#like that's NOT what i just fucking said !! I said she should commit violence and not think it hypocritical !!!

[halosdiary]

Tsubaki | Rōnin!Toji series | 呪術廻戦

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

Summary: Toji Fushiguro is a ronin denouncing the Zen'in name. The clan did not take too kindly to being humiliated and decided to set him up.

Word count: 733

Contains: Violence, Gore, Sexual themes of some sort.

a rōnin was a samurai who had no lord or master and in some cases, had also severed all links with his family or clan.

The ronin was being displayed for all to see, beatened and bloody facing the death penalty for the murder of his late wife. A murder he never committed. It was all a blur, one minute he was happy married with his wife and newborn son. The next moment, his son was crying and wailing in his room, while he screamed at his wife's lifeless body.

"Please, wake up!" He shouted, tapping her cold cheek.

"My love, you have to wake up, please. I'm begging you." He hugged her body and cried silently into her body. 

"Don't leave me..."

He gently lied her body down as he heard multiple footsteps coming this way. He felt numb, and could not move his body what so far to defend himself. All he could wonder was, why? Why her of all people? Still numb, he didn't even know he was already on the ground. He blinked for a second and he saw a crowd of people. A man above him with a kitana and a wakizashi sword in front of him.

They were waitng for him to end it all. He is seeing his life flash before his eyes. All be can remember was that clan. That damned clan.

The Zen'in clan is the most "prestigious" family in all of Japan. They along with 2 other big families are responsible for keeping things in line for the country. All seemed well in the clan until it wasn't. A man born disgraced by his own clan. Not living up to the promises of his father, he chose the way of the ronin. He wasn't as lifted as his elder brother was, but still there was something about him like lacked Zen'in.

The man was in his own, no support from anyone. He soon fends for himself. He's done this for a long time,  untill he met his late wife, Himawari. She was the daughter of a local swordsmith. She'd seen him every now and then, give him some food, water and eventually shelter.

"So, do you have a name? Or should I call you the mysterious man?" Himawari giggled.

"It's not that important.." He dismissed the conversation.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." She offered.

"You're determined aren't you?" He asked Himawari. He chuckled a bit and looked at her.

"Toji."

It was all the ronin could think about, until he heard his son crying from a distance. It was when he immediately jerked himself back and frantically looked at the executioner and audience with those feral green eyes of his.

"What are you doing?! Stop him!" A man yelled out.

Toji dodged the executioner swings with his kitana. He gripped the wakizashi sword and jammed it to his juggler, slicing his neck. The crimson coming from the executioner's neck was coming out at a rapid rate as he fell before the people.

People were screaming and panicking as Toji jumped down from the stage, and walked over to the other men who were holding his son. He didn't say much to know they had something of his and he'd like it back. They didn't hesitant giving him his son back. Toji gently takes his son, and just walks off.

No one was stopping him after what he did to that executioner. They don't know whohe is or where he came from. But all they do know is, he's not someone to fuck with.

News about this ronin spread and it spread FAST, it even got to the place of pleasure, Yoshiwara. Other women whispered to themselves about the strange man.

"Did you hear?"

"He slit the executioner's neck and blood was EVERYWHERE!"

The whispers were everywhere, it was fascinating at first but now it was annoying. There was individual that was just looking in the mirror. They had the look of annoyance about this ronin guy. They checked if everything was settled for their shift.

"Alright Y/N." You said. "Let's get these shitty clients out the way today."

"Y/N! Let's go! We've got men out here for company!"

You frowned heavily at the yelling, and for some reason, you blame your family for putting you in this position.

"The next time I see my father, I'm slitting his throat."

TAGLIST: @ryomens-vixen @littlemochabunni @lowkeyremi @bleach-your-panties @blkkizzat @buttercupblu

[maulfucker]

happy to be getting Understanders on my satine post :]

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Quarterfinals, Match 2

expand to see all propaganda received! (wall of text warning oh my god this is a severe cautionary message)

Lauryn Hill:

"she paved the way and was hot as fuck the whole time"

"Girl c'mon. Look at her. You're gonna try and tell me that isn't the most beautiful and attractive person alive? Okay. You're lying but okay."

"if u freaks don't give ms. lauryn hill the respect she deserves..."

"actually one of the prettiest women ever I'm such a lesbian for her. like irl I'm already a lesbian but she is helping"

Damon Albarn:

"Don’t think Damon should be here? Why don’t you get your head checked by a jumbo jet? Maybe you’ll feel heavy metal and calm down."

"If Damon is in the “some guy” category, he’s the heavenly and heartbreaking version. Damon is the sort of significant stranger I’d see on the train out of Colchester but could never speak to, just a face seen in passing yet too radiant to be real. I’d fall in love for an hour and carry the ache for a month."

"Damon sets the standard for me. I think he’s the most fascinating man alive. What I find attractive in Damon is not just his gorgeous bone structure and boyish charm, but how wholly he’s committed himself to music. Damon is an artist who walked the walk: in one of his roughest years with some of his rawest songwriting, he said he was no longer excited by anything except the creative process. He was disillusioned with the celebrity of it all, with his relationships suffering for it, and only wanted to make art: nothing more, nothing less. He would go on to compose film scores, write operas and stage musicals, produce other artists’ records, form collectives to fulfill his passion for world music, and create some of the most globally successful music of his career in a completely innovative format that placed him as the phantom behind the characters. Whenever one band takes a break, he makes a solo record or puts together a supergroup to stay busy. He’s uniquely collaborative and still writes personal letters inviting artists to record with him, and yet can function as a one-man show, acting as a multi-instrumentalist, a singer-songwriter and a producer. He’s been a constant voice of bringing British music to the world *and* bringing world music into Britain. Sure, he’s won Brit Awards and a Grammy among others, but he also has a Guinness World Record and was named an Officer of the British Empire for his services to music; his long work with Africa Express earned him respect even from peers who’d previously dismissed him, and his commitment to support his Malian collaborators in the face of violence earned him the title of Local King in Mali. There is so much talent in the world, but there is truly no one else with a career that looks like Damon Albarn’s. Damon is far more than just a prettyboy to look nice on a magazine cover, but looks are the ultimate point of this tournament, so make no mistake: he was terribly, terribly pretty. You watch him performing in the 90s, you sift through photoshoots and interviews and documentaries, and it feels *cruel* how beautiful he was. If his talent was god-given, so was his face. To put a bow on this thesis: I don’t know if Gorillaz and Damon’s musical universe would be the experimental, globe-trotting, boundary-pushing community affair it is if Blur hadn’t become such a central figure in Britpop and if Damon had not been made such a media spectacle, and I don’t know if Damon would have been that spectacle if he wasn’t so ungodly pretty. The domino effect is that Damon’s cherubic face launched a thousand multimedia art school projects for decades to come."

"I wish I was basically any bloke in the 90s so I could tongue Damon Albarn down. Damon will see a man and ask “is anyone gonna kiss that?” and not wait for a response."

"I have a pillow with his face on it. I sleep with it every night 😊"

"“I’m more homosexual than Brett Anderson, always have been. As far as bisexuality goes, I’ve had a taste of that particular fruit, or have been tasted you might say…” is just the rawest most Shakespearean statement ever"

"he is the ultimate Pretty Boy ™. his glorious golden locks, his electric blue eyes. he is if Princess Diana was a Britpop Dude. he is the Regina George of Britpop. he is if Aphrodite took male form. Zeus would come down to earth to fuck him if he knew. he is a caffeinated orange cat let loose. he is deranged. he is unhinged. you never know what will come out of his mouth. he had sexual tension with every single man who knew him. he pulled justine fucking frischmann. his aura knows no bounds. he is a siren. he is a weird guy. but being so gorgeous stunning ethereal didn't stop him from also being one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation"

"THE MAIN BLUR"

"literally where do i even begin. i could write entire essays on this man. a good place to start would be the beetlebum music video, i suppose. i'll never forget the first time i watched that music video. something in me changed, my brain chemistry was altered, my life was never the same, i view the world a lot differently now. and a lot of the viewing i'm doing is of pictures of damon albarn's face because of boy do i have a lot of those saved. every time i try to look for a photo of something on my phone i can't find it because there's so much damon. okay that's maybe an exaggeration but this man has the most unfathomable beauty ever. his eyes? HIS EYES. god dammit i love his eyes i want to stare at them until the end of time like nothing else exists. i'm so normal about this man (lying) and while i'm usually very shameless about my interests i'm actually incredibly glad this propaganda is anonymous because otherwise. yeah. but the world deserves to see damon albarn's beauty and also hear his fantastic voice because what the fuck. his voice is literally the most gorgeous sound ever produced like bro sounds like that and expects me not to fall in love? i want this man to sing his silly songs and talk absolute nonsense to me until the sun eventually blows out and the world ends. cmon damon girlies let's demolish this tournament i know there are a lot of you."

"He’s beautiful. He’s a little rat. He’s a sweetheart. He’s a dickhead. He’s a musical genius. He’s a dumb bitch. He’s a jock. He’s a weirdo. He’s real. He’s an illusion. He’s everything. He’s just Damon."

"DAMON DAMON DAMON where do I begin oh jeez I've hyperfixated on this man for a solid 4 years and still going strong. Damon makes me wish that British people are real. That says A LOT. This man created a whole ass ANIMATED BAND WITH A SHIT TON OF LORE as a SIDE HUSTLE??? Not to mention, what other man has collaborated with Stevie Nicks, MF DOOM, Del the Funky Homosapien, Snoop Dogg, AND Beck?! People, we're literally in the presence of a god. And he's STILL GOING. Anyways, TL;DR, damon is so so so neat and cool and he should definitely win this competition. Thank you."

"Okay 90s Damon is The Perfect Boy yes yes, but the people who parrot the Daily Mail and say "he's ugly now" will never understand. I would still suck every drop from him on his deathbed."

"Vote for whoever you want to. But Damon is so pretty."

"i did not spend hours admiring this beautiful man's face on pinterest just to see him lose."

"Damon Albarn just brings me joy. When I'm watching him perform, following along as the camera lingers on and adores his pretty face, I get butterflies like I'm 15 again. It's nice to still feel that totally unguarded giddiness sometimes."

"God let the intrusive thoughts win making Damon. What if he's a beautiful blond twink with eyes like saucers and dick to his knees, he reads Herman Hesse and plays footie and is insufferable about both, he'll be the most prolific musician of his generation and write operas and seminal albums in 5 different genres and also he's gonna be the dumbest bitch alive? He'll also be kinda bi, but only kinda. And send."

"when i found out about his existence, my life was changed forever. i wish i could use him like the hannah montana boot milk pillow and chuck him at the wall so he makes a loud thud"

"Think of the drama and anon fights it'll cause if Damon wins it all! And think of how quiet it'll get after Damon's out. You'll miss him when he's gone, like memories of a noisy house years after it's grown silent. Choose Damon, and keep the messy train chugging."

"Even the Gallagher brothers have the hots for him."

"Kiss kiss I love him also you can't vote for any of the Seattle men they're literally copy and paste it's not fair. We need Brit representation"

"I want to take care of him, I want to provide for him. I need to gauge his baby blue puppy dog orbs out to I can clean them with wood varnish, paint shades of Pantone 320 C in his eyes, spray eau de parfume by dior in them and sew it back into his eyes like that scene in Toy Story 2."

"Seeing as simply filling the page with ‘Damon’ written 10000000 times isn’t going to cut it 😅 may I admit/submit: I DO have him tattooed on my being (no descriptive, is this anon?); he’s inspired somewhat unhinged late night/early morning fandom conversations in which I’ve served as ‘parish’ priest hearing confessions from all manner of folk about what they’d like to do to him/receive from him; sadly I lost an essay where I detailed why the letters that make up his name suit him so well, and described him as the hot caramel sauce to Graham’s cool vanilla ice cream. He’s a faerie princess with a nose that makes people weep and a voice that feels like the warmest home and he gives amazing hugs. He loves trains and chickens and his tuxedo cat. He’s annoying and sweet and somewhat unhinged and his music saves people and all this is on top of that fantastic dick. He’s a dream yet very real and we’re fucking blessed to be on earth at the same time as him, amen"

"Damon Albarn was a beautiful, beautiful boy. The world saw that, regardless of if every individual reading this has the same taste in men; it felt like a truth of the universe at the time. They don't make celebrities that angelic in face and erratic in personality anymore."

"I need to touch his eyebrows, nose and prostate just one time JUST ONE TIME COME ON"

[misguidedasgardian]

Storm's End (5)

HOTD MASTERLIST

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Strong!Reader

Summary: your mother sends you to Storm’s End to rally Lord Borros Baratheon for your side, but your uncle arrived there before you

Warnings: Cursing, use of the word bastard, angst, heavy, canon level incest, thoughts about dying, fear of commiting s*icide, mentions of bedding, and more, dark fic, Aemond is unhinged, rape, non-con, minors engaging in sexual activities, face fucking, blood, violence, and other very dark things. Aemond is unhinged and Reader is broken

+18 MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3.4 k

Notes: I think… Lucemond shippers are going to get a treat? jeje didn’t mean to, it just happened, never wrote anything like this 

I really wanted to end this in this chapter, but it grew monstrous, and yes, I will make two endings, they will be published together...

“You know? I had dreamed about this many times”, he said, his voice clear despite the stormy winds, “when I finally have you within reach, to slice up your face like you did me, all those years ago”

The winds blow his hair, his cape, and made him shiver, but he grabbed onto the pommel of the sword Daemon made him carry whenever he went out

“You are right”, he said, “Uncle, your trouble is with me, you anger, your hate, I owe you a debt”, he said shakily, the only thing on his mind was his sweet sister’s face. Aemond only smiled, a few feet away from him, “Let her go…”

Aemond chuckled darkly

“Well said bastard”

“Let my sister go, take me prisoner instead”, he said shakily, “its me you want”, he whined, he was shaking like a leaf, so much Aemond thought, amused, that he was going to soil his pants

But it was endearing

“I may have underestimate you nephew”, he said simply 

“I think you’d do the same thing…”

“Mmm”, now he was amused

“Take my eye, do what you have to do, slice my face, take both, take me whole to the Red Keep but… release my sister”, he said, with those big green eyes

“Why would I? she is certainly a more entertaining guest than you”, he muttered with sick smile

They had met in a small, lonely island on Blackwater bay, in a middle point between Dragonstone and King’s Landing 

“Like I said, it’s me who took your eye years ago, it’s because of me you are lacking an eye, it's because of me my mother asked you to be tortured, and is because of me your mother almost killed mine, I made everything worse, and is because of me you're hurting my sister…”

Aemond chuckled

“That’s not why I took her”, he whispered, Luke couldn’t hear him

“I am sorry Uncle, for what happened that night, and I know is easy to say it now, but I was sorry back then, and I am right now”

“That means little to me”, he said, fixing his composure, “what was your plan exactly?”, he asked, “you are in no position to make any demands, I could kill you, easily, what then?”

Lucerys stopped shaking, he straightened his posture, he let go of his sword

“I just wanted you to know uncle”

“That you are sorry?”, he mocked 

“Yes”

“I don’t give a shit about your apologies nephew, you are a bastard who tried to steal my brother’s birthright”

“I will not fight about this with you uncle”, he said, “release my sister and take me instead”

“Well, like I said, I’ve dreamt about this many times, and now that we are here, I don’t see why I should be bothered”, he said dismissively

If he killed Luke, you would just… die, even if you were still breathing, you would be dead in life

And that is not what he wanted

The winds blew even more stronger than before, whistling in the wind, a storm was coming

“Go home Lucerys”

“But… my sister”, he said, taking a step towards him

“I fuck your sister, every chance I get”, he said with a smirk, Luke began shaking again, “I have her locked up in your mother’s old chambers”, he moved uncomfortably

“Why her?”, he asked, “she had never done anything to you”

“She payed up your debt to me, you should be thankful”, he said simply, “you should spend every waking moment thanking her”

“I didn’t want her to”, he said, “I want to pay my debt, I want you to leave her alone!”, he demanded

“Too late for that, she is probably with my child in her belly”, Lucerys frowned

“It had only been a couple of weeks!”, he whined

“That is how it works”, he mocked

“Please!”, he was growing desperate, he was supposed to be relieved but he wasn’t.

He had made his peace, he had come here to die for his sister, only to bring her back to Dragonstone

He should have told Aemond to bring her along, to make sure she returns home 

“I have her”

“Take my eye!”, he said, grabbing a small dagger from his belt, he tried to take it himself, but his arm was shaking terribly, something primal, in the bottom of his being wouldn’t let him hurt himself

Aemond trotted towards him, and Lucerys didn't move 

Aemond grabbed his hand, that had the dagger, and with the other grabbed the back of his head, to prevent him from moving 

“I don’t want your eye”, he said. Lucerys felt chills when he saw his sapphire stone in its place, “because even with only one, I can see, I have your heart”, he said with a manic smile 

“Let her go”, he begged, “please”

“Being born second son is hard, you don’t know about this because you are in to inherit Driftmark”, he manipulated his nephews hand until the tip of the dagger was scratching his upper cheek, right under his eye, “I get nothing”, he growled, Lucerys whimpered, “But she… is the only thing I’ve ever wanted, that I’ve desired… so after all the shit that I have been through, I decided to take her”

“She doesn’t deserve it”, he said, “I do…”, he said, he looked into his uncle’s eye and calmed himself, he steadied his breaths and stopped shaking, preparation for the pain his uncle felt all those years ago, “do it, for her”, he said

It was true

Aemond had wished upon this day for many years

And now that it was here

He didn't know what to do

It didn't taste as good as he thought it would 

it was almost too easy

Lucerys was right there in his grasp 

“Like I said..”, he released him, pushing him away, Luke fell pitifully on the sand, “i don’t want your eye bastard, because I have your heart in the Red Keep”

Aemond didn't think the little bastard loved his sister as Targaryens do, as a man loves a woman, he knew he loved her like a real sister, and that made it better

Luke tried to stand up, but he placed his boot on his chest, keeping him pinned to the beach

“Go home and tell your mother I fuck your sister every night, I will keep her at court, pregnant with my bastards for everyone to see”, he said, “but she is well fed, and… healthy”, he relented, “not happy, but alive and well”

He looked at the dagger in his hand and dropped it by his feet

“Please, let her go”, he begged one more time, “she wants to go home…”

“I will see you on the battlefield, there I will not be so forgiving”, Aemond turned back and walked hastily towards Vaghar, who was watching it all with tired eyes

Lucerys watched as Aemond took to the skies without even giving him a scare, a second glance 

. . .

Aemond found you sitting on the bed hugging your legs to your chest, crying softly. 

In a rage, to hurt you, he had showed you the letter Lucerys had send, you had grabbed him, begged him, cried to him not to go, that his brother was sorry, that you were never going to beg him to be released again, that you were going to stay here willingly, that you were going to change your attitude, bend the knee to Aegon, you actually dropped to your knees and grabbed onto his legs 

He released himself from you and left the chambers with a sick smile on his face

You trashed your room, you cried and wailed until soldiers came inside and restrained you

A maester gave you milk of the poppy to calm you down, but nothing could ease your mind

Aemond was going to kill your brother

And there was nothing you could do about it

When he opened the door his eye landed precisely on you, and then he looked at the rest of the room, mainly destroyed, maids had taken the worst part of it, but still it was visibly depleted of your former belongings. 

You looked at him, frightened, crying, your face red.

“Did you murdered my baby brother?”, you asked, he shook his head

“No”, you took a long sigh of relief, “He went home”

“Why?”, you asked him, he didn’t even know how to answer that

“Why didn’t I kill my own flesh and blood?”, he asked, bitterly, “He begged me to take out his eye”, a single tear fell down your cheek

“Did you?”, you asked

“No”, he said simply, “he offered it to me in exchange of your release”

“And why didn't you?”, he took out his coat, and left it over the chair in front of the fire, he then lost his vest, and he continued to release himself from his clothes, to finally turn to you

You knew what he wanted, and you were exhausted, for being all day and good part of the night

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, you know why”, he said, climbing onto the bed, completely naked, you believed it was the first time you saw him bare like this 

He took the sheets that shielded you, and he took out your nightdress, you let him

You’ve come to learn that if you fight it, it was worse

And you didn't want to hurt anymore

You laid back as you spread your legs for him, and closed your eyes, preparing yourself for the pain. But what you felt was warm hands caressing your thighs, one of them traveling up your body, caressing you softly

You didn't know why, but this frightened you more than his roughness

You felt like he was tricking you into thinking he was going to be nice, only to hurt you again

You whimpered in fear

“Shhh, relax”, he whispered, “is alright, relax”, he continued gently, caressing your skin, the skin he once grabbed roughly.

One of his fingers teased your entrance, he teased and teased until eventually you relaxed, his finger now coated with juices, only then he put another finger to work, easing you open.

Only when he felt squelching noises, he dimmed you ready, he caressed your thighs, coaxing them open for him 

He entered slowly, gently, foreign, you had never felt this tenderness, from him…. he held you against him, one hand on your side, the other traveled to your face

“Look at me”, he demanded, and you obeyed, looking up at him. His thumb caressed the apple of your cheek as he fucked you slowly

You couldn’t say you enjoyed it, because he was always so rough, you were still sore, but at least, it didn't hurt

You didn't know which one was worse 

He cummed inside you, like always, and then he didn't discard you, he laid there by your side, he grabbed you and accommodated you by his side. You fell asleep quickly, that night, for the first time since he had you, you didn't have any nightmares 

. . .

Lucerys had arrived back home to Dragonstone with his tears dried upon his cheeks, he had no more to cry

He was weak and small, but he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and not even that had been enough

He was intercepted by Daemon, that was furious 

“Where have you been?”, he barked, grabbing him by the arm, “we had been worried sick”

“I tried to get her back”, he said silently

“What?”, he growled

“I met with Aemond, to offer myself for her”

“You did what? Are you mad? this was reckless, what if he had killed you? Can you imagine what your mother would have suffered?”, he said, shaking him, like that way he could restore him to sanity

“He didn’t take the chance to blind me”, he said, “I told him I was giving myself away, in exchange for her, and he wouldn’t go for it”

“We have Otto”, he said with a pleased smile

“What?”, asked lucerys

“A ship from Corly’s fleet caught him, he was trying to cross the Narrow Sea to gain support from those triarchy cunts”, he said, “we have him”

“We can trade him”

“Damn right we can”, he said with a wide smile, “we have a gathering”. he said, “a summit, with the great houses, and those traitorous cunts, there, we will discuss your sister’s release for him”, it was an improvement that he was still alive, thought Luke 

. . .

“Let’s give them the little bastard and be done with it”, said Aegon

“No”, sentenced Aemond, “not her”

“Aemond, they have your grandfather”

“Let them keep him”

“Aemond!”, shrieked Alicent, “he is your grandfather”

“He is a cunt that whore you out to Viserys, manipulated you for years, made you believe Rhaenyra would kill us, only to place this whoremonger, drunk cunt on the throne”, he said, Alicent was so enraged she didn’t know what to say, “let them kill him”

Aegon laughed, approving of his brother’s words, Alicent just covered her mouth

“How could you say something like that? everything we have done has been to keep you all safe”

“We are in the most dangerous position”, he said simply, “he will throw us all into war, for his ambition, we could all die for it”, he said, “yes we could kill them also, but it is naive to think all of us will survive”, he said, “Rhaenyra has the numbers”

“We have dragons”

“They do too”, he said, “and an the most powerful armada of the seven Kingdoms”

“Aemond, you did it”, she said softly, “you… had her, dishonored her… showed to everyone what she is…it is done”

“I’ll decide when it's done”, he growled, Aegon slapped the table, wanting the attention

“I am the King!”, he said, “i’ll decide when it's done”

“She is with child”, Aemond said, Alicent paled

“Aemond”

“She is with my child in her belly”

“It's been less than a moon”, she said then, “you can’t be sure”

“I’m sure”

“I don’t care”, said Aegon, “she goes”, he said. Aemond raised from his seat enraged, “careful brother, or we might start thinking you care about her”, Aemond walked away from the room, enraged 

He found you reading, cuddling by the fire in the hearth of the room 

As you always did you trembled when you saw him, and he give you a satisfying smirk

“Your treacherous family has my grandfather”, he thought he was going to see relief in your eyes, but he only saw fear

“I’m sorry”

“You are going to be”, he said, taking off his vest and undoing his breeches, “get on your knees”

You stood up from your place, walked towards him and did as he said, kneeling in front of him, who had sat on the bed. 

Aemond released his hard cock

“Suck”, he was impatient, and angry, he didn't wait for you to make up your mind, he grabbed you by the back of the head, grabbing into your hair roughly, you whined, but he didn't care you opened your mouth and he stuck his cock in it, until you were choking and crying 

“Do you hate me yet?”, he teased, you shook your head, “auw, aren’t you sweet?”, he pushed until your nose touched the hairs on his groin, you whined, not being able to breathe. He grunted above you, you tried to look at him, and his eye were closed in pure pleasure. Droll fell from the corners of your lips, making your chin burn

It didn’t last long, still grabbing you by your hairs he pulled you up only to throw you to be the bed

“Lay back, spread your legs”, he commanded, and just like the night before, you obeyed him without fighting

He took his time to admire you, specially the brand he had drawn on your thigh, the A could be seen, clear as day, he caressed it with his thumb

“We have to take advantage, in a moon’s time we have a summit with the high lords, they are going to try and trade you for my grandfather”, he muttered 

He kneeled on the bed and he grabbed your hips, raising them and drawing you to him, and then he thrusted into you, making you whimper

“No need to prepare you this time”, he mocked, “I knew you were a wanton little whore”, a single tear fell from your eyes as he started pounding roughly into you

It was foreign, for him to cuddle you like he had been doing for the past nights

You didn’t even know how long it had been since he had you here, trapped in these chambers

“Do you hate me now?”, he insisted, you didn’t know why is was so important, the answer was the same

“I don’t hate you uncle”

“What do I need to do to you for you to hate me?”, he asked quietly

“Why would you want my hate?”, you asked, tired

Yes, why?

Perhaps to make himself feel better, perhaps if you all hated each other this would be much easier. Perhaps he was angry, because he had spend all these years hating the lot of you, and you didn't hate him back, he had barely been in your mind those years you were in Dragonstone 

He was desperate to coax some feeling into you

You had loved him, you had said so yourself

Had

You clearly didn’t love him now, so the next best thing he could do, was make you hate him

Because he had loved you to

Since he was a child and you a little girl, he loved you innocently, with a still pure heart. 

But then his mother and grandfather poisoned him, poisoned his mind, his heart, putting into his head that you were just a little bastards who was out for their inheritance, their birthrights, that you were a little whore even if you were a young girl, just like your mother, that you were there to manipulate, to whore yourself out to get what you wanted

So his sweet, innocent, healthy childish crush became a dark obsession, because he shouldn’t want you, he should hate you, and yet… He started desiring you with his whole being… It was wrong, he was a prince, a prince taught by the teaching of the New Gods, and you were a bastards born of filthy and impure desire

At that point you were already in Dragonstone, but Aemond never forgot about you

By the time he saw you again during Driftmark, he couldn’t hide it no longer, despite what he knew his mother was going to answer, because she was intended on making peace with Rhaenyra

But that cunt took you away from him, scared

How could you refuse him? him? a prince of the realm, a Targaryen Prince, not a bastard like his children

When he came to his senses, he felt a warm liquid on his chest, you were crying, and he was grabbing so hard into you he was bruising you

“I just want to know why you hate me and my brothers so much”, you whined

Deep down he knew it was wrong, he knew that you were not at fault…

But you flaunted it

You and your little bastard brothers flaunted your inheritance, your dragons, always laughing, forgetting practice, not taking it serious enough

And then that little bastard took his eye

After he rightfully claimed Vhagar

He took his eye and his own father wouldn't defend him against them.

He hated you because you were happy, and you had the love of the man who was supossed to love him the most

And he was wretched 

And yet he couldn’t answer, he didn't find it in himself to look until he found a clear answer

So he didn’t

You hugged him, hugged his torso, your face on his chest

“I don’t want you to hate us”, you whined

Perhaps they were just children, manipulated by their parents, their frustrations, anger and hate rubbed into them, passed onto them like a twisted disease 

“Why?”, he asked

“Because I’m scared of that hate”, you answered, “all that hate is going to get us all killed”, you whispered, “I don’t hate you uncle”, you said then

“Even though I killed your dragon?”

“I don’t hate you” 

“Even though I raped you bloody?”, he asked in an even tone, you shook your head, “and I called you a whore, and a bastard?”

“I don’t”

This cycle of hate had to end with you.

“You don’t want me dead?”, he asked

“No”, you whispered, “I just wish we could all be small again, and play together like we used to, we could have been good friends”, you said childishly

You had been so protected and guarded your entire life that you still held onto that childishness 

He chuckled

He had killed your dragon, drowned you, raped you, choked you, humiliated you, defiled you, and the only thing you wanted was for him not to hate you, to go back in time and start over, so you would all be friends

Oh you were so innocent 

So pure

“I don’t hate you Zaldrïtsos”, he said finally

He just enjoyed hurting you

He just enjoyed possessing you, it was much better, to take you by force... But he wanted you, you didn't want him back, but he had the power to take you by his own. It was exhilarating

But he didn't hate you

He wanted you so much that it hurt him

taglist

@lightdragonrayne @immyowndefender @aemondswifeisme @twobluejeans @toodlesxcuddles @sassysaxsolo @thearchitectoflove @maidmerrymint @floralsightings @daughterofthemoons-stuff @glendarollitkatharinesanders @ruhjkie @starkjedi @baconturtle @aleemendoza2425-blog @ahristata @dlwlrmas-world @yentroucnagol @hiraethrhapsody @alwaysholymilkshake @marihoneywk @belladonna00 @strangersunghoon @anehkael @t0uch-starved-h0e @hkmultifandom @letmehavemyfictionalmen @belcalis9503 @daddydaemonswife @daemontargaryenwhore @bash1018 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @ninastyless @strangersunghoon @bellstwd

[dellalyra]

FAMILY FORMATIONS PART THIRTEEN

Summary: Megumi asks you about the strange unknown man he fought in Shibuya.

CW: sad, soft, canon typical violence

A/N: this is short and kinda shit but I thought of this idea and it wormed into my brain and now I’m here :) I liked the idea of a moment between reader and megumi between *the megumi bad thing* and Shibuya, Satoru’s gone she’s vulnerable megumi is vulnerable just raw yaknow

Recommended Listening:

Favourite Crime - Olivia Rodrigo

10am Gare du Nord - Keaton Henson

You rifled through the cupboards in the kitchen of some stranger – long gone now, avoiding the destructive chaos of the culling games.

Yuuji, showering. Everyone else, resting maybe? Dead? Stuck in a box like your husband? You don’t know.

The empty pit of fear swirling in your stomach was driving you to madness, but you were grounded by the presence of a tall, raven-haired boy leaning on the counter beside you.

You found some ramen, throwing it into a pot so you could at least manage to feed these boys after all of you had been trying to navigate this cruel imitation of a reality show all day.

Megumi, out of the corner of your eye – was staring holes into the ground by his shoes.

Asking him what’s up seemed futile, what wasn’t up? Everything had fallen apart, and you were using every fibre of your being to hold everything and everyone together until you could figure out what the fuck you, we’re going to do.

“Spill it, Mr. Fushiguro.” You say, elbowing his side.

He rolls his eyes at you, half-heartedly.

You sit on the stool by the bar in this stranger's kitchen.

“‘Gumi, it’s just us now. Talk to me.”

He kicks his shoes against the linoleum floor. He’s silent for a moment and you think maybe, he’s not going to talk.

“Back there, in Shibuya. When we were all separated. There was a man. I fought him. Only for a minute but… he, he acted like he knew me.” He looked at the ceiling.

“You’re a talented sorcerer in your own right, a Zen’in by birth and adopted son of the Gojo and Y/L/N clan. People are gonna target you, no matter how much I try to stop them.” You smile sadly.

“No, not like that. It was like – he knew me. He asked my name; I told him, and he just said “Fushiguro huh? Good for you, kid.’ And then he…”

The pause was enough to tell you it was bugging him.

“He what, honey?”

“Stabbed himself in the head.”

Well, fuck, that wasn’t what you expected. You tried to think of who it could have been, was it fear of Megumi’s strength, of the battle that drove this man to suicide? Why did the Fushiguro name affect him so badly.

To try and place the man so your son could put a name to the face and end his mental gymnastics, you ask.

“What did he look like?”

“He was tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than –” Satoru. An inch or two shorter than Satoru. He was worried about your reaction to his name.

“Really strong, built like a wrestler. Dark hair, kinda looked like me to be honest. Had this scar on his lip?” He finished.

You dropped the bowl in your hand, and it shattered to the ground in tiny pieces as everything you’d believed was questioned in a millisecond in your frazzled mind.

The crash made Megumi jump.

“What? Do you know him?” He asked.

You turn to him, face like you’d seen a ghost – but it wasn’t you who had seen the ghost.

“He, looked like you and had a scar on his lip?” You ask, Megumi looking at you with concern and surprise.

“Yeah, who was it? I’ve never seen you this jumpy – who was that guy?”

Fuck, you wish you had Satoru here. Do you tell him? How do you tell him? Should you tell him? There had been no parenting book for raising the kids of the man who’d killed your husband and then your husband had killed – and there was certainly no guidance on how to tell your son that the man who committed suicide in front of him so he wouldn’t have to fight him – was in fact, his father.

But Toji Fushiguro was dead. You’d seen the body.

He was very, very dead.

If he was dead, how was in in Shibuya?

The séance.

It clicked into place. A ghost from the past, the sorcerer killer. The old woman. But nobody would dare use Toji Fushiguro as a pawn or a puppet - he’d regained his sense of self and found his son.

His blessing.

Your blessing.

You had to tell him; he deserved the truth.

Snapping from your trance – you motioned the boy to sit beside you.

“Megumi. The man you spoke to, the man who asked your name. He was happy you’d taken your mother’s name, instead of Zen’in. Megumi, that man, my sweet boy, – was your father. It was Toji Fushiguro.” You clasp his hand.

“But he’s dead. Dad, Satoru, killed him.” He said, in disbelief.

“He was resurrected as a puppet, but your father was a stubborn man – so I’m guessing he retook control.”

“But then why did he kill himself.”

“He killed himself, Megumi, because – he refused to fight or hurt his own son. He knew it was you, and returning to death was a better option.” A part of you prays thanks to Toji – for having the sense to not put his, your, son through that.

Megumi was silent for a moment.

“I didn’t recognise him.” He spoke.

“You were so young when he died, it’s not surprising.” You push his hair out of his face, a fruitless endeavour really.

You let him soak it in for a moment.

“It’s okay to be sad, he was your father. No matter what else he did or didn’t do.”

“I’m not sad, I pity him.” He spoke.

“Me too, Megumi. Your father was a lost soul, but one thing I do know – is he didn’t name you his blessing for nothing, he loved you – but losing your mother broke him. I can tell you one thing for sure, that I’m certain of: he is proud of you. I know that because he barely knew you and felt pride. I know you like the back of my hand and pride isn’t a big enough word for what – what, Satoru and I feel.” You turn his face to look at you, and you smile softly.

“Thanks for telling me the truth. I’m, um, gonna kick Itadori out of the shower before the hot water runs out so I can have one too.” He stands from the stool.

You know he needs space to process.

You nod and mention continuing making some food. As he reaches the door the the bedroom with the en-suite, he turns.

“They may have been my mother and father, but um, they - they’re not my mom and dad.” He says, eyes downcast but flicking up to look at you. Your throat constricts with tears and before you can reply, he’s gone inside the room.

You look to the sky, sending thanks to Megumi’s birth mother – for allowing you the chance to raise the blessing that boy is.

[pluckyredhead]

So the Bill Willingham Steph post crossed my dash again and got me wondering... if you're a writer, what IS the best way to respond to fans (singular or group) that publicly call out your writing at a con? Obviously you shouldn't wish violence on them but since it's not like you can un-write the story, do you ignore them? Change the subject? Argue back?

I mean, I can't pretend to know the BEST way to handle a volatile question in a public space, when saying nothing is not an option.

But I also want to challenge the idea that fans were "calling out [Willingham's] writing," because that wasn't what they were doing. Sure, plenty of people said he was a hack online. But at cons, what they were asking was "Why doesn't Steph have a memorial case?"

I always hammer that point home because it's so astonishing to me now. We didn't want them to bring Steph back from the dead. We just wanted them to memorialize her fairly. We were asking for crumbs, and it infuriated Willingham and DC Editorial. To the point that when they did bring Steph back by revealing Leslie Thompson had faked Steph's death, Tim goes "So that's why she didn't have a memorial case!" They would rather have her alive than give a bunch of (mostly) female fans the tiny bit of fairness they had been asking for. It's just mind-boggling to me now how little we were willing to settle for and how angry it still made DC.

Anyway, the decision to kill Steph was editorially mandated, and the decision not to give her a case was also editorially mandated - neither of those were Willingham's decision to make. (The other objection fans had, the sexualized depiction of Black Mask torturing Steph, was also not Willingham's fault - that was artist Jon Proctor.) Now, obviously Willingham couldn't just say "Not my fault, ask DC" because throwing his employer under the bus would not have been good for his career. But DC also shouldn't have hung him out to dry.

I think ideally with any controversial storyline, the publisher should have a discussion with the creators about the best way to handle questions so that everyone is on the same page. But what happens instead is that creators (underpaid freelancers who are almost all in precarious financial circumstances) bear the full brunt of any anger, blame, or harassment, and the publishers (massive corporations*) get to ignore it.

Of course, in Willingham's case, he was not harassed, but asked a polite question ("Why doesn't Steph have a memorial case?") that he probably could have easily said was up to DC without getting in trouble. But instead he chose to publicly fantasize about committing violence against real women, because he was annoyed. So that's DEFINITELY not the answer.

So in conclusion: in general publishers should step up more, in specific Willingham is a fucking douche.

-

*When I say "massive corporations" I'm talking specifically about DC and Marvel, who are owned by Warner Bros and Disney respectively. Image is not a massive corporation. Also, DC Comics and Marvel Comics are in tricky positions because they are actually small, weirdly ramshackle legacy publishers who in a lot of ways still operate like they did when Marvel had two (2) actual employees, Stan Lee and his secretary Flo Steinberg. They operate on tiny margins, everyone who works there is criminally underpaid, their HR is a fucking joke... So like, none of this excuses editors for repeatedly not supporting their creators during times of controversy (THE FUCKING MOCKINGBIRD COVER, Chelsea Cain is a TERF but that shit was ridiculous), but I think it's also important to remember that when we're talking about the people editing these books on a monthly basis, we're not talking about Bog Iger or David Zaslav - we're talking about someone living in NYC or Burbank working 60 hour weeks on a $45K salary so that Disney has enough IP to make Guardians of the Galaxy 9 or whatever. It's complicated.

[bohemian-nights]

How do Targies unironically praise T@rgaryen blood purity like legit white supremacists and then deny there's any racism there?? Please make it make sense

Honestly liking the Targaryens isn’t the problem(and at this point, I'm pretty sure we all like a Targaryen or two).

Yeah, they undoubtedly have some bad views as a whole, but as long as you acknowledge that their views are an allegory for real issues that’s fine.

We aren’t necessarily defined by the fiction we consume.

However, these fans outright taking on white supremacist talking points about blood supremacy and blood purity with 100% sincerity and then being confused as to why people are calling them racist is a mind trip.

If all you are getting from the books is how special and magical the Targaryen’s are and how they must keep the bloodline pure, how outsiders dirty the blood, and then use that to degrade and mock characters(and harass their fans) who aren’t silver-haired with purple eyes then yeah, you’re a fucking racist.

GRRM is admittedly not the best at handling race(or even certain female characters). He’s an old white man and it shows, but even he didn’t create this universe for you guys to spout out this crap. You are supposed to question things like feudalism and Targaryen exceptionalism not uphold it.

Nettles is a prime example of this, but they want to say she’s Daemon’s kid, or unquestionably Valyrian, and how she’s irrelevant since she’s Black(not to mention deny the racism she faces in the text as well as outside of it) rather than admit that maybe your blood, your gender(she’s a woman too but they always seem to forget that), your social economic status, your race does not define you. You and your actions do.

That all being said, I do think the Targaryen ideology is what attracts people to the house in the first place, but they won’t admit this because that means they have to confront their own biases.

If Targaryen ideology is harmful and you agree with it wholeheartedly what does that make you? How do you view people who are different than you? Who do you view as beneath you? How do you treat people who you view as lesser than you?

Yes this is all fictional, but the language being used is very much based on how they feel about certain groups in real life.

Look I’ve seen people straight up say things like there are too many Black people on HOTD and that the only in-canon Black character should be cut because they’ve met their quota and then cry that they are being (rightfully) called racists.

I’ve seen people say that since Daemon rejected a white woman(Alys) who they view as better than her(Nettles) he would for sure never touch Nettles’ with a ten-foot pole much less love her in a romantic capacity and then cry that they are now being called a racist.

I’ve seen people purposely reduce characters solely down to their race and then cry that they are now being called a racist.

I’ve seen people harass and stalk actual Black fans and then cry and say that they are being bullied when we call them out for it.

I’ve seen people outright use racial slurs then the fanbase brushes that aside to say that the racism is limited to just a few individuals when many of these same people are using the previous arguments and treat real-life fans like crap.

Racism isn't limited to saying I hate n-words and wanting to commit acts of violence upon us.

It’s easier to say you aren’t a racist than to deal with the very real possibility that you are a part of the problem. That you treat people(including fictional characters) who don’t look like you like absolute shit because of something as stupid as the color of their skin. That you view them as so beneath you that we don’t deserve basic respect.

It should be noted that Targaryren fans aren't the only racists in this fandom especially when it comes to Black characters/fans, but they are the most outright hostile to the point where it is utterly ridiculous when they say they aren't racist.

But what do I know? I’m just a crazy hating ass bitch who’s out of her depth and who should shut her trap…

[gaysullengirl]

❝ i'm tired of feeling like im fucking crazy. ❞

- lana del rey, ride

    "Reid." Hotch narrowed his eyes at him, "I apologize." Hotch continued.

"I don't." Spencer mumbled, just loud enough for Isabelle to hear, she bit her lip to stop a laugh from slipping out.

"We've heard those phrases before When we interview school shooters." Isabelle explained to the oblivious counselor.

Emily rushed into the room, "Jordan was the motive for Kyle Borden, it was revenge."

"I need to speak to the boys who made this video immediately."

"I'll check their class schedules." The counselor scrambled to his computer to find out, his face dropped immediately, "What is it?"

"None of them show up at school."

୨୧

The local police station smelled of finger printing ink and old coffee, Isabelle enjoyed the smell, it reminded her of when she was a detective for the nypd.

The team heard the familiar sound of Garcia urgently typing on her computer through the phone call, "He deleted everything but the one mpeg." She sighed.

"I'm walking Morgan through retrieving what he put in the trash, but-"

"We've got three missing kids, Garcia, we need access to Owen's E-Mail." Hotch clenched his jaw.

"The kid is tech savvy, sir, but fret not, I am tech savvier!" She exclaimed, "Is that a word? That sounds like a word, if it is a word, I am it!"

"Two alienated kids, no maternal presence, dysfunctional relationships with dominating fathers who with held love, they were made for each other." Rossi said.

Emily shook her head, "Mm, as lovers, yes, but partners in crime, no."

"There's nothing in Jordan's profile that indicates she's capable of violence, and certainly not murder."

"A new mpeg just posted to the school social networking site." Garcia breathed heavily, "He- you need to see this."

A video popped up on the screen, it was of three boys, all on their knees while their hands were on their head infront on a lake.

"It was a joke, man!" One of the boys said, "We didn't mean anything by it!" Another boy shouted, "It was 3 years ago, no one even remembers it." The last boy argued.

"I do." A voice behind the camera said.

"No, owen!" "Don't! Don't!" "Please! No-" The three boys pleaded, they were cut off by gunshots ringing out.

"Garcia, is there any way to trace the mpeg to the computer that sent it?"

୨୧

"Once you've heard the profile, you'll understand." Jj told the officers that were gathered around.

Hotch, Rossi, and Spencer went to the scene where the boys were killed and figured out Owen was collecting injustices- the perfect revenge.

"We are wasting time, Owen is here, and we should be knocking on doors." An officer argued. 

"It's not a good idea." "And why is that?" "Because Owen's watching, he's monitoring the news, right now, he thinks you think he's gone, he feels safe."

"If we start knocking on doors, he's gonna know that he's not, he's gonna feel trapped."

"Why the hell should we care about this little bastard's feelings?" Another officer chimed in.

Isabelle gritted her teeth, "We're here to help you bring in Owen Savage with minimum loss of life, the profile tells us how to do that, if all you're gonna do is bitch and complain then you can leave." She scoffed.

Spencer smiled at her, "Owen Savage fits the profile of a type of school shooter known as an injustice collector, he's trying to avenge perceived wrongs."

"If he's a school shooter, why hasn't he hit the school yet?"

"Jordan. Most of these guys are so angry and hopeless, they just want to kill as many people as possible then commit suicide." Emily explained.

"But Jordan gives him a reason to live."

Isabelle glanced at Spencer 'He gives me a reason to live.' She thought.

Isabelle hated that in so twisted way she related to Owen- she almost felt bad for him in a way.

Growing up in a small town and constantly being the outsider- no matter how hard he tried to fit in and find the acceptance of his peers he never did.

"Otherwise he's a textbook case, his life was one torment after another, his teachers gave up on him, his classmates bullied him, and his father blamed him while giving him access to guns." Spencer said.

"Given these conditions, you're actually quite fortunate." He added.

"It sounds like you're saying these victims deserved this."

"We're not, nobody deserves this." Derek said.

"But you could have prevented it." Spencer lowered his eyes at the officer.

"Reid, can I talk to you?" Hotch said, it was framed as a question but was more of a statement.

The two walked into an empty conference room only a few moments later they exited, Spencer stormed to the exit of the precinct.

Isabelle walked over to Hotch, "He's going to the Savages' residence." Hotch whispered, his eyes still focused on Spencer.

"Can I go with him?" She asked, Hotch's eyes darted to her face, profiling her.

"It's just- his room was really interesting and insightful, his mirror was painted over indicating severe self hatred-" "You can go." Hotch cut her off.

Isabelle quickly ran to the parking lot, getting into the suv parked outside.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asked, "I'm going with you. Hotch said I could."

Spencer just nodded and started driving.

A few minutes into the drive he turned to Isabelle, "I know what it's like to be afraid of your own mind." He admitted.

Isabelle immediately faced him, "I'm not." She lied, she wasn't just trying to convince him but herself as well.

Isabelle hated feeling crazy, when her feeling controlled her rather than her controlling them.

"I've seen the way you've been reacting this whole case." He looked to her.

"Isa, honey, I know you."

authors note!

sorry for the short chapter, next one will be longer trust🤞also i'm finally done with my school year so more consistent updates are afoot!

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

Pretty As A Picture - Chapter 4

Marvel

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: When Bucky fell from the train, their soulmate was told he was gone. When Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice, their soulmate was again told one her soulmates were gone. But she didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. Committed to a mental health institute, she dies of a broken heart. That's at least what the hidden S.H.I.E.LD files say, but if that's the case than why is there a photo of her. A photo that shows her side by side two redhaired Avengers.

Warnings will be per chapter.

For this fic reader will be British, but let your imagination replace if needed.

Chapter Summary: The team try to piece together everything together and Steve needs answers.

Chapter Warning: Sad Steve, sad Bucky, talk of death mental illness, electric shock treatment, and attempted sexual violence (not in detail).

The ringing of an incoming call, allowed Nat a moment’s reprieve.

“It’s Clint, I made him aware. Thought he should be part of this. He is part of our family after all.” Tony spoke, looking at Steve for permission to connect the call. Steve nodded and Tony answered tapping his phone to share the projection of Clint and Laura, the latter holding baby Nathaniel.

“Please tell me this is some weird prank.” Clint went first.

“You think we’d joke about something like this?” Steve snapped.

“No, of course not.” Laura replied, elbowing Clint, “but I think I speak for both of us when I say, what the fuck you guys.”

A little voice in the background shouted ‘language’ but didn’t get the usual laughter.

“Romanoff I don’t want to have to ask you again. Start talking.”

“I met her when she worked for British Intelligence. Clint introduced us.”

“So you knew her first?” Sam asked, directly his question at Clint on the screen.

“I did. She was an analyst initially, one of the best, if not the best. Still is.”

“So, she’s British?” Asked Rhodey.

“She is.” Answered Nat.

“Was she then?” Rhodey asked Steve and he nodded his reply.

“Man, what type of dumb question is that? You can’t change nationalities.” Sam asked.

“Actually Samuel, you can, not your birth place of course but when residing….”

“Vis not now.” Wanda said.

Pepper decided at this moment to take a handle of things as she watched Steve’s annoyance grow.

“Why don’t we go one at a time? Clint, so you met her first?”

“Yeah, initially just over comms, as part of the partnership between the different agencies but it was clear early on how good she was. The last mission Laura did, we, well we found out on the mission that Laura was pregnant. We were chasing some arms dealer in Greece that had decided to start manufacturing chemicals to control people.  Masses of people. We ran into some trouble. The extraction team were too far out and we were in pretty deep. I thought ‘this is it’, I’d taken my soulmate and my unborn child into a death trap, and then the sprinklers came on, and some 90s boy band starts coming out the speakers of the warehouse. It gave us a hint of time, just seconds to get the upper hand. We stole one of the ingredients so they couldn’t manufacture it and ran. A mile down the road there’s a pay phone ringing. It’s her. Telling us the S.H.I.E.L.D analysts were ‘shockingly shit’ and she’d dialled in and taken over. She directed us to a drain, told us the route to take. When we came up at the exit point, the SAS was there to extract us.”

“Holy shit. I don’t think I know anyone who can just call up the SAS like that, not even their own, not even us.” Sam added.

“She can, she’s got them wrapped around her finger I swear.” Clint said.

“Well, that’ll be guilt.” Nat muttered.

“What did you say?” Sam asked.

“She said something about guilt.” Bucky said, suddenly speaking up.

“Nat it’s not your place to tell them.” Clint stated firmly.

“Tell us what Romanoff?” Pushed Steve.

Pepper decided to refocus the conversation again.

“Laura, have you met her?”

“I have. She’s godmother to our children. Same as Natasha. She’s our soul sister.”

Steve huffed and leaned back in his chair.

“Nat?” Pushed Pepper.

“I met her over comms the same as they did to start with, Clint introduced us over a video call and then Fury sent me to recruit her.”

“For the Avengers?” Asked Steve.

“Not right away. S.H.I.E.L.D, then the Avengers. First as an analyst, then an agent.”

“I’m taking her lack of presence means she politely declined?” Quipped Tony.

“Not exactly.” Looking around at everyone’s confused faces Nat continued “it wasn’t exactly polite, she told me to fuck off.”

There was a rumble of light laughter.

“Hang on, hang on, she knew who you were?” Rhodey asked trying not to laugh, “she knew you were Natasha Romanoff, former assassin, Black Widow, and the British analyst, she told you to fuck off?”

“Yes Rhodey, she told me to fuck off.”

More amusement passed through the group. Then Laura’s voice.

“Tell them exactly what she said.”

Nat sighed.

“Fine. She said ‘I already told Fury and Barton no, and now I’m going to tell you Romanoff, no, a big fat fucking no, now get your Russian, double agent ass off my desk and fuck right off.’ She also had me escorted out of the building and had 001 revoke my access given to me under the partnership.”

"I like her already."

"Hush Tony."

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look. It definitely sounded like their girl but it also didn’t explain their soulmate being there now.

Bucky was next to speak. His voice still sounding a little broken.

“Was she, erm, like us? Is she like us? Was she frozen?”

“Buck we know she wasn’t, Peggy identified her.” he replied, tapping the file.

“What is this? May I look at this?” Asked Tony.

Steve nodded.

“Do you remember the liaison meetings around the time of the First Accords? A member of each agency was there?” The team nodded. “Well after Peggy’s estate was settled, one the British guys pushed that into my hand and left. It’s all about her, her background info, her career and what happened after us.”

“What happened?” Vision asked.

“Oh god.” Peppers voice interrupted. “Sorry I just.”

She pointed down and Steve could see she was reading the medical papers from when their soulmate was sectioned.

“She was institutionalised. Although the British call it sectioned. She was really insistent that we were both still alive. Kicked up quite a fuss. They had her sedated and shipped back home and put in a mental hospital.”

“They shouldn’t have done that Steve, they should have sent her to Ma like it said in our papers.” Bucky snapped tearfully.

“I know Buck. That’s why Peggy did what she did.”

“What did Agent Carter do exactly?” Asked Vision.

“She tried to get a guardianship.” Tony answered looking at the papers. “Wait, Dad’s name is here.”

“They both did. Your Dad and Peggy, but it was too late. She’d passed before.”

“Because of what they did to her?” Pepper asked.

“What do you mean? What they did to her?” Asked Bruce, finally breaking his silence. Tony glanced up at Steve.

“Can he see this?”

Steve clenched his jaw.

“It might help, that’s all, give us an idea of if she could have survived that.”

“She didn’t but fine.” Steve said through gritted teeth.

The file was passed down to Bruce, whose brow furrowed the moment he opened it.

“Jesus Christ.”

The room stayed silent as Bruce read through the file.

“I’m sorry Steve, Bucky, electric shock treatment of that amount, along with what they gave her, and the Broken Heart Syndrome. It’s unlikely she could have survived that.”

“She didn’t. The next piece of paper is signed by Peggy and Howard. Peggy identified her and registered her death. Howard paid for her funeral.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tony asked, disappointed in his tone.

“I was going to and then everything else happened. I was going to tell you and ask if you’d help me find the grave.”

“But there isn’t one right? I looked, there was nothing and that’s because she’s alive?” Asked Sam. Steve shook his head.

“May I add something Captain Rogers?” Asked Vision “I believe it may help the others understanding.”

Steve frowned but nodded.

“When Agents and Analyst, anyone above a a certain category joins an intelligence agency they under go testing and that now includes DNA and genetics, along with regular retesting. It would have raised concerns had she have been the age of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes and her identity would have been revealed or at least have led her to S.H.I.E.L.D for investigation not recruitment.”

Tony and Bruce both nodded in agreement.

“Captain Rogers what was the purpose of light implications that Peggy was your soulmate?”

Steve went to speak but was interrupted by Bucky.

“I hated that by the way and so did she.”

“I know Buck but we had to keep her safe.” Steve paused for a moment before continuing, “I found her right before I went looking for Buck. Peggy said we needed two things, a plane and route in. Howard got the plane and our soulmate was the map girl. I felt it the moment I saw her. My luck never was the best and then I find her and it’s in a war zone, I’m about to go on a suicide mission to find my best friend. Our eyes met and I was falling over my feet like the little kid in Brooklyn.”

“He actually did fall over his own damn feet. Our girl had to help him up off the floor.”

The team laughed softly.

“It’s true, that gave your Dad and Peg some laughs.” He said to Tony.

“Tell them the rest.” Bucky smirked.

“I kissed her, practically threw myself at her and kissed her. She was not amused, she was pretty pissed.”

“What was it she said ‘you yanks are all the bloody same’.”

Steve smiled, “Something like that, she pushed me off, told me off and shoved a pair of maps into my hands. Buck met her when he came back to base.”

“I didn’t throw myself at her, as hard as it was not to, and at least brought her a drink first.”

Steve smiled again as Bucky shared his memory before starting again.

“It’s not documented anywhere but when we were out on a mission there was an attack back at the base, a small group of energy agents had snuck in on a delivery truck. One of them went into what we called the War Room, trying to see the plans. Well, that’s what Phillips' first thought. Our girl was in there with another agent who was shot and killed. She got into a scuffle with the enemy agent and disarmed him but he didn’t stop and he tried to hurt her, in the worst way possible. Buck had slipped a pocket knife into her stocking before we left and she used it. Peggy burst in and finished the job. When they searched his body, there was a photo, albeit a bad one but a photo and a description of her. They hadn’t just come to see our plans, they’d come for her.”

“That’s why everything was deleted?” Nat stated, “Why I couldn't find anything, pictures, film, newsreels, all of it?”

Steve nodded. “Peggy pointed out she was safer with us than back home, we had no idea who knew about her. Every single one of those agents had a damn picture of her.”

“Peg made some calls, she knew someone at the BBC, Pathe News, some had lost soulmates in the war, so they clipped every image of her out.” Bucky added.

“So the photograph in your compass? Of Agent Carter? It was a diversion tactic?” Asked Vision.

Steve nodded, smile now gone. Sam still confused asked questions.

“OK, I need to piece this together out loud for a second and you know I’ve got your backs right? But for the non science bros, or super intelligent creations, no offence”

Replies of “non taken” echoed round the room.

“You said Peggy identified her, after she’d passed, Howard paid for the funeral, so they hid her really damn well for seventy years or this ain’t your girl. Like Vis said someone would have flagged her age.”

“It’s her!” Bucky snapped.

“Buck.”

“I’m trying to be the voice of reason here, make sense of it all. Are you sure that’s her?” Sam asked pointing at the pictures Buck still held. “You said yourself, she was deleted from everything, you don’t have a point of reference, a photo. You’ve been through some shit, you’ve been froze. Also, there's no point of reference for any of us either, with everything gone, we've all tried to look. I'm just saying you’ve been through a lot. Maybe the memory is blurred.”

It was at this point Bucky lost it.

“I remember everything!” He cried out “I remember her, I remember my Ma, my sisters, everything, all the god damn awful fucking things I’ve done, that they made me do. Shuri pieced it altogether and the good things, the good memories, her, the memory of her is what gets me through, when I can’t do it, when I can barely breathe.”

“Buck take a breath.”

“Just show them Steve, they’re looking at me like I’m damn crazy, about to ship me back to Wakanda! Show them.”

Steve rose from his seat and pulled out his compass. A compass that had been seen on newsreels, in newspapers and in history books. He slowly opened it and carefully removed the picture of Peggy. Hidden behind the S.H.I.E.L.D founder was their soulmate.

Faded and a little rough round the ages but the others could now see it clearly for themselves as Steve set the compass down displaying the photograph. Bucky reluctantly placed those from Wanda beside it.

It was the same person. You. Soul sister to the Bartons, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner and most recently, Wanda Maximoff, were in both pictures.

And you were Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes soulmate and you were alive.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part thirteen - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: rape/non-con ; violence ; blood ; violence against women ; name-calling, bullying, and fat-shaming ; self esteem issues ; awkward, embarrassing situations

He doesn’t come back. From the time she wakes up at 5PM, she waits for him. Impatient, distracted, not knowing what to do to pass the time. Midnight peaks around the corner ominously, and she’s pacing back and forth in the living room when Michael walks through the door.

He smiles big, sets his bag down on the counter, and greets her. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to see him tonight,” she says, trying not to start crying like an idiot again.

“Oh, hun,” Michael sighs. He pulls her into a cold hug after hanging his jacket up. “Did he tell you you would see him tonight?”

She shrugs. “He said maybe.”

Michael motions for her to sit on the couch. His hair is still glittering with icy rain drops. “Well, at least he’s not lying.” 

“I’m just confused. I don’t even know if he actually likes me.”

“If he’s kissing you and introducing you to his friends, then he likes you. Men are stupid. They think that things can be simple and clear cut, but they don’t factor emotions into their master plans.”

“So you think I’m just a fling?” She asks.

Michael cringes. “Honestly, I don’t know. On one hand, he sounds like he wants you in his life, but, on the other, he seems distant and secretive.”

She nods. “But I haven’t told him how I feel, either.”

“That’s the other thing; most men, like I said, emotionally inept. They need it spelled out. Maybe try telling him or asking him?”

She almost bursts out laughing at that, but just ends up snorting and rolling her eyes. 

Michael laughs for her. “Why do you think I’m so bad at commitment? You tell a guy you really like him and suddenly you’re dog shit.”

“You tell anyone you really like them and suddenly you’re dog shit,” she clarifies.

“Men have broken my heart so much and disappointed me that I should be a nun,” Michael nods. “But, here I am, a slut.”

“You’re not a slut, Michael.” She glares at him. 

“Well, if I’m not then I should be. Seriously, how many guys have smashed your heart into pieces? I’m betting the number is one or more.”

“Honestly,” she replies, turning toward him, “my worst heartbreaks haven’t been through relationships. Family and friends have fucked me up worse.”

He pats her shoulder. “See, I envy you. You don’t need anybody. You’re strong.”

Now that, makes her burst out in laughter so hard she shakes with it. 

“I’m serious.” It’s Michael’s turn to glare. “You’re self made. No one helped you get here. You clawed and fought your way to the top despite being hindered every step of the way. For Christ sake’s, you put yourself through nursing school. You’re a tough bitch and you need to start acting like it.” He pauses, collects himself. “Sorry.”

Her mouth folds in, eyes looking down at her hands. “You’re fine,” she tells him.

“I’m just. Sometimes you talk so bad about yourself that it’s just kind of pissing me off.” Michael grabs her hand and squeezes. “I get that you think bad about yourself, and it sucks. But if you don’t value yourself, then neither will leather jacket man.”

Michael’s words sting. He makes her realize that she’s fallen into a pattern of feeling sorry for herself, and it’s sabotaging her life. The depressing epiphany would be helpful if she knew how to fix it.

“Let me help you get more confidence,” Michael asks. “Come out with me more often. Go shopping with me. Get your hair done just for the thrill of it. You just said the other day about how you wanted to get a haircut.”

All of that sounds truly wonderful in theory, but what about reality? What about the fact that she has no idea how to style her hair or act confident?

“When you were young, what did you do for fun?” Michael asks. 

“Went for car rides, read books, watched movies, walked.” 

“Did you ever play a sport, go to prom, have a shopping spree, go to parties?” Michael asks, eyebrows pulled down in concentration which probably means that he’s trying to fathom how anyone can not do those things when they’re  younger.

“No.” She looks away, embarrassed. 

“Get your nails painted, make out with cute boys under bridges?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus,” Michael sighs. “Then we have a lot to catch up on, don’t we? Oh-“ he puts his hand out to stop himself from talking. “My mistake. We can cross the making out off our list.” He grins. “Unless he isn’t cute.”

She drops his hand, laughing sheepishly. “He’s…” she struggles to find the right word, but gets upset just thinking of his absence. “Very cute.” She finds herself sinking into the memory of high cheekbones and woodsy eyes and thermal skin and hungry, rough lips. 

Michael waves his hand in front of the glassy look on her face. “Oh, god,” he murmurs. “You’re totally fucked.”

——————————-

Michael thrusts a lace babydoll into her chest so hard that it makes her stumble backward. “Here, is this your size?”

She looks around the room to make sure no one’s watching. Just other women minding their business and digging through racks of lingerie. 

She glares at Michael, because he promised that if she at least went in to Victoria’s Secret, he wouldn’t give her any suggestions on purchases. And here he is, handing her a piece of fabric that won’t cover her thigh let alone whole body. 

She sticks it back on the rack it came from. “I don’t think it will fit me.”

He sighs, rummaging through the underwear bin. “How do you know until you try?” 

She picks up a tiny, silk thong from the top pile and shows it to him. “How can you wear this stuff? Isn’t it in you the entire time rather than covering you?”

Michael takes the panties from her and examines them, chuckling. “No, see, you’re looking at them wrong. This one my ass would swallow.” He tosses it back, and holds up another in its place with seemingly better coverage all around. “This one would be cute yet practical.”

“Hmmm.” She tilts her head, trying to understand what he’s talking about. “I’m pretty sure my ass would swallow all of them.”

Michael sticks his tongue out at her. “No need to brag.” 

While Michael decides on underwear, she goes to smell the perfumes. Now this, she thinks, Victoria excels at. In fact, she just might buy a cotton candy scented bottle that’s half off and the lotion to match. She makes sure this is the one she wants, though, before taking it up to the counter and checking out. 

Michael is proud, grinning, patting her on the back as they walk the mall. “See, Vickie isn’t that bad.”

“Eh, she smells nice, I’ll give her that.”

They both share a giggle. 

She asks Michael if they can go into the book store, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Babe, no offense, but you go in without me and I’m gonna check out Sephora.” 

“Ah, that reminds me.” She taps her face. “When are you teaching me how to do winged liner?”

“As soon as you buy eyeliner,” Michael replies. “Which is why you should come to Sephora. I mean, not to sound like a vapid bitch, but.. the book store? Really?” He’s smiling, teasing her. 

“That’s why it’s here, right?”

They part ways. 

She didn’t want to tell him the real reason she came in, which is to get a present for John. If she ever sees him again. 

She goes right to the romance section and begins to peruse around for something he might like. 

The Jackal and the Cat, One Foot in Santa Monica, The Clandestine Candle . 

She tries to picture him reading any single one of these, but her mind comes up blank. Maybe he meant that he likes older romance books? She walks to the classical section. 

Two men in suits standing by Agatha Christie’s showcase catch her eye and remind her too much of a certain well-dressed gentleman she admires. Both are tall, well built, fancy and stoic, looking very out of place here in Books A Million. 

They unabashedly and suspiciously watch her, and it freaks her out enough that she ducks behind a case of Edgar Allen Poe and Shakespeare. Weird merging timelines, but a great safe haven. 

A small elder woman with white, wispy hair, dark skin, and sharp grey eyes smiles brightly up at her. She wears a black pant suit and smells like flowers. Tasteful jewelry adorns her neck and wrists. She has a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in her hands, flipping it over to examine the shiny hardback spine. 

“Oh, excuse me dear, but could you do me a favor? I left my reading glasses at home and I’d really like to hear the summary on this. Can you read it to me?”

She smiles back and takes the book to do as requested. 

After she’s done stumbling over her words, the older woman looks entranced and astonished like she’s one of the best storytellers from this century. “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she says, folding the book into her weathered palms for safe keeping. “Thank you so much. Have you read it?”

“Um, yes, I think in highschool?” Her cheeks get a little warm with embarrassment from being visibly uncultured in front of this sophisticated looking individual. 

“Ah,” the stranger muses, “and A Picture of Dorian Grey?”

“I, um, wrote my big book report on that one,” she chuckles, rubbing her arm. 

“Anything specific you’re looking for?” The woman asks, ready to return a favor. 

“Romance? Something cultured? Older?”

The woman puts a finger to her lips in thought, then her grey eyes light with an idea. “Come with me.”

She’s surprisingly light and quick on her feet for a woman of her age. She actually has trouble keeping up as the tiny woman floats through the store until settling at the back wall. A large sign above the shelves reads: ROMANCE. 

The older woman, knowing exactly what she wants, narrows in to the right handed corner. She fingers through some hardbacks, pulls out a plain blue novel, and hands it to the waiting person behind her. 

In Safe Hands by Jane Sanford. The inner synopsis promises a thriller romance with a great twist. Plus, it’s a beautiful book. Simple and hardbound, shiny Robin blue. Something that John would appreciate, hopefully. 

“Have you ever read this one?” Soft white hair floats into view as she examines the book. 

She looks up and smiles. “It’s not for me.”

The elder smiles and the devilish look makes her seem years younger. A certain knowing reflects in her face. “Ah.” Her tone is teasing. “A love interest, perhaps?” 

The accent wasn’t noticeable before, but now it’s apparent. Some kind of rich, articulated drawl that she thinks she’s heard before. 

Her skin heats. “Yes.”

“My, you live in this moment and love it no matter what hardship it brings.” Her crinkled eyes run up and down over the expansive shelves of paper before she looks back up at her and smiles. “Love is rare, you know. At least the good kind.”

She chews her lip. “The good kind?”

The woman chuckles. “I can tell you have the good kind. You’re buying them a romance novel. It can’t be anything else but the kind of love that makes everything else seem dull.” 

She wants to believe this desperately. The words resonate in her chest and pound true through the pulse of her arteries. Once again, she misses John violently. Misses the feelings he gives her. She rubs her fingers over the spine of his present and thinks of his wish to be a librarian. 

The old woman pats her shoulder. “You have a great day, dear.” 

Her attention is drawn back to the movement of her acquaintance. She never noticed the the two men from earlier standing behind, still staring daggers at her head. They tuck the tiny, waving lady between them, and disappear behind shelves. 

She meets Michael at a pizza place near the exit and tells him about the weird encounter while they eat. 

“You’re living in a romance mystery novel and you refuse to buy lingerie?” Michael rolls his eyes. “That checks out.” 

She shrugs. “It’s more pathetic than that.”

“I got you eyeliner,” Michael tells her, taking a bite of baked ziti. 

“Michael!” She admonishes. She grabs a bag from their feet and opens it to show him the eyeliner, lip gloss, and small eyeshadow palette that she purchased after leaving the bookstore. “Do you really have that little faith in me?”

Michael cringes. “Yes, but I’m surprised and proud.” 

She grins. “Thank you, I guess.” 

They take Michael’s car to a little coffee shop on Wall Street Court that Michael promises she’ll love despite the hustle and bustle at the heart of the city. He gets a big iced vanilla latte and she orders a smoothie. They sit next to floor-to-ceiling glass windows that give an amazing view of the lavish cityscape. 

Important men in business suits and beautiful girls in bodycon dresses flit in and out of crystal business doors. Expensive limos line the streets. It’s strange, to have this scene at her back door when she’s always felt so separate from it. She watches like it’s a movie. 

“Do you want to go to the theatre?” Michael asks, tapping at his phone. “Emily and Syreeta are going and want us to join.”

“They want you to join,” she corrects.

Michael glares at her. “Were we not just talking about this self pity thing? They don’t hate you.”

It stings because he’s right, but climbing out of a pit of despair is harder than it looks. Every time she tries to get a hand on the ladder rung above her, the hating darkness bats her away and keeps her stagnant.

“They just didn’t talk to me in the club,” she explains.

“Funny, they said the same thing about you. Just be yourself, like you were with me. When you actually talk, you’re the easiest person to get along with I’ve ever met.”

She sips her drink and thinks about it. “Thank you, Michael, but you’re pretty easy to get along with, too.”

He sighs, puts his phone down, folds his hands, and leans over. “You coming or not? It’s the Nutcracker. Uh, hello, earth to -“

Her attention is totally and suddenly taken by something on the other side of the glass window. Her eyes have that unfocused, enraptured look again, and Michael waves his hand in front of her face. “Babe?” 

John Wick stands on a street corner, waiting to cross, hands in his pockets. He’s dressed in a black suit and red tie, hair fluffed back, looking as good as ever. Michael glances over at her center of attention. 

“Oh my god, it’s him, isn’t it?” Michael is suddenly whispering as if this is top secret information. “Which one?” 

“Shhh,” she says, embarrassed, looking away, playing into the top secret thing despite no one in here caring about them or what they’re talking about. 

“Listen,” Michael tells her, pushing his coffee out of the way so he can lean over the table. “If you want to go after him and ask him what the hell is up, I don’t blame you. In fact, I support this cause and am here to help.”

“He might be working, Michael,” she says, looking away from John reluctantly. 

“Only one way to find out,” Michael grins. “Go after him. Show him that you’re serious.”

Michael’s suggestion is all too tempting. Mostly because she misses him dearly even though it’s only been around 24 hours since they last interacted. It’s obsessive behavior, borderline creepy of her. He’ll probably hate her if she walks up and talks to him, now, but on the other hand, he’s the one barging into her apartment without an invite and cornering her at clubs and waiting outside for her to get home. Isn’t it fair if she returns the favor, shows him she wants this just as much? She glances once more at his broad back while he walks down the opposite street and she makes a split second, dumb decision that she normally would never even think about making. 

She gets up, grabs her jacket, tells Michael she’ll be back, and slides her chair in. 

Michael yells after her as she walks out the door. “Don’t get kidnapped!! If you’re not home by midnight I’m calling the cops! You better text me! I’m drinking the rest of this smoothie!”

She’s too clumsy to be any sort of sneaky, but she doesn’t really care if he sees her walking behind him - trying to keep up - because he’s going to get a full view of her anyway when they’re face to face. 

The sidewalk and streets are blessedly clear of ice and slush and snow, and if she didn’t know better she’d say that divine intervention was on her side, because if she had to walk this fast on slippery ground, she’d already be K.O.’d by the earth. 

John turns a corner and she is practically running to catch up with his long legged stride. She murmurs sorry as she whizzes by nicely dressed street patrons a little too closely and receives glares and annoyed murmurs for her trouble. By the time he stops, she’s struggling to catch her breath. He stands on the steps of a large building constructed to take up two corners of the street. It’s center piece among the business district, white and huge.

A bellman dressed in silver and red stands at the door and waits patiently for the only visitor, John Wick.

Shes grateful that he’s stalled on the steps, staring at a phone that she didn’t know he had, too distracted to see her as she clears the busy street. Drivers lay on their horns, someone screams at her out of a passenger window, and, finally, when her feet hit the curb and she almost wipes out trying to get away from moving traffic, John turns. 

“Are you following me?” He wears the exact opposite expression that she wants to see; hatred and anger slash his angular features into something to be afraid of. 

She feels like a fox in a henhouse with the farmers gun pointed at her muzzle, head between her legs and automatically backing away from him. She misinterprets his own fear with disgust at her behavior and now she just wants to turn tail and leave, but the doorman sees her, and he undoubtedly notices her connection to John, and it’s far too fucking late for that. 

There is a point that needs to be made to protect the precious pumping blood inside her body and he can’t decide what to do to get that point across when adrenaline is binding fury and fear inside of him tighter and tighter. He feels the tick of his watch against his wrist and relates it to her dwindling innocence and safety. He stalks toward her, one step from him matching four of her own.

John grabs her up by the bicep and drags her along like a stuffed doll to his car that’s parked around the right side of the building. 

His grip is hard enough to sink bone deep and make her ache, but she shuts up and lets him take her where he wants, too ashamed to argue with him now.

She’s not even sure what’s happening when he hustles her into his backseat and makes her lay flat down on it with her legs curled up on the freezing bench.

He doesn’t bother telling her to duck into the safety of the vehicle, just handles her into a fetal position himself. “Stay,” he says, and the door shuts behind him, leaving her alone and shivering in the cold leather. 

She hears the click of a lock and buries her numb face into her jacket. 

Charon is waiting at the front desk to greet him with a placid smile. John flips him a gold coin in greeting. “Charon.” He tips his head as the man catches his bribe. 

Charon’s smile turns ardent. “Hello sir, nice to see you, what can I help you with today?” 

“I have a guest in my car. Could you take them somewhere comfortable, safe, secluded while I do business?” John’s voice is poised but his eyes are pleading. 

Charon slips the coin into his pocket. “Of course, sir.” 

His tensed body relaxes while one of the few people that he trusts to protect an innocent woman takes his keys and leaves the building. She still won’t be safe enough for him to feel entirely calm, and he only has a second to regret not putting her under his arm - the only place she will be completely protected - before he’s walking into the dining hall to meet Viggo and Winston. 

“John,” Viggo cries, standing and pulling him into his side for a brief embrace. “Three minutes late?”

Cool sweat forms under his collar at the comment while he tries to remain composed in the face.

Viggo looks suspicious. But John can’t decide if it’s because of a tell on his features or the fact that he’s never been late twice in his entire life. 

Viggo motions for him to sit, still cheery. Winston stays tight lipped, formal, poised. John envies him for the mastered skills. 

He’s so wound tight that he almost jumps when he feels the oncoming, light pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He’s never been like this in line of Viggo’s sight, and he knows that the man can tell he’s not himself, but he can’t seem to get the vision of her bloody, pulseless body out of his mind. And what he will do to everyone in this hotel as a consequence of it.

“Hello John, can I get you something to drink?” 

He turns to the waitress and tries a smile. “Hello Rachel, nice to see you. I’ll have a Blanton’s. Ice, please.”

“On the rocks,” Rachel winks at him. “Got it.” As she walks away, Viggo talks business. 

————————————————————

Charon is very nice. He introduces himself, assures her that she will be an “honored guest”, and lets her sit up front while he drives the car into the attached, Continental branded parking garage. 

The section they settle John’s car into is filled with other expensive-looking vehicles. She recognizes BMWs and Jaguars from TV commercials. Charon insists upon opening her door, much like someone else she knows, and then guides her to a big silver elevator with neon, red and green buttons blinking in sequence on an expansive wall panel tucked to the side. She thinks he’s going to press one, but instead, he pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the plain metal door beside the elevator that she assumes, at first, is unimportant. 

The staircase is lined with soft blue paisley carpet and the walls are decorated with pictures of strange art pieces. She stares at distorted naked bodies and eyeless characters and blurred grey crowds and angels battling bloody demons on top of cotton candy skies as Charon leads her into the dim underbelly of the hotel. 

“They are all painted by former and current members,” he tells her. 

“They’re really amazing,” she says, not wanting to push questions in fear of offending the overly kind man guiding her to safety that she didn’t even realize she needed until she was being manhandled into John’s back seat.

If she lives through this, she’ll have to get permission to take pictures and show Michael. It’s strange, to not know if she’s going to be alive tomorrow or not. Fatality that seemed so fanatical and far away two weeks ago now stands at her doorstep waiting like an expectant courier and she’s starting to get used to its harrowing presence. 

Charon lands light on his dress shoes off the last step, and waits for her to catch up. She stumbles a bit on the rough rugs, and he reaches out a hand to steady her shoulder while she smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Do not be sorry,” Charon tells her, patting dust off her jacket. “These floors need a remodel. This is our old entrance: The only people that use it are the ones who can navigate it blindfolded.” 

He motions her into a doorway that leads to a drastic change of scenery. In here, everything is modern and brightly illuminated. There are grey leather couches seated around a large table in the center of the room. A bed with black, shiny sheets sits perfectly in the open floor plan, with bamboo plants flourishing on each side of the wide mattress. There is a room that she assumes to be the bath, because it’s the only part of this place with a door attached. Two glass coolers glow with rainbow assortment bottles of alcohol and seltzer waters. 

She blinks up at the high ceiling, too distracted by the view to hear Charon ask her if she would like something to eat. 

“Miss?” 

She stops and looks at him. “What? Sorry?” 

He repeats the question. Her stomach growls, but she tames it and tells him that she’s fine, not wanting to be a bother. 

“Help yourself to the beverages,” Charon motions, referring to the large coolers. “And feel free to use the room as you please until Mr. Wick retrieves you. This is a private, isolated suite we reserve only for select guests. No one will bother you, but if you should need something, please just pick up the phone and I will be waiting on the other line to assist you.” 

She nods at him, using the gesture of gratitude that John favors - already adopting his mannerisms - and gives warm thanks. 

“It is my pleasure,” Charon says, “any friend of Mr. Wick is a friend of mine.”

With that, he leaves her alone in the huge room.

She has a million questions, but none of them seem more important than keeping hold of John Wick, so she quells them and waits like an obedient dog for his return.

————————————————————

Viggo is leaned back, drinking sweet vodka, negotiating the terms of John’s re-employment.

“You were never fired, we held the position.” Viggo rubs the just-greying scruff on his chin, eyeing John. “Winston, can we still smoke in here?”

“‘Fraid not,” Winston replies, taking his own sip of sour scotch and pursing his lips as if in distaste. “Only downstairs.”

Viggo grumbles. “Gav-no. Why didn’t we go down there?”

“I figured it would be easier for you to run and get to your men if John decides to kill you,” Winston shrugs.

His dry sarcasm and witty grin has Viggo laughing. 

John says nothing and takes a drink, trying futilely to calm himself with liquor. 

“I think it was stupid that they put you in prison and didn’t expect this to happen, John.” Viggo bites into his ravioli, chews, swallows. “And if they want a war, I will give them one.”

“We did it to prevent a war,” Winston interjects.

“Bah!” Viggo spits. “The war is already happening - it has been for a long time - what’s a little more blood shed going to do?”

“A lot more,” Winston corrects. “Blood shed.”

Viggo comes forward, eyes determined, tosses the silk bib from around his neck onto the table. “So be it. I want you with me, John. And I will make sure no one makes one hair out of place on your head.” He leans back, done eating. “And your head too, Winston.” He nods at the older man. 

Winston raises his eyebrows and looks at John expectantly. “Your ball.” 

————————————————————

The bathroom is more of a sauna. Different height benches, numerous sprayers on the ceiling, vents that leak hot steam into the room at the push of a button. A toilet with a bidet behind another secret door. The sink is concave marble, adorned with freshly wrapped toiletries and beautiful smelling lavender soap that she honestly thinks about sticking into her pocket and taking home.

Just as she’s about to exit, she hears the loud slam of a door and laughing male voices clanking against one another. 

She freezes, turns the lock back, steps away, looks around for an escape which there is none of. 

Then, a female voice, pitiful and pleading. She presses her ear to the smooth wood, listening as the woman - language different from her own - becomes more distressed. 

Her heart rises from her stomach to her ribs and burns in anger and disgust as she tunes in to the exchange. 

“Look at her, all tied up and nowhere to go.”

“Fucking slut.” A hard slapping sound and then a scream of agony from the high pitched female voice. Then crying and more despicable taunting from the numerous male visitors.

She’s not thinking of anything but that gut-wrenching, memory triggering voice when she pushes through the door and steps out into the room. 

Five young men have a small Asian woman, completely naked and bound in rope, prone on the cold floor. Their hands bruise her skin as she sobs. 

As all their eyes turn to her, reality smacks her in the face like a burst of fire burning her eyebrows off. The woman’s eyes are red and sore, tears streaking down her face. One boot has her cheek pressed down while a hand grabs her hair and pulls taut. 

“Hey,” she says, voice filled with venom, adrenaline in her body fire that smokes her vision. “What the fuck are you doing to her.”

The only problem here is that she’s a lone woman in a hotel room with no weapons and these guys look automatically angry for the interruption. The one with the boot on the girl’s head gets to her as fast as John can, and grabs her by the collar. “Shloondra,” he spits, “tebya nikto nikogda ne uchil ne lezt' v svoi dela?”

Her heart plummets again and her angry glasses cloud with fear. She’s up on her tiptoes, choking at his grasp.

He pushes his face down to her own and she smells the potent liquor on his breath. “Davayte prepodam svin'ye urok.” 

One of his companions answers in English. “Tie her up and make her help.”

They all laugh.

She’s so tired of this shit. Men. Thinking they can do whatever they want with no consequences. Hatred tastes bitter in her mouth, so potent it hurts her teeth. 

And this guy is nothing like Benny. Benny who she couldn’t even fathom fighting because he was so massive. 

This guy is small, thin, barely taller than her. She knows she can hurt him, so she does, slams upward with her knee and makes squelching contact with his dying erection. 

He drops her and she falls back onto her ass.

As his companions laugh, he grabs his dick and moans through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

She smiles, but not for long, because now all these men are coming at her with wicked, delighted intent. 

The redhead gets in front of her and crushes her back against the legs of the more muscled member. She’s stuck sitting between them, but she still has her hands and feet, kicks and hits furiously at any soft body part she can find. Redhead yelps in pain as she makes blunt force contact with his balls and screams for someone else to get on her. 

Two grab both her arms and twist them at angles that make her screech in pain. It gets the point across, and she stills. Redhead and Russian guy have stepped away to lick their wounds, but two of the others still hold both her arms in a neatly breaking fashion and the other one has her neck in his hands. 

He pats her cheek and squeezes her trachea to play with how much air she’s allowed to have. 

“Ah, a wild bull.” His thick accent is hard to understand. “Maybe we should have some fun with you?”

“Disgusting,” the muscled one hisses. 

“No, she can clearly eat well,” redhead growls. “Make her eat pussy.”

“Would you like that?” It’s clear now from the combined smell that they’re all very drunk. “You hungry, little pig? Want to get all sloppy at the trough?” 

Her wild eyes catch the ones of her bound counterpart, and this woman almost looks bored in sharp contrast to herself. The agony is gone from her face and she’s watching this scene and practically yawning she’s so uninterested. 

She doesn’t have time to be confused before one man twists her arm back again, and she’s sure it’s going to break, so she screams. 

The Russian claps a hand over her mouth and tells her what she thinks is the equivalent of shut up. 

Charon opens the door, John catches her scared eyes, takes in the picture, and the last shred of his building anxiety snaps in half. 

First, he charges the one holding her throat, and a defensive hand doesn’t have time to raise before John returns the favor, grabs him by the neck, and tosses him into a wall.

He’s ready for the other ones before they have time to realize he’s an enemy.

She watches the unfair fight play out, not because she wants to, but because watching John move is like watching a captivating, bloody ballet, and it’s hard to look away. A big, dumb part of her feels bad for these stupid punks while he wrecks their shit.

He’s just so much bigger than them that it’s insane they think they can counter him. He looks like a giant being pounced on by miniature people. Maybe it’s just the way he doesn’t even try to hit them that makes him seem so massive in comparison. Flipping someone over his shoulder looks like playground antics.

Two by two they fall, until the last one pulls a gun from his holster and aims it at John’s chest. John moves an inch, the bullet hits him in the shoulder, and he simply grunts, inconvenienced, like a bear being shot with a paintball, knocks the gun out of his opponent’s hand, and moves forward, backing him up and glaring down at the man who is visibly shaking in fear, head down to submit, hands in the air to keep the massive predator at arms length.

He grabs him by the neck and this guy is thick but John’s whole hand covers his throat and turns him blue in the face. He lifts him completely off his feet with his right hand, and punches him in the face so fast and graceful that it doesn’t even look like it would hurt until she sees the blood fly out of his skull and his nose cave inward. 

He’s done with them, so he goes right to her, pulls her up and holds her at arms length to make sure she’s not hurt.

She pushes against him. “John.” Her urgent tone directs him to the woman bound Shibari style on the floor.

John releases her and they both go to help.

She starts working at the knot around her wrists and stomach while John cuts her ankles free

He moves her fumbling hands aside to slice through the rest of the half-assed binding job.

“Nǐ huì shuō Zhōngwén ma?” The free woman addresses her rescuers.

John stops. “shì.”

John and the woman have a full conversation that she can’t understand.  Catching any word is truly pointless.

The woman sits up and pats her on the shoulder. Then, she rubs her bare breasts and yawns. She tilts her head at John, questioning. 

The woman talks again, this time pushing perky tits out and pouting at him. 

John motions to her and replies. 

An unexpected spike of jealousy jabs at her nerves. Now that, she thinks she can ascertain the meaning behind.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” She asks him. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” John says. “They paid her to have sex with them.” 

“She was screaming.”

John shrugs. “That’s what they wanted from her.”

She feels so stupid it hurts. “I’m an idiot,” she whispers. 

“She doesn’t think you are,” John says. “She admires you.”

She resists the urge to ask him what she really cares about, which is what he thinks. 

They are all sitting on the floor criss cross applesauce like in 5th grade reading class when Winston and Charon enter scene.

“Jesus,” Winston says, looking over the mess. “Is anyone dead?”

“No,” John assures. 

Charon starts profusely apologizing to John, but John shakes his head at the repentance and looks, instead, at the naked woman, asking her to tell the newcomers what happened. 

Naked woman sighs, annoyed but agreeing.

Winston lays adoring eyes, flooded with realization, on the clothed woman sitting at John’s side, and smiles warmly. He comes and holds out his hand for a shake. 

She gives him her own hand and he flips it over and kisses the back. He looks at John while she warms with embarrassment. 

“You sure know how to pick ‘em..” Winston muses.

The muscled man tries to stand, but Charon pushes him back down with a Valentino heel. “Sir,” he alerts, motioning at the pile of men. “What should we do with them?”

“Probably something involving a doctor,” Winston says.

“Right away, sir,” Charon nods, pulling a phone from his pocket.

“Are you hurt?” Winston asks her, examining her closely. 

She shakes her head no, but points at John. “He got shot.”

Winston looks over and John pulls his suit open to reveal a clean white dress shirt free of bullet holes. 

She has to look twice and second guess her own eyes.

Winston sighs. “He wears Kevlar. Most bullets don’t pierce it. He’ll be alright. He’s taken worse than this, I assure you, my love.” He must see the worry on her face because his voice soothes and tames. 

She looks at John with a million questions in her eyes, but asks none of them, which he’s thankful for. 

Winston addresses the person in the room with the least clothing and they talk for a moment. 

John puts his hand on her shoulder and slides over to talk low in her ear. “Did they hurt you?” He asks.

“Not as much as you hurt them.” She tries to comfort him.

“I’ll kill them if you want me to.”

“No you will not.” Winston switches from Chinese to English, turning on his heel to point a warning look and finger at John. “I’m already going to have enough trouble trying to make it seem like this wasn’t business, Johnathan. Plus, I don’t think Viggo will keep you employed if you kill his son.” 

John sucks on his teeth and glares at the annoyance that is Winston’s rude interruption before focusing back on her. “My offer stands.”

“No,” she tells him, looking from him to Winston. “I don’t want you to kill anyone.” She grabs his hand and squeezes, pulling it into her lap. 

She sounds like she means that, so he stays put, but he hasn’t decided for himself whether they’re going to live or die yet. Especially when they leave Continental ground and hunting season opens.

A loud knock brings the conversation to a small Asian man in a white suit and slacks entering the room. He wears a stethoscope and carries a brief case. 

“John.” His set frown turns into a natural smile. “Long time no see.”

“Hey Doc,” John nods.

He sets to work like this is all completely normal. The smell of ammonia and iodine and salt is an affront to the senses as he opens his briefcase and begins waking the Russian up.

John tugs on her as if to escort her away, but Winston stops them. “Let me get you out of here so that no one sees her.” 

John settles, but he’s not taking chances, so he drags her into his lap with her head tucked under his chin and his tight arms wrapped around her protectively. Want her, go through me - the point is apparent 

“John,” she grumbles, squirming to adjust, embarrassed by his parenting behavior but clinging to him anyway. She’s just happy he doesn’t seem to be mad at her now.

Naked woman comes over and snuggles into John’s side, gripping his bicep to bulging, starring smugly at the groaning group of bleeding, bruised men. 

John side eyes her, but allows it, reasoning that she must be weary of them trying to get their money back, and not one to deny someone - who is seemingly vulnerable - protection. 

Jealousy rears its ugly head again and she resists the urge to glare at this beautiful girl pressing her bare breasts into John’s side.

Viggo’s son sits up, spits out blood, and looks their way. He opens his mouth to say something, but the look on John’s face makes his snarl falter. “John,” he nods in greeting. 

“Iosef,” John nods back. 

The braver Russian man starts with venom, but Winston interrupts him. “If you think I can actually keep him from killing you or worse, you’re very wrong.”

He closes his jaw.

She feels like they’re in kindergarten and they have all just gotten into a fight so the teacher is making them sit on the floor and have quiet time. 

Violent stares, instead of words, are shot back and forth until the doctor breaks a nose back into place. 

Then, the only voice that has occurred in a while is the scream of this man.

John wants to make them apologize, because he knows she’s hurt by the things they said about her, but he doesn’t know if it would actually help her self esteem or harm it, so he stays quiet and promises death with his eyes. 

“Now,” Winston addresses the room. “Unless you wish to forfeit the protection this hotel provides, you will forget this happened.”

“He beat us up,” the man with the thick accent argues. 

“And you broke into a private room and assaulted a woman,” Winston tells him. “Sounds like you started it. If he’s in trouble, you’re in it bigger. So, nothing happened, correct?” 

“We payed her,” Viggo’s son growls, starring at the naked woman who clutches John tighter.

“That’s not the woman I’m referring to,” Winston says. 

She looks up at John and it seems like he’s daringthe other man to say something. She pulls at his shirt to get his attention, and he looks down at her, misreading the worry on her face.

“We’ll leave soon,” he says.

She sighs and leans her head on his chest, giving up. 

Winston begins to say something, but interruption comes in the form of her phone’s vibrating ring. 

All eyes focus on her as she digs it from her pocket, puts it on silent, and texts the frantic Michael that she’s fine and she’ll explain later. 

John makes a mental note to beat the roommate into submission so that he’s a little less possessive. 

“Uh, sorry,” she tells Winston. 

“Quite alright,” Winston assures, smiling big at her like she can do wrong. 

John refuses to let her go until they’re in the back seat of an unlicensed black suv and being driven away from the building. 

Even now, he keeps her tucked under his arm. 

She looks up at him. “Sorry,” she says. 

He keeps his eyes on the window scenery to avoid making her feel awful with his uncontrolled, cold expression. 

He sucks on his teeth. “We will talk, not here.”

He pulls her further against him and she stays quiet. 

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Lovers & Friends (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Keigo Takami x Black!Fem!Reader (Friends to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which you and Keigo have begun to realize the strange new feelings you both have for each other after one drunken night at a close friend’s wedding that ends with you in his bed, but because of your longtime friendship and committed relationships with other people, you’re more than happy to forget that night even happened and keep your mutual feelings in the dark…for now, at least. 

Story Warnings: Smutty smut; 18+ (MINORS GET AWAY); Cheating/Infidelity; Mating; Light Degradation; Spanking; Exhibitionism; Multiple Positions; Creampie; Unprotected PIV Sex; Facials; Scent Play; Marking; Spitting; Deepthroating; Cunnilingus; Begging; Edgeplay; Power Play; Daddy Kink; Some Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Mild Violence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic (except for Rei and Haruko). However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: AO3 is down & supposedly leading people to a scammy site looking to steal personal info, so for now, these 2 chapters are staying on Tumblr until further notice. It's ALWAYS something, I s2g. -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Bonus Chapter.

Read on AO3 here!

************

Chapter Six: Sex on the Beach.

Keigo swears your ass has never looked better than it does in your perfect, little peach-colored dress. 

He would be lying if he said he hasn't been watching the damn thing bounce and jump beneath your sundress ever since you hit the dance floor. Rumi continuously hyping you up doesn’t make it any better. “Yeeeesss, Y/N!” she screams over the music, just as drunk as you are. “Fuck it uuuuup!” 

You are happy to do so, bending your knees even more and tossing ass like it’s no one’s business. Keigo does his best to not stare, instead trying to focus on the other drunk guests who are worse off with their dance moves.

However, a certain someone doesn’t allow him to do so when he walks up next to him with a low whistle. “Looks like someone is feeling the champagne,” Fatgum chuckles, holding a whiskey glass in his hand. 

“Shit, she’s been feelin’ it for hours now,” Keigo sighs as he and Fatgum watch you buss it to the music, your braids in your face and drink in your hand. You’ve gathered the eyes of a few men since your second mimosa, including the staff, the DJ, and a few pros who don’t know what’s good for them. They only stopped when Keigo looked at them like he had a Glock in his suit pocket for them if they kept eyeing his friend down. 

He supposes that he should take the blame for your carefreeness though. He loves seeing you completely free of all your worries, especially about your asshole boyfriend.

But he also knows drunk you can get into some trouble. He remembers that one Halloween when you got so drunk at Nemuri’s masquerade party that you nearly made out with someone you thought was Rei wearing the same colored mask. Or that time Dabi whipped you up his own cocktail and had you skinny-dipping in Keigo’s pool. 

He’s had his own fair share of embarrassing, drunk stories though. And plus, seeing you throwing ass and laughing your pretty laugh is much better than seeing you down in the dumps for Rei. Keigo knew for a fact that the dickhead made you cry earlier. You would’ve never ventured away from the wedding if he hadn’t. Keigo knows you like he knows his favorite book, which means patron shots were definitely the way to ease your broken heart. 

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t tell you to run the story back for him. He just wanted to see you smile and enjoy today…only those patron shots turned into a chocolate martini and two glasses of mimosas hours later. He knows he’ll have to scrap you up off the floor later, but if he is forced to do that, plus curb the hard-on struggling against his suit slacks as he watches you dance, he’ll do that. After all, you deserve to be happy. 

He decides to attempt to distract himself again by turning to Fatgum, averting his eyes from the arousing scene. “So how’s it feel to be a married man now?” He asks, nodding at Fathom’s wedding band. “Do you feel any differently?” 

Fatgum looks at him with a happy gleam in his eye. “To be honest with you, Hawks, not really,” he sheepishly replies. "It feels great to finally be married to the one I love more than anyone in this world, but the way I feel for Haruko wouldn’t have changed even without a ring.” He looks down at his wedding band, a small, adoring smile on his lips. “I guess I thought a ring would’ve made it more real, you know?” 

Keigo doesn’t know. He couldn’t think of knowing…at least that’s what he tells himself. However, the image of you in a wedding dress walking down the aisle is a little too vivid for him. The only one he’s ever loved is you, but none of that could ever see the light of day. It’d ruin everything.

So he gives Fatgum a smile and pretends that he knows exactly what he’s talking about. “Well, if you ask me, it looked real from the very start,” he chuckles. 

Fatgum gives him a grateful smile, a twinkle in his eye. Keigo envies him. How would it feel to feel so deeply about someone who feels the same about you so openly? Fatgum and Haruko looked so in love today. Every time they looked at each other, even when the other wasn’t looking, Keigo saw nothing but acceptance, adoration, and pure love. It is hard not to be jealous of such a thing. 

“Girls, girls!” Yu suddenly hollers, red in the face and obviously gone off the champagne. She runs onto the dance floor towards you and Rumi, her overexcited behavior causing you to stop dancing. ”Haruko is about to throw the bouquet!”

Keigo looks towards where Yu is pointing and surely enough, Haruko is standing near the snack table where a crowd of women have begun to surround her, just as excited. Something about seeing Haruko, so happy and giggly, in her wedding dress and Fatgum smiling at her with such love in his eyes does something to Keigo.

Fatgum’s haunting words from his bachelor party come back to him, rising out of the fog in his tipsy mind: ’Those bachelor days won’t last forever…’ 

Keigo clears his throat, knowing now is the right time to bare himself to his friend. He turns to him, forcing his wings to not tremble. “Hey, listen; I’m sorry for what happened at your bachelor party…you know, when we were playing pool at the bar. I didn’t–” 

“Stop.” Fatgum’s voice is firm but not unkind. He gives Keigo a reassuring smile, the sunset in his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for, Hawks. You have your opinion and I’ve got mine. I’m just glad you’re here and showed up for me as my best man.” He pats Keigo on the shoulder with his big hand. “When Y/N comes down off her high, thank her for coming too.” 

“You’re leaving?” Keigo curiously asks. Fatgum gives him a mischievous smirk. “After Haruko throws the bouquet and I get my hands on that garter, hell yeah. Speaking of which…” He pulls on Keigo’s arm, walking him farther away from the crowd that has begun to grow around Haruko. “You might wanna stand back.” 

Keigo is glad Fatgum saved him because he definitely would’ve gotten trampled by the slew of screaming guests wanting their chance at catching Haruko’s bouquet. Among them are you, Nemuri, Yu, and Rumi, excitedly jumping up and down as Haruko turns around to toss the bouquet of flowers behind her. As soon as they go flying, the crowd reacts, jumping as high as they can to catch it.

You prove to be victorious when the bouquet tumbles in the middle of the crowd and you snatch it up, nearly losing a shoe. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” you practically scream, excitedly jumping up and down.

While half of the guests applaud you and the others give you dirty looks, Keigo silently stares at you with the bouquet in your hands. That image of you gliding down the aisle in your wedding dress comes back to him again like a nagging mosquito, pestering him further. What bothers him even more is the look he’s picturing on your face: so full of love; a mirror of Fatgum’s expression when he looked at Haruko walking down the aisle. It is so vivid that it frightens him. 

“Keigo?” a small voice asks behind him. The man nearly has a heart attack when he turns around and sees Sakura standing there. He realizes that Fatgum is gone and the bouquet crowd has dispersed, leaving him standing there like an idiot staring at you. God, he's down bad.

“Hey, babe, you’re up!” he chirps, moving to kiss Sakura’s forehead which he notices feels heated and clammy. “Everything alright?” 

Sakura had been sleeping in one of the extra tents for the majority of the wedding after her third glass of champagne. Keigo figured he’d just let her rest while he acted a fool for the rest of the event until it ended. “I feel awful,” she groans, putting a hand on her stomach. “My nap was interrupted by my stomach. That lobster I ate must not be settling right.”

Keigo’s brain pedals back to Sakura’s plate which consisted of a side salad, pasta, and lobster meat slathered in butter and lemon. “Aw, shit, babe,” he coos empathetically. He moves toward her, wanting to gather her up in a hug. “I’m so-“ 

“Keigo!” Rumi shouts, from the dance floor. She has an empty glass in her hand and is barefoot. “They’re playing your song!” The song in question is from Rihanna’s ANTI album and the way he watches you twirl your ass and hips around makes him love it even more. His eyes flick back to Sakura’s, feeling horribly guilty and disgusted with himself. He shouldn’t be gawking at a whole other woman, especially his best friend. 

Sakura gives him a reassuring smile, nudging him towards the dance floor. “Go on and have fun. I’ll be fine.” But he refuses, shaking his head. “You won’t be fine to me until I know you’re home safe,” he firmly says, already taking her hand to lead her to the parking lot. “Here, I’ll drive you home. It’s no problem.” 

“But you’re still having fun here,” she protests, slipping her hand out of his grasp. “Don’t let me ruin tonight for you just because I’m feeling sick, Keigo. Seriously, go have fun. I’ll call you when I get in the Uber I’m gonna order.” 

The sound of your high-pitched laugh drifts in the air, making Keigo’s heart pick up speed. Though Sakura is giving him permission to go and have fun, he’d feel even more like a horrible person and boyfriend if he were to listen to her.

“Nah, fuck that,” he huffs stubbornly. As a waitress walks by with a tray of plates and glasses, he snatches up a water bottle and hands it to Sakura. “Stay here for a minute and drink that.” 

He doesn’t wait for Sakura to agree or protest before rushing over to the dance floor where his four friends are still acting up. “Hey, you crackheads gonna leave soon so the cleaning crew can do their job?” he hollers. You pout at him cutely, a glass in one hand and Haruko’s bouquet in the other.. “But the music is still going!” you whine in protest. 

“Only ‘cause you’re still here, baby bird. All four of you.” He nods at you, Rumi, Nemuri, and Yu–all equally as drunk and in need of sleep. “The reception is over anyway. Haven’t you noticed the dance floor emptying out or were you too busy tossin’ out your best stripper moves?” 

You begin to look around in a daze, realizing that the staff is cleaning up and guests are beginning to head to the parking lot. Rumi giggles, nudging her hip with yours. “The birdie’s right, y’all. I noticed the place has been getting kinda dry ever since the cake was sliced and the bouquet was thrown.” 

“Which I’ve still got!” you proudly yell, waving the flowers around. “Which means I’m gonna eventually find a love that I’ll marry and the rest of you single bitches can kiss my black ass.” You take a handful of your ass in your dress and squeeze it, making the girls giggle and Keigo want to kill himself. Why the fuck do you have to be so goddamn fine? 

“So what do we do now?” Rumi asks. “Just go home and wallow in our depression?” 

“That could be an option,” Keigo chuckles, “but I was suggesting we take this party somewhere else. Preferably a nightclub downtown. Anybody down?”

Your entire face changes as you gape at him at the sound of more partying. “Yes!” you excitedly shout, jumping up and down with your bouquet. “I need to shake my ass some more!” 

Nemuri sighs tiredly, her arms wrapped around Yu’s waist. “As much as I’d love to join, but I need to get this one home.” She smiles at Yu who looks like she’s about to drop, her head against Nemuri’s shoulder. “Plus, I’m in need of my beauty sleep,” she yawns, putting a dainty hand to her open mouth. 

“And I’m in need of finally getting my hands on that guitarist,” Rumi purrs, eyeing the same short-haired, Amazonian woman with the perky ass and dark skin she’s been lying up all day who is currently packing her electric guitar away with the wedding band. 

“Say no more,” Keigo snickers. “Guess this is where we say goodnight, ladies?” Nemuri blows him a kiss while Rumi gives him a tight hug. “Try not to get in too much trouble, okay?” she laughs with a wink.

She turns to you, pointing a finger at you. “And you…be careful with that bouquet.” That obviously means for you to be on your best behavior too. You just giggle which gives Keigo the impression that you’ll be doing none of that. 

Once the crew finally disbands for the evening, you come walking up to him, stumbling a bit as you do. Instantly, he grabs your arm and hooks it through his to steady you. He doesn’t need you falling and busting up your (pretty) face. “Soooo when we goin’?” you cutely ask, a small hiccup in your voice. 

“Lemme drive Sakura home and I can drive us there afterward.” He doesn’t say anything else as he escorts you over to Sakura who is still standing in the same spot he left her in. “Got somebody carpooling with us, babe!” he cheerfully states, walking you over to Sakura. She smiles at you, sipping on an ice-cold Ginger Ale can that he definitely didn’t give her. “Where’d you get that Ginger Ale?” he curiously asks. 

“Oh, your friend gave it to me,” she happily replies. “Snipe!” She points over to the snack table where guests are busy stuffing their takeout containers full of leftovers. Sure enough, pro hero Snipe is over there, wearing his mask and a cowboy hat with his navy blue wedding suit, stuffing a container full of shrimp. 

Keigo bites the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should say something. He’s never had an issue with Snipe and this could’ve been purely innocent, but why he decided to talk to his girlfriend now while he wasn’t with her doesn’t rub him the right way. “C’mon, you two,” he grumbles, wrapping his arms around you and Sakura and quickly escorting you away from the wedding. 

The ride to Sakura’s apartment is surprisingly smooth and quick despite it being a Friday night. When he rolls up to her building and parks, he tells you to stay up and walks Sakura up to the steps to the lobby door despite her protests. He stays at the bottom steps, watching over her as she digs into her clutch for her keys. “You sure you’re okay with gettin’ inside?” he worriedly asks.

She looks down at him, the soft glow of the apartment building lights illuminating her pink hair and eyes. I’m perfectly okay with unlocking my own door, babe,” she giggles. “Now go shake your tail feather with Y/N.” 

He cracks a smile at her little joke and gives her a kiss on the cheek before she walks into the lobby. “Call me if you need anything, alright?” he calls after her, only to get a wave in response. When she finally disappears inside the building, he walks back to his car and slips into the driver’s seat.

You’re sitting in the passenger’s seat, feet up on the dashboard, and chomping down on leftover wedding cake. “She okay?” you ask, looking concerned. 

Keigo nods, strapping himself in. “Just a stomach bug; nothing to worry your drunk ass about. All you need to worry about is havin’ some fun with your very best friend.” He pokes at your forehead and laughs when you swat at him. 

“So where are we goin’ anyway?” you curiously ask, a small, excitable smile adoring your glossy, plump lips.

Keigo just grins at you before starting the car. 

************

When Keigo finally pulls up to his favorite downtown nightclub, the place is completely packed. 

Clubhouse, one of Keigo's favorite nightclubs, is one of the most high-end places that Musutafu has to offer. Located in a five-star hotel, it comes with the best customer and bottle services, great music, and security guards who take the privacy of pro heroes very seriously, as does the manager. Keigo knows the guy. He had saved his life after a couple of stupid kids tried to rob the joint a year ago. Since then, he gets free bottle service and a free hotel room if he doesn't feel like flying or driving home after a nightly romp. 

He has spent a few nights at the five-star hotel he pulls up to…okay, maybe more than a few. He’s told you many of these stories that ended in drunk sex and waking up in a hotel suite, not remembering much that happened that night before. You also know he enjoys this spot over others because of the infinity pool they have on the rooftop that you have yet to take a dip in.

Hopefully, tonight, once the liquor starts talking, that will change. 

The club is jumping once Keigo parks in the valet and escorts you inside the five-star hotel. Stretching over three stories high with balconies, stairways upstairs to the bars, and crystal chandeliers, he can see bodies from head to toe. Shadows dance on the walls, illuminated by the strobe lights flashing in time with the pop music blasting from overhead.

He can feel his heart pound and his stomach jump excitedly with the vibrations of the music and the sparklers he sees bottle girls carry with them on trays of the most expensive vodka for parties of four and five. 

He is completely in his element while, unbeknownst to him, you feel out of place. “Okaaay, birdie,” he whistles, an easy smile on his face. “So we’re here…now what?”

He turns to you, noticing the frown on your face. “I have no idea,” you admit sheepishly. “It’s like now that I’m sobering up, I’m less hype to be here.” 

Keigo tuts disappointedly, taking your hand in his and ignoring the way his body sings at your touch. “That ain’t no good. Come on.”

He escorts you through the throng of bodies, ignoring the folks who gape and gawk at him. The most he’s gotten here are people begging for pictures and autographs, plus the occasional groupie. But other than that, he’s never had any trouble here. He knew it was the perfect place to bring you to get over your heartbreak. 

He leads you over to the bar and settles down next to you in a booth. “Bartender!” he hollers, waving him over.

The young man turns to him, looking bored out of his mind before he gets a look at Keigo’s face. “Yeah, it’s me, Hawks pro hero number two, nice to meet ya.” He flashes him a big, gigawatt grin. “Listen, can I get a round of tequila shots?” 

The bartender vigorously nods. “And for your girlfriend, sir?” he curiously asks. Keigo almost asks the guy what the hell he’s talking about until he realizes that he means you.

You stare at each other, both shocked. “O-Oh, no, we’re not…” You trail off, your words dying in the tense air around you. Keigo can’t speak, his mouth too dry to do so. “H-He’s just my friend,” you softly stammer. “Just a Sex on the Beach for me.” 

He tries not to let on how much that stung him: he’s just my friend. But that’s what he is, isn’t he? That’s what he's always been.

You go to take out your wallet, but like the good friend he is, he pushes your hand away. “Uh-uh, put it back,” he sternly says. “Your date just left you at a wedding, baby bird. The least I can do is pay for your drink.” 

He pulls out fifty and hands it to the bartender who hurries to get your orders. “I still can’t believe he did that,” you sigh, disheartened. “All I wanted was to try and spice things up for us sexually, and…” You put a hand to your chin, staring off into the distance, your mind somewhere else. 

“So what exactly happened?” he softly asks, trying to pull you back to reality. With him. “If you feel like talking, that is.” 

You surprisingly budge. “I asked Rumi for advice on how to make our sex better, so she suggested either spicing things up with some kinks I enjoy or talking to him about what I like.”

You cross your gorgeous legs on the stool and Keigo has to force himself to keep his eyes firmly on yours. “I’d figured a quickie would’ve been fun, but he wasn’t with it, and my drunk ass took that as an insult, so I asked for a break.” 

“Did you break up with him?” he asks, hoping to God you’ll say yes. Only because Red is such a dickhead. You look away, staring instead at the polished mahogany of the bar. “Not…technically…” 

Keigo scowls at your cryptic answer. “Da fuck’s that mean?” he scoffs, confused. You flush under the strobe lights, tapping your acrylic nails against the bar. “I asked for a break at least until the Gala since he’s so hellbent on getting his award. I didn’t want to distract him from his work.” 

“Distract him?” he parrots, the words tasting sour to him. “Y/N, if he barely has time for you because he’s too busy trying to win a fuckin’ award, then he has no busy dating you, period. He doesn’t even realize what he’s got.” You smile shyly at his words, but he is being deadass with you. He could’ve shaken you right then. Why don't you understand how special you are?

“So now you’re single…for now, at least?” he questions, doing his best to not sound hopeful or completely interested in your dating life. Your shoulders slump as you cup your cheek in your hand, your pretty lips pouting. “I guess so. Maybe I should just get like Rumi and just sleep with whoever for the hell of it.” 

He smacks the bar, encouraging your sexual liberation. “That’s the spirit!” he encourages. The bartender returns with your drink and the round of tequila shots. “Oh, look; your drink! Be careful with this one. It’s fruity and sweet so you may wanna drink it less like it’s water.”

You do so, sipping slowly on your Sex on the Beach. As soon as the liquid hits your tongue, your eyes adorably widen. “Mmm!” you hum, eyes blown and face written in joy. “Holy fuck, this is amazing!”

You wave down the bartender, animately waving your arm around. “Bartender, gimme another one of these!” Keigo stares at you, doing his best to hold back a grin. “What?” you scoff. “I’m single and sad, okay? Let me have fun!” 

He raises his hands in defense. “I didn’t say anything,” he snickers. He then passes you a shot glass and picks up his own, raising it. “To complicated relationships.” You nod, giggling tipsily. “And fuck love!” you shout before downing your shot. Keigo does the same, downing his shot and letting the tequila burn his throat before he sucks on the lime it comes with. 

For the next hour, you’re downing shots and sipping on your two Sex on the Beaches like it’s no one’s business. Of course, Keigo makes sure you take a couple sips of water in between your alcohol splurging, but even he is starting to feel the buzz of the tequila as he gives you side glances here and there, checking you out. Your legs and chest are starting to look way too good, and his cock agrees–he’s been trying to curb the boner he is sporting for the past hour now. 

When you start to feel real good and loose, one of your favorite 2000s Rihanna songs starts playing from overhead, and the vibe in the club completely shifts. You gasp happily, hopping off of your stool. “Oooh, this is my shit!” you squeal, already moving onto the dance floor. “Kei, come dance with me!”

You grab his hand and try to pull him over to the dancing bodies on the floor, but he barely budges. “Nah, but I’ll watch in case I need to drag you out of there.” 

You pout but wave him off and go off to dance alone. He watches you walk away from the sidelines, drinking in how your ass sways and bounces as you strut. When you start to dance, he just about has a heart attack. He can’t keep his eyes off of your hips, legs, or the curve of your back. Not to mention the way you bounce and twirl that ass of yours.

He inhales deeply, doing his best to keep calm, but it feels as if he’s about to explode. How dare you be so fucking sexy? What the fuck is your problem? 

He is so thankful when his phone vibrates in his pocket because he can’t promise he wouldn’t have tried to jump you on the dance floor. He slides his phone out of his pocket and grins at the caller ID, answering it without a second thought. “Well, I didn’t think I’d hear your lovely voice tonight,” he cheerfully says, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Now you got somethin’ to nut to later,” Dabi chuckles in his gravelly, deep tone. “I’ve been told my voice is a panty dropper.” 

“Well, for the chicks who dig chain smokers, sure,” Keigo wittily replies, earning a guttural laugh from Dabi in response. “What are you callin’ me for? You got your perks back?” 

“For my free days, no, and they cut my phone calls short since they’re still investigating that riot.” Dabi sighs, evidentially frustrated. “I got about ten minutes left. You still at the wedding? Where’s Y/N and Rumi at?” 

Keigo turns to you, ignoring the way you swirl your hips or how you’d look on top of him. “Y/N, it’s Dabi on the phone!” he calls to you over the music before speaking to Dabi again. “We left and we’re at a club. Rumi couldn’t hang, so it’s just me and Y/N.” 

You skip over to him, your gorgeous titties bouncing and braids swaying down your back. “Dabi!” you scream into the phone, no doubt taking Dabi’s eardrum out. “Oh, my God, Dabi, I miss you soooo much! You’re such a dick for not bein’ here!” 

“Jesus, girl, you’ve been drinking?” Dabi questions, and Keigo pictures him rubbing at his ear that you just screamed into.

You giggle hysterically, nodding despite him not being able to see you. “Yes, sir! Since the reception ended!” When the music transitions to Beyoncé’s Virgo’s Groove, you just about have a heart attack. “Kei, you have to dance with me! They’re playing Renaissance tracks!” You tug on his arm to no avail before running back to the floor like a fire lit under your ass. 

“She’s on the dance floor now,” Keigo sighs. “The girl is a fuckin’ wreck tonight.”

Dabi chuckles into the phone. “I’m guessing things didn’t go well with the bum she’s been laggin’ around?” It isn’t a secret that Dabi hates Rei’s guts too; he’s just more open about it because Dabi don’t give a fuck. 

“I’ll let her tell you, but to put it bluntly, yeah,” Keigo replies. “So now she’s here, single with her back and legs out.”

That back where he’d love to run his tongue down your spine, caressing the soft skin that contrasts with his own. And those legs that he wants wrapped tight around his waist as he strokes the gummy walls of your pussy, pushing you further into euphoria until you explode all over him. 

Dabi snorts to himself, finding Keigo’s dilemma funny. “So which do you want?” he asks. “The back or the legs?”

Keigo blushes red, glad for the dimness of the club. “Shut up,” he growls. “You know I’m seeing someone right now.”

Dabi scoffs at this, calling it bullshit as he usually does. “Someone you barely talk about and that I’m sure you barely think about. When the fuck are you gonna bite the bullet and stop beating around the bush with her, man?” 

Keigo pinches the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want a lecture. Not right now. “Dabi, you know better than anyone why I can’t do that. We’ve been friends since middle school. I can’t just tell her all of that shit. Plus, Y/N is in a vulnerable space right now. I’m just here to comfort her.” He would never forgive himself if he let his dirty thoughts make a horrible decision for him and possibly ruin your friendship. 

He looks at you now to ensure you’re okay, but is utterly confused and alarmed to find someone from the crowd watching you too. He wears a button-down that is way too tight for him and stands a good foot taller than Keigo. His eyes are lecherous and greedy as he watches you move to the music like water, your moves effortless and enchanting.

“Kei, you there?” Dabi asks. “Bitch, you’d better not have hung up on me.” 

Keigo doesn’t answer, too hyper-focused on the wolf stalking its prey. That prey being you, his beautiful best friend. Once he sees him move through the throng of people to get you, Keigo is bothered. "Hold up, Dabs. I’ve gotta go.” 

“Someone’s tryna shoot their shot at her, aren’t they?” Dabi asks, not even needing any confirmation. He just knows Keigo like that. “Send a picture to me when you’re done with ‘em.”

Keigo hangs up without replying and immediately stalks onto the dance floor. As he does, he watches the stranger brush your waist much to Keigo’s dislike. You jump and turn to him, looking alarmed despite his big grin. Your mouth moves to say something, probably a polite decline to his offer, but the stranger continues to push and even takes your hand in his. 

Keigo is seeing red. How dare he touch you? When he is finally a foot away from you is when he starts to hear your conversation in full. “C’mon, baby, what’s the problem?” the stranger asks, still wearing that stupid, predatory smile. “You’ve been dancing like you need something in you anyway!”

You glare at his nasty words, your hand balling into a fist. “I told you I’m not interested,” you snarl at him, yanking your hand free. “Leave me alone.” 

The fucker still doesn’t take that as an answer and continues to bother you, and Keigo. “Can’t I just get one dance?” he asks. He even pushes up on you, trying to take your hand again.

You’ve just about had it and roughly shove him back away from you. “I said leave me alone, asshole!” you snap at him, alarming the rest of the club hoppers surrounding you. The man’s face is written in annoyance before it morphs into a rage that is only caused by rejection. 

There is no doubt in Keigo’s mind that this man will possibly hurt you. He steps in before he can be proven right. “Hey,” he sternly says, his tone on the edge of a warning. He wedges himself between you and the man, his wings blocking you from his angered view. “She said to leave her alone. I suggest you listen.” 

The man’s eyes widen in recognition and then he begins to laugh. “You’re with him? Hawks?” He says it like he can’t believe it, even laughing to himself. “Shit, I didn’t know you were his already!” he guffaws despite your discomfort. He goes to pat Keigo on the arm but Keigo dodges his touch. “Hey, man, you’ve got a loyal bitch on your arm. You really must be paying good for that pussy.” 

That’s all it takes for Keigo to lose his cool. All self-control begins to unravel and he feels himself shifting from the cool, calm, and collected Hawks into someone else. Someone who is less willing to reason or let things go. His wings, glowing crimson red in the strobe lights, puff up and ruffle as if someone is running their hands through them and his eyes go dark.

You, the asshole, and every single witness surrounding him react with shared alarm, realizing that what may take place on the dance floor tonight won’t be a friendly dance battle. 

Keigo begins to close the gap between himself and the man until their noses are nearly brushing. The man is too afraid to move. “Listen, dickhead,” he growls, his voice dangerously low. “you caught me on a good night since a friend of mine just got married, but lemme give you some advice: you shouldn’t talk like that about people you don’t know, especially women. You best realize who the fuck you’re talking to.”

His feathers ruffle once more, making the man flinch. “I think you need to leave ‘cause you’re startin’ to really piss me off,” he whispers sinisterly. 

Before the man can reply, Keigo moves away and takes your hand in his, about to whisk you away from the BS. Whether he felt embarrassed and is trying to save face, or because he likes ruffling Keigo's feathers, the asshole speaks again. “I can see why you went for her in the first place,” he cackles. “I’d kill to take that body home with me.” 

Keigo stops, his body tense. Your hand grips his and he looks down at you, seeing how big your eyes are. ‘Don’t,’ they read.

He is willing to listen and let this shit go for you, until the dickhead opens his mouth yet again. “Just don’t let her out of your sight!” the man yells. "Bitches like her always go for the next dick.” 

Then all Keigo sees is red like a bull and goes haywire. He zooms past everyone and everything at the speed of light and is on top of the man immediately. The crowd shouts in shock and disperses as he lays one fist after another in the man's face, drawing blood from his lips and mouth. “Keigo!” you shout, your voice high and shrill with fear. “Keigo, stop it!” 

He ignores you, too focused on making the man feel pain for what the nasty things he said. For being disrespectful. “I just said to watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he snarls through gritted teeth. “You know who the fuck you’re talkin’ to? That’s my fuckin’ friend, you stupid bitch.”

His voice is low––lower than he’s ever heard it before. He doesn’t think he has ever been this angered before at anyone. But this asshole crossed the line. He doesn’t play about any of his friends, but especially you. You’re different. 

His fist continues to collide with the man’s nose again and again until he hears a crunching nose followed by a gurgle of pain. Blood splatters onto Keigo’s shirt but he doesn’t care. He can’t stop even if he wants to. It’s like a blood-thirsty switch has flipped inside of him. He suddenly feels your hands on his shoulders, yanking on him tightly. “Keigo, please stop!” you beg, trying in vain to pull him off. “Stop! You’re gonna kill him!” 

“What’s going on here?” a booming voice demands. Keigo is suddenly yanked off of the bloodied man by two large hands belonging to a security guard. He scowls at the asshole and Keigo, looking pissed that he has been bothered with this.

Keigo yanks himself out of his grasp and takes your side. “This prick was harassing my friend after she told him to leave her alone,” he growls, still staring at the asshole like he wasn’t finished with his face…and he wasn’t. 

Though the man is bleeding profusely from his nose and his busted lip, and his eyes are completely swollen, the guard is taking no mercy on anyone. “She can stay,” he says, nodding at you before scowling at Keigo and the man. “But you’re both gonna have to leave.” 

The man gapes at the guard, anger written across his busted face. “But he–” Before he can protest, the guard takes hold of him and practically drags him towards the exit. “Hey!” he shouts. “Get off of me! I have rights!”

His shouts fade into the music as he is swallowed by the crowd that now stare in utter shock at Keigo. His anger has now faded, replaced with a feeling of discomfort and exhaustion at being around so many people. 

He turns to you, grabbing your hand. “Come on,” he whispers, already pulling you off the dance floor and towards one of the exits. He pushes it open, leading you two out into the side valet where he is sure his car is. He lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding as he presses his back against the club wall, letting the cool air caress his sweaty skin. “A-Are you okay?” you suddenly softly stammer, as if afraid to speak. 

Realizing what just happened, he quickly returns his attention to you and ensures himself of your safety. “I should be askin’ you that,” he replies worriedly. “You alright? He didn’t hurt you?” You quickly shake your head, still looking shaken by the whole ordeal. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I almost lost it there.” 

Actually, he did lose it completely, but he didn’t kill the guy, thank God. He takes his hands in yours, squeezing them. “I just care a lot about you,” he softly confesses, not sure why he says it so secretively and blushes when he does.

Immediately, he releases your hands and adverts his gaze though you continue to stare at him. He feels as if you’re staring straight through him into his soul, examining all of his secrets and words left unsaid. 

“Kei…” Your words are soft, your name no more than a whisper on your lips. Keigo tenses, afraid of what may come next. However, nothing could possibly prepare him for what comes out of your pretty mouth next. 

You stand in the moonlight, looking like a damn Goddess that he almost forgets you’re you–his very best friend. “Do you wanna come swimming with me?” you softly ask, your words nearly getting swallowed up by the muffled music and Friday night traffic. 

But Keigo hears you loud and clear. And unbeknownst to you, you could’ve asked him to go to the goddamn moon with you, and he’d say yes. 

[previousloversandmuses]

FREQUENCY: Episode 4 - A Solider Boy Story

FREQUENCY:  A Soldier Boy Story

EPISODE 4: “Virginia Woolf”

WORD COUNT: 4815

PAIRING: Soldier Boy X Reader 

WARNINGS: (NSFW) Foul language. Mentions of, and graphic depictions of sex. TRIGGER WARNING: Offensive slurs. Violence, depression, and mentions of suicide. 

A/N: This story is dark, and covers mature themes. The main character, as well as other major characters, are offensive in nature, and may offend some people. Please peruse with caution, and remember that this is fiction. Reader discretion is advised. Please message me for any questions, comments, or concerns. 

Masterlist | Taglist

No but seriously, if you're easily offended, this episode is not for you. Please remember that I am a writer, and the things my characters say are not my personal beliefs.

John was the closest thing I had to a romantic partner. We would have sex, he’d complain to me about something, and then I’d beg him to get revenge on Vought. We both understood each other well, and knew the other person's likes and dislikes. I knew what pissed him off more than anything, and he knew niche things like I didn’t like mustard. I knew he was unbeatable, and he knew that I was breakable. That was in comparison to Maeve, obviously. 

We would be fucking, his hot, suped up skin slapping into mine with unrelenting fervor. I wouldn't just feel him in my cervix, no; I’d feel my bones rub against each other, I’d hear my joints brace for impact as they tried desperately not to shatter. My fingers would grip whatever surface I was closest to. I’d hopelessly try and grasp for some sort of leverage, my knuckles popping, and turning a stark shade of white as I clenched tighter, and tighter as he pierced into me from behind. 

I’d be too overwhelmed to speak. Choking on screams, the breath being stolen from my lungs. He would get so into it, he’d forget how fragile I was in comparison to him. I’d try to pry myself out of his strong grasp, flopping myself down onto the mattress like a fish out of water. He’d pull away then, letting me go, and admiring his painting of broken capillaries on my asscheeks. I’d be bruised for weeks on end. One time I had to go to the hospital. A nurse asked what I did to myself, I told her I fucked The Homelander. She laughed, and said, “good one.” 

I remember he and I getting into a big fight because he used to follow me around town when I would’nt answer his phone calls. I told him he had no right to put a leash on me, and if he wanted to do that then he could just ask me to be his, and we’d call it a day. He never wanted that commitment though. And if I’m being honest with you, neither did I. To get back at me for ignoring him he started fucking Stormfront. The Nazi. Yeah, I saw that one coming. When she died he came crawling back. 

I stood by my open door on my balcony, wearing nothing but a pair of underwear. He knelt below me, his arms wrapped around my waist, resting on top of my ass like a shelf. He smashed his face into my lower stomach, placing gentle kisses, and speaking into me. He was begging me to forgive him. I gazed off into the distance, acting angry with my arms crossed over my chest, pouting. But if I’m being honest with you, I never felt more powerful than in that moment. The strongest man in the world begging for my forgiveness? I gave in very easily to that one.

I stayed up all night last night worrying about SB. Should I just tell Ama? Should I be honest, and let her know I’m housing an enemy of the state on her property? What if she didn’t buy the love story? What if she kicked us out, and I couldn’t get my revenge on Vought? What if John finds out, comes to find me, and kills everyone in his path, including my super weapon? There would be laser burns in the earth from here to timbuktu. 

See, in the beginning I was NOT planning on referring to SB as my boyfriend, or partner, or whatever. I didn’t even think that far ahead. In fact, I’m not even sure what I was going to refer to him as when the time came. But now that I’m here, and now that she has assumed that we’re an item, I guess there is nothing else I can do. He would be my fake boyfriend, and I would be the awkward girlfriend who didn’t like showing physical intimacy. I’m sure that wouldn’t be too hard to believe.

I mean, I could show physical intimacy with him, I could try, at least. But hell, I barely knew how to show it with someone like John, and he's been seeing me naked for almost four years now. 

I roll out of bed with a groan. I definitely didn’t get enough sleep. I open the blinds, and squint as the beaming morning shines in on me. High UV index, I think, or, I feel. Sunscreen is definitely a must. Looking out the window, I smile as a few of the res kids run around, spraying each other with a garden hose. That joy is short lived as I turn to see Soldier Boy SITTING NEXT TO FIVE OTHER UNASSUMING ADULTS, AND HAVING GOD KNOWS WHAT KIND OF CONVERSATION WITH THEM HOLY FUCK-

I scramble out of my bedroom, tripping over the pillows I piled onto the floor last night before I fell asleep. I rush over to the front door, only to catch myself in the reflection of the microwave. Yeah, let's not go outside in underwear and a skimpy tank top. I bactrack into the bedroom, sliding on a pair of jeans, and a bra. I trip over the pillows one more time on my way out.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Ama beams from a beach chair set up next to SB. He turns around to see me, as does everyone else in the area. 

Five different people come up to hug me, and say hello. I gracelessly return the gesture. Why does everyone here insist on touching me? I almost faint as a small toddler runs towards me with sticky fingers. Thank God someone lifts him up before he can get close. He smells like maple syrup. It makes me nauseous. I fucking hate kids. 

“I didn’t realize everyone woke up so early around here.” I mumble, moving over to an empty chair in the circle of adults. 

“I would've thought you’d be a light sleeper.”  Ama taunts.

“I usually am,” I respond. I turn to SB now, taking in his expression and overall vitals. He's calm, that's good, I think. “How did you sleep?” I ask him, squinting my eyes in his direction.

“Well, thanks. What about you?” He beams. Bastard.

Like shit, I think.

“Peachy.” I say, smiling back. I roll my eyes as I look off into the distance. This was going to be a long three months. 

Some of the other people begin to walk off back to their homes. Ama goes to wrangle her son and her boyfriend. I look up at her.

“Where is everyone going?” I ask.

“Most of us are going to get our day started. Feel free to tag along or chill out here, I don’t really care.”

“Awesome. I think we will probably get our bearings today. Maybe next time though.” I say stiffly, with a synthetic smile. 

She smiles back at me as she walks over to her trailer.

I sit uncomfortably, gripping the chair's armrests. He turns to me slowly with a raised eyebrow. 

“Are you always this awkward?” He asks.

I whip my head over to him, slightly offended.

“I’m not that awkward.” I defend.

“Right…” He drags. “And I’m twenty five.”

I scoff at him, standing up, and walking back over to our trailer. 

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“Getting my day going.” I respond curtly, leaving the door open for him to follow me.

I head inside, going into my room, and beginning to make my bed. He leans on the doorframe, and watches as I struggle to readjust the fitted sheet onto the mattress. 

“Back in my day you’d have that done before you even left the room.”

“Well, unfortunately, this isn’t 1940.” I sneer. 

“How old are you anyways?” He asks, his eyes burning a hole into my ass as I tuck in the top sheet under the mattress. 

“Twenty-two.” I say without turning around. 

I hear him whistle behind me, sighing. I move closer to where he is to grab the pillows off of the ground, putting them back onto the bed. 

“Not everyday you shack up with a dame eighty years younger than you, huh?” He jokes.

Looking at his face I can tell this bothers him. I decide not to poke fun at him about it.

“Well, you don't look a day past thirty-five.” I reassure. 

He smiles weakly at that. He moves back into the kitchen as I finish up on the bed. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, and goes over to the gas stove. Leaning down, he lights it on the burner. He lets out a few puffs before he takes a deep inhale, pulling it out from between his lips with his thumb and forefinger. He leans against the counter in the kitchen as he watches me make my way back out of the bedroom, and onto the couch. 

“So, do you have a plan?” He asks me. I look up at him.

“Oh, for the summer?” I question back.

I reach for the remote, turning the TV on. I leave it muted as I search for a news channel. Still no talk of his escape. 

“Yeah, do you have anything planned out?”

I sigh, thinking about all the fantasies I’ve had in the past.

“Well, for a long time I just hoped I could get them all in one room and then blow them up.”

“Ah,” He laughs. “Now I know what you need me for.”

“Well,” I start. “At first I just thought about using regular bombs, but no one was willing to help me do it. Then I realized they still had you alive somewhere, and thought to myself, he's a living bomb. Plus, you’re a tough man to kill. It’d be damn near impossible for these people to have any sort of defense against you when the time comes.”

He nods at me. “You do any combat?” 

I laugh a little at that.

“My abilities are strictly senses. I’m just as weak as a civilian, if not more.”

“If not more? What the fuck does that mean?”

I sigh, pulling my hands up to try and begin to explain to him. 

“Picture a thunderstorm,” I start. “You have a four year old kid who's deathly afraid of thunder. That fear isn’t going to physically stop him from getting to the storm cellar, is it?”

“No, guess not.” He says, watching me intently.

“Okay, then picture me. If there is a loud clap of thunder, and my hearing is the way that it is, a sound that intense will implode my eardrums. It will shake my body. The lightning will literally blind me. I remember I used to have to wear these noise canceling ear covers when I was a little girl. They worked, of course, but sometimes too well. I’d find myself being able to hear the blood pumping in and out of my heart. Then the neurons firing in my brain.”

“I guess you have a point,” He says, then realizes; “But your plan, with the bombs. That's loud. Wouldn’t that just be your worst nightmare?”

I take a deep breath.

“Well, I’ve never been around much of a sound like that before, I’ve only ever heard detonations from a great distance, like in Russia, and such,”

His eyes widen in awe as I continue to speak on my story. 

“But I’m assuming if I were in close proximity to something like that I’d surely just…die?”

“Ah, so it’ll be just me there then?” He inquires.

“No, I’d definitely be there,” I say, shaking my head. “Not to get dark, or ruin a nice moment, but…y’know…”

He looks around, confused. 

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I would die happy? And I would be getting revenge on the people that ruined my life, and would hopefully go out quickly, without incident.”

“So this is a suicide mission?” He grills, moving in closer to me.

“I don’t think about it that way,” I say. “This is a childhood dream coming true.”

“Yeah, well, my childhood dream never involved sacrificing myself for the sake of revenge.”

“Well, to each their own.” I shrug, standing up, moving to put my shoes on. 

“What about my family? How will I end up finding them without your help?”

Oh yeah, I think. That. 

I look up into the ceiling for a second, rubbing my chin in thought.

“Ah,” I say, beginning to tie my shoes. “I’ll leave you a note.”

He watches as I stand up to leave the house. 

“Where are you going?” He asks, concerned. 

“A hike. It’s too nice of a day to stay inside, plus, I like to listen to the trees.” 

I go to grab the door latch, feeling his gaze burning a hole into my back. 

“You can come if you want,” I offer. 

He sighs in content as he follows me out of the house. 

When I was younger, when I lived in West Virginia, I used to hike all the time. I’d go out to the most remote point I could find off the beaten path, and sit with my hands cupped over my ears. If I quieted my mind enough, I could hear past the blood pumping in and out of a bucks heart half a mile away. I could hear past the thunderous flapping of a hawk's wings. I could hear past the cartilage rattling inside of a snake's tail. If I got quiet enough, I could hear the plants working. Living. Existing. I’d listen to them breathe carbon in, and exhale oxygen out. If I put my hands against the hard ground, I could feel their roots fill up with nutrients, and send the Earth's goodness back up into the trunk, and into the branches of the tree. I would completely envelop myself within the soil, becoming one with the flow of nature.

Life was simpler then, a time without distractions. A time without worries or a deathwish. A time without a prehistoric supe trailing behind me for an hour and a half not saying a single word.

I smell it as he pulls it out of his pocket and up to his mouth. 

“No.” I say simply.

He groans from behind me. I hear the flickering of a lighter anyway. I stop in my tracks, turning around to face him. He’s cupping a firm hand around a tiny joint. It's comical in comparison to him. As he exhales he looks up at me. I glare at him, my arms crossed over my chest.

“What, no hash either?”

I don’t say a word, just continuing to glare.

“I don't know what stick you have up your tight ass, but someone needs to pull it out.”

I roll my eyes, beginning to walk away from him. 

“Sometimes I swear you're mentally retarded by the way you act around other people.”

I stop again, turning around, and holding a finger up to him.

“Okay, first of all, no one says that word anymore. Second of all, I just want some peace and quiet. No distractions. But this entire walk you have been huffing and puffing, and now you decide to light one of the worst smelling things in the history of the planet, with a shitty, cheap gas station lighter from the middle of fucking nowhere that reeks of propane.”

He holds his hands up in defense, laughing at my irritation. 

“No reason for the hysterics, sweetheart.” 

“God, you’re a sleaze ball.” I groan, stomping off as far away from him as possible on the trail.

“Am I?” He asks.

“The quintessential sleaze ball, actually.” I gripe.

“Now doll, you’re just hurting my feelings.”

He catches up to me easily, trying to irritate me more. He walks right next to me now. I try to move faster, take bigger strides, but it’s no use. My sprint is his equivalent to a slow walk through the park. 

“I can always leave you alone and go fuck off to Costa Rica.” He beams.

I look at him from the corner of my eye, glaring.

“You say the word and I will happily let you exist without me. Doesn’t that sound nice, sweetheart?” 

“Fine,” I stop. “You can get the fuck out of here.”

He stops now too. Turning to face me, he holds his joint in one hand, and talks with the other.

“Hey nutcase, last time I checked you fuckin’ got me out! You really think I want to be spending my first taste of freedom arguing with a suped-up schizo-tard?”

I cross my arms, gritting my teeth.

“Then leave, I already told you once before.”

I pluck his joint out of his fingers and throw it onto the ground, smashing it into the dirt with my boot. He rubs his hands onto his face, growing angrier by the minute.

“You’re psychotic!” He yells.

“Okay! Leave then.” I begin to walk off, as fast as humanly possible without committing to a full run.

“I can’t leave!” He screams.

I stop and turn around to face him. He looks down at the ground in defeat.

“Look, wacko, I can’t go anywhere unless you give me information on my family. That’s the only reason I’m even considering helping you. You give me that, and I will gladly leave you alone.” 

Ugh, the fucking family, I think. God damnit. It was a good idea in the moment, but now it serves as a constant reminder for my immense guilt. I should've never, ever said that. I can’t stand to be around this guy, but I don’t want him to know I’m lying to him. He would be crushed to know.

“Look, I don't mind helping you,” He starts. “As long as I get what I need when the time comes. Just fuckin, chill out a little bit, please.” 

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. I clasp and unclasp my strained hands. 

“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay, you’re right.”

He sighs in relief, beginning to follow me again as we make our way back down the trail. 

“You owe me for that reefer by the way,” He adds. “And, if we could get some new clothes for me too, that would be nice. I’ve been wearing this for a few days now.”

I smile softly as he stomps behind me.

He didn’t understand why modern women were so whiny. So ridiculous and dramatic. He didn’t understand why they wore pants so tight you could see the outline of their G string through them-- not that he was complaining. He didn’t understand the point of platform heels outside of a strip club, or the fact that they had women with penises working inside of the strip club. 

As he walks up and down the aisles of the local consignment store, he can’t help but grab articles of women's clothing, and hold it up in awe. A black shirt without sleeves, small enough to be worn by a child, with the phrase “I’d do me” on the front of it in hot pink writing. He shakes his head, hanging it back onto the rack, and catching up to his brooding handler. 

She makes small talk with an elderly couple. The old woman holds up two shirts, putting each one up against her husband's skin, seeing which one looks best against his tone. Freak has her hand up to her chin in thought, squinting her eyes at the older man.

“See, I feel like the green is too harsh against his skin because he's so pink.” She states.

The old man groans, the older woman nodding along with her.

“See, I told you Steve, you don’t look good in this color.”

“I have to wear green, Marie. Everyone who's in the wedding party has to.”

“Well, I’m sure Junior will make an exception for his Papaw. And no one told me to wear green.”

“Cause you’re not in the damn party!”

“Well I should be, I'm only the groom's flesh and blood!”

Freak looks flustered, rubbing her hands down the front of her face. She can sense him behind her. Whipping around, she grabs him by the arm, presenting him to the old couple in front of her.

“I really wish I could stand here and help, but I have to go shop for my… husband.” She announces.

The couple turn to face him now. The old man stares at him with squinted eyes. The old woman takes off her glasses and gazes at him from top to bottom.

“Do I know you, son?” The old man questions.

Freak's face goes stark white.

“Oh, don’t be so senile,” Says the old woman. “These two just moved to town!”

The old woman turns to her now, leaning into her ear, whispering.

“I’ll tell you what though, he sure does look old enough to be your father.” 

SB rolls his eyes at that. The old woman's version of a whisper was just lowering her voice a few octaves. 

“Say, how old are you anyway?” The old woman asks. 

“Thirt-” Freak starts. He finishes for her though.

“A hundred and two.” He says with a smile.

The elderly couple look at him with their jaws dropped, then turn to each other and start laughing. The old man wipes under his eyes, pulling his own glasses off, beginning to clean them.

“You’re quick witted, son, I’ll give ‘ya that!” Says the old man.

As the older couple walks off, he pats SB on the back. They laugh their way into the tchotchke aisle. 

SB and Freak smile at the two of them as they walk out of sight. Freak turns to him, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Are you fucking crazy?” She asks in a hushed voice.

“They thought it was funny.” He shrugs.

She rolls her eyes as she pushes her cart into the mens denim section. 

“Not funny. Don't do that again,” She disciplines. “What’s your waist size, by the way?”

He makes a face, looking at different pairs of pants on the rack.

“I don’t know woman, that ain’t my job,” He states, leaning into her ear. “And I’m not a queer either.”

She turns to him, glaring. 

“You’re telling me you've never bought your own clothes?”

“Never been my job.” He states plainly.

She sighs, looking him up and down. He’s muscular, thick, manly. All things she can indeed admire, but tries not to for the sake of a professional partnership. She swallows those thoughts down before they can resurface again. 

“You’re probably a 38 or 40.” She states, her mouth going dry, grabbing a couple pairs of jeans.

He nods, whatever the fuck that means. 

They stay in the store a little while longer. He trails behind as he watches her pick up certain garments, and hold them up to his face. She never asks him for his opinion. He doesn’t care to give one anyway. Hell, what does he know about fashion? He was only thirty years out of date. She was much more tolerable when she wasn’t talking. Although he didn’t mind her being so headstrong. Different for a woman, indeed. Attractive? Most definitely. 

He was a lot more outgoing back in the day. More willing to have conversations with people he didn’t know. He knew what things were hip, and what to say to people as they passed him by on the street. But everything has changed now. You don’t smile at anyone as they walk past you. Apparently everything he says is far past expired, and comically vintage. Like a carton of sour milk. He's offensive, generally vile, and disrespectful to women, cripples, nutjobs, and other races besides his own. Yet, everything he does now was a social norm at some point. It was praised. It was normal. He was normal.

He follows her up to the cash register like a lost puppy. The person checking them out has downs. They really hire anyone these days, huh? He thinks to himself, rolling his eyes. It nauseates him to see. The woman at the other register has to be over a hundred. She moves like thick tar, and shakes like a withdrawing alcoholic. What has the world come to?

The two of them walk out to her shitty car. He offers to put everything in the trunk for her. She agrees, bringing the cart back over to the front of the store. So much for chivalry being dead, huh? They drive off without a word. She can tell he’s hungry, she's heard his stomach growling for over an hour. She stops to get him a cheeseburger, and suggests they run by the liquor store so she doesn't have to go back out later. 

She runs inside, walking back out with a twenty-five dollar bottle of jack, and a carton of marlboro reds. He remembers when whiskey was seven dollars even. The world has gone to shit. 

When the two of them finally arrive back home after a long day, the sun is just beginning to set on the horizon. She begins to unload the car, as he leans against it, lighting a cigarette. Before heading to the liquor store earlier they swung by the Dollar General for some groceries. She waltzes back and forth from the car, and back up to the house, stocking the cupboards more and more with each trip. 

In the distance, Ama walks towards their trailer, an elderly man by her side. He assumes they are here to greet the whackjob. He yells for her.

“Hey Virginia Woolf, looks like you got a visitor.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Tell them I’ll be out in a second.” She calls back, a hint of exhaustion in her voice. 

Her eyes grow tired and heavy as she puts everything away. She feels like her arms weigh a ton each. Sleep is always something she has needed to exist as a normal person. Although “normal” she's sure he'd disagree with. Virginia Woolf, she thinks. This guy must really think I’m nuts. 

“Ben!” Ama calls.

He turns around, puffing on his cigarette. He smiles at the two of them, reaching his hand out for a shake. The elderly man looks much older than Ben physically. He meets his hand firmly. The old man takes SB in for a second, looking him up and down curiously. 

“Nice to meet you, Sir. Thanks again for letting us stay on your land.”

The older man's eyes widen, holding his finger up to the sky as if he's gotten an idea.

“That’s it,” He beams. “Have you ever been told you look like Soldier Boy?”

A shatter comes from within the trailer. She had been eavesdropping on the conversation as she always does. So much for that new plate. She begins to pick up the mess quickly. Making sure to get all the glass pieces off the floor and into the trash can. Then she makes her way outside.

“Gee, I used to beg my parents for his action figures back in the day. Of course, we were never allowed to have them.” He continues.

Ben stammers on his words for a moment, trying to find the right way to de-escalate this situation. But she swoops in like his knight in shining armor.

“Goodness, I haven't seen you since I was what, sixteen?” She runs up to him, wrapping him in a big hug. 

She and the elderly man walk off into the distance, going to sit on the rickety front porch swing attached to the roof of their trailer.

Ben takes a big sigh of relief, going back in on his cigarette. He walks back over to the car, resting against it, and watching as the two of them catch up with each other. 

Behind him, Ama slips out her phone. She pulls up google, then proceeds to type in “Soldier Boy”. It’s pure curiosity. She’s just wondering if they really do look alike, or if she has to worry about Eduda's dementia. As she scrolls down the image search, she intakes a deep breath, accidentally dropping her phone on the ground. She feels sick as she squats down to pick it back up. He's the spitting image. 

Masterlist | Episode 5 | Taglist

Taglist: @Sl33pylilbunny @Lanassmarty @Sydneyyyya @1-800shootmeplease @muhahaha303 @nancymcl @speedyrebelfan @ghh05ttt @agentorange9595 @let-me-luve-you @peachytits @darkdahl @deans-spinster-witchs-favoritestch @soggybasementfries @ladysparkles788 @madamthemoo @lyarr244 @sadlittlecountessess @mickaelly007 @mrscountryclub @vtheoneandonly @decadentanchorwerewolf @wonderland2022

[kurozu501]

the thing that really bothers me about the whole demon racism thing in Frieren is the extremely heavy handed flashback we get justifying Frieren's prejudice. its a whole ridiculous series of events that make no sense. Felt like some gross propaganda.

Lemme break it down real fast: in the past Frieren and her pals came to a town where a demon in the shape of a young girl attacked and killed a child. They defeated it in battle, but Himmel was hesitant to kill it because it looked like a kid and called out 'mother.' The village chief then comes in and says that killing the demon will make them just as bad as them, and that they should offer her a chance at redemption. Some time passes with the demon girl living with the chief and his daughter peacefully before suddenly one night she kills the chief. She presents the chief's unconscious daughter to the parents of the girl she killed saying she wanted to get them a replacement child. Himmel and Frieren kill her, Fireren explains that demons don't even have families so her calling out 'mother' was just a manipulation tactic. which the dying demon girl confirms is correct.

So,

2 things

Why the fuck did the chief come in saying they had to give the demon a chance when she'd already murdered someone? Why was everyone besides Frieren and the dead kids parents just cool with letting a child murderer get off scott free and walk around their town with no consequences? Generally we don't even let human child murderers do that, so its frankly bizarre. If you want to prove demons are fundamentally evil wouldn't it make more sense to start with a demon who hasn't yet committed any crime? Then the chief sticking up for it would feel logical. Whole thing makes no sense except to demonize (lol) the very concept of redemption. No you stupid fucking idiot you should have used extreme violence and murder every time always. its always justified, learn your lesson kids and if you see one of the Evil Races walking around remember its always ok to lynch them.

What the fuck is the demon child doing here? Her actions make no sense. Frieren says that demons are basically just intelligent predators, that they only use speech and social customs to manipulate humans and prey on them. So why on earth did the demon kid murder the chief while Himmel and squad were still in town? Why'd she have a weird fixation on getting the parents a new kid? Almost as if she was trying to make up for what she'd done to them in a twisted way, as if she felt bad? This seems to imply the opposite of what Frieren said. While watching i assumed what would happen is that Frieren would tell Himmel and the group that they should pretend to leave the village, then double back whereupon they'd find the demon going on a rampage again, since she would assume its now safe to do so with them gone. i assumed that because it would make sense. but nah. instead we get this really nonsensical series of events that clearly exists only to prove frieren's bigotry right. Demon girl is so ridiculous she literally uses her last words to be like "btw this lady who killed me was right you should never trust filthy demons like meeee." Give me a break.

[incdntlprompts]

* [  DIALOGUE PROMPTS ] :  bodies bodies bodies. p.2.

below, i’ve compiled a collection of [ 99 ] dialogue prompts from the 2022 film ‘ Bodies Bodies Bodies ’. [ trigger warning : there are mentions of drugs, violence and other mature themes in this list. ]

[  ONE  ] :  “ i know how to fucking drive ! ”

[  TWO  ] :  “ what happened last night ? ”

[  THREE  ] :  “ we all did shrooms, [ NAME ] said they were in love with [ NAME ]. ”

[  FOUR  ] :  “ you’re holding the knife and moving your hands when you talk. ”

[  FIVE  ] :  “ he’s fundamentally a good person, he wouldn’t do this. ”

[  SIX  ] :  “ he’s a libra moon ! that says a lot ! ”

[  SEVEN  ] :  “ you’re silencing me ! ”

[  EIGHT  ] :  “ no to be mean, she wasn’t that good in hedda gabler. ”

[  NINE  ] :  “ he might be a dick but his politics checks out. ”

[  TEN  ] :  “ we need to find her before he does. ”

[  ELEVEN  ] :  “ i don’t think he’s hiding in my bra. ”

[  TWELVE  ] :  “ what’s going on ? what are you guys doing ? ”

[  THIRTEEN  ] :  “ he has seasonal depression. ”

[  FOURTEEN  ] :  “ are you guys still playing werewolf ? ”

[  FIFTEEN  ] :  “ you murdered my boyfriend. ”

[  SIXTEEN  ] :  “ this isn’t right. he didn’t do it. ”

[  SEVENTEEN  ] :  “ on paper, he’s the most likely to commit an act of violence. ”

[  EIGHTEEN  ] :  “ we need to leave. we need to get out of here. ”

[  NINETEEN  ] :  “ i mean, it could have been any of us. ”

[  TWENTY  ] :  “ he punched him in the face because of you. ”

[  TWENTY-ONE  ] :  “ i can’t believe you’re making this about you. ”

[  TWENTY-TWO  ] :  “ i’m sad, i’m upset too. ”

[  TWENTY-THREE  ] :  “ you loved having a boyfriend, and you loved feeling comfortable, but no, you did not love him.  ”

[  TWENTY-FOUR  ] :  “ you didn’t even fucking like him. ”

[  TWENTY-FIVE  ] :  “ you stayed for three years longer than you should have because you’re a coward. ”

[  TWENTY-SIX  ] :  “ you’re toxic. ”

[  TWENTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ i hope they’d chopped off your head instead, you spineless piece of shit. ”

[  TWENTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ i’m so fucked up right now. ”

[  TWENTY-NINE  ] :  “ isn’t that what you wanted ? ”

[  THIRTY  ] :  “ you always think everyone’s in love with you. ”

[  THIRTY-ONE  ] :  “ are you wearing make-up ? ”

[  THIRTY-TWO  ] :  “ who are you ? ”

[  THIRTY-THREE  ] :  “ you show up here... start smiling at my boyfriend... ”

[  THIRTY-FOUR  ] :  “ you sick fuck ! ”

[  THIRTY-FIVE  ] :  “ calm down, let’s just talk about it. ”

[  THIRTY-SIX  ] :  “ i don’t want to look at your face anymore. ”

[  THIRTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ i don’t want you in here. ”

[  THIRTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ they have a gun in their pocket. ”

[  THIRTY-NINE  ] :  “ are you kidding me ? i don’t have a gun. ”

[  FORTY  ] :  “ they are literally my oldest friends. you just met them ! ”

[  FORTY-ONE  ] :  “ you lied about everything ! you’re a fucking liar ! ”

[  FORTY-TWO  ] :  “ what were you doing when i dropped you off at the mall ? ”

[  FORTY-THREE  ] :  “ i didn’t want to disappoint you. ”

[  FORTY-FOUR  ] :  “ mental health is a really serious issue. ”

[  FORTY-FIVE  ] :  “ i have never said this to anyone, but... ”

[  FORTY-SIX  ] :  “ oh my god, shut the fuck up [ NAME ].  ”

[  FORTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ i just really wanted you to like me. ”

[  FORTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. ”

[  FORTY-NINE  ] :  “ you’re telling me that you believe that pile of bullshit ? ”

[  FIFTY  ] :  “ is that not a red flag to anyone else ? ”

[  FIFTY-ONE  ] :  “ we didn’t even wanna invite you. ”

[  FIFTY-TWO ] :  “ we debated about inviting you. ”

[  FIFTY-THREE  ] :  “ don’t call her a psychopath. that’s so ableist. ”

[  FIFTY-FOUR  ] :  “ fuck you. you deserve each other. ”

[  FIFTY-FIVE  ] :  “ you didn’t respond in the chat. ”

[  FIFTY-SIX  ] :  “ i understand and i’m an ally. ”

[  FIFTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ you are obsessed with playing the victim. ”

[  FIFTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ you fell off the face of the earth. ”

[  FIFTY-NINE  ] :  “ you ran away to write your fucking memoirs. ”

[  SIXTY  ] :  “ it’s creative non-fiction, which is a valid response to life in an attention economy. ”

[  SIXTY-ONE  ] :  “ oh, fuck off and die. ”

[  SIXTY-TWO  ] :  “ we are all drowning in your fucking feelings. ”

[  SIXTY-THREE  ] :  “ feelings are facts. ”

[  SIXTY-FOUR  ] :  “ why did you ghost us ? ”

[  SIXTY-FIVE  ] :  “ because you fucking trigger me. ”

[  SIXTY-SIX  ] :  “ does she know ? ”

[  SIXTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ does she know ? that you begged me to stop by your apartment on my way up here and we fucked in your car. ”

[  SIXTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ she’s fucking lying. she’s lying through her fucking teeth. ”

[  SIXTY-NINE  ] :  “ she’s trying to get in your fucking head. ”

[  SEVENTY  ] :  “ check her texts. ”

[  SEVENTY-ONE  ] :  “ you are unhinged. you are devoid of empathy. you have no feelings. ”

[  SEVENTY-TWO  ] :  “ do you wanna know why i could never ever be with you ? because you schedule everything in you fucking google calendar. including sex. ”

[  SEVENTY-THREE  ] :  “ fuck you. you’re emotionally abusive. ”

[  SEVENTY-FOUR  ] :  “ you hate [ NAME ]. ”

[  SEVENTY-FIVE  ] :  “ you complain constantly about how vapid and annoying she is. ”

[  SEVENTY-SIX  ] :  “ it’s pitiful how you won’t stop making fun of her stupid little podcast. let her have the podcast. ”

[  SEVENTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ you hate listen to her podcast. ”

[  SEVENTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ wait.. what ? ”

[  SEVENTY-NINE ] :  “ and you made us swear on our lives not to tell anyone. ”

[  EIGHTY  ] :  “ is that true ? ”

[  EIGHTY-ONE  ] :  “ i like your podcast. ”

[  EIGHTY-TWO  ] :  “ what is your podcast about ? ”

[  EIGHTY-THREE  ] :  “ hanging out with your smartest and funniest friend. ”

[  EIGHTY-FOUR  ] :  “ did you just groan ? ”

[  EIGHTY-FIVE  ] :  “ first of all, a podcast takes a lot of work, okay ? ”

[  EIGHTY-SIX  ] :  “ let me say, nobody likes you, okay ? ”

[  EIGHTY-SEVEN  ] :  “ you know when you’re drunk and you cry to me  ‘oh, i’m afraid nobody likes me because i’m mean and a bitch and i suck.’ well, you do, okay ? you fucking suck. ”

[  EIGHTY-EIGHT  ] :  “ i only hang out with you out of pity and the suffocating weight of our shared history. ”

[  EIGHTY-NINE  ] :  “ and you’re just so in love with your rags to riches narrative, like you’re the only fucking person in the world who didn’t come from money. ”

[  NINETY  ] :  “ you know what ? your parents are upper middle class. ”

[  NINETY-ONE  ] :  “ who could fucking date a spreadsheet with a superiority complex ? ”

[  NINETY-TWO  ] :  “ did you just fucking shoot me ? ”

[  NINETY-THREE  ] :  “ i didn’t murder anybody. ”

[  NINETY-FOUR  ] :  “ i’ve never been shot before. it really fucking hurts. ”

[  NINETY-FIVE  ] :  “ you made me do this. why did you make me do this ? ”

[  NINETY-SIX  ] :  “ i didn’t do it. ”

[  NINETY-SEVEN  ] :  “ check. her. texts. ”

[  NINETY-EIGHT  ] :  “ i would never. ”

[  NINETY-NINE  ] :  “ do you love me ? ”

[sapphicteaparty]

g witch ending spoilers

g witch is over. i don't have any criticism that isn't nitpicking and i don't care about nitpicking. to me this was a 10/10 show with zero filler episodes and i'm very happy with the conclusion of this story.

some thoughts about the ending:

calibarn's gay rainbow permet colors were so cool. no notes.

all the gay rainbow permet effects were cool. i don't even care about how ridiculous they were.

miorine dissolved the benerit group. i am so glad she doesn't have to continue the corporate legacy that delling created and it seems like she is working with gund-arm like she wanted, developing the medical uses of gund tech. living her best life.

nobody could end spacian capitalism but the space/earth power balance seems to be disrupted. that's not nothing.

delling, sarius etc are actually held accountable for benerit's crimes. good.

earth probably welcomed prospera after what she did to that SAL fleet IF they knew that she was behind it. i doubt earth even has a seat at the SAL table at all so someone like prospera could be a hero to them. or maybe she's just a refugee now, who knows. earth is probably the one place where she won't get arrested and where she can live in peace. either way i'm glad she lived. that scene in the data storm with nadim got to me. 😭

everything about Peil in this episode was so funny.

both miorine and suletta have some sort of gund-tech implants on the backs of their head. i assume this tech is for establishing connection to eri?

eri in the keychain??? so fucking stupid i love it. sometimes a family is you, your wife, your shitty dad, your mother-in-law and your sister-in-law inside a keychain mascot.

…what if you lose the keychain?? what then?? i'm not going to think about this any further. it's fine. she's fine.

sulemio is married. they should have kissed on screen (that's one nitpick) but i'll take this. i'm not disappointed at all in the way their relationship was portrayed throughout the show and i liked that they avoided so many common romance tropes. sulemio is canon (always was) and they get a happy ending which is what i wanted.

i knew she wouldn't die but suletta was still hurt by all of that gundam action. the permet scars, becoming disabled - details like that are a nice touch to show that suletta (and by extension anyone else) piloting giant death robots can't come out of it unharmed. and she didn't just survive, she's thriving and she's so happy!!!!

gund-arm's medical tech really is a ray of hope for many (like petra).

suletta's dreams came true 😭😭😭😭😭😭

actually nobody died??? after ep 23 i had the feeling that this would be the case because g witch seemed to be making the point that redemption through death is not helpful to those who are alive. killing off characters is such an easy way resolve conflicts and to drive stories forward and g witch examines if there can be a different way without violence.

…the downside to that is that it could go to the other extreme and be full on pacifist and excuse all those who had committed horrible acts (delling, prospera, shaddiq etc) but aside from prospera they're all held accountable and suffering the consequences.

prospera was right to want revenge and to want to create a place in the world for eri but her means were not justified. one of the thematic throughlines in season 2 was that how you do something matters just as much as what you do (like sameen shaw said). prospera admitting that she couldn't forgive herself for the things she'd done was just the perfect way of ending her story. i didn't need her to succeed in her revenge plot or to go to jail or die, i just wanted her to see that how she did things was wrong and that's the biggest payoff her story could have had.

and when she was like "my legs will be paralyzed soon anyway" and suletta just refused to leave her behind, and she got to be part of their family.... g witch really said disabled ppl deserve to be happy 😭

can't believe this show gave me everything i wanted???

[muselixer]

dumb things my friends and I have said: 2023!

part one: january - march apologies ahead of time for length! feel free to change pronouns if need be. warning for foul and dirty language, and capslock-implied yelling :)

“Am I okay? Maybe. Probably not though.”

“Well she deserves to look old.”

“Got spotted throwing it back...”

“I have never wanted to be someone else as badly as I want to be that bitch.”

“Should I be the most vampiric person in the Petsmart today?”

“Accidentally became a femboy again.”

“Femboys are a dime a dozen and simultaneously so rare.”

“MOTHERFUCKER CAN YOU LOOK?”

“Ooh, look at me, I answered a fucking question.”

“This is only proving that I either have a hyperfixation or a problem.”

“Ugh, it smells like a bathroom in here.”

“He scarred those poor people for life, and he’s my idol.”

“That man has never shotgunned anything in his life.”

“Okay, so I didn’t realize how midnight it was.”

“My teeth feel like there’s an Apple airpod in my mouth.”

“We can only commit crimes Tuesday to Thursday, after hours.”

“Ahh, Cheez-Its. My one true love.”

“Grease Lightning thought automatic cars were cool.”

“I was having loud reactions in my home. That were not voluntary.”

“I feel like a Waffle House that closed due to weather.”

“My humor is that of a roach.”

“I would Toot Canal him so hard.”

“Eat shit, lint-licker.”

“We all know ‘draw background’ killed your grandma.”

“Lo and behold, guess what you did boy. You died.”

“That man read Fifty Shades of Gray and thought it was based on a true story.”

“The way my arm just bent is NOT fictitious.”

“The things I’d do to be in a microwave right now.”

“Actually, YOU should shoot MY ass― That was bad, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not ACTUALLY meth because what the fuck, but it’s like meth’s goody two shoes cousin.”

“I have no defense but I also have no shame.”

“Wait a minute, I want free money just for being gay.”

“I CAN PISS LSD?”

“I was less depressed, but significantly higher.”

“No no, you have my permission to call me a slur.”

“You have the reaction time of a sandal.”

“Sorry, you’re saying I can’t think catboys are hot?”

“I used to have a last name, but she took that in the divorce too.”

“Oh, HA, the AI called the wrong person a Jew!”

“I don’t even lose an hour of sleep, I lose an hour of being awake.”

“Those are my brain cells. They are dying.”

“Deadass built like a Tony Hawk Pro Skater 2 NPC.”

“I need to go home. I’m about to be so mean to an optician.”

“I need to eat my fucking keyboard, I’m so sick of these people.”

“The written language is a light switch and my ADHD is the Spongebob Nosferatu flickering the lights.”

“Violence isn’t an emotion, but it is now.”

“The worst part about dying is that I lost the spaghetti.”

“If it’s gay to be time-efficient, then I don’t wanna be straight.”

“I shat in it for flavor and then pissed to fill it up.”

“He got bitchified.”

“I’m ready to finally be a bitch.”

“Oh, so we’re seeing Star Wars characters now?”

“I wasn’t bullying you. You were just suffering in my regime.”

“Who needs art when I have infinite rizz?”

“He can’t tell you he likes you all the time? Lame.”

“Reason has left the chat.”

“Fuckin’ dump a gallon of bleach and ammonia into a toilet and just lock the doors.”