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noira-l · 3 months ago

Text

𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁

Summary: You are the person people turn to on exceptional situations. Your next target is a young and ambitious cult leader - Geto Suguru.

pairing: cult leader!geto suguru x assasin!reader

wc: 8,3 k

genre: dark themes/suggestive

warnings: mdni, dark themes, morally grey actions, violence, stalking, slight gore, attempt of assasination, power dynamic, sexual tension, knife play, slight body harm, death.

author's note: I wanted to write something about Geto, hopefully however I came up with a good portrait of his character. He is my favourite btw ;3

Collector.

That's what you were called.

The title had stuck, a moniker that felt both accurate and hollow. You collected, yes - but it was never just about the objects. It was about something deeper, something rarer, something alive.

Unique techniques.

Not the hereditary ones, from great clans or families. Just the ones that little is known about, not known, or the ones that haven't been made yet.

And you had a reputation for it.

Famous, or infamous, depending on who you asked. The kind of fame earned through the silent, systematic harvesting of cursed energy. You killed, it was the way you did it. The way you absorbed the very essence of what made a sorcerer powerful. The techniques you consumed left traces on your soul, each one evoking something different. Some were strong, a burst of electricity through your veins. Others, weak, barely more than a whisper of sensation.

Your obsession grew, not with the power, but with the experience of it. Each time, you could feel it, the energy unraveling and weaving itself into you, like a rare wine tasting. It wasn’t about mere survival or strength, it was about savoring. You tasted techniques like a connoisseur, dissecting every note, every pulse, analyzing the flavor of it as it coursed through you.

You might sometimes wonder what the limits of this obsession with novelty and rarity are. You could not, like another connoisseur, buy wine from the faraway provinces of some country or taste cheese from an exceptional animal.

How far would this hunger take you?

You had to get something that belonged directly to the people, and that was quite hard. Well, unless people sometimes come to you on their own with new flavours.

You were proud of your collection.

The rain drummed against the rooftops of Tokyo, creating a symphony that was familiar to a city teeming with underground life. In a cramped, smoky alley, where the light of the street lamps barely reached, stood you.

Your black cloak blended with the darkness of the night, and your hair hid a face that few had the opportunity to see. In a world where pushing the limits of human ability was an everyday occurrence, you were something of a legend. Not surprisingly, your speciality was collecting unique abilities from those, who no longer had the chance to use them.

The black market was a place where you felt somewhat at home. Years spent here had even made you a friend of the place. Here you found everything you needed for your unconventional operations - from forbidden curses to information that could tip the balance in your favour.

It was here that you were to meet your new client.

You waited for him in one of the low, barely lit bars where the ghosts of the past mingled with the smell of tobacco, alcohol and darkness. The man who entered was wearing a fancy suit, but his nervous movements betrayed that he did not feel confident in the place. Before taking a seat opposite you, he looked around as if to make sure no one was following him. His silhouette seemed so small at the large wooden table in the corner of the bar.

"Is that you?" he asked quietly, although a note of arrogance could be detected in his voice.

"To the point." you replied dispassionately, lifting your gaze "I expect you have something interesting for me."

"Geto Suguru, cult leader, very powerfull." you've heard this name before, but you don't know a lot about him.

"Do you think he's worth adding to my collection?" you drilled him with your eyes.

"He…" he gazed too much into your gloom-shrouded eyes "He knows how to make curses obey."

Oh...

Could it be

Curse Spirit Manipulation?

Interesting.

"Geto disregarded my sponsor." the guy in the suit continued "My client was willing to invest in his cause, but this kid…. rejected him as if he was worthless. Now… now he wants someone to show him where he belongs. And who better to do that than you?’" he smiled emotionlessly.

A unique technique, one you've heard of before.

From a certain assassin who met him once.

"Conditions?" you asked, folding your hands on the table. Your movements were quiet, almost hypnotic, as if your every decision had been carefully thought out rather than the result of a moment.

"Silent work, no witnesses, no connections." replied the man opposite, nervously intertwining his fingers. His voice betrayed that he was not used to such conversations. His sweaty forehead and trembling breath indicated that being in your company filled him with anxiety.

"Price?" Your gaze penetrated him as if you were looking for weaknesses in him that you could exploit. You were definitely someone who didn't need to raise your voice to control the situation.

"Isn't adding such a unique skill to the collection a price in itself?" his lips trembled in an attempt to emphasise the merits of the task, although he clearly lacked confidence.

You lifted your gaze, your eyes hidden beneath your eyelids penetrated his body thoroughly, as if you were contemplating whether you would just get bored with him. He was of little importance to you, merely a relay of an order. Uncertainty hung in the air, and the silence between you became heavier than he could bear.

"Forty milion yen." you said in a calm, composed tone. Your words were like the blade of a knife - precise and merciless.

The man almost chuckled, his eyes widening in surprise.

"B-but-" he began to protest, trying to find words to lower the stakes. His hands began to move restlessly, looking for a foothold on the table, but found no solid footing.

"Mininaly." you interrupted him by leaning forward slightly, though without changing your expression. Your voice remained calm, but now there was a note of hardness in it that was impossible to ignore. "If you don't agree, then go find someone else to do the job."

Your words had a finality about them that left no room for negotiation. The man froze, as if he felt a chill run through his body.

He knew there was no other option. In the world in which he lived, your services were of the highest calibre, and trying to seek someone else would be tantamount to failure.

"My supervisor will not be happy with this." he lowered his gaze, driving it into his palms.

"Do I look like i care?" you asked unbothered.

He sighed, knowing that he had lost this invisible battle. He spoke after a while.

"I agree." he said quietly, although bitterness could be heard in his voice. "Forty million."

You smiled slightly, though there was not a hint of warmth in your eyes.

"Good. In that case, consider that what you wanted is already in progress."

𖤓

Was it really him?

You sat perched on the rooftop, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the city. The light fell just right, angled so that you remained invisible to him, but his figure stood clear as day before your eyes.

The photograph the client had given you was clutched in your hand, but now, comparing it to the man below, you no longer needed the image. The details had already seared into your mind.

His face was pale, flawless, as if carved from marble. The features were sharp yet elegant, each one contributing to a striking intensity that seemed to pierce through the space around him.

His eyes, those beautiful eyes - held a focus that unnerved you. Brilliant, fierce, as though the weight of the world rested behind them. They cut through the air with the same razor-sharp precision you’d seen in the photograph, but here, in person, they were alive, filled with something even the best camera couldn’t capture.

A cascade of inky black hair fell over his shoulders, shimmering slightly as it caught the light. It was long, flowing like a dark waterfall, framing the cold perfection of his face. Every movement seemed deliberate, almost regal, as if the air itself bowed to his presence.

The robes he wore were beyond extravagant. Ornate embroidery, each thread painstakingly sewn to create an image of grandeur, wrapped around him in a way that was almost otherworldly. The craftsmanship was undeniable, luxurious, every fold and crease meant to accentuate his authority. You could practically feel the texture of the fabric, sense the weight of the cloth just by watching him. Each stitch was perfect, every piece of ornamentation serving to emphasize the careful artistry that clung to him.

It has to be him.

The photograph could never truly capture the weight of his presence, but now, watching him move, you were certain.

Geto Suguru - Cult leader, Special Grade Curse User, the man your client wanted dead. The man whose cursed technique you craved to collect...

..was truly a captivating view.

𖤓

For the next few months you followed Geto Suguru from obscurity, like a shadow that never disappeared, no matter how intense the light of day was. By the third week, his patterns were etched into your mind - when he woke, when he slept, where he trained, who he trusted.

The first few weeks were standard.

Observe routines, write down habits, identify behaviors, learn about character, relationships and safety measures.

One of your techniques allowed you to dissolve into the shadows, unnoticed and unseen. It was fitting, then, that you had become exactly that - a shadow in his world, always there, always watching, never revealing yourself.

You first started with something basic, like listening to his speeches at cult headquarters, drawn by the intensity with which he spoke about his purpose.

His views were radical, even bizarre, clashing with your own sensibilities. Yet, as unsettling as they were, you couldn’t help but acknowledge that in some ways, he might be right. Not in everything, admittedly, but in enough to make you question.

He was undeniably charismatic. People hung on his every word, their eyes fixed on him like he was their savior, the one who could bring them the salvation they craved. It wasn’t surprising, pleanty of people were so lost that they belive in everything someone can say.

What did surprise you, however, was the sound of his voice. You couldn't expect this. It didn’t match the man you’d been watching from the shadows for so long. You expected something sharp, commanding—something that fit his tall, lean frame and his tilte as a leader. Instead, his voice was affable, syrupy, a smooth stroke across glazed canvas. There was a warmth to it, a richness that flowed over his audience like a soft breeze, disarming them with its elegance and making his words feel like they effortlessly slipped into their minds.

He had the ability to inspire, to reshape people’s perceptions of reality, to make his visions feel like truth. Even you, standing in the background, found yourself momentarily caught in his web of persuasion, wondering if, perhaps, there was something to his philosophy after all.

But the longer you followed him, the more you saw beyond the facade.

This elegance and smoothness hid another, far darker side. Beneath that affable demeanor and polite smile was a man who could remain utterly composed, even as chaos unfolded around him. It was unnerving to witness, how he never flinched, never lost his calm, even when the situation demanded anything but tranquility.

You saw it firsthand. There was a time when a sponsor - someone who had promised to support his cause - failed to deliver. The punishment was swift and brutal. A curse, summoned with the same grace he used in conversation, wrapped itself around the unfortunate man. It began to devour him, piece by piece, agonizingly slow. The room was filled with screams, the air thick with fear and the stench of death.

But Geto remained still. His smile never wavered, his eyes never betrayed the slightest flicker of emotion. He simply watched, as though he were observing something routine, unremarkable. His voice, when he finally spoke, was as calm and smooth as it had been during his speeches, as if he were discussing the weather, not the violent death happening before him.

That was the duality of Geto Suguru. He could shift seamlessly between the benevolent leader his followers adored and the cold, calculating figure willing to let a man be torn apart without so much as a blink. It wasn’t just cruelty - it was control. A calculated display of power, meant to remind those around him that while his voice may be velvet, there was iron beneath it.

In those moments, you saw the full depth of the man you were tracking. He wasn’t just charismatic. He was dangerous. A force that could twist both his power and his personality to fit any situation, never losing his grip on the people or curses that surrounded him. It was chilling, and yet, it was precisely this balance of charm and ruthlessness that made him so compelling.

So hard to pin down, and even harder to predict.

𖤓

When he returned from his speeches, cradling his two children in his arms, everything about him shifted. His smile, so often reserved or calculating, softened into something genuine, warm, and deeply caring. The two girls, nestled against him, wore smiles that radiated the purest joy you’d ever seen, sincere in a way that disarmed you completely. And you understood why. In those moments, they weren’t in the presence of a cult leader or a powerful sorcerer - they were simply with someone they called a father.

He cooked meals for them, simple and unpretentious. In the mornings, he walked them to school, carrying their bags and making sure they had everything they needed. He helped with their studies, patiently guiding them through lessons with the same focus he applied to anything else in his life.

He spoiled them endlessly, indulging their every whim with sweets and new toys, as if trying to make up for the darker realities surrounding their lives. Bags of candies would mysteriously appear in their hands after long days, and their rooms were filled with the latest toys, dolls, and trinkets. It was clear that nothing was off-limits when it came to their happiness.

Sometimes, you’d catch him spending entire afternoons with them, playing in their room or on the roof of the worship headquarters. Their laughter echoed through the walls, so out of place in such a grim environment, yet entirely natural in their presence. These moments seemed pulled from another life, a life that didn’t belong to a man of his power and position. In those hours, Geto wasn’t the man who summoned curses or commanded followers with radical ideals. He was just a father, a teacher, someone who valued the simplicity and joy that his children brought into his world.

It was a strange dichotomy, seeing this softer side of him. It made you question how someone who could sit calmly as a curse devoured a man could also hold so much tenderness in his hands when it came to his daughters.

Watching him with them, it was impossible not to acknowledge that, whatever else he was, he was a devoted father, a man who, in those private moments, seemed to find a kind of peace.

The perfect kind of tranquillity that you could easily disturb. They are lucky that you were commissioned to do a clean job, without additional casualties.

You would take advantage of this visible weak point, without any problem.

𖤓

You observed him daily, each training session a display of skill honed with painstaking precision. His movements were fluid, deliberate, a mastery over both body and cursed energy that left little room for error. Every gesture, every technique, was calculated down to the smallest detail. There was no wasted effort.

He began each session with strength exercises, his body moving with a kind of restrained power that spoke of years of relentless discipline. Clad in a dark, form-fitting training suit, his movements were both fluid and precise, the fabric hugging the sharp lines of his lean, muscular frame. The suit itself was simple, practical, black with subtle markings along the seams, designed for ease of movement yet offering no distraction from the task at hand. His long, dark hair was usually tied back, but occasionally a few loose strands would slip free, sticking to the nape of his neck as beads of sweat formed along his skin.

Push-ups, pull-ups, lunges - he moved through each exercise with a sense of rhythm, his body cutting through the still air like a blade. There was no excess movement, no wasted energy. His core strength was visible in the way he balanced himself, the quiet strength of his legs when he transitioned from one position to another. His breathing was steady, controlled, as if he were channeling not only physical strength but mental focus into every motion.

Everything before moving on to what fascinated you most - his control over curses.

Each curse, once summoned, was inspected with meticulous care. What surprised you was his flawless memory of each one, no matter how recently acquired. He never seemed overwhelmed by their numbers, as though he held their essence in his mind as clearly as if they were physical objects in his hands.

Often, he would stand in the middle of the square behind the base, surrounded by the dark entities he had summoned, and simply think. You could see him piecing together strategies in his mind, testing new combinations of curses. He would send projectiles flying, measuring their reach, or summon smaller curses to see how they interacted with one another. He was always refining, always pushing the boundaries of what his curses could do.

It was almost hypnotic to watch. His ability to devise new strategies and possibilities was relentless, and more than once, you caught yourself silently offering suggestions, wondering if his latest idea could be improved upon.

Even though he trained alone, there was a sense that he knew he was never truly by himself. He always seemed vaguely aware, as though he could feel your gaze, but he never let on. For him, training wasn’t just preparation for combat, it was a form of deep concentration, a space to plan, strategize, and reflect.

In the moments when he paused, resting after hours of intense focus, you could almost sense his thoughts drifting. He seemed distant then, as if his mind was wandering far beyond the physical space around him, perhaps contemplating the weight of his purpose, the future, or the fate of the world he was trying to reshape.

𖤓

There were days when you accompanied him on trivial matters—mundane errands like shopping, blending in among people as if nothing about his life was extraordinary.

It was strange, really. He always chose shops run by sorcerers, no matter how inconvenient or far they were. In these places, his demeanor softened. His face would light up with a gentle expression, his posture loosening. When speaking to fellow sorcerers, customers, salespeople, shop owners, he was almost casual, relaxed. He’d exchange words about everyday matters, asking after their lives with genuine interest, smiling as he listened to their problems or needs. It was a side of him that showed a quiet, almost paternal care for his own kind.

However, when sorcerer-run shops weren’t an option, he would settle for regular stores, those run by non-sorcerers. On the surface, his behavior didn’t change much—still polite, still composed. But after watching him for so long, you began to notice the subtle differences. There was a barrier, invisible but palpable, that separated him from everyone else. Even as he spoke to them, he remained distant, almost indifferent. His face held the same gentleness, but there was a quiet detachment beneath it, a sense that he was more than they could understand, and he made it clear in the smallest ways. It wasn’t arrogance, exactly, but an awareness of the divide that existed between him and the rest of the world. He was accessible, yet never truly one of them.

𖤓

On one occasion, you watched him as he sat at his desk in the dim light of his flat, practicing calligraphy. The black ink flowed across the paper with a precision that mirrored the discipline in every aspect of his life. Each brushstroke was planned, filled with a quiet sense of calm and inner balance. For him, this was not just art, it was a form of self-improvement, a meditative practice that demanded focus, patience, and reflection.

His face, normally composed, now carried an intensity of concentration that fascinated you. His eyes were sharp, tracing each line as though it held more significance than just its form. Every letter he wrote seemed to symbolize something deeper, every stroke a reflection of his life, carefully crafted but never without purpose. You could sense the connection between his mind and the ink, as if the act of writing was a metaphor for the control he sought in all things.

At times, his hand would pause mid-stroke, his brush hovering just above the paper. His brows furrowed slightly as he studied the work before him, considering how best to proceed. His concentration was palpable, as if the next mark could determine the balance of the entire piece. He would tilt his head just so, analyzing how the ink should glide over the expensive parchment, the way it should settle, just as his long black hair cascaded down his back with an effortless elegance.

When an error occurred—a stroke too thick or too light—he never hesitated. He would calmly set the paper aside and begin again, his patience unwavering. Sometimes, he would discard entire pages, whole phrases rewritten until they reached his exacting standards. You knew that many nights, he worked late into the hours of dawn, refusing to rest until the parchment was perfect, every line a testament to his dedication.

The completed works that hung in his office were impressive—each one a masterpiece of balance and precision, filled with a quiet power that matched the man himself. They weren’t just pieces of calligraphy; they were expressions of who he was, his relentless pursuit of mastery in every facet of life. Watching him, you couldn’t help but admire the depth of his commitment to both the smallest details and the grandest designs.

𖤓

One night, you witnessed something that shattered your carefully constructed perception of him. As usual, you stood cloaked in the safety of shadows, concealed by a cursed technique that allowed you to observe Geto closely without consequence. He sat alone in his study, dressed in his night robes, hair wet and loose, falling smoothly over his shoulders. The dim lamplight cast a long, solitary shadow across the room, highlighting the stark loneliness in his posture.

In his hands was an old photograph, though the details were initially too obscured for you to make out. His shoulders were slumped, eyes fixed on the image, completely still. The sight was so unlike him, and before you could piece together why, you saw it, a single tear sliding down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, as if trying to maintain his stoic façade, but it was futile. More tears followed, staining the photograph. It was a rare, raw moment, one that you had never associated with someone like Geto Suguru.

It felt wrong, almost invasive, to witness this vulnerability, but curiosity gnawed at you. You stepped closer, using the cursed technique to remain hidden, desperate to understand what had broken the man you thought was unbreakable.

And then, you saw the photograph.

Three people stood side by side, radiating camaraderie and carefreeness. On the left was Geto, unmistakably younger, with his hair neatly tied into a bun. His expression was calm, indifferent even, yet there was a rebellious spark in his eyes, emphasized by the crude hand sign he flashed at the camera. The person in the middle had short, reddish-brown hair and a radiant smile, eyes closed in pure joy, clutching a lollipop. And on the right...

Your heart skipped a beat.

The person standing slightly taller had striking white hair, wearing round sunglasses that had slipped slightly, revealing crystalline blue eyes. He was grinning broadly, flashing a peace sign with the same carefree energy.

Your senses sharpened, and the realization hit you with startling clarity. Those eyes - everything about him matched the description you had once heard. You studied Geto’s face again, now buried in his hands.

He knew him. There was no doubt now.

This job, already complex, had just become far more interesting.

You were tasked with eliminating Geto Suguru, and yet, standing there, watching him fall apart in the privacy of his grief, you began to feel that he was more than just a target.

He was the gateway you had long sought to get the information you needed to find.

He was a flesh and blood man who had his own desires, hopes and secrets. Secrets that may never have been meant to be uncovered, but which were now beginning to attract you more and more.

You knew that your task was coming to an inevitable end. But as you looked at it, feeling its complexity, you began to wonder if it would really be the end.

Were you in a position to find out the information you were looking for, before he expels his last breath?

𖤓

The night outside the cult’s headquarters was still, an undisturbed blanket of silence cloaking everything - a perfect contrast to the work that lay ahead. You moved effortlessly, slipping through the darkness with a kind of elegance born from experience, your presence vanishing into the shadows like ink on black velvet. The building loomed above, riddled with traps, intricate wards designed to keep the unprepared at bay. But of course, you were different. You had planned for this, down to the smallest detail.

Time, as always, was a matter of precision. You watched, waited, not in haste but with the patience of someone who has done this before. The secretary, rarely one to leave her station, finally rose. Her footsteps, barely audible, faded as she disappeared into the depths of the hallway. It was then that you moved, an invisible force in the room.

The security system awaited you next, but it was no match for the methodical motions of your hands. The control panel’s buttons yielded to your touch, each one pressed in deliberate succession. A soft, almost imperceptible click signaled the system’s deactivation, and the silence that followed was absolute. No one would suspect. Not until it was far too late.

Geto Suguru was still in his office. You had known he’d be here - his habits were a well-worn path you had studied for weeks. He liked to linger, alone, long after the cultists had gone, the weight of his decisions pressing into the late hours. Tonight was no exception.

Your feet carried you soundlessly behind him, your cursed technique weaving a veil of invisibility over you like the thinnest layer of silk. He strode ahead, his robes flowing in the faint light as he made his way down the hall. The door to his office closed with a quiet click.

This was it.

You slipped inside just as he settled into his chair, oblivious to the disruption in the air around him. The lamplight threw a soft, golden hue across his desk, illuminating the cluttered expanse of papers, scrolls, remnants of a long day. He sighed, a sound that conveyed the heavy burden of leadership as he leaned back, readying himself for the night’s work. That’s when you stepped from the shadows, your form coalescing into view like a slow brushstroke on the canvas of his solitude.

For a split second, he froze. But then, instead of fear, amusement painted his face. His laugh was low, almost a purr, as if death itself had become an old acquaintance.

"So, death pays me a visit tonight?" his voice, smooth and unruffled, slipped easily into the quiet. "You’re not the first, you know. There have been others. All of them thought they could do what you’re here for."

Before he could even think of making a move, you acted swiftly, severing his access to his cursed techniques in a single, decisive moment. His power - so closely tied to his identity - was locked away before he could call upon a single curse. He blinked, a flash of surprise crossing his face, but his composure remained almost unnervingly intact.

"Don’t bother." you said, your voice sharp and unwavering, cutting through the quiet like a blade poised just above skin. "The katana under your desk and the dagger on your thigh - neither will help you now."

His gaze flickered toward his desk, where the concealed katana lay waiting, then down to his thigh, where the dagger’s hilt was nestled beneath the folds of his robe. A small, knowing smile curved his lips, but he didn’t reach for either weapon.

With slow, measured steps, you moved forward, taking the seat across from him, the tension in the room palpable but controlled. There was no urgency for violence—no rush to end this confrontation. You had the advantage now, and that knowledge kept you calm, steady.

"Let’s talk." you offered, your voice void of malice, almost casual, as if you were suggesting a conversation over tea.

Geto leaned back in his chair, still smiling, though you noticed the flicker of intrigue behind his eyes—he hadn’t expected this.

"A conversation, is it?" he mused, his tone light, but the undercurrent of curiosity was unmistakable. "Interesting. You have me at a disadvantage, and yet here you are, offering words instead of death."

"I wouldn't call it disadvantage, I'd call it mercy, but however you prefer."

His hand hovered over the desk, the motion slow and deliberate, no longer a threat. He knew, as well as you did, that his usual methods of escape or attack were useless. The fight was already over, and now all that remained was the question of why. You could feel his curiosity hanging in the air, thickening the tension between you, though it remained strangely civil.

"Very well." he said finally, folding his hands in front of him. "Let’s talk. But tell me, what do you hope to gain from this conversation?"

"Information." you said, leaning back in your chair, mirroring his posture, your eyes never leaving his. "Corpses don’t talk."

Geto’s amusement lingered, a faint glimmer in his dark eyes, but beneath it, you could see the subtle shift in his demeanor—he was keenly aware of the limits now imposed on him.

Without his techniques, without his weapons, the usual paths out of situations like this had been cut off. Yet, even in this vulnerable state, he wasn’t rattled. If anything, he seemed curious, his attention sharpened by the unpredictability of your approach.

You leaned back in the chair, your gaze unwavering on Geto Suguru, who still wore the faintest trace of amusement on his face. Yet, beneath that surface, the tension in his posture was unmistakable. He knew his options were narrowing—no techniques, no weapons, and certainly no room to strike back.

"Years ago.." you began, your voice calm but pointed, "you participated in the mission to protect Riko Amanai. We both know how that mission ended."

For a split second, his smile faltered. His gaze sharpened as he processed your words, but he didn’t interrupt. He was waiting, measuring you, calculating your intentions. You didn’t bother giving him the space to respond.

"Toji Fushiguro.." you continued, watching his reaction as the name slipped past your lips "... he claims he killed Satoru Gojo during that mission. But we both know Gojo is alive. Untouchable, even. So I’m curious, what did Toji use to hurt him? Was it a tool?”

The atmosphere shifted. For the first time, Geto’s eyes darkened, the mask of playful indifference slipping entirely. The name 'Toji Fushiguro' was a raw nerve, one that visibly rattled him. He shifted in his seat, and the subtle tension in his jaw told you everything, the memories, the bitterness, the unresolved pain from that mission were surfacing.

"Why do you think what he says is true?" he asked, his tone cold but steady. "Satoru is alive and well."

"Toji may be a bastard and a fraud -" you replied, leaning forward just enough to make your point clear, "-but he’d never lie about killing Six Eyes. His pride wouldn’t let him.'"

The room felt heavy with the weight of that truth. Toji Fushiguro’s reputation as the "Sorcerer Killer" had been well-earned, but something had given him the edge over someone as powerful as Gojo. Something dangerous, and you needed to know what it was.

Geto’s expression hardened. He was stone-faced, but you could see the flicker of something behind his eyes—loyalty, perhaps. He wasn’t going to betray Gojo easily. That much was clear.

"Even if I had that information.." he said slowly, his voice cool but unwavering "..why would I give it to you?"

Your patience, thin to begin with, began to fray.

And then, suddenly, Geto moved, faster than you anticipated. His hand shot out, aiming for your hair, while his other hand reached for your wrist, intending to slam you against the table. His reflexes were precise, well-practiced, and had you been anyone else, he might have succeeded.

But you weren’t anyone else.

His hands passed right through you, grasping at nothing but air, as if you were made of smoke. A faint, amused smile touched your lips as you watched him realize his mistake, his hand still extended toward you - now useless.

You let out a soft, almost mocking laugh, that echoed in the silent room.

"I told you, Geto." you said, the amusement in your voice unmistakable. "That kind of play belongs in the bedroom. And it’s not going to work here."

His eyes narrowed, frustration flickering beneath his calm exterior. His hand dropped back to his side, but his expression tightened, a clear sign that he hated this feeling of helplessness. He wasn’t in control anymore, and you had just reminded him of that fact - subtly, but unmistakably.

You leaned forward, your tone dropping to something quieter, more dangerous, your gaze locking onto his.

"So." you said, voice sharp enough to cut through the air "Will you tell me? What did Toji use? I know he wasn’t lying."

The room fell silent again, the tension now palpable as Geto weighed his next move, knowing full well you weren’t leaving without answers.

You sighed, a subtle edge of exasperation creeping into your tone as Geto maintained his stubborn silence. His loyalty to Gojo was admirable, but it was beginning to wear thin, his resolve starting to crack under the weight of your persistence. You weren’t here to exploit weaknesses, but to prevent a far greater threat—one he seemed too proud to acknowledge. The real danger wasn’t you. It was the ones hunting for the same answers you sought.

Without breaking eye contact, you stood from your chair. In one fluid motion, you teleported behind him, your movement so swift that he barely had time to react. Before he could resist, your hand gripped a fistful of his long, dark hair, pulling it back gently, yet with enough force to assert control. At the same time, chains of cursed energy materialized, wrapping around his wrists. They were meant to cause pain, enough to hold him still, preventing any further struggle.

"You’re still silent." you murmured, your voice low, close to his ear. There was no malice in your tone, but a quiet firmness that left no room for misinterpretation. "I’ve already told you. This isn’t going to work. You can resist all you want, but we both know this conversation won’t end until I get what I need."

His body tensed, muscles coiling with frustration as he tested the chains, but they held fast. His pride kept him from yielding easily, but the tension in his posture was clear. You tugged his hair back, just enough to force his eyes to meet yours, the angle sharp. His expression remained hard, but there was a flicker of something else behind the frustration. Perhaps curiosity or perhaps the first signs of understanding.

"I don’t want Gojo dead." you repeated slowly, each word measured, leaving no space for doubt.

"I need to know what can hurt him. Where his limits lie. Because someone else is looking for those answers, and when they find them, we both know what happens next. Sorcerers fighting for power, tearing each other apart. A new era of chaos, like the Heian one. And we both know how dangerous that is."

Geto’s gaze faltered for a moment, his jaw tightening as the weight of your words sank in. His silence was no longer one of refusal—it was hesitation, contemplation. You pressed forward, knowing the balance was tipping.

"Is that really what you want?" you asked, your voice softening, shifting from a demand to an appeal. "Your vision of a perfect world -will it survive if everyone’s fighting for the title of 'the strongest'? If they’re killing each other without mercy? Gojo’s absence would plunge everything into chaos. You’ve seen what happens when balance is broken."

His resistance was weakening. You could see it in the slight tremor in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw slowly easing. The room felt still, heavy with the gravity of the situation. You tighten your grip on his hair, letting him know the meaning of your words.

"I’m not your enemy." you whispered, the intensity in your voice tempered with sincerity. "But I need to know. What is the one thing that can kill him? What did Toji use?"

The room hung in silence, the tension palpable as the moment stretched between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Geto exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly as though the weight of the decision had finally settled on him.

He looked up at you, eyes dark but resigned, and spoke quietly, his voice barely a breath. "The Inverted Spear of Heaven." he said. "It’s the only weapon that nullifies cursed techniques. That’s what Toji used to kill Satoru, if only for a moment."

You listened intently, hanging on to Geto's every word as he spoke, and as he revealed the truth, you tightened the chains around his wrists just a little more.

"But Gojo survived," you prompted, voice steady, though tension hummed between you. "How?"

Geto's gaze met yours, calm but resolute. "Because Gojo always comes back," he said, his voice soft yet certain. "He was pushed to the brink, but in the end, he found a way. That’s what makes him different. Even when you think he’s finished, he’s not."

There was an unspoken challenge in his eyes, a tension that, despite his current position, had not broken. His breathing had steadied, but the energy in the room was thick—simmering with something unresolved. His body remained taut, muscles straining against the cursed chains, though his eyes, steady and dark, dared you to push further. That fire inside him, despite everything, still burned.

You leaned in closer, voice a soft, intimate murmur yet laced with the same unyielding control that held him. "I kinda like this," you mused, letting your words linger in the air between you, "how hopeless you are in my grasp. And I think... maybe you do too."

For a split second, something raw flickered in Geto's eyes, something dangerous and defiant. He didn’t reply, but the tension between you spoke volumes. Despite the chains binding him, despite his power being stripped away, there was a part of him that refused to submit. It was that glimmer of rebellion that made this moment all the more electric. He knew what's coming.

Unexpectedly, his voice broke the silence, soft but with a strange calmness. "If this is my end, can I at least have a last wish?"

Your brow arched, amusement curling at the edges of your lips. "I never do that, but I will make an exception." you replied, your tone indulgent, as if granting him one final luxury before the inevitable.

His lips curled into a faint, bitter smirk, laced with something darker. "Kill the one who sent you after me."

You laughed softly, dark and teasing, impressed by the audacity behind his words. "Clever." you murmured, the spark of amusement glinting in your eyes. "I agree."

He was lucky that you have developed a fondness for him.

You released your grip on his hair, though the cursed chains remained, holding him still. Reaching for the knife at your side, you pulled it free in a slow, deliberate motion. The blade gleamed in the dim light, casting a soft glow as you held it between the two of you.

Gently, you lifted his chin again, this time with the flat of the knife, and traced the sharp angles of his jawline with your fingers. His skin felt cool beneath your touch, and you could feel his breath catch momentarily, his body tensing beneath the intimate pressure of the blade.

"It’s a shame… really." you murmured, your voice quiet, almost regretful as the blade hovered dangerously close to his throat. "A huge loss to let that beautiful face wither."

Your hand grazed his cheek in a tender, almost intimate gesture that stood in sharp contrast to the violence promised by the knife. You could feel his breathing quicken at the contact, his body responding to the unexpected softness. But then, as if accepting his fate, Geto exhaled slowly, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips, his eyes softening with a sense of calm surrender.

"I didn’t think death would be so beautiful." he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, yet carrying the weight of his resignation.

You returned his smile, something sad and knowing flickering in your eyes as the knife rested lightly against his skin. His fate was sealed, and you both knew it—yet there was no fear in him, only acceptance.

𖤓

The alley was shrouded in darkness, the dim flicker of distant streetlights barely reaching the edges of where you stood, as though even the light hesitated to touch this forgotten corner. The air hung thick with the remnants of rain, a dampness that clung to the walls, slicking the pavement that gleamed faintly under the errant shimmer of passing headlights. The city buzzed in the distance, its pulse faint but steady, yet here, in this narrow, forsaken space, time seemed to slow to a whisper. Shadows stretched long, silent sentinels watching as you waited, patient and still, against the cool brick.

Your senses were sharp, attuned to every murmur of the night. It wasn’t long before the man arrived, his form out of place in the cloak of darkness. Wrapped in a cheap coat, he moved with a fragile unease, his footsteps soft but betraying the tremor beneath. The tension grew, the air thickening with each step he took toward you, until he finally came to a halt before you. His face, gaunt and pale beneath the scarce light, gleamed with the sheen of sweat, though the night was cool. His voice, shaky and uncertain, trembled as it cut through the stillness.

“Is it done?” The question, brittle as a dried leaf, hung in the air.

You let the silence linger, tasting his unease before you nodded, your voice steady, emotionless. "It’s done. No one’s seen Geto Suguru for a week now. His followers grow restless. You must have felt it."

Relief washed over him, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world had finally been lifted. With fumbling hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, nondescript bag, thrusting it into your hand with the desperation of someone eager to escape the moment. "Thank you… for your services," he muttered, the words rushed and hollow, already turning to leave, his back to you before the exchange was even complete.

But something held you still, the weight of the bag wrong, off. Lighter than it should be. A frown crept across your features as you opened the clasp, the soft click echoing through the alley. Inside, the faint glimmer of money caught your eye, but it was too little—only half of what had been promised.

"Wait."

The word, simple yet edged with the weight of authority, stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly, his face twitching with forced calm, a weak smile stretched thin across his lips. "What’s the problem?" he asked, though the flicker of fear in his eyes betrayed him.

You held the bag aloft, its lightness speaking volumes. "This is only half."

The man’s face twisted, pride battling with uncertainty as he stammered a response. "My supervisor said it was a fair price. After all, you’ve gained Geto’s power, haven’t you? That’s worth more than money."

There was a false confidence in his voice, but it crumbled under the weight of the moment. His chest puffed slightly, as though pride alone could shield him from what was coming, but his eyes - nervous, darting - told another story. He stood on the edge of something sharp, something inevitable, and he knew it.

You sighed, a soft sound like the wind through withered leaves. "He said you’d do something like this."

Before he could react, his body seized, convulsing violently as his legs buckled beneath him. His neck was covered by a barely visible thread, that sunk into his neck by a single stroke of your finger. You snapped your fingers and the thread penetrated deep into his flesh, opening his throat. In an instant, he crumpled to the wet ground, eyes wide in shock, life flickering out like a candle in a storm. The shadows seemed to deepen, the silence folding in on itself as the man lay still, his fate sealed without fanfare.

From the dark, a figure stepped forward, emerging from the shadows as though he had always been part of them. His robes flowed like ink, blending into the night, his movements fluid, almost serene in their grace. His inky black hair cascaded over his shoulders, catching the faintest hint of light, while his sharp, flawless features held a cold beauty, carved from darkness itself.

"I told you he’d cause trouble." Geto said with a slight, knowing smile, amusement dancing in his eyes as he glanced down at the lifeless body.

You tossed the bag over your shoulder, unbothered, meeting Geto’s gaze with a cool, unyielding calm. "You’ve got two weeks to pay me the rest."

Geto chuckled, a sound like velvet, though there was an edge beneath it, something darker that lingered. "And how do you know I don’t have that money now?" His voice, smooth and playful, hinted at the game he enjoyed.

You raised an eyebrow, your tone steady, laced with certainty. "I know more than you think. Your funds aren’t what they used to be."

His laughter was soft, almost charming, but beneath it was the sharp glint of calculation. "Two weeks, then?" he echoed, as if testing the waters.

"Two weeks." you repeated, your voice carrying the weight of finality. "And if you try to cheat me, I’ll finish what I started."

For a moment, the alley held its breath, the world balanced on the edge of your words. Geto’s smile didn’t falter, but the spark of danger flickered in his eyes, acknowledging the truth between you.

And then, without another word, you dissolved into a swirl of black mist, your form blending into the night as though you were nothing more than a shadow yourself. The alley fell silent once more, the city’s distant hum the only sound that remained.

#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #cult leader geto #geto x you #suguru geto x reader #suguru x reader #jjk #geto x y/n #suguru geto x y/n #jjk dark content #jjk suggestive #jjk suguru #jjk curse users #dark themes

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agatharkn3ss · 1 month ago

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AAA is retelling the story of Macbeth

Note: Yes, this is a very long post.

I believe Jac Schaeffer is telling us a version of Macbeth. The ballad lyrics use a quote from the play “Fair is foul and foul is fair”. There is also the painting in Agatha’s living room – “Macbeth and the three witches" by Francesco Zuccarelli. The painting clearly meant something to Agatha’s consciousness and it feels like it was meant to be seen, whether foreshadowing or reflecting emotional state (I wrote more about it here). Yet, Jac herself has not mentioned Macbeth in her interviews even once, which is interesting.

A huge question explored (but not answered) in Macbeth has always been about who is in control of our actions. Do we have free will or is already written for us by someone else? Can only one person be held responsible, and if so – is it the doer or the enabler who is to blame?

A quick play summary: Macbeth is a play written by William Shakespeare. It starts with Three witches telling the Scottish general Macbeth three prophecies: that he will be the Thane of Cawdor, that he will become a King of Scotland and that children of Banquo (his friend) will become kings. Shortly after, Macbeth really is appointed the Thane. Encouraged by his wife, Macbeth kills the king and becomes the new king. But he descends into paranoia, worried about the third prophecy, so he kills Banquo too. He seeks the witches out again, looking for reassurance. They show him 3 apparitions, which he interprets in his favour, giving him false sense of security. Civil war erupts to overthrow him and Macbeth is eventually killed.

When you compare the play with what we’ve seen in the show, the parallels become more and more obvious, and I think we can even identify who the characters are meant to be. My interpretation is:

Teen = William Shakespeare, the author

Agatha = Macbeth

Rio, Lady Death = Lady Macbeth (or Lady Macdeath?)

Banquo = Jen (but also Wanda)

The three witches = Alice, Evanora and Lilia (Maiden, Mother, Crone)

Detailed analysis:

Teen = William Shakespeare

The first obvious connection is the shared name and the fact that Vision actually said he wanted to name his son after William Shakespeare quoting “All the world’s a stage. All the men and women are merely players.”

This goes well with the implication that Billy has indeed “written” the Witches Road. I don’t think he is deliberately controlling it though – I believe his intentions are just so strong that the Road reflects everything we see in his room. He set the frame but he is not in charge. In fact, it feels more like the influence comes from William Kaplan rather than Billy Maximoff.

It is worth noting that the Macbeth play is set in a morally ambiguous society that judges others in black and white, while allowing shades of grey for themselves – very reminiscent of Billy’s attitude about witches in ep.5 when he said he is not like them at all – immediately followed by him lashing out. Lilia also reminds him in ep.7 of how much in common he has with this idea of a witch that he so vehemently rejects. I think in the end, when he realises that he is both Billy and William, he will also understand that he is not just a “writer”, but also a “player” of the story.

It is also interesting how there is no sun in the painting – similar to the perpetual night we see on the Road. The painting’s interpretations often suggest that the dark sky represents the theme of death lurking around (fitting that Jen calls Rio a “creepy lurker”). So I do believe that just as we have the symbolism of the Moon, there is also meaning to the Sun and the lack of it. This is why during Billy’s tarot reading, his card for “what’s missing?” is the Sun. At his bar mitzvah William Kaplan is in a white shirt. But when Billy returns home from the hospital, he’s wearing a stripy black and white top – but the white stripes are thin – only glimpses of William. Eventually Teen becomes this goth kid – suggesting that darkness has overtaken him. But in a promo we see him wearing a different top – again with black and white stripes but they are more equal and uniform. I think this symbolises that he realises he is both, Billy and William and it’s no longer murky to him. The Sun and the Moon are in balance. (And to that point – in ep.1 in Nicky’s bedroom we see wallpaper prominently showing both Sun and Moon elements. And the child’s drawing has the Sun at its centre)

Three Witches = Alice, Evanora and Lilia

This one is a more loose interpretation, but I think it ties well with the ongoing theme of “Maiden, Mother, Crone”. In Macbeth, it’s the witches that open the play, portraying them as those mysterious but powerful witches, controlling the events. But throughout the play, the audience realises they might not be as powerful – in fact, it is questioned whether they actually have the power to make things happen, or they merely have the ability to see the future. Eventually, they have less and less presence, and are not even there when the prophecies are fulfilled – suggesting that they were merely an illusion of control.

The fact remains that the witches are literal harbingers of doom – with their symbolism of number three (that is also heavily explored in this show, post here). They did share the prophecies, giving Macbeth the information he didn’t ask for. And later, when he comes for reassurance, they show him 3 more apparitions (well, 4, but he doesn’t take the last one in). The significance here was that the message here was so vague and deceptive that it could have one of two completely opposite meanings – and their interpretation proves crucial to the final outcome. The apparitions were telling Macbeth to be afraid, but instead he read what he wanted to see. He left feeling reassured, secure and justified in his actions. Again, the witches could be represented here as being deceptive, driving Macbeth’s demise. It feels like they had this insider knowledge that should’ve shared with Macbeth that would completely change the context of the message. But they didn’t and it’s a question if they ever even could.

Interestingly, in Act 3, Scene 5, the witches behave very differently to how they were before and it is believed that this is because this particular scene was not actually written by Shakespeare but by the actors themselves – if true, this would be an excellent parallel to episode 5 (and Agatha’s wearing a jersey with no.3). I believe Agatha’s trial was hijacked by Vertigo from Salem Seven. There were many inconsistencies with the previous trials, but I think the biggest tell was that the aspect ratio didn’t change – thus Vertigo taking over Billy’s story.

So, with all this in mind, I think that the show’s Three Witches are not active messengers to Macbeth/Agatha. It’s more about her interpretation of what they each represent in terms of her own destiny. I linked this with the Mother, Maiden, Crone - i.e. the Triple Goddess Hecate because in the play she us actually the “boss” of the Three Witches.

Let’s start with the obvious – the Mother element is Evanora, Agatha’s own mother who has always prophesised her that she will be evil. Then we have the Maiden. I think it makes sense that this is Alice. Not just because she is the youngest, but also because she serves as a fresh reminder to Agatha that she is actually evil, because she is the one who killed her. However, there is duality in here, because it is also an example that Alice protected Agatha BECAUSE Agatha was worthy of saving. That she didn’t actually think of her as evil, especially when recognising Alice’s own complicated history with her mother. Finally, we have the Crone – this Lilia, always complaining at how Agatha is the embodiment of the evil witch stereotype. And yet, in ep.7 Lilia gives Agatha an advice for her future – akin to a prophecy. Whether Agatha follows it or not, we don’t know yet, but it’s important to show that Lilia chose to help Agatha in the end, showing her she accepted her.

Banquo = Jen (also Wanda)

In Macbeth, the character of Banquo is Macbeth’s friend as is meant to serve as his foil – i.e. a person or thing that contrasts with and so emphasizes and enhances the qualities of another. Banquo has a lot of parallels with Macbeth and he is also present for the prophecies. Yet, he reacts differently to them as ultimately he is not interested in power.

So I think in the show, the foil is Jen – she is shown to be just as snarky and selfish as Agatha. She is also an exceptional witch that is at least a century old. But in the past she used her powers for the good before she became bound. She said she tried everything possible to unbind, but it seems she eventually accepted her fate, though she is still very much angry about it. Her business is false and people are harmed as a result, yet she knowingly continues that path.

This is parallel to Agatha, as we can predict that the myth of the witches road is her own fraud business, perpetuating it so she can steal power from the “undeserving” witches, not caring she causes harm. She probably could’ve ended up similarly to Jen or worse, had it not been for Billy pushing them both down the Witches Road.

It is interesting that they both seemingly passed their trials and yet neither of them recovered their powers. They both believe someone else is responsible for this (and to be fair, I think in Agatha’s case she is right – Vertigo stole her trial). There are many more similarities we can notice, but I wonder what this means for the future. I wonder if there will be confrontation between the two of them. I think Jen will be able to resolve her inner conflict and exit the Road, and she will become the literal High Priestess (i.e. head of her own coven) – similar to Banquo’s character, whose children became the kings, not Macbeth.

An honourable mention to another foil couple from the past – Wanda.

Both Agatha and Wanda were powerful witches, misunderstood by the society (“there will always be torches and pitchforks for ladies like us”). Both lost their children, but dealt with them differently. Both are told they were destined to be bad – Evanora calls Agatha evil and Wanda is prophesised as the Scarlet Witch who will destroy the world. It is interesting to debate who’s Macbeth and who’s Banquo in this pairing – while Agatha didn’t seem to be entirely under Darkhold influence, it was Wanda who eventually claimed Agatha’s power and the Darkhold, then become corrupted before her ultimate demise (and redemption).

Lady Macbeth = Lady Death

Lady Macbeth is the figure that often gets the full blame for Macbeth’s crimes – people even going as far as absolving Macbeth from any fault (which I think in itself is a demonstration of internalised misogyny but hey ho). She is also seen practicing witchcraft, which served as another suggestion that she was the baddie in control.

She has this line that could be a nod to Rio’s dagger - “that my keen knife see not the wound it makes”. Perhaps a reflection that Rio doesn’t want to see the pain that her actions as Death bring, that’s why she’s heavily dissociating with her powers, calling them “her job”.

When Macbeth is torn by the prophecies, he eventually decides that he will not kill the king. That very second, Lady Macbeth enters and very quickly manages to change his resolve. Later on, whenever he wavered, she was the one who would take over control. She was the ultimate enabler to his crimes, even getting the servants drunk, unlocking the King’s door, preparing the daggers etc.

She is seen as powerful but also completely loyal to Macbeth. She is devoted to the point that when she pleads with the spirits for his success, she offers them her own femininity (“unsex me”) in return, i.e. the one thing that makes her her. She doesn’t seek the power directly for herself (though she would have it through his actions), immediately accepted Macbeth’s prophecy, understood that’s what he desired and supported him throughout. I think this probably reflects Agatha and Rio’s relationship really well. In ep.4 it is Rio who is impatient to “do some damage”.

However, despite his early signs of deep affection, as Macbeth descends into his downward spiral, he is less and less bothered by his wife. Eventually, he is the one to continue all the killings, and Lady Macbeth fades into a background. To the point where she eventually commits suicide from all the shame, yet Macbeth barely notices it. Perhaps that disconnection happened for Agatha and Rio too. Agatha was lost to Rio when she hid behind the dark magic and it was painful to her, after all these centuries.

Agatha = Macbeth

Finally, Agatha, just like in the show, represents the titular character. Even when committing murders, Hecate describes Macbeth as “a wayward son, spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, loves for his own ends, not for you”, which I think really represents what the creators are showing us here. The setting of the play is in a world where your rights don’t matter – but instead it is the strongest that holds the power.

Macbeth’s demise doesn’t so much come from knowing the prophecies (because Banquo heard the same), but from his fatal flaw of ambition. He read the prophecies and apparitions how he wanted them to read. They were his imaginary permission to do the killings to reach the goal. After initial doubts, he convinced himself it was the right thing to do, he became “wicked” and drove to his self-destruction.

(side note: there is also this ambiguity in the play, where there is mention of Macebth’s child, yet people think him childless, suggesting there is a story of child loss behind it – link with Nicholas Scratch?)

As explained above, the Three Witches serve as Agatha’s ingrained belief about her role. She is surrounded by number three, showing her as the harbinger of doom. She might not think this is who she is, but it is still the role she chose to play, and eventually it became self-fulfilling. Her fatal flaw is her addiction to power and she believes in that “might, not right” world. So she has this wall around her and pursues that quest for power, because what else is there left? She is unapologetic about this, but we also start seeing the layers coming off.

I think the story in the show will ultimately come down to whether Agatha understands that she is the one standing in her own way and that she is not above the rules. That no matter the circumstances and the reputation and people enabling her, she is the one ultimately responsible for her own actions.

I think she will drive herself to self-destruction and will be willing to die to gain back her powers. I think she will be left on the Road so it is “Agatha all Alone”. However, there must be some growth from her Witches Road journey, so I think in her process, she will have some meaningful resolutions with others and actually help them escape the Road. And maybe this time she will even follow the rules.

I think this will make a mark on the others so that they will actually try to bring her back somehow. She might feel alone, but the power of the coven will be the one to save her.

EDIT: Just wanted to add, yes, there is also the character of Macduff. He is meant to be this incorruptible, noble character, serving as a complete opposite to Macbeth. He is always very clear on abiding by what's right and wrong, but after Macbeth kills his family, he swears revenge. To the point that he ultimately sacrifices his own morality to restore order to the country by killing Macbeth, thus committing regicide (an act he despised Macbeth for).

While it does sound like it could point to Billy, I just don't think it fits. While Billy certainly saw himself as this "good" character, we see in the later episodes that he does actually have some darkness in him - to the point where is very happy to be Maleficent. He is more similar to Agatha than he thinks. He doesn't mind breaking the rules when it suits him ("stealing" William's body, breaking into Agatha's house, drowning Jen and Lilia) and his internal struggle seems more around finding his own identity rather than revenging a family he hardly remembers (and it isn't really Agatha's fault that they were gone). And if he truly wanted revenge, all he had to do was leave Agatha in her Agnes spell forever.

I do wonder though, if maybe to some extent we are getting William Kaplan as Shakespeare and Billy Maximoff as Macduff?

In the show there is also this ongoing theme where each of the witches are self-sabotaging and are actually their own enemies when it comes to getting "what's missing".

But if I had to choose anyone for Macduff, I think it would be Vertigo - revenging both the Salem mothers and her Salem Seven coven and seeing Agatha as the threat to the witches world, especially because she experienced it first hand. I have a theory that Salem Seven were originally Agatha's own coven that she formed after she killed their mothers, but through her cowardice, she betrayed them and left them on their own Witches Road. After that, Agatha kept conning other "undeserving" witches pretending she'd take them to the Road, while the Salem Seven became trapped and have gone "feral", thus losing their morality.

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jaegeraether · 4 months ago

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Sunsets and footballers (Part 80)

Alexia Putellas x Character (36) - Ridley Part Two

Masterlist (other parts here)

((**8.7k**))

Guess who's back!

(DISCLAIMER: Although I've toned it down a lot, it is still bloody. Gory. Confronting.)

This is PART TWO of TWO for Ridley. You DO NOT have to read this! This is simply me getting out what's been in my head for a while about Ridley and her darker side and military ties. I understand this may be graphic and morally grey for people, though as I said, I've tone it down a lot and have given disclaimers.

Feel free to skip these two Ridley parts as you won't be missing anything in the main story. :)

RIDLEY POV PART 2

Ridley didn’t hesitate for a second. She was moving out of muscle memory with one hand grabbing the assailant's wrist, her cast hand reaching behind her to grab their neck as she simultaneously spun and bodied her attacker into the ground. Once she was on top – she only had one more split second to determine if they were part of Cumar’s crew, and at the identification of that, she drove his own knife into his chest, her hand covering his mouth to avoid loud, alerting sounds.

It was never a nice thing, but it was so common to her now that she knew she wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Even as she watched the light drain from his eyes.

“Injured?” Becks asked.

She knew she had a slight cut from where the knife had grazed across her abdomen just below her vest as she’d spun, though it was barely a thought. “Okay.”

He nodded and grabbed the dead man’s arms. “Wombat, help move him. Fuzzy, scout.”

Fuzzy ducked off into the trees as the two men hid the body in case someone else showed up and found him. They didn’t need any alarms set off.

Ridley had questions but waited until the others returned. In the meantime, the two women kept quiet with their backs to each other, scoping the area. It was enemy territory after all.

In no time, the Becks and Wombat appeared, and they all stayed in that area, getting more irritated at the second at the feeling of staying in one place. That’s what got you killed. But it was only a few minutes before Fuzzy returned shaking his head. “Nada, pack is stashed.” He pointed to the tree and all of them took note of it.

Becks nodded and turned to Duce. “Copy. Why was he here?”

It was a valid question.

“Expected,” she admitted. “I did assume Cumar would have scouts, though I’m very surprised he’s alone.” She looked at Fuzzy. “Nothing? Really?”

“Nothing within a few clicks.”

Becks frowned. They all did. Why was he all alone?

“He’s being punished,” Ridley murmured, and they all paused. She caught Wombat’s eye. Although he hadn’t been captured with her, he did understand where it was coming from. “Cumar. Whenever someone disappoints him, he does this as a way to win back favour. You get sent out to scout alone, and he won’t accept you back unless you bring him the head of an enemy.”

There was a moment of silence amongst them all.

“So… just the one then...” Wombat said, and they all nodded in unison before they started to track north.

Each of them wore a pack now except Fuzzy, and each held with them a close combat rifle, along with their pistols and other weapons. They were allowed to choose which suited them best, though ultimately the M4A5 Carbine was perfect for this task. Only Duce carried an extra and it was a Barrett M82, a sniper rifle. She was the best sniper of the group.

They approached carefully through the trees, their three remaining packs heavily weighing them down and as Fuzzy did, they stashed their packs along the way. They found the first group of Cumar’s men and made quick, light work of them without needing to fire a shot. Although their target was purely the retrieval of the boy, Akeem, they needed to think in advance of their own safety. Should guns start firing at Cumar’s base, the others would come running and they couldn’t allow that. That, and they wanted to stay hidden for as long as possible.

And so, station by station, group by group, they took out his security teams scattered through the trees as quickly and quietly as possible. If they had chained them up, they could escape. If they had left them alive, they could make contact and put them all in danger. So they did what they were trained to do, and tied up loose ends as they moved through the area tactically.

It was the best way to think of it and not get into your head; by thinking of them as just that. Loose ends. Potential threats. It also helped to know what these men had done. They’d beaten, abducted, killed, tortured and raped. In her head, she justified it by knowing many more people would be safe now that they were gone.

As they took out the last of the security camps quickly and quietly, four of them stowed their knives, though Becks had always preferred brute force. As she confirmed with a signal that the others were done, she turned and saw him snap the last man’s neck sideways and up which was a terrifying show of just how strong he was. Becks pulled him into the brush where he wouldn’t be seen and gave his signal to Ridley.

They all knew what was required of them now. The group had cleared their path in, and now the last of the packs needed to be dumped, which was Becks’. Their packs were spread out along their route so far and stored in different positions – all GPS tracked. They contained the necessities to survive in that area. Food, water, electrolytes, medical supplies, navigational aids, weapons and more. It was essentially a supply dump in case they were stranded.

They didn’t fuck around from there, though. They needed to keep moving quickly in case they alerted anyone with an unanswered radio call to one of the groups they’d been through.

They advanced on Cumar’s place now a lot lighter, sporting only their black combat gear which held no identifiable logo. No markings nor brands nor colours that would tie them to any country or division. For all Cumar’s people would know – they were independent mercenaries. For this same reason, the bottom half of their faces were covered, Ridley knowing that if Cumar saw her, he’d known she was Australian SASR. That’s another thing to avoid. A political war.

Cumar’s place was an old prison in the middle of nowhere – inland and southwest of Mogadishu, Somalia. He’d repurposed it from abandoned, and intelligence agencies had only discovered it a few weeks prior, with the involvement of Duce’s team. From here – he was protected by the trees around him as well as the sky. As made obvious by the SEALs – anything that flew over was shot down immediately. On foot was the only method available to them.

As they moved close enough to view the large prison campus themselves, they reached a point of no return. A point, where they couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be spotted. A point, where bullets could start firing at any second.

Duce called that point she had estimated as they approached. “P.O.N.R.”

Ridley’s mind kicked into another gear as those letters came through her headset. She could be dead any second, and it made her feel… alive.

They all acknowledged the PONR and continued, warier than ever. They barely made it another 50 metres before-

“Contact!” Fuzzy called, just before the sound of bullets littered the air. Ridley immediately identified the points as two old prison guard towers. Duce, Fuzzy and Wombat took one of the towers out, and Duce set up in it to sniper.

“Tower one down.”

Becks and Ridley took the second tower and left it empty.

“Tower two down,” she called as they assessed their approach path from there. From their position of advancement towards the prison – there was only one more tower in view which would hinder their approach. “Holding due fire. Take the third.”

Duce snipered the third tower which provided enough so that Wombat and Fuzzy could take it out.

“Tower three down. Providing cover.”

As soon as that was called – Becks, Duce and Wombat provided cover from the three towers which hindered the hostiles in the prison walls enough for Ridley and Fuzzy to approach. Gun up, she sprinted, seeing Fuzzy in her periphery. A bullet tore past her arm, grazing the skin and she immediately felt the hot flash and the blood begin to drip.

She didn’t stop. She knew from experience that it wasn’t bad enough to stop. She took aim where it came from and shot the hostile as he leant over the railing. Her shot made a whizzing sound through the air and hit her target directly. She jumped sidewards to avoid his body hitting the ground as she made it to the building, her arm slamming into the wall near the entrance where Fuzzy also arrived. He nodded, out of breath and entered the building, Ridley right behind him. They worked their way through the halls, picking off the hostiles one by one, targeting the face of the building which impeding the entry of the others. Eventually it provided enough relief for the others to enter, and separately, worked their way through the building, targeting the different areas where they thought Akeem may be.

“A-block clear.” Ridley called over the headset.

“B-block clear.” Wombat.

“North courtyard.” The sound of a groan and then a shot. “…clear.” Becks.

“South courtyard clear.” Fuzzy.

“Barracks clear visual.” Duce called. The barracks were outside of the main building and they had agreed to not unnecessary go outside unless it was their last option.

Ridley rounded a corner and the end of her carbine was grabbed and she was wrenched forwards. She immediately ducked from the knife she knew was awaiting her throat and spun, kicking her assailant hard into the wall. She swung her gun to her back and jumped back from the next swing, smacking the knife out of his hand and landing a punch to his abdomen and then jaw in quick succession. An arm came around her neck and grabbed her then, squeezing tight and lifting her from the ground. The man in front of her battered several punches into her ribs while she was immobilised by the second assailant. She managed to swing her body up and kick him in the face, feeling his nose give way as he fell backwards into the wall. Her feet hit the ground as she started to black out from the chokehold, though she found enough energy to leap up and throw her head back into the man behind her.

The man shouted something in Somali and stumbled back into the railing, dragging her with him. She was 30 seconds away from a full black out. A sudden sharp, hot pain hit the side of her thigh, and she grunted in shock. Suddenly, she had a weapon. Ridley kicked the broken-nosed assailant on the floor, ripped the knife from her thigh and slammed it into the neck of the man behind her, feeling the rush of hot blood on the back of her neck and down under her vest. Her cast hand scream in pain as she did so, though she paid it no mind. The assailant behind her dropped and she ripped the knife forwards towards the back of her head, which subsequently tore through his throat.

Ridley snatched her pistol and shot once into the head of the broken-nosed man on the floor in front of her.

“Infirmary clear.” Fuzzy.

“C-block clear.” Wombat.

She stumbled forwards and groaned, grabbing hold of her thigh. It didn’t hit the artery. She put a little pressure on it to feel the blood flow and then took her tourniquet out from her belt and slid it up her leg, tightening it above the entry wound on her outer thigh.

“D-block clear.” Becks.

She gasped as she tightened it and put pressure on her foot to test. Duce hadn’t answered in a while – and she knew exactly where she was originally headed to next. Ridley swung her gun around and did her best to run towards the cafeteria. It was very central in the building, and easily the best defended.

She entered the café to see what she’d expected. Half the room was taken up by supplies. Weapons. Drugs. Guns. Akeem was there, gagged and chain to a pole. Duce was there, bloodied and on her knees with a gun to her head by someone Ridley recognised as Cumar’s son, Bashir. Cumar was in the middle of the group, watching the proceedings. They hadn’t expected Ridley at that moment, though. She put a bullet through each of the guards before stepping into the room. Bashir hesitated his task and as his head spun to her, gun switching from Duce to Ridley, she fired a shot straight through his shoulder.

With a cry, he fell backwards, and Duce was on top of him in seconds, pinning him.

Cumar went to spin and- “DON’T you fucking move.” Ridley warned as she approached.

“Akeem and Cumar located - cafeteria. Two hostiles.” Duce made the call to the team.

Ridley heard shots and footsteps louder and closer. Her eyes didn’t leave Cumar’s. She could tell he was trying to judge if he could spin and grab his gun in time. He took a step back and she took a warning step forward. “Don’t.”

Becks entered the room and paused, waiting for the outcome.

“Not one move. On the ground, hands behind your head!”

Cumar hesitated like his son, his face turning from a sneer to curiosity. “It’s you, isn’t it? The one who escaped?”

His English was quite good for a third language.

Ridley didn’t answer. “On the ground, hands behind your head!”

He muttered something in Somali to Bashir, and she heard her name amongst it.

She took a step forward again, her gun still very much aimed at his chest.

“The one I couldn’t break… Ridley.” He murmured, his eyes lighting up as if he wanted another chance.

He’d sneered in her face. Cut her flesh. Bruised her body. He came back again and again. He wasn’t interested in anything other than pain. He had a sort of fascination with it and justified it as simply trying to get information. He didn’t. Not from her. And when he didn’t, he made her watch as… James…

That was the worse torture she’d ever endured. Not the physical, but the visual. Having to watch her friend take his last breath. A person she’d laughed with, drunk with, opened up to. That was the kind of pain that made her keep her distance from everyone, including Alexia.

“Your friend was breakable though. What was his name again?”

She knew Becks was behind her and could almost read his thoughts. ‘Don’t let him get to you.’

“Don’t hurt him!” Bashir screamed from the ground until Duce gagged him. She held him there, and Ridley could hear him yelling against his gag. Screaming for his father. Together – they were the worst kind of father and son.

“Wings-” Becks started from behind her.

“No.” She responded. He wanted to take the burden of the situation from her shoulders. But she didn’t need him to.

“John?” Cumar continued. “Jim?”

She took a deep breath and took another step forward. “Reach for that gun and I will put a bullet in your heart.”

Although Cumar wasn’t their primary target – he was so high on the UN wanted list, that he was listed only as a shoot to kill.

“Joshua? Jackson?” Another step back towards his gun.

“One more warning. On your knees. Hands behind your head. I will not repeat myself.”

“Oh… that’s right. It was James.” He said his name like he didn’t care, because truly, he didn't.

James with the kind eyes and the bright smile. James, the guy who’d saved her life when she was just starting out in the Airforce. James who had only joined to hide the fact that he was gay, and the only person who knew was Ridley, and Wombat.

A tear pricked at her eye, but she didn’t let it fall. She took a deep breath and without thinking about it – her mind turned to Alexia to calm itself. Alexia. Her skin and her smell. Her style, her laugh, her smile. Her fucking eyes and that freckle on her neck where her lips had been… Ridley’s mind cleared. Her hatred subsided.

“James.” Cumar snapped and spun. When his hand touched the gun, she landed two shots into his chest and watched as his back hit the container of weaponry behind him.

Bashir screamed against his gag and tears ran down his face.

Cumar smirked at her and turned his head towards his son where it lulled to his chest with a final breath.

Ridley stood upright, lowering her gun and felt… relief. So much so that she hadn’t heard Fuzzy enter the room.

“Fuzzy – get the kid,” Becks commanded. “Wombat – you can come in now.”

Becks must have been keeping him out to avoid emotional bias.

Footsteps behind her.

“Wombat – photograph the area. The kid. The weapons. The body. Duce – tie him for transport.”

She watched as Fuzzy untied Akeem who clung to him. Wombat with his locked jaw as he photographed Cumar as evidence he was dead. Duce as she sat Bashir up and tied his arms for transport. His focus was on one thing only – Ridley.

She felt a large hand on her shoulder. “You did excellent.”

“I know,” she replied. She felt strange emotions in the pit of her abdomen at the idea that the mere thought of her Spanish footballer had driven that hatred from her. Had calmed her. “If I hadn’t arrived first, would you have let me in the room – or kept me out like Wombat?”

Becks removed his hand and waited until she turned to look at him. “I trust you above anyone else. I trust your judgement. If you weren’t going to make the right decision, you wouldn’t have entered the room yourself.”

He was right. As usual. His words just reaffirmed what she already knew.

Her eyes swept the room, knowing they needed to move, and quickly. She touched on each of the important areas to memorise for the debrief. Fuzzy was up and ready with Akeem as he put a small vest on him and gave him instruction in Arabic. Wombat was tearing open containers – photographing the evidence. Duce was also standing with her hostage, ready to go. Ridley turned her attention away from Bashir who was still glaring at her – and only her. She’d just replaced an enemy with and enemy.

“He’s not out objective. He’s a large liability and we can’t fly back with the addition of his weight and Akeem’s.” It wasn’t an argument – it was a discussion.

“He’s worth the risk and you know he is. We need to neutralise his influence, and we can’t kill him without an order or as defence.”

She already knew this, but it was her job to question things in order to make good decisions as a group. In their line of work, Bashir would just replace his father and continue to do as he did. If they successfully took him, he’d face an international tribunal and live the rest of his life in prison.

“Agreed. I can get us just back across the border. We can make contact in the air for ground support to meet us and clear the road to land.”

Becks nodded and they relayed the information to the team. “Let’s move.”

As they’d only approached from the south, they hadn’t taken out any of the security camps in any other direction to the prison, and now they were all arriving. They hadn’t been there long though, and still had time to get to the aircraft ahead of them.

The seven of them fled the prison and now, subtlety be damned, took a vehicle and drove it south to the landing strip. Along the way there was gunfire and shots equally back and forth, though they managed to stay ahead with a decent pace.

“Reloading,” Ridley shouted and knelt to the safety of cover as Duce drove like a bat out of hell. Akeem was up front, hiding in the footrest below Fuzzy as Becks held down Bashir and both Wombat and Ridley took the offensive positions from the back.

“Injury status!”

They team shouted their okay’s one by one. Ridley grabbed at her leg which was still seeping fresh blood. “I’ll be okay.”

“Reloading!” Wombat shouted and ducked. Ridley rose to take his position, firing on what she now identified as an entire convoy coming after them. Although it was hard to see in the dark, she knew there must have been hundreds of people. It wasn’t her best Tuesday, but certainly not her worst either.

Ridley felt a large hand grab her thigh and feel around the wound. She groaned, not ready for the pain.

“You’re losing a lot of blood.”

“Very aware of that.”

Becks loosened the tourniquet, and she momentarily felt relief before the searing pain began as the blood began to flow more freely. He tightened it again. “We’ll alert medical in the air. Hang in there, Wings.”

“Coming up on the airfield!”

“Wombat, Fuzzy, take the kid and bail out. Start the pre-flight checks and get the engine running. We’ll double back.”

“Rome-” Wombat started and then saw the state of her leg. He nodded, knowing he’d be quicker on foot than she would in this state.

“Duce?” Becks yelled over the roar of the engine and the sound of shouting and bullets.

“Just around this corner. They’ll be a few hundred metres from the strip and we can double back using the F-track.”

The one they’d identified during prep.

“Copy. Get the brake lights.”

Wombat and Ridley leant over and smashed the brake lights.

“Get ready to jump, lads!”

Becks and Ridley took to cover fire and as the road turned tightly and Duce hit the brakes to slow them enough for Wombat and Fuzzy to jump out, pulling a terrified Akeem with them. As soon as they were out, she hit the accelerator again. Ridley could only see them in the dark long enough to see Wombat’s hand raised in acknowledgement of their safe landing.

Duce drove them to the F-track, which was a trail almost invisible in the dark. She managed to get far enough ahead to take a quick 360 spin into the darkness and turn the lights off as she sped backwards behind the scrub. They stayed low and quiet, Becks holding Bashir to stop him from writhing about as they watched the vehicles rush past them, still firing into the darkness. They only needed to buy themselves five minutes to get the plane into the air safely.

Lights off, they drove up the track slowly which almost parallelled the road they were just on and made a judgement call to rejoin the road in the other direction when they couldn’t see any more speeding vehicles. It was a public road – after all.

They turned and drove into the trees as far as they could before the terrain forced them to abandon the vehicle. They took to foot from there, moving in unison towards where they knew the aircraft was.

Just as they saw the aircraft, there was a slight pang of relief, though Ridley knew they were far from safe. She locked her jaw as she ran with a limp, her good hand on her gun to stop it from bouncing, and her cast hand on her tourniquet to ensure it wouldn’t unwind. Blinding pain, with each step. She hobbled behind, watching Becks half carry, half drag Bashir in front of her.

‘You deserve this for what you did to Alexia.’ She thought. It was meant to be a playful thought to ease the pain, though it did hit her hard.

She felt the bullet whizz past her head before she heard it firing. And then the sound of ATVs.

“Contact!”

Wombat started the engine and Fuzzy held the canopy open, taking aim at the hostiles. Duce made it to the aircraft first, being the lightest. She hopped in and took up a cover position with Fuzzy. Becks was hit through the shoulder and fell, clutching it. Ridley stopped to grab him.

“M.. okay.” Was all he said. They both turned to get Bashir who was already on his feet and running in the opposite direction. He wasn’t worth it.

“Go!” Becks called. Wombat pushed the throttle forward and the plane began to move. Ridley sliced the rope tied to a branch just above eyesight and Fuzzy’s pack dropped down. He always loved to hide them in the treetops, and they’d need the medical supplies for both her and Becks.

Becks leapt onto the wing and Fuzzy dragged him inside by the shoulder strap of his vest. With a heave, Ridley threw the pack into the aircraft and leapt onto the wing, grabbing at Duce’s extended hand. Before she was pulled in, blood spattered her face at a bullet hitting Duce’s extended arm. She yelled and recoiled it on instinct. Ridley pushed herself onto her knees and felt a bullet slam directly into her back, knocking her forward off the wing. She barely missed the propeller as she fell, pulling her arm in to avoid the landing gear. She gasped and clutched her headgear, grateful that it took the blow of her weight onto the ground.

Winded, she pushed herself to her feet and began hobbling along the landing strip. She saw Wombat hesitate, but Cumar’s men were just too close.

“GO!” She yelled through her headset. She saw the devastation on their faces. The aircraft was too far away from her now and they all knew that if they waited for her, they’d be caught, or a bullet would tear into a fuel tank. “…Wombat – go. That’s an order.”

Becks grabbed Fuzzy’s pack and threw it from the aircraft for her, and as she didn’t slow her run as she grabbed it and swung it onto her back, grateful.

The sound of ATVs came closer, one in particular. Ridley ran as fast as she could in the pain she was in, watching as Wombat pushed the throttle all the way forward.

‘That’s it, then,’ she thought, as she heard the single ATV leading the others approaching her.

Just before the canopy on the aircraft closed, a single bullet was fired from Duce’s rifle, hitting the ATV rider in the head. Ridley spun to watch as he flopped off, and it came to a halt. She made the decision to backtrack and take it.

“Thank you,” she strained into her headset, knowing that Duce have just given her a chance at survival.

“Come back to us,” Duce replied, emotionally, which was very unlike her.

“My note..”

“We’ll be waiting for you to come tear it up.”

Ridley swung up onto the ATV and hit the throttle. She blindly shot behind her and drove laterally across the strip to fire more accurately at the oncoming vehicles – to provide cover for her team. As the aircraft passed the treetops and she knew they were safe, she holstered her gun and ducked to give less of her body a chance of being shot at – and accelerated as fast as she could through the trees.

Was this it? Was this how she died? She wondered at her note. Every mission they went on – they each wrote a note to friends, family, loved ones. It tied up all loose ends and said whatever they wanted it to say. There was a rule that the rest of the group had to follow the instructions on the note – should they not make it back. James’ had left instructions for Wombat and Ridley to tell his crush that he loved him, to tell his family that he was sorry, and also requested that the pair wore the gayest clothes they could find to his funeral. As is the way – they did just that. And they cried, in the most flamboyant dresses anyone had ever seen.

Her note… Alexia. No one would read it until they knew she was never coming back. It was private, and they respected each other, though she did wonder as to their reactions. Leaving most of her things to Blue… except the house in Barcelona, London, and Chiquito. That was all Alexia’s.

She’d fumbled over the words for a while until she settled on simplicity.

*Tell her that I love her and that some things can’t be replaced. Tell her she is that for me...and always will be.*

The words she wrote had dragged the truth from her. She loved Alexia. She loved her.

She chanted those words in her head as she ducked and weaved through the trees. She drove until she ran out of fuel, and abandoned it, settling to go on foot from there. She hobbled along, gasping for breath and starting to get faint from the lack of blood. She didn’t even want to see the state of her back, and knew even though she was wearing a vest, the bullet had done damage to her ribs.

When she knew she couldn’t possibly continue in that state, she stopped at a tree suitable to spend some time and did just that. Taking the tree climbing spikes from the pack and attaching them to her boots, using the claws in her hands, she climbed. It was difficult with the pack, but she’d reserved enough energy for it. This is why she stayed so fit. Survival.

She settled onto a branch tall enough to not be spotted easily, and tied herself there, in case she fainted or fell asleep. Taking the medical supplies out, she was finally able to tend to her wounds as best as she could, knowing that she’d need another surgery on her hand if she ever made it out. Her leg… was another story. She bit on her packaged bandage while she packed the wound, and then used the bandage to strap it. With this, she could loosen the tourniquet.

After a little water and food, she felt herself drifting and knew not to fight it. She took a small nap in the tree, and when she woke, she planned. She took out her tablet and located her tracker, seeing where she was. During her planning, several men and ATVs passed below her, yelling about her. One of the men was Bashir, now bandaged up and leading the manhunt.

She couldn’t go down the coast as they controlled the water. Their ATVs were hunting offroad. They had checkpoints along the main road. Her best option was an airstrip nearby. They couldn’t see it from their satellite images and so they’d brushed it aside as an unlikely possibility, though there was still hope. If she could find an aircraft, any aircraft, she could get out. She just needed to cross the border.

It was several clicks inland of where she was, and she’d need to cross the road, but she could make it if she was careful, and lucky. Very, very lucky.

When she sounds of men and vehicles around her had subsided enough, she climbed back down from the tree and started to move, highly alert that she was in enemy territory. A few times, she needed to stop and drop or find a ditch to lay low in and simply pray. Pray to a god she didn't believe it.

She crossed the road and after a few clicks of terror, she happened upon the field. That’s basically what it was, a field. It was just as wide as if was long which meant she’d be spotted much easier. As with every airfield, she found a hangar and crept around the back to peer through the window. She spotted a little Cessna inside guarded by two men. Bashir was smart. He must have sent them to hide inside, knowing she may try to escape like that. Though he must have been very stretched for manpower, covering the large area they were hunting her in. He’d have men at the boats, the jetties, the checkpoints, the multiple search parties, even back at the prison in case she dared risk returning. This made her feel confident that they were alone, and by the looks of them, they didn’t expect her at all.

She took a breath and stepped inside through the back entrance. They were fully grown men with guns, yet they were not nearly as trained and experienced as she was. Ridley took them both down without having to fire a single bullet to aware anyone of where she was. She dragged them to the back of the hangar and checked over the aircraft, removing the covers and testing the flight controls. Using the step and handle, she groaned her pain as she pulled herself up far enough to check the fuel levels in the wings. They weren’t full, but with only her weight, she dared that it would get her to Mandy Bay.

Without wasting time, she unloaded all the excess weight of manuals, chocks, supplies from the aircraft and left her unnecessary pack items there also. This was it. She was going to risk taking off.

Ridley pulled the hangar doors open as slowly and as soundlessly as possible, enough to be able to pull the aircraft outside. From engine start up, she needed to go. She didn’t have time for checks. Before jumping into the aircraft, she listened around. She could hear cars close on the road, ATV’s a few clicks away, and some rustling in the trees with a little wind.

Hopping in, she primed the engine and took a deep breath. Opening the throttle a quarter inch, she started the engine and threw the mixture to full. Once the engine roared to life, she taxied the little four-seater to where she needed it, applying much more throttle than necessary to heat up the oil. The last thing she needed was the engine to seize. God knows how long it had been sitting there for.

Ridley looked around her and spotted lights coming through the trees as she sat, ready for take-off. She took as long as she dared to heat the engine up before she couldn’t wait any longer.

She applied full throttle, pulled the steering column back and took her feet off the brakes, hurtling down the field, bumping along the way.

Oil temperature in the orange. Airspeed alive. 30 knots. 40. 50. 60 – “Rotate.” She called out of habit as she pulled back. She heard gunfire behind her and chose to focus on her attitude indicator instead. She went lights out and pitched up as much as she could without stalling – to climb as fast as possible away from the bullets. The climb performance was atrocious, and so she also chose to not bank any direction for the simple reason that she didn’t want to present more aircraft for them to shoot at. Passing 3000ft, she turned and saw the lights flooding the field she was just in. She continued to climb, darting inland to gain height before risking a move across to track down the coast. She was tense the entirety of the way, watching her temperatures and the lights of the vehicles swarming around the ground to her right. She had no idea how she’d not been caught with the sheer amount of them.

They were like ants, except worse. They killed and stole and raped and took what didn’t belong to them. Cumar was dead. But she feared that without Bashir in custody – they’d just created a whole new animal.

She flew with lights out until she’d passed the border, and her tension eased a little. So much, in fact, that her thigh, hand, and back began to throb with pain and she became faint as her adrenaline subsided.

Without a headset, she was unable to make any radio calls, though she knew her team would be tracking her GPS and stand down the jets as she came in to land. The reliable Cessna was all but running on fumes as she landed around 0330, finally back on friendly soil.

Ridley taxied the aircraft over near the jets and half-faint, still managed a chuckle at the image of a small Cessna next to jets worth over 100 million dollars each. She stopped where the crowd had formed, and watched her team run over as she pulled the mixture out and shut the engine down.

Ridley didn’t even have to open her door and step out. Becks all but ripped the doorframe out as Wombat dragged her from the aircraft.

Hugs.

Kisses.

Grateful words.

Tears.

She felt her crew all help to carry her to an awaiting stretcher where she was led into the medical tent for assessment.

She was stitched up, patched up, given fluids and food. Her team came in with their General and a man in a suit as she was eating.

“Wings, this is Aamir. His son is Akeem.”

Aamir looked like a kind man, truly. He shook her hand and let them all know just how grateful he was for saving his son. He offered them the world. Anything they wanted. Being a billionaire, his favour was a great thing to have, and she knew that they’d gained that for life.

Ridley replied to him as much as she could in her weary state. Becks murmured some words to him and he nodded, leaving the group alone with their General. Together, they debriefed. Ridley ended it with her happenings, and he seemed much more than satisfied. With the death of Cumar came relief, and an offer of an award to her for her bravery and success in taking down someone the world had been trying to find for decades.

‘It was all luck,’ she thought to herself, though smiled and accepted the kind offer.

After he left, Becks handed Ridley her note. Her team looked at her eagerly. She went to tear it and found herself pausing – instead holding it to her chest. “I think I’ll keep it…” she murmured.

They knew better than to argue against that. In fact, they smiled.

At 0445 Ridley found herself outside, looking up at the stars and wishing for peace. This was her life. She looked over at Akeem entering his dad’s private jet and smiled as he stopped to wave at her. He was a brave kid.

“Headed home?” Becks asked as he sidled up next to her.

“I’m not sure,” she murmured.

“It’s a simple decision, no?”

She turned to look at him curiously. He was usually exceptionally quiet, so it was easy to know when he had something he wanted to say. He smiled at her look and gestured to the jet. “Aamir is happy to take you to London. If you leave soon, you’ll get there before she leaves.”

Her heart leapt. Alexia. He knew. How? She was leaving? Why?

Her thoughts scattered across her face, and she was too tired to hide them. “How…?”

He knocked his shoulder gently into hers. “I keep tabs on you. On all of you. You know this.”

It was how he cared. How he loved.

“I won’t tell you what to do, because I respect you too much. You make your own decisions. But what I will say is that you keep going back. You always gravitate back towards her. She makes you happy. I never thought you’d find anyone… hell, I don’t think any of us expect to ever find anyone. You’re the lucky one. And you’d be doing us all a disservice if you didn’t try to have what we all want.”

She caught her emotions in her throat. Of course he knew everything. He loved his team like his family. More so, even. “How do you know I’m not trying?”

He looked back at the jet he was staring at before. “You arrive late and dishevelled, wearing a hardened Ridley façade I haven’t seen in years. Trying too hard to cover those emotions. You left her.”

“She’s better off-”

“Without you?” He turned to her again. “Tell me – did you give her a choice before you left?”

She froze. She… hadn’t. She’d given her every single choice except that one.

‘But you did it for her,’ she thought.

“And don’t even tell me you did it for her,” he said, annoying Ridley with his intelligence.

“She’s… public. You know we need to fly under the radar.”

“Wings, you know you don’t fit into that category. Yes, you need to stay low. But you know how to protect yourself, and her. You can do it all at once. You don’t lack in that department. Most people need their time to dissociate. You’re all Ridley, all at once. The soldier, the protector, the lover. You don’t split them like everyone else does. It’s you. That’s what makes you different.”

It was the most he’d ever complimented her, and that's exactly how she took it all – as a compliment. She was whole.

“I’d put her in danger…”

Becks scoffed, and it’s the first time in her life that she’d ever heard him do so. “There is no better protection than you. And us. That is no excuse to not try.”

She lowered her head into her hands and grabbed at her hair. “How can someone like her… someone as fucking perfect as her deserve someone as fucking.. fucking.. broken and horrible as I am?” She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “Huh? I’ve fucking slaughtered people like animals.”

“Those people were animals. You did what no one else could. That’s why we do what we do. To save everyone else. To do the things they can’t. We hurt ourselves and taint our souls so they will sleep well at night. That’s loyalty. That’s patriotism. That’s love.”

It was the most Becks had ever opened up. The most he’d ever said at one time.

That’s love.

He handed her a tablet with an open screen. “They’ve booked tickets back to Barcelona at 2pm. If you leave now, you’ll arrive just in time given the headwind. I’ve upgraded them to first class and forced the deadhead crew onto the next flight.”

Ridley stared down at her name on the tablet. “She shouldn’t take me back after what I’ve done to her.”

He smiled and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “That’s how you’ll know she’s the one for you. She won’t just let you back in with open arms. She’ll make you work for it.” Ridley rolled her eyes. “Trust me. I know you, Wings.”

They both sighed and looked up at the stars again. Somehow, he’d forced her to accept herself and how she felt. She deserved to be loved.

Saying her goodbyes to her team with lingering hugs, she boarded the private jet and as she always did – she headed towards Alexia.

She was fed well on the plane and managed to shower, catch some sleep, and even dress into some clothes Duce had given her. They landed 30 minutes before Alexia’s plane was due to depart which gave her just enough time to tell the ground crew to standby on her luggage and on Chiquito.

Would she come with her? Would she even want to see her?

Ridley made her way to the gate and saw the flash of her blonde hair and that familiar frown on Alexia’s face as she passed into the airbridge. Her heart leapt into her throat.

Ridley avoided the line and went around the desk.

“Five minutes,” she murmured to the familiar woman at the gate, touching her shoulder on the way past. The woman smiled at her and nodded. She knew her.

On board, she gave a knowing nod to the cabin crew before making her way to first class, where she knew Alexia was seated. Her stomach fluttered as she watched her tighten her seatbelt and change a song on her phone. She sighed and her expression was… heartbroken. Ridley had done this to her.

Her feet moved towards her automatically, her eyes only for the Spaniard.

Ignoring the pain in her thigh and back, she knelt in front of her, holding back the urge to touch her.

Alexia’s entire body froze in surprise. Her expression flickered to wonder. Worry. Pain again. Those hazel eyes darted from her eyes to her hair, neck, lips, scar, and back to her eyes. Ridley reached up slowly, ignoring her painful ribs, and pulled Alexia’s noise cancelling headphones down and around her neck gently, hoping she wouldn’t shy away from her.

“La Reina..” “Ridley..” Alexia breathed, almost without words it seemed. There were a few moments of silence as they just stared at each other, talking without words. Alexia unclipped her belt suddenly and leant forward, closer to her. So close she could almost taste her… Ridley locked her jaw and hoped she wouldn’t see the bruises, nor the blood beginning to seep from her wound through her pants. “You left,” she whispered in a voice that betrayed her hurt. “I did.” “You fucking left, Ridley.” Anger. Ridley nodded, leaning forwards… just needing to be close to her. “I’m sorry, Lex.” Her fingertips brushed Alexia’s hair from her cheek and just that small touch send shivers down her spine. “I need to say something, if you’d let me.” A pause. “Go ahead.” “I ran… I ran, and I’m sorry. You deserve better.” She needed to open up and be vulnerable. Becks all but told her this. “Lex… you can’t understand how torn I am… how conflicted. Half of me wants you to leave and find happiness elsewhere, away from me, so I don’t taint your beautiful soul with my darkened one. The other half begs for you, yearns for you, dreams about you and selfishly wants you close to me, always.” “You always said that you weren’t good for me, but I never believed you. I still don’t.” Her eyes told Ridley that she was telling the truth. Ridley sighed and looked down in shame. “I feel like I’m not good for anybody, and I didn’t want to put that burden on you for simply loving me. I went away and couldn’t stop my thoughts. I was conflicted. But amongst my confliction, I missed one very important thing. I didn’t give you a choice.” She looked up at her again, mirroring Becks’ words and thinking on her past 24 hours. “My soul is tainted, Lex. I’ve done horrible things that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. But I also know that I’ve never felt about anyone, the way I feel about you. You’ll always be safe with me, whether it’s physically, mentally, financially… I’m still working on the emotionally part. You bring far too much out of me in that regard.” She watched as Alexia’s lips trembled.

A flight attendant tapped Ridley’s shoulder. “Boarding is almost finished.”

Ridley nodded. “I’ll be two minutes.” She turned back to Alexia; her eyes open to her emotions. “Lex, meeting you broke a spell I’ve been under for a long time. Meeting you made me realise that maybe I was worthy of love after all. You took up space in my heart before I even knew it, and now, it seems you’re there to stay. I feel sorry for the Ridley before you because she didn’t realise how much love and happiness she was missing without you. You’ve changed me forever, and I’ll happily spend the rest of my life trying to thank you.” She cupped her cheek and stroked it with her thumb. “Regardless of if you want to stay or go…” Ridley was giving her what she’d unknowingly denied her before. A choice.

Alexia’s trembled and leant down, her hands touching her, and her cheek pressed against her own. She feel of her skin against her own sent a wave of peace she’d never known through Ridley’s body. “I’m damaged..” she whispered against Alexia’s cheek. Her last, fleeting attempt to dissuade her. “You’re human…” Alexia replied softly against hers, nudging it a little. “I’m broken.” Alexia’s hand gently moved down and rested over her heart. “You feel whole to me.” Whole… whole with her. Ridley’s hands found Alexia’s wrists and gripped on, wanting to keep her right there. Wanting her close.

Alexia’s lips brushed up her cheek, over her temple and to her forehead where she gave a single, passionate kiss. Much more than she deserved. “I’m right here.” Ridley felt a shiver run down her spine at that reassurance. Alexia’s large hands were either side of her jaw now, her cheek resting against her eyebrow. Ridley let them rest like that for what felt like an age, and not long enough at the same time. Eventually and fully against every fibre of her being, Ridley pulled back and found her eyes again, her expression distraught.

Alexia blinked an emotion, and her lips parted.

“I’m sorry I ran,” Ridley whispered. “It’s okay.” “It’s not. Not at all. Now the choice is yours, Lex.”

Alexia paused to think before she spoke. “I want you, Lee. In every single way. But relationships are a two-way street, and they start with us as individuals. I want you. I lov-“ She stopped herself and Ridley sucked in a breath just as she did. They loved each other. Alexia loved her. “I… but right now you need to find that part of you that doesn’t believe you deserve to be loved, and you need to learn to love yourself. To know in your heart that you deserve to love and be loved.. because you do. You fucking do. You deserve the world.”

Ridley’s face almost betrayed her relief she’d been harbouring since her conversation with Becks. He’d said that if she was right for her, she wouldn’t let her back in easily. Ridley hardened her face to neutral, trying to hide that it was what she wanted to hear. “You’re… right.” Alexia leant forward again, and kissed her on the forehead. “I know. And I truly hope you can find that, because you deserve to have the love of your life.” She pulled back. “Is there any hope for us?” Please be hope. Please. “If you can learn to love yourself, and promise me that you’ll stay. That you won’t run away again. That you’re ready to move forwards, together.” Ridley paid close attention to her words. “I need you to be here for me, like I am for you. I need security.” “How will you know that I’m ready?” Alexia smiled. “You’ll fight for me. For us.” Ridley tried to hide her smile. Becks had been right. “Until then… can we be friends?” “Friends who love each other, yes. Yes, please. I’d like that.” Ridley knew she needed to fight for her. To not leave her again. To show her she was in it. “Hm.” Ridley looked over her shoulder and gestured to the flight attendant who came by. “No change to the manifest. Please stand the ground crew down. Leave the baggage and pet on board.” She nodded with a smile and left.

“You’re leaving Chiquito with me?” “I can’t take him away from you..” “He’s yours.” “I think you’ll find that he’s ours now.” Alexia failed to hide a look of unfiltered joy. “We can share him…” Ridley smiled and Alexia’s eyes went straight to her lips and then her cheek. She reached out and touched her scar. “Deal.” She agreed. Ridley tried to look as normal as possible as she rocked back on her heels, ignoring the almost unbearable pain, and stood. “Goodbye, Alexia.”

Alexia caught her arm as she went to turn, and pulled her back down, their faces close enough to share their first kiss. The thought certainly crossed her mind. “Ridley?” “Yes?” “Don’t leave again. Fight for me. Fight for us.” Ridley’s pride crept up. She leant over to clip her belt up, pulling it tight across her hips and wondering at how good she looked strapped up. Her thumb found those lips she couldn’t stop thinking about, and traced them softly. “I will. Do you know why?” Alexia’s eyes widened, and she shook her head against her thumb. “Because you’re fucking mine, Alexia.”

#woso #womens football #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso soccer #alexia putellas #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #barca #fcb femení #culers

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suckmyfatdee · 2 months ago

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Clear Bias towards Team Black(A lot of possible spoilers)

If you are against what I wrote and don't like it, then scroll or block me, idc, don't waste your time commenting and ridiculing me because trust me, for these opinions I've heard the same thing over and over again and you're not gonna change my mind by writing an angry comment. The comment will just be deleted and you blocked because not everyone wants to argue with someone in their comments. And for those who saw something similar on reddit, that's because I posted the same thing on reddit.

I've seen people online talk about how the screenwriters are not actually biased towards Team Black because they've made Team Green less vicious than in the books and made them sympathetic...and they're wrong in my humble opinion. This rant is gonna be long probably and my english is not the best so...

Starting off with Ryan Condal constantly talking about how the books are propaganda against Rhaenyra...why specifically Rhaenyra? He says it's because Rhaenyra is a woman. How that isn't enough to make it clear that he favours Team Black(the oh so feminist team) is beyond me. The books have always been about having morally grey characters which makes sense given that the story is set in medieval times and it's literally a world where dragons exist. So naturally they don't have the same morals as we have in real life at this point in time, so to us they will always be morally grey, as intended.

Also let's talk about the fact that even if they made Team Green more sympathetic they've also destroyed them in the process.

INTRODUCTION OF TEAM GREEN:

● For older Rhaenyra and Alicent where they've already been divided into Team Green and Team Black, Rhaenyra is introduced giving birth, obviously very much in pain and exhausted. And before they introduce adult Alicent, they talk about her asking for Rhaenyra's babe and then they show Rhaenyra walking around the Red Keep, with blood trailing after her and in obvious pain having just given birth...that's how they introduced Alicent. Literally her asking a woman, who has just given birth, to bring her babe(even tho she didn't ask for Rhaenyra but whatever).

● "Older" Criston Cole is introduced in the background barely, if at all, reacting when Rhaenyra walks around the Red Keep with blood trailing after her...

● Then young Aegon(in his teen years) is introduced bullying his younger brother, which by the way never happened in the books, if anything it was the Strong boys and Viserys. And then right after that, sexually humiliated and shown jerking out the window.

● And as for older Aegon they first show his victim Dyana, who we know what he did to(even tho this also never happened in the books), violently crying and extremely traumatized. And right after that, Aegon waking up(also once again sexually humiliated) and not caring for what he did referring to it as just some "harmless" fun. That's something the audience can't get over, that's how he was introduced, and a rapist is hard to be fond of(naturally) especially with how little, if at all, he cared. But it wasn't even about the victim in this scene, we don't get any elaboration on how Dyana dealt with it or even how the other maids reacted only Alicent's dossapointment in Aegon and her disowning him. ONLY THEN they choose to make him sympathetic, letting him cry and talk about how he will never be good anough for his parents and Alicent rolling her eyes RIGHT after he is introduced as a rapist. Making a character of one faction a rapist is the easiest way to make the other faction look better and be more likeable, no matter how sympathetic they make said character(Aegon) thereafter.

● Older Helaena is introduced walking in on her brother husband crying and her asking about the very woman her brother-husband just raped. That's all we know of her in the first scene.

● Older Aemond is introduced fairly badass, I didn't have a problem with that.

MAKING TEAM GREEN INSULT RHAENYRA JUST TO DISTRACT FROM CERTAIN THINGS....:

● While Alicent and Criston are talking about Rhaenyra committing High Treason and her father not giving a flying shit, they make Criston call her a spoiled cunt.

● They made Vaemond call Rhaenyra a whore just before they made Daemon kill him so it was kind of a "Ha! He had it coming moment", which I don't remember Vaemon doing in the books but sure go on(Also, in the books it was Rhaenyra that ordered Daemon to kill Vaemond before she had Syrax eat him and then yk what else...)

● Season two it kicked off amazingly and Aegon was definitely the most entertaining character for many. I don't think I need to elaborate on what I think about the B & C scene, given Geroge has taken the words right out of my mouth. But let's talk about the small council meeting right after Aegon found out what happened to Jaehaerys. Not even in Aegon's grief do they exclude Rhaenyra, and I'm not talking about the fact that they blamed Rhaenyra but rather that they made Aegon insult Rhaenyra. And while I loved the scene and understood why a grieving father would insult his rival who is most likely responsible for the death of his son, of course a lot of people focused on him insulting Rhaenyra instead of him having just lost his son to murder.

● Criston's character they've also reduced to nothing but a heartbroken pathetic man who is bitter of a rejection even tho he played such a big part in the books(IMO). But almost every scene of Crirston they make him insult Rhaenyra as if he can't think of anyone but her.

SEXUAL HUMILIATION OF TEAM GREEN:

At this point it's pretty clear they'll sexually humiliate Team Green at any given moment.

● Ser Criston Cole is shown breaking his oath and being coerced(yes coerced, because if we watched the scene it is pretty clear as a day that that is what happened)into sex by Rhaenyra, that was something left unclear in the books but anyways. For Rhaenyra it was seen as her bravely being a girlboss and exploring her sexuality whereas Ser Criston is humiliated by the audience for it.

● As I said Aegon(in his teen years) is sexually humiliated and shown jerking out the window, with his rear on display and his own mother catching him in the act.

● Then after introducing Aegon as a violent rapist, they make Alicent pull the blanket of Aegon once again sexually humiliating him by showing his rear on full display to his mother once again...

● Then they have Helaena making a joke at dinner and we know how people perceived this as...I have no idea if the screenwriters intend to make it seem as Aegon is sexually abusing Helaena but it was seen as such by many.

● Did I forget to mention when they made Aemond and Criston look for Aegon and then they made up a scenario where Aegon forced 13 year old Aemond to have sex with the brothel Madame Silvy, which DID not happen in the books.(and yes I edited this in because I forgot to mention this). So not only is Aegon a rapist but also is the one that orchestrated the rape of his own brother.

● Then they make Larys Strong have a fetish to the very thing related to his cripple...feet. And they make him sexually abuse and coerce Alicent, the Queen, into showing her feet and show him starting to jerk off. Wow!

● In season 2 to make Alicent seem hypocritical they make her and Criston have a sexual relationship(npt even once specualted in the books) and to add insult to injury they make Helaena who freshly watched her son get murdered walk in on them having sex just to make it seem all the more horrible even tho in thw books Alicent was bound and gagged and also watched Jaehaerys get murdered.

● Then they sexually humiliate Aemond by making him lay in the lap of his RAPIST and seek comfort in her.

● A few episodes later they make Aegon, the very reason for Aemond's rape, sexually humilate his brother publicly. Great.

● Oh and of course Aegon for some reason having his cock burned when in the books he was excited to have an heir with that Cassandra Baratheon.

TEAM GREEN DOES NOT BELIEVE IN THEIR OWN CLAIM:

● In the show, they make Aegon's claim weak, if they even make it a claim. Even tho both Rhaenyra and Aegon have a claim. Rhaenyra by Viserys' word and Aegon by birth right and by Andal law.

● Young Alicent however calls Rhaenyra's claim a birthright, which it is not(and yes Book Aegon called it Rhaenyra's birthright once, I know) so she didn't believe in Aegon's claim at all since the start.

● And just to add that they made Rhaenyra see that animal to make it seem as the gods "chose" her.

● The reason Alicent usurped the throne in the show is not because she believes it's her son's birthright at all but rather because she understood Viserys to have said that Aegon was to sit the throne.

● In season two, Aemond, while talking to Ser Criston, also says they usurped Rhaenyra, so to Aemond it wasn't their birthright?

● Aegon and show!Aegon are similar in the books when it comes to the claim, so not much to elaborate on.

Lastly, TEAM GREEN HATES EACH OTHER:

Do I need to elaborate?

There is much more I could say but I don't want to make the post too long. Tried to keep it short and simple but failed(Oops.) Also I got a bit lazy towards the end as you can probably tell.

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aurae-rori · 5 months ago

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hey rori is there any genuine reason to like jade other than oooh dom mommy thing (which is... [gagging])

I think she's genuinely a well-written villain. She's morally grey, but leans heavily towards being more of a bad person than a good one. Her deals do technically benefit the people that she makes deals with, but on the other hand, it is simply a moment of satisfaction before everything falls to pieces. She's an incredibly well-written manipulator, giving Topaz a sense of trust and understanding in herself all while using her in order to further her own goals. She creates a sense of false safety in order to further manipulate others, or seems more kind and understanding to clients in order to make them more willing to give up something of value. The way that she maneuvers around her clients and her fellow Stonehearts reflect real manipulation tactics, and are executed in a way that is horribly realistic in the way that it is subtle and not noticeable if you don't squint hard enough. I love her because of how fucking awful she is, and how good she is at picking people apart and understanding what they want, and how good she is at persuading people to give up a part of themselves for her.

She's good at what she does. She provides people with what they need in the moment, all while taking something precious in return. She smooth-talks her way in and out, and perfectly manipulates the situation in her favour. She's a perfect businesswoman, an amazing professional at what she does - she really is a snake, isn't she?

I like her because of the fact that she's evil, and good about using real verbal cues and social cues to her advantage. I like her because she is fucking evil, while her morals are grey, she, herself, is fucking evil.

The first step in turning someone into your pawn is making them think they have equal ground with you, after all. Jade is good at making people feel assured. She does it with Topaz - praising her, leaving jobs to her, and bought things for Aventurine when he was nothing but a slave. Jade is good at people.

That's what makes her so damn terrifying. And in return for being terrifying and earning respect from her coworkers, I love her character because of how well-executed she is.

#jade #hsr #jade hsr #character analysis #character study #aurae answers #aurae analyzes #jade analysis hsr #psychology #i love morally grey shit

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wyngigi · 26 days ago

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ꕀ LUST FOR LIFE ꕀ 02

↳ sex money feelings die remastered .ᐟ cross posted on ao3

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“ they say only the good die young, that just ain't right 'cause we're having too much fun, too much fun tonight ”

↳ synopsis: a group of individuals find that their first taste of freedom in the world brings more obstacles than expected. some of them, find solace by drowning in liquor or in the backseat of somebody else’s car. a lot of them have got to get their shit together. a lot of them won't.

mdni » story contains nsfw content intended for 18+ audiences pairings » member specific, not listed for spoiler purposes ↳󠁪󠁪 ateez x female reader, ateez x ateez ↳ genre » coming of age ↳ word count » 3.5k ↳ general warnings » substance abuse & consumption, sexual content, morally grey characters, unreliable narrators, internalised homophobia, angst, basically every struggle young adolescence can go through

02⌇relationships, fuck buddies, heartbreaks

San has made a lot of bad decisions in his lifetime. For starters, back in the golden days of high school he decided to skip class and go on a bike ride with his friends. It was fun, until they decided to add alcohol into the mix, then it got stupidly fun. He ended up on the ground with his bike reduced to a pile of metal scraps with wheels. The addition of a nasty scar near his hairline wasn’t the most favourable either. His parents weren’t happy with that, nor when he hosted a house party the very next weekend that got more than just a little out of hand.

He’s glad most of the mistakes were correctable in some way. The bike definitely wasn’t salvageable, but he did eventually get a new one. Then, after the party, he had to give up a month’s allowance to mend the window he had broken after an intense game of beer pong. That month he also decided to take up a part-time job.

To put it plainly, San doesn’t make a lot of good decisions. Even after transitioning out of the angsty rebellious teen phase, trouble seems to just follow him. It’s okay with him though, he doesn’t just live with chaos, he thrives in it. Some things really do not change.

The building in front of him, previously only seen through images online stands almost confronting now. His clothes make him feel worse, like extremely out of place. They’re all wrinkled from being worn on the airplane and subway ride, and he feels the stares of people in their expensive evening wear as they walk by. It’s too late to back down now, so he reaches for his phone to inform the reason he’s here of his arrival. As he waits, San pays extra attention to his surroundings. Movies were right about one thing; New York, the city that never sleeps. He likes it, the honking cars in the distance and the occasional construction sounds are comforting in a strange way. Life at home felt too quiet, especially after you left.

He loves to be on the move, the thrill of exploring has always been dangerously enticing. San could have done that in lots of ways after high school, spontaneous road trip, booking a one-way ticket to anywhere he could think of. Temporary choices. He didn’t want that though, San wanted to live big. After more thought, transferring to a college that requires a plane ride to reach his hometown might’ve been living a little bigger than he anticipated.

He looks down at his phone, fumbling with the volume button in attempt to seem busy while he waits for a reply from his soon-to-be roommate. He hasn’t packed much, but his backpack has been weighing him down for twenty minutes after his subway commute. San checks his phone again, no reply.

There wasn’t much special about this college, education wise nothing he couldn’t have gained from any closer schools, but this one had something else. Someone else. San is well aware how moronic it is to chase after an ex (well, ex something) yet here he is, outside an apartment five miles from the campus you attend. His plan was always to move to a school further away. San’s decision to move to this school was only slightly influenced by the “vague” memory of your attendance here.

The rest of his belongings, haphazardly thrown into cardboard boxes are on the way soon, hopefully. The moving process is more complicated than San ought to have believed. He doesn’t have anything of too much value from home, except for his well-loved motorcycle. A more recent purchase, a gift to himself for finally deciding to make the big move.

A figure appears from the apartment building’s entrance and San hopes his prayers have been answered, for once. The man across from him squints his eyes curiously, recognition fills them instead after a few seconds and a grin spreads across his face.

“San, right?”

“I don’t get it; you know you could easily pay for this place yourself.” A second voice scoffs, chiming in, “Yeah, you just got the last roomie out. Why don’t you enjoy solo living for a while?” The two boys across from Mingi aren’t accusatory in tone, yet he feels it from their expression. It’s probably stupid from their view, understandably. It’s also kind of stupid from his, he’s just lonely. He can’t say that to them though. It’s hard to not sound like a wealthy prick whose upset his friends have jobs and other friends while he’s spending his days rotting away in some luxury penthouse in Brooklyn Heights.

“Dunno, save money I guess.” Wooyoung scoffs, “Complete bullshit, your parents pay for this place.” Mingi shrugs, “Saving them money, then.” Mingi watches as Wooyoung taps the boy next to him on the floor, holding his hand out. Yeosang squints up at him, elbow resting on his knee, lit joint in his hand sending smoke around in small swirls. “Puff, puff, pass fuckin’ hog.” Yeosang takes another drag, blowing a stream of smoke into the other’s face.

“Not even your stash, stop acting stingy.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes in response, bringing the stick up to his mouth as he leans back into the upholstered sofa. Mingi scowls, “Get another burn mark in this couch and I’m done with you forever.” Wooyoung hovers the lit end of the joint just above the leathered surface before the former knocks his hand away lightly. Wooyoung grins, passing Mingi the joint in surrender. He shuffles in his spot before bringing the stick to his lips between two fingers. Yeosang lays his back onto the cashmere carpet, stretching out his back.

Mingi likes the two boys. They are his friends, as much as friends who come to your place to smoke all your weed and use your fancy television can be. They keep him company, when they’re not studying or working, or at some shitty frat party. Mingi doesn’t really wish to join in on the trashy ragers they go to, it’s all cheap liquor that’ll leave him with a bad hangover. Sometimes he thinks he really does live up to the pretentious rich kid stereotype.

“So,” Yeosang continues, eyes still closed as he lies down, “Who is the new roomie?” Mingi clears his throat to respond, yet the other voice in the room interrupts. “Seriously though, who cares, I’m still grieving the last one. Missing him.”

“You’ve seen him a total of like, seven times.” Yeosang lifts his head up to give the youngest of the three a judgemental look, “Have you guys even spoken before?”

Mingi snorts, “They did, once. Hongjoong lost his key and Wooyoung let him in. He was too out of it to respond and ran to the bathroom to throw up.” The black-haired boy scowls, “Don’t care. He was hot. Fuck happened to him?”

Mingi shrugs, he doesn’t really know much about his old roommate either. He moved in because the guy was looking for some extra studio space. Some preppy art school kid. Not a lot to know, apart from the fact he drank a little too much. And barely spoke unless he was wasted out of his mind. He didn’t mind it though, just enjoyed having someone to share his place with. To be honest, the place just feels so hollow with just him in it. Last week he had packed his stuff up, handed his key to Mingi and on his way he went. Mingi didn’t have a lot of friends, dropping out of school early kind of kickstarts that. All of Mingi’s old friends were off in foreign countries, travelling and exploring with their parent’s money, and the two with him now were always closer to each other. Not that they’d exclude him, but they were each other’s best friends.

“Long story, you guys hungry?” The two boys nod. Yeosang props himself up, “New restaurant opened up like last week down the road.” Mingi nods, moving to get up before Wooyoung sucks in a breath. “Your treat though, yeah?” He sings, patting the boy on the chest. Mingi nods letting the two make their way out first as he reaches for his wallet on the coffee table. “What are friends for?” He mutters, shoving the wallet into his pocket.

Ever since Jongho was young, he knew he belonged on the field. Football wasn’t just about the winning, the congratulations or the glory of the trophies and medals, it was more than that. He couldn’t boil it down to one thing that made football so important to him. He loved the chill against his skin as he ran across the grass, ball in his grasp as the screaming and shouting all melted in a dull buzz. He loved when after every point he scored added up onto the scoreboard, celebratory ding ringing in his ears louder than any cheers from his team or the crowd.

The game had always been his calling, the practices just as much entertainment to him. Loved the drills, again and again. First one on the field and last to leave. He was unstoppable, sum it up to physical advantage, extra training, but what he knew was that it all began with his mentality. That this was the thing nobody could take from him. Unfortunately, life will always find a way to do exactly that.

His dad, who had fuelled his love for the game for a much younger Jongho many years ago was sick. Jongho knew he was ill; he also knew that the last thing his dad would want to see was him crying at his bedside. So, he chose to be strong. Or try to, as much as one can when you want to cry and hide until the hurt in one’s heart would cease. He went to practices with his team as much as he could, tackled, defended until his body gave up. Then, he would get up and do the same thing again the very next day.

He pretended as long as he could, that nothing in his life had changed. He’d come home from practice, ask his dad if he wanted to throw the ball around with him and when his dad would shake his head and respond with a simple “Too tired, tomorrow maybe.” Jongho would smile, close the door and return to his room. It was easier, to agree his dad was tired, not sick.

It was hard to ignore other things though, like in his house. The paintings his parents bought during their trip in Greece had been sold, his mom’s engagement ring pawned off, the small tv he kept in his bedroom given away in a garage sale for practically nothing. Jongho would be stupid if he didn’t notice they were having money troubles. So, he did something he really, really didn’t want to do.

Quitting his team was one of the first times Jongho had felt completely and utterly hopeless. But he also knew it was the right thing to do. Too much money spent on his equipment and uniforms, too much time taken away that he didn’t have. So, his afternoons routinely spent sweating, running and catching transformed into mind numbing endless shifts at his local convenience store, as well as studying harder than he ever had before.

During his final semester he joined his team again, played the final games of the season but, the universe is cruel sometimes, so damn cruel. Just under a year of being off the field had set him back too far, no amount of practice could’ve helped him. The other top players of the team had received sport scholarships from some of the top schools, and he was left behind. He’s glad to have at least paid enough attention in school to receive a scholarship, an academic one for science. Without it, college fees would’ve set him back far more.

His first year of college went by with a breeze, then the universe had made its round again. Jongho’s dad had passed away, peacefully, in his sleep on New Years. His nights spent buried in books, reviewing lectures and revising for exams had turned into endless bottles of whatever he could get his hands on until he’d pass out. Then, he would get up and do the same thing again the very next day. He doesn’t talk about his dad much for obvious reasons, but by the start of his second year he had entered lectures painfully wasted or stoned out of his mind instead.

Wooyoung’s spent his whole life thinking about love. Watching it first with his parents, as his mom would look up into his dad’s eyes, fixing his tie while he tucked her hair behind her ear before they’d leave for their weekly date night. They were the classic high school sweethearts. He didn’t know exactly what love would be in store for him yet, but he knew what his parents had was simple, plain, love.

As he got older, he watched it in elementary school. More juvenile versions of it, smiles across the playground and confessions scribbled onto paper. He also remembers his first crush. She was pretty, always waved to him in middle school before running off to her friends. Wooyoung would walk the longer route to his own classes to see her as she passed him, locking eyes before one of them (usually him) would feel his breath hitch and he’d walk a little faster. They even went to their school dance together, by that he means they held hands and stood next to each other at the punch table.

They never dated but she was also his first heartbreak in a sense, thanks to the new guy that showed up and swept her off her feet by their final year of middle school. Wooyoung hadn’t cared too much after like a week, they went off to different high schools and he’d forgotten all about her. He certainly doesn’t remember much of her now, but he does remember the feeling of loving someone for the first time. Whatever illusioned version of love a person can have in their teenage years.

By the time high school ended, he’d enjoyed his fair share of relationships, fuck buddies, heartbreaks and whatever else there was in between. Unfortunately, that meant the rose-coloured lenses of his adolescence had been removed, and love had gradually become more of a whimsical fantasy than something he’d truly ever achieve. Life just got in the way most of the time, made relationships way too complicated. Therefore, in the meantime, while he waited for the special someone to come along he chose to embrace college life to the absolute fullest. Which translates to get wasted every weekend and wake up with a stranger in your bed.

“Any of you planning to get some tonight? Because I know I am,” Wooyoung winks. Mingi scoffs, picking up a slice of pizza, “Didn’t I tell you I’m not going? Those parties you and Yeosang go to are always so,” he pauses, holding his hands up to find an eloquent expression, “fucked up.” Yeosang pleads, “You can’t be lame tonight too, dude.” Placing his cup down he continues, “Wooyoung’s gonna ditch me before he’s even gotten a drink in him. Just come with.” Mingi shakes his head, “Isn’t your roommate going? Just stay with him,” he offers with a shrug.

Yeosang exhales, arms dropping to his sides, “Yes, exactly- I don’t want to be drunk around him. I swear Yunho’s straight as shit and I’m gonna try make out with him or something. You need to be there to stop me, deadass.” Mingi purses his lips, “I don’t know, new roommate’s bringing all his shit tonight and I said I was gonna help him unpack.” Wooyoung swallows his bite quickly, tilting his chin towards Mingi, “Didn’t he transfer to Columbia? He would’ve seen the flyers, I’m sure he’d be going already.”

Mingi sighs in defeat, nodding, “I’m gonna head back now. I’ll ask once I get there, text me the details yeah?” The boys break out into grins, elbowing each other in celebration. “Yeah, I got you. See you man.” Yeosang hits Mingi on the arm shooting him a small smile, while Wooyoung bids him goodbye with a tap to his behind, the two watch him leave the store before continuing to finish their food. Unfortunately for the tallest of the three, Mingi hadn’t told them how cute his new roommate was, and just how nervous he’d been around him since the first time they met.

Mingi takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to pray he doesn’t embarrass himself. He shuts the door behind him before making his way to the living room. Stacks of cardboard boxes greet him, splayed out on the ground. Mingi spots books and stacks of clothing folded messily in some of the opened boxes. He furrows his brows looking around for the boy.

After toeing off his shoes, he places his keys on the counter before calling out, “Hey, San?” Shuffling is heard in the distance before Mingi turns around and finds who he’s looking for. Unfortunately for him, (fortunate for his eyes) the boy is far less clothed than he had anticipated. Holy shit. This new roommate of his is really fucking jacked. And worse, even hotter without a shirt.

“Hey! I’ll get the boxes cleared soon,” San pauses, eyes widening as he notices how Mingi is frozen in place, “Sorry um, moving just got kind of uh, hot.” He presses his lips into a thin line before gesturing towards his very half-naked body. Mingi shakes his head quickly, “No dude it’s fine, is the AC not working or, something?” Mingi realises how much he needs to peel his eyes away, so he does. Extremely unwillingly. His hands tremble as he shrugs his jacket off. Mingi turns away from man opposite him whose still very much not clothed to busy himself with a desperately needed glass of water.

San scratches the back of his neck, looking down, “I don’t really, know how to use it? Embarrassing I know, but I just have some shitty remote. Not the whole touch screen thing, not that it’s bad at all! This whole place is really great, your bedroom is really nice by the way. Not in that way! I just walked in accidentally, this place has a lot of rooms. My bedroom is really great too. Oh my god, I need to shut up. I’m sorry.”

A small chuckle escapes before Mingi can suppress it, “I’ll show you how to use it later. Have you um, unpacked enough of your clothes yet? My friends were asking if you wanted to come with us to that Columbia party tonight.” San grins in return, nodding enthusiastically, “Yeah!” he clears his throat, “Yeah, for sure. No that’s cool with me, I was planning on going already.”

“Okay, yeah. Cool. I’m gonna get changed then we can meet them there.” Mingi empties the last bit of water from his glass, watching as San rubs his now sweaty hands on the sides of his pants. He spins on his heels, returning back to boxes he was previously sorting through. Mingi mutters a quick “see you in a bit” before rushing past the other, off to his bedroom. He pushes his door shut quickly, pulling out his phone as he slides against the wall down to the floor.

mingi: fuck me yeosang: thank u god i knew this day wld come

mingi: wtf dude no

new roomie is hot as fuck yeosang: thought you finally loved me back

kidding spill

so what does he have that i dont Mingi rolls his eyes, poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek before typing frantically back.

mingi: can u shut up

i alr thought he was cute n then he walked in half naked and i Don’t Know What To Do yeosang: is he coming party tn ?

mingi: yes . i want to jump his bones

yeosang: cant wait to see that

mingi: ok voyeur kink is not needed rn

yeosang: sorry i thought this was a Safe Space

mingi: how do i live with him now

i cant be normal around hot ppl

yeosang: idk man u kno i don’t fuck the roomies for a reason

need me to keep u on lock tn ? js keep me from yunho i beg

mingi: i think ill b ok

Can i fuck yunho instead

yeosang: not funny

mingi: sorry x

wooyoung: god when is my hot roomie coming along ..

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