#is there like fumes in the air????? are these the same person/people?????

[wigglepiggle]

days since somebody has gone to the hospital at school counter: 0

[iamgonnagetyouback]

mattheo riddle x single mom!reader where his smile entranced you and your 4 months old son

The day had been impossibly long. You were running on fumes, your back ached from lugging around Benjamin’s diaper bag, and your head throbbed with the distinct pulse of frustration and lack of sleep. Your sweet baby boy, Benjamin, was usually a ray of sunshine, but today had tested even his limits—and yours.

Now, on a crowded bus full of strangers, Benjamin was letting the world know just how upset he was. His cries echoed loudly, shrill and relentless, as he wriggled in your arms. The passengers around you shifted uncomfortably, a few not-so-subtle glares landing on you. One person sighed audibly, another muttered under their breath, and it all made you want to sink into the floor.

“Ben, sweetheart,” you whispered, bouncing him gently, your voice trembling with exhaustion. “Please, please calm down.”

But Ben wasn’t having it. His face was scrunched up in frustration, little fists waving, and tears streaming down his rosy cheeks. You couldn’t blame him, really. You felt like crying, too.

Your cheeks burned as a middle-aged woman shot you a disapproving look over her glasses. You tried to meet her gaze with an apologetic smile, but it faltered halfway. What did she expect you to do? Babies cried. You were doing your best.

Just a little longer, you told yourself. Your stop wasn’t far. You just had to make it a few more minutes.

And then, miraculously, the crying stopped.

You blinked, stunned. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined the sudden silence. But no—Ben was quiet, his wide eyes fixed on something—or rather, someone. He wasn’t just calm; he was positively entranced.

You followed his gaze, turning your head to the source of his fascination.

Sitting two seats away was a man—maybe your age, mid-twenties—with messy dark curls and a face that could stop traffic. His features were sharp yet somehow soft, like they couldn’t decide whether to be rugged or refined. But it was his smile that held your attention—it was the kind of smile that could disarm even the most guarded hearts.

“Hey, buddy,” the man said, his voice low and soothing, but with a playful lilt that seemed to enchant your son. “What’s got you so upset, huh?”

To your utter shock, Ben giggled. A real, honest-to-goodness giggle. The kind that made his tiny nose scrunch up and his dimples show. He even reached out toward the man, babbling happily, his earlier meltdown forgotten.

Your heart squeezed, relief mingling with something else—something warm and fluttery that you hadn’t felt in a long time. You looked at the man, really looked at him. His easy confidence, the soft curve of his lips as he continued entertaining Ben, the way he seemed completely unfazed by the chaos that had preceded this moment... You felt yourself relax for the first time all day.

“Looks like he’s a fan,” the man said, glancing at you with a teasing grin that made your cheeks flush.

You tried to muster a coherent response, but you were so drained you could only manage a sheepish laugh. “I guess he is. Thank you. I don’t know what kind of magic you just pulled, but I owe you.”

“No magic,” he said, shrugging with a casual air that somehow made him even more attractive. “I’ve just got a way with people, I guess. Especially the little ones.”

Ben gurgled in agreement, as if to second this claim, and the man chuckled—a low, rich sound that made your exhaustion momentarily melt away.

All too soon, your stop was announced. You stood, adjusting Ben in your arms and slinging the diaper bag over your shoulder. The man watched you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, before he stood too. You felt a flicker of surprise—and maybe a little nervousness—when he followed you off the bus.

As the bus pulled away, you glanced at him, unsure whether to say something. Before you could decide, he broke the silence.

“Looks like we’re heading in the same direction,” he said, falling into step beside you. “I’m Mattheo, by the way.”

“Hi, Mattheo,” you replied softly, offering him a tired but genuine smile. “I’m—”

Your introduction was cut short by a sharp pang of realization. Ben’s penguin—his favorite plush toy—was missing. You gasped, frantically patting down the diaper bag and checking your pockets. “No, no, no…”

“What’s wrong?” Mattheo asked, his brows furrowing in concern.

“I left his toy on the bus,” you said, your voice trembling. “His penguin. He won’t sleep without it.”

Mattheo didn’t hesitate. “Stay here.”

“Wait, what are you—” But he was already sprinting after the bus, waving his arms like a madman. “Oh my god,” you muttered, watching in a mix of disbelief and awe as he flagged the driver down. The bus screeched to a halt, and Mattheo jumped aboard.

You bounced Ben nervously, watching the bus like a hawk. Benjamin, meanwhile, seemed completely unfazed, cooing contentedly as if he knew Mattheo had everything under control.

Minutes later, Mattheo emerged from the bus, grinning triumphantly and holding the penguin aloft like a trophy. “Found it!”

You could’ve cried with relief. As he approached, you reached out to take the toy, and your fingers brushed his. The contact sent a tiny jolt through you—not unpleasant, but enough to make your breath catch.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with gratitude. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did,” Mattheo replied easily, his eyes softening as he looked at Ben, who squealed with delight and clutched the penguin tightly. “Couldn’t let my little buddy go without his best friend, could I?”

The way he said it—so genuine, so warm—made your heart skip a beat. Ben clearly adored him, and you couldn’t blame your son. You were starting to feel the same way.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said, smiling at Mattheo. “Really.”

“Just doing my good deed for the day,” he teased, his grin turning a little sheepish. “Plus, I think I’m Ben’s new favorite person.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you joked, though your tone was light and full of affection.

Mattheo laughed, and it was a sound you could’ve happily listened to forever. As the three of you walked away together, the world felt just a little bit brighter. For the first time in what felt like ages, you weren’t just surviving—you were hopeful.

AUTHOR'S NOTE If anyone has any requests/ideas related to this, PLEASE don't hesitate to send. This is my current obsession 💙

[ukiiseikou]

these hands that saved me, they're so fragile.

tartaglia x gn! reader. when you take a hit for him. he's referred to by his real name here.

you wouldn't really call yourself a fighter per say, more of an scholar or explorer. but like everyone else in the village, you knew some basic self defense - like how to hold a bow properly and the best way to wield a knife and cut through flesh. when you finally started dating ajax, he taught you how to throw a punch properly, with your fist as tight as possible and not with your thumb tucked into your palm, "because it'll break that way".

he's brought you on several trips already - fatui missions, you know, but he swears he has the time to lounge around and accompany you on your survey of various local offerings, and he makes well on his promises, despite the bruises and extra cuts he has to go through to clean up in time. you always scold him - don't go into a battle without a clear head! - but he laughs and says that it'll be a waste to come all the way here with his favourite person and not enjoy it.

you know he has his fair share of enemies - people who would do anything to take his head off. ajax jumps at any chance to fight - like a wolf that just learnt to bare it's teeth and fight tooth and nail with reckless abandonment. he comes home bloodied and bruised nine times out of ten, always with an apology hanging by his lips as you sit him down and wipe away the splash of blood on his cheek.

you've had your own close run-ins with his foes - even after ajax made an example out of the first group that dared to touch a hair of you, the fatui's enemies pinpointed you as the weakness of the eleventh harbinger - a surefire way of getting under his skin and catching him by surprise.

"i'll protect you," he murmurs every so often in your ear at night, arms tightening around your waist as he buried his head in the crook of your shoulder, "i'll be your knight."

"i know, ajax," you've always whispered back, smoothing back ginger curls and leaving a tender kiss on his forehead.

so that's why you didn't second guess yourself and threw yourself in the line of an arrow heading towards him in his blind spot. a sniper perched in a tree that quickly slinked off when the arrowhead pierced the flesh of your shoulder and you cried out in pain.

the overwhelming sensation of pain overtakes all your senses, you can barely hear ajax call out your name and you don't register him catching you in his arms and frantically patting you on your cheek. the taste of blood fills your mouth and your eyes water at the sensation - and smell of iron in the air.

your vision fades to black.

"i'll keep an eye on them. thanks for coming around, doctor."

ajax's voice finally makes it over the noise and his face finally makes it into focus in your vision. you vaguely register that you're on a bed and you can't feel the entirety of your left side.

"ajax?" you manage to croak out. you hear frantic feet against the floor and his face pops into view, brows drawn together in worry. the bed creaks under his weight as he sits on the bed beside you, leaning over your body.

"the doctor said that most people usually take 3 hours to wake up," he mutters, and you manage to catch it as he scans over you with scrutiny.

"guess i'm not most people," you manage to raise your right arm to give him at quick tap on his hand, which immediately moves to grasps yours and give you squeeze.

"does it hurt?"

"not really. can't feel it at all, actually."

he lets out a satisfied hum, before his blue eyes turn steely again.

"what you did was stupid. why did you do that - for me?"

"hey," you muster enough strength to squeeze his hand back in response, "it goes both ways, ajax. if you were me, you would done the same."

he fumes, because he knows you're right. he would rather throw himself to the flames than to watch anyone hurt you, and he knows that if he starts scolding you all you would do is do the same thing back to him.

he settles for sighing, playing with your fingers.

"i only wish it didn't have to be that way. i'm sorry, it's all on me. i should've been better."

he places your hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth against his skin.

"ajax," you say softly as his eyes close, "i told you before - i chose to be with you. i knew what i was getting into. so don't say sorry, okay?"

you watch as he inhales, then exhales, again.

"you really are the best, you know?"

not my best work but i suddenly felt the urge. like or reblog if you enjoyed thank you~

[dreaming-medium]

White Nail Polish

Pairing: I.N x reader

Genre: pure fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 5.1K

Summary: Every Sunday when Yang Jeongin comes home to your shared apartment, there you’ll be, in your corner seat on the couch, painting your nails the same white color. But today, when he steps inside, you’re not there.

——————————————————————-

You always painted your nails yourself.

“It’s easier!” You would tell Jeongin with a bubbly smile. “Plus, it’s so nice to take some time to pamper myself. And I get to save money.”

It was a simple tradition he’s come to look forward to.

Every Sunday, when Jeongin walked in the door to your shared apartment and the smell of acetone smacked him in the face, he would always smile.

There you would be, on your designated corner seat on the couch, in your coziest, oversized hoodie, a fresh clay face mask on your face with your hair held back by a fuzzy headband.

The same fuzzy headband he stuck in your Christmas stocking last year.

You’d only just be finishing taking the last coat off your nails by the time he got home.

Without fail, Jeongin would walk in and immediately open the window to air out the chemical smell. He would then lecture you about fumes and how dangerous it was to be inhaling them.

Then, you would giggle and ask him to sit with you. He would do so without any fuss and a happy tingle in his chest.

Both of you would talk and watch TV until it was time for bed.

Sundays were his new favorite days.

The roommate line of your relationship was quickly crossed with how you were as a person, your overly friendly nature couldn’t keep you apart for long. After living together for two years now, Jeongin would easily proclaim you as one of his best friends.

His life was always changing, nothing was ever the same; nothing except for you and your white nail polish.

So, when he opened the door and was met with only the smell of a burning candle, Jeongin frowned.

The living room was dark. The TV wasn’t on. The entire apartment was standing still.

Not even a fresh pot of coffee was sitting on the counter.

You were home, though. Your shoes were by the door and your keys were hanging on the hook.

Never once have you missed a ‘Self Care Sunday’ as you coined them.

Even when you had the flu, you made sure to paint your pretty nails.

The door shut behind him, the click of the lock was as hollow as the apartment felt.

Jeongin kicked his shoes off and made his way down the hall, tossing his bag in his room before walking across the hall to stand in front of your closed door. The soft glow of your fairy lights shined from the crack underneath the wood.

There’s soft sounds coming from inside, it sounds like you’re watching videos on your phone.

He knocks a few times, you hum for him to come in.

Jeongin pushes the door open gently, his head peeking in first before his body.

You’re a lump of blankets on top of the bed. If he looked quickly, he might not have realized that it was you underneath all the blankets and pillows.

“Y/N?” he asks quietly, stepping inside slowly.

Your eyes look at him, they seem… dull. When you see his face, you lock your phone and place it down on your bed.

Again, you only hum.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” he asks. Jeongin walks towards the bed and sits on the edge. “You’ve never missed a Sunday before.”

You shrug— or at least, he thinks it’s a shrug, all Jeongin’s able to see is the lump of blankets move around.

His eyebrows pull together and he purses his lip. “What’s going on?”

You look away from him. “Just… life weighing down extra today. Exams, job, finding an internship, life, everything.”

Every day you were bubbly. Not a moment went by where you didn’t have a varying degree of a smile on your face. Some people had a resting bitch face, you had a resting happy face.

The corners of your lips were perpetually upturned.

Seeing you now, like this, a sad lump of fleece, pulled at Jeongin’s heartstrings.

You reach one hand out from under the blankets and place it gently on top of his. “Sorry for being all meh,” you huff a humorless laugh through your nose. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. I think I need to be a bedbug today.”

Jeongin thinks for a moment, he looks around your room to your desk. Everything that you usually use on Sundays is there on top.

He flips his hand around and picks yours up, bringing it closer to his face. Cocking his head to the side, he peers down at your nails, making sure to exaggerate how much he’s judging the chipped polish.

“No, no,” he says, clicking his tongue. “This won’t do at all.”

“Jeongin—“

“Nope, look at this.” He holds your hand up for you to see. “How unprofessional. We have to take care of this.”

You roll your eyes. And it doesn’t slip past Jeongin’s watchful eye that your lips twitch in a smile.

“I just don’t feel like it right now,” you whine.

“That’s fine, I’ll do it.”

Jeongin pulls on your arm to yank you out of the blanket pile.

You blink a few times and allow him to sit you up on the bed. A large, stretched out t-shirt hung off your shoulder, your hair sticks up in different directions.

“What?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I’ll paint your nails, come on. Free of charge.”

Jeongin stands up from the bed and holds his hand out for you. You just blink at him over and over.

“You’re going to paint my nails?” The question ends with an incredulous laugh.

Rolling his eyes, Jeongin thrusts his hand out for you to take again. “Yes, I’m going to paint your nails, what’s so odd about that?”

“Have you ever painted your nails before?”

“No, but I watch you do it every week. How hard could it be?”

Your face scrunches up but a small twinkle returns to your eyes. It doesn’t slip past Jeongin.

Deciding that you’re taking too long, Jeongin leans down and picks you up over his shoulder.

A loud squeal comes from your throat that dissolves into giggles. His heart lights up at the sound— it always has.

Even on his worst days, hearing your laughter was like sitting in front of a fireplace during a snowstorm. When he’s sick, he swears he doesn’t need medicine, he just needs to sit near you.

He can still remember one night where he was at his wit’s end, everything that could go wrong, did. He was so overstimulated and angry at everything that he could scream and cry at the same time.

But then, your laughter pierced through the gray clouds of his mind. Your fit of giggles traveled through your door and into his room, they were so muffled but uncontrolled.

Slowly, they dissolved into cackles. Breathless wheezes and snorts that made him smile without knowing what you’re looking at.

You had one of those laughs that was so contagious, especially to him.

There was a bit of shuffling, a door opened, and then you came through his with one of the happiest smiles he’s ever seen. Tears coming down your red face from laughing so hard.

“You have to see this!” you wheezed out.

What was it? A video of a duck sitting on top of a water park geyser, when the water jet activated, the duck went flying.

It wasn’t even that funny. But hearing your angelic laughter made it hilarious.

Suddenly, his day wasn’t so bad anymore. He couldn’t even remember what he was mad about.

That’s the friendship you both have always carried on with.

A shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, an arm to grab when you’re laughing too hard, an extra coffee to bring home, a constant reminder to refill the Brita. It gets deeper and deeper every day.

Jeongin unceremoniously plops you into your corner seat and you let out an ‘ooof!’

He points down at your face. “Stay.”

“I’m not a dog!” You laugh nonetheless while Jeongin’s lithe form disappears down the hallway again.

You look down at your nails. They desperately needed to be done. After studying for hours on end while chewing on your nails, typing on your laptop, and picking nervously at them, there’s barely any polish left.

Truly, you were just going to wait until tomorrow— but if Jeongin was offering, who were you to turn it down?

He comes back out into the living room with everything you typically used. You honestly never noticed how much he paid attention to your pampering.

Setting everything down on the table, he sits cross legged on the seat next to yours and clicks the TV on. A random Christmas movie plays in the background.

He grabs the remover and a cotton pad and goes to work. All the motions look so natural after he grabs your first hand; like he’s the one that does this every Sunday, not you.

The two of you are facing one another, knees practically touching. He’s so gentle when he works.

The chemical burning smell of acetone makes him scrunch his nose up.

“Aren’t you going to open the windows?” you tease.

He grins. “In a minute. The smell has to permeate the house first.”

“And here I thought you hated the smell.”

“I do,” he wipes off polish and goes to the next finger. “But it’s just … something that’s grown on me.”

“Acetone?”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Strangely enough. I hate it, but I love it.”

He switches to the next hand.

The Christmas movie continues to play, it’s a classic one with Korean translated subtitles at the bottom of the screen. It’s weird hearing English come out of the TV.

Jeongin’s been trying extra hard with English since you moved in. With you being from America, it was like having a live-in tutor.

“I … need remote, please.” He asked in a slow, calculated tone.

“You need the remote,” you corrected him, holding it out of his reach.

“I need the remote.”

“Why?”

“Change channel.”

“Change the channel.”

“Oh my god.”

Your attention goes back to Jeongin. He’s wiping the last of the nail polish off your fingers.

He’s been your rock these last two years. And you’ve been his.

Neither of you really enjoy having emotional conversations or talking about your feelings, you both prefer to stay quiet about it. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need some form of support.

That’s how you two work out so well. When one needs help, the other is there with jokes or food or a movie ready to watch.

Or in this case, nail polish ready to be applied.

With a huff, he stands up from the couch and pushes open one of the windows. He fans his hand in front of his face just to be extra dramatic.

Rolling your eyes, you poke him in the side when he sits back down on the couch.

You were expecting him to put the paint on right away afterwards, so imagine your surprise when he picks up the small pair of clippers.

With a raised eyebrow, you take your hand away a little. His grip tightens and his head snaps up to look at you with a mock-offended expression.

“Nuh-uh!” you tease. “You’re gunna give me man nails!”

“I will not!” he jests back. “I will clip your nails exactly how you usually do it!”

Your eyes narrow, he mirrors it.

You jut out your bottom lip, he mirrors it.

You slowly turn your head to the side to side-eye him, he mirrors it.

“I'm trusting you, Yang Jeongin. Christmas is next week. I don’t want man hands.”

He scoffs and looks back down at your hand. “I have rough news, Y/N.”

You balk and rip your hand away from him and then usher a swift smack to his bicep.

The two of you giggle the more you smack him around playfully.

“I do not have man hands!” you yell.

He laughs with you, holding his arms up to shield himself. “Okay, okay! Fine! You have beautiful womanly hands! Enough!”

You stop smacking him. “That’s more like it.”

With that adorable smile, Jeongin reaches forward and grabs your hand once again.

“One set of ridiculously short nails coming up.”

“I’ll poison your coffee tomorrow.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, Yang.”

He snickers once more and then starts cutting your nails in small, little snips.

Jeongin just trims them a bit— he does a perfect job if you’re being completely honest. You preferred them a little longer anyway.

When he picks the nail file up, you’re less wary.

He files your nails down a little more, rounding off the edges just how you like.

“How was rehearsal?” you ask quietly.

“Are we gossiping now? Is this what it’s like getting your nails done at a salon?”

You chuckle. “Yes, now tell me all about it.”

“It was good, I had vocal training after, so it was a long day.”

“What does your day look like tomorrow?”

“Nothing tomorrow. But Tuesday we leave for Japan until Thursday.”

You hum, watching him file your nails. “Nervous?”

“Always. It’s never gone away.”

You giggle. “I think if you weren’t nervous, you would have too big of a head.”

“Or I would be Minho.”

Then, simultaneously, you both go: “Same thing.” And then break into a fit of laughter.

He files your one pinky finger and looks down at both of your hands at once.

“How’s that shape look?”

You bring them up closer for you to look at. They all look even and perfect.

How is he doing this?

“I think you should open a salon,” you tell him, still inspecting your nails.

“Ah, yes, let me abandon my idol lifestyle to be a nail tech.”

Jeongin grabs your one hand and files a little notch off that you didn’t see.

Again, you giggle.

He puts the nail file down and picks up the bottle of white polish you use every week. He shakes it around just like you do, hitting it against the heel of his palm.

Holding his hand out, you put yours in his.

“If you couldn’t be an idol, what would you do?” you ask suddenly.

Jeongin doesn’t even pause, but you can see he’s thinking about your question as he unscrews the bottle. The excess on the brush is swiped on the neck.

“Hmm,” he weighs your question. “I don’t know, really. I love singing so much.”

Jeongin grabs your one finger and swipes the polish over your nail.

“You could be a lounge singer,” you tease. “Singing in those fancy, swanky nightclubs at the piano.”

“Would I have a tip jar on top?”

“Oh, of course. It would be overflowing from all the women who fall in love with you every night.”

His cheeks heat up from the compliment, moving from nail to nail with the first coat.

“Don’t say things like that,” he mumbles.

You snicker. “Sorry, but all the old ladies would be head over heels for you. They’d empty their wallets into your tip jar and you would smile and wink at them with those dimples.”

With your free hand, you poke at his face. Jeongin swats at your hand with a whine.

“I’ll mess up your nails on purpose!” he threatens.

Still laughing, you take your hand away from his face. He switches to the second hand. You blow on the first one.

“Okay, your turn: why white?” He asks, paying attention to his careful brush strokes.

“The color?”

He hums an ‘mhmm’.

You smile down at the color on your first hand he did, admiring the way the white looks.

“I think it’s pretty,” you tell him.

“That’s all?”

You snort. “Does there need to be another reason?”

“No, I guess not.” He moves from finger to finger.

“It makes me feel a little extra beautiful. I can’t explain it, but having my nails painted white feels so pretty.”

His own smile is warm and happy. His cheeks scrunch up and the small blush of pink that sits on them make your stomach dance.

You’ve never really needed anything else like you’ve needed his presence— nor have you craved anything similar.

Jeongin is Jeongin. He’s simple and everything you could ever ask for.

“My turn again; if you could change one decision you’ve made in the last five years, what would it be?”

Jeongin whistles and finishes the first coat on your hands. “That’s a heavy question, Y/N.”

You continue to blow on your nails. “Well, I figured we were getting deeper and deeper.”

“I asked you why you liked white nail polish!”

“And I asked you to take a deep dive into your regrets, I think these are pretty similar.”

“Is it?”

“Hell yeah.”

Jeongin grabs the first hand he was working on and takes a look at the polish. “How long does it take to dry?”

“It’s a special gel polish, so ten minutes between coats.”

“How long do you think it’s been?”

“Maybe five?”

He nods and turns to look at the TV. His eyes scan over the subtitles at the bottom to understand what’s happening.

But you don’t look at the TV, you continue to stare at him.

Jeongin’s boyish charm never seems to go away no matter what. Even after all the soft lines of his face turned into hard ones, that teasing happiness is still there.

When you became roommates two years ago it was because you desperately needed a place to stay and he just as direly needed someone to pay the other half of the rent.

A match made in Heaven.

He continued to be an idol and you continued college.

When you first moved in, Jeongin told you that if you wanted more privacy, to let him know, that he was more than content to leave communal spaces to you.

You looked him in the eye and asked, “What if I wanted to hang out with you?”

Neither of you have looked back.

You needed a friend and he needed someone who wasn’t in his group. The boys can only do so much for his sanity.

Sometimes he just needs to come home to acetone and fresh coffee.

Scrunching your nose, you look down at your first hand and poke at the first coat. When your fingerprint doesn’t show up, you hold it out to Jeongin.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He looks back at you, then down at your hand and takes it. God, his hands are so soft.

“It’s too heavy of a question,” he whines.

“I wanna know the answer, though.”

He applies the second coat to a nail.

“I mean, I regret having to wear some of the outfits they had us in before and right after debuting.”

You laugh, it’s a cackle. Jeongin cracks a smile— it feels like a victory in his head.

“Okay, but I mean a real regret. Something you had control over.”

He stops painting your nails and thinks. His lip pulls between his teeth and his eyebrows pull together. Jeongin’s eyes flit around while his brain reels.

After a few seconds, he shakes his head and looks up at you. “I really can’t think of anything, Y/N.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Not even me moving in?”

His eyes glisten and soften considerably when he hears you say that. The corners of his lips twitch and his heart stutters in his chest a bit.

It feels like cotton is shoved into his mouth while he looks at you. Your hair is still frizzy and everywhere, bare faced with sleepy bags under your eyes, pajamas from this morning still on.

If there was one decision that he was sure he made the best choice of in the past five years, it was you.

“No,” he says with a twinkly smile. “Not even that.”

His demeanor catches you off guard, but you don’t let it show too much.

Jeongin looks at you for a few more seconds before looking down to switch hands.

“My turn again. If you could do anything for a living, what would you do?” he questions while carefully painting.

“Oh, easy. Actress.”

Surprised, he looks back up at your face. “Really?”

“Yeah! I was doing a lot of acting back in America, just local stuff. But when it came time for college, I gave it up.” Your eyes shine sadly. “I was pretty good too, but it’s just one of those careers that have too much uncertainty.”

“Like being an idol.”

“Exactly.” You swallow thickly. “So I went for the secure route.”

Jeongin focuses down on your nails again.

You keep talking. “Besides, I get to live through you.”

His painting stutters, but he continues nonetheless. “What do you mean?”

“You come home with these fun stories of being famous, all the people you get to meet, the countries you get to see. You get to wear Alexander McQueen for God’s sake.”

He blushes, and paints the second coat on your pinky finger.

“Jeongin, your life is so cool. You get to fly to Japan on Tuesday, and you said it like it was just a regular commute. That’s … that’s amazing, you know?”

“It’s not all like that.” He inspects each nail, making sure nothing got messed up.

“I know. There’s crazy fans and all the blood, sweat, and tears.”

Jeongin rolls his eyes. “‘Crazy’ isn’t even a good enough word to describe some of them.”

You laugh.

The TV continues to play.

“But you get to do what you love,” you whisper to him through a thick voice.

Jeongin looks at you closely. There’s unshed tears welling up in your eyes. His heart sinks.

Swallowing, your eyes drop to the couch.

“I gave up on that dream a while ago.” You take a deep breath to try and calm yourself down. “So I decided to live vicariously through you and your fun stories.”

You shrug and roll your eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Your lip quivers.

With your hands still in his, Jeongin threads your fingers together and holds your hands up between you two.

He says nothing.

He doesn’t know what to say.

What can he say in this situation?

You don’t need him to say anything, though. You never have. The fact that he’s there is enough.

“Maybe that’s why we workout so well as roommates,” you say, “no one would suspect a normal girl, with a boring 9-5 would be living with idol superstar I.N from Stray Kids.” Humor was always your coping mechanism.

Letting out a deep breath towards the ceiling, you look back down at him, hands still intertwined.

“Thanks for letting me mooch off your life stories.”

Jeongin chuckles. “Anytime.” He pauses. “For the record, I don’t think your life is boring.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

He nods enthusiastically. “You did that research study about traffic safety last month, I thought it was really interesting.”

An unbelieving laugh leaves your chest. “You don’t need to lie.”

He squeezes your hands. “No, really! You’re studying so hard to be an analyst. You sat outside in the freezing cold for days and days and days watching the crosswalk of a busy road just to collect data.”

It’s true, you did do that. Jeongin also stopped by about once every other hour to give you a hot beverage or food.

If he noticed you were getting cold, the next trip consisted of extra jackets and blankets.

The things you do for research.

“After your findings were submitted, the city started the process to add more crosswalks to busy streets. You’re like a superhero.”

You stare at him for a second before bursting out in laughter. “What a lame superhero!”

Your cackles, like always, are contagious. He can’t fight his own giggles bubbling to the surface in his heart.

Before he knows it, Jeongin is laughing with you.

“I’m Captain Statistics! I beat the odds no matter what!”

He laughs even harder at your pun.

The two of you are giggling so much, your bodies falling forward on the couch, hunched over in a fit of laughter.

But, your hands stay intertwined.

Eventually, the laughter dies down.

Jeongin squeezes your hands once more and flips them around to look at your nails.

“I think it’s time for the top coat, Captain Statistics.”

You look at your hands and test the polish. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He switches the white bottle out for the clear coat. Repeating the shaking process and grabbing your hand.

The top coat goes on much quicker than the white polish does.

“Thank you for this, Jeongin,” you say quietly.

The smile that grows on his face reminds you of those timelapse videos of flowers growing in the Spring. It takes up the entirety of his face— and your heart.

“Of course, Y/N. Happy to do it.”

He moves to the other hand. You blow on the first one.

It’s the truth, he was happy to do it. He’d do it again if you asked him to. Jeongin would happily paint your nails every Sunday for the rest of your lives if you wanted.

Words sit in his mouth, words that he’s wanted to say for months now, words that would change the entirety of your relationship.

They’re so heavy on his tongue.

Jeongin can practically feel them tumbling out. He has to clench his jaw from keeping his confession to himself.

How much longer until he explodes? You can only shake a soda bottle too much before everything comes out the top.

God, he loves you so much.

You say it to him all the time, you say it to everyone so often.

“I love you” is said all the time by you. It’s as easy as breathing for you.

He asked you about it once, why do you say it so much? Your answer?

“People need to know when they’re loved. I will happily be that person that reminds them.”

As if he couldn’t love you more already. You’re just a light, a star, a sun.

Yes.

You’re his sun. The center of his galaxy. Everything revolves around you, he gravitates to you. He can’t help but bask in your warmth every single day.

The last of the top coat is painted delicately. They’re done.

“Finished,” he says quietly.

Your smile lights up the room.

“God, you’re the best, Jeongin,” you say, admiring his handiwork. “Thank you so much!”

He mirrors your smile and starts putting everything away. “Anytime, Y/N.”

Jeongin screws the lids tighter on the polish and acetone. A car honks outside. The TV plays on. The heat kicks on. You blow on your nails.

“I’ll miss you this week,” you tell him casually.

He looks over at you, folding his long legs up on the couch again.

“Really?”

“I always miss you, Jeongin. The apartment feels colder when you’re gone.”

He studies your face for a long stretch of time.

You’re too busy smiling at your nails to notice.

He can’t take it anymore.

“I lied to you,” he says suddenly. You look at him, slightly alarmed.

“What?” you ask.

“I lied— when I said I had no regrets, I lied.”

Your face scrunches up. “Why?”

He swallows nervously. “Close your eyes and I’ll tell you.”

You eye him curiously for a few more seconds before your eyes slide shut.

Jeongin’s heart rate picks up exponentially. It’s going to explode at this rate.

He leans forward towards your face, you’re so perfect. How are you so perfect?

He hesitates.

But, he swallows his nerves and swoops in the rest of the way, pressing his lips to yours delicately. Your body jolts, but you don’t move away from him.

It’s no more than a long peck. Electricity shoots through his body anyway.

A shock goes from his heart to his toes. He can barely feel his fingers.

You’re so magical. How do you do this?

Jeongin pulls away slowly, brushing your noses together and letting your shaky exhales mingle with one another.

He can’t open his eyes. He’s so worried that if he does, he’ll see rejection and disdain in your beautiful eyes.

You’re the first one to speak through the thick silence.

“I fail to see how that is a regret,” you whisper.

He laughs. Like always, you get him to laugh. He rests his forehead on yours.

“I regret not doing it sooner.” His long fingers come up to cup your one cheek.

You hum and lean into his touch.

Validation courses through his veins. It’s taking everything in his body not to jump for joy.

All he wants to do is stand up and scream, pump his fist in the air and claim victory.

Before he could do any of that, you lean forward and kiss him again.

Your top lip slots between his, his bottom in between both of yours.

A sigh of relief leaves his nose, his other arm wraps around your shoulders to bring you even closer. He can’t get you close enough to his body.

Closer, closer, closer.

Please, he needs you to be as close as possible.

He pulls back from the first kiss just to press another one to your lips.

Again, and again, and again— he pulls away just to swoop back in.

It’s never enough.

It’s like drinking water after you’ve been parched all day. He never knew he was crawling through a desert until now.

“Jeongin,” you giggle through his frantic kisses.

He grunts in response and continues to kiss you more. Why can’t he get enough?

He’s resigned himself to his fate. He’ll need to kiss you forever until the world ends.

“Jeongin,” you say again, still laughing.

How has he gone this long without your kisses? It’s madness.

Finally, you pull back. He dives in for another kiss, you turn your head with a brilliant smile, his lips meet your cheek.

Eh, that’ll do.

Over and over again he pecks your cheek. Laugh after laugh comes from you.

“My nails!” you finally call out. “You’re going to ruin them!”

His hand turns your face to look at him. “I’ll do them again. I’ll do them again and again, just please let me kiss you.”

Unable to take it any longer, you throw your arms around his neck and smash your lips together.

You pull him down onto the sofa with you, kiss after kiss being shared between the two of you.

How was he supposed to go to Japan now?

————————————————————————

(A/N: yes, the duck video exists. You can see it here. The first time I saw it I laughed so hard my housemate came in to check on me.)

[maldaptivedreamer]

From Afar P. 1

You didn't know his name and you didn't care to. You were perfectly content to watch him from afar...Or were you?

contents: Errors and mistakes, too lazy to edit, probably not entirely accurate to alien universe, Bjorn is also not a major character in this part, kinda long

wc: 1.7k

a/n: First thing to address is the fact that I absolutely hated Bjorn. He pissed me off and SPOILER: I was entirely satisfied when he died. Now because he’s a fictional person, I CAN change him, therefore I will. Second thing is, I have never written creatively before, so if my writing is clunky I apologize.

Masterist Next Part

Sweat dripped from your brow as you drilled into the rock. Your goggles fogged with humidity and your mask only made it harder to breath. Your arms trembled with effort as the alarm signaled the end of your shift. Immediately, your arms sagged. Despite the pain, you continued to push forward towards the tunnel's exit, dragging the heavy drill behind you.

As you stepped out into the open air, you placed your drill on the ground and quickly removed the bulky gloves from your hands. They were shoved under your arm as you pulled your mask and goggles down. You briefly paused. Looking up to catch your breath, you found little reprieve. Jackson's atmosphere is dense and contaminated with humidity and pollution. Even outside of the tunnel, the air is only a fraction better than the air inside.

Taking shaking steps towards the desk to clock out, you silently lay the drill in a compartment, where it is promptly checked in. "Another twelve-hour shift, no drill damage," the attendant muttered, barely glancing up from his screen. You nodded wearily, not bothering to speak. Your throat too raw from the dust and fumes. The worker inside nodded to you and handed you your bag. You ignored them, snatching your bag from the counter.

As you shuffled towards the locker room, your legs felt like lead. The ache in your muscles had become a constant companion, a dull throb that never truly faded. You passed by other miners, their faces etched with the same exhaustion you felt deep in your bones. The locker room was a cacophony of slamming metal doors and muted conversations. You peeled off your sweat-soaked jumpsuit, wincing as the fabric clung to your skin. You change into a loose t-shirt and jeans. Boots shoved back onto your throbbing feet.

You uncaringly threw your goggles and mask into your locker, jumpsuit shoved into your bag. Slamming the door closed, you swing the bag around your shoulder. The sweat built up on your shirt quickly, soaking the bag as it pressed into you back and dug into your stiff shoulders. Your sweaty hands are wiped along your stained jeans.

You walked home as fast as your body allowed, but the trip home is long. As you weave through the crowd, paying no attention to those around you, you allow yourself to think. Deftly maneuvering between each person, you become lost in your own world.

The cycle never ends. Go home, go to work, go back home, and then back to work. Endless monotony. You exert all your energy for what? For nothing. Nothing to strive towards. Just a replaceable cog in their machine, destined to spend your whole life on this planet until you die. They have no regard for you, you’re just another expendable worker. As this bitter and depressing thought crossed your mind, you briefly faltered in your steps. All you do is work and work, you deserve to relax. To just sit and be.

You don't bother going back home to wash off the stink of a long work day. You know that if you go back home, it'll likely end with you not leaving. Instead, you make your way to the northern quarry. It had been completely drained and now acts as a spot for younger people to drink and hang out at.

The once bustling quarry now stands as a barren wasteland, its towering walls and deep pits looking more intimidating due to the dark sky. Graffiti covers its jagged surfaces, a mix of colorful art and desperate messages scrawled in quick strokes. The air around the quarry is thick with the stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat. The faint aroma of weed lingers in the air, masked by the stronger scent of chemicals and decay. Despite the unpleasant smells, the quarry is usually alive with chatter and laughter.

You’d never been there before, only passing by, socializing and relaxing not having been high on your priority list. However, with this goal in mind, you determinedly walked towards your destination.

You tilted your head while chewing your lip raw, watching as he laughed. He leans in closer to his friends, flashing a handsome smile. Releasing your lip, you blow air from your nose and take a sip of the beer in your hands, grimacing at the taste.

Silently watching the people around you, you couldn’t help but steal glances at the pretty boy across the quarry. You’d noticed him before. Just in passing, but his pretty face hadn’t left your mind since. He stood out in the dim light of the quarry, his sharp jawline and tousled hair making him appear almost ethereal. His loose shirt waves in the humid wind. His laugh is infectious and loud, his eyes sparkling in the flickering light from nearby bonfires.

You watch as he focuses his blue eyes on a girl with a shaved head, sipping on his drink as she spoke. You chewed on your bottom lip as he licked the droplet of liquid that escaped his mouth. The pretty boy’s long fingers loosely wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.

An amused voice cuts through your silent admiration, “You’re drooling.” You turn to see a girl with curly hair grinning at you. She brushes a stray strand away from her face and raises her eyebrows as she chuckles. You glance back at the attractive boy before turning fully towards the girl. You shrug, “Can you blame me? He’s hot and fun to look at.”

She nods towards him, "Are you gonna’ to go talk to him?" Her tone is playful and her brown eyes twinkle with humor.

You scoffed under your breath and responded firmly, “Absolutely not.” She looks at you with a puzzled expression as you give her a wry smile. Her own smile falters as she asks, "Why not? Are you embarrassed? I could introduce you to him if you'd like."

You emphatically shake your head, “Hah no. No thanks. I refer to him as pretty boy cause I don’t know his name. I do not want to know his name.  I haven’t talked to him because I don’t want to know if he’s an asshole. Like I said he’s fun to look at and I’d hate for him to ruin his pretty face with a shitty personality. It would also be too much work to find another hot person to quietly obsess over, so I’m good thanks.” You end your small rant with another wry smile and a drink. You return to observing the people around you as you await her response.

For a brief moment, there is silence before her boisterous cackling shatters the relative calmness of the night. You and several others instinctively turn to towards her. Her curls bounce as she laughs, gesturing towards the empty seat next to you with a mischievous smile. You nod and motion for her to join you. Squinting your eyes in amusement, your lips curl into a smile at the infectious energy.

Suppressing her giggles, she takes a seat next to you. "I'm Kay," she introduces herself. You exchange names and lean back in your chair.

"I don't recognize you. Are you new here?" You finish your drink, scrunching your nose at the bitter taste before responding, "No, not exactly. Lived in the northern colony til’ I was about 8 and my parents died in the mines… was moved here a little while after.”

Kay frowned and gave your arm a gentle squeeze, “I’m sorry…” There was a short pause before you spoke, voice soft “It’s been a while and I’ve had a lot of time to process everything, but I appreciate the sentiment regardless.” You return her gesture with a small smile and nudged her playfully.

Kay suddenly looks more alive, her eyes filled with a playful glint. "Do you make a habit of staring at people, or is it just him?" You chuckle and glance around, shrugging your shoulders. "I enjoy observing others from time to time...and yes," you nudge her playfully, "I may stare at him a bit more than others." She smirks and nods. Side by side, the two of you silently observe those around you.

As you take a quick glance at pretty boy, your face scrunches up in confusion. You sit up taller and ask, "Wait, do you know him?"

She laughs quietly and confirms, "He's my cousin." You take a deep breath and face her. Kay watches as you start to speak, but you stop yourself mid-sentence. She raises an eyebrow in question. “I was going to apologize but I’m not sorry.” You shrug and give her a playful grin. She shakes her head with a smile, “You shouldn’t be anyway, he can be an asshole.”

You lean back and prop yourself up on your elbows, shaking your head in playful frustration, “Damn…I knew he was just a pretty face.“ Cliquing your tongue, you give her a grin. You look up and lock eyes with pretty boy, whose piercing blue stare take in every inch of you. He takes you in from head to toe before meeting your gaze again. You raise an eyebrow, feigning disinterest as if you had never noticed him before. He flashes a smile and winks at you, licking his lips playfully.

Kay snapped you out of your staring contest with a gentle push and a mischievous smile. "You've caught his eye now. What should I say when he inevitably asks about you?"

You burst into a fit of laughter before shrugging, "I have no idea. Let's just not tell him anything. I don't need to know about pretty boy and he doesn't need to know about me." You gesture towards him with a playful grin, briefly meeting his gaze. His eyes widen for a split second before he returns the grin. He takes this as an invitation and stands up, prompting you to do the same. "Sorry to cut this short, but I'm exhausted from my shift." Kay stands up and surprises you with a hug - awkward, yet oddly comforting. As you part ways, you turn to leave but pause, “I’ll see you soon?” You cringe internally at how needy it sounds, but are relieved when she nods and says, "I'll see you soon." With a genuine smile, she leaves.

Without paying any attention to the pretty boy with blue eyes, you turn and begin making your way home.

Next Part

[loveharlow]

Heyy hope you are doing well! Can you pls do Rafe as a bully and then fem/rafe sleep together.

i know you probably wanted something a little more in depth but this was all i could do blurb wise😭 Rafe isn't really a bully but more of an asshole here but i still like how it came out tho

implied dub-con, swearing

The party was in full swing at this point. No one could hear one another over the bass of the music but they continued to talk like they could regardless, the endless chatter adding to the deafening noise inside of the Figure Eight mansion.

You'd never been to a Kook Party before now. Living on the Cut for most of your life meant keggers, kickbacks, and beach bashes. Not house parties and nightclubs. Kook life was new to you but you couldn't find it in yourself to complain, really.

You'd found a good group of friends, the same ones that had drug you out of your house in the first place. Right now, you were off your rocker, mindlessly playing beer pong with one of your friends that you'd been glued to all night.

You'd just beat her in your third round, hands drunkenly thrown up in the air, completely forgetting about the half-full cup that you had in your hand. "Boom, baby! Three in a motherfucking row-"

"Yo, what the fuck?!"

Your head whipped around to find a fuming Rafe Cameron standing behind you, beer dripping down the side of his face and length of his neck, dribbling into his half-buttoned polo shirt. Party-goers started to 'ooh' around the both of you.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry-"

"Are you fucking stupid?" Your face fell at his words, morphing from one of genuine concern to a nasty, offended snarl. "Shouldn't your ass be bussing tables down at The Wreck or some shit?" He spat, using a napkin handed to him by one of his yes-men to wipe his face.

A few people laughed, the mild embarrassment making your cheeks and ears grow hot. "It was an accident." You scoffed, eyes fleeting around you nervously before tilting your chin up. "You don't have to be a dick about it..."

"Yeah, you've seen plenty of those haven't you?" He chuckled meanly, looking around at his friends with a smirk before turning back to you. "Maybe I was wrong. The waitress vibe doesn't suit you but I could see you on your knees for a couple bucks. Girls gotta eat somehow, right?" He joked, the guys crowded behind him breaking out into laughter. He leaned down, face just inches from yours as he spoke to you lowly. "Why don't you go back to the slums where you fucking belong?"

You bit the inside of your lip, looking down at your feet for just a moment before something inside prompted you to reel your arm back, splashing what remained inside the plastic red cup into his face. The people standing around watching and egging you on with cheers and sounds of amusement.

You wasted no time in throwing the cup to the ground, looking the boy up and down, and stomping off into another part of the house, less crowded and hot. "Hey!" You heard a voice boom behind you, peering over your shoulder as you walked away to see Rafe hot on your tail, ducking through the cliques of people, basically shoving them to the side.

"Fuck off!" You shouted back, picking up speed and heading for the stairs inside of the house. Reaching them, you practically bolted upstairs, as fast as you could in the mini dress you had on.

Rounding the corner, you were about to enter an unoccupied bathroom before a rough hand grasped your shoulder and turned you around, pinning you against the wall.

"You throw a drink in my face and think I'd just let you walk away?" The Cameron boy spat in your face, staring down at you like an angry bull.

"I told you, it was just an accident. You were the one who had to go and call me broke slut in front of every body as if you're some kind of upstanding citizen yourself."

"Do you know who the fuck I am?"

"There isn't a single person on this island who doesn't." You told the boy. "But I'm not everyone else. I couldn't give two shits about who you are, Rafe." You spat.

He clearly wasn't fond of your answer, using his grip on your shoulder to roughly shove you into the nearest room, shoving the door shut with the bottom of his shoe and guiding you over to the bed until he was close enough to throw you on top of it.

Your body bounced as you hit the mattress, eyes finding Rafe standing to the side fiddling with his belt buckle. You couldn't help but chuckle in your semi-drunken state. "You're seriously going to try to fuck me after the shit you said to me?"

"Try?" Was all he laughed out in response, shoving his pants down his legs and throwing off his polo shirt, the action leaving his hair messier than before.

"And what makes you think I want to fuck you?" You spat, sitting up straighter on the bed, leaning on your elbows for support. He simply eyed you down and licked his lips.

"There isn't a single person on this island who doesn't."

©loveharlow.

heads up: i added emoji anons to my blog, so feel free to send an ask to take one if you frequently send in asks!

[crimxonwrites]

Blood-painted kisses | Aemond Targaryen x female!OC | Chapter 4 ❝Cruel and Vile❞

☽➛ Summary: Nothing satietes Maehrys Velaryon's hunger as well as revenge. Growing up at the Red Keep as the bastard of Rhaenyra Targaryen did not come trouble-free. Her childhood consisted of bitter words and repulsive looks from nearly everybody in the castle. As she grew older, Maehrys grew meaner. Once the Velaryons return to King's Landing to defend Luke's claim as Lord of Driftmark, Maehrys decides that it is time for the people who hurt her in the past to pay.

☽➛ Warnings: swearing, bullying, mentions of blood, overall 18+!!!!

☽➛ Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x female!OC ( enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers again?? romance is a subplot)

A/N: Surprise!!!!!!! It's been a year and half, but I'm still writing. TRIGGER WARNING!!!! I will continue this series in 1st person, I feel like this is the only way I can continue it xoxoxo. As always, english is not my first language, feel free to correct me!<3

Masterlist

Chapter 5

My grip tightens around the wooden sword, wishing I held a real Valyrian steel blade in my hand. Aemond’s face remains expressionless as I begin circling him on the training ground. We are alone; almost everyone in the Red Keep has left for supper. Ser Criston took his disgusting assertions and left as well, giving me enough reason to act on my anger. Suddenly, I feel no pain in my shoulder and no shame from Criston’s defeat moments earlier. It is just me, Aemond, and my thirst for a good battle, nay, a good victory. The white-haired man raises a brow. In the dark of the night, I think of Daemon and how Aemond resembles him, just a little bit.

I prime my sword, waiting for him to pick his up. “We are late for supper.” Aemond turns around, and my heart starts galloping. He shall not dismiss me, he shall not underestimate me, he shall not turn his back on me. How dare he? He owes me a fair battle, especially after he attacked me in the library, and my shoulder is clearly still wounded. Wounded, like my pride in this moment.

As a loud, guttural growl escapes from my throat, I swing my sword at the silver-haired man. Aemond quickly turns and avoids my blow, taking me by surprise. Not ready to accept defeat, I swing again and again, my vision blurred and my mind fogged with anger. My blows quickly become useless as Aemond avoids me yet again. Why won’t he fight back? I notice his patience wearing thin and take the opportunity, hitting him in the shoulder as hard as I can. “Enough!” he yells, gripping the wooden sword and pulling it from my hands with so much force that I wince in pain, my palms burning from the harsh wood. “I shall not fight a child.” With those last words, Aemond walks away swiftly without looking back.

I am left alone. Child. That word makes my stomach turn. He thought me a child, yet he was the one aimlessly harassing me in the library moments earlier. How could he be such a hypocrite? When I am sure Aemond is truly gone, I allow my exhausted body to rest, falling to my knees and placing my burning palms on my sweaty forehead. If only I had a dragon.

-

The air is so tense in the supper chamber, I cannot stand it. Every breath I take, imaginary fumes come out of my nostrils. I feel restless, as Aemond had defeated me twice, along with Ser Criston Cole, whom I have begun to despise. It is not the same hatred I feel for Aemond. No, I feel repulsed by Ser Criston, disgusted even, and there’s something in my gut telling me I am right to feel that way.

Aemond’s piercing look catches my attention. My whole family, along with the three silver-haired children and Queen Alicent, are waiting for my grandsire, Viserys, to make an appearance. I grow restless as my stomach growls in hunger. The only thing I have in front of me is a chalice full of wine, and I think about downing it twice. I dismiss that thought quickly, as Aegon is already drunk as a dog. He made a fool of himself in front of everyone just moments earlier. I do not want to make a fool of myself.

The doors open with a loud creak as the doormen announce His Majesty’s name. The smell of death and decay thickens the air, and soon enough, I lose my appetite. Viserys takes a seat between Alicent and Rhaenyra and starts to talk. His words are muffled in my ears as I watch Aemond exchange dirty looks with my brothers. Once again, I hold my head in my aching palms, and I cannot help but feel like I am back on the training grounds, left alone and ashamed after losing to him again.

A few drinks later, the King is carried away to his chambers, as his health does not allow him to continue supper. My stomach is still empty, as is my cup. I signal Jace to pour some more wine as servants carry a pig and place it in front of Aemond. Luke chuckles at Aemond, and I feel something I hadn’t felt in a while: sympathy towards my uncle. We both shared a painful childhood. I glance at his eyepatch, and then glance at my scar. The wine must have done a number on me because Aemond slams the table, suddenly getting up and startling everyone except me.

“A final tribute.” He raises his cup, keeping his eye on Luke. “To the health of my nephews and niece.” He moves his cold gaze towards Jace. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey.” And finally, his eye moves swiftly to me and remains there. “And Maehrys.” I try as hard as I can to keep my face expressionless. “Each of them handsome, wise,” he continues, and I know what’s coming next “and strong.” Fucker.

“Aemond—” Alicent’s voice is full of worry and authority.

“Come, let us drain our cups for these four strong people,” Aemond continues.

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace rises from his chair and takes a step towards Aemond. Intoxicated, my first instinct is to get up and follow my brother. I smell a fight.

“Why? It was only a compliment,” Aemond says, and I recognize his tone. He is playing dirty, just as he had in the library and on the training field, every time he faces me or my brothers. “Do you not think of yourself as strong?”

Aemond is interrupted by a weak punch thrown by Jace. I grin, eager to join the fight, but before I can take a step, I feel my mother’s hand on mine. She shakes her head and I sit back down, reminding myself that I must not make a fool of myself.

“Your sister’s punch hurts more than yours.” Aemond shoves Jace and walks away.

“I am still so famished,” I announce, throwing a ripe grape into my mouth.

After supper, Rhaenyra sends word for me to join her in her chambers.

“Have you not had enough food? Should I call for the cook?” Rhaenyra asks, her tone growing worried.

“No, Mother, these grapes are splendid.” I sit on the divan. “Why am I here?” I ask, looking at Rhaenyra’s slightly disheveled appearance.

“You never really knew your grandsire,” Rhaenyra starts. “Yet you share so many of his passions.” Passions? I never knew King Viserys loved combat and hated his uncles. “History, for example. You share his passion for the histories of the Seven Kingdoms.” My cheeks burn in surprise and a bit of embarrassment. It is true, I do love to read about history, but dragon history in particular, and, on some occasions, Old Valyria. I doubt that my grandfather’s passion for reading came from a burning resentment because he did not claim a dragon. After all, he had Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon the Conqueror’s dragon.

“You are my dearest daughter,” Rhaenyra says, moving closer to me. “And I love you immensely.” Rhaenyra signals her handmaiden to grab something. The handmaiden hands me an old book. “Tomorrow is your name day, and your grandfather wished for you to have this.” She hands me the same book about Old Valyria that I already read when I was younger.

-

I do not have the heart to tell my mother that I have already read the book my grandsire gave me, so I thank her and decide to go back to my chambers. We are to leave for Dragonstone tomorrow, and I cannot be happier. As much as the Red Keep fills me with nostalgia, I have grown to hate it in these past few days. Before I can reach my chambers, I see Alicent walking down the hall, accompanied by Aemond.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” I grip the book harder as I bow.

"'Tis late indeed to be wandering these halls unaccompanied, Princess," she says, and I nod.

“I was just about to retire for the night.” I speak, making eye contact with her. “We depart for Dragonstone on the morrow."

“Very well,” she says and begins to leave, but Aemond does not move. “Aemond?”

“May I have a moment alone with my niece?” he asks, and Alicent continues walking, leaving us alone. I hate the way he speaks. My niece, as if I am property, and not a person.

I thank the Gods that the guards to my mother’s chamber are not far, because I am unarmed, exhausted, and slightly drunk.

“How old will you be on the morrow?” he asks, and I take a step back, putting some distance between us.

"I believe the hour is past midnight, so it is now my seventeenth name day." I frown. “Why are you asking?”

Aemond sighs. “And yet, you remain unwed.” He takes a step closer, and my heart begins galloping. His face is slightly lit by the torches, and I cannot read his expression well. The corners of his mouth are downturned, and his eye is dark. He does look a bit flushed, most likely from the wine he drank during supper. By the tone of his voice, he sounds annoyed.

“What is it you are implying?” I ask, dazed and confused. Aemond shakes his head, and I cannot help but notice how perfect he looks. Despite our fight, despite Jace’s punch, despite everything that happened today, he keeps his appearance as clean as a dragon’s fire. In this moment, I think I do not want to hit him.

“When the King dies,” he starts, his voice low and a bit desperate. “If your mother sits on the Iron Throne,” he continues, “my mother will want us to wed.” Aemond whispers the last few words, and my eyes widen.

“First, when my mother sits upon the Iron Throne.” I correct him, whispering. “Second, why would your mother even suggest such a thing?” I continue. “I do not feel anything but hate towards you.”

He sighs, again, and this time I can smell the wine on his hot breath. “It is not about feeling, stupid girl.” He grabs my shoulders, but it does not hurt, and I drop my book on the floor. “It’s about politics, and how we are both unwed.” Aemond speaks to me like I am a child again. “You must find a husband before that happens.” He continues, and I smell desperation in his voice. I gather every bit of strength that I have left for today and slap him so hard that his head turns to the right. For a moment, he appears taken aback, but as the seconds stretch, a grin slowly spreads across his face. “You hit harder than your brother, still.” He wipes the blood from his lower lip and looks down at me.

“My mother would never allow me to be wed to such a…” I stumble on my words, and I curse the wine that has clouded my tongue.

“Handsome man?” he interrupts me, and my heart quickens in pace. How can he jest in this moment?

“Cruel and vile man,” I say, finding my words at last. His gaze remains locked on mine, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"And yet, here we are," he taunts, his voice low and dripping with mockery. "Two souls bound by fate and disdain." Aemond must be drunker than I imagined.

I glare at him, my anger boiling over. "You think your arrogance and cruelty can sway me? You’re nothing but a wretched excuse for a man." Things are escalating swiftly.

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "You’re no prize yourself, bastard."

The space between us feels electric, charged with a mix of hatred and something more. My pulse races, not just from the fury but from the undeniable tension in the air. I can almost taste the animosity between us.

Without warning, he grabs my shoulders yet again, pulling me sharply against him. The intensity of his touch catches me off guard. Our faces are mere inches apart, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze.

"Perhaps it is the very fire we share that ignites this conflict," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin.

My breath hitches, and my heart beats fast as his lips hover dangerously close. “You’re insufferable,” I manage, though my voice is almost a whisper.

"Yet you cannot deny the truth of it," he replies, his gaze locked onto mine with intensity.

In a sudden, reckless moment, I close the distance between us. Our lips crash together, the kiss fierce and consuming. The anger that once defined us melds with an unexpected, scorching passion. The taste of blood and wine lingers as our mouths move in a heated, desperate dance, challenging the very essence of our loathing.

As we finally pull away, breathless and disheveled, the fire in our eyes is matched only by the shared, tumultuous resolve. The hatred remains, but now it burns alongside something darker, something neither of us can ignore.

Also read on: AO3

Taglist: @watermel0nsugarhigh @ondereleutheromania @literishdegree99

[hatsukeii]

I think I'll be singing Velvet Ring on a microphone beaded with 'ex lovers' stickers and 'longing looks' beads. I've heard that Ushijima likes my music quite a bit~

too easy. the band you’ve joined is…

exes in my phone book / timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): ex lovers to something?? something i guess?? pining, reminiscing, nostalgia fic tbh but ANGST ANGSTY ANGST WOO interpret the ending as you like because i kept it open for a reason

warning(s): slightly dysfunctional relationship dynamics kinda, lowkey suggestive at points, ushiwaka and reader were just young and stupid and in love but they couldn't seem to navigate it yknow, everything is also like somewhat/pretty ambiguous until the end but that's just how i like it

wc: ~1.7k

your first gig is… at a concert with your ex?!?!

setlist:

🎵velvet rings, big thief

🎵mayonaise, the smashing pumpkins

🎵black star, radiohead

There is a girl on a stage, who strums a pick through the strings of her acoustic guitar. A girl, whose lips hover just above the microphone that sits in a bracket, sighing into the cool metal for a final song. The people beside you have settled down, cheers and jumps reduced to swaying and mumbling.

You've been waiting for this song, haven't you?

The song strikes the ears first. The girl on stage, illuminated by a cone of light from above, sings of a night, thicker than a smoky fume. You mouth along to the lyrics, and your mind wanders to a place where your lungs are bloated, too full to carry anything more. A night beneath a buzzing streetlight, gravel that rolls and scrapes under the sweeping wind, ants that crawl onto the toecaps, under the soles, along the platforms of your unmoving shoes. A night of final breaths, and final words, and final sorrows. You're looking at the ground, your shadow muddied with the figure of another. You don't think he stares back at you. The ants keep crawling. They don't stop, even as you pivot away and leave your heart buried in the ground. The streetlight doesn't reach it again, but maybe it reaches his, still.

The faces around you hum along to a sequence, sway with the velvety strums of the girl's guitar, hold others tight against themselves. You stand alone amongst the crowd. You move when the rest of them will you to, only ever mouth to the lyrics, hold your hands close to your chest. You fear that your voice will give out if you try anything more.

"She's a beautiful performer, isn't she?"

The crowd does not shift their attention from the girl on the stage, so neither do you. She sings in gentle syllables of love, her heart pours out of her mouth. She longs for some fictitious persona, Ben, as her fingers play at the guitar like tugging the strings of a puppet. When you open your mouth, your heart is not there.

"She is. She really is." You respond to nothing but a sultry voice that finds its way into your ear canals.

The girl sings of a smoking gun, smoke that fizzles out from the barrel into night air, a bullet that falters at the end of its path to nothing in particular, a love that, for many nights before this, has begun to run dry. It's agonising, taunting, hopeful. It dies out in unanswered phone calls, drafted emails, text messages left unsent, collecting dust in a note-taking application. Words that ask a million questions.

Could we keep this going?

Is this really for the better?

Can't we try?

Why won't you just let me try?

"Why aren't you singing? It's the last song." The voice is anomalous amongst the crowd's united silence, his question stands out from those unsaid. He is too curious, yet for some selfish, twisted reason, you wish to indulge yourself. Wallow in sorrow. Take somebody else's beating heart to replace your own, that you buried beneath asphalt on a winter night of unasked questions turned two years of unspoken longing.

"For the same reason that you aren't, I'd assume." You silently hope he asks you for more.

The person huffs out a sigh, a short sigh that one lets out when they smile in defeat and surrender. He's close, his arm touching your own when he moves side to side with the crowd. His movement wills you to sway along. The girl on the stage sings of a gentle love, thick like a velvet ring. All encompassing, all powerful.

“Well, I once knew a person who loved this song.” He goes on. You stay silent, ears trained onto the words that paint golden silk and shimmering mist into the concert hall. A portrait of love that you have prayed to see once again, just out of grasp, but real enough to graze your fingers over. It sinks into your fingertips, takes you to a place where your hands could draw lines into tanned skin, hold onto a pair of strong arms, clasp together behind his broad shoulders. Beneath your feet, it travels to your ankles, wraps around your thighs, envelops you in a shroud of warmth. It comes in the form of his head laid in your lap after a long day, I love you mumbled into the flesh of your stomach in shaky sighs, calluses that roam every spot of skin on your body.

"Love really is a gentle thing, isn't it?" The lyrics are spoken out of your mouth naturally, like water running downstream in a creek. The person stays silent, you do the same. The girl's singing pierces through your ears to your throat, clawing at it as if to break it open and rescue something. He speaks before something can escape you.

"I haven't spoken to them since I left. Love is anything but gentle."

You wince, the girl's singing finally ripping through your windpipe. It doesn't stop there, to your surprise. It drills through to its final destination, and you grab the fabric of your shirt around your heart. You don't fully know the answer to your own question, but you believe in his despair. If love truly is gentle, it would have exited your chest when you screamed your throat hoarse for him to stay. It would have eased the pain, somehow. It would have sent your heart out to him even as he stood amongst giants, leagues greater than you. It would have sewn together your words, strung them into poems beautiful enough for him to say yes, I'll stay. I'll stay if you want, and I'll go if you want. Instead, you watch him on television every night, highlight reels, live volleyball matches. He left. You did not want him to.

"I haven't spoken to him since either. But I still think love is gentle. The painful kind."

The final chords of the song round off the set. The girl bows, and exits stage left. The crowd begins to loosen, yet the person's arm remains beside yours.

"Do you ever miss it?"

His number is still in your contacts. You struggle every night to hold off on pressing it. Your heart aches, and lights come on. You stare at an empty stage, and you envision yourself on it. Thousands of eyes watch you sing the song, yet you search the crowd for one pair only. You sing the words that you had once shown your love, a love that found you despite his duties, regardless of his glory, amidst his passion. You sing like you are begging for him to see you through the television, and turn around so the name Ushijima bares his face to you instead of his back. You cry out a story of a dying love, hanging onto frayed strings of memories and fear. The singing contorts into screaming at an empty crowd, as if your resolve could make Ushijima Wakatoshi find you again. You pretend to be his hands, hold yourself in your sleep. You hear his voice in your bed, on the streets, in front of you, behind you, beside you, even right here. You will never learn the lips of anyone else, not after his have taken you for himself. They feel like poison now, sinking into your veins from every part of your body that you inhibit. A poison that forces him into every corner of your life, and you are a fool enough to almost see him there.

"I want it gone, and I miss it all the same." You're crying now, and even your tears remind you of the love that taught you of its cruelty. You imagine a day when you wear another's ring on your finger, only to look up and see a blank face. There is no other.

"I think you should give him a call."

"I can't. I'd just hold him back."

"That's not true." His voice cracks, and his rebuttal is desperate, almost apologetic.

You turn to bid him farewell.

Ushijima is almost no different from how he was two years ago. But he's a little older now, a little taller too. His hair is the same olive green that used to run smooth between the webs of your hands. His voice is deep, rounder than it once was when he used to nip your earlobe and mutter professions of his love into your ear. You stare, but you don't know that he has been staring since halfway through the concert. You aren't seeing him through a television, he is no longer clad in a Schweiden Adlers jersey, his last name bears no weight here, in the space between the two of you. The days, and months, and years spent together come rushing into your head. A kiss on the forehead before separation, two pairs of feet running in wet sand that crumbles beneath their weight, sharing lunches in the silence of school rooftops, lips roaming every inch of each other on nights of longing. You, and Ushijima, and the pleads that lose their bodies when they fall back from your mouths and into your chests.

"Please, give me a call. Or a text. Or an email, I don't care. Just anything. I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Ushijima."

You turn to leave, but you pull your phone out of your pocket to stare at his name in your contacts.

Ushijima watches your shrinking figure, all of his love trailing behind you, fading into smoke.

Your finger hovers above the red button that could end it all.

He can't seem to move, rooted into the ground of the now mostly empty concert hall. You are slipping away again, and he has learned from his mistake. He questions whether he's learned it a bit too late.

You turn off your phone, and shove it back into your pocket. He receives a text.

"I just want to take you home again."

author's note:

my sister gave me this idea a while ago and i just knew i had to make it so angsty sorry LOL she wanted a fluff ending but im the one with the document open so i can do what i WANT!! no i am actually very proud of this piece though and idk if this will get ANY exposure or interactions but just know that i really really loved writing this one

i also fear i lowkey forgot about longing looks and just went straight for longing…

also! song lyric references! if you catch them i'll give you a big fat kiss i love my music so much

anyways tags!!

@staraxiaa @catsoupki @chuuya-brainrot @hiraethwa @fiannee @bailey-reeds @4ngelfries @akaakeis @wyrcan @kuroppiii @zzwon

interested in joining a band? come on over to the build-a-band 900 !!

[leeneir]

Look At Me Please 2.0; Possesive Yandere!Iso x Reader

To those that have given me reqs, I'm terribly sorry for not getting them out yet. My writer's block is such a pain💔 I promise I'm constantly thinking abt them tho and tryna brainstorm but my creative well is nonexistent dibdjs

Anywho, this is a continuation of the last Yandere Iso hc post! Highly recommend that you read the first! :]

Iso didn’t go through with his plans against Yoru that day because he was too happy about going on that date, but that doesn’t mean he forgot. Around a week after your boba date with him, you found Yoru with a serious injury being nursed back to health by Sage, when you asked what happened, he told you to leave. Perhaps a matter of pride?

You bring up the concern with your new boyfriend, Iso. When he responds, he doesn’t sound sympathetic. It wasn’t strange, he barely showed expressive emotion, and he didn’t have the best interactions with Yoru, so you assumed he didn’t really care because they weren’t the greatest friends.

In reality, Iso was fuming that you were concerned about that stupid cocky bastard and how he snapped at you like that. How dare that shit head take your emotions for granted? Sure, he’s the reason Yoru was injured in the first place, but the audacity Yoru had to brush you off. He’ll have to do more damage later.

The day you told Iso you loved him for the first time, something about him changed. He wasn’t shy anymore, he was always initiating intimacy, trying to give you kisses, holding your hand, and overall just a lot more doting and servicing you.

Oh, you’re tired? How could he let this happen! Iso shuts the rest of the world out with both of you in either his or your room, he already put both of your requests for a day off.

Very insistent about sleeping in the same room, you won’t do anything too intimate, he just wants to be with you for the rest of your life night.

At some point, everything becomes a reminder of you. The bare walls of the HQ, the houseplants put around the facility by Skye and Sage, the air that he breaths, he couldn’t get enough of anything.

ALWAYS holding you somewhere. Whether it be on the shoulder while youre talking to someone, the arm, your back, your leg while you're sitting, etc. Iso likes having a hand on you as a way to say “Mine.” to the others.

Every day has a new gift. Your room is starting to get crowded with all of the things he gets for you, Iso has already requested Brimstone to extend your room to make some space.

Man’s is rich and just loves spoiling you. Even if it’s just your favorite snack, or a new piece of clothing, he will literally get anything you want. If you mentioned something you even hinted you’d like, expect to receive it in the following hours to a day. He ordered it with overnight shipping.

Your assigned on a mission and he isn’t sent with you? Oh no!! Someone on the strike team got injured from training, what will we ever do? Everyone else happens to be unavailable for some unknown reasons, except Iso.

During the mission when you request a gun, he’ll immediately get it for you and snap at anyone else who even tries to get it first. Iso kisses you on the forehead before going to his position.

You had to apologize to Reyna for his behavior, she told you that his heart revealed that he wasn’t the good person you thought he was. Which was strange. How was the admiring and loving Iso not who he appeared to be?

One day, have an argument with Iso about going to training with Gekko and the others. He said that there was no need for you to go with them when the two of you could train together later.

You didn’t understand why Iso was so upset, you were just gonna do a few mock battles with other people, what's so wrong with that? You could train with him later too if he wanted to. You brushed him off anyway, finding his attitude very childish right now. Suddenly, he grabs your face in his hand, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t look at them.” He ordered.

Before you could get a word out, your eyes met his, and you could see the intensity and possession in his eyes which glowed brighter than they normally did. It was terrifying.

You say his name, and suddenly he snaps out of it, letting you go and apologizing profusely. He starts tearing up a bit and saying that he shouldn’t have done that and keeps apologizing, stepping away from you and not letting himself hold you.

You feel guilty when he looks down at his hands, as if there was fresh blood on them, as if he’d just destroyed something precious. You couldn’t help but pull him in for a hug and apologize too. He tries to pull away, saying that he was a horrible person, but you don’t let that happen. So, he embraces you back, burying his face in your neck.

You could tell he was genuinely upset, and reassured him that he wasn’t bad and that you’ll be with him. He doesn’t need to worry about anything, you’ll put off training with the others for another time and stay with him for the rest of the day. He sniffles, pulling you in closer.

What you couldn’t see since his face was on your shoulder was the malicious expression at his successful attempt at keeping you to himself. Hook, line, and sinker.

[talesofesther]

tangle me in all your broken pieces (and watch me stay) | ch 2

Loki x Reader

Series Summary: An Asgardian god has just threatened your planet and you were called in to provide a little help. What you didn't expect was to develop a strange soft spot for said god, who hid more pain behind his cold facade than you thought possible.

A/N: I'm not sure if I completely like how this turned out. It feels a lot like a filler chapter, but nonetheless, a very necessary one. Next chapter will be more interesting and have more of Loki as we head into the main plot, I promise. <3

Word count: 4k

Masterlist | Read ch 1 here

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Fury screamed, he dragged you by the arm all the way into Banner's laboratory—nearly making you stumble on your own feet as you struggled to keep up with him—where Tony, Steve, Natasha, Bruce, and Thor, stood waiting.

You shook yourself off of his grasp, huffing angrily and adjusting your black cardigan over your shoulders. Everyone's eyes were on you, but they kept silent. Your chest heaved with adrenaline. With your sleeve, you brushed away the trail of blood under your nose.

"One minute you tell me you just want to talk, and wouldn't take any risks," Fury kept his tone loud, gesturing with his hands to where he'd just dragged you out of the room Loki was kept in. "And the next, I look at the cameras and what do I see? You're standing in front of him, inside the damn cage."

You gritted your teeth, breathing sharply through your nose. Your eyes were downcast, and you felt like a child being reprimanded for misbehaving.

You stole a single glance at Tony, who stood just a few steps behind Fury. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his lips hung open and he shook his head with indignance. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea of what could've happened?"

"Give me one single reason as to why I shouldn't send you home. Right. Now." Fury spoke with finality, both hands resting on his waist expectantly. He was fuming, you doubt you'd ever seen him this angry.

You knew you had been reckless, unbelievably so; in deciding to ditch the rules and simply take Loki's fate and mind into your own hands. But his pain had spoken louder then. And damn your heart, maybe it still does.

"I was right," you stated, raising your chin and quirking an eyebrow at Fury. "Loki's mind was being controlled. Not completely, but he wasn't the only one there. Something else was twisting his thoughts and pushing him into doing what he was doing." You took a step closer to him, sparing a glance at every person in the room before focusing back on Fury. "I. Fixed. It. You're welcome."

Fury scoffed, a small, slightly mocking smile coming to his lips. "Oh, you fixed it? Just snatched the bad out of him then?"

"There was an enchantment, a connection to the same person who tortured him into obedience,"

"Tortured?" You heard Thor wonder quietly.

"I reached into his mind and severed it, just like you brought me here to do." You finished.

"I brought you here to fix the people he messed up, our people. Not him," Fury argued back, again pointing a finger toward Loki's general direction in the Helicarrier.

"So is he not worth saving?" You asked quietly, tilting your head slightly sideways with furrowed brows. It was rhetorical, and he knew. You held his gaze for a while longer, daring; until you turned to look at Loki's scepter that now rested on a table near the windows; "the plague in his mind came from that," you nodded towards the weapon, "I suggest you get it as far away from us as possible, it's not worth the trouble."

"It- it makes sense," Bruce spoke up for the first time, adjusting his glasses as he took a single step forward. "Loki had used the scepter to mind control people, it's not farfetched to think he would be under the same fate." He shrugged.

You met his eyes and gave him a grateful nod, noticing the way Natasha also raised a brow in agreeance.

The tension inside the laboratory lay thick in the air, conflicting opinions charged it with electricity and gave you goosebumps. You crossed your arms over your chest to create some sense of self-reassurance. "When I freed Loki's mind, I cut his connection to the alien army he would bring to Earth. He has no means of doing it now, no location to open a portal to. It's over."

There was a beat of silence, everyone exchanged curious glances with each other. Yet you could see Bruce breathing out a sigh of relief, a smirk appearing on Tony's face as he gave you a sneaky wink, and a new look of concern crossing Thor's face.

Fury was still very much pissed at your actions, but as he glared at you, you could feel just a smidge of pride in there too.

"I'm sorry," you said, voice gentle. "I did what I felt was right."

Tony came up to you then, he laid a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. "Good job, but never do something like that again. Or you're gonna give him a heart attack," he gestured at Fury, who only told him off with a gesture of his hand.

All you did was close your eyes and nod. You couldn't know if your decision had actually been the right call or not, but what was done was done.

And when Clint and the others attacked the Helicarrier, you were able to free their minds pretty easily before too much damage was done. Clint was lightheaded and tired, but he knew enough to point agents to the location where Selvig was being held. The dust started to settle then.

─── ·❆· ───

Now that Loki's plan was no longer a threat, the scepter had already been moved to a facility on the other side of the ocean, and the Tesseract had been recovered, the only problem that remained was; what to do with Loki.

You sat at the round glass table in the Helicarrier's main control room, sunken in your chair and fumbling with the long sleeves of your cardigan while your teammates discussed Loki's fate. You tried to keep to yourself, feeling as if you had already drawn too much attention today as is.

You couldn't help but notice the different energy in the room, however; all the other agents walking about and between the rows of computers were much calmer than they had been this morning. The glow of a setting sun seeped through the huge main windows at the front with an air of tranquility.

This was your doing, at least partially. You'd always been one for helping people, but never at the expense of your own safety. Yet today you'd put that on the line, and it turned out okay. It began to feel selfish that you'd kept your abilities to yourself for so long, when maybe you could be using them for good.

The god of mischief himself had been… quiet. Strangely quiet. You kept glancing at the displayed image of him near the control panels; he still sat on that same bench inside the glass cage, slumped against the wall, and staring at nothing. It brought more questions than answers to you—for a second you panicked with the thought that you'd somehow broken his mind, but then you remembered who he was, a god. Part of you wished you could go in there again to see him. Of course, that was most definitely not an option anymore.

You still couldn't place why you cared about what would happen to him at all. You came, and you fixed people's minds. Your work here was done.

So why did you feel like it wasn't?

Thor was in the middle of an argument with Fury about how his brother was, in fact, not evil incarnate when you finally spoke up; "Why not keep him here?"

There was silence, and everyone's eyes were immediately on you again. You cursed under your breath. You should probably start thinking before you speak.

"Excuse me, I thought we'd just agreed on no more shit ideas from you," Tony pointed a finger at you as he spoke, with an eyebrow raised at your audacity.

You shrugged, "It's just a thought, okay? Loki sees humans as below him, he wanted to rule over our planet," you reasoned, "Well, make him learn his lesson here, live in our shoes, and see that he's not above us."

Tony narrowed his eyes at you, "Have you been drinking?"

You gave him the middle finger with a deadpan look.

"I must agree with the lady," Thor finally spoke again, his gaze cautiously shifting from you, to Tony, to Fury, "It was only after I was stranded here on Earth that I truly understood the purpose of being worthy."

"And how exactly do you suppose we do that?" Fury scoffed, leaning back on his chair, "Keep him on a leash, tell him to sit down, and just hope he doesn't retaliate?"

"That would be a sight," Natasha mumbled against the rim of the coffee mug she held, before taking a sip.

Thor seemed to be in deep thought for a moment, and then; "I can speak to my father, Odin, he should be able to help with keeping Earth safe from Loki's tricks."

"Am I the only one who feels a little uneasy about allowing the guy who just threatened to bring an army to our planet, to stay?" Steve looked from one end of the table to the other, gauging everyone's reactions.

"No, you are not," Fury spoke matter of factly, making sure to throw you a glare in the process.

"I for one want him as far away as possible," Clint grumbled from his place leaning against the wall.

"I don't love the idea either," Bruce joined in for the first time since you all sat down, "But she singlehandedly prevented a possible war, people," he gestured toward you, "I think it's worth considering her idea."

You sat up straighter, leaning your elbows on the table, "I can keep an eye on him myself if you let me. I'm pretty sure I would be able to feel it if he tried anything more… severe."

Everyone exchanged glances in silence, all of them holding the same apprehension.

"I shall speak with my father," Thor decided, "And if he assures me that Loki would not be a threat if he were to stay, then you can decide."

─── ·❆· ───

When Thor came back with the news that Odin would, in fact, be able to completely strip Loki of his powers for an undetermined amount of time, things were pretty straightforward from there.

Without his seiðr, Loki would be like any other human. Easy enough to contain. So with a bit of united convincing from both yourself and Thor that the best course of action would be to keep Loki here, on Earth, so he could serve his sentence living amongst the very people he wished to rule over, your teammates eventually—albeit some of them begrudgingly—relented.

Loki's progress would be tracked and monitored regularly, and he'd only be able to leave Earth once he atoned for his mistakes and the lives he took. You'd maybe even go as far as calling it a rehabilitation program—though he'd probably actually kill you if you told him that.

Fury was not exactly pleased, you could feel the tension flowing off of him when the decision was made, but he wasn't totally opposed either. The fact that he would also be keeping a close eye on Loki was a given. More than anything, he didn't like the idea of you being involved, yet you suddenly had the urge to prove to him that you could handle this, that you were capable of it.

And Tony was… a whole other story.

"No. Nope. And have I said… absolutely not?" He spoke matter-of-factly, putting on his sunglasses even though he was still inside the Helicarrier, more specifically in the kitchen.

"Think about it, Tony," you followed after him as he opened cabinet after cabinet, looking for the mugs. "Your tower is the safest building in all of New York, if there is a right place for us to keep an eye on him, while also making sure he actually goes out and sees our world, it's there." You opened the cabinet to your left and pulled out a mug, handing it to Tony.

He paused, looking from the mug, to you, and back to the mug before snatching it from your hand. "All I'm hearing is that you wanna bring a lunatic, self-absorbed diva into my home."

You held yourself back from rolling your eyes. "I told you, I'll be the one watching him, don't you trust me?"

Tony filled his mug to the brim with black coffee and then turned to you, raising his sunglasses. "You said it yourself, you're not the hero type." He stepped closer, observing you, "You once told me you wanted nothing to do with this world, with your abilities even." He paused, looking you straight in the eye, "What changed?"

Your lips hovered yet no words came out. You didn't know. He was right, this wasn't your world. Risking your life for the sake of others was not you. And yet you felt this pull on your heartstrings every time you so much as thought about all the pain you'd felt inside Loki; all the memories, the torture, and the cries for help that no one answered.

You realized that perhaps the reason why you cared about Loki's fate, was because if not you, it seems like there would be no one who would. Not even Thor, not in the way Loki needed.

A sigh went past your lips. "You don't know what I saw when I was in his mind, Tony. What happened to him, I-" You briefly avoided his eyes, shrugging halfheartedly. "He's hurting, I just want to give him a chance." Stark knew you too well, there was no point in lying.

A low groan escaped Tony and he took a generous sip of his coffee, "Damn you and your heart and those puppy eyes," he mumbled, then said more clearly; "Alright, if we're doing this, it's on you, you hear me? You're gonna be responsible for him, if he hurts someone, or worst of all, damages my tower, I'm holding you accountable."

You grimaced and nodded once, holding back a chuckle; "You make it sound like I'm adopting a feral cat."

Tony raised a finger at you, "Keep that thought, treat it like it, and you might just succeed."

─── ·❆· ───

The sun was high and bright in the sky when you landed the quinjet on an empty, grassy field where the Allfather himself would come to see Loki. You sat on one side of the jet, beside Fury; Thor and Loki sat on the other side, the latter wearing handcuffs and a muzzle; Tony was in the driver's seat.

Even though Loki couldn't speak, he glared at you the whole way. His piercing gaze made the entire trip a complete nightmare because you couldn't relax at all.

But at last, you had arrived. The back doors of the jet lowered open, allowing for the bright sunlight to seep in and make you squint until your eyes adjusted.

You walked out first, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in as soon as your boots touched the grass. The smell of trees and the sunlight on your skin had never felt so good after being cooped up inside an airship for so long.

Your teammates followed after a moment later, Thor guiding Loki by the arm. The brothers walked ahead on the extensive field while you, Tony, and Fury hung a few steps back. No words were exchanged, the only acknowledgment given was a shared nod between Thor and Fury.

There was a sudden burst of light coming from the sky that made you flinch, and when it disappeared—leaving an intriguing burnt mark on the grass in its wake—Odin and Frigga stood before Thor and Loki. Even from a little far away, you could feel Loki's heart rate spiking immediately.

Thor finally removed Loki's muzzle, and the trickster opened and closed his mouth in relief.

"Loki…" Frigga breathed, taking half a step towards them. You felt a little bad for prying, yet you couldn't help but tune yourself to their emotions and thoughts. His mother held sympathy and worry in her gentle heart, she seemed anxious to reach out for him.

"Hello, mother," Loki spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse, "Have I made you proud?"

You clenched your fists before burying your hands in your pockets. The pain clouding Loki's heart still persisted, you wondered how he lived with it so seamlessly; on the outside, at least.

"Please, don't make this worse." Frigga pleaded to her son.

Loki tilted his head to the side; "Define 'worse'."

"Enough," Odin spoke up, his voice grave and commanding. He held his chin high, as if looking down upon Loki.

"I really don't see what all the fuss is about," Loki chuckled lightly, gesturing with his cuffed hands.

"Do you truly not feel the gravity of your crimes?" Odin shot back, his golden armor shining under the sun, "Wherever you go there is war, ruin, and death."

Loki kept a smirk on his lips, seamless. But you were able to sense the stumble in his heartbeat, the catch of air in his throat. It cut deep. Yet Loki believed the words said to him to be true, even if they hurt him.

"I came here to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent god. Just like you," Loki told him easily.

Thor sighed and shook his head, clasping his hands together in front of his body.

"We are not gods. We are born, we live, we die. Just as humans do." Odin stated.

"Give or take 5000 years," Loki shrugged halfheartedly.

Odin shook his head, "All of this because Loki desires a throne." His voice held no emotion, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience on his day.

"It is my birthright," Loki said in the same heartbeat.

"Your birthright was to die," Odin raised his voice, it echoed until it reached the trees far away. "As a child, cast out onto a frozen rock."

You had to gulp back a sudden lump in your throat, your eyes burned. You felt Loki's pain as if it was your own, and yet, when he finally kept quiet under the weight of his father's words, you knew you weren't feeling even half of it.

Loki's actions towards Earth shouldn't be excused, no. But you already knew that this ran much deeper than simply what happened on your planet.

And while beside you Tony muffled a chuckle at the sight of Loki being chastised by the Allfather, you held back tears.

You took a moment to focus on Odin then, he was difficult to read, but you sensed disdain and indifference there. Loki was more burden than son to him.

"If I am for the axe, then for mercy's sake," Loki breathed with a half smile, "just swing it."

His words sent a chill down your spine.

A beat of silence passed, the only sounds being the distant singing of birds and a soft breeze ruffling the grass and leaves. Odin took a single step forward, still towering over Loki, who also refused to lower his head.

"Frigga is the only reason you remain alive." The words calmly fell from Odin's mouth.

Loki locked eyes with his mother and drew in a sharp breath. You had a feeling he had something to say, but didn't.

"The people of Midgard have made an offer, and you will accept, as did I."

The eyes of the god of mischief turned back to Odin when he continued talking, now glinting with new curiosity.

"You will remain here, living peacefully amongst the ones you once wished to rule over." Odin's tone left no room for argument, "You will be stripped of your powers and shall remain in exile until you have atoned for all your mistakes and crimes."

Loki scoffed and stumbled backward, his lower lip trembling and bright eyes shining with unshed tears. He argued back just as fiercely; "You cannot be serious. This is outrageous, a disgrace, I will not accept-"

"You have been given the most generous offer you could ever hope for," Odin once again raised his voice over Loki's, his patience wearing thin, "Were it up to me, you would be locked up in the dungeons of Asgard for eternity, and I will make sure that is your fate if you dare disobey my orders."

Loki's breath came out in shaky puffs, he desperately looked from Odin, to Thor, until he settled on Frigga. "Mother…" The word was nothing but a quiet plea, for what, you doubt even he knew.

The panic coursing through Loki's body was nearly sending you into a panic. You had to avoid your gaze from him for a moment to breathe, telling yourself that this was the best for him even if he didn't believe it yet.

"It is decided!" Odin exclaimed. He raised a hand towards Loki then, speaking vehemently; "I now take from you your power, your seiðr." The skies rumbled in the distance and the wind around you picked up speed. "In the name of my father and his father before!" The armor Loki still wore slowly fell from his body and clattered to the ground in broken pieces, leaving him in only black pants and a long-sleeved dark green shirt.

Silent tears cascaded down Loki's cheeks, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"You will remain here," Odin spoke with finality, "Indefinitely." And with that, he harshly turned around and walked away.

The silence that lingered then was an unbelievably heavy one. Loki refused to raise his eyes, even when Frigga walked towards him. She raised a hand and gently touched Loki's cheek, a melancholic smile painted her features. "Be well, my son," she whispered to him before turning around as well.

And with another flash of light, they were gone.

You were stunned into silence. Trying and failing to wrap your mind around what you'd just witnessed. You couldn't take your eyes off Loki's broken form, heart thundering against your chest. He looked so… small, cuffed hands shaking heavily, hair askew, and clothes so bare compared to his armor from just a moment ago.

A joyfully impressed whistle came from beside you and captured your attention. "That's one way to start the day," Tony commented with an over-exaggerated grimace, "Right, let's get moving, people. I have to be in the city in half an hour." He started towards the jet as if it was just another Thursday.

Thor looked over his shoulder to Loki, undoubtedly feeling at least part of the weight of what just happened, "Come on, brother."

Fury slowly turned away and followed Tony as well. You, however, stayed glued to the ground, heavy wind ruffling your hair.

You watched as Loki took staggered steps behind Thor, seemingly still trapped in the daze of what would be his new reality. That is, until he raised his gaze and locked eyes with you. His expression turned stone cold, colder even than how it had been when you'd gone visit him in the glass cage.

"You," Loki hissed through gritted teeth, his steps grew larger and quicker toward you with a newfound urgency, eyes burning with raw anger; "This is all your fault. If you hadn't interfered I wouldn't be-"

Loki was abruptly cut off by Thor's hand colliding with his chest and stopping him in his tracks. The god of thunder came to stand between you and his brother, eyes just as stern; "Must I remind you, brother," Thor spoke gravely, "That if you so much as consider harming anyone here, it's straight to Asgard's dungeons."

A scoff went past Loki's lips as he took a step back from Thor. They held each other's gaze for a beat, until Loki pursed his lips and shook his head. "How far have we fallen," he whispered, before walking past Thor.

Loki made sure to harshly bump into your shoulder as he walked by you and towards the waiting jet.

You stumbled in your stance but remained frozen in place. "Oh boy," you breathed, eyes wide with the realization of what you had just gotten yourself into, "This will be fun."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 3 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

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[hypothermic-dream]

The city stretched before him, a labyrinth of honking horns and flickering neon signs, each light a malignant tumor in the decaying flesh of urban sprawl. This wasn't a city; it was a festering wound, an obscene monument to humanity's insatiable greed and relentless decay. Every face he saw, every laugh that scraped against his ears, felt like a personal insult, a cruel reminder of his insignificance in this world—a rigged casino, a den of inequity where he was the sucker, lured by the false promise of fortune, pockets empty and soul sucked dry.

The air hung thick with the stench of exhaust fumes, rancid sweat, and desperation, a putrid miasma that mirrored the churning pit in his stomach. This place wasn't built for people like him, just another expendable cog in their infernal machine, destined to be ground to dust and discarded when they found a shinier replacement. The skyscrapers loomed like tombstones, casting long shadows over streets slick with rain and regret, a sprawling necropolis where dreams came to die.

Each morning, he woke to the taste of ash in his mouth, a bitter reminder of the countless battles he'd already lost. His body was a roadmap of past mistakes, every scar a self-inflicted punishment etched in angry red. He was a barely contained explosion, a walking disaster on the brink of implosion. Looking in the mirror was an exercise in futility. The reflection that stared back held the same contempt he felt for the world, a bitter cycle of self-loathing reflected in hollow, dead eyes.

"Hope?" He spat the word out like a rotten piece of fruit. "Hope is for suckers who haven't learned the game is rigged. They dangle that carrot in front of you, just to keep you chasing until you drop dead." His voice was a low growl, a barely controlled snarl of disdain. "This world can keep its happy endings. I'll take mine served on a bed of nails, with a side of betrayal." A surge of dark energy coursed through him, a twisted desire to burn it all down—this city, this world, everything that had brought him to this point. Maybe from the ashes, something new could rise, something forged in the fires of his rage and despair.

The streets were lined with the broken, the forgotten, those who had been chewed up and spit out by the merciless gears of Capitalism. Their eyes were vacant, their faces gaunt, shadows of the people they once were. He walked among them, a kindred spirit in this gallery of the damned. The buildings around them crumbled, their facades cracked and peeling, as if the very city itself was giving up, succumbing to the relentless march of entropy.

Every corner held a new atrocity: a man begging for scraps beneath a billboard promising luxury, a child sifting through garbage for something to eat, the distant wail of sirens a constant reminder of the ever-present chaos. The rain fell in sheets, a relentless deluge that did nothing to cleanse the filth but only seemed to smear it around, creating rivers of sludge that flowed through the gutters.

Then there were the aristocrats, the parasitic elite who strutted around in their tailor-made suits and designer dresses, their fake smiles and hollow laughs echoing through the corridors of power. They pretended it was all good, their every word a lie, their every gesture a mockery. Their laughter was a cacophony of hypocrisy, a parody of joy. They drove their luxury cars past the homeless, their tinted windows hiding their disdain, as if the suffering outside was just another piece of scenery to be ignored. They dined on gourmet meals while children rummaged through garbage for scraps. They wore their wealth like a shield, oblivious or indifferent to the agony their privilege inflicted on the rest of humanity.

Yet he pitied them, too, these aristocrats. Their wealth was a prison, their lives as hollow as those of the destitute. They, too, were victims of the same merciless system, trapped in a cycle of meaningless excess, unable to see the futility of their pursuits. Their luxury was but a thin veneer over a chasm of despair, their laughter masking the same existential dread that gnawed at his own soul.

There was no escape from this urban hellscape, no respite from the crushing weight of existence. The world outside was no better; nature itself had turned against humanity, withering and dying under the toxic assault of progress. Forests burned, oceans choked with plastic, the air thick with the poison of industry. Humans were parasites, sucking the life from the planet and each other, too blinded by their own hubris to see the precipice they were hurtling toward. And in this grand theater of misery, he saw the futility of it all, the shared suffering of both the poor and the rich, each bound by their own chains, each marching toward the same inevitable end.

[reesespeanutbutterfuck]

(im)perfectionist

vinny hong x jo!reader

jay jo's imperfectionist sister meets the flawful vinny hong.

part 8

part 7 | part 9

part warnings: fem!reader, jo!reader (jay is reader's 1 year older brother, but they're in the same class), second person's pov (you, you're, your), wb main story SPOILERS

—

“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Vinny kept spewing strings of curses while holding Sung by the back of his shirt’s collar. He was fuming mad. Furious.

“Ow, Ow! That hurts! I’m sorry! Let go of me already!” Sung, despite being held roughly, still had the balls to unremorsefully laugh at Vinny's pissed face, even enjoying angering him more. “It’s because you move too slow! I’m getting impatient, just talk to her already!” 

“I swear I’m gonna wring your neck–”

Sung released himself from Vinny’s hold on the back of his shirt’s collar by force, and once again saw it as an opportunity to escape and dash outside in the hallway. Now they’ve caught other students’ attention because of the commotion they’re making.

“You little shit, come back here, motherfucker!” Vinny chased his friend down the hall paying no mind to the stares they got and people they bumped into.

After a while, the two eventually got tired from all the running. Panting and sweaty, Sung slid down the wall near the classroom window. Vinny held his knees and fell beside him. When Sung turned to his friend he let out another breathy laugh.

“Not a word.” Vinny hissed to warn him to shut his up. His nose was almost fuming smoke from anger, and at the same time exhaustion. 

The reason for their little immature chasedown? Well… Vinny went out to get some fresh air for a while near the end of the class. And Sung, being Sung, suddenly decided it was a good idea to get ahold of his friend’s phone that was left unattended on his table to suggestively text you by the number he got from Minu’s phone.

“What? I did you a favor y’know. You can just deny you sent the text and she’ll believe you, obviously nobody would believe you’d text like that! You’ll have your first conversation through text.” Sung bowed his head while still catching his breath.

“You fucking–” Vinny cursed under his breath and decided to leave it. He was already tired from their little chasedown, he can’t hide Sung’s body if he murders him now. “I’m not interested in her. And I told you, she’s not one to fool around with.”

“I know that, but really? Nobody will settle with just friends after all that. I mean a girlfriend, as in a female friend is always cool, but I just wish you’d have a girlfriend. It’s enough already that I don’t have one, I’m saving you from the same fate.”

“Friends your face.” Vinny was the first to stand up and reach for his backpack, hanging it around one of his shoulders. “Who do you think you are, playing cupid? If you want to fool around you go talk to her yourself. I’m practicing with the crew tomorrow, and I’m giving back her glasses. If everyone else finds out about your little prank, I swear I will drag you all the way from wherever you are and slaughter you in front of everyone.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Once again Sung made it a laughing stock, “I'm still consistent with my prayer so you can finally get a girlfriend. Preferably a medical rookie.” he maliciously mumbled his last words and patted Vinny’s shoulder, prompting Vinny to threaten to hit him again, which Sung dodged before he picked his own bag up and exited the classroom first, his laughter echoing even outside.

—

“What’s that?”

“Calculus.”

Dom, who couldn’t find anyone to talk to, because the others were busy and won’t pay attention to him, squatted in front of you to watch you while you were sitting on the bench, doing your homework.

“Really? Studying? I thought you were here for us?” Dom pouted, you stifled a grin as you realized, Sometimes, Dom really does resemble Jordan. You were here as a bystander to their practice this afternoon.

“I can prioritize both at the same time.” You got back to solving the equation at hand. You need to finish this thing off so you can start writing your resignation letter and the two, or three remaining notes Jay lent you after you skipped school for a week because of your “flu”.

Dom kept watching you with doe eyes, amazed at how quickly you were jumping from one equation to another, his eyes can’t even catch up and follow your hand movements anymore.

You closed your notebook, startling Dom.

“All done.”

“What? That fast?!” Dom looked at you and then your notebook while you stretched your torso. “Can you teach me? Pretty please?”

“Another time. Not in the mood. Just copy mine.” You flung your homework to him, which he caught, great reflexes.

“Sweet! Thanks.” Dom took pictures of your homework. “By the way, have you completed your notes? I think I have the notes you missed during your absence, I can lend them to you as a token of thanks.”

“I'm done with them already. Thanks.” 

After being bedridden for weeks because of the stitches on your back, you were so bored so copied Jay’s notes, which he sent without you having to tell him to. You cannot help your bedriddenness, though. Not when your wound stings and travels from the wound to the back of your legs whenever you stand up even only to go to the bathroom.

“Okay, suit yourself!” 

Dom happily wiggled sitting on the floor and taking pictures of your homework placed flat at the seat of the bench. You left the bench to him and walked towards Jay, who seemed to be zoning out.

“Hey, how’s home these past few days? Is Kay eating well?” 

If there’s something you were worried about back at home, it’s him. You weren't worried much about Jay, you were more worried about Kay. Unlike you and Jay, he’s more vulnerable because he doesn’t know how to operate the stove to cook for himself. So looking out for his health is one of your concerns especially since he’s prone to starving himself to watch cat shows without interruption and forgetting to eat while doing his homework.

“Yeah. He started eating vegetables when you told him cats are attracted to vegetarians.” You laughed, he really believed that. Regardless, you were glad that you made him eat healthy. “He’s starting to overwork himself, though.”

Worry etched on your face, “Why?” 

“Mom keeps telling him she’ll throw Jack away from the house if he slacks off. You know how much he loves Jack.”

You thought hard. You can’t suggest Kay to live with you in the apartment instead. And besides, it’ll be a miracle if your mother ever agrees to that. She’ll see that as you recruiting Kay to rebel against her, too.

“Speaking of mom, is she trying to… patch things up with you?” Jay hesitantly asked. He knows what’s up. Even if he doesn’t show, he’s observant. You know he does.

You didn’t have to ask him what he meant. You knew exactly what he was referring to. You thought hard if you’d tell him the thing about the arranged marriage. The cause of your anger on the night you got stabbed and Vinny found you. You chose not to, come what may. Maybe another time.

“Yeah. Small talks.”

“Oh.” Jay chose not to ask further. He knows you’re not ready to talk about it even after all the years that have passed. He knows you’ll talk about it when you’re ready to talk about it.

Discomfort etched on your face as you remembered that feeling, but you shook your head and shrugged the thought off. You and Jay talked about some other things like snacks and light school stuff, until Mia called Jay to teach her how to bike. Jay excused himself and you got back to your seat on the bench a while ago.

“Okay, time to work on this.”

You began composing your resignation letter, as your Student Body adviser told you to pass your resignation letter within this day for the void to be effective the next day. What a pain. Instead of resting you’ll head back to the school after. You shouldn’t have come here if Vinny won’t show up to give your glasses back. 

Speaking of him though, where the hell is he?

You vividly remember this morning, while you were getting ready for school, he texted you unexpectedly while you were drying your hair with a towel.

—

“Damn it, I still have to write my resignation letter later. I guess I won’t be able to come to Hummingbird’s practice.” you mumbled to yourself. You messaged your Student Council adviser in advance and that's his reply.

Having that new knucklehead President as a replacement for Jay was impactful. Not a good impactful. A bad impactful. You were doing the important paperworks alone because he’s always missing in action, and council work became hectic. Your undereyes were darkening.

You pulled out of your drawer to use some concealer, but you were distracted when your phone beeped.

Angry tomato head: come by later at practice.

Angry tomato head: your glasses.

Well, guess the universe is telling you to come to their practice, after all. You can’t tell him to just hand it to anyone, even Jay. They’re already suspecting something between you and Vinny.

—

“There he is! Over here!” Yuna announced while waving at the redhead.

While dragging his bike, he accidentally laid eyes on you for a second but averted his eyes. He looked mad about something… as usual. He always looks like that. It’s obvious that’s his default face. He looks like a rottweiler practicing his scary face.

Minu immediately called the crew members to practice, so you didn’t get the chance to ask him for what you needed from him, and he was blocked by the others from your sight so he wouldn’t be able to pass through. You can’t interrupt their practice, looks like you’re going to have to stay for a while. Nevermind, you needed a place outside school to write the letter, anyway. You continued writing your resignation letter. 

A few corrections, crumpled paper, scribble, toss. Corrections, crumpled paper, scribble, toss, repeat. Corrections, crumpled paper, scribble, toss, repeat.

Finally, you raised the paper containing your final output, also hearing Minu’s voice in the background yelling, “good work, guys!”. You guess they finished their practice at the same time. You took that long to compose a resignation letter? You folded the paper loosely and sneakily looked for an opportunity to initiate a subtle close proximity as the others including Yuna and Mia. 

You were going to leave to pass your resignation letter, so you must approach Vinny now.

While everyone was busy yapping, you sneaked up behind Vinny—who seemed uninterested in what the crew were talking about, and stood almost beside him. Almost, because although close, not close-close. You lightly nudged Vinny, who didn’t notice you at first. He immediately got the signal and fished out from his jacket’s pocket. 

His hand was so close to discreetly handing over your glasses without a case, not until Dom creeped on the both of you from behind, peeking at the object on your hand. “Hey, why does he have your eyeglasses? Are you not telling us anything?”

Now all eyes were at you two. Even Minu, who was talking about random shit, stopped to look at you two, and Jay. You can tell from their looks that your not so secret transaction raised their suspicions even more than the first time they sensed something going on between you and Vinny.

Now you want to kill Dom.

***

© reesespeanutbutterfuck 2023, don't forget to support your creators by reblogging !!!

[nyctoaerah]

⋆♱⋆RETRIBUTION CH; 4

⋆♱⋆SYPNOSIS You found yourself stripped of your immortality, a punishment for daring to flout the edicts laid down by your father. Your transgressions? Two-fold. First, the grave sin of disobedience, and Secondly, the cardinal offense of falling irrevocably in love with your Lady in waiting. In your father’s eyes, the sanctity of your divinity was tarnished by a same-gender relationship, a concept that he vehemently repudiated as aberrant and abhorrent. Such unforgivable love, he pontificated, dulled your goddess-like essence. Thus he used his powers and casted you adrift into a parallel universe suffused with curses and sorcerers whose love aren't really the healthy type of love, a punishment to show you that ‘Love’ isn’t all about sunshine and rainbows

⋆♱⋆WARNINGS Gore, Slow Burn Yandere, Love Percentage Au. Pseudo Incest on Choso’s Case. Confusing Bullshit. Toji is smelly af. Cannibalism (kinda), Cringe, Unedited. Mentions of torture.

⋆♱⋆PAIRINGS Yandere! Jjk x Isekai’d! Goddess! Reader

⋆♱⋆LOVE INTERESTS Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Shoko Ieri, Yuki Tsukumo, Kento Nanami, Utahime Iori, Choso, Toji Fushiguro, Sukuna Ryomen.

⋆♱⋆NOTE Also posted in wattpad & quotev. Hearts and Reblogs are greatly appreciated<3.

⋆♱⋆PREVIOUS & NEXT CHAPTER

⋆♱⋆MASTERLIST

EACH INHALE THROUGH YOUR nose pulled the stale, musty air into your lungs, therefore, you decided to breathe through your mouth, making a conscious effort to keep your nasal airways closed to avoid the unpleasant stench emanating from the man.

No matter how fervently you struggled to elude him, evading the man proved an insurmountable task. 

Your every fiber ached with the desperate want to revert to your true form and scram, or ideally, melt into the very earth beneath you.

Yet, the prospect of metamorphosing back into your human guise was filled with trepidation. The notion of him witnessing a repulsive, gargantuan worm contorting into a person would potentially trigger aggression, and you're not in the mood to fight.

After all, it would be double assault too.

The assault on your olfactory senses from his offensive stench is damaging you too, and it would be worse if he were to add the physical damaging too.

And you don't want to risk it.

Seriously, you groaned inwardly.

Doesn't this guy possess an aversion to basic hygiene? Was he really that oblivious to the existence of potassium alum or the simple efficacy of deodorant? While the information of human smells regulation eluded your understanding, you knew that there's this ‘deodorant’ concept of a substance applied to the underarms to stave off malodorous stenches.

Doesn't he use that?

You felt incredibly uneasy as you perched uncomfortably on his unwashed shoulders, already imagining the putrid green aura that signifies a strong and offensive body odor.

Putanginang kili-kili yan. You thought.

The man then suddenly opened his mouth and yawned. The yawn he released unleashed a putrid wave of odor that assaulted your senses like a physical blow, causing your stomach to churn in protest as you froze.

The fumes invaded your nostrils and your meticulously maintained standards of personal cleanliness recoiled in horror at this olfactory assault, your inner hygiene guardian screaming in protest. 

WHAT THE FUCK???? HE HAS A BAD BREATH TOO?

You wailed internally.

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𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You sat there on his smelly shoulders, utterly stupefied.

That man that picked you up was sauntering by with a grotesque  behemoth of a worm sitting on his shoulders, A.K.A you,  without any shame.

He reeks, and his smell is enough to incapacitate even the hardiest of skunks. Yet, the people around seemed unfazed, their reactions ranging from mild wrinkling of noses and curling lips to indifference.

A wave of incredulity washed over you. Were their nostrils forged of iron?

Nevertheless, there was no denying the unsightly, repulsive sight of that gargantuan worm clinging to the man's shoulder. Who in their right mind could overlook such a monstrosity? The edge of your patience threatened to splinter.

What the fuck is wrong with these humans?

You've been briefed by your father on the supposed stupidity and repulsiveness of humans, yet experiencing it firsthand was a whole different level of shock.

Could it be deemed normal for them to accept a rotund man, drenched in a putrid stench, nonchalantly bearing a worm with an unsettling face atop his shoulder?

These humans are crazy. You thought, acting as if you're not crazy yourself.

You can feel the weight of regret crushing your spirit as you silently reprimanded yourself for even considering the transformation into such a loathsome form. Amidst the tumult of your inner turmoil, the surroundings begin to dim as the man strides purposefully through somewhere, then through a door.

The ceiling looms above, adorned with strange alien objects that defy recognition to you. The sterility of the environment would have been a welcome reprieve and a fresh breath of air, had it not been for the olfactory assault perpetuated by your uncouth carrier.

As he traverses, you two encountered a few passersby who recoil in visceral aversion at his noxious presence and a slight sense of relief washes over you. Finally witnessing the unbridled revulsion reflected in the reactions of these normal humans validates your own repugnant assessment of the situation.

Finally, normal humans. You mentally sighed in relief, then suddenly, you heard a voice speak.

“So you’re Zeni’n Toji, huh?” a voice utters in a language foreign to your understanding, the moment you saw the man's mouth move, you immediately close off your nasal passages in a desperate bid to shield yourself from the overpowering bad breath emanating from the man.

“Nope,” The black haired man shrugs.

“Not a zeni’n anymore.”

“It’s Fushiguro now, i took my wife’s last name,” The man said, his fingers roaming over the sinewy muscles of his neck. You winced as his touch grazed your slimy exoskeleton.

“Duly noted. So, Fushiguro, I presume you’re the one making these purchases then?”

Peering ahead, you spotted another man draped in a weird ensemble—a solid black garment adorned with five white crests, that is wrapped-front style featuring square sleeves and a rectangular body, with the left side crossing over the right. The peculiar attire perplexed you.

They started to talk, but you were oblivious to what they’re saying, for you are too distracted by the foreign language and the strange attires.

Do humans truly wear such strange attire?

You pondered, you don't really know how things in the other realms, cause your experiences was limited to the confines of your father's celestial castle high above the nebula, forbidden from venturing into the realms beyond.

Bound by the restrictions imposed on you, your existence had been confined to the splendors of the nebula realm—a domain reserved for supreme beings like Aionarch and yourself, alongside his twin sister and her progeny. The nebula is considered to be the most divine and beautiful place in existence in your world, and the highest of them all.

A place more Celestial and Ethereal than heaven itself.

Here, the very fabric of existence holds a unique resilience, swiftly restoring anything that dares to meet destruction. It's a celestial sanctuary where permanence is a fleeting concept, and the essence of eternal renewal is in the ethereal currents. In this sacred domain, nothing can succumb to irreparable harm without the sanction of aionarch.

Nebula is limitless, though, you have only heard of its magnificence from Aionarch, as you have never truly been able to explore it. The only time you did venture into the nebula was with Xeranthi, but even then, you and your mother were restricted in how far you could go, always under the watchful eye of Aionarch to ensure you ‘safety’ cause he was too afraid that his precious wife and only daughter might become lost or in danger. Thus, you were never allowed to venture too far and wasn't even allowed to go to other realms.

The second realm was heaven, where a plethora of deities resided, including Ataraxia. Though a paradise in its own right, it paled in comparison to the ethereal beauty of the nebula. 

Although you have never experienced the beauty of heaven firsthand because you are stucked on the nebula, or more like locked up in the nebula, you have heard descriptions of it from ataraxia. She believes heaven is visually stunning, but interestingly, she also believes that the nebula surpasses it in beauty and grandeur, and that the heaven is only the second most beautiful place in the realm.

Then the third realm, Shaxilu, housed the lower deities—a realm known for its inhabitants' disdain towards Aionarch, bottom feeders deities who yaps without knowing much.

A realm teeming with fauna and lesser beings, it boasted of beauty yet lacked the divine allure present in both nebula and heaven. Here, the deities grappled with their responsibilities, ensuring the demigods remained contained and restraining the meddling of their celestial kin amongst humans.

Then came forth rhe fourth realm, known to humans as Earth, Earth was beautiful, yet it was getting destroyed by the humans who call it home.

Beneath this realm, existing as the darkest abyss of existence, was the fifth realm known as Kolase. Nestled in the deepest depths, Kolase was a place that humans calls hell. Everywhere in Kolase,  cries of tortured souls and the shadows of demons and other eerie beings were palpable. Despite the horror that filled its every corner though, there was an undeniable beauty to Kolase, a charm that struggled to surface amidst the ceaseless chorus of tormented wails that echoed through its depths.

And by now? You felt as if you were on kolase again because of him.

The cloying stench emanating from him is suffocating, it was akin to an inferno raging in the depths of kolase itself. A shudder runs through you as you avert your gaze, the foul odor threatening to overpower your senses. 

You observe him through narrowed eyes, his words muffled by the foul miasma enveloping him. His voice cuts through the thick air, each syllable laden with a putrid undertone that makes your stomach churn. Clenching your jaw, you silently commend yourself for sealing off your nasal passages, sparing yourself the full assault of his repugnant breath and reeking armpit odor.

“How much does those things sell again?” The black haired man asks, green eyes lazily scanning the place.

You blinked, not understanding any of their words.

What did they meant by that?

“About 7 million yen, Fushiguro-san,” the man replied without hesitation, his eyes locking with the gaze of the green-eyed man before him.

Huh? What are they saying? Your lips pressed tightly together.

The black haired man's lips curved into a knowing smile.

“Mhm. So, all I have to do is auction off that things then, and i get the money.” he drawled lazily.

“Yup. Half of the proceeds shall be yours,” the man stated.

“Good,” the green eyed man murmured.

“Just make sure that those jujutsu high brats—No, that gojo satoru brat comes.”

“Rest assured, Fushiguro-san.”

“Is it settled then?” the man inquired, seeking confirmation. The smelly man merely nodded.

“Let us proceed, then.” the man beckoned, his steps purposeful as he began to walk away, a silent invitation for toji to follow in his wake. And follow he did.

Meanwhile, you were confirmed. the foreign words that they uttered left you bewildered, the cadence unfamiliar to your ears. Are humans speaking a different language? The thought nags at you, a stark reminder of the vast gulf separating your celestial realm from this alien world. Everything about them feels foreign—from their attire to their accents and the peculiar sounds that spill from their lips. 

Your irritation simmers beneath the surface, exacerbated by your inability to comprehend their discourse. Yet amidst the confusion, one word rings out with unmistakable frequency—“fushiguro.” Your gaze flickers to the man who had hoisted you up, connecting the sound to his assumed identity. Fushiguro, was a name that rolls off your tongue just fine, and it's pretty, just tarnished only by the off-putting odor clinging to him.

Beauty marred by filth. You noted.

You were having many thoughts and suspicion as Toji and the man strode down the shadowy corridor. The further they ventured, the more secluded the surroundings became. The door at the end of the corridor drew near, its surface adorned with an array of locks and pins, and you couldn't help but think that this is a bit shady. 

With a metallic creak, the door swung open, revealing a dimly lit room that can only be described as reminiscent of a clandestine laboratory.

The walls were lined with shelves stacked high with various glass vials, beakers, and jars containing unknown substances that glowed in shades of red, green, blue, and purple. Strange symbols and diagrams were etched into the walls, aswell some equations, like a cult. In the center of the laboratory, a large stainless-steel table dominated the space, its surface littered with an assortment of scientific equipment—test tubes, Bunsen burners, and many more.

You noticed a series of cages lining one wall, each containing a different creature. Some were familiar—a dark, sleek-furred cat with unnaturally sharp claws, a plumed bird with iridescent feathers that seemed to shimmer in the dim light.

On the adjacent container lay a grotesque being, a nightmarish amalgamation resembling a spider. Its elongated limbs flexed with unnatural dexterity, stained with crimson. The creature's pallid, almost translucent body contrasted starkly against the bloodied appendages, it lacked eyes, a nose, any semblance of face—save for the gaping maw  with serrated fangs.

You winced at the sight of the ugly creature. Shaking off your revulsion, your gaze refocused on the man passing two small containers to Toji.

The lower limb buds of the creature resembled paddles. Fingers were also visible, detailing the complexity of its anatomy. Furthermore, small swellings were starting to outline the future shell-shaped parts of its ears, while its eyes were visibly defined. The upper lip and nose were present, adding to the overall features of the creature. And it was all curled up.

You knew what the fuck those things are.

Fetus.

What they have is a fucking fetus, albeit a bit weird since it's color purple.

But still, why the hell do they have those? Did they ripped those out straight out of the mother's womb?

Your throat constricts.

Your heart raced as Toji suddenly forcibly pried open your deformed mouth.

Oh my fucking goodness, don't tell me that they're gonna feed that to me?

You tried to squirm away, trying to close your mouth, but Toji thrusts the containers in your mouth.

With a sickening squelch, your saliva coated the containers and you felt a surge of panic rise in you, the urge to gag overwhelming. The glass made a sharp contact with your Epiglottis, causing  discomfort before slowly gliding down your throat as you struggled to swallow it in one piece. A trail of saliva escaped from your lips and dripped down your mouth as you finally managed to swallow the glass completely. 

This is just a dream, it's not happening. You gaslighted yourself as you sobbed internally as you  you fought back the rising bile in your throat, your every muscle tense with discomfort. 

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𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

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Tension filled your rigid body and your mind was filled with revulsion, your veins coursing with a vile concoction from the memory of that abhorrent act of swallowing a fetus in a glass jar. The sensation churned in your stomach, the urge to vomit it overwhelming.

Could the fetus metamorphose within you? Would it grow inside of your wormy stomach? Would it explode from the jar and live inside of your womb? What the fuck.

would you unwittingly become the surrogate mother to a baby and birthing it while being a worm?

The horrific scenarios played out in the theater of your mind, driving you to the brink of a mental collapse as you and Toji were on a bridge.

Toji on the other hand, strolled nonchalantly, one hand thrust into his pocket while the other had a gadget in his hand, it was glowing and from what you assumed, it looked like a mirror, he was talking but you paid no mind to him—not like you can understand what he was saying anyways.

You still loathed him for making you eat the poor fetus.

The mental image of a tiny human bursting forth from your body made your poor stomach churn, causing a nauseating wave to pirouette up your throat. As you allowed your thoughts to meander, a disquieting unease began to simmer within you. Toji's incomprehensible babbling faded into the background, as all you yearned for was to shed this fucking worm form and revert back to your true self, urgently and unequivocally. The urge to turn back into your true form and just kill toji so he doesn't have to see it surged through you.

After all, you would do the poor humans that is living in the earth a favor by killing a man that smells like the fart and smells like Thioacetone.

Surely, it's not a sin to kill such man right?

But then, was this the fabled retribution aionarch had told you about? It suddenly made sense why you were exiled to Earth, to make you suffer from the overwhelming pungent odor of the man—You are but a clean and hygiene freak after all.

Suddenly, Your gaze unexpectedly locked onto the  fluttering of a random butterfly that was on a top of a flower. In that fleeting moment, a profound realization struck you like a bolt of lightning as you got an idea of what's happening.

The Butterfly effect. 

Your throat constricts as you realized that you are actually experiencing it firsthand right now.

A minor pledge made in haste to ataraxia had unfurled loads of calamities. From the seething wrath of aionarch, getting tortured, to a harrowing plunge to the earthly realm, to your regeneration not working, to ugly creatures assailing you and to Metamorphosing into a worm, and then getting kidnapped by a reeking man, and now you have an fetus inside you?

please let this be a dream. you sniffed.

You shut your eyes, a thousand thoughts raging through your mind, silent sobs echoing internally as you prayed for this nightmare to cease.

Suddenly, a rumbling sound, like of a horse hooves in a frenzied gallop, rang in your ears.

What the fuck?

Your eyes opened, and when you saw that there's indeed a horse, your lungs seared as if the air had been forcibly expelled from them, a scream bubbling in your throat.

A literal horse was charging towards you and toji—looking like as if it was about to attack you.

Why is a horse coming our way?! You gawked.

THIS IS SO RANDOM! You wailed.

Panic gripped you, muscles coiling tight as you squirmed against Fushiguro's neck, a desperate attempt to make him aware of the impending danger.

“You with the big tits! Move! A random horse is literally coming our way—a fucking horse!”

You were practically screaming at him through your worm like mouth, but it was all distorted and can't be comprehended.

Thus, he remained oblivious.

However, he noticed the way you tightened around his neck—as if you wanted to strangle him.

“Hm? What’s up with you?” He asks dumbly, before looking forward, and gawking.

“The fuck is that?” He gawked.

“That’s so fuckin’ random.”

“Why the hell is a horse—” Toji didn’t even finished his sentence as the horse crashed with you two—Kicked you two. The world around you condensed into a singular point of terror as the wretched horse pushed you to the ground. A guttural shriek tore from your throat, the sound a mix of fear and confusion, as your being buckled under the strain.

Involuntarily, your body reacted on its own and your worm form began to change in your normal form.

Toji's strangled sound of “huh” was barely registered as the world spiraled. The wooden bridge that you two were in shattered and gravity claimed its due, and with a sickening plunge, you and Toji plummeted towards the churning water below.

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𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

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Toji's mind reeled in disbelief at the surreal situation before him. The weight of water pressed against his body as he swam upwards.

“What the fuck did just happened?”

his fingers raked through his hair, pushing the wet strands out of his face as rivulets of water trickled down his skin.

“Did A literal horse just attacked me?” he exclaimed, his voice laced with incredulity. His eyes darted around, searching for answers in the murky depths of the water. The absurdity of the situation made him shake his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the tension in his muscles.

“Fucking weird....” The memory of the horse's unexpected assault annoyed him. Toji swore that he will kill the horse.

“Ugh.. is this my punishment?”

Toji's hand absently reached up to massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck, a habitual gesture that offered little relief in the current circumstances. Frustration welled up inside him as he realized that his precious worm couldn't be found.

“Wait, Where are you?” he muttered, his brows furrowing as he scanned his surroundings. 

“Where are you?” he called out, the words muffled by the water surrounding him. His movements were sluggish in the aquatic environment, each motion hindered by the oppressive force of the water.

In the meantime, you would have been pleased that Toji had finally bathed, even though it was accidental and somewhat coerced due to being pushed by a horse. It was a positive development, however, leaving you feeling relieved. You would have been rejoicing in this achievement, had it not been for the fact that you're practically drowning.

The crushing weight of the water pressed on your body and the sharp impact of the rocks against your back was painful, it felt like as if it was scrapping your back, their jagged edges, almost enough to cut through your skin, leaving you momentarily paralyzed. You involuntarily inhaled a rush of frigid water, and your esophagus began to sear as the water made contact with it, your nose contracted in pain. 

You squirmed, desperately trying to tune out the pain gnawing at your back from the jagged rocks, you swore that you could see a crimson stream mingling with the rippling water below because of it. Frantically writhing, you sought to propel yourself upwards, but before you could swim upwards, a sudden impact crushed down on you, fragments of the fractured bridge fell down on you. 

Your ribs began to break from the force and a searing conflagration within your chest. Your vision was obscured by a watery haze, the burn of chlorine stung your eyes as you fought the drowning urge to gasp, your fingers clawing at your constricted throat, nails gouging into your flesh.

Unable to contain the burning flood, your body convulsed in a futile attempt to expel the deluge, lungs saturated as you swallowed more of the river's waters.

Transform. You tried to say, trying to force your body to transform into something that can breathe underwater.

Fucking do it—now. 

But your body wouldn't listen.

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𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Your eyes struggled to focus as the world around you were in a murky haze, every breath was like a dagger of pain stabbing at your chest. The cold seeped into your bones, chilling you to the core. As clarity slowly crept back into view, you felt a firm grip clamping the tender flesh of your nose shut. 

Someone's lips was pressed down firmly upon yours, looking to aim for a perfect, airtight connection. With each exhale, you could feel the rush of air invade your lungs, and your brows furrowed.

They seemed to sense the stirring of consciousness within you and abruptly withdrew, leaving behind a glistening residue of saliva on their lips, likely remnants from the urgent CPR efforts.

A surge of bewilderment crashed over you as you sucked in a deep, shaky breath, your chest heaving as you greedily welcomed the life-giving oxygen into your deprived lungs.

A violent fit of coughing suddenly seized you, your chest heaving and convulsing as you tried to ciugh out the water that had invaded your airways, your throat was burning like liquid fire.

Each gasping breath felt like shards of glass scraping against your insides, and there was a sharp pain radiating through your body with each jagged inhalation.

A comforting hand pressed against your damp back, patting you, though you were too disoriented and drained to push it away.

“Can’t believe that this is happening... putanginang buhay to... pinaglihi ata ako sa kamalasan eh.” you grumbled through a hoarse rasp. Your fingers absently rubbed at the tender flesh of your neck.

The person withdrew, leaving you to slowly raise your gaze with wide, searching eyes.

There was a man with long, jet-black tresses tightly bound into two long black stringy hair tied into two high ponytails that jut upward and outward. He had purple eyes and across the bridge of his nose, a dark crimson mark stretched from one side of his face to the other.

Adorning his neck was a circular scarf and a purple vest adorned him. Beneath the vest, a loose, light tan robe cascaded down, enveloping his arms and legs.

Your chest heaved as you slowly lifted your gaze towards him. Was it his hands that had pulled you from the water? or was he merely a figment of your delirium?

Your face suddenly irked as you remembered the horse that attacked you, nonetheless, you thanked him for saving you.

“Thank you,” 

You managed to say before a crease formed between your eyebrows, a question ready to spill from your lips.

“Wait.. who.. who are you?” you inquired, though a sudden tension gripped your jaw as the realization dawned that he likely couldn't comprehend your words. After all, if Fushiguro doesn’t speak your language, this man probably does too.

“I’m your son.”  he stated bluntly.

You froze—You can understand what he’s saying somehow—unlike with fushiguro.

But then, what the fuck is he saying?

How could he claim such a title when logic insisted it was an impossibility? You never touched a man, let alone you're a virgin.

This seemed biologically impossible.

Tangina, anong pinagsasasabi neto?

“dude what.” you deadpanned incredulously, the weight of bewilderment settling on your features like a heavy cloak.

You’re plunged into a swirling abyss of bewilderment.

The very notion of him being your son is preposterous, absurdly impossible. You’ve guarded your body like a fortress, and you’ve never slept with anyone—not even with ataraxia.

But then, could it be that you unwittingly underwent Parthenogenesis? Some goddesses, like your mother had a children without having sex with a man after all.

But as you search the recesses of your bewildered mind, not a whisper of memory surfaces to confirmed that you had undergo through parthenogenesis.

Besides, Surely, such an aberration would never escape Aionarch’s eyes. Hell he even keeps an eye on your virginity and reminds you how important your chastity is.

So... How could he be your son?

After some moments of thinking about it, you finally spoke.

“I’m not your mother, no.”

You shook your head in utter disbelief, feeling the weight of confusion pressing down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

“Listen, whoever you are, I believe that you’re mistaken. I am not your mother,” you managed to utter through tightly clenched lips, a sense of exasperation tingling at the edges of your patience.

“You are mistaken,” the words escaped your lips, each syllable heavy with disbelief.

“There is no resemblance between us,” you murmured, noticing the flicker of irritation in his eyes at your assertion.

“Besides.. I’m a virgin, and... my lover is a woman.” Your jaw clenched, trying to wrap your mind around the bizarre revelation.

“And... And I never conceived you,” you stammered.

“You can’t be my son seriously.” You said shaking your head.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance at your assertions.

“If you're searching for clarity,’ he began, his steps deliberate as he closed the distance between you.

“My brother lies within your womb,” he said solemnly, his gaze locked with yours in an unflinching intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

What is he saying? What did he meant by his brother is in your womb? That's seriously creepy.

 “What?” you hissed, the word barely more than a whisper as your mind struggled to assimilate the incomprehensible stuff that he was saying.

“We share the same womb, we came from the same womb. Within you,” he stated.

“So... that would imply that you birthed us all,” 

“What the fuck kind of logic is that?” You snapped.

And with that, the two of you began to argue.

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𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𑁍ࠬܓ━━𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐅𝐔𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒:

𝟎𝟎𝟏.Choso assumed that [Name] is his mother because [Name] swallowed his brother (literally) and now his brother is just resting on [Name]’s stomach.

𝟎𝟎𝟐.[Name] was actually glad when they fell on the river because the water finally touched Toji’s skin.

𝟎𝟎𝟑.Mahito is the one who gave the body to choso on the anime, but in this, i changed it, and someone else gave him his body, and that someone is important to the story:P

𝟎𝟎𝟒.So Toji was supposed to sell the death painting wombs, ik that they're hidden somewhere on jujutsu high, but, on this book, jujutsu high only have 6 death painting wombs on them since some of them (Choso, Eso, Kechizu) already have bodies and the other one is on [Name]’s stomach.

𝟎𝟎𝟓.Choso isn’t really [Name]’s son, it’s just that he believes that she’s her mother. From what i know, when they were given the bodies by mahito, they have no memories and doesn’t know their mother or something and only knows that they live for each other.

𝟎𝟎𝟔.And yes! There’s a language barrier between them! And only choso knows how to speak the language [Name] is speaking (You’ll know why he knows that language later)

𝟎𝟎𝟕.Basically, [Name] doesn’t understand any of the words Toji is saying.

𝟎𝟎𝟖.Toji was using a cellphone and talking to some of his clients, but [Name] sees it as a mirror bcs there’s no cellphone in her world

𝟎𝟎𝟗.[Name] and Choso argued after that, but Choso ended up winning the argument.

━━━━━

����𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐒:

𝟎𝟎𝟏​​​​Putanginang kilikili yan means  “That fucking armpits/damn armpits”

𝟎𝟎𝟐.​Putanginang buhay to, pinaglihi ata ako sa kamalasan eh. It doesn’t really have a direct translation in English since pinaglihi doesn’t have its english counterpart, and the closest translation of this is “Fuck this life, i was probably conceived from misfortune”

𝟎𝟎𝟑.​Tangina anong pinagsasasabi neto means “The fuck is he saying”

━━━━━

🔪 || 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒

╰┈➤ 𝟎%

—𝐒atoru is fucking disappointed. How was he supposed to eat you now if you aren’t a mythical bird? Suguru and Shoko told him that you might be a shapeshifter after all. 

╰┈➤ 𝟏𝟎% (𝐔𝐩 𝟓%)

—𝐒uguru found some parts of your hair and some parts of the destroyed necklace when he and Satoru went to the forrest (without permission). And guess what? There were little letter like engravings on every part of the broken necklace. He’s not sure on what language it is though.

╰┈➤ 𝟎%

—𝐓oji is fucking pissed because his worm is missing. Where the fuck are you? He still needs to sell those death painting womb for some money.

╰┈➤ 𝟒% (𝐔𝐩 𝟐%)

—𝐒hoko is trying to decipher all of the words found on the broken necklace, she noticed that some letters of it are different though, there's no kanji, katakana, hiragana, and not even a single letter in the alphabet.

╰┈➤ 𝟐𝟎% (𝐔𝐩 𝟐𝟎%)

—𝐂hoso is confused. Aren’t you supposed to be his mother? Why are you acting like that? Why are you being so mean and snappish to him? He’s pretty sure that mothers aren’t supposed to act like that towards their sons... He literally saved you from drowning and this is how you repay him? He’s starting to feel annoyed at you for denying everything, seriously, why can’t you just admit that he’s your son? Your lips feels soft against his though.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄:

I SWEAR, I'M SO FUCKING EMBARRASSED AT THIS CHAPTER 💀💀💀 it's so random and all😭😭 I'M GETTING A SECOND HAND EMBARRASSMENT THE FUCK??? And some of it are also confusing too. Like everything is so random 💀💀💀 (ig reels r getting onto me, the horse scene is from an ig reel that i have watched)

Anyways, Choso is not related to [Name], he just thinks that she's his mother or something. So, i also decided to just make [Name] speak tagalog because there's a language barrier yk? I don't wanna use some translator to make her speak other languages. Imma just make her speak my mother tongue.

Alsooo, more scenes w [Name]'s family and the jujutsu high students on the next chapter:33

The choso part got my lazy writing fr..

​​​​

how i feel after hurting my mc every sngle chapter: 🥰🎀

Yeah, just don't mind me babbling...

[bluecanvasshoe]

Runaway

Part two of Arthur Morgan & teen!reader

Warnings: BIGGGGG Rdr2 spoilers, mentions of racism, after the gang gets split up, big time jump, no beta reader, i tried to be historically accurate!!!, descriptions of a panic attack

Summary: It's been a few years since the gang split up. You don't know anyones whereabouts, nor do you know if they're alive or not. But in your new, mundane life, you find a lead to your past. (PS: the most of the story is snippets of the gang splitting.)

AN: sorry this took so long.......... stuff is happening in my life and i found this in my drafts while looking for a distraction. i also didnt know if this was good or not, and idk if u guys would like the big change in the story but i hope u guys like this!!!

word count: 1.9k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3?

------

Beaver Hollow sucks. Everything sucks. Honestly, maybe this entire gang sucks.

Dutch sent you two out, acting as messengers for Eagle flies and his father. Neither of you agreed that what Dutch was doing would benefit their tribe, but Eagle Flies was determined. His courage, although strong, blinded him.

After you and Arthur had gone on that fishing trip not long ago, you’ve found yourself hanging around him more often; not that he minded. Naturally, you two started talking. You opened up about your past before the gang, and he told stories of his youth that hadn’t already been shared around the campfire.

However, this came with some downsides.

You and Arthur had an argument the other day. Well, you tried to have an argument, and Arthur listened.

You and Arthur went hunting this time. The sun was setting, and crickets emerged along with god-awful amounts of mosquitoes. After countless tries at Arthur’s bow and arrow you grew more and more frustrated. Turns out, it’s not as easy as pull and release. Because of the added factors of your now seemingly constant anger and the frustration of each failed attempt, you blew up at Arthur.

This included the usual, “people are worried; Dutch is insane; do something,” pleas coming from you, and Arthur’s “i know, kid; kid, I know; we’re trying our best; keep it down the camp’s gonna hear,” replies.

You went to bed that night fuming. ’We’re doing our best’? Come on! After all that’s happened, the best is far from the current situation of the gang. He’s just lying through his teeth, and for what? 

You can take the truth.

The path below you two crunched as gravel dug deeper into the earth, your horses occasionally huffing as they walked along the trail. Tall, top-heavy trees were scattered amongst pine, birds chirping and singing on sturdy branches. Wildflowers that sprouted in vibrant shades of orange and purple were scattered along the sides of the path, mingling with short grass that wasn’t entirely green, yellowing as the year grew old. 

Critters, mainly squirrels or chipmunks, ran across the beaten path. It gave both of you quite the scare as you rode along, not wishing to kill the poor creatures for no inherent reason. The air was chilly, but not cold. It wasn’t warm, but it was stuffy. From the ridge, you could see more trees separated by a shimmering lake in the distance, which was surrounded by… more trees.

“It’s been a weird few days,” Arthur spoke up, his voice gravelly, rough. He sounded hesitant and almost awkward, like he was trying to talk, but couldn’t find a good starter. 

You cleared your throat, “Yeah. Do you… is Dutch… Does this sorta thing happen often?” you asked vaguely, glancing at Arthur in your peripheral vision. 

“What do you mean?

“...This. Y’know the runnin’ east, and… people dyin’. It’s makin’ me worried, Arthur.” 

Arthur fell into a short, thoughtful silence, disrupted by a harsh cough to the side. He cleared his throat and looked forward again, reaching ahead to pat his horse on the neck. “This ain’t happened before. Lots of folks are worried, but… We’ll do what we can, kid, just try to stay strong.” He replied, using the same excuse he’d use for every other person at camp.

You hesitated. The gang had been doing what they could. They had for a long time, but it only seemed to kill people. Dutch lead the gang with determination, mowing down anyone standing between him and his unachievable goals. These decisions, however, came with sacrifices. Sacrifices that stood behind him, praised his actions and followed his lead like a lamb, because they wouldn’t be able to do such a thing if it weren’t for him. Sacrifices that never stood in his way. Sacrifices that were lucky to have a grave, to be spoken of afterwards.

What if you became one of them?

“But Dutch, he- he made these choices, and… I don’t… he’s not right in the mind,” You reasoned in the nicest way possible, praying that the man beside you wouldn’t be ticked off by your remark. Judging by his opinions on the gang’s recent affairs, though, you don’t think he will.

Arthur, again, was silent. You took this as an opportunity to continue.

“I’m scared, Arthur. I’m really scared.” God, that’s not how you wanted to sound. Saying those words sounded like a plea, like you were a child. But what you said was partly how you felt, and maybe honesty was what was needed at the moment. Anxiousness and anger bubbled under your skin, the seeds of upcoming dread sprouting from when they were sown at the Blackwater robbery. “It- this ain’t normal. This is bad, Arthur, there must be somethin’ we can do.”

“I know, trust me, and I wish there was,” Arthur sighed, adjusting his gambler hat. “I’d be lyin’ if I said I weren’t scared, too. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. It ain’t fair to you; you’re just a kid.” He finished, neither agreeing or disagreeing with your previous statements. “But I’m… look, we’re all doin’ our best.”

Now, you know that’s true. You’re not stupid; but really? I mean, the gang had been on the run for months. So many people have died, and now Arthur’s saying that’s the best that they could do? Bullshit. Frustration simmered in your chest, like an urge that needed to be quelled. It itched and burned, your jaw tensing as he spoke.

“I know, but that’s- we wouldn’t be here if we were doin’ our best, I mean, God, come on, so many folks are dead, and it ain’t gettin’ better-” “Kid, please-” “and people are worried! People have died, Arthur, and Dutch won’t give up. Please, Arthur, just listen-” “I am listenin’, but-” “nothin’s getting better, people are scared, and- and what’s wrong with you? You ain’t been actin’ like you usually do, people are worried-” “That’s enough. We’ve already discussed this,” Arthur interrupted, his voice serious and hardened. It cut through the sound of birds chirping, the sound blurring into the background as your stomach practically dropped. Arthur never spoke to you in that way, meaning you likely crossed a line; with the tensions and questions coming from the members of the gang, it’s not surprising he was a little fed up.

You took a deep breath, glancing at him before looking forward once again. “I just- Arthur, we’re worried. We wanna know what’s wrong.”

The two of you fell into silence once more. This time, though, the sound of birds, leaves, or wind didn’t fill it.

“Kid, look, this isn’t your business. You shouldn’t be the one worried about this stuff, this ain’t what you should be spendin’ your time on.”

“Arthur, please-” “No, and I ain’t gonna say it again.”

So that was that.

In the back of your mind, something screamed that you had to do something, anything. But Dutch was so on edge, and after Micah did who knows what with the dog, Cain? You’re a little scared to step out of line.

But when Molly was shot by Ms. Grimshaw, you screamed at her. Then, when everyone chose sides, you went with Arthur. 

Dutch stood at one side of the camp, shouting at Arthur with Micah by his side. With him stood Micah and Javier, though the latter was aiming his gun towards the hazy, darkening sky. You, despite the fact that the others told you to go, stood with Arthur, Sadie, John and Charles. Without a gun to aim at the others, you simply stayed to show who your loyalty lay with. 

And then the men came.

The law.

You ran, and you ran hard. But horses were no match for a scrawny teenager's legs, and you didn’t get far before a lawman tackled you down. 

At the moment, the only thing running through your head is that this has got to be a nightmare. No, this is a nightmare. Your vision almost seemed to darken, everything around you growing suffocatingly close. The lawman’s shouting drowned in the dark abyss of tree shadows and your cotton filled ears. Your heart beat out of your chest, and in the back of your mind, you knew that this was happening. That this isn’t a nightmare. 

They dragged you away kicking and screaming, away to the shit filled streets and swampy air of Saint Denis. You could’ve sworn you’d seen John before you were taken away from the gang’s campgrounds.

Now, your life lay in the biassed hands of the law, and not a mentally ill middle aged man and the snake in his ear. You thought that you would’ve been sent to the gallows without another thought, but despite being an ‘outlaw’, you never truly committed crimes. At least, no one saw you commit your crimes. Therefore, the law deemed you a kidnapped child in need of a ‘civil’ way of life.

So, you were taken to what they called the “orphan trains”. An ominous thing that you were not thrilled for. They were trains that’d take orphaned kids from big cities to the lonely midwest, a place you were so unfortunately familiar with.

-----

It had been years.

Years of helping the woman you were supposed to find maternal collect eggs, of tilling crops, of scrubbing dishes with rowdy, annoying kids you were meant to call your siblings. Of birthdays past without the gang; and now, you were almost an adult.

But one day, your foster dad left his newspaper on the dining table, a mistake he would regret later. The newspaper said something that, after months of mundane and domestic boredom, piqued your interest.

Morning light streamed through the lacy curtains of the kitchen’s windows, the wood of the house creaking under the pressure of the wind. 

Your foster dad, David, was reading the daily news, an ankle on his knee as he went about his morning routine while you were sitting at the dining table quietly. Your foster mother, Anne, was washing dishes from breakfast when one of the boys you’d been living with barged through the door of the house.

The woman startled, dropping a dish into the water. “Jeremy!” Anne scolded, looking at the boy.

“I think one of the horses is having a baby!” he shouted, two of the other kids following him and saying things along the lines of ‘hurry up, come on!’ at the man and woman. David shot up from his seat and Anne dropped what she was doing, telling you amongst the chaos to finish up the dishes as she left the house.

You stood from your seat, watching everyone rush out with slight annoyance. When the door shut, you pushed out your chair, the wood making a screeching sound as it slid across the hardwood floors. Standing up, you walked over the creaky wood to David’s newspaper that sat on the dining table. 

It was full of boring deals and uninteresting stories, but one stuck out. It was about an underground fighting ring, which wouldn’t have caught your eye if it weren’t for the witness statements.

One in particular said some very distasteful things about a man of mixed race, but the summary was that he was Indigenous and African-American.

Indigenous and African-American.

You only know one man who is of those two ethnicities. Granted, you don’t know many people; but still, Indigenous, African American, and an outlaw? Come on.

The second after you read that passage, you made a plan. You’d leave at the dead of night, as soon as possible. Maybe it’s not solid, nor is it well thought through, but there’s no time for that. That night, you pack your things as light as possible.

And then, you finally start your journey back to Saint Denis.

[weixuldo]

Allow me// ch 3

Vader x Reader

a/n: ngl i don’t really have a plan for this fic, but i love writing it so imma just see where it goes!! ty for reading :)

Vader hates suiting up

warnings: depiction of injury, body insecurity, cursing, anxiety

______________________

Vader reveled in the cooling water of his bacta tank; the only place he felt any sense of relief for his aching body.

Though it had been nearly two decades since his accident on Mustafar, the pain never truly subsided, especially since his suit was intentionally never upgraded.

The suit was uncomfortable and would harshly rub against his scarred skin, there was basically no breathing room- so he would often become overheated, also the heavy weight of the boots and armor took a heavy toll on his spine (which had to be surgically reinforced).

He never really got used to his suit but over the years he learned how to deal with it better; he learned how to ignore his pain by focusing on his work, spending as minimal time in the monstrosity as he could, and taking frequent bacta soaks. 

He often used the high tech machinery of his personal ward to assist him with tasks of bathing, suiting up, and his oxygen treatments. But every once in a while he would require human assistance, that’s where Vanee (Vader’s personal assistant-of sorts) would come in. 

Vanee was once an imperial inspector stationed at Vader’s Castle on Mustafar, but spent too much time near the exposed lava and the fumes drove him to madness.

His mania manifested differently than most who succumbed to the gasses of Mustafar; in his case he became obsessively devoted to Lord Vader, he proved himself a loyal servant and trusted ally. 

Other than Palpatine, Vanee was the only other human who had seen Vader out of his suit and lived to tell the tale (not that he would dare discuss his master’s true form with unworthy onlookers). 

Back in the tank, Vader’s oxygen system dealt him a healthy dose of air before he motioned for the tank to be drained; it was time to get back to work.

The dark room was only lit by the light coming from his bacta tube and a few blinking green lights on the walls. His muscles tensed as the cool air hit his skin while the water drained. 

Soon the tube was lowered and he was left dripping over the lit platform. His harness that suspended him began to rub since it was now holding all of his weight; a feeling he had unfortunately gotten used to. 

Though he had gone through this routine for decades, he still couldn’t help but feel a little insecure of his body being on display in the middle of this large room.

If he weren’t a force user, he would be completely helpless; suspended with no limbs and a ruined respiratory system, he was scarred and burned beyond recognition… he was pathetic.

He hated to dwell on the past, but sometimes he couldn’t help the memories that came flooding back. 

How was he once a renowned Jedi?

At one point, people followed him because they respected him, not because they feared him.

His body was once healthy and he didn’t need any assistance, not even with his prosthetic arm…if anything that arm was enhanced by the technology. 

But now that same technology was his burden. He was trapped in the very suit that kept him alive.

He would die in that suit.

He left his thoughts when the machines around him began to dry him off. They worked diligently to prep him for his suit.

He may have added a few tasks that he wanted them to do that the emperor didn’t originally intend for. Before they would attach his robotic limbs, he liked them to gently apply cooling slaves to the areas around his ports; that’s where the friction hurt the most. 

Though today, the machines were pressing a little too hard which caused the Sith Lord to groan in pain. He shut his eyes and made a note that he would need to check them later, before allowing the machines to proceed with his limbs.

First, his arms were applied, the pressure of the limbs securing made him wince, though it was nothing he couldn't handle. 

Next were the legs; the platform rose and began to attach. Everything felt fine until they began to twist too tightly which caused him to release a pained shout.

He used the force to reverse the machine’s progress and loosen the legs to where they needed to be.

He had the machine lower him to the ground and he clawed at his stumps. The tightening made the metal around his ports bend slightly and they began to ache; he wasn’t going to be able to finish getting ready this way if the machines kept malfunctioning. 

Begrudgingly he called for Vanee through the force as he propped himself up using his secured arms, this was humiliating…

The large sliding doors opened and hurried the cloaked man. Vanee rushed to his master's side and knelt before him. 

“What may I help you with, my Lord?” Vanee asked, casting his gaze down out of respect for the Sith.

“I require assistance to finish getting into my suit, the mechanics are not operating correctly today.”

Vanee nodded and helped Vader to his feet; he cringed as his weight shifted onto the metallic legs. He limped towards the bench on the opposite side of the room and sat with a grunt.

Vanee hurried around collecting the Sith’s garments and soon Vader was dressed. He headed towards the door with a slight limp, but before he reached the exit an odd sensation waved over him.

The feeling was warm and comforting, a feeling he had not felt in many years; it was the feeling he used to get when she was near. 

It was probably nothing though, just a random trick of the force; surely it wasn’t because you happened to be walking past the door on the other side… that would be ridiculous-

“Shall I ask for the mechanics department to send an inspector, My Lord?” The hooded man asked as Vader snapped back into reality. 

“That will not be necessary, I have someone in mind that I want to work on it.”  Vader said before he promptly left the room. 

_____________________

In the weeks since your last encounter with Lord Vader, you had carried on in your tasks, trying to keep your delusional daydreams at ease; of course you were crazy to even have a shred of interest in the man, but something in you just couldn’t help it. 

You wouldn’t say you necessarily had a crush on him… but you got butterflies when you’d spot him, you would take the long route to your destination if you thought you may get a glimpse of him on the way, you would mention him in passing conversation with other workers just to hear his name. 

….ok

Maybe you did have a little crush on him.

But, you knew it was insane. He was a tyrant, a dictator… a murderer.

You knew some of the appeal was the danger and the risk of liking him , but it was also because he was the first human to be remotely kind to you… but you couldn’t seem to stop your infatuation.

You didn’t know much about the suited man, except for his status and power in the empire. You often tried to imagine what he looked like under the mask; was he handsome? Did he look old? 

What color were his eyes? We’re they the traditional Sith yellow? Or were they brown? Maybe Green? Or Blue? 

What color was his hair? Was it cut short or long?

You liked to imagine him as a handsome man who aged well, you knew he had to be pretty built just based on his stature alone.

You liked to imagine how his muscles looked… were they bulky? Were they more defined? 

You pondered those thoughts as you walked down the long corridor to your posted station for the day, some of the x-wings needed some work and you were the only available mechanic at the moment. 

As usual, you took the longer route that passed by the Sith Lord’s chambers; each time you walked by you got butterflies. The fact that at any moment he could be in that room, only a few feet from you, gave you goosebumps.

As you passed, you remembered back to the night that he had killed those troopers; you were scared for your life that night. His heavy footsteps and patterned breathing still echoed through your ears. 

Once you got further down the hall you heard a door behind you swish open; you wanted to look back, but something told you to keep moving.

You continued on until you heard the oh so familiar respirator. 

It was him.

You secretly smiled to yourself, you knew it was him whom you sensed. Throughout this time you had been getting better and better at detecting his presence. 

“Halt” his booming voice exclaimed. 

You stopped in your tracks, maybe you were too obvious with your feelings. Either way, it wasn’t a good idea to keep him waiting so you turned to face him. 

The dark figure came towards you with a strong gait, though he seemed to be limping slightly. 

You bowed, “My Lord”.

“Just the person I was looking for” he stated, towering over you. 

He was searching for you? Was this it? Was he going to tell you how inappropriate your thoughts had been? Was he going to dismiss you? Or was he going to kill you? 

Fuck! Even now your thoughts betrayed you. 

“How may I be of assistance?” You asked, making contact with his dark lenses. 

“I require your services on some of the machines in my ward, you shall accompany me” he said, turning on his heel back towards the room he came from. 

You knew his word overrid that of your boss, but you would be punished if you didn’t attend your post… Vader didn’t seem like one to give excused absences to management thought and it's not like you could just ask him to let your boss know where you were… he was the Sith Lord, after all ....

Either way, your priority was to fulfill the Sith's wishes.

The room was dark and once you were inside he quickly slid the massive door shut with a simple wave of his hand. Was it bad that his action excited you?

Stop.

If you were worried about him sensing your feelings earlier, how about now?! You needed to get it together

The lights in the room started to gradually light up and he led you towards a platform in the middle of the room. Surrounding the pad were maintenance and fine motor droids, these were often used to assemble intricate machinery. Maybe the Sith tinkered in his free time. 

You took a quick survey of the rest of the room; most of it looked pretty normal, except for the medical droids in the corner. What was that for? 

“These machines have been malfunctioning, I need them to be tuned back to their personalized settings.” Vader spoke before heading back towards the exit. 

Wait, how were you supposed to know what the settings were? And you were not about to be killed over a mistake you didn’t even have instructions for.

“My Lord, wait!” You exclaimed, before you could think of a more formal way of asking for his presence.

“What is the issue?” He asked with a strong tone.

You were petrified, but the demanding tone sent a shock right down to your core. 

“I am not sure I will be able to fix these machines if I do not know their purpose. If the droid is intended for mechanical repairs it will require different attention if it is for repetitive assembly.” You explained lightly. 

The Sith Lord stood for a moment, all you could hear was the whirs of his breathing and your own rapid heartbeat. 

Suddenly he addressed you, “the information we discuss does not leave this room”.

“Of course, My Lord” you confirmed.

“I use these machines to suit up” 

What exactly did he mean by that?

“They help dress you?” you asked.

He sighed annoyedly and you were afraid he was growing impatient with you. 

“I’m sorry, My Lord, I do not unders-”

“Many years ago I was injured in battle and these machines assist me when I must dawn my suit”

Oh.

“I’m sorry”

“Pay no heed to my plights” 

He sounded almost apologetic…

“May I ask the specific issues the machines were making?” 

Your heartbeat quickened with every second he took to answer back; you had already asked so many questions, surely his patience was wearing thin.

He sighed once more, bending towards you and resting a weighted glove on your shoulder. 

“Officer, I can sense your fear”

Your wide eyes blinked back nervous tears, “I-I.. My apologies”

“I do not wish to strike fear into you, my dear. I would like you to relax”

You nodded as he stood back to his normal height. Though you could not see his face, you could feel the presence of a small smile, surely gracing it.

“Yes, My Lord”

“It would also be favorable if you lessened on the formalities”

Was he being serious?

Ever since the empire was established it was drilled into everyone’s heads that they were to be cordial to any one who held office or rank in the galactic empire. Was he trying to trick you?

But if you didn't do what he said, wouldn’t you also be disobeying-

“Stop overthinking” he said, though it didn’t have a demanding tone, it sound more like a gentle ask.

He stepped closer to you and your muscle memory kicked in; you quickly bowed before him. Once you realized what you had done you began to apologize, “I’m so sorry, My L-”

A gloved hand tilted your chin to the dark figure above you and he pulled you to your feet.

Your heart raced and embarrassingly….you felt your core pulsing too. 

“What is your name?” 

“F-F/N L/N, or just y/n” you answered shyly.

“y/n, that is an exquisite name. May I call you that?” he asked, a gloved hand still brushing over your chin. 

You nodded and he caressed your cheek before withdrawing his hand. 

“y/n, I give you my word, I will not harm you.” he explained, “I have observed you officer and have taken an interest in you and your work” 

You stood there in bewilderment, all this time you thought he was after you for the thing with their troopers or that he was trying to trick you into a false sense of security, but to be here with him, especially after all of the comforting words he exchanged… you couldn't help the butterflies taking flight in your stomach. 

“Now, may we return to the task at hand?” 

“Yes, My L-”

He slightly turned his helmet and you retracted your statement remembering what he asked earlier; it was just force of habit.

_______________________________________

The maintenance took a few hours, but for another technician it would have taken a day; you may not be much, but you were talented in your craft. 

Vader left the room to you after about an hour, but not before reminding you to keep the information discussed private (most likely referring to the fact he needed assistance- how would the galaxy react if the most feared sith was disabled in a way).

The walk back to your room was completely silent, you used so much brain power that you couldn't even muster the energy to overthink the situation; all you could think about was showering and going to bed. 

Once you settled into bed, sleep washed over you and soon you were in the deep embrace of slumber; dreams filled with an all too familiar dark figure. 

***

a/n: i’m actually falling waaaay back in love with original series vader… like i never left but i’m just really fucking invested rn 😩😩… i hope you guys are enjoying the story!!

taglist: @vadersassistant @sxoulohvn @khaleesihavilliard @kashasenpai @darling-murdock @beautifulbearpolice @salvatoresister1 @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @blueninjablade3 @jujuba096 @missmannequin @jellydodger @mirastark @wyvernthekriger @duckyhowls @monada43 @lauriidoesstuff @vienettacream

[fourmoony]

𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨

𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⭒⭒⭒

𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨.

𝟏.𝟒𝐤 - masterlist

because apparently, the only thing i know how to write is angst. enjoy this shortie with barely any context.

⭒⭒⭒

“It’s over, isn’t it?”

The sun is setting into the horizon, sea gulls flying low to the water. The tide has come in, leaving only a small stretch of dry sand that you both occupy. Further down the beach the fire roars on soundly, the strum of a guitar sounds out, broken choruses and laughter, the inability to remember all the words. Without the weight of conversation – of reality – the scene is quite beautiful. Now, though, it all feels too painful. Like something you should be enjoying, but it’s just out of reach.

The air smells like smoke and seaweed and sun cream, days spent on the beach enjoying what the Dover sun has to offer. It smells like the dying barbeque and warm cider, cigarettes and weed. It smells like summer.

His hair falls around his chin, now. It hadn’t last summer. Last summer, he’d hated the idea of it growing past the tops of his ears – a reminder of his childhood, of things expected of an heir, to be properly presentable and demand respect. He hasn’t mentioned why he’s let it grow. You haven’t asked. He’s looking out at the water, the push and pull of the waves, steady, never changing, always consistent. It’s been different for a while, now. He’s been different. Things, the world, school, friends, everything’s changing. It’s a natural part of growing up.

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I think so, yeah.”

The words taste bitter, like bile. It’s the end. The end of whirlwind love, chaste kisses, heavy hands, soft eyes, and whispered words. It’s the end of midnight dances and lazy Sundays tucked away in dorm rooms. The end of blinding adoration, hopeless devotion, high highs, and low lows. Of loud fights, harsh words, spit fire tempers and broken ornaments. The end of salty tears, things that can’t be taken back, broken promises, silent treatments, make-up kisses, and repeating the cycle.

He flinches as though even though he’d known the answer, he’d expected something different. It hurts all the same. It hurts so much it’s like setting your own heart on fire. It’s like swallowing glass or bleeding out. Like you’re drowning and the surface is millimetres away.

“How long?” He asks. His eyes never leave the water, the sea foam waves, the safety of not meeting your eye in fear that it’ll break him.

Things have been different for a while, really. But how can one pinpoint the realisation of falling out of love with someone they’d been sure they would spend their life with, at one point? When do toe curling kisses turn to chaste pecks of greeting? When do meaningful conversations become stunted and filled with secrets, pieces of information that just don’t feel that important to share, anymore? When does dancing in the common room turn to dancing around one another at the breakfast table? When do arguments turn to silence, preferring to fume alone than at one another? When does your greatest love turn to dust before your very eyes?

The sand is still warm to touch from the day’s sun. It’s grounding. It reminds you of where you are, what the purpose of this trip is. To enjoy, to savour, to let the last weeks of youth take their course before the future arrives. Everyone is growing. Growing into their own person, with goals and careers to chase, lives to live and people to love. You’re not the wide-eyed group of kids you once were, struggling to find a place in the world, clinging to each other for comfort.

No, this is the beginning of adulthood. The beginning of letting go. The end of clinging on.

“A while,” a sharp inhale. “March, maybe. Around the time we had the fight about N.E.W.T. Electives for seventh year.”

Recognition floods his features, stormy eyes reminiscent of the night he’d said many things he couldn’t take back. Defence had better prospects, you shouldn’t be wasting time with classes like Care of Magical Creatures or History of Magic. He feels rotten about it, like the argument and his words have taken a part of his soul he’ll never get back. Maybe they have, in that really, when he thinks about it, that’s the fight that ended it all. He's no idea where his words came from. Your interests, your kind heart, the way you went about your education were some of the things that made him fall so heavily in love with you in the first place. Your futures look different, though. He wants the glory of sitting high in the Ministry’s Auror office, you’d like to own some kind of book shop, live a quiet life, away from prejudice and the chaos of Wizarding Britain.

And he can’t argue with that. But you’re both smart enough to know that such different desires in life won’t work.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too, I s’pose.”

You close your eyes, allow yourself to imagine a future in which you’re not in his arms, being loved by and in love with him, fighting, making up, making out, crying, laughing, dancing, singing, living. Every step of the way for the last six years, you’ve done it together, been in love for two, and it’s ending. It’s a bittersweet feeling.

Another song starts by the campfire, and you’re there again.

Still beside him, closer than strangers, farther than lovers. Still loving, not in love. Not giving up but letting go. It’s run its course, the relationship. It hurts, it’s burning and suffocating, and you feel like you might be dying a little bit. But then your eyes meet for the first time since you’d found him, taking a moment away from everyone, and you realise he’s not the boy you fell in love with.

He’s not the broken boy who came from an abusive home, the boy who would get onto the train every summer skinnier than he’d left it months before, and with several new scars to show. He’s not the same boy who was quiet in his first year, reserved in his second, rebellious in his third.

He’s everything you fell in love with, rebellious, loud, funny, loving, caring, broken, pieced back together, resentful, angry. But he’s different now, in so many ways. He’s happy. He’s himself. He’s living no crosses bared, no secrets held, no regrets and you refuse to stand in his way, be a reason he second guesses himself, be the reason he doesn’t follow his dreams. He’s a boy who grew up in a miserable home, with a hard and horribly cruel life, and you want him to break the cycle of toxicity. You both know you were good for each other at the time, but not for the long run.

“I’ll always love you; you know?” He asks, tears in his eyes.

There’s stubble on his chin, and his face isn’t so gaunt and sharp as it used to be. He’s a man, now, older, and wiser, ready to start the next chapter of his life.

“I know. Me too.”

A seagull dives headfirst into the water, there’s a cheer from around the campfire, the water reaches your toes now, the sun is long gone. But the memories remain, the blinding love, the conversations, soft touches, chaste kisses, record player dances, and Sirius Black.

The walk back to your friends lifts a weight off of your shoulders, and it's obvious that the conversation has done the same for Sirius. He looks lighter, happier, and less like he's drowning in regrets. Everyone looks up at once. James stops strumming the guitar, Peter and Remus' off key rendition of an acoustic Ziggy Stardust falls short. The group takes a collective inhale. They know. They've known probably longer than you and Sirius.

The sand feels too hot, the fire burns your skin, the smoky air is too thick to breathe. What now? Will they think they have to pick sides?

But Sirius looks at you, grey eyes and the shining bright light of fire. He smiles, the boyish smile you haven't seen in so fucking long. You smile back when he leans forward, presses a kiss to your forehead and then claps his hands.

"Right, Prongs, start from the beginning," He takes a seat beside Marlene in the sand, leaves the last available camping chair for you, "Moony and Wormy are absolutely abysmal, need to show them how it's done."

And if your heart soars a little at the man's ability to help you blend into a crowd, just like it used to, well, that's no one's business but yours.

⭒⭒⭒

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