#because she doesn't know what to do with the feelings he evokes in her

[fiannans]

Yearning (noun): a strong feeling of wishing for something, especially something that you cannot have or get easily.

[flowerandblood]

The Lost Haven (14/16)

[ modern mafia • Aemond x niece • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, unprotected sex content, kind of hate sex too, oral sex, fingering, smut, the angst, drug dealing, violence, uncomfortable conversations, bad, bad things ]

[ description: The vacation from eight years ago still haunts his memories and doesn't let him forget what happened between him and his niece, the daughter of his sister and Harwin Strong. Their paths separate and he immerses himself in his father's mafia world until the day she calls him for the first time since those events. Sexual tension, dark, dangerous, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: As promised, this is another, this time official modern version of The Fall from the Heavens. In this version, Daemon is not related to the family, but is simply Rhaenyra's husband and the leader of the second gang, Alys and Larys are also not related to each other, but Larys is Harwin's brother. I will partly refer to the original series, hiding some easter eggs, and some will be a completely new, fresh plot. As in every universe, only Aemond calls her Rhaenys and this is not her real name (she is unnamed character and the others also do not know that he calls her that). There will be a lot more brutality and angst in this version, so watch out. You can read this as a standalone story.

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond & Rhaenys Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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She wasn't sure when she first felt it: that overwhelming, suffocating terror, the unpleasant, cold sweat on her back, the anxiety and fear. Just as in her childhood, such feelings were evoked in her by the darkness, mostly when she did not feel his warm body beside her, his safe arms not embracing her, his calm breath not enveloping her face.

She opened her eyes then, always feeling the same thing: panic.

Her fingers tightened on the duvet as she realised after a moment, semi-conscious, where and who she was, who she was actually waiting for and why he wasn't there.

An almost physical pain accompanied her as she realised that her uncle was not with her, that he had gone again to sink into his Hades, his World of the Dead, full of drugs, shootings and whores, something she never wanted to have anything to do with.

She would then look anxiously at her watch, counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours, flinching at every creak of the floor or sound in the stairwell, her heart pounding in the hope that it was him, that he had returned, that she would soon be able to sleep in peace again, wrapped in his arms and his wonderful, familiar scent.

He did not return, however, and as usual, when her despair reached its zenith her only thought was that he was dead.

That he wasn't coming back this time.

Even though she knew she shouldn't do it, she would then pull out her phone and call him with tears in her eyes, praying that he would answer, her breath stifling in her throat, when suddenly she heard his voice on the other end.

"What is it?" He asked impatient and frightened, as if he feared the worst.

That something had happened to her.

She was relieved because he was alive and didn't know how to act, how to explain the fact that she was actually bothering him with whatever he was doing for no reason.

"I woke up and you weren't in bed." She muttered in pain, listening to his quiet sigh of fatigue and understanding.

"I know. I'm sorry, baby. I didn't want to wake you up. I have to stay here for at least another hour."

She swallowed hard, glancing at her watch, seeing that it was one o'clock in the morning.

Another hour alone, in the emptiness of his flat, which felt foreign and cold without him.

Even with her things there, it didn't feel like home.

It was his flat, his space, his Hades, and she was just a visitor in his darkness.

"Why?" She asked like a small child, looking around her, again seeing the various frightening shapes in the objects that stood in the room.

She closed her eyes, trying not to think about it, repeating to herself that, after all, she had long since outgrown this fear, that monsters did not exist.

"I have a problem with one man. We are clarifying things, but he is…reluctant. He has taken a lot of money from me, but he has not given me what I need. I have to go. One more hour and I'll be back, I promise." He whispered in pain, and she swallowed hard, feeling her heart in her throat.

Had he just tortured someone?

No, he'd promised her he wouldn't do such things.

That he would do everything he could to avoid violence.

"Oh. Okay." She mumbled, unable to get anything else out, feeling even more terrified than the moment she had called him.

Her lower lip began to tremble when she heard him hang up, tears of fear and despair one by one began to run down her face.

She went into the living room, lay down on the sofa and turned on the TV: the sounds that came from it and the light it emitted made the space around her seem less frightening.

She thought she would just wait for him.

However, an hour passed, then another, and he still wasn't there.

She curled up on the couch and began to cry, tired and drowsy, at the same time unable to fall asleep, Vhagar lying next to her on the floor turning from time to time, having no similar worries to her.

She shuddered as she opened her eyes, still half asleep, feeling someone touch her, his familiar arms lifting her up.

"– easy – it's just me, little one –" He whispered tenderly, her hands and legs automatically entwined around him like vines, her heart full of pain and relief at the same time.

He was back.

She stared at him, breathing loudly through her mouth, at his familiar, beloved face, his sad look full of remorse, his fingers stroking her cheek tenderly.

"– you promised –" She mumbled, hurt and disappointed, his broad hand running over the skin of her warm face as his brow arched in pain.

"– I know, baby – I know – I'm here now –"

He always made love to her when he returned, no matter what state she was in. Even if she tried to push him away, to show him her anger and dismay, his hands and lips full of patience caressed her between her thighs until she fell apart in front of him.

He only took her when she was completely vulnerable, her cunt all slick and leaking from her peak offering him no resistance, even more delicate and sensitive to his every sharp thrust. She couldn't push him away then, craving only the embrace of his arms, his lips that devoured her in a thirsty, yearning kiss.

Their hands clenched desperately on their bodies, cuddling them into each other with loud grunts and moans escaping from their throats, wordlessly testifying to the fact that they both suffered the same way through the separations they experienced almost every night, finally being together again. She drew then on his sighs, his assurances and his pleasure, his gaze filled with an affection so deep it frightened her.

There was something beautiful in the fact that he was somehow devouring her, bit by bit.

The feeling of emptiness would only return when he disappeared again a few nights later.

In between, in the time when she woke up in his embrace, when she looked at his peaceful face in the sunshine, she had the feeling that she was a completely different person: everything made her happy.

In her presence, her uncle was gentle; that didn't mean he didn't get frustrated or that they always agreed, but sensing subconsciously that her words weren't meant to attack him, he reigned himself in and expressed the understanding she so desperately needed.

He did not treat her as his housekeeper or maid: together they went shopping, cleaned his flat, went out with Vhagar, did laundry. She enjoyed watching him from the sidelines as he did simple, prosaic tasks: cutting vegetables next to her, reading on the internet how to make a dish they liked, wondering aloud with her if he had just poured too much pepper into the pot.

"– fuck, so spicy –" He muttered when he tasted what he'd made with the sauce, but she decided when she tasted it herself that it wasn't so bad, and that pepper, unlike salt, was very healthy.

He chuckled at her words, looking at her with pity, as if he was wordlessly trying to tell her that she didn't need to show him mercy.

She noticed that he began to laugh and smile in her presence.

That he began to joke and tease her.

That they talked about things that were increasingly difficult and complicated, and that he didn't back down or avoid answering.

That he had changed.

And then his phone would ring again at night, and he would get up quietly, get dressed and leave.

It felt like she was regressing at that moment: all her childhood phobias, the terror of being left in the dark, were coming back to her with redoubled force, and although she didn't tell him, she would light the small lamp next to her bed, calling Vhagar to come inside, wanting to at least hear her breathing beside her.

Only when she heard the sound of the key turning in the lock did she turn off the light, afraid he would think she was being childish, and pretend to sleep until his hands sank into the softness of her body under her shirt, his lips against her ear, whispering:

"– I'm back, baby –"

A few days of sweet peace had lulled her vigilance again, and the appearance of his grandfather on his doorstep made her state of limbo between worlds collapse. As she locked herself in her room, where she didn't usually stay but kept most of her belongings and books, she began to reflect on the fact that although her mother had called her several times, she hadn't had the courage to answer her.

She didn't know what words to use, fearing that she would try to convince her to come home.

But there was no going back for her.

Not there.

It bothered her that this conversation had gone on for so long and she felt an overwhelming urge to overhear what they were talking about, but she held back, thinking that she should trust him, that he surely knew what he was doing. She jumped up on the bed when she heard the front door open and close, getting up uncertainly and stepped outside, looking at his silhouette from a distance.

He was bent over the countertop and had just had a glass of whisky despite it being so early.

Why?

She approached him uncertainly, feeling his aura, his rage and frustration.

"What did he want?" She asked, watching in horror as he filled his glass anew with alcohol.

"That I should come back. I didn't agree." He replied coarsely, not even looking at her.

She swallowed quietly, glancing sideways at him, her hand touching his shoulder seeing his gaze, frantic and wild.

"Aemond. What happened?" She mumbled and he looked at her in a way that made her feel a cold sweat on her back, a darkness and emptiness in his eyes, something she felt like running away from and hiding under the bed.

"Are you deaf?"

She stared at him with big eyes, feeling for a moment that she had lost her breath and her heart stopped. She turned away, moved ahead and closed herself in her room, locking the door behind her with the key, feeling that her hands were trembling.

Who was this man?

She naively thought that that look, that tone of voice was reserved only for his men, only for those with whom he had to talk rough, whom he had to press down and destroy, but not for her, never for her.

She sat on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chin, and sat like that, staring dully ahead, feeling shivers with every move or step he made on the other side.

He knocked on her door only hours later, when she was struggling to concentrate on reading one of her textbooks.

"– baby, I'm sorry – he brought me out of balance and I took it out on you – I shouldn't have done that – it's a hard subject for me – will you join me and Vhagar for a walk? –" He asked in a voice she knew well, the same one he had used after he had forcibly kept her in his family home.

In a voice filled with remorse.

She looked at the pages filled with text, thinking with surprise that she didn't want to go anywhere with him, didn't want to do anything with him, didn't want to have anything to do with him.

She thought the look was for everyone else, but not for her.

That she was special.

But she wasn't.

"– I'm reading a book – I'd rather stay home –" She said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear her.

A long silence answered her and she was afraid he would become furious, but he only swallowed hard, as if her words had hurt him.

"– okay – we'll be back soon –"

He made several more attempts to drag her out of the room, she however felt safe there, knowing that he could not violate her space by force and had to stand outside, waiting patiently until she wanted to look him in the eye again.

"– are you angry with me? –" He asked at last.

She felt tears under her eyelids thinking that she was not angry with him.

She was afraid of him.

But she wasn't sure if he would bear those words.

"– shall we watch something on TV? – I'll stroke your head afterwards before bed, just the way you like it – I'm sorry –" He mumbled out like a little boy, and she felt a squeeze in her heart knowing that he had already returned, that he was again the one she loved, the one she wanted, the one she had agreed to marry then, on that beach.

She looked at her bracelet made of candy and then at the scar underneath it, thinking that she was sure the man because of whom she had made it to herself had disappeared.

"– I think I'd rather spend the evening here – if that's okay –" She muttered in a breaking voice, feeling tear after tear run down her face, her lips quivering all over with emotion, with regret that she had to push away, if only for a moment, the man whose presence she craved incessantly, because she needed distance and a moment to breathe.

A sense that she, too, had something to say in a situation where everything really depended on him.

"– oh – okay – I'll be next door if you need me –" He replied, and she closed her eyes, pressing her lips into a thin line, trying not to make a sound, feeling her chest twitch with each of her quiet sobs.

And then, as the late evening fell, she saw him turn on the light in the hallway, heard him put on his jacket and shoes, and her heart stopped in her throat.

No.

"I have to go out. I don't know when I'll be back." He said loudly, and she jumped up from the bed as if burned, opening her door quickly, facing him, pale and shocked.

"– why? –" She mumbled with difficulty, thinking that she didn't want him to leave, that she just wanted him to let her be alone for a while, but for him to be next door, in the other room.

"– the policeman who was helping us was shot – Tyland is taking revenge for what I did to him – the consequences of my actions are slowly reaching me –" He muttered without strength, as if he was very tired and weary, something in his gaze that told her he had given up.

Tyland is taking revenge for what I did to him.

The consequences of my actions are slowly reaching me.

"Take me with you." She whispered, just wanting to make sure he was okay, that everything was under control, that she would be with him and not in an empty, dark, big, scary flat, counting down the hours and minutes until his return.

"No. I can't. I won't make the same mistake again. The more they are aware that you are not my temporary whim, the more danger I put you in." He said, and she shook her head, deciding that she didn't care what happened to her.

She could no longer stand the terrifying emptiness she felt when the door closed behind him and she was left alone in her cage.

"Then treat me like your whore in front of them."

She saw that his eyes grew big at her words, as if he couldn't believe they really came out of her mouth.

"What did you say?"

"Treat me as if you're bored with me. As if you hold me close just because I am Daemon's daughter. Be cold and chilly. You can hit me if you want." She said without thinking, deciding that it didn't matter anymore anyway.

In their eyes she was just his whore anyway, a deviant, a niece he had raped and made his sex toy out of.

"What? Do you want me to do it so you can find the strength to leave me? Reassure yourself of how fucked up I am?" He asked furiously, gesturing with his hands in a sign of impatience, his words like a cold shower that woke her up, making her realise what she was really afraid of and why she was so desperate to say something like that.

"I don't want to stay here alone, wondering if you're still alive. The fear I feel then no lamp can light up." She muttered with difficulty, feeling that she couldn't hold back the tears that flowed down her face.

His eyebrows arched in pain, as if it was only then that he understood what she was trying to convey to him, something in his gaze that told her he had hesitated, that he felt something, that there was hope.

"– I don't know, baby – God, I have to go – I –" He mumbled, and she nodded, not wanting him to think about it.

"– give me five minutes –" She said and disappeared out the door, looking for some of his hoodies in the wardrobe to put on, feeling relieved.

And then she heard his quick footsteps, the sound of the door opening and closing, the fact that he had shut it with a lock he knew she didn't have a key for.

She ran out into the corridor, looking at it, the symbol of her enslavement, and ran towards it as if she had lost her mind, bursting into a loud sob, banging on it as if she were a small child.

"– NO – NO, NO, NO, AEMOND, DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE – TAKE ME WITH YOU, PLEASE, DON'T LEAVE ME –" She shouted, choking on her tears, digging her short nails into the wooden structure, pounding on it with her fists only to fall to her knees.

"– I'M SCARED, I'M SCARED, I'M SCARED, PLEASE –" She whined, laying down on the floor, but he was gone.

She felt Vhagar run up to her, sniffing her anxiously only to lie down beside her a moment later and they lasted like that, an hour, or maybe more, lying cuddled together.

When she woke up, she was blinded by the light of the lamp in the corridor – she felt an unpleasant shiver and the fact that she was cold, so she picked herself up from the floor and went to her room. Vhagar moved behind her, apparently thinking that perhaps they would go out for a walk, however, even if she wanted to, she could not open the door now.

He had locked her in here.

She stared blankly at the ceiling, feeling a constriction in her chest, tears one by one running down the side of her face onto the pillow under her head, complete nothingness in her mind, darkness, as if there was not a drop of light left in her.

He didn't return until hours later – his silhouette that stopped in the doorway of her room was dark and tall, as if he were a demon, a nightmare, a demigod, a dream, but not human.

The touch of his hand on her skin, his fingers digging into her flesh, his lip that she bit, the taste of his blood on her tongue seemed at once completely foreign and wonderfully familiar to her.

"– no –" She breathed out, wanting to punish him, to push him away, to make him feel what she felt.

However, her body betrayed her, her pussy leaked under his fingers with desire and lust, with the need for him to embrace her and wrap her in the warmth of his body, for his hard manhood to sink deep into her again and soothe her.

"– I'm back – I'm here, baby – you can let go now –" He whispered, as if uttering some kind of spell or curse from which her body relaxed, allowing him to do what he wanted, to sink her into his darkness and take her for himself.

His voice seemed to come to her from afar, his fingers deep inside her hitting again and again the sweet spot between her throbbing muscles making her lose touch with reality, writhing beneath him in ecstasy.

"– being with me, you won't know freedom – I'm not in a position to choose between that and your safety – if that's what you want, I'll let you leave – but make love to me one last time –" He breathed out and she felt tears under her eyelids, her throat squeezed so tight she had trouble taking a deep breath.

If that's what you want, I'll let you leave.

I don't want leave, she thought.

I just want to be alone.

I want to be special to you, the only one in the world.

Beloved.

"– my sweet baby girl – my little sunshine –" He whispered, taking her for himself, the voracious, desperate stabs of his hips thrusting deep into her slick, hot opening, filling her with his seed with the loud click of her moisture, their breaths heavy and ragged, their embrace tight, full of desire to be reunited again.

His tears joined hers as he pressed his face to her cheek, his broad, familiar hand stroking her head, his breath raspy, surrounding her ear with warmth.

"– my grandfather – what he told me –" He whispered, and she froze, opening her eyes suddenly. "– he said that you wouldn't be able to bear this life, just like my grandmother – that you would commit suicide too – and I don't want to live in a world where you won't be there, even if you are no longer by my side –"

She hugged him tighter, feeling that she suddenly understood what had happened.

Why he had been so angry, why he had looked at her that way, why he had spoken to her that way.

He was terrified as much as she was.

This realisation, the fact that she wasn't the only one living in fear was both depressing and liberating for her, the weight of his words and the emptiness she felt inside her seemed to pull her lower and lower.

When she woke, the sun was just rising – his arms were embracing her from behind, her hand on his palm, his warm breath enveloping her neck.

She knew that something inside her had snapped, that if she just stayed and claimed that nothing had happened, their whole lives would start to crumble around them, and he would feel it.

She stood up quietly and looked at him, putting her hand in the pocket of his trousers. She swallowed hard when she felt the keys to the house by the sea underneath them and took them out quietly, praying he wouldn't wake up.

She didn't know how she would then explain to him what she wanted to do and what it meant to them.

She pulled her hoodie over her head and, dressed only in his sweatshirt, shorts and trainers, with her small backpack in which she had only her keys, wallet, phone and charger, she quietly left the house and closed the door behind her, seeing the look of concern of Vhagar standing in the corridor, not understanding why she had not taken her with her.

Sitting on the bus, she wondered what he would feel when he woke up.

Disappointment?

Anger?

Helplessness?

What she felt every time he left?

She wondered if she should leave him any kind of message, but as much as she wanted to, she wouldn't know what she should write him on it. She felt that she was stuck, unable to either move backwards or forwards.

She knew she loved him and she knew she was miserable.

When she arrived, the sky was cloudy, as if the world around her reflected her state of mind. She only had time to step inside the large, empty house and felt her phone vibrate.

She knew he was awake.

Was he angry?

Desperate?

She unlocked the screen with a trembling hand and swallowed hard to see couple unanswered calls and one message from him.

She closed her eyes, understanding what he was asking, feeling that part of her wanted to do this for him, to reassure him him that she was okay, but she knew how it would end.

He would write another message, then another and another, and she would give in to him and let him come.

She needed to clear her mind, she needed the solitude she had condemned herself to, not forced into.

When she walked into his old room she put her small backpack on the floor and lay down on his bed, looking towards the window. As she looked around she felt a squeeze in her heart at the thought that when she was a child it felt like there was so much space, but now she felt it was cramped.

She reached her hand to the shelf standing next to his bed and smiled, taking from it one of the small volumes telling the adventures of the Mighty Vhagar. She flipped through page after page of tales of the Prince and his beloved Rhaenys travelling across distant lands on their dragons, feeling tears of emotion and melancholy pool under her eyelids, clutching her throat.

The Prince, though fearless and relentless, feared, watching the other powerful dragon riders for his beloved's life; her dragoness, Larax, was beautiful, her scales silvery blue, glistening in the sunlight, her figure slender and light, sailing beside him across the sky. However, what made Larax different from Vhagar was size – Vhagar was gigantic like a stone fortress, yet Larax was small and delicate. And so, although his Rhaenys deeply desired to visit the neighbouring Kingdom, he never agreed, knowing that it was a barbaric people, riding dragons that were shrill and terrifying, which he himself feared, though he did not speak of it. He, as a Prince, would travel to this dark land with his father the King, thus keeping the peace, and she would cry when he left her. "Weep not, my dearest," he said, "my heart remains with you."

She closed her eyes, feeling the heavy tears one by one run down her cheeks straight onto the sheets of paper, onto the pages filled with beautiful illustrations of dragons and their riders, stories they had read with hot cheeks all evenings.

She spent the day walking on the beach – the squeals of the seagulls around her and the hum of the sea simultaneously calmed her and filled her with sadness. She put her arms around herself, feeling the coolness of the wind seep through her body, involuntarily smelling his scent as soon as she touched the fabric of his sweatshirt.

It was as if a part of him was still with her.

She looked at the bracelet she had received from him, an expression of his love, so childish, naive.

Innocent.

And yet so dark at the same time.

And then the night came.

Even though she slept in his bed, under his duvet, even though she could smell him, she was afraid: she was not afraid of monsters now, however, but of what was going on inside her head.

Where was she supposed to go back to?

Who was she supposed to be?

What was she supposed to do?

She felt that a sense of meaning had slipped through her fingers: she realised that without her mother, her father, her uncle, her professor, she was nothing.

What kind of person was she really?

What were her values?

What did she want?

For eight years she had only dreamed of being with him again, but she had never thought about what that would look like.

What she would have to sacrifice.

She didn't want to betray him, abandon him – never – but she was terrified of living in constant fear of losing him again.

Of hearing the news that someone had shot him in the head, just as he had once done to Larys.

The next day she woke up even more tired than when she fell asleep: she had nightmares all night.

She dreamt of a monster coming out of the wardrobe, dark, tall and long, who just stood over her and watched her, and she couldn't say anything or scream.

She realised that this was the personification of what she feared most.

The inability to react, to make a move.

The cage.

The fact that she had received another message from him and how he was suffering did not help her.

She didn't know what she was supposed to answer him.

"I'm alive"?

Wouldn't he then feel that she no longer loved him? That she had only written him off so that he would give her a break?

She didn't want that.

She didn't want him to suffer.

Sitting on the beach for hours, gazing at the horizon, she thought of a way out of the deadlock she was in, something that might make her regain control of her life, the feeling that she was co-determining what was happening to her.

But there was a void in her mind, and that scared her the most.

That there was no path in her life in which she could be truly happy.

That she was doomed to wither like a flower, to die while she was alive.

Part of her wanted to give up, to call Daemon and tell him to take her home: however, what kind of life would await her there?

Jace would never forgive her. They would all pretend that nothing had happened, but they would certainly be disgusted with her in reality. After all, she'd fucked her own uncle, run off with him even though he'd hurt her, fooled her, humiliated her.

It was hard for her to understand how one man could combine so many contradictions: her uncle. It seemed to her, although she recognised that this could only have been the result of her vanity, that in her presence he was revealing a part of himself from the past that he had locked away. He was rediscovering a gentle, tender touch, a soft tone of voice, a calm gaze, a lightness in breathing, as if to remind himself that what his men had seen was only a mask.

But was that really the case?

Or was she merely telling herself this to make herself feel better, to look at his stone-cold face when he spoke to them without feeling terror?

That he wasn't pretending at the time.

That he was the other part of himself then.

A monster from the wardrobe.

Could she love someone who soothed and terrified her at the same time?

Or did he need her to subdue that side of himself, to save himself from falling?

In the end, she knew that he himself was afraid of the dark.

She thought sadly, looking at her hands, that they were both just as hopelessly lost, standing on the margins, unable to find a place or purpose for themselves, feeling an eternal, never-ending shame since they were little children.

That night a storm broke loose: lightning struck close to home, thunder shook the ground, loud and dangerous, making her curl up in bed in fear.

And then she heard it: the creaking of the floor.

She clamped her hands on the sheets, swallowing hard and listened with her heart beating in panic, recognising that the sound was coming from the floor below the room.

She drew in the air loudly when she heard it again, this time more clearly, as if someone was coming up the stairs: she picked up her backpack, slid to the floor and hid under the bed, exactly as she had done when she was a small child.

She closed her eyes, feeling the tears of terror one by one run down her face, clenching her lips to make sure no sound came out, thinking it was just a bad dream, nothing more.

And then someone opened the door.

She stared ahead with big eyes, feeling her heart in her throat, begging in her mind that she could just melt into the floor, disappear, dissolve into the air, the footsteps beside her getting louder and clearer, making her realise it wasn't a nightmare.

And then a silhouette knelt beside the bed and she recognised his face.

He was looking at her exactly as he had when he first found her: his gaze expressed shock and compassion, his brow arched in pain, as if he himself wanted to cry.

"– Rhaenys – oh, baby –" He mumbled with a breaking voice, reaching out to her, and she crawled to him quickly, bursting out crying as soon as he enclosed her in the embrace of his familiar, safe arms.

"– I'm sorry –" She cried out, whooping with tears, feeling that her whole body was trembling from fear, sadness, disappointment, the suffering caused by their separation. "– I'm sorry – I didn't know what to do –"

He hushed her, kissing the top of her head again and again, his hands stroking tenderly through her hair and down her back, cuddling her into him, his wonderful scent filling her nostrils giving her relief.

"– no – it's okay – I found you, little one – you're safe now –" He whispered, and she nodded quickly, tightening her hands on his leather jacket.

She felt him take her in his arms and lift himself up, exactly as he had done then, laying down on the bed with her. He pulled off his shoes and jacket before his shaking hand touched her cheek again, as gently and slowly as if she were made of glass.

He gave her one tender, warm look full of relief before his warm, full lips pressed against hers in the sweetest, gentlest kiss she had ever experienced in her life.

He gasped when her fingers ran over his neck, when her body pressed against his, when her lips parted in front of his, trailing over their fleshy structure, just teasing them. She heard his shuddering sigh, felt his hand sink into her hair, combing through it with tentative, affectionate strokes full of hope, the tips of their tongues touched and licked, making her shudder.

There was something perverted and obscene in those kisses alone, in the way their lips, swollen with desire, melted together again and again with the quiet clicks of their saliva as all she could hear around them was the tapping of raindrops against the window.

She thought that only in his arms she was not afraid.

Only in his arms did it all make sense.

The affection, the suffering, the sacrifice, the pain, the joy, the sadness.

It all came down to his person.

"– I love you –" She whispered into his mouth and heard him sigh, his hands clenched tightly on her body, craving those words like nothing else. "– that's all I know –"

His tongue slid deep between her teeth, coming out to meet hers, as if he couldn't take any more of the feeling that was tearing their hearts apart, his hands pulled her closer, allowing her to feel the hard, throbbing bulge in his trousers on her stomach.

She moaned involuntarily into his throat, feeling her nipples harden with sweet desire, the space between her thighs all swollen, producing moisture in response to his treatments.

They said nothing more to each other – his hands slid under the fabric of her hoodie, roaming lazily over the bare, smooth skin of her back, her waist, her thighs. He wasn't in a hurry; she felt that after this sudden, terrifying, shocking separation he wanted to enjoy this moment, the feel of her body under his fingers, everything she was and had become to him.

He pulled away from her to look at her, his free hand stroking her jaw – his thumb ran over the line of her cheekbone as his gaze traveled all over her face, a hot, tender feeling in his healthy eye from which her heart fluttered in her chest. She clenched her thighs together, feeling the tension, just looking at his parted lips, hearing his broken, accelerated breathing, feeling his manhood pushing again and again against her lower abdomen.

When his fingers rubbed against the material of her panties she merely nodded, and he took a breath, pressing his thirsty, moist lips against hers again, pulling them off her thighs with a few sure tugs. He didn't unzip his trousers, however – instead, his fingers sunk tentatively between her thighs into her warm folds, drawing a surprised, girlish moan from her throat.

"– shhh – shhh, baby, it's okay –" He murmured into her mouth, sighing with delight as her cunt leaked under his hand, hot and eager, the tips of his fingers wandering lazily around her swollen, sensitive clit made her roll her hips, needing more, harder.

"– please –" She mumbled, throwing her arms around his neck, allowing herself to drift off completely into the pleasure his painfully slow, sure touch was giving her, his movements deliberately gentle, not giving her what she needed.

The corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction when he noticed something in the expression on her face that told him she would give herself to him completely, his free hand tightening on her hair.

"– I'd rather use my mouth down there – but I want to look into your eyes when you come –" He whispered in a way from which she felt a drop of cold sweat run down along her spine, her lips parted involuntarily in a pathetic moan as the tips of his fingers dug firmly into her silky folds at last.

There was something unsettling and frightening about his dark, defiant gaze, the way it was fixed confidently in her eyes, not allowing her to turn or move away, just to simply take what he was giving her. Her fingers tightened on his black T-shirt as he finally sped up, with each circle around her clit rubbing her throbbing opening, weeping in desire, begging for his attention.

She closed her eyes and gasped as she felt the tips of his two fingers push against her slit, stretching her swollen pussy on their thickness, receiving her quiet cries of desire in return. His hand tilted her head back, his breath heavy and hot on the skin of her face.

"– no – look at me –" He breathed out, his gaze dark and hot with desire, his fingers hitting her sweet spot again and again making her walls begin to clench around their length in convulsions.

"– Aemond –" She cried out and his mouth was immediately on hers, devouring her with greedy, loud, sticky kisses full of his tongue and panting, his fingers pounding into her in a relentless, fierce rhythm making her feel a wonderful tingling in her lower abdomen, in her lips, in her nipples, her pussy beginning to clamp down on them, close to fulfilment.

She squealed and mewled, feeling the tears of relief one by one run down her cheeks as she suddenly reached her peak, her hazy gaze barely able to see his face, his black eye staring at her as if he was seeing a woman orgasm for the first time, wide open in delight and satisfaction.

She felt him slide his fingers gently out of her hot, throbbing insides, hearing the sound of his belt and zipper being undone a moment later, letting the fingers of his hand stretch her slit to the sides, allowing his full, fat cock to slide easily into her without any resistance.

He groaned in relief when he was finally inside her, positioning himself so that the movements of his hips were enough to sink him again and again between her hot walls, leaking from her fulfilment, letting his hands embrace her and cuddle her into him.

He panted into her ear, focused only on himself and his sensations, with lazy, slow thrusts opening her again and again on his swollen length, teasing again her spongy spot inside her, now oversensitive and delicate.

His touch was surprisingly tender, light, devoid of aggression; it made her feel relaxed, herself taking pleasure in feeling him deep inside her, in the way his face sank into the hollow of her neck, his lips brushing her skin encouragingly.

"– oh baby – mmm – my little girl – ah, God, yes –" He gasped, speeding up, chasing his fulfilment without thinking about how long he should last to feel masculine enough, experienced enough, confident enough.

Something about knowing that with her he wasn't worrying about such things, that he was just being, reaching for what he really wanted with a few sloppy, messy thrusts reaching his peak with a sigh of delight, made her simply close her eyes, focusing on how hard he was pulsing inside her, filling her with his release.

They lay snuggled into each other, panting quietly, not saying anything or moving, just lingering in that most natural state for them, where their bodies were entwined together to form one person.

"I know how to fix this, baby. Do you trust me?" He asked in a whisper, and she opened her eyes and blinked, surprised to feel her heart hit harder in her chest.

"What do you mean?" She asked just as quietly, trailing her fingers down his back, pressing her face into his neck, smelling of his aftershave and cigarettes. He swallowed hard, as if gathering his courage, and kissed her forehead.

"I will give you back the premises that belonged to your father."

She froze, not understanding for a moment what he meant, and looked at him, trying to make out anything on his face.

"What?"

"Before Larys took over their entire family business, your father had three establishments: Harrenhal Club, Twins Club and Eagle's Nest Hotel. He got to the point, wanting to get as far away from drug smuggling as possible, that the people working there were reluctant to go back to their old ways. Larys forced them to do so, but most of the best workers fled to my grandfather or Daemon. I didn't know for a long time what to do with these places, but now I think I should just pass them on to you. That will make you able to take part in some of our conversations as an associate, like Baratheon does, for example. I will assign you some of my men to protect you. Some of them are tired and want peace and quiet for themselves and their families. Your presence, the fact that you are with me and at the same time you are Daemon's daughter gives us the assurance that you will not be attacked from any side."

She listened to him in disbelief, thinking, touched, that he was serious.

He wanted to give her some of his power, some of what her father had worked for, so that she would feel that she was not completely dependent on him.

She would be part of his world, not delving into the darkest side of it.

"What about Jace? Luke? He was their father too." She mumbled, thinking that would surely make them hate her even more.

She heard her uncle grin.

"I don't give a shit about them."

She swallowed hard, looking him straight in the eye, seeing the certainty in his gaze that made her feel hot.

"I won't have to store your drugs or sell them?" She muttered, and he shook his head.

"No. You'll just be giving us cover for our meetings from time to time. Nothing illegal that would burden you." He whispered in a trembling voice, looking at her expectantly like a child waiting for praise.

"You'll really do it?" She asked, and he nodded, licking his lower lip.

"Yes. Yes, if you come home with me. We'll go to the notary tomorrow, make it official." He said, excited that she hadn't rejected his idea.

What he was saying simultaneously pleased and horrified her.

"After all, none of them will want to listen to me. They won't respect me. I'm just a little girl, what do I know about their tough world?" She asked, shrugging her shoulders, realising that it all only sounded simple.

"I'll help you. Just like you helped me with my studies. I will teach you everything. They'll respect you, first for the sake of me and your two fathers, and then for the sake of you when they realise you'll protect them and not drag them into this shit." He said looking her straight in the eyes, something in his certainty, the warmth that emanated from his voice made her eyes glaze over with tears.

"Shall we try?" He mumbled, his haze full of hope.

She nodded her head and hugged him, his arms closing her instantly in a tight embrace.

"I love you. Everything is going to be okay. I promise." He whispered.

And she believed him.

[cordeliasdarling]

Staring is Rude — Larissa Weems x Reader

——

A/N: Took a while to get motivation to write again, but here I am. I hope it’s alright, I just love the thought of Larissa being a stalker. A bit darker than my usual few stuff but hey. If someone likes this I may make it into a lil series. Any interactions will be appreciated!!

— Beta read by the wonderful @poulengp — idk what I’d do without your support :))

Warnings: Larissa being a bit creepy but in a soft way????

——

You always look good in the morning.

At least that's what Larissa thinks. The way you comb your hair with a green brush despite blue being your favourite colour. The way you do your makeup but always try the eyeliner a few times before you're happy with the results. All of this makes her smile. It's a part of her morning routine now— parking outside your apartment block and using those trusty binoculars to spy on you. Well, she doesn't see it as spying, merely observing. That's not a crime, is it?

One particular Tuesday, Larissa sits in her expensive looking car, one she could easily afford with the salary she earns at Nevermore mixed with her savings. Why not splash out for once? She sits there, humming a tune she heard on the radio as she was getting ready for the day. But you don't appear in the window. She checks, and checks again, and you don't appear. The window is empty, just showing the cream wall of your bedroom.

Worry sinks into Larissa like a bite. Are you okay? Did you need help? All those panicked thoughts flood her mind, starting to feel nauseous. Where were you? Her eyes scan the road, searching for your car, and it isn't there. She swallows thickly, suddenly nervous. At the same time, her phone pings, and she hastily picks it up, seeing it's her alarm, notifying her that it's time to go back to Nevermore and start the school day. She sighs. You are okay, she tells herself, you are okay. Probably just crashing at a friend's house after a long night. It wouldn't be the first time

After one last look, Larissa tucks her binoculars in the glove compartment and drives off.

—

"I'm at the end of my tether." Larissa booms, pinching the bridge of her nose. It didn't help but it is always something she does out of habit. A habit that is growing increasingly more common.

The young girl lets no emotion show on her face. Her foot simply taps against the hardwood floor rhythmically, almost as if she was bored— the cheek she had!

Principal Weems bites her tongue, because she is very close to cursing under her breath, something she would never do in front of a student but Wednesday evokes a lot of feelings like that. She simply takes a deep breath, the air filling her lungs as she rises from her leather lined chair. Her deep crimson heels clacks against the varnished wood, though she stops in her tracks when she hears a small 'ping'. She knows what it is, a personalised tone for the tracking app she uses for you. She had paid for the customization, wanting it to be different to the default tone in case someone were to hear and recognise it somehow. Stupid technology, she briefly thinks to herself. It is very tempting to retrieve her phone from the bag she had placed beside her desk, though looking at Wednesday's curious expression, she fights the urge.

"You have one more chance in this academy. One more toe out of line and you're out of here. I don't care what your mother says. Do you understand me?" The undertone in her voice is deep, letting the young girl know she truly means it.

"Fine." Wednesday stands up and Larissa sits down. Once the girl is gone, Larissa picks up her bag, fishing around and finding the phone. Her hands are almost shaky as she unlocks the thing and opens the app.

According to it, your car is on the move, heading from downtown to your home. Relief settles in Larissa like never before.

—

"One hot chocolate please."

Larissa Weems announces as she locks eyes with the usual barista in the Weathervane. He nods with a smile which she returns. She scans the small café, breathing in the warm scent of coffee beans. She's never been a fan of coffee but she can appreciate the warmth it gives. Eventually she sees you. It takes a great deal of strength not to grin and walk over.

"Here you go, Ms Weems." The man calls out, handing over the steaming cup. She thanks him and sits down at the table behind you. Her eyes lay on the back of your head, staring intently. She's struck by the memory of when she first met you. When you wore those loose fitting jeans, lilac sweater, scruffy shoes, not caring about what anyone thought. You'd walked into this café with your laptop, typing away, utterly unaware of what was going on around you. Perhaps if you had looked up, you would have noticed the way Larissa's eyes widened, almost dropping her drink and scolding herself. Your beauty was beyond anything she'd ever seen before. Had you just moved into town? Surely, because she'd never seen you before.

And that's when it all started. The following home, the tracker planted under your car, the sussing out of your house and working out your routine. It had never occurred to Larissa that it might have been creepy. She used the excuse that she was just interested.

"Staring is rude, you know."

Larissa jumps out of her daydream and is shocked to find that you have swivelled around in your chair and are now looking at her directly. There is a lump in her throat. She has heard you speak before, that soft tone like a lullaby, but never directed at her.

"Sorry—" She utters, hands clenching around her cardboard cup. This is new, out of what she had planned for the day. It feels uneasy, breaking the routine.

"No worries. I just felt someone's eyes on the back of my head." Your head tilts back as you laugh quietly. Butterflies erupt in Larissa's stomach. She feels so special, to be the object of your focus.

Larissa smiles faintly, "Just thought I recognised you." Her voice is a little strained.

"You must recognise me very often." Your tone is nonchalant but it shows what you mean. That you have noticed her staring over the last few months. A blush rises to Weems' cheeks, luckily not too visibly, due to the makeup she applies every morning.

Just in time to save her, Larissa's phone rings. She looks at you apologetically, picking it up. It is the mayor, asking to arrange a time to meet. She takes her time talking, as part of her mind wants to think of something normal to say to you. But by the time she's finished, you've already slipped on your coat and left, continuing with your evening. Larissa exhales, letting go of the breath she doesn't know she's been holding.

"Damnit—" She mutters to herself as she shoves her phone in her bag. Her mind drifts back to the morning, wondering what on earth you had been up to. Being at a friend's house was the only possible solution, unless you had been up to no good. Terrible scenarios of you hanging out with dangerous people cross her mind, but she shakes them off before she can get too carried away.

She pulls out her phone again.

She opens the app she probably opens at least sixteen times a day, noting that your location is moving swiftly down the main road, indicating that you are driving home. This gives Larissa some comfort, knowing you're going to be safely inside with the doors locked.

She finds her way home fifteen minutes later, settling on the couch with a generous glass of red wine, something that always sooths her. Perhaps some would say she drinks too much, but to that Larissa would say to mind your own business.

She thinks of the small interaction you two have now shared, and it is like a drug. Now she craves to be the centre of your attention again.

So she plans for the next afternoon, when she knows you'll be in the local library choosing a book.

——

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Being An Assassin Who Joins The team

A/N: I'M OBSESSED WITH THIS IDEA :D I have so many ideas attached to it, so many posts brewing, so I really hope you like it!!! I kinda think of it similar to Red Room from MCU and also the Aunts from The Handmaid's Tale, if that makes any sense lol. Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Butcher likes you. He sees the emotion you evoke from the rest of the team and he thinks you're a perfect fit. You're not sure what to think of him. If he was one of your siblings, he wouldn't have lasted long. Selfish, arrogant, self-righteous. That's the kind of thing that got you punished, that got you killed. Beneath it though, to a degree, you can tell he really cares for everyone. It might be twisted and warped and at this point unrecognizable, but it was there. He enjoys hearing about your kills, especially when it was Supes. You weren't just good at what you did, you were the best. You were creative, too. Imaginative. He brags to you about killing Translucent, how they did it. You're not terribly impressed, but for his benefit you put on a show. You're a little weird, but he likes that. You're except in some areas (like going undercover) and mediocre in others (like figuring out how to befriend Hughie). He doesn't judge what you've done. It's just how you were raised. He tries to do a background check on you, but there's nothing. The name your mentors gave you wasn't the one your parents, if there even were parents, gave you. You were a blank slate. It was both riveting and terribly dangerous.

Hughie has the most questions. He can see just from your appearance, all the scars on your face and neck, all the ones he can't see, that you've been to hell and back. You hold yourself rigid, tight. Even when you seem relaxed you aren't. You're constantly looking for the nearest exit or weapon, scanning every room you walk into. It spooks him a little. He lets his imagination get the better of him, something he knows he shouldn't do, but just can't help it. You like Hughie instantly. And not just because he's too awkward and frail to get in a proper punch, too soft to ever truly hurt you. He seems sweet, naive, like he needs protecting. He reminds you of the kids in the program who didn't make it. You protected them, too. Or, at least tried to. You're as friendly as you let yourself, taking an interest in whatever he's doing, becoming his shadow. Everyone takes notice, but he doesn't seem to mind. He likes your company. The rest of the team hopes you'll open up to him, tell him what you won't tell everyone else, but he refuses to pry. If you talk, that's great. If not, oh well. If you want to hang out by his side, that works too.

Annie has nothing against you, but you definitely keep your distance, especially at first. You've killed more than enough Supes to prove your competency, more than you can name. You're not sure what they tell each other, but you imagine it similar to the system you grew up with: word spread quickly, you all felt it when one of your own were killed. There was an alliance that went unsaid. If you could avenge your fallen siblings, you would. If she found out who you killed, how many, would she come after you? Eventually you learn they're not all connected like that, that Annie's on your side. Still, you kind of see her as the embodiment of everything you're not. She's sweet, caring, and honest. You've been lying all your life, you can't tell what's real and what isn't. Hughie likes her, loves her, so that definitely helps in developing your relationship. Annie knows about your past, what little you share of it, but she doesn't judge. Maybe, at a time, she would have, but after being part of The Boys so long, that kind of thing kind of loses its shock power. You did what you had to, what you were trained to. Weren't you all guilty of a version of that?

M.M., similar to his initial feelings about Kimiko, isn't too fond of you. He doesn't mean to judge as harshly as he does, but just by the looks of you, you mean trouble. Hughie tries to talk to him, but he just can't get past your quirks. You're so naive about certain things (what music you like to listen to, shows you've never seen, how to form normal friendships, what jokes are funny) and so knowledgeable about other things (the fastest way to bleed out a man, how to make a murder look like a suicide, the amount of languages you were taught to better go after your targets). It just doesn't sit right with him. Knowing this, sensing this, you keep your distance, knowing not to further upset him similar to how your mentors were. Be invisible to him, them. It isn't until you give him sound advice for protecting Monique and Janine, something he never would have thought of, does he reconsider his feelings. He's still not a big fan, but he can see why you belong on the team, why your skills are beneficial, even if some of the stuff you say so lightly gives him the heebie jeebies, like the time you reminisced about killing someone with just a wooden spoon.

Frenchie doesn't really see you as an assassin. They've all killed people, it didn't seem like such a big deal. He doesn't love the idea of you being around Kimiko. She's made a life for herself beyond what she's gone through. It feels like you're still learning how to be without it. Without your mentors, your siblings. He knows there's no one better to give you a chance than him, so he's very open, inviting. You talk to him exclusively in French. You tell him small parts of your past, and he's grateful for that. In return, he tells you about his own childhood. When he shares the scars from his father, you tell him about the ones on your face and neck, how you deserved them for disobedience. He doesn't tell anyone else, knowing it was only meant for him to hear. You even speak affectionately about your mentors, the ones who were kind and only hurt you when you needed it. He wasn't shocked, at least not outwardly, not wanting you to feel strange or odd. Because you don't speak French with an accent, it's hard for him to decipher where you're from. All over, you say, and though you know it's a non-answer, it's the truth. You've been all over the world. You just happened to end up in New York.

Kimiko becomes your friend immediately. Though you gravitate towards Hughie because he's sweet, you like Kimiko because you can tell you're very similar. She doesn't have to say anything, you just know. You recognize the signs. The rest of the team doesn't think it's a great idea, you are alone with her, namely Frenchie. When you aren't cold and standoffish, you're far too casual about what you've done, pointing to old movies with famous Supes back in the day or old politicians, reminiscing how you killed them, made it look like a suicide. Or you talk about growing up, how you were punished for crying even when your friends were killed, pointing out the scars they left. She's not upset by it, she's glad you're talking about it. It makes her upbringing feel normal. You learn sign language quickly, another language you can add to your list, telling her more than anyone else. In return you listen to her, whatever she wants to share, grateful for someone who doesn't look at you like a monster or a freak. You like listening to her go on about Frenchie, her feelings for him. It's a piece of childhood you never got to take part in. It's nice.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + one

authors note: hi! this is a complete rework from another roman story i wrote but needed to redo. it's a mafia au, so understandably super dark. a 'blink and you'll miss it' bit of a beauty and the beast retelling. not meant to be anything groundbreaking or unlike most mafia stories.

i've found that my writing is best when 2nd person pov, so i wanted to challenge myself to make this third person to better my writing, thus, bear with me, ya'll. :)

if any cw/tw's are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: language, violence against women, mention of parental death, vague hinting at past sexual trauma

song inspo: 'looking through your eyes' by leann rimes

words: 5.2k

Through trial and error, mostly error, a lot of error, Solana Miller has learned and mastered most of the things that upset her father. 

Speaking out of turn. Meals not being ready on time. The house being a “mess.” The actual list is a living breathing thing that grows with each day and every unfortunate occurrence, but always at the very top of this list is lack of punctuality. 

There’s nothing Xavier Miller hates more than lateness. 

And that’s exactly what she is. 

Solana nearly faceplants into the three steps leading into the house with how fast she’s running. Her shaking hand and sweaty palm make it take longer than usual to unlock the front door, and the force in which she slams it shut behind her should be enough to knock the nearby family photo off the wall.

The photo that she is not included in, of course. 

She’s brushing off invisible lent as she rushes into her father’s office. “I’m sorry, there was an—” Her panting mouth snaps shut when she reaches the doorway, hand holding onto the frame of the door. “—accident.”

The minute Solana saw the flashing police lights and array of red brake lights was the moment she realized that she was in for a brutal punishment. She’d started to mentally prepare for such, trying to recall if she’s restocked the first aid kit kept in her bathroom and frequently retrieved. But, it’s not until she’s standing in the doorway of her father’s office, an office that’s filled with not only him and her brother, Wes, but other men that she realizes the ferocity of this punishment may be unlike any she’s received in some time.

Not only is she late, but she’s now interrupted some sort of meeting that he wanted her present for. 

Xavier’s eyes land on Solana with faux happiness that conceals flames she recognizes as a precursor for what’s to come. Naturally, like he’s not imagining all the cruel ways he can hurt her, in a way that only he can do, he slaps on a tight smile. “Ahh, there she is.”

Solana also realizes how almost everyone’s gaze is on her, and that doesn't make for a good response because she finds herself asking, “what’s going o—”

Xavier’s smile is very much unlike the ice in his voice. “Silence, child.” 

The sharpness of his command evokes an immediate response. Her shoulders slump and head drops. The displeasure just keeps growing. Solana can already feel the bruises forming, the sting of the ice on her busted lip. 

One of the men, an oversized, middle aged white man with a sharp gaze speaks. “I take it, this is your daughter?”

“It is,” her father confirms. If she didn’t know any better, Solana could almost swear she hears a hint of proudness. “Please forgive her lateness. She knows the importance of obedience.”

And the repercussions of obedience. Repercussions Solana knows await her once this meeting ends.

“I hope she does.” The same white man clears his throat. Solana hears the ruffling of papers but refuses to look up. Her gaze is better served focused on the ground, her silence and submissiveness certainly music to her father’s ears. “We received the requested medical report, and it appears you weren’t lying, Miller. The girl is still a virgin.”

That….that is the moment where it takes all willpower for Solana’s head not to snap up, eyes wide with both confusion and partial recognition. She’d wondered why her father asked her to schedule her yearly check-up with her GYN when she wasn’t due for another couple of months but knew better than to question, so she went ahead and did it. 

And she wondered why this checkup was so….different. Labs were taken, more questions asked, and a vaginal exam that had her leaving more uncomfortable than she’d ever been with Dr. Boyd. Not that seeing the woman was ever an enjoyable time in the first place. She's cold, stoic, an obvious doctor on the mafia payroll, but she's still a woman. 

Solana can't have a male GYN. She can't have a male doctor in any sort of specialty.

The confusion, however, comes into play at this man’s words.

“The girl is still a virgin.” 

That couldn’t be farthest from the truth.

“Her blood work also indicates she should have no problems conceiving a child.”

Emotions overpower reason as Solana breaks her silence and lifts her head. “What?” One furious glance from Xavier, and immediately, she knows that she’s fucked up.

She also realizes that she’s failed to notice one very important member whose sheer size takes up almost the entirety of her father’s onyx black loveseat.

Solana has heard the name Roman Reigns more times than she can keep track of over the years. It’s inescapable to live in this life and not know of the brutal ruler of the Bloodline, one of the most notorious mafia bosses in the underworld. But never in any of her 28 years has she seen him in person. Maybe somewhat in the same vicinity but never in close proximity, not like now where he’s sitting mere feet away from her.

He’s reclined back into the seat, thick legs spread, a blank expression on his handsome, bearded face. His features are sharp and predatory, yet there’s something about his eyes, a beautiful, light shade of brown that’s such a contrast to the cold blooded killer he is. Bulging, rippling muscles seem to be at battle with the plain black shirt he wears, and she notices his silky black hair is pulled back into a surprisingly neat bun of sorts. 

Solana knows that she shouldn't stare, but it’s hard not to. The man is objectively beautiful. He’s also staring directly at her. 

Panicked, her head drops down, eyes returning to continue counting the amount of beige swirls in her father’s persian rug. 

“Shut up…. ”Wes speaks from the other side of the room. He’s leaned up against the column near the bookshelf, lazily spinning around the pocketknife he never goes anywhere without. 

It’s the same knife that’s cut into her skin at least more than a couple of times over the years, drawing various amounts of blood depending on the extent of his anger.

Wes is always angry.

“I’m a man of my word, Mr. Heyman.” Solana doesn’t even need to be looking up to know her father has his hand over his chest, that faux sense of honor painting his harsh features. “I would never disrespect the Tribal Chief by wasting his time.” Solana’s throat goes tight. “My daughter is a worthy candidate.”

Candidate. Heir. Virgin.

It doesn’t take long with these major clues for Solana to piece together what they’re discussing, why her presence was required when never before has her father wanted her anywhere near one of his meetings.

Arranged marriage.

They’re discussing a possible arranged marriage between Solana and Roman Reigns. 

Her fingers flex and suddenly start to rub nervously against the soft material of her dress. Any appetite she had prior to entering the home is no longer present, vacated, replaced by a thick, heaping layer of anxiety.

Arranged marriages are far too common in this life. There’s not a week that’s gone by since she became of age that she doesn't hear about some union between two members of rivaling or partnering families. It's just how these things are done.

However, at 28, much past the typical timeline that daughters are married off, she’d accepted that that was not her fate. And she was okay with that, more than okay. Is okay with that.

Solana has a……complicated relationship with men, anyway. With people in general, but especially men.

The thought of her being paired off to Roman is so bad that it’s almost laughable. Their compatibility is in the negative range. He would never give her a second look, not even a first. A man like him needs someone who matches his prowess. She isn’t even on the radar.

And yet…..

And yet her father has somehow garnered interest, provided his counsel with her medical information “proving” her worthiness, and secured a meeting.

Circling back around to the medical report has her chest feeling tight and heavy. Lies. Her father has clearly paid off Dr. Boyd to write up whatever he believed needed to be said to increase his chances of locking in this deal.

She doesn’t know about the fertility portion, never really bothering or concerning herself with that part of her health. Someone has to have to have sex to conceive a child, and as far as Solana is concerned, that's never going to happen.

Not....not again.

But the virgin part is most definitely a lie. The physical exam certainly would have confirmed that.

And yet, the exact opposite was stated. 

Chills instantly move down her spine. Her father is perpetuating a fraud. Even more, he’s perpetuating fraud to a man who’s rumored to have a body count in the thousands. The same man he’s trying to pawn her off to.

This….this is not good.

It’s not good at all.

—----------

“She’s weak.”

That’s the first thing to leave Roman's mouth since they entered the Miller Manor, and it’s not announced until they're back in the SUV and on their way back to his estate.

Checking emails and clearing notifications that piled during the time his phone was tucked away, he continues. “Too young. Has no backbone. It’s embarrassing.” Roman’s tone, much like everything else about that pointless meeting, reeks of boredom. 

“Her father clearly has her on a tight leash,” Rikishi adds. He brings the handkerchief he keeps in his shirt pocket and swipes it across his forehead, dapping up the light sheen of sweat that’s already formed in the walk from the house to the SUV. “But, a very pretty girl.”

Roman cannot and will not disagree on that. She’s undeniably beautiful, but everything else about her is unappealing. And saying Miller has her on a tight leash is an understatement. She’s terrified of him. The brother too,  and Roman would take a solid guess that one of the two is responsible for the slightly faded but still visible bruise he noticed on Solana’s upper forearm. 

There’s some conflicted emotion present at that piece of information, though he mostly leans in one direction.

Women and children should be off limits. Specifically, women and children who aren’t already indoctrinated into the life to the point of training. Roman knows plenty of kids who completed their first kill while still in single digits and women who fight better than some of his men. For them, it’s free game. They’ve proven they can handle themselves.

Solana doesn’t fall in any of those categories, and he’d be shocked if she even knows how to hold a gun.

Thus, in his mind, she’s off-limits.

Nonetheless, his family is full of fighters, regardless of sex.

So there's the other part of him that can't understand her passivity, that believes she's just weak. 

The thought process generates a list of other, much more adequate options. “What about Belair?”

“Engaged to be married in the Montez family.” Roman rolls his eyes. That fucker is an irritating prick. Seems like a desperate match. 

“Cargill?”

“She….” It’s slightly comical for Roman, watching the older man work his hardest to explain what was inarguably a disrespectful rejection. “---is not interested.” 

A dark chuckle leaves his throat. “She said fuck off, didn’t she?”

“More or less.” 

Roman smiles. He would expect nothing less. Cargill is a beast of a woman, a sure fun time in the sheets if she would ever remove the stick from up her ass.

“If I may, my Tribal Chief….” When Roman remains quiet, he takes that as his cue to continue. “The girl may be young and docile, but that also makes her moldable. She will do whatever you want with no protest. Is that not a possible advantage?” Roman continues to look out the window, allowing Paul to add on, “and she will have no problem giving you an heir, which is inarguably the most important thing at this point in your life.”

“He brings up a good point, uce,” Rikishi chimes. “With your temper, it’s probably best for you to take a wife who is more passive than dominant.”

Logically, it makes sense, but the idea of a stuttering, stammering wife who can’t even maintain eye contact for more than a minute doesn’t appeal to him in the slightest. 

“And as far as age, she’s closer to 30 than anything. You go for any older, and you might run into fertility struggles. This is the perfect age.” Rikishi’s crooked smile is followed by a small chuckle. “You ain’t so young yourself anymore, uce. Gotta have an even balance.”

There’s a difference between a balance and a child. Roman is prepared to say as such when Jimmy speaks, deciding to add his two cents from the passenger's seat.

“Look, Big Dog. All you need is for her to give you a kid, and you heard Paul. She can do that. Ain’t no need in making this bigger than what it is.” His insertion and contribution to the conversation ends up being valid. Granted, if he was anyone else, the delivery would have resulted in a maiming. But, this is Jimmy. He’s like a brother to Roman. Him and Jey. Hence their privilege with speaking so bluntly. “Shit, and did you see that body? Mannn, I’d never pull out of that.”

Also a valid point. Her dress was fitted around the chest area, accentuating heavy breast he could most definitely see himself palming as he fucked her from behind. The rest of the dress wasn’t as contoured, but it flowed against her shape when she walked in, and he could make out the curves he was certain she preferred to keep hidden. It’d been a while since he’d taken a woman to bed with a body like hers, a preference, but also not as easy to find in his world of fit assassins and killers who spend more time in the gym than anywhere else.

His latest set of women were on the slimmer side, moderate thickness, nothing like this girl.

But sexual desirability aside, her passivity indicates she’d be….that kind of woman. The woman who expects words of affirmation and quality time. A “gentle” kind of woman who’d want him to be sweet and patient in the bedroom, to make love to her. Roman is neither and none of those things.

He fucks, and he fucks hard. Subsequently, his wife should be cut from the same cloth. 

“Just….think about it, my Tribal Chief, hmmm?” Paul’s voice is tentative, laced with that tone that indicates he believes the decision should be made sooner rather than later. Granted, he values his life and standing in the bloodline, so he opts to not implement time constraints. 

A wise decision. 

“The scars.” Roman counted eight of them total, the one most pronounced on her face, slashing across her right eye and into the top of her cheek. The type of scar that’s embedded into the skin. And the soul. With a few of his own, it’s one of the first things he noticed. “What’s the story there?”

Paul quickly pulls out the portfolio from his briefcase, hurriedly flipping through papers when he settles on the one he’s looking for. “Ahhh….” Paul clears his throat, a telltale sign that’s he uncomfortable with what he’s about to say. “2005. It was a hit. Her mother was killed in the attack. Knifing. Solana survived, clearly.”

Roman turns his attention from the passing cars to look at his Wise Man. For the first time since this whole interview process began, Roman is intrigued. “She was there?” Paul confirms as such and says something else, but Roman’s attention is out the window again, haphazardly watching the flow of traffic, assimilating and accommodating this new piece of information. 

This may be the one and only thing he can understand about this girl. Something…something he can relate to. 

Survival

One doesn’t go through something like that without coming out on top or letting it bury you. Unlike him, she’d clearly gone the latter route. Granted, just making it out alive, physically, he knows better than anyone, is a feat in and of itself.

“Give me her file.”

—-------------

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry I didn’t write yesterday. It was…..a day.

I’m not even sure where to begin, because I’m not sure what to even feel at this moment to be honest. Dad is trying to marry me off to a mafia head, which would be fine, except….except that head is Roman Reigns. He’s….he’s a monster, mama. Has no soul. Not that many men in this life do, but there’s something about him that’s even more terrifying than the others. To make matters worse, dad had Dr. Boyd lie in my medical report. She wrote that I’m still a virgin, I guess something about my hymen still being intact. Mama, that’s a lie. There’s no way that’s possible. 

Not.....with what they did to me.

I’m trying hard not to panic, because there’s no way Roman would go for me. He’s a monster, yes, but even Lucifer was God’s most beautiful angel. He’s a very handsome man. He would never want someone like me.

I don’t know any man who would.

“Solana.”

Solana quickly snaps her journal closed, using the pen in her hand to mark her spot. She’s met with the gentle smile of 73–year–old Meryl Jensen, a widow who’s worked at this library for almost forty years.

Solana still remembers the first day she met Mrs. Jensen. She was 6-years-old, and her mom was looking for a certain book she’d read about in the newspaper. A book that she hoped would further and better her English speaking skills. A native of Mexico, Nina Miller taught herself English by immersing herself into American literature, film, and music. 

Similarly, Nina taught her Solana Spanish by immersing her daughter in Spanish literature, film, and music. A secret among the two as an always hostile, paranoid Xavier “banned” Nina from teaching their daughter a language he couldn’t understand.

If he couldn’t control it, it was a no-go.

But it was when Mrs. Jensen was helping Nina locate her book, Solana noticed another book sitting near a kids display. Goodnight Moon.

If Solana tries hard enough, she can still remember the warm smile her mother gave her as she allowed her to check out the book, her very first "purchase" from the library. It started a love of books, aided by Mrs. Jensen who always provided appropriate recommendations to Solana and her mom.

Not that Solana tries to think too much about memories with her mother. They’re almost always ruined and replaced with the sounds of the butcher knife slicing into her mother’s body as Nina used the last of her strength to shield and protect her daughter from the violent assault that would end up taking her life.

Solana’s smile, however, does dim and her stomach drops when she realizes that Ms. Jensen isn’t alone. 

“This girl is always writing, I swear.” It’s only when the older woman refers to her book that Solana quickly closes up her journal, shoving it to the side.

Her eyes never leave Roman though.

And his certainly aren’t leaving her, even as Mrs. Jensen places a hand on his arm, laughing at her own joke.

Mrs. Jensen then squints her eyes and leans over the counter. “Child, did you fall again?” It takes a second for recognition to dawn. She’s then hit with the memory of her father backhanding her across the room, the force sending her to the floor after the dispersion of yesterday’s meeting. A truly pale punishment compared to some of his prior assaults. “My goodness.” Mrs. Meryl laughs, shaking her head. “An everyday klutz I tell you. I can’t think of one day she hasn’t come in here without some kind of mark from her clumsiness.”

Roman’s staring directly at Solana while acknowledging the older woman’s casual observation. “Interesting.” He then darts his eyes, offering a smile that, if one didn’t know any better, could be considered genuine. But Solana does know better. She knows much better. “Could you give us a moment?”

Of course, Mrs. Jensen obliges, saying something about hushing up some boisterous high school students on the first level before it’s just Solana and Roman. 

She has a million and one questions, starting with why the hell Roman Reigns is at her job. Whatever the reason, it can’t be good. A man like him only brings about chaos and mayhem.

And death.

Swallowing and powering through the onslaught of anxiety, she starts off in an unsurprisingly soft voice, “if you’re looking for my father, he’s—”

“If I wanted your father, I would be speaking to him right now.” Roman’s interruption is dangerously calm, but Solana detects a hint of irritation. “You’re the one I want.”

Oh.

What in the world this man could want with Solana is beyond her. To make matters worse, Solana catches his gaze on her bruised cheek again. Makeup could only do much, but she's really starting to wish she went for heavier coverage. She drops her head, focusing on the denim of her jeans to avoid his burning stare. “I—umm.”

Solana’s body registers before her head does that Roman is lifting his hand to touch her. She responds accordingly, jumping back and away from the interaction. He chuckles, darkly, lowering his hand to his side. “That was some fall.”

Solana unconsciously brings her hand to hover over her cheek. “I’m—clumsy.”

“No, you’re not.” It takes a second for Solana to register his blunt comment and another for her to digest that he’s calling her bluff. “But, you are a terrible liar.”

He’s not wrong on either note, but she’s unsure just how to respond. “What—what do you want from me?”

Roman straightens up, and just the sheer size of him makes her swallow in fear. He’s a beast of a man, more beast though than anything else. “To make sure you understand what this is. It’s obvious Miller didn’t inform you about the meeting, and I won’t go into anything with anyone unless they’re fully aware of what they’re signing up for.”

If he’s waiting for Solana to acknowledge the first part of his reason for showing up at her job, he does a poor job waiting because he goes straight into his disclaimer. 

“I have no desire to be with you or any other woman for anything more than a sexual release. We’ll ensure my bloodline continues, but that’s it. Financially, you’ll want for nothing, and I can assure you, your clumsiness won’t be an issue. But, I will never love you, never see you as anything more than a business arrangement because that’s what you are.” He’s studying her facial expressions, reading all of the emotions oscillating around. “Do you understand?”

There’s a couple of different thoughts racing through her mind at this moment, but the dominant thought is wondering just what in the hell would possess someone like him to ever even consider someone like her? He is the definition of brute strength in all areas. She is beyond broken. There can’t be anything appealing about that.

But then….maybe there is. Roman knows she will not cause him any trouble, can recognize this brokenness and sees it as an easy way to get what he needs while still having the freedom to do whatever, and whoever he wants. It’s a bit of a win-win. 

And as far as the love aspect…..

Solana learned a long time ago that all of the fairytales lied. There is no prince that rides in and saves the damsel in distress. No one to swoop in and save you from the monster. It’s either killed or be killed, and her death already occurred on August 7th, 2005.

As ironic and fucked up as it is, Solana recognizes this is the best deal she’ll ever get in her life. 

With quite literally nothing to lose, she acknowledges him.

“I understand.”

—---------

The minute Solana steps into the house, she’s immediately shoved into the freshly painted wall behind her. A strong hand is on her throat, restricting her breathing.

“What did you say to him!”

Fingers foolishly grasping at the hand suffocating her, Solana tries to speak even with knowing that it’s impossible when she can’t even breathe. This only pisses her brother off even more. He bangs her head into the wall, causing the nearby pictures to shake. “Answer me, you stupid bitch!”

“Let her go, Wes.”

Xavier’s command is followed with a delayed acquiescence. Solana falls to the floor, coughing and gasping violently. She brings her hand to the back of her head to check for any blood, but her gaze is soon on the black leather shoes her blurred version is able to make out.

Solana cries out when her father grips her hair, yanking her head back and forcing her to look at him.

“We know Reigns came to see you at your job today.”

At some point in her life, Solana would be stunned and partially disturbed this, by how her father is aware of this piece of information.  But, this is no longer that time in her life. That time when she was naive enough to think that she could ever escape this life, ever leave and never look back.

She’d tried once. Foolishly. And it landed her in the hospital for two weeks. 

Solana can still remember her father’s dry, cracked lips pressing an insincere kiss against her temple as he said in the calmest yet coldest voice. “You ever try to leave this place again, and I’ll make sure to finish the job.” 

That was the last time she ever fooled herself into believing better waited for her.

“Now, what did you say to him?”

“I—I—nothing.” It’s not a lie but not the entire truth. She didn’t say anything that should have pissed him off. Then again, with a man as temperamental as Roman, anything and everyone could piss him off. Look at her dad and brother. “What did he—”

A phone ringing possibly saves, or just delays, the next set of hits. And even better, it’s Xavier’s phone.

He pulls it out of the back pocket of his pants, eyes lighting up. With a mischievous smile, he taps the screen twice, answering, “my Tribal Chief.” Solana’s eyes widen. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Cut the bullshit, Miller.” Roman’s deep, baritone voice is powerful and authoritative, even when he’s not even in the room. “You know why I’m calling.” And before her father can further upset him, Roman jumps straight to the point. “We have a deal.”

It’s been some time since Solana has been so thoroughly surprised by something she’s heard that she briefly loses awareness of where she is. But this….this is one of those moments. 

He can’t…..he can’t have said what she thinks he just said. Her acknowledging understanding was just a formality. She didn’t think he was actually considering marrying her.

Xavier’s smile is broad, signs of a man who just got exactly what he wanted. “Wonderful. We shall start planning.”

“Two weeks. The wedding will be two weeks from today.”

The tightening in her chest has returned. Solana is certain she’s about to start hyperventilating. This….this can’t be happening. 

Xavier and Wes share a look as he stammers with a response. “Uhh, yes, of course—whatever you wa—”

“Oh, and Miller?”

Irritation flashes in Xavier’s eyes, but he shoves it back for a polite acknowledgment. “Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“You or your boy lay a single fucking finger on her again, and I’ll gut you both where there’s nothing left to bury.”

Solana is almost certain there’s not a single one of them that’s not taken back by Roman’s icy warning. However, she swallows when her father’s fire gaze lands on her. She knows immediately she’s in for a matching bruise on the other side of her face.

Xavier laughs quietly. “That girl has always been so clumsy. I assure you—”

“One.”

Xavier is understandably confused by Roman’s single-word response. “Pardon?”

“Everyone gets one chance to lie to me. You’ve just used yours.” For the briefest hint of a second, Solana believes she sees fear flash in her father’s eyes. “Consider yourself warned.”

The phone disconnects. 

Silence settles over the three of them, but it doesn’t last. 

“I–I don’t understand.” Solana finds her voice, unable to stay quiet in a moment that’s completely just changed the course of her life. “I–I can’t marry Roman.”

For a lot of reasons. Many reasons that she can list out and defend if given the chance.

Solana is consumed by her thoughts and pending mental breakdown, so much so that she misses when her brother stalks across the room. He throws her back up against the wall, and the minute her eyes land on the silver, she’s frozen in place.

His grin is predatory and satisfactory as he murmurs, floating the knife in front of her. “It seems you’ve finally made your existence have some type of purpose.” Solana has to close her eyes. Just seeing knives sometimes brings her back to that night, and having one pressed against her….

Wes knows exactly how agonizing that is to her, hence his favorite method of torture. 

Swallowing, she weakly protests, “you—you told them I’m a virgin.”

That’s a major reason why. Her father has made her out to be some chaste, pure woman when she’s anything but. And to lie to Roman, of all people, about something like that.

They’ve more or less signed her death decree.

“No. Dr. Boyd’s medical reports confirmed you’re still untouched, and you’ll go along with it for however long is necessary.” Xavier’s rebuttal is smooth and to the point, like he doesn’t see the issue with his actions.

He never does. 

“Don’t you understand?” Wes lazily slides the knife up and down her skin, smiling at the terror in her face. It’s his greatest motivation, witnessing the extent of her fear toward him. “We’d let Reigns and his entire bloodline fuck you if that’s what it took to get what we want.”

Solana has no shock value at his words. Wes stopped caring anything for her the minute she got their mother killed, and it’s not as if she can entirely blame him. 

Nina would still be alive if not for Solana. It’s something she accepted ages ago, an undeniable truth. 

However, she does have to ask in a pained voice, “what do you want?”

Xavier supplies, taking a hit of his cigar she didn’t realize he was holding this whole time. “We want and will have control of the bloodline.”

If not for her current situation, she’d laugh. Control of the bloodline. That’s….that’s not even a dream. That’s a delusion. Still, there’s an undertone to his voice and words that alarm her. In a quiet voice, she protests. “That’s—that’s impossible.”

Solana hisses as Wes presses the knife deeper into her throat, nicking her skin and drawing blood. “No, it isn’t, not anymore. Because we have a way in.”

And it’s with widened eyes and a constricted throat that Solana finally understands what’s happening, what they plan to have happen. 

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “No….”

Xavier answers with a cruel, wicked smile. “You’re going to kill Roman Reigns for us.”

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: Laormoch, Archfey of the Wild Unknown

Embodying the primal awe and terror of those places beyond the edge of the map, this ancient spirit of the land exists to test and torment those who stray too far from the safety of the familiar.

Though the old stories call him the" thane of the faroff" or an "invisible giant as big as the sky", it is hard to put Laormoch's physicality and the fear it evokes into words: How do you describe being lorded over by ancient trees, or the scornful glare of unfamiliar stars? His shape is only ever suggested by how it bends the natural world, but he is always distant, though always so immense that it feels like he may reach out and crush the viewer.

Adventure Hooks

The party stumble into a village to find its inhabitants struggling to recover after a disastrous hunt. Some wretched beast tore through some weeks ago and was only dispatched with great effort. It was a cause for celebration, at least until the thing was seen stalking in the woods, reading for another attack. To prevent it from assailing their walls and destroying their homes the village's best hunter leads the village's strongest on a sortie, downing the beast only after injuring many and losing a few. This has happened three times so far and the village's defenders are wearing thin. Perhaps the party could lend their aid once the beast is spotted again, and perhaps spend the intervening time trying to find its obviously supernatural origins.

Almost inconsolable, a great lord calls for the party's aid in rescuing his son and heir, who he claims was stolen by the sky itself: snatched out of his tower window by a great hand and carried off into the clouds. The servants and courtiers are skeptical, everyone knows the lord was so protective of his son he barely let the boy leave his rooms, let alone the castle, and it's likely the lad finally managed some means of escape. While they're considering exactly how to search for the lad the party will be approached by the Lord's bastard daughter, she was denied her inheritance by her father's traditionalism, and sees the opportunity to have herself recognized if the true born heir is never found. She'll ask that even if the party does find her younger brother, they either help him escape or leave him where he is, as it would be better for the both of him if he doesn't return to the castle.

Backstory:

Seeking to prove herself against a boastful rival, a hunter ventured far from her village into the deep wilderness, where she found and slew an elk of ethereal beauty, eating its flesh to sustain herself and taking its antlers as her trophy. Though she returned in glory, the beast had been marked by the Thane of the Faroff, who has raised its butchered body as a reverent and gifted it bloodthirsting branches to replace what was taken. The revenant won't stop until it's killed the hunter and torn her body to shreds, which will likely be sometime after she's gotten a good portion of the other villagers killed because she's too good at hunting and too stuborn to die without a fight. The revenant has more than one trick though, the branches animating its body bear seedpods which it scatters as it dies or gores others to death. These seeds eventually grow into twigblights, which are slowly massing in the forest waiting to overwhelm the village's defenders and open the gate for the revenant's final rampage.

Wishing more than anything to get away from the suffocating confines of his home, the young heir has found himself on the wrong end of a fairy bargin. Whisked off by Laormoch to his castle beyond the horizon, the boy has been forced to serve as the archfey's cupbearer as repayment for his captor's "kindness". The party will need to dig deep into the local folklore to figure out how and why the sky might snatch up a forlorn youth, potentially missing him entirely until they run into him while visiting the feywild for a completely different adventure.

Artsource

[yellowocaballero]

i very much enjoy the extremely scientific analysis of the naruto verse in which there are three genders, aka naruto, sasuke, and Woman.

AM I WRONG? AM I WRONG? pulls down projection screen and plays powerpoint

Obviously let's give room for nuance. A ton of Naruto characters don't fall into these gender norms. This does predominantly apply to the rampant proliferation of the three-person dynamics that were assigned by the government and dictate your entire life. And, like, society. It does not end. Gender isn't a biological factor in Naruto, it's a social dynamic constructed entirely by your homoerotic tension with other men. And there are so many.

Madara (S), Hashirama (N), Mito (W). Izuna (N) and Tobirama (S) - tragically, Izuna died before women could be invented. Sarutobi (N), Danzo (S, horrifically) - see above about women not being invented yet. Jiraiya (N), Orochimaru (S), Tsunade (W). Yahiko (N), Nagato (S), Konan (W). Obito (N), Kakashi (S), Rin (W). Shisui (N), Itachi (S), that little deeply unimportant girlfriend (W). Um, fucking, Naruto (N), Sasuke (S), Sakura (W). Even - even, fuckin, Rock Lee (N), Neiji (S), Tenten (W).

And what do they all have in common????

(OT3. They're all OT3s. Is what I'm saying).

There is some room for alternative gender expressions here, like being butch or femme. Naruto gender expressions: teacher, otouto, woman who you can't even tell is woman gendered because she has no backstory but you just have to kinda assume that she has a polycule-based backstory where she was Woman Gender. I feel almost as if 2/3rds of the Rookie 9 are liberated from this. InoShikaCho just doesn't fit (their chaotic cousin energy is just too strong and Ino's too much of a lesbian). Hinata's too busy being defined entirely by a different throuple's N to have codependent dynamics with her own N and S (and I'm hesitant to even say that, since I actually don't know if Kiba and Shino have a codependent rivalry - do they?).

I get, like, the reason for all of this. Curse of Hatred. Cycles. N and S Genders being sourced from demigods or something. Narrative parallelism. Sympathy points. It's not the bad guy's fault he's evil, his N and W gendered counterparts died :(. But an extremely strange side-effect of this is that all of the male characters are, like, Just Naruto or Just Sasuke. But the vast majority of the female characters are - like, completely defined by the men in their lives - but also they are more likely to be a unique person. Mito, Sakura, and Rin have actually nothing in common. Writing so sexist it creates more interesting characters?!?!

Unironically, this is why I'm always saying that Sasunaru is the ship of all time, nothing will ever top it, you will NEVER do it like Sasunaru, etc. Every important relationship in the series is meant to evoke Sasunaru. (Notably, none of the explicitly romantic ones. But we're beyond such paltry understandings of the most iconic pairing of all time as fundamentally based in romance. We're operating on a higher level than that). This unbroken chain of toxic yaoi has culminated at the end point of Sasunaru, and it exists to parallel Sasunaru and define their relationship by the dysfunction of generations of tragedy. That's why Naruto has to consciously break the cycle and free them from the generational hate - it was the only way to save Sasuke. This is also why I'm always saying that Sasunaru is the point of Naruto, and that the entirety of Naruto is about Sasunaru. Come back to me when your work has invented new genders in the all-encompassing pursuit of toxic yaoi.

This also means that the only truly gender non-conforming individuals in Naruto are its mightiest heterosexuals: Minato (W) and Kushina (N). Truly insane. The N/S/W configuration is the societal norm, it's bonkers to make a major good-aligned male character a wifeguy. By Naruto standards Minato and Kushina are the only queer couple.

[mightdeletelater]

A speech made at the Academy Awards by Jonathan Glazer, along with the subsequent reactions, sheds light on how people tend to distort others' words to portray themselves as victims and, more concerning, their willingness to reside in a dystopian bubble as long as it doesn't affect them directly.

Rather than idolising Hollywood, I've previously posted about the complexities of my evolving parasocial relationships. But to disregard the influence wielded by these elites would be naive. It's frustrating to witness those in power facing backlash when they attempt to bring attention to pertinent issues.

While the Oscars' prominence in Western pop culture is waning, the ceremony and the fervour surrounding the nominees and winners, especially in the major acting categories, still hold significant sway in film culture and the broader world.

So when such a speech is delivered at the Oscars, it's bound to garner attention:

All our choices were made to reflect and confront us in the present — not to say, “Look what they did then,” rather, “Look what we do now.” Our film shows where dehumanization leads, at its worst. It shaped all of our past and present. Right now we stand here as men who refute their Jewishness and the Holocaust being hijacked by an occupation, which has led to conflict for so many innocent people. Whether the victims of October the — [Applause.] Whether the victims of October the 7th in Israel or the ongoing attack on Gaza, all the victims of this dehumanization, how do we resist? [Applause.] Aleksandra Bystroń-Kołodziejczyk, the girl who glows in the film, as she did in life, chose to. I dedicate this to her memory and her resistance. Thank you.

Glazer highlighted in his speech that victims of the ongoing situation and the last 75 years, whether Palestinian and Israeli, all stem from the occupation and are casualties of entrenched ideologies like Zionism. But when he said this on stage and was immediately misquoted online on social media and by reputable news sources, alleging that he simply renounced his Jewish identity.

He also faced considerable backlash from those indicating a persistent conflation of anti-Zionism with anti-Semitism. It really parallels previous speeches of resistance at the Oscars. Boos rang loud and clear during Michael Moore's opposition to the Iraq war (which we know was a colossal failure by Geroge Bush and the US Government who perpetuated and pardoned multiple war crimes in the region after lying to their own people about evidence of weapons of mass destruction).

There was also Sacheen Littlefeather's advocacy for Native American representation and the direct of attention to the Wounded Knee Occupation, a speech that had bodyguards having to restrain people from getting on the stage and attacking her.

And, of course, Vanessa Redgrave's aim at “a small bunch of Zionist hoodlums whose behaviour is an insult to the stature of Jews all over the world and to their great and heroic record of struggle against fascism and oppression”, which still feels relevant today.

Turning to Glazer's film, I am baffled at those who vehemently objected to it: Did they actually watch it? Because if they had any negative feelings towards Glazer's speech, especially after watching his film, it suggests, to me, a deficiency in critical thinking.

Glazer's film portrays a chilling atmosphere where genocide becomes normalised, echoing real-world situations like the ongoing conflict in Gaza. The film serves as a stark reminder of humanity's ability to coexist with atrocities, often turning a blind eye for the sake of comfort.

The horrors adjacent to the characters' lives evoke contemporary parallels, particularly in regions like Gaza. With over five months of relentless violence, Israel's defiance of international court orders, and Western governments passively reprimanding while fueling the conflict with arms shipments, the spectre of genocide looms ominously. It risks becoming a mundane backdrop to daily existence. It is a stark portrayal of how affluent lifestyles can be linked to neighbouring atrocities, challenging the notion of denial and complicity.

The film doesn't centre around the Holocaust (Glazer's own words), with its specific historical context. Instead, it delves into a more universal theme: humanity's ability to coexist with atrocities and even derive some form of reconciliation or gain from them. The discomforting reflections are on purpose. It prompts us to acknowledge that the threat of annihilation of any people is always closer than we might imagine.

One of the most poignant moments in the film occurs when a package filled with clothing and lingerie pilfered from the prisoners of the camp arrives at the Höss household. The commandant's wife decides that everyone, including the servants, can select one item. She claims a coat for herself and trys on makeup discovered in one of its pockets.

How can the people who are so staunch against Glazer not draw parallels with Israeli soldiers who have recorded themselves rummaging through the lingerie of Palestinian women and slut shaming them? (Why are Israeli soldiers obsessed with Gaza women's underwear?) Or proudly displaying stolen shoes and jewellery for their partners back home (Israeli soldier loots Palestinian homes for his engagement party). Or celebrating International Women's Day with a photo of women soldiers posing for selfies against the backdrop of destruction (How an AP photographer made this image of Israeli soldiers taking a selfie at the Gaza border).

The film is rife with these parallels that it feels like a documentary. It is a grim reality: the potential emergence of the first live-streamed genocide, captured by its very architects.

Gaza doesn't mirror the systematic mass murder machinery of Auschwitz, nor does it approach the scale of Nazi atrocities. However, the entire purpose behind establishing the postwar framework of international humanitarian law was to equip us with the means to collectively recognise practices before history repeats itself on a large scale. And disturbingly, some of these practices – such as the construction of walls, creation of ghettos, mass killings, openly stated intentions of elimination, widespread starvation, plundering, gleeful dehumanisation, and deliberate humiliation – are recurring. And have been long before October 7th.

How do we disrupt the cycle of trivialisation and normalisation? What actions can we take? There are persistent protests and acts of civil disobedience to "uncommitted" votes, disrupting events, organising aid convoys, fundraising for refugees, and creating radical works of art.

And as genocide fades further into the background of our culture, some people grow too desperate for any of these efforts. I am certainly one of them.

Yet, these efforts seem insufficient, particularly when those in positions of power remain indifferent. It's insufficient when I watch a video of a little girl saying that the violence has made her feel less beautiful before she talks about her father being kidnapped by Israeli soldiers or of the orphans visiting their mother's burial spot in the street. It is insufficient when the death toll rises to exceed the daily death toll of any other major conflict of the 21st century.

Perhaps it's unfair of me to prioritise one tragedy over another, given the multitude of suffering in the world – the ones that are in the news cycle and the ones that are not. Yet, my connection to Palestine and its plight feels as personal as it can be without me actually being Palestinian, fostered from childhood teachings and further enriched through my own research. I have loved ones directly impacted by this conflict: friends in the diaspora grappling with survivor's guilt, friends in the West Bank enduring the daily hardships of occupation. And my friends in Gaza are all either dead, dying or being pushed straight into the arms of death.

The realisation that my efforts to help them are insufficient fills me with frustration. I'm angered by the indifference of those in power and by the hostility encountered by those attempting to bring the truth to the forefront.

[hijinks-n-lowjinks]

Because of the jjk exhibition and new interview questions with Gege there's been a lot of discourse, specifically about how things ended with Nobara and Gojo.

From what the exhibition attendees can best recall (as recordings inside were banned), Gege stated that he doesn't really want to kill off a character if he knows it won't emotionally affect the readers and a bunch of people are reacting poorly to it. But honestly, I don't really disagree with him. The purpose of deaths in most media to pull an emotional reaction from the consumers! You want your readers to feel emotionally tied and affected by that loss! If you kill a character just to kill someone, that's when it's purposeless and pointless.

I think some people are taking this way too literally and interpreting it as "gege kills for shock value" which does NOT equate to what he was saying, in my opinion. Every death has some impact on the characters, the plot, or the underlying meaning of the narrative.

Nanami's death is the most understandable of all of these. As a mentor figure, he was already at risk just because of tropes of the genre and storytelling in general. His death provided motivation for Yuuji and gave us a strong feeling of loss and a desperation to see Mahito brought to justice. He was also a full grown adult so his death was less of a shocking tragedy and more of a painful loss. I don't think there's many people who who debate this.

Now let's get to Nobara. I might be in the minority here, but I believe her death did mean something! Jjk has always discussed themes of throwing kids into situations they aren't fully equipped for and how their youth and lives have been taken away from them out of a sense of duty. Nobara's death is exactly meant to lean into this. She didn't have to die and she shouldn't have died. She was young and made a grave mistake when she shouldn't have gone out by herself! Nanami told her to stay behind because he knew she would be at a heavy risk of injury or death, but because of the culture around her Nobara went anyway. She wanted to help and wanted to be useful. There's a sort of toxic glory in jujutsu society where the strong are held up and revered while also being used recklessly. Nobara shouldn't have died, the same way Haibara and Riko shouldn't have died, but they did. That's the tragedy of it, and jjk is a tragedy and always has been. It was meant to evoke anger and pain, a desire to ensure that something like this doesn't happen again.

Gojo's death is the most complicated. It's the most convoluted and shocking, but I can see what gege was trying to do with it. Gojo is the strongest, but he worked alone and was used to working alone. No one can keep up with him and would just get in his way, so he was somewhat forced to fight Sukuna alone. I believe that the intention behind his loss was to show that even the most powerful can fall, especially when they have no one else they can rely on. The students all have each other. They are meant to be the change to the culture around them, working together to defeat Sukuna and bring about change. We even see this when Yuuta in Gojo's body relies on Inumaki! He's in the body of the strongest, but he wasn't going in alone. That's the difference.

Jjk has shown over and over again the tragedy of the world and hasn't shied away from the reality of loss, grief, and how unfair the world can be. That's the point of all of these horrible things, to show that unfairness. But I don't believe it will end that way! What's the point in showing how sad and nihilistic things are if it doesn't also show hope? I'm certain jjk will have a hopeful, victorious ending but those things come at a cost. That's what I believe gege's intention is.

[dingodad]

personally the vriska calling him a pedophile bit wasnt out of place for me. Canonically vriska doesnt shy away from saying that scratch is a sexual predator, she does state outright to his face that he gets off on manipulating little girls in the comic.

i think "would it be in character for vriska to say that" and "does it make sense in the context of the story for her to say that" are two subtly but crucially different questions, though.

like, on the one hand: it has always been textually clear that doc scratch is not LITERALLY a pedophile. he's a completely asexual organism. by using that word to describe him, you're making the subtextual textual. and this kind of "saying the quiet part out loud" is something the HICU have done very deliberately since they took the helm of hs2; they are intimately aware, i think, of the fact that they are fans in charge of deconstructing homestuck for the entertainment of other fans, and that in service of that aim sometimes you need to be willing to have mature discussions out in the open. a lot of the time this has worked for them quite well, especially in terms of getting old readers back on board with a story which has in the past been overly subtle to the point of excruciating boredom. but sometimes it teeters close to the edge of "characters talking like they're fully aware they're getting therapy", and i think this example leans somewhat toward the latter. like, is there really anyone reading hs2 at this point who doesn't already have some understanding that scratch is a predator? who exactly did it serve to make that already blatant comparison that much more overt?

on the other hand... i get the impression that vriska is actually aware of this distinction, on some level? like emphasising the fact that scratch is a child predator is almost a sort of shield for her. the name of vriska's game in this chapter is minimisation; while it's super cool and heroic to admit that part of your tragic backstory involves a sick spider monster and a badass lady pirate, by trying to paint scratch as nothing more than a pathetic kiddy fiddler what she's really saying is that because he never actually molested her then she was never really abused, that she was never really a victim and therefore he was never actually a significant presence in her life at all. that's how she lives with it, by role playing as the predator to forget the fact that she was ever prey.

i think what i question about this is possibly that vriska would even know to use that word at all? writing dialogue that actually feels authentically like stuff trolls would say is another thing i think hs2 has had a rough time with ("that is a completely normal human sentence"?). the gay joke in the tavros chapter was funny because it had been a long time since we heard caliborn and jake do the same gag but it feels like they tried to capture that same energy with vriska calling tavros a "pussy" in this chapter and it fell flat. and it felt just as unnatural for a troll to say the word "pussy" as it did for her to say the word "pedophile". i think what makes alternia and its traumatic knock-on effects so effective is that it's often more insidious than it is explicit; trolls barely have the language to describe all the institutionalised neglect and abuse that is happening around them all the time because to them it's just how the world works! yeah sollux has that line about sex offenders and schools, but i think that basically serves to illustrate my point, because for the most part we all seem to understand that trolls don't have what we would be able to identify as "school" either: sexual abuse and education are concepts that, in the world of homestuck, exist entirely in the abstract; tropes to be evoked but not things that ever actually happen.

that being said, alternia is designed to reflect the structure of homestuck as a whole, and the reason alternia doesn't have sex offenders or schools is because homestuck in general does not explicitly concern itself with these topics. we understand that escaping homestuck and settling down on Earth C means settling down in the "real world", replacing the threat of time-travelling demons with real struggles and real problems, and as a continuation of the homestuck epilogues hs2 naturally IS going to continue to touch on sex and politics and all the other stuff that was delegated mostly to the subtextual in the original comic. i think the structure of this chapter even kind of alludes to this; tavros and erisol beckon vriska to relax for a moment and play childish games with them like she used to do when she was a kid on alternia, but by choosing to forge on ahead with her personal growth vriska is immediately confronted with the fact that becoming an adult is NOT like a webcomic, it's NOT all allegories and RPG battles; it can be sick and it can be hurtful and it can stop you right in your tracks just as you thought you were "making progress" toward "winning".

i just feel that by having vriska apply Earth C vocabulary to an Alternian experience right off the bat, we've skipped over a key part of her transition from homestuck to the real world. would this chapter have been any easier to stomach if it had been about vriska coming to grips with the fact that scratch was a predator in the first place? no, of course not LOL. i think my gripe here might literally just be with the word choice. like i believe the writers have it in them to express what they were trying to express here in a much more interesting way than simply having vriska say "lol he's a pedophile". yes, addressing something literally that has only ever been mentioned before in symbols and whispers is part of the impact of this update, but i don't think that has to come at the expense of the dialogue actually feeling like it belongs in the mouths of these characters

[triluvial]

Imagine being a freman captured by feyd and just as you’re on the cusp of stockholm syndrome he spits on you. To him he’s just degrading you but you see it as an honor he’s giving you his water…

oh I love this. I feel like to fall into this the Reader has to be primed for it.

Like the Fremen seem to live in fairly small groups (aside from the deep south) so if Reader came from a bigger family then their romantic options may be severely limited. Reader, feeling lonely and longing to leave their small settlement just to find romance would be a great start for this AU.

Then when Feyd captures her, she knows he's probably going to be tortured and killed or turned into a slave. She may have read books and heard stories of dark lovers being soft for their one true love but she's not an idiot, she's under no illusions this will happen to her.

But then the first few weeks pass and Reader is unharmed. She's not tortured or raped and doesn't even see the face of any person other than Feyd.

Feyd is likely thinking he'll keep Reader like an exotic pet - the last of her kind once he razes Arrakis to dust - as he torments her with news of Fremen death. (Paul's rebellion is taking way longer ig)

Unintentionally, he's training Reader bit by bit to be totally dependant on him. He brings her food and water when he visits every second day so the relief of hunger and thirst becomes inescapably entwined with Feyd's presence. As he is literally the only other person she sees, he becomes the only thing she can think about, the only thing she ever dreams about.

This is when the spitting scene occurs. It's a declaration of love. Reader's thrilled. She swallows. Feyd begins to spend more and more of his time just thinking about Reader because no one ever reacted that positively to him just behaving however he wanted (this would probably work best if the Harpies weren't allowed to come with him, were killed right after he arrived on Dune or never existed in the first place).

Childish dreams of an Out-Worlder sweeping Reader off her feet and away from her inescapable family and into a life of dramatic romance begin to be mapped onto Feyd's face as Reader spends most of her time alone in the darkness of her cell.

Until I'm thinking Gurney and some Fremen scouts break into the Arrakeen palace for an assassination attempt and while they're there, they free Reader against Paul's orders (Hey, she has a big family at least two of them are on the team). She's ok with leaving until she learns they want to assassinate Feyd. The Harkonnen tactics advanced so much upon his arrival they think they can win if they take him out. Reader knocks them out from behind. This is how Feyd find her. Surrounded by the unconscious bodies of her would-be rescuers.

I couldn't pick an ending here so here's both:

Feyd tests Reader by "accidentally" letting her take one of his swords. She uses it to kill the scouting team to protect him. He proposes with the idea of stringing her along and seeing what else he could make her do for him before locking her up again. However, the horror that his fiancée evokes in the Bene Gesserit makes him so happy he decides to drag it out longer. Then, she tells him about the deep-south holdouts and stops him from relaxing when all the northern Fremen are seemingly dead he has to keep her on his arm a little longer. Then she wins a sparring match against him so he has to keep her around until he can soundly beat her, take everything she can teach him and turn it against her. Before he knows it they've been engaged for a year and there's legitimate wedding planning happening. He still wouldn't call it love but it might be as close as he gets. Reader still loves it when he spits on her.

Feyd gets Reader to fake a break-out and helps her move the unconscious rescuers out a secret escape. When they wake up she claims Feyd found them but she killed him and dragged them all to freedom. She's his spy on the inside and with the confidence of Feyd's supposed assassination Paul and the other Fremen will be overconfident. This would probably culminate in Feyd winning the knife fight against Paul and then saying, "You did perfectly, sweetheart." And Reader bolting like an Olympian into his still bloody arms.

[mrsoftthoughts]

Nico di Angelo headcanons

- He was very confused the firts time that someone called him "Emo"

he doesn't have a clue of what the fuck is that, he just bought up the clothes and accessories that he looks at and thinks "cool"

It was a karen who say that btw, the fact that she only was saying nonsense prob was guilty of Nico confusion too

- both Acts of service and Gifs are his way to show affection to others

He often helps his close friends and Hazel with anything they need, he also would get whatever thing that they expressed to want or need even in the slightest way possible, it doesn't matter if it's expensive af or hard to obtain for any reason, he's getting that thing for later wrap it in pretty paper .

He also buys whatever that he sees and reminds him to someone he loves, New rome postal service is tired of getting packages of the pluto ambassador for the praetor Levesque atleats 3 times at week ( that's not all the things that he gets for hazel, it's just the ones that he doesn't give her face to face)

- He's a polyglot ( i kinda talk about it here)

It was a part of his education back in the 1930s so he doesn't remember a lot of how he learned most of the languages he spokes, or even remembers that he actually spoke that especific language until he is in a situation were is needed

Something funny it's that one of the languages he taked longer to realize that he spoke it, it was greek, like, modern greek, he doesn't know how to feel about that

He also has a inherent understanding of dead languages so he's really good at read ol text of any kind

He also it's kinda a nerd about etymology

- He has a lot of beauty marks

Like, a lot of them, the most noticeable ones ofc are the in his face ( one at the bottom/side of his left eye and above the right eyebrow and two at the left side of his nose and bottom of his lips) but those things are everywhere in his body

- A lot of people feels that his appearance seems out of place, like, something ood to look at without an apparent reason

The things starts to make sense when you put his hair back with a bit of gel and give him a suit, then you realize that he looks like one of those pictures of grandpas when they were young

It can be a bit eerily because, in fact , he is actually from the same generation of those grandpas, that's why he looks like them but due the Lotus he's a teenager instead of an old man

the fact that his appearance it's the definition of a haunting beauty contributes to all that, he's beautiful, there's no a sigle appice of doubt about that, but you can compare the feeling that he evokes to the feeling of looking at a gothic church or the one of being at one of those old and Rich graveyards full of angel's scultures but cover in moss after years of abandonment , beautiful and stunning but also imponent and bone freezing

But hey!! It's also cool, and you can say that he's the antitesis of an iphone face

- Kinda related to the previous one, but his eyes are always changing colours.

It's not like piper tough, her eyes are literally a multicolor spectrum, Meanwhile, Nico's are more like his eyes being shallowed by the deep and dark waters full of misery of the styx, deep ebony black but in constant movement and little forms that looks like ice sublimation

Still, sometimes in moment of pure joy or when hes relaxed his natural color is visible, being a mostly brown iris with little details of grey and deep green like the bark or the fruit of olives

- Has a large collection of silly bands ( you know , the 2000s elastic bands with form of anything you can imagine?) think about any collection of those things and he has it

He also knows how to do those bracelets of bands btw, he uses his fingers for it and as a result he always has the strangulation marks or bruces

- He and Drew ended up being friends

He had that little hunch Drew's attitude having more behind that she just being a Bitch without reason, he was totally right

They aren't attached to the hip or something, there's a lot of things about each other that they don't know or they didn't bothered to ask, but they thrusts each other and are close enough to talk about their life and things they feel can't talk with anyone else every once in a while

Nico's is also drew personal manikin/ken doll for her fashion design projects, he isn't complaining tough, all the clothes are stunning

- Other of his friends is Clovis from hypnos cabin

A lot of people doesn't understand how they have a lot of anecdotes about things they did together, because Clovis is always half sleep or straight up in another world or something during the day

The last part is they key, they literally are in other world, or something like that, dream magic has potential to take the phrase "live your dreams" to another level

- Full grown up , He isn't tall or short, he's just (technically )average

He's 5'9... It taked a time for him to grow up to that point though, he was stuck in 5'5 for a while until he was around 17/18yo

Still, he looks a bit short at the side of most people around him, it's not his fault 90% of the people he knows are fucking giraffes

The fact that a lot of the boys he falls for are... Well, pretty tall ( Solace, Torrington, Grace, yk that you're the ones im talking about) isn't helping neither.

- He has a transatlantic accent ( alongside with a slight Italian accent)

Is a result of learning English as a second language and having both american and British people like reference and not something made on purpose

Is almost vanished after being living in America at the XXI century for the past few years, but you can still hear it in the way he say some words and the fact that his idiolect mix indiscriminately British and American words

Btw, something funny of that is that if you let his guy at the Uk for enough he would totally turn into the other side of the coin and now he picked up the accent of the region were he is at the moment

- He has a wii and a DS ( he later got a 3DS when it was released), nobody knows how the fuck is that he isn't chased by monster 24/7 using that thing

He also end up with a insane amount of amibos once they were released in 2014

- For some reason his collections of anything are in those vitrines that the grandmas uses for the pretty dishes

- He got the standar lobe piercing

usually he just have a pair of black diamons studs ( kinda looks like the diamons by the yard earring of Tiffanys) but sometimes he uses a bajoran or a pair of drops

- Even whe he is older his job is basically being his father second had and ambassador, but a general concense is that he is also a really god tourist guide

Probably he would be turned into a god after he passes away for just be doing exactly what he already was doing as a demigod, just with immortality.

-Despite being Italian and the stereotypes, he was a disaster in the kitchen, the kind of person that you say them to boil 2 glasses of water for the rice and the next thing you now is that 2 cristals glases are straight up in the stove

in his defense, he at best can remember see his Nanny doing something or being with her sister and mother doing some kind of dessert ( his only contribution to that was eating the chocolate)

Now he may not be a five stars chef but he can do pretty good stuff sometimes, he's trying

- He can make pretty concerning "old fashioned" coments sometimes

Alright, he is not an asshole ( at least non on purpose) or something like that, but sometimes while talking he would say things that are the daily reminder of the fact that this guy over there is a white ass boy raised in the 30's decade with the addition of being Born in a pretty much wealthy and probably Noble family and who's whole social interaction with other people that aren't hundred of years old beings has been limited,and that leads to his perspective of society being a bubble of privilege and old high society ethics.

Like, the most of the time if he say something really... Questionable, is because he really never has stopped to think about it and he is just saying what they teach him ,was normal at the time, or is just a comment made of pure ignorance mouth-is-fasther-that-the-brain-tipe.

Sadly for him ( and luckily for the rest of the people that have to hear him) 90% of the times hazel is close when he say that kind of stuff and two of Three times he ends up being hit by the closest thing that was at her hand or for one of her shoes if nothing else is available, the other time its a 50/50, he realizes that he just said something that isn't right or hazel just look at him in full deception mode.

[semperamans]

(inspired by my angel baby honey love suse and her incredible post that you must read here)

this song is so angst!benny coded :'(

"last night i heard my own heart beating sounded like footsteps on my stairs - six months gone and i'm still reaching even though i know you're not there"

you swear you see him everywhere even though that's impossible because according to a tearful johnny, benny is gone - left the night he broke your heart and hasn't been back since. last you heard he was on the west coast and it's a fucking shame that he would carry your broken heart so far away with no real intention of ever bringing it back. he's not dead, at least you really fucking hope not, but he haunts you just the same. he smiles from the window of the diner you used to frequent and creeps into your mind with every backfiring engine. you can't help but picture the deep crease between his brows and the way you'd thumb it away and smile at him and he'd kiss you and you thought it would be like that forever but now you're sobbing into your pillow again because love like that is supposed to last a lifetime and maybe it did because you feel like you died the second you walked out of his front door. benny's not dead, but he killed you.

"i know people change and these things happen, but i remember how it was back then. wrapped up in your arms and our friends are laughing 'cause nothin' like this has ever happened to them."

is it possible you conjured him in your head completely because nothing feels concrete anymore. it's summer now and the heat evokes memories you don't want to remember, don't want to see, but need to regardless because you're so disconnected that everyone is worried. johnny calls every day but you don't feel like talking, so most of the time you don't. you sit on the phone, static speaking loud and clear. there's a shoe box of polaroids thrown onto your comforter and it's taken you an hour to open it. why do you have to do this? to reacquaint yourself with that now-distant time in your life? it hurts. being happy hurts so you choke on it- wince, and cringe and cry as you flick through the fleeting flashes of a life you can't believe had been yours. the boy who held your waist and nuzzled his scruffy chin against your shoulder and stole your heart-shaped sunglasses and swore he'd marry you and vowed to never hurt you broke your heart. and you know what? fuck him. fuck benny. fuck benny. fuck benny.

"come back, come back, come back to me like you could, you could if you just said you’re sorry. i know that we could work it out somehow."

"would you take 'em back?" cal asks. the two of you share sips from a flask on your front stoop. the moon hangs low over the hazy chicago night. "y'know, if he ever came back?" you don't hesitate. "yes."

"if you're out there, if you're somewhere, if you're moving on I've been waiting on you every day since you've been gone. i just want it back the way it was before and i just wanna see you back at my front door."

it's colder now. you need a sweater whenever you go out, and you're going out more often, which is good. sonny tells you he's missed your smile, been awful dark without it, and you smack him good-naturedly across the chest. you're a bit more alive these days; johnny calls you a zombie - the girl who died and is now slowly starting to come back to life. it still hurts and some days you can barely tug yourself out of bed, but you do because you deserve a life. the holidays are quickly approaching and you break down when your momma asks if she needs to set a place for benny (your parents came around too late) but it's okay. you're okay and no, benny doesn't need a place at your table even though he's always going to have a place in your heart and hey, you'll be back - you've gotta run to the grocery for something - but you don't even make it out the door because a familiar figure is hunched on the front steps.

"come back, come back, come back to me like you would before you said its not that easy, before the fight, before i locked you out, but i'd take it all back now."

[starryeyedjanai]

pedal to the metal of your heart

kinktober prompt: olfactophilia | 6.5k | explicit part one here | camboy alpha steve series tags: omegaverse, alpha steve, omega eddie, camboy steve, scent kink

read on ao3

Steve's freaking out.

That's the only real way to put it.

Robin is no help, as she watches him pacing a dent in the floor and listens to him talk himself in circles about what happened.

It's been days since it happened. Since he innocently opened up a package on his live stream and had it send him into a fucking pseudo-rut.

He can't explain it. He just knows he was doing a silly little thing for his followers and all of a sudden, he's knotting his fist on camera.

He quickly had to get it together enough to end the stream, but it didn't stop there. His dick remained stubbornly hard and he knotted his fist probably three more times during the next day like he was going through puberty again and knotting up during his first rut.

He was out of commission for a few days, first during his unexpected pseudo-rut - not quite as intense or as long as a regular rut, but still - and then the aftermath of being thoroughly unprepared for it. He was dehydrated and grumpy and his dick hurt and he was in a fugue state for another couple of days contemplating what happened.

In his fugue state with his brain still fuzzy, he found the package again - the garments sealed tight in a scent-proof box - and tried to see if he could find whoever sent him the package.

Because having someone's scent send you into rut, even pseudo-rut, is kind of, it's- it means something, right? It has to mean something.

So he examined the necklace he was still wearing and looked up the band on it and he thinks he found the guy, found Eddie.

He messaged him two days ago and he still hasn't heard anything and it's making him so anxious, he's biting his nails again - a habit he kicked a while ago.

"Rob, it's been too long. It's either not him or he doesn't, he doesn't want me or whatever." The thought that his - whoever Eddie is to him - the thought that he doesn't want Steve makes his heart thump loud and sad in his chest.

Robin barely looks up from the magazine they're flipping through and says, "You don't know that. He might not have even seen the message. Or he could be embarrassed that he accidentally made you knot up on camera. You don't know what he's thinking, so you should stop killing yourself over it."

He knows she's right. He knew she was right the first hundred times she's said it to him over the last couple of days, but he's so nervous. He feels like he might have found something that most people don't find, and he doesn't want to start using words like mate, but it's special still, finding someone who can evoke that kind of response in you.

He throws himself onto his bed dramatically and says, "That doesn't actually help. I know you're right, but I'm still anxious about it."

Robin looks at him and pats him on the thigh. "It's going to be okay, you know? No matter what happens, you'll be fine. Just breathe and wait it out. If he doesn't answer in another couple days, maybe it's not him. I can try to help you find whoever it was."

He nods and gets closer. She opens her arms and he buries his face in her hair as she cuddles him. "Thanks, Robbie. You're right. Maybe I was too out of it when I was searching. I was really going through it."

"Oh I know. I have the texts to prove it."

He pulls back and glares at them. "You cannot use those against me."

"I would never," she says, shoving him away. "I just came five times in a row, Rob, send help," she mocks.

He groans, burying his face in his hands this time. "It was so brutal. I never want to go through a rut alone ever again, even a pseudo one. It's never been like that before."

"Poor lil' guy," Robin says, patting his head.

"It's not little, Rob, you've seen it."

"Ough," Robin says. "Don't remind me. Never remind me."

Steve shakes his head, but still says, "Thanks, though, for sending food. The situation was dire and I could not think."

Robin preens at him. "Of course. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?"

*

Eddie doesn't get back to him for another couple of days and by then Steve thinks it's a lost cause. The guy either isn't the right person, or he's gun shy about all of this. Steve can't even blame him, really. A lot of people are weird about things like this. Some people don't believe mates exist, so maybe this guy thinks Steve's reaction was fabricated for the views.

He doesn't want to dwell on it, but it sucks. He thinks he maybe found- it doesn't matter, he tells himself.

It'll all be fine. He'll be fine, either way this turns out.

Of course, all of that is utter bullshit because the relief he feels when he sees that Eddie messaged him back is palpable. It's gut deep, like he hasn't been able to relax since he hit send and suddenly all of his muscles are able to relax and stop clenching.

He's in class, bored out of his mind, when he compulsively checks and has to stop himself from outwardly showing a reaction to it. He can't read it in class. He feels like if it's a rejection, Eddie probably wouldn't have even bothered, but if it is, he doesn't want to be in class when it happens.

He immediately gathers up his stuff and leaves the room ten minutes before the lecture ends and makes a beeline for his car. He can read it there. At least then, he'll be able to decide if he needs to go home and wallow or if he needs to treat Robin to lunch to celebrate.

He drops his bag on the passenger seat and pulls out his phone again, surprised he was actually able to hold off on reading it until now.

He takes a deep breath before opening the message.

Hi Stevie, It was my package. I've been kind of freaking out about it since it happened and didn't check to see if I had any messages here. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you. If you need, I can send proof that it's me? I'd love to talk if you still want to. You can message me here or we can take it offline. I promise to check my messages sooner than last time now that I know you'll be messaging me. Hope to talk to you soon, x Eddie

Okay.

Okay, so. So it's him. Probably. It's got to be him because he offered to send proof. He'll probably ask to see the proof anyway because one can never be too sure, but he thinks it's him.

Steve doesn't know what to do next.

He's freaking out too and they haven't even really talked yet. He wants to know everything about him. He wants to know who Eddie is and see him and talk to him and he's absolutely getting ahead of himself, but he can't help it. He's wanted to have this since he was a kid, since he first learned about mates and what they meant. Someone who won't leave.

He wants it so bad he can taste it.

He remembers Eddie's smell, has smelled it probably everyday since, opening up the second scent-proof package that had his shirt in it and smelling it, scenting it in his bed, rubbing his face over the soft material, breathing in Eddie's scent.

He needs to calm down, he realizes, and he loosens the death grip he has on his phone.

He texts Robin, tells them that his- that Eddie sent him a message and that he's freaking out a little bit.

She texts back and talking to her helps calm him down.

He does end up treating them to lunch off campus at a fancy little Italian restaurant.

"You absolutely need to see proof it's him," she tells him when he reads her the message.

"I know. He's got to have pictures with his band logo or something. I'll get proof," he says. "This feels so surreal."

"I bet. Lemme know if you need help crafting a message to him. I know you're going to be spiraling either way, but if I can help-" she says.

"I know, Rob. I'll be fine, I think. I'll let you know."

"Good. And I want to meet this guy. If you're gonna be talking to him or video chatting, I want to vet him."

"You cannot scare him away," he says, looking at her seriously.

She puts her hands up. "I won't! But if he's not good enough for you, I don't give a damn about mates. No one gets to talk to my best friend any kind of way."

His expression softens. They're so protective of him.

"If he's really my mate, he won't just be 'talking to me any kind of way'. He'll be kind," he says, hoping it's the truth.

She hums and they both stop talking as their food arrives.

*

Later that afternoon, laying on his bed, he crafts a message back to Eddie, asking for a picture of him with his band logo as proof.

He's seen pictures of the band in his quest to find him, but he doesn't know which one is him because he didn't let himself look for too long once he found them.

He asks Eddie to send a picture to his email since the site messaging doesn't allow pictures and his phone dings with an email notification not five minutes later.

He opens up the image and it's a picture of the guy from the band with the long hair, wearing a Corroded Coffin shirt, same logo and everything.

He's cute.

He's really fucking cute.

He breathes out a breath of relief that it's actually him and emails him back with his phone number so they can text. Well, he sends him his Google phone number because Robin's right - he needs to be sure this guy isn't a complete asshole before giving him his real phone number. As much as he wants to jump in feet first, he needs to slow down a little.

Eddie texts him almost immediately after he hits send, just a tentative hi, it's eddie and Steve is hitting the call button before he realizes what he's doing. So much for taking it slow.

"Hello?" Eddie's voice says down the line and Steve tries so hard not to roll over and start kicking his feet.

"Hi Eddie," he breathes out.

"Hi Stevie," Eddie says back and Steve is so fucking glad he was stupid and used his real government name on his Only Fans account if it means he gets to have Eddie saying his name like that.

"So I kind of hit call before I knew what I was going to say. Full disclosure," he says because he doesn't have a plan for how this is going to go.

Eddie laughs. "I figured, considering you called me like thirty seconds after I sent you a text."

Steve pouts a little. "Yeah, that kind of gave it away, didn't it?"

"It's fine. Seeing my picture and then my very unoriginal little hi it's me text and still wanting to talk to me right away is kind of doing something for my ego," Eddie says and Steve just knows he's grinning as he says it.

"I mean, you did send me that text like thirty seconds after I emailed you back, so."

"So we're both a little excited," he says.

Steve sighs. "Yeah, tell me about it. Your scent sent me into pseudo-rut, you know?"

He hears the breath that Eddie sucks in. He says, "Yeah? I- I wasn't sure if it was just the, you know, knot-popping on camera."

"Yeah, that plus some. It was kind of intense," he says, breathing out deeply.

"I bet," Eddie says and Steve shivers a little.

His dick is not going to get hard because of Eddie's voice. It's not.

After talking to him for another handful of minutes, asking first date kind of questions and answering Eddie's question in return, Eddie unfortunately has to get back to work because Steve messaged him during his break and he spent the last twenty minutes of it finding a picture to send and then talking to him.

Steve's heart flutters in his chest as they hang up, with promises to talk again soon.

He wants to text him again already, ask to facetime him and see him as soon as he gets off work. He wants to see his mannerisms as he talks - hearing his voice wasn't enough. He wants- he just wants.

But he doesn't want to scare him off by asking for too much too soon.

He wants to know Eddie on his own terms. He doesn't want to make him feel like Steve is pressuring him or moving too fast.

For someone who chronically goes all in too soon in every aspect of his life, that's going to be a challenge.

*

They talk a few more times over the phone and they text a lot. Like a lot.

They exchange snapchats and Steve gets little glimpses into what Eddie's life is like. He sends back similar things - his coffee cup showing off what he typically orders, his lunches from the caf, his dinners out with Robin, the drinks he gets him and Robin when they go out on the weekend.

Steve gets all these feelings in his chest when he sees Eddie's name pop up on his phone screen and he's trying so hard not to be too much, to text too much or call too much.

Eddie tunes in when he streams and he feels butterflies in his stomach when he sees his username pop up, just a bunch of heart eyes emojis whenever Steve does something that he particularly likes. (If he tries to isolate what those things are and replicate them so that he sees Eddie's username more, that's his business.)

They've been talking for over three weeks when he suggests what he's been wanting to suggest since the first time they talked.

They've been chatting on the phone a few times a week, usually later at night when Eddie's out of band practice or off work.

Steve's yawning towards the end of their call that night and knows he has to hang up soon if he wants to wake up on time for his class tomorrow, but the idea is in his head again and won't leave.

So he says, "I had an idea. I could send you something of mine, maybe? So we'd know if we're- if it was a fluke, when I went into pseudo-rut." He bites his lip nervously. He doesn't want it to be a fluke, he wants it to have meant something.

He hears Eddie breathe out and he says quietly, "Yeah, Stevie, I think they would be fine. I'll send you my address."

Steve sighs in relief and after they say their goodbyes, he thinks about what he's going to send to Eddie. He already bought the scent-proof bag to send to Eddie - after their first fucking conversation because he's incapable of being chill - so he just needs to pick what he wants to send.

Immediately, his cock starts aching. Thinking about spreading his come on the now, frankly, disgusting pair of panties Eddie sent him and sending it back to him all packaged up and scent-proofed so that when Eddie opens it, he's hit with the smell of their scents tangling together.

The way Steve has been hit with the scent every time he lifts the shirt Eddie sent along with it up to his face when he's getting himself off, their scents mingling in his nose, making him whine and cry out and want.

Is that too much?

Maybe that's too much. Maybe he should just send his own pair of underwear, smothered in his scent, to Eddie. He feels like that would be a little bit less unhinged of him. He doesn't want to come on too strong. He already feels like he wants too much from someone he barely knows.

But his skin buzzes at the prospect of Eddie opening the package from him and having it send him into a pseudo-heat like it did with Steve's pseudo-rut.

God, he needs to find something to come on so that he can jerk off and then send it covered in his come to Eddie.

He finds a clean pair of panties and then wonders if it might be better to just come into the underwear he's been wearing today. They'd smell more like him than laundry detergent. He contemplates for a minute because the underwear he put on today aren't anything special, just black briefs, but he thinks Eddie might appreciate it more if he can smell Steve's scent fully - the smell of his come mixed with the scent he naturally radiates.

He says, "Fuck it," and lays back on his bed and starts stroking himself through his briefs. He'll send Eddie a shirt too, one that he wears often, maybe his sleep shirt, so he can get the full experience.

He lets himself think about it again, about Eddie opening his package and groaning, burying his face in the very briefs he's touching himself through right now. He thinks about Eddie leaking slick, needing to pull out his toys because he needs something inside him after he smells Steve's scent.

He thinks about his slick hole, needing to be filled, over and over until it hurts almost. He thinks about Eddie's undoubtedly pretty cock and how he'd tug on it desperately. He'd come so many times with Steve's briefs pressed up under his nose just like Steve had.

Steve pulls his cock out of his underwear and strokes himself in earnest, twisting his wrist to stimulate the head on every other stroke. He thumbs at the sensitive head and thinks about burying his cock in Eddie's wet hole, thinks about how snug and warm it would be.

He'd fuck Eddie until neither of them could move, exhausted and spent and dripping. He'd fall asleep with his cock still inside Eddie's hole because neither of them could bear to part. He'd love it, waking up hard and still inside him.

He'd take it slow in the morning because they'd be worn out and sore from the day before. He'd fuck him so good and slow, feel his hole spasm around him as he came again, his cock barely spitting out any come. He'd fill him up, press his cock deep inside him and leave him feeling sated and sticky and like he could melt into the bed.

He wants to take care of him, he thinks, speeding up his hand. He wants to worship him, wants to do whatever Eddie wants him to do. He wants Eddie to take what he wants from him, wants him to hold Steve right where he wants him and take his pleasure any way he wants.

He wants Eddie on top of him, pinning him down as he sinks down on his cock. He wants Eddie to whisper in his ear exactly what he's going to do to Steve and how he's going to do it. He wants to feel taken care of, wants to feel held down and caught, weighed down by Eddie's weight on top of him.

His hips hitch up and he knows he's going to come soon, thinking about Eddie telling him what he wants and then taking it.

He shoves his cock back into his briefs so he can come all over the inside of them. He shudders through it, whining because he wants so many things with Eddie. He has to be his mate, he has to be, right? Steve wouldn't want him this much if he wasn't. He has to be.

He comes down slowly, breath evening out. He feels so sticky and gross. He peels his underwear down and immediately puts them in the scent-proof bag he bought.

He lays back down feeling kind of vulnerable. He wants this so bad, probably more than he's wanted most things. Because he's never had a relationship turn out good and he just wants something to be right for the first time.

So if he's found his, his mate - his true mate or perfect match or whatever people are calling it nowadays - he wants to know, so bad.

The anticipation is going to kill him, he thinks.

*

He sends the package out in the mail the next morning and tries not to think about doing something crazy like driving the three hours it would take to get from Chicago to Indianapolis. That'd be weird, right? Him showing up at the address Eddie sent to him, at noon on a Monday. That would definitely be too much, too soon.

He knows he's in deep when the rationale for not doing it that wins him over is that Eddie might be working and might not be at home in the middle of a work day.

He facepalms and tries to keep it together.

He goes to his classes and ignores the looks Robin gives him when they meet him in the library after class.

It's fine. Everything is fine.

Eddie will get the package in a few days and they'll probably know if it was a fluke or not. (Steve already knows it wasn't a fluke. He knows it like he knows he's an alpha, it's in his bones, deep. He's never sure about anything, but he feels sure about this. He feels something when he texts Eddie, when he hears his voice. That can't be a fluke.)

He just needs to chill out and not scare Eddie away before they confirm it.

He just always wants a lot and usually too fast. So he's trying to slow down, now that this could be the real deal. The big one, the one everyone's always waiting for and writing songs about and yearning for. He doesn't want to scare him away before he even gets to know him.

How embarrassing would that be? He can't imagine having to tell Robin that his mate, his actual mate, wants nothing to do with him because he's too overbearing.

So he can't be overbearing. He won't be. He'll keep it together and he won't do anything weird. Should be easy, right?

*

He texts Eddie that he mailed the package to him and sends him the tracking number.

The morning of his first midterm, Eddie texts him that the package is arriving later today and Steve somehow manages to find enough focus to not completely bomb his midterm.

He's buzzing with anticipation the entire day, waiting for Eddie to text or call and say that he has the package.

It's still light out when Eddie's name flashes on his screen.

Got it is all it says and Steve frowns.

He hits the call button.

Eddie picks up after a couple rings and says, "Hi, Steve," but he sounds weird. Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. It's not- they're not. Are they not-?

He swallows and tries to hold back the anxiety that's seeping into his body.

"Hi Eddie," he says back, trying not to freak out.

"I got the package," Eddie says, which doesn't give him anything to go off of.

"Yeah, I got your text. Did you open it?" he asks impatiently.

"Not yet," Eddie says, voice smaller than usual. "I'm kind of nervous to open it. I- maybe it's a weird thing to say, but I want this so badly. Like, I want it to send me into pseudo-heat. I want the whole mate thing to be true for us."

Some of the tension evaporates from his body. Oh.

"I want that too," he says, breathlessly.

"You do?" Eddie asks, hope in his voice, and maybe Steve hasn't been letting on just how much he's been anticipating this moment - for fear of being too much.

"Yes!" he says. "I've been tearing my hair out over here waiting for your text. I could barely focus on my midterm this morning."

"Oh fuck, you did say you had midterms this week. Should we wait-?"

"No!" he says, cutting him off. "I will literally die if we wait any longer. I've been waiting for this and hoping for so long now."

Eddie laughs. "Okay, okay! I'll open it. Do you want to maybe FaceTime while I open it?"

They haven't video chatted at all since they started talking. The only time Eddie's seen him has been on his streams and in the snapchats he sends him. Steve hasn't seen Eddie at all apart from the sleepy snapchats he sometimes sends him when he wakes up.

"Yeah, we should- uh. If it sends you into pseudo-heat, we could stay on the line if you want," he says, his cheeks heating up at the thought of seeing Eddie like that, desperate to come, desperate for something inside him. "Do you have supplies ready? You shouldn't open it if you aren't prepared."

"Oh trust me, big boy, I am plenty prepared. I've got a case of water and some snacks to get me through it," Eddie says and Steve's phone vibrates in his hand.

He pulls it away from his ear and accepts the FaceTime request.

"Hi," Eddie says.

"Hi," Steve says back shyly, looking at Eddie's pretty face.

"So I don't have a tripod or anything, so this'll have to do," Eddie says, holding his phone out to show Steve the package in his lap.

"Yeah, that's fine. I wasn't expecting, like, a show or anything. This is more than fine," he says, moving to his bedroom. He sits down on his bed with his back against the headboard and watches as Eddie one-handedly tears into the package.

It would be much easier to just put the phone down and open the package with two hands, but watching Eddie struggle is kind of cute, so he doesn't say anything.

Eddie gets the package open and pulls out the scent-proof bags Steve put his folded shirt and come stained briefs in.

The thoughts he's been trying to push out of his mind since he mailed the package come rushing back to the surface. Eddie's about to scent him and his dick is twitching about it.

His heart is beating so fucking fast.

"So, uh, this is it, I guess. The moment of truth," Eddie says, lifting the bag up to his mouth and using his teeth to tear through it.

There's something so unbearably hot about him literally tearing the package open with his teeth that Steve almost misses the quiet sound Eddie makes when the bag rips open.

It's this little punched out noise that's barely anything at all, but Steve knows that noise - he knows it because he made almost the exact same noise when he first got a whiff of Eddie's scent.

He looks at Eddie, as he takes out the briefs Steve came onto just days ago and buries his nose in them.

His cock twitches in his pants and he rushes to get them open.

"Talk to me, Eddie," he says, watching Eddie's face go a little slack, his eyes hazy as he opens them.

"It's- I. I feel like I'm going into heat," Eddie says, tilting his phone down so Steve can see his hard dick in his shorts. Fuck. Fuck.

"Yeah?" he asks, tilting his phone down too, so Eddie can see how hard he is too.

"Fuck, Stevie, want that in me," Eddie whines, falling back onto his bed. The phone in his hand is pointing up so all Steve sees is the ceiling as Eddie moans.

"Show me what you're doing?" he asks, desperate to see him again.

Eddie's kicked off his shorts in the two seconds his camera was pointed away apparently because the next thing Steve sees is his dripping cock. And-

Jesus christ. He's big. His cock- wow.

Steve takes his own cock in his hand and strokes it, watching Eddie's cock twitch as he smells Steve's scent.

"I need something inside me," Eddie says, dropping the phone onto the bed and Steve whines.

He wants to see him, but the phone is face down on his bed so Steve sees nothing. He hears Eddie rummaging around and stops his hand on himself because he only wants to touch when Eddie can see him.

He waits for another few moments as Eddie gets what he needs and then picks up the phone again.

"Steve, I'm so fucking hot right now," Eddie says, his face flushed. He's sweating a little already and Steve wants to bury his face in Eddie's neck, scent him right from the source.

Instead he grabs Eddie's shirt from under his pillow - the scent is so faint now, but it's still lingering. Steve shucks the shirt he was wearing off and tugs Eddie's shirt on.

He hears Eddie groan and he looks at his phone. Eddie's looking back at him, his eyes wild.

"You're wearing my shirt," he says, his eyes wide as he looks at him.

"I keep it under my pillow," Steve confesses. "It's losing its scent, but it still smells like you a little."

Eddie does something outside of the camera frame that makes him moan, and Steve sorely wishes Eddie did have a tripod or something so he could see all of him, could see how he's making himself feel good.

Eddie says, "I'll send you another one. This one." He tugs at the shirt he's wearing, fumbling as he takes it off.

With his clothes off now, he sets his phone on his bedside table, pointed at him. The angle is a little wonky, but Steve can see him, see what he's doing.

He squeezes his cock as Eddie kneels on the bed facing his phone and reaches back to grip the dildo inside him and pull it out a little. Fuck, when had he even gotten that inside him?

He grabs Steve's briefs and brings them up to his nose again, his moan long and drawn out as he sinks down onto the dildo with Steve's scent in his nose again.

He holds the dildo steady with one hand as he bounces up and down on it and Steve can't stop himself from planting his feet on his bed and fucking up into his fist at the same speed, wishing he was there, wishing he was sinking into Eddie's hole instead of his fist.

Eddie's dick bounces on every thrust down and Steve wants it in his mouth.

Steve moans, thinking of Eddie's hands in his hair, holding his head still as he fucks his face with his unfairly big cock. He doesn't know any other omega with a cock that big, jesus christ. He wants to swallow it, wants to choke on it, wants to taste Eddie's come on his tongue. He wants Eddie to come in his mouth and then make Steve eat him out, rub his wet hole all over Steve's face. He wants it, he wants it, he wants it.

And he says it, less afraid of admitting everything he wants now that Eddie seems to have had a similar reaction to his scent.

He tells him he wants to choke on his cock and taste him and listens as Eddie's moans get louder and louder.

It spurs him on.

He says, "I want to bury my cock in you. Wanna come inside you and lick it out. Please. Would you let me?"

Eddie shivers and nods as he fucks himself on the dildo. He says, "I would ride you into the goddamn bed. Make you knot up inside him and then when it goes down, sit on your face as your come drips out of me."

Steve wants to knot him so bad. He's- oh fuck. He's gonna knot his fist again.

This shouldn't be happening. Eddie's scent only had that initial reaction because of the newness of it - he's been smelling his shirt every night and hasn't knotted apart from the pseudo-rut. His knot shouldn't be forming right now.

"I'm gonna knot, holy shit. I'm-" he groans as his cock pulses in his grip, his knot expanding as he squeezes it. He tilts his phone down so Eddie can see it, see him knotting up for him again.

The look on Eddie's face as he comes is something Steve isn't going to ever forget. He trembles as he sinks down on the dildo, pressing the button on the base of the dildo to expand the knot.

Steve watches with rapt attention as Eddie's cock starts to spurt, untouched. His come arcs out of him, splattering the bed and his thighs with come as he grinds down onto the knotted dildo.

Steve grips his knot tight and he comes, looking at Eddie shuddering through the waves of it, his hole probably like a vice on that knotting dildo. It should be him.

Fuck.

He squeezes his hand tighter around his knot, dropping his phone on his chest to stroke himself through his orgasm. He whimpers as the come floods out of him, his knot aching.

"Stevie, fuck. Wanna see you," Eddie says, so Steve pulls his hand away and grabs his phone again. Fuck, he's so messy right now.

He brings his phone back up and the first thing he sees is Eddie stroking his still hard cock with Steve's briefs and Steve's eyes roll back, his cock kicking out another glob of come.

God, the way Eddie's room must smell right now. Like the two of them, the way Steve's room smelled for days after his pseudo-rut. He could barely go back into his room without his dick getting hard about it. He wants him so intensely that he fucking knotted his fist without meaning to.

"You look so fucking good in my shirt, Steve. Want you to smell like me," Eddie says, which does nothing to sate the way he wants so viscerally to be with him right now.

He's still stroking himself with Steve's briefs and it's making Steve's dick twitch, his knot hot in his fist.

"Can't believe you knotted for me," Eddie says, jerking himself faster, like the heat that waned when he came is back with a vengeance.

"You gonna come again?" Steve asks, his voice shaky.

"Yeah," Eddie moans. "Gonna come all over your fucking underwear. Make it smell like us."

Steve whines. Eddie seems to have his number already, knows exactly what to say to make his knot pulse in his grip, more come dribbling out of the slit of his cock.

Eddie curses and groans again, shaking as he comes again, his come shooting out onto the fabric of Steve's briefs.

How the hell is Steve gonna survive meeting him in person if he can't even control himself at the thought of their scents mingling in person?

"You'll survive, sweetheart," Eddie says and Steve was completely unaware he'd even said anything out loud, so completely out of it apparently.

"I'm not so sure about that," he says, squeezing his knot.

Eddie hums and grabs the phone from the nightstand, collapsing back onto the bed. "I think you'll be fine once you get your knot in me."

"Fuck, Eddie. You can't just say that," he groans.

"Why not?" he asks, grinning.

"Because my knots not gonna go down and I'm gonna die."

"You're even more dramatic than me. I love it," Eddie says, sitting up and grabbing a water bottle to drink from.

"I'm not that dramatic, Mr. Dungeon Master," he says with a pout.

"Ooh, call me master again and I might come," Eddie says, leering at him.

Steve rolls his eyes.

The chatter stops momentarily as Eddie drinks from his water bottle and curls back up in bed.

Steve watches as he wraps himself up in his blankets and once again wishes he was there.

He says, "You look so cozy right now."

Eddie grins at him again. "I am. My bed is very comfy. You should come see for yourself."

"I wish I could," he says, honestly.

"I don't think I could do a real heat right now though, unfortunately," Eddie says with a groan. "This pseudo-heat is gonna wear me out, I can already tell, and I've got shows to do with my band and work and stuff. But I'd love to meet up with you in a few weeks. Or maybe once the semester is over?"

Steve smiles at him. "Yeah, I'd like that. We can figure out when later. It's probably better to let this marinate a little anyway. Not everything all at once." See? He can take it slow.

The thought of getting to see him in person, getting to know him in person, real and in front of him, is making Steve's heart race.

"Yeah, I typically dive head first into things, so taking a breather is probably a good idea," Eddie says. He looks at Steve through the camera and says, "But that doesn't mean I want to stop talking, got it? I still want to text and I want you to call."

Steve appreciates the clarity. "I'm glad. I don't want to stop talking either."

"Good. Just making sure," Eddie says, reaching over and grabbing the shirt Steve sent from the package and pillowing it under his head.

That reminds him. "I think if you sent me another shirt, it would help tide me over until we meet, though," he says and Eddie laughs. Steve aches again, wanting to- just wanting him.

Eddie says, "I can do that. I'll have to swing an extra shift to cover the shipping though."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Literally give me your Venmo. I'm the one asking for it, so I should be the one to pay for it."

Eddie looks like he's going to protest, but he says. "Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm sure. I want to scent you so bad right now."

"Me too," Eddie says. "You smell nice, by the way. Like, your shirt smells amazing." He buries his face in Steve's shirt, breathing deeply.

"So do you. Earthy. It's nice," he says. He loosens his grip on himself, his knot starting to go down. "How many more rounds do you think you'll have to do tonight?"

Eddie thinks for a second, then says, "At least another few orgasms before I get ready for bed. I have to eat dinner at some point, I guess. I'll probably wake up a few times during the night and need to be knotted again."

"I'll stay on the line however long it takes," he says.

Eddie brightens up and says, "Yeah? You sure you wanna babysit me into the wee hours of the morning?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "I wanna take care of you. I can't be there in person, but I can be here, you know?"

Eddie looks a little taken aback at the sincerity, but he smiles at him shyly. "In that case, I'm looking forward to it."

Yeah, so is Steve.

[capcavan]

🗣️ (also sorry this got long, turns out i have thoughts) so like riko is one of the weirdest fandom cases i've ever seen. i've been in fandoms where characters who commit actual war crimes and genocide are badass babes or uwu soft bois, and even spoiled mafia brats who commit terrible crimes against the heroes for daddy's attention that get love and redemption. it's so weird to see just how isolated from all that riko is to me.

i do think it's partly how aftg is written, and that's also partly because niel's pov is not at all forgiving of riko, while is entirely forgiving of people like andrew. but i also think it's because of how riko himself is written. he's one of these characters that's better on paper than he is in the book to me. because he's never presented as smart enough to fall into the magnificent bastard trope where everyone applauds how devious his plans are, but he's not outright hammy enough to just be a fun read, he doesn't even get the same stupidly dramatic flare as andrew. and while we're told he's powerful and doing dangerous stuff, he's presented on page, more often than not, as a petulant child that neil is just done with or a guy who likes to torture people who neil is also done with. neil is never actually scared of riko, or even particularly threatened by him, and i think that hurts him and makes his position in the narrative weaker. especially when nora is trying to play him as a villain and a threat in a mafia story rather than a good old fashioned rival in a sports drama. for example, his first impression on the kathy show should live up to the hype of this imposing charismatic villain who broke kevin's hand, but instead loses him temper, forgets all of his media training and lets a nobody like neil goad him into losing control of the interview, and then his payback, things like shoving neil around and seth's death, are basically brushed off because neil doesn't really care that much. it's not given the weight to be a seriously omg this guys a threat first impression. and this isn't uncommon, lots of media hamstrings their villains at the start by making sure we know the main character is too sassy for them and can humiliate them, without thinking about how weak that can make the villain seem. it feels sometimes like nora wanted riko to be this chess master villain or tragic child who's lashing out at the world, without committing to it fully to either, or was just not an experienced enough writer to have known how to write either of those things in the pov of someone who hates riko's guts, which is understandable, writing is hard and that sort of nuance takes practice, especially if you just go by the books and not the extra content, and i do wonder how differently nora would have portrayed riko if she rewrote the main trilogy now with presumably a lot more practice under her belt. in the end riko ends up in this weird grey area to me where i understand why he's not popular, given he has none of the usual obvious traits that fans like to latch onto when redeeming a villainous character, and even the ones that are there are glossed over pretty quickly because of neil's pov, and a lot of his more interesting pieces are on paper not actively presented in the book, and not everyone reads super deep, but i also don't understand the amount of hate. i have literally never seen a character in any other fandom i've been in have this much fandom wide hatred.

See I have nothing to add here because you single handedly dropped the best analysis of Riko's character in the series I had pleasure to read so far and summed up all my feelings about why and what of the fandom. If the goal was to write a character that is impactful yet easy to hate then that goal was achieved but for me it real takes away form the magnitude of feelings Riko could evoke in reader and questions he could provoke in narrative if he was given bit different presentation that woudl still align with the lore we already have.

[eddiediazismyhusband]

My (embarrassingly okay-ish) 9-1-1 Sims

so I do not claim to be good at remaking real people in the sims... I want to go ahead and get that out of the way first and foremost

however I don't think I did *terrible* on these sims (some are definitely better than others) but with that said, here are my 9-1-1 sims

(please don't judge me too hard)

Evan "Buck" Buckley

the tattoo cc I made for buck is definitely way out-of-date, but alas i am too lazy to go back and make a new tattoo to add all of his current 6,000 tattoos (love your tats oliver but no thanks <3) Including that last shirtless pic to show them off a little better.

Eddie Diaz

I know that Eddie doesn't have Ryan's map&compass tattoo in the show but I love that tattoo on Ryan so I included it on Eddie. I chose this hair for him bc I wanted to like blend the length it's at now with his s6 style a little bit- very floofy yet tidy, but also not a schoolboy or slicked back to the gods.

Maddie Han

I think I spent hours trying to get JLH's face as perfect as I could in-game and honestly I don't hate the outcome? like it's definitely NOT perfect by any means, but I think Maddie is one of my favorite sims in terms of how she turned out.

Chimney Han

Chimney is where things started to go a little downhill for me... I don't know why, but after HOURS of working, I just cold not get him right so I eventually had to sit back, take a deep breath, and say 'this is as good as it's gonna get.' I'd like to issue my formal apology to Kenneth Choi for this <3 (pls don't judge too harshly I swear I tried)

Karen Wilson

Karen, like Chimney, was a sim I spent HOURS on trying to get right, but for some reason I just could not for the life of me perfectly replicate Tracie's face... and unfortunately when I first made these sims (a LONG time ago) there wasn't a hair that fit Karen perfectly until (imo) THIS one came with the Lovestruck Expansion pack... I did make the executive decision to give her light brown hair rather than the blonde/brown she actually has, because the blonde in-game looked weird on her. I know these aren't her classic dreads, but I feel like they evoke the general vibe of hers better than some of the options we have in-game.

Hen Wilson

so Hen turned out being one of my favorites. I really love the outfits I picked out for her (bc lets be honest Hen loves wearing some of the WILDEST fits on the show) but unfortunately, this game hates to give female sims just plain slacks that are higher-waisted, so I was stuck with a cc pair that don't quite match but what can I do

Bobby Nash

yet another sim who I feel like I missed the mark on- Peter Krause's face was just IMPOSSIBLE to replicate, so I did my best. I also made the executive decision to not go full-grey for Bobby bc then he looked ancient rather than just late-50s.

Athena Grant

All I have to say about Athena is ANGELA BASSETT DID THE THING (also the cop outfit does NOT do her justice in this- I promise I worked hard to make sure Athena was giving just as much mommy vibes as she does on the show in her other outfits) (she's also ripped as fuck in my game bc I said so)

May Grant

I have a love-hate relationship with this sim because I spent so much time trying to perfectly replicate Corrinne's face, but no matter what I did there was always something that was always just the tiniest bit off... she's definitely not the worst of these sims though

Ravi Panikkar

all I have to say about Ravi is that if they want to give him a boyfriend in s8 i am available, and willing to travel to shoot in Los Angeles-

Also, I DID make a Josh sim, but I accidentally deleted him bc my mouse battery was dying and it was glitching out and i misclicked the "yes delete" button rather than the "don't delete" on the "are you sure?" tab and I didn't feel like going back and finding him again in the depths of my library so I will have to remake him :/

Oh and I made Chris too but every child sim looks exactly the same so he doesn't look anything like Gavin, but that was out of my hands I fear 💀

But anyway, these are my 9-1-1 sims... I made these forever ago and went through last night and updated their hair/outfits, but I haven't touched their physical attributes since I first made them. I'm excited to start playing with them again 😭😭