#Dry wit and too technical

[duskkodesh]

Has Morb been hanging with Misty, Conners, and this gal for MONTHS? Did they just gain him like a pet. "He's a stray, we're keeping him." Or was it more "We cannot let you go unsupervised, you do not make good decisions."

Preview pages are many places but I like the format here.

[champagnevi]

˚. jealous!bts — reaction ✧ (hyung line version)

[ about. bts as secret boyfriends, quietly showing their love and jealousy when someone flirts a little too close with you. ]

★ :inc. f!reader, idol!au, secret relationship, long-term couple, soft jealousy, tender moments, bittersweet comfort, nsfw for hoseok genre. scenarios, reaction, fluff, nsfw at the end

૮꒰｡•̀‿•́｡꒱ა

— kim seokjin

jin doesn’t get jealous easily. he doesn’t need to—not when he carries himself like he already owns every room he walks into. that easy elegance, the unshakable calm, the smile honed from years of being effortlessly adored.

but when something does stir beneath that polished exterior? oh. it’s not messy—it’s devastating. he is witty, theatrical, laced with sarcasm.

he’ll laugh, sure. play it off, smooth and theatrical like it’s all part of the performance. but watch closely. when the smile drops just half a centimeter, when the grip on his glass tightens just slightly, you’ll know—he’s simmering. it’s not toxic. it’s territorial. and seokjin, when territorial, is razor-sharp velvet.

you’re at a private charity gala hosted by the country’s top culinary institute. invited for your critically acclaimed essays on food culture—pieces laced with dry humor and sharp insight that caught the eyes of chefs and critics alike. jin arrived later, slipping under the radar in a tailored suit and loosened tie, blending in seamlessly among the glittering crowd.

your dress is deep red silk—fluid, sharp, confident. a slit high up your thigh, delicate jewelry catching the light. you’re every inch composed and magnetic, skimming through conversations with ease. jin watches you from afar, lips twitching every time your wit slices clean through a pompous comment.

and then one of the event organizers slides in beside you. older, distinguished, charming in that well-traveled, silver-fox sort of way. he leans closer than necessary, complimenting your writing, your dress, your smile. hints at exclusive tastings and private tours—professional, technically, but layered with something smoother, sweeter.

you handle it like you always do. polite. cool. warm enough to be graceful, distant enough to draw the line. but jin sees everything. he always does.

from across the room, his gaze lingers longer now—sharpened behind the soft curve of his grin. when your eyes flick toward him, he tilts his head just slightly, brows raised, as if to ask: having fun? you hide a smirk, tucking it behind your wineglass, and turn back to your conversation.

📱

Jin: making friends, sweetheart? or collecting tasting invitations? You: just working the room, handsome promise I won’t sample anything off-menu Jin: good because I’m already setting the table at home and dessert’s going to be you

later, when you step into the quieter lounge near the balcony, jin is already there. leaning lazily against the railing, city lights scattering like jewels behind him. his tie loose, glass of red wine poised effortlessly in his hand.

he doesn’t greet you right away. just watches, gaze slow and steady over the rim of his glass.

“good company tonight?” he asks eventually, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

you hum, sliding closer. “not bad. a few offers for private tastings.”

his smile curls at the corners—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“lucky you,” he murmurs. “sounds like you’re very… sought after.”

you step even closer, fingertips brushing the lapel of his jacket. “are you fishing for something, seokjin?”

his smile deepens, slow and dangerous. he sets the glass down carefully, turning fully toward you.

“not fishing. just reminding.”

one hand slips around your waist, palm pressing warm and deliberate over silk.

“reminding you that no matter how many tastings you’re offered,” he leans in, voice dipping lower, “there’s only one kitchen you’ll be cooking in tonight.”

your breath catches subtly. his gaze drops to your lips, then drags back up—steady, unflinching, dark with intent.

you tilt your chin, sass cutting through the heat. “i could’ve handled him, you know.”

“i know.” his thumb drags idly along your waist. “i just like watching you remind people you’re already taken.”

he leans in, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear. “i like it even more when i get to remind you.”

later that night, jin doesn’t rush. he never does. he moves with that same unhurried confidence—like he has all the time in the world to savor what’s his.

fingers trail down the line of your spine, lips mapping slow, deliberate kisses along the slope of your shoulder. he peels silk away inch by inch, like unwrapping something rare and expensive, eyes dark and molten.

when you tug him closer by the loosened tie, breath catching against his mouth, he exhales soft against your lips.

“still jealous?” you whisper, teasing.

his grin is lazy, dangerous, beautiful.

“not jealous,” he murmurs, voice thick and low. “just making sure you remember where you belong.”

his mouth finds yours—slow, thorough, claiming. and as he drags you beneath him, warm palms spanning your hips, his touch leaves no room for doubt.

you already know.

— kim namjoon

he is quiet, rational on the surface. possessive underneath. checks himself constantly. but when pushed, he can’t help the flicker of dominance in his tone—especially when he thinks someone’s trying to outsmart him for your attention.

you’re an up-and-coming actress. sharp, striking, all slow-burning charm. namjoon fell for your brain first, but that doesn’t mean he’s blind to the way people look at you.

tonight is no different — a private after-party after the film festival, where you’d been invited as a presenter. like always, you and namjoon arrived separately, pretending to be nothing more than distant acquaintances.

the problem is the actor by your side tonight — respected, smooth, and just clever enough to be a threat. namjoon doesn’t interrupt. he trusts you. but trust doesn’t erase the slow flare of possessiveness when he sees the man leaning in too close or making you laugh a little too hard.

you’re in the middle of a casual, low laughter conversation when you feel it—eyes. his eyes. you turn slightly and see namjoon across the room, his jaw flexed, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a drink he’s barely touched.

he’s watching. always watching.

you feel confident. you’re used to this kind of attention and you know how to handle it. you aren’t playing into it—not really—but you're not rushing to walk away either. it’s more fun when you make him wait. watch. simmer.

he won’t interrupt. namjoon trusts you—he always has. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the flare of something hot and territorial when another man leans in too close or makes you laugh just a little too freely.

he waits. always waits. he knows how to check himself. But when pushed, when tested, there’s always that flicker—that low, deliberate shift in him that feels like gravity pulling tighter.

tonight is no different.

fifteen minutes later, you finally excuse yourself smoothly, your dress swaying as you slip toward the quieter lounge. you know exactly where he’ll be waiting.

he doesn’t look at you right away. instead, he stands in the dim hallway light, broad shoulders relaxed but his posture coiled.

“good conversation?” his voice is even. almost too even.

you smirk, unhurried as you cross your arms. “jealous?”

a breath. his eyes finally lift—soft brown, now darkened with something molten.

"i’m not jealous,” he says, measured. “just wondering how long i’m supposed to stand there listening to someone else flirt with my girlfriend like he wrote the damn dictionary.”

your brow arches, amused. “was it bothering you? you looked so calm.”

he steps closer, slow and steady, one hand ghosting the curve of your waist. his body heat slides against you as he leans close enough that only you can hear.

“i don’t like sharing your attention.” his lips graze the shell of your ear. His next words are velveted steel. “and I don’t like the way he looked at you like he was trying to figure out how you taste.”

a shiver skips down your spine. your smirk deepens, but your eyes soften with something warmer.

“he didn’t touch me,” you say, voice honeyed but edged.

namjoon’s lips curve—just barely. "he didn’t need to. that was his way of touching you.”

your fingers trail teasingly along his lapel. “you know… you could’ve walked over sooner. staked your claim.”

“i wanted to see how long you’d keep me stewing,” he murmurs, leaning in until his nose brushes yours, “i should’ve known better. you like making me wait.”

“i like making you watch,” you correct sweetly, batting your lashes. “you’re hot when you simmer, joon.”

his breath hitches, a soft chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. his lips press deliberately against your cheek, a slow drag that lingers near the corner of your mouth.

📱

You: was someone feeling territorial tonight? 👀 Namjoon: i let it go longer than i wanted to. if he touched you i would’ve ended up in a scandal. You: he didn’t. you know I’m yours, right? Namjoon: yeah. still hate watching someone want what I already have. you looked good tonight. too good. You: say that again when I’m on your lap, baby Namjoon: get home. i’ll say it with my mouth. everywhere.

later that night, the door clicks shut behind you, and before you can even toe off your heels, namjoon’s hands are already sliding against your waist. he moves like he’s reclaiming something—not rushed, not frantic—just deliberate, confident, consuming.

he presses you back onto the sheets, his weight settling heavy and comforting. his mouth traces a slow, reverent path down your throat, across your collarbones, teeth dragging lightly at your skin as his fingers splay against your hips to anchor you in place.

“you were jealous,” you whisper against his jaw, voice thick with amusement as your nails skim his biceps, “just admit it, baby.”

he breathes out a soft laugh against your sternum, warm and low.

“of course I was,” he murmurs, lips dragging to the inside of your thigh, his voice roughening as he speaks against your skin, “but only because you’re everything. and everything that’s mine should never be touched by anyone else but me.”

you grin, tipping your chin proudly. “damn right, joon.”

he hums approvingly. His hands tighten on your thighs. his lips seal against the inside of your knee like a silent oath. and that night, he shows you—with touch after touch, kiss after kiss—exactly how much he meant every word.

— min yoongi

yoongi’s jealousy isn’t loud. it doesn’t explode or unravel messily. it brews—low, lethal, precise.

he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t stomp across the room or tug you away like he’s staking a claim.

no, yoongi lets the irritation sit in his chest, slow and smoldering, until it finally sharpens into a single line you’ll hear echoing in your head for days.

a sentence that slices cleaner than a scream ever could.

yoongi doesn’t like loud scenes. he doesn’t do crowds unless they’re under the blinding lights of his profession, and even then, it’s work—not pleasure.

which is why tonight is the perfect setting: a small, private gallery event tucked inside a quiet art collective, recommended by one of your professors as extra credit for your film studies course. quiet, dim, curated—yoongi’s pace entirely.

you invited him because you knew he’d like the obscurity. he came because he likes you even more.

he lingers behind you as you move through the exhibit. you—sharp-eyed, brilliant, articulate—you’ve always loved pulling apart the composition of other art forms, finding parallels to film. that’s what caught his attention when you first met: your mind sharper than your eyeliner, wit faster than your smile.

tonight, though?

you’ve attracted the eye of one of the event’s featured guest curators. a man a little too well-versed in indie cinema. a little too eager to quote obscure 1960s directors at you.

a man who clearly likes the way your lips part when you get passionate explaining shot composition.

yoongi watches from across the room—leaning against a polished concrete column, dressed lowkey and muted. black cap, dark bomber jacket, silver rings glinting faintly under gallery lights.

he sips slowly at his drink, one brow slightly raised, expression unreadable—but his gaze is cutting and direct.

you feel it before you see it.

the weight of his stare sliding across your shoulder blades like warm silk. you don’t falter—you’ve always been good at handling attention—but your smirk twitches wider.

you angle your body slightly toward yoongi (just enough to let him know you know), while still entertaining the curator’s chatter. confident. untouchable. you’re not flirting, not exactly—but you’re not running, either.

after a while, you wrap up your conversation with practiced grace and glide over to yoongi, the heels of your boots clicking quietly on the polished floor.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even look up immediately. just tilts his head slightly toward you, deadpan but razor-sharp.

“nice lecture you got there,” he says dryly, voice low and unimpressed. “i almost enrolled in his class.”

you let a slow smile curl your lips. “were you eavesdropping, min?”

he finally lifts his gaze to yours—dark, amused, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying very hard not to grin.

“didn’t need to eavesdrop. the dude was practically panting when you started breaking down italian neorealism.”

you huff a laugh, cocking a brow. “jealous?”

“not jealous,” he says smoothly, sliding a hand into your back pocket with infuriating casualness. his thumb brushes slow circles into your hipbone.

“just bored. watching him trip over his tongue trying to impress my girlfriend was sad.”

your lips part in faux surprise. “oh? your girlfriend? i don’t remember you coming over to claim me.”

yoongi’s smile sharpens.

“i don’t need to claim what’s already mine, baby.”

he leans in—his nose brushes the shell of your ear, voice a hushed growl.

“i just remind you who’ll be unzipping this dress later.”

your breath catches—just slightly.

but you recover fast. always do.

you hum coyly, tilting your chin up. “don’t make promises you won’t keep, yoongi.”

his chuckle is low, sinful, hand squeezing tighter at your waist as he drags you flush to him in the darkened corner.

“i don’t make promises,” he whispers, lips ghosting your jaw.

“i just keep receipts.”

📱

You: you were broody tonight, min. jealous of the film nerd? 👀 Yoongi: broody? you kept tossing around french new wave terms like foreplay. i almost dragged you into the supply closet. You: almost? coward. Yoongi: get home. say “mise-en-scène” in that voice again. i’ll show you exactly what scene i want to set. You: bold of you to assume i’m wearing anything under this dress might have to “explain” it to me in detail, professor. Yoongi: keep talking. i’m locking my door right now.

he doesn’t say much as he pulls you into bed. hands grip firmer than usual—commanding but unhurried, fingers biting at your hips like a quiet claim. his lips drag rougher kisses along your throat, teeth grazing just enough to leave blooming marks in their wake.

when you arch against him, breath catching on his name, he leans close—breath hot against your ear, voice husked deep.

“don’t let another man talk to you like that again.”

you smile against his mouth, exhaling a soft, cocky laugh.

“don’t let another man think he has a chance, baby.”

his breath shudders, smirk ghosting against your jawline.

“smart girl.”

his mouth traces slow, burning paths along the curve of your neck and down your chest—every kiss a silent reminder of exactly where you belong.

you sigh, teasing lazy against his jawline—“still jealous, min?”—

his only answer is teeth against the inside of your thigh, slow and claiming.

“no,” he rasps, voice rough with want.

“just making sure you remember who gives you real lessons, baby.”

and by morning, you’ll have marks on your skin like underlined citations.

— jung hoseok [ nsfw ]

hoseok has always been magnetic.

he’s the light in the room, the warmth at the center of every circle. he laughs easily, listens deeply, and never lets discomfort linger in the air. he’s thoughtful. polished. sharp. but everyone who truly knows him—everyone close enough to see past the glitter—knows one more truth:

hoseok is possessive. quietly. beautifully. the kind that doesn’t say “you’re mine.” he just makes sure everyone else feels it.

he takes care of what’s his. he keeps things neat, under control, exact. and when something crosses a boundary—when someone crosses you—his shine doesn’t crack. it drops.

it’s a friend-of-a-friend party. not flashy. a cozy rooftop with warm lights and too many drinks. you’re in a soft knit dress and a jacket he gave you before you left home. not a celebrity. not a name anyone recognizes. you like it that way. you belong in the quiet.

and hoseok stays close. hand at your back, brushing your waist. always aware of where you are in the room.

but eventually, you wander. grab a drink. laugh with someone—some guy who works in media, apparently. you don’t know him. he’s too loud, too sure of himself. but you’re being polite.

what you don’t see is hoseok’s face from across the space.

he’s not smiling anymore. mouth set. jaw stiff. someone asks him something, and he answers too fast, eyes already gone back to you.

and the guy?

he’s leaning too close. not touching. but it’s the lean that does it. the way he looks at your legs. how he says something and nudges your arm like you’re sharing some private joke.

you step back half a pace. just enough to reclaim the space between you. but it’s not enough.

not for hoseok.

📱

Hoseok: baby. come here.

you look up. he’s still on the other side of the rooftop. watching. the look in his eyes pins you in place.

another buzz—

Hoseok: he’s looking at you like he wants to fuck you. don’t laugh at his jokes. they’re not funny.

your stomach flips. heat rises behind your ears. you shoot him a quick look across the space, mouthing sorry.

he doesn’t blink.

Hoseok: if you laugh one more time i’m going to drag you out of here and make you remember who makes you laugh like that for real

you swallow. hard. and excuse yourself.

you find him leaning against the hallway wall near the stairwell. arms crossed. one eyebrow lifted. not speaking.

“hey,” you say softly.

he tilts his head. “having fun?”

“it wasn’t like that.”

“wasn’t it?” his voice is low. too low. “you smiled at him.”

“i was just being nice—”

“no.” he steps in. close. “you don’t smile at people like that. not men like that.”

you exhale, frustrated. “hobi, i wasn’t flirting—”

his hand slides up your jaw so fast it stuns you silent. thumb pressed just under your lip. his eyes are dark. voice quieter now.

“i don’t like being jealous.” his tone is a whisper against your mouth. “i hate how it makes me feel. but baby, if someone else looks at you like they want you… and you give them anything…”

he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, your ear.

“…i get so fucking mean about it.”

when you’re back at your place he doesn’t waste time. the second the door shuts behind you, hoseok crowds you back against it—mouth claiming yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not rushed—but it’s deliberate. hands gripping your hips hard, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself to you.

when he drags his mouth down to your throat, biting lightly, you gasp—hands threading into his hair.

his jacket is on your floor. so are your panties. your hands are flat against your wall. his hips are locked behind yours. he’s been taking his time.

not fast. not desperate.

punishing.

“still think he was funny?” he whispers it right against your shoulder as he pushes into you again.

you gasp—eyes squeezed shut, nails biting into the paint.

“n-no—hobi—”

he thrusts deep. slow. deliberate.

“think he could make you come like this?”

you shake your head, but he waits. still inside you.

“say it.”

“…no.”

“say why.”

you whimper, breath catching in your throat. “’cause you’re the only one. the only one who gets to—fuck—gets to touch me like this.”

a pleased hum. a kiss to your spine.

“that’s right. you’re mine. don’t forget it again.”

you wake to the soft rustle of sheets and the smell of coffee brewing. hoseok walks into the bedroom, setting your cup on the nightstand—his hair messy, a soft hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

he sits on the edge of the bed, gaze fond but still serious.

“i’m not usually like that,” he says quietly.

you smile sleepily, fingers lacing with his.

“i like when you’re like that.”

his lips twitch—half-smile returning.

“good.” a kiss to your temple. “’cause i wasn’t faking a single second of it.”

[royalinkblot]

Top Gun: The Gay Agenda (A Goose’s Lament)🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

1986, Miramar, California.

Nick "Goose" Bradshaw was a patient man. A devoted husband. A loving father. A steady RIO. A rock. But as he sat in the locker room, towel around his neck, while Pete "Maverick" Mitchell ranted in full, barely-repressed-gay-glory about one Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Goose realized something truly chilling:

He was going to die surrounded by idiots.

"—and he's got these stupid, pretty blue eyes, Goose. Like—like oceans. Judgy, Arctic oceans. And his jaw? What the hell? It's like Michelangelo carved it himself. It's infuriating. He’s got these annoyingly capable hands and this silky, mocking voice like a villainous opera ghost, and he—he thinks he’s better than me just because he’s tall and broad and slim and hot! And don’t get me started on that beauty mark—I wanna punch his stupid angel face and kiss it at the same time and that’s messed up, right?!"

Goose stared at his best friend for a long, harrowed moment. “Mav.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart. You're in love with Iceman.”

Maverick blinked at him.

Goose turned, stood, and walked directly out of the locker room to call his wife.

That night, at the Bradshaw’s house, Carole, radiant queen of his universe, cackled like a banshee as Goose paced.

“I’m telling you, babe,” Goose moaned, massaging his temples. “It’s mutual. I overheard Iceman call him a ‘stupid green-eyed cutie.’ That’s not combat language, Carole, that’s foreplay!”

Carole nearly dropped the baby.

“I have spent weeks, WEEKS, keeping those two from killing each other or accidentally making out on the flight deck! And now? Now I have to make sure I knock before entering the locker room or I’ll walk in on Maverick’s legs around Iceman’s waist again! There were noises, Carole. Noises. I need hazard pay.”

But for all his complaints and grumblings, Goose was happy for his friends. And for himself, because, at last, he could put an end to the saga of emotionally repressed gay pilots.

He must have suspected this wasn't the case.

Goose never thought he’d be grateful for witnessing one emotionally-repressed Navy homoerotic slow burn resolve into a marriage, but the peace that settled after Ice and Mav tied the knot was glorious. Until…

The Phone Call.

“Hey, Dad?” Bradley’s voice, now grown and inflected with slight frustration, echoed through the line.

Goose smiled warmly. “Hey, kiddo. How’s flight school?”

“Fine. Mostly. Except this one guy—Jake Seresin. Ugh. He’s got these stupid pretty green eyes and this smug beautiful smile and he talks in this Texas drawl like he’s hot or something—he’s got dimples, Dad. Dimples. I swear, I wanna punch his annoyingly handsome face right in the—"

Goose froze. The coffee cup slipped from his hand in slow motion.

“Carole,” he whispered, handing over the phone like it was a live grenade. “Talk to your son about his OBVIOUS crush for Seresin. I—I can’t go through this again.”

On the other end: “WHAT?! It’s not a crush! I don’t even like him! He thinks he’s so slick just because he—he flies like he was born in a cockpit and he’s always—NO, MOM, STOP LAUGHING—this is serious!”

Goose was already on the other line, calling Iceman and Maverick.

“You DID this to him!”

Goose’s furious screech could probably be heard from orbit.

Maverick’s laughter came in unholy wheezing bursts, while he tried to say: “Technically, Goose, we never corrupted him. He’s just… following in our flightpath.”

“YOU TAUGHT HIM TO CRASH INTO GAY FEELINGS AT MACH THREE!”

Maverick wheezed, “I’m so proud of the kid. He’s even ranting like me!”

Iceman took the phone. “Hi, Goose.”

“Don’t you ‘Hi Goose’ me, Ice Prince of Gay Pining! This is your fault too!”

Iceman reply, calm and dry. “We accept full responsibility for corrupting your son. We’ll send a fruit basket. And tissues.”

“You cursed my bloodline with emotionally constipated, pilot-loving disaster men! You infected my son with your drama! Now he's as emotionally constipated as you two assholes”

Maverick gasped. “Goose. Goose. Did you just say that out loud?! Honey!”

“DON’T 'HONEY' ME, DEAR. I HATE YOU BOTH. I WANT NEW FRIENDS.”

“You’ll never do better,” Ice said serenely.

Carole could be heard in the background, howling.

Goose thought it couldn't get worse.

Until it did. Until it happened.

The Closet Incident

A week later, Goose received a call from Admiral Ron "Slider" Kerner. Current CO of NAS Pensacola. Goose braced for a tragedy.

“Hey, Goose. Slider here.”

Goose immediately felt dread.

“You're not going to like this, but—well—I just found Bradley and….”

Silence.

And then…

Goose isn't sure he heard correctly, but he swears something sounded like a dog choking on a bone. Was Slider choking?

“Bradshaw!” Slider chortled. “You’re not gonna believe this—I just caught your Gosling and Seresin in a storage closet. Doing things. Noises, Nick. NOISES”

Goose blue screen. He must have misheard Slider. He prayed he did.

“Say again?”. Please, PLEASE, tell me I heard wrong. Goose was at his wits' end, and he was sure this was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Trauma response. A form of PTSD. That must be it.

Instead: “Bradley and Jake. Storage closet. Caught them mid-thrust. Jake saluted me while still having your son inside him. Just thought you’d want the full picture, Admiral Dad.”

Goose screamed into a pillow for eleven minutes and then started therapy.

He was absolutely billing Iceman and Maverick.

After Slider's call (which the entire Top Gun '86 class knew about, thanks to Slider and Maverick), Goose was confident nothing worse could happen. Sure, the call he had with Bradley where they discussed guidelines for proper conduct regarding storage closets use in the Navy was awkward, but now everything was back to normal...sort of.

And then it happened again. On an ordinary day, a bomb landed on Admiral Nick "Goose" Bradshaw's desk.

In the form of a letter.

Dear Admiral Bradshaw,

Please accept my formal apology for the incident in the supply closet. While our timing was… unprofessional, my feelings for Bradley are entirely sincere.

I'd like to take this opportunity to officially ask for your blessing to have a relationship with your son (even though we've already had sex—again, sorry for the inconvenience—and we've done other things).

I really care about Bradley; he's perfect. I want you to know that I will always treat Bradley like the prince he is, because I'm sure your son is becoming my world.

I promise to always be the best version of myself for your son, because that's what he deserves. He makes me want to be better. To fly better. He's my wingman. And I will always take care of his wing.

Also, Bradley told me that you're close to Admiral Kerner (and I must confess that you and your friends intimidate me), so could you ask him to stop making faces and sounds every time he sees me? I'm worried he'll die of suffocation from laughing so much.

Respectfully,

Jake “Hangman” Seresin.

Goose practically ran the entire way home. Read the letter to Carole. Then together, they called Maverick and Iceman and read it again.

As Carole read the letter (and cried with laughter) Goose stared off into space like a man haunted by the ghosts of his past and Maverick could practically be heard on the floor laughing (gasping for air) Iceman, always composed and serene, said: “I like him. He asked permission. Good manners.”

Goose, finally out of his trance, said, "Iceman, you're paying for my therapy forever, man. This is worse than when I had to listen to you read poetry to Maverick while we were on the USS Enterprise.”

Iceman: “Fair.”

And so Admiral Goose Bradshaw carried on, wiser, wearier, and only mildly traumatized. He had survived the IceMav saga, and now the BradleyJake operation was well underway.

Sometimes, he looked up at the stars, wondering if future Bradshaws would continue this glittering, chaotic legacy of falling for their cocky flyboy nemesis.

He prayed not.

But just in case?

He increased the Navy’s mental health budget.

And added “Emotional Disaster Preparedness” to flight school training.

[incognit0slut]

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors 3

Despite your promise not to sneak behind the team again, you find yourself in a compromising position when you’re forced to ride in the same car as him.

Warnings: (18+, MDNI) Nipple/breast play, dry humping, semi public, dirty talk, and technically this isn’t car sex but everything happens in a car, there’s just no penetration. ~2.5k words (not proofread)

A/n: This wasn’t supposed to be in my WIP but… I blame him for looking so slutty in that shirt. Btw, this is shorter because I already have a lot on my plate but I really wanna squeeze this in, so enjoy! If you’ve been following since the first part, our kinky, slightly exhibitionist duo is back

You liked to think you had a good sense of self control when it came to your sex drive. In your past relationships, you were rarely the one to make the first move. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy sex—far from it, actually—but you didn't see it as the centerpiece of a relationship. Sex was enjoyable, yes, but it wasn’t everything.

At least, that's what you thought until now.

You recently reached a realization that three factors led you to reconsider this long-held belief, and unsurprisingly, they all revolved around Spencer Reid.

The first one was his choice of clothes. It seemed like he had woken up one day and decided that undoing the top buttons of his shirt was the new norm. It was as if he was taunting you, and it was working. The moment you saw him wearing that shirt this morning, all you could think about was dragging him into a storage room and have your dirty, nasty way with him.

The second thing was the way your heart raced when he accidentally brushed his hand against yours as you both reached for the car keys. Emily had asked you both to interview a key witness, and naturally, you assumed you’d be the one driving because Spencer rarely volunteered to take the wheel. But to your surprise, he insisted on driving.

It was strange. You wondered what had prompted this change, but you didn’t protest. In fact, you let him. Happily. Because this set the stage for what became the third significant moment that made you reconsider everything.

Him driving the damn car.

You found yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. The way his hands gripped the wheel, moving with effortless control that hinted at a confidence he rarely displayed. Your gaze traveled up his arm, noting the tension in his muscles, and the way his shirt tightened across his shoulders with each turn.

Then there was his face. Your gaze drifted to his jawline, appreciating the sharp angles and the way it tightened slightly when he was deep in concentration. You had to squeeze your thighs together because watching him drive was enough to make you wet.

It was highly inappropriate, of course. You were both on the job, and there was a witness to interview. So you forced yourself to stay professional. It wasn’t until after you finished, after you and Spencer had informed Emily of what you had found and given her the necessary details over the phone, that your ogling became more prominent on the drive back to the station.

And despite being subtle about it, Spencer seemed to know the effect he had on you.

“Is there something you want to say?” His voice was low, slightly amused, as he spared a quick glance in your direction before focusing back on the road.

You forced yourself to look away from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“You seem… distracted.”

You swallowed, trying to muster up an explanation that wouldn’t give away too much. “Just thinking about the case.”

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a smile. “Really? Because it looked more like you were deep in thought about something else.”

You felt a flush of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Well, maybe the case isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

“Oh? And what else were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

“Try me.”

You turned your body towards him. “It’s highly inappropriate.”

“Now you’ve really got my attention.”

You hesitated, feeling the car’s warmth envelope you, making the space seem smaller, more intimate. “Okay, but remember, you asked for it,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I was thinking about... how well you handle the steering wheel.”

Spencer laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the car. “Is that your way of saying you like my driving, or something more metaphorical?”

“Maybe a bit of both. I mean, a person’s driving does say a lot about them, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “And what does my driving say about me?”

“That you’re good with your hands.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours briefly, and you squeezed your thighs tighter.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said finally, his voice low. There was a brief pause and you wondered whether you had gone too far, whether this wasn’t the right time or place to flirt so openly, but then he spoke again.

“And since we’re sharing, I was thinking about something a bit inappropriate too.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “Like what?”

“Like how it’s hard to focus on the road when you’re looking at me like that.”

“…how am I looking at you?”

He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Like you want me to pull over to the side of the road and kiss you.”

A silence fell between you, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe. You felt a flush of warmth spread through your body, and you bit your lip, considering his words.

“And what if I do?” You asked softly.

You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting to maintain his composure.

“Then I’d have to find a quiet place for us.”

Your body responded immediately, a wave of heat coursing through you as your breath quickened. You could feel your pulse thrumming in your veins, an urgent, needy beat that matched the thoughts racing through your mind.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Pull over.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours. Then, without hesitation, he scanned the road for a safe spot. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him steer the car onto a narrow, dark lane shielded by dense shrubs. The path seemed to swallow the sound of the engine as he drove further away from the main road.

The silence that followed was thick as he turned off the engine. You both stared at each other, acutely aware of what you were about to do, about the potential consequences, but everything blurred as you both moved at the same time.

Everything was fast, a rush of motion and emotion as Spencer leaned over the console. His lips met yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, while you clung to his arm. He kissed you hungrily, desperately, as if trying to communicate every unspoken word through the press of his mouth against yours. The more he kissed you, the more you felt the heat between your thighs and you realized that, in fact, you really had no control over your sex drive.

You then opened your mouth, letting him sink his tongue into you, pressing your body against his. But he was too far away, and you needed more of his heat, more of him. So, you undid your seat belt and did the only thing that felt natural—you climbed onto his lap.

You both moaned when his cock finally pressed against your core, and he found your lips again, his hand cradling the back of your head while the other rested firmly on your hips, urging you to move. The movement was instinctive, a rhythm that was driven by desperation.

You felt his mouth kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, marking a trail of heat that had you burning for more. Your fingers found the buttons of your shirt, and before you could second guess yourself, you undid them one by one.

Spencer’s hands followed the path you created, tracing the newly exposed skin. His large palms moved along your ribs before they rested just beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples through the fabric of your bra. You gasped, your head falling back in sheer pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin. His fingers pulled down your bra, exposing your breasts, and when he quickly sucked on your sensitive nub without warning, you bucked your hips, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His sound of pleasure vibrated against your skin when you moved your hips at a steady pace, the friction driving you both to new heights. You could feel the material of your underwear sticking between your wet folds, and you wished desperately that there was no barrier between you. But time was ticking, and you both knew you were on the clock.

This had to be enough.

Spencer pulled back slightly, your nipple stretching with him, your supple skin following his movements until he let go with a soft pop. He then turned his attention to your other breast, his tongue teasingly circling your hardened nipple before hungrily engulfing it in his mouth.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly as you arched your back. You felt his hands roaming over your waist, holding you steady, grounding you even as you felt yourself spiraling higher into a state of pure ecstasy.

“Spence,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. His response was to look up at you with those intense, brown eyes as he continued to suck on your nipple.

His mouth moved with deliberate precision, alternating between gentle licks and firm sucks, driving you completely insane. You could feel your control slipping, your body responding to his every touch, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but him. The way he made you feel, the way his touch ignited every nerve in your body.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him on, lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. His lips left your breast, trailing kisses up your chest and neck until he reached your lips, capturing them in a searing kiss that left you breathless.

The taste of him, the feel of his body against yours, was everything you had been longing for.

“More,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a desperate plea.

“I know, I know,” he murmured back. “I got you.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I wanna feel you.”

He groaned. How he wanted that to happen, but you were both gone long enough and reality was beginning to intrude on your stolen moment.

“We can’t, not here,” he said, his voice strained with desire as he rested his forehead against yours. “We don’t have enough time.”

You bit your lip, trying to push back the disappointment. “I know, but I-I need you.”

“Soon,” he promised. “When we have more time, I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your hips moved faster. “Everything?”

He nodded, his eyes fluttering close when he felt you pressing harder on his cock. “Everything.”

“You’ll finally fuck me?”

His breath hitched at your bold words, his control slipping further.

“Say it. Say you’ll fuck me.”

His self-control wavered, the raw desire in your voice pushed him to the edge as his palms gripped your ass.

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

You never thought there would be a time when you’d hear those words from him, and yet here you were, craving for more. You nodded and grinded against him, trying to find that delicious pressure on your clit.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice laced with urgency. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

Spencer groaned, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Then imagine me inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “Think about my cock sliding into you, filling you up completely.”

“F-Fuck,” you gasped, moving against him rhythmically. Who would’ve thought he’d be good at this?

“Imagine my hands gripping your hips, pulling you down onto me,” he continued, his breath warm against your neck. “You’d feel every inch, deep and perfect.”

Your heart pounded as his fantasy played out in your thoughts. “Yes,” you gasped, finding it hard to keep steady. “Please, keep going.”

“I’d set a rhythm that drives you crazy,” he murmured. “Fast, then slow, teasing you, drawing out every moan and gasp until you’re begging me not to stop.”

“Oh God…” you moaned. “Please…”

He continued, relentless and commanding. “And when you’re close, when you’re right on the edge, I’d look into your eyes, whisper how beautiful you are, how good you feel wrapped around me…”

“Spencer, I—”

“And then I’d thrust harder, deeper,” he cut off your words, his tone intense. He pressed a hand against your lower abdomen as if to illustrate his point. “I’d fill you completely, over and over, until all you can do is cling to me and take it.”

You were practically trembling now, his words and slight touches driving you wild.

“I’m so close,” you managed to breathe out, your movements becoming less rhythmic and more desperate. His hands went back to your hips. His grip tightened, steadying and encouraging your frantic movements as he felt his own orgasm nearing.

“Come with me,” he whispered, pressing himself closer to you.

His words, his grip, his presence overwhelmed you. You felt the buildup, almost unbearable, as if every nerve in your body focused on the impending release. Then, with a final, mutual push, you felt the wave break.

Pleasure surged through you, intense and all-consuming. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you down as he drove himself up, his name spilling from your lips in a cry of release. You felt him tense, heard his own cry muffled against your skin, as he reached his climax with you.

Panting, you both slowed, the car filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the soft hum of the engine in the background. Spencer’s hands softened on your hips, caressing now, soothing the spots where his fingers had pressed.

You ran a hand through his thick hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dirty mouth?”

His grin was both sheepish and proud as he met your gaze. “You’re actually the first person to hear it.”

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hands carefully adjusting your clothes. “It seems you have a way of bringing out a side of me I didn’t know I had.”

You watched him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There was so much you wanted to say, so many feelings swirling inside you, but the words felt too fragile for the moment. Instead, you settled for the silence.

Spencer didn’t seem to mind. He tapped your hip gently, drawing your attention. “Come on, I think we need to drop by the hotel before we go back to the station.”

When he caught the startled look you sent him, he laughed.

“To change my pants. Nothing else.”

“…oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

You blushed, caught off guard by his remark and your own reaction. “No, I just—” you started, then paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, yes, maybe a little.”

His smile widened, pleased by your response. “I’ll tell you what,” he began. “After we finish this case, after we fly back, let’s spend time together. Just you and me.”

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. You wondered what it would be like to have him pressed against you with nothing between you, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat directly under your palms.

The thought made you both nervous and excited at the same time.

“Really?”

He leaned in for a kiss. “Really.”

“You promise?”

He smiled against your lips.

“I promise.”

[goodeapple]

words on the page (aemond t. sex pollen pwp o.s.)

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : PWP, dubcon- this is sex pollen (obvi) they are technically not fully consenting. might be hatesex but it also might not, uncle/niece incest, a ridiculous amount of orgasms, squirting, restraint, spanking & slapping, and a slighttt breeding kink (srry i couldn't help myself)

word count : 10,000+

note : hope everyone enjoys. ty for all the love, always. likes, reblogs, comments, anything is gas in my tank xx

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“This library is big enough for the both of us, Uncle. You stay on your side, and I, on mine.” Ysilla offers, already working on tuning out the One-Eyed Prince’s mutterings as she gets lost in the sprawling shelves. 

“What if I want a book that’s on your side?” Aemond’s voice echoes up to the grand ceilings from where he must be several rows over, his annoyance clearer than the windows in the Sept. 

Ysilla rolls her eyes so hard she fears they might stick. “Do you not understand the concept of my side and your side?”

“These are all my sides. I grew up in between these stacks- I’m sure the texts at Dragonstone are missing you terribly. Why don't you go back and see if I’m right.” 

That retort stabs at her, the mourning for her home still living on in the thick ball of grief that resides heavily in her heart. It’s been a year since her mother took her rightful place on the Iron Throne, a year since the King had passed, and a year where all members of the Targaryen family had to learn how to live amongst one another once more. Nobody was enjoying it. And there were more days than not that the Princess fantasized of stealing borrowing a boat and sailing back to her beloved pile of rocks. 

“Shouldn’t you be out, oh, I don’t know, swinging a sword or ducking under one? You know, what men do.” It’s childish but Ysilla doesn’t mind stooping lower than her years. Her brothers keep her young and nimble, each one bringing with him a fresh battle of wits and stubbornness.  

He goes silent, blessedly, and she resumes her stroll, picking and plucking titles off the shelves that join the burgeoning pile cradled tight in her arms. Her mind wanders, the endless catalogues of writings whispering their words, lulling her further and further into the scriptural maze. 

Ysilla spots a peculiar text on a shelf taller than her, the aphotic ruby binding and woven gold stitching calling her name. She reaches up, tiptoeing until her feet creak and attempts to hook her finger under the edge of the spine. The old book sticks in place, judging her with a faceless scowl. She grunts, wobbling slightly, pushing forward again and gives it a good strong tug. Too strong, as it flies freely through the air and  Ysilla yelps, jumping to the side to dodge it. Everything goes topsy turvy, her balance lost to her and the rest of her assembled collection clatters to the ground. 

She curses, deaf to the sound of approaching footsteps as she drops to her knees and starts to gather the fallen books. She’s considerate of the older ones, stacking them carefully off to the side of the walkway. The causer of the chaos had landed face down, the text split open as if the ground itself was interested in its contents. Ysilla grasps it gently and turns it over, causing a plume of dust to shift off the pages and billow directly into her face. 

She coughs, sputtering for a breath that isn’t made up of ancient soot. She scrubs at her nose, sniffling and groaning in discomfort as her sinuses burn and her throat grows parched. Her eyelids wrench shut, tears already hot and clumping in her lashes. 

A vice grip in the form of strong fingers finds her arm, and she latches onto them desperately. She’s pulled to her feet, and a downy cloth is pressed tightly into her hand. She pats her face with it, drying her tears and spittle, its perfume of oranges and smoke chasing away the moldered stink clinging to every sense she has. 

“You alright?” Aemond asks cautiously, still holding her elbow steady. Ysilla blinks blearily at him, her nose red at the tip. She nods after a pause, coughing softly into his handkerchief. 

“Couldn’t breathe there for a moment.” She croaks, chuckling weakly before she gently pulls her elbow away. Aemond drops his hold, clasping his arms behind him and taking a step backwards. 

“The library is all yours- I’m going to go lie down.” 

She offers his hanky back, feeling a bit dumb as she does and more than a little embarrassed. Her uncle waves her off, and she skirts around him, careful not to intrude into his space. 

“Niece,” Ysilla turns. Concern is not a look she’s accustomed to seeing on his face, and certainly not when it’s directed at her, but the sight of it sends little tingles through her tummy. “Do you need me to escort you to your room?” 

She smiles dimly, self-conscious in all the ways that turn her cheeks peachy. 

“I think I can manage… thank you, Aemond.” Ysilla curtsies in a silly show of thanks, but he can tell her sentiment is genuine. 

Aemond swallows thickly, bowing his head in acknowledgment, watching her keenly as she shuffles out the doors that lead to the rest of the castle. She never calls him by his name. Always Uncle, and even sometimes My Prince, but the mocking lilt of that one is not lost on him. Aemond though… it’s like he’s hearing a brand new word.  

Shrugging off his worriment, he sighs, squatting down to collect the strewn about books. He inspects them as he does, less so judging and more so learning about his niece’s interests through her chosen reading materials. There’s a collection of songs- one for Drowned Men and one for Northmen that he’s read before. Another about the Lion King, Tommen II Lannister and his adventures in Volantis and, most provocatively, the remaining charred pages of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. Aemond holds onto it for longer than the others; she must’ve searched long and hard for it, he’s never even once stumbled across it in here. He tucks it carefully onto a shelf he’ll remember, and thinks of letting Ysilla know where she can find it later. 

Lastly, he comes to the one that sent her into a coughing fit and he regards it carefully. It isn’t smart, but even so, Aemond draws his dagger and nudges at it, angling up the flap so that he can read the title: Potions of Old Valyria. He lifts it too high, trying to see better in the dreary light of dusk and loses his leverage, the cover falling closed and puffing out a small cloud of dust in his direction. He snaps backwards but he’s not fast enough, the grit already coating the slick press of his lips. Aemond spits, growling, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. He winces as his nose stings, the watering in his eye blurring his vision. 

He shoots to his feet, gathering up the massive stack of books and tossing them onto an empty writing desk, kicking away the potion book in juvenile anger. He stalks out of the library, cursing blindly as he retreats to his room. 

The Prince does not read the page of which the dust had danced off of. But if he had, mayhaps he would have rethought the course of his actions that night. 

“Pollen of the flower Turnera diffusa- a specimen of which is contained in this very page- has a curious effect on the indulger. Found growing along the creeks of Honeyholt, symptoms noted are as follows: fever, delirium, lightheadedness, and most notably, a heightened state of arousal. The affected should take caution to whom they keep in their company while under the spell of this love plant.” 

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Aemond shucks off his jerkin, sending it flying across the room carelessly. 

It's still there- the rabid itch under his collar. He stalks to his mirror, tearing up his shirt to check his skin, looking for a bite, a scratch, anything to explain the scorching sting engulfing him in full. Nothing, not even a blemish, mars his pale chest. 

He curses, spinning on his heel and going for his table, seizing the wine pitcher so roughly the lit candles nearby shudder from his haste. He pours a full goblet, the deep burgundy trickle causing his mouth to flood with anticipation. He downs it in several gulps, gasping as he rips the cup away and lets it teeter on the table until it spins out, toppling over emptily. He might as well’ve drank from the Great Sand Sea, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He clutches at his stomach, a sharp shooting pain ripping up his insides. He groans, taking a knee as his legs wobble beneath his weight. 

Fuck, he wonders if it was the book, the dust he breathed in. If Ysilla is as bad off as he is. 

Ysilla. Worry spears through him, bringing with it a healthy dose of clarity. She breathed in more than he did, he’s sure of it. He needs to get her to a maester, lest she’s already staggered out of her own room in search of aid. 

He stumbles to his wall, finding the familiar crease in the stone and pushing. The path into the tunnels is one he knows well and he’s lucky he does, his mind fogging over and his pulse thumping in his temples. He’s never entered her chamber this way of course, so he can’t be sure when he comes to an unknown stone archway that he’s where he needs to be. 

He pushes until he feels the door give way, a slice of light pouring out through the crack. He edges it forward a little more, until he can see enough of the room to confirm it’s not a servant’s quarters. 

“Niece?” Aemond coughs, his tone gruffer than what he’s used to. His throat is arid, greedy for a nectar to soothe it. No one answers, but as he strains his hearing, shuffling feet and rustling bottles comes forth, confirming that someone is inside. 

“Ysilla?” He calls out. Another jolt of agony flares through him and he gasps, startling forward, catching himself on the door and accidentally making it swing open. Aemond stumbles through, colliding with an overstuffed armchair and making it screech terribly across the floor. His head shoots up, and he catches sight of his niece across the room. 

Ysilla wouldn’tve noticed if Vhagar herself trampled through the door. 

She’s… much more undone than she was before. Her curly raven locks, once pinned up and out of her face, spring madly from her head, cloaking her face in a dark flowing curtain. She scurries around the room, mouselike, pressing a wet rag to her throat and then to her forehead, and back again. Twenty or so books are open and strewn about on the long table, looking as if they were caught in a sweeping wind. Long gone are her slippers, and the sleeved pink gown she donned before is abandoned in a silky puddle by the door.

Her chemise, a pale yellow thing with capped sleeves, has gone transparent from the perspiration that has broken out all over her body. It clings to every dip, every curve, shadowing her in a gauzy golden haze. Her bronze nipples tent through the delicate fabric and the thatch of hair over her womanhood matches in color-

Aemond snaps his gaze away, cheeks flaming. 

“Ysilla.” He nearly shouts, stare finding his boots and staying there. 

The woman in question spins around, catching sight of her uncle in the corner of her room, the hidden door she had never had enough courage to use ajar behind him. 

“Aemond… you need to leave.” Her words rumble out of her, like there’s a beast in her belly, roaring through her skin and rattling her bones. “Leave!”

He doesn’t move and Ysilla hurls the rag in his direction.  

“Did you not hear me? I said go!” 

Annoyance chips away at Aemond’s embarrassment. He’s trying to help her, insufferable brat. “You don’t command me, Niece.” He responds, still refusing to look at her. 

She scoffs, happy to channel her discomfort into a much more satisfying emotion. “You sneak into my room, catch me in the middle of undress, and still, you act put out.” Ysilla spits, her temper raising with her temperature.

Gods, she’s miserable. The moment she stepped foot in her bedchamber, her dressings were off, and she drank down water until she felt the urge to spew. It’s as if she can’t catch her breath- she’s so dizzy and her uncle’s sudden company has somehow made it worse. Her belly cramps, and she crosses her legs tightly in search of relief. She cries out, the budding sultriness in her flower springing to life, and wetness coats her thighs in a rush. Gasping, she nearly trips as she collides with her bed’s edge. 

“Ysilla, breathe.” Aemond commands harshly.

His voice is so nice. Has it always been that nice? That soothing? Her snatch gives a happy thrum, her clit fluttering at the memory of his strong grip upon her arm. How he had held her steady in her dizziness, how he had towered over her, so imposing, so encapsulating, making sure she was well. Ysilla gasps, stunned at her body’s wanton reaction. 

“You don’t understand. Please, go.” He’s her uncle- her uncle that doesn’t even like her. This cannot- will not happen. 

“I need to get you to a maester. If you’re feeling what I’m feeling, if you’re feeling it worse, fuck, Ysilla, I need to get you help.”

He needs to stop saying her name like that, in that breathy, strained tone of his. He sounds exerted. He sounds exhausted. He sounds like he’s on the cusp of falling apart. It stokes the fire in her blood. 

“The things I want to do to you… the things I want you to do to me.” She whines quietly, terrified that he’ll hear her. 

A subtle knock-knock at her chamber door quiets them both, and they hold their breath. Again, a knock-knock echoes through, and Ysilla curses the diligence of her ladies. Aemond goes for it, stalking across the room in his usual strutting gait. 

Ysilla panics and rushes forward, latching onto his arm and pulling him to a stop. 

“Aemond, Uncle, please, send them away. I don’t want them to see me like this.” She begs, pleading with him through a glistening gaze. 

Aemond readies his denial, sharp and bitter on his tongue but he loses his voice as he looks at her. He keeps his eye on her face, hyper aware of the press of her nearly naked figure against his side. Her heart shaped face is drawn in a frantic frown, terror rich and vast in her eyes. She smells of the Essos oils in her hair and the coconut oil on her skin, and it all makes his head go a bit fuzzy. 

She squeezes his arm, again, a final silent plea. He nods his assent. Ysilla dashes behind him, slipping deeper into the room, blowing out candles until the bedchamber dims into darkness. She voices a small, urging hum, and Aemond takes his cue and yanks the door open. The visitor, a girl no older than three-and-ten, blinks at him in surprise.

“My Prince,” she curtsies hurriedly and Aemond nods his acceptance, but his face must spell out his impatience because she speaks so fast, her words stumble over one another. “I thought I heard the Princess in distress. I was coming to check on her, to make sure she’s alright.” 

Her eyes dart over his shoulder, her head bobbing to the side as if she were trying to peek in. Aemond moves with her, raising his arm so that it rests above him in the doorway, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. The maid swallows, dropping her eyes in apology.

“The Princess isn’t well- very sick. Keep the other maids away, guards too. She wishes for solitude.” He’s a pushover and he hates it. One look of Ysilla’s beseeching gaze and Aemond gave like a straw bridge. 

“Should I send a maester?” The maid asks worriedly, making to exit down the hall and find help. 

“No!” The young girl jolts to a stop, her eyes wide with alarm. Aemond curses himself, and he speaks softer through gritted teeth. “No, she just needs rest. I’ll see to her, since I’ve already been exposed. I’ll call upon you if I change my mind.” 

The maid eyes him cautiously, but she finally relents, dropping into a curtsy before hurrying down the wall. 

On the other side of the door, Ysilla feels as if she’s going fucking mental. 

She’s balled up her bedsheet, and wedged it between her quivering thighs. The fabric pressed so intimately against her cunt is unforgiving, soaking up her syrupy slick and giving little in return. But the friction along her clit makes her gasp, and it urges on her rutting in dreams of a release so sweet, she could cry. 

The low droll of Aemond’s voice slithers into her ears from across the room, her mind warping the words until he’s whispering to her. What a good girl she is, how desperate she is to find her pleasure, how angry he is that she’s fucking her bed and not him. Ysilla’s eyes shoot open as she hears the squeak of her door, her hopes crashing as she realizes he’s pulling it shut while he’s behind it, not in front of it. 

She collapses forward onto all fours, fisting the furs blanketing her duvet, smothering a broken moan into the softness. Her eyes peel open, her glassy gaze landing on her bedside table. Aemond’s handkerchief is still there- right where she’d left it- the emerald hue of it glowing midnight green in the candlelight. Suddenly, it’s in her grasp, even though she cannot recall moving for it. She presses it to her nose and draws in a shaky breath.

Oh, oh, it smells of him. Citrus and smoke and she’s drooling for it, mouth watering so quickly she has to swallow it down so she doesn’t slobber. She swings her hips forward before rolling backwards, dredging the sodden sheet through her sex. It’s so wet now, the smoothness almost feels like skin. And that’s too much for Ysilla- she can hear him, smell him, but the thought of Aemond in between her legs?- it sends her plummeting off the cliff of desire, her core pulsing vibrantly, pleasure buzzing through her whole body. 

A phantom hand finds the same spot where Aemond had handled her earlier, and rips her upwards. She’s pulled to her knees, still atop the bed, as someone presses up behind her. Ysilla peers over her shoulder, the handsome face of her uncle a welcome sight. He is an apparition appearing from her thoughts alone. He doesn’t even seem real.

Her thoughts are askew with an edge of delirium, her insides purring at his sudden return. Ghoul or not, she will not squander such a golden opportunity. She fists the front of his shirt and drags him in, their mouths joining together harshly. Aemond would be lying if he said he didn’t kiss her back at once. It gets intense. Fast. 

Ysilla melts into his chest, whimpering into his mouth while his grip goes from her elbow to sliding around her, dragging her in closer by her waist. His tongue finds her teeth and she opens up slowly, letting him feel the threat of them, as he slithers in and their tongues touch-

Aemond tears himself away, stumbling backwards, heaving for air and looking at her with a wide eye. Ysilla whimpers, her fantasy failing her, and she slips off the side of the bed to settle on wobbly legs. Her palm goes to press at her abdomen, hoping that the pressure will relieve the burrowing ache. 

They stare at one another, wild animals on alert, a standoff that neither Prince nor Princess can bear to lose. 

Ysilla’s gaze falls to his lips, and Aemond’s to hers. She bites her lip, sucking the meat into her wet, warm mouth before releasing it with a lurid pop. Aemond groans, an audible surrender. 

To Hell with it all. 

They crash into each other like lightning, hands mapping anywhere they can reach. Her body blooms for him, like a flower under the summer sky. He steers them back towards her bed, Ysilla blindly clamoring atop to sit while he stands tall. His touch on her skin has her thighs spreading, opening up and offering herself for his taking. 

“I can’t stop, I can't stop.” He presses kiss after kiss to her mouth, her closeness doing nothing to extinguish the burning in his blood. If anything, she makes it worse, the inferno raging deeper and into his very soul. 

“I don’t want you to stop.” She whines, snaking their legs together and threading her fingers through that beautiful hair of his.

She’ll enjoy this- him. Every inch of Aemond belongs to her tonight. She thinks of drawing the blade from his hip, and carving her name into his chest. Mark him up nice and neat, streak his pale powdery skin red with her desire. Whatever is happening to her- to them- summons something animalistic, something primitive out of the dark parts of their hearts. All tender fantasies of her future husband treating her with such a tame touch are cleaved in half and fed to the hounds. In their place, filthy, feral desires fester and warp her mind until one lone ambition remains: him inside of her, for the rest of their days.

“We don’t even like each other.” Aemond growls between their parting lips. Ysilla slides her way into his mouth, flirting with the sharpness of his teeth, suckling the sweetness out of his tongue. 

“We can’t stand each other.” She affirms, breaking their lips apart, her hands already under his tunic, letting her palms drink in the ridges and rises of his impressive physique. She kisses along the strong edge of his jaw, curling her fingers into clenched claws and rips her way down his chest. Not a blade, but he bloodys all the same. Aemond snarls, catching her by the throat so brutally her teeth clack. His eye pierces through her like a blade, and Ysilla relishes in the pain, his touch upon her skin soothing away her ache.

“Bitch.” He hisses, what little familial respect they harbor for each other crushed under lust and loathing. 

“Prick.” She bites back, grazing at his lip to send her point home. Gods, he’s so close but not close enough. 

Ysilla pulls his hand between her legs- the one not choking her out- and Aemond cups her sex readily. Her heat damn near blisters him, and he grinds his palm into her slick folds, coating his hand in her arousal.

“Yessss…” She hisses in sated victory, her blood pumping thick as her body finally gets a taste of what it's been craving. Even one finger of his is nearly too much as he slips it in, the stretch a tepid burn that only gives way as her body adjusts. 

“You need to be able to take more than that if you want to take my cock, Princess.” He whispers at her lips, already imagining how tight she’ll be around him. He won’t insult her by asking- he knows he’ll be her first. And the thought of that… of taking her maidenhead for his own, being the first man to be inside of her, searing himself into her memory that even time won’t take away… Aemond has to fucking focus. 

“I can take it.” She assures him, head nodding wildly, her thighs splitting open even further. His grip has loosened around her throat, and he strokes where it’s sure to bruise, trying to not grow hot at the vision of his mark marring her body. He hums his approval, letting his middle finger glide forward, her essence enough to ease the way into her hole. 

He scissors them, back and forth, working her pure channel open gently, basking in the silky tensing of her walls. The pained scrunch in her brow has disappeared, giving way to the pleasured furrow of her forehead, her hips beginning to roll up and meet his digits. She grabs ahold of his wrist, stopping his motions, and she pins him in place with a lavender leer. 

“Take off your clothes.” It’s a command, no matter if it is spoken in her soft honeyed voice. 

Aemond loses his shirt and unlatches his belt, tossing it and his sword onto the bench at the foot of her bed. His breeches slide off with Ysilla’s help, her eager fingers untying his laces. He kicks off his boots, not realizing how confined he felt with so many layers hindering him until his skin is bared. She moves backwards, further up her bed and he crawls after her, prowling like a wildcat, covetous sight trained on her. 

The little minx yanks on his elbow, and he crashes into the mattress and suddenly, he’s the one on his back. Aemond lets Ysilla pin his wrists on either side of him, her victorious smile just as comely as the rest of her. Her breasts pillow against his chest, and dammit, she needs to hover above him so he can catch one in his mouth. But she denies him that treat, squeezing his wrists to focus his attention.  

“Don’t move. That’s an order.” His cock twitches from where it’s pressed to her thigh and her lips twitch at his reaction. She kisses his throat, right at the base where his collar bones meet, and her whisper vibrates through to his heart. “Good boy.” 

Ysilla takes her time, voyaging down his body, a traveler on a sought after journey. Her tongue flicks out over each of his nipples, teasing the perked flesh with little swipes of her slick pink muscle. She traces her nose over the jutting contour of his rib cage, counts his muscled abdominals until there’s numbers on both hands, and kisses the scar on his hip, long healed from a tumble off of Vhagar’s saddle when he was just a boy. The fine silver hair trailing down his groin is wispy and it tickles her chin. 

Aemond’s cock is intimidating, even more so as she takes a lick from root to tip. The journey is longer than first guessed, and she thinks he grows even bigger after the swipe of her tongue, the jut of him swaying in the air as more blood thickens him out. The fact that all of that will be stuffed inside of her makes Ysilla shiver, her cunt yearning for the press of his long fingers. 

Fervently, she swallows him down until he greets the back of her throat. The salt of him is jarring but not unwelcome- nothing can be unwelcome about this as Aemond sucks in a ragged breath and fists the sheets. The muscles in his arms strain and bulge, a sight that only incentivises her to keep sucking. 

He’s a thick, velvety weight on her tongue, her mouth full even with inches still to spare. Her drool dribbles down his staff, and her hand wraps around what she cannot swallow. She glides her lips over his length rhythmically, jacking her fist over the rest of him, retreating with a pop to spit on his tip for more lubrication. 

Ysilla has always been one for sweets but this? This is a taste she can find herself hankering for. She suckles on the head, dipping her tongue into his slit, shivering at the sharp burst of his spunk on her taste buds. She dives forward again, gagging around him, the intrusion into her throat a strange feeling she forces herself to adjust to. 

Aemond keeps her hair pushed behind her ears, his thumbs stroking her temples as he fights to not thrust down her throat until she chokes. A familiar tightening in his sack has him voicing the exact opposite of what he wants her to do. 

“Silla, pull off.” She’s on her fucking knees for him, he doesn’t need to defile her like this. Doesn’t need to treat her like a common whore and make her stomach his load. 

She ignores him and he says her name again, more firmly, but she’s such a rebel, swallowing around him once more, letting him feel the constricting vice of her throat. He can’t take it- he gives her what she wishes. 

“Silla, qrugh.” Cursing, he keeps her head still as he empties his balls and fills her belly. He hooks his thumb into her mouth, breathless, breaking the suction and pulls out of her throat. Ysilla coughs, gulping down air and saliva before she gifts him a shiny smile. Aemond scoffs. Unbelievable. 

“You’re a nasty little thing.” He pants out, a compliment he means wholeheartedly. 

She chuckles hoarsely, and her lips are still gooey with his seed. 

“You love it.” 

The urge to fuck her returns tenfold and he sits up, hand at the back of her neck to wrench her up to his mouth. She whimpers, swapping his cum between their tongues. It’s sticky and vulgar and overwhelmingly erotic. 

Ysilla stumbles to her feet, pulling Aemond with her, leading him to the lounge area in front of her hearth. Their mouths remain intertwined, unwilling to part even for a moment. She pushes him into an armchair, the old velvet soft beneath him before following him down, and settling swiftly in his lap. 

“Off.” He demands but he can’t help but be an active partner in his niece’s undressing. Her hands dash to the hem of her shift, gathering up the skirt hurriedly. His hands glide up her body, caressing the naked skin that is revealed to him as she pulls it up and over her head. She’s so sleek with sweat she looks polished- an apple ready to eat, something to be devoured. 

“What do you want me to do?” Aemond asks, not for lack of knowledge but to see how far she wishes to take this. 

Ysilla grins, ducking down and drawing him into an eager kiss. “Whatever you want to do. Just make me feel good.”

Loyal as a hound, Aemond’s mouth goes to her breast, her posture perfectly presenting her chest to him. He takes in as much as he can, greedily sucking and licking until her tender flesh blushes a bright sticky red. He rolls her pert nipple between his teeth, tugging just enough to make Ysilla gasp. She makes pretty sounds- he can’t wait to hear what she’ll sound like as he fucks her stupid. He switches to her other breast, feasting on her supple bosom like he’ll never eat again. His cock bobs upright, his body needing no time to rest, ready and racing to experience the delicacy of her cunt. 

The Princess whines, combing through his tousled hair, tugging on it like she would horse reins. Such a commanding queen she’ll be. 

“Need it, need you.” She whines, swinging her hips lower, searching for the weeping start of his prick.

“Easy, Ysilla.” He warns, even as his thoughts scream to grip her hips and teach her how to ride him, but she’s such a stubborn little dragon and her thoughts may be just as commanding as his. She leans back, reaching between her thighs until she brushes at the head of his cock and steadies him. Lining herself up, she sinks torturously slow, downdowndown every inch until she sits upon his thighs. 

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh… my.”

They both breathe out, blinking away black stars that dance in their vision, the pollen tapping every nerve ending in each of them until they sputter and fizz uncontrollably. 

The discomfort fades for her faster than she’d thought, transforming into a pleasant fullness that she can feel heavily behind her stomach. Ysilla searches for what feels the best, moving faster and faster on Aemond’s lap as each new shift in position guides her further towards the liquid heat in her loins. She settles on swiveling up before dropping back down onto him, riding him like she’s saddled. Hot streaks of exhilaration engulf her insides, every pass of his cock adding to the ecstasy swirling inside of her. The stretch of him, not just from length but from width as well, itches the scratch left behind after the library disaster. Even as she tried to bring herself to pleasure earlier, there was something missing from her peak. Something that’s building, stacking, soaring fast in her belly. That final crest of a wave, ready to crash and drown anything that’s not pure, hot ecstasy-

Before it collapses back into a tidepool. The pitted feeling of falling through the air as you miss a step in the dark settles over her lust, and she jerks. Ysilla’s eyes snap open, her pupils blown so wide Aemond can barely see a ring of amethyst around them. She whines, bouncing on his cock faster, chasing a release she’s not sure she can find. 

“Qybor, kostilus. I can’t cum like this.” Almost to make her point, she circles her hips up, leaving only the head of him kissed by her tight hole before dropping down and taking every inch of him at once. Aemond holds strong to his stamina, refusing to empty inside of his niece so quickly. 

A shame though, he was so enjoying the view. He winds his arms around her hips, keeping her nice and close as he slips them off of the chair and onto the floor. Several furs keep them cushioned from the chilly stones below and he drags a pillow off the loveseat to ease her up on. 

“Turn for me, sweetling.” He maneuvers her onto her belly, his grip finding her hips and shepherding her into position onto her hands and knees.

Aemond stands corrected- this view is nice. The burnished copper of Ysilla’s coloring clashes deliciously with his own pale complexion. Her backside is plush and hefty, budding from her shape in a way that invites his attention. 

Whatever you want to do. Aemond slaps her right cheek, reveling in her sharp gasp, and the way a perfect red welt appears on the smooth skin. He lands another, on the opposite globe, hypnotized by the jiggle of the flesh. He strikes her again because he can, not ignorant to the way his rough treatment has her absolutely dripping down her thighs. Another for good measure, satisfied in the brilliant bruising he’s left behind.

Just make me feel good. He strokes his cock, still slick from her spit and her honey, and lines his head up at her opening. She arches up, dipping down onto her arms, raising her bottom to prop against him. The angle is too good not to take advantage of. Aemond spits, his foamy white saliva dripping viscously into her tight hole and he pushes it inside of her as he strokes forward. 

Ysilla voices her approval of the new position, wiggling back against him as he goes as deep as she’ll take him. He builds a tempo, in out in out, finding a pace that makes her clench impossibly tighter. His sack slaps intensely at her clit, drawing punchy little gasps out of her that he wants to devour. He digs his fingertips into her hips, thumbs fanning out to stroke the luscious bounce of her bottom. He goes to pause, planning on switching his angle so that some strain can be relieved from her spine.

“No! Aemond, stay there, right there, yessss.” Ysilla flails her hand behind her blindly, not stopping her begging until she smacks into his naked torso. Aemond stares down at his niece in confusion, catching sight of her profile, her eyes trained intently on something that is certainly not him. 

He looks up, and catches his reflection staring back at him from across the room. The giant wardrobe mirror is tucked into the corner, and the Gods are good because they're directly in its path, their coupling on display for their viewing pleasure. 

Aemond drops down, blanketing Ysilla with his body, watching his Other do the same. “Oh, I see.” He chuckles, driving into her slowly. 

It’s almost as if they’re watching someone else- surely the couple in the reflection cannot be them. No poise, no manners, not even an ounce of trepidation to be seen. In place, disheveled, howling, rutting animals grind against each other, naked and insouciant in search of their gratification. Aemond enjoys the portrait they make, admiring it so much that he stalls in his thrusting and stills completely inside of Ysilla.

“Aemond, come on.” She whines, moving impatiently against him. “Nākostōbā taoba, making me do all the work.” She mewls, riding down and humping his cock.

Aemond’s trance snaps, and he secures a fistful of her hair, forcing his niece into a backbend. He ignores her yelp, smacking her thigh to halt her gyrations. His lips go to her ear, and this close to her throat, he can hear the lifeblood rushing through her arteries. 

“What was that?” 

“I just thought, unhhh… just thought you would be a bit more… involved in this.” She giggles, fucking laughs even as her bones creak for mercy. It’s harder to breathe this way, and the lightheadedness spurs on her mouth. “Thought you wanted this as badly as I did.” 

Little fucking brat. He laughs too, because it’s funny. Funny because of how right she is- he should be more involved in this, a bit more committed. Ysilla stills at the sound, the audible swallow of her gulping nervously has his cock jumping in interest. Her fear is just as tasty as her willingness. 

He crosses both arms over her chest, his forearms thick bars over her throat and he forces her up, so he can fuck his cock into her belly and watch her tits bounce as he does so. Ysilla’s face contorts into a euphoric mask, her eyes rolling back into her head and her pouty mouth hanging open in slack-jawed pleasure as he pounds her ruthlessly.

“Something on your mind, Princess?” She doesn’t respond, her brain being fucked straight out of her head.

Aemond slaps her face, the sharp crack bringing her back to the present, and back to Aemond fucking her like he owns her. She moans again, her pussy spouting a wash of arousal around his bullying cock. He catches her by the jaw, digging his thumb into the bone and rubbing at the struck flesh of her cheek. His lips are wet at her ear, and she watches him through glossy eyes as he smirks, and bites down on her ear lobe. 

“Answer me, Ysilla.” His niece shouts but Aemond has no sympathy for her. If she can dish it out, she can take it. “You did want this? Or you do want this?” 

He’s searching for the willpower to pull out of her, and put her over his knee to send home his message when she babbles out her acquiescence.

“I want this! Bisa, bisa, bisa, fuck, gaoman gaoman. I want you, Gods, nyke jaelagon ao!” Valyrian braids through her words without forethought, her focus aimed on Aemond’s cockhead tapping at her womb. 

“Sȳz riña.” She preens at the endearment, throwing her hips back against him frantically. A beautiful toothy smile has broken brightly over her face, Aemond catching sight of it in the mirror before he shatters the grin, nailing a spongy spot inside of her that makes her eyes cross.

“Sooo good, so fucking big, feel you right here.” She tries to gesture to her throat but she ends up digging her nails into the arms caging her in, hanging off of him desperately. Her poor battered cunny is still somehow famished for more, the squelch of his cock moving in and out of her a licentious lyric that lulls both lover’s into a trance. Aemond pulls her even tighter to his front, however possible that may be, and plunges repeatedly into her snug cunt, beating the walls of her swollen so she won’t be able to walk without thinking of him first. 

As if they miss each other, Aemond’s and Ysilla’s eyes meet in the mirror, violent violet and silver steel clashing and melding into one harmonious color. 

Their stares fall lower, where they meet over and over and over again so brutally. Her thighs glisten in the candlelight, her flesh rippling with every thwack of Aemond’s hips. It’s so dirty, so primal, so right. He’s going so deep, he could put a babe in her belly. Just a whisper of that fantasy, of her giving him a child, letting him have such a claim on her breaks her apart. 

She screams, Aemond’s palm smacking over her mouth as her thighs give out, and she sags to the floor. He follows her down, draping himself over her back, still fucking her in earnest, chasing his own blissful breaking point. He finds it, after three more punishing thrusts. But even as his balls release and he feels Ysilla grow slicker as his seed coats her insides until it leaks a white ring from where they’re joined, his cock is still hard and heaving from his body. 

He pulls out and Ysilla sobs at the loss, scrambling on the furs, but her cries disintegrate as she’s flipped onto her back. Aemond slings both of her legs into the crooks of his elbows, yanking her forward so he’s flush to her thighs, her pussy a pretty little jewel winking up at him. His seed oozes a pearl stream from her fluttering hole and he swipes it up with his cock, and it’s as slippery as oil as he bottoms out inside of her. 

Fucking Seven, she’s unreal. “Taking every inch of me… like you were made for this, ñuha pretty līve.”

“Made for you, I think.” Ysilla gasps, ripping at the furs, trying to anchor herself down so she doesn’t burst apart. 

Aemond nips at her chin, doing nothing to quell the smug smile on his niece’s lips. “Careful.” 

Careful for what? She wants to question so badly. Careful on what she voices aloud, even as they speak it in both of their minds? Careful on implying that her cunt will not weep for him anytime he passes by her? Careful to claim that the only place he should be after tonight is right where he is now?

But it is not the time for words of the heart, so she digs her nails into Aemond’s broad shoulders in a gnaw and throws her head back. 

“I’m right there. Yes, Aemond, yes!” 

Oh, is she now? Aemond grins, slowing his thrusts to purposefully watch her eyes shoot open incredulously. 

“Don’t stop! Fuck, why are you stopping?” Ysilla growls, circling her hips up against him, doing her best to fuck him herself. So desperate, so full of unadulterated desire, she cannot find it within herself to be appalled at her own salaciousness. 

“I thought you couldn’t cum like this?” Aemond mocks and oh, it’s fun to play with her. 

Her decorum deserting her, Ysilla lets anger lead her movements and her hand flies at his face to strike him. He catches her easily, still smiling that infuriatingly sexy smirk, and drops a modest kiss on the heel of her palm. She melts, her love bitten lips pouting dramatically. 

“Aemond, ñuha zaldrīzes, please.” He likes when she begs- she can see it in the way his jaw ticks, how his skin flushes, as if his body alights in her prayers to him. Aemond won’t acknowledge it, but somewhere deep in his chest, she’s already wormed her way in. He splits her in half, leaning over her until he can rest his palms by her shoulders, her legs still draped over each of his arms. 

He drags himself out, inch after inch, agonizingly slow before he lurches forward, making her pussy swallow his entire cock. He groans, finding himself burrowed in the valley of her breasts, letting his hips pummel her in an amorous hammering. 

“Scream for me, love.” 

She doesn’t need to be told twice- her lungs finding the air to blurt out,

“Aemond, fucking hell!”

Ysilla goes limp, her thighs butterflying open, giving him full reign to dictate her pleasure. She squirts, a wet spray soaking his abdomen that puddles beneath them. Her whole body heaves, appearing almost pained in euphoria. She’s a holy vision. 

Fuck, he’s losing his mind. “Do that again.” He demands. 

He cups the back of her neck, propping her up until they’re eye to eye. Ysilla’s are lidded, exhaustion heavy weights upon them, but she manages a tiny nod and curves herself upwards for his continued onslaught. 

Completely at his mercy, his to control, Aemond takes full advantage. Dragging her down by the back of her neck, he plunges himself brutally inside of her cunt over and over, again and again. She lies there and takes it like a good girl, witnessing her uncle destroy her in the name of desire until he grants her mercy, and he strokes her pearl with the sharp edge of his thumbnail and she blacks out.

He chokes, sparks shimmering in and out of his vision as she convulses around his cock. He pulls out of her, spurting striping streaks of white onto her belly. He cums so hard, it splashes over her tits and even pools in the hollow of her throat. 

Ysilla moans, coming to, rubbing her fingers over the soiled skin of her stomach, blending their releases together in a filthy film that coats her fingers. She pops one in her mouth, and relishes in the blossoming light brightening once more in Aemond’s lone eye.  

And just as quickly as their relief had come, the satisfaction fizzles out and ravenous blood boiling need takes root once more. 

They groan, barely taking time to catch their breath before they’re on each other again. Their mouths are sloppy, leaving trails of saliva down to their chins and along their throats. Ysilla finds a spot she likes over his pulse point and suckles, her left leg wound tight over his hip, rubbing herself off along the unyielding ridge of the bone. Aemond kneads her arse, an apology for his abuse, rolling the voluptuous flesh in his calloused grip all the while dipping his fingertips in and out of her weeping slit.

They tangle in each other’s webs, so caught up in salt and sin that they don’t realize they’re off the rugs and across the floor until the frigid chill rushes through them. 

It’s uncomfortable- their knees will be bruised by the morrow, scrapes along their backs will sting while in the bath, and a crick won’t leave Ysilla’s neck for half a moon. But the stone cools their overheated skin and together is where they still want to be, so all else falls to the wayside. 

Their mouths have drawn back to each other, Ysilla’s tongue dancing over his back teeth and the roof of his mouth, mapping a place she can only dream of revisiting after tonight. Aemond pulls away and Ysilla’s teeth in his bottom lip scold him for his interruption. He smirks, giving her a departing peck to soothe her sour mood. 

“I need to meet her properly, Princess.” He says with an uncharacteristic amount of mirth, leaning her back as he dips down to her lower body. 

Ysilla is bone-weary and dehydrated, but even she knows that doesn’t make any sense. She cocks her head in confusion, watching him as he settles on his front, his face so close to her center, the hot damp of his breath makes her quiver. 

“Who is her- oh! Oh, Seven Hells, Aemond, fucking please-”

Aemond eats her with a fervor she’s never known, a man starved before being offered the bounty between her legs. Shrill gasps and pitched moans are sounds she thought herself incapable of making, but they sing aloud, her walls stowing them in their stones. 

Her thighs are tight around his head, but the cushioned flesh does nothing to block out her calls of ecstasy. Music to his fucking ears, he slurps, undignified and ravenous, the parched dryness in his throat at last quenched as he swallows down Ysilla’s honey. No wine, no water could ever satisfy him like she does. 

She thrashes about on the unforgiving stone, her nails clawing at the ground so harshly that they chip. He’s sending her into madness, unrelenting in his licking even as she kicks at his sides. She’s too sensitive, it’s too much. 

And then, the realization that he is not only lapping up her arousal but his as well, zings up her spine and has her gushing all over his tongue. 

She can’t control herself anymore. Her worries have faded into nothingness as the night has gone on, as she had bounced on Aemond’s cock and came into his mouth and he into hers, and they’ve drank down one another’s spit and sweat and sex. She’s whimpering and whining, squeaky sounds with no words, only what her voice is capable of making. The pathetic, needy gasps draw Aemond’s attention immediately. He rises, hovering over her, pulling up her knees to frame his hips. He slides himself home, not being able to breathe until he bottoms out, fully planted inside of her. 

She whimpers louder as he faces her, the effects of the potion hitting their last peak. 

“Let me see you. Let me see you.” Ysilla begs, distraught that there’s still something keeping them apart. They should be bare- exposed and raw and free. They’ve already come this far- it’s all or nothing. 

Even with her few words, Aemond understands her completely. He doesn’t give himself time to think, time to let self-consciousness tear and twist him up as he rips off his eyepatch. 

Ysilla sees him- truly sees him- his scar, the jagged split of his brow, the brilliant blue sapphire twinkling a wink at her as it glitters in the low light.  

“You’re so handsome.” And then she cries- big, fat, bulbous tears that spill from the corner of her eyes and streak over her cheeks. 

Aemond wants to comfort her, shush her and stroke her hair. Do all the things he should do with a lover that’s not only a lover, but his kin as well. A sweet girl he remembers always drawing for him on his nameday, sketching pictures of fearsome dragons. And as the years dragged on, they continued to evolve, growing fiercer and more detailed and she would always say the same thing when she gifted it to him: “this year, Uncle, this year you’ll find your match, I know it.” And here he is now, the Queen of the Skies his dragon, as if Ysilla herself had manifested it to life. 

But that was so long ago now that it seems a different lifetime, and Aemond realizes he doesn’t really know his niece. He doesn’t know what she likes and what she doesn’t, and that worries him more than he’s comfortable with. 

“Can’t... take… much… more.” She gulps down a breath after each word. Aemond’s thrusts push so deeply into her guts, that there now seems to be no room for her lungs. He hums, the vibration tickling where they’re pressed chest-to-chest. 

“Yes you can, jorrāelagon. You’ve done so well, taken everything I’ve given you. You’ve made me so proud, sweet girl.” He may not know how to soothe her, but Aemond has a knack for telling someone just what they need to hear. Only with Ysilla, he speaks no falsehoods. He whispers his admiration in her ear, keeping her close by a hand cupping her jaw, forcing her to listen to all of his praises, all the while snaking his hand down between them to pinch at her pearl. 

Small hiccuping gasps couple with her agonized moans; the pride, the pleasure, the pain, all of it an elixir he drinks down his throat as she connects their lips once more, a soft tremble in hers that he soothes with his tongue. They cum together, less intense than their lasts, but still just as satisfying. Aemond spills inside of her, her silken walls milking him for every drop in his fucked out cock. He moans, long and loud into her neck and she peppers his cheek with kisses, her breathing heavy. He collapses, further down on her body so he doesn’t constrict her chest. 

The evening tempo of her breathing beneath his cheek has Aemond focusing on his own, and the two spent lovers take a much needed break to collect themselves. 

Tremors still shake her thighs, the creamy fawn flesh jumping from overstimulation. Aemond presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, a sweet assurance of relief hopefully not far behind their releases. She pets his hair, no energy left to even raise her head. He rises back up to look upon her face, wiping away a stray tear from her lash. She nuzzles into his hand and it all finally feels like enough. 

Until it isn’t. Until the lust fills them up once more, water in a pail, and it overflows and sloshes thickly in their bellies until they’re sick with it. 

Ysilla sobs brokenly, exhausted and at her wits end. Aemond shudders for breath, the pain in his stones throbbing incessantly for relief. They’ll lose their minds if they keep going- chasing an endgame that is unattainable. 

Aemond digs deep, attempting to collect himself and become the man Ysilla needs him to be. He tucks her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles behind him, and rises up to his feet with her draped around him. 

He carries them both on shaky legs, drifting along the wall for support until he rounds the corner to her privy. The golden casted tub is filled halfway with what was once steaming, boiled water but has now grown cool. He swings a leg over the edge, trying not to collapse, Ysilla still wrapped around him like a second skin and settles them both into the pool.

The Princess crumbles, falling to pieces as they’re engulfed by the water. Her heartbeat still thrums from between her legs, her nipples scraping at Aemond’s chest for attention, as if he had not lauded them with his tongue until they were bruised and sore. The undying urge to mate is at her throat, its teeth gnashing at her veins and claws piercing her hips, ushering her to fucklicksuckfuck again and again and again until her brain would be lost to the lust. 

But her body is done- every muscle expended, every limb weighted, every bone crushed to nothing but dust. All she can manage to do is whimper softly from where she’s pressed into her lover’s chest. 

Aemond cups her face, raising her up so that he can look upon her. She’s a sculpture of desire: lips puffy and rubbed red, cheeks flushed, eyes teared and heavy. He did this to her. 

“One more, love. One more and then we’ll stop.” He promises, the need too heavy in his cock, thickening his member until it lies straight up against her stomach. 

She nods stiffly, spreading her thighs until they mirror his hips. He taps the head of himself at her entrance, a gentleman waiting for the lady to make the first move. He doesn’t have to wait long, Ysilla pushing forward and taking his cock in full until their bellies rest flat against each other. She’s as tight as the first time, and the stretch is not lost on her either, her groan equal parts pained and pleased. 

Aemond’s hands are worshiping as he trails down the elegant column of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the bloom of her breast, until he finds the small of her back and hugs her tight. They just dance, slow and steady, rolling their hips together, the water shifting with their union. They rest their foreheads against one another, eyes closed and noses brushing.

Aemond isn’t sure who leans in first- he thinks it may have been him but Ysilla will say the opposite. Their mouths slot together, innocent and vestal and it’s so much less eager than the times before, but it makes it all the more intimate. He moans weakly and she coos, her hands coming to cradle his face, the breaths they share one in the same. Somehow, it’s as if this exposes them more to each other than being joined so sensuously. A simple press of their lips, doing more for them than a thousand slippery tongues or nimble fingers. 

A gentle wash of pleasure, one that raises goosebumps along their arms and makes their breaths hitch is all that they get and then suddenly, finally, the call for gratification quiets and all prince and princess are left with is the drip of water off the edge of the tub. Ysilla sighs heavily, sounding every bit thankful and spent. Aemond takes a breath that feels like his first, and he sags against the resistance at his back. 

Everything is still, weariness seeping into them like ink to parchment. Aemond thinks he could doze off right here, Ysilla a comforting weight atop of him, his manhood still nestled in her center. 

Her palm is gentle on his cheek, her thumb rubbing back and forth in a tender sweep that stirs his eyelid to open. She’s beautiful, even in her enervation and he lets himself savor this moment. The world has paused for them, and it will not go on unless they will it to. 

“Thank you for taking care of me.” She whispers, afraid to shatter the silence. A final brush of her thumb over his bottom lip, softer than a feather, is her parting gift. She unseats herself from him, and even if she’s the one who wants to leave, her cunt does not agree. Her walls grasp at every ridge and vein of his prick, a caress goodbye until at last they part. Ysilla floats backwards, away from him, and the fact that he has an urge to catch her wrist and pull her back until she’s closer than skin terrifies him. 

She curls into a ball at the other side of the tub, an ocean away, and brings her knees to tuck under her chin. She stares at him unflinchingly and he stares back, tiredness glazing over them both. 

Aemond sighs deeply. One of them has to be the first to depart and since his quarters are on the other side of the castle, he begrudges that it is him who will have to make an exit. 

“I should go.”

Ysilla’s face is serene, every drop of willpower left in her battling the urge to slip beneath the water and fade away. She nods, a wooden lift and fall of her head.

“I think that’s best… I’m sure the whole castle knows what we’ve been up to.” 

Why her response stings, he won’t let himself dwell over. Nothing’s changed (everything has changed), they will soon return to their routines and carry on with their lives (neither one of them will be able to think of anything else but each other for the better part of a year). He rises from the water, stepping out and over the tub, reaching for a linen to at least try and make himself decent. 

It is she who catches his wrist in reality, her thin fingers looping over the bones until she surrounds him like shackles. 

“But… maybe…” Her eyes traverse their way down his body, revisiting the spots she had tasted, had bitten, had sucked. Her tongue snakes out, wetting her swollen flesh and he has to think of the night he lost his eye, the stench of manure, anything to keep the blood from rushing to his spent cock. 

“Gods, Aemond, what’s one more bad decision tonight?” She’s not looking for an answer, not out loud, looking deep into his eye instead. Searching for an understanding she’s not sure is there. 

“Stay? With me?” Even after all the carnal ways they’ve explored each other, it’s those three pleading words that send Ysilla’s heart galloping in her chest as she voices them. 

He stares at her, unanswering and still, and dread creeps up her neck in a cold chill. 

“Your chamber is a mess. We both need to eat and drink something other than wine. Not to mention sleep.” Aemond states stonily. Ysilla swallows passed the knot in her throat, sinking deeper into the water. Her fingers release him and she drifts away, in both body and mind. 

Aemond catches her fingers, and he threads his through hers like they’re meant to be there. He rubs small, soothing circles about her knuckles, and he brings them to his mouth on pure instinct, and presses a chaste kiss to the bones. 

“So I best bring you to my room then, to make sure all of that happens, no?” 

Aemond smiles first before Ysilla returns it widely. Hers is the sun appearing from behind a cloud, warmth bathing him, and welcoming him home. 

.

.

.

qrugh . shit

Qybor, kostilus . Uncle, please

Nākostōbā taoba . Weak boy

(I want this!) Bisa, bisa, bisa, fuck, gaoman gaoman. I want you, Gods, nyke jaelagon ao! . This, this, this, fuck, I do I do. I want you, Gods, I want you!

Sȳz riña . Good girl

ñuha pretty līve . my pretty whore 

ñuha zaldrīzes . my dragon

Jorrāelagon . love

[sunnydbeam]

Gamma Code

Chapter 3: Alone With Yourself (AO3)

▪︎ Word count: 7,500+

▪︎ Chapter summary:

Biohazard is not feeling so confident this time.

CW: Heavy angst, dysphoria, derealization, graphic descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, aggression, self-injury, swearing.

~~~~~~~~~

The end of your shift leaves a familiar, acrid tang in your mouth – the taste of unresolved tension. A heavy cloak of frustration, inexplicable and suffocating, settles over you. Each colleague offered the same look, a watery, pitying gaze that slid right off as you retreated, words failing you. None of them could articulate, or perhaps dared not to, the turmoil that churned within you, a distress that ran deeper than mere fear of another unwanted, nightmarish encounter with the creature haunting your waking thoughts and sleeping terrors.

This hollowness isn't new. It’s the gnawing bitterness of an injustice you feel in your bones but cannot articulate, a silent scream trapped in your chest. The mere act of wrestling with it drains you, your thoughts snagging, your brain feeling seized, shriveling like a sponge wrung dry under a relentless, invisible fist.

Alone in the oppressive darkness of your room, the tension clings to your limbs like a second skin, refusing to release its hold even as you lie prone, your eyes tracing the blank, indifferent expanse of the pale ceiling. Sleep, that elusive balm, offers no solace, and the frustration of its absence grates on your already frayed nerves. You hate this.

When you finally register your surroundings again, your eyes are sandpaper-dry, stinging, and bloodshot. The room’s darkness is a tangible presence, swallowing you whole. For a fleeting, merciful moment, the intrusive neon glow has vanished. This time, it’s not the chilling tendrils of fear that consume you, but a profound, bottomless sorrow washes over you, cold and vast, as if you’ve borne solitary witness to an act of such profound immorality that only your soul can perceive its true weight. You feel adrift, marooned in a parallel dimension, an inverted reality where you are the alien, the outsider, casting a harsh, judgmental eye upon a world that deems its skewed normalcy as absolute.

And yet, through it all, your thoughts circle inevitably back to him. To the robot.

The memory of your last conversation with him is so visceral, so sharply etched in your mind, that your stomach lurches, a sickening roil that forces you to curl onto your side, hugging yourself against a wave of nausea that feels both real and phantom. He had fallen silent, abruptly, the final words of his almost-declaration tumbling out in a tone that had, for a startling instant, softened, become… pleasant. And the shift had felt utterly bizarre. Unsettling. As if he, too, were defeated.

Vulnerable.

A sliver of doubt remained – was he truly sincere, or was this an elaborate ruse, a calculated play to persuade you of his supposed innocence, of the fantastical possibility of escape? Perhaps the field of flowers he spoke of was a cruel mirage. Perhaps his words were nothing more than a sophisticated emulation of emotions he could never truly possess. You fought against the pull of it, yet the echo of that vulnerability didn't entirely fade. To your fortune, or perhaps your detriment, you’d always been cursed with an overabundance of empathy, a trait that now stole your sleep, leaving you to wrestle with these impossible quandaries in the dead of night.

The crux of it, the thorn that pricked your conscience, was the casual disposability of this artificial life, the ease with which everyone could use and discard.

And since Biohazard isn't… technically… alive…

Why did the weight of complicity settle so heavily upon your shoulders, as if you were an accomplice to a crime that defied definition, a wrongness that resonated in the very marrow of your being?

.

.

.

…

The void. A silence so profound it thunders in the absence of sound. Darkness, absolute and unyielding.

His enemy. His friend.

His ally.

Sometimes, not seeing oneself is a perverse kind of mercy.

But the glow… his glow. It sears, an internal fire.

The unending torment of a fractured mind, chained to a past it cannot relinquish.

What could have been.

Oh, what could have been.

What would it have been?

He has, in truth, forgotten.

And the forgetting is a fresh agony, a constant, dull ache.

An eternity seems to have yawned since the last caress of light, since his sensors registered anything beyond the blistering, relentless heat. An eternity since his optical sensors perceived anything but the cold, indifferent sheen of steel, or, more often, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He prowls the Stygian gloom, his mechanical claws scraping, screeching against the rough-hewn surfaces, each footfall a ponderous, threatening thud in the vast emptiness. Only he bears witness to his passage. His very touch leaves an ectoplasmic trail of sickly green luminescence, a viscous, dangerous-looking slime that seems to sizzle and eat at the concrete like potent acid. He knows with a detached part of his consciousness that his deteriorating form is a canvas of optical illusions he no longer fully comprehends; the perpetual, horrifying sensation of melting, of his very structure deliquescing, crumbling like rotted, irradiated flesh. The radiation, a relentless tide, devours his chassis particle by particle; stainless steel, lead, tungsten – no fortress of costly, resilient materials could have ever been engineered to withstand, to predict, the sheer, unadulterated toxicity that now bathes him, circulates through his internal systems like a corrosive mockery of blood. Yet, he endures. He walks. Aimless. Purposeless. A zombie, many would whisper, if they dared to speak of him at all. But Biohazard knows. Those shambling, reanimated corpses, they once had something to cling to, a life to mourn. He knows, with a certainty that chills his core programming, that he was never truly alive to begin with. A matter of convention, of course.

But increasingly, Biohazard finds the charade of simulated life, of simulated anything, utterly pointless.

The grating, worn-out symphony of his existence: the screech of protesting joints, the groan of over-stressed actuators, the relentless spread of rust, pistons hissing and straining under the immense weight of his frame. Cold. Rigid. Cracked. Every element of his being screams "ARTIFICIALITY!" in a tone dripping with contempt, a cosmic joke played on him alone. And still, to exist, to persist on this plane, painfully, acutely aware of his cursed state, in every conceivable sense of the word.

Biohazard halts, his optical sensors attempting to pierce the impenetrable black. His night vision capabilities should render it a non-issue, yet the persistent visual static, the desaturated, aged filter over his perception, bleeds all vibrancy from the world, leaving only a monotonous, soul-crushing greyscale. He finds himself… missing… color. Anything other than the ubiquitous, sickly green of his own corrosive aura.

A faint drip… drip… drip slices through the silence from somewhere in the oppressive distance. He shakes his head, a curiously organic movement for such a mechanical being. He cannot pinpoint its origin. It’s not an immediate threat, he ascertains, but it will be dealt with. He always deals with things.

"I must… investigate that," he mutters, his vocalizer a low, gravelly rasp.

The sound, insignificant as it is, grates on him, a rhythmic torment that seems to reverberate inside his cranial casing as if he possessed organic ears. As a machine, such a minor auditory input shouldn't agitate him to this degree. Yet, it feels as if the dripping intensifies, draws nearer, its echo ricocheting off unseen walls, each drop a tiny, insistent hammer blow against his thick, armored chassis. He despises it. He needs it to stop. Now. He will make it stop.

A wave of something akin to nausea washes through his system.

"Ugh… ENOUGH! MAKE IT STOP!"

He slams his immense weight against a nearby wall, the rough concrete screeching as it gouges fresh wounds into the already ravaged paintwork of his armored frame. He struggles to stabilize his trembling form, his optical sensors flaring wide, pupils dilated to their maximum. He teeters on the precipice of a full-blown system meltdown, a terrifying, hysterical overload.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Piercing.

The robot’s hand flies to his head, claws splayed, pressing against his head as if to physically prevent it from shattering, from exploding from the unbearable, escalating pain.

"Wh-where… where is it? I must… I… I…"

Horrific. Vile. Utterly despicable.

It’s drawing nearer. Closer. Too close.

His luminous eyes, wide and wild with a dawning terror, fix on an image of you in his corrupted memory banks. His green-tinged claws clench, a spasm of immense pressure, then fly open, digging into the unyielding wall for purchase. He almost seems to scrabble, to writhe, contorting his massive frame against an invisible, inexplicable agony. A constant, internal sizzling, as if his lead and tungsten guts are being slowly dissolved, burns through him. He thinks of the radio – your voice – the static, the deafening, mind-splitting crackles, the almost subliminal, omnipresent hum of distant, unseen machinery, and the dripping. The goddamned, incessant dripping.

Your voice. He needs to hear your voice again.

It was… different. Satisfying in a way he couldn't parse. Soft, yet inquisitive. Accusatory, yes, but… it had brought him a strange, fleeting semblance of peace.

Why did you leave him? Why did you fall silent?

Why haven't you come back?

He feels physically ill from the relentless, maddening drip. Why hasn't he been able to silence it? Why can't he make it STOP?

With a guttural roar, a sound torn from his vocalizer that is half agonized whimper, half frustrated sob, he seizes his upper left arm with his other three, yanking, tearing at it as if determined to rip it from its socket. The sharp tips of his metallic fingers snag in the existing fissures and gouges, rending the plating further, pulling outwards with the sickening sound of stressed metal, like someone brutally tearing the rind from a piece of fruit. It’s no surprise to him that only certain sections register the pain; his tactile sensors are, for the most part, shot, barely functional. It doesn't matter. He'll repair it later. He always does.

"Stop… please… just… stop…"

He emits a sound that might be a sob, a dry, racking mechanical cough. Everything is amplified now, the world a cacophony of distorted noise, an infinite, swirling abyss that threatens to engulf him, to drag him down into an endless, terrifying fall.

It's so dark, yet paradoxically, Biohazard is utterly, painfully sick of his own inescapable, corrosive glow.

He tries. He truly, desperately tries.

He’s doing… okay, isn’t he? He has to be. No one would be safe if it weren’t for him.

"Stupid… STUPID, USELESS HUMANS… STUPID!"

They need him.

Every last one of them. If not for his constant, thankless vigilance, this entire godforsaken facility would have been vaporized, a crater of radioactive ruin – a devastation mirroring the desolate wasteland of his own tormented existence. So why, why is he still here, in this lightless hell?

In the crushing abyss of silence, a maelstrom of noise now rages, yet Biohazard clings to the faint, desperate hope that the radio will crackle to life, that your voice will pierce the darkness, signaling your return.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Nearer. It's here.

Biohazard’s fist smashes into a hard, unyielding surface – some kind of thick, reinforced pipe, he vaguely registers, running flush along the wall. He snarls, then lets out a choked, agonized howl as the resilient material barely deforms, a slight indentation appearing under the brutal impact of his knuckles. His fingers jam, servos straining with a high-pitched mechanical shriek. The complex mechanisms within his arm momentarily seize, actuators grinding with a sickening, discordant screech. A powerful jolt of electricity, a rogue surge, courses through his frame, sending the colossal robot crashing heavily to his knees in a violent, spontaneous convulsion. Pain, razor-sharp, lances through him, a crippling spasm that arcs down his spinal column. It’s excruciating, unpleasant, but it means little to him now. He’s endured worse. It’s always worse. His limbs twitch and jerk erratically for several agonizing seconds before the surge subsides, leaving him trembling and gasping. He sobs, a ragged, despairing sound.

When his optical sensors refocus, the sight of the newly damaged pipe, the evidence of his loss of control, fills him with a fresh wave of suffocating anxiety, a stark, unreasoning panic, and an overwhelming, inexplicable urge for self-flagellation.

"No, no, no…! I’ll fix it… I can fix it…"

Irreparable. Disposable. Monster. Failure.

To any observer, the sight of a multi-ton machine crumbling into what could only be described as tears would be profoundly disturbing and bizarre. The muffled, choked sounds of distress reverberate through the empty spaces. And for a blessed, fleeting moment, the infernal dripping seems to recede, to become distant, almost manageable. Biohazard buries his faceplate in his massive, trembling hands. That persistent, nightmarish sensation of his body melting, corroding from the inside out, intensifies, becoming almost unbearable, as if he were positioned directly beneath a perpetually overflowing vat of concentrated, flesh-eating acid. If he were human, he’d be retching, his stomach clenching in agony, his insides feeling as though they were being crushed by a tightening, iron-clad fist. His mechanical body, however, can only react by flaring with that sickly, radioactive green luminescence, burning with an internal fire that consumes but never purges.

"Why… can’t it just… stop…?" he chokes out, the words interspersed with harsh, grating sobs.

His hands, those lethal, green-glowing claws, clench and unclench around the neon green "rays", the imaginary sensation of melting, of dissolving, searing his metallic palms. Suddenly, an immense, bone-deep weariness settles over him, as if tons of additional lead shielding have been instantaneously fused to his already overburdened shoulders. He remains slumped on the cold floor, his knees drawn up to his chest in a pathetically humanoid posture of distress. But no tears, no salty, cleansing human tears, will ever trace paths down his face. His luminous, mismatched eyes stare blankly into the void, lost in the suffocating darkness, yet his auditory sensors remain torturously attuned to the persistent, maddening drip-drip-drip whose source remains infuriatingly elusive.

Perhaps it is just in his head. A phantom sound in a broken mind.

Something internal must be short-circuiting. Yes. That has to be it.

The four auxiliary, spider-like limbs sprouting from his back twitch and scrape restlessly against the floor, the sound a thunderous, ear-splitting screech that echoes and reverberates to the furthest, darkest corners of his prison, amplifying the crushing sense of isolation, of an impossibly vast space.

A large, trembling hand, driven by a desperate, anxious urgency, fumbles at his utility belt, extracting a small, antiquated radio. It looks ridiculously tiny, almost like a child’s toy, cradled in his massive palms. The device is old, battered, its plastic casing discolored and warped, as if the ambient heat and pervasive radiation had begun to slowly melt it long ago. The batteries, visibly swollen and leaking corrosive sulfates, are fused into place, impossible to remove. Yet, somehow, miraculously, the damn thing still functions, drawing power from some unknown, residual source. With shaking digits, he depresses the side-mounted transmit button, bringing the battered apparatus close to his mouth.

"Little Mouse…?" His voice is a strained, hopeful whisper.

A prolonged, harsh crackle of static answers him. Then, nothing. Silence.

Biohazard feels the last vestiges of his sanity begin to fray, to unravel.

His thoughts, already a chaotic maelstrom, veer into darker, more insidious, intrusive pathways. Was your presence merely a fleeting hallucination, a cruel trick of his deteriorating processors? Will you ever return? Were you, are you, truly different from all the others who feared and reviled him?

When you asked, in that unexpectedly gentle, almost tender tone, what he would do if he were free… were you sincere? Did you mean it?

Did any of it even matter to him in the first place? He doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

"Give me a sign… please… just a sign… that some of this… was real."

He doesn’t even comprehend why it matters so damn much. Why you matter.

Five agonizing, interminable hours crawl by, each second stretching into an eternity. Biohazard has lost all coherent track of time, his internal chronometer, usually so precise, now hopelessly skewed, irrelevant. For him, each passing minute is another layer of torment in the inescapable, timeless limbo in which he is trapped, as if the very fabric of time has congealed, frozen solid around him. A dimension of perpetual, agonizing waiting, for something he cannot name, cannot define, yet desperately craves.

Suddenly, the radio emits a sharp, distinct crackle. Biohazard’s head snaps to the side with a convulsive, savage movement, his eyes flaring to their widest aperture. For a disorienting moment, he thinks, knows, he must have imagined it, another auditory hallucination. But then, the battered, almost derelict device lets out a short, tinny, undeniably real beep, and an instant later, a voice, your voice, familiar and achingly clear, echoes through the desolate, lonely chamber.

"Huh… hello?"

Oh, the wave of… something… that washes over him. Relief? Joy? He cannot name it. He is… stunned. Amazed. His jaw slackens, hangs open, leaving him looking almost… dumbfounded.

Your voice, uncertain, cuts through the static again.

"Biohazard?"

Wonderful. Fascinating. Captivating. The robot is so lost in the sheer, overwhelming relief of hearing you that he doesn’t realize how much time is passing, how long he’s taking to respond. He just stares at the small, battered radio in his hand as if, by some miracle, he could visualize you there, on the other side of the crackling transmission. He sees you in his corrupted memory: clad in that ridiculously oversized, bulky hazmat suit, a protective mask obscuring the lower half of your terrified face. Biohazard’s visual record of you is incomplete, fragmented, yet it’s all he has managed to salvage, to store in the damaged recesses of his memory bank.

And he wishes, with a sudden, desperate pang, that it were more, that were enough.

"…Are you… Are you there?"

Your voice, edged with a new note of concern, finally shakes Biohazard from his stupor. He grips the radio tighter, perhaps a little too tight, his metallic fingers creaking. He forces himself to respond, his vocalizer engaging with deliberate, measured slowness, a stark contrast to the frantic, chaotic storm of anxiety and relief still raging within his processors.

"As always." The words are a low rumble, heavy with unspoken things.

A beat of silence descends, thick and charged. His mechanical fingers tremble almost imperceptibly.

The radio crackles again, and Biohazard hears the distinct sound of you clearing your throat, a small, nervous human noise, as if you’ve suddenly become aware of the strangeness of the situation, perhaps even uncomfortable.

"I’m sorry. Of course you’d be there. I mean, where else would you go… huh…" You falter, then rush to correct yourself. "I’m sorry, that was… rude of me."

Still seated on the cold floor, Biohazard idly traces small, intricate, wavy patterns on the smooth, slippery surface with one finger. A faint, almost imperceptible, somewhat sly smile touches the edges of his mouth, as if he’s unaffected by your minor social blunder.

"Aw, and here I thought you didn't care about the delicate emotions of a poor, misunderstood robot," he teases, his tone a low, rumbling purr that is surprisingly playful. "My little electronic heart is all a-flutter."

You let out a sound on the other end, a frustrated snort that morphs into something more akin to a groan of mingled regret and confusion. Biohazard cants his head again, that curious, canine-like gesture, as he meticulously analyzes the subtle nuances in the sound of your voice, trying to decipher your tone, your current emotional state.

"I seem to have embarrassed you~" The playful lilt is back.

"Just… don’t start." Biohazard can almost visualize you on the other end, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "You’re far too confident for us to have barely met, especially after you, you know, tried to kill me."

The robot’s eyes narrow, his gaze fixing intently on the walkie-talkie. The playful air vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. A flicker of confusion, then suspicion, darkens his expression, as if an unexpected and unsettling premonition, a mysterious unease, has begun to coil and writhe in the depths of his mechanical guts. He offers no response. An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the faint, persistent hiss of static. Biohazard fights against the crushing weight of the eternal, unchanging day that constitutes his miserable existence, determined not to let it drag him down, not to let it sour this… interaction. He’s fine. He’s calm. He can handle this. He can fix this. He always does.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound, previously a source of torment, now seems to fade into the background, a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the tension coiling between you.

"Um… listen," you begin, your voice a hesitant whisper, deliberately attempting a friendly, casual tone. Biohazard registers the forced lightness, the underlying nervousness, but chooses, for now, to ignore it. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just… trying to understand you, okay? Like… how you’re feeling about all of this. How you ended up… where you are now…"

Biohazard’s head jerks, a sudden, violent movement. You hear a sharp crackle over the radio, followed by a low, ominous hiss. He brings a hand to his faceplate, his sharp claws scraping, gouging at the already scarred metal, catching, tearing at any existing crevice or fissure.

He can handle this. He knows he can. He has to.

"Oh, so you do care, then." His voice is flat, devoid of its earlier playfulness, the statement a harsh, grating assertion, laced with an unpleasant, almost aggressive sarcasm.

He can practically feel you recoil on the other end, can sense your tension spike in response to his sudden, hostile shift in tone.

"Of course, I care," you whisper, your voice small, earnest. "I… I just want to help."

"How very… considerate of you," he croaks, the word dripping with venom. "In that case, you can start by getting me the hell out of this damn cage."

"You know I can’t do that."

"Yeah, of course. How silly of me to even ask."

Biohazard’s hand, the one not currently trying to claw its way through his own skull, trembles, a strangely organic, uncontrolled tremor for such a massive, powerful machine. His eyes dart around the darkness, wild and anxious, his razor-sharp, metallic teeth clenching, grinding together with a sound like stressed gears.

"You’re in a particularly foul mood today, I see." Your voice, filtered through the radio’s cheap speaker, sounds tinny, like a frustrated growl in his oversized hands. “I haven’t forgotten that you nearly killed me. But at least I’m trying to make an effort here, to make peace with you!"

"Wow, and now you’re implying I’m a goddamned ungrateful wretch, is that it?" Biohazard lurches to his feet, his immense frame unfolding like some terrible, shadowy beast. He begins to pace, a caged predator, his colossal figure an ominous, shifting silhouette that merges and disappears within the deeper pockets of darkness. "Poor, pathetic me. An object of pity, is that what I am? Oh, I beg for your mercy, your understanding!" His voice is a torrent of bitter sarcasm.

"No, I… I didn't mean…"

"Every single one of you worthless meatbags owes me your fucking miserable lives, and what do I get in return? Condemnation! Imprisonment! You should be on your knees, thanking me!"

"Y-you need to calm down, behave yourself! You don’t understand, this is important! We… we could get you out, if you would just…"

"’ We could'?" The question is a low, dangerous snarl.

You fall silent on the other end. The radio crackles and hisses with static for what feels like an eternity, a long, agonizing minute stretching into infinity. Biohazard feels a familiar, dreaded sensation begin to build within him, his internal systems slowly, inexorably igniting, as if his delicate wires and complex circuits are being systematically doused in corrosive acid and set aflame. If he possessed a biological heart, it would be hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instead, a single, ancient, dilapidated cooling fan located deep within his chest cavity sputters to life, its bearings shot, screeching with the tortured sound of rusted hinges on a heavy iron door that has remained sealed for countless, forgotten years.

"Um…" You hesitate, then your voice returns, laced with a new, palpable apprehension. "There’s… someone else here with me."

Biohazard freezes mid-stride. His final, ponderous footfall echoes, and re-echoes, in the vast, eternal emptiness of his lightless prison. He looks down, his movements slow, deliberate. His mismatched, luminous eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on the radio in his hand. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively calm, quiet, like the eerie, unnatural stillness that precedes a violent, destructive storm.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Louder now. More insistent. Getting worse. So much worse.

"...Who. Is. There?" Each word is a carefully enunciated, ice-cold shard of menace.

"His name is Edward. He wants to understand you, too, Biohazard. We both want to help."

Closer. It’s getting closer. The dripping. The pressure. The rage.

He can handle it. He can fix it. He always does.

No.

No, he can't.

Not this time.

He needs it to stop.

It never stops.

It’s a goddamned, inescapable, downward spiral.

And then, he shatters.

"WHY THE HELL IS HE WITH YOU?!"

"B-Biohazard, please-"

His fist, a blur of motion, connects with the unforgiving concrete wall with a sickening, explosive CRUNCH. His knuckles, the very metal of his hand, erupt in a shower of brilliant, sizzling sparks, like a burst of malevolent fireworks. The impact sends a shockwave of agony lancing up his arm, but he barely registers it. He doesn’t care. His world is tilting, spinning, a nauseating vortex of sickly green, blood red, and deepest, suffocating black. So very, very black.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" he bellows, his voice cracking, distorting. "I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR LIES! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR HIM!"

A cascade of urgent, flashing alert messages floods his internal visual field, scrolling behind his eyes: numerous critical system errors, piercing auditory beeps, blaring klaxons. Everything is failing. Cascade failure. He can’t make it stop. He can’t regain control.

"WHY IS HE THERE?! WHY IS HE WITH YOU?!" he screams again, the raw, undiluted hatred in his voice shocking even himself. His intention, his core programming, wasn’t to sound so… so consumed by it. But something vital, something integral deep within his complex matrix, has irrevocably fractured, snapped, as if he can no longer bear the weight, the strain, the unending torment of his existence.

"I-it’s not what you think, Biohazard, we just…"

"NO! NO, SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!" Biohazard clutches his head, his massive frame wracked with violent tremors. He growls, he sobs, a horrifying, discordant symphony of fury and utter despair. "YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS! TESTING ME! PRODDING ME LIKE SOME… SOME UNSTABLE, DANGEROUS BEAST IN A CAGE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! ALL OF YOU HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA HOW UTTERLY, HOPELESSLY DEAD YOU’D ALL BE RIGHT NOW IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME! FOR ME! YOU UNGRATEFUL, SELFISH, PATHETIC, INEPT…! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOUR DAMN FAULT!"

He leans forward, his entire body quaking, the small, battered radio groaning, threatening to buckle, to shatter into a million pieces under the crushing pressure of his steel grip. The very space around him seems to shimmer, to distort, to crumble like a sandcastle before an incoming tide, and he feels himself being dragged down, down, into the swirling, chaotic abyss…

You’re saying something, your voice a distant, tinny squawk, but he’s no longer listening. He’s gone. Far, far away, lost in the raging tempest of his own fractured mind. The dripping, that infernal, maddening dripping, echoes, persists, a mocking soundtrack to his descent. He can’t fix it. He doesn’t know how. He is consumed by a searing, all-encompassing hatred, so potent, so overwhelming, that he hates the hatred itself.

And then… silence.

A deafening, absolute silence.

No one speaks. But the tension, thick and suffocating, doesn’t lessen. It hangs in the air, a palpable entity.

A full thirty seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

Suddenly, a sound rips through the stillness. Biohazard begins to laugh. It’s not a sound of mirth or joy. It’s a wild, terrible, manic, unbridled cackle. He throws his head back, his shoulders shaking, and laughs, an almost macabre sound, a chilling harbinger of doom.

"Foolish, foolish humans!" he shrieks, his laughter devolving into a series of choked, gasping howls. "So arrogant! So stubborn… But you have no idea… no idea at all! You think you’re SAFE? YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTROL ME? You’re not safe with me in here, not like you imagine! I have a goddamned nuclear reactor core right here! Have you forgotten that, you pathetic worms?! I’ll blow this whole damn place, and all of you with it!"

"Biohazard, you have to listen to me! Please!" Your voice is desperate, pleading.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He raises his fist, preparing to unleash another devastating blow against the already battered wall, but then he freezes, mid-motion. His wild, luminous eyes, burning with an unholy light in the blackness, fix on something unseen.

"When I get my hands on all of you… I swear-“

He stops. Abruptly.

His vision strobes, a bizarre, disorienting chiaroscuro of light and shadow. He almost feels… a headache? A wave of dizziness? A strange, tingling numbness creeping up his limbs? He knows, on a logical level, that such sensations should be physically impossible for him. Yet, his hands are trembling, his entire body shaking as if a powerful, uncontrolled electrical current is surging through his circuits. His grip on the radio slackens, his fingers uncurling. He closes his mouth, his gaze dropping, focusing on nothing. And then, with a quiet, almost anticlimactic finality, he simply lets the radio fall from his grasp. It clatters to the hard floor with a reverberating thud, bounces once, then slides a short distance before coming to rest.

His towering, lanky figure, moments before a terrifying embodiment of rage and destructive power, now seems to shrink, to diminish, appearing suddenly, shockingly small amidst the vast, encroaching shadows. It’s not that the chamber itself is so immense. He is simply… insignificant. Nothing.

The robot turns, slowly, ponderously, on his heels, his movements now unnervingly silent, almost graceful, as if his immense weight has suddenly become negligible.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound seems to fade, to grow smaller, more distant.

He can’t fix it. But perhaps… he can ignore it. For now.

Until he finds its source.

Until it truly matters.

Until… until it’s enough.

Biohazard walks away, his form receding into the oppressive gloom, until the swirling, radioactive mist that constantly surrounds him, a visual echo of the dense, toxic smoke that chokes his mind, finally engulfs him, swallowing him from view.

…

The radio is silent. And with its silence, your thoughts grind to a screeching halt, your mind a sudden blank. You can’t even begin to process, to comprehend, the sheer, cataclysmic violence of what just transpired. It’s as if a furious, destructive tornado had materialized out of nowhere, ripped through your fragile sense of reality, laid waste to everything in its path, and then, just as suddenly, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been there at all.

Your body is wracked with tremors, a deep, bone-chilling shiver coursing through you despite the stuffy air of the control room. A heavy, constricting tightness grips your chest, an iron band squeezing the air from your lungs, and an overwhelming urge to weep, to break down completely.

You curse yourself. You curse the precise moment you allowed desperation to override your better judgment, the moment you decided to confide in Edward, to ask for his help with this… this impossible situation. You curse yourself for even mentioning Edward’s presence to the robot. Laying bare all those gnawing insecurities, those fears that had been relentlessly eating away at your sanity, to the older man. And the fact that Edward had decided to try, to attempt. But, in all brutal honesty, you never, not for a single instant, imagined that Biohazard would react with such… such volcanic fury. As if you, you, were the ultimate betrayer, the worst kind of traitor. The thought makes you feel physically ill, a cold, greasy sickness coiling in your stomach.

But it’s not true. It’s not your fault. You didn’t put him in that lightless hell. You know you didn’t. Damn it all, you don’t even know the full story behind his confinement. But Biohazard, in his current state, clearly doesn’t care about nuances, about extenuating circumstances. To him, you are simply another human. One of them.

The sheer force of his hatred, the palpable wave of it that had crashed over you through the small radio speaker, is so overwhelming, so terrifyingly potent, that your insides begin to twist and churn, a knot of ice and fire.

Edward, his face grim, places a heavy, comforting hand on your shoulder. You let out a muffled, choked whimper, burying your face in your trembling palms. You want to speak, to articulate the storm of emotions raging within you, but your tongue feels thick, clumsy, tangled in a hopeless mess of unsaid words, of what-ifs, of what could have been. Oh, God, what could have been.

"Hey, Kid," Edward’s voice is low, rough with a weariness that seems to go bone-deep.

"That… that wasn’t right, Edward." Your voice is a ragged whisper, raw with unshed tears. "I-I swear, he wasn’t like this the last time I spoke to him. I… I don’t understand."

Edward gives you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with sadness, a deep-seated resignation. He sighs, a heavy, gusty sound, and runs a tired hand through his already disheveled hair.

"We’ve been down this road before, Kid. More times than I care to count." His voice is flat, devoid of hope. "There’s no reasoning with him anymore. Not when he’s like this. He’s gone."

"No! You don’t understand!" You surge to your feet, your eyes blazing, hot tears finally spilling over, tracing burning paths down your cheeks. Somehow, you’ve allowed this, allowed him, to burrow deep under your skin, to affect you far more profoundly than you ever thought possible. "All that… that rage! That pain! He feels, Edward! Just like we do! Can’t you see he’s suffering in there, alone in the dark, and nobody here, nobody, is even thinking about doing anything to help him?"

"We can’t do anything, Kid! Don’t you get it?!" Edward suddenly explodes, his voice cracking, nearly as raw and frustrated as your own. His composure, usually so steadfast, finally shatters. "Weren’t you listening? The mere mention of my name sent him completely over the edge! He just literally threatened to kill us all, to blow this entire place to smithereens! Do you have any earthly idea how unbelievably dangerous that… that creature’s very existence is right now?!"

Your hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling, a physical manifestation of your internal turmoil. You hate this. You hate being trapped in this impossible, no-win situation. Why, oh why, did you ever allow yourself to get involved in the first place? How do you escape this now? How do you ever hope to live with the crushing weight of this on your conscience?

"I-I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it," you stammer, clinging to a desperate, rapidly fading hope. "He was just… just furious, Edward! He was lashing out!"

Edward shakes his head, slowly, his expression one of sorrow.

"It’s far more complicated than that, Kid. You know it is." His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting around the control room as if he fears being overheard. "That automaton… he’s a clear and present danger. To everyone outside those walls, and to everyone still trapped in here with him." He leans closer. "Believe me, if there were any other viable solution, any other way, we would have tried it by now. We would have exhausted every possibility. But there isn't. There just isn't."

"But I… I talked to him before…" You murmur, your voice barely audible, your gaze distant, lost in the memory. Edward watches you, his expression unreadable. "He seemed so different. So calm. Almost… vulnerable." A fresh wave of tears threatens. "H-he told me… he said he wanted to see the flowers."

A faint, sad smile touches the corners of Edward’s lips, a smile you instantly, vehemently hate. It’s patronizing, pitying. You know exactly what that smile is saying, unspoken yet deafeningly clear: ‘You’re so naive, Kid. So gullible. He’s playing you. He’ll come for all of us first, you mark my words.’

There is no field of flowers. There never was.

Maybe you are. Maybe you’re just a fool. Naive.

Wordlessly, Edward turns and begins to pace the confined space of the control room, his movements jerky, agitated, his gaze thoughtful, intense, fixed on some indeterminate point on the worn linoleum floor. Your eyes follow his restless movements anxiously for a moment, then you turn your head away, with a bitter taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your throat raw and scraped, as if you’ve been screaming into a hurricane.

"What are you all planning to do?" The question is a leaden weight in the sudden silence.

Edward stops his pacing but doesn’t turn to look at you. His shoulders are slumped, his posture radiating defeat.

"I’ve heard… rumors," he says, his voice low, hesitant. "They’re developing some kind of… chip. An inhibitor, I suppose you’d call it." He glances at you briefly, then away again. "It’s designed to work remotely. They think… hope… they’ll be able to control him with it. Shut him down. For good. Forever."

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. Your chest, however, aches with a sudden, sharp pang, a familiar throb of empathy and despair.

"So, there’s no other way to… turn him off, then, huh?" It’s a statement, not a question.

"No. There isn’t," Edward sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "We all believed… we hoped… that the automaton would eventually just… power down. Run out of energy. Simply cease to function over time. But he didn’t. He’s… if anything, even worse now. More unstable. More dangerous. All his primary components, his wireless receivers, his remote control functions… everything that could have given us a way in, a way to override him… It’s all fried. Burnt out. Useless." He shakes his head. "There’s nothing left that can shut that thing down."

"But… why is that the only part of him that doesn’t work? The part that would let you stop him?"

Edward lets out a strangled sound, a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a groan of pure frustration.

"We’re pretty sure… he did it himself."

Another icy shiver snakes its way down your spine, leaving you feeling cold and weak. Your legs suddenly feel unsteady, threatening to buckle beneath you. The thought, the horrifying image, of Biohazard, in his isolation and despair, systematically ripping out, destroying, those critical components of his own being, ensuring that no one, no one, could ever exert control over him again… it fills you with a visceral unease. It’s almost… terrifyingly understandable.

"That… really sucks…" You mumble, the words inadequate, yet you don’t know what else to say, what to think, how to process this new piece of information. "About that chip… this inhibitor… huh… How exactly do they plan to use it? Someone has to get close enough to install it on him, right?"

Edward still doesn’t look at you when he answers, his gaze fixed on the flickering monitor displaying nothing but static.

"I’m not sure of the details. Like I said, it’s still in the experimental phase, the testing phase." He shrugs, a gesture of helplessness. "We’ll just have to wait. Wait and see what the eggheads in R&D come up with. I just… I hope they don’t take too damn long."

You glance at the silent radio on the floor, then your eyes drift towards the bank of monitors on your console, your gaze settling on the single screen that still displays a feed from a functional camera. Nothing but flickering static, a visual representation of the chaos.

You think. And think. And think. A desperate, improbable idea begins to form.

"Maybe… maybe I can prove it to you. To everyone. That Biohazard isn’t as bad as you all think. That he’s not… the monster everyone believes him to be."

Edward turns then, slowly, and walks towards you, his eyes filled with an almost unbearable weariness, a deep, paternal concern.

"Kid, I… I really, truly want to support you in this. You know I do. But…"

You sink back into your chair, your body heavy with exhaustion, but your mind is racing. You try to inject conviction, certainty, into your voice, even as the tremor in your hands, the unsteadiness of your tone, threatens to betray your fear.

"I’ll continue with what I was doing before," you declare, your voice gaining a surprising firmness, even as your anxious fingers fiddle restlessly with the buttons and dials on the control panel. "I’ll monitor the robot. His behavior patterns. And… I’ll try to talk to him again. To reason with him." You meet Edward’s gaze, your own pleading. "If I can’t prove it by then… if I can’t show you that there’s still something good, something salvageable in him… then I… I won’t stand in your way anymore. I promise."

Edward shakes his head, a slow, incredulous movement. A faint, reluctant smile touches his lips.

"You’re really something else, Kid. Stubborn, aren’t you?" he says, his voice laced with a grudging admiration. "I suppose there’s no stopping that determined little head of yours once you’ve set your mind to something."

You manage a weak, watery smile in return.

"But you’ve got a good heart, Kid. A rare thing in this place." He sighs. "And who am I to say no, anyway? It’s not like we have a wealth of other options." Edward reaches out and places a hand on your head, ruffling your hair affectionately, a gesture that is surprisingly fatherly, comforting. "Okay. You’ve got it. I’ll mediate for you. Run interference with the higher-ups as much as I can. But you have to promise me you’ll stay safe. Be careful, understand?" His expression turns serious, his eyes filled with a genuine concern that touches you deeply. "This company… it hasn’t been the same since the incident. There are… whispers. Things are being done. Quietly. They’re doing… cleanups. They’re testing things they shouldn’t be." He leans in again, his voice dropping further. "There’s going to be an inspection. In three months. And they’ll want this whole automaton mess completely resolved, buried, by then. One way or another."

"A-an inspection?" you stammer, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the authorities on the outside, the ones who think this place is a shining beacon of corporate responsibility, have no idea that the automaton is still here, active… still perfectly functional, in his own destructive way." Edward’s voice is grim. "This situation was supposed to have been… resolved… a long time ago. But when the truth finally comes out, when they realize that the safety protocols here are, and always have been, absolute crap, this entire facility will be shut down. Permanently. And they will take matters into their own hands."

"And… what if they do take care of Biohazard? Wouldn’t that be… well, more efficient? Safer?"

Edward shrugs, a tense, jerky movement that belies his attempt at nonchalance. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard.

"That’s not the real problem here, Kid."

You frown, a knot of confusion tightening in your stomach. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He just stares past you, his gaze distant and troubled.

"Just… let the powers that be deal with their own goddamn colossal mess for the time being."

Why does he say it like that? Why does he make it sound as if, despite everything, you’re no longer capable of just walking away from this, of extricating yourself from this spiraling nightmare?

A chilling realization dawns.

You’re trapped. Just as trapped, in your own way, as Biohazard is in his.

If this place were to be shut down, and Biohazard were to be… set free… what’s truly the worst that could happen?

By then, you’ll make sure of it. He’ll be a completely renewed robot. A different being. You have no earthly idea how you’ll accomplish it, but there’s no turning back now. You’re in too deep.

All that’s left for you to do… is try.

That's all that matters.

_______ ~

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Twelve

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Words: ~6,000

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Auror Division Headquarters, Operations Wing – London

The hallway buzzed with the kind of energy that always came at the end of a rotation, light-footed, half-distracted, almost cheerful. Boots slapped against tile as Aurors ducked in and out of rooms, lugging duffel bags and joking about who was buying the first round tonight. Someone blasted music from down the hall. Someone else yelled to turn it down. It all felt looser somehow, like the tension that usually clung to base had finally exhaled.

Sebastian should’ve felt the same.

His gear was packed. His reports were submitted. He’d already messaged Garreth about grabbing a pint before heading home, and after that sleep was the only thing left on the docket. Yet, here he was, still standing in his office. Still thinking about you.

Since your argument, you’d been… warmer. Or at least, warm for you. Like a feral cat deciding it maybe wouldn’t claw your eyes out if you offered the right kind of treat. 

You started showing up for breakfast, sitting at the end of the table beside Ominis and across from Garreth, your plate always neat, your posture a little too straight like you hadn’t figured out how to relax yet. But you stayed. And over coffee and toast and bad Ministry hashbrowns, Sebastian started learning things. 

You never talked about yourself, not directly, but little things slipped out. And just because you were quiet didn’t mean you were passive. No, you were sharp in ways most people would miss. And funny, too. Deadpan and dry, with a wit so quick it sometimes took a second to land.

You didn’t like scrambled eggs, said they were “texturally suspicious”, and yet you ate them every day as part of your mandated diet.  You and Garreth disagreed violently about jam flavors. He learned that you had a faint scar on your knuckle and couldn’t remember how you got it. 

And maybe all those little things shouldn’t have meant so much, but Sebastian couldn’t help the way they stuck in his mind.

He glanced at his watch.

Technically, he should’ve been halfway to Diagon by now. Most of the current group was already gone, the last few filtering out, and tomorrow morning, the next rotation would arrive.

But Sebastian lingered.

You’d mentioned—once, offhandedly, in that wry voice you used to mask anything that sounded too close to vulnerable—that when the last rotation wasn’t hexing your gear, they treated you like you didn’t even exist. It wasn’t a complaint, you’d said it like you were reporting the weather, but still, it had stuck with him.

He pictured you now in your room, going through your routine with the same mechanical focus you gave everything. He imagined Moon curled up nearby, twitching her tail, blinking her mismatched eyes.

The thought settled like a weight in his chest, and before he knew it, his legs were moving.

He slung his duffel over his shoulder, stepped out into the hallway, and let his boots carry him past the rec room, past the comms office, past the mess hall, and into the personal quarters wing.

Then he stopped in front of your door and briefly considered turning back before he raised a hand to knock. 

He heard a rustle from inside followed by bare feet on tile and the soft click of a lock.

You opened the door wearing your worn-out regulation pajamas, sleeves rolled up your forearms. Your hair was damp, towel-dried and left to fall in soft, uneven waves. Moon meowed at his feet, brushing against his leg like she owned him.

You blinked at him. “Thought you left.”

Sebastian scratched the back of his neck. “Not yet.”

A long pause. You stepped aside. He entered. Moon hopped up onto the bed, tail twitching, and made a soft chirp like she approved of the visit.

You folded your arms loosely. “...Did you need something?”

Sebastian took a second too long to answer.

Because yes, actually, he did. He’d come here with an idea. One that had sounded fine rattling around in his head on the walk over but now felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of knives. Because how the hell did he say "I don’t want you stuck here alone next week with a bunch of assholes, and I hate how much that bothers me, so will you spend the week at my flat?” without sounding like a complete lunatic?

So instead, he cleared his throat and tried to come up with something that sounded casual but also meaningful. Something that would explain his sudden appearance at your door.

“Just… thought I’d update you on what Ominis has found,” he said, tone easy, even as he stared a little too intently at a spot on your wall. “Using the registry we got from the auction.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “He found something?”

Sebastian nodded, grateful—pathetically so—for the opening. He’d intended on telling you this when there was more to share, but right now, it was the best distraction he had from how stupidly nervous he felt just standing in your room.

“Yeah. He managed to get a copy of the guest list. Most names were expected. Ministry employees, private collectors, the usual underground suspects… but there were a few anomalies.”

“...Anomalies?”

“French intel liaison, for one. Wasn’t there in any official capacity, and there’s no record of cross-border coordination on magical artifact trafficking.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, processing.

“And,” Sebastian added, “one of the bidders used a false identity that Ominis traced back to a dead Auror. British Ministry. Killed in the line of duty two years ago. Someone’s puppeting his credentials.”

Your jaw tightened.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“...So now what?” You 

Sebastian let out a slow breath. “We wait. Ominis is still digging. Carefully. And if we start pulling threads too soon, someone’s going to notice.”

You didn’t look thrilled by that answer, neither was he, but it was the truth.

He crossed his arms, leaning against your desk. “I hate it too. Sitting on our hands. But if we push, we lose what little advantage we’ve got.”

“So,” you said finally, softer this time. “You came all the way over here to tell me to wait?”

Sebastian felt his pulse skip, then finally said, “That’s not the only reason I came by.”

Your head tilted, but you didn’t speak. Just watched him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze drifting briefly to the floor, then back to you. “That was part of it.”

You raised an eyebrow. Waiting.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, then stopped, then started again, “I just… don’t want you to be the only one left on base.”

You stared at him for a second. “Well… it’s only for a night.”

Sebastian shook his head. “There’ll be people here tomorrow, sure, but you said it yourself. They’re assholes.”

You didn’t say anything, but the look on your face said he wasn’t wrong.

“And I get that you’re not… someone who likes people fussing. Or assuming you need help.”

That made your brow twitch, but you were still listening.

“So I’m not offering help,” he said. “I’m offering an alternative.”

Another breath. This was the part that made him feel slightly insane.

“I was thinking, if you wanted, maybe you could stay at mine for the week.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Stay at yours?”

“Yeah, at my flat,” he clarified quickly. “Just for the week. While base resets. I’ve got a spare room. And you… well, you deserve the time off.”

You stared.

He kept going, like momentum might keep him from drowning. “It’s not fair. Everyone else gets proper leave, and you’re stuck here like some ghost haunting the place. You act like you don’t mind, but I know you do.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“…I’m not technically cleared for leave,” you said finally, guarded.

Sebastian waved a hand. “I’ll file the paperwork. It’s one form. Takes ten minutes.”

Another beat of silence.

He could feel himself starting to pull back, to soften the blow. “It’s no big deal,” he started. “Honestly, if it’s weird or—”

But before he could finish, you asked, “…What about Moon?”

Sebastian blinked, then looked down at the cat still perched neatly on your bed. He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from you. Maybe an awkward laugh, a polite refusal, or a "thanks but I’m fine" said with that guarded tone you always used. But not this. Not your hesitation softening into consideration.

The relief was palpable.

“She’ll come,” he said simply.

“...Are you sure?” You asked. “I… don’t want to intrude or anything.”

Sebastian could hear it, that trace of caution buried beneath your voice, the hesitance that came from being offered something kind when you weren’t used to kindness. But your tone didn’t match your posture. You were already shifting, already loosening, like your body had decided you wanted to say yes before your brain could catch up.

But he knew you, now. Knew that if he didn’t act, you'd retreat back into that familiar armor and wave him off with some impersonal excuse.

So he didn’t give you the chance.

Without another word, he crossed the room and opened your wardrobe.

“Get packing.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he said, tossing a folded shirt onto your bed. “And I am. You don’t have to stay here. Not this week. Not alone. Just… let someone give a damn for once, yeah?”

You stared at him for a second, then huffed a quiet laugh. When you glanced away, it was only to hide the soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“...Okay, but I’ve only got one outfit,” you reminded him.

Sebastian shot you a crooked grin. “Well… I guess we’ll go shopping.”

You laughed again. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

Clerkenwell, Sebastian’s Flat – London

Shopping had been... an experience.

You’d scanned racks of clothes like they were written in a language you didn’t speak, then tried on exactly one pair of black leggings and a loose black tee, declared them “sufficient” and headed for the checkout before Sebastian even got his bearings.

“Nope,” he’d said, grabbing your elbow. “We’re not done.”

“We are.”

“You’ve picked one outfit.”

“I like it.”

“You need clothes for a week.”

You sighed, but acquiesced, returning to the aisle with a frown. 

While you browsed, Sebastian held up items at random just to make you roll your eyes: a cropped sweater with glitter text, a scarf with tassels the size of his fist, a pair of boots you called “tactically useless”.

In the end, you simply picked out duplicates of the original black leggings and t-shirt, branching out only to select an oversized black hoodie.

Sebastian, trailing behind you with an armful of hangers, sighed loudly enough to earn a warning glance. “You do know they make clothes in other colors, right?”

You didn’t even look up. “Black improves stealth. It’s practical.”

“You’re not going undercover at a funeral,” he muttered, flipping through a rack of jumpers. 

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just held up a pair of sweatpants, black again, inspected the stitching, and tossed them into the growing pile.

Sebastian sighed, louder this time. “Your taste is aggressively bleak.”

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly and turned down the next aisle, brushing past stacks of socks and mismatched clearance bins. You were reaching for a plain grey pair when something to the side caught your eye.

It was barely a pause. Half a second, maybe. But Sebastian saw it.

You glanced toward the end of the row. A display of novelty socks. Pink. Soft-looking. Patterned with tiny sleeping cats.

You didn’t say anything. Just picked up a pair, hesitated, then quietly folded them into the bottom of the basket beneath a bundle of black basics.

Sebastian didn’t comment, didn’t tease, didn’t so much as smile. He just turned back to the jumpers and kept flipping, like he hadn’t noticed. Like it wasn’t something that made his chest feel oddly tight.

Now, hours later, he led you up the narrow stairwell to his flat, his duffel in one hand, your shopping bag slung over his shoulder.

The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of old books and polish. A familiar comfort for him. Less so for you, if the way you hovered half a step behind him meant anything.

Sebastian pushed the door open and stepped aside to let you through.

The flat was… lived-in. Not messy, just comfortably cluttered, with warm wood floors, a low couch scattered with mismatched cushions, and books stacked in every available corner. The kitchen was narrow, tucked into the far wall, its shelves cluttered with tea tins and battered mugs.

You stood at the threshold for a beat, scanning the room before setting Moon’s carrier down and unzipping the flap. She padded out slowly, tail high, sniffing with interest.

You looked at her, then at him.

“I think she likes it here,” you said,

He shrugged, still smiling faintly. “She’s got good taste.”

You nodded stiffly. He could tell you felt out of place, like you were afraid to take up space in a home that wasn’t yours, but Sebastian didn’t say anything about it. Just walked into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, and called back over his shoulder, “You want tea?”

You followed a second later, socks silent on the wood floor.

“I didn’t expect your place to look like this,” you murmured.

He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“...Domestic.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Your lips quirked slightly. “I’m not disappointed.”

He turned at that. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, that much was obvious from the way your eyes darted away immediately. So Sebastian just turned back to the mugs and poured the water, his grin softening.

“Milk? Sugar?”

You hesitated. “Just milk.”

He handed you the mug a moment later. You took it with both hands, fingers curling around the ceramic. You didn’t drink right away, just stood near the edge of the kitchen awkwardly.

Sebastian leaned against the counter and sipped his own tea, watching you.

“You don’t have to hover like a bloody ghost,” he said lightly.

You gave him a look. “I’m not hovering.”

“You are. That’s a hover stance.”

You blinked. “There’s no such thing.”

“Sure there is.” He nodded toward your posture. “See, arms stiff, feet angled like you're ready to bolt? Classic hover. Textbook.”

You rolled your eyes, but the faint smile from earlier crept back. “You’re an idiot.”

He shrugged. “And you’re standing in my kitchen. So either sit down or I’ll start narrating everything you do like I’m hosting a nature documentary.”

You snorted. “You wouldn’t.”

He dropped his voice into a terrible faux-serious cadence. “Observe the elusive Warden, eyes scanning for exits, already regretting her life choices—”

“Okay!” you interrupted. “Okay, I’m sitting.”

Sebastian grinned as you finally moved to the couch, curling your legs beneath you. Moon hopped up beside you almost immediately, purring like she’d lived here all her life.

He sat across from you in the arm chair, setting his mug on the coffee table.

“So… is Garreth going to be mad you didn’t meet him for drinks?” You asked, sounding a little guilty.

Sebastian shrugged. “He’ll survive.”

You nodded once, then looked down at your tea. “Still. You didn’t have to change your plans. I’m not exactly… great company.”

Sebastian frowned. “Says who?”

“Nobody’s ever said it,” you replied. “I just… I mean I don’t get invited to anything, so I sort of just assumed.”

Sebastian tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly. “That’s a shit metric.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back in his chair, gesturing with one hand. “You said it yourself, every time you go somewhere new, people are afraid of you. Doesn’t mean you’re not a good time, just means they’re cowards.”

You blinked, clearly unsure how to respond, and Sebastian could almost see the gears turning behind your eyes.

He sipped his tea, casual as he could manage. “Look, I’m just saying people are idiots. Doesn’t mean you’re the problem.”

You opened your mouth like you were going to argue, then stopped. 

“Thanks.” You said instead, voice low but sincere.

Sebastian just nodded like it was no big deal. Like your thanks didn’t land harder than expected. Like it didn’t settle beneath his ribs and press there.

Eventually, you glanced up again. “You always like this with people?”

Sebastian blinked, suddenly wrenched back to the present.

“…Like what?” he asked

You shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know… disarming?”

A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I guess maybe,” he admitted. “I don’t go out of my way to be. It just sort of… happens.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“I know how it sounds,” he added, holding up a hand like he was preemptively defending himself. “Conceited. But it’s true. People talk to me. Always have. Even when I don’t ask them to. I don’t know if it’s the charm or the face or the fact that I nod in the right places, but—” he gave a half-laugh, “—strangers pour their hearts out to me on trains.”

You snorted. “That actually tracks.”

“In seventh-year I had some girl tell me about her parents’ divorce while I was in line for pumpkin juice,” he continued. “Didn’t even know her name.”

You shook your head, faint smile curling at your mouth.

“But you,” he said, and his tone shifted, quieter now. “You’re different. You don’t hand things over like everyone else. No easy tells. No convenient oversharing. You make me earn every answer.”

You snorted. “So you’re saying I’m ‘not like other girls’?”

Sebastian groaned, head tipping back against the chair dramatically. “Merlin, don’t do that.”

You grinned. “It’s what you sounded like.”

“I was being earnest,” he said with a laugh. “Point is, you’re the first person in a long time who doesn’t just… fold under the weight of me talking.”

You tilted your head slightly, something unreadable flickering across your face.

“I talk too much,” he admitted. “Always have. Ask Ominis, he has entire footnotes on the subject.”

“I never would have guessed.” You responded dryly, though he could see your lips twitching.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “You mock me, but I’m very self-aware.”

“You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is impressive,” he said, lounging back further in the armchair. “Takes real strength to admit you're insufferable and keep talking anyway.”

You shook your head, but your smile lingered.

He took another sip of his tea, watching you over the rim of the mug. “So now that you're thoroughly disarmed…”

You raised an eyebrow.

Sebastian grinned. “Maybe you can tell me something about yourself that isn’t just your go-to defensive formation or the best way to contain a target without killing them.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Those are important.”

“Sure, but they’re mission related, not conversation.” He pointed a finger at you. “Come on, give me something.”

You hesitated, looking down into your tea. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something normal.” He paused. “Favourite band. Weird childhood hobby. First time you got detention. Anything.”

“Okay…” you said slowly, brow furrowing in thought. “Favorite band… probably Lord Huron.”

Sebastian blinked. “Didn’t peg you for the sad indie type.”

You gave him a look. “I’m emotionally well-rounded.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “Alright, what about childhood hobbies? Please tell me you weren’t just plotting warding schemes in the sandbox.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “I grew up in northern Canada. Like, northern northern. Middle of nowhere. We didn’t even have neighbors, just forest and snow.  My mum used to call it ‘peaceful,’ but that was probably just her way of saying ‘miles from anyone who could hear you scream.’”

Sebastian gave a low whistle. “That explains a lot.”

You shot him a glance but kept going. “Anyway… I read a lot. I liked drawing. I used to map the woods near our house. Like… draw out paths and mark where the mushrooms grew or which trees the birds nested in. I kept them in a binder. Made a whole index system for it.”

Sebastian blinked. “You made a field guide to your backyard?”

“My backyard was about six kilometers of wilderness and ice,” you said flatly. “And I was eight.”

He let out a quiet, delighted laugh. “You were such a nerd.”

You didn’t argue. Just sipped your tea.

“And first detention?”

You chuckled. “Ilvermorny. Wampus House. First week, some kid tried to steal my wand—Thunderbird core, kind of rare back home—and I hexed his eyebrows clean off.”

Sebastian grinned. “Merlin’s sake. First week?”

You shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “He had it coming.”

“I mean, sure,” he said. “But eyebrows? That’s personal.”

“Well he started it,” you countered. “Touch someone’s wand without permission, you get what you get.”

He pointed at you with his mug. “Remind me never to steal your wand.”

“You’d be safer stealing state secrets,” you said dryly.

Sebastian chuckled, lifting his free hand to start counting on his fingers. “Alright, so: Lord Huron, map-making child prodigy, eyebrow assassin. What else?”

You gave him a long look. “You asked for three things.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, leaning forward a little, “now I’ll ask a fourth. You said you were in Wampus House… What was that like?”

Sebastian watched as your expression softened. “It was… loud,” you said. “Wampus is the warrior house. Everyone’s always sparring, testing spells, throwing things. A lot of noise. A lot of pride. Everybody has something they want to prove.”

Sebastian leaned back as you spoke, resting the rim of his mug against his bottom lip. He could picture it—wand sparks flying, voices raised in debate or challenge, hexes traded like candy. It suited you.

“And here I thought Slytherin was intense.” He said.

Your eyes lit with quiet amusement. “You were Slytherin?”

Sebastian gave a smug little tilt of his head. “What, surprised?”

You took a thoughtful sip of your tea. “No, it’s very on brand.”

He scoffed but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged, clearly enjoying yourself. “Gryffindors jump into things without thinking. Ravenclaws read obscure theory books just to win arguments. Hufflepuffs collect broken people like stray animals. And Slytherins…” You gave him a pointed look. “Slytherins weaponize charm and think being clever gives them a moral exemption from the consequences of their actions.”

Sebastian blinked, then burst out laughing. “Alright, bit personal that.”

You grinned. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Sebastian was still laughing when he set his mug down on the side table. “Yes, you’ve officially psychoanalyzed all of Hogwarts so now it’s my turn.” He leaned back again, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “So… did you always want to be a Warden?”

Your fingers curled tighter around your mug. “No,” you said finally. “Not really.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

You smiled, but then your gaze dropped. “I got picked up by the Ministry when I was fifteen. My ancient magic started flaring and it was too much for Ilvermorny to deal with alone. The Ministry says they ‘scouted’ me, but it wasn’t really my choice. They sent a Warden and a caseworker, and I ended up being under constant surveillance two months later.”

Sebastian sobered, his grin fading as he watched you. “…That young?” 

You nodded. “They called it a ‘protective intervention’.”

Sebastian didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with it. The idea of you—fifteen, half-trained, already dangerous enough that bureaucrats with clipboards and polished shoes came knocking—was sickening. It explained too much, like the caution in your eyes and the rigid control in your posture.

“...And your parents?” he asked. “They were okay with it?”

You gave a small shrug. “Never had a dad. And the summer I went home after they first contacted me, there was an attack near the northern border, right by our property. Some foreign group, though I never found out who. By the time I saw the reports, everything was redacted.” You paused, your grip tightening slightly. “British Aurors were brought in to assist. One of them…One of them pulled me out of the rubble.”

Sebastian sat completely still, eyes on you, but not entirely seeing.

“That’s why I ended up agreeing to join the Wardens,” you said quietly. “I mean, it was either that or be watched forever. But I told myself if I could save one person the way that Auror saved me, it would be worth it.”

Sebastian exhaled slowly. He’d never considered the possibility that someone like him might have been part of your origin. That while he and the other officers were speculating about what made you so closed-off, you were sitting on the kind of trauma that turned most people to ash.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You shrugged lightly. “Yeah, well… It’s not in my file.”

“...I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “Did your mum…?

“She died.” 

You said it plainly, like it was a fact you’d memorized a long time ago and recited enough times to smooth the edges off. 

Sebastian nodded slowly. “I was a kid when my parents died, too.”

Your head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering behind your eyes. You didn’t speak, though. Just waited.

Sebastian stared into his mug for a moment, the warmth of the tea long forgotten. “They were professors. My sister and I were upstairs at the time, and we heard a loud sound from the basement,” He trailed off, shaking his head once. “The room had filled with carbon monoxide. We found them both unconscious. We didn’t have magic yet, and by the time help got there, it was too late.”

You didn’t interrupt. Just held his gaze, steady and quiet.

“I didn’t even understand what was happening,” His jaw flexed, and he forced a breath through his nose. “One minute we were laughing about dinner, and the next… everything just stopped. Anne cried for days. I didn’t. Not really. I just… folded up, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft but sure.

Sebastian nodded. “It was a long time ago.”

“...What happened after that?” You asked, 

Sebastian’s gaze drifted toward the window, though the view outside was just shadows and streetlight. “We moved in with our uncle. Solomon. He was strict. Ex-Auror, no nonsense. I think he tried his best, but... he wasn’t equipped for two grieving kids.”

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a tired breath. “Anne was always the gentle one. She tried to hold everything together. And I—” He gave a dry laugh. “—I lit it all on fire. Picked fights, broke rules, broke bones.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t speak.

“…Then Anne got sick.” He finished. “She was cursed. We went to every specialist we could find. Spent everything we had. No one could help.”

Your eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, I… didn’t know.”

Sebastian nodded once, slowly, but his eyes didn’t leave the window. “Yeah. Not something that makes it into my file either.”

“What happened to her?” you asked, voice quiet.

Sebastian’s expression twisted. “Solomon… he gave up on finding a cure. Said some curses weren’t meant to be broken. He wanted her to rest. But I—” His voice cracked for the first time, just barely. “—I couldn’t let go.”

You nodded slowly. “So you kept fighting.”

His voice was quiet now, almost hollow.

“Yeah. I started digging into anything I could find—rituals, dark magic, half-buried theories no one wanted to talk about. Solomon warned me to stop. Said I was going too far. Said it would cost me more than I knew.” A breath hitched in his throat, but he didn’t stop. “We fought. Bad. Screamed at each other. I said things I shouldn’t have. He said worse.”

You watched him for a long moment, the silence settling between you like dust.

Sebastian didn’t look up. He stared at his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body curved slightly forward like the weight of it all was finally starting to show. He’d told this story before—too many times, to too many people who tilted their heads and murmured the same useless sympathies.

He hated that part most of all.

So he braced for it now. For the pity, the gentle head tilt, the sad little nod that always seemed to say poor boy, broken early.

But when he finally glanced up, your face was calm. Still. No cloying sympathy. Just... understanding. 

“Did you find a cure?” 

Your voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t hopeful either. It was just… honest. Like you already knew the answer but understood the importance of asking anyway.

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to yours, and for a second, he didn’t speak.

“No,” he said at last, the word landing like a stone. “Eventually I found something I thought might help. A relic. I was so sure I could control it. I couldn’t.” A bitter smile twisted across his mouth. “Solomon came after me. Tried to stop me from using it.”

You nodded slowly, waiting. Not pressing. Just listening.

But Sebastian hesitated, jaw tight. He could feel it—the edge. The place where the lie ended and the truth lived, buried like shrapnel in old scar tissue. He’d stood on that edge before. With therapists. With law enforcement. With superiors. 

And every time, he’d stepped back.

He told the story he and Ominis had rehearsed, cleaned up, made presentable. An accident. A tragic escalation. A cursed family unraveling under pressure. Not a murder.

He should’ve stepped back now. Should’ve cleared his throat, rerouted the conversation, fed you the version polished for Ministry records: how he’d gone exploring, how he’d been attacked by inferi, how Solomon had died protecting him. Tragic, regrettable, but not criminal.

But for some reason, tonight, the lie didn’t sit right in his mouth.

Maybe it was the way you looked at him, level and unflinching. The way you hadn’t offered him pity or absolution, just space. Real space. Like you saw him. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d given him something already—your truth, raw and quiet and bleeding at the edges—and it felt wrong to offer anything less in return.

So against all reason, against ten years of silence and Ominis’s warnings and every instinct screaming to keep it locked down—

He told you.

“…I killed him.”

A long silence followed and Sebastian’s gaze stayed locked on his hands, where they trembled faintly around the cooling mug.

He didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

He was bracing, waiting for the recoil. The sharp inhale. The slow, deliberate distance you’d create now that you knew he wasn’t just damaged, but dangerous.

And then her heard the sound of movement. The soft scrape of ceramic against wood, the quiet shift of weight as you stood. The sound cut through the thick silence like a blade, and Sebastian’s chest went cold.

This is it.

You’d walk away. Decide the truth was too ugly. That he was too ugly. Maybe you’d report it. And frankly, you should, because Merlin knew, part of him wanted you to. Wanted someone to finally do what he couldn’t—end the lie, drag it all into the light and let the fire consume what was left.

But then… your shadow fell across his lap. And instead of footsteps retreating, he felt the gentle pressure of your fingers as they closed over the mug in his hands, steady and careful. 

You lifted it from him, silent and sure, and placed it on the table beside you. Then you reached down and your hand found his. With a soft tug, you pulled him to his feet.

Sebastian didn’t resist. He didn’t know how. He rose slowly, like his body had forgotten how to move without orders, and then—

You wrapped your arms around him. It stunned him.

You didn’t seem like the hugging type. Hell, you barely let people stand too close unless it was on a mission and even then it was all clipped efficiency. You held yourself like someone who’d been trained out of vulnerability, who’d survived too much to let someone reach in and make a home of your ribs.

And yet… here you were, one arm around his back, the other curling lightly at the back of his neck.

He didn’t deserve this. He knew it. Every part of him knew it. But still, his arms moved.

They wrapped around you as his chin came to rest on the top of your head, the gesture unpracticed but instinctive. You were warm against him, your heartbeat steady, your presence anchoring in a way that made the edges of his guilt blur just a little.

“You’re not a monster, Sebastian,” you murmured against his chest, like it was the simplest truth in the world, like it wasn’t something he’d spent half his life trying to disprove.

He wanted to argue, to deny, to scoff and say you didn’t know what you were talking about. That if you really understood what he’d done, you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t still be here, holding him like he was worth the breath it took to speak his name.

But none of those thoughts made it past his lips, because he wanted—desperately wanted—to believe it. To believe you.

“I kept thinking,” he whispered finally, voice rough against your hair, “if I could just be better—a better person, a better fighter, a better… anything, then maybe I could make it mean something.”

You didn’t move. Just kept holding him, steady and sure.

“If I became the kind of person people needed,” he continued, “if I saved enough lives, followed enough orders, did everything right—then maybe the scales would tip. That maybe… maybe I could bury what I did under enough good that no one would ever look close enough to see the rot underneath.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were clear, your expression calm.

“But that’s not how redemption works,” you said softly. “You can’t earn your way out of grief or guilt. You can’t stack up enough victories to erase a loss. That’s not what healing is.”

He didn’t know what to say. The words tangled in his chest, raw and sharp and useless. So he just stood there, letting your voice sink into the quiet between heartbeats.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you said. “Not to the Ministry. Not to some invisible judge waiting to tally up your worth. Not to anyone.”

Sebastian’s throat bobbed with a silent swallow

“I’ve known you for—what? Two months?” you said, voice low but certain. “That’s not long. Barely anything in the grand scheme of things, and yet I’d bet my wand, my clearance, everything I’ve built on this: you are a good man. You’re not a monster. You’re not irredeemable. You’re not broken beyond repair.”

He opened his mouth to deflect but you didn’t give him the chance.

“You’re stubborn,” you continued. “Impossible. You talk too much and you never listen the first time. You’re arrogant and reckless, and half the time, I want to hex you just to shut you up.”

Sebastian let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a tremor. 

“But you’re also loyal. Braver than most people I’ve met. Smarter than you should be. And you care. Deeply. Desperately. And that doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you human.”

You looked up at him then, and the air between you seemed to still.

“I’m not excusing what happened,” you said, softer now. “I’m not saying it didn’t matter. It does. It always will. But I’ve seen monsters. Worked with them. Fought them. You’re not one of them, Sebastian. You’re not even close.”

He stood there, arms still loosely around you, as your words settled over him like a blanket—heavy, warm, terrifying in their gentleness. He felt stripped bare. Not by judgment or anger, but by something harder to withstand: grace.

You weren’t saying he was innocent. You weren’t pretending none of it had happened. You were just standing here, fully aware of who he was, what he’d done, and choosing to stay anyway.

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[serensama]

A Word with Friends: Of Houses, Hearts and Hidden Things

Thank you for the amazing game @hedwigoprah and for the tags @woundedsoul12 and @jenn2d2 <3

Read on Ao3

Word count: 1.3k (yes, I realise this was not under 1k but god damn it, I was close. I'm counting it.) Warning: mention of underage sex in one line, no actual underage sex depicted in the work (or any of my work, ever, because no)- I'm just putting here as a warning, just in case

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends.

This week's word is:

Assiduously: Showing great care, attention, and effort : marked by careful unremitting attention or persistent application Constantly; ceaselessly.

The moment he returned to Treviso, he went straight to work. He broke into the archives room, carefully, so as not to alert anyone to his presence. He had spent hours searching for something —anything —just one piece of information he could use against Caterina, but as always, his grandmother had the upper hand. 

Illario assiduously rifled through every damned folder twice, forsaking sleep, his fingers nicked raw, running out of styptic tending to the tiny, insidious cuts. All he earned for his trouble was a bitter, reluctant respect. Caterina Dellamorte wasn’t just a living legend- she was death incarnate. Cold, exacting, and ruthlessly precise.

He almost kicked a box out of sheer frustration, but stopped himself. Noise would be his undoing. No one would believe he was just looking up his old work to petition the old woman to choose him as Talon. He had no partner with him to pretend they were hiding away to steal a moment’s passion. 

There was nothing. He had nothing. 

Page after page of flawlessly completed contracts, any one of which would have made even Lucanis raise an eyebrow in awe. One stood out in particular: she had taken out a father and son with such brutal efficiency that the ink had barely had time to dry on the contract before the job was done. The method was ruthless, too, so unlike the woman who always warned him that emotions were dangerous on missions unless honed into a weapon, sharpened to a point. What she had done to them… that was nothing short of undeserved viciousness. The contract hadn’t specified a method, so he couldn’t fault her, not technically.

He left the archives for their cursed monthly dinner with a heavy heart. 

He had promised Lilya he had everything under control, that she would come home, and everything would be fine. But if he did not find something soon, then he’d meet her in Antiva City, and they’d run, just like that fool Arainai. If one Crow could do it, then together, they would be just fine. 

Even without the Hero of Ferelden backing them, they had each other and… 

When had he become such a hopeless romantic? Stupid. Heedless. Hopeless romantic. 

---

The dinner was, predictably, horrible… as it always was. Lucanis’ conversation and playfully flirting with the serving staff were the only joys to be had. Everything tasted like ash and felt like he was swallowing sand, Caterina’s presence turning every word between them into a veiled threat. The idea of her cutting Lilya away from him ‘for his own good’ made him want to shatter every plate, tear down the curtains and bite through his own tongue… perhaps all three. How he managed to stay seated would be a mystery for the Maker to answer upon his death. 

Lucanis had wanted to stay back and catch up with his cousin, but Caterina had summoned him (and only him) to review more contracts in her personal study. 

“Stay a moment, hmm? Hopefully, my talk with Caterina will not take long. We can go to Cafe Pietra, and you can finally tell me why our grandmother is suddenly obsessed with the plants.” 

“Try to hurry. I have plans.” 

“Another girl? Over your dear cousin? I’m hurt. Shocked and hurt.” 

“I’ll believe the hurt part,” he smirked. “Have you ever known me to be without someone to warm my bed?” 

“Not since we were fourteen, and I walked in on you with the two new laundry maids.” 

“Lucanis!”

“Ah. Duty calls. I’ll meet you in the foyer, Cousin.” 

Left alone, Illario wandered through the adjoining rooms until his eyes settled on something he hadn’t thought of in years. He approached the old piano, letting his fingers drift over the polished but worn keys. His aunt, Lucanis’s mother, had played it every day, her music floating through the house to wake them from their siestas. He remembered her teaching them duets, one child on either side of her, all three of them laughing whenever a wrong note spoiled the melody. His aunt was a bright spark in their dark family. He understood why she was easily his grandmother’s favourite child, compared to his father, who was quiet, serious, and bookish; in contrast, his aunt had been warm, vibrant, and brilliant. 

“Would you care for another beverage, Master Illario?” Bernardo’s voice pulled him from his memories. “Master Lucanis has advised that he will be longer than anticipated, but still wants to speak to you.” 

“No, thank you, Bernardo. I am… Fine,” he sighed, pressing heavily onto the keys. The notes rang hollow, echoing the dread roiling in his chest, the doom he felt for already failing Lilya. The butler put down his tray and pretended to wipe at the nonexistent dust at the corner of the instrument. 

“Fear not, Master Illario; I am sure she is only angry because you were late. Her mood will pass in the morning… or… thereafter. You know your grandmother.”

“Yes. I do.” 

“One day, I believe your grandmother will remember what it was like to be young and impetuous. Even the young madam was late on occasion!” he chortled. But this was news to Illario. Caterina Dellamorte? Late? Perish the thought. He had never known his grandmother to be late for anything. Breakfast. Meetings. Training. Punishments. Everything was done in order. On time. Without fail. 

Illario nodded, his disbelief clear on his face. “Sure, Bernardo. And I am the King of Ferelden.” 

He chuckled and smiled conspiratorially at his young master. “Well, she didn’t make a habit of it. But there were times when she was younger that she, too, would be late for dinner. And once, even late to return from a contract!” 

He blinked, heart pounding hard in his chest. 

“Dinner? A contract? Surely you jest, Bernardo!” he laughed, careful not to show his alarm or change his posture too much, lest he alert the older man. 

“No, not at all. She’ll have forgotten it by now, of course. But once she came back from Rivain, almost a month late. Oh, the old First Talon was furious. But not so furious as to deny her the seat the following year.”

“I can never think of Caterina being so rebellious,” he grinned. Rivain? There were only six contracts she had with Rivain; he remembered them all after looking over them so closely. They all said she came back within the agreed-upon timeframe. A delay of over a month was no small matter, not if swiftness was paid for. Yes, she was gifted, but she would have been reprimanded, punished, not made Talon for it. “So she was younger than me when this happened? I can barely imagine her being young at all. Let alone fathom her being irresponsible,” he prodded, the sweet man not realising he was being manipulated. 

“Hardly irresponsible, Master Illario. Just… spirited. This was all before she settled down and married, if I recall.” 

Found you, Caterina. 

Rivain. It was that job—the one where she’d eliminated a father and son. The file had felt… wrong. Rushed. Sloppy. It had stuck with him for that reason, and he didn’t understand why until that instant. 

“You think you and she are so different,” Bernardo said as he picked up his tray, groaning slightly as he bent down. “But I think the reason you two clash and bicker so much is because you’re too much alike.”

Illario could barely keep his breathing steady, barely contain the thrill coursing through him. He had her. He had caught his grandmother in a lie-  and not just any lie, but one tied to a contract. A mistake she had buried long ago, and now he would exhume it, along with the terrible truth she was terrified the world might uncover. There was more to this, and he was going to find out exactly what, for Lilya’s sake, and for the promise he intended to keep.

Softly tagging: @rookamell @kabsey @ofcrowsanddragons @cocoboots @serstolas @selennes @jukkaricity @talkmagically @himluv @hightowerqueen @brennacedria @basedonconjecture @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @seaglassmelody @davrinsleftpectoral @gingervitus @mythals-whore @thedissonantverses and anyone else who wants to play <3

[gav-san]

“No Takebacks" 4

Masterlist here

No Takebacks Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist Here

Sealegs and Low Expectations Word Count: 1.5 K+

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

You stare at the map.

Then the weather chart.

Then your tea has gone cold in your hand, like the sinking realization in your gut.

You have to cross the ocean. Not just any ocean. That ocean. The one with no reliable commercial routes, known for storms, Sea King activity, and one infamous phrase whispered in smoky taverns: ‘You’ll have to go with them’.

You spend three hours trying to find a better option. You check your contacts. You weigh the price of bribing a Navy escort. You even consider swimming.

Then, with the slow agony of someone volunteering to lick a boot, you pull out your pen and write a letter. The wax seal isn’t even dry before you regret everything.

TO: Benn Beckman FROM: A suffering, brilliant, hygienic professional

SUBJECT: Please don’t make me say it out loud

Need passage. No questions. One-way. One person. Must not involve mold, fermented socks, or that time Shanks tried to flirt using a mop.

P.S. I will pay. In coin. And bleach. P.P.S. I swear, if he so much as winks at me, I will file an official complaint with the World Government’s office of decorum. P.P.P.S. I’ll send soap ahead of arrival.

Two days later, you receive a single, smugly folded response:

“We’ll pick you up. Bring your sea legs and low expectations. Shanks already asked if he should wear shoes. I told him no. You’re welcome. —BB”

You consider setting yourself on fire.

When the Red Force arrives, it is, of course, dramatic. Sun at its back. Sails flared like a flirtatious cape. A man waving from the prow with no shirt, two drinks, and zero shame.

Shanks.

“Did you miss me?” he calls out.

“No,” you shout back. “But I did miss sanitation standards.”

Benn lowers the ramp for you, wearing the same calm, wolfish look that suggests he already knows how this trip will end. You board. Grudgingly. Gloved.

The crew cheers your arrival.

Someone throws petals. Someone else throws a sock. You dodge both. Later, over tea that tastes suspiciously like rum and regret, you mutter to Benn, “I can’t believe I’m doing this again.”

He leans back, lazily satisfied. “Sure you can.”

And unfortunately, you can.

Because crossing this ocean alone would kill you. But with the Red Force?

It might only ruin your standards. 

The trip is—marginally—better.

Your cabin is… not clean, but cleared. There are no mystery socks. The sheets are new-ish. There’s a basin, actual soap, and a handwritten note that reads:

“We tried. —Ben” Underneath, in different handwriting:

“I wore shoes!! —Shanks”

You burn the note immediately.

Still, you can’t deny it—your first impression stuck. The crew now refers to you as “the terrifying one” or “Lady Bleach,” depending on the level of formality. They stand straighter when you walk by. They rinse things before handing them to you. One even apologized after sneezing near you.

You're not respected. You’re feared. Which, for your purposes, is better?

But the real problem?

Shanks.

Shanks, who is now cocky.

As if your presence aboard is some kind of trophy. As if your sharp glares and venom-laced sighs are signs of affection. As if you didn’t once threaten to exile him to a vinegar barrel for calling you sugarplum unprompted.

You catch him once watching you from the helm, arms folded, grin slow and easy.

“What,” you snap, “are you staring at?”

“You,” he says, far too pleased. “Existing. Here. On my ship. Willingly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Marginally willingly.”

He leans forward just enough to be unbearable. “You came back.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because technically, yes. You did contact them. You did board. You are here. But he doesn’t have to sound so victorious about it.

Benn walks by just in time to witness the standoff.

“She’ll jump overboard,” Benn warns mildly. “You know she will.”

“Only if I mop with her toothbrush,” Shanks replies.

You do consider jumping. Instead, you walk away with your dignity intact, a bottle of sanitizer swinging at your hip like a sidearm.

A week into the journey, you catch Shanks walking barefoot again.

You spray the deck behind him. He turns, eyes wide. “Did you just sanitize where I stepped?”

“Yes,” you say sweetly. “I’m marking the danger zones.”

He beams. “You’re learning to care.”

“I’m learning where to never step again.”

He laughs. You scowl. The sea sways.

It happens one morning on deck. The sky is suspiciously clear. The gulls aren't even screaming. You should’ve known something was wrong.

You’re sipping tea—hot, blessedly clean, Lucky Roux-approved tea—and checking your ledgers when Shanks strolls by.

Wearing boots.

Polished boots.

He’s clean-shaven. Hair tied back. The shirt actually buttoned past the third one. Smells like cedar and citrus and—not even joking—soap. There’s a fresh cut to his coat, a glint to his rings, and a smug ease to his walk that makes you feel like you’re the one off-balance.

You narrow your eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with the barnacle in charge of this ship?”

He winks. “Just decided to try something new.”

You squint harder. “Like not being a biological hazard?”

He hums, leaning one elbow on the railing beside you. “Figured I’d extend my lifespan a little. You said clean sailors live longer.”

You drop your teacup.

Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like your body has gone into shutdown to preserve mental resources.

“What,” you say in a voice drained of all hope, “did you just say?”

Shanks tilts his head, grinning wider. “Clean. Sailors. Live. Longer.”

You grab the railing for support. “The end is nigh.”

“No, sweetheart. The beginning is.”

“Don’t make this romantic.”

“Too late. I already used your lavender soap.”

You turn away, physically repulsed by how well he wears decency. It’s a betrayal. You’ve built your entire defense system around his lack of composure. His lack of cleanliness. The chaos was the armor.

And now?

He’s put together. He smells good. He’s flirting with one hand in his own jacket pocket, not yours. You hate it.

Even Benn notices.

He walks past, raises a brow at Shanks, and mutters, “Now she’s really in trouble.”

You fling your notebook at him.

But you miss, because you’re still reeling from the worst discovery of all:

Unfortunately…

Shanks cleans up really well.

You avoid your feelings the same way the Red-Haired Pirates avoid assigned bath times: poorly, pettily, and with increasing levels of chaos.

It's not denial, exactly. It's more like calculated emotional containment.

You see Shanks walking around all clean and golden like a shipwrecked demigod, smelling good, charming the crew with both charisma and citrus soap—and you simply decide to focus on other things. Important things. Like filing. Or passive-aggressively restocking the med bay with antiseptic in alphabetical order.

Meanwhile, the crew watches with interest. Not concern. Not sympathy. Just the particular kind of delight that comes when a living legend starts losing his balance over someone sharper than him.

But the worst offender?

Benn.

He’s relentless. Not overt, never cruel—just quietly disrespectful in a very specific, personally offensive way.

Like how he starts casually dropping comments like:

“We’re all real proud of the captain. He’s been wearing shirts and deodorant for five days straight. Wonder what changed.”

Or:

“Crazy how you’ve never joined the crew officially, but you’re still the only reason we have functional plumbing.”

Or the truly unholy:

“Should we change your title from Informant to First Lady of Cleanliness? Or maybe just Shanks’ Sanitation Secretary?”

You try to maintain dignity. You glare. You scoff. You avoid Shanks’ path like he’s made of pathogens again.

But it doesn’t help that he keeps getting cockier by the day.

He leans into doorframes. Winks with his clean eye. Starts calling you “Miss Sparkle” just to watch you snap.

You scream into your pillow at least once a night.

One morning, you storm into the galley to find three things:

Shanks, barefoot but holding a mop.

A chore wheel titled “Approved by Her Royal Soapiness.”

Benn, drinking coffee, with the smuggest look known to mankind.

You stare at it all.

Then turn, very calmly, to Benn.

“I will drown you in bleach.”

He sips his coffee. “Then I’ll die clean.”

And somewhere behind you, Shanks whistles a wedding march on a mop handle.

You are not okay. And they are having the time of their lives.

[theelegantmentalist]

What is kissing Senku like?

Well… I wouldn’t know. Especially not from experience, no, not technically. But if I did I would assume this is how kissing Senku-chan would be like…

It would start with pressure. Not gentle. Not sweet. His hands, always steady, always knowing, would find my waist and press me back with that unshakable confidence, like he’s anchoring me in place before I even have the chance to slip away. He wouldn’t ask for permission he’d take it. Because that’s who he is. Senku doesn’t entertain doubt.

And then he’d kiss me.His lips are warm and dry, always dry, because he never takes care of himself the way he should but there’s a trembling tension beneath them. Like he’s been holding back thoughts, wants, need, for far too long, and suddenly the dam cracks. He tastes like lab smoke and sleepless nights, like salt and heat and something metallic. It shouldn't be intoxicating but it is. Not because it’s sweet. Senku isn’t sweet. It’s because it’s honest. Raw. Like the first breath after drowning. And the way he kisses me…fuck.

It’s not elegant. It’s not rehearsed. It’s messy in the most deliberate, devastating way. He kisses like he’s solving something like every flick of my tongue, every sound I make, is another part of an equation he’s desperate to understand. And when he finds the rhythm that makes me fall apart when my breath stutters, when my fingers clutch at that wild hair and I give in?

He grins. That sharp, cocky little smirk that tells me I’m his now, and I’m exactly where he wants me.

He doesn’t let me regain control. Doesn’t give me space to retreat behind charm or wit. He guides me down strong hands on my waist, my shoulders, everywhere until I’m on my back, gasping, open. The floor is cold. He is not.

His body covers mine, and suddenly I am pinned not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. Like he’s crushing every barrier I built between us with just the weight of his presence.

And then his lips leave mine, dragging down my jaw, my throat, my collar. He doesn’t just kiss he claims. He bites. He marks. I feel the imprint of his mouth like a brand, and I arch into him without thinking, chasing the burn. My voice betrays me. Soft at first, then ragged. Needful. My name, broken in a whisper, would fall from my lips, ‘Senku-Chan’

His hands slide down to my hips, tightening as he settles between my legs like he belongs there. His grip bruises, possessive, firm. There is no room for hesitation. Only him. Only now. And when he thrusts into me slow, deep, all dominance and restraint clashing in one perfect movement I shatter.

My back arches, breath catches, and any illusion I had of control is obliterated. I’m unraveling beneath him, my mind white-hot and blank as he takes me apart with merciless precision. Every movement is purposeful. Every sound I make is met with a shift of his hips, a press of his mouth, a low, satisfied growl against my skin.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t beg. He demands with his body, with his grip, with every inch of him buried inside me.

And I give it. Everything. All of me.

Because when Senku chooses to feel and I mean really feel he does it like he does everything else.Completely. Relentlessly. Brilliantly.

But of course… I wouldn’t know.

Not really.

[mjrtaurus]

Modern AU

Ace was technically his first kid. Garp had taken him in as a favor to the boy’s late parents, but was passed off to Dadan because of military work having him go all over the globe. That’s no life for a kid that young. Dragon loved his father, yes, but sometimes he wanted to break the man’s nose. Dadan was struggling, she always had been struggling, and now with a kid that was practically dropped in her lap, she didn’t know what to do. So, Dragon took Ace in. The poor kid’s heart was already rife with abandonment issues, and Dragon understood those all too well.

The adoption was cut and dry, going from Garp’s custody to Dragon’s with no resistance or drama. Garp was just glad to see Ace have people who were willing to step up for him when he couldn’t.

When Ace was three, Luffy was born and left for Dragon to raise. Crocodile… wasn’t doing well with him. Postpartum was a monster, and dysphoria on top of it made it all even worse. Dragon wanted to comfort the man, but it was all too much for him. He left. Couldn’t handle it.

Dragon was hurt, but he understood.

Cut to seven years later when Luffy let slip at the dinner table that Ace was sneaking off to meet a boy that was staying out in the woods past the property line, and Dragon nearly choking on his drink.

Rural Oklahoma wasn’t something to fuck around with. There were miles between their home and the next. There were copperheads, there were coyotes, the occasional cougar, and they were in the middle of fucking tornado season… and- after asking Ace a few times- this kid was only ten and a runaway.

He needed to get this kid out of those woods and into the house. Immediately.

Sabo was the kid’s name, and getting that much out of him had been like pulling teeth. He’d been on his own for a couple of years. Upon asking around in the right places and pulling a few strings, Dragon learned that this kid was old money from out of state. And his parents hadn’t even bothered to file a missing person’s report until very recently. No, no, instead they adopted another boy with a hefty inheritance to his name and went on fucking vacation until they realized Sabo was willed to inherit everything upon the passing of one of his grandparents.

If conflict of interest wasn’t an issue, he would have torn them both apart in court. He did get to take the witness stand, though, with his good friend Kuma taking over the prosecution in his stead. It wasn’t quite as satisfying, but he still got a few good licks in.

[littlegrapejuice]

Playing The Long Game | LS2

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Reader

Summary: You've had your fair share of romantic experiences, not all successful. Logan was always there to comfort you, and he's still here years later when you realise that there might be more to your friendship.

Author's Note: ok so my og plan was to write ab lando but @babyunickorn suggested "boy next door/childhood friend logan" in my coms and suddenly my brain became so inspired by the idea so here it is🤗

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

He had witnessed them all.

Your first crush in kindergarten who had picked out a flower for you one day – turned out that he had actually given one to every girl in the class which you learnt the following day.

Your first boyfriend in middle school with whom you’d had your first kiss – it wasn’t that bad per say but you didn’t have any other experience to compare it with at the time.

Your actual first love in high school. He wasn’t like the other popular guys. He knew a lot of people and was an extrovert, but he only had a few close friends that could be counted on one hand. You got along well with him but didn’t pay much attention to him since you didn’t have many common interests. But during your senior year of high school, you two ended up in a class together.

It was the usual cliché story: pairing up for a project, spending time together outside of school – more talking than studying. And when the project was over, he told you he wanted to keep spending time with you. So he asked you out, and you said yes. The next few months were actual bliss. Compared to your first boyfriend – if you could even qualify him as one, this one was sweet and caring. He made you laugh and knew which words you needed to hear – wanted to hear.

He once told you he was falling in love with you fell in love with you, which you believed. And knowing his feelings, it made you fall in love too in the process. You didn’t have any reason not to: he took you out during the weekends, paid for your drinks, and you were facetiming almost every night to talk about your days.

Days that you didn’t spend together.

And that’s when you started having doubts.

Sure, you weren’t in the same class and only had one subject together. However, you were in the same high school and had similar timetables. Did you see him during the day? Yes, sometimes. Did you talk to him? Never. Not like you had never tried: if he was alone or with a couple people you knew, you would go up to him and chat a bit. But every time you were getting a bit too close, he was subtly backing away. You hadn’t noticed at first – or you did and just thought him shy regarding PDA – but then it became more obvious.

Not even glancing at you when you’d pass each other in the hallways. Not returning your waves, nor your gentle smiles. But you put up with it. Because at the end of the day, he would always send you a text, offering to facetime.

Then it got worse.

The texts were scarce and dry. The calls now non-existent. And during one weekend, you had enough after he had ignored you and left you on delivered for several days in a row. So you confronted him when school started again. You had a long talk with him during which he admitted his mistakes. You were ready to accept his apologies until you realised what he was apologising for in the process: he was saying sorry for the past, but also for the future.

He was breaking up with you.

You should’ve known. You didn’t want to know. But it all made sense now. You don’t think you even kept listening after you realised what was happening. He was babbling about things you didn’t want to pay attention to anymore. Half of it was along the lines of “it’s not you, it’s me” and yes, it was all him – that you could agree on. You had been the perfect girlfriend, as perfect as one can be when in love. But he was the one who didn’t love you enough.

Technically, he hadn’t lied about his feelings. They just disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Maybe he’d had an idea of you that didn’t prove itself to be right when he went from having a crush on you to dating you. But you didn’t care at this point, you were just hurt. You could only nod at what he was saying. Your only thoughts were to go home and cry yourself to sleep. That was a good plan. 

When you got home though, someone was waiting for you in your room.

Logan.

You had forgotten he had texted you earlier in the day to say he needed your help with homework. But when he saw you walk through the door, any concern about school was quickly discarded and his only reaction was to go hug you as he noticed your red eyes, not yet dry. He immediately knew you’d been crying and the reason why was clear to him.

Nevertheless, he never asked. He wondered obviously, but never questioned you about the details as he easily guessed what had happened.

It took you a couple weeks before you told him the full story. There wasn’t much to say to be honest, but still, he listened. He comforted you and did his best to make you forget.

He was there for you. He had always been there for you.

But you had never noticed him. Never truly noticed him. Not like he saw you. Not like he loved you.

So why now, were you looking at him with such softness in your eyes? Why now, was his smile the most beautiful one in the room? Why now, was your only wish to be close to him and never leave his side?

You were starting to get confused by your own feelings. You didn’t know why suddenly, your gaze kept drifting back to Logan – who was across the room talking with Oscar – when Lando was being a perfect gentleman to you.

“You know, I won’t get hurt if you go to him.”

You were surprised to hear Lando’s voice. You shouldn’t be, you had been conversing with him for the past half hour so it wasn’t weird for him to still talk to you now.

“What?”

“Logan,” Lando replied as if it was obvious. “You’re acting like a high school girl too afraid to go up to her crush right now.”

“I’m not afraid to go talk to Logan”, you mumbled.

“So you’re not denying the crush?” Lando raised an eyebrow at you.

“I– I don’t know…” You were still confused about what was going on in your brain. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s not though.”

“Why would you say that?”

“He likes you, you obviously like him back after so long so go make out or something I don’t know.” Lando shrugged before taking a sip of his drink.

“After so long?” You repeated.

“Yeah. I swear I shouldn’t have befriended Oscar because he came as a package with Logan and I had no choice but to hear about you for like– months before I even met you?”

You had no words. Logan liked you? You don’t know why you never connected the dots but it kinda made sense. Well, everything made sense actually: the support he offered you, the friendship he never gave up on even when he was thousands of miles away from home after his motosports career took off, the letters, the late-night calls, the random visits back home whenever he had a few days off.

“So?” Lando interrupted your thoughts again.

“So what?” You wondered.

“Are you gonna talk to him and confess and then maybe he’ll stop torturing Oscar and I?”

“Oh… Hmm, yeah, yeah…”

“Good, because he’s walking towards us.”

“Excuse me? Right now?”

“Yep”, Lando replied with a grin. “Good luck, name your firstborn after me please.”

“Lando, wait–”

You barely had time to turn to the direction where the British had gone off that Logan was appearing in your field of vision.

“Logan, hi!”

“Hey,” he replied with his signature smile that you loved so much and wished it never left his face. “Everything good? We haven’t talked a lot tonight.”

“All good yes,” you nodded. “That’s true, yeah… But we’re together now so we can chat a bit.”

“I’d like that indeed.”

“You wanna go outside?” You asked Logan, who agreed and led you both to the nearest balcony.

As soon as you stepped outside, you already felt lighter thanks to the nice evening breeze. However, it didn’t last long. Although comfortable, the silence felt heavy to you as you debated about how to start a conversation - the conversation. It had to be tonight. Now that you had somehow realised your feelings for your closest friend, you didn’t think you would be able to keep it a secret for long so your only choice was to get it out as soon as possible.

“I have something to tell you”, you simply stated. Your tone was serious enough that Logan understood it was important. His gaze on you showed you that he was giving you all his attention, but you actually felt overwhelmed by it. “Hmm… Well, I–” Your determination was disappearing extremely quickly; and for a second, you thought about going inside to get a drink that could act as ‘liquid courage’.

“I can talk if you want”, Logan offered. “I kinda have something to tell you too, which I hope is related to what you want to say.”

“Really?” Your voice was suddenly high-pitched as your stress was through the roof. Did he realise so easily what your intentions were? It wouldn’t surprise you now – Logan was smart and observant, especially when it came to you. So you nodded. “Go ahead, yeah…”

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush: I like you,” he confessed with a stoic face. “If I’m being real, I actually love you – I’ve done so for a while, several years I guess. And I hope you do too or else this is gonna be extremely awkward.”

“Y–yeah I do too,” you stuttered as you were too shocked by the revelation. Lando telling you was one thing that you already had a hard time believing, but Logan confirming it felt even crazier. You cleared your throat before speaking up. “I like you too Logan,” you said with more conviction. “Sorry it took me so long to notice, I’m still coming to terms with that myself.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” And there it was again, the smile that you cherished. “I would’ve waited forever if needed.”

“Seems like a lot”, you chuckled as a way to seem less nervous.

“Anything for you”, Logan simply replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world for him.

You hadn’t noticed as you had mostly kept your gaze on your hands, but as you finally looked up to face Logan, you realised how close he was to you. You couldn’t help the blush on your cheeks, your face heating up as you felt Logan’s hand brushing against yours. If you’d looked closely, he was blushing too, but your gaze could only focus on how beautiful his eyes looked under the moonlight.

Your name rolled off his tongue as he tried to catch your attention. Your eyes quickly glanced down to his lips before coming back up to his eyes as a way to show that you were listening.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” He softly asked, almost whispering by fear of ruining the moment.

“I don’t think I want anything else as much as that right now”, you replied with your voice as low as his.

So he obliged, and closed the gap between you. This wasn’t what you’d expected. Sure you’d thought about kissing Logan a couple times – you thought about kissing Logan before? – but this was even better than any other kiss you’d experienced. Way better than your first one, that’s for sure. Because the feelings were here, and they were strong.

And it wasn’t only romantic love that linked the both of you, but platonic love as well. All those years of friendship weren’t meaningless. There was a deep bond between Logan and you, which nothing could ever sever. And when you both pulled away after the kiss, this mixed love could be felt all around you. The joys you’d experienced together, the pains, the highs, the lows, and everything in between.

“Damn, okay…” you sighed as you rested your forehead on Logan’s shoulder.

“Good ‘damn’ or bad ‘damn’?”

“Definitely good”, you replied with a light laugh which made him smile. You could feel Logan’s thumb stroking your hip, making you blush as you thought about how intimate the gesture felt.

“I’m glad then.”

This time, the comfortable silence that settled between you was peaceful for the both of you. But as you thought about your conversation before – well… this, you realised you needed to clarify something.

“Wanna know a secret?”

“From you? Sure.”

“I love you actually”, you confessed. “Not just like, but love.”

“That’s good to know”, he answered. “Wanna know a secret of mine now?”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s more than love for me, like– I’m in love with you.”

“Oh…”

‘Oh’? This wasn’t the reaction Logan had expected as he could feel you freeze in his arms. You slowly backed away – your hands still resting on his chest nevertheless – and looked up to face him.

“You’re sure about that?”

“I– well, yeah?” Logan was confused. Was he sure of his feelings? What kind of question was that? He’d had many doubts in his life, but how he felt about you had never been one.

“Like– sure sure?” You stressed the word to emphasise your question. “You’re not just saying that because we just kissed, and it’s overwhelming, and it might just confuse your judgement so maybe you didn’t actually fall in love but you just love me, with basic love feelings. Don’t feel obligated to say that right now because we’re in the heat of the moment”

Logan was even more confused now as you kept rambling about how he could be mistaken about his own feelings and that maybe he should reconsider and give it a second thought to be certain of how deep his feelings for you were. But then, it clicked as your explanation felt familiar, reminding him of something that happened several years ago.

“Wait– is this about him?”

"I-” You were caught off-guard as you didn’t expect Logan to make the connection so quickly. “I don’t know, maybe…” you replied, looking a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, I'm making things awkward now…”

“It's fine, don't worry. I don't think I actually mind.”

“Really?” You asked, surprised at his words.

“Yeah, I guess…” He tried to find the right phrasing for his thoughts before speaking again. “He's in the past and I'm the one with you right now. And if I ever do something wrong that he did, then I'd like to know so I can try to not repeat it. And if he did something right that I never end up doing for you, then I'd like to know as well so eventually I can do this same thing too. Because even though it didn't last between you, he made you happy for a while and I could never disregard that. But”, he stressed the word to catch your attention. “I know my feelings best, so when I say I’m in love with you: I’m. In. Love. With. You. okay?”

“Understood, yes.”

“I’m glad that we’re on the same page then,” Logan concluded with a smile.

“Still, I’m sorry I never noticed either of our feelings earlier. This could’ve happened sooner”, you assumed.

“Probably not.”

“Why?” You wondered.

“Well, my feelings started developing when I was comforting you and realised you deserved better,” he explained. “I could give you what you deserved, but I just never made a move back then. I wasn’t about to go confess to you when you were still heartbroken.”

“That’s valid,” you agreed. “You got me now, don’t worry. He’s not in the picture anymore and you currently have no other competition.”

“He’s still part of you though, made you the person you are today.”

“I hate that you’re right”, you sighed. “Unfortunately, you never forget your first love even if it hurt.”

“Well, he was your first love, but I kinda want to be your last if you’ll allow me.”

“That’s perfectly fine by me”, you replied with a chuckle.

“So… We’re all good now? I can peacefully be in love with you?” Logan asked with a grin.

“Yes you can,” you nodded. “I fear I’ll be in love with you too soon enough if you keep being sweet like that.”

“I definitely wouldn’t mind that,” was the last thing he said before offering to kiss you again.

And although Logan knew it may actually take a while before you’d be completely in tune with your feelings, he also knew that he had no reason to worry about him. He was just a memory, a bittersweet and nostalgic one. Still part of who you became as a person, but he was in the past. Someone you'd probably never see again. And if you did, you were over him anyway. The only man that mattered to you right now was Logan – the one you currently loved, the one kissing you, the one who'd give you the world and burn it to the ground if it meant that he could see you smile.

Logan had been playing the long game and he was finally rewarded for his years of loyalty. You wished you could go back in the past and tell your younger self that the best friend she’d made when she started primary school would later become her boyfriend – past you would be delighted as she might have had a slight crush on Logan when she met him and he offered to share his pencils so that she could colour the sun drawn in the corner of her paper – but this would be tampering with time.

So if reliving everything that ever happened to you was necessary to end up with Logan now, then you’d do it all over again. And Logan would still wait for you, no matter how long it’d take.

..........

And we're done! I hope y'all liked this, I'm super happy w how it turned out and i think this might be one my fav things ever written

Ngl i kinda put some personal stuff in here and it surprisingly made me feel better bc even tho I'm over the person, idk if I'll ever be over the situation yk so this is a way to keep coping w it years later lmao

Also☝🏻 let's take a minute to celebrate logan posting a few days ago bc i was so glad to see him on my screen, i miss him on the grid sm :(

See you next time, take care of yourself🫶🏻

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 408: Orphaned Cryptid to Billionaire Supervillain

Previously on BnHA: HE WAS BORN AN ARROGANT BABY.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi decides he’s going to cover the rest of the AFO/OFA saga in the span of just seven pages, the majority of which are mostly just filled with lovingly detailed closeups of AFO and Kudou’s eyes. Back in the present day, Kid For One takes a couple of seconds to trample the last of the “Kacchan is OFA II or is related to OFA II” theories into the dust, and is then all “fuck it, I’ll just take him out with one last spectacularly grotesque supermove.” Kacchan is all “lol you fucking dipshit”, and he says it with such confidence that it truly makes me believe he can defeat AFO’s “ALL THE QUIRKS EVER!!” attack with his piddly little exploding bloodsweat quirk. AND IT WILL BE A SIGHT TO SEE.

interesting!

Yoichi’s name btw is written with the kanji 与 which means “bestow” or “give”, and 一 which means “one.” so basically “one who gives”, which is fitting as the creator of OFA, but also fits in with this new context of being the first “possession” bestowed upon AFO

oh yes and also AFO I guess has just torn his brother to shreds or something too. idk. I’m going to be honest with you guys, this panel has such a surreal vibe that I just sat here blinking stupidly at it and wasn’t even shocked or anything. like what. is he dreaming this?? or did he really just make a “STOP! IN THE NAAAAME OF LOVE” gesture and in doing so remove half of his brother’s jaw

ewww

idk what’s wrong with me today guys. AFO just disintegrated Yoichi, and Kudou and and OFA Tres (who apparently still doesn’t have a name???? freaking Kudou got named before you??) are literally RIGHT THERE and presumably horrified, and all I can think about is how fucking gross it is that they’re all hanging out in a fucking sewer

oh shit y’all it’s about to go down

he can’t kill Kudou right off the bat can he? does Kudou even know he has OFA yet? are we going to see him transfer it to OFA III? I’m so fucking excited omg

LOL WHAT

“weirdly matte” omg. so apparently he’s like All Might, where the “he’s just drawn differently” thing is something people actually acknowledge in-story. “yeah he actually has no pupils. that’s a real thing. technically that should mean he can’t see since pupils are what let light into your eyes, but don’t worry about that part. just know that his eyes canonically look weird to the story people as well, and everyone is creeped out by it, not just you”

yeah he’s actually blind

so he literally can’t see outside himself. way to lay those metaphors on thick, Horikoshi

(ETA: this is my “just in case my impeccably dry wit doesn’t translate well across the internet” ETA to assure everyone I know he’s not actually blind lol.)

now we’re cutting to some random city where AFO is broodingly staring at Yoichi’s severed hand because he’s perfected the art of always doing incredibly unsettling things

I cannot believe the fucking hands thing has an actual origin story. of course it does. this man has never done a single hinged thing in his life. it’s all unhinged or bust. am I talking about AFO or Horikoshi? YOU DECIDE

he’s sitting at a table with a bottle of wine holding his dead brother’s embalmed severed limb and thinking about fucking quirk shit

so your transformation from Orphaned Cryptid to Billionaire Supervillain happened almost completely offscreen huh. I’m kinda disappointed, ngl. I could have read a few more chapters about that. maybe a spinoff miniseries

WAIT WHAT

are you serious. we finally get a panel that’s INCREDIBLY RELEVANT to pretty much ALL OF MY BNHA THEORIES, only for that same panel to contradict itself ONE SPEECH BUBBLE LATER?? so what is the truth???

omg omg omg

so many fucking questions, omg. what the hell does “through research” even mean. how did he confirm Yoichi’s quirklessness, and why did he later change his mind? how the fuck can Yoichi have a quirk factor and yet not have an actual quirk. “it was just so weak it didn’t count or something I guess” okay??? how much of this is unreliable narrator vs. the word of god? how is it we’re getting so many answers and yet all I have is more fucking questions you guys

BRUE?CE?CEE??!

bruce

Kudou is so goddamned hot. I hope you washed the hell out of that arm wound after getting it all covered in sewage you stupid sexy man

I can’t get over Three’s name. “idk if anyone noticed, but it’s kind of a subtle homage to another very famous superhero” Horikoshi your nap wasn’t long enough, please go home

also love how Bruce is talking shit about OFA being a puny loser quirk for wimps. how the fuck do they even know what’s going on, anyway? was there a tutorial???

oh you just had a feeling huh??? that it was “something like this”, huh??? how is it that I, who knows all about OFA because I’m from the future and have read 408 chapters of this nonsense, am somehow still less in the know than this handsome clown who doesn’t know shit but just “had a feeling”

(ETA: while editing this post I noted that Bruce is sitting in front of a computer in what seems to be some sort of medical lab, so maybe they ran some tests or something? except that only makes me more confused, because it implies they didn’t actually figure out OFA’s workings via convenient plot instincts. so then how the fuck did they figure out the transfer process?? questions)

meanwhile AFO is sitting in the panel next to him whining about how someone stole Yoichi’s quirk. excuse you. he did not steal it. it was in fact a gift

these flashbacks are all jumbled up and it’s unexpectedly fun to read, but also really chaotic

I guess he’s talking to Kudou on the right and AFO on the left

so many intense closeups of eyes in this chapter oh my goodness

Horikoshi even drew the individual goddamn eyelashes. this looks like the margins of someone’s notebook from when they were really bored in middle school

oh my god the information overload!!!

so much for AFO actually feeling emotions lol. or is he just lying to himself about why he cried. that delicious ambiguity

so we don’t even get a flashback explaining how the transfer actually happened?? to either Kudou OR my beloved Bruce?? goddamn you Horikoshi. omg I would seriously kill for more of this. make a movie about it. I want the OFA origin story prequel movie damn it

I like how AFO just sits there on a throne holding court with a single tiki torch beside him for aesthetic reasons

I can’t quite figure out how he killed Banjou and I’m not sure I really want to know. it looks very violent

friendly reminder that Shinomori is Sir Not Appearing In This Flashback because he’s the only OFA user who died of natural causes! good for you Shinomori. En probably wishes he was more like you

poor En

was Nana just taking a stroll or something one day and stumbled across this epic fight with the evilest man on the planet vs some kid in a trenchcoat, and then the poor kid got bisected and he looked at her and he was all “please eat my hair” and she was just like “ok”?

OH WOW

what a transition omg

LOLLLLLLLL

you know, part of me always wondered how All Might was so certain he’d killed AFO that he apparently never bothered to confirm it. but looking at this panel now, I can understand

fjjfdzjgf

he’s sweating so much. like “okay yeah he punched the top of his face off, this is pretty bad but I’LL DO MY BEST”

BACK TO THE PRESENT DAY AWW SHUCKS

so let’s recap. over on Kacchan’s side we have “GOTTA USE THE PAIN TO WIN!!!” haha ouch. and then over here on KFO’s side we have. whatever the fuck we just experienced over these past two chapters. so basically it’s a battle between the two most deranged characters in the entire series. glorious sweet chaos

DSFJKSLDKGJL he’s now trying to figure out how the fuck they look so much alike and whether they’re actually related

“no, that can’t be it. so then maybe... this kid grows up and then somehow travels back in time...?!” HE’S JUST LIKE US FR

so now he’s saying it’s because Kacchan didn’t have character development yet the last time, but now that he does his eyes are all Full Of Determination just like Kudou’s and so we’ve basically come full circle!

transcended WHAT? :O :D :D omg I’m kidding you guys please don’t hurt me

lol

actually the more we learn about Kudou the less I personally see the resemblance now lol. because Kudou seems so calm and collected, but Kacchan is just... [gestures to literally everything about Kacchan]

so AFO’s trying to strategize, but he can’t warp Kacchan away because the only available targets are too close and he’s still got that SUPERSPEED, BOYO so it wouldn’t make a difference. lol but if you kept doing it repeatedly it might be kind of funny though

and he can’t keep fighting him either because he’s getting his ass whooped and it’s speeding up his de-aging or whatever. well you could just give up then I guess. your call, AFO

oh was that your plan?

spoiler alert for me lol. but it’s not exactly shocking or anything since he’s dying, guess he wants to abandon ship

(ETA: just FYI for anyone reading this who’s not familiar with my dumbassery, I have currently only read chapters 1 through 374 at this point in time, before skipping ahead to 403 because Kacchan came back and I lost all willpower. I am working on catching up with the rest!)

oh so now you did come up with a strategy?

lmao what the FUCK

how much of this is going to be clearer to me once I finish the chapters that I missed, and how much of it is just plain old “nope this is all brand new zero-context BnHA bullshit” lol. this looks like every single quirk AFO ever absorbed combined into one gigantic horrifying blob that forced Horikoshi to take an extra week just to draw it

oh my god!?

Kacchan hovering there bravely facing all this is giving me Gandalf “you shall not pass” vibes and I’m LIVING FOR IT

so either AFO is going to kill Kacchan for the second time right here and now, or he’s going to fail and turn back into a squishy evil baby fdslfjkls

love how All Might is all “DODGE IT YOUNG BAKUGOU!” thanks for the warning, champ. doing his part

more exploding bloodsweat closeups. are these just going to be a mainstay of Kacchan fights from now on

“are you stupid?”, when faced with [gestures to the entirety of the previous page], is possibly the best line ever uttered by anyone in the series. even better than the polite “coming through” uttered only seconds before it

ah man. you love to see it. he literally doesn’t even care. HE ALREADY DIED ONCE TODAY, AND IT CLUED HIM IN TO THE FACT THAT HE’S A MAIN CHARACTER AND ACTUALLY IMMUNE TO DEATH. sorry AFO it’s curtains for you. CURTAINS

[painterofhorizons]

post Akuze WIP - egg edition

I swear, I am a serious author.

Things that definitely happened at some point in the post Akuze recovery.

~ ~ ~

Miroslaw always went to check in with her post surgery. Technically it wasn’t part of his job, at least not until she was awake enough for physical therapy. But he knew a friendly face could make all the difference and he didn’t mind doing some sick visits just for the sake of it.

Besides, post-anesthesia-Reda could be a quite entertaining person to be around.

The procedure she’d undergone today had been a relatively minor one to fix some ongoing nerve issues in her left arm. She’d been out for barely half an hour, so he’d volunteered to be around when she woke up again instead of doing their regular afternoon PT session. But even with the surgery being a minor one, sedation had done a damn good job.

Reda was trying to tell him something for a couple of minutes by now but wasn’t quite there enough again to catch up with her thoughts.

“What did I do with my what?” he tried to make sense of her slurred words.

Reda frowned at him, having the same intense stare high on drugs as she had completely sober. She had told him five or so times by now – ten maybe, numbers were hard to catch – what exactly did he not understand about his question?

What was he hiding?

“Egg.”

Her right hand aimlessly waved through the air, trying to gesture something.

“Where’s your egg. The-” more hand waving, eagerly directed at him “-man high. Egg. On trips-“

A man high egg on trips.

Miroslaw raised his brows.

“Man high stone egg, going on trips” she repeated, as if he was slow-witted. Her hand sank back onto the blanket, suddenly very, very tired.

She sounded deeply offended.

“You went on trips without me, man.”

She didn’t know where the egg was now. Everything felt heavy. Her foot wiggled itself free from the too warm blanket.

“Where did you go.”

“Where’s the egg.”

“Why did you go without me.”

Whenever Miro thought he could give her an answer – whatever that answer would be – she added another question-disguised-accusation to the list.

“You can’t go on trips with the egg without me. I want to come on the adventures.”

Her hand tried to fix some stubborn wrinkle on the too warm blanket, but coordination was as hard as numbers.

Shit wasn’t fair.

“That’s rude, man.”

She looked up again from her hand, eyes wandering through the anesthetic recovery room, staring at Miro for a moment without really looking at him. The egg wasn’t there. Where had it gone.

Why was she hungry.

Miroslaw slowly nodded, agreeing with her. Sounded pretty rude to him, too. Pretty serious indeed. How dare he.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad by excluding you.”

In the egg adventures.

She took a shaky breath that felt like the dumb egg was sitting right on her chest. Her mouth was dry. Maybe she’d eaten the egg, off-white and all, and couldn’t remember it.

The frown on her face grew deeper.

“I have eaten your egg.”

The realization hit her hard.

“I’m so sorry.”

Miro couldn’t help but snicker. He reached for her arm, comfortingly patting her.

“Don’t worry. The egg is fine.”

“But where did it go.”

He realized he wouldn’t get away without making up some kind of egg adventure that he’d done earlier, without her, if he wanted her to find some peace of mind midst sedation. So where did the man high stone egg and he go…

“You know the trip we took the other day to the snack vending machine down second level in B-hall?”

“With the ice cream?”

“With the ice cream. So the egg wanted-“

“Ice cream.”

Reda nodded, as if that was the only possible answer to the egg riddle.

“Gotcha. Can I have some.”

He reached over to the cup with ice cubes on the drawer. He got her covered, friendly face and ice cubes and egg and all. He was always amazed hearing her talk so much under sedation, when she’d soberly still preferred to sign instead of speaking.

~ ~ ~

Inspired by this video and a nightly chat with dearest @kyratittyfish and one of the many What If's that have shaped the post Akuze fic by now.

[dyns33]

Drama king

I wrote this Dieter lil story before watching the Bubble, and I have to say, I really like Dee, he's a fool, but he didn't really hurt anyone in the show, just being a sweet idiot.

People were surprised to learn that Dieter Bravo was married. He wore so many strange accessories that no one thought this ring, among all those other rings, was a real wedding band.

People were even more surprised to discover that he had recently become a widower.

This terrible and sad news, however, was better received than the first, as fans were jealous, preferring their stars single and at the same time not understanding how a man like Dieter Bravo could find love while some of them remained desperately lonely.

Of course, this didn't mean they were happy that the poor actor had lost his wife, even though they knew nothing about her.

The only thing certain was that Dieter Bravo was devastated by this loss. He dragged himself around the sets like a lost soul, staying in his room to mope, slumped on his bed with his head buried in his pillow, when he wasn't looking at photos of his wife on his phone while crying.

"I miss her so much… It's been almost a month without her, it feels like yesterday. I feel like I'm reliving that day over and over again, I want to die."

"I'm sorry, Dieter, I really am, but maybe finishing this scene will give you something else to think about ?"

"I can't think about anything but her day and night. My heart is empty and dry. The passion is gone with my sweet darling."

"… We're going to take another fifteen-minute break."

Even though it was pure torture working with Dieter in this state, even more so than usual, for once he had a "good" excuse not to be focused, and no one could blame him, trying to comfort him, in vain. Nothing seemed to extinguish the despair of the poor man, who had loved his wife more than anything in the world.

He loved her so much that he had agreed not to speak about their relationship to the public or on social media, even though he loved to share everything, incapable of keeping a secret. But she clearly valued discretion, and he had respected that.

A huge demonstration of love for the great Dieter Bravo. His current emotional distress must have been even worse than the people around him could imagine.

Knowing the man well, it was already a miracle that he was able to stand up and leave the house in such a situation. When his agent dared to ask him if he needed a little time, his response moved the witnesses present.

"No. She wants me to continue. She told me. I promised not to hide in my bed, she wouldn't like that. Too risky for me."

Whoever she was, the woman who married Dieter was well aware of his old demons, and before leaving, she had wisely warned him about them, to avoid alcohol and drugs in his darkest moments.

Despite this promise and all his good intentions, the actor finally broke down just a few days later, found unconscious in a pool of vomit and rushed to the emergency room.

Unwilling to leave him alone, his agent and assistant stayed in the waiting room while the doctors attended to him.

They thought they had seen everything with Dieter and could no longer be surprised. Until a woman came to sit next to them, looking worried, stopping a nurse to ask about Mr. Bravo.

"And you are ?"

"His wife. You called me, I'm his emergency contact."

"Oh, yes ! Follow me."

She followed the nurse into the room, oblivious to the stares fixed on her, as if she were a ghost. Because technically, she had to be a ghost, since she was dead !

A thousand questions raced through their heads when they were allowed to come in turn, finding Dieter awake, crying as he held the hand of the woman who said was his wife, patting his shoulder.

"Thank you for taking him," she said, turning to them. "If he… I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't found him."

"You could have saved yourself a lawyer."

"Dieter !"

"What ? You're the one who wants to leave me… I'll never sign the papers, never !"

"I mentioned divorce once. We're on a break, I needed time to think, and you needed time to learn to be more independent. But I don't want you to be hurt or something bad."

"You're hurting me right now." he murmured, pouting.

"… But, she's not dead ?"

This cut the couple off in their exchange, as they stared at Dieter's agent, before the woman took a deep breath and yelled at her husband.

"You're telling people I'm dead ?!"

"What ?! Not at all ! I said you were gone !"

"Seeing the state you're in, people think I'm dead !"

"I'm wasting away without you, it's almost the same ! I love you, I need you in my life !"

"That's the problem, Dieter…" sighed the poor woman, who clearly loved the idiot, but still had limits like the rest of the universe. "You're like a baby koala. Adorable, but a little… a lot clingy. Tell me you're not here to get my attention."

"No, love. I promise. It was an accident, I mismanaged the dosage… I didn't mean to worry you. You're going to leave me forever now."

"Calm down, Dee. I believe you, breathe, I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll leave afterward…" he sobbed, taking her hand again. "I can do better, stay with me."

Seeing it was becoming too personal, the agent and assistant decided to leave them alone, even though they wanted to know if this story would have a happy ending.

The answer seemed obvious when Dieter Bravo returned to the set with a huge smile and spending all his downtime on his phone, hesitant to send a message to his wife because he missed her, but knowing he had to prove he wasn't addicted.

It was difficult to explain to everyone that he hadn't remarried, not at all.

In any case, if this was the actor's state during a simple break, no one would have imagined after the divorce, let alone if something really happened to his wife. It would be hell on Earth.

"I can't believe these people thought I was dead." she said when she came to visit him, greeted with a huge hug and a long declaration of love, without much reaction, probably because that was what happened whenever they saw each other.

"Me neither. I really just said you left, it's weird."

"Did you cry like you did in front of Paddington 2 ?"

"Hey ! It's a beautiful movie ! And… Yeah, maybe I was a bit sad."

"Just a bit ?"

"I told you, it was like you ripped my heart out and took it with you."

"Okay, I can guess why I was declared dead."

"Stop ! Don't say it again, or it might happen !"

"This isn't Beetlejuice, Dee."

"I don't care !" Dieter shouted, clinging to her, ready to fight the grim reaper if it dared come near. "You never know !"

And besides his wife, no one was really surprised by this attitude, perfectly normal for the great Dieter Bravo.

[kimberly-stocks]

There are a lot of videos about how Rory is the worst. And there are a lot of defense posts about Rory on Tumblr. What I've noticed is how so many people concentrate on Rory's mistakes and on her fall from grace and whatnot. There's a lot of debate on who's the best and worst boyfriend for her etc etc etc. People are either ready to crucify her from dropping out of Yale or advocating for a much needed break. But I guess what I haven't seen a lot is the detrimental role Dean played on Rory's self esteem.

We all remember and love Rory from season one, who was unapologetically herself, who stood up for herself to Tristin and Paris, and who had this dry wit, and just did her thing, studied a lot because she loved it. And then somehow that confident Rory disappeared, and turned into someone who crumbled under the first ever critique. I may be wrong, but I feel like Dean played a huge role in that.

It's a well known fact that women who date abusers, however confident they were getting into that relationship, can completely lose the sense of self, and their confidence by the end of it. And I feel like that is what we see when Rory starts dating Dean. The confident and cool Rory completely disappears by the end of season 2 after dating Dean for over a year. I feel like his jealous freak outs and him yelling at her slowly but surely were chipping away at Rory's sense of self. And she couldn't get away from it, because Lorelai encouraged that relationship. Even though she felt like it was wrong, she kept dating Dean because Lorelai thought he was a perfect boyfriend. (Which I mean, I sort of get. I mean, imagine being 16 and giving birth, her emotional development basically got stunted after that point. So even though she's technically 32, she's still 16 in her mind. And in her teenage brain a guy who shows up and calls when he says he would, unlike Christopher who's never there, it's basically the epitome of perfection). So Rory gets stuck in this clusterfuck of a relationship with Dean for years to come, while he mentally and emotionally abuses her throughout the whole thing. No wonder when she gets Mitchum's criticism, she's completely destroyed. Because dean's constant nags to her were like termites who ate away the fundamental foundation of what Rory is as a person. Even when Jess showed up she's been with Dean for way too long. I think it would've been better for her mental health in the long run if her and Dean didn't get back together at the end of season 1. Three months with Dean is more than enough.