#I mean I know I put on a heavy layer there on the beginning but I honestly can't make myself care enough to change it again

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Vow 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, arranged marriage, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!August Walker

Summary: your father’s murder leaves you in the hands of a dangerous man.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The man is quiet. The villain. The boss. The groom. Your... husband. 

The vows were what you would find in a script. Nothing special. Just standard. Just going through the motions. And when he lifted the veil, his kiss was just as prescribed. That’s it. Your life is over and his is just beginning. 

Your hand is in his as he guides you from the hall. He takes you between the pews and out the tall doors. A shower of petals rain down on you as you come out into the sunlight. There’s a car waiting. The people around you are like actors on a screen. It’s all fake. This isn’t a happy day, this is business. 

The car door shuts on the other side of him and you’re closed in with this stranger. The stranger you’ll spend the rest of your life with. You know his name and his bad deeds, but nothing else. 

You fold your hands over the layers of the full skirt. He shifts as he pulls a fold of tulle from beneath him. You watch his large hand and tremble. 

“Sorry,” you breath and snatch the skirt so that it can’t overflow onto his lap. 

He catches your hand and you freeze. You lock up, bones aching, muscles clenched. He tugs on you. You let him draw you closer as you stare at his steely grip. He brings his other hand over to pet your knuckles. The softness of his touch makes you tingle. 

“You’re scared,” he states. It isn’t a question. He knows. “If you are loyal, you don’t need to be.” 

You nod, “yes, sir.” 

He huffs through his nose, “I am your husband.” 

You close your eyes and tempo your heartbeat, “what should I call you?” 

“You know my name.” 

“Walker.” 

“August,” he insists upon his first name. “Maybe one day, you will have something softer to call me.” 

“Maybe,” you shiver and he squeezes your hand. 

“Your father wrote his own fate, you will write yours,” he raises your hand and lays a kiss on the back of it. “It doesn’t need to be the same.” 

You stare ahead. You can’t let yourself feel or you will feel everything. The fear, the grief, and even, the anger. Once they boil over, you will be lost. 

“I understand, August.” 

Another heavy exhale. 

“You will not act so cold in front of my men.” He takes your hand and forces your fingers open. “You will touch me with kindness.” He puts your palm to his cheek and leads you to cradle his face. His stubble pokes at your delicate gloves. “You will do so without my order. You will behave as a wife, so far as they are concerned. Let your father’s defiance die with him.” 

“I will not resist,” you tell him as much as yourself. 

“Goddamnit, look at me,” he says. 

You turn to look him in the face. The anger you expect is absent. He watches you placidly. Your fingers twitch and he leans into your touch. He takes your other hand and forces you to twist toward him. He leans in and before you can think, his lips are on yours. 

It is different than at the altar. Not just a peck, more. His lips part and his tongue flicks out along yours. He hums and you open your mouth. His hand creeps up the back of your neck and he locks you against him. His tongue invades your mouth and you squeak. 

He draws away and his eyes narrow, “better.” You’re unsure if he means it was better than before or that you need to do better.  

He lets you go and sits back against the seat. He closes his eyes as he pushes his shoulders wide. His feet are planted as he lingers in unspoken thought. You look at the driver then out the window. You turn back to him. 

You touch his sleeve and shimmy closer. He hums again. The tone assures you that you aren’t unwelcome. Play your part, fulfill your vow. That is all that needs to be done.  

This is more than you, there is your mother, and others beyond that. Those that were once loyal to your father. Those you called friends and family. Those who now walk the same tightrope. Those that have already fallen. 

The car stops. A flicker of panic strikes in your chest. The door opens from outside and he pulls you out with him. You keep one hand on your skirt and the other on his arm. He marches ahead. 

You enter the large building and wait in some room. He remains silent, pensive. You’re summoned and after a time. He fixes your arm to hook through his as you stand before the large doors. 

“Head up,” he girds before you enter. 

They watch you, just as before. You can hear them this time, whispering. You don’t look anywhere but ahead of you. He nods at the more notable guests. You will not doubt be met again with those faces through the night. 

He puts you ahead of him to climb onto the platform where the bride and groom’s table stands. He follows closely. He pulls a chair out but puts his hand to your back so you cannot sit. He sidles behind you. Instead, he sits with you, lifting you into his lap. 

You quiver again. Humiliation surges through you. This is his show of victory. He boasting. No, you will not just be beside him, you are his.  

[novaursa]

The Chains We Break

- Summary: Otto Hightower comes to negotiate the release of his son. Daemon does not humor him. But you and your sister are dragons as well, who answer to neither gods or men.

- Paring: Gwanye Hightower/trag!reader/one-sided Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Flames We Share. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (chapters that follow will be rated higher)

- Word count: 4 580

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

You sit beside your sister, your gaze cast toward the window where the distant waves of the sea crash against the shores of Dragonstone. The sunlight, filtered through heavy clouds, is gentle on your skin as the salt air brushes your face. The wounds you sustained at Rook’s Rest have begun to heal—your body mending faster than your spirit. Every breath still carries a phantom ache, reminding you of how you fell from Silverwing’s back, the cries of dragons echoing in your ears as death nearly claimed you.

Rhaenyra sits close, her face etched with remorse. She hasn’t been the same since Rook’s Rest, the burden of guilt gnawing at her. You see it in the way her fingers fidget, how she can’t meet your eyes for long before looking away. She’s your sister—your queen—and you know the weight she carries. But you do not hold her responsible for the choices that led to that fateful battle. It was war, and war spares no one, even the innocent.

“I should have never let you go,” Rhaenyra whispers, her voice thick with regret. “It should have been Rhaenys. Not you. It was my decision that put you in harm’s way.”

“Rhaenyra,” you reply, your tone soft but firm. “You did what you thought was right. We cannot turn back time, nor can we carry blame that doesn’t belong. It was my choice, too. And I would do it again, even knowing the cost.”

Your words hang in the air, but they do little to soothe her troubled heart. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until you find the courage to speak what has truly been gnawing at you.

“Gwayne Hightower,” you begin, lifting your eyes to meet hers. “You must release him from the dungeons.”

Rhaenyra’s expression tightens at the name. The guilt in her eyes shifts to something more conflicted, more political. “It isn’t as simple as that, Y/N. He betrayed his own House, his blood, to bring you back here. Daemon—”

“Daemon,” you interrupt, bitterness lacing your tone despite your attempt to remain calm. “Daemon has imprisoned him, forbade me from even setting foot near the dungeons. He practically bought the loyalty of the guards to keep me away! But you are the Queen, Rhaenyra. Daemon may be my husband, but you hold the power.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrows, and for a moment, the sister you know peeks through the layers of the ruler she has become. “And if I were to free him, what then? Daemon will see it as defiance. You know how he is—he will not take kindly to having his authority challenged, even by me.”

Your heart aches at the thought of Gwayne, alone and confined, after all he sacrificed for you. A man who went against everything he was raised to believe to save you from certain death, only to be thrown into a cell by the very people he saved you for. “He did not deserve this. He did what he did for me, and now he is paying the price. Rhaenyra, please. He doesn’t deserve to rot in those dungeons. He saved my life.”

Before she can respond, Grand Maester Gerardys enters, his expression grim. “Your Grace,” he says with a deep bow. “A ship bearing the banners of Aegon II has docked in the harbor. Prince Daemon has gone to meet them, with his men.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, but your thoughts drift to Daemon, and what this meeting could mean. Your gaze darkens at the thought of your husband—how he holds Gwayne’s fate in his hands. He’s always been a tempestuous man, fierce and unyielding. The very traits that once drew you to him now feel like iron chains wrapped around your heart.

You watch as Gerardys takes his leave, the room falling silent once more. “Daemon may be the one to hold him prisoner, but I will not let this stand,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Rhaenyra. The decision settles like a stone in your chest. You have to do something. You owe Gwayne that much.

Daemon strides down the rocky path that leads toward the harbor, his cloak snapping in the breeze. The sea roars beneath, a fitting backdrop to the turmoil within his mind. His steps are sure, his presence commanding as always, but there is a tension between his shoulders—an unease that’s hard to shake. Vaeron, your son, walks beside him, mirroring his posture. Boy’s gaze is distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, but he keeps stride with Daemon, a silent observer to the storm brewing within.

“Remember what I’ve taught you,” Daemon says, his voice low but carrying authority. “In these dealings, never let them see weakness. We do not bend to those who would see us destroyed.”

Vaeron nods, but his thoughts are torn. He has spent his life idolizing Daemon, the man he believed to be his father. But now that illusion is shattered, replaced by the knowledge that his true father sits rotting in the dungeons beneath their feet. The revelation has left him conflicted, struggling to reconcile the man he loves with the man who has imprisoned his blood.

“What will you do with him?” Vaeron asks, his voice careful, testing the waters.

Daemon’s eyes flicker with a dangerous light. “With Otto Hightower? Or with the man who abandoned his oaths to save your mother?”

“The latter,” Vaeron clarifies, though he knows the question risks Daemon’s ire.

Daemon’s expression hardens. “Gwayne Hightower is a traitor, no matter his reasons. He made his choice when he turned his back on the Greens. Such a man is not to be trusted lightly.”

“And yet he saved her,” Vaeron says, his voice dropping. “Would you have let her die, had he not intervened?”

Daemon’s steps slow, and he turns to face Vaeron, his eyes narrowing. “Mind your tongue, boy. There are things you do not understand.”

“I understand enough,” Vaeron counters, his voice tinged with defiance. “You taught me that loyalty is everything. But Gwayne’s loyalty was to her, not to a cause, not to a side in this war. Can you not see the worth in that?”

Daemon’s jaw clenches, his patience fraying. “You forget yourself, Vaeron. This war is not a matter of sentiment. Your mother’s survival matters because of what she represents—our family, our claim. If you think Gwayne Hightower acted out of love, then you are as naive as you are young.”

Vaeron’s hands curl into fists at his sides, but he keeps his emotions in check. This is the man who raised him, who taught him strength, yet in this moment, all he feels is a cold distance between them. Daemon sees only the war, the struggle for power. But Vaeron sees something else—something more human in the man who risked everything for his mother.

As they near the harbor, the banners of Aegon II come into view, and with them, Otto Hightower’s grim countenance. Daemon’s focus sharpens, his thoughts already turning to the game of strategy ahead. Vaeron falls silent, but in his heart, the conflict festers. 

The wind whips through the banners of Aegon II as they flutter in the sharp sea breeze, the air thick with tension. Otto Hightower stands at the head of his retinue, his face carved from stone, the faintest flicker of unease buried deep within his shrewd eyes. He is older now, his hair nearly all grey, but the calculating sharpness in his gaze has not dulled. Daemon approaches with that characteristic swagger, a predator prowling toward prey, flanked by his guards and with Vaeron at his side. The contrast between them is stark—Daemon, vibrant in his ruthlessness, while Otto wears the weariness of his long-fought battles.

Otto speaks first, his voice carrying the authority of years spent in the small council chamber, dictating the fates of lesser men. "Prince Daemon, I come on behalf of my King to negotiate the release of my son, Ser Gwayne Hightower."

Daemon’s lips curl into a mocking smile. "Negotiate?" He laughs, the sound rough and laced with dark humor. "You truly believe you are in any position to negotiate, old man? What is it that you offer in exchange for a traitor? Perhaps another decrepit stronghold that falls to ruin as we speak?"

Otto's jaw tightens, but he remains composed, his voice cool. "You underestimate what Gwayne’s return means to the Greens. A gesture of goodwill in such tumultuous times could open pathways you might find advantageous."

Daemon’s amusement only grows, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "Goodwill? From you? That’s as valuable as a beggar’s coin. Come now, Otto, surely you didn’t travel all this way just to insult my intelligence. Speak plainly, before I grow bored and send you back to King’s Landing with nothing more than salt air in your lungs."

Vaeron stands to the side, his gaze flicking between the two men. Inside, a storm churns. He has known Daemon’s temper his whole life, the simmering cruelty always ready to break the surface. Yet today, that same temperament is turned toward negotiations that directly concern the man who is his true father. The words spoken twist in his mind—‘traitor,’ ‘exchange,’ as if Gwayne were nothing more than a pawn to be bartered, his life subject to whims and strategies. Vaeron keeps his expression neutral, as Daemon taught him, but beneath it all, the confusion gnaws at him.

Otto, sensing that he must tread carefully, adjusts his approach. "You dismiss too quickly what might be gained from a show of mercy, Prince Daemon. Your position, while strong, is not unassailable. A trade, even a gesture, could ease the tension between our forces. And you would gain much in return for sparing Gwayne’s life."

Daemon narrows his eyes, his amusement slipping away, replaced by cold calculation. "And what is it that you think I desire so much that I would let a Hightower return to his family? More land? An empty promise of peace? We both know that Gwayne’s life is worth more to you than any temporary truce you could offer."

Otto’s voice drops lower, becoming the tone of a man who has orchestrated more than one coup from the shadows. "There are things we could discuss—terms that could shift the tide of this war, perhaps even ending it in a way that leaves the realm less fractured. Aegon is willing to be reasonable if it means preserving our shared interests."

Daemon’s smile returns, this time sharper, more dangerous. "You think I care for shared interests? I care only for victory—unquestionable, complete. I care for the destruction of every man, woman, and child who stands between me and that victory. Gwayne’s life is a grain of sand on that battlefield. You know it, and so do I. The only reason he breathes is because my wife begged me not to have his head on a spike the moment he arrived on Dragonstone."

Vaeron stiffens, eyes fixed on Daemon’s profile, a silent witness to the deep ruthlessness within the man he once saw only as a hero. But now, he sees the cracks—how Daemon views everyone as a piece to be sacrificed for his goals, no matter the cost to their souls. He swallows hard, forcing his voice to remain steady. "And what of mercy, Father? Does it not hold any value in this war? Or is it all to be blood and fire until none are left standing?"

Daemon turns sharply to regard Vaeron, his expression unreadable, a flash of something indiscernible crossing his eyes. "Mercy is for the weak, boy. Those who offer it do so only when they have nothing left to give. Do you believe Gwayne deserves mercy for betraying his family, his House, for a fleeting moment of sentiment?"

Vaeron meets Daemon’s gaze, unflinching. "I believe that loyalty beyond reason deserves acknowledgment. Even in war, there are choices that define a man. He chose her—he chose my mother. If that is treason, then perhaps we are all traitors in our own ways."

Daemon studies his son with a shrewd gaze, weighing those words. The silence stretches until Otto steps forward, seizing the opening Vaeron has created.

“Let me look upon my son, Prince Daemon. Let me see the man who has caused this… conflict. If nothing else, I would know whether the man I seek to retrieve is worth the trouble. Bring him up from those dungeons, and if you wish, you can watch as I confront what my son has become.”

The corners of Daemon’s mouth twitch upward in a grin that holds no mirth, only cold amusement. “Very well, Otto. I’ll indulge this request. Let you see what has become of the son you so poorly raised. But do not mistake this for mercy, nor a sign of weakness.”

He turns to one of his men, gesturing with a flick of his hand. “Bring him up, but keep him chained. Let his father see what the consequences are for those who betray their kin for a moment’s folly.”

As the command is relayed, Otto’s mask of composure remains intact, but there is something strained in the tightness around his mouth. Vaeron watches, his heart pounding, knowing that soon he will come face-to-face once more with the man who has haunted his thoughts since learning the truth. The man who is more than just his mother’s savior but is also the father he never knew.

The minutes stretch painfully, each one heavy with anticipation. The creak of footsteps echoes through the stone as the guards finally return, dragging Gwayne Hightower from the depths. The man who emerges is a shadow of the knight he once was—his face gaunt, his clothes tattered, and his once-proud bearing diminished beneath the weight of his chains. But despite his disheveled state, there is a spark in Gwayne’s eyes, a defiance that has not been extinguished.

Otto’s gaze is icy, but there is a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or shame—as he regards the man before him. “You’ve disgraced us all, Gwayne. For what? For a woman who was never yours to protect?”

Gwayne’s voice is hoarse from disuse, but it still carries strength. “For a woman worth more than all the crowns and thrones in the world. If that is a disgrace, then so be it.”

Daemon’s laughter rings out, cold and mocking. “Hear that, Otto? Even chained and broken, he clings to his foolish convictions. This is what you came for—this pathetic display of misguided loyalty.”

Vaeron watches the exchange, torn between anger and a deep, aching sadness. The man before him is no longer the fearsome knight from the stories but a father who sacrificed everything for a fleeting chance to save someone he loved. The realization sinks in like a stone—this war, this endless cycle of violence, leaves no room for anything as simple as honor or love. It’s all twisted, corrupted by the ambitions of those who claim to know best.

The tension in the air crackles like the distant storm clouds gathering over the horizon. Gwayne Hightower stands before his father, closer now than he has been in years, his once-strong frame worn by weeks of confinement. He walks with a limp, the weight of chains dragging at his wrists, but there is still a pride in his bearing, a defiant spark that refuses to die.

Daemon watches the exchange with a calculating smile, his eyes flicking between father and son, delighting in the bitter reunion. 

Otto closes the distance, gripping Gwayne by the arm with a roughness that belies the controlled facade he wears. The old man’s eyes burn with a fury tempered by long years of cold, strategic thinking. “Have you lost your mind, Gwayne?” he hisses, his voice low, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “All your life, you’ve chased after her like some lovesick fool. You could never accept that Viserys refused your suit, that she was never meant for you!”

Gwayne’s expression barely shifts, but the muscle in his jaw twitches, a hint of the rage he has long kept buried beneath duty and restraint. He leans closer, ignoring the sting of Otto’s grip, and murmurs, his voice so low only his father can hear, “The boy standing next to Daemon is my son, Father. And that is all that matters now. My fate is inconsequential.”

Otto’s eyes widen, his breath catching as though he has been struck. For a moment, his iron composure fractures, disbelief and horror warring on his face. He releases Gwayne, recoiling as if the revelation has physically burned him. His gaze snaps toward Vaeron, the truth now laid bare, searing into him like a brand. The boy—no, the young man—is not just the child of Daemon’s wife; he is a Hightower. His grandson.

Vaeron meets Otto’s gaze briefly, not fully understanding what has just transpired but sensing the seismic shift in the atmosphere. Daemon notices the exchange and narrows his eyes, his amusement giving way to suspicion. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword, as if ready to end this farce with a single stroke.

Otto recovers quickly, his face once again a mask of practiced indifference, but there is a tremor in his voice when he speaks, barely contained. “You’ve doomed us all, Gwayne. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You threw away everything—your name, your family’s honor, for what? To save a woman who could never be yours? A child you will never truly claim?”

Gwayne’s gaze is steady, unflinching. “I would do it again, Father. A thousand times over if it meant protecting her and our son. You can call me mad, you can brand me a traitor, but I regret nothing.”

Otto’s eyes darken as he processes the full scope of what has been revealed. He turns slowly to Daemon, who watches him with the cold eyes of a dragon ready to pounce. Otto studies Vaeron with renewed interest, seeing him now not just as a pawn but as a potential key to unraveling this web. He tries to capitalize on this revelation, his voice taking on a more calculated tone. “It seems, Prince Daemon, that the boy you’ve raised as your own has more complicated parentage than we knew. Perhaps this presents an opportunity—one that—”

Daemon’s face hardens instantly, his lips curling into a snarl. “Do not presume to speak of him as a bargaining chip, Hightower. I care nothing for your intrigues, nor do I care for whatever misguided sentiment your son clings to.” He steps forward, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You came for your son, and I’ve given you this moment to see the disgrace he has become. But do not mistake this for weakness. Gwayne Hightower is nothing more than a broken tool, and I’ve no use for broken things.”

Otto opens his mouth to argue, but the steel in Daemon’s eyes leaves no room for discussion. He knows better than to push further when the dragon’s teeth are bared. Reluctantly, he pulls back, the wheels of strategy already turning in his mind, but knowing this is not the moment to press.

Daemon turns sharply to his guards. “Take him back to the dungeons. Let him rot where he belongs.”

The guards move swiftly, seizing Gwayne by the arms. Before they drag him away, Gwayne locks eyes with Vaeron one last time, a silent exchange passing between them. There is no plea for understanding, no attempt at explaining what words cannot convey. Just a look—a father recognizing his son, and a son realizing the depth of what was sacrificed for him.

The confrontation ends not in bloodshed, but with Daemon’s final, sardonic remark. “You’ve seen your son, Otto. Now crawl back to King’s Landing and tell your king that mercy is the last thing you’ll ever find on Dragonstone.”

Otto holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns on his heel, a man who has measured his options and found them lacking. As he departs, Gwayne is dragged back toward the dungeons, his chains rattling with every step. 

In that instant, Vaeron knows that the next time they meet, it will not be as strangers, but as something far more complicated—something that even Daemon may not be able to control.

The clinking of chains and the rough shuffling of boots against stone echo through the courtyard as Gwayne is dragged back toward the dungeons. His face is set in grim determination, resigned to his fate, yet his eyes still hold that spark—the fire of a man who has found something more precious than victory in war. The guards are silent, their expressions hard and unreadable, loyal to their prince’s orders, despite whatever inner conflict they may harbor.

But as they round a corner, the way is blocked. Standing firm are Rhaenyra and you, their Queen and her sister. The two women’s presence immediately shifts the air, tension snapping taut like a drawn bowstring. The guards pause, uncertain, as their gazes flicker between Rhaenyra’s command and the one issued earlier by Daemon.

Rhaenyra’s voice rings out, clear and commanding. “Release him to Otto Hightower. He is to leave Dragonstone at once.”

The guards stiffen, the weight of conflicting orders hanging heavy on their shoulders. “Your Grace,” one of them ventures, his voice laced with hesitation, “Prince Daemon’s orders were clear. Ser Gwayne is not to be released.”

You step forward, eyes blazing with resolve. “And who is your Queen? Who commands this keep? You will do as she says or face the consequences. Daemon’s orders hold no weight when the Queen herself speaks.”

There’s a moment of palpable tension as the guards exchange uncertain glances. But the authority in Rhaenyra’s gaze, coupled with your fierce insistence, finally breaks their hesitation. They nod reluctantly and begin to unshackle Gwayne, their hands shaking slightly as they fumble with the locks.

Gwayne breathes out a quiet sigh, rubbing his wrists where the heavy manacles have left raw marks. He looks to you, a softness in his gaze that defies the bleakness of the situation. You step closer, the world around you narrowing to just the two of you in that instant. His eyes hold yours, and in them, you see the unspoken words, the regret, the love, and the inevitable farewell.

“This is not the end,” Gwayne murmurs, his voice rough but steady, his eyes gleaming with quiet intensity. “If my nephew has any mercy left in him, I will find a way to return. But if not… know that protecting you was worth everything. Every sacrifice.”

You reach out, your hand trembling slightly, resting it against his chest where you can feel the steady, yet faint, beat of his heart. “You’re the only reason I’m alive, Gwayne. You risked everything for me, and I won’t forget it. No matter what happens next.”

He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and whispers, “Remember me, Y/N. And if this war ever ends, perhaps fate will be kinder to us in another life.”

Your eyes sting with unshed tears, but you manage a faint smile, brushing your thumb gently over his cheek in a rare display of affection. “I will. I promise.”

Before either of you can say more, the guards hastily usher him toward the docks, anxious to see him gone before Daemon can intervene. Gwayne casts one last lingering glance over his shoulder, a look full of unspoken promises and finality, before he is led away.

As they escort him down the winding paths toward the ship, the sails already being unfurled, Daemon and Vaeron catch sight of the commotion from a distance. Daemon’s eyes narrow dangerously as he realizes what is happening. His fury builds like a storm, the anger practically radiating off him as he strides toward the scene, Vaeron following, his own emotions churning in the wake of what has transpired.

As Gwayne passes by Daemon, their eyes lock for a brief moment. Gwayne’s lips twitch into a faint, knowing smirk—one that speaks volumes, a silent challenge, as if to say, You didn’t win this time. It’s a gesture that only fuels Daemon’s rage, the dragon within him rearing its head.

Daemon’s hand tightens on the hilt of Dark Sister, his knuckles white with fury, but before he can draw it, Gwayne is gone, escorted swiftly onto the ship where Otto waits with grim satisfaction. The gangplank is raised, and the ship begins to pull away from the harbor, sails billowing as it heads back toward the horizon.

With the Hightower entourage retreating, Daemon’s fury turns on Rhaenyra and you. He storms up to the two of you, his eyes blazing, voice like thunder. “What in the name of all the gods are you doing, woman? Do you realize what you’ve just done?”

Rhaenyra stands her ground, unyielding, her chin lifted defiantly. “I did what was right, Daemon. Ser Gwayne Hightower saved my sister’s life at Rook’s Rest, and I will not be the one to condemn him to rot in chains for it. Let the Greens decide his fate now. It’s no longer our concern.”

Daemon’s glare shifts from Rhaenyra to you, his gaze scorching with silent accusation. The promise of a reckoning lingers in his eyes, a vow that this conversation between you and him is far from over. But he turns back to Rhaenyra, the anger in his voice uncontainable. “You’ve weakened our position, Rhaenyra. Do you not see what this act of so-called mercy has cost us? We hold every advantage, and now you hand them back one of their own, giving them hope when we should be crushing it.”

Rhaenyra’s voice remains steady, firm in her conviction. “Hope may be our enemy, but I will not sacrifice decency for the sake of cruelty. This war has already claimed enough souls—if showing mercy weakens us in your eyes, then so be it. But I will not let this conflict strip us of our humanity.”

Daemon’s eyes flash dangerously, his rage palpable, but even in his fury, he knows better than to challenge her publicly. The exchange bristles with barely restrained venom, both of them locked in a clash of wills, neither willing to yield. But it’s clear that this is a rift that will not be easily mended.

Vaeron, who has watched it all unfold in silence, feels a small surge of triumph swell in his chest. For the first time, his mother acted on her own terms, free from Daemon’s influence. The knowledge that Gwayne is safe, at least for now, is a balm to his inner turmoil. Yet, even in his moment of quiet victory, he knows that the repercussions of this day will ripple far beyond the shores of Dragonstone.

Daemon finally steps back, his gaze returning to you, the promise of confrontation lingering like smoke in the air. “This is not over,” he hisses, his words directed more at you than at Rhaenyra. Then, without another word, he turns and stalks off, his rage still burning as he disappears from view.

The ship grows smaller on the horizon, taking with it the man who dared defy every loyalty, every oath, for the sake of love. And in that moment, you know that whatever happens next, the war has shifted—not because of power or strategy, but because of the choices made out of love and loyalty. Choices that may very well reshape the fate of everyone involved.

[icepip]

tags: 18+/mdni. toji fushiguro x gn reader. cockwarming. not proofread. <800 words.

thinking about giving toji fushiguro a taste of his own medicine — holding what he wants so desperately in your hands but never quite giving it to him. dangling it in front of him, so close but always just out of reach.

sliding down his cock, your plush thighs caging his as you perch yourself so beautifully on his lap, your tight heat wrapped so deliciously around his length. he thinks you're gonna put on a show for him, thinks you're gonna ride him until your legs give out and you cry for him to help. but you have something else in store for him tonight. something that'll push him the way he always pushes you.

his fingers flex on your hips, digging into your skin and urging you to move. you tut at him, pulling at his wrists until he relents.

"you'll only get what i want to give you, big boy."

that rewards you with a groan from toji, his head falling back and hitting the soft pillows. he looks gorgeous, his defined chest flushed from arousal, muscles twitching slightly as he tries to stay still. your hands follow the path of your eyes, rubbing up his firm stomach and to his pecs. his breath hitches as your fingers graze his hardened nipples, a slow smile creeping on your face.

this is going to be even more fun than you thought.

"don't you — ah, shit — wanna move?" he hisses out from between his teeth, hips instinctively bucking up as you pinch his buds harshly.

you hum, pretending to think it over as you lightly drag your nails down his chest. toji bites his cheek to stay quiet, eyes intently watching everything you do.

"nah, i'm good exactly where i am. and you're gonna stay right where you are, too."

you can feel his body tense, can see his mind weighing his options as you tighten around him. he's fighting his instincts to grab you and fuck you absolutely senseless, his cock throbbing with desire inside you. you suppose his curiosity of what you could be planning is greater than his need to feel the drag of your walls.

a few moments pass, the only sounds the soft praise tumbling from your lips as toji struggles to maintain his composure and his quiet grunts of pleasure as you touch his body. your fingers trail lower, carding through the coarse, dark hair of his navel and sliding past his hips. you reach behind yourself, caressing his thighs and watching his expression closely.

"w-wait," toji mumbles, eyes widening as you begin to fondle his sac. "fuck, baby, wait."

his cock jumps inside you, your hand gently massaging his swollen balls and making him groan.

"hm? what is it, toji?" you tease, rolling them over your fingers. he's always been so responsive e there, always spilling into your mouth when you played with them as you sucked his cock. it only makes sense that the sensation would be more intense now.

his mouth opens and closes, opening again but no words come out. his breathing is faster, lips parting as he pants and tries to focus on you.

"c'mon, big boy, use your words." just like you do to me, you say to yourself, a satisfaction coursing through you as he feels what you experience. toji grits his teeth, your fingers continuously working over the sensitive skin. "tell me what you want."

"g'nna cum, shit, lemme— let me fuck you. need to fuck you."

his body is hot underneath yours, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin. he looks a bit desperate, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes never leaving you.

"you can cum, but only from this."

it's mean. just like he does to you. so close to what he wants, but still so achingly far.

his balls are heavy in your hand, his cock surely leaking precum with even the slightest touch. you know he's close, his pride the only thing keeping him from letting go. a little bit of cockwarming and fondling and he's cumming like a virgin.

his hips thrust up as his load spills from his tip, aching to be even deeper, aching to fuck you properly. you pull your hand away, letting him come down from his high without risking overstimulation. he's gone through enough of your teasing — for the time being. you'll save milking him dry like that for another day.

"feel good, toji?" you ask as his breathing evens out, his half hard cock still nestled inside you.

"fuck you." he grumbles, throwing one of his arms over his eyes.

you can't help the small laugh that gets pulled from your lips, recognizing the conversation. you say the same thing to him.

[leclerc-hs]

lucky pt. 2 - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader Summary: in which you and your childhood best friend, are most definitely in love, but it's too complicated (or is it?) Warnings: most french edited by @softtdaisy (shoutout to her!!), SMUT, angst, 18+, not proofread Word Count: 2,695 Author's Note: I absolutely loved writing this!! I know I said I would wait for the poll to end but I think we can just do bonus scenes in the future if wanted!! xoxo PART 1 BONUS

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Imbécile,” Idiot. Arthur throws a piece of his balled-up napkin, hitting you right in the face. “Maman wants you there, pas d’excuses.” No excuses.

It had been almost two weeks since you and Charles last spoke. The both of you far too stubborn to bring up the argument you last had. Instead, you ignored the problem at hand. By not seeing each other. Sunday dinner at Pascale’s was a weekly occurrence. One that you failed to attend last week, and it was shame on you if you missed another because of Charles.

You release a heavy sigh, acknowledging that you’re about to yield and head over to Pascale’s. After all, it’s not entirely her fault that her son seems to be obvlious to certain things. 

“Il est fou amoureux de toi!” He is in love with you! Arthur exclaims softly as he notices your eyes won’t stray from the icy window of the café you are both seated in. You felt your throat tighten at the phrase.

“Ce n’est pas grave, Arthur,” It doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter. Him being in love with you wasn’t always enough, or so you thought. He could barely commit to his ex-girlfriend. Could he commit to you? You couldn’t handle losing him if it didn’t work out. It was a recipe for disaster to begin with.

The two of you didn’t realize how dark it was already getting. Meaning you were for sure late to Pascale’s.

“Tu viendras avec moi?” Will you come with me?

“Bien sur.” Of course. You couldn’t not go. One, because you knew nothing but seeing Pascale will put a smile on your face. Two, Arthur wouldn’t let you leave this café without dragging you to his Maman’s first. 

It was a short drive from the café to Pascale’s place. The limited size of the principality made the journey quick, allowing you to take in the charming scenery along the way. As you approached Pascale’s home, a smile graced your lips at the sight of the festive decorations adorning the steps.

Pascale’s touch was evident in the small Christmas trees, their lights casting a warm glow that sparkled beside the front door. The holiday spirit infused the air, creating a sense of coziness and anticipation. 

The warmth of Pascale’s home enveloped you as Arthur swung the door open. His hand gently found its place on the small of your back, guiding you inside with a gesture that spoke of familiarity and care.

He assisted you in shedding the layers of clothes you wore. Your scarf and jacket were in his hands, swiftly finding their place on the nearby coat rack. Amidst the exchange, laughter bubbled up, a spontaneous reaction to the slightly comical struggle Arthur faced in unraveling the scarf from your neck.

The sound of shared laughter echoed through the entrance and into the home, allowing the others to become alert of your presence.

“Que se passe t’il?” What’s going on? You felt your laugh stop almost instantly.

Charles’ question hung in the air, and for a moment you were caught off guard. The warmth of Pascale’s cozy home surrounded you, but the sudden seriousness in his tone made you pause. You looked into his eyes, searching for any hints of the playful banter that usually characterized your interactions.

He stood not too far away, a soft white hoodie and a casual pair of jeans on. You felt your heart clench with want. You missed him. You wanted to hug him and never let go.

“Rien, juste une journée un peu folle,” Nothing, just a bit of a crazy day. You replied with a sheepish smile. Your attempt to brush off the question with a casual response didn’t escape Charles notice. He studied your face for a moment, trying to decipher your emotions. 

Arthur, sensing some tension, guided you towards the living room and past Charles. As you both settled into the inviting cushions, the crackling sounds from the fireplace filled the room with a soothing rhythm.

Pascale entered the room carrying two glasses of wine. “Ma fille,” My girl she says, a term of endearment feeling much like a warm embrace to you. Pascale handed you one of the glasses with a tender smile, sealing the gesture with a gentle kiss on your cheek. 

Charles’s unease didn’t go unnoticed as he took a seat on the sofa across from you and Arthur. The atmosphere seemed charged with tension, and Pascale’s seemingly casual question carried a weight that went beyond mere curiosity.

“Est-ce que tu vois quelqu’un?” Are you seeing anybody? Pascale asked, her tone gentle but perceptive. The question, on the surface, appeared to be a routine inquiry about your romantic life. However, the underlying context hinted at a concern born out of a missed dinner and deviation from the usual routine. 

The atmosphere in the room shifted as you became acutely aware of Charles’s intense gaze beside Pascale. Seated on the couch, his eyes bore into you with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the very core of your being. His eyes, like embers, conveyed a myriad of emotions – curiosity, intensity, and perhaps a touch of scrutiny. 

“Maman, laisse-la tranquille,” Leave her alone. Arthur speaks before you can. A sense of relief filling you up as you take a large gulp of the red wine in your glass.

Pascale scrunches her eyes at Arthur, poised to deliver a retort that only she knows. However, before any words escape her lips, the timer in the kitchen interrupts the moment. “Arthur, viens m’aider.” Come help me. Arthur gives you a sympathetic look before leaving the room following Pascale. 

Lost in thought, your gaze fixates on the flickering flames within the fireplace. The dancing firelight casts shadows that capture your attention, creating a mesmerizing display that seems more captivating than acknowledging a brooding Charles, seated across from you.

“Tu ne peux pas m’ignorer éternellement,” You can’t ignore me forever. His voice interrupts your train of thought, gently pulling you back into the present moment.

The solitary sentence prompts an immediate eye roll from you. How dare he? How dare he pretend that you’re the only one at fault?

“Ne lève pas les yeux au ciel en me regardant,” Don’t roll your eyes at me. The atmosphere shifted as he rose from his seat on the couch, undoubtedly making his way to occupy the now vacant spot beside you. However, the nature of his touch became more intimate than you anticipated. His hands ventured onto your thigh, traveling higher than the boundaries of a typical friendship would permit. 

In a disconcerting turn of events, his other hand gripped your jaw, redirecting your gaze to meet his. The sudden change in physical proximity and the assertiveness of his actions left palpable tension in the air.

“Vas y,” Make me. You provoked him deliberately, seeking to burrow beneath his skin, much like he had already done under yours.

“Viens chez moi.” Come home with me. It wasn’t posed as a question; rather, it was a firm demand – one you were aware you would yield to. You didn’t need to articulate your response; he could discern it just by the slow flicker of your eyes to his. Without another word, you withdrew your chin from his hands and stood up, making your way into the kitchen, and leaving him behind. 

“Nous avons des choses à discuter.” We have more to discuss. You hear him say loud enough for you to hear but low enough for no one else to hear before you cross into the threshold of the kitchen. 

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

Discuss.

You laughed mentally at the word. You and Charles were indisputably not engaging in anything resembling a discussion, that much was certain. Unless you consider the dirty phrases, he’s whispering in your ear a discussion.

“Tu es tellement sexy,” You’re so hot. Charles moans into your mouth as he pushes you onto his unmade bed, falling with you in the process. Both of your clothes were long gone— strewn along the pathway you took from his front door to his bed. “Faite pour moi, putain.” Fucking made for me.

He didn’t know where to look, darting from your thighs to your lips to your unforgettable eyes. His jaw flexed as he let out a soft growl deep in his chest as his finger hooked into the band of your delicate silk panties and ripped them from your body. “Je t’en achèterai advantage.” I’ll buy you more. 

He was so impatient. Couldn’t even wait until he tossed your panties to the side before his mouth was on your center. You gasped as his lips enveloped your sensitive clit and getting a full taste of you. He moaned, dipping his tongue inside of you.

You really believed you could die right here and now. He pulled away momentarily just to look at you, glistening and moaning beneath him. It was a sight he wanted to burn in his memory forever. 

“Tu me rends fou." You drive me insane.

You couldn’t stop moaning. You wanted to tell him that he was the one who drove you insane. That the feeling was more than mutual. But you were incoherent with pleasure. Incapable of words.

He curved two fingers inside of you, almost instantly rubbing your g-spot. “Yeah?” He edged you on. His words alone pushing you to the threshold of your orgasm. “Tu aimes ça?” You like that?

His words were nearly as perilous as his touch. He was smirking above you like the cocky motherfucker he was. You felt delusional as his fingers stroked your g-spot continuously that when he flipped you over and pulled you up to your knees, you let out a shriek of surprise. 

You felt your orgasm closing in as he refused to let up on the assault of your clit. Your orgasm came so fast, you couldn’t even warn Charles before you were trembling all over his fingers.

“Oui, soak me.” Your orgasm was explosive, you could feel your legs shaking. Before you could even recover from the last orgasm, Charles was bringing his fingers that were coated in you to his mouth.

“J'ai vraiment besoin de toi,” I really need you. You muttered softly. The confession so raw. It made Charles heart clench with need to ravish you completely. To ruin you for anybody else.

His grip on your hips tightened as he slipped himself inside of you, eliciting a loud groan. “Mon dieu,”My God.  He moaned. “Tu me fais me sentir si bien,” You make me feel so good.

Your pussy clenched tightly around him at his words. His breaths were jagged and heavy in your ear as he took you harder and harder. 

“Ma salope,” My slut. He groaned, bottoming himself out. “My lucky.”

He could tell that you were there already again, the way you were squeezing him so tight and the clench of your hands trying to support you on the mattress. 

“C’est si bien que ça?,” Is it that nice? “Gonna come for me?”

You did. Your eyes wet with tears from the intensity as his hands squeezed your hips, leaving bruises. He didn’t stop the assault on your pussy, kept pounding into you. He was ruthless.

He threw his head back with a string of curses before pressing soft kisses to your back. He didn’t bother to pull out. He wanted you full of him. In all ways, shapes, and forms. He was selfish. You were thankfully on the pill. He held himself there for a few moments before pulling out and rolling you over to your back so you could face him. He buried his face into your neck, leaving small gentle kisses as you both caught your breath. 

Eventually Charles was able to find the strength to stand and clean you up, pressing a warm cloth to your center as he peppered small kisses to the inside of your thighs. You felt your heart flutter as he tossed the cloth into the hamper and joined you back in the bed, pulling you into his chest under the covers.

You could feel his mind was running a million miles a minute as he traced small circles on your skin. He wanted to ask if you went on any other dates. But he couldn’t handle if you said yes. 

“Qu’est-ce que tu as en tête?” What’s on your mind? You asked.

You were preparing for yet another fight. There was no escaping it any longer. The only sound that filled the air was both of your breathing.

“Je veux que tu sois mienne.” I want you to be mine. As you lay on his chest, you sensed his heartbeat quickening. In response, a soft laugh escaped you, uncertain of how to reply. The weight of your reaction hung heavy in the air, adding more pressure. 

You had to put a stop to this. You felt the panic constricting your throat. You couldn’t continue down this path with him. As you tried to sit up and distance yourself from Charles, his hand swiftly seized your arm, compelling you back towards him. He was determined to make you stay, refusing to let you escape from this conversation any longer.

“Non, arête de fuir le sujet,” No, stop running away from it. He insisted, urging you to stop evading it.  “Il sait déjà que tu m’aimes,” I already know that you love me. He declared, his words rushing out of him uncontrollably. It was as if he couldn’t halt the flow, a sense of panic palpable in his voice. 

You loved him; it wasn’t a secret. Fear held you back. The thought of losing him permanently if things didn’t work out was too daunting. So, you’ve tried to maintain a distance, but it was futile. It was as if he had become your vital source of oxygen – indispensable. You found yourself inextricably linked; your souls entwined. 

“Je ne veux pas te perdre!” I don’t want to lose you. You felt the words rush out of your mouth in a frenzy. His touch, his stare, this conversation was all too much to handle. 

“Je t’aime!” I love you! He repeated it over and over. He wouldn’t stop. You could see the anger forming in his face with each proclamation he made. He was angry. Why wouldn’t you listen? Why wouldn’t you believe him?

“Je suis bien avec toi!” I feel good when I’m with you!

“Tu me plait!” You make me happy!

“J’ai envie de t’embrasser!” I want to kiss you!

“Sans toi, je ne suis rien!” Without you, I am nothing!

“Tu es l’amour de ma vie!” You’re the love of my life!

“Je veux passer ma vie avec toi!” I want to spend my life with you!

“Mon dieu, I even breathe better when I’m with you.”

Tears spilled from your eyes, but he persisted, like a broken record playing an urgent message. His need for you to understand was palpable. He laid bare his soul, expressing that if it wasn’t for you, it would be no one. The pain in his chest mirrored the intensity of his emotions.

His hands held you tightly, rendering you incapable of moving. He needed you close. In response, you brought your hands to his face, swiftly pressing your lips against his.

You felt him grab your face during the kiss, his thumbs brushing the tears from your eyes in the process. 

“You’re mine. My lucky,” he broke the kiss. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your gazes locked, and you held each other’s eyes for an extended moment, as if attempting to decipher the entirety of each other’s thoughts through this intense connection.

“Oui?” He asked softly, seeking confirmation. He needed to hear you say you were his, a moment he had been waiting for his entire life.  He knew he had you now. But he wanted your words.

You recognized there was no longer an option to escape. You belonged to him, and it wasn’t up for discussion. He possessed your heart and soul entirely. You knew that you needed to take a risk. A risk for him. 

You nodded your head slowly, “Oui.”

TAG LIST: @harrysdimple05 @rachyroo-99 @rana030

[gtgbabie0]

-Finnick Odair x reader

{Quiet moments between you and Finnick when you can’t sleep}

I hope you enjoy my lovelies! 💕

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Winter was in full force, with harsh winds that nipped at your skin. Not even the fireplace could fend off, let alone the fluffy covers that you’ve layered upon your shared bed. Perhaps it was the cold chill in the air that prevented sleep from capturing you, or maybe it was something else entirely… you decide to not let your mind wander to what that could possibly be.

You sit up wrapping your cotton shawl around your shoulders tightly as your eyes scan across your room, dimly lit by the small sliver of moonlight that peaks behind the curtains and stretches across the floor trailing along the wall.

Finnick doesn’t stir with your movement which means he must be exhausted because he’s often a light sleeper, although you’re not surprised with the busy day he’s had. You smile softly down at him, the way his cheek is smushed against the soft pillow. You gently push his hair away from his closed eyes as you admire him, you’re glad he’s found comfort beside you.

The thought crosses your mind to wake him up, he’s always told you that if you can’t sleep to wake him up, he wouldn’t mind. But looking at him now, you just can’t bring yourself to do it, you’d feel far too guilty.

Instead, you decide to make your way to the kitchen, but not before putting on a pair of thick socks, after all, the tiled floor always felt much colder in the dead of night. Perhaps a warm drink would help lull you to sleep? You think to yourself as you fill the kettle.

You cringe slightly as the water begins to boil, squeezing your eyes shut at the sudden loud noise. Finnick had brought all types of different teas with the hope that one of them might help you get a good night's rest, he’d do anything if it meant you were happy.

You remember when he brought them home, two whole bags full of boxes with different kinds of ‘sleep treatments’ it brought tears to your eyes.

Finnick was always sweet to you, it shows in the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, and the sweet nothings he whispers to you whenever you feel down. You start to miss him, even though he’s only in your shared bedroom, the room next to the kitchen, fast asleep.

You pour the hot water into the small ceramic mug, the same one Peeta had gifted you as a congratulations for your engagement, he had hand painted them, beautiful flowers that swirl around the cup.

Soon enough the sweet smell of the tea reaches you, soothing the restless feeling that builds up within your chest. You take a small sip of the warm beverage as Finnick wanders through the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep.

“It’s freezing out here honey” his voice is rough despite the softness of his tone, exhaustion hangs on his every word. he shuffles closer to you, bringing his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him as if he’s trying to protect you from the chill that lingers within the air.

A sigh falls from your lips when he presses a kiss to your forehead, his hands soothing against your back as you rest against him. Even in the safety of his arms the guilt still bubbles up within you, “Did I wake you up?” You ask, pushing your face against his shoulder.

“No, was already awake” he’s lying but you decide not to fight him on it, far too distracted by the warmth of his hands as they slip underneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your lower back. “Can’t sleep without you anyway” he says, pulling back to get a better look at you, the truth of his words are shown through his eyes.

“M’sorry” you mumble into the soft fabric of his shirt, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” The words come out much heavier than you’d like and it strikes a cord within Finnick, one that pinches his heart.

He tuts softly as he leans back slightly, holding your chin with his finger and thumb. “Hey,” he whispers, tilting your head to look at him. His eyes immediately soften as yours find his, “Don’t apologise, honey, it’s what I’m here for, yeah?” He smiles, seeming more awake than he was just mere minutes ago.

“I know, I just- I don’t want to be too much” The words feel silly as they escape your lips but your chest feels lighter for it. You know deep down you shouldn’t feel like this, Finnick has never made you feel anything but loved.

“Too much?” He repeats after you as if you had just said something that had completely baffled him, and it did. “There’s no such thing, sweetness,” he tells you, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you- so much” he whispers against your lips before kissing you, not letting your mind wander elsewhere for even a second.

“I love you too Finn” you exhale, eyes closing as he rests his forehead against your own, your noses bumping against each others slightly.

“Come on, it’s warmer in bed,” he says, unwrapping his arms from around you as he picks up the tea you had made, “I got this, you go get into bed honey” he smiles and you know better than to fight him on it, so you do as he says, climbing back into the cosy bed with Finnick following shortly behind you.

He hands you the warm beverage before joining you, his hand slipping into your own as you take small sips of your drink. He talks about the market, how they're starting to sell that one specific seasonal bread you like, and he even begins to make plans for the weekend with you. his voice clams your nerves, it brings peace.

"Thank you, Finnick" you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder as he pulls the blankets over your legs.

He brings your hand up to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, “Always for you” he says, voice heavy with sleep once again. You set your mug on the bedside table before turning back to him, and for the first time tonight, you start to feel yourself drift off as you lay in his arms.

Finnick could admire you forever without wanting anything, study every ‘imperfection’ and fall even more in love with you. He would pour his heart out to you right now if he wasn’t so tired so instead he settles for a simple, “G’night beautiful” with love dripping from his tone, and soon enough you both find sleep.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[hobisfavoritespritecan]

Tourniquet

DUNCAN VIZLA X READER

⚠️ Warnings: Uhhh kinda extreme gore, I mean I definitely go into intense detail about some of the way these people die so probably don't read this if you're squeamish, blood, death, murder, language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, I think that's it but yeah ⚠️

Duncan comes to save you and risks his life in the process.

Duncan had originally wanted nothing more than to retire from this god-forsaken line of work he'd been in for over thirty years. To succumb fully to the relaxation that was unemployed bliss, somewhere far off in the lost woods with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Maybe he'd try for another dog again, although he wasn't too lucky with his PTSD responses around Rusty. Wherever in the world he may be or whomever he'd be with, he just wanted some goddamn peace and quiet, thankyouverymuch.

Today, he was not so lucky. Of course, he had to take the one job offer to end his career with a bang and to coagulate all of the money he'd originally been promised to begin with. One job after another, one shot fired towards a man's head and a stapler gun to his ankles, all led him here. At the front of this house. On a rescue mission. Which would then lead to a hitman mission. Obviously. Unfortunately.

Duncan sighed and took in the landscape with his one good eye, courtesy of the copious amount of torture he'd pushed through over the past month. Although his wounds were still healing and he felt their burn underneath the folds of his fabric coat, he had to act fast as there was no time to waste. He needed to put his life on the line once again; as he had for so many years working as a hitman. But now, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A reward to his revenge. Nothing that was false promises of money or strippers or nights out at the bar that would only situate him for a week before he grew bored. No, at the end of this mission was the promise of your safety and the potential of the two of you living this retired life he'd dreamt of for so long.

He only had to kill 30+ men and his former "mission mates" before getting to you and fleeing this Damocles shit for good.

Easy, in theory. In actuality, he was probably going to end up dead. Unless he could control himself through his rage and use it as an adrenalin boost rather than a distraction to his plan.

The mansion was huge and lavish in comparison to the wood houses Duncan had come to love in Montana. It was almost entirely frivolous; the magnitude of Blut's weath, all gained from those who did his dirty work and never out of his own aspirations.

Seeing the coast was fairly clear, he crafted a plan in his head as to how he was going to make it in and out of the place unscathed. Two guards to his left on the rooftop, facing outwards. Meaning that there must be at least another two on the other side, not knowing from which direction he'd come. Another one in the upper right window that could easily be taken out with a sniper. A few fifteen or so on the ground in hidden positions, all of which he knew considering he used to work for the damn place. Assuming Blut's usual stupidity would mean that the plans for an attack on Damocles would be unchanged, minus those who were inside of the place itself.

Time for action. He took off his heavy coat and draped it on the tree nearest to him so as not to be weighed down by the material. His thick wool sweater would be more than enough to keep him warm, alongside his steel-toed boots. Underneath his coat and concealed by his initial wardrobe was a now visible belt with two loaded guns on either side. His hand was clad with brass knuckles and he had a knife in his boot, only for an extreme situation. Worse comes to worse, he still had that piece of shrapnel under the second layer of his skin from one of his older missions he could cut out if he really had to. Eyepatch in place and hair tied in an up-do, he was ready to start shooting people.

Hey, maybe if they were all dead he'd finally get his $8 million he'd been promised.

It happened as quickly as the next snowflake hit the ground; Blut's mansion was under attack. They'd been expecting him, but as he was called The Black Kaiser, he was the best of the best. He knew their ins and outs and was now thankful he kept a friendly but protective distance from everyone while he was in the org so that they wouldn't know the specificities for his own attack. One skillful shot to the top left roof was enough to pierce through the necks of both the men standing atop it, one falling off after the other and landing on the ground with a thick thud. Blasted through arteries and a fuckton of blood pooled out the edges from where they'd fallen, creating intricate patterns on the wintery terrain and leaving giant stains on the sides of the building.

Now understanding their mission was a go, the man from the window received the hint and withdrew himself from the window, racing back inside most likely to tell Blut about the outside commotion. No matter. He'd take his time to paint the entirety of the green estate red with the fallen victims of Damocles.

He'd been right about the guards from the top of the building being on the other side, except there were three instead of two. They rushed around looking for the potential places Duncan could be hiding, so as to scope him out first and be the ones to receive the praise from their fat ass nepo-baby boss. They must all be younger and have no idea the amount of years and experience he'd had in this industry because Duncan was in plain fucking sight with his guns readied in both hands.

"Bye." He said, and shot them at the same time, making two of the guards meet the same tragic fate as their friends. One, two, they hit the ground with more thuds and guts, spreading their entrails further out than most people would think the human body could reach. One of their intestines had wrapped around the edges of the window panes, a man still alive wishing he wasn't. He was screaming from the upper floor awaiting his fall as he was held up by the gaping wound in his stomach where Duncan had shot him once more. The last guard at the top of the roof looked down in horror and jumped himself, taking his own life and going limp once his neck made a loud snap against the pavement under the soft snow.

PTSD flashbacks edged the corners of Duncan's one-eyed vision, trying their best to stop him as he witnessed the horror of human death via his hands. He was used to this feeling, of wanting to curl up and revert into himself, to never see anyone or anything again and be tortured as payment for his crimes. He was just a man, not a deity. Why should he choose- or rather- listen to who chooses who should meet an untimely death? What makes him above the others within his species?

Because of their frequent visits, he shut his visions down and went soulless. That was the only way to truly do his job and to continue to do it well within the moment and not fight with the side that was desperate to live in peace and an understanding of humanity. He was a pacifist at heart, truly. And even though it went against his psychological beliefs of the world, he had to pretend that intentions outweighed his actions in the sense of his killing and this mission; that getting to you was worth the rampant murderous spree of all these people, paid by their boss just as he was to do the same tasks he's doing.

Burrowing into himself, he rolls to the nearest icicle filled tree, grabbing the man who was hidden here with the gun and twisting his neck until he heard the sounds of life escaping his throat. He discarded his now empty gun for the one in the holster of the other man, making sure it was fully loaded before proceeding to also extract the menthols from the upper part of the stranger's jacket.

"Mange Tak." He said, Danish for thank you. He could have a little class while he was at it.

Noticing the tree he was under and the man whom he'd just killed, Blut was either following their Five-Ten plan or the Outskirts plan, both of which were effective in combat. The Five-Ten plan was created by Vivian herself meaning that there would be five on the perimeter of the compound, five on the rooftop, and ten within the building before whomever was entering made it inside. Then, after getting through the frontlines of security (if they made it that far), whomever was infiltrating would meet the guards who allowed their cohorts to be killed as preparation time for the main show.

The Outskirts plan, however, would mean that every man who wasn't directly appointed as an assassin to Blut's side would be out in the fields which were now covered in snow, using the trapdoors hidden in the earth to prepare their weapons for combat and kill the intruder as he (or she) approached the compound.

He was going to take his bets with the Five-Ten.

Heart barely going over an easy 65bpm, he calmly readied his guns for the next part of the infiltration where a few other guards would pop up and flock to his sides, hoping that they might catch him off-guard. Which they wouldn't. Another few shots took care of those and as he wiped the blood off his face from the splatter of one of them, he lit a cigarette and started walking towards the front of the compound, taking his chances that he knew which plan they had chosen considering he'd killed most of the other ones when he'd killed Vivian during their surprise attack not even hours before he got here.

Stepping over the walkway and opening the doors to the inside, he'd been proven correct in his intuition and flanked to the wall, keeping himself out of sight to those in the building. There were three open entryways leading from the main hall to the upstairs where the pig himself resided. Which meant around six of those corners could be another guard and he'd have to take his shots carefully, unless he wanted to engage in hand-to-hand combat which didn't always end well when your opponent had a firearm. He checked his inventory quickly.

Six bullets left. He'd have to be stingy about it.

Holding the trigger and aiming the barrel towards his right, he took a shot through the ornate pillars holding up the entryway's corbel arch, a bullet forcing itself through the small opening in which the wall met the pillar. He heard an "oomph!" which he gathered triumphantly signified his tactic of approach was also correct.

Can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Rolling to the floor into the room from whence the sound came, he staggered over to the next wall and shot through the entryway, shooting the man in the room in the leg. Fuck. Slight misstep on his account (or the other guy's considering he no longer had the bottom half of his leg). He dodged the man's bullets and lifted one of the cylindrical vases decorating the hallway and bashed it into the man's skull, once, twice, and then dropping it as he watched blood ooze from his nose. A sound from behind him meant another and he was met with hands wrapping around his throat and a gun being pressed to his temple.

This man was much bigger in stature than Duncan, but it was no matter. He swiftly acted as though he were aiming for his opponent's side as they would have practiced for upon initiation training. Seeing the man respond confidently to where he'd presumed Duncan would strike meant he'd left his nuts unguarded to which Duncan kicked in with precision. The man screamed, letting go of his counterpart and went to hold himself in anguish. Duncan mercilessly grabbed the weapon from his hands and shot through the one holding his injured manhood, shooting off his limb and probably the area underneath.

A few more men appeared from the entryways, and, after killing them all with a few more bullets than needed considering he had two guns now and maybe a hit to the face with his brass knuckles; he made his way to the top of the stairs, ready for whatever else would come. He could take on twenty more of them before expressing any ounce of fatigue as he'd trained his whole life for missions like this.

However, it was just you in the room.

Almost entirely taken aback by the slumped position you were in bound to that chair in the middle of the room, Duncan froze in his advances. He didn't let his guard down, no, but he took careful detail to the contortions of your face and the state of your being from which he could make out from this distance. Your long hair fell from the roots of your head which seemed to still be intact (thank god), but your skin was an ashy grey and blood had littered your hands and chest area. It was deep and dark and so red, redder than he'd felt he'd ever seen before and the PTSD was back, clawing at his chest and vision through his one good eye, all of his labors seemingly returning to dust. If you were dead, it would be the death of all deaths despite having only known you for a short period of time.

It had been the way you'd entered his house for the first time that caught him winded, hands tucked into the pockets of your long coat that kept you warm and smelling like the vanilla candles that littered your house. Your flushed cheeks from being out in the cold. Your smile as he'd offered you a sip of his hot chocolate, only to find out it had an added hint of whiskey. Your face when he'd kissed you for the first time. The hug you'd given him after.

It took fifty years of his life to finally admit it to himself and to anyone else who'd listen to the raspy notches in his throat as he exclaimed that he was, indeed, in love. And it was, indeed, with you.

"Something caught your eye, Kaiser?" Blut's agonizing and cruel voice caught the echos of the marble flooring and flooded the room, signaling his emergence from the darkness. He was wearing his stupid, douchebaggy jacket with a shit eating grin nearly reaching the corners of his eyes. This was the man whom he'd worked for all these years, pledged his loyalty to despite having no ounce of previous companionship with him. The one who owed him $8 million and the one who'd sent out his own personal hitman army to kill Duncan and get away with it so he would no longer be a liability to the company.

"She'd better be alive, or I'll skewer your head on that fucking Damocles sword you have above the mantle." He nearly spat out, taking his time to enunciate the weight of every word that escaped his lips, forcing them out in such an anger that anyone would feel in the depths of their bones. Blut, however, could care less.

"Oh she's alive." Made sure to keep her that way for you." He said, sauntering towards her seemingly lifeless body and tilting her chin upwards to finally reveal her face. "Thought she could use some plastic surgery though, don't you think Duncan?"

It was as if a knife had pierced his chest then and there. Your face, which had been absolutely perfect upon anyone's first glance, now was missing an eye on the opposite side of his own. Flesh had been carved out around it, which meant it would leave a scar possibly even nastier than his. He wanted to throw up at the idea someone could've taken something so important to you and destroy a piece of your life forever. He then thought maybe that was how his victims' families felt, learning that their fathers or brothers had passed due to the brutality of murder.

But you were still beautiful. And he had to save you still.

"Duncan... you're not responding?" Blut taunted with his awful voice, ringing the question in his ears and twisting the metaphorical knife even further into his chest. Duncan knew he'd need to snap out of the hold of his traumas and force himself to swallow anything else other than the situation at hand in order to save you...and himself.

"You're fucking dead. Don't you fucking touch her." Duncan said, grabbing the hefty sword of the supposed Damocles mansion from the mantle near him, letting the blade drag on the floor before discarding his gun entirely and picking up the sword. It had to have been at least four feet long with a shiny hilt and an even shinier blade which would be stained with the blood of the man before him in the time it'd take to say the sword's name. He would avenge this piece of your life that had been wrongfully taken from you.

A little less smug now, Blut reached into his pocket and withdrew a gun. "Y-y-you fucking stay back Kaiser! I won't hesitate to blow your head off!!"

"Where are your other men? Or are you truly so out of options that you're here alone?" Duncan growled, his discarded gun going into the fireplace, and, with a loud boom, caught the floor and curtains surrounding it on fire. The flames twisted and danced against in the reflection of his newfound weapon, a proper visual to the fire that licked his veins with the rage he felt. He continued his progression to your chair, sparing you a softer glance, before focusing everything onto the man before him who was now cowering by the window on the wall.

It was as if he were a child who'd been told hiding under a blanket would save him from the monsters under his bed and in his closet. He shrunk into the glass and tried his best to aim his gun with a shaking hand at Duncan's head. Duncan was now eye-to-eye with the man whom he'd fucking rip to shreds faster than any job he'd done as a hitman in his life.

"Blut...you're not responding?" He sneered, dodging the bullet that flew from his opponent's barrel. He lifted the sword and thrust it from the nape of his neck to the back of his skull, brains flying out against the widow he was in front of. Blood spurt from the open wound like a the lake outside of Duncan's house in Montana, where he'd resided before all this madness. Eyes bulged out of his skull with the optic nerves sliding down the forefront of his face and falling just above his mouth. Duncan dismantled the head from his torso still attached to the blade and spear tossed the sword of Damocles out the window and onto the grounds below, the sharp end getting stuck in the ground and displaying Blut's upside down head like a totem pole.

"'Suck my fucking dick."

Duncan freed you from the chair, taking you outside and down the winding trail, mansion burning to the ground in the distance. Back to Montana where now, at last, he would fucking retire.

[sky-scribbles]

Shepard holds a funeral for her clone.

The paperwork is almost harder than the ceremony. Turns out it’s tricky to register the death of someone whose birth - creation? Decanting-from-vat? - was never recorded to begin with. Then there’s some kind of question about whether the clone needs to be retroactively registered as a Council space citizen to have her death put on the official record, and if so, whether she counts as a member of the Systems Alliance or as an ‘undocumented alien’. Which is pretty fucking ironic, considering how utterly she’d have loathed having the word alien attached to her.

And once Shepard’s ground her teeth through a dozen calls and bludgeoned through the first layer of formwork - a death certificate still needs a name.

‘I have to put something,’ she says. She’s aware that her voice is ragged, and that Kaidan is watching her as he brews her fourth coffee of the evening with concern heavy on his face. She must look barely alive, up near midnight in a kitchen that was Anderson’s and still feels nothing like hers, hair falling forward, eyes shadowed grey. Datapads and empty mugs strewn around her. Fine. She’s felt barely alive ever since she woke up in a Cerberus lab.

‘You could choose one for her,’ Kaidan says gently. A lot of people speak to her gently, these days.

‘She’d hate that. A name makes you individual. She didn’t want to be an individual; she wanted to be me.’

The cofee machine whirrs softly, sounding louder than it is in the open space of the apartment. It still doesn’t feel right, all this space for one person. Someone could drown in this much space.

‘She didn’t want to be you, though. Not really.’ Kaidan pours out the coffee, his eyes only leaving her face for a moment. ‘What she wanted was to be the symbol. The face on the vids.’

He carries the mug over and sets it down beside her hand. Shepard grips it tight. The unfinished form blinks up at her from the datapad screen, and she looks away.

‘I’m not asking this because I don’t support you doing it, or to judge you for it, or anything,’ Kaidan says, after a moment. ‘I just want to understand. Can you tell me why this is so important to you? I mean - I get that you were trying to save her, and she... she let go. But...’

He hesitates, and in his silence Shepard hears, she tried to kill you. She tried to take you away from me, and everyone who cares about you, for a second time - because she was jealous.

Shepard sips her coffee. It hasn’t had time to cool down, and her lips smart. She ignores it. She thinks.

‘What you said about... being the symbol,’ she says at last. ‘I get why she wanted it, or thought she did. I understand feeling that Commander Shepard is someone bigger than you are.’

Kaidan breathes out slowly, and takes a seat beside her.

‘I get feeling that you’re so small, so nothing, next to everyone’s idea of what Commander Shepard is. And when I fall short -’ She sees him prepare to protest, and cuts across him. ‘I do, I do all the time - I feel like it’d be easier if I were the symbol. Not...’ She waves a hand, indicating all the sleep-starved mess of her. ‘This. I don’t even know when what would Shepard do and what will I do stopped feeling like the same question.’

She lets her hand fall back onto the table. Kaidan takes it and holds it tight.

‘And I think of her, the clone, waking up in some Cerberus med bay. Confused. And Brooks - Brooks was there, feeding her things to believe, manipulating her, turning her into the symbol she wanted. And I get it.’ Shepard bites her burned lip. ‘Because I woke up in a Cerberus lab. And I was scared. And they used me, and I let them.’

What she does not add is, and sometimes I don’t feel any more real than her. I don’t have any way to prove that I’m the woman who died in the wreckage of her broken ship. They wiped away that woman’s scars. There could be all kinds of tech in my head, feeding me a lie, telling me I’m real.

She swallows. Her throat feels raw. ‘And now the clone’s dead, and no one cares. We’re planning a fucking party. If I don’t push for a funeral, she’ll just go unregistered and undocumented and everyone will keep joking about how crazy this whole mess has been, how I fell through a fish tank and a mad clone tried to steal my life, and it’d be like she never existed at all. I don’t have to fill in these forms. I could take the easy road and let her be a ghost. But I can’t do that, Kaidan. I can’t.’

He looks at her, his eyes steady and patient and full of worry. Then he slips an arm over her shoulder and pulls her in, and Shepard leans into him, needing the surety of his touch, his warmth. Anything that tells her she’s something more than a force piloting a set of N7 armour.

Kaidan presses a slow kiss to the top of her head. He holds her until she stops feeling ready to howl. Then he sits with her and helps her fill in the forms, helps her choose a name for the clone, one that fits. When morning comes, he calls C-Sec and stays on the line until they agree to release the body to the Normandy, into the custody of the only person who could be considered the dead woman’s relative. 

He doesn’t ask Shepard any more questions as to why she needs this done.

In the end, they bury her in space, as Shepard would a crewmate. And no one has stories to tell of what she meant to them. They have nothing to say about the achievements of her angry little life. But they wear their dress blues, and speak softly, and they turn the lights down low.

Shepard doesn’t know if this is what her clone would have wanted. Maybe she never learned to want anything for herself at all. It doesn’t matter. A funeral doesn’t help her clone; it helps her.

They lift the casket into the airlock. EDI opens the outer door. And the casket leaps away into space in a blur of silver-grey, like the body within is hungry for the stars.

[peachy-panic]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time (pt. 3)

Takes place directly after this.

WARNINGS: BBU, power dynamics, talk of corrupt prison system, past noncon

The mug of tea that Ezra made for Jaime sits, cooling and untouched, on the coffee table. Jaime has opted for a spot on the rug, curled in on himself with his knees hugged tight to his chest. Sebastian and Ezra follow suit, of course, sinking down across from him, but it doesn’t escape anyone’s notice—his instinct to place himself on the floor. At least he isn’t kneeling anymore.

Sebastian aches at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, at the hollowness in his voice, at the memory of him shaking and terrified on the hardwood, forever seared into his temporal lobe. He aches to make this right, and he prays, helplessly, that he hasn’t just watched every brick they’ve laid together crumble before their eyes. 

“Would you like to ask us anything, Jaime?” Ezra begins, and Sebastian is once again grateful to have him here, ever the voice of reason.

Jaime’s swallow is loud enough to sound painful. “You don’t have to explain yourselves to me.”

He’s so closed off like this, even harder to read than usual. Is it resentment in his voice, or defeat? Sebastian doesn’t know how to reach him. 

“I rather think we do,” Ezra counters.

Jaime looks quickly to Sebastian, then down at his knees. “I don’t know what to ask.”

“Okay,” Ezra accepts easily, and Sebastian chimes in with an encouraging nod. “Would it be alright if I asked you a question? With the caveat that you do not have to answer.”

“Okay,” he agrees without looking up. 

“Has Julian—has Handler Hernandez—ever hurt you?”

Jaime’s eyes snap to him then, surprised. Ezra must spot the impending panic that Sebastian sees as well, because he raises a palm to clarify. “I know the rules against speaking about your training. I hope that you can still trust that we will never betray your confidence, but as I said, you don’t have to answer.”

“You…” Jaime begins, then falters. “But he’s your friend. Why would you believe me?”

Sebastian feels like he’s been shot in the chest. 

“You are my friend, too,” Ezra says easily. 

“Your word means everything to me, Jaime,” Sebastian adds. Those brown eyes turn on him, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking that they aren’t quite as guarded this time. “I will always believe you.”

Jaime stares at him. His gaze has never felt so heavy, as if he’s trying to see past the layers of Sebastian’s skin in search of the truth in his promise. Then, slowly, his eyes go unfocused. 

The silence goes on long enough to worry Sebastian. A hundred different possibilities come to mind, spiking his blood pressure. The idea that Jaime is bracing himself to tell them that Julian is, in fact, one of the monsters in his nightmares makes Sebastian want to peel out of the house after him and put his hands around his throat. It doesn’t matter that Julian could probably break Sebastian in half on a good day. If Jaime even implies that Julian has been hiding behind his history with the resistance as a means of abusing trainees under the radar, Sebastian will fucking—

“He didn’t,” Jaime says quietly, pulling Sebastian back to earth. “I… He… He isn’t my primary. We didn’t interact all that often, but when we did…” He shakes his head. “He wasn’t one of the handlers who crossed a line.”

Handlers, plural.

He doesn’t even think that Jaime is aware of the word choice that has sent Sebastian spiraling all over again. Multiple handlers. Multiple handlers have “crossed a line” with Jaime in that facility, a few hundred feet away from where Sebastian works. It’s not… He can’t call it a surprise. He remembers clearly the day in the clinic showers, seeing fresh bruises on Jaime’s skin, marked in places that left no room for questions. And the day in the facility bathrooms, when Sebastian walked in just as a handler was walking out, leaving Jaime alone in a stall. 

And, of course, he has had suspicions about Smith from the day he met him. Watching the way he interacts with his trainees is telling of what might happen behind closed doors. But hearing it out loud sits heavy in his chest. More than ever, he wants to burn that building to the ground with every handler locked inside. 

“That’s… good,” Sebastian manages, even though it’s a disgraceful choice of word.

Ezra nods in agreement, though. “I didn’t expect that he would have, but I wanted to hear it from you,” he says. “I have known Julian Hernandez for a long time, Jaime. I understand how it looks to you right now, but he is a good man.”

“He is one of them.” Jaime looks to Ezra when he says it, a fire in his eyes he has never shown Sebastian, wouldn’t dare turn on the person who holds his contract (or someone he also considers one of them—did he mean handlers or anyone who works there? That’s a spiral for later).

“Yes,” Ezra says evenly. “Officially, he is. And if he wasn’t, I never would have escaped.”

A stunned silence falls over them. Sebastian didn’t know that, either. 

Ezra reaches up to run a finger over the raised scar behind his ear, then looks from Sebastian to Jaime. “He helped remove the tracker himself,” he says. “Without him, we couldn’t have kept the removal undetected. It’s designed to be a bulletproof plan—it can’t be done without someone on the inside taking a risk. He never hesitated to help me.”

Jaime, mirroring him, raises a hand to touch the spot behind his ear where his own tracker is embedded in his skull. Sebastian’s stomach turns at the reminder, and he watches something like terror and wonder pass over his expression. 

“His story is a complicated one,” Ezra says. “I would like to tell you about it, if you’d like to hear it.” 

Jaime nods, and Sebastian leans in, just as eager to hear.

“Julian was in prison before I knew him,” Ezra begins. “He grew up in less than ideal circumstances and got wrapped into the wrong crowd. They got him into a lot of trouble when he was young, but it was all he knew. He was in and out of juvenile detention, and when he turned eighteen, he got a charge that stuck. He was sentenced to twenty years in prison.”  

Sebastian thinks about the playful way Aria nudges her shoulder against Julian’s when they’re together at the table, the way Julian moves so carefully around Ezra, as if he knows his very presence could be a trigger. Sebastian has been wary of him from the beginning, but even still, it’s hard to picture him as a hardened criminal. 

“This all happened right around when WRU was at its most precarious,” Ezra continues. “After the uprisings and public outrage against the Romantic sectors and the stories of extreme abuse coming to light. They were struggling to recover their image enough to stay afloat until the tides turned back in their favor, and they were specifically struggling to employ handlers. Nobody wanted to risk their reputation like that. They tried offering generous sign-on bonuses and increased salaries, but it still wasn’t enough to get them back where they needed to be. 

“Someone had the idea to create a pipeline from the prisons—a program that would train inmates who showed particular strengths and promise to become handlers as part of a contracted term, as an alternative to serving their time. Julian was one of them.”

Ezra looks from Jaime to Sebastian, clocking their looks of mirrored surprise. 

“I know that doesn’t make him clean,” he says. “It was a difficult situation, but it was still a choice that he made. For what it’s worth, he didn’t know much about the system at the time. And more to the point, he regretted it from day one. But backing out of the contract would have added ten years to his sentence. So he stayed.

“Aria met him within his first year. Really, she tracked him down. Pursued him. She had been searching for me for years. She knew I had disappeared into the system—that’s a story for another day. And she knew she needed someone on the inside to get me out. Julian was her way in. The way Aria tells it, he jumped at the chance. By then, he was eager for any way to make a bigger impact for the people suffering in that place.” He turns to Sebastian. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

“Is that…?” They both turn at the sound of Jaime’s voice. He shrinks back a little at the attention, then clears his throat. “Sorry. Never mind.”

“What is it?” Sebastian says gently.

He opens his mouth, lips moving as he tries to form the words. He can’t look directly at Sebastian when he says, “Is that why you started working there? Because you wanted to help?”

(Okay, so it’s a spiral for right now).

Sebastian blinks. Behind his eyelids, he sees a flash of memory—nearly a year ago, lying on the floor of his apartment with a bottle of wine and an open laptop, looking at the job listing that would change his life forever—and he feels so pathetic. 

He has this sick feeling that if he told Jaime that his reasons for applying were entirely selfless, only for the purposes of helping from the inside, he would believe him. 

Sure, it was always his intention to help as much as he could once he was there, but he knows it would be a magnanimous lie to say it was anything but fear that led him to the WRU website that night. His grace period for loans was up and he was stuck without a job, completely alone in the world. Desperate was the word he would have used for that night. That was before he met people like Jaime, who taught him what real desperation looked like. How could he look him in the eye and say that now?

“I was never trying to be a hero,” he says finally. “I wish I could tell you something different. I guess…” He swallows. “I guess, like Julian, I always intended to help, but it started with a self-serving motivation. I can’t pretend otherwise.”

As the words leave his mouth, he feels so small. Now it is he who has to look down. Somewhere in the course of the past few months, Jaime has become the most important person in his life. He finds it impossible to face his judgment

“Thank you,” Jaime says, surprising him. “For being honest.”

Sebastian shakes his head, feeling a little nauseous. “Please,” he says. “Don’t… don’t thank me.”

“I…” Jaime looks at him, hesitating, then seeming to draw strength from the silent approval on his face. “I never knew what to make of it. Of you being in that place. Sometimes I still…” He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “When you come home, I can smell it on you. That place. And it… It’s hard.”

Guilt eats through his stomach lining, threatening to dissolve him entirely where he sits. I’m going to quit, the thought comes to his head without hesitation. I will quit tomorrow. Right now. I will email in my resignation, no two weeks, no notice. I will never violate Jaime’s home, his safe space, with that nightmare again.

But it’s not that simple, is it? Without his connection to that place, will he jeopardize his chances of renewing Jaime’s contract? Without another job lined up right away, will he be able to pay for it? And what happens to the dozens of other patients he will leave to Greer’s cruel hands?

This isn’t the kind of decision he can make in a split second of emotion. Not anymore. 

From now on, though, he will shower before he leaves work. He will bring an extra pair of clothes and only leave them in the car to change. He can do that much at least. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sebastian says.

“But you did help me,” Jaime says. “You do, I mean, presently. Obviously. I’m… I’m here. But back then, I mean. In the facility. You helped me so much.”

“It never felt like enough.”

“It was everything to me.” The intensity in his words draws Sebastian’s eyes back to his. “You kept me alive in that place. I’m glad you were there.”

It’s hard to take the words at face value when some part of him fears that Jaime is saying them out of some sense of obligation. But the worst thing he can do now is take any more agency away from Jaime by discounting anything he has to say. 

Before he can respond, though, Jaime asks, “You really would have believed me? If I told you that Handler—that your friend had hurt me?”

That requires no hesitation on Sebastian’s part. “I would have killed him myself.”

Jaime stares at him for a few seconds, nods, then finally wraps his hands around the cup of tea on the coffee table. Surely it’s cooled to room temperature by now, but he looks content as he takes a sip. 

“I’d like to say one more thing,” Ezra adds, gracefully ushering himself back into the conversation. “Jaime, nobody brought you here, into this circle, with explicit intentions of doing anything except making you comfortable and happy. Nobody is here to pressure you in any direction, especially with something as risky as this.” Ezra leans forward, fixing him with an earnest stare. “But you need to know that if you said the word, we would move mountains to get you out.”

****

TAG LIST:

@whumpervescence 

@shiningstarofwinter 

@distinctlywhumpthing 

@whumptywhumpdump 

@nicolepascaline 

@anotherbluntpencil 

@hold-him-down 

@crystalquartzwhump 

@maracujatangerine 

@batfacedliar-yetagain 

@thecyrulik 

@pumpkin-spice-whump 

@finder-of-rings 

@melancholy-in-the-morning 

@insaneinthepaingame 

@skyhawkwolf 

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump 

@mylifeisonthebookshelf 

@dont-touch-my-soup 

@whump-world 

@inpainandsuffering 

@cicatrix-energy 

@quietly-by-myself 

@whumpsday 

@extemporary-whump 

@the-whumpers-grimm 

@thebirdsofgay 

@firewheeesky 

@whumperfully 

@hold-back-on-the-comfort  

@termsnconditions-apply  

@cyborg0109  

@whumplr-reader  

@pinkraindropsfell  

@whatwhumpcomments 

@honeycollectswhump 

@pirefyrelight 

@handsinmotion  

@alexmundaythrufriday 

@scoundrelwithboba 

@starsick1979 

@b0rgid

@whumps-and-bumps

@bilightningwhumper

@technicallydeliciousdeer

@taterswhump

@shit-people-probably-didnt-say

@roblingoblin285

@hellodecisionparalysis

[pookie-mulder]

June 2024 fic roundup

Here are my favorite June reads:

👶📝 Of Our Own Making by @television-overload

I totally forgot to put this on last month’s list! I absolutely loved reading each new chapter every morning at work. I can’t not read a marriage of convenience fic, especially when there’s a baby involved.

💌🦃 Small Lives Awake by Jesemie’s Evil Twin

You know when you read something so sweet, so pure, that you feel like it breaks your heart in the best way? That’s this fic. It’s incredibly fluffy without being cheesy, and the writing style is so elegant.

🏝️👨‍👩‍👦 The Eden Series by Jacque LaVa

Was this the best fic I’ve ever read? No. Was everyone OOC? Definitely. Did I still enjoy it? You bet. I cannot resist the siren call of a survival fic, an amnesia fic, or a kidfic, and this had all three.

👰‍♀️🤵‍♂️ The Marriage Spectacular by @cecilysass

I’ve never met a cecilysass fic I didn’t like, and this was no exception. Fake relationship my beloved! Only one bed my beloved! Mulder and Scully being idiots in love my beloved! Absolutely delightful. 10/10, no notes.

🌀☔️ Hurricane Season by beduini & rah

This fic perfectly captures M&S’s “we’re completely and utterly devoted to each other and literal soulmates yet we still doubt our place in each other’s lives and we never actually talk about it” dynamic that we know and love. It takes place when William is a few months old and they’re still trying to define their relationship. I loved it SO MUCH!

(hmu for an epub — the chapters are long, which makes it easy to lose your place if you don’t finish the chapter in one sitting)

❄️✈️ WHITEOUT by EvanBlack

A classic “Mulder and Scully get in a plane crash and have to survive until help arrives” story. (You all know by now how much I love a survival fic!)

I absolutely adored the dynamic between them in this one. They’re down SO bad for each other, and it shows. I especially loved the beginning when they’re both wishing they were sitting next to each other so they could hold hands. That’s the good stuff right there!

🛁🧪 Antidote by Rachel Howard and Karen Rasch

Mulder and Scully investigate an unknown contagion in a remote town. You can probably guess what happens from there.

This was the perfect road trip read! Engaging and exciting without being too plot-heavy.

🤰👶 40 Weeks by @malibusunset-xf-blog

What if the IVF worked?

The most delectable pregnancy fluff with a dash of smut and a healthy serving of Mulder and Scully figuring out their relationship.

🪶🐎 Omens by @lepusarticus

I cannot say enough good things about this fic. It’s definitely a new addition to the Holy Grail list.

It’s a casefic, but it doesn’t feel like a casefic…more like an exploration of magic and family and love. With its spooky small-town gothic vibe and emphasis on powerful women and strange houses and ancient magic, it reminds me a lot of my favorite book series, The Raven Cycle. (If you liked this fic, you should go read TRC!)

This fic has layers and nuance and themes and motifs and gorgeous metaphors and one incredibly hot scene that ticked all my boxes. Even the OCs are rich and compelling. I would read a whole series set in this universe!

💥🚗 Goshen by Bonetree

Emily angst plus survival plus tending to each other’s injuries plus hurt/comfort? Yes please! I love it when I find a fic that seems to be created in a lab just for me.

(After reading the summaries of the following installments, I’m not quite sure if they’re really my thing. Has anyone read the rest of the series? Did you like it?)

👦🏻🦊 A Boy and His Fox by 6hoursgirl

Mulder and Scully “platonically” coparent their son. Mulder learns what it means to be a dad. Pure, unadulterated fluff! If you like kidfics, this one is a must-read.

📚👩‍⚕️ Heuvelmans’ On the Track by The_Mythopeodic

This fic is a fandom classic, and I can definitely see why. The author uses language in unexpected and interesting ways, which is not something you see very often in fic.

I tend to go for “popcorn” fics that are addictive and easy to binge. This one is more like a hearty slab of meat. Both types are good in their own way, but this fic made me work for it.

Anyway, I got a bit frustrated with myself around the halfway mark and kept having to reread passages a few times to truly understand what’s going on. I lamented that I needed a reading guide like they used to give you in English class.

After putting it aside for a few days, I came back and DEVOURED the second half. I don’t want to spoil anything, but if you’ve read it, you know what I’m talking about. I loooooved seeing Scully be resourceful and scrappy and capable, and the epilogue is incredible. I’m glad I pushed through!

🪡🌨️ Skamania County by Sarie_Fairy

This is actually the second time I’ve read this one, which I didn’t realize until near the end when I tried to leave kudos, haha. Anyway, I loved it both times! It has everything that makes survival fics so enticing: a nice trip to the woods that quickly goes wrong, one person hiding their life-threatening injury from the other, the intimacy of tending to their wounds, cuddling (naked) for warmth, and finally resolving that UST. Chef’s kiss!

🧙‍♀️🔭 The Mars Differential by @asteraceae-blue

This one is a WIP, and I cannot wait for the rest! It’s an intriguing casefile with plenty of msr.

I also read a bunch of @o6666666’s fics thanks to this masterlist that made its way around recently!

They are the master of writing fic that hurts so good. This IVF arc one might be my favorite, along with this season 9 one that squeezed my heart like a stress ball.

[evillex11]

“why are you making gojo a tragic character” he is tragic wdym!! even with his silly, unserious persona, we have glimpses of his misery (outside his relationship with geto bc that itself is another layer of tragedy in his character lmao) bc he's often exploited and dehumanized!!

he was born with an extremely rare and powerful feature, six eyes, which immediately puts him into the spotlight since his birth. he was just little when a target was put on his head for various reasons (ex. money, fear, power) so he had to act accordingly in order to protect himself [child gojo scenes]. he was also adored by many but solely for his strength and ability to protect, his capability to shoulder a lot of responsibilities because he was gojo. we can assume that it's instilled to him from the very beginning that he needs to fulfil that duty because what other purpose would heis ability serve? he doesn't particularly like his role either [basketball scene] as that's all what he's been doing, it's all what he's been told, and it's all what he'll continue to do even after his death.

but even with his service, he's still treated like shit. to almost everyone, gojo's identity doesn't go beyond his name, his CT, his six eyes, his ability to lift heavyweights, his almost unmatched strength and intelligence,, he is a tool, an object with a purpose. even with his power, he couldn't bring himself to go against those weaker than him—the very people he protects. he's supposedly above everyone yet it seems like he's under their tight grip. tho can see where they're coming from as the gap between him and everyone else is large, but it's still a heavy responsible to carry,, it's exhausting and it sucks the life outta you

he's so lonely despite being surrounded by people, not just in the sense that his peers don't get along with him because they think he's insufferable, but also in the sense that he has no one to share his burdens with (by splitting the responsibility, talking about it, or understanding him), he can't be his authentic self around anyone, he can't be human around anyone. because if the gojo satoru was worried, exhausted, defeated, that means everyone is doomed! he can't show anything but his silly and unworried personality to protect people around him. the persona he's curated acts like a veil which conceals the fights sorcerers go through to defeat enemies.

to the majority, gojo is not completely a human person, no the depth or nuance, he is simply a strong character. he can't deny the request for help, he can't seek help, he certainly can't rest. who knows what goes on inside his head? who knows what his thoughts are like and how he's affected by all the burden he carries? well, the two people who was near his level knew (geto and yuuta)

he's truly miserable.. and because of how the jujutsu world is, everything would crumble if there wasn't someone that is both powerful and exploitable. I think understanding him is as far as we'll get to making him human

–

thx 4 reading this long ass post I'm totally just so normal abt him... ^^ I just want to see this side of him portrayed more cuz he's human after all and all those burdens are still heavy and crushing,,

and as always, if I misinterpreted something or if u wanna share ur thoughts, feel free to lmk!!!

[drjholtzmann]

going thru the drafts. this one was originally a fluffbruary prompt (whoops) but i chickened out

shower | blessed | layer

Dream is already in the kitchen when Hob gets home. Clattering through the door in a flurry of muffled curses and rustling fabric. He shucks off his coat and violently jabs it onto the coat hook, continuing to curse his way out of his shoes before standing upright again, flicking soaking wet hair back off his face. 

“Hello, stranger.” He says, aiming for casual but falling a little closer to perfunctory, unable to fully hide his frustration. 

“You’re –” Dream’s deep voice begins softly as Hob rushes to add, “I know – I’m late, I know.”

Dream, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders square, resting in one of Hob’s kitchen chairs, does not move to finish his sentence. 

“‘Light morning showers’, my eye,” Hob mutters murderously as he passes Dream and the kitchen table and continues to clatter on into the kitchen. “Fucking pissing down all afternoon! Shoes are soaked. Thought my jacket would be enough for light showers so I didn’t take a sodding umbrella, like a fucking bellend. The tube was disgusting – full of everyone trying to get out of the rain. So it was full of rainwater and the water-soaked public which, let me tell you, is a particular bouquet I don’t need to experience again in a hurry. Not at the end of a work day. I mean – you want some of this?” He pauses, wine bottle in one hand, glass in another, gesturing with the bottle towards Dream. Dream inclines his head. “I mean say what you will about the past,” Hob continues, placing the first glass down and grabbing out a second, “plenty of smells of all kinds. But at least we didn’t have fuckin’ Lynx Africa. A tube full of B.O., soaked woollen suits, stale air, muddy rainwater, all coated with the chemical tang of Lynx fucking Africa?” He gags and pours a generous, sloshing glass of red. “Adding insult to injury. Didn’t know how good we had it.” He spins the cap back onto the bottle with a metallic little hiss. “Anyway,” he places the second glass down in front of Dream. “How was your day?”  

At this Dream stands, eyes passing over Hob’s hair, falling to his shoulders, then down to his feet. “You are wet.”

“Yeah. Did you not hear the whole vitriolic spiel just now?” 

Dream looks at him like he’s stupid. “You are still in your wet clothes.” He clarifies, emphasising each word even more than usual, his eyes glinting with mockery.

Hob swallows his mouthful of wine. “Yeah, well.”

“Your socks, at least.” Dream suggests. And Hob makes a show of rolling his eyes, putting his wineglass down, and slouching back to the door.

He bends to pull off his sodden socks, and they hit the floor with a wet and heavy splat. “Meugh,” his lip curls. His eyes slide back to Dream and he resists rolling them. “Happy?” He crows, arms wide.

“Are you?”

He wiggles his damp toes against the floorboards, head tilting to the side. “Better. At least.” He concedes. 

“You ought to get out of your wet layers.” 

“When did you become mother hen?” But by now Hob is struggling to keep up the fever pitch of his frustration, a smile starting to tug at his words. 

“If you do not want my help…” Dream turns his back on him, picking up his wineglass.

“No! No. Of course I do.” He’s still playing along with the teasing, but it’s true. Always. And Dream knows it. He turns towards Hob again, a smug little smile hiding behind the rim of his glass. Hob holds his hands out to his sides, letting them fall back against his thighs. “Help me?” 

Dream scoffs, but the smirk is still in place as he sets his glass down and walks over to Hob in the entryway. “How you survived centuries between our meetings I will never know,” he tuts, plucking at Hob’s unbuttoned overshirt, slipping it down off his shoulders, then free from each wrist. 

“Made a deal with a lady.” Hob parries back, but it sounds distant even to him, far too hypnotised by watching Dream’s movements to commit to continuing their banter.

“Mm. Quite.” Dream draws the neck of Hob’s t-shirt between his thumb and forefinger and, assessing that it, too, is insufficiently dry, pulls it upwards. Hob is pliant, and increasingly calm in his grip. 

Hob is shirtless for barely a second before there is a soft warmth sliding up his arms. Something that looks a little like a smoking jacket but feels more like a soft fleecy dressing gown has been conjured within Dream’s palm and his being fitted neatly across his shoulders. It feels like sinking into a warm bath. The warmth between sleep and wakefulness. The heavy-muscled heat of laying close to a fire for long night hours. And Hob can’t help the full-body contented sigh that comes out of him. He feels his shoulders relax down an entire inch. His head almost falls forward, eyes closed, ready to drop right off to sleep. 

“Is that not better?”

“Mm,” Hob shuffles closer. “Better,” he agrees, curling his hands into the sweeping lapels of Dream’s coat and, allowing his eyes to finally close, drops his head against Dream’s shoulder. 

“We are only half done.” Dream says after several seconds of silence and stillness from Hob. 

Hob huffs against his neck. “You just wanna see me in my pants. Cheeky.” 

“You’re impossible.” Hob can hear the smile in Dream’s words. Smiles in return, hidden against his neck, as Dream’s hands snake around his back and hold him in a warm, impossibly fond embrace. And Hob melts against him a little further. 

“S’me. Impossible. Wearing a robe my love just conjured from the ether. Which is very normal.”

“I only wish for you to be comfortable.”

“I am, love,” he promises, voice soft, all fight and frustration drained from him. “So comfy. 'n I promise I’ll take off the trousers in a minute.” He sighs, deep and cleansing. “Can we just go to bed? I know it’s still early but fuck I’d love this day to be over.”

Dream’s hands press tighter against him, soothing up and down his back. “You will hear no complaints from me,” he murmurs against Hob’s temple, pressing a featherlight kiss into his hair.

[kastlequill]

iv/v. unearth without a name: the wolf that seeks always his own kind

pairing: keegan p russ x f!reader word count: 2.3k synopsis: the fourth and final time you hallucinate keegan tags: whumptober, psychological warfare, injury, brainwashing, hallucinations, amnesia, hurt no comfort, established relationship, ghost!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: canon-typical violence, torture, non-consensual drug use ao3: read here ← prev | next →

IV.

The day you finally broke started off like all the rest.

Tray of gruel, no spoon. Recreational beating, violent enough to put the ache in your bones and the blooms of purple in your flesh, but nevertheless mindful not to render you out of commission. And now, mind games with Rorke.

Another harsh knee slammed into your abdomen, bruising the spleen beneath layers of tender flesh. The blow would’ve had you in a fetal position if you weren’t currently hanging from the ceiling by bound wrists. So, instead, you twisted your hands to tighten your grip on the taut rope, hoping to ground yourself with something tangible, something real. Alas, the move only served to agitate the preexisting friction burns along your restraints.  

Rorke sighed. “This little game of yours is gettin’ old, don’t y’think?”

You silently agreed with the sentiment, but your outward expression remained stoic. Or, at least, as stoic as could be expected from a half-beat, nearly-gone prisoner of war. Fatigue and exhaustion had assumed residence in your headspace, the pair thick as thieves, and you were growing weary of their company. 

Thanks to Rorke breaking your orbital bone a few meet-and-greets ago, your right eye had swollen shut, so it hurt like a motherfucker to tear your gaze up from the blood-soaked floor. When he at last entered your field of view, you almost wished you hadn’t wasted the energy to do so in the first place. 

“I’ll make you an offer,” he started, leaning forward. His breath reeked something foul. “Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I let you walk out that door with all your limbs still intact.”

In your desire to put an end to this prolonged bout of suffering, the suggestion briefly appealed to you. That was, until you felt the unforgiving, unmistakable heat of shame burn deeply within your gut. 

The Ghosts—the guys, your guys—were depending on you. They were out there, saving the world or what’s left of it, and you were down here, protecting their secrets with your rotting mind, body, and soul, heedless to the sharp sting of their apparent betrayal. Despite the horrors Rorke had forced you to endure over the course of presumably several months, you continued to keep firm so as to buy your men the time they needed to fulfill their ultimate objective. 

Hold the line, Keegan had instructed you once, hand heavy on your shoulder. The intensity in his eyes had captivated you as the team readied themselves to embark on another suicide mission.

Hold the line ‘til I tell you to fall back. Know I’m always watchin’ everyone, everything, everywhere, so trust I won’t forget about you. Just ‘cause you’re out of sight doesn't mean you’re out of mind. Is that clear, rookie?

Crystal clear. As clear as the wad of saliva you now lobbed at Rorke’s face, landing on the dead center of his left cheek. You watched him process the small act of rebellion and predicted his impending streak of violence. Then, for good measure, you broke your vow of silence and whispered two words:

“Fuck you.”

You had taken Rorke for the Devil at the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the revulsion he’d evoked in you back then did not compare to the pure malignancy that now contorted his scarred face. 

“Guess I’m just gonna have to beat it out o’ you,” he resolved, cracking his knuckles. 

And so the torture ensued as it always did in this vile and twisted tango. Punch after punch, kick after kick, cut after cut—you somehow remained conscious through it all. Even when you finally began to black out, he didn’t for a second relent his rapid volley attacks. 

At this point, fear was a distant thing. Bitter acceptance, however, had never been closer. Its arrival marked the beginning of the end. 

Everything that would follow was entirely and utterly out of your control. 

“What’s your name?”

“. . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I. . . I can’t remember it. My name.”

“Alright. Next question—”

“—did I do something wrong? Where am I? Is this some kind of test—”

“—how about your mother’s name? Think you can tell me that?”

“My mother. . ? Is she here? Safe?”

“Her name, please. If you’re unsure of the answer, say the word ‘unknown’.”

“She’s. . . her name is. . .” 

“Is what?”

“Unknown.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? I’ll show you interesting. You better start explaining why I can’t remember her, or her face, or my own goddamn name.” 

“That’s what we’d like to know as well, considering you are the one who all but short-circuited her brain and forgot everything of note.”

“. . . I what?”

“Retrograde amnesia. Quite a severe case of it, at that.”

“You’re saying I gave myself amnesia? Impossible.”

“Evidently not.”

“Just what exactly is this place? And who the hell you people?”

“Answer our questions, then maybe we’ll answer some of yours. Now, do you recognize the man in this photo?”

“Should I?”

“Yes or no.”

“No. I don’t know who he is. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Well, this certainly changes things. Not to worry, though. You’ve made your mind a blank slate, and we can most definitely use that to our advantage.”

“Sorry, could you repeat that last part? My ears are still ringing, and your mumbling makes it hard to hear a damn thing.”

“Not important. Moving forward, it’s imperative that you understand the Federation is here to support your want for revenge. We can begin training you—”

“Slow down, alright, you’re not making any fucking sense. Let’s rewind. Who’s the guy with the mask? What’s his deal?”

“That guy is Keegan P. Russ. He’s part of the terrorist organization that launched the attack that murdered your family. Their plan called for no survivors, but you beat the odds and clung onto life long enough for us to find and rehabilitate you. We extend our sincerest condolences and hope to ease your pain by helping you eliminate him.”

“. . . eliminate? Do you hear how absolutely insane you sound? You’ve got the wrong woman, pal. I don’t do revenge, and I’m no killer.”

“Perhaps not yet. But you will be. Of that, I have no doubts.”

They pumped you full of drugs and said it was to aid in your recovery from old wounds. Although that sounded like a steaming pile of horse shit, the barricaded exits and the constant stream of guards meant you had no choice but to comply. 

Honestly, you didn’t much care if their words were honest or deceitful. With no sense of who you were or what you cared about, a numbness froze your heart and your mind. And with nothing to gain and nothing to lose, apathy usurped the majority of your other emotions and thoughts. 

Still, you had no wish to participate in whatever acts of vengeance the Federation had planned. You attended the training sessions held by Commander Rorke because knowing how to fire a gun and how to defend yourself were valuable skills to have. Taking a life was altogether absent from the equation. 

But things changed once you came across the man in the mask. 

He appeared like a mirage not too long after your first dose of whatever they injected into your system. Initially, you’d assumed it was a trick of the light, but you quickly ruled out that possibility because there was simply no logical explanation for why you would otherwise be able to conjure a perfect replica of a stranger. The only sensical answer was that he had actually infiltrated the compound and was actually standing before you. 

That was when you learned that the faceless man—Keegan Russ, they’d called him—was a downright asshole. 

He took a liking to beating the utter shit out of you. You were certain you’d never been so sore in your entire life, given no recovery time between each show of his strength. Russ also accompanied his physical hits with verbal degradation, and with every additional insult he hurled your way, the more it stung: 

Worthless. Burden.

Omen. 

At first, it struck you as rather odd that no one else in the compound seemed able to discern Keegan’s presence. You’d once asked the female guard who brought your meals why she kept letting an enemy breach their supposedly-secure base, but your only reply had been a confused look and a disbelieving laugh. 

Seeing ghosts already, eh? She had no sooner spoken the words before her smirk disappeared, replaced by a more serious expression. Be calm, none pass without the commander’s permission. 

So, naturally, you concluded that this Keegan Russ must indeed have a personal vendetta against you, going as far as to risk his life and sneak past several defenses just to make you his very own punching bag. Upon realizing the extent of his desire to reap the life to which he still felt owed, your previous general apathy gradually morphed into a refined, pinpointed hatred. The emotional detachment lingered, but you were suddenly filled with a reinvigorated sense of purpose. 

In your new unfeeling world, you couldn’t help but latch onto the one thing that had managed to reduce you to a volatile vessel of rage. 

As the intensity and frequency of the beatings increased, so too did your eagerness to return his damage in full. Luckily, Commander Rorke was always there to patch you up and mend your wounds, though he was never curious about how you acquired them. Amidst your painful meetings with Russ, the commander began to grow on you slowly but surely. 

However, despite your greatest efforts, you simply could not grasp why he wouldn’t just kill Keegan himself. After all, based on what you’d gathered from your conversations, he seemed to hate the guy just as much as you did, if not more. 

Perhaps you should be thankful for the fact that the task had fallen onto you, because it was now the sole reason you awoke in the morning and went to sleep at night. Nothing else mattered; there was only this mounting need for revenge. It fueled you with a limitless supply of motivation, and you were determined not to let even a drop of it go to waste. 

Glorious be the day you finally sink a knife into his abdomen, face to face so you can see how the light fades from his eyes. 

That’s too easy. Too quick, you decided, mind elsewhere as your body remained fixed in the training room, wrapped fists ricocheting off a sparring dummy. He needs a taste of his own medicine. Maybe a few rounds of torture first, then I’ll kill him. 

That didn’t sound half bad. Actually, it sounded quite good. 

Still, you needed to give this some more thought. Killing Keegan Russ properly was of the utmost importance. 

And you’d have only a single chance to get it right. 

“Name?”

“Not applicable.”

“Not applicable?”

“I have no use for a name. My name is my designation, and I am a weapon of the Federation.”  

“Understood. Familial relations?”

“Irrelevant and unimportant.”

“How so?”

“Logically, they must’ve existed at some point, but their existence has been reduced to a shadow in my mind. No tangibility, no substance.”

“And your primary objective?”

“Neutralize Keegan P. Russ. Then incapacitate all remaining Ghosts.”

“Good. Any further questions?” 

“Just one—how do you want me to confirm his death?”

“It’s simple, really. Bring us his head, mask and all.”

“Consider it done.” 

Harsh winds pierced the layers of your gear as it funneled through the trees encircling the cliff from which you conducted reconnaissance. A few hundred meters away, you observed four men tend to their contained campfire and watched their hound roll in the dirt to score an extra piece of meat. 

The group appeared to be preparing for a confrontation. One was cleaning the barrel of his gun, and another was sharpening the blade of his combat knife. The remaining two had risen from the ground and were now engaged in conversation. Of them, the more animated speaker was bald, and the other listened as he fiddled with a pair of radios. Your stare locked on his face, or, more importantly, the familiar mask that covered it. 

Keegan Russ’ mask. 

Bloodlust began to take root in every fiber of your being, but you forced yourself to reduce its intensity to a simmer. 

Patience, came Rorke’s characteristic drawl, so embedded into the walls of your skull after three months of nonstop training and conditioning that it seemed to have developed a consciousness of its own. An unwelcome guest capable of overriding the authority of its helpless host. You’ll catch ‘em soon enough. Act sloppy, and I’ll put a bullet in your kneecaps, hear? If those sons of bitches don’t kill you first, that is. 

Flashes of phantom pain bloomed at the spot on your forehead between your brows, right where he would’ve usually flicked you for insubordination or incompetence. A fairly lax disciplinary measure, all things considered, and any irritation it sparked in you was simply redirected onto your target. Although the meek form of corporal punishment felt humiliating, you knew Rorke had only wanted to make you stronger to ensure you would survive your encounter with Keegan Russ and emerge victorious. 

You heaved a shaky sigh and raised your visor before clenching your gloved hands into fists, squeezing tightly, then releasing. Coming here had been strictly for recon purposes; there’d be no contact today, much to your disappointment.

Soon, you reassured yourself, trigger finger twitching against your leg. 

Soon, the task to which you had devoted yourself for months on end would be over and done with. Soon, the haunting image of a man known to you only as your attempted murderer would linger no longer. And soon, the world would reorient about its axis and start to make a bit of sense again. 

Soon. 

tbc.

[scoutsbabygirl]

bed; scout x reader

hey! little scout x reader blurb (540 words) i made. i haven't written anything recently but i've been reading all of the tf2 fanfics on this platform! love you all! requests/dms open as always!

you awoken to the distant sound of a metal object falling to the hardwood flooring and rolling around. the sound echoed off the edges of the room and lingered in your ears. a rude awakening you thought. you opened your eyes to face a still sleeping jeremy. his messy brown hair flicked up in multiple cowlicks in different directions. his mouth agape with a pool of drool puddled under his left cheek, where it lay on his grey pillow. your grey pillow as the bostonian sports theme wasn't really you're taste. admittedly, the redsox B fleece blanket was comfortable and easy to fall asleep under especially when coupled with the heater of a man, scout. you could see the crack in the tooth directly next to his right central tooth. quiet, little snores emitted from his vocal chords which reminded you of a small pig- they were cute sounds that comforted you back to sleep after the loud bang! from down the hall.

you shuffled around under the layers of blankets noticing the sheets crawl off his bare shoulders and upper biceps. you smiled at the freckles that dotted his pale skin like a constellation, pondering how you managed to get so lucky.

knowing that he often got cold easily, you reached over to cover his exposed skin. you could feel your eyelids getting heavy again and cuddled into his bare chest. you didn't bother to check what the time was but by assuming the metal falling- it was likely soldier trying to make something. indicating it was early. maybe 5:45 at the latest.

his arms draped over you under the covers, placing his open palm over the exposed part of your midback where your shirt had rolled up by chance. he pulled you closer into his chest with one swift motion. you placed your hand on his chest, putting your neck on the same grey pillow as him. you thought about the drool. you could wash your hair in the morning it wasn't like it was going to chemically burn your hair off.

his thumb rubbed circles on your skin, tracing little letters and shapes that you weren't conscious enough to understand or comprehend what he was trying to secretly not-so-secretly confess to you.

his body was like a radiator and it kept you warm in comparison to the cooler new mexican summer nights right outside the open window. a light draft wafted in the room, gently blowing the white cafe curtains up and down every other movement. the sun was just beginning to rise over teufort, a mix of red, yellow and orange hue being painted over the night sky that just a few hours before.

jeremy exhaled through his nose, his breath softly coming out of his nostrils which rushed over your hair and forehead. this motion repeated itself into a cycle.

"are you awake"? he inquired, his voice just above a whisper. you decided not to respond curious to what he might follow his question up with. there was a cloud of silence that filled his bedroom before he spoke once again. "seems it." he exhaled again before moving his head up a bit to rest his chin on top your head. he made sure not to put all of his weight nor pressure on you as he didn't want to harm you- especially not intentionally. "just know that i love you. you are my everything and mean the world to me, (y/n)." jeremy murmured. he sounded exhausted.

[mncxbe]

HIHI I hope you've been well! I'd like to request something about aku getting super drunk (out of character I know) and his girlfriend getting him home safely. He's so different when he's drunk, he's flirting with her more and he's kissing and hugging her and reader finds it sooo cute

the amount of times i've written for drunk/ tipsy aku i love it♡♡

I only see him getting super drunk when he's attending a party with the pm and he's forced to drink (chuuya keeps buying him shots and he can't bring himself to say no to his superior). before he knows, his mind is hazy and his limbs feel heavy. at some point he gets so drunk that he can't even stand on his own two feet, let alone get home by himself; so chuuya calls you to come pick him up.

when you eventually get there he's so pissy at first, asking why you're here. if you try to explain to him that you came to pick him up he gets so pouty.

"what'd ya mean i'm more than capable of getting home by myself" he protests, but his actions don't match his slurred words.

when in public, akutagawa normally tries to maintain a certain distance from you. he's not really into pda; but now he's so clingy and needy. he keeps scolding you for worrying too much while his hands come to rest on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze and he pulls you flush against his chest. it's adorable, really, but such an unusual behaviour for him that almost all his colleagues end up starting at you.

you eventually manage to convince him to come home. he falls asleep in the car and only wakes up when you struggle to carry him up the stairs to your shared apartment. once inside he goes straight to bed, toppling over onto the mattress without even taking his clothes off. clicking your tongue in disapproval you begin undressing him, peeling off the layers of clothes one by one. him taking a shower is out of the question so you simply bring him a clean tshirt but before you get the chance to put it on he grabs your waist and pulls you next to him. any attempt to escape his embrace is futile, he just cuddles you closer to his chest.

he mumbles a barely intelligible "don't go now y/n. i want you here", nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck and how could you possibly refuse him?

sighing, you gently thread your fingers through his tangled hair, lightly grazing his scalp and he lets out the most adorable whine. due to the alcohol he's in a sort of hypnagogic state; he feels the heat of your body driping on his skin, hears the little sounds that fall from your lips when he shift, pressing himself closer against you; you're almost as intoxicating as the alcohol he just had.

as he drifts out of consciousness he keeps telling you how much he loves you, how precious you are. akutagawa isn't the best with his words so this is a chance for him to get everything off his chest. he kisses every inch of your neck and whispers sweet nothings against your skin and you can't deny it has an effect on you.

but before the two of you get the chance to do anything he's out cold, his head falling to the side on the puffy pillows as he snors lightly. he's just adorable.

[doyou000me]

Love In The Big City series adaptation: Episodes 3 & 4

On Knowing The Story and Characters (and their trash) Beforehand

CW: homophobia and attempted suicide 

I am late in writing this (@lurkingshan I’m sorry if it’s any extra trouble) but… it took a while before I managed to get through episode 4. This week was heavy. I cried. Episode 3 and 4 hit hard, and deep, and I am so very grateful that I read the book beforehand. Even going in prepared, knowing more or less what’s to come, I wasn’t prepared enough. How do you watch this, you who have not read the book and cannot brace for impact? 

After watching episode 3, I thought I was going to write quite a light hearted reflection this week. I took notes on the characters, especially Hyeong/Young-Soo and Eomma/Go Young’s mom, and I thought I was going to write about how we who have read the book are able to see through these characters’ bullshit from the very beginning. I was going to ask how they come across to the viewers of the series who haven’t read the book, and wonder how different our understandings of events and characters turn out. 

Then I watched episode 4, and it derailed everything. 

As much as the prior knowledge of having read the book allowed me to brace for impact at times, I also believe it gave a deeper understanding of what’s going on below the surface - and that makes some scenes, some lines of dialogue, cut all the deeper. 

The focus of episodes 3 and 4 is, to a large extent, homophobia and the fear of how others will judge us. 

We have the mother, who is religious and makes her every move to look good in the eyes of her fellow church goers and God - but I get the impression that the judgement of those around her is what she fears the most. She fights against judgement when her husband, Go Young’s father, cheats on her. She works hard to become successful and prove herself. She sends her teenage son to conversion therapy. She doesn’t wish to meet the person that her son sees as most important in his life, because she doesn’t want to face the fact that, after everything, there is nothing she can do to change the fact that her son is gay. 

Then we have Young-soo, simply called Hyeong in the book. He is a deeply complex character with many layers, and we dug deeper into him after reading part 2 of the book. Long story short, due to his past, he has a very complicated relationship with western influences, religion—and his own sexuality. It all boils down to a deeply rooted homophobia that not only affects himself negatively, but seeps out of him in a toxic poison of mixed signals and harmful actions. 

Between them, we have Go Young. Go Young, who has graduated, has lost his deeper, more meaningful relationships where he was safe and accepted, is struggling to make a place for himself as an author, is forced into a role as carer for his ungrateful mother, and is trying to live his life true to himself as an out and proud gay man. 

Go Young is in a position in life where he needs someone by his side. He needs someone who can support him, help him, share his burden and shine some light in the darkness. He seeks purpose, meaning, understanding—and finds Young-soo Hyeong. 

In the beginning, in spite of all the bullshit he spouts, he gives off an aura of being someone who has a deeper understanding of life—or, perhaps more importantly, he’s handsome, fit, and (once they get to that point) good at sex. In spite of all the mixed signals, Go Young can’t stay away. 

But the more we as viewers learn about Young-soo along with Young, we understand that there is no deeper understanding of the universe and meaning of life. There is little difference between Young-soo and Young’s mother, in that they are both unable to see Young for who he really is. Instead, they see the version of him that they are willing to tolerate, while constantly (more or less actively) working to change him and put him on a course to an “acceptable” life. 

Throughout episode 3 and primarily episode 4, we see how this wears on Go Young and it finally becomes too much when Young-soo denies that there was ever any love between them. We see Go Young come home, and in the harsh light of the kitchen lamp, he makes himself an ice coffee. With efficient movements, he gets the ice from the fridge, then goes to find the pills. Swallowing them down with his coffee drink, he takes pill, after pill, after pill–

And black. 

This scene plays out similarly, if not exactly the same, in the book. His mother’s words, when he wakes up in the ICU, are the same: 

“Don’t try so hard. We all die someday, anyway.” 

These are the first words from a mother when her son wakes up after a suicide attempt. There is no happiness, no relief, no reassurance, in those words. There is no welcome back, no thank God you survived and there is no why would you do such a thing? And Go Young, strapped to the machine, just stares at her blankly, his eyes dry and expressionless, because he has given up and expects nothing else. 

The ones who do welcome him back, who are overjoyed at seeing him awake and remind him that he is loved and that there are reasons to live, are his gay friends. The T-aras are shut out of the room, on the other side of a glass. They’re not allowed to be there, and in the book, they aren’t there—but I am very grateful that the adaptation added them as a hint of light after such a heavy episode. 

It is thanks to them that Go Young finally cried and finally decided to move again. 

Similar to the book, we get a time skip. Young has moved on. He has aged. He still cares for his dying mother, but while the hurt isn’t gone, he knows now not to expect anything from her. And when his own manuscript gets sent to him, full with corrections that Young-soo has made in red pen in an attempt to correct the story of Go Young’s own life, Go Young throws it in the trash. 

“It is not my trash.” 

So move on. Get rid of the trash. Be weary of the trash that others carry with them, and do not make it your own. 

Even if that trash is homophobia, put it where it belongs. 

[circe69]

Hello there!

Congratulations on 1k followers 🥳

Can I ask for prompt 3 or 4 with Simon "Ghost" Riley? I don’t know what mood you’re in when writing; so please pick the one you find more alluring. Hope this is not weird or anything

Again, congrats!!!!

i chose number 3! thank you for sending in this request, dear! 💕

"you're so incompetent sometimes."

ghost's voice echoed off the walls and into your ears as he hovered over the mini table you were quietly sitting at. his large and inked forearms bracing himself on the tabletop shook as he spoke, making it difficult for you to focus.

you slowly stood up, trying to match his dominant attitude, but failing once you realized just how tall he really was.

"what exactly do you mean by that, lieutenant?" you countered, mimicking his stance. the two of you had always had it out for each other, but lately the tension was reaching new levels. you found yourself staring at him for too long, listening too intently, your ears perking whenever his name was mentioned.

even now, as your eyes met with his, you found it difficult not to wander all over his body, and the reality was, he was struggling with the same thing. the way your shirt fit tightly over your frame and how your pants somehow hung off hips but still shaped your backside perfectly was something ghost would always be fascinated by. maybe one of these days he'd educate himself.

ghost straightened his posture, crossing his arms across his chest, and you did the same.

his smirk was visible even through that stupid balaclava, and whenever his mouth moved from underneath the fabric made you want to just rip it off right then and there.

you watched ghost as he looked around the room, making sure the two of you were alone, before whispering,

"learn how to shut your mouth." he was inches away from your face, and his breath hit the side of your neck, making your spine erupt in shivers.

what was there to lose? now's a good time of any to up the ante.

"why don't you come over and shut it for me?" you leaned in even closer, standing your ground regardless of the slight terror and hesitation slipping out through your words.

"please?" you continued, and you swear ghost's knees buckled at your soft plead. now your noses were maybe an inch away, you were close enough to rip off that mask with your teeth, and you were considering it.

"don't do that," ghost said softly, the deep rasp in his voice making you want more and more. every word that came out of his mouth increased the risk of doing something that you could never take back.

"don't do what, simon?"

he grabbed onto your waist with one hand and started walking you backwards, putting a knee in between your legs with every step.

“don’t beg for something you’re not positive you even want.”

you hit a wall, and your back slightly arched into him, making his hand grip your soft flesh ever so gently.

“should i not be positive?” you reply, eyes focused on his mouth where heavy breathing and soft grunts were being emitted.

before he could even reply, you leaned forward a little, and did exactly what you’d planned to do from the beginning. your teeth latched onto the edge of his black mask, and you delighted in the breathy gasp from ghost as you slowly pulled the fabric up, revealing only what you needed, his mouth.

his lips parted in desperation, like he had been waiting for this since he met you.

you were very calculated, very strategic when it came to ghost. you made every move with a motive behind it, carefully and slowly making him want you more as every second passed. you lurched forward, gently but warmly kissing him on the side of his mouth. you let your lips layer between his before you pulled back to look at him once more.

“was that positive enough for you?”