasons.

1) Political and cultural influence from the Ottoman empire

2) Increasing presence of Turkic tribes in the golden horde

You may be asking. If I'm talking about Russia and Mongolia, why am I mentioning the golden horde? Well, as I said before, the Golden horde was officially a Mongol ruled state, and it was the golden horde, under the leader Batu Khan, who invaded Russia. Though, during this time, the Golden horde still answered to the greater Mongol Empire.

To understand Russia's view of Mongolia during this time, who eventually became the representative of the Yuan, we need to understand his relationship with the golden horde. Russia was most likely in closer contact with the golden horde than Mongolia himself during this era. Though I do believe, during the early reign of the golden horde over Russia, Mongolia and Russia did meet at points in time. Of course so Mongolia could keep a watchful eye over his territories.

How do I think golden horde treaded Russia? Well of course, he bullied Russia, and the conquest of Russia was brutal, however, like Batu Khan himself, he could be quite fair and level headed, and was a logical ruler. In addition, he was culturally and religiously tolerant, like most Mongol rulers, which Ivan was probably quite thankful for. As long as the Russians paid tribute, he didn't really care and would leave the Russians alone to do their own thing for the most part. Golden horde was quite aloof in nature, and this only added to the mystery that was about him (in Russias eyes). How could he know so little about the man who conquered him? Was this brutal conquest all for nothing? They burn my cities and kill my people and now they're just like "oh yeah just pay tribute and we'll leave you alone"?? If Ivan wasn't relieved that this was the outcome, he'd almost feel insulted.

Same goes for Mongolia, who he had less frequent contact with. The few times Mongolia would visit, or that he would visit Mongolia, Mongolia seemed to be this super serious nation with ever-furrowed eyebrows (that was partly a show that he'd put on in front of his conquered territories tbh). He was afraid, yet curious of these two persofications, but knew better than to speak out and ask.

I don't think Mongolia himself personally bullied Russia that much, though he probably treated him with a bit of disdain and turned his nose up at him ("lol look at this weak ass kid..."). Though, it wasn't always bad. I headcanon an interaction with them where Russia is crying because he's afraid/some soldier laughed at him and Mongolia is like "how are you going to survive in this world if you're crying over a little insult?" and while that sentence does come off as condescending and it probably was supposed to be, I feel like there was some actual sense of concern behind it like "gee when I was your age I was fighting for my life everyday and all you need to do is pay taxes and you'll be fine damn kids these days are getting weak huh that sucks..."

The cultural impact the golden horde/the Mongols had on Russia though were quite significant, and while the Mongol invasions did traumatise little Ivan, to an extent he attributes what happened to what made him who he is today. Here's why:

The Mongols brought with them new technologies and ideas, including the use of gunpowder and the concept of centralized rule. They also helped to unify and consolidate many of the smaller principalities and regions within Russia, laying the groundwork for the emergence of a more centralized state in the centuries that followed.

The Mongol period in Russian history helped to shape many aspects of Russian culture and identity. For example, the experience of living under Mongol rule helped to foster a sense of shared identity and national consciousness among the Russian people, as they were forced to band together and resist the foreign invaders. This period also gave rise to many stories and legends, including the epic tale of the heroic warrior-prince, Alexander Nevsky, who defeated the Teutonic Knights in battle and became a symbol of Russian resistance against foreign invaders

The Mongols/golden horde left quite an impact on Russia, and to this, despite how traumatising it was, he does feel this weird sort of respect for Mongolia and the now dead golden horde. As seen from the above, it could be argued that the Mongol invasions helped shape the future of Russia and in turn, helped shape who Russia is, both as a nation and a person.

However, after the golden horde lost its grip on Russia, Russia was in denial for a while about the impact the golden horde/Mongolia had on his history, and so he himself probably looked down at Mongolia and the now dead golden horde with contempt. Nowadays he is better about this, and isn't ashamed to admit the impact that Mongol rule had over his history and culture.

Since then, there has been positive and negative things with their relationship.

Some of the negatives:

Russia's colonization and domination of Mongolia during the 17th and 18th centuries led to a loss of political and cultural autonomy for the Mongolian people. This period was marked by political instability and conflict, and many Mongolian people were displaced or oppressed under Russian rule.

The history of Russian influence in Mongolia has at times been marked by economic exploitation and inequality. Russian merchants and traders would dominate the economic landscape in Mongolia, leading to the concentration of wealth and resources in the hands of a few.

Russia's support of the socialist government in Mongolia during the 20th century led to a one-party political system and limited political freedom for the Mongolian people.

Some positives:

Russia's influence in Mongolia has at times provided a degree of political stability to the region. The establishment of a socialist government in Mongolia in the 20th century helped to bring stability to the country and paved the way for economic and social development.

The aid that Mongolia gave to Russia during World War 2 was significant and is often ignored or underrated. Mongolia's support came in the form of military personnel and supplies. For such a poor country at the time, the supplies they gave Russia rivalled that of the supplies that the USA gave Russia.

In 1921, Mongolia declared independence from China, but its status as an independent nation was not recognized by other countries, including Russia. However, in 1924, the Soviet Union established a socialist government in Mongolia and recognized it as an independent state. This recognition helped to secure Mongolia's status as an independent nation.

How do I feel like Russia and Mongolia's relationship played out through all of this? Well, of course, Russia was still sore about the golden horde for a while, and Mongolia absolutely did not appreciate the Russian conquest of Siberia and central Asia, though, like most nations, that was hardly Ivans personal choice. I can see this being a point of contention in their relationship, even today (Turkic and Mongolic/ethnic minorities aren't treated so well in Russia. I don't want to dive into this topic too much as it is touchy and it's an ongoing issue, and I'm not pinning the blame of their mistreatment on the nation personification of Russia personally, however it would undeniably affect their relationship).

Though their relationship has been contentious and fraught with bloodshed, I have also listed a few positives of their relationship. For example, Russia is no longer in denial about the impact that the Mongol invasions had on his history and culture, and he feels a level of respect for Mongolia because of it. Russia also is truly grateful for Mongolia's help during World War 2. I also believe that Russia wholeheartedly did want to help Mongolia with his independence and it wasn't just a decision from his superiors.

As I've said, I've made a post about Russia and Mongolia's relationship before, and I talked about how Ivan can't exactly explain why he wants Mongolia to stick around, he just does and that's enough justification for him. I also think Russia is genuinely curious and impressed by aspects of Mongolian culture, and probably pesters Mongolia to take him horse riding or to throat sing for him or to give him a discount on his cashmere (answers: maybe, maybe, no).

Mongolia himself would be perplexed by Russia's behaviour towards him, but he's not exactly stopping Ivans constant pestering. He's also not afraid of Ivan personally like other nations seem to be, so this helps with their relationship I suppose. I feel like Mongolia would find some behaviours of Ivans endearing, like the genuine wander he feels about the world and about his culture (despite the pestering being annoying sometimes). While Russian influence over Mongolia didn't come without it's consequences, Mongolia does admit that Russia did play a significant role in achieving independence for his nation. I also feel like Mongolia feels a level of respect for Russia, for being able to come this far as a country from when he was simply just a vassal state for the golden horde, he is both impressed and shocked.

I feel like they both appreciate each others cultures and histories. I've already mentioned how Russia is genuinely interested in Mongolia's culture but it's the same for Mongolia, I can see him enjoying Russian novels and composers (and talking about them with Russia), and when he goes to visit Russia, Russia probably takes him to watch ballet or something.

I think a lot of the fandom accepts now that they both help fuel their alcoholic tendencies for each other and go out drinking lol I like that idea.

So yeah, in conclusion, I think Russia x Mongolia is a pretty fascinating ship considering the history these two have with each other! From the golden horde/Mongol invasions to the Russian conquest of Siberia and central Asia, to helping Mongolia with independence and World War 2 and the communist era, there's a lot to talk about and the way their relationship would have developed during this time is interesting to think about.

I don't feel like, if they were in a relationship, that it would not be overly toxic or explosive, and they'd both actually be kind of chill together, (due to the positives and negatives of their history, with each oppressing each other at some point) though there would undoubtedly be points of contention and tricky parts to their relationship.

Not that that means that I'm against it as a ship, I mean I'm literally into Monchu lol.

But yeah sorry I kind of went off on this post 😭🙏

#hetalia #aph mongolia #hws mongolia #Hetalia mongolia #Aph Russia #Hws Russia #Hetalia Russia #ivan braginsky #hetalia world twinkle #hetalia world stars #hetalia world series #hetalia ship #Russia x Mongolia #Mongolia x Russia #Rusmon #Monrus #Russiaxmongolia #Mongoliaxrussia

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achtung-attitude · 2 years

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CHAPTER 64: Better Than The Real Thing - Part 3

Memory is treacherous. The image in my head is clear as day, as if recorded on an old school Panavision Panaflex Millennium XL2 Camera. Six seconds captured in perfect detail. I remember a city street, framed around the rim of an overturned baby stroller. Burned out storefronts fill the background, everything washed in a thin, suffocating haze of smoke and embers.

It’s 1992 and I’m 2 months old. My parents are dead. All-Kill is picking up as I cry, another tragic casualty of the Rodney King riots. But is this memory real? Or just something I constructed based on what others have told me? Supposedly, the brain only starts accurately recording memories at the age of three. So, then… Is this memory that I cherish false?

I don’t know. I’m not sure that I care. I’ve never known a life that All-Kill wasn’t a part of. With no questions asked, he took me in, became my guardian. I owe him everything.

I remember calling him Dad when I was young, but he shot that down. He said I was old enough to learn what happened to my real parents. I don’t remember crying at all. It simply accepted it.

There was no beating around the bush. I was an orphan, taken in by a stranger with no blood relation who had found me. That stranger was a gangster with mysterious powers. It made no difference to me. I didn’t know my ‘real’ family. I didn't need them. I had a roof over my head and someone looking after me. I was a normal kid who latched onto an interest.

The first film I ever watched was a VHS of Jurassic Park. I watched it over and over for the next 24 hours. I was enthralled, pulled into that world completely. By the end of the week, the tape was worn out and broken from constant use. All-Kill bought me another copy. At that young age, I understood the power of films, and then and there, dedicated my life to them. Or rather I would have, but All-Kill had other plans.

He took me out to see Spider-Man, then afterwards, drove me to a warehouse outside the city limits. He mentioned something about me being ‘ready’, but even when he brought me before Brother Dust, I didn’t understand what I was there for. T’onga, Sunmi, even Yeon-in had received their Stands already. What did I think? I was getting braces? Stupid…

Dust approached me, but All-Kill stepped between us. He argued that I should be allowed to choose my own disc, and Phantasma agreed. Dust relented and showed me his collection of discs. I just picked the shiniest one. I guess it must have hurt so much that I passed out, because the next thing I remembered was All-Kill leaning over me on the ground, telling me how proud he was…

The beautiful thing about films is that they end when they're supposed to. When the characters achieve their arc and all the themes come to fruition, then they just end. Even if the characters die, there is meaning in how their deaths serve the film. All within just a few hours at most. Human lives, by contrast, are dreary, meandering and entirely too long. There's no clear progression, no obvious purpose, no guarantee of fulfillment.

I am a supporting character. My purpose is to help All-Kill achieve his ambitions. Even if I die… Even if he kills me for what I do tonight… As long as he can reach his goal, then…

Sang-ok sighs. His bucket of popcorn lies discarded and empty at the foot of his director’s chair. He checks the timer on his smartphone.

“20 minutes… Just 20 more minutes and it’ll all be over…”

BETTER THAN THE REAL THING crouches at his side, the light from its projector eye enthralling Shizuka and her friends, propelling them towards their doom…

***

INT. JAMAL’S HOUSE - AFTERNOON

Jerome’s vision clears. He finds himself in his character’s living room.

JEROME

What the… Oh… Oh shit…! OH SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!

Jerome dashes to the window and sees Tanya creeping around just outside. He quickly ducks out of view to avoid her spotting him. He lays flat on the wall by the window and peeks outside to watch her. She seems to be looking for something in the bushes.

JEROME

Oh shit… Fuck! This is it! This is the end of the movie! In my next scene, I’m supposed to just walk over to Kyle and Shannon’s to complain about ‘em diggin’ up my backyard, then Tanya blows my head off with a shotgun!!

He peeks outside again and sees Tanya pulling something long, heavy and wrapped in a tarp from under the soil.

JEROME

If I go out there… Oh God, I’m a dead man…! But if I don’t do something, then Kilo and Shizuka…! That bastard was right…! I can’t change anything!!

Tears form in his eyes. He sinks to the floor.

JEROME

Kilo…! Shizuka…! I can’t do shit…! They’re gonna die and I can’t do shit!!

He wipes his eyes angrily.

JEROME

What happens… If I just stay here? Do I still die no matter what? Even if the others die and I live, is he just gon’ put me in some other movie, like Gone with the Wind?

He stands, sniffs, then checks outside to find Tanya’s already gone. Preparing for her assault on Kyle and Shannon’s home. He presses his forehead on the glass.

JEROME

Like hell… Am I stayin’ here… I’ll change something…! Even if it’s just one thing… I’ll change something!!

He steps away from the glass and breathes slowly to calm himself, then leaves the house with determination.

JEROME

I... I have to... I don’t know how, but I’ll change it! I’ll change everything!!

Jerome stands there, in his supposed living room. He breathes, in and out, in and out. He knows what he must do.

Jerome walks towards the door and opens it, stepping outside.

EXT. HOUSE ENTRANCE - AFTERNOON

Tanya, shotgun in hand, climbs over the fence and creeps to the front door of Kyle and Shannon’s, a wide and eager smile plastered on her face. Soon enough, something catches her eye.

She almost emerges from the side passage, but ducks back when she sees Jerome approach the front door. She listens to him pound on the door, yelling.

JEROME

Ey, neighbor! Get on out here, we got some shit to talk about!!! You been fuckin’ around in my yard, diggin’ up my hit! I ain’t having it!

Tanya creeps up behind him silently, planting the gun butt against her shoulder as she aims right at his head.

JEROME

Don’t act like you don’t hear me, let’s go!!!

Tanya pulls back the hammer. It makes an almost silent click. But Jerome hears it, because he was listening. He spins around, his eyes focused and alert, taking Tanya by surprise. She recoils in surprise, allowing Jerome to grab the barrel and point it away from him.

TANYA

AHH!!

JEROME

Think again, bitch!!!

In the struggle, Tanya accidentally presses down on the trigger and fires, blowing out one of the windows. The recoil causes the butt to strike her shoulder. This causes her to lose her grip. Jerome takes the chance and rips it out of her hands, then, holding it by the barrel, swings it at her like a club and strikes her collarbone.

TANYA

GAGHH-!!!

She falls to her knees. Jerome rushes to the front door, pounding on it harder. There is no answer.

JEROME

Shit!

With that, Jerome shoulder charges the door, ramming it open on the third charge.

INT. FRONT CORRIDOR - AFTERNOON

Jerome burst into the house.

JEROME

KILO!!! SHIZUKA!! Answer me!! Tell me you’re OK-!!

Jerome pauses when he hears another hammer being clicked back. Jerome looks up to see Kyle coming down the stairs and stopping at the foot, aiming a pistol right at him.

JEROME

Kilo…

Kyle’s eyes are blazing with rage and terror.

KYLE

It’s you... You’re the one!

JEROME

What? Kilo, calm down, man, I’m-

Jerome notices that he’s still holding the shotgun, then quickly drops it and raises his hands.

JEROME

Uh…!! So I know how this looks-!!

KYLE

SHUT UP!!! My name is Kyle!! You’ve been torturing us all week!! You tried to get us to trust you, but all you’ve done is put weird ideas in my head!!

JEROME

I’m tryin’ to help you-!!

KYLE

HELP ME?!!! HOW?!! BY CONVINCING ME THAT MY LIFE IS A LIE?! THAT THIS IS ALL FAKE?! No… It’s more like I have an unhinged stalker harassing me and the woman I love!!

JEROME

YOU DO!! But it’s not-!

Suddenly, Tanya calls from outside, appearing in the doorway clutching her jaw.

TANYA

KYLE!!!

KYLE

Tanya...

TANYA

Shoot him quickly!! He’s crazy!! He tried to kill me!

JEROME

YOU LYIN’ B-!!!

Jerome pauses, his eyes suddenly going wide, as if struck by a revelation. He turns to Kilo and smiles maliciously at him.

JEROME

Yeah, alright. You got me… It was me!

Kyle’s eyes flare. Jerome winces as soon as the words are out. Kyle squeezes the trigger and fires two bullets in Jerome’s chest

***

In the real world, two bullet holes suddenly burst open in Jerome’s chest. He gags and clutches his chest, then collapses face first onto the road.

“And here I was looking forward to seeing your head go pop…” Sang-ok mutters, looking disdainfully at Jerome’s motionless body. “Oh well… I did try to warn you. You can’t change your fate…”

***

INT. FRONT CORRIDOR - AFTERNOON

Kyle and Tanya watch as Jerome falls to the ground. As he lies motionless, a puddle of blood forms beneath him. Kyle catches his breath, then moves to check on Tanya.

KYLE

I- I got him… T-Tanya… Are you there-? You al-

Before he can finish his question, Kyle sees Tanya pick up the shotgun and point it at him. She looks up, showing her face contorted into a crooked smile.

KYLE

SHI-!!

Tanya fires. Kyle wails as his kneecap is hit, blood splattering everywhere. In his shock, he drops the handgun and Tanya kicks it away.

Kyle

AAAAHHH!!!

Kyle scurries away. Tanya tries firing again, but finds the shotgun empty. Throwing it away, she heads into the kitchen, allowing Kyle time to drag himself up the stairs.

INT. KITCHEN

Tanya tears the kitchen apart, rummaging through doors and cabinets. Soon enough, she finds a large grabbing hook from the pantry. Smiling delightedly, she skips away to find her prey.

***

Sang-ok sees Kilo’s kneecap explode, the blood getting on his friend’s clothes. “Finally, a little splatter,” he says, checking the time again, “Now… 15 more minutes. 15 minutes and it’ll all be-”

Sang-ok trails off upon hearing an odd sound. Something faint. Something like… ragged breathing.

“What is that…?”

***

INT. FRONT CORRIDOR - AFTERNOON

Lying in a pool of blood, Jerome is motionless and silent. But soon he is neither, as he slowly shifts. A pained chuckle escapes from his throat.

JEROME

Aha… Ahahaha…!

Jerome groans as he lifts himself up. He’s sweating and his breath is short. His insides should be ruined by the bullet wounds, but somehow, he’s still alive.

JEROME

I’m still alive…! I should be dead, but I’m not…! I was supposed to get shot by T’onga, but I got shot by Kilo instead… The fact that I’m still here proves… I CAN CHANGE SOMETHING!!!

***

Sang-ok stands at the edge of the light barrier cast by BETTER THAN. He glares down at Jerome, gritting his teeth. “This can’t…! He’s supposed to be dead! This has never happened before…!” He clutches his face, the right eye covered by his hair twitching.

“Why is this happening? How can BETTER THAN THE REAL THING allow this? Even if he’s conscious of the unreality, he shouldn’t be able to alter the narrative outcome like this…!”

Suddenly, Sang-ok stiffens. “It’s not… he’s not defying BETTER THAN, but working with it… He was supposed to die by Tanya’s hand, but… Instead, he avoided that attack and got shot by Kyle. But the major plot points can’t change! His character has the first onscreen death! Only Tanya can kill him, and none of the other three can die before him!!!”

Sang-ok’s eye narrows and he storms toward the barrier. He tries to grab Jerome, but when he reaches, his hand appears on the other side, just like the bird from before.

“Damn it… Damn it…! Calm down… There’s still 10 minutes left to fix this. 10 minutes… That’s as good as an hour…” He glares at Sang-ok, having calmed himself down. “I underestimated you, Jerome Adetokunbo. I won’t make that mistake again. I will protect All-Kill. I will…”

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #achtung attitude #sang-ok park #jurassic park #ch64

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