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novaursa · 2 days ago

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A Lion's Folly

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

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: sins

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The cold air bites at his face as Jaime Lannister dismounts his horse, his armor catching the pale Northern sunlight. Around him, the bustling retinue of the royal procession begins to settle, attendants scattering to prepare for the King’s arrival. Yet, as his gaze sweeps across the courtyard of Winterfell, Jaime’s mind is far from the cold, far from his duties, and even far from Cersei.

You stand by your family, a quiet and poised figure amidst the wolves. Your dark cloak, trimmed with fur, clings to your shoulders, framing the soft lines of your face. Your hair glints in the light, a rich hue reminiscent of autumn leaves, and Jaime’s breath catches in his throat. There’s something about the way you hold yourself, the proud tilt of your chin, the quiet intensity in your eyes as you watch the King approach your father.

For a man who had once thought himself incapable of wanting anything beyond what he already had, this moment feels like a betrayal of everything he believed about himself.

He shouldn’t look at you, yet he does. He shouldn’t think about you, yet he knows, already, that he will.

The evening feast is lively, as all gatherings in Winterfell tend to be. The great hall is warm with roaring fires, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filling the air. Jaime sits among the knights of the Kingsguard, a golden lion among his brothers in white, but his eyes stray across the room to where you sit at the high table with your family.

You laugh at something Robb whispers to you, your smile lighting up your face. It’s not a smile meant for him, but gods, how he wishes it were. He tells himself it’s a passing fancy, that you’re nothing more than a pretty distraction in a dreary northern hall. Yet, when your gaze briefly flicks his way—entirely by chance—his heart jolts. You look away almost instantly, oblivious, but it’s enough to set his blood aflame.

“You’re staring, brother.” Tyrion’s voice interrupts his thoughts, sharp and laced with amusement. The younger Lannister leans back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief as he follows Jaime’s gaze. “And at the Stark girl, no less. A dangerous game, wouldn’t you say?”

Jaime tears his eyes away from you, scowling at Tyrion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Tyrion replies with mock innocence. “But if you did, you might consider that our dear queen wouldn’t take kindly to your… wandering attentions. Nor, I suspect, would her father. And let’s not even think about Lord Stark. I hear he has a way of parting men’s heads from their shoulders.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens. He knows Tyrion is right, of course. Whatever this strange, sudden longing is, it’s not something he can act on. Yet, as he glances back at you, he finds himself wondering what it would take to make you look at him the way you look at your brother.

Later, as the hall begins to empty and the fires burn low, Jaime finds himself wandering the courtyard. He tells himself it’s for the fresh air, but deep down, he knows better. The truth finds him soon enough when he sees you there, standing by the kennels with your direwolf pup at your side. The creature is a pale, ghostly thing, its eyes sharp and intelligent as it watches him approach.

“Ser Jaime,” you greet him politely, your voice soft but steady. There’s no fear in your tone, only curiosity. “What brings you outside? The warmth of the hall doesn’t suit you?”

He smiles, a practiced, easy expression that hides the turmoil beneath. “Perhaps I needed a break from the noise. The North has a way of making a man appreciate silence.”

You nod, stroking the wolf’s fur absentmindedly. “Winterfell is quieter than King’s Landing, I imagine. Though I’ve never been.”

The way you say it, with a hint of longing, makes him pause. “You’ve never been to the capital?”

You shake your head. “No. My father prefers to keep us here, close to home. My mother says the South isn’t meant for wolves.”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, though he can’t help but think how wrong that is. You would shine in the South, your beauty and grace unmatched by any courtier or queen. The thought of you in the Red Keep—so near, yet so far—sends an ache through him.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Do you miss it? The South, I mean.”

He hesitates, caught off guard by the question. Does he miss the South? The warm sun, the endless intrigue, the weight of his family’s expectations? “Sometimes,” he admits. “But there are things worth appreciating in the North.”

It’s a simple statement, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says it betrays his meaning. You tilt your head slightly, studying him, but before you can respond, the direwolf lets out a low growl, breaking the moment.

Jaime chuckles, taking a cautious step back. “It seems your wolf doesn’t trust me.”

“Winter is protective,” you reply, patting the pup’s head. “But he’ll come around.”

Jaime isn’t so sure. The wolf isn’t the only one he’ll have to win over, and he knows it. Yet, as he watches you disappear back into the warmth of the castle, he can’t help but think that you might be worth the risk.

The next morning, Jaime finds himself once again in Winterfell’s training yard. The clang of swords fills the crisp northern air, accompanied by shouts from young men sparring under the watchful eyes of Jory Cassel. Jaime usually enjoys watching such displays, though they pale in comparison to his own skill with a blade. Today, however, his attention is elsewhere.

You stand on the edge of the yard, wrapped in a dark cloak to ward off the morning chill. Winter, your direwolf, sits dutifully at your side, her fur gleaming in the pale sunlight. Jaime notices the way your gloved hand absently strokes the wolf’s head as you observe your younger brothers practice with wooden swords. There’s a faint smile on your lips, one of quiet pride, and it’s enough to make his chest tighten.

For the hundredth time since his arrival, Jaime curses himself for this weakness. You are a Stark, born and bred, and your father would sooner see him dead than allow him to so much as glance your way. Yet his gaze strays to you regardless, drawn like a moth to flame.

“Are you going to keep staring, or will you finally say something?” The voice belongs to Jon Snow, who stands a few paces away with his sword in hand. His tone is quiet, but his grey eyes are sharp, a touch of irritation flickering behind them.

Jaime straightens, masking his surprise with a smirk. “Staring? I don’t know what you mean.”

Jon’s lips press into a thin line. “You’ve been looking at my sister since you arrived.”

At that, Jaime’s smirk falters. He glances toward you, but you’re still focused on the sparring match, oblivious to the conversation. Winter, however, seems to sense the tension and looks toward him, wolf's icy blue eyes meeting his.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Jaime says smoothly, though his pulse quickens. “Your sister is a lovely young lady, but I assure you, I have no improper intentions.”

Jon’s expression darkens. “You’re a Lannister. Everything about you is improper.”

The accusation stings, though Jaime hides it well. He steps closer, lowering his voice so only Jon can hear. “Careful, Snow. You might have Stark blood in your veins, but you’re still a bastard. Don’t presume to lecture me on propriety.”

Jon bristles, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. For a moment, Jaime wonders if the boy will strike him. Instead, Jon takes a measured breath and steps back, his gaze still burning with suspicion.

“Stay away from her,” he says simply before walking back toward the training yard. Jaime watches him go, his jaw tight.

The day drags on, and Jaime finds himself more restless than ever. Every time he catches a glimpse of you—walking with Sansa in the godswood, speaking quietly with Maester Luwin, laughing softly at something Arya said—his resolve weakens. By the time the evening feast begins, he’s resigned himself to another torturous night of stolen glances and unspoken desires.

The great hall is alive with laughter and conversation when Jaime enters, though he barely hears it. His eyes immediately seek you out, finding you seated beside your mother near the high table. You look radiant, even in the simple Stark colors, your hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders. He forces himself to look away, focusing instead on the goblet in front of him.

“Still pining, are we?” Tyrion’s voice cuts through his thoughts, low and amused. The younger Lannister has appeared beside him, a knowing smile on his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime replies, his tone clipped.

“Oh, come now, brother,” Tyrion says, pouring himself a generous helping of wine. “You’ve been staring at her as if she’s the Maiden herself come to life. It’s quite unlike you.”

Jaime glares at him. “Drop it, Tyrion.”

“Gladly,” Tyrion says, raising his goblet in mock surrender. “But you might want to be more careful. The Starks are an observant lot, and I doubt they’ll take kindly to a Lannister coveting their eldest daughter.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as Tyrion saunters away. He risks another glance at you, only to find your brother Jon watching him from across the hall. The boy’s expression is unreadable, but the weight of his scrutiny is unmistakable.

Later that night, Jaime finds himself wandering the courtyard again. The cold air bites at his skin, yet it does little to extinguish the fire raging within him. He curses himself under his breath, berating his foolishness. How could he allow his thoughts, his eyes, and now even his heart to betray him? A Stark of all people—a wolf, untouchable and pure in her Northern pride.

He’s so lost in his turmoil that he doesn’t notice your presence until Winter’s soft growl cuts through the silence. He looks up sharply, finding you only a few feet away, the wolf standing protectively at your side. The moonlight catches in your hair, casting an almost ethereal glow around you, and Jaime feels his chest tighten.

“Ser Jaime,” you greet him, your voice soft yet steady. There’s a hint of curiosity in your tone, as if you’re surprised to see him here.

Jaime straightens, his heart stuttering at the sound of your voice. He bows slightly, forcing himself to maintain his composure. “Lady Y/N,” he replies, his voice smooth despite the turmoil within. “Out for a stroll?”

You nod, your breath forming faint clouds in the cold air. “I could ask the same of you, Ser Jaime. Though I didn’t think knights of the Kingsguard wandered alone at night.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound hollow to his own ears. “Even knights need a moment of quiet now and then,” he says, his hand tucked discreetly behind his back. “The North, for all its chill, does have its charms.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him as Winter’s piercing gaze mirrors your own. “And what charms would those be?” you ask, your tone light, but your eyes keen.

Jaime hesitates, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment. The truth lingers on the edge of his tongue—that it’s you, your presence, the way you make the world feel brighter even in the dead of winter. But he swallows the words, masking his emotions as he always has.

“The stars, perhaps,” he says smoothly, gesturing toward the clear night sky. “King’s Landing rarely grants us such a view.”

You glance upward, and for a moment, your expression softens. “They are beautiful,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “The North feels closer to the heavens.”

Jaime watches you, his eyes tracing the curve of your profile. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, fearing that his voice will betray the yearning he’s so desperately trying to suppress.

After a moment, you glance back at him, your expression unreadable. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime,” you say simply, a polite smile gracing your lips. There’s no hesitation as you turn and begin walking back toward the castle, Winter padding silently at your side.

Jaime doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure. The ache in his chest grows heavier with every step you take, but he remains rooted in place, unwilling to call after you. He knows this desire is foolish—impossible, even—but gods help him, he can’t seem to let it go.

As the shadows swallow you whole, Jaime exhales slowly, the cold air burning his lungs. He turns back toward the castle, his mind a tangled mess of longing and guilt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Tyrion’s voice again, mocking him for his weakness, warning him of the consequences. And yet, for the first time in his life, Jaime finds himself wanting something he can never have, and he’s not sure he can stop.

The air inside the old tower is thick and stifling despite the chill that permeates Winterfell. Jaime paces restlessly, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone walls. His white cloak feels heavy, a constant reminder of the weight he carries—not just from his duty but from the turmoil in his heart. The torchlight casts specters across the room, but none darker than those in his thoughts.

Behind him, Cersei leans against the table, her arms crossed, her green eyes fixed on him with a mixture of irritation and suspicion. She looks as regal and dangerous as ever, her beauty as dangerous as a dagger. But tonight, it does nothing to soothe him. If anything, her presence feels suffocating.

“You’ve been different,” she says finally, her voice low and accusing. “Distant. Distracted. You barely look at me, Jaime.”

He stops pacing, turning to face her. “We’re in the North, Cersei. It’s not exactly a place for… indulgences.” His words come out clipped, and even as he says them, he knows she won’t accept them.

Cersei’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you all my life, Jaime. I know when your mind is elsewhere.” She steps closer, her tone softening, though the edge remains. “Is it that Stark girl? The one you keep staring at when you think no one notices?”

Jaime’s heart pounds in his chest, a flush of guilt and anger rising to his face. “Leave her out of this.”

Her laugh is cold and sharp, like the crack of ice. “Oh, how noble of you. Is that what this is, then? You’ve decided to play the gallant knight now? To pine for some Northern wolf pup who’d sooner slit your throat than look at you twice?”

“Enough, Cersei,” Jaime snaps, his voice harsher than he intended. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she interrupts, stepping closer until they’re nearly face to face. Her voice drops to a venomous whisper. “You’re mine, Jaime. You’ve always been mine. And now, in this frozen wasteland, you’re letting your mind wander to some girl who wouldn’t even know what to do with you.”

He exhales sharply, taking a step back. “This isn’t about her. It’s about us. About what we’ve become.” He gestures between them. “Do you even remember who we were before all this? Before the lies, the secrets?”

Cersei’s face twists in fury. “Don’t you dare lecture me about lies. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for us. For our family. And now you’re standing here, acting like you’re above it all.”

Jaime shakes his head, his voice dropping. “I’m tired, Cersei. Tired of living like this. Of hiding. Of lying to myself.”

For a moment, there’s silence between them, broken only by the distant howl of the wind outside. Then Cersei steps forward, her hands reaching for him, her expression softening into something almost pleading.

“We don’t have to lie, Jaime,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against his chest. “Not here. Not now. It’s just us.”

But as her hands move to pull him closer, Jaime steps back, gently but firmly pushing her away. The rejection is immediate and cutting, and he sees the fury ignite in her eyes.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice firm. “Not tonight, Cersei.”

Her face hardens, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You’re a fool if you think you can walk away from this. From me.”

Before Jaime can respond, a faint noise catches his attention—a soft creak from above. His eyes dart to the window, and there he sees it: a boy, perched precariously on the ledge, his wide eyes staring down at them.

“Bran Stark,” Jaime mutters under his breath, realization hitting him like a blow.

Cersei follows his gaze, her expression darkening with panic. “He heard us,” she whispers, her voice frantic. “He’ll tell.”

Jaime feels his heart race, a thousand thoughts colliding in his mind. If the boy overheard their argument, their secret could unravel everything—their lives, their children, their fragile hold on power. He takes a step toward the window, his movements measured.

The boy’s gaze flicks between them, fear etched across his young face. “I didn’t see anything,” Bran stammers, his voice shaking. “I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

Jaime’s chest tightens. He knows the boy is lying. He would run straight to his father, to the honorable Eddard Stark, and the consequences would be disastrous.

“Jaime,” Cersei hisses, her voice sharp and urgent. “You have to do something.”

He looks back at her, then at Bran. His mind feels like it’s splintering in two, but deep down, he knows what must be done. Slowly, he moves closer to the window, his expression unreadable.

“The things I do for love,” he murmurs, the words bitter on his tongue.

Before Bran can react, Jaime reaches out, his hand striking with calculated force. The boy lets out a startled cry as he loses his balance, tumbling backward out the window and into the void below.

For a moment, there’s silence. Jaime stands frozen, his heart pounding as he stares at the empty window. Cersei’s breathing is heavy behind him, her hand clutching the table for support.

“It had to be done,” she says finally, her voice shaky but resolute.

Jaime doesn’t respond. He feels hollow, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a mountain. As he turns away from the window, he catches his reflection in the light—the face of a man who has just crossed another line he swore he never would.

The days after Bran Stark’s fall are cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the whispers of servants and the occasional sob echoing through Winterfell’s halls. Jaime feels the weight of it everywhere he goes. He had known the boy’s fall would ripple through the Stark family like a shockwave, but seeing the grief firsthand is something else entirely.

He avoids the godswood, where Lord Stark retreats daily, his shoulders heavy with unspoken blame. He avoids the Great Hall, where the Starks’ laughter has been replaced with quiet murmurs and somber meals. But he cannot avoid you—not when every time he catches a glimpse of you, his chest tightens with guilt.

You are a ghost of yourself now, a shadow lingering by Bran’s chambers. You rarely leave his side, seated by his bed with your mother, Lady Catelyn, as the boy lies in his endless sleep. The firelight from his room casts flickering shadows across your face, accentuating the hollowness in your eyes, the pallor of your cheeks. Jaime has never seen you like this, and it tears at something inside him.

On the third day, Jaime makes a decision he knows he shouldn’t. He tells himself it’s for appearances, to offer his condolences like any dutiful guest, but deep down, he knows it’s more selfish than that. He hopes, foolishly, that speaking to you—seeing you—might ease the gnawing guilt clawing at his chest.

He climbs the tower steps slowly, each creak of the stone beneath his boots echoing louder in his ears. When he reaches Bran’s chamber, the door is ajar, allowing him a glimpse of the scene within.

Catelyn sits closest to the bed, her face pale and drawn, her hand gripping Bran’s small, lifeless fingers. Beside her, you sit silent and still, your gaze fixed on the boy’s face. Winter and Summer curled at your feet, their fur dull in the dim light. There is something devastating about the stillness of it all, as though the grief in the room has frozen time itself.

Jaime clears his throat softly, stepping into the doorway. “Lady Stark,” he says, his voice measured, “Lady Y/N. I wanted to offer my condolences.”

Catelyn looks up abruptly, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and suspicion. You, however, don’t move. You don’t even glance in his direction, as if his presence isn’t worth acknowledging. It’s as though you know, and the thought sends a jolt of unease through him.

Catelyn rises slowly, her movements deliberate as she steps toward him. She doesn’t bow, doesn’t offer him the courtesy one might expect toward a knight of the Kingsguard. Instead, she crosses her arms, her voice cold as the northern winds.

“Your words are noted, Ser Jaime,” she says, her tone sharp enough to cut. “But they will not wake my son.”

Jaime swallows, keeping his composure. “I understand. I only wished to—”

“To what?” she interrupts, her voice rising slightly. “Ease your conscience? You’ve done nothing for this family but bring conflict and mistrust. My son lays in that bed, and you think your words will bring us comfort?”

Jaime doesn’t flinch, though her words land like blows. He glances past her to you, still seated by the bed, your expression blank as if you haven’t even heard him. His chest tightens further.

“I only wanted to offer my sympathies,” he says quietly. “For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth nothing,” Catelyn says firmly, her eyes blazing. She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You are a Lannister, and I would have you far from my family’s grief. Leave this room, Ser Jaime, and don’t come back.”

Jaime hesitates for a moment, his pride and guilt warring within him. Finally, he nods, stepping back into the hallway. Before the door closes, he allows himself one last glance at you, but you don’t even look up. If anything, your stillness feels more damning than Catelyn’s fury.

He retreats to his chambers, the cold stone walls offering no solace. The memory of your grief and your mother’s anger churns in his mind, mixing with the echo of Bran’s fall. For the first time in his life, Jaime wonders if he truly is the monster people whisper about.

Tyrion finds him later, pouring himself a generous goblet of wine as he takes a seat by the fire. “You look troubled, brother,” Tyrion says, his tone light but his gaze focused. “Let me guess—our hosts aren’t quite as warm as you’d hoped?”

Jaime doesn’t respond immediately, staring into the flames. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I went to see the boy.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “A bold choice. Let me guess—Lady Stark wasn’t particularly welcoming?”

“She threw me out,” Jaime admits, a bitter edge to his voice. “And she’s right to. What business do I have there, playing the role of the concerned guest?”

“None,” Tyrion says bluntly. “But I suspect it wasn’t Lady Stark you wanted to see.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens, his silence telling Tyrion all he needs to know. The shorter man studies him for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter now.

“You’re not yourself, Jaime. Not here. Not around her.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire. He knows Tyrion is right, just as he knows the truth of what he’s done will haunt him for the rest of his days. But the image of you by Bran’s bedside, broken and silent, refuses to leave his mind.

And for the first time in his life, Jaime Lannister feels truly powerless.

The day of departure dawns cold and gray, the kind of day that seems to stretch endlessly over the North. The royal procession is bustling with activity in the courtyard as servants load carriages, horses are saddled, and final preparations are made. Jaime Lannister stands near his mount, but his thoughts are elsewhere.

You are nowhere to be seen.

He tells himself he shouldn’t care. You have no reason to be here, no reason to bid farewell to those who brought tragedy to your family. But he had hoped—foolishly, selfishly—that he might catch a glimpse of you before they left. Even just a glance, a fleeting moment to reassure himself that you hadn’t vanished completely from his world. But the absence is palpable, heavy like the northern winds.

Instead, he watches as the Stark family fragments around him. Lord Eddard, ever the dutiful man, stands by King Robert, his expression as stony as the walls of his home. The young Stark girls, Sansa and Arya, hover nearby, each reflecting their own feelings about the journey ahead—Sansa’s excitement barely contained, Arya’s irritation unmistakable.

Robb Stark lingers at the edge of the courtyard, his eyes cold and watchful, flanked by the hulking presence of Grey Wind. His gaze catches Jaime’s for the briefest moment, and the hostility there is unmistakable. Robb knows nothing, but the tension between them has grown like frost on the castle walls.

Jaime turns away, his attention drawn to Jon Snow, who stands near the castle gates with Ghost at his side. The boy’s expression is unreadable, though there’s a certain heaviness to his movements. Tyrion, standing beside him, chats animatedly, his tone light despite the weight of the day.

Jaime moves toward them, if only to distract himself from the ache in his chest.

“Ah, brother,” Tyrion greets as Jaime approaches, his voice tinged with amusement. “Come to bid me farewell? Or perhaps you’re here to remind me not to fall off the Wall.”

Jaime smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m here to ensure you don’t disgrace the family name. Though I suppose that’s a futile effort.”

Tyrion laughs, clapping Jaime on the arm. “I’ll do my best to uphold our reputation. By which I mean, of course, drinking my weight in wine and pissing off the edge of the world.”

Jon Snow remains quiet, his eyes flicking between the brothers. Finally, he speaks, his tone low and wary. “I thought knights of the Kingsguard stayed close to the King.”

“I thought bastards didn’t speak unless spoken to,” Jaime retorts smoothly, though there’s no real venom in his words. The boy is too much like his father—stubborn, proud, and entirely too serious for his age.

Jon stiffens, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, but Tyrion interjects before the tension can escalate.

“Come now, let’s not start a duel before we even leave Winterfell,” he says lightly, though his gaze sharpens as he looks at Jaime. “We wouldn’t want the wolves feasting on a lion before we’ve even reached the capital.”

Jaime exhales, forcing himself to step back. He glances at Jon, then at Tyrion. “Be careful on the road,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “The North doesn’t take kindly to outsiders.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Neither does the Wall, I’m told. But I appreciate your concern, brother.”

Jaime nods, though his mind is already drifting elsewhere. As the final calls for departure echo through the courtyard, he finds his gaze sweeping the castle walls one last time, hoping against hope to see you there.

He doesn’t find you, but his thoughts linger on you regardless as the procession begins its journey south. The sound of hooves and wheels fades into the distance, leaving Winterfell behind. Jaime rides near the front of the column, his armor catching the occasional glint of sunlight, but his mind is far from the road ahead.

The memory of you at Bran’s bedside is seared into his mind—the grief in your eyes, the silence that cut deeper than any words. He can’t shake the feeling that you knew, somehow, that he was responsible. That you had looked through him, seen the guilt he tried so desperately to bury.

The road stretches endlessly before him, but his thoughts remain in Winterfell, lingering in the cold halls and shadowed chambers where he left a piece of himself behind.

And in the silence, he wonders if he’ll ever truly be free of it.

204 notes · View notes

takes1 · 3 days ago

Note

PLEASE I NEED MATSUKAWA OR KUNUMI OR EVEN MADDOG PLEASE IM BEGGING 🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🙏

thankz ::3 -🩻

clingy!kentarou x reader (taming maddog)

heyyyy :) finally getting to this hope it's aight

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / riding maddog / 69 / obsessive!maddog / clingy!needy!maddog / possessive!maddog / loneliness theme / 'i can fix him' trope / libero!reader / johsai girls' team reader / maddog being canonically mean / implied virginity / experienced!reader / emotionally intelligent reader / emotionally stunted maddog / 3.6k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3

"(Y/n), like, I know you've got a type and all..."

"Mhmm," You follow absentmindedly, tracking your latest obsession like a hawk.

Number 16 was different- not just attractive, but he had a threatening, intense, sharp presence about him. He was just about the only member of the guys' team who didn't subscribe to a cheerful, cooperative environment. His little outburst earlier caught your attention, and he was currently benched for pushing Oikawa.

He sure was aggressive. You bit your lip and watched him stretch from the bleachers.

"But I heard he's actually crazy."

The other girls on your team would never understand what possessed you to put yourself in danger, going after the most deviant of guys you could find. It was an endearing joke amongst the team, at this point, but they did worry for your safety.

"What's his name?" You looked to them for the first time, mind already made up.

Whispers of Kentarou, Kyoutani, Maddog, were shared as you settled back to watching him. Lots of horror stories of him getting in trouble, getting into fights, yelling at teachers, other students, getting suspended for a time all encouraged you. The nickname he earned made you significantly more fascinated.

You could fix him. It would at least be fun to try.

You couldn't help but ponder where his true fault lied, how it twisted into so much unwarranted aggression.

Was he not held as a baby? Did he have a bad home life? Had it manifested into some kind of sexual dysfunction? You wondered if he was this big of a presence in the bedroom. You smiled at the strong possibility that he wasn't.

Maybe that was a bit Freudian of you to assume, but your previous diagnoses hadn't steered you wrong yet. The guys you slept with were all weirdos- losers- psychos- and yet, they were all a step closer to normal after a little love.

They couldn't stop you from approaching, especially when nobody had the guts to go anywhere near him.

"Hi," You tapped his shoulder after a bout of hesitation.

He looked to the side, then behind, and realized you were referring to him.

His brow fell from its subtle version of surprise, making all his features look heavier, meaner-- you shuddered.

"Yo." Was all he said.

Though dismissive and already uncomfortable, it was enough to work with.

You smoothed out your uniform with a nervous sigh, "Um- I'm sorry if this is forward, but,"

"I think you're really cute. I'd like to go on a date, sometime."

Kentarou looked angry even when he was shocked. The dark around his eyes made it impossible to look soft, and it seemed he didn't have the capacity to smile yet.

The only way you could deduce that he was embarrassed was the way his hands balled into fists at his sides, how he looked around your face over, over, and over again for an ounce of insincerity.

It was adorable. You giggled at his long silence.

Laughing shut him down. His mouth curled in a sneer, positive you were laughing at him.

The gaggle of girls, filling the entrance to the gym, all clad in your uniform, wasn't great for optics. It looked like you were playing a prank on him.

"Are you kiddin' me?" He rolled his eyes before you could even try to explain, "Go fuck yourself."

It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Though you loved your team, visible swarms of women never put the guys you went after at ease.

That rejection was still tame for what you had seen before from him.

He put his back to you and crossed his arms, watching the game, instead. Getting benched and made fun of couldn't have been a great feeling.

Determined now, you shook out your nerves and tapped his shoulder again.

"Tch-! I said fuck off!" He scowled down at you, but you knew it was misguided. So it didn't hurt as bad.

You purposefully didn't mirror his body language- you didn't want him to cut him off even more. You stood facing him at an angle, trying to catch his eye and take his attention again.

Voice quiet, sweeter, genuine, "I'm serious."

Even if this was a joke, you were the most persistent he had ever seen. Nobody usually got this far. If he told somebody to leave, they did. Especially after the second time, and a girl, at that.

"I mean- I get it if you're not into short girls, that's totally fine," You fixed your hair, glancing away from his overwhelmed, slow expression, "But, please, just... think about it. Here's my number."

For a moment, you were unsure if he would take the paper in your hand. He gave you zero indication that he believed your story, but after just enough time to make you doubt, he took it.

Kentarou held it tight, confused, as you joined your team to leave the gym. He watched them look over and preen you like birds to make sure you weren't hurt.

It could've been a real confession. The gravity of it didn't truly land until he was back home, looking up the girls' team Instagram to find your personal handle. You were following the page and even had a few features in their posts.

Doubts began to grow that it was your real number. He decided he didn't want to use it.

Instead, he lay on his bed, palming himself to the poses of your greatest receives- you were such a pretty girl, with a nice body, cute face--reminded of those things now, it only made him more skeptical at your choice to speak to him.

Luck was on his side once again, because your own profile was public. You even had a few beach posts. Lots of likes, lots of followers. You wouldn't notice if he liked a few of them, unless you were being honest about your interest.

You were all over his signals in a flash.

A follow, a bit of page-stalking that got you nowhere (because he had 0 online presence, other than a couple blank accounts), and a long string of messages that went deep into the night, all earned you a date.

Now that the game had officially begun, you needed to curate each move carefully. If you waited too long to take advantage of any clear signs of interest, he wouldn't find you worth the trouble. You needed some dick.

Kentarou was lonely, too.

It was as you suspected, monitoring him during that practice match. People who had a good support system didn't act that way he did.

He wasn't wistful, or desperate, and didn't invite friendship. Shit, he barely let you court him, and the only way you could convince him to meet you for coffee was if you sent a few pictures 'to prove it was just you.' And yet, after the one misunderstanding, he didn't deny you any opportunity to get close.

His experiences shaped him to be incredibly firm, mistrusting, and overly cautious, yes; It all fell short though, when it came to the very simple, universal longing for companionship.

The cafe wasn't too quiet, thankfully.

You were most worried about the possibility of him causing some sort of commotion and being asked to leave, but other patrons were lively enough to drown him out, if he did raise his voice.

To your surprise, that also wasn't much of an issue.

He ordered for the two of you, even -begrudgingly- accepting that you wanted a more intricate drink, too. He didn't let you do much for yourself. When he told you to go find a seat while he waited at the counter, you stayed with him so you could be close. He still didn't argue.

Though he wasn't polite, he wasn't a monster. He was just brimming with attitude, and that rubbed people the wrong way. When unprovoked, he was mean-looking, sure, but docile.

A predatory gaze watched the skirt of your casual dress flutter up- just a little, not quite enough- as you sat down next to him with your elaborate drink in hand. He set his cup down and you felt his leg flex as you closed the distance to snuggle up to him.

"You're taking this joke pretty far."

Insecurity filled the quiet between his words, and it took a sensitive ear to detect under all the venom. Was he testing you? Probably. Was he still trying to protect himself? Absolutely.

"Mm," You considered how to respond while sipping on your coffee, staring forward, not really minding his intensity, "I don't have the kind of time to go on fake dates, you know."

It was an argument less emotional in nature, but due to its legitimacy, it left him stumped enough to drop the subject.

In its wake remained discomfort. Mostly at your thigh, busy rubbing against him as you pretended to be more invested in the ambience of the cafe, or the flavor of the drink in your hands.

"What're you doing it for?" He pressed, different, but still carried with a grumbly, shitty attitude he always spoke in.

That took some getting used to, but once you understood he just talked that way, you were able to take his words at face value and waste less time miscommunicating.

A warm hand, palming the squish of your bare thigh encouraged your desire to be honest.

You waited for him to stop scanning the cafe, for the right moment to tell him.

His eyes dipped first to your pretty thighs, all soft and warm and new in his hand. Then he was taken by the all the sweetness in the way you looked at him.

"I wanna sleep with you."

You expected him to not believe you, like the first time, but his surprise was now pretty conventional.

His mouth hung open, just a little, and you noticed a tongue piercing. How did you miss it before? Did he not wear it at school? Your thighs tightened and he met it with a firm squeeze as he took a sobering drink of his coffee.

It was obvious he wanted to know why. But he was looking for something better to say, instead.

"The fuck are we doing here?"

That was a good question. Such a good question, in fact, that after a bit of conversation about where to go to fuck, you landed on going back to your place.

He made himself comfortable on your bed as you shut the door and locked it, just in case. Your room didn't have a whole lot of conversation starters, so he took a while to really examine it.

He wasn't witty, or spontaneous, or chatty.

There was no value in sitting around, acting like you wanted to delve into a discussion about each other's families, or grades, or volleyball.

His brow softened as you dropped the straps of your dress down.

There was a small attempt to look you in the eye, which you appreciated in a very limited context, but once you kept going, he might as well have been wearing a collar.

A half-sigh, half-laugh pushed out of his open mouth, brow furrowed again, as he tried to speak a few times while you posed for him, drunk on such a cute, endearing reaction.

There were a lot of things for him to think about. You could almost smell the smoke of grinding gears when you stood in front him and rubbed your hands against his shoulders.

He kept getting his fill, eyes unable to stay in one place too long, practically trying to back up so he could keep looking at all of you.

You giggled, "Kentarou?"

His breath stopped. You couldn't feel it, tingling across your skin, anymore.

You took some fingers to his curly hair, playing with it, "Aren't you gonna touch me?"

"I-," He didn't know what to do with himself for a moment, "Where?"

Your charmed, bitten back smile made his ears bright, bright red. Instead of telling him, you settled onto his lap and felt for his hands, gently guiding them towards your hips.

It was slow, natural, and gentle how you decided to kiss him.

You could feel how heated he was, with one hand on the back of his neck, the other cooling off the side of his face. One second to part for some breath, which he needed, badly- you waited for him to say something.

But he was forcing his mouth back onto yours quicker than you thought he would- his fingers dug into your flesh, and he brought you down onto his hard-on with a sudden loss of reservation.

It didn't take long to start catching that little tongue piercing against your lip- you groaned against his mouth, "Fuck, I really like that."

He was a fast, eager, and very rough learner. Kentarou was also laughably easy to please, because it was obvious he had no preferences built up yet. Everything you did left him stunned and hungry.

You reveled in your private victory and helped him undress. He wasn't shy about his own body, but you made it clear that he had a nice figure by taking the time to kiss along his muscular arm, then shoulder, and up to his neck.

His quickness to mirror you, kissing the same places on your body, was cute. He never once smiled, but he showed his investment in other ways.

When you offered to 69, he immediately fell onto his back from his upright position, rubbing his warm face.

A weak, "Yes," from under his palms was all you got, but it was so sweet from a guy like him. He sounded broken in, in a way.

You pressed a deserving kiss to his jaw and turned around.

His cock looked just as angry as he was, normally. Twitchy, leaking a bit of precum on his toned tummy, tinged dark with the all the time it had been waiting.

"You're- so fuckin' wet," He sounded stunned to say that aloud, understand what it actually meant, and that he was obsessed with it.

You smiled and pressed a kiss to the base of his cock as you settled into a good position.

How long had it been since you got laid? Apparently too long, because you were dripping with anticipation at the salty taste of his tip sliding past your teeth.

That was the downside of having such a specific type. Not many options.

He was still figuring out how to use his own mouth when you took the breath out of him- a strangled gasp at the sound, the sensation of your lips and tongue sucking off the slickness there. You held him by the base, briefly.

"You should let me know if you like it," You teased, just before bobbing your head back down.

"Mm-mmnh-! Fuck! Do I-ahh, have to?"

With that whiny tone?

You slowly came back up, careful to leave no spit behind. He was flexing in your jaw, his stomach twitching against your chest. Poor thing wouldn't last very long, he was so sensitive.

"Uhh, yes," You grinned, tongue darting out to lick him all the way down his shaft.

"Fuuuck- whatever- augh, just keep doin' that," His groan broke into a murmur of sorts, against your pussy.

From there, he was starting to find what worked with you. It was curious, and not great, but you didn't need it to be; something about the clingy way he held you, the shift in his attitude, was making you feel like you could take him already.

It made your nails dig, deep into his thighs, your already sparse breath grow a bit shorter.

Though his desperate tone and slow, gentle tongue made some parts of you tighten, it helped your throat relax and take more of him.

He started to come apart long before you wanted to be done.

Breathy, incomplete "Stopstop-sta-aah," every twenty seconds flattered you, letting you take more frequent breaks to ride his face and break in that little metal ball.

You thought about his nickname during one of these breaks. It was one of those instances where it seemed fitting, but for more than just surface-level aggression.

Nothing about him scared you. Not after you showed him that you had no ill-intention. He was like a dog. He wasn't vicious because it was in his nature; he just had a thorn in his paw.

He 'bit' people because they didn't give him a chance.

All of these chances you were giving him proved that he was worth all the effort to get close. It wasn't even much work, in hindsight.

You showed him the mechanics of the condom you brought for the occasion, and managed to talk him through some important sex-centered courtesies.

"So, y'know, you'll want to yield to whatever she's ready for--,"

Kentarou kept you from sitting on his cock, for just a second-- his eyes grew narrow, darting around your face.

"You mean: 'you.'" He corrected.

He looked like he was about to bite through your face.

"Right!" You smiled, growing a bit warm at your inconsiderate slip in language, "Yeah, of course."

Your apologetic kisses, smattered all along his sensitive face and neck, calmed him. His grip softened, slowly, as he became convinced that this was sacred again.

As you started to take him, he forgot all about it.

"Aughh- my go-d," He couldn't stop watching where you came together with a knotted brow, at how slick, and tight, and hot you were.

Your confidence read in the form of slow, rolling motions of your hips, the cloudy look in your eyes as you were finally getting filled up again after such a dry spell of no dick. You put your hands over his, already on your hips, and encouraged him to squeeze harder.

"Mmn-ah-h," You placed your hands on his chest, to keep yourself upright.

It hurt, how much he reciprocated that squeeze, but you quickly learned to like the sting.

Like most everything else, he replicated what you showed him. He started fucking you back, his hips able to take you faster, harder--

The pretty little pout on your lips was enough to make him screw his eyes shut, just to try to settle down.

He was getting so worked up at your tight little cunt that he was forced to let you keep your slower pace, contribute a little less, for fear he'd finish too soon.

His breath was like a stutter- so shallow and huffy that you rubbed your hand across his cheek, to check if he was okay. As you did this, the look in his eyes burned into the back of your skull.

You had seen that somewhere before. Not in someone you knew personally.

"Mm-mnh-!"

You were careful not to look away from it, and you only closed your eyes when it was too intense, too good to see straight.

The way he gripped you was like a lifeline, clawing, leaving rough and raised lines across you-- It wasn't intended to hurt, but more or less to make sure he left you with some lasting impression. He didn't understand that he didn't need to do it.

He couldn't take the concern on your face. Not as you fucked him so close, not with that perfect body taking his cock so well. Nobody ever looked at him with so much warmth.

"Ah! Just- just like that," You gasped, shaky all of a sudden.

"Fuck-," He sighed, suddenly having to remember what exactly he was doing.

He grimaced, face twisted in the pain of trying not to cum, head thrown back so he didn't have to look at you.

But your hand left his chest to grasp him by the jaw- it wasn't hard, but it was enough to move him. You begged him to look at you. You wanted him to watch you, and it looked like he was just short of a confessing something sinful.

Worship.

That's what you saw. In those narrowed eyes were praise, an exaltation of the love you had spared for him.

It filled you with a dizzying, raw confidence- you took in a breath through your nose, getting railed so hard, so close that your eyes started watering.

"Fuck- I'm-Ah--!" You couldn't quite finish your sentence before you crashed over, your body seized up, firm, grabbing and gripping him like you needed, wanted him so bad.

It left him a groveling, panting mess underneath you. He was watching in awe just like you told him to, only allowed to cum after you were done.

He fucked it all out of you, thanks to the timing. Your slow wave-riding kept you pleasant and buzzed as he fucked you hard for his own orgasm.

You even egged him on, breathless, a little smirk only interrupted by a pleasurable wince a couple of times.

"You wanna cum for me?"

"Yeah? Yeah?"

After finishing so loud and performative, nothing could have prepared you for how cuddly and silent he got.

You shouldn't have given into the desire to hug him, because he wouldn't let you move to pull him out.

"Mm-mm," Was pressed in a sloppy kiss against your neck.

Those muscular arms were shaking a little, just barely, around your waist.

"I'm- not going anywhere," You laughed, returning a few light kisses against his temple, "But we need to clean up."

He made it difficult, almost impossible, to separate and throw the condom away. You opted to just tie in a knot and throw it closer to the trash can so you didn't have to get up.

The way he watched you was careful, intense, looking for any opening to get closer to you again.

You finally sighed, smiling, "Okay."

Kentarou pulled you back down to lay next to him at the soonest opportunity. He kept an arm heavy over your chest, his leg kicked between yours, his eyes never leaving the side of your face.

His intensity was what you signed up for, but now, warm under his persistent and acute attention, you realized: maybe you hadn't thought this through the whole way.

��VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

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kyunniebuns · 20 hours ago

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˗ˏˋ Entry : 055 - Big Brother! Sylus x Little Sister! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕪𝕝𝕦𝕤 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

‼️[ tw: contains some spoilers for his myth except i dont fully understand but all ik is waw dragon man ayeeee. Child abuse mentioned as well as human trafficking. Murder and body horror. pure fluff ending btw....]‼️

╰┈➤ ❝ [ Hush Little Bird, Brother is Here to Keep You Safe ] ¡! ❞

Sylus had finally awaken from a long and tiring slumber that felt like he would be asleep for an eternity. But somehow he had awaken... In a body of a child.

His tall and proud body reduced to a bunch of stick and bones. He's wearing an oversized white shirt. He takes a deep sigh and decides to look at his reflection on a puddle.

Surely enough, he still has the bloody crimson eyes and the same silver hair except his masculine body is that of an 12-year old's.

Great.

Just great.

He died a miserable death in the arms of his beloved and yet here he is in the body of a child.

How the hell is he supposed to survive in this case?

"...."

Sylus takes a deep sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He needs to figure out what the hell to do before setting off to look for his dearest.

He'll figure it out.

He has to.

꒰ .... ꒱

Sylus managed to figure out how the world works through some snooping and watching other mortals go about their days. He figures out that the 'city' he resides in is known as the n109 zone. It's an underground city similar to the slums of his time full of crime and well... Danger.

Not that he's afraid of course.

Sylus had already managed to make a living through street fights and occasionally stealing from oblivious passerbys.

What else can he do for now anyway?

It's demeaning in his honor as a proud dragon who once guarded a cave of luxuries but he needs to live.

This city he's in leaves everyone struggling in it's murky alleys.

It was either he succumbs to it's mercy or he overcomes everything as the topdog.

Survival is his priority if he wants to find that person again. He needs to make a name for himself and secure money in order to live in this brutal world where anything and everything is after his throat.

Cough... Cough....

He hears small sounds coming from behind a slanted signboard abandoned on the side of the alleyway. It sounded like it comes from a little girl.

Against his logic to leave it alone incase it might be a catfish pretending to be a helpless child— Sylus cautiously approaches the sign board and peers underneath it.

And there, he finds a little girl all ruffled up with her hair sticking everywhere, dressed in a makeshift adult shirt covered in grime and dirt.

Sensing his snooping, she lifts her tiny little face and looks up at him with her wide and tired beady eyes.

"...." Sylus stares back at her for a while before reaching behind him and handing her a pack of crackers.

After that, he just gets up and leaves her be.

What good is there to bring deadweight on you? She's a child, she'll be a hindrance to him. Giving her some food should sustain her enough to survive a few more days.

꒰ .... ꒱

Maybe he shouldn't have helped the little girl back then.

It's been three days since she started following him around whenever he's out to pickpocket or get into street fights to make some money.

She's a stubborn one.

But a clever little girl too.

She knows how to utilize her small body well to hide herself from the adults and everyone else. She never once got him into a tricky situation.

Oddly enough, Sylus had a feeling she knew more of the city than he did since she always manages to pop up anywhere he is and disappear just as fast whenever she senses danger.

At least he doesn't have to worry about her getting mixed up into the mess he gets himself into.

... Why is he worried about her anyway?

Ugh.

Anyway.

Sylus just finished one of his matches and secured a hefty sum as well as some food to sustain himself with.

Humans in this age are really fragile bastards. How come they're shitty at even the most basic fight? Their fighting forms are all over the place and it's pure bullshit they call themselves proud fighters!

They mind as well frolic in the arena waving their stupid delusions of being top fighters.

It irritates him to no end that they are no match eve a twelve-year-old's body but atleast he has it easier in building himself a name in this shitty place.

"You're here again, sweetie" Sylus said coolly as he lifted a cardboard box where the little girl was hiding herself in while watching him fight. "Aren't you scared someone might sit down on this wobbly box and crush your cute little body?"

"..." She starts giggling as she shows him a toothy smile with a missing front tooth.

'Does she think I'm playing with her?' Sylus thought as he watched her jump in her steps when she stood up and took his hand with her smaller ones.

The little girl started dragging him by his hand and leading him somewhere.

"You..." Sylus sighs and lets himself be dragged by her.

He followed her through winding alleyways and even went so far as entering a pipe just hanging in the backside of the tall buiding of n109 zone. When they came out of the dripping and dark pipe, they arrives at a makeshift base made in a withered and empty building.

It's lightsource is nothing more than a flickering light bulb and the contents of the little fort held up by sticks is a small blanket serving as a bed and a ruined bunny plush that is covered in dirt and dust.

"!!!!" She rummages on a box she had stashed under the blankets and pulls out a piece of bread then offers it to Sylus with twinkling eyes. "Brother... Eat!!!"

He was quite for a little while, scrunching his nose at her little action.

Regardless, he takes it and takes a small bite out of it before shoving the bread to her little mouth.

"Much appreciated, sweetheart" He said, glancing at her with less hostile crimson orbs. "But I'd rather you eat this."

Sylus made sure she finished the food before laying down on the makeshift bed, crossing his arms behind his bed.

He didn't have shelter yet, and since the little girl was so kind and naive enough to lead him to her hideout— What else should he do but rest? He has a lot to do tomorrow and he cant go around sleeping on the streets like he usually did.

So mind as well, right?

꒰ .... ꒱

In contrary to his previous thoughts, he ended up taking care of the little girl who always followed him around quietly or running behind him calling him "Brother, brother!" with that awfully cute voice of hers.

She's just like a stray kitten that he can't shake off no matter what he did.

Does he push her away? A few days back he would have, but now?

Yeah. No.

Absolutely Not.

It's another day of pickpocketing and petty street fights.

Sylus knew his shenanigans are going to catch up to him, but does it have to be so soon?

"Ack!" Sylus groans as he was hit with a pipe straight to his stomach.

He curls himself on the floor, panting heavily as he tries to school himself.

'These... Bastards!' He curses at them repeatedly in his head.

The fuckers followed him all the way to the back alley and ganged up on him in revenge for humiliating them in the previous fights.

"Fucking little shit" One of the men scowls, inhaling his smoke then stomping it out on the floor after blowing it out while his face is black and blue from being hit by Sylus earlier. "That son of a bitch put up a fight despite already being tired. What the fuck is he anyway? A fucking monster?"

"Shit, that must be it" Another sneers, kicking Sylus's stomach when he was already down. "What should we do with the bitch anyway?"

"Break his fucking legs, maybe even cut off his arms"

They laugh wickedly at that, making Sylus feel more pissed off at them.

"B-brother!" He hears a familiar voice crying out for him.

"What the hell?!" Another one of the group grabs the girl by yanking her back by her hair. "Why is there another rat here?"

"She's young?" The main perpetrator moves forward, ignoring Sylus's hand that grabbed his ankle to try and stop him.

"Don't touch her!" Sylus yells desperately, coughing out blood when his head was slammed down on the pavement.

"Must be his sister?" The one holding his head down laughs.

"Nah, I see no resemblance, this bitch looks like trash" The head man yanks the little girl's face. "She's around 5 or six? Maybe even younger? Either way, she'd fetch a good price at the black market"

"!!!!" She wriggles out of his hand and bites it, causing the fucker to pulls his hand out and hiss at the sharp pain.

"Fucking dipshit! She's just like that brother of hers!"

Sylus's eyes widened when he saw the same hand raise itself— About to hit her.

'Wake up.'

'WAKE UP'

'I'M TELLING YOU TO FUCKING WAKE UP!'

Boom.

An explosion suddenly resounded in the otherwise decrepit alleyway.

The hand that was holding Sylus down exploded, blood splatter painting the walls and falling onto his dirty silver hair.

He stands up, breathing heavily as crimson black wisps covered himfrom head to toe. Blood dribbles from his mouth to his chin, creating a wicked image with his bloodshot eyes.

The men attempt to scatter and call for help, but they only ended up having heads either severed or their limbs exploding.

He raises a hand towards the fucker that tried to hurt his dearest little sister.

"You..." He snarls, his red eyes overflowing with absolute malice. "I don't give a fuck even if you kidnap me to beat the living shit out of me, but involving my little sister who has nothing to do with anything crosses the line."

And with that, the man's head with suddenly explode into nothingness and his body would flop on the floor with a thump.

Blood puddles beneath him as the dead men spill out what they had in them from the injuries he gave them.

Sylus was in great pain.

Regardless, he stumbles towards the little girl he calls his family and tugs her to his chest.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Oh I'm so sorry" Sylus breathes heavily, stroking her head lovingly and placing kisses on her hair. "Brother is sorry, I should've awakened earlier. I'm so sorry."

"Brother... Wahhh!!..." Her loud sobs pierces at his heart, opting Sylus to hold her even tighther.

"Sshh..." He hushes her lovingly. "Brother is here, baby bird. It's alright"

He can't continue on like this.

He needs to be stronger and better.

Not just for the sake of the beloved he is looking for, but for this little girl who clings onto him so weakly.

This sweet little thing who still calls him her family despite the monster that he is.

He isn't really human even, but this girl loves him as a little sibling would for an older brother.

What can he do but to pamper her and shield her away from everything?

And so, he holds her against him, soothing the sweet little thing he calls his beloved sister.

꒰ .... ꒱

Through the years, Sylus rose in the ranks and soon enough was crowned as the Onychinus leader. He became the rightful leader that he should be with all the wealth and power he can flaunt as much as he pleased.

He raised his little sister along with the struggles he went through.

She didn't have to be involved in the bloody things he does, so it's alright that she herself is just hiding away in his home safe from the dangers of the n109 zone.

He is comforted as long as he knows she is safe and sound.

Sylus made sure no one touches her or even aware of her existence as his family.

So, he managed to live a peaceful life with his little sister who often banters with him for fun.

If there's anyone who can be outright shameless and call him insulting names— It's his baby sister who can do it without fearing for her head to be flying.

"Bastard Santa"

"Old man onychinus"

"Walmart edgelord santa claus"

"If only everyone knew that the leader they all fear is shit at singing"

... Yep, totally shameless.

But does he do anything? Nope.

He just teases her back and pinch her cheek as a form of revenge for each insult she throws out to him.

Right now, he was accompanying his little sister in linkon city for their weekly outings. She was quite sickly and fresh air is a need for someone like her with a weak body.

And what better way to do that than to take her out to Linkon since the air here is much more cleaner?

The colors in the city are also brighter, lifting anyone's mood despite the fact he absolutely detests the sunlight.

"So I managed to pull a new five star in the game yester...day." Her voice drifts off as she passes by a tall man.

She turns her little head to the stranger, glancing back at the tall back wearing a black coat over his broad shoulders. His hair is neat and the ebony black locks made him captivating, underneath those black locks are a pair sharp and charming hazel-green eyes behind rectangular glasses that gave him an air of sophistication and maturity.

His features are sharp and extremely handsome, not as intense as her brother's but still giving off this ethereal air to him. He's beautiful with the small bump on his nose, but not as prominent as Sylus's nose bump.

The stranger's gaze is cold but alluring, almost captivating even.

So captivating that she doesn't realize the fact that she is holding her breath.

Sensing her gaze, the man politely nods at her— Causing her to be a bit flustered and nod back before turning back to Sylus.

"Something catch your eye, sweetheart?" Sylus cocks an eyebrow up as his sister suddenly clung onto his arm.

"No, no!" She shakes her head, bashfully hiding her expression with her hair.

"... Is it a handsome man?" He teases, nudging her gently causing a pout on her lips to form. "What? You always tease your brother when it comes to his girlfriend, why can't I have a bit of fun when my baby sister finds someone attractive?"

"...I'm telling Rei-unnie about this!" She spites at Sylus who always chuckles, amused at her little tantrum and then ruffles her hair up with his free hand up.

"Don't grow up too fast, baby sister. Brother isn't willing to walk you down the aisle and hand you off to someone else" Sylus said affectionately, earning him a soft punch from her.

"Oh don't be so dramatic! If you're so upset about the idea then go and propose to Rei-unnie!"

"Help me pick up a ring then?"

"Buy me plushies after~"

꒰ 🪼 A/N: //Gasp!!!. Kyunnie posted twice for a day???!!! Omgg!!!!! Hahah jk x3!!! I was hit with inspiration because I've been daydreaming about being Sylus's baby sister for quite a while now!!!~~~ I'm always rambling to my mootie about this idea because I like the idea of being Sysy's baby sis who roasts him everyday heheh!!! I even sneaked in Zaynie//giggles. My hubbyyy~~~~ Should I make a fic where the other three lads men date sysy's lil sis 🤔🤔🤔. Maybe? Heheh٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡. Soon, one day>:3!!! ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

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doctorwhoandfairytaillover · 2 days ago

Text

Worship

Summary: Geta confronts his spouse after a situation and the tables are turned in the way that he wasn't expecting.

A/N: Yes the summary sucks and I'm not sure if I like how this turned out, but please let me know if this was decent. I don't tend to write shorts or scenes that lead to more that often. I tried to make this gender neutral, hopefully I did okay 😅.

“Worship me!”

Emperor Geta approached his spouse with a beast like hunger, his hand moved to grab their chin roughly. His dark brown eyes darkened as he forced their head to face him, searching their face for any sign of reluctance. Their eyes narrowed in indignation at the tone that their husband chose to speak to them, perhaps Geta was upset or a council meeting had not gone his way, but they refused to let him take out his frustration out on them and not think to speak about it.

With a lack of response from his spouse, Geta repeated himself, “Are you deaf? You know I don’t like to repeat myself, I said worship me.”

"I heard you" they said. "But I don't care much for your tone and refuse to let you treat me this way.”

Geta’s sharp gaze narrowed further still at their words, his temper flaring up in a matter of seconds. His fingers clamped down harder, the pads of his fingers tightening.

“Did I give you the impression I was asking for your consideration, beloved? No. I don’t care how the hell you like me to speak, you’re going to listen to what I say and do it without question.”

They scowled and ripped away from him, "Keep speaking to me this way and acting as you are and I won't hesitate to cut off your cock.”

A snarl formed on the man’s face at their threat, it was uncommon for his spouse to be so blatant in their refusal. They were usually so docile in his presence and his requests.

He clearly wasn’t happy.

“Is that a threat I hear?” He growled out, his fingers balling into a tight fist at his side. “You would dare make threats against your husband’s manhood?”

"It seems like you are lacking it without my help,” they scoff. "You can't speak to me curtly with no explanation and expect me to treat you with respect you aren't giving me.”

That snapped the man’s self control and the look in his eyes turned feral in an instant, his hand shooting out to wrap around their throat as he took the last few steps towards them. He pinned them against the nearest wall, his body pressing forward to trap them between him and the cold surface.

“You insolent little -.” He hissed, his grip on their neck constricting. “How many times do I have to warn you not to speak that way to me? I am your husband.”

They smirk and pressed closer, "Go ahead, do your worst, husband.”

A dangerous look flashed through the man’s eyes as he leaned in closer, his body practically flush against them. The anger, the lust, the need. It was all swirling around inside him, his self control slipping away with each passing second. He’d always thought their spouse was cute when they fought back.

“You’re just begging for it, aren’t you? I should teach you a lesson, beloved.”

Their hand reached out and tugged at the belt of his robe, "Do you think I deserve to be punished?"

A shiver ran up his spine as he felt them tugging on the belt of his robe. His self control was a mere thread at this point, the sound of his heavy breath filling the air between them.

“You’re damn right,” he responded gruffly, his hands moving to loosen the tie of his robe just enough for the sash to fall open. The fabric of his robe hung open, exposing a strip of the bare skin of his chest. “On your knees, now.”

They hum in thought, "I don't think so, husband.” They stepped away from Geta and moved to sit comfortably on the edge of their shared bed. "I think it's you that needs to do some groveling.”

His expression darkened the moment they stepped away, his eyes narrowing once again. He’d been so close to them, so damn close to having them under him where he wanted. But they just had to be difficult.

“Me on my knees?” He repeated incredulously, taking a couple of steps in their direction. “You expect me, a god, the Great Emperor himself, to grovel? You must be delusional.”

They crook a finger and teasingly requests him closer, "But aren't I your spouse and therefore a god in need of worshipping?"

He paused and growled in frustration as they beckoned him closer with that teasing crook of their finger.

But they were right.

They were the spouse of the Emperor, another god in the flesh. He let out a sigh before slowly approaching them, his hands moving to rest on their thighs as he stood in front of them.

“Damn you. You know I can never resist when you say things like that.”

They wrap their arms around his neck and give him a sultry smile, "But you love me for it, don't you?"

A shiver ran down his spine again as their arms wrapped around his neck, their smile was just as powerful as their words against him. A slow smirk formed on his face as his hands skimmed up the length of their thighs, his thumbs rubbing against the fabric of their own robe.

“Yes,” he purred out, his gaze flickering between their face and the cleavage of the robe. “I love you, but you know just how to drive me insane.”

"Well?" they say. "How do you intend on worshipping your god? Or will I have to find myself another.”

A dark look flashed through his eyes at the mention of his spouse finding another to worship them in the way only he should. Geta would sooner cut his way through an army of men before he let that happen. They were his, no one else’s. His hands gripped their thighs tighter, fingers digging into the plump flesh as he lowered himself to his knees before them.

“You’re not going to find another,” he growled out, his hands moving underneath the fabric of their robe as he looked up at them. “I’m the only one worthy enough to worship a god like you.”

They cup his face and smirk, "Then worship.”

#x reader #x reader insert #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta x you #gladiator ii fanfiction #gladiator ii x reader #kinda spicy

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mooishbeam · 12 hours ago

Text

Early mornings ran most peaceful for you. The distant chirp of rising birds, the lone Starskiff’s bumbling motor as it soars across the sky, a comforting breeze wafting through your hair. The pinkish rosy sky sent the midnight clouds to sleep, pouring the Xianzhou’s roofs in shimmering dawn light.

It was one of the perks of being General Jing Yuan’s unofficial assistant. You committed to the activities you enjoyed all while working in the General’s own residence. His home hung above the rest, suspended in the throes of the galaxy, marking its existence in time and space.

It’s so much more than you could ask for, and way more than you thought you’d ever receive. Truthfully, you believed your “house-sitting” business to be reaching a standstill. You hardly imagined it’d be the General requesting your expertise with a confident candor and dopey grin.

The Dozing General conducted himself with pride and dignity, sacrificing his own life over the will of his cloud knights. You saw within him power only kings bore, possessing the ability to command a crowd.

You saw more than just that, though. Dark bags, the few moments where his eyes flitted for half of a second, the armor weighing heavy on his back, silent mornings taught with tension and dread. The overworked, exhausting nature of never-ending paperwork and battle scars would naturally leave little room for housekeeping. Therefore, you did your best to make the bitter evenings pleasant.

Your favorites were the lazy days, where you got to spend extra time with Mimi. Or wave-treading snow lion, as he liked to call her. The General isn’t good with names.

The second mimi sees you, she’d roll on her stomach with the cutest doe-eyes you’ve ever seen from lion. Enticing you, you can't resist petting her. It’s like she knows the impact her cuteness has on you. Loafing in the courtyard, ripe with overgrown vines that wrap around the pillars and crimson pagoda roofs. You lazed the mornings away, digging in her fur as she purred and purred. The vibrations traveled through your hands often. Ivory fur filling the space between your fingers, puffing fits of lion hair on your cleaning clothes. A brighter white than the General’s hair, though rougher. You hoped his was softer.

The General showed his face on occasion, when the sun’s radiance demanded attention. Never beyond mannerly greetings. Never beyond simple small-talk wrapped in a dainty bow of professionalism. Sometimes he’d appear with tea in hand, discussing the lengthy schedule in store. Other times, you existed in the quiet together. You wanted to ask about his preferred tea, how he met Mimi, why he didn’t sleep in on days off.

Why he didn’t ask for help.

Yet, you couldn’t manage to break the carefully built barriers separating you from the nonchalant facade. It was usually the ladder.

Today was one of those days, using Mimi as a lower back rest as you corded your hands through her fur. She knows her strength, big, fluffy paws pressing gingerly on your knee as she attempts to make biscuits, careful to retract her claws. Her purring travels like an engine, and you use the other hand to provide the chin scratches she deserves. She curls around you, lovingly flicking her tufted tail on your thigh, and you laugh at her ability to behave like a kitten in the body of a 300-pound animal.

The opposite door slides open, releasing a draft along the bonsai.

Jing Yuan leans against the side wall. It’s apparent he’s exhausted, or he wouldn’t have approached you in this harrowing state. The long embroidered robe he wears to bed is in disarray, one side slumped from his shoulder to expose the hearty physique befitting of a General of his caliber. Satin pants hang dangerously low on his hips, one leg caught on the heel of his foot.

He doesn’t seem to realize, however, as his hair nearly obscures his eyes, serving as a makeshift sleeping mask for the dreams he rarely has. Snow white curls spill down his back, hints of a red satin tie holding on between the strands.

You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t seem to realize you’re there in the first place. He’s already nodding off, wind passing through his bangs to expose his lidded eyes.

“Good morning, General.” His head snaps up, and he tries to be discreet about peering through his hair to no avail.

Jing Yuan tangles his fingers to pull the hair back from his face. Blearily blinking the sleep from his eyes, he adjusts to the morning glow.

“Mhm, a fine morning, indeed.” He doesn’t mean it. It sounds rehearsed, noncommittal within the chain of grunts and deep whirrs of fatigue. The creases in his smile are shallow today.

“Would you like me to prepare some tea?”

“No need” he utters, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off the inevitable. “I’ll be leaving shortly.”

“Any business you must tend to today?”

“Not necessarily, but it would do me best to return to the Seat of Divine Foresight just in case.” You’re unaware of the frown forming on your face. Even on days off he worries about the state of the loufu in his absence. It’s hard to imagine the amount of responsibility.

“If you must” you respond, cagey words laced with worry. It’s better not to pry for your sake.

“I see you’re having fun with wave-treader” he drawls.

“Shes been good all morning.” You pet her head and she leans into your palm.

“I’m glad.”

“She loves just laying here like this, such a well-behaved kitty.” Mimi stands, stretching on her hind legs with a sturdy yawn.

You fight back the smile peeking at the corners of your lips when the General yawns right after her. He rubs the back of his head, “She’ll start to think she’s a kitty if you coo at her this often.”

“I can’t help it, you should see the way she gets me. She’s doing it on purpose!”

He releases a breathy laugh caught in the chambers of his restless body. “You’re easily swindled.”

“I guess so.” You open and close your hand, bearing the feeling of losing your hand in her mountains of fur, “petting her calms me down.”

“That’s why you pet her?” he asks, and you’re knotted in thought at the question. You remember the first time you saw her; how friendly she was as she immediately coiled over your frame and nudged her immense skull into you.

“Mm, part of the reason. Her hair’s beautiful too, it shines like tassel silk in the sun.” You barely recognize you’re rambling on.

“It reminds me of yours, General.”

You pause. Stuck for what feels like an eternity. The embarrassment within you blooms in a sudden, almost paralyzing moment. You’ve shared an inside thought, and you can't bring yourself to look up at him. You suck in your lips, lost for words from your sudden mishap.

Slowly dragging your eyes up his disheveled state, he’s already staring at you. Crescent moons—mirth plays at the creases on his eyes.

“My apologies, General, that was unmannerly.”

His half-baked gaze is fixed on you, gentle eyes spurred by golden sunrise, flecks of nutmeg and honey. A gaze so encompassing and sweet your ears burn like the summer heatwaves on Amphoreus. Even Amphoreus can’t compete with the heat collecting in your stuttering breaths.

“I-“

“Would you like to try?”

“…I’m sorry?”

“I said, would you like to touch my hair? Perhaps you’ll receive the same calming energy.”

You’ve imagined it pacing back in forth in your room, conversing with yourself on the logistics of asking your employer for a potential head pat. It’s been a reoccurring thought since you’ve met him. Soft, almost feathery in appearance as they curled around his chiseled jawline and kind laugh lines.

You’ve weighed the pros and cons of even asking such a question, If you could reach beyond the rigid professionalism. And now it’s being handed to you with no consequence. It’s practically a trap. Though, you wouldn’t mind going down for the reward.

You’re tumbling over your sentence, “Y-yes. I mean, yes please.”

With confirmation he sways to you, stiff and unrefined, unknown qualities of your general. His bare feet slap the stone pathway, robe tie gone to the wind.

The closer he gets, the more anxious you become. Jing Yuan coming to you for a head massage is like a dream you would’ve repeated in the dead of night, kicking your feet in the air. Now that he’s stopped in front of you, you can’t contain your excitement, buzzing in your kneeling position. He kneels down with you, satin bunching on the floor, leaving little to the imagination. He brings his arms to his sides, waiting. You gladly hold your palms out and he drops his head.

As if he were in a trance, his forehead meets your shoulder and remains there. A flurry drapes onto your torso and you flinch, face submerged by the thick, untamed mane. No longer Mimi, but the General himself.

You’re extra timid. You steadily brush your knuckles against his locks. The way you imagined, downy and dense like low lying clouds in a deadened fog. Only luxury products could produce his healthy texture. Hibiscus? Mint? You can’t tell, but it sure smells like it. A fresh, slightly floral scent envelops your nose. You nudge a bit closer, far from tactful. Fluorescent hibiscus haunted by a rainstorm. You inhale deeply, savoring the aroma, when you hear his husky snicker buried underneath.

“I appreciate the compliment.”

“Sorry.”

You move towards the top. Thick from root to tip, curls forming in every which angle. You test the waters and gently scratch his scalp. When he doesn’t react, you continue to trace your nails along it, light pressure, similar to the movements provided for the lion's care. You slowly move from the beginning of his hairline to the end of his scalp, guided by the curve of your fingertips.

A deep, guttural hum escapes his lips, rumbling in his chest. It travels against your skin. You’re beginning to see more parallels between him and Mimi than you’d like to admit. His arms relax, lowered like cinder blocks at his sides, and you slowly begin to feel the full pressure of this heavy man resting on your shoulder.

The weight of his burdens is released by your touch, and you feel it dissipating within the pleased sighs and breathy murmurs, eyes shut in pure surrender. Even his lashes curl beautifully, kissing the highs of his cheekbones, blessed by the gift of basking amber. You knead and press at the wispy strands on his temples with scrunches of snow.

“Mm. That’s good” he says, whisper-light.

You massage his scalp between your fingers. Taking breaks to smooth the entwined curls. Mimi rests her head on the garden stones, with the rest of the space being furnished with comfortable, safe silence. Picking at the red ribbon until it pulls loose, more hair spills like a blizzard against his fair back.

“General?”

He doesn’t reply. The heaving rise and fall of his chest challenges your balance, but no response. “General, are you awake?” You say it quieter this time. If he were to drift asleep, let it be the fate of Lan.

“Hmm?” he mumbles.

“Would you like me to tie your hair for you?”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

Your greed gets the better of you, pretending to reach a strand intended for the ponytail just to immerse your fingers in the soft bearings of his nape. An indistinct hum in response is enough for you to keep going. The hairs gentle here, and you’re unhurried sweeping your hands over it. You grab a small bundle of hair at the back of his head and collect it in the neatest ponytail you can manage in this spot. You fold the ribbon around it and pull tight in an acceptable bow.

Absent-minded touches tuck the stragglers behind his ears. His face warmed, you’d check his temperature if you weren’t also burning up. With his hair tied properly, you can see the hair on his muscles, leading further to the tufts peeping over the waistband. You quickly avert your gaze.

“I am done.”

It takes a minute for him to register. “Thank you” he sighs. He’s finding the strength to pull himself out of sleep, raising his head when your hands suddenly ghost behind his back. Not pressuring, but reassuring. There’s a red patch spread across is forehead.

“However, if you are still tired, I would be honored to stay here while you rest.” He regards you, mischievous grin tugging on his mouth. A laugh puffs from his nose, and he turns his cheek to lay on your shoulder again. He relaxes into your embrace, to which he closes his eyes.

“Then 5 more minutes wouldn’t hurt.”

#jing yuan x y/n #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail #hsr x you #hsr x reader

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florbexter · 2 days ago

Note

Anything with FadelStyle ❤️

a study in patience [AO3]

Style found Fadel in the kitchen. Bent over the worktable, his hands pressed onto the shiny surface. If Style didn’t know him better, he would think he was sleeping while standing.

Style observed him for a moment. The vibes were off, but not in a dangerous way. More in an ‘I can’t believe this is my life' way. He quickly searched through his memories, but he hadn’t done anything the last couple of days that would make Fadel behave like that.

Had he gotten a one-star Google review?

“What’s up?”, he asked and stole a pickle.

Fadel moved slowly. Just his head. The frown between his eyes was there again and Style knew it was the Bison frown. That man had a wrinkle for every one of his loved ones. Not that Style would count himself as one of them. Not yet anyway. But he worked hard for his very own line on Fadel’s face.

“Just,” Fadel started and then straightened and looked up. Was he thinking about not telling Style? Style leaned his back onto the worktable. Now he was curious.

Wait. If it was about Bison and Fadel looked like he had been forced to eat a lemon that could only mean one thing.

“What did they do?”

Fadel sighed, and then his face twisted.

“Ooooh,” Style cooed. “Did you catch them again?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “In flagranti?”

Fadel made a disgusted sound.

“What are you angry about? You know they’re together? What? Do you think they only hold hands?”

Style had no siblings. He wouldn’t know how he would react if one of them suddenly became a fully formed human with desires. He liked to imagine himself as the cooler older brother. He would buy them condoms and shit.

“No. It’s just…” Fadel sighed again. “They…” He moved his hands around and Style was delighted about this turn of events. He didn’t think Fadel could be so flustered. He was normally very matter-of-fact about sex.

“They had toys,” Fadel said, and it sounded like someone had forced those words out of him via torture. He sounded like Style wanted to make him talk about his feelings. Again.

Style frowned. “And? Like we did that one time—”

Fadel stopped him with his raised hand. “No. Specific toys. For a specific type of… you know.”

“Sex?” Oh, this was golden, Style thought. But what kind of toys was Fadel implying? That one time Kant and he had hooked up it had been pretty vanilla.

“Oh wait,” Style moved, a huge grin on his face, “like kinky toys?”

Fadel looked like Style had shot him. His expression said it all and Style had to laugh.

“No way. Kant and Bison? Wow. I mean… now that I think about it. Bison looks like he would like to slice you open for schmexy sexy times.”

“Style…”

“But Kant?” Style pursed his lips. “I didn’t think he was the type. Good for him.”

“Please, shut up."

Style laughed even harder. Fadel sounded like he was in pain. Had he known how to get to him like that, his whole approach would have been way more fun for him. Fadel was open about sex or so Style got the feeling from the amount of sex they already had. From outdoor sex to… outdoor sex. They had a lot of sex outside of their beds, now that he thought of it.

“What got you so worked up about it? That they have sex? That it’s kinky? That Kant knows how to give up control?”

He chuckled. It was funny that he immediately thought Bison was the one in charge. Little gremlin.

“You think Bison is in charge?”

“Mhm? Yes.” Style munched on another pickle.

The frown on Fadel’s face disappeared, exchanged for a blank expression.

Oh.

Style was quick, but Fadel was quicker. He grabbed Style’s wrist, yanked and had him crowded against the stove in seconds.

“Hey.” Style was more upset about the pickle he had dropped than being all up and close with Fadel. That was always nice.

“You want to be in charge, too?” Fadel asked.

Style smiled, wide and bright.

“I’m always in charge.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hell yeah.”

There was a thing Fadel did, that Style thought he wasn’t even aware of. First, he tried to hide a smile. Most of the time he was successful with that but at the same time, he didn’t seem to notice that his eyes got soft. He looked at Style through hooded eyes with no frown on his forehead or between his brows.

“You want to tie me up, mhm?”

Style couldn’t answer because someone cleared their throat in the general area of the door. They both moved, still standing close and Pearl, the temp Fadel had hired, looked at them annoyed.

“There are a bunch of customers waiting for their food,” she said, sternly.

“And we’re working very hard to cook it for them,” Style answered.

Pearl wasn’t moved by his smile. She squinted her eyes at him threateningly and maybe Fadel had found a long-lost sister.

“Food will come right up,” Fadel said and turned away from Style with deep-red ears.

“Tonight then,” Style whispered, gave him a clap against his butt, winked at Pearl and then got the hell out of there because he had the feeling both of them carried knives to stab him with.

#florbexter writes #tumblr prompt #the heart killers #fadelstyle #fadel x style #happy new year prompts

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mythicalninjas · 3 hours ago

Text

What are they?

Author's note: I was rewatching a few clips of Transformers One and that deer-like robots scene made me imagine an alternative scenario of what the group would do if they were face-to-face with a deer-like robot.

Rate/warnings: SFW

In the middle of the open field, amidst an orange haze, four bipedal figures walk side by side. The shortest of them sings an improvised song while the others remain silent.

"Four best friends who are walking trought the door! There's no door, we're outside." B commented the last sentence and kept humming his improvised music.

Orion Pax was the next to speak. "Hey, look! There's more of it over here." he reaches out to touch the various strange things that sway in the wind.

"It's not metal." D-16 observed.

"Like some kind of, uh..." Orion continued. "Weird nature."

"So are they..." Elita-1 pointed to a herd of yellowish quadruped creatures a few meters ahead. Some of these creatures were all grazing the grass and some moss on the ground, which was strange. Don't these things need energon to survive like other cybertronians?

As the group approached, a few creatures stopped grazing, raised their heads and watched them. They didn't seem scared. On the contrary. They just walked in opposite directions away from the group and continued grazing, without any discomfort.

B was the first to speak after a moment of silence. "What are they?".

"Don't know. I've never seen "bots" like them before." D-16 said.

One of the creatures seemed restless, looking at the four miners and to the sides, sometimes at the grass below it, as if it were undecided whether to continue mind its business or watching the strange visitors.

After a few seconds, the creature stops and stares at the group, causing them to be a little confused by it. Orion, D, Elita and B looked at each other.

Suddenly, the yellowish creature finally reacts, walking towards Orion. The poor bot didn't know what to do. Fear and doubt filled him as the creature approached very slowly, each step taken carefully.

They looked at each other, confusion expressed on their faces this time.

The creature stops in front of Orion, but keeps a safe distance in case of danger. If any. As the strange form drew closer, the group was finally able to take a closer look at its anatomy: purple eyes located on both sides of the head, long neck, two ears which turn to different directions at same time, four long thin limbs without fingers, bright yellow color (much warmer than the B's color) and two anteenae-like things on the head, with circles on the tips.

The creature moved a little closer to Orion and began to sniff him.

They couldn't believe what they're seeing.

"What the hell?" Orion thought, looking at the others and shrugging. It took a while for the creature to smell the red and blue bot, occasionally stopping and staring up at him and sniffing again. The poor bot didn't know what to do. Then the creature streched its neck to reach Orion's left hand and sniff once again.

D-16 tilted his head.

The yellow creature took a while to smell Orion's hand, sometimes startling itself out of nowhere, making the group giggle a bit.

"Why did it startle?" B whispered.

"Maybe it thinks Orion will do something." Elita whispered back.

Orion, with a soft voice, said: "We won't hurt you, buddy."

The creature stops sniffing and stares up at Orion, then at the others beside him.

Both cybertronian species were seeing and having contact for the very first time after many cycles. Surely at some point in history, before the Quintenssons took over the surface of Cybertron, there were many encounters between bots and these four-legged creatures. Maybe that's the reason why they don't feel threatened by the group.

Suddenly Orion have an idea, but he doesn't know IF It's a good idea. Taking advantage of the creature's distraction at his friends, he raised his hand slowly towards its neck, with the intention to touch it.

D notices. "What are you doing?" He asked, confused.

Orion didn't answer his friend, just concentrated on trying to touch the creature's neck. He was very careful not to frighten it. As soon as he touched it, the creature made a squeaking sound and backed away a few steps in fear.

"It's afraid of you." Elita warned.

"I think it never had contact with bots like us but the Quintessons over these many cycles we have hidden underground. Its instincts tell we are dangerous, but it clearly wants to know what we are". Orion held out his hand to the creature to let it smell again. "It's okay. We're just as curious as you are, buddy." His voice was gentle.

The creature seemed petrified at first, staring at Orion's eyes and then at his hand. Long minutes of silence have passed. Finally the creature approached Orion again, this time sniffing for a few seconds, then looking up at the red and blue miner and sniffing the air. It craned its neck to try and smell Orion's face, for some reason the group couldn't know why.

The miner took the opportunity to touch it and moved his hand to its neck. The wild form didn't back up this time.

"It's working!" B shouted, making the creature startle at his voice. Elita covers B's mouth.

Finally, Orion touched the creature's neck. He could feel that it was tense, but it seemed to trust him. He slides his hand up and down the animal's neck, caressing it.

"How…" D remembered not to speak louder so as not to frighten it. The creature didn't seem to be bother by the grey miner. "How did you do that?"

Elita was the next to speak. "It was… incredible."

B just nodded, Elita still covering his mouth.

Orion smiled at the creature. It enjoyed the pets it was receiving and leaned closer to Orion, its eyes closed. "Trust." He replied. "I have earned its trust." He nodded for the others to come closer. "Come on, I belive it will let you touch it as well. But just don't make any sudden movements."

"Or loud sounds." Elita whisperd to B's auditory receptors, casting a threatening glance as uncover his mouth.

The creature was a little apprehensive when it realised that the other three bots were closer than usual, but it knew they weren't a threat. They were with this strange gentle bot in blue and red.

B was the first to pet it. "Awwn it's kinda cute."

On that day, after countless cycles, two different species were able to coexist in harmony, until a strange sound rang out across the open valley they were, scaring the creatures away.

☆☆☆☆☆

This was my first time writing for Transformers One. Thank you for reading ❤️

(My work is original. Do NOT copy and past it! It's not cool stealing what isn't yours!)

#transformers #transformers one #orion pax #d 16 #elita one #b 127 #tf one #tf one orion pax #tf one d 16 #optimus prime #megatron #tf one megatron #tf one optimus prime #tf one 2024

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topazy · 1 day ago

Text

Teen spirit

Pairing: Carl Grimes × reader

Warnings: Swearing, minor violence

Chapter: 7.02

“Do you need any help?”

“No,” your voice cracks. “I’m fine... but thank you.”

Michonne clears her throat. “Rosita is just down the hall if you need anything. I’m going to go get some clean bandages.”

You nod.

Michonne stares at you for a moment, a sympathetic look on her face, before hesitantly closing the bathroom door. Unlike the house you lived in that only had showers, this one has a bathtub with a shower head attached to the wall. You turn the tap, switching it on; you step back, giving the water a chance to heat up.

You catch your reflection in the mirror; the sight of tangled strands of hair stuck together with blood causes you to almost throw up.

Feeling completely defeated, you step into the bath, wincing because of the pulling sensation on your stitches, then slowly sit down in the tub. Your clothes stick to your body as the warm water sprays over you, and you watch in silence as the foul-colored water, which is darkened by blood and dirt, starts to disappear down the drain.

You're unsure how much time has passed when the door opens. There’s a brief pause before then you hear Carl’s trembling voice, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

He places folded-up towels on the closed toilet lid and sits on the floor beside the tub. You feel Carl grab your hand, and immediately you feel tears well up in your eyes as you think about what Negan tried to do to him, what he tried to make Rick do to his son.

“I should have gone with Maggie,” you eventually say. “I should have stayed with my sister.”

“Selfishly, I’m glad you didn’t; I don’t want to feel alone.”

—

You watch from Carl’s bedroom as the saviors carry chairs, mattresses, food, and weapons to their vans. What the hell did they need all that stuff for? To refurbish their den. You shake your head in disgust watching as Father Gabriel approaches Negan.

“That asshole said we had a week.”

Carl gently pulls you away from the window so you are out of sight. Only a few days have passed since Glenn and Abraham were killed, their blood no doubt still a stain where they died, and Negan was already at the gates of your home looking for half of—well, everything.

“I know you’re beyond pissed, but someone needs to stay with Judith. She’s starting to fuss, and he doesn’t know about her yet. He can’t know.”

You swallow down all the curse words that come to mind. The saviors were getting more rowdy as they stole more belongings and scared more people. “Okay, uh, I’ll take Judith into the attic, and if they ask about the baby stuff, just say we collected it for Maggie.”

“That’s a good idea… I’m sure Maggie and the baby are okay.”

You had gone to great lengths to avoid speaking about your sister at all costs because every time you spoke about her, you broke down in tears. You were desperate to see her, but you completely understood why, at the time, Michonne thought it was best for you to return to Alexandria with them instead. Maggie needed to focus on herself without worrying about you.

“That’s a good idea; I’ll go get her.”

Carl goes to leave, but you catch his hand and lean forward; your lips meet in a kiss. “I’ll stay hidden until you come and find me.”

—

Once the saviors start to drive away, Carl lets you know the coast is clear, and you finally join the rest of your community outside. You weren’t sure of everything that had happened, but Carl told you his dad had to rummage through Spencer’s home to find the guns he was hiding.

While he continues to talk, all you can think about is the anger pulsing through your body. Did Spencer not understand how dangerous these people are? It was surprising Negan didn’t kill anyone else.

Rick notices you holding Judith and waves you over; his daughter was really becoming the light to everyone’s darkness. With so much death, it was easy to want to give up, but her cute little face was a constant reminder to keep going, that there were things worth fighting for.

Noticing Spencer lingering behind him, you narrow your eyes. You don’t hear the full conversation, just the end of it, when you hand Judith over to her father.

“You got lucky with the wall; you got lucky with us.” Rick holds his daughter with one arm and slings the other over your shoulder while walking slowly in the opposite direction. “How are you holding up? Carl told me about your plan. I’m thankful, but you're supposed to be taking it easy—”

“We should have made a deal with them when we could’ve.” Not getting a reaction, Spencer waits until Rick’s further away and shouts, “Oh yeah, we got so lucky. You’ve led us all to the promised land! Isn’t that right, Rick? Here we are! I guess Glenn and Abraham were lucky, too?”

Oh hell no.

You spin fast on your heels and storm towards him. “What was that?”

If it weren’t for Rick, you doubted most of you would still be alive. And for Spencer to bring Glenn and Abraham into his petty argument was bullshit.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Come on—”

In that moment you want him to feel the same type of hurt everyone else was, but you doubt he is capable of it and jab Spencer on the nose before he can finish his sentence. Rosita jumps out of the car and steps between the two of you. “Y/N, go back inside now. Inside, go.”

—

“You have a good right hook on you.”

“I’m not apologizing. Spencer was being an asshole.”

Carl holds his hands up defensively before coming to join you on the floor. The saviors had taken all the mattresses from his house, so you’d be sleeping on the remaining blankets and pillows, which couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time. Your actions earlier had come back and bitten you in the ass, and your side was now in agonizing pain again.

You hold eye contact while searching Carl’s face for any sign of what he’s feeling. “What’s going on?”

He chews on his bottom lip for a few moments before answering. “I overheard my dad and Michonne talking. Judith is Shane’s.”

Not knowing what to say, you rest your head on his shoulder. Everything was a mess. You had heard whispers while living on the farm and at the prison, but once Lori died, they stopped. “He loves her as much as he loves you.”

“My dad was shot in the line of duty, then a few days later the outbreak happened. I was devastated; I thought I’d lost my dad and my mom… my mom. Shane was his best friend.”

You sit in silence for some time while Carl processes this new information; his hands are trembling. Your eyes are closed until you feel soft lips pressing against the crown of your head. “I thought it was pretty badass when you punched Spencer.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure anyone else thought that.” You look up at all the small holes in the door where Carl has been throwing darts; since his vision was compromised, he was missing the board and hitting the door. You link your fingers with his, “I want to see Maggie. I need to know how she is, how the baby is.”

Carl looks deep in thought; eventually, he scoffs. “If it wasn’t for Negan, you could be with her… I know how to put things right.”

#the walking dead #carl grimes x fem!reader #carl grimes/reader #carl grimes fanfiction #carl grimes x y/n #teen spirit #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #carl grimes fanfic #Carl Grimes/you #carl grimes x you #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead fanfic #teen spirit 7.02

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keepmycandleburning · 1 day ago

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The juxtaposition of Voldemort asking these two questions just a few pages apart raises so many interesting thoughts for me.

When he's asking if Harry is dead, who is he talking to - directly to Bellatrix (who he'd just been talking to in the previous sentence)? to the whole group? If he's talking to Bellatrix, she doesn't answer, and he then decides he doesn't want her to.

The choice to have Bellatrix be the one to answer who Neville is... (when clearly Neville is more than willing to talk to Voldemort, and anyone who was at the DoM likely knew the answer, or the DEs who taught at Hogwarts, or Hagrid, or McGonagall or any other of the Hogwarts fighters... Voldemort could have just said his name without asking... Harry could've just seen him without this sort of exchange happening at all... This could've been written in so many different ways, but JKR chose Bellatrix). When Voldemort asks a question to a group, is Bellatrix typically the one to answer? Does he expect that? Was he actually asking her personally? Is it natural for him to turn to Bellatrix for answers?

I notice in every scene in which they interact how attentive to him she is. Continuing to talk to him after he tells her to stop in the Ministry, screaming his name when he vanishes, addressing a question that wasn't to her in The Dark Lord Ascending, seating herself (or being placed by him) closest to Voldemort in the forest, being the only one who tries to speak to him in the forest, being the only one to show him care and try to help him after he falls, and even after he tells her to stop... It's out of character for her to not have been the one to answer whether Harry was dead. She doesn't even speak. It seems like one big function of the choice to have Bellatrix be the one to immediately answer the Neville question is to reinforce how out of character it was for her to not answer the question only a few pages earlier. Why? Is she so concerned with helping Voldemort she can't even think about what's happening around her? Does he not want her to step away despite what he's trying to claim? Does Voldemort not want Bellatrix to approach Harry because he's suspicious Harry is dangerous? Is Bellatrix herself hesitant to approach Harry - and if so note that Voldemort immediately picks someone else.

What were Bellatrix and Voldemort actually doing when Harry imagines her withdrawing a helpful hand? Based on the several paragraphs before, she was kneeling directly beside him and was touching him to try to help him up - is him telling her he doesn't need help really enough for her to stop trying? Why would 'I do not require assistance' work when 'That will do' did not?

Is this scene really as drawn out as Harry's internal narration makes it seem? Voldemort doesn't reply the first time Bellatrix speaks to him here - had she already been doing it, but Harry didn't hear because both he and Voldemort were still unconscious? What was Bellatrix doing when Voldemort was unconscious? Probably about what she was doing when he woke up? Was she touching him in front of everyone to check whether he was still alive? Did he wake up with her hands on him?

What relationship must she have with Voldemort so that when he wakes up with her beside him touching him, she knows she doesn't have to move away or stop touching him even when he tells her to, AND she speaks to him in such a manner that makes Harry think she's talking as though Voldemort is her lover? Her LOVER.

The hints leading up to this line build up in clarity throughout the series, with earlier instances like the use of 'Bella' which we gradually confirm is a nickname used only be her family (Narcissa, Lucius, the Black house elf Kreacher), to the even more direct language used in tDLA like 'no higher pleasure,' to the utterly unambiguous use of 'lover' near the end of the final book. This scene is also placed in the middle of Voldemort experiencing a series of great losses - the cup, the knowledge that Harry was after the Horcruxes, the ring, the locket, Nagini, and ultimately Bellatrix - and in fact these last two are as closely juxtaposed as the scenes from above, just a few pages apart and so comparable but so different. Nagini's death functions as a final reminder of how Voldemort reacts to a huge personal loss:

But to the loss of Bellatrix:

His last Horcrux, his last Death Eater standing - both a scream, both fury, but only one reaction strong enough for his magic to involuntarily explode around him forcefully enough to blast multiple people off their feet?

(People he was not capable of doing this to consciously, or he would have already. This is not a normal fury reaction for Voldemort, or he would have experienced it at other times; this is not something he is consciously capable of, or he would do it at other times - most relevantly, he would have done it in the final confrontation with Harry to save his own life. He could not.)

What relationship must he have had with her to react to the loss of her worse than to the loss of his SOUL? We see him react to the losses of several pieces of his literal soul, and not one of them gets a comparable reaction to the loss of Bellatrix - not the one that happens first unexpectedly, not the one that happens directly before his eyes. His 'last, best lieutenant' who only a handful of pages earlier was speaking to him 'as if to a lover'? No matter how the text is dissected it always leads to the same answer.

#bellamort #voldemort #bellatrix lestrange

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bekkarific · 3 days ago

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Playing with Fire

Chapter 5 - Light

Chapter Master List

Pairings: Frontman/In Ho x Fem OC (some Gi Hun X Fem OC)

Heart pounding, Ji Ah descended the stairs as fast as she could without drawing attention. Her mind filled with the intense interaction she had with the man who held her life in his hands.

Reaching the familiar doorway of the kitchen, Ji Ah slowed her steps, taking her time to calm her breathing before re-entering the kitchen. Her mind whirled with questions. Was she in more danger? Why did he let her go? And who was that woman?

Pushing open the door to the kitchen Ji Ah was immediately faced with another challenge as the square faced guard headed her way.

“Number 13, you and number 11 are to take those trolleys” pointing over his shoulder “and follow me”

“Yes sir” Ji Ah said softly, her nerves still on edge.

Her eyes sought out where the triangle guard had pointed and found two trolleys pilled with the little sliver tins that the circle guards made yesterday. Coming to stand next to other worker who she presumed was number 11, Ja Ah took hold of the loaded up trolley and quickly started to follow number 11, who had already began to walk away.

Following number 11 through the pink hallways, they approached a long room with 4 tables in a row. In front of each table was what appeared to be a closed door.

“Unload your tins and take your places behind your table” the square faced guard ordered.

Ji Ah hesitated, seeing which table number 11 would pick so she knew where to go. Number 11 went to the far end of the room past two circle workers already in place, leaving the table closest to Ji Ah available. She began quickly move the tins over, whilst doing so, she noticed a small seam of light through the crack of the door.

Trolley unloaded, Ji Ah took her place behind the table trying to focus on the seam of light, attempting to look through it. She noticed shapes moving about,, their faces uncovered. ‘The players’ she thought to herself, she could see them lining up.

“Decision time is over. We will now reveal the game” announced over the load speaker.

Suddenly the door in-front of Ji Ah opened. The light momentarily blinding her.

“Players please take one of the cases in front of you” announced again over the speaker.

Then Ji Ah saw them, all 187 players lined up in 4 unequal queues, in what looked to be a children’s playground. The players in front of her being moving forward. Acting quickly Ji Ah copied the other circle workers and began to hand out her tins, making note of each players face. Most of them looked scared and anxious, but that was no mystery.

Then she saw him, Gi Hun. He looked better than when she last saw him, but no less nervous. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her face - well mask - instead taking the tin with his head down cast, nearly bumping into the player behind him as he rushed away.

Once the last player was served a further announcement came over the speaker “Please open the case and check the contents. The next game is Daglona. The shape you receive is the shape you must extract”

‘Oh fuck’ Ji Ah thought seeing the woman she had just served reveal the shape of an umbrella.

“You have a 10 minute time limit” the speaker announced again to the frazzled room of players “extract the shape cleanly within 10 minutes and you passed. Let the game begin”

As the announcement finished the doors closed plunging Ji Ah back into darkness, the only sound being the ominous ticking coming from the game room.

“You are all on body duty.” the square guard ordered “go and take your positions in the game room.”

‘Body Duty’ Ji Ah thought, having to stop herself from visibly recoiling. She moved herself on heavy legs as the other circle workers started to walk through.

‘I cannot just stand by and watch’ Ji Ah panicked ‘but what can I do that won’t get us all killed?’

Moved along with the other guards, Ji Ah entered the game room, the sand floor crunching under her feet. She could see all the players crouched down in various parts of the room, some had even climbed onto the play structures. The only sound was the clock ticking and the scratching of the Daglona.

Ji Ah took her position at the side of the room, following the other workers lead. As fate would have it, she ended up being a few feet away from Gi Hun.

He was kneeled down with his arse in the air desperately scratching at his shape. Ji Ah’s breath caught slightly when she could see it was also an umbrella. Had she doomed him to this? She morbidly thought. She watched him lift his Daglona out the tin and begin to try and snap off the edges.

Just as he started a gunshot echoed and screams filled the room. A dead player slid down from atop of the slide where he had been sitting, leaving a crimson trail of blood behind him. “Player 369 eliminated” rang out the speaker. The players froze, as sequence of shots filled the room, eliminating further players. Then like they all universally remembered what was at stake, they all returned to furiously scratching at their shapes.

Ji Ah felt ill, she had seen dead bodies during her time as a detective, but not one merciless killed in front of her. She watched at the circle guards at that side of the room lifted the man off the blood filled slide and into a black box. She watched as the matching black lid was placed on top, finished with a pink bow.

In that moment she is unsure what sickened her more, the execution or fact their death was being dressed up like a gift.

In an effort to keep the nausea at bay Ji Ah returned her gaze to Gi Hun who was snapping off pieces of Daglona. Watching the clean breaks Ji Ah silently thanked whoever was watching over him.

More shots filled the room as time ticked on, each time sending a wave of sickness through Ji Ah’s gut. Part of her believing she was no better than them, the faceless men, being complicit in murder. But the more rational part of her knew she would get herself and others killed if she tried anything.

Around the halfway point “player 111 passed” rang through the speakers, ‘good’ Ji Ah thought ‘at least some people are making it out of here alive’ her hope was short lived as another gunshot rang through the air.

Then in quick succession more players passed, filtering out the room as they did so, leaving only a few left with the more difficult shapes of stars and umbrellas.

She watched as time ticked down to below 3 minutes, Gi Hun had became more desperate. His back soaked with sweat and the tremor in his shoulders. She needed a way to help him.

She watched as he flinched as the player next to him was eliminated. She made her way over to do her duty. Her legs felt like lead as she forced herself forward. Every step brought her closer to the body, her stomach twisting in revolt.

Then like a flash of lighting hit her she was suddenly stuck with a memory from her childhood. Having mainly boys in her neighbourhood, every game they played was intense competition, she had trick of being the quickest in Daglona against the boys.

As she approached the body she made sure she was the side closest Gi Hun. She had do this right and do it quick or they were both dead. Kneeling down to gently take the women’s cold hands in hers she twisted the body causing the circle guard grabbing the feet to trip slightly.

“Lick the back,” she whispered urgently to Gi Hun, stealing a glance to ensure he understood.

He froze in place. He heard her, she was sure of it. Standing up she looked straight ahead and carried the poor woman to her coffin, pretending that nothing was out of place. Though she was sure she could hear muttered grumbles coming from the guard she tripped.

After placing the woman in her coffin and holding back a wave of remorse for using her dead body like that, Ji Ah made her way back to her post.

The sight that laid ahead of her was the most brilliant and ludicrous thing she had seen. Gi Hun having wasted no time was taking long luscious licks to the back of his Daglona, looking crazed. However it seems the other players had caught on and where now frantically licking at their Daglona.

Ji Ah watched Gi Hun as he licked the Daglona, in another time and place the sight would have almost been appealing but right now all could chant in her head was ‘live, live, live, please live, if I can just save one’ praying to whatever deity was out there.

It seemed her prayers where answered as in the last few seconds of the game Gi Hun’s umbrella came free.

She wanted the scream and cheer as Gi Hun began to cry in relief. He’s alive.

But their joy was short lived as the echos of gun shots fired all around them. The grim reality of situation resettling down upon both of their shoulders.

Then all hell broke loose, as a player launched at a guard and took his weapon. He began firing indiscriminately. Ji Ah jumped into action securing the surrounding players behind her, as the triangle guards converged on the man who now held the square guard at gun point.

The remaining triangle guards unleashed fire on the eliminated players. She heard several players cower in fear behind her. “It’s okay” she whispered attempting to calm them, trying to avoid anymore death. At this moment she saw Gi Hun looking at her, she knew he recognised her voice as the worker who helped him. He nodded in return turning to calm the players.

More armed guards approached them, causing several players to gasp in fear. “The game has finished” one announced “we will escort you back to your dormitory” they ordered, flanking the players as they led them out.

Gi Hun looked back at her once more before leaving. She had the unsettling feeling this would be the last time they meet.

Once players were safely departed, Ji Ah turned to watch the scene unfolding in front of her.

The mini triangle army where now all pointing guns at the player who held the square faced guard hostage, the player was demanding he remove his mask. Ji Ah took a step closer, coming to stand behind the line of triangle guards, as he slowly removed his mask. A wave of shock coursed through Ji Ah as the guard’s face came into view—a young man, no older than twenty. His features were sharp but soft, his eyes wide with panic, like a child’s. How could someone so young end up here, caught in this monstrous place? The player seemed to hold the same sentiments.

Before Ji Ah could react the player turned the gun on himself, shooting himself in the head. Ji Ah was numb to it now, she felt after all the death she had witnessed that day, at least he got to die on his own terms.

Hearing footsteps approaching from behind her, Ji Ah turned and felt her stomach drop. It was him.

The heavy thud of boots echoed through the room, each step deliberate, calculated. Ji Ah’s breath hitched as the guards parted, creating a pathway for him—the captain. He moved with a commanding presence, his dark coat swaying slightly with each stride. When he reached the unmasked guard, there was no hesitation, no pause to consider mercy. The deafening crack of the gunshot made Ji Ah flinch, her pulse racing as the young man crumpled to the ground.

It took everything in Ji Ah not to gasp as his body hit the floor. Is that was going to happen to her? She selfishly thought.

Keeping his back to Ji Ah and the rest of the guards the captain spoke bluntly “Remember. Once they found out who you are, you’re dead”

Pausing to look down at the decreased, he turned to walk back through the sea of guards again.

The Captain slowed as he passed her, his steps measured, deliberate. Though his face was hidden, the weight of his attention bore down on her, making it hard to breathe. Ji Ah stiffened, unsure if she imagined it, but his head tilted slightly—just enough to suggest he knew exactly who she was.

Her heart raced, but she didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His pause was brief, calculated, before he continued on his way, leaving her rooted in place, her mind spinning with questions.

Just like before Ji Ah felt his eyes upon her. He slowed his pace as he passed staring directly at her, like he knew it was her, number 13.

He carried on without a word, Ji Ah watched him retreat letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Watching the doorway long after he had gone.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the sound of forklifts, carrying more coffins, remembering she was in a room of death.

She cautiously approached the unmasked boy, looking once again at his young-face which was now cold and lifeless. She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. He should’ve been in out in the world, laughing with friends, not lying here lifeless in the sand.

How did he end up here? Each time she felt she was getting closer to finding out the truth of this place, the more questions she unravels.

She watched as another circle guard approached her, Jun Ho? She wondered.

As she was about to turn and say something she was interrupted “Number 13,” a square-faced guard barked, snapping her out of her daze. “The captain wishes to see you.”

Ji Ah froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She forced herself to nod, her mind racing. What did he want? Had she been caught? As she followed the guard, dread pooled in her stomach. Every step felt like it could be her last.

#hwang in ho x reader #hwang inho #in ho x reader #squid games #the frontman #seong gi hun #gi hun #gi hun x reader #hwang jun ho #jun ho

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diredeliverance · 5 months ago

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I don't think I ever saw a reason given that Orin didn't just kill Gortash herself since I fully believe when she's not fucking around she can pass more than well enough to get in close enough to shoot her shot, as evidenced by the intro of Act 3. Considering how coolly she demonstrates her ability to slip in and how casually she's willing to declare her threats against him, I can't help but feel there's a playfulness to the unnecessary use of an intermediary- a teasing touch of paranoia to add a new would-be assassin to the mix while she herself could still strike at any time, her whereabouts perpetually unknowable. And of course with DUrge there's the extra level of testing of her less worthy kin, and of torment if DUrge and Gortash had a good relationship. It's easy to imagine a million ways Gortash really is too bound up to seek Orin out himself or succeed in locating her in time; he feels at a disadvantage and perhaps genuinely in need of the MC's service. But Orin? She could take out her rival herself, she just doesn't bother. I love that. The carelessness, the game-iness, the commitment to stoking unease just for its own sakw. She's an icon fr. Too sleepy for more coherent thoughts but I love her so much

#I was revisiting this because originally my thought was that asperia must have given him a way to identify orin #that did make it dangerous to approach him #but rewatching the intro and watching him get clowned so hard it's like nah maybe not lol. not even as personal canon.#who am I to take this w from her. this slay even #I just love her #so sayeth emi #orin the red #starting a career as an orin poster for fuck all no reason. baby sister appreciation :)

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theirloveisgross · 8 months ago

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#Read the book detailed summary someone did #And well...#You know what I just re-read as well? Liam's post he did after watching aotv and the way he talked about louis #He mentions he's sorry for being so out of his mind and not being a better friend for him and that he's him again and will make amends #And how Louis was one of the few ones that dragged him out of something so dark and that he one day hopes to have the same approach as loui #This post was about a year ago #He clearly did not make amends with this girl and boi he should have...#I'm not saying every detail she wrote is the truth and she's completely innocent but he's the one with a dangerous addiction.#And I think a step of sobriety is making amends... And she should have been one of the first #Just because she was IN it. In whatever capacity... Idk #Edit: ah yes. A post he deleted btw... Because people were being nasty

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acourtofquestions · 2 months ago

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Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.

Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.

But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.

So hearth to hearth, it went.

To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.

Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, "Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?"

Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine. And swords-ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.

Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.

Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer.

Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.

Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.

A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.

Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.

Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.

"Fly, fly, fly!" they shouted. "To the queen! To war!"

Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.

#Chapter 65 #Kingdom of Ash #Sarah J. Maas #Manon Blackbeak #no spoilers please first read along with me #spoilers in post and tags with more notes reactions quotes annotations etc in tags #Dorian had gone to Morath. Had flown from the camp on wings of his own making.#He would have chosen some sort of small ordinary bird Manon knew. Something even the Thirteen would not have noted #Crunching snow told her Asterin approached. He left didn't he. She nodded unable to find words. — she knew. East not North.#She had offered him everything and had thought he'd meant to accept it. Had thought he did accept it #She had offered him everything and had thought he'd meant to accept it. Had thought he did accept it. Yet it had been farewell.#He would not cage her would not accept what she'd given. As if he knew her better than she knew herself. Do we go after him?#Today-today they would decide where to go. Today she'd dare ask the Crochans to follow. — The Last Crochan Queen The Witch-Queen #to head back into hell The sun rose full and golden as if it were the solitary note of a song filling the world. — for him she would #Terrasen calls for aid! A young Crochan's voice rang through the camp. — but for her people — THEY GOT THE CALL — GO NOW #Even if she'd needed it waited for it. The Flame of War. What say you Queen of Witches? A challenge and a dare. Manon lifted her chin to -#-the two paths before her. one to the east to Morath the other NORTHward to Terrasen and to battle. The wind sang and in it she heard the #answer. I shall answer Terrasen's call Manon said. Asterin stepped to her side fearless as she surveyed the assembled camp. As shall I.#And so it went. Until the leaders of all seven of the Great Hearths stood gathered there. — I’m not crying ur crying — fire bringer #Rhiannon Crochan rode at King Brannon's side into battle. So has her likeness been reborn so shall the old alliances be forged anew.#Light the Flame of War Queen of Witches and rally your host. — the eternal flame — darkness will not claim them #Even the wind did not jostle the flame as Manon lifted it a torch in the new day. The Crochan crowd parted revealing a straight path toward #Bronwens Hearth. Each step was a drumbeat of war. An answer to a question posed long ago. Your Queen summons you to war. — Hearth to Heart #Then and only then did the young scout from the final clan take her burning torch grab her broom and leap into the skies.#To find the next clan to tell them the call had gone out. — nothing but a smoldering speck against the sky then nothing at all. — Hope.#Manon offered a silent prayer on the wind that the sacred flame the young scout bore would burn steadfast over the long dangerous miles.#All the way to the killing fields of Terrasen. Hearth to hearth the Flame of War went.#Fly fly fly! they shouted. To the queen! To war! Far and wide through snow and storm and peril the Crochans flew.#Terrasen calls for aid — so they follow. — Hold on LysAedion come on Aelin — I’m not crying I’m just crying — NOW GO QUICK #The true Witch Queen child of peace and war Manon Blackbeak of the Thirteen & Rhiannon The Last Crochan Queen

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roobylavender · 1 year ago

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i missed that class what dont you like about starlins rendition of their relationship?

(and also like, DID you think he did something in particular well or was it all…meh

the crux of my issues in this regard stems from batman #416. in the post-crisis era you began to see this way more lopsided depiction of bruce and dick's relationship wherein the former was portrayed to be almost.. bitter that dick had moved on to establish his own life. and it stood in great, great contrast to the bruce of the pre-crisis era, who was certainly devastated at the realization that dick was growing up, but also very intent for him to find his own happiness and way in life. they would have their disagreements on occasion (e.g., bruce initially disapproving of dick dropping out of college, bruce immediately taking leadership of a situation where the titans were involved when dick was better equipped to handle it, etc.) but the outcome of those situations was never outright bad yknow. bruce was very much capable of recognizing where he might have overstepped and subsequently stepped back to let dick have his own space. and i think initially max allan collins expanded on that dynamic in the post-crisis era in interesting ways by juxtaposing bruce's desire to see dick flourish against his own constant fear for dick's life. so instead of mike w. barr's comedic and lighthearted backup stories in early 80s tec where bruce disguised himself to keep an eye on dick's shenanigans and assure himself everything was going alright, you got this more serious confrontation within bruce with regards to his position as a parent. i don't think a lot of people read it that deeply but i've always viewed batman #408 as one of the most sensible depictions of that dilemma. the general complaints tend to be that this issue robbed dick of his pre-crisis decision to retire robin on his own, and i'll concede that as a worthwhile concern. but i don't think it's esp damning what with the implication that bruce no longer wants to be the person indirectly making the decision for dick to continue to be in this line of work. their moment at dick's bedside is less about bruce robbing him of the decision and more about him saying, if i let you still be robin, that's a direct reflection on me, bc i'm the one who got you to do all of this originally. i'm the one who put you directly in harm's way. if you're going to do this from now on, you need to do it on your own terms. you need to decide for yourself that this is who you want to be, without your relationship with me even being a factor.

it's a moment contributive to that delicious dynamic between them wherein every decision bruce takes to service dick's agency is inevitably read the wrong way by the latter to imply that he's not valued or not worthy of being seen as bruce's equal (and before the hounds pounce on me this obv does not include the increasingly abusive depiction of their relationship as the 90s progressed). that is an unavoidable dilemma when you're simultaneously someone's ward/adopted son and also their partner-in-crime! dick wants to be bruce's son and to be entitled to all of the love and care and protection that that entails but he also wants to be bruce's brother, his equal, his confidante, the one person he trusts more than anyone else in the world, etc. it's a tough place to be! it is paradoxical! and i'm so, so open to seeing that explored and think the way collins attempted to approach it in #408 was marvelous. but the way starlin (and other writers as well) totally swerved right in #416 to create this sudden resentment in bruce that dick had grown out of needing him was.. so utterly bizarre. like completely out of left field in a way i don't understand why people don't question it anymore bc in light of everything in the immediate fifteen years prior to the crisis it makes so little sense. their relationship with each other was so valued, bruce was so anxious to see dick establish himself while nonetheless maintaining a protectiveness over him, but it was all very much in good will even if he could overstep on occasion. it had all of the potential to allow for a very nuanced, empathetic exploration into the dilemmas of parenthood and esp when you are someone like bruce who has to forever live and contend with the crime of taking kids with him out onto the streets. bc he has to feel guilty! there is no escaping it. this is history, done and dusted forever, can't go back in time, so on and so forth. whatever harm comes any robin's way he has to live with as in some part being traceable back to his own actions. and i frankly believe that would be far more likely to evoke grief and anxiousness and concern than it would be bitterness that his son is charting out his own life

#as to do i think starlin did anything well. hmm #i like that he was able to acknowledge that jason's parents were loving people despite their circumstances #it didn't matter that willis was a criminal. what mattered was that he loved his family and would've done anything for them #which was a rare concession from starlin bc his writing could be pretty classist elsewhere #but at the same time idk sometimes i read it back and it's like. i don't think he was actually as classist as winick was ultimately #like it's been a While since i reread the starlin issues #but you could tell he believed jason's demise was less about his social class and more about being unable to fully recover from #or process his trauma as a result of the life he'd lived and the things he'd experience. hence the garzonas saga #and even in a death in the family the question is never about whether jason is acting out bc he's criminally inclined #bruce explicitly says he doesn't think he's given jason enough time to mentally and emotionally recover and that's why #he suspends him. so even starlin knew it was about the trauma first and foremost #and i mean that somewhat goes in line with his reasons for wanting to kill robin to begin with #he thought robin was symbolically representative of child abuse #in that it wasn't the conduit through which a young boy should necessarily grow #and ideally? the way to explore that in a medium that Requires the existence of child vigilantes #would have been to make the distinction that while there is always going to be some danger to every robin at the end of the day #what made the danger to jason distinct was that robin didn't work to resolve His trauma specifically #what robin did for dick is never something it could have done for jason let alone tim. there were too many other factors at play #so if this dilemma had been approached that way rather than starlin pursuing a blanket robin is child abuse ideology #that was subsequently picked up by other writers. then i think we might have gotten somewhere quite interesting #but anyway yeah so he's not my most hated by any means. there are parts i love there are parts i hate #ultimately at the end of the day winick will always be a gazillion times worse #outbox

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