#turning the tide (modern) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

satorusugurugurl · 7 months ago

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Could I request JJK men helping you masturbate? More specifically, it's late at night and reader masturbates, they wake up but are too tired to actually do anything so they just whisper in ur ear or just guide the toy with their hand 😇 Modern AU with Nanami, Gojo, Geto, and Sukuna if possible, thank you sm I love ur writing it gets me GOING everytime you post teehee!! 🩷😁‼️

Guide You

Summary: A modern!au when during a late night solo session gets spicy as JJK men help you get off. 🥴

Characters: Nanami Kento, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Ryomen Sukuna, AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,492

Warning: Spicy, smutty stuff, masturbation, toy use, praising, language

A/N: Hi Nonnie! Thanks for the request! I hope you enjoyed it! I hope it wasn't too repetitive I kinda struggled for a bit in a couple of places! 🥲 but I loooove you thank you!! 💚💚💚

Nanami Kento:

Your husband was the best pediatric ortho doctor in the city, which came with its positives and negatives. He was paid well, loved what he did, and was able to spoil you. Rotten with gifts and luxurious trips. The downside was the hours and overtime he hated to put in and the fact that you rarely got to see you some nights.

This was one of those challenging weeks while he was on call because it seemed like every child in the city decided this was the week to break their bones. By the time his week was finally over, your poor husband was exhausted, mentally and physically

You lay in bed, gently stroking his snored into his pillow. His features were finally relaxed as he dreamed peacefully next to you. You loved seeing him relaxing, with a gentle look on his face as he finally got the rest he deserved. The poor guy was tuckered out, and when he got home, he promised to make up for the long week to you this weekend with his mouth and his cock

And you were desperate to have him

You both made several attempts this week to have a quickie in the morning, the kitchen, and the car ride to work, but each attempt was interrupted. It was like the worst kind of edging. When Nanami had gotten home tonight, you had the full intention of riding him until he passed out, but the moment you saw how tired he was, you decided your pleasure could wait until he was well rested.

That’s what you kept telling yourself: to not jump his bones, you could wait. You weren’t some Horndog that needed to be consistently fucked within an inch of her life. You could function as a normal human. Telling yourself that helped for a second before thoughts of pushing you against any surface and having his way with you had your short soaked and your pussy throbbing

Maybe you weren’t too strong

Squeeze your thighs together, rubbing some relief, but it was suddenly too hot, and your brain was buzzing too loudly at one in the morning. You needed to get off, but you didn’t want to wake your exhausted husband, which meant you needed the hell of your trusty wand vibrator

You pulled the blue toy out of your nightstand before slipping under the sheets. An orgasm would be enough to tide you over for the night. Tugging your shorts down your hips, pulling them around your thighs, you press the tip of the wand against your clit, turning it on the lowest setting. The buzzing vibrations had you moaning softly, tilting your head back against your pillow.

The simmering desire between your legs began to increase to a boil, fire, throbbing, making your legs twitch and tremble as your eyes tight, imagining being the one to touch you, bringing you this delicious pleasure that was burning hot. You pictured him slotted between your legs, tongue torturing the little bundle of nerves, while honey-brown eyes stared into yours, eagerly eating you out and driving you towards release. That image of your husband had you turning the speed to the toy up. The buzzing grew louder as you chewed on your bottom lip to hold back the moans, trying to

While you did your best to keep your moans silent with the sound of the vibrator muffled by the sheets, it was the squirming of your legs that caused your husband to stir next to you. Nanami hummed his eyes, opening them just in time to watch your mouth fall into an ‘O’ shape while your eyes shut tight. He blinks lazily, trailing down the curves of your trembling body, listening to the soft humming buzz of your favorite toy

His poor wife must be pent up. As much as he would like to roll over and fuck you into the mattress, he was too tired. He might not be able to fuck you, but he could still offering and helping hand.

You were in your fantasy that you didn’t realize Kento was right next to your ear. His breath flushed over your cheeks, his lips pressing against it. Feeling his warmth next to you and his lips on your skin, the smell of his body wash had you whimpering as you spread your leg

“Mm, that’s it, baby. Does that feel good?” Nanami whispers in your ear. “You’re trembling, and it must feel good.”

“It feels really good, Kento, so good.” Your leg shakes more as he buries his face in your neck, kissing it gently fuck

“Turn it up higher. Don’t tease yourself like that.” As Nanami’s hand wraps around the wand, he presses one of the buttons, increasing the speed to a higher setting. “You’ve been such a good girl. You deserve to cum.”

Your hips buck forward as your left-hand grips the sheets. You could feel the burning fire growing hotter and hotter between your legs, spreading down to the tips of your toes to your abdomen, where the kindling flames grow hotter. A coil tightened. You were so close, and Nanami was sleep-deprived, could tell. He turned the speed up higher with a moan, grinning against your skin as you inhaled sharply, legs clamping together as you gripped his forearm with your hand.

“Oh-Kento! Oooh fuck~ fuck I’m gonna cum! !”

“That’s right, let it go cum for me.”

“Nnngh!” Nails dug into his skin as waves of pleasure washed over you. “Oh my god! Oh my god, c-cumming~!.” Your husband chuckled, his breath warming the skin on your face as you both worked yourself down from the intense orgasm.

“Pent up, darling?”

You hum, nodding as you pull the toy away, turning it off before putting the wand on your nightstand with a pleased sigh. “Yeah, I’m sorry I woke you up.” Large, calloused hands wrap around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his body.

“No, you’re fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help out more.”

“That was hot enough to tide me over until you get some well-deserved rest.”

Nanami’s lips press against yours in a kiss as he shuts his eyes. “Then you better get some sleep. I have a week to make up for, so you’ll need all the rest you can get.” The promise of him ruining almost how you want, but the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had you falling asleep with him in your arms.

Gojo Satoru:

Gojo Satoru, your boyfriend, was well known for his company, Six Eyes. A game developing company that produced some of the best video games of the era, making your rich boyfriend even richer. Gojo was constantly whisking you away on spontaneous trips. If you saw some new viral dessert in Canada, you both were off to try it. If you were stressed, no worries; a weekend in Fiji would fix that.

While his job paid exceptionally well and was stable, he also went on many business trips. The Jet Lag was real, but your boyfriend made it a point to try to readjust his sleep schedule whenever he got home, which sometimes meant he’d stay up close to twenty-four hours to do just that. Some nights when he got home, like today, he had been up so long that he was out like a light the second his head hit the pillow.

You didn’t mind. Just sleeping next to Satoru, wrapped in his arms, made up for the two weeks he was away. But being wrapped in his arms like you were right now also had downsides. His breath was hot against your neck as his chin rubbed that sweet spot where your shoulder connected to your neck, and his leg was firmly pressed against your sex.

God, you were so horny you felt like your whole body was on fire. There was no way you could fall asleep like this wet and needy. It would be awesome if your boyfriend was up and able to help you with your situation. But the rumbling of his snores clued you in that there was no hope for two A.M. quickies.

Taking matters into your own hands, you crawled out of his koala grip, reaching into your nightstand and pulling out your g-spot vibrator. God, you were so wet you didn’t even need lube. All you needed to do was rub the toy up and down over your folds before dipping the tip inside of you. You hissed out in pleasure before pushing the toy deeper inside of the tip, pressed firmly against that sensitive, spongy spot inside of you, the one that made you squirm. With a whimper, you turned it on and began thrusting it in and out of your tight pussy.

It felt so good, and it made your body burn hotter. The familiar coil in your abdomen began twitching to life. You hummed, rocking your head forward as you laid on your side gently, thrusting in and out of you faster, working yourself up to release, but you ran into the same problem you always did with a toy like this.

It got too intense.

You’d feel yourself getting close; your legs would clamp down together, making it nearly impossible for you to move the toy when you were trying to rub circles around your twitching clit. You would struggle to keep the rhythm pace and ultimately end up edging yourself endlessly.

“Fuck!” A harsh whisper sounded as you felt your orgasm slipping away again, your legs clamping together tighter. “Come on.” You were so close you could almost cry. The sweet release was just within your grasp and kept slipping away.

Biting down on your bottom lip, watching your trembling legs try to clamp together for the third time, making it almost impossible for you to move the toy in and out. If your vibrator were charging, this would have been much easier to do. But alas, your toy was dead, meaning you had to use your fingers while trying to thrust your toy in and out of you, feeling your orgasm for the third time. You were about to give up when an ivory hand reached between your legs, finding your clit with ease.

“H-Haaah, Satoru!” you gasped out as the warmth of his body snuggled closer against your side.

Gojo had been dreaming when you cried out in frustration, his eyes open, finding you struggling to reach that sweet release. He lay there momentarily, eyes still heavy as he debated oncoming to sleep when your voice broke. You sounded like you were going to cry and not in the way. So, fighting against the drowsiness, he inched closer to you, deciding to give you a helping hand.

The sharp circles you loved around your click while he forced his knee between your legs, forcing them to stay open, giving you the chance to fuck the toy faster into your heat. The stress and struggle on you were lifted as Toru rubbed his chin over that sweet spot on your shoulder before he trailed kisses down your neck.

“I got you.” his voice was thick sleep. “I got you; you can relax, sweetheart; you can cum~”

“T-Toru—” you whine out your hand, moving faster. “Satoru!”

Your boyfriend is leaning over your body, watching you drive closer to release. “That a girl~ don’t it up, don't stop.”

“B-But—”

“Shh~ relax, baby.” Gojo’s other hand reached under your body, his hand wrapping around yours that was thrusting the toy. “Keep moving like this, just like I do with my cock. You like it when I do that, right? When I that tight little cunt?” his lips brush over your shoulder as he moves the toy at a faster speed.

Your head tilts back as you feel the coil in your abdomen tightening.” C-Close—!” you whisper, eyes rolling back into your school as you beat up.

“Yeah? Does that feel good, sweetheart? You gonna cum?” His husky breathes as you nod. “Good girlfriend, that’s it. I can feel your leg shaking. You’re gonna cum so hard.”

“T-Toru!”

“Yeah, yeah, baby, good girl, such a good girl~!” Satoru causes your body to convulse as your breathing catches in your throat. “Mhmm fuck!”

Your pulse was racing, causing both you and Satoru’s hand to still as you cum. Waves of pleasure send you rocking back against him the entire time you cry and shake, littering your shoulder with kisses until you gently pull the toy out with a satisfied cry. His hand rests over your hip, gently holding you as you toss the toy to the foot of the bed. There was always time to clean it later; you were afraid if you tried to get up on wobbly legs, you would most likely collapse on the floor.

Opting out of leaving the bed, you roll over to face Satoru. His eyes are heavy as he looks at you through white, luscious lashes with a gentle smile. Grabbing Satoru’s handsome face with your hands, you kiss him deeply, making him hum happily as he lazily kisses you back before you pull away.

“Thank you, Toru.”

“Mhmm~” his eyes finally shut as he rubs his face into the pillow before squeezing you closer to his body. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Satoru. Get some rest, honey.” Before those words leave your mouth, your boyfriend snores softly against the pillow with a gentle smile.

Geto Suguru:

The problem with dating an EMT was the fluctuating hours. Some weeks, you and Suguru worked the same hours on the same days, while others had him on the night shift. This week had been nothing by the night shift. You couldn't complain, though. At least he would have the next four days off to spend with you. You could go out on dates, fuck each other, and he could rest, catching up on the sleep he had been deprived of. You both usually did that, but tonight, there was a problem.

You were currently ovulating and unbearably horny.

Suguru had worked his ass off this week, having been on calls nonstop for the entirety of his 12-hour shift. Usually, he’d be raring to go, needing to take his frustrations out on you, but today has been hard, rough call after call. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes as a kid tissues off and made it straight to the bathroom to take a hot shower, but we’re probably passing out face first in bed.

You lay down next to him, pressing your lips together as you stared at his sleeping face. His hair fell over his eyes, and he hugged his pillow tight as his sweats hung low on his hips. One leg was underneath the sheets, while the other was bent near his chest. How was it legal for him to be this fucking hot. That wasn’t even the hormones talking. That was a straight fact.

The hormones were telling you to breed you until you cried. But Suguru’s pale skin in the dark circles under his eyes prevented you from waking him. Waking him up to satisfy your needs was cruel when you were perfectly capable of satisfying yourself.

As long as you could see his handsome face and his breath, it would be to keep you in the moment. He was out so hard he wouldn’t see you staring at him like you were some pervert while you got yourself off lying on your side facing him; you bit back a moan as you rubbed your favorite flexor toy over your opening before sliding it inside of you with a shiver

The toy was pressed firmly against your g-spot and clit. When turned on, it would flex, mimicking fingers moving inside of you. It was your favorite toy, one your boyfriend had bought specifically for you, which made this even hotter. Small whimpers left your mouth as your eyes focused on Suguru, who slept soundly across from you.

Doing something like this, masturbating in front of him without him, knowing had your walls twitching in pleasure

“Haaah—” wind, one hand, gripping the pillow behind your head while the other grasped at the sheets. The curling motion and vibrations made you wetter than you already were, which seemed almost impossible. Your arousal seeped out of you, coating your folds, thighs, and your favorite pink toy buried inside you, and the pleasure of doing it in front of your handsome boyfriend without his knowledge had you squirming, resulting in the toy slipping out of you.

“H-Huh?” The feeling of the vibrations against that spongy spot inside of you vanished. “What the?” reaching down, you pushed it back in place, but your wet walls had it slipping out again. “Y-You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You repeated the same process, pushing the toy inside, but it continued slipping out, turning your very steamy solo session into a much more frustrating scenario. It was hard to get into the moment when you were constantly having to push your favorite toy back inside of you. You finally reached down, holding it firmly in place with one hand. So you could handle the situation. Before you could lose yourself in the pleasure, you glanced back up to admire your boyfriend, only to meet his dark gaze, watching you with a lazy grin.

“S-Sugu!”

“Oh~ don't stop, please~ I love watching you get off.” he hummed with a smirk, snuggling closer into his pillow. “Could wait for the morning~ had to get out your toy?”

“Y-Yes—”

He glanced down, “Need a hand?” You can only nod as he reaches down, replacing your hand with his own. “Fuuuck~ baby, you're so fuckin’ wet.” he pushes the toy deeper inside, holding it snuggling in place.

“I-I was I-imagining you, f-fingering—nngh—” Your mouth falls agape as you watch Suguru as the vibrator flexes against your clit and g-spot perfectly. Your hips buck, and your leg trembles as you cry out softly.

“Yeah~ you always get needy for my fingers.” he gently rocks the toy black and forth, making a whimper crawl up your throat. “Does that feel like me~? Rocking my fingers against that spot?”

“Ooooh fuck S-Suguru, Sugu~”

Your boyfriend’s thumb presses the button, increasing the speed to the highest setting. “Oooh baby~ you sound so pretty, moaning my name like that.” He smirked as you grip his bicep, digging your fingers into the muscle. “You’re gonna cum~ I can tell.”

“Y-Yes! Please, Sugu, please, please, I need it!”

As much as he would like to edge you, keep this going, he was still tired. So he rocks the toy back and forth, faster and harder, drawing out the loudest moans from you. It felt so good. It felt like he was touching you while guiding a toy he had purchased for you. Your nails nearly broke the skin as you clinched your hand around his bicep, the coil in your abdomen tightening harder and harder until it finally snapped.

“I'm cumming!” screamed out legs, trembling and shaking as you gushed all over the toy. “C-Cummin’ cumming!” Subaru couldn’t help but chuckle as you arrived against the mattress; you were so sensitive, so easy to please, because he knew you like the back of his hand.

As the rippling contractions of pleasure ceased, your grip on his arm loosened before gently rubbing away the crescent moon shapes you left behind. “Feel better?” Suguru asked as he gently removed the toy from inside you.

“Yeah, it's your fault—ahh—” your words cut off as you watched your boyfriend slide his tongue slowly up the toy collecting your cum off of it. “W-What are you?!”

“A midnight snack should be enough to tie me over until I fully devour you in the morning.”

Your boyfriend nonchalantly placed the toy on his side of the nightstand before hugging his pillow and shutting his eyes as if he hadn’t just done something so sinfully hot! If it weren’t for the mere intensity of your orgasm, pulling you into dreamland, you would’ve taken him right then and there and told him to relax while you did all the work. Suguru was right; you would have to wait for a proper meal in the morning, and you would beat him to it.

Ryomen Sukuna:

Ryomen Sukuna, you’re hot, tattooed, and pierced boyfriend, was snoring next to you in bed. His right arm was in a black brace courtesy of the sofa. You had begged him to wait until you got off a call to help him move it, but he insisted that he would be fine alone. And he was until the damn thing nearly crushed his little brother Yuuji when your back was turned.

It was a hairline fracture that would quickly heal in six to eight weeks. Plus, with the hairline fracture, Sukuna could still do simple things like piercings and scheduling appointments at Geto’s tattoo shop. Your boyfriend had been lucky that he had a lot of muscles to take the blunt of the hit from the massive sofa. Your boyfriend wasn’t fortunate enough to avoid your wrath when he said he could care for himself and his brothers alone.

Hearing him say that caused you to blow a fuse. It was bad enough that he had tried to move a sofa alone! Then he dares to tell you he doesn’t need help around the house. Sukuna told you he would be fine nursing a hairline fracture while working and caring for his brothers, which caused you to tell him to shut up and stop being an asshole. That’s how you found yourself with your bags packed in the corner of his room as your ass was planted firmly in his bed while he slept off his pain meds.

He could fight you all he wanted, but you wanted to be there for him.

With a heavy side, you brush back some of your hair as you glance at the clock on the wall. The adrenaline had been pumping through your veins, keeping you wired most of the evening. You were wired after taking Sukuns to the hospital, picking up his brothers, and packing a bag to bring. Seeing that it was now one in the morning, you had a couple of choices to help with your insomnia. You could pull an all-nighter and take a nap on the day, or you could relieve the tension with an orgasm and fall asleep that way.

Having to choose between sleep, deprivation, and pleasure wasn’t a hard decision. Without any other thoughts, you reached into Sukuna’s nightstand, pulling out the vibrator he kept there for you. With that bad boy, he would be able to cum in no time. You had just laid on your back and went to turn it on the highest setting for it to do absolutely nothing. You gave it another click, finding your favorite toy dead.

“No,” you whine, leaning against the pillows. “Fuck no.” as much as you hated it, you would have to go back to the ages and get off with your hand if that was even possible.

With a soft side, you pull to the side before your swollen clit with ease. You gently began rubbing it with your forefinger and slowly teasing circles. Your toes curled as you pressed down on the bundle of nerves with a whimper. It felt good, but you weren’t sure if this would be enough for you. Your boyfriend had not only been your first for almost everything, but he has successfully ruined you for anyone else

And the smug bastard knew that, too

Rubbing your clit faster, you spread your shaking legs with a shaky sigh. Touching yourself, of course, felt good. It always did, but it wasn’t enough, whether it was the lack of callouses or how your fingers were much smaller than your boyfriend's. Or it could just be the fact that your hand wasn’t his. Those thoughts only made it harder for you to focus on the pleasure,

“Kuna,” you whispered, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes~” You were trying to mimic his fingers over your swollen bud, picturing his mouth on your tits, sucking at your nipples. “Fuck.” imaging that only increased the pleasure, making you rub yourself as fast as your fingers would allow. The pleasure only seemed to intensify, urging your hands to grab the sheets instead of continuing to get you off. “Fuuck.” They were about to slow down when Sukuna swatted your hand away and replaced it with his left one. “Haaah!”

Looking up, you found your groggy boyfriend sitting on his knees, the right hand pressed close to his chest while the other rubbed furiously at your clit. “Gotta move your fingers faster than that kitten.” his voice was deep and groggy from the sleep and the medication he was on. “You’re never gonna cum like that.” Your hands dug into the sheets and snapped your fingers faster and harder. I guess that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”

“What? You were begging me to do so. This is what you wanted, right?” Sukuna moves his hand as fast as he can as you bite down on your bottom lip when the pleasure becomes almost too much.“Then do it, cum all over my fingers like the good kitten that you are.”

“I-Im gonna—!”

“Yeah? Gonna finally cum now that your boyfriend’s helping you out?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Yeah, your fingers aren’t as rough as mine, are they?”

“No!”

Sukuna presses down on your clit harder, rubbing circles around it. “Awe, so honest~ come on, baby cum, you deserve it for telling me the truth and helping me out today. Consider this one of the many ways I plan on repaying you,” you scream, eyes going wide as your orgasm hits you with the promise of more pleasure to come.

Your body rides and arches off the mattress as you cum all over your boyfriend’s hand. You grip the sheets, eyes clamping shut as your tights clamp around her hand. Sukuna slows his fingers down, grinning as he watches your face go from scrunched up with pleasure to a more relaxed expression. His quick circles turn into lazy strokes until, finally, your legs shakily release the vice grip on his hand.

“Mmm.” he licks his fingers clean as you fix your shorts. “You taste so sweet.”

“Mhmm,” you respond almost lazily as he pulls you into his chest. Drowsiness creeps up on you, making your eyelids heavy, and Sukuna sighs heavily. “Night, Kuna; let me know if you need anything.”

Sukuna hums in response, watching as you slowly drift off to sleep on his chest. Would asking you to move in be too much to ask? Because you were everything he needed.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3

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aeide-thea · 2 years ago

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This is a good point! However, you'll note that their professional affiliations are actually listed, enabling you to evaluate them, while the people promoting laundry stripping are generally amateurs with no particular textile expertise; as Good Housekeeping points out,

laundry stripping really became a household phenomenon after MrsLaurenElms posted a before-and-after TikTok in early 2020 — and since then, TikToks about laundry stripping have racked up hundreds of millions of views.

Lauren Elms is an ER nurse and self-described "Christ follower" and "wifey," attributes which do suggest that she probably has some practical experience with laundry—more than her husband, at any rate, one suspects!—but don't mean she has any insight into the actual science behind the process. Similarly, the Tumblr user whose post promoting laundry stripping blew up on here made no claims to relevant expertise, and in fact explicitly said they couldn't speak to fairly central aspects of the practice like "how often you're supposed to do this" or the effect it has on whites! So if we're going to be skeptical, we should be skeptical in both directions.

I also think it's worth considering the relevance of possible corporate bias here—no one has presented laundry stripping as a substitute for regular washing, but rather as a method of periodic deep cleaning, which means it's not in competition with Tide or Cleancult's products. Good Housekeeping does note that "[t]here are some instances where laundry stripping may be necessary, especially if you notice buildup after washing with homemade detergent," so I suppose it's not inaccurate to characterize this as a standoff between brands and 'home remedies'; but as far as I can tell, the home-remedy side of things is presenting a cure for a problem they've potentially created themselves, by using old-school detergent that doesn't get clothes as clean.

That said, I agree it'd be good to hear from people who are at the very least trying to sell you things other than laundry products! To that end, I give you Consumer Reports:

“Doing or watching the physical task of cleaning can be satisfying in the same way putting a puzzle together can be satisfying and serene—we’re transforming chaos into order and tidiness,” says Caroline Given, LCSW, a therapist and CEO of Therapy for Busy People. “With laundry stripping, I think we’re also comforted by this idea that we are visually guaranteeing freshness and disinfection.” Satisfying? Sure. Necessary? Not exactly. There are better options on the table.

Namely, preventing product buildup in the first place, by (1) making sure you're not using more detergent than necessary; (2) skimping on fabric softener, or better yet skipping it entirely; and (3) not overloading your washer, so there's adequate circulation between items and the final rinse can do its job. (That's a summation of CR's recommendations; they're echoed by Maytag, which, yes, is invested in selling you laundry products, but their angle is the machine you do it in, not how you do it.)

That said, if you have (for instance) hard water, it may make sense to strip some things periodically! But that doesn't apply to many of us, and even for people to whom it does, it's important (notes This Old House) to avoid stripping delicates, woolens, synthetics, or anything dark; CR's test engineer Richard Handel also recommends "wearing gloves and a mask to avoid touching and inhaling dispersed dust particles," precautions which weren't mentioned in the post that blew up on here. In my opinion, it's distinctly irresponsible of amateurs to blithely recommend that people bring a substance into their home that has potentially serious health risks, particularly to children (less than 5 grams of borax can be lethal to a child if ingested, according to the Children's Hospital of Wisconsin), in order to implement a time-consuming, laborious home remedy for an issue (residue buildup) that most people could have prevented in the first place just by using a little less product!

Laundry stripping may be popular in certain circles, but it's important to understand the science behind the deep-cleaning practice before you decide to give it a try. Ultimately, stripping some fabrics (like silk and wool) can actually do more damage than good—and utilizing this method too frequently can prematurely age your garments. […] [Cleancult CEO Ryan] Lupberger advises against the practice altogether, especially if you were considering Borax. "It's one of the products people often use to strip laundry, but is also an irritant. It can lead to skin irritation or a rash and respiratory side effects," he says, noting that there are concerns for exposure to humans, as well as pets. […] The shock of laundry stripping is the water—the process results in a dark, seemingly disgusting pool of filth. In reality, this discoloration is largely caused by hot water leeching the dye in your clothes, causing them to run. Stripping can, however, help remove dirt, lingering body oils, detergent residue, and hard water minerals; together these soils do contribute in part to that brown-gray water, says Lupberger. According to Tide scientist Jennifer Ahoni, "Our research and laundry expertise suggests that there are more effective methods to remove build-up on fabrics." Per Tide's findings, continues Ahoni, the stripping process can actually cause issues with many textiles. "The mechanism by which washing soda precipitates out water hardness can actually form new soap scum residues on fabrics," she says. "Additionally, we have learned that low wash pH is an effective method for soap scum removal, and washing soda raises wash pH—which is the opposite direction." Not to mention the fact that washing soda can also deactivate some detergent components, preventing your wash from getting extra clean in the first place.

#long post #but like. if skepticism only gets applied to modernity and not tradition…#you're not actually combating bias‚ just replacing it #that said‚ i'm not saying there are no circumstances in which laundry stripping could be appropriate!#just that like. borax wants to sell you borax just as much as tide wants to sell you tide #<https://www.borax.com/news-events/april-2021/uses-of-borax-for-laundry>#and a christian wifey definitely has some relevant bias wrt turning housekeeping into a full-time job again!#also honestly i think people just LOVE the idea of Finding Secret Dirt and Eradicating It—cf bioré nose strips.

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lxvvie · 9 months ago

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Couples shit with Simon Riley, Modern Harefare edition:

I've talked about Simon with Pup (the dog) and Spectre (the cat), but what if the family pet was... a rabbit?

Meet Thumper, the cutest, most adorable Lop... that Simon wasn't expecting. At all. When you said you were getting a Lop, he didn't think it'd be a... a bloody rabbit. And thus a war in your home was started, one of epically adorable proportions.

Simon is convinced Thumper wants him dead. For a variety of reasons. Reasons that include waking him up at the ass-crack of dawn by sprinting across the bed and catching him mid-snore when Thumper hits his head. Yeah, luv, the bloody rabbit wants him dead.

It's that and catching Thumper nibbling on his clothes with no remorse. Because he wants him dead.

And it's also Thumper... thumping his way through life, throwing adorable tantrums because "I just gave you some lettuce, Thumps," or, "Can't eat my biscuit, mate." It's fuckin' psychological warfare, the things Thumper does to him, luv. What's so bloody funny?

Perhaps you've noticed that whenever Simon is scrolling on his yee-yee ass phone, Thumper jumps on him and knocks the phone out of his hand. With no remorse. Because he wants Simon dead. Alright, mate, if it's a bloody war you want, it's a bloody war you get.

Simon retaliating in kind, responding with psychological warfare of his own. "Gotta disarm my opponent," is what your soldier says, as he gives Thumper his favorite treat: a banana. All to throw Thumper off his game. Know what else Simon does?

Clean Thump's hutch when it's his turn. He makes it nice and comfortable again all so his bunny child can rage and thump and... mess it up in rebellion. Again. Simon can't help but be amused and chuckle. The tide's turning in his favor, sweetheart.

Whenever Thumper jumps on him, Simon... pets him. To throw him off his game of course. No thumping formed against him shall prosper. Sometimes. And when Thumper does thump in rebellion, Simon gently admonishes him like the honey bunny dad that he is. No, Simon, you're absolutely not laughing at him giving your pet rabbit a whole-ass lecture.

Bond with Distract Thumper with the game on the telly. Goes good for Simon 'cause it puts his thumping to good use whenever they miss a goal. Yeah, he feels the same way, Thumps. Now Johnny has bragging rights for the next couple of days or so until his team inevitably lets him down again.

Let Thumper follow him throughout the house for the most part. You have to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, luv.

And you know the most effective war tactic Simon has at his disposal? Cuddles. Because Thumper loves his cuddles and how Simon picks him up and nestles him in his arms. Better yet, it's when he lightly scratches Thump's head, lulling him into a false sense of security... and sleep. "Think I've won this war, sweetheart," Simon says as Thumper rests comfortably in his arms. Yeah, Simon, you sure did. And when you suggest putting your bunny baby down so he can nap some more, Simon looks at you as if you had two heads.

#2queued4u.#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern lovefare.#simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #x poc reader #x black reader #task force 141

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neptuneiris · 4 months ago

Text

Cruel Summer (03/10)

Against the Tide

pairing: modern!aemond × fem!reader

summary: at Crown's family tensions rise and you keep running into a person you shouldn't talk to. but both he and you can't help testing the waters.

words: 9.3k

thank you to @peachysunrize for being my beta reader, she also helped me in the previous chapter and I forgot to mention her, but finally here she is. love you bestie!❤

previous part • next part • series masterlist

I am so excited for you to read this chapter! from the next chapters onwards, what we have been waiting for begins (forbidden love)🤭 and I want to thank you once again for all the support you are giving to the story, you guys are amazing and you don't know how much I appreciate it🙏🏻 now enjoy!

warnings: half smut, language.

Sunset's Pier stretches along the boardwalk, a vibrant and lively place, especially on summer evenings.

In the distance, waves break gently against the pier and shore pillars, while palm trees sway in the cool ocean breeze.

Wooden planks creak under the feet of visitors, while the smell of the sea and freshly made food fills the air.

The stores lining the pier are clearly divided, some full of luxury, with glittering windows displaying designer dresses and accessories. And there are other more modest stores, where prices are more affordable.

Or as it would be technically said among the locals of Sunset's: stores for the rich and stores for the poor.

After an exhausting afternoon trying to surf with the boys, Alysanne drags you into the stores, excited to find something nice for tonight's party.

The two of you walk between shop windows, exploring the options, especially in the stores where you can both afford to shop. But Alysanne stops in front of one of the more expensive stores.

You watch as she gawks at a blue bikini on display on the mannequin, the color as deep as the ocean at sunset.

"Look at this!" she exclaims excitedly, almost pressing her face against the glass, "It would be perfect for tonight's party. If only I had the money to buy it," she murmurs between excited and disappointed.

You smile, understanding the desire. The bikini is really beautiful but it is obvious that the price must be very high.

"Don't you have any savings?" you ask her.

"No," she laments, "I used it to fix my phone, did you forget? I can't afford to buy a new one so I have to fix the one I already have."

"Well, I guess I—

A high-pitched laugh interrupts the conversation and when you both turn around, you instantly recognize the people.

Perfectly coiffed black hair and shiny red hair. All those impeccably dressed girls, with expensive handbags, gold accessories and designer sunglasses; Baratheon and Lannister.

But you distinguish precisely Floris Baratheon, Aemond's girlfriend.

All of them in a group watch you both with a mocking face for two things; for being in front of a store like this and for being longing for the beautiful blue bikini.

And even though they don't know you, it doesn't matter that they bother you for the radar of recognizing poor people, because the difference between you and Alysanne is too big compared to them, who can afford to shop here.

Especially since the top you are wearing at the moment is torn on one side. You don't see much but they've already seen it, as well as inspecting your dirty, old tennis shoes.

"Do you really think you can buy anything here?" speaks precisely Floris with a venomous tone, with a sneer as he looks at the bikini and then at both of you, "It's a shame you can only look. Not everyone has the privilege of affording something so nice."

"Yeah, maybe someday you can get it... in the next millennium sales."

They laugh among themselves, clearly enjoying the moment of superiority. And you clench your jaw, annoyed, especially as you watch Alysanne lower her gaze in humiliation.

"Excuse me, do we know you?" you inquire.

You obviously know them, but you won't indulge them.

"Oh dear, everyone here knows us, especially me," Floris says superiorly, adjusting her sunglasses.

"Even your kind know who we are," Cerelle also speaks with clear contempt.

Alysanne regains her composure and you instantly notice.

"Yes, we know you are such a bunch of idiotic, shallow people for thinking that the price of clothing defines someone."

"Some of us have more important things in life than spending money on something so insignificant," you too stand up for yourself and your people.

They all let out a laugh, where Floris takes a step toward you.

“Yeah, sure. The poor always find an excuse to justify their misery. How pathetic and sad," she feigns an exaggerated pout.

"I'd rather be poor than be as empty as you," Alysanne next to you snaps at her.

She arches an eyebrow at her, amused and clearly entertained, as she folds her arms in her arrogant attitude.

"Empty, huh? Well, it's better to be empty than desperate, like you two. Keep dreaming of things you can never have. But don't worry, being poor and living on the filthy side of town, dreaming is free."

"And who do you think you are huh?" Alysanne lunges at her, "You think because you are rich I can't break your face or what?"

You quickly stop her holding her by the arm, worried and of course, Floris recoils back with a frightened face and her friends don't take long to instantly surround her, shielding her as if they were her wall of protection.

"Not so talkative and brave now huh!?"

"Hey, Aly," you hold her back, "Stop it. It's not worth it."

Floris and all of them look at you both with despise.

"See? They're all savages," she says without again getting too close.

"Oh yes, very savage, just because we're defending ourselves from you making fun of us and making us less," Alysanne tells her firmly and in a defiant tone, "But you can't even defend yourself. So I advise you to talk less or I'll break that pretty rich girl face of yours."

It is clear that Floris wants to say more mean words, but she stops when she notices someone else walking towards the group, completely oblivious to the situation and you also recognize this person; Helaena Targaryen.

She with her usual calm, appears near you, but stops just in front of another nearby store, casually observing a clothing through the glass without noticing the tensions.

And you curiously notice how Floris, upon seeing her, remains silent for a moment. Then you guess that she doesn't want to show her true colors in front of her sister-in-law.

"Let's go," she orders in a lower and less confident tone than before.

Her friends obey without another word and begin to walk away, but not before giving your cousin a last contemptuous and disdainful glance at your side.

And you too, of course.

Helaena also leaves with them as they approach her, her silver hair shining in the sunlight and moving with impeccable grace.

Alysanne lets out a frustrated sigh next to you, still angry.

"I can't believe those idiots think they have the right to treat us like this. And all because of what? For not being rich like them?" she inquires in disbelief, "Do you realize how stupid that is?"

"Let them stay in their bubble," you mutter, feeling just as irritated, "We're not rich but we're better people than they are."

Alysanne takes a deep breath, shaking off the adrenaline of the moment, then you both go your own way, trying not to let this thing that happened ruin your day.

Especially since you have another party tonight, unfortunately with those girls, but it's not like you're going to be with them.

And just as ten o'clock at night falls, Cregan's car and the excited shouts of the guys rushing you to get into the car can be heard practically all over the street.

Alysanne again shushes them, as your uncle and aunt are asleep, as well as most likely the neighbors, and you both quickly get into the car amidst laughter and scolding of the guys.

Then Cregan's car speeds up and soon all of you are walking into the Crown's side.

The party is as always; on the beach. And it's everything you'd expect being among the rich. The DJ can't miss, the clean beach, the pier, the yachts and the smell of alcohol mixed with the sea breeze, among other substances.

Tonight you decide not to focus on the people around you and together with the guys, sit on the white sand, while Cregan and Sam go for as many beers and bottles of champagne as possible.

Alysanne is also not in the mood to be inspecting and lusting after Pandora accessories on all the rich girls that are here. So the two of you relax.

Chase lights the bonfire in the center and pretty soon everyone is drinking, talking and laughing, enjoying the party and nothing else.

Every now and then some guys come up to greet Cregan, who greets them back without much enthusiasm and returns to the group, where you notice how attentive he is especially to Alysanne.

You don't say anything and just continue drinking, laughing at the guys' jokes and burning a few marshmallows, when then... you feel it.

A piercing look on your face.

You don't doubt it's a girl inspecting you, so you don't think anything of it at first. But then... it's as if that look burns you and wants to see through you, sending shivers through your whole body.

You look around, just out of curiosity, but when you raise your gaze absentmindedly towards the direction of the yachts, to the part of the deck specifically, your eyes meet piercing blue eyes.

Then you see him.

Aemond Targaryen.

Time seems to stand still and you feel more of the weight of his gaze, that same weight you felt last night on the pier, when he caught you.

You also feel a surge of nerves course through your body, with your heart racing as you remember the night before. It's not fear, but it's something close to it.

Because now he's caught you here too, at a party of his people, at Crown's.

And the weird thing is that you didn't expect it and you feel so silly about the fact. How could you not think that he would be here and that the two of you would probably see each other after last night?

Even though it's no longer a probability, he's seeing you right now and sees what you're doing; pretending to be one of them.

You watch as his gaze briefly sweeps over the guys you're with and honestly... you don't know how to feel about it. Technically, you're not doing anything wrong here either, are you?

‘Then why do you feel so embarrassed?’

His piercing eye again focuses on you and you, for some strange reason, don't look away and neither does he. It's as if the two of you are caught in a game you can't avoid.

No one seems to notice the silent exchange between the two of you, except you and him. But you know that talking to him, getting close to him in public, is impossible.

You know it and you know he knows it too. It's like a law in Sunset's among its locals but more specifically among those your age; the rich and the poor can't be friends.

You bite the inside of your cheek, even without both of you looking away, where both of you are too far away to say anything to each other, but the looks say it all.

Then, it is he who looks away when Floris holds his face and kisses him softly on the lips, claiming his attention. You feel a sting of something pinch your stomach and you force yourself to stop focusing on him as well.

You try to refocus on what the guys around you are saying, but you can't, not now that he's here too.

You didn't tell anyone about what happened last night with him on his pier, because nothing really bad happened, except the fact that you almost got caught.

It was just a conversation with the son of the richest man in the whole country and heir to his fortune, nothing more.

Although the memory has followed you ever since.

Unable to help yourself, you look at him again, where you see him surrounded by his friends and also distinguish his brother, Aegon. And of course, Floris, sitting on his lap.

He is no longer watching you but you wonder what he might be thinking now that he has seen you here too.

'Probably nothing.'

You think, since for him, what happened on the pier was just a conversation, a small slip in which you both sought some solace and nothing more, an insignificant moment.

What else could he think of having shared his time with a Black Waves girl?

You let out a long breath and your eyes roam his features, as the same thoughts from last night return to your mind when you were also slyly admiring him.

'He is so handsome.'

You think as you also admire his short silver hair and see a silver chain peeking out from between the collar part of his shirt, with that simple accessory making him look so ridiculously good.

But you cannot pass Floris Baratheon unnoticed, on his lap, talking to him and leaving from time to time some kisses on his lips or on his cheek.

You shake your head, clearly being impossible, since he belongs to a world that is not yours, to a social class that would see you as an intruder if you even tried to approach.

So you can only think that what happened on the pier was just a one-time thing, a quirk and a moment that you must now bury in oblivion.

Aemond Targaryen, as a child, does not remember a single moment when his family did not attract attention.

He does not remember a single moment where his mother did not ask him, as well as his siblings, to accompany her and his father to an event in the town for work and simply to see them all together as a perfect and powerful family.

He has forgotten the countless times where his father, Viserys, introduces him and his siblings to his associates and all those important people more as trophies than as what they really are; his children.

With Aegon the introduction is brief, for after all, no one expected his first eldest son not to follow in his same footsteps as his older first daughter did, Rhaenyra.

But Aemond knows that Aegon is... uncontrollable.

As a teenager he began to show signs that he didn't want to go into business or anything like it or anything relatively formal.

As much as his mother, Alicent, and even his own father and grandfather Otto tried to scold, persuade and convince him, it only caused Aegon to back away from the idea and start doing whatever he pleased.

For him only desire has always been to simply live life and find out what he really wants.

Then there is Helaena, who followed the same path as Aegon but in a more controlled way and with different aspirations to life though just as flattering, which is to study marine biology.

And finally there is him, Aemond Targaryen.

He saw the whole process of his older brothers in deciding not to devote himself to the business or rather empire that his father has built. With Aegon it all turned out to be a disaster but Helaena was more persuasive.

So someone had to do it, follow in his father's footsteps as Rhaenyra did, but this time a man, a son and that had to be him.

Daeron still lacked time to decide and grow up some more. So he watched as his father began to despair and have fights with his mother and everyone at home for not being able to choose the aspirations and decisions of his children.

So it was he who calmed the storm at home when he announced that he would apply to college to study business management to carry on the Targaryen legacy, just like Rhaenyra.

His father was overjoyed, as was his mother and for the first time, in that small moment, Aemond felt that he was finally receiving that recognition and appreciation from him.

But then he realized that it was never worth it.

After searching for so long for a way for his father to finally see him for what he is, his son, when that moment came it wasn't worth it and it didn't make him feel any better.

Because Aemond knows deep down that only his father was happy for him out of convenience, to mold him to how he wants and because that way, he is just another piece on his board.

And it became quite clear to him the moment his father expressed his idea about the Baratheon's.

Viserys, even with all he has and having an advisor at his side like his grandfather Otto, wants more.

And Borros Baratheon is that more by being the owner of the most important commercial fleet operating along the entire Pacific coast of all. Viserys needs to transport freight for its big company, which is what Borros does.

Viserys needs freight for his great enterprise, which is what Borros is all about. But Borros Baratheon is a difficult and greedy man who also wants more, even to Viserys Targaryen himself.

So he and his entire team focus on an easier target that will get him to the finish line; his daughter, Floris.

Any of his daughters would have sufficed, but considering Floris is about the same age as Aemond and his father had already seen her get her hopes up for him at events, it was the perfect idea.

At first Aemond refused. For the moment he had no intention with any girl, especially any of the Baratheon sister’s. But his father insisted.

Viserys explained to him how much he needed such a partnership and asked him to start asking her out to eventually formalize and make the deal with his father easier.

Aemond tried to help him find other alternatives, tried to make him understand that he didn't want nor could he play with Floris' feelings in that way to achieve a partnership.

But none of that helped.

His mother sided with his father, with the difference that she was more sensible on the subject and asked him to try and take the time to get to know her, that maybe he might really like her.

So he had to give in and before long, he was in a formal relationship with Floris Baratheon.

And now this is his life.

Not that much has changed, but there are these fights at home between her mother and father because there's really no love between them.

There's also fighting between his father and his siblings over the choice of what they really want to do with their lives while they're all attending events to pretend to be this perfect family that they are.

And he's in a relationship with a person he doesn't really want to be with and as soon as the summer is over, he's going off to college to study with pressure and expectations on his shoulders for a degree he doesn't really want to study.

But as anyone in Sunset's would think, both Crown's and Black Waves; the Targaryens are perfect.

“Hey.”

A voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks up as he sees Aegon approaching him, shorts on, sandals, a white t-shirt, sunglasses and phone in hand.

"I was looking all over for you. What are you doing?"

He lets out a long breath and closes his book to place it back on the shelf.

"What do you want?"

"Get dressed. We have a party tonight," he lets him know, then starts typing on his phone.

"Another one?" he asks with a serious look on his face.

"What?" he becomes indignant, shrugging, "Come on, it's summer. And everyone will be there. Cassandra told me Floris is going."

"I don't want to go."

He looks at him with a frown.

"What are you talking about?" he asks him blankly, "You're going to stay here reading these stupid books all summer? You're going to college for another two months!"

"Helaena and Daeron will go with you, I don't understand why you want me to go too," he tells him grumpily, choosing another of the many books in the library.

"Helaena is sick and Daeron promised to stay with her to watch movies," he tells him as if were the gravest sins in the world, "Come on, man. Come with me. And I won't ask you for anything again, this will be the last time, I promise."

"That's what you always say, like I don't know you," he says as he picks up a book and sets it on the table, "You're just so fucking annoying."

Aegon lets out a frustrated groan.

"Come on, don't be like that. You'll have more time to read and be doing these boring things you like to do," he tries to convince him, pointing to the books.

But Aemond says nothing to him and, of course, Aegon starts to throw his tantrum.

"Aemond," he complains, "Come on, please."

And the sound of his voice is already starting to annoy him, especially being in the library.

“Aegon—

"Come on," he interrupts him, insistent, "I really don't want to stay here and listen to dad yelling and fighting with mom all night, man."

Aemond lets out a long breath again and with nonchalant movements watches his brother over his shoulder, looking serious and now slowly becoming resigned.

And soon enough, they are both already in his car, driving towards the Lannister house.

Normally he wouldn't have agreed to come, but he recognizes that Aegon is right and the truth is that he doesn't want to stay at home listening to his parents' quarrels either.

Even though his house is huge, the shouting echoes through the halls, and then his father in all his anger goes against Aegon as well, where Helaena intervenes, then Daeron and finally him to try to calm the waters.

And he's tired of it.

Just last night another one of those fights happened, his mother was almost in tears and Helaena too, while Aegon and his father were shouting all the worst things possible at each other.

And that's why he decided to go to the pier after he failed to fall asleep.

As he drives, his gaze softens as he remembers you.

He still doesn't understand how a girl like you, from Black Waves, for a whole year was going to his family's pier at midnight without being discovered.

He doesn't understand how you did it either and he's not sure he wants to know. He was about to call security, of that he has no doubt, especially considering the robberies some of his neighbors suffered.

Because that's what he first thought, that you were a thief and he was trying to do something with his yacht.

However, it was something in your fear and pleading, perhaps also that you didn't have something suspicious on hand to try to do harm and the sincerity in your gaze after silently evaluate you that he saw to finally understand that you weren't doing anything wrong.

It was bad to cross over private property but other than that, he saw you earlier, before he approached from a distance, sitting on the edge of the pier looking out over the horizon.

But he still had to make sure and it all turned out very interesting.

That you were on his pier, risking that you could be caught, simply because that place gives you peace and quiet, caught his attention.

It seemed... unusual. Something out of the ordinary. Maybe because you're a Black Waves girl.

But still, it's something he's not used to hearing from others in appreciating something so simple and plain but so meaningful to that person.

And being there with you... everything in his mind disappeared.

All his excessive thoughts, frustrations, pressures, expectations and stress disappeared for a moment, which is very difficult for him to do in the midst of all the storm in his mind.

And strangely, because he shouldn't have, he spent a nice time with you, an unknown Black Waves girl, even if he didn't show it much at the time.

He doubts that was a good idea, to let you stay and still tell you that you can keep going to thepier. But technically... nothing bad happened.

And doubt that I'll ever see you again, last night was just a coincidence, besides that shouldn't happen, right?

In the town where you both live, a poor girl and a rich man can't even be friends. And much less he can afford something like that because of his family name.

Again his thoughts are interrupted as they enter the area where the Lannisters live and Aegon immediately chatter excitedly about how amazing the party looks.

And soon enough the two find themselves walking onto the beach and onto the Lannister dock.

It's the same as always, there's really nothing new, just decorations, DJ, open bar with bottles of vodka, wine and champagne as well as beer, cocktails and the smell of cigarettes and weed in the salty air.

All the people are dancing and getting drunk, as well as there are other people having mini bonfires, drinking and burning marshmallows.

When a group of people catches Aegon's eye on one of the yachts, he takes no time at all to drag him along with him.

And just like that he meets Floris, who greets him very happily with a hug and a kiss on his lips, which he tries to reciprocate as genuinely as possible.

Aegon goes off to find a girl to stick his tongue down her throat and he stays on the yacht with Floris and his friends.

Quickly some of his friends offer him drinks to cheer him up and he declines as he has to drive, so he only chooses to light a cigarette, wanting the night to pass quickly.

And so the hours pass, with nothing really interesting going on around him and Floris sitting on his lap, trying to keep up with her to also try to be a good boyfriend.

But all he wants to do is go home.

"Are you okay?"

Floris' voice brings him out of his thoughts and he turns his head towards her, where she watches him with a small smile on her lips and with one of her hands starting to stroke his short silver hair.

"Yeah," he tells her in a low murmur, then takes another sip from the only bottle of beer he'll be drinking tonight.

"Are you sure? I didn't even know you were coming. I texted you and you didn't respond," she says making a pout.

And he avoids looking instantly annoyed.

It's not that Floris is a bad girl, she really tries because she really loves him. But he doesn't feel the same and doubts he ever will, though he tries.

"Yeah, you're right, sorry, I was busy in the library," he explains briefly.

"At the library?" she repeats confused, "Why?"

"I'm getting a head start on reading books for college," he again explains as briefly as possible.

Luckily she doesn't say anything more on the subject but continues to sit on his lap and try to get him to talk, even though he's not really having any of that right now but he doesn't want to be rude to her either.

So when she starts talking to one of her friends, he looks in all directions, scanning the party without again finding anything interesting.

But then in the midst of analysis he sees it.

Or rather he sees you.

A few meters below him on the sand, confused, he immediately recognizes you, sitting among a group of guys and a girl with a bottle of beer in hand, laughing and talking to all of them.

And again he wonders; what are you doing here?

And you can't blame him, he really doesn't get it, it was surprising enough seeing you on his pier, in the most exclusive and private area of all Crown's as to also see you here, on the Lannister's pier, a Black Waves girl mixed up as if you were one of them.

He sweeps his gaze over all the guys you're with and is more surprised to see you talking and laughing with Cregan Stark.

Then he gets it all.

He's the one who gives you access, as well as your friends and that girl you're with, who he assumes must be your cousin from what you told him last night, all except Cregan belonging to Black Waves.

And there you are, again not hurting anybody, but pretending to belong to Crown's.

All the guys you're with are certainly having a great time and so are you, while he again focuses on Cregan, from whom he honestly expected it.

He doesn't include himself much with the guys from his part of town, sometimes he talks to him or Helaena, but nothing more. Now he knows why.

And somehow he can't take his eye off you.

He watches you curiously, analyzing you, seeing that you have guts, just like your cousin and your friends, to take risks like this.

At any moment anyone could expose you if they watch you too much, but you don't seem to care about that, nor do the others.

And then, his gaze meets yours.

He sees you freeze for a moment, as if you are once again trapped by him, which actually you are and he, for some reason, doesn't look away and neither do you.

Memories of last night invade him again and he can guess how you must be thinking about it too.

But he can also guess how you again feel exposed and how terribly nervous you must feel. As if you are afraid that he, now that he has seen you here too, will expose you once and for all.

But it is as if it were a game of stares, as neither of them look away from each other. It's not as if they can talk, the distance is too much, also considering that he is on top of a yacht.

But what if this were not the case? Would the two of you talk?

Aemond knows perfectly well that they wouldn't.

"Hey, did you hear what I said, babe?"

Floris makes him turn his gaze away from you to focus on her as he feels her turn from his cheek with her hand towards her to plant a soft kiss on his lips, wanting his full attention.

And he awkwardly reciprocates as his attention is still on you.

But he forces himself to take that attention away from you, especially as he still has Floris sitting on his lap with both arms around his neck, glued to him.

And it's here that he assumes, as you do, though he doesn't know it, that what happened last night was just a one-time thing, two people seeking refuge from the world on the pier one night.

But that's all.

The two of you must not know each other, you can't talk or be seen together, mostly because of different social classes, which leads to pretending that the two of you don't know each other and haven't spoken to each other even once.

And what happened that night, on the pier, didn't happen.

A pile of dishes are placed in front of him on the table in the huge back garden of his house which is basically on the shore of the beach, having a spectacular view of the ocean, the beach, the pier, the cliffs around and also the huge houses of his neighbors.

His mother thanks the cooks, who retire and leave his mother, father and him alone.

Aegon must still be asleep, Daeron too because he probably stayed up watching movies with Helaena all nigth who is still very ill. So he is the only one who joins the breakfast.

He looks carefully at a message from Rhaenyra, which is accompanied by two PDF books.

'These books helped me a lot when I first started studying, you can read them if you want to before you go to uni so you have an idea of everything you will learn.'

Aemond reviews both books, both over 400 pages, being very dense material and being exactly what awaits him at college, but he also knows it's important.

He runs a hand down his neck and responds to her text.

'Thank you, Rhae.'

Ever since his older sister knew he would be going into business as well, she's been supporting him.

It's not like from the beginning the two of them had a good relationship, especially since she's the daughter of their father's first wife and there was no first-rate bond, neither with him nor with her other siblings.

But now that she has a family and he has matured enough, at least more than Aegon, that relationship has slowly begun to be forged and maintained.

Besides he is grateful to receive genuine support. Especially from her, already an expert on the subject and with whom he will probably lead the Targaryen empire in the future.

"Are you going to have breakfast, son?"

His mother's soft voice causes him to look away from his phone screen and set it aside, having no interest in responding to messages from Floris or a few of his friends who were with him last night at the party.

"Yeah, sorry."

He tries to catch up with their pace, making himself his cup of coffee the way he likes it.

"Rhaenyra tells me you're planning to take a management course in the middle of summer, son," his father says, catching his attention, "Is that true?"

And he doesn't ask it in a bad way, on the contrary, it surprises Aemond to see how he has pride in his eyes.

"Yeah, well... I think they'll do me good before I go to college."

"Yes, very good idea," Alicent says, watching him proudly as she notices all his dedication to his study, as it has always been.

"Oh yes, of course," Viserys agrees, without hesitation, "Have you found the right course yet?"

"I'm still working on it."

"But..." he frowns slightly, watching him not entirely convinced, "How are things going with that girl... uh... Floris?"

He immediately feels an uncomfortable sensation in his lower abdomen, stirring in his chair as he runs a hand over the back of his neck, biting the inside of his cheek and trying to maintain a normal appearance.

"Good," he replies briefly, without looking at him, "Everything's fine."

"Yeah?" he asks seeing his reaction, "You've been hanging out with her?"

"We were together last night," he says without wanting to go into details, wanting to get that topic over with.

And Alicent also sees how his son is starting to react.

"Floris usually comes in often during the day," she tells her husband in a soft tone with a cup of coffee in her hands, "You don't see her because you're at work."

"Well, that's good to know," he says pleased, though not entirely satisfied, turning his focus back to him, "I fully support the idea of the course, it will definitely do you good but... you can't neglect that girl. Your relationship with her is very advantageous to the company and very soon her father and I will start having meetings."

He brings a hand to the back of his neck again, staring at a fixed point on the table as he presses his lips together, controlling his emotions and what he really wants to say to him.

His mother stares at him, alert, not wanting him and his father to have fights too. But it is clear that he too is already reaching his limit.

However, Aemond knows that he has more self-control, besides he's already into all of this, so he has no choice but to accept, again, what his father tells him.

"Is that what you want me to do?" he asks him in a low tone, honestly feeling tired.

"Of course," his father states sternly, as if it were obvious, "We must have all the most suitable people possible in the company. And the Baratheon's are crucial to our expansion."

Aemond looks up, but says nothing, because he already knows the speech. The Baratheon's, power, family and company.

"Yes but that really isn't the most important thing," his mother interjects again, "After all, Floris is a very nice and pretty girl. I can tell she really cares about you, son."

He can't help but purse his lips at that comment. He knows Floris isn't a bad girl but she's not exactly nice either. And that doesn't change the fact that he's not interested in her.

"Yes and for that very reason you must not ruin things with her," his father insists, "We have to partner with her father and you can't let her slip through your fingers."

"Viserys," his mother calls out to him with mild reproach.

"You know how important this is, Alicent," he begins to say with reproach in his tone, "I have already lost hope in Aegon. It seems he will never change and will be a good-for-nothing for the rest of his life, taking nothing seriously."

"Don't talk about your son like that," his mother scolds him.

"I'm not going to live forever and someone has to take over the company and support this family. But that doesn't matter to him in the least," he continues, "Daeron is still young and I'm thankful that at least Aemond has taken the same direction as Rhaenyra and me."

Aemond says nothing as his mother continues to reproach, annoyed to hear how Viserys refers to her children, especially Aegon.

And he remains silent, fed up with these discussions, family pressures, expectations and being the only one of his children whom his father seems to trust.

And the worst thing is that he can't say anything, because he knows very well that his father considers him as his last resort and in a way... he doesn't want to fail him and he doesn't want everything in his family to explode.

Even if it means he has to sacrifice his own life for the good of the family, he has to do this and it's not worth arguing with his father because it's no use and he's not going to change his mind.

His father starts to raise his voice, his mother too and he ends up going to his room with his morning already ruined, annoyed, tired and grumpy.

And when he tries to distract himself, to occupy himself with his own personal matters so as not to think too much, just at that moment Floris comes to visit.

Just now he doesn't have the capacity to want to be around her, or anyone in general, he just wants peace and quiet, but considering the conversation he had with his father, he is not able to ask her as nicely as possible to come another day.

"I was with Cerelle at my house but I got too bored, even though I told her to meet me tonight at the beach."

She begins to talk as she starts pacing all around his room he just sits there with his desk in front of him and a few books open.

"I also talked to Royce, he said he would be coming for a visit soon. My dad is still mad at him for leaving but I'm sure he'll get over it. I also heard that Jeyne wants to have a party the next week and..."

And so he listens to her voice continuously, talking about everything she did and didn't do in her day, while he puts a hand to his forehead and lets out a long breath, trying not to sound irritated.

"Oh and I went to the mall with Cerelle. I bought a beautiful bag and clothes for our trip to Hawaii," she says excitedly, "My dad has already arranged everything and my family is so excited for you to come with us. I'm also..."

Her voice slowly fades slowly, becoming a distant murmur, as he sinks deeper into his seat and stares at a spot in his room.

His brow furrows and his mind drifts further away from the conversation.

He can't find a way to tell her to stop talking without looking rude and frustrated, but the last thing he wants to do is listen to her right now and the last thing he wanted was for her to show up at his house this day.

He has enough going on in his family lately, especially with his father and he's not in the mood to be dealing with people right now.

He's fed up with everything and all he wants is to be alone while a wave of mental exhaustion washes over him. He wants to get away from everyone for a moment, to have no one bother him so he can have peace and quiet.

"Aemond."

The hand on his shoulder and the voice so close to him brings him back to reality. He blinks and raises his gaze to Floris, who watches him in confusion.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," he says awkwardly and clears his throat, "Sorry," he says, turning his gaze to the front and stirring in his chair.

But she raises her hand towards him, placing it gently on his cheek and Aemond tenses immediately, as she forces him to look at her again gently but firmly enough.

"Are you sure? Are you okay?" she asks him genuinely concerned, "You didn't seem to be listening to me."

"Yes I was and I'm fine, don't worry," he tells her trying to sound convincing.

But Floris is having none of it.

"Is it because of your father or college?"

The silence that follows is palpable as he averts his gaze and removes his hand from her face with a nonchalant gesture. He says nothing but it's clear she's hit the nail on the head.

And Floris lets out a long, resigned sigh, already expecting that. For it is so typical of him not to confide his thoughts and feelings to her.

She's tired of her own boyfriend raising this constant wall between the two of them, where he doesn't want to open up to her. It hasn't been long since the two started dating but still, despite being a couple, there is no trust.

"Aemond," she murmurs his name softly and unexpectedly takes a seat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Floris," he calls her name awkwardly as well, trying to shake her off, "Wait, I don't—

"You know you can talk to me about anything," she interrupts him, her tone insistent but with a gentleness that she hopes will soften the situation, "I mean...I'm your girlfriend and I'm here for you whenever you need something, talk or anything."

He lets out a long sigh, feeling the weight of her insistence and the firmness with which she remains sitting on him.

The feeling of oppression invades him, both physically and emotionally.

"It's not... I don't..." he tries to speak, "Look, it's not that I don't want to tell you, but..." he gets frustrated, not finding the words or even the will to talk to her, "It's a lot of things."

"You can tell me," she insists, "Come on, babe. I just want to help you," she says as she begins to stroke his hair.

He close his eye for a moment, his patience quickly wearing thin.

"I don't want to talk," he makes it clear to her in a cold, resigned, tired tone.

She shrugs.

"Then we won't," she says simply, accepting that, "But I want you to understand that I'm here for you."

"Yes, I know," he says without even looking at her, running a hand through his hair.

"We can always do other things," she mentions with a certain tone that Aemond understands instantly.

And before he can do anything, she is already kissing him.

The kiss starts slow and soft, while he has difficulties to reciprocate at first, but Floris doesn't stop and pulls the back of his neck towards her, deepening the kiss.

And he with all the mental chaos he has, tries to reciprocate as best he can, trying to forget at least for a moment.

Floris' hands begin to move down, sliding her fingers slowly over his chest while her other hand gently stroke his hair. Aemond tries to lose himself in the sensation, in the moment and let himself go, so he places both hands on her waist.

She begins to move slightly on top of him, her breathing becoming more agitated and her tongue making its way between his lips, wanting more.

He tries to keep up with her and when Floris begins to rub her center against him, his body responds automatically, letting out a slight grunt without stopping the kiss.

Floris' need is evident and when she brings one of her hands to the edge of his shirt and pulls away from his lips, she watches him with full intent and desire in her gaze, her lips red and swollen.

"I want you now," she murmurs against his lips.

He doesn't say anything, just watches her, truly not so sure. But then he thinks: fuck it.

He's tired and exhausted from carrying the weight of everything around him. He just wants to forget, if only for a few moments. So when Floris starts to take off his shirt, he allows it.

She kisses him again with more intensity and he responds with more fervor than before.

Her hands begin to roam all over his naked torso and he stands up, both hands on her thighs, leading her towards his bed.

Soon Floris is on top of him again and feels a spark of electricity run through his skin as her hands touch the edge of his shorts, but before that happens, she slowly pulls down the straps of her dress.

Aemond watches her wordlessly, with his dark eye and indecipherable expression, as Floris complacently takes her time, enjoying every second, wanting him to desire her.

The straps fall and the top of her summer dress slides off, revealing her breasts. Aemond swallows hard, a mixture of desire and bewilderment passing through his body.

She leans into him again to kiss him, as she takes one of his hands and places it on her breast, prompting him to caress her.

He does so, almost mechanically, trying to let himself go and lose himself in the moment, as she rubs herself against him again, making him more aware of how he begins to get hard, his breathing hitching.

But when Floris' hand descends and slips under his shorts, touching him, it is as if his mind wakes up and sends an alert throughout his body.

Suddenly, he stops kissing her and takes her hand roughly, stopping her. Floris watches him confused and half-naked on top of him, still shaken and not understanding anything.

"Aemond?"

He closes his eye tightly and lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head and bringing a hand to his forehead, clenching his jaw.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"What's wrong?" Floris asks him without understanding what has changed so suddenly.

But he doesn't answer, just shakes his head again and pulls her hand away, to also gently brush her off of him.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

Floris watches him from his bed, still with confusion on her face and quickly adjusts her dress, covering her naked body.

Her breathing is still rapid, but not so much from desire, but from the feeling of rejection that is infiltrating her. And again, for an instant, she thought this would never happen again.

But here they are, him pulling her away and her heart broken again by the humiliation.

"It's been a while," she murmurs, lowering her gaze, “Y-you don't..." her lips tremble, "You don't touch me."

He doesn't look at her, he can't.

"I know. I'm sorry," he says in a low tone, the apology falling with a tone of resignation.

He picks up his T-shirt that's on the floor and puts it on, bringing a hand to his hair, ruffling it in frustration. And Floris watches him still completely confused.

"I just don't get it," she insists, "We're a couple. We should... be okay, I don't know," she says confused, "And I don't understand you. You don't talk to me, Aemond."

Aemond rubs his forehead, the pressure behind his eyes growing. He doesn't know how to explain, doesn't know how to put into words all the thoughts that suffocate him.

And he can't tell her that he doesn't really want to be with her either.

"I need to go," he says flatly.

"What?" she moves quickly, catching his arm, "No, please don't go," she tells him, her tone full of pleading, "I think we should talk."

"I can't, Floris. Not now."

Without trying to be abrupt, he releases his grip and Floris, unmoving, watches him as he takes his phone and car keys without another word.

And he walks away, leaving her alone in his room.

He has no doubt that he will be in trouble for this later, maybe she will mention what happened to her sisters, eventually it will reach her father's ears about her having problems with their relationship and then it will reach his father's ears, demanding explanations from him.

He's not supposed to let her get out of his hands, as his father says, but now he really doesn't care about that.

He doesn't want to be with her and he shouldn't have let that happen. He should have stopped everything the moment she started kissing him.

Sex has been off the table for a while now. He has only slept with her once, when they both started dating for the first time.

He barely remembers it. It was after they both went to a party. He drank a little more than he normally does and assumes that's why what happened at her house happened.

And mostly it hasn't happened again because he doesn't have the interest. He doesn't feel the need with her. And just when he thinks it will finally happen when he lets himself go, in the moment he can't do it because it's feels wrong and pushes her away, leaving the action half done.

And it's not her fault, it's his doing. But he knows that if he explained it to her, she wouldn't understand.

But just like that, another new frustration joins the storm in his mind.

Now he walks towards the pier, the only place where he feels he can breathe. The sound of the waves gently breaking against the wooden pillars, which is the only thing that accompanies him as he sinks into his thoughts.

He doesn't expect anyone to follow him or look for him there. In fact, the last thing he needs is someone else demanding something from him.

For now, he doesn't want to be the perfect son, the boyfriend who should be attentive or the future heir to the family business. What he desperately wants is to escape the expectations that stifle him day after day.

He leans against the wooden stand and stares out into the deep, dark ocean, letting his mind wander, as he feels all the frustration wash over him and in an instant, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights one.

He inhales deeply, letting the smoke invade his lungs, seeking in that sensation a temporary relief from the pressure he constantly feels.

He enjoys his solitude, he has been used to it since he was a child. In many ways, he prefers it and finds it easier.

It is only now that he feels he is getting closer to his family or at least his siblings since his father has put more pressure on everyone. But he has not approached in the way he had hoped.

Aegon is not serious enough to broach the subject and evades his family in clouds of alcohol, parties and girls. Halaena is more independent and wrapped up in her own world, with her way of coping without getting swept away.

Daeron doesn't yet understand the gravity of the expectations that will one day fall on him. And Rhaenyra... she's away with her own family.

And friends... he has no friends. At least, not genuine ones. They are not people he can trust without their own interests involved.

And if he were to talk to any of them, it would be the same as with Floris; an empty conversation, full of awkward silences and expectations.

That's why at times like these, he strangely wishes he had someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't look at him with judgment or see him only as the heir who has to do his duty.

He needs someone who sees him for who he is, without expectations, without judgment. He just wants to be himself, wants to be just Aemond, without the unbearable weight of expectations.

'What would that be like?'

He wonders with genuine interest and even a certain... longing. But he knows he'll probably never know. Not with the life he has.

He inhales deeply once more, the smoke mingling with the salty wind, enjoying the fleeting respite this place affords him. Then in the midst of his peace and quiet, the wood creaks softly under the footsteps that are not his.

He frowns and looks toward the entrance to the pier, thinking maybe it must be some of the security men, but then... he sees you.

He frowns more and attentively, he watches you walk, back straight and with cautious steps, as if trying not to make noise as you walk away, unaware of the creaking wood betraying you.

Then he wonders what you are doing here and why you are leaving.

He remembers that he told you you could come back but doesn't understand why you're leaving. And before he can stop to think about what he is doing, he calls out you'r name.

"Y/N!?"

You stop immediately, your body tensing as if you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, again.

You bite your lips nervously and slowly turn to look at him, some sorrow on your face as he continues to stare at you in confusion.

And well... he's already caught you, again, first here two nights ago, yesterday at the party and now here again, so what's the point?

"I'm sorry," you say, "I-I... I didn't see you on my way over here," you explain, "And well... I thought you might want to be alone."

Your gaze focuses on his, and for a second, the whole world seems to shrink down to just the two of you, as if you were the only ones on the beach, under the dim lights of the pier.

And he doesn't say anything to you, he just watches you intently. And you take that as a sign to leave.

"I'll leave you alone," you assure him in a soft tone, starting to turn away.

And again, Aemond without thinking, decides to stop you.

"Wait," he says finally, in a soft voice, "You don't have to go."

You watch him carefully and curiously as you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, a little unsure.

"Are you sure?"

He says nothing, just gives you a slight nod and you, hesitantly, finally take a step towards him and then another, beginning to close the distance to join him at the end of the pier.

An anticipation and excitement begins to grow within you, with the sea breeze and the sound of the waves enveloping you.

You feel a slight tension begin to grow between the two of you. It's not uncomfortable but it's not easy to ignore either. And both Aemond and you know that you are both walking on uncertain ground.

But neither of you can help it.

series taglist:

@zenka69 @strangersunghoon @deliaseastar @thefireblaze @kythefangirl25 @p45510n4f4shi0n @saturnssrings @bellaisasleep @primroseluna @tinykryptonitewerewolf @barnes70stark @tssf-imagines

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond one eye #modern aemond #modern hotd #modern au

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niqhtlord01 · 11 months ago

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Humans are weird: Ramming Speed

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

The idea of ramming space ships into each other as a form of combat maneuver was beyond many galactic military minds comprehension.

A single spacecraft, let alone a military grade class vessel, would cost up in the billions of credits. Entire galactic economies had nearly bankrupted themselves trying to maintain a fleet large enough to secure their borders, so in turn each military ship became an asset not to be squandered lightly.

Perhaps it was this conservative mindset that nearly shattered when these powers first looked upon the Terran ship codenamed “The Ram”.

Unlike other modern vessels the ships of this new classification lacked all weapon emplacements. No energy cannons, missile launchers, rail guns; it was entirely free of weapons. What it did have was excessive amounts of armor plating, several separate shield generators, and a pair of overly powerful engines that could reach max speed in roughly five minutes.

The first time it was observed in combat was during the Terran/Crux war. Both powers had sizable fleets at their disposal and for the first couple months the two powers played cat and mouse games between each other; each trying to find a more advantageous position to commit their forces. Much to the dismay of both powers the first large scale battle was triggered by mere chance than a tactical decision.

A Crux patrol stumbled upon a Terran patrol emerging from a dense nebula in the Viper System. Both patrols requested reinforcements. Nearby patrols were soon diverted to the engagement and within short order what was a small skirmish ballooned into a full scale battle.

There were no battle lines or frontlines as ships opened fire at near point blank range with each other. Even when higher rank Admirals arrived to take charge both sides were too embroiled in the slugfest to make any more nuanced tactical moves without exposing themselves to the enemy.

It was here that the Ram emerged and showed its prowess.

Crux warship crews were not trained on how to handle enemy vessels rushing towards them. What’s more several gun crews became panicked when they saw the Ram ships rushing headlong towards them without diverting course.

With the extra armor and shielding the Terran ships not only struck head on into Crux ships but emerged from the attack relatively unscathed. In most cases the prow of the Ram ships punched clean through the entire hull of the Crux warship and emerged through the other side.

The Crux fleet desperately tried to regain order and form battle lines but each time they did so the Ram ships would plunge head first into their formation and take out the command ship coordinating the effort.

As more and more Terran ships arrived and formed their own battle lines the tide of battle soon drastically changed. After thirteen hours of intense fighting the last of the Crux fleet withdrew from the battle leaving the Terrans the victors.

A full fifth of the Crux navy was lost during the battle with the Ram ships having personally claimed 45% of the kills.

While the war itself would continue for another two years, the Ram ships and their unorthodox tactics had earned them a modicum of respect from the wider galaxy, and a great measure of fear from the Crux.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01

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nomie-11 · 6 days ago

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Caitlyn Kiramman x Reader - Between Worlds

masterlist!

synopsis: When a shimmering portal pulls you into the magical city of Piltover, you forge an unbreakable bond with Caitlyn Kiramman, a curious girl who shows you her glittering world. Years later, the portal reappears, but the Piltover you return to is darkened by war, and Caitlyn is now a cold, battle-hardened general. As you struggle to rekindle your bond and navigate the city’s buried secrets, you must confront the scars of time and war to rediscover the magic you once shared—and the promise you made to return.

You had read narnia when you were six, everyone read it at some point in their childhoods where you were from. You had read Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and The Magic Treehouse, but magic wasn’t real. Magic was a thing of stories, a world that didn’t exist and a medium that wasn’t possible. But this, shimmering, shifting, living entity in your closet was magic.

It looked like an iridescent web, shifting and gurgling every time you reached your hand toward it. It acted as if it would like to swallow you whole, to transport you to another world, another dimension.

But still, you couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing your hand against its pearly white colors. You touched first with one finger, then pressed another one down, until your whole hand was flush against the entity in your closet, and then you pressed your arm into it, up until your elbow.

It happened all at one. A pull—sharp, yet soft—like the tide dragging you into an ocean of light. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t think, only tumble into a spinning abyss of sound and color. When the world stopped tilting, you landed hard on your knees, your hands sinking into something cold yet soft. Grass.

Looking up, your breath hitched. This wasn’t your room, your world. The sky above was a shade of blue more vibrant than you’d ever seen before, streaked with clouds that looked almost painted. Strange, towering gold buildings jutted up all along the skyline, their surfaces glimmering like glass. Even the air smelled different—sweet, electric, and sharp.

You turned, your heart hammering. That’s when you saw her.

A girl about your age stood a few paces away, her wide, curious eyes locking onto yours. Her hair was a cascade of deep indigo, tied neatly, and her clothing—a tailored vest and high boots—looked straight out of a storybook.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice crisp yet cautious.

For a moment, all you could do was gape. How were you supposed to explain? Your clothes—a plain t-shirt and jeans—felt glaringly out of place, as if the entire world had turned to stare at your modernity. You opened your mouth, closed it, and tried again.

“Are you a princess?”

“A princess?” She echoed, tilting her head.

“Yeah. A princess, like from Disney, or… England!” You snapped your fingers, hoping she would know at least what England was, even if Disney didn’t exist in this… universe(?) you had somehow fallen into.

“I hate to be rude, but I’m not a ‘princess,’ whatever that is,” she replied, her lips quirking upward in a faith smile as if amused by the strange terminology. “My name is Caitlyn Kiramman. And you… well, you’re not from Piltover, are you?”

Piltover. You repeated the name in your head, trying to place it on the map that hung on the wall of your homeroom. Piltover, piltover… Piltover doesn’t exist. “I’m… not sure where that is. I mean… no. I’m not from here.”

Her eyes scanned your clothes—your jeans, sneakers, and the faded cartoon character printed on your shirt. She looked utterly perplexed, but there was no malice in her expression, only curiosity.

Before you could explain further, a deeper voice interrupted.

“Cait, who is this?”

An older man approached—a man with kind eyes holding a box of gadgets and cogs. You stiffened under his gaze, shrinking as you struggled to piece together a coherent explanation.

“Jayce! She’s…” Caitlyn hesitated. She glanced at you, then back to him. “A traveler. I found her in the garden. I think she might be lost.”

The man frowned but didn’t press further. “Come on, let’s get the two of you home. Your mother will know what to do.”

—--------------------

The days that followed felt like something out of a fever dream. Caitlyn’s family assumed you were from a distant, eccentric city. They marveled at your strange dialect and unfamiliar clothing, but chalked it up to ‘cultural differences.’

Jayce, the older man Caitlyn was friends with, seemed weirdly interested in the Nintendo DS you had stuffed into your back pocket, asking how the screen worked and how the game played, despite you not knowing because you had bought it at a store and didn’t build it yourself. When you asked if he had a cell phone so you could call your mom to pick you up, he spent 20 hours interrogating your over cellular data and wi-fi and what a phone number was.

And Caitlyn? She became your guide, your lifeline to understanding this glittering, bewildering world. She showed you the bustling streets of Piltover, the towering spires of the academy district, the clockwork marvels that hummed and whirred like living creatures. She laughed at your questions and called you “peculiar” with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

But as quickly as it began, it ended.

One morning, you awoke to find the shimmering portal in Caitlyn’s room—a mirror to the one in your own closet at home—pulsating with light. A whisper in the back of your mind told you it was time. Time to go back.

Tears burned in Caitlyn’s eyes as you explained. She argued at first, begging you to stay, but deep down, you both knew it wasn’t possible.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Promise me.”

“I will,” you swore, linking your pinky with hers (another thing you had taught her one day when you made her promise to save you a cookie at lunch). “I promise.”

But promises made by children are fragile things.

—-----------------------------------------

Years passed in your world, though they felt strangely muted. After stumbling back through the portal into your closet, you’d collapsed on your bedroom floor, clutching at your chest like you’d left your heart behind in Piltover. Your parents found you hours later, dazed and rambling about ‘clockwork cities’ and a girl named Caitlyn. They assumed it had all been a vivid dream, a figment of your overactive imagination spurred by too many fantasy books.

At first, you fought to hold onto the memories—scribbling sketches of golden spires, random doodles of Jayce’s kind eyes and his gadgets, charcoal drawings of Caitlyn’s smile and the warmth behind her blue eyes. But as days blurred into years, doubt crept in. Had it been real? The glow of the portal, the hum of the streets, Caitlyn’s hand clasped in yours—was it all just a child’s desperate attempt to escape the terror of reality?

Life continued. Schools, jobs, growing up. Yet something always felt missing, like a part of you had been carved out and left in a faraway world. Your friends talked about travel, of finding their heart in a foreign country or a far off place, but no country on any map called to you.

It wasn’t until you stumbled upon the cave during a hiking trip—its walls etched with shimmering patterns—that the memories flooded back. The portal stood before you, alive and beckoning, just as it had all those years ago.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

The pull was familiar, a spinning rush that left your stomach in your throat. When you landed, the air smelled of oil and smoke, sharp and acrid, and so different from the sweet electric scent you remembered. The skyline of Piltover had changed—darker, more imposing, with huge spheres rising up out of pillars, airships being shot into space with a beam of blue light.

Clutching the strap of your hiking back, you made your way down the familiar streets of the once golden city down to the Kiramman estate. But as you rounded the final corner, your steps faltered. The once-grand house stood as a fortress now, its once open and ornate gates replaced with cold, closed iron and armed guards.

You hesitated, lingering in the shadows as unease crept up your spine. This wasn’t the home you’d left behind. The Caitlyn you knew wouldn’t need walls to protect her. What had happened to Piltover?

Before you could decide your next move, the sharp clang of metal boots echoed behind you.

“State your business,” an enforcer barked, his rifle trained on you.

You raised your hands, stammering, “I’m looking for Caitlyn Kiramman. Please—I knew her years ago.”

The enforcer’s face hardened. “You’re trespassing. Come quietly, or we’ll make this difficult.”

Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but before you could protest, a voice sliced through the tense air.

“Let her go.”

The enforcers immediately straightened, their weapons lowering as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the iron gate.

Caitlyn.

Or at least, the woman she had become.

Her indigo hair was tied up into a perfect ponytail. Her once curious eyes were colder, her posture rigid in a crisp uniform adorned with medals. She was taller, her presence commanding and distant. The girl who had laughed with you under Piltover’s painted skies was nowhere to be found.

“Take her to the station,” Caitlyn said without sparing you a glance.

Your chest constricted. “Cait, it’s me!”

She paused, her expression flickering for a split second before the mask of authority returned.

“Take her,” she repeated, turning on her heel.

You struggled against the enforcers as they dragged you away, shouting her name until your voice was hoarse. But Caitlyn didn’t look back.

It wasn’t until hours later, after being confined in a holding cell in Piltover’s industrial heart, that she finally appeared again. This time, she dismissed the guards before stepping inside, her boots clicking sharply against the cold floor.

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone detached, but there was a tremor beneath it—a crack in the facade.

“It’s me,” you whispered, stepping forward. “Don’t you remember? The traveler who stumbled into your garden? The one who promised she’d come back.”

She flinched, just barely, but enough for you to notice.

“You… remember me,” you said, hope threading through your voice.

Her jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. That was a lifetime ago. Whoever you think I was, she’s gone.”

“No.” Your voice shook, but you stood your ground. “You’re still you. You’re Caitlyn Kiramman. You’re the girl who taught me how to climb the academy steps without tripping. The girl who shared her sweets even when I didn’t ask. The girl who pinky-promised to save me a cookie at lunch. You’re still her.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slumped. The mask she wore cracked, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried.

“I waited,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “For years, I waited. But you didn’t come back and things changed. People died.”

“I couldn’t find the portal again,” you admitted, tears welling in your eyes. “I thought it was gone forever. I thought maybe… I imagined it all. But I didn’t, and I’m here now.”

Caitlyn’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You don’t understand what you’ve come back to. Piltover isn’t the same place you left. We’re at war and I’m the leading general. I’m not the same person.”

“Then let me understand,” you said, stepping closer. “Show me.”

For a long moment, she simply stared at you. Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “it’s too late.”

-------

request for @multi-muse-transect <3

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

#caitlyn x y/n #caitlyn x you #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn kiramman x female reader #caitlyn kiramman x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane x reader #arcane caitlyn #arcane caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x fem reader #arcane #piltover's gayest

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hells-wasabii · 11 months ago

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Hi 👋

Could I trouble you for a Zestial x wife reader drabble please?

And maybe a seperate Carmilla x reader drabble too because I ship them and just can't choose between)

A/N: Have I mentioned I'm a sucker for domestic fluff? So I've actually decided that from this point on, if I'm requested more than one drabble per ask, I'll make seperate posts, but still include the ask via screenshotfor easier navigation.

Character: Zestial

Type: Drabble (Zestial x wife!reader, Drabble, Fluff)

It was amazing. Truly, it was.

Despite how 'modern' hell had become, the feel of the city somehow managed to remain the same. You imagined that it would so long as you remained by Zestial's side. It quite honestly reminded you of when the two of you had been alive. You could remember it so very vividly. Even then, your dear husband had been a lord residing over territories. It was similar to how things worked now, something that you had noted many times before. Though now, instead of able-bodied men and resources, power stemmed from souls.

While he had been a lord, you had been his lady, his darling wife who was unafraid to bare her fangs at the other nobles to put them in their place while he dealt with the more bloody matters. Your marriage, though initially arranged, was loving, fulfilling. It had been for several centuries. He was your everything and you were his. You had even been childhood sweethearts, falling in love effortlessly despite your marriage having already been arranged since birth. You very well could have been soulmates.

So it was only natural that you would die together, rising again to create a new empire to rule together.

Several centuries had passed. Overlords had risen and fallen like the tide, however, you and your dear husband remained steadfast.

"Dearest, is all well?" Ah, speak of the devil. Turning your head, you find your darling lord standing at the door. It never failed to surprise you how your husband could move with such grace as to walk nary without a sound. "Thou hast yet to come for dinner."

Even in small moments such as these, your dear Zestial remained attentive.

"Just reminiscing, dear. We have built much together." You pointed out, hoping to ease his mind as you turned back to look at your shared territories. He nodded, moving from the doorway to join you as you softly conversed.

"That we have, my dear wife, and so we shall continue to do."

"I greatly look forward to spending the rest of eternity with you, dearest. Our love is not one to be sullied by the sands of time. We have grown stronger, together." His expression turned content as his hand found the small of your back. A small but welcome gesture as he gently guided you closer to him. Truly, it didn't matter where you went or what you did. You were more than content so long as Zestial was there with you.

"May we remain here, just a little longer?" You asked, though truly, you already knew the answer.

"As you wish, my wife."

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin headcanons #hazbin imagine #zestial x reader #zestial

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misswynters · 6 months ago

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࣪⠀⊹ ˑ ִ misswynters HotD masterlist

here is the list of all my works !

last updated: october 13, 2024

note | it would greatly appreciated if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you!

a/n: send request whenever also writing for the actors too

— works in progress —

Aegon Targaryen

Dragon Twin Series | MASTERLIST |

Lannister Love

Tom Glynn-Carney

Midnight Romance

Daeron Targaryen/Harry Gilby

A chance meeting in Oldtown | Daring Prince

Cregan Stark

Winter’s Embrace – Chapter one | Chapter two | Final Chapter

Holiday in Spain (18+) | Bear and the Wolf (18+) |

Heart of the Beast | High | Smoky Desire (18+) |

Father of the Realm | A Stark’s Fury | Rough Edge

The Northern Chronicles

Northern Chronicles | Lady Arryn & Lord Stark (18+) | The Young Wolf & Arrowheart | The Boy who claimed a Dragon | Whispers of Veil

Tom Taylor

Costars on set | Gym Confession

Aemond Targaryen

Aemond as your husband | as a father

Overprotective | Tamed Targaryen Heart | Prophecy |

Pleasure to the mind (18+) | Underneath the hatred (18+)

Wine (18+)

Modern au | Urban Ties |

Ewan Mitchell

Off Screen Story | Hidden between takes

Jacaerys Velaryon/ Harry Collett

Encounter with the Prince | Toxic Devotion

Holiday in Spain (18+) | Stormbound | By the fire light

Wings of Camaraderie | Under the Stars | Blues

Fragmented Memory | Pretty in Pink

Jacaerys as your Husband | as a father |

Imperial Flame Masterlist

Harry Collett

Pulse |

Gwayne Hightower/Freddie Fox

Princess and her Knight (18+) | Tempestuous Alliance |

Modern au | Rooftop Cravings |

— Other Characters

Davos/Benjicot Blackwood

Weirwood Whispers (18+) | Bastard Daughter

As the Tides Turn (18+)

Willem Blackwood

Stolen Moments (18+) | Part One | Part Two

Aeron Bracken

Surrender (18+) | As the Tides Turn (18+)

Addam Velaryon (of Hull)

Seaside | Wings of Camaraderie |

House of the Dragon

Modern!HotD | MASTERLIST

HotD boys as your…

Best Friend | Husband | Boyfriend | Lover Childhood friend |

HotD girls as your…

Best Friend | Husband | Boyfriend | Lover Childhood friend |

SHIPS

Rhaenyra x Gwayne

Rightful Heir

A Serpent’s Claim

if you cant find any of my works search my tags !!!

banner: @cafekitsune

#house of the dragon #house stark #cregan x reader #aemond x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #jacaerys x reader #daeron x reader #misswyntersmasterlist

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illusiomagnificentia · 22 days ago

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modern - turning the tide

Agnes Locket is a savvy and ambitious businesswoman known for her sharp instincts and ability to thrive in competitive industries. Born into a family with a history in commerce, Agnes was taught from an early age to value innovation and hard work. She studied business management at a prestigious university, where she excelled in marketing and corporate strategy.

After graduating, she joined a start-up and quickly rose through the ranks due to her innovative thinking and ability to adapt to ever-changing markets. Her knack for identifying untapped opportunities allowed her to build a portfolio of investments that positioned her as a key player in the business world. Agnes founded her own consulting firm, specializing in turning around struggling companies, and later expanded into real estate, tech, and luxury goods. Her reputation for turning small businesses into profitable enterprises earned her the respect of both her clients and competitors.

Despite her professional success, Agnes has faced personal challenges, particularly in balancing her career with her personal life. She remains a private individual, keeping her personal affairs under wraps while maintaining a strong public image of confidence and authority. Agnes is known for her strategic mind, calm demeanor in high-pressure situations, and relentless pursuit of success, often using her network of contacts to stay ahead of industry trends.

#turning the tide (modern)

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thus-spoke-lo · 1 year ago

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Between What Was and What Will Be // stepdad!Shanks x fem!reader NSFW/18+ [minors DNI] // Read on AO3 // WC: 7.4k

A/N: Modern AU. Written for @killsaki's Family Ties Collab

CW: dead dove, do not eat--please heed content warnings; dark content; stepcest; age gap (reader is 26-27 and Shanks is mid-40's); minor character death (reader's mother); reader refers to Shanks as "dad," not "daddy"; themes of angst, unresolved grief, mourning, and co-dependency; alcohol; some dub-con elements; non-consensual voyeurism; masturbation (m and f); vaginal fingering; oral sex (f receiving); protected vaginal intercourse

Synopsis: Shanks was the raft that kept you afloat during your teenaged and young adult years, helping you navigate the unsteady waters of your family dynamic. When he's all you have left, changing tides push you apart and a distance grows between, until an impulsive decision to return home for a long weekend forces you to confront uncomfortable truths.

Monday, 11:24 A.M.

When are you going to come visit?

The text had been waiting there unanswered for days, sitting on your chest and slowly crushing you with every passing hour that you let it linger.

It had been nearly six months since the funeral, where you’d stood next to Shanks and held his hand while the world seemed to crumble away around you. She was your mother, but it felt like it was in name only; you were an accomplishment checked off a list of things to do by the time she turned thirty, an accessory she loved to flaunt and then tuck away until the next time she needed her ego stroked. You were fed, clothed, dropped at the bus stop every morning before she went to work and parked in front of the television at night to babysit you until bedtime; you never allowed yourself to believe you suffered any great injustices, other than the fact you felt alone and adrift while you watched her ship sail past you again and again.

She brought Shanks home when you were just fifteen, married him and moved him in less than a year later, and for the first time it felt like you’d found a piece of driftwood to keep you afloat in the choppy water. He had nothing but smiles for you every morning, only laughs and kind words at night when he’d squeeze you tightly before you headed off to bed. He was Dad, just Dad, in the early light of day when he’d kiss your forehead and hand you your backpack on the way out the door, Shanks when he dared challenge your teenage moodiness—which he rarely attempted, leaving you to have your fits until you were ready to throw your arms around him again and ask if he’d take you to the shore over the weekend so you could sit on the dock and read your textbooks in the sun while he fished.

He’d been good to you—taught you to drive, dropped you off at college, had warmth waiting for you when you’d come back for the summers, and a hug that felt like an invitation to return home when you’d have to leave again. When you’d graduated and moved for work, he almost seemed to mourn you, despite it being just an hour away by car and despite your repeated promises that you’d come home as often as you could. In contrast, your mother had only a forced smile and a flat “good luck” to offer you—you were of no use to her now that you had nothing immediate left to accomplish, nothing she could live vicariously through, and your presence felt immaterial. But not to Shanks—to him, you mattered, always.

He’d been good to you, and despite it all, it had been nearly six months since you’d seen him. And now you sit at your desk, the hum of the office washing over you, the subtle ping of another email alert making your skin crawl, and you stare at the text, thumbs hovering above the screen as the cursor blinks, trying to think of what to say. You finally manage something, something you almost regret, and send it before you can back down: How about this weekend?

The answer comes almost immediately, and it makes your heart race. Really?

Really. You want to say more, but that’s all you can muster as you start to wish you hadn’t answered at all.

Oh that’s great, honey. Let me know details when you can.

The clacking of the keyboard echoes in your ears as you type up an email to your boss, and you find yourself smiling in a way you hadn’t smiled in months.

It unnerves you to your core.

—————

Thursday, 7:18 P.M.

Shanks stands on the front porch, the late summer sun still clinging to the clouds, casting him in dusky peaches and tangerines. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cargo pants, and a smile settles on his lips when he sees you for the first time.

“Hey kiddo,” he says, a quiet uncertainty laced through each syllable. He runs a hand through his crimson hair, pieces falling softly against his jaw.

“Hey there.” Heat rises in your cheeks, nervousness pulsing in your veins, and a sudden feeling of exhaustion perches on your shoulders as you shuffle up the sidewalk.

“How was traffic?”

You shrug, and drop your duffle bag to the ground. “Didn’t take long. It’s easier once you’re out of the city.”

He hesitantly walks down the three steps from the porch to where you stand, and places his hands on your shoulders. He studies you for a moment, the corners of his mouth raising and lowering as he sees the worry settled in every soft contour of your face.

“God, it’s just so good to see you,” he says, just above a whisper. “You look good, honey.”

“So do you, Shanks.” You can’t bring yourself to call him anything other than his name; it tastes wrong the way it sits on your tongue, but dad sounds distorted to your ears these days.

The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins, and he suddenly grabs you, holds you tight to him, like you’ll slip away if he lets you go. Your body stiffens at the sensation, and he seems to take notice, releasing you from his grasp and taking a step back. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and glances at the pavement. “Sorry, why don’t we head inside? I’m sure you’d like to sit down.”

The house has been painted—a soft sage color that contrasts with the new, mahogany-brown leather couch that sits in the center of the room. Like the chair Shanks had in the corner of the spare room that he used as an office—the one you used to sit in while you’d watch him fix his fishing lures, pretending to do your homework but instead watching his thick fingers delicately wrap string around colorful feathers, his brow furrowed, a piece of wire held between his lips.

The kitchen smells of coffee, smoky and bitter; Shanks smells of musk, and spice, and the salt of the ocean, just like always. You sit over steaming cups too hot to drink just yet, your hands wrapping around the mug you made in ceramics class, and carry on like you’d never left home, never stopped making the hour-long drive from your apartment to this house most weekends after you’d moved to the city.

It was as if that night had never happened.

You’d gotten back from the funeral, taken off those god-awful dress shoes you hated, walked barefoot into the kitchen and slumped down at the table. You and Shanks sat in the dim golden glow of the overhead lamp, each with a too-full whiskey glass in your hands with the bottle positioned between you. It was the first time you had more than a moment of quiet all day—you were raw from people hugging you, crying into your shoulder, telling you how sorry they were like they thought it would do you any good. They needed you to cry, to be upset, to show some sort of sorrow over her—but instead you smiled politely and thanked them, shook their hands and rubbed their backs, let them tell you stories about a version of your mother you never had the privilege of knowing.

“It would have been ten years,” Shanks finally sighed, tilting his cup back and forth. “Ten years next Tuesday.”

“I know.” You stuck your finger in your glass, poking at the crumbling corner of an ice cube, then raised your fingertips to your lips, licking off the liquid that clung to your skin.

He downed the rest of his drink, drops of amber landing on his tongue, and snorted a laugh. “God, she fuckin’ hated anniversaries.”

“Birthdays, too.” Most especially your birthday, an inconvenient reminder of her own mortality.

Shanks placed his hand on yours, stroked you with his calloused thumb while he stared at the tablecloth, counting fibers to avoid your gaze. His touch was tender, needy, like he was trying to extract love from you with every graze of your flesh, absorb it into his skin. He leaned closer, stopping just inches from your face with his lips parted, as if to tell you something—but words never came and instead, he exhaled softly before pressing his mouth to yours. A hand slid to the back of your neck to keep you still, as he kissed you delicately, whiskey still fresh on his lips, bitter vapors in his mouth. It was the alcohol that kept you from stopping him, you told yourself as you let him take what he needed from you—it was the alcohol, and it was because you pitied him, and it was because you were lost and grieving. You uttered not a word as he eventually pulled away, and you pushed your chair back and stood, squeezing his shoulder as you passed and headed upstairs to your old room.

As you laid in bed that night, staring at the creased and faded posters on the ceiling, you gripped the sheets and cried for the first time all day. The tears were not for her—never for her—but because you knew that moment at the table wasn’t about pity, it wasn’t about loss, it wasn't about anything in between. It was because you wanted it—you wanted him. You wanted him to comfort you, and you wanted him to love you, and the way he seemed to smell it on you made your stomach churn and acid creep up your throat. You tore yourself from the mattress and headed into the bathroom to sit on the floor of the shower and try to burn away any trace of him with the hottest water you could stand. The sound of water rushing around you, thick droplets splashing every surface, was enough to overwhelm your wandering thoughts—and enough to drown out the sound of Shanks softly knocking on your door, pleading with you to let him in while he muttered slurred apologies against the wood grain.

You quickly packed and hurried to your car while he slept passed out on the living room floor, an empty bottle tipped over nearby, and drove back to your apartment in the city to bury yourself in bed and drink until you were good and numb. The morning came far too soon, the sun urging you awake to ruminate amongst the twisted blankets and sweat-drenched sheets. You fumbled for the phone that was hidden under the crumpled linens, seeing a string of missed calls, and just one text: Please talk to me.

You fought the urge to walk out onto your balcony and chuck the phone into the street, just to watch it shatter. Instead, you paced your living room as you called that one friend—the one who was always a little too nice to you, who brought you homemade lunches and hung on your every word, who followed you like a lost dog trying to find his way home—and told him you were lonely, that you needed him. Soon, he was in your bed, soft fingers digging into your hips, even softer lips pressed to your back, telling you how beautiful you looked in the morning light. He held you afterwards as you cried into the crook of his shoulder, and he soothed you, told you the mourning would end eventually, that all would one day pass.

He knew nothing of the grief that lodged in your chest—the anguish of wanting what wasn’t yours to take.

—————

Friday, 8:01 A.M.

“You’re up early.”

Shanks grins at you from the kitchen table, a newspaper spread out in front of him, bits of string and wire and metal scattered across the sports page. A clear plastic bin of feathers sits to one side, and something in you wants to overturn them in the air, just to watch them scatter and float.

“Am I?” You shuffle past him and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the coffee-maker. “This is sleeping in for me.”

“You’re on vacation, I figured you might want to catch up on some rest.”

You shrug and lean against the counter. “I have other weekends for that.”

In truth, since you’d last been home, sleep (or a state close to it) was what consumed much of your free time. You’d put in an appearance at a brunch, or smile through another tedious first date, then return home to listen to the comforting hum of a show you’d already watched. Lying on your couch, you’d swipe through profiles that seemed to promise you more disappointing first meetings and awkward conversations over burnt coffee or overpriced drinks, until you’d lose yourself in a haze of melancholy until bedtime.

Shanks stands and sidles up to you, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder, pulling you into the softness of his shirt. “How about I make pancakes?”

“That sounds amazing.” You lean into his chest, containing a sigh at how much you missed this feeling—of safety, and warmth, and a sweetness you could drown in.

You sit at the table and watch him move through the kitchen, listening to his stories about clients and work friends, people whose names were engraved in your mind. The kitchen soon smells of vanilla and nutmeg, and the richness of butter, and the cloying sweetness of store-brand syrup. It reminds you of mornings not long after he’d moved in; suddenly, old friends—ones who’d long drifted away from you as high-school began to wane and adulthood appeared over the horizon—wanted to come over and gawk and giggle at your handsome new step-dad, whispering to each other about how his biceps flexed under his thin white t-shirts, and his chest hair peeked out over the collar. He seemed to know how to handle their kind, and would give them a chaste wink and a smile when they’d ask to stay for breakfast after impromptu sleepovers; he’d tell bad jokes and make French toast for a table of whispering, tittering teenagers while you silently seethed at the feeling of being used.

As you watch him now, flipping pancakes onto chipped plates with a flourish, trying to find any way he could to make you laugh, you grow heated as you find yourself unable to take your eyes off him, how he’s only gotten more handsome as he’s gotten older. You admire the way the muscled plane of his back stretches the grey cotton t-shirt, how the veins and tendons of his large hands move and flex under his tanned skin, how his red hair frames his face and his wide smile still feels like it’s meant only for you.

He places a plate in front of you and kisses the crown of your head, grabbing your coffee cup to get you a refill while he hums to himself, some silly little seafaring song he claimed his father taught him. Your hands settle in your lap, and your stomach turns while you watch a pat of butter slip off the pancake onto the plate, and it starts to dissipate into the puddle of warm syrup. It wasn’t a feeling of being used that made you fume all those years ago while your friends blushed and bit their lips at Shanks while he politely indulged their affections—it was jealousy.

—————

Friday, 9:31 P.M.

“So, how’s your dad holding up?”

“Shanks is fine,” you correct her as you sigh into your wine glass. You watch your friend check her phone again—the babysitter needs to know where the fruit snacks are, she says distractedly.

“Ugh, that poor man, all alone,” she pouts as she downs the last of her chardonnay. “You let him know if he needs anything—anything at all—that I’m only a call away. Well, we’re only a call away.”

You smirk at the way she catches herself, as if one mention of Shanks and, for a moment, she hadn’t been married for the last five years. She had sniffed out that you were in town for the weekend and suggested you catch up, and the last few hours were spent sipping overpriced cheap wine and watching her nibble on a salad, nodding and smiling through polite conversation until your face starts to hurt. You finally interject, saying you need to get home and check in with work before long, and so you hug and say your goodbyes and promise to get together soon, each of you knowing full well it’s a lie.

The door is unlocked when you get back, as if he was waiting for you to come home—just like the nights you’d sneak out to see your friends and drink in the woods behind the school, and he’d leave the door cracked so your keys wouldn’t jangle and your mother wouldn’t wake. He never said a word when you’d come downstairs for school still stinking of cheap vodka, only hand you a thermos of coffee and a bottle of water, whispering after you to take a shower before class; he was your accomplice, a delinquent teenager’s dream. As time went on, you started to find it less interesting to take late-night drives with older boys and have to cram for school in the morning when you could simply come home instead, and Shanks would cook you dinner and help you study for your chemistry final while your mother left for another social gathering, leaving the two of you to your devices. Disobedience became infinitely less attractive as a means of combating the loneliness that lived within you when you could spend your time with someone who seemed to want you there.

You walk upstairs, avoiding the steps that creak, the placement of each one still burned into your synapses from innumerable nights of trying to slip in unnoticed. As you place your hand on your doorknob, you hear something, noises that are utterly unmistakable, coming from Shanks’ bedroom across the hall: quiet moans and grunts slipping out from under the door, accompanied by the slick sounds of skin on skin.

Blood drains from your limbs and you stop, holding your breath, trying not to make even the smallest sound as you approach; it’s only to make sure you’re hearing right, you tell yourself, not for any other reason. Your back is pressed to the wall beside his door, shivering gasps passing through your lips as you hear him groan again—some part of you always wondered what it would sound like, how he’d groan and growl if he had you under him. A sudden ache builds in your core despite the way your stomach flips as you stand there, listening to him pant, hearing the creaks of his bedframe and you wonder how he does it—if he bucks his hips and thrusts into his hand, or if he lavishes himself with long strokes instead—and you start to lose yourself in your vile fantasies.

It’s wrong, it’s fucking wrong, but your hand lowers to the front of your jeans, two fingers pressing the firm seam into your clit, and you stifle a whimper as you throb. And then you hear it—your name. Your name, clear as day, mixed with a long, low groan. Your fingers move faster, pressing against your heat, your knees weakening as you hear him grow louder; His breath gets harsher, your name still escaping him in between an occasional curse, his pace quickening. The bed creaks more, and Shanks lets out a long growl, followed by a strangled sigh. Your hand flies up to your mouth as your own climax takes you, and you pulse under your fingers as you try to keep yourself still and silent. The bed creaks again, and you quickly head back down the stairs, avoiding the troublesome steps you know, but suddenly discovering that a new one has developed a whiny squeak.

“Honey?” Shanks shouts from upstairs, a hint of panic in his tone. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, just got in!” you shout back as you freeze in place.

You hear rustling and heavy footfalls down the hallway; Shanks comes to stand at the top of the stairs, his face flushed and pupils still blown, perspiration glistening at his temples.

“You’re back early,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest to hide how it rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Oh, yeah.” You slowly climb a couple more stairs, your back sliding against the wall. “Things sort of fizzled out, so I figured I’d just come home.”

“Well, ah—do you maybe want to watch some TV or something?” He swallows thickly and glances at the floor. “I could make some tea, if you want.”

“I don’t think so. I have some work I should catch up on.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Yeah, even on a Friday night.” You slip past him and can smell it on him still, desire mixed with sweat, and it makes your nerves tingle.

“Well, I’ll be up for a little while if you change your mind, sweetheart,” he says as he starts down the stairs, glancing back up at you for a moment. There was something close to guilt written in the lines around his mouth as he gave you a tight-lipped smile and nodded before heading down to the living room.

It takes everything you have not to follow him, if for no other reason than being with him in strained silence, holding your perverted secret tightly in your chest, would feel better than being alone.

—————

Saturday, 6:18 P.M.

“So, whatever happened to that guy you were seeing? The big guy, the one with the earrings?”

You shrug, swallowing the cheap chardonnay that you’d found in the back of the fridge, the ghost of your mother haunting you still. “Didn’t work out. We broke up, like, a week before I came here for—well, the last time I was here.”

“Hm. That’s too bad.” Shanks raises his eyebrows as he sips his whiskey. “He seemed nice.”

“Yeah, well, he was. But nice isn’t always everything.” You sigh and chug the rest of the wine, setting the cup on the table beside you. “Dating is fucking hard.”

He leans forwards to gesture at you with his glass, and the ice clinks as it knocks against the sides. “See, what you need to do is find yourself an older man.”

“An older man?” you grin, raising an eyebrow at the suggestion, your heart thrumming as you pondered his intent. “What, you mean like Benn? I haven’t seen him in a while, is he still single?”

“What?” Shanks looks at you aghast before he dissolves into rich and robust laughter. “No! God, no. No, I don’t mean like Benn, he’s not good enough for you.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“Just—just someone older.” He glances down at his liquor. “An older man would know how to treat you right.”

You roll your eyes at him, and feel a tightening in your chest. “Do tell.”

He leans down and grabs the bottle of alcohol that sits at his feet, pouring himself another glass. “See honey, men your age, they—well, they don’t know what they want.”

“I mean, I’d say they certainly do know what they want,” you chuckle, raising your eyebrows. “It just doesn’t seem to align with what I want most of the time.”

“And what is it that you want?” Shanks shifts in his seat, moving just a little closer to you on the couch. “You’re not interested in one-night stands?”

You swallow and clear your throat as his knee brushes yours. “Not really. I mean, I am. Sometimes.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Just to, you know. Chase off the lonely nights.”

“So what is it that you do want?”

“I don’t know. Something stable. Something that feels…permanent.” You fiddle with your shirtsleeve and feel heat spreading in your cheeks—perhaps the result of too many glasses of boxed wine, perhaps the result of having Shanks interrogating you, his muscular body encroaching on your space. “Not like, marriage. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“No? Not for you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Marriage never seemed something that was meant for you, not after you watched your mother cycle through husband after husband, until she landed on Shanks. You feared you were doomed to the same fate, chasing after satisfaction and validation from people who were kind enough, handsome enough, smart enough, but never exactly what you were looking for.

You inhale deeply and glance up at Shanks. His one arm stretches over the back of the couch, fingers dangling off the cushion near your shoulder, his other hand brings his glass to his lips. He half-smiles at you, his dark eyes seeming to study your face.

“What are you staring at?” you ask, a tension starting to build within you, something twisting deep inside, coiling up like piano wire wound too tight.

He sighs and blinks slowly at you, peering at you through half-lidded eyes, while his fingers brush your upper arm. “You’re just so damned pretty, you know.”

You force a smile, waiting to hear the same words everyone always tells you, even if you can’t see it yourself when you look in the mirror. “It’s ‘cause I look like her, isn’t it?”

“No.” He raises his hand to the side of your face, stroking your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb as his eyes settle on yours, holding your gaze. “I don’t think you look like her at all.”

His words feel like an invitation you can’t bear to decline, and before you can give it any more thought, you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his, hearing him sharply inhale at your gesture. His kiss tastes like it did that night—like whiskey, and warmth, and a fraught need for love. He doesn’t stop you, only sits still for a moment as you take what you need from him, his hand still pressed gently to the side of your face.

“Fuck,” he sighs into your mouth, and his tongue slips between your lips, entwining with yours with a bittersweet fervor. His whiskey glass drops to the carpet with a thud, the ice clinking as the remaining liquid spills out. You swing your leg over his lap and straddle his hips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders; his one hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you firmly against him as he claims your mouth again and again. Soon, the filthy secret that you had tucked away in your chest starts to claw at you from the inside, even as heat floods your lower body and you feel the weight of his interest start to press up into you.

“Wait. I need to tell you something.” The words are stilted, caught in a whimper as Shanks lets go of your lips and begins to lick and suck at the sensitive skin of your neck.

“What’s that?” he murmurs against you, his hands lowering to cup the swell of your ass.

“I heard you.”

He stops for a moment and warm, harsh breaths spread across your skin. “What do you mean, kiddo?”

“Last night.” You lean back so you can look at him, shaking hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself. “I came home early from seeing my friend, and I—I heard you. I heard you saying my name.”

A moment passes as he stares at you, his already-flushed cheeks burning hotter, his breath quickening. “And?”

“And what?”

“What did you do when you heard me?”

You swallow hard, your mouth opening and closing as you try to find the words, but nothing manifests. He already knows—he has to.

“You listened, didn’t you?” he says with a wry grin, his words beginning to slur as he nips at your jaw.

“No!” You climb off his lap and back away from the couch, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “That’s disgusting!”

“Is it?” He stands and walks towards you slowly, stumbling a little as he reaches you. He looms over you, a lascivious grin starting to form on his lips. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Shanks, stop it.” You can feel the heat coming off him, and you can smell the alcohol drifting in the air—if you’re tipsy, he’s intoxicated.

“What?” He leans and runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “If I’m disgusting for thinking about you like that, aren’t you just as dirty for wanting to hear it?”

“I think you’re drunk.”

He slides a hand up the inside of your thigh and holds his palm against your heat. “And I think you’re wet.”

A shiver runs down your spine and you grip his biceps for stability, a low whine leaving your lungs as he starts to press up into you. You need this—you need him. You need the way he needs you, and how he makes it feel like you’re not broken and alone, and how he loves you like you’re all that matters to him in this world.

“Goddamit, we can’t do this.” You wrench yourself away from him and take a few steps back, feeling the tears starting to burn in the corners of your eyes. “Not again. Not like this.”

“Fuck.” He sways where he stands, his mouth hanging open as he sees you start to fold in on yourself. It’s clear he wants to pull you to him, to hold you to his chest and cradle your head while you cry, but all it will do is compound the hurt he’s already caused. “I’m so sorry, kiddo.”

“Me too.”

Without another word between you, you walk up the stairs to your room and shut yourself inside, and start to pack, readying yourself for the drive home tomorrow.

Maybe you’d say goodbye this time.

—————

Sunday, 9:34 A.M.

The clang of pots and pans had startled you awake, the smell of coffee drifting in under the door. He was trying to lure you downstairs with breakfast, something he’d do when you were particularly quarrelsome or in the midst of some silent stand-off with your mother. But it wouldn’t be enough today, and you sat on the end of your bed, drafting an email to your boss that you’d need tomorrow off; you didn’t think that you could stand having to smile to strangers on the elevator and field well-intentioned questions about your weekend without wanting to scream. You send off your message, and stiffen at the sound of a knock on your door.

“Can I come in?” Shanks mutters from the other side.

You consider saying no, if only for a moment, of waiting until he leaves so you can gather your things and sneak down the stairs to your car unnoticed. But it hurts—it hurts to imagine leaving without a goodbye, without at least one last embrace to remind you that you would never fully be alone, so long as you had him.

“Sure, yeah, come in,” you mumble, tossing your phone behind you and sitting back on the heels of your palms.

He pushes the door open, leaning against it as he forces a smile. “No breakfast today?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You shouldn’t drive home on an empty stomach.” He hesitantly approaches you, resting his hand on your shoulder. “Come down and eat something with me. I can make something else if you don’t want French toast. Or at least have some coffee.”

You close your eyes at the welcome weight of his hand, and you lean your head against his arm, soft hairs bristling against your cheek. “Maybe.”

Shanks sits beside you on the end of the bed, his hand coming to rest next to yours, almost touching but not quite.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything.”

“Me too.”

“Oh sweetheart, no—you don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He envelops you in a tight embrace, pulling you against him, cradling your head to his chest until you can hear his heart racing under you. “And you never, ever did.”

The tears come quickly, leaving blooming wet spots on his shirt, and you shiver as your arms wrap around his torso. He’s everything you crave, everything you know that you deserve—yet, he’s everything you know you can’t ever claim as yours. Still, you want him anyway, even if only for right now.

“Dad, I—I need you.”

“How?” He pulls you away from his chest, grasps your face with a hand on either side and meets your gaze, holding it. “How do you need me?”

A sob hitches in your throat as you shake your head slowly, and your voice cracks as you force the words out: “Like I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, honey, don’t cry.” He drops to his knees in front of you, pressing his fingers into your cheeks while he looks you over, as if to find the source of your pain. “If you need me—then I’ll make it all better, okay?”

You nod, swallowing back a hiccup. “Okay.”

“That’s my girl.” Shanks kisses you softly, reassuringly, before he stands and pushes you back on the bed, unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down your legs. As you reach for the waistband of your underwear, he stops you.

“Not those,” he says, returning to his knees and placing a wide hand on each of your thighs, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Not yet.”

He kisses up your inner thighs, teeth grazing you with soft nips and bites, using his tongue to soothe each mark he leaves behind. He reaches the apex of your legs and stops to breathe you in, kissing and tonguing you through the thin fabric, nosing at your clit while his breath warms your swollen pussy lips, drawing a sigh from you. Every little noise you make only seems to urge him on, and soon he has your panties pulled to the side as he noisily sucks and licks you, his wide tongue lapping at your clit, devouring you in a way that says this is like second nature to him.

“F-fuck,” you stammer as you reach down and grasp a handful of his hair, tugging it at the roots. “So good.”

Shanks only smiles against your cunt in response and a river of saliva runs down your thighs. He slides two fingers in your drenched hole, crooking them upwards to stroke that spot inside you that makes electricity run through your limbs, and every moan of pleasure that escapes you elicits one of his own in response. Soon you can barely hear yourself, words muffled like you’re underwater, as you warn him how close you are, how you’re almost there, how bad you need it; your body starts to arch off the mattress, but he grips your hip with his free hand and holds you down as your stomach tenses and your thighs shake. You cry out for him with unabashed abandon as you’re suddenly overwhelmed with uncontrollable, shuddering spasms.

“That’s my good girl,” he rasps, pulling his fingers out of you and giving your slit one last long, slow lick. “Feel a little better?”

You manage to push yourself into a sitting position and almost whimper at seeing Shanks between your legs, his face flushed, his goatee glistening with your wetness; you lean down impulsively and kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips, greedily sucking at his bottom lip before pulling away. “Dad, I—”

“Tell me what you want,” he quickly interrupts, a look of sudden desperation on his face. “I’ll give you anything, anything at all, I promise.”

And you believed him. He loved you, more than anything in this world, and the way he looked at you, you knew he would gladly give you whatever you needed if it would make you feel complete.

“I… I want you inside me.”

“Yeah?” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and strokes your cheek gently with the back of his hand. “You sure?”

You nod, knowing he must be able to see the desire etched into your features, the yearning that glimmers in your eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He stands and kisses you on the forehead, and you see the thick outline of his cock pressing against his pajama pants. “Just wait here for a minute, I’ll be right back.”

Shanks doesn’t give you enough time to reconsider and comes back quickly, a condom and a bottle of lube in his hand. You want to tell him not to use protection—that you’re on the pill and you want him to cum in you, that you want to belong to him in all ways. But you hold your tongue and hope that perhaps there will be a next time, another day you can beg him to spill himself inside you and make you feel like his and his alone.

He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the powerful, muscled body that you had secretly tried to catch a glimpse of more times than you would ever admit. Heat rises in his cheeks and he grins as he notices the shamelessness with which you ogle him as you scoot further back on the bed; he runs his hands over his broad, hairy chest, his fingers trailing down the softness of his stomach to the waistband of his pajamas. He slowly pulls them down over his hips, down his muscular thighs, and your eyes widen at the sight of his thick, half-hard cock.

“You like what you see, honey?” he teases as he climbs onto the bed with you and kneels between your legs, softly moaning as he strokes himself hard.

“Yeah, I do,” you murmur, watching him as he carefully tears away the foil of the condom wrapper and rolls it on. He drips lube onto his sheathed cock and rubs it along the length, as if to prove how much he loves you, how much he wants to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. Shanks moves between your parted legs and cages you in on one side, his hand pressed into the mattress, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

He sinks himself into you without hesitation—he knows what you want from him, and to ask you again if you’re sure, if this is what you really want, would only keep you apart for longer, and you’d already waited long enough for this moment. He holds himself there, pushed inside you as far as your body would accept him, feeling how you stretch to accommodate his girth. You wrap your arms around his neck and nod as if to urge him on, and he slowly starts to move his hips; your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of him filling you, over and over, as he delves deeper into you with each rhythmic push.

“Oh, sweetheart, you feel so good,” Shanks groans as he leans down to kiss your neck. “You’re taking me so well.”

He rocks against you gently, almost as if to comfort you more than to fuck you, to bring you whatever relief you need to take from him. A soothing warmth spreads through your thighs as he fucks into you with a measured, insistent rhythm, and you lift your hips upwards to meet each thrust.

“I wanna cum again,” you whimper as you feel yourself pulsing and tightening around him, balancing on the edge of another climax, “with you inside me.”

“Then cum on my cock, sweetheart,” he grunts, thrusting faster as you writhe beneath him. “I want to feel you.”

You reach one hand between your bodies and quickly press your fingers down on your aching clit, feeling an almost immediate tightness building within you.

“Fuck, dad, m’so close,” you whimper as you feel yourself tensing, almost as if you’re seeking his approval.

Shanks leans down and presses his lips to your ear: “Go on—cum for me, sweet girl.”

You reach your climax with a profound shudder, and cry out as you clench around him, reveling in how he fills you with every thrust as you spasm and shake under him.

“God, I’m almost there, sweetheart,” he groans as his hips snap against you faster now, your orgasm urging him quickly to his own. “Just hold tight to me, okay?”

He fucks you with an impatient need, as if it hurts not to take you, gasping and heaving as he pulls you tightly against his chest. You sob into him, moaning his name again and again as you thrash beneath him, lifting your hips to his thrusting body. Strands of his hair brush against your face as he kisses you, hard and urgent, his goatee scratching at your skin.

“That’s it,” he pants as his muscles tense and his hips move in an erratic rhythm. “Fuck—that’s it sweetheart—gonna cum for you.”

Shanks groans long and low into the crook of your neck and his body shudders, overcome with a jarring, pulsing climax as he convulses against you. His thrusts slow and he pulls in lungfuls of air between the soft kisses that he leaves along your neck and jaw. He pushes himself up on his hands and kisses your cheek. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You don’t think you’ve been this okay in a very, very long time. “You?”

“Yeah.” He smiles at you, that smile that grounds you and reminds you that you’re his, and slowly starts to pull out of you. “I’m gonna go clean up, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here.” You watch him as he walks into your bathroom and shuts the door behind him, and you already miss the way his cock feels, the way it made you feel whole, the way it felt like he fit perfectly in you, like you were meant to be fucked by him somehow.

He returns and joins you under the covers; you cling to him, running your fingers through his thick chest hair, some of it going grey, patches of it matted to his skin with his sweat and your tears. It’s the closest you’ve felt to something like normal, something like happy, in a long time. You want to stay here in this moment as long as you can, even though you know that it can’t last—it’s not something meant for you to have.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Shanks says quietly as his fingers brush your shoulder. “Maybe you could move back home.”

You chew on the side of your tongue for a moment while you force yourself to hesitate, to keep yourself from blurting out something you wouldn’t want to take back. “I mean, I can’t just break my lease.”

“Yes you can.” His hand clutches your shoulder tighter. “I’ll pay for it.”

“But it’s an hour drive to work.”

“I’ll buy you a better car.” His fingers sink into your skin deeper, almost bruising as he pulls you close. “Better yet, just find a job here. Not like you need to pay rent if you live at home.”

“I can’t,” you shake your head as you bury it against his chest, gripping a handful of hair between your fingers. You can—you could. But you shouldn’t. Not yet, not now.

“I know.” He sighs as his hold loosens, his thumb rubbing over the tender spots where he gripped you. “It’s just empty here without you.”

A soft wind shakes the tree outside your window, and a branch scrapes against the glass.

“I just…really need you, sweetheart.” His voice cracks as he speaks, the words quiet and pleading.

Your lip quivers and you choke down more tears as he says what you want to hear, what some part of you has always needed to hear. “I need you too.”

“Promise you’ll think about it? About coming back home?”

“I promise.”

And you knew you would. It would consume your thoughts, it would rule your waking hours, it would rouse you from fitful sleep every night—the notion of returning home to him, to the safety of his arms, and the whiskey-smooth sound of his voice, and the honeyed sweetness of his kisses would drive you to distraction until you gave up everything and stood on his doorstep, waiting for him to welcome you home.

Shanks pulls you closer, kisses your forehead, breathes out to breathe you in. “I love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, dad.”

#I’m not good at waiting to post things till morning so here have this in the middle of the night #tw.stepcest #tw.incest #shanks x reader #tw.dark content #red-haired shanks x reader #akagami no shanks x reader #cw.incest #lo writes #cw.stepcest

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beca-mitchell · 6 months ago

Text

high tide came and brought you in (i could go on and on) (17,000 words, rated M)

Summary:

Modern AU

Once the order is in and the stack of eight coffees is secured in the cart she had brought just for the occasion (she learned long ago to not trust herself with carrying that much liquid with her bare hands), Eloise grabs the two remaining coffees - one for herself and one for her demonic boss (she can only imagine his horror if his coffee dared to touch anybody else’s) - before turning.

Right.

Into.

Another.

Person.

Or--

Literature Professor Eloise Bridgerton meets model Cressida Cowper and sparks (and coffee) fly.

Read on AO3.

#creloise #cressida cowper #eloise bridgerton #bridgerton #my fanfic #wlw fanfic #creloise fic #mine

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slowd1ving · 5 months ago

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EAT MY HEART, I'LL EAT YOURS ⁺ 　 . ✦ MOZE

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides, Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles, The moon grins once again tonight. He hates you. He hates your plans, how you talk, how you work. He loathes being stuck with you: detests it to his very core. But that's great, because the feeling is mutual with you! Tied to an ill-omened crow of your own, what's there not to abhor? continuation of tales of a disgruntled corvid art by @ RMavio on x!! pairing: moze + male reader warnings: blood, death, violence, yall HATE each other bro, v slow burn, pre established relationship (if you don't count the relationship of HATING each other's GUTS) wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Copper defiles the carefully manufactured oxygen that circulates this tiny starship. Its stench pervades the past the clean air, past the distinctly alkaline tang of bleach, and past what little protection your visor affords you. In fact, the clear nanocomputers pick up on a distinctly sanguine hue to the air: labelling tiny crimson specks as biological matter—human blood (tentative).

“Adult Foxian male, died approximately forty hours ago,” the man crouched before you narrates, oblivious to the you who stares up at the ceiling of the small room—as if the gesture could possibly shield you from the horrifying reality at your feet. No matter how many times you’ve stepped into a situation like this (too many to count ever since your career path practically merged with the Shadow Guards’), you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this. This is Moze’s sphere of knowledge: Moze’s work that intimately twines and dances with the very cesspit of vice and umbrage.

“Died from presumably loss of blood caused by the deep lacerations across his abdomen and throat,” he continues—the details, unfortunately, seep into your brain as you try your best to tune him out. Thank you, Captain Obvious, you’d bite out, but unfortunately opening your mouth in these conditions would make you sick. “Or at least, that’s what the perpetrator would want us to think.”

There’s viscera splashed even on the very walls. Messy streaks of scarlet contaminate the aged wallpaper in the small room: capricious strokes, as though a child painted them, form characters and seemingly random lines of verse that register as unusual on your visor. That’s your area of expertise.

Like clockwork, your gaze remains unwavering on the riddle presented on the structure. That’s how you’ve dealt with being in such proximity to Reapers: by pretending the wall is a block of stone and its red ink is precisely that—ink. That’s how you separate yourself from the victims of these gruesome cases; bit by bit, you’re slowly growing accustomed to the nauseating reek of metal that wafts before you.

And so, when you finally glance down at the glazed-over eyes of the latest victim, it is with startling impassiveness that you assess his cadaver. He’s gone, you accept. Your little ritual has worked, as it oft does.

“Same sigils as the other bodies.” You finally regain your voice, and the silver-haired man turns his sharp gaze up at you. “But the last line to the verse is different.”

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides,

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles,

The moon grins once again tonight.

The characters rest heavy on your tongue—foreign meanings straightening themselves out as you slowly sound out the snippet. It’s a verse from a children’s book of poems: a short tale about an obsolete, oceanic planet and its restoration by few brave souls.

“The moon slumbered tonight,” you mutter the original line to yourself. This ancient script doesn’t suit the naïve phrases, but it’s commonly used for rituals—both antique and modern, you’ve unfortunately found.

With a heavy sigh, you pull out the gun in your holster; it’s warm, humming to life which seems terribly ironic to you, considering where you are. You’ve not used the weapon for quite some time: the flickering it emits seems both familiar and unfamiliar.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His clipped speech warily assesses the ease with which you handle the arm you never seem to use: preferring the glassy, almost invisible blade currently strapped across your back when in combat.

“Xiaoze,” you sigh tauntingly, infusing the firearm with quantum energy that briefly glows indigo in this dim room. “Shut up and let me do my job.”

“Ew,” his face sours almost immediately at the nickname, embittered by both how it drips with condescension and no real affection, and how off putting it is for you of all people to be adding things to his name. “Don’t do that.”

“Then shut up.” You line the sights experimentally, having successfully blackmailed the Shadow Guard into keeping mum for a few minutes while you turn the qualitative verse into quantitative data. Perhaps he does feel threatened by the promise, for you only feel his heavy stare on you and not his words.

The bullet careens and phases through the wall where the verse is located, and with a shimmer of data, the strings of numbers behind the verse reveal themselves: meaningless to all but yourself. It’s a temporary display, containing important information about the very foundations of this riddle. Or, at least, it’s a shortcut since the verse has already been decoded.

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides: a reference to where the power ‘current’ of Madam General Feixiao is absent. Or at least, these murder locations point to that; they’re in the areas least looked over in the Alliance: namely, not aboard the Flagship.

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles: a crude depiction of Moon Rage, as well as the shedding of a ‘Foxian’ identity. Considering all these victims have been Foxian, it’s no far-fetched assumption to think that these have all been building up to something sinister.

The moon slumbered tonight: a reference to the plaguemark hung over the Yaoqing—a moon left behind by Yaoshi. Past tense. Sleeping.

But that had all changed with this particular murder. Whatever goal the perpetrator hoped to achieve was finally coming into fruition with the awakening of this ‘moon’.

The data transmitted onto your visor is as elapsed: the time of writing, the exact coordinates relative to the Flagship at the time of writing, as well as some background noise of little relevance to this current predicament. These numbers are duly inputted into one of your pre-created ‘equation’ sheets: linking abstracts together in their own relationships to receive a divinatory variable. It’s one of the few successes you’ve had with qualitative equations; linking energy and mass and speed is easy, but linking feeling together is not.

In this case, tying down the exact time and coordinates to a specific intention. Any organic creature or ingenium leaves behind a trace of intention, whether it be through actual thoughts or a pre-programmed function. But in this case, the result comes out void.

Thirty-two hours since verse was written.

“How long did you say the man has been dead?” you ask, urgently. Moze snaps back to attention at the specific tone in your voice.

“Forty hours,” he answers. When it comes down to the bloody aspects of this job, he returns to his laconic, reticent ways—it’s truly a shame he can’t keep it up in other aspects.

“You’re sure about that,” you probe, half a question in your voice.

“It’s my job,” he deadpans, and you scowl as he uses your words against you.

“Well, this verse appeared about eight hours after the man died,” you comment wonderingly. The strokes of the characters for grins once again appear a bit messier than the rest—almost like a map. Well, it’s not a deduction; your visor picks up on the strange wording right before you do. “Unlike the others that were written manually by a perpetrator.”

“So, this sacrificial lamb was finally the success,” he mutters darkly.

“But the trail is no longer dead.” You sheathe your pistol back into its holster with a touch of relief, because finally this set of murders is coming to its conclusion.

⁺ 　 . ✦

You take back whatever compliments you had of him focusing on his job when it came down to it. As you pilot the star skiff along the trail of data outputted from your visor and the crude map from the bloody drawings, he’s practically talking your ear off about the garbled string of answers you sent him from your visor.

“And what is beef’s relevance to this case?” he asks, each syllable drawn taut with what could only be mockery.

“Typo,” you grit out, tilting the control wheel starboard. Now is not the time.

“Egg, too?” he taunts.

Your eyes flick to the top left of your visor, where you did in fact merge the contents of your grocery list with the file meant for him.

“Use your common sense,” you bite on the inside of your cheek, hard, to prevent any insults from slipping past your lips. “You do still have that, right?”

“So what’s for dinner tonight?” He leans back against the co-pilot seat, and you can feel his gaze prick your face—much like you feel the tiny, irritating smile he wears.

“I will crash this skiff if I have to, and you’ll have to explain to the General why the cryptologist exploded into itty-bitty pieces, Xiaoze,” you seethe.

“Not if they don’t find your body,” he returns—far too accustomed to the patronising name for someone who blanched at its usage just an hour prior. Worst part is, he’d definitely make do on this vaguely-worded threat.

“Madame General and A-hua would know it was you.” You propel the stern forward, if only to feel his hands grip the sides of his seat tighter. He courts death daily as an assassin, but wouldn’t it be a treat to die because of reckless driving. It’s not like you can entrust the programmed visor to him (and it’s not like you want to send the decoded map to the skiff).

“Would they, though?” He pares away the dirt beneath his nails with his knife, and you hope the sudden jolt in the vehicle gave him an injury.

“Jump.” A single syllable, gracing the space with your tender command. His brow raises minutely.

“No one will miss you,” you add.

“Since you’ve got no friends,” you tack on with an air of finality.

⁺ 　 . ✦

He hates you. He hates you: hates the way your hands deftly turn the control wheel on the skiff; hates the way you trip and stumble through life, leaving countless messes behind yet still managing to have Feixiao’s approval to work with him; hates your facetious and conniving and sly insults. But most of all, he really fucking hates your plans.

“This is so stupid,” he mutters in your ear; invisible to all but the tell tale outline on your shrunken visor. You’d reply, but you’re already conspicuous enough in the tailored suit you’ve donned—all sharp lines and a cut too bittersweet for your home planet. So actually, fuck that, then—there’s no point in being all Spy-like and Inconspicuous any longer.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, adjusting the cufflinks beneath the rich jacket—then subconsciously running a thumb along the edge of your fake identification card that’s pinned to your collar. Unlike that weirdo, you can’t turn invisible—so you’re left firing quanta bullets at the hull of this rig right outside Yaoqing airspace (or technically, space-space) and gleaning whatever information you can to assemble a persona for yourself.

<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> how do I look < 1:34

The message pings to him from your visor, and you know he’s seen it—from the caustic sigh that leaves his lips, because if he ever blows his cover while he’s invisible, it will have been because of you.

< Weirdo > 1:34 > Focus on the damned mission.

Lukewarm, you scoff, brain sounding out your response. How… do… I… look, you type out once more.

1:35 > Terrible.

Aggravated, you clench your fist, and you swear you can hear the space behind you warp and distort when he snickers. Terrible! What a joke, you seethe—jabbing the code into the airlock that you’d worked out by the little tones left on the verse, as well as reading the intentions left by people at this door.

Your job is simple—getting to the bottom of these long-standing murders while also planting a bug on the ship that would allow the Seat of Divine Foresight of the Yaoqing to monitor the situation. Nothing more, but maybe something less if something went wrong. This was only a two-man operation, after all.

Of course, you neither kept optimistic nor pessimistic. Though there were only two objectives, those that underestimated the simplest missions oft suffered the brutal brunt of defeat. And of course, the former term being negotiable showed just how difficult it was. Or at least, if you managed to find the office of the higher ups, the data you stole would allow you to reconstruct the space virtually—though what you needed were concrete files that pointed to clear motives.

No—not the office.

You squinted as a rough plan of the building popped up from the continuous data you fed your visor—a general prediction of where the lab and computer room would be located, which were simulated as being in the same wing as the office. Perfect.

<Weirdo> 1:40 > Done all your shopping already, or are you just tired of steak?

You grind your molars as you travel past the small throngs of borisin and humans alike: you don’t look entirely out of place as they’re dressed in a medley of different outfits, from IPC uniform replicas to Penacony garb to even the long robes found on Herta’s Space Station. Point is—your Earthwear doesn’t stand out, and there’s enough people that your badge does not go noticed.

<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> gonna shoot you how about that < 1:40

It takes the time of twenty-seven heartbeats to stride through the corridors (tunnels) that make their way around the aircraft. Twenty-seven heartbeats, three checkpoints and one smile shot at presumably a ‘coworker’—before you finally make it into the final stretch. He knows, though you don’t, because he’s counted: listening to the rhythmic beat of your organs as you calmly navigate the ship like you know what you’re doing.

It’s devoid of souls, except for the two of you as you pad down the corridor. Even the very lab and big office seem abandoned—but Moze’s urgent text alerts you of the presence of someone in the office, just not the lab.

Guess we’ll start there then.

A quick swipe of your falsified keycard, and you were in—slipping on one of the freely available lab coats and extending your visor to cover your eyes at the entrance. You do respect lab etiquette, after all; erasing even your thoughts about food and drink as you press through the automatic glass doors.

<Weirdo> 1:43 > You almost look like a scientist now.

You can hear his exhales—they’re so obviously deliberate, because no way would he blow his cover by accident. He’s snickering, that sod is.

I am a scientific doctor, you senile fuckwad. < 1:44

1:45 > Thought your default display name was just a joke. Did you hit your head and hallucinate some credentials?

You seethe, since you can’t exactly scroll through endless files to locate your dissertation on ancient science and qualitative formulae. Over sixty-thousand words, reduced to mere mockery by this cretin.

It’s a triple entendre < 1:45 And I’ve got the creds < 1:45 prick < 1:45

1:45 > moron

He types this lightning quick, not even pausing to stop walking—not even pausing to capitalise and punctuate his stupidly mocking text like normal—and you can still hear him because he’s letting you hear his normally silent steps, he’s letting you know he can fulfil the mission while shit talking you to your own face.

this is why you have no friends < 1:46

1:47 > this is why you don’t have friends outside your job. no one actually likes you

You rummage around in the large filing cabinet besides all the gleaming equipment: large centrifuges, safety cupboards, fume hoods, and weird display cases filled with samples of what can only be blood. Swiftly, you snap several photos of the evidence with your visor, then mindlessly write a response. Talk about a call coming from inside the house, you think.

name two people who voluntarily spend time with you < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent index.finger.pointing emoji] < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent laughing.crying emoji] < 1:49

He’s no longer in the peripheries of your earshot; so you know he’s gone off to investigate the other areas of the small lab—beyond the equipment and into the computer room. Good, you exhale—at least he respects lab protocol.

1:51 > name a time feixiao actually talked to you outside of work

I will…. lend you… my gun so… you can shoot…. yourself, you type, then quickly hit backspace before you can send it by accident.

yesterday. eat shit xiaoze < 1:52

1:52 > that was charity work don’t flatter yourself

Hastily, you scan any files in the weird stronghold that look even remotely related to borisin and Foxians and especially the one you cradle: labelled only with the icon of a moon and containing eerily similar rituals to the crime scenes you found.

oh you want to talk about charity work? lets ask the crowd bro < 1:55 everyone who interacts with you is doing charity work.. < 1:56

1:57 > ok at least my job wanted me

Wow. Wooow. You stare incredulously at the message—he’s dragging the Intelligenstia Guild into this, knowing you got put on leave for ‘engaging in querulous behaviour’ and ‘lacking in real life experience’. Low blow.

…and no one else did so what now < 1:58 name a single friend you have < 1:58

1:58 > .. 1:59 > Jiaoqiu

Jiaoqiu. How cute, you scoff, resuming your hate typing while you flick through the last few files hidden around in drawers and cupboards.

idk how to tell you this but you are NOT the friend bro you’re the test subject… < 2:00 I think he pitied you or smth.. < 2:01

2:02 > ew 2:02 > don’t call me bro it’s sickening 2:02 > we are not alike

it’s exposure therapy < 2:03 since you don’t have any friends you don’t and probably never will be called anything endearing < 2:04 aren’t I so nice < 2:04

Pausing, you glance up at where the glass doors lead right to the computer lab; a dim glow washes over the space. Nothing much to worry about, you think—copying data is a far less burdensome task than rifling through pages upon pages of reports and then arranging them back into their rightful place. Though, if you were worried about anything, it was that the virus and bugger installation would take longer than they had to.

Maybe it’s the paranoia getting to you.

Or maybe, maybe, it’s the faint click of footsteps against linoleum floors—getting louder and louder and louder. As does your heartbeat: thundering deafeningly in your ears. You can’t turn invisible. You don’t get the luxury of slipping into the shadows like your colleague (to put it very politely) does.

And so you swallow—tongue thick and leaden within your suddenly too-dry mouth. There are two courses of action you can take (hurry, the steps are getting louder): the first being to hide away in the little storage cupboard and take the escape from there. You will not be able to fool a scientist who knows their colleagues far more intimately than the grunts in the lobby. Moze has worked alone before. He’ll figure out how to get the virus downloaded and the data copied before the person even gets close to noticing him.

Or—and your eyes flick to the computer room clearly visible from the lab—you could put on an act to save both your life and Moze’s time. You could… probably do that, right?

Heart moving renditions…. Never mind that your heart was pounding right out of your chest—never mind that your glassy sword could not be wielded in this narrow hallway, never mind that flipping the switch on your gun was not quite something you were prepared to do.

They were almost at the corner, and you made your decision to step out into that narrow corridor. One hand in your pocket and the other raking across your face as you yawned. The epitome of casual.

And Moze’s ears pricked as he watched you; though you’d never know, and he’d never admit that he did so. He heard the sound of sharp shoes, and was honestly expecting you to turn tail.

But you didn’t.

You’re taking lazy strides as he hears the researcher approach—counting on the secrecy of this organisation being tight enough to operate on a need-to-know basis. In other words, you’re operating on the high-risk gamble: that this particular person would be unaware of changes in personnel. There’s no time to read the data streaming from their steps. Ordinarily, from their intention you could figure out their rank in the pecking order—but you are plumb out of luck.

He rounds the corner: wearing a suit far more well cut than yours, though his tie sits loose at his throat and his jacket is slung over one shoulder. From one glance, you can tell immediately. You’re screwed. Still, it’s too late to run now: far too late to leave Moze to figure out how to download the data faster.

“Who are you?” The drawl is heavy with a cadence far too confident. Just your fucking luck, you momentarily scowl—of course the lab would be frequented by some clear higher-up. Not a regular degular scientist you could simply sweet talk, but someone not in the lower strata of this shady organisation.

He’s handsome: black hair that sheens prussic, eyes glinting practically amber even in the frigid lighting that washes over this space. Something you’ve unfortunately learned while traversing the galaxy is that this guy cannot possibly be a grunt; and if he is, there’s something seriously wrong with the corporation. He’s eye candy—which makes this situation so terrible. You are screwed. In that moment, your lazy smile wavers somewhat; you are utterly and irredeemably fucked. You could shoot him, but that would no doubt put the rig on immediate lockdown with the sound of the gun.

Fuck. You want to slam your head against the glass, but that would no doubt screw you over even further.

You’re not built for this.

“Oh, are you part of the research team too?” Naive. Your qualifications have just landed you this position, and you’re not quite capable of discerning if you should be divulging that information or not. That’s the mindset you centre this particular character around: just some random guy who’s a bit gullible.

“Just got transferred,” you lie through your teeth, shamelessly. It’s a sin to lie, but you’ve committed bigger ones before.

“No wonder I’ve never seen a cutie like you here before,” he murmurs—leaning in as though to inspect your face. And so, you freeze; naturally, this was not the direction you thought this conversation would take. Maybe sweet talking is not entirely off the table, but you sincerely doubt you’ll actually get away.

You swallow. How much longer do you have to stall for? Is Moze done? What the fuck do you say next?

“Uh.” Thanks? I guess? You’re pretty cute too? You find your hand inching towards your holster—minutely, of course—while potential replies whirl through your mind chaotically. Miniature storms wrapped up in slimy brain matter and miniscule neuron connections.

It’s only when he lets out a short laugh that you realise that you might’ve let out your thoughts, and you curse at yourself in your mind.

“Wow, you’re bold,” he comments, closer: until you can almost taste the lingering iron and manufactured scent he has. Like wood. Earth pine. A bitter pang goes through your heart at that: someone from the surviving fallout of Earth, here of all places. In a clean, sterile lab dedicated to sacrificing Foxians—for what? Money? Stupid credits? Humans are rotten creatures, cut from a cloth macerated in cesspits. On Earth, it was no exception.

Still. Your lips press into a line at his clothes, the particular way the tie is knotted. You’ve never seen another survivor prior to this.

You may also be completely mistaken. Penacony and doubtless others have the same strands of fashion—but this. This is wholly Earth.

“People do tell me that,” you return, unbuttoning your lab coat since you’re no longer in the lab boundaries. Moze, hurry the fuck up. You’re already regretting it, but you need to confirm it. Alien everywhere, what other choice do you have?

His eyes don’t widen like you expect, and you feel a stupid ache at the realisation that you’re once again alone. But rather, they flicker to your breast pocket, where your falsified keycard peeks out. Closer. His fingers pluck the plastic as though it were a flower, and you’re much too astounded to stop him.

“What a shame…” he murmurs, and only the nails digging into your palm remind you fitfully of just how near he is—practically tasting the fucking lies on your breath.

“Sir, back up a bit,” you grimace. This sucks. The perks of keeping the guy from witnessing the glow in the computer room is slowly fading away the longer you keep this up. Should’ve left Moze to get caught.

“O strange doctor, do movies of the bygone era really interest you so?”

You freeze. Shit. Shit. You’d let down your guard—attempting to gauge his reaction to your attire and getting caught out yourself. Really, was there any spy worse than yourself? The falsified card was hastily put together with the help of your visor; of course it autofilled that stupid alias.

It’s not the first time your mistakes have cost you.

“You…” This guy. You should’ve run. You suck at gambling.

“How odd. I should’ve been aware of one like me being transferred.”

“Who the hell are you?” Cautiously, you take a minute step back. He notices—of course he does.

“The head of the research department, who else?” Fuck, fuck. Your heart is entering arrhythmia: pounding flush against your eardrums like some goddamn hammer against piercing nail. You’re dead meat.

“It’s unfortunate that I can’t buy you a suit to replace that cheap one—if you hadn’t infiltrated, we might’ve been good friends.” He’s still putting up a front, but you can tell he’s close to a fight. It’s the snarling instinct of a cornered human—fight or flight activating almost immediately at every minute movement of his. Each shallowed breath, each minute shift in sinew. All of it.

“No, definitely not,” you retort in disgust. “Most people from that planet sucked.”

It’s true, but your heart twinges blue just the same. Millions of years, all for that stupid molten iron planet to just cease. None but you—all alone amongst the cold, dead stars.

It was a graveyard of the giants: hulking Jupiter, so wretched and broken; stars slowly winking out one by one. Even the massive silhouette of the Sun had finally been conquered. Had the universe ever been so lonely for the wandering?

“Even you?” And now his fists punctuate the empty space with his words.

“Especially me.”

How foolish. How foolish, as he’s barely breathing on the floor beside you. How foolish, as you let your teeth grind in stupefied frustration. How foolish, that you wanted to communicate with a remnant from that obsolete planet.

You’re an idiot as you clutch at your side: warmth seeping between your fingers as you prop yourself up against the wall. Shallow, heaving breaths come ragged—though the fight didn’t last even five minutes, courtesy of your visor working overtime to electrocute that fool by your feet. He looks fried, but you don’t look much better: being stabbed does that, after all.

You don’t know what you’re doing here.

What were you trying to accomplish?

Iron tastes especially caustic today. Ah, you realise with a start—this stupid endeavour was all to buy time. Maybe it was all pointless. Maybe you’ll slip into slumber here—tripping over the sleeping man at your feet and seeing your planet once more, if only in your dreams.

The flicker of lights reminds you of your wretched childhood apartment. All concrete and dilapidated structure, but it was your home. A cruel and cold home—though it was also one where the sun touched the horizon just so, in a way that erased pain for a singular moment in time.

Stupid. All this to fulfil your stupid mission.

Your legs wobble, and you would’ve slammed right into the wall were it not for the cold arms wrapping around your ribcage—gelid hand splayed on your chest.

“Idiot.” Moze’s voice is low and angry; practically shaking while he supports your body. He’s pressed right up against your side—making the smell of blood ever more pungent. Slippery, metallic copper—all coming from you and ruining that stupid suit for good. “Are you illiterate too?”

“Huh?” You don’t know why he’s upset; he got the job done, didn’t he? Maybe he’s mad he has to prop you up while navigating the dim tunnels of this building—his teeth are gritting, after all, even if you can’t see him. You can hear the molars grind together.

“Are your eyes just for show, or do you occasionally read your messages?” he seethes. Your trembling heart is far too loud to register the final death rattles of the man left behind in the corridor—courtesy of a blade thrown right into his jugular.

“Hah. Muted them to not read your irritating texts anymore.” You close your eyes as he guides you past the chemicals, past the cleaning supplies in the closet that leads to a hidden path outwards. He’s more… gentle than you would’ve expected; grip firm on your arm slung over his shoulders rather than constricting.

“I didn’t need your help,” he informs you: tone boreal as ever. “You blew our cover.”

Still, you cannot see the furrow in his brows as he peers down at you; neither can you see his lips pressing together. His heart’s pounding weirdly: focused on you rather than leaving this stupid place far behind.

“I didn’t do it for you—” you grit out, stumbling the last few steps to the concealed star skiff while alarms blare on the ship the two of you leave behind. And he’s grasping your waist as you lean against the rocking vehicle—but you were not going to fall. Blood seeps onto his clothing, though he pays the mess no heed for once.

“Don’t need your help either,” you scoff, returning his words back to him as you lean against the worn seat. It’s cold. So cold, but you’d rather die than admit it hurts. “Get off me.”

“I’ll drive.” His rich voice finally has a body once more as he settles into his copilot seat. He can visualise the path back to the Yaoqing already—back to the messy, warm place you call home. Where you linger on all those stupid trinkets, the decorations you put up, and the food simmering in the pot on your stove—he knows the route like the back of his scarred hand.

“I’m fine. It’s not that deep, and Jiaoqiu will take a look at it anyway.” Jiaoqiu. His lips curl into a sneer as the dashboard lights up—flipping switches with such harsh precision it’s much too apparent that he’s in a terrible mood.

“Or A-hua,” you add, and his heartbeat becomes something twisted and wretched as he hears the dimmed affection in your voice. You’re tying off the bandage tight around your side—very rudimentary first aid, but the priority is to get as far away as possible from this facility while their systems go down.

“Neither of them will be in when we report to Feixiao.”

He doesn’t quite know why he lies: syllables rolling off his tongue like a blunder, yet he manages to keep his voice steady.

“Then I’ll give myself stitches.” So damn stubborn, he thinks. He’s irritated, for reasons unclear to him.

“No, this was because of me. I’ll treat you.” He doesn’t know why he insists either; one thing he knows for sure though, is that he can’t help but cling onto the scent of your embodiment. Blood and sweat, laundry powder and soap. You. It’s nothing like the damp of his cell.

“No thanks. You’d probably—hah—use this opportunity to get rid of me,” you wince out. Well, he cants his head in thought—you’re not wrong. He might’ve left you behind: no regrets, no more dead weight.

“You think so little of me?”

“Yes. Why else would you come close?” On edge—that’s what he can hear in the tremulous pulse beneath the flesh, all torn and never at ease. It’s not fearful, precisely, but gone is the casual annoyance in your tone—it’s more of a void acceptance, as though you’re stating the obvious.

To answer your question, he doesn’t know. He’d normally recoil at the sight of the dried blood on his clothes—scrubbing at his skin the moment he could—but he’s absent-mindedly pulling at the threads laved in you with a hand not preoccupied by steering.

“Anyways. If you keep pushing it, you’ll be permanently dubbed that nickname you so hate.”

“Don’t care.” He meets your eyes through the reflection of the glass window. One gaze—flinty and stubborn. The other pair of eyes—silent and unyielding. “I’m treating you before we report to Feixiao.”

“Little A-ze is all grown up now, huh,” you mutter, and the prefix you put in front of his name is cold and distant. It tastes quite bitter, and for that reason he doesn’t deign to speak for the rest of the flight.

For once, he’s truly living up to his description of being reticent.

⁺ 　 . ✦

“Why’d you do such a stupid move?” With each agonised beat of your heart, the needle jabs into one side of your flesh and extends past the other. This may have been taken as to mean he’s fast with your treatment—but your pulse is as sluggish as barely molten lava, burbling and gurgling like you’re on your last legs. “Look after yourself first.”

The towel he painstakingly placed on your couch is spattered with sanguine. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too lost in delirium to realise the gravity of this situation: Moze, kneeling by your side as he carefully stitches you back up. So delirious, you don’t notice his heavy gaze and scarred hands that reverently handle the tools that pierce your body.

“A-ze,” you slur, half-conscious as you bring a scalding hand to press against his boreal face. He freezes, like he really is made of ice. But alas, your hand falls back to your side just as quickly and his expression settles back into a scowl.

“I could’ve escaped,” you murmur, eyes heavy with slumber. “But then you would’ve been in trouble.”

I wouldn’t have been, he wants to say back. You and your idiotic plans. He’s thought it before and thinks it now—he really fucking hates them.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he instead grits out, tying off the last stitch with the scissors with a clinical professionality that you’re quite astounded then. “Look after yourself, and I’ll do the same.”

“Shut up and get out then,” you retort—and he plucks the roll of bandages you were planning on winding around your side. You blink: taken aback once more.

“No.”

No?

“Fuckface,” you comment bitterly, though there’s a certain decrease in volume as he winds his arms slowly around your torso to wrap the cloth around you. Like this, his silver tufts of hair brush past your chin—strangely clean smelling for an assassin. And when you rest your palms on his upper back to alleviate the tension in your side, you swear he freezes.

“Idiot,” he slams back; though, there’s a certain rapidity to his pulse as your chest is right in his eyeline. It’s steady, rising and falling with each even breath you have: naked muscle just about grazing his nose. For the first time in ages, his fingers waver in his task.

“Call Jiaoqiu then,” you shrug. He’s tucking the ends of the bandage into itself, so you miss how the faint flush on his face immediately fades.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

“Call who over?”

The foxian stands in the doorway with a pleased, close-eyed smile—much like the cat that finally got the cream. He’s grinning, Moze realises with horror; he saw the vulnerability in his shoulders, even if for a brief second.

Shit. He didn’t even notice.

“Jiaoqiu?” You take your hand off his shoulder to wave; the man can no longer suppress the irritation in his expression.

“In the flesh!”

“Wow, you really don’t look good,” he continues, voice drawing closer as he inspects your bloodied torso.

“Yeah, because I’m stuck with the fucker who lied about you not being—”

Moze presses his palm against your mouth—heart erratic at the feeling of soft lips against his hand, though it has nothing to do with you. More of the fact that he’s never been so close to someone like this. Yeah. That’s the reason.

“Why are you here, Jiaoqiu?” he replies in your stead, ignoring how incredulously your gaze pierces into the side of his face.

“So cold! You two are late to report even though you arrived half a system hour ago! But I totally understand, Moze.” Jiaoqiu’s smile does not quite reach his eyes as his gaze flitters between you and the assassin. That, perhaps, would be the usual description of how the foxian smiles regardless, but especially so today. “He’s injured, after all. Why not let me treat him before the two of you report to our Arbiter-General?”

“Pah–!” With a gasp, you finally wrench his hand from your mouth—glaring at him all the while. “That would be great, Jiaoqiu, thank you.”

Thus, the assassin is left simmering on the other side of your living room: daggers jabbing right into the other man’s back as he finishes your treatment off with a bowl of scorching hot broth. And though he doesn’t outright say it, Jiaoqiu is evidently amused by this turn of events—much like he’s amused with every irritated tell of Moze’s as he inches ever closer to you with his sly smile.

Sorry, friend, he surmises. Not much of a chance you’ve got.

It’s a great day for the fox, but not so much for the crow who seethes in the corner.

⁺ 　 . ✦

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