#i might make more of these in the future so ill make a tag i guess | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nadvs · 3 months ago

Text

the act of unravelling (part two)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

Rafe stands and looks down at the body, his fists clenched tightly. Reality is setting in now. He could go to prison. His future could be ruined.

He’s perpetually at the mercy of his impulsivity, thinking only of the minute he’s living in, burdened with the consequences later. But still, even with his head a little clearer, he doesn’t regret this.

Ripping away the life of a man who wronged him was a thrill. He spends every day feeling like he’s losing and the power he had in his hands tonight felt so fucking good. He won for once.

You feel heavy as you push yourself up off the floor. You wish you could curl up in your bathtub under hot, gushing water, washing away everything that happened tonight.

The corpse is harder to look at with every second that passes. You glance up at Rafe, blood splattered on his face as he stares down at what he’d done, at what you’d done, chillingly unfazed.

“We can’t leave anything that’ll point back to me,” he mumbles, his voice low over the fireworks still crackling outside.

“Or me,” you have to remind him tensely.

His eyes land on yours. He’s always only looking out for himself. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to worry about someone else.

“I’m serious,” you urge. Your survival instinct rushes through you for the second time tonight. You refuse to let Rafe throw you to the wolves. “I saved your life. You owe me. I won’t take the fall for this.”

“Well, neither will I,” he snaps.

“You shot him.”

“I could say you did,” Rafe replies. “And it’d be your word against mine. What then?”

You scoff, in disbelief of his selfishness.

“I saved your life,” you repeat. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

Rafe swallows hard. He’s not sure many people would do what you did for him tonight. They’d watch. They’d let him die. The possibility that you might feel something for him makes his chest twist with an unfamiliar warmth.

“We’ll look out for each other, alright?” he relents, letting his guard down for a moment. “Let’s just clean this up.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket again. You pull it out, seeing Pope’s name. Twelve missed calls.

You hope your friends don’t get so worried that they come up here, ignoring the Off Limits sign Porter had put up across the stairs. But they don’t know where you went. You’re almost certain.

“My friends keep calling me,” you whisper.

Rafe’s jaw tightens. His friends aren’t worrying about him.

“You can’t answer them,” he snaps.

“I know.” You let out a shaky sigh, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “We have to be fast. What do we do? Do we bury him?”

Rafe takes a beat to think.

“We dump him in the ocean,” he finally says. “We go to the marina and drive my boat out far enough where nobody will find him.”

“How do we move him so nobody sees? We can’t go through the house. We might run into someone.”

Rafe looks to the glass door on the other end of the room, the balcony offering a view of the inky night sky.

“There,” he says. “We’ll push him off and put him in the back of my truck.”

You consider it. Of the limited options you have, it seems like the only one worth trying.

“Okay. We have to clean the blood off the floor,” you say. “And everything we touch needs to be wiped. Maybe there’s something with bleach in it around here?”

For the first time since you entered this room, you feel hope. There’s a chance, a real chance, you could get away with this. You look back at the desk Rafe ransacked.

“Pick that stuff up,” you say. Frustration rolls through him. He never liked being bossed around. “I’ll try to find something to clean with.”

“Don’t let anyone see you,” Rafe mutters.

“How stupid do you think I am?” you huff before you turn towards the door.

You tiptoe through the second story, peeking into a bathroom cupboard. When you find a spray bottle that reads Cleaner and Bleach on the packaging, you grab it and head back to the room.

You and Rafe move quickly and quietly, using clothes you found in the closet to wipe everything with bleach. After a loud, consonant cracking of fireworks that you assume is the grand finale, the show ends. And you know people are on their way back to the house.

The neighbor’s private beach can’t be that far away. You have a minute. Maybe two.

You’re glad Rafe thinks to find the shell of the bullet. He puts it in his pocket. You spray the bleach over the floor again, cleaning every drop of blood you can see.

“Tuck this stuff under his shirt,” you say breathlessly, handing Rafe the bottle and the blood-soaked clothes.

You can’t do it. You know you’ll need to touch him when you move him, but you’d rather limit the contact you have with his body. Even dead, when he can’t hurt you, touching him is terrifying.

You pick the gun up off the floor, then open the balcony, relieved you can’t hear any voices yet. You peer over the edge to see the sandy ground. The balcony overlooks the side of the house, dark and secluded.

Rafe grunts as he drags the corpse out onto the balcony. You have to muster up every bit of strength you have as you help heave Porter’s body over the railing. He falls with a hard thud, facedown in the sand.

You have to jump the balcony. You can’t risk going downstairs. Rafe is wide-eyed as you hitch your leg over the railing, looking down with shaky breaths.

“Wait,” he whispers. “Let me go first. If you break something, we’re fucked.”

He shifts down as low as he can before letting his feet hang over the edge. He lets go, dropping hard, his ankles pinching with pain from the impact.

“Okay,” he says. “Go.”

You feel a splinter dig into your palm as you clutch onto the wooden railing with one hand while the other holds the gun. You make the split-second decision to keep the balcony door open to air out the smell of bleach.

You hope you cleaned away every drop of blood in the room. There’s no going back to it now.

You sink, hanging as low as you can, looking over your shoulder before you drop. Rafe’s arms wrap around you as your feet hit the ground, his chest hard against your back, breaking your fall.

“If someone comes,” he whispers in your ear, “run.”

Waiting for him to get his truck is torture. The humid night air presses against your face and you can’t bear to look down at the body on the ground.

Rafe returns and you move quickly, straining as you carry the body over the uneven terrain, the soles of your shoes slipping on the sand.

Once the body is in the trunk and Rafe unfolds the cover, blanketing the cab and concealing the evidence, you feel a shred less frightened.

You glance back into the darkness just in case. A glow of a phone screen is in the sand. Rafe is already behind the wheel, demanding that you get in, his voice carrying through the open rear window.

You feel for your phone. It’s still in your pocket.

“Do you have your phone?” you whisper.

He responds after a moment, “Yes. Get in.”

“I think his phone fell on the ground when we were carrying him,” you say. “We should–”

Faint laughs in the distance interrupt you. There’s no time to run back and get the phone without being seen.

“Get the hell in,” Rafe mutters angrily.

You obey, swinging open the door, barely closing it in time as Rafe peels away. Your muscles prick from the weight you’d just carried as you drive past the partygoers coming back from watching fireworks.

“Holy shit,” Rafe chuckles, near elated. “We did it.”

You stare ahead, your head foggy.

This will haunt you for the rest of your life. The thought forces a torrent of dread through you worse than you’ve ever felt before.

What if you’d run out of the room when Rafe and Porter came in? What if you’d left Rafe to deal with the body on his own?

What if you’d never gone upstairs?

You’re destined to agonize over the what if’s of tonight forever.

You gaze down at the gun in your lap and hold your hands out in front of you, skin stinging from the bleach. You’d wiped away the blood, but you think you’ll always see it on your hands.

You figure out that it’s a good thing you left Porter’s phone. If he was sharing his location, you’re sure the police could track where it was last before you threw it into the sea with him. They’d know exactly where to look for his body.

“We should shut off our phones,” you realize. “I think they can track GPS history from cell towers.”

Rafe digs into his pocket, glancing down to watch the screen go black.

“How’d you think of that?” he mumbles with a laugh. “Is this not your first time doing this, Pogue?”

“Nothing about this is funny,” you reply.

“Relax,” he says. “We got away with it.”

“You can’t be so sure,” you say. “One fingerprint in that room and…”

You can’t think about it.

In the paroxysm of emotions you’re already feeling, guilt digs a hole into your stomach when you see Pope’s most recent text before you power off your phone.

Answer the phone. We’re worried.

·········

The clock on Rafe’s dashboard reads 10:44 when you reach the marina. He parks right by the main dock. The place seems quiet, the water crowded with seemingly unoccupied boats.

“I’ll take a walk around to make sure we’re alone,” he says, pulling his key out of the ignition.

The car door slams shut and you’re left with a gun in your lap, a body in the trunk, and your tormenting thoughts.

Maybe you missed something back in that room.

You picture Porter’s phone lighting up in the sand. His last text to you said to come upstairs. When the cops inevitably start searching for answers, you’ll be questioned.

A minute later, Rafe swings open your door, pulling you out of your daze. You meet his glare, his hair tousled and sweaty.

“We’re good,” he says. “Move.”

Having to haul the body over the dock past darkened, quiet boats is unnerving. Ater you leave it at the back of Rafe’s boat, you stand behind him at the helm.

Your arms are crossed and the gun is tucked by your elbow, because if you learned anything tonight, it’s that you can’t trust anyone.

Rafe’s still a man. A man who takes what he wants when he wants it. A man who killed someone because he didn’t obey him. He could hurt you if he wanted to. It’s best not to be alone with him.

“I should wait in the car,” you mumble. Rafe shakes his head in frustration, driving the boat forward. The boat’s motor hums as you rock with its movements.

“No,” he mutters condescendingly. It reminds you of why underneath the stubborn pull you’ve always felt towards him, you’ve also harbored a quiet fear. Rafe is violent. Possibly enough to hurt you the same way Porter did.

You feel for the gun again. If two men have to die tonight, so be it. The fact that your mind went there chills you.

Rafe looks over at you, lips twisting in annoyance.

“Don’t feel bad for that asshole,” he mutters. “He asked for it.”

It’s the worst possible thing he could’ve said. Your throat is raw with the threat of tears. Asked for it. Would he say the same about what happened to you?

“I don’t regret it,” you tell him, sure that he’s assuming that that’s why you’re so tense. “I’m just worried we missed something.”

“If we did, nothin’ we can do about it now,” he says. You look ahead at the dark sea, moonlight shining over the water’s ripples.

“We need to figure our story out,” you say. “How’d you end up upstairs? Did anyone see you?”

“I stopped him while everyone was going outside to watch the show,” he recalls. “Told him to show me where he was keeping his coke because I heard he was selling again. It was loud. I don’t think anyone heard, but maybe someone saw. I don’t know.”

“Why do you sell?” you ask, face pinched in confusion. “Why did you even care that he was selling, too? You don't have enough money already?”

“I gotta keep your tips coming, don’t I?” he says smugly. You scoff, jarred by his blasé attitude, despising his cold arrogance.

He notices the angry scowl on your face. He’s convinced he’ll never break through the hatred you have for him.

“I want to make my own money. That’s why,” he admits. It’s half the truth, but it’s good enough.

It’s surprising to hear that Rafe, a man you thought coasted on the wealth he was born into, possesses a work ethic. Even though he uses it to deal drugs.

“Did anyone see you go upstairs?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” you say.

“Why were you there?”

You chew on your lip, the truth sitting on your chest like a ton of bricks. There’s no point in telling him. He thinks your motive was the same as his. Money. And you’ll let him believe it.

Besides, talking about it now, merely an hour afterwards, will only make you cry again and your head is pounding from how much you’ve already wept tonight. How could you possibly say it out loud?

“To buy pot. Then I smoked too much and passed out.” You keep talking before he can ask anything else. “Are we far out enough?”

Rafe looks back to make sure the marina is out of sight before he kills the engine.

Pushing Porter’s body over the guardrail is harder than the other times you’d carried him tonight. The water is rocking the boat so much now that you’re far into the ocean. Your breath is strained as you heave him over the metal, his body hitting the water with a loud splash under the bright moon.

Rafe pulls out the bullet shell in his pocket and tosses it in the water. You know you have to throw the gun in, too. It’s hard to. But you do it.

Rafe looks over the edge now that everything is sinking to the bottom, his forearm brushing against yours. He notices how quickly you jerk away, refusing to let him touch you. The pull he feels towards you is obviously one-sided. Your eyes flit away when you look at him.

“You have blood on your face,” you tell him soberly. His temper flares, feeling stupid for thinking a girl could feel anything but afraid of him after he shot someone right in front of her. Even though she was the one who told him to do it.

You might have a deadly thirst for revenge in common, but that’s where the similarities end. He stalks past you to wash himself off in the bathroom below the deck.

You let out a shaky breath. The unexpected contact with Rafe startled you. After tonight, you’re sure you’ll always be scared to be around men you don’t know all that well. Even the ones that seem decent are just lions in sheep’s clothing. The monster that proved that to you is below the ocean’s surface now.

You look into the murky water, and despite the fear and the anxiety and dread weighing on your heart, you’re glad that this is how it ended. Porter paid the ultimate price for what he did to you. He doesn’t deserve to live, to smile, to feel anything ever again.

·········

You and Rafe sit behind the hull, the boat swaying with the tide. You start to piece together an alibi and decide to admit you were upstairs together. If even one person says they saw either one of you go up there, you won’t be caught in a lie.

As you talk, Rafe can’t take his eyes off of you. You’re clearly scared, but trying to stay level-headed. He doesn’t get how you do it. He’s always been bad at keeping his mind steady. He never had a reason to even try.

“So, I went up first after he texted me to come buy from him,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. “I got high and passed out. Then you came up with him to find his stash. We’re obviously going to have to come clean about the drugs.”

“What do you mean obviously?”

“You’re going to be a suspect the second the police start talking to people,” you tell him. “Everyone knows you had an issue with him. And why. You can’t lie about the coke. And they’ll have evidence that I was buying weed from him. We have to be honest about it. They’ll find out anyway.”

Rafe sighs, knowing you’re right.

You hug yourself as a cool breeze carries over the water. The weakness in your gaze reminds Rafe of the way you’d cried on the floor earlier tonight. Before all this, he only ever saw you as strong-willed and sharp-tongued.

Even though calming a man like Rafe down when he’s angry sounds like it’d be impossible, you figure it’s the only direction your alibi can go.

“We’ll say I talked you down and…” You shake your head. “It doesn’t make sense that we’d stay up there. I think we say we left him in his room and sat on the beach alone in front of the house to watch the fireworks from there.”

You worry it’s not enough. You’re certain that no one who knows either one of you would buy that you voluntarily spent time together.

“Maybe the cops would believe we hung out,” you mumble, “but nobody else would.”

Rafe stills. His friends like to give him crap about how much time he spends talking to you when he supposedly hates Pogues. If he told them he was with you all night, they’d say they saw it coming.

“They could,” he says after a few seconds of silence.

“My friends would never believe it,” you scoff. He purses his lips, pissed off at your tone, at the clear implication that you talk shit about him with your friends.

“It’s our only option,” he mutters sharply.

“You’re right,” you give in. “Then what? We went home before people got back? I guess that way if anyone saw us leave together, we have it covered.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “That’s the story.”

“Okay. It’s not great, but it’s the best we can do.” You check your phone for the time, only to remember it’s turned off. “Can you drive me home now? I’ll say my phone died. You should do the same when people ask where you’ve been.”

Rafe doesn’t admit to you that nobody was checking up on him, that nobody ever does. He only stands up to drive back to the dock.

·········

Your first priority when you get home is to text your friends, guilt consuming you now that it’s been over two hours since you last saw them and they have no idea what happened to you.

You turn on your phone to see a string of missed calls and texts from the guys. You open the group-chat and type: I’m so sorry. I’m okay. Got too high and lost track of time. Home now.

They video call you to be sure that you really made it home safe, drunkenly rambling on about how they assumed you went to see the fireworks early, leaving them to search the neighbor’s beach for you.

As you listen to them talk over each other on the phone, it’s the first time you see your reflection since you left the house, when you were oblivious to the fact that the impending hours would change you forever.

You can see it in your eyes that you’re not the same. You can only hope that they don’t catch on.

·········

It’s been three days. You haven’t been sleeping. You’ve hardly been eating. And no matter how many times you tell yourself there’s no use in thinking about how different the night could have turned out, it doesn’t stop your head from spinning into hypotheticals.

All you told your friends was that you were with a boy and that they didn’t need to know any more. Because they all see you as a sister, they were happy to be spared the details.

If only they knew. A few nights ago, you promised them you wouldn’t talk about Rafe ever again. You never would’ve thought the reason would be because you’d committed a crime together.

You’re back at work. Smiling and chatting and serving drinks and acting like everything is fine is harder than you expected.

The thought of seeing Rafe again is oddly comforting. No matter how twisted it is, you have a bond now, held together by secrecy and shared trauma. He’s the closest to knowing what you’re going through.

Even though you were afraid of him on the boat, when he dropped you off, he waited until you got into the house before he drove off. Maybe he sees you as someone he needs to protect, even if it is for his own selfish reasons.

No matter how unhinged he is, having someone like him in your corner is comforting after what you’d suffered through.

You spot Rafe sitting alone at the near empty club bar on your way out and your heart settles, but when you catch a glimpse of the flatscreen mounted on the wall a moment later, it drops. You knew it was inevitable, but it doesn’t make it any better.

Rafe swallows bitter whiskey, gazing up at the tv. Under a photo of Porter reads MISSING as his parents speak to the press. What if he went missing? Who’d care? What would his dad say – at least it wasn’t Sarah?

He looks down at the bartop. The thrill of what he did has faded. It’s not a surprise. His life is nothing but a cycle of short-lived highs.

When he sees the look on Porter’s parents’ faces on the tv, jealousy and loneliness screw a hole into his heart. He knows it’s fucked up to envy the man he killed. He doesn’t care.

His eyes drift over the bar to see you standing on the other end. You’re in shock as you stare up at the broadcast, looking guilty as hell. He glares at you until you finally meet his eyes.

Rafe curtly gestures to you to sit next to him. Even though he looks mad, you’re relieved to close the distance between you.

“You’re being obvious,” he says quietly once you sit next to him, an edge to his tone.

You look back to see only a few other people sitting in the restaurant area behind you, far from earshot. You won’t be heard, but you both know you have to speak vaguely just in case.

“Someone I know is missing,” you reply. “It’s normal to be worried about that.”

“What do you know about normal?” he scoffs.

You lock eyes, sure that you’re both replaying the night in your minds, sure that you’re both far from sane after what you did. His gaze is cold, a reflection of how angry he is that you’re not handling what happened as well as he is.

“Great talking to you,” you snip sarcastically, shifting to stand up.

“Wait,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks at you again, this time with a bit of the hardness in his eyes gone. “We need to talk.”

next >

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron and y/n #rafe fanfic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron fic

460 notes · View notes

lordsukunas · 11 months ago

Text

the thorn in your side.

synop: nobleman!gojo being annoying asf, but he’s also kinda cute?

tags: fem!reader, royal au, gojo is a nobleman, reader is crown princess, reader is a lil mean to him but it’s really just playful banter, slight suggestiveness..? and by slight i mean very slight. not historically accurate (don’t jump me)

note: dk where this came from. prob all of the historical manhwas thats been on my fyp but wtv. uhh this is lowk fun tho, might make more of this if i have motivation!

“princess! i got a favor to ask.”

“ohhhh, princess!”

“hey, princess?”

your eye twitches in irritation. how many questions can one nobleman have in one day? you’ve answered each one with the dignity and grace expected of a future queen, but there’s only so much of that dignity and grace one can have.

you look up from your book, bright cerulean eyes staring down at you. “yes, lord gojo?”

his grin widens, and you have to resist the urge to slap it smooth off of his face. “do you know where i can find those little cookies? y’know, the ones you had at the banquet last week?”

... seriously?! he’s asking you about macaroons?!

“i believe you’re consulting the wrong person about that. perhaps you should ask the head chef.” your voice is strained, as if answering satoru’s questions for the umpteenth time today is making you physically ill.

satoru sighs and leans back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other. “yeaaah, but i wanna ask you. since you’re the princess n’ all. unless...”

he tips his chair closer to yours, and his warm breath ghosts across the conch of your ear. tingles dance down your spine and heat creeps up the back of your neck. does he have regard for personal space?

“perhaps our kingdom’s queen-to-be is too dumb to know where macaroons come from?”

you should just ignore him. satoru’s entire purpose, it seems, is to just get on your nerves and force you to lose your well-maintained composure. you know this. and yet...

“i am not dumb, satoru. it is you who’s the idiot, considering you cannot seem to use basic logic to realize their origin,” you snap, words coming out in a hot, angry rush.

you are sick of him testing your patience, sick of his silly little grin and glossy pink lips, and stupid, ugly eyes that always seem to have a twinkle of mischief in them. how dare he speak to you that way? he’s only a nobleman, and you could easily strip him of that title.

a soft chuckle from satoru interrupts your mental tirade. what is he laughing for? is he laughing at you?

“what’s so funny.” you fold your arms over your chest, your brows knitted together.

“oh, nothing. it’s just...” he laughs again. it’s a soft, light sound, quite unlike the usual hearty and loud giggles and barely stifled snickers. yuck. “this is the first time you’ve used my first name, princess.”

ah.

did you really?

your mind replays what you said, and, unsurprisingly, he’s right. you called him satoru, not lord gojo.

the heat now burns your cheeks, and you look away, focusing your gaze on the nearly infinite rows of books in the library. “a mistake. even i make them, but do not think that will be happening again, lord gojo.”

satoru simply hums, drumming thick fingers against the table. “ah, but my name sounds so nice coming from your lips. are you sure it won’t happen again? perhaps in a different, more intimate context?”

how hard would you have to throw a book to get him to finally shut up?

you all but shove yourself out of your seat, tucking your bookmark in between the pages. you smooth out your gown and get rid of invisible specks of dust. “that... will not be happening either. good day, lord gojo. i hope i will you in the future.”

without waiting for what would definitely be some cheeky response, you spin on your heel and exit the library, rushing down the castle’s halls.

why does satoru gojo have to be so infuriating?!

#﹒writing #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk gojo #jjk gojo fluff #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo #gojo satoru

439 notes · View notes

novaursa · 12 days ago

Text

A Lion's Folly (what may come)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: home

- Next part: the honest

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling

The towering cliffs of Casterly Rock loomed ahead, an imposing mass of stone and gold as the Lannister procession made its final approach. The air carried the scent of salt from the Sunset Sea, and the banners of House Lannister billowed in the wind, their crimson fabric vivid against the gray sky.

Jaime rode at the front, his posture rigid yet composed. He had spent so many years away from his childhood home that its sight stirred something uneasy within him. It was a strange feeling, to return not as the Kingslayer or member of the Kingsguard, but as the heir, as a future husband. The title felt unfamiliar, ill-fitting, but it was one he could not escape.

He stole a glance at you. You rode beside him, Winter padding alongside your horse with effortless grace. Your expression was unreadable, but Jaime could see the way your gaze swept over the towering fortress, assessing, measuring. He wondered what you thought of it—whether you saw it as another cage, another prison of stone.

Bronn, as usual, had little reverence for the occasion. “Well, isn’t this a sight?” he mused, letting out a low whistle. “Big, isn’t it? Almost makes the Red Keep look like a brothel.”

Jaime smirked. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly. The walls have ears.”

Bronn shrugged, adjusting his reins. “What do I care? I’m just here to make sure you don’t fall off your horse.”

Ahead, the great gates of Casterly Rock swung open, and a welcoming party stood at attention. At its head was Ser Kevan Lannister, his expression carefully composed as he surveyed the arriving group. He stepped forward as Jaime and the rest of the party dismounted.

“Welcome home, Jaime,” Kevan said, his tone steady, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “And welcome, Lady Stark.”

You inclined your head slightly, though your expression remained guarded.

Kevan’s gaze flickered to Winter, who had stationed himself protectively by your side, his blue eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings with keen intelligence. The men around Kevan shifted uneasily, their hands lingering near their swords as if the direwolf might decide to attack at any moment.

Jaime noted their nervous glances and smirked. “You’re all acting like you’ve never seen a direwolf before.”

Kevan exhaled through his nose. “Not this close,” he admitted. “And certainly not one this size.” His gaze drifted back to Winter, who huffed in response, his ears flicking forward.

“He won’t bite,” Bronn quipped from behind Jaime. “Not unless you give him a reason to.”

Kevan gave Bronn a withering look before turning back to Jaime. “Your father sent word ahead of your arrival. The Rock is prepared for your stay, and arrangements have been made for the wedding.”

Jaime forced a smile. “Of course they have.”

Kevan’s gaze flickered toward you again, his tone carefully neutral. “Lady Y/N, if you require anything, the servants will see to it. My wife, Dorna, has prepared suitable accommodations for you.”

You inclined your head again but said nothing, your fingers absently brushing against Winter’s fur as he pressed against your leg.

Jaime took the moment to step closer to Kevan, lowering his voice slightly. “How much of this was truly my father’s doing?”

Kevan’s expression didn’t change. “All of it.”

Jaime sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Of course.”

Kevan hesitated before adding, “Tywin expects everything to proceed without incident. You understand that, don’t you?”

Jaime’s smirk was laced with something bitter. “When have I ever caused an incident?”

Kevan gave him a knowing look but said nothing more.

From behind them, Bronn let out a dramatic sigh. “Are we going to stand around all day, or are we going inside? I could use a drink.”

Jaime chuckled despite himself and gestured toward the entrance. “Come, then. Let’s see what my dear father has in store for us.”

With that, the procession moved forward, the weight of Casterly Rock settling over you both like an unshakable shadow.

The great doors of Casterly Rock swung open, revealing the grandeur of the Lannister stronghold. The halls were immense, carved directly from the mountain itself, their golden hues reflecting the torchlight that lined the towering stone walls. The floors were polished marble, rich red-and-gold banners hanging from the arched ceilings. The air carried the faintest scent of the sea, mingling with the ever-present scent of burning wax and the cool dampness of the rock.

You stepped inside, your boots clicking against the smooth floor as your gaze swept over the cavernous hall. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming—the towering pillars, the intricate carvings, the wealth on display in every corner. It was nothing like Winterfell, nothing like home.

Reality settled on you like a crushing weight.

This was it.

This was your future.

No more trying to outrun it, no more hoping that some unforeseen twist of fate would change your course. You were in the heart of Lannister territory now, surrounded by their banners, their men, their legacy.

A gilded cage, no matter how grand.

Jaime walked a few paces ahead before slowing his steps, turning slightly as if sensing the shift in your posture. His green eyes flickered over your face, steady and observant, before he spoke, his voice quieter now.

"Feeling trapped already?"

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself before lifting your chin. "Should I not?"

Jaime studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he turned fully to face you. "I won’t lie to you," he said, his voice low, just for you. "This place can feel… heavy. Even for those born to it."

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. "And yet, you chose to bring me here."

He tilted his head, lips pressing into a faint smirk, though there was no mockery in his tone. "Would you rather be in the Dreadfort?"

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t answer.

Jaime exhaled, glancing around before stepping closer, lowering his voice again. "It’s not Winterfell, I know. And it never will be. But you are not a prisoner here, Y/N. No matter what my father might think."

You met his gaze, searching for any trace of deception. To your surprise, you found none.

Before you could respond, Kevan cleared his throat, reminding you both of the watching eyes. "Come," he said. "Your chambers have been prepared."

Jaime straightened, his composure sliding back into place as he gestured forward. "After you, my lady."

You hesitated for the briefest of moments, then stepped forward, your spine straight, your expression schooled into something unreadable. Winter padded close to your side, his presence a grounding force as you followed the Lannisters deeper into the Rock.

Jaime watched you for a moment longer before falling into step beside you, his smirk fading as something else settled in his chest—something uncomfortably close to guilt.

For a moment, he wondered if he had truly saved you from Roose Bolton, or merely delivered you into another kind of prison.

The halls of Casterly Rock were quieter at night, though they never truly slept. Jaime made his way toward his uncle’s chambers. He had spent the past hours dealing with the formalities of his arrival, speaking to stewards, acknowledging the gathered household, and enduring the weight of his new responsibilities.

And now, as the evening stretched on, his mind returned to the promise he had made.

Kevan Lannister’s study was lit by a handful of candles, the scent of parchment, ink, and aged leather heavy in the air. A map of the Westerlands lay sprawled across the table, flanked by letters, ledgers, and Tywin’s meticulous correspondence.

Kevan sat at the desk, straight-backed as always, his expression calm but unreadable as he set aside a scroll and gestured for Jaime to take a seat across from him. A servant poured them both goblets of wine before silently departing, leaving the two Lannisters alone.

Jaime leaned back in his chair, swirling the deep red liquid in his cup before speaking. “So, Uncle, what grand tasks await me? Running the mines? Overseeing tax disputes? Or does father have something more humiliating planned?”

Kevan exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’ll be overseeing much of the Rock’s administration, but we will start with matters of trade and military reports. Your father has already outlined the key duties expected of you. I trust you received his letters.”

Jaime smirked. “Oh, I received them. Quite a few, in fact. I could barely keep up with the ink.”

Kevan ignored the remark, instead tapping a finger against the map. “We have shipments that need securing along Lannisport. Ironborn raids have grown bolder near Kayce. We need to reinforce our coastal defenses.”

Jaime listened with half an ear, his fingers drumming against the table. He would handle these matters—he wasn’t incompetent, despite what some may think—but this wasn’t what had been pressing on his mind since they arrived.

After a moment, he leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. “And what of the North?”

Kevan raised an eyebrow. “What of it?”

Jaime took a slow sip of his wine before setting the goblet down. “Robb Stark. What does father plan for him now that the wedding at the Twins has been canceled?”

Kevan’s face remained carefully neutral, but the way he set down his quill with measured precision told Jaime that he had struck upon something significant.

“That,” Kevan said, “is no longer a concern of yours.”

Jaime scoffed, sitting back in his chair. “No longer a concern? I think it is. Considering I stole his sister from Roose Bolton, I imagine that changes quite a few things.”

Kevan studied him for a long moment before sighing. “If you must know, your father and Lord Bolton have made new arrangements.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened slightly. “What kind of arrangements?”

Kevan hesitated. “Robb Stark still refuses to bend the knee. He marches south, despite knowing he has no allies left. The Riverlords are fractured, and the Freys will not support him after he dishonored their house. Your father has no intention of letting this war drag on any further.”

Jaime’s fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. “Meaning what?”

Kevan met his gaze evenly. “Meaning Tywin and Roose are ensuring it ends swiftly. Bolton has positioned himself in such a way that he can bring the boy down without the need for drawn-out battles. And when it’s over, the North will be under Bolton’s control.”

A cold weight settled in Jaime’s stomach. “And Robb?”

Kevan did not answer immediately, and that silence spoke volumes.

Jaime exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. “Roose means to kill him.”

Kevan’s voice was flat. “He means to win.”

Jaime let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course. And what of the girl? What of Y/N?”

Kevan’s expression remained impassive. “She is to marry you. That was the trade your father made. If you had not taken her from Roose, she would have been his bride, and the Starks would have fallen just the same.”

Jaime’s grip tightened around the goblet, his thoughts racing.

“So, the Young Wolf rides toward his death,” Jaime murmured, staring into his wine. “And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.”

Kevan did not respond, but he didn’t need to. The pieces were already falling into place, and Jaime could see the end of the game clearly now.

His father had already won.

Jaime leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Does she know?”

Kevan sighed. “No. And there is no reason for her to.”

Jaime scoffed, shaking his head. “No reason? You truly think she won’t suspect? She’s not an idiot, Kevan. She knows there’s a plan in motion. She asked me about it on the way here.”

Kevan regarded him carefully. “And what did you tell her?”

Jaime exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. “That I didn’t know. Which, until now, was true.”

Kevan’s gaze was steady. “Then I suggest you keep it that way.”

Jaime stared at his uncle for a long moment before letting out a slow breath. “Right.”

The conversation weighed on him as he finished his wine, his thoughts circling back to you. He had made a promise—to protect your family where he could, to do something to ensure you weren’t completely swallowed by his father’s schemes.

But now, with Robb Stark’s fate all but sealed, Jaime realized he had no idea how to keep that promise.

And that thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Servants bustled about the grand halls, their footsteps soft against the polished marble floors as they prepared for the day ahead. The fortress was awake, its presence as commanding as the lion that adorned its banners.

You stood near one of those great windows, gazing out at the expanse of the Sunset Sea. The waves crashed against the cliffs below, their endless movement soothing in a way the towering walls of Casterly Rock were not. This place was nothing like Winterfell—the air lacked the crispness of the North, the stone lacked the warmth of home. And yet, this was where you were meant to stay.

A soft clearing of the throat made you turn. Lady Dorna Lannister stood before you, her hands clasped in front of her. She was a striking woman, regal in bearing, with bright, intelligent eyes that reminded you she was no mere noblewoman but the wife of Kevan Lannister—a woman well-versed in the expectations of courtly life.

“Lady Y/N,” she greeted, inclining her head slightly. “I trust you rested well.”

You gave her a measured look, your tone neutral. “Well enough.”

She smiled faintly, as if she had expected that response. “Good. We have much to discuss.”

You followed her as she led you through the halls, her pace unhurried but purposeful. “As the future Lady of Casterly Rock, there are certain expectations placed upon you,” she began. “It is my duty to ensure you understand them.”

You resisted the urge to scoff. “I imagine my duties won’t be too different from what was expected of me at Winterfell.”

Lady Dorna arched an elegant brow. “Perhaps, but the Rock is not Winterfell. Here, you must command not just respect, but loyalty. The Lannisters do not rule through kindness alone.”

You glanced around the grand halls, the wealth of the Lannisters evident in every gilded detail. “No,” you murmured. “I imagine they don’t.”

Lady Dorna studied you for a moment before continuing. “You will be expected to oversee the daily running of the keep. The servants, the household, the management of provisions. The mines may be the source of our wealth, but a poorly run household can make even the richest of lords suffer.”

You nodded, though the thought of taking on such responsibilities in a place that still felt foreign to you was daunting.

“There are also matters of decorum,” Lady Dorna added, her tone taking on a sharper edge. “The Lannisters hold themselves to a standard. You will be watched, judged. You must carry yourself as befits the wife of the Warden of the West.”

You met her gaze evenly. “You mean I must behave as Tywin Lannister sees fit.”

A flicker of amusement crossed her features. “You are not wrong.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, a flare of defiance sparking in your chest. “I am not some docile creature to be tamed.”

Lady Dorna’s lips curved into something resembling approval. “No, you are not. And that may serve you well. But understand this—strength is not always about fighting. Sometimes, survival is the greatest strength of all.”

You stared at her, uncertain whether she was warning you or advising you.

She gestured for you to follow as she continued walking. “There will also be duties outside the household. The Lannisters command many bannermen, and their loyalty must be maintained. You will be expected to attend councils, to play the role of diplomat when necessary.”

“And if I refuse?” you challenged, your voice quiet but firm.

Lady Dorna stopped and turned to face you fully. “Then you will make enemies of powerful men. And that is not a battle you can win, my lady.”

The weight of her words settled heavily on you. It was not a threat, not exactly. But it was a warning. A reminder that this was not the North. You were no longer a Stark in Winterfell. You were surrounded by Lannisters, by those who saw marriage not as a union but as a transaction, a means to consolidate power.

Lady Dorna watched as you absorbed this, then softened slightly. “It is not all politics,” she said. “You will have time to make your place here. To find those who will stand by you. Even among lions, allies can be found.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “And what of Jaime?”

Lady Dorna tilted her head, studying you. “What of him?”

You hesitated, then asked, “What role does he expect me to play?”

A knowing smile tugged at her lips. “That, my dear, is something only he can answer.”

The conversation lingered between you as the great halls stretched on ahead. Casterly Rock was vast, imposing, but it was no longer just the seat of House Lannister—it was your future.

And whether you liked it or not, you had no choice but to face it.

The evening air in Casterly Rock was crisp, the distant roar of the Sunset Sea crashing against the cliffs below. A few torches burned along the stone balcony where Jaime sat with Bronn, a jug of wine between them. The fortress was quieter now, its halls less imposing under the cover of night, but the weight of what Jaime had learned still pressed heavily on his mind.

Bronn leaned back against the stone railing, taking a long sip from his goblet before exhaling contentedly. “You know, for all the gold stuffed into this place, it’s got a real gloom about it. Doesn’t feel like a home.”

Jaime smirked, swirling his own wine absently. “That’s because it isn’t. Not really.”

Bronn raised a brow. “Not to you, maybe. But you’ll be Lord of the Rock soon enough. Got yourself a fine Stark bride, a title, and all the gold you could ever piss away. Doesn’t sound too bad.”

Jaime scoffed, setting his goblet down. “You think I want this?”

Bronn smirked. “You think I care?”

Jaime let out a slow breath, running his fingers through his hair. His golden hand rested on his knee, heavier than usual. “Tywin’s making his final moves,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now.

Bronn lifted a brow, intrigued but cautious. “Go on.”

Jaime hesitated before leaning forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Robb Stark is still marching south. My father and Roose Bolton have no intention of letting him reach his goal.”

Bronn frowned. “I thought that whole bloody wedding business was off after you stole the girl from The Leech Lord.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “So did I.”

Bronn took another sip of wine, watching Jaime carefully. “And?”

“And it doesn’t matter,” Jaime said bitterly. “My father doesn’t let loose ends slip through his fingers. The Starks were always meant to fall. Roose is in a position to strike, and my father has already ensured that the right doors are open.”

Bronn let out a low whistle. “So, that’s it then? The Young Wolf gets slaughtered, Bolton takes the North, and your old man gets another war wrapped up neatly with a golden bow?”

Jaime’s grip tightened on his goblet. “Something like that.”

Bronn chuckled, shaking his head. “And here I thought you were actually starting to care about the little Stark girl.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and defensive. “This isn’t about her.”

Bronn smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “No? Because it sure as shit seems like it is. She’s the one who made you start asking questions, isn’t she?”

Jaime exhaled, rubbing his temple. “She asked me about it before we left King’s Landing. She already knew something was being planned. I told her I didn’t know anything.”

“And now you do.”

Jaime nodded slowly, staring into his wine. “Now I do.”

Bronn studied him for a moment before leaning back again. “Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it?”

Jaime scoffed. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I do,” Bronn said with a grin. “You’re thinking about what happens when she finds out. And she will find out. If she already suspected, then she’ll be watching, listening. And you—” Bronn pointed at him with his goblet, “—you’re in love with your little Stark bride, whether you’ll admit it or not.”

Jaime shot him a glare. “I am not.”

Bronn laughed. “Right, and I’m a bloody septon. Face it, Jaime, you’re torn between keeping your father happy and keeping that girl from gutting you in your sleep.”

Jaime didn’t respond, his jaw tightening.

Bronn sighed, finishing the rest of his wine. “So what’s the plan, then? You gonna stop it? Save the noble Young Wolf and his army? If so, that’s a real piss-poor way to keep Tywin in your good graces.”

Jaime closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. “I don’t know what the plan is. But I do know that I can’t just sit by and do nothing.”

Bronn tilted his head, considering him. “You know what I think?”

Jaime exhaled. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

Bronn leaned forward, his grin widening. “I think you’re finally growing a conscience. A bit late, but better than never.”

Jaime scowled but said nothing.

Bronn stretched, yawning as he placed his goblet down. “Well, whatever you decide to do, I expect to be rewarded for all this. Gold is nice, but the stuff I know? The things I hear? That needs to be secured with something bigger.”

Jaime shot him a look. “You want a castle.”

Bronn grinned. “Aye. A nice one. With a good view and a decent bit of land. Maybe even a lady wife, if she’s got the right temperament.”

Jaime chuckled, shaking his head. “You really don’t aim low, do you?”

Bronn smirked, standing and adjusting his belt. “No point in that. You should know—after all, you’re the one aiming for the impossible.”

Jaime sighed, leaning back against his chair as Bronn walked away, his laughter still echoing through the halls.

Jaime sat there long after his companion had gone, the weight of what he had learned settling over him like a cloak. He had always been Tywin Lannister’s son, always followed the course set for him. But now, he wondered if he was capable of choosing a different path.

And if he did—what the cost would be.

The corridors of Casterly Rock were quiet at this hour. Jaime walked with a measured pace, his mind burdened with the weight of unspoken truths. He had thought about it all evening, running over the words in his mind, trying to find a way to tell you what he had learned about your brother. But every time he came close to forming the words, he saw his father’s face in his mind—stern, commanding, absolute.

And so, instead of turning toward his own chambers, Jaime found himself stopping before yours.

The guards stationed outside glanced at him before stepping aside without question. They had been given their orders—he was to have unrestricted access to you. The thought sat uneasily in his stomach. He wasn’t here to exercise power over you, but to offer something he wasn’t sure you would accept.

He knocked lightly, then opened the door without waiting for a reply.

You were seated by the window, your long hair loose over your shoulders, illuminated by the silver glow of the moonlight. Your eyes flickered toward him, wary but unsurprised.

“What do you want, Lannister?” you asked, your voice quiet but firm.

Jaime smirked faintly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “A simple goodnight would suffice.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

He hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “And to see if you needed anything.”

Your gaze lingered on him, studying him, weighing the intent behind his words. “That depends,” you said at last, standing from your chair. “Do you actually care? Or is this just another duty expected of you?”

Jaime exhaled slowly, stepping further into the room. “Would you believe me if I said both?”

You turned fully toward him, arms crossing over your chest. “I suppose that’s the best I’ll get from a Lannister.”

Jaime let out a soft chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “I never claimed to be anything else.”

A silence stretched between you, the tension thick, unspoken words hanging heavily in the air. Jaime wanted to tell you, wanted to warn you, but the weight of his family’s legacy pressed against his chest. He couldn’t betray his father—not yet.

So instead, he shifted, grasping for something—anything—to deflect. “Your direwolf,” he said suddenly. “I hear you’ve been complaining about his living arrangements.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “I wouldn’t call it complaining. More like voicing my irritation.”

Jaime smirked. “And what exactly is irritating you?”

You sighed, stepping toward the edge of the bed, your fingers brushing against the silk sheets absentmindedly. “He’s being kept in the courtyard like some common dog. He’s not a pet, Lannister. He’s my family.”

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk fading slightly. “You truly see him that way?”

You shot him a sharp look. “Do you not?”

Jaime exhaled, considering your words. “I suppose I’ve never had anything… anyone that loyal before.”

You studied him for a long moment, something flickering in your expression, but you didn’t press. Instead, you looked toward the window. “I just don’t want him caged. Not like me.”

Jaime’s chest tightened at your words, at the quiet vulnerability beneath them. He stepped closer, his voice softer now. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You turned back toward him, surprised by his words, but Jaime only met your gaze steadily.

For the first time since arriving at the Rock, something between you shifted. The unease remained, but it was different now—less about defiance, more about something unspoken, something neither of you could quite name.

Jaime took another step forward, close enough now that he could see the flicker of candlelight reflected in your eyes. His gaze dropped, just briefly, to your lips. He wasn’t sure which one of you moved first, but the space between you vanished, the air growing warmer, heavier.

Then, just as he leaned in, you turned your head at the last moment, your breath brushing against his cheek instead.

“Goodnight, Jaime,” you whispered.

He froze, his heart hammering in his chest.

Slowly, he stepped back, exhaling through his nose. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

With that, he turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

As he walked back to his chambers, his mind was a war of conflicting thoughts. He had wanted to tell you the truth, to warn you of what was coming—but instead, he had let the moment slip away, distracted by something he hadn’t expected to want.

Jaime Lannister wasn’t sure what frightened him more now—his father’s wrath or the way his heart had nearly betrayed him in that room.

134 notes · View notes

astronautmike-dexter · 1 month ago

Text

ASTRONAUT’S FAVE VEGEBUL FICS FROM 2024

This year saw an amazing Vegebul renaissance, and it's been such a blessing to be part of it! I have read so many wonderful fics this year and I wanted to point out some that were started in 2024 that have really stuck with me.

I have popped these into the following categories:

Multi-chapter - ongoing

Multi-chapter - completed

Oneshots

(Please note that I obviously have not read everything and have probably missed quite a few amazing pieces. Hopefully I get to my reading list soon and can rec some more!)

Take a look under the cut, ring in 2025 in Vegebul style!

MULTI-CHAPTER - ONGOING

Homeworld Lost - @astral-mariner Saiyan's under Freeza's rule. Bulma listening to Vegeta's horrifying origin story through a fixed scouter, told by the unreliable narrator, Raditz. I've been reassured we have not got anywhere near the level of horror the tags suggest. Fucked up, dark, kinda horny (if you're fucked up and dark as well).

Mission Critical - herpb4uderp An AU set in space. Enemies to lovers, with so much sexual tension throughout. The characterisations of the side characters are just as amazing. Absolutely love this one!

The Saiyan Accord - VolgaFjorgan Oh man, you want to talk tension?! Saiyan's are in an alliance with Earth, and Bulma and Vegeta have to work together while combatting unknown forces that threaten to dismantle everything. Tension, babes... TENSION!

Sons of the Saiyans - @mawrblaidddrwg MOTORBIKE SCENE. Sorry, let me calm down and start again... MOTORBIKE SCENE!!!!!!! ok, got that out of my system. It's not just that scene. I promise. It's everything. The world building, the smut, the absolute heartache throughout. Violent, gritty, sexy, amazing AU. Please consider giving this a go if you don't like AU's - I promise it will make you a fan!

When Heaven Takes You Home - @superaliencake Forced to work together on an important project, Bulma gets dragged into Vegeta's dark world under Frieza's rule. The tension throughout this is absolute *chefs kiss*. The author's first time writing fanfiction is an absolute home run, and I'm excited/terrified to see where this goes!

Lachrimae - @rozzingit Trunks from a future lands on Vegetasei and has to navigate Saiyan's, his father as a child, and absolute grief. The world building in this is next fucking level, and the flashbacks to the Vegeta Trunks knew are just devastating. I have no idea where this is going, but I am absolutely frothing this one!

Beyond the Stars - @twenty--one--violets Planet Vegeta still exists. Tasked with destroying Earth, Vegeta pops in to take a small holiday on the planet before its destruction. But of course, his plans are thrown when he gets one (1) look at Bulma. This Vegeta is as dark and violent as he is smitten.

Homeward Bound - @galexibrain Set in the 7YG, Trunks has been kidnapped. Vegeta, with Bulma in tow, plus a cheeky lil stowaway, track down the evil Cooler to bring him back to Earth. Beautiful, gut-wrenching, with some of the most stunning visuals I've read.

MULTI-CHAPTER - COMPLETED

Blue with Envy - @serenityhime1 The tag "Tension thicker than a snicker" is underselling this one. You want pining Vegeta? You want brilliant Bulma? You want what you can't have? If you answered yes to that last one, you might just be Vegeta. Read the tags before entering... or don't. Either way, you're in for a wild ride.

A Vast, Cold Space - VolgaFjorgan STAR TREK AU!!! This is one of my favourite Bulma fics. Yes, there's Vegebul (oh lordy, is there Vegebul), but the multi-dimensional, intricate take on Bulma is top tier. It tackles longing, grief, action, with all that delicious tension the author does so well.

A Heart Worth Believing In - @galexibrain FUTURE BULMA FUTURE BULMA FUTURE BULMA! Vegeta falls ill to the mysterious heart disease that once threatened to claim Goku's life. The only person Bulma can turn to is herself. If there's one thing Lexi loves to do, it's whump Vegeta and make us cry over it.

Illicit Affairs - @lawnchairthethird Oh y'all wanted a twist?! Listen... if you haven't got on the Illicit Affairs train, then idk what to tell you. This is a dark, sexy fic, with enough twist and turns to keep you guessing throughout. Babygirl loves a cliffhanger, and you will want to keep hanging on throughout!

Beyond the Field - @frandafwen fucking..fuckign.fuckhgfidf....igjfjdifd;..... this is a series of glimpses into the world of Vegebul. the btich fuckin wrote poetry for Vegebul. all of it is amazing, but I read the last chapter in a camera-on work meeting and had to force myself not to cry. A fucking marvel.

Only One Beast - @cuddlesomeone BED-SHARING BED-SHARING BED-SHARING BED-SHARING!!! starting from "bed-sharing...but Vegeta is the bed", this became a fucking amazing fic. I just... I will never get enough of BED-SHARING!!

Me Dedo - @saiyanmazen The gift that kept on giving, and then some. Priest-geta is honestly so brilliant, let alone Bulma being so devilish, leading the priest into the most carnal of sins. This is an absolute treasure, and will probably require some uhhh... re-reading... in future.

ONESHOT

Strength and Weakness - @astral-mariner Set in the same story as Homeworld Lost, this extremely explicit smut is jam-packed with tension, confused and pining Vegeta, bold and brilliant Bulma. The fic so hot that people regularly forget to leave kudos.

Persistence - @lawnchairthethird VIRGIN VEGETA!!! I absolutely headcanon Vegeta as a virgin (though ask me tomorrow and that might be a different story), and this fic is one of my favourite approaches to it. The build up, the dialogue, the smut itself, every part of it is amazing.

Mirai Bulma: an appreciation by Vegeta - @iamakynge It's in the name, but it's still... you won't be prepared for how brilliant and devastating this is. Vegeta honours Future Bulma's life, as well as his own growth. An outstanding piece.

Dynamics - @serenityhime1 Any time someone mentions this I go positively feral. Like Vegeta does in this. For real though, Bulma educating Vegeta on sex might just be my kink. And Vegeta being so animalistic, so alien in his approach to it, is also my kink. This fic...might just be my kink lol.

Bury Me Between Your Ribs - @rozzingit POST-BUU MY BELOVED!!! I said this in my comment on this fic, but this is the post-Buu fic. Devastating, poetic, a reminder of just how fucking perfect this duo is, even in their darkest hours.

Summer Heat - @twenty--one--violets ohjhghghjgh my gooododddd this is so hoootttttt. literally. and figuratively. just... beep boop brain broke. I did a cheeky re-read just now and nearly yeeted myself into the sun. 10/10 no notes

Mercy - @frandafwen oighhgfjk.... post-Buu. probably my favourite timeframe to explore. but not only that, the way this one is written is fucking phenomenal. I just... the way Franda can bring forward new things for a time well-visited in fandom is fucking amazing. Highly recommend this one.

The Vow - @mawrblaidddrwg Majin Vegeta returns under a full moon. Bulma is terrified, not wanting to lose him to the darkness once more. Though killing Goku is on his list, it's not the top of the list... guys, this is so fucking hot. So fucking hot. Majin Vegeta is a Hottie McHottie and I refuse to back down from this fact.

In Another Time Under Another Sky - @saiyanmazen When I fucking tell you... that this is one of the best things I have ever read... I am not exaggerating. A devastating look at what became of Future Vegebul. I can't even think about this now without tearing up. Simply brilliant. Also I think we can all agree we're ignoring what became of Future Bulma in Super, right? Right?!

#vegebul #vegeta #bulma briefs #vegeta x bulma #dbz fanfic #fic recommendations #fanfic rec #fanfic recommendation

73 notes · View notes

mercurymacaroons · 7 months ago

Text

woagh 2 posts in one day

#sketch #listen your honor i love him #im unsure if i wanna tag yosuke in this bc theyre like 15 min sketches so i think imma leave it like this and let the lord decide #i know hes not a like the fan fave in persona but somehow the trash boy has grown on me and is now like top 4 for the whole damn franchise #like mold or smth #you just gotta like reimagine him as a very tired repressed bi 16 yr old in a closet made of glass and he immediately becomes more likeable #like bro he works retail and is 16 thats why hes like that #also like the scene from the group date in pq where he goes “all right now we can be partners for all eternity!!!!”#that lives in my head rent free #listen he lives with teddie and works retail #as someone who also worked retail i promise you most of his not kanji related outbursts are justified #the kanji stuff is bad fr fr but like hes also 16 in 2011 #let the 1st 16yr old who was not an asshole and uninformed cast the first stone #sorry i have a lot of feelings for 1 yosuke hanamura and i needed to tell all of you in this my diary #which reminds me #most of yall came from me posting about dr which ndrv3 has a very special place in my heart and on my walls #but alas p4 kicked saihara to the curb so idk if ill be making anymore??????? maybe i might in the future but idk im old and tired #and dr is and always will be full of 13 yr olds which is fine but i dont wanna interact with them bc im old #and tired of the same discourse every 6 months #maybe when the not actually but totally is dr4 that kodaka is cooking up drops ill make dr art again but unlikely for rn #once i figure out how p4 protag chan's bowl cut works ill draw boys kissing #i do need to figure out how to draw boys kissing #since it will also lead to figuring out how to draw girls kissing which is almost dare i say more important #anywho thank you for coming to my newest diary entry #i will never stop yapping in the tags #this is a promise #yall gotta know all my thoughts in as many characters and tags tumblr will let me have

3 notes · View notes

nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 7 months ago

Text

OmfffffGGGG the fun I had writing this chapter GUYS—

I mean start to finish, I've been giggling like an idiot the entire mfing TIME

Well, alternating between giggling like an idiot and snickering deviously like a witch huddled over a cauldron but that's neither here nor there

Of course we have banter between Garp's dippy ass and Bogard's far more poised and reasonable demeanor, but also

BUT ALSO—

i cannot

I can't spoil it I cannot I will not I must not I shan't it would be positively rude in all honesty i will not—

Just———muffled screaming

Look I'm sorry in advance I had way too much fun with this

even mihawk is done with my shit at this point

Flight Risk

Young!Mihawk x Marine!AFAB!Reader

Ch. 4 of who even fcking knows at this point honestly, five? Six? Fifty? Whatever just let me vibe

Brief summary of The Story So Far: Your mission, as a Marine and Zoan type devil fruit user (gray parrot), is to gather intel on Dracule Mihawk, a pirate on the Grand Line who has become a thorn in the Marines' side over a relatively short period of time. Your first recon mission, while more or less a success, left you wounded and your commanding officers more divided than ever over the operation at hand. You have since arrived at Marineford to complete your training for the mission, and gods only know where things might go from here....

Previous chapter, First chapter, Next chapter

SFW for now, but not in later chapters

No Trigger Warnings in this chapter. Possible future Trigger Warnings for imprisonment, mild torture (definitely psychological, maybe physical)

Tags: Enemies to lovers, eventually NSFW, idk maybe more later Word Count: 4,832

Taglist: @i-am-vita thank you so much you have no idea how much this means to me

��♬Halloween Blues - The Fratellis♬♫

Well, I'm gonna make ya love me, gonna make ya wish that you'd never been born

Now ya wish you'd never met me, I could be the joker that you couldn't shake off

It was agreed upon by all parties involved that not a word would be spoken of your ill-advised “test” at Kuraigana Island to anyone but Fleet Admiral Sengoku. The brunt of the chastisement fell upon Garp and Bogard, as the commanding officers overseeing the mission; and while you were scolded yourself for getting far closer than your orders had suggested you should, you were still commended for providing valuable new information.

The Marines were now aware that Kuraigana Island was home to a population of large primates, of undetermined size or intelligence but with enough intellect to use basic weaponry.

The Marines were also now aware that the presence of Dracule “Hawk-Eye” Mihawk on the otherwise abandoned island was confirmed, and that the volatile pirate had most likely set up at least a temporary base amid the desolate castle ruins.

You were permitted to keep in contact with your mother over the following months of your training as promised, with the stipulation that your letters would be screened to ensure you didn’t relay any confidential information to outside parties. As such, you wrote your final letter aboard a small unmarked vessel bound to pass by Kuraigana Island perhaps four months after the first, and had handed it over to Bogard to scan over.

Hi, Mom!

I’m still doing great, I promise. Training has been exhausting but I’ve learned a lot, and it’s been a breath of fresh air to be among people that actually seem to like me. My commanding officers are a little annoying, but I guess they’re okay. I trust them.

This will be the last letter for a while since I’m being deployed. You don’t have to worry, it’s nothing serious and I’ll be fine, I just won’t be somewhere that I can receive any mail. You can still write me though, and I’ll be able to reply the second I get back to my base. I don’t know exactly how long that will be, but the tentative estimate is two months. It could be sooner, but it could be a little longer.

Love you, and give my love to all our feathery friends.

“Ten minutes out,” said Garp, sitting against the railing with a doughnut hanging out of his mouth as he finished filling out the remainder of the paperwork he had put off until the very last minute.

“‘Commanding officers are a little annoying, but I guess they’re okay,’” Bogard read aloud, lowering your letter to glance down at you with a wry look.

“She’s not wrong, you’re pretty damned irritating,” said Garp. Bogard lowered his eyes to the vice admiral sitting on the deck of the ship, lifting an eyebrow.

Garp only raised his doughnut with a nod and took another bite before returning to his report. Bogard huffed out a sigh and folded the letter, turning his gaze to you as you paced back and forth across the small deck. The vessel was little more than a sloop, designed for no more than one or two people to sail on their own, sturdy enough to withstand the unpredictable weather patterns of the Grand Line but far less advanced than the standard Marine vessel. You barely noticed his gaze upon you, staring down at your feet as you paced, counting the nails in the deck boards in a futile attempt to keep your mind clear from the quickly approaching start of your mission.

You stopped in your tracks the moment Bogard cleared his throat to get your attention, lifting your head sharply and standing at attention.

“A…at ease,” he said slowly, watching you shuffle your feet and fold your hands behind your back. “Your letter will be sent once Garp and myself return to Marineford,” he assured you. “Once you have left this ship, your own contact with the Marines will cease for a period of no less than two months, unless you are forced to make emergency contact. Emergecy contact will only be employed—”

“Under the circumstance that my own life is in immediate and unquestionable danger,” you responded immediately, to which Bogard gave a curt nod.

“Correct,” he agreed. “There will be a covert Marine presence at every island neighboring Kuraigana. Should you require rescue, the closest vessel will be able to arrive within twenty-four hours.”

“She won’t need it,” Garp chimed in through the last bite of his doughnut, and in a rare break of his iron composure, Bogard reached into one of his overcoat pockets and threw a pen at him in response. You watched as Garp caught it and used the implement to sign his name at the bottom of his paperwork before flicking it across the deck of the ship. “Have a little faith, Bogard. We have at our disposal a trained weapon of subterfuge.”

Garp wrapped his hand around the railing behind him and pulled himself to his feet, strolling over to your side and clapping you on the shoulder.

“Trained under our own supervision,” he went on proudly, while Bogard closed his eyes and heaved a slow, impatient sigh, waiting for him to go on. “Who has already provided us with more up-to-date information on the target than anyone else in our ranks—”

“—I’m still not saying your impulsive little test was anything but idiotic—”

“—and humbly declined to take credit for any of it,” Garp went on , ignoring his partner. You jolted as he gave you a sharp pat on the back. “She’ll be just fine. Won’t ya, kid?”

“I’ll—perform my duties as expected of…” You trailed off into a sigh yourself when Garp rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” you said stiffly. “I’ll be fine.”

“See? She’ll be fine.”

Garp gave a firm nod, as if your word was more than enough to affirm your fate as solid fact.

And then his brow furrowed as he stared across the deck.

His eyes narrowed into a squint, and he turned his head the slightest bit, his hand lowering from your shoulder and back to his side,

“No…that’s not…”

By the time Bogard turned his head, Garp was already striding across the deck, extending a spyglass as he leaned over the railing and stared through the scope. He gave a growl of annoyance as he held the scope out behind him for Bogard to take. Your heart raced as you slowly crossed the deck to join them, your already thin resolve faltering when Bogard slowly lowered the scope to glance at Garp.

“This changes—”

“It changes nothing,” said Garp, jerking his head to look at Bogard.

You didn’t need the spyglass to see the foggy haze around Kuraigana Island past the railing, no more than you needed it to see the small ship docked near its southern banks. You couldn’t make out much about it, but you could see the one thing that mattered—it flew a black flag.

“Red-Hair,” said Garp. “I knew he’d be trouble. I told Sengoku, I told him—”

“Why the hell would he be here?” Bogard said slowly, looking back out toward the island. He glanced behind him, and held out the spyglass for you to take. You moved to the railing between them, holding it to one eye and shutting the other to look through it at the distant ship. “There’s no chance any information has—”

“No, there isn’t,” agreed Garp, as your vision adjusted against the magnification of the lenses. You scanned over the small ship, which appeared to be empty, before lifting your head to focus on its flag—a jolly roger, decorated with a pair of crossed cutlasses and a skull with three slashes across one eye.

“Red-Haired Shanks…?” you said slowly, lowering the scope, glancing between Garp and Bogard as they stared out at the ship. “Ah—three hundred million, two hundred sixty-two thousand berry bounty.”

“Sixty-three,” corrected Bogard absently, glancing at Garp. Garp remained focused, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the ship, his grip tight around the deck railing. “Vice-Admiral.” He glanced over sharply when Bogard spoke up. “This does change—”

“It changes nothing,” Garp growled firmly.

You didn’t particularly like the way Bogard leaned over the railing, holding his hat in place as he shook his head, staring at Garp with no small degree of trepidation. Your eyes shifted to Garp when he turned around to face you, frowning down at you thoughtfully,

“Or it could change things for the better,” he said slowly, letting out a small chuckle. “Well, lass. This is your call. Seems more than just Mihawk might be docked at the island ahead of us.” You nodded shortly to show you were following, waiting for him to continued. “Not much is known about Shanks as yet…to the masses.”

“Garp—”

Garp held up a hand when Bogard tossed a warning look at him.

“—but I have on good authority that he trained under Gold Roger himself.” Your eyes widened, flickering back toward the ship in question, as Bogard let out a growl of annoyance and stormed back toward the opposite side of the deck. “This is an unexpected turn.” Your gaze shot back toward Garp as he straightened out, folding his hands behind his back and staring down at you. “We can head back toward Marineford and go through all the meticulous to-do’s of officially changing our plans, spend a few more months buried in paperwork, or—”

“I’m going.” He raised his eyebrows, his lips already twitching toward a smile at the firmness of your words. “The Red-Hair pirates would be no more aware of who I am than Mihawk. There’s no point wasting any more time.”

“No, I guess there isn’t,” he agreed, grinning. He cleared his throat, cupping a hand around his mouth and making a show of calling across the small expanse of the deck to Bogard. “You might just be able to gather us a little more intel than we expeced. Hear that, Bogard? No need to delay!”

“No need to pull a muscle patting yourself on the back, either,” Bogard grumbled, just loud enough to ensure Garp heard him.

“Alright, kid,” said Garp, happily ignoring him as he leaned against the side of the railing. “We’ve got under ten minutes, so here’s the rundown.” He turned his head, looking out toward the ship moored just off the edge of the island. “Shanks, as I said. Captain, pupil of Gold Roger himself. Primary weapon is a sabre. Straw hat, bright red hair, difficult to miss. There’s Yasopp, the first man to join his crew, at the time he was regarded as the sharpest shooter in the East Blue. Dark skin, dreadlocks, carries a pair of flintlock pistols.”

“So...that’s his first mate?”

“No.” Your brow furrowed. “That would be Beckman. Dark hair, ponytail, built like a brick shithouse. Carries a flintlock rifle. He’s a damn good shot himself but he’ll use the thing as a club in close quarters. Lucky Roux, the cook, bastard’s probably as wide as he is tall…”

You listened closely to Garp’s continued colorful descriptions of the crew officers of the Red Hair Pirates—and the potential dangers they could pose to your health should anyone discover what you really were.

“Red Hair isn’t the brightest match in the box,” he went on, “but there’s a great deal of evidence that he closely rivals Dracule Mihawk in swordsmanship. Should the two end up fighting, you keep your distance. Otherwise, be exceedingly careful around Benn Beckman. He’s the idiot’s first mate for a reason and probably accounts for ninety percent of the collective brain cells of the entire crew. You’ll have to keep a close eye on him while you keep up your act. There’s no telling why they’re docked here, and it would be in your best interest to figure it out. If they’re going to be around for a while, keep your distance.”

“I...sort of doubt any of them are ornithology experts,” you said, frowning.

“As much as one might doubt that a species of unknown primates could learn to use relatively modern weaponry.” You turned your head sharply at the sound of Bogard’s voice close behind you—you hadn’t heard him cross the deck. Your frown deepened as he gave a pointed glance at the scar spanning nearly the entire length of your right upper arm. Garp, gestured to the other Marine pointedly at his statement, and you couldn’t deny that he had a point either. “You’ll keep your distance. Fooling one pirate alone is going to be a great deal easier and safer than attempting to fool an entire crew of them.” He turned his head to Garp. “This is still the most ridiculous mission I’ve ever had the displeasure of being involved in.”

“Ah, girl’s got her act down fine,” he said dismissively—and Garp wasn’t wrong about that. Your favorite part of your training by far had been simply flying around the massive base at Marineford, taking tally of how many of the staff and officers you could fool. The only individuals privy to the exact nature of your mission were Garp and Bogard, a small selection of admirals and vice admirals, and Fleet Admiral Sengoku himself. Your performance had been enough to levy a unanimous vote to go forth with the mission. “Your persona, cadet?”

“Gray parrot, previously the pet of a pirate crew that perished in battle, therefore comfortable around pirates in general,” you said. “Able to repeat a number of sounds and phrases that might be heard aboard a ship, capable of learning new phrases and words faster than most other similar species of bird. Particular disdain for Marines and may fly into a frenzy at the sight of their vessels.”

“See?” said Garp, clapping you on the back hard enough that you flinched. “I’d say we’ve got this in the bag.”

Bogard stared between the two of you for a moment, frowning, before shaking his head. “God help us all,” he muttered under his breath, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.

The final few minutes of the voyage were spent with Garp and Bogard grilling you about the small amount of information known by the Marines about Dracule Mihawk, about the quick briefing you had just received on the Red Hair pirates, about your memorization of the den den mushi numbers you were to contact in the event that your life was in immediate danger or that you found any information useful enough to wrap the operation up early. Garp gave a resolute nod as you neared your destination, around a mile and a half off the shore of Kuraigana Island, and Bogard gave a heavy sigh and a short nod in silent agreement—no matter how little he approved, you were as ready as you were going to be.

“Alright, then, cadet,” said Garp, his wide grin a direct contrast to his partner’s pessimism. “Bird mode, activate.”

“Must you call it that?” said Bogard, tossing a weary look at Garp as you gave a quick salute and immediately shrank down into your devil fruit form on the deck. You fluttered your wings enough to hop up onto the deck railing in front of them, and Bogard frowned down at you. “Best of luck,” he offered. “Should all go according to plan, we’ll see you again in no more than two months.”

He cringed the slightest bit when you raised your wing in another salute, squawking out over Garp’s snort of laughter, “Wind in your sails!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Garp, waving you off. “Now shoo, bird. And no getting yourself killed.”

And once more, you found yourself flying out toward Kuraigana Island.

You made a high pass over the Red Hair’s ship, squinting down toward it as you soared overhead, and the cause of their mooring near the island became quickly clear—it appeared that there was work being performed on a few sizable cannonball holes on the port side of the vessel. You were surprised to see a handful of the crew on the beach near the edge of the forest, seeming to be laughing among themselves and having a grand time, the primates that had attacked you nowhere in sight. Lucky Roux was easy enough to pick out, exactly as Garp had described him—striped shirt and tinted goggles, easily as wide as he was tall, sitting against a tree and taking a bite out of what looked like an entire leg of lamb while another crewmate assisted in bandaging his arm.

Perhaps they had had a run-in with the local apes.

You took that as enough reason to remain vigilant as you flew high over the forest, scanning the treetops below for any signs of movement. It was a relief that there seemed to be none—if the Red Hair pirates had come in contact with the violent creatures, it seemed they had managed to beat them into submission. You considered how Garp had told you that no one had ever entered the island on foot and lived to tell the tale, and it sent a shiver over your spine to think that the crew might be that formidable.

The first signs of movement you witnessed came only once you neared the castle itself, and you nearly faltered in your flight.

Your target was directly below you.

Sitting on a broken piece of stone wall in the courtyard, clad in a white shirt with a ruffled collar and a pair of black pants, his hat sitting to the side next to him, his massive sword lying across his lap as he polished the handle. You slowly, cautiously circled lower, keeping a fair distance, your eyes remaining on the pirate. His mouth seemed to be fixed in a scowl, his posture tense.

You cautiously landed in one of the castle windows several feet away, side-stepping until you were perched in the very corner of the indentation, your gray plumage a perfect camouflage against the rugged stone, and the reason for Mihawk’s clear irritation became immediately evident as the sound of a nonchalant voice tore your gaze away from him.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Hawk-Eye.”

Shanks.

Garp’s description had once again been right on the money—his stringy scarlet hair was capped by a straw-hat, his hands tucked behind his neck as he paced across a pile of rubble that might have once been a wall, a long sabre tucked into his red cloth belt at his right hip. He hopped down to the ground as you watched, resting his elbow on the hilt of the sword as he stared up at the castle. “Be a shame if something happened to it.”

He reached over with his left hand, wrapping it around the handle of the sword, and you tensed immediately, prepared to take flight as he grinned and glanced over at Mihawk.

“Divi—”

Mihawk was on his feet in a flash, his sword extended out at arm’s length, the blade less than an inch away from Shanks’s neck, his sharp yellow eyes narrowing to threatening slits as Shanks lifted his hands up in mock-surrender, still grinning.

“Only kidding,” he said, taking a cautious step back from the edge of the black blade.

Mihawk eyed him with a venomous glare for a few seconds longer before pulling his blade back swiftly to his side and rolling his eyes, a growl of annoyance leaving him as he turned on his heel and stormed back over to the broken wall, sitting down once more. “Remind me of what the hell you’re doing here and precisely why you haven’t left yet?”

“Am I not allowed to visit my friends?” said Shanks, clutching at his chest dramatically in feigned offense. Mihawk ignored the redhead as he sat down heavily on the ground, grabbing a bottle of dark liquor propped up against the pile of rubble and working the cork loose. “Hey, it’s not my fault. This is where the Log pose pointed us. We needed to do a few repairs on the ship. Noticed your old rowboat moored nearby—”

“Rowboat,” Mihawk repeated under his breath, one of his eyes twitching the slightest bit.

“So what’s with the pissed off monkeys, anyway?” said Shanks, nodding toward the forest before taking a swig from the bottle and flicking the cork over his shoulder. “Few of them were damn near as good with a sword as you are.” Mihawk’s eyes shot toward him in a warning glare, and rolled away when Shanks gave a broad grin in response. “Train them yourself?”

“No,” he said shortly. “The humandrills were already quite capable with a variety of weapons when I arrived—”

“Aww, you named them?”

“I discovered the name among the historical documents in castle,” he said through his teeth. “It seems they learned to use weapons by watching their human neighbors before they managed to wipe themselves out. Perhaps,” he went on, before Shanks could speak up again, “your time would better be served overseeing the repairs on your ship so you can leave the moment they’re done.”

“Oh, the repairs are almost finished,” said Shanks, waving a dismissive hand. “Just waiting for the log pose to finish linking up.” He took a sip from his bottle, lifting his eyebrows. “Why? Aren’t you enjoying the company?”

“Oh, yes, immensely,” Mihawk responded dryly.

Your eyes darted between the pair of pirates amid their exchange, keeping yourself perfectly still in the stone windowsill. It was clear that Shanks, at least, was enjoying himself, and that they seemed to have some sort of history between them. It was equally clear that Mihawk would have very much preferred that his company take a long walk off the nearest short pier. He still kept his irritation in check, though whether it was out of any actual sense of camaraderie or he simply didn’t feel like wasting his energy fighting remained unclear.

Their exchange gave you an almost overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and you made a mental note to inform Garp and Bogard of it the next time you saw them.

“Oh, so grumpy,” Shanks commented, leaning back against the rubble behind him, stretching an arm out across one of his knees. “Why don’t you go take a nap, old man? I’m sure there are plenty of beds more than suited for someone of your positively regal manner.” Mihawk went on polishing the golden handle of his sword, not bothering to glance up. “Probably more than enough beds for any number of guests—”

“No,” said Mihawk coolly, still keeping his eyes turned down toward his sword.

“Oh, come on,” Shanks groaned in complaint, laying his head back. His mouth turned down into a despondent sort of pout, tilting his head to look over at the castle—and you tensed immediately, holding your breath, remaining still as a statue. “I’ve never even been in a castle before—”

“No,” Mihawk said again, louder this time, his yellow eyes fixing on Shanks with a firm gaze this time.

“You’re absolutely no fun at all,” Shanks huffed, lifting a small piece of stone from the ground and tossing it in his direction in a half-hearted manner. “You know, you’re going to die sad and alone one day in your desolate castle.”

“And what a peaceful end it will be,” said Mihawk disinterestedly, rolling his eyes back down to the sword across his lap as he buffed a rag across the gleaming blue gem at the end of the hilt.

“But not friendless,” Shanks added, completely ignoring him. He offered another broad grin. “I’ll always be your frien—”

“Would you just go away already?” Mihawksighed wearily, lifting his head and tossing the rag aside. “It’s abundantly clear what you’re attempting to do, and it isn’t going to work.”

“Oh, and just what am I trying to do?” said Shanks...and he seemed to bite his tongue for a moment, before adding in a cheeky tone, “...friend?”

“You’re fishing for a fight,” said Mihawk, gritting his teeth, briefly gripping the handle of his sword before releasing it from his grasp. “And I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh come. On,” Shanks groaned once more, leaning back heavily and pouting. “I’m bored. There’s literally nothing on this damned island except a pile of rocks and a bunch of trees and a particularly nice castle—”

“No.” Shanks gave a huff of irritation, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Mihawk. “Go off and play with the other monkeys if you’re so damned bored.”

“They’re already afraid of me,” he huffed, pouting like a child. He brushed a few unruly strands of hair away from his eyes, turning his gaze out toward the forest. “Stupid apes.” Mihawk only rolled his eyes, shook his head, and returned to the idle task of sword maintenance. “I’m frankly surprised you didn’t just slaughter all of them the moment you set foot here.”

“They make for a decent security system,” he said levelly.

“Or you’re secretly just a big softie—”

Shanks straightened out and gave another broad grin when Mihawk tossed a sharp glare at him...and then slumped back down in defeat when his supposed “friend” gave a heavy sigh and turned his attention back to his sword.

It went on this way for some time—Shanks continually poking and prodding, attempting to annoy Mihawk enough to coax him into a fight; and Mihawk persisting in the task of sword maintenance, running a whetstone across the already razor-sharp edge of the blade as he fought to keep his composure. The entire spectacle was rather like watching an excitable puppy yip at a surly cat.

You shifted your gaze to the edge of the nearby forest when Shanks looked over, the young captain waving once the rustling of the dense leaves gave way to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black shirt, picking leaves out of his ponytail—no doubt Benn Beckman, from the description Garp had offered you. There was indeed a large rifle slung back across one of his shoulders, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He glanced toward Mihawk, before stopping just short of his captain, looking down at him.

“Repairs are finished and the Log Pose’s set,” he said, his brow furrowing when Shanks frowned in clear disappointment. “We getting off of this rock or are you still antagonizing the current inhabitants?”

“I am visiting with a dear old friend,” said Shanks, giving an indignant huff and crossing his arms. He rolled his eyes back over to Mihawk. “Isn’t that right, Hawkie—?”

“Call me that again and you’ll be leaving this island wearing your entrails as necklace,” said Mihawk coolly.

“See?” said Shanks, gesturing toward Mihawk. “We’re just catching up on old times.”

Beckman stared down at his captain for a long moment, frowning, his cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth. He finally shook his head and stepped back a couple paces, leaning back against a pile of stones and crossing his arms. “Alright,” he said. “Have fun.”

“Oh, I am,” Shanks assured him with a positively gleeful grin. He rolled his shoulders and took a drink from the bottle of liquor clenched in his hand, his eyes drifting back over to Mihawk. “Well, it seems our all too pleasant reunion may be drawing to a close, Hawkie—”

Shanks’s grin only widened when Mihawk lifted his gaze to glare at him, his hand gripping tighter around the whetstone.

Shanks seemed to bite his tongue for a moment, pursing his lips to suppress his growing amusement at Mihawk’s growing annoyance, before his expression spread back into a grin as he lifted his eyebrows.

“How about a little kiss goodbye—y’know, between friends and all—”

“That’s it—”

Mihawk was on his feet in a flash, tossing the whetstone away.

Shanks was on his feet just as quickly, a look of absolute glee brightening his features as he drew his sabre.

Beckman took a few casual steps off to the side, pulling his cigarette down from his lips to flick the ashes away, shaking his head, his hand tightening around the butt of his rifle almost imperceptibly.

And you, in spite of yourself, let out a tiny squawk of alarm at the entire spectacle...and quickly realized your mistake.

While Mihawk surged forward with his blade drawn, while Beckman kept his sharp eyes flickering between him and his captain, Shanks’s gaze flickered over toward the sound you had just let out.

And his eyes widened the slightest bit as his eyes met yours.

And he lifted his sword to block what would have been a deadly blow from Mihawk as he continued staring at you as you froze in the windowsill, your feathers ruffling out the slightest bit in response to the terror dawning over you.

Beckman also followed his captain’s gaze, lifting an eyebrow as he noticed your presence.

Shanks drew in a sharp breath, his eyes growing even wider, wide as the eyes of a child with a bottomless wallet in a candy shop. One single, almost breathless word left his lips as they spread into a delighted smile:

“Parrot.”

Next chapter link again, for your convenience

First chapter link again, for your convenience

#one piece #opla #mihawk x reader #mihawk #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #monkey d. garp #garp #bogard #red hair pirates #shanks #fan fiction #one piece fan fiction #fanfic #one piece fanfic #flightrisk

117 notes · View notes

ninupi · 3 months ago

Note

haiiii, i loved your patched up story with mitsuya and was wondering if you could maybe do another short story about reader basically being the schools president or a student of high intelligence but after school has this total other side where she’s also in a gang and into the whole fighting world so she’s really cool or something.

i know this might be a lot to ask and i’m hoping i explained that well enough lol but yeah! (again please take your time no rush and you can do it with any character you prefer from tokyo revengers, i love them all)🫶🏽🫶🏽

pawn | t. mitsuya

₊˚⊹♡ tags; fem!reader, some cursing, like one sexual joke towards reader in bad taste, threats (not towards reader tho), blackmail (also not towards reader lol)

₊˚⊹♡ wc; 900+

₊˚⊹♡ a/n; ill be honest I had a bit of trouble thinking of how to go about this but after some thinking this is what I came up with. sorry if its not exactly what you wanted but I tried my best!

(ू˃̣̣̣̣̣̣︿˂̣̣̣̣̣̣ ू)

Mitsuya knew that people didn't really like you, he had just assumed it was because you were a strict rule follower and didn't put up with people breaking them. You've been class president all three years of high school and it was as if you got more serious each year.

"I don't get her issue, she takes shit way too seriously" Mitsuya would hear people whispering after you scolded them about certain things, whether it's their uniform not being on right or how they were late to class and anything in between.

And to some extent he agreed, but one thing he didn't get is why everyone was so scared to say something to you. He'd seen other people pick on other class presidents but when it came to you it was if everyone just took your words with a grain of salt.

"Y/n such a bitch man, I almost got detention just because of her" he heard some guy groan behind him while his friends laughed at him. "No way, are you serious? She's so stuck up, someones got to help her relax if you know what I mean"

Mitsuya rolls his eyes at their gross suggestions when he notices you walk in "Kentaro can I speak to you?" you seem slightly annoyed and mitsuya wonders if you heard what they had said about you. But mitsuya doesn't dwell on it once the boy leaves with you or when he comes back twenty minutes later looking a bit pale in the face.

"I just need you to write the use of your club funds here and any future plans in this box" you explain as if mitsuya hasn't done this multiple times before "You don't have to explain everytime you know" he laughs taking the form from your hands.

"Just a habit I guess" you shrug organizing the rest of the papers in your hands "Y/n? Can I talk to you about something?" Kentaro asks standing at the door of the economics club room. "Not right now im busy" you brush him off not even sparing him a glance.

"B-but it's important...it's about the money you asked- I said im busy. Are you deaf?" your change in tone shocks mitsuya a bit but he decides not to say anything. And why would you be asking Kentro for money, he's not in any club that mitsuya can think of.

"I should be by later to pick up the form, if i'm not by back by 4 just leave it on my desk please" you tell mitsuya walking out of the classroom with kentaro following close behind "Are you stupid? Talking about that in front of someone else? Do you want me to-"

Mitsuya looks at you two confused as you leave, what could you possibly be talking about?

Looking at the clock it reads 4:15, mitsuya finally realizes you're not coming back anytime soon and decides to make his way towards your class. Everyone else has gone home for the day finishing up their club activities and such so the hallways were quiet.

Mitsuya knows you wouldn't just forget to pick up the papers so he wonders what you could be busy doing when he hears someone talking in one of the classrooms. "What do you mean you don't have the money?" He immediately recognized your voice and guessing by your tone you weren't happy.

"I-i have some of it, I just don't have all of it...just give me two more- Give you more time? You've had a week, what the hell were you doing?" Mitsuya peeks his head into the room a bit and sees Kentaro standing in front of your desk looking a bit nervous.

"I have about 260 I just need to get the rest, I swear I'll get it to you in two days" what could you possibly need that much money for mitsuya thought to himself when you stood up and corned Kentaro.

"Listen to me, I told you to get 300 by this Friday last Sunday. You've had plenty of time to get your shit together, if it were up to me i'd give you the two days but it's not. I told my guys I'd have it by Sunday and that you were going to get it for them."

Mitsuya listened intensely to the way you were talking, he'd never seen this side of you and honestly if he were in Kentaro's shoes he'd be pretty nervous too. What guys were you referring to? And what'd they need all that money for anyways.

"So if you don't get me that money by Sunday it'll be your ass, not mine. So get it together and collect the fucking money, I shouldn't have to baby you. Remember if you don't do this i'll get your ass kicked out of here in no time, you understand me?"

Kentaro opened his mouth to say something but you didn't even give him a chance start "Don't say anything, I have all the proof of you cheating on those midterms and the principle will expel you for that. I also know about what you did to Akami, if her brother found out- Ok! ok i'll get you the money by Sunday! Please don't say anything about anything I swear i'll do whatever you want!"

Mitsuya doesn't think he's ever seen a guy like Kentaro so pale in the face before, what type of dirt did you have on this guy? Whatever it is seems bad and Mitsuya decided right then and there he'd try to stay on your good side for a while. Even if he hasn't done anything wrong.

"Get the fuck out of here just looking at you is pissing me off" you mutter going back to your desk, mitsuya doesn't have time to react before Kentaro is sliding the door open revealing him. He notices your shocked face and awkwardly smiles "I brought the papers..."

#ninupi #writing #fem reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers mitsuya #mitsuya tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya takashi #takashi mitsuya

67 notes · View notes

system-of-a-feather · 3 months ago

Note

hi, i have been thinking about the topic of fusion, and what i want my long-term goals to be, and i was wondering. do you ever feel like being fused is exhausting? not the process of fusion, i know thats exhausting because healing is exhausting. but like. do you ever feel overwhelmed due to being all parts of yourself at once? i havent experienced any fusions yet (hopefully in the future!) but ive seen people talk about how even when fused, none of the parts disappear but instead are all part of the "you" that always exists. my only frame of reference for how that feels for myself is blendy cofronting, which in my experience can be pleasant with 2 or 3 parts, but any more than that gets overwhelming and disorienting

Actually? Surprisingly? No. Not really at all honestly. The funny thing is that I used to wonder the same thing so I absolutely understand the frame of reference and perspective and assumptions that go with it, but its extremely comfortable and LOW energy to be fused for me.

The actual thing that happens is that you don't really get that "too many parts in front" fatigue like... ever or fronting fatigue like ever - at least thats how it is for me.

I relax a whole fuck ton better as a fused whole and while a lot of fusion still has me having to learn my new / fused "me" and how I operate on a baseline, thats an entirely different thing than trying to balance all the differing and contrasting parts or trying to understand and negotiate that because like... They are all simultaneously me and I VERY freely and fluidly exist as and between all of them. There isn't really "compromise" I have to make because.... we just co-exist harmoniously as one without even needing to explicitly talk about it or discuss or put intention into coming to a shared understanding, we just... do and know and its really really really really fucking easy living as a fused whole compared to being multiple parts

Like even if you were to ask me just as ONE part versus how I am now, there is not a single part in our system that has ever actually been so comfortable and so not-fatigued existing as I am as a whole

Everythings a lot more balanced, managable and our window of tolerance is STUPID fucking large - and I don't mean that in a "relative to where we used to be" or "relative to someone with as much trauma as I do" but genuinely STUPIDLY huge compared to most generally neurotypical non-traumatized not-severely-mentally ill people and I largely thank that to Post Traumatic Growth honestly.

But like... tldr, not really at all for me surprisingly. Maybe really early post fusion when I was still figuring myself out a lot but like.... Thats more so the process of fusing than being fused itself imo.

(Side note edit: Sometimes I DO think itd be better to explore a situation and issue as independent parts and so sometimes I DO operate in a more system / plural way of existing for however long its beneficial, but thats less to do with fusion not helping me as much as it is that I think a plural lens and perspective has a lot of perks in navigating complicated situations.)

Anyways tagging a few others who might have a different answer / perspective on this since they are either in a different stage of a fusion / integration and/or have a different way of existing with their fused / integrated state than me.

@hiiragi7 @reimeichan @subsystems

#actuallydid #didrecovery #did recovery #feathers speaks #sysconversation

54 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

Text

The Sticking Point 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: I'm moving tomorrow.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The tension turns roiling. Even in such airy halls, you cannot escape it, not that you venture very far from your rooms. It seems with each interaction, your relationship with your fiance only grows more fraught. You needn’t wonder why. It’s the very same reason your own father regards you with derision. You’re defective, less than what he hoped for.

You sit in the window seat, looking over the greenery that reflects Jade Garden’s title. It’s a home anyone would covet and yet it feels as a penitentiary might. These walls are unyielding and the isolation suffocating.

Your visions drifts into the distance as the leaves turn to green smears blending into the dimming blue of the sky. You close your eyes and turn your head straight, leaning against the wall as you hook your arms around your legs.

A banquet. It’s less than a proper debut. You’re not certain anyone would be expecting you, or even know who you are. Will they be surprised when they hear your father’s name?

There are things you know. Things you must ready yourself for. Certainly, there will be jeers, mocking whispers, and errant giggles. Just the same as anyone ever reacted to you. Even the farmhands would echo your speech and laugh bawdily. It hardly matter’s your a lord’s daughter when you sound so ridiculous.

You hang your head and sigh. It isn’t just one banquet, it is the beginning of a lifetime of events. You will not only face this one night, but many anon. You will be the one they speak of behind their hands and the joke at the card tables.

You stand, made restless by your dread. The window darkens with the evening’s arrival. Doreen raps at the door and leaves a tray of supper. You pick at it but don’t eat much. You must keep yourself busy so your mind is not.

You go to your chests. You will need Doreen to unpack these soon. It’s as if the longer you leave them full, the less assured your fate. You might still strap them up and flee.

You know that isn’t truly an option.

You take out a gown the shade of cooked pumpkin with an overlay that lends it a bronzish hue. The bodice is trimmed with an eyelet effect and the hem of the cap sleeves and skirt finely threaded with beads. You lay it out on the chaise and find a pair of slippers to go with it and ribbon for your hair decorated with black onyx and brass.

If Edith could see you then. It should be her in your place. That thought rings louder and louder, bolstered by the constant disapproval.

You back away from your attire, spinning so you won’t have to look upon it. You never thought to miss home so much. Not your parents, you’re certain they hardly grieve your absence, but for the familiarity, for the simple walls and memories. Edith is there, even gone, you know you would see her in every cushion and every corner.

You go to the door and listen. As silent as ever. You emerge into the corridor and make careful progress on the pads of your feet. You come to the top of the stairwell and peer down on the foyer. For all it’s beauty, this place is rather grim.

You descend and let your eyes lead you. You take in every ornament, every statue, every door trim, and every tile of the floor. You want to know it all. You don’t want to feel so lost.

You find your way along to the sunroom. Upon your approach, the door opens and you falter. A lithe figure emerges. You press yourself to the wall, unready for Loki’s appearance. He has a snifter of liquor in hand as he glowers in the light of a lantern in his other.

He steps towards you and pauses, lifting the light higher to cast over you. His breath escapes him derisively. He lowers the lantern and sniffs.

“Like a rat, you skitter incessantly,” he remarks.

“My Lawd,” you push away from the wall and angle away from him.

“I am speaking to you. Do not go until I give leave to,” he demands.

You stop and face him again, hands meeting in apprehension.

“This banquet business,” his nostrils flare, “I will not be humiliated. Not as you have tonight.”

“My Lawd, I have been twained in etiq—etiqwette,” you insist.

He scoffs, “your manners hardly bother me. Certainly you might have some grain of awareness.”

You seal your lips. He’s said it plainly, as you have. He might be able to close his ears to your impediment but it is with you always.

“Perhaps you might keep your words to a minimum,” he advises, “select them wisely.”

You stare at him, cheeks fiery and eyes tinging, “If you would wather, I might make an excuse. A sudden malady, my lawd. I’d hate to stain your chawacter.”

His eyes roll to the side and his features sharpen, “more would be said were I to appear without my betrothed after my mother’s promises.”

That he has referred to your nuptials is not so nice as it should be. He speaks to it as a sentence. You look him in the face.

“It won’t eva go away,” you say.

“Hm, I only need get through the wedding night,” he retorts and you can’t help but wince.

You swallow, your hurt turning bitter. “As do I.”

His head tilts and he squints. He lets out another snort, “pardon?”

“My sista would’ve hated you,” you whisper. “You did not desawve to know haw.”

“Be wary,” he steps closer.

“You make an enemy of me, not I you,” you lift your chin.

He’s silent. He shifts even closer. So near, you have to keep from wilting away. You stare back at him defiantly, heart beating.

“You do not know yet what it is to have me as an enemy so you best mind your mannaws,” he mocks your cadence with his last word.

Your lip trembles as he green eyes sparkle like dark emeralds in the lantern lights. Your chest is a flurry of hurt and anger. What have you ever done to him, or anyone, to make them so spiteful? You swing your arm against his to knock the snifter from his hand, sending a splash of alcohol across the wall and and his vest. The smell is acrid and sour.

You back away from him, horrified at your reaction. You have learned to restrain yourself, to tamp it all down, to swallow it with a smile and say nothing. In that moment, you simply cannot. You shake your head as your face twists in despair.

“I would wather an enemy, saw,” you hiss, “as I would be ashamed to call a cad like you husband.”

His glare flashes and he sways as if he might lunge at you. He rights himself and his brow arches. His lips draw and his cheeks pale.

“Very well.”

He spins on his heel and stomps away, the light limning his silhouette sinisterly. You stare after him mortified. What has come over you? You were never bold or brazen or brutal to any. Edith would be disappointed. A gentle soul like her could never even think a hot word.

You fall back against the wall and clutch your hands over your chest. Is this to be your life? Are you to live in loathing, not only of that man but of yourself. To be castigated for the lilt of your own tongue, the very pulse of your existence? You’d thought your father a villain but this man has proven himself worse.

Worst than his distaste is your own futility, for he has assured you there is nothing you might do to appease him. As he is bound to you most miserably, so are you vowed to the same fate. Not even in that might you commiserate.

🔹

You sit in front of the mirror, holding the brooch over the table, feeling the embroidery with the pad of your thumb. You turn it over and back again. It’s the only piece of your sister you have left. Every day she feels further away from you. Every morning, you awake, expecting to hear her, to see her, and she is not there, and you are not at home.

You peer up at your reflection as your hand hovers over the painted wood. You’ve not touched a tress or cheek. You must ready, you know it, but your reticence is like chains on your wrists. You know what you are to face but knowing cannot make it any less unpleasant.

A knock comes at the door. You call for the maid to enter, thinking Doreen’s come to remind you again of your pending engagement. The maid opens the door but says nothing, letting in the duchess instead. Lady Frigga is almost rapturous in a dressing gown of peach fabric as her hair is set already in tight curls around an elegant chignon. You stand, apologising for your misstep.

“Dear, it is quite forgivable,” she assures, “I only meant to look in on you before the banquet, to be certain you do not require anything, but darling, oh,” she sweeps towards you and cups your cheeks, “you’ve not even begun. What is the matter?”

“There is no issue,” you lie, “I mewely let time escape me.”

You smile and gently pull away, turning back to the vanity. You open your hand and once more consider the pin.

“Is this the dress you mean to wear?” Frigga asks as she crosses the room in a swish of silk. You peer over your shoulder as she looks down on the orange fabric. “It is a rather keen shade.”

“Yes, my lady,” you answer in a dulcet tone. You cannot find a glimmer of concern for your attire.

She sighs and returns to you, holding the ribbon you’ve chosen, “these are far too dour,” she touches an onyx, “haven’t you some pearls?”

“Somewhaw...” You bend your neck, staring at the bluebird, at Edith’s handiwork. You remember the day she gave it to you and the way she smiled so proudly. How she pinned it on you herself and made you go around and show all.

“Oh, dear, that won’t go at all. It would be nice for a lunch, no doubt, but not for a banquet,” she remarks and you close your hand around the brooch. You put your shoulders straight and face her.

“I have a pawl band in my chest,” you resign and step around her.

You go to the chest and sift around, careful not to let the brooch slip from your grasp. You take out the pearls on the ivory band and show it to her. She tuts.

“It won’t go with this gown,” she insists.

“Yes, the onyx--”

“Mmp, I prefer pearls. Darling, you must be your best. It is your first social appearance. I do not say this to demean you, only to assist. I know your own mother cannot be here to see you debut but I cannot imagine her pain at this moment. So much loss. Both daughters at once, in a way,” she bemoans.

Yes, you think of your mother too. You know she won’t be well. Nor your father. All their hopes and dreams dashed in a deficient daughter sent to carry a legacy on with a spiteful husband who mightn’t even have the stomach to deliver one.

“I vewy much appweciate it, lady,” you make yourself smile, “I suppose it must be nawvs.”

“Suppose it must,” she hums, “how about you wear the orange gown and I fetch you a feather pin from my own collection? I have a fabulous ostrich and topaz piece,” she assures, “and some black lace gloves. Ooh, yes, dear, we will make certain all is perfect.”

“Thank you, Lady Fwigga, but it isn’t necessawy--”

“You are to be my daughter, of course it is,” she preens. “Besides, who shall notice anything but how splendid you look?”

She twists on her heel and your smile dwindles. You know what is meant. What she will not state plainly. Perhaps a fine outfit might distract from your crooked consonants. You sit on the stool again and watch her go.

Even those who are kind cannot help their thoughts. She mightn’t be cruel about it, but you can hear the disappointment in her pandering cooing. You are not the daughter she wanted just as you are not the wife her son wanted. Just as you do not want to be as you are.

#the sticking point #loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #regency au #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers

123 notes · View notes