#if i have done so before. forgive me. i have poor memory

[crunchchute]

father daughter holy spirit

[star-burst365]

“Children have treated toys better than you’ve treated me.”

As much as I love Scarlett (I’m an avid Tella hater im sorry), Evangeline is absolutely my favorite MC that Stephanie has written so far.

Here you have a deeply lonely character who hasn’t even turned 18 yet. All Evangeline wants is love — she gives so much of it (again and again) and it’s all she wants back. She forgives Marisol, befriends Luc again, and gives Jacks and the other Fates second and third and fourth chances. That’s why it hurts so badly when she gets so little of it. Everyone in the book uses her. Tiberius (to frame her for murder), Marisol, her Stepmother, Chaos, LaLa, and even Jacks. She stayed the entire night hugging (kind of) almost-vampire Jacks in the crypt just for him to abandon her when it was her under the venom 😭. In Jacks’s own words, she’s “the unluckiest person he’s ever met.” Our poor girl cannot catch a break: everyone in the books manipulate her for their own gain while she gets absolutely nothing in return, despite getting things done for the people around her. She found the stones, she unlocked the arch, and what did she get as a thank you? Dying in the arms of her almost-lover, before being turned away cruelly by said almost-lover and losing her memories. Jeez.

But that’s why it’s so inspiring seeing her get back up again and again. Evangeline would kill them with kindness if she wasn’t nice enough to try and save each and every one of them. She hugs and forgives LaLa after she placed a curse on her. She tries to talk Petra out of killing her (we all know how that went, yikes). She chooses Jacks again and again, because that’s what love is. It’s everything she stands for: fighting for the people you love and never abandoning them.

Idk, maybe it’s just me, but I really would love to see more of the characters appreciating her, this girl and her blind faith in everything that moves, who’s stubborn and fearless and determined to help others instead of herself. So excited for acftl <3

[undercoverpena]

vii. take care of me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - p in v. reader has a bad day, soft romantic fucking.

word count: 4.7k

an: the biggest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda who read this before bake off and left me a bunch of comments that made me so excited, you almost had this chapter yesterday.

You had seemed downtrodden before he rocked up and ‘broke a rule’.

His pretence at forgetting all quickly seen through, as though he’s transparent. He had wanted to explain that he had only wanted to cheer you up, but you looked less in the mood for an apology than you did an explanation.

So he swallowed both.

From the middle of the week, he had suspected something was wrong. When he had finally managed to call you, you had sounded so close to tears, that he wondered whether he should drive back sooner.

Especially when you had barely laughed at a joke he made on one of his commutes back to the hotel—barely even answering when he asked it if was his movie choice or yours.

I don’t mind. You always mind. If I remember right, you have a real thing about me always pickin’ the movie, querida. Well, I don’t today, okay? You can pick—I—Frankie, I have to go.

When the end call tone flooded the bed of his truck, he’d strongly suspected that you’d fought your way off the phone with him so you could crumble. Cracking yourself open into a bunch of shards, all pressure-cooked by the weight of everything you take on, only to say you’re fine.

It’s why he had driven past your place the day before he had made plans to see you. Fighting with himself about getting out and going up to your door. Weighing up the options as to whether checking on you tonight or waiting for tomorrow would be best.

Then there was the fact he wasn’t sure if it was as your best friend or as someone who hopes for something more.

The lines blurred, practically erased. A speech is likely needed, but he’s as poor with words as he is with owning how he feels, so it’s easier to stuff them down—to drive away, wait.

It’s why he grabbed it to begin with. Why he’d been grabbing them since you put the darn rule in place anyway. A habit, a part of his routine seeing you—a thing he did to show you that you mattered, were important, cared for.

Which is why he’d wrestled with him again on whether to leave it in the car when he walked up to your front door or not.

“You broke a rule.”

You look glum, defeated. Whatever your working week had done to you, it had stolen more from you than you’d been able to—never mind willing to give.

And it fractured a part of him. Made his shoulders sink, his heart sinks—because nothing hurt him more than the look on your face. The one which should be full of smiles and twinkling eyes.

Kissing your cheek, he closes your front door behind him. “I think you’ll forgive me.”

You just snort. Momentarily smothering the sadness that had been there before he’d showed you the bottle—whatever had upset you buried, all of it being quickly hidden as you placed the wine down and picked up your water bottle.

It forces more confusion to swirl inside of him, more so as you begin to go back and forth with him on food, on what he wants to watch, and whether he wants to share a blanket or have his own.

He replies in his usual tone, even if his attention is split into equal parts—one part focused on the little things you do, the mannerisms you’re not aware to pretend. The other on the IKEA furniture he built, the memories pricking him, needling, making the zipper of his jeans suddenly feel uncomfortable over his cock.

“Work been okay?”

Your mouth falls open, all set to answer, but then something shifts in your eyes. A shadow—possibly—it dancing across the plain, suddenly all but desperate to thump its way out.

Then the words never come. Swallowing instead, discarding whatever you'd been about to say—pushing it back before any lingering parts of it are blinked away as you offer a nod.

“Yeah. Yours?” you answer, but your tone isn’t right.

It’s flat, without its usual infliction. There isn't any edge to your words, nor a tease or taunt, not even a Morales in sight. And, the smile you paint doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

It’s practically humming now, the fact something is wrong. It simmers, hanging around, whistling through the air.

Yet, you don’t break, don’t confess it all to him like you had once done with such ease. Instead, you just smear another smile on your face, nudging him, phone in hand as you mumble about food options and what he wants as you lead him to the sofa.

He knows on the surface, it looks the same—how the night is playing out. But it’s different. In all the ways he doesn’t want to put his finger on, and doesn’t want to acknowledge. Not as you order food, not as you chew the inside of your cheek as you wait for the order to be accepted.

Even less so when you mumble about the film, reaching for your remotes.

It's then he decides what he wants to do is take the remote from your hand as soon as you pick it up. Frankie wants to hold your fingers in his, even place a kiss on your wrist. He wants to place two fingers under your chin, and ask you again to tell him what has happened—wanting to be let him in, be shared with.

He wants you close, and not like friends do. A need to have your head to his chest, his fingers sliding gentle strokes against your cheek and neck, offering comfort, providing it in plenty.

His own head turns the options over, planning it out, trying to guess what the various outcomes are. Which, by the time he reacts, instead of managing to grasp your hand, he knocks the remote from your hand with a clatter.

Ears burning, he feels your glare before he truly appreciates it. It ripples out over him before it’s blinked away—a momentary flood of fire licking at his skin.

In the oddest way, it’s at least reminiscent of the person he knows. The sharpness in your eyes is more a friend to him right now than the gnawing going on in his chest. Especially, while the rest of you is lost to whatever you’re trying to pretend doesn’t exist.

“What?”

It’s simple, one word.

Almost feels normal. It's all sharp and layered, just like it usually is. Followed by your body sinking into the array of cushions you decorate your sofa with as you pull up his pick, rolling your head to him—nail-picking at the battery cover on your remote.

And he wants to ask again—just like he always would have done.

Instead, Frankie places his hand on your knee, thumb and index swirling over the cloth-covered bone as you look at the television briefly, before flicking back to him.

In the silence, it’s louder—the whistling. It's suddenly accompanied by the noticeable noise of your brain whirring, your cogs turning.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, but secretly he's pleading, begging.

He watches as your teeth pick at your lip, snuggling yourself further into the couch—knee abutting his leg as you sigh. “It's... nothing. Can we... can we just watch the movie?”

“Hey, of course we can. Is…”

He can't ask.

Fearful of asking. A lump forms in his throat, sticking, thickening second by second as he flicks his eyes over you.

Before you can blink it away, he spots it again. The shift in your eyes.

This time instead of a shadow, they fill with water. They vanish any part of your truth that wished to escape in its drowning. Before he can poke and push, you blink it away as quickly as it had first arrived.

And it needles him, pricks at his skin and stabs into his chest, twisting and twisting and twisting—

“I just… wanted my best friend,” you mumble.

“That it?”

You seem to fight it, whatever it is inside of you, before you curl against his arm again, tugging your blanket up closer. “I really missed you this week, that's all.”

It’s been on his to-watch list for ages, and yet he’s one hour into it and he has no clue what is happening.

The pizza box is still half-open on the coffee table, your plate still remaining with picked-at food that you never really made any dent in, and he blames that as to why he doesn’t even know who the good guy is and who is bad.

Because all of the parts of his brain that usually begin working on undoing and arranging what he thinks will and is happening, are working in overdrive on you.

It's also stopping his heart from hammering even louder down your ear. Because, even if the two of you have cuddled before—lots of times—it's not been post the whole sleeping together thing.

And, it feels nice having you against him, normal, right.

He likes the way your fingers occasionally clutch him a little closer, head turned in the direction of the television and the movie he should be watching.

Instead, he's piecing together the puzzle you've thrown on the floor. The one without the box lid, so no image to compare it to. Trying to assess where you missing him, lines up with the way your bottom lip almost wobbled as you confessed it, as though it was a sin and not a virtue.

Frankie tries to line it up with the fact he knows whenever he's found a moment to himself, he’s texted you. The sea of other unread messages piling up, collecting.

It adds to the knowledge that all of the normal conversation he has with you, quickly derails, slipping into something foreign yet wonderful. Casual phone calls, divert into him with his hand around his cock, listening to you breathlessly say his name and that you wish he was there.

And that somewhere between collecting the sweet noises you make and those innocent-but-not-innocent moments, are the soft moments he has where you’re resting—where Frankie has realised, decided and accepted, that there is nowhere else he likes being.

Not a single place.

Because he wants this.

Frankie wants the calmer person he is when he's around you, the thoughts which are less intrusive. He likes that the rain barely bothers him when he has you in his arms, that he doesn’t even overthink, if anything he just plans. Considering things, turning them over, thinking of a future that begins to sketch itself out and colour itself in.

Something which has been doing so since the time in the car.

Your words rolling and rolling, stitching themselves to other phrases you’ve let slip, until he’s sewing things together to create a gallery, a museum of moments he loves admiring and replaying when the world goes silent.

That's when he notices the movie, the shit-show of a plan formed involving a helicopter, and the words roll from him without stopping.

"That would never fuckin' happen. Not—can you imagine, if I said to you—" and he rambles. Feels himself doing so. So comfortable and at ease more and more things just flow and fall from his lips.

Even when the scene changes in the movie, more bright light than the softer one from before, forcing him to blink—he is still detailing how inaccurate it is. Only slowing to nothing when he realises you’re looking up at him. Hanging on to every word as though he's a poet reading something beautiful.

He feels the way they tracing him then, lightly glazing over all his features as he slowly holds your stare.

Because it’s the kind of gaze he sees in the movies you make him watch. The lingering ones—a blend of both fiery and craving. It all peppered with yearning, and swirling in so much he suspects you don’t want to say.

“You’re going to miss the movie.”

Blinking, you smile. Feeling you flick your eyes from him to his mouth. “Am I?”

Your smile slides further into your cheek, and he can’t help but brush his thumb over it. A dire need to touch you, brush your soft skin and remind himself how you feel.

He doesn’t expect it, but he likes that you curl into his hand. It allows him to trace his fingers along your jaw, down the side of your neck. Half-expecting you to tell him to stop, that tonight isn’t about that.

You don’t.

Instead, your hand cups his against your cheek, staring at him, lit up by the flickering scenes neither of you are paying attention to.

Faintly, blooming out in the shimmer of your eyes, he thinks he sees it again—what he thinks is adoration. It mixing, blending, swirling with care, love…

“Thought you wanted your best friend?”

“I do,” you say, low, just above a whisper, “So, take care of me.”

A second passes as your words drip into the air.

So take care of me.

His eyes flick over you. Likely needing you to say it again, give permission, tell him you want this.

You do. Fuck you do.

Your heart hammering against your chest like a drum because of it. All unable to speak, fearful, fucking petrified, with how much you want him.

Because all you do is want him, and if you speak, you worry you won’t stop telling him that.

Let it fall, leak. Slip out and stain like oil on a sheet.

Because you know it's only normal to miss him this much for one reason, and one reason alone. It's the same reason why you want him, crave him, and feel so desperate for him that you can’t think or breathe. It is all-encompassing, looming, forever there in between the days you don't see him and the waiting on replies to texts.

It’s so close to your tongue, held back only by your teeth.

It could come out, could escape. So you keep your mouth clamped shut. It is better, easier, and less bothersome than telling him you’ve been counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until you could have your hands on him. Not for this, not because he makes you feel good and beautiful and wanted, but because you feel better. Happier. More you. You feel safe, like no bad work day could ever touch you.

“Querida…”

“I want y—”

The rest of your words are swallowed, stolen. Frankie seals his mouth over yours, barely needing a sentence, just enough.

And it’s searing, full of ache as his hands pull you close, your body singing, itching to come alive—has been since the scent of just him hit your nose.

The worst of days doesn’t matter when he’s around you, less so when his lips marry to yours, when he licks into your mouth, when he breathes you in, and you breathe him.

No one else has ever made you feel like he does.

Not the way your feet almost kick out when his message arrives, a smile gracing your mouth without control when he calls you.

Because he’s different, but then he always has been.

There's always been something, it thriving and growing, embedding vines you pretend are just because you're good friends. But you know, you do. It's hard not to.

Frankie saves you, oblivious to the silent plea for rescue—he just knows. He gets you. Understands every inch of you now, you're unsure how anyone else can ever read you as well. He's someone you could confidently rely on, knowing he’d never leave you alone, not even in the dark—forever a light, a way home.

You think you’re that for him too. Hope so anyway.

He moans your name. Kissing you like he never wishes to stop. He acts like he wants to drown in you, be overflowed by you, and fuck you want the same.

Mine. That’s what you want to say.

Instead, you bury it in a low moan when his mouth captures yours, tongue sliding past your teeth as his hands come to rest on your cheeks. Each touch softer, gentler—from the way he moves his fingers over your cheek, to the way he slides them over your jaw, landing on your neck.

Then, his mouth comes to your ear, breath dancing, all flooded with the flickering television—let’s go to your bed.

He doesn’t rip, he peels your layers off, leaving a trail leading right to your room. He smothers your body with his, his palm remaining flat to your spine, leading, hooking his fingers around the back of your neck as he steers you.

Careful, hermosa.

The consideration dripping from his lips like syrup, all adorned in affection, a taste you have to capture, spinning in his hold, hooking your arms around his neck as you pull him flush, close.

“Tell me you want me,” he hisses.

There's an edge that isn’t usually there but it’s pounding now, all sparkling and fucking shimmering.

You’re more sure of it when he lies you back on your sheets, his mouth exploring, taking his time, taking you to the edge with his mouth as you plead and plead—one hand sliding up over the softness of your stomach, as your back arches into him.

And you shudder, so close to your high—hips held down by his arm. “I want you, Frankie. Always want you. Want you inside of me.”

He pauses—cool air blowing over you as he flicks his eyes up from between your thighs, his skin flushes, a light beading of sweat at his hairline as he comes up onto his palms.

Watching him crawl up you, eyes enamoured, unable to look anywhere else even if they were commanded to. Because he’s more than a sight for sore eyes, he is the sight. He’s the best-looking thing you’ve ever fucking seen, clutching his face in your hands, feeling him drag the head of his cock through your slick walls, staring at you in waiting, like he couldn’t believe this is happening.

“Again,” he asks.

Taking your hand in his, he slots his fingers between yours, fitting, ever so perfectly, before he places your conjoined hands above your head. Eyes tracing up and down your frame, more so as you arch into him, hearing the breathed-out expletive as you wait for his stare to land.

“I want you.”

And, thankfully, Frankie doesn’t let you linger on it. Doesn’t allow you to hyper-focus on it, slowly sliding in, pushing in by inch until you’re full of just him—no more of him left that you can greedily take.

“Always take me so well, baby—“

“Frankie.”

You’re breathless. The air punched from your lungs—his hand remaining knotted in yours, grounding, your nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds a place on the back of your thigh, eyes dropping, all fixated on where the two of you are joined.

“Y'so good for me. Always so good for me,” he adds when his hips are flush with yours. “Take my cock so well.”

Letting his gaze return to you, you’re suddenly so grateful for the bedside lamp you’d left on hours ago because now you get to see him. Admire him, so much so, it makes your throat dry.

Able to watch his muscles contort when he moves, lips parting as he slowly cants his hips into yours, all deep strokes.

And, you know it’s still fucking, but it’s also not.

It’s a unique blend of need that feels right, and also wrong—lips messily finding yours, burying confessions as you eagerly swallow them.

Hoping your throat, lungs or stomach could begin to decipher them as you feel his hand slide down your wrist, and arm until it's cupping your face. His lips slide over your cheek, resting close to your ear, whispering compliments. Because he has to tell you that you’re gorgeous, he says; that you're always so stunning.

Each word that lands has more than an effect on you, as he stutters when you clench around him.

Mouth wrapped around an exclamation of his name as he slides out and sinks back into you.

Frankie has always felt big, but from this angle, like this—he’s somehow deeper, filling you more. He's in your soul. It all filthy and romantic and obscene, but it feels so good, makes heat bloom through your hips and up into your spine, it twisting, eroding the bad day, the bad week.

In a sense, he’s the perfect antidote. A person you trust, care for, lo—

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

Frankie’s hand slides back to grip yours, pressing it down—lightly against the pillow above you, before placing the other beside it. And he’s enveloped in part shadows and the light from the table, blessed in golden hues, giving just enough to see how wild his eyes are and how deep the brown in them goes, how blown his pupils are.

“Do you know how beautiful you look right now?”

You feel your cheeks warm, your ears—every bit of skin on show suddenly inflamed because of his words. His mouth lapping at your breasts, all arched into him, hips steadily meeting his.

“Always are, really.”

“Well. You’re handsome, Morales.”

It’s intentional, adding his surname. Taking the softness out of it, removing what you can, and adding barriers and throwing up walls.

He still sucks in a breath, eyes lingering on yours, fingers dropping to brush a line up and down your cheek as he continues to slide his cock in and out of you. You moan as the head of him keeps kissing that part deep inside you.

It’s different.

You know it; he likely does too. Thankful he slants his mouth over yours. Slowly rocking with you, thrusting into you as you murmur his name, it falling enriched in moans.

From the way you both kiss, to the way you keep an arm around his neck, desperate to keep as much of him against yours.

“You feel so good, Frankie.” Your fingers scratch at the base of his neck. “Always make me feel so full.”

Stuffed really. Packed in. Clenching around him, all tightening, purposefully wrapping your walls around him until he groans right into your ear. Each drag of his cock in and out feeling exquisite, perfect, amazing.

It’s never been like this with others, never been like this even with him. His fucked out face, the grunts and groans coming from deep within make your thighs unable to stop their twitching as fire floods up your spine and the way he plunges you in lust-filled brown.

And you clutch his face, feverish from him, quivering, shaking. Burying the words, “So close, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close baby,” against his mouth.

Pressing each letter in, stamping it—ensuring he knows it’s him doing this to you. Making a mess of you. The only person you ever want to make a mess out of you.

It thumping inside of you, hammering—all balled up fists and desperation because you want to tell him. Shout it at him. Paint the walls in it as he paints yours in white.

“Need you, Frankie.”

It’s close to the truth. Barely an inch from it.

“I know, need you too. Need to feel you come around me, hermosa. I need it, please. Please give it to me. Let me feel—fuck—feel you coming around my cock.”

And you hear it, the way he pleads—as well as realise the double meaning. You in the car, whispering words so close to the ones he’s spilling now.

“I will if you stay.”

He doesn’t still, but he does jolt. A hesitation in his pistoning.

Then he drops to his elbows around your face, cradling you, caging you in, as he kisses you—sloppily, messily, sweetly. It’s soft, but also full of heavy moans he wishes to force down your throat. It’s indulgent, a thing you never thought you’d have so now you take as much of it as you can get.

“Course I’ll stay. Never—fuck—anywhere I want to be but here, baby. Nowhere else.”

His eyes fix on you, digging the words in.

And, even if you knew it before, you realise how under your skin he is. How he’s woven in around tendons and ligaments, found a home, left marks against your bones you never want to rid.

You’re sure it’s that and not the words which make everything else mute.

Even if it’s all you can hear. Not the television in the other room, not the headboard clattering against the wall, not the sounds you’re making each time he drags his cock through your walls.

Just his words. Whatever he blesses you in. Your thoughts are all incoherent other than that. All shaky, practically vibrating; all gasping and torturous heavy heat, all unable to breathe and yet never wanting any of this to stop.

His hand slides around your thigh, pulling on your knee, bringing it closer as his grip almost grows bruising on you. He’s deep. Fucking into you so hard, hearing the concoction of his hisses, gasps and moans, before his mouth lands back on yours.

It’s overwhelming. The height you’ve reached, the way your mouth is only able to say his name as you watch him lick his thumb and distinctly feel it slide between the two of you. Finding it. Barely struggling to press the pad of it to your bundle of nerves before you lock up, the knot tightening, almost ripping inside of you.

It fraying from how much you’re fighting it, so close to bursting—

Then he draws quicker circles, all persistent, expertly, and you snap.

It surging, all white-hot, all blistering and mind-melting. You become both light and heavy all at once, your nails finding purpose in his side and your sheets, twisting, knotting to root yourself in this, in him—in how much you fucking love him.

“Fuck, querida—that’s it.”

You can’t respond, can’t even think up a response, but you do yank his mouth to yours. Pressing those three words there, laying them down, as well as thanking him, over and over until you slide your mouth against his cheek.

“Be good for me now, Frankie.”

His eyes flick to you, all ablaze and engulfed in want. And so you nod, knowing he can see it, feel it.

“Look so good, baby,” you add.

The noise is strained that comes from him, all sucked in breath. Then, his hips stammer, convulsing, all strangled, tightly entangled in a mess of your name and fuck.

And you kiss him.

Happily licking into his mouth to taste how delicious his moan is.

You try to fight the way your heart drops when you return from using the bathroom. Biting the inside of your mouth as you see the bed empty, sheets a mess, your throat swallowing back whatever sob wishes to escape.

Because the edges of your happiness crumble, your arm wrapping around the other, bottom lip almost wobbling.

That is, until you feel his hand on your lower back. Your head turns quickly, seeing him there. All hair-wild, and soft smile.

“Water, baby?”

Smiling, you thank him, taking several sips before handing it back to him, watching him do the same. Studying the way his throat bobs as he does, the faint marks of your mouth still lingering there on his skin.

“C’mon,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Let’s get in bed.”

“Oh, but the—“

“I’ve sorted it. Turned it off—folded the blanket, put the plates in water.” His hand wraps itself around yours. “So, let’s sleep.”

All you can muster is an okay. It leaves soft, slightly webbed at the edges from the way it catches on the growing lump in your throat.

It isn’t until you’re curled against him,

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

He lets out a laugh, little and breathy. “More than okay, hermosa.”

Guiding your leg to hook over his. Keeping his body flush as the two of you cuddle. His thumb swipes across your cheek, forehead close to yours as his fingers fan out over your hip, and he presses a kiss to the space between your brows.

You’re pretty sure your heart just tripled in size.

And those three words, the ones which have amassed into a chunk in your chest have suddenly begun pulsing all on their own—a beat completely separate, you find, to the one which pumps blood around your body.

CHAPTER EIGHT ->

[neteyamslovrr]

congrats on 2k!!🤍🤍

may i request number 8 + angst with ao’nung?? thank you!

FORGIVE YOU

thankuu smm for giving me this prompt, i had lots of fun with it. ao'nung is not as babygirl and he is more stupid meanie bf.

Cold, alone, and restless. That is what the last few weeks have consisted of every time you tucked yourself into the hammock for two. Only being used by one.

Ao’nung says he’ll be back before it is too dark, the stars in the sky being the only light that shines on your village. He says that he won’t get caught up with his friends, he will always be back to sleep right next to you.

But he isn’t. And he hasn’t been for days.

So now you lay with your back turned to the entryway of your shared home, listening to Ao’nung’s voice get closer. Laughing boisterously as if he didn’t care he has left you alone for another night.

You wanted to get up and scream at him. Maybe you would do it in the morning. The night begs you to sleep but your mind screams to argue with Ao’nung. To express the weight of his actions and how they ache your poor heart.

He walked in, large smile immediately dropping as he saw your tired form swaying softly on your shared hammock. He knew he said he’d be back to be with you, he knew he had betrayed your trust once again, and he knew he was hurting you.

He large feet padded against the fabric floor, the only sounds were his anxious breathing followed with your soft disappointed sighs.

“Flower…I’m sorry.” His hand rested on your shoulder, begging you to face him so you could sense his sincerity.

“You said you were going to be here with me tonight.” You looked away, staring harshly into the wall you faced. Your heart was beating as the confrontation of his actions teetered closer to you.

“I know. And I messed up…I am sorry.” Turning towards him, still laying in the hammock, glassy eyes fixated on his guilt ridden face.

“How many times am I supposed to forgive you?” He winced at your words, escaping your tongue, and lashing him in the heart.

“Just this once, I- I won’t do it again.” Rolling your eyes you scoffed. You couldn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. How could you?

“How can I trust you? You have done nothing but lie and break your word.” His heart tore just like he had torn yours. How he wished he would’ve looked into the sky more to recognize it was time to go back home. Back home so his beautiful mate was not left to deal with the absence of his presence. Where he could treasure the moments they shared and not create memories of breaking your heart into two.

“I will show it to you. I promise.”

You pursed your lips, tired of the arguing. No longer wanting to talk about this, your body yearned for sleep. You shuffled over in the hammock, making room for Ao’nung. He was your mate, your other half, souls intertwined. You could talk about this in the morning.

“Let’s just sleep. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Ao’nung frowned, he knew you were still upset. He knew you would talk this out in the morning, but he wished that when he shared this hammock with you, that you were not sharing despair. That is his own fault.

“I’m sorry flower.” He reiterated again as he slipped in behind you, arms hovering over your body, not sure if he still held the right to hold you.

You could feel his hesitance, and you couldn’t deny how much you craved his warmth for so long, Days of being without it. You lightly squeezed his hand, showing that even if in a fight he is still your mate, you would sort this out in the morning.

But now you let your bodies melt into each other, filling the tears in the other hearts, as Ao’nung hoped you would forgive him one last time.

thankyou so much for reading my loves <333 i'd love to see u in my notifs !!

[vashtijoy]

Forgive my poor memory, but during the interview with Akechi, before the Kaneshiro Arc, is it mentioned what specifically he did to become a celebrity in the first place?

No, we never find that out.

I believe our first mention of The Boy (besides seeing him with Sae on 4/10 and 4/12) is on 4/29, when the TV is talking about him:

Next up is our special feature on the boy who's set to be the next Detective Prince! The original Detective Prince was Naoto Shirogane, but people are excited about this new one!

Note "set to be", note "new". They don't even name him. This is a story about a boy detective who's about to be famous.

The second mention of him, I think, is about three weeks later, on 5/18. Again, it's in Leblanc—this time the Young Couple are talking:

Young Female Customer: "Whaaat? But I want to watch TV. There's a special on that guy they call a "Detective Prince", Akechi." Young Male Customer: "Besides, you can see his face any time. That pretty boy's been on TV a lot lately."

So between the end of April and mid-May, he's been on TV "a lot", and people are starting to know his name. He's starting to gain fans.

It looks to me as if someone (probably Shido) decides Akechi needs to be famous for some reason, like advancing Shido's interests in the runup to the election that year—which is exactly what Akechi's TV appearances do; you can see him immediately putting the SIU Director's evil phone conversations into action quite often.

Either that, or since he's solving those psychotic breakdown cases quite handily, he develops a reputation for that, and becomes known for that, and inevitably becomes famous; either way, that's most likely why Sae calls him in on 4/10.

I think it's most likely to be the former. Shido needs someone speaking for him on TV, and he wants that someone to be totally under his thumb. Akechi doesn't appear to have done anything; he's just being publicised as "the new Detective Prince". He's a manufactured idol.

(Note as well that Akechi is clearly already famous at the start of the anime—but when the game and anime clearly conflict in this way, I go with the game. YMMV.)

Also, by the way, notice how Akechi and the PTs make each other. They accuse him of riding their coattails several times, and he accuses them of the same at least once. They rise to fame in parallel, and in the end they fall together.

[childesglove]

Did You Cheat On Me? Revenge Taste Bitter (Part 2)

Summary: Childe thought you had cheated on him and he decided he was going to take revenge, even if it hurts both of you. Now that he realised he made a mistake, how can he ever fix this?

Read Part 1

Tags: Angst with comfort, Hurt, Implied Violence, Reader has anxiety attack, not proof read, verbal abuse, a lot of screaming

__________________________________________________

You turned and leaned against the door, breathing heavily as you felt the weight of the world crashing on you. You parted your lips and an ugly sob escaped you. You covered your ears in an attempt to block out all the noises but it did nothing to silence your thoughts.

Your heart ached so much it felt almost physical. You haveso many questions but all you could do was curl yourself into a tight ball.

Like a hammer striking a fragile mirror, reality shattered the memory into a thousand sharp fragments. All the lovely images of him smiling sweetly at you, holding you tight and making you feel safe shattered.

It was a painful reminder that he was not the one.

He was just a passerby in your life that left a scar that would take forever to heal.

You stayed in the same position for what felt like hours before you started packing your clothes.

With one last look, you left this place that you once called home.

The same day

Childe was lost in his thoughts, he was growing restless as each moment passed by, he couldn’t forget the look on your face when you left.

He felt sick and twisted for making you cry even when you were the one that betrayed him. He was supposed to feel happy, triumphant even, yet all he felt was emptiness and a sense of dread.

He doesn’t even know where that dread came from.

“ Lord Harbinger, a man that claims to be a friend of Ms y/n is requesting an audience.”

“Let him in.”

“Urm, Hello. I’m Matt.” A nervous-looking man entered, his eyes darted around as he licked his lips nervously.

“You dare..” Childe’s eyes narrowed coldly as he recognised the man, it was that bastard that you cheated with.

“I think we have a misunderstanding here!” Matt widened his eyes as he put his hands up in an attempt to calm the harbinger down. “I am Y/n’s childhood friend, I recently just came back from Sumeru to visit my family.“ The poor man was talking like a machine gun as if a bomb is about to set off.

That feeling of dread is coming back again, Childe stared at Matt, waiting for him to continue.

“Y/n is just like a little sister to me and I am really happy she found someone.” When he mentioned you, Matt’s eyes softened for a second. “I wanted to explain to you yesterday but you looked like you were ready to kill me..” he smiled sheepishly.

“What..what did you just say?”Childe’s mind was a whirlwind of panicked thoughts, his instincts screaming at him to find you and beg for forgiveness but he didn’t even know where to begin.

Everything made sense now.

The way you looked so hurt, confused and offended when he confronted you.

“What have I done?” Childe muttered, his face contorted into a horrified expression.

He messed up.

When he went back to their shared home, he was greeted with nothing but emptiness. The house was silent, not a trace of you was left behind. Your matching mugs, the plushies you insisted on keeping, and the photo frames of you and him were all gone.

A letter was left on the table.

__________________________________________________

Dear Ajax,

I went against my whole family and friends to be with you, and I really thought it would be you in the end but turns out, my mother was right. You were not and never would be that man.

I wished I’d never met you, you make me feel sick.

Hope we never meet again.

Y/N

____________________________________________________

As he read, Childe’s hands began to tremble as he clutched at his chest, trying to hold himself together, but the emotions were too overwhelming, raw.

His face was twisted in agony, tears streaming down his cheeks as he read and re-read the words on the page.

He can’t believe he fucked up so badly.

It felt like yesterday when you pressed yourself against his back, whispering how much you loved him. The way you kiss his ears, giggling as you watch his ears turn red under your touch.

Each time he came back from the battlefield tainted with blood and all worn out, all he wants is to see you, hear you call his name so sweetly.

Yet all of these are gone because of his foolishness.

Part 3?

[mylordshesacactus]

VERY soft about my girl Atri tonight tho.

She's a little baby cleric, nineteen, level 2 and one of those is in ranger, raised in a cloister, never been more than a day's travel from her home temple before, but her devotion to the Raven Queen is very real and very very tender.

We're running Death House as the optional intro to Curse of Strahd (so, spoilers if you're avoiding those!) and just. God, I'm so glad I decided to play my girl in this campaign, it's perfect for her.

Atri's defining character trait is that she loves the undead--truly and genuinely, even the mindless or vicious undead, because by their very nature the undead suffer. They're trapped--sometimes in prisons of their own making, yes, but trapped--and, worst of all, very few people seem to care. Even other clerics of her Lady generally view undead as abominations; to be pitied, maybe, and the peaceful ones treated with kindness, but objects of revulsion, an aberration of the natural order, something to be purged.

Atri says: The undead aren't abominations. Necromancers are.

In her world the Goddess of Death makes a promise: All chains are broken. Death means an end--no more joy and memories but no more suffering, no more fear, no more loneliness or pain. No matter what, or what you did in life, bad or good--death ends it. No one can hurt you, and you can't hurt anyone else.

Necromancy breaks that promise. It gives cruel spirits the ability to continue harming others when they should be past all chance of it, and it allows the innocent to continue to suffer. Spirit-binding is an obscenity--you cannot command a soul. No one has that right.

Which means this module has been, just...I couldn't design a scenario to better let Atri shine.

It says a lot about her that, having more than established that the lady of the house murdered her husband and his pregnant paramour using fucked-up necromancy and her vengeful spirit appears to still be around, Atri's response was...to gulp, light incense in her censor, and walk a slow circle around the room, calling out politely to the Lady Elizabeth and offering her some understanding--you must have been very hurt, and very angry. Your husband disrespected you in your own home, and that was wrong of him. I'm sorry you were betrayed that way. Will you talk to me? I'm Atri, Order of the Broken Chain, I'm here to help...

(It says a lot about her, also, that she made no further attempt at reconciliation after finding what she did to her victims. Compassion doesn't mean forgiveness. She just...lit the incense again, called out to what was left of Klara, and very very softly apologized. You were taken advantage of--whether you felt that way or not. And then you were hurt very badly by your employer. They shouldn't have done any of it...I'm sorry. Someone should have helped you...)

The party in and out of character has been pushing Atri to the forefront to do the talking-to-ghosts bit. She's had some lovely, lovely tender conversations with Klara and the kids, telling them how sorry she is, that she and her friends are here to help them...she cut the bindings on the bed where Klara was tortured to death, just as a gesture that might bring her spirit some closure. Broken chains, a promise kept too late. Recited full funerary rites over what was left of the poor woman's body.

Just feeling VERY soft that while we DID ask them important questions about the plot, 90% of Atri's conversations with ghosts in this house haven't been about mystery-solving; they've been about slowly, gently, prying free some of the pain that's kept them trapped in the place just as much as the fucked-up necromancy.

If Atri dies in this prologue, calling it now it'll be because she's not gonna run if it means leaving anyone behind.

[gfcheol]

pairing: jeonghan x reader, wonwoo x reader (seperately)

genre: smut, pwp

word count: 3k

tags: husband!jeonghan, wifey!reader, work colleague!wonwoo, cucking, mild dub/con, grinding, seduction, unprotected sex

summary: jeonghan and his lovely wife seem to have taken a special kind of interest to one of his work colleagues - namely none other than wonwoo.

“did you have fun, love?”, jeonghan asked. you only sighed, leaning into your husband’s tender touch as his arms wrapped around your middle from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. the good food and wine you’ve had spreading a nice cozy feeling of contentment throughout your body, making it all the harder for you not to abandon your dishes and lay down for a nap.

upon hearing you hum in response, han pressed a soft kiss on the side of your head. “you were an absolutely wonderful hostess, by the way.”

“hm, i don’t know, was i? i hope wonwoo didn’t think my cooking was all too bad - i would have made something different if i knew you’d bring him along as well”, you chuckled sheepishly, trying not to sound all too insecure - yet judging by your husband’s slight shift in demeanour, you probably still did. curse your poor acting abilities.

“ah, i should've told you before that we’d stop by for dinner, babe. that was my mistake, no reason for you to feel embarrassed.”

you shook your head, turning your head to face him, a sly smirk painted on your lips. “well- i might forgive you for your horrendous and atrocious behavior if you give me a kiss. but only might - it heavily depends of the sort of kiss you’d-”

spinning your around in his arms, he connected your lips to his in a soft kiss, his hands resting on top of your hips, pulling you close against his body. you swear even after all those years of knowing him, jeonghan still knew how to make you feel like a lovesick girl.

he pulled away from you after a minute, smug smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “am i forgiven yet or do i need to make it up to her highness some more?”

as much as it pained you, you shoved him away, shaking your head as a tinge of red spread all over your cheeks. “hannie, please- i still have to do the dishes”, you told him, your tone apologetic as you continued to scrub the remnants of food off your good plates.

with a sigh, jeonghan leaned against the kitchen counter next to you, grabbing a towel to dry the dishes with, nudging your hip with his. “then we’ll simply have to help you get it done faster.”

a snort, “you horndog.”

he let out a breathy laugh at your playful accusation, “less talking, more cleaning.” you shook your head at that, full on giggling now.

the evening really was way more fun than you had initially expected it to be. anxiety and panic bubbling up within you, when jeonghan had let you know, with a quick text, that he’d bring his colleague from work home for dinner - not even caring to inform you which colleague he’d meant, when he’d arrive and what she should prepare. so you were left to check the fridge, frantically looking for anything that could still be considered edible, all while trying to make yourself look at least somewhat presentable.

wonwoo himself had been very understanding of the situation, apologizing profusely for imposing on your and jeonghan's evening - although you assured him again and again, that it wasn’t any trouble and you were happy to finally get to know him. you found him to be quite charming, his jokes never too crude and his stories never too long or too dull - even his compliments, never too frivalous to be considered offensive, just provocative enough to make gasp once or twice.

you felt your face heat up at the memory of it alone.

“d'you think he liked me?”, you asked, voice almost a bit too casual.

jeonghan halted in his actions, obviously taken aback by your question, “what? of course, why wouldn’t he?”

“i- i don’t know. maybe he only felt compelled to be friendly?” you paused, considering how to properly convey your feelings. “i just- want your friends to like me - is that bad?”

his brows furrowed at that, eyes staring at you with an intensity that made goosebumps run down your spine. “i actually think that it was quite obvious how into you he was."

“what? how so?” the remark was genuine, yet your husband seemed to be irritated at the audacity you had asking that question, attention now fully on you. he took a step towards you again, strong hands holding your shoulders as his mouth whispered his response, “i could see how much he wanted to fuck you, darling. how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.”

your breath hitched at that, grinding your ass involuntarily right against jeonghan’s crotch, drawing out a low hum of approval from his lips. you shivered at the sound alone. “how - oh - did he look at me?”

“like he hated me a little bit for being married to you”, he groaned, his breath hot on your skin. “would you let him fuck you?”

usually you’d feel ashamed to even admit to such a thing, the thought of another man even kissing you repulsive enough for you to shudder in horror. yet there was something about the curiousity that lay in jeonghan's tone that piqued your interest and made your eyes roll to the back of your head, picturing wonwoo's lazy smirk and wild dark hair. your hand flew to the top of the counter, trying to steady yourself on the surface, while jeonghan was still busy grinding against you.

“would you like to watch him fuck me?”

it was as if you flipped a switch within him, feeling his fingers dig into your hips with such force you rarely saw from him outside the bedroom. he dipped his head low, pressing warm kisses to the side of your neck. “fuck, yeah i would.”

if it weren’t for the tight knot of pleasure forming in the pit of your stomach, you’d have gasped out in surprise. “wha- are you serious? don’t joke around, hannie.”

“no, absolutely”, there was no hesitance in his answer, his voice firm and sure as ever. “it’s fun to see men lust over my wife like they have a chance with you - like they can take you from me. and to see you work your - oh fuck - charm on them. you’re so incredibly hot, baby. seeing you fuck him would be so hot.”

the outline of his hardening cock against your lower backside was enough proof of the sincerity in his words. cold fingers traveled up the sides of your torso, hot ones dipped under the waistband of your pants, making you throw your head back onto his shoulder. you shuddered, the combination of the fantasy and his touch almost too much to bear. “would you let him cum inside me?”

the feeling of him rubbing your clit deliciously slow, almost made you collapse right then and there. “ahh fucking hell- yeah. want to fuck you while you’re full of his cum.”

you hissed in pleasure. “maybe wonwoo would be interested in another dinner invitation then.”

the evening went well. or so you hoped at least, but maybe that was just your anxiety seeping through the cracks once again.

wonwoo had gladly accepted your invitation to dinner, seeming almost caught off guard that you two’d want him back at your house after your last meeting. you couldn’t help but wonder if he regretted his lingering looks on you then, feeling ashamed at not masking it better - after all, your husband was an observant man. but jeonghan had only reassured you, soothing your worries with calming words and soft smiles and you did try not to worry. with an emphasis on try.

you wore your fanciest set of lingerie, hoping wonwoo would notice the lace poking out from underneath your shirt whenever you’d lean over; or that he’d take note of the small touches of your hand landing on his thigh that seemed to linger a bit too long for it to be accidents; or maybe even the fact that you’d stare at his lips with such intensity you wondered if his cheeks could grow any redder. jeonghan, of course, played the oblivious husband, too engrossed in the wine and food to pay much heed to what was happening.

it was only after han had to excuse himself, because he ‘had too much to drink’, that he shot you a quick smile as he stood from his chair. time to turn up the heat.

“uh, is it okay for me to still be here? i can leave if han isn’t feeling all too well and call myself an uber”, he said, his pupils blown wide from all the pent up tension and alcohol. you suppressed the urge to smile only with effort.

shaking your head ‘no’, you gave his shoulder a reaffirming squeeze. he really did look handsome in his dress shirt and pants, you mused. if you weren’t married you’d almost blush in the presence of such a good looking man who just so happened to be your type. “but i’m not really tired yet! my husband won’t mind me having a bit more fun until i go to bed, don’t worry.”

judging by the twitch of his hand around his wine glass and unsteady exhale, it was probably safe to say, that you got him right where you needed him. now it was just a matter of seduction and playful flirting - and fortunately enough, you’ve already used your charms more than succesfully on other men.

“do you want to move this to the sofa? way more comfortable than the dining room, don’t you agree?” the smile that tugged on your lips was sweet as you ran your hand through your hair, watching wonwoo finish the rest of his drink in one big gulp - you couldn’t help but admire the handsome profile and your mind wandered to jeonghan. hopefully he’d have as much fun watching as you’d have fucking him. wonwoo cleared his throat, “that’d be more cozy, yes.”

perfect.

his taste surprised you when your mouths finally collided - sweeter than expected. it was such a strange sensation not to have your husband’s tongue running along your lips but his friend’s. everything felt so strangely different from what you were used to - from the warmth of his embrace, to the feeling of his arms pulling you on his lap, tits squished against his tight body.

he let out a groan when you rocked your hips against his, cupping his face in your hands to really relish in having him so close underneath you. oh, you already knew you were going to have fun with him. “you feel so good - shit.”

despite the situation he was in, it was that comment that really flustered him, his eyes widening slightly at your comment. “no reason to sweet talk me anymore, i’m already hard as a fucking rock”, he said, laughing breathlessly.

as if on cue, he thrusted right up against your clothed core, forcing a surprised squeal from your lips. the friction was so delicious, you could hardly wait to feel him inside you creaming you full of his cum. you moaned out his name, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair as your husband's eyes staring at you two from the doorway across the corridor. jeonghan's gaze burning right through you as your pressed wet kisses onto wonwoo’s jawline.

“jesus fucking christ, you’re a catch”, he rasped, fingers playing with the hem of your panties. “can’t believe this is actually happening.”

your eyes met your han's, the primal lust reflecting in them only adding fuel to the fire between your legs. you ran your tongue along the shell of his ear, whimpering when the pads of his fingers finally came in contact with your aching and swollen clit. “god- wonwoo!”, you yelped, grinding down on his bulge.

his response was immediate, mouth swinging open into a perfect ‘o’ shape, the stimulation just enough to make his vision blurry. he set a merciless pace as you held onto him for dear life, hands clawing at his shoulders in a desperate attempt to not succumb to pleasure too soon. wonwoo couldn’t help but grin to himself, his ego feeling almost as well taken care of as his cock.

“you’re already so wet”, he mused, nibbling on the skin of your neck. “is that all for me?” you shuddered under jeonghan’s steady gaze, frantically nodding your head - too busy moaning and mewling to actually form a coherent sentence. you felt wonwoo twitch from under you and you knew what you’d have to do.

peeling your arms from his shoulders, you fumbled for the zipper of his pants, all too desperate to stuff you full while the love of your life was watching. he obliged rather quickly, huffing out a dark chuckle, “easy there, i’ll fuck you soon enough, don’t worry.”

suppressing the urge to roll your eyes, you instead continued to tug on the fabric, offering him a needy, big eyed pout. his resolve melted away in a heartbeat, freeing his erection from its confinements, his eyes still glued to your flushed face - you almost felt bad about how easy it was to wrap him around your finger. almost, that is.

despite telling yourself you wouldn’t, you couldn’t help but compare the angry, hard cock in front of you to your husband’s. he was thinner in length and maybe not as curved as you were used to, but by god the length. you vaguely wondered, if it’d even fit inside you - but before you could entertain the thought any longer, you felt wonwoo run his head through your folds, lubricating himself with your slick. with a tap against your clit and a wink of his eyes, he slipped his head in you and you let out a strangled gasp.

“you sure you can take me in?”, and suddenly all doubts about him fitting, were eradicated from your mind, replaced with spite alone. you managed a smile, “s- so considerate.”

with one roll of your hips, you sank down on him, the veins along his length hitting all your sweet spots, your pussy already trying to clench around the foreign sensation. it had been years since you’ve had anyone else kiss you, let alone fuck you raw, your body already accustomed to jeonghan’s - molded like clay to be his perfect other half. but this was new and exciting, and most importantly, under his supervision. pleasure was running through your veins like molten lava, making your chest heave with every thrust of his hips.

the squelching noise of your bodies moving filled the whole living room, the quiet grunts wonwoo let out only meant for your ears alone. but you didn’t take much note of any of that, chasing your high like your life depended on it, teary eyes looking for jeonghan’s face in the shadows, needing to see how well you did for him. all for him, always.

“where - umpf - can i finish?”, he asked, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. it almost felt like you were ripped from your trance, blinking a few times to slip back into the role of devilish seductress.

“please- inside”, his eyes almost grew double in size at your casual reply, now rutting into you with renewed vigour, balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. “how does jeonghan keep up with you, holy shit.”

and right as you slammed down on him, clit grazing his abs, you felt yourself shudder in pure ecstasy, tongue rolling out of your mouth and eyes crossing. your walls contracted around his throbbing cock, trying to force his hot cum out of him - but wonwoo endured, fucking you through your orgasm with utter concentration. his mouth latched onto your collarbone, arms wrapping around your limp body, pressing you impossibly closer.

“hnn ‘boutta cum”, he whimpered and you only mustered a faint mewl in response. “cum deep inside of you.”

“wo- wonwoo”, you saw jeonghan smile before he vanished in the dark again, heavy tears rolling down your cheeks. thick ropes of cum shot deep inside of you as his hips stuttered for the very last time, his body growing stiff around you, panting from exhaustion.

it didn’t take long until the reality of the situation slumped down on wonwok, his eyes distant and nervous as you pulled out of his embrace, your hole still oozing warm semen. he tucked his soft cock away, suddenly feeling so much less confident and smaller than before - the change in his demeanor almost deafening. yet you didn’t pay much mind to him, still trying to catch your breath.

“you probably know the way out yourself”, you said matter of factly, not trusting your legs to work properly after all that. wonwoo only managed to nod slowly, not meeting your eyes as he muttered a quick ‘goodbye’ and rushed down the corridor.

you smiled as you felt jeonghan's warm hands brush your hair out of your face, welcoming the cool sensation with a quiet hum, leaning into his touch. a chuckle erupted from him, his lips pressing a gentle kiss onto your temple. “did you have fun, love?”

your hand closed around his wrist, trying to pull him closer, still feeling somewhat needy. “hannie.”

he let himself be pulled on top of you, amazed by your flushed face and dishevelled state, his fingers tracing the lovebites his work colleague left on your cleavage. he swore he could literally feel his heart swell with pride at the sight alone. “you’re insatiable.”

you shot him a sheepish smile, rubbing yourself against his erection. “only when it comes to you.”

[impromptu-sketches]

So I’m reading Jinx.

I’m so curious how everything’s going to play out and if there will be a happy ending because in my view there’s no way that Jaekyung is redeemable after everything he’s done so far and will probably continue to do to Kim Dan.

(spoilers ahead)

I mean, poor Kim Dan, he went from in majorly in debt to loansharks, agreeing to have sex with his boss in order to make enough money, to being his boss’s indefinite sex slave in less than a few hours :(

Literally, Joo Jaekyung can only be redeemable if something so life-changing happens to him that his whole personality changes. Like, losing a fight and getting -seriously- injured or being outed/losing his career or Kim Dan saving his life after being close to death or something.

But with his current personality just seeing Kim Dan in pain or falling for him won’t do. Not enough.

Personally, I’m hoping that Kim Dan’s grandmother passes away and while Kim Dan is grieving or supposed to be grieving Joo Jaekyung crosses the line in some way that pisses Kim Dan off and so before the next big fight Kim Dan is on the brink of it and refuses to sleep with him before the match. Then, Joo Jaekyung loses the fight, gets hit in the head, has severe amnesia, and has to slowly regain his memories. Kim Dan, out of the kindness of his heart, comes back to help him because he thinks it’s his fault he got injured, and while rehabilitating and slowly remembering his life, Joo Jaekyung finally realizes how awful of a person he’s been - in general and especially to Kim Dan. When he regains all of his memories, he’s ashamed at the person he was. THEN and ONLY THEN can he be a better person, fall in love with Kim Dan, and they can be happy together.

I mean, can you imagine Kim Dan in that scenario trying to explain to him how they got in the predicament to begin with? “Um, I was just your physical therapist but then you started paying me to sleep with you before your matches and whenever you wanted - and I needed the money because my grandma was unwell. Then you paid off all of my debt and forced me to live here and be your plaything 24/7.” 

I need to see the REGRET I need to see TEARS I need to hear PLEADING APOLOGIES I want him to REFLECT and I want him to SIMP for Kim Dan so bad that he has to BEG for his forgiveness and GET ON HIS KNEES for a chance to even be in the same room with Kim Dan.

[forestdeath1]

According to you Sirius was Walburga's favourite son and they had quite a lovable normal mother son relationship before all the rebel drama.

And in the books he kept Buckbeak in his mother's bedroom and spend hours locked inside that room.

But it is canon he later in life hated her.

What do you think was going through his mind all those times? Was he hating it? Or was he trying to find atleast one good memory with her? Or he didn't even care?

(Also I like to think Sirius looked uncannily similar to his mother. So much so that if he was a woman anybody could have sold him as Walburga herself.)

He wasn't trying to FIND good memories with her. He was trying to FORGET the good memories with her. Poor Sirius argued with Kreacher as if he was arguing with his mother, they were so heavily dependent on each other in their toxicity. Terribly complex and unhealthy relationships.

I think Sirius always deep down couldn't fully understand whether leaving his family was the right thing to do, and whether staying would have changed anything. He hates Grimmauld Place 12 not just because it was a bad place for him; he hates it because it's a living reminder of everything lost - his family, his childhood, his brother, father, and mother, the Blacks. He doesn't want to regret it, so he prefers to think only ill of them. He constantly convinces himself of how much he hates them. But Sirius himself approaches the tapestry and starts conversations about them all. He's always drawn there.

Yes, he will never forgive their blood purism and fanaticism. He ran away to be with James, with Dumbledore, to stand against everything his family had done for centuries, but deep down he knew he left his family, and it was an unhealing wound he tried to mend by trying to be even more useful in the fight against evil, trying to be needed and valuable, constantly reminding himself of who the Blacks really were and what Sirius was fighting against and why he ran away.

Sirius was also so attached to James because James replaced everything for him - literally his entire family. But James couldn't fully heal his wound; he was with Lily. Sirius was always lonely. Without roots, without clan, without a past. A blank slate, on which nothing appeared except for an endless and very deep feeling of loneliness and attempts to become important, valuable, and needed to someone. The only one who somewhat filled this void for him was James. Then Harry.

But Sirius always felt he wasn't worthy enough of all these good people because he was a Black, and the Blacks were one of the reasons why all these good people were dying. He wanted to draw a line between himself and the Blacks, to distance himself as much as possible from them, to not feel all that guilt and shame. This is very similar to feelings towards one's homeland, if your country starts an aggressive war or becomes a dictatorship (this is very well described in the diaries of Germans who fled during fascism or defectors from the USSR). You love your country, but you hate it and want to dissociate from it as much as possible, want to forget that you are of that nation, but that country, that homeland - it's forever in you, in your soul, in your blood, and you'll never get rid of it. This country raised you, it's where you belonged, and in a new one - you're forever a stranger. And no matter how much you're ashamed of it, hate it, your heart will always beat harder when your country is mentioned somewhere.

Don't get me wrong, the feeling of unworthiness wasn't his evident trait, it's very much a deep-seated belief that activated in the toughest situations. The way Sirius sheepishly offers Harry to live with him... it breaks my heart every time.

Sirius is one of the strongest and most tragic figures in the entire series, with one of the most complex fates and characters. Few in the entire series can compare with him in strength of character (there are only three characters who are as strong a character as he is). Fanon Sirius doesn't carry a drop of the tragedy and complexity of character that canon Sirius does. Canon Sirius has so much depth, pain, passion, love, loneliness, that I still discover something new about him every time I reread the books.

As for him resembling Walburga in terms of appearance - I don't know. I always imagined him as a male version of Bella. But perhaps he really does resemble Walburga.

[blacclotusss]

What Can the Damned Really Say to the Damned?

Just a bit of meta on my favorite scenes from episode one of season two!

Louis and Lestat in the Field

At this point and time, using context clues, we know Lestat is conjured up from Louis' mind. Personally, I think Louis conjured him up due to the fact that he's surrounded by dead bodies and the most recent "dead" body he's cared about is Lestat. So now, he's thinking of his past love and the murder of him, the only time he's felt like he murdered someone. "Oh love, I'm merely waiting until you're happy." This seems to be the opposite of what Lestat has done to Louis in season one. He would always try and catch Louis when he was down and make the situation worse e.g. Paul's death, the church turning, the closing of the Azalea, the riots, etc. It's interesting, especially, considering Lestat isn't actually saying any of this. Crazy how Louis' brain is working in this moment. A friend of mine also brought up that Louis is in a period of desperation and despair and I think it may have brought up thoughts of home, the home they left Lestat to die in.

Claudia and Louis' Argument in the Boiler Room

The first time we actually hear, from her own mouth, how much Claudia resents Louis for the fact that Lestat is still looming over them. "I forgave you for messing up my plan, I did not forgive you for bringing him with you." Louis, in that moment, seems to want to make nice with people on their journey and dismisses Claudia's concerns and ideas, which may build even more resentment. "I'm looking for one, just one, that ain't a goddamn bastard!" Her search for vampires seems to be her both wanting answers as well as her own companion to escape the bastards she's encountered as a vampire.

Claudia's Dreams/Nightmares

This one is a bit tricky for me to understand because the only thing I can think of what Louis is trying to say is that she is lying, but I don't think he'd call her a liar. I believe Claudia only said she couldn't dream because Louis was getting on her nerves. I hope to God that is not the angle we're going with because I will personally raise hell for her.

Morgan Asking Louis for Help

Very short point but it's so interesting that Morgan thought Louis would help and I was somewhat surprised that Louis left it alone. I think that those four years have hardened him just a bit and he's over the humans for now. Another point, a bit of racism slipping through that Morgan thought the Black man was going to help.

Daciana and the Fire

Two interpretations of this scene and I'd like to believe that the both of them have some truth to it. One (brought to me by my friend @nakiaslilhoodoo), Daciana and her killing her children relating to Claudia. Even in season one, we see just how much he cares for Claudia, even going so far as to postponing his suicide so that she wouldn't have the memory of her brother dying on the same day as the beginning of her journey of traveling. I think Daciana jumping into the fire after losing her children could show how Louis will lick the fire (internally) once Claudia is gone. 

Two (another point made by a friend of mine, Daciana and Magnus being one in the same in this scene. The both of them walked into the fire after feeling defeated with having no companion. I didn't realize this until a friend brought it up to me and I think it makes the situation even more tragic.

Louis' Speech to Claudia

A very bittersweet moment for me, and the way the trailers and clips are set up makes me believe this may fall apart. I thought I'd feel stronger about Louis telling Claudia about having a shitty life, I still don't think it was quite necessary because I'm sure she knows that and her life was shitty before she even met Louis, but it didn't leave a poor taste in my mouth like I thought it would. The soft words he gave her was what genuinely broke me. I think it hit me because I know Louis genuinely believes what he said to her and how it's her and him against the world, but I know it's going to go left. Even when they held hands together after getting off of the van, they really could be everything if they keep each other close. You could tell by Claudia's face that she's been waiting to hear that from, (Delainey said this as well) but she also seems a bit skeptical and questioning whether he'll stick to his words, which I don't blame her for. And then Louis conjuring up Lestat as he's telling her this...I know there will be problems on the rise.

Louis and Armand in the Bedroom

First of all, the bedroom seems to be gorgeous and I would pick it apart more if it weren't for the bars and the painting in the back. The bars are a bit jarring because I don't know who they would represent. Would it be Louis feeling confined to this relationship and life he's made with Armand or would it represent Armand holding back his emotions and how he feels? And the painting of Jesus and Judas, who betrayed Jesus, hanging in the back is a wild concept. But, I did enjoy the softness each of them displayed with one another. The talk of Claudia's diary pages could have easily blew up into an argument, but they each know each other well enough for it to remain calm. Even Louis' face before he kissed Armand was quite reassuring. Love what I see from these two so far.

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Dark Signs

Astarion x F! Dark Urge, Set in Act 1

18+ violence, death, dark urge shenanigans, pining, complicated feelings, heavy petting, blood drinking, fingering (f!), thigh riding, restraint, oral (f!), menstruating, Astarion being a freak, tenderness

After killing Alfira in her sleep, she can't help but seek him out...

-

"You know, I dont really even care that you killed her," he laughs, eyes unburdened.

The blood still in her hair, she stared at him. A deep and festering war inside her mind at his words.

The poor girl hours dead, she couldn't bear to hide her, to run from what she had done. So she left her there, stared at her beautiful corpse until morning. Until the others woke and discovered her sin.

The rage and disgust in their words, in their hearts were shockingly short lived. Forgiving her too easily. Of all of the transgressions, that scared her the most. They still trusted her, still relied on her.

"Well," She shoved all of her thoughts further down her throat. "I feel terrible about it."

He was the only one she hadn't spoken to about her urges. Had broached the subject with everyone else in camp, if only to ready them. There's something inside me, something that demands blood. They hadn't understood naturally, the gravity of the situation lost on them. But at least they were warned.

Having precious little chance to talk, with him being rather closed off, she hadn't had a chance to alert him.

I am a weapon, dont get closer than you need to.

But his words now, the lack of judgment, the lack of care in his eyes. It... comforted her, despite herself.

She should be punished, in words and coldness, abandonedment. Hells even death, and yet...

Why aren't you afraid of me?

The merriment and spirits floated, the tiefling refugees chattering happily. Not allowing herself any inebriation, she smiled at Halsin. Encouraged him to mingle, to have fun. Leaning in, her hand on his arm to be heard over the revelry.

Feeling the prickle of eyes on her neck, she looked up.

Crimson eyes beckoning to her.

Feeling her stomach flip she turned back to Halsin, letting an easy smile on her face as he reassured her.

No, not this. Not him.

Traveling together since that awful night, she had found herself... fascinated by him.

She had managed to stifle her feelings, keeping her yearning close to her chest. But Gods was it there.

Keeping him in her party he was unavoidable. She had considered leaving him at camp if just to see him less, but he was too good at what he does.

The way his nimble hands would twist when she needed assistance with a locked chest. Drawling voice at her back as they walked. His arrows coming down on high to strike through the chest of an enemy prey right in front of her.

She had touched herself to that memory in her tent only nights ago.

Steeling herself, she approached. Hells, what did he want?

"You know, I never saw myself a hero." He started, wine bottle sloshing in his hand. She eyed it, realizing that he can drink. Assumed that he could only drink blood. Felt another shiver at the thought. She would like to drink his blood for a change.

"But now that I'm here, I hate it. This is awful."

She laughed, surprised. Responding before she could stop herself, "Well you got to kill lots of goblins, that was fun." Felt hot shame rise up her collar at her indiscretion.

He smiled, eyes softening. "That was fun, wasnt it."

The roaring in her chest got much louder.

Allowing herself some banter, they chatted. Flirted, even. Throwing lines back and forth, until she had somehow agreed to meet him later. Alone.

She kept her face light and neutral as they parted ways, but the moment her back was turned from him. Panic. Dear Gods, panic.

Oh this was a problem, a multifaceted problem.

She should not be alone with anyone, especially someone so beautiful. He would make such a pretty corpse.

Pacing in her tent she was a mess. She should stay here, dont go. Dont go to him. For the love of all that is good, do not go.

A vision of his eyes when he fed on her, his mouth when he pouts. The way his breeches hugged his hips, the veins in his forearms.

Her tent flapped shut behind her, feet moving swiftly.

"There you are," He purred, stepping from the treeline. Chest bare, hair catching the moonlight.

No words possible, she pulled her tunic off. Hot with need. Taking her chest bindings off in the same motion.

Saw his eyes widen in surprise. "My, eager are we?" He crooned, stepping closer.

"Shut up," She traveled the distance between them. Fingers in his hair, on his hip. Pulling his mouth down to hers. Lips crashing.

She had to get it out or she would erupt.

He groaned into her, lifting her up to push against a nearby tree. Oh he shouldn't be manhandling her like this.

Wrapping her hips around his waist she kissed him hungrily, greedily. The last meal of a woman on the gallows. The one piece of relief she would allow herself.

Hips already grinding into him, seeking. An animal call. Heat. Madness.

Flipping her onto the ground he began pulling her leathers off. Lifting her hips to help him, the bite of small stones against her shoulders bringing her small clarity. Her pelvis ached, her head swimming.

He looked into her eyes, heavy with lust but something else... a twinge, a hint. Fear, she realized.

Her heart sank, he could feel it. The madness inside her. Slowing, she trailed her hand tender to his cheek.

Looking at her again, his eyes widened. She bared her neck to him.

Leaning down on his forearms, he sank into her. The cold chill welcome against her feverish skin. Trailing a tentative hand into his hair. Her long nails scratching lightly.

A quiet moan into her wound. Felt him shiver against her. Encouragement.

Hand still in his hair she let her other hand slip onto his neck, touching lightly. Trailing up to his ear.

Immediate, he bit down hard on her. Hips grinding against her thigh.

The heat rising again she ran her thumb along the long point, in awe. He groaned into her, wrapping his arms around her waist he hitched her up to him. Chest to chest, straddling. Him still pulling from her neck.

"Oh Gods," She moaned quietly. The hazy miasma of lust overwhelming her again. Hips ablaze, grinding into his cold thigh. The leather of his breeches soaking.

His hand gripped her ass, pulling her harder into his leg. Heard a low growl from his chest.

Panting, she rode against him. His sharp mouth still pinning her in place against him. The slick pressure in her pelvis rising. Hands reaching for his chest, his back, something, anything to ground herself.

His pale ones, quick as lightning, found her wrists. Pulling them against her lower back, snaring them down in one hand. Her eyes hitched back. Yes, restrain me.

Still riding into him, she felt herself getting lightheaded. Though it wasn't unwelcome, Gods, anything to empty her head, knew she was losing too much blood.

"Astarion, stop," She breathed. He groaned into her flesh, still pulling.

Wrapping her thighs strong around his leg, she squeezed as hard as she could. Trying to pull him from his trance.

With the last of her strength she bit him, hard, on the shoulder. Muffled her own moan when she realized she had drawn blood. Her own blood spilling back into her mouth. Oh no, oh fuck.

He pulled off of her, gasping. The pain waking him. Looked, shocked and ashamed, into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Caron."

Hearing her name, her chosen name, her eyes watered. No, she didn't want to hurt him. She could stop.

"I'm okay," She reassured tiredly, the ever present headache receding slightly at the bloodshed. "Are you okay?" She added quietly.

He blinked at her, eyes layered in many emotions. None she could pick out with certainty.

"Darling, I'm splendid." He drawled, lying, she could tell. "Now, if you dont mind I'd like to finish ravaging you."

Confusion spiked through her. Certain that they were done, the spell thoroughly broken.

"Wait," She whispered, as his hands slid to her core. He paused, eyes searching hers.

"You dont have to, I'm okay to stop." She looked into his eyes, hoping her sincerity reached him.

Saw him swallow, eyes wavering for a moment, then coming back.

"Lay back, sweet thing." He hushed, urging her gently onto her back again. Pushing her thighs apart to accommodate him. Sliding down between them.

She sighed as she felt his breath against her thigh, letting her head fall back. Her body responding once again. Realized that the nausea backed away when he touched her. The pain, though still present, distant.

Felt a tear of relief slide down her face, glad he was too far down her body to see it.

Heard a small gasp and looked up, panicked. "Oh," He breathed, fingers swiping up her, holding them to the light. Blood.

She had started her cycle it seemed. Groaning, getting up onto elbows, about to start cleaning up. His eyes flashed.

"Dont you dare," Felt a thrill in her chest, his fingers entering his mouth. Tongue splaying, twisting along his hand. Lost in it.

She clenched, pulsing, against nothing. Her breath hot little gasps.

"This is a gift." He marveled, leaning back down. Moaned at the fresh blood her pulsing had pushed out.

Mouth crushing into her without warning. His tongue working in frenzy. Taking as much of her in as he could.

She moaned loud, arched against him. Hips already squirming.

He hooked his arms around her thighs to keep her from retreating. Slurping, suckling. Tongue crushed velvet, hot, seeking.

When he clamped down around her clit, tongue pulsing, she thought she was dying. Stars blooming behind her eyes. Body going rigid.

One hand coming down on the skin below her navel, flat, a gentle hold.

"Fingers," She whimpered out, his mouth driving her to the brink. But still she needed more.

"What was that, darling?" He mused, lifted to look at her. Gore-dripped mouth smiling.

Oh Gods, the heat. The bloodlust.

"Put your fingers in me. Now." Her voice unrecognizable to her. Low, demanding.

His eyes flashed again, pupils widening. Jaw tightening. Looking down at her like prey.

Oh only if he knew.

His two fingers slid inside her, eyes still trained on hers. Watching her head lean back, hips rising. Watched her shiver as he hooked his fingers. Smiling like a fox that caught a rabbit.

Satisfied, he leaned his mouth back down to his work. Fingers still pulling, slowly.

When the dual sensations hit her, his hungry mouth, his clever fingers, she writhed and whimpered. Hands in his hair, trying her hardest not to pull.

Her body was so tender, every touch tenfold, her cycle thoroughly started. Pinching her sensitive nipple. Clenched down hard on his fingers, pushing out more blood slick. Felt his growl reverberate against her. Tongue lapping around his fingers.

Oh she was close, her limbs feverish. The viper coiled, about to strike.

Her mind flooded. A dagger, plunging. An arterial wave of blood. Them, twisted into eachother, gore smeared. Straddled over their prey. His fingers pushing the viscera inside her.

She shrieked against him. Her end hitting her like an impaling spear. Hands gripping his hair. Arching her back so hard she heard a crack. Eyes screwed shut tight. Vicous waves of annihilating pleasure.

He eagerly lapped up all of the creamy blood slick that poured out of her, rubbing her clit, encouraging more.

She bucked against his hand, clenching again and again. His mouth catching it all.

She fell back, collapsing into the earth. All thoughts, all threatening, gone from her mind.

The night air heavy with their pheromones, the blood. Both smells intoxicating her. A spike of shame.

Well, almost all thoughts.

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

It had slipped out, a near whisper, before she could stop herself.

He had laid down next to her, looked over at her now. Eyebrows threaded together, confused. Shit.

Stared at her for a moment then he laughed, face relaxing. "Oh please, you killed someone. Darling, I think you forget you're in the presence of a monster." Leaned down to draw little circles on her sternum. "You're not the only one who craves blood around here."

"You're not a monster."

He looked up at her, his eyes round. Soft. Her heart fluttered. Then they settled back into their guard.

"Common minds would disagree." Smiled at her, head tilting. "But you're not common, are you?"

Now she laughed, snorting. Everything about this so funny suddenly. Two killers seeking eachother in the grass.

He laughed with her, her light seeming to overcome him.

"Gods we should kill someone together."

She laughed even harder, falling into him.

~

Part 2

[criminalskies]

Rome ugh helpppp! I’m dying over seeing these young TG pics and they’re making me think of fratboy!Hotch but also I’m in the mood for hotch angst 😅

Like imagine Aaron and reader going to the same boarding school and they def had a thing with each other but he started dating someone else because he chickened out/didn’t think he had a shot with reader? But what really sucked is that he and reader had a falling out bc of a rumor Hotch’s gf at the time started since she was jealous of reader? And they never talk the rest of boarding school 🥺

Thennnnn they start college at GWU and reader’s friend takes them to a frat party since friend’s significant other is a member of said frat where they see Aaron as frat pres! And all the memories come flooding back of the man they loved 😭 but then reader tries to escape and oh no, they’re spotted by AARON who stops them from leaving?

Then they have a brief convo but reader ends up crying and running away and our poor boy is🥲

So then since the incident, reader’s friend and Hotch are in cahoots to try to get reader and Aaron to FINALLY get together and everything’s not working!! But one day reader and friend walk to a spot special to reader and surprise surprise AARON is there all nervous and shy with a cute picnic with all the fancy fairy lights and readers food! And reader tries to stay mad at him but then our boy starts crying and says how sorry he is and how much he never stopped loving reader. Then they have a mature adult conversation, kiss and FNALLY get together 😊

Sorry if that was long, my Hotch brain goes wild sometimes lol

fratboy!hotch honestly runs my mind 24/7 tbh because when hotch was even a little bit young and wild and free there would be nothing and i mean nothing stopping me from falling head over heels for him.

I headcanon hotch as having had a fling or two at boarding school, in my mind this was when he explored his more bicurious side but I can basically just see him falling for somebody at boarding school because what the hell else is there to do once your homework is all done?? But omg poor reader :(((((( having him be too much of a baby to pursue you, so you two stay friends but then he lets some stupid girlfriend ruin his connection with his favourite person bc he wasn't brave enough to stand up for you the way you deserved!

So then, like all high school crushes and squashed friendships, the two of you drift apart, finding your own circles with whom you feel involved, but not seen the way your person used to see you. Reader knows no one will ever understand them like Aaron did, when he was theirs. :( and vice versa. I just know that as Aaron grows as a person and matures socially he realises he should have defended you with every bone in his body. He should never have let old girlfriends he didn't even really love ruin his relationship with you, the one real person he ever met in high school. He misses you now but he knows he ruined his chances and now you don't really want to hear from him, he doesn't even think he deserves your forgiveness. Deep down he knew you had feelings for him, and he knew how badly it would have hurt you when he didn't defend you against those kids. He knew they saw him as one of them so he could have made a real difference but now he knows how badly he blew it. How badly he hurt you.

So when your friend drags you to his frat party, he takes it as a sign, a sign that the universe is trying awfully hard to give him another shot. He sees you before you see him and he puts his drink down, abandoning his game of beer pong in favour of trying to make amends with you. But when you look up and see his tall frame crossing the room to come find you, you panic. All you can remember is the teasing and the painful words his ‘friends’ spoke to you and how he stood by letting them just have at you. Even when the rumour spread across the entire school, it was all too late for him to stop it, but he could have defended you. He could have told the truth. He *should* have told the truth.

So you feel your fingers and toes getting cold, your face getting hot at the memory as you tap your friend on the shoulder, waving a goodbye and you bolt. But moving through crowds at your height is never easy, and guys take your persistent pushing as a sign you want to grind on them on the dance floor, one of them grabbing you by the waist and bringing himself towards you, but you shove him off. You eventually make it to the open front door, Greek lettering marking the entrance but it’s guarded by a familiar face. Aaron.

You tell him you have to go, that you shouldn’t be here, and he says he’ll walk you back to your dorm then. Ever the gentlemen (only when it least seems to matter). But then he says it. He calls you ‘red’. Only Aaron ever got to call you red because only Aaron knew the way your ears grew red whenever you were about to swing your fist at someone. When your anger bubbled up so high you’d just explode. Funnily enough, it’s him saying that this time that makes your ears grow red, as tears gather in your eyes. Your jaw is clenched tight as you tell him he lost EVERY right to call you that after what he put you through. After he left you to fend for yourself with those, those snakes. You don’t quite have it in you to punch him, a piece of you forever loving the shy, bright little boy who had changed your whole perspective on life. You settle for smacking your hands against his chest, unable to contain the hurt you still feel for how he left you.

He looks confused, trying to grab your hands and stop you from pounding against his chest and you realise, then that he never knew. No one ever told him you could hear him backstage at your school play, when his mic was still on. The whole school heard him spinning a web of lies about how you were head over heels for him and he’d had to fight you off with a chair and a whip. He never knew you stormed out of the school auditorium and had to lock yourself in your room for the last week of school term. He never knew how much you cried over what he did. How he lied to his friends to make himself seem cooler. He never told them how HE had been the one to admit he had feelings. How HE had pulled you in for a kiss, then pushed you off when the closet door opened and his girlfriend started telling everyone there that night what a slut you were. How you pined for him.

He really is that stupid. You push yourself away from him, stomping off towards your dorm, telling him that if he wants to talk to you ever again, you’ll be the one operating the chair and the whip. He stands crestfallen on the path, mind reeling with memories of when he’d used those words against you. He feels the air sucked from his lungs by the cold night air and he’s frozen there. He realises now why you’d made such an effort never to see him again. He realises now how he’d sunk his knife into your back that night.

You go about your life on campus, getting to know your professors, your classmates, and trying desperately hard not to think about a certain raven haired boy who you really wanted to forget even existed right now. Until one day, your friend called you, telling you to meet them under the secluded trees, behind the southern field of campus for a smoke so you could finally spill to her what had happened that night at the party to make you run away so fast.

Only when you arrive, your friend is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Aaron is there. Wearing his high school letterman jacket, with the most hopeful, sad look on his face. He has a bouquet of flowers and jars of fairy lights decorate the big blanket. There’s handmade pastries and your all time favourite, red velvet cupcakes waiting for you. You cross your arms, excited to hear just what he has to say for himself. And then a tear slides down his beautiful cheek, as he tells you how sorry he is for being a lovestruck idiot. He tells you he was infected with cooties and he was letting his dick think for him instead of his brain and that he should have defended you, and there is no excuse for what he did. He tells you more importantly how terrified he was when he couldn’t find you at school that next week. He tells you how he drove by your house on his way to school every morning hoping he’d see you walking out towards the bus stop, or that he’d see your light on in your room, but he never did.

Your mom came out one morning, heading to work and told him you’d gone to live with your dad in Washington. And his heart shattered. He felt so helpless and sick he thought it might have stopped. He never knew you’d heard him that night, but that’s no excuse for him ever even saying those things. What he should have said; was how much he loved you. He should have told his buddies in the play about how you’re the only reason he ever even made the football team, because you were there to push him harder each time he wanted to quit. You got him his scholarship to GWU. He owes his life to the little girl whose braces got caught on her bracelet. He would give anything to be able to go back and tell her how much he loved her beautiful hair and her buttercup lunchbox. But most importantly, how much he loved her spirit. Her smile that could pull his head out of his father’s revolving stormcloud around Aaron’s home. Her laugh that could cut through the thrumming in his ears when he couldn’t answer the teacher’s question because he had copied Red’s homework the night before.

He tells you he will spend his lifetime making it up to you if you’ll let him, because for better or for worse, Miss Grogan had announced the two of you husband and wife in the playground in the first grade. And he made his vows. Your Aaron, promises you that he will uphold them, even if you punch him in the teeth each time you see him. Because he deserves it. After all, he made you Red.

[gvfgal]

2. Our Old Friend, Death.

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

*18+, minors, exit stage left.

A/n: Chapter two is here! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist, and as always, enjoy <3

Warnings: Mentions of death, smoking, alcohol consumption, mentions of poor relationships with parents, funeral mumbo jumbo, language, violence, fighting, blood, allusions to and brief mentions of sex, wound care.

Word count: 5k

As Jake’s eyes slowly fluttered open, he found himself enveloped in an unfamiliar room. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the walls adorned with art and posters he didn’t recognize. As he began piecing together the pieces of the night before, a slow smile began to spread across his face. You were no longer laying beside him, but he could still taste you on his tongue, along with the whiskey he’d slightly overindulged in. But his smile quickly faded as the weight of the day ahead settled upon his shoulders.

Rex’s Funeral.

After years of avoiding it, Jake was finally faced with confronting the complex emotions that had plagued him for so long. Today, he would have to navigate the difficult landscape of love, loss, and forgiveness, reconcile with the legacy left behind by his father, and bid him his final farewell.

With a heavy sigh, Jake rose from the disheveled bed, pulling on his boxers, then his jeans. He lifted his shirt to inspect, but when he remembered what it had been used for the previous night, he decided to do without it.

He made his way out the bedroom and into the kitchen where you were seated at the table with a mug of coffee, it’s scent permeating through the air. Your knees were pulled to your chest as you gazed out the window, but when you noticed his presence in the room, your day dreaming stopped. Your eyes were soft as you watched him hover in the entry way, wearing his scars like his sunday’s best, his lack of shame warmed you.

“You talk in your sleep.”

Jake chuckled as he crossed the room to sit across from you, “yeah, I’ve been told that before.”

“Better be careful with that,” you taunted, “might mess around and tell someone your deepest darkest secrets.”

He leaned forward onto he table with a playful grin, similar to the bar the night before, “did I tell them to you?”

You raised your cup to your lips with an indifferent shrug, “maybe.”

Jake’s face faltered, clearing his throat uncomfortably at the possibility, while you enjoyed every second of it.

“You want some coffee?” you changed the subject, deciding to give him a break. He shook his head, “I need to start getting ready for the… the funeral.”

He peered out of the window you were previously gazing out of, it giving the perfect view of Rex’s untouched house. He felt around in his pocket for the key that Ace handed him the day before, gripping it so tightly that the ridges threatened to slice into his skin.

“Do you mind if I get ready here? I haven’t gotten the key to Rex’s place yet.”

You watched him curiously, the way he furrowed and unfurrowed his brows as he continued looking outside, a clear battle waging inside his mind.

“Sure. I’ll be around for another hour or so. My coworker Angela is coming to pick me up for inventory at the tavern.”

Jake eyed Rex’s house for a moment longer before he turned and smiled at you wearily, “thanks.”

After he was done getting dressed, Jake stood in front of the mirror, his hardened reflection staring back at him. It was a rare sight to see himself cleaned up this way, a stark contradiction to his usual rugged appearance. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down before adjusting his collar, feeling the unfamiliar fabric against his skin. For a moment, he allowed himself to appreciate how good he looked, he dared even say he looked handsome.

But as his gaze lingered on his reflection, memories began flooding his mind. The last time he’d dressed up like this was for another funeral, the funeral of his best friend, Jaxon. The pain of that loss still cut deep, a wound that would never fully heal, and therefore would haunt Jake for the rest of his life.

Though he always blamed Nicky for Jaxon’s untimely death, it was Rex who put the three of them in that position in the first place, meaning he was just as much to blame, if not more. Their relationship had always been complicated, but that event had pushed it to it’s breaking point. Jake resented his father for prioritizing the Barbarians over everything, including the safety and well-being of those closest to him.

And now, here he was, on his way to bury him. The irony wasn’t lost on Jake, life had a twisted way of bringing things full circle. As he continued to stare, he wondered if he would feel closure after today, if the buried anger and resentment would find some resolution. Or perhaps, it would only deepen the complexities and conflicts within him.

You were seated on the couch in front of the Tv when he returned, craning your neck to take in his appearance.

“Well you sure do clean up nice,” you stated mater of factly.

Jake’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and you felt the strange urge to go and hug him, but you refrained.

“I gotta get going.”

You nodded, “okay.”

He made his way towards the door, but stopped just as his hand curled around the handle, turning back to look at you, “what’s your real name, Cherry?”

The tv was the only sound to be heard in the room for a long stretch of time. There was a reason you hadn’t told him your name up front, and it wasn’t for the sake of flirting. You didn’t trust him, not yet anyways. But as he stood there at he door, looking so innocent as he was on his way to do one of the hardest things a person had to do, you released all your inhibitions.

When you finally revealed the answer, a real smile crept onto his face, “that’s beautiful. I like it.” Light poured into the room as he pulled the door open, “I think I’ll stick to Cherry, though.”

The sun was blinding he stepped outside, but Jake could see a woman milling about in front of his dad’s house. Confused, he made his way down the porch until he could see the woman clearly.

“Ma?” She whipped around in his direction, smiling like nothing was out of the ordinary, as expected, a cigarette already hanging out of her mouth.

“The hell are you doin’ over at Riley’s?”

He was already standing in front of her before he answered, completely changing the subject, “no what the hell are you doing here?”

She pinched her cigarette between her fingers and snuffed it onto the ground before putting her hands on her hips, “do you really think I’d miss the opportunity to see that motherfucker get put six feet under?”

At first Jake was mad, angry that she had the nerve to show up there, but with an answer like that, he couldn’t stay mad. He shook his head with a laugh, “only you would say some shit like that about a dead man on the day of his funeral.”

His mother pulled him into a tight hug, and he hesitated before returning the gesture, “Oh I’m just kidding a little,” she pulled away and beamed up at him, “I really just wanted to come ad support you.

“Support me?” Jake chortled, “it’s a funeral mom. Rex’s funeral.”

“I know I know,” she dismissed as she began rubbing her thumbs across his face, so in awe of the man her son had become. “I know you weren’t his biggest fan, hell, neither was I,” her face softened, “but that doesn't mean putting him in the ground is gonna be any easier.”

Jake hadn’t seen his mother in almost three years. Before that, it had been 2 years, and before that, another year and a half. Their relationship, if possible, was a lot more complicated than the one had had with his father. For as long as he could remember, his mother was popping in and out of his life. Days after his second birthday, she told Rex that she no longer wanted to be with him, and that she was leaving. When he woke up the next morning, she was in fact gone, but had left a tiny smiling Jake behind, and from then on, it was just him, Rex, and the rest of the Barbarians.

She’d come back and play house every once in awhile, whenever things between her and her latest boyfriend were shot down in flames. Those times, Jake remembered, were some of the best times of his life. Both of his parents under one roof, existing like a proper family.

But of course, that never lasted long. It was only a matter of time before she’d dissapear again, walking out of Jake’s life like it was the easiest thing for her to do. She only ever stayed around long enough to stir up trouble and leave when the pressure got too tough.

In anyone’s opinion, all of Jake’s disdain should’ve been reserved for her, but in his mind, things were a lot different. Sure, Vicky wasn’t the greatest person, and her six month runs in Genoa hardly qualified her as a mother, but she’d caused a lot less grief in Jake’s life than Rex did. She wasn’t the reason his best friend was dead, that was Rex who held that title.

She was still staring up at him with a somber smile, and Jake finally grinned back, “it’s good to see you, ma.”

You trailer door swung open again, similar to the way it had the day before, and both Vicky and Jake turned in your direction. They watched as you jogged down the stairs just as Angela’s car pulled up on the curb. You gave Jake a small wave before ducking down into the car, a few seconds passing before it began making it’s way down the street.

Vicky watched until you were out of sight, “who the hell was that?”

The grin on Jake’s face spread wider as he too watched the car drive off, “that’s Cherry.”

The air inside the dimly lit funeral parlor was heavy with a sense of reverence and solemnity. It was a place where the rituals of life and death intertwined, where the Barbarians prepared to bid farewell to their fallen leader in their own unique way. Funerals for the Barbarians were known to be distinct, incorporating elements of tradition and honor rarely seen in other biker gangs.

As Jake stepped through the doors, his eyes swept the gathering crowd. Dressed in their classic funeral attire— black suits, crisp white shirts, and ties— the Barbarians stood out, a stark contrast against the backdrop of mourning.

His presence beside Vicky was immediately noticed by Ace, who approached them with a nod of acknowledgment.

“You look sharp, kid,” he complimented Jake, his voice laced with a mix of respect and underlying tension. He turned his attention to Vicky next, “long time no see, Vick. I’m surprised you were bold enough to show your face around here,” he remarked with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Never one to back down, Vicky took a bold step in Ace’s direction. “You Barbarians don’t scare me any,” she retorted, her voice dripping with defiance. With a determined stride, she moved past them, searching for her seat amidst the somber rows of pews. Ace’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, an unspoken admiration glimmering in his eyes, before he refocused his attention on Jake.

“So, are you ready?” he asked, his voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. Jake felt a nervous energy swirling within him, but he maintained a cool facade, doing his best to hide his apprehension from one of the few people who knew him best.

“Yeah. Yeah I got this,” he assured with a nod of his head.

The organist began playing, signaling the start of the service, and the group of men crowded around the room began to disperse to their seats, Jake and Ace finding a spot on the front pew beside Vicky.

The officiant took the podium and began speaking, and at the very same time, Jake’s mind checked out. The first half of the service seemed to blur by as he sat in a haze of thoughts and emotions, the weight of Rex’s absence hanging heavily in the air. Words of rememberance and heartfelt tributes echoed through the room, and Jake did his best to listen. But most of the words slipped by him, lost in the maelstrom of his own thoughts.

Then, through the ebb and flow of the ceremony, the officiant’s voice rang out again, cutting through the haze. He had called Jake’s name, summoning him to the front to deliver the dammed eulogy. Vicky gave him a pat on his leg for encouragement, and he stood, sauntering up to the podium to look over the sea of people that had shown up in Rex’s honor.

Jake’s heart was pounding in his chest, the well written and eloquent eulogy he’d worked on burning a hole in his pocket. As much as he wanted to read it, he knew that this was the last moment he’d have to say what he really felt, not just what he’d rehearsed.

He gripped tightly onto either side of the podium, looking from Ace, then to his mother, before he opened his mouth to speak.

“I wanna uh, thank everyone for coming to… celebrate the hell of a life my dad Rex lived.” Ace smiled wearily, sending Jake another nod, he knew if he were standing beside him, he’d probably be patting him on the shoulder.

“He wasn’t always… easy to get along with, you know? We had our fair share of ups than down, and to be honest, there were more downs than ups.” Jake’s eyes found the closed casket positioned below him, a wave of uncertainty surging through him, “Rex pushed me… hard, to join the Barbarians. Truthfully, sometimes I felt like I was just another piece of his… big biker puzzle,” he chuckled. “But hey, that was his way of showing love, I guess. It was twisted, messed up, but it was his way.”

Jake chewed at his lip as everyone focused on him so intently, “we didnt see eye to eye on a lot of things, and there were times I couldn’t even stand the sight of him. The scars he left, they’re not just physical, they’re emotional too.” He shook his head in disbelief as the next words floated out of him, “but here’s the thing.., deep down, despite everything we’ve been through, there’s still love. Messed up as it sounds, theres a strange kind of love buried beneath the mess we had.” He looked back onto the crowd, “he was dedicated to the Barbarians, you know? It was like his whole life revolved around it, even when it meant putting the gang before me. And I’ll be the first to admit that it hurt, hell, it still hurts. But over the years, I’ve come to realize that’s just who he was. The Barbarian blood ran, no, runs, thick in his veins. He lived for it, and if he needed to… he’d die for it.”

“Now as I stand here today, stumbling my way through this eulogy, I cant help but feel a jumble of emotions. It’s- it’s like a hurricane of memories and regrets just, waging their own silent battle. Yeah, I didn’t always see eye to eye with my old man, but. He was still my dad,” his voice faltered, “flawed, messed up, but my dad.”

The odd feeling of tears stinging at the back of his eyes caused him to clear his throat, powering his way through the rest of the speech.

“So yeah, as we say goodbye to Rex today, I want to honor his memory in my own way. Me stepping back into the brotherhood, it’s not because it’s what he wanted, but its because it’s a part of who I am, too. It’s about embracing the tangled mess of love and pain that was our relationship, and finding some kind of closure, some kind of redemption for all that was lost.”

“In the end, my father was a man of many contradictions. He wasn’t perfect, far from it. But he was a leader, and he found his purpose in this life. And maybe, just maybe, he found some kind of peace in it too,” Jake let out a heavy sigh, “so here’s to you, old man. Ride free now, wherever you may be. Your memory will always be with us, in the rumble of the engines and the wind in our faces. Thanks for the love, thanks for the scars, and thanks for being my dad.”

The entirety of the Barbarians stood from their seats, a loud chorus as they recited the familiar phrase as one, “in life, we ride together. In death, we ride forever!”

Jake made his way back to his seat as the weight of his words lingered in the air and a somber silence took over. As he settled down beside Vicky, she turned to him, her eyes filled wit pride and compassion.

“You did good, baby,” she whispered warmly. Her words brought a flicker of comfort to Jake’s heart, a brief respite amidst the emotional turbulence. Though he hadn’t expected her to be there in the first place, he appreciated her support, knowing she understood the complexity of the feelings he possessed.

But even as he sat there, surrounded by the presence of his biker family, a deep sense of unrest gnawed at him. The funeral, though a significant milestone, didn’t provide the closure he had hoped for. Instead, it marked the beginning of a new chapter in his life— one that entwined him further with the Barbarians.

As the ceremony came to a close, the guests began to disperse, but Jake sat and stared fiercely at the coffin. He was bracing himself for the journey ahead of him, knowing that the only way to survive was to embrace it fully. It would test his mettle, reshape his identity, and forge stronger bonds that would defy the boundaries of time and distance.

Once the graveside service ended, Jake lingered about the plot as waves of people came to offer their condolences. He accepted them, because that's what he was supposed to do, but a part of him felt guilty for doing so. Was it right to accept them when he was halfway glad that Rex was gone?

He found himself watching the casket constantly, suspended above the six foot hole in the earth that would soon own it forever. Briefly, his mind flashed back to the day that Jaxon's casket was being lowered into the ground, the memory shooting daggers through his chest.

The crowd of people slowly thinned, and soon enough, there was only Jake, Vicky, and a few of the Barbarians. Vicky had been giving her son his space to allow people to pay them his respects, and once he was finally alone, sitting on one of the folding metal chairs, she approached him.

She sat beside him without saying a word, only watching as a soft breeze blew across his face and sent his wavy locks swaying.

"So, where are you running off to, now?" Jake asked her, his eyes till trained into the distance.

Vicky sighed as she looked away from his face, mirroring his stature.

"Back to Florida, probably," she sighed, "that's where I've been the past five months."

Jake nodded, but had yet to look at his mother. This is what Vicky did, he was used to it. But at that moment, he was vulnerable, and he suddenly felt like his eight year old self, watching his mom walk right back out of his life like it was the easiest thing to do.

"Jake, look at me," Vicky spoke again. Jake waited a few seconds before complying.

"I want you to promise me that you'll be careful," she pleaded, her small fragile hand covering his, "please."

"Mom I-"

"No," Vicky cut him off, "I need you to listen to me."

And he did.

"I know that I haven't been the best mother to you," she began, Jake could feel her fragile hands trembling in his own, "and I'm sorry for that. But you're my baby, my only baby boy."

Jake let out a deep sigh, letting Vicky continue, "growing up here, in Genoa, around the Barbarians, I've seen so much death and destruction, so many wives burying their husbands... so many mothers burying their sons," she lifted her hand to cup his cheek, a somber smile casted on her face as she gazed into his eyes.

Moments like this between the two were rare, Vicky always wore a hard exterior, she had her rough upbringing to blame. And Jake was no different. But that's what made those moments so important. When those brief moments of vulnerability peeked through, Jake was more willing to listen, and Vicky was more willing to speak.

"Jake I don't want you dying before I do," she chortled, forcing down the tears that threatened to smear her thick black eyeliner, " 'cause I don't know who's gonna deliver my eulogy if you do."

That wall was slowly beginning to form again; humor being used to mask what she really wanted to say.

If you die, I might just die, too.

But Jake had heard her loud and clear. He reached down to pull his mother into a tight hug, running a hand along her back as he did so.

"Promise me you'll do everything you can to survive," Vicky whispered as she hugged him back.

"I promise, ma. I promise."

Jake walked his mother to her car and the two said their final goodbyes, embracing one more time.

"Hey do me a favor," Jake offered, leaning down to look at Vicky through her open window.

"What's that, son?"

"Try not to get in any trouble out there?" he smirked.

Vicky laughed as she slid her knockoff Prada sunglasses over her eyes, "oh Jake, it wouldn't be me if I didn't stir up a little trouble."

And with that, she was gone. Jake watched her disappear down the long road out of the cemetery before making the short walk back to his bike. A long ride out in the desert would do his mind good.

The atmosphere of the tavern matched that of the funeral home, a rare occurrence that only happened on evenings such as this one. Slow country music played from the jukebox rather than the usual rock, and the typical loud hum of conversation was nothing but hushed whispers.

Jake had isolated himself from most of the gang, alone in a corner of the bar, strangely wishing you were there to keep him company. However, his solitude was short lived before Nicky ambled over to him, sitting beside him with a smug grin, setting his glass on the counter.

“So Jake, how does it feel to be back?”

Jake cut his eyes at Nicky before raising his beer bottle to his lips, “I haven’t decided yet.”

Nicky scanned the bar before leaning in to hiss, “don’t think that just because Rex is gone that you can waltz back in here and start taking shit over,” he shook his head, “doesn’t work like that around here.”

Jake took one more swig from his beer and sat it down, his eyes rolling in Nicky’s direction. He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure.

“Nicky, I just buried my father. Do we really have to do this right now?”

It was very clear that Nicky was simply trying to get under his skin, using the funeral as a hopeful weak spot to challenge him. But Jake was in no mood for it, in fact, he found that his patience was particularly thin at the moment, no matter how calm he appeared on the outside.

Nicky waited nine long years fo the chance to undermine him, tired of living in the shadow of the Barbarian Prince.

“You always were the golden boy, huh?” he spat, almost in an astonished way, “getting praised for doing absolute jack shit, all because your Rex’s kid.”

Jake’s jaw began to tick as Nicky countinued to press, but he tried his hardest to remain cool. However, Nicky was nothing if not persistent.

“You’re not built for this life, Jake,” he chuckled bitterly, “I mean hell, you up and ran out of Genoa with your tail tucked between your legs all because you couldn’t handle Jaxon-”

The mention of the name coming from Nicky’s mouth was enough to break the last bit of equanimity Jake had left. He flew out of his seat, knocking it to the ground with a loud thud as he crowded into NIcky’s space. He stood as well, the two now chest to chest.

“Don’t fucking say his name,” Jake spat, his fists clenching at his sides as his chest heaved.

The entire bar had their attention on them, all waiting in anticipation of the inevitable. Ace crossed his arms over his chest with a shake of his head, murmuring, “here we go.”

Another grin spread across Nicky’s face, “still sore about that, are we?”

There was only a split second between the last word leaving his mouth and Jake’s fist connecting with his face. The two crashed into each other, blow after blow being thrown as they stumbled into the bar top then to the ground. Jake’s beer bottle toppled off the counter and shattered on the floor beside them, a rogue piece slashing him across the eyebrow.

A couple of the guys began rushing towards them to put a stop to it, but Ace stepped forward and held a hand up, “let ‘em have it. This one’s been brewing for a loonggg time.”

Jake was merciless as his fists collided with any part of Nicky he could connect with, and Nicky’s punches were just as angry. Adrenaline prevented him from feeling the sting of the cut on his head, but he knew it was there as blood dripped down onto Nicky’s shirt in his peripheral.

The fight lingered on, and when Ace realized that neither of them were letting up, he and Madcap stepped up and took a hold of each of them.

“Alright, alright you two, that’s plenty good,” Ace bellowed as he wrangled Jake away from the debris. Steeljaw had to step in to assist him in getting Jake out the door, and once outside, the cool night air was enough to snap Jake out of his fury.

He wiped a stream of blood from his face as he began pacing, the pain in his eye and knuckles beginning to set in. Ace assured Steeljaw he had control of the situation, and he dissapeared back inside.

“You alright, kid?” he questioned as his eyes tracked his movements.

“That motherfucker,” Jake paused to spit blood into the dirt parking lot and take a deep breath, “that motherfucker has the strongest fucking face ever. I think I fractured my fucking knuckle.”

Ace stared at him in disbelief as silence stretched on before they broke out into laughter. Ace shook his head, “your’e crazy, man.”

Jake was hunched over as he tried to control his breathing. He felt a good sense of release after the brawl, letting most of his frustrations out on Nicky, one of the most deserving people. His eyes found Ace’s, and by the look he returned, he could tell that he could see the nagging sadness behind them.

“Why don’t you go home? I know it’s been a long last couple days. Get some rest, and we’ll see you at the meeting on Monday.”

Jake stood upright and nodded, “I think I’ll do that.”

It was only going on eight o’clock, but Ace was right, it had been a long last few days, and Jake was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He mounted his bike and brought it to life, giving Ace a salute before pulling out of the parking lot.

As he turned onto his street, it appeared as if Rex’s house had a gray storm cloud looming over it. He parked on the street in front of it, staring for as long as his eyes would allow him before turning to look at your trailer, a light still on in your living room.

It wasn’t on his own accord that he made his way up your porch, and it wasn’t on his accord that he knocked. And when you opened the door with that cute curious expression that you wore often, it wasn’t on his own accord that the air was knocked from his chest.

“Jake,” you frowned, “what are you doing here?” Your eyes fell to the cut on his eye, then down to his angry red knuckles, “what happened?”

His tired gaze found yours, a weak smile spread across his face, “I kinda don’t wanna talk about it, I just wanna forget about it,” he raked his eyes down your exposed legs that your oversized hoodie did little to cover, “do you think you can help me with that?”

You stepped outside and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close as you planted a soft kiss onto his split lip. His hands found your waist as he kissed you back just as gently, his breath ghosting across your skin.

“I think I can help you with that.”

An hour and a half later, Jake was seated on your toilet lid as you stood between his legs, cleaning the cut on his eye, something you probably should’ve done before having sex.

He was motionless as you dabbed the dried blood away with a cotton ball soaked in peroxide, “haven’t even been here two days and you’re already stirring up trouble,” you smiled and shook your head. “What are we gonna do with you Jake Kiszka?”

He was leaning back against the porcelain, his body tense from the pain of his injuries. His eyes were fixed on you, but as you were completely focused on your task, he couldn’t help but be captivated by your beauty. The softness of your features, the gentle way you moved, it all seemed too precious for the dismal world you guys found yourself in there in Genoa.

In that moment, he felt a strange surge of protectiveness towards you, a longing to shield you from the harsh reality of your surroundings. He still didn’t know you very well, but he felt like a girl like you deserved to be somewhere else, somewhere vibrant and alive. A place where the sun kissed sandy beaches and crystal clear waters stretched as far as the eye can see.

“Can I ask you something, Cherry?” he muttered into the silence.

Your eyes met his, “sure.”

His hand came to clutch the back of your knee, his thumb rubbing small circles against your skin, “what are you doing here? In Genoa?”

Your expression dulled for a split second before you chuckled softly, “I thought Ace already told you that. I came here to take care of Riley.”

You tossed the cotton ball in the trash can and picked up the tweezers from the counter, leaning in to remove a small shard of glass still lodged in his eye. He winced, curling his fingers tighter around your leg.

“Yeah but you guys weren’t really close like that,” he hissed at the pain, “No one even knew he had a kid. Plus, he’s been dead almost two years now.”

Your mind raced at his questioning. He was right, the revelation of your connection to Riley came as a shock to all the Barbarians when you popped up in Genoa, and his absence of nearly two years only added to the confusion surrounding your circumstances. Most people would’ve jumped ship at the first opportunity, yet here you were.

As you stared into Jake’s eyes, you felt a mixture of fear and vulnerability. There was more to your decision to stay in town, but that was a secret you guarded closely. You weren’t sure if it was something you should reveal yet, if ever, so for the time being, you had to do your best to maintain face, stick to your story by all means.

Not a word was spoken as you continued to eye one another, Jake’s eyes fiercely unwavering as if he could see past the neutral expression on your face. You wondered if he was privy to the hidden truth that you were so desperate to keep hidden. You also wondered what the consequences would be if he did know the truth, would it fracture the unsuspected fragile bond the two of you had formed? Would he even be able to look at you the same if you let him in on all the darkness on your past?

You tossed the old cotton ball in the trash and soaked a new one, “you know I dated Nicky when I first got here,” you scoffed, “if you can even call it that.”

Jake’s brow that wasn’t being tended to peaked on his face, “is that right?”

You shrugged, “it only lasted about two weeks. Nicky’s an awful person, and I’ve had enough of awful people in my life. So I ended things before they could even really get started. And after that I told myself I’d never sleep with another Barbarian again.”

“What changed?”

You stopped to give him your attention again, bringing your fingers to rub across his bruising lip, “you’re so much better than the rest of them, Jake. I just know it.”

Your words hit him harder than he’d expected. No one had ever said something like that to him and actually meant it, and the tender look in your eyes told him that you did. Moments of vulnerability like this were rare to him. He wanted to believe what you said, but that was hard to do when he’d believed nothing but the opposite his entire life.

He grinned slyly, “I thought you said I was nothing but trouble?”

You removed your hand and began unwrapping the large bandaid on the counter, “well, both can be true at the same time.” Jake waited patiently as you spread a topical antibiotic over the cut and covered it, “you’re lucky you don’t need stitches for this thing.”

You inspected his face again, hand on his jaw to move it into the light. There were areas that were showing signs of bruising, and you wanted to slap Nicky for tarnishing such a beautiful face.

“Are you hungry? I made dinner,” you asked as you continued holding Jake’s face in your hand.

He faked a smile, “starving.”

“Okay, I’ll fix you a plate. Are you staying over again?”

He pulled you closer until you were flush against his chest, his neck craned up to look at you, “yeah Cherry, I’ll stay.”

3: Debts & Destiny

Taglist: @myownparadise96 @writingcold @jordie-gvf

[childotkw]

Hi there Jordan! I was wondering - how would you do Lucemond modern AU?

Hello darling! I’d do reincarnation because I’m a basic bitch and it’d work so well. Let me explain -

Lucerys dies via Vhagar, and is reborn later in the timeline. Not sure when, maybe in the Blackfyre Rebellions, maybe at another time - but he’s reborn with his memories intact. His new parents are smallfolk, poor, but kindhearted. He realises it’s been a long time since his first life, and while a part of him mourns what happened to his family (mourns and screams when he hears what happened to his mother, to his brothers, to Daemon and his step-sisters, to their House and to their dragons), he also comes to accept that he’s no longer Lucerys Velaryon, whose only marked impact on history was his death and the war it caused.

He grows up, looking only passingly like his new parents and everything like Rhaenyra and Harwin, and makes peace with his new lot in life. It’s only when he’s approaching adulthood that he is confronted with a ghost.

His uncle looks much the same as he does in Luke’s memories, but completely different. Two eyes, for one thing, and more unhinged than Luke had ever seen him - even during their last encounter.

Aemond remembers too, and Luke - despite how a part of him longs desperately for his first family - refuses to speak to the man that murdered him, no matter how Aemond pleaded with (and later threatened) him.

He doesn’t care about the remorse and deep loneliness he sees on Aemond’s face. He doesn’t care that his uncle seems genuine and admits to missing him and regretting that night so many years ago. All he cares about is what Aemond had done to Luke’s family, and the country he had almost burned to the ground in his rage and grief.

He runs away from his home, slipping through his uncle’s grasping hands, and disappeared into the faceless crowds of Essos. Running from the legacy of House Targaryen and all the unnamed emotions Aemond brought up in Luke.

He dies after a decade, killed in a back alley fight by some assailant.

And he wakes up again, years down the line.

Life after life, a never ending cycle of history piling up in Luke’s head each time he is brought, sobbing and bloody, into the world.

Only three things remain consistent.

He is always born in Westeros.

He always looks the same as in his first life, regardless of his parents.

He always, always meets Aemond again (and he always runs, even though he doesn’t really want to).

By the time they reach ‘modern’ times, Luke is just so fucking tired. He’s sick of being reborn. He’s sick of watching the world change so drastically, and hardly ever for the better. He’s sick of growing to care for his new family and friends, of falling in love and having descendants that he can never approach in the next life.

He’s sick of knowing the truth of past events and watching how it’s twisted by present-day people. He’s sick of the memories. He’s sick of how…unmagical the world is now.

He’s sick of avoiding Aemond, of pretending that the two of them aren’t connected.

Finally, Luke decides enough is enough.

It’s always been Aemond that finds him. Always Aemond that approaches, half in hope and half in resignation, asking for forgiveness. This time, Luke takes the initiative.

He follows the subtle tug in his chest, that invisible string that entwines their two souls, and heads out the door.

But, naturally, the first time Luke searches for Aemond is the time he’s proving difficult to find.

But Luke’s tenacious and stubborn to a fault, and he eventually tracks his uncle down to a dig-site excavating the remains of a city from ancient-Westeros (and wasn’t that funny, he thought, that Aemond and he were probably older than anything they found in the dirt). Luke’s arrival throws Aemond for a loop, because his nephew had never sought him out, and never looked at Aemond with such quiet need before.

The two of them slowly reconnect, centuries of hurt still lingering between them, but for the first time in an age, they feel content.

So of course, that’s when they unearth the petrified dragon eggs.

And of course, as the last two remaining members of the Targaryen empire, they accidentally revive the blasted things.

And of fucking course the two of them now have to protect the dragons from a world that has long-forgotten the taste of magic while running from the people that want to use the babies for their own nefarious purposes.

Luke is adamant that this is all Aemond’s fault. Aemond’s just glad he’s got someone else around that knows how to speak proper Valyrian and can handle a dragon.

(And if a part of him is singing at having Luke finally, finally willingly at his side, that’s his own business).

[rist-ix]

Sadly I did NOT manage to write a word basically all week so I’m sorry to say the sparklet I promised u remains unfinished. BUT. Have this snippet for christmas:

To be feared is a power many underestimate. A power almost as great as magic itself, and in some situations even greater — a comparison he does not make lightly.

Fear is shield and sword at once, a spell with unlimited range, its only boundary the speed at which word-of-mouth can travel.

But fear, like any weapon, requires ammunition.

For a man like Valtor, there is certainly no lack of reasons to fear him. But he is intimately aware that to sustain his greatest ally, he needs to sustain his reputation.

To be untouchable, he has to seem untouchable.

To be feared, he has to look the part.

“That’s all very nice,” Solaria's Royal Seamstress comments, unamused. “But that still doesn’t tell me why I should accept your comission.”

He sighs, feigning irritation, and leans against the counter of her shop.

“Such indifference in the face of my plight!” he laments, before propping his chin up on his hand. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Telaseta.”

“Charm won’t help you this time, fiend. You have yet to pay me for the last time I fixed your wardrobe, and my kind has an excellent memory.”

Madame Telaseta, master of her craft and champion of holding grudges, clatters past him on her eight spindly legs. He looks after her with a hearty shrug, turning to inspect her latest handiwork instead.

“I would have gladly done so,” he insists over his shoulder. “Your work is without equal, and I was more than satisfied when I received that coat of yours. Unfortunately, I took a quite involuntary detour to Omega shortly after, and did not have the opportunity to compensate you until now.”

There's noise coming from the clothing racks to his right, and when he looks over, he sees Telaseta gut an expensive looking gown with even more expensive looking shears, emerging victoriously with a blue silk ribbon.

“Pah! Did not have the necessity to, you mean! I know you wizards, with your tricks and flatteries. You only come crawling when you want something from Old Telaseta. If only I were still young, ah, still that handsome linphean debutante…”

She sniffles theatrically, and he rolls his eyes before dutifully patting her hand in comfort.

“But Madame Telaseta,” he chides her, appalled. “In all the years I have known you, you have only ever grown more beautiful. No one in their right mind would disagree with me, I know it!”

She sniffles once more, the colorful jewelry she's draped all over herself clinking.

“I have, haven’t I? Well, I suppose we can’t all be ageless like you, fiend.”

Deciding she's had enough sweet talk for the day, she drops his hand to climb vertically up the wall and grab another roll of fabric, comparing the color to her newly cut ribbon. He follows her on her crusade through the labyrinth of clothing on display, all the way into the entrance of her opulent atelier.

“Let's say I were inclined to forgive you your negligence, young man,” she titters, seemingly satisfied with her choice. “What would my payment look like, this time? I’m afraid I’ll have to demand it upfront.”

“My generous, benevolent Telaseta,” he proclaims humbly, before opening his hand and summoning a little velvet satchel to his palm. “I thought you might say that.”

She drops from the wall after a moment, her arachnid lower body catching her fall with ease.

“Gemstones from Isis,” she purrs with an impressed look inside. “You always did know how to make the right friends.”

“What can I say? I have many talents.”

“As do I. Now, show me that poor coat of yours.”

A snap of his fingers summons the garment in question, in all its tattered glory.

“There were a good few dozen protection spells woven into those seams,” his tailor of trust mutters under her breath as she inspects the damage. “Gotta redo all of that. And the singe marks, dah! What kind of dastardly devil did you tangle with this time, to ruin all that hard work?”

He would answer with a friendly quip. Something charming, undoubtedly. But before he can even think to do so, there's a warm, familiar tingle at the back of his head, and then the door to the main room swings open with a ring of the bell.

“Hello?” a voice, that voice, calls into the shop, and he feels his hackles rise at the sheer presence filtering into the room, feels every fiber of his being seize with anticipation. “I'm here to pick up an order for…”

Her gaze meets his.

Lovely, dazzling blue eyes wide with surprise as she stands there, frozen mid-movement. He feels transported, moved all the way back to the last time he'd seen her in person. When her lips had been swollen and her hair disheveled, when his touch had been etched into her skin with pale red marks. When he had been ecstatic at simply holding her; already reeling with the loss of her, knowing she'd slip through his fingers yet again.

But here she is, here they are.

Reunited, the two of them. As it always should have been.

“Ah,” Telaseta chirps. “A customer!”

And then Bloom's eyes shift to her and she jumps, squealing like a child in a horror house.

“Never heard that before,” the seamstress deadpans, rolling her eyes. “Children these days. In my youth we had some respect for our elders, or we'd be spun in silk and digested!”

Valid as her point may be, she uses two of her spindly black spider legs to underline it with gesturing, and Bloom's entire scalp catches on fire in response.

Telaseta looks from her to his coat.

“Huh,” she says.

Then she scrambles on to find a fire blanket, leaving him and Bloom alone.

The latter is still staring shell-shocked after the arachne by the time he reaches her, though that might in part be due to his speed: he is unwilling to bear even an inch of distance between them, now that she's here.

“You should consider to stop staring, little fairy,” he tells her, guiding her eyes back to himself. Cannot help but smile when he brings his hand to her forehead and brushes her hair back over her scalp, stifling the flames below his palm as he goes. “It's quite rude.”

She has just enough time to open her mouth in indignation before his own descends on her, swallowing her no doubt outraged reply.

He cannot wrap his head around it.

That she is here, as if the Stars themselves wanted to drop her in his lap once more, and that he could have gone so long without her. His fingers are splayed out against the side of her jaw, preventing her from pulling away, her own hands grasping the collar of his shirt for balance, and he can’t believe it’s been almost an entire month since the catacombs.

Bloom's lips are softer than silk as she gasps into his mouth, presses back against him with a tentative little shove. When he pulls back to look at her, glassy eyed and out of breath, he's all but drunk on affection. For his elusive, coat-burning, dastardly little devil.

“Hello,” he smiles against her forehead, pulling her against him.

“You're here,” is here stunned reply, and he all but preens at the happiness coloring her voice.

Cannot believe it is here, in the brightly-painted shop of a solarian tailor, that he finally meets her again, when he expected some grand battle or a scandalous, secret encounter, hidden from prying eyes. No, when they should have never been separated in the first place. He buries his face in her hair and breathes in the fire and magic still clinging to her, the floral scent of her shampoo and the electric, prickling traces of a recent teleportation.

He should have kept her with him like a pocket watch on a chain; tied to him, never out of reach. To feel her with him at every small movement, every step he took. Now, with her spell-heated little body in his arms and her breath fanning out against his neck, he cannot fathom how he ever let her leave.

Before remembering that he did not have his powers, that day, after so narrowly evading his death.

He cannot help but notice that he does have them now. His grip on her tightens, just marginally, a nearly imperceptible tension seeping into his hands.

But something about that idea must have translated through their traitorous tether, happily spilling all his thoughts for her, because he blinks and she is gone, almost across the entire room.

Bloom raises her chin. A clear, obvious challenge.

“Try it,” she says. “See what happens.”

Oh. Oh how he yearns to.

Hungers to bare his teeth and answer her demand in determination and raw magic, wants to see her eyes spark with the thrill of a fight. But he's painfully aware that Madame Telaseta's shop is very, very flammable, and not likely to survive their little sparring match.

And he really wants that coat back.

“Try what?”, he asks, innocently folding his hands behind his back. “Always so suspicious, Bloom. I thought you knew me better by now.”