#header fear street

[ecnmatic]

[lunedits]

ziggy berman - fear street: 1978

[iconsfilm]

sadie sink icons + taylor swift headers PLEASE!!!!

like or reblog if you save | headers not mine cr to the owners

[mondlevan]

fear street: 1978

“♡” or reblog if you save/use — follow me.

twt: @szamofada

[trashedits]

horror movies

[ahqkas]

“HOLDING YOU, HOLDING ME — dick grayson.

PAIRING! dick grayson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! he wasn’t just a man in a mask—he was nightwing, gotham’s acrobatic vigilante, a name whispered in both fear and admiration depending on who you asked. and now here he was, slumped on your couch, bleeding out like any ordinary man who’d bitten off more than he could chew

WORD COUNT! 4.7k

WARNINGS / TAGS! wounds and patching up, mention of blood, light cursing + lmk

NOTES! i’ll never let go of this scenario bc no matter how many times i read or write it i know i’ll eat it up ,, header below belongs to @/v6que

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE SOUND OF SHUFFLING OUTSIDE YOUR BEDROOM WINDOW PIERCED THROUGH THE FRAGILE BARRIER BETWEEN SLEEP AND WAKEFULNESS, pulling you abruptly from the fog of dreams. Your heart stuttered, then raced, its rhythm a drumbeat in your ears as your senses stirred to full alertness. The muffled sounds of Gotham’s unrest—honking car horns, distant sirens wailing through the streets, and the occasional shout ricocheting off brick walls—were nothing new. It was the soundtrack of the city, a reminder that safety here was a fleeting illusion. But this sound was different. It wasn’t part of the distant chaos. It was near. Uncomfortably near.

You lay motionless, cocooned in the warmth of your blankets, as a cold tendril of unease slithered down your spine. The shuffle came again, a strained, uneven drag that was too heavy, too deliberate to be dismissed as the wind or the misstep of a stray animal. The hairs on your arms stood on end, your body responding to a primal warning long before your mind could catch up. A knot of tension coiled in your stomach, tightening with each beat of silence that followed.

Your breath hitched as your ears strained, every creak of the old apartment building suddenly amplified. The sound of your neighbors moving around above you had ceased hours ago, and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen now felt deafening in comparison. Even the street noise below seemed to recede, swallowed by the weight of whatever lurked just beyond the thin pane of glass separating your room from the outside world.

Another shuffle—closer now—was accompanied by the faint scrape of something against the windowsill. A metallic sound? Your mind raced through possibilities, each one darker than the last, as your muscles tensed involuntarily. Instinct told you to stay still, to let the darkness cloak you, but adrenaline screamed at you to move, to act, to do something. The only thing louder than the pounding of your heart was the oppressive silence that followed the noise, stretching thin like a thread about to snap.

Then, a low groan shattered the quiet like a rock through glass—rough, ragged, and undeniably human. Your breath hitched, a shaky inhale catching in your throat as the sound sent a white-hot jolt of adrenaline through your veins. This wasn’t the screech of metal caught in a storm or the hollow clatter of a stray cat tipping over trash cans in the alley below. No, this was something else—someone else. And they were hurt.

Before you could fully process it, the groan was followed by another noise: a faint, rhythmic creak, unmistakable in its familiarity. Metal shifting and bending under weight, groaning as it protested movement along the fire escape just outside your window. It was a sound you had heard a hundred times before, but never like this—never in the dead of night, never accompanied by the guttural rasp of pain. It dragged a sharp, cold edge of dread across your mind, slicing through the thin veneer of safety you’d wrapped yourself in.

You sat up slowly, the mattress beneath you groaning in protest despite your careful movements. The noise seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet, and you froze, lips pressed together as if even the sound of your breathing might give you away.

Your eyes darted toward the window, the one barrier between you and the unknown outside. The curtains hung limply, a thin barrier of fabric that diffused the faint glow of streetlights below but revealed nothing of the shapes or movements beyond. Your pulse thundered in your ears as your mind raced. Every instinct screamed at you to stay still, to melt into the shadows and feign ignorance, to bury yourself under the covers and hope the moment passed.

But there was something else—a treacherous, gnawing pull of curiosity that refused to let you stay frozen. It dragged at you, a siren call that tugged against the fear coiled in your gut. Against all logic, you leaned forward, heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might leap from your chest. The cool air of the room kissed your skin, each shallow breath catching against the weight of the silence as you crept closer, unable to ignore the magnetic pull of whatever—or whoever—waited on the other side of that fragile pane of glass.

You froze just steps away from the curtain, your hand outstretched but trembling in the stillness of the room. Your fingers hovered mere inches from the fabric, the rough texture brushing your skin as you hesitated. The air felt heavier here, charged with the kind of tension that made your chest tighten and your breathing shallow. Each breath you took was deliberate, measured, the faint rush of air between your lips almost too loud against the suffocating quiet. Every nerve in your body begged you to turn back, to crawl under the covers and pretend none of this was happening.

But then another sound broke the stillness—a groan, sharper this time, tinged with desperation. It wasn’t the deep, detached groan of exhaustion but something raw, visceral, and undeniably human. The sound struck you like a slap, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. Whoever was out there wasn’t loitering or trying to scare you. They were hurt. And badly.

The realization sent a shiver rippling through you, but it didn’t stop your fingers from clutching the edge of the curtain. Slowly, cautiously, you pulled it back just enough to peek outside. The cold air from the window seeped through the thin glass, and you instinctively leaned closer, the warmth of your breath fogging the pane as you strained to see into the darkness. For a moment, there was nothing—only shadows twisting in the faint orange glow of the streetlights below, the occasional shimmer of metal catching the dim light. The fire escape stretched out before you like a skeletal bridge to nowhere, its emptiness pressing against your mounting fear.

Then, your eyes adjusted, and the shadows shifted, revealing a figure slumped against the railing. Your stomach twisted painfully at the sight, the breath caught in your throat as you tried to process what you were seeing. A man—larger than you expected, broad-shouldered despite the way his frame sagged—leaned heavily on the railing, his head tipped forward as if even the act of holding it up was too much. His chest rose and fell in uneven, labored breaths, each one visible in the faint puff of condensation against the night air.

His clothes—or was it some kind of suit?—clung to him, dark and soaked in places you didn’t want to think about too closely. The material melted into the blackness of the night, making it hard to tell where he ended and the shadows began. But there was no mistaking the weight of his posture, the way his hands gripped the railing with what little strength he had left, or the crimson stain trailing down the side of his body, catching the faintest glimmer of light. The sight of it turned your unease into something deeper, something colder.

“Shit,” you muttered, the word slipping out before you could stop it, sharp and quiet in the tense air. Your pulse quickened, adrenaline washing over you like a crashing wave as the reality of the situation sank in. Whoever this man was, he needed help—and fast. The knot of fear in your chest twisted tighter, but it was overwhelmed by something more immediate: the urge to act. Your hands trembled as you reached for the window, the cool glass biting against your fingertips as you slid it open. The icy air hit you instantly, sharp and unforgiving, stealing the warmth from your skin and making you gasp.

You leaned out into the night, the cold biting your cheeks and tangling in your hair as you peered down at the figure slumped against the railing. “Hey,” you called, your voice low but urgent, carrying just enough to cut through the silence. Your breath puffed out in faint clouds as you spoke, dissipating into the darkness between you. “Are you okay?” The words felt hollow as they left your mouth, even as they pressed against the lump of anxiety in your throat. Of course, he wasn’t okay—one look at him made that painfully obvious.

For a long, agonizing moment, the only response was the faint whistle of wind cutting through the metal of the fire escape. He didn’t move, his frame slouched in a way that made your chest tighten, the weight of his injuries pulling him down like gravity itself was working against him. Just as panic began to creep in—had he passed out? Was he even breathing?—he shifted, the motion slow and labored, as though even the act of turning his head was a monumental effort.

The faint light from the street below caught on his face—or rather, what was covering it. A mask. Sleek and dark, it reflected just enough light to reveal the harsh contours of his features, obscuring everything but the intensity of his movements. His head lolled slightly, and for a moment, you thought he might collapse entirely, the strength draining out of him like water slipping through a sieve. But then, with an audible effort, he rasped out, “Not really.”

The sound of his voice hit you like a gut punch—low, rough, and laced with pain. Each word dragged out of him felt like a struggle, and the exhaustion clinging to his tone was impossible to ignore. It was the voice of someone on the edge, hanging by a thread. You swallowed hard, your breath catching as you watched him shift again, the barest movement of his hand gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Well, no kidding,” you muttered, more out of reflex than anything, the dry sarcasm slipping past your lips before you could stop it. But the sharp edge of your tone faltered as your gaze darted to his injuries. Blood—thick, dark, and all too real—streaked his side, dripping in sluggish rivulets down his torn clothes. You swallowed hard, fighting the rising wave of panic threatening to claw its way up your throat. “Can you… uh, climb inside?” your voice was softer now, but still tinged with urgency.

He hesitated, his shoulders stiffening, and for a fleeting moment, he looked more like a cornered animal than an injured man. His hand gripped the railing tighter, the tension in his posture radiating defensiveness even as he swayed slightly, his balance precarious. “I don’t want to—” he began, his words rasping out low and hesitant, as if he were weighing the consequences of accepting help against the risks of staying put.

“You’re bleeding on my fire escape,” you interrupted, crossing your arms to disguise the nervous tremor in your hands. “I’m not asking. Get in here before someone sees you.�� You tried to keep your voice steady, firm, even as your heart hammered against your ribs. You weren’t sure where the sudden boldness had come from—maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the sheer absurdity of the situation—but you refused to back down. If he didn’t move soon, you weren’t sure he’d be able to at all.

For a split second, you thought he might argue, but then his lips twitched ever so slightly, a faint ghost of a smirk flickering across his face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the grim set of his jaw as he shifted, bracing himself. With a pained grunt, he pushed off the railing, his movements slow and deliberate, every step looking like it might be his last. His knees buckled slightly as he approached the window, and instinctively, you stepped closer, your arms uncrossing as you reached out without thinking.

“I’ve got it,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. He was trying to sound strong, but the unsteadiness in his steps betrayed him. As he climbed through the window, the effort took its toll. He leaned heavily against the window frame, his large frame towering over yours even as his weight pressed into you for support. The sudden closeness made you freeze for a moment, the sheer size difference between you starkly apparent as his broad shoulders filled the small space of your window.

You adjusted quickly, hands instinctively reaching to steady him despite your earlier hesitation. One hand brushed against his arm, and you couldn’t help but notice how solid he felt beneath your touch, even through the bloodied material of his suit. He shifted his weight against you slightly, just enough to steady himself, and the subtle press of his shoulder against yours was enough to make you acutely aware of how much he was relying on you in that moment.

“Easy,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as he finally made it through the window and into your apartment. You stepped back to give him space, resisting the urge to grab his arm again as he straightened with a wince. His movements were slow and deliberate, every motion screaming of pain, but he managed to stay on his feet. For now.

“Couch,” the word tumbled out before you could think too hard about what came next. You gestured toward the battered, threadbare piece of furniture across the room, its cushions sagging from years of use. It wasn’t much, but it was better than your window frame—or worse, the fire escape he’d just been bleeding all over.

He gave a faint nod, the motion sluggish as he shuffled forward, his hand bracing against the wall for balance. Each step looked like a battle he was barely winning, and just as he reached the couch, his knees seemed to give out entirely. He dropped onto it with a heavy exhale, the springs creaking loudly in protest. His head tipped back against the cushion, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, you stood frozen, your back still pressed against the window as your mind worked to catch up with what had just happened. The sharp contrast of his dark figure against the warm glow of your living room lights made the scene feel surreal, like something out of a movie. But the blood—thick and vividly red against the black fabric of his suit—was all too real.

And now, in the full light of the room, you could finally see him clearly. The sleek black material clinging to him wasn’t just any clothing—it was a suit, one that seemed designed to meld with the shadows. Faint blue lines traced down his sides in sharp, angular patterns, adding a faintly futuristic edge to his appearance. But it wasn’t the design that held your attention—it was the bird emblazoned across his chest, unmistakable in its shape even beneath the layers of grime and blood.

Nightwing.

The name hit you like a freight train, an unspoken expletive rushing to the tip of your tongue as you took another step forward. Nightwing is in my apartment. The realization made your knees feel unsteady, and you clutched the back of a nearby chair for balance. He wasn’t just a man in a mask—he was Nightwing, Gotham’s acrobatic vigilante, a name whispered in both fear and admiration depending on who you asked. And now here he was, slumped on your couch, bleeding out like any ordinary man who’d bitten off more than he could chew.

Your gaze dropped back to the gash across his chest, the jagged tear in his suit exposing the angry, raw wound beneath. Blood was soaking through the material, dark and relentless, and the sheer amount of it sent a chill racing down your spine. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the rising tide of panic. This was happening. This was real.

And if you didn’t act fast, he wasn’t going to make it.

“I’ll get some supplies,” you said, your voice sharper now, cutting through the haze of disbelief. Each step felt heavy, your heart pounding like a drum in your ears as you yanked open the cabinet under the sink. The first aid kit sat buried behind a clutter of forgotten toiletries, its edges dusty and worn, but it would have to do. You grabbed it along with a few clean towels, their soft cotton contrasting starkly with the chaos unfolding in your living room.

When you returned, your stomach twisted at the sight of him. He’d slumped further into the couch, his broad shoulders sagging into the cushions as if gravity were trying to pull him under. His head tipped back against the worn upholstery, exposing the pale curve of his neck. The steady rise and fall of his chest—though strained—was the only reassurance he was still alive.

“Don’t pass out,” you said, dropping to your knees beside him and setting the first aid kit on the coffee table with a clatter. The firm edge to your voice was betrayed by the slight tremor in your hands as you unfurled one of the towels. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you forced your tone to remain steady. You couldn’t let him see the full weight of your panic—not when he already looked like he was barely holding himself together.

At your words, he cracked one eye open, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering in his gaze despite the shadows of pain etched across his face. “Not planning to,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, each word dragging out like it cost him more than he could afford. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was enough to make you pause.

Who the hell manages to look smug while bleeding out on someone’s couch?

But the glimmer faded as quickly as it appeared, his body sagging further against the cushions. You pressed your lips together, swallowing the sarcastic retort building in your throat. There wasn’t time for quips or questions—only action. You unfolded a towel, your fingers brushing against the warm stickiness of his blood as you pressed it gently against the gash across his chest. The sharp hiss that escaped his lips was like a jolt of electricity, and you found yourself murmuring, “Sorry,” even as you kept the pressure firm. His skin was warm beneath the blood and fabric.

You worked quickly, your hands steady despite the rising tide of nerves gnawing at your insides. The fabric around the wound had been torn beyond recognition, and you didn’t waste a second as you cut through the ruined material with swift, practiced motions. Each snip of the scissors felt like a small victory, as though you could fix this, like the clean cut would somehow make everything better. You pressed a towel to his side, feeling the heat of his blood seep through the fabric, the warmth of it sending a chill up your spine. He winced at the pressure, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t pull away. His muscles, tense and coiled under your hands, were the only indication that this wasn’t just a minor scrape. His breath came out in shallow gasps, but he didn’t make a sound of protest.

“You’re awfully calm for someone who just broke into my apartment,” you said, your voice forced to sound lighter than it felt. The words were meant to cover the nerves crawling up your throat, to push away the uncertainty gnawing at you. Humor—it was the only defense you had left in this absurd situation.

He let out a soft laugh, though it sounded more like a wheeze. It was rough and ragged, like even that small act of amusement took everything he had left. “Didn’t break in. Fire escape’s fair game,” he managed to rasp out, his eyes fluttering closed again as though the effort of speaking had drained him further.

For a moment, you stopped, just long enough to take in his words. Fair game, huh? You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, despite the situation. So this is how he justifies sneaking into random apartments in the middle of the night.

“Right,” you muttered, your voice dry, trying to ignore the sick feeling twisting in your gut. You could feel the heat of his skin under your fingertips, the way his body trembled slightly despite his attempt to stay composed. You glanced at his face, the mask still in place, but now that you were up close, you could see the way his eyes flickered with exhaustion and pain. It was like something human was trying to push through all the bravado.

But you had to focus. The towel in your hand was already damp from his blood, and you pressed harder, trying to staunch the bleeding as much as possible. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured my night going,” you muttered, though your tone softened a bit as you reached for the first aid kit. Every instinct in your body told you to move fast, but there was something about him, even in this state, that kept you grounded.

Maybe because I’m not sure whether you’re about to pass out or punch me in the face, you thought, but didn’t say. Instead, you reached for the antiseptic, uncapping it with more precision than you felt, and prepared yourself for whatever came next.

His lips twitched again, a ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was enough to make you wonder if he was trying to find some amusement in the chaos that had spilled into your living room. It didn't make sense—how someone could be this battered, this close to breaking, and still manage to show any semblance of humor. But there it was, a quiet resilience you couldn't quite place.

He didn’t respond at first, just watching you work. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, still tracked every movement of your hands, each shift of your body as you carefully cleaned and bandaged the wound on his side. There was something almost unnerving about how still he was, like a predator waiting for the right moment to move, but in the context of the situation, it made him seem more human. Vulnerable.

“You do this often?” you asked, your voice lighter than you felt. It was a simple enough question, but it served to break the silence between you, the quiet hum of the apartment making the space feel far too small. You didn’t look up at him immediately, but you could feel the weight of his gaze still on your face, intense and steady.

“Hmm?” he responded, the sound rough in his throat, as though the effort to form words had started to exhaust him.

“Get beaten to hell and crash on random fire escapes?” you pressed, glancing up at him as you secured the bandage around his chest. You tried to mask the faint bitterness in your tone with humor, the question rolling off your tongue more to distract yourself than anything else. This whole situation felt like something out of a bad dream, and you needed to ground yourself. Even if it meant making jokes about the absurdity of it all.

He let out a breath, his lips pressing together for a moment as he thought, the flicker of amusement still lingering in his eyes. “Only when I’m not at home,” he said softly, his voice rough, barely a whisper, but the sarcasm was clear. The way he said it—like he'd done this enough times to know exactly how it would go—made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this situation, and maybe it wouldn’t be the last.

You couldn’t help but huff out a soft laugh despite yourself, but it was more out of disbelief than humor. "That’s reassuring," you muttered, tightening the bandage with a firm pull. The night had turned stranger than you could’ve ever imagined, and all you could do was keep your hands steady as you finished the task, trying to ignore the fact that this was your reality now. For however long he was going to be here, this was your reality.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but wonder—what exactly had he been doing up there? Was it a routine mission gone wrong? Or was it something else, something far more dangerous than just a bad night on patrol?

But asking those questions, probing further, felt like it would unravel everything you were holding together. You were already way past the point of no return, anyway.

You leaned back on your heels, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly as you wiped your hands on one of the towels, the fabric already stained with his blood. The light in your apartment, dim as it was, highlighted the mess of the night: the empty first aid kit, the scattered towels, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. Everything felt heavier now—like the weight of what had happened wasn’t just about this bleeding stranger in front of you, but about you, too, suddenly pulled into something far more dangerous than you'd signed up for.

"You need stitches, but that’s the best I can do right now," you said, your voice softening as you turned back to him. "Try not to tear the bandages before you... I don’t know, get some actual medical attention?"

You were trying to stay light, trying to keep your tone steady, but the words felt hollow. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pushed himself up with a grunt, the movement slow and stiff, his pain clear despite the faint determination in his eyes. He steadied himself against the arm of the couch, looking like he might collapse at any moment, but there was something else there too—something that made you stop, heart fluttering painfully in your chest.

He offered you a faint smile, the expression almost shy despite the rough edges of the night, his eyes meeting yours in that quiet, unexpected way that made the room feel too small.

"Thanks. Really," he said, his voice rasping, but genuine.

For a moment, all the noise of the world outside your apartment seemed to fall away. The sirens in the distance, the occasional sound of traffic, even the distant hum of the refrigerator—it all blurred into nothing as you just stood there, staring at him. His gaze was soft, more tender than you would’ve expected from someone who’d just crashed through your window with blood dripping from their body. It wasn’t that it was romantic, per se—at least, that wasn’t what you expected it to feel like. But there was something in the way he looked at you, something that made your heart skip a beat, something you couldn’t explain.

He didn’t move, didn’t look away, and for a long moment, neither did you. There was something raw in the quiet between you, as though both of you were momentarily suspended in this small, messy space. His smile was faint, but it was real—a fragile thing, born of pain and gratitude. You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were, how the distance between you had narrowed while you weren’t paying attention.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand moved, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm—just a gentle brush of your fingertips against his skin. You told yourself it was nothing, just checking if he was steady, but even as you pulled away, there was a spark. A quiet acknowledgment that this was different. The way his eyes followed the movement of your hand, the way he hesitated before his next breath, made the space between you feel charged, like something unspoken was hovering in the air.

"You're welcome," you whispered back, voice quieter than before, tinged with something you couldn’t quite define. There was a flicker of something in his gaze, an understanding, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter. It was just the two of you in that small, dimly lit room, suspended in time, with everything else forgotten.

And just like that, you both broke the moment—him leaning back into the couch with a soft grunt, and you turning your attention back to the bandages, your pulse still racing in your ears. But the quiet connection lingered, a soft hum under everything else.

ADDITIONAL NOTE! if you like my work , please consider reblogging and / or commenting . thank you if you do 🤍

[fairyrcts]

THINKIN BOUT YOU, C.S.

by fairyrcts contents - angst, cursing, intended lowercase, use of y/n, 3rd person, mentions of depression

an - i love chris angst

taglist - @pvssychicken , @gothiccvnt6996 , @emely9274 (header by @issysh3ll )

it was 2 am in new york and y/n was just getting home. her day was exhausting to say the least. the struggle of being a full time college student with a job and rent to pay in new york is something that was unimaginable.

she fiddled with her keys, eventually finding her apartment key. she unlocked her door to her roomate, aleah, sat on the couch watching some cheesy rom-com on her laptop. y/n dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes at the door.

"hey hey." aleah waved.

"hey, girl. watcha watchin?" y/n's voice rang as she walked to the open kitchen, grabbing a cup and poaring ice water.

"27 dresses. literally never seen this dumb shit before but evangeline wants me to see it."

aleah was the definition of a stud. she was gorgeous, too. dark complexion, curly hair that hung in front of her face and piercings on her plump lips and nose.

evangeline was her girlfriend, who y/n's only met a few times. usually in the mornings after getting very little sleep from their noises filling the small apartment.

"man, that movie's so mid. did we get any mail?" y/n chuckled as she walked back in the living room, sitting in the opposing sofa.

"any mail?"

"uh, one from some credit card company and someone left a note in the crack of the door. said to y/n from chris sturnolo." she spoke, her eyes not leaving the computer.

y/n stopped in her tracks. "christopher sturniolo?" her voice was slightly shooken.

christopher was her childhood bestfriend. they were in almost every class together since kindergarten. they were inseparable. they did sports together, went to prom together, went to get their drivers license together (guess who didn't pass). they were family, at this point.

after college, she never heard from him again. happy birthdays and merry christmases every year or likes on every post, but not a single text, call, email, anything. she talked to nick and matt regularly, but not chris.

she'd ask how he was and they'd give short, vague, one-word answers. it was unfair, really. because there wasn't another soul on earth that knew her better than chris did, and all that time was wasted.

it's been 3 years without a word. and just now he's contacting her. her mind rambled as to what might have gone wrong, otherwise, there wasn't a reason to speak to her. now, especially. she'd been such a mess after leaving for cornell, and she debated not going to stay with chris. but he convinced her, saying he'll stay in touch and talk to her every day.

so much for that promise.

"uh, yeah, chris sturniolo, sturnolo, stromboli, all the same to me." her roomate shook her out of her thoughts.

"aleah, where's the damn letter?" y/n's voice sounded scared almost, not understanding what's going on.

"over on the bookshelf." aleah pointed to the letter wrapped with a little bow and a stamp in the corner of the boston streets.

her hands hurried and undid the bow, ripping the envelope open and unfolding the letter.

Dear Y/n

There seriously isn't an explanation for my distance. After you left for college I fell into such a state of depression and I don't know why but I was scared to contact you. I mean, you're out doing great big things, NYU and detective criminal type stuff. Meanwhile, I'm still here in Massachusetts, I just moved out of my parents house a year and a half ago and my career is making videos on the internet. I guess it was the jealousy that stopped me from speaking to you or some kind of fear. But all I know is that I miss you, dearly. And I guess this is kind of me asking do you think about me still? Because I haven't stopped thinkin about you.

(p.s. i know i couldve sent this over text but i didnt know if you blocked me or not)

just his handwriting caused tears to stream down y/n's face. the note itself, the words and his explanation made her sob.

she made her way to her room, shutting the door behind her. she reached for her phone in her back pocket and called chris's contact.

it rang three times before he answered. there was silence on his end, soft sobs on hers.

"chris, where the hell are you and why did you answer so late?" she said through sniffles and cries.

"i'm uh, in syracuse right now. we're here with nate for his birthday. i asked matt for your address and uhm, i was waiting for you to call." chris's voice sounded nervous almost.

"so you're.. able to come see me?" she asked to which chris affirmed.

"give me the name of your hotel. i'm coming over." she spoke. her tone wasn't demanding, but chris knew it was a demand.

chris told her the name and room number, y/n writing down each letter. after he had explained the whole thing she hung up without warning. she walked out of her room, her movements were fast as she wiped tears off her cheeks.

"woah, what's up?" aleah asked, concerned.

"i'll tell you when i'm back." y/n brushed her off, grabbing her keys, leaving and shutting the door quite harshly.

she jogged down the stairs, her hand grazing the railings and the other jingling the keys with each step.

she pushed the door that so clearly said pull. the frustration just added to her unexplainable feelings.

"why the fuck won't this shit open!?" she shouted. the small, teenage boy at the front desk squeaked out a few words.

"it's uhm. it's pull. y-you're pushing it." y/n looked down at the sign.

"shut the fuck up, curtis!" she yelled once more, yanking the door and storming out of it.

"dumb ass name." y/n mumbled to herself. she walked hurriedly to her car, clicking the unlock button on her keeys and jumping in the drivers seat.

she turned it on, putting the ignition in reverse. she internally conflicted wether or not to put on music. of course, there was no need for it. buttt to make the whole event more dramatic, she turned on her playlist, thinkin bout you by frank ocean coming in through the speakers.

the music made tears swell up in her eyes. the whole situation was just fucked.

her car sped, running through red lights here and there, honking at any car that was slow or in front of her.

when she arrived at the hotel, she shut off her music and her car, locking it as she slammed the door of it behind her. she pulled the door to the entrance to the entrence of the large hotel, the door refusing to open.

"it's a push door!" the lady at the front desk yelled loud enough to be heard.

"oh, fuck me." y/n groaned, finally opening the door. she stormed inro the elevator, the front desk lady attempting to stop her by shouting 'miss'.

as if that was gonna stop her. y/n pressed the 4 button aggressively, multiple times.

"hurry the fuck up!" she was so out of it, she was yelling at an inanimate button.

when the door started opening, she squeezed herself through the space, looking at the numbers on each door until she found the 103 in a big font.

she knocked hard and loud continuously until the door opening interrupted her.

and now, she was faced with the man who made her, and broke her.

the two stared into one anothers eyes momentarily before y/n brought a hand up and smacked the side of his face.

a 'youch' came out of chris's mouth. he rubbed the side of his face that was now red while y/n began rambling.

"now, what the fuck is wrong with you! i mean, you know better! christopher, holy fuck, where do i even begin with you!?" her voice rang through the halls as she pushed herself into the room.

"i- i don't know." chris's tone was sorrowful, but that wasn't necessarily something she cared about right now.

"you are such a douchebag! i fucking can't believe you. ignoring my calls, texts, letters, everything! the only information i ever got about you was through 10 picture slideshows on instagram and your brothers, who werent much of a help! you can say whatever all you want, but chris, i was so mentally fucked up! i was so behind in my classes, that you know i put a humongous amount of effort into getting into, i was rude and emotional all the time and pushed away people i love and adore because i was so hung up on the thought that you stopped caring and you stopped loving me! you know how terrible of a feeling that is? to believe that the one person you love most in the world doesn't give two damn shits about what you're doing now? do you?!"

she yelled and yelled and yelled as her eyes didn't just shed tears, but boy, they poured.

"n-no, no i don't know how that feels." christopher mumbled as water welled up in his own eyes.

"yeah, and that's because you know i'm incapable of unloving you! you're aware of my love for you, because i reminded you every day. you know i wear my heart on my sleeve and you still pulled this dumb shit! i don't even know how you managed to do such thing! i was at such a terrible place, chris."

her words were less aggressive now as she cried tears of sadness rather than anger. she sat herself on one of the two hotel beds while chris sat beside her. he awkwardly pulled her into a hug, y/n leaning into it immediately.

her head laid in his lap as he rubbed her back, whispering small shushes every now and then while she kept bawling.

"y'know. i've been thinkin' bout you. i never stopped, really. i just- i don't even have an excuse. and you can keep yelling at me, and i'll keep listening, but i can't explain as to why i didn't. i just don't know, y/n." his voice was calm and gentle and his hands glided up and down her side.

once she finally stopped crying, she sat up and wiped her tears. "I'm sorry." chris stated, his eyes meaningful along with his voice.

that's all she wanted to hear.

he pulled her into an embrace once more, engulfing himself in the girl he missed so deeply.

"i was thinkin' bout you, too, y'know." she mumbled into his neck.

and that's all he wanted to hear.

[heartmix]

Lando Norris Headcanons (Horror Movie Edition)

I can't believe i finally got a halloween fic idea on NOVEMBER 1ST. Here it is, i'm not waiting a whole year to post this.

F1 Masterlist

Lando absolutely dreaded the month of october. Not because of the triple header or the fact that the championship race was nearing the end. it was for the fact that you were a bit into the halloween season.

A tradition of yours that Lando hated was that you would only watch Horror movies during the month. Normally when you'd watch horror movies throughout the year he had excuses to skip them but he didnt have excuses for the whole month, especially since he begged you to be with him for the triple header.

It wasn't that he hated horror movies he totally did, he just didn't see the appeal for it.

"You're going to keep me up all night watching all these movies."

"But staying up to sim race with max is okay?"

Lando thought you were crazy. Your sub genre of choice was slashers, gory, realistic slashers. Meaning Scream, Halloween, Child's Play, Fear Street, etc

"Are you sure you're not secretly a serial killer?"

"I'm not psycho Lando..... Have you seen american psycho?"

That didn't mean you didn't watch supernatural horror movies. Your favorites were the one with suspense and jumpscares. Paranormal activities, the conjuring, and insidious were definitely on your rotation this time of the year.

"Look you can go to sleep and I'll watch on my phone and plug some earphones in okay?"

After about a good 20 minutes into the movie the first jump scare came. You didn't move one bit but you felt Lando jump from behind you.

"Are you watching?"

"I'm sleeping."

To say he had a smile when the month finally ended was an understatement.

[spooky-dumb-ass]

Some random itadori and sukuna headcannons :)) part 3

might suck ass idk

part 1 ; part 2

Itadori Yuji

Ah yes, Mr. Left right, goodnight cinnamon roll sunshine golden retriever ultra pro max.

To make everyone around him laugh he makes fun of sukuna, like a lot. (sukuna bites him with his weird palm mouth)

Avid pitbull and bruno mars listener dont ask me why

Look i know i said cinnamon roll sunshine ultra pro max but get bro in a cod or valorant lobby and hes changing like the gif i used in my header, somehow he has the best roasts and he almost always says it unintentionally

Has a million playlists

he trolls gojo however he can (A for effort) but fails cause either gojo already did it to someone or knows what hes upto

He one wore nanamis tie to seem "cool" like nanami and pretended to be him with coffee and shit. He spilled coffee on nanamis tie. He was killed for the 2nd time.

Calls himself a 'sigma male' and unironically watches sigma male videos on youtube (his sigmaness leaves whenever he sees Jennifer Lawrence)

He and Todo whenever they see someone with a big ass or smn they say GYATT or smn💀💀💀 idk

Ryōmen Sukuna

Sukuna when i catch you sukuna, sukuna WHEN I CATCH YOU. Ahem, anyways (his hcs are based on him entirely and not on which body hes taken)

So king of curses, dresses like a king really, he probably wore grand cloths back in his time (old man) he technically has a good fashion sense but that was during his time

Aside from being extremely degrading (not that way) he can be kind of motivational its like he subtly urges people to come to his level, he definitely likes the challenge they'll impose and he appreciates the genuine talent and power.

He mentioned he was an unwanted child (deserved), so im assuming he lived on the streets. Then he probably learnt how to sew or knit clothes. Honestly might seem like a stretch but if he wasnt a villain he'd be a great fashion designer idkwhy.

Likes animals (green flag.)( also me choosing to ignore his 99 red flags 😍)he def knits cloths for his cats

Good singer. will not elaborate further

has a crippling fear for mundane things like idk dirt or smn

actually does really good origami and pottery, look hes creative ok, if he didnt get rejected from art school gojo wouldn't have been a kitkat today

[doppelmatsu]

Chapter 2 : A Matter of Adaptation

Written by @lordofthesillystraws and @todd-pinefield. Chapter header by @todd-pinefield.

Back <- -> Next

The six clones line back up at the wall, watching Dekapan write in a notepad and Iyami giving Dekapan instructions. As Dekapan finishes writing down the info of each clone, Iyami grabs Yoshimatsu’s hand and starts dragging him forward.

“Come, Yoshimatsu! You and your brothers will accompany me to-”

Iyami is quickly interrupted by Dekapan pulling Yoshimatsu back and away from him.

“Hoeh! Not just yet, dasu! They’re still naked and are very vulnerable to becoming ill from the germs outside!”

“It’s not like they’re babies, zansu. Just look at them.”

Iyami gestures to the other five as Dekapan brings Yoshimatsu back to his place. They are very much adult men.

“They essentially are, dasu! They were just created! We have to let them adjust to their environment, dasu. Although…” Dekapan steps back a bit, stroking his chin in thought. “Where do we put them, dasu?”

A loud call from Dayon can be heard across the room as he opens the door to the barely used basement.

“Ah, good idea, dasu!”

Dekapan waddles over to the basement door with Dayon following behind him and shutting the door, leaving Iyami with the naked cloned sextuplets standing near a wall. All six of them stare at the older man in front of them. Iyami walks up to them to get a good look.

“Ugh, look at you all, zansu… You aren’t fit at all! Going outside like that?”

Iyami looks around and grabs some scissors from a nearby desk.

“These will do, zansu!”

He proclaimed as he grabbed Suimatsu by the arm, pulling him close and aiming the scissors at his hair. With a few snips here and there, Suimatsu’s hair just about looks like a regular Matsuno! Well… Almost.

“Ah.”

Suimatsu mutters as he looks at his uneven fringe cut. He seems unfazed.

“Damn it, zansu! Must have angled it wrong…”

Iyami lets go of Suimatsu, letting him walk back to his position in line. Iyami scans the rest of them, choosing who the next victim shall be.

“You, zansu.”

Iyami says before grabbing Kanashimatsu’s hand, which is followed by a loud cry.

“No! Let me go!”

Kanashimatsu cries as he wriggles in Iyami’s grasp. Iyami angles his scissors just right to make a clean cut on his bangs, and a bit of his back hair. Kanashimatsu’s eyes flood with tears as Iyami calls that work good enough, and lets him walk back to his spot in line. Iyami looks to Yoshimatsu, playing with his hair a bit. Just before Iyami can grab him, he’s quickly stopped by Yoshimatsu gripping his wrist.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Yoshimatsu warns in a dull, monotone voice. Iyami chuckles nervously as he pulls himself away, grabbing Goyomatsu in the process.

“Your turn, zansu...”

Goyomatsu stares up at Iyami, quivering in fear.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Eventually, all six have received an impromptu haircut, just in time for the professor’s return. Dekapan steps out from the basement, holding the door open.

“Hoeh! Everything’s ready, dasu!”

He walks up to the Iyami, about to ask him what he’s been doing, before he turns to see the sextuplet clones fully groomed and clothed in hospital gowns.

“Uhyohyohyo~!” Iyami laughs. “Don’t they look perfect, zansu?”

Iyami seems quite proud of his handiwork, despite just… borrowing a pair of scissors and six gowns from some bin in Dekapan’s lab.

“Soon enough, they’ll be ready to follow me around in the streets of Akatsuka Ward, zansu!”

Dekapan stares blankly at Iyami as Dayon ushers the clones down to the basement.

“Hoeh…”

All six are led down to the basement, which looks similar to a day room. There are a few plants in the corners of the room, a couch, a whiteboard, some bookshelves, and a table in the middle. There is also what seems to be a chemistry table. Out of curiosity, Daikimatsu walks over to take a closer look, only to bump into an invisible barrier.

“Dr. Dekapan says you can’t touch that, dayon!”

Dayon warns a little too late as Daikimatsu rubs his forehead.

“So… We’re staying down here?”

Kanashimatsu asks, fidgeting with his now shorter hair.

“Seems like it.”

Suimatsu replies, blowing a bit of hair away from his eyes.

“For how long?”

“Until you guys are ready to go outside, dayon!”

“And when will we be ready?”

Goyomatsu asks. It is met with a shrug from Dayon before he turns to walk back up the stairs. The six are left there once again, just as confused as they were earlier.

Before Goyomatsu could even comment on it, a loud “Uhyo~!” can be heard from up the stairs. Iyami walks down, files folders in hand.

“Alright, NEETs! You six are to be the new sextuplets, zansu. To do that, you guys’ll have to get used to your roles, zansu.”

Iyami hands each of them their own folders, all of them color coded accordingly. Upon opening his, Yoshimatsu sees a paper consisting of a list of Osomatsu’s behaviors, and a description of him. Beside that are pictures of him, ranging from his face and some candid photos taken from far away. Yoshimatsu furrows his eyebrows in concern.

“In each folder is a checklist of things you should do, zansu. Me expects you to perfect them as soon as possible, zansu!”

“...Sorry.” Shimatsu starts as he closes his folder back up, “I am not going to act like a cutesy pansy boy. I’d rather die.”

“Sheeh!!” Iyami strikes his signature pose, “You have no choice, zansu! It’s either that or punishment for you!”

Iyami hits Shimatsu on the head, making him yell out in pain.

“Your intensive training starts in a few days, zansu. Get your act together, zansu!”

The six hesitate before nodding their heads, reluctantly accepting the instructions given to them. Iyami smiles in satisfaction before heading back up the stairs and walking out, shutting the door behind him. The six look around at their new living quarters. A ratty futon, a small, splintering wooden table, a rather dusty-looking sofa, a closet with nothing in it, a cramped bathroom, a bookshelf, and a wall-mounted whiteboard… It looked about as sad as a starter apartment. Well, at least it was cozy. Kinda.

[ecnmatic]

Fear Street: 1994 (2021) dir. Leigh Janiak.

[airbendertendou]

LOVE YOU, HATE FOOLISH! ♡

synopsis : you work at one of bonten's clubs, but recently, have been acting suspicious. a member is sent to watch you and is met with something completely different.

cw : bonten boys being sneaky , brief violence , mentions of guns , an abundance of pet-names

song inspo ; love foolish by twice

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

someone is following you. the club isn't far from your home — far from your boys. footsteps fall behind yours quietly and you gulp. shaky hands drag your phone from your pocket, pressing on the one until he answers.

"on your way home?" he doesn't say hello. he knows your routine — knows it's time for you to be near him. "[name]?"

"hey! yeah, a pepperoni is fine," you pause before letting out a breathy laugh. "you know how i feel about my pizza."

"someone following you?" his voice turns stern and serious. you let out a quiet mhm as you attempt to locate your stalker from the corner of your eye. it's what you'd rehearsed ; your panic words incase you were in trouble. "how close are you? i'll meet you halfway."

you turn your head with a nonchalant hum before rattling off the street-name you're near. a flash of a tattoo catches your eye before it's out of view — it makes you even more nervous.

you let out another staged giggle, "yeah, just don't watch another episode without me. promise?"

"already on my way, sweetheart."

— SANNOH HOODLUM SQUAD! ♡ ft. ran haitani

the sound of a motorcycle disturbs the quiet neighborhood around you. a breath is let out of your lungs at the sight of headlights coming towards you. echoed footsteps have long since fallen quiet, but that only heightened your fears.

cobra steps off of his bike, face stern and serious as he makes his way towards you. noboru sends a grin your way, yamato towering behind him as they scope out the area around you. cobra frowns at you, "you okay?"

"physically." crunching of glass hits your ears and you spin around. streetlights hit purple hair and you stiffen once more. "ran?"

he looks you up and down, his tongue in his cheek before he grins. "heya, doll."

your chest is pressed to a back before you realize it. cobra is looming in front of you, shoulders and chest widened threateningly. noboru is to your left ; yamato on your right, matching scowls on their faces.

the blond's voice is a growl as he speaks, "and who are you?"

"just the boss," ran raises his hands in surrender. he's too casual ; too relaxed to be outnumbered. sleepy eyes meet yours. "of sorts."

your breath catches in your throat. "he sent you... after me?" ran hums, tilting his head tauntingly. your eyebrows furrow, "why?"

"thinks you're up to somethin'." ran shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. a flash of silver catches your eyes — he's carrying his gun, of course. "in enemy territory. telling secrets."

the words oddly make you relax a little. a misunderstanding, that's all it is. but, before you can speak, cobra does. "just who is your boss?"

ran grins, "you don't want to know."

"i live in... opposing territory," you speak up. brushing past cobra — you smile over your shoulder reassuringly at him — you stand between the men. "that's all. i travel back and forth between other claimed areas."

humming once more, ran thinks over what you said. he eyes the three men with you — sees how guarded you are. his eyes scrape over your figure once more before he nods. "okay. i'll believe you."

turning without another word, ran leaves you standing there. he looks over his shoulder at you, eyes gleaming dangerously. "get home safely, doll."

waiting until ran is long out of sight, cobra wanders up to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. you turn, letting out a breath of relief and grin. cobra frowns further, "don't get in front of me like that again, okay?"

your smiles fades at his words. cobra sighs, hands dropping to your hips as he squeezes. "he had a gun, angel. would much rather i got shot than you."

"whatever you say, mister sannoh, sir." you kiss his cheek delicately before walking to his best friends. "and thank you both for coming with him. i appreciate it."

"whatever you say," noboru grins down at you, "mx sannoh."

— WHITE RASCALS! ♡ ft. kakucho

a white bike pulls up in front of you as rocky steps off. he's got a lollipop in his mouth — blueberry, from the scent — and a nonchalant demeanor as he stands in front of you.

"you're here," you breath. you relax, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you control your breathing. "you got here really fast."

a clink! hits your ears as the lollipop is taken from his mouth. "you were in trouble."

sunglasses sit on the edge of his nose as he scours your surroundings. one hand holds the back of your head, hugging you close to his body. you savor his warmth and the comfort he brings ; the safety he makes you feel. rocky stiffens, his mouth near your ear as he speaks, "found 'em."

"[name]." rocky pulls you closer as your name is called. you turn your face, still hiding in your boyfriend's chest. you see a familiar suit, eyes crawling up until you see an even more familiar man. "may we talk?"

your eyes widen, "mister kakucho! ...were you following me?"

"my apologies," the man sends a half bow your way, "i didn't mean to frighten you."

rocky's chest vibrates with a hum. both of his arms are around your waist, a little more relaxed. still poised to attack if he needed to, though. "so, why are you following my flower?"

kakucho eyes the way you're standing — practically melted into rocky's chest. a small, distant smile curls on his lips before it falls away, back to his neutral expression. "the boss asked me to... check on you."

you face him fully now, your back to rocky's chest. "me? why?"

with a shrug, kakucho looks away nonchalantly. "just as a precaution." he meets rocky's eyes over you, seeing the silent threat in his eyes. he nods rocky's way, "we can talk more at work. get home safe, you two."

it stays silent as kakucho leaves your sight. rocky squeezes your hips, placing a kiss on your temple before backing off. "don't like that boss of yours. seems like a prick."

you snort, "you have no idea."

— OYA KOU! ♡ ft haruchiyo sanzu

it isn't long until murayama is stomping his way towards you. seki and furuya have to almost run to keep up with his hasty pace, failing to keep their serious faces on. you're bombarded with questions almost immediately.

"who is it? where are they? are you being threatened? did they touch you? if so much as a fingernail is broken, i am going to—"

both of your hands clutch onto one of his. a simple, pretty smile is on your face as you look at him. "hi, yoshiki."

"hey, sweet baby," he melts. the duo behind him share a glance as murayama shakes his head, getting focused once more. "i'm being serious. you've never panic-worded before."

pink hair pops up before you know it, a fist swinging murayama's way. in the time that it takes for you to widen your eyes, two bodies are on the ground. seki and furuya stand with you, blocking your body with theirs.

heaving breaths are all you hear until almost identical manic laughs spill from their lips. as the new figure sits up, you blanch. what could you have done for the guard dog himself to be after you? sanzu grins, "you're pretty good."

murayama lets out his own breathy laugh, "haven't had a fight like that in too long."

"boss?" the friendly, sparkling atmosphere is broken by your meek voice. your legs are trembling together, eyes wide and teary. why was bonten after you? "is... is there a problem?"

when sanzu's icy eyes slide to yours, you can't help but wish you never spoke at all. he huffs as he stands, wiping blood from his crooked nose. sanzu clicks his tongue in disappoinment as he stands before you. he says your name three times, "just what have you gotten yourself into?"

"you work for this guy?" murayama is beside you within the next second. his knuckles are worn and bleeding as he clutches your hand in his. "small world."

"boss said to keep an eye on you," sanzu sweeps his striped suit. a diamond encrusted grin is thrown your way — it makes chills run up your spine. "i'll be watching you, [full name]."

sanzu leaves, but your chest still feels crowded, like you can't breathe. you stare with a dead gaze at where he once stood. an arm is slung around your shoulders, heavy breathing echoing into your ear. "that sounded like a threat."

your eyes meet murayama's, "it was."

— RUDE BOYS! ♡ ft. rindou haitani

you're already talking to someone by the time he arrives. sneakily, smoky watches from the rooftop he's perched on as you exchange conversation with the man across from you. lilac hair wasn't something he was used to seeing — the color stood out in nameless.

"yeah," you shrug your work bag further up your shoulder. "that's it, i think."

rindou nods, looking to the ground as he kicks a rock. he goes to speak again but stops at the new figured that has joined you. looming behind you is a man with shaggy hair and a dead look to his eyes.

you tilt your head at rin's silence. you see a flash of green in the corner of your eye. jumping, you step away from the shadowed figure before sighing. "smoky. hi. what did i say about the sneaking thing?"

"sorry," a small flash of a smile greets you. he slides closer, his left pinkie linking into your own. smoky stares at rindou, "who's this?"

"friend from work," you answer before rindou can. a minute shake of your head distracts the purple-haired man. he smirks lightly — you were worried about him beating this frail guy up, right? you eye smoky, "is it jus' you or...?"

he smiles again, "only me. for now."

rindou sighs, scratching the back of his head. he looks at smoky once more before meeting your gaze. "and with that, i'll be off. thanks for the chat, [name]."

as rindou walks off, you lace your fingers through smoky's, leaning onto his shoulder. you let out a yawn, "ready to head home?"

he nods, leading you away. looking back, smoky watches the shadowed figures that follow an unsuspecting rindou. he gives a small nod — they follow their leader's command.

— DARUMA IKKA! ♡ ft. hajime kokonoi

a vibrant, purple car pulls in front of you, music booming from the speakers. hyuga slides off of the hood, standing in front of you meanacingly. he scowls, "problem here, [name]?"

you grin, "no, not now that you're here."

silence and then a snort. hyuga reaches out to pinch the top of your arm before he pulls you close. smoke travels from the pipe he uses, enveloping you in the smell and fog. you narrow your eyes, "that's so unnecessary, norihisa."

his arm wraps around the back of your neck, bringing you close. his mouth brushes against your ear, "whatever you say, baby."

a newer, white car pulls in to your right. the conversation and music pauses, eyes on the figure leaving the vehicle. you straighten up with a widened mouth. "kokonoi? um, is there something you need, sir?"

kokonoi smooths his suit out and tucks his hair back into the low bun it sits in. he greets you with a smile before his eyes fall on hyuga. "i didn't know you knew a hyuga, [name]."

"and how do you know my hyuga?" koko looks at you before tilting his head and smiling tantalizingly. you purse your lips, "right. your gambling problem."

"careful, [name]," kokonoi sticks his tongue out, "i'm still your boss."

you wrap your arms around hyuga's waist, bringing yourself closer to him. half of your face is hidden in his red jacket, barely visible pout on your lips. "we're not in work now, though..."

hyuga kisses the top of your head. "need somethin' from us?"

"just had a little question." koko looks at where you're attaching yourself to hyuga before nodding to himself. "things are starting to make sense now, though."

humming, you frown at your boss-of-sorts. "you're acting shady."

koko grins, closing his eyes with a small laugh. "aren't i always? see you tomorrow, [name]."

hyuga pats your bottom in a pattern as you both watch the white-haired man leave. he honks, flashing his headlights before he leaves. hyuga sucks in air through his teeth, "what a weird guy."

"are you allowed to say that?" a pinch to your butt causes you to squeak. "okay, alright! i take it back."

——♡—— ive decided i love pairing them together <3 but that was a lil obvious beforehand do we like the pairings though?? could’ve changed them but….. if youd like to b tagged / untagged in any tokyorev OR hnl content, let me know! ♡

🍓FOREVER TAGS : @star2fishmeg ♥︎

🍓 H&L TAGLIST : @rouzuchan @yuken-gf @strxwberrychocolate @simpforchuchu @thatpoindexterpixy @cheshirecatuniverse

🍓 TOKYOREV TAGLIST : @night-shadowblood-writes2 @muichirouswifeandhusband

airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Take Me Instead (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader)

Anthony Bridgerton x gn!Reader Modern AU Rated/warnings: T - language, robbery, gun use, blood Word count: 3k

Summary: You and Anthony find yourselves in the middle of a bank robbery on an ill-fated day.

Author's Note: This is a belated birthday gift prompted by the fabulous and talented @broooookiecrisp and a game of prompt roulette that gave me: sad, Anthony, "take me instead". I hope you enjoy my dear 💙 Kudos also to @sorryallonsy who found the perfect header image!

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was something you saw in movies, not something that happened in real life, and certainly not to you. When the doors to the bank were pulled shut by three men who then dropped to their knees and started opening their duffel bags, your immediate thought was that they must be maintenance workers of some kind. Then when the sound of a gunshot tore through the marble lobby you froze with panic, unable to react at all. But you didn’t need to because Anthony instantly wrapped himself around you and pulled you to the floor as other patrons started to scream.

“Stay down,” he urged, his voice the only steady thing within the chaos. Though he was curled over you, you could both look around to see what was happening. The men at the door had risen wearing ski masks and holding assault rifles. A fourth man, the source of the fired shot, held a pistol in the air at the teller window. There were ten or so people in the lobby, all of them instinctively cowering. All the staff of the bank seemed to have disappeared and you guessed were hidden in their own corners. Directly across from you a woman huddled under a counter clutching a boy who looked about nine years old. He was still but his eyes darted wildly.

At the shouted insistence from the four imposing men everyone fell into an ominous silence. You realized you were trembling with fear and adrenaline only when your husband squeezed you tighter. The warm weight of him against your back felt like the only thing keeping you from flailing with panic. 

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispered into your hair, his voice tight. You gave some semblance of a nod. You needed to stay focused in the moment, to do what he told you, to think of a way out, to at least get descriptions of the criminals. But all your mind would do was berate you for ending up in this situation. What were the odds that you would be in this bank at this precise moment? You and Anthony had been downtown, due to meet his brother for lunch at the cafe across the street when you remembered you still had money in your bag from your recent trip abroad. You were just there for a quick exchange, likely the first time Anthony had ever set foot in a bank for a purpose other than closing a multimillion dollar transaction. But he had tagged along, playfully pawing at you while you waited in the queue. Then hell broke loose and now that chance errand may have rerouted the course of your lives. It lit a spark of anger within your fear.

“Where’s the manager?” barked the man at the window. Unlike his companions he wasn’t compelled to hide his face. Red-haired with a scarred and stubbled face and broad build, he seemed to be the leader. 

Everyone stayed silent. No one moved.

He seethed as he surveyed everyone lying on the floor. Then in a few brisk steps he was hauling the little boy out of the woman’s arms as they both screamed. He brandished the gun to make her let go, then held the boy in front of him with the weapon angled to make his intentions clear. “Where’s the fucking manager?”

Before you could react, Anthony pulled away and started to rise to his feet, moving toward them. “Hey, hey! Let him go.”

“Shut the fuck up!” So focused on the scene in front of you, neither of you had noticed one of the other men moving up behind, but he suddenly appeared beside your husband, flipped his gun and cracked him in the jaw with the butt of it. You bit your tongue to keep from screaming as Anthony staggered and fell back to one knee. “Stay down!” The man struck him again on the shoulder so that Anthony pitched to the floor, lying perpendicular between you and the robbers, just out of your reach.

You watched him spit a patch of blood onto the marble then wipe the crimson from his split lip with a swipe of his thumb. Your brain was static, a roar of furious and terrified cries that you were just managing to keep at bay. He turned to you, his deep eyes reading yours and you knew he could tell. He gave the barest hint of a nod. Reassurance. Strength. Insistence. You needed to stay quiet. You treasured the fact that you were able to read each other’s thoughts through your eyes alone, but you could never imagine that facet of your love would prove so vital. 

The leader chuckled then continued to wave his pistol threateningly toward the boy who had gone pale, looking desperately back at his mother. “I’m going to need someone to help us into the vault or else things are going to go poorly. Do you understand?”

Across from you the mother crouched, looking ready to pounce at a moment’s notice but emitting a stream of quiet whimpers. She never blinked as she watched her son. 

Footsteps broke the horrible silence and all eyes turned to a small middle-aged woman who appeared in the doorway of a side office. She walked forward slowly, hands raised in the air and shaking, but she spoke clearly. 

“I’m the manager. I’ll take you to the vault. What…what do you want?”

She halted feet away from the men and the leader lowered his gun but never let go of the child. “We want access to the deposit box for one Jack Featherington.”

Your blood ran cold. Featherington? You knew the family. Longtime neighbors and friends of the Bridgertons. But you didn’t know a Jack. The chances of multiple unrelated Featherington families seemed slim. Who was he and what could he have that they wanted? 

“You can’t…you can’t open it without his key. That’s how it’s designed.” The manager explained, tremulous. 

The leader smirked. “Oh, we are well aware of that. Jackie boy has been evading us and we need some leverage to rat him out.” 

Just then the wail of sirens could be heard narrowing in around the building and you felt a fraction of relief. Someone had managed to ring a silent alarm, or make a call, or someone outside had heard the commotion. Help was just beyond the doors.

“Right on schedule.” The leader smiled, dragging the boy to walk with him as he moved to the center of the lobby, explaining his plans with all the fanfare of a carnival barker. “Alright ladies and gents, here’s the good news. We aren’t interested in hurting anyone.” You heard Anthony snicker as he licked his lip. “We’re going to let you go.” A low murmur of surprise rippled across the floor. “All you need to do is tell all the news cameras and the good officers of the law outside that we need their help finding the lying Lord Jack Featherington and his keyring. Understood?”

You were breathing fast, trying to process what he said. You would be let go. This was just a spectacle, a bargaining chip in some grander criminal scheme. You weren’t targets, you were useful collateral. Maybe you could even help the police by contacting the Featheringtons. It would be over soon.

The leader moved back to the manager. “Okay, you’re staying to let us in and…” He paused, thinking as he looked across the lobby once more. “Well, we need an insurance policy so I think you’ll stay too.” He wrapped an arm around the boy’s neck, grabbed the manager with his other hand and began to pull them both toward the back hall. For the first time the boy screamed, kicking his feet as he struggled against his captor. His mother wailed.

“Let the boy go!” Anthony roared, rising to his knees. 

The second man snapped to face him. “What did I tell you?” You barely saw the slight tilt of his weapon, barely heard the high pitched pop, but then Anthony fell back clutching his side and your lungs knew before your brain did that he had been shot. You screamed and the sentiment was echoed by the other hostages. As you crawled to your husband’s side you were deaf to the fact that the leader was shouting furiously at his colleague. All you could see was the stunned look on Anthony’s face as he sat up and pressed a hand just above his left hip, bringing it away bloody. 

Your heart beat double time, every sense heightened as you took his hand in yours and saw the light reflecting off the wet smear on his palm the same way it glinted off your wedding rings. You sat next to him, hands roving aimlessly, clueless as to what you should do. “Oh my god, Anthony… no…”

“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “It just grazed me, I’ll be alright.” He tried to flash you a winning smile but you saw the grimace underneath it. You weren’t a doctor but judging by how fast the dark stain was spreading across his shirt, you knew he was lying about being grazed. 

Seeing him wounded somehow organized the panic in your brain. You were still frantic but you were going to make a plan. You were going to get him out alive. “We have to leave,” you whispered urgently. “They’ll let us go. We have to get you to a hospital. I won’t let you die…”

His brows darted up with concern and he leveled his eyes on you. “Hey, hey, look at me. I’m not going to die. We’re going to get out of this and it will be the maddest story we ever tell. You understand?”

You saw how the love still overcame the pain in his features and hot tears started to mount in your eyes. You would find a way out together. Of course you would. You nodded, chin trembling. 

The felons seemed to resolve their spat and the leader turned back to address the room again. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you lot stay down. We’re headed to the vault and taking these two with us. They get released when we get Featherington’s keys. You tell them that, yeah?” Once again he started to drag the manager and the boy down the hall.

“Stop!” Anthony shouted, pressing a hand tight to his wound.

The man who had shot him rounded on him for the final time, growling. “You motherf…”

“Take me instead.”

His words hung in the air for a moment. So simple. Spoken so calmly. Everything within you sank. “Anthony, what?! No…” You whispered frantically, gripping his arm.

“Oh, fuck off.” the man scoffed, moving to tower over you both with the gleaming metal of his weapon hanging inches above your head.

Anthony looked up at him with steely resolve, undaunted. “Take me. I’m worth more than every other person in this building combined.” His eyes flicked to the side then he added quietly, “No offense.”

The thug snorted. “What are you, Duke of Sussex?”

“Viscount. And I run a company. A large company. Look.” Hissing in pain as he moved, he reached into his blazer and produced his card, handing it up with bloodied fingers.

At the back of the room the leader had paused, watching curiously. “What’s it say?”

“Anthony Bridgerton. CEO, Bridgerton House Enterprises.”

The way the leader’s eyebrows raised, you knew he recognized the family name and the pit of dread burrowed deeper into your stomach. “Fucking hell, looks like we bagged a silver tuna.” A smile broke out across his face to rival a cheshire cat. 

Now Anthony was removing his watch, gasping as he struggled with even the smallest movements. He held it out to his attacker, further incentive to accept his offer. It was his Omega De Ville, an obscene six-figure wedding gift from his friend Simon. “Here, take this,” he rasped. “You could buy a bloody house with that. Take me and let everyone else go safely.”

“No!” You pleaded aloud, holding tight to his arm. You didn’t care anymore if you upset the man floating a rifle over you both. You’d rather be killed or dragged away with your husband than have him do this. Even though you knew he was right. Even though you knew he was doing this to save an innocent child, to save you, to save everyone. Your heart wouldn’t accept it.

“Yes.” Anthony affirmed, not even looking back at you. He still addressed the criminals. “I won’t struggle. I can’t struggle now that you’ve fucking shot me. And if you wanted national attention…  Taking me will get you global. All the bargaining power you could ask for. Whatever you’re getting out of Featherington, you could double it with the ransom my company will pay.” He was using that tone, that suave confidence that wooed all his business partners and had wooed you. You of all people knew how irresistible it was. You loved and hated him equally in that moment.

The gunman stared, dumbstruck. He turned the watch over in his hand, seemingly impressed, then called over his shoulder. “Boss?”

It didn’t matter how many prayers raced silently through your heart, you already knew how this was going to play out.

“Grab him.”

You sprang forward, flinging your arms around him and finally allowing yourself to weep. “Anthony…no…” He had only been yours for a year. One year as your husband. One year of a life he filled with bliss. It was not enough. You couldn’t let it end now, and not in this way. You would offer yourself in his place except no one had the leverage he did and that was precisely why he was doing this.

He pulled back and brought a hand to your cheek. You could feel the warmth of his blood streaking your skin. “I will see you again, do you understand?” His voice was low and you could hear the slightest tremor in it, a fear he would expose only to you. “This is just temporary. The police know what to do and we’ll both be alright.”

“I can’t leave you,” you insisted, tears running down your face. But you knew you were overruled so you tried to memorize everything about him in that moment. The precise shade of his brown eyes, the callused tips of his fingers as they brushed your skin, the warmth of his breath, the flecks of grey in his beard. An enduring memory that would be replaced when you held him again.

“Stay with my family,” he choked. “I will see you again. I love you.”

“Alright, alright…” The robber rolled his eyes then clapped a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, gripping into his clothes and starting to drag him back toward the leader. He gasped and fumbled to stand as he was pulled along but always ended up falling back, clutching at his side. The red-headed man shoved the boy toward his mother who threw herself around him and sobbed. It was as if the ability to cry was predicated on having your loved one in your arms because as soon as Anthony left your grasp you went silent, keeping your eyes on him as steadfastly as his were on you. The leader seemed pleased with the trade off and ushered the quivering bank manager to walk in front of him down the hall, keeping his gun pointed at her back while his cohort dragged Anthony at the rear. A parade of fear headed toward an uncertain end.

They rounded a corner and were out of sight, leaving a trail of blood behind them. You were frozen, blank, your body refusing to leave even though your mind knew you should. But once again someone came to your aid. The mother, one arm locked around her son, wrapped the other around you and dragged you to your feet. You knew she was whispering gratitude and reassurances but you had fallen deaf. The remaining two men with guns herded your band of hostages out the front doors and quickly locked them behind you. You vaguely registered the crowd gathered around the building - a police barricade, ambulances, news vans, a sea of onlookers. After stumbling down the steps with the woman and her son you were swarmed by people in uniform. Someone draped a blanket over your shoulders while an EMT began wiping the blood from your hands and face. 

“It’s not my blood,” you insisted, finding your voice again as your senses slowly returned. “They shot him. They shot my husband.” You grabbed the nearest police officer and turned them to face you. “Please, he’s in there now. You have to help him! At the very least ask if you can send in medical help. He’s bleeding and…”

Then you heard someone shouting your name. Frantically, repeatedly, growing closer. You spun to see a man struggling and held back by a pair of officers. Benedict. He had been waiting for you both across the street and had no doubt seen the chaos erupt. You ran to them, hastily explaining he was your brother-in-law. The officers relented and you rushed into his arms, the two of you clinging together so tightly it was hard to breathe. He felt like an anchor to your sanity, a reminder that not everything in the world had gone unrecognizably sideways. Anthony’s words echoed in your mind, “stay with my family”, and you knew it was the only way you would have the strength to face this trial - together. 

You leaned against Benedict as officers and EMTs circled you, taking your story, bombarding you with questions and confirming the details over and over. They promised they would get Anthony back. They promised he would be alright. They promised they would work to end this soon. But their promises held little weight next to the one that would haunt your every moment until it was fulfilled. If Anthony had promised you would see each other again, you were going to hold him to his word. He had kept every promise he had ever made to you. All you could do was trust he would keep this one too.

No tags for prompt roulette, just for dedications and co-conspirators 😜

[dreamfyre03]

A Dragon's Love

Trigger Warnings: A bit of swearing, threats, mentions of violence, Aemond being a little obsessive

Chapter 4: The Woes of Courtship

Dividers by: @zaldritzosrose

Header by: @zaldritzosrose

Five years later

At ten and eight, Aemond Targaryen had now grown to become the man widely known throughout the realm as the feared one eyed prince. Most people dared not look him in the eye, his wielded his sword with indescribable skill, as though it were an extension of his person. His continued his schooling even when he didn’t have to, and tutors from all over the realms were brought the King’s Landing to further his knowledge, at his request. 

He liked his fearsome reputation, no one dared to cross him, and he liked it that way. He liked being feared. 

However, the only rare instance one might see a crack in his carefully curated exterior, was in the presence of his older half sister, Daenys. Aemond couldn’t resist looking at her, trying but sometimes failing to be subtle. She had grown into a beautiful woman, with long silver white hair, much like his own, kind grey-blue eyes one could get lost in. Her body was a woman’s now, with a woman’s curves, and large breasts that Aemond knew sometimes attracted the attention of many a nobleman. She never lost her kind spirit, and although one might make the mistake of thinking she was much like Helaena, gentle and fragile, Aemond knew his sister possessed a dragonfire within her that was just waiting to be unleashed. 

He had finished his training with Ser Criston for the day, spoke with his mother after she attended to the King’s council with his grandsire, and paid a visit to Helaena and the children. He turned the corner and entered the library, where he knew she would be, and was met with the sight of her in a red and black dress, for although one might mistake the colours as a symbol of support to their sister, he knew she simply loved to wear their Targaryen colours proudly. She was sitting on the settee, as Aegon sat next to her, clearly trying to convince her of getting involved in one of his foolish ideas, no doubt. “Come now, sister, you know I’d never let anything happen to you.” He heard Aegon tell her.

She simply laughed and shook her head. “Aegon, I’ve no wish to acquire our older sister’s reputation. You can recount your endeavours to me when you come back, as you always do.” She replied. He watched as Aegon leaned in close to her and whisper something, to which she let out another laugh, until she saw him. “Brother,” she greeted him, with a smile. Aemond took a seat on the other side of her, leaving her cushioned between her two brothers. 

“What is our brother trying to rope you into this time?” He asked, eyeing Aegon who rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, for I’ve already told him no” she emphasised her answer to him once again, only prompting him to grin at her cheekily. Aemond never understood how his drunken, whoring brother could be so dearly loved by Daenys, but he let it be. 

“You’re a woman grown, sister, a bit of carnal fun might be good for you,” Aegon said, running his finger across her cheek, causing her to roll her eyes at him with faux annoyance. 

Aemond glared at Aegon, who ignored his piercing stare. 

“Brother, I guarantee that should I go with you to the Street of Silk tonight, I will no doubt be recognised and reported back to your mother.” She said. “You wish to take our sister out to the Street of Silk? Are you mad?” Aemond asked incredulously. 

Aegon sighed and got up, “Don’t get all worked up, brother, she won’t come with me. Worry not sister, who knows, one night I might just bring the Street of Silk to you.” He teased, causing Daenys to laugh and toss her book at him, which he surprisingly caught expertly and rested on the table. He soon left them alone, and Aemond said, “You mustn’t let Aegon drag you into such ventures. The Street of Silk is no place for a woman like you.” 

Daenys shifted so that she was facing him, sitting comfortably with her feet tucked under her. “A woman like me?” She repeated his words, with a look of amusement. “Brother, need I remind you, as I often must, that I am the elder of us. Just because everyone fears you so doesn’t mean you can lecture me like I am the younger. I can handle Aegon, don’t you worry.” 

“They fear me for a reason, sister.” 

“Do they? And what will you do if I went with our brother tonight? Kill him?” She looked up at him with those eyes, and Aemond tried not to get lost in them. “I’m ceaselessly tempted to, so I just might.” He said seriously. 

“Hmm, well. You don’t scare me, little brother. Tell me, where is the little boy I used to take with me on rides atop Meraxa?” “He died long ago.” “Pity,” She said, studying his face, seeing him in a way only she could. “I quite loved that little boy once. I know he’s still in there, sweet boy, no matter how hard you try to snuff him out.” 

Aemond finally looked her back in the eye, and said, “Only for you, Daenys.”, unable to fight the small smile she could always coax out of him. 

“I’m glad.” She replied, yawning as she resting her head on his shoulder. Her warmth was like a blanket that encompassed him and made him feel at peace, the incessant angry noise in his head went quiet. 

“I am quite exhausted, baby Maelor is quite the bundle of energy, isn’t he?” She said, snuggling into him. 

Aemond generally didn’t like physical touch, he didn’t care to be unnecessarily touched by anyone, but, as she was with most things relating to him, Daenys was the exception to the rule. He savoured every touch, when she laughed a little too loudly and her hand would touch his arm, when she would reach up and smooth his long, Targaryen silver locks back into place after they came back from taking the skies together, or like now, when she would lay her head on his shoulder, as he would let her talk tiredly about whatever she wanted, for he could never get tired of hearing her voice. 

She smelled his jasmine and lilies, a scent that now, after eighteen years, felt like home to him. 

“But, are you too tired to take to the skies with Vhagar and I? Or are you scared Meraxa is, in fact not as fast as my Vhagar?” She shot up instantly, always ready for a challenge. “I shall prove you wrong again, brother. Come, let us be off to the Dragon Pit.” She said with a smile, her red dress effortlessly flowing around her as she moved, and Aemond followed right behind her. 

Aemond was in lighter spirits after spending hours in the sky with Daenys and Meraxa, and his usually cold disposition was slightly less guarded as they walked the halls together upon their return. That would not last for long, however, as they rounded the corner and met the handsome young Lord Linus Tyrell. “My Prince, Princess.” He greeted them. Aemond nodded in acknowledgement, his gaze hardened when he observed the Lord of Highgarden’s gaze lingering of the sight of his sister in her riding leathers. 

“Lord Tyrell, lovely to see you,” Daenys said politely, and the man smiled in response. “Not as lovely as it is for me to see you, Princess.” He replied, and Aemond felt anger creeping up his spine as he noticed the man taking in his sister in an unsubtle manner, looking at the shape of her body through the fitted riding leathers, which was arguably less conservative than a dress. 

Daenys simply gave him a cordial smile, as he continued to speak. “I’ve only just arrived from Highgarden today. It is particularly lovely this time of year.” “How sad it must be for you to leave it behind then,” His sister replied. 

“Indeed. A beauty such as yourself would put the blooms of Highgarden to shame, Princess.” He said, and Aemond fought the urge to roll his eye. “You are too kind, my Lord. I’m afraid I’m awfully tired, my brother and I have just returned from the Dragonpit. But I do hope you enjoy your stay in the capital.” 

“I believe I will. I hope to see you again soon, Princess.” He told her, as he bid them both farewell on went on his way. 

They walked on in companionable silence until they reached his sister’s rooms, and she bade him goodnight with a chaste kiss and went into her chambers. Aemond began to walk to his own rooms, only a few doors down, but could not get they way Lord Tyrell oogled this sister out of his head, and thought he might speak to his mother as to if she were aware of the man’s intentions. 

He quickened his steps but stopped outside the door when he heard his mother and grandfather conversing quietly. “He is a good match. We can never have too many allies in the Reach.” He heard his grandsire say. “Indeed, but it is not I who can grant Lord Tyrell permission to court Daenys, only the King can.” His mother replied.

“Yes, daughter, but we both know the King is in no state to consider such an idea. Not to mention, in the past he has rejected every marriage proposal that has come her way. In any case, when the King meets the stranger, it is the next ruler who will be responsible for her marriage.” “Rhaenyra will not care enough to see her sister wed.” His mother said. “You know that is not of whom I speak. Aegon is rather close to the girl, I suspect when he is king, he would marry her to a lord present at court, to keep her close to him. But that won’t serve our purposes much, will it?” 

He heard his mother sigh. “Very well. I shall grant him permission to court her, but should a match be the outcome, it is the King who has the final say.” “A wise choice. She would make a fine Lady of Highgarden, I believe.”

Aemond felt himself fuming with anger. He immediately turned himself away from the doors and walked away, lest his rage get the better of him and he did something he might regret. It didn’t surprise him that they spoke so openly of usurping his sister, and in all fairness he didn’t care, for why should the mother of bastards sit the throne? Although, his brother wasn’t exactly suited for the role either. But the politics amounted to nothing when compared to the fact that they wanted to marry his sister off the that Tyrell lord, who was clearly not worthy of her. He felt as though he could burn down King’s Landing with Vhagar at the very thought of her wedding him, letting him touch her, bed her, it made him sick. She wasn’t the Lord of Highgarden’s to claim, and he would damn well make sure of it. 

The next morning, Aemond stopped by the nursery to see Helaena and Daenys with the children. Helaena was braiding Jaehaera’s hair, while Jaehaerys played with a toy sword he had been gifted by his father. Maelor was sat atop Daenys’s lap, who bumped him gently on her knee as she sang softly to him. 

He sat with them, conversing about a number of things, including the upcoming celebrations to be held in a few months for Aemond’s name day, which he didn’t care for, but his mother insisted. He still hadn’t forgotten what he’d heard last night, and it returned to the forefront of his mind when he heard Helaena ask, “When will you meet Lord Tyrell?”

Aemond’s head snapped to attention, turning to listen as Daenys replied, “After his meeting with your mother and grandsire, I believe.” “He is quite handsome,” Helaena teased, and Daenys shook her head at her sister with an amused expression. 

“I suppose.” Was all she said. “He’s a pompous ass is what is is,” Aemond muttered under his breath. “What was that brother?” Helaena asked innocently. Daenys eyed him with a knowing expression, but instead he said, “I was only asking why are you meeting Lord Tyrell, sister?” 

“Your mother suggested I take him for a walk in the gardens. I don’t mind, really.” She told him. His mother had clearly began the matchmaking efforts already. He hadn’t a moment to waste. 

He abruptly bid his sisters and niece and nephews farewell, and walked until he saw the Lord Tyrell himself, seemingly heading for his mother’s sitting room. “Lord Tyrell.” Aemond greeted in a dark tone as he the man greeted him. “Prince Aemond. A pleasure, my prince, to see you this morning. I’m on my way to speak to the Queen, as it happens.” He said, seemingly eager to get to his destination. “My mother can wait. I believe we ought to have a word, my lord.” Aemond spoke clearly implying the man had no choice in the matter. He saw him gulp nervously at Aemond’s terrifyingly calm expression and nodded, as he followed Aemond into an empty study nearby. 

Aemond shut the door, creating a menacing feel in the room that was totally silent until Aemond spoke. “It is my understanding that you wish to court my sister.” Aemond finally broke the silence, looking down on the older man, who wasn’t that much older than Aemond, about twenty and six, but Aemond’s towering frame and commanding presence clearly set the tone that he was the one in power here. “I do, my prince.” He replied, unsuccessfully hiding his nervousness. “So, you think yourself worthy of my sister? Of the blood of the dragon, do you?” Aemond asked as he somewhat absentmindedly pulled out his dagger and looked at it with a bored expression. “Well, I would like to hope the Princess finds me worthy, my Prince.” He answered, his eye darting back and forth from Aemond’s face to the dagger in his hand. 

Aemond looked at him with an amused expression. “Allow me to spare my sister the effort. You are not. You are not worthy of my sister, you will rescind your request to court her, you will stay away from her, and you will return to Highgarden back to smelling the flowers or whatever the fuck you Tyrells do there. Am I clear?” Lord Tyrell bravely look Aemond in the eye and said, “Forgive me, my prince, but you do not decide who can court the princess. Only the King and Queen boast such authority.” Aemond gave a small laugh, but it lacked any warmth, it was a threatening laugh, one that struck fear in the Lord, who suddenly wished he didn’t try to stand his ground with one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms.

In a flash, Aemond had the man cornered into the wall, and had the blade pressed to his neck before he even had a fighting chance. “I am feeling merciful today, so I will repeat myself again. You will withdraw your request to court my sister. You will stay far away from her. If I see your hungry gazing so much as linger past her face, I will personally carve your eyes out myself, and have them sent back to Highgarden. And if you breath a word of this conversation to the Queen, or the Hand, or Princess Daenys, then I will ensure that you are begging for the mercy of a quick death. I am a patient man, my lord, I am more than capable of keeping you alive for days whilst I feed you torture in ways that would have the bravest of men cowering. Do we have an understanding?”

As he spoke, the blade in his hand was pressing harder and harder into the man’s neck, until a spot of blood appeared and leaked onto his collar. He nodded fearfully, saying, “Yes my prince, I apologise.” Aemond withdrew himself. “Good. You may leave.” Lord Tyrell all but ran from the room, and Aemond wiped his dagger clean before putting it back in his scabbard. That very same day, his sister no longer met Lord Tyrell in the gardens, as he informed the Queen of an unexpected emergency back at Highgarden, and left King’s Landing that same day, and Aemond smiled in satisfaction at the man’s petrified expression as he bid them farewell and left to return home. It was that day Aemond knew, he would never let anyone take Daenys from him. 

[seat-safety-switch]

Every afternoon, I hear a really bad-ass four-banger exhaust scream. It sounds like there’s a race car going down my block. Every time I hear it, I think that the kanjozoku – Osaka’s feared Honda Civic street racers – are getting ready to tear up my street and start a street fight with the cops. Our civilization will finally honour the small-displacement economy street racer in the way that it must in order to survive. As it gets closer, I realize it isn’t a high-revving Honda at all, but instead something industrial and rude.

And then they turn the corner and it turns out to be my middle-aged neighbour, Heng, who owns a 1995 Kia Sephia with a hole in the muffler. He’s not going fast, but he’s also not embarrassed of the meaty shriek either. Once, he saw me mowing the lawn as he went past, and dumped the clutch to give it a quick rev-up, making a sound that was not unlike a lawn tractor winning the Indy 500. I am already jealous of his expensive, modern car, which features amenities like “mirrors” and “overhead camshafts,” whatever those are. Why does he have to rub it in that way?

I don’t say anything. I can’t. He’s too fast, and he’s definitely too loud. Whatever I yell is just drowned out by the wall of sound generated by the muffler-less Ford/Mazda BP engine. By the time I can hear myself think, he’s turned the other corner and parked the car. The only thing I could do is to sabotage his car somehow: but how do you sabotage a car to make it quieter?

To answer my question, I turned to AI. Sorry, I mistyped that. I turned to Al, my former mechanic buddy who lives at the bar. Medical reasons. Anyway, Al suggested going onto eBay and picking up the cheapest turbocharger I could find. Heng wouldn’t mind having the extra zoot of a turbo, his iron-block four can easily take wastegate pressure without an intercooler, and Dodge applied to the government to have a turbocharger legally described as a kind of muffler. It’d keep the cops off of our block, which would make the $65 I passed to Shenzhen Farm Supply a work of philanthropy.

The next time I saw Heng, he was pulling a savage one-tire-fire down the street, the open differential straining to keep up with the mighty puff of additional air. He was genuinely fast now, and did not need to be loud. He did a perfect autocross tripod turn around the corner, and dropped into hyperspace as soon as the wheel straightened out. All I heard was the pleasant whoosh of a wastegate and the roar of a badly-worn wheel bearing, which was inaudible over the previous exhaust noise. I probably saved his life, I told myself as I returned to my garage. There’s no reason to have such a loud car in this day and age, I chuckled while firing up the open headers on my daily-driver Volare and watching the visible edge of the nitromethane flames play on what was left of the hood paint.

[evita-shelby]

37

or Jack’s birthday tends to fall on Labor Day, his 37th birthday in 1929 brings back memories of his 9th birthday when he takes his family to the beach.

The only surviving photograph that exists of his father was the one taken on Jack’s ninth birthday.

They’d gone to the beach, just like everyone in the south end did on Labor Day and like most families they’d taken a picture to commemorate it.

It was the last time he’d know happiness like that as a boy.

Jack and Rosie are the same age he and his dad were then. His dad, Edmund, had just turned thirty-seven and Jack nine. They didn’t share a birthday like he and his doe-eyed little girl do, but Edmund Nelson had helped his mother-in-law deliver Jack, who even at birth was too big.

The story has its similarities, but it won’t end the same.

Rosie, nor any of his children, won’t have to sell newspapers in a street corner nor see her mother become a gangster’s whore to have food on the table and a roof over their heads.

His dad had changed his name for Eamon O’Neil to Edmund Nelson to get a job at a factory and a modest apartment for his four children and his widowed sister, Jack had lied and said he was fourteen when he was twelve to become a gangster’s errand boy.

His kids won’t ever have to do any of that. Even when it all goes to shit and the second great war comes, his kids won’t ever know the pain of an empty stomach nor fear if their dad won’t have his head blown off for robbing the wrong man.

It is from the corner of his eye that he sees the man who took their picture then. A grey old man who’d been nearing forty then and charged a quarter just like he did then. The camera was newer, not as new as the one Jack bought his wife for their anniversary but not the old thing he had ten years ago when Jack first brought Eva to Carson Beach.

And just like then, and every time after, Jack takes his growing family decked out in their summer finery and pays the man a ten because that’s the most he’ll accept from him.

When they first came back to the beach after his father’s death, he gave them his condolences, bought the four of them ice cream, and told Jack’s mother of a man who needed a maid to look after his sick wife. If the man knows he is the reason Jack is where he is today, he doesn’t take the credit for it.

“You know that job saved our lives.” Jack speaks quietly so no one else but the old man hears him as he offers him a cigarette from his silver case. “We never came back to thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, just doing what anyone else would’ve done.” the old man says taking the cigarette speaking as if kindness wasn’t as rare as the money he gave him.

A/N: average cost for a photograph in 1920s/30s was 25 cents, 1929 Labor Day had been so successful in stocks etc that it gabe people false hope that the wall street crash wouldn't happen(it did in oct. 29),the pictures in the header are a 1906 photograph(L) and a 1920s/1930s one(R)of Carson Beach, South Boston, and 10 dollars in 1929 were the equivalent of roughly 180 dollars today.

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