#don diligent

[whatisonthemoon]

Neil Salonen! WIll you take my call about the John Marks & Washington Post articles?!

A February 3, 2017 post from Don Diligent, from the WIOTM archive:

http://www.tparents.org/UTS/DoH1/DoH1-13.pdf

(EXCERPTS OF A LETTER FROM NEIL SALONEN TO CHRISTIAN MINISTERS IN 1974)

I am writing to you on behalf of the Unification Church, which has an active group in your area…I am writing because you may be one of those who received some spurious information that has widely circulated by a few people recently.

One such document originated in Louisville, Kentucky, and purports to be from a group of interdenominational ministers and laymen known as the “Concerned Christians.”…    Mr. Riner is the author of the cover letter accompanying the statement.

A few articles by reporter Chuck Offenburger of the Des Moines Register appeared, in which the opinions of two ex-members of the Church were greatly dramatized…the most painful experience was not so much the article itself, but the trusting, somewhat gullible response from so many readers.

If you have any questions, comments or suggestions, please do not hesitate to write to the above address or call (202) 296-7145 in Washington, D.C. Even as I travel with the tour, I will receive the message and will be happy to respond.

In Christian love and fellowship,

THE HOLY SPIRIT ASSOCIATION FOR THE UNIFICATION OF WORLD CHRISTIANITY

Neil Salonen

http://www.tparents.org/UTS/DoH1/DoH1-11.pdf

John Marks

February 1974

From Korea With Love

Pages 4-5

Washington Post

February 15, 1974

Rev. Moon - Nixon Backer

Pages 7-9

[minswriting]

BIKINIS AND MARTINIS - A.H x READER

About: Reader is chilling by the pool in a tiny bikini and when she goes inside, they bump into one another and they have sex.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, dad’s best friend hotch, dad bod hotch, fingering (f), unprotected sex, daddy kink, OOC hotch but that’s why fanfiction is great, slight size kink

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: Hello! Border is made by @cafekitsune here on tumblr!! This one shot may suck a bit because I struggled writing it for some reason lol. If you don’t like it, don’t read it! Please comment and reblog to support your creators ❤️

Your father was a hard and diligent worker, working as a higher-up in the FBI. He was technically the boss of many people, and hardly ever had to work in the field. There were many perks to your father being in the FBI: you get to see your dad often and don’t have to worry about him not always being home. Or how you didn’t have to worry about your college tuition because he paid for all of it. But the best perk? Getting to see the man that your father hung out with quite often when the man wasn’t out on cases.

Aaron Hotchner, the Unit Chief of the Behavior Analysis Unit, was an intriguing man, to say the least. With his short black hair, piercing brown eyes, and stoic demeanor, he was the embodiment of attractiveness. Always dressed to the nines even when going out on a case. He and your father began a friendship a few years back. It started off as just a meeting, Hotchner congratulating your father on his promotion, which then led to the realization of how much they had in common. From golfing to cooking, and enjoying what they do for work, their friendship was pretty solid.

It was a bright and sunny day in the middle of July, perfect for a cookout near the pool. Your father had a rare day off, not having to deal with bureaucracy bullshit for once. He invited a few of his friends over for a barbecue and to spend time at the pool. And of course, you weren’t going to miss out on delicious food and a chance to see Aaron Hotchner in swim trunks.

Your relationship, if you could even really call it that, with Aaron Hotchner was a weird one. As soon as he walked into a room, you would notice him. His presence was radiating, one that exuded dominance and yet something soft at the same time. It was intoxicating, to say the least. And you were sure he noticed you as well. On the rare occasions when you joined your father at the golf course, Aaron’s eyes were always on you. Or the times when you’d visit your father at his office, Aaron would glance your way. The two of you have had your conversations, ones that tread the line between flirtatious and nothing more than a simple conversation. Everything between the two of you was subtle but it was there.

You lay on a pool chair, sunglasses on and eyes closed as you faced the sky, dressed in a gorgeous red and white cherry printed bikini, with a blueberry lemon martini in one hand. You sipped the drink leisurely as you listened to the conversations happening around you. Men with their wives, conversing with your dad while he barbecues on the grill. You didn’t pay much mind to it, off in your own world as you basked in the sun.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” came the familiar deep voice that you adored so much.

You turned your head, opening your eyes as you glanced at the man who sat on the pool chair next to you. Aaron Hotchner was indeed wearing a pair of swim trunks and nothing else. You probably could’ve died right then and there but luckily, you kept your cool.

“Trying to enjoy the heat before it all goes away in two months,” you replied, turning your head back to face the sky.

Aaron simply hummed in response, allowing silence to overcome the two of you for a few moments before speaking. “You look good, by the way,” He said, his tone holding a lightness to it that was only noticeable if you were attentive.

You felt your heart flutter, unable to help the small smile that graced your lips. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Hotchner,” You retorted before taking a sip of your martini.

It was true. Aaron looked amazing with his toned muscles in his arms and legs, his chest nice and toned as well, and his stomach, though a bit soft, still held the athletic build he maintains due to his work in the BAU. And god, you were ridiculously attracted to this man.

“Well, I certainly try not to look bad,” Aaron retorted before taking a sip of the cocktail he had. He wasn’t much of a cocktail sort of guy but your dad made a mean martini. Aaron couldn’t help but look at you. You looked radiating in that bikini. With your tits practically spilling out of the top and how your hips looked in the bottoms, it took everything in him to not get a boner right then and there. It was wrong of him to be so attracted to you. You were his boss’ daughter and twenty years younger than him. He was forty-four years old and you were twenty-four. And yet, here he was. The amount of times he had gotten off to the idea of fucking his boss’ daughter was more than he’d ever be willing to admit.

“I think you look handsome all of the time,” You said, turning your head to look at Aaron.

Whether it was from the heat or your words, you were unsure but you noticed the way Aaron’s cheeks redden just a bit and felt yourself smirking once more.

Aaron cleared his throat, looking away from you and at the pool. “Thank you,” He replied before standing up. “I-uh am going to go swim now,” and with that, he walked away from you and made his way to the pool.

You watched Aaron as he walked to the deep end. You certainly made him flustered but that didn’t matter when he was about to dive in. You watched carefully, seeing the way Aaron got into position. You bit your lip and clenched your thighs subtly, practically gawking at Aaron with the way he moved. And when he jumped in, swam underneath the water, and came back up, you almost audibly moaned with the way he looked. He was like your own porno, the man you will be fingering yourself to later. He swam for a little while before he got out and walked over to your father, grabbing the towel that was in one of the chairs next to him.

After another martini and sitting out in the sun for some time, you decided to finally get up. You stretched out your muscles, pushing your chest out slightly in a small show for Aaron, who you knew was already watching you. You glanced at him, seeing how his eyes were already on you. He was in the midst of a conversation with your father, likely something related to the Bureau. And yet, Aaron looked as though he could hardly care.

You gave him a small smirk before walking towards the house and making your way inside and to the bathroom. When you finished your business and washed your hands, you walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway, only to bump into something, or rather someone, hard, almost getting knocked over in the process. You felt a pair of hands land on your hips, holding you upright as you looked up to see Aaron.

At that moment, it was as though the world had stopped as you and Aaron met each other’s gaze, his hands firmly resting on your hips. And just like that, it was as though all the attraction you two had for one another increased tenfold. “You’re driving me crazy,” Aaron said hoarsely as he looked you up and down. “Especially with wearing that.”

You licked your lips, tilting your head ever-so-slightly. “Oh yeah?” You whispered back. “Crazy how?”

Aaron looked at you with a raised eyebrow as if it weren’t obvious how you were driving him crazy. He simply pressed himself against you, allowing you to feel just how hard he was in his swim trunks. You gasped, the soft noise escaping your lips before you could have a chance to stop it.

“All because of you,” He murmured, leaning in. His breath was fanning your face, tempting you to just move in that extra moment. “And that bathing suit of yours.”

“I bought it knowing you’d be seeing me in it,” You breathed out, glancing at Aaron’s lips.

“Naughty girl,” Aaron smirked, putting his fingers underneath your chin, bringing your faces closer together. Aaron’s lips lightly brushed against yours, giving you a moment to pull away, to stop this whole endeavor before you both were in too deep. You responded by kissing him firmly, showing you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

The two of you moved in sync, kissing one another with a hunger that had been building between you both since the day you met him. You knew it should be wrong. Aaron was much older than you and was a good friend of your father's. You should stop this before anything else could happen. But in retrospect, Aaron was the first person you’d ever felt a strong pull towards. And you knew he would treat you so well.

Aaron’s hand moved from your hip to your naval, moving slowly to the waistline of your bikini bottoms. He pulled away from the kiss to look at you, an unspoken question of whether this was alright or not.

“Please,” You whispered, looking at Aaron with pleading eyes.

And that was all he needed before he dipped his head, kissing your jawline as his fingers trailed underneath the waistband of your bottoms. He ran a finger along your slit, feeling just how wet you were. “You’re soaked,” Aaron murmured against your skin.

“You have that effect on me,” You replied, trying to sound cool but ultimately failing when your voice hitched as Aaron brushed against your clit.

Aaron let out a low chuckle, nipping at your pulse point. “I can feel that,” He said, using his index finger to rub at your clit gently. You let out a soft noise as Aaron started to move his finger and suck on your pulse point. After a few moments, his finger dipped from your clit to your hole, teasing the entrance as he spread around your wetness. “Had I known you were this wet for me, perhaps I would’ve taken care of you sooner, sweetheart,” He breathed out, pulling away from your neck to look at you.

You shivered at the feeling of Aaron’s finger teasing your entrance, clenching around nothing in anticipation. “Well, what better way to live than in the present?” You said a bit shakily. Thank god everyone was outside. The idea that someone could walk into the hallway at any given moment frightened you and yet excited you at the same time.

Aaron hummed, nodding his head in agreement as he dipped his finger inside of you. Your breath hitched at the feeling, eyes fluttering shut. His finger was much bigger than yours and filled you much more than yours ever could. He moved his finger in and out of you slowly, rather teasingly as he got you worked up.

He eventually added a second finger, curling them up to hit your g-spot dead on. The action made you moan loudly and throw your head back against the wall with a small thud. “Oh my god,” you moaned.

Aaron’s free hand came up to your neck, gently wrapping his fingers around it as he guided your face to look at him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he said, his tone soft and velvety and yet also commanding.

The action made your brain short-circuit. The truth of the matter is that you’ve never had anyone do something such as wrap their hand around your neck before. And you can’t say you hated it. The only word to escape your lips as you looked into Aaron’s dark eyes was “daddy.”

Aaron groaned at the word, immediately capturing your lips into a hungry kiss as he moved his fingers faster inside of you. He pulled away from the kiss, breathing heavily as he rested his forehead against yours. “Daddy, huh?” He breathed out. “How would your father feel knowing you called another man daddy?”

“Good thing I don’t call my father that,” You said, biting your lip as you relished in the feeling of Aaron fingering you.

All of a sudden, Aaron removed his fingers from your cunt, causing you to whine at the loss of contact. “Shh, baby,” Aaron said, kissing your lips. “Daddy’s going to fuck you now,” He said as he lowered his swim trunks just enough to let his cock breathe.

You looked down at Aaron’s cock, eyes widening as you saw how big he was. “Is it going to fit?” You asked, looking at Aaron with a faux innocence.

Aaron chuckled, nodding his head. “We’ll make it fit, sweetheart,” He replied, grabbing himself. “We have to be quick though, okay?”

You nodded your head, licking your lips in anticipation. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl,” He said before using his other hand to turn you around. You bend over slightly as you face the wall, giving Aaron better access. He grabbed your bikini bottoms, pulling them to the side before lining himself up at your cunt. He moved the tip of his cock up and down your folds, spreading your slick on his cock. He slowly eased himself inside of you, causing you to tense at the intrusion. “Relax, sweetheart.” He murmured, pressing a small kiss onto your shoulder blades.

The feeling of Aaron’s cock stretching you out was both painful and pleasurable. You’ve, of course, had sex before but you’ve never had sex with anyone as big as Aaron was and it was certainly new territory for you. He might ruin sex with anyone else for you forever. And part of you was okay knowing that information.

“Oh my god,” You moaned, putting your hand on the wall to ground yourself. When Aaron was fully inside of you, he paused for a few moments, giving you time to adjust to his size. “You’re so big, daddy,” You whined.

“I know, baby,” Aaron cooed, keeping himself still. “You can take it though, yeah?” He asked as he put his hands on your hips.

You nodded your head. “Yes, daddy,” you replied. After a few minutes, you had finally adjusted to Aaron’s size, relaxing a bit. “You can move.”

Aaron didn’t need to be told twice. He began moving his hips slowly, groaning at the feeling of how tight you were. “Fuck, baby,” he said. “Clenching around me so nicely.”

You let out a choked moan, your eyes fluttering shut as Aaron moved his hips. “F-feels so good, daddy,” you gasped, reaching your other hand around you to your hip and grabbing Aaron’s, bringing his hand to your chest. He instinctively began massaging your flesh through your bikini top.

“You’re so perfect,” He breathed out, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. His hips began moving faster. “So beautiful.”

The feeling of his cock moving inside of you plus the praises leaving Aaron’s lips sent a shiver down your spine. “Daddy,” you whined, breathing heavily.

Aaron’s pace quickened, gaining a rhythm as he pounded into you. You are still entirely grateful that no one else was in the house and that everyone was outside as the sounds of skin slapping together filled the hallway upstairs, mixed with your moans as well.

“O-oh fuck,” you moaned as Aaron moved faster. His cock grazed your sweet spot repeatedly, making that familiar heat build up inside of you. “I-I’m so close, daddy.” You whimpered.

Aaron let out his own moan, holding you tighter. “Me too, princess,” he replied, his breathing shaky as he continued to pound into you.

It wasn’t long before you were clenching around Aaron’s cock with a loud moan of “daddy” as you came, legs shaking with the most mind-blowing orgasm you have had. Aaron followed, cumming with a groan as he filled you up with his load.

Just as you two finished, you heard the back door from downstairs opening, signaling that someone had entered the house. Aaron quickly pulled out, putting your bikini bottoms back in place as you both pulled away from one another. You fixed your bikini top, taking a second to gather yourself. Footsteps began to go up the stairs. With a small kiss to your forehead, Aaron made his way into the bathroom, closing the door behind him so as to not draw attention to either of you.

And just as he closed the door, your father appeared in the hallway. “Hey, cupcake,” your father greeted, giving you a smile. “Just wondering if you’ve seen Hotch? We’re moving the pool table from the game room outside so that we can play a game of pool by the pool.”

You shrugged your shoulders, pretending as though you didn’t just have Aaron’s cock buried inside your pussy. “Haven’t seen him,” you said to your father.

“Alrighty, well if you do, just tell him to come play pool,” Your father smiled before walking away. When he made his way back down the stairs, you let out a breath of relief.

You heard the sink in the bathroom turn on for a few seconds before turning off as Aaron opened the door. The two of you grinned at one another, feeling giddy about what had just happened.

Because you just fucked your dad’s best friend.

[leviathanleva]

Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

Excitement for your morning coffee turns to panic when you bump into a mountainous stranger in a grey hoodie, sporting a skull mask. Sputtered apologies become a conversation in a corner of the café. And he’s so beat up, battered and bruised and scarred that you can’t help the words that leave your lips:

“Do you want to come home with me?”

[5k words ]

Chapter 1 "Caffeine Rush"

Airpods in your ears, music vibrating through your soul, you were ready for the world outside.

Sweet Saturday morning, after a week of work and barely any time for yourself, you’d decided on a treat to start off the weekend. You’d slept in late, phone alarm turned off and sleeping mask tugged on, new sheets prepared the night before because it was so comforting to wake up to the subtle smell of detergent. And once you were finally up, you’d decided fuck it, go out and get a nice steaming hot coffee in a cute paper cup from the local café, listen to Lofi or Lana Del Rey or whatever Spotify had prepared for your daily suggestions on the way, cozy up in a warm winter jacket and a thick scarf. Bless the crisp December air, it nipped at your cheeks and filled your lungs with sharp frosty air. It numbed your nose too and made your eyes water, but those weren’t as positive as the previous two affixes.

The streets were buzzing, a rare sight of the sun peeking through a blanket of grey clouds was shining down on you.

All in all, it was going to be a good day.

You waited impatiently for the light to turn green before crossing the street with a horde of nameless individuals, keeping in tandem with them.

Snow was still a no-show, you could only hope for its appearance at least on Christmas. The holidays without a fluffy coat of white powdering over everything from trees to rooftops just didn’t sit well with you, but at the end of the day, it was up to Mother Nature, not you. Anything but the ice rain you’d had the week prior; you weren’t ready to skate to the store again.

The bell above the café door shakes to life, signaling your entrance. You tuck one airpod in your pocket to listen in on the chatter in the comfy, coffee bean scented establishment, and also because you didn’t want to miss anything the cashier said. You were the anxious type after all, didn’t wanna miss a thing ever.

The heating system is blasting, cranked to the max, steam comes in large waves from behind the oak counter, be it from warm beverages or baked goods fresh from the oven, it lingers long enough for you to get a whiff before being diligently sucked away by the range hood. You unzip the top part of your jacket before getting too stuffy, loosen your scarf and take off your gloves. The staff, donned in their creamy yellow aprons, zip back and forth between tables like worker ants and you step into the line of waiting customers to keep out of their way.

The hardwood floor is licked spotless, looking down, you can almost see your reflection staring back at you. The hum of the large coffee grinder fills your exposed ear and you decide to turn off Spotify for the moment and bask in the café’s ambience instead.

The line moves, it’s almost your turn and you glance up at the display monitors listing off all the choices on the menu for today. Lattes, milkshakes, espressos, you decide on a large cappuccino, leave experimenting with unfamiliar drinks for another day when you’re feeling more courageous.

“Large cappuccino, please.” You say with a polite smile and fish out your wallet from your pocket.

Coffee is cheap here, cheaper than in most cafés and that’s one of the things that keeps you coming back to this place. It’s not easy to afford treats when you live on your own and have to pay the bills and groceries alone. However, you manage, and being able to afford a coffee or takeout once in a while is all the sweeter when knowing you owe nothing to nobody.

You take your cup and nudge your chin for the barista to keep the change before stepping away to the sidebar littered with plastic lids, sugar packets, and cheap wooden teaspoons for stirring your drink. After a brief consideration, you decide not to sweeten your coffee and only take a large lid, pop it over your cup and after zipping your jacket back up, you’re about to turn and walk out.

A walk through the park where you can sit down and enjoy your drink suggestively passes by your mind. Deciding that’s exactly what you will do, you palm through your pocket for your discarded airpods while nursing your paper cup to your chest.

And maybe it was your fault for not paying enough attention because you were buzzed to have a nice relaxing weekend. Or that you’d already achieved your first goal of the day and you were about to have a nice vibey stroll while hurrying to stuff your ears with music before you left the café. Maybe you’d jinxed your Saturday by confidently thinking it would be a swell time and nothing wrong would happen for once.

You should have known better. You should have suspected something would go wrong.

Something always goes wrong.

You whirl around with the intent of being on your way, expecting the glass doors to be in view, but they aren’t. A mountain of flesh and muscle stands before you. And your reaction time is too slow to save yourself or your coffee.

You jump, your hand flinches and the paper cup goes flying, a gasp upon your lips so loud it turns heads. You can only watch in horror as it makes contact with a wide chest clad in a grey hoodie, the lid pops off from the force of the impact and the hot contents inside go in every direction.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my freaking God.”

One hand goes up to cover your agape mouth while the other clutches at the zipper of your jacket as panic crawls up your neck and prickles your scalp.

The worst part is that your coffee wasn’t the only casualty. The poor guy had dropped his beverage to pull his hoodie off his chest the moment your scalding beverage had soaked it.

There was steam coming off it. It was boiling and you’d spilled it on him.

You wanted to die.

And he’s fucking terrifying too. Easily two heads over you and built like a truck. The intricate skull mask obscures the lower half of his face and you can’t discern if he’s absolutely pissed or just mildly uncomfortable with the large stain plastered on his top.

His eyes are sharp, trained on his ruined hoodie, crow’s feet crinkled, and you’re grateful they’re not directed at you because you were a step away from breaking down on the spot.

A stone lodged itself in your throat.

If he didn’t curse you to oblivion, he’d either break you in half, or worse, sue you.

You can’t get fucking sued. You don’t have the money to get sued.

So much for having a good day…

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” You sputter out and grab a handful of paper towels from the counter. You’re glancing up at him every now and again for fear of his patience running out. “I’m so so sorry.”

Shaky hands are tapping away at his top, soaking in the liquid as best you can while trying to keep from breaking down. Your tongue is arrested between your teeth, bitten down on hard in a self-soothing attempt. Your fingertips are stained with coffee because there‘s so much of it that it’s turning the paper towels to mush. You couldn’t care less about that or that you were practically sweating bullets under your jacket.

All you hoped for was that you hadn’t caused the poor guy a burn.

“ ‘s okay.” He murmurs in a thick British accent while watching you fuss over him with growing anxiety. The jitter in your movements would be almost comical if not for you practically hyperventilating on him.

“Excuse me, are you alright?”

“No.” You whine, before you can stifle your voice to normalcy, and turn to the cashier peeking from behind the counter with watery eyes and a deeply carved frown. “No. I’m so sorry, we spilled our drinks. I mean, I spilled - ” You take in a breath to compose yourself and brush a hand over your forehead, shoulders slumping. You’re giving your best apologetic expression, practically mourning over the mess you’d made at your feet and of the man looming next to you.“ – I’m sorry. I can clean it up if you have a mop.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, miss. We’ll mop it up.” The cashier replies, bless her, and signals for one of the waiters to fetch the cleaning supplies. The friendly smile never wavers from her balmed lips; neither does the caffeinated twinkle in her eyes.

She’s most likely seen this sort of thing plenty of times, but for you, it’s a first and it’s your fault to top it off. It’s not an easy pill to swallow and despite the atmosphere being anything but hostile, you can’t help but still feel guilty.

Of course, this had to happen to you of all people. You weren’t allowed a single day of peace and tranquility.

With the main cause of disturbance taken care of, you turn back to your victim, who’s joined you in trying to dry off his hoodie. Your stomach churns at the sight, and you’re afraid to look around in case all eyes are on you two. You can’t bear the scrutiny, even though most people have probably resumed their dwellings by now.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? I’m so sorry, sir.” You ask and reach for more paper towels, pressing them against his chest more so to show you’re very apologetic and trying to fix the situation rather than actually fixing it because most of the coffee has already come out.

You glance up at him after mustering up the courage, curious as to what awaited you next. He returns your gaze with one of indifference or calmness, you can’t tell, blinks at you slowly, as if he’s just now taking your flustered form for the first time, then he speaks, more clearly this time.

“It’s fine.”

A server arrives with a mop in hand and you both step away from the mess to let them clean it up. You take the lead unintentionally and guide the stranger towards one of the vacant tables in the corner of the café, away from prying stares.

You pick the chair next to the wall that has a large ficus partially looming over the seat. Maybe with enough luck, you can disappear inside it.

Finally, unzipping your jacket because you’re about to faint from the stuffiness, you lay it on the cushioned backrest of the chair and pat it down to make sure you’d not accidentally dropped any of your belongings during the accident. You tug at your sweater to air out the thin sheen of nervous sweat that’s formed over your skin, brush off the strands of hair that have come to stick to your face and take off your scarf.

The stranger sits on the opposite chair, paper towel still to his chest and sucking out any leftover residue. The stain won’t leave your vision no matter how hard you try to rip the two separate. It’s the worry gnawing at your gut that keeps you rooted to your spot, wanting to approach but too afraid to do so.

But so far he’s been a nice guy, hasn’t said one single bad word to you.

Your mind reels with how red and irritated his skin must be, praying it hadn’t blistered up already. You have half a mind to ask him to take off his hoodie so you can take a look.

A fresh wave of panic wraps its dainty fingers around your neck in squeezes, sends needles to prick over random places on your body.

And all this time, you’ve been sputtering out apologies like a broken record, his dismissal of your regret not even reaching your ears let alone registering.

“Should I call an ambulance? Oh my God, I’ve never had to call an ambulance in my life…” You ask, mumbling the last part to yourself as the realization hits you square in the face. For a brief moment, you forget how to dial the emergency line because you’ve never had to use that number before. “I’m sorry, sir – I – I didn’t mean – ”

You continue to blabber while searching your jacket pocket for your phone. The guy might have said nothing at your suggestion, but you wanted to be safe and have your phone at the ready anyway. And you’re too preoccupied going ballistic with panic in your own little world to hear him repeatedly tell you that everything is fine and you’ve done no big deal, he doesn’t need an ambulance and that he’s fine.

“Hey!” He grabs the crux of your elbow and pulls you before him, a large knee on either side of your thighs. A startled noise crawls up your throat but you make no move to step away. You’re staring at him as your hands disappear inside his and he jerks them slightly, his voice lowering now that he’s caught your attention finally. “Relax. It’s alright. Happens.” His comfort is rough. His voice gruff and sounding more like a scold than anything. He shakes you a bit too hard, not used to handling something as delicate as you, and pulls you down enough to make solid eye contact. “Alright?”

You nod and avert your gaze away, soggy paper towels left in a pile on the table making your fingers twitch with the need to do more. Apologies simply aren’t enough, not when he’d probably need to apply ointment on his chest for a few days after your little fiasco.

Why did have to be such a hot mess all the time?

“At least…Let me buy you another drink. On me? It’ll make me feel better.” The frown is still tugging on your lips as you speak, shyly looking at him from under your lashes. “Please?”

He sighs softly at your relentlessness and shrugs before letting your hands slip from him, having kept them in his grasp for longer than he should.

“Sure.”

He leans back in his chair and readjusts both his hood and the cap poking beneath it before resting his elbows on the table.

“What did you order?” You question while fetching your wallet.

The innocent look you toss him has him forcing himself to stop staring at you like a creep. He clears his throat and rubs over his tired eyes tenderly before answering.

“Black tea with milk.”

And so you reorder your cappuccino, get him his tea and decide that a simple butter croissant as an apology is enough for the moment. Every time you turn around to glance at him, nervous that he’d simply slip away from your overbearing presence, he catches your stare without fail. Heat gathers around your ears and your lips purse unintentionally every single time and you quickly turn back to the cashier, pretending you hadn’t just been discovered ogling him.

The chair looks too small to encompass his hulking frame comfortably, the table is no different, but you guess he’s used to it by now. A man of his stature isn’t a common occurrence here. Poor thing probably has to bow to enter through most doorways and have his shirts custom-made with how wide his shoulders were. If he wore shirts at all that is.

He looks like he’s brooding when you return with the order, fingers linked together and thumbs dancing around each other.

You set the tea by his side, note the callouses and scarring around his knuckles, the roughness of his skin. Your first thought is that he’s a construction worker, it would explain his size, the biceps that are as big as your head and straining against the stitches of his hoodie, the casual clothes, and the dark circles under his eyes that make it easy for anyone to guess that he doesn’t rest enough. But then he pulls his mask down and lets it rest under his chin as he takes a prolonged sip from his drink. You note the crookedly mended nose after a trauma so potent it made your eyes water at the thought of what pain he’d endured. There’s a gash running along his thin lips, multiple ones that stand out from the light stubble peppering the lower part of his face, deep ones, ones that you guessed had needed stitches and took forever to properly heal.

Now you’re not so sure he’s a construction worker.

“So what do you do for a living?” It rolls off your tongue before you can stop it. You laugh nervously and raise a hand in a soothing motion before he even has a chance to answer. “You don’t have to tell if you’re not comfortable. I’m just curious.”

The mug of tea pauses before his lips and he gives you a skeptical look.

“Military.”

“Oh.” You blurt out and awkwardly take a sip from your coffee, nearly choking at how hot it is.

And that’s precisely the answer Ghost expected. It was a big turnoff for many people when they learned his career path, mostly because the news only displayed the bad outcomes of his work and never the good. He might have saved this entire city a week ago from a bombing and nobody would know.

It came with the territory and he half expected you to think up some lousy explanation as to why you suddenly had to go.

But you aren’t like that at all because of course, you aren’t. Why would it be made easy for him to forget you and move on with his day when you could be sweet and open and give him more reason to burn you into the crevices of his conscience instead? Why would you make an excuse and leave when you could stay and kindle the embers of his humanity and make yourself space to be a permanent memory?

That’s just his typical luck.

“Must be tough.” You muse, absentmindedly taking a napkin and wiping off the milk and tea mustache staining his upper lip, as if tending to a messy toddler. It comes instinctively and you don’t fight it until your fingers are already being poked by his stubble. “But thanks for keeping us normal folk safe.” You give his wide-eyed stare a warm smile, and tilt your head slightly to one side.

You notice the subtle way in which he moves his chin towards your hand, apprehensive of you pulling away. As if he’s fighting his demons to lean into your touch, to rest his cheek against your palm and close his eyes because he hasn’t been offered softness in so long that he doesn’t remember what it feels like anymore.

You don’t mind that his large hand reaches to try and still your wrist, aching for more delicate touches, but stops before coming in contact with your flesh, pulled back by self-deprecating restrain. You almost want to encourage him, he looks visibly altered by your simple gesture, like a dog who’d been beaten all his life and was given a treat for the first time.

“What happened to you, old soldier?” You want to ask gently, pry a little while you cup his face and let him rest on the softness of your palm, close his eyes for a brief moment of respite.

Your heart aches for him.

But then you remember he’s a stranger and the moment shatters.

The smile vanishes from your face, the warmth dissipates and you flinch back.

“Sorry.” You rush to say and crumble up the napkin in your hand before tossing it on the table and trying to brush off the suffocating awkwardness. “You had something there.” You motion to your upper lip before drowning in more coffee, hoping it will ease the discomfort.

Just what the hell had you been thinking?

And he’s not far behind you on that note. The flicker of softness dies in his chocolate browns and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth stills and dips into neutrality. The exhaustion returns to his features and his gaze flits away from you as he gathers himself back together.

“You should eat tha’ ‘fore it gets cold.”

Your eyes trail to where he’d nudged his chin and you see the butter croissant you’d purchased along with your drinks. You giggle, it turns into a light laugh when his head cocks to the side in confusion because he’s yet to realize you’d gotten it for him.

Because why would he? He’s a soldier, he gets bullets and grenades, not tea and croissants.

Poor creature, sweet scarred sufferer, with so much weight on his shoulders you couldn’t imagine bearing.

“It’s for you.” You push the small plate closer to him and flick your hand for him to dig in, treat himself on your behalf if he won’t do it on his own accord.

“What?” He reels back in his seat slightly at your words, sets down his drink and tenses up. There’s so much disbelief there that it’s almost comical.

It’s like he’d never been treated before.

Maybe he hadn’t been.

Jesus Christ, what if he actually hadn’t been?

“I mean it’s the least I can do after drenching you in coffee.” You say and press the lid of your cup to your lips, hiding the sympathetic smile from view lest he takes it as pity.

You didn’t pity the man, not in the slightest, but from the tired eyes to the worn clothes, sunk-in shoulders and need for anonymity, you guessed he’d not seen much kindness.

It was easily discernable that he wasn’t used to taking care of himself. Coming to a café to get a drink was probably the maximum self-indulgence he’d permit himself.

“Didn’t ‘ave to.” He grumbles out, voice hoarse and cutting off at the end.

“I wanted to.” You say and wave off his meager comment.

Gods, you wanted to bathe him in sugar and softness.

He tugs the plate before him hesitantly, looking over the croissant as if not trusting it or you, then he picks it up. A small bite at first, one of apprehension before the treat melts on his tongue and awakens his taste buds. He finishes it in two mouthfuls, barely chews and you’re inclined to ask if he wants another, you’re ready to feed him the whole bakery stand if he so wishes. But he declines, whether from embarrassment or mistrust, you didn’t know.

You just know he’s hungry.

You give him your name while he’s washing down the croissant with his leftover tea, just throw it out there in the hopes that he’ll give you his. And he does after heaving a sigh.

“Simon.”

“Pretty name.” You note, toss him a friendly smile that’s a silent invitation for him to say more. “Nice to meet you then, Simon.”

But your friendliness doesn’t breach his defenses a second time. He eyes you with an unreadable expression, watches you slurp your coffee while you’re left to wonder if your compliment had been a mistake.

You might have been coming off as too friendly, trying to suck up to him after ruining his top and that was the reason why you were so nice. Or maybe he thought that there was a hidden agenda behind your acts, that you’d want something in return for your kindness and that’s why he kept his guard up.

Action without a need for reciprocation didn’t exist in his world. Nobody was stupidly selfless enough to just give and not want anything in return. But you were right there, proving him wrong and he wasn’t sure that fact was a fact anymore.

Throughout his internal debate, you’re doing your best to remain casual but it’s difficult with those dark orbs boring into your soul. It’s even more difficult when the silence settles, so you decide to ramble and keep the spirits up until he feels comfortable enough to join.

It might come off as annoying, but you’re sure he’ll stop you if you’re becoming too much to handle.

You tell him about your job, a brief summary of how rough your week had been that that was the reason why you’d come here this morning to treat yourself. You tell him you’re clumsier than you’d like to admit, that you can’t imagine drinking tea first thing in the morning. You tell him that you’d love to have a pet one day, but your landlord doesn’t permit any, ask him if he has pets or would want any. Then you ask if he’s more a cat or a dog person.

And throughout the entire time, he’s staring at you with this undigestible look and you have no idea what to make of it.

The caffeine pumping in your veins helps keep your monologue going until finally he speaks up.

“Bothering you?”

“What?” You spit out, cease your rambling and scrunch your brows at him in confusion.

“The face.” He says, motioning towards his partly obscured face like it’s so obvious. “Ain’t a pretty mug to look at.”

You blink at him silently, at a loss for words at his not-so-kind statement. Your mouth parts, struggling to form a coherent reply because you’re absolutely thunderstruck that he thinks so lowly of you as to believe you’d be affected by such a thing.

Then again, he doesn’t know you, and neither do you him.

But the fact that he’s polite enough to ask while already anticipating the answer tells you that he might have had this conversation one too many times already. Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe the mean comments and ugly remarks were all in his head and he hid his face to stifle those rather than hide from other people.

You don’t know which alternative is sadder.

“No! Not at all.” You say slowly, accenting every word that comes out of your mouth, with eyes trained on his and refusing to blink in case you missed anything. “You’re handsome, really.” You dare to reach out for him and rest your hand atop his, gentle and ready to pull back in case his features portrayed any hint of discomfort with your actions. “Plus your scars mean you put yourself before me to keep me safe, right? Can’t judge you for that.”

Now he’s the one left speechless.

Wordlessly, he twists his wrist, rolls his hand around and slowly unclenches his fingers to let yours through. And your hand is so soft and warm when it slips over his mauled palm, even the skin is a stark contrast because yours is so smooth, spotless, perfect, compared to his.

He runs his large thumb over your knuckles, relishes the tingly feeling it gives him, watches intently because he’s sure that as soon as his eyes move to somewhere else, you’ll vanish and it’ll all be over. Your fingers fall against his wrist where his pulse leisurely beats, only quickening when you shift in your seat because he thinks you’ll pull away.

Manicured nails trace over the scars poking from beneath the sleeve of his hoodie and he shivers, the hairs on his arms rising. He lets you tug the sleeve back, wanting to know how far the violent marks go. Soon enough black and grey ink peeks from under the fabric and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips at how delighted you seem.

“Oh, I love tattoos…” You hum while tracing the tips of your fingers over it.

“Got any?” He asks absentmindedly, almost mechanically as all his attention is focused on the little hand exploring his own.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.” You giggle, eyes closing briefly in delight as you bask in the fuzzy atmosphere.

He bites his tongue at that, decides now isn’t the time for flirty remarks, bids you too esteemed to fall for a sleazy comeback that might result in him naked in your bed. No, you were made to be courted, won over with effort and flowers and all the things he hasn’t bothered with in the past.

You were the type of woman that he avoided for fear of messing things up, someone who deserved better than him and he wasn’t ashamed of admitting that. Yet here you were, practically thrust in his arms by chance.

“Do you want another tea?” You ask because his drink is gone and what’s left at the bottom of your cup is two sips at most. And you don’t end this to end, you don’t want him to leave just yet.

“I’m good.” He answers and retracts his arm before standing. “Gonna ‘ave a smoke outside. Cheers for the tea.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it still makes your heart ache and your mind switches to turbo mode to try and think of something.

Your next question doesn’t come from a place of desire or lust. You’ve no intent of trying to get the battered soldier into your bed and use him for selfish pleasure. You’d never let yourself be so cruel.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

You ask because to you, he’s a stray in need of a home, someone to take care of him a little and nurse him back into a better shape before his next big military mission. It’s naïve, stupid really, to think a grown man such as himself can’t take care of himself.

But the way he looks tells you a sad story and you’d spoken before thinking. Now you’re left with a hot face and a fluttering stomach as he stares at you over his shoulder with something akin to surprise.

“I mean…for lunch, sometime. My treat of course.” You say next, trying to salvage the moment before it got too awkward and you were forced to go to the toilets and hyperventilate while beating yourself up internally. “You don’t have to – ”

“ – Yeah.”

And you swear you saw his eyes squint with a smile hidden somewhere behind the bulk of his shoulder.

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[joachimz]

BY YOUR HANDS ALONE

neteyam sully x gn!reader

notes: silly and overtly fluffy. flustered neteyam. reupload.

"there you are."

"here i am," you mirror back instantly, hardly sparing a glance up at the far too familiar voice as your fingers continue to work at chopping up some vegetables. it's a busy day—a momentous day. there is no time to waste.

"let me help," neteyam offers, already making moves to steal your knife from you as he steps to your side.

but you weave it away from his grasp, nudge him back with your shoulder and point the knife at him as you address him. "aht, don't think so," you differ, then continue your slicing. "besides, don't you have your own tasks to get to, mr. mighty warrior?"

days like this require a lot of preparation; everyone chipping in and doing their part so that it all gets done and runs smoothly. if even one person slacks off, it could cause a rift in sanctified plans. and that simply wouldn’t do. no, it would not.

"i have completed all of them, actually," he retorts, but he shrivels when you narrow your eyes up at him. "okay, almost all of them."

you scoff, let your pupils meet your sockets with a roll as you pry the truth out of him. of course, one of the most important days of the year and it is now that neteyam chooses to have an irresponsible whim. you aren’t sure what you’re gonna do with him.

"your mother will have your tail if she finds one thing out of place for tonight, you know this." it isn't necessarily a warning, but there is some tip-off in your tone. "you must get everything done."

neteyam hums, leans his hip against the raised wood that you are using as a makeshift counter. he says nothing, simply watches you. takes into account how you dice up the vegetables in front of you diligently before sliding them to the side with your knife and moving onto the next ones. his stare is driving you crazy—no one works well under pressure, after all.

it causes you to have a slight blunder; a misstep. you cut a pattern a tad too fast and send a slice of root tumbling towards the ground. neteyam's instincts are superb, quick, and he catches it before it hits the dirt. mumbling a thank you under your breath as he places it back on the tray, you find the heir before you still not making a move to speak.

you aren't sure why it unnerves you so.

"what do you have left to complete?" it's not the question you want to ask, but 'what the hell do you keep staring at?' doesn't sound quite as nice. so you settle on it.

you take a pause, a breath, to turn to him. throughout the years you have seen the eldest sully child wear many expressions. ones tainted by smiles, irritation, pride, devotion—but this one has you tipping your head in the most peculiar way.

because timidness is not something you think you've ever seen don the strong features of neteyam sully.

he carries himself with such an air of confidence; shoulders pressed back and chin held high—not arrogant, but undaunted. he does not shift gaze unless he is avoiding scoldings and he does not suck in his cheek unless he is fighting frustration. so, you wonder, what could possibly have his face contorted in such a reticent manner. if you did not know any better, you’d almost call his demeanor a rendition of shy. but that seems rather uncharacteristic of him, doesn’t it?

"ah—are you sure you don't need help with that?" he's deflecting, brushing off your inquiry like he hasn't heard it. and you can't decide whether you find that amusing or concerning.

he's making way for your knife again and you twist your arm to hold it out of his reach behind you. you eye him carefully, flit your gaze all around him to pick up on anything that you can that would explain his behavior.

"tell me." it's not an order, you aren't demanding, but neteyam nods his head like he's respondent of such.

"my father told me i needed a, uhm," he stutters, licks his lips, like he's tripping over his own tongue. and it's undeniable the way you see his ears twitch. "for the celebration tonight. i need a.."

"a what, neteyam?" you press, cock your brow up at him. you don't think you've ever seen him like this. never witnessed him so.. "you need a what?"

"a.. date."

so fidgety.

"a date?" you repeat with widening eyes.

"no, no not a—not a date really but i need someone for the—“

"the staining ceremony.” you finish for him, continue his sentence because with all his blubbering you aren’t sure he’ll ever spit it out.

he nods curtly.

the celebration tonight is for all the young warriors who have proved themselves throughout the calendar year as being strong willed and great protectors of the clan. neteyam, of course, is one of them. has been since he earned the right to be titled as such. so perhaps it should have clicked in your head that he’d be searching for a partner for the staining ceremony portion of the night.

but a part of you—if you’re being completely honest with yourself—just figured he had one already. events like this take weeks of planning; most warriors find their artisan a fortnight in advance. because it cannot just be anyone.

the partner one chooses for the staining ceremony must be someone with whom they feel a connection. some of the older warriors choose their mates. some of the youngest choose their mother or father. some settle for siblings. others, in brazen acts of outstretched hands, choose a mate unbonded; one who they harbor feelings for but have yet to seal such in the eyes of Eywa.

you cannot lie and say you had not pondered over who neteyam’s choice would be. a part of you thought he would pick kiri—they have always been so close and she has been his partner for such ceremony before. but, you are not deaf to the murmurs of your village, you are not ignorant of what has been passed from mouth to ear of all that will listen. there have been other… prospects who have been suggested to neteyam for this special commemoration.

your name has not been among them.

“well,” you continue, tear your eyes away from him and get back to the task at hand. there is no need to dwell on such things and fall behind. you have just one more batch of greens after this to prepare then you will be done and can walk away from all this. “if you’re here to ask my opinion on who your choice should be, i’m not sure i will prove to be much help.”

a shut down; a cut off. you’d like this conversation to be over as soon as possible because it’s making your fingers itch. you’re offering him a gateway to close the topic off.

but he doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“no,” he chuckles, now, and you can tell he’s shaking his head out of the corner of your eye. it’s breathy; like he’s punched it out of his chest and finally broken past the barrier of whatever flusteredness had him trapped before. “that’s not why i came to find you.”

“if it’s to convince kiri to sacrifice herself to do it for you again this year, i’m not game for that either.” you don’t understand why his laughter leaves you agitated, why this whole situation has caused an odd twisting in your gut.

“that won’t be necessary,” he disputes, “i do not need kiri to be my partner this year.”

your fingers fumble, your slicing stutters. “oh?” and you want to kick yourself for how your voice hitches. you clear your throat, bite the corner of your lip that neteyam can’t see. “convince some other poor soul to do it for you? is it zuy’nik? i know she presented you a kill from her hunt recently.”

neteyam hums. “no. i have not chosen zuy’nik.”

you grip your knife harder, focus carefully on the blade as you chop down on a bundle of leaves. your throat is dry, your heart is thundering. you feel silly.

“sënuul, then?” you question, do your best to sound as disinterested as possible even though your chest is burning to know who could be lucky enough to have been picked by the heir himself. “i hear many young warriors wish for her. they say she has delicate hands.”

your hands—in contrast—have grown tense; your chops near erratic. being this worked up over a man who is not your mate seems so futile, so nonsensical. if your mother were here to see you now she’d call you childish.

but is it so childish to want things your heart yearns for?

“while that may be true,” neteyam agrees with the sentiment, and that makes your stomach lurch, “it is not sënuul either.”

“then who is it? who could you possibly—“

a hand covering yours has you cutting yourself off. neteyam’s palm melds over your knuckles; stops your unsafe cutting and stills your wrist’s movements. before you can even bring yourself to look at him, calloused fingers are hooking around your chin. swiveling your head around, you have no choice but to meet his gaze. and it is not averting, not twinkling with tepidness like it was before. you think, for a moment, that’s because he’s passed the feeling onto you.

“i do not wish for any other partner in this clan.” and his voice does not waver, does not stumble, now. you swallow as you listen. “i came here to ask if you would do me the honors, for tonight.”

your tongue feels like cotton; the fuzz of it floating to your brain to make everything go static. this is.. not what you had expected.

you had expected to follow neytiri’s orders for preparing the food for the meals that would be shared. you had expected to dress yourself in the ceremonial clothing and jewelry you keep for these special occasions. you had expected to stand around the edges of the circle during the opening dance, serve food to the elders, and sit with a content tight smile as you watched kiri declare neteyam’s war paint for the third year in a row before the true celebration began.

you had not expected yourself to be standing face to face with neteyam, ears twitching embarrassingly sporadic, as he asks you to join him in one of the most intimate and important events of a warrior’s life.

and you suppose you can use that element of surprise as the reason why you find yourself a tad bit speechless while you nod dumbly. a wide grin cracks across his face, curves up his cheeks as he lets out another breathy laugh.

“thank you,” he murmurs, and he still hasn’t let go of your chin. “i was worried i would not get the chance to ask you in time. i was pushing it, but i tried to get all my other duties done as fast as i could.”

now that, the mention of time, finally knocks you out of your little lovesick trance.

“hey, wait,” you huff, shove at his chest lightly with your free hand. “you should have asked me sooner! i should have already had your stain pattern planned out, and—and now i have to go get all of your paints and i didn’t factor in the time for that. you’re terrible!”

“ah, i’m not terrible. i am sure you can just wing it,” he waves off, simpers like this is funny.

“wing it?” you gape at him. because he genuinely cannot be serious. “this will be your war paint pattern for the rest of the year. if it’s bad then you will be stuck with it. you want me just to wing that?!”

“why not? i have faith in you, i’ve put myself into your hands.” and it’s meant to playful, you know this, but the way he’s looking at you proves his words hold their full weight regardless. “don’t be mad at me.”

“oh, i’m mad,” you retort, brush him away as you get back to slicing because now you really do not have the time for distractions. “i cannot believe you have waited until last minute.”

“would you like me to ask someone else?” he queries, and you whip your head over to level him with a glare. “i mean, i am sure sënuul would be honored to be the partner of the future olo’eyktan.”

“you know, i liked you better when you were sputtering and nervous,” you spit back, retract your attention once again. “terrible. truly terrible.”

“ah, do not be mad at me,” he levels again, “what can i do to have you forgive me?”

“nothing. you will never be forgiven.” with no hesitation, but also no malice. your bite holds no venom, and your cheeks are still warm. such hypocrisy you spew.

“nothing?” he questions, and you don’t even have to see his face to know he is smiling. there he is again; the neteyam who holds his chin up high and taunts his brother into mindless games to prove his worth. you admire this neteyam; love this neteyam.

this neteyam grabs your face and tugs you forward before you can think of another mindless rebuttal to spout.

the kiss is light but fervent, and if you were a poetic person you might just say that his lips taste like future promises you already intend to keep. the fight drains from your body and you find no urge to bring it back. this neteyam seems to know how to quell you, how to dispel your frustration and wipe away your grievances like fogged up glass. so easy, so effortlessly.

he pulls away languidly, breath puffing against your lips. "forgive me?" he asks again, and you find yourself nodding before he even finishes the question.

he turns your head to peck your cheek then drops his hands to finally successfully steal the knife still held in yours. you tip your head, blinking through the daze to inquire what he's doing.

"i can finish that, you know."

"i know," he answers, then flashes you a crooked grin that has your stomach twisting in a way far different than before. "but don't you think you should start planning how you want to trail your hands over me?"

and, oh. part of you wants to hit him for that. but part of you wants to tug him in by the neckpiece he dons and get him to shut up by an alternative method.

as you reach forward to run your hand ever so heedlessly up his chest, a faux illusion of planning your mapping, you think you might just settle on the latter.

[brynn-lear]

Sugar Pills (Yandere!Capitano/Reader)

Questionable Overview: You're getting real tired of Dottore's theatrics. Which is a great shame, considering how it's only now that Capitano learns the value of surface acting and masking. (from my series: #Capitano's So-Called Liability)

CW/Tags: there is no "real" age gaps since this is a Howl's Moving Castle scenario, slowburn/soft yandere themes, afab!reader, mild violence. While this fic isn't "too dark", the reader isn't mentally stable. Please prioritize your mental health first, you matter.

Prev || Next

When coming up with a proposal, you've learned that it's best to approach a harbinger when they're in the middle of an arms race. It's been ages since you've applied this knowledge, but luckily, dusting off memories of yesteryears isn't challenging.

"Can't even spare me a proper welcome?" You yawned, dropping a beaten and dead fatuus just inches away from an unforgettable metal-laced shoe. The sound of their empty vision clunked on the hard floor. "I might not be as much in the spotlight these days, dear, but isn't it good manners to greet your elders properly when they visit?"

The aforementioned shoe brushed the body away. "Hah. You make a terrible habit of flaunting that cosmetic age of yours."

And yet, there you stood, glaring with a smug head up high. No ordinaire can don the demeanor you flaunt in front of the second-ranked harbinger. You'll always keep the cloak-and-dagger act. Dramatics are second nature to those who earn their keep through blood money. You only saw it right to greet him with a more appropriate entrance. Bold and unfaltering in resolve.

"And you have a great habit of looking younger with each passing day," you feigned a chirpy tone. "Isn't that right, Doctor?"

Behind a crow's mask, crimson eyes bore holes into your very being.

Since you received that "birthday present" from him, he had sent out men to secretly nag you behind the Captain's back. They ask you why you haven't taken the medicine at best and attempt to drug you at worst. This rendezvous had been going on for weeks. Enough times that could manifest anger and murderous intent out of you until it did.

After reaching the limit of your patience, you murdered the last person to spike your perfectly fine water, took his vision and portable waypoint, and teleported to his master harbinger's base. Too much work just to get someone to stop pestering you.

The feeling is mutual. Il Dottore— the last of his perspective— also found your presence troublesome.

The second-ranked harbinger spent his "free" time in a painfully bright, pale room. He likes to dub this phase a "recovery state." Typically, there would be plenty of "him" to go around— but striking a deal for a gnosis always beckons a great deal of self-sacrifice. Or self-sacrifice-s. 

Hence why you pushed to visit him this instance. Despite his placid demeanor, you're confident he's eager to prove that there's a method to his madness. Oneself is always the greatest competitor. 

A proper arms race. 

"You know very well that I do not take youth as a compliment," he retorted, though his tone was considerably friendly. He made repeated tapping motions on his armchair, almost impatiently. "What trivial matter have you dared to interrupt my brainstorming session with? Speak now— I'll let you know I'm engaged with matters of greater significance."

"I've done my due diligence of personally replying to your last letter." You glared down at your last victim. "Consider this my thanks."

Without tearing your gaze away, you fished the medicine from your coat and threw it at his chest with all your might. The bottle shattered on the floor.

Greatly "offended" by your rude antics, Dottore defeatedly abandoned his scrawls and turned to properly look at you.

"You decided to skip the pills. How delightfully reckless of you, Granny (Y/n)." He sardonically smiled.

At least he has the decency to name you correctly.

You rolled your eyes as you approached. Once you were just a foot away, you stabbed the corpse's head once more with your cane's pointed base— the force harsh enough to splatter the livor mortis flesh and brain matter on the floor of his beloved laboratory.

What an unnecessarily extreme scene, befitting of your old title.

"I grow tired of your games, Zandik." You spat back. "Must you constantly send your men to make futile attempts to lace my food with your de-aging concoction? I don't appreciate discarding their bodies— much less some perfectly fine meals."

If Capitano were here, he would've made a vague comment about how your value on human life is concerning.

But he doesn't have to know about this interaction.

"You complain about my work, yet I vaguely recall an era in your life in which you'd routinely wake up screaming like a rooster in the morning." Dottore shrugged and pointed to himself. "And who provided you with a cure-all for those night terrors? Go on. I would be enthused to know."

You crossed your arms. The jaded look in your eyes heightened his interest. Hence, Dottore stood up, his footsteps crunching the shattered glass strewn about.

"Let me wager a proper hypothesis for this ...irrational behavior. A possible psychological or existential leaning toward death may be at the root of the patient's ongoing resistance to the recommended treatment." He craned his head like a bird inspecting its prey. "In simpler terms for meager minds like yours to understand: you're not accepting my charity since you wish to die. Is that right?" 

Dottore is a reasonable man. Disarmingly charming, even.

This particular segment just hates you.

You smiled back, returning the same malice.

"Who knows?" You tapped the beak of his mask. "Doesn't matter. I didn't come here to get psycho-analyzed. I came here because I want to strike a deal."

Dottore paused.

"I had a prediction that you would ensnare me with a gambit. No small wonder that Omega has found you a captivating individual, (Y/n)."

Many miss the fact that the good Doctor has a "seductive" air about him. He has a charisma that people will either dismiss in fear or fall victim to. You're part of the secret third group— the coworkers immune to his antics.

"Yes, well, I do pride myself on hosting the best picnics by the meadows of Ardravi Valley." You spoke, voice oozing with the same playful banter you once reserved for his deceased copy. "I've got no abundance in lifespan like you. I'd dare say I'm selling myself at a very limited-time offer."

However, this Dottore was not the one you befriended. This was his murderer.

"Playing the card of wisdom with that appearance may fool the world, but you can't dissuade me." Dottore clicked his tongue. "Are you mimicking Sohreh?"

What a surprisingly plain question.

You shrugged. "Am I?"

Feigning impassivity while he could, the Doctor placed a hand on your shoulder.

"Talk."

"I've only one wish, which is for you to stop being such a nuisance." You scoffed. "What can I do to get you to stop trying to make me your side experiment, Doctor?"

Intuition rarely fails you. You knew that this was a matter that could be reasoned with. The problem is that you needed to figure out what your bargaining chip would be. But by the look on his face, he had already sorted that out minutes, maybe even months, before you arrived.

His hand that once hovered on your shoulder slowly snaked towards your neck.

"I have a proposal," Dottore spoke softly.

You hardened your expression. "Spill."

"I can assist you in experiencing that honorable death you craved so much— at the right time and place." Using his thumb, he applied mild pressure against your throat. "However, I'll need you to befriend the upcoming tourists in Natlan."

You blinked.

… What a strange request.

"Befriend… The tourists?" You grabbed his intrusive hand, yanking it away. "What are you on about?"

"Under favorable circumstances, I would have had a copy extract these, but the old conventional tools are unavailable."

"But why?" You raised an eyebrow. "Dear, I just can't quite wrap my head around why this is the gamble you're betting your chips on—"

"And that is precisely why The Tsaritsa dubbed you La Ruffiana and not a respectable title," Dottore smirked, chuckling lowly. "Hence, I'll gladly elucidate you with brief guide questions in a language you're sure to comprehend."

"I'd rather we both save time by revealing the answer, pronto."

Since you had forgotten to let go of his wrist, he used your grip to pull you closer to him.

"Tell me, (Y/n), during the Sumeru fiasco…" With faces just inches away from each other, he tilted and teased your ear with his breath. "Who, indeed, served as the paramount subject in my quest to engineer a being that transcends even the might of the archons?"

… Who?

You placed a hand on his chin to create a respectable distance. "Child, I really hate to say this, but the world doesn't just spin around you and your little experiments. I wouldn't know a thing about that poor, nameless puppet you're on about. But if I had to take a wild guess, you're talking about that man you went and turned into a sorry excuse for an All-Knowing God, aren't you?"

Dottore grinned, baring his sharp teeth.

"I perceive that our memories from that period have been tampered with. Nevertheless, your hypothesis remains merely superficial. There exists an individual whom I regard as the genuine subject of this experiment. Would you toss one last conjecture?"

…

You let out a strangled air, unable to properly articulate your disbelief.

It's the traveler. Of course, it's her.

Dottore aspires to transform humans into gods, yet his attempts have thus far been in vain. Save for one young woman who sought refuge in both Mondstadt and Sumeru, all subjects have perished during testing. In your days as a harbinger, you've watched others toil over the vulneraries and prosthetics the Doctor would jam into them. Your visit to certain hospitals by the desert is your testimony to his apathy. He is driven by relentless curiosity, never pausing for the ethical implications of his research, but would spend hours on the feasibility of his experiments.

You were relieved when you heard he used an inorganic lifeform in his last experiment. But if that was a mere dud, then…

"Don't tell me— all this time, your real goal revolved around how the traveler could ascend into Godhood?" You gawked. "So whatever that puppet was, is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy in failure? Your experiments in blasphemy will always find new ways to make me utterly sick."

You flinched as Dottore caressed your cheek. It wasn't the contact that shocked you.

It was the respect in his eyes.

"Hmm... About a year ago, you'd make conscious efforts to bite your tongue. I must remark that I am fascinated with the concerning spike of confidence your senile age brings."

"Things change." You mocked him. "You should try growing older. About a year ago, I wouldn't have this deal with you, too."

With that, the verbal contract was set into motion.

"We'll keep in touch."

He pulled away.

You scoffed. "If I believed in Celestia, I would've prayed you'd become a decent person."

"How unfortunate that you'll need a stronger God to achieve that ambition," Dottore laughed. "And materializing a stronger God is precisely part of my current objectives."

This heretic.

"I see now why you and Capitano are far too different to be colleagues."

You glared.

"Have your glory. You may receive everything— the ego in victory— the spoils of war. Celestia may even watch you steal the blessings of ascension. But you have no honor. You live with no happiness."

You grumbled while you walked away. The erratic sound of your cane reflected the rhythm of your anger and disgust. Before you left, you gave him one high note to end on.

"You dance with no music."

As soon as you were out of the vicinity, Dottore quickly returned to his near-incoherent scrawling.

"I'd rather be a fool who performs for no one," he grinned, his stomach tucking in from stifled laughter. "Than a blabbering grandmother scared of sugar pills."

"(Y/N)!!!"

Upon your supposedly quiet return to the inn, you were greeted by a pair of large hands squeezing your cheeks with trembling worry.

"I told you to call me Granny—"

"Where have you been?!" He tilted your head, inspecting for wounds like an incompetent father. His strength would usually cause grief, but you've grown used to this. It's a sensation that's hard to hate.

His hands are rough but not unkind.

"When I awoke, I realized you were not in your room." He spoke, evident that he was reeling himself from rambling. Been a long while since you saw his long and gorgeous hair this messy. "Had I not instructed you not to wander alone without one of our men at your side."

The inn's staff whispered among themselves while his men stiffly avoided gazing at you two. You cringe at everyone's bloodshot eyes. There's more room to pity the Natlan locals— they didn't ask to be involved. Capitano ordered a search party this late on your behalf when there was zero need for it. The attention was getting embarrassing.

You should've known that he'd notice your absence.

Damn it. You were barely gone for half an hour.

"Steel yourself, child. I don't need your men to coddle me." Months have passed, and he has yet to accept that you do not have a respectable position as a personal assistant. "I can wander around Natlan as safe as I please, kid. Are you seriously doubting my strength?"

That dirty tactic sobered him up.

"You know that isn't so." Capitano sighed, letting you go. "I know you're plenty capable, however..."

"Need I remind you that before the incident, I was originally the Harbinger tasked with retrieving the pyro gnosis?" You shook your head, feigning disappointment. "You should know by now that I've studied this place's typography and wildlife. No encounter could shock and harm me— even with these old bones."

"It's precisely why I worry over you," Capitano glared slightly. "With your curse, you could've been marked by foes out there."

"I didn't go anywhere far. I was just sightseeing."

"That explanation doesn't wash. I saw the glow of a portable waypoint when you came back."

… How observant. That's the first ranked harbinger for ya, you supposed.

"Okay, maybe I went home for a bit, so what?" You pouted. "It's a bit too warm in here for my liking."

The inn's staff immediately froze up.

"N-Not that it's bad, of course!" You laughed nervously. Ah, shit, let's not involve them. "It's my fault 'cause I didn't raise that concern with them. Old ladies such as myself are so stubborn. Hmm, hmm!"

Gradually, Capitano relaxed.

"I understand. At least, I'll choose to understand your fib for now."

"Not quite out of the cage yet, am I?" You joked.

"Not at all." Capitano exhaled softly, a hand barely covering his gentle smile. His voice made it painfully apparent that you're off the hook.

He's such a terrible liar.

Before you could comment on this, Capitano reached out his hand.

"Come with me." He wagged his fingers towards him, beckoning you to come closer. "Let's continue our conversation somewhere private."

Out of the 11 harbingers and those who had come and gone, you know Capitano the most.

"I didn't realize Natlan nights can be cold." You spoke thoughtlessly.

He stared at you blankly. "Cold enough to prevent you from running back home, clearly."

"Ah."

And likewise, he knows you best as well.

You digressed in an instant. "Why did you bring me here, Little Captain?"

You stood by a cliff, staring at the quiet night in the humble town. There's a noticeable increase of guards on patrol since the Fatui arrived in Natlan, but with Capitano as the lead, you saw no reason for their alarm. Obviously, Capitano didn't bring you here to make that observation. Judging from how his stare is on the ground and not the beautiful sight, public perception is pushed at the back of his mind.

"Your cane…" He whispered.

"What about it?"

"You forgot to wash the blood away."

Inspecting the cane without lifting it, you realize what he meant.

"Oh."

"Who was it?" His voice sounded a bit more stern.

Your eyebrows furrowed. "Who was what?"

There was a shift in the air.

"Who attacked you?"

…

You laughed uncontrollably.

"W-What?! Pfft— puh-lease! No one attacked me." You poked his helmet. He stared you down, unamused. "No-bo-dy."

Capitano has yet to let his anger go. He spoke steadily, but he wasn't fooling you. "I'll ask once more: who attacked you?"

"Don't tell me your memory is worse than this old lady's," you clicked your tongue. "I just told you, it's nobody."

Capitano shifted his foot down slightly. "Elena reported that you were assaulting a fatuus with your cane in an isolated dining area."

Curses. You thought you were alone. To be caught by Elena, of all people? Your senses must be dulling.

"Well, one of your men— I suppose— was disrespecting their elders."

"I ordered a headcount. None of my men have gone missing." Capitano crossed his arms. "Besides, they know better than aggravating my most prized assistant."

Should've known that lie won't fly.

"Okay, maybe it wasn't one of your men." Obviously it was Dottore's, but you bit your tongue. "But you should know I'm a polarizing figure in the Fatui. I heard someone say that getting rid of me is a noble act cause they'd be removing your right from employing an absolute loser."

"(Y/n), where did you get those ideas?"

Honestly? Straight out of your 'lovely' imagination. If not inspired by Pantalone's past remarks as well— just cruder.

It’s almost commendable how easy it is to assume everyone is out to get you. The work environment certainly helps. A strange grin or remark is sufficient to validate any doubts. Probably illogical for you to live life this way. You're aware enough that not every whisper is about you and that not every grin hides some hidden agenda, yet the uncertainties still seep in so effortlessly that it almost seems like breathing.

You've yet to find someone who will prove your inherent distrust wrong. That body you hurled at Dottore earlier was no exception.

"Whoever attacked me doesn't matter; I got rid of them."

"I know you did. I don't reserve any doubt whatsoever. That is not the issue at hand." Capitano shook his head, his last words hiding a slight growl. "What I am perturbed by is how you had hidden this from me."

Your eyes widened.

"I-I'm sorry, forgive me, Capitano." You fumbled. "It was genuinely not as big as you think it is. A traitor was in the mist, and I took care of it."

"You were targeted, (Y/n)," Capitano said, nearly whispering as he gently took your hands. No matter how callous he was or how much his skin resembled etched maps, they held yours with great care.

His eyelids drooped slightly, hiding unspoken grief. "You were attacked when I made an oath that I would protect you while you are under my care..."

Capitano's tone softened further, almost withdrawn from hurt.

"I should have been there..."

You've never been one to immediately process emotions in a snap. When you and Capitano share ideas, theories intersect like constellations on Teyvat nights. But that look in his eye? You can't read what he's thinking.

"Why do you fret over it, dearie? Death is but a doorbell away for me." You hummed with a wide smile. "I'll be claimed soon enough. Maybe tonight might even be the night. Oh, honey, it's no skin off the Tsaritsa's back if an old gal like me bites the dust."

…

You have a feeling you said the worst thing imaginable at that moment.

…

Capitano said nothing.

In fact, you'd wager that was on purpose.

There's a glint in his eye. A look that you couldn't place— a dangerous thought you can't hear. It ringed endlessly in his ears, and the slight tremor in his fingertips proved it. His blue eyes stared straight into your soul.

A revelation. An epiphany. A newfound raison d'etre that he refused to let anyone know— you specifically.

Something about him drastically changed.

But that look vanished in an instant.

Capitano's mouth curled upward.

The smile did not reach his eyes. 

"I prefer if it's kind sleep who takes you tonight," Capitano muttered. "Death is far too early for a woman like you."

"A woman like me?" You chuckled. "You meant grandmother, right? And what do you mean by that?"

"A woman like you deserves all the time in the world, not to be taken prematurely. Your spirit is far too bright to be dimmed so soon." He took off his cloak. "Because a woman like you is a woman loved by many."

Capitano wrapped his cloak around you before you realized it. As you looked down, you noticed how much larger his frame was than yours. The cloak reached the floor when you donned it. Though it was night, the cologne he put on reminded you of sun-drenched clothes and steel— but it's possible that this was just Capitano's natural scent.

"I should add cloaks as an interest for your late birthday present." You could practically hear the smile on his face as he said, "It suits you."

Something about the way he sounded was way off now.

The weariness from your conversations with Dottore seemingly washed away. You grabbed a fistful of the cloak and raised it. "I think every tailor in Teyvat would beg to differ."

Capitano chuckled. "Respectfully, they wouldn't know any better."

"And you do?" You raised an eyebrow, but that grin on your face is too difficult to wipe off. "I don't think you know me well, little Captain."

You continued.

"Anyone can learn to like me, but to love me…"

Is devastating.

You trailed off, eyes back on the quiet streets. You've always admired those who teased on the edge of retirement and eternal sleep, their bravery surpassing the young's. They act on reckless abandon, unburdened by the opinions of others. Alice saw this in you, and she knew— deep in her heart— that she'd be more than willing to help you embrace that freedom in whatever form that may take.

Since you became a "grandmother", seemingly everything and nothing has changed. You've pushed away those who pretended to care, only to find that no soul can stand to be with you. Maybe it was a glorious boon or just as the witch said— a desperate cry for help, nothing more. The experience so far taught you things you already knew you hated about yourself that you wondered if this were all for the sake of mastery. Have you destroyed yourself for nothing? Who knows. But you'll continue to take solace that maybe, just maybe, death may end the loneliness you've endured for so long.

But if you so badly chase for death…

"████████."

You looked at him.

"Can I ask for a favor?"

You're going to do it right.

Taglist: @macaronilovingracoon, @lucienbarkbark, @meimeimeirin, @notthefib987, @meowmeowakutagawa

[butt3rnugg3t]

Bonedeep Ache

Summery: Short drabble based on this idea I posted a bit ago. Though I feel like this took a different direction once I started writing it lol

AN: I live in the US (unfortunately) and I am an undiagnosed 23 year old with no health insurance and a shitty paying job so I can't go figure out what's wrong with me. This is entirely based on my own experiences, I'm not trying to self diagnose. Just trying to write the comfort I wanna read. Thanks!

AN2:Also hoping this reads ok, the longer I look at it the more i second guess my writing.

Remus didn't know what was worse. The cold snap that's been sticking around the last few weeks or his over protective boyfriends. Though one couldn't exist without the other it seemed.

His hip creaked under his weight as he moved to stand. Watching James come through the front door with the groceries for dinner. He was quickly ushered back down by Sirius. The self appointed guard dog for the living room it seemed.

"Not getting up unless you use your cane," Remus only rolls his eyes, grumbling as he settles back in his seat. He was aware he sounded like a petulant child. But he was a grown man and they were treating him like a weak child.

He was pulled out of his pouting by James running back outside. He made eye contact with Sirius, though he looked just as confused. He moved to get up again, catching Sirius glare. Huffing lightly and grabbing his cane reluctantly to follow his raven haired boyfriend to the door.

Remus isn't surprised by what he finds. His equally stubborn girlfriend, clad in the comfiest work clothes you could don this morning (one of his jumpers and Sirius' sweats). Arguing with James.

"I don't need picked up James, I can walk just fine-" James is quick to cut her off.

"The hell you can, you told me when you got in the car that your joints all hurt. Why didn't you wear your braces or your compression gloves." Sirius looked ready to blow his top, ready to storm out and join the argument on the porch.

Though Remus was quicker, sticking his cane out to stop his boyfriend. "Dove, wanna come have a bath with me?" Remus understood, the stares and questioning looks. The pitying looks. Though he also new you had your own reasoning for not wearing them.

So he did what he knew would help. Because it helped him too and sometimes that's all you need. Someone who actually understands. And as much as he loved his able body partners, they didn't understand the pain of it all. The deep ache to be normal, to just stop hurting.

"No big light, just some candles. Hot water and bubbles?" He hoped to coax you more. Which seemed to be working if your small smile and small step toward him were any indication.

James, ever the helper, nodded. Heading inside and up the stairs while Sirius held the door open. Remus was grateful for his boyfriends, he knew their scolding came from places of love. Of caring.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bracing himself on the edge of the tub Remus carefully lowers himself into the hot bath. Instantly relaxing back against the tub wall behind him. Taut muscles easing, helping you lower into the water next.

James stood at the door, awaiting further instructions. Poor boy just wanted to help. Wanted to solve the unsolvable reoccurring problem.

"hey I bet you haven't eaten yet have you dove?" Before you can even respond your stomach answers for you. Causing you to burrow yourself into Remus more in embarrassment.

Wordlessly James took that as his que, leaving the doorway. No doubt finally getting dinner fixed in the kitchen. Remus turned his focus back to you, silently picking up your hand from the water. Beginning to massage your fingers and palm. Lithe fingers working diligently to ease the ache.

After a while, Sirius pokes his head around the doorframe. "Foods ready, clothes are on the bed. Fresh from the dryer, towels too."

At his words he produces the fresh linens from behind his back.

Remus nods lightly, stroking your hair lightly. Voice quiet as to not break the reverie of the bathroom.

"Can you grab Dove? And get James to help me out.." Remus looks up to meet Sirius' understanding gaze. Apology written across the lycanthrope's face in turn. No words needed for this small recurring tradition.

Everyone under this roof understood that nerves were short when pain is pressing at the forefront. Remus was thankful for his partners. Dove for understanding, and yes even James and Sirius for their annoying loving scolding

[catsushinyakajima]

KLANCE FIC RECS FOR THE NEW YEARS RECAP PART ONE

2024 has come to an end! Here are all of my fav fav Voltron fics and authors that I've interacted with throughout the year. I'm trying to make this list as diverse as possible so everyone can find some tropes they like but I PROMISE all these fics are worth a read. Listed in no particular order, we have:

fear no more the heat o' the sun by taromi | 28k | Canon-Divergent

This fic is an ASTOUNDING depiction of Keith's perspective on life and how Lance changes things up. Every scene between them added not only to their dynamic, but also to our vision of Keith. We see how he is and how things unfold so beautifully. The prose is beautiful and the scenes carry both fluff/emotion so well.

Silver Bells by heavily_caffeinated/@heavilycaffeinatedsblog | 86.3k | Christmas AU

I'm not one for much holiday cheer/hallmark-esque tropes, but caf's writing still managed to draw me in so much. I applaud Caf sincerely for their incredible diligence to upload a chapter everyday (totaling to 86k words in 25 days!!), and their enthusiasm to include everyone in it's creation. This fic is a pure show of passion, in both it's story and the creation of the story. I encourage you all to check out their other fics too.

late night talking (can’t get you off my mind) by ShatterinSeconds/@shatterinseconds | 5.8k | Werewolf!Keith

This fic is SO GOOD for touch starved Keith. It's short and sweet and you get both perspectives of their pining and feelings together. It's a really cute one shot, and I had trouble picking between this fic and other fics by the author so check those out too! Also @shatterinseconds is the goat for not only commenting on all my fics, but somehow always being in the comment section of every fic I read.

Hearts Don'/t Break Around Here by klancekorner | 135.5k | Roommates/Childhood Best Friends

This fic is a classic in the KL fandom but I still don't hear it talked about enough!! I don't usually like childhood best friends trope that much but this fic made me LOVE it!!! It also portrays Lance's anxiety and Keith's avoidance so so well and shows them growing up beautifully.

Cores of Diamond by speaks/@speakswords | 25.6k | Friends with Benefits

One time I lost this fic in my bookmarks and spent a whole day trying to find it. It's such a good depiction of the way KL don't always see eye to eye due to a lack of proper communication and bridging that gap between them. Has NSFW scenes!

Where the water meets the sky by speaks/@speakswords | 106.3k | Mer!Keith

I NEEDED to rec another speaks fic, this one is unfinished but it ends on a conclusive note. There's themes of growing up, living with changes, reunions, and also lots and lots of feelings.

got got got it bad by kairiolette | 10.3k | Post-War | Pining Keith

This one is also pretty popular. It's so so funny. And so real. Keith goes through the five stages of grief as he realizes he loves Lance and like. Of course he would do that. Really sweet.

so kiss me (kiss me kiss me kiss me) and tuesday's sweetheart (sunday's lover) by hearttpoem | 10k | roommates AU | getting together

This author writes the BEST modern/roommates AU. I love the way KL lives together in their fics and I love the way you can see different love languages in the fics. I was going back and forth between which fic to rec and I chose both these fics cuz I read them all the time!!

Where the apple falls by europa_report/@jupiters-junipers | 130k+ | post-war | comatose

No fic rec list is complete without this fic. This fic is genuinely one of my favorite KL fics, its not finished but I believe the author will finish it. The prose is beautiful and it is an entire emotional rollercoaster. You guys should definitely check this fic out

I've Said Too Much (You Promise I Can't Ever Say Enough) by negativefouriq | 1.8k | Autistic!Lance | Est Relationship

This fic is short, sweet, and such a good depiction of having so many thoughts and wanting to share them all and the anxieties of it. Keith's perspective and his reactions to Lance are very healing to read.

baby, i'll rock your world by AsterikaMay/ @catsushinyakajima | 9.5k | Christmas AU | Gift giving

I am putting one of my fics here lol because I did enjoy writing this one a lot! I keep writing fics about gift giving and pining...this must say something about me ahahah

Part two here

[2-dsimp]

I NEED MOREE CONTENT OF ICHA THE CULT LEADER FROM THE SPIN-OFFS 😭

he's just so adorable and cute and all hwjcjai 🥺🥺💕💕

if it's okay to ask, can i ask for more nsfw content for him?? he's just so adorable!! (icha favoritism?)

╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╡

Yandere Cultleader x Desperate gn reader!

╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪

Synopsis: All you wanted was a chance to be loved well look no further than your local Cultleader Icha who’s grown desperate himself. From playing docile with you all this time. (Continuation off a previous ask I already did. Might drop a part two for altar smut👀 1.6k words)

°»｡ ∾･⁙･ ღ ➵ ⁘ ➵ ღ ･⁙･∾ ｡«°

Cw:MDNI suggestive! religious themes/gore/cult activity/manipulation/gaslighting/coercion/slight mention of murder/obessive/possessive tendencies/unhealthy behavior/ Icha being delusional.

╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╡

“Ευλογημένος Έρως της αγάπης, του πόθου και του πόθου. Ξέρετε ότι η επιθυμία μου υπερβαίνει κατά πολύ εκείνη του μέσου ανθρώπου.”

The Cultleader chanted, in greek of which he learned to fully connect with his patron god. On his knees hands clasped in a prayer position as he was desperate to have you in his clutches.

“Είσαι μάρτυρας, αφοσίωσή μου, Ξέρεις πόσο καιρό έχω περάσει τόσο καιρό με αυτή την τρυφερή αγάπη στην καρδιά μου. Με σιγοκαίει!”

After spending so much time restraining himself. Acting like a docile gentleman for his darling, but seeing no progress. He was barely hanging on a thread from kidnapping you and holding you hostage in his room.

“Κύριε Έρως! Σας παρακαλώ να ακούσετε τις παρακλήσεις μου. “

The young Prophet was so needy for you that he did manifestation spells. Hoping his delusions of you magically appearing in his lap from his earnest summonings. Would come true so he could love on you like the precious babe you are.

“Δώσε μου καθοδήγηση! Ρίξε μου ένα καταραμένο κόκαλο, και θα σου δώσω ένα μπροστινό κάθισμα για το πώς θα αφήσω την επιθυμία μου για την αγάπη μου να με καταναλώσει.“

Since the day he met you he diligently prayed to his patron god Eros. For deliverance from the friend zone you unknowingly placed him in. Whilst holding a doll of you that he made from scratch using the fabric of your used underwear that he’d stolen for religious purposes.

However, his moment of praying were disturbed, hearing the repetitive knocking at his secluded altar. Within the catacombs of an abandoned cellar. Icha bristled donning his cloak with the symbolic rose markings upon his mask.

Icha’s temper was getting the best of him, as he scowled. Prepared to rip the follower a new one for interrupting his needless begging. Blowing out the incense he let Eros know of his departure. Before getting up and marching towards the door.

Though, taking his anger management lessons to heart. He did the box technique and collected himself. He is supposed to be a dignified sect leader after all.

“Devotee, you realize what you’re doing is a violation correct? As I’ve said before do not interrupt me in the middle of worship unless it’s an urgent matter.“ Icha, said in a stern tone masked with veiled frustration.

The Devotee bowed their head apologetically in response, “My apologies! Esteemed prophet, this matter is of urgency! One has come seeking for the revelations of lord Eros”

“I see, I suppose that’s arguable justification to overlook your offense. Lead the way devotee.”

The Cultleader relented begrudgingly following the grunt to the entrance of my underground lair of worship. The fanatic couldn’t possibly turn a blind eye for new worshippers. All the more to get into the good graces of the god of love and desire. With news of a new member to join their cause of finding eternal love. Only to find that the said new follower of Eros was you. The one he’s been craving all this time.

With unparalleled speed Icha shoved the grunt out of the way making haste to you. Panting like a dog in sheer excitement at how lord Eros had answered his prayers and brought his love to him. He’d be sure to show his gratitude to repay such a blessing.

“A-AHEM! Lord Eros has told me all about you! In fact your a-arrival was long overdue. And for the record Lord Eros has already b-blessed us to be soultied! T-tonight actually right at the altar!”

Icha was too excited, and just spilled his evident yearning for you to see. You of course were surprised but at the same time desperate for some type of connection. Which driven you to seek out the cult of Eros, in hopes of finding the one for you.

“R-really Eros was expecting me? And we’re to get a soultie? Is that supposed to be some sort of indoctrination ritual?”

You stammered taken aback by the Cultleader’s statement. Icha’s heterochromatic ringed eyes dilated at you in an unhinged manner. Seeing how cute you were playing dumb he stepped closer. His gloved hand coming to rest on your chin as he lifted your head up to giving a wide deranged smile.

“Of course not, the soultie ritual is sacred! Only privy to you and me. You see, you’re special! The fact that you’re here proves that Lord Eros finds us to be a match made in heaven.”

The prophet declared, letting his hand fall from your face caressing your arms and taking your hands into his. The grip was tight as Icha ushered you further into the underground space.

Passing by cloaked devotees and heading towards the restricted sacrificial room. Displaying a pristine alter where a small statue of Eros lay over watching it. Depictions of Cupids were carved into the walls. While hundreds of scented candles, surrounded the perimeter. As offerings such as roses and grapes.

“Well first things first before we can get to the good part, Lord Eros requires a s-sacrifice.”

Icha continued leading you towards a pedestal where a large ceremonial knife rested. Picking it up in his digits. The blade was sharp and clean. Perfect for the sacrifice he had in mind. To pay his god Eros tribute for such a joyous occasion.

“To fully accept you into his flock as his priestess. And take your place my second in command! You’d need to heed these simple r-rules.”

With a mere clap of his hands two upper ranked Devotes came dragging in a person whose identity was covered by the burlap sac over their head. Labeled heretic.

“Firstly, you’re not allowed to leave. The moment you stepped into his domain you’re considered as his Devotee. Any indication of betrayal/neglect in your duties towards Lord Eros results in immediate dismissal.”

Waving a hand he turned away the Devotees who bowed their heads and stalked away. After leaving behind the muffled hostage wringing around in their restraints. Begging to be released.

“Secondly, Y-you will pledge your complete and utter loyalty to me. Since I’m the Prophet of Eros you must promise to obey and listen to my commands.”

Not even batting a glance at the already bloodied heretic writhing in pain within the sanctity. Icha suddenly placed his arms at the stone altar on either side of you. Leaving you pinned against his cloaked body. Now pressed into yours as he cornered you against the stone with no escape.

“The rules are easy enough to follow right? So let’s have our first crime of passion and send this traitor off together!”

The Cultleader’s voice trembled in pure elation, spinning you around so that he was snug against your behind. His palms steadily guiding your own to point the ornamental knife at the captured Heretic. Who was crying for forgiveness though it was muffled by the sac upon their head.

“Wait you seriously don’t actually mean to kill them right? Is this some kind of joke—“

Your hands were shaking completely at a loss for words. Were you truly going to go through with this initiation process which was basically first degree murder?

“This is just a minor step that has to be done in order for us to finally be bounded together.” Icha interjected, his almond eyes narrowing as he used his other hand to tilt your head back so he could peer down at you.

“You’ve been lonely right?” The Cultleader whispered into your ear, his soothing voice echoing in your mind. Almost as if he was trying to brainwash you like he did the rest. “Searching for someone to care for you, console you, love you. Isn’t that the reason why you came here in the first place?”

“That’s true, I did c-come here for that but I didn’t know I’d have to do this. This is wrong, it isn’t what I wanted—“ You said already having a near panic attack, seeing how the heretic was already missing their hands. The stumps were poorly wrapped.

“Lord Eros and I have been eyeing you for a long time. We’ve seen your attempts at trying to find love on your own. And look at where it’s gotten you, nowhere.” The Prophet hissed, a bit frustrated from your acts of denial. You flinched at his harsh tone recalling how it was just the plain truth of the matter.

Icha chilled himself, seeing that you too realized that obvious fact. after all he was the one to blame for your lackluster love life. Since a smug smile tugging on his lips from the memories of how he successfully hexed every potential suitor to suffer from scrutinizing symptoms the moment you entered their sights.

“But here is your golden chance to get that love you need and deserve! With lord Eros’s help we were finally reunited! To become one as preordained” Icha said in a matter a fact tone, he buried his face to your exposed neck taking in a deep whiff. Sighing in pure pleasure of finally having you in his grasp.

“I’m all yours, and you’re all mine. I can give you whatever you need. I’ll make sure you’re never left aching” The shaking in your body slowly quelled to a stop. Your brain registering his honeyed words, god you were so desperate to even consider this. Icha noticed you relaxing and merely smiled pressing chaste kisses down your neck savoring the taste of your flesh.

“Don’t you see? You’re already the reason for the life I breathe everyday. You’re my soulmate! We just need to make it official!”

You barely even knew this guy who was promising you eternal happiness. But you didn’t really care at this point you just wanted to be loved. You gripped the knife tightly tears welling up from your eyes as you came to a stop at the crumpled figure of the Heretic. Icha lovingly caressing you and talking you through your nerves like a lullaby.

“All you need to do is take the leap of faith with me... I’ll be with you no matter where you lead.”

In the center of the room lies Eros statue. Eyes glowing a faint light. An untraceable wisp of laughter filling Icha’s ears. As The corner of its lips quirked into an unnoticeable smirk of amusement.

[ailoda]

updated: 01.02.25

ᯓ ✈︎ series

D-Day (❤❅✘): after finding out his girlfriend is pregnant, Jake is ready to move in and get married. The last thing he expected was to be hit with a six-month deployment at sea and missing the birth of his first child. (@trickphotography2)

Line of Sight (❤❅): you may just have to address your assumption that Jake Seresin doesn’t care for you at all, because surely a man who disliked you wouldn’t go out of his way to have your back when you need him the most? (@honkytonk-hangman)

Fuck: The Universe (❤❅✘): you're a Kazinsky -- Tom "Iceman" Kazinsky's youngest daughter -- and you've taken after your father to become a Naval aviator. You finished at the top of your class at Top Gun and have worked diligently and fruitlessly to get where you are now: North Island. You don the call-sign Wisteria not only because the beauty of the flower but because of its lethal qualities. Jake "Hangman" Seresin is the bane of your existence and he returns those feelings towards you tenfold. Jake thinks that you've gotten everything handed to you and has no trouble telling everyone that. When things finally boil over one day (in a shower cubicle on base of all places), you find unlikely companionship in Jake. Who knew lemon-lime Gatorade and Plan B would be the start to your love story. Or enemies to fuck buddies to friends to lovers. Whichever you prefer! (@roosterbruiser)

Left At The Altar (❤❅✘): when you get left at the altar, a familiar face swoops in to save the day. (@tip-top-cloud-surfer)

What is L-O-V-E? (❤❅✘): Lena Bradshaw (formerly Seresin) struggles once again to keep the peace between her ex-husband Jake and her older brother Bradley for her son's sake. And the uranium facility mission only seems to heighten the stakes of it all. (@tip-top-cloud-surfer)

Spring Fling (❤✘): you should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck. (@ddejavvu)

Oh, Baby (❤❅✘): you might not have been his girlfriend, but when you left town one night a month after sleeping together, it completely broke Jake’s heart. Now, a year later, you’ve returned and you’re not alone. You have a new little companion that just so happens to bear a startling resemblance to Jake. (@seresinhangmanjake)

Bad Habit (❤❅✘): the moment you meet hangman, you know you hate him. and then suddenly, you’re not so sure anymore. (@seasonsbloom)

new! Sign of the Times (❤❅✘): you're destined to die in Jake Seresin's arms. In every life, in every iteration, it's inescapable. Whether you loathe, or love each other, each ending stays the same. But what if it doesn't have to? (@se7entyrell)

[spider-stark]

a cruel fate

Aegon II Targaryen x Reader

Summary - Having been in love with Aegon your entire life, you always assumed that he never felt the same. Now set to wed his brother, Aemond, your frustration finally peaks and leads to you confessing your feelings.

Warnings - suggestive language/actions, light use of y/n (sorry), sad aegon lol, minors dni please

// send me your thoughts // friendly reminder that reblogs and comments are always appreciated //

Winter had fallen over King’s Landing, offering the air an undeniable chill. It nipped relentlessly at your skin, tinting your cheeks a deep shade of maroon.   

You weren’t dressed appropriately for the weather, still wearing the same black gown that you’d donned at supper. It was a sleek and simplistic thing, one of your favorites, though it left much of your neck and forearms exposed to the frigid elements.   

Gooseflesh began to form along the bare bits of skin, your body’s way of urging you to go back inside the castle and seek out some semblance of warmth.   

Despite knowing that it was the logical thing to do, you didn’t listen. Instead, you brought your knees up to your chest, pressing your forehead against them and further curling into yourself, trying to lock in as much of your body heat as possible.   

Eventually you would have to go back inside the Red Keep, even if only to prevent hypothermia from setting in. But returning inside meant returning to reality; one that you knew you weren’t quite ready to face again.   

So, for now at least, you were content to sit here beneath the weirwood tree and risk freezing to death.    

A strange part of you considered whether death was a more desirable fate than the one you would soon face—though the thought alone was enough to spawn a feeling of guilt deep within your stomach, creeping its way up your throat and making you feel nauseous.   

Prince Aemond Targaryen was a decent man.   

Or, at the very least, he was far more decent than some of the men that wanted your hand.   

There were countless women who would gladly kill for an opportunity to take your place, and you knew that of all the things you should be feeling right now, grateful should be farther up on the list. After all, King Viserys’s youngest son was highly sought after for countless reasons.   

Aemond was undoubtedly intelligent. He had been studying intricate works of philosophy for nearly two decades, and you knew him to be capable of reciting the great histories of Westeros from memory alone.   

He practiced diligently with members of the Kings Guard, having gripped steel in his palms since he was old enough to stand. This meant his talent with a blade was nearly unmatched, leaving him highly revered for his dedication and talent, desired for his capability to protect those around him.   

And, as much as you wished to deny it, Aemond was an incredibly handsome man; even with the leather patch covering his missing eye.   

You were lucky to have ended up betrothed to him, someone that you had known for most of your life and knew would treat you fairly. You were lucky to be granted such a position, one that so many wanted.   

But try as you might, whenever you find yourself thinking of your betrothed, you can’t make yourself feel lucky, knowing that it was a fate you did not want.   

You just felt sick.   

So, instead of celebrating your impending union within the comfort of the Red Keep, hand-in-hand with your future husband, you sat in the dirt beneath the weirwood.   

Hiding—from both the future that awaited you and what would soon be left in your past.   

Unfortunately, the latter was much harder to hide from, given that your past had a nasty habit of always knowing exactly where to find you.   

“Seven hells, y/n! It’s fucking freezing out here!”   

The sound of Aegon’s voice was unexpected, nearly making you jump from your own skin. You lifted your head to look in his direction so fast that you smacked it against the tree behind you. A pained gasp slipped your lips, followed by a hushed series of expletives as a throbbing spread throughout the base of your skull.   

If anyone else were around, they likely would have scolded you for your vulgar use of language, marking it unladylike and improper. But Aegon only laughed at it.   

“Careful now,” he warned playfully, taking another few lazy steps in your direction, “can’t say my brother would be too pleased to hear that his betrothed bashed her own skull in just days before their wedding.”   

You couldn’t understand how you hadn’t heard him approaching, knowing that stealth wasn’t exactly a quality the eldest prince possessed.   

Aegon was always careless and heavy footed, always quick to make his presence known; the opposite of his brother. But tonight, it seemed as if he’d borrowed upon Aemond’s skills–or, more likely, you had been too consumed in your own misery to pay any attention.   

“I’ve been looking for you, you know.” A boyish grin tugged at his pale lips, stopping at the base of your feet and looking down at you.   

For many it was an unusual sight to see Aegon smile, with most having grown used to the permanent scowl that seemed to grace his features. For you, though, it was a standard expression.    

Rubbing at the sore spot on the back of your head, you kept your chin low, refusing to look up as you spoke roughly, “My apologies, your grace. I wasn’t aware my presence was needed anywhere.”   

Aegon’s brow instantly cocked, forehead creasing as he took in both the bitterness and the formality of your statement.   

It was rare that you addressed him with proper terms and hearing them now made him feel uneasy. Your willingness to ignore the politics that threatened to consume his life was one of the many things Aegon adored about you, knowing that with you, he wasn’t the prince or even the King’s true heir—he was just Aegon.   

“Your presence is always needed.” He spoke without thinking, sharing the first thing that came to mind. When you stayed silent, he felt his face grow warm.  

Clearing his throat and trying to redirect, he impishly bumped his foot against yours to try and draw your attention. It didn’t work, your stare fixed to your lap. “Why are you hiding out here anyways?”  

“I’m not hiding.” You swiftly corrected him, finally lowering your hand as the pain in your head dissipated to a dull ache. “I just wanted some fresh air.”  

“You should have told me,” he said, once again failing to hold his tongue, “I would’ve joined you.”  

Restraint had never been a strong suit of his, yet it seemed to fail him further whenever you were around.  

Aegon had never quite gotten used to having someone who actually wanted him around. Growing up surrounded by those who only ever searched for ways to avoid him, he had grown familiar with loneliness.  

But then you came along one day, a scared little girl whose father had just secured a place in King Viserys’s council. Aegon remembered thinking that you seemed just as out-of-place as he did, trying to make a home of this unfamiliar land.  

Imagining that you were even half as lonely as he felt, he took pity on you, approaching you on a whim and cracking some awful joke to ease your mind. And, to his surprise, it worked. Laughter reverberated through your little body, spilling from your lips and urging him to laugh too.  

With one petty and uncharacteristic act of kindness, Aegon became your first friend in the Red Keep, and you became the first person to not just tolerate his presence, but to actually enjoy it.  

It became an addicting feeling for him, seeking out your company and using it to stave away decades loneliness. With you, he felt that he was always pining, always craving—always the opposite of himself.  

You smiled in response to his statement, though he was quick to realize that it wasn’t a kind one. It resembled more of a snarl, lips pressed tightly together, voice taut as you said, “I wasn’t in the mood for company.”  

Aegon’s body immediately went stiff, a pang of rejection coursing through him and making his face screw up. It was intentional, of course, as you knew him well enough to know he would take your comment personally. You hoped it would piss him off enough to make him leave entirely.  

Of course, though, things were never that easy with Aegon.  

“Alright, what did I do?” He asked gruffly, sounding an awful lot like a child waiting to be scolded.  

“What do you mean?”  

“To piss you off!” He all but whined, voice growing louder as his short temper began to rise. “What did I do to make you act like this?”  

You were stumped, left to purse your lips as you struggled to conjure an answer that didn’t involve you telling him the truth.  

Aegon had been on his best behavior as of late. It had been ages since you last heard of him visiting the Street of Silk and he hadn’t been allowing himself to fall too deeply into his cups.  

In many ways, it seemed that since your betrothal to his brother was announced, Aegon had been far more composed, happier, even—a fact that likely should have made you happy as well.  

But it didn’t.  

If anything, it made you miserable.  

With a deep sigh, agitated by your own complicated feelings and him, you answered with a half-truth, “You haven’t done anything, my prince.”  

The sound of that word, that fucking title, falling from your lips was enough to snap something within him, his quick temper getting the better of him.  

An annoyed growl ripped through his throat, stomping his foot against the dirt. Even without looking at him you could feel his lilac eyes burning into you, glaring down at you.  

“Stop that.”  

You played coy, repeating the phrase that had gotten a rise out of him. “Stop what, my prince?”  

In a selfish way, you wanted him to be angry, to feel even half as unhappy as you were right now.  

“Stop talking to me like my mother’s around!” He grumbled.  

Bold and fueled by your own misery, you pushed him further, “Is that a command, my pri-”  

Aegon cut you off before you had a chance to antagonize him further, shouting far louder than intended, “No! It’s not a fucking command!”  

You were instantly stunned, finally breaking as your gaze flicked up from your lap, staring at him with wide-eyes.  

This wasn’t the first time you had heard Aegon yell.  

After all, you’d grown up with him, having practically become the elder boy’s shadow. You had heard him yell at knights, at servants, and even his siblings—but this was the first time he had ever yelled at you.  

You expected to be scared, having found yourself the target of his short temper. But, in a strange way, you found that you liked it. For a moment, however brief, you were the target of his passion. Even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted, it was still something.  

Aegon clearly didn’t share those feelings though, regret swiftly washing over him. He took a deep breath, his head lowering as he attempted to calm himself.  

“You know that I would never command you to do anything.” He told you, much softer than before. A hand rose to his head, his fingers roughly tugging at his silvery locks. “I was only asking you to stop. As your friend.”  

You knew that his statement was meant as a kindness. A testament, even, that he would never use his position of power against you, viewing you as far more than one of his father's subjects. Knowing that, however, did not stop it from landing against your chest like a harsh blow, your lip curling in disgust at the sound.  

For years you had thought yourself happy to have Aegon as a friend. But, as much as you didn’t wish to admit it, you knew that you would be far happier to have him as more than that.  

As the two of you grew older, you found yourself tired of sitting on the sidelines, watching as Aegon lusted over every woman that crossed his path. You watched as he chased after servants and whores, throwing his attention and his cock at anyone who would pay him any attention.  

Except for you.  

Often it felt as if you were the only woman in the world that he didn’t want, even as you grew desperate for him. While Aegon seemingly craved your friendship, you craved him.  

Having become further vexed by your own thoughts, you let out a particularly loud huff, falling back against the weirwood tree and ignoring the way Aegon’s brows raised at your dramatic display. “Not for much longer.” You proclaimed, watching blankly as your breath turned to a cloudy mist amongst the cool air. “So you should get used to the formalities.”  

“Well what the fuck do you mean by that?” Aegon asked, sounding thoroughly exasperated.  

He found females to be entirely too difficult to communicate with. They were fickle creatures, prone to speaking in riddles and leaving him with a kind of headache that couldn’t be easily remedied. It was the reason he did his best to avoid them altogether, save for whenever one was crawling into his bed.  

You were an exception, however. The only woman he cared enough about to actually try and decode your cryptic speech.  

“I’ll be married soon,” you told him simply, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug, “it’ll change things.”  

 “Ah, yes!” Aegon commented caustically, laughing dryly, “My apologies! I forgot that as soon as you’re wed my brother plans to throw you in the Maidenvault, never to be seen again!”  

You cut your eyes at him, letting your head drop back against your knees. “So glad that you’re taking this seriously, Aeg.”  

The muffled remark made his laughter grow quiet, realizing that you clearly weren’t in the mood for his antics. For whatever reason, even if he didn’t understand it, you were serious about thinking that your marriage to Aemond would affect your friendship.  

Silence settled over the two of you, a suffocating and heavy sort of thing. The ground crunched beneath his boots, and you wondered if he had finally had enough of your temperamental behavior.  

It was a thought that should’ve brought you some relief, given that you had been purposely trying to piss him off enough that he’d leave you to wallow alone in your misery, but it didn’t. Instead, you only grew more agitated at the thought of Aegon running off to seek out the company of someone far more amenable than you.  

You went to lift your head, already considering pleading with him to stay, before you suddenly felt the warmth of his body pressing against your side as he sat on the ground with you.  

The close proximity quelled your building nerves, your muscles instinctively relaxing in his presence.  

“So you’re not angry at me,” he ventured, seemingly unaware of the fact that your heart was now in your throat, your mind too fixated on the way his forearm was pressed against yours, “you’re upset about your betrothal?”  

His tone took you by surprise, now lacking the humor it once held and sounding far more pensive. The newfound solemnity wasn’t enough to stop him from playfully jutting an elbow into your side though, silently urging you to lift your head.  

You obliged with his request, though you didn’t let yourself face him as you muttered out an answer. “I guess so.”  

“But why? This was what we wanted, was it not?”  

We—a simple phrase, inherently meaningless and yet still powerful enough to cause your chest to tighten.  

“We always agreed that when it came time for you to marry that it would be best for it to be someone here, right? That way you wouldn’t have to leave King’s Landing!”  

So you wouldn’t have to leave him.   

“Well, yes,” you huffed, cheeks beginning to heat as you struggled to find an easy explanation for your feelings, “but it’s just–I don’t know, this isn’t how I imagined things would go!”  

It was true enough.  

Perhaps Aegon’s only hope had been that you would be betrothed to someone nearby, unwilling to lose his best friend. But your hope had only ever been that you would be betrothed to him.  

“Is it Aemond?” He guessed, trying to think of any reason for your animosity. Without waiting for confirmation, he hastily started to form a defense for it. “I know he’s a bit of a twat, but it’s not like you’ll be expected to spend all your time with him! Dozens of women only ever see their husbands on special occasions, do they not? Like tourneys or fucking-”  

You threw your head back and grimaced, a repulsed sound coming from your lips at the reminder of the duty that would soon be placed upon you. Cursed as a woman, you would be expected to give Aemond an heir; a thought you’d been trying to avoid.  

“Seven hells, Aeg! It’s not about that!” You cried out, nose wrinkling.  

“Oh.”  

He sank back against the weirwood, his shoulders slumping forward as he did. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Does that mean you actually want to fuck my brother?” He cocked a brow at you, starting to motion to the left side of his face. “Even with the whole, ya know-”  

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh at the disgusted expression he wore. “You’re unbelievable.”  

“I’m just wondering!” Aegon defended himself, lifting his hands to his chest, palms facing outwards.  

“Well not everything is about fucking, Aegon.” You said sternly.  

“Sooo,” he popped his lips, giving you a sheepish grin that let you know he wasn’t planning to drop the question, “you don’t want to fuck him then?”  

Scowling, you reached over to swat roughly at his forearm, unable to hold back your amusement as you watched him try to scramble back from the strike, chuckling at your weak attempt to hit him.  

“No, Aeg. I don’t want to fuck your brother.” You clarified, rolling your eyes at his juvenile behavior. “Not that it’s any of your business in the first place.”  

The answer seemed to satisfy the eldest prince, moving back to settle against the tree with a smug smirk. “Then aside from fucking Aemond,” he jeered, “what’s the problem? We should be celebrating!”  

He leaned closer, delicately grabbing hold of your wrist and lightly shaking you. Your smile abruptly fell, posture straightening. Aegon didn’t notice the changes in your body language, only continuing his spiel.  

“This marriage will solve everything! Your father is pleased that you’re marrying a prince, and being with Aemond means that you won’t even have to leave the Keep! It all works out perfectly.”  

“You’re right,” you heaved out a breath, snatching your wrist from his hand and rising to your feet, “it clearly solves everything!”  

“Yet you’re still not happy.” Aegon acknowledged, mild amusement twinkling in his lilac eyes as he watched you begin to frantically pace back and forth beside him.  

“How could I be?” You scoffed, throwing your hands up as you spun roughly on your heel. “Here I am, being forced to marry Aemond-”  

“Yes, being forced to marry a prince, how dreadful.” Aegon droned.  

“I am signing away my life, Aegon!” You glared at him, keeping your voice low as you jutted a finger against your chest. “I am aware that the cards I’ve been dealt are much kinder than some others, but that does not make them desirable!”  

It felt as if your frustration had reached its peak, your words beginning to spill out without a second thought.  

“As soon as I’m wed to your brother I will be locked away in that fucking castle, good for absolutely nothing but supplying him with heirs! And should I fail at that, then I’ll be as good as useless!”  

It pained you to speak your thoughts aloud, unable to fight back against the guilt suddenly gnawing at you. Growing up Aemond had never been anything less than respectful towards you; but even so, you knew his respect would only extend so far.  

Patient as he may be, there was little in this world that mattered more to him than duty, and you knew he would be expecting you to fulfill yours, regardless of your own wants.  

Ceasing your incessant assault against the ground you froze by Aegon’s feet, now rubbing at your temples. “So yes, this marriage most certainly solves everything.” You spat, voice full of bitter sadness. “I'll be subjected to a cruel fate, where my worth will become equated to that of a broodmare and I’ll be forced to live my life knowing that I will never wed the man I actually want!”  

The subtle admission nearly went over Aegon’s head, your words spilling out so fast that he could just barely register them—but he did.  

The half-way-confession caught him off-guard, the color draining from his face as he processed it. Of all the issues he expected you to have with your betrothal to Aemond, he hadn’t once expected it to be because someone else had already claimed your heart.  

Thinking of it now, knowing it to be a possibility, only succeeded in causing his short temper to flare once again. Aegon’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging deep into the heel of his palm.  

“Who?”  

His voice came out unusually low, his eyes darkening as they landed on you. You instantly felt trapped under his gaze, lips parting only to fall closed once again, trying to think of a way out of the corner you’d backed yourself into.  

When you stayed silent, Aegon pushed himself to his feet in a single swift motion, easily towering over your frame and leaving you to shrink further beneath him.  

“If not Aemond,” he practically snarled, his lip curling as his brother’s name rolled from his tongue like a curse, “then who do you wish to wed?”  

You wanted to disappear.  

You wished that the ground would open up under your feet and swallow you whole.  

But you knew that there was no true escape from him, stumbling a half step back and tilting your head to the ground, doing everything in your power to evade his piercing stare until you could work up a lie that made sense.  

It nearly worked too, until a hand came to rest under your chin, firmly grasping it and shoving it upwards, forcing you to meet his stare.  

Aegon’s jaw was unbelievably tense, clenched tight as a barely contained rage swirled to life in his eyes, impatiently awaiting an answer.  

Now, unable to look away from him, you noticed how much he couldn’t stand this—the idea of you being the one to pine and crave for someone, for you feel anything for another. For some reason, one that no doubt left you perplexed, it was apparent now that Aegon had only accepted your betrothal with ease because he knew it to be out of duty—not love.  

“It doesn’t matter.” You whispered, biting your tongue to hold back the desperate admission building in your throat.  

You tried to hold onto the last few scrapes of your sanity, reminding yourself that confessing now would gain you nothing.  

If Aegon cared for you—if he loved you—then he’d had over a decade to admit it, or to even just show it in a way you could understand.  

“Of course it does.” He rebutted firmly, unwavering in his demand for an answer.  

His touch began to drift, fingers softly sliding along your jawline before the warmth of his palm came to cradle your cheek. It was an unusual feeling, having him so close, but you let yourself savor it, greedily lapping up every bit of intimacy he’d offer you.   

“Please,” he urged you, the scent of wine on his breath piercing your senses, “tell me who.”  

You weren’t sure you’d ever heard him sound like this before, his tone a near whine. It was the closest Aegon had ever come to begging you for something, and as you squeezed your eyes shut tighter, you found yourself losing all sense of reason, unable to hold back any longer.  

“You.”  

A breathless admission, one that held no expectations as to what he might say or do in response. A cynical part of you sought to brace yourself, half-expecting him to take it as a joke and laugh in your face at the thought of being with you.  

But Aegon didn’t laugh, even as his hand fell from your face, allowing the cold to kiss your cheek once again.  

Your eyes shot open at the loss of contact, stunned as you saw Aegon stumbling back from you, nearly tripping over his own feet. There was no look of amusement like you’d expected, nor one of disdain. Instead, to your surprise, he appeared to be hurt by the confession.  

Staring at him, too dumbfounded to speak, you watched the way his bottom lip trembled, lilac eyes turning glossy with unshed tears. Then he shook his head, strands of silver hair falling in his face.  

“No.” He all but choked on the word, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re lying.”  

Your brows snapped together, offended as you just barely stuttered out an answer. “What? Why would I–what would I gain from lying about this?”  

“I don’t know!” Aegon cried out, a few tears beginning to slide freely down his cheeks. He was quick to wipe them away with the backs of his hands, embarrassed by his own emotions. “But I refuse to accept that it’s the truth!”  

“Refusing to accept it will not make it any less true, Aeg!” You countered, stepping towards him and tried to close the distance he had created. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me to say it, especially now, but I swear to you that I mean what I say!”  

It felt foolish to do this, to stand before your best friend and declare him as the man you wished to wed, just days before you were to be given to his brother. You felt ignorant to place yourself in this position, to have set yourself up for rejection after all these years.  

But none of that mattered now, you supposed. You could not take back what you said, having already handed him your still-beating heart. All that was left to do was wait—praying he would be kind enough to not crush it in his hands.  

And so, knowing that you couldn’t back out of this, you swallowed what remained of your pride and said the words that had been living in your head for a decade now.  

“I love you, Aegon. I denied it for so many years and spent several more trying to bury it, but I love you.” 

Aegon remained motionless, his glistening eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. He found none, only seeing that despite any logic or reason, it was the truth.  

As flawed as he may be and as much as he didn’t want to believe it, you were in love with him.  

Wetness gathered on your cheeks, making you realize that you were crying now too. Aegon stayed silent, each passing second causing your heart to grow heavier, an emptiness cleaving its way through your chest.  

He’s had over a decade to admit any feelings he might have–you reminded yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and letting more tears fall free. You had expected this—assumed that Aegon would never see you as anything more than his friend—but that didn’t make it hurt any less.  

“I told you that things would change-” you tried to speak, wanting to get this over with. It was best for him to break your heart quickly, you thought, so that you could at least escape this moment.  

But Aegon didn’t let you finish your sentence, hands suddenly grabbing at your waist, pulling you into his chest. You gasped at the movement, eyes opening as both of your palms moved to press flat against his tunic, trying to steady yourself.  

Disoriented, you blinked at him, waiting for some sort of explanation. He didn’t offer one, at least not immediately. You couldn’t read his expression, quietly watching as his tear-stained face began to soften.  

Then, gently, he spoke—”Say it again.”  

A flush crept up your neck. “I love you.”  

“You shouldn’t.” He said, his thumb pressing into your abdomen as he gripped you tighter.  

“But I do,” you assured him, breathless as you repeated it again, “I have loved you my entire life, Aegon–even if you don’t feel the same.”  

Lilac eyes narrowed at your insecure claim. “Have I ever said that I don’t?” He tilted his head, hands sliding down to your hips and shoving you back against the smooth bark of the weirwood. “I have been madly in love with you from the very first moment I saw you.”  

A mixture of doubt and relief flooded your mind, grappling with the authenticity of his promise. “But you never said anything-”  

“Because I’m not worthy of someone like you.” Aegon winced at the sound of his own words. “You’ve seen it yourself throughout the years. Heard it from the mouths of my own family. I am a coward and an imbecile, but you-” his nails dug through the fabric of your gown, his body pressing against yours and further caging you against the tree, “are the only good in my life. The only one who gives me a reason to be good.”  

Pain etched across his features as he talked of the way others thought of him, of the way his own family thought of him. The sight nearly made you crumble against him.  

You brought a hand to his cheek, softly caressing his skin. “You should’ve told me.”  

“No,” he asserted, nuzzling into your touch, “I knew that if I told you how I felt and you didn’t return my feelings that it would change things between us. I wasn’t willing to risk losing you.” Aegon paused, his gaze flickering to your lips, “I don’t think I can live without you in my life.”  

Disbelief clouded your mind. This wasn’t real, you wanted to tell yourself, feeling delirious, this can’t be real.  

But you could feel him; his fingers pressing into your flesh, the steady rise-and-fall of his chest against yours. You could smell him; sweet notes of red wine lacing his breath, engulfing your senses. And you could see him; watching as his lilac stare got hung up on your mouth, your throat, your collarbones, swirling with a dangerous blend of lust and adoration.  

You didn’t want to think of tomorrow or the next day. You didn’t want to think of your betrothal to Aemond and what would become of your life.  

Because tonight, right now, this is your new reality.  

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you began to weave your fingers into the hair covering the base of his neck. “You could never lose me.” You swore, melting as a soft whine fell from his lips at the declaration.  

Then, before you even had time to think, his lips were pressed against yours.  

There was nothing gentle about Aegon’s kiss.  

It was a fervent act, hard and desperate, filled with a passion so intense that it made your legs tremble. Aegon’s grip turned near-bruising, steadying you as he pushed further into you.  

Heat rushed through your body, pooling within your stomach as a strangled moan parted your lips, giving way for Aegon to slip his tongue into your mouth, filling it with the bitter taste of wine. One of his hands drifted to your back, traveling up your spine before burying itself in your hair and trying to pull you even closer.  

Breaking the kiss, he chuckled as he heard you groan in protest, swollen lips ghosting over your cheek before hovering against your ear. “I have loved you for so long,” he purred, the warmth of his breath causing your back to arch, “I have wanted you for so long-”  

The hand that remained on your hip trailed down to your thigh, hurriedly hiking up the fabric of your skirts until he was touching bare skin. His fingers prodded into your flesh, pulling your leg upwards to his waist and wedging himself further between your hips.  

“Then take me,” you gasped, your fingers still laced in his hair, making him groan as you tugged at the silver locks, “I’m already yours.”  

A guttural sound wracked through his body, a hardness pressing against your core as his hips moved against yours. His mouth quickly moved to find yours again, and as his teeth snared on your bottom lip, nibbling at it, you prayed that this would last forever.  

But the Gods tend to be cruel, however.  

“Apologies, my prince-” a squeal erupted from your throat, both of you snapping away from each other to see a red-faced Ser Erryk standing a few feet away. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but the Queen requires your presence.”  

Panic began to flood your veins, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Aegon, however, seemed entirely unphased by being caught like this, his hand still gripping your thigh. “Tell her I’m busy.”  

You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, your mind racing. If Erryk told the Queen of the position he had found the two of you in…  

“I’m afraid she won’t accept that, my prince.” He spoke awkwardly, doing his best to keep his stare from drifting to your exposed skin. “It seemed quite urgent. She requested that I deliver you to her at once.”  

“Fine.” Aegon grumbled, rolling his eyes at the guard.  

He took a half-step back from you, allowing you to lower your leg from his waist before helping you to smooth the fabric of your gown, looking entirely unbothered by the situation.  

You, on the other hand, looked as if you were about to pass out.  

Aegon only chuckled at your blanched expression, leaving you to glare at him as you questioned whether he understood this situation's true gravity.  

“Aegon,” you whispered harshly, gaze flicking towards Erryk, “if he tells your mother about this-”  

“Let him.” He said, a certain arrogance filling his voice. “If he doesn’t, then I’ll do it myself.”  

Your brows furrowed. “But Aemond-”  

“Fuck Aemond.” Aegon told you harshly, unwilling to listen to your protests. “You are mine to claim, not his.”  

You bit down on your lower lip, his declaration only worsening your wish that Erryk hadn’t interrupted the two of you. “Your mother won’t like that.”  

“She doesn’t have to.” He started, “My mother wishes for me to sit the Iron Throne, and I wish for you,” he gave you a devious smirk, reaching for your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, “I imagine the two of us can come to an agreement that will relieve you of your commitment to my brother.”  

In spite of your nerves, only building at the thought of Aegon being forced to sit upon the throne, you couldn't help but allow yourself to smile, finally imagining a future that you wouldn't need to hide from.

Perhaps your fate wouldn’t be so cruel after all.  

I wrote the majority of this well past midnight while feeling as if I were dying from an insane migraine. So, basically, I have no clue what this is but it kept me occupied and I'm gonna go ahead and post it anyways lmao.

Planning on writing some angsty!Aegon and some smut soon cause apparently I'm stuck on him rn. If anyone wants to be added to a HOTD taglist lmk, also feel free to message me any ideas you might wanna see or just to talk about how insanely attractive aegon and aemond are lol

[whatisonthemoon]

Don Diligent’s Message to Sun Myung Moon and Neil Salonen: admit the UC is a CIA operation!

Re-posting from WIOTM Archive - a Don Diligent archived post from August 8, 2016, titled, “Mr. Moon! Just tell us the Unification Church is a CIA operation! Tell us now! You too Neil Salonen! Tell us now!”

Interview With Reverend Moon - Frederick Sontag - 1977

Sontag: Outsiders seem to detect a sense of conspiracy about the church and its activities. Why does it arouse this suspicion about its activities?

Moon: You know the Unification Church does not have any secrets. Many people think it is surrounded by secrets, like some sort of super CIA-type operation…I do not have anything to hide…we operate in the open.

Cults, Anti-Cultists, and the Cult of Intelligence by Daniel Brandt From NameBase NewsLine, No. 5, April-June 1994

Given the CIA’s resources, it is reasonable to expect that a commensurate interest in the cult phenomenon has secretly persisted through the years… A CIA interest in cults is far more ominous than the phenomenon of cults by themselves, because intelligence elites have the resources and mind-set to manipulate large populations.

The first example of such links is the Unification Church (UC) of Rev. Sun Myung Moon. Today it is too well-established to be considered a cult; the list of their front groups and businesses in NameBase runs to 28 pages with 667 names. The UC no longer recruits on U.S. campuses the way they used to – they don’t need the money that Moonies would earn from selling flowers at airports, and they don’t need this sort of publicity. Instead they buy universities: in 1992 the UC plunked down over $50 million for the University of Bridgeport in Connecticut, and one of the UC’s new trustees there is Jack E. Thomas, who was assistant chief of staff for U.S. air force intelligence for six years, and then special assistant to the CIA director for nine years.

Before the Unification Church was incorporated in the U.S. in 1963 by Bo Hi Pak, Moon had the support of the South Korean Central Intelligence Agency (KCIA). The expansion of the cult into the U.S. was conceived as a means of influencing U.S. politics. Four of Moon’s early followers were young army officers close to Kim Jong Pil, the founding director of the KCIA and chief strategist for the Park regime. Bo Hi Pak was the KCIA liaison to U.S. intelligence at the time, stationed in the Korean Embassy in Washington. Today he is one of Moon’s top aides and president of the Washington Times. In 1962 Kim made a two-week official visit to the U.S., and Lt. Col. Bo Hi Pak arranged meetings with CIA director John McCone, defense secretary Robert McNamara, and Defense Intelligence Agency director Gen. Joseph Carroll. On his way home, Kim met with some of Moon’s followers in San Francisco. Pak’s other duties at the Korean Embassy included frequent liaison trips to the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. Moon… has received political and financial support from Yoshio Kodama, Ryoichi Sasakawa, and other powerful Japanese right-wing figures. In 1970 the Japanese contingent of Moon’s organization sponsored the annual conference of the World Anti-Communist League.

Church Takeover Of University Now Complete Hartford Courant August 07, 1992 By KATHERINE FARRISH  

The Unification Church’s takeover of the struggling University of Bridgeport is now complete with the election of 16 new trustees, including several of the most prominent Americans in the Unification movement. Leading the list of trustees elected Wednesday by the 15 current trustees are Neil Albert Salonen…New University of Bridgeport trustees nominated by the Professors World Peace Academy: Jack E. Thomas, a retired Air Force major general, former special assistant to the director of the CIA, trustee of the Washington institute.

On the referenced ‘NameBase’ NameBase is a web-based cross-indexed database of names that focuses on individuals involved in the international intelligence community, U.S. foreign policy, crime, and business. The focus is on the post-World War II era and on left of center, conspiracy theory, and espionage activities. Founder Daniel Brandt began collecting clippings and citations pertaining to influential people and intelligence agents after becoming a member of the Students for a Democratic Society, an organization which opposed US foreign policy, in the 1970s. With the advent of personal computing, he developed a database which allowed subscribers to access the names of US intelligence agents.

[mothdruid]

Losers Prize

pairing. Brian O'Conner x afab!reader

word count. 1k

warnings. this is a 18+ work, minor's buzz off. smut, fluff, oral sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex.

author's note. I told all of you it was coming. i just needed to get this out of my system. so like, here's my Brian O'Conner smut fic. and i guess for reference, this is like during the second movie when Brian is in Miami. k bye.

This wasn't how the night was supposed to go. Not one bit.

You were supposed to race, win, then go home with your cash.

What wasn't supposed to happen was the fourth not showing up. What wasn't supposed to happen was Tej calling Brian O'Conner. What wasn't supposed to happen was Brian winning the damn race. And what definitely wasn't supposed to happen was you going home with Brian.

But here you were, head thrown back as Brian was eating you out. Blonde locks threaded in between your fingers, tugged on periodically. Moans were pouring from your lips, Brian not letting up no matter how hard you pulled.

"Fuck, Bri," you whimpered.

He was staring up at you, bright blue eyes locking with yours. A flick from his tongue had you breaking eye contact, rolling your head back. The barely comfortable sheets were tight in your free hand. Brian's arms were under your legs, hands on your hips to hold you in place. The thick Floridian air was making sweat permeate on the both of you.

"Tell me what you want," Brian said before lapping at your cunt again.

"What I want is for you to fuck me," you replied with a bit of bite.

Brian rolled his eyes while he sucked on your clit, hard. Your hand tightened almost painfully in his hair. You propped yourself up with one elbow to watch Brian. The tightness in your abdomen was becoming unbearable. This slinky racer had you on the edge of pleasure, giving you just enough to keep you there and not push you over.

"Come on, Brian," you whined.

Brian smirked against your cunt and decided to give you what you wanted. His tongue worked over your clit feverishly. The feeling made you drop your head back, knowing this was it.

The tightness in your abdomen snapped, pleasure washing over you. Brian's hands held your hips in place, stopping them from pressing against him too hard. Moans were falling from you, head rolling back and forth on the bed. Brian tongue didn't seem to stop, making your legs start to quiver.

"Brian, please!" You yelped, the sensations becoming too much.

The plea did its job. Brian removed himself from your lower half. He climbed up your body, diligent placed kisses on your skin the whole way up. You smashed your lips to his, tasting yourself on his lips. A moan left you while your tongue roamed his. His hair was tight between your fingers.

"That enough for you?" Brian smiled against your lips.

A hand came up to cup your jaw. You opened your eyes after he broke the kiss. Your hands had moved to his shorts, unbuckling them as quick as you could. Brian let out a soft chuckle, resting his forehead against yours.

"And here I thought you didn't want to see me tonight," Brian kissed you again.

"I didn't," you started pushing his shorts and boxers down, "plan on losing either."

Brian groaned when you took him in your hand. Each stroke had him placing a kiss to your skin. Your neck, cheek, shoulder, chest, it didn't matter what body part. Brian just needed you, craved you.

Neither of you could wait anymore. You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer to you. Brian groaned when his cock rubbed your cunt. The spit and cum from him eating you out made the perfect lubricant for him. The head of his cock would periodically catch against your entrance as he rutted his hips.

"Brian, if you don-" The head of his cock slipped into you, stopping your words mid sentence.

"If I don't what?" Brian asked with a smirk.

All you could respond with was a moan as he pushed deeper into you. Finally his hips were completely flush with your own, cock completely shoved inside of your cunt. You clenched around him, eliciting a groan from him. Eventually his hips started moving, thrusting in and out of you.

The rhythm was sensual yet quick. He was hitting the perfect spot inside of you, the one that had your whole body clenching. Your arms were wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him close while he rammed into you. His hands were kneading your ass and sides. You couldn't keep your mind straight, thinking about all the different sensations.

Brian was nuzzled into your neck, placing soft wet kisses where ever he could. The occasional nip had you moaning loudly. He pulled back for a moment, looking down at you. One hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek as he went in for a bruising kiss. During the kiss his thrusts became more powerful, pushing you over the edge.

He kept thrusting in and out of you, keeping your orgasm going for as long as he could. Once it subsided, he thrusted only a few more times only to pull out and come on your stomach. The groans that he produced while coming were gorgeous. He held you carefully, trying to keep the cum from getting on himself.

Eventually, he got up and searched down a hand towel to clean you up with. He wet it before giving it to you, letting you clean yourself up. He knew that's what you preferred to do anyways, no matter how many times he tried to be gentlemanly about it. Brian found an old pair of basketball shorts on the floor, putting them on before searching a clean t-shirt for you. You happily accepted the t-shirt, slipping it on then finding your underwear to put on.

"I take it you're staying then?" Brian asked as he got on the bed next to you.

"You did take my money tonight, the least you can do is let me stay," you placed a kiss to his cheek.

Brian smiled at you.

"Hey, a race is a race," Brian playfully argued.

"I never disagreed with that," you said while cuddling into him.

"Isn't this enough of a prize?" Brian joked while gesturing to himself.

"Are you calling yourself the loser's prize?" You questioned, quirking an eyebrow up.

"Only if you're the loser."

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."

Word count: 5,000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!

RELEASE — 14. Him.

“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.

His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.

The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.

“What?” 

“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.

“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”

It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.

“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.

“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.

His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.

Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.

“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.

At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.

Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.

They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.

Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.

The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance. 

Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.

Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.

The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.

What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms. 

His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues. 

And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.

Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.

He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.

“Perchance that is exactly what we need” Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.

He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.

Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.

His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.

The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.

Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”

“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.

He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.

Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.

Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.

Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.

The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.

Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.

In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.

She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.

From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.

That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.

His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.

After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.

The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.

Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.

Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.

When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach. 

He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.

“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence. 

The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.

He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision. 

The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation. 

Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.

She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand. 

And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament. 

In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.

Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.

With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.

He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.

The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?” 

“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.

“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.

“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”

She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second. 

He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.

“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.

“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.

“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.

Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.

The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.

“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”

Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for. 

“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative. 

He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.

“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.

“Was it only once?” 

“Yes.”

“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”

“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”

“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”

“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.

“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”

He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.

Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“No” he breathed out.

“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”

A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.

A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.

With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.

Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.

For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.

On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.

“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.

“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”

“It was a grievous mistake.”

“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”

“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”

“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”

She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”

He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.

Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.

“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.

She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.

The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.

“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”

Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”

He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.

She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.

He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.

In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”

When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic. 

“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.

“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”

“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”

Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.

A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified. 

“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”

“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.

She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.

Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.

Yes, he was a child.

It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.

The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.

His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest. 

With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.

Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness. 

As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability. 

“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”

“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.

After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness. 

Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.

“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside. 

With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.

As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.

He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.

He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.

“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”

In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.

@callsignwidow @purplegardenwhispers @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @squidscottjeans @fossface @truly-abysmal @congenialcat @that-girl-named-alex @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark

[bad-omens-blog]

Dad's Day Out -- Dad! Noah Sebastian

Warnings: All the cute, fluffy feelings. Concert interruptions, but in the cutest way possible.

Summary: Noah's wife cannot take their daughter for the day, so it was bring your daughter to work day. Girl Dad Noah for the win, even if he's dressed all in black.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Noah barely had three seconds to open his eyes before his daughter jumped on him, knocking the air from his lungs, "Wake up! Wake up!"

"Fuck. . ." He gasped, rasping out, "Morning baby." He blinked awake to see the same brown eyes as his, "Sleep good?"

"Bestest." She nodded, "Pancakes for breakfast?"

Noah squinted at the clock. 8 am. Right on time for his little girl, "Yeah. Dad needs coffee anyway." He rolled out of bed, noting his daughter's pink strawberry-printed pajamas.

She ran ahead of him, knocking loudly at Jolly's door, "Wake up, Uncle Jolly! Wake up! The sun is awake!"

Noah met Jesse in the kitchen, who looked like hell froze over, "She got to you first?" Noah snorted, pouring a cup of coffee.

"No one should radiate that level of joy at eight in the morning, yet your child somehow pulls it off effortlessly..." He cradled Noah's face in his hands, his voice low and almost fierce as he continued, "Every single day, without fail. She’s fortunate to have that adorable face to back her up."

“I got Uncle Jolly up!” Scarlett declared triumphantly as they descended the staircase, the man effortlessly carrying her in his sturdy arms. His hair resembled a disheveled bird’s nest, wild and untamed, and Scarlett, ever the perfectionist, diligently attempted to smooth it down with her tiny hands. Scarlet Marie Davis was undoubtedly her mother’s daughter—exuding an air of entitlement and an unyielding desire for everything to be just right, all while basking in the lavish spoiling that came her way.

She was spoiled because Noah spoiled her. That was it. Noah smiled as he popped the frozen pancakes into the toaster. The four-year-old was his pride and joy.

"When I say I want a cute girl to wake me up, that's not what I meant," Jolly muttered as he sat at the bar stool; Scarlet was still trying to fix his hair but gave up with a huff.

"Alright, little miss." Noah's fake military voice made her look at him, "What are we wearing today?"

"My pink fluffy dress, Mommy, got me."

Noah hung his head in defeat. He had to dress her in white patent leather flats with lace socks and do her hair. Noah hummed, "Are we sure about this?"

Scarlet nodded, looking at him like he was crazy. Of course, she wanted to wear the pinkest, frilliest dress she owned to a rock show with Dad. "Mommy laid it out for me!"

#

Clad in sleek black attire that contrasted sharply with the vibrant surroundings, Noah carried Scarlet in his arms. She twinkled like a gem in her delicate pink dress, which billowed softly around her as they made their way to the venue.

"Oh my god! Look at you, prettiest girl in the world wide world!" Nick yelled as soon as he saw Scarlet.

Scarlet smiled, "Daddy even let me wear Mommy's perfume."

Nick excitedly ran up to her, burying his nose in her neck like an overly eager puppy, "You do! You smell so pretty." Nick snatched the giggling girl from Noah's arms.

"Do not get her dirty," Noah warned him. Nick gave him a look that said, No, Duh. Noah pointed at him, "I fucking mean it."

Noah went to Matt and grabbed his mic and earpiece. He was talking over the set when Scarlet found him again, saying, "Hey, baby."

"Daddy, lots of people here!" she said, her wide brown eyes clinging to his leg. "They here for you?"

"For me and your uncles." Noah told her, kneeling to her height, "How about you come out with me for V.A.N?" Matt started to say something, but Noah waved him off.

Scarlet nodded excitedly since that was her favorite song, and she loved to watch Poppy on stage.

#

Noah was hot and sweaty when he donned the famous ski mask.

"I would like your help in extending a warm welcome to a very special friend," Poppy announced to the assembled crowd, her voice filled with excitement. "We need to be exceptionally quiet so we don’t startle them." The anticipation in the air was palpable as everyone leaned in closer, eager to join in this enchanting greeting.

Fortunately, this unexpected delay offered Noah a precious opportunity to help Scarlet acclimate to the spotlight. "You'll be sitting on my lap the entire time," he reassured her, a comforting smile on his face. He gestured towards the drum set in the center of the stage, its glossy surface shining under the stage lights. "Look over there—Uncle Nick will be playing. And you'll get to see Uncle Jolly and Nik-Nik, too." As he spoke, he could see the curiosity spark in Scarlet's eyes, and he knew that soon she'd feel right at home in this vibrant world of music.

"Can I bring bun-bun?" She clutched her stuffed bunny to her chest.

"Yeah! Bun Bun wants to see it, too!" Noah smiled, "Ready? I'll even let you do your favorite part."

"Promise?" She asked, suddenly excited.

"I promise, sweetheart. Ready?" She nodded, and Noah scooped her up in his arms. He handed her his sunglasses for the lights.

"Stinky Daddy." She wrinkled her nose, making Noah laugh. He settled down next to the drumset with Scarlet securely in his lap. Then the song started.

The crowd erupted in wild cheers and ecstatic shouts as they caught sight of Scarlet perched playfully on his lap, her vibrancy adding to the electric atmosphere. His arm wrapped protectively around her waist, creating a sense of safety as he effortlessly provided backup for Poppy. Poppy waved to Scarlet excitedly.

Noah observed as Scarlet inhaled deeply, her eyes sparkling with anticipation for the moment she cherished most. With a gentle smile, he raised the microphone towards her, positioning it perfectly to capture the excitement in her voice. The air was thick with the expectation of a wildly known part of the song.

"Picture perfect image, more powerful every minute, baby. I am everything that you're not."

"ROOOR!" Scarlet growled, and the crowd went into a frenzy.

As the song's driving beat surged and the heavier lyrics kicked in, Noah gracefully slid from the high rise, his movements fluid and confident. He deftly balanced Scarlet on his hip, her laughter mingling with the rhythm as he twirled her around. With a joyful smile, he joined Poppy in a lively dance, their bodies moving in sync with the pulsating melody as they sang together with abandon.

Everything had gone splendidly, and Scarlet soaked in the thrill of her performance. As she made her way backstage, her excitement bubbled over, and she let out a jubilant scream that resonated louder than her fiercest growl, "MOMMY!" The sound echoed off the walls, filled with the warmth of her joy and the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

His stunningly beautiful wife stood nearby, conversing with Matt, whose expression suggested he was being gently reprimanded. The light from the stage cast a warm glow on her features, highlighting her frown. Her gaze fell on her daughter as she turned, and her face instantly brightened. "Hello, sweetheart!" she called out, her voice infused with warmth and affection.

"Did you see me? Did you see it? I'm a rockstar like Daddy!"

"I did see! You did so good! I am so proud of you."

Noah stepped back, his heart pounding as he surveyed the scene before him. The vibrant flicker of party lights cast an array of colors across the room, but the look in his wife's eyes truly grabbed his attention. A mixture of amusement and mischief danced within them, sending a chill of realization down his spine. He gulped, fully aware that he was in deep trouble. Her lips curved into a knowing smile as she recalled the night's antics, and he braced himself for the inevitable. "She had fun!" he said, a mix of dread and admiration swirling in his chest as he prepared to face the consequences of their wild evening.

"And you are so incredibly fortunate that I love you," his wife murmured softly, her voice laced with affection as she pressed her lips against his with warmth and tenderness.

[cowboyshadows]

Soap having a big fat crush on his married professor. (There’s no infidelity in this.)

Soap fucked up. Big time. He sits in Price’s office like a puppy who got caught breaking the vase.

He hasn’t messed up this monumentally since he was a rookie. The bastard rigged C4 too close to a flock of sheep. Thought it’d be cool, didn’t he?

Sent the whole lot of them flying. Accidentally caused a wool-based apocalypse.

He’s also never seen Price this upset. His mouth is hidden in the foliage of his beard. His eyes are down turned. His hands flex around his lighter and cigar.

Soap slinks back in his seat, exhaling loudly.

“You need a refresher,” Price says, quietly. Like he’s dropped a bomb. Ironic.

“Wha’?”

“Yer goin’ back to school, MacTavish.”

And that was that. Made him take a satchel with a spiral bound notebook and a pen, the old man. Highlighters and sticky notes. Like he’s actually gonna stand to gain anything from this shite.

Drags his feet begrudgingly to the lecture hall his class is in. Molecular Dynamics of High-Explosive Compounds. He wishes someone would have placed a C4 too close to him, right about now.

Picks a seat right at the back. He’d have expected it to be less available than it actually is, but most of the students occupy the first four rows of benches. Crosses his arms, draws his hat low: he’s ready to hate every second of this. Some old man with a greying bear and shiny head is gonna come in and tell him about bombs he’s never used. What a fuckin’ waste o—

“Sorry I’m late,” you rattle off, walking into the class room. He leans forward to get a better look at you. You’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt that says Hotter than a Combustion Reaction. Thick-rimmed glasses perched atop your head, hair whipped back into a tidy updo. “Had to stop my husband from lighting the stove with a cigar again.”

What the fuck?

“Anyway,” you say, clapping your hands. “Welcome to explosions 101. Alternatively,” your mouth curls in a coy smile, “Why We Don’t Freehand C4 Ratios.” It feels pointed. Unnecessary. He pulls the hat lower on his face.

You chuckle then, along with the class. “We have a very special guest in our midst today, that’s right. A demolitions expert from the SAS, actually.” You look around the class. “Sergeant MacTavish? I promise not to ridicule you.” Another laugh.

He raises his hand cautiously, and all the students turn to look at him. Your face softens in a familiar grin. “We’re glad to have ya, sergeant.”

He feels the blood rush beneath his cheeks.

So, in theory, does he have a crush on his professor? No. No, he doesn’t. This is a stupid punishment Price gave him, and all he has to do is soldier through it. Like a soldier.

But in practice… yeah. Around you, his heart has a velocity to rival an explosive’s detonation velocity.

He’s never gone this all out for school before. He almost understands why all those sleazy college boys swarm you at the end of the lecture, not even letting him slip a glance in edgewise.

He makes notes, diagrams, solves homework religiously. Does your golden problems for the heck of it, just because he wants to hear you say his name and praise him. Asks you questions not because he has a doubt, but because he wants to hear you talk.

He spends most of his afternoons in your office now, your legs resting on your desk as you review his calculations.

Drinking out of your mug that says World’s Okayest Wife. Some ungrateful bastard, your husband is. “My boss has the same mug,” he says, to which you smile.

He might be in love with you.

Price knows, obviously.

“Enjoyin’ the lessons, Johnny?”

“Tha’s classified.”

It’s been a particularly exciting lesson about thermite. He wrote down in his little notebook all the questions he wants to ask you. Right next to the hearts surrounding Mrs. Professor MacTavish.

He waits outside your office for you to finish your lunch, diligently like a lap dog.

Then, out of nowhere, Price shows up.

“Afternoon, Sergeant,” he nods, taking his hat off.

“Ye don’ ‘ave tae pick me up,” he grumbles, “ah’m a grown man.”

He just snorts in response. Whatever that’s about. Price’s hand darts to the doorknob of your office.

“Wait, she doesnae like tae be dist—”

Too late. They’re in the office. Correction: Price is in the office. And he’s beckoning Johnny in like he owns the damn place.

“John!” you chirp, getting out of your seat. You didn’t even get out of your seat for Soap.

“Professor, I trust Johnny’s been a good boy?”

You smile at Soap and he feels his ears turn red. “Only the best.”

“I’m glad,” Price smiles, hand resting on your shoulder. Soap damn near jumps out of his skin.

“Cap, ain’t ya married?” comes perhaps a little too loudly.

Your eyes shoot wider at that, and he feels a strange sense of victory. Threat neutralised.

Silence. Then a beat. Price starts cackling. Bends over with it. “This daft thing.” Leans over and kisses you full on the lips.

Soap sighs. “Cannae let me ‘ave one good thing, Cap.”

[missglaskin]

Yandere Coriolanus Snow (Romantic) would include:

Tags: fem/Capitol!reader, implied naive!reader, toxic relationship, manipulativeness, lovesick!Coryo, controlling, possessive behavior, isolation, implied forced marriage, Coriolanus is his own warning, messy writing

Coriolanus harbors an insatiable desire for possession and control. This desire towards control was woven into the fabric of his very being through the childhood he had. The war took both his parents, leaving him, Tigress, and his grandmother to lose all their prestige and wealth. The only thing that remained was his name. For Coriolanus, control was needed, after all, survival hinges on the relentless pursuit of ambition. In his world, love itself is entangled with the need for control-a vessel through which he can only claim you for himself.

Coriolanus possesses a distinctive charm; able to tailor himself to align with your virtues and inclinations. Able to don many faces - a devoted son striving to make his family proud, a diligent student who gets along well with his classmates and has the praise of his teachers, a trustworthy and loyal friend. It’s no different to you; he may begin as a stranger, but he can and will integrate himself into your friend group, becoming an acquaintance to a dear friend, and perhaps, evolving into something more.

You spark an internal conflict within Coriolanus. A part of him resents how you seem to have a hold on him. In moments when you hand him something, and he can feel the brush of your fingers against his; fighting the urge to stroke them. Or in crowded hallways, where you accidentally bump into him, apologizing but it falls on deaf ears, where his mind is consumed with a desire to to hold your body against his. You make him lose control, the control he works so hard to maintain. 

Many times, he tried to convince himself that he wasn't in too deep, it only takes time for these feelings to pass. He can think of more beautiful girls in the academy, ones who are more intelligent, resourceful, and undoubtedly wealthier than you. But yet, he’s the first to notice when you walk into the room. how his ears seem to instinctively seek the sound of your voice, and as he turns, he always knows where to find you.

He would, at least in the beginning, never openly display his interest in you. If there’s one thing Coriolanus never wants to seem, is desperate. But the second your name is mentioned in a conversation, ever the opportunist, he’ll try to gather every little detail. Most of his discoveries come from watching you, attentively listening to your inputs during class, noting where you spend your time, observing your food preferences. 

He pays close attention to how you style yourself - everyone has a dress code, but where you choose to place your pins, how you tuck in your shirt, how you style your hair are the little details, not many notice. He will be sure to make a mention when you make any changes; savoring a moment of triumph when you claim he’s the first to notice.

A constant aspect of Coriolanus is his unrelenting judgment and scrutiny. He holds the belief that he can lead you to become the best version of yourself, someone who understands your needs better than anyone else, even you. He can’t help but think how you’re wasting your future spending time with students who seem to lack any ambition or dedication to their studies. How you’re too ‘kind’ allowing others to walk over you, and besides other male students will get the wrong idea. 

You’re not even together, yet everything you do appears to reflect on him. Even when he tries to keep up with your interests and hobbies, he wears a disapproving frown upon discovering your penchant for romance books. He’ll of course read them, but can’t help but lament over how you should delve into more scholarly literature. He reassures himself in due time that he’ll implement all those necessary changes in you, molding you into the person he envisions you should be.

Coriolanus knows what his end goal is; to have you by his side; bound to him and what other conventional means to achieve this than through marriage. A bit of that also aids into his desperation in his pursuit of the Plinth prize. Knowing he cannot bring you to his home or shower you with extravagant gifts, he makes do with the cakes Tigris makes or the white roses of his grandmother. 

He could thank Tigris for suggesting places he can take you, creating excuses for the long walks; he merely wants to engage in conversations away from everyone to understand you better. Coriolanus also takes deliberate steps to become acquainted with your parents, showing impeccable manners during the few meetings. His goal is in the hopes that your parents push you towards him, after all, nearly everyone around you anticipates something to come from your interactions.

Even when you finally become his, it fails to calm the intense storm of jealousy that rages within him. Coriolanus is a man who meticulously weighs the benefits and costs of every action, he believes there’s a reason behind everything you do. In the initial stages of the relationship, he is determined not to reveal that ugly side of his, like everything else it’s all tied to his need of control.

Coriolanus is a man who cannot be left alone with his thoughts. Otherwise he’ll rethink every interaction you’ve had, from how you greeted that one person in the morning with such gleefulness. Are you happier to see them than him? How you placed a hand on someone’s shoulder while sharing a laugh at what he deems a childish joke.

Even the mere mention of past relationships triggers anger in him; he wants to be the first to claim every aspect of you. Unbeknownst to you, even casually mentioning them is signing their death warrant. Their name becomes etched in his memory with plans to be rid of them, especially during his days of presidency.

Coriolanus consistently seeks out boundaries to push, careful to appear that he’s not making demands but rather that he’s looking out for you. He wants you to take his input as truth. When Coriolanus compliments on how red looks good on you, he anticipates seeing it incorporated the next time he sees you. If your hair is long enough, he comments on how it beautifully frames your face when pulled up. He’ll make a comment on how you shouldn’t slouch, resisting a smile at how quickly you heed to his words. 

The day Coriolanus returned from his time at the district, something had changed. He made a promise to return, pressing a searing kiss to your lips and made you promise in return to wait for him no matter how many years it took. True to his word, he has returned with you being his his first stop after Ghul of course. He was still Coriolanus, though no longer did he have his boyish blonde curls and time of training made his muscles defined through his uniform of duty. 

The change became apparent when he became the Plinth’s family heir. No longer did he need to do with the little he had. Bringing you into the Snow mansion and the simple trinkets have turned into luxury. Your wardrobe has already been chosen for you and  filled to the brim, taking notice of how most of its colors are crimson, white-pearled and arctic. Many had intricate patterns, adorned with roses etched into the fabric, complemented by grand rose pins. 

It's advised to acclimate to the Mansion, to embrace it as your new home as that’s where you’ll spend most of your time. Coriolanus isolates you, he now has the power to turn every one of your friends against you and in return, he comforts you, reminding you of his earlier warnings on how your friends seemed indifferent to your well-being. Your visits and calls to your family dwindle as Coriolanus no longer sees a need to remain in their good graces. After all, you are now his wife, a member of the Snow family. 

With your servants and cooks, clear instructions are given; to not speak with you unless it’s relaying a message directly from your husband. If you persistently attempt to speak with them or worse befriend them, they are likely to be replaced. In worse circumstances, if they attempt anything that Coriolanus deems as traitorous, they may be subjected to becoming an Avox; a lesson not only for them but for you as well. 

He, of course, allows you to accompany him to galas; public appearances are deemed necessary; portraying him as a loving husband (a role he genuinely believes in) and you, as a devoted wife. During public appearances, every action is done with caution. Not only are you a reflection of him and the Snow name, but you also soon will become the future lady of Panem. 

You were allowed to be alone with two people only, at least initially; his grandmother and Tigris. It’s unsure if his grandmother notices her grandson’s behavior, still she’ll only speak praises of him. Repeating how fortunate you are to have him as a husband, to marry into their family.

Tigris on the other hand, offers a semblance of solace. She treats you well, yet beneath her kindness, sometimes you discern a glance of sadness, almost pity. Sometimes, she questions if you’re being treated well and you respond with what you’ve been practiced to say. And despite her skepticism, she never presses further, as if understanding that doing so might jeopardize any possibility of being alone with you ever again. 

Coriolanus revels in returning home to you. In his eyes, he believes he has attained everything he desired: the restoration of his family's name to its past glory, the regaining of its respect and prestige. How close he’s to be able to reside over Panem, and finally, having you.

Although you might think he doesn’t notice, he does. He notices how you gaze out of the window, your attempts to reason with him, how you do all you can do to make his day better when wanting your usual favors. He notices the concealed frown when the topic of children is mentioned. He knows when you lie. A promise later on, that he made you swear to never break. 

But he also notices that despite knowing what he has done. Years and years of marriage no longer allow secrets to be concealed. You’re keenly aware of all those who’ve gone missing, including a politician who you recall foolishly making a pass at you. The sores on his lips tell of all those moments you’re never allowed to attend.

Yet, you remain by his side. Perhaps you’ve fully accepted the man he always was - a monster not one that he has become, but who he always was. Even when watching the hunger games, even when you have to stand by him and greet each child you know are sending to their death. Or perhaps in a twisted form of love that mirrors his own, you’ve grown to love him. 

Over the years, there have been moments when you questioned if you were truly safe even with decades of marriage and giving him children who in turn gifted you with grandchildren. However, as you gaze at the man whose youthful looks have faded, who still greets you with a kiss to your hand just as he did in your younger days, you find a sense of security - for now.