#boy who is his own greatest fear

[valleyfthdolls]

(Old -> new)

Redrew & redesigned Virgil bc I miss him sm. My funny guy I will find more to do with you <3

[phsychobanana]

In your eyes

Pairing: Zuko x Firebender!reader

Summary: When Zuko falls for a member of the gaang, he fears that his mistakes may ruin his chances with them.

Word count: 2.3k

A/n~ I think this is gender neutral? I don't remember putting any specific pronouns, but correct me if i'm wrong. Enjoy!

Funnily enough, the first time you met Zuko was at the northern water tribe. Two fire benders surrounded by waterbenders during a full moon. Not exactly an ideal situation for any firebender, but you were welcome, whereas Zuko was not.

You were running as fast as you could, your legs carrying you in a speed you didn't know was even possible. Katara was in trouble and the moon was slowly disappearing from the sky, fire nation soldiers were everywhere, the water benders were struggling with the loss of the moon and you were terrified.

"Katara!" You yell to her as you get closer to the girl. She was fighting a boy you had never seen before.

You jump on the boy's back and hold your hand to his throat, heating your palm up slowly.

"I would choose my next move carefully if I were you." You say as Katara puts her own hands to her neck and moves them around trying to mimic an explosion.

Suddenly, the boy moves his hands to your face and you feel a burning swipe across your eyebrow. You let go of him and move your hands to your face, a searing pain on your eyebrow almost making you drop to your knees. Katara rushes to your side in a panic,

You see the boy grab Aang and run off before you could do anything.

"Who was that?" You ask Katara angrily.

"Zuko."

***

Zuko followed you and the gaang around for weeks, those weeks turning into months. And the more he saw you, the more he wanted to see you again.

Unfortunately for him, the more you saw him, the more you wanted to smash his head through a window. But every couple has their problems.

You held a very strong grudge towards him, seeing as your eyebrow had scarred and you now had a line going through your eyebrow and over your eye. It made you angry every time you looked in the mirror.

Unbeknownst to you, Zuko felt absolutely terrible for what he had done. He didn't mean to scar you, he would never wish his fate on anyone. Not even his greatest enemy, which lamentably, happened to be you at the moment.

***

The next memorable time that you saw Zuko was in the crystal cave. You had both been thrown in there as a punishment and you were freaking out. Aang, Katara, and Sokka needed you.

You started hitting the walls, throwing as much fire power at it as possible, you even broke a crystal into one big sharp shard and slammed it against the door repeatedly, but it was no use.

"There's no point in doing that." Zuko says, looking at you with his blazing golden eyes. "We aren't getting out until they want us out."

You just scoff in response, unsure of why he was even talking to you in the first place.

He looks at you when he hears your scoff, "You don't have to be rude."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt your feelings by being mean?" You mock him in a baby voice, causing him to roll his eyes.

"What's your problem?" Zuko asks, looking you up and down with pinched eyebrows.

"What is my problem? You're my problem, Zuko. You've been hunting my friends and I for months, you've hurt us -or attempted to- more times than I can count, you gave me this," You point to your scar, making him flinch, "And you have the nerve to ask me what my problem is?" You let out another scoff and turn around, giving him your back.

Zuko looks down at his hands, not knowing what to say. He watches as you light each one of your fingers up like a candle to keep yourself distracted.

He walks over and sits next to you, doing the same with his fingers.

You look at him and roll your eyes.

He smiles softly to himself. You haven't moved away from him, yet.

***

If there had ever been even a sliver of you that had liked him in that cave, it was completely gone now. He had betrayed you that night in the cave and it hurt you.

It was the day of the eclipse and you were running through the underground tunnels, looking for Sokka. As you were running you bumped into something, falling hard to the ground.

"Ow!" A familiar voice huffed as the other person made contact with the ground.

"Zuko?"

He looks up, his hair falling into his eyes. You notice his eyes widen and light up, but just as he goes to say something you lunge at him.

With your hands around his neck, you yell at him through gritted teeth. "I trusted you!"

"I know, I'm sorry." He barely gets the words out, gasping and clawing at your hands.

You let go of him and slam him into the ground hard.

"I swear to the spirits, if you ever try to hurt my friends again I will kill you with my own two hands. No bending, no help, just me and you." You say and walk away to go find Sokka.

Zuko sits there for a moment replaying what you said in his head over again. A small smile spreads across his face and he jumps up, running after you.

***

"You have got to be kidding me!" You yell at your friends. They were letting Zuko, the guy that had tried to kill you and capture Aang on more occasions than you could count, into the group.

"Everyone deserves a second.....or 100th chance, Y/n." Aang says, placing a hand on your shoulder as Zuko takes a step towards you.

You clench your fist defensively, making him put his hands up in defense as he takes another step forward.

"I get why you wouldn't trust me, but I've changed." He says, taking one of your hands in his. You pull away with a hollow laugh and walk away.

"Fine, let this psycho join us. I don't care." You say as you disappear behind a wall.

Zuko looks down with a sigh. "Challenge accepted..." He says under his breath as he thinks of ways to win you over.

***

Two days after Zuko joined the gaang, you were attacked. A pack of firebenders found you, attacking the group. You all paired together, Sokka with Toph, Katara with Aang, and you with Zuko. You had begged Toph to pair with you but Sokka stole her, leaving you with the one person you did not want.

You were back to back, fighting off the soldiers when another fleet arrived. The gaang chose to run, not wanting to be captured. You stayed behind to fight off the rest of the soldiers so the others could get away.

"Y/n come on! Hurry!" Sokka yelled for you as you were running after Appa. A soldier dived at you and their hand grabbed at your ankle, making you tumble to the ground.

"Go!" You yell and Aang pulls Appa out of there. You kick your foot back at the soldier, successfully kicking them in the face. You run off into the forest, You can hear the soldiers running after you as you twist through the trees.

You feel something grab your arm and pull you toward them. Looking up, you see Zuko. He's not looking at you, instead looking at the soldiers running around looking for you. You notice that he pulled you into a clearing hidden by trees and bushes. He places his hand over you mouth as you go to say something.

His adams apple bobs as he swallows harshly, listening and watching for any signs that the soldiers might be headed towards the two of you. After no signs, he looks down at you, finally making eye contact.

His golden eyes shine as he looks at you and he smiles softly.

"Thank you." You say quietly, not wanting to be too loud.

He nods.

"Do you still hate me?" He asks with a barely there smirk.

You shake your head. "I don't think I ever really hated you." He smiles at you. "I just strongly disliked you. It was a very strong dislike. Very strong."

"Okay, I get it."

You laugh softly at his dismissiveness of the subject.

"Do you think I'm still a bad guy?" His voice is quiet. Barely a whisper, but you hear it.

You look at him, he's looking down at the grass, his fingers are playing with each other out of habit, his hair is fallen over his face and covering his eyes. You never quite realized how pretty he was.

"Of course not-" You begin to tell him your answer, but your words are interrupted by yelling.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the noises and see your friends running to you.

"There they are!" Katara calls to the others as she makes eye contact with you.

Zuko lets out a frustrated breath at the interruption, but he gets up and dusts off his clothes, offering you his hand.

***

The days after that moment in the woods would replay in your mind every night before you would sleep, every morning when you'd awake, every meal, every training session with Aang and Zuko, every group meeting, every day all day.

You had started watching Zuko more than you would care to admit. The way he tried to make up for all of his past mistakes always seemed to put a smile on your face. He helped Katara in the kitchen when he could, he always made time to talk about weapons with Sokka, he always played games with Toph and Aang, and he was especially trying to make it up to you. Though you didn't notice that part.

He always pulled your chairs out for you, he helped teach you how to control the lightning within you, he even got you flowers one time. Unfortunately the flowers backfired and Appa ended up eating them, sneezing petals for a week.

You were currently training Aang on the beach with Zuko. The sun was blazing down on your back and your cotton shirt was absorbing all of the heat, making you sweat more than you would normally.

You walk over to where Katara, Toph, Sokka, and Suki are sitting, sipping their little coconut drinks as they watch you and Zuko beat the arrows off of Aang.

You take both ends of your shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in your shorts and bathing suit top. When you walk back over to the boys you notice how red Zuko's face is.

"You alright over there, Z?" You ask, worried that he might be overworking himself in the heat.

His head snaps to look you in the eyes, his face going an even deeper red.

"Y-yeah, heh. Why wouldn't I be?" He looks around, avoiding looking at you with everything in him.

You decide to ignore his weird reaction to your words and go back to teaching Aang.

"This one is a partner move. So, I'll demonstrate with Zuko and then when you understand how to do it, you can try with him." You explain as you walk over to the spluttering and red as a beet, boy.

You move his hand to your waist and his other in yours, your own face heating up a bit at this position. You then kick his own foot out from underneath him and flip him over your shoulder. You light your hand ablaze and put it near Zuko's neck like one would a sword.

"I thought you said this was a partner move," Zuko groans out.

"Yeah, good guy and bad guy. Partners." You say with a smirk.

"You can do that, right Aang?"

Aang nods his head excitedly.

After another hour or two of flipping Zuko over your shoulders, you all sit down around a camp fire on the beach for dinner. You and Zuko offer to collect the plates and take them back up to the house.

"You did good in training today." He says as he takes the plates from your hands and places them on the counter.

You let out a small laugh.

"Well I would assume I did considering the amount of times I was able to flip you."

He rolls his eyes and you take this moment to admire him.

His hair falls in perfect strands across his forehead, his golden eyes reflect the light of the setting sun peeping through the window, his skin is soft as you place your hand on his.

He looks at you confused when he feels your touch.

"You did good, too." You say softly.

He smiles at this, looking down at your hand that was still on his.

"How do you see me?" He asks, breaking the peaceful silence.

"What do you mean?"

"What am I in your eyes?"

You think for a moment, pondering how your answer.

"You're a person who has made many mistakes." You begin, making his shoulders droop a little bit. "But you are also a person trying to make up for all of those mistakes. You're a kid, a kid who has been through a lot. Yet, you're still sweet and funny and kind and loyal. You try to hide how you feel, but I can still see every emotion you have in your actions. You're trying. And for that, I think you are amazing. That is who you are in my eyes."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, making you feel nervous about how he would react.

With a million thoughts racing through his mind, he decides not to say anything. You said that his actions meant more, so he spoke with an action.

He gently placed his hand on your cheek and leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away at any second. But you don't.

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, his hair tickling your cheek. You smile into his kiss making him smile as well. Your arms wrap around his neck and you pull him closer as he pulls away from the kiss. You rest you foreheads against each other, catching your breath.

"I think I like you." He says, making you laugh.

"Oh shut up." You say and lean in for another kiss.

[maybeiwasjustjade]

Genuinely, perhaps 99% of me, believes that the only reason Condal and Hess made HOTD Aegon a r*pist/have adult Aegon’s introduction the aftermath of the SA of a maid, was because they knew that if Aegon was just a drunk and a cheat—like almost all Westerosi men—he would be too tragic of a character not to root for, and they really couldn’t have that. No, Aegon has to be the monster to Rhaenyra’s saint, because if you took away the act that made him monstrous, he’s so easy to root for, and the TB/TG divide would be significantly larger.

Cheating and visiting brothels are quite common in Westeros, with the vast majority of male characters doing one or the other or both. Drinking is even more so. Aegon would still be palatable with either or both traits because it doesn’t make him worse than Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra had three bastards with Harwin because Laenor’s gay, so it makes her affair understandable and valid. Aegon was forced to marry his own sister as a young teen, and clearly despises the whole targ-incest tradition. Why is it a crime that he doesn’t find his little sister sexually or romantically attractive???

Aegon’s basically a Greek tragedy made flesh. The eldest son conceived to be a long-awaited heir, yet simultaneously cheated out of a birthright. Born wanted yet unwanted, the heir who is not an heir. Meant to be loved, yet raised without it, with a mother’s disdain and fear as his only companion. His father stopped wanting him sometime after his second birthday (probably around the time Jacaerys was born), and his mother never wanted him anyway. His mere existence is a threat to a crown he never wanted, yet nobody cared when they placed it on his head. He wants love but no one loves him, and contrary to popular belief, that lack of love didn’t just stem from adulthood. He was a little boy once too, who very much didn’t deserve that level of apathy.

Married to his sister despite his clear disdain for his family’s incestuous tradition. Forced to father children on her at the grand old age of sixteen (and she fourteen). The only thing he ever really loved was his dragon, and the children he had. And even those he loses to tragedy, and someone else’s doing.

It’s not at all a surprise that Aegon’s defining trait is his love for Sunfyre. A ridiculously strong bond, born from years of having only each other. Moreover, a dragon is the symbol of power, which Aegon has little of. He can’t protect himself from his own family’s abuse or machinations, and unless he claims the crown everyone he loves will die. Dragons also represent freedom, and the ability to just fly away. And if there’s one thing Aegon wants more than anything in the world, it’s to run away from his family and the accursed throne.

In that, he’s not so different than a young Rhaenyra (pre-personality change anyway). Young Rhaenyra hated having to conform to societal standards. Hated having no choice but to marry, and to whom. She too wanted to fly away to freedom. There’s too many parallels between the two, even down to their ages pre-timeskip. Rhaenyra was about 18, and Aegon now is only 20. Yet Rhaenyra at 16’s only problem was whether her infant brother would replace her as heir, while Aegon’s was being forced to play house with his sister and newborn twins.

Perhaps misogyny and society would always be Rhaenyra’s greatest opponent, and the same Aegon’s ally when it comes to their claims, but it was not the only issue. Precedent declared that Aegon would be heir ahead of her, yet it was Rhaenyra’s position and honor that Viserys defied law for, even when she committed high treason against the crown thrice. She got everything; Aegon had nothing. He’s the underdog of the story, not her. So had they not made him an on screen r*pist (unlike Daemon who was off-screen one and merely an on-screen pedo and wife-killer), it would’ve been very hard for the writers to push their “Rhaenyra good, TG bad” narrative. Those two would’ve had too many parallels and foils for it to work, and they really couldn’t have that, could they.

No, Aegon has to be the villain; Rhaenyra has to be the hero. It’s a black and white war, good vs evil. That’s the story HOTD is trying to sell, and not at all the complex tragedy of a family tearing itself and its dynasty into pieces over greed and idiocy.

[ikeuverse]

CRIMINAL LOVE — p.sunghoon

PAIRING: killer!sunghoon x rich!fem!reader GENRES: angst, smut, maybe fluff WC: 4.6k+

WARNINGS: weapons, drink, drugs, swearing. mention and execution of murder, blood, fights (physical and verbal). unprotected sex (the details of the sex parts i'll add as i post the chapters), but there are more than two, for sure. lmk if i forgot anything else.

SYNOPSIS: paid to kill people, sunghoon finds himself in the biggest dilemma of his life. getting paid the most money his profession has ever given him to kill a woman. but he can't do it because it goes beyond his principles, who has never laid a finger on a woman. what will he do when the twist is right in front of his eyes?

NOTES: i had this initial idea for jay, but i don't know why i thought i'd write it for sunghoon. i've modified a few things and i'm thinking of making it a story with a few chapters. i hope you like it!

TAGLIST: i don't know if i'll do it, but…

masterlist | prologue | part 1 | part 2 [...]

None of this was new to Park Sunghoon. The eyes stared at him in fear, shining with a pair of panicked features as they begged for their lives. His index finger against the trigger of the gun before he asked to speak his last words and then fired. Seeing the body slowly collapse in front of you, the eyes losing life and the blood dripping through the fabric of the clothes and onto the floor. This was a very familiar scenario, even more so as a hitman.

If anyone ever asked him why he lived this life, the answer would come quickly: easy money.

Sunghoon got used to being on the streets in search of a job to maintain his almost miserable life after the death of his parents. His grandfather, an alcoholic who barely stayed at home, was the only living relative he had. And the only person who could give him a roof over his head at fifteen.

Wandering the streets in search of something solid led Sunghoon to meet all sorts of people and ways of making ends meet. He worked with a bit of everything until he found the job he had settled into today. It was through Jake, one of the first people he befriended, that he learned what it was like to kill for money. His friend's father had a scheme and paid him well enough to eat, dress, and live in his grandfather's house, which he barely saw.

Jake and his father became a family to Sunghoon, even if it was in the worst of environments, but it was the only thing he could get close to that bordered on a good feeling. The boy couldn't call it love because he'd never heard it from any of his friends, although they could say that they respected and cared for each other, but love, for Sunghoon, was too strong.

Who would say about love when, in fact, he was hired to kill? Often people from his own family and for financial reasons. So how could he believe that love existed when his job showed otherwise? Of course, everyone had family problems… Look at him! Sunghoon wasn't the greatest example of this, but come on, he would never have his grandfather or anyone else killed in his own home. It was bizarre, but unfortunately, that's what he dealt with most of the time. And that's what filled his pocket and made him change his life.

Moving into his apartment after his grandfather died, having more contact with Jake and his father about the business, and even getting on a bit more when things started to expand. This was all thanks to Sunghoon's skill and eye for instigating Jake's father to think bigger. It was risky for him to try to suggest that they think big, such as killing some CEO in debt or someone high up.

You've got to be crazy, he heard Jake mutter once, at an informal meeting they had after a successful case. Sunghoon could be crazy, but when it came down to it and money, the highest cases paid well. And that's what he asked Jake's father about until they had their first diplomat client. The amount to be paid was so high that they had never thought of having it in their bank accounts.

"We need to kill about four people to get that" Jake muttered after looking at the amount. A sigh left his father's lips before he agreed.

And so began the great social affair between Jake and Sunghoon – along with Jake's father – for bigger cases with fat sums in their money accounts.

It was dangerous, but Sunghoon lived for it. He didn't have anyone else, he didn't have anything to think about except his well-being and how he could have what he wanted more peacefully after living in poverty for years. He didn't want to go through the insecurity of not having anything to eat, or having to wander the streets looking for something to do or somewhere to stay so that he wouldn't have to be alone in a house where he didn't know who would come back. But now, in his apartment, he shared the peace of knowing that everything was his. Every little thing in there had been earned by him, even if the money wasn't in the cleanest way, but someone had to do that kind of work.

And it wasn't as if Sunghoon would kill just anyone either, he had strict criteria about this that he made very clear to Jake and his father before things got as strong as they are today. Like killing people who had only done some kind of harm to those who had asked for it. Like women who had been beaten by their husbands, or someone in particular who had physically or mentally hurt whoever was hiring the service. Or that person posed a risk to the society in question and they knew that no authority would do anything about it. So they did. And the most important thing of all was that under no circumstances would Sunghoon lay a hand on a woman.

But the universe seemed to play tricks on him that morning, arriving at the office and seeing Jake's eyes light up. It would be pointless to ask why, considering that he was one of the first to receive clients and their proposals, so someone had probably come to Jake to talk to him and give him a huge sum of money.

"Dude, I think we're rich" he threw himself into the leather chair that initially belonged to his father. But as long as the older man didn't arrive at the office, Jake took possession of it until that happened.

"What do you mean?" Sunghoon held back a laugh as he walked a little further into the office, throwing his body into the small armchair opposite the desk Jake was sitting at "A client with good money?"

"Better than that" he sighed, throwing his head back "This client wants to hire our services for two people, but the price is—"

"Jake, spit it out" Sunghoon said quickly.

"Bro, she'll pay two million" he looked directly at Sunghoon. That amount would cheer the boy up if he hadn't heard it before, or even been paid for it "For each of us, and for each of the two people we're going to kill."

Wait, that was new to Sunghoon. Two million for each of them, totaling two people to kill, so… Four million for him, and four million for Jake?

"Man, that's…"

"Insane, I know" Jake interrupted him as if he already knew what his friend was going to say. But something seemed a little off because he didn't have that much energy to say that amount. Normally Jake would have been bouncing around the room literally like a child, totally losing his hitman pose as he commented on the four million that would be playing around in his bank account for the next few weeks.

"What's wrong?" Sunghoon asked at once, noticing the change in his friend's mood as the seconds passed. Jake now looked a little uncomfortable in his father's chair and shifted his body a few times to try to find a comfortable position, opting to lean his elbows on the table and tilt his body a little.

"You know it's four million each, right?" he asked, watching Sunghoon agree "And that the percentage we give my father on each client is very small because, well, he already has a lot of money…"

"Speak up, man. You're stalling on something." Sunghoon wasn't out of patience, but he knew that Jake tended to talk too much when he was nervous. What could have happened to make him like this?

Jake nodded in agreement and continued to lean on the table, leaning towards Sunghoon, who settled into the armchair and imitated his friend's position on the other side. Leaning his elbows on the table and looking at the boy in front of him, who was now looking at his hands.

"A woman wants us to kill her brother and…" Jake slowly closed his eyes "Her niece."

Sunghoon felt a ringing in his ear and then his whole body tensed up. He couldn't explain why he had that reaction, but just mentioning that there was a woman for him to kill made everything seem completely out of place to him.

"You're kidding me, right?" Sunghoon asked.

"I really wanted to, man, I swear" he whined, watching Sunghoon's withdrawal appear little by little as he slid his arms off the table and leaned back in the armchair.

"And what did those two do to make her want to kill two people at once?"

"I don't know" Jake shrugged. "She hasn't told me yet, she's arranged a meeting and my father wants to go along. It's too high…"

"You two do it" he stood up, walking to the middle of the room before he heard Jake calling after him. Without turning around, Sunghoon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He waited a few seconds before finally turning to his friend.

"I can't do this without you, bro. You know we've been working together forever" Jake began.

"But what are my conditions?" Sunghoon asked, and for a moment he saw a glimmer of regret in Jake's eyes. For mentioning or even thinking that his friend might do this kind of thing. Maybe the money had messed with his head a bit and he wouldn't deny it, but Jake knew Sunghoon well enough, he just wanted to try until he couldn't anymore. Even though he knew it would come to nothing because Sunghoon would never accept.

Silence was Jake's way of responding, not knowing exactly what to say because he knew Sunghoon's terms well. Everyone was aware and in agreement, so why change their minds at that moment?

"I just need your help, then" he said after some quiet time.

"I'm not putting my hands on either of you, be warned," Sunghoon said, a little angry about the whole situation until he saw Jake nod silently, implying that he had nothing more to say.

Then, as if on cue, he left the room and walked around the building in search of something to clear his mind of what had just happened. It was an unimaginable amount for him, but Sunghoon wouldn't go against his principles for it.

For the first time, he had refused something that Jake had asked of him. And he felt immensely awkward about it.

You could feel the migraine invading you little by little. The side of your head ached like never before, while your eyes stung and you tried your best to pay attention to people and their words of condolence.

It had been a week since your grandfather's death, and the only sincere tears you had seen – apart from your own – were those of your uncle. He was the closest thing to real family you had after your father's death a year ago. Having him around was comforting, especially as your family was driven by money and scandal. Everything revolved around social and financial status. Your grandfather's company was the focal point of all that arrogance in the family members.

But now, with his death and the will read, you had to assimilate that the only beneficiaries were you and your uncle, the one who was still crying over his father's death and trying to understand how it had all happened. And then there was him, a well-groomed gentleman who eschewed the stereotype of the rich old man and business owner who walked around with a glass of whisky in his hand. On the death certificate, his grandfather had died of cirrhosis, but you were surprised. Even though he wasn't a health professional, you could assume that this would be different, to say the least, since the old man had never drunk a drop of alcohol.

“This is terrible for your health” he once said. “Try never to drink more than necessary. And at parties, I promise to serve you the best natural juice.”

Those words always lingered in your mind because your grandfather was serious, in his own right, but he was very loving. You became so attached to him that you took an interest in the affairs of your grandfather’s company with a genuine gesture of helping him, which he appreciated.

Maybe that was what had made him put your name on that paper, inheriting half of the family fortune. While your uncle got the other half.

Millions and millions, or should say billions? It was so much money that you swore you would die and the amount would continue to yield in your account even though you used it almost every day. That was why you knew that some people who had always been there for your grandfather’s money were now furious because they couldn’t enjoy a single cent of it.

“We are so sorry for the loss of your father, Yvone” someone’s voice took you out of your thoughts, making your eyes dart around the people around you. A well-dressed woman with a tired expression was greeting your aunt. She didn’t have a trace of sadness on her face. That stranger seemed sadder than your aunt over the loss of her father.

“I’m sure you are too” she tried to fake a sad voice that you recognized from afar. Your stomach almost churned as she hugged the other woman.

Suddenly, your embarrassment became even greater, because your aunt's gaze was immediately on you. She seemed angry, with something bad inside her that immediately wanted to be directed at you. Your gaze soon turned away from her to try to find your uncle who was desolate.

Your steps through the environment were fast and precise, the sound of leather shoes against the devastated floor was inhibited by the sound of other people's voices and laments. You weren't running, but the things inside your body said very well that you seemed to be in a hurry.

Your eyes quickly spotted your uncle a little further away, sitting on a bench alone outside. You walked a little calmer towards him until you sat next to the man. He didn't need to look up to know that the only person with compassion in that family was you.

"I wish this nightmare would end" he said quietly, a sob breaking out of his voice when your uncle raised his head and continued to look ahead.

"I still can't believe it" you sighed. Your eyes are locked on the events in front of you. Some people were coming and going from your grandfather's mansion with small flowers in their hands or pieces of paper, like written notes of thanks. Of course, he wouldn't read them, he was dead. But it was a way of thanking everyone he knew, and the reading would be up to you and your uncle. The only ones who cared about the sentimental side of things.

"Do you think Yvone hates us now?" your uncle asked, finally looking at you. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets and bloodshot from his eyeballs, they were so red. You swallowed a sigh and just nodded.

"For the reading of Grandpa's will? Of course" you laughed humorlessly, listening to him accompany you.

As if summoning a haunting, just saying her name out loud made your aunt's figure appear in the doorway of the mansion. She welcomed people by trying to look sad or convincing whoever was arriving. Her eyes quickly fell on you and your uncle, further away from the house and sitting on a secluded bench. She didn't show any reaction but took her cell phone out of her pocket to do something you didn't even care about. Her attention was on the man next to her.

“I can’t be happy knowing that my father left all this for me and you” he ran his hands through his hair, almost pulling it out if it weren’t for your hands stopping him. You held one of his hands and kept it in your lap.

“It’s okay uncle, I’m not happy about this either” you said. “Money won’t erase anything that’s happening to the two of us, you know that.”

Of course, he knew. You and your uncle could sometimes say that you were born into the wrong family because you were the only ones who didn’t count on money. Even though you knew that your whole life revolved around it. Even though every interaction you had since the day you were born was driven by money. It wasn’t your fault for being born into a family like that, but you could deal with it and think about how you spent what you had.

“How about you come in and get a drink? I bet you’re thirsty” your uncle said quietly, making you look at him after some time of contemplation while still watching people entering and leaving the mansion.

“I think I’ll go in a little while, I want to stay here a little longer” you smiled sadly at the man as he stood up and just waved in your direction. Just as you knew when he wanted some time alone, your uncle was also able to understand when you needed it.

Leaving him and going back into the mansion, you saw him disappear among the little people who had now gone inside the house. You remained there, looking around that immense land that your grandfather owned. One of them, to be more exact. You remember playing with your uncle and your father to guess which was the largest land your grandfather had in his name. Of course, the two older men always let you win, even though it was a rather unfunny game. But it was one of the few moments when the three of you were together, aware of the money you had and trying to make good use of it.

Your body slowly shrank with a small gust of wind, indicating that the weather was changing from sunny to something colder and almost rainy. You looked up at the sky, noticing the clouds beginning to darken. Rain was the last thing you wanted, but maybe you needed it. To wash away all that heaviness you've felt since your grandfather died. Rain could help wash away the dirt that remained beneath your feet and wash away all the bad feelings and burdens you would face in the days to come.

The decision to go back inside wasn't so difficult as your body shrank a little more, curses spilling from your lips as you missed a coat or a blanket that could cover your arms. Just a tank top and silk pants weren't a suitable outfit for the moment, but it was the first thing you could think of to wear when your aunt summoned the whole family to pay homage to your grandfather at his mansion.

You got up from the bench and stretched your whole body, trying to shake off some of the day's exhaustion and thinking about how you wanted to go back to your apartment and take a shower. Get all those sticky, fake hugs off your body. Those words buzzing around in your head lamenting what had happened. No one there really cared, so you at least paid attention to the fake tears in front of you.

You walked in slow steps to the front door, trying to avoid walking in with anyone who might greet you. You didn't want to talk to anyone anymore, just to be there long enough to leave. But your steps were quickly stopped.

Feeling a hand around your waist, you looked up to find your aunt standing in the doorway just as something covered your mouth. It all happened too quickly. Your vision began to blur as you struggled against a body that seemed much bigger than yours. Your hands were useless at grabbing any kind of skin to scratch because the arms holding you were covered.

You don't remember much, but the only thing that didn't leave your mind before passing out was the cynical smile of the woman right in front of you.

“What did she ask for?” Sunghoon was exasperated, pacing back and forth as he looked at your unconscious body on the other side of the room.

“To torture her and get a video of her saying she wants to pass everything on to her aunt…” Jake began.

“First of all, I never agreed to this” he interrupted his friend, controlling himself as much as possible so as not to scream and wake you up. They had just taken off the masks and all the equipment when they laid you down on the small mattress with almost no foam.

“My dad just asked you to help me bring her in, I know.” Jake sighed. “I don’t want to do this either, but—”

“Dude, listen” Sunghoon looked at him. “We can deny this and say fuck you to those four million. Seriously, there’s no way we can continue.”

The desperation in his voice was completely real, Jake could feel it. He was also desperate about all of this, although it wasn’t something new for either of them. But the cruelty in how his aunt was making requests of them without even knowing them or having finished the job. How demanding she was and how she wanted everything to be done as quickly as possible. Sunghoon never had bad feelings about his work, he just went there and killed whoever was necessary. But as soon as he looked at his aunt through the gap in the mask and noticed her smile, the way she behaved in front of the people who were entering the house, without even noticing that he and Jake were carrying her to a black car with no license plate.

He didn't know what he was doing, he didn't know why he had accepted all of that. Sunghoon was breaking one of his biggest rules and all because of money? Four million wouldn't pay for his principles even if his job was one of the worst possible. He already had too much blood on his hands, but that didn't matter when you had a woman unconscious and almost ready to be killed by Jake.

Arguing with Mr. Sim was out of the question, he had already tried since he received the offer and saw the man's eyes light up at the amount. Even though he knew that Sunghoon's biggest criteria were at stake.

"If you're not going to kill her, at least help Jake bring her here" was the only thing he said after finishing the little discussion he had started. He couldn't win this one, he couldn't deny something that he had at least managed to keep going.

Now here he was, pacing back and forth and going over what your aunt wanted Jake to do to you.

For one lousy moment, Sunghoon felt a twinge of regret and compassion for you. Your calm countenance while you were unconscious and the way you seemed harmless, something clicked in his mind telling him that you weren't as bad as the woman said you were. Maybe she'd done the worst kind of propaganda just to make you look bad enough for them to kill you.

"Sunghoon, hey" Jake called out quickly, taking off his black glove and throwing it on the table "What are we going to do?"

"I already told you," Sunghoon sighed once again, stopping walking and feeling his throat irritated because he had already shouted at Jake the whole way "Let's give up that four million, it's not worth it."

"Is that all I'm worth?"

Sunghoon looked in Jake's direction and they both froze. Eyes wide, breathing almost labored as they searched for something to cover their faces. But it was too late. As soon as Sunghoon crossed the room and focused on you, there you were. You were sitting with your back against the wall, your hands tied by the ribbons perched perfectly on your lap. Your hair was completely messed up, but he could still see every detail of your face. How, even so, you looked very beautiful.

"Shit" Jake cursed softly, turning away while Sunghoon stood there staring at him. He felt his friend pull him a few times so that you wouldn't stare so hard at his face that you wouldn't recognize him if something went wrong. But Sunghoon simply couldn't move.

"It's okay, I've seen you. I've been awake for a few minutes" your voice was hoarse, perhaps from lack of use, and because you tried to scream before Sunghoon put the cloth over your mouth to force you to faint.

Jake hesitated to turn around but did so when he saw that his friend wasn't moving at all.

"If you say anything—" Sunghoon made Jake look like he was speaking rudely when he landed a weak punch on his arm. He didn't know why he was defending you like that, not least because that was Jake's role, to be rude at first and gradually hurt whoever was in front of them.

Knowing this, Sunghoon already sensed that he would start being rude until Jake's hands were on you to hurt you. And he didn't want that.

"What did you hear?" Sunghoon addressed you for the first time. His eyes still glazed over at your completely weak and staggering figure in front of him.

He noticed that your eyes were bright, maybe watery, and if you blinked a little more, tears would fall like waterfalls. He was already weak just knowing that he had done this to you, seeing you cry would do what to him? Sunghoon didn't want to know. That case was getting too emotional.

"Just the four million part" you moaned a little in pain as you moved and felt your back crack. That mattress was terrible and you assumed you'd been on it for a long time, but it wasn't important. Your mind was elsewhere and on how you were here, so before you could even think of anything, you asked "It was her, wasn't it?"

"Her who?" Sunghoon and Jake asked at the same time.

For a long minute, you were quiet, just thinking about the little interactions you had with the woman who was supposed to have done this to you. Your heart ached, that wasn't possible. You never thought she could do that.

"My aunt told you two to kill me," you tried to keep your voice steady, "did I?"

It was the turn of the two boys to be silent right in front of you. Jake moistened his lips and tried to find the words to answer you, pondering whether or not to be rude to you. Not least because he didn't want to be punched again by Sunghoon. He swallowed dryly and looked away a few times, wondering whether or not to tell the truth.

"I triple it."

"What?" Jake raised his voice, echoing throughout the room as he looked in your direction and then at Sunghoon.

"I say I'll triple that amount" you moved again, trying to find a more comfortable position on that shitty mattress that was making all your muscles ache "If you don't kill me."

Jake laughed. Nervously, perhaps, but he tried to look a little more cool as he walked towards you and bent down right in front of you. Knees bent enough to bring him close to your face. If you were in the best condition, you could lift your leg and kick him in the knee, only to stagger and fall backward. But you just wanted answers.

"Do you think we're open to negotiations, princess?" he shifted his gaze between your eyes and your mouth but remained in your gaze, which was still sparkling. Jake didn't want to seem arrogant, but that's how he'd been taught.

That's how he learned to deal with that kind of situation, listening to everything and every possible appeal before doing his job. But he never received a counter-proposal, especially one as high as that.

"I don't think you'll even get paid that four million, actually" you looked at him, your voice becoming more and more shaky, "but since the whole inheritance is with me, I'll triple it if you don't kill me."

For a second Jake looked back to Sunghoon for support at that moment. He knew that his friend would probably accept because it would give him the chance to never lay a finger on you.

"Instead, I want you to kill my aunt."

That turn of events was making Jake and Sunghoon's heads spin. Hearts pounding as you let a single tear fall down your cheek. You tried to look convincing and strong talking to two guys who were about to kill you.

But being able to protect yourself was one of the few things you learned because it wasn't the first time someone had approached you out of interest. So why not use the money you had to your advantage? You never thought you'd be able to do that kind of thing, but you'd try anything to make sure no one killed you.

And if the case was to have those who wanted you dead killed, then you'd start with that.

© ikeuverse, 2024. do not copy, translate or steal my stories.

[keytomind]

The right woman isn’t going to pick an argument with you for game or sport. She has had her fill of that bullshit and she is tired of it. If she picks an argument with you, it’s because she wants to teach you something important. She wants you to grow as a person or she wants the two of you to grow as a power couple. The right woman isn’t here for a fight. She is here to love you.

The right woman doesn’t need a boy; she needs a man. She needs a man who is capable of elevating himself, a man who does not mind being corrected if it is going to make him a better person. She needs a man who points the finger at himself before he dares point it outward at anyone or anything else. She needs a man of confidence who will inspire her to do better for herself and her family. The right woman no longer has any patience for boys, except for her sons (and even that wears thin).

The right woman wants to suffocate and drown herself in your masculinity. It makes her feel warm, loved, safe, and protected. By providing her with your masculine energy, you are creating an environment that allows her to radiate her own feminine energy, which is something that every man truly needs. He needs her loving warmth in order to balance himself out and to become the best version of himself. His voice, his mind, and his body will all be able to relax from the wars that he fights every day. The right woman is not threatened by toxic masculinity as she understands that the only thing toxic about masculinity is the absence of it in a man.

The right woman does not hide behind her man. Although she often wants him to lead and to assert his masculine energy appropriately, she will fight alongside him like a warrior Queen. And even though he would rather she stayed out of harm’s way, she would even stand in front of him and take a bullet to protect him. She goes to battle next to him whenever necessary and she safeguards his darkest secrets under lock and key. The right woman does not run away; she plants her feet like roots and she weathers the storm right next to him.

The right woman does not make excuses. She knows that she is not perfect and that there is still much that she can learn. She possesses the raw emotional intelligence to know that she isn’t always correct. She loves for him to teach her new things without belittling her or making her feel unintelligent. She takes accountability when she is wrong and she does her best to take action whenever possible. She is a true Goddess to the world who craves to be soft and little in the arms of the deserving man. The right woman is a force to be reckoned with.

The right woman learns his love language without asking, although there is no shame in asking in order to learn better. She studies his every move - what does he like, what does he want, what does he need - what turns him on, what makes him happy, what does he hold close to his heart.. what does he fear… she wants to know every single detail so that she can love him correctly. And the right woman should only expect the same reciprocity for herself.

The right woman understands that we are a team and that he is not a punching bag. Men are conditioned to be protective and to be strong, but men also fall weak because the human body can only take so much abuse, and some of our greatest battles are fought in our minds. This is not a sign of a lack of strength but rather it is an indication that he must rest as he is exhausted from fighting certain battles alone. While he would rather she did not engage in certain battles, he needs help dressing his wounds, protecting his body, and relaxing his mind so that he can safely remove his armor. The right woman will spring to action without having to be asked as nurturing him to health is her greatest reward.

The right woman doesn’t need to fight other women if they show you favorable attention. She knows to handle such battles with grace and she does not need to clench her fists. She instead will walk right into view, grab you by your tie, kiss you like it might be your last night on earth, and cling to you like a lifeboat while making eye contact with her newfound enemy, letting her know who won the battle without firing a single shot. Again, the right woman is a masterful Goddess who claims her territory appropriately.

The right woman comes in many different forms. She varies in shape, size, color, beauty, attitude, and much more. She will have her heart broken, probably more than once, by a man who did not value her for looking differently on the exterior. This will wound her temporarily, but in time, the right woman rises from her ashes and she learns her worth. If another man doesn’t value her for any such reasons, then she dodged a bullet because, ladies, I fucking promise you that there is a man out there, perhaps many men, who adore you exactly the way you are. If you aren’t his cup of tea, so be it, and if he doesn’t want you for you, the right woman knows when to say “fuck em”.

The right woman deserves absolutely nothing less than the right man, for without the right woman, that man is nobody and nothing. She makes him whole. She gives him great purpose. She gives him life and energy that had evaded him for years before they met each other. He would die for her as she would die for him, and it will be hell when the day comes that they are forced to live without each other. She may bless him with a family one day, but if not, they will make their home warm and full of the love that they both need to enjoy their time spent here in this life.

The right woman is absolutely fucking priceless. Fight for her and, when you do, the right woman will fight for you.

[amber-laughs]

He loves him. He raised him. That’s his son.

"Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now."

He hates him. A constant reminder of the worst days his of his life. The weight of House Stark on his shoulders with no warning.

“He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.”

He doesn’t miss him.

“The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his face. He wanted to hear Bran's laughter once more, to go hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play.”

He begs, in his dying hour, for one last moment with him.

“The thought of Jon filled Ned with a sense of shame, and a sorrow too deep for words. If only he could see the boy again, sit and talk with him…”

He’s his greatest shame.

“I've never lain with any woman but Cersei. In my own way, I have been truer than your Ned ever was. Poor old dead Ned. So who has shit for honor now, I ask you? What was the name of that bastard he fathered?"

He’s his highest honor.

“The Starks were not like other men. Ned brought his bastard home with him, and called him "son" for all the north to see.”

He’s his darkest lie.

“Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face. That was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her. “Never ask me about Jon,” he said, cold as ice.”

He’s his kept promise.

“Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes.”

[rumisgf]

❝ SPECIAL ❞ ╰┈➤ DENKI KAMINARI X BLACK!READER

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ summary: you and denki have been friends since you were young, and he always held you close. but he’s denki– he likes giving attention to other girls. so, you never thought he look at you than more than a friend. until one day, you can’t hold in your feelings anymore. (this is also like my first time writing a full length fic in a minute wow)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ includes: black!reader ofc, flashback/timeskips, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, they’re in their third year at UA, cursing, jirou is reader’s best friend in high school, reader has a tendency to self sabotage, self deprecation, jealousy, insecurities, reader listening to songs from ctrl, preteen/teen angst, fluff, impulsive confession, wingman!jirou, reader calls kaminari ‘kam’ for short

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ word count: 4.6k

“kam! kam!”

you boisterously shout your friends name from across the backyard. the little boy jumps off the monkey bars, running over to you with a tooth gapped smile.

you became friends with the boy pretty much the first day of school. he had fallen off the swings after trying to impress his friends, and you had heard somebody yelp in pain. unlike of all his clueless friends who didn’t know what to do, you had ran away from your own friends you were playing with to help the boy out. after all, your parents always taught you to save people– so that’s what you did. you ended up conveniently tripping all falling next to him, face to face with his glossy eyed face and quivering lips. one of his friends nervously said what happened and you look at his knee.

frantically, you called over a teacher. “help! he hurt!” you called out. your homeroom teacher helped him up, and you following the two of them to the classroom inside.

“t-thank you…” he muttered, embarrassed a girl had to see him like this. he gets sat on a chair and you sit next him, the both of you silent for awhile as you wait for the teacher to find a bandaid. you examine his injuries, looking at the scrape on his knee and the smaller one on his hand. hesitantly, you grab his hand. “…does it hurt?” you shyly ask. he hesitates himself, then slowly shrugs “a little…”

his body freezes when you bring your lips to his hand and give it a quick, small kiss. his eyes widen as his head shoots up at you, and your eyes widen in response. “d-did that help?” he forces a laugh, trying to seem as smooth as his dad seems to be with his mom. “y-yeah! thank you!” he smiles, and your face feels as hot as ever.

the same smile is on his face as he runs over to you, beckoning to your call of his name.

“here!” you shove your 3ds into his hand, showing him a black screen. he curiously presses the power button and is met with the charger symbol blinking with a small red line at the start of the battery-shaped figure. “my 3ds dead again…” you say with a frown.

instantly, he beams up. “no fear, charge boy is here!” he holds his hand out, and you stare for a second. a weird feeling begins to brew up in your tummy and your face feels warm, but you grab it. excitedly, he runs into his house. you reach his living room and he searches through the couch, his small figure climbing onto the cushions. “aha!” he shouts, holding up a charger. you maneuver to sit next to him on the couch, him helping you up. the boy grabs your gaming device and sticks the plug in his mouth like a lollipop. you kick your feet in excitement, waiting for him to put on his greatest magic trick. he places the other end of the charger into the 3ds, and you both wait. then,

‘3%’

“WOAHHHH!” the both scream in unison. you clap your hands together and giggle, the boy blushing in response. a smile is plastered across his face as you praise him. “thas so cool!” you coo. he rubs the back of his neck “oh, it’s nothin!” he replies, handing you back the device. you open the game you were just playing: nintendo cats and dogs. “wait lemme see your dog!” he exclaims.

eagerly, he grabs the controller so you both have it in your hands. you giggle once again, going over to the digital dog you own. “sit!” you shout into the screen. the dog tilts their head, and you groan. “…sit!” kaminari chimes in, shouting at a louder volume. again, the dog whines and tilts its head. you both look at each other in annoyance, then shove the 3ds closer to your faces.

“SIT!” you both shout.

the in-game dog sits, and you squeal in satisfaction, looking back at your friend. he giggles, looking back at you. “our dog now!”

this was a pattern in your friendship. you shared basically everything: games, toys, snacks, damn near houses— you were over his all the time. not that he cared, though. in fact, he encouraged it. your parents loved him so they would let it slide, they even became friends with his parents. you both became inseparable within weeks of first meeting each other in school, so regardless there was no way of separating the two of you.

even if they tried, neither of you would let them.

“y/n!”

eighth grade wasn’t your favorite for many reasons. one of those reasons happened to involved your best friend since tooth fairies: denki kaminari. it’s no doubt he was popular, at least to some degree. he hung out with a lot of popular kids, and even worse, he was one of those boys where every girl had a crush on him at some point…. you included. except your crush festered before middle school— and it still hasn’t gone away. you hated that it never went away. not because you hated him, it was because you felt the exact opposite of that.

it was different from when you were kids. before, it could be written off as simple puppy love. there was no doubt, anxiety, or fear that came with being all giddy around him. but now, you were both older, and you both became two different types of people. it’s not like people didn’t like you, of course. you had your few share of friends and ultimately preferred to stay to yourself, while he otherwise wanted to entertain the whole world. and you never knew how he did it. he made everyone laugh, and brought smiles out of the gloomiest of people. despite all this, he still called you his best friend. he would convince your parents to let you go to arcades or movie theater hangouts with him, and you still would have the same sleepovers you did when you were little. but, he was popular– popular with girls. girls would ask you about him all the time, and you wanted to rip the hair straight out of your scalp. the worst part was always that you had no excuse to feel this way because he’s supposed to be your best friend. you’re supposed to be happy for him, right? does that make you a bad friend? what is this feeling?

you turn your head from your desk, and see the brace faced, bright haired charmer himself walk up to your desk. you fake a smile, wanting to seem cheery despite your anxious thoughts. “hey, kam.”

he smiles at the nickname, leaning against your desk.

“i have a secret.” he says cheekily. you raise your eyebrow, becoming slightly intrigued. “tell me!”

you always find yourself perking up at his voice. it scares you. naturally, people are afraid of the unexplainable. but weirdly, what scares you more is facing a definite reason of why you feel this way. you see it in movies and shows that denki himself has begged you to watch. they were entertaining, yes, but you related in a way you hated. it always made you question your real life. and you hated that more, having to find an explanation for feelings you can’t even describe with real life words. even with all this, you could never hate listening to him talk. your heart jumps at the way he smiles, showing off his teal rubber bands that decorate the brackets of his braces, and his soft lips, that he definitely overdoes the chapstick with, never disappearing even though he always smiles so big. and not to mention, you just love hearing him say your name and tell you all the things he’s excited about, like–

“i just gave hayami a valentine, isn’t that cool?”

your heart sinks, and your mood is instantly ruined.

“i got a bunch of valentines but she was all giddy when i told her i got her one. she’s the only person i gave one too besides you, i think she likes me or something.”

you glance at the faux flower and bag of chocolates he gave you that you sat next your bookbag on your desk and look back at him.

“you should go for it, she’s pretty cute.” you reply. the way you perfectly execute that same line every time he tells you something like this, you’ve convinced yourself you should be an actor.

this exchange snaps you back into the reality you refuse to face: he doesn’t see you like that. you’re his best friend, of course he tells you about girls and waits for your advice each time because– in his words: ‘you’re like, the most truth worthy sources ever!’ so this is basically your friendly duty. you always help him out, even if the payment is another tear stained page in your diary that you would run to the nearest bridge to jump off of if he even knew of it. your head races as he continues to barge with his newest love situation.

“i might, i don’t know! you know popular chicks are kinda boring sometimes man.” he chuckles, slightly rolling his eyes as he slings his bookbag off his shoulder and on his desk that’s next to yours.

you agree, the both of you laughing. your fake laugh harmonizes with his geniune one as class is about to start, the teacher finally walking in. he eventually occupies himself with his many other friends, and you slouch in your chair. again, the valentine on your desk in your peripheral distracts you from listening to anything the teacher is saying. it almost loses it’s meaning— it doesn’t feel special. to him, it’s just another valentine his mom probably gave him the money to buy. you don’t feel special. and you feel stupid for letting yourself think you ever could be. every girl in school was miles prettier than you, you never stood a chance. you stick your earbuds in your ear, ignoring the bitter taste of jealousy stuck in the back of your throat. you hated this. you hated this feelings, you hated all these people, you hated school, you hated valentine’s day, and you hated love. it’s so easy for everybody else but you.

‘now playing- normal girl by SZA’

you wished you were a popular girl.

“literally just tell him!”

you roll your eyes at your best friend, setting your food back down on your lunch tray to look her dead in the eyes.

“kyouka, i’m telling you i would rather shit in my hands and clap.”

she scoffs, shaking her head and looking back at you.

“first off- gross. second off, i can tell you guys are made for each other because you’re both stupid as fuck and delusional. it’s so obvious he likes you back, do you not see how he acts around you? you both flirt so much people literally come up to you guys and ask if you guys are a couple.”

jirou’s right. with the close friendship you and denki have, some people already assume you guys have something going on. but, there’s no way in hell you would risk ruining your friendships over feelings that you’ve forced yourself to shove down your throat long enough. not now, not in your third and last year of high school. you refuse to ruin anything you have going on and you’ve already made it this far. you’d rather not know how he feels than to know that you’re right, and he’d never even think of being more than friends.

“okay, but he flirts with everybody, i mean nothing to h-”

she immediately cuts you off. “y/n l/n you’ve literally sat in his lap before in the common room during move night!”

you sigh, looking down at your lunch tray. there’s no way of getting out of this with her. and deep down, you know her argument makes sense.

“if i tell him, will you shut the fuck up?”

she sarcastically nods, going back to enjoying her own food. as the day goes on, her words linger in your head. obvious? if it was really that obvious, you wouldn’t feel like this. you would’ve just told him that you liked him years ago and you would be this romantic love-story couple who’s been together since they still had baby teeth. you’d give each other paper rings and candy hearts. instead, you play video games together and you cry in his arms about dudes playing with your feelings, even though you wish you could just have him.

later at your own dorm, you find yourself laying in your bed restless. your music playlist has been on shuffle in your earphones for hours now. you look down,

‘now playing- supermodel by SZA’

you sigh, turning over to lay on your side. you’ve been finding every excuse to still not tell denki anything, but this feeling in your chest is eating you alive. every laugh and brush of arm made it so much worse. even with people like jirou or uraraka-people who you’re friends with, you always find yourself analyzing every girl denki flirts with. you’re nothing like them. you can’t help but still carry the same insecurities you’ve had since you were young. every memory of denki giving attention to girls so much prettier than you runs through your mind, and you become more doubtful as the minutes pass. you were no model, and you weren’t even sure if you were denki’s type. hell, you don’t even know if you’re in his league. even if you told him how you felt, you wouldn’t be able to not think about how he likely could do better than you. it’s not like he doesn’t lift you up— which he does, often. he’s a great friend and he’s always been respectful. but, that’s all he is: your best friend. he doesn’t see you in that way, and you don’t think he could. you’re not some super hot girl he’d text you about, you’re the girl who he texts when he sees some hot chick he wants. you’re the one who listens to him rant about someone he flirted with.

you grabbed your phone and opened your texts. conveniently, he was high up enough to where there was no need to scroll. momentarily pausing, you contemplate all the ways this could go wrong. every sentence he could possibly use to reject you goes through head at once, and every way you could be humiliated by him and his friends sends waves of anxiety through your body. this is a bad idea. you shouldn’t do this. you take the deepest breath of your life, as if you had been deprive of oxygen for days.

….fuck it.

2:15 am

‘i like you’

you send the text, immediately turning your phone off and throwing it on the bed. safe to say, you barely were able to go to sleep.

the next morning, you wake up and go about your usual morning routine. you find every mean to distract yourself until you walk into the classroom, immediately going over to your desk. as usual, jirou starts a conversation with you and you both laugh about nonsense. then,

“hey jirou! hey y/n!” denki walks into the classroom, joyous as ever. your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and you feel a shock flow through your chest, instantly feeling your heart begin to thump. you wave as jirou greets denki with her typical snide remark. he knows you think to yourself. you already prepare yourself for all the embarrassment. but, he comes over to you and hugs you- as normal, slinging his arms over your shoulders. you hesitantly hug back, trying to hide that fuzzy, warm feeling in your stomach. he then does the same to jirou, and your shoulders begin to drop. secretly, you study his every move as you look for signs of him being ready to bring it up. he behaves as he normally does, bothering jirou to no end as everyone waits for class to begin. suddenly, you shoot up as your ears pick up your name.

“we seriously have a test this week? y/n we gotta lock in later, jirou never tells me this stuff!”

you gulp, not even turning your head to respond. “i got you, don’t worry.” you say, forcing a laugh. in your peripheral, you see jirou smirk at you and you get the urge to strangle her at this very moment.

thankfully, aizawa started his morning lesson so you uncharacteristically payed close attention. you continue this concentration until class is over. denki would tap you on the shoulder for the occasional comedic commentary whispered in your ear or question about the assignment that mr. aizawa literally just said. you conversed normally, pretending your heart wasn’t racing rapidly. but, everything seemed completely normal. the day went on and he didn’t mention a word about the text, and weirdly, you were perfectly okay with this. this is exactly what you wanted– for neither of you to mention it and pretend it was never even said. when classes were over, you headed to your dorm and plopped onto your bed. you sat with your phone in hand as you mindlessly scrolled through your phone while listening to your playlist. the day went smoothly despite your anxiety and everything was okay. you look down at your phone,

multiple notification slide down on your phone screen.

‘fuck i’m sorry’

‘istg i’m just now seeing this’

‘i’m coming to your dorm’

instantly, you grow nauseous. your head begins to spin and you bury your face in your hands. you almost got away with it. you almost had nothing to worry about and no emotions to actually confront head on.

before you can even collect yourself, you hear a knock at the door.

“y/n?”

you don’t wanna answer the door, truthfully. but, you grudgingly open your mouth “come in.” you turn down your music, still loud enough to where you can still hear.

in walks kaminari, slowly closing the door and leaning against the wall. he’s playing with his fingers, breathing slightly heavy as if he sprinted to your dorm. the redness of his face is apparent enough for you to notice after a few seconds as you look at him, waiting for him to speak. you can barely focus on the music playing from your phone. he comes and sits in front of you on your bed. he takes a deep breath, then sighs slowly.

“how… long have you felt like this?”

now it’s your turn to practice breathing, since you’ve completely forgotten how. you shrug, despite knowing exactly when. even though you texted him first, you’re so embarrassed that you’re barely able to look at him.

“since we met…. and it never went away. even when you were some popular boy who decided to be friends with me, even though you had all these girls all over you. i know we were young, but i guess i just wanted you to myself. i really liked you, and you were different.”

he pauses “…since we were kids?”

“i know— i know it’s fucking stupid, and i’m sorry if i’m making everything feel weird now. it’s just whenever i look at you i get all nervous and it started building up and jirou told me to stop hiding it and-”

“y/n, i’ve liked you since i was 10.”

your whole entire body pauses. the worlds seems to stop and your whole entire body flushes. if you were at all close to vomiting before, that feeling definitely was worse now. every moment that jirou pointed out to you that you chose to ignore starts racing in your head, it was really that obvious? it was that easy? how long have i not noticed? did i just lose my mind worrying about all this for nothing? wait… is he just saying this because he feels bad? is this even real? is this some type of dare?

you’re barely able to comprehend the words that just came out of his mouth. “…what?”

“i…. didn’t wanna ruin our friendship. i didn’t want you to think i was one of those dudes who become close with girls just to try to get with them, but… i couldn’t help it. there’s just so much to like about you even though i never thought you’d even look at a guy like me…. is this why you’ve been acting kinda off?”

you shrug again. “yeah, kinda… but it’s not your fault.”

he swallows, then continues to speak. “i’m so sorry... i’m an idiot. if i even kind of knew how you felt, i wouldn’t have even looked at another girl. i never wanna make you feel like that, and i don’t wanna make you jealous.”

you laugh. it’s almost funny to you. “well i never thought you’d look in the direction of somebody like me.”

his face drops, now becoming more serious. “…what do you mean?”

“i mean, i don’t know. it’s just that every girl i see you with is just…”

you fight back the lump in your throat. not because said he actually has feelings for you– you genuinely don’t believe it.

“they’re pretty. and i always… get it. i get why you’d want that instead of… this. instead of, y’know, me. you’re probably out of my league– my quirk isn’t all that flashy, i’m not this drop dead gorgeous model type, i’m not super musically talented or academically gifted, and i’m just not all that special. so, i don’t know… i just didn’t think you saw me like that.”

he holds your hands, looking at you as you continue looking down. his heart breaks at your words, wanting to punch himself for not telling you how he felt sooner. he hates that he didn’t tell you, and he hates that you think about yourself in this way. all he wants to do is show you how beautiful you are.

“baby, no, no no- you’re wrong, so wrong.” he almost seems frantic. your heart jumps at the nickname, even though this isn’t the first time you’ve heard it from his mouth. but before, you were sure it was strictly platonic affection….this is different. he rubs his thumb across your hand, causing you to soften up a bit. it pains him to realize that you feel like this– and he’s mad that it’s because of him. even though he didn’t do anything wrong, he wishes so badly you could see yourself how he sees you.

“you…” kaminari pauses. “…you’re perfect. more than perfect. don’t compare yourself to these other girls, they don’t mean anything to me. i know i mess around but it’s only ‘cause…i don’t want you to think i’m some loser.” he takes a deep breath,

“i care about what you think of me.. so much. it drives me crazy. i just didn’t think i had a chance with you, so i was too scared to actually try. but you’re everything i want- i like every single thing about you and i always have. you’re funny, you’re smart, pretty, talented, kind…. you’re everything i dream of. fuck- i dream of you all of time. you’re beautiful to me…okay? so please, don’t say that about yourself.”

you find yourself completely dumbfounded. the boy you’ve been yearning for since you were a kid just called you perfect. your heart is beating a million miles per second and you’re 70% sure you could pass out right now. you try to find the words– something as charming or meaningful to say, but your tongue is almost stuck to the back of your teeth. your head finally tilts up at him, and you’re met with the most loving, concerned eyes you’ve seen.

you finally manage to open your mouth “…really?”

his chest loosens as he lets out a small laugh that comes out as an exhale, breathing out all the fear he had building up inside him. “yes…really.”

you laugh in response, in the same exact manner. he continues to caress the top of your hand and you both begin to smile. your eyes catch his soft lips, and his pretty smile. you become enamored with the sight of him, and can’t help but glue your eyes to his eyes, then back down to his lips— that really do look so soft. you look down again,

“…can i kiss you, kam?”

your voice is small and unsure. he lights up, shoulders straightening up with his posture.

his heart swells at the nickname that you finally called him again after him not hearing it for weeks now. “…o-of course.” he tries to say it with a laugh, hiding his excitement.

he grabs the side of your face and you lean closer, both of you slowly closing your eyes. then, butterflies burst in your stomach as your lips connect. his movements are slow and careful, only pressing his lips against yours and slightly pulling back. but to his surprise, you lean back first without hesitation, locking your lips with his. his other hand slowly moves to your waist and he presses up more against you, deepening the kiss. the movements between the two of you become more frantic, chasing a feeling both of you have deprived yourselves of for way too long. your mind matches the taste of his lips– they’re sweet. not sweet as if he just ate something sugary, it’s more of a natural taste. his lips are warm and comforting, capturing your lips with perfect clarity. he pulls away for a split second, his half lidded eyes looking into your irises. “….you are so fuckin’ beautiful…so beautiful.” he breathes out. before you can respond, he captures your lips back with his, further trapping you in his trance.

he pulls you on his lap and leans back, his back resting on the wall behind your headboard. his hands fully cups the side of your face, pulling you even closer to him if even possible by now. his movements are so sure, and they’re thought out. he pays attention to every squirm and grab to match his movements with yours. kissing him becomes like a slow dance; he moves his lips against yours in a soothing rhythm, washing away any parasitic doubt in your head. you hum against his lips, and you can feel him smile into the kiss. he continues to pull you closer as he eagerly chases the natural warmth of your body against his. it sends him into a fever– the cure being the taste of you.

you both eventually pull away again, catching your breath. you’re then pulled into a hug that you gladly reciprocate. you can hear and feel every breath he takes, his body melding with yours. his heartbeat is like music to your ears, calming you and making you feel safe in his arms. his nose rests on your shoulder as he takes in your scent, becoming more obsessed with it than he already was. in his head, he thanks his lucky stars for being able to have you in his life. he wouldn’t want anybody else.

“thank you for telling me…”

you smile into the crook of his neck, holding him tighter. “thank you for liking me back.”

he smiles wider as he holds you. you both stay like this for awhile, him rubbing soothing circles on your back as you massage his blonde, soft locks with your fingers. if it was at all possible, he would stay like this forever. no one would be able to pry him off your soft skin and the warmth of you. this- this is what he dreams of.

he finally just gets to hold you. and he’s finally yours.

© rumisgf

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #22

Back in my day.

Imagine dis…

Alfred is a whole mystery to the Batfam that whenever he pulls out his shotgun we are in awe at this kickass badass British butler, on the other hand, we are always in the shadows of his past endeavors. We all knew he was a S.A.S. Armed Services, fighting in 15 different operations between ages 18 and 20. A skilled medical and front liner soldier who was decorated. He later joined MI5, as well as the secret forces of the Queen and later being knighted by Her Majesty.

He is silent as he comes by, he can out Batman the Batman despite Bruce learning from the greatest assassin of all time. He is calm, too calm for any situation to the point your subconscious asks if he had seen something wilder, more insane to consider an alien attack, a mutant crocodile attack every Tuesday is considered somewhat tame, or even the rise of global or universal threats that Alfred seemed to brush it off.

So, who is he?

…

Alfred Pennyworth had always been a mysterious figure. He had dedicated his life to serving the Wayne family and their caped crusader alter-egos as Bruce Wayne's loyal butler and the revered keeper of Wayne Manor. But Alfred had held a secret for decades, one that would finally come to light most unexpectedly.

Alfred was a teenager called Danny Fenton long before he donned the perfect suit and tie. He lived in the small town of Amity Park, which was riddled with secrets of its own. Danny was not your typical adolescent; he had a strange encounter with a ghostly gateway that had bestowed upon him unusual and otherworldly skills. He had protected Amity Park from vengeful ghosts and spectral threats thanks to his power to shift into a phantom hero known as Danny Phantom.

Danny had just recently been crowned as the crowned prince of the Infinite Realm a week after he had defeated the tyrant Pariah Dark who had attempted to rip off a space in the fabric of in-between just to suck in his little quaint town. It was determined by both the ancient and the Observants that it was better for him to finish his mortal life before he dawns on the crown, as he was still growing, he was still considered a baby ghost younger than Young Blood as his death was still recent.

But slowly the thoughts that he had kept behind his head are coming back to him. Jazz his beloved sister as well as the one who had raised her despite being a child herself who had no idea of raising a child, may analyze her all she wants but she could never sympathize nor connect with his inner thoughts of being one of the halfas. He died, he never really had the time to process it because he had to face the Lunch Lady just a few days after the accident. 

His friends, now looking at them closely, have seen that they both have some sort of guilt in their eyes. They both have seen him die amid the electrician, he can’t help but feel some sort of longing at the cemetery the north of Amity Park, he is too alive to have a grave yet too dead to be alive.

He thought he was getting there, changing the views of the people. To show the world that his kind is sentient but the people kept whispering. Shadows cast long by the looming specters sent chills down their spines. Every eerie wail or flicker of a ghostly presence filled them with dread. Their eyes widened in terror as the ethereal figures materialized before them. A hushed silence fell over the town when ghostly battles raged in the skies. Parents warned their children to stay indoors when the ghost alarms rang. Fearful whispers of the "Ghost Boy" circulated, both a hero and a phantom menace. 

The ghostly encounters left scars of fear etched in the minds of Amity Park's residents.

In the end, he was forced to leave his home dimension, why? It’s because the GIW have become more vicious more brutal at their hunting, With the sacrifice of both his friends and family they have shoved him into the portal, never to be seen again.

…

All bloodied and still injured he had landed in a period in the early 1900. He thought that he may have accidentally traveled back in time but when he saw too many conflicting events that he had learned during his high school days that didn’t happen during this time led him to believe that he had traveled a different dimension. Small ripples in the water created a tsunami of change in what he previously known as the past, when he was still in the streets gathering information, he had noticed that he landed in the middle of London during the early 1900s. Good enough that child labor laws are still not a thing so he can work with practically anyone without questions asked. The bad news is that his supposed great-grandfather's version in this dimension had already died, according to his family tree history during his science project in 4th grade his great-grandfather went to London to earn a few bucks before traveling back to America where he would meet his supposed great grandmother and have children. Since he died before he even went back to America the Nightgale-Fenton line died with him.

Luckily a barren couple took pity on him and took him in, since Danny can’t no longer bear his original last name, he embraced the new name from this nice couple who had taken him in. Danny may have felt guilty at the prospect or even the idea of replacing his family but he can’t help but think of it as a new beginning of his life. No one to hunt down his ghostly half, No GIW, and No fruit loop trying to turn him into his heir.

Alfred Pennyworth

During this time he did a lot of odd jobs, cleaning the inside of a chimney, mining, selling newspapers… etc. Sure, it was hard work and he can’t help but look at the children far younger than him taking in jobs far more dangerous just so they can shave something to eat. He can’t help but feel too blessed when he was back in his timeline. Warn food to eat under a sturdy roof to keep out the elements as well as education. Things that were too mundane, too common, that he now feels like a luxury. 

Over time he developed an accent as well as new mannerisms and vocabulary. 

So, when war broke out on the horizon his core ached at the notion of protection thus signed up in the military. 

Sure, he became the most feared soldier in the fields due to his using some of his ghostly abilities subtly. His enemies who stand in front of him call him The Vengeful Orphan, due to his avenging every soldier who seems to die at the hands of their enemies. 

Between the ages of 18 and 20, he served in the S.A.S. Armed Services, engaging in 15 different actions. A decorated medical specialist and front-line soldier. He then joined MI5, as well as the Queen's secret forces, and was knighted by Her Majesty.

…

As time passes by the ages, slowly but surely. He had already outlived his adoptive parents and friends of his. He still held the authority of being the officially crowned prince of the Infinite Realms. He had already explored the world experiencing the culture and history of this world.

At this time, he had already recovered enough ectoplasm to turn back to his ghostly prime and create a portal to the Infinite Realms. But something in him nagged, his core kept trying to tell him something when he was about to take a step inside the portal, but he didn’t seem to know why. His years as Phantom and Alfred Pennyworth taught him to listen to his guts, and it saved him multiple times, without looking back he stayed in this dimension until his mortal life perished.

It seemed that he didn’t have to find it for too long as he was approached by none other than Thomas Wayne with the preposition to be Wayne’s butler.

So, when little Bruce Wayne was born he couldn’t help but feel a little fond of the tyke. He reminded Bruce of himself when he was just a simple young boy before everything. When the fated, night came he tried to shield Bruce from everything, to have him resemble a somewhat normal life. 

That night he tucked in a teary-eyed Bruce into bed who had just witnessed his parent’s murder. He faced the ghosts of both Martha and Thomas who had been with the young master since the incident a few hours ago and tearfully promised the two ghostly couple that he would take care of Bruce. Both couples seemed to be in shock at their butler who had seen them but felt relief that their boy was in safe hands.

…

When his ward Bruce Wayne turned into a crime-fighting vigilante, he can’t help but softly snort at his outfit. Sure, he admits he had a worse outfit when he started as Phantom when he was just a young lad but he is willing to take anything other than a furry suit that fights crime at night. He has no right to criticize either since his alter ego is just him with an inverted color without a mask yet people seem to make no connection between him and Phantom, in his defense he is a young teen whereas Bruce is in his 20s. He just raised an eyebrow at his outfit and Bruce immediately changed the design to be a bit more sophisticated than just a Halloween costume of a bat.

…

So when Bruce starts to bring in orphans he can’t help but smile fondly as the manor is slowly filled with such joy from each child that seems to find a home in the large manor. He can't help but reminisce if this could have been his life if Vlad had learned to forgive Jack or if his parents and Amity Park just accepted him if the GIW didn’t exist. He thought one day when he was drinking tea with Jason, Jason who died and came back different, never broken. His grandchild who experienced his death in a slow yet painful way died and came back later. He knew there was something different with his grave but he chalked it up in being his ghostly sense sensing the ectoplasm around Gotham. He just wished he checked the grave even though it holds so much sentimental value to the dead. 

Don’t get him wrong the moment Jason came back to enact his revenge on B he was already aware something was in Gotham he just didn’t know at the time that it was Jason. He is more than happy to kill the Joker as he had taken mortal lives when he was serving the army but Bruce might notice and he still held fear at the idea of Dan.

After the entire revelation between his son and grandchild, he just welcomed back Jason into the manor as if nothing was wrong with the boy and prepared his favorite dish and snacks in the library whenever he visited.

…

Now it had been a long way since he entered this dimension, now the long table at the manor is filled with guests and children alike. His grandchildren are full of life despite what had life thrown at them. Dick was the first one to arrive and started, Barbara followed, Jason who took off the wheel, Tim with his brilliant mind with his worrying caffeine intake, Stephanie who fought with his father, Cassandra who started just to atone for the sin of killing her father yet became loyal and caring young lady and Damian who started to learn what humanity is like. Sure others had been emotionally adopted but all of them all have places in the manor.

…

His grandchildren as well as his pseudo son kept throwing him curious glances every time, He managed to seemingly appear behind them to notify them of dinner. He can also feel the envy of walking silently from the assassin-trained children. He can feel Bruce’s stare whenever he raises an eyebrow at some classified cases that are supposedly secured. He can hear their whispers as they exclaim to one another that he supposedly knew everything, of course, he knew everything the manor became his new haunt after a few years.

…

He already raised an eyebrow at the simultaneous alarm from every vigilante at the dinner table but imagine his surprise when he joined in looking over the Bat computer as Oracle barked out orders and instructions, as a familiar opponent showed itself.

A green glowing monster is wreaking havoc throughout Gotham it came from Central City and marched its way here to Gotham which became even more powerful due to the ectoplasm in the air. There is already notable damage from both cities as the rest of the heroes seem to work together to evacuate and stop the creature. The JLD attacks seem to have some effect but it was useless due to its minions that kept them occupied. Oracle is so focused on the situation and doesn’t notify their pseudo grandfather to disappear from behind her.

…

The entire JL is starting to feel hopeless as the green creature seems to raze Gotham as if the stone road is made out of water. Every magician and heavy hitter have been called but no one was able to put damage to the creature.

When all hopes seemed lost, they all heard a loud bang from a shotgun.

Alfred Pennyworth is standing on top of a rubble of concrete and metal, the butler of Batman, the pseudo father, and grandfather of the entire bat clan, also known as Agent A. Carrying his signature shotgun and a thermos that seems to strap to his hip like a belt. 

He kept firing round after round from his trusty old shotgun and pausing for a second to reload. He glanced at the heroes around and seemed to raise an eyebrow at the absolute massacre that he had just done to the creature’s minions.

As he paused to take another reload, he paused at movement and looked at the space in front of him and waited. The creature appeared roaring out in fury but seemed to pause the moment it laid eyes on Alfred. The creature seems to shake with uncertainty and fear. Every vigilante and hero present could see its eyes growing wide from shock and fear as well the cold sweat as Alfred raised an eyebrow at the creature as he slowly walked towards the creature with annoyance with every step.

Some heroes who had enhanced hearing could hear Alfred muttering about, back in his day blob ghosts were these cute and harmless things but now some up-start wannabe newly formed one seems to think he is all hot shot. 

He proceeds to scold the creature as if he had just caught one of his grandchildren sneaking their hands on the cookie jar and proceeds to take out the thermos and effectively catch the creature. As if the one responsible for the mess never existed in the first place.

Now the bat clan has rules when they are in the manor or the presence of Alfred and one of those rules is that there will be no swearing when he is around, but there is one word that seems to resound from each hero's mind.

What the fuck just happened?!?!

…

Now as you know I started to post less, now it is both from writer’s block and class being in the way.

PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[thelikesofus]

Buddie Fic Recs

This is my 5th Buddie Rec List! I started compiling this list last April and omg looking back through them now I desperately need to reread them all. Highly recommend all of these fics, also please show the authors some love in their comments xx Happy Easter lovelies <3 REMINDER TO CHECK THE TAGS AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

where our eyes are never closing by @rewritetheending | T | 6k

After the lightning strike, Buck asks Eddie to take candid photos of him to help prove to Buck that he still exists. Absolute PEAK Softness. Buck through Eddie's eyes! I was a mushy puddle by the end. 10/10 would recommend. 

i got all my sisters with me by @useramor | T | 6k

Established relationship Buddie. Eddie’s sister has a baby and they travel down to Texas to meet the baby. DIAZ SIBLINGS UNITE! Seriously though the sibling dynamic in this is off the charts and Buck and Eddie are sickeningly in love, it is quite beautiful.

meet me where the tide comes in by @iinryer | G | 4k

A 3+1 fic about Eddie getting kissed on the head. FOREHEAD KISSES PTSD MORE HEAD KISSES AND BOYS IN LOVE!! Need I say anything more??

The one where Buck gets turned into a dog by @911onabc | G | 9k

Law Suit era BUT WAIT WAIT….DOG BUCK!! I am a sucker for fic where one of them gets turned into an animal. They are much more free with their affection when they think it's just a dog, or just a cat, and the bond between Eddie and "Boy" is so so wonderful. And I do love a happy ending xx

can't do this anymore (do it anyway) by @chronicowboy | T | 2k

Short and sweet but GOD this packs a punch. Eddie starts dating after the lightning strike and Buck is feeling Big Bad about it. He is so sad it truly breaks my heart but all works itself out in the end and Eddie proves Buck’s fears wrong.

We Found Each Other (Over There)  by @thekristen999 | T | 46k

Buddie WWII AU. A combat medic and a G.I. meet during one of the world’s greatest battles. This fic is a legitimate masterpiece. I cannot describe to you the quality of this fic because it is beyond words but I will tell you I stayed up until 3:30 am to finish it in one sitting and was left broken but made so so whole again. 

the mortifying ordeal of being known by @the-amber-raven | G | 60k

AU where Bobby is Buck’s adoptive Dad and Eddie is dating Buck but Eddie and Bobby think they are talking about two different people. Buck is training at the fire academy but hiding it from Bobby. This fic is the most beautiful tangle of miscommunication, love and family. 

like all good things are by @try-set-me-on-fire | T | 7k

Perfect, amazing, soul-destroying, magical, healing Fic. This literally covers all the bases. Chim and Bobby both get injured. OH! and Buck and Eddie were secretly dating all along. READ THIS FIC PEEPS!

find a way to you (if it kills me) by @eddiediazes  | M | 19k

The one where Eddie decides to start dating again, Buck figures out his own feelings just a minute too late, and then he spends a week going through the five stages of grief. BUCK PINING LV.10000000!

and i’d choose you (in a hundred lifetimes) by @monsterrae1 | E | 16k

Amnesia Exes fic by the wonderful Rae. Buck and Eddie fall in love via a penpal program and then Buck vanishes. This fic is set four years later. I literally could not put it down. I was reading it in class and then sat in my car for who knows how long just to finish it because I could not continue my day without knowing how it ended.

he never thinks of me (except when i'm on TV) by @loserdiaz | M | 18k 

APRIL'S FAMOUS!BUCK AND ARMY!EDDIE FIC!! In which Eddie finds out years later that his unrequited feelings for his high school best friend were not actually unrequited, Buck is stupidly famous now and they pine. OH THEY PINNNEEEEE! It’s delicious. 

every time we stop talking (the universe starts screaming) by @chronicowboy | M | 21k 

Alternative S7, Buddie Divorce Era Pt.2. Buck does something reckless and Eddie gets angry about it but these boys cannot communicate effectively to save their lives! This fic is peak angst to a happy ending and I felt like I had a hole in my chest OMG.

left your mark on this heart by @chronicowboy | G | 5k

Buck gets medically diagnosed with butterflies and the doctor makes him write in a notebook every time it happens. Surprise, surprise, the cause and effect is Eddie-related. The notebook entries kill me in the best way, the happiest happy ending

ALSO, YES THIS IS THE THIRD FIC BY THE SAME AUTHOR ON THIS LIST WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?? READ IT IS WHAT! COS THEY'RE SO DAMN GOOD. 

endless numbered days by @cal-daisies-and-briars | G | 13k 

Buck and Eddie's wedding but from Bobby's POV as Bobby reflects on the family he lost and the one he gained. Absolutely beautiful, I cried.

don’t wanna let you love somebody else but me by @shitouttabuck | T | 14k

Chris wants dating advice so obviously Buck and Eddie decide to Fake Date for research purposes. This fic is PEAK adorable, sappy, and awkward Buddie. They’re idiots but we love them and the certainly love each other. READ THIS FIC! 

[sollis-occasum]

you think i'm gone 'cause i left - anakin skywalker/darth vader x fem!jedi!reader (part 2 of 3)

a/n: you can read it as a stand-alone ♡

summary: when a ghost born from his past regrets returns to haunt him, darth vader has no choice but to confront it.

warnings: angst, no use of y/n, blood, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of sex (no smut), reader is manipulating darth vader (but in a girlboss way), darth vader and darth sidious are their own warnings, no proofread, my english is the biggest warning.

word count: 2k

part 1

Darth Vader, who made the galaxy tremble with fear just by the idea of ​​his existence, had subdued leaders who were said to never bow down, destroyed kingdoms that were said to never be destroyed, and made even the proudest warriors beg for mercy. Ironically, the only person who could bring this Sith Lord, who struck fear into every beating heart, to his knees was the ghost of a woman whose heart had stopped years ago.

Was his master manipulating his thoughts to create an illusion of you in order to punish his failures? Or were you the reflection of a ghost trapped in this world because the parts of his soul that belonged to Anakin Skywalker were not ready to let you go?

Darth Vader had no answers to these questions. If there was one thing he knew, it was that you were haunting him and that you would not let go until his heart, which had become a mass that did nothing but pump blood, was numb and torn apart with pain and regret.

Your presence wasn't always this disturbing to be honest, at first he was taking a pleasure in seeing you that he couldn't even admit to himself. You were looking at him with a magnificent light in your eyes that even the greatest massacres and most brutal executions you had ever witnessed couldn't extinguish, you were smiling at him affectionately as if the man in front of you wasn't a war criminal but the little boy you entrusted your lightsaber to. Sometimes he felt a shiver as if you were running your hands over his armored shoulders, and this sweet feeling that covered his entire body reminded him of the times you spent together. Perhaps it was  your presence mixed with the air he breathed that prevented Darth Vader from taking complete control...

However, with each passing day in the empire of fear he and his master had established; with every innocent person he ruthlessly killed, with every enemy he tortured with disregard for their honor in the hope of getting information about his plans, the mask that had become the symbol of brutality was sticking more to the face underneath and his new identity was taking over him

While his burnt, torn body was trapped in an armor, the only thing that gave him a sense of freedom  was his memories of you. But they began to fade one by one, leaving nothing but the memory of your bloody body being dragged by a clone soldier. Your first meeting at the temple, the first time he held you in his arms at the weapons factory that had become a battlefield, the exchange of your lightsabers, the first mission you officially went on together, the first moment he realized he liked you, the first kiss you shared, the first night you spent together... All of them were so distant now.

Maybe that was why your ghost had also slowly begun to change. Your reflection no longer radiated the noble glow it had when you first appeared; your image was more colorless, paler. The sweet feeling he felt when you appeared had been replaced by a pain like an ice burn. You weren't even smiling. A disgusted expression that you only reserved for the most vicious criminals in the galaxy appeared on your face. Especially those eyes... Darth Vader had never seen even his greatest enemy look at him with such devastating hatred.

"You killed me," you said with great anger. "You are responsible for my death!"

Darth Vader had tried everything not to witness those words that had been echoing in his mind for years coming out of your lips. He had told you to leave, tried to ignore you, used the force to disperse your reflection... But you weren't leaving! No matter what he did, he couldn't get rid of you. Finally, he was about to ask his master for help, even if it meant enduring his punishment for being weak, when you asked a question he couldn't leave unanswered.

"Where's my lightsaber, Anakin?"

You were in the throne room of his fortress on Mustafar. Darth Vader was thinking deeply, leaning his arm on the edge of his throne and leaning his helmet on his hands, when he heard your hysterical voice. He reached for his lightsaber as a reflex, but he also knew that the only enemy who could stand against his saber, which was red as if referring to the blood he had shed, was you.

"Anakin... A name I haven't heard in a long time," he said with his robotic voice hiding his emotions. But he also knew that he couldn't hide his feelings from you. You knew his deepest desires and fears. You might have been living in different bodies, but you two were the same person.

You smiled mockingly as if he was a buffoon instead of a commander who had the galaxy wrapped around his finger. "You didn't think I would call you by that funny name your master gave you, did you? Please don't take offense, but you have the stupidest name out of all the Sith Lords."

"How dare you!?" he roared, raising his hand into the air and trying to throw you to the other side of the room with the help of the force, but nothing happened. You continued to stand tall. Apparently, even the force couldn't harm those who didn't belong in the world of the living.

"Do you really think you can get rid of me like that? It's surprising that a ruthless Lord like you can have such naive ideas."

Although you emphasized the word ruthless, an expression appeared on your face as if the anger of the man in front of you amused you.

"What are you and what do you want from me?"

You slowly shrugged your shoulders and started to wander around the throne room. Sometimes you would delicately run your fingers over the objects in the room and sometimes you would go behind the throne and watch the hellish view of Mustafar. There was a silence that Darth Vader, even the most fearless man in the universe, did not dare to break. Finally, you answered the question in a low voice, "Only you can know the answer." Obviously, the answer you gave was not satisfactory for you either.

"I could be your guilt or your regret. Maybe I am your remorse that you cannot silence. Who knows?"

"Nonsense." Darth Vader snapped. "I have no regrets about the past. Such feelings are only excuses for those who are weak enough to succumb to them."

"You may not have it, but Anakin Skywalker does. Maybe that's why you can't defeat him. The remnants of him you can't destroy are suffering, right? Even if you block your ears, you can hear his screams. The more you try to suppress him, the more he finds ways to survive. Look, his pain has created me: the only enemy you can't defeat."

"Shut up! You're not real!"

In a sudden move, he took his lightsaber and tried to separate your head from your body, but your reflection only waved for a few seconds.

"That's what I meant when I said the only enemy you can't defeat." You said with an exasperated tone and rolled your eyes. "Anyway, you've asked enough questions. Now answer my question. Where's my lightsaber?"

"Obi-Wan took it." he said with great passion. His hands clenched involuntarily as he said his former master's name. Even his robotic voice couldn't hide his hatred.

"Ah, I see. So you couldn't protect it. What a shame, it really was a beautiful lightsaber."

You slowly walked towards the throne and sat on the armrest. You tried to keep a sad expression, but it was obvious that the commander’s failures were amusing you. You began to gently run your hands over his shoulders. Even the touch of your abstract presence was enough to soothe him. You could feel him relax under his armor.

“I didn’t think you would give up the only thing I had left so easily.”

“We made a deal. First I saved your life, then you saved mine. After you paid your debt to me, I had no reason to protect the lightsaber.”

"So you're saying that our only bond was some stupid pact we made when we were kids? That the lies we told our masters just so we could spend time together, the kisses we shared, the nights we spent together meant nothing? Don't expect me to believe that, Anakin. If I were truly that worthless to you, you wouldn't have built this fortress on Mustafar as a monument to your failures, you wouldn't have found every clone trooper there that day and tortured them all to death, and most importantly, you wouldn't have sold your soul to your new master in order to save me."

Without waiting for him to respond, you removed your hands from his shoulders and gripped his chin tightly. Technically, you had no power over him, and your fingers had even passed through his mask, but Darth Vader had surrendered to you so much that he lifted his head slightly, just as you wished he would.

"Do you know what I'm actually thinking? Maybe your desire to be Palpatine's toy has nothing to do with me, Skywalker. You turned to the dark side to save me, didn't you? Nonsense! You were just looking for a new master, that's all."

These were words that were too degrading and humiliating for a Sith Lord like him, who was used to being feared and obeyed. He rose from his throne in a sudden movement and held his hands out to you. He knew that he could not harm you, but for the first time, he felt that his anger was harming him, not powering him. He had to do something to get rid of you! However, his desperate efforts to catch you were only making you laugh.

You sat down comfortably on the throne that was vacated by him and crossed your legs with confidence. Your hands were gripping the throne on either side as if you were its rightful owner.

"Look, you can't even sit on the throne, Anakin," you said. "How pathetic."

"The men your master has given you, or that stupid word added to your new name, mean nothing. No matter how much you deny it, you are nothing but a slave. When you were a child, you belonged to Watto, now you belong to Sidious."

Darth Vader clenched his hands into fists and held them up to his face, "I rule the galaxy," he shouted at you. But his voice was weaker, more insecure. You continued, enjoying the pleasure of hitting him in his most sensitive spot.

"No, your master rules the galaxy. You are merely one of his insignificant, dispensable puppets. You have no free will, you still have the soul of a slave. You need others to control you in order to survive. In the past, you needed Obi-Wan and my approval, now you look to your master for help. Because you destroyed everyone who ever cared for you for nothing, and no one else has accepted the monster your sins have created."

"Why are you punishing me like this?"

You had finally done it! The most powerful man in the galaxy, that magnificent figure who bowed to no one but his master, was now kneeling in front of you, his hands on his helmet as if to silence the thoughts in his mind. He was trying to stop Anakin Skywalker, whom he thought he had killed years ago, from taking control with the strength he got from your screams, but he couldn't.

"I am not punishing you, Ani. You are doing this to yourself. Do you want to get rid of me? Then go and avenge me. Make your crimes have meaning. You know who your enemy is."

tags: @circe143 @snowtargaryen @etheriaaly @ariskywlkr @tellybearryyyy @anisgurll

[aereasrage]

The Favorite pt. 5

summary: a trapped damsel promised to another, kidnapped by a conniving prince. wait…why does that sound so familiar?

cw: mentions of sexual assault and kidnapping (though no one has become a victim of either), r , l & r if they slayed, NSFW, incest, oral (reader receiving) and piv while the whole red keep mad af

notes: don’t let your nephew’s murder stop you from having sex with your other nephew

word count: 3.2k

Helaena walked slowly into her mother’s bedroom, sinking to the ground with Jaehaera in her arms, silent. When prompted to speak, all she could say is: “They’ve killed my boy. I went to her room…she’s left.”

The ensuing frenzy was madness. A queen and the heirs she’d given the king had been kidnapped, moreover, Jaehaerys had been killed. There were no heirs to succeed Aegon should he fall in the war. There was an urgent scatter to find whoever had stolen the queen away but all that could be found were the murderers of Jaehaerys sent on Prince Daemon’s orders. All that they knew was that there were other about the keep that night looking for the new queen consort and that she must surely be alive as she was beloved of Prince Jacaerys, coveted of him too. And that was all Aegon needed to know to understand that his wife and children had been taken by his rivals.

That was enough in and of itself to send him into a rage. “My wife was kidnapped and where were you?” He asked of Criston, turned suspicion of everyone and everything.

When Criston had no answer, Alicent stepped in. She had been awake since the previous night, biting her nail-beds bloody as she realized her daughter’s complete disappearance from the safety of her grasp. And what was she doing? She wasn’t with her, when they came for her. She should have died trying to keep her. “If they say that she is alive, we must move most carefully to avoid her being tormented. Whatever their demands—”

“My wife is being raped by the bastard prince as we speak!” He yelled at her. “And you speak of demands! There are no demands! He wishes her to be his own!”

Alicent flinched at that. She’d held fast to the thought that her daughter would not be harmed, Rhaenyra was not cruel and Jace, though a covetous boy born of lust with more of it in his own heart, showed no love of misery or violence. She could only pray that her foolishly optimistic heart was correct and no one was hurting you. But right then, the prognosis was grim considering there were no demands offered, nothing seen or heard of you. You could have been long dead and all her hope for nothing at all. The possibilities were overwhelmingly dreadful, they forced her to quiet and let Aegon have his histrionics.

Everywhere she turned, her abject fear was ignored. She needed somewhere to confess that your absence was her penance, needed something to do which would please the seven and bring you back to her. But there was no succor to be found anywhere. She had gone into your room, even, to observe the place in which Helaena had realized your absence. Her hands had gently soothed across that dip in the sheets, her fingers collected the hairs left on your pillow. She stood there as if caught in the same trance which had gripped your sister the night you left. She found herself staring at the absence of you, for what? To punish herself perhaps and perhaps simply because a childish part of her hoped your return could be as easy as wishing.

She had to go to Helaena eventually although she had not even the strength to pretend that interacting with her while they were both…the way they were, was anything but exhausting. Helaena, her eldest daughter, reminded her of the absence of her youngest. And Alicent, no doubt, reminded the mourning mother of her missing sister who abandoned her in her greatest hour of need. What had she done that this was written into her fate irrevocably? Why did she have to lose a son and a sister all at once? Had it been because always she had taken the sweet comfort you provided for granted even knowing what the future held? She’d have given whatever she had left to make you reappear.

Alicent had come to deliver the news of the funeral procession. When she was sure Helaena had accepted the inevitability of it, she found it within her to utter one comfort. “The realm will see your sister’s absence. They will win our war and bring her back to us.”

Helaena shook her head. “She abandoned me. She- she went on dragonback to—”

“Helaena.” Alicent said sharply, grown impatient with the implications. It was a tone she hadn’t used with Helaena before and the girl flinched. “How can you slander your own sister? She wouldn’t do that. She hasn’t done that. She’d not betray us willfully. She has been kidnapped. Do you understand? You are not to speak of such…lies to anyone. She would never have left us.”

Helaena went limp, sitting ungracefully on the edge of her bed. She knew the situation only for what she saw of it. And no matter what her mother told her, all she could think of was the dream she’d relied on. She knew it to be the truth.

    ───── ✶

On Dragonstone, you lay with your legs slung over Jace’s shoulders and his mouth sucking at your clit. All the anxiety and fear softened down to a desire to be with him. You didn’t want to deny him anymore, you didn’t have the strength. It should have driven you apart but being separated from your mother only made you more in need of his affections. Now here he was, his sweaty skin on yours, his tongue doing things that made you think of the Sept where you conceived all your children. He’d told you it’d make all of them blessed by the seven. You weren’t sure you believed that, but it’d been hard to think with him inside you.

It was hard to think now, with the vibrations of him moaning as he sucked your clit making your hips edge off the bed. Your fingers tangled in his hair and the feel of it was heaven, a glimpse of the past. A muffled moan sounded from his lips again as you tugged at his curls. You had yet to be dressed in the hours you’d been at Dragonstone, you’d had a bath drawn for you but not the opportunity to dress because Jace was not even been willing to wait for you to step out of the tub. You hadn’t even spoken to Rhaenyra. Maybe it was better this way.

Jace slid his fingers inside you quite suddenly, causing you to gasp as he continued on undeterred, latching to your clit as though the cure for all grief lay in your cunt. You writhed beneath him, squirming until his hand ran up to your hip to still you with a grip so tight it would leave a bruise. You called his name, no longer watching your volume, letting the servants out in the hall hear you clearly. This was clearly what Jace sought to do to you on a smaller scale, to have everyone know exactly the ways in which you were his. Intimately, to the remotest detail, he believed you were his. And he’d have you every which way to prove it.

Half undressed and half humping at the bed, he listened to you intently, letting your sounds guide him. He’s quick to learn about your body, which parts of you he can suck, touch, lick to make the sounds he loves so much. You can feel his calloused fingers fondling and rubbing at your clit, gathering up the much coveted wetness to rub against you with an eagerness he’d not experienced in the days following the funeral. Even after you’d cum, it seemed he’d no intent of letting up on you.

It all still felt illicit to Jace, just like the thrill of stealing away to the sept to have you. He finally lifted his head, crawling up your body to slip inside you, returning back to where he had first found an intoxicating madness which he staked his life on. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as his body slowly tensed with the unmitigated pleasure of your cunt. The familiar sting of him inside you is enough to overwhelm you to the point of tears. Clawing him closer to you is the best control that you can manage. Jace’s calloused fingers brushed away tears from your cheeks. He joined you in your noisiness, choking out variations of your name, fragments of possessive declarations. Where before he was eager yet languid, he was merciless then, the wooden frame of the bed shuddering beneath you as he pounded in and out unyieldingly.

He’d lost all patience and all sense it seemed. When the familiar sensation returned, making your back arch and your mind cloud over, you turned yourself over to him completely. You let your head fall back, your mouth fall open as you wept his name to his immense and immediate satisfaction. He pushed his hips tight against yours and before you could even manage to come down, he was spilling into you.

All of the comfort in the world was in that room, with Jace’s slack body laying against yours. Outside was where the storms brewed.

Eventually, when Jace left for his mother’s council, you returned to a warm bath. Afterward, you finally dressed in a gown brought by a servant, soft black fabric adorned with red embroidered dragons here and there. It gave you pause. It had been so long since you’d worn your house colors. It meant, at the moment, that you’d betrayed your family. You admired yourself in the mirror, as you settled again into dark thoughts of what might have befallen your family in your absence and what they’d think of you now. Which of your brothers had the men roaming the keep killed? And what did your family make of your absence? Did they see it as having a hand in his murder? Did they cry that you were a kinslayer? You were so desperate to know anything that had occurred outside of the castle.

You roamed the castle, searching for your children when you heard the echo of your half-sister’s commanding voice. Her words were only half clear but you thought you could make out “Jaehaerys” along with some other morbid words, some chatter about Helaena.

It clicked then. You thought back to the night you left, how the man who sent you fleeing had warned of more dangers. Someone sent to steal your brother’s life, whichever one of them, and the lives of anyone who would stop them. Your stomach sank and you stalled in your footsteps, stunned. Baela walked up to you, you hadn’t noticed her footfalls from the ringing in your ears.

“Cousin,” she greeted, reaching out for your arm, her eyes gazing at you warmly as though greeting a close friend again at a feast. “Are you alright?”

“I…do you know anything about Helaena? What has happened to her?”

Baela’s eyes flitted away just as you looked up. “…I know not, all that I know of Princess Helaena is that she remains at the red keep. More than that, you must be missing the babes. Let me bring you to your children.” She looped her arm around yours and whisked you away down the hall before you could respond. For some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to question her further, the naked guilt in her avoidance frightened you. You wanted to see your children more than you wanted to know what horror befell your family this time.

The children slept soundly in their beds, still exhausted from the chaos of the night. You caressed their little faces, lingering for a moment at Viserra’s, remembering how Helaena was so fond of her since before she was even born. Helaena. You wondered how she was, what she made of your absence. If she’d ever forgive you for leaving her behind. You thought of your mother, if she was safe and well, you should have asked Baela about her but you had the sense you wouldn’t get an answer. She couldn’t be well, not when she didn’t know where you had gone and that likelihood dredged up a primordial sadness, one of having to leave her.

“You should be asleep too.” You turned to head Jace’s voice as he entered the room. “You have scarcely rested.”

You stood, coming close enough to Jace whisper without being heard by your oblivious, sleeping children. “What has happened? I heard talk of my sister and her son.”

Jace hesitated, trying to discern whether he should deceive you or tell you the truth. “Prince Daemon had asked for your brother’s head. The one who killed my brother. Faulty as a paid killer can be, the men he sent instead took the head of his son.”

You gasped, your hands over your stomach as a sudden wave of nausea hit. “And you had a part in this? You knew…”

“I only knew he sent men to the red keep for Aemond, the details remained with Daemon. I had no part in anything but your escape.” Jace reached out for you, tilting your head up so that you’d look at him as tears sprung to your eyes. His expression was resolute and sincere. “I will not apologize for wanting you at my side.”

You turned your face away from him as the tears slipped down your cheeks. “You had me abandon my sister to mourn alone. You knew this would happen.” You couldn’t keep the pathetic sadness and panic from your voice even as you tried to sound stern. You’d been astride Jace likely before Jaehaerys’ body went cold. While your sister cried for him.

“What would you have had me do? Leave you there?” He asked, incredulous. “Just how long were you intending to let Aegon believe my children were his?”

That wasn’t fair, he must have known you’d only done what you felt necessary for their safety. “It wasn’t a matter of love for him that made me act as I did. What was I to do? Leaving my mother of my own will would have been unthinkable to me and I’d still no idea of how the war would turn.” You stepped away from him, biting your nails as you looked toward the beds where your children slept. “No matter which banners raise for whoever, no matter which houses declare for whoever, all my concern was in keeping my children where they were thought on kindly, as heirs to the throne.”

“My heirs. They are thought on kindly here, unconditionally. Do you really think you can play both colors at once forever? They are only heirs in the eyes of the greens for as long as you can hide how much they look like me, don’t you realize? Everyone knows, save for Aegon. One loud allegation of bastardy from Aegon or his council and what would become of them? If your…husband was forced to open his eyes to who sired his supposed children perhaps he’d spare you somewhat but what of them? He’d want them gone. You and I know it.” His eyes were dark, full of fervent warning, turning you back toward him. “And his court is full of men who want their daughters for Queen. It would only be a matter of time before you and our children became an insult to them.”

You instantly rejected that notion mentally. Your mother would not see it happen. Aegon would never believe a rumor over you, over what he felt was your adoration of him. But still, you couldn’t deny that none of your family’s best intentions would spare you from the machinations of the men who practically ruled Aegon because they held the keys to his reign. Perhaps, in the end, you could agree logically that it was better for you to be at Dragonstone but you couldn’t get past what you’d been forced to leave behind. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not in blood.

“I’m frightened, Jace. For my mother,” You murmured, suddenly exhausted. A figurehead of this war, it was only a matter of time before something befell her like it did Helaena.

“As I am for mine,” he replied, wrapping his arms around you. “But Alicent would be no safer for you being at her side.”

Perhaps not safer but maybe more at peace. What did your mother think of you being gone? You’d taken your dragon, did she think you ran away of your own will? Maybe she believed you’d sold them out, that it was you who let in your nephew’s killers. That possibility sent a chill down your spine and you could feel bile rising in your throat at the thought of being dubbed a kinslayer. You laid your head on Jace’s chest, feeling the thump of his heart beating and taking comfort in him as you continued to dwell in thoughts of the family you left behind.

“All I wish for…is to spare you all of this,” Jace murmured into your hair.

You let his honeyed words console you. All you had to rely on was him, even as wary and distressed as you were, you could not bring yourself to mistrust him. He was…the only certain thing you had before you. Home was left behind, your family’s feelings for you in obscurity.

  ───── ✶

At the red keep, a hatred brewed in Aemond that could not be revoked. It had always been there, that animosity between brothers, but it had reached fever pitch when he returned to the keep to find that Jaehaerys was killed and you were stolen. Aemond felt that it was yet another curse of their birth order. Had it been you that he married, he’d have been home that night and he’d have taken off the heads of Blood and Cheese before they could harm either of you. Had it been he who was wed to you, he thought, never would Jace have had the opportunity to breathe in your direction. He was no idiot, he saw how much your children resembled the dark haired prince. But he counted it as another of Aegon’s faults for he’d been the one who allowed you to be seduced away.

He said nothing of your children's true paternity, of course, but the fact that his elder brother had wed you and had apparently neglected you so was yet another thorn in his side. He could never have broached the subject for fear of the repercussions it would bring you. Now, mourning the loss of his only son, all he could think was that if his mother had only been fair and just wed the two of you, none of it would have ever happened. All of that grief and the rage of your absence culminated in a most monstrous hate. Aegon, as he saw it, had finally robbed him of everything. You were being held at Dragonstone and subjected, no doubt, to the desires of the bastard prince. Even for knowing that Jace had fathered your children, he did not believe it was ever a wanton act on your behalf. Jace had manipulated you, who was naive and married to a whore who went to bed with you drunk and debauched. It couldn’t have been your choice to begin an affair, nor to leave your family behind. But not a single one of them could save you just yet, they’d no choice but to leave you captive for gods only knew how long. Every day of waiting for that moment brought his hatred for Aegon closer to treason.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 1: Ares, God Of War]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.7k

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🥰💜

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let’s begin with a definition.

Disaster is a noun derived from Ancient Greek: dus, a prefix meaning “bad,” and aster, or “star.” In the time when humans worshipped Zeus and Hera, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, it was believed that tragedies resulted from the inauspicious positioning of celestial bodies: a volcano erupts because of Jupiter, a returning comet brings with it a flood. There is a certain helplessness inherent in this mythology. There is predestined suffering that lies in wait until all the jewels of the sky have malignantly aligned.

Have you ever met someone who made you ache to change the stars?

~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots explode through the lobby of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida; you feel the wind of the bullets as they clip by, fragmented metallic rage. Aemond is on the marble floor, blood pouring down his face, blood all over the white shirt beneath his navy blue suit jacket when you rip it open, tearing a button loose. He’s reaching for you through the jostling and the screams, leaving crimson handprints on your mint green dress. And you think: He just won the Florida primary. He’s not supposed to die. He’s supposed to be the president.

“What happened?” Aemond murmurs, his right eye dazed and only half-open; the left has vanished beneath a cloudburst of gore. Perhaps ten yards away, people have caught the assailant and pinned him against one of the vast Venetian windows until the police arrive. They’re roaring at him in red-faced fury, their closed fists strike his ribs and his cheekbones, their knuckles paint him scarlet and indigo.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” You brace both palms over the maroon stain spreading rapidly across Aemond’s chest and press down as hard as you can. Your fingers are drenched in seconds, warm fading life. He’s bleeding to death. You shriek through the turmoil: “Criston?!”

“Is he okay?” Aemond asks faintly. He means the baby; you’re six months pregnant with his first child, his greatest treasure, his Atlantis, his Holy Grail. Aemond has already decided that it’s a boy. Sometimes you fear what will happen if he’s wrong.

“Yes, honey, the baby’s fine, don’t worry. Criston!”

Aegon is here instead, sweating out rum and ruin like he always is, hair too long, veins full of pills, colliding with you and pawing at his dying brother with untrustworthy hands. “Aemond?!”

You shove Aegon away, splattering him with blood. “Get back, he needs air!”

“Where’s he shot?! Let me see—”

“I told you to get back!”

“Goddammit, you don’t own him! He’s mine too!”

Criston has battled his way to you and is yanking Aegon back by the collar of his frayed olive green army jacket, stolen from Daeron when he visited home after basic training, a uniform of embittered revolution worn by a man who’s never fought for anything. “Aegon, make sure someone’s called for an ambulance, then meet the paramedics at the door and help them find us.”

“But—”

“Go!” Criston yells, and Aegon scrambles to his feet and is lost within the crowd. You can hear Otto bellowing at journalists and hotel employees to make space for the fallen senator; there are flashes of cameras and prayers shouted aloud. Above your head are crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling hand-painted by 75 Italian artists in the 1920s; swimming in your skull are visions of Jackie Kennedy in the pink suit filthy with her husband’s brains. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, May 28th. Upstairs in their oceanfront Imperial Suites, nannies will be shaking awake the absent adults of the Targaryen dynasty, who retired with the children before Aemond made his victory speech in the hotel ballroom: Alicent, Helaena, Fosco, Mimi.

Criston’s hands—larger, stronger—replace yours over the gushing wound in Aemond’s chest. What did the bullet hit? His lung, his heart? He’s not speaking anymore, his right eye is closed. His bloodied hands rest open and empty on the floor. “Criston, he’s dying,” you sob.

“No he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”

“What’s the closest hospital?”

“Good Samaritan is just across the bridge on the mainland.” It’s Criston’s job to know these things, though he had been thinking of you when he plotted his meticulous notes in his day planner: in case you eat a bad cheeseburger, or trip on the stairs, or catch the flu and start burning up with fever. Aemond worries about the baby. Aegon has five children, Helaena has three, and Aemond will feel that he has been robbed of something if he does not swiftly procure a family of his own. He needs you on the campaign trail, but still, he worries.

Across the lobby, the police have arrived to arrest the aspiring assassin. He puts up a fight when they try to handcuff him and earns a nightstick to the gut, an elbow to the nose. He is choking on his own blood. Perhaps he is drowning in it. Good, you think.

“Don’t kill him!” Otto booms at the officers. “I want him alive for trial! I want him to ride the lighting up in Raiford, you keep that son of a bitch alive!”

“Aemond?” You thread your fingers through his blood-soaked hair. What happened to his left eye? Is it somewhere underneath all that carnage, or is it gone? “Please wake up. Please stay with me. We need you. The baby and I need you.”

“He’s going to live,” Criston promises, both hands still clamped over the bullet wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

“Aemond, please…” How can he be the president with only one eye?

An old woman in a yellow striped skirt suit is lumbering close with a homemade prayer rope clenched in her fist. “A komboskini for the senator!” For his last rites. For his soul.

“He doesn’t need it!” Criston says. “He’s not dying! No one is dying tonight!”

Still, you take the komboskini from the lady, each of the 100 knots a prayer unspoken. She is a devotee of Aemond, and you must show her gratitude. “Efcharistó, aderfí. O Theós na se evlogeí.” They are some of the few Greek words you’ve mastered; you’ve used them often since Aemond announced that he was running for president. Thank you, sister. God bless you.

The paramedics arrive, splitting the crowd like a laceration, white uniforms and a stretcher to ferry Aemond away. People are wailing, cursing, swearing vengeance. Aegon has returned and is peering down at Aemond with those large, glassy, muddled eyes, afraid to ask. “Is he…is he still…?”

“He has a pulse,” Criston replies. He helps the paramedics drag Aemond onto the stretcher and strap him to it. Your husband’s shirt is now drenched in red like garnet, like cinnabar, like the poppies that commemorate the boys butchered in World War I, like the wasted blood being spilled in Vietnam, men reduced to memory. “Good Samaritan?” Criston confirms with the paramedics.

“Yes sir,” the most senior one agrees. And then to you, with great deference, with compassion that transcends what somebody can harbor for strangers: “Ma’am, there’s a place for you if you want it.”

“I do,” you say, tear-streaked face, hands bathed in blood. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The ambulance is idling outside the main entranceway of the hotel. Criston grasps your hand to steady you as you step up into the back, and you take a seat on the red leather bench beside the stretcher. The paramedics are placing IVs, holding an oxygen mask to Aemond’s face, muttering urgently into their radio, abbreviations and code words you can’t understand, a secret language of organic calamities. High above the stars are crystalline and radiant in a clear sky. In your own chest—unshredded by metal, unpierced by rage—your intact heart is pounding.

The lead paramedic turns to you again and says: “We can fit one more person.”

It’s your decision. You are the senator’s wife; you were supposed to be the next first lady of the United States. You look through the ambulance’s open doors. Aegon stares back expectantly, his hair falling in his face, his arms thrown wide, petulant, combative, useless, drunk. “Criston.”

“Bitch!” Aegon hisses at you as Criston climbs into the vehicle. The doors slam shut, the engine rumbles, the siren squeals as the ambulance races westbound on Breakers Row towards County Road, which connects with Flagler Memorial Bridge and the mainland.

Through the rear window you watch Aegon as he stands in the white-gold hotel luminescence, becoming smaller and smaller until he vanishes, and all you can see are streetlights, and all you can smell is blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every story needs its cast of characters. Here are the major players in the summer of 1968.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson is in the White House watching the clocks tick towards November 5th, when his successor will be ordained. He has chosen not to seek reelection. Since his ascension upon Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, Johnson’s domestic focus has been unprecedented civil rights legislation and his War On Poverty, yet what has infected the media like blood poisoning is the war in Vietnam. On the television are napalm bombs incinerating Vietnamese peasants, caskets draped with American flags, riots being beaten down by police, college students torching draft cards and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Now the president is sick in body, in spirit, in heart, and this is not a metaphor: he suffered a near-fatal cardiac arrest in 1955 and another shortly after John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. He will die almost exactly four years after leaving office. Had he sought another term, he would have been unlikely to survive it. The public eye is something like a snake bite; it sinks its fangs in and you hope the venom burns clean before it can curse you with clots or hemorrhages or paralysis, before it can drown you in the dark waters of infamy.

In the void left by President Johnson’s surrender, four factions have emerged within the Democratic Party. The old guard—the same labor unions, congressmen, and local political machines who have steered the platform since the days of Franklin D. Roosvelt’s New Deal—has flocked to current Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey is competent yet uninspiring, a mid-fifties Midwesterner who flinches at the unpolished fury of antiwar protests and sedately lectures Black Power activists on the dangers of “reverse racism.” He is not a threat. He is a sheep in sheep’s clothing, and this is the time for wolves.

Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota is unapologetically opposed to the Vietnam War, a moral crusader, a reluctant warrior, a man who wears his lack of taste for the presidency like a badge of honor. He feels compelled to run, but he does not crave it. He thinks this makes him a saint; but Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. Like Halloween candy plunked into a child’s neon orange plastic pumpkin, McCarthy has collected his own coalition, college students and posh urbanites who believe themselves to be the future of the Democratic Party. In 2016, people will conjure McCarthy’s ghost when drawing comparisons to a controversial left-wing senator from Vermont named Bernie Sanders.

If McCarthy is the future and Humphrey is the past, then former governor of Alabama George Wallace is downright archaic. He is the candidate of choice for Southern white supremacists, averse to Republicans since Lincoln and still reverent of Depression-era New Deal programs that kept them from starving to death. Wallace is best known for his promise of “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and pledges to end the chaos that has besieged America through strict law and order. Provided he loses the Democratic primary, Wallace plans to run in the general election as an Independent, hoping to peel away enough support from the major party candidates to force the House of Representatives to declare the winner and then leverage his votes to negotiate an end to federal desegregation efforts in the South. His devoted wife Lurleen just died of uterine cancer, a diagnosis which Wallace kept hidden from her for years; doctors are in the habit of informing husbands of their wives’ ailments and giving them carte blanche control over the treatment plan, which unfortunately in Lurleen’s case was nothing. She was 41 years old.

In his short-lived castle of red corridors like the marrow rivers of bones, President Johnson hides from the hippies who jeer and spit; Humphrey frowns at them, McCarthy tries to appease them, Wallace says the only four-letter words they don’t know are “w-o-r-k” and “s-o-a-p.” But Aemond climbs down from podiums to meet them like old friends. He is young, only 36. He has a brother serving in the swamps of Vietnam. He is focused, determined, insatiable; he devours every scrap of news that is printed about him and writes his speeches by hand. As the self-admitted runt of the Targaryen family, Aemond knows what it is like to be underestimated. He wants a better America, and he wants to be the president, and he wants these things in equal, relentless measure, each fueling the other until these ambitions become inseparable. He has grown up hearing slurs against Greeks and consequently has no tolerance for discrimination, which he contends is antithetical to the American Dream. He attends civil rights marches in labyrinthian cities, antiwar protests on college campuses, union meetings in coal mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky and Wyoming, music festivals crowded with long unwashed hair and braless women, fundraisers flush with the deep pockets of the Northeastern elite. Aemond’s coalition grows each day, bleeding away strength from his rivals like a Medieval surgeon. Their flesh turns cold and anemic, while Aemond’s heart pumps scalding torrents of blood.

If Aemond wins the Democratic primary at the convention in August, his opponent will almost certainly be the Republican frontrunner Richard Nixon of California. Nixon wants the White House just as badly, and he’s much smarter than he looks. He was Eisenhower’s vice president for eight years in the 1950s and lost to the ill-fated John F. Kennedy in 1960 by a whisker; some say he did not lose at all, but instead was cheated out of 100,000 votes by Kennedy’s mafia connections in Chicago. But with the Democrats divided and their incumbent president floundering, Nixon’s timing has never been better. He was once a poor boy with two dead brothers who earned a scholarship to Duke Law. Now he will become whoever he needs to be to win the presidency of the United States.

1968 is the year of wolves. The fangs are sharp, and the bellies ache with hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~

A local deli has opened early and sent sandwiches to Good Samaritan Medical Center for the family and friends of the senator from New Jersey: ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, pimento cheese, BLTs, Cubans. The lobby is filling up with bouquets of flowers and handwritten notes. You pace and count the knots of the komboskini over and over again as you wait; Aemond has been in surgery for hours. The nurses periodically bring you Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, scalding watered-down sweetness to distract you from the fact that some surgeon is currently rooting around inside your husband’s ribcage.

Alicent—a convert to the Greek Orthodox faith just as you are, though far more zealous, far more sincere if you dared to admit it—is pleading for God to save her son as she clasps her own prayer rope. Helaena is seated beside her, eerily calm. Helaena’s husband Fosco is wandering around boredly and inflicting small talk upon the nurses, ogling out the third-story windows, playing with his red Duncan yo-yo. Otto is making a series of calls using one of the phones at the nurses’ station. Criston is there too, leaning over the countertop and speaking with Otto in low conspiratorial whispers.

Aegon is sitting alone and glaring at you. He takes a rattling bottle of pills—prescriptions that doctors are too afraid not to write for him when he asks—out of a pocket on the front of his green army jacket, spotted like a leopard with your bloody handprints. He opens the amber-colored, cylindrical container and pours two, no, three tiny white tablets into his palm. He tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with a swallow of his own mediocre hot chocolate, still glaring. You ignore him.

“How could this have happened?” Mimi says again from where she’s slumped in her chair. Aegon’s wife has a Snow White sort of beauty, but with a perpetual ruddiness in her nose and cheeks from the gin she sips constantly. You suppose it would make anyone a drunk, being married to a man like that. Her maiden name was Marina Marceline Leroux, but everyone has always called her Mimi, even the press on the rare occasions when she makes an appearance. Her children—Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, and little Cosmo, only five years old—are all back at the Breakers Hotel with the nannies, the same as Helaena’s. Mimi blubbers to nobody in particular: “How…? Who…? Who would want to hurt Aemond…?”

Someone needs to sober her up. You fetch a BLT off the platter of sandwiches and offer it to her. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Who on earth could be hungry at a time like this? I’m absolutely nauseated, I’ll never want food again—”

“Mimi, eat the sandwich.”

“Fine, fine,” she slurs morosely, then takes an unenthusiastic bite. She listens to you, all the women do. They listen to you, and you listen to Aemond, and the circle is closed and complete.

Criston is walking over now. You turn to him, needing good news, bad news, any news. “It was a Wallace supporter,” Criston says. From his seat, Aegon is watching Criston with his slow drugged gaze, listening intently. “Some bell pepper farmer from up by Jacksonville.”

“He’s been taken to the local jail for holding?” you ask, and then add: “Alive?”

“Yeah, and he already has a record. Assault and battery. His brother-in-law is apparently a Grand Dragon in the Klan.”

“What the hell is a Grand Dragon?”

“Well, it’s higher than a Goblin, but not as illustrious as an Imperial Wizard, does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly.” You smile at Criston, a pained, wry smile. He returns it and places a palm over your belly. You are still wearing the mint green dress Aemond picked out for you this morning, before he won the Florida primary, before he was shot twice by the disciple of a political adversary and laid at death’s doorstep. You are still covered in your husband’s blood.

“You’re feeling alright?” Then Criston smirks, knowing how ridiculous he must sound. “You know. All things considered.”

“We’re both fine. The baby’s moving around, I can feel it.”

“You can feel him, you mean,” Criston teases, knowing Aemond’s preoccupation with his unborn son; but you can’t bring yourself to appreciate the joke.

Aegon says to you suddenly: “How the fuck did you let this happen?”

“What?” you answer, stunned.

Aegon stands and approaches, lurching, raging. “You always have to be right beside him, in the photographs, in the headlines, in the soundbites, but you let some psychopath run up and shoot him? Twice?!”

“I thought he just wanted to shake Aemond’s hand, or maybe get a quote for an article—”

“You didn’t notice the gun?!”

“Aegon, sit down,” Criston orders.

“It happened in seconds,” you say. “You think you would have done better? You and your Valium, and your Librium, and your Percodan? You think your reaction time would have been so superior to mine?”

“Please,” Alicent moans, mopping tears from her pink cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t fight, not now…”

“We are all friends here,” Fosco adds in his thick Italian accent, yo-yoing by a window.

“You want to be the first lady so bad but you can’t handle it!” Aegon shouts, his voice echoing through the lobby. “You’re not some prodigy, you don’t have all the answers, you’re just a girl who stitched yourself to Aemond and then you let him get shot, he’s being operated on right now, maybe he’s even dying, and you still act like you’re so fucking perfect—”

“You’re mad because you know that everybody here is thinking the same thing,” you tell Aegon, cold and cruel. “That if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open; he stares at you with that slippery, opaque, stoned woundedness, pathetic, infuriating, illogically childish. Everyone else pretends they haven’t heard you. Alicent sniffles into her handkerchief. Fosco begins humming I Want To Hold Your Hand. Mimi chews sluggishly on her BLT. From the nurses’ station, Otto says, holding the phone to his chest: “It’s George Wallace. He’s calling for Aemond’s wife.” Then he waits to see if you’ll agree to take it.

Of course you will. You have to. You are acting in your husband’s stead. You go to the nurses’ station and grab the handset when Otto passes it to you. “This is Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Ma’am, I just wanted to offer you my sincerest condolences.” He has a pronounced drawl, born and raised in what he has praised as the Great Anglo-Saxon Southland. You animal, you think. You braindead bigot. “I do hope the senator makes a hasty recovery. I sure would like to beat him at the ballot box, but I have no stomach for anarchy. An act like this is repugnant to me, as it should be to any red-blooded American.”

“It was one of yours, do you know that?” you say, dripping venom. “One of your hateful ghouls.”

“I have no such knowledge. But if the shooter does turn out to be a supporter of my campaign, I disavow him utterly. He deserves a nice long sit in Old Sparky and then to meet his maker.”

“You inspire men to commit violence, and then you renounce them when they spill blood. I’m still wearing my husband’s. It’s on my hands, it’s on my dress, and I will not absolve you of blame. You are a gardener of discord. You grow it like roses or wheat. You tend to it until it blooms.” Otto is studying you, bushy eyebrows raised. “If you’d truly like to repent, perhaps dropping out of the Democratic primary would be a good start. And then you could find something useful to do, like drowning yourself.”

From whatever office he’s currently lounging comfortably in, his shoes kicked up on the desk, Wallace chuckles. “Aemond is very fortunate to have as ardent a defender as you, my dear.”

“Yes, a devoted wife is such a treasure. It’s a shame you killed yours.”

“Ma’am, once again, I just wanted to express how terribly sorry I am for your family’s hardship. I would never wish for an incident like this—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be emboldening white supremacists then!” You slam the phone as you hang up.

Otto looks at you. He says: “Did it go well?”

The heavy double doors leading to the operating theater swing open, and a surgeon steps through them, still drying his hands with a dark blue towel. He has changed his scrubs and washed his skin, but you notice a spot he missed: a fleck of half-dried blood up by his temple. That’s Aemond, you think. That’s a piece of him.

Everyone rushes to gather around the doctor, even Mimi; she lists like a ship taking on water as she walks, gnawing at all that remains of her BLT, just a sliver of white toast crust.

“The senator is alive,” the doctor says, and Alicent cries out in relief. Criston rests a palm on her shoulder. “But we could not save the eye.”

“He’s half-blind?” you ask. There’s never been a half-blind president. There’s never been a Greek one either. And the only reason this is stuck in your mind is because you know it will consume Aemond’s.

The doctor nods. “We had to remove it. The bullet that struck Senator Targaryen in the head, fortunately, was more of a graze. It ricocheted off his skull and didn’t cause any trauma to the brain, but his eye was…” He hesitates, trying to find a more polite word than shredded, macerated, pulverized. “Destroyed.”

“You stopped the bleeding?” Aegon says, astonished. “He’s okay? He’s really okay?”

“The second bullet pierced the thoracic cavity and was lodged less than an inch from his heart. He was very lucky. We repaired the damage to the best of our ability, and I am optimistic that the senator will make a full recovery. He’s resting comfortably now, but he should be awake soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Alicent says, glistening dark eyes raised to heaven. The salient points gathered, Fosco wanders off again, his yo-yo dangling from its string.

Otto asks: “When can he resume campaigning?”

The doctor is caught off-guard; it takes him a moment to answer. “That will depend on the senator’s stamina as he regains his strength. If he chooses to stay in the race at all.”

Otto scoffs. “Of course he’ll stay in. This is what he lives for. You really can’t give me a ballpark figure?”

The doctor is determinately impassive. “I would estimate a month or two before he can withstand the rigors of the campaign trail again.”

“California is June 4th,” Otto recalls, counting off dates on his fingers. “Illinois is the 11th, New York is the 18th…”

“Look, there are people outside!” Fosco announces excitedly as he peers through one of the windows. “Hello! Hello everybody!”

“Fosco, you idiot, stop waving,” Otto snaps. “Go sit down.”

“But they are cheering.”

“Not for you.”

Fosco, somewhat deflated, grabs an egg salad sandwich off the platter and plops into a chair to eat it. He’s dressed in a green plaid sport coat and tight white trousers, very chic, very European. You’ve never been able to imagine Fosco and Helaena being passionately romantic with each other. They’re both a bit too doll-like for that, closer to Barbie and Ken than flesh and blood, blank stares and vague ambitions.

“Someone should talk to them,” Alicent says softly. She means the crowd that is forming in front of the hospital: journalists, cops, local politicians, mutilated veterans, college kids, farmers, fishermen, women and children, the future and the past. Everyone turns to look at you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteer. You will, you must. Aemond could have chosen a hundred similarly suited women to be his wife, but he chose you, and when he did your vows became a blood oath.

Criston accompanies you downstairs to where the crowd has gathered just outside the front entrance of Good Samaritan Medical Center. The night air is warm and humid, the stars bright. You had thought of so many things to tell these people as you’d stood in the elevator as it descended, but now your mind is empty, fearful. There are photographers with blinding camera flashes and apostles waiting with famished eyes. From the depths of injustice and poverty and war, they have come to pay their respects to the man they believe is destined to save not just themselves but their world. What should I say? What would Aemond want me to say?

“I am very pleased to share with you all that Senator Targaryen is out of surgery and regaining his strength.”

There are cheers and applause and prayers; you are still clutching the komboskini that the old woman gave you in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel. You see more prayer ropes in this flock, and rosaries too, Bibles and dog tags, copies of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Joanne Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

“We would like to thank you for your heartfelt support. Aemond and I are so very grateful, and he is looking forward to being back on the campaign trail soon.”

More clapping and whistling, and then the crowd waits. You aren’t sure what they want to hear as you stand in the glow of the hospital luminance; your hands are trembling wildly, so you clasp them together as you hold the komboskini. Criston glances over at you, concerned. You settle on the truth.

“The man who tried to kill my husband tonight is a supporter of former Alabama governor George Wallace and an avowed white supremacist. Any ideology that advocates for violence and prejudice is a threat to our bodies, our nation, and our souls. We will not surrender to it, not even when our lives are in jeopardy. We will not concede that hope for a better world is lost. We will press ever onward with the knowledge that God is on our side, and that the future of this country is worth fighting for.”

You are bathed in flashbulb lightning; your ears ring with the thunder of the applause. You are shaking hands now, nodding, beaming, Criston following you like a shadow as you move through the congregation. You stop to listen to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who wants to give you marriage advice: never get bossy, don’t become selfish, remember that you are his safe harbor in the storms of life. It is your job to gift her your momentary veneration. You have beauty, but she has wisdom; or at least, that is the bargain that has been struck, that is the presumption everyone agrees upon. She must have some advantage over you, otherwise the decades she has spent in service of her parents and husband and children have been wasted, she has carved away pieces of herself to feed hungry mouths until she vanished like the doomed nymph Echo. In return, she tries not to envy you too much, not to dismiss you as foolish or frivolous or lustful. Sometimes you think that women are filled with such vicious, relentless self-loathing that it feels good to direct it at someone else for a while, to pick apart another body, to tally up the deficits of her spirit.

“Aemond is so lucky to have you,” the woman says. You can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.

And you smile as you dutifully reply: “I think it’s the other way around.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is a television mounted on the wall in Aemond’s room. The news coverage, the volume turned way down low, oscillates between his own near-assassination and the stalled peace talks in Paris. Representatives of the United States and North Vietnam cannot agree, and so each day more body bags are flown home to return the bones of the nation’s sons and fathers to Missouri, Alabama, Idaho, Maine, Wisconsin, Maryland, Arizona, California, New Jersey, everywhere else. Someone has to end it. Aemond will end it.

“I dreamed I won Florida,” your husband mumbles, and that’s how you know he’s awake, here in a hospital bed and wearing IVs like strings of Christmas lights around a pine tree.

“You did,” you tell him, gently smoothing back his hair from his forehead. His left eye—where his left eye used to be—is bandaged; his words are soft and labored. “Humphrey was second. Wallace got third. But you won. And you’re going to be okay.”

“McCarthy?”

“It seems you’re devouring his coalition.”

Aemond’s lips slowly curl into a grin, triumphant. “It is God’s will.” And this is what he always says. It is God’s will that he survives, it is God’s will that he wins the presidency, it is God’s will that you give him sons.

“Yes,” you agree, lifting his right hand to kiss his knuckles. Then you press the komboskini you’re still carrying into his weak grasp. It means more to Aemond than it does to you. “Yes it is.”

Aemond sinks into unconsciousness again, morphine and dreams that blur with reality. There will be pain soon, and plenty of it, but he is free from that impending truth for now. You rise from your chair to tell the rest of the family that Aemond is beginning to wake up. Alicent and Criston will want to speak with him.

When you open the door, Aegon is standing there: an eavesdropper, a trespasser. He glares at you with his large wet ocean-blue eyes, hazy with pills, glinting with resentment. Reluctantly, you step aside to let him in. Aegon wobbles as he passes you and has to grab onto the doorframe to steady himself, scrabbling like a trapped animal.

“You’re a disaster,” you say, caustic like acid, biting, repulsed.

Aegon whirls and jabs his index finger against your chest, bloodstained mint green wool bouclé by Chanel. “You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you.”

You feel something hitting you like a bullet, cracking ribs, piercing lungs, tearing muscles and ligaments. Your lips have parted, but you can’t fathom words. Aegon has said many things to you—bitter things, belittling things, things in mixed company, things when you’re alone—but never this. For the first time since you met him two years ago, he has won one of your sparring matches. He has the upper hand. He has wounded you.

Aegon can see this, certainly. But he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. He looks a little shellshocked, like he can’t quite believe he said the words, like maybe if given the chance again he wouldn’t take it. But the moment is over now, and you can’t get time back, it is a thread that unspools until every inch is gone, spent, tangled in a thousand webs.

Aegon staggers into the hospital room. You flee from it. Out in the lobby the phone at the nurses’ station is ringing again. They’ll all be calling now to give their requisite sympathies. Humphrey counsels prudence, McCarthy prays for peace, LBJ offers the empathy of someone who has felt the cold gaze of Death in his own doorway, Nixon praises Aemond’s resilience and quotes the ancient philosopher Seneca: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

[idontego]

After a Breakup With Kaji | Headcannons

-His Perspective

A/n: guys, IM SO SORRY FOR THIS! I was listening to music and just felt inspired to do this. We know we could never hurt this boy’s feelings like this. AGAIN, IM SORRY!!

Warnings: breakups, toxicity, hostile behavior, sadness?

-Kaji would definitely try to ignore you

-honestly, this boy would be mess

-you were his first everything.

-day to day things would make him think of you

-he would breakdown in moments when he was by himself. This consisted of almost physical pain. Falling to his knees and crying uncontrollably. He was completely inconsolable engulfed in sweat and snot with his face drenched in his own tears.

-Kaji started wearing his hoodie over his head, despite having his hoodie up giving him flashbacks from when he would curl up in the corner of his room after losing himself and lashing out on a group of people.

-he thought this would be an easier way to conceal his puffy eyes.

-he hates how much of a choke hold you have over him, but he couldn’t help himself.

-he would be spacing out more than usual

-purposefully increasing the volume of his music to tune out anyone trying to interact with him

-his friends didn’t know how to comfort him because he kept shutting them out

-this caused him to have more frequent crash out’s

-he even switched lollipop flavors because strawberry made him think of you.

-if he saw you, he would definitely act colder and more reserved, not how he used to be around you.

-if he saw you talking to one of his friends. His fists would immediately clench in his pockets, amplifying his emotions and feeling helpless because you’re not his anymore.

-Kaji was always the type of guy to watch in silence, but was always lurking. There was no escape.

-the breakup increased this behavior.

-he would try to stop himself from making sure you made it home safe, but that was part of his duty to look after everyone in his community so it was only justified to keep doing it to you.

-he feared one day he’d see you go home to another guy.

-going to pathos was now one of his greatest fears, because he knows that you are a frequent customer there and he couldn’t deal with confrontation just yet.

-instead of a resting flat face, it was now a resting glare.

-his friends tried to compliment his physical strength since the break up, but that was only rubbing salt in the wound and a back handed compliment?

-he wanted to text you so bad to tell you how feels and how much he misses you

-he wanted you back so bad

-you brought out the light in him and showed him how easy it was to open up to people. How to laugh and smile again. You even boosted his confidence in himself just for all of it to be broken back down again.

-he didn’t know who he was anymore, he knew he had a big responsibility, but for so long he was accustomed to you being his other responsibility.

-he was lacking in self care and didn’t want to wash his favorite shirt or his pillow on the right side of his bed because they both lingered of your perfume.

-you still had belongings at his house that you didn’t bother to get back yet because you too feared confrontation after the break up, but little did you know how much your things meant just that much more to him since you were gone.

-he needed you now more than ever

[entitled-fangirl]

No pajama party for you, Mr. Graham.

Will Graham x fiancee! fem! reader

Summary: Will gets his fiancee drug along into his twisted games with Hannibal, leading to her now restrained body in the chair across from him at Mason Verger's dining room table.

Words: 1,513

Warnings: Mason is gross. Inappropriate comments about the reader from Mason.

Genre: angst?

Author's note: slightly boring, but I like it. Also, I don't own pretty much any of this, but my insertion of Y/N and some added lines. And not my GIF. Enjoy :)

Masterlist

...................................................................................................

Will’s greatest fear was coming true.

Here she was, his fiancee, tied up in the chair across from him. Her hair was seemingly done and her outfit was a decently revealing dress. Will lets out a deep breath as if holding himself in. He sneered at Mason, who sat in his chair at the head of the table happily. 

“Well, if Jezebel was right with the risen Jesus, the Riz would have provided her with a new face, as His has provided mine.”

Will’s eyes slowly moved over to look at Mason in confusion. Mason simply stared back at him, raising his eyebrows as if mocking him. Mason takes his silence as a sign to continue. 

“The transplants surgery is extremely skillful, which is why Cordell here will be performing the face-off.” 

As he says so, Cordell walks into the room with another plate of food, backing down to set it on the table, then swiftly standing back up. He turns and stares at Will with a happy expression, before his voice utters a simple, “hello,” as if we was talking to a child. And with that, he disappears into a back room. 

Y/N's eyes flicker between Hannibal, who sits at the foot of the table, and Will as if she’s trying to read their feelings, but like most things with Hannibal, he is unreadable. In fact, as of now, he seems rather happy. She tries to not let expressions show. 

“You boys remind me of that German cannibal who advertised for a friend and then ate him, and his penis before he died,” Mason said. Hannibal gives a grin at this as he continues to eat his food. “Tragedy being, the penis was overcooked. Go to all that trouble to eat a friend, and you overcook his penis!” Y/N at this point has a ruddy shade on her cheeks as she avoids eye contact with everyone. “They ate it anyway. They had to, they committed. But they didn’t enjoy it.”

Hannibal keeps a cheeky smile on his face throughout Mason’s entire monologue. Y/N couldn’t help but wonder what the doctor was thinking. Hannibal was often like this. Sometimes, that look could mean that he finds your company rather enjoyable, and other times he was wondering how you would taste over a side of rice. Perhaps now, he was thinking both. 

Will takes this time to look around the room and the table. A cooked pig sat at the center of the table, with various sides surrounding it. His eyes flicker up to his fiancee’s, but she’s looking at Hannibal with a confused expression. He wished he could get out of his restraints to let her go. God, she deserved anything but this. Two years of dating and this is what she gets. And Will has no idea why Mason wants her.

“I’m committed to enjoying every bit of you,” Mason continued as he stared harshly at Lecter. 

Will interrupts him, a tinge of anger and confusion in his tone, “You’re going to eat him… with my face?” He now stares at Mason, not knowing if he wants the answer.

Mason looked to Will, his eyes squinting, and his voice strong. “Yes. I got a taste for it after you two had me eat my nose.” Will looked down, contemplating the disfigured man’s words. He knew he was getting into the wrong crowd, but now, not only was he in danger, but he brought his beautiful girl into it as well, and for that, he couldn’t forgive himself. He also couldn’t help but blame Hannibal, but now was not the time to be pointing fingers. 

Mason continued, his eyes staring at Y/N, “and then I’ll eat her…” Y/N's head perks up to look at him in fear. He cheekily raises his eyebrows, “…in a different way, of course.” His gaze wanders up and down her body like a hungry lion looks at its prey. 

She looks down at the table, her cheeks a consistent shade of red throughout this entire dinner. But Will had heard too much, in his opinion. Of course, that's what he wants with her. It seems that the expression, 'you are what you eat,' is proving itself to Will now because he's looking at the pig on the table and the man sitting at the head of it. He pulled on his restraints harshly, his voice almost a growl, “Don’t fucking-"

Hannibal immediately cuts in, “You must be terribly proud that you could bring this off.” He eats his food as if he’s not in a dangerous situation with a man that wants to eat him, kill his friend, and mate with his friend’s fiancee. “It’s dangerous to get exactly what you want.” He looks up to meet Mason’s eyes, a confident glow in them, “What will you do after you’ve eaten me?”

Will stares at the table, his eyes slowly moving up towards Mason again. His voice was fairly confident and steady, but inside his blood had begun to boil. “You could wreck some foster homes and torment some children.”

Mason is now tormenting Will, “No, I’ll drink martinis made with tears.”

“But where, Mason, would the hard-core fun come from?” Hannibal chimed in. He didn’t like people messing with things that were his, such as Will and Y/N. But, of course, he would never let that show. 

Mason clicks his tongue at him. “It’s foolish to dilute such an ecstatic time as this with fears about the future,” he said as his eyes wandered back to Y/N's face. She was a pretty little thing, after all.

He smiles as much as his disfigured face allows him to at the sight of Y/N's fears. "Don't worry, girl. It'll be just like how it is now. Will's face will be the only one you'll see when making love. It's as if nothing will change."

Her face turns to one of disgust. Her voice finally chirps up quietly, though her eyes remain on the table, "I'd rather die."

Mason gives a quiet chuckle, "People will die today, but none of them are you, sweetie." He quickly scans the room before his gaze settles on Will. “Uh, Cordell, Mr. Graham is looking very dry. A little moisturizer, please.” Cordell nods and quickly leaves the room. 

Will stares at the table with multiple emotions going through him. Both Y/N and Hannibal know that look. They have seen it consistently. It usually means he’s going to do something rash, if he can come up with the plan for it. His eyes are beyond an angry glare as if he could murder someone in cold blood with a glance. If that were so, the fork on the table would be a puddle of melted metal.

The doctor pretends to take no notice, still seemingly enjoying himself. “I’m curious- what will be the first cuts of me you’ll serve?”

Cordell interrupts. “The first course, of course, will be your hands and feet,” he says as a matter of fact. Y/N feels a shiver go down her spine at his words, worried for the psychiatrist. He continues, “sizzling on a Promethean barbecue.” Will looks up in concern, staring at the two as Cordell describes how he’ll cook the man. “The coal is white and very hard. It makes a clear ringing sound when struck.” 

Y/N can’t recall a time she’s seen Lecter look so pleased. His gaze shifts back to Mason with a smile- a real smile, “You’ve thought of everything.”

Mason hums, “And after that, we’ll have a little pajama party, you and I. You can be in shorties by then.” At this point, Cordell is approaching Will with the moisturizer. “Cordell is going to keep you alive for a very long time.”

Cordell bends down slightly to study Will’s face before dipping his finger in the small tin of moisturizer. As if you’d miss it in a blink, Will moves his head toward Cordell’s face, biting into his cheek harshly. The cook lets out a scream of pain, and Hannibal lazily looks over, unfazed. Y/N grips the arms of her chair tightly, letting out a small shriek at the sight. The tin of moisturizer is dropped on the ground and Cordell steps back, letting out grunts as he holds a hand over the bleeding hole in his face. Will makes a disgusted look on his face and spits the chunk out on the table, blood now staining the tablecloth and Will’s face. He then leans back, slightly pleased with his handiwork. Mason looks at him with no emotion.

“Well, no pajama party for you, Mr. Graham.” Will takes long deep breaths. He looks up to see Y/N's horrified expression, then turns slightly to look at Hannibal, who is smiling proudly at him. “We’re gonna feed you to the pigs as soon as Cordell has removed your face- in a much more civilized fashion than you just tried to remove his.”

He looked back to Y/N, realizing he may have fucked up.

...........................................................................

I may continue with the storyline :)

[callyourose]

match point, chapter four.

↳ masterlist

— In which Art and Patrick find themselves intertwined with the relationship of tennis superstar Tashi Duncan and her best friend, Lennon Caddel.

TASHI DUNCAN WASN'T CONTROLLING LENNON CADDEL.  She knew that Lennon was an adult, she was fully capable of making her own decisions. It wasn't like she was holding her at gunpoint. She could do what she wanted. Tashi truly did just want what was best for her. Lennon was incredible at tennis. Like, really, really fucking good. Tashi would never admit it, but she knew Lennon was better than her. She knew that she had never lost to her because Lennon had let her win. And she knew, deep, deep down, that Lennon didn't want to go pro. She was fucking miserable. She hated playing tennis. Sometimes, in the dark of her bedroom late at night or early in the morning, Lennon would contemplate declining her scholarship off and dropping out of school completely. She would stare at the screen of her computer, Stanford's student portal staring back at her. But tennis was the only thing that Tashi and Lennon knew. It was the basis of which their friendship was built on. If they were hanging out and didn't know what to do? They'd go out to Lennon's backyard and play a match. They wanted to watch a movie but couldn't decide on which one? They'd turn on Serena Williams or Lindsay Davenport's most recent match. Lennon hated playing tennis, but she knew that they needed it. Who would she be if she wasn't playing? What would her and Tashi even talk about? Would Tashi even like her if she wasn't winning? She didn't know. But she didn't want to find out. 

Art and Patrick were fighting for their lives on the tennis court. With Lennon and Tashi in the stands, it made the stakes that much higher. As the girls were leaving last night, the duo once again begging for their numbers, Tashi told them that whoever won their match could have Lennon's. Whoever lost could have hers. Both boys were ok with winning or losing. It was a win either way. Regardless, neither of them wanted to lose in front of the two greatest women in junior tennis.  

When Tashi had said that whoever lost the match could have her number, Lennon looked at her wide-eyed. She almost thought she was punishing her. In some weird, twisted way. Because why would Tashi Duncan want to be pursued by a loser? It was something that haunted Lennon all night long, the leftover fear of being a disappointment and the confusion of Tashi's promise to the boys making it impossible for her to sleep peacefully. 

The sun was beating down on all of them. Lennon's hair was pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a Stanford baseball cap, at the recommendation of Tashi. "I don't want you to get a sunburn," she had said, "Plus, hats are super cute on you."

The stakes were high and the match was almost over. And Art was losing. Lennon didn't know if she was rooting for anyone specifically, she was really just enjoying the game. If there's anything Tashi and Lennon can agree on, it's good tennis.

As soon as it had started, their final match was over. Patrick had won. Lennon and Tashi were on their feet, cheering, and he was bowing in their direction. Across the net, Art's hands were on his hips, feigning disappointment. But that didn't stop him from flashing an award winning smile when he caught Tashi's eye. She rolled her eyes, unable to stop the small grin that was blossoming on her face. 

Later that night, there was a knock at Lennon and Tashi's hotel room door. The girls were busy packing, their move-in date at Stanford was two days from then. They were going home for the next full day before packing up again and heading off to school. Their parents had been packing their bedrooms at home for them during their time at the US Open, so all that was left to do was to get home and then immediately leave. 

Tashi told Lennon to get the door and so she did. Patrick Zweig was standing in the hallway. He was fiddling with a pack of cigarettes, with a singular flower in his back pocket. 

"Hi, Patrick," she smiled, leaning against the door frame. She was in her pajamas, clad in a pair of black shorts (Tashi's) and her own oversized hoodie. She was toeing at the ground, her sock covered feet doing the work of distracting her. Tashi, although out of view, was peaking around the wall. She would tell you she wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but she was. 

"Hey," he replied as he eyed her up and down. As if just remembering it was there, he tucked the cigarette package into his front shirt pocket before reaching around and grabbing the flower out of his back one. "This is for you."

It was a rose. It looked like it had just been ripped off the bush. He had definitely stolen it from someone's garden. Still, the gesture was enough to have Lennon blushing and stumbling over her words. 

"Oh! Uh.. thank you, that's so sweet," She was trying so hard to suppress the blush and smile that were trying to take over her face. 

"Do you want to come somewhere with me?" He was grinning. He had reached into his front pocket and brought a cigarette to his lips. 

"You can't smoke in here," She raised her eyebrow and 'tsked', feigning mock disapproval. She was trying so hard to fight the urge to turn around to make sure Tashi wasn't watching. Not that she would've been mad at her for talking to Patrick, Lennon just wanted this all to herself for a minute.

Patrick smiled, his lips curling around the unlit cigarette. "I wasn't gonna light it, silly," He rolls his eyes, mocking. "Do you wanna come with me or not?"

Finally, Lennon looked back. Tashi was nowhere in sight. She looked down at her outfit and then back at Patrick and then back into her room. "Sure. But let me change."

"Where the hell are you taking me?!" Lennon giggled and she watched Patrick hop a wooden fence. After re-entering the room and convincing Tashi that she would be perfectly safe, she had left with the brunette boy and was letting him guide her. She was wearing the same shorts as before, but her previously socked feet were now covered by her beat up converse and she had forgone her hoodie in favor of a cropped t-shirt.

Patrick was stood on the other side of the fence and was smiling wide as he offered her his hands, helping her vault over it. "Just come on."

They walked side by side a little further, Patrick occasionally bumping his hip with Lennon's, causing her to giggle. She knew deep down that he was taking her somewhere that she wasn't supposed to be. After they had hopped the fence, the grass beneath them almost instantly became softer and well taken care off, almost as if they had stepped onto turf. The trees that had surrounded them for the first 5 minutes of their walk were nonexistent. By the time Patrick had lead them to where he wanted to be, plopping down on the grass and patting the space beside him, she had figured out where they were.

"Patrick..." She began, hands on her hips as she stood above him, "Is this a golf course?"

He leaned his head back, flashing her the same award winning smile that Art had used earlier. "There's no trees over here, okay? And you seem like the type of girl who likes to stargaze." 

He was right. She did like to stargaze.

Hesitantly, she sat down on the grass beside him and brought her knees up to her chest. She was resting her head on her knee as she turned to look at him. He was already looking at her.

"Do you like it?"

Lennon turned to look up at the sky, eyeing the stars Patrick was so desperate she see, and then back at him. "I do. As long as we don't get arrested for trespassing."

He chuckled at her, looking away. She rested her head on knee before turning to look at him again. "I wouldn't let that happen. I don't think Stanford accepts fugitives." 

At the mention of Stanford, and by association her tennis scholarship, she stiffens and her smile falters. She was tired of talking about it. For an hour, or however long her and Patrick would be out here, she didn't want to think about tennis. But she had met him at a tennis tournament. Obviously they were going to talk about tennis.

Just as she was about to fake a smile and reply to his joke, he knocks her leg with his. She lifts her head and turns to look at him fully, and he's looking at her with his eyebrows furrowed.

"Why don't you want to go pro?"

She was taken aback. She thought that the answer she had given last night was enough. Lennon was tired of discussing the thought of her playing professionally and why she wanted, or didn't want, to. So she said, "I do."

Patrick smiles softly and shakes his head. "No you don't."

"Yes I do. I told you last night that I did."

Patrick, who was leaning on his hands, sits up fully to turn his whole body to face her. "No, you didn't," He cocks his head at her, gauging her reaction before continuing. "You said that you didn't think that you were good enough to go pro and that you wouldn't be happy. And then Tashi got mad at you and you backtracked. Why?"

Lennon just stared at him. This was the first time in so long that anyone had asked her what she wanted. What she was thinking and what she wanted to do with her life without Tashi nearby to sway her answer. She honestly didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to get angry with him. Why would he bring her here, alone, under the impression that he was here to get to know her, and then try to turn her against her best, and only friend? The other part of her, the part she didn't listen to very often, was almost relieved. Finally, for the first time in so long, she could just be Lennon. She didn't have to be Tashi Duncan's best friend or Steven Caddel's daughter or a Stanford scholarship recipient. She could just be her. Without the threat of Tashi's wrath or disappointed face. But still she looked over her shoulder, making sure they were alone. 

"I don't..." Lennon sighed, turning away from him. "I don't know." She was suddenly teary, as if the weight of the life she's built for herself has finally settled. She's set up to have the perfect career. She was born into the perfect family, she's going to the perfect school, her game is perfect. She could be known as one of the greats. Serena Williams, Novak Djokovic, Roger Federer. And Lennon. 

She sniffles, which Patrick hears, and he's immediately apologetic. 

"I'm so sorry, Lennon," He's trying not to stumble over his words. He's got one of the most perfect people in the world next to him, and he made her cry. "Genuinely, I didn't mean to upset you."

She shakes her head and blinks away her tears before turning back to him and smiling warmly. "It's fine, Patrick. Really."

He doesn't believe her. But he moves on anyway. 

[henrioo]

°•*⁀➷ BEACH DAY: CROCODILE

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : "Crocodile is a king, and kings don't fulfill anyone's wishes, unless that someone is you. The small, young and only son of one of the most feared pirates, a child who would never have his desires denied by his father.

꒰ WARNINGS ꒱ : Platonic! Crocodile, IT'S NOT A ROMANTIC STORY, Dad! Crocodile, Child! Reader, Male! Child! Reader, difficult childhood due your Dad's business, mentions a lonely childhood, mean children

꒰ WC ꒱ : 995

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : Trying to back in my schedule of posting and writing, I'm passing through some bad time with a lot of personal problems so my mind is kinda off for everything, but at least I gonna try to post what I already had (I always say that and never do) anyway enjoy :p

Firstly, your father would be extremely offended if his precious son asked to go to the beach. Dear, your father is the king of the desert and is literally made of sand, why on earth would you want to go to a beach full of stupid people with dirty sand?

Of course, just as Crocodile is unable to refuse your requests every time, what can he do? He spoiled his little boy a little… so soon he's planning a trip to the beach while putting up with you talking about it every day since you as a little child couldn't contain your excitement.

Initially he thought about going to a private beach, he could rent an entire island just to avoid other people, but when you looked at him with those huge puppy eyes saying “but then there won't be other children for me to play with?” He gave up and was at your feet again, bless you, your perfect son who had him wrapped around your finger.

He agreed to go to a public beach, but that doesn't change that he didn't want many people, so he planned to go to a less inhabited island and during a period when there would be fewer people, of course, he made sure the beach was very beautiful and big enough so you can have the most fun. He wasn't ruining her experience for his own selfish limits.

Father of sunscreen, Crocodile doesn't want to see you turning into a pepper, so he makes sure you're completely white from all the sunscreen. It's a little difficult to do this with just one hand, but you were always a patient child and helped your father without any problems, soon you were ready, with your crocodile themed children's swimwear, your colorful floaties and animation for a lifetime.

Crocodile wasn't very excited about swimwear either, so he just wore an open shirt and longer shorts. The problem was that everyone on the beach was staring at the seductive man, was it his fault for being so handsome? Of course, having Daz Bones next to him staring deathly at everyone ensured that no one bothered him, which was perfect for the pirate.

Swimming too deep is a big no, Crocodile can't swim and that means he can't rescue you if you start to sink, not only that, but most of his employees are also Devil Fruit users, which just makes it difficult for him to be sure you will be fine in the water. Now if he goes with you to the beach with a non-user, like Mihawk for example, he may be more comfortable with you going to the deeper parts, accompanied of course.

Crocodile is also very careful about keeping you well hydrated. He knows that children are more sensitive, so he is constantly calling you to drink water, juices or any other liquid. Luckily, you are very obedient and don't waste the chance to drink something delicious, so it was easy to keep it under control. Crocodile also didn't trust just any restaurant or food vendor, so he hired a chef to prepare everything you could want to eat on the beach, whether it was fried fish or ice cream, you had everything at your disposal, prepared by someone you trusted, so Crocodile knew you I wasn't taking any risks.

He gets a little apprehensive when you get close to other children, Crocodile is extremely protective of you. After all, you are his greatest treasure, he would kill and die to prevent you from getting hurt in any way, but when he sees you smiling while playing with the children, he feels his heart relax, in the end, you are still a child, and he doesn't want to in no way to deprive you of having a normal childhood. He already knows how terrible it must be for you to be the son of a pirate, to live on a ship without ever settling on an island for long, the lack of children for you to live with, you can't even go to school, and instead you study with him, his life is not normal like most children and any opportunity he has to give you some moments of a normal childhood he is definitely doing it. He just wants you to grow up happy, regardless of everything.

Now, that doesn't mean he won't be a protective father. All he has to do is see you building your beautiful sandcastle, which he may have helped to stand with his powers without you realizing, when another older child approaches. He is reluctant but doesn't want to act immediately, it's only when the child kicks his castle that he gets angry, then a wave of sand covers the child, knocking him to the ground, the boy has probably swallowed enough sand to never but forget the taste. As soon as the boy runs away crying to his parents, Crocodile rebuilds his entire sandcastle before you can even miss him or cry about it. Your bright smile along with a “thank you daddy” makes it all worth it.

Although he enjoyed the beach day, which basically consisted of him sitting around watching you being a normal kid and having fun and the occasional discussion about business with Daz, the best part for Crocodile is when it starts to get dark, and you're already too tired. He carries you in his arms, using his powers to clean all the sand from your body, you are completely exhausted and sleep like a rock, with the only detail of holding your father's shirt with your small hand.

Crocodile just puts pajamas on you, preferring that you take a shower when you're awake, then he puts you in his bed and covers you. You have a huge smile on your face and are probably having sweet dreams, he watches you for a few moments before leaving to finish some things and then going to sleep.