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celestie0 · 1 year ago

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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.7 to lose someone you love

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, mentions of weed, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot

ᰔ chapter. 7/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 8.5k

a/n. sighhh i'm rly sorry for the wait. and thank you sooo much to the love for the last chapter omg :') this chapter is gojo pov and it's a bit different than the rest, but i still hope you enjoy and that it was worth the wait. if there are typos, they're not typos they're actually 100% intentional and you are the silly one

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When Gojo was just four years old, he called for the paramedics for the very first time.

He had wandered around the house, wide and innocent blue eyes searching the room for the landline in the dim light of the evening, his lip quivering in a pout. His small arm reached up to pet around at the top of his parents’ dresser before his fingers wrapped around the phone. He couldn’t remember what the number was at first, the one his mother always told him to call in case of an emergency, but he remembered he scribbled it down somewhere with red crayon in one of his coloring books. By the time Gojo first realized he needed to call for help, located the landline, looked through all of his little portraits of dinosaurs and spaceships sprawled across the carpet of his room, found those three numbers, and then finally dialed them, his father had already been seizing and shaking on the bathroom floor for longer than twenty-four minutes.

He was just a child. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know any better.

Gojo spent the remainder of that night hugging his mom in the hospital’s emergency room, his tears soaking through her shirt as she gently rocked him back and forth in her lap while whispering soothing words in his ear. His father lay motionless on the hospital bed before them, eyes shut, and Gojo will never forget the haunting sounds of the machinery that was keeping his father alive. It was a sudden onset seizure, likely stemming from the traumatic brain injury his father had suffered a few years ago, and the prolonged convulsions he experienced on the bathroom floor that night had resulted in severe brain damage. Gojo could still hear the echo of his mother’s silent cry when the doctors informed them that it’s unlikely his father would ever fully recover from this.

No reasonable adult would ever look a four-year-old in the eyes and say if you had called for help sooner or knew what to do, maybe your father would’ve still had the chance to live a long life. Yet, even at his young age, Gojo was aware of the energy in the room, and that explanation was the only truth his mind could grasp onto to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

After two weeks of clinging to life, his father miraculously woke up from his coma and persevered for the sake of his wife and son. Shortly after the incident, he began to have recurring seizures but fought through them each time. Without fail, he made Gojo breakfast in the mornings, even if it meant having to clean up the spilt orange juice on the counter every now and then because of how his hands could not stop trembling. He always walked Gojo to the bus stop, waving him goodbye, despite how troublesome and embarrassing he found it to use his cane. The love he had for his son was so palpable that it eclipsed the bitterness over how his life had ended up because of the blessing it had brought him.

In his prime, Gojo’s father was a renowned soccer player, so incredibly talented at the sport that he left a lasting mark on the way teams strategized, his presence on the field commanding respect, and he was one of the greatest talents the entire college division had ever seen.

He met Gojo’s mother at one of his freshman year games, a pretty lady in the stands that caught his eye from the sight of her laughter among her friends, her radiance drawing him to her from the field, and that’s how their love began. Exactly one year following that day, he stole one of his grandmother’s thrifted rings from her jewelry collection and that was what he used to propose. Gojo’s mother had accepted it with so many tears and so much snot running down her face, and he had never found her more beautiful. They married young and sweet, like most people back then.

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant.

No one knew that would be the last game of soccer he would ever play.

It was a freak accident, a distracted driver behind the wheel of a gray Chevy on a dark and rainy night, veered straight towards Gojo’s parents car to avoid a branch on the road. In a moment that could only be described as his instinct to protect, he quickly swerved his vehicle, taking the brunt of the impact on his side. His family surrounded him at his hospital bedside as they grappled with the news that he would be unable to play the sport ever again due to his traumatic brain injury that would lead to lifelong motor function loss. According to the doctors and police, had he not swerved to shield his wife and unborn child, the outcome would have been far more disastrous. After months of rehabilitation, he regained enough ability to walk and just enough function in his extremities to welcome his newborn son in his arms.

When Gojo was just six years old, two years after witnessing his father’s first seizure, he stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten soccer ball tucked away in the corner of the garage. When he eagerly presented it to his father, excitement gleaming in his eyes, he was only met with a scowl and the demand to discard it, to never bring such things like that to him ever again. His mother protested, ensuing in an argument, and as Gojo lowered his gaze to the ball in his hands, he noticed his father’s faded signature adorned with a heart and message of love for his mother. The ink, once vibrant, now faded with time.

It wasn’t until Gojo turned seven that his father finally relented to teach him more about the sport, knowing it was all his son wanted for his birthday. With determination in his heart, Gojo pleaded for his father’s guidance, eager to kick around a nearly deflated, weathered ball. His father watched his son, expression morphing from reserved and stoic, softening to surprise, then hopeful, and he found himself cheering on his son’s clumsy endeavors on the field despite how many times he tumbled and fell. Because that was his son, his pride and joy, reminiscent of him embracing the sport that he himself had cherished so many years ago.

As Gojo grew older and excelled at the sport, securing victory after victory in every youth league, his father’s health steadily declined. The recurring seizures caused by the brain damage from his prolonged convulsions on that fateful night exacerbated over the years and started to take an increasing toll on his body. Yet still, he never missed even a single one of his son’s games. Whenever Gojo swiftly sent the ball flying through the net, the first person his eyes would search for on the field was his father, the joy in his eyes being all he cared about in the world. Gojo lived to make his father proud, because it was the only thing that made him feel like he could make up for what little he had done to protect his father that night.

You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better.

The day following Gojo’s eleventh birthday, his father had his second major seizure, falling into another coma, but this time he never woke up. Two years later, his mother made the tough decision to end his life-support, and then he was gone from their lives. Gojo’s mother was inconsolable, and he knew that his father took a piece of her soul with him to heaven that night. The piece that allowed her to smile.

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning.

But why was he remembering all of that now?

The shrill of Gojo’s alarm clock woke him up from the intrusive memories that were washing through the fore-front of his mind, and he grumbled to himself before whacking at his nightstand haphazardly to shut the thing off. He ran a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe the sleepiness away, features instantly settling into an annoyed scowl as he blinked his eyes open and the filtering sunlight through the windows harassed his vision.

He laid there for a few seconds, mending to the pounding headache at his temples with his fingers rubbing circles, and then he finally sat up in bed. Blinking at his sheets, the images of last night start to flash through his mind. The heavy music, the dim lighting of the bathroom, the dizzying jealousy, and the taste of you on his tongue–

The memory is supposed to arouse him, and would on any normal day, but because you had left him standing there stunned with no release of his own at all, he instead just feels a pulsing, soul-deep throbbing pain at his crotch that could really only be due to the fact he was left high and dry by you last night. He groans at the sensation, palm pushing down on his lower abdomen to try and relax the torture, which barely helped. It’s either he jerks off or takes a cold shower, and given the former was likely not possible for him right now since his god-forsaken brain decided to push the traumatizing experiences of his childhood to the forefront of his headspace first thing in the morning, meaning it’s unlikely he’ll be able to settle into the memory of you bent over that bathroom counter for him, he decides on the cold shower. And it’s safe to say that today already fucking sucked.

The moment the chill water hits the skin of his body, he recollects the look you had on your face right before you walked out on him. Soft, searching, to him almost seraphic, but you also looked wounded. And something from your anger with him since before he even had you in that bathroom, to the agonizing moment you left him in there by himself, told him he’d messed up big time with you somewhere along the lines.

He knew he had been a jerk last night. He didn’t really have much of a right to be seethingly possessive of you, but the sight of you kissing another guy had him seeing red and his knuckles turning white. He finds himself clenching his jaw at the unwelcome memory even now. He figured he probably ruined what would’ve otherwise been an enjoyable night for you, and so you decided to get revenge by walking out on him. However, he can’t shake the feeling that things are messy and complicated now, primarily because of him, and he felt like he needed to apologize for dragging you into his weird, confusing emotions.

He gets himself dry and dressed, grateful for the barely sufficient relief he had down south, and sighs as he grabs his phone and taps on your name, thinking about what to say to you, and just settles on typing out Hey, can we talk? and then presses send. He turns the ringer of his phone off, tosses the device onto his bed and then heads out the door.

Geto was sitting on the couch in the loft, rubbing an ice cube across his forehead as he sprawled on the cushions and let out low and consistent groans to himself. Gojo flopped down on the armchair across from him and assumed a similar position, rubbing at his temples to nurse his own headache. Geto opens an eye to look at him.

“Morning,” he grumbles.

“I take it I’m not the only one that feels like they’ve been hit by a truck?” Gojo asks.

Geto makes a disgruntled noise and throws his head back on the cushion. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. God knows how much I had last night.” He reaches over to the console table in the center for the bottle of Ibuprofen and tosses it to Gojo, who catches it and stares down at the label. “I didn’t really see you drink that much though. Don’t know why you’re hungover.”

Gojo sighs. He wasn’t hungover. His headache was from the fact that had a lot on his mind. Like the feeling of your skin last night. And then the pain of being blue-balled. And also for some reason his father’s death. Very exhausting to juggle those thoughts at once.

Gojo twists the cap off the bottle of Ibuprofen and pops two pills, drowning them in his mouth with Geto’s glass of water, then runs a frustrated hand through his hair. The man across from him raises an eyebrow.

“You good?” he asks.

“Super peachy,” Gojo replies.

He sighs. “Well, whatever it is, just make sure it doesn’t affect your play today,” Geto warns him, sinking further down into the couch. Gojo lets out an exhale through his nose. Geto usually pushed further for answers whenever he was in a mood, so the fact that he didn’t this time meant that hangover was bad.

“I’m more worried about you. You think you’ll be fine in a few hours?” Gojo asks. Geto just waves his hand in the air in response as he grabs the hand towel on his chest and drags it up over his face, shielding himself from the light of the room.

“I have no choice but to be fine. We have to win this game,” is all he says through muffling cloth.

Gojo nods, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the carpet. It was finally the game of the 28th, arguably the second-most important game of the season. If they take home the win, they’re automatically seeded into top sixteen teams, which means they’ll only have to win four more matches after today to take home the championship. But if they lose, they’re seeded to the bottom, and then four turns into a daunting eight. In the history of the league, not a single team has ever lost their pre-seed game and still continued to win the playoff championship. So Geto was right, they have no choice but to win today. Otherwise, they could kiss goodbye to a 12-year UTokyo championship streak.

“Not going for your run?” Geto asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Nah, not feeling up for it,” Gojo replies.

He clicks his tongue. “Never skip the pre-game ritual, man.”

Gojo groans, knowing that he’s right, and so he reluctantly gets up off the chair and heads back into his room. His phone lay there on the bed, facing down, and he felt so tragically taunted by it that he weighed the options of whether or not he should check if you replied back before his run or after his run. And then he’s wondering why you affect him this much in the first place.

He resolves to check after his run, and only gets one arm through his shirt before his hands betray him and he snatches his phone, eagerly tapping the screen to turn it on.

He sees your name at the top, where you had just replied barely a minute ago. Sure, we can talk. He blinks at his phone when he sees the polite period at the end of your message, and the proper capitalization, not to mention a vocative comma? He was starting to feel really nervous.

He didn’t care that you had only replied a minute ago, he quickly typed out his response and sent it.

|| 10:35am Gojo: Do you know how to get onto the stadium field today?

He sees you typing, and he’s holding his breath.

|| 10:36am you: yes, I do. I’m going in w the newsletter journalists. Was this what you wanted to talk about?

What did he want to talk to you about exactly? Something like I’m sorry about being an ass last night, totally not cool for me to be that territorial over you, although I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again because seeing you kiss someone other than me kind of made me want to die. Also, I’m sorry for acting like you’re just someone I know, I don’t know why I did it. I guess it’s because I didn’t know if you thought of me as any more than just someone you know either, and that thought was frightening. Did I mention I hated seeing you kiss someone that wasn’t me?

He’s never really been good with words. Or feelings.

10:37am Gojo: No, it’s not, it’s something else. I’ll come find you on the field before the game starts

He stands there, gaze fixed on his phone screen for the minute-long pause you took to respond, that for him felt like tortured eons, just for you to send-

10:39am you: k

Gojo finishes getting dressed for his run, anxiety brewing in his stomach drearily, and when he heads out the door of the house, the fresh morning air doesn’t help calm him down like it usually does. Of course, as he’s running, his thoughts wander to you. He’s thinking about the smell of your hair–or was it the perfume on your skin?–either way, it was intoxicating. The curve of your neck, that spot that made you whimper– fuck. Think of other things. Like the sound of your voice, soft and sometimes needy, but he enjoys it that way–makes his head spin. Or when you’re being sweet and thanking him for something you shouldn’t, because to him everything about you was a privilege and never a task. Even in the hot spring sun of the late morning, he finds himself missing the warmth from your body, and that look. That goddamn look in your eyes when you’re peering into his like you want him to–

“I’m sure he’s really proud of you.”

His legs stop him on their own, like they know something about the feelings in his chest that he doesn’t, and he’s standing still on the sidewalk of the neighborhood now. Short puffs of air escape his lips from his blood pumping fast through his body, and he could physically hear the sound of you in his head. Intimate enough to where he turns to the side slightly facing his surroundings, like there was no way it was just a memory and you weren’t actually near. He finds himself swallowing hard and having to consciously keep moving forward.

Gojo makes it back to the house, freshens up for the second time today, and gets dressed into his UTokyo soccer uniform with his signature #10 jersey. He leaves with Geto to campus, where all his teammates gather before eventually boarding the bus to the UTokyo stadium field ten minutes away. Coach Yaga yells their ears off in the locker rooms in an attempt to get their plays for today through their brains, and the exhilarating noises from the stands as they make their formal entrance through to the field fills Gojo’s senses, along with the obnoxiously loud music playing as pre-game rituals settle in. Gojo sets his bag down on the bench and joins the others in warm-ups for about fifteen minutes, before catching a chance to sneak away and look for you across the expansive pristine grass.

After lightly jogging around the perimeter of the field for a couple of minutes, he finally spots you, his raised eyebrows now flattening under the fringe of his hair as he relaxes. He didn’t realize he was tensing his shoulders until now. You were just beyond the sidelines near a hydration station, fidgeting with something in your camera case, lips pressed together in a frustrated expression, and he saw your body sulk with the sigh you let out as you must’ve realized you had forgotten something. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a slight smile, an unconscious reaction to seeing you look so damn cute from your troubled face decorated with a pout. And then he remembered he had been looking for you, and he had found you, and the only thing to do next was to be near you.

He ambles up to you, and you only catch sight of him when he’s just a few feet away and finally standing in front of you. He sees your eyes widen slightly, lashes blinking once, twice, and then there’s a blush of color to your cheeks as you fidget with the stadium access badge hung around your neck. He noticed there were grass stains on your jeans over your knees when he looked down.

“Hey,” Gojo greets you over the loud music playing on the field.

“Hi,” he sees you say, and he realizes he can barely hear you.

“Let’s go over there,” Gojo yells, jerking his head over to the side.

He leads you over to an area tucked near the east side entrance, a corner slightly underneath one of the sectioned stands where the loud cheers of the stadium somehow reflected off less. It was about as private or silent of a place that the two of you could manage to have a conversation on a soccer field before a match, if you could just ignore the dressed up school mascots rehearsing their walk-ins and walk-outs through the entryway.

You take a few steps backwards until your back hits the concrete slab wall, and he’s in front of you as he watches you study him for a second, taking in the sight of his uniform, before your eyes finally meet his.

“Are you ready to take your photos today?” he asks you, poorly attempting to make small talk despite the images of you with him in that bathroom last night flashing through his memory. Now was seriously not the time to be turned on.

You nod, and respond “I am”, giving him absolutely nothing to work with.

He sighs. “Listen, about last night, I just wanted to apologize. For dragging you into that bathroom with me, although you did ask me to-” He sees you narrow your eyes and cross your arms across your chest. “Sorry,” he sighs, “Seriously, I just…I don’t know what got over me then.”

“You don’t know? Or you just don’t want to tell me?” you prod at him. He briefly considers pretending he doesn’t hear your question over the sound of the stadium, but he knows he wouldn't get away with that, not with the way you’re looking at him like he’s just one more fuck-up away from making you storm off.

He looks at your lips. “I guess the only thing I know is that I didn’t like seeing you kiss someone else.”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I know you didn’t, Satoru. Otherwise last night wouldn’t have happened. What I’m asking is why.”

He’s struggling now, searching his head for answers, like he’s fighting for his life on a test that he didn’t study for. When he looks down, he notices your foot has been tapping impatiently. And when he looks back up, there’s that wounded expression from last night again. “I don’t know,” is all he can offer.

You uncross your arms from your chest, lips parting slightly as your eyebrows pinch upwards with a disheartened look. He sees your gaze shift slowly across the features of his face, searching, and he wonders if you can see something within him that he can’t. The thought terrifies him. “Fine. It’s my turn to speak.”

He nods slowly. He wasn’t sure what you wanted to say to him. He imagined you would just cuss him out with a few choice words for being a raging asshole last night and then you’d be on your merry way. But he senses sincerity in your voice. Not that he was phenomenal at reading people, though.

He watches as you clench and unclench your fists at your sides nervously, then twiddle with the strap of your camera, then tuck your hair behind your ears, then blink rapidly as you look up at him, then worry your bottom lip between your teeth, then open your mouth to speak just to close it again.

“Do you need me here for any of this?” he says in an attempt at a joke to ease you, but when all you give him is a glare, he’s fearful enough to be serious again.

“I like you.”

He blinks. “Thanks? I like you, too.”

“No, no. I like you as in I have feelings for you,” you clarify. Gojo’s eyes widen at the confession, and he stands up straighter.

“Oh,” he finally replies when he realizes he hasn’t said anything yet, “I…I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Holy shit, if that was how you felt, then he really has been a raging asshole this entire time.

You roll your eyes. “I know. You’re a hopelessly dense, menacingly flirty, sleazy frat dude college athlete,” you sigh, “But I still like you. Unfortunately, tragically, annoyingly, much to my dismay, against my better judgment,”

“Okay, I get it-”

“I think it started that night you stayed with me when I was stranded with my flat,” you confess suddenly, your chest rising a little bit faster, and his expression softened. “I just really appreciated you being there for me.”

His voice is gentle when he speaks next. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I would’ve been there if it happened ten times over,” he pauses, “although I’d seriously question your ability to drive if it happened that many times.”

“And I think it started when you walked me out to the practice field for the first time, and you told me you cared about my dreams,” you say with a slight step forwards to him, unable to acknowledge his words at all, as if there was a script you needed to stick to that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart in front of him.

He finds himself instinctively leaning towards you, close enough to where he notices you’re wearing a different perfume today. “But that was before the night of your car incident,” he reminds you.

“I know,” you nod, and there’s that look in your eyes that he loves, “and I also think it started that first night we met and you looked sad when I said we weren’t friends.”

Gojo’s eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and he finds himself breathing shallowly as he listens to your words. “y/n…I think you’re working backwards here.”

“I’m trying to say I’ve had feelings for you this whole time,” you say to him, “they were tiny at first, I didn’t really see them, but now they’re too big for me to hold all by myself.”

Gojo nods slowly, and he already knows what you’re going to ask of him next.

“I like you in a way that makes me want more from you,” you admit, eyes steadily on his with resolve, “I don’t want to be just someone you know, or someone only for sex-”

“y/n-” he tries to interrupt you.

“And I certainly won’t be someone that sits around to wait for a guy if he doesn’t want me back,” you say, but there’s an apprehensive look in your eyes when you speak next, “so, I need you to answer to my feelings.”

Gojo blinks at you, his heart beating fast in his chest from your confession, and he feels like with every testing second that he fails to answer you back, you slip further and further away from him.

He knew he had affection for you. He always wanted to be close to you, even when he already was, as if he couldn’t get close enough. He wanted to take care of you, and see that softness in your expression when he knew you felt safe and happy. He couldn’t stand the thought of you with someone else, and it took him this damn long to realize as he stood in front of you that he had no interest in being with anyone else either. So then why did his chest feel so tight? And why was he struggling so much to give you an answer?

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning.

Gojo’s eyes widened as the memories of his life flashed through his mind, a chill running down his spine as they knock the wind from his lungs and he feels that same sense of dread that has been following him like a ghost since that day when he was just four years old, standing in the hallway, wondering why his father was having a nightmare on the bathroom floor when he should’ve known it was something far worse than that.

Gojo blames himself for so much that had gone wrong in his life. And he should know that it’s not his fault, but all of his grief was greedy to breathe and live, desperate to find a reason for why he had to lose someone he loved, and his grief found a home in all of his guilt.

And he was terrified to lose someone close to him again. Even if he decided to see what could become with you, even if he thought for a moment that he was allowed to feel any sort of happiness with you, the thought of falling short and failing frightened him. He was so tired of adding to a long list of regrets in his life. And he knew he wasn’t what you needed— what you deserved.

“I…” he starts, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way about you.” He knows he sounds convincing enough from the way the light in your eyes dimmed, anticipation faltering and replaced with a sad expression over your features. He needs to take a shaky breath to continue speaking. “It seems I’ve led you on in a lot of ways, and I apologize for that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen anymore.”

You’re silent for a long moment, twiddling with your fingers as you look up at him. “I see…” you say, and when he sees your lower lip quiver slightly, he feels sick. His instinct is to reach out for you, pull you closer to him, but he knows that’s not a luxury you would allow for him, and he knew it wasn’t one he deserved either.

Your voice is trembling when you speak next. “I appreciate you letting me know. And you don’t have to worry about not leading me on anymore, because this will be the last time you see me.”

His entire body runs rigid.

“Why?” It’s a stupid question, but he asks it anyway.

“So I can get over you.”

All he can do is stand with the feeling of a chill in his bones.

“And I ask that you’ll respect my space while I do,” you add on at the end.

He’s silent for a long moment, then lets out the breath he was holding in. “I will,” he says, the promise leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

There’s a moment where you both just look at each other, as though the two of you were trying to hold onto the moment, but you’re the one to break out of it first, and he’s the one to wish it would’ve lasted a little longer.

“I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” The words already sounded like goodbye. “I’ll make sure you look nice in your photos,” you say with a small smile, holding your camera up slightly, “and good luck today.”

He wonders if he’ll regret this moment.

“Thanks.”

He steps aside so that you can walk past him and back out to the field. Gojo takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and relaxes his shoulders. Well, that was intense. Definitely not the direction he thought that conversation was going to go in at all, but that’s fine. He handled it fine. Totally fine. Things were going to be totally fine. He just has to play the match now.

The first step he takes back towards the field, he feels his uneasiness return, with the second step the feeling of his heart beating becomes violent in his head, with the third step he swears he can’t feel the tips of his fingers, with the fourth he feels severely nauseous, and with his fifth- was he seriously about to throw up?

He barely makes it back onto the grassy field cutting across the obstacles of people at the sidelines, using all his strength to not double over before he reaches a table and grabs one of the water bottles. He sees a group of men, all dressed in suits and loitering near the team manager’s station, perk their heads up at the sight of him and he’s groaning internally. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk to any damn recruiters, but he sees one of them bold enough to approach him in his periphery. He sighs, taking one last gulp of water, and tries to stand up straight and look like he wasn’t going insane.

“Hi, I’m Jousuke Tsuda, recruiter for Tokyo Metropolitan’s national league team,” he says and stretches his hand out for Gojo to shake. The man looked aged, with thick creases to his forehead that could only mean he’s witnessed a hell of a lot of life and he has the soul to prove it.

Gojo’s eyes widen at the mention of Tokyo-Met’s team, and he grabs onto the man’s hand in as firm of a handshake he could manage. “Gojo Satoru.”

The man laughs. It’s deep with a slight crackle. “I know your name, son. Every recruiter in the country does. You’ve got a lot of eyes on you right now.”

“I’m flattered.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him. “Surely you feel pressured.”

Gojo only hums to himself.

The man glances at his watch. “I know the match starts in a few, but if I could have a moment of your time. Take a walk with me?”

“Sure.”

The two trail down the line of the field. “I’ll get straight to the point, kid. Tokyo-Met’s really keen on scouting you for the national league following your graduation,” he says.

Gojo feels like he should be excited about that news, actually, he should be ecstatic and groveling at this man’s feet, but instead he just feels empty and hollow inside.

“Forget the fact that you’ll be playing in the nation’s most revered team,” the man continues, “but compensation is high, too.” He pulls his phone out from his front suit pocket, tapping away at his calculator app, then turns the screen towards Gojo. Holy shit. “I’m talking about a 350 million yen per year contract here. I could advocate for higher based on how well you perform the rest of the season.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Gojo responds.

The man is silent for a second then sighs. When the two of them reach a somewhat secluded bench near the corner of the field, he sits down on it and expects Gojo to do the same, to which he complies.

“You know, I’m used to much more enthusiastic reactions from players that hear this kind of news, although they’re usually ecstatic for barely a hundred million a year compared to what I’ve just offered you,” the man says.

“I guess it’s the pressure,” Gojo says to him, “it’s got my emotional response circuit all fried up, y’know?” He was pulling excuses out of his ass.

A small hmph noise is heard beside him before he sees the man pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his slacks. “I know your father has left big shoes to fill, kid. I can’t imagine the fear of feeling like you’ll fail, or the anxiety of an injury taking you out any time you’re on the field, not wanting history to repeat itself.”

Gojo’s eye twitches and he narrows his eyes at the man seated beside him. “My dad got injured in a car accident, not while playing the sport.”

“I know,” he responds, finally pulling a cigarette out of the pack, holding it between his two fingers as he rests his wrist on his knee. “The story touched the hearts of everyone in Tokyo, and the entire soccer community in general. I remember reading about it in the school newspaper. Back in the day when they still printed those things out.” Gojo’s surprised, and he’s only given a sideways smile before the man continues. “I knew your father, went to the same college as him.”

“I don’t think he ever mentioned you,” Gojo says.

He lets out a hearty laugh. “He despised me. I was a money-hungry finance major that saw a huge opportunity in mediator sports recruitment agencies. Figured if I could sign a player like your father to my start-up, I’d be set for life. He was a smart man not to sign, regardless of how things turned out.” He shakes his head musingly. “I gave up after that and got a real job. You’ll find a lot of your hopes and dreams die in college.”

“I see,” Gojo says.

The man leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks over with a serious expression on his face. “Tell me, son, what does this sport mean to you? Why have you dedicated your entire life to playing it?”

Gojo only gives him a cursory glance.

“Is it the fame and attention? The pride? The thrill? The prospect of earning millions and then retiring at thirty, and you get to watch your wife and kids playing in your grand estate’s pool on a sunny summer Sunday while you’re swirling around a glass of ‘90s scotch in your hand?” he asks, tone derisive but luring. “Or does it mean something more to you?”

Gojo looks down at his hands that were clenched tightly into fists. He relaxes them so that his fingers fall open weakly and his palms face the sky. He remembers the feeling of being a kid, the smell of freshly cut grass consuming his senses, the sight of bruises on his knees from how many times he fell on the field chasing after the ball, and the admiration in his father’s eyes every single time he stood back up. “It’s a chance to prove myself,” he finally says.

“Prove yourself of what?” the man pushes.

“That I’m capable of greatness,” Gojo admits, “like my father.”

The man nods slowly in acknowledgment. “Yes, your father was a great man. But not because of how he played the game. He was a great man because he knew which sacrifices were truly important.”

Gojo looks at him wearily. “Are you trying to tell a player you’re attempting to recruit that the sport isn’t important?”

He shakes his head, looking straight ahead. “No, it’s important. But it’s the meaning you give to your life outside of it that gives it importance.”

Gojo raises an eyebrow at him, not really sure what to make of the cryptic sentiment.

The man claps his hands together and stands up. “Alright, I’m sure that’s all the time you’ve got for me. Think about my offer, and if any other recruiters approach you with better ones, just know I’ll push for higher.” He hands Gojo his business card and brings his cigarette to mouth, balancing it between his lips. “Reach out if you have any questions.”

Gojo looks down at the card, his finger tracing the edge of it as he studies the shimmering gold lettering. “Why not just hit me with your best offer and leave? Why bother having this kind of conversation with me?”

The man pulls his cigarette from his mouth, pinching it between his two fingers once again. “We’ve all got regrets we want to make right, kid,” he says. And with his hands in his pockets, he walks away.

Gojo watches the man as he makes his way down the sidelines back to the cluster of men in suits. When he hears the referee whistle, he shoves the business card in the pocket of his uniform shorts, and makes his way towards the center of the sidelines.

His teammates instantly come up to him with optimistic smiles and encouraging pats on his chest and back, trying to keep the energy high to manifest a win for today, but Gojo just feels exhausted and like he’s drowning. He has so many thoughts swimming around in his head, he can’t even begin to explain, and he just wants someone to see through him at this moment.

The teams stand on the field for the national anthem, and then Osaka Uni’s team disperses while UTokyo’s alma mater plays. Coach Yaga yells for all the players to huddle before the coin toss and reminds them of their plays for the afternoon.

Nanami pulls his sweatbands onto his wrists, Geto pulls his hair back up into a bun, Chosou pulls tightly on the straps of his goalie gloves, and Gojo pushes his hair up off his forehead to snap his headband onto his face. He looks around to his other teammates and that sense of pride he feels to be a part of this team swells dully despite his emotions.

UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kick, and Gojo finds his place in the center of the field. The crowd is already cheering preemptively, their pride in their home team evident in the passion of the filled stands, and Gojo peers across the large expanse of the field as he rests his foot on top of the soccer ball. It’s a scene he’s seen a hundred times in his life, but the sight is daunting today. He takes his foot off the ball when he hears the referee signal the start of the match with a short piercing shrill of his whistle, and the second Gojo draws his leg back and his foot makes contact with the ball, sending it flying forward, he can already feel that something feels very off.

Every single time he had the ball in his possession, his footwork felt heavy and delayed. His teammates had set up more than three chances for him to score, and he shot wide every single time. The crowd’s cheers started to diminish, and he could feel the growing discontent and exasperation from all eyes on the field. Ten minutes before halftime, they were down 1-0, and stakes were starting to feel high.

One of his teammates passes a ball right to Gojo’s favored foot, the crowd instantly erupting with noise and stands to their feet as Gojo shuffles the ball past the penalty line, through Osaka’s defenders, eyes locked with the perfect opportunity to strike. This was good, he had his rhythm back, even if just for a moment, and he can see it, clear as day–the trajectory to the goal. With the feeling of slick sweat on his face and determination in his veins, he withdraws his leg back to kick the ball. The world went silent in his head, the only sound being the beating of his heart, and-

“this will be the last time you see me.”

When he recalls your voice, everything moves in slow-motion as his ankle slips slightly on the grass from his moment of hesitation, and then the ball is swiftly stolen by an opposing team player and maneuvered past him.

“Fuck!” he hisses, immediately turning his head around as he helplessly watches the opponents players move with fervor in pursuit of another goal. The crowd hushed in horror as Osaka passed the ball through UTokyo’s defense, swiftly steadying down the side and sending the ball flying through Chosou’s outstretched arms. 2-0, and the lead ref calls for halftime.

“Dude,” one of his teammates comes up to him as they walk back towards the benches and throws his arms up in the air, “what the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Seriously, man, not a single goal in the first half? You know how many times I’ve set up a shot for you?" another one of his teammates chimes in, nudging Gojo’s shoulder way harder than he’d usually warrant, and shortly after, a blaming fest begins among the players.

“Enough!” Coach Yaga yells out. All of the players quiet down and look at him, some grudgingly gulping down water while others just try to regain their breath. Gojo’s arms just hang at his sides in defeat. “We’re pushing everything on offense now, we can’t afford to miss any more shots,” Coach Yaga says, his fear of losing the match evident too despite his rough tone, “Satoru, I’m switching you out. Dai, take his place.”

“What?” Gojo asks incredulously, charging forward so he’s in front of the older man. “I’m not getting benched.”

“You will, because I say so,” Coach Yaga says sternly, “you’re distracted, boy. I can see it all over your face.”

“I’m n-”

“Just sit down,” Coach Yaga lets out a disgruntled noise. “When players are distracted, they get injured. Have faith in your teammates.”

“Coach,” Gojo asks again, this time almost pleading. He hardly ever questioned Coach Yaga’s calls, he had a great deal of respect for the man. But something within him just absolutely refused to get benched today.

Coach Yaga stares at him for a long moment, and it’s only when one of the refs chirps their whistle that he finally exhales and gives him a reluctant jerk of his head towards the field.

Geto sets up the perfect shot for Nanami to sweep for a kick that barely lands through the goalie’s lunge for the ball, and then on the next play, secures another goal himself. The score is tied, 2-2, with eight minutes left on the clock. Gojo manages to steal the ball on a defensive play, and it’s only really a stroke of luck that he manages in one solid pass the entire game, straight to Geto’s foot, crowd roaring, and he watches his best friend shoot and sink within the last minute and a half of the game.

3-2. UTokyo’s win.

Gojo sighs, exhausted as he makes his way to the bench, crouching down and zipping open his duffle bag. Spirits are low among the team despite the excitement from the crowd over their win because of how hauntingly close the loss felt during the last moments of the match, disinterested in celebrating at all as they meekly dispersed across the field. Gojo knew he was going to get a massive yelling-to from Coach Yaga and he could feel the searing disappointment from his teammates for not carrying the game more. This was just a bare win, could’ve gone either way, and his performance today wasn’t a good look for any recruiters either. He felt so emotionally and physically drained from this entire day, and he wasn’t sure how the hell he could feel any better.

Shuffling through his bag for a water bottle, his knuckles hit something cold and metallic-sounding tucked away inside. He hums to himself curiously before grabbing it and pulling it out.

strawberry vanilla soda.

Hm. This wasn’t the one you gave him a couple of days ago. He already drank that one. Did you sneak this into his bag? His brow furrows, and he stares at the sparkling smiling sloth on the label. When he turns the can in his hand, he sees a little note messily scribbled in black ink.

good luck today! u got this :) ur a star

His eyes widened.

And putting his heart through a shredder would’ve hurt less than when he realizes what an idiot he’s been this entire time.

He’s instantly searching the field, peering through crowds of people, mascots, banners, flags, for any sight of you. He’s not sure how or why he goes in the direction that he does, but deep down it’s because he knows you like taking millions of pictures of flowers, and the west side exit has endless blooms of them. And so when he runs out that way, cleats tapping against the concrete pavement that leads out into the courtyard in the front of the stadium, and spots you standing there, he finally lets out the breath of air he feels like he’s been holding in his chest all day.

You’re aiming your camera at teal and orange petals scattered across the decorative florals lining the raised concrete planters, then pull it down from your face and twiddle with the settings, tilting your head to the side. You then pluck at one of the blooms that was spilling over the edges, bringing it to the tip of your nose curiously. And he just watches, chest heaving from the urgency that he rushed to get to you, heart aching from the desperation of wanting to be near you. He wanted to ask you how you were feeling, he wanted to know how your pictures came along, he wanted to know what you were doing after this, and he wanted you to be with him. But most importantly, he wanted to make sure that this wasn’t the last time he ever saw you again.

It isn’t until a minute after that you seem keen on his presence too, and you swiftly turn your head in his direction, surprised. “Satoru?” you say. He wonders if he’ll melt. He wonders if those ice-cold barriers he’s built over the years could thaw just from the way you say his name.

But when he takes a step forward, you take a step back. And he halts. The expression on your face was unfamiliar to him. Once soft, curious, trusting. Now you looked at him like you were guarding something, keeping it safe from him, and he no longer had the right to intrude. And then he realizes the hell he’s put you through all this time.

He regrets pushing you away.

“I know I said I’d respect the fact that you want space,” he says through bated breath, “but I…I just can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again.”

You’re solemn when you look at him, reading the plea in his eyes, and then slowly shake your head. He feels like he can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

And then you walk out of his life.

a/n. thank you for reading! i have a few more author notes that explain a few things that i couldn't really find a way to fit into the chapter organically, but wanted to address before moving on, if you're curious you can find them here. hope to see you in the next one! pls lemme know if i missed any tags i'm sorry if i did :')

➸ take me to chapter eight!

taglist: @who-can-touch-my-boob @lost-resonance @foulprincesscycle @purplehallow11 @tsukikourito @getitsatoru @erencvlt @slut-4-gojo @cactisjuice @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @ethereally-lyann @prince-wyiilder @semra4 @gojosimp26 @hojoslutoru @drthymby @ninitoru @btszn @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @fvsm4x @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @ri-sa20 @cierocanteat (thank you to everyone <3)

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months ago

Text

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 2: To Judge The Living And The Dead]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

Here is the story of Saint Agatha of Sicily.

Born in the time of the Roman Empire, when Christians were still being burned alive and fed to lions in the Colosseum, Agatha rejected the suitors she attracted as a beautiful daughter of a wealthy family. Instead, she pledged herself to Christ: a life of simplicity and service, a vow of chastity. No man could sway Agatha from her chosen path, not even the Roman governor Quintianus, who aspired to take the fifteen-year-old maiden as his wife. So Quintianus endeavored to change her mind.

First, Quintianus threatened Agatha with torture and death. When that proved ineffective, he had her put to work in a brothel. Yet after a full month of violations, Agatha was no closer to surrendering; on the contrary, her faith only seemed to grow stronger. She prayed to the Lord for courage; she proclaimed that to be His servant was the greatest possible freedom.

Quintianus was running out of ideas. He imprisoned Agatha and ordered his torturers to devise new and terrifying forms of punishment. Bloody and mutilated, Agatha was thrown back into her cell without food or medical attention, but the Lord did not abandon her: Saint Peter, Christ’s apostle and the first pope of the Church, appeared to comfort Agatha and miraculously healed her wounds.

Four days later when the torture resumed, Agatha knew that her short time on earth was ending. She prayed aloud: Lord, my Creator, you have always protected me from the cradle. You have taken me from the love of the world and given me patience to suffer. Now receive my soul. She died in prison in the year 251.

Long venerated as a martyr and a saint in her native Sicily, Agatha was officially canonized by Pope Gregory I in the 590s. Her feast day is celebrated on February 5th. She is invoked against a myriad of horrors; among them are volcanic eruptions.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But you don’t really believe that, do you?” he says on the beach at dusk. Your parents keep telling you it’s time to go back to the hotel, and you ask for five more minutes which turn into ten which turn into twenty. You are showing Aemond your rosary, red glass beads, a sterling silver chain; he is sitting behind you, his arms reaching around so he can study the artefact with his own fingertips, his chin resting on your shoulder. When the wind blows, his blonde hair tickles your cheek and your throat; when you shiver because the sun is vanishing, he pulls you in closer. “That there was some magical guy who could heal people and walk on water and then came back from the dead? I mean, Mother’s a Catholic, and she’s always trying to get us to ride the ferry over to Rhodes for Sunday Mass. But even when I go, I can’t take it seriously.”

“I guess I don’t care if it’s true,” you decide. “I just like how it makes me feel. I like being protected, I like how simple everything is. Be kind, be humble, help others, that’s it. And I think all the different saints are neat. There’s always someone to pray to, no matter what problem I have.”

Aemond snorts. “They only added them to get the pagans to convert.”

“What are pagans?”

“People who worshipped trees and rocks and stuff. Like the Vikings.”

He thinks I’m stupid, you think, and you’re already sensitive about this; Aemond is older, taller, more clever, more sophisticated, more strong. You don’t want him to think you’re some naïve kid who does whatever your parents tell you to. You really don’t; they find your conviction just as baffling, far beyond their middle-class, tangentially-Catholic expectations: a weekly appearance at Mass with a frilly dress and tidy hair, Mum having a yarn with the neighborhood wives afterwards, sometimes Sunday roast, back to real life by bedtime.

“But, you know, maybe you’re onto something,” Aemond says, backtracking. “If it makes you happy, that’s what matters. Maybe I’ll give it another shot. Next time Mother drags me to Rhodes I’ll try to listen a little bit instead of reading a Stephen King novel the whole time.”

“Do you think I’m a drongo?” you ask timidly.

He laughs. “A what?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, I don’t,” Aemond promises. “I think you care about something. And that takes courage.”

He’s still inspecting your rosary, running the smooth red beads through his fingers. “Do you want it? I’m getting a new one for Christmas. I already found it in my parents’ closet.”

“Sure,” he says, perhaps just to be polite. But when he takes the rosary in his own hands, he’s smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We should have a pond like this at home,” Rhaena says as she helps you cast palmfuls of pellets that smell like the ocean—fish and brine shrimp and spirulina—into clear rippling water. Because the temperature is around 12 degrees Celsius, the koi are only somewhat active, skimming around the algae-covered stones at the bottom and nibbling halfheartedly at the food pellets.

Home. Here is what she means: a convent on the quiet northside of Sydney, Mass each morning, prayers before bed each night, sprawling fruit and vegetable gardens, a colony of stray cats you’ve adopted, offices where you take prayer requests and calls from desperate people in need of help, a shelter the sisters operate for survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking, cooking meals together, singing songs, lighting candles, playing games, watching rugby and cricket on a massive tube tv from the 90s, book clubs, knitting circles, hosting visitors from other convents, always decorating for the next holiday. This is why you became a nun. As a child, you were never as close with your sisters as you wanted to be—your interests were too divergent, your temperaments mismatched—and then as they dissolved away into their boyfriends and their unis, you felt like the house was suddenly so empty. But to be a nun is to have a perpetual sisterhood, and they love the Faith as much as you do.

You tell Rhaena: “Let’s talk to Mother Maureen about a koi pond. Maybe we can get funds and pay our guests in the shelter to help us build it.”

“Just like we did with the gardens.”

“Righto.”

“I’m kind of obsessed with these habits, too,” Rhaena says, spinning around in her loose white wool. The Sisters of Charity of Australia have been wearing modest yet casual clothes since the 1980s. You each have a white habit or two stowed away for formal occasions...but here in the Vatican, expectations are very traditional.

You chuckle and shake your head. “Yeah nah, I’m not helping you with that. I miss my Levi’s.” You point at the koi pond. “Check the corners, make sure I haven’t killed another one.”

Rhaena darts around the perimeter, peeking through bushes of red chrysanthemums. “I’ve been praying all morning. I’m so worried about Sister Augustina.”

“Why? She’s the person who needs your prayers the least. She’s with our Lord and Savior. She is at peace, she is home.”

Rhaena looks at you grimly. “Is she?”

You burst out laughing. “It takes more than getting a bit aggro to be damned to Hell.” You don’t believe Hell exists at all, but you keep this to yourself. Rhaena is rather dogmatic. Nonetheless she smiles to herself, reassured.

You glance around the Vatican Gardens, knowing exactly who you’re looking for; but you don’t see Aemond. There are other cardinals walking the tuff pebble pathways, red planets revolving around the ancient gravity of this place—first Neolithic settlements ten thousand years ago, then kings and a republic and back to kings again, and finally the Church rose up from the ashes of the empire to grow like dauntless ivy into the hearts of over one billion souls—some contemplative and alone, others entangled in weighty discussions. Cardinal Seaborn is rushing around frenetically, his scarlet cassock blowing in the wind. Cardinal Bogdi Marcu, he of the prehistoric age himself, is clinging to Sister Nuru’s arm as she patiently accompanies him through the gardens.

You spot Lucky talking to Cardinal Gideon Saati of South Sudan, a large but soft-spoken man who is ideologically moderate and therefore a possible consensus candidate if neither the conservatives or liberals can win the vote; and this makes him dangerous to Aemond. Cardinal Saati is nodding and dabbing at his eyes with a white handkerchief, Lucky has a hand resting gently on his shoulder. They are rarities here, and they understand each other. They both know the pain of having a homeland that is no longer a country: no functioning government, no reliable infrastructure, inescapable violence, war zones where faith feels so powerless.

Rhaena says: “Do you think we’ll be back home by Christmas?”

“Oh, sure thing. No conclave in the past two hundred years has taken more than a few days.”

“Beautiful. We can’t miss the singing and presents. I know how much you love Christmas music.”

“One conclave in the 1830s took a month and a half.”

“Nah, yeah?!”

“Deadset, mate.”

“Wow.” Rhaena blinks. “I wouldn’t trust this lot to not resort to bloodshed by then.”

Now you see them strolling towards the koi pond, disrupting sand-colored tuff pebbles with each step: Aemond, Lando, and Kazi, who is puffing on a square-shaped vape, white and red, the colors of the Polish flag. You realize that you’re smiling as Aemond approaches, then force yourself not to. You’re supposed to be somber; you’re supposed to be sad. Still, you cannot look away from him. You gaze at the destruction on the left half of his face—ropes of scar tissue, the frayed ruins of his eyelids stitched together to close the emptied socket—and you wonder what that must have been like, waking up in his hospital bed half-blind and with clamoring journalists filling up the lobby downstairs, bouquets of flowers arriving from Alpha TV, Mega Channel, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, CNN, BBC, Deutsche Welle.

“Dead nun, dead pope.” Kazi sucks on his vape bleakly. “Inauspicious.”

Lando is pained and crosses himself. “Kazi, please.” Then he turns to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, I am so very sorry for your loss. Sister Augustina is with God now, let that serve as some consolation. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

You bow your head. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“We didn’t really know her that well,” Rhaena says.

“Will they have a funeral here?” Aemond asks you, like he’s trying to find an excuse to make conversation. Rhaena is gawking at him, wonderstruck; Aemond gives her a polite smile.

You answer: “No, Sister Penny told us she’s being sent back to Germany. I guess there’s a cemetery near her hometown she wished to be buried in. A plot beside a child’s.”

Lando and Kazi nod and murmur sympathetically, an acknowledgement of the life Sister Augustina had before she took her vows, forever shrouded in mystery, only shadows glimpsed through the veil; Aemond peers into the koi pond, his expression distant and troubled.

Lucky arrives, trudging across the volcanic pebbles that clatter under his red leather shoes. “Saati says he doesn’t want it.”

Kazi rolls his eyes. “Every cardinal says they don’t want it. And yet when the time comes, he’s out on that balcony waving to the crowds.”

“I think he’s sincere,” Lucky says, lighting a cigar and drawing in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s telling his supporters to look elsewhere.”

“To Aemo?” Kazi asks hopefully.

Lucky hesitates. “Saati is impressed that Jake lost four fingers in the service of our Lord.”

Kazi waves at Aemond. “He lost an eye!”

Lucky chuckles in a deep, gruff rumble. “Becoming pope is not a contest of misfortune, my friend. Otherwise more of them would be Haitians.”

Cam comes jogging over; being in his mid-forties, his knees are still good. He announces excitedly: “We have Micallef and Barraza!” Here’s who he means: Cardinal Xandru Micallef of Malta and Cardinal Juan Barraza of El Salvador, both pilfered from the dwindling pool of moderates.

Lucky exhales smoke. “I thought we already had Barraza. He’s on the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development with me and Aemo.”

“He told me he was considering Saati.”

“Saati doesn’t want it.”

Cam is confused. “Doesn’t everyone say that?”

“Okay, so who’s going to talk to Jake and figure out if he’s willing to steer his votes our way?” Kazi says between vape hits, and then, when Lucky raises his eyebrows at him: “It can’t be me. He hates me.”

The others groan. “What did you do?” Aemond asks, grinning.

Kazi is reluctant to share. “It was nothing.” He vapes as the others stare at him, waiting. “I asked if he was going to get a robot hand like Darth Vader.”

“Jake is very committed to his mission in Iran,” Lando muses softly. “I have a hard time believing he’d want to leave it.”

“Yeah, he does a lot of orphanage stuff, right?” Kazi says. “Lando, you should talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” Lando agrees, then looks to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, once again, I am so sorry for your loss and I will be praying for you and Sister Augustina.” He starts down the pathway and soon vanishes behind a row of tall laurel hedges.

Now Cam is relaying gossip he’s heard about the conservative faction: cardinals shifting from do Carmo to Jahoda, anxiety surrounding Aemond’s growing support. Your gaze catches on Aemond again, and you can’t look away. He keeps stealing glimpses of you too. Surely he could have had a plastic surgeon do a scar revision to make it less noticeable, and open the wound so he could insert a prosthetic eye; but of course Aemond would not want that. No one can see him without remembering what he did on Nea Kameni. He wears the proof of his miracle on his face.

You notice that Lucky is watching you as he smokes his cigar, his dark eyes kind yet intrigued, and then they rove to Aemond. You avert your attention elsewhere. On one of the narrow paved roads that wind through Vatican City, you see a white Fiat Panda zoom by on the other side of the foliage, employees running some errand.

“If I have a heart attack or choke on a fish bone or something, wait for the ambulance, don’t put me in one of those,” Kazi says. “They’re fire traps.”

“We’ll just throw you down the nearest manhole,” Cam assures him.

“Cardinal Targaryen!” a voice booms—ostensibly friendly, undeniably threatening—and it is Cardinal Jahoda, passing by with his ever-present companions Cardinal Auclair and Cardinal Ferrari. Across the gardens, red-swathed men stand up straighter and observe intently. “You enjoy the company of women so much, perhaps you have chosen the wrong vocation.”

Aemond smirks tauntingly. “Well, the celibacy requirement might soon be done away with, as you know. One of so few ways in which Cardinal Auclair has proven himself a progressive.”

Auclair scoffs. “Are there even any Catholics in Greece?”

“There are more than there were three years ago.”

“Cardinal Nowak,” Jahoda says to Kazi. “You are a Slav. Poland still lives under the gloom of Russia’s shadow. It disappoints me more than I could ever express, seeing you standing here with men who wish to usher in disorder, degeneracy, alliances with despots.”

Kazi sighs. “Brothers, not everything is communism.”

“Ah, you are too young. You do not remember what it was like.”

Auclair’s cold blue eyes skate over Cam and Lucky. “Mongolia. Haiti. Who would wish to follow the examples of your countries?”

Lucky explodes: “Why don’t you atone for what France did to my people?!”

“The prime minister acknowledged that the independence debt was an injustice—”

“And where is the apology? Where are the reparations?!”

“Still begging for money two hundred years later,” Auclair sneers. “Still sniffing for scraps like dogs. Perhaps it is time to look inwards and interrogate your own behavior. It is not a shortage of funds that ails Haiti, but a deficit of morals.”

Lucky drops his cigar and lunges for Auclair, but his friends stop him: Kazi and Cam fill the space between them, Aemond throws an arm across Lucky’s shoulders and whispers something to him as Cardinal Jahoda and his companions continue on through the gardens. Auclair looks back once and gives you a critical, probing glare. Kazi trots after Cardinal Ferrari making race car noises: vroom vroom vroom.

Cam mutters as he cleans his eyeglasses: “Mongolia is on the rise. It’s a capitalist democracy.”

“They’re not white, so it doesn’t count,” Lucky says, collecting himself. Then he checks his watch, a small face with a simple leather band. “The next general congregation is beginning soon.” He starts to leave with Kazi and Cam in tow, but not Aemond. Lucky turns around. “Aemo?”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Aemond replies. Lucky nods; but now when he looks at you, his interest has turned to trepidation.

Aemond shouldn’t be talking to me, you think, you know. But perhaps he is willing to risk it. Perhaps he believes he is invincible.

Now the two of you are alone except for Rhaena, who is gaping at Aemond as if still trying to convince herself he’s real and not a celebrity entrapped in a photograph, a screen, a myth.

“You must be very busy with your responsibilities here, Sister Rhaena,” Aemond says.

“Oh yeah, it’s hard yakka.” Then she realizes he’s waiting for her to leave. “Have a good one!” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries away, doubtlessly in great anticipation of all the stories you’ll tell her later. But you won’t share everything.

“Should we walk?” Aemond asks, his hands behind his back, his large gold cross gleaming on its chain, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Of course you should; you follow him, the tuff pebbles crunching under your shoes. And when he speaks to you now, he is not stony like he is sometimes around the other cardinals, or barbed or coiled or sharp. He is that boy from the beach again. He listens, he cares. “Are you really alright?”

“Yeah. I only knew Sister Augustina for a week. It was a shock to find her like that, and now Sister Penny is under the pump trying to take over for her, but we’ll manage.”

Aemond is studying the marble statues you pass as you wander together: Saint Rita, the patron saint of impossible causes and suffering women, Saint Catherine who freed herself from the breaking wheel, Saint Lawrence who was roasted alive. Fountains trickle and evergreen shrubs rock in the brisk December breeze: boxwood, rosemary, myrtle, oleander, holly with vivid blood drops of berries. Aemond stops when he finds a statue of Saint Agatha and gestures to a nearby stone bench. Once you sit down, he joins you.

“It’s your saint,” Aemond says. He reaches into one of the pockets of his cassock and produces a lighter and a pack of Karelia cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No wukkas. Half the nuns in my convent smoke.”

Aemond smiles to himself as he lights his cigarette. “No wukkas,” he echoes, amused.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“What led you to the Church?” you say. “Now that all the memories are coming back, I recall you being...skeptical.” That’s a gentle word for it. You imagine him: a boy, sullen and convinced he is too smart for religion, dragged to the cathedral by his Mother, flipping through a copy of Cujo or The Shining or Pet Sematary.

“Once I opened my mind to Catholicism, I found it sort of inspiring. The Church sponsored Michelangelo and da Vinci, founded the first universities in Europe, shaped the political landscape of the world. And for people without other routes to safety and status, it provided that. I never really felt seen by my parents. The Church gave me a new family.”

He didn’t say he loves the Faith. Saint Agatha gazes impassively down at you, her arms crossed protectively over her own chest, so young, so vulnerable. “Do you ever regret becoming a priest?”

Aemond shrugs, like he’s wrestled with the question so many times it no longer interests him. “The more conversations you have, the more confessions you hear...the more you realize that everyone regrets things. Mothers regret their children. Childless women regret adoptions and abortions. Married people regret the cage that vows begin to feel like after the novelty has worn off, single people regret their loneliness, the poor regret not selling their souls and the rich regret not defying greed to become artists or musicians or actors. There is no escape from regret. You must learn to feel at home in whatever cage you’ve built around yourself.”

You smooth the white wool of your habit so you have something to preoccupy your hands with. “I wasn’t entirely truthful about my reasons for being here.”

Aemond furrows his brow. “You’re assisting with the conclave.”

“Yes and no.”

He takes a drag and tilts his head to the side as he waits for you to continue. He does this a lot when you’re alone with him, always curious, always silently working things out, and you are struck by an abrupt and violent attachment to him—every gesture, every word, the blue of his eye, a lungful of smoke—and you think nonsensically: What if we had never left that beach?

You admit: “I’ve been having doubts.”

“About the Church?”

“About being a nun.”

Aemond is watching you, an intense sort of focus, like the Second Coming and the resurrection of the dead are over and you’re the last two people on earth. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

“I’ve heard this is the hardest time,” you say, smiling a little ruefully. “When you’re young like Rhaena, everything is new and exciting, and you’re so relieved to have all the answers to life’s questions that you don’t really feel the opportunity costs. And then when you’re in your fifties or sixties, you’re settled down and complacent, and you’re not interested in abandoning your work and the friendships you’ve made. But I’m thirty-eight...and that’s kind of my last chance to start over, isn’t it? At least when it comes to...certain things.”

Aemond is trying to understand, but he seems bewildered, maybe even alarmed. His cigarette has burned down to ashes, but he hasn’t noticed yet; when it singes his fingers, he flicks the end of it away. “Do you feel called to be a mother?”

“Not exactly, I just...I feel...” You pause to decide how to explain it. “I have this sense that there is something else out there for me. Someone else, I guess. And it wasn’t like this for a lot of years. I thought I was at peace with never being married. I used to see couples or families walking around and not feel anything but joy for them. But now there’s...there’s yearning, I think.” Then you chuckle nervously. “And I don’t just mean the physical aspect. That’s part of it, of course. But what I’m really missing is the...the emotional closeness, the bond that’s shared between romantic partners. All the sudden there’s an absence I wasn’t aware of before. And the only time I’ve ever experienced a pull like this was when I knew I wanted to be a nun, so I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Now Aemond’s hands are knitted together, tense and rigid, as if he is trying to resist wringing them. There is pink in his cheeks, a faint gory bloom, a rare disclosure of his mortality. He’s made of blood, not stone, not light, not predestination. “I suppose there is always some...temptation in the unknown.”

“Oh no, I’m not...” Again, you laugh. “I didn’t take my vows until my twenties. I had jobs, I took classes at the TAFE, I’ve dated, I’ve been to clubs, I’ve downed more pornstar martinis than I could possibly count. I’m not innocent.”

He seems relieved and relaxes a bit. “Then we had a similar path.”

“Because I wanted to...you know...I wanted to be sure I was alright with giving up that part of my life. I liked those blokes, and we had fun together, but I never felt it was something I couldn’t live without.” You stop for a moment; your next sentence comes out in a rush. “And then I had a bad experience with a boyfriend, and after that I was positive I could give it up, so.”

“A bad experience?” Aemond waits for you to elaborate. You don’t. His eye flicks from your face to your medallion, to the nearby statue of Saint Agatha, back to your face. He isn’t just searching. There’s a low, arcane wrath like chambers of magma scorching beneath the earth.

“Anyway, back in Sydney I confided in Mother Maureen about how I was feeling, and when the Holy Father passed she suggested I come to the Vatican. She said that if being here at the heart of the Church during such a joyous time—seeing the rituals, meeting the cardinals, witnessing the inauguration of the next pope—didn’t renew my commitment to my vows, then I would know it was the right decision to leave.”

Aemond is still distracted. “And has God spoken to you?”

“Oh, He’s saying something. But I’m not sure what yet.”

There is the sound of harried footsteps on the pebbles, and Sister Penny sprints into view. Strands of frizzy red hair have escaped from her veil; her pale freckled face is flushed. “Sister!” she cries, gasping for air. You leap up off the bench and rush to her.

“Sister Penny?”

“Where on earth did Sister Augustina keep the laundry detergent? I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it, and I have a million other things to do, and I’m going absolutely mad—”

“I know where it is,” you say. “It’s in one of the cabinets in the kitchenette. I know, it’s odd, I’m not sure why she put it there. Here, I’ll help you.”

“And Cardinal Kelly lost his room key, so I gave him my copy but he forgot to return it and I don’t know where the spares are—”

“Shh. She’ll be right, mate.” You’re rubbing her shoulder. Sister Penny is in her fifties, very kind, very sensitive, not a particularly gifted administrator. But she has the most seniority after Sister Augustina, and so she has inherited her responsibilities whether she likes it or not.

You return with Sister Penny to the Domus Sanctae Marthae, but first you peer back at Aemond and give him a wave, subtle enough that Sister Penny will not notice. You aren’t supposed to be friends with a cardinal; that’s like a mouse befriending a lion. Aemond, now standing, waves back. But on his scarred face is something you rarely see from him, a doubt that is bone-deep and powerless.

Soon you’re sweeping through the cardinals’ rooms with Rhaena, tidying things up, making beds, wiping down bathrooms, beard hairs clogging the sinks and stray piss drops on the floor. But Aemond’s room is immaculate. You send Rhaena into the bathroom to see if he needs more shampoo or conditioner or toothpaste, and in the few seconds she’s gone you lean down over Aemond’s bed and breathe him in: smoke and cologne, vanilla and amber and cinnamon, and salt too, like something made him sweat through his clothes.

The stomach is an elastic organ—the more you eat, the more it wants—and lust is the same way, so you try not to feed it. On the rare occasions you find yourself too...distracted, that is easily remedied: a detachable showerhead, a hand slipped under the elastic waistband of your pajama pants. But now it all comes pouring back in, fifteen chaste years’ worth of longing, perhaps a lifetime’s worth, and you try not to imagine his hands covering you: a white veil gliding over your hair, sand on wet skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night, and you are in Saint Peter’s Basilica, closed to the public until the conclave has concluded. You are here because the acoustics are good: you can hear the crowds out in the square singing The First Noel as they hold their candles and their handmade signs—God bless the Holy Father, Miracles are real, Pro-life and proud, Cardinal Targaryen for Pope—and you close your eyes as you listen. You love Christmas music, and without phones or radios, this is the only way you can get it.

The vaulted stucco ceiling is plated with gold. The floor is made of white marble and sand-colored travertine and crimson porphyry, red like lust or wrath or pride. Here is a fountain held up by cherubs, there is a basin taken from Emperor Hadrian’s tomb, there is monument to Pope Alexander VII adorned with the personified virtues of Truth and Love. And everywhere are depictions of keys; Saint Peter is the keeper of the keys of heaven, given to him by Christ. The leadership of the Church changes hands again and again, but the mission lives on, eternal, divine, pure despite the complexities and failures of mankind.

Occasionally, you hear the shuffling footsteps of cardinals as they pace the echoing corridors seeking God’s guidance. Cardinal Marcu, stooped and shaky, stopped to have a yarn with you perhaps half an hour ago; he seemed to be under the impression that Barack Obama is still the president of the United States. You are grateful that cardinals aged eighty and older are not permitted to vote in the conclave.

Your eyes are still closed when someone brushes up against you, a hand grazing across your hip, too light a touch to be intentional. You instinctively gasp and flinch away.

Aemond steps back, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says uncertainly.

You laugh when you see it’s him, pressing a palm to your pounding heart. “No, I’m sorry, I just startle really easily.”

He’s still bewildered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I thought I barely—”

“No, really, it’s alright. I just...when people touch me and I can’t see it coming, it just freaks me out. But I’m fine now.”

His eye travels down to your medallion—Saint Agatha carved into plain, unprecious iron—and then he turns fierce. He moves towards you, drops his voice, demands as he stands so close his smoke and cologne seeps into your lungs: “Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter, Aemond.”

“It does. What was his name?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

“So you can have him murdered?” you mock, and Aemond sighs and rubs his scarred forehead. “You aren’t asking for honorable reasons.”

He shakes his head and stares at the wall, centuries-old marble and gold, hot blood in his face, rage pulsing in his carotids and his jugulars.

Your voice is calm, because this is a truth you’ve lived with for fifteen years; it’s a part of your mental scenery, something you know happened but not something you feel anymore, aside from primeval muscle memories that never seem to die. “It wasn’t something I could have proved in court. He said if I told anyone, he would kill me. And then he got pulled over for drunk driving, and when they searched the car they found unregistered guns, and while he was in jail I packed my things and moved down to Sydney and showed up on the doorstep of the convent. And everything was okay after that.”

“He should have suffered,” Aemond seethes.

“I moved on. I had to. And that saved me, having a life that was mine. That I chose, that I had always wanted. The Lord tells us: Refrain from anger, abandon wrath. Do not be provoked, it brings only harm. And that’s true.”

“But what if you didn’t join the Church for the right reasons? What if it was just an escape for you, or some sort of trauma response—?”

“Why did you join the Church, Aemond?” you say. “So a billion people would love you?” He turns away, exasperated, but he doesn’t object. “You don’t get to question my motivations. Not when I have felt called to the Faith since I was a child.”

He breathes deeply, touches his palm to the gold cross that hangs from his neck, and looks at you again. “If I was the pope, I would help people. Lucky knows that. They all know that.”

“But that’s not why you want it.”

Several long hushed moments slip by like sand through your fingers. From outside, you can hear the crowds are now singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Aemond says softly: “I shouldn’t have left you.”

He can’t mean that. It’s preposterous. “What, when you were twelve?”

He doesn’t respond.

Now your words are gentle. “I’m alright, Aemond. Really. You just caught me by surprise, I’m fine now. I’m not afraid of you or anything. Here, look.”

You reach out and take his hand, and instantly you know it was a mistake. There is a blazing light that fills your skull, a burning martyr, a revelation: you can feel him pulling you in and the heat of his face beneath your fingerprints, soft lips, rough scar, his palms circling your waist, your white veil falling away as he pulls the pins from your hair, the thirty-three buttons of his cassock unfastened and then—

But before any of this can happen, you jolt away from each other, Aemond clasping his hands behind his back and you clinging to your iron medallion. On it are engraved Saint Agatha’s words to God: I am your sheep, make me worthy to overcome the devil. And from across the space between you, a few footsteps that might as well be twenty-nine years, you and Aemond gaze at each other with terror, with wonder.

You don’t feel too old to start over.

You feel like your life is just beginning.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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maomao-words · 2 months ago

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Work did more than just slam me with a hammer, so I am barely alive at the moment.

I am still answering some of the asks I received (you guys have the best ideas!!) in both SL and WB fandoms. But meanwhile, here are some self-indulgent HCs I wrote half-dead lol.

No TWs. Fluff with a hint of trickery on the part of the MC in the first two parts, and on the part of Suo in his own part.

Wind Breaker: How they behave as your fake boyfriend (Kiryu, Sakura, and Suo).

Kiryu Mituski:

Kiryu would be the perfect boyfriend.

Perfect enough to fool the stalker who has haunted your days for no end, who persistently chased you no matter how many times you rejected his advances, before you finally decided to lean on Kiryu for support. Kiryu only took two seconds before he held your hand in his own, smiling brightly, not even hesitating to accept your request.

Kiryu would be perfect enough to fool even your closest friends, who turned red each time they saw him waiting for you after classes, a soft smile on his lips, and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand. They would laugh and poke fun at you, hands eagerly pushing you toward Kiryu, before showering you both with compliments and happy wishes.

But Kiryu would also be perfect enough to fool you. With each passing glance, each fleeting touch, and each tender peck, you found yourself falling in love with Kiryu. Falling in love with the sweet smile he offered you each time you met, with the gentle hands he used to guide you through crowds and warm you during late evening strolls, and with the protectiveness he never seemed to run out of whenever you were involved.

You were falling in love more than you originally bargained for, more than the first time you fabricated the story of a stalker and asked the pink-haired beauty out, just to have an excuse to be closer to him.

Little did you know that Kiryu knew everything from the start. How could he not, when he knew you better than he knew himself? When his eyes followed your every move and drank in your every action, like a starved man, hungry for your attention and affection? When every guy that ever thought he could mess with you or harm you was never able to cross paths with you again after Kiryu dealt with him?

How could he not know? Kiryu was also in love with you.

Sakura Haruka:

Sakura would be living the hardest and most amazing time of his life.

Don't get him wrong. It's not that he disliked being able to enjoy your company more, being able to feel your gentle touches, and witness your sweet smiles. All of the perks that came with pretending to be your boyfriend never failed to leave Sakura eternally parched, aching for one more moment with you, and desperate for the affection and love that he was miraculously granted due to the persistent stalker you gained.

But, by God, did you have to make him fall in love more with you? Sakura had already been a mess since the day he laid his eyes on you. Blushing, stuttering, and awkwardly behaving whenever you were around. Never being able to hold your gaze for long, but never leaving your side for more than a few moments.

And now that he had your hand entangled with your warm one, your soft body close to his, as you proudly nodded and confirmed that he was your boyfriend in front of all your friends, Sakura simply felt he was losing his mind. His heart was a fluttering bird, begging to be released from its cage, and sharply aching behind Sakura's ribs.

Getting stabbed in the chest might have been preferable for Sakura, at this point, knowing that he might end up dead once his heart runs itself into the ground with its intense beating.

A piece of advice, dear? Try not to tease him too much, no matter how much you enjoy his lovely reactions to your tricks and traps. Sakura is bound to explode one day, either to punch himself for starting this mess and accepting your request, or to loudly yell out his feelings for you in a reckless confession that will cause him to disappear from sight for a week at best.

Take it a tad bit easy, and you just might end up winning the fight!

Suo Hayato:

A perfect gentleman from start to finish. Suo barely blinked at your timid request, eyes curling upwards with his typical glint. His smile slightly widened at the way your face brightened, hearing his acceptance.

But no matter how many dates you both go out to, just to show off that you had a boyfriend to the persistent stalker you gained not long ago, you were simply unable to spot the man in question any longer.

Not when you invited Suo to your favorite coffee shop and spent an hour begging him to try some of your chocolate cheesecake, beaming in happiness when he finally indulged you. Not when Suo picked you up after your lessons ended, warm hand curling around yours, while his other hand took your bag off your shoulder and refused to hear any of your protests.

I'm your boyfriend, aren't I? His gentle voice echoed near your ear as he slowly took off your bag's strap, sending your cheeks aflame at the close proximity.

The stalker never showed up. You were unable to spot him, not in front of your house, school, or part-time job, and all of your fear was turning into confusion. Was this the calm before the storm, or could you truly let down your guard?

When you ended up confessing all of your worries to him, Suo simply smiled at you, gentle and affectionate, before he patted your cheek with his fingers and brought you closer to him in a tight embrace.

You were safe, you thought to yourself, as you breathed in Suo's clean scent and clung further to his arm. You had Suo after all. All you had to do was trust him.

If only you had the sense to look up and gaze at Suo's face at that moment, you would have seen the light smirk adorning his lips. Poor, poor lamb, not even knowing that she had walked into the wolf's den, never to leave again.

Or wait, was this your own will?

#wind breaker #wind breaker (satoru nii)#wind breaker x reader #kiryu mitsuki #sakura haruka #suo hayato #suo's part got too long for no apparent reason lol #i just find myself fascinated by his character #i hope i did him justice!!#he's a bit tricky to write after all

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cynthiav06 · 6 months ago

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Ok, so I am HOWLING with laughter.

So, have you heard? People are comparing Percy and Annabeth to................Odysseus and Penelope.

When I heard this, you don't know how funny it was to me. I almost choked on my spit. LMAOOOOOOOOOOO

Penelope would NEVER hit or insult Odysseus. She doesn't play mind games with him and they communicate properly.

Odysseus and Penelope are not toxic. Percabeth is.

Also, Rick Riordan is LEAGUES worse than Homer. Like, the guy cannot even compare to the ACTUAL GREEK POET.

And people are actually comparing the two.

Percy Jackson IS good at times, but it will NEVER compare to Homer's compositions. Literally never.

TBH that's just my personal opinion.

Also, Homer actually composed many of the Greek epics that we still read today.

I get why people would want to compare them, but there is no comparison, really. It's so fucking funny to me.

Anyway, what are your thoughts on Percabeth compared to Odysseus and Penelope?

That comparison alone has ruined the New Year for me. It's an insult to the Odyssey. Hell, it's an insult to the recently released Ithaca Saga of Epic the Musical.

But seriously, are these things actually being said? Cause that puts Percabeth stans from delusional category to brain dead.

Homer's Iliad and The Odyssey are one of history's most reputed myths of all time. And the primary source of Greek mythology for many people. I am certain Rick himself referred Homer's works for ideas and references. Even Riordan himself would be ashamed to compare his writing to Homer, in even the slightest manner.

Now to Odysseus and Penelope; the greatest couple of all time, truly and undeniably. The orignal eternal love. Even Hera, the goddess of marriage and family, considers Odysseus and Penelope's marriage bed sacred. Which Odysseus carved out of a living tree as a symbol of their undying love and so that it could never be moved.

Odysseus crawled through hell to get to Penelope and Telemachus. He survived and won the 10 year long Trojan war, defeated/ tricked a Cyclops, countless mythical monsters, Circe, Calypso, and even Zeus himself and at last Poseidon. That alone is beyond comprehension. Because Odysseus isn't a demigod or any specially blessed being. No, he is just an ordinary mortal, a genius mortal, one trained by the wisdom goddess but an ordinary mortal all the same. Yes, he is one of a kind genius, but these are literally eldritch creatures compared to him.

Let me put it this way, Odysseus is the OG Batman. He is who all smart fictional human characters aspire to be.

The Odyssey is literally about the all transcending power of human will. Of Odysseus's sheer fucking will to get back home, to his wife and son. That's it. A common desire of a common man, yet so miraculously burning and indomitable in Odysseus's mind that it alone outshines his extraordinary genius.

He quite literally died on his way there. Had to hitch a ride through the Underworld and then some.

Then he had to sacrifice his ENTIRE CREW, HIS FRIENDS, HIS COMRADES to get back to Ithaca. Mind you, Odysseus had the record of getting every single one of his 600 men alive out of Trojan War. The only one to have done so. And he had to lose some to the tragedies and then WILLINGLY SACRIFICE others to get back to Penelope.

I don't think there are words enough to encapsulate Odysseus's dedication.

Now Penelope. The thing is, she is just as bloody impressive. The Queen of Ithaca and a Spartan Princess, she is also one of a kind. Throughout Odysseus's departure and the suitors' invasion , not five, not ten, 108 SUITORS, Penelope held her own, keeping the castle, her son Telemachus and herself secure. All the while, raising Telemachus and running the kingdom on her own as well.

She tricked the suitors into an eternally futile game of trying to lift Odysseus's bow and shoot with it. Tricked them by telling them she was weaving Odysseus's shroud, which, when finished, would signify that she is picking a new husband. Each day, she would weave for all suitors to see, and each night, she would unravel the shroud. All in an attempt to stall. Among the many other ways, she did so. Including STEADFASTLY DENYING EACH AND EVERY SUITOR CONSTANTLY FOR YEARS AS THEY ASKED FOR HER HAND, NEVER ONCE LOSING HOPE OR FAITH IN ODYSSEUS.

When Odysseus returns, disguised as a beggar, she not only immediately recognizes him but subtly helps him in killing the suitors, which then Odysseus and Telemachus proceed to do.

All 108 suitors dead in a night. Add that to 600 men under Odysseus's command. 708 lives murdered and then some all for Odysseus and Penelope to reunite.

And this is me abridging the whole thing. Imagine the struggle, the suffering, the mental and physical trauma. 20 years straight. You can't fathom it.

I don't think I have words enough to state how repulsively disrespectfully wretched this comparison is. I would use an analogy, but it's so horrendous that I don't think there's one that suffices.

I literally have more than half the posts dedicated to dismantling the delusion of percabeth being a perfect ship, so I won't preach to the choir, but I mean Annabeth's fatal flaw is Hubris and Percy's is Personal Loyalty. Go figure.

If that isn't enough, Percy jumped in Tartarus for Annabeth. She fell, but Percy jumped, among the many other ways he has saved her from countless deaths. And Annabeth offers him what in return? It would have been alright if she gave him nothing in return, but somehow, the situation is EVEN WORSE.

Physical and mental demeaning. Toxic and controlling attitude and of course BLAMING HIM FOR GETTING KIDNAPPED AND HAVING HIS MEMORY WIPED BY A GODDESS. WOW, THAT SOUNDS SO SIMILAR TO PENELOPE AND ODYSSEUS.

Not to mention, Penelope accepted her husband, as he was. Even after being so completely changed by his tragic journey that he was quite literally NO LONGER HIMSELF.

And Percy when had to CHOKE AKHYLS WHO WAS DEFINITELY GOING TO KILL HIM AND ANNABETH, WAS KILLING HIM AND ANNABETH, OUT OF SELF DEFENSE AND SHE BLAMES HIM AND FORCES HIM TO PROMISE NOT TO USE HIS POWERS TO DEFEND HIMSELF???

WHAT THE FUCK??? And sure it would have been ignorable had it not had any long term effects. BUT NO PERCY ALMOST KILLS HIMSELF OUT OF KEEPING HIS PROMISE TO ANNABETH.

Call them whatever the hell you want but DON'T EVER COMPARE THEIR RELATIONSHIP TO ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE.

PERCY DESERVES INFINITELY BETTER THAN ANNABETH. Enough said, really.

#the odyssey #pjo asks #Odysseus and Penelope #odysseus epic #penelope of ithaca #the ithaca saga #anti percabeth #anti annabeth chase #percy jackson supremacy #epic the musical

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 30 days ago

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Something I'm almost certain the writers didn't think about in regards to the "Adrien is a sentikid thing", is that Nathalie destroyed Sentibug without a second thought. "I release you from existence." And now she's his primary caretaker. The woman who we've been shown doesn't think of the peacock miraculous' creations as being alive, even when they look and act human. Is Adrien's new guardian.

Debatably, this also makes her the only character on the show to commit cold-blooded murder (when not akumatized), at least that I can think of. Why was this a good idea again?

It gets even weirder when you remember how Gabriel was played in that scene:

Mayura: I release you from existence. (Mayura snaps her fingers, destroying the Sentimonster identical to Ladybug, with the keychain falling to the floor and the amok flies out of it, indicating the Sentimonster no longer exists.) Cat Noir: (enraged) How could you!? (Angered at the weakened Mayura for erasing the innocent Sentimonster, Cat Noir charges at her but Hawk Moth suddenly appears and knocks away the latter superhero. Who mocks him for getting emotional over the former artificial being.) Hawk Moth: Getting sentimental on a sentimonster?

And we're supposed to believe that this guy loves Adrien?

I know I've said this before, but I'll once again point out that this scene should have hinted at Adrien's status. Gabriel should have had some sort of reaction to a sentikid dying. The way he's played here is one of the many, many reasons I think the sentikid stuff was a retcon. Bad writing is also a possibility, but this is just so incredibly bad that I have a hard time believing that anyone could look at it and call it a good idea if the plan was for Gabriel to have a sentichild that he loved.

Since I know someone will probably think of this obvious fix: I can buy Gabriel viewing Adrien differently than sentibug, but canon never said that's what happened here so it's not canon. It's just a reasonable headcanon that can be used to make sense of Gabriel's seeming disregard for sentipeople.

My issue also isn't that there's no way to make Gabriel's writing work here. My issue is that writing it this way arguably detracts from the story so why write it this way? What does it add to the show? How does the above scene fit into the story we were told? It doesn't and that's the problem. Gabriel caring about Sentibug makes for a better story so that's the route they should have gone if Adrien really was a sentimonster at this point. My stance is still that he probably wasn't. Too many story choices contradict it.

#doctorkidemonas #senti salt

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spiderfunkz · 3 months ago

Text

─── ⋆ THE BUG COLLECTOR

pairings. peter parker x fem!reader

cw. fluff, established relationship, reader is described as a ‘weird girl’ who has a huge obsession with insects and such, references to miraculous the ladybug, ‘ladybug’ as a pet name for the reader.

author’s note: my weird!reader fics have been doing so well so i figured why not write a little bonus blurb 🦭 let me know your ideas if you guys have any requests!

edit: part one | part two

picnics and peeled oranges. sun rays and fallen leaves. today is the perfect day out, the weather is stable and there is no sight of gray clouds. peter had planned the perfect date with you and it’s been going smoother than he’d ever imagined. the basket is full of delicious snacks and refreshing drinks, the scent of spray-on sunscreen lingers, an umbrella is placed strategically, making sure the sun isn’t boiling you or peter alive— all thanks to peter’s full proof plan (or more specifically, thanks to aunt may’s consideration).

he’d picked a spot that is just a tad-bit uphill. it’s in the more secluded part of the park but the view of new york still seeps through. you could feel the breeze brush through your hair, the trees rustling, and the tiny sights of grasshoppers hopping. the plaid blanket under you is soft, but peter’s giggles are even softer.

“how did you know my favorite brand of jam?” you ask, taking another big bite of the sandwich you’re holding. peter shrugs, “i just know you that well, no need to applaud me for it though, i’ll stay humble,” he smirks. you stare at him, “you stole the jam samples from my bag didn’t you.”

you see his pride slowly shrink down, “i can’t do anything without you knowing, huh?”

“miraculous ladybug strikes once again!” you smile— “maybe i should change my brand a bit. become cat noir or whatever, do you think i’m cute enough for that?” he grins. you cringe internally, but you know the answer for that by heart, “mhm. and then i’ll blow up the entirety of paris and frame it on you.”

he gasps dramatically before laughing, “but that’s rather romantic, don’t you think?”

you nod, eyes observing the greenery around you. the small movements under the grass, you’ve always wondered if you’ve ever accidentally stepped on a insect before. this thought is the main reason you’re so careful with choosing your steps when you’re walking on ground that isn’t bare. you can’t imagine the thought of grieving another small millipede.

“diplopoda.”

you muttered, peter hummed.

“what’d you say?”

“diplopoda? millipedes, pete. there’s probably a few of them roaming around, under the grass or maybe some even on top. they’re usually active during spring,” you state, peter listens.

“it’s really exciting when there’s one that actually wants to climb onto your finger, the ones i’ve seen on the park are usually the tiniest ones. it tingles when they crawl around your palm. cute little creatures they are,” your eyes twinkle.

peter sees that, “that’s sweet. do you see any, ladybug?”

“no, oh! but there’s a grasshopper right there.”

“it’s coming to eat our food.”

you giggle, “aw, you want an orange? it’s fresh and it’s peeled by peter.”

you offer out the piece of fruit, the grasshopper sits by the foot of peter’s shoe.

“i think it likes you more, bugboy.”

“bugboy?”

“would you rather me yell ‘spider-man’ ?”

peter shakes his head, “do i bring it an offering?”

“what?”

“the orange?”

“why did you say it like that,”

“i dunno, it sounded more dramatic.”

you nod, passing the slice to peter. you look at the little grasshopper before looking back at peter, he seemed so gentle and kind— well, he is. you look away as if your stare is gonna accidentally melt him. the boy had a soft spot when it comes to anything that’s smaller than him, you wonder how a heart so big can fit into his body.

“it’s going away already,” he pouts,

“ha! it took a bite and left— maybe it’s a bit too sooourrr,”

you laugh, but peter doesn’t seem very amused.

“don’t laugh! that’s my son right there— and he’s leaving!”

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sturniololuvz · 27 days ago

Text

“who the hell are you?”

Meanmatt! x Partygirlreader!- part 3

⸻

You don’t go to the next party for him.

You swear.

It’s your best friend’s birthday. She begged. The whole group is going. You told yourself you wouldn’t even care if Matt was there.

Except now you’re in the car, mascara perfect, outfit slightly too good for “not caring,” and your brain’s already looping one question over and over like static:

Will he be there?

⸻

He is.

You see him ten minutes after arriving—lounging on a couch like he owns it, drink in hand, backwards hat low over his curls, and that stupid smug look like he can feel you watching.

You roll your eyes.

You don’t say hi.

He doesn’t either.

Not at first.

But you feel him near you all night. Every time you walk into a room, it’s like your skin knows when he’s there. He’s magnetic in the most irritating way—sucking your attention in whether you want it or not.

You talk to everyone else. You laugh. You dance. You make a show of being unbothered.

He does the same.

Until it’s late. Again.

And you’re both in the kitchen. Again.

You’re digging through someone’s drawer for a phone charger you’re 90% sure doesn’t exist, swearing under your breath.

He leans against the counter behind you, arms crossed.

“You know that’s not your house, right?”

You don’t turn. “You know I don’t care, right?”

You find the charger (miraculously), and turn around—and he’s closer than you expected. Closer than you remember letting him get.

Your stomach flips.

He eyes you. “So… gonna ignore me all night?”

You raise a brow. “Was that not your plan too?”

“Didn’t work very well,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

“I noticed you. Every time.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away.

“Even when you pretended not to see me. Even when you were laughing with that guy in the grey shirt—”

“Dylan?”

“Sure. Dylan.” His tone is sharp, like he hates the name. “You were smiling like he was the funniest person alive.”

You stare at him.

“I am allowed to talk to people, you know.”

“Yeah?” he challenges. “Then why did you keep looking for me after?”

You open your mouth—close it again.

Because he’s right.

You were looking.

Because no one else makes you feel the way he does.

Frustrated. Warm. Seen. Alive.

But you’re not going to say that. Not yet.

You fold your arms. “You’re cocky.”

“You like it.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You step closer. “You think you’ve got me figured out?”

“No.” He leans in too. “But I want to.”

It hits you hard—hot and sudden and terrifying.

You’ve been dancing around something dangerous. Flirting with it. Daring it to touch you.

And now it’s here. And it’s him.

You swallow. “Then do something.”

His jaw tightens. He looks at your mouth, then your eyes.

But again—he doesn’t move.

“Matt.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t smart.”

“No,” you agree. “But do you want it?”

His voice is low. “Yeah.”

“Then kiss me.”

He exhales hard.

Then grabs your hand—and pulls you down the hall.

⸻

It’s not graceful.

He yanks you into an empty bedroom and kicks the door shut with his foot. The second it clicks, your back hits the wall, and he’s kissing you like he’s been holding it in for months.

It’s not sweet.

It’s messy. Hungry. Tense.

Teeth clashing. Breath shallow. Hands in each other’s hair.

You pull at his hoodie. He groans against your mouth, hands slipping beneath your shirt, palms warm and rough on your skin.

You gasp. “Matt—”

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please.” He practically whines.

You don’t.

You kiss him harder.

He lifts you onto the dresser. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and he’s pressing against you, every line of his body hot and solid and real.

You break the kiss, panting. He’s staring at you like he wants to memorize every inch of your face.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “But it feels so good.”

He laughs once, hoarse and low, and kisses you again.

Softer this time.

Slower.

It still burns.

⸻

Eventually, you pull back.

Your lipstick’s smudged. His hat is gone. Your heart is racing.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

“I still kind of do,” he replies.

You grin. “Same.”

But you’re both smiling now.

And for a moment—it feels easy.

But then the light shifts.

And so does the mood.

Matt takes a step back. You slide off the dresser slowly, confused.

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Don’t make it a thing,” he says.

Your chest tightens. “What?”

“That.” He nods toward you. “Whatever that was. Just don’t turn it into something.”

You stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not looking for a—thing. Or a person. Or anything.”

Something sharp twists in your stomach.

You shove past him toward the door. “You’re an asshole.”

He doesn’t stop you.

You walk out. Shoulders high. Chin up.

But you feel the heat of his kiss long after you leave.

⸻

[2:11am] Matt:

you home?

You don’t reply.

[2:14am] Matt:

sorry

You toss your phone on your bed and roll over.

You don’t sleep.

⸻

He doesn’t text the next day.

You don’t either.

The silence lasts three days.

It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

So you do what you always do—throw yourself into everything else. You go out. You smile harder. You laugh louder.

But something feels off.

You catch yourself glancing at your phone more than usual. Hoping for his name. Hating that you’re hoping.

You run into Nick on day four.

He raises a brow. “Matt’s been weird.”

You shrug. “Isn’t he always?”

Nick eyes you. “Weirder than usual.”

You pretend not to care. You change the subject.

But your stomach knots.

⸻

A/n: AHHH i love this partttt!!!!!!!!!!

@sturniolo-szn2 @fadedstvrn @tezzzzzzzz @stayingstromboli @ivysturnss @sturniolofreakk @ihateemetoo @sturniolo-tease @sturniololuv3r @sturnsclam @nxra-cxm @csturniolo43 @mattspillowprincess @sturniolo-fann @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @bernardmatthews @bugs-tags @emely9274 @arianna1342 @stevielovesmatt

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twilightkitkat · 8 months ago

Text

Hear me out y'all, I've been talking about multiverse shenanigans lately so what if Wade literally became Spiderman?

The TVA sent Wade on a mission to protect the anchor being of another universe, Spiderman. Except... there was a small hiccup. Wade got there right as Spiderman died. He was officially brain-dead, even if his blood was still circulating.

So, naturally, the TVA employee in charge of this universe panicked and fucked things up further. By putting Wade's conscience into Spiderman. Hooray!!

Now time to undo this shit and get back to his universe. Except... that doesn't happen. Because the portal closes and he's stuck here, with his own fucking vegetative state body. While he's in the body of Spiderman. Shit.

Fuck the TVA. And their shitty employees lie to cover their own asses and hide the fact that Wade just replaced the anchor being of another universe.

And Wade... has to pretend to be him, for better or worse. Because the mission was to get this timeline roughly where the Sacred Timeline left off. Or it'd collapse. With him in it.

(Which he thought he could do by saving Spiderman and letting him make the same decisions as he did originally, but noooooo. Now he has to imitate Peter and remember what the hell he did in the Sacred Timeline. Thank God for the fourth wall, because Wade does not share the same decision-making process as this guy.)

And Wade manages. Poorly. Especially when he has to hide his own body in the closet, which is miraculously still breathing.

But he tries! He attends high school for the first time in forever (yikes) and somehow manages to not flunk out, he acclimates himself to Peter's powers, goes web-slinging (with a much better costume, thank you), and talks to all of the right people. He manages all of Peter's tasks while trying not to focus on how much he misses his home and how he wishes Logan were here.

But it's insanely awkward. Especially when the people around him notice how weird he's been acting. Namely Peter's best friend and aunt. (And that's a whole other can of worms that Wade's trying his best to avoid.)

He nearly fucking stabs Flash with his pencil when he made fun of him, only held back by Ned tugging at his arm and asking what was wrong. (He does, however, steal his clothes after gym. Payback.) And he kind of forgets to get with MJ, oopsies! Not his type. (Especially with the whole teenager thing. And the fact that he's already kind of in love with someone. Who he misses incredibly and sometimes wonders if they'll come for him...)

He manages to meet Tony Stark around the same time as Peter and wow this is awkward. Because Wade knows what the Accords are and quite frankly, is very vehemently against them. But he grumbles and reluctantly goes with him. And manages to do a lot more damage than the original Spiderman, huh. Guess his years of experience stacked up well against a literal teenager.

His relationship with Tony would be especially interesting. Because in the original timeline, it was almost paternal. But Wade is not shopping for father figures, especially ones who are around his age and not nearly as experienced, so he manages to laugh it off. (Even if it does feel nice, privately, to be cared for.)

Everything comes to a head when Wade's staring blankly at the board in class, trying to will himself to focus. Until the teacher says a new student is coming in. Wade's been here for a few years now and he's now 18 and it's his senior year. (...It's weird to think he'd actually go to college. And it won't even fucking transfer back home, so it's all for nothing.) Point is, nobody transfers senior year.

So he looks up with vague curiosity to see a younger version of Logan.

What the fuck.

He didn't keep incredibly close tabs on the X-men of this universe (partially out of respect, partially out of fear) but he knew that they were all alive. They were more adamant about wearing masks and "protecting their identity" in this world so there wasn't much information. But apparently, Logan was just as young-looking as in the first X-men movie. Hugh Jackman really was fine, back then.

But what the hell was Logan doing in high school? Even in another universe, it's a central plot point that he's over 200 years old. He just looks young. (Not that Wade is much better, sporting the middle-aged man-turned-teenager look.)

Until Logan's eyes fix on him. He was looking at him with very intense emotion in his eyes, something Wade couldn't exactly name.

Not until he's shoved up against the locker in some shitty corner, claws pressed against his neck as Logan snarls at him and asks where the fuck was Wade and what did he do with him.

And Wade doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Because, on one hand, this is objectively hilarious and he's really happy to see his Logan had somehow possessed this one. But on the other hand, he kind of isn't immortal right now and he doesn't want to test his luck.

So he manages to spit out the story. And Logan stares at him with shock and then trepidation and then genuine relief and suddenly he's hugging him and clinging to him and burying his face in his neck and oh shit is he crying?

They stay there even as the next bell rings, dropping to the floor and just sitting together.

All goes well until Ned comes looking and finds Wade with Logan leaning against him, head on his shoulder, and holding his hand. And now he has to explain to his aunt, to his best friend, and to his mentor who the fuck Logan was and why he's following him everywhere now. ("Don't worry! Him and I go wayyyyy back, he's been my online friend for years. He just transferred here recently, sorry I forgot to say haha...")

And then it just devolves into everyone being vaguely shocked as Logan and Wade act super affectionate while trying to figure out how the hell to escape the timeline. Not that Wade doesn't appreciate not being in pain constantly, but he kinda has a life back there. And yeah, these people are attached to him (and he's started to care too) but they don't really know him. They just know he suddenly became a master in fighting and insanely competent (and kind of fucking crazy) one night after getting a concussion. Hell, Mr. Stark only met him in the suit for the first half of their relationship because Wade was wayyy better at keeping his identity a secret than Peter.

It'd just be interesting to see how canon would diverge and how the characters would react to Logan suddenly coming in and insisting on being a fucking guard dog at all times. Everyone is vaguely concerned and thinks that "Peter" is in a toxic relationship where the other party is demanding until they see how reciprocal it is. (And what the hell?) And how they seem to get each other and make odd references and somehow share the same edgy humor brand.

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spideyhexx · 8 months ago

Text

oct. 24 - bloody, bliss, belt and billy

Saccharine!Billy Bonney x FemaleReader

mdni!!! wc; 3.4k cw; guns, death, blood, bloodplay, fingering

kinktober 2024 masterlist

saccharine masterlist (this is standalone!!!)

a/n; very happy to bring saccharine back :) i love these two so much, fyi some dialogue is taken from s2ep5!!! Enjoy you lot and preemptive apologies ig

Fuck Buckshot. Like seriously, fuck him. And Murphy. And Jesse. And the whole lot of those guys who are after your Billy.

Not yours. Yours in theory.

He doesn’t know yet.

They are after you too and all of the guys who run with Billy, but you couldn’t give a fuck. If Billy the fucking Kid died at one of their gross hands, you would be seeing red until you were riddled with bullet holes.

It’s an unfortunate thought.

You always thought about him getting killed. He would typically brush it off when you bring it up to him. Billy was prepared to die and you hated it. But any ounce of the topic leaving your mouth, he would brush you off and redirect you.

In hindsight, he could give a small wave of his hand and you would be distracted from your initial thoughts. By his hand.

And thoughts of his hand.

Anyway, fuck Buckshot.

It was a no-brainer that Murphy sent him out to the hideout you and the rest of the gang have been holed up in for the past week. How did they find you all? You’re unsure. There was a rotation of being a lookout and none of you have seen any of Murphy’s guys.

You all were unlucky indeed.

Being truly scared by something was not in your blood, but Buckshot left chills in your damn bones. Not as good of a shot as Billy, but Buckshot was still good and he was ruthless. A kind of violence you only read myths about but you have seen with your own eyes what that grimy man was capable of.

Buckshot had approached your little hideout alone. He’s at a distance, but George recognized him the moment he saw the lazy movements of a man sipping from a flask while on his horse.

It’s a slow, but urgent rush of moving inside the small house after Billy. Billy’s jaw is tight. Not that you are looking at his jaw.

But your eyes naturally fall on him in the adrenaline rush of a possible shootout. It can’t be that bad, can it? It‘s seven on one, and the odds are in your favor, but a flash of Billy’s chest destroyed with bullet holes did not help your stomach.

He moves closer to the small window, and you and Tom trail quickly behind him. “Do you think-”

“Shh,” Billy hushes you and the restraint you hold on rolling your eyes should earn you a clap from him.

“He already knows we’re here,” you mumble and Billy only gives you a momentary glare before he’s watching through the small window again.

He raises his rifle, and cocks it, keeping it aimed right at the bumbling man coming down from his horse, his fingers gripping the weapon with an ease only Billy could have.

Your fingers twitch at your gun in your holster, but you don’t pull it out yet. Your shoulder brushes his arm and Billy shakes his head ever so slightly.

The nerve of this fucking man. A brush and he’s shaking his head at you. If you weren’t fearing for potential lives lost, you’d smack the back of his head to really get a reaction.

You can vaguely hear George’s words to Buckshot, wondering why he’s here, how he found you all. Billy is impossibly still besides his jaw clenching.

“I come to capture the Kid…alive or dead,” Buckshot says in the distance your eyes refocus out the small opening of the house. Your hand tightens to the handle of your gun. If Billy is miraculously not quick enough, you’ll get this done for him.

It’s annoying that you’re distracted a few seconds by Billy shifting up closer to the window, his fingers clenching and then relaxing on his gun, keeping it pointed, ready. You’re especially attracted to his finger near the trigger and the slight tenseness in his voice as he mutters, “C’mon Georgie, move.”

When you look back over, George is as calm as ever, stating his ground, though you echo Billy’s words in your head. Buckshot starts to laugh though, sending more chills up your spine. Your heart beats fast as he quickly pulls up his rifle.

A flurry of guns raising and cocking fills the air. You go to do your own, but Billy stops your hand, then returns his to his gun. Your brow furrows at him and he doesn’t look back at you.

By the time you look back out the window, Buckshot is shooting at George.

A gasp leaves your lips and shots ring out, Tom grabbing your arm to tug you down out of sight of the window. You hear Billy’s gun go off once, and twice, and the anguished sound of pain from outside the house. Your friends are getting shot.

You pull your gun out.

Buckshot yells out, “Billy! You fuckin’ coward, where ya at!?”

You peek from the doorway to asses who’s hurt, only to feel someone’s hand grip at your collar and pull you back.

Billy. His face is screwed in annoyance and he pulls you back completely out of the way as his voice booms, “Y’all stay here! It’s me he’s after.”

Your eyes widen as you process his words, “Bonney!”

“No,” Billy all but pushes at your head so you stay on the ground and away as he nears the doorway, “Buckshot, hold your fire!”

Maybe you’ll kill Billy before Buckshot has a chance. You stare daggers into him, but stay put on the wooden floor. His eyes quickly glance at you, before he yells, “I’m comin’ out!”

Your brain scream at you to lunge forward. Grab to his leg! Pull him down with you! Barrel yourself in front of him! But your limbs don’t work. The chills that went up your spine reached your head then flowed back down your entire body, leaving you frozen and breathing heavy as you watch Billy hold his hands out.

“You can take me alive,” he shouts over to Buckshot, stepping slow out of the house. Bouts of worry fill your chest and you force yourself to move the slightest bit to be able to watch him.

“Puttin’ my rifle down,” Billy continues, slowly setting his gun against the nearby post of the house. Some of the other men scatter to get into better positions and you take that opportunity to give yourself the final push to bring you to your feet.

You move out of the small house as Billy continues his small steps towards Buckshot. Your hand firm on your gun, staying crouched down enough to hide yourself and have a good eye on Billy.

“It’s just you and me,” he calls out. Your gaze stays strictly on his back, his broad shoulders tense as he holds his arms out in surrender. What the fuck is he thinking, you wonder, and you’re already coming up with ways to berate him later for this if he doesn’t get killed.

Buckshot rises from his hiding spot, then you feel a heat spark deep in you. It’s so quick, you should have expected it, but Billy pulls his gun from his holster like lightning and shoots at Buckshot, getting him right near his hip.

Billy stalks forward with his gun raised and you subconciously clench your thighs together, your back to the post, but head turned to watch every single one of Billy the fucking Kid’s movements.

He cocks his gun just as Buckshot fumbles for his gun, but the man stands no chance as Billy fires off again.

Billy’s steps quicken until he can drive his booted foot to Buckshot’s wrist as he was reaching for his rifle, “No, leave it,” Billy spits out and you find yourself inching closer to the scene, gun at the ready in case Buckshot gets an upperhand.

But who are you kidding?

You can feel Billy’s sneer almost as if it’s directed at you. His boot digs into the man’s wrist, as Buckshot garbles out a, “fuck you,” at Billy. His hand holds his gun with less tensity than you would expect, but that’s because Billy is all confidence. All of his actions are met with no hesitation and full bravado, enough to make you roll your eyes back and look away from him to collect yourself.

You can’t look away for too long.

Billy kneels down and grabs at Buckshot’s free arm to keep pressing him down, his voice gruff, “You lookin’ for me? You lookin’ for me huh?”

All Buckshot does is laugh like the evil son of a bitch he is but you can’t focus on him. The man on top of him, the man on top of him cocks his gun and he jams the barrel to Buckshot’s mouth, “Here I am.”

Billy squeezes the trigger, killing Buckshot in that mere instant. The beating of your heart almost hurts your chest as you stare at him, mouth parted and hand loosening on your own gun.

The man chokes for a few seconds and Billy removes his hands from him, panting. His head lifts and his eyes lock to yours. For those few moments Billy looks at you, you see the pure violence and ruthlessness swimming in his bright eyes. It should scare you, and it does, but it also excites a part of you that you wish did not exist. The same part of you that’s brutal.

His eyes flit to your lap, where you had not realized your hand was awfully high on your thigh. You feel yourself heat up, and move your hand quickly, holstering your gun, but he’s already looking away, gaze back down at Buckshot. You’re locked in as Billy spits on his corpse before he stands back up.

Spits.

Your eyes flutter and you swallow down hard, barely catching the sound of some of the men walking over, but when your eyes focus again, Billy’s stalking off towards the thicket of trees ahead, alone.

A push of adrenaline surges you onto your feet and you jog after him, ignoring any of the looks from the others.

“Billy!”

He stops short and you almost bump into his back. Well, you purposely let yourself bump into his back. It’s a little chilly outside but he’s warm.

A sigh leaves him and he turns to face you, his typical blank look challenges that violence still swarming in his eyes, but you center your attention to the blood on his face. Then drop your gaze to the blood on his hands. The redness shouts out it’s danger in a wordless manner, you know Billy, but who is this Billy? This Billy that kills without a moment’s hesitation and is not looking bothered in the slightest that he’s got another man’s blood on him. He must be bothered, you know that. His fingers twitch at his side and the blood on his pointer finger calls your name. His other hand still holds to his gun.

Get it together, cowgirl, you think to yourself. Fuck that, you think immediately after. You grab his gun from him and stuff it into his belt. Billy does nothing to stop you.

His brow raises. “What?”

“That was really fuckin’ stupid,” you mutter. In your head, you said it louder and with a bitterness to your voice, but no matter how hard you could try, it was not gonna come out that way.

His jaw tightens and he looks off to the side at nothing in particular, then back to you. His eyes rake down then back up to your face. The familiar chill runs through you, but not a scared one.

“Maybe, but it’s done. Go back to the guys, see if they need help,” Billy says, his voice still rough, nodding towards where you both came from.

“Haha. You’re not gettin’ rid of me like that, Bonney, you know that,” you tell him with a touch of that bitter tone you were hoping to give him. You step closer to him to almost be chest to chest. He doesn’t flinch or move.

“That was stupid. Buckshot is-was a good shot and he coulda easily gotten you and then killed all of us right after ya! You’re lucky you’re such a good fuckin’ shot too because-”

“Cowgirl. Slow. Your. Roll,” Billy says, his voice a bit lower, head tilted down enough to meet your gaze head on.

You grit your teeth. The indifference on his face makes your blood boil and your underwear get wetter but that’s besides the point, “No! In fact what was that stunt ya pulled in the house? You know I can handle my own and you grab me and pull me back? You push me away when I was gonna help? Billy fucking Bonney, how many times do I-”

His chapped lips from the incoming cold winter press into yours and you would not have it any other way.

It’s the…second? Third time he’s kissed you? It’s better by a million each time. The force in which Billy grabs your face, digging his bloody fingers to your cheeks and bruising your lips with his own leads to the filthiest thoughts you think you’ve ever had. This violent man that you deem yours, a little bloodied, none of it his own. Rugged and roughly giving you his all through just a mere kiss?

You give him back as much as he gives, pressing to him and fisting your hands to his vest, until you remember why you were telling him off and you push at him. “No!”

Billy blinks at you with a dazed look in his eyes and he shifts his gun belt, as if to hide the growing bulge in his pants.

It was that easy.

“Oh fuck you,” you grumble, stomping back closer and slamming your lips back to his. You don’t think about the blood now staining your cheeks or the slight metallic taste that gets in your mouth when you bite on Billy’s lip. His groan is enough to suffice and quench the way you were angry at him.

Still, you mumble to his lips through kisses, “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know,” he says, backing the two of you up until you’re up against a tree. His lips trail down along your jaw, nipping at the skin, his hands awkwardly not holding onto you.

“Billy, just touch me.”

“They’re dirty.”

You roll your eyes. “Billy you already touched my face, I don’t care about the fuckin’ blood.”

To prove your words, you undo the buttons of your trousers, then grab his wrist, pulling his hand down the front of your pants. For a second you’re afraid he’ll reject this. You have yet to do something as much as this with him, but your body is aching. Your feelings beyond being angry or worried about him, but feeling fucking alive at the way he killed Buckshot.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Billy the fucking Kid. Man. He’s a man.

Billy moans and leans his forehead to your cheek, his fingers dipping into your underwear and sliding against your cunt to get a feel for you.

“I would watch you kill that motherfucker over and over again if you did it that way,” you whisper to him with a harsh breath as his fingers circle your clit, like he knows your body already despite having never touched it like this.

“This is sick of you,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your cheek and lingering his lips there. You don’t point out to Billy that although it may be fucked of you to enjoy this while his fingers are bloodied with someone else’s blood, he may be just as sick for kissing near the blood stain on your cheek and promptly licking over his lips to let the blood into his mouth.

You want to call him out for it so bad, but he eases his finger into you just right, breathing hot on your face.

“Oh��fuck,” you whisper, glancing down, your knees almost buckling as he starts to slowly thrust his finger into you, and you catch the side of his bulge, more prominent than you may have ever seen it, straining to his trousers and begging for your attention.

“Bonney, can I-”

“Yes,” he cuts you off, taking his finger out just enough to add a second. You bite your lip to stifle your moan, your hand finding the outline of his cock and palming him, giving him some sort of friction that he clearly needed because Billy adjusts his arm and begins fucking his fingers quick up into you.

Billy nods to your cheek when you whimper, “I know, I know, I knew you’d get so fuckin’ wet for me, Cowgirl, but…fuck you’re dirty, fuck I got his fuckin’ blood…,” Billy can’t finish his words because he has to muffle his own noise, pressing his face into your hair and nuzzling his nose at your temple.

“You…you spit on him,” you mumble and Billy shakes his head against you, curling his fingers and massaging them in you to get you to whimper. He likes that sound, you deduce.

“I spit on him,” Billy repeat and his free hand shoots up to your jaw, holding your face up and he spits on your lips before you can open your mouth to receive it. It makes his eyes flutter and his forehead rest to yours, his fingers making quick work even with the restraint your pants give. You can both hear the sound, how wet you are and how his palm slaps to your cunt with each thrust.

He knows you can’t focus on rubbing him, but what you are able to do is enough in the moment. Your thumb rubs right at his tip over his pants, feeling the wet spot forming the more you press into it. You can barely look at your Billy, though that’s all you want to do. All you want to do is look at the man.

He squeezes your jaw and kisses the corner of your mouth, a sweeter kiss than you’d expect in the moment as you clench around his fingers and resist screaming out his name. Another time.

“Gonna come on your fingers, Billy,” you shudder, and he quickens the pace, brow furrowed and eyes locked intensely on your face.

“Make ‘em more of a mess, go ahead, please,” he whispers, a desperation wafting from his voice and his hips bucking your hand. What sends you over the edge is his thumb just barely slipping to your mouth, the taste of blood filling your senes as you spasm on his fingers, and bite your cheek hard enough to draw your own blood.

You’ve never felt this blissed out. Your legs almost buckle, but Billy presses against you enough to keep you standing as his fingers work you through the orgasm, his breath panting and his nose finding your temple again, where he leaves the softest kiss, you almost would not notice it.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, his fingers slipping out of you and then pulling from your pants. His fingers surely are a slick mess, the remnants of blood still there and the wet spot on the front of his pants bigger than when you first saw it.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your breaths aren’t returning to normal, but you cannot look away from him.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt either,” he blurts out, referring most likely to why he pushed you back earlier.

“No shit.”

He straightens up and shakes his head. He would roll his eyes at you, you’re sure, but he doesn’t.

You slap at his chest but he grabs your wrist, “Hey!”

“Don’t ever remind me of this,” he tells you in a low voice. You frown. Was this him rejecting you? That it was a mistake all along? That he acted on some weird impulse and did not care to continue this despite the constant-

“About this part,” he mutters, awkwardly gesturing to his pants.

Your Billy.

Your lips start to quirk and he squeezes your wrist tighter, “Cowgirl, No. I said no.”

“One sentence,” you beg, even adding a little whine. Just for him.

He tries to give you a stern look, but his shoulders slump and he shifts on his feet, “One.”

Letting yourself smile, you take a deep breath, “You must reallyyyyy fuckin’ like me if you come that easily, Bonney. And-”

“Ah Ah Ah,” he interrupts and puts his palm over your mouth, but you can see the hint of a smile on his lips, and the violence gone from his eyes.

Your Billy.

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ponytailzuko · 2 months ago

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Replacement goldfish AU looking baller, but I gotta ask: will Athanase/Adrien Jr/ Lil A/ Yung Drien know about the black cat miraculous? Are we going to get Chat Nuit or something? Chat Noir 2? Also Nathalie getting to process the trauma of the everything AND deal with becoming a mother-surrogate for a kid who is way more immediate and constant, and who might not even remember you distinctly? The timeline is ambiguous, but it's very likely that lil guy only remembers her in terms of "That indiana jones woman who went on trips with my parents a lot" rather than "fixture of my household", which has to be even more fun for the both of them.

the au was made before s4-s5 ever came out, and i have NO idea what's happening in season 6 since i haven't watched it, so please keep this in mind while i answer to the best of my ability. my answers might not match up with canon anymore.

adrien jr is aware of chat noir because he gets brought back in the middle of mayhem when gabriel just made the wish and marinette & adrien are obviously freaking out. i can go into that more but tldr: he needs an explanation on why it is 6 years in the future, why everything has changed, and how he was possibly cloned. i imagine he finds out eventually just because its so fucking complicated it would be harder to keep it a secret.

DOES adrien jr become chat noir? i imagine plagg might let adrien jr use him once or twice, but more in a "im keeping my holders little brother safe" and less anything permanent. i actually kind of imagined adrien jr getting the butterfly since it allows his 11 year old self to stay safe and help his big brother without adrien sr having a stroke. also because adrien jr is coping with his dad being dead.

when i made the au, i had no idea how the agreste storyline would conclude. in my thoughts, i had emilie as the big bad that would be brought back. i had gabriel and nathalie both die for adrien jr and emilie to come back. this doesn't have to be the case or anything, ill have to think about it, but the version where nathalie is still alive and has to deal with two little guys in the house with mental illness when she also feels like she cant replace their mother would... be the dynamic ever?

when i made emilie the big bad, i had made adrien sr 17 specifically because he would be in his last year of lycee and about to turn 18. and he would deal a lot with being parentified and if hes the one in charge of raising this kid or not since he would start to realize his mother wasn't as ideal as he remembered in his (implanted) memories. i'm not sure if i'll keep this or not, but that was my original intention back post-season 3. :)

#scarfsprite #cal answers #ask #replacement goldfish au

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wisecura · 7 months ago

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Pretty

Suguru x fem-reader p.4 p.1 ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ p.3

summary: You're Gojo's cute little sister.

AN: now how long did it take me to send this one out? thank you for continuing, these are still under edit so please be aware.

Warning: Yandere behavior oncoming please continue with caution

Summary: You're Gojo's cute little sister.

Butterflies

Suguru had managed to keep you all to himself on that porch for hours.

With no Satoru around to interrupt, he had free rein to tease, talk, and simply enjoy your presence.

And enjoy it he did—far more than he expected.

He felt a strange, insatiable need to hold your attention, to keep your eyes on him and only him, even as your yawns became more frequent and your eyelids grew heavy.

What surprised him most was that you didn’t seem to mind. If anything, you gave him that attention willingly, your focus never wavering.

The two of you stayed there until the sun began to peek over the horizon, its soft light creeping across the garden. Sitting inches apart, both of your legs swung off the edge of the porch, your hands so close they nearly brushed.

Suguru found himself talking about things he rarely shared—bits and pieces of himself he usually kept hidden. But with you, it felt easy. Natural. He wasn’t sure if it was because you were such a good listener or because your relaxed expression made him feel like he could tell you anything.

You talked, too, more than he’d ever heard you speak in one sitting. About little things, big things—anything and everything. He hung onto every word, marveling at the way you opened up to him.

And as the conversation flowed, Suguru felt an overwhelming urge to keep you there, to keep the moment alive. He wasn’t ready for it to end, wasn’t ready to let you go, even as the first rays of sunlight began to wash over the world.

The situation felt unnervingly intimate—just a little too close for a guy and his best friend’s little sister. But it would’ve been stranger to say Suguru wasn’t one of your close friends by now. Although, you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about calling him that. Friendships weren’t something you’d had much experience with, and with Suguru, things always felt… different.

If you were honest, though, if you had to pick anyone to settle down with someday, Suguru would be at the top of your list. He was passionate about his role as a sorcerer, even if you’d noticed hints of resentment toward some parts of it. Despite that, his care for his fellow sorcerers was undeniable, and his quiet strength and thoughtfulness drew you in more than you’d ever admit.

But the idea of actually dating him? That was impossible. He was Satoru’s best friend, first and foremost. Crossing that line wasn’t just risky—it felt like breaking some unspoken rule. And yet, as the sun rose higher, you couldn’t quite shake the thought.

If you did want to date Suguru, what could you even do? He was like your first crush, sure, but what did you really know about relationships anyway? Books, movies, and the occasional online post had given you a general idea of how it was supposed to work, but theory was far different from reality.

Satoru, of course, had always made it clear he wouldn’t let you date anyone without his approval. And you had the sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t want you dating at all—approval or not.

But even if Satoru miraculously gave his blessing, there was still Suguru.

How did he feel? He seemed to treat you much like Satoru did—affectionately but firmly, with no hint of flirtation in your conversations. Did he see you as an extension of your brother? Another little sister to look after?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Maybe you were reading too much into things, hoping for something that wasn’t there.

And it wasn’t like you could ask Suguru how he felt—not without bracing for the consequences. What if he thought it was just a naive schoolgirl crush and brushed you off with that teasing smirk of his?

What if he outright rejected you, called you some spoiled, snot-nosed kid for even thinking about it, and made you feel foolish for harboring those feelings at all?

Or worse, what if he got uncomfortable, distanced himself, and left not just you but Satoru too?

Suguru Geto was unpredictable, and that alone made the prospect of confessing anything feel like walking a tightrope. Too many outcomes, too many risks, and not nearly enough certainty to act on how you felt.

"Looks like it’s time for bed," Suguru said, letting out a loud sigh that broke the quiet. You blinked, finally noticing the soft hues of the rising sun. Exhaustion hit you all at once, and you realized you probably looked as tired as you felt.

“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” you said, your voice thick with drowsiness, tinged with apology. “But I really appreciated the company.”

He didn’t reply immediately, but the smile on his face said more than words could. It was a smile reserved just for you or Satoru—so warm, so affectionate, it left you unsure of what to make of it.

As you stood, his eyes followed your movements, trailing over your form without hesitation. When you glanced down, you found him already watching you, his dark gaze unreadable. Your heart pounded in your ears, the heat rising to your face impossible to ignore.

Backing away clumsily, you nearly tripped over your own feet, breaking the moment. Suguru shifted, ready to catch you if needed, but you steadied yourself before he could move. Embarrassed, you kept your eyes fixed on the ground, mumbling a quick, flustered excuse as you made your way to the door.

Pausing just before stepping inside, you turned slightly, your voice soft, barely above a whisper.

“Good night, Suguru.”

You didn’t wait for a response, disappearing into the house before he could recover from the shock.

Suguru sat frozen, utterly speechless, the sound of your voice—his name spoken with such quiet affection—lingering in the air like a ghost.

Behind your bedroom door, you leaned against it, hands clutching your chest, your heart hammering as if it might burst. The exchange had been wordless yet heavy with emotion, and you hoped you’d conveyed even a fraction of what he’d shown you with that smile.

You felt breathless. Vulnerable in a way you’d never been before.

Sure, it might not have meant much to him, but to you, it was everything. Suguru was the first person besides Satoru you’d ever let yourself get this close to.

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your lips.

Damn it.

You really were like a little schoolgirl confessing to her crush—running off like that, all flustered, just from saying his first name. It was so embarrassing.

The initial giddiness faded as you lay on your bed, thinking about how silly it was to get so worked up over something Suguru probably thought was meaningless. You stared blankly at the wall you shared with him. His room—the previous guest room—was right next to yours. You hadn’t given this much thought before, but now you were acutely aware of how close he was.

Satoru’s bedroom was farther down the hall, naturally having claimed the master suite, but that wasn’t comforting. It didn’t change the fact that Suguru was right there.

You groaned, turning onto your side. Whatever. Summer would be over soon, and once school started back up, you wouldn’t have time to dwell on this.

The sound of floorboards creaking outside your door pulled you from your thoughts, followed by a soft thunk, signaling that Suguru had returned to his room. You exhaled deeply and let your head sink into the pillow. Within seconds, you were out, completely unaware of the chaos you’d left behind.

Suguru sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall that separated him from you. His mind reeled, replaying that moment over and over again.

The way your lips had shaped his name—Suguru, not Geto—was enough to knock the air from his lungs. You’d said it so softly, so fondly, with a warmth he thought was reserved only for Satoru.

He felt weightless, like he’d drifted into some dreamlike state where everything felt too good to be real. Was it exhaustion playing tricks on him? Or had you really said his name like that?

Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to end. He could listen to you say his name for hours, days, maybe even forever.

For the first time in a long while, Suguru felt light, as if the weight of the world had lifted for just a moment. Even with Satoru, he’d never felt this... enraptured.

And he knew then—he was gone.

p.3 ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ p.5

come home

I will also be posting updates here:

https://www.tumblr.com/communities/obsessedjjk

#yandere #dead dove do not eat #male yandere #manipulative #yandere smut #geto suguru #jjk #jjk smut #obsessive yandere #jjk geto #yandere geto x reader #finally #platonic gojo #this took way too long #i'm sorry #but like #anyways #here #wisecura

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ukiiseikou · 11 months ago

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don't mess up, my lucky charm, my last chance.

wanderer x gn! reader. figure skating au.

synopsis: your pairs partner just ghosted you, but no worries! your coach manages to replace him with the next worst thing - wanderer. a/n: hi! making this a series called complementary figures, a figure skating au universe. stay tuned for other characters ^^ thanks for reading

“hi, i’d like to report a missing person’s case.”

ayaka looks up from unlacing her skates, giving you a sympathetic smile, “any news?”

“he’s gone gone, like, poof! i’ve been calling him ever since he disappeared two weeks ago but it’s like he never existed. i even called the police, and all they could say was ‘he’s still alive’, like buddy, i hope so.”

ayaka stands up, offering you a quick hug, “i’m so sorry, it was an asshole move for him to ghost you like this in the middle of the season.”

“it’s fine. i guess it’s all over now. still kind of in shock, but whatever.”

you sigh, sitting down on the bench and kicking off your sneakers as you pull your skates out from your bag. you weren’t even sure why you were here, your partner had up and left you in the middle of the competition season and you can’t perform a pairs routine by yourself. you were content to just wallow in self pity and refreshing instagram to see if, miraculously, any available pairs guy would contact you and ask to try out. in fact, you had been doing exactly that for the past few week and a half, but yae asked you to come in today, saying that you ‘needed to reconnect with the ice’.

you wave bye to ayaka as she walks away, leaving you to your own devices as you start pulling on the strings of your laces.

“y/n.”

yae appears before you, and you strain to get a look at her, a familiar grin on her face.

“hi, coach, what’s up?” you finish tying up your skates and stand up. with your skate, you tower over yae just a little bit, but you always felt like a little kid before her - she’s been your coach since you were little anyway, alongside your former partner.

“no news?”

you shake your head, and she sighs.

“disappointing, but no matter, we move ahead.”

she beckons you to follow her, and you trail behind her as she steps onto the ice gracefully. you’ve been off ice for about a week now, and you really feel it. there’s a bundle of nerves as you slowly follow her in a lap around the rink, is this where yae tells me my pairs career is over?

“what do you think about getting a new partner?” she stops suddenly, and you nearly crash into her, lost in your thoughts.

“um, if there’s someone out there who wants me?” you offer awkwardly.

she laughs, “well, he better, you’re his last chance.”

“wait, you’re saying someone asked to partner up with me?”

she taps her chin, “it’s more like - i offered and no one else wanted him, so we’re his only choice.”

she finishes with a self satisfied grin, “don’t worry, y/n dear, he’s won a few medals.”

“yeah? like what?”

“world championships, world cup finals,” she lists off a bunch of titles, including national champion.

wait, national champion?

“are you talking about, uh, wanderer?” you interrupt her.

“is that the kid's name? ah, i forgot. he always hissed at me and ran away whenever i went over to ei’s house.”

while yae launches into reminiscing about her shared history with his coach, your mind goes a mile a minute.

wanderer, national champion, current world champion, former junior world record holder, and current world-renowned asshole.

no one can deny his talent and skills, but also that comes with a major attitude. you’ve heard changing room horror stories about him scaring off potential partners; people leaving in tears; a world record in the number of partners dropped; and if he drops you in the middle of a lift it’s not his fault - it’s yours.

“yae, why in the world did you offer to pair me up with some asshole?” you blurt out, “yae, i thought you liked me.”

“oh look, they’re here!”

yae pointedly ignores your comment and pushes past you, making her way to the edge of the rink. you can feel the drilling stare, even with your back facing him. you just prayed to whatever archon is listening that he didn’t hear you, and you would at least leave this temporary partnership with your ego and self-confidence intact.

“ei! long time no see,” yae stops at the boards, as you slowly turn on your blades and skate towards where the pair is waiting.

“this is y/n,” she beckons you, and you pick up the pace, gliding into place next to her.

“hi, uh, it’s nice to meet you!” you’ll try your best to leave a good impression on his coach, at least.

“likewise,” ei nods and holds out a hand to shake, which you take.

“kunikuzushi,” she angles her head towards you, “say it.”

“hey,” he says curtly, avoiding your gaze. awkward silence settles over the group before yae claps her hands.

“i see. kuni, then? i see your skates are on, good! get up here. y/n, sweetheart, can you get my phone please? i would like to film this, thank you.”

you sigh, moving to grab yae’s phone on the other side of the boards. you watch the boy pull off his skate guards and step onto the ice out of the corner of your eye. you can’t deny it - you can tell by the way he holds himself that he’s far more elegant and well-trained than half of the guys you’ve seen come in and out of the rink door. the two of you make eye contact and you quickly fumble with yae’s phone, placing it near her hand.

ei and yae are chatting, leaving you to awkwardly follow wanderer, or kuni, or kunikuzushi, you weren’t really sure what to call him anymore.

“can you even skate?” he sounds irritated, and you bristle.

“of course i can, can you?” you retort.

“i’m the current world champion. of course i can. are you dumb?” he whirls around to face you.

“yeah? try doing that again without a partner,” you fume.

“i don’t need a partner to win.”

“it’s called fucking pairs.”

he snorts, “and you think your mediocre skills can keep up with me?”

“sorry, but i happen to hear you switch partners every season? you need me. admit it, i’m your last chance, because nobody else is stupid enough to partner up with someone like you.”

“someone like me? it’s okay! you can just call me an asshole again, just to my face. go on.”

you stop, skates slowing to a halt, you can feel your face heating up at the reminder of the less-than-kind comment you made only a few moments ago. ah, fuck, he heard me.

his eyes narrow at your silence, and he whirls around again and kicks off, throwing ice in your direction and he leaves you behind.

“y/n, honey, you’re supposed to skate with him! don’t tell me you forgot after a week already!”

you hear yae call from the boards, and you roll your eyes.

you race to catch up to him, but he ignores you.

“okay, fine! i’m sorry! but like - prove me wrong!”

he turns at you with a strange look in his eyes that you can’t really place. before you can get a closer look, yae yells at you to ‘do a spin or something!’

he grabs your hand, grumbling something under his breath as he slows to match your strokes.

“do you know how to do triple salchow?” he questions over the sound of blade scratching ice.

“side-by-side? i mean, i can try!”

he rolls his eyes at you, but he releases your hand, “you go first, i’ll follow.”

wait, shouldn’t we talk about this?

you nearly stop your momentum but you catch how he’s staring intently at you. your insides squeeze together, your partner could never do a salchow properly, so you haven’t done it in a long ass time.

okay, fine.

you adjust your position, and you can hear his skates against the ice as well, perfectly mirroring your position as you launch yourself into the air.

there’s a foreign feeling in your legs, and next you know it, you end up hitting the ground, legs giving out as you slip and land. wanderer snickers as he slows to a halt next to you, and you just know he landed that triple salchow perfectly.

"not only did you double it, but you also fell on your ass? some skating skills you have."

you fell a thousand times before, but this one stings. you wince as you hang your head, trying to figure out if the dull throb in your leg is anything serious.

"are you crying? archons, i can't believe i have a crybaby of a partner." he sighs, but twists to get a better look at your face. you turn away from him.

"i'm fine," you say, pulling yourself to your feet, there's a shit-eating grin on your face, "let's try that again, partner."

he scoffs, "should've known you were pretending. can't deal with crybabies. you're lucky i'm giving you a second chance."

"watch this one. their debut internationally, the new wonder pair from inazuma. their chemistry is electrifying, and their technical content is one of the best!"

you let out a dry laugh of amusement at the commentators as you splay out across the couch, taking up all the space. wanderer hisses at you to 'get off me' but makes no move to shove your legs off his lap, instead, he grabs the remote from the coffee table to fast forward through the gushing that takes place before you've even entered your beginning pose, eyebrows drawn in irritation.

the two of you watch intently, the bright lights of yae's TV cutting through the darkness of the night combined with tightly drawn curtains. wanderer lets out a snort when you nearly crash into the ground as you land from your throw lutz, only saving it with a ridiculously bent knee that keeps you upright.

"still not used to the height?" he smirks.

"shut up, you're lucky i saved that," you spit. it's true, despite his shorter stature, he's hiding some serious muscle, enough to throw you into the air with height that looks like 'he's trying to send you to the moon' - as the commentators put it. your former partner never threw you that high up, and when you first did it, you felt as if you were in the air for an eternity.

"hah! no. you're lucky i held back."

"let's just call it even," you sniffle, turning back to watch the replay. after months of skating together, you know his little quirks, and when you shake with mock tears he stiffens, and you know you've actually got him wrapped around your finger. when you first actually cried in front of him (after a particularly ugly fall that felt like a broken bone), he spent his time saying that you 'looked ugly when you cry' and holding up tissues to your nose, but you can tell by his eyes his worry when the tears won't stop coming despite his irritated sighs and non-stop shaking of his head.

"whatever," he pats your ankle with a sense of urgency, the sofa creaking as he throws off your legs to stand up, "keep those ankles of steel safe, lucks, you'll need it."

you watch as he moves to ransack yae's fridge, and he sticks his face into the cool air in a desperate bid to stop the red crawling across his face. you're left quiet on the couch, an indescribable feeling racing up your neck at the nickname.

you tune out yae's usual pep talk as you survey the crowd - the arena's more packed than usual, and you're feeling the pre-program jitters.

wanderer's hand finds your's, giving you a tight squeeze.

"you ready?"

you turn to smile at him, and he returns a rare one, "with you? always."

he snorts, but turns his head away as red tinges the tip of his ears, "don't mess up."

(and, by the way, thanks for giving me a chance back then.)

maybe i will write one where wanderer meets your ex-partner anyways, ♡ or ↻ if you enjoyed, support your writers, thank you!!

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer #scaramouche #genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #gi x reader #actually kinda hate this but we will see #* mine #* complementary figures

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