#this is what a faux ally looks like

[crescenthistory]

hihi i love ur work sm <3 could you pls do a barty crouch jr sunshine x grump except the reader is the grump? ik barty isnt rlly sunshine like but he seems a lot more outgoing and energetic when compared to the reader. for the prompt could it be a.6 where the reader is just being her usual grumpy self and barty sort of mocks her? if the idea doesnt sound so appealing u dont have to do it i understand !! (also ignore the fact i submitted this earlier but forgot to put the prompt lmfao)

hi sweetheart! first of all, no i will not ignore your earlier ask because what you said about my writing was soso sweet and i think about it daily<33 i am a truther of barty being the sunshine in these dynamics because his chaotic energy needs a bit of a grumpy counterpart which is why i'm also a bartylus truther shhh so i'm in love with your idea, thanks darling xx this was so fun to write, why is he like this

Prompt: A.6 "Aren't you just a sweetheart?"

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader (she/her pronouns used), you are in gryffindor sorry and marauders!bestie, mostly barty pov so it's sassy and biased, banter/bickering, language, some innuendos/suggestive jokes, they do not kiss physically but are making out in barty's head tbh, jegulus appearance my loves, a little bit of bartylus snuck in there

Note: i love their dynamic here, might write some more blurbs with the same storyline/concept

continuation can be found here <3 and here

Barty could not believe Regulus had betrayed him on such a carnal level.

Becoming chummy with Gryffindors in general should be considered a cardinal sin, but shagging one on the regular? Insisting that shagging was a “crude term” for it and insisting Barty accept that his best friend, stupid wanker, is actually in love with and dating James Potter, the epitome of Gryffindor bravado?

Absolutely unacceptable. Arguably a hate crime, and he told Regulus as much, only to be met with an eye roll as the black haired boy continued to drag him along to where his new boyfriend was sitting in the Great Hall, surrounded by friends.

“Well, if it isn’t Baby Black?” A girl called as Regulus approached the group, hauling Barty along with him. Others around smiled and greeted Regulus – not Barty.

“Shut it, McKinnon,” Regulus grumbled, sheepishly taking the seat on James’s left that he had saved for him. Barty could spot a slight pinkish blush creeping up on Regulus’s cheeks when James murmured a hey love and kissed his cheek.

Barty could puke at the sight.

Nevertheless, he shoved some Gryffindors further down the table to take a seat beside Regulus. For whatever reason, he had believed it necessary to bring Barty with him every single time he meets James’s gnarly pack, so Barty assumed the role of protective friend while still making it exponentially clear that he disapproves.

“No acknowledgement for me then?” Barty looked around the table who were in one degree or another cooing at the fresh couple. All except Sirius, who, like Barty, was faux gagging at the sight.

It’s a new low for Sirius Black to be your one ally.

“Make yourself note-worthy, and we’ll say hello to you, Junior.” The gruff voice came from you, who conveniently was sitting opposite Barty this morning.

You were thus far the most tolerable of James’s friends, mostly because you had yet to be as loud and obnoxious as the rest, despite the red and gold around your neck. You had yet to say almost anything at all, but what you did say had a habit of drawing a snort from Barty. Mostly because it was never particularly kind.

Your eyes didn’t leave the crossword puzzle you were working on as you ate, shutting out the bickering around you, yet somehow picking up on Barty’s comment. 

Intriguing. 

“I take great personal offence to that, Treasure.” Barty's voice was incredulous but he sported a contradicting wicked grin, happy at the opportunity to wreak a bit of havoc if he must be seated here.

“Ew.” You looked up at that, eyes narrowing at the pet name he gave you. He decided then and there, that was the only way he would refer to you from now on. “And good. Maybe it can help you build some character.”

“Oh, come on,” James butted in, finally drawing his eyes from Regulus – who he had sneaked an arm around before the boy could protest at the public display of affection – and looking at his dear friend and his disgruntled friend-in-law. “Be nice to Junior, he slithered here all the way from the comforts of his dungeon.”

“So did your boytoy, Potter, so watch your mouth.” Sirius, James and Regulus all winced at the word boytoy, though for very different reasons.

“And so I am being nice to him,” James retorted, squeezing Regulus as he looked down at him. “Aren’t I, love?”

“Shut up,” Regulus whispered.

“You’ve already said that today, Reggie,” McKinnon replied with a sly grin. “Find another comeback, why don’t ya?”

Regulus just rolled his eyes at her while Sirius bumped his shoulder into hers in a sign of approval.

“Anyway.” Barty drew the attention back to him as he spoke up, but his eyes were trained on you. “Build some character you say? What character would you like me to be, Treasure?"

You sized him up, clearly debating whether to follow James's advice or take Barty's bait. The latter seemed to win.

"Someone less disruptive would be a great start."

"That would hold more bite if you didn't willingly surround yourself with this lot," Barty laughed, waving his arms a bit too theatrically towards your friends, some of which were scowling at him, others nodding in agreement. Barty swore he could hear James whisper fair under his breath.

"Willingly is a bit of a stretch." You side-eyed Sirius beside you with a sly grin, who took a few seconds to process your sentence. Once he realised, he gasped and swatted at your arm for the disrespect.

Barty was enjoying himself much more than he expected.

"Aren't you just a sweetheart?" His grin never faltered as he continued his one-sided staring contest with you. As if you were the only thing in the room of notice, as if your friends weren't right there and needed to be won over by him as well.

“I can be,” you drawled, fighting to keep your face neutral. “You just gotta earn it."

Barty tilted his head, eyes narrowing with interest as he studied you. There was something undeniably magnetic about your sharp tongue, the way you seemed to remain so unbothered by the chaos swirling around the table.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, inching just a bit closer. “And how do I do that?”

Finally, you locked eyes with him properly, levelling him with your stare. Your expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe?—beneath your cold exterior.

"That ship sailed so long ago, you can't even see it from harbour, Junior."

"Good thing I can swim." Barty winked at you, and part of him thought he caught you look flustered for half a moment as his comments grew flirtier by the minute.

“Fine by me, easier to drown you if you jump in the water willingly."

Barty barked a laugh, unphased by your words. "Don't threaten me with a good time." He could feel Regulus giving him a look from his right, but Barty ignored it. He was far too entertained by you now. “Tell me, do you give everyone such a warm welcome, or am I just special?”

Your lips twitched, but you held your ground, flicking your eyes back to the crossword in front of you. “You’re just annoying.”

Regulus groaned softly, clearly wishing he could disappear into the floor. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to subject himself—and by extension, Barty—to the whirlwind that was James Potter and his pack of friends, but he also wasn’t blind. He saw the way Barty’s attention had shifted, how your sharp, biting comments had hooked him in a way nothing else had managed to. He could practically feel the chaos brewing.

James, ever the peacemaker, clapped his hands together. “Right, well, now that we’ve all sufficiently insulted each other—again—how about we chat about something less murder-y?”

“No promises,” you murmured, flipping a page of the Daily Prophet as you continued working through the puzzle.

“Good efforts, Potter, but I fear she's just too intrigued by me” Barty sighed, leaning back in his seat as if exhausted by the mere prospect of attention. “I have that effect on people.”

“Oh, sure,” McKinnon chimed in, rolling her eyes. “We’re all positively obsessed with you.”

Sirius, looking entirely too pleased with himself, gave you an exaggerated wink. “I’d pay good money to see her put you in your place, Junior.”

“And I’d pay good money to see you mind your own business,” you retorted coolly, not even sparing Sirius a glance. Neither boy seemed sure if the comment was meant for Sirius or Barty, but didn't let that deter their entertainment.

Barty watched the exchange with open fascination. He couldn’t help but admire how easily you held your own amongst this overzealous group, considering their tendency to overwhelm people with their loud, boisterous energy. You were like a still, cold lake amidst a storm, unbothered by the wind and waves crashing around you.

He leaned closer to Regulus, his voice dropping slightly as he muttered, “I like her.”

Regulus, still recovering from the emotional whiplash of being dragged between Barty and James’s worlds, gave Barty a flat look. “Don’t.”

Barty’s grin only widened. “Too late.”

It became a strange, almost delirious routine for Barty to be swirled into the life of James Potter and Co. He minded it less and less, irritation soothed almost instantly once he saw you.

He sought you out every time Regulus brought him along, plopping down beside you on the common room couches, leaning on your chair at the library, catching your eye in the hallways. You presented begrudgingly, always rolling your eyes and scoffing, but your resolve crumbled slowly and the smile you were fighting became more insistent.

You and your dry retorts, you with your books or puzzles in hand, you and your knowing looks that grew more affectionate.

Barty was thoroughly fascinated.

"Don't screw this up for me please," Regulus would whine as the two of them walked back to the Slytherin dorms with just a few minutes left before curfew. They had dragged out their time sprawled across the couches by the fireplace at Gryffindor.

This time, as most times of late, Regulus hadn't asked Barty to come – he hadn't needed to. While the two usually spent most of their time together, Barty had practically been glued to his side as of late, ready to jump on the opportunity to see you.

"I won't," Barty dragged out the words with annoyance, as if he had said them a thousand times as of late. "Don't worry your pretty head so much Reggie, James won't care that I'm bantering with his bestie."

"It's not just the bantering I'm worried about," Regulus muttered, but Barty caught it clear as day. He gave his friend a look that demanded further explanation.

"You clearly fancy her, Barty!" He just blinked, as if to say and? Regulus groaned. "Just don't mess anything up with her to the point where she gets so angry she doesn't want to see you anymore. I don't want to have to deal with managing my time between you and James because she wants you dead."

Barty sighed dreamily at those last words, whispering wouldn't that be hot? Regulus gave him a corrective slap up the back of his head.

"I won't okay, I won't!" Barty was the one grumbling now, trying to deal with the infatuation in his stomach, just aching to go back and bicker some more with you, while also calming his best friend down. "I don't want to actually like hurt her or anything, I just like getting a little rise out of her."

Regulus paused before the entrance to the Slytherin common room, levelling Barty with a glare. He realised then that he seemed to have a type of person he prefers to associate with, because you had given him that same look earlier when you debated each other about who should get to sit in the comfy chair. He suggested you just sit in his lap in the chair – a great compromise, really – and a beautiful blush crept up on your face when you scoffed.

"If she will make you happy, please do go for it. But be careful, please." Regulus's tone of voice was intent, leaving little room for argument.

Barty still found some, of course, but he was soft for his friend and gave way.

"Fine, don't worry, I've got it under control," he all but whined. "It's not everyday stoic Regulus Black begs me for anything, so fine."

There was a smile on Regulus's face when he shoved him then, finally stepping into the Slytherin dorms to call it a night.

You were in the library the first time Barty got you all to himself.

It was a Saturday afternoon when Barty found himself wandering through the library, absentmindedly scanning the rows of books. He wasn’t really paying attention, more so killing time before his next Quidditch practice and possibly looking for some trouble, when he spotted you in a far corner. Much better.

For once you were free from your larger than life friends, nose peacefully buried in another one of your books as you twirled your quill before your fingers. Barty knew you were waiting to scribble something in the margin, and a surprisingly soft warmth sprouted in his chest when you did. A small smile tugged at his lips as he made his way over to you, leaning casually against the bookshelf beside you.

“Fancy seeing you here, Treasure.”

You didn’t even bother looking up. “If you’re here to annoy me, I’ll hex you. Finally got some peace and quiet."

Barty laughed, taking the seat across from you without invitation. “You wound me. What makes you think I’m here to annoy you? Maybe I just wanted some quality company.”

“Quality company?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow as you finally looked up from your book. “And yet you chose to sit with me.”

“Exactly,” Barty replied smoothly, flashing you a grin. “You’re the most interesting person in this castle, and I’m bored. I’m sure you can entertain me.”

You gave him a long, appraising look, as if trying to figure out what his angle was. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Nope.” His characteristic cheshire cat grin was playing across his features, and you ignored the stirring it caused inside you.

A pause stretched between you as your staring contest prolonged, and for a moment, Barty thought you were going to ignore him, go back to your book, and continue the delicate balance of biting banter and cold indifference that had marked all your previous interactions.

Then, much to his surprise, you closed your book with your fingers keeping your page. You leaned back in your chair as you regarded him with a calculating gaze. “Fine. Though if you’re so desperate for company, then you tell me something interesting. Junior.”

Barty blinked, not having expected you to actually engage. His grin grew and he felt pride bloom in your chest as you began to sport your own.

"Oh, I'll tell you anything you want, if it'll keep your attention on me, Treasure."

[itsbeeble]

Cheerleaders and Stereotypes

SUMMARY: Choi San isn't an idiot. He's also very patient. How long will it take for you to let him admit that he bagged the hottest cheerleader in the world?

GENRE: fluff, angst, smut

PAIRING: Choi San x afab!reader

WC: ~4.7k

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn @flwoie

18+ MDNI AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

WARNINGS: reader is dumb, relationship is actually a little toxic I won't even lie, san tries to make reader jealous and it works, p in v sex, fingering, size kink, SIZE. KINK., softdom!san, big dick!san, um reader struggles to ride san idk, bulge kink, san lowkey mocks the reader a bit, insecurities, arguing, san lowkey is way too patient for reader, idk i think that's it

A/N: h-heyyyyy *chuckles nervously* Everyone say welcome back tumblr user itsbeeble! Everyone say thank you @from-izzy and @sanaxo-o for distracting me while I was writing and to ally for supporting me through a very very very very long writers block hahahahhahahhahhahha....haha...ha

Choi San, despite popular belief, was not an idiot. Not really at least. Unfortunately for him, he seemed to fit most of the stereotypes of a college athlete.

He was fit, that was without a doubt and he would not deny it. Six days a week in the gym after football practice did him good. Toned arms that hardly fit any of his shirts, the fabric stretching and nearly tearing every time he got dressed. Thick thighs that bulged against every pair of jeans or sweatpants, noticeable from the stands on game day and having girls swooning as he walked. Not to mention his ass. Had he not built up a brick wall called “confidence” the comments made about his ass would have had him blushing and covering his cheeks rather than smirking. 

God, that smirk. He flashed it casually to anyone who looked at him— students, professors, the crowd, the opposing team, the cheerleaders. It was a near unfortunate bonus that he was just as hot as he was fit. That stupid chiselled jaw, the dimples, and his tall frame. It’s irritating. 

At least, it’s irritating for you. 

See, being the supposedly stupid captain of the football team came with many stereotypes. 

Dating the captain of the cheerleading squad was just one more, even if no one knew. 

No one important, that is.

“Sannie,” Yewon was practically hanging off San’s arm, her manicured nails lightly scratching the tan skin. The sing-song tone of her voice made you cringe, the noise scraping at your eardrums and creating a dull throb in your already aching skull. Your back was turned to the pair, but San could tell you were likely trying to grow eyes in the back of your skull to watch the interaction. That stupid, casual smirk of his was trained on the newer cheerleader, her eyes big and filled with faux innocence. “How did you get so big?”

A poorly stifled snort from another girl on the squad, Sihyeon. A good friend of yours who knows exactly what goes on between you and San behind closed doors, and knows exactly what he’s planning. That little snort has you turning the daggers you call eyes onto her, the girls around her shifting uncomfortably at the now tense energy around you. 

Jealousy. That’s what San’s goal is and you know it. He’s pulled this trick several times before, trying to egg you on and expose the relationship that you’d chosen to hide. So he’d play stupid, that same act that everyone believes is a poor reality. The dumb, hot captain of the football team who can’t seem to get a girlfriend despite the girls falling at his feet for a moment of his attention. All he wants is for you to finally get jealous enough to rip that girl off his arm and finally stake your claim publicly. 

Unfortunately, you’re patient. 

Fortunately, so is he.

He smirks down at her, his arm grazing the skin of her lower back that her top doesn’t cover. You can practically hear her breathing stutter, and your grip on your pom poms tightens.

“Never skip a day at the gym, never skip practice, throw a good party on the weekends.” His answer is…lackluster at best. Your nose wrinkles, knowing he did it on purpose. The idiotic responses are for you, in hopes that you’ll turn around and yell at him for pretending to be a moron even though he’s one of the best students in the Kinesiology department. 

“You’ll have to coach me through a workout one day,” Yewon grabs San’s arm tighter when she sees you turn to face the pair. 

“Maybe I should take you up on that.” San isn’t looking at her, not even a brief glance down to acknowledge that she’s there. No, his eyes are trained on you. Daring you to say something, anything. 

Do it.

You know you want to.

Stake the claim.

You know I’m yours. Why not let everyone else know?

You open your mouth to speak, and he quirks an eyebrow at you. Do it, do it, do it.

“Kim Yewon,” the words are laced with venom and she goes rigid. “Break ended ten minutes ago.”

“I was talking to Sannie!” She glared at you, and you almost laughed. 

“Sannie,” you mocked, watching a pout form on your boyfriend’s lips, “has his own practice to get to.”

“Our practice ended half an hour ago.” He argued, toeing the limits of how far he can push you before you finally break. 

“Then leave.” 

“I don’t want to. I wanna stay and talk with Yewon.” He challenged. Sihyeon grimaces behind you, watching as San digs himself a grave not even he can climb out of. 

The two of you stare each other down for a few moments, a mix of emotions running through you. You know that he’s challenging you and trying to get a rise out of you, but you know better. You know you can’t challenge him like that without exposing your relationship— the one thing in your life that you want to keep to yourself for just a little while longer. 

You’re the first to cave, your shoulders slumping just enough to be noticed by San, and his eyebrows knit together. 

“Do what you want. Practice is done for the day.”

The two-story rental house you share with Sihyeon and a few other girls from the squad is eerily silent. The air conditioning and the sound of you quietly walking around your room are the only things keeping you from the thoughts in your head. 

Did San take Yewon up on the ‘offer’?

Did you take it too far?

Should you have just caved for him?

What if he’s sick of this? Of the secret meet-ups and the acting?

Something hits the window as you’re walking past it, and a loud squeak escapes you. You whip your head around just as, what you now realize is, a rock hits the window. Not a large rock. Small, just enough to be noticeable and visible to the naked eye as it tumbles back down to the front lawn. Another rock as you take the two steps you need in order to peer down and see San with a pile of rocks on the ground next to him, a fourth in his hand ready to be thrown if needed. He grins when he sees you, tossing the rock up and down a couple of times before taking aim.

You fling your window open, scowling down at him before he winds his hand back. 

“Don’t you fucking dare, Choi San.” He pouts up at you, but all you do is glare. 

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?”

“Ring the doorbell, dumbass. Like a normal person.” 

Much to your annoyance, San just grins and drops the rock. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You lean against the window frame, arms folded as you run your tongue over your lip in thought. “Shouldn’t you be with Yewon?” 

You can see San’s nose wrinkle at the thought, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he makes his way to the tree he’d been using as a sort of ladder to get into your room. He’d been doing that since you met, since the first time you ever slept together. He’d never been a fan of the whole…front door tactic. Your father would probably hate him. He’d think San was no good, a troublemaker if anything. You would disagree. 

Maybe your relationship was more stereotypical than you were willing to believe. 

San’s shoes are louder than either of you had expected as he jumps down from the tree, grimacing at the noise he makes.

“If my neighbors didn’t know any better, the police would’ve been here by now.” You shuffle back as your boyfriend tucks awkwardly through your window. His large frame pushes against the frame, the vinyl creaking against him as it struggles to stay in one piece. His neck cranes to look up at you, his feet hitting the ground with another loud thump.

“Glad they know better then.” He pushes a hand through his hair, the silky black strands falling loosely over his forehead in spite of his best efforts. 

A moment of silence falls between you, and you take this time to sit at your dresser. Makeup wipes and cleansers are scattered in front of you from when you’d made a weak attempt at distracting yourself from, well, the problem you’d created. 

San sits on your bed behind you, watching every move you make. He sits quietly, like a child in a timeout chair. He waits, letting you make the calls. You never knew why he started doing that— started letting you take the lead in every argument, even the petty nonsensical ones.

“You never answered my question,” your eyes are trained on him through the mirror. He presses his lips together, loosely folding his legs.

“Are you really that upset?” The question is innocent enough, but it brings back the previous irritation from the field. 

“Why wouldn’t I be? My boyfriend is openly flirting with other people knowing that I’ll get pissed off. You flaunt that knowledge like it’s your fucking birthright or whatever. Do you really think I’m not gonna get upset about it?” You put your moisteurizer down with more force than you’d wanted to, shaking your dresser a bit. San flinches at the sudden noise, gnawing at his lip in thought. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Are you, though?” Your eyes are narrowed as you turn around in your chair. A momentary pause as San lets the words sink in. He’s patient. So patient with you, even when you feel you don’t deserve it. “You act like you don’t give two shits about our relationship, and then show up at my fucking window acting like nothing is wrong and that the world is all sunshine and fucking rainbows. You go out of your way to piss me off, make me angry at my own squad, just for what? So you can get a good fuck at the end of the day?” 

Sometimes you forget that, while Choi San is patient, that patience runs thin. 

He isn’t stupid. He knows that this outburst, this frustration, isn’t just at him, but the more you spit your venom at him, taking your anger and misdirecting it, the more his patience begins to run out. You can see it in the clenching of his fists, the ticking of his jaw, and the glare in his eyes. 

Unfortunately, you’re far too lost in your mind that you can’t see the way San rises from his seat on your bed and takes a step toward you. Then another, and another, and suddenly he’s right in front of you. 

“Sometimes I think that the idiotic front that you put on isn’t exactly a front at all—” You spin around, expecting him to still be on your bed. A loud yelp escapes you when you come face-to-face with his well-built frame. “Jesus Christ, San! Why the fuck are you right behi—”

“Shut up,” he says it so simply, so calmly that you almost think he’s not being serious. 

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” You snarl, and San scoffs. 

“Do you even realize why we’re in this situation to begin with?”

“Yeah, you were flirting with my fucking—”

“Don’t blame me for your fucking problems,” San spits out. Your eyes widen and you take a step back. “I’ve been going along with this stupid fucking secret relationship for who knows how long, and all I’ve gotten in return is you bitching about me wanting you to just come out with it!” 

“You know I want to keep—”

“You want to keep your love life private,” San interrupts and flings his hands into the air. “I get it. I understand, Y/N. That doesn’t make it suck any less.” 

“It isn’t just—” you huff, pressing your hand to your forehead in a poor attempt at calming yourself down. “It isn’t just the fact that I want to keep us private, Sannie. I just— I don’t—” 

Your eyes are welling up with tears, and you blink a few times to force them back. San pulls you toward him, his hand practically engulfing yours as he tugs you onto his lap. Your legs are on either side of his, and he laces his fingers with yours, resting them between the two of you. 

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.” He murmurs, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. “Let me help you.”

You shake your head, and his chest rises and falls with a quiet sigh. “I’m just— I’m just so sick of— of everything.” 

San presses a little kiss to your forehead, tugging one of his hands free from yours and lacing it through the strand of hair on the back of your head. He doesn’t move for a few moments, placing another kiss on your forehead and then another. He waits for you to calm yourself and gather your thoughts. 

“Can—” your voice is quieter, a bit more shaky than it was just moments ago. “Can you kiss me?” San smiles, his lips still just millimeters from your forehead.

“Tell me what’s wrong first.” Your hips shift against his, and you drop your head against the column of his neck. Your breath is warm against his skin, and the scent of your shampoo begins to flood his senses. His hand tugs at your hair, drawing your attention back to him. “You’re absolutely insatiable, you know that? Tell me what’s wrong or I’m leaving.”

You can’t fight the little whine that’s pulled out of you. Not that you wanted to. You wanted him. You wanted Choi San so badly that it hurt.

“I was— I was mad because I didn’t want…” You can hardly form a sentence, too distracted by the gentle tugs at your hair and the way San’s other hand has drifted to your hip, drawing circles underneath the fabric of your sleep shorts. 

“What didn’t you want, sweetheart? Tell me.” San pulls your head away from his neck, holding back a grin at the near-glazed look in your eyes. 

“I didn’t want to be part of anymore��stereotypes. We already fit so many, I just—I just wanted to hold that one back for a bit longer.” You whine, your lips falling into a pout that San just wants to kiss away. Instead, he smiles. 

“Was that so hard, pretty girl? So much fighting just for a silly little reason like that?” Your pout deepens, and he sighs. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah…”

“And nothing is gonna change that, no matter how many stereotypes we fall under. You understand?”

“Yes,” San smiles, stroking your hip and squeezing it.

“‘Yes’ what, baby?” Your eyes are glossy now, your lips parted slightly in your daze.

“Yes sir.”

Despite San’s patience running thin, he always recovers it with ease. Patience is what he’s known for in class, on the field, in your relationship, and in your bedroom. 

He can edge you for hours, cooing at the way you beg for him, beg for that sweet release, for just one more finger, please just one more.

“Pretty girl,” he strokes your cheek, letting his hand slide down your spine to rest against the small of your back. You’re writhing beneath him, trying desperately to bring your hips up just enough for him to hit that sweet spot inside of you but failing miserably. “I don’t think you can handle anymore.” 

Only two of his fingers sit inside you, but it’s more than enough to stretch you out, to provide you with the stimulation you need to go right over the edge—

“San—sir, please.” Your hands grip the pillow beneath your head tightly, nails digging into the fabric so tight you’re afraid it might tear. “Pl—Please lemme cum, I prom—promise I’ll b—be good. Please,” You’re nearly hysterical, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as he plunges his fingers in and out of you, his thumb dancing over your clit but not quite giving you that extra stimulation. Not that you need it with the way he grinds the tips of his fingers into the spongy spot just within his reach. 

“You wanna cum that bad?” San leans down, his chest pressed against your back and his lips right up against your ear. “You’re gonna have to work harder than that. Beg for it. Scream. I want everyone to know that you’re mine.” 

Patience is a virtue you haven’t quite learned yet. What you have learned? You’re extraordinarily good at making Choi San cave for you. 

“Sir,” you plead, pushing your hips back against his hand just enough. There’s a burning feeling in your stomach, the knot winding tighter and tighter until you almost can’t take it. “Please. I’m so so—sorry for yelling. Please I’ve been so good for you. I can take it. Please let me take it. Want you s—so bad. Want you to ma—make me cum. Want you, Sannie! Please, please make me cum. Want you to fuck me so bad, ple—please!” 

For a moment, San’s hand stills inside you. For a moment all you can hear is your desperate whining and your boyfriend attempting to steady his breathing. 

Then he’s ripping his fingers out of your sopping cunt and rolling you onto your back. His frame looms over you in a way that has your body quivering with anticipation, eyes searching yours for…something that you can’t figure out in your lust-filled haze. 

“Such a pretty girl,” San murmurs, pressing his palm at the base of your stomach, one hand nearly covering the expanse of it. “So small, so good for me. So good for Sannie, hm?”

“Yes!” You grab his wrist, nails digging so tightly you’re afraid you might draw blood. “Please, wanna be so good for you Sannie!” 

He sighs, prying your hand away from his wrist and pinning it to the mattress. “You say that, but I don’t know if I believe you.” 

A sob pushes out of you, your back arching into him. He catches you before you can lower back down to the bed, his arm looping around you to keep you pressed against his chest while he sits back. You’re right where you started— on the bed, straddling him with tears running down your cheeks— but this time you’re both completely undressed. You can feel his cock pressing against your thigh, little twitches being the only indication of any impatience. You try to roll your hips against him, trying anything to get that friction back. San clicks his tongue and shakes his head. 

“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, stilling your hips with one hand. “Thought you said you’d be good for me.”

“I—I will!” You grab his shoulders, leaning your face up to his, trying desperately to kiss him— to do anything that might sway his decision. “I’m sorry, sir! I promise I just— I just wanted—”

“I know,” he kisses you gently, smiling softly, deceptively. “I know you just wanted to cum all over your Sannie’s lap. Been edgin’ you for so long, haven’t I? You deserve to cum for being so…patient.” You let out a relieved sob as San releases your hip and grabs his cock. He guides it through your folds briefly, soaking it in your arousal and pumping his hand up and down his shaft to thoroughly lubricate it. “You’re gonna prove to me that you can be good, baby. Okay?”

“Yes, yes Sannie!” You lift your hips just enough for him to align his tip with your entrance, almost starting to cry again at the feeling. He helps you sink, knowing that two fingers weren’t enough for you. It never is. No matter how much he fucks you, it’s always a tight fit for you, not that you ever complain. You never complain about how big San is compared to you. He’s caught you drooling over this size of his dick more times than he can count, usually trying to talk you out of riding him out of fear of hurting you. But not today. No, today he’s giving you exactly what you wanted. 

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” He encourages. “Fuck yourself dumb on Sannie’s cock.”

The look in your eyes becomes almost animalistic. You shift your body a bit, steadying your hands on his shoulders, and lift your hips until just his tip remains inside of you. San can feel the way you’re clenching around his tip, knows you’re doing it intentionally, and he lets his head fall back. 

When you sink intohim for the first time, you emit a strangled gasp, your eyes rolling into the back of your head and your nails digging into your lover’s shoulders.

“F—Fuck Sannie!” You bite down on your lip, lifting your hips again and dropping back down. “Mmph—fuck you’re too big!”

“You wanted this, sweetheart,” San tells you, rolling his head to the side and groaning as you continue to struggle with riding him. You try so, so hard to build a steady rhythm, but your legs are shaking and your breath is already gone. “I thought cheerleaders were supposed to have good stamina.”

“No—Not when their boyfriend has a f—fucking huge dick!” You cry out, giving up and grinding your hips against his. The steady rolling of your hips relieves the burn just a bit, and you moan as the tip of his cock grinds into that spot with more strength than his fingers did just minutes ago. “Fuck, I can fe—feel you in my stomach!” 

San lifts his head at that, a new hunger in his eyes and he leans you back. You slow your hips at the sudden movement, furrowing your brows while you watch him. He kisses his teeth and places a firm slap on the side of your hip. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?” He grips your hip tightly in both hands, forcing you to keep riding him. “Keep going, sweetheart. Keep going until I tell you to stop.” 

You do, your hips picking up a steady pace with the help of one of his hands to guide you along. His other hand presses against your stomach, and you hear his breathing hitch.

“Baby,” he takes your hand from his shoulder, squeezing it gently as he guides it to where his hand was previously. “Feel right here.” 

You hesitate just a moment, and he looks down at you, smiling encouragingly. 

Then you feel it. 

The bulge in your stomach where the tip of his cock reaches as far as it can possibly go. 

“You feel that, baby?” San presses your hand down and you both let out a simultaneous moan at the feeling. The white-hot pleasure builds back up in the pit of your stomach, the loosened knot returning with renewed fervor and you know San can tell. You know that he’s close too, his hips thrusting up to meet yours halfway. “God, you feel so good. How did I get so fucking lucky, huh?”

You don’t respond. You can’t respond. The pleasure is blinding. All you can feel, see, hear, and smell is San. He clouds your thoughts, your senses, your very being. The pleasure is winding up, drawing that knot tighter and tighter and tighter—

“C—Cumming, San!” You arch into him, and he holds your hip to keep you moving. “Fuck, fuck I’m cumming!”

“I know, pretty girl,” he grunts, his thrusts stuttering. “Fuck, I’m close. Keep going baby, wanna cum with you.”

Your hips are moving slower, your muscles burning and you can’t stop yourself from forcing San back until he’s laying against the bed. Your hands find purchase on his chest, sweat beading on your forehead with the effort to keep moving, to keep riding him until you’re both forced over the edge you’d been begging for. 

San’s thumb drifts across your hip, finding purchase on your swollen clit and rubbing sloppy circles into it until you’re sobbing again, sobbing his name and begging for that sweet release. 

When it hits you, it’s blinding. Stars spark behind your eyes, your head tossed back and sweet cries pulled from the depths of your chest. His hips thrust into yours one more time, his eyes trained on how you arch your back and twitch with your release, and then he’s cumming. Thick globs of cum fill you up to the brim, seeping out from the seams of your cunt and mixing with your release. You let yourself collapse against his chest, practically gasping for air and shaking from the effort of riding him.

“You finally got what you wanted,” San murmurs, resting one of his hands on the small of your back as his cock softens in you. “You finally got to ride me.”

“Never…never doing that again,” you mutter back, placing a kiss on the base of his neck. “Absolutely…not.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually letting this happen.” San is grinning ear to ear as he drives you to campus, his free hand holding yours tightly. You purse your lips, refusing to admit defeat.

“This doesn’t mean I want everyone knowing—”

“Bullshit,” San interrupts with a grin. “You want everyone to know that I bagged the hottest cheerleader in the world.”

“You didn’t bag shit, Choi San. And if you say that you ‘bagged’ me to anyone on the football team,” your eyes turn to daggers as you jab a finger into his shoulder, “I will end your bloodline where it stands. Your mom can say ‘bye’ to any chances of a grandchild from us.”

San grimaces, but it’s replaced by a radiant smile as he pulls into the parking garage closest to your building. “You can make as many threats as you want, sweetheart, but you and I both know you won’t risk that. You love getting fucked after dealing with Yewon every day.” 

He opens your door for you, beaming as he helps you out of his car. 

“I’ll make you a deal, sweetheart.”

“Will you now?” Your response is sarcastic but San ignores it.

“You let me show you off as much as I want, and I bitch out Yewon today.”

You don’t even have to think about your response, a grin replacing your scowl.

“That sounds like a damn good deal, Choi San.”

“Sannie!” 

Yewon’s grating voice has never sounded so fucking heavenly in your ears, knowing exactly what’s going to happen next. San is already at your side, rifling through your bag for the extra granola bar he knows you have. He grimaces at the sound, his eyes almost begging you to help him, but you shake your head.

“You dug your own grave, Sannie.” A quick pat on his shoulder and his fate is decided for him.

“Yewon,” he greets the girl, continuing to rifle through the bag. “Can I help you?” 

The disinterest in his voice didn’t deter her, not that anyone was surprised. The cheer squad watched the younger, newer, dumber member as she stumbled through her flirtations, complimenting him on things he didn’t need nor want to be complimented on while searching for a fucking granola bar. 

“Yewon,” San finally interrupts the girl, rising with the snack in his hand and glaring down at her. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not interested.” 

The shock on her face made you smile. Maybe it was cruel. Maybe it was a bitch named Karma. Or, maybe, you were sick of the shitty stereotypes that you always seemed to fall victim to. 

“But you—you always—”

“I was trying to make my girlfriend jealous of me, as shitty as that is,” San pinches the bridge of his nose and scoffs. “But I’ve already got myself a cheerleader, Kim Yewon. And she’s the best girlfriend I could ever ask for. Plus, she’s hot as fuck,” San grins at you, but you can only roll your eyes.

“I said no—”

“You said I couldn’t tell people I bagged you,” it takes him three steps to reach your side and grab your chin. “Not that I couldn’t call you the hottest cheerleader in the world. No offense, Sihyeon.”

“None taken,” your best friend waves her hand dismissively. “I’m just glad you two finally got your heads out of your asses.” 

“Shut up, Sihyeon.” You scowl, but San is quick to bend down, hunching at the shoulders to reach your height and kiss you firmly on the mouth. It’s a searing kiss, more than he said he would do in front of the squad, but you let him have his moment. 

You’d made him wait long enough.

�� itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[kookygranger]

Top five, most memorable kisses of all time

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Corroded Coffin move to Chicago and find their people. Eddie finds you behind the counter at Championship Records. He thinks you're cool. You think he's gorgeous. Life outside of Hawkins might just be worth fighting for.

Warnings: swearing, kissing (obvs), fluff, fem!reader, mostly Eddie's POV, our boy has no rizz, alcohol consumption, I don't think anything else, too many high fidelity references?

Word count: 4k

Author's note: This is a one-shot, that has been sitting in my drafts since last Halloween and thanks to a wip game has finally seen the light of day! Find the playlist that inspired the fic below.

Masterlist

One pill makes you larger,

And one pill makes you small

The bell above the door jingles as Eddie steps through the threshold, his shoulders relaxing as the warmth seeps back into him and he scans the racks of records before him. Perking up as he notices the music playing over the speakers, he was still getting used to how much cooler things were in Chicago than back home – and shit, how much cooler people were.

Eddie clocks you sitting on top of the counter with one leg crossed under you, the other swinging down the side as you sticker a stack of vinyl. You mouth along with the music, not even noticing him slip through the aisles as he stops in a random section with a perfect view of you across the small store.

He’d only come in here to kill some time between soundcheck and the gig tonight at a venue down the street. The rest of the band had gone to find some food, but Eddie wanted to check out the record store they passed on the drive in. And boy, was he glad he did.

He mindlessly flicks through the records in front of him, trying to come up with a good conversation starter. It wasn’t that often that he missed Steve Harrington, but he could sure use one of the boy’s famous pep talks right about now. Fuck, what was it about pretty girls that got him so tongue-tied? Probably the pretty part.

But you weren’t just pretty, you were obviously very cool, and he certainly wasn’t used to girls sharing the same interests as him – but he’d met a lot of them since he’d moved to Chicago a couple of months ago.

Just as he’s thinking about what albums he could pick out to impress you, the bell above the door jingles again. A guy around his age walks in, his short hair spiked, nose and ears pierced and tattoos peeking out from a crisp white t-shirt. He walks with confidence to where you sit and makes you jump slightly as he greets you boisterously.

“Shit, you scared me.”

He snickers and starts rummaging through a crate of cassettes by the counter.

“Yeah, you look like you were in the zone. Did you even notice you had a customer?”

You turn your head in Eddie’s direction just as he ducks his down, continuing to flick through the disco section. Wait, shit where’s the metal?

“Shit.” You whisper under your breath and turn your attention back to the other guy, not quite lowering your voice enough so Eddie couldn’t eavesdrop. “No, but in my defence this song is a banger.”

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly

Severin, down on your bended knee

“What the fuck are you listening to anyway?”

“I made a pre-Halloween mix. Music that led to goth before goth was a thing.” You frown as you try to unstick a bright red sticker from the price gun you’d been tapping on the pile of vinyl.

Eddie smiles to himself as he continues to pretend he’s browsing and not tuning into your conversation.

“Are you coming to The Allied tonight? There’s some new band from Indiana or something playing. Apparently, they do a sick cover of Master of Puppets.”

Eddie pauses in his faux perusing for a second as he awaits your reply.

“I wasn’t really planning on it, no.”

The guy huffs, “No? What was your plan, going home to sulk to The Velvet Underground?”

“I don’t sulk–“

“You do when you listen to The Velvet Underground.”

“What do you want me to do? Pogo to Heroin? Anyway, I was gonna work on an article actually.”

“Why don’t you write about this band tonight? Tim says they’re pretty good. He saw them a couple of weeks ago at the Metro.”

“Tim said that about that god-awful noise band that played at De Salle’s. It was the worst four hours of my life. I thought my ears were actually going to bleed.”

“Whatever, you say that like you’re not currently playing the most depressing German synth music that nobody in their right mind would listen to.” He points his hand in the air, drawing your attention to the new song playing from the speakers behind you.

“First of all, this is David Bowie’s Low. And if you knew as much about music as you claim to, you’d know that this was his seminal work in his Berlin era and an ambient soundscape masterpiece. Secondly–“

“I like it.”

Both of your heads shoot up at Eddie’s interruption. He blushes and clears his throat as you catch his eye and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry, I just–it’s a good mixtape. I like the theme.” He frowns and shakes his head at himself, he doesn’t know what came over him. Who is this guy that’s bothering you, anyway? You have amazing taste and he’s now sure you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. You gesture in his direction and look back at the guy that’s teasing you.

“The customer is always right, Simon.”

Eddie moves quickly to the B section and finds the album you were talking about before heading over to you.

“Did you find everything you need?” You smile at him sweetly as you hop off the counter and take the record from him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before. Customer service isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

The guy, Simon, snorts. Eddie can’t take his eyes off the way your face lights up quietly when you realise what album he picked.

“What are your strongest skills?” That was such a weird question Munson, what the hell?

You look up at him a little taken aback, before a small smile creeps up on you.

“Talking about music…or” you shake your head in contemplation, “writing about it actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not so much a skill, more like an obsession.”

“She’s actually kind of good.” Simon butts in with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“Such a high compliment cuz.”

You were cousins. He still had a shot.

“You write for magazines?”

“Zines mostly,” you point to a stack of xeroxed pamphlets on the counter, “but I’ve published a few reviews with Spin and The Face.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That’s pretty cool.”

You breathe out a laugh and take the cash he hands you, collecting his change. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you're Eddie, right?” He turns to Simon, almost forgetting he was there. “Your band’s playing at The Allied tonight? I met your drummer Gareth at a show last week.”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. We’re called Corroded Coffin.”

“Cool name.” You smirk and hand him his record wrapped in paper. Eddie tucks it under his arm, his dimples showing as he smiles back at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re from Indiana then?” You call back to Simon’s earlier statement, as Eddie doesn’t make a move to immediately leave.

He rubs the back of his neck as he nods, “Yeah. Just moved here a couple of months ago with my band.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Eddie.” You smile and introduce yourself, “Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you…vinyl wise I mean.”

“Thanks,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw before stepping away from the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight at the show?” He tries to keep his voice casual, but there’s a hint of hope in there.

You bite your lip and shrug, “Yeah, maybe you will.”

Eddie nods and takes his queue to leave, the bell jingling again as he steps back out into the cold.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Simon mocks you in a breathy imitation and you roll your eyes. “So now that you know the singer is cute are you coming?”

“Obviously! You better get me on the door list, or I swear to god I’m telling Aunt Carol about the stash in your underwear drawer.”

***

“Hey, Carlos.” You greet your friend at the door of The Allied, who waves you in without payment. “That Darondo record came in, I put it aside for you.” You call back on your way in, hearing a muffled thanks as the music from inside hits your eardrums.

There’s a decent crowd tonight, and you have to push past a few people to reach the sticky top bar.

“Oh, she showed up! Surprise, surprise.” Simon makes his way over to you, ignoring the calls of indignance as he passes other customers. He slings a rag over his shoulder, which makes you bite your lip, attempting to hold in a laugh, remembering how he’d practised that move in the mirror when he turned twenty-one and landed the second most coveted job of your teenage selves.

You shrug nonchalantly, despite your cousin knowing the exact reason you’re here. “I ended up doing inventory ‘till late. Thought I may as well drop by before catching the L.”

Simon flicks your nose, your retaliating slap missing him as he moves to pour your drink. You thank him with a forced smile when he slides it across the bar, picking it up and turning to find a spot in the crowd.

“No tip?”

You call over your shoulder, “Yeah, take it easy on the cologne.” You smirk, not even having to turn around to know he’s probably sniffing his shirt.

You take your usual spot leaning against the wall, up the back and away from most of the crowd. Your rule was front row or back. None of that squished in the middle, view blocked by the tallest guy you’d ever seen crap. Either it was front and centre, immersed in the moment, or your own space with a view of it all.  

You’d never be up front for a band you didn’t know, and tonight was no exception, no matter how large the butterflies in your stomach at the prospect of seeing him again.

You don’t know what it was about Eddie, apart from the obvious fact that he was gorgeous. Maybe it was something in his presence. But when he walked up to the counter earlier with a record you’d just been talking about and a shy smile on his face – you were a goner.

The murmurs of the crowd quieten when the house lights are switched off, a yellow glow on the stage and above the bar now the only sources of light.

There are a few enthusiastic cheers when the band appear from a door behind the stage and a smattering of applause as they take their place. You take a sip of your drink, ignoring the feeling in your chest when Eddie steps up to the mic and adjusts his red Warlock guitar. He smiles and you duck your head, trying not to look too much like the girl who’s just fallen for a lead singer when he addresses the crowd.

“Evening. Hope you brought your earplugs, this one’s new.” The quiet, reservedness of his introduction and the boy you’d met earlier is undone with the first crashing of cymbals and thrash of power chords.

Stage Eddie isn’t what you were expecting, but still somehow makes total sense. He’s more comfortable, more himself up there as he thrashes back and forth, hair whipping wildly. And they’re good. Really good.

Maybe you’d write about them after all.

The band are almost through their set when he spots you. Your back straightens as his eyes lock onto yours. Normally you hate making eye contact with someone on stage, but you can’t seem to look away when his chocolate-brown gaze twinkles over the heads of the rest of the crowd. In between songs, he gives you a wave, and you nod, returning his small smile.

When they finish, you move back to the bar. Waiting for the lingering fans to clear over a rum and coke. You’re only on your second sip when you feel a burning hot presence behind you.

“You made it.”

You turn around, and Eddie leans an arm on the bar beside you, moving in closer as the growing line pushes him forward.

“I did.” You nod, taking another sip of your drink.

He clears his throat, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

“So, uh, what did you think?”

You smile, “I think you’re going to fit in very well here.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” he chuckles.

“Oh, it is. You’re one of us now. Welcome to the dark side, Eddie.”

His eyebrows raise, the ghost of a smirk kicking up when you’re interrupted by your cousin.

“Man, that was sick! What can I get ya?”

Eddie thanks Simon, then looks back at you, “What are you having?” He holds up two fingers when you answer, signalling for another round, then starts playing with a beermat while you wait. Your eyes are trained to the glint of silver on his fingers.

“How are you liking Chicago so far?”

Eddie looks back at you and puffs his cheeks up as he exhales. “Honestly?... I didn’t know life could be this good.”

You feel a sharp tingling in your nose as your eyes well up a little for the boy standing in front of you, his cheeks dusted with pink as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Trust me, things are only gonna get better from here.”

“Yeah?” He beams at you then and you inhale deeply as you fight the urge to reach out and wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah.”

***

Eddie had seen you a few times since the gig at The Allied. Dropping into the record store when he could. In small crowds at gigs in the city. You’d greet him with a hug or a squeeze to the arm that never failed to get his heart rate going.

Today, he’d gotten off early from his temporary new gig at the auto shop and he found himself parked outside the record store.

It was overcast, but there was no bite to the air. A balmy wind tousling his hair as he ran across the street to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, avoiding the fat drops of rain that had begun to fall sporadically.

He spots you through the window when he makes his back to the store, bobbing your head along to whatever’s playing as you fill the racks. The now familiar bell jingles and he smiles when he recognises Joy Division over the speakers. He’d seen you in their shirt on more than one occasion.

He meets you as you're walking back to the counter.

“Oh, hey Eddie.” You smile and do a double take, taking in his greasy coveralls, and suddenly he’s wishing he’d gone home and showered. Even if it was an hour out of his way.

“Hey.” He places a coffee on the counter along with a white paper bag. “Thought you might like a mid-afternoon pick me up. I’ve uh, I’ve seen you with one of those cinnamon things before.”

Your eyes light up as you inspect the inside of the bag. “Oh my god, you’re my hero! Thank you, that’s so sweet.”

He shrugs, taking a step back from the counter, his own black coffee still clutched in his hands.

“So, this is the day job then huh?” You gesture to his outfit.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah for now. Until the music starts paying off. If the music starts paying off.”

You nod, taking a bite of your cinnamon scroll and he can’t help but smirk at the way your eyes quickly roll to the back of your head. “It will.”

His free hand goes to his pocket, face hidden slightly by his hair as he tucks into himself at your confident statement.

“Thanks.” He turns around to start perusing the aisles.

“Oh, we will be getting the new Metallica album on the day of release by the way. I’ll put a tape aside for you.”

“Thank you.” He offers you a smile over his shoulder, and you tip your coffee to him.

He takes his time flicking through the rows, a few customers coming and going as he does, although he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Once the store is quiet again, he walks back over to you, selection in hand.

“Lee Hazelwood?” You take the record from him with a look of surprise.

He nods, “Yeah, I liked that song on that pre-goth mixtape you gave me. It’s like the kind of thing my uncle would listen to but…”

“Sinister.”

“Yeah.”

You smile, “It’s cool isn’t it? You know he actually wrote These Boots Are Made For Walkin’. Helped save Nancy Sinatra’s career after the teeny-bopper thing didn’t work out. They made a couple of albums together actually, and you know the first time he retired from the music industry was because the success of The Beatles’ made him depressed.”

He leans his arms on the counter as you talk. “Wow, you really are a wealth of knowledge for this stuff huh?”

You shrug, “What else is there?”

“Apart from books.”

You nod, “Good movies.”

He smiles, “Pizza.”

“Dumplings.”

“DnD”

You frown, “That nerdy board game?”

“No, uh d–dumplings like you said, and uh– dough–doughnuts?”

You scrunch up your face, “Okay,” and giggle at Eddie’s strained smile.

“So uh, what–would you–“ Not screwing this up at all Munson. “Would you maybe wanna do that together sometime? The pizza and dumplings, or probably one or the other I guess, and a movie, good music–“ he blows out a puff of air, scrunching up his face.

“Are you asking if I wanna go see a movie?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, “that and dinner. If you want.”

“I do like both those things.” You smile. “How about Thursday? I finish closing up at six.”

“Yeah. Cool. Thursday sounds good.” The guys and their weekly standing appointment for band practice would not agree.

***

Thursday rolls around faster than Eddie’s prepared for. Predictably, his bandmates all made fun of him for cancelling practice for you. But he just ignored the high-pitched ooohs and went to make sure his lucky Sabbath shirt was washed before he needed it.

He’s wearing it now as he paces outside the movie theatre, twisting his rings, oblivious to you sneaking up behind him until it’s too late.

“Boo!”

“Jesus Christ.” He jumps and twists around, your hands that had reached out to scare him still on his hips, his arms float in the air for a second before landing on your shoulders.

“You’re on edge,” you tease before your face sets a little more seriously. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, just uh, you wanna head in? It starts in like five minutes.”

You nod, your hands leaving his waist as his fall back to his sides. “What are we seeing anyway?” You look up at the black lettering above you, smiling just as Eddie reveals your viewing choice for the night.

“Thought we could see Young Frankenstein. Saw they were doing an old-school horror weekend here in the paper.”

“That sounds great.”

He lets out a breath of relief when you bump his shoulder affectionately, and you begin walking into the theatre side by side.

“Now the real important question Eddie Munson. What are your go-to movie snacks?”

His hand twitches when it accidentally brushes the back of yours.

“Well, popcorn obviously.”

“Obviously.” You nod.

“Sour Patch Kids and you gotta add a packet of Reese’s Pieces in there too.”

“Wait, in there as in–?”

“In the popcorn bucket. All of it. Like a good version of a trail mix.”

You grin, “Very interesting.”

“Just wait till you try it, sweetheart, you’ll never do it any other way.”

You laugh, “Okay, lead the way.”

He bows, gesturing his hand towards the confection stand. “After you m’lady.”

Your giggle, Eddie quickly finds out is his new favourite sound. When it appears again in the movie theatre, he can’t seem to keep his eyes on Gene Wilder, only watching you light up with laughter.

He can’t quite believe how well it’s all going. That is until you’re sharing a large pepperoni, on the bench outside the place you insisted served the best “pies” in all of Chicago, and your confusion stops his heart for a second.

He groans when he takes the first bite of cheesy dough.

“Good right?”

He nods, chewing and swallowing quickly. “My uncle told me pizza wasn’t a first date kind of meal, but we don’t have anything like this back in Hawkins.”

You’re sitting so close that he notices you still right away.

“Wait, this is a date?”

“Oh,” he swears his heart drops to his stomach as he sees the surprise on your face. “Oh well, yeah I thought it was but I guess I–it doesn’t have to be, sorry.”

You reach out to grab his arm when he instinctively moves away, “No! I just didn’t realise you were asking me out, out. You kinda just kept listing food.” He scoffs, shaking his head at himself. “I want it to be a date.”

He bites his lip, looking back at you with eyebrows raised, “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, squeezing the arm still in your hold. “Of course. I would love to…be on a date with you right now.”

He beams, “Well, it’s your lucky night sweetheart.”

***

The date (once it’s established as one), goes so well Eddie finds himself back at your apartment, admiring your wall lined with records while you find the both of you a drink.

His eyebrows marry together when he notices Dusty Springfield next to the Sex Pistols.

“What’s the system here?” You hand him a beer when you reappear by his side. “Not by genre?”

“No. Autobiographical.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How–?”

“Well,” you step forward, reaching out to pick a plastic sleeve as if from memory, “if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983 but didn’t give it to them…for personal reasons.” You show him the white cover of the album.

“That sounds…”

“Comforting.”

He nods slowly, “Yes.”

“It is.”

God, you’re weird. And cute. And cool. And, shit he was going for it, you said you wanted to be on a date with him. You invited him back to your place. No one’s ever done that before. He should go for it. He’s going for it–

Your lips feel even softer than he imagined, and he can’t help but give himself a mental high-five when you immediately move closer to him, face melting into the hand that cradles your cheek. You taste almost vanilla-y with the combo of rum and coke still sitting on your tongue when his meets yours. He places his beer down on the coffee table, and your lips follow him when he has to dip down slightly before his free hand comes to sit on your waist.

You part for a breath, “Didn’t realise vinyl categorisation would get you so hot.” You tease him, lips plump and eyes slightly glazed over, and he’s never wanted anything more in his life than to keep you looking at him like this.

“Yeah uh, really love that Dewey Decimal system.” He leans close to capture your lips again, but you pull back, leaving him to chase you.

“The Dewey Decimal system is for books.” You shake your head.

Eddie huffs, “I really don’t care.” He finally finds your lips again and he swears they taste even sweeter the second time, despite being tainted by his own.

You guide him back to slowly sit on the couch, bodies falling a little clumsily together before you situate yourself in his lap, legs straddling his. You both stay like that for what could be hours for all Eddie cares, lips clicking in the silence.

“Fuck, I could kiss you all night.” He leans his forehead against yours, heavy breathing synced with your own, as you finally come up for air.

You shake your head, eyes soft and reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eddie.”

God dammit, is he glad he left Hawkins.

Tagging: @storiesbyrhi (I hope you like the coffee shop across from the record store 😉), @bettyfrommars (I finished it!)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 7: Sapphire] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Thank you for reading (and tolerating all my nautical puns)! 💎

How can love be a curse? How can it be something to fear, to condemn, to break?

She has dreamed of him all her life. First he was a protector, almost fatherlike, and then a remote, bewitching phantom as she crept into adolescence, and then when Harwin Strong died Daemon sailed over Saint George’s Channel to offer her solace in England, and at last the fantasies she never would have confessed to anyone were fulfilled, two marriages and four children later. Rhaenyra remembers what he told her in the mist-draped lakeside cottage where they met in secret, crossing paths like an asteroid striking a planet: My wife means nothing to me. She’s not like us. She is young, and weak, and afraid, and I could never respect that kind of person. Her father owns the last Connemara marble quarry in the world, and I needed a son. But the only woman I want is you.

Aegon fires the pistol as he chases her through the corridors of A-Deck, and when she shrieks nobody hears, or if they do they don’t appear to rescue her; the ship is full of people screaming, sobbing, clawing for their lives against wet walls and locked doors. He shoots and misses again. There’s something wrong with his hands. He keeps fumbling with the gun and almost dropping it, hissing in pain as he squeezes the trigger, and there’s blood staining his fingers.

Good, Rhaenyra thinks. I’m glad he’s hurt. I hope he’s dying.

She sees an open room and ducks inside, slamming the door behind her and barring it with the weight of her body as Aegon rams it with his shoulder. Rhaenyra is surrounded by the trappings of another family who purchased first-class tickets: chairs with velvet upholstery, a faux fireplace, paintings by Rousseau and Boccioni and Homer. The lights flicker and the steel beams of Titanic groan, low and disastrous. There isn’t much time left.

“Daemon!” she yells as loudly as she can. If he hears her, he’ll come running. I have to get to a lifeboat. I have to live for my father, for Jace and Luke and Joffrey, for the children I will one day give Daemon.

Rhaenyra struggles with the lock as Aegon batters the door and it quakes on its hinges. Just as she latches it, he fires the pistol through the door. Wood cracks and splinters; a bullet pierces Rhaenyra’s ribcage like a blade. There is unbearable pressure, and then a sharpness, a pain she believes she cannot stand until it keeps getting bigger, deeper, ripping her open and filling her with dark wet weight like the ocean surging into Titanic. She crumples to the floor. When she coughs, blood spurts out onto her lips. Rhaenyra wipes it away and then stares at the red on her palm.

I can’t die now. My life just became what it was supposed to be.

Aegon punches a hole through the mangled door large enough for him to reach in and unlock it. Then he stands in the threshold looking down at her, his hands shaking but his eyes hard, fierce, unflinching. Rhaenyra has never seen him like this before. She didn’t know he could be good at anything.

“How the fuck did you get on the ship?” Rhaenyra snarls as she scrambles away, hacking up more blood. The black opal ring Daemon gave her gleams like onyx or obsidian, something born of heat and earth and insurmountable, ancient gravity.

Daemon and I were made for each other. The same blood, the same bones, the same will to carve treasures from the bleakest places.

Aegon follows her across the floor, slow stalking steps. He doesn’t answer; instead, he shakes his right hand a few times—steadying himself, casting out tremors like demons—and then grips the pistol with it. He raises the gun, the barrel aimed at Rhaenyra’s face.

“Daemon?!” she screams, but he isn’t here. Then she asks, sudden desperate confusion, her blue eyes wide: “Why are you doing this?”

Aegon’s voice is calm. “Because she can’t be free unless you and Daemon are gone.”

That girl? Daemon’s sad, stupid wife? I’m dying because of HER?

“Father never loved you,” Rhaenyra seethes, red on her teeth, blooddrops spilling from her lips like rubies. Her eyes are cold, glinting sapphires, pools of freezing water that only needs minutes to stop the heart. “Just like Daemon never loved her.”

“I know. And I used to care. It almost killed me, it almost ate me alive. But now I’m better. And I finally know exactly who I’m supposed to be.”

Aegon pulls the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Daemon descends the Grand Staircase, you crawl down towards the next landing, your head spinning, your hands empty, writhing on your belly like a snake.

The dagger???

But you can’t find it, and you don’t have time to stop and search. Daemon is only a few steps behind you. When your palms hit B-Deck, you try to drag yourself upright, grappling for the banister; but before you can get your feet under you, Daemon kicks you and sends you hurtling down the next flight of stairs. You tumble towards C-Deck, clawing in vain for something to break your fall. Your head strikes the English oak wood and you hear your father’s bewildered voice as he sat at the dining room table in Lough Cutra Castle: Where are you going? When will you be back?

Never, never, never; and now from somewhere below you recognize the roar of rushing water.

“You were going to kill me?!” Daemon taunts as he bears down on you like a storm. Blood soaks his throat and the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket. His eyes are bright, feral, monstrous. “After all those times I spared you when I could have drowned you in a river or a hot bath or the sea? You’re so fucking useless. You really can’t do anything right. All you had to do was shut up and endure, and you could have lived to be an old, old woman with all the comforts my empire afforded you. Now, my dear, you will never see another sunrise. And when Titanic sinks, you’ll be buried with her.”

Down, down, always down towards the ocean floor, you crawl faster away from him as his footsteps grow louder.

“Help,” you moan weakly. Aegon? Anyone? But the only reply is the echoing of your own voice and the sounds of the dying ship: breaking metal, distant screams, gushing torrents of seawater.

You crash into C-Deck and again try to stagger to your feet, but Daemon is here, shoving you as if from a cliffside or off a balcony. And as you plummet down the Grand Staircase towards D-Deck—where the First-Class Dining Saloon is, where Thomas Andrews once assured you that Titanic was unsinkable—it is not hard wooden steps you collide with but swirling ice-cold seawater. You plunge beneath the currents and then come sputtering up to the surface, your white wool coat drenched and threatening to pull you below again like an anchor. You struggle to shed it with arms that are rapidly going numb.

I’m so cold, I’m so cold, if I don’t get out of the water I’ll be dead in minutes—

Daemon’s fingers close around your throat and he forces you under the waist-deep water. You thrash and try to push him away, to pry him off of you, but your muscles seem to have disappeared, they have been scraped off your bones and now you can only wait to die, your breathless lungs burning as your body freezes. You have a sudden vision of Daemon in his firelit study at Lough Cutra Castle, marveling at a shard of Larimar dredged up from the Caribbean Sea and quoting the first known treatise on gemstones, written by Theophrastus in the time of Alexander the Great: Of things formed in the earth, some have their origin from water.

“No!” you scream through the depths, bubbles rising up to air you cannot taste. You claw at Daemon’s hands, but you cannot wound him, cannot get a grip on him, and hasn’t that been true since you married him five years ago?

The dark, freezing water makes you want to give up. It makes death feel easy, painless, inevitable. You imagine faces you’ll never see again: Draco, Aegon, your parents, Fern. You hope Carpathia will be here soon to rescue the survivors. You wonder what will happen to Aegon’s paintings.

Through the water come the muffled booms of explosions, four of them, surely something catastrophic, the ship splitting in half or a distress flare misfired or boilers bursting and shearing through what’s left of the hull. Then Daemon’s hands vanish from your throat and someone is hauling you up out of the icy currents, they are freeing you, they are disinterring you from an oceanic grave.

“I’m here!” Aegon is shouting as you burst into open air, gasping and flailing. He drags you towards the Grand Staircase where you can climb out of the flood, but you’re looking for Daemon. He is a few yards away and floating face-up, one hand clasping his chest and a gurgling sound leaking from his throat. The water around him is turning red. He’s fading, but he’s not dead yet.

“Aegon, he’s still—”

“I know. I’ll take care of him once you’re out of the water. I don’t have any more bullets left.”

“I want to do it.”

“We need to get you dry and warmed up—”

“I want to do it,” you say again, and Aegon lets you go.

You twist off your black opal engagement ring and throw it into the water beside Daemon. Then you place both of you hands on his chest and push him beneath the surface, Aegon standing just behind you with the barrel of the pistol in his grasp in case he has to use it as a club. The glacial seawater froths and whirls as it rises over Daemon’s hemorrhaging chest. He startles—a death rattle, a late rite—and resists feebly, gazing up at you with glassy, disbelieving eyes. They ask: How did this happen? I was supposed to kill you, remember? I own you. I own jewels trapped in subterranean darkness all over the world, and you are the very least of them.

“Draco isn’t yours,” you tell Daemon as you force him under. “Rhaenyra isn’t yours. And I’m not yours either. Now sink and die and make me free.”

He twitches, he bares his crimson teeth at you, but after all this time finally Daemon is the weak one. The rising water flushes maroon around him, his skin goes a frail and translucent bluish-white, his heart is drained until the chambers are cold and grey and empty. You hold him beneath the water until the bubbles roiling up from his nose and mouth disappear. He will never touch you again, he will never hurt anyone, he will never bruise or break or ensnare or captivate. And who will inherit his mines scattered across the planet?

Draco. His only son. And my family and I will act as trustees until he’s eighteen.

“We have to go,” Aegon is saying. He must have taken off his coat before he went into the water after you. He stands shivering in only his white shirt and green corduroy pants, the ocean now lapping at his chest.

“Rhaenyra?” you ask.

“She’s gone. I’m sure.”

“It’s over,” you say softly, feeling weight like stones roll off of you, feeling warmth like sunlight on your face.

As if in reply, the listing ship groans and the lights flicker again. “Not yet,” Aegon says, grabbing your hand. “Let’s hope there’s a lifeboat left.”

You wade to the steps and climb out of the water. Aegon helps you wring out your soaked hair and the skirt of your gown, then snatches his black wool coat off the steps where he left it and puts it on you. You race up the Grand Staircase to C-Deck, and then B-Deck, and then the A-Deck landing where you find your green handbag with Aegon’s tiny aluminum lighter still inside.

“I think you dropped this,” Aegon says when he spots the dagger on a nearby step, still covered with Daemon’s blood. He wipes it clean on his corduroy pants and then passes it to you. When you hesitate to take it, he grins. “Who knows. You might need to stab someone else tonight.”

“I never want to draw blood again.” But you accept the dagger and place it in your handbag, the captive gemstones glimmering there: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire like the North Atlantic Ocean that is swallowing Titanic down into her cold, crushing belly. Then you ascend one last flight of steps to the Boat Deck, passing the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock, stealing a glimpse up at the dome of glass and wrought iron that will soon shatter when the sea punctures through it like a bullet or a blade.

Outside the night air is so frigid that ice crystals begin forming in your hair, and the hem of your blue gown begins to stiffen as it freezes. You are barefoot, you only now realize, and if splinters from the pine planks of the deck needle their way into your flesh you won’t be able to feel them. There are only two lifeboats left on this side of the ship, one of which is already being lowered down to the sea. Officers are still directing women and children into the other. Benjamin Guggenheim and his companions are very drunk, clumsily herding frantic first-class passengers towards the boats. The string quartet is now playing The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár.

“Come, come quickly, Lady Targaryen!” the officers shout when they see you, knowing by your gown that you belong here, perhaps recognizing you from strolls on the Promenade Deck or when you and Daemon boarded Titanic in Cork with much fanfare. Aegon helps you into the lifeboat, his wounded hands cradling yours. Another distress flare is shot into the sky, metallic rain, doomsday portents.

We’re going to be alright, you think. We’re going to survive this.

“Darling, you’re sopping wet!” one of the women in the lifeboat exclaims, and they all begin to fret over you. There are dogs here, a Pomeranian in one lap, a Yorkshire terrier in another.

“Get her under a blanket,” Aegon is saying. “Keep her warm or she’ll get pneumonia. Give her a lifebelt.”

“We will, we will,” another lady shimmering in jewels—a mother of two boys in heavy coats and blue-striped pajamas—promises him. “We’ll take good care of her.”

You turn back to Aegon. “What?”

He tells you, his voice quiet: “Petra, they’re not going to let me in.”

“No, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Women and children only!” an officer booms, then begins waving several shrieking maids towards the vessel, just moments from launching.

“Aegon,” you say, horrified. He’ll die if he stays. He’ll drown or he’ll freeze and he’ll be entombed at the bottom of the Atlantic. “No.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No you won’t,” you sob, then look desperately at the officers. How can I change their minds? “He’s a Targaryen, he’s a first-class passenger, he must be allowed aboard!”

“A Targaryen?!” one of the officers says distractedly as he battles with the rigging. “I know all the Targaryens on Titanic, and he’s not one of them!”

“Just look at him,” the other officer mutters, meaning: He isn’t dressed like someone with castles or mansions or titles or mines. He can’t be someone who matters.

“He is,” you plead, tears stinging on your cheeks as they freeze. “He’s Aegon, he’s a Targaryen, please, he can’t be left behind—”

“Women and children only!” the first officer barks at you as the other pushes away a group of panicked young men in black suits trying to bribe their way into the vessel. “And if you want to stay here with him, that’s your business, but get to it so the rest of us can try to make it off this ship alive!”

“There’s more than enough room for him, for Christ’s sake, there are dogs in here!”

“There will be other lifeboats, love,” one of the women tells you as she drapes a scratchy wool blanket across your shoulders, but you don’t believe that’s true. The maids are climbing into the lifeboat; the officers are beginning to lower it with sharp lurches that make the occupants gasp.

You reach for Aegon, your hands catching on his drenched shirt, the thin layer of ice cracking beneath your fingers. “No, no, Aegon, I can’t go like this.”

“You have to,” he says calmly, and he holds you face still and touches his lips to your forehead, a kiss goodbye, gentle and lingering.

“No—”

“You have a kid. You have to go. Draco will be looking for you on Carpathia.”

“You deserve to be free too.”

“I’ll stay out of the water for as long as I can,” Aegon says like a vow. “I’ll try to find something to float on. And once Titanic goes down…maybe the lifeboats will come back to pick up any survivors.”

The water is too cold. I’ve felt it, I’ve been paralyzed by it, once you go under you only have minutes. “You can’t…you won’t…”

“Petra,” Aegon says, and his eyes turn desperate. He knows it’s his only chance. “Make them come back for me.”

“I will,” you swear to him.

And he pries your fingers off his shirt and rips away from you before your resolve can weaken. High above and through tears that blur your vision, constellations of stars gleam like diamonds.

~~~~~~~~~~

He runs to the other side of the Boat Deck, searching for lifeboats that haven’t launched yet. He can’t find any. There are swarms of passengers weeping, shouting, jostling, and officers trying to restore order. Pistols and flares are fired, chairs are tossed overboard for passengers to cling to as they float. But Aegon knows that won’t be enough; if they stay submerged, they will die.

I need something bigger. I need something I can lie on. A door or a dresser or…

He shoves through the crowd to get to the ship’s railing. Below, the ocean has gotten so much closer. He sees a lifeboat bobbing in the waves, just far enough away that someone brave enough to leap could not get to it. Inside, along with perhaps twenty first-class women and maids, Aegon recognizes Laenor Velaryon and his ever-present Parisian friends. They are puffing on cigars and toasting glasses of brandy, celebrating their good fortune. They must have successfully bribed their way aboard.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs, his breath fog in the frigid air.

How am I going to stay out of the water long enough to survive until I’m rescued?

Then he replays the evening in his mind—his first night with Petra, perhaps his last night on earth, red silk and candles and oil paint and the warmth of her beneath his hands—and Aegon gets an idea. He sprints back to the Grand Staircase and soars down to B-Deck, seawater ankle-deep on the floor. He splashes through the corridors to the staterooms once occupied by Daemon Targaryen’s wife and child, now rid of him, now waiting for what will come next. Aegon hurries through the sitting room, passing the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace and the large, heavy chest where Daemon made Petra lock up the art she bought in Paris.

She didn’t remember to put the real Picasso’s paintings in a lifeboat, but she saved mine, Aegon thinks. If I make it out of this alive somehow, I’m marrying her the second we dock in New York.

He goes to the bedroom, finds what he needs, carries it with him as he returns to the maze of hallways. Now the icy water is nipping at his knees.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean is calm, the lifeboat rocking placidly on inky surf. The women comfort their children and their dogs. You take Aegon’s aluminum lighter out of your handbag and light yourself a cigarette, then pass it around so the other passengers can thaw their lungs with hot plumes of nicotine, here in the early hours of the morning when it feels like you’ll never be warm again. The officer who took command of the vessel—the same one who shouted at you and refused to admit Aegon—is rowing vigorously as you and several other women help him, staring horror-struck at Titanic as she goes down by the bow.

“We have to get away from the ship,” the officer keeps saying, and he sounds genuinely petrified. A woman in a glittering gold gown steers with the tiller. “Or she’ll suck us into the water with her.”

There are shadows of other lifeboats nearby, also fleeing from the condemned Titanic, that miraculously colossal and opulent triumph that everyone had told you was unsinkable. You wonder which one Draco and Fern are in, undoubtedly cold and frightened but safe.

Aegon deserves to live too. I have to find him, I have to save him.

Now there is seawater flooding over Titanic’s deck at the bow, where you and Aegon saw third-class passengers—now dead, or very soon to be—kicking around pieces of the iceberg that they didn’t know had doomed them. The ocean surges higher, covering B-Deck, and A-Deck, and finally the Boat Deck, where the towering funnels collapse and you can hear shrieks and guns firing. You know you won’t be able to see Aegon from here—you won’t be able to tell if he made it into a lifeboat somehow, or if he is one of the figures that falls from a lethal height into the waves, or if he is crushed or shot or trapped below deck and drowned—but still, you cannot stop looking for him, peering through the night to where Titanic glows in her spotlight of white-gold electric luminescence.

As the bow sinks, the stern begins to rise, higher and higher until the tension cracks the ship in two, and the passengers you share the lifeboat with wail and sob as the ship’s lights blink out for the last time and the gravesite goes dark. Women call out the names of their husbands, fathers, brothers, adult sons, knowing they must be dying. You can only watch with tears streaming down your face, thinking: How could he survive that? How could I have left him?

The stern bobs for a while in the nightscape sea, a shade, a phantom, and then it plunges into the ocean. The water—indifferent, dispassionate, not a mortal but a titan, here long before humans and destined to outlast them, not unlike the treasures of the earth—gulps down metal beams and pine planks and split bones and shredded flesh. There are screams, so many, so pitiful, so loud they fill the sky, and the howling women in the lifeboat cover their ears and those of their children so they will not have to try to exorcise the sound from their memories later.

As soon as the stern has been consumed by the depths, you say to the officer: “We have to go back to look for survivors.”

“Are you mad, Lady Targaryen?” he snaps at you; but there are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “We’ll be mobbed if we sail into that. They’ll pour into the boat until we go under too. Do you want to freeze to death with them?”

“People will die quickly. They are dying already, the water is cold enough to kill in minutes. If we start rowing towards them now, most of the passengers will be dead by the time we get there. And then we can rescue anyone who’s left.” Please still be alive, Aegon.

“Not a chance in hell,” the officer says.

You turn to the other women. They blink back at you in dazed, timid terror. “It’s murder to leave your men behind,” you implore, you beg them to agree. “Help me row to them.”

But the women only weep softly to themselves and look to the officer to tell them what to do. He smirks at you victoriously, an expression of no humor but rather grim, fearful misery that could drive someone insane. In the lap of one woman, the Pomeranian whimpers.

I can’t leave Aegon, you think. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

You open your green handbag and pull out the dagger, the blade pointed at the officer. He shouts and bolts away from you, incredulous, furious.

“You’re threatening to kill me?!”

You shake your head. “I’m offering you a gift.” You turn the dagger around so the officer can grasp the handle. His gaze catches, transfixed and wondrous, on the gemstone spheres like perfectly aligned planets. “This dagger is worth more than you would make in a decade of work. Go back for survivors, and it’s yours. Refuse, and when we are rescued and my son inherits my husband’s fortune, I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I will follow you anywhere on earth. I will ruin you. So take the dagger as payment and break my curse, and let us save the people who are left.”

The lifeboat sways in the small, serene waves, and the stars revolve high above in a moonless sky, and you and the other women wait for the officer to reply. After a minute or more—we have to go back now, right now, we don’t have much time—he finally lifts the dagger from your open palm and tucks it into his belt.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his oar again. “Let’s go. I cannot abide your damnation. I’ll be haunted by enough ghosts already.”

He and several of the other women row into the throng while you find the flashlights stored in the bottom of the lifeboat, then perch at the bow searching for Aegon. Instead you see hundreds of bluish corpses floating in their lifebelts, dead men and women and children, some of them first-class or crewmembers of the ship but most of them third-class passengers: Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish, discarded people, good for dying in the operations of mines or factories or railroads and little else.

“Aegon!” you shout over the water, but he does not answer. There is only the mist of your own words and the sound of cold currents rippling as the lifeboat cuts through them.

Your group saves two people from the sea, both nearly frozen to death and unable to speak: one man floating on a table washed out of a dining room, one little girl clutching her dead mother. Then a long time passes with no living souls to salvage.

“Have we done enough now, Lady Targaryen?” the officer asks you gravely. “Have you seen a sufficient number of the dead to assuage your wrath?”

“Not yet,” you say, steely, your eyes fixed on the water as the flashlight illuminates lifeless faces, scraps of wreckage, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then the light settles on him.

When the stern of Titanic went under, so did Aegon: there are ice crystals in his hair, and his clothes are freezing to his skin, and his lips are blue, and he’s shivering violently. But unlike over 1,000 other passengers, he didn’t stay in the depths long enough to perish as the cold stopped their hearts and lungs. He had something with him, a life raft, a second chance, a treasure mined not from some far-flung crevice of the earth but from the bedroom where he uncovered you, where you found each other and never wanted to go back to the way life felt before.

Aegon is sprawled across the oval-shaped mirror that once stood beside your bed, the fractured glass reflecting the stars that glimmer in the night sky. His ravaged hands cling to the wooden frame. And when the beam of the flashlight skates across his face like moonshine, Aegon knows you’ve come back for him, and he reaches for you until your hands link with his and help pull him aboard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carpathia arrives an hour later, just before four in the morning on April 15th, and as the sun rises over the North Atlantic Ocean you and Aegon find Draco and Fern on the bow deck, where stewards are distributing blankets and tea to the survivors. Women wander the ship pleading for help finding their lost loved ones, weeping endlessly for their brothers, their fathers, their husbands. Your tears have stopped entirely.

Carpathia’s passengers are generous. They offer in charity their food, their clothing, even their rooms. Children share their books and toys with Draco. Fern teaches him how to play marbles; you read him The Story of Saint Patrick. A doctor onboard disinfects and bandages Aegon’s hands, and assures him that he will be able to play viola again, not now, perhaps not even soon, but one day.

That first afternoon, as you and Aegon are taking a stroll on the Boat Deck, you spot a man painting a scene of the sunset: gold, tiger’s eye, ruby, red beryl. Aegon shows him some of the portraits from his scuffed leather portfolio…though, of course, one in particular is not suitable for mixed company. The man is so impressed that he insists Aegon must not be deprived of the ability to create such beauty for lack of supplies, and gifts him an easel and some paper, brushes, and oil paints.

It’s difficult with his sore, bandaged hands, but Aegon still wants to try, and when his brush begins to shake he asks you to help him. Aegon explains things to you as you steady his hands: chiaroscuro, scumbling, alla prima, glazing, impasto, a foreign language that will soon become familiar. Already, you are learning. And as Carpathia sails into New York Harbor on the evening of April 18th, Aegon takes a paintbrush and draws a circle around your ring finger in vivid, sapphire blue, a worthless gift of no gleaming gems or metal, a vow that means everything.

It’s been years, but Aegon remembers the way to his mother’s house. He leads you, Draco, and Fern to the doorstep of the Hightower mansion on Fifth Avenue. He knocks and a butler answers, a middle-aged man who gapes at Aegon in shellshocked disbelief.

“One…one moment, sir, if you’d be so kind to…to…to just wait here, please,” the butler stammers, then disappears inside. A few minutes later, a different man appears in the threshold. He must be Aemond, tall and white-blonde and precise in every movement, his left eye concealed by a black leather eyepatch. His remaining eye, a clear alert blue, darts to where Fern is holding Draco on her hip and then to you and Aegon, his bandaged hands resting so lightly on you they could never leave a mark.

Then Aemond’s face softens, and there is a kind sort of relief that seeps in, and you imagine your parents will look the same way when you return to Lough Cutra Castle. “You’re home,” he says quietly.

And Aegon smiles and replies: “We all are.”

[watchyourbuck]

Buck flicks the tiny brush one more time before setting it down on the sink. It looks… decent. It’s a bi flag, just— a tiny bit more purple than the one he copied from Pinterest. But it works.

“Hey, babe!” Buck calls, tilting his head against the bathroom lights so he can see the flag shine in the mirror. “I’m almost ready!”

This is his first pride as a member of the community instead of just an ally, and his excitement is through the roof. He called Hen and Karen ahead of time to make sure they’d be there, actually. He can’t wait.

“Take your time, Evan,” Tommy says from the bedroom, presumably scrolling on his phone. “We have an hour still.”

“I wanna get there early! The Instagram post said there’d be rainbow cupcakes for the first hundred people!”

Buck steps back to admire his whole ensamble. Tight faux leather pants and a white crop top that says ‘if lost, return to Tommy.’ He’s also got a few rainbow bracelets on and they’re each carrying their own flag — which reminds him he has to get them from the car.

He smiles and makes his way out of the bathroom, only to come to a halt when he sees Tommy getting into his ‘I’m Tommy’ shirt. “Oh.”

Tommy turns to look at him with a frown. He stands up and takes a few steps closer. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Am I doing too much?” Buck asks rashly, his eyes widening. “I’m doing too much, aren’t I?”

Before he can fully panic, Tommy puts his hands on Buck’s waist, pulling him a little closer with a stern look. “Okay, no. You’re not doing too much. Where’s that coming from?”

“You just— you look so,” he gestures vaguely to his boyfriend, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “So day to day.”

Tommy smiles amusedly. “Evan, the fact that I personally don’t enjoy painting a — beautiful, by the way —,” he adds and Buck preens, “pride flag on my cheek doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” He closes the distance to give him a peck. “You look amazing.”

“I’ve just never—,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ve never dressed like this before. Never wanted to before today.”

Tommy puts his thumb and index on Buck’s chin and tilts his head to the sides a few times, admiring his handy-work. “So?”

“So, I don’t wanna seem— I don’t know, too eager? Like, the community has gone through- through enough, right? They don’t need a-a man who found out basically yesterday that—.”

He doesn’t get to keep talking because Tommy kisses him again. More intently this time. Buck melts after a second, kissing him back. His heart starts slowing down.

Tommy pulls back, kissing along his jaw. He’s careful enough to not rub off any of the makeup. “You deserve to be there as much as everyone else.” His voice is soft and Buck can’t help but to lean into his touch. “You deserve to celebrate however you want.”

Buck pulls away, looking into his eyes. “What if— what if one day I don’t— I don’t wanna go? Or I rather just— just spend the day with you? Just us?”

Tommy smiles again. “Then we do just that. You don’t have to wear rainbow socks or underwear every year to be proud of who you are, Evan.”

“I’m definitely not wearing any rainbow underwear right now,” Buck says, blushing a little.

Tommy scoffs, closing his eyes for a second. “Neither am I.”

Buck’s fingers curl on Tommy’s belt loops, pulling him closer and trying to look down his pants. “Yeah? Are you wearing any underwear at all?”

“Careful,” Tommy warns, and a low groan’s already starting to form on Buck’s throat. “Or we’ll be late.”

“I thought you said we had an hour still,” Buck insists, looking up, a smirk tugging at his lips. He puts his other hand on Tommy’s hips, pinching at the skin above the hem.

“And I thought you said you wanted to get there early. Something about… rainbow cupcakes?”

Bucks chuckles, walking them both back until the back of Tommy’s knees hit the bed and they fall onto it. “Fuck the cupcakes,” Buck says, pulling up Tommy’s shirt to mouth over his abs. “We can get our own on our way there.”

Tommy laughs, curling his fingers on Buck’s hair and pulling him up for a filthy kiss.

(Happy pride everyone! <3)

[poetic-pearls]

better be safe than sorry

pairing: luke castellan x unclaimed reader (totally just friends)

“new years at camp half-blood”

[wc: 902]

23:50

the stars are painting the night sky in a way that almost makes me wish we wouldn't light any fireworks. the breeze caressing my face smells of the sweet strawberries we are surrounded by and liquor.

"here" behind me, luke seems to appear out of nowhere, two cups in hand.

his eyes twinkle kindly, reflecting the stars that seem closer than usual. "sorry for taking so long; the cabin was full, well, more full than usual"

23:53

"don't worry about it"

luke sits down beside me and holds out a cup.

it being warmer inside camp than on the outside allows me to look at his strong arms.his arms are decorated colorfully with the tattoos we sneaked off the table for the younger campers earlier.

"so, another year of this huh?"

he laughs that melodic laugh of his that always manages to claw it's way into my chest.

"yeah, i guess", he rips two strawberries our of the field, holding one out to me " but hey, at least i'm there to keep you company the whole time"

"ugh, right, another year stuck with you. i kind of wish the others would stay too"

"hey!" luke nudges me in the shoulder, almost making me fall on top of an unripe bush of strawberries.

i gasp, "how dare you? you better hope the dryads don't snitch on you trying to destroy the field"

"i hope not, but i might have already tripped a little on my way here; even spilled some of my drink. not sure how booze affects the growth of strawberries but i doubt it's any good"

"ew", now i'm the one pushing him "at least now i know why sometimes the first strawberries of the year taste like beer"

we're both laughing.

"okay, okay" luke raises his hands in surrender "i admit, that might have something to do with me"

i shake my head in faux disappointment "luke, luke, luke. how could you?"

"i'm sorry, alrigh-", we're startled by a singular firework.

"oh that must have been the test - what time is it?"

"uhh..." luke checks his wrist.

"23:57. shit, did you see the others?"

"no, i gave up. did you see them on your way?"

"nope, weird. they just disappeared; almost like they don't want ro be found"

i hum, twirling the stem of what used to belong to my strawberry.

"seems like we'll start the new year alone" "but i was going to kiss allie for good luck" we both say at the same time.

"maybe we could still look for them?", i offer.

luke shakes his head "if we didn't find them before i doubt we'll find them now."

"shit, then what am i supposed to do about my kiss?" i look around, nothing but trees. well, and luke. "you think one of the dryads would be up for it?"

luke laughs, pushing his hair out of his eyes."maybe, but do you really want to start the year with splinters in your lips? maybe-"

luke looks uncertain, avoiding my gaze before looking back at me with brown eyes.eyes like melted chocolate, the sweetest of them all. when i look at him i can almost taste it. and i want to.

"maybe we could kiss?"

the offer hangs between us like a cloud and we're both just staring at each other for a moment.

"i wouldn't want you to start the year with bad luck"

23:59

am i getting red? no, no, surely not. it's pretty warm here, right? i was already red before he started talking; before he looked at me like that. i'm just warm.

"okay"

one look at his watch.

23:59:44

i'm glad to have a friend as nice as luke.

his eyes are trained on his watch before he meets my gaze again, continuing to count under his breath.

23:59:55

we're both leaning in now.

did the fireworks already start or is that the sound of my heart beating?

"5, 4, 3, 2-"

when our lips meet the same feeling from earlier comes back. the feeling i always get when he laughs.

i just really appreciate what he's doing for me.

his lips are so soft, just like i expected.

his lips do always look soft. especially in the light of the campfire. but he tastes different. he tastes bitter like liquor and unripe strawberries. but also sweet like the chocolate he stole for us from the table earlier.

it's different but perfect.

different from the way i expected just a minute ago.

the first and only time i thought of his lips on mine.

when we part it takes a few seconds before we actually pull away. but not much.

luke's cheeks are flushed, he must feel that it is too warm too. and his eyes reflect the fireworks that just started.

he looks so pretty like this.not that i would ever tell him that, but it's the way his curls fall on his forehead, the way his eyes reflect the fireworks instead of stars now and the pink of his cheeks and lips.

"...i think my watch might be set a few seconds too early"

i just nod, i know what he means. the fireworks are always on time.

and soon there are mumbled "happy new years" between us and our lips meet once again.

better be safe than sorry.

a/n: might post a bonus soon

[avocado-writing]

I will forfeit all my worldly possessions for some gortash nsfw, you’re amazing keep up the good work!

cws: hate sex. gn!reader x gortash. enjoy!

you fucking hate him. oh, you hate him.

you make sure he knows it every time you run your nails down his back, rake them, really; leaving hot red welts in their wake. you want him to cry out in pain. instead he hisses in pleasure and buries himself in your further.

it is delicious. it is torture. it is heavenly.

when he’d suggested you’d work together, you’d swallowed your pride and done it for the good of baldur’s gate. the people loved him after all, even if it was all due to his campaign of faux grandeur. ‘a man of the people’. as if. if he was in a lineup and you had to choose the person who you thought had crawled out of the hells, you’d pick him every single time.

but still, despite it all, despite his devilish upbringing and baneite loyalties, there was a bigger enemy to face, and he was a powerful ally.

so ally you did.

it started off innocent enough, him calling meetings with you, just you. strategising, he reasoned. no point in not sharing information. you looked at him with disdain over his map of the city, he just arched a brow.

you hated yourself for having a reaction to it, burning white hot in the pit of your stomach. a mix of rage and lust. when everyone was asleep that night at the elfsong, you shoved your hand between your legs to ease the pressure he had built up, cursing him as you came.

his honeyed words dripped on you. dulled your senses to the lurid colours of his purulent personality. he was evil. viciously so. no good to be next to in the long run.

yet when he hooked the finger of his gauntlet under your chin and brought you in for a kiss, you did not pull away. you met his challenge head on. you teethed at his tongue when it slipped between your lips. you wanted him to know you’d take what you needed from him and hate him as you went. he wanted you to know he didn’t care and would enjoy it anyway.

and now: this.

his hand slipping up your thigh during your meeting until he cups your sex. you near-snarling in return and ripping at his fine clothes, hungering for the meat of his body. you are no aesthete. there is no use in pretending you care about what your tear away - he surely has the best tailors in this city at his beck and call, and it goes some way to soothing your wounded ego when his gown is in scraps from your ardour.

and it is wounded, of course, because you debase yourself like this.

he sits you on top of the map of the city, lays you out over it, and fucks you. there’s a poetry to your bodies combining on top of your shared home. he thrusts and you growl in the back of your throat, smothering his smug smile by forcing him into a near-violent kiss. hate him. you hate him.

his cock slides into your body, thick and hard, and despite your better judgement there is a little thrill in knowing that you get this powerful man to have such a reaction. that the roseate of his cheeks and heave of his chest is because he desires you with his whole being. you purr when his head dips between your legs and he ravishes you with his tongue, just as clever when it fucks as it is when he speaks.

you want to take him apart piece by piece. as he thrusts down into you, dark and dangerous eyes boring into yours without missing a beat, you know he wants to do the exact same in return. reduce you both to parts. jigsaw them together and let the combination of the two of you rule this city, rule the brain, rule the world.

every time you couple, you let yourself get lost in the idea of it for just a moment. the idea of him. the idea of him and you.

but when it is over and you are both sated, your mind and sense return. you cannot trust this man, even after he has been inside of you, when he knows the most intimate etchings of your soul.

so you bid him goodnight, and no more. he is once again an enemy held as close as a friend.

“until next time,” says Gortash with an easy smile, and you want to tell him there will be no ‘next time’ - but it would be a lie neither of you would believe.

[yandereunsolved]

࣪𖤐 ⁞ Yandere Dutch (RDR2) ⁞ ࣪𖤐

If peace was a commodity, then you'd be a poor man. Forced to be an object of desire for a man you can never escape. Like a panther, he prowls around camp for you, always feeling the need to make a flirtatious comment or assault you with his hungry looks. You are unable to defend yourself from the judgments of the others, especially Molly, as if you somehow seduced the mighty Dutch van der Linde within a few weeks time.

The beast stalks up to you once again. He leaves enough space to be considered polite—platonic. Yet the yearning in those sinful brown eyes of his is clear as a sky without clouds. Nearly all the other gang members have laid for the night, yet he still exercises caution. These illusions of his—his intricate web of lies. You'd do damn near anything, fuck Colm if you had to, just to unstick yourself from them.

"I don't trust you," you murmur, too worn down by the day's work to be entirely intimidated by his presence.

"Hmm. Why is that, my dear?" His tone, strong and smooth, like jenever. Knowing as well, always knowing. As if he can read you like one of his favorite pieces of literature.

"Honeyed words off a silver tongue are more often poison than not."

A genuine chuckle from him. It sounds like a hyena's howl.

"Sounds like we fancy the same writers," a purr in the back of his throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he enunciates it.

"And it's clear you chose to be the snake, instead of being the one avoiding its bite."

"Does that make you the apple? If it does—then call me Eve. I'll make sure I get to take the first bite out of you." The last words are mere whispers settling in your ears. An intimate promise shared under the privacy of the stars.

"In your dreams," you spit back.

"Not quite," haughty, so sure. "It's all laid out in my plans."

"Your fuckin' 'plans', eh?" You respond with irritation. Your heart pounding, but not quite out of fear.

Faux hurt in his body language, as if you stabbed him in the back.

"What happened to that sweet tongue of yours?"

A single step forward into your space. It's calculated. The hair on your arms stands at attention, goosebumps line your figure. You recoil like a foreign animal has invaded your territory. Your sleepiness replaced with vigilance.

You try to counter his zeal.

"It dissolved in your acidic lies."

Hiss. An odd stinging sensation envelops part of your jaw. One of his hands constricting your skin, tilting your head to meet his eyes in an unceasing stare. His rings burning an unforgettable memory into the grooves of your skin.

"Call me that again. Please, I insist."

You hear the familiar, haunting sound of a trigger pulling back before you realize there's a Schofield revolver against the temple of your head.

You let out an undignified whimper.

There's insanity in his eyes. Outrage.

As much as you have heard of this side of him, you never wanted to be the one to witness it.

"It wasn't any 'lies' of mine that soured your attitude. It's your small mind. You simply can't comprehend what I have planned for us."

A heartbeat, then two, he releases you and steps away. He holsters his revolver with seemingly natural ease.

"Distrust is a dangerous thing. Just remember, I'm the one who saved your life. It'd be unfortunate if I had to be the one to take it." His tone is the same one he uses to string his webs—to threaten his enemies and win over allies.

He doesn't meet your eyes with his words, already turned around, heading back to his tent.

You don't sleep that night. Your body tense, ready for an invisible happening. But your encounter with Dutch wasn't the only reason for your lack of sleep. It was partially the fault of Molly's raucous moans. Courtesy of Ms. Grimshaw, placing your tent next to Dutch's.

You can only hope the morrow is easier, but knowing Dutch and these displays of his tonight, you'll be met with a cocky Molly and an insufferable leader.

[edenprime]

I despise Kai Leng and his pathetic faux foil role in ME3 so much. It would've been so much better if it had been the Virmire victim and honestly- it would've made the Cerberus storyline so much better. It would've turned "Shepard becomes an idiot every time some guy with a sword appears" into "Shepard is blindsided by seeing their friend back from the dead". It also works with the foils dynamic and more:

Both brought back by Cerberus. Shows Shepard the other side of the coin - how they could've been if Cerberus had actually messed with their head. Shepard also makes some comments about themselves that make it look, in a way, like they do have some lingering doubts at the very least about coming back. When you look at the Shepard VI and they ask if they are really like that, when they ask EDI if they are transhuman or cyborg, when they refuse to talk about the clone situation every time it's brought up on the DLC, when they keep comparing the clone to themselves... I know we have the child dreams as our show of Shepards PTSD, but this could've added another layer to it.

"And for every soldier you [the reapers] add, your enemy loses two: the one you converted, and his buddy on the other side who can't pull the trigger on a friend." -> we could see this! Javik aludes to the same, but we never see it on screen. It's just a hypothetical, the only people who become indoctrinated are villains, Cerberus, or their allies. This would've shown that, it would've been some cool foreshadowing. As it is, it's just a loose end.

Shepard spat in Cerberus eye when they left, especially if they destroyed the Collector base. Using the resuscitated and indoctrinated friend against them would've been an incredible way of spitting back at them. It would've been an amazing show of power. It could've demonstrated that Shepard wasn't the first, that Cerberus was already experimenting with life and death even before the success of the Lazarus project.

It gives more credibility to TIM's claims that he can control the reapers, and it's a nice setup to the reveal of what's actually going on in Horizon and Sanctuary.

And even then, no Kai Leng and no Virmire victim would've been better than Kai Leng. Everything stays the same but that plot-armored jackass doesn't exist. Cerberus attempts a coup with regular agents, they steal the data from thessia with regular agents, they show up as regular agents on Horizon, etc. Because Leng doesn't work at all in the story. He doesn't.

Regardless of how well it was executed, the entire Cerberus plot line is supposed to be a "coming full circle" moment from me1. We had the indoctrinated Saren leading the indoctrinated geth (synthetic) in me1. We have the indoctrinated TIM leading indoctrinated humans (organics) in me3. We end up with a "showdown" between saren/TIM in which depending on how persuasive we were during our previous talks, they (now deformed by reaper tech) shoot themselves in the head.

Where does Kai Leng fit into all of this? He doesn't! He's just... there. He's got no room in the story.

[yuesya]

The Lord of the Vortex.

There is none who does not know the name of Osial, That Which Lies in The Deep. The most powerful god of the Hydro element. He who commands authority over the tempestuous seas, who controls the monsters of those very same waters.

The bird remembers that the– the–

Remembers that the Mistress of Dreams had treated the Lord of the Vortex with honeyed smiles and wary caution. Knows that the Lord of the Vortex is a god of war and battle, even despite the genial countenance that he dons an agreeable demeanor, complete with cold eyes that make it clear the god will not suffer any disagreement to his commands.

“Will you not say anything, little bird?” The Hydro god arches an eyebrow coolly. “Answer. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Involuntarily, the bird’s hands twitch. Its throat tightens, and words simply –refuse to rise to its tongue. The bird does not know the reason why.

Quicksilver images flash through its mind. White hair, and blue eyes.

I don’t have orders. Just go.

… The new Master –Not-Master?– had not made any demands for obedience, nor compelled any vows of secrecy from it. And yet, the bird finds itself reluctant to speak of the young god to the Lord of the Vortex, who has already slain countless foes whom it deemed a threat, monsters and gods alike–

“Who killed Malphas?” Impatience is beginning to creep into the sea god’s voice. The faux-friendly air about the god is fading swiftly; the Lord of the Vortex’s mood is known to be as mercurial as the storms that rise over the seas that he rules. “If you will not sing for me, little bird, then clearly you do not need that useless tongue of yours.”

The threat is crude, and unsubtle. There’s a faint tremor of fear that the bird can feel fluttering inside its chest, but even so, it remains silent.

A cruel smile splits across the god’s face. Jagged teeth elongate into fangs, as the manifestation of the Lord of the Vortex’s power destabilizes the human shape that the god has chosen to take. “So be it. Die knowing that your loyalty to a dead, worthless god is what killed you.”

(Its god isn’t dead. Not dead, and not worthless)

You can wake up now.

Anemo swirls around the bird’s feet in a violent gust as it summons the last dregs of its power in defiance of the Lord of the Vortex. Truthfully, to one who’d been forced into the service of the Mistress of Dreams, death is not the frightening prospect that the Lord of the Vortex appears to believe it is–

“Osial. Cease your posturing.” An authoritative voice suddenly rings out from –above? The bird glances above, just in time to see a golden shower of Geo energy coalesce and condense into a human form. Tall, male. There is an air about this new arrival that makes them seem implacable, and immovable.

… Another god.

“If a single human who has been displaced here dies to your carelessness,” the Geo god states, amber eyes glowing, “Then know that I shall revisit this upon your seaborn kin threefold.”

The Lord of the Vortex’s form shimmers like the haze of a watery mirage, then smooths out into the image of a blue-haired human man once more. One who appears bored and unaffected, instead of ready to release its power mere moments prior.

“Ah, Morax.” The Lord of the Vortex smiles, bright and insincere. His delight upon seeing the new god who’d just arrived is genuine, but it’s the sort of delight that’s associated with bloodshed. “I’d wondered if you’d be coming to take a look at this interesting little spectacle as well. Haagentus isn’t around to keep ahold of your leash today?”

“We are allies of equal standing,” the other god does not sound amused. “Return to your waters, Osial.”

Morax, the Groundbreaker. One of the most powerful among the host of adepti in these lands, a god of Geo whose mastery over the manipulation of earth and stone was unparalleled. Another god whom the Mistress of Dreams had been rightfully wary of, especially since the Groundbreaker was in an alliance with Haagentus, the Lord of Dust. Haagentus was a gentler god of Geo, who was not known for her physical might, but rather the keenness of her mind instead.

“You and what army?” The Lord of the Vortex retorts, and sweeps out a hand around him with an exaggerated flourish. “Or do you care nothing for your precious land-bound humans, hmm?”

The Groundbreaker’s eyes narrow. The Lord of the Vortex laughs.

“Little bird,” the sea god says, not once lifting his gaze from the other god even as he addresses it. “I’d advise you to start talking. Morax isn’t nearly as patient as I am.”

The Groundbreaker’s gaze turns towards the bird. “… You know of what transpired here?”

The bird tenses.

“Knows, and refuses to utter a single word about it,” the Lord of the Vortex chuckles. “How very loyal, isn’t it?”

The Groundbreaker’s attention shifts towards the dark barrier stretching up into the sky behind the bird, assessing. “That barrier…”

“Don’t break it.” Somehow, the words blurt out from its mouth. The bird is seized with the urge to duck its head as soon as both gods immediately look towards it, but… this is something that must be said, before either one of the powerful gods decide to do something that would be deeply regrettable.

“Oh? And why not?”

“This barrier, it…” Body folding into a bow before both gods, the bird recalls what the white-haired god had explained to it. The god who’s still doing her best to combat the lingering traces of the Mistress of Dreams’ powers, even now. “The… aftereffects of the Mistress of Dreams’ death is being contained within. Please don’t break it.”

“Hm.” The Groundbreaker frowns. Then, stiffens slightly, because–

“How interesting,” the Lord of the Vortex smiles. Beneath his feet, the ground ripples, with a texture not unlike that of rippling waves. “Morax, if you and Haagentus are dealing with the results of Malphas’ unfortunate demise, do you think Chi might be grateful for the opportunity to finally feast with his darling children?”

Amber eyes widen, then narrow in fury. “You dare–”

“You should not have slain my bride-to-be’s brothers and sisters,” the Lord of the Vortex’s smile darkens. Hydro energy engulfs its body fully, a blue glow that causes the humans around the god to attempt to scurry back even further, to start running–

The bird is already moving before it fully realizes what it’s doing, forcibly swallowing bitter guilt and reproach over the words that it should not have spoken. Fierce winds whip beneath the bird’s feet, hastening its movements as it lunges forward to get the fragile humans out of the way, as many as possible–

Water erupts from the ground, amid the Lord of the Vortex’s delighted laughter–

“Osial!” The Groundbreaker roars thunderously, and the very earth trembles in response to the god’s outrage.

[scary-grace]

Enough to Go By (Chapter 13) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Chapter 13

“I can’t believe this.” Tomura’s not happy, and he’s not shy about sharing it. “We’re not hostages. Take the fucking hoods off.”

“Don’t complain. It makes you sound like a child.” The voice of the Hassaikai member walking behind you sounds familiar, but you can’t quite grasp where you’ve heard it before. “Trust is earned. And you haven’t earned it.”

“It’s hard to earn trust without an opportunity to be trustworthy,” you say, as diplomatically as you can manage. You’re not thrilled about the hood over your head, either, mainly because you’re worried that it’ll take your veil with it when they try to take it off. “As for childishness – I’m not sure if you were the one who picked up the phone when Tomura changed the meeting date, but whoever it was threw a pretty impressive fit.”

Whoever’s walking behind Tomura decides to wade into things. “That was a subordinate, not the head of our organization.”

“Were they over twenty?”

Silence falls, other than the sound of your footsteps through what you’re fairly sure is a tunnel of some kind. You’ve been walking for a while, and the silence stretches, then stretches again. “We’re getting off the subject,” the Hassaikai member says, and Tomura snorts. “Careful. The door.”

You shift to one side to avoid the doorframe and bump into Tomura. Your hands brush, and Tomura’s little finger links briefly with yours, squeezing tight before letting go. It reassures you. You don’t know what you’re doing here. You shouldn’t be here – you’re quirkless, you’re not a villain, you’ve done nothing to earn a place in the negotiation between the League of Villains and the Shie Hassaikai. But Tomura wants you here. That would be all that matters, except Overhaul wants you here, too.

The hoods come off once you’re through the door, and you barely manage to grasp the hem of your veil in time to keep it over your face. With the hoods gone, you can see that you’re in a small, windowless room, standing behind a couch. Facing you, seated on another couch, is Overhaul. You were too panicked to really take the measure of him when you met in the warehouse. Now you have a close look, and what you see is – weird.

His eyebrows are thin and arched, almost plucked. The clothes he’s wearing are distinctive. The green combat jacket with purple faux fur around the collar was an intentional choice, which means his fashion sense is bizarre. He’s wearing thin white gloves on both hands, and like you are with any quirked person, you’re wary. You might have some idea what he’s capable of, but you don’t know for sure. All you know is that you’ve got no way to protect yourself from him. If he decides he wants you dead, you’re dead. You have to be careful.

But you’re not alone here. Tomura’s with you – and because Tomura’s himself, he doesn’t have to worry about careful. “Do you give this kind of welcome to all your allies? Or are you just pissed that we didn’t come running the first time you snapped your fingers?”

“This isn’t a social call, it’s a business meeting. I’m always careful when I conduct business.” Overhaul is talking to Tomura, but he’s looking at you. “Saintess, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Have a seat, both of you.” Overhaul stays silent as the two of you situate yourself, only speaking once you’re both settled. “I’m glad to see that you’re prepared to move past the – unpleasantness of our first meeting.”

“Move past it, sure. Forget it, no.” Tomura props his feet up on the coffee table between the couches. “One of your minions died. You destroyed Compress’s arm, and we lost Magne because of you. Those aren’t equal losses. If we’re going to move past it, we need something from you.”

“The Hassaikai will pay the cost of a prosthetic for Compress,” Overhaul says. “Unfortunately, nothing more can be done for Magne. I understand that Tartarus will be his final destination.”

“Hers,” you correct without thinking.

“Unless he talks,” Overhaul continues, like you didn’t speak. “I imagine that if he shares what he knows about your so-called organization, he could get himself moved to medium security instead.”

“She,” Tomura snaps. His fists are clenched on his thighs, his knuckles white. “She won’t talk, and even if she did, it would be because of you.”

“She attacked first.” Overhaul’s mocking Tomura, mocking you – mocking Magne, who’s not here to defend herself. “If you had better control over your gang of lunatics, then –”

“We’re getting off the subject,” you say, and Tomura and Overhaul both look at you. “What’s done is done. We’re here to discuss the future of your organization and Tomura’s, aren’t we? What did you have in mind?”

Overhaul tilts his head, studying you. It’s quiet for a moment – quiet, until Tomura snaps. “What are you looking at her for? Stop looking at her. I didn’t bring her for you to stare at.”

“Why do you think I asked you to bring her?” Overhaul doesn’t wait for Tomura to answer, and he doesn’t answer his own question, either. “Saintess was correct at our first meeting to look for an alignment of our goals. Your diagnosis of the problem as heroes, however, is incomplete. The root of the problem is the existence of quirks themselves.”

“Quirks,” Tomura repeats after a second. “That’s a new one.”

“It sounds radical to you as a person with a quirk. This is why I asked you to bring Saintess with you,” Overhaul says. “As a quirkless individual, I’m sure she can explain exactly what quirks have done to warp society from its natural order.”

Your stomach lurches. “What makes you think I’m quirkless?”

“If you were any use, Shigaraki would have used you already.” Overhaul shrugs. “If you had a quirk that could have influenced the outcome of the League’s previous engagements, you would have featured prominently in them, and if you had any value, you would already have been captured. Shigaraki has a nasty habit of giving his most valuable pieces away.”

You knew you didn’t like Overhaul, and it’s not like you haven’t heard anyone say things like that about you before, but hearing them said in front of Tomura is something else. It’s a good thing you’re behind a veil. Your face is heating up in shame. “But it’s your presence at Shigaraki’s right hand that convinced me we could work together,” Overhaul says. “A leader who can see value beyond quirks is a leader with whom I can find common ground. So let’s discuss my plans, and where you might fit into them.”

“Let’s start with this.” Tomura extracts the quirk-erasing bullet – the copy of the quirk-erasing bullet that Twice made – from his pocket and holds it up. “After Compress was shot with this, he couldn’t use his quirk for a while. What is this thing, and where did you get it?”

Tomura knows both answers, courtesy of you and Kazuo, which gives him the chance to test Overhaul’s honesty. “We manufacture those in-house,” Overhaul says. “Right now we lack the facilities to mass-produce them, so we’re in short supply. I’ll take that back –”

“Nope.” Tomura grasps the bullet with all five fingers and Decays it. Twice’s creations Decay like anything else, if Tomura does it fast enough. “If you throw away your toys, you don’t get them back. How are you producing them?”

Kazuo texted you some extra information after he ran his query, sharing that there’s human DNA inside each bullet. Overhaul’s silent for a moment, and Tomura pushes the point. “Earlier you said it was a manufacturing issue, but this thing was – what? A bullet casing and a needle? I’m guessing your real problem is not having enough of what’s inside it.”

“And?”

“And that seems like a flaw,” Tomura says. “It’s nice to have a plan. Not so nice if you can’t execute it.”

“Currently our production of the deleter rounds is restricted to one facility. Our production of Trigger, however, is widespread,” Overhaul says. “My plan requires both components. Once it’s executed, control of quirks will pass from the hands of individuals into the hands of those who control the supply of both compounds.”

Tomura nods. “I get the picture.”

It sounds like he doesn’t. He sounds like he used to in school, when he was writing his letters upside down or trying to put a puzzle piece somewhere it didn’t fit. Overhaul doesn’t buy it. “Why don’t you have Saintess explain what a world where quirks can be permanently erased would look like?”

He’s getting off on this. He must be. That’s the only reason you can think of why he’d force you to rub Tomura’s face in just how useless you are. “It wouldn’t be a return to the pre-quirk status quo,” you start, “because without mass distribution of the deleter substance, quirks themselves would still exist. But the category of quirkless would cease to be a static one.”

“And why would that be a good thing?”

You wish he wouldn’t prompt you. You were getting to it. “Quirklessness is stigmatized heavily. The downfall in privilege from quirked to quirkless would be colossal, for nobody more so than for heroes. The constant threat of quirklessness would change how heroes approach their work. It would make them more cautious, more self-protective.”

“Less heroic,” Tomura says. “I get it.”

“The threat of ending up like her will handicap them, and they’ll never be able to avoid the risk,” Overhaul says. “That’s the kind of reset I’m talking about. Now, in order to accomplish my goals, I’ll need some members of your organization to join mine.”

“Why?” Tomura asks suspiciously. “What do you want with them?”

“My organization is short on infiltrators. We’re tilted towards combat or interrogative types,” Overhaul says. “Twice, Toga, and Kurogiri. That’s who I need. You can keep the rest.”

“We don’t have freedom of movement right now. I’m not handing over Kurogiri,” Tomura says shortly. “Twice and Toga you can have, on a temporary basis.”

“I’ll have them until I’m done with them.”

“If you take them temporarily, what do I get in exchange?”

“I imagine you’re short on funds,” Overhaul says. “We’ll provide a place for you to stay as well as money for food and support items – and the prosthetic for Compress, as discussed. Hmm, and –”

He looks at you. “That injury to your hand hasn’t healed yet. I’ll fix it.”

“No.” Tomura was sitting with his feet on the table until a second ago, but he rockets to standing at once. “Touch her and I’ll kill you.”

“You don’t trust me? We’re supposed to be allies.”

“After what happened the last time you touched one of my friends? Damn right I don’t trust you.” Tomura has one arm thrown out, blocking you even though Overhaul hasn’t made a move. “You aren’t touching her. Back off.”

“I’m just trying to help.” Overhaul spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Call it a peace offering.”

You don’t want Overhaul touching you. You don’t want Overhaul coming anywhere near you. But Tomura’s outsize reaction looks bad. It looks like he doesn’t trust Overhaul, which he doesn’t, and it looks like he’s about to fly off the handle at any second, which he isn’t – and it makes you look important, which you aren’t. There’s only one solution you can see. You get to your feet. “It’s a peace offering,” you say, adopting Overhaul’s term. “I’m not against help when it’s offered.”

You step around Tomura’s outstretched arm, closing the distance between yourself and Overhaul. When you unwrap your bandaged hand, he regards it with clear distaste – but at the same time, he’s peeling off one of his gloves. “These are shallow. They should be healed already, given that you had the same bandage five days ago.”

“It’s on my hand. It’s hard to keep a scab on something I use all the time.” You hold out your hand when Overhaul beckons, wondering if you’re about to die. He could bring you back if he kills you, but he probably wouldn’t if Tomura lost control badly enough. And you can’t count on Tomura’s self-control in a situation like this, when he’s already pissed, already on edge. “Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t be mad if you changed your mind.”

“How forgiving. As expected of a Saintess.” Overhaul’s voice is sardonic. You really wish the League had picked a name for you that was a little less of a joke. “Here.”

His fingers brush the back of your hand, and your skin crawls – but that’s it. When you look down at your hand, you can see that the marks left by Tomura’s nails have smoothed over into a faint scar. A scar that vanishes completely a moment later. Overhaul yanks his glove back over his hand. “Why don’t you go show your boss that his suspicions were unfounded?”

You step back around the coffee table until you’re next to Tomura, and you hold up your hand for him to inspect. You can tell by what little of his expression is visible around the hand that he’s seething. He looks past you, to Overhaul. “Are we done here?”

“Not quite. Why don’t you stay for a game?” Overhaul gestures, and one of his masked minions sets a board and game pieces down on the coffee table. “Do you play shogi?”

“No,” Tomura says, in the same tone as he’d say “fuck you”. “You might have time for board games, but we have important things to do.”

“I wasn’t asking you.” Overhaul is looking at you – again. “Have a seat, Shigaraki. Saintess and I will show you how it’s done.”

You do know how to play, but you don’t play very well – a lifetime of letting your younger siblings win so they won’t hammer you with their quirks has left you uniquely unprepared to play someone who knows what they’re doing. But in some ways, this is exactly the kind of situation you always wound up in at home. Somebody more powerful than you is using the threat of their quirk to push you around. The only difference is that Overhaul is about fifty times as powerful as your siblings. And that when you were playing with them, you never had to worry about keeping your supervillain boyfriend calm at the same time.

Overhaul is lecturing Tomura about how shogi works. You focus on your opening moves. You really don’t want to get your ass kicked in front of your best friend, particularly not after he’s just spent the last half an hour listening to Overhaul remind him how useless you are. At the same time, though, you think you should probably let Overhaul win. You need to leave him thinking he’s got the upper hand over Tomura. It’s a delicate balance, and with your self-esteem basically in tatters, you’re not sure how good you’ll be at keeping it.

Even if Tomura doesn’t know how to play, he’s still on your team, as evidenced by the fac that he interrupts Overhaul every time Overhaul’s about to move a piece. He starts by needling Overhaul about exactly what’s inside the bullets, then moves on to asking about the quirk makeup of Overhaul’s inner circle, arguing that since Overhaul’s helping himself to members of the League, Tomura should have information about Overhaul’s underlings in case he wants to borrow one. Tomura’s interruptions give Overhaul time to rethink his moves, and because you’re playing what you’ve come to think of as the please-don’t-hurt-me strategy rather than trying to win outright, he doesn’t seem to know how to respond. You manage to promote one of your pieces and capture two of his before he finally quits responding to Tomura’s hassling.

Overhaul’s using the game as a personality test. He’s said as much, which makes the fact that he chose to play against you instead of Tomura especially weird. Does he like you or something? You’re pretty sure that’s not it – he’s never seen your face, and even if he could, you’re not anything special. Trying to figure out why Tomura keeps you around would make more sense, but you feel like he’d have to be socially unaware to the max to fail to guess that you and Tomura are involved. So what is it? For the first time in conjunction with dealing with the League, you wish one of your friends was here – Mitsuko, whose quirk lets her read people’s intentions towards one another. She’d be able to tell you what’s going on in Overhaul’s head. She’d also be able to tell you what’s going on in Tomura’s.

Overhaul never quite catches onto your strategy, such as it is, which means you win your first game of shogi ever against a yakuza boss who clearly thinks pretty highly of his own skills. You’re hoping he’ll let you leave now, but before he can put the board away, Tomura nudges you aside and takes your place across the board from Overhaul. “I want to play, too.”

Tomura versus Overhaul is a mess of a game, with pieces flying every which way at high speed. Tomura pressures Overhaul by playing fast, barely considering his moves before he makes them, and while Overhaul grasps Tomura’s strategy eventually, it takes just a little too long to give him the decisive victory he was probably hoping for. Tomura doesn’t seem particularly upset at losing. “Thanks for the lesson,” he says to Overhaul, getting to his feet and stretching widely. One of Overhaul’s minions narrowly avoids getting smacked in the face by his hand and scurries out of range in a hurry. “Are we going to have to do this again?”

“Not unless our strategy changes drastically.”

“Great.” Tomura turns to you. “Let’s go.”

They don’t blindfold you this time. You try to keep track of the various twists and turns, just to have something to do, but you can’t focus. Your veil may be in place, but with every step you take away from Overhaul, your mask slips a little further.

You grew up being picked on for being quirkless. Mercilessly picked on at home, less so at school, because you didn’t do anything so stupid as wanting to be a hero. You would have been targeted if you’d made waves, so you didn’t, staying under the radar and out of the way, even once you had friends like Kazuo and Hirono and Ryuhei who were willing and able to stand up for you. And maybe you forgot a bit, because it doesn’t matter at your job and the League doesn’t care. But what Overhaul said isn’t some aberration – it’s how the world really sees you. Useless. Worthless. If you were of any value as Tomura’s game piece, you’d already have been taken off the board.

“Hey,” Tomura says, and you look up just in time to realize that you’re stepping through the door of Overhaul’s stronghold. It’s dark out, and it’s cold, and Kurogiri’s waiting for you. But instead of stepping through the warp gate, Tomura addresses Kurogiri. “Take us to the place. Wait fifteen minutes and come back to get us.”

“Yes, Shigaraki Tomura.”

A different warp gate opens. Tomura takes your hand, three fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, and pulls you through it. You don’t have a clue where you’re headed, and you’re still confused when you emerge from the other side of the warp gate and get your bearings. It’s still dark, and it’s also cold – a lot colder than it was outside of Overhaul’s stronghold. Tenko draws his coat tighter around himself. “Fuck, it’s freezing.”

You can make out shapes in the darkness, but nothing that tells you what you’re actually looking at. “Where are we?”

“I used to come here sometimes. When I was a kid.” Tenko looks up at the sky. It was clear at Overhaul’s, but here it’s cloudy, a heavy bank blotting out the stars. “Sensei didn’t like when I went places. Kurogiri convinced him somehow. Probably told him I’d scratch all the skin off my face if I couldn’t go outside sometimes. I don’t know.”

Tenko sets off over the uneven ground, his hand still around your wrist. At one point he crouches, then comes back up with a camping lantern, which he switches on and holds up, revealing that you’re in the ruins of a big building. No, not a building. “Is this a plane?”

“It crashed a few years before All Might debuted,” Tenko says. “Officially an accident, but most of the internet thinks it was sabotaged. The pilots kept this thing in the air for thirty-eight minutes after the hydraulics failed.”

“What about –” you struggle to phrase it in a way that won’t get you in trouble. “What about heroes? If it was in the air for thirty-eight minutes, then somebody –”

“You think anybody would square up to a crashing jumbo jet? They let it fall.” Tenko scoffs. “Didn’t come looking to help until it was too late. Five hundred people on this flight, and four made it. That’s it.”

You’re in a graveyard. Your skin crawls. “And they just left it here?”

“I guess. And I guess if Sensei thought he had to let me outside, it might as well be somewhere I wouldn’t forget what I was supposed to be.”

“That’s messed up,” you say before you can stop yourself. Tenko lets go of your wrist, but only so he can take the hand down off his face and tuck it into his pocket. “It is, Tenko. It’s messed up that he –”

“Back there. With Overhaul.” Tenko cuts you off, and your stomach lurches. “Is that what they’re all like?”

You were hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. Praying, maybe. “No,” you say. Your voice isn’t wavering. It’s just the wind. “He wasn’t that bad. It’s fine.”

“If that doesn’t count as bad, what does?”

Things your siblings said, things your classmates said once you got old enough for it to matter – things patients said, back when you were dumb enough to think that letting them know you were quirkless would make the other quirkless ones feel better. “Nothing. It’s not that bad. He was picking on your judgment more than he was picking on me.”

“He was going after you. I had to sit there and watch you tie yourself in a knot trying not to piss him off –” Tenko breaks off in a snarl. “He backed us so far into a corner that you had to let him touch you to get out! You want to talk about fucked up? That’s fucked up! Don’t –”

“It’s fine –”

“Don’t tell me it’s fine!” Tenko’s voice is loud enough to echo, loud enough to startle you. “I know you. Even when you’re hiding behind that thing. You think I don’t know when somebody hurts you?”

“I’m not hurt,” you say. Your voice isn’t wavering. You’re just laughing at how absurd of a thing that is to say. “You think somebody like him can hurt me?”

“Yes.” Tenko catches the hem of your veil and flips it back, baring your face.

It takes all your self-control not to cover your face with both hands. You’re crying. It’s stupid. You’re twenty years old and you’re crying like somebody’s pulled your hair on the playground. You’ve been crying on and off since you turned your back on Overhaul, trusting the veil and years of practice keeping quiet to hide you, only you’re with the one person who’s never fallen for that. Tenko stares at you in the light of the camping lantern, and you stare back, your eyes blurring as you fight to keep your mouth from turning down at the corners. You wish he’d look away. It makes it so much harder that he can see you.

“Don’t look,” you say, hating how your voice shakes, and Tenko grabs you one-handed and pulls you in against his chest.

There’s a clang as he sets the camping lantern down, and then his other arm comes up around you, hands clenched into fists on your shoulder blade and your hip. He’s holding onto you tightly, tight enough that you’d have a hard time escaping if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. You’ll take what you can get, even knowing you don’t belong, even knowing that you’re always going to be –

“You aren’t useless.” Tenko’s voice is quiet, gentle. You remember it from when he was a kid. You didn’t know it was still there. “You can do all kinds of things. I need those things. The rest of the League needs those things, too. And they like you. Or else they wouldn’t have given you a name.”

Your stupid, shitty name. You want to laugh, but it doesn’t sound like laughter when it comes out. “And even if you couldn’t do any of the medic stuff,” Tenko says, “even if you couldn’t do anything at all to help, I’d still want you with me.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. You only sent Kurogiri to get me the first time because I’m a nurse –”

“I told him to get you before. A lot of times.” Tenko takes a deep breath, lets it go. “I should send that fucking hero a thank-you card. Kurogiri only listened that time because I was injured.”

He wanted to see you. That can’t be right. Can it? You grasp onto the least ridiculous part of what Tenko just said. “A thank-you card?”

“That’s faster to say than “a pipe bomb with a bow on it”.”

That might be the worst thing Tenko’s ever said in front of you. It’s also pretty funny at a time when you need something to laugh at. You try to smother your laughter in Tenko’s shoulder, and he hugs you closer. “I want you with me. You’re supposed to be with me. No matter what. Do you understand?”

“I don’t know,” you say. You think you might, though. Maybe. “I –”

“Come on.” Tenko sits down in one of the empty seats, pulls you into his lap, holding on when you try to squirm away. “Don’t worry. I only sit in the ones the survivors were in.”

That strikes you as unexpectedly sweet. It’s the kind of thing Tenko would have done even as a kid. At the same time – “You know we’re not done with the messed-up-ness of your Sensei sending you to play in a crashed plane, right?”

“It’s not that weird,” Tenko says. You raise your eyebrows. “Kids play in that park they built at Kamino, right?”

You hadn’t thought of it like that. Both places are places where a lot of people died. Both places have been swept under the rug, Kamino by putting up a shiny park over the ruins within two weeks of the disaster, this place by leaving it to rot out of sight and memory. Both places are the site of massive heroic failures. It’s not as different as you want it to be. “That’s messed up, too.”

Tenko snorts, rolls his eyes, but his arms are wrapping tighter around you. He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled and indistinct. “I don’t need you to understand everything. I just need you here. Do you get it?”

“I get it,” you say. “I need to be here, too.”

Tenko’s nose is cold where it presses against your throat, but his chapped lips and his breath are warm. You’re shivering, and so is he. “If I’d known it was this cold, I’d have made Kurogiri bring us somewhere else.”

“Why did you have him bring us somewhere instead of back to my place?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Without them hearing.” Even in the faint light of the camping lantern, you see his face flush. “They hear enough already.”

You knew Dabi was going to say something. It sounds like he said more than one something. “He just needs to get laid.”

Tenko looks shocked for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing, the sound echoing through the ruins of the plane. You like his laughter, but it sounds wrong here. Kissing him feels wrong to do here, too, but it’s the only way you can think of to keep him quiet, and it’s easy to fall into, easy to forget. Easy to forget where you are, but what happened to put you here isn’t so easy to leave behind.

Tenko’s hands have been curled into fists the entire time. Now they loosen slightly, splaying across your shoulder, grasping your hip. His index fingers are lifted. “He fixed your hand,” he says after a while. “I know why he did it.”

“Don’t think about him,” you say. You know you don’t want to – but at the same time, you weren’t paying much attention past your own discomfort. Tenko might have seen something you didn’t. “Why?”

“Because he knows I couldn’t.” Tenko’s grip tightens. “He wants you.”

That’s not right. “I don’t think he wants me. I don’t know why anyone –”

You trail off. There are some things that are too pathetic to say out loud, even for you. Some things you shouldn’t say even in front of your best friend, your boyfriend. Not after he’s tried pretty hard to reassure you about your place in the League, your place with him. Tenko looks expectantly at you, waiting for you to finish your sentence. You shake your head. Tenko smiles halfway, crookedly, and says the last thing you’d expect him to say. “Of course he wants you,” he says. “Who wouldn’t?”

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

Tidmouth Station - December 27, 1984 - 10:00 AM

City of Truro was roused from his cold and uncomfortable slumber by the movement of his wheels. He opened his eyes to find that he’d been attached to a goods train. He was facing rearwards still, and a sea of hostile looking trucks and vans stared back at him. He stared back, not about to be scared by a group of lesser creatures. 

Presently, there was a whistle, and another green engine rolled past him, a single flatbed truck behind him. “Good morning!” the engine said cheerfully. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.”

Truro blinked, unused to common courtesy after the savage treatment he’d endured. “Yes, I am now awake,” he said slowly. “Where are we going?” 

“To the mainland - well, that’s where I’m going at least,” the engine prattled on as he was backed down onto the train. “I think you’re going beyond there.”

“My own fifteen guinea special, as it were,” Truro remarked blithely. “It seems that my loan here has fallen through.”

“Ah well,” the engine said - was he a Black Five? He seemed to have some Stanier in his design. Maybe a touch of Gresley too. “Not everything works out. I’m sure that the museum will have you back on display in no time.”

Truro had to avoid gritting his teeth. “Yes, I’m sure they will.”

-

The journey continued mostly uneventfully as the train continued down the line. Quite naturally, it was a slow pickup goods, and so there was plenty of time for this… LMS? engine to talk and talk and talk. 

“-and so then I said- oh my goodness, what is he wearing?” The engine cut off as they rolled past a signal near some no-where station in the middle of the countryside. 

Truro didn’t have to guess at who was coming the other way - the growling motor was obvious from a distance. 

The two trains passed at a relatively slow pace - the horrid diesel growling away at a quiet roar. It said something to the engine pulling Truro along, and then was sliding away down the line, surely to ruin someone else’s day. 

The green engine was silent. 

“What was that about?” Truro hoped that he could perhaps find an ally against this backwards island with its diesel loving steam engines. “Did it-”

“Oh, nothing.” The green engine said. “I’ve just been in the works for a few months. I haven’t seen him since October and, well it seems like I’ve missed some things.”

“Like this monster…” The truck nearest to Truro whispered. Truro shot it an icy glare to make it subside. 

“Oh goodness me,” Truro said with faux-drama. “I can only sympathize! I’ve been on this island a month and I wish that I’d been in the works the whole time!” 

“Really?” the engine laughed. “Why’s that? I can say it’s not the picnic it used to be!” 

“Oh, well, let’s just start with that blasted diesel that just passed us…” Truro launched into a… reasonably accurate tale of the last month, not noticing how quiet the engine in front got as he went on. 

He pointedly ignored the deranged looking smiles on the faces of the trucks behind him.

----

Halfway to Kellsthorpe Road Station - December 27, 1984 - 1:35 PM

“Henry.” The Fat Controller didn’t even have the energy to be upset. “You have been out of the works for five hours.”

Henry was defiant. “Sir, I wish that someone had told me. I would have dealt with him in the yard.” 

“That is not the right response.” Stephen Hatt called from where he was inspecting the p-way gang. They almost had a track open. 

“With respect sir,” Henry said without a hint of shame. “But you’re not the Fat Controller yet.”

Charles Hatt inspected the gravel by his shoes, trying very hard to remember why he put up with these engines. 

“-you dare lay your filthy hands upon me!” came a bellow from the lineside. The men were slipping cables around City of Truro’s battered form. “I am the Great Western, and you will all pay for this treachery!” 

Ah yes, there it was. 

Charles looked up at Henry. “Henry, the National Railway Museum and the Great Western Museum had to go through a great deal of trouble for him. There was some kind of an engine trade.”

“So?”

“Henry, we owe Swindon and York an engine now. The same engine.”

“He’s still in one piece.” There was a clunk. “Mostly. Say, if he’s in two pieces, he can-”

“An operating engine.”

There was a pause, as Henry thought something over. “Well I’m certainly not going.”

The Fat Controller felt exhausted. “Henry…” 

“I won’t. He deserved it.”

A deep sigh escaped Charles. “I want you to know that I’m only agreeing to this because it will soon not be my problem.”

“Sir, you’re not retiring from the Hatt Locomotive Trust as well, are you?”

“Bollocks.”

--------------------------

The Museum of the Great Western Railway at Swindon - January 3, 1985 - Early in the morning. 

“ATTENTION, BILGEWATER DRINKING WESTERNERS!” a voice rattled the walls of the museum, startling the exhibits awake. 

“What in the world..?” Lode Star stammered as she blinked the sleep out of her eyes. 

“I AM A REPRESENTATIVE OF A SUPERIOR RAILWAY, AND I HAVE JUDGED THIS FACILITY TO BE INFERIOR! YOU SHOULD BE FURIOUS AT THE SQUALOROUS CONDITIONS THEY HAVE FORCED YOU TO- what? No, I shall not be silent! Do you think I want to be here?! This is a ramshackle hovel! By an industrial park! You should be ashamed that you keep anything of value here, let alone locomotives!” 

A blue tender was backing into the spot that Truro had vacated over a month prior. Complaints and whinges followed in its wake, finally resolving into the form of a 4-6-2 of distinctly eastern design. 

“Who are you?” Lode Star asked, trying very hard to be imposing. 

“I,” the big engine said imperiously, “am Gordon, first of the Gresleys and an honored member of the London and North Eastern Railway. I am here, however temporarily, as a “fill-in” for your most reviled member, City of Truro.” He said Truro’s name like it was a curse word. 

“Whatever happened to Truro?” she asked, suddenly very concerned. 

“You shall find out, in due time,” the blue engine said ominously.

--------

The National Railway Museum, York - April 25, 1985 - Midday

The engines in the Great Hall were abuzz with anticipation, although it couldn’t be said that it was pleasant. The train had been delayed by several hours, and this gave some engines time to request a move outside. 

When the request had been denied, they stopped asking and started ordering. 

-

“I’m going to give him one chance to explain himself.” Caerphilly Castle set her jaw, waiting for the train to come into view.   

“I’m surprised you’re going to give him that much,” Evening Star said grimly. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Western Fusilier growled. 

Evening Star eyed the big diesel-hydraulic. “Fuse, you shouldn’t be here. It’s not going to be healthy for you.”

“And I suppose that you possess a recently-discovered wellspring of calm?”

“Quiet, the lot of you!” Railcar 4 snapped. “We’re going to talk to him, and then-”

“We’re going to kill him,” Fusilier sniffed. 

“No!” 

-

Inside the doors to the Great Hall, a trio of Gresleys watched with varying levels of concern. 

“I wish that they weren’t out there,” Green Arrow said quietly. “It’s not going to end well for them.”

“Oh, do give over.” Mallard sniffed. “What are they going to do? Yell him to death? Not a one of them can move under their own power!” 

“You would be surprised at the power of words, cousin,” Gordon said quietly, watching the proceedings. 

“I am well aware of the power of words, mister Representative Most Plenipotentiary.” The streamlined engine scoffed. “What exactly were you thinking with that? Letting some of them into our ranks?”

“Mal, I didn’t see you complaining when they tapped the shovel to your buffers.” Green Arrow raised an eyebrow. 

“Why you-!” 

“Quiet!” snapped Coppernob, from his place near the doors. “Do we want to hear this or not?”

The train slowly rolled into view, and the entire museum fell silent. 

“Well cousin,” except for Mallard, of course. “You’ve certainly done it now.”

First along was Truro, who was being pushed into the yard by a diesel - oh goodness gracious it was Bear. 

It didn’t look like Bear.

Then again it didn’t look like Truro either. 

Bear, still unmistakably a Western Region diesel-hydraulic, was painted from buffer to buffer in LNER Express Apple Green. In an oval in the center of his bodywork, 7101 was spelled out in gold letters, while it was flanked by the letters LN ER. His wheels were rimmed in white, and he had traditional red bufferbeams, with № 35 102 painted on it. He practically sparkled in the sun, and there couldn’t have been a cleaner engine inside the museum. 

And then there was Truro. 

His GWR green was gone. 

In its place was a very drab BR Black. 

[captainsophiestark]

Witches Get Stitches

Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2023!

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries/The Originals

Day 11 Prompt: "You lost it. Well, we lost it."

Summary: Klaus and his girlfriend have been together since they were humans, surviving together for a thousand years. They don't intend to let anything tear them apart.

Word Count: 1,352

Category: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, not descriptive

A/N: This doesn't even follow the Originals timeline/canon a little bit lol

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I groaned as I slowly came back to consciousness, my head throbbing. The last thing I remembered, I'd been talking to Genevieve, a resurrected New Orleans with who'd been dancing on the line between ally and enemy.

She took a great, giant leap into the enemy category when I forced my eyes open to find her smiling at me, looking immensely satisfied with herself. I tried to stand, maybe make a move to rip her head off, but my wrists were chained to the walls on either side of me. I was trapped.

"I'm going to kill you," I spat, not bothering with pleasantries or pretending. Genevieve smiled like she'd expected me to say that.

"I know you think we're the bad guys here," she said, giving me a sympathetic expression that made me want to rip her head off. Literally. "But we're not. You've been dating the bad guy, and you've been so blind you haven't been able to realize it."

I rolled my eyes so far back in my head that I could see the wall behind me. I'd heard this same nonsense a thousand times from a thousand different people, and it never got any less irritating or boring.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Y/N," Genevieve said, walking towards me with a very menacing swagger in her step. "I'm just going to make you see the truth."

Before I could hit back with a retort, she raised her hands to the side of my head, and I went spiraling back through my own memories.

For a witch who'd managed to catch me, one of the oldest vampires in creation, in the home of my boyfriend, one of the other oldest vampires in creation, I'd expected more, honestly. But her plan wasn't particularly creative.

She forced me to relive some of my worst moments in my thousand years with Nik. We'd been together as humans, and he'd turned me not long after Esther turned the rest of them, so there was plenty of material for her to work with. Nik and I had been through hell and back, mostly due to enemies, but sometimes due to each other.

Genevieve made me sit through a few particularly bad moments, then pulled me out of her little trance, staring into my eyes like she expected some kind of connection.

"For a thousand years, he's lied, cheated, and backstabbed," she said, her voice low and grave. "He's left a trail of blood, pain, and suffering in his wake. You haven't been spared from his list of victims, even if you've convinced yourself you have."

I closed my eyes, taking a long breath in through my nose. This was getting tedious.

"We've decided to put an end to his reign of terror. We'd like you to join us. So what do you say?"

I fixed her with my best 'really?' stare, which I'd perfected using on Nik.

"Genevieve, let me explain something to you." My voice was quiet, faux-patient, with an undertone of promised violence the way I'd perfected from hearing Nik do so many times. "For more than one thousand years, Niklaus Mikaelson and I have had each others' backs, through everything. We're partners, best friends, and the loves of each others lives. One thousand years of a relationship does not come without bumps, and problems, and things we have to spend a long time working through. Every single time, we have done so successfully.

"One thousand years as a Mikaelson has also come with hundreds of people just like you, Genevieve. They've tried to get to Nik through me, or they've tried to turn me against him, or a thousand other attempts at causing us problems by breaking us apart. And not one of them, in all that time, has succeeded. And do you know what else, Genevieve?"

She cocked an eyebrow at me and gave a little snort, but I could see the way her shoulders tensed and the flicker of fear in the back of her eyes.

"Every single one of those people who tried to come at me and Nik? They're dead. And we're still standing."

Genevieve snorted, louder this time, shaking her head as she straightened and backed away from me. I stared her down, letting a feral smile slowly drag its way onto my face.

"Fine. If you won't help us, then I have no more use for you. So-"

"Oh dear. I hope that sentence isn't going to end in a threat against my lovely partner over there."

Genevieve whipped around, and I smiled at the sight we both found over her shoulder. Nik had arrived, covered in blood and grinning in the way that made my heart race. Clearly, he'd worked his way through at least some of the witches outside to get here. I grinned back at him.

"Your hold over this place, this world, is coming to an end, Klaus," said Genevieve, standing her ground remarkably well. "The two of you have terrorized this place long enough."

"Now you're bringing my girlfriend into it?" asked Nik, raising one eyebrow, a teasing tone in his voice. "Well, I really can't let that stand, now can I?"

"You're not going to have a choice," Genevieve growled. With that, she flung her arms out, whipping up a witchy storm to throw at Nik just as two more witches came into the room. Nik held his own alright—he was the Original Hybrid after all—but he couldn't stand on his own against three powers like this forever.

He needed help. And I was going to give it to him.

I closed my eyes, getting into the headspace I'd had to reach more times than I'd ever wanted to, but that had gotten Nik and I out of more than a few hard spots. Pure rage and a desire to protect the man I loved washed over me, and I pulled against my restraints with all my strength. I dislocated my thumbs to get them out of the cuffs, stifling a scream, then got to my feet and rushed Genevieve before she could realize I was free.

The next minutes were a blur. They always were, whenever Nik and I were in a fight like this. After landing a few hits and killing both of Genevieve's little helpers, I saw Nik go down. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, and I saw red as I whirled on Genevieve.

A few moments later, Genevieve followed Nik to the ground, although she was a little more dead. I stayed standing, trying to recover from the adrenaline. After I'd had a few moments, I crouched down next to Nik.

"Hey. Nik, wake up," I said, gently shaking his shoulder to try to rouse him. After a moment, thankfully, his eyelids fluttered. A second later, he sat into a seating position, looking ready for a fight. I quickly reached out to calm him, to reassure him that we were fine.

"What happened?" he asked, eyes still a little wild, even as he saw the bodies around us and started calming down.

"You lost it. Well, we lost it. Genevieve kidnapped me to get to you, you lost it on her and her little followers over that. She seriously hurt you, so I lost it and helped you finish them off. Same thing we've been running for a thousand years. We're alright."

Nik nodded, letting out a sigh and sagging a little. Then, he looked at me with a grin.

"You'd think after a thousand years they'd learn, wouldn't you?"

I sighed. "No kidding. Maybe this'll be the one that sticks."

Nik and I shared a smile as I leaned into him, kissing him softly before standing and offering a hand to help him up. No matter where we went or how much time passed, people would probably always try to come after me and Nik. But together, we were completely unstoppable. We'd spent the last thousand years proving it, and we'd spend the next thousand doing the same.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury

TVD/TO Taglist: @elenavampire21

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 51 | Part 52 | Part 53

“You wish,” Steve teases, then looks wide-eyed at Robin. “What about all the pictures we have?”

“We’ll take new ones,” she assures him, then grins. “And hey, maybe Starcourt will be built, without the Russian base underneath.”

Steve hums. “Maybe then I could avoid one of the concussions from Billy.”

Robin freezes suddenly. “Steve,” she says, “is it a good idea for the party to meet Max? Because of the first concussion from Billy? That wasn’t Upside Down related, was it?”

Steve grimaces. “He’d been Flayed at that point, yeah. Even if he is a racist asshole, I can’t imagine him coming after us like that again.”

Robin hums. “But if he does-”

“Tell me,” Eddie says suddenly, “does he like Mary Jane? Because I can make sure he never sees her again if he goes after Steve.”

Robin blinks at him, then begins to grin. “Sorry, Stevie, Eddie’s my new favorite.”

Eddie laughs and fist-bumps her. “Likewise, Birdie.”

“Hey!” Steve says, faux-affronted. It’s ruined by the grin he can’t hide.

El pokes gently at Steve’s arm, then the waffle iron when he looks at her. “It’s done.”

“Ah,” he says, opening it. “Thank you, Ellie. Mind getting me a plate?” He grins at her. “Without grabbing it?”

El grins. Without moving, she opens a cabinet, floats a plate out to Steve, then shuts the cabinet again. She wipes underneath her nose, then grins at Steve. “No blood!”

“That’s great!” He celebrates with her, offering her a high-five. “You think you’re ready?”

“I’m still scared,” she tells him. “But yes. I do.”

“Y’know something else?” Steve asks. “Vecna needed four more years to be strong enough to do what he did. You needed two more days. I think you’re much stronger than he is right now.”

“Speaking of the big bad,” Eddie interjects, nibbling on a corner of his waffle, “shouldn’t we go over the plan?”

Steve sighs. “Probably,” he agrees.

“I think we should wait for everyone,” Alli says. “Let’s just have as normal a morning as we can for right now.”

Steve smiles at his sister. “Sure, Al,” he says, then rolls his eyes when she pulls him into a hug and ruffles his hair.

“Love you, Bubba,” she murmurs into his ear, and he can’t help but to melt into her hug.

“Love you too, Al,” he murmurs back, then grins at her. “How about grilled cheese when we all make it outta this intact?”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” she nods, then steps away. “I’m gonna call Cass. Come and get me when everyone’s here?”

“Will do,” he nods, and she smiles in response as she walks off.

Eddie pulls his feet up onto the counter he’s sitting on, looping his arms around his knees. “So, Cassidy is Alli’s-?”

“Girlfriend,” Steve nods. He takes another waffle out of the iron and scrapes the last of the batter into it. “It makes me wonder how I would’ve ended up, if I had her the entire time, y’know? Cause I know I was an asshole. And I’m trying not to be anymore.”

“You’re succeeding,” both Robin and Eddie say at the same time, then excitedly point at each other.

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “Thanks. But I wonder, if I’d had her the entire time, would I have ever gotten as bad as I did? Would I have ever worked at Scoops or Family Video and met you, Robin? Would any of his have ever happened in the first place?”

He only notices his hand is shaking when Robin gently takes his fork and puts it down, then grabs both his hands in hers. “Squeeze,” she requests, and he does, letting out a harsh breath and resting their foreheads together.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Shuddup,” Robin says. He laughs.

After a few seconds, he pulls away to look at her. “Am I being crazy?”

“I think you’re being exactly as sane as taking this mission in the first place makes either of us, Dingus, I don’t think either of us were all there in the first place.”

Steve giggles. “I think you may be right.”

“Maybe you would’ve been different,” Eddie says. He’s taking the last waffle out of the iron. “Maybe you wouldn’t have. Maybe all of this would’ve happened, and maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybes aren’t gonna change anything that’s currently happening. All we can do is our best to get through it.”

El slips between Steve and Robin and wraps her arms around Steve’s waist. “I can do things you can’t,” she says quietly. “But I can’t see the future. I don’t know what could’ve happened. But I know I’m glad that you’re here now.”

Steve sighs contentedly and wraps her in his arms. “Me too.”

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[angelsnkisses]

thinking about kappa with a particularly sensitive reader <3

600 followers in such a short amount of time is insane, thank you so much!! this is sort of random, but i also think it fits kappa pretty well, and i had sm fun writing it :3. not yet proofread 🫶

💟 nsfw - mdni 💟

warnings: dom!kappa, sub!fem!reader, slapping, rough sex, mocking, degrading (slut, "hole", whore), dacryphilia, oral (fem receiving).

• sensitivity was never a recurring concern for kappa, so when he finds out you're more fragile than he is.. lord, you'll never catch a break. he loves how you twitch and jerk away at any unannounced touches, how you wince at the lightest of pinches or squeezes, how he can literally feel your skin threaten to give every time he sinks his teeth into your thighs, everything. it's such an incredibly insignificant detail about you, but it turns into his biggest ally when he needs to overpower you.

"what, did that hurt? seriously?"

• he would absolutely use it to his advantage, taking his time to carefully manipulate your keen sense of touch. he'd run his rough fingers across your skin while cooing harmless taunts at you, his lips tugging up at every delicate noise that falls from your bee-stung lips.

"already squirmin' around? i've barely touched you, sugar."

"be good for me, yeah? 'm gonna take care of you.."

• he'd tease you so much, putting you on the verge of tears without even touching you properly. he'd trace his fingers across your ribs, your waist, the curve of your thigh, right along where you need him most.. but never giving you any stimulation. at least, not until you earn it.

"such a greedy little whore, hm?"

"what do you want? use your words, darling."

• he's honestly so mean to you, always mocking or degrading you effortlessly. he's real rough with you, too, knowing damn well you like it even more than he does, even if you won't admit it. he savors every single noise that you make under him, cherishing how whiny and pathetic you sound. don't be surprised if he lands a heavy slap to the side of your face before taunting or scolding you cruelly.

"answer me like a good slut.. aw, none of that, i barely touched you."

"shh, i know what you need."

• you started crying? good, he loves it. he'll kiss away your pained tears to somewhat distract you from him stuffing his cock in your unprepared cunt, ignoring your pained groan. unless you say your safe word, he won't grant you any leniency. he'll fuck you mercilessly, all but using you to chase his own pleasure. he'll grab your jaw so tight (even leaving small marks at times) while he pounds into you, tilting his head just a bit while taking in your disheveled state.

"just a hole f'me, aren't you?"

"quit your whining, you can take it."

• if you catch him in a good mood, he'll utilize your sensitivity in different ways. some nights he'll do nothing but eat you out for hours, taking his time to make you feel so good. that doesn't mean he's not still unfair, because trust me, he is. he'll coax you to your first orgasm or two with faux graciousness, letting you think he'll go easy on you. as soon as you start to feel overstimulated, he'll force your thighs open and go down on you like a man starved, his nose bumping and pressing against your clit while he tongue-fucks you eagerly. he'll push you over the edge over and over until you're sobbing, and won't stop until he's pretty much drunk on your desire. he doesn't care how much you beg, unless that safeword is used you will not catch a break.

"stay still for me, i'm almost done."

"one more, i promise.."

• he'll let up eventually, and don't worry, he doesn't forget to take care of you afterwards. he'll get you whatever you need, do anything you ask, praise you and your performance.. pretty standard aftercare. if you look just a bit past his rough exterior, you'll quickly find that he also loves receiving aftercare. being told he felt good, that you knew he didn't truly mean his aggressive comments, general reassurance, that sort of thing. he especially loves letting you lay on his chest to play with his hair while he lazily rubs his hands up and down your bare back, eventually drifting off to take a nap with you.

***

A/N: me 🤝 abrupt endings

[trappedinafantasy37]

You know, when I started this faux Minthara origin, I really did it for the screenshot potential so that I didn't have to keep janking around with the game to get Minthara as the lead. So, I didn't really come up with any backstory as to why she ended up on the Nautiloid and not within the ranks of the Absolute. But having the two Minthara's finally meet, it's almost surreal. It's almost as if she cannot recognize herself or what she has been made to become. She is looking at herself, but only sees someone who is dead inside. The horror of witnessing what could have happened to her are all flashing in her eyes, and she realizes how lucky she is that it wasn't *her*. Minthara is a very self reflective person and she makes minor adjustments within herself according to the situation. And in this bizarro universe where there are two different versions of her coexisting, how deeply would that self-reflection go if it didn't happen at all?

Minthara already goes through an incredible journey. Of disengaging from the gods, deconstructing her world view and Lolthite cultural practices, looking inward and deciding to live and be devoted for herself, realizing that there are some costs to power not worth paying, and that there are some things more important than power. She does not make much progress by the end of the game. To her credit, 200 years of religious, cultural, and social torment cannot be undone overnight and she needs time. But she goes on that journey because of what happened to her in the Absolute and because Lolth abandoned her.

So my biggest question on this faux Minthara origin is who would Minthara be if none of that ever happened to her. If she still had Lolth's favor and Lolth never abandoned her, and she remained as a fully devoted servant of Lolth. That she is still deadset on destroying the Absolute in the name of Lolth and never strays from that initial goal. That the temptation of becoming the Absolute never gets to her and claiming it for herself never crosses her mind. Where there is no desperation because she doesn't have a tadpole. What choices would she make and why? Who would she ally with and why? How much would she still adhere to Lolthite rules and customs, even while out of the Underdark?

How much influence would the companions have over Minthara? Watching them on their journeys and watching them go through their struggles? Would she still come to want to disengage in the gods, or will it only confirm her world view? That the only path to glory is to follow the path the gods place before you. If Lolth never abandons her, will she ever abandon Lolth or turn against her? Seeing all of her companions being abused by various gods, gods who had once expressed love for the companions, would Minthara ever come to doubt or question the love Lolth claims to have for her?

How much influence would canon Minthara have on the companions, if she did not go on her canon journey? She wants Shadowheart to become a Dark Justiciar for the power. But a Lolth-sworn Minthara would probably tell Shadowheart to become a Dark Justiciar to honor her god, as Minthara is doing the same now for Lolth. And what of Gale? Would a Lolth-sworn Minthara tell Gale to give into Mystra's demands as that is what a servant of any god is expected to do? Would she get angrier at Lae'zel's rebellion against Vlaakith, seeing it as a blasphemy to openly speak ill against one's god?

And then of course, Daedra. A cleric of Lolth and former Priestess, who remembers absolutely nothing of Lolthite expectations and cultural burdens. A drow who does not act like your typical drow because she does not remember what is actually expected of a drow. A drow who has no ambition, a drow who has no desire for power, a drow who wears her heart on her sleeve and is very emotionally expressive, a drow who is very clingy and openly affectionate, a drow who cries (and she cries a lot), a drow who does not like rules and expectations and is more likely to set shit on fire than do what she's told.

Before, Minthara never really challenged Daedra for not acting like a typical drow because she herself was already disengaging from Lolth and all her expectations. And to a degree, she was part envious of Daedra for not having the same cultural burdens she has, but also found it liberating as it meant Daedra won't punish or judge her if she decided to unburden herself. Not only that, Minthara had formerly challenged Daedra on her faith in Lolth because Lolth abandoned her. But this time, Minthara still very much adheres to these customs and might challenge Daedra for not living up to those expectations. How much of an influence will a fully faithful Lolth-sworn Minthara have on a blank slate Daedra? And would they still enter into a relationship if Minthara constantly told her all the right and wrong ways to behave? Cause I fear Minthara would look at Daedra as someone who needs to be "corrected", and Daedra will not respond well to that and will challenge Minthara on it every step of the way. Unless Minthara can find a way to do it subtly in which it is more like providing guidance and wisdom, rather than enforcing strict expectations.

This is a Daedra who does not really believe in Lolth, but sees her as a method of control over her urges. Her faith is really only surface deep. But a paladin of Lolth can make that faith go much deeper for her to where it could become genuine. If she encourages Daedra to fully embrace Lolth, would she suddenly turn around and tell Daedra to embrace Bhaal instead when the time comes? Probably the most conflicting question, honestly. Minthara really only sees the appeal in wanting to worship Bhaal because Lolth abandoned her and she is on the rebound for a new god. So would Bhaal still be appealing if she is still faithful to Lolth? Or would she tell Daedra to reject Bhaal, reject the Slayer, reject her birthright, and embrace Lolth instead? Because otherwise, Minthara would be advocating for Lolth to lose a cleric and a Priestess which is a big no-no. But would her love for Daedra, her wanting Daedra to be the strongest and most powerful she can be, still lead to Minthara advocating for Daedra to embrace Bhaal? Would Minthara choose to reject Lolth for Daedra so Daedra can embrace Bhaal? Would a fully Lolth-sworn Minthara still get upset and threaten to breakup if Daedra rejects Bhaal? How would Bhaal killing Daedra on the spot for her rejection impact Minthara's faith and adherence to Lolth? I've got so many questions to explore now!