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disneyprincemuke · 4 months

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the schumacher problem * femdriver

pairings: mick schumacher x femdriver, logan sargeant x femdriver, oscar piastri x femdriver

notes: hi i skipped 2022 cause i was too lazy to write it <3

-> 2020

“come here, we need to introduce you to some people.”

“if you’re gonna jump scare me like that one time with david beckham. i’m not going to stand there like an idiot again. i’ve practiced and grown.”

“no, fuck face. we’re introducing you to your team next year. you know… prema? the team giving you a fighting chance in motorsport?”

“i will kick you out of my house, you know.”

“guys, this is the best friend we keep talking about!” oscar beams, jumping over to grab her wrist. he pulls her away from logan and puts a hand on her back, urging her to step forward. “she’s joining prema next year for her f3 career.”

“right, hi,” she smiles with a small nod. she takes a step back and one more towards oscar. “i’m really excited to work with you guys.”

“oh, hey! we’ve met before.” frederik steps forward and smiles. “at one of oscar and logan’s races.”

“how come i’ve never met her before?” a disembodied voice makes her lean slightly forward to peek over oscar’s shoulder. a wide smile and a pair of blue eyes are now looking at her. “you guys are hiding her from me or something?”

“yeah, mate. because we totally keep her in a dungeon cause she's not allowed other friends but us,” logan scoffs. he puts a hand on her back and pushes her a step forward. “you know mick, don’t you, (y/n)? schumacher.”

her back straightens. “oh. the schumacher?” she whispers, turning to logan with wide eyes. “like the man, the myth, the legend: michael schumacher’s son? mick schumacher?”

oscar raises an eyebrow. “i told you we were in prema with mick. what is wrong with you?”

“i don’t know. what do i say to him?”

“mate, i thought you said you practiced?” logan snorts, one hand over his mouth to contain his laughter. “why are you freezing up now?”

“nepotism goes kinda hard. i’m a big fan of him and his dad. this is not the same as the david beckham situation.”

“you’re kinda cute, aren’t you?”

simultaneously, the three best friends turn their head to the german with his head tilted to the side. “me?” she asks, pointing a finger to her chest. she looks around for any other person he could be talking about before settling to look at him again. “you think i’m cute?”

“pretty sure,” frederik smiles with a nod. “it would be kind of awkward if he was talking about oscar, right?”

oscar shrugs. “my girlfriend tells me i’m pretty cute.”

“not the same, dude,” logan mutters. he looks down at her and smacks her shoulder. “hey, snap out of it!”

frederik glances at mick, whose smile has grown a lot more since the redness on her cheeks crept up and she’s resigned to hiding behind oscar’s shoulder. he’s just about to say something when another figure walking into the room catches his attention.

frederik beams and throws his arm up into the air. he grabs her shoulders and forces her to turn around. “oh, robert’s over there! robert! we want you to meet somebody!”

“hey, great qualifying run.” she turns around and unclips her helmet.

“oh, mick,” she smiles with a nod. she puts her helmet between her legs and fixes her hair. “thank you. i didn’t know you were watching — i thought you were preparing for your own race.”

“i had some extra time,” mick smiles at her. he points to the helmet. “do you need some help? i can help you with that.”

“no, it’s ok-“ she smiles when mick presses his lips into a thin line. “yeah, i need some help. thank you.”

she reaches between her legs and offers mick her helmet. he takes into her hands and steps back, gesturing towards the end of parc ferme.

“so, uh,” she sighs, looking around. “where’s oscar?”

“getting ready for the race.”

“so why aren’t you doing the same?” she shrieks, brushing her hands through her hair. she tries to untangle her hair as they walk. “complacent?”

“not complacent. i know i’m good,” mick grins with a soft giggle. “anyway, are you doing anything tonight? um, after the race?”

she hums, brushing all of her hair over to one shoulder. “ice cream with logan and oscar.”

“you quite like your ice cream, it seems. i heard you guys always get ice cream after your races,” mick grins. “what’s your favourite flavour?

“rocky road with marshmallows.”

“but doesn’t rocky road already have marshmallows?”

“yeah.”

“interesting.”

“it’s really good. if you want, you can join us tonight. i’m sure they don’t mind.”

"really? are you sure?"

"yeah! then tell me your verdict on my favourite ice cream pairing. you'll love it, i swear."

"good luck on your race!"

logan looks up from his phone, scowling slightly at the driver in red standing outside the garage. he raises an eyebrow, watching her beam and walk over towards the entrance.

"hey, mick," she laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "wow, i'm starting to see you a lot in my garage. i'd say it's becoming a habit."

"just wanted to wish you luck in person," mick smiles, leaning against the wall. he folds his arms over his chest and leans his weight on one leg as he looks down at her. "confident to make it into the top 10?"

"hopefully. i'm feeling good today," she nods, wide eyes staring up at mick. she has her hands clasped behind her back as she converses with the older driver. "who knows? i might even win the race."

"oh, definitely. i'll be rooting for you."

"thanks, i need that." she takes a step back. "i need to finish my race prep. i'll see you right before your race? the least i can do is wish you luck in person too, since you came all this way."

"okay. make sure you're there - else, i won't start my race without your luck."

she laughs, stepping back and waving as the german walks away. she turns around with a roll of her eyes and a giddy grin on her face. logan, having watched the entire interaction not too far from them, has put his phone down on his lap.

"you know he likes you," logan says, pointing a finger at her. she looks down at him, clueless clearly written all over her face. "you know that, right? there's no way you don't know that."

she hums, raising her eyebrows and then furrowing them. "what are you talking about?"

"he literally has an f2 race to prep for and he walked all the way here to wish you luck," logan explains, unsure of how she's oblivious to the fact. "he could have just texted you. he has your number, doesn't he?"

"i don't think it's as deep as you make it out to be, logan," she shrugs. "you would've done the same."

"yeah, but we literally have been racing against one another for years. we live together!" logan throws his head back, smacking his forehead in frustration. "that's different!"

she presses her lips together and looks off into the distance. "i don't think it's that serious, mate."

logan just shrugs, sinking into his seat as he rolls his eyes. "whatever you wanna believe."

"hey, wait up!"

oscar turns his head before her, raising an eyebrow as he watches mick run towards them with something in his hands. "hey?" oscar mutters in confusion.

"hi," mick greets him quickly, before turning to the girl standing next to him. "i was at the interview table and they were giving out popsicles. i thought you might appreciate it more than me."

she looks down at it. "oh, thank you. are you sure? i mean... mick... this is yours."

"i don't really like popsicles," mick shrugs, continuing to offer her the cold refreshment. "it's grape. it's really good."

"if it's really go-"

"just take it."

"alright," she nods, taking the popsicle into her hands hesitantly. "do you want something in return? i've got a twix bar in my bag, but it's-"

"i'll see you later! i have an interview i'm late for, actually. just wanted to give you that," mick says hurriedly. he pats her shoulder before he turns and darts off from the direction he initially came from.

she slowly turns to look at oscar, who's got an equally confused stare, looking down at her with a small scowl on his face. "what was that about?"

oscar shrugs. "i don't know, but you should eat that popsicle before it starts melting."

the resume their walk in silence, not fully processing the event that happened too quick for them to consume. she's eating the popsicle now, eyes still squinted in confusion.

"i've been looking for popsicles everywhere and no one can tell me where to get one! everyone in the prema garage has one for some reason," logan screams, approaching her with his hands on his hips. "where did you get yours? why do you have one? is this a sick prank someone is pulling on me?"

she shrugs. "mick gave this to me."

logan slumps his shoulders. "mick gave that to you?"

"yeah," she nods. "interview table or something, he said."

"i was just there! there were no popsicles there!"

oscar looks between his best friends as he sports a growing smile. slowly, he starts bubbling with laughter, clutching his stomach as he points at her. "oh, my god! you're so stupid!"

"what?"

"mick has a crush on you!" oscar screams. "you've got the epitome of nepotism crushing on you! that's so cute!"

"that's what i told her like weeks ago!" logan points out. "give me that popsicle - i deserve it more than you do."

"oh, piss off!" she screams, swiftly running behind oscar and swatting logan's hands away from her. "i'm sure there's a freezer filled with popsicles in the garage somewhere. you'll find yours."

"no way! mick definitely has a stash dedicated for you! i've only seen red popsicles. i want the grape one!" logan runs around oscar, eager to take the popsicle in the younger girl's hands. "give it to me - he'll give you another one!"

-> 2021

"hey, congrats on the podium."

"thank you- oh, mick! don't you have your debut race to be preparing for?"

"i just wanted to drop by and congratulate you," mick grins. he steps back, scanning her new look in the red race suit he used to sport as well. "red looks good on you."

"it does, doesn't it?" she smiles, twirling with her arms stretched out. "i have to admit - i'm not sure haas colours are yours."

"hey. that's mean."

"maybe i'm just not used to it," she shrugs. she swings her helmet in her hands. "can i watch the race from your garage? you reckon gunther would let me?"

mick laughs, waving off her concerns. "of course, he loves you! just meet me in the garage when you're done? i'll get you a spot."

"okay!"

she waves as he turns to walk away, making one last comment about how he'll be waiting for her before disappearing into the crowd.

"oi, fuck face."

"will it kill you to be nice to me for once, logan?"

"are you sure about this?" she raises her eyebrows, looking down at the white car with her lips pressed together. "what if i crash this? it's your car."

"don't think so much about it," mick shrugs, hands on his hips as he watches her clutch onto her helmet for dear life. "it's just another car. you've driven an f1 car before, haven't you?"

"once during crash testing. that's not the same!"

"not much of a difference." mick pushes her towards the car and grins. "come on, free practice is about to start. get inside - i didn't beg gunther for nothing."

she looks at him from the corner of her eyes. "okay, but if i crash, don't hold it against me."

"i did kinda force you to test drive my car. no hard feelings if you crash," mick shrugs. "just don't die."

"oh, we'll see about that last part," she sighs, pulling her helmet down her head. "i think about that often - you know, cause i've lived with oscar and logan for like almost half of my life at this point."

"oh, you're leaving the paddocks alone tonight? did the powerpuff trio get into a fight or something?" mick teases, catching up to her as she taps her card against the reader.

"no, um," she laughs, "lily is in town for oscar and logan's got a date. no way i'm third-wheeling oscar and lily tonight."

mick nods, pressing his lips together. in his head, gears are already turning in his head. true, he finds her cute. but it's not like he can do anything.

she seems very dead set on her racing career.

"i don't actually have anything planned for tonight," he clears his throat. he takes a deep breath, unsure of how she will take his offer. "do you maybe wanna grab some dinner? there's this restaurant nearby that seb always raves about."

he sighs in relief when her face lights up. "really? can we get ice cream too? i was gonna drop by this store near my hotel and eat it while i watch a show - i always have ice cream after my race. i'm not stopping today."

"yeah, there's this ice cream parlour close by," mick nods. actually, he looked into spots in the area when he saw oscar leaving the paddocks with lily and logan rushing to leave by himself 20 minutes ago.

he had it all planned out. "so, what do you say?" he lifts up his car keys. "you can drive if you want."

she gasps, reaching out for the car keys in his hands. "seriously? i get to drive your super expensive car that i know, for a fact, you never let anyone else drive?"

mick nods. "is that a yes?"

she nods excitedly, hopping slightly as she follows him towards where his car is parked. she puts her hand on the door handle right before she goes in. "you must like me if you're letting me drive your car."

he laughs nervously, eyes widening as he opens the door from the passenger side. it seems that she's catching on somehow. "get in before i change my mind."

"what the hell are you guys doing?"

her and mick, sitting with their backs against the bed frame, merely inches away from the small screen of her nintendo switch in the cramped hotel room turns to the kiwi at the entryway of her hotel room. they've got controllers in their hands, focused on the game on the tiny screen.

"i'm beating mick at mario kart."

"not true," mick mutters. "i'm letting her win after she cried about retiring from her race today."

"you cried?" logan throws his head back, pushing past liam and oscar who are further into the room. he slips his shoes off before jumping on her bed. "are you okay?"

"i didn't cry. i had something in my eye and now mick is telling everyone i cried," she scoffs. "also, i'm beating him fair and square."

"well, uh," liam trails off, holding up two bags. "we got the alcohol you asked us to get on the way back from the track. sorry for your dnf, mate."

"yeah, whatever," she mutters.

"i was talking to mick."

"oh, ok."

"i'm used to it," mick shakes his head. "hey, stop pushing me! you're cheating!"

"it's a power-up!"

"you're pushing me in real life, mate!"

oscar has already hopped over her bed, rummaging her suitcase in silence. "where's the extra controllers? i wanna play too."

liam looks at logan with a small smile, seeing that their friends would be busy with other matters. "tequila?"

logan glances at the pair sitting with their shoulders touching, shoving each other periodically to throw one another off from their game. he looks at liam. "a full shot."

-> 2023

"don't you have a mercedes to be with?" she teases as the door opens, chewing on the inside of her cheek as the german stands at the door. "what are you doing here?"

mick raises an eyebrow. "you literally crashed. i just wanted to see if you're okay."

she smiles. "thank you. i'm okay." she looks down and chomps down on her twix bar as mick takes the empty spot next to sebastian on the couch. "isn't toto looking for you?"

"no, he was asking me to check in on you," mick grins. "is there anything i can help you with? food, drinks, anything?"

"look at the food surrounding her," sebastian laughs, gesturing at the packets of snacks and drinks by her thighs. "i don't think she needs any more food than this."

mick looks at the older man. "i didn't ask you."

she giggles, rolling her eyes. "i'm okay, thank you." she grabs a packet of doritos not too far from her and extends her arm towards them. "snack while we wait for the doctor to come back with my results?"

mick nods, cupping his hands as he awaits the packet. "have oscar and logan come around to find you yet?"

"not yet. these are the ones sebastian brought me from my emergency stash in my garage."

"your what in your garage?"

sebastian sighs, nodding. "she has an emergency stash of snacks in the garage for emergencies. i guess she had a point when she did that because i didn't have to look far for those."

"interesting."

"what are you two kids whispering about over there?"

she straightens her back from her hunched position in the corner, turning to sebastian with a small and guilty grin. the man in white next to her, also turns to him with wide eyes.

"hi, seb."

"what are you doing in our garage? shouldn't you be in mercedes with toto and susie?"

"i'm on my lunch break," mick smiles, wiping his lips from the brown residue of the chocolate they'd been indulging in previously. "i just brought her something."

sebastian narrows his eyes. "then why are you hiding it from me?"

"no reason," she shrugs, moving slightly towards mick to hide what's behind them from sebastian's sight. "you should go for your meeting, seb."

"you're being very suspicious. what's behind you?"

she shakes her head. "nothing." she looks up at mick and taps his hand. "tell him it's nothing."

"nothing," mick says immediately, pressing his lips into a thin line. "you don't wanna find out."

sebastian sighs. "you didn't bring her rocky road ice cream, did you?"

mick's eyes widen, a confession almost spilling past his lips at his guess. she quickly cuts him off and shakes her head profusely. "of course not! you and noah told me to stop eating ice cream before my races, so of course i'm not eating ice cream."

"i literally see chocolate at the corner of your lips."

"i'm sorry! she wouldn't stop texting me about craving for rocky road and marshmallows!" mick sighs in shame, dropping his head to avoid sebastian's stern stare.

"i told you to stop eating ice cream before a race! it gives you a tummy ache every time! what makes you think this time will be different?"

mick lifts his head with a proud smile. "it's lactose intolerant friendly."

"really?" she coos, turning to him with a bright smile. "that's so nice - where did you get that?"

"i found it in the store when george and i were-"

"stop giving her ice cream before her race!"

she follows sebastian through the crowd, keeping her head low to avoid getting spotted by the cameras. she's got one last media commitment to head to before she can follow carlos and lando to the nightclub nearby.

hands grabs her shoulders, prompting her look up. "mick!"

"i've been looking for you everywhere!" mick smiles. "congrats on the podium!"

"thank you!" she smiles, wrapping her arms around him for a hug immediately. "you're joining us at the club after, right?"

"of course. congrats again, mate." he wraps his arms around her, squeezing her and twirling her around.

"kid, come on! we don't have time!" sebastian grunts, turning around to tug her out of mick's grasp. "talk to mick later!"

"okay, okay!" she shrieks, letting sebastian pull her away. she turns around to wave at mick. "i'll see you in the club! get me a drink, okay!"

"i don't get it!" she shrieks, thumbs spamming the buttons of her controller as her eyes fill with tears. "what am i supposed to do?"

"no, just wash the dishes. i'm making the food," mick says calmly, jaw locked as he focuses on the item on the screen. "just wash the dishes."

"mate, are you stupid?" liam screams, one thumb pressing a button as he smacks oscar on the back. "we're losing to mick and (y/n)! we can't let that happen!"

"how about instead of screaming at me, mate, you actually chop up some stupid potatoes! this is why we're losing - you keep micromanaging me!" oscar screams at liam, finally losing his cool.

he had tried to play overcooked as calmly as mick, but it clearly isn't working when he is paired up with liam. logan, sitting at the table, fingers covered in glue with small tears of paper laid around him scoffs.

"thanks for the help, guys. i really appreciate that we're all working on the trophy for the race we're having this weekend," logan speaks monotonously.

"i'm not participating," oscar says.

"in a bit, lo," she mutters, smiling at him momentarily before returning her attention to the screen. "oh, mick, there's a fucking fire! did i cause that? how do i put it out?"

"calm down," mick laughs, his character running around to find the fire extinguisher. "i've got it. just keep washing the dishes."

"oscar! the fucking potatoes!"

"liam, you cunt, you haven't even thrown me a fucking potato! where is the potato? oh, would you look at that? it's in your hands!"

"yeah, i was gonna cut them myself cause you're as good as nothing in this stupid game! next game, i wanna be paired up with mick!"

"no way. i'm having the time of my life," mick scoffs, rolling his eyes as he sends in another order. "we're having so much fun, aren't we, (y/n)?"

"sure."

"what if we just didn't have a trophy for the scooter race?"

liam and her turn to the american, frowning. "no!"

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honourable mention: @localwhoore

#fem!driver #female driver #f1 fem!driver #f1 female driver #vettel reincarnate #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #disneyprincemuke vr #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #logan sargeant x reader #mick schumacher x reader

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gangplanksorenji · 4 months

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Kinknuary Day 10: Body Worship

Pairing: ITZY Yuna x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,197

[Kinknuary Masterlist]

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“God, you’re breaking the Internet, again, Yuna.” You present a flummoxed face (not really surprised, but you're still amazed) as you swipe left to view the pictures she's taken.

“Well, daddy—” Yuna scoffs, a sanguine look paints her face as she turns to face you, proving how she’s worthy of that goddamn title no one can take away from her, “—all of them know how eye-catching my body can be. Hah—all I know is that there's probably thousands and thousands of people drooling over my slender body.”

“And only I—” You pulled her immediately onto yours, inches away from your bodies touching as you gave her a mischievous smirk in which Yuna portrays shyness towards you as she probably knows where this will go, on your own accord, “---can get to see them everyday or whenever I want.”

“Daddy!” Yuna playfully retaliates with a light punch, in which you laugh because of her adorable remarks. “Don’t be so complacent. I still have schedules with the members and gladly, I got to see you despite my hectic schedule.”

She was genuine when she said this and you couldn’t help but blush because of it. You know how schedules can literally abort your plans with her and you ultimately understand it and you don’t really want to interfere with any of that because of the threat of being caught by the media’s eyes as you know how crazy their eavesdropping abilities are. You knew her side and yours, and the fact she showed up just to bond with you is beyond spectacular as you’re in awe with her willingness.

“Yuna, I really do appreciate your efforts, honestly…” You then kiss her forehead as you let her know how genuinely grateful you feel as those doe eyes stare at you endearingly, mirroring the affectionate atmosphere you’ve emanated earlier.

“All for you, daddy, ‘cause I know how much you love me and miss me…”

Yuna knows the picks to your locks and won’t definitely keep the gates closed to herself if she knows within a single touch, your whole world could collapse in shambles. Yes, within just a single action gets some fruit of labor: a kiss enamored with affection as both parties engage with utmost intimacy, fighting for dominance. Well, it’s not exactly dominance but the aggression on each other’s reciprocation is vocalized, and Yuna, as the girl she is, fully indulges onto the taste of your lips as if you're insanely insatiable—I mean, you are insanely irresistible at her end as both feelings are mutual.

Your hands gracefully course its way onto the back of her slender, hourglass waist and then the endgame, her plump buttcheeks, further emphasized with the skinny jeans she loves wearing—of course, she’ll make sure you’ll get some of your own private content, exclusively for your eyes to take a sight on only. As you deepen the kiss, Yuna hums in satisfaction as she waited for this for weeks and now, is extremely jovial as every second is cherished within heated pecks.

“You kiss me so good, daddy.”

“You’re a great kisser too, Yuna, and—” You lean back a little, composing yourself onto a sight that will sure make anyone in awe—taking some time to look at the sight of her perfectly-sculpted waist as you take yourself to admire how hot she is and how her outfit perfectly compliments her hourglass figure. “—gosh, you look incredibly hot and pretty in this outfit.”

No wonder why the Internet goes crazy over this girl, and gladly, you knew the answer way back then as you’re always thankful to see it with your very own eyes.

Yuna faces slightly against you as she tries to hide the rosy hue her cheeks have emanated but she doesn't even bother to conceal her true emotions, as you’re in awe of how weakly she’s taking your compliments. She rested her hands onto your shoulders as you couldn’t contain your emotions again and initiated another kiss but this time, you parted out of her mouth quickly enough to appreciate her other features by peppering it with needy kisses. You take your time to admire her smooth, porcelain skin and then latch your lips onto it, suckling onto her neck as she lets out an almost inaudible moan as your actions make her feel great.

“You know you can get rid of this stupid jacket, Yuna.”

“You’re right, da—ahh—daddy…” Yuna didn’t mind your affectionate peppering towards her neck to express her insatiability and your hunger towards her as she continues to slowly remove her pieces of clothing that’s refraining you from addressing your love for her further. You gave her ease by moving for her comfort as not so long after, she already removed her first layer of clothing as you smile from the sight of more skin is being exposed but Yuna knows it wasn’t enough, so she course her way onto undressing her crop top jacket and still, you continue peppering her with kisses yet this time, you add admiration to her sharp collar bones that she always liked.

“Y-You really missed k-kissing them, daddy?”

“Of course I do, baby.” With now just her black spaghetti-strapped top as the last line of defense, you ultimately succumbed onto your own primal desires as you worship every inch of her exposed skin, showing her how much you love them in series: her shoulders that you always love to see whenever she feels confident, her sharp collar bones that exudes class and sexiness in every way possible and there’s way more features to express your love on and it’s only inches away before your latch onto your treasured grand prizes.

“As much as I love this outfit on you, Yuna—it’s better on the floor because your body’s a better sight to see.”

“B-But—ahh, daddy! I k-know how much you’ll l-love them so, thank you—ahh, right there!”

Of course, just like any other person, Yuna reads your mind with outfits that showcase her curves and you know how much you’ll love them and she’s clever with that. Having enough of her neck and collarbones, you want to discover and worship more of her as you’re only getting started—and Yuna’s already moaning like crazy, considering how she’s always sensitive to the touch whenever she’s with you.

“Don’t you mind it if I do, Yuna?” Your fingers play the strap on her top, waiting for her green light if you can strip it out of her.

“I d-don’t mind it, daddy—my b-body is all yours—all fucking yours!”

Well, that’s more of a green light than what you expected but nonetheless, you did as what you told yourself to do—stripping that strap off of her body as gravity gracefully does its work and you finished the job yourself. She raised her arms for a better leverage on undressing that stupid clothing off and wow, you didn’t expect the sight that has been laid onto you now.

“Hm, getting really naughty and daring huh, Yuna?” Yes, your eyes would never lie to you nor give you delusional hallucinations as the sight of her fully-uncovered, perky breasts are now all over your sight with her taut buds begging for your touch and god, you just want to give in to your temptation. Well, there’s no one stopping you about your own animalistic urges as your fingers find its way onto her taut nipples, pinching it as you alternate it with fondling that makes Yuna moan in more need as greed clouds her mind, wanting you to do more.

“Well, I k-knew you’d l-like this so—ahh, daddy! Yes, I—god—ahh, I w-want to surprise you…”

And you’re definitely surprised yet the familiar tent is now coming down to your nether regions, poking onto the frustrating clothing that is holding them back. “And I’m damn surprised about this, Yuna but I love it—you know? Easier access…” And you just keep teasing her with your tongue and your lips latching onto her stiff buds and the constant fondling of her perky breasts as inevitably, Yuna cries as the sensitivity is peaking at its finest loves everything that’s happening, the further stimulation becoming the golden trophy she’s been longing for.

You continue sucking onto the smooth, spotless skin as you were deprived of her for years and the random nibbling of your tongue onto her nipples as the cherry on top and it never stopped, and so are Yuna’s symphonic moans.

“Do you know how perfect you are, Yuna? You are something no man can express ‘cause look at you—” Your hands sluggishly caress her midriff and then towards her perky mounds in which, she can’t help but irresistibly moan out how great she’s feeling and your touch does wonders all over her body. “—sculpted perfectly and built to be fucking used, huh, Yuna?”

If she’s arousing the living hell out of you as she aims to unleash the feral beast inside your soul, then might as well add some of the filthy talk to further lit up the flames of lust that has been building up. You know how horny and unstoppable Yuna can get, but you need to let her know how much you adore her and how perfect her body is. She’s getting riled up, you could tell from the writhing of her knees and thighs whenever you play with the smooth skin of her toned abdomen and that alone, puts a delighted smile on your face, knowing that she’s being turned on truly by your primally lustful actions. You continue to play, kiss and worship her body, like a goddess that’s insanely insatiable as every action you do releases such beautiful moans that orchestrate such a symphony that would dive in to listen to please and satisfy you even more.

“Let it out, Yuna—I know how much you love my tongue licking and mouth kissing all over this beautiful waist.”

Of course, Yuna won’t bother to articulate such a response if your mouth and your tongue is making her wild and crazy. You really can’t comprehend how insanely irresistible she can be and you like it—you could only know limitless possibilities to praise her body as every inch isn’t ignored, lathered with either your saliva or peppered with kisses by your mouth. Having enough and becoming satisfied on worshiping the flexing protrusion of her abdominals muscles of her waist, you averted your attentions towards her milky, smooth armpits and her sharp collar bones but Yuna wants the best for you, so, she interrupted you with a proposition, hoping for you to agree.

“D-Daddy, I know y-you can’t stop but I can lay d-down on the bed upstairs so you can be more comfortable.”

You wouldn’t turn down on that, because you wanted the maximum comfort between both parties so, without wasting any time, the both of you went upstairs to continue such an endearing yet lustful act of fervor and love.

---

“Daddy—right there! Ohh—fuck, you’re so good—hah, oh god…”

You totally succumb to your temptations, licking onto the succulent-looking, smooth armpits as you voice out your satisfaction through hums between kisses and licks. Of course, you never left those perky breasts hanging and being unattended, as your hands fondle it with care, and aims to stimulate Yuna further and as well as her stiff buds that’s her ultimate kryptonite—it always brings her down to her knees whenever you stimulate her with it and you marvel with her response to your own doing. You continue to lather her pits with your drool as you salivate on it, and then alternating it with some kisses on her collar bones to express your gratitude on this opportunity and how much you love them, for the umpteenth time.

“You must l-love my p-pits, hm, daddy—oh fuck, t-that’s good!”

“I love every inch of your body, Yuna, but these smooth pits are something else.” Even if you didn’t bother to answer, she knows what could be your response as you continue your masterclass by peppering her impeccable features to the point of no-return. You’ve been kissing and she’s moaning for like ten minutes straight and you know you can’t just stop on a note with just worshiping her—even though that alone is such an ethereal sight and a thing you would do for hours—but rather, want to feel her now as the growing lust that’s causing arson because of its raging fire inside you is more than evident, the familiar tent onto your crotch is now painfully sticking out and it’s not that long before Yuna notices it.

“Oh, daddy!” Her hands course its way onto your clothed crotch as you slightly moaned in response to her retaliating actions. She lightly squeezes the growing member on your pants as you can see her eyes lit up in anticipation as she’s longing for this for a long while now. “I want this—I want to feel this, daddy. I want it—I want it—I want it!”

Of course, Yuna will beg until her legs give out, just to get what she wants and she won’t stop until it’s further fulfilled. She deserves it nonetheless, as always and knowing how tiring her schedules has been for the past week, it’s maybe a time for you to claim her paramount of all rewards that you gave her, and also, giving in to the temptations and your own animalistic urges as you stop kissing her and stood up, off the bed, stripping your clothing off your body as Yuna watches in delight—those glistening, round eyes watching your every move is such an arousing scene as her lip bites is the cherry on top, encouraging you to go faster.

Hurriedly, your clothing deemed useless, all down on the floor scattered and ignored as your rock-hard length greets Yuna and her eyes—those endearing eyes of hers sets off the lustful mood as she admires your hard cock, her hands enveloping the full girth of it would be the start of this steamy session.

“God—you’re so fucking hot too, daddy. This hard, girthy cock all for me—just for me, hihi~”

And she’s right. It’s all for her, as a grand gift for her hardwork and to let her own desires be fulfilled by you, with her.

“Of course, baby—now, strip your pants off and lay down on your fours, is that clear, Yuna?”

She nods eagerly as she does what she’s been told to, unbuttoning her pants as she draws it down to her ankles, letting gravity do the work as the rest of her body unravels within a single second and making you fall under her spell. Her full body is now on display and you can’t believe how she looks unreal and built like a doll—it almost feels surreal even looking at it, let alone worshiping it with your mouth as you instantly drool over the sight of her tight, slender body. There’s still a single line of defense that she needs to take off: her black panties that served as a showstopper for so long has now been removed and thrown out to god knows where and with both bodies naked and her pussy now within your reach, you won’t going to waste any time about any foreplay.

Of course, you won’t just penetrate her with your whole, fully-erected length as it’s maybe too fast and you yourself, you wanted some time to tease her as you ate up your thoughts earlier—blame her godlike figure for wanting to appreciate it further rather than coursing your way onto the climax of a stupendous show. You kneel down onto the bed as you line your tip onto the emanating heat of her folds as it captivates you to plunge in fully but you fight and refrain from doing so, taking a look of admiration on her impeccable features to further fuel the fire of lust that has been igniting inside your heart since the start. You palm her supple buttcheeks as it compliments the curves of her body and her muscular back which serves such a sight to behold—you’ll literally spend hours murmuring how perfect she looks and you won’t get tired about it because it’s all the truth. As the cherry on top, you let your intrusive thoughts win as you harshly gave those inviting cheeks a slap in which, she loves as the moan that came out of her mouth is the reason—she definitely loves the spanks you give her in every steamy session that’s about to take place.

“Daddy—please put it in me already, please, daddy~ Ow—ohh, daddy~”

Of course, a vixen like her will invite you to fulfill her needs whenever possible. As much as you want to tease her even more, the animalistic urges inside you is further giving you up to the temptation and knowing how insatiable a hot girl like Yuna is, you can’t afford to refrain yourself onto your deserved treat even further as without any warning, you grip her hips as you plunge your whole length deep inside her, filling her up to the hilt. She’s incredibly tight and wet and your earlier stimulation probably helped a lot and every time you try and move your hips, the suffocating clenching of velvety walls ensues as you groan in pain and pleasure just because of it.

“God, Yuna—you’re so fucking tight! You’re probably tighter than what I expected—fuck! I swear, when you don’t get to feel my cock inside this tight, little cunt, it just goes crazily tight and this should be studied!”

“I d-don’t know daddy but—gahh, fuck, fuck, daddy—I’m j-just so—gahh—tight and w-wet around you.”

It’s nigh-impossible for her to articulate anything as your whole length is a bit of a struggle to take, considering that it can almost wreck her tight, little cunt open even with the faintest of thrust and of course, she’s obsessed with it. You start moving with a leisure pace and Yuna couldn’t contain the profanities as she lets it all out, voicing the peak pleasure she’s experiencing. Maybe, with the sight of her perfectly-sculpted back and waist, you’re going to get more aroused and erected that no one can top the serotonin you’re currently feeling—they’re not going to blame you for that, Yuna herself is at her own league and one hell of a woman.

Thanks to the constant wetness of her pussy, it wasn’t a struggle finding the way to increase the pace as your hips maintain such a pleasurable oscillation that the both of you favor it. With this new profounded pace, she tightens the grip on the bed sheets as she clings on it for a leverage to fight the euphoric essence of sex as more angelic moans adds to the symphony of lust and your hips, immediately orchestrate such a wonderful tempo of hard thrusts.

You’re bound to break her open because of how horny you’re feeling now, and give it absolutely everything just to reward both of yourselves to the promised land.

“Oh fuck, daddy—h-harder—pound my p-pussy harder, d-daddy—gahh, oh fuck—right there!!”

Now with Yuna burying her head onto the mattress, her ass raised up and your hand forming a makeshift ponytail for a leverage to further hammer her tight cunt like she deserves it, this new position achieves a greater penetration that it’s too heavenly to be true. You didn’t really care on how much she’s moaning or screaming thanks to the muffling she’s now making with the foam of the mattress acting as a soundproof tool to protect your ears—well, it’s everytime you fuck her senseless, she lets out such ear-screeching screams of pleasure and delight that it’s giving you a hint of a heart attack because the last thing you want to hear on your doorstep is a noise complain just because of Yuna. In every set of thrusts you do, you admire the perfection you’re ruining as the incoming disheveled sight of her is just putting you on a brain rot, the paramount of a brain haywire because of how arousing that thought is.

It’s such an incredible feeling coursing down your veins as all you want to do is fuck her until her legs give out and end on a note whefe Yuna’s fully sullied by you, and on your warm embrace to end the night perfectly and you want achieve just that. Constant cries is being from her as her pussy streams down like a rivulet, knowing how she’s enjoying your wild pace as the clashing of both bodies reverberates such a sound that adds up to the ocean of lustful symphonies that’s going to be lost because on how many the both of you had composed already. Her dripping heat is still as tight even with your onslaught of thrusts and it’s just utter perfection as you love every second that’s happening right now. You alternate between giving her small, dirty talks, harsh spanks on her backside, nibbling and suckling onto her nape and fondling of her perky breasts in which, it stimulates her further into oblivion and in one point, it’s all going to break loose.

“D-Daddy—gahh—daddy…”

“Y-Yes, baby?”

Yuna raises her head a little as her arms supports herself and, she take seconds to articulate words as your pace is literally making her struggle to think straight, fucking her brains out like how she wanted it always. “I’m g-gonna cum—onto this c-cock—daddy I’m s-so—gahh—close!!”

You’re not going to make her suffer from her near success as given the situation, you double the efforts of stimulation onto her weak points as well as your thrusts and soon enough, her dam is about to collapse its walls, unleashing the labor of her own anticipated success. When she lets out a muffled scream, you know it’s all loose as you slow down your thrusts, giving her opportunity to let everything out as she drips down around your cock like a waterfall, every drop signifies her long-awaited orgasm as it stains the sheets—and god, you need another set of these after you’re done with her. You didn’t pull out but let her orgasmic trance pass through as every second was an entire blissful event that clouded her mind. After for like, twenty seconds of a world-rocking orgasm, she slowly recovers as she also wanted your own treasured prize.

“I k-know you wanna c-cum inside my perfect, little cunt—s-so please, daddy—gahh—cum inside me…”

You didn’t think of anything but the fact of chasing your own orgasm and knowing that Yuna herself wants your seed deep inside her says a lot about your conclusion. You’re pretty close on achieving your own high when Yuna came hard, and it wasn’t going to be a struggle on setting the fire onto the fuse as you gave yourself the hardest of thrusts your hips can muster and it’s not that long before you feel the familiar knot in your loins, stepping closer to your anticipated goal.

Yuna pleads in every thrust you do and it adds gasoline to the flames of lust and you love it. You can count up to ten and you’ll probably won’t past zero as you instantly set yourself onto your own blissful trance, letting out such profanities as you bury your cock deep inside her tight walls, filling her up to the brim as you shoot thick, warm shots of semen that is treasured truly by her and her tight pussy. Chasing your paramount of all highs, you ravage her cunt with your final, harsh thrusts as it finally subsides after a barrage of it and the both of you fell down limp as your exasperate bodies catch their own needed breaths, the session being too steamy as always as silence ensues for a while as both your ragged breaths builds up the faint noises that was once emanated by peak vulgarity and sin.

“God, daddy—that was—”

“Good, yeah, baby… That was goddamn good.” You face her onto your side as your sweaty bodies clash together again with your initiation of a torrid kiss, in which she eagerly reciprocates but not so long after, you pull out of her lips’ embrace as you voice out your satisfaction with the earlier steamy sex.

“You felt so good, Yuna—your body is just perfect—hah…”

“And y-you fucked me so well, daddy. You came a lot too—fuck, my legs—shit…”

“Oh no—shit, am I in trouble?” Panic sets in as you’re worried that you fucked her a little too hard yet Yuna reassures you, letting you know that it’s fine and she can still feel it but of course, pain is inevitable given your sets of hard thrusts that almost broke her.

“You sure, Yuna?”

“Yeah, daddy—we may clean up later but I wanna cuddle with you for now, hihi~”

“Come here, Yuna…” You initiated a warm embrace in which she indulges in as your bodies feel the utmost affection that no one can rival, and that’s just a wholesome moment between the both of you.

“But you can fuck my mouth later, daddy—ooh! Or my ass, if you want!”

And she’s cheerful again like nothing ever happened earlier.

God, this girl is freaky and that’s why you fucking adore her and you guess, the show just started between the both of you…

#kinknuary 2024 #itzy smut #yuna smut #itzy x male reader #yuna x male reader

947 notes · View notes

milliesdiary · 1 year

Note

Imagine if the reader is friends with Jace and Luke but also betrothed to Aemond, so when he makes that offensive toast at dinner, reader gets mad and confronts him. She says that if he actually loves her, then he would stop doing those things, which leads to a confession <3

𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; after a fight-provoking tribute at a family dinner, you ask aemond — your friend and betrothed — where his feelings lie.

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; princess!reader from an unspecified house, fluff, a bit of spice ♡

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; thank you all for the support! also a big thank you for those who wanted to be tagged :) you keep me going! for anyone who reads this, please reblog and comment with your feedback. i fall in love with everyone who does and it means so much! i appreciate you & be sure to consider following to stay updated ✨

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬; @deeeeexx @cassianas @sweet-andromeda @thedeathofduty @evasgreentea @burningcoffeetimetravel

𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄.

It started off a bit rocky, to be fair. But then Viserys’ made a plea for peace, begged for the family to heal, and the tension melted like a slab of butter in a warm hand. Everything finally seemed to be falling into place.

Forgiveness was offered. The family was together. Your betrothed was complacent, despite being in the presence of his nephews. Alicent hid her laugh behind a hand, Rhaenyra’s pretty lips were curled into a smile that matched Daemon’s, Jace and Helaena were dancing — it was all perfect.

You’re not even sure where it went wrong. It just did.

You are laying in bed now, hours after the eventful gathering. The insomnia you're experiencing is a classic case; Aemond's tribute plays over and over in your head. You aren’t even remembering the crucial details, like what he said or what you ought to have said.

Instead, all you can recall are the expressions on Luke and Jace's faces, the way the lighthearted mood deteriorated, and the clang of your knife on your plate after dropping it in shock.

You also remember storming out of the room.

Truthfully, you are embarrassed at your future husband’s behavior. His smirk had been so arrogant that you wanted to meet it with a fist, and you probably would have if you could get away with it.

You have been betrothed to Aemond for about a moon, and while you were aware of his distaste toward his nephews, you never thought he would disrupt his family as they attempt to repair the rift between them.

Over a fucking pig.

Maybe you should have expected it.

You met Aemond when you were both children, as your father had established a peace treaty with the Targaryens at the beginning of his reign. You saw the boy get taller, watched his jaw sharpen, and stared on as his charm turned into the stern temperament of a man. He learned to ignore the things that do not serve him.

You knew that Aemond became a person of duty, of justice; he would not let things go that easily. He held a grudge with the incident. Losing his eye.

Taking that into consideration, this should not have been that big of a surprise.

And Gods, do you still want to marry him. When your father informed you about the betrothal, you were overjoyed, fit to burst, chest suddenly stuffed with the warmth of the sun and a billion ‘what ifs.’

Aemond has fascinated you throughout the years; he has always seemed so at ease and still. Unhurried and righteous. He can remain at the fireplace for a considerable amount of time, leaving you to constantly wonder what he might be thinking and how he is able to survive in such solitude.

You love him. Always have, though you are too scared to tell him. Part of you wonders if he shares the same affections.

But there’s no chance of that, is there? Aemond does not allow himself to experience attraction or establish attachments. There is no changing that. He must have agreed to the proposal because it was the right political choice; there is no other reason why he would have accepted.

Aemond loving you back? It’s impossible.

You roll over onto your side and stare at the window that sits across the room, trying to focus on the moonlight drifting through. It takes about thirty seconds of dead silence for you to realize that you might just go insane. You’re literally about to grab an extra pillow and shove it over your face — with the plan of suffocating yourself to sleep — when you hear a knock on your chamber door.

The noise almost makes you jump. For a moment, you consider not answering it, but curiosity refuses to bid you farewell. You crawl out of the sheets and reach for a match on your dresser, flicking it against the wood to conjure a flame. You ignite the oil lamp that sits on your nightstand, the light basking the room in a warm, orange glow.

You are just making your way over to the door when the knock comes again. Straightening out your nightgown and taking a deep breath, you open it.

Despite the darkness of the stone hallway, you recognize Aemond immediately.

No, it‘s not just his chiseled face that gives him away, or the long silver hair that drapes over his shoulders. It isn’t the black leather tunic he wears, hugging his lean chest. It is the way he stands: the confident way he waits for you, chin high, strong and assertive.

He’s too perfect, despite being one of the most imperfect people you know.

“Princess,” Aemond greets. His eye briefly looks you up and down before focusing on your face again. “Green suits you.”

Your gaze flicks down to your nightgown — made from a beautiful silk and a deep emerald, decorated in golden floral designs. It was a gift from the Queen; even though you and Aemond had not married yet, she happily proposed that you start to wear the family’s house colors. You accepted, of course.

Aemond’s compliment is so genuine that you don't know how to respond. You feel a sense of pride at his admiration. “I do not wear the color much,” you shrug, trying to sound unbothered. “But I will get used to it over time.”

“You shall,” Aemond nods. He seems pleased. Pleased that you will become a Targaryen, that you will be dressed in the color of his house until the end of your days. It is a reminder that you’re his. All his.

“My Prince,” you change the subject. “Might I ask what you are doing outside my chambers this late?”

“I have come to talk.”

You fix him with a blank stare. Talk? The last thing you want to do is talk.

“Where did my guard go?” you ask slowly.

“I advised he take a walk.”

You get a feeling that the conversation with your sworn knight did not play out that way, but this is your future husband; it probably would not be a good idea to go to sleep on a bitter note. Biting back a retort and a sigh, you open your chamber door and wave him in. Aemond struts in casually.

He acts like he owns the place with how he stands directly in the center. You dawdle by the doorway, allowing him to observe the space: he takes in the fireplace, the golden decor, and then your bed, draped in silks and the pillows similar to the fluff of clouds. It’s a beautiful room, you must admit. You take pride in it.

“You are upset about the tribute, I presume,” Aemond says finally, turning to face you. That eye of his is the perfect shade of violet; purple like a flowering bruise, unclouded and intense and determined.

“I am not upset anymore,” you lie. “I do not care.”

“You do care.”

“No.”

It is quiet for a second. Not a word uttered.

Then Aemond pries you right open. “You do.”

“Fine. I do.”

“And why is that, Princess?” He almost taunts.

You want to snap at Aemond — ask him what he means and how can he take something like this so simply. It is not a joke. A civil war is brewing among his family, yet he does not take it seriously at all. He even seems to take joy in participating. The idea has you seething.

Here Aemond is, continuing to pretend that he is harmless, that his touch is gentle, that his palms won't burn handprints into your skin. You would almost believe it if you didn’t know any better.

“With all due respect, My Prince, Jace and Luke are my dearest friends. They are kind and loyal to me, as well as their family.”

Aemond hums, uninterested. "A dog possesses the same traits.”

An anger gathers within you. It screams right into your face: this is how it shall be and you will have to deal with it.

“You are playing quite the jester today, My Prince,” you tell him. I would like to slap you across the face, is what you’re truly thinking.

Aemond lets out an amused huff at that. The light from the lamp in the corner of the room dances along his silhouette, illuminating every plane of his face. His hair is a white, jewel-drenched curtain — there’s the urge to run your hands through it.

How can someone so gorgeous cause so much chaos?

"I am exhausted," you finally sigh. You can feel how hardened your expression has become. “I am finished with miscommunications and arguments. I have tried to refrain from intense emotions and confrontations. The moment I entered King’s Landing, I told you that there was to be no drama. You promised me. And what you did at dinner? That is the trouble I stray from, yet you seem so content in dragging me back in.”

Aemond’s mouth threatens to twitch into a scowl then. He’s trying to keep his face neutral, though annoyance peeks through the cracks in his façade. “You are acting as if jests are more harmful than stealing an eye.”

“I am not saying that. I am saying that if you are to be my husband, you should be shielding me from conflict. Not causing it.”

Aemond has nothing to say to that apparently. He just gazes at you piercingly, that one violet eye intently focused on you. You try to remain steadfast, although you do feel like shrinking under the chill of his stare. Somehow, you find the courage to continue.

“If you truly respect me as your future wife — if you truly love me — then you would cease this petty game.” You steel yourself, begging yourself to be bold and ask the question. “Do you love me, Aemond?”

For a moment, you catch how Aemond’s face changes into one of surprise; he obviously was not expecting that question. It takes a couple of seconds before he fixes his jaw, training his expression into something more cool. Practiced. Poised. But then he looks at you; truly looks at you, stares you down from the inside out. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

You freeze, almost shocked by the rebuttal. You can tell he is being serious: there is a sincerity with which he wants to know.

Aemond may be wild and deranged like a dragon, thirsting for havoc, but he still aches for approval and acknowledgment. Always has. Perhaps that’s what he wants; he wants to hear that even though he fails at kindness and charity, you are still able to love him.

“Tell me,” Aemond demands. Before you can say anything, he strides forward until he’s standing right in front of you. He leans into your space, breath fluttering along your cheeks and voice almost threatening. “Do you love me? For my righteousness that drives you mad and for my lack in restraint that you so despise?”

The fire inside Aemond could kill anyone in a five mile radius; he knows it. Yet he still wants you to love him, to bravely walk into the tempest. Locate him amongst each dancing flame.

“I will accept every piece of you,” is all you can choke out.

Aemond seems to mull the words over. His face is terrifyingly neutral as he observes you carefully; he must not know impatience.

“You still never answered my question,” You blurt. “Do you love me?”

Tell me you love me, is what you really want to say.

Aemond’s face remains blank for a second.

Unbeknownst to you, he’s almost offended at the inquiry. After all the years you have spent together, all the conversations and the secrets shared and the plights experienced — how could you utter such a thing? He was the one who spoke to his mother about proposing to you. Do you really think he did it for political gain? To secure a higher seat in the ranks of royalty?

Aemond almost sneers at your ignorance. “How much longer must we be together before you acknowledge that I am not doing this for power?”

“That does not comfort me, Aemond.”

Silence. Dead silence.

The lack of an answer from Aemond makes you worry: worry that you struck a chord within him, that you have irritated him enough for him to leave, that you have made him regret accepting you as his wife.

But something changes. Slowly — agonizingly slow — Aemond takes both of your hands into his, like a silent vow without words. A white flag of surrender. His profile relaxes into something slightly softer, more reserved.

At the end of the day, he is to be your husband. If you need comfort, he will give you comfort, even if it means he has to be vulnerable.

Just for you. Only for you.

“When we were children, you once accused me of not knowing the meaning of love," Aemond starts. "But you were wrong."

You begin to breathe faster, grateful he can only discern the the direction of your emotions and nothing more. Hearing those words makes you feel something; it flutters inside your lower belly and is comparable to hope.

“I do not give a shit about anyone but you,” Aemond admits. His voice is low, deep, sincere. You almost cannot believe it.

“Is that so?” You try to sound indifferent, but it’s not convincing. His face is so, so close: your noses are almost touching.

“I would not say it if it weren’t the truth,” Aemond hums. “I did not know how to deal with my affections before, nor did I accept them. You have tortured me into becoming someone I am not.”

Tortured?

“I don’t understand—“

“You are the sword I gut myself with; that, Princess, is love."

That’s it. That’s all you needed; that reassurance, that validation. Every single ache in your heart is extinguished in a single second, every wound healed, every internalized scar covered in gauze and bandages and the homeliness that accompanies love.

More. You want him to say more. “…And you will continue to love me?”

“You are mine until death, my dear wife. I am your monster for the rest of time. I am your insanity. I am yours.”

“And me?” You whisper. You’re struggling to focus, trying to remember that you’re mad at him, but his lips are right in front of yours.

Your question nearly makes Aemond chuckle. He holds it back, a sharp exhale of air coming from his nose instead. “You are my refuge.”

“Your refuge?”

“My refuge,” Aemond repeats, his expression more resolute. “I can envision no other peace beyond the one that exists when our bodies are bound.”

“And you prefer me?” You want to be showered in his love, again and again. “Over anyone else?”

“I would choose you over all,” Aemond purrs. His tone, his accent — you could crumple to your knees. "The world is cruel and it steals from everyone, so I shall do the same. I will take what I wish. I will take you every time you are offered.”

Goosebumps threaten to rise from your body. Aemond’s hand comes down to rest on your waist, causing your breath to come out as a stutter. You’re not sure how you haven't disintegrated into nothingness. “I have loved you forever, Aemond.”

A warmth akin to sunshine rises in his face and he almost looks humored. You need him. And he needs you, though he may not outwardly admit it; needs you like you’re oxygen and he's trying to catch a breath.

Suddenly, Aemond’s hand grabs the back of your neck and he pulls you in for a kiss. Your fingers fly up to grip his shoulders when your lips touch, opening your jaw for him on instinct. You grab a fistful of his leather tunic and kiss him as hard as possible, allowing his hands to conquer your body. He tastes of peppermint, smells musky like dragon.

Everything seems to be on fire. The pit of your stomach, your blood, his mouth. All you feel is the strength of his silhouette against your own and you want to remember this forever. With how Aemond holds you so firmly — almost like you might disappear any second — you can tell he feels the same. You have the power to kiss away his suffering, his years of self-hatred, his doubts, and the crushed dreams of an irrelevant future that he always imagined.

Aemond’s hands roam to your lower back, thumbs digging into the silky fabric of your nightgown. You draw him closer, brushing your thigh against his crotch to get a reaction out of him. He lets out a ‘hmm’ into your mouth.

There is nothing you desire more than to examine Aemond in full view with all lamplights on and his clothing off, to have him slowly remove this gown from your body and take his time with touching every inch. You want to run your fingertips across the ridged skin of his scar and trace it all the way down. You want to feel the weight of him flush against you, wrapped around you. You want him.

Finally, you draw away, only to whisper.

“You said you would take me whenever I am offered. Take me then, Aemond.”

A fire alights in Aemond’s eye — he’s considering it — but the flames quickly freeze over with that sense of duty. Self-control. “Not like this,” he murmurs. “But I vow to treat you to obscenities when I bed you. I will leave such marks on your body that anyone you entertain afterwards will have to know me in order to know you.”

Aemond’s words have the ability to make you shiver. It only makes you more excited for your wedding day. Even then, you still want him in this moment. Need his presence.

“Stay with me tonight, at least,” you plead. “Just share the bed with me. Nothing else. I will bribe the guards tomorrow morning so we will not get caught.”

Aemond considers you for a long while. Then, without a word, he smiles. It’s sly, yes, but oh-so beautiful.

“So you will stay?” You ask again. Aemond hums in agreement, cradling your cheek in a palm. It is a tenderness that you were not expecting, but one that you accept heartily. He nods his head before speaking.

“If you put your hand in mine, my dear wife, I will always hold it.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond smut #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond fic #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon x reader #hotd imagine #hotd fic #millie’s works — 📓

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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What are some of your Will headcanons?

Any angsty ones?

hair style:

will's hair has a Mind Of Its Own. it is impossible. brushing it? keep dreaming. styling it? dude just give up

he can, however, wrangle it into two french braid pigtails. those are fun.

in the august after the giant war, the aphrodite cabin take it upon themselves to 'style' nico, including giving him these little elastics with a skull charm (like this but with skulls), but he doesn't like tying his hair back very much (too tight) so he gives them to will as a joke.

will LOVES them.

he literally wears them almost every day. the next time they go out on a supply run, nico sees these little elastic charms and buys them for will. he can't summon the courage to give them to him face to face but he leaves them on his bed. will adores them, too, and it starts something of a tradition of people giving will charm elastics as a small thank-you.

he has a collection of them and wears them whenever he wears his hair in braids.

his favourites are the skull charms, though.

artistic ability:

will really doesn't have many musical talents. he's hard of hearing and while hephaestus-made hearing aids definitely work better than mortal ones, it's not really something that can be cured, so he has a lot of trouble staying on key/making music himself.

however! apollo is the god of poetry and art in general -- that is more than just visual!!

will is a really good writer, poetry especially. he's very articulate and verbose and writes with startling clarity. he's written a lot of songs and a lot of poems, although he hasn't shown anybody in years.

he used to share them with his older brothers and sisters and sibling, but...well. obviously that's no longer an option.

he's never stopped writing, though. he may keep it to himself, but it's kind of an open secret. he's scribbling in his notebooks all the time -- it's impossible not to notice.

his friends and siblings, however, are the only ones who know that he writes creatively. they've peeked over his shoulder here and there (and also kayla is a huge huge snoop, like, badly, and austin is easily convinced to be complacent in her crimes), and sometimes he says things that are just kind of poetic.

no one else knows, though. he's deliberately obnoxious about it -- every once in a while, at campfire open mics, he'll clear his throat loudly and grin as people groan and recite something so bad apollo might have written it. most people think will's quite bad at writing, actually.

another thing he's really good at is drama, which is a surprise to absolutely no one. although beyond his regular histrionics, chiron had shakespeare as part of his curriculum, and will could play puck like nobody's business. he recited a mercutio so good once lee actually cried with laughter (so did everyone else). on a hauntingly beautiful february in 2004, he played ophelia by the creek so beautifully that it was silent for a good four minutes after he finished.

there are very, very few people at camp who remember that. will hasn't recited anything in a while.

an unexpected bonus of his medical knowledge, actually, is a really good understanding of depth, space, and anatomy.

he's a surprisingly good artist.

it started pretty normal -- he was having trouble articulating a question to michael one time, and in a fit of frustration drew a diagram to try and explain himself. it was really good, even as rushed as it was, so michael used to give him 'homework' that was hand-drawing posters of various body systems to hang in the infirmary.

it was kind of spooky how will could do it without looking it up. just close his eyes and start sketching an accurate nervous system. cool though.

his older sister, cass, encouraged him to branch out of anatomy diagrams and create whatever he liked. she made the unfortunate mistake of giving him several cans of paint and free reigns on blank infirmary walls (they're freaky and boring) to a nerdy eight-year-old -- that's why r2d2 and c3po are chilling on the wall by the mortal medicine cabinet.

he doesn't paint a lot now, 'cause he doesn't have the damn time, but when rachel finds out who painted the infirmary walls she hounds him until he takes a morning to paint with her. they have a lot of fun. they end up with more paint on each other and their clothes than their canvases, predictably.

siblings:

when will was a kid, he had twelve older siblings.

apollo tends to have kids in brackets. he is, as everyone knows, a hoe, so he'll be busy on olympus or with artemis and go a while without having any kids, and then he'll be on earth for like three years and have a litter. so a lot of his kids end up the same age.

before the war, in the same cabin, there was: cass, the oldest, 18, somewhat year-long; diana, 18, year-long; lee, 16, somewhat year-long; michael, 16, somewhat year-long; gabriel, 15, summer-only; leanna, 15, summer-only; mercury, 15, summer-only; kate & phoebe, 14, summer-only; laurel, 13, summer-only; amir, 13, summer-only; melody, 12, summer-only; and will, 8, year-long (for now).

their abilites were pretty vast and well-rounded, and they came from all over the continent.

there was a time when the infirmary wasn't understaffed at all.

will doesn't like to think about it.

style:

on their birthdays, apollo leaves them all a gift on their bunks (or their beds at home, if their birthdays aren't in the summer).

each of them gets a piece of blessed gold jewelry when they're ten. will got a pair of threader earrings with thin blue sapphires that he loves. he can't wear them often because they're a genuine hazard in the infirmary (yes, more than flip-flops) and he doesn't want them ruined. but he wears them on the rare days he has off.

he actually has quite a lot of jewelry! because he is a sappy nerd, he has two watches: a hephaestus-made one, totally waterproof, weatherproof, and monsterproof, because it helps quell the anxiety when so many people are counting on him (he has to know when people will be better and how long he can be away from his patients, also used to tell people to fuck off when he's on break lol); and his mother's much nicer watch that she gave to him when she dropped him off at camp for the first time -- it's not changed for the time zone. he knows what time it is for her, and it makes him feel better about being so far away from her.

he wears both watches on the same wrist, ala chad danforth.

he has a third watch. it was lee's. it's got r2d2 on the face. will got it for him with his own money when he was nine years old, for his birthday. it lives in a box under his bunk. it's cracked and broken and never tells the right time except on 1:52 p.m. on june 30th, although the year gets farther and farther off every time will checks it.

contrary to popular belief, will does not actually wear the same pair of cargo shorts every day.

...because he has seven pairs of the same shorts.

he does have other shorts through. namely swim trunks and a pair of tighter shorts he wears specifically to kick ass in volleyball. he didn't try for this or anything, he got the shorts at the thrift store, but he's pretty sure they might be designer. he gets a lot of compliments from the aphrodite cabin when he wears them.

he also has a collection of nerdy t-shirts (his anakin sand-rant t-shirt is worn to threads), novelty pajama pants, hoodies, and flannel.

he has more than one tattoo. he has several, actually; constellations, lines from freckle to freckle so faint you can barely see them: the seer, the drummer, the archer, the tiny lion, the archangel, the maiden, the lyre, the twins, the boat stern, the hearth, and the singer.

just plain will:

he's slightly red-green colourblind.

when he gets mad, his cheeks puff up and he gets all red in the face before erupting. his older siblings used to call him tinkerbell.

he gets teased for being so dramatic that he was named for the most dramatic apollo kid who ever lived -- shakespeare. but his actual, legal name is just plain will solace. when pregnant, his mom used to mutter 'it's you, me, and sheer fucking force of will, baby' to herself a lot, as a kind of mantra, and then will was born and she thought it would be kind of funny to name him will (she was right). lee invented william andrew solace so he'd have something to yell when will got in trouble lol.

he has the climbing wall record. this is because he climbs a lot of trees. he has no explanation and no one is going to stop him.

when he was a kid, and the whole mythology thing was explained to him, he misnderstood michael's explanation of food sacrifice as one to be done to all theoi/mythical beings. he worked his way to praying through the entire pantheon, a horde of minor gods, hestia, chiron, argus, and half the nymphs before someone caught wind and explained to him properly. it is the main reason all the nymphs and dryads are so endeared by him. he used to go around asking their names and very seriously writing it down in his little notebook to pray to them properly.

he carries around notebooks constantly. at first, diana gave them to him because he was driving everyone bonkers with his endless questions and she needed Five Minutes, Will, Gods, Please of silence, but he really took to it and wrote everything in there. he keeps them all as a sort of diary. kayla reads them any time he has his back turned.

it is really, really hard for him to talk about his siblings. but he knows kayla and austin feel kind of left out and hurt about it, since they didn't get the chance to know them like will did (the kids never met them), so sometimes, late at night, he calls them softly over to his bunk and they curl up, one under each arm, and he tells them stories until his voice goes hoarse and they're long asleep.

#i have so many fucking more but i have to stop because i actually want to write some of these so bad #dude.....the LORE this ask inspired i have pages and pages #why did no one tell me how fun and also heartbreaking it is to invent characters #will solace #will solace headcanon #will solace angst #ask #longpost #headcanon #pjo headcanon #my writing #solangelo

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sunflowersteves · 9 months

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hello again!!

i loved the blurb of the last req i sent in so you’re getting my new idea >:)

ok so miguel and reader are married and he notices that during missions she fiddles with her engagement and wedding rings under her suit and he thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world 🥹

i’m just the softest for miggy i can’t

have a great day/night and DRINK MORE WATER!!

ugh I love this sm. ty for your patience!! I have so many requests for miggy it’s insane and I love it. So, I kinda got carried away and I made them fiancee’s but I hope you enjoy it 💗

pairing || miguel o’hara x f!reader

warnings || soft!miguel, fluff, fiancé!miguel

masterlist

Miguel is an intuitive person. He could observe someone from afar and understand their weaknesses, triumphs, and fears. He has always been quite the observer.

For you, though, he knew everything. Your favorite food, your favorite movie, how your energy levels plummeted after a lot of stimulation, the way you got nervous around new people—everything.

He might not admit it to anyone, but he knows. He understands that this level of love—this care for another person—ran deep in his bones. His heart always thumped across his chest from your mere presence. No matter how much he resists the complacency of personal attachments, he can never resist you.

He might be grumpy. He might yell and get angry. He might roll his eyes and huff out his breath, but Miguel loves so deeply that it punctures his chest and creates a chasm of adoration for you.

Miguel was obsessed with the silhouette of you alone, never mind the way his stomach swirls with contentment and love when your hands glide smoothly across his chest. Never mind the way his heart stops every time you send him an endearing smile.

Miguel is hopelessly and helplessly in love with you, and as an observer, Miguel saw the little things.

He observed the way you would fiddle with his fingers underneath the table when you were nervous.

He observed when you would tap a finger on his bicep, completely subconsciously as you told him about your day.

He observed how you pressed deep kisses onto the scars that scattered across his chest and abdomen.

God, how he loved it. He never said a word, though.

His lips would quirk in the faintest of smiles as his body felt hot from the interactions. His hand would splay themselves on your thigh because he knew that you would need something to fumble with. He would lean his shoulder into you so your fingers could tap away absentmindedly.

Miguel knew your idiosyncrasies very well—and it was a mission in his head to file each of them into his mind so he could keep them for eternity.

This one, though, was new.

Miguel had proposed to you a week ago—a week exactly from today. It wasn’t your typical proposal where everyone in the background claps and congratulates you.

Miguel had taken you to your favorite spot. In Nueva York, there’s an old district that was a historic area full of old buildings. He took you to the top of the Chrysler building—that one being your favorite from the older days.

He didn’t prepare a big speech. He wasn’t sure he could without the swirling emotions of how much you truly meant to him. So, instead, he makes it simple.

“Te amo.”

Your eyes widened substantially at the indication of those words. Your mouth opened, jaw dropped almost to the floor. Tears started to collect on your eyelids, but you refused to let them fall.

“Miguel—” Your voice chokes in on itself as he showed you the ring. He looks at you, eyes wide with hope. You rarely saw that expression flash across his face. “Yes. Te amo también, Miguel.”

Without any words, he slipped the ring on your finger, and the two of you sat in silence. His body pressed up against yours, and he contently sighed.

Ever since he slipped that pretty ring onto your finger, you would feel it. You would twist the silvery metal. You’d swirl and fiddle with the accessory.

Sometimes, when you really needed comfort, you would place your lips onto the solid ring. When Miguel wasn’t around, you knew that he was always going to be there. He was always with you—even when he wasn’t.

And just like now, as your listening to Peter B.’s words, you’re twisting the ring around your finger. Miguel watched from afar, without coming towards you, as you subconsciously press your lips to the band.

Miguel couldn’t suppress the smile that curled on his lips as he watched you. His heart beat loudly against his ears—mission no longer on his brain.

Your concerned eyes eventually found him, and you melted. He could immediately see the anxiety dissipate from your shoulders from his presence. It made his stomach swirl with love.

Then, a voice appears next to his ear. “You guys are so cute. I’m gonna cry.”

Miguel rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Lyla.”

“When you have your wedding, I’m gonna be front row, okay? It has to be that way because—”

“Lyla.” He growls. “Shut up.” He wouldn’t admit it in the whole damn world, but there was still a smile on his face.

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x y/n #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you #miguel o’hara fanfiction #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #miguel o’hara fluff #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse fanfiction

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vasito-de-leche · 2 months

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;R1999 - Self-Aware AU

Headcanons about an Alternate Universe in which everyone knows they're living inside a videogame. However, Vertin is the only one aware of the entity inhabiting her own mind, the real conductor - the "Player".

this is one of my favorite AUs to slap on whatever media I'm into so here we are <3 not sure if anyone's done this already, but PLEASE PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE link me if you've seen any other ppl write for this AU! this one and any actor AUs are my absolute fave

this is just a word vomit introduction for fun, to get the basic ideas out of my head, so I can start writing for characters individually!

Okay, okay! First of all, some context for the AU before I go deranged overexplaining my HCs!

Aside from the "Storm", there is something else that haunts the people of this world: the fact that their lives are nothing but a simulacrum, part of a game.

The requirements to obtain this "self-awareness" is unknown. Those within the Foundation believe it's related to their respective "roles", that only the main and relevant characters are given the chance to fully open their eyes to the truth. Those within Manus Vindictae claim that one must be strong enough to break through the fog of complacency and their assigned scripts, to have their full potential unleashed and obtain true liberation. Either way, similar to the "Storm", this is a well-kept secret for a very good reason - everyone wants to have the upperhand.

There is one outlier to this whole system. Vertin is not only aware of the truth of this world, but also of her duty as the eyes and hands of the "Player". She must experience it all for their sake. Or rather, whatever she experiences will be the story that the Player will see.

This applies to her suitcase, the place where the Player's influence increases tenfold, bending everything and everyone to their will through her own body and voice. The longer one stays within her suitcase - or within her general vicinity - the easier it is for them to become self-aware.

How does one become "self-aware" and what does it entail?

The requirements and the catalyst for a character to become self-aware are still a mystery. But that's mostly because I specifically wanted to keep them as vague as possible, to allow some flexibility for NPCs and other characters outside of Vertin's suitcase.

The whole process of gaining sentience or self-awareness is mostly described as waking up from a nightmare, or a very, very realistic dream. It's like a switch, something that happens in a second without any warnings whatsoever.

I like to think that most of the people who wake up are easy to spot, because it's a jarring experience and panicking is the most normal reaction - but that they're often taken care of by the Foundation or recruited by Manus Vindictae.

The levels of awareness also depend heavily on each individual - some only know that nothing is truly real, that everything they've done up until that point was just a carefully scripted lie, the most basic realization. Others can understand the rules that govern this game and use them to their advantage, either through observation and study or just inherently.

Overall, the experience of being sentient varies as well, with some describing a disconnect from their body, while others feel exactly the opposite. Again, keeping it pretty vague so that people can fill in with their own ideas!

I'll talk about Vertin's case in detail when we get to her specific bullet point, but the same way the Player is able to experience the "story" through her eyes, she's able to see the same things they do - this includes the UI, the menus and everything you can interact with in-game.

Vertin as a character and a vessel for the Player.

The most common thing I've seen in self-aware AUs in my years of fandom is to turn the player stand-in (the main character that serves for the player to experience the story through and/or project onto, depending on the genre of the game) into an obstacle, one that keeps the characters from truly interacting with the Player, capital P.

The second most common thing I've seen is to simply ignore the existence of this player stand-in and replace it with the Player themself, either through isekai methods or thanks to the customization the game allows, etc etc.

When it comes to Vertin in this AU, I know I want her to retain her role as the center of everything, instead of being sidelined by the Player. She's THE Timekeeper, after all.

There's still some details I'm trying to iron out, like whether she's always been self-aware or if she became self-aware at some point during her childhood at the St. Pavlov Foundation. But I like to think that her relationship to the Player is a parallel to her immunity to the "Storm" - neither of these two things are inherently good nor bad. Surviving the "Storm" is helpful, sure, but it's painful for her. Having an entity like the "Player" haunting her is scary, sure, but it can be an advantage. It's a matter of how she utilizes the assets she was given, since her adaptability and determination are big aspects of her character. Vertin makes up for her mediocre arcane skills with unconventional plans and strategies.

But this isn't to say that Vertin isn't affected by the presence of the Player. Ironically, she's the one person whose freedom is limited. During battles, her skills and Tuning are available to you, they can also prove to be vital to win a fight, but in the end you're still the one calling the shots and choosing when her friends get to attack. You're the one choosing the layout of the Wilderness. You're the one picking which one of her friends deserves to become stronger.

In the last bullet point I mentioned that some characters can understand the rules of the game - Vertin is the most extreme case, as she can see the same UI as you do. She learns the way you like to fight your battles, your own strategies, she can see this and more.

Overall it's a very complex dynamic. It's not as easy as saying that she likes or dislikes you, that she considers you a friend or foe. You're part of her, you influence each other in many aspects and are stuck together for reasons she can't even fathom. While you may be able to read her thoughts most of the time, she becomes invisible once you enter the suitcase - the main menu of the game. Sure, the character you selected to greet you every day is actually talking to her, not you, but she's out of your view and therefore, out of our range. That's when Vertin wonders the sort of person that you are, if you care about her friends as much as she does. Are you playing just to be entertained? Are you invested in these events? Will you be there for her until the end of her story?

Another detail I like to think about is that Vertin is the only one who knows your name. Because at the very beginning, you were asked to input a name and she was there.

[screenshot was taken from this video, since it's the first one I could find that showed this specific part of the game lol]

Well, "your name" not quite right - she knows that whatever you wrote there is the name linked to your account, at least. And that's the name she knows you as.

Those who take residence in Vertin's suitcase or spend prolonged amounts of time with her, growing closer to her and all, end up becoming self-aware. This is a direct side-effect of your presence.

I like to think that characters who reach the 100% Bond can begin to sense the Player, to see the world in a similar way as Vertin does. Maybe even feel their presence EXACTLY like Vertin does whenever there's a battle. There is someone else on the other side of this screen, the fourth wall, who watches over them.

To some, it's hard to differentiate Vertin from the Player, as they just go hand in hand - but Sonetto, for example, has the easiest time telling the two apart.

On the subject of freedom and acting out of script.

The Foundation, Manus Vindictae, Laplace... It doesn't matter if they're self-aware and acting outside of what their script dictates, because they're missing one key ingredient: you. No one else but Vertin and her group knows about your existence, after all.

They don't know that the only story that matters is the one that Vertin is part of. The one that the Player gets to see and read and experience. And because the game gives you a very limited view into the lives of these characters, you don't know what neither Arcana nor Constantine do behind the scenes. You and Vertin don't see that, therefore, it never truly mattered.

Those most likely to start "acting out" are the troublemakers within Vertin's suitcase. Characters who are too curious for their own good, who are more susceptible to supernatural entities, who are just too impulsive - they would start to test the limits and see how far they can go, how much they can interact with the Player. Can the game be broken should they end up shattering the fourth wall? Is there a way for the Player to communicate with them? What will happen to Vertin?

I like to think that Vertin probably supports this, as she's rather curious herself, prone to questioning everything. She would also like to learn more about the Player, to truly tear into the game and see the full extent of your influence and her freedom.

Sometimes, Regulus and X will change their usual voicelines, just enough to be noticeable if one pays enough attention. Characters like Sotheby or Leilani might slip up and address the Player, rather than Vertin. Lilya, Pavia, Bkornblume have new animations and different expressions, ones you've never seen before - they stare ahead, as if searching for something, and then smirk or hum to themselves, deep in thought, like they realized something you're not privy of.

Sometimes, if you leave them as your selected assistant on the main menu, you can catch them muttering to themselves - idle quotes you never heard enough, about the outside world. Diggers does this the most, it's almost embarassing how easy it is to catch him talking nonsense, followed by Sonetto. If you leave Medicine Pocket alone for too long, you might come back to a screen covered in weird scratch marks.

On the subject of these characters being curious about the outside world and all, I think that a good chunk of them are generally content with the way things are?

We have to remember that in-universe, they're arcanists displaced from their respective eras. Their best chance at surviving is siding with Vertin, and if Vertin is content with the way things are, then there's no point in trying to disrupt what they have right now. They're curious enough to prod, but only as far as Vertin allows it.

And I think that's it for the word vomit!

There are some details I didn't know where to fit in, like the possibility of the fourth wall slowly dissipating the more time the Player invests in the game, leading to some characters being able to directly hear you if you talk while playing and whatnot. Or what would happen should someone outside of Vertin's suitcase figure out the existence of the Player, let alone interact with you in some way.

Or the concept of death being meaningless, unless it was pre-established by the game itself.

In Borderlands, there's this game mechanic where you can just be revived over and over and pay a percentage of your money as a fee, even though the canon that's established is that you play through the whole story without dying a SINGLE time - because the revival mechanics aren't canon. There's the divide between story and gameplay. That's pretty much the standard. But what about the deaths in battles in R1999? The amount of times I died to 1.3's UTTU's Flash Gathering is insane. How do self-aware characters feel about this, now that they know that they're bound to die over and over and be brought back because you have to do your Pneuma Analysis or reach the final stage of Limbo?

But that's pretty much it for now, I think I got most thoughts out of my system! Thank you for reading!

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #reverse 1999 x reader #self aware au #'mod six what are you going to do with this AU?'#probably write more reader inserts for FMN and pavia lmfao #i just wanted it out of my brain and onto a post #i like to think about things in-depth but thats it #and just like the hanahaki nsr au. feel free to fuck around with this concept! discuss it or make up your own HCs!#tag me if you wanna bc i love to read. but no need to credit me

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hedgehog-moss · 1 year

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I lost one of my chickens :( she was caught and carried away by a fox... I’ve been growing complacent about my chickens’ safety I think because we’ve only had one other attack before, a goshawk that swooped in abruptly (unsuccessfully), but no fox sightings nearby so I’ve been assuming Pandolf was a great deterrent. Which he is, just not foolproof. I’ve talked to some people in town about this and they were pretty philosophical about foxes stealing chickens, like “it’s the tribute we pay to woodland animals, it’s just a few hens here and there.” I don’t begrudge the fox for being a fox, if anything I have a renewed respect for foxes because everyone I talked to proceeded to give me their best / worst fox stories, and most of them involved foxes outsmarting humans (learning people’s habits / timetables, opening latches, faking a limp...) Still I feel terrible for my hen, she was only three. RIP Cordy :( You’ll be remembered fondly... (except by the cats.) I feel bad for the other hen too, who just lost her pal!

When I said that last thing, one of my neighbours jumped on the opportunity to try and convince me again to accept a rooster from him. He had a rooster baby boom last summer and I’ve been telling him for months that I don’t need a rooster, I don’t want to raise chickens I just want eggs, and his new argument was that a rooster would protect my hen (or if it comes to that, would heroically sacrifice himself rather than let the hen be eaten—I’m sceptical...) I asked around for a young hen but there aren’t any to be had in this season, so my remaining one is going to be alone until the spring, and my neighbour said she’d get stressed and male company is better than no company. (I wish I could ask my hen what she wants! Maybe she’s penning A Coop Of One’s Own as we speak.) I said the rooster was more likely to stress her out and harass her and he said nah they’re free ranging all day, it’ll be fine, and he’s young so your adult hen will boss him around. I was like, but then will he be any good at protecting her? etc. etc. and after a while I caved in.

When I told her about this on the phone my mum sighed “you’re terrible at saying no”—excuse me, I said no so many times and the guy just kept ploughing on until he could foist a rooster upon me. I’m good at saying no, other people are terrible at hearing it! I reassured her that I had only agreed to take the rooster for a short probationary period, and if he bothers my hen too much I’ll drive him back to his native farm. My mum was like “Drive him back? look I’m sorry I raised you as a city kid but there’s no need to waste gas on driving a rooster around, I’ll have no qualms about wringing his neck for dinner if he’s more trouble than he’s worth.” The rooster’s fate is not sealed though, if he is anywhere from vaguely useful to not actively problematic I’ll keep him, so we’ll see...!

#if i return him where he came from he'll end up eaten anyway #prove yourself rooster! escape your fate #to go back to the fox attack; my other chicken went to hide in the barn (which is always open and they were not far from it)#and i thought she'd been eaten too because i couldn't find her anywhere. until i heard her clucking to herself anxiously #i called her and she clucked louder in response but refused to come out of her hiding place #after 10min of playing marco polo with a chicken in the barn i finally found her huddled at the bottom of #the large basket i use to store kindling #and pandolf & i went to look for cordy although i didn't have any hope #and we ended up finding feathers quite far away in the woods #i was very impressed by pandolf's ability to follow the fox's smell ! i've been teaching him 'cherche' but he's not that good at tracking #or not motivated enough when it's just for fun #but since he failed in his duty to protect his flock i guess he was suddenly very determined to be #a good dog in some other way and he was sniffing the ground so seriously #sorry the post was already long and i'm writing another one in the tags!

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separatist-apologist · 2 months

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Take Me Back To The Night We Met

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara wants nothing more than to return home and exact revenge on the courtiers who hurt her and killed her sister. Exiled to a distant temple, Gwyn finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious stranger offering to escort her home on orders from her eldest brother and king of the realm.

Unraveling the secrets of the strange soldier will prove more deadly than Gwyn could ever have imagined, setting into motion events that began nearly five hundred years before.

Happy @gwynrielweeksofficial!

TW for mentions of past sexual assault

Read on Ao3

Five hundred years before:

“No more,” Azriel breathed, spiked boot pressed to the neck of his would-be adversary. “It’s over.”

Heavy chains curled from the loamy ground made of thick roots. It took no effort to bind him given he was dying, bleeding from the sword still protruding in his stomach. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the mighty roar of Rhys and knew he and Cassain were likely suffering similar fates. They’d tried to take the world, to leave the underplane they ruled, to overthrow the high god Koschei.

Where was Lucien, he wondered? Was he dead too? Was this failed cosmic coup over so easily? Azriel wanted to struggle but his body was pinned in place, sinking slowly toward an earthy grave.

“You give up easier than expected,” Koschei murmured, sharpened teeth dripping with some dripping, black substance. “Like a coward.”

Azriel snarled furiously, pulling at the bindings dragging him further down. Could Koschei see the promise of retribution in his gaze? Did he not realize no prison could hold him forever? Azriel would find his way out eventually. He had nothing but eternity to plot and creatures like Koschei grew complacent in the end.

Crouching so he could speak better with Azriel, Koschei flashed another foul smile. “I hear your thoughts, little god. You think you can usurp me with time. Consider your undoing.” With a snap of his fingers, a body fell from the sky, falling with a sickening crunch inches from Azriel. He recognized the red hair, splayed out over a too pale, lifeless face. Knew the body of the woman now crumpled in a heap, the sword broken off in her midriff—he’d given it to her.

A once white ribbon, now stained rust red, was still tied around her forehead. Azriel wanted to reach for it, to blow life into the lifeless body of the only woman he’d ever truly loved.

It had been a mistake to bring humans into this mess. To think he could raise her into godhood—that she wouldn’t get hurt in the end. Azriel had sworn he’d keep her safe.

His Gwyn.

“Pretty little thing,” Koschei murmured, running clawed hands through Gwyn’s tangled hair. “Didn’t you warn her to stay away from monsters?”

“I’ll kill you,” Azriel swore, thrashing again. It only made him sink faster.

“Oh, you’ll try. And every time you raise yourself against me, your little human will find herself reborn and thrust back in your path. You can try and save her, of course—but you have to give up your designs on godhood, shadowsinger. Or you can kill me and watch her die all over again. Something to think about.”

Azriel shouted, but dirt filled his mouth before darkening his vision. With his eyes closed, all he could see was Gwyn’s helpless body left to rot while he was buried beneath her. Azriel forced himself to calm down, just enough to keep his mind clear.

Koschei thought he had him.

But he didn’t know Azriel at all. And the ancient god had only given Azriel time think.

Time to plot.

- -

Gwyneth Berdara woke just before dawn, like she always did. Some internal clock inside her mind refused to let her sleep in—to sleep well—especially now that she’d come to the temple in Sangravagh. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She should have been in the palace with her brothers, should have been mourning her sister's death with the rest of them.

She’d had one minor outburst. One room had exploded into flame before her brother—the king—had extinguished it. Nothing of consequence had been harmed and yet she’d seen that steely look in Eris’s eyes.

“It’s been a year, Gwyneth,” he’d said without humor. “How much longer am I expected to tolerate this?”

“How long would it take you to mourn the death of your other half?” she’d snapped back. That had been a mistake. His patience was already thin—there was conflict at the border, the first in five centuries, and swirling rumors the dark princes were rising from the slumber.

Eris, who lived in the shadow of Lucien Spell-Cleaver—a god, truly, more legend than he’d ever been a living man—was uneasy. Devoid of smiles, same as their late father. As if Beron Vanserra could have any relation to the great Sun King.

So Gwyn was here with the priestesses to learn humility, and to vent her rage somewhere none of the courtiers could see. She wondered what he’d told the court. What had he told Nesta Archeron, Gwyn’s dearest friend? Did he admit the truth? That she was an embarrassment he couldn’t stand any longer? That Eris didn’t want to deal with the messiness of loss, that Catrin’s death didn’t bother him as much because he’d never been close to either of them? They were the youngest by nine years, an accident their father hadn’t wanted and their mother was too exhausted to deal with.

Eris had five brothers, but Gwyn had only Catrin. They’d had governesses, of course, and the usual training given to princesses, but they were merely more players on their father’s board, turning the Vanserra siblings from five to seven in the blink of an eye. They’d run wild, managed more by Eris than their parents, who’d done a better job keeping Catrin’s moods in check.

She was gone now.

And so was Beron.

That left Gwyn to pick up her sister's mantle and give Eris hell when it suited her, and left Eris to exile her until she was ready to stop being a pain in his ass. Or to find her a suitable husband, some minor lord with money and men that Eris could exploit while cleanly wiping his hands of her.

Gwyn resented him for it.

There were secrets, too—things she couldn’t tell Eris, that he’d never guessed. Things she’d confessed only to Catrin, curled up in a bed they’d never been meant to share as she sobbed softly. Of men at court who took far too many liberties and her brothers who were too busy with their own lives to notice their sisters.

Catrin had nearly convinced Gwyn to tell Eris the truth.

And now she was dead.

Unlike the other priestesses, Gwyn was given her own room at the top of one of the dark spires in the temple. It wasn’t nice, nor was it spacious, but it was private and that was all that mattered. She didn’t have her own bathing chamber which annoyed her given Gwyn had to trek down circling stairs and make her way through the drafty temple for the one bathing room they all shared.

She didn’t like the way they stared at her, how their laughter and conversations died when she stepped into the room. Maybe that was why she’d begun getting up early. Better to bathe alone than to endure their quiet judgment. They didn’t want her here, either. They loathed having to teach her to work in the garden (a task Gwyn hated), and embroider, (Gwyn stuck her finger almost as often as her cloth), and work the stables (the horses were nice, but their stalls were foul). Gwyn didn’t mind midwifery so much, though the first time she’d watched a woman bleed out while the other priestess called it Lady Death’s will, Gwyn had found she liked it a little less. Everything was left in the hands of the gods and no one had to take any responsibility for their actions. The gods ordained every act of cruelty and mortals were helpless to resist. Gwyn loathed that more than anything.

The only place that felt like solace was the library. It was a special privilege to work there, earned after years of dedication and Gwyn knew the other priestesses resented seeing her working for Merril. The books kept the score, besides—villains always got what they deserved, the heroes always came out triumphant. Even outside of the novels she loved, history was written in the blood of victors and lacked the meddling hands of the gods. Gwyn was allowed to help transcribe these histories which was clearly her brother's influence. Everyone knew it.

They didn’t know the alternative was her constant attempts at escaping. They didn’t understand that Clotho had watched as Gwyn was dragged back, at first kicking and screaming, before she’d become compliant, though still defiant. She would rather die than sit in the temple, complacent and meek, awaiting Eris’s decision on what to do with her. So she ran, and she was caught, and she ran again. Over and over and over until Clotho finally had enough.

Signing silently, Clotho had said, If you stay, you can work among the books.

It was a bribe more than anything. Gwyn imagined Clotho loathed having to write her brother all those letters about how difficult she was. And Gwyn was certain Eris had demanded they find a way to make her complacent, along with a hefty sum of gold.

And hated even more that it had worked.

She’d loved the library at home, and she loved it here in Sangravagh even more. Here they had books that went back to the reign of Lucien Spell-Cleaver. That told the story of the epic battle between him and the legendary Dark Lord—The Shadowsinger. Defeated at the very last moment, when all hope was lost, by the Sun King’s unassuming, beautiful wife. Her mother had told her and Catrin that story more often than any other. It was said his body had been cut into five pieces, scattered to the four corners of the globe while his head was buried beneath the floors of the Forest House. It was said that Lucien himself had buried him that way to ensure he never returned.

Catrin used to sympathize with the Shadowsinger—likely the only person in the world who could. Gwyn had been mesmerized, proud to be part of that legacy. Curious, too, as she’d become older. How much of it was actually true, and how much was merely legend. Gwyn suspected Lucien Spell-Cleaver had been mythologized, melded with other, older legends until he became a god-like figure.

And the Shadowsinger much the same.

In the library, Gwyn found records from the time, recording births and deaths, and endless expenses for building palaces and roads and walls. She found records of ship inventories carrying the goods from Velaris and Illryia to Avalon, which meant the legends of the Lord of Bloodshed and his equally terrifying brother known only as Death Incarnate, couldn’t be real, either. They were said to rule Velaris and Illyria proper, and the Shadowsinger oversaw what was now Avalon.

Likely they had just been regular men, too, whose regimes were toppled and they, too, were made more fearsome by legend trying to immortalize an Empire, and terrifying those that would defy it. Bedtime stories for children, real lives made into parables to teach lessons.

She couldn’t stop herself from translating the books, though. From painstakingly working by candle, until it had burned to nothing and she was half asleep against the hardwood surface. Merrill allowed her to do so, likely because it kept her busy and out of everyone's way.

Gwyn rushed through her morning bath, well aware that the stipulations to being in the library required her to spend three mornings a week shoveling horse shit from the stables.

Gwyn always chose the first three days to get it out of the way. Begrudgingly, she could admit to herself that the hard labor did calm her mind a little. She’d never say that out loud, but Gwyn liked the horses, too.

She dressed quickly, slipping on the standard blue of her robes that all priestesses wore. She had some old gowns from court but Eris had ordered she be treated no different than anyone else. What good was chiffon and lace in a place like this? Once, Gwyn had cherished those things. She and her sister had giggled over new gowns made of silk, had spent hours at the dressmakers ordering everything that caught their eye and then some. Catrin, especially, had more dresses than anyone could ever have worn and had taken such care with her appearance. She’d been so beautiful, so lively—the living embodiment of the flame that wound its way through their family bloodline.

Gwyn couldn’t prove she’d been murdered to keep silence but rumor had been spreading that something had happened. Catrin couldn’t hide her rage, had snapped at the men responsible, had messed around in their policies and in one particularly cut-throat move, interfered in an impending marriage that would have enriched one of the families beyond their wildest dreams.

It’s my quiet revenge until you’re ready to get loud, Catrin had told her.

Gwyn had always been afraid to be angry, to take up space.

Not anymore.

The air was cooler than usual, salty without the tang of fish that it usually had. Gwyn could hear the ocean churning in the distance and knew if she continued walking toward the cliffside she’d find the brutal gray waves rising and falling against the rock, battering away. She wasn’t allowed to go that far—everyone thought she might fling herself off the edge.

Some days it was tempting.

Some days her anger burned so hot Gwyn thought she might explode from it. Today was one of those days. It itched beneath her skin, expanding until she felt like she couldn’t contain her feelings. Her sister wasn’t just dead. She’d been murdered. Eris swore he was looking for the killer, had promised Gwyn there would be justice but there wasn’t, and there hadn’t been. Did her brother suspect the truth? That nobles in his own court were responsible and condemning them to death was likely to cause an exodus and, even worse, an attempted coup? Or was he too busy with things he deemed more important to see what felt so obvious to Gwyn. Maybe she could have pieced Catrin’s final night alive together—all she had were her suspicions.

Now she had nothing at all.

Gwyn looked up at the moody sky wishing she had the Spell-Cleaver’s affinity for magic. All she had was flame, and it was fairly pathetic in comparison to her brothers. Perhaps that was for the best—Gwyn might have raised the whole world in her grief and anger.

Instead she put on mucking shoes and made her way to the horse stalls. The first stall was easy enough. Pancakes was a sweet, older gelding who didn’t mind getting out of Gwyn’s way so she could take a pitchfork to the manure and replace the soiled hay with something fresh. Gwyn replaced the water in the bucket and fed her before she was rewarded with a sweet nudge from a soft, gray nose.

The next stall was more of the same, and by the time Gwyn reached the third, she was coated in sweat and already thinking about her books. She wouldn’t be done before lunch and already regretted not having breakfast. Still, the quiet company of the animals soothed some of her rage and the work kept her mind mostly quiet.

Pulling open the wooden stall, Gwyn paused. Buttercream was waiting for breakfast with impatient eyes, nearly trampling the limp body in his stall. Gwyn blinked, certain she was seeing it wrong—but that was a man lying there.

Dried blood stuck to his midnight black hair, to the golden brown of his cheeks, to the white of his torn shirt. Gwyn took a step forward, thinking this wasn’t the first dead body she’d seen. Buttercream stepped out of the stall entirely which was going to get Gwyn in trouble. She considered going back for the horse before deciding that Clotho would understand.

Hopefully.

Gwyn knelt beside the body, roughly turning him to this back. More dried blood caked over his neck and his bare chest, though she couldn’t tell where he’d been wounded. An old scar screamed white against his neck, like someone had tried to cut it and failed. Gwyn swallowed hard, fingers trembling as she pressed them against the pulsepoint.

He gasped, eyes flying open to look at her. His bloodless lips parted, hazel eyes dilating with fear. Gwyn tried to skitter back but he grabbed both her arms with a surprisingly strong grip, sitting up just enough to put them at eye level.

His were the most intoxicating mix of brown and green, dotted gold around his iris. “You,” he breathed before releasing her arms to hold her face in callused hands. “You—get help.”

She might have done exactly as he demanded had he not crushed his mouth against hers. Gwyn yelped, held in place by this stranger who, despite the blood coating his skin, tasted like warm smoke curling against icy snow. Gwyn kept her eyes open and so did he before those thick, dark lashes fluttered and he felt back with a loud thud.

Gwyn exhaled, fingers flying to her lips. It should have enraged her, this kiss from a stranger who hadn’t even asked if he could touch her. Yet another man taking what he wanted without bothering to ask, to consider if she wanted what he was offering. And yet…Gwyn’s fingers found her lips, eyes still on his unconscious body pillowed by straw. It hadn’t felt like conquest the way it had before. This felt like desperation—like he needed help and could think of no other way to convince her.

It was her first, proper kiss. She’d imagined something different. Someone different.

Not a vagrant half dead in a barn.

Gwyn rose to her feet, hating how her knees were wobbling. “CLOTHO!” she screamed, stepping back out into the cool world.

Overhead, thunder clapped a warning.

And the skies began pouring rain.

- -

Gwyn was in the library, hidden far in the back when she heard the voices of other priestesses. “He can’t stay,” someone whispered. “I told Merrill as much.” “Where did he even come from?” asked another. Gwyn paused from her scroll, grateful for an excuse to rest her aching hand.

“This isn’t the first time a man has tried to infiltrate.”

“I heard his throat was cut—”

“He was stabbed, supposedly. I told Clotho we ought to leave him to die—”

“That’s terrible.”

The priestesses had been forbidden from visiting the stranger, but Gwyn wasn’t a priestess. And she was curious given he’d kissed her right before passing out. Surely she deserved to see how he was progressing before he was kicked out of the temple? That man was the first interesting thing that had happened since she’d arrived six months before.

She waited until the voices floated away before putting her things away and blowing out her candle. No one paid her any mind as she walked the familiar stone halls, guided only by the silvery moonlight overhead.

Gwyn knew exactly where he’d be, assuming he was still alive. He’d be closer to her tower where they kept people who’d committed egregious offenses. Gwyn had never seen that happen but she’d heard of a priestess who’d been stealing coins for a lover in a nearby village. The punishment was typically just long enough to cool whatever ardor existed between the lovers—men were fickle things. A week of no contact and they slunk off, moving on with a new, warmer body while the woman was left to pine. Gwyn pitied them both. Was that all love was? Close proximity ignited with physical touch?

She wasn’t interested.

Gwyn turned down the sharp corridor, ignoring the door that would take her up to her tower for the one at the far end of the hall. Pushing it open, she saw him lying on a cot, his shirt cut from his body and his chest wrapped in pristine white bandages. The blood had been washed from his body, leaving him utterly bare from the waist up. Gwyn thought there was something odd about him—something missing, though she couldn’t explain what, exactly.

She was distracted by a trail of dark hair starting just beneath his navel, vanishing in the band of his pants. Cocking her head, she examined the hard muscle of him, made softer in sleep but still visible through his skin. Who was he, she wondered?

She didn’t realize he was awake until she glanced back at his face, meaning to leave. “You again,” he murmured in a midnight dark voice. “I thought I imagined you.”

Gwyn’s heart began thudding in her chest. “You passed out in the stables,” she told him.

“Seemed like a safe option at the time,” he replied, groaning a little as he tried to sit up.

“What happened to you?”

He glanced down at the bandage wrapped around his body. “A knife.”

“Did you rob someone?”

A smile tugged at his lips and Gwyn was struck by how beautiful he was. She was used to beautiful men—all her brothers had the good Vanserra genes, after all, passed down from the Sun King himself. And the lords at court were often quite handsome with the annoying quality of knowing it. This man, though, was different. Otherworldly in his beauty and radiating strength—strong jaw, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a full mouth. Those dark lashes didn’t hurt him, either, nor did how nicely his body was arranged.

“I’m a soldier, not a thief.”

“You’re a long way from the border,” Gwyn said, arms crossed over her chest. The man watched her for a moment, his amusement plain.

“What do you know about conflict in Avalon?”

Not much, admittedly. She’d never cared to, and it wasn’t like Eris shared with her. She was his obnoxious baby sister and not a trusted advisor. “What are you doing so far up north?”

“I’m looking for a princess,” he admitted, head cocked as he took her in. “The king sent me to retrieve her.”

Of fucking course he did. Gwyn blew out a breath. “He’s too good to come himself?”

He snorted a small laugh. “I suppose he’s quite busy with his soon-to-be-wife.”

“Wife?” she spluttered. “What woman in her right mind would marry Eris?”

The soldier laughed then, head tipping back as the throaty sound filled the small chamber. “I won’t tell him you said so,” he replied, wincing a little as he tried to draw a breath. “Princess.”

Gwyn only frowned. So Eris was getting married, and she was freed temporarily from exile. How very like him to send a messenger rather than fetch her himself. Gwyn swallowed the hurt, not wanting this man to see her anger.

“I’ll tell him myself when we arrive. She must be out of options.”

“I hear she’s incredibly beautiful,” he countered, those eyes practically glowing feline in the dark. “And that he’s in love with her.”

“You must not know him well.” Eris wasn’t capable of love save for, perhaps, their mother. A wife, though? No, that was something political, an alliance that benefitted Eris so greatly he’d tie himself to the terms legally. Gwyn imagined she was likely beautiful and meek, the sort of woman that would stay out of his way. A woman he could discard without concern only to pick back up when she became necessary.

“Better than you think, princess,” the soldier countered. But Gwyn very much doubted that. This didn’t look like one of Eris’s personal guards, one of his most trusted. This looked like someone who could get stabbed on the side of the road without Eris caring too terribly much. Maybe he was hoping so he could snub Gwyn only to inform her he had sent someone, and how tragic that they’d never made it. Gwyn had enough of the entire thing.

“You should rest, then. It’s a long journey back to the palace.”

“Clotho was very kind, offering me this room. I offered to sleep in the stables.”

Gwyn didn’t care. She turned her back to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she went. She was too busy seething at Eris to fall on niceties. This was merely more proof that her family only ever saw her as a burden. It was only when she reached the door and heard the man groan again, settling back against that threadbare cot, that she wondered who he was.

“What’s your name, soldier?” she asked.

There was a beat, and then— “Azriel,” he told her. Something in the air hummed for a moment before the world stilled again, some magic Gwyn didn’t recognize. Only the royals and the gods commanded magic—no simple soldier could have evoked such a response. It was merely a manifestation of her own anger or some desire to be more important than she was. The gods had long turned their gazes from her—had abandoned her entirely.

“Sleep well, then, Az—” Gwyn choked on the name, unsure why she couldn’t say it.

And maybe he knew it, because his mouth quirked to the side, even as he settled back to the bed, one hand on his bare stomach. Something about him seemed off—he didn’t look like Eris’s usual type. Though, to be fair, what did she really know about Eris anymore? Ever since their father died and he’d taken over, Eris was different.

Maybe his soldiers were, too.

#gwynriel #my humble submission

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eggyrocks · 26 days

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tangled up: y. nishinoya

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆°°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆°°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆°°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆°°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹

it's saturday, and they should be doing more. they're typically always doing more. but they're halfway through the day now, and all they've managed to do is move from the bed to the couch.

nishinoya's sprawled out on the couch, one leg kicked up over the top cushion and the other dangling off the side. she's lying directly on top of him, cheek pressed against his firm chest and her limbs entangled in his. he has one hand absentmindedly brushing through the tangled ends of her hair.

it's not exactly comfortable, for either of them. but every time he makes a move to readjust, her arms go tight around his waist and makes him stay put. so he does.

he's always doing something. always going somewhere and seeing someone and normally sitting still this long has him twitching but the soft pattering of rain and the comforting weight of her on top of him is lulling him into complacency.

it's just one day. he won't die if he's not doing something for just one day.

"wait, i'm confused," he says, using his free hand to gesture towards their television. "what just happened?"

she sighs, and does not remove her gaze from the show. "she was trying to get the jewel back from the demon who swallowed it, but when she hit the demon with her arrow, she also hit the jewel, and it shattered."

nishinoya furrows his brow. "okay, but it's a magic jewel. why would an arrow shatter it into a bunch of pieces?"

"kagome has priestess powers, noya."

"well when the fuck did that happen?"

she turns her head forward and gives him a glare. "can you pay attention to the show? you never pay attention and i always have to pause it six-hundred times to explain it to you."

nishinoya grins broadly at her. "sorry. i just keep getting distracted by how pretty you look."

"noya-"

"how am i ever supposed to pay attention to anything when i have the prettiest girl in the entire world with me right now?" he says, enjoying the way her skin starts to flush.

she tries to keep a straight face. "just watch the show."

"'kay, but gimme a kiss first. can't pay attention till you give me a kiss."

it's not without another eye roll, but she stretches her neck out to land a quick, soft kiss on his lips. and when she turns her head to resume watching the show, nishinoya's still watching her, smiling softer now, fingers still combing through her hair.

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#eggyrocks does slice of life #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #haikyuu #hq #nishinoya yuu #nishinoya yuu x reader #nishinoya x reader #nishinoya x y/n #nishinoya x you #nishinoya yuu x yn #nishninoya yuu x you #nishinoya fluff

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b33zlebubz · 2 months

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER TWO

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment "Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

FRIDAY DECEMBER 3RD 2016 NORWAY, 0700 HOURS

Simon decides he prefers the cold.

Brazil is a pretty place, sure. Of all the places he has been stationed, it's been by far one of the nicest; the closest to vacation that Simon Riley will ever get other than medical leave. Running in over ten kilos of gear and getting shot at while doing it is probably one of the only things that could ruin a free trip to the tropical continent; he swears he nearly waterboarded himself with the amount of sweat he produced. He went through three masks alone just in the two short weeks he was there, two of which had to be replaced.

Norway, though, was a little more tolerable.

He's new to the area, to the camp and to the people. It's a nice day, for winter, but the frigid sun still stings through the eyeholes of his mask and where his gloves don’t quite reach the sleeves of his parka. A familiar feeling; one he didn't exactly miss, but was closer to home and sure as hell beat the sweltering tropical heat of Brazil.

Captain Walker walks just a few strides in front of him, droning on about the base and what Simon would be doing here. He had wasted no time at all giving Simon a tour of the camp fresh off the plane after he met with a few of the other COs he would be working under over the next couple of weeks.

It's busy for a relatively small and temporary base. Soldiers of all ranks dart left and right; training, talking, and commuting. Most of which are British, like him, but others are foreign as well. He takes some amusement in the juxtaposition between him and the shorter man in front of him as he walks, and he's sure the others do, too. Even some higher-ups are curious, pausing in the halls to take in his form a second time in surprise.

Simon's grown complacent over the years, he will admit. He's too used to being around the same bases for too long, too used to people not sparing him a glance as he walks past—or rather—too used to people being used to him. Here, people of all kinds seemed to lose track of what they were doing as he strides past, staring shamelessly. Of course, he stares back, and it's usually enough to snap them out of it and send them on their way.

"Of course, you've likely been given the run-down plenty of times already, so I'll spare you all that rubbish," Walker drones on. He's short. Older, for an infantry man, but still strong, and with enough temper to make up for what he lacks in youth and height. "I expect you know what you're doing with that shiny new rank of yours. Need more men like you around…experienced men."

It isn't often Simon is sent anywhere for instructional purposes. But with a recent lull in the violence and bloodshed in the world, he finds himself on more and more assignments like these—things to keep him busy. Keep him moving. With his new rank, he's attracted more work with leadership than much of anything else.

Camp Viking, Norway. Assist Marine and Navy Corps with Arctic conditioning and training.

Should be easy enough.

"So, what's the uh…the deal?"

Simon raises an eyebrow at Walker, deciding to humor him despite knowing exactly what he was about to ask. "Hm?"

"The classified-up-the-ass skeleton getup," he clarifies, eyeing Simon up and down. "You think you're some superhero or something?”

The beginnings of an amused smirk twitch onto the lieutenant's face. One thing that would never get old no matter where he was relocated was fucking with people.

"Something like that."

That seems to quell the man's curiosity for the time being. He raises an eyebrow with an amused, or annoyed, huff before he shakes his head and changes the subject.

"For some of these boys…you're the only thing standing between them and a promotion," Walker gestures loosely to the shooting range at his right, where a handful of soldiers have taken to practicing. "Don't go easy on 'em. Not that I expect you to."

"Copy," Simon remarks, eyes sweeping across the field as he follows the captain. The older man gestures to a plethora of concrete buildings and a few important people to remember. He talks a lot, much more than Simon cares to listen to—but he follows anyway, taking in the scenery and acquainting himself with what will be his life for the next few weeks. He eyes the soldiers around the shooting range, committing their faces to memory before Walker calls them to attention.

They're quite the squad. Young, experienced. Ghost notes with a huff that it's silent—the typical general shenaniganry of the Marines nonexistent; the product of strict instructors. The captain goes on with all the formalities, introducing Simon and what he's here to do with the squad.

Simon's eyes sweep the soldiers, who all avert their gaze the moment his eyes meet theirs.

Yours, however, doesn't.

You're rigid-still. So still Simon thinks that if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of your chest, you'd be frozen to the snow you stand on. Spine straight as a pole, boots pressed together, hands clasped at your back; the only thing that moves are your eyes when they flicker up to meet his. Simon lingers, staring at you, eyes squinting down at where your upper face is exposed from your uniform gator.

At first glance, you're harmless. A handful of years younger than him, maybe—you seem like just another soldier who was roped into a station she was less than happy about. He also thinks, maybe, he can tell what you're thinking—because you hold your head just a bit higher to make yourself appear taller.

Your face is banged up. Your nose is slightly crooked and there's a healing bruise across the bridge and under your eyes. A scabbed-over cut crosses your upper cheek and another one cuts into your brow. Your cheeks are sunken and your eyes bagged; and if Simon didn't know any better, he'd say it looked like you've been outside in the cold for weeks.

"Well," Simon huffs. "Aren't you a sight."

There's a glint in your eyes and Simon quickly realizes he's already underestimated your confidence. "Could say the same to you, Lieutenant."

He raises an eyebrow at your boldness. For a second, it's silent. Behind him, Walker's head raises—appalled by your lack of respect.

"Ignore her," he says. "She may look it; but she’s no angel. ‘Got more insubordination on her record than I have fingers on both hands, at this point."

Simon swears he sees your expression twitch, a slight crinkle of your injured nose at Walker's comment. Your eyes flash with a concoction of emotions all hidden behind a barrier of discipline. Regret, anger—fear, maybe—at the edge in your Captain's voice. Nevertheless, you remain stoic.

Hm.

"Seems like you've had quite the week." Simon says to you. "Eh, Angel?"

You seem to short-circuit at the new nickname he dubs onto you, or maybe at the vaguest empathy in his voice—he can't tell. He can see your mouth open with a response before it snaps shut again. Your gaze flickers from Ghost, to Walker, and then back to Ghost again.

"I…" you trail off, and then straighten yourself again. "I will not hinder the team moving forward, sir."

It’s not really the answer he’s looking for. His eyes narrow at you and your stubborn resolve, as if maybe if he looked at you close enough, he could see behind the thick wall of discipline you’ve put up. He has questions, and lots of them.

He holds your gaze for another moment, as if testing you. When your stare doesn't budge, he finally relents with an approving nod.

"Hm," he says. "Good."

Walker calls the squad at rest and Ghost continues on with the tour. He feels your stare linger on the back of his neck as he walks close behind the captain before you return to target practice. Once you’re out of earshot, Ghost turns his attention back to Walker.

“Captain.”

The Captain sighs, already knowing what's about to be asked of him before Simon can say anything, “Lieutenant.”

“I’d like to take a look at her file once we get back to your office.”

“Copy that, Ghost.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #cod ghost #simon riley

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harmonysanreads · 1 year

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Hi! I hope this is something that hasn’t been already mentioned but what about any yandere of your choice having a s/o who is nice at first but once they are kidnapped they are creepy and mean like so creepy to the point of insanity

Hello to you, too! This hasn't been mentioned yet so rest assured. To start off, ‘creepy’ can go so many ways ; s/o's behavior could either mirror the yanderes', or they could be just mentally unstable (again, like the yandere themself or perhaps... as a result of the yandere's overwhelming influence? hoho). The possibilities are limitless here, so, for the sake of the ask let's just go with the two-faced factor i. e. take s/o as this angel like person that the yanderes think they are but when they make the inevitable abducting, turns out they're.. not so different after all.

And I choose some of the Harbingers since they have no filter to their insanity ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

──⚝ il dottore

Well well well, aren't you just like him? You really are a specimen worth studying. Dottore chose you because he saw something different in you in the first place, this turn of events is definitely good serotonin for his researcher mind. He even turns this into sort of a competition to see who has more facades : good ol' you or him with his army of clones? Now, its up to you to take his nonchalance as disturbing or not and as for the Doctor, he's certainly thrilled to uncover how many more secrets you're withholding from him.

──⚝ columbina

Will giggle, maybe even squeeze your cheeks, aren't you a cute one? She coos, not taking you seriously at all. If anything, her infantilizing behavior just gets worse. She could even be a little relieved ; you were such an irresistible source of light, always letting the ugly moths and insects bask in that brightness — could you really blame her when she merely, oh so benevolently saved you from their repulsive claws? Though such feelings are visceral, she believes herself to be your guardian angel, this tweeny shift of attitude is nothing to her. Her overwhelming complexity, unpredictability and little-to-no regard for your feelings might just vanquish what little scrap of sanity you had left.

──⚝ scaramouche

The ideal preference of Harbinger Scaramouche in this circumstance would be if you encouraged his yandere tendencies, nodding along excitedly at his grandiose plans of attaining divinity and basically fanning the flames. He'd be ecstatic! Finally, he felt completed. Of course, this whole situation is far from healthy and admittedly, a little fragile but hey, at least you can be the cute, loving criminal couple :)

──⚝ sandrone

Doesn't make a difference to her, as long as you stay put and don't make her creations chase you around Zapolyarny ; she's fine with everything. She's a researcher, too, so don't be surprised if she started tweaking with your mind here and there — she only wants to understand you <3 Definitely has a plethora of plans and experiments already chalked up in her head regarding this sudden revelation.

──⚝ arlecchino

Now, her reaction differs depending on the level of obedience you show her afterwards. Arlecchino had already expected some semblance of defiance but that wasn't her worry since she's confident in her ability to get you wrapped around her finger. If the sudden reveal proves that she'd underestimated the extent of your stubbornness then, she'll be pretty mad as time goes on. Do wonder who's more sane in the instance she snaps. However, if you're complacent and obey her every command, she has no issues and might even encourage your behavior... to her advantage, that is.

──⚝ pantalone

The Regrator most likely noticed cracks in your ‘benevolent’ composure and thus, decided to own you. Because otherwise, it'd really just be keeping a carbon copy of himself. I can actually see him being a little disturbed (compared to others) but, he's quick to recover. But whether or not he will be perturbed by your behavior at all depends on how deep his affections run. If he's deluded himself in your kindness, then he'll likely excuse you, every time. You could perhaps use this state of the Regrator to have a little taste of freedom as well.

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hephaestuscrew · 10 months

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"With a goddamn harpoon": The significance of Minkowski's weapon of choice within the narrative and characterisation of Wolf 359

TL;DR: Despite its initial comic role, the harpoon becomes a important symbol of Minkowski as a character; it is particularly associated with her desperate need for control, her desire to keep her crew safe, her stubborn determination, and her occasional unpredictability. These associations add to the narrative significance when Minkowski kills Cutter with the harpoon.

[Tagging people who said they wanted to be tagged: @browncoatparadox @captain-lovelace @goblincaveofvibes ]

~~~

Ep21 Minkowski Commanding

First appearance

We first encounter the harpoon in Minkowski Commanding, which is a significant episode for Minkowski's characterisation because it's the first big departure from Eiffel's point-of-view into Minkowski's. It's arguably the most Minkowski-centred episode in the whole show, so it stands out when we think about her as a character.

EIFFEL (over comm) Um, Minkowski? Why is the armory wide open, and also, apparently, robbed? Where's the tactical knives kit? MINKOWSKI Don't worry. I've got that. EIFFEL Oh. And the M4 carbine? The, like, really-dangerous-in-space, select-fire M4 carbine? MINKOWSKI Yeah, I've got that too. EIFFEL And this empty rack I'm looking at right now with a label that says "harpoon" suggests that... MINKOWSKI Yes. I have it, Eiffel.

The harpoon is introduced as part of a list of over-the-top weapons that Minkowski takes on her plant-monster-hunting mission. It's initially just a funny moment to emphasise how seriously she's taking this mission. The weapons arguably increase in unlikeliness as Eiffel lists them, and it's a comic image to think of Eiffel deducing the situation from the empty rack labeled 'harpoon'. It could have been an entirely throw-away joke that was never brought up again. The M4 carbine never comes up again. The tactical knives kit is mentioned in Knock, Knock, but not in a plot-significant or symbolic way.

'Goddamn harpoon' speech

So why does the harpoon become such an iconic part of Minkowski's brand (and I'm pretty certain it was seen as significant by fans long before the finale)? It's got to be because of the next time it's mentioned, when Minkowski talks to the plant monster in the same episode:

MINKOWSKI (getting psyched up) You wanna play with me, huh? You wanna run rings around me? The joyless, boring, predictable old Minkowski? She can't stop you, right? Not someone as smart and powerful as you. You've got her pegged. Good. Get complacent. Get smug. That's right when you'll find me waiting for you. With a goddamn harpoon.

There's so much to say about this speech and what it reveals her character. For one thing, it's all projection - we have no real indication of what (if anything) the plant monster thinks of Minkowski. We don't even really know how much understanding it has when listening to her talk. She imagines that this silent adversary would call her "joyless, boring, predictable". I suspect that these are all things that she's been called a fair bit in the past. (To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if they are all things that Eiffel called her at one point.)

But the harpoon is proof against - if not the accusation of joylessness - the idea that Minkowski is boring and predictable. Boring and predictable people don't opt for a harpoon for fighting on a spaceship when plenty of more conventional weapons available. A harpoon is unexpected, and there's a kind of power in that.

Another interesting thing about that speech is that the whole thing would make at least as much sense - if not more - if it was directed at Cutter. In Sarah Shachat's episode commentary on Minkowski Commanding (part of the bonus material available to buy here), she says that Minkowski "is really speaking to Cutter in this moment". It's made clear that Minkowski's behaviour in Minkowski Commanding is not just about the plant monster itself. She tells Eiffel, "I have to take it seriously! If I can eliminate one threat, just one, then we are that much closer to going home!"

The specifics of the plant monster's location, abilities, and origin are mysterious, but - unlike many of the other forces threatening the safety of Minkowski's crew - it is at least tangible and harpoon-able and not light years away. Hunting the plant monster is a way for Minkowski to assert control when so much is outside of her control. It's an attempt to demonstrate that she is - as she puts it - "in charge of this disaster". Minkowski treats the plant monster as a physical symbol of all the threats her crew are facing, and so the harpoon becomes a physical symbol of her fierce (if sometimes misguided) determination to take control of the situation and fight back against those threats to protect her crew.

The line "you'll find me waiting for you. With a goddamn harpoon" is one that sticks in the mind, especially since - with one notable exception - 'goddamn' is about as potent as swearwords get on this show. And it's the harpoon that she uses to give specificity to the threat.

Absurdity

A harpoon is powerful and threatening, which is exactly what Minkowski is trying to convey to the plant monster, but in this context - not only on dry land but on a spaceship - it's also kind of absurd. From the way we hear it fire in the finale, we can tell that it's more like a speargun than a hand-thrown harpoon spear, but it's still an out-of-place weapon for space-based combat. Minkowski's already been shown to have a penchant for archaic weaponry, after her drunken enthusiasm over the cannon during the talent show incident, which is largely played for laughs. Similarly, in the episode commentary for Minkowski Commanding, Sarah Shachat says that the harpoon was introduced mostly just because it was funny; "[including a harpoon] was me sort of embracing the Moby Dick of it all. And I had no idea at the time how much importance that silly harpoon would take on."

Eiffel makes a Moby Dick reference himself ("10 days of Captain Ahab's Space Walkabout"). I haven't read Moby Dick so I can't properly analyse the significance of this reference, but the initial prominence of the harpoon (traditionally a whaling tool) enables that connection. It feels like a good example of the classic Wolf 359 thing where something comedic has the potential to take on a deeper significance. It conjures an image of Minkowski as a Captain with the potential to be consumed by a single-minded mission to destroy... A potential that she resists in the conclusion to Minkowski Commanding when she chooses to leave the plant monster alone. The harpoon also fits with the sprinkling of nautical imagery and language in Wolf 359 (e.g. the repeated use of the word 'boat'), as well as the retro-futuristic feel of the Hephaestus.

We never learn why there's a harpoon on the Hephaestus. It seems like yet another of those bizarre unexplained quirks of the station, like the items in the storage room where Eiffel finds Box 953. Even when the weird mysterious features of the Hephaestus are depicted in a comedic way, these features are still a demonstration of the fact that the characters are in an environment that they don't understand and that their surroundings have been shaped according to the whims of Command.

I think we can assume none of the members of the Hephaestus crew brought a harpoon up with them. For whatever reason, someone at Goddard Futuristics must have decided to put a harpoon in that armory. Like most things in the crew's lives, the harpoon is owned by Goddard Futuristics. So the way Minkowski uses the harpoon could be seen as an instance of reclaiming something from Goddard and their control over her surroundings (in a similar way to how her crew are able to utilise the maze-like structure of the Hephaestus to their advantage when hiding first from the SI-5 and later from Cutter and the crew of the Sol).

Other mentions of the harpoon

The harpoon doesn't actually make another physical appearance until the finale, when it truly comes into its own. But there are a couple of little hints before then that it has become a part of Minkowski's brand amongst the other characters as well as to the listeners. These mentions remind the listener about the harpoon, so we don't forget about it before its big comeback in the finale.

Ep27 Knock, Knock

EIFFEL [to Minkowski] Like getting rid of all the weapons, for a start. We should gather up all the guns, the tactical knives, your harpoon. Put it all in the arms locker, seal that sucker up, and put the key in one of Hera's service canisters.

In this quote, Eiffel refers to it as "your harpoon" - the only weapon he ascribes ownership to here. He sees it as something she's laid claim to. He also thinks the harpoon is worth mentioning specifically, which suggests that he thinks that Minkowski would reach for it first if she was feeling particularly violent. This reinforces the idea that the harpoon has become a symbol of Minkowski's character. This connection is also strengthened by the fact that the harpoon is also never mentioned in relation to anyone other than Minkowski using it.

Ep45 Desperate Measures

LOVELACE [to Kepler] Yeah, right. Nobody knows this station like Alexander Hilbert. He knows every nook, cranny, hidden room - everything. And as back up he's got the only woman's who's ever turned outer space monster hunting into a recreational sport. You'll never see them coming... until all of a sudden there's a harpoon in your face, and you end up on the operating table of the finest medical sadist that Goddard Futuristics ever produced.

Lovelace mentions the harpoon and specifically refers to Minkowski's plant-hunting exploits, even though she didn't witness them. So we know that someone has told her that story. And what she's taken away from hearing the story is an emphasis on Minkowski's harpoon and an admiration for her determination. I don't think Minkowski was the one to tell Lovelace about her plant-monster-hunting mission, because I don't think she's necessarily proud of it. I suspect it was Eiffel who told her - he's the most natural storyteller of the group. In Mutually Assured Destruction, soon after meeting Lovelace for the first time, he says "Nobody's told you about the Plant Monster yet? So, funny story..." And I believe Eiffel would have told the story of Minkowski's plant monster hunt in a way that conveyed both the ridiculousness of her behaviour but also a kind of awe at her boldness and persistence.

The tone of "all of a sudden there's a harpoon in your face" is pretty similar to "That's right when you'll find me waiting for you. With a goddamn harpoon". Once again, the harpoon is portrayed as something that the Hephaestus crew's adversary won't expect, something that will play a key role in that adversary's defeat. You might almost think something was being foreshadowed here…

Characterisation through Weaponry

When we think of the harpoon as a symbol of Minkowski as a character, it seems worth drawing a comparison with the only other Wolf 359 character who I think has a form of weaponry as a big part of their brand: Jacobi and his explosives. While a harpoon certainly has a lot of potential for violence (a potential which Minkowski utilises), it is targeted and intentional in a way that bombs don't tend to be. It's harder to have collateral damage with a harpoon, and I think that reflects a difference between Minkowski and Jacobi's approach to conflict.

A harpoon isn't really designed for combat - it's for hunting whales and other marine animals. It feels significant that Minkowski's key weapon of choice - the one she threatens the plant monster with and kills Cutter with - isn't the weapon of a soldier. She took an assault rifle with her to hunt the plant monster, but that wasn't the weapon she held onto. She's not a natural soldier, even if she'd sometimes like to think she is.

Maxwell's Death

When Minkowski kills Maxwell, it's with a gun, not a harpoon. She's trying to be a soldier there. She's trying to do what she has to. I don't know much about how a harpoon is fired, but I've a feeling that there's less uncertainty about whether a harpoon was fired deliberately than a gun; the ambiguity around Minkowski's agency in Maxwell's death is a key part of the story that wouldn't work with a harpoon. But perhaps more importantly, I don't think there's meant to be a sense of victory or relief in Maxwell's death, unlike Cutter's. The harpoon - as a weapon that has become strongly identified with Minkowski as a character - is saved for moments when Minkowski is asserting her power in an active way that she isn't conflicted about.

Ep61 Brave New World

About a third of the way into the finale, there's another indirect mention of the harpoon:

RACHEL Y-yes, sir… Umm, we also picked up some chatter on their weaponry supplies… Firearms, explosives, something about a harpoon…

This is a nice little reference which reminds the listener of the harpoon in anticipation of its big moment later on in this episode, while once again playing with its incongruity in a list of more typical combat weapons. Given that Minkowski and co. have guessed that they are being listened in on here, their choice to talk about the harpoon might be seen as their way of having a bit of fun, or it might be seen as their way to imply the same threat that Minkowski made to the plant monster. Cutter had warning, but he didn't heed it.

Which brings us, of course, to the harpoon's most significant moment:

Cutter frowns. Then he hears it: CLA-CLUNK! His eyes widen. MINKOWSKI Let's see you catch this. FWUUUMP! An ENORMOUS THING IS SHOT. A moment later, Cutter COLLIDES AGAINST THE WALL, IMPALED. MR. CUTTER ... a... harpoon? That's not... how this is... supposed... to... He struggles for a few more moments...and then he stops.

This scene is a classic instance of Wolf 359 utilizing the audio medium to leave a significant element of the situation unknown to the listener until the right moment. We don't know that Minkowski is carrying the harpoon. We don't know that she's readying it as Lovelace talks. When we hear something fire, there's a moment where a listener might or might not have realised exactly what just fired. It's Cutter who delivers the glorious revelation. It gives the moment an additional burst of triumph that Cutter's final words are an expression of shock, not just that he has been defeated but at the weapon with which the killing blow was struck.

Human unpredictability

It's not just that Minkowski kills Cutter with a harpoon; it's also that she wouldn't have been able to kill him without it. He can catch bullets after all, so Minkowski and Lovelace's guns are basically useless. Cutter thinks he's therefore invincible, but he hasn't accounted for the possibility that Minkowski might have a less conventional weapon on hand, one which fires larger projectiles that he can't catch so easily. The fact that she's carrying an unexpected weapon - a weapon that might have seemed ridiculous - is what allows her to defeat Cutter and therefore to survive.

It's a repeated theme in Wolf 359 that the protagonists' strength is not that they are the most powerful or they behave in the most logical ways, but that they are complicated and human and unpredictable and very much themselves - all of the things that Cutter and Pryce don't want in their 'ideal humanity'. When Minkowski kills Cutter with the harpoon, it's a victory for human unpredictability and individual idiosyncrasies.

Making good on her promise

Thinking back to Minkowski Commanding, we can see that the threat Minkowski made to the plant monster absolutely came true with Cutter. He got complacent. He got smug. (I'd argue that smugness has always been one of his key attributes.) And he found her waiting for him, with a goddamn harpoon. The return of the harpoon for this moment suggests the defeat of Cutter is a culmination of some of the motivations and traits that Minkowski showed when hunting the plant monster, now channeled in a more suitable direction. She continued trying to get them "that much closer to going home". Her - sometimes absurd - determination provides a throughline from an episode that was mostly comedic (Minkowski Commanding) to a dramatic emotionally powerful finale. As Sarah Shachat put it in her audio commentary, Minkowski "makes good on her promise [that she makes in her harpoon speech in Minkowski Commanding]. That's why she's a hero."

It's significant that Cutter dies from an unlikely weapon that is so strongly identified with Minkowski. It makes that moment feel like truly hers (although she is of course right that she couldn't have done it without Lovelace - that's called being part of a crew).

As the Commander, it feels apt that Minkowski is the one to kill the long-standing 'big bad'. Pryce is arguably the same level of antagonist as Cutter, but he's the one that we've been aware of since we became aware of larger sinister forces at work in this narrative.

And if Minkowski has a personal nemesis, it's Cutter. He's the one who recruited her into the hellscape that is the Hephaestus. He played on her ambitions to get her where he wanted her. She trusted him the way she trusted the official chain of authority at the start of the mission. And that trust was extremely misplaced.

The significance of Minkowski being the one to kill Cutter is highlighted by the fact that she kills him with a weapon that only she uses, a weapon that links us back to her behaviour 40 episodes earlier. The sense of control that she was desperately seeking in Minkowski Commanding might not be completely within her grasp by the end of the finale, but she's reclaimed a piece of it by defeating the man who has been exerting control over her life for so long. And she did it with that goddamn harpoon.

#It's harpoon time!!#Honestly I think there's probably still lots more to say #but this is plenty to be getting on with #Feel free to share your own thoughts #Wolf 359 #w359 #Renée Minkowski #The stuff about human unpredictability was inspired a lot by conversations with my friend @commsroom #so she'd be in my bibliography if I had one #Something that didn't really fit in here but feels relevant is the way that fans #(particularly podcast fans who don't have canon appearances to go off)#will use certain characteristics/ objects/ clothing choices to make a character identifiable in art #Like if I see art of a Wolf 359 character with some combination of cigarette/ headphones/ Star Wars t-shirt #I know it's Eiffel even if it doesn't look like my mental idea of him #And the harpoon is definitely part of that shorthand for Minkowski #because no one else would have it #so lots of Minkowski art features the harpoon #which strengthens the associations that I'm talking about in this post #And that's interesting to me #because it's an unintended way in which fandom has the potential to influence how people perceive a character #but I think in this case it just adds further value to things that are already implied in canon #Renee Minkowski #Commander Minkowski #w359 spoilers #wolf 359 spoilers #the empty man posteth

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