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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 days ago

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The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 1: He Will Come Again In Glory]

A/N: I've had this idea since I saw Conclave in October, but I never imagined it would coincide with an ACTUAL papal conclave 😅 Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy "volcano fic" at long last!!! ��❤️

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church...and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.6k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“Are you responsible for the koi?” a man asks.

You whirl, spilling pellets of fish food across the pebble pathway, sand-colored tuff made of volcanic ash. Cardinal Targaryen is standing there, and of course you recognize him immediately. His hands are clasped behind his back, his head is tilted thoughtfully to the side. He wears a gold cross, a zucchetto upon his still-blonde hair, and a cassock, scarlet to symbolize the blood a martyr is willing to shed for the Faith; it has exactly thirty-three buttons, one for each year Christ spent on earth. You grin proudly. This is a promotion, an escape from doing the washing in a basement full of spiders. “I sure am, Your Eminence!”

“Including that one?” He points: by the edge of the pond, a large red-and-white koi is floating with dull, dead, lidless eyes.

“Oh no,” you moan, taking a closer look. “No, no, no, it’s rooted. This is not good.” You turn back to the cardinal. “Please don’t tell Sister Augustina. She already thinks I’m an idiot because I don’t know how to work a fax machine.”

Cardinal Targaryen chuckles. “A fax machine?”

“I didn’t think people still used those.”

“I didn’t either.” He’s still watching you closely. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Eminence.” You saw him arriving at the Domus Sanctae Marthae this morning—rolling his luggage, handing over his phone, sequestering himself from the outside world—but it was other nuns who tended to him, not you. You had been assisting Cardinal Bogdi Marcu of Romania, who probably has first-hand experience with stegosauruses and mastodons.

“You remind me of someone, but I can’t recall who...” Cardinal Targaryen studies you for a little longer, then beams benevolently. “Well, the Lord commands us to be compassionate, and so I will help you hide the evidence and spare you from Sister Augustina’s wrath.”

You should protest—surely this is beneath him—but you are so overwhelmed with gratitude that for a moment you forget this. “Oh, bless you!”

As the cardinal scoops the deceased koi out of the pond with two large, cupped hands, you use your fingers to dig a makeshift grave under a lemon tree. It is December, and the Vatican Gardens are not dead but slumbering, the air cool and the sky grey, the soil soft and dark and damp as you burrow until you hit the impassible layer of clay beneath. Cardinal Targaryen lays the koi to rest in the trough, then together you hastily inter it. When the hollow has been filled and the dirt smoothed, he looks around the nearby flower beds for a large stone and finds one, places it atop the koi’s clandestine crypt, and stands back, admiring his work.

“Now you will escape all suspicion,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“You may call me Aemond.” He bows his head in greeting, holding his hands behind his back again. His speech is formal and measured, crafted in English-taught boarding schools, just a ghost of Mediterranean inflection like the lingering pink of a sunburn. “I’m Cardinal Targaryen of Greece.”

You tap your own left cheek, indicating his scar. “I know who you are.” But you would even if it wasn’t for his mutilation, his eye that was permanently stitched shut. Three years ago when he was thirty-eight, the same age you are now, Aemond commandeered a fishing boat and saved a group of fifty tourists from a volcanic eruption on Santorini, where he was a priest at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. He instantly became a pop culture phenomenon—news interviews and televised sermons, statements on current events and viral memes—and was made a cardinal soon after. Miracles are so rare in the modern world; those who wield them must be elevated to prove the magic still exists.

You give him your name, and the cardinal—you cannot bring yourself to think of him as Aemond, too informal, too intimate—surmises: “You’re here for the conclave.”

That is sort of true. “It’s such an honor.”

“Hm.” He is scrutinizing you again, his remaining eye sharp and blue and fascinated. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t know where we would have, I’ve never been to Greece.”

“Perhaps on one of my diplomatic missions. The Philippines, Indonesia, Colombia, Japan, China, Bangladesh.”

You smile. “Never been to any of those either.”

“You’re from Australia.” Your accent makes this apparent. He’s touching his chin, he’s determined to puzzle it out. “Which part?”

“Up north in Queensland, originally. But I’ve mostly lived in Sydney for the past fifteen years.”

He shakes his head, mystified and frustrated by it; not much eludes him. “I visited Sydney once but it was forever ago, I was just a kid.” He is still thinking. On other pathways through the gardens, red dots of cardinals are walking off their flights from six different continents, murmuring solemnly to their colleagues or lost in the solitude of prayer. “How was this arranged, you traveling to the Vatican?”

And so you tell him the most abbreviated version: Mother Maureen Ashwell of the Sisters of Charity of Australia wrote to Sister Augustina, a friend for decades, a pen pal of sorts, and asked if she could use you. When the cardinals convene each time a new pope must be elected—ten years since the last conclave, or twenty, or thirty—there is a great need for labor, and particularly the labor of women, anonymous and thankless and uncomplaining: washing, cooking, serving, scrubbing, safeguarding, the endless, ever-patient matrilineal caretaking. Sister Augustina acquiesced, and so you flew to Rome with another nun from your convent, Sister Rhaena, who is very young and very in awe of everything all the time. Whatever affection Sister Augustina has for Mother Maureen has not translated to you. She scowls, she huffs, she loathes how you fold clothes and make beds. When Rhaena playfully tried to give her the nickname of Sister Tina, she received a pair of cuffed, ringing ears in return.

As you speak, Cardinal Targaryen gazes at you fixedly; and then his jaw drops open in amazement. “Dear God,” he says, his remaining eye wide and starry. “You’re the girl from the beach.”

~~~~~~~~~~

How old must you have been? It comes back like sandbars revealed by low tide: you are around nine, and Aemond perhaps twelve, and you meet when your parents have—separately yet providentially—planned family vacations to Sydney for the same week in December, when the Northern Hemisphere is shivering and the South is in the early days of summer.

You drove ten hours south from Toowoomba, he flew over nine thousand miles east from Athens, and you fall into step together on wet sand that collapses into the shape of your footprints. And while your respective siblings are elsewhere—getting slathered with marshmallow-white sunscreen, being fished out of the rough waves—you and Aemond build sprawling sandcastles and decorate them with seashells, and make banners out of dried seaweed impaled on pieces of driftwood, and share the picnics your parents packed: you have Vegemite or tuna sandwiches, meat pies, Tim Tams, Granny Smith apples, and Illawarra plums, while Aemond contributes soft triangles of pita and a platter of accompaniments, tzatziki, hummus, other spreads made of feta cheese or eggplant or fish, the cold crisp relief of a Greek salad wet with olive oil.

You find each other each morning of that week, an infinitesimal eternity. He is the first boy you see as a man—his shadow tall, his voice patient and wise—and there is a powerful pure drive to be close to him, a phantom longing for something you don’t know exists yet. You make him smile and laugh; he loves the way you say sanger instead of sandwich, and esky instead of cooler box, and togs instead of bathing suits, and defo instead of definitely. You tell Aemond you want to move to Greece with him. He tells you he wants to marry you one day. He weaves you a ring made of seaweed greener than any emeralds, but you leave it on your nightstand before going to sleep and wake to find that your mum has thrown it away because it smelled like the ocean, salt and sun and eons of lives coming full circle in the depths.

On your last night in Sydney, the four parents arrange to have dinner together at a pizza place by the boardwalk, and you hear them chuckling as they make light, patronizing exchanges: too bad long-distance phone calls are so expensive, awfully sad for them to have to say goodbye, kids have such short memories, they’ll get over it. As Aemond leaves with his family—he’s the last one out the door, glancing back at you again and again—you watch him vanish into the inky darkness and the glare of the streetlights, and from a little black radio beside the till there is a song playing, maybe Dylan or Joel or Springsteen, one you’ve never been able to remember well enough to find again.

And when you arrive home after an impossibly long day of driving and open your suitcase, the seashells you hid in the bottom have been jostled and crushed until only the dust of them is left, and the loss hits you, sharp and deep, and you begin to sob so loudly your mum comes running, thinking you must be bleeding to death.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds you where you are plating the antipasto to be ferried to the cardinals—cured salami and prosciutto, tomatoes, olives, pepperoncini, artichoke hearts, ribbons of fresh basil, and cubes of provolone and mozzarella glistening with olive oil—and tells you to follow him. You want to listen, and you have to anyway; in the Church all men outrank all women, and the distance between a cardinal and a nun is particularly vast, a transcontinental flight, the depth of an ocean.

You step away from the plates, looking back at your compatriots. Sister Augustina is glaring at you, bruise-blotched hands gnarled but steady, eyes like a basilisk’s. Sister Rhaena’s lineless face is alight; Tell me everything he says! she mouths, as if Cardinal Targaryen is a celebrity she’s had tacked to her bedroom wall since she was in secondary school...and actually, that might not be too far off the mark. The other three nuns you find yourself working with most often—Sister Penny from the U.K., Sister Nuru from Kenya, and Sister Helvi from Finland—watch you leave with puzzled, transfixed stares.

At first you’d found it impossible to use his given name, but now that you remember him, it’s very difficult not to. You have to remind yourself that you are not alone, not children on a beach where roos hop in the rust-fire dawn; you are in the midst of one hundred and six cardinals, plus a few who are eighty or older and therefore ineligible to vote, yet have nonetheless come to lend their wisdom to the deliberations. Some of their faces you know, many others you don’t, even after hours of research before your arrival in Vatican City.

You say as you trail Aemond uncertainly: “Cardinal Targaryen...?”

“Sit,” he orders when he reaches his table, pulling out a chair. You peer back at the nuns again. Sister Rhaena is exuberant; Sister Augustina looks like she’d enjoy burning you at the stake. You drop sheepishly into the red velvet chair and shrink under the intrigued gazes of the four cardinals who are seated with Aemond. You recognize Cardinal Orlando Almazan of the Philippines and Cardinal Luckson Louissaint of Haiti, whose large dark eyes roll to Aemond as he sips his wine and smiles to himself. Aemond tells his allies as he sits down beside you: “This is Sister Sydney.”

“Welcome, Sister Sydney!” booms a chubby man in his fifties, a warm perpetual flush in his full cheeks, salt-and-pepper hair, a short tidy beard.

You titter and bow your head, deferential. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, resting uneasily on the white wool of your habit. “Thank you, Your Eminence, but that’s not actually my name.”

“Are you from Sydney, Sister?” Cardinal Almazan asks; he is a small quiet man who is easy to lose in a crowd. He is presently doling out lollies and bikkies with labels you’ve never seen before; he must have brought them with him from the Philippines. He slides one over to you. Jelly Straws, the colorful package reads.

“We met there as children,” Aemond says. “About thirty years ago. And we hadn’t seen each other since.”

“C’est pas vrai!” Cardinal Louissaint exclaims as the others chatter incredulously. “Really? Is it possible? And now you find that you have both come to the Church by different paths? Incroyable.” He introduces himself with a broad grin and another curious glance at Aemond.

“How fortuitous for the Lord to bring you together again,” Cardinal Almazan says. He tells you his name and gestures for you to open the Jelly Straws.

“Yes,” Aemond muses, almost like it’s an afterthought, as if divine intervention hadn’t occurred to him. While you’re still hesitating, he rips open the Jelly Straws and takes a green one for himself, crystals of sugary coating snowing down on the table. “Mmm. Watermelon.”

“Aemo, give me a mango one,” the loud salt-and-pepper haired man says, holding out an open palm. And you recall abruptly, like something shattering against the floor: Did I call him that on the beach? I think I might have.

Aemond tosses him an orange Jelly Straw, and then tells you, pointing at the man: “Kazimierz Nowak of Poland.” Then he indicates to the last attendee, fluffy brown hair and round glasses, composed, bookish, mid-forties, the second-youngest cardinal here in the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, the residence of the cardinals for the duration of the conclave. “Shane Campbell, American by birth, now serving in Mongolia.”

“Easiest assignment,” Cardinal Nowak mutters as he tears open a package of Sky Flakes, and the other men chuckle.

“Kazi, you are being rude again,” Cardinal Almazan scolds him, but he’s smiling. Unfamiliar snacks rotate around the table: Fudgee Barr, Kopiko, Super Stix, Hello Panda. Cautiously, you take a pink Jelly Straw from the package and pass the rest along. It tastes like strawberries, sweet and summery, golden sun beating down like it has in every other December you’ve ever lived through.

Cardinal Campbell tells Kazi: “I would happily die by arrows or being roasted over a gridiron if it would at last win me your esteem.”

“You could just lose four fingers like Jake,” Kazi suggests. He waves to a cardinal at a nearby table: Jacob Green, a Brit serving in Iran. You know his face; last year his capture and torture by a militant group was widely publicized, as well as his commitment to remain in Iran after the Church paid a hefty ransom and arranged for his safe release.

Cardinal Campbell holds up his hands and ponders them. “Which fingers could I spare?”

“Start with the ring fingers,” Cardinal Luckson Louissaint says. “You won’t need them.”

You all laugh, and Rhaena appears with plates of antipasto, including one for you. She cannot disguise her excitement; she is glowing with it, she is beaming, she almost drops Aemond’s serving on the floor as she goes to set it in front of him. “Thank you very much, Sister,” Cardinal Almazan murmurs as she scurries off again.

The men begin to eat. They speak with great familiarity and have nicknames for each other: Aemo, Kazi, Lucky, Lando, Cam. You pick up your fork and peer nervously around the dining hall. Many cardinals are watching you now, some amused, some fond...but others are frowning.

“Eat, Sister, eat,” Lucky urges you. He is short and round and has a gruff voice and hands calloused from the sort of work most cardinals abstain from. “You are in the right place, I promise. This is the kids’ table.”

Cardinal Orlando Almazan, Lando to his friends, appears startled. “I’m sixty.”

“That’s mid-twenties in cardinal years,” Kazi says. “Hey, Lando, did you ever watch that show I emailed you about?”

“Oh, it was awful.” He spears a chunk of salami with his fork.

“What show?” Aemond asks.

“Cribs,” Kazi says, and the others snicker.

“So wasteful!” Lando laments. “All those bedrooms, bowling alleys, movie theaters, garages for ten cars...all I could think about was the good those resources might do elsewhere.”

Kazi sighs. “You can’t look at anything without seeing orphans.”

Lando opens his hands. “And is this such a failing?”

“Well, it’s not very interesting.”

Lando grins. “Interesting men make poor cardinals. We figured that out in the 1500s when they kept murdering each other.”

“Might be a good tradition to revisit,” Lucky jokes, but in a very low voice. And he nods towards a table across the room, where several cardinals are glaring and hissing conspiratorially amongst themselves. You recognize some of them, older men with forceful fields of gravity: Bernardo Ferrari of Italy, Florent Auclair of France, and Matej Jahoda of the Czech Republic, a favorite to be elected pope.

Kazi says: “Jahoda thinks he is entitled to lead the Church because atheists killed his family.”

You are horrorstruck, a palm pressed to the white wool over your heart. “Did they really?”

“Prague Spring,” Aemond tells you, a phrase that carries with it vague connotations from Modern History in secondary school: 1960s, Eastern Bloc, Soviet invasion, self-immolations, tanks and smoke in the streets.

“It is very sad, what happened to his people,” Lando says softly.

“Yes, of course, but you cannot buy the Chair of Saint Peter with tragedies,” Lucky replies, then winks at Aemond. “Although perhaps you can earn it with miracles.”

“It wasn’t a miracle,” Aemond demurs, as he is expected to. To agree would be sanctimonious, prideful, unholy. No cardinal may campaign for himself, nor be seen to covet the papacy. It is disqualifying to be perceived as ambitious; and so those who want it most become good at pretending.

Cam leans across the table to whisper to Aemond: “Jahoda calls you The Cyclops.”

Aemond smiles as he crunches on a hunk of cucumber. “For something to be a monster, you have to be afraid of it.”

You take shy nibbles of your antipasto. On the other side of the dining hall, Cardinal Jahoda rolls his eyes and glowers at you and Aemond, then turns to say something you can just barely hear to his companions: “He will do anything for attention.”

“What was that, Cardinal Jahoda?” Kazi shouts across the void, and a hush ripples through the men dressed in red, the women in white or blue or black—depending upon which order they belong to—skittering soundlessly on the outskirts as they fetch water and wine and bowls of pancetta and pea risotto, the next course. Over one hundred souls wait to see what will happen next. The lines have been drawn and the frontrunners are no secret: the conservatives favor Jahoda or Leopoldo do Carmo of Portugal, the moderates are split between Jacob Green and Gideon Saati of South Sudan, and the liberals by and large are planning to vote for Aemond when the cardinals are locked in the Sistine Chapel.

Slowly, Cardinal Jahoda rises to his feet. He is an imposing man with iron-grey hair, broad shoulders, and large hands that could have gone to war if he’d chosen a different vocation. His voice is not gravelly like Lucky’s, but clear and deep and colored with a strong Czech accent. “Brothers, this is a time for reflection and solemn prayer, not fraternizing.”

Aemond stands. Enraptured gazes follow him, eyeglasses are put on; some cardinals smile, others glare, others only observe, opening their hearts to be swayed in either direction. “Cardinal Jahoda, surely you do not believe that our sisters are fit to prepare our meals but not to share them with us.”

Jahoda is dismissive, as if Aemond is a child to be shushed. “Ah, you do nothing with pure intentions. Do not pretend you care for her.”

“You are upset,” Aemond says with mock earnestness, and there are chuckles in the audience. “Perhaps you are lonely and in need of better company. Perhaps you would like to invite one of the other sisters to join your table.”

“God has ordained different roles for us. I would not presume to alter them.”

“And this is the thinking that has left our Church in such a precarious state,” Aemond says, and there is a chorus of responses: groans and objections from the conservatives, cheers and water glasses thumped on the tables from the liberals, the moderates splitting the difference. “You would not presume to question anything, and so you are content with an institution that stands still as the world keeps moving.”

“The Holy Father, may God rest his soul, was a progressive,” Jahoda counters, sparring with words like blades that clang together and slice just millimeters from the blue shadows of veins. “And for all his triumphs—serving the poor and the destitute so faithfully, welcoming with open arms migrants and refugees—he failed to strengthen the Church. Millions around the world are leaving Catholicism to become Evangelicals. The Vatican is deeply in debt. Recent press coverage of the Holy See has been marred by misinterpretations and vagueness, mixed messages, claiming to champion human rights while enabling China and Russia—”

“Concessions must be made if we are to have inroads to reach the people of these nations.”

“And so you would negotiate with tyrants.” Jahoda gives Aemond a hard, searing look, as if this is a betrayal. “Appeasement is not the solution to our problems.”

“Neither is alienation from modernity! We can choose to challenge ourselves and our Faith in order to meet the needs of the time we live in and reinvigorate the Church. We can explore the possibility of ordaining female deacons, we can extend blessings to same-sex couples, we can make celibacy optional for our priests as so many other religions have done already, we can do more to protect the climate which will in turn save countless human lives, we can allow the divorced and remarried to participate in communion!”

But this is too much: the conservatives are jeering and the moderates look startled, as if a fire alarm has just gone off. The liberals are gamely trying to drown out the opposition with cheers, applause, bangs of fists and water glasses against the tables. The nuns clutch their rosaries. You exchange a glance with Rhaena, who stands nearby carrying a bowl of risotto she’s completely forgotten about. She is mesmerized by Aemond. She mouths to you: Can you believe him?

You can, but you can’t; he’s exactly the same as the boy from the beach, he is so different, he is still watchful and clever, he is sharper and bolder and scarred.

“Brothers, brothers, please!” Cardinal Blaise Seaborn is pleading. He is the dean of the College of Cardinals, responsible for summoning them for the conclave and presiding over the proceedings. He is eternally flustered, his hair in disarray and his cassock rumpled. “We can discuss these matters in the general congregations tomorrow. Now is not the time. You’ve traveled so far and you must be exhausted. Please, I implore you, take your seats and finish your meals that the sisters have worked so diligently to prepare.”

Jahoda waves a hand flippantly as he lowers himself back into his chair. “You cannot understand, Cardinal Targaryen. But it is not your fault. You do not have the wisdom. You’re just too young.”

And as Jahoda retreats, Cardinal Auclair leaps up from the same table and strides to the center of the dining hall. He is tall and lean like Aemond, white-haired since his thirties, fiendishly quick, a fox, a peacock, a mercenary. No one would ever vote for Florent Auclair to be pope; it is well-known—yet never said aloud—that at home in Paris, there is a widow he has taken a special interest in and three children that share his aquiline nose and small, icy eyes. But this does not mean he is impartial. In your corner of the room, Lucky is drumming his knuckles heavily on the tabletop. Kazi passes you a half-eaten Choc Nut.

“Your Eminences,” Auclair begins with a sweep of his hand. Cardinal Seaborn peers around as if searching for someone to stop this, as if it isn’t his job. “The Holy Father was known for his humility and his gentleness. Let us now bring balance to the Church with a leader who is strong, and experienced, and attuned to the ancient history of our Faith. Not an idealistic youth.”

“I wonder about this fixation upon age,” Aemond says, and all eyes snap back to him. Cardinal Seaborn looks on wearily, feebly. “We believe in a Savior who redeemed the world at thirty-three, but a man at forty or fifty is not fit to lead His flock?”

Auclair is incensed. “You compare yourself to Christ?!”

“You pretend to know my mind!” Aemond thunders. “And the gifts that God has bestowed upon others. There is no greater arrogance.”

Auclair mocks venomously: “What is the saying? He who enters the conclave as pope leaves it as a cardinal.”

“And I have voiced no such aspirations.” But he has led Auclair into the trap of speaking them to life, and now they are loose in the air like fireflies and no one can forget them.

Auclair switches to Latin, and Aemond follows him seamlessly. Then Auclair pivots to French, a language that many of the cardinals have at least some proficiency in, and Aemond hesitates; you have the impression he can understand most of what is being said, but Auclair talks so swiftly—surely this is intentional—and Aemond stumbles over his words when he tries to defend himself.

Lucky surges up from the table and meets them in the middle of the dining hall, assailing Auclair with a deluge of French. Aemond gracefully retreats. As the emperors stand back, the gladiators bloody the floor. Now the cardinals are in uproar, a deafening rumble of palms and fists against the tables, an incomprehensible storm of languages. Kazi and Cam are bellowing to cheer Lucky on. Lando looks at you, smiles placidly, shrugs, takes a bite of his risotto.

“Cardinal Louissant, please!” Cardinal Seaborn begs. “Please, Brothers, let us return to our seats! This is no way to honor the memory of the Holy Father!”

The cardinals fracture away from each other, Auclair returning to one side of the room, Lucky to the other. Auclair hisses at Aemond as he withdraws: “Even your hero Saint Thomas Aquinas agreed that pride is the most reprehensible of the seven deadly sins.”

Aemond says: “And fortunately for you, Your Eminence, lust is the least.”

“Le salaud!” Auclair roars, and again the cardinals erupt into chaos. “Le crétin, la bête!”

As the dining hall is engulfed in jeers and laughter and applause, Aemond stands by his chair and sips his wine, cool, composed, too statuesque to be human. You gaze up at him and think: What happened to that boy from the beach? Cardinal Seaborn physically places himself in Auclair’s path to stop him from crossing the midpoint of the room. Sister Augustina is crossing herself.

“You still need one more miracle to be a saint, Targaryen,” Auclair seethes as Cardinal Ferrari coaxes him back to their table. “Surely that is what you dream of. No throne on earth is high enough for you.”

Aemond does not reply. He sits as if no one has said anything and eats his risotto, neat but famished forkfuls. Lucky, Kazi, Cam, and Lando give him encouraging thumps on the back. In return, Aemond flashes them a sly, crooked smirk. Then he turns to you. “Tell me about the work you’ve done with the Sisters of Charity of Australia.”

It’s a command, not a request; still, you deny him. You stand, casting a wary glance at Sister Augustina, who is lurching towards you on jolty, arthritic legs. “I really must go serve dinner with the rest of the sisters, I’m only here in Vatican City with Sister Augustina’s blessing and I fear she is dangerously close to revoking it.”

Aemond’s companions wish you goodnight, but he’s not quite done with you yet. “That’s not why I did it,” he says, indicating to the seat he led you to. “To prove a point.”

“I know, Aemond.” And you should have called him Your Eminence or Cardinal Targaryen, but you didn’t, because he’s not just a cardinal. He’s your friend.

As you depart, Aemond picks up a pack of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes from the table and offers them to you. “Bikkies, right?”

You grin. He remembers. “Too right.” You take the Sky Flakes; you’ll share them with Rhaena tonight.

But when dinner is over and the dishes have been cleared, Aemond finds you again, this time at the threshold between the dining hall and the corridor that leads to the stairwells and the elevators. The Domus Sanctae Marthae—Latin for Saint Martha’s House—is essentially a hotel, built in 1996 by Pope John Paul II for guests to Vatican City and to house the College of Cardinals during a conclave. It can accommodate one hundred and thirty-one souls in small, spartan rooms: no televisions, no radios, no computers, no cellphones, no worldly distractions, no undue influences upon the cardinals’ meditations. They are to listen to the whispers of God, not journalists, not family or friends, not bribes or threats or pleas, not even the crowds of faithful Catholics that gather in Saint Peter’s Square with handmade signs and flickering candles.

Aemond asks, spotting the plain iron medallion hanging from your throat: “Who are you wearing?”

“Saint Agatha.”

“Bona of Pisa would have been better. The patron saint of travelers. Or perhaps Mary MacKillop, the patron saint of Australia.”

“Yes, Aemond, you’re very smart.”

He chuckles and watches you, and even when he doesn’t say anything you feel no instinct to leave; this is unfinished. His hands are clasped behind his back again, as if he is afraid of what he will do with them if they are untethered. A scarlet torrent of cardinals lumber past as they journey to their rooms. Rhaena, curious but not wanting to intrude, loiters a ways down the hall as she waits for you.

“I still remember saying goodbye to you, isn’t that mad?” you tell Aemond. “We were with our families at that pizza place, and it was dark outside, and as you left it was like you vanished into the white glow of the streetlights. And there was some song playing...I don’t know, I’ve never been able to find it again. But it was sad, and I think it had a harmonica.”

Surely he thinks you’re a bit gone for holding on to that moment from almost exactly twenty-nine years ago; maybe he’ll even think you’re making it up. But instead, Aemond gazes off into the Red Sea of cardinals—a lava flow, a bloodrush—and then after a while he comes back to you. “It’s a Bruce Springsteen song,” Aemond says quietly. “It’s called Atlantic City. If you look it up when all of this is over and we’re no longer sequestered, I think you’ll discover you recognize it.” And as you stand there, speechless and thunderstruck in your spotless white wool, he begins to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sydney.”

“Defo,” you reply; and when Aemond blinks at you, stunned, you smile.

He smiles back, touches the gold cross that hangs from his neck, turns away from you and is lost in the gore-red current.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone agrees he is smart, but how far has that gotten him?

He has leapt from one island to another: born on Nisyros, educated at British boarding schools and seminaries, and finally assigned to Santorini, and it is here that he waits to become someone. The Church has been the refuge of superfluous sons for two thousand years, a throne that requires no inheritance, a ladder to material comforts, security, status, power, fame, immortality for those who climb high enough. And what is the price you must pay? A relatively painless sacrifice when one considers the rewards: you may not marry, you may not have children, you may not experience romantic love if you are still under the belief that such a thing exists.

He came to the Faith through his mother, Irish by birth and always yearning for somewhere that was cool and wet and green. But perhaps its roots cannot thrive here in the dry air and volcanic soil. Of Greece’s ten million inhabitants, only one percent are Catholic, and while that number grows with each new wave of refugees from Lebanon, Syria, or Iraq, he finds himself languishing in scenic Mediterranean irrelevance. At the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, he ministers to sunburned tourists and dozing old people. He has a plan, but it’s happening so slowly; and patience is a virtue but he has no illusions that he possessed many of those.

It’s summer, hot and glaring and the height of tourist season, when he feels the earth shift beneath his feet as he is ruminating on his disaffection at the Old Port of Fira. Across a narrow strait of the Aegean Sea, he sees the sky change color above Nea Kameni, an uninhabited island and popular site for hiking and sightseeing. Because he was raised on Nisyros, he knows what signs foretell an eruption. Because he’s been on yachts with his boarding school friends—sons of dukes, daughters of prime ministers, bottles of vodka and MDMA pills—he knows how to sail.

It’s late in the day, nearing dusk, and so most of the tours are already back; but there is at least one group left on Nea Kameni, and he knows this because he can just barely see their boat moored to the dock and thrashing on suddenly murderous waves. And then the crater of the volcano explodes, and smoldering rubble pours down onto the dock, and the boat is crushed and they are stranded. He can almost hear their screams. He can imagine the lethal red heat of the lava that will soon be swallowing them like Jonah was wrenched into the belly of a whale.

For the very first time in his life, Aemond could almost believe in God, in divine intervention, in miracles; because in the scorching black plumes of poison rising from Nea Kameni, he sees the white of the smoke when the College of Cardinals has elected a new pope.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Should we have a cuppa?” you ask Rhaena as you place a kettle on a hotplate in the small kitchenette. A corner of the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae has been set aside for the nuns, each bedroom containing two single-sized beds; you and Rhaena are roommates.

“That’d be lovely.” She sighs as she sits down at the table and rips open the package of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, eyes puffy.

“You alright?”

Rhaena nods. “I’ve just been flat out since the second we got here. And I still have another load of washing to get done tonight. Did you see those spiders in the basement?”

“Oh yeah, heaps of them.”

Rhaena shudders, then perks up when she takes a bite of a Sky Flake. “These are good though.”

“I’ll help you with the washing.”

“Is he like you remember?” she says, and you know who she means. Light floods back into her face; gravity lessens in her bones. She is sitting up straighter. She is entranced. “Was he the same way as a boy? So clever and fearless and magnetic?” Then Rhaena gasps and glances worriedly at the third nun in the room, whom she had forgotten about: Sister Augustina is at the opposite end of the table, collapsed with her head resting on her forearms, her body eerily motionless. She’s always doing this.

You smile. “She’s asleep, Rhaena. She can’t hear us.”

Nonetheless, her voice drops to a whisper. “She won’t stop hitting me.”

“I’m sorry.” You pull back your sleeve to show Rhaena the discoloration of a bruise left by one of Sister Augustina’s clawlike hands. “Keep your distance as much as you can. I’ll try to distract her.”

Rhaena gives her unconscious tormenter one last mistrustful look. Despite Sister Augustina’s mortal faults, you have compassion for her. Wrath comes from pain, a vivid red like stoked flames or fresh blood, and something terrible must have happened to her: a lost loved one, a suffering nation, betrayal, rejection, abuse. But she’s still in the Church, she still has faith, and you find that beautiful. She wears a black habit and a medallion depicting Saint Zita, the patron saint of servants, housekeepers, and lost keys.

Rhaena prompts you: “Well?”

Her question still burns in your skull, low like embers: Is he like you remember? “It’s difficult to explain,” you say slowly. “Sometimes he’s just like that boy from the beach. And then in other moments he looks like a stranger.” He is cunning, he is prideful.

“He would make an extraordinary pope, don’t you think?” Rhaena says wistfully as she nibbles on her Sky Flake. “He’s so well-versed. He’s young, he’s charismatic. And he’s performed a miracle. The lava stopped when he held up his hands, that’s what the tourists he saved told the reporters. What other cardinal can say that? Who else could claim to have been chosen by God?”

Your reply is vague, and not only because you’re supposed to believe God alone will decide who the next Holy Father will be; you aren’t sure how you feel about Aemond being pope. “We’ll have to see what happens.”

“And we get to witness it...right here, where Saint Peter founded the Church two thousand years ago...” Rhaena is in awe of your good fortune, Sister Augustina and the spiders and the endless chores notwithstanding. “What was it that you said to Mother Maureen to convince her to send us to Rome?”

You haven’t told Rhaena the real reason why you’re here. It would hurt her, you think; you are like an older sister to her, or perhaps even a mother, a resurrection of the one she lost to a postpartum hemorrhage when she was a girl. Engraved on her plain iron medallion is Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children.

So you lie. “Papal conclaves are so rare, maybe once every ten or twenty years. I won’t have many more opportunities to see one. When the Holy Father passed, Mother Maureen and I were discussing it, and I mentioned how fascinated I’d always been by the process and how I would love to assist with a conclave someday. And she made a call to Sister Augustina that same night.”

Rhaena smiles warmly. “Mother Maureen is so kind.”

She really is. “We are very fortunate to have her.”

You pour boiling water into two cups with one teabag each—Yorkshire Tea, of course, brought in your luggage—and let them steep. Then you turn to contemplate Sister Augustina, still sleeping.

“Don’t,” Rhaena pleads.

You smirk guiltily. You can’t bring yourself to exclude her. It’s not the right thing to do. “Sister Augustina, would you like some tea?” you ask loudly. She doesn’t stir.

“Leave her alone,” Rhaena begs you. “She’ll just find something to snap at us about!”

You try again: “Sister Augustina!”

She still doesn’t move. Now you and Rhaena are perplexed; it’s never been this difficult to rouse her before. You go to Sister Augustina and prod her shoulder, then scream as she spills bonelessly across the floor.

She’s dead.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #conclave au

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hisfavegirl · 3 months ago

Text

Jacaerys Velaryon Clavin Klein Campaign.

Your eyes narrowed as you stared at the screen, heart pounding in your chest.

Jace had just posted his Calvin Klein campaign, and it was everywhere. Black-and-white shots, his toned abs, the way his jeans hung way too low on his hips—and worst of all, the damn smirk on his face like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

The comments were blowing up.

“OMG Jace is actually unreal.”

“This man has NO business looking this good.”

“I need a moment. Or ten.”

“I’m on my knees, literally.”

Your jaw clenched.

“Oh, so this is what we’re doing now?” you muttered under your breath, fuming.

Jace was in the kitchen, casually scrolling through his phone, completely unbothered.

You stormed in, phone in hand, and slammed it down on the counter.

“Really, Jace? Really?”

He looked up, blinking innocently. “What?”

You gestured aggressively at your phone. “This. This thirst trap you just posted for the entire world to drool over.”

Jace’s lips twitched like he was trying not to smirk. “Babe, it’s just a campaign—”

“Just a campaign?” you scoffed. “You’re half-naked, Jace! Everyone and their mother is in your comments talking about how they wanna climb you like a tree!”

Jace chuckled, leaning on the counter. “You jealous, baby?”

Your eyes flashed. “Oh, so now you’re enjoying this?”

Jace just grinned, all cocky and infuriating. “Kinda hot seeing you all worked up over me.”

You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his face, but he was too quick, catching it midair.

“Fine. Two can play this game,” you huffed, unlocking your phone.

Jace’s eyes darkened immediately as he watched you open Instagram. “What are you doing?”

“Posting my own thirst trap.” You smirked, scrolling through your hottest pictures, about to make a statement.

Jace snatched the phone from your hands so fast you barely saw him move.

“Oh, hell no.”

You glared. “Oh, now you have a problem?”

Jace caged you against the counter, his arms on either side of you, his smirk gone.

“You don’t need to post anything, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, possessive. “The only attention I need is yours.”

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you against him, his eyes locked on yours.

“But if you really need a reminder that you’re the only one I want…” His lips brushed your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“I can show you exactly who I belong to.”

The internet lost its mind the moment the video dropped.

Within seconds, Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok were in complete chaos.

The Video:

You were straddling Jace’s lap, one hand wrapped around his throat, the other tangled in his hair. Your body rocked against him, and his hands gripped your waist, effortlessly guiding your movements. He had that damn smirk, his eyes dark and full of amusement.

Then, just as if to ruin everyone’s lives, you leaned in, lips brushing against his ear, whispering something only he could hear. Jace’s smirk widened, his fingers digging into your hips, and then he bit his lip, looking way too pleased with himself.

And just like that, the internet exploded.

Twitter Reactions:

“I just watched this video 46 times and I still can’t breathe.”

“THIS is revenge??? She just ended all of us.”

“Jace in the CK campaign had me weak, but THIS??? I am deceased. RIP me.”

“THE HAND AROUND HIS THROAT. THE WHISPERING. THE WAY HE’S SMIRKING. I CANNOT.”

“Y’all, I think we just witnessed softcore porn and I’m not complaining.”

Instagram Comments (Under Jace’s Post):

“Bro, did you even SURVIVE that??”

“You just made every couple on this planet feel boring.”

“Not him looking like he’d let her do absolutely ANYTHING to him.”

“I need to know what she whispered IMMEDIATELY.”

“Jace blink twice if you need help—oh wait, you’re into this.”

TikTok Chaos:

🔗 Edits flooded the app—slow-motion replays of your fingers gripping Jace’s throat, the way his eyes darkened, the way your body moved together, all set to the most sinful R&B songs.

📈 Trending Hashtags:

#JaceIsGone #PowerCoupleGoals #ThroatGrabber #SheOwnsHimNow

Meanwhile, Jace’s Reaction:

He reposted the video on his Instagram story with just one caption:

“Revenge never looked this good.” 😏🔥

And just like that, he won again.

Tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @ashblooddragons

Thank to @zaldritzosrose gor letting me use your beautiful dividers ❤️‍🩹

#hotd imagine #hotd #hotd one shot #hotd x reader #jace targaryen #jace smut #jace x reader #jace velaryon #modern jacaerys #jacaerys valaryon x reader #jacaerys x you #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys smut #jacaerys x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #hotd modern au #modern hotd

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meanbossart · 1 month ago

Note

Ok so I just devoured all of ANE—incredible work, I just loved imagining every scene with your art in mind, it painted such a vivid picture. There are so many great moments in the fic but one that stuck out, that I would LOVE to ask you about:

Chap 26- "My blood, my guts - I felt them starting to boil, to roast. It was as excruciating as it was exhilarating. Like coming alive again"

I adore how creatively you write violence. I never would have thought of it—let's electrocute the vampire!! I am so curious for more details from astarions POV. Was it just a shocking (pun intended) experience, or is this something he would low key fantasize about later? (Or was he just saying that cause he thought DU drow would be kinda into it?)

I would also love to know more about his vampire sweat which you describe as waxy. It seems like that it happens to him not really just from physical exertion, but from his vampire body reacting to extreme circumstances—like exposure to the river, or the electrocution. Is that theory accurate? Basically, we know he sweats, but does he sweat with normal triggers? Or is it different for vampires?

Haha I love taking vampire lore as provided from BG3 and getting grittier with it!!! Thanks for taking us on such an incredible journey with this fic so far!

Oh I LOVE A Novel Experience questions. Thank you so much for reading it!!! I'm glad it has been a fun experience so far.

This scene, and that dialogue in particular, was written with future events in mind, and while Astarion's line specifically doesn't have direct plot impact, it may come to mind at a later date, once Other Stuff has happened (profoundly helpful, I know).

The scene itself (where Astarion uses his body to conduct the electrical charge) is also supposed to reveal a little more about how I headcanon vampire's bodies to work: he received a fatal dose of electricity, his body technically suffered the side-effects from it, but since Astarion doesn't actually depend on his his bodily functions he did not cease actual functioning and was able to stand upright to do what he did.

Astarion's reaction also is supposed to be earnest. He basically just got defibrillated times a hundred, felt heat emanate from the core of his body for the first time in two centuries and had his heart jump hard enough to shake up some of the cobwebs around it - he will definitely be thinking about it, but the experience wasn't sexual. He only came onto DU drow minutes later because the experience put him in a really good mood, and because it was a good way to reassure his partner that he was okay despite what just happened.

I do like to bring about a corpse-like picture whenever I describe Astarion in distress, or exerting himself. I have an ask reply buried somewhere that goes into more detail about it, but basically - the worse a state the finds himself in, the more he resembles a cadaver, hence the oiliness/ thick sweat (the aforementioned waxiness) and a potent smell. He basically looks very feverish in those instances, which can also resemble someone who's freshly deceased.

I don't think he's ever quite normal unless very freshly fed, bathed, or covered in perfume, but both smell and physical appearance do improve significantly when he's not actively suffering or regenerating, the same goes for the waxy-sweat situation - if he's being active a normal amount (fighting, having sex, or stuck in really hot temperatures), he either won't sweat at all or only a little bit, and nothing about it will seem particularly out of place unless you were to take a big whiff of him. It's all technically the same action/substance but produced in different amounts and interacting with the overall state of his body.

#ask #astarion #a novel experience

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kameyyy · 4 months ago

Text

PASSION; atsumu miya x reader

CHAPTER 1: red

cw: ooc orobably, cursing, mention of a deceased grandparent, mention of dysfunctional family, lowkey unreliable memories, mention of alcohol use, umber is a color I don't mean amber, sry if I missed some [please refer to the general tags/warnings on the m.list !]

a/n: hi so I hope you'll enjoy !! this is my first ever written chapter in english and after like idk 4 years of writers block, so please be nice about it <3 I'm really excited to write this smau and I apologize for any grammar issues or typos !! I'm writing this at 6:30 am rn and I haven't slept yet lol so please bear with me

songs I violently played on repeat: Girl With One Eye ; Beatutiful Crime ; Claire ; Not

wc: 3.7k

She didn’t hear the front door of the shop creak open, nor the ring of the old bell attached to the ceiling sounding twice. He let his eyes roam suspiciously over the two steps of stairs in front of the door that led him further into the building, uneven and small, rough edges and splitting paint hidden behind a rug of yale blue that certainly has seen better years.

At first glance, the shop appeared messy. Countless rugs in various colors hung up on walls, spread out on the dark wood floor, or rolled up and stuffed together on shelves or any corners. The wallpaper was yellowed, partially wavy, and loose in places. Between the million rugs laid out underneath his feet, he spotted chipped parts of the wood floor and white dried-up paint smeared over it, seemingly by accident, as he moved over to the redwood counter and the person sitting behind it.

He wondered why his friend chose this specific shop for his rug. It was nothing like him, and not even close to the other stores he frequented. This one was cluttered, messy, and odd. The tips of the aloe vera on top of the counter were rolled tight and colored brown, balancing between life and death. Water and coffee stains adorned the counter top, dust settled in the corners and the jar with pens was tipped over. However, when his eyes landed on the stack of volleyball magazines spread messily next to the woman hunched over the counter, he suddenly understood his friend. He couldn’t make out her face since it was angled too far down, but instead, he clearly saw the video she was watching. A volleyball video. An interview of him.

This place reeks of a discount.

She doesn’t like the color red. It reminds her of the past she is trying her best to forget, or it announced bad times coming for her. But as much as she learned to hate this color, somehow, she found herself surrounded by all kinds of shades of it every day.

Her childhood bedroom had wallpaper colored in carmine red. Walls that witnessed her silent sobs, her figure slouched over the prickly carpet writing a myriad of essays, all those fights with her mother, and countless nights where the bed stayed untouched and cold. She used to love this specific shade of red, though all it did now was leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

Her school uniform had a tie colored in maroon. The fabric accompanied her to all those classes, where she repeatedly realized just how different she was from everybody else.

All her peers had their lives planned out already. They knew what to study, what job or company they wanted to work for, and at what age they wanted to get married. One child or two, the age difference no more than three years. A boy, or a boy and a girl. If they didn’t plan their life out this detailed, then they at least had an idea. Everybody had some sort of dream or goal to reach, unlike her.

She was lost in a maze with no way out, the fog imprisoning her growing denser with every passing year or thought she spent on ways to escape.

The counter was made of redwood and the countless rugs scattered around the shop, either hung or rolled up, were all colored in some shade of red. They watched her fail the attempts of trying to forget the past whenever she lets her gaze wander out the window. Her eyes focused on the building across the street as if she was looking for someone.

These rugs witnessed on cold fall days how she hung up a certain crimson red scarf on a coat rack behind the counter and sometimes stared at it a little too long, lost in thought. She got it as a gift a year before her high school graduation and never brought it over herself to toss it out of her life. It kept her warm on nights she turned her back to the locked front door of her house. Head hung low, sigh after sigh leaving chapped lips, a shiver from the biting cold of winter running through her body. Though moments later she was greeted happily in a certain house filled with warmth, laughter, and love. Umber eyes lifted unpleasant feelings and worries from her shoulders like a feather caught by a gush of wind. The scarf tagged along when she waited in front of the school gym, or when she laughed with the person that would later show her what passion truly felt like. Even when that passion was fueled by hate.

She was hunched over the countertop next to the cash register, her knuckles pressed against her temples as she kept her head low and eyes trained on the screen laid flat on the wood grain.

She couldn’t help it.

The wired earphones she wore were broken in and tangled, the sound quality wasn't the best, but it was enough for her 10-minute walk to work. Or, to watch this interview with her eyebrows scrunched while the shop was only filled with her figure and a faint buzzing sound coming from the break room. It went unnoticed — just like the person actually standing in front of her.

She doesn’t know why she keeps watching these stupid volleyball interviews with him in it. She doesn’t know why she googles his name at least once a month, on the lookout for new achievements he made in his life, but not to celebrate. And she doesn’t know why she keeps buying these damn magazines he’s printed on the cover of — or is somehow featured in.

She doesn’t know why she can’t let him go.

On her screen he stood proudly with a hand on his hip, the other running through his damp blonde hair while he answered the reporter's questions. His team won a match that was seemingly rather important. They talked a little too much about volleyball and teams she had never heard of before, though that was only because she always skipped the magazine pages that weren't about him, so she didn't really focus on what was said.

He carried himself with confidence, success was written all over his face. His hair wasn’t this awful yellow color anymore, it hadn’t been for a while, but rather a natural-looking blonde. He grew bigger, in muscles and size, compared to the last time she saw him in person years ago. He seemed more mature, though he was still the same and carried his signature smirk around, which she so desperately wished to wipe off his face.

It’s unfair. Life’s unfair. It had only been good to him, for some stupid reason. He had a happy family, confidence and looks like no other, passions and goals he worked hard for to achieve and maintain. On the other hand, life had been treating her like a pacifier lost on the streets. It made her bitter. It filled her with hate. It made her cry at night — because she doesn’t understand why.

He got everything he dreamed of, while she didn’t even get a dream.

“What is your ideal type of woman?” The reporter spoke, and the blonde man paused for a second, raising a hand to his chin in thought, before a sly grin spread over his lips. She found herself biting on the skin of her cheek, a small part of her anticipating his answer a little more than she’d ever admit.

“My type in women?” He blew a lost strand of hair out of his vision, his eyes glimmering in amusement. “Someone who knows what they want in life.”

She scoffed loudly, roughly ripping her earphones out of the shell of her ears, and throwing them on top of the table.

“What a dick.” She spat, venom rising to the back of her throat, daring to spill over like ink and red wine, staining her for years to come. She threw herself back in the creaking chair, nails roughly digging into the palm of her hand.

“Excuse me?” A voice sounded in offense.

Her eyes snapped up from the screen that still played the interview. In front of the counter, she was met with a broad figure in a burgundy red t-shirt and umber-colored irises. Her mouth went dry — and with it, her heart stopped beating for a second.

“What the fuck.”

Her sudden words of calling him a dick caught him off-guard. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he had his lips parted for more words to come out, offense painted across his face, though they died on his tongue the second she threw her head back to look at him.

A few moments of silence passed between them as they took in one another.

It was her, to his delight. And it was him, to her misfortune.

He desperately tried to find his voice. He wanted to express all the feelings and questions swirling and burning inside his mind about her, after all those years, since they last saw each other. She pressed her jaw together tightly in an attempt to keep calm, the fight or flight instinct within her triggered. But she was working right now. Punching a customer would likely result in termination, as well as abandoning the shop.

He was the first one to break the silence again, a weak and nervous smirk painting his lips as he spoke.

“You’re a fan?” His eyes flickered to the interview still playing on the screen.

“Quite the opposite.” She scrunched her nose in disgust and quickly turned off the video.

Though, he simply raised his eyebrows, not buying a word she said, and instead nodded towards the stack of magazines next to her. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that the magazine lying on the top of the stack had his face printed all over the cover. She cursed herself silently, the only one without him displayed on the front page, currently stuck under the left leg of her chair to keep it from tilting over.

“We sell those.” She said flatly, trying to seem indifferent about it, but the nervous biting of her lip betrayed her.

The corner of his eyes crinkled in amusement, the smile on his lips grew wide before his features ultimately softened. Umber eyes roamed over her face, taking in everything that changed or had stayed the same.

Her hairstyle was different, the bags she used to carry under her eyes weren’t as prominent anymore. But she still looked tired, her lips still chapped from her habit to gnaw at them whenever something bothered her.

He wondered if her troubles were different now. He hoped they were. Otherwise, everything he had given up — which was her — was pointless. Nonetheless, she resembled the same girl from years ago, though he knew she was different now. She looked at him differently, too.

“I didn’t think we’d see each other again.” He muttered, memories of their time spent together played in front of his inner eye.

“I wish it would’ve stayed that way, Miya.”

His name tasted weird and unfamiliar on her tongue. The last time they saw each other — which was years ago — she referred to him by his given name, though not nearly as civilized as she managed now. Ways were parted in hate and anger, insult after insult spat from her mouth like venom as she screamed at him, in hopes of making him hurt as much as she did in that very moment.

He wronged her. He broke the trust he had so patiently built up and did the one thing she begged him not to do, sealed with multiple pinky promises and reassuring smiles.

But suddenly her life fell apart. All because of him.

She was left with nothing except this ignited spark of hate, and she never managed to loosen the claw-like grip it had on her throat.

“How have you been?” He cleared his throat awkwardly, dying to know about her life since he lost her. It was the same soft tone and expression he had used on her years ago. On days when she came to him after she had found the front door to her house locked and her hopes for a better life in shambles.

“Don’t act like you care.” She pressed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling from frustration.

She shot a glance behind him at the only functioning clock hanging on the wall, next to many others that were either off by many hours or just stopped working completely. Some were small, some were big, and a few were oddly shaped. Metal, plastic, wood. Brown, gold, red. It was 6:53 pm and her shift for today would end in exactly 2 hours and 7 minutes. 2 hours and 7 minutes too long, stuck in this shop, with a man she never wanted to meet again.

His shoulders fell slightly, and he took a step closer to the redwood counter, placing his calloused hands on the rough edge of chipped wood. The murmur of her name fell from his lips like a low melody. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like that?” She scoffed, disdain written all over her face as she jolted up from her chair, the palms of her hands slamming against the counter. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He winced when her chair hit the floor, avoiding her gaze as he tightened his grip, looking down to her hands sprawled out on the wood grain. Chipped redwood dug uncomfortably against his palms, he squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment, biting his cheek as if to force himself to make his next move.

He gulped as he carefully lifted his gaze back to her, silence hanging thick in the air between them.

Years ago, on a day that began like every other, he messed up and lost her completely. Today was similar, though this time he won’t let her stray far from him again. Their friendship meant a lot to him, even if he never openly admitted it, and he wanted to win her back. Make up for past mistakes and fix things, see her laugh at his stupid jokes or hear her cheer loudly for him during a volleyball match again.

He missed their late night talks in the quiet of his living room, arms softly brushing against each other and acting as if both didn’t notice their knees touching underneath the thin blanket. Hushed voices conversing from the floor and bottom bunk bed in his childhood bedroom, trying not to disturb his brother who always fell asleep first, and giggles muffled by their hands when his mother returned from a shift way past their bedtime, rushing up the stairs with adrenaline pumping through their veins.

He was uncharacteristically soft with her, doing small things his brother teased him about, like holding her hand under the pretense that she was walking too slow, or so she wouldn't get lost. Physical contact like this normally made her uncomfortable, but for him, she made an exception.

A wary look was painted on his features and his warm, calloused hand slowly cupped over her own, his thumb softly brushing over her knuckles in a calming manner, voice just as gentle. “Look, I’m sorry for what I’ve done-”

“No, you’re fucking not!” She cut him off with a snarl, swatting his hand away like a nasty fly. “You’re only sorry because your stupid attempt to ‘save me’ failed!”

He opened his mouth to object, his hand pulled close again as if he had burnt himself, though his words died on his tongue and he pressed his lips together tightly, running a hand through blonde hair.

Never before had she seen him this close to looking remorseful, though, she knew it was just faux feelings. If he hadn’t met her today, after roughly four years, he wouldn’t have spared a single thought on her. She was just a side character in his story, after all.

Atsumu Miya was the type of guy who spoke a lot and couldn’t ever shut up. Even when the situation called for it.

She only slept 4 hours? Well, he only slept three and has a stomach ache.

She tries to talk about her life at home? Too bad, suddenly he’s reciting every moment of his life, starting from when he was just a cell in his mother's womb.

Something was always on his mind. Anything he deemed worth expressing he spoke out loud, and often it was unnecessary, stupid, or left her questioning his common sense. When he didn’t talk over her or made every conversation about himself, he was too busy training and bickering with his brother.

Emotional, soft, and heart-to-heart conversations were impossible with him. This includes when she first opened up about her situation at home. Her voice was quiet, her hands trembled, and she made him promise a million times not to tell anyone else.

Opening up to someone filled her with anxiety. Somehow, she even feared his reaction. Would he be indifferent? Dismiss her completely, or tell her to suck it up? Would he get angry at her? Would he tell her mother? Or his brother and mother?

These are things she never had to worry about whenever she emailed her deceased grandmother, emails in which she thoroughly spoke about the things that had happened to her, dumping her thoughts and feelings. She had tried diaries before, but the fear of her mother discovering them or someone else led to her lying about the things she wrote about. But that destroys the purpose she bought the book for, no?

So she stopped, and poured out her heart's content in emails instead that no one had access to anymore. Even though she will never receive an answer, sending those made her feel as if she really talked to someone. Something a piece of paper or the notes app on her phone couldn’t ever do for her. Unlike when she opened up to Atsumu, she felt heard and listened to.

He kept pacing around the room, muttering curse after curse through gritted teeth. She didn’t know if they were directed at her mother, her, or himself. He was ticked off and frustrated about the fact that this had been going on for years at her home, without him knowing anything about it, though they only recently started growing closer. So when could she have told him about it? Not only that, but she used to hate him too.

Many people her age actually preferred being friends with Osamu, rather than him. They were alike, but the grey-haired brother was rather laid back and kind of calm, more bearable to have a conversation with. But the blonde kept pestering her, walking her to class, eating lunch together and joining her on the swings by the playground at late hours. She eventually came to the realisation that he was only half as bad as originally thought, and that she actually kind of liked him.

Yet moments like these, where she opened up and made herself vulnerable in front of him, caused her to second guess her choice of friend. There were no hands holding hers, and no softly spoken call of her name to sooth her spiraling thoughts. Nor did they ever truly talk about the things she so slowly and carefully put together in words. He couldn’t comfort her the way she needed, and to a certain degree it seemed like he never truly cared, always swiftly moving to a different topic.

“I was doing okay, I was content. But you made my life sound so much worse than it actually was.” she said, her tone tight, edged with frustration and a hint of wounded disbelief. “I had you and your support, no one else needed to know what was really going on, there was only one year of school left anyway.”

Somehow, she noticed, their roles were reversed now. He grew up and learned to manage and express his emotions better. He was successful in his job and his passion. Everything she prayed to god to was ignored and fell into his lap instead.

It filled her with hate and bitter jealousy.

They both came from somewhat similar backgrounds. A deadbeat father, a single mother, and issues with making friends. She was an only child, he was a twin. She expected his mother to be exhausted, overwhelmed, and stressed, unable to control her emotions or lash out at them sometimes. It’s what her mother was like already, though she only had to feed one extra mouthful, and not two. Instead, she was met with nothing but love and support in the four walls of his home. Something incredibly foreign to her.

Now, she directed her frustration and anger at people close to her who deserved it the least. Her emotional control kept slacking off with every passing day. She’s been fired from previous jobs often, goes out drinking instead of attending her classes, and her relationship turned from something that gave her joy and a will to push through, to this never-leaving sense of guilt and exhaustion.

“I had plans, Atsumu. I knew how to get out, I knew how to help myself. But you robbed me of every opportunity and broke your stupid fucking promise.”

Everything he had dreamed of was just one breath away, while she’d been drowning for years.

They’re two sides of a coin.

He woke up early with a smile, feeling refreshed and energized. She hadn’t moved an inch the moment she opened her eyes, even though she’d been meaning to get up for the past hour.

He kept in touch with his mother and called her every Sunday. She hadn't heard a word from hers since she moved to Osaka.

He doesn't know who his father is and doesn’t plan on knowing. She was forced to find out about hers.

He was a role model for many children. She never understood the concept.

The blonde stepped back from the redwood counter, hands buried in his pants as he shook his head slowly. “You would have lost yourself.”

“And I’m not lost right now?”

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motheroffeline · 2 months ago

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Apologize

Pairing: Toxic! Professor! Terry Richmond x Black! Fem! Virgin! Reader

Warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, abuse of power, P in D, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), humiliation, and a bit of choking.

Summary: your parents practically pushed you to pursue college because at first you were considering starting an Only Fans account. At first glance you seem like a respectable young lady but once again what did outer appearances tell you? Nothing really. Pushing other people's boundaries is your forte and going against the grain is what gives you a thrill: that is until a certain man puts you in your place. Thoughts? You guys can give me feedback since I do want to improve my writing. I may be delusional in most cases but if something doesn't read well then, I will improve on it. Other than that, enjoy!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was raining as you walked to class and the only place you wanted to be right now was home in your own bed not a disgusting dorm room but a warm bed. Your parents made sure to spoil you at every interval in your life which started to have dire consequences. At some point, the money flow got a bit short, so you planned on starting a literal Only Fans. Of course, it didn't work because why else would you be walking in the rain to a place you don't want to go? As you walked in, everybody was already seated and staring at you like there were horns on your head.

You decided to sit in the far back away from everyone else because no one knew you and you didn't know them. The professor came in a few minutes later and he was... quite younger and better looking than you would have imagined but the thought dissipated as he began to speak.

"Hello, my name is Terry Richmond, and I will have the satisfaction of teaching all of you. For starters, if you have any questions about an exam or something that you don't get you can either talk about it here or email me. As for me, I am a former marine and you may have heard about me from certain other sources. Today we will be learning about general history or in specifics: 19th century customs and how these customs have changed or dissolved over the years." His eyes were so captivating you didn't hear a damn word he said but you'd be damned if you asked him to repeat anything. Something about him spelled strictness and good work ethnic which you did not have, nor did you ever expect to have.

The strict nature that he seemed to have made you want to test him though, see what type of shit he was on. You had lost many friends in the past because of how unapologetically conniving you were at times but who needed real life friends? Everybody that you talked to either came off of Discord or Twitter and that was enough human interaction in your opinion.

You pulled out your laptop and begin to log into your canvas and to your horror the assignments seemed endless. Even in high school you had other people do your assignments because the work was just too much to do. And it was history, probably the most boring subject out there but Terry taught it with vigor and eagerness.

"In 19th century England, mourning behavior had developed a strict system of rules which involved women wearing heavy black clothing, and the usage of black crepe veils. The wealthy would often wear cameos or lockets designed to hold a lock of the deceased's hair or a similar relic. Before I go on, can anyone note how mourning has changed in the 21st century? For example, do you believe that mourning has become more a private practice?" You had found yourself about to go to sleep listening to him talk on and on about what some old English ladies used to do. Some part of you just wanted to scream live in the fucking present! But you were in general history after all.

Rolling your eyes and wanting to walk out of class, you put your headphones on and listened to some Glorilla. Terry's eyes drifted over to where you were sitting, and his eyes narrowed. "Y/n, can you please put away your headphones? You may be in a college class but have some decorum." Begruntled, you pulled off your headphones and said, "you asked us about mourning did you not? Right now, I'm mourning the loss of my sanity. You don't even know if I was listening to music or not." Snickers and hushed comments started to dance around but Terry quickly silenced them.

"In my class, there is a no headphone policy and if you want them on you do that at your own time not mines. Matter of fact, if you want to be out of line you can do that out of my class." His voice had deepened and there was a nonchalance about how he laid the rules down. It was turning you on to be honest and you didn't know how you felt about it. The only action you had ever got in your life was from a pillow and your own fingers which, admittedly, made you kind of desperate sometimes.

He cleared his voice and continued on "now, as I was saying, customs related to mourning have changed as of recent but not much. Black is still seen as a color of grief but very few people will keep a loved one's hair or other thing of that nature behind. Social etiquette and dignity have changed quite a lot as well in modern times. For instance, in the 19th century bowing and conduct to avoid at balls were quite grandiose compared to modern times which can differ on the region where someone lives. In the South, individuals tend to be more accommodating towards social etiquette and engage in small talk which is a contrast from more Northern regions." You could hear the keys of keyboards typing and people nodding as they went along with the lesson, but you couldn't care less. It was a waiting game for you at the very least and as soon as you were allowed to leave you would be the first one at the door.

******************************************************************

It was finally time to go, and you hurriedly began collecting your things, but Terry once again stopped you in your tracks.

"Stay behind Y/n, there are some things that I have to talk with you about." He was going to make a big deal about it, and it was seen in those multicolored eyes of his. You wondered if they were contacts, but you doubt, you'd get that close to him in the first place. As people started to funnel out of the classroom a surge of anxiety took over you and you didn't even know why. This wouldn't be the first time you had tested somebody but something about this put a bad feeling in your gut.

He paced over to his desk and pulled out the seat to sit down. "Y/n, come sit down in front of me." You gulped and made your way to the seat which gave you no choice but to observe him. The man wasn't just handsome he was gorgeous in every conceivable way you could think of.

"I think that you should apologize for your outburst today, so we won't be repeating those incidents." His voice left no room for arguments, but you liked to argue so that was that.

"Dude, I just had my headphones on like I wasn't even bothering anybody, and I think it was wrong how you singled me out like that. We're all adults anyways and we paid for the class so like can you be a little less strict? For me I can't even focus unless I got some music playing." Terry kissed his teeth and leaned back in his chair as he looked at you with a judgmental look on his face.

"Excuse, that's all what that is I know you can focus for just a few minutes. The seminar wasn't even long considering that it was just an introduction to the class. You should be considerate of other people who "paid for the class" like you said." You didn't know if you were tripping or what, but he seemed to be smirking a bit. Your panties grew wet in the center, and everything was just telling you to get up and run.

"Can I go now?" You said with a tense voice. His smirk had grown quite prominent, and he wasn't even hiding his satisfaction anymore. It was clear that he wanted to put you in your place, it was almost like he was receiving some sadistic joy from seeing you be nervous.

"No, I still have some other things to talk with you about; like how your thighs are pressing together right now, what's wrong with you? Hm?" The demeanor had changed, and you noticed how his voice seemed persuasive now. "I'm going to be completely honest with you be a bitch if you want. Hell, I'll even let you get out of doing exams and assignments, but you have to do one thing for me." He stood up and began to walk around to where you were sitting, and you could smell his cologne which was a mix of tobacco, cedar, oud and shea butter.

"Show me a good time and I'll let you get away with shit is what I'm saying." It was a demand instead of a question, but you found yourself wanting to be underneath his thumb. For a long time, you were curious about being sexually intimate because it seemed like something that most people expected you had already done. But this was your professor for fuck's sake... sure, he was tantalizingly handsome but none of this could go well. The devil on your shoulder wanted to risk everything to feel his plump lips moving against yours and those lips on your other lips...

"Okay, what do you want me to do?" He was massaging your shoulders now and you wanted to moan because of how good it all felt. Doing some forbidden like this had been a hidden fantasy of yours for a while now but you actually didn't think it'd be happening right now and suddenly, college got interesting.

Terry licked his lips and tilted your chin up to look at him, "I want you ass naked in about a minute with your legs spread. Then, I'm gonna eat that pussy until you're crying, won't even be able to talk shit when I'm done with you." That proper act had gone out the window when you agreed, and you got a real sense of how debauched he was. The thought of a man between your legs sent both a thrill and some fear through you.

"Um hopefully this doesn't ruin out lil agreement thingy but I'm a virgin so I don't know what to do." Terry was standing in front of you now with that award winning smile on his face knowing that he held all the power in the situation.

"I'll guide you through everything, you ain't even gotta lift a finger. Now, take off those clothes I wanna good look at you I bet you taste good too." You shivered as the air hit your exposed body as you began to take off your clothes and his fingers immediately started twisting your ebony nipples and you mewled. Everything about it felt so... unreal. Just a moment ago he was lecturing you about the 19th century and now he was going to be your first sexual experience.

"Oh god it feels so good. Please don't stop oh my goddd." You were writhing as he twisted your nipples like little knobs slowly causing you to unravel from how intense it was.

"Feels good doesn't it? Look at how wet your pussy is you're dripping on the carpet." His fingers began rubbing your clit in gentle circular motions and you wanted to marry him in that moment. He was touching you better than you had ever touched yourself and it was driving you crazy.

"I feel like I'm gonna pee mmmmm please keep doing that..." Your arousal had formed a pool on the floor as he continued to rub your clit.

"You're not gonna pee baby you're gonna cum real nice for me." Terry slowly inserts one of his fingers inside of you stroking your g spot and you wail. Everything about the man was too damn good. There was that smirk again because he knew that he was the one in charge of your pleasure.

Suddenly, he got down in his knees in front of you and licked you from you from clit to hole. His tongue was wide basically covering most of your area with its width. The way his finger was touching your spot and the way his tongue was flicking away sent you right over the edge.

"Ahhhhh fuckkk I'm cumming!" You squirted all over his face and on the carpet which would have a suspicious stain on it tomorrow just from how much of your arousal was on it.

"You taste so damn good I could eat it for days at a time. C'mon wrap your legs around my waist I wanna make you feel good again. Scared? Shhh I know it's your first time I promise to take it slow." Terry's voice comforted you as he began to take his own clothes off and the monster between his legs shocked you. Half trusting, you put your legs around his waist and he lifted you up from the chair you were sitting in.

His eyes were peering into your soul, and you were clenching around nothing as he gave you sloppy kisses on the mouth. "You okay with this, baby? I'm gonna slide in real slow, okay?"

"Please just put it in." You said caving into your own desires and he happily obliged as you felt him push into you. He was so deep in this position it nearly knocked the wind out of you, and you took deep breaths so you wouldn't pass out while his dick was inside of you.

"Ohhh you hitting my spot!" You whined as his dick brushed against spots you could never dream of reaching with your own fingers. He was bouncing you on his dick where anybody could walk in and see the two of you. Your arousal was getting tangled up in his pubic hair as he fucked you like it was the last day on earth. Shit would never be the same after this and I think you both knew it.

"Oh, fuck baby get down I want your ass arched up in the air. Mmmm I can hit it so much deeper like that." You did as you were told and the new position, he had you in was indeed deep as fuck. His hand came to wrap around your throat with a firm hold as he began to pound into you. It was like you could feel his dick everywhere with how embedded he was in your guts. "Ohhhh shittttt gonna cum again!" You said as you squirted around his dick forcing him out.

"Goddamn you so fucking nasty. I knew it when I first laid my eyes on you I'm glad I was right. Stick out your tongue I'm gonna cum in your mouth." You looked up at him with your doe brown eyes as his toned body convulsed with an oncoming climax. Cum landed on your tits, tongue and all over your face as he spent himself on you.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Both of you were lying on the ruined carpeted trying to collect yourselves. The clock revealed that you and Terry had been going at it with each other for over three hours straight.

Terry rolled over to look at you, still naked, looking like he could go for another round. The silence was palpable occasionally interrupted by the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Best damn apology I've ever received in my life."

#aaron pierre #rebel ridge #terry richmond #smut #18+ mdni #my thoughts

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someonehugratchet · 6 months ago

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Ratchet who was neutral in the war.

He was neither Autobot nor Decepticon, but a medic for those who were caught between fire fights or who couldn’t fight. Sparklings, injured civilians, lower class citizens who couldn’t get shelter from either side for whatever reason.

Ratchet would go out himself and find them, brining them back to one of several hidden infirmaries he set up with volunteers and past students of his.

First Aid always stayed in the biggest one, which held all the sparklings as it was the safest.

Fixit would sneak between them all to make sure that all the set false safes were in order. He helped show the little ones where to gin in the case of an attack.

He believed Optimus Prime wanted to help, but the mech was too busy fighting the fight to be able to spare much time on the broken bots that had a chance.

They knew each other and Prime had worked to keep their bases a secret even as Ratchet resumed to let them sway him into fighting with them.

Megatron’s men were allowed only in one base where other soldiers were kept, guarded by Pharma and Remedy both. Autobots and Decepticon both had an understanding that it was neutral ground and no fights would be had, the two keeping in seperate wings of the fragile clinic.

That understanding was crushed after one fateful cycle.

Ratchet had responded to First Aids distress signal as quick as he could, travelling over half of Cybertron to get to the infirmary as quick as he could.

He arrived just in time to see Shockwave leaving.

With dread in his spark he had rushed through a secret exit and into the main room and instantly fell to his knees.

Over two hundred sparklings lay desecrated in the entire place.

Most of them were missing some part of their body, some burnt into nothing.

Ratchet only made a noise, a wailing sound of pure grief, when he saw the remains of First Aid clutching three little ones.

All dead.

His screams had only grown in intensity as he looked around the room and found that Pharma and Remedy had come to aid and fallen as well.

Ratchet could have stayed there and rusted over if he hadn’t notice some of his patients weren’t there, hope burning his spark as I rushed to the feeds to try and figure out where they had gone.

He watches the footage with grime determination even as he feels his spark shattering into pieces.

It falters for several moments when he watches Shockwave order some of his men to take some of the sparklings. He hears the disturbing mech say something about ‘suitable test subjects’ and feels the energon in his systems freeze. Ratchet’s heard of what Shockwave has done, how the unfeeling monster doesn’t care for the notion of ethical conduct and onto for results.

Eventually Optimus as some of his most trusted come by the hidden location in the hopes of stopping a massacre, only to find Ratchet sitting on the floor with the body of a sparkling in his hands.

He had tried to bring the femme back after seeing a slight flux in her tiny spark, but it was useless.

Bumblebee is hurt the most as it was the same clinic he had been raised in before he became a scout, seeing Ratchet work for years and being the main reason they had even known something was wrong.

He falls to his knees as Elita moves to check for Decepticons, if only to distract herself.

Optimus approaches Ratchet with grief in his spark, carefully removing the deceased sparkling from his hold.

“I… I am truely sorry, old friend.”

Ratchet looks up and sees Orion Pax, the young mechling who had once asked him for an autograph.

When he speaks it’s distant, like his mainframe as gone on autopilot, “He took some of the sparklings. We need to find them.”

Optimus nods, helping him stand on unsteady pedes, “We will, I swear we will it stop until we have.”

Ratchet looks at Optimus with a fire in his eyes, “I know. But Optimus, I don’t care about you code. I don’t care about your morals or war crimes, Shockwave will pay for this.”

For the first time since the war began, the Prime looked around the room and nodded with a darkness over his optics.

“You are right. They have gone too far to deserve honour.”

#tfp #tfp ratchet #transformers ratchet #nurse ratchet #ratchet #transformers prime #ratchet angst #transformers #heavy angst #optimus prime #first aid transformers #remedy transformers #fixit transformers #Pharma Tranformers #transformers cybertron #shockwave

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shifting-mariana · 4 months ago

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why I’m starting to shift for longer time periods + shifting motivation

So, this is my first longer post. But it’s something I think may help many and yes I use some 2020 shift but not like the way they said it. But for this post I’ll be sharing my method for anyone who wants to use it but keep in mind it may not work for everyone!

MY SHIFTING METHOD:

I meditate or visual my dr with my favorite artist (ichiko aoba<3) and think about what I’ll do in my dr then I’ll get up and do whatever I feel like until I get tired.

2. Drink water. Ik 2020 shifting but!!!! They weren’t wrong but they weren’t right either bc when I get close to shifting it drains me a lot because I feel stronger than others an example of this is while you may feel like your lover is touching your arm faintly I can feel feel embraces even if it’s just day dreaming or i JUST started my method.

3. I have subliminals playing softly in the background of anything I’m doing so my subconscious can keep that motivation flowing..yk?

4. I go back to sleep and repeat “I will not end up in this reality I only have two choices (my dr and a different reality similar to here)” but I’ll say that until I feel like very very calm then I start counting my finger until I feel numb. Kinda like a comfort thing I do in my drs with any of my s/o’s whenever I freak out about something.

5. I let my mind roam until I’m stuck on that dr and I feel light weight and it feels like I’m just floating in nothing. When I shift I don’t usually feel it which is why I realize I shifted many times I just shifted back before I realized. So I always keep in my mind that when I get there this is gonna happen or that.

but every time I shift I focus on staying for a longer time (which is probably why I don’t post as much but I usually don’t anyways so it seems normal and when I ’got back’ nothing felt different) so I can get used to being in my dr and switching to different drs without coming back to this energy/vibration level that I’m on now.

me personally I keep my birthstone and my favorite crystals that have meaning to me around me when I attempt because it gives me a sense of relief and I’m not stressing about “do this step right now or u won’t shift “ it doesn’t matter..do the method upside down side ways, while doing splits idk but don’t let it stress you out bc if your stuck on what happening on this vibration frequency then you can’t get to your dr’s frequency.

Be patient with yourself. You know yourself better than anyone. You know what method may work for you better than the premade ones that worked for certain people. They are NOT you .. you’re not them and they’re not you. So what I do may work for you and it may not work for someone else. But don’t lose hope in getting to your dr for the first time or again if you’ve done it.

Don’t force away any intrusive thoughts. Ignore them and let them roam in your mind until they go away as you reach the frequency for you dr. We are all different in our own way so you may not feel or see those bright colorful lights like every one else but you are capable. WE are capable. We shifter have the power to see every timeline, story, show, movie, book, etc. But unlike those who imagine it.. We HAVE the chance to live it and giving that up because of doubts when you have the entire universe in your hands and the other shifter’s out there. We can see deceased family again. Are they gonna be exactly as you remember? Maybe not but the chance is there and to see someone I care about again is something I’m sure most people would want.

I made this post originally to say I am shifting longer and longer each time to prepare my self for my perma shift on June 1st. And even if I don’t shift that day (but I will) you have the chance to do it even before then and so do I so don’t let doubt or fear keep you from going somewhere some didn’t even know existed until a fucking AI told them. If they don’t believe YOU prove it to yourself so you will never feel as if you were lied to because yes shifting is real and it may be the best thing that ever happened to me or you. You have the tool to shift and that’s just you. be you. Embrace you. You got this!

No matter if u believe in the multiverse theory, frequencies, or whatever you still have the power and ability to shift so use it. See that best friend. See that bf/gf. See that one character that practically saved your life. See your comfort character without a screen.

you can and will shift and even if it’s 7 years from now, don’t stop trying even if it’s long breaks from it. Which is very helpful to regain your energy after shifting. But besides that I hope you shift and if it’s tonight or months or years from now you still have a time and it WILL come.

— shifting Mariana 2025.

#reality shift #shifting blog #reality shifter #shiftblr #reality shifting #shifting antis dni #shifting community #shifting motivation #shifting realities #desired reality

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andieperrie18 · 1 year ago

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Watching her fall in love

A/n: DISCLAIMER, I just wanna clear out that I HATE Mikio, OR LOATHE him. The man died too quickly for my liking. But I am currently at an emotional but productive mode in my Mizu x Reader fanfic. I needed to vent some writing. I just needed to write somethings to hurt myself, so now I would like to share my pain. I kept this one vague but clear cause certain parts would likely be in the fanfic. So please bear with its corniness and i do hope you enjoy and share some thoughts at the comment section how to make Mikio's suffering a bit more satisfying

Pairing: Mizu x Reader

Series: Blue Eye Samurai

You know she deserves to be happy. There was no reason for her to continue her vengeance now that her mother was actually alive and now has been encouraging Mizu to leave your debt and settle down with the man her mother had found that will surely provide for her.

Not that Mizu was not cared for in your home, with a small dowry left by your deceased father and the a simple home on a piece of land from your husband who worked tirelessly to own for your future before circumstances decided to rob you of the life that you could’ve had with him let alone have a child of your own.

After coming to terms with things, you swear to never love any other man than your husband. But the tides of fate didn’t really like that.

You were on your way home when you found a wounded Mizu on your way. Lucky enough, your place was near when she came stumbling in your arms clutching her bleeding side. In your home, you treated her, fed her and provided her all the necessary things to hasten her recovery despite her constant attempts to deny any more further gestures.

Your persistence rivaled hers and she can’t really do anything than just accept it if she wants to continue her quest for revenge. But she days go by and she can finally function properly, the closer she has become to you. Of course you already knew that she was a woman, tending to her wounds did require you to have her lay bare before you while under unconsciousness. But her eyes, a part of her body that she has come to hate as it was the most visible defect of how she is immediately considered as a monster. You were no stranger to being cast aside so you know how to provide her the right words and comfort.

From that point on, she’s been your constant company either at your small plantation or someone to share food on the dining table. With her harsh childhood and upbringing, Mizu’s cold exterior was very hard but once you do reach her, she is as gentle as a spring water bathing you in in cold warmth under a harsh sun.

“You know that I’ll leave as soon as I reach recovery,” she said with a frown as she sat across from you from the entryway. The evening was young but the skies were burned by a millions suns from eons away and the full moon lingering among them. You looked at her as she did as well, there was a hint of sadness in her icy blue eyes.

“I know, and I will not force you to stay, if this path is what you need to find peace at the end of your road, then do so. Just know that when you’re ready to find your peace, my doors are open to your company,” you offered a smile, one that she did return. One that had you marveling at it all throughout the night.

You haven't come to terms with your feelings with Mizu for quite a while and believed that you really cared for platonically. She has found a great friendship with you and you to her.

As a ‘friend’, you were lucky enough to be there at the small ceremony. Mikio didn’t want anything to do with her and denied any act of consummating their union. But Mizu didn’t worry much as you have provided a great company. Cracks to your resolve showed when you had succeeded to provide Mizu an opportunity to create connection with her husband. You had encouraged her to try approaching the man and keep in mind how persistent he is with that one particular horse he has been taming for days in your observation. Soon, Mizu was having a small conversation with Mikio while you watched.

Watching Mizu’s rough demeanor crumble so easily in his presence was infuriating, an emotion you quick to shut out. Guilt tripping was made easier upon having small conversations with Mizu’s mother who Thanked you for being there for Mizu and helping her create a relationship with Mikio.

“Now that she’s out of your hair, you can finally find a husband as well, your still you my dear,” Mizu’s mother trails, but your attention was on the couple emerging from the green hills riding a horse along the orange horizon. Your eyes on Mizu, laughing, so free. An expression you never once got from her.

The final realization of your love for her was followed by a tsunami of heartbreak as you watched her capture her husbands lips in a kiss by a big tree that you came passing by. You watch her submit to his touch, lifting her legs off the ground and press tender kisses on her neck. You hid by a tree, back against it. You stare up the orange skies as you feel every thing inside you tear itself apart.

A/n: I Just needed to feel pain.

#mizu x reader #mizu x you #mizu blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai imagine #blue eye samurai x reader #angsty #angst

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samthestrangerthingsfan · 1 year ago

Text

Out of The Woods

pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: You're back in Hawkins, and the memories keep on coming.

chapter warnings: mentions of grief, parental loss, motherhood, swearing, brief description of injury (bloody nose)

a/n: chapter one! the ball is officially rolling! I'm so excited for you all to read and get to know these characters. Enjoy!

chapter one: I've Got Sunshine || series masterlist

Muscle memory is a funny thing.

The faded wheel of your ‘88 Ford Escort was being gripped so hard that your knuckles ached. You recalled shortcuts and one-ways with ease, moved through neighborhoods and back roads you hadn’t been down in nearly decade--seven years to be exact. They say home is where your heart is; if that was the case, Hawkins stopped being home a long time ago.

Still, part of you supposed it was normal.

Normal to remember this place so vividly, you could draw its map with your eyes closed. Normal to recall the smells and sounds and the stoplight that hasn’t worked properly since ‘79.

Normal to see the Plant, and Melvald’s—Joyce Byers’ car parked dutifully out front. You remembered everything, despite having tried to forget.

You never thought you'd be back here. After you got your diploma, after all the hell you'd been through--after what happened, you’d gone East. A scholarship earned you a full ride to Yale University.

Then life happened.

Maggie happened.

Once school was no longer an option, you looked for work. Doing job after job, sometimes three at a time to make the rent and keep food on the table for her.

As much as you tried to deny it, everything seemed like a sign from above that this place wasn’t meant to be. Rent went up, you’d been let go from your waitressing job, and then your car started to shit the bed.

Hey, when it rains it pours, am I right?

Then came the call that brought you back here to Hawkins in the first place.

Your Dad died.

Not that you’d ever been particularly close, especially not after your Mom died. You were just 14 at the time and it was hard. That's the age every girl needs her Mom, and without yours, you were left to navigate grief, high school, and becoming a good person all on your own.

Your Father was...an unfortunate side effect of her passing. Consumed by his own grief, you assumed. It turned into him not being able to stomach being around you. The fighting was constant, you could never do anything right in his eyes, and he could never replace your Mom in yours. You’d practically lived everywhere but home your entire high school career, and he was either working at the Plant, or too drunk to care.

That’s why when a lawyer called you up and told you you’d been left his house, you damn near fainted.

"You're sure you have the right person?" You asked, stretching the cord around your finger nervously.

The man repeated your name, date of birth, and 'relationship to the deceased'.

"The home has been paid off since, lemme see here," You heard the flip of a paper, "'Ah, '78. Taxes and such can be put into your name when you begin occupying the residence, but we do need a decision by--"

"I'll take it!" The words flew out of your mouth before your brain could stop you.

This was a sign, the last sign you needed. You took $300 out of your savings to fix your car, packed up everything that mattered, and the two of you started the 12 our road-trip home.

Now you were just two right turns away.

“Hey, Sunshine. You awake back there?” You ask, a smile in your tone.

Maggie stretched, adjusting the blanket on her lap. “I’m up, Mama.” She's smiling, clearly just beginning to wipe the sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”

The question left your daughter’s mouth just as you turned into the driveway.

Slowly, you find the strength to put the car in park. Deep breaths, right? That's what you tell Mags to do when she's scared. So you take your own advice, and do one big deep breath. “Our new home.”

Maggie’s gasp startled you. “We get a whole house?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, “Yes, baby girl. A whole house, and guess what else?”

She clutched her worn, stuffed teddy bear tightly to her chest and watched you with bated breath.

“You get your own room!”

Your six-year-old squealed with delight, kicking her feet into the seat in front of her. “Mama I’m so excited! Can we go in? Please! Please!” She begged happily.

With shaking hands, you snatched the key from the ignition. “Absolutely.”

Maggie’s feet were taking her faster than the rest of her could follow. As she waited on the stoop of the familiar blue house, you bent down and lifted the 5th rock from the left that lined the path. The key was there, just as it always had been, though now it was aged with rust. You’d hidden it there after being unable to wake your Dad from his drunken stupor on more than one occasion.

The house—your house, was nothing grand, but the look on your daughter's face said otherwise.

“Mama, we get this whole place?”

You tussled her hair as she moved to wander the living room. “Sure do, baby girl.

The two of you had lived in a one bedroom for her entire life. In the six years since you'd had her, she’d never really had a space to call her own, and even though you’d given Maggie all you had, it killed you not to be able to give her what she deserved.

“So, I was thinking…Maggie?”

You walked the familiar hallway to find her in your old bedroom; it looked exactly like it did the day you left.

“Mama! Is this you?” She ran at you, holding an old Polaroid.

With tender hands, you grabbed it from her. “It sure is, Mags.”

Her smile grew as she spoke, “So pretty, Mama. Who’s the peoples with you?”

The grin on your face matched hers, “This right here? This is Robin, she’s the one who sends me all of those funny birthday cards.”

Robin didn’t know you were back, and you’re not exactly sure how to say, “Hey remember me? Your friend who disappeared? Well, I’m back for good and so is my daughter that you’ve never met.”

“Oh, who’s this boy?”

You chuckled, “That’s Steve. He’s a real cheese-ball, but you’d love him. I hope you get to meet him some day"

Maggie's giggles filled the room, and you could feel your cheeks aching from the size of your smile.

She deserves the world. I'm gonna make sure she gets it.

"Mama?"

You sit on the edge of your old desk, "Hm?"

"Who's this guy with the long hair?"

Your heart sank. Collapsing in on itself, and descending into your stomach. "That's uh, his...his name is Eddie."

Saying his name--speaking him into reality made you sick. It made your bones ache and your muscles twist with rage and grief.

Just then, your beautiful daughter, blissfully unaware and innocent, asks a follow up question.

"Is he your friend too, Mama?"

The lump in your throat was hard to swallow, but you do it for her. "He used to be." It's all you can manage.

She holds the photo in her little hand, analyzing the image with all of the brainpower her six year old mind could muster.

"His eyes kinda look like my eyes!"

7 little words, spoken in the sweetest, happiest tone, break you.

"They kinda do, don't they?" You ask, turning around to pretend to organize whatever random clutter you could find.

Maggie places the photo on the desk, and moved on to the next room.

"Wow, Mama! A bathtub! i can take bubble baths!" She echos off the tiles walls, and you crumble. Falling to you knees and silencing your sobs with you palm.

How are you gonna do this? How are you going to live here and avoid him? What will happen in he sees you? See's her?

Maggie is all that matters in this. Hawkins is big enough, right? Surely, you can avoid all of the old haunts you remember Eddie going too. Avoid the Hideout and Lover's Lake, and certainly avoid the Forest Hill's trailer park.

God, that place was your sanctuary for so long--both you and Eddie.

After every party, every fight with your Dad, you'd find comfort at the Munson home. Wayne demanding you stay as long as you wanted, and assuring you that this place is as much yours as it is Eddie's.

The trailer was where you cleaned Eddie up after every run in with Jason and the other douchebags at Hawkins High.

NOVEMBER 15th, 1985

Your fingertips turned crimson as you held the damp towel to Eddie’s nose. He winced the moment it made contact with the newly bruised flesh.

“Fucking…fuck.” Eddie barely managed to get it out.

You recoiled, but he protested. “Nope…no. Just, just get it over with.”

Slowly and as carefully as you could, you dabbed the blood from the already purple skin. “Jesus, Eds. You bruise like a peach.” It’s a small offer of a joke, a way to ease his pain and your guilt.

A hiss as you touch a particularly sensitive part on the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.” You’re the one wincing now.

“Still look tough though, right? Even if I got my ass kicked?” He smiled gently, a self-deprecating pull at the corner of his mouth.

The trailer was cold, it was just turning fall in Hawkins, and Wayne didn’t use the heat unless it was below freezing. A chill ran down your spine as your stomach flipped.

“You got a couple of good licks in, I just wish you didn’t—“

He cuts you off immediately. “It’s never a question, and you know that.”

A shaking sigh passes your lips as you turn your back to him. The warm water running from the sink rinses the blood out of the washcloth, and as swirls of red spin down the drain, you're fighting back tears. “Jason’s a prick who gets his rocks off watching people squirm. He knows I’m repulsed by him. He’s not worth it, Eddie.”

You hated seeing him like this because of you. Jason was being foul and vulgar and his typical jock-with-one-brain-cell self when he’d cornered you in the cafeteria.

Fortunately for you, he didn’t see Eddie walk in behind him.

Jason was describing exactly how he’d 'make you moan'—barf—when Eddie spun him around and decked him.

He was able to get three or four shots on him before the rest of Jason's caveman friends ganged up on Eddie, only stopping when Principal Higgins stepped in.

“He’s not, but you are. I don’t know how many times we gotta go over this, Bug. I’ll never let anyone hurt you--ever. Who cares if I get a little banged up in the process?”

Bug.

The nickname he's called you for the past 2 years. A way he shows you that it really is just you and him against the world.

"I care. You're all I've got Eddie Munson." You say it dramatically, in hope the seriousness of the moment wouldn't make things weird. Eddie's warm hand finds your cheek, the pad of his thumb swept over the soft skin.

"Forever, kid. You and me."

The memory made you shiver.

Get it together. You chastise yourself.

"Hey Mags?" You call, scrubbing the emotion from your face onto your palms.

She bounds down the hall, still in awe at the space. "Yeah, Mom? Did you know my room has a closet? I can fit all my toys inside!"

Your arms reach for her, and she jumps into your embrace instantly. After squeezing her, you pull back to take in the little person you'd made.

God, she really does look so much like him.

She's got your nose, and cheeks for sure. But those eyes? The smile? That's Eddie, through and through.

"You know I love you, right?" You kiss her forehead.

Maggie pushed your cheeks together, smushing you face in her palms. "I know, Mama. 'Nember what you always say?"

"What's that, Mags?" You ask, brushing the hair from her eyes.

"You and me, kid. Forever and ever."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #OoTW #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic

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