#I know almost nothing about how this family is canonically but that doesn’t stop me from loving them

[meteors-lotr]

Elladan: Ada, I like men

Elrond: Okay?

Elrohir: I like men too!

Elrond: Is there anyone of you kids who like women?

Arwen: Well……

[targaryen-dynasty]

THE CURSE OF CURIOSITY.

Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader

"While your brother searches the library of the Dragonkeeper Elder for something new to read, you come in contact with some unlabeled fluid. You both learn that it's something meant to aid in the breeding of dragons, however, it also has a unique effect on humans. But lucky for you, your twin is there to help you through the ordeal."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, dub con, sex pollen (rather fluid lol), p in v, breeding kink

WORDS: 4 K

NOTES: Hope you enjoy me having literally zero grasp on English. 🤭

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

“It’s far too late for us to be here,” you huff, almost annoyed, as you watch Aemond graze his fingers along the spines of the several books kept in the currently deserted chambers of the Dragonkeeper Elder. “What are we looking for here anyways?”

The room is barely lit by anything else than just a handful of candles. Your twin holds a lantern of some sort in one hand, using it to make out the writings that are carved on the books backs. 

When there doesn’t immediately come an answer from him, you start to slowly walk around the room, inspecting its decor. “I have exhausted the castle’s libraries, and hope to take something of their collection for my own,” he murmurs, carefully selecting two books. 

You stop in your tracks and turn to look at him. Although you’re just a few moments younger than him, sharing the same attributes with your long, silver hair and lilac eyes, you have a much gentler nature than he does, one that doesn’t lend itself to the same mischief you had pursued together as children anymore. 

“And you couldn’t have just taken Floris with you? You ought to wed, and doing something together would do no harm to your future union. One sparsely sees you two around court,” you note, slightly annoyed your brother chose to wake you instead of his betrothed. 

Knowing all too well that just the mention of the betrothal is going to set him off, you choose to play with fire. If your brother wants your company, he’ll have to put up with your teasing. And just like expected, the notion of being forced into a marriage he doesn’t want to be in irritates him, audible in the sigh he releases. His resentment of the situation has become worse over time as he feels more and more suffocated by the ordeal.

“The girl is as dull as stones. Besides,” he replies with a shrug, “she knows nothing about our family’s history, much less about dragons.” The topic of dragons is something your twin is very passionate about, and you know that the fact that his wife-to-be cares so little about his passion infuriates him. It might be one of the main reasons for his dislike of her. “I have no desire to have Floris at my side any more than she does me.”

His annoyance is palpable, but you don’t feel bad about making it worse. For all the hours he has spent teasing, taunting and annoying you while you grew up together, he gets it back twice and three times over. And although he hasn’t spoken it out loud, you know you’re one of the few people he trusts blindly to be himself around. 

“That aside, it would be foolish to read with Floris,” he continues, your silence coaxing him to speak more, “as all she does is gossip with her friends and prattle on about pointless nonsense. You of all people know best how I feel about this match.”

“Floris isn’t so bad, you know,” you defend with a low voice. “And you’ve barely tried to get to know her. Surely you can find at least one thing to like about her. If you did, you might just see she’s not as terrible as you’ve decided.” If you both have to spend your days withering away in marriages sealed by your father and mother, you at least could find a little solace knowing your twin wasn’t as miserable in his. 

Aemond sighs in frustration. “You sound just like mother,” he comments dryly, finally moving to look at you from over his shoulder. “Can you really say that you like her? She is dull and naive. I am certain I couldn’t find anything to like about her even if I had all night. There is nothing for me to like about her. Nothing at all.”

Finding yourself at somewhat of a loss of words at this, you open and close your mouth without any words leaving it. Part of you wants to disagree with your twin, as Floris hasn’t been entirely unpleasant to spend time with at court, which makes Aemond’s dislike for her appear entirely without reason to you. On the other hand, you’ve known your brother long and well enough to know when he is resolute about something. 

“Just promise me that you won’t be a terrible husband to her. Even if you don’t like her, don’t make your lifes awful,” you finally blurt out. 

As you allow your gaze to trail through the chambers once more, you spot some small vessels standing lined up on the desk in the far corner with books and scrolls littered around them. You don’t wait for Aemond to reply as you make your way over, determined to inspect the small containers. The liquid inside of them resembles milk of the poppy, although it’s slightly more permeable to light when you hold it to one of the candles. 

You hardly think about the dangers coming with it when you open the lid to inhale a whiff of the fluid. Not smelling entirely unpleasant, it still has you scrunching your nose as a slight burning grows prominent in your nose and throat. 

Placing the vessel back down rather quickly, it stands too close to the edge of the desk. You’re not quick enough as it falls to the ground with a clatter, the vessel shattering into pieces and the pale liquid spreading across the floor. 

“By the Seven,” you mumble, sinking to the ground to collect some of the larger shards. 

The sound of breaking glass and your sighing is enough to catch your brother's attention again. Where he has read the spines of the books before, he makes his way over to the source of the commodation now. “You shouldn’t have dropped that,” he comments dryly, which prompts you to shoot him a heated glare. “Oh, you don’t say, mh?” you reply, your voice laced with sarcasm. 

Reaching for another shard, you pull your hand back with a hiss when it cuts your finger. “Ouch!” you exclaim and rise to your feet, soon enough spotting the crimson oozing out of the cut. 

Despite his annoyance at your clumsiness, Aemond’s good eye is drawn to the cut you have given yourself. It’s no deep wound, but even the hint of your blood makes something akin to guilt bubble in his stomach. “What were you doing with that?” he inquires, as he takes your hand to inspect your finger, nodding towards the vessels still standing on the desk. 

You watch him twist and turn your hand to have the perfect look of the wound, the stinging pain suddenly not too bad with his warm skin on yours. “I… I just wanted to see what they keep here. It is unusual for anyone other than the maesters to store unmarked liquids,” you reply, hissing as Aemond pinches the cut finger a tad too tightly. “I shall see Maester Mellos. Mayhaps this needs stitching.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”

Aemond fetches the books he has chosen from the collection, holding them under his arm as he brings the other to you to place a hand to the small of your back, guiding you out of the Dragonpit. 

On your request, the cut on your finger is stitched by Maester Mellos, although he has voiced that it wasn’t quite necessary. But something tells you the opposite, especially when you catch him staring at your face and checking your temperature more than once. “Is everything alright, maester?” you ask him with a soft voice, a yawn following. 

Aemond towers over the both of you, carefully watching each move of the needle in the elder’s hands, just waiting for him to make a wrong move that’s meant to hurt you – he’s familiar with being stitched up after all. 

The maester seems to be out of his mind, and only reacts as he hears you say his name. “Maester Mellos?” 

His eyes are wide, but he nods quickly. “Yes… yes, princess. The wound should be able to heal calmly now.” 

He is quick to pack his utensils up again, and even faster to leave your chambers at once. And while Aemond hurries after the old man, trying to catch up on him outside of your chambers, you don’t wait for any of them to return again with sleep coming over you.

The crackling of the fireplace is the only thing audible when you stir awake, a sheen of sweat covering your skin, making your nightgown cling to it uncomfortably. Your body feels as though it’s on fire when you squirm from one side to the other, not finding back to sleep. A tingling spreads in your loins, and each time your thighs squeeze together, it surges up your spine. 

“Gods be good,” you whine, utterly bewildered with the feeling of liquid fire coursing through your veins. 

Aemond not so silently rises from one of the chairs close to the fireplace, and comes closer to the bed, though, careful not to startle or frighten you as you regain your bearings. He has hoped you’d sleep through the entire ordeal and wake up as if nothing has happened, but that hope slowly dissipates with each passing moment. 

“How are you feeling?” your twin asks, concern in his voice. Suddenly, hearing his voice allures you, and doesn’t diminish the burning at the apex of your legs. 

As you clench your thighs together again, it releases some of the tension your body holds, and makes you whine in despair. “Aemond…” you pant, your chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths. “What are you doing here?”

The thin sheets covering your body do little to conceal what is happening beneath, and your brother just assumes it’s your way of trying to suppress your bodily urges ignited by the pale liquid you came in contact with before. 

“I…” his usual confidence and boldness completely deserts him at the state you’re in, and he can barely find the words to tell you what he’s been told by Maester Mellos. 

As he watches you writhe and writhe about on the bed, he’s unsure of how much longer he can just stand there and do nothing. But his concern and love for you cause him to make the decision to act, approaching you and reaching out to grasp your hands. 

At the contact, the feeling of his warm hands fully engulfing yours, it’s like something overcomes your mind and body, luring you in to move, staring up at him with wide eyes as you sit on your haunches. “Dohaeragon nyke… kostilus,” you whimper, strands of your silver hair clinging to the damp sides of your face. “Ziry ōdrikagon.. sīr bāne. Nyke sepār – dohaeragon nyke, lēkia.” Yet you don’t quite know what exactly you’re begging for. Help me… please. It hurts… so hot. I just – help me, brother. 

In the dim light of the candles, you spot his eye widening as you shift and squirm, looking up at him in such a vulnerable state with your innocent eyes, pleading for him to help you through your ordeal although you have no idea of what’s wrong with you right now. He can’t help but notice how your hair clings to your skin, seeming as if you’ve just bathed, and that your movements seem to contribute to its dampness. 

“Mellos has told me what the fluid is that the Elder keeps in his chambers,” he states, trying to stay calm and not let your state affect him too much. 

But with his proximity, all effort of you to process what he’s saying is fruitless. You pull on his hands, as if you want to encourage him to join you in bed, and when he doesn’t budge, you rise on your knees, and start to fidget with the buttons of his coat – solely driven by your urges. “And that is?” you mumble, not really listening.  

His cheeks run hot when you start to undo the buttons, and his hands capture yours once again to put a stop to it, making you pout. With furrowed brows, his grip finally has you looking up at him. “It’s something used to aid in breeding the dragons,” Aemond states. “He told me it’s also used to increase their stamina and to make them more…” he trails off, his body slowly growing tense as the implication of what he’s going to say settles into his mind. “... receptive to breeding.”

“Mh–Mh,” you hum almost nonchalantly, and watch completely mesmerized as your fingers graze along his, the warmth and softness of his skin only intensifying the tingling in your loins. Aemond is hesitant, unsure whether or not what you’re doing is entirely due to the potion’s effect, or if there is genuinely some desire for him on your part. 

You lick your lips and free your hands from Aemond’s to shrug the opened coat off his shoulders. The fabric of his tunic is pinched between your fingers as you tug on it once again to beg for him to join you. With him taking his sweet time, you find yourself clenching your thighs every now and then to soothe the aching burning at the apex of them.

“He also informed me that ‘tis necessary for someone to… help you through it,” he murmurs quietly, his voice almost sounding shaky as he speaks, “... for it will burn you from the inside out if not.”

Even though you’re fully acting on your body's desires, you do notice the way his widened eye trails down to your thighs, lingering there for a moment before it returns to yours. 

You don’t give a verbal response to his words, and instead, your only reactions are subtle ones. Nodding your head slowly, as if you’ve understood what he is implying, your hands squeeze his tunic further into his chest. He can practically see your body tensing with each movement of your fingers, almost as if you’re trying to hold back. 

With your eyes firmly locked with his now, you slowly trail your hands beneath his tunic, pushing it up to remove that as well from his body to get further access to him – if it wasn’t for him not raising his arms. 

Exhaling a deep breath, you sit back on your haunches. His reluctance does little to quell the fire raging within you, no, it only fuels to make you even more desperate. The lacey hem of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you spread them, and fully exposes your undergarments the moment you bring your hand between your legs. A breathy whimper falls past your lips as your fingers finally make contact with your clothed cunt, and then something akin to mischief flickers in your lilac eyes. 

“And… will you help me, brother? Or shall I ask Jacaerys for help instead? We ought to wed in a moon's turn after all,” your voice is honeyed as you speak, dripping with feigned innocence. “But you don’t want that, do you? That’s why you’ve stayed.”

You spot the exact moment his breath hitches in his throat. He suddenly feels a wave of heat overcoming him, your words triggering something in him that is more than just the usual desire to protect his younger sister, something primal. You sound and look so vulnerable asking for his help, secretly begging for him and him only. 

Intertwining your fingers with his, the intensity of your grip increasing as your senses become more heightened, your twin finally moves as you pull him onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as you watch him come closer, and when he is close enough, you reach and pull him down onto you in a quick motion. You don’t waste a second more and lock your lips with his, your hand slowly traveling down his back. But before you can grab his tunic and pull it over his head, Aemond pushes you back to lie flatly on the bed, pinning your wrists above your head. His eye burns with hunger as he gazes down at you, visible even in the dim light, and it makes you yearn for more. 

“Well, if I chose to leave you here to your own devices, would you crawl to your betrothed for help? I do not think so,” he says, his voice taking over a mocking tone. “No, in fact, I’m certain you would come to my chambers instead.”

When he doesn’t touch you, you try to wrap your legs around his body to grind yourself against him, but Aemond is quick to catch your hip with one hand, keeping your body still as it's pinned to the mattress.

“Sir, dohaeragon nyke,” you beg, voice shaky enough it comes close to a whimper. But when you notice that speaking in the tongue of your ancestors is not having any effect on him at all, you choose to coax him to tend to you in the Common Tongue. “Touch me, Aemond. Help me… please.” Now, help me.

Aemond is silent for a moment, visibly dragging his eye over your squirming frame. One hand still holds your wrists above your head, while the other slowly but surely releases your hip. “I shall take care of you,” he reassures you. “But you will have to let me, do you understand?”

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and slowly nod your head, only for you to pounce on him the moment your wrists are released. The tunic is gone as soon as your body collides with his, causing a strained gasp to leave your twin’s lips. While just the thoughts of his warm skin on yours have incite your mind already, seeing his bare chest sets your body alight. 

His demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, and he has never treated you as roughly as he does when he pushes you off of him. It leaves you dumbfounded for a moment, more so when he moves between your parted legs, towering over you. 

“Look how dull this fluid has made you,” he mocks, the condescending tone of his voice sending a shiver up your spine. Aemond notices that you’re not shying away from him, no, you keen at that. “Just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“If I help you,” he warns, “no one else, let alone that bastard of a nephew, is ever allowed to touch you again, do you understand?”

It might be the liquid-induced state, or the despair to have him do anything to you already, but you’re far too eager to nod at his words. 

Aemond’s hand wanders below the hem of your nightgown to heartily fist your undergarments and peel them off of you. He can already feel that the linen is soaked with your arousal, but still can’t stop himself from licking his lips as he sees your now exposed cunt glistening in the light of the candles. 

“Now, we do not want you to suffer any longer, hm?” he asks. 

And you nod once again. “Gods, yes, please. I need you, Aemond.”

You don’t have to beg him any longer. He undoes the laces in the front of his breeches and pulls out his throbbing cock, painfully hard and aching to be buried inside of you. It’s slightly curved and thick, and if you have to guess, you’d say that you need both hands to pleasure him, and even then there’d still be a bit of him that would be left abandoned. 

Aemond wastes no time in lining himself up with your entrance, pushing into you as you both moan in unison. You don’t expect him to set up a merciless pace almost immediately upon fully bottoming out, but you’re not disappointed either. 

While you’ve been able to talk before, he’s quickly reduced you to a whimpering and whining mess, relishing in the delicious burning of accommodating his sheer size. 

“Does it help?” your twin asks through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay. But you’ve been fucked into a stupor by him already, not even able to keep your eyes open. “Mh-mh,” you hum. 

Putting some of his weight onto you, Aemond’s hand finds your throat like the most treasured necklace you only take off to sleep, taking up the entirety of your neck and leaving no room for you to shift even the slightest. 

It was subtle at first, but the merciless pace slowly changes into something more determined, his hips rolling with each thrust as if he wants to make sure the tip of his cock really brushes your sweet spot every time. He’s seemingly spurred on by the way you’ve lost all inhibitions, not that the fluid allowed you to have any in the first place, and the wanton moans that spill past your lips. 

One of your hands grabs his wrist, keeping his hand around your throat, while the other finds solace on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. Your nails dig into his alabaster skin, and you’re sure that crescent shaped marks will bloom there not long after, staking your claim on him. 

“But you need more,” Aemond grunts, and you can’t do more than whimper a pathetic string of yesses. “The only thing that will truly help you is for me to fill you up with my seed, to breed you.”

Your head tips back in plain bliss, and you’re not sparing one thought to the possible repercussions of him putting a child in you. If anything, there is something buried deeply inside of you that has waited for this moment. You have waited for this moment. You grew up thinking you’d marry your twin one day, only for the rising tensions inside of the family to force you to marry your nephew instead as the final straw to mend the chasm. 

Aemond’s stamina doesn’t seem to be able to handle the way your body reacts to him and his words – not when a renewed wave of your arousal drips from your cunt at the mere thought of you carrying his child. It’s running thin, ready to burst at any given moment, hence he brings a deft finger to your pearl, rubbing it with frantic movements that should bring you to peak just in time with him. 

The pressure brought to your pearl has your body squirming, not anticipating it and the shiver of pleasure that comes with it. You arch your back and moan, yet a tight squeeze of your throat is enough to bring your attention back to him.

“Do you want that?” he pants, dark blown eyes fixed with yours. “Want me to put a babe in you?” It might be his way to ask for your reassurance, and while your body’s reaction should be enough with your walls clenching around him so tightly, he stills wants to hear your voice. 

Your cheeks grow hot as his words finally seem to settle in your hazed mind, a whiny ‘yes’ slipping past your lips. “Fill me up, Aemond… please. I want it,” you all but beg, your voice croaked with him squeezing your throat. 

The confession flips a switch inside of you that allows you to let go, your body shattering beneath Aemond with a pathetic whine. He relishes in the way your walls flutter and spasm all over him, utterly mesmerized as relief etches itself into your features. 

With a groan, the first wanton sound of pleasure you’ve heard of him, Aemond spends himself inside of you. He connects your lips in a heated kiss that has you swallowing down each grunt and groan he unleashes. Working you both through the blissful highs, his hips only stop once he’s sure he’s fucked his seed as deep as possible, determined to put a child in you. 

Aemond topples over into the vacant space next to you, his breeches soaked with your arousal and his chest heaving with his breaths. 

The sudden loss of friction makes you whine at first, but is quickly overshadowed by the feeling of relief. “Thank you,” you whisper through heavy breaths, turning your head to look at him. 

“I won’t leave now,” he says softly, although there is a linger of mischief in his voice. “I would be remiss not to aid my sister in her hour of utmost desperation… so, I shall stay the night just to make sure you really get through it.”

Aemond Taglist: @persephonerinyes @dr-aegon @schniiipsel @thekinslayed @baizzhu @legitalicat

[charnelhouse]

darlin'

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Wordcount: 4k Warnings: rough smut. violence. almost sexual assault (but nothing in detail). me probably knowing nothing about this. Srs hurt/comfort. references to suicide. Summary: You are another means to an end. He needs a second pair of hands and you have the face to distract scavengers and the guts to kill people who need to be put down. A/N: not sure about the timeline between joel and tommy splitting post-outbreak. I’m really playing fast and loose with canon here since joel is on the move with the reader and not stuck in one place. Hopefully his characterization is somewhat on point.

It’s not like you fall into Joel’s lap. It’s a gradual process where you’re in separate packs of hunters that inevitably dwindle to a few lonely pairs. You’re maneuvering around each other in the same snuffed-out city. The only source of lights is in sewer tunnels. There are familiar faces in the dark. 

One night, both of your groups are cornered in an empty factory by a crowd of infected. It’s silly. A foolish way to lose, but you do. Everyone but you and Joel get bitten, and you feed your friends a bullet. Joel does the same.

Then it’s an awkward stare-off. You think of killing the silence with a dry remark, but nothing about the beefy, stern-looking man in front of you seems dry. 

You recognize him just as he recognizes you. You’ve seen each other during a few trade-offs. Now - you really fucking wish you’d said hi. 

"You need a partner,” you tell him bluntly. Your voice only wavers a little, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, his brows raise in what you think is incredulity. You change course. 

“I need a partner,” you clarify. “I need someone to watch my back. You can’t survive out here in a party of one.”

He frowns, scraping a calloused hand over his beard. You think he’s ready to say no, so you reach back into your coffers to grasp something else to offer him. We have guns.

Bingo.

He finally straightens. His eyes are clear and brown as espresso grounds. Long, girlish lashes. “Show me.”

It’s been five years since the outbreak. 

***

Joel has these dreams where all of his hair falls out. Sometimes it’s his teeth.

In the very corner of his brain, he recalls that there’s symbolism there.

You’ve forgotten something. You’re forgetting. 

He goes and goes and never stops. He does not stop because if he does, all he will have is quiet air and memories. Sarah. The greasy splatter of blood on his chin and beard and how he didn’t notice until days later. He scrubbed his skin until it hurt and turned pink as raw chicken.

What did you do? What did it cost?

Joel cannot find it in him to regret the things he’s done. He lives somewhere in his chest. Not his head - never his head. He doesn’t know what to do with all that emptiness. He wants to fill his nights with something other than the stars or a campfire or a popcorn ceiling in an abandoned house. 

I survived. I did what I had to do in a dead, dead world. 

You were right. He couldn’t do it on his own.

You are another means to an end. He needs a second pair of hands and you have the face to distract scavengers and the guts to kill people who need to be put down. 

He was gonna say yes even before you brought up the guns. 

***

You’ve become incredibly intimate with his back. He always walks ahead of you, so you trace the broad line of his shoulders and the molasses-dark curls that cover his scalp. You long to draw patterns in the suede of his sand-colored jacket. 

You familiarize yourself with his tells and what it means when he stiffens, hunches or relaxes. His knuckles turn white with how hard they wrap around his gun when he’s somewhere he can’t see all four corners.

He barely speaks. It’s like trying to squeeze water from a stone. Joel is a fucking boulder or maybe a bullet.

A month on the road, you spot a family wailing for help. They’re dragging something that looks suspiciously like a body, and Joel curses. “They’ll have a whole fuckin’ pack on our ass.” He checks his guns, and you think he’s going to shoot them because now their problem is his. 

“They have children,” you whisper.

“They’ll kill us,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Kill us or try and take what’s ours. It’s how it goes.”

“That’s it then?”

He remains silent, dragging his thumb along his chin before readjusting his pack. “You’re free to go play Mother Teresa, but I ain’t helping you. I’m headed North, and that’s the end of it.”

He does leave. He storms off, slipping between the trees that line the charred highway. You wait for a second out of spite before chasing after him. He hasn’t gone far. In fact, you think he deliberately slowed his steps so that you could catch up.

***

Joel asks you to play damsel. Supplies are running low. There aren’t many towns nearby, so when a small group of scavengers draws near, you go. 

You were never a good actress, but your grief is real. You’ve honed and carved it until it became a weapon. You run toward them with your eyes wide and wet with fear. You choke down sobs that churn from some lost place inside you. Your dead family. Your dead friends. Your dead future. RIP to all that. 

Of course, the hunters accept you, their beady little stares cataloging your body under layers of cotton and denim. They lead you into their temporary camp and start a fire. They wrap a blanket around your shoulders that smells like mildew and loam. Just as you suspected, their comforting words begin to have double meanings. 

We can’t just give you these things—shelter costs somethin’. 

Don’t worry, your pretty head, we’ll keep you safe. 

C’mere. 

Your palms are damp with sweat. You nod, swallowing a weight. You’ve done this before, but Joel usually turns up before they start getting familiar. Maybe he's unsure. Maybe, there are too many. 

Where’s Joel? 

It rings through your head. Your ears buzz. 

He’s there. You know it. He’s watching and waiting and - 

One of the men grips your knee before sliding it up further. He chuckles softly, and you dig your nails into your palm and chew the inside of your mouth. 

You remind yourself that this is all part of the plan. You have it down. Act helpless. Get them in a vulnerable spot. Joel enters stage left and makes quick work of them. He’s probably biding his time.

“Now - maybe we can come to -”

Where’s Joel?

Your heart is thudding in the cage of your ribs. It’s in your throat. 

“Did you hear what I said, girl? How about -”

The man grunts. There’s a handle sticking out of the top of his skull. He sputters before his eyes roll back and then Joel is there, ripping that blade free and giving you a quick jerk of his chin.

“Stay behind the trees,” he orders before descending on the rest of them. 

“Where the fuck is my gun?” the bald one roars as he digs through his pack. 

“Mine’s fuckin’ gone, too,” a lanky blonde yells. 

Smart Joel. He must have snatched what he could while they were distracted. 

As you slip behind a tree, you turn to watch the rest of the carnage. You think it’s in the bag up until the big bald fuck manages to knock Joel to the side so that his shot misses. 

Joel up again, which is something he had constantly branded into your head. Never stay down. You’re right fucked if you stay down. 

Joel keeps fighting. He’s broad and full of a rage that ripples out of him and shakes the air. The punches he deliver are devastating. The skill he has at killing is a privilege to watch. He is an exploding star hurtling to the earth. A bull barreling through concrete. He’s older than you, but it doesn’t slow him down. Not at all. 

You remain low in the trees just as he instructed. Your chest tightens when the lanky blonde socks Joel’s face so hard that his jaw audibly clicks. It doesn’t seem to break his stride because he disposes of him quickly, whipping out a switchblade that he plunges between the blonde’s ribs. Then he’s onto the next one. He’s barely using his guns.

Bullets attract infected. 

They’re also precious. Finite supplies.

Right. Good thinkin’, girl. 

The sounds coming from the fight are a sharp blend of sawed-off grunts and insults. Joel is the only silent one as he cleaves his way through the chaos. It’s intimidating. It’s unreal.

Something moves on the ground. 

The blonde he’d stabbed is still alive, wiggling like a snake. He’s crawling onto his knees, red-soaked fingers shakily grasping his discarded shiv from the dirt.

“Joel,” you yell, but not loud enough. He’s too busy with the bald shithead whose red face is straining as he tries to sloppily defend himself against your partner. The man on the floor rises, arm cocked to deliver a stab to Joel’s lower back and you move without thinking. You sprint forward and tackle him to the floor, arms snagging firmly around his throat. There’s a startling pain in your side before it dissipates. You rely on adrenaline to drive you to the second act.

Quickly, you yank your pocket knife from your jeans and pierce the man’s throat. He squeals before it turns wet. You draw the blade out and bring it down again. It’s not easy and requires all of your strength to break flesh.

It’s unnerving. You’ve killed before, but this disturbs you. He squeals again, but it’s muffled. He choked and snorts.

This little piggy…

Somewhere Joel’s voice sings in your head:

Don’t think. Just kill. 

The blonde shivers under your weight, palms slapping out at mud before he curls his fingers into trampled weeds. He takes one final rattling breath and goes still. 

You scramble back on your ass, heels kicking up dirt as Joel whirls around to stare at you. His expression is incredulous and it doesn’t fit his face. It’s alien and wrong. He’s usually far too confident and cautious. He knows all outcomes, but this? You saving him? No - he did not expect that. 

Joel blinks before carefully stepping over the dead man. He moves toward you, lowering himself so he can meet your eyes. He touches your cheek. “You ok?”

“Fine,” you mumble. “Fine - he-he was gonna -”

“I know,” he finishes and it almost sounds like a thank you. 

He grabs your wrist forcing you up. “Let’s do this quickly,” he instructs, gesturing to the backpack, tents, and assorted supplies. It’ll be a good haul. 

You nod, already forgetting about the pulsing cut beneath your ribs.

***

You must be getting sick. Your palms feel like weighted lead. Your steps are slow and clumsy. Your skin is screaming hot, and it takes Joel two full days to notice. You’ve stopped in a deserted garage on a lone suburban street. A stale, sweet smell comes from the door that leads into the house, and you don’t want to open it. 

Joel searches through boxes and plastic cases while you lean heavily against the cool garage door. He glances at you before doing a double-take. Perhaps, it’s obvious - even in the dark. Perhaps - this is the first time he has truly looked at you since they’ve stopped walking. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” you mutter even though your head may topple off your neck. Fuck. 

Abruptly, he straightens and strides toward you. You catch him rolling his eyes before he stops short. He grasps your face with surprisingly gentle hands. He inhales sharply. “Jesus,” he hisses. “Goddamnit, girl, you're burning up.”

You blink at him, and even that is a chore. Your lids are so heavy, each individual lash stings. You lick your lips. “Mm’ok.”

Without another word, he wraps his arms under your thighs and picks you up bridal-style. “Joel,” you wheeze, your arm flying around his thick neck. The short hairs at the nape tickle your skin. “It’s fine.”

“Quiet.” He grunts before kicking the door open and hauling you into the raw darkness of this deserted house. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and places you on the counter. “I’m gonna secure the perimeter…should have done it before hauling ass in here.”

He seems on edge.  He doesn’t usually forget shit like that because that shit will get you killed.

You nod before leaning back into the wall. Your head bumps against a cabinet and Joel has the nerve to tell you to be careful. 

After a few minutes, he returns. 

The kitchen is surprisingly clean. His gaze darts around the space before he picks you up and takes you to the second level. You can hear his boots making soft thumps in carpet. You can see framed photos on the walls. Finally, he settles you on a dusty queen-sized bed. 

“Think it’s a cold? The flu?”

In the current world, it could be any number of things. Regardless, you’re beginning to realize what this is. You’d avoided checking it out. You’d buried its burning ache. The knife - the metal. It had to have been dirty. 

Had you cleaned it? Were you too busy wanting to help Joel sift through everything that you’d ignored it? How fucking stupid could you have been?

You shake your head. 

“You gotta work with me here,” he urges, a brush softer. “What hurts?”

Sighing, you roll onto your side and pull up your shirt. Joel sucks in a breath. Even now it’s throbbing insistently. Feels hot. It had been so small. 

You’d forgotten that small, open wounds can lead to fatal infections. 

Joel’s hand rests on your hip, a fingertip drags lightly under the puffy flesh and you flinch. It smells like something sick. 

“Guessing by your silence, it’s bad.” You try to laugh and it cracks like peanut shells. 

“It’s not good,” he replies carefully. “You need antibiotics.” 

You’re too scared to inspect the wound. You can imagine it: oozing pus, streaking, swelling, beating like it has its own heart.

“Did you get this during the fight?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, pressing your cheek into the cold blankets. 

“And you didn’t clean it?” Joel’s tone rises. You guess that he’s keeping a tight lid on his anger. 

“Forgot.”

When he says nothing, you glance at him over your shoulder. His nostrils flare. He’s flexing his jaw. His hands are fists at his sides, but his dark eyes remain on you. He’s thinking, perhaps trying to decide if it’s worth scolding you or ripping you a new one.

What would it matter if you’re already dying?

He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and abruptly swings his backpack off his shoulder before crouching to the floor. He unzips it and rummages. “Alright, I can clean and bandage it, but you’ll need antibiotics - somethin’ like doxycycline or amoxicillin. May be able to barter with a few people up near Asheville, but that means I’ve gotta leave you for a day, possibly two.”

You freeze.

What?!

Frantically, you twist around to face him. “I’ll-I’ll be alone?”

He sits down on the bed, touches the back of his hand to your forehead. His mouth tenses at the level of heat, but he keeps it there. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done.

“This is your life on the line, darlin’.” He runs his other hand through his unruly hair. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “I’ll lock the house down.”

You snort. There is no such thing as locks anymore. Zero law. Break a window. It’s enough. 

“There’s no one around here,” he adds pointedly as if reading your mind. “Everything’s been picked clean. I’m sure you’re safe.”

He doesn’t promise it. You’re not sure he’s good at promises.   

Everything smells weird. Like old fruit. 

“Bye,” you mumble as he reaches for his gauze and tends to the cut.

“Haven’t left yet, hon.”

“But you will.”

He clears his throat.

***

Joel moves fast. He doesn’t stop. 

That wound had been festering for days. How did you even fucking walk that far with it? How could you not treat it or ask him to?

He wants to shake you for being so stupid. He wants to watch you wither and die from the injury so that you learn your lesson.

But I’d bring you back. I’d pull you out. 

Joel feels something hard lodge in his throat. The trees are green and full of shadows. The highway is marked by broken cars and a few scattered bones. 

You’d saved him. You’d gotten hurt saving him.

He really doesn’t enjoy the fact that you’ve slipped your way inside him. You’ve wrapped those nimble little fingers around his ribs and ripped them an inch. He’s creaking. He’s old and getting older and the world is fucking dead. It’s just a rotting corpse and Joel really likes when you sing. Sometimes, they’re just on the road and you’ll start murmuring a tune from the forties or the seventies. You have this soft, breathy tongue for old love songs. Ella Fitzgerald. Billie Holiday. Judy Garland. Dolly Parton. 

He can’t stop thinking about your expression when he left. Your eyes were wide with fear, your lower lip trembled as you called after him. You were too weak to sit up. You reached a hand out before dropping it as if it was too heavy. Inexplicably, he rushed back to your side. “I will come back,” he declared.

“Are you sure?” 

He stroked your hair just once. He lowered his face to yours. “I will.”

***

Joel kills for the antibiotics. He won’t tell you that even though he’s sure you already know his game. He’s ruthless. He has to be. He didn’t have time to barter. 

He returns to you as quickly as he can. He’s shocked at his timing. It’s only been twenty-five hours when he bursts back into the house and runs up the stairs. In the daylight, he realizes that there are bodies in the living room. Pill bottles on the antique coffee table. Stained carpet. The corpses are mummified. He’d left you in a tomb and that makes his stomach turn over. 

He’ll clean them up before you come downstairs. You will. You’ll be fine.

He’s almost relieved when he finds you still in bed, but when he gets closer, he blanches. You’re seemingly worse, drenched in sweat and shivering. He folds himself over you, hands on your face as he tilts it up. Your eyes can’t focus on him. 

“Hey,” he says, slapping you gently. “Sweetheart - I’m back. I’ve got the medicine.” He reaches around and presses his hand to the wound. It’s hot as an oven, sticky as a melted sweet on pavement. He can smell the infection and he grimaces. “Let’s turn you around.”

He manages to cradle you against his chest before dripping water into your mouth drop by drop. You lick at it, whimpering as the dry skin of your lips cracks. He wets an old towel and lays it on your forehead. He feeds you tylenol and antibiotics. He cleans the wound and worries when you don’t wrench yourself away from his touch. It should sting fiercely, but the pain is diluted beneath the fog of fever.   

He cares for you and then waits. It’s a little too similar to when he’d stay up with Sarah when she couldn’t breathe right due to bronchitis or unable to keep medicine down because of a stomach bug.

Let me save you. He thinks. Let me save you this once. He has to seal the memory of Sarah away because it’s too much. It’s agony. He shudders as if he’s placed his fingers on a screaming tea kettle. It wrecks him. He can’t fall apart when you’re already half-gone.

***

In the middle of the night, you touch his jaw, scrape your nails across his beard. “You called me darlin’,”  you slur. “Sweetheart.” 

“I did,” he confirms as he circles your wrist with his hand. He could squeeze it and it’d break. “Now - sleep.” 

You pull his arm down to your face, nuzzle your cheek against the cool metal of his watch. It startles him, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Joel,” you repeat. 

“G’night, honey.”

He doesn’t know why he called you that the last few days. Darlin’. Honey. Sweetheart. He’s never done it before. 

***

That event changed things. It shifted the air between you. You’d saved Joel’s life and he’d saved yours in return. In all respects, it should have kept their relationship on equal ground. One action had canceled out the other. A debt repaid. 

But, it’s different. He is different. He’s always watching you. A bit more protective. A bit more anxious. Sure - he trusts you to handle yourself, but he wants you not to need to handle yourself. 

They’re on the road and it’s getting colder. He has people they could rely on for a few weeks of shelter, but it’s a trek. 

“I say we make it to California,” you grumble as your boots catch on half-melting frost. “Hawaii.”

“Let me build a boat real fast, then.”

It’s all so much of the same. Walking. Supplies. Ammo. Food. Laundy. River baths. Medicine. Holing up in deserted, dusty homes that still reek of family ghosts. 

Then there’s the tension between you. The knot of things unsaid tugging you closer. 

You think about him all the time. The shape of his face and the hook of his nose. The jawline. The big brown eyes and thick, umber hair. He’s so big and bulky and protective and, if you could, you’d huddle inside him. 

Let me bury myself there all winter. Let me seek your heat. 

It comes to a head because it’s inevitable. In a strange house on a strange street near North Carolina, Joel shares a bed with you. Nothing is different. Nothing at all. You roll toward him and place your hand on his chest. He jerks, but doesn’t remove it. His heart is pounding furiously beneath the cotton.

He utters your name gently. You watch his lips fold around the letters. 

“You almost died today.”

He snorts. “No - I didn’t.”

Alright - he didn’t. It was only a small scuffle. One gunshot for a backseat of supplies.

But you wanted a reason. Needed a reason to touch him like he had touched you when you nearly died. 

“You could’ve,” you reply stubbornly.

He huffs a laugh. “I ain’t dyin on you anytime soon.”

“I know.”

You dig your fingers into his chest, rub them deep until you feel his hand slide over your thigh. He squeezes the meat of it and you wriggle under the covers.

“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse. He sounds nervous. Good.

Lazily, he turns on his side, his hand wanders up your leg. He hauls you closer so that you’re intertwined, tangled up in limbs. He presses his cheek to yours and curls his fingers behind the crotch of your panties before sinking two of them inside your cunt. 

“Oh,” you gasp, clawing at his hair. “Fuck.”

He moves deliberately, stroking your walls until it begins to smart like a bruise. His thumb finds your clit and he teases it, circles with a calloused trigger-happy fingertip.

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs despite it just being the two of you and there’s not a soul for miles except maybe the dead spirits in this house. A happy family. A dog. Gone. 

You grip some of his t-shirt and tug it, thighs opening around his hand. You rock down on him as he plays you like his six-string.

You push at his boxers, reach for his cock. It’s hot in your palm. Full and throbbing just like that wound on your side that sewed you both together. He grabs your chin and holds it still. “Tell me,” he demands. “Is this what you want?”

Do you want me?

You nod, chewing your lip as he adds a third finger. He stretches you open. He readies your sex. 

“You, Joel,” you reply to seal the truth of it. “You.”

He lowers his head and captures your mouth. Joel kisses you senseless, his tongue sweeping behind your teeth and making itself at home. He drinks, his beard scraping your chin raw. He tastes like leather and ammunition. Sweat. Wood. Generic shampoo. He lifts his head to catch his breath.

“Alright, darlin’.”

***

It is a smoother coupling than you expected. You didn’t think he’d kiss you. Before, you assumed that if this would happen, it would be a cold fuck in the form of stress relief. Not this. 

He groans against your teeth. You clasp the back of his head and his soft curls. His rests his forearm beside your face as he bears his weight above you. You watch the muscles in his jaw work with every thrust. The vein in his throat tenses. His chest hitches and you can’t help but lick a clean line up his sternum.

He likes it. His lungs rumble.

His hand slides between them, parting the lips of your cunt to press and tease your clit. Your pussy is wrapped around his length. He drives to the end of you before easing back until only the tip remains. He pushes in again so that you feel every ridge of him. Again. Again. You can hear your body take him. It echoes in the room.

You’re tearing me apart. You’re splitting me. You’re branding me. I can’t breathe. 

Do it again. 

“Wider,” he urges as his whole body trembles. “Lift your ass for me.”

You do and the angle allows him to plunge deeper.

You know he’s trying hard to fuck you like it doesn’t mean something. He’s rolling his hips and pinning your wrist to the mattress and it feels like the fat head of his cock is punching the bottom of your lungs. It hurts a little and meaningful sex shouldn’t hurt like this. Or maybe it should. Maybe, that's the damn point. You're close to tears because it feels so good and so much at the same time. You can’t help clenching around him, coming like a fountain as he punishes you with another harsh stroke. 

“Darlin,” he says in a voice that stings like gravel. It’s one sweet thing given between grunts and groans and the wet slap of skin. It’s all he can offer. He traces the cut along your ribs that hasn’t yet scarred over. He pets it with his thumb as he stares at you intently.

“Say it again,” You bring your knees to his waist, skate your nails down the muscles of his back. 

The corner of his lips twitch. “Darlin,” he offers before lowering his mouth a breath from your own. “Darlin.”

[literaila]

Hey, I don’t know what you make of love triangles but I’ve always wondered how Typical Family would look like if reader once had a “not so obvious” crush on Geto and the two almost looked like a couple except Geto only saw her as a friend and Satoru doesn’t actually start to “see” reader until he sees how broken up she is after Geto’s betrayal. Kind of looks like the thing between Sasuke/Sakura/Naruto (ahem Except Sakura takes the less toxic path). You don’t have to indulge in this nor does it have to be canon to your original story but I’m just curious 🌚

now i dont think satoru was ever jealous of suguru because 1. suguru is all-knowing and 2. suguru is a literal big brother to you and there is only platonic admiration there.

but. you know who satoru is jealous of? nanami kento.

okay, there’s really no arguing—the boy needs a haircut.

he also needs to stop letting you hang off of him, and taking you out to dinner (because you find his interest in food a bit bizarre, and funny), and making you laugh all of the goddamn time.

satoru may be the strongest, the prettiest—but he has the disadvantage of being older than you. it’s not often yaga sends the two of you somewhere together—or any of the first years with the seconds.

and it’s just not fair, okay?

the only reason you even train with satoru is because he’s the only person who can see your technique, the only one who has a fair fight.

in fact, the only reason satoru gets to hang out with you at all is because you like everyone else. your classmates like suguru and shoko—and tolerate satoru.

and maybe it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he sees you standing a little bit too close to nanami. maybe it makes him feel like his world could collapse—disappear—right in front of him.

he does not want to endure being subjected to your schoolgirl crush on a boy who can’t even be bothered to cut his hair. and what would you see in him anyway? are brown eyes preferable to his outer-worldly blue ones? is satoru’s hair just not yellow enough?

…is nanami your type?

all of this to say, it’s definitely not satoru’s fault that he just accidentally threw nanami across the courtyard.

it’s the boys fault, obviously, for daring you to wish him good luck, for saying something so funny before they began that his smug face is still so pleased from making you laugh.

it’s not satoru’s fault.

but he does realize his mistake when instead of aweing over him like he’d wanted—you rush to nanami.

satoru is standing there, a rare frown on his face, looking down at his hands like they’re going to give him some answers.

“are you taking your anger out on the first years, now?” suguru asks, dryly, looking over to where you’re checking nanami’s pupillary response.

“don’t know what you’re talking about,” satoru grumbles, feeling even more betrayed.

what does that kid offer than he can’t?

“you know you could just talk to her, right? you don’t need to beat nanami up to prove a point.”

“if he wasn’t so weak i wouldn’t have—“

and then you’re walking back to them, nanami’s arm slung over your back as you half carry him. his face is already puffing up. “where’s shoko?”

you give him a look with unbridled rage. satoru can already feel the scolding coming on.

“i think she had a meeting with yaga, or something,” satoru answers, giving you his best innocent look.

it does nothing.

suguru inspects nanami. “do you need help?”

“no,” you frown at the boy hanging on you and sigh. “i’m taking him to the infirmary. i don’t know where yu went, but if you see him will you tell him that we left?”

“sure.”

suguru nudges satoru. “uh, yeah. we’ll tell him.”

you nod sternly at them both. “thank you.”

and then you’re walking away, even closer to nanami than you were before.

satoru is already pouting. it doesn’t take much.

“you’re stupid, you know that?”

“he asked me to—!”

“he wanted to learn. not get a concussion for no reason.”

satoru waves a hand. “he wont even remember it tomorrow.”

suguru is smirking at him, looking like he knows something that satoru doesn’t. “because he has brain damage?”

“because shoko will heal him.”

suguru only shakes his head. “i’m going to find haibara. he probably got lost again.”

satoru nods but remains there, with his arms crossed.

seriously, nanami kento of all people?

*

meanwhile, you’re lugging kento up onto one of the tables in the infirmary, feeling like you should’ve forced gojo to carry him the whole way.

you would’ve—if the sight of him didn’t make you want to rip your hair out.

…for a multitude of reasons, of course.

“okay. you okay? how’s your head?”

“bruised.”

you snort, pushing his hair back so you can see the black eye that’s already developing. at least it won’t get the chance to turn purple, you think.

“i’m sorry. i don’t know why gojo did that.”

kento laughs, leaning again away from your hand. you wonder if it’s his possible concussion, or if what you said was really all that funny.

you’ve only gotten him to laugh like… three times.

“you can tell him that i’m not interested in stealing you away.”

“gojo?”

he nods.

“why would i tell him that?”

nanami’s eyes closed. he looks like he’s aged years in the last hour. “are you naturally ignorant, or are you trying to distract me?”

you cross your arms. “what do you mean?”

“whatever’s going on between you and that white haired freak, just leave me out of it.”

“going on? there’s nothing going on. gojo is just an idiot—“

“seems like it’s spreading.”

“are you sure you’re okay, ken? i think you’re going crazy.”

nanami sighs. you can practically see his eyes rolling under his eyelids. “where’s shoko?”

you look around, biting your lip. “i don’t know… i thought she’d be here by now. i’ll go check the classrooms.”

he nods.

“don’t fall asleep, okay? i mean it.”

“just hurry.”

and you turn around the door, more questions running through your head than when you walked in.

*

satoru is still standing there, contemplating his life choices (of which there have been few) when you’re running back across the courtyard.

but you slow as you near him, your eyes filled with intent.

and maybe he was waiting for this.

“you asshole,” you say, hitting him on the shoulder—which he allows because any moment of you touching him is one that satoru wants to savor. “what were you thinking?”

he stands there, completely still, for just a moment more. you’re here now. with him. who’s with nanami then?

still, he shrugs. “i just forgot how weak he was.”

“oh, you forgot? you forgot that it was training and kento isn’t some special grade curse you—“

“is he dead?”

“what? why would you say that?”

“if he was really a special grade curse he’d already be dead.”

“you’re so arrogant,” you grind out, shaking your head at him. “and reckless! kento probably has a concussion.”

“then why aren’t you looking after him?”

“i—what?”

“why are you here yelling at me,” satoru gestures to himself, a grin forming on his face. “instead of making sure that he’s okay?”

“i—“ your mouth opens. then closes. “i went to go look for shoko and i didn’t think that you…” you shake your head again, frowning.

satoru just smiles at you.

he likes you a bit flushed and angry anyway.

“stop smiling at me like that!”

“what? i’m not allowed to smile now?”

“no. after today you’re not allowed to do anything. you’re lucky i’m such a good person or else you’d be six feet under—“

“you expect me to believe that you would actually kill me?”

“if i didn’t have a moral obligation, yes.”

satoru laughs.

“shut up,” you say, hitting him again. “i’m angry enough that i could do it.”

he shakes his head, slinging his arm around your shoulder. he has to make up for all of the time that nanami got to cling to you—has to repossess this, or he might go insane.

“that’s not why i’m laughing.”

“get off of me.”

“you wouldn’t kill me,” satoru whispers, right in your ear, delighting in a shiver that you can’t hold back. “even if you could. you like me too much to do it.”

you push him off of you, scowling. “i do not like you—“ you insist, only slightly breathless. “you just beat up my friend for no reason.”

“friend?”

you scoff, crossing your arms and looking up at satoru like he’s a demon sent straight from hell—just to torment you.

have you ever looked at nanami like that?

no, satoru thinks, you haven’t.

“yes, friend,” you repeat, rolling your eyes, “i know you’re unfamiliar with the concept but really. why is everyone acting so weird today?”

satoru’s grin is almost blinding. there’s no one else you get so worked up over. no one else who you would pause just to yell at.

“c’mon,” he says, instead of answering. he pushes himself back onto you, pulling you close by your waist. “i’ll look for shoko with you. you can tell me about how much you like me on the way.”

“gojo satoru, i will still murder you—“

[writing-mlm]

Right here

Druig x male!eternals!reader

wc: 2.8k

summary: dinner with the Avengers gets unexpectedly cut short

“Uh… Mr. Corpus, sir?” Peter looks up from where he’s working on his homework, watching as you swirl his LEGOS in the air. They click into place, quickly forming some version of the Titanic but the colors are off. They release from their form and swirl in the air again as you look at him, your fingers held in a cupping motion. He looks away for a second, fiddling with his pencil. “Do you know what happened on July 14th, 1789?” 

“Storming of the Bastille,” You answer without thinking too much about it. “Very important moment in the French Revolution; Bastille was a prison that many aristocrats preferred to go to because it was a very… relaxed prison. Almost a thousand people surrounded the prisons, cannons, and gunpowder ready. They were afraid the King was going to arrest the new National Assembly. They were also wanting to fortify the prison, crime was horrid those days.” As you speak, Peter writes it down. He has no use for fact-checking you, you’re the Avengers history nerd. 

“Thank you,” He smiled and flipped to the next page. You nod, returning to your LEGOS and recreating the prison. It spins around and you look into the box of loose legos, using random pieces to create canons around it. 

Living with the Avengers was far from the plan you had set in your head when you finally broke away from your family. You didn’t want nor need a team of people to boss you around again but this was the easiest way to ensure the world was safe. At the top of the world, nothing was hidden. 

At least to you. 

You look at the other Avengers who’d found themselves a spot in the common area, blissfully unaware of the truth. They think they know it all, there’s nothing they don’t know. Anything and everything that happens on Earth— they’ll know it. And they’ll stop it. 

God, they were so fucking wrong. 

Sinking into your seat, your eyes drift off to the woods that surround the compound. They’re smaller but denser than the forest you’re used to back home, which reminds you that you ought to visit soon. It’s been almost a year since you’ve last been there and you’re sure you’re being missed day and night. 

And you miss it, too, of course. The dreams cannot replace reality. 

“Hey, Chronicle,” Tony calls and you look over to him. He lifts his cup to point towards the TV and you see you’re up for the next match of Mortal Kombat. Pulling yourself to sit next to Sam, you take the controller from Natasha and pick your character. Sam picks his and the round begins, you end up winning but that’s almost entirely due to the fact that for some odd reason, Sam could not have a steady grip on his controller. 

“He always cheats!” Sam points to you as you hand the controller to Tony. “Nah- nah, get the power blockers! I want a rematch!” He demands but everyone knows that for some stupid reason, it doesn’t work on you. 

   “It’s okay, butterfingers,” You tell him, patting his shoulder as you return to your spot creating LEGOS. “I know you're getting all hot and bothered around me.” Sam closes his eyes, telling Bucky that he’s about to send you away and you offer an amused smile. 

The place settles down after that, you end up losing in the game because you had a long-standing promise with Bucky that you wouldn’t use your powers on him unless it was necessary. Some type of PTSD you didn’t care to dive into. All that mattered was that Bucky absolutely murked your character and Sam was cheering the entire time. 

Dinner rolls around and you agree to make something quick, but with how much everyone eats even a quick meal takes an hour with how much needs to be made. Thankfully, the kitchen has four ovens for that exact reason. Seven lasagna and garlic breads later, dinner is served and everyone is eating around a table. 

Thor, Steve, Bucky, and Peter each got their own pans. Although, Thor needed another and you’re glad you made seven because the remaining two were just enough for the rest of you with normal appetites. 

Midway through your slice, you feel a certain tug in your mind and smile, doing your best to not look away from your food. It’s a tug you’ve grown to love and adore, and it’s more than welcome to invade your mind. 

What’re you eatin’ tonight? Druig asked, his soft voice mulling over the voices around you. 

   Lasagna, the recipe I showed you. You answer, grabbing your cup of juice to hide your smile. You? 

    Soup. He replies. Arishem, I miss your cooking. You laugh, although you manage to keep it silent. 

I’m planning my next return, just have to make sure there’s nothing coming up here. 

Good, I cannot go another month without you, my love. 

Neither can I. You look up, seeing everyone is looking at you. One moment, darling. Like a phone call, you put the connection on hold and clear your throat. 

“Sorry, what did you say?” You ask, setting your cup down. 

   “Peter was asking for the recipe,” Wanda says, offering the kid a smile when you look at him. 

   “Oh, yeah, sure,” You nod. “Remind me later.” He nods and everyone slowly goes back to their conversations and you take Druig off of hold. 

You have to stop letting your mind wander. He teases and you roll your eyes, finishing up the last of your food. 

   Only to thoughts of you. You reply and he makes an ohh sound. Not in that way. You add, leaving the table with a simple see you later. 

One amazing thing about the compound is the fucking dishwasher, it’s honestly a lifesaver. 

I do not need a dishwasher. Druig says as you close the door to the washer. 

   You don’t have electricity, you cannot have one. He takes the reminder with a grain of salt and your conversation continues well into the night. Eventually, he falls asleep and you allow yourself to as well. 

—

One thing you absolutely dread about living with the others is the fact that whenever someone who’s not Tony or Peter is there, they insist on working out at the crack of dawn. 

You’re awake at four in the morning, several hours before you normally do, and have only managed to get two hours of sleep so you’re more than annoyed when Thor makes an announcement over every single speaker in the house. 

Begrudgingly, you get prepared for the workout and join Sam for the pre-workout smoothie. He makes the best ones, Steve just eats it dry and Bucky cannot make it taste good for the life of him. The others don’t take any before their workouts so it’s just the four of you drinking (and eating scoops of protein powder) before you head up to the gym. 

Workouts with the Avengers last for hours, although Tony taps out two hours in, Peter had to get ready for school, and Clint wanted to finally go home soon after. Sam is the next to go, he’s beyond tired three hours in and chooses to watch everyone instead. 

You’re on your ass as Natasha flips you over, the wind knocks out your chest as you land on the padding. She stands over you, her weapon tossed to the ground and you twitch your fingers. It flies through the air and knocks her backward as you pull yourself up. 

“Cheater,” She teases as you twirl her stick in the air with a shrug. “Mama never taught you to play nice with friends?” Dropping the stick into your hands, you swing and she ducks. This continues for a while until you have her pinned down— albeit using your powers but it was getting a little tiring using your arms. 

Training ends with five laps around the compound— which only Thor, Steve, and Bucky actually completed. You gave up after two and Natasha got through three and a half. You were many things, a try hard was not one of them. 

Cleaning up, you head to the common area to find something to watch. 

There’s a lot to which, with Tony having every single streaming service possible, but you eventually settle on some show Peter had recommended. 

“Dinner is ready!” Tony calls and for the first time since you started the show, you look away from the screen. It’s dark outside and you were well into the show… that's a little embarrassing. “C’mon, Matilda!” He calls when you’re not moving fast enough. 

    “Shut up, white man,” You grumble, pausing the show and heading to the others. Peter is back for the weekend but Clint stayed with his family. 

Dinner is a large order of pizza, boxes piled up on the table and the super eaters take theirs before everyone else takes their slices. Tonight you’re able to engage with them completely uninterrupted and come to think of it, you’d gone the entire day without talking to Druig. 

You couldn’t feel him in your mind, either. Normally there’s a small feeling when you focus, letting you know he was there but today he wasn’t. 

Sighing, you decide not to dwell on it just yet. He’s gone through periods where he doesn’t want to talk before, the longest being a week. You’d give him two days before you stole a jet to go and see him. 

“Unknown subjects approaching the compound,” FRIDAY says midway through dinner. “Unknown mass in the air approaching at rapid speeds, engage?” He’s basically buzzing to use the systems defense system. 

“Describe the mass,” Tony says, afraid FRIDAY is alerting them of another bird. It’s happened at least six times already. 

    “A large black triangle with unknown carvings on it, approaching in approximately five seconds,” FRIDAY says and you take that time to think about it. It sounds familiar and as you’re rushing out with the others to find out what the fuck it is,  it clicks. The Domo. 

“Holy shit!” Peter gasps when he sees the Domo hovering above the field in front of the compound. There’s a couple flashes of light and you rush over to where they’re going to be landing while the others remain a good distance away. You’re glad for their sake that they aren’t a shoot-first ask-questions-later type of group. 

“(Y/n), do not engage!” Tony shouts, stopping the others from going after you. You ignore him, stopping exactly two steps ahead of where you know they will land in a couple of seconds. The others are calling for you to get back— Sam is sure it’s some type of alien and he tells Bucky he’s always right about the people they have to fight. You tune them out, watching as the light shoots down completely from the Domo and as it falls to the ground. 

Druig is the first to land and wastes no time in his arms wrapping around your waist and you hold his face. He looks at you with these puppy dog eyes, a smile creeping up on his face and you dip your head down. 

Kissing him, one of his hands grabs the back of your neck, deepening it. You move one of your hands down to his belt loops and hold him. He laughs into the kiss but neither of you pulls away. You hear a gag but it’s clearly from Sprite so you ignore it. 

“I didn’t need to see that!” Sprite groans as she lands. “They’re worse than you and Dane.” She tells Sersi as you pull away from the kiss. But just slightly, you can still feel his lips on yours and you carefully rub his cheek. 

“Hello, beautiful,” He mutters against your lips. 

   “Hey,” You mutter back, going in for another kiss but Phastos pulls the two of you away. 

“Dude!” You whine as he holds your collar and drags you across the lawn until you’re more than an arm's distance from Druig. “Let me kiss my fuckin’ husband!” Druig smiles and you wink, finally getting put back on your feet. 

“Did he say, husband?” Natasha whispers to Tony who blankly nods. 

“You can kiss when we’re done here,” Ikaris says, floating down from the Domo. 

   “You’re not the only one who can fly, asshole,” You tease, rising to his level. “But yeah; whatever. Why're all— most of you here?” You correct yourself, seeing that Ajak and Gilgamesh aren’t with the others. 

“Aren’t you and Gilg a package dead?” You ask Thena and that seems to be the wrong question to as everyone looks sad. Lowering yourself to the ground, you look between everyone. “What’s going on?” You slowly ask, looking at Druig as he walks up to you. 

“Ajak and Gilgamesh are dead,” He says as he holds your hand. “Killed by deviants; they're back.” He softly adds. 

“There’s some more stuff,” Sersi steps forward, her hand on Thena’s shoulder. “We’ll explain everything in the Domo but we need to go now.” 

“Now— like, right this second now?” You ask and she nods. Looking at your team, you sigh and look back to the others. “Give me a second.” They nod and you rush over to the others. 

“I’ll be back, I just— I’ll explain when I get back.” You tell them, giving everyone a once over. “Um… yeah, see you!” 

“No way,” Tony says as he grabs your arm before you can go too far. “You aren’t just up and leaving like that! Where are you going? Who are they?” 

“We’re on a bit of a time crunch!” Kingo shouts and you sigh, apologizing to Tony before removing his hand with your powers. 

“I’ll explain when I get back, I promise!” 

—

Sitting on the beach, you look over at Druig who’s already looking at you rather than the very large golden hand sticking out from the sea. 

“I should’ve stayed with you,” You whisper, a frown forming on your face. “If I hadn’t been with the Avengers Gilgamesh would be alive, I could’ve stopped Ikarus long before this became such an issue.” Looking back to the water, you rest your head on his shoulder. 

    “Don't think like tha’,” Druig replies in the same whisper, brushing hair from your face. “You were doin’ your best, you joined that stupid team to help people. No one could’ve seen this comin’, darlin.” He wraps his arm around you and lays his head on top of yours. He glances at your red and gold suit, tracing the shapes that he’s traced for centuries before as the waves roll in. 

You stare at the crashing waves, your eyes drifting to and from the head and hand every so often. There are so many thoughts running through your mind. You’ve lost three friends, you look at Sprite and while the others might be able to forgive her you can’t. 

Sure, she looks like a child but she was… born at the same time everyone else was. She grew as everyone else grew, despite how it looked from the outside. You can’t look past the betrayal, no matter the reason. 

Then there’s Kingo, who you weren’t too sure about either. You’d always fought, no matter how dire the situation seemed. You fought and you fought together. And he ran. It left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

“I can still hear your thoughts,” Druig whispers. “Mind if I change those thoughts?” You hum, and move your head from his shoulder. His head moves back before it moves forward, his lips finding a home between yours. They’re dry, but you don’t doubt yours are either. And probably taste of sand just as his taste like volcanic ash. He smiles, glad your mind has drifted to other topics and you pull him on top of you. 

“Do not fuck on the beach,” Phastos grumbles. You pull away and tilt your head back to grin at him. Druig doesn’t pay him much mind, letting his eyes and hands wander your body. Although that’s probably to just annoy Phastos even more. 

   “You’re such a cockblock, y’know that right?” He rolls his eyes and joins the others several yards away. 

“We should head back, though.” You tell Druig, squeezing his arms. He looks at your face, and you stare at his blue eyes. God, they’re really fucking blue. 

   “They’ve always been blue,” His lips quirked into a smile and you shove his face away from you before bringing the two of you to your feet. 

“I know you want to go to space and like… save the others out there…” You start as the two of you walk back to the group. 

  “But you don’t?” He finishes and you sigh. “Can I ask why?” 

“I like it here,” You shrug. “I’ve built a life and I get to play with LEGOS and cheat during game night…”

“You’re afraid of space.” 

“I’m afraid of space.” You concede and he lets out a small laugh before his face softens. 

“We don’t have to go anywhere, darling. Right here is perfect.”

[morganbritton132]

The juicy drama of Steve still inviting his mother to things, though?

I know you said in the tags she has never come but I am living for a very petty Eddie seeing Steve’s mom after all these years and going “you look great, Helen. Haven’t aged a day since you begged me not to marry Steve.” (Not sure if you’ve named Steve’s mom yet. Helen is just my head canon name for her.)

I’m not sure if I’ve named Steve’s mom in this AU yet or not, but she is universally known as Angela in all my work thus far so I’m going to keep it the same here.

 

Steve might have had virtually no contact with his mother over the years despite numerous attempts to reach out to her, but Eddie has.

Eddie has a tour bus and final say over their touring schedule, and Angela Harrington still lives in Hawkins. Eddie is a petty bitch when he wants to be, and trust him. He wants to be.

He always ensures that Corroded Coffin plays at least one gig that’s close enough to their hometown that they can make a day trip. Some might say that he’s keeping close to his roots and others may say that he’s giving the band a chance to visit with family, but Gareth knows Eddie too well.

Wayne doesn’t live in Hawkins anymore and Eddie would only ever step foot in that town to cause a problem, so he tells him. He says, “Don’t get arrested” and then he goes to see his parents.

Eddie paints pentagrams on his fingernails and lines his eyes with the darkest liner he has, and then he makes his way up Loch Nora with the windows down and the music loud. He parks in front of the Harrington residence and he pounds on the door until someone answers it.

Angela never looks older than she does when she’s glaring at Eddie and it makes him smile, “Hiya, Mom.”

She never slams the door in his face despite how much she looks like she wants to. It would cause too much of a scene and Eddie has caught her in the middle of her book club – a bit of good timing on his part (and a lot of listening to Steve Facebook stalk everybody that has ever lived in Hawkins). She looks him up in down like she’s already annoyed, puts her hands on her hips and says, “Absolutely not.”

Eddie’s already slipping passed her by then and into the house. He looks around like he’s never fucked her son there before and says, “Wow, Ang, it almost looks like a human being with a functioning heart lives here.”

She hisses at him to get out of her house or she’ll call the police, but Eddie just got here. And anyways, he’s too busy introducing himself to her friends, “Hi. Hi. I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me from Angie. I’m her son-in-law.”

Gosh, some of these girls are young enough to not know that Angela abandoned her son because one of the girls says, “Oh, I didn’t know she had a daughter.”

“Yeah, no,” Eddie says, pouring himself a glass of their champagne. “She doesn’t. A son. Hot as hell, great ass, wonderful person – he’s fantastic. That’s actually why I’m here, you see.”

“My girl, Angie, here married a violently homophobic man and when he kicked her son out, she didn’t do jackshit about it. Still hasn’t,” He continued, despite her actually picking up the phone to call the police. His smile dropped a bit when he made eye contact with her, “But Richard is dead now and there’s nothing stopping her from reconnecting with her kid, right?”  

Eddie’s smile picks up again when he addresses the rest of the book club, “You see, a couple years ago, Stevie went back to school to get his masters. He’s has a few sets back - ‘cause he’s still got that head injury, Ang. The one you never ask about – but he’s set to graduate end of the semester. I just happened to be in town and though, you know what?”

“Wouldn’t it just mean the world if his mom came to his graduation?” Eddie continued. “You know, since you missed the high school one.”

“I think you’d do very well to leave now, Mr. Munson,” She tells him, and Eddie makes a big show of listening to her. He leaves behind an invitation to the party that Joyce is throwing for Steve and the info of when graduation actually is.

Eddie doesn’t see her if she’s there, but he doesn’t spend a lot of time looking for her. He’s there to see Steve walk across the stage and to cheer him on with his real family.

[welldonebeca]

Conveniência (1)

Summary: On a twist of events and to the ton's most delightful surprise, Miss Penelope Featherington marries Lord Debling.

Warnings: Canon divergence, romantic slow burn, tension, fluff. Eventual smut. Portia Featherington being herself.

Penelope wondered how much of what she was feeling now was like other brides felt on the day of their weddings.

Mama was elated, smiling for the whole family, nearly jumping up and down from all her excitement. Prudence and Philippa were with child, and now Penelope was a moment away from becoming Lady Debling. She had succeeded in her wishes.

Lord Debling – Alfred – had proposed in a beautiful way. When they went for a garden stroll with her mother, her sisters and their husbands, he had led her to a long wall of flowers. There, he knelt and gazed into her eyes with such intensity that Penelope almost forgot the practical foundations of their union. He needed a wife; she needed a husband. They enjoyed each other's company and understood their marriage would be practical, not romantic.

So she said yes.

Her room was empty now, everything – every little thing she owed, including her Whistledown things – was off to her new home.

All that remained was what she was wearing now.

“Penelope,” Mama spoke, opening her door. “Before we go, a word?”

Rae stepped back and away from her, just done with her hair.

“In private,” mama added.

Rae was joining her new household – Penelope trusted her too much and enjoyed her too much to let Mama keep her.

She stood up as her maid left, and remained stiff as Mama came to her and took her hand.

Was anything wrong?

“Look at you,” she exhaled. “Lady Debling in just a few moments.”

Penelope nodded slowly.

Lady Debling. Yes.

“I wanted to talk to you about what is to happen tonight.”

She stiffened up.

Oh.

When Marina was with them, they’d talked about some of what happened to land her with a child in her belly, but nothing specific – just cake and love.

"Do you remember," Mama spoke slowly, "when we visited a farm?"

Penelope frowned. A farm?

"I’ve never been to a farm, Mama," she corrected her.

Mama paused, shaking her head.

"Oh, that was Prudence," she realised.

She kept staring at her mother. Well?

"A man… has an appendage," Mama began, not meeting her eyes. "And in order to… fertilise your womb, he must… deposit his… seed… in it. Many times, as many as he possibly can.”

Penelope blinked, shocked.

Fertilise? Seed?

Were they talking about marriage or gardening?!

“And it will probably begin uncomfortably for you,” she continued. “If your husband is kind and attentive, and I’m certain he will be, you will feel no more than… a pinch.”

“A pinch,” she parroted.

“Inside,” Mama added.

“Inside?!”

Inside what?!

But Mama rolled her eyes.

“Stop that,” she interrupted her. “He’ll know what to do, just make sure he doesn’t keep his breeches on.”

Penelope held back the instinct to parrot it—his breeches? He was going to take off his breeches? Why on earth would he need to take off his breeches?

Well, if a child came from love, then she was at a disadvantage. Penelope didn’t love Lord Debling – she loved Colin.

Even if she tried to hide it, even if it hurt her, even if it was impossible and something she was running away from and was going to end - because she was not going to feed that stupid feeling any longer - she loved Colin.

“Marina said babies were made with love,” she mumbled.

She had no one else to ask, no one else would tell her!

It’d have to be Mama.

The look her mother gave her was pitiful.

“Miss Thompson was very naive,” Mama told her. “Babies are made and raised with effort. I didn’t start loving your father, but he gave me the greatest gifts I could have ever been gifted, in you three.”

She moved to Penelope slowly, and took her hand again.

“You will love so many things,” she affirmed. “Your days will be filled with delight. Sometimes your husband will be a part of them, and other times, he won’t. But you’ll only find out once you’re married to him. Which is why we should go now, or they’ll think we’re stalling.”

She just nodded, walking out with her.

They entered the carriage very quietly, just the two of them now. It looked very nice, adorned with white ribbons and flowers, very bridal-like. The ride to the church seemed to both drag on and fly by in a blur and before she even knew it, they were arriving at the church.

She was walking in on her own, without Mama. Her mother was a bit too happy to walk down before her, in her new dress and her flowers, her maid of honour.

It wasn’t like she could ask Eloise to be so.

From the room she was placed in, Penelope could see some of the guests. Mrs Bridgerton had arrived with Benedict, Daphne, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth, but Colin was nowhere in sight - nor did Eloise.

It was probably for the best that he wasn’t there. His absence would make it hurt a little less. 

Penelope blinked her tears away as Mama stepped off, the room quieting down.

She adjusted her veil with Rae’s help as the doors came to a close again, and positioned herself by it.

They waited for her to confirm she was ready to come in, and for a moment, she contemplated just… not going. Not stepping in, not…

Not marrying Alfred.

She longed for the moment Colin would run in and tell her not to do it, to ask her to marry him instead.

But every second passed, every heartbeat of her own she heard, was proof he wasn’t going to do it – he hadn’t done it when he had the time, why would he do it now?

“Miss?” someone called.

Penelope opened her eyes to see the guards at the door looking at her expectantly.

Oh.

She had to move.

“I was saying a prayer,” she lied.

Penelope took in one last breath. No turning back now.

She nodded to them.

The church was filled with the soft murmur of guests when they all stood and turned to look at her as she made her entrance. The aisle stretched on forever, each step of hers adding another four to go as her future husband slowly turned in her direction to look at her face. The ton and her family were watching her, all looking surprised to be witnessing such a moment of hers.

And there, at the end of the aisle, stood Alfred. He looked handsome in his formal attire, peaceful like no one else, and he even smiled when he saw her face – an expression she returned as best as she could, squeezing his hand when he took hers.

The ceremony itself was a blur. They exchanged vows, slipped rings onto each other’s fingers, and made promises… her voice only trembled a little bit when she said her vows, and he seemed happy to hear them.

She supposed it was a mix of reasons – some that in theory made her happy too. He had someone he could trust now, and the promise of things he could only achieve with marriage. His estate was cared for, and if their three-month honeymoon went how honeymoons were meant to go, then he would have a child to carry his name and she would have something to do in his absence.

Probably more as well. She imagined he would want to have a second once he came back from his excursion.

She managed a smile when it was over, before they turned to face their family and friends, resting her hand on his arm and tightening it for safety.

That was it, it was done. They were married.

You can also read this on Archive of Our Own.

[scryarchives]

𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 - 𝐣𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

it's been almost a month since the whole "Victoria Kord Blue Beetle Fiasco", and Jaime has loads to sort out, especially since the new neighbour might not be what she says she is...

masterlist | next !

– pairings: jaime reyes x oc

– warning: fluff, canon divergent, blue beetle movie spoilers

– author's note: after watching the blue beetle movie, I've been so down bad for jaime reyes i had to make a one-shot series for him. disclaimer: i'm not of Hispanic descent and i have don't know casual terms spoken, so do correct me if im wrong!

The sun's heat beat down on the hot sand, heat waves radiating off the ground from the high temperature. A winding tarmac road lay between the plains, and a little vehicle sped down it, emptiness surrounding them.

“Mama, how much longer until we get to… Palmera City?” The woman drawled, picking up a pamphlet in her right hand, and pulling her wireless headphones down with the other.

“We're pretty much there, Drea,” A woman replied, hands on the steering while and eyes trained on the road. “We’re almost there.”

“Why can’t I just fly there myself? You and Amma can take the car. I’m twenty Ma, not five,” Drea huffed, neatening out her ruffled ebony waves. “You taught me how to fly when I was ten, anyways.”

“Kanna, you don’t even know where Palmera City is,” Another woman turned her head in the passenger’s seat to face her daughter in the back. “And you don’t know where the house is.”

“I do know where it is, El Paso Street, Palmera City.”

“Which house then? And you only knew Palmera City from the pamphlet,” The woman driving chuckled. “Besides, don’t you like spending time with your mamas?”

Drea said nothing in return, grumbling and pulling her headphones back over her ears, blasting her music at almost full volume.

“She grew up too fast,” The other passenger sighed, her hand on her forehead. “When did she become twenty? Remind me, please.”

“She turned twenty almost two days ago, aṉpu,” The driver grinned. “Did you forget that she almost set the house on fire when we told her about the move?”

“Please, don’t remind me, Zara,” Anika sighed at her wife’s entertainment. “I’m still drained from all of the mess I had to clean up after.”

“Nika, we’re moving, new people, new sights to see, and new opportunities for a good life for you and me. For our family,” Zara, the driver, smiled softly. One of her hands slipped off the driver’s wheel, encasing itself around Anika’s smaller hand.

“Besides, Drea needs a job, something that can keep her steady until she finds out what she wants to do,” She shrugged. “And Palmera City might have everything she needs.”

“‘Might have’ are the keywords.” Anika’s worried eyes met Zara’s calm ones. “If it doesn’t? Then what? She’ll just, what, fly alone to a new place?”

“Probably. But that’s okay, I was her age when I came here, and I needed something new. Something different. And then I met you, and I felt love for the first time,” She winked, her wife flushing.

“Oh stop it you, focus on driving!”

“Alright, alright. But you get my point, right?”

“Yeah… I do."

“Until that happens, if that ever happens, we’ll be just fine.”

“Hermano,” Milagro huffed, her hands forearm deep in water as she held a plate in her hands, holding it up to her brother, who was staring out the window in curiosity.

“Jaime,” She called out once more, her brother still unresponsive, the girl’s patience snapping. “Earth to Jaime Reyes!”

Jaime jumped slightly, taking the plate, gaze focused back on the window while muttering apologies to his younger sister.

“Sorry, sorry,” He wrapped the plate with the cloth in his hands hurriedly.

“What’s got you so distracted?” Milagro frowned, peering over his shoulder to see a moving truck parked outside their house. More accurately, in front of the empty house across the road from them.

“Oh, new neighbours,” She nodded, taking another soapy plate to rinse off from her mother. 

“I wonder what they’ll be like,” Bianca Reyes hummed, handing Milagro another plate.

“It’s about time someone moved in that house,” Milagro chirped. “That house has been empty for as long as I can remember."

"That's not true," Jaime glanced at his sister. "Mrs. Diaz lived there for a while before her son moved out."

"Oh yeah… But that was still ages ago. So my statement still counts."

Jaime playfully rolled his eyes, a smile faint on his face. Glancing over, Milagro questioned her brother teasingly.

"Why are you staring there so much, anyways? Did you see Jenny?" She wiggled her eyebrows.

"What? No, no. We're just friends," He huffed.

"Sure you are."

"No, look. Khaji-Da scanned their moving stuff—"

"Woah! Boundaries, hermano!"

"Exactly! But she did it somehow and she warned me about them."

"What? Is she saying that they're villains? Like Jenny's crazy aunt?" The girl beside Jaime placed a hand on her hip. "C'mon, they're new neighbours, how bad can they be?"

"Pretty bad," Khaji-Da chimed in Jaime's head, her host glaring.

The rest of the day proceeded to be uneventful. After dishwashing and tidying up after lunch, Jaime hadn't done much other than trying to find work or helping his mother around the house.

Occasionally, Nana would come around for a drink while taking a break from her sewing, and Milagro soon joined Jaime in his room, the two job-hunting together. Uncle Rudy was… well, somewhere working on "an upgrade for the truck Jenny had gifted", according to him.

If he could, Jaime would have described the atmosphere as "chill and somewhat productive".

His mind drifted from the list of temporary jobs he could apply for on the site he sat on to the whole "Blue Beetle Fiasco" over a month ago. To the friend he hoped would be something more, until she, in the nicest way possible, tried to turn him down.

"Jaime, you're thinking about Jennifer again."

Instantly, he shook his head, trying to refocus his attention.

"Nope, nope. I'm completely focused. See? I can qualify for a…" He narrowed his eyes, reading the word his pointer was aimed at. "Chiropractor? What, no—"

"You need to move on, Jaime. The positive is that Jennifer is still your friend. You have more responsibilities."

"Yeah, and I'm doing it with Mili," Jaime then looked around him, wondering why his sister's questioning and prying hadn't begun.

"Milagro had left to get a drink, while you were busy 'looking for jobs'," Khaji-Da chimed in, rubbing in her point before her host could ask.

"Thank you, Khaji," Jaime huffed sarcastically. "How long has she been gone for?"

"Ten minutes."

"That long?"

"You were deep in thought."

"Got it," He grumbled, pushing himself off of his bed to find his job-hunting partner. "Mili!"

He called out his sister's name, hoping to find her peering around a corner in response, but was returned with nothing, not even a single quip.

"Mili?" Jaime frowned at the lack of noise in his home.

"Nana? Uncle Rudy?"

Seeing that no one was responding, Jaime narrowed his eyes, his mind darting to the worst-case scenario.

"Khaji, can you scan or locate where my family is?"

"Your mother—"

"Jaime! There you are!" Bianca cut Jaime off, her son relieved to see that she was alright.

"—is right here."

"Thank you for the… status, Khaji," He whispered before smiling, letting out a sigh. "Mama, where's everyone?"

"They're outside, greeting the new neighbours!" She furrowed her brows, a smile still gracing her lips. "I thought Mili told you? Oh, I'll talk to her about it later, come come! Let's meet the neighbours, yes?"

She grabbed Jaime's upper arm, rushing out to meet up with the rest of the family.

"Jaime, meet Mrs Tlatilpa, and her daughter, Alejandra!" Bianca smiled.

Jaime smiled over at who he assumed was Alejandra, as she did look quite a bit younger than the woman beside her.

Taking in her appearance, he noticed that she almost looked Hispanic, like him, though her skin was slightly darker. Her hair remained wavy and was a dark shade of brown, pretty much black if he hadn't noticed it against the sunlight. If he looked close enough, he noticed that she had a few strands of braids tied together here and there.

She tilted her head as her wireless headphones covered in vibrant stickers were plastered all over, covering the brand's logo, and it seemed like stars — he noticed a few hand-sewn ones on her baggy jeans — seemed to be her favourite pattern.

Triangle earrings glinted in the light as her dark brown eyes watched him in curiosity. If he looked close enough, he could almost see sparks of red—

"You're staring, Jaime."

He flinched from Khaji-Da's comment, holding his hand out to shake hands, the woman across from him doing the same.

"Reyes, my name's Jaime Reyes," He nodded, putting on his best smile.

"Alejandra Tlatilpa. But you can call me Drea," She nodded respectfully before switching her glance to his shoes. "Cool shoes."

"Ah, uhm thanks. Not my favourite pair, but they serve their purpose," He chuckled, almost sadly as he remembered the fate of his now-incinerated favoured shoes.

"She's dangerous," Khaji-Da pointed out, Jaime's brows furrowing.

"What? No way," Jaime muttered, Drea, blinking in confusion.

"I'm sorry?" She questioned for clarification.

"No, sorry, I uhm… just a habit of mine, I talk. To myself," He quickly responded, his smile turning awkward.

"Right," She pointed a finger, nodding once more. "Got it. Don't worry about it, we all have our habits."

"Look at the two of you getting along!" Mrs Tlatilpa grinned. "Kanna, why don't you go get Mama? I'm sure she'd love to meet new people."

"Yeah, sure," Drea chirped, smiling one last time at Jaime. "See you around."

"So, your wife?" Bianca questioned, her eyes curious.

"Ah yes, it's a long story," Anika laughed nervously.

"No, no worries! In fact, would your family like to join us for tea?"

gif by @rob-pattinson

taglist: @mooncleaver < comment/dm me if you'd like to be on the taglist! >

[atopvisenyashill]

How do you expect dany ending slavery to be? By asking the slavers nicely to stop owning people? To the masters enslaved people are nothing, they do not view them as humans deserving of autonomy, of decency, of freedom to live for themselves. The masters will never have given up the people they held captive because they believed they are their property. Should she have let the masters go free in astapor, they would've undoubtedly started enslaving people again. abolishing slavery will never not be bloodless, for the masters because they don't want to lose the wealth and power they gained through the enslavement of people, their labour and their talents/creativity. And for the enslaved because they don't want to be at the mercy of people who treat them as if they're animals - or below - people who think they're nothing but bodies to be used and utilised as they see fit.

I've seen people saying the crucifixion of the masters was wrong, I think it was not nearly enough. What are the lives of a few hundreds masters to the millions of enslaved people they've killed? To the millions suffering at their hands? The unsullied if I remember correctly are around 8 thousand, meaning each one killed a baby, that's 8 thousand babies killed because of the masters. What they deserve is to stripped of all their wealth, death if found to be involved with the harpy or for refusal (I don't think that's what'll happen in canon though)

Also, I don't understand the comparison between dany and robb, yes they are both leaders of their people, who fail somewhat in their job but their similarity end there.... where dany grow up in poverty and without shelter, enduring her brother's abuse, robb grow up as the heir to a lord paramount, among his loving parents and siblings without ever worrying about food or shelter

Alright fine let’s break this down piece by piece.

How do you expect dany ending slavery to be? By asking the slavers nicely to stop owning people? To the masters enslaved people are nothing, they do not view them as humans deserving of autonomy, of decency, of freedom to live for themselves. The masters will never have given up the people they held captive because they believed they are their property.

FIRST OF ALL i don’t need a lecture from a grey faced anon on the horrors of slavery, EYE have Indigenous ancestry on both sides of my family, I have actual proof of SLAVES in my family, and I can almost guarantee my ancestors experienced the horrors you’re lecturing me about first hand so maybe roll back on the attitude a bit hmmm.

Second, idk how many times I have to say it, other people have to say it, how many times i have to scream it from the rooftops but- POLITICALLY, I think the crucifixions were a misstep. MORALLY, my issue with her is not the crucifixtions. POLITICALLY, this was an objectively stupid thing to do that makes Meereen harder to control, and since this is a series MEANT for analysis I personally think it’s fine, actually, if I critique something that is POLITICALY stupid regardless of the MORALITY of it. Making decisions fueled by anger is BAD and any toddler knows that.

Should she have let the masters go free in astapor, they would've undoubtedly started enslaving people again.

You are putting words in my mouth or mixing up the events. She doesn’t crucify the Good Masters of Astapor, she sacks the city. She takes their resources, their Unsullied, their food, murders children and teenagers just like her who were born noble class and inherited slaves they may not have wanted, leaves behind a council of only THREE PEOPLE, and slavery is brought back the moment she leaves by Cleon the Butcher.

It’s the Great Masters of Meereen that she crucifies. She tells them to “give up their leaders” and takes them at their word, doing something that is going to piss everyone off without thinking of the consequences. Also - she DOES let the masters go free in Meereen! She literally lets them keep all of their riches, lets them pay their servants next to nothing, and resorts to bitching about how mean they are even though SHE is the one with the power to change this. Not only does SHE let the Great Masters go free, she then BRINGS BACK SLAVERY, so, really, what exactly do you think she accomplished with the crucifixions besides inventing the Sons of the Harpy??

abolishing slavery will never not be bloodless, for the masters because they don't want to lose the wealth and power they gained through the enslavement of people, their labour and their talents/creativity. And for the enslaved because they don't want to be at the mercy of people who treat them as if they're animals - or below - people who think they're nothing but bodies to be used and utilised as they see fit.

Who said anything about it being bloodless? I am critiquing a specific act that she did that hurt her overall attempts at reconciliation in the region. She goes for a flashy, brutal way of collective punishment instead of actually figuring out whose idea it was to crucify the children, who the leaders of the city are, if there is any sort of abolition movement going on, and then acting accordingly because she is ruling through her emotions and not making smart decisions.

I've seen people saying the crucifixion of the masters was wrong, I think it was not nearly enough. What are the lives of a few hundreds masters to the millions of enslaved people they've killed? To the millions suffering at their hands? The unsullied if I remember correctly are around 8 thousand, meaning each one killed a baby, that's 8 thousand babies killed because of the masters. What they deserve is to stripped of all their wealth, death if found to be involved with the harpy or for refusal (I don't think that's what'll happen in canon though)

But she doesn’t strip them of their wealth does she? As a matter of fact, many of them still have their wealth. Many of them still effectively have slaves. The situation becomes worse in fact because she creates considerably worse class stratification wherein most people are living in abject poverty or living in the pyramids with the other rich nobles who she herself lives amongst. She also doesn’t give them the choice of “give up your wealth and disavow the sons of the harpy or die.” She takes 103 nobles that she is told are leaders, crucifies them without any sort of inquisition, and then let’s the rest keep their wealth. She does the complete opposite of what you are saying. I am critiquing her on exactly the point you are making - she makes a decision out of anger then doubles down on this stupid behavior instead of doing what’s RIGHT and what’s SMART, she sticks to useless, angry half measures that don’t go far enough because going far enough would mean giving up her OWN wealth.

During the farce we called Reconstruction, we didn’t just execute a bunch of random ass southern soldiers did we? No, there was an attempt by Lincoln to try the highest ranking government and military officials for treason. Did South Africa execute or kill every single white person when Apartheid ended? No, because committing mass slaughter of an entire class of people without some sort of plan in place doesn’t freaking help when you are trying to LIVE with them. Fuck it, do you know why MAO was so effective when he killed the landowning class? Because he had an entire plan and didn’t just kill a handful and let the rest keep their wealth!!! If what Dany had done was offer them that choice, or just straight up exile or kill literally every single Great Master, this would be a different convo. Instead she kills a handful of random ass dudes and then can’t figure out why she can’t get ahead of the political situation. It’s because she let THEM choose who to kill and she offed people who might have TALKED to her or explained the basics of how Meereen works. You can’t say you’re here to liberate the masses and then let the elites keep their shit!! That’s not ending slavery, that’s just cronyism.

Also, I don't understand the comparison between dany and robb, yes they are both leaders of their people, who fail somewhat in their job but their similarity end there.... where dany grow up in poverty and without shelter, enduring her brother's abuse, robb grow up as the heir to a lord paramount, among his loving parents and siblings without ever worrying about food or shelter

oh well since Catelyn never hears a prophecy that makes her go insane, I guess that means I can’t compare her to Cersei. and since Rhaenyra and Aegon grew up in a castle I guess that means we can’t compare them to Dany. and since Viserys II was a hostage for several years that means we can’t compare him to Tyrion. and since and since

you’re unserious if you think we are not meant to compare and contrast two teenage war rulers who are the exact same age born in the aftermath of the exact same freaking war.

[galaxostars]

If you had to choose your top five favourite marauders era characters and ships, what would they be?

This question was actually so hardddd haha and I feel like you could ask me again in a month and my answer would be different bc I’m such a multishipper that… yeah xD but for now here it issss :

Fave characters :

1. James Potter : mhm I love myself an arrogant goofball who’s actually smarter than people give him credit for, who’s got so much love he’s impulsive with it and hurts the ones he loves, who doesn’t know what to do with the loneliness that grips him sometimes, who defines himself by his ability to help people, who rarely allows himself to express himself negatively (ex : sadness/anger/frustration) because if there’s one thing that he fears the most, it’s hurting people. Plus, he hasn’t got any trauma or anything so why should he complain, yk?

Basically I love a good flawed James, and the sort of character where you wouldn’t expect him to have issues yk

2. Sirius Black : I mean… cmon do I even need to explain? ‘Cause if I start idk when I’ll stop, like literally. Ive had a crush on this character since I was eleven and never grew out of it, its almost embarrassing if it wasn’t completely justified (and the only reason he’s not number one is just because I write him less than James so I feel like I know him less intimately but like if you’d have asked me before I started writing I’d have put him number one for sure)

3. Regulus Black : !!!!! sorry but indoctrinated younger ‘abandoned’ (in between quotes bc he was not Sirius’ responsibility and Sirius was right to save himself but it’s also very normal for regulus to feel that way etc etc… we know the drill) sibling who’s faced with sudden delusion about this superior figure he’s followed/served, everything he’s lost in the process, and who redeems himself by going on this suicide mission that ends up being useless? (And unknown by Sirius AHHHH.) The guy is literally so smart and technically such a loser bc he doesn’t serve much for the plot and that’s what compelled me so much the first time I read hp 😭 he’s so tragic I love it

4. Narcissa Black : younger sibling; once again similar pattern to regulus but she survived, she’s so smart I’m, like, shaky in the knees, (esp i love female characters who do what they have to do to survive), she’s powerful too, and jkr is shit at writing female characters and I will never not be pissed abt it but I do think cissa was very compelling (+ Helen McCrory’s acting game was sooo perfect), very protective of her family and will stop at nothing to protect them, and that’s a value I respect so much. I will say, in general, any member of the black family is very compelling to me. Bellatrix would come right after narcissa in terms of fave from that family.

5. Barty Crouch Jr : listen if you know me, you know I’m… idk how to define myself actually, but I like unhinged stuff so. This is like. Peak unhingedness. Paired with intelligence bc we know canonically that man was smart af, and daddy issues? Dark hair, too? You just described my type. He’s even more compelling in tragic storylines (like past bartylus and barty joining Voldemort for regulus and then faced w the delusion and the grief? Gut wrenching) so yup.

Favorite pairings :

1. Moonshine (remus/james) : I know this sounds weird but a certain fanfic re wrote my brain chemistry and ever since then I’ve been obsessed. I just think they’re so tragically beautiful together. They’re both very selfless beings that just give and give and never prioritize themselves and together it’s a mess. They keep hurting each other because they’re so selfless, they’re not very good at reading each other and they let their insecurities get the best, they’re both frightened of how much they love, of the other not wanting them, of needing to « tame » their emotions. I love them.

2. Prongsfoot : FUCKING FOAMING AT THE MOUTH ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? Together they’re. They. Just. I hate them bc of how much I love them if that makes sense. They’re everything. A law of the universe and whatnot. I love everyyyy fucking version of them. They make me cry they make me scream they make me smile they make me laugh, they’re literally my comfort ship.

3. Jegulus : they’re kind of the pairing that made me join the fandom, and though I don’t read them as much as I used to, they’ll always make me so soft. Enemies to lovers? Yeah, well I’m not immune yk. Best friend’s brother? Even better. Tragic and doomed? Yeah sign me the fuck up. I will say I like them just as much when it’s jegulily, but that’s also because I think poly relationships are so complex and compelling.

4. Moonwater : and not platonic haha, i have to say that basically i ship anyone who’s very smart imo with regulus, and Remus passes the test. Plus he’s also introverted, a book nerd, done with James and Sirius so i feel like they could bond very easily. I prefer them in a non canon sitting tho for some reason, but yeah I’m. So fond of them. They get into heated debates. Even their ship name is so dear to me because, that’s like both their biggest fears and pairing them in one name feels like they can overcome them if they’re together ? 😭 it’s so sweet (plus, it allows me to ship prongsfoot on the side lmfao)

5. Regulily : same reasoning as up there but like they’re probs the only het pairings that I really really love. i never expected them to be so important (but *cough cough* disintegration happened…) but honestly they make a lot of sense? I feel like Regulus would be more confident with Lily, and Lily would feel more calm with Regulus? They’re that scary hot powerful quiet couple yk. Anddd they can bond over siblings angst lmao.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

To Hell...: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.9k

Summary: A man intentionally admits to murdering ten people he didn’t kill all because his sister is missing. The facts take you to a pig farm where a world of horror is waiting for you.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

Everyone heads back to the conference room to talk about the new evidence while Will stays in the interrogation room. You play the voicemail for everyone to hear.

"William, are you there? Something bad is happening. It's dark. I don't know where he's taking me--"

"After that, the signal cuts out."

"Is this the same night she left her mom's house?" Spencer asks.

"Yeah. Will called in an army favor. They triangulated the call to a cell tower in Canada just over the border in Port Huron. It explains why he crossed into your jurisdiction."

"It's also a surefire way to get the FBI involved. He knew we'd investigate an American citizen being held on multiple murder charges."

"You believe him?" Jeff asks you.

"I do." Penelope calls and you place her on speakerphone. "Go ahead, Penelope."

"I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I've got IDs on multiple border crosses for the dates in question. The trouble is, I've got hundreds, and as far as I can tell if your license doesn't ping for any prior felonies, you're pretty much gonna pass go and collect two hundred Canadian dollars."

"She's right. That's the busiest cross in North America. There's a lot of commercial traffic, trucks mostly. Stop and searches would cause too many delays."

"He's got a virtually free pass, and once he crosses, there's nothing but woods to hide whatever he's doing."

Rossi and Hotch managed to get Jeff to release William so that he's under the FBI's jurisdiction. Hotch wants him patrolling the streets like he's been doing. He has a rapport with those people, so he's the best bet in noticing if someone is missing. If something comes up, then there is a lot more manpower to deal with it than what Will's been given.

You and Spencer walk into the conference room where JJ is on the phone.

"Yes, ma'am, right now we just consider them missing. The second I get more information, I'll be in contact with you."

"How's it going?"

"The majority of the people on the street aren't even from Detroit. We don't have last names or hometowns on most of them. Unless there's a missing persons report on file somewhere, it's almost impossible."

"Most of these people's families probably gave up on seeing them long ago," Spencer sighs.

"A mother would never give up." You have to agree with JJ here. If your child went missing, you'd do anything to find them. "Can you hand me William's arrest report?"

Spencer does, and she leaves the room just in time for Penelope to call.

"Yeah, Garcia?"

"Sherlock, it's Watson. I think I've got something."

"What do you have?"

Rossi enters the room to hear what Penelope has to say.

"I checked Detroit crime reports over the last month because Derek and Emily astutely thought there might be some sort of assaults or disturbances having to do with our unsub. Well, it's tres weird but on five of the abduction nights, Detroit PD reports a break-in or a robbery at some type of medical facility."

"What type of medical facility?"

"We got a hospital, blood bank, medical supply company, and the Red Cross. He's not even stealing narcotics. The stuff he took is anesthesia, sterilizing equipment, and syringes."

"Where were these places located?"

"Putnam Street, St. Antoine, East Hancock, and Martin Luther King Boulevard."

"Those are all in the Cass Corridor."

That's where everyone seems to be disappearing from.

"Do you have a list of what else he stole?" you ask and grab a pen and paper.

"IV tubes, an infusion pump, units of O-negative blood, chest tubes, O-silk sutures, and Elastoplast."

"Thanks, Pen." Spencer hangs up. "You don't just randomly know how to hook a line up to an infusion pump, or that O-neg is the only safe blood type for any victim."

"I'll tell Hotch we think we know what he's doing with them," Spencer says.

Rossi and Jeff gather the men and women of the police force so that you can deliver the profile. Something about this doesn't make sense to you, but with all the evidence in front of you, you have no choice but to go with what everyone else is saying.

"We believe the man we're looking for is a sexual sadist. What this means is that for him, torture becomes a substitute for the sex act. The fact that he's stealing medical equipment like sterilizing agents and anesthesia tells us he may be performing experiments or surgeries on his victims," Rossi begins.

"We believe this unsub gets gratification from his ability to keep his victims alive in order to endure more torture. The choice of items stolen is extremely specific, which makes us believe he's got a medical background, so check disciplinary files at hospitals, med schools, and community health organizations. People would have noticed his behavior."

"This is someone who would volunteer to perform painful procedures," you state. "He would spend extra time probing a broken hand or a distended abdomen, and after a long day when everyone else is emotionally drained from multiple traumas and mangled bodies, he'd be the one pushing his coworkers to go out for a drink and talk about their day."

"Now, we know what you're thinking--a profile is fine, but our best shot at stopping this guy is still to catch him in the act. This unsub is extremely smart and obviously organized. He's managed to abduct very different victims with very different abilities, all with no witnesses. That's why we're coordinating with the police and our agents on the ground in Detroit."

"We've also asked Sergeant Hightower to act as a guide on the streets in Detroit while he's in our custody," Rossi says.

Everyone looks at Will who is silent at the table.

"That's it. If you have any questions, you find me or one of the agents," Jeff says to his people.

William is about to get up when he sees someone enter the station with JJ. He goes rigid like he's not expecting someone he knows to show up here.

"What's she doing here?" he asks angrily.

"We've notified all the family members we can locate."

"You have no right."

"It's her daughter," Rossi says. "She has a right to know."

William looks at the picture of his sister on the board and lets a tear roll down his cheek. If he's getting this emotional, then that can only mean the woman with JJ is his mother.

"It's one thing to believe Lee is lost on the streets, but I don't want her to know that there's a killer out there. We know how this is gonna end."

"No, we don't."

"Look, everything I have done is to find the truth so I can spare her. I don't want her living off hope."

"There are worse things," Jeff says.

"You're wrong. Bad news stops us for a while, but then you move on. Hope is paralyzing."

"He has a point," you say. "Hope in situations like this drains you of the person you are. I'd rather the bad news."

His mother stands at the doorway so that when he looks behind him, he sees the look on her face. He gets up to greet her even though he can't seem to say anything. She doesn't say anything but opens her arms for him, to which he hugs her back.

"Oh, my God," she whispers and pulls away from Will to approach the board with all the victims on it. "Are all these people missing?"

"We believe so."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"No, but we have a strategy to try to catch him. William is helping."

"My daughter... Is there any chance she could still be alive?"

"It's possible."

"Do you know what he's doing to them?"

"It's difficult to say."

JJ escorts Will's mother out of the room to sit somewhere else to answer a few questions. You, Hotch, and Will are going to join Derek and Emily down at the station in Detroit while the rest stay in Canada. You reach over to grab Spencer's hand but he quickly moves it away from you.

"Please don't touch me."

"Oh, okay."

"I mean, not my hands," he stutters.

"You don't have to explain yourself. It's okay. I'll call you if we find something."

You leave Spencer with that and head to Detroit with Will and Hotch. Spencer is still probably freaked out about what happened with the whole Anthrax situation, so you'll give him as much space and time as he needs to heal. In the meantime, you have a case to worry about. Emily and Derek meet you at the station when you arrive in Detroit.

"Thanks for believing me," Will says to you and Hotch.

"You don't have to thank us," you say.

"William, I want you to understand that even if we catch him, you're probably gonna end up doing some time in Canada."

"I can live with that."

You three get out and walk over to Derek and Emily who is with a woman.

"Detective Tay Benning, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner and SSA Y/N."

"Hi, this is William Hightower. He's gonna help us on the ground. Will, these are agents Prentiss and Morgan. We should split up and cover male and female potential victims."

We'll take the men," Derek says.

"I'll make introductions for you," Will offers.

"Stay close to your phones. If anyone's out of place, Detective Benning can get a name and a description of our patrol cars as quickly as possible."

You, Emily, and Hotch go off to talk to the women while Will, Detective Benning, and Derek talk to the men. This unsub is going to strike again with someone in this area soon whether that be tonight or tomorrow. He's stuck to a tight schedule in the past and you don't think he's going to deviate from that. Yes, it'd be much easier to approach a prostitute rather than a homeless man, so how is he doing it? The question is, why does he alternate victims in clusters of men and women? Why take the men at all if this has a sexual component to it?

The unsub sees these people as disposable, it doesn't matter if they're male or female. For a sexual sadist, male or female isn't important because the torture itself is the sex.

Unless sex has nothing to do with this.

With the photos that Will provided you with, you're able to go around and check off who is working on the street. There are only three people who have not been accounted for, and you go to Hotch once he's done with his section. Will had come back to Hotch after he made an introduction to Derek, so he is in the car with Hotch.

"We have three unaccounted for."

Hotch and Will get out of the car and approach some girls on the street with you and Emily by their sides.

"Excuse me, ladies, did you see any of these girls leave with customers?"

You show them the photos of the three girls.

"I saw Monica and Sasha leave with two men, but I don't know about Kelly."

"Do you know where they would go?"

"There's a parking lot down at Cass Park. The girls have their Johns park there."

Hotch walks away and dials Detective Benning to confirm this.

"What about Kelly? Is there a reason why you wouldn't have seen her leave?" you ask.

"I don't know. I could have been distracted."

"So, she was here before? Was there any reason she would sneak off?" Will asks.

"I don't know what she does. She's fresh meat out here."

"Okay," Hotch returns, "Detroit PD confirmed two prostitutes with Johns in the parking lot at Cass Park."

"We're short one girl."

"Did you know his sister, Lee Hightower?" you ask.

"Yeah, I knew her."

"Is there any place where she would have taken clients? Maybe somewhere the other girls wouldn't go?"

"She didn't do it normally. She'd try to get a real job but then she'd slip. Then about a month and a half ago, she said she was leaving."

"That's when I took her to my mom's," Will says.

"I haven't seen her since."

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[strayheartless]

The edge of no return: a Sephgen ficlet

Inspired by this piece of art by @00000133330311

⚠️ warning for: slight blood; canon typical descriptions of war, nothing graphic but you have been warned; illusions to human experimentation but now explored; mentions of a panic attack; hyperventilation.

I think that’s it but let me know if I’ve missed something.

***

Genesis doesn’t admit to being afraid of Sephiroth very often. The knowledge that he almost always is is sickening at the best of times. It feels weak, pathetic. He is Genesis fucking Rhapsodos he is not weak. Even still… outside of his prideful stubbornness there are times when Sephiroth truly does frighten him.

This… is one of those times.

The battlefield in-front of them is cluttered with bodies. Some dead, some alive. All covered in a thick layer of mud, blood and sweat. Soldiers both Wutai and Shinra picking through the dead to make note of the families they will have to inform of their own loss.

Genesis knows better than most that he has no right to mourn the dead. He is their commander. He, in many ways, is their executor. Yet mourn their loss he does. Even after years of distancing himself from his fellow men to ease the blow. It never gets easier.

Above the scorched field, stood on the rising mound of destroyed tanks and ATV’s Sephiroth surveyed the scene, Masimune in hand; blood splattering his face. In the heat of the battle Genesis had lost track of him. It hadn’t mattered at the time; Sephiroth was an immovable force, he would not be struck down. Now however Genesis felt that loosing sight of him had perhaps cost too many their lives.

“He’s been stood up there for at least an hour, “ said a deep voice behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Angeal.

Genesis hummed, slightly too afraid to move.

“You know he won’t come down from the high unless you bring him down Gena.” Angeal moves to brush some dirt from his friends face. A reassurance that falls on deaf ears.

“You assume I wield any kind of power over him at all…” he resorts, but there’s no real bite to his words. Angeal knows as well as Genesis does that Sephiroth has only and will only come back to reality if Genesis is the one to guide him there. It had always been that way. Genesis doesn’t ever want to think about what would happen if he were to use that ability for evil. That power of his could level planets.

Years from now the irony of that thought will haunt him to his dying day. Years from now he will be slapped by the goddesses chosen for how he chose to use his power over the Demon of Wutai in the end.

Right now though, he didn’t feel powerful… he felt afraid.

“You give yourself too little credit.” Angeal places a hand on his shoulder. “He has only ever listened to you,”

“How is the puppy?” He hedges.

Angeal snorts softly. “Kind of you to care,” he’s not letting Genesis get away with it but he is indulging him for at least a second or two.

“I’ve always cared,” Genesis snaps. “I know I don’t engage! I know they all think me rude and self centred, but I care!” Angeal hushed him, placatingly.

“I know Gena, I’m sorry.” He grips the back of Genesis’ neck and some of the tension leaks out of him. “He’s a little traumatised I think. You remember how it was, the shock of capture that comes after your first battle. He’s dealing with the shattered hero illusion, but he’ll be okay,”

“Keep an eye on him,”

“I always do. Now stop stalling,” with a shove Angeal pushes Genesis in the direction of the vehicle mound. He knew he wouldn’t get away with it long.

There was nothing else to concentrate on but Sephiroth. His eerie, deadly, stillness; his piercing gaze as it presided like a hawk over the landscape, looking for a single twitch or spasm in the mound of bodies to descend upon. To snuff out.

It hadn’t always been this bad. Genesis remembered a time when they were fifteen (perhaps Sephiroth had been a shade younger,) when the deadened staring had held great grief in it. When Genesis had more so had to stop the shaking than claw him back from the murderous haze.

Something had changed around nineteen though. He and Angeal had not long made FIRST class when Sephiroth had been ordered into the lab for a week and comeback different somehow.

He still slept by Genesis’ side, still flirted in that awkwardly adorable and very Sephiroth kind of way. He was still Sephiroth, he was still the man Genesis fell in love with. But every now and then there was something, a dimming of sorts in the back of his eyes that turned into a void when he had a weapon in his hands. There had been training room incidents that had left many injured at best.

The only person he had never hurt had been Genesis himself. There was no explanation to it, and if Hojo were asked it was a defect in Sephiroth’s training, but he never got that voided look when he was focused on Genesis. One day, that wouldn’t save him from Sephiroth’s blade. But that day will be his own fault.

“My love,” Genesis called softly, picking his way up sharp blasted out metal. “My love can you look at me?”

There was no reaction from Sephiroth, not to Genesis’ words at least. A movement to the left of him made him twitch and swivel his head to the noise. In any other situation it would have amused Genesis. He could always imagine Sephiroth chittering like a cat watching the birds when he was intent on watching something. Now he looked larger more dangerous. One wrong move and he’d pin Genesis under his paw.

“Sephiroth,” he says closer now. His voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “Look at me,” Genesis took Sephiroth’s face in his hands.

“Listen to what I’m telling you. The battle is finished, you can come back.”

Nothing.

“SOLDIER first class, Sephiroth!” Sephiroth jerks. Genesis hates ding that to him, but it gets the job done. Sephiroth looked at his face but didn’t quite see it.

“The battle is over dear heart. Come back to me.” Genesis ran his thumb through the blood on his face. None of it was his own. It did not take the once over Genesis gave him anyway to know that he wasn’t hurt.

His lovely hair was drenched in red, it would stain for a day or two, but that just meant more time helping him wash it. It was something Genesis always liked doing.

“Gen?” Sephiroth murmured to him. his eyes were still clouded, but it was now with the confused depersonalised terror. “What did I do?” He asked and as he did he started shaking.

“Nothing you were not supposed to,” Genesis said evasively. It wouldn’t do to further distress Sephiroth here. Sephiroth however, was insistent as ever.

“But I did do something?!” He started to breath heavier. “Please Genesis, please, what did I do.”

Genesis moves a hand to Sephiroth’s neck and pulls him down to touch foreheads.

“Shhhh, shh my Angel,”

Sephiroth did not cry. He never did. He did not cry, or make distressed noises, he just shook. Shook and stayed silent as Genesis tried to guide him back to himself.

***

From the ground, Angeal looked up at them, Zack under his arm as the boy came down from his second panic attack since the battle ended.

“They look like Angels of death,” he whispered to Angeal solemnly.

The man could only sigh and squeeze the boys Shoulder. He couldn’t blame Zack for viewing them that way. Had they not been his friends he would have seen them exactly the same way. They were both the strongest SOLDIER’s Shinra had to offer. If Angeal was being truthful, they both had the potential to burn the world down.

But to him they were as they had always been. Two broken boy soldiers, too traumatised and broken down by the president and RnD to do more than cling to each other through the storm.

He feared the day one of them let go…

[philliamwrites]

SWYAATL 18: Rise from the Ashes

Pairings: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: canon-divergence, canon-typical violence,

Summary: No one dares to move; no one but Armin, the missing piece and he joins them, intertwines his pale fingers with Eren’s tanned ones, and for a moment almost too brief to matter, this makes sense—that three people on the floor, connected to each other by touch, make something like the word family.

Notes: [01] || [17] | [19]

A/N: heads up, this isn't beta-read but i just didn't want to let you guys wait any longer ;;

18: Rise from the Ashes

Another window breaks open and three shadowy figures drop through the entrance, landing just behind Reiner and Bertholdt. The first you see with a bright shock of relief is Mikasa, falling through the air like an arrow shot from a bow, sure of its target. She hits the floor with an assured lightness. Connie and Armin follow shortly behind, tumbling through the window in a jumble of limbs and gas canisters clunking on the floor.

The noise in the room doubles—voices overlapping each other, inquiring, shouting, demanding; boots beating on the wooden floor as everyone crowds around Mikasa.

You are still staring outside the giant hole from where you can hear the tell-tale sound of flesh hitting flesh and the blood-churning roar of a Titan. It is still unbelievable what you just witnessed, and the rational part of your mind is adamant that you have died sometime during the last hours and this is just Hell, a never ending battle against the Titans where anything can happen. Even something as crazy as a Titan killing another Titan.

“Hey, are you listening?” Jean appears by your side. Some colour has returned to his face, his eyes a brighter shade. Hopeful, even. “We’re going to take back the supply room.”

“What is that thing?” You shimmy towards the gaping hole, careful the floor doesn’t give away under your feet.

“Isn’t that crazy?” Connie joins you, nowhere near as careful as you. Some rubble crumbles away under his feet, falling a long way down, and you instinctively reach out and take hold of the back of his jacket. “That monster came outta nowhere and started going haywire on other Titans!”

“Looks to me it’s just getting warm for the real deal.” Jean scowls. “Us.”

“I don’t think that’s it … “ Armin rubs grime from his face with the back of his sleeve. His eyes are a striking blue, clear and undisturbed from grief and loss. It is a good sight on him; it means the cogs of his brain are turning, constructing a plan that will hopefully get you all out of here alive. “It didn’t care about us at all. I don’t think it’s after humans.”

“You must be tripping if you think a Titan could ever be on our side.” Jean’s tone is listless. He has obviously neither curiosity nor interest to spare in why that Titan seems different. “Now stop gawking, we’ve got a job to do.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to kill Titans without our gear?” Connie looks worse than on the roof—visibly exhausted, hollow-cheeked and whittled down to a sharp, lean core.

“What about these?”

Your heads turn towards Reiner’s voice on the other side of the room. He’s wiggling a rifle in the air and nods towards a small pile abandoned by the support squad in a corner.

“Either you know secrets about Titans we don’t,” Jean starts, moving towards him across the room, “or I missed out on any other weak point they got except their neck.”

Reiner gives Jean a lopsided grin. “If worst comes to worst, we could just shove it up their asses and try killing them like that.”

“Great, Reiner. That could be your last words.”

Despite everything, you bark out a laugh. From across the room, Marco joins you. You feel the tension loosen slightly, notice the weary smiles on everyone’s face. Strange, that despite everything you can still laugh. As though even in the darkest night there is nothing to be scared of as long as one single star shines and casts light.

Yes, everyone is smiling. Except Mikasa.

She is still gazing outside the hole in the wall, her usually impassive expression turned pensive.

“Mikasa?”

She doesn’t hear you.

“Mikasa.” You gently tug her sleeve, making her start in surprise. “Mikasa, we’re moving out.”

She blinks at you as though trying to free her mind from a haze, then nods and follows the others. With Armin and Marco’s instructions, you build a plan on how to retake the supply room. Have the best of your year finish them off while the rest draws them in as decoys, trying to deal as much damage as possible with the rifles. Working with a plan feels good. It shuts off your mind for the time while you load the rifle, check the barrel isn’t jammed, that the trigger gives under our finger. As you get ready for the operation, Armin pressed against your side amidst the other cadets, you wish Eren were here. You don’t know if you have the capacity to mourn both him and Emil; whatever part of your heart has regrown during your cadet times has been carved out now as well, leaving a vacant space inside your chest.

That won’t do. As if Eren would allow you to go out quietly, unheard of and written off as less than worthless. Wash your rage and grief clean into purpose, temper your will in the fire of anger and hone it into a sharp weapon, a crimson arrow. Deep in your soul there is no more hesitation.

It’s a miracle how everything works out for a change. After the Titans lie slain, the heavy weight of your replenished supplies feels good. You make sure everybody is good and ready to go, moving back up to the roof of the building to see how things look outside.

Titan carcasses block the streets like upheaved mountains, like gods emerging from mould. The smell of blood and iron is heavy in the air, tastes like copper on your tongue as you take in the havoc—caused by one of their own.

Jean holds his hands behind his head, his fingers crossed, expelling air very, very slowly as he observes the city. “Fucking hell, look at what that monster did to all those Titans.”

“It cleared a path,” says Connie in awe as though he’s managed his pet dog to perform an outstanding trick. “We can easily make it over the Wall and join everyone else.”

Marco squints at the far wall with narrowed eyes. “I can see them. They’re watching, I think. Waiting for the right time to join us for support.”

“There is no right time,” Reiner says. “We either go now or we miss another chance.”

“Wait.” You turn towards Armin’s voice. He and Mikasa have moved to the other side of the roof. “Something’s happening to that strange Titan.”

He’s right. After killing the remaining Titans, its knees give out as though he is incapable of holding himself upright any longer. Like any other Titan incapacitated, it drops dead. Steam rises from its nape, though you must have missed when it got hurt.

As you watch the steam rise, Jean’s voice sounds from your right. “See, it’s done for as well. Something like that will never be our companion. Titans will always be Titans.”

But nobody is listening to him because you’re all staring at the Titan lying on the ground as more steam rises from its neck. And even more steam. A lot of steam billows into the sky in thick, white clouds until it begins to dissolve, showing the silhouette of a dark figure sticking out from the Titan’s neck. Now that draws everyone’s attention.

As the steam dissolves and the skies clear, even from this distance, you recognise the boy—broad-shouldered, unruly brown hair sticking to his forehead.

Mikasa makes a little gasping sound, and before anyone can move, she is already lowering herself to the ground. You’re frozen for a moment, heart beating in your throat. Standing this still, the world cannot touch you and all depends on how immobile you are against the turning world—just in case that this moment might shatter at your slightest movement and reveal this is all but a dream, an imagination of your mind.

For it cannot be that Eren has emerged from the Titan’s neck, alive and breathing.

You’ve lost Emil once and he didn’t return; and then the same thing happened to Eren but he has returned. You’ve always know Eren is different, someone so rarely existing in mankind’s history that his name will be eternal, but this—this is not how you expected it to be.

Eren looks as though he is sleeping. His closed eyes are fringed with black lashes the shade of ink. His head is drooping slightly, his face relaxed and vulnerable in sleep, softer and less angular than when he is awake. It feels … unfamiliar.

After Mikasa pulls him out of his flesh-stringed chains, she holds him like … well, like she has lost him once already and would move Hell and challenge Heaven if anyone dare take him away again. Her cries fill the street, raw and heart breaking as though pulled out of her with a sharp hook—and you understand it better than anyone; you feel as if your heart is made of cracked glass, and the shards are like tiny knives inside your chest when you breathe.

No one dares to move; no one but Armin, the missing piece and he joins them, intertwines his pale fingers with Eren’s tanned ones, and for a moment almost too brief to matter, this makes sense—that three people on the floor, connected to each other by touch, make something like the word family.

“How…” His voice is thick with tears, with hope, with love. But also wonder. “How can this be…”

You feel as if someone has reached inside your chest and unlocked a box that holds your heart, spilling tenderness like new blood through your veins. Never have you felt such an overwhelming urge to fiercely protect a group of people, to wrap your arms around them and curl up tightly with them, alone and from the rest of the world.

The silence that follows is deafening. Jean turns slightly, overlooking the destroyed streets filled with Titan corpses. You barely recognise his voice. “This . . . Eren did this?”

Ironic, isn’t it? That all of you knew Eren would slay hundreds of Titans with his hate for them burning hotter than the sun, but nobody expected it to happen like this. He didn’t take an axe to a tree—he clear-cut the forest with gasoline and everything is still burning.

The moment doesn’t last long. Voices echo from down the streets, followed by the sound of wires zipping through the air, gas cylinders, scraping blades against metal. The roof vibrates with heavy boots stomping towards you. By ingrained training you salute, fist against your heart that beats hard against your ribcage, trying to break out and go where? Outside the walls? To Eren?

One Garrison soldier tackles Reiner and Marco for answers—screaming and shouting as if it is their fault, all an elaborate hoax by the current graduates to pay back three years of slaving away under their seniors. A tall man with a fairly muscular build and hazel eyes draws closer, his dark blond hair tamed into a low ponytail. Team leader Ian Dietrich barks orders, to gather, to give status reports, to rattle off HQ’s inventory. When his eyes cut a way in your direction, he points at you and Jean. “You two, get down there and take their weapons.”

Nobody moves, the question marks evident on your faces. Connie finds his voice first. “Take their weapons? They—they saved us.”

“Oh yeah?” Dietrich steps closer to Connie, easily towering over him. “All I see is a guy who just got out of a Titan’s neck. You wanna explain that?”

Silence. There are no words to explain this.

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles before raising his voice loud enough Connie reels back. “MOVE IT!!”

Jean and you scramble off the roof. He’s muttering under his breath, but all you can think of is that you can see Eren up closer, all that matters is that he is all right, all that matters is that he’s here—

Sensing something is off like a hound scenting danger, Mikasa steps forward, her hand jerking towards her blades, making you realise what a frightening reality it would be with her as your enemy.

Luckily, Jean finds the fitting words right away. “What the fuck is happening?”

“We need to get Eren away from here,” Mikasa says, her voice colder than steel. “The senior soldiers, what did they say?”

“No, I mean what the fuck is going on with Eren?” Jean snaps—snaps at Mikasa. She opens her mouth, closes it. Shakes her head.

“You mean even you didn’t know?” Jean sounds doubtful. “That he’s a Titan?”

Mikasa’s usual impassive expression shatters into honest puzzlement. You look at Armin, but even he seems at a loss for words, still holding onto Eren.

“We’re here to take your weapons,” you explain. It feels wrong. “I don’t think the Garrison soldiers trust you.”

“Not that they can be blamed,” Jean adds, and flinches away at the scathing glare Mikasa throws at him.

“If they touch Eren—” she starts and it seems for a moment she’s ready to cut your heads off for it first, but Armin bolts forward, grabbing her arm.

“We’ll surrender them,” he says quickly, ignoring Mikasa’s betrayed expression. “Working with the military right now is the best—the only option we have.”

You lean into Armin, lowering your voice, aware that your neck lies bare for Mikasa to make her threat come true. “Do you have a plan, Armin?”

His eyes are big, blue, bright and he is so frightened, but Armin’s always been the one whose brain works the best under pressure. “No,” he whispers, voice shaking. “But I—I’ll think of something.”

Of course. He always thinks of something, bright-minded Armin, soft-hearted Armin. His shoulders are shaking. You see him standing on that roof, shortly after declaring Eren has perished, right between Jean and you and remembering the fierce feeling: you would lay down your life for him, for Jean, for Mikasa. For Eren.

They surrender their weapons without complaint, Armin more willingly than Mikasa. Before she can relinquish her last blade, you catch her hands, feeling her stiffen under your touch.

“Keep it.” All eyes rivet on you. “You might need it.”

Mikasa’s lips part, but Jean is quicker. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

“I don’t know!” Your hands shake as you make sure her blade holsters hold and the last one is sharp and unused. The answer is pretty obvious though. “Helping our friends?”

Jean groans, throwing his head back. Drops of sweat roll down his jaw. “This can’t be happening…”

And then he’s right beside you, fumbling with Mikasa’s gas cylinders. “I know you spent yours more down in the cellar. Give them to me.” Mikasa blinks, but quickly follows his instructions. “And just so we’re clear, I’m not doing this for—for whatever the fuck Jaeger is; I’m doing this for you.”

“Eren is still Eren,” Mikasa immediately replies. When you glance at Armin, he remains silent.

Jean doesn’t look at her. “That remains to be seen.” When he’s done, he takes a step back, carrying Armin’s blades. He turns to you. “Come on, let’s go.”

With a last, desperate look, you squeeze Mikasa’s hand. She squeezes back. “Don’t stop fighting,” you tell her. “And don’t stop thinking,” you say to Armin. They both nod. When you cast your eyes to Eren, still unconscious, still breathing, it takes every ounce of self-restraint to not drape your body over his just to keep him away from harm.

If you all make it … when you all make it, you will have your answers, no matter the consequences.

You find Daz in the courtyard with the other soldiers, all who have just written off their lives to the absurd plan that somehow, Eren will seal the hole in the Wall and everything has been an elaborate experiment by the government to see if man can turn into Titan and fight them with their own weapons.

It sounds like a pile of horse-shit. You don’t believe it. Your cadet corpse doesn’t believe it. But like flies you gravitate towards it because right now it seems the only way of winning this.

But if Daz thinks he should be only scared of Titans, he’s wrong.

Jean, trailing behind you, reads you like an open book. His instinct kicks in and he grabs for your arm as you lash out to punch Daz in the face. He’s too slow. Your fist connects with Daz’s jaw and there’s a satisfying crack.

“You disgusting, pathetic roach,” you seethe as he tumbles to the ground, holding his jaw as tears spring to his eyes. “You abandoned us.”

Daz whimpers. Lips trembling, he opens his mouth—and tries to scurry away on all fours. You trip him up, moving to kick him in the head but this time Jean gets a hold of you, strong arms hook under your armpits and he lifts you up as though you weigh nothing. It doesn’t stop you from kicking out, and when you manage to hit Daz’s side, you bark a triumphant shout.

“I—I didn’t know what else to do!” Daz screams back with tears and snot on his face, turning it into an ugly, revolting grimace. “L-look, you’re here, how—how bad could it have—”

You see red. “They died because of you!” You fight against Jean’s hold, he must be saying something but you can’t hear it against the rushing blood in your ears, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. “Karl and Franz, they’re dead because you’re a fucking coward!”

“They’re dead because we. Can’t. Win. Against. Titans!” he screams back, spit flying. “This—this all is just a plan to get rid of us! Eren Jaeger is a Titan fighting on our side? They’re all lying! We’re just here so they have time to save their own asses! Don’t you get it? The Inner Wall doesn’t give a shit about us! But I am wrong? I am the problem?! I’m just trying to survive this! What is wrong with wanting to life?” Daz jumps to his feet, maybe trying to shove you back in his anger, maybe trying to grab your shoulders and plead that he did nothing wrong, that he alone is the sane one for trying to save his own hide.

Jean swiftly moves you out of the way by taking a step to the side and dragging your with him. Daz trips over his own feet and this time when he falls, he remains on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut off. Sobs wreck his body. You can hear him mumble faintly, words like “I didn’t mean for them to die.”

You stop struggling in Jean’s grasp. He waits for a moment, judges from your body language if you’ll lunge at Daz again. You’re very still, and finally, he releases you.

“Hope that your new squad members aren’t as scared as you are. For your own sake,” you say quietly. “I’ll go standing somewhere you’re fucking not.”

You stomp past him, relishing in how he flinches when your boots barely miss his outstretched fingers digging into the ground. Jean follows after you, keeping a small distance from you as you wind through groups of soldiers waiting for further orders from their squad leaders.

In a quiet corner, you finally stop, willing your racing heart to calm down. Daz isn’t worth it. He doesn’t understand what is at stake. Especially after Commander Pixis’s speech—you’re all fighting for a greater cause, to save more people at the cost of a few sacrifices.

“What’s wrong with wanting to protect yourself? To stay alive?” Jean’s voice sounds distant, mirroring Daz’s words. You whirl around, glare up at his grim face—and step back from the accusation you find in his expression.

“We don’t get to make that choice anymore.” You shake your head. Your pulse thunders in your ears. “Not after today. You see what’s at stake, we can’t just sit by.”

“We can’t go into this fight without thinking either,” Jean snaps, voice barbed wire that grates against your spine. “Haven’t we lost enough already?”

“Which is exactly why we need to fight!” Frustration raises your voice, as if just by speaking the notion loudly into existence Jean might adopt it. “I thought you cared. About our friends, about me.” Your voice turns hard like ice. “About Marco.”

Jean’s face goes slack; wiped clean as a slate: beautiful yet terrible to behold, like a night without stars and you have caused this. It dissolves the anger, allowing a hot-prickling shame to bloom in your chest.

Steeling yourself against Jean’s outburst, you’re surprised his voice is calm—calm but tempered in determination. “I do care. But I’ve got a brain I can use instead of just running ahead without thinking. You think Eren is the solution to everything; if anything, he’s a barrel of gunpowder about to explode any time. In a way, he did.”

“I think I understand why you hate him,” you say quietly. “You’re jealous. Because he does all the things you’re afraid of.”

His gaze flicks to you, the warning in their tawny depths clear as a length of exposed steel. “If I’m a coward for fearing death, what does your overzealousness make you?” He looks as if he’s one argument away from a scream. “Turning into another suicidal maniac won’t change anything. And I will not—” Jean inhales sharply, his chest heaving with the force. His voice turns so quiet you have to take a step forward to hear him. “I will not suffer your loss.”

His words land like a blow. You take a deep breath, nearly choke on it as you swallow a lot of sadness.

“Jaeger calls me selfish,” Jean continues. “If wanting a life where you and I are happy is me being selfish, then I guess I am.” He studies your face, taking apart every muscle twitch, every twist of your lips. He puts so much time into handling you, your Jeanie.

All the tension leaves from your body as you take the first step towards him. Jean moves in tandem, already embracing you before you lift your arms. It feels like home. He smells like home.

For a moment you stand still in the circle of his arms, hearing his heartbeat, his hands patting half-awkwardly up and down your back, your hair. “All I want is for you to be careful,” he mumbles. “Can you do that for me?”

“I’m always careful. ‘S like my middle name.”

He snorts. “You said the same thing when you jumped into the river when we were thirteen.”

“And I was fine.”

“You broke your ankle.”

“It made me the toughest kid in the neighbourhood. It was worth it.”

Jean tugs gently at your hair. It reminds you of the years when you used to wear your hair in braids and Jean would yank on them, with considerably less gentleness than he is showing now.

“You should be careful too. And what I said earlier—I know you care. You always care and worry, about me, about Marco—”

“Marco is with Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie, it doesn’t get safer than that, so no, I’m not worried about Marco,” Jean says, but you can hear the nerves under his flippant tone. Instead of shushing him, you reach down and take his hand, winding your fingers through his cold ones. His hand is clammy, but he returns the pressure with a grateful squeeze.

“I know it’s dangerous,” you say quietly, “but you just have to go along with me. Trust me.”

Jean’s amber eyes are serious. “I trust you,” he says. “I don’t trust someone who happens to be able to turn into a Titan.” He cuts his glance toward the Wall, to somewhere up there where Eren is currently with Commander Pixis.

“Well, try,” you say. “We don’t really have any other choice, do we? He’s all we have to stand a chance against them.”

A little shudder passes over Jean. “How did it come to this? I should be on my way to the Inner Wall. We—we were supposed to be prepared for shit like this, and now, there are fucking Titans everywhere and our friends are dead and I don’t even know if we’ll live to see tomorrow—”

“You don’t have to stay here,” you say quietly. Since Pixis has declared deserting will not be punished, the ranks have noticeably thinned.

“Yes,” Jean says, squeezing your hand. “I do.”

You stand like this for a moment, leaning close together, the way you always do when you share a moment, curving into each other when you speak, in your own contained universe. That is until the sound of a horn rips into your quiet bubble and drags you back to the present.

Jean’s face falls. “It’s starting. We’re really trying to make a Titan close the hole in the wall for us.”

“Eren,” you provide quietly. “It’s still Eren. He’ll do it somehow.”

“Yeah, well. Looked as dumb as a pile of shit up there, so yeah, it’s Eren no doubt,” Jean mumbles. He leads the way back to the Main Courtyard, to your friends who are sorted into squad teams assigned a task each. A map of golden hair catches your eye, and with great relief you fling your arms around Armin and squeeze him hard enough he turns blue.

“I knew you’d think of something,” you mumble into his mud-caked hair, not caring that he smells of sweat and blood and dirt. You’re sure you don’t smell pleasant either.

Armin sputters something, but his lithe fingers press into your sides, hard, as though convincing himself you’re really there.

“Let’s just hope Eren can really pull it off,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck before letting you go.

“Everything Commander Pixis said about … about Eren being a human experiment. How much about that is true?” It’s been nagging you ever since Pixis’s grand speech, like a splinter sitting in your brain. “Did you know? Did Mikasa now?”

“I’m sure Commander Pixis came up with that on the spot just to have some sort of explanation. I don’t want to imagine the mass panic breaking loose if people think the military doesn’t have it under control.”

“But—what is really going on then?”

Armin’s eyes look too big for his face, fearful and uncertain. “I don’t know.”

“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know?” Jean snaps, having listened into the conversation. “What are we supposed to do if you don't even know what’s going on.”

Armin opens his mouth, but from the corner a squad leader barks Jean’s name, ordering him to join the squad. Jean storms off, not looking back, and for a moment Armin tenses as if moving to follow after him.

You grab his arm. “It’s okay. He’s not really pissed, he’s just—just confused.” Like everyone. ”We’ll talk later to him, okay?” As if later is a possibility you don’t have to fear being ripped away by the absurdity of this mission. “Don’t worry, he won’t tell. He gets it, Armin.”

Armin trots after you, an anxious, jittery mess, gnawing at this nibbled-down fingernails until they bleed and leave red smears around his mouth. You take Armin’s hand and hold it all the way to where you take position up on the wall to draw the Titans off Eren’s path. Armin squeezes your hand hard enough your bones ache under the pressure.

“I promised Eren … that I wouldn’t die here,” he says quietly. His free hand, balled into a fist, shakes. He’s so scared, but that’s the thing. You’re all scared. And still, you have to fight. You have to move forward.

You stand close to him and wrap your other hand around his shaking wrist. “Don’t worry about that. Because I won’t let you.” Not you, not anyone else. To save one is to save the world.

It is naive, but it burns so strongly within you, this conviction that no one else from your 104th Cadet Corps will die. That somehow, you can prevent it and protect them all. Armin bows his head in your direction, presses his shoulder into yours. And then he meets your eyes and nods. In his face you see all your friends who won’t return ever again. Franz, Hannah, Thomas. Mina.

You have to try. You have to try for their sake or else their deaths were for nothing.

“The goal for now is easy.” Armin’s expression steels into courage. “We keep the Titans away from Eren’s path, he seals the hole. The leader of Alpha Squad, Rico Brzenska, will notify us with a smoke signal about the operation’s status. She’s shot the green smoke flare, which means the operation’s started. Should anything go wrong, she’ll signal with a—”

His voice breaks off as his eyes stare off at something behind your shoulder. You turn around, tiny stones crunching under your boots while you brace against the sudden gust of warm wind hitting you like a solid wall as though summer has suddenly fallen upon the city.

There, just off the Market Square, Eren’s Titan rises with an ear-shattering roar, and right behind him, cutting through the azure-blue sky, red smoke rises upward like a smear of blood.

taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelz, @berriesandcrem, @im-just-star-dust, @rui-0836

[rendy-a]

Good to know! How about courting headcanons for Ace, Azul, Floyd and Rook? Something simple to ease you into writing for canon Twst, ehe. /lh Good luck with this and feel free to delete this request if it's not to your taste!

I’ve been thinking about expanding beyond just the Pet AU, so this was a very timely request. 😊  I also adjusted the format a bit to have a small scenario at the end, so it took me longer than normal to write it.  I hope you enjoy it.

Courting Behaviors with Ace, Azul, Floyd and Rook

Romance comes differently to everyone.  Some find it second nature while others struggle to get their feelings across.  How does your sweetheart behave when he has his eye on you?

Ace is like the boy who pulls on a girl’s braids in school.  He doesn’t know what to do with his feelings and it shows.  He can’t leave you alone, teasing you constantly.  You have his full attention, although you might wish you didn’t!  Trey and Riddle definitely tell him to knock it off.  He stops for a while, but he can’t quit for good.  You are just too fun for him to tease.

He will start inviting you to spend all your time with him.  It just feels natural to have you around!  As much as you used to spend time at Heartslabyul, you are spending even more time there now.  Study sessions, hang outs, tea parties; Ace just seems to always have a reason you should stop by.  He might even bashfully invite you to come watch his basketball club practice.  He is pretty good, you know.  Why not come admire him see him play?

Under all that cocky attitude, you’ll find that Ace is oddly dependable.  When you really need him, he always seems to come through for you.  You’ll never forget the way he cut his winter break short to come to your rescue, even though he ended up begin too late.  He also doesn’t make a big deal of small things like splitting his lunch with you when the meager allowance Crowley supplies runs low.  He is just a standup guy, but don’t say it too loud; he has a reputation to keep!

On your birthday, you are feeling down.  It really hits you at times like this that you can’t spend these days with your family and friends from back home.  Ace notices you are feeling blue and arranges a surprise party at Ramshackle.  He even sweet-talked Trey into backing some cupcakes for the occasion. 

The party is going great.  You can almost forget your situation when you are surrounded by your new friends like this.  You finish speaking to Deuce when the table of cupcakes catch your eye.  Trey has really done a fine job on them; the decorations are simple yet fun.  The only thing better than the way Trey’s treats look is how they taste.  You smile and go to grab one of the tempting sweets. 

While contemplating the difficult decision of strawberry (a Heartslabyul specialty) or chocolate (a tried-and-true classic), a hand comes into your vision handing you a vanilla cupcake with a shiny cherry on top.  “I’ve always been fond of cherry myself,” Ace says with a smirk.  You give him a small smile; he has been pushing you lately but after today you suppose you can forgive him. 

You unwrap the cupcake from its wrapper and lift it to take a bite.  Suddenly, Ace grabs your hand and smashes the cupcake into your face.  You sputter and squirm out from under his hand, spitting a mouthful of cream and cupcake out.  “What the hell Ace!  Can’t I even get a break on my Birthday?” you say.  “Ah sorry, sorry.” Ace says.  “It’s a bit of a habit.  Here let me help you clean up.”  He takes a finger and wipes some of the cake and cream from your check and licks it from his finger.  He gives you his mischievous smirk and says softly, “My favorite flavor.”

Azul is too bashful to confess to you, so he goes with the secret admirer route.  It starts small, with little gifts left on your chair or back at Ramshackle.  Nothing too fancy but always something you needed, something that is useful to you.  Each little package comes with a short note.  “Good day prefect.  Your pencil is almost down to the nub.  I hope you’ll accept this humble offering to replace it.”  At first, the notes aren’t even signed.  You ask your friends about them, but no one claims to be the source of the helpful gifts.  It’s an exciting mystery!

Soon there is an escalation to your secret admirer.  Now he leaves full blown letters with the mystery gifts; each letter is signed “your secret admirer.”  You feel as though you are really getting to know this mystery person through their writing, only you still don’t know who it could possibly be!  For Azul, this is both exciting and extremely frustrating.  He enjoys watching you from afar as you discover the little gifts and notes.  He watches your face light up as you open each carefully crafted letter and read.  The temptation to find out what you think about them is almost unbearable. 

Scratch that, it is totally unbearable.  He can’t resist trying to find out how you feel about the situation.  The next time your “admirer” leaves a gift for you, Azul arranges to be casually walking by.  “Why Prefect, what is that you have there?” he asks with a feigned innocence.  Ace and Deuce have long since grown tired of hearing you talk about your admirer, so you are eager to tell Azul all about it.  From then on, he becomes your confident.  Each time you get a new letter from your admirer, you can’t wait to run and tell Azul about it.  You both gossip about the gifts and speculate on just who this amazing admirer could be.  Azul waits eagerly to hear every drop of praise you lavish unknowingly on his efforts.

This is only going to end if you realize Azul is your admirer and confess to him, which isn’t likely as you are rather oblivious to the situation.  Until that time, Azul is just too comfortable having this second-hand romance with the safety of anonymity. 

Your admirer has left you another note (how exciting!) inviting you to diner at Mostro Lounge.  Is today finally the day you’ll meet your secret admirer?  You can’t wait to tell Azul about this new development.  It’s been such a breath of fresh air to have Azul to talk to about your mystery.  If Ace gives you that look one more time when you bring up the letters, well…you don’t really know what you’d do but there is only so much eye-rolling that can be healthy for a person.

The lunchroom fills as you hurry over to a table occupied by the Octavinelle trio.  “Azul, look!  He wrote to me again!”  An interested smile crosses Azul’s face as he asks you for details.  From there, it is the usual song and dance; he asks you what is in the letter, how you feel about it and what you think might happen next.  You are more than happy to gush out about it all; the diner plans, your hope and excitement and what you think the night might bring (a confession!?).  Floyd gives you a look like, Shrimpy you can’t be serious, and Jade seems merely amused.  Before you leave for your next class, Azul assures you that he will be on hand at the lounge tonight to make sure everything goes perfectly.

You arrive at the lounge exactly on time (Riddle would approve) and head to the host stand.  Azul meets you there.  He has been waiting for this moment, planning for this moment, practicing for this moment; this is his moment!  He takes one look at you and freezes.  His confidence visibly fades, and he attempts to speak but all that comes out is a meek mutter.  “Azul, Azul…AZUL!” you shout to get his attention, “Is he here?”  Azul’s nervous look reverts back into his business mask.  “I’m so sorry prefect but I’m afraid this has arrived before you.”  He reaches into his jacket and removes a letter (Plan B!) and places it in your hands.  “He has left instructions by letter for your dinner tonight.  Allow me to seat you in our best booth.”

Your hopes are crushed but you tell yourself that you are at least getting a free meal out of your secret admirer.  “He left very explicit instructions.  I assure you that he has chosen only the very best.  I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”  Azul reassures you.  “And for what it’s worth…I’m sorry.” He says quietly before leaving to grab you a drink. 

The whole night, Azul acts as your personal waiter.  You are so appreciative that he is taking time out from managing the lounge to keep you company.  By the end of the meal, you’ve even gotten your spunk back.  Each time Azul brings you a new course chosen by your mystery admirer, you both gush over the choice and speculate about why they may have picked such an item.

At the end of the night, Azul walks you to the Octavinelle mirror; you tell him it’s not necessary, but he insists.  He takes your hand before you go.  “Prefect…I hope you had a good evening tonight, in spite of everything.” You smile back at him and give his hand a reassuring squeeze.  “I did, thanks to you Azul.  Who knows, maybe next time I’ll see my admirer in person!”  Azul gives you a faraway look, “Yes.  Maybe next time…”

One of the first indicators that Floyd is becoming interested in you is that he will start spending a lot more time with you.  He is now your study buddy, hangout partner and personal bodyguard.  Any time you need someone, Floyd just seems to be there. 

As he falls deeper and deeper, he starts caring about your opinion more.  If you ask him to do something, Floyd will actually listen to you.  Can he stop teasing Riddle?  He guesses he can play with Shrimpy instead.  Stop goofing off and do his homework?  If you wanted to help studying, you should have just said.  Can he not squeeze that student too much?  Well, he’ll have to explain it a bit to Azul, but he supposes he can let him off a bit easy.  You have as much influence with Floyd as Jade now; and that is really saying something!

One of Floyd’s love languages is giving gifts.  At first, he tries to give you expensive items like sneakers that match his own, but you tell him you are uncomfortable accepting something that expensive.  After that, he sticks to things he finds himself.  You get a small gift each time he takes a walk around campus or a visit to the beach.  They are things like shells, interesting rocks and flowers; each small treasure makes you smile because you know he was thinking of you when he picked it up.  You put them on a shelf in your room and Floyd smiles each time he visits you at Ramshackle and sees the carefully preserved collection.

Sometimes, when he is having a bad day, Floyd asks to lean his head on your shoulder.  He just stays that way for a while, breathing deeply and staying uncharacteristically quietly.  After a time, he stands and gives you a small sleepy smile before walking away.  You aren’t sure what that is all about but if it helps Floyd with his famous moods, you are glad to do it.

Soon comes a time when you are the one having a bad day.  Floyd notices you aren’t your usual self.  “Hey Shrimpy, want to know what always makes me feel better?” he asks.  “Sure Floyd, I’m willing to try anything at this point to make me forget Crowley’s latest stupid demand.” 

He sits beside you and draws you towards him until your head is resting gently against his chest.  You get flustered and try to ask him what he is doing but he only shushes you.  “Quiet Shrimpy.  Just listen.”  You oblige him and sit quietly, silently willing the blood to stop rushing to your face.  “What am I supposed to be listening for?” you ask him. 

“When I feel rotten, I like to find someone I care about and listen to their heartbeat.  Then you calm yourself down until your heartbeats match.” Floyd tells you in a serious voice.  You recall all the times that Floyd has asked to lay on your shoulder and think about what that means.  This is having the opposite effect of calming you down.  Floyd senses your increasing heartrate and looks down at you.  You meet his eyes silently.  Now both your hearts are racing.  You suppose this is also a way to match heartbeats.

Rook’s habit of being overly poetic and praiseful soars to new levels.  He greets you each morning with a romance-novel-worthy line about love and/or beauty.  If you are very observant, you might also notice he reserves certain pet names or beauty comparisons for you alone.  It’s because you occupy such a unique place in his heart! Only your eyes could remind him of the wide eyes of his prey during a hunt; so clear and enrapturing.

You are as important to Rook as Vil and so he will begin helping you out in the same way he helps Vil.  You’ll have a first-class stylist in Rook to advise you on your outfits and overall look.  It’s strange the first time Rook tells you that you really should wear a scarf if you intend to pull off that blazer look but he is absolutely right.  By listening to his frequent advice, you become more fashionable, healthy and overall beautiful.  Rook gets to spend time with you giving advice and seeing your beauty advance to a new level; it’s a total win-win situation for him.

One of the best perks about having Rook’s interest is that he lets you see the campus through his eyes.  His hunter’s instinct and eye for beauty have driven him to explore every nook and cranny of Night Raven College.  He has seen and discovered many wondrous things that he now wishes to share with you.  Things like where you can see the best sunsets and sunrises, the room where the stained glass creates lovely patterns on the wall in the afternoon or the path behind the colosseum where you can smell the wildflowers blooming.  He is not only sharing these places with you but a part of himself by allowing you this insight into his thoughts.

One morning before classes, Rook Invites you to go on a sunrise walk.  He takes you out along a nearly hidden path through the forest until you reach a clearing.  In the clearing is a target.  “Mon amour, I thought today I would share the thing I love most with the one I love most,” says Rook while holding one hand to his chest and the other gesturing artfully. 

You sit on a log and watch Rook skillfully shoot his bow.  His forearms strain has he holds the string back taunt, his steady gaze focused on the target.  When he releases the arrow, his lips upturn just a small bit in satisfaction.  A long history of practice lets him know he will be successful long before the arrow finds its mark.

After watching for a bit, you ask Rook if you can try your hand at it.  He gives you a knowing smile and hands you the bow.  You set an arrow and try to pull back the string, but you can’t even make it budge.  You realize then the amount of strength Rook must have to use his bow.  “Shall I assist you, mon amour?” Rook asks slyly. 

Rook goes to your side and puts his arms around you.  His hands rest right below yours on the bow and string as you hold the arrow in place.  “Now pull,” he whispers in your ear.  You do as he says and this time, with his assistance, you are able to draw the bow.  You excitedly attempt to aim and release the arrow.  It does not hit the target.

“Non, non, non,” chides Rook.  “You are far too eager mon trésor.  Focus.”  Again, he positions himself behind you and helps you draw the bow.  You attempt to focus as much as you can on the target and not on the way Rook’s breath feels on the back of your neck.  A few deep breaths of your own and you release.  This time your arrow does hit the target and you cry out in excitement.  You hear Rook quietly say “perfect”; not in his normal joyful tone but in a quiet and serious one.  When you turn to look at him, he isn’t looking at the target at all but deeply into your eyes. 

[bookishfeylin]

What do you think about the whole “Tamlin was in love with the idea of Feyre” ?

I don’t really understand it tbh and I’d like to hear your thoughts.

Also here’s a kiss 😽 I hope you’re having a fantastic day.

Thank you love!

So I feel like I have to explain what that means first before fully debunking it. In short, THAT SIDE of the fandom feels that Tamlin loves a version of Feyre that wants to be coddled and taken care of and protected and provided for--aka a version of Feyre who no longer exists in ACOMAF--hence why he cannot stand and adjust to her change post-UTM when she suddenly wants a more adventurous life. Feyre herself thinks this in ACOMAF, mentioning that Tamlin being a provider+protector suited "who she was before" but not who she is now, which according to her is (one of the many reasons) why they were incompatible:

“I’m thinking that I was a lonely, hopeless person, and I might have fallen in love with the first thing that showed me a hint of kindness and safety. And I’m thinking maybe he knew that—maybe not actively, but maybe he wanted to be that person for someone. And maybe that worked for who I was before. Maybe it doesn’t work for who—what I am now.” (ACOMAF Chapter 15)

This idea, that Feyre just wants a soft life essentially where she can relax and not be burdened with being the caregiver and even be taken care of herself, where she can be given kindness and safety, is also alluded to in book one:

Sometimes I would even indulge in envisioning a day when my sisters were married and it was only me and Father, with enough food to go around, enough money to buy some paint, and enough time to put those colors and shapes down on paper or canvas or the cottage walls. (ACOTAR Chapter 1)

[Tamlin] came a step closer, as if forcibly leaving behind the dark, sad stain of what had happened to Lucien, and the starlight danced in his eyes as he said, “What would be enough to make you happy?” I blushed from my neck to the top of my head. “I—I don’t know.” It was true—I’d never given that sort of thing any thought beyond getting my sisters safely married off and having enough food for me and my father, and time to learn to paint. (ACOTAR Chapter 18)

[Tamlin] was quiet as we turned down another sun-drenched marble hallway, and I dared to look at him. I found him carefully studying me, his lips in a thin line. “Has anyone ever taken care of you?” he asked quietly. “No.” I’d long since stopped feeling sorry for myself about it. (ACOTAR Chapter 12)

So Feyre does want a quieter life where she can focus on herself rather than being busy caring for other people, and Tamlin feels pity for her that she can't get that life, indicating there is some basis for the fandom's idea. But there are several problems with this per canon itself, the first being that no, Feyre did not fall in love for the "first creature" who was kind to her. If that were true, then she would've fallen in love with Isaac Hale first, not Tamlin. The second reason is that this is not why Tamlin fell in love with Feyre? Like he explicitly did not fall for her because he saw a dainty feminine object he could protect and provide for. Aside from Feyre spending 90% of their romance wearing pants and plotting, scheming, and running around planting snares, stealing knives and shit... That's not why Tamlin falls for Feyre.

“I wonder if your family realizes it,” he murmured. “That everything you’ve done wasn’t about that promise to your mother, or for your sake, but for theirs.” I said nothing, not trusting my voice to keep my shame hidden. “I know—I know that when I said it earlier, it didn’t come out well, but I could help you write—” “Leave me alone,” I said. I was almost through the door when I ran into someone—into him. I stumbled back a step. I’d forgotten how fast he was. “I’m not insulting you.” His quiet voice made it all the worse. “I don’t need your help.” “Clearly not,” he said with a half smile. But the smile faded. “A human who can take down a faerie in a wolf’s skin, who ensnared the Suriel and killed two naga on her own…” He choked on a laugh, and shook his head. The firelight danced along his mask. “They’re fools. Fools for not seeing it." (ACOTAR Chapter 16)

“I never knew,” Tamlin said from behind me, “that humans were capable of …” He trailed off as I turned, the hand I’d put on my throat sliding down to my chest, where my heart roared with a fierce sort of joy and grief and overwhelming humility—humility before that magnificent art. (ACOTAR Chapter 19)

Tamlin is impressed by her overall badassery and her willingness to self-sacrifice per quote 1 and per quote 2 he loved her artistic soul. And most importantly:

He picked up the small painting of the frozen forest and examined it again. “I’ve had many lovers,” he admitted. “Females of noble birth, warriors, princesses …” Rage hit me, low and deep in the gut at the thought of them—rage at their titles, their undoubtedly good looks, at their closeness to him. “But they never understood. What it was like, what it is like, for me to care for my people, my lands. What scars are still there, what the bad days feel like.” That wrathful jealousy faded away like morning dew as he smiled at my painting. “This reminds me of it.” "Of what?" I breathed. He lowered the painting, looking right at me, right into me. "That I'm not alone." (ACOTAR Chapter 22)

He loves her because she also understands the burden of responsibility in a way few others do, that he's not alone in that feeling.

And we get this quote:

Faintly, echoing into my world of slumber, he spoke again, his breath caressing my ear. “You’re exactly as I dreamed you’d be, too.” Darkness swallowed everything. (ACOTAR Chapter 23)

I also have a lot of feelings about what that quote means because WE NEVER GET AN EXPLANATION FOR TAMLIN DREAMING ABOUT FEYRE. So apparently Feyre's aforementioned snare planting and knife stealing and scheming to escape and constantly disobeying things he asks her to do to stay safe and whatnot does not manage to dissuade Tamlin from finding her attractive! Not at all, actually, in fact she's ~the girl of his dreams~ And:

“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed my brow. “Thorns and all.” (ACOTAR Chapter 27)

Idk y'all I don't think "I love you thorns and all" means "I only love you if you fulfill my fantasies of being a perfect obedient housewife despite there being 0 evidence of you displaying any remotely housewife-like tendencies, least of all being obedient" but that's just me. That quote is... incredibly significant but I've seen the larger fandom mostly ignore it like they ignore the rest of book one.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: book 1 Feyre is cool and does some wild shit and Tamlin sees her doing wild shit and is like "yep. That's the one for me. My dream gal <3" and ignoring this to push forward a "Tamlin never loved the real Feyre" narrative ignores what Feyre was actually like when Tamlin fell in love with her in the first place and what they actually bonded over.

[youchangedmedestiel]

I haven't got the time to work on my fics lately, especially last week. I was busy and my brain couldn't focus on that. So I didn't even write a single word. And I miss it. Fortunately, next week will be calmer so I'll be able to.

In the meantime, if you didn't get the chance to read those, here are the last 6 fanfics I wrote (every fics are based on canon with little changes obviously), each link is on the titles:

SMUT

Thanked as deserved: Post 15x19

Castiel stays at the bunker, while Sam and Eileen go to hunt what happens to be a new kind of wraith. And Dean goes to work on his own werewolf case alone, he needs time to think now that Cas is back from the Empty. When he comes back from the hunt, he has a small cut on his cheek and his muscles are sore, Castiel offers to take care of the last one and thanks him for saving people, saving the world, like he deserves it. He doesn’t just massage his back.

Inspiring Fanfiction: Post 10x05, I updated this one with a 2nd smutty chapter

Dean discovers fanfics about Destiel, thanks to Marie, the high school girl that directed the show about their lives. She sent him some fic links to read, when she saw his reaction about Destiel. That’s how Dean ends up reading the one fiction that disturbs him in a way he couldn’t have imagine. And then I have to face Cas at some point.

NO SMUT

A gift to listen and keep: If you're still in a Christmas mood. Post 12x14, famous mixtape mentioned.

The brothers are back on good terms with their mother after the Alpha vampire was killed by Sam at the British Men of Letters' headquarters. Dean forgave her for working with them. He got scared of losing her again. Plus he - they - almost lost Cas not so long ago. So he decided that those reasons, and his mother being back from the dead should be good enough to celebrate Christmas this year.

Need for comfort: 14x08

Jack just died. Sam leaves the kitchen first after their drinking session to mourn Jack together as a family, leaving Dean and Cas alone. They drink a little bit more, just the two of them. Then Cas decides to leave the kitchen, but Dean calls him once he is in the hallway. The angel turns around and comes back to Dean.

There is nothing stupid about you and me: 10x09

Dean and Cas are on their burger date while Sam searches on how to find Claire. They talk about the Mark, but their conversation doesn’t just stop there like on the show. Instead, Dean tells Cas about the high school kids’ show about their lives, based on Chuck’s books, Sam and he attended to. He even mentions Marie and her view on Cas and Dean’s relationship, allowing him to know how Cas feels about it.

Healing guilt: Post 11x03

Dean refuses to be healed by Cas, after Cas beat him when he was under Rowena’s dog spell, because he feels guilty about almost killing Cas when he had the Mark of Cain. But Cas thinks about a plan to heal him anyway without Dean knowing.