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euhla · 27 days ago

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𝑻𝐖𝐎 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐄 ☆ sunday

⋆. ✷ 🪽 spoiler for trailblaze mission, possessive & obsessive behavior and thoughts, mental abuse, gaslighting, slight yandere, stockholm syndrom ??, heavily implied ill! reader, angst w comfort, major character death, an attempt for sunday character study (spoiler; i failed). this fics is heavily inspired/referenced by that one comment from chasing kou at yt

a/n : i write this when it’s raining outside with my calm playlist n it’s the best feeling ever! ^ 0 ^ this is kinda rushed btw

and the moment a firework bursts and lights up, like an exalted flower standing in the middle of a sea of people, his cerulean blue hair is a contrast to the dark starry night.

you try to hold his hand, trying to found your way to slip underneath his gloves, and embracing it. you flinch at first, because his hands are cold like a living corpse.

“your hands are cold,” you said as you look at him in the eyes. and you can’t help but feel small whenever you two lock gaze.

“it’ll get warmer.”

“how do you know?”

he smiled, “because you hold it now.”

inside of the spacious universe under the moonlight, as the people in the background shouted happiness the moment the dark starry night were now filled with fireworks and lights of joy. you found another reason to live, again.

the distorted reflection of light that you see when you jump into water, as you two slowly count how long you can hold your breath un, deux, trois … and when you both gasping for air, feeling the breeze pierces straight.

now his hands— finding their way to hold yours. a solace intertwined for a moment as he speaks, “this is a foolish thing to do.”

no one— not even the wandering lost souls —expected the professional and well-behaved man to do the childish thing like this out of all place. mr sunday? the head of the oak family? jumped into water like a child? no one’s gonna believe you if they don’t see it themselves.

you laugh it off. “but sunday, you enjoy it.”

“of course, my dear. it’s because i do this with you.”

again, his smooth talking that he has trained since kid pissed you off sometimes. but again, maybe this is the only way to search for comfort within the cruel fate.

the sound of trees swaying in the wind is calming, you think. the sound of trees swaying in the wind is calming, you think. and suddenly life is worth living again when you finally lean against a big tree, blocking the raindrops with other than hanging on to thick leaves.

ready to face another shallow dream, you started to shut your eyes, expecting another endless void to enter your mind. but a hand— almost feels like a salvation—reaches you first, preventing you to fall into another abyss.

you gasped in response. “sunday..?”

“in your current condition, you should’ve know that you should stay inside the mansion, right?”

sunday removing his luxury white coat, then placing it on you.

“i—“ but you can’t say anything. trapped inside a fragile body means that any words that spilled out are just another excuse. “—i’m sorry.”

sunday exhaled. “i’m sorry i sound a bit harsh earlier, but i suppose you already know that i’m doing all of this for your safety, right?”

you smiled in response. “.. of course. always for my safety.”

the feeling of your hair blowing in the wind and your vision becoming narrower as the sound of laugh filling the air, ignoring completely the gloomy dark sky and the smell of rain and wet ground, make you feel like you finally regain your freedom once again. or when you're running when it’s only the silence after rain that’s linger around.

you know that you shouldn’t do this, and you know it better than no one else. but you can’t just leave your childhood urges when you already grow into adulthood. it keeps telling you go, as far as you can and don’t look back.

but something chained you down. it trapped you with nothing but sweet whispers; giving you a safe place to live, but treated like a porcelain doll who can’t do anything by themselves.

and it keeps whispering to you; “i’ll make you a beautiful flower in my the garden. blooming beautifully that other flowers are jealous of you.”

but it never told you that inside the garden, the flower bloom under humiliating watch. that it makes the flower feels like they’re a monstrous flower that bloomed too soon.

“so this is how running under the rain feels like!” you shouted, knowing that no one would hear you.

and not far away, under an absolute command, a bird is watching you with a rage.

The sound of the wind blowing in your ears or the sound of your breath is the last thing you enjoy before facing the consequences.

you can tell that his rage is uncontrollable even when he still keeps his charming calm face. and your heart keeps beating faster, you can tell.

“sunday, i’m sorry i– i just want to get some fresh air and i– idontknowthat it’s going to be raining.” your words spilled out in an irregular rhythm.

“and you don’t straight come back to the mansion?” he massaged his temples. and this is the first time you see him stressed out.

“because i just want to know how it feels to running under the rain again..”

“of course you just want to feel what you want to feel, my dear. and you will never want to know what i feel— stressed out when i know that you’re not inside the mansion. do you really want to escape that much? just because i prohibited you to go out of the mansion?”

guilty, you feel guilty now.

“all of my actions and orders are right, okay? because i’m doing this for you and your safety. if i didn’t save you that day, you wouldn’t have feel your own happiness.”

you smile and nodded.

because sunday is always doing the right things to do.

the sound of your heart when you fell in love is something you never knew are going to feel. you always wonder what is love anyway? does it feel like when you’re running under the rain? or watching a firework bursts and light up in the air?

your heart still hesitant to think that this is all called love; the way sunday would delicately touch you as if you can break, the way sunday would make sure that you’re safe on his mansion ( he said that it’s the only way to make sure you’re safe, so you can’t go anywhere without his company ), or the way he whispers sweet words that always make you flustered.

or maybe this is the love that people always talked about? he’s sincere about his feelings anyway. everything he do is always for the right things.

so you lean in his touch. you surrender, and you fall into his warm embrace. his wings twitched a few times, and he hesitantly try to cover his face with it, but you noticed it.

you noticed how he always ended up embarrassed and flustered everytime you return his affection. but you always caress his cheek, as if saying that it’s okay.

“please just trust me, okay?” he whispered.

…oh, and the feeling of being fulfilled when you hugged the person you love for the last time. because that’s finally the time that the bird realized that he’s the one who’s on a cage.

an outstretched hand faintly looked like a salvation for him when he’s falling into the abyss ( and that’s when he finally realized that no one is going to save him ). it must be ena’s hand, he thinks. but when he blinked again, he realized— it’s you.

and when he thought that you’re already gone, becoming one with the rain droplets you loved, you came back to him.

a hand reaches him and pulls him into a tight hug. he’s not surprised, or that’s what he thinks. because it will be the last hug you’ll give him.

he closed his eyes. now that he realized that he should let you go, and it’s time to wake up from this long dream. just like your last words to keep moving forward.

“.. i’m sorry.” a faint voice whispered.

#konstelasiv fanfic #yandere hsr x you #hsr yandere #yandere hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x reader #yandere sunday x you #yandere sunday x reader #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday x y/n #hsr fanfic

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.”

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin.

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fic

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dinogoofymutated · 8 months ago

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Okay so like,,,,I usually never make requests (I’m a lurker fr fr) but your writing Is god tier, so I gotta ask:

Could you do a fic for Hank/Beast? He’s my personal fave but I never see any content for him ever, like the fic scene for this man is a ghost town. he’s underrated as hell. My man is ripped, highly intelligent and respectful of the arts! Yet he doesn’t get any attention.

I would love to see some general headcanons (SFW & NSFW) if you’re up to it. no problem if you don’t write for him or something, I just thought i would ask.

Thanks!

SFW!Beast/GN!Reader

To be honest, I actually wasn't really sure about writing for Hank at first because I've never really had a connection to the character, but he grew on me!! Plus, I'm here to serve lolol we've been starved of fics as a Fandom for basically forever and it would be a disservice not to fill the Hank void out there! Hope it's okay that I only wrote Sfw headcannons, I have a separate req for NSFW for him so I decided to split it into two to save my sanity lol. Finals are gonna be hell for me.

-ps- Should I be writing right now? no. Am I doing it anyway? Yurp. Also, I'm basing his history off of the fandom wiki, so I'm sorry if anything is off.

Tws: none that I can think of atm. As always, reader written while picturing fem but no pronouns mentioned.

Hank, despite what some would think, was most definitely a heartthrob, particularly in his college days!! I mean, a man who's confident, smart, respectful, and also an athlete? Who wouldn't swoon? He was 110% the guy that everyone wanted to take home to their parents.

And He's such a sweet, attentive lover too!! Acts of service almost definitely is a love language for him. He cooks for you, fixes the broken things that you didn't even realize were broken, even organizes your notes before a difficult exam.

He loves to surprise you with flowers, even if it isn't any special occasion, and if you ask, he'll help you preserve them as well!

He loves to kiss your forehead, temples, and hands. On top of that, he's very touchy. The two of you were most definitely seen as the parents of any friend group.

Things changed a little after he took the serum that mutated him further. His confidence had taken a blow, and he just didn't quite know how to approach you anymore.

It took a hot minute to reassure him that you didn't really care if he was blue, or furry, or beastly, he was still Hank Mccoy, wasn't he? He was the man you were in love with, and you certainly weren't going to stop now. Besides, you still thought he was handsome. With the kinds of books he's seen you read, you're a bit surprised that he didn't think you would find him attractive.

Things gradually got back to normal, but for a while, he didn't kiss you as often as he used to. Well, he didn't kiss you period. Even though he knew the incredible extent to which you loved him, the shape of his mouth had changed. Hell, he had fangs that he would rather die than mark you with.

You practically had to tie him down into a contract to get him to kiss you again. He was always one to experiment, why not treat this the same? If you kiss, and it goes well, you do it again. If it goes well a second time and a third, you have a pretty reliable test. Validity shouldn't matter when he knew that you loved him to bits already.

He felt like he was falling in love with you all over again, and yet he still hesitated. It wasn't until you had grabbed him by the collar to drag him into a kiss that he actually relaxed, and what do you know, it was a pretty reliable test after all. A predictive one too, with how often you continued to kiss him afterwards.

Domestic was the best way to describe your relationship with Hank.

You yawned as you made your way down to the lab, still in your pajamas and slippers. Just a few hours previously, after a shower and self-care routine, you had settled into bed with an eyebrow-raising book as you waited for your husband to come to bed. This was a normal routine for the two of you, you immersing yourself into a book to stay awake until Hank entered, kissed your temple sweetly, and began his own nightly routine. It was a set of events you were used to.

Today, however, you felt like you had done a lot more reading than usual. When you finally pulled yourself out of your book and checked the time, the clock by your bed read 11 pm. A rather late time for Hank to be out, but you already knew where he would be. The lower levels of the mansion were extra cold at night, and you find yourself rubbing some warmth into your arms as you approach the lab.

The doors open with a swish, the light of the lab having all been darkened exempt for the lamp on Hank’s desk. He’s so immersed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t even realize when you come in. You walk up behind his chair, running your hands through his hair softly when you reach him.

Hank isn’t surprised, sighing at the pleasant sensation as he tips his head back to encourage you. You giggle a little, leaning down to press a kiss to his head as you begin to massage his scalp.

“It’s late.” You say gently. Hank hums in response, eyes closed as he appreciates your touch.

“I’m sorry, my love. Seems I was a little entranced.” He says. You huff at him playfully.

“You say entranced, I say you’re overworking yourself. You’ve been working on this project all week. Don’t let it cut into your rest time.” Your scolding always sounded too nice, but he knows you mean it. Hank sighs again, this time sounding a little more tired, but he doesn't argue. He rolls around to face you, pulling you into a tired hug from his chair.

“Perhaps it is time I go to bed. What time is it, my dear?”

“Eleven.” Hank lets out a quiet chuckle at your quick reply, finally standing up. He doesn’t let go of you however, choosing to rest his head on your shoulder as he sways the two of you back and forth.

“You’re most certainly right, it is late. Much too late for a man to leave his lovely spouse waiting. Oh, whatever shall I do to make it up to you?.” His words come out as a purr, and you let out a curt laugh at him. You pull away a little, taking his large hands in your own as you lead him to the door. He smiles widely when you stop for a moment, remembering his glasses and placing them on his face before starting to drag him to bed.

“I’ll let you decide that, Love. As long as you make it to bed, that’s apology enough for me.”

#x men 97 #x men #x men comics #x men 97 x reader #x men headcannons #beast #x men beast #hank mccoy x reader #hank mccoy #x men hank mccoy #x men beast headcannons #hank mccoy headcannons #x men beast x reader

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charliedawn · 3 months ago

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forgive me if I’m not explaining this concept properly as I am currently SOBBING MY EYES OUT FROM YOUR FANFICTION CHARLIE.

imagine that once all the slashers left when they were deemed sane they all accidentally moved to the same street or something and we got Slashers the Sitcom

this is the only thought I’ve had since reading that that didn’t make me cry so I felt you should have it

the Hannibal’s should be their creepy out of town tourists or new neighbors that get a one season spin off show.

You’re doing great with your writing Charlie 😁

(Here is my fluff apology. 😉)

The nights had become too quiet. The facility once teeming with chaos, tension, and the unnerving energy of its infamous inhabitants now felt empty. You tried to adjust, finding solace in your routine, but nothing could fill the void they had left behind. The slashers—your slashers—were gone.

You had heard whispers about where they went, rumors from the outside world about strange occurrences, but nothing solid. Sometimes, you found yourself wondering about each of them—what they were doing, if they were safe, or if they even thought about you.

Then one night, as you sat in your office, the silence was broken. A chill ran down your spine, the hairs on your neck standing on end as you sensed…something. The feeling was familiar, one you hadn’t felt since they had left, and it made your heart pound. But before you could make sense of it, the lights flickered and the door creaked open.

You blinked, frozen in place, as Freddy Krueger strolled in, his signature smirk plastered across his face. "Missed me, sweetheart ?"

Before you could respond, the room was suddenly filled with more faces—Bo, Jason, Pennywise, Brahms, and the rest of the slashers, all filing in like they had never left. All the slashers you had helped during your career. All the friends you had made along the way. They could barely fit all inside the room and you were suddenly surrounded.

"Boys, boys, give ‘em some space !" Bo barked, pushing through the group. "Can’t just barge in like that !" His gruff voice carried the same Southern twang, but his eyes were softer than you remembered.

"What…What’s going on ?" you managed to choke out, your mind spinning as you looked at each of them. "Why are you all here ?"

Freddy chuckled, running his claw along the edge of your desk. "We missed ya, Nurse Y/N. Couldn’t leave ya in this dump, could we ?" His grin widened as the others nodded in agreement, some more subtly than others. "So we decided…why not kidnap ya ?"

Jason, standing silently at the back of the room, shifted uncomfortably, but even he nodded, his masked face giving you a reassuring glance.

You were dumbfounded.

"You’re not serious…"

Brahms stepped forward, his voice soft and pleading. "We didn’t want you to be lonely…You took care of us. Now we’ll take care of you." He reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm before he held your hand.

Before you could react further, Penny popped up beside you, his grin sharp and wide. "Guess what, Nurse Y/N ? We’ve all decided to move to Elm Street !" His voice was filled with manic glee, and he leaned in closer. "And you’re coming with us."

Your eyes widened.

Elm Street ? What was that ?

Freddy’s chuckle darkened. "Oh yeah, baby. We’ve got the perfect place for you, right in the middle of our little setup." He leaned closer, his claw resting lightly against your cheek. "You’re gonna love it. It’s got that…cozy, homicidal feel to it. With spiderwebs and we spent weeks painting the walls. Yer gonna love it, I tell ya !"

"Come on, darlin'," Bo added, crossing his arms. "Ain’t no point stayin’ in this dead place when you could be livin’ with us. We got a home now. Together."

Your heart raced. This was too much. How ? When ? What ? "But why—why would you want me to live with you all ? I thought you’d…want your freedom."

Michael stepped forward then, towering over the others. He didn’t speak, of course, but the way he placed his hand on your shoulder told you everything you needed to know. You were part of their family now, and they weren’t going to leave you behind.

"You gave us freedom, sweetheart," Freddy purred, his voice softer now. "But what’s freedom without a little fun ? And we all know you’re the one who kept us in line. Plus, we’ve kinda grown attached. I MEAN BORED ! Yeah. Bored. ‘Cause ya know…we slashers feel bored when we ain’t got ya around to mess with and shit…"

Bo raised an eyebrow and smirked at Freddy before elbowing him playfully.

"Nice save, dumbass."

Freddy flipped him off in response while you tried to make sense of everything.

Brahms clung to your side, his eyes wide and desperate. "Don’t make us go without you again…please."

You felt a wave of warmth rush over you, despite the absurdity of it all. These killers, these monsters who had tormented so many, had come back for you. Not out of revenge, not to pull you into some twisted nightmare, but because they genuinely wanted you with them.

You swallowed hard, trying to process it all. "So…you really all want me to move to Elm Street ? With you ?"

Freddy grinned, slapping Jason on the back. "Told ya they’d come around."

Bo sighed, rolling his eyes. "We ain’t askin’, darlin’. We’re tellin’ ya. Yer comin’ with us. Now, move that cute butt up yer chair and let’s go."

Pennywise chuckled. "We already packed your things, Nursey." He gestured dramatically to the doorway, where your bags were already neatly stacked.

You blinked, completely dumbfounded, before a small laugh escaped your lips. This was crazy. You were crazy. "You packed my things ? But…what about the staff ? What about the board ?"

Jack smirked before giving you a paper which wrote that the board had been warned and that since there were no more patients inside the hospital, you and the staff should move in Elm Street to keep an eye on the slashers.

"All taken care of, sweet cheeks."

Your eyes widened and they filled with tears.

They must have spent weeks to get that authorisation and convince the board. You looked up at them and Patricia smiled before wiping your tears with her thumbs.

"Now now, dear. Don’t cry. It’s okay. We were not going to abandon you. Not when you never abandoned us."

"But how did you…How did you even plan for all this ? How did you…?" You were at a loss for words.

Freddy shrugged and playfully winked at you. "What can I say ? We’re thoughtful that way."

In that moment, you realized there was no point in arguing. This strange, dysfunctional group had wormed their way into your life, into your heart. And now, they were offering you a place with them—a very surprising tempting offer that you knew you had no choice but to accept. Not because you didn’t have a choice, but because you genuinely wanted to.

"Alright," you sighed, smiling softly. "I’ll come with you."

The room erupted into cheers—well, as much as this group of killers could cheer. Freddy whooped, Bo grinned, and even Jason’s eyes sparkled with something close to contentment. Brahms hugged you tightly, and Pennywise cackled in delight.

You couldn’t help but laugh, despite everything. Maybe Elm Street wasn’t the safest place in the world, but with them…it didn’t seem so bad. And as you stepped outside the facility for the last time, surrounded by your unlikely family, you realized you weren’t going to miss the quiet anymore.

You were going home…

"WELCOME TO ELM STREET, BABY !"

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #pennywise 1990 #slashers #pennywise 2017 #pennywise x reader #michael myers x reader #freddy krueger x reader #jason voorhees x reader #elm street #slashers au #brahms heelshire x reader #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader

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nhlclover · 11 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 | 𝐆𝐀𝐁𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓

word count: 1.17k

summary: after six months broken up, gabe realizes he can't move on from you decides he has to win you back.

warnings: like one instance of cursing, not proof read

notes: based on 'how you get the girl’ by taylor swift. literally in love with my sherbrooke boy so i had to write for him

The rain slapped against the window, a loud patter sound echoing through the home you shared with 3 of your friends. It was the beginning of spring in Boston and the end of the school year was right around the corner.

It was slightly weird for you to be at home on a Friday night. At the beginning of last semester, you would’ve found yourself at Conte Forum, cheering on Gabe from the stands. However, that hasn’t been your reality for nearly 6 months.

At the beginning of last semester, you and Gabe had split up. Gabe, having had an all-time year with being drafted, starting at Boston College, as well as the upcoming World Juniors had left an unbearable weight on his shoulders that he couldn’t quite seem to shake. Feeling overwhelmed and lost, it began to take a toll on their relationship. Ultimately, the decision to break up had been painful but mutual. Gabe, unsure of what he wanted in the midst of all the chaos, needed space to navigate everything. Although heartbroken, you recognized that, allowing Gabe to have said space. So you went your separate ways, trying to move on from each other.

However, there was now a void in your heart, brought on by the absence of Gabe. The ache of missing him never faded, and the realization that you two truly belonged together deepened. What you didn’t know was that Gabe, too, had been feeling the ache. He missed the girl that was his first love.

In the meantime, the regular season had come and gone, the mens hockey team now on the verge of heading to the Frozen Four. Gabe, despite the recent success in hockey, was finding that nothing was making him completely happy. The memories of you still hung in the back of his mind and the guilt from having hurt you was still weighing on him.

Hollers and shouts filled his ears as he came off the ice and into the locker room. Gabe and the rest of the team were fresh off of a win that was set to send them to the Frozen Four. Like the rest of his teammates, Gabe should’ve been celebrating, relishing in the victory. However, Gabe couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.

It was you. You were what was missing. Gabe felt he couldn’t relish in his success unless he had someone to share it with. Unless he could share it with you.

Gabe peeled his equipment off, tossing it in his stall. Will approached his friend, watching as he frantically changed.

“Hey Gabo, whatcha doing?” He asked

“I’m going to y/n’s.” He said, tossing the jersey into the bin at the center of the room.

“You’re what?” Will asked.

“I’m going to see y/n.” Gabe said. “I need to get her back man, I’m miserable without her.”

Will could attest to that, having dealt with a heartbroken Gabe for 6 months now. He was no longer his usual self. However, Will didn’t know if you still had room in your heart for Gabe.

“Is she gonna take you back?” Will asked.

“I don’t know man.” Gabe shrugged, pulling on his gameday suit. “But I gotta give it a shot.”

Gabe shoved his belongings in his bag, shoving the bag in Will’s hands. “Take this back to our dorm for me?” Gabe asked will.

Will furrowed his brows. “You’re going right now? It’s fucking pouring out man.” Will told him. It had been pouring all day and hadn’t let up. Gabe nodded, pulling on his BC hockey jacket.

“Dude let me give you a ride at least!” Will tried to shout to Gabe, but he was already out the door, heading to your place.

A knock at your front door pulled you from your show. It had you confused as to who could possibly be at your door in the middle of a thunderstorm. Curious none the less, you got up and walked to the door, your slippers shuffling against the hardwood.

You opened the door to a drenched Gabe wearing a Boston College hockey jacket. His usual curls were flattened to his head, the rain taking away the volume. His eyes shone of determination, cutting through his rain-soaked image.

“Gabe?” You asked, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What are you doing here? Did you walk here? Are you insane?”

Your questions flowed out without giving Gabe a chance to answer them. Gabe, however, didn’t respond to them when you stopped. “It’s been a long 6 months without you.” He says. “I miss you so much, and I was so stupid earlier. I was just too afraid to tell you what I wanted.”

You go to speak but Gabe continues. “I want you for worse or for better,” Gabe began, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity. “I know I broke your heart, but I promise you I will put it back together. I know I messed up but please give me the chance to fix it. If you’re not ready, I get that. I’ll wait for you. I would wait forever and ever.”

You couldn’t find the words but your brain was going a million miles a minute. 6 months you and Gabe had been separated. 6 months it had taken him to come to this realization. But the look in his eyes. The vulnerability in his eyes and in his words moved you. Finally having Gabe in front of you, physically seeing his face and not through a screen as you would go through your photos of him, you’re reminded of the love you’d once known. Your shared joy and smiles rushing back to your memory.

You think to the framed photo of you and Gabe that still sits on your desk, the only testament to a love that once was. The ornate frame that was a gift from Gabe contained a photo of the two of you from the summer. In it, you’re stood in front of Gabe, his arms snaked around your torso and his lips pressed to your cheek. The pair of you significantly more tan than you are now, Gabes faint freckles appearing from sun exposure. Your favourite moment was frozen in time in that photo.

Gabe's words, coupled with the visual reminder of your love melted away any skepticism that you were harbouring. You still had yet to find the proper words, but you opened the door and stepped aside allowing Gabe to step inside. He was dripping all over your floors but you didn’t quite mind. He shrugged off the drenched jacket, it landing on the floor with a slap. Your arms snaked around his neck, his wrapping around your body. His wet hair dripped onto your face, his body shivering slightly. Having him back in your arms felt right. As you embraced one another, it felt as if the flame was rekindled, although it had never truly extinguished.

You pull back slightly, placing a delicate hand to Gabe’s cheek. “I missed you.” Gabe says softly.

“I missed us.” You reply.

#gabe perreault #boston college #gabe perreault imagine #will smith #will smith hockey #ryan leonard #hockey imagine #hockey #new york rangers

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jjunberry · 9 months ago

Text

txt! as chase atlantic songs

pairing! txt x reader

genre! angst, slight smut

warnings! toxic relationships

synopsis! songs by chase atlantic i think txt would be

wc! 600

soobin as slow down

“you’re buried in the pillow, yeah, you're so loud”

you were soobin’s dirty little secret. he met you after a show and once he had you, he was hooked. he was laid on the bed and his eyes trailed your form. “come here babe.” he said his voice deep. you crawled up the bed and sat on his lap. his hands gripped your hips, giving them a squeeze. “gonna let me fuck you?” you nodded. “you gotta keep quiet baby.” he said before flipping you onto your stomach. soobin was quick to push your panties the side. using your wetness he coated his dick and slipped in. you moaned out at the feeling. soobin grunted and pushed your face down into the pillow. “be quiet or i’ll cum and send you home needy.”

yeonjun as right here

“i’m right here, here. oh, baby take a look around, i’m the only one that hasn't walked out.”

yeonjun hated your friends. he only ever wanted your attention on him. he slowly drove them out. one by one they fell off cutting contact with you. “i just don’t understand why they go out without me.” you ranted doing your skin care. “come to bed baby, forget them.” he said. you ignored his words continuing your rant. “baby.” yeonjun snapped his voice stern. “i do not care about your fucking friends. now come to bed.” you nodded and abandoned your skin care. yeonjun pulled you against his chest. “i’m the only one here for you, forget them.” he kissed your head.

beomgyu as you too

“if you love it, then you cut the thing loose.”

it was a repeating toxic cycle. fighting, breaking up, getting back together. fucking roughly to bury the reason you faught again. you were tired but you just loved him. you’d forgive anything he did. “y/n we need to talk.” beomgyu said. here we go. another fight. “what now beomgyu?” he leaned against the door frame and watched you change into sleep clothes. “i’m done, i have my bags packed. i can’t keep doing this. it’s exhausting.” you sighed and looked at him. “very funny beomgyu just come to bed.” he ignored your words and walked over kissing you deeply. “goodbye baby.” he turned to leave. “if you leave don’t fucking bother coming back.” he just sighed and walked out.

taehyun as the walls

“honestly she needs a little loving. fuck it, now i’m getting off the subject, yeah, yeah.”

you were lonely. always by yourself. against the wall at parties, in the back of the room. he always spotted you though. there was something about you taehyun couldn’t shake. you needed something or someone. that someone being him. it didn’t take long for you to fall into bed with him. taehyun filled that void and satisfied that need and want within you. he had his hand wrapped around your throat as he thrusted into you roughly. he stilled cumming in you. when he cleaned himself up he left and rejoined the party. you never felt so full yet so alone.

hueningkai as heaven and back

“all in one night. she just went to heaven and back.”

you always wanted him. he just wanted something quick. kai took you out that night. all over the town. different clubs, different parties. you felt so high. kai took you by the hand and lead you do a dingy bathroom. his hand slipped into your pants. your eyes rolled back. before you knew it kai was taking you against the bathroom stall. you felt like you were in heaven. you could feel your orgasm approaching but it was cut short when kai finished and pulled out. he tucked himself away and left the stall. your heart sunk to your feet. it all came crashing down watching him leave you.

author’s note! i got a little carried away with this one…. these are some of my favorite chase atlantic songs soooooooooo it was only fitting i went a little crazy writing this.

tag list! @jjunieworld @304files

love, echo ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

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elysiaheaven · 3 months ago

Note

KC cast when breakup with their s/o!

THIS WAS A PAIN TO WRITE!!

KC cast when breakup with their s/o! This could be ooc for some characters! ^^

Ronin- The Devil's Butcher

“Hey, so…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can we talk about us? Like, seriously?”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, and he straightened, stepping closer. “What’s there to talk about? I thought we were having a blast!” He leaned in, his tone dripping with irony. “You know, living the dream, fighting against the mundane, embracing our tragic romance like the protagonists of some angsty novel?”

“Ronin, stop joking around,” you pleaded, trying to inject some seriousness into the moment. “This isn’t funny. I’m serious.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” He cocked his head to the side, the grin never leaving his lips. “You know I thrive on the ridiculousness of it all. Why break up with you when I can just keep toying with your emotions like a cat with a mouse?”

Your heart sank, confusion mixing with frustration. “You think this is a game? That I’m just some toy for you to play with?”

He stepped back, letting out a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with a twisted delight. “Oh, sweetheart, you know you’re much more than that. You’re like… my favorite game. But maybe I’m just getting bored of playing.”

“Bored?” you echoed, disbelief flooding your voice. “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged, the casualness of his movements almost mocking. “Oh, I’m dead serious. Think about it. You and me? It’s like the best horror movie plot twist, isn’t it? The classic ‘I can’t handle your intensity, so I’m gonna ghost you’ moment.” He tilted his head, pretending to ponder, then added, “How about we make it a dramatic exit? It’d be so much more entertaining.”

A lump formed in your throat. “So you’re just going to throw this away? Everything we’ve built?”

“Built? Ha! We were more like a rickety shack on the edge of a cliff, darling. All it takes is one little push to watch it tumble into the abyss. And honestly? I’m just not feeling the adrenaline anymore.” He looked at you, his eyes piercing but playful. “I mean, how many more times can I listen to you tell me to stop joking before it gets boring?”

You felt your heart ache, each word cutting deeper. “You’re breaking up with me because you’re bored? Because you think it’s a game?”

“Pretty much.” He smiled, the devilish glint in his eye never fading. “But hey, it’s been a hell of a ride, hasn’t it? Maybe we’ll meet again in some alternate universe, where I’m not such an asshole.”

After the breakup, Ronin maintains his usual devil-may-care attitude, plastering on that signature smirk and making dark jokes to anyone who’ll listen. However, inside, he feels a swirling storm of regret and fear, a feeling he rarely acknowledges. The laughter and playful teasing mask a gnawing worry about the void left in his life.

His love for the theatricality of life makes it hard for him to admit he’s hurting. The post-ironic lens he views the world through twists everything into a dark joke, making it hard for him to understand his own feelings. He chuckles to himself, thinking, Is this the part where I dramatically reflect on my life choices?

Ronin realizes that he enjoyed the challenge of corrupting and rebuilding you, but now it feels like a game lost. He’s torn between his pleasure in manipulation and a deeper, unsettling craving for genuine connection. The thrill of twisting your mind now feels empty without you there to play against.

He finds himself haunted by memories of your time together, often replaying conversations in his mind. The little things—your laughter, your exasperated eye rolls at his dark humor—sting more than he expected. The thought of you moving on fills him with an irrational panic.

In an attempt to distract himself from the ache, Ronin immerses himself in his "work," spiraling deeper into his more devilish tendencies. He takes on riskier jobs, pushing his limits and living dangerously, thinking it might fill the void. However, each time he looks into the eyes of his victims, he sees glimpses of you, and it only deepens his conflict.

Alone at night, when the chaos quiets, the mask begins to slip. He stares at the ceiling, reflecting on what it means to be "the Butcher." The irony isn’t lost on him; here he is, a killer yearning for something real, grappling with emotions he deemed beneath him. The image of your face haunts him, and he wonders if he pushed you away because he feared his own growing attachment.

Ronin feels a sense of freedom in being alone, yet it frightens him. His nature thrives in chaos, and the loss of your vibrant presence leaves him feeling empty. He fears that if he opens up to the idea of missing you, it might lead to a vulnerability he’s not ready to face.

He engages in his twisted thoughts, he reflects on whether he could have manipulated the situation differently, wondering if he should have pushed back against the fear instead of giving in. His mind flirts with the idea of reconnecting, yet he recoils, convinced that his devilish nature could never let him be truly vulnerable with you again.

Ronin begins to write poetry, scribbling down his thoughts in a dark notebook. Each line drips with irony, masked in the guise of self-deprecation and humor, but they reveal the heartache he tries to hide. In those moments, he questions if he’s become the very monster he sought to control, lost to his own games.

In the end, he knows he’ll keep cycling through this madness: flirting with danger, toying with the idea of reaching out, all while holding onto the mask of the devil he has carefully crafted. But deep down, the conflict remains—he misses you more than he’s willing to admit, and the fun of corruption no longer feels like enough to fill the chasm you left behind.

After the breakup, Ronin maintains his usual devil-may-care attitude, plastering on that signature smirk and making dark jokes to anyone who’ll listen. However, inside, he feels a swirling storm of regret and fear. maybe... He will mask it. It's been easy for him...

It's just another tragic love story!!

Ronin slouched in his chair, a scowl etched across his face as he tapped his phone impatiently. Angel had been the only one to check in on him since the breakup, her concern unrelenting even as he tried to distance himself from anyone who might dig deeper. He didn’t need pity; he was the Butcher, the devil in disguise. But the screen lit up with her name, and against his better judgment, he opened the message.

Angel: Hey, just wanted to check in. Have you been okay?

He scoffed at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, hesitant. Didja think I care? Nope.

The response felt empty even as he hit send, and he leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. A part of him relished the chance to brush her off, to maintain his devil-may-care image. But there was a gnawing doubt creeping in, an itch beneath his skin.

Angel: You don’t have to pretend with me. You know I care about you, right?

He rolled his eyes, dismissing her concern as he replied, So fun. The sarcasm dripped off his words like poison, but as soon as he hit send, he felt a hollowness settle in his chest.

He wasn't usually like this to angel..

As he stood up from the seat, he felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, the playful bravado fading with every step. He walked to the mirror, the harsh light exposing the cracks in his carefully curated facade. His heart raced, pounding like a drum in the silence.

Staring at his reflection, he felt a tremor in his hands. The smirk, the bravado, the devilish charm—none of it felt real anymore. In that moment, the mask slipped, and he let out a shaky breath, tears welling up in his eyes.

Even the devil can cry, he thought bitterly, feeling the warmth trickle down his cheeks. He’d buried his heart at Angelwood, thinking he could forget that it ever existed. But the truth was, it was still there, dormant but never gone, lingering beneath layers of irony and cruelty. It throbbed painfully in the wake of your absence, a constant reminder of what he’d lost.

The irony twisted in his gut; he had reveled in his chaos, played the part of the heartless killer, but beneath it all, he was just a man. A man who let himself feel, and now, that feeling was tearing him apart. Each drop of sorrow felt like a nail in the coffin he’d built around his heart, and no amount of darkness could extinguish the light that had once burned so brightly for you.

He took a step back, the reflection in the glass warping under the weight of his emotions. The devil might have loved too deeply, too fiercely, and now he was left with nothing but echoes of laughter and moments that would haunt him like shadows.

Ronin wiped at his eyes, anger bubbling up to mask the pain. Get it together, he thought, but deep down, he knew the truth. He missed you—more than he’d ever let on, more than he’d ever wanted to admit. The heart he thought he buried was alive and well, and it ached like a fresh wound.

V- Batman

You stood with your hands in the soil, tending to a row of young saplings. The scent of damp earth filled the air, a familiar comfort you always found with V. But tonight, something felt different—colder.

He stood nearby, watching you in silence. His arms crossed, his sharp, unreadable gaze fixed on the plants you were nurturing so carefully.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “We need to talk.”

You glanced up, wiping your hands on a rag, sensing the weight behind his words. “V, what’s going on?”

There was a pause—one of those long, uncomfortable silences he often wielded like a weapon. His expression remained stone-cold, but his fingers tapped lightly against his forearm, betraying the tiniest flicker of hesitation.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, “about us. About what I want. What I need. And… I shouldn’t have weaknesses. Not like this.”

The words hit like a sudden frost settling over the warmth of the greenhouse. You frowned, feeling something twist uncomfortably in your chest. “What are you talking about? Weakness?”

He exhaled slowly, as though every word had to be calculated. “Loving you is a liability. You make me…” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes as if admitting the truth to himself was almost offensive. “Vulnerable.”

You blinked, a knot tightening in your throat. “So what, you’re saying you care too much? That it’s a bad thing?”

He gave you that familiar, detached look—the one that always frustrated you because it made you feel like your words were being weighed and found lacking. “It is,” he said matter-of-factly. “If I care, I’ll hesitate. If I hesitate… I lose.”

“Lose?” You stepped forward, trying to make sense of the walls he was building. “V, this isn’t some tactical mission. This is us. You don’t have to fight me like I’m the enemy.”

He didn’t move away when you closed the space between you, but his posture stiffened—like he was bracing himself, fighting the urge to soften. His gaze flickered briefly to the plants behind you, and something about the way he looked at them made your heart ache. He had always admired your ability to nurture life. Maybe that was part of the problem.

“Don’t you get it?” he murmured, the faintest crack slipping into his otherwise steady voice. “You’re the kind of person who brings things to life. And I’m… I’m not built for that. I’ve spent my whole life trying to eliminate threats, avoid attachments. If I let you stay, I’ll start—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I’ll start believing that something good can last. That I could keep it.”

“And that scares you.” Your voice was soft, but it wasn’t a question.

He gave a small, bitter smile—barely more than a twitch of his lips. “More than you know.”

You reached for him, but he took a step back, the movement as deliberate as the rest of him.

“This isn’t about you,” he said quietly, but with finality. “It’s about me. I need to be in control. Of myself. Of everything.”

“So what?” you asked, anger creeping into your voice. “You’re just going to walk away because loving me makes you feel human?”

He didn’t answer right away. For a moment, the silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. Then he gave a short, almost mechanical nod, as if he’d already accepted the conclusion long before this conversation started. “Yes.”

The word was sharp and precise, like a scalpel cutting away what remained of your relationship.

You stared at him, the anger dissolving into disbelief. “That’s it?”

His gaze softened, just for a moment—a fleeting crack in the armor he wore so tightly. “I wish it could be different. But this… this isn’t who I’m supposed to be.”

“V,” you whispered, hoping, praying for something—anything—that would prove he still felt what you knew he did.

He looked at you for a long, agonizing moment, as if memorizing your face, storing it away somewhere deep inside where even he wouldn’t be able to touch it again. Then, in the cold, measured tone that defined him, he said:

“Take care of the yourself.”

And just like that, he turned and left, his footsteps quiet and steady, as if the weight of the world didn’t press down on his shoulders with every step.

You stood there, rooted in place, surrounded by the life you had nurtured together. But the warmth that had once existed between you was gone, replaced by the cold absence of a man too afraid to let himself love.

After breakup

After the breakup, V seems completely unaffected to anyone who looks at him. He keeps his composure—his face neutral, his voice flat. But in reality, every moment feels heavier than the last, as if the air around him thickens with regret. He doesn’t say it aloud, but your absence clings to him like a bruise, slow to fade.

He throws himself into routines: feeding stray animals, taking care of his birdies

V starts taking longer and longer walks at night, finding solace in animals—creatures who don’t demand emotional explanations or try to decipher the complicated labyrinth of his thoughts. He prefers their company now; they don’t pry. But every time he comes across a familiar place where the two of you once spent time together, the ache sharpens in his chest. He curses himself for noticing. He curses you for lingering, even when you’re not there.

In his mind, the breakup was the logical choice. You deserved someone softer, someone better suited for a future with gardens and pets that didn’t come with the looming shadow of death. His cold detachment was supposed to make things easier for both of you—cleaner. But it didn’t. Not for him. No matter how much he tries to rationalize it, the feelings linger, gnawing at him like ivy curling through the cracks of his armor.

V was drawn to your nurturing side, but that also terrified him. You made him feel safe, and that safety was unsettling. What kind of monster finds comfort in someone so good? You balanced the chaos in him with quiet strength, but that only made his darkest impulses feel more dangerous in comparison. Loving you made him feel seen—and he hated that more than anything.

V drafts messages to you late at night, only to delete them before they’re ever sent. “How are the flowers? The white ones should bloom this week.” He knows you’re better off without him. Still, his thumb hovers over the send button sometimes, just long enough to remind him how easy it would be to drag you back into his world.

He convinces himself that he’s done the right thing. But when he sees you smiling with someone new—someone who fits the life you deserve—it’s like a knife twisting in his chest. His expression doesn’t change, but his hands clench so tightly his knuckles turn white. If he were any less disciplined, he might’ve killed them right there. He tells himself it’s jealousy, but deep down, he knows it’s grief.

The animals he cares for—strays, birds, the creatures that flock to him—pick up on his sadness. A stray cat curls up in his lap, sensing the heaviness in him. He brushes his fingers over its fur absentmindedly, realizing for the first time that animals understand heartbreak better than most people. It’s a strange kind of comfort, but not enough to fill the space you left behind.

On nights when the loneliness becomes unbearable, V sits in the garden under the moonlight, staring at the plants the two of you nurtured together. He tells himself it was inevitable, that he had to let you go. But sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, he wonders if it was all just fear. Fear that you’d unravel him completely. Fear that someone as good as you could never truly love someone like him.

V doesn’t believe in sentimental nonsense. But you were the closest thing he’d ever come to a home. He knows now that even the coldest creatures crave warmth—and he found it in you. But instead of basking in it, he let his fear drive you away. And now, all he can do is live with the knowledge that he traded his one chance at happiness for the hollow comfort of control.

He repeats it like a mantra—It’s better this way. But the words feel empty. As he tends to the plants alone, surrounded by the animals that will never ask the questions he can’t answer, the truth settles in: Losing you wasn’t just painful—it was the kind of mistake you can never undo.

Misaki- The baby

You can tell something is off the second Misaki steps through the window , a familiar grin plastered across their face but… it doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s a weight she’s trying to hide behind that goofy, energetic exterior, but it slips through the cracks—just enough for you to notice.

“Heyyyy! Guess who’s here!” she singsongs, throwing her arms up dramatically, like this is some routine. Like everything is fine.

But you know it isn’t. You can see it in the way their hands fidget with the cuffs of her sleeves, how their gaze darts around the room, never quite landing on you. She’s stalling.

"Misaki," you say gently. "What’s going on?"

She drops onto the couch, kicking off her shoes in that chaotic, carefree way of hers. But the moment she speaks, you hear the tension threading through her voice, coiled tight like a wire ready to snap.

"So," she says with a forced grin, "you ever, uh... just know when something's not working? Like, you’re throwing everything at it—your whole heart, even—and it’s still like... hmmm... maybe this isn’t it." She laughs, but it’s sharp, brittle. “Yeah, so… that’s kinda what I’ve been thinking."

Your heart sinks. “What are you saying?”

She makes finger guns, like this whole thing is a joke. Like it’s not ripping her apart inside. "Ding ding ding! Breakup, baby! You win!" Their voice is too loud, too bright, and it makes your chest hurt because this is Misaki, hiding behind humor like it’s armor.

"Misaki... stop joking. What’s really going on?"

She freezes, and for a second, you catch the flash of something raw in her eyes—panic, maybe. Fear. She rubs at the back of their neck, suddenly looking smaller than usual despite their big personality.

“I mean it,” she says, softer now. "I’ve been thinking... and I don’t think I can do this. I love you. I do. But I don’t think I know how to be with you." their voice cracks on the last word, and she tries to cover it with a shaky laugh.

"I thought maybe if I acted normal, if I kept being goofy, I could pretend it was fine. But it’s not fine, and I can’t keep faking it."

There’s a long silence between you. You search their face, looking for something to latch onto, some way to fix this. But she won’t meet your gaze—just stares at their hands, as if they might hold answers she can’t find.

You want to say something, anything, but before you can, she stands up abruptly, forcing a grin. "Hey, no hard feelings, okay? We had a good run! And honestly, who else would put up with me for this long? You're a saint." She laughs again, but this one sounds more like a sob.

"Misaki—"

"Don’t," she interrupts, holding up a hand. "If you say something sweet, I swear I'll lose it."

You can only watch as she grabs their stuff and heads toward the door, moving too quickly, like she’s afraid she’ll change their mind if she stays a second longer. She pauses with their hand on the doorknob, finally glancing back at you with a crooked, bittersweet smile.

"Take care of yourself, okay? And... eat something that’s not ramen for once, idiot." Her voice wavers, but she gives you one last grin—bright and broken, just like them—and then she’s gone.

Misaki keeps up their bubbly, chaotic energy around others. They crack jokes, flirt, and prank their friends even harder, desperate to keep things light. But the more they joke, the hollower it feels. It’s all performance, and they know it—hoping that if they pretend long enough, the ache in their chest will fade.

At night, when they're finally alone, the mask slips. They lie in bed, scrolling through old texts, hovering over the call button but never pressing it. They stare at photos of the two of you together until their eyes blur with tears. Without anyone to laugh with, their humor shatters, leaving them to drown in silence.

Some nights, they're furious—angry at themself for not making things work, for ruining something good. Other times, they direct the blame toward you in petty ways: If only they tried harder… But beneath it all, Misaki knows the truth—it wasn't anyone's fault. And that truth stings the most. It was theirs...

Misaki starts calling random friends or coworkers during missions—anyone who’ll listen, even if the conversation is meaningless. They just need a familiar voice to fill the silence, laughing too hard at jokes that aren’t even funny. It’s not you, but it’s the closest they can get.

They still cook elaborate meals, even though it’s only for themself. Sometimes, out of habit, they set two plates—only to realize halfway through and shove the extra one back into the cabinet with trembling hands.

The worst moments are when they catch themself about to say something only you would understand—a dumb inside joke, a shared quip. They pause mid-sentence, force an awkward laugh, and change the topic. But every time it happens, it feels like a tiny knife twisting deeper in their chest.

They dive headfirst into anything to keep busy—missions, side hustles, parties. They flirt harder, act sillier, laugh louder. But nothing sticks. The more they try to drown the feelings, the heavier the emptiness becomes.

Even on the brink of falling apart, Misaki will still be the one wiping a friend's tears and giving pep talks. They’ve always been the goofy, reliable one. Showing their hurt feels like admitting defeat, so they bottle it up, letting it fester inside.

When they finally stop moving—standing in the shower or waiting for water to boil—the thoughts creep in. They’ll remember a tiny, stupid detail about you—how you liked your eggs, or the way you hummed that one song—and it breaks them all over again.

They’ve convinced themself that you're better off without them. They’re probably happier now. This is for the best. They repeat it like a mantra, hoping that one day it will feel true. But it never does.

A tiny part of them still hopes you’ll reach out. Every notification makes their heart race, even though they know it’s foolish. And every time it’s not you, it feels like a punch to the gut.

They make light jokes about the breakup to friends, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Ha, relationships are overrated, right?” But if someone lingers too long on the topic, their laugh falters, and they change the subject as quickly as they can.

Misaki acts unbothered—they smile, wave, maybe even throw out a playful joke. But the moment they’re alone, they crumble, staring at their reflection in a window or a mirror and whispering, Why wasn’t I enough?

Misaki keeps telling themself they’ll bounce back—I’ve been through worse. I’ll survive this, too. But deep down, they know that some scars never truly heal. And this one? It’s going to stay with them for a long, long time.

Angel-Heartsick

Angel sits across from you, her usual radiant smile nowhere to be found. Instead, her lips are pressed into a tight line, and she’s nervously tapping her foot—a rare crack in her poised demeanor. You know something is coming, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you like a storm waiting to break.

She takes a deep breath, brushing a hand through her perfectly styled hair. "Okay, listen, this is… really hard for me, but I need to say it." Her voice wavers, not from uncertainty, but from the effort of keeping herself together.

"It’s not you. I swear it’s not. And, ugh, I hate how cliché that sounds," she huffs, forcing out a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. "I just… I’ve been thinking, and I feel like I’m dragging you through something you didn’t sign up for. I try to be this fun, easygoing person, but you’ve seen what’s underneath. The spirals. The breakdowns."

Her fingers fiddle with the edge of her sleeve, a nervous tic you rarely see. "I thought I could handle everything. Work, us, my brain… But I can’t. And it’s not fair to you." She pauses, her chest rising with another heavy breath. "You’ve been… amazing, honestly. But I don’t think I know how to be what you need, not when I’m still figuring out how to take care of myself."

Her eyes shimmer, but she fights back the tears, refusing to let them fall. "I thought maybe if I tried harder, if I just kept pushing, we could make it work. But now… now I think I’d only hurt you more in the end."

Her voice breaks slightly as she continues. "I care about you so much. Too much. And that’s why I have to let you go." The words hang in the air, sharp and final, like the snap of a closing door.

She reaches out, briefly touching your hand before pulling away like she can’t bear the contact. "You deserve someone who can be fully present, and I need to be alone for a while. To figure things out, for real this time."

A bitter, self-deprecating smile curls her lips. "Maybe one day, when I’m not such a mess, we can find each other again. But right now? I think we both deserve better than what I can give."

Angel puts on a brave face for her followers and fans, continuing to post her usual cheerful content, but inside, she feels like she’s crumbling. She hides her heartbreak behind edited videos and vibrant filters, desperately trying to convince everyone—and herself—that she’s okay.

When the cameras are off, she often finds herself lying in bed, scrolling through old pictures and messages from you. Late at night, when the world is quiet, the tears come. She stares at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her choices pressing down like a heavy blanket.

Even when surrounded by friends and fans, she feels a profound sense of loneliness. Their laughter and cheers fade into white noise, and all she can think about is how they don’t know the real her—the one who’s struggling, the one who misses you deeply.

Random moments trigger memories of you, whether it’s a song playing in the background or a dish you both loved. Each reminder feels like a fresh wound, slicing through her carefully constructed facade. She’ll smile on the outside, but inside, it feels like everything is unraveling.

Editing videos becomes a bittersweet task. Sometimes she’ll leave in bloopers or comments about you, only to cringe afterward and cut them out. It’s a constant battle between nostalgia and pain, and she often wonders if she’ll ever be able to look at those memories without hurting.

Whenever she starts to spiral into her dark thoughts, it feels like a tidal wave crashing over her. She worries that she’ll never feel “normal” again, and her thoughts race with anxiety, self-doubt, and regrets. On particularly hard days, she feels trapped in her own mind.

Angel throws herself into her work, often taking on extra projects and collaborations to keep her mind occupied. But deep down, she knows it’s a temporary fix; the happiness it brings doesn’t fill the void left by you.

She reaches out to friends more often, craving their presence but feeling guilty for leaning on them too much. Her internal monologue battles with the fear that she’s becoming a burden, and she hides her real feelings to avoid dragging anyone down with her.

“I’m Fine” - The phrase becomes a shield against probing questions, even though she’s anything but fine. When friends ask how she’s doing, she forces a smile and replies, “I’m fine!” but she can feel the cracks in her voice.

Her manic episodes return with a vengeance, and she feels like she’s on a rollercoaster of emotions—sometimes feeling hopeful, other times spiraling into despair. It’s exhausting, and she struggles to keep up with herself.

She finds herself typing out messages to you, only to delete them before hitting send. The urge to reach out is strong, but the fear of rejection and the pain of facing reality keeps her from doing so.

Her dreams are filled with memories of you—happy moments twisted into something bittersweet. She wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, clutching her pillow and wishing it were you.

Despite everything, there’s a part of her that clings to the hope that things might change. She often daydreams about a future where she’s healed, where you could be together again, but that hope feels more like a curse than a blessing.

Angel tries to channel her emotions into creative outlets, like painting or journaling. It’s cathartic, but she often finds herself stuck, unable to translate the whirlwind of feelings into words or images.

#killer chat ronin #ronin killer chat #killer chat vn #killer chat v #killerchat #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #v x reader #v killer chat #misaki x reader #angel x reader #killer chat misaki #killer chat misaki x reader #killer chat v x reader #killer chat angel x reader

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b0ng05 · 11 months ago

Text

Sam Carpenter x fem!Reader -

Coffee pt.1

Word Count: 1135

Summary: While at work, one of Y/n's regular customers, Tara, brings someone new to the cafe.

Also, Not Proofread💅

Master list/ Request list

Pt.2

Raindrops scattered down the big glass window of the cafe, the sky dark and gloomy with thundering clouds. The air smelt of fresh ground coffee and the small scent of cinnamon rolls baking in the back. Soft and quiet music played through the speakers as I leaned my arms on the frigid metal counter in front of me. My face resting in the palm of my hand as I looked around the emptying dining area. Chairs and booths void of customers, leaving my mind bored with the dull atmosphere. I sigh as I mentally pray for my shift to end faster, all I wanted to do was go home and sleep, between finals, work, and studying, I was beyond exhausted.

The ting of the bell above the front door goes off, jolting my eyes from their heaviness. I glance over to the door to see Tara enter the cafe, a usual patron of the cafe and someone I often saw around my college campus. She lifted the hood of her sweater off, her dark brown hair tied in two messy braids. As she walked over to the counter, her lips were perched in a smile that made her dimples apparent. Her once light gray hoodie now a darker shade with the absorbed rain.

“Hey, your usual Tara?” I ask with a polite smile as I go to reach for a cup to write her name on.

“Yup, but I’m gonna also need a medium cold brew, I’m meeting someone here today.” Tara nods, reaching in her pocket for her wallet.

“Absolutely,” I nod, turning the tablet keypad towards her so she could swipe her card.

Once the receipt prints out, I slide it over the counter to her before making my way to the cups. Tara walks over to her usual booth in the corner where she would sit and study most weekday afternoons. I write her name on the papercup with sharpie before doing the same with the other. I make Tara’s frappucino first, adding extra whipcream and caramel, something I had done for her often. I move on to make the cold brew, adding the top with cold foam.

By the time I’m done, I notice Tara is no longer sitting alone in her usual booth. Across from her sat a woman with long black hair and dark brown eyes. Her eyebrows were furrowed in confusion as Tara rambled to her about something. I walk over to the table, holding a drink in each hand. As I get closer, I feel my heart start to race and butterflies fill my stomach. I place the cups gently on the table between them with a polite smile.

“Oh, thank you, Y/n,” Tara smiles joyfully as she picks up her straw and peels the wrapper off before taking a big sip of her drink.

“Of course,” I smile and nod. As I turn to walk back behind the counter, my eyes meet the mystery woman’s for a brief second, not expecting the icy glare that I got in return. I quickly walk back behind the counter, grabbing a rag and cleaning up to avoid the feeling of impending doom that came from the glare the woman gave me. A shiver ran up my spine as my hand grabbed the neck of the spray bottle, hoping she was focused on Tara by now.

As I wipe off the counter, I subtly glance back up at the woman, unable to help myself. The woman took a sip of her coffee, my eyes drinking up the sight of the prominent veins in her hand holding the papercup. My eyes drift along the sleeves of her black bomberr jacket, up to her defined jawline-

My eyes widen as our eyes meet once again, she squinted slightly in an intimidating manner. But what I didn’t miss was the small smirk that teased at the corner of her lips for a second before disappearing. I blush as I turn around to walk into the back office where my coworker had been on his break. My eyes wide and panic on my face as I wordlessly sit next to him at the small table where he was eating his lunch.

“Joey…” I say.

“Y/n,” Joey mumbles through a bite of his sandwich, taking out his earbud before looking up at me.

“Hear me out. If you let me take my break right now, I will totally pick up one of your shifts,” I offer, my eyes meeting his bright blue ones.

“Okay, why would you want that? I have like ten minutes till my break ends, take one then,” Joey asks, looking at me bewildered before he wipes his mouth and hands with a napkin before crumpling it and trying to throw it into the trashcan. Totally missing the shot by a few feet.

“I accidentally made eye contact with a woman out there, more than an appropriate amount,” I sigh, covering my face with my hands as I lean back in the chair.

“What do you think is an inappropriate amount of eye contact?” He laughs, leaning his elbow on the table and pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“We didn’t say anything to each other, it was one of those got caught staring moments.” I admit as I blush red in embarrassment.

“Oh so you find her pretty,” Joey teases playfully, reaching over and nudging my arm with his.

“She totally gave me the stank eye.” I switch the topic as I hold my hand across my forehead.

“Well, I will not be leaving my sandwich anytime soon, so you can go enjoy Ms. stank eye,” Joey chuckles as he puts his earbud back in, mere seconds away from decimating the sandwich before him.

I sigh dramatically as I get back up from the chair to go back behind the counter. As I walk out of the office, I notice that Tara and the mystery woman are already gone. I couldn’t tell if I felt more relieved I wouldn’t be glared at, or more sad that I couldn’t continue to gawk. I sigh as I rest my face in the palm of my hand again, realizing I’d have to continue the boring passtime of waiting for customers, restocking and cleaning.

As I reach for a rag and cleaner to go wipe off tables and booths, I couldn’t help but let my mind drift back to that woman, the small smirk of hers etched into my mind, I unconsciously bite my bottom lip as I thought about her dark brown eyes that glared into my soul. Despite being terrifying, I couldn’t help but enjoy the way her mezmerizing eyes felt on me, and I could only hope that Tara would be bringing her back here in the near future.

#sam carpenter #samantha carpenter #sam carpenter x reader #sam carpenter x y/n #sam carpenter x female reader #samantha carpenter x reader #sam carpenter x you

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powerfultenderness · 8 months ago

Text

Simon Sees You

Pairing: Established Soap/Wife!Reader. Implied Ghost/Reader

Rated: Mature 18+

Summary: If he had you…

Warnings: Cheating (Soap is a no good dirty cheater). About to cheat (and wifey is gonna get him back for it).

Word Count: 500

A/N: There was more, but this is all my brain was willing to let me write. My first foray into the 141.

[Multi-fandom Masterlist]

[Vigilante x Reader Masterlist]

Johnny shares pictures of his pretty wife and like every other man that looks upon them, Simon can’t help but admire. Admire you, and by extension admire him for locking down someone so stunning.

When they aren’t deployed, when they are able to go home instead of having to stay on some base, Soap returns every day with a home made lunch. Not left overs from the undoubtedly delicious home cooked meals you cook for him. No, you take the time every day to prepare a healthy and tasty and substantial lunch for your husband.

Ghost listens, a little enviously, as Soap brags about why he was late that morning. Apparently last night, after returning home from your full time job and cooking dinner for him and cleaning for him, you were too tired to have sex. Which led to passionate morning sex. Soap has a jovial pep in his step for the rest of the day.

When they are deployed, Soap brags about how much you miss him. He turns his phone over to show the others the raunchy nudes you sent him, and shares your messages of how much you miss his cock. A part of Ghost wonders if you’d given your permission to share such intimate pictures and messages, but he doesn’t question Soap and instead commits the image of your soft body to memory.

He’s a bit resentful when he sees Johnny sneak off with one of the female operatives. He can’t understand how Johnny can think of another woman when he has you at home, when he has you sending him pictures that Ghost would pay a pretty penny for online.

If he had a woman like you at home waiting for him, you’d never be too tired to have sex. If you wanted to work, especially when he was deployed, that was well and fine, but if you did, he’d make sure that you didn’t have to cook and clean later. And he’d still have slow and soft morning sex with you. If he had you, he wouldn’t trade the lovingly made lunches for overly salted vending machine snacks. If he had you, he’d cherish every moment with you, he wouldn’t take you for granted. If he had you…

And then Simon sees you when he’s alone in his empty flat, attempting to fill an ever growing void in his heart with a random dating app. He sees you in a scandalously small bikini that he knows Johnny bought, he remembers the exact picture that Johnny showed off. There are more pictures that he’s already familiar with, none of them nude but all of them leaving little to the imagination.

‘My husband is cheating on me. I’m going to divorce him, but I want him to suffer the same betrayal.

Big dicks (20 cm+) only. I want you to take a pic of us.No need to show your face. Just your big cock fucking me.’

He’s never swiped right faster in his life.

#john soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #hurt no comfort

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mrs-gucci · 2 years ago

Text

Autopilot

Commander Mills x copilot!female Reader

whew, it’s been so long since I’ve written anything! it’s nice to dust off the old skills and write some steamy smut for the newest (and one of the sexiest!) Adam characters. I missed writing, so it’s really nice to be back :)

(also, two fics in one day?!?! crazy!!)

warnings. SMUT (18+ ONLY), possible 65 movie spoilers (but not anything important), oral sex (m receiving), oh so much dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie.

word count: 896

summary~ Instead of getting some sleep, you and Mills have other ideas for the peaceful autopilot period.

** CLICKING “KEEP READING” MEANS YOU UNDERSTAND & ACKNOWLEDGE ALL OF THE WARNINGS LISTED ABOVE AND ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, YOUR CONTENT CONSUMPTION IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. MINORS DNI. **

The ship hums smoothly as it cuts across the deep void of space. All the passengers are safely contained in their cryogenic pods, so the ship is quiet, almost unnervingly so.

Well, it was quiet. Not so much anymore.

Mills let out a soft groan as your lips wrapped around the head of his hardened shaft, giving it a little suck and running your tongue over him. His head tilts back while his hands smooth over your skull, gripping the back of your hair gently.

One advantage of being in a ship with no conscious passengers is that there’s no need to hold anything back. You two have already done this several times and damn, it feels good to let go.

“Shit,” he grunts, hips lifting slightly off the small cot. “That’s good, right there...mmm.”

It hasn’t taken you long to figure out how to please the Commander. He really just needs to destress, to take his mind off things. Most of the time he wanted to be in control, and you’re more than okay with that, but you definitely enjoy moments like these too.

You hum, taking more and more of him into your mouth until you can’t fit anymore. He lets out a gruff grunt, licking his lips and rubbing your head while you move up and down.

“God you’re good at this,” he breathes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t had my dick sucked like this in a long fucking time, sweetheart.”

“Mm — well as your copilot, my job is to assist you throughout this mission, so I’m more than happy to help however I can.”

Mills chuckles and leans back a bit, watching you as you pleasure him with your mouth. A few breathy curses pass through his lips, growing in frequency as his orgasm builds.

Just before you bring him to climax, he pushes you off gently, catching his breath and recomposing himself. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even when he suddenly lunges forward and tosses you on the bed before flipping you over onto your stomach. His large arm wraps around your middle and yanks you up onto all fours, pressing your body flush against his.

His hips press forward, hardened length pushing up against your backside while his lips hover next to your ear.

“I can’t wait to get inside this pussy of yours,” he purrs, pushing down your pants while still continuing to grind himself on you. “You always take me so well, mm, I love fucking your brains out. Are you gonna stay nice and still for me, gonna let me fuck you stupid until I fill your little hole?”

You let out a pathetic whimper at his words, a plague of goosebumps spreading to your arms and down your legs. He smirks, teasing the skin of your neck with his scratchy beard as he frees his thick, lengthy arousal and lines up with your entrance.

He notches in a bit, allowing you a taste of what’s to come before pushing all the way in, forcing you open around him. You moan softly, shuddering with lust. His breathing is heavy in your ear, soft grunts and growls slowly melting your already muddy brain. Sex with Mills always essentially wipes your mind, only able to think about him and feel his body as it combines with yours over and over again.

“Fuck...s-so fuckin’ tight...” Mills groans in your ear, exhaling shakily. “How are you still this t-tight after I’ve pounded you so many fffuuucking times? Can’t get enough of my big cock, is that it?”

You nod quickly. “There’s n-no such thing as too much of a good thing.”

He laughs at that, giving your ass a playful but firm smack. Your walls flutter and clench around his cock, drawing a rare deep, throaty moan from the Commander.

“Atta girl, make me cum,” he says, panting against your neck. “Make me give you my load, sweetheart.”

Hearing the Commander absolutely lose his usual uptight and composed demeanor is more erotic than anything in the whole galaxy. He’s surrendering, letting himself be taken over by the pleasure building inside his body and god, just that sight alone could make you cum.

“Ohh fuuuuck, Mills! Fuck m-me, mmm, keep going!”

His hips quicken their pace, causing his length to start hitting that sensitive spot on your walls. You moan loudly, jaw slacking as your orgasm builds rapidly.

One, two, three more thrusts and his hips are slammed up against your backside, deep moans and breaths echoing in your ear as he spills inside of you.

“Mmm, mmm, f-fuck…”

Your eyes roll back in your head at the feeling of his warmness painting your insides. But just as your orgasm begins to fade, he wraps his arm around and runs his fingers over your clit, causing your hips to rut forward at the contact.

“Now it’s your turn,” he says, nipping at your neck. “Show me what you’ve got, sweetheart.”

“O-Oh fuck—“

Mills’ fingers suddenly move at what feels like lightening speed and it sends you right over the edge, drawing a soft cry from your lips as your insides spark and buzz with orgasm.

“F-Fuck!”

Suddenly, a loud crash booms around you and the ship lurches, vibrating with impact. You both look at each other for a moment before rushing to get re-dressed.

****

send me your Mills thoughts!

Mills taglist: @safarigirlsp @candycanes19 @clydesfavoritegirl @holacherrycola90 @vedavan

(let me know if you wanna be tagged in my Mills works by either commenting on this post or sending me a message in my inbox!)

#mrs-gucci #65movie #65 movie #commander mills #mills #mills x reader #mills smut #commander mills smut #commander mills x reader #female reader #adam driver #adam driver fanfiction #adam driver smut #adcu fanfiction #adcu #adam driver character

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wileys-russo · 5 months ago

Note

FRESA is BACK!

I live for Alba-Fresa moments, the way Fres always tries to be difficult around her is so so real and Alba winding up Fresa and Ale is forever super entertaining but the BTV 2.0 moments between are genuinely so sweet… which is why I happily nodded along to the magic bracelet reference. I am glad that its now part of her routine (Every time someone requests Fresa angst i make 2 woven bracelets in my head, one for her one for me because I cannot handle the anxiety).

Fresa’s speech for Ale is just so stinking cute, I’m glad Alexia played a pivotal role in teaching important things such as how to blow bubbles in milk, how to tie shoelaces and riding a bike, even some of the Arsenal girlies have trouble with 2/3 things. Tbh its amazing how Alexia didn’t cry during that moment, couldn’t have been me.

"do you know messi?" 😯 "do you know how to juggle?" 🤔 "have you met messi?" 😯 "whats your favourite food?" 🤨 "WHY ARE YOUR HANDS SO BIG?" 🤭 "do footballers have to be tall" 🤔

Can I just say that Fresa deserves every bone-crushing hug coming her way.

Question: is Fresa's a common nickname used by everyone including her teachers? i thought she was called Fresa by her family/close friends and the internet!

I love this series so much, thank you for writing it, it has become such a comforting read and I look forward to each part eagerly. i/we? Appreciate you and all the work that goes into all your fics.

----

as always, I hope you are well and have a good day OH and belated happy birthday to you, hope it was a good one!

FRESA IS BACK (& filling the void part 8 is incoming soon!)

the dynamic of alba and fresa is so fun to write because its really your classic middle child/youngest child relationship with the love hate. very much a 'i can bully them but don't you dare try to or i'll kill you' sort of vibe, and through all of the teasing and arguing and fresa/alexia teaming up there really is something very sweet and endearing about writing their softer bonding moments.

honestly if you don't know how to properly blow bubbles in milk, wheres the fun in eating cereal??? fresa was one of the first in her class to go from velcro to laces on her shoes and she even used the same little song ale used to teach her to tie some of her friends shoes for them, which earned her a kindness award in school which she gave to alexia and alexia has in her fresa box.

the way little kids brains works is so funny and you know they were focused on anything but alexias actual footballing ability in their questions.

fresita gets all the hugs!

look honestly i detest writing and reading 'y/n' and i avoid it at any and all costs so we're just gonna say her universal (nick)name is fresa!! especially since she eventually dates sol, and technically sol is also a 'y/n' so it just makes it easier to call them their nicknames as their actual names!

i appreciate you! thank you nonny 💛

#answered asks #🍓☀️

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turvi · 2 years ago

Note

Hello again. It’s me the not Snape lover who is questioning their whole existence because of your fic. My whole feed is full of Snape fics now and I’m taking it as a sign from my FBI agent to lean into this new life. I don’t know if your requests are open so if not then please ignore me but if they are, would you be open to writing about the reader who is either James or Sirius’ sibling and they’re dating Snape and just the chaos it would cause? I love your work so much!!

Thanks for all the love I was planning a Snape angst. But now I am gonna save the best for the last. I hope you enjoy this.

WARNING: KISSING, GOOD OLD SIBLING CHAOS

"Come on, please, you must like someone." Sirius was determined to find out who his baby sister had a crush on. He was always prideful that Y/n preferred to open up to him rather than Regulus. Not that Regulus minded. He was happy not knowing anything about his siblings' love life drama (yet he always knew what was going on).

"I don't like anyone, Siri...gosh. Why is it hard for you to believe I am happily single?"

Sirius squinted his eyes. "Stop hanging out with Reggie. You are getting lame like him."

"You are lame."

Sirius gasped and threw a pillow at her.

"Very mature of you, Sirius Black." Y/n threw the pillow back at him, which he caught with one hand and kept hitting her. "Stop it, you dunderhead."

Sirius chuckled. "Ha, you sound like Snivellus."

Y/n froze. Sirius looked at her, concerned. "Are you ok? Did I hurt you?" He immediately threw away the pillow and rubbed her head, thinking he had hurt her, and Y/n let him. She didn't want to have an awkward conversation. Not yet.

...........................................................

Y/n walked out of her room. She had a feeling Sirius had noticed the change in her behaviour. As she was developing a brilliant plan to avoid him, she felt a pair of familiar arms around her waist.

"Hello, love." she sighed as she felt his arms tighten around her.

"Did I tell you your voice is my favourite thing about you?"

Severus pulled her chin up to make her look at him. Y/n could only wonder how her brother and friends called him ugly. But then again, people call the moon beautiful, and even the moon is imperfect.

Y/n's eyes fluttered as she felt his lips on her. She was about to pull away when she felt his hand on the nape of her neck. Her eyes widened as the kiss grew heated, and she felt his tongue on her lips when suddenly she heard a shriek.

The couple immediately pulled away when they heard it. Y/n cringed as the footsteps grew louder. Severus immediately put himself between Y/n and Sirius.

"Snivellus, how dare you even touch my sister?!"

Severus said with a smug smile. "Like this?"

He twirled Y/n and leaned her down, kissing her with so much passion Y/n forgot Sirius was standing right there.

"I am standing right here!!" Sirius' high-pitched voice echoed in the hall as he pulled Severus away from Y/n.

Severus groaned and rolled his eyes as he watched Sirius coddle Y/n. "Are you alright?" He immediately turned to Severus, fury filling his eyes. "How dare you get your grimy hands on my sister?"

"SIRIUS!" Y/n pulled him away as he was raising his hand. "Don't you dare talk to my boyfriend like that."

Sirius felt like his world was ending. He saw the smug smile spreading on Severus' face and that made it worse.

"My baby sister loves Snivellus." He stared into the void as Y/n held him. "He...Snivellous is going to be a part of my family tree!! ugh"

Y/n blushed. "Well, we didn't-

"Yes," Severus' determined tone made her blush even harder.

"Really?" Y/n left Sirius' side, not realising the pout on his face as she left her dear brother for the dungeon bat.

Severus caressed her cheek, looking into her eyes with a promise. "I will marry you." It was not a question. And Y/n felt dizzy. When Severus was so confident, it made her weak in the knees. Maybe he could dom-

"Excuse me!" Sirius shrieked again. "That's my sister."

"Really? I didn't know." Severus smirked as Sirius sat on the floor, having an existential crisis. "Snivellus is gonna be my brother-in-law." His voice cracked.

Y/n sighed. "Sirius, get up. Don't be like this. Come on."

"Y/nn, there are an uncountable number of boys in Hogwarts. Why him?"

Y/n noticed they were starting to attract a crowd. "Sirius, come on, get up."

Severus chuckled. "No, let him be. I am enjoying this."

She glared at him, and it shut him up. "He is still my brother."

"Utter shame," Severus muttered, only to immediately apologise. "Okay, mutt, get up."

"Get your grimy hands off me, Snivellus."

"Ok, enough, you two. You two are behaving like a child and creating a spectacle of yourselves."

Sirius looked at her. "You really mean it? You love him?"

"I wanna spend my life with him." She earnestly told him, hoping he adjusted to this new development.

"You better not hurt my baby sister Snivellus."

Y/n rubbed Severus' back as an apology. He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her neck. "I am okay, darling...it was not that bad. I am sure he will accept me soon. He loves you."

Severus had a smug smile, and Y/n squinted her eyes at him. "What?"

"You want to spend your life with me? Am I that good in bed?" his voice dropped an octave that sent shivers through her spine.

Y/n scoffed. "You wish-

Severus tugged her closer, kissing her and cradling her head, holding her close, not wanting to let her go now...not ever.

A/N: I love me some smug Snape and dramatic Sirius. I hope you like this. REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED.

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1eonsk · 5 months ago

Text

I don’t have a cool title for this, but I listened to this playlist on spotify while writing this! I’m also not usually a bottom Leon stan but it just felt right. I’m not confident in my smut writing so fr give me feedback pls. Enjoy!!

(if we want more parts lmk)

((sorry for any typos i wrote this at work))

Leon x Reader x Ada btw

“Am I gonna have to catch you here again yln?” Leon says, annoyance on his boyish face.

Officer Leon Kennedy has been in the force for about six months, you and an ally being his case for about four of those months. He always seemed to be right on your toes. Finding you in robberies, car jacking, unregistered firearms, you name it, he’s caught you.

And somehow, someway, you always found your way out. Leon can never find out why, the sheriff started to get on his ass for just how many times you haven’t been charged. The saw it to be fishy, interrogating Leon more times than you’ve been in cuffs.

You sit in the interrogation room, hair pulled back blowing your baby hairs out of your face. A small smirk on your face, Leon sighs. You know damn well Ada should be here by now, although seeing the blue-eyed police officer was the highlight of your day. His stare meets you head on, face void of emotion, minus a slight pink hue on his cheeks.

“I dunno Mr. Kennedy, don’t you have fun with our little chases? Cat and mouse play is not what I thought you were into.”

His pink cheeks become warmer, a small giggle leaving your lips as he scoffs, “Keep it clean yn.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ada’s voice rings through the intercom. Your smile turns into a grin, while Leon’s face pales. He quickly turns to see the door opening.

Ada’s black body-con dress hugs her curves, her face softening making eye contact with you. Leon stands quickly, pulling his gun out and aiming directly at Ada. She smiles, placing her hands up in a surrendering motion.

“There’s no need Kennedy, we’ll just be on our way out.”

“Like hell you will!” He says, face hard.

“Oh c’mon Kennedy!” You whine, pouting. “Just let me go this once? I’ll be a good girl from here on out! I swear it!”

Leon’s face darkens with pink yet again, this guy can never catch a break from your flirting can he? Your smile turns into a smirk when he shakes his head, pointing his gun at you next.

“yn, this is the last time you’ll see her outside of prison bars. You’ve done way worse things than robbing a bank, and yet, thats why you’ll finally be put away. For good.”

Suddenly, Ada lunges at Leon. As they fight over the gun you easily make your way out of the cuffs. The bobby-pin in your pocket becoming a normal occurrence. Leon is pinned face down on the table, Ada close to his face. Your stomach warms, seeing him pinned down like this feels way more criminal than anything you’ve ever done.

“Don’t worry Leon, I’ll keep our baby out of trouble. Be a good boy and give us a head start at least, yeah?” Her voice low, making your stomach churn with lust.

“You go first babe!” You say happily, moving to hold Leon down. You press a kiss on Ada’s lips, making sure Leon sees.

His eyes burn with desire, whether or not he says it out loud it’s not hard for everyone to see. He attempts to wiggle out of your grasp.

“See you at home, behave this time. No more stolen cars.” She pushes hair out of your face.

“But-”

“No. Stolen. Cars.” Her voice is firm, eyebrow raised. You nod, pouting.

As she sways out of the room, Leon begins to struggle harder. He grunts as you push down harder. You lean close to his ear, hearing the subtle change in his breathing. Your stomach churns again. Desire fills your every thought.

“Please be good, I swear I can make it worth your while.” Leon stiffens, hitting his forehead against the table.

“My job is to catch criminals, not make deals with them.” He says through gritted teeth.

You smile softly, moving your forehead to rest against his shoulder. He stiffens more (if possible at this point.) Your hand grips his wrists harder, letting out a loud sigh.

“If you would give us one night, all of this could go away.”

You let go quickly, sprinting out of the door. Moving quickly out the door Ada left open, you hear Leon shouting something. He’s too close.

You make it out on the street, navigating quickly and smoothly through the traffic and people walking. You hear Leon shout your name, turning to face him.

His face is overcome with a glare, bright red cheeks. Your smile turning into a grin, pulling your hair down from your pony tail you bow dramatically and begin sprinting. You move through a familiar alley, hearing Leon close by. You hide in a doorway, waiting for his footsteps.

“Shit! What the fuck!” He shouts, covering his face with his hands. He reaches for his radio, but isn’t able to send out his message before you dive at him. Tackling him to the ground.

“Gotcha!” You move to pin his hands behind his back again, sitting on his back.

“See! Isn’t this fun?” You say cheerfully. His grunts become louder, more frustrated. “I’m sorry, for what I’m about to do. This is the only way I can get you to cooperate with me.”

You knock him out, his grunts and curses end abruptly. Ada appears from seemingly no where. Her face grim, she leans down and pushes hair out of Leon’s face. Staring you down with an angry look.

“What? This really is the only way we could do this and you know that.” You frown, she presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s move quickly then yn, get him into the car.” She stands as you move to lift him. “Maybe this time, he’ll listen.

Leon wakes to an unfamiliar room. His hands are cuffed to the bed frame, mouth gagged with a cloth. You sit at the edge of the bed, staring off with tears in your eyes. He grunts as he tries to pull his hands away from the bed frame. Your head snaps to him, tears falling from your eyes. You move quickly to the side of the bed, petting his hair and removing the cloth.

“I’m sorry, please don’t be upset. You wouldn’t listen to us, please just give me a moment.”

He looks down at his chest and his heart drops at the sight of no clothing, just his underwear. He whips his head to you, growling.

“What did you do-?”

“No-no-no! Wait, we didn’t touch you! We don’t have air conditioning and it’s hot so- I took them off- you were sweating a lot!” You say, panicked.

“What am I doing here? Who the fuck is we?” He says, anger on his face. He’s breathing fast, Leon looks around attempting to gather his surroundings.

“It’s just us Leon.” Ada says. You stare at her with more tears falling out of your eyes. “She just thought it would be better for you, after I specifically told her it was a bad idea-”

“I just thought.. it-” you say, more tears welling in your eyes.

“Getting me naked was not the move yn.” Leon says. He doesn’t know why, but he feels inclined to cheer you up. He meets your eyes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before looking into your eyes again. He hates that you’ve engrained a soft spot in his heart, although he’s never going to admit to that. You sniffle, moving to sit in front of Ada, your body facing Leon.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” Ada says, petting your hair. Her fingernails scratch softly at your scalp, you shiver.“Talk to him, this is what he’s here for.”

Leon watches closely and she drags a finger nail down your cheek, to your neck, then to your chest finally meeting your-

“Officer Kennedy,” You say, interrupting his thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having. “I want you, we both do.”

Silence fills the air, he tilts his head in confusion.

“Uh-Okay? So why am I tied up? I still don’t get why I’m even here. What’s going on?”

Ada’s hand stops groping your breast, you both freeze. A good minute of silence later she snorts pulling her hands to her face. You blink rapidly, shaking your head. No, no way. He has to get it right? Is he fucking with the two of you?

“Kennedy, babe,” Ada speaks, her smile apparent in her voice. “She wants you to join us.”

“I’ll never become a criminal. Especially not at this rate.” He says without missing a beat.

Ada snorts again, your mouth drops open. Leon’s cheeks become a bright red. His head tilting again, still confused. You turn around to Ada, a question in your expression. Leon takes the both of you in as you talk quietly.

You have nothing but a tank top and underwear on, Ada is still fully covered in her dress from earlier. The soft candlelight makes it hard to see the two of you very well, but he can spot makeup on the both of you. There’s faux fur on the cuffs, and a vibrator on the bed-

“Oh.” Leon says suddenly, his face darkening with even more color.

You and Ada turn quickly to face him, a blush on your cheeks as well. Leon looks embarrassed, he feels stupid. His head drops and he sighs. When he regains his composer, he meets your eyes, rolling his in annoyance.

“All you had to do was quit fucking up my city’s crime rate and ask yn.”

Your face morphs to shock, even darker can be seen even in the subtle lighting. His eyes drift to your legs, you shift uncomfortably. Ada places a hand on your shoulder and you stop. His eyes meet Ada’s gaze.

“Are you in charge Ada?” He says, his voice an octave lower. Your stomach churns.

She places her hands on your shoulders. Pushing the thin straps down, slowly. Her hands are soft, she smells like vanilla. You whine when she removes her hands just shy of touching your breasts. She kneels next to your ear and whispers something Leon can’t hear. You begin to crawl towards him, settling on his lap. His breath hitches as you lean forward, pressing your lips to his softly.

This kiss feels too intimate, soft and unsure. He pushes forward, his hands grip the cuffs. You can feel him hardening beneath you. You press harder, and the kiss quickly becomes hungry. You pull back, placing your hands on his chest to keep him still.

“If I take off the cuffs, you won’t run?” You say, your face serious. You still sound unsure, still torn up by having to know the poor kid out to get him here.

He’s taken aback by the question, his hard on should’ve been enough proof he wouldn’t. He looks deep into your eyes. Not able to sense any sort of malice.

I guess they both really do just wanna do this.

He nods, eyes on yours. He shifts, a small noise leaving his lips. You smile happily, going to remove the cuffs. He sees Ada moving quickly behind you. Her hand covers yours, staring directly in Leon’s eyes.

“Not yet, keep going.” She says, her voice firm. Your head whips to her, a pout on your lips. She stares into your eyes, shaking her head. You frown harder and remove your hands.

You both lean towards him, your lips on his while Ada begins to suck on his neck. He lets out a breath. Leon gasps when you push your tongue into his mouth, at the same time Ada uses her teeth on his neck.

Your hands move to his underwear, running a finger down his member. He shivers and you pull away. Moving quickly to remove your shirt, his underwear quickly following. You sit on his thighs, using your hand to stroke him slowly.

“Is this okay Officer?” You say, looking at him through your eyelashes.

He moans softly, nodding quickly and bucking his hips. Just how wrong is this?

He pulls at the handcuffs again. Ada stops covering his neck with hickeys, and moves to slowly remove the cuffs. Leon pulls her into a heated kiss, you moan around his cock and Ada pulls away. Leon whines but moves to grope your breasts, another moan leaving the both of you. Ada hums, moving to sit with Leon between her legs. Her dress is hiked up past her thighs, Leon shivers at her warmth.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” She says into his ear, a whine leaving your lips. Leon nods quickly. She pulls his hands away, the both of them watching you move quickly around him.

You move faster around his cock, Leon whimpers loudly. As you take him, Ada smiles kissing his neck again, she moves to push his hand into your hair. He grips hard, you move quickly up and down his cock, your head bobbing and tongue moving like clock-work.

“That’s my girl yn, just like that.” She says, both you and Leon whining.

“We practiced this,” she says, her voice level. “We used our toys and all she talked about was how much she wanted you. We loved teasing you Kennedy, it made her so wet.”

Leon gasps loudly, throwing his head back. He moans, before attempting to push you off. Your head rises with a pop.

“Please- I want- can I-”

“You wanna fuck her Kennedy?” Ada interrupts, her nails lightly scratching his stomach. He nods quickly.

“Yes- please? I’ll be so good please!” He begs, he almost sounds like he could cry. You’re breathing quickly, shifting your legs. Leon feels Ada nodding at you, and he moves to push you under him.

“C’mon baby, give him what he wants, you’re both being so good for me.”

You lay down, your head on Ada’s thighs. She runs her fingers through your hair. Leon kneels at your cunt, positioning his cock at your hole. You whine, feeling him press forward.

“I’ll go slow.” He says, eyes staring at himself entering you.

“No, she can take it. The whole thing, now.” Ada says, her voice commanding.

You whine as he presses all of himself into you. You moan and the same time, Leon’s infinitely louder. He’s breathing fast, head bowed, eyes closes. He looks at Ada before thrusting carefully, before speeding up.

“There you go,” She says, “Take him, you’re doing so good. My pretty babies.”

Your gasps, Leon’s moans, the slapping of skin fills the room. It’s music to Ada’s ears, motions for Leon to slow down. As you being to whine she removes herself to sit in the corner of the bed, vibrator in hand. She removes her clothing, you and Leon both watch her intently. His thrusts remain slow, the both of you still breathing erratically.

She places a hand on her breast, toying at her nipple. You whine, looking at her desperately. She nods at you letting out a breath. You follow her movement, moaning at your own hand on your nipple. The vibrator buzzes to life, and she places it on her clit. She nods, not looking away from Leon’s cock in your cunt.

His thrusts grow aggressive quickly, your head falling back on the bed. Ada moans, the buzzing making your whole clench. Leon gasps, his thrusts growing erratic.

“So fucking wet.” He says, voice sounding so whiny. So good.

“So good Leon.” You say, looking into his eyes. “Making me feel so good.”

You pull at your nipple harder, wrapping your legs around Leon’s waist. He moves even faster, crying out when you rub at your clit.

“‘M- I’m gonna-” His voice breaks into a whine, leaning forward to take your other nipple into his mouth. You moan loudly, your other hand moving faster, rubbing at your clit.

“Cum for me, both of you.” Ada says, sounding desperate herself.

“C’mon Leon, fill me up. I want it. Please? I’ve been so good.”

The thrusts grow sloppy, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. Leon finishes first, shooting himself into your hole. As you feel yourself being filled, you clench around his cock. Ada is the last to finish, moaning loudly, her legs twitching and her head falling back.

Ada is the first to move, cleaning the cum from your cunt. A soft smile on her lips as Leon falls next to you, pulling you into his arms. Ada lays on your other side, wrapping her arms around your waist. She kisses your shoulder, all three of your legs tangled in blankets.

Leon voice breaks the silence, “So… Does this mean you two will stop doing illegal shit?”

“I’ll think about it.” You say, giggling when he groans.

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